by Skylar Finn
“As I’ve told you repeatedly, I think they might be just a little bit shrewder than you give them credit for,” said Darla. “If they were that hapless and stupid, they would have sold to us the first week they were here. I have a hard time believing that your little rock-through-the-window trick and some paint on the wall convinced them to give up that easily, let alone if they weren’t even bothered by the prospect of living in that graveyard in the first place. I’m sure they’re going to want to negotiate the price, not just throw it into our laps.”
“So? Let them. Who cares if we spend a few extra thousand bucks on this one? It’s not the house I’m after, it’s the land.”
Emily looked up, surprised. This was the first she’d heard about this.
“We can rent it out to that marijuana farmer for some exorbitant sum, funnel half the proceeds back into my brother’s campaign to ensure he gets re-elected, and all these little vandalism complaints homeowners have been making will continue to get swept under the rug. Once we finish driving out these long-time hold-outs, we’ll really start to see a profit.”
“I don’t think you should rent that house to anyone, Roger,” said Darla. “If I told you once, I told you a thousand times. There’s something wrong with that place. They’ve never found the bodies. They’re probably hidden in the walls.”
Emily thought of the secret passage in the house and felt an overwhelming wave of nausea at those words.
“They’re not in the walls,” said Roger, sounding exasperated. “They would have found them by now. There would have been a smell or something. They’re probably not even there. I’m sure whoever murdered them did us the additional favor of carrying them off into the mountains and dumping them somewhere up there.”
“Roger!” Darla sounded pained. “Please don’t refer to those poor people getting murdered as ‘doing us a favor.’ I’m all for breaking a few eggs if it means making an omelet, but I would never condone purposely harming anyone.”
“Well, neither would I, obviously. I’m just saying the fact that someone did has proved extremely convenient,” said Roger.
“Convenient or not, we still have to deal with the current tenants,” said Darla. “Can’t your brother do something about them? Lock them up for unpaid parking tickets or whatever?”
“How big of a cut do you want him to get? Do you want to make it even bigger? He already downplayed what could have been a massive murder investigation into a Missing Persons case so we could rent out that sad pile of bricks once we get our hands on it. He went to a lot of trouble to prevent that from becoming a massive media circus. I’m not about to ask for another favor after that. Can’t you do anything yourself?”
“Okay, okay! I was joking. I have one of them in my office. Ideally by now, she’s half frozen and ready to sell. Call me in five minutes and interrupt our meeting. The longer she shivers, the sooner she’ll want this to be done.”
Emily shook her head, marveling at Darla’s audacity. How did she know Emily wouldn’t just get up and leave? She’d obviously been successfully bullying people for a very long time.
Emily decided not to go back into Three Star. Let Darla try to figure out where she’d gone. She imagined the frustration on her face when she came flapping back into the room to find it empty.
Emily walked around the side of the building back out to the sidewalk, taking out her phone to call Jesse. If what she heard was true, they were behind the vandalism and the break-ins, but they’d had nothing to do with the murders. The only thing the sheriff was covering for were their attempts to intimidate homeowners by damaging their property.
In spite of what she’d heard, it seemed hard to believe that Three Star and the sheriff had nothing to do with Matilda, Cynthia, and the children’s disappearance. They might have purposely tried to downplay it, framing Matilda and saying it was kidnapping so future renters and buyers wouldn’t purposely steer clear of living in, as Roger put it, a murder house. But if what Roger and Darla said was true, they’d had nothing to do with the actual murders.
And if it wasn’t Three Star and the sheriff, then who was it?
Jesse opened the door to J.R. Watkins’s office. The rug was so thick it muffled the sound of his footsteps. There were a lot of ugly paintings of boats and a bunch of fake plants. His phone went off in his pocket and he checked it: Emily. All good, she texted him. He texted her back a thumbs up.
There was no one at the desk in the reception area, which made Jesse nervous. Was he the only other person in the building besides Watkins?
“Can I help you?”
Jesse jumped about ten feet in the air. He turned to see a tall, dapper, silver-haired man in a nicely pressed suit standing behind him at the door. The man held a brown paper bag that smelled like cheeseburgers. He regarded Jesse curiously.
“Oh—yeah—sorry—I mean, my name is Jesse, and my wife and I just inherited the old Meade place? The one at the top of the hill.”
“Oh, Emily’s husband.” Watkins closed the front door behind him. “Come in, come in. I’m just eating lunch, but I have no appointments until two, if you’d like to sit down for a few minutes.”
He was, as Emily described him, extremely accommodating. Maybe too accommodating. What if he had Jesse right where he wanted him and there was no way out? Jesse discreetly checked the office for a fire exit and saw none.
“What can I help you with?” Watkins surveyed Jesse from behind his desk. He sounded politely inquisitive.
“We still haven’t received a copy of the will,” said Jesse, figuring he might as well get straight to the point. He was pretty sure he could take Watkins in a fight, unless he had a gun, in which case Jesse was pretty sure he could fit through the window. “Frankly, I’m getting a little annoyed. I don’t see what’s so difficult about getting this document. Unless you have some reason for not giving it to us.” He looked at Watkins, openly challenging him.
Watkins looked embarrassed.
“I am so sorry,” he said, wiping his hands with a brown paper napkin. “It seems that Bryce hasn’t been following up with my most recent requests. I’ll get it for you now.”
Jesse was surprised. Of all the reactions he’d prepared for, this wasn’t one of them. Could it really be this easy? He craned his neck to make sure Watkins wasn’t reaching for something other than files in the filing cabinet, like a pistol.
Watkins removed a thick folder and went to the copy machine on the far side of the room. “I really do apologize,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s so hard to find good help these days. I keep Bryce on because he does do his job, for the most part, and because the prospect of replacing him and having to interview another dozen people for the job is too ghastly to contemplate.”
“No worries,” said Jesse, feeling it was best to act amicably until Watkins gave him a good reason not to. “We just found something kind of strange the other day, and we wanted to follow up on it.”
“Oh?” said Watkins, his face illuminated by the glow of the copier. “What did you find?”
“Emily found Matilda’s old laptop with a version of the will naming Cynthia Harkness as the inheritor of the house,” said Jesse, watching Watkins for a reaction.
“Oh yes,” Watkins said regretfully without turning around. “That whole mess.”
“What whole mess?” said Jesse.
Watkins turned and began neatly stacking the documents into a manila folder. “They were business partners, you see. And, if I’m not mistaken, friends. Matilda had always expressed a certain fondness for the girl. Wanted her to take over after she retired. But when her money problems got the better of her, she thought it was best if the house went to family. She knew there was no way to continue what she’d started.”
“Did Cynthia know about this?” asked Jesse.
“As far as I know, she never told her,” said Watkins. “Cynthia was always quite reserved. I don’t think Matilda was even sure if she’d want the house, let alone the responsibility of carry
ing on the home in her absence. She told me Cynthia was planning to leave, and she wished to change the will so that your wife would inherit the house. To the best of my knowledge, their parting was amicable.” He finished neatly stacking the papers in the folder and closed it. “Would you like me to place this in an envelope for you, so it doesn’t get creased?” He smiled.
“No, it’s all good, I’d like to look it over right away,” said Jesse, distracted by his phone. Not by a text or a call, but the absence of either one. It had been over fifteen minutes since Emily’s last text, and he was worried.
“Certainly,” said Watkins. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“Nope, I think we’re good,” said Jesse, taking the folder from Watkins. He got up and pulled out his phone, checking for a message from Emily. When he didn’t see one, he scrolled through his recent calls and hit her number as he left the office.
Watkins waited until he heard the front door open and shut before he picked up the phone. He hit number one on his speed dial.
“It’s me, Watkins,” he said into the phone. “He’s on the move. And he has the will.”
14
Emily’s phone vibrated as she left the Three Star office. She reached for the phone, realizing she’d forgotten to text Jesse at the appointed time. He was probably worried sick.
“Are you okay?” was the first thing he said when she answered the phone.
“I’m okay, sorry I didn’t text you,” she said. “I got caught up eavesdropping on Roger and Darla.”
“What did the dynamic duo have to say this time?”
“They didn’t do it,” said Emily. “They threw the rock through our window and painted the wall, but they didn’t do anything to Matilda, Cynthia, or the kids. They didn’t know I was listening, so they had no reason to lie.”
“The lawyer finally gave me the will,” said Jesse. “I have it with me now.”
“What does it say?”
“Haven’t looked yet. On my way back to the truck.”
“Can you meet me at the coffee shop on the corner from where you dropped me off?” asked Emily. “I don’t want to hang around Three Star. I snuck out the window.”
“Way to go, Nancy Drew.” Emily could hear the smile in Jesse’s voice. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
“See you soon.”
Emily turned the corner and went into the coffee shop, relieved by the immediate warmth. A fire crackled in a fireplace in the corner. An acoustic guitarist sat on a stool on a makeshift stage, strumming a folk song. Emily went to the counter and ordered a chai. She was studying the various pastries in the glass front case when someone behind her said her name. “Emily?”
Emily turned to see Theresa Plumber standing next to her in line. “Oh, Theresa. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you,” said Theresa. “You know, it was the oddest thing. When I left my place, I saw lights on in Cynthia’s trailer. I thought of you, because you were asking about her. I knocked on the door and the light immediately went out. I thought maybe it was the squatters, but that place is locked up pretty tight and they don’t have a key.”
Emily’s mind immediately went to Cynthia, possibly hiding in the trailer. “What time was this?” she asked Theresa.
“Right before I left to come here,” said Theresa. “Couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes ago.”
Emily’s mind cycled quickly through the various possibilities: call Jesse, who was on his way here, and go to Cynthia’s. Wait for him to get here and possibly miss Cynthia. Leave immediately and meet him there. She knew he wouldn’t like this, but he’d probably do the same thing in her position. She pulled out her phone and called him. No answer.
Emily looked at her phone, beyond frustrated. She had just talked to him! How had he gotten that far from his phone in the ten minutes since she spoke to him last? Should she wait for him? But what if she missed finding Cynthia? Jesse knew where she lived; he could meet Emily there. He wouldn’t be happy about it, but better to ask forgiveness than permission.
“Theresa,” she said, “would you be willing to take me to Cynthia’s? I really think she might be there, hiding, and I want to help her.”
“You really think it’s her?” asked Theresa. “And we could be the ones to find her? Do you think there might be a reward?”
Emily thought this largely beside the point, but saw her opening and took it. “Oh, there’s definitely a reward,” she said. “I met Cynthia’s ex-husband a few days ago in Thornton, and he mentioned he’d set aside money for anyone with any information leading to her whereabouts or the whereabouts of the person responsible for taking her.” She was getting exceptionally good at lying, although she preferred to think of it as a gift for fiction.
“Well, let’s get going then,” said Theresa.
Emily asked for her chai to go as she tried calling Jesse one more time. No answer. Now Emily was getting worried. Where was he, and what was he doing that he wasn’t picking up the phone?
Theresa’s car was a forest green Subaru Outback, the unofficial car of half the state. Emily texted Jesse as she climbed into the passenger seat. Going back to Cynthia’s with Theresa, think she’s definitely there, meet me at her place?? Call me when you get this.
Theresa and Cynthia’s neighborhood was only a short distance away, and Emily was relieved at how quickly they arrived in the heavily wooded dead-end street. Theresa parked in the front yard. Emily got out and approached Cynthia’s darkened trailer. She knocked on the front door. No response.
“Cynthia?” she called. “Cynthia, if you’re there and you can hear me, please open the door. I’m here to help. Cynthia?”
Theresa came up behind her as she pounded on the door. “You know, I think Cynthia might have hidden a spare out here somewhere,” said Theresa. “She asked me to water her plants one time while she was away, and she left the spare under a little planter shaped like a turtle. Not sure if she kept it there all the time, or if it was just for me to use when she was out of town. Never thought to check for it after she disappeared.”
Emily stepped back from the door and looked down at the dry, dead branches on the ground, seeing nothing. “What did you say it was under?”
“A turtle, a little ceramic turtle. With big eyes, like a cartoon.”
Emily poked through the branches with a long stick, uncovering a muddy ceramic statue that looked like it might have once been a turtle. She turned it over with the stick, and there on the frostbitten ground was a dull metal key.
Emily grabbed the key from the ground and put it in the lock. She turned the key and pushed the door inward. The stale smell of must hit her in the face and she coughed.
“Is she in there?” asked Theresa from the front stoop.
“I’m not sure,” said Emily. “I can’t see anything.”
The inside of the trailer was pitch black. Emily groped along the wall for a switch and found none. Fumbling in her pocket for her phone, she switched on the flashlight app and shined the bright light around the living room.
There was a sagging couch in the corner with a warped wooden table in front of it. On the table was a mug. Emily shined her light onto the dark liquid inside of it. It looked like tea. She reached her hand out and grasped the mug: still warm.
Emily immediately shined her light towards the narrow hallway. There was a narrow door set in one side and a closed door at the end. She knocked on the first door in the hallway, calling “Cynthia?” There was no response. Emily pushed open the door, revealing an empty bathroom.
She held the light higher and went down the hallway. Was Cynthia behind the second closed door? Or was it someone else?
“Theresa?” she called over her shoulder to reassure herself there was still someone else there.
“Just a minute,” said Theresa. Emily heard the sound of someone fumbling through the dark. “I can’t see anything out here.”
Emily shined the light
against the closed door and cautiously pushed it open. She shined her light in every corner: a simple twin bed, a nightstand, a lamp on the bedside table. There was no one in the room.
“She’s not in here,” she called to Theresa, turning back to the door. It was closed. Puzzled, Emily went over to the door and tugged. It was stuck.
“Theresa?” she called. “Theresa, are you out there? I can’t get out.”
Emily heard footsteps, followed by the sound of the front door opening then closing. In the darkness, in the small confined space, there was the definitive click of a front door lock. Emily had left the key in the door.
“Theresa? Theresa! Let me out!” Emily frantically yanked on the door. It felt like someone had tied the knob to something. Emily pulled violently on the flimsy wooden door, which opened just slightly enough to reveal a thin wedge of the hallway. She shined her phone’s light in the crack and saw a length of rope tied to the handle of the bedroom, with the other end tied to the handle of the bathroom door.
“Damn it!” Emily kicked the door in frustration. Why would Theresa lock her in? She tried Jesse again. He still wasn’t answering.
Emily shined her light on the wood-paneled walls of the trailer’s bedroom. Above the bed was a narrow window. Emily studied it, quickly calculating her odds of fitting through. She jumped on the bed and shoved it open, knocking the screen out with an impatient fist. She pulled herself through the window, grunting with the effort of squeezing herself through the narrow frame. For a precarious instant she hung, suspended several feet above the ground, before dropping into a narrow bank of dirty snow beneath the window’s frame.
Emily struggled to her feet, brushing mud, snow, and leaves off herself. She ran around the side of the trailer to the front yard.
Theresa’s car was gone.
Jesse walked back to the truck, parked in a narrow alley behind the law office. He carried the folder containing Matilda’s will under one arm. The lawyer seemed polite enough, but something about him had given him the creeps. The sun slipped rapidly from view. The temperature dropped as darkness fell.
