Chapter 9
Silence hung heavy in the plush room; not even the noise of traffic invaded this citadel of antiquity. The walls must have been heavily insulated and the effect was of entering a realm of near-reverence. Mr. Allred’s place of business reminded me of another edifice of my childhood —the old Carnegie Library. One always spoke in whispers there and the feeling was the same, even to the musty odor.
Three small lights glowed in the panel above a small desk in the foyer, showing that the security system was on and functioning.
Sunlight filtering through the storefront window did little to relieve the gloom, and nothing at all to displace an air-conditioned chill.
“Mom,” I whispered, “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “That sign outside says the store opens at 10:00 but it’s a quarter after that now. Surely someone is here.”
Certainly the proprietor or a sales clerk should have hurried to meet us. Businesses that display items in the window with a $2,000 price tag usually are not left unguarded and the door unlocked, even with a security system in place.
When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw something that raised goose bumps on my arms. A glossy, cherry wood display case lay toppled on its face on the floor in a scattering of broken glass. A long necklace of colored stones hung crazily across the back of a chair.
The odor of mustiness grew stronger; yet, it was more than just the smell of old wood and books. It was heavy and acrid. Had Jason Allred become ill before leaving his shop? Perhaps he had started to lock up, stumbled against the display case, and vomited before he passed out?
“Is there a light switch in the entryway?” I asked Mom.
I heard her hand sweeping against the wall and then light from several chandeliers flooded the store. My breath caught in my throat. The tumbled display case was only the tip of the iceberg. This long, beautiful room looked as if a tornado had whipped through. Tables and desks lay on their sides. Shards of broken dishes littered the floor. Paintings had been ripped out of their frames.
Instead of immediately calling the police, as I should have done, my reporter’s instinct kicked in. Who had wrought this havoc and why? Was it a wanton act of vandalism? Had a fight occurred between Jason Allred and an assailant? Evidently the object was not theft. Although I was no expert, I knew that many of the items in the shop would bring a bundle if sold in the right market.
I jumped when Mom touched my arm. “Let’s go, Darcy,” she said. “Let’s get out of here and then call 911. I don’t want to be involved in any more trouble.”
I shook my head. “No, Mom, we can’t go yet. What if Mr. Allred is here? What if he needs help?”
Tiptoeing through broken glass, I saw an open door halfway down a hall which connected to the showroom.
“I’m going to check that room,” I said, pointing to the doorway.
When I peered inside the small room, I saw that it was an office, but it was in as bad a shape as the rest of the shop. File folders and manila envelopes spilled onto the floor. An empty spot on the desk showed where a computer once sat. The destruction was so complete that a front-end loader could not have done a more thorough job of demolition.
Mom clung to my arm as we crept into the office. Again she whispered, “Come on, Darcy, let’s call the police.”
Briefly, I wondered why she was whispering. Evidently, we were the only ones in this ransacked shop. The building had an empty feel.
“Wait here, Mom,” I said. “I want to see if there’s anything in this office to give us a clue about what has happened.”
As I inched toward the desk, the acrid smell grew stronger. Dim overhead lights cast an unnatural, orange glow over the wreckage.
I saw the puddle first, so dark it resembled grease in the gloom. Then, a man’s shoe came into view on the floor near the desk, a shiny, black loafer. My heart hammering, I moved closer. Dressed in a suit and stretched out on his side on the floor lay the body of a man. Around and under his head pooled the source of the pungent smell. He lay in blood, and I had the sinking feeling that I had found Jason Allred.
Steeling myself against rising nausea, I bent over that pitiful figure and felt his wrist for a pulse. He was cold and I could detect no flicker of life. An open billfold beside his hand identified him as Jason Allred, but something caught my eye just as I was about to get to my feet. A small gold chain glittered between two buttons of Allred’s shirt.
Mom grabbed my shoulder. “For heaven’s sake, Darcy! What are you doing? Don’t touch that poor man! Don’t you know what they say on TV? You’re going to have your fingerprints all over. Maybe the killer is still here. Let’s leave! Now!”
Carefully, I undid a button near the chain. A narrow leather belt was buckled around the dead man’s chest and another strap extended over his shoulder. The belt ran through slots in a long velvet pouch. Gently, I pulled the chain and a medallion slipped out of the pouch into my hand, the same medallion as in the photograph in Templeton’s office in New York.
Mom and I stared at each other in horror. So this is what happened to Ben’s heirloom. Jason Allred would never divulge any secret Ben may have told him. My mother and I had arrived too late.
The Cemetery Club Page 9
