Ames To Thrill: Three Full-Length Gripping Mystery Thrillers

by Dan Ames

  The engine fired right up.

  Air blew from the vents.

  I slammed it in reverse and stomped on the accelerator. I hit the bottom of the garage door as I flew from the driveway.

  I dropped it into first and from the corner of my eye I saw the front door fly open.

  And then I gunned it.

  31

  Thirty-One

  Shorewood was dead. The small community a few blocks from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee campus was a ghost town. The bars, coffee shops and bookstores were closed, the streets empty as the storm whipped through, looking for someone to receive the brunt of its anger.

  I finally pulled up in front of Eve's house, a brick Tudor, with a towering gable, stained glass windows and a heavy oak front door.

  My hands were shaking and I struggled at times to keep the car on the road. I concentrated, focused on Eve’s house. A light was on somewhere near the back. Maybe the kitchen. I pulled into the driveway and as I got closer to the garage, saw that it widened out behind the house. I parked in a miniature cul-de-sac.

  When I stepped out, the wind tore through my clothes, a gust of wind blew a peppery spray of snow into my face, the small flakes so cold they felt like hot ashes. My knees wobbled, my clothes froze instantly in the harsh wind.

  The doorbell was frozen, but the meager warmth from my shaking thumb managed to thaw the ice holding it in place. I pushed and barely heard the soft chime.

  I stood, the wind seeming to get stronger every minute, my clothes brittle in the cold. I looked overhead at the night sky and it was streaked with white and gray, here and there a patch of stars. I slumped against the door frame, praying that she would open the door.

  I heard movement on the other side of the door. A hand pulled the lace blind aside.

  And then her face was before me.

  Beautiful brown eyes that took me in, the sound of locks being thrown back, the chain slid out of its slot, the doorknob twisted against the cold, the pull of the door broke free from the ice with a popping sound.

  And then the door was open and I was in her arms. The warmth of the house enveloped me, washed over me in waves and I felt my legs turn to jelly.

  I stumbled forward, deeper into the house.

  32

  Thirty-Two

  I looked out the kitchen window at the trees in Eve's backyard. Their branches were snow-covered and ice-encrusted, reflecting glints of the moonlight. The cirrus clouds shimmered in the pale light like thin white veils. A brisk wind bent the leafless branches of the trees, their ice-covered thicknesses clacking together in a sporadic rhythm. Like 50s beatniks at a Thelonious monk concert.

  I vaguely remembered Eve washing my wounds, including a small crease where a bullet had nicked me. Then, sleeping in her bed and finally feeling warm.

  Now, while she slept, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen and wandered through her house. It was an impressive place with vaulted ceilings, beautiful woodwork, Indian throw rugs, natural stone fireplaces, original artwork.

  A mahogany staircase led to the second floor.

  There, I found a guest room and a second bathroom. Down a short hallway led to the last room.

  It was Eve's office.

  The desk, filing cabinets, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were all done beautifully, all done by hand.

  On the desk sat a laptop computer, and a phone.

  On the far bookshelf, a space had been cleared for miscellaneous items. I walked there. Sipped my coffee. Studied what was before me.

  I saw prototype labels for Lakeside Beer and a newspaper clipping of the day Eve opened her brewery for business. There were antique beer bottles, several small, delicate vases, one of which had a necklace with a large ruby stone surrounded by silver draped over it.

  The necklace was stunning, the ruby so big I figured it was a very valuable piece of jewelry.

  There were also lots of pictures of Eve with prominent businessmen.

  Including one with Philip Krahn.

  I heard soft footsteps behind me. Felt her hands on my shoulders. Then she wrapped her arms around me.

  I turned and put my arms around her. Kissed her. Made a vague gesture toward the shelf with her business momentos.

  "You've come a long way."

  "And I've still got a long way to go."

  "Why? Why did you choose this? You could've been a model. A movie star. A rocket scientist, probably. Why did you decide to go into the brewing business?"

  "I love it," she said. "It's really that simple. I love everything about it. Producing a beer. Watching people enjoy it. I can't think of anything else I would rather do."

  I pointed to the picture of her and Philip Krahn.

  "How well do you know him?" I asked.

  She looked at the picture and I felt her tense just the slightest. She paused. Made a decision.

  "Pretty well. When I got out of college, I met with him. An informational interview of sorts. I learned a lot from him about the business. He was very helpful."

  She picked up the picture in her hand.

  "Eventually, we began seeing each other. Dating."

  "How long did you see him?"

  "About a year. But it was never a real relationship, you know. Philip likes to keep his options open."

  I nodded. Couldn't think of anything to say.

  We kissed again and she took my hand, led me back downstairs and into the kitchen.

  "Sit," she said, gesturing to the stool in front of the kitchen's island. I eased onto the stool, put my coffee cup on the counter. A basket of fresh fruit sat next to me.

  I heard the tick-tick-tick of a gas burner firing up, saw Eve fill a pan with bacon. She went to the giant, stainless steel refrigerator, retrieved some eggs. She cracked them expertly, one-handed, into a second frying pan.

  Soon, the kitchen was filled with the kind of breakfast smells I hadn't breathed in years.

  When everything was done, Eve made up plates piled high with eggs, bacon and toast. While I ate, she munched on toast.

  I was hungry. Couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. When I was done, I pushed the plate away and poured myself another cup of coffee. Eve rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher, poured herself another cup of coffee. She stood across from me, leaning on the island countertop.

  "I think it's time you leveled with me," she said.

  "Level with you?"

  "Yes. I don't like being kept in the dark. And I know you're not telling me everything."

  I shook my head. Tried to appear nonchalant. "Believe me, you know just as much as I do."

  She gave me a slight, barely perceptible nod.

  "What happened to you?”

  “Some rather large men tried to get me to give them something I don’t have. Kind of a hard trick to pull off.”

  She nodded. “What are you going to do, Michael?"

  The caffeine had begun to kick in and I started to think, to plan, to consider my options.

  "Know what I've been thinking about?"

  "What?"

  "Why I'm still alive."

  "You mean, like, the odds..."

  "Oh no. There were no odds at all. I'm still alive because they want something. As soon as they have it, or think I don't have it, I'm dead."

  "What is it they want?" she asked me. "And who are they?"

  "What they want..." I started, "...and who they are...I have no idea."

  "You don't know?"

  I shook my head.

  "Not a fucking clue."

  "That's not good, is it?"

  "Only for my beneficiaries."

  "Michael, this is no time for..."

  "I'll give you the good news."

  "I'd like to hear it."

  "If I can find what they're looking for, or who has what they're looking for, I might have a chance."

  "Where are you going to start looking?" she asked.

  "An old, old lady."

  33

  Thirty-Th
ree

  The Schletterhorn mansion looked even bigger and more impressive than I remembered. The giant gate was shut, the speaker was frosted over with long ribbons of ice. I punched it with my gloved hand and as the shards of ice tinkled against the stone column of the gate's pillar, a voice spoke.

  "Yes?" It was a man's voice.

  "I'm here to see Mary Schletterhorn. My name is Michael Ashland."

  There was a pause and I heard a click and then another pause that turned into several minutes. I debated about hitting the speaker again. Finally, I balled my hand up into a fist and was about to bring it crashing down on the speaker when the big gate opened. It crunched and popped as it pulled free from its sheath of ice.

  The voice spoke to me again. "Please pull through."

  I wound my way around the circular drive and parked in front of the giant doors then got out and stood before the door, the video camera trained on me from the alcove below the roofline. I wondered to what temperature it was rated. In this kind of cold I half-expected it to shatter like an eggshell. But then I remembered where I was and realized that they most likely spared no expense when it came to security. The little camera was probably designed by NASA to withstand temperatures on Pluto.

  The door opened and a new male nurse stood before me. He was tall and thin, dressed in the obligatory white shirt, shoes and pants. His dark black hair was slicked back. His smile revealed stained Tetracycline teeth.

  He led me down a different hallway than the one I'd taken on my previous visit. Instead of portraitures, the paintings on the wall were drab landscapes.

  At the end of the hall we turned left and faced two thick doors. The nurse opened them to reveal a large bedroom. Thick curtains hung over the oversized windows and the room was filled with shady light. It looked and smelled more like a mausoleum than a woman's bedroom.

  She was on the bed. Her skin looked gray and mottled. One chicken neck of an arm was flung over her head. The rest of her was beneath the sheets.

  She inclined her head toward me.

  "Forgive me, Mr. Ashland," she said. "But as I'm about to die, I'm afraid I won't get up to greet you. You understand, I'm sure." Her voice was hoarse and raspy.

  I walked closer to the bed. The smell of the room was nauseating. I wondered when the last time the new nurse had changed the sheets. The scent of urine hung in the air. Eau de Piss.

  "Absolutely," I said. "I don't mean to bother you..."

  "But you are, of course, my dear. Bothering me, that is. Everyone bothers me. Why should you be any different?"

  This was going nowhere fast.

  "I need your help," I said.

  "Sorry, fresh out." Her lips parted in a grotesque smile. “When the police came to question me, I gave them all the help I had. Literally.”

  “What did you tell them?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Because that’s what I knew. I may have told him some things, but sometimes I rather prattle on, oblivious to what I'm saying. If he came to the conclusion that you were looking for something valuable, he may have decided he should look for it, too. I, however, have no recollection of what he and I spoke of. Whatever that beast of a man did, he did on his own. I believe they refer to it as moonlighting.”

  She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose. I didn't believe her, knew she was lying. Her lucidity aside, she knew more than she was saying and my guess was that she sent Norbert after me. Why, I didn't know.

  “Now, I only agreed to let you in here," she said, "because I wanted you to see with your own eyes that I am dying. Maybe then, I presumed, and only then, would you leave me in peace."

  Her voice was floating high above us. A faint tremolo had crept in. Katherine Hepburn style.

  "I really need to ask..." I continued.

  Her hands flopped on the bed, a gesture of exasperation.

  "The world has done nothing but take things from me," she said. "Take. Take. Take. Why should my last hours be any different? The world is full of cold, heartless bastards like you Mr. Ashland."

  I felt my anger boil over. "Why was my friend Tim Bantien killed? He had films of you having sex with a man. Your goddamned nurse tried to kill me. Everything has to do with you. What is it? Why was Tim killed? Why are people trying to kill me?"

  She giggled, a sound that would be my vote for the official soundtrack to insanity.

  "Why, why, why, why?" Her voice mocked me. "Aren't you just the little interrogator?"

  I waited as she sank onto her back.

  "Mr. Ashland what are you doing here?"

  "I already answered that question."

  She lifted, with effort, a small hand mirror from the side table. It looked like it was made of ivory.

  "I was such a pretty girl," she said. "So desired. I remember in the early days how the boys would chase after me. I even let a few of them catch me.”

  She looked into the mirror again.

  "No," she said, "time is most definitely not our friend, Mr. Ashland. Of all the evil acts the world has perpetrated on my being, none has been so devastating as those wrought by time." A deep sigh.

  "I wish I could say the same for my friend," I said, my voice rising. "An innocent man-"

  "There is no such thing."

  "-a history professor. With a child on the way."

  She dropped the mirror onto her lap.

  "Oh, another orphan, how sad," she said and stuck out her lower lip. "If you're trying to play the sympathy card with me, Mr. Ashland, I would suggest you re-shuffle the deck." A long tendril of saliva hung from the corner of her mouth.

  Her words were ringing in my ears. Another orphan?

  The old woman turned to me and the white milkiness of her eyes was criss crossed with bulging red veins.

  She seemed to focus on me.

  And then her eyes cleared. Her upper lip snarled back.

  "You want to know why you're being pursued? What these bad, bad men are after?"

  I nodded before I realized it was a rhetorical question.

  "Here's what I'll tell you, Mr. Ashland," she said, and pressed a button next to her bed. A man immediately appeared in the door behind me. "And then I want you out of here. I want you out of here and I don't ever want you to come back. If I never see your ugly face I'll die not so much a happy woman, as a relieved woman."

  She sat up, the effort taking several seconds.

  I stood and watched her, looked into her fiery eyes.

  Her mouth parted. Her yellow teeth gleamed, dark brown in the crevices. Her nostrils flared, long hairs stuck out from the twin holes.

  She whispered.

  "They're looking for the little black bitch."

  34

  Thirty-Four

  The Speedway was deserted, eight bays of gasoline pumps, all of them empty. Most people had had the good sense to fill up their cars before the cold front moved in. With the Audi down to a quarter of a tank, I stopped to fill up. Inside, I bought a twelve-pack.

  With a fresh beer between my legs, I pulled out onto Capitol Drive headed back toward Milwaukee's western suburbs. My entire body ached, and with the Audi's upholstery slashed, the driver's seat's springs were poking into my ass.

  As I slammed the first beer, I thought about Tim's ex-wife. Emily. The last time I'd talked with her she said she'd had coffee with Tim a week before he was killed. He'd seemed nervous. Uptight.

  I emptied the beer and cracked another.

  A few minutes later I pulled into Emily Lyon's driveway.

  I checked my watch. Only four-thirty.

  I took a chance, left the car running and went to ring the doorbell. The path to the front door had been cleared with a snowblower. I could see tracks from the chains around the tires.

  The doorbell rang. I waited. No answer. I rang again, but still no answer. I walked around to the garage, found the side door, and peered through the window inside. Except for an oil stain on the concrete floor, it was empty.

  I drove back down the block and parked.


  What a fucking mess, I thought. I was overloaded with questions. I knew Mary Schletterhorn had something to do with Tim's murder. But what? The more questions I asked, the more questions I created. What orphan? What did Vanderkin have to do with it, if anything? And why had Tim been so secretive?

  It was like quicksand, the more I thrashed about, the closer I came to being buried alive.

  Forty minutes and four more beers later, no closer to having any idea what was going on, I saw a flash of headlights that signaled Emily's return home. I watched as she pulled her car into the garage.

  I waited a few more minutes then pulled into the driveway. I shut the Audi off and went to the front door. I rang the doorbell and waited, looked at the thick sheet of ice covering the mailbox, the spiderweb of frost on the inside of the storm door.

  Her face appeared in the window and then the doorknob turned. She pulled the door but it was stuck, frozen in place. I put my hand against it and pushed. It moved backward with a pop and I stepped quickly inside.

  "Burr, you really should have called first." We skipped the hug this time. She looked me over. "What happened to you?" My face was still discolored from the beating I'd taken.

  "I think the question should be what hasn't happened to me," I said. In the dining room, I saw two place settings. An unlit candle. A bottle of wine on the counter. A wonderful smell from the kitchen.

  She checked her watch.

  "Look, Emily. I have to ask you something, it won't take long." She looked at me and I thought I saw the old Emily flit before me like the last gasp of a dying candle.

  "Okay," she said, and gestured to the dining room table. "But I'm expecting company."

  "Like I said, this won't take long."

  "You want something to drink?"

  "No, thanks." She sat across from me. Crossed her legs. Folded her hands in her lap.

  "You said the last time you saw Tim, you had coffee together."