As he took stock of the shed's contents however, a few things did catch his eye. Closer to the entrance, stacked more neatly than the other stuff, were items that had clearly been procured more recently. Most everything in the space was grimy, coated with age, but this neat assortment of bags and supplies looked pristine in comparison. He knelt down to take a closer look.
Two brand new coils of rope. A shovel. A tarp. Three bags of chemical fertilizer and two of grass seed.
Someone had done some shopping recently by the looks of it. The bags of fertilizer were open; probably this was the stuff that Ulrich had noticed in the lawn earlier. The shovel, too, appeared used—a fair bit of soil still clung to it. One bag of grass seed was nearly empty.
Such items weren't necessarily out of place in a shed; that is, unless, one suspected the owner of said shed of being a murderer. Ulrich thought it curious that a man in the midst of an extramarital affair could manage to dodge his wife so easily while still committing to his lawn care regime.
Maybe William Villefort was just that kind of guy—a hard worker and proud homeowner.
Or he's taken up landscaping because he's looking to hide a body.
The presence of these items sent up a red flag. Though he knew his suspicions were premature, Ulrich was filled all the same with unease at finding these supplies, and wondered if there wasn't a body buried somewhere on the property.
Gloria's body.
Was that the meaning of this haunting? Had the spirit brought him here so that he might discover her body and unmask her murderer? His stomach lurched; he'd walked about much of the property, had tread all over the grounds. Had he walked over an unmarked grave in the process?
Taking one last look through the shed, Ulrich stepped over the tangle of hoses and peered out the dusty window. The sun was dropping fast. So far, there didn't appear to be anyone else on the property with him, but the longer he stuck around, the greater his odds of running into William. If he was going to remain on the grounds much longer, he needed to get his car out of sight.
He looked outside, to his sedan, and was about to click off his flashlight when he suddenly jerked and brought it to his chest.
Ulrich could see his car through the filthy window, and what's more, he could see someone sitting in it.
A woman, raven-haired and hunched, sat in the back seat. One bony fist clutched the handle of a red umbrella that bumped against the car ceiling. As he gawked from the window, the figure slowly turned, her bent neck twitching, tangled hair fanning out across the headrest.
He looked away. He couldn't bear to meet that terrible face and left the window, squeezing his eyes shut.
The specter had returned—and this time, she'd come well before midnight. She had probably been the one who'd opened the car door; her shadow had likely been the one he'd seen prior to entering the shed.
Taking a deep breath of the dusty air, Ulrich gripped the long flashlight like a baseball bat and crept out onto the drive. “G-Gloria...?” he stammered, turning with a wince towards the car.
But except for the painting, the back seat was empty now.
His knees butted heads. Shuffling through the gravel, he supported himself against the trunk and dared a look through the rear window. Sure enough, there was no one inside the car. Where did—
In the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of red. She was standing on the lawn now, some fifteen feet away, her gnarled form leaning in the direction of the house. Ulrich stepped away from the car, began approaching the specter, but stopped short. “W-What is it you want?” he asked when he finally found the nerve to speak. “What do you want to show me?”
The apparition gave no response, simply remained rooted to the spot with her back turned to him.
There was nothing to do but fall into step behind her. The detective started up the lawn, joined her where she stood, and careful to avoid looking at her, he asked, “OK, I'll follow you. Where to?” His skin crawled as he said it. Being so close to this terrifying presence as the day loosed its last gasp filled him with incredible dread.
But, again, the spirit remained silent. When he tried glancing over at her, trying to read her intentions, he noticed she was no longer beside him—Gloria had moved again, was standing at the rightmost edge of the house. He watched as she disappeared around the corner. It seemed she was leading him around back.
It took everything he had to remain calm. No big deal, he tried to convince himself. Just following a dead woman's cues. This is all completely normal. He strode up to the side of the house, his shoes picking up a good deal of fertilizer, and then peered cautiously around the corner. The spirit was lingering in the back, near the patio. If she wanted to have a barbecue she should have just said so, he thought, shaking his head.
When Ulrich had made it to the patio, he looked around but could no longer find any trace of the spirit. There wasn't any sign of her about the pond or the nearby trees. He looked up and down the back of the building but she'd seemingly vanished.
Just as his confusion was about to reach its zenith, he heard something.
A loud pop. Then, soon thereafter, a slow, shrill squeak.
Ulrich watched as the back door to the house fell open. The lock had been disengaged and it now swung ajar of its own accord. When the whining hinge finally fell silent, he saw the door had opened enough for him to easily pass inside. But there was no one there.
It was clear the spirit intended for him to enter, but this posed a problem for the detective.
Stepping through an open door was still breaking and entering, even if there was no actual breaking involved. Looking over his shoulder, staring out across the pond, he wondered if trespassing was worth the risk. Technically, he hadn't broken in—in fact, the spirit had invited him inside. The property rights of ghosts were something of a legal grey area, of course, but if Gloria's final resting place really was somewhere on this property, then her permission was as good as anyone's in his book. Hopefully the police would see it that way, too.
He needed to enter, but he'd have to do so carefully, without leaving any trace of his visit. Evidence gleaned through trespassing could be thrown out, at least in theory, and if he wasn't careful, leaving his own fingerprints about the scene would lead to his being implicated down the line. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket that he could use while handling anything he found inside, and started for the door.
Cleaning off his shoes on the cobblestones, Ulrich clicked his flashlight back on and stepped into the house.
19
The place seemed like it had been shut up awhile. That was his first impression as he started through the back door and entered a large kitchen. It was in the air; it was stuffy and uncirculated, the kind of air no one had been doing much living in as of late. Palming his handkerchief, Ulrich eased the door shut and then sauntered further in.
What was William Villefort's line of work? Ulrich hadn't thought to ask his wife. If the vast marble countertops and heavy, commercial-grade appliances were any indication, it was possible he was a world-class chef. A closer study of the scene beneath the beam of his flashlight showed this to be unlikely, however. No one had been turning out award-winning quiches with this oven—the edge of an instruction manual was sticking from the seam of the oven door. The trash can was filled with paper plates and other disposables while the dishwasher was still sealed with manufacturer's tape. Only the fridge and microwave showed any signs of use; the former being exceedingly well-stocked with cheap beer and some expired meat and dairy products, and the interior of the latter splattered with the sauces of microwaveable meals.
Despite the grand intentions hinted at in its design, the kitchen hadn't been used much.
From the kitchen, Ulrich was able to go in one of three directions; straight ahead was a long hallway leading presumably to a staircase, while a sparse dining room spread out to the left and a large, well-outfitted living room sat on the right. Poking his head through the doorway into the dining roo
m, he found there wasn't much to see. A handsome wooden dining set for six sat at room's center, and that was all.
His next stop was the living room, and in stark contrast to what he'd hitherto seen, this space appeared worn in. There was a leather sectional against one wall with a few matching ottomans, side tables with more condensation rings and food stains about them than visible hardwood detail, and a television. This wasn't just any television, though. Standing before it, Ulrich attempted a ballpark measure of the titanic screen and wagered it was something like eighty or more inches. Judging by the well-grubbed remote on the side table, it looked like Mr. Villefort spent a good deal of time in this particular room.
He paused there, eyeing his reflection on the massive screen.
Ulrich wasn't alone in that reflection. He could make out the dim outline of another stationed mere feet away from him, to his right. There was a sudden burst of movement. His pulse rose a few notches and, bracing himself, he turned to look.
There was no one there. They'd slipped out of view just as he'd summoned the nerve to turn around. Still, in the very corner of his eye he'd glimpsed a touch of red—the tatters of an umbrella in retreat. Whatever he'd been brought here to see, it wasn't in this room. Gloria was leading him deeper into the house.
“Should have told me there was a great TV here,” he muttered, wiping an arm across his brow. “I'd have brought one of my Criterion discs. You ever seen Ikiru?”
Growing more uncomfortable with the stony silence—and with the noises he made in his clumsy exploration—Ulrich moved slowly to the next room, a large parlor. Like the dining room before it, there was little to see there. A few stacked chairs, some dusty pictures on the wall. Turning a corner, he found himself at the end of the long hall that led back into the kitchen. Here, a wide staircase with a carved bannister rose up into the second story.
He might have surveyed the rest of the downstairs or at least glanced into each of the remaining rooms, but as he idled at the foot of the stairs a noise broke the prevailing quiet.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Ulrich listened hard, tried to determine where the sound was coming from. It was Gloria; there could be no doubt. A look at each of the windows in view, at the front door, produced no sign of the phantom, though. She must be upstairs. Careful not to touch the bannister with his bare hand, Ulrich ascended.
The hall broke in two directions, with both branches turning in sharp corners. Counting only the doors in view, he estimated there could be as many as six bedrooms on this level. Unsure which the spirit wanted him in, he stood and waited for another clue. Eventually, it came.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rapping had come from his left. Flashlight in hand, he marched down the hall after it.
The only light in the upper story came from a large window near the stairs, and at this hour it issued only the faintest glow. The floors settled beneath him as though unaccustomed to weight bearing, and the further he went down the hall the more rarified the air seemed to become.
The expired food in the fridge, the general stuffiness—it was a safe bet that no one had been here for awhile. Where, then, had William Villefort gone? If he'd murdered Gloria, his mistress, where had he since disappeared to? The detective had a sinking feeling in his stomach—a feeling that he'd gotten here far too late. Even if he got the authorities involved that very instant, Villefort would have had something like a week's lead time to evade capture. It was possible he wasn't even in the Country anymore—that he was hiding abroad.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The noise sounded again from around the left-hand corner, and Ulrich rushed around the bend.
To his surprise, Gloria wasn't there. He'd expected to find her standing outside one of the rooms, tapping against a door, but what he found instead was that the door was already ajar. Every door on the second story had been shut—except for this one. With his handkerchief, he nudged it open further and brought his light in with him.
It was a messy room, containing an accumulation of boxes, odds and ends and what looked like office supplies. The desk and chair at room's center made it clear that Villefort had intended this for an office. The detective stepped inside, giving the space a thorough sweep with his light. There were boxes of sports memorabilia stacked in two of the corners. Near the window—shades drawn tightly—was a tall bookshelf, and atop it Ulrich found something interesting amidst the clutter.
A box of ammunition. The cartridges were in .22 caliber, and the box said there were forty in total. A quick peek inside showed that there were significantly less than that remaining, however. Someone had used more than half, by the looks of it.
While studying the box of ammo, Ulrich stepped forward and bumped his knee on something dense. Cursing, he bent down to inspect it. On one of the lower shelves sat a black, metallic box; his patella had met a steel dial on the front. “A safe?” he muttered. It was a small thing, maybe a cubic foot.
Villefort might have stored anything in the strongbox—he may have used it for money, important documents or even a firearm. There was no telling what method he'd used in murdering his mistress, but—judging from the half-empty box of ammo—it was entirely possible that the safe contained the murder weapon. He made a mental note of the safe as he continued his search of the room.
Ulrich studied the rest of the shelving unit's contents. There were a few books there—mostly tomes on business and self-help. While he stooped, reading off the titles on the spines, he heard the floors loose a sudden groan from across the room, to his back. The hairs on his neck rose up as the creaking sounded—it'd been the sound of someone taking a firm step across the floor.
Someone was in the room with him—and probably within arm's reach.
Suddenly, there was a flash of light, followed by a sharp metallic creak.
Ulrich fell onto his haunches and whipped around. Sure that the other individual was soon to be upon him—an assailant, no doubt—he swung his flashlight in an upward arc that would have easily knocked a man's teeth loose had it only connected to a chin. But, as he blinked into the gloom which had been lessened by the activation of a small desk lamp, he found himself alone once again.
With a sigh, he stood and straightened himself, lowering the flashlight to his side. “Damn it, Gloria. Don't sneak up on me.” Ulrich glanced down at the desk. The yellow bulb in the lamp glowed harshly against the papers stacked below it. “Is this what you want me to see, then?”
There was something about that light. It was mounted on a metal swing arm that allowed for changes in angle, and the bulb was surrounded by a cone of black plastic, which focused the light into a a faint halo. The metal arm slumped a few more degrees as he watched—the mechanism loosing another of those awful creaks—and the light settled over a particular mess of papers that caught the investigators eye.
Taking care not to touch them with his bare fingers, Ulrich spread them out in the light and took a seat upon the edge of the chair to see what was written on them.
They were receipts.
The first few seemed pointless enough. They were receipts from a number of hardware stores and nurseries. It wasn't until he'd looked over three or four of them that he noticed something. The first was from Frank's Nursery in Toledo, Ohio and detailed the purchase of chemical fertilizer. The next receipt, from Baylor Hardware in Maumee, Ohio showed a sale of rope, among other things. A shovel had been bought at Reynolds Homegoods in Delta, and there was a receipt for grass seed and a tarp from a shop called Townsend's, which was located just outside of Tanglewood.
All of these purchases had been made on the same day, and all within a few hours of each other. What's more, they'd all been paid for in cash. Ulrich had been suspicious enough at finding the items listed in these receipts in the shed, but was doubly suspicious at learning that they'd all been purchased at different retailers. Certainly a smart shopper would save themselves time by picking up these items all under one roof? Ulrich had never been to m
ost of the shops listed, but found it hard to believe that Villefort would have needed to visit four different retailers just to get the commonplace items on his shopping list.
No, one would only shop around this way if they had something to hide—if they didn't want to arouse suspicion. William had patronized four different shops in four different cities, all on the same day, because he didn't want anyone to know he was buying up supplies to aid in hiding a body.
There were other receipts, these from a few days before the rest. They weren't from retail shops, however—these were receipts from a local bank detailing recent withdrawals. One dated back nearly two months—the other three weeks. The final, and smallest, was an ATM withdrawal receipt from the same day he'd gone on his lawn care shopping spree.
That final withdrawal had almost certainly been used to purchase the rope and other supplies—some quick math proved the totals on the various receipts added up very nearly to the withdrawal amount. But the sums on the other bank receipts had been much larger—almost twenty-thousand dollars in total. Villefort had done the smart thing, spacing out his activities a bit and taking less than ten-thousand bucks out each time. Banks in the US were required to report withdrawals in excess of ten-thousand to the IRS for investigation—William knew enough to space his apart and avoid scrutiny.
Twenty-thousand bucks was a lot of money—certainly enough to secure a plane ticket with, and enough to get one started in a foreign country. It seemed to Ulrich that William Villefort had been planning this murder for some time, and that he'd taken steps to plan his escape, too. No wonder Laura hadn't heard from her husband; if he hadn't jumped the border already, he was going to soon.
Deep Night Page 13
