"Well, no, not anymore. I tossed it after Mabel passed, not expecting to have a need for a key to the place again."
"Then I'll leave mine under the welcome mat when I leave."
"Not a good idea. It's the first place a burglar would look, Rapella."
We agreed to hide the key ring behind a bristly briar bush alongside the front steps. I'd leave it there for him when I left, and he'd return it to the same spot after he'd finished up his hinge-greasing project.
"Thanks again, Ridley," I said.
"My pleasure. I'll return the ladder to the store room and then see myself out."
After he'd ascended the stairs with the step-ladder, I withdrew the piece of paper Mr. Wickets had written his phone number on and noticed it was a sales receipt from a pharmacy for a refill of the same depression medication Rip had taken for six or seven months after his retirement. Our decision to become full-time RVers is what had helped him get off the costly drug. I refolded the receipt and placed it in my wallet for safekeeping in case I needed to contact the man in the future.
As I was looking around, trying to decide where to start, I noticed a pair of sunglasses lying on the fireplace mantel which I assumed had been left behind by Mr. Wickets. He must've been holding his shades in his hand when he'd first entered the room, because I recalled being so mesmerized by his startling blue eyes that a bulldozer could have scooped up the sofa and driven off with it for all I'd have noticed. I placed the sunglasses in a more prominent place so he'd see and retrieve them when he left that night after completing his hinge-lubricating project.
I went back over the events of the day in my mind while I ran a dust rag over the furniture. As I uncovered all of the furniture and piled up the plastic tarps to put on the curb on my way out, I felt an overwhelming compulsion to dig further into the truth behind Mabel's death, not only for Sydney Combs' sake, but to satisfy my growing curiosity, as well.
As my last chore for the evening, I needed to feed the two animals and take Gallant outside for a walk. I'd Googled the song Sydney had recommended, and found the lyrics to the song by the Baha Men group. But I couldn't figure out how repeating the words "Who Let the dogs out? Who? Who?" over and over could be sung in a calming, melodious manner. Or in any manner, for that matter.
I sang "Poor Unfortunate Souls" from The Little Mermaid soundtrack instead, and was thankful when Goofus instantly stopped squawking and bobbing. As if he'd just been shot with a tranquilizer dart, the bird became completely still. One might have thought he was playing the mannequin game, a silly trend that was currently sweeping the nation. I gently opened his cage and reached inside to fill his water bottle and food bowl. I was relieved to come away unscathed. After I closed the door and ceased my off-key warbling, Goofus hollered, "Tanks you!"
I was offended by the bird's sarcasm. I knew without a doubt it was not a "thank you for singing to me," but rather "thank you for stopping that god-awful noise before my ears began to bleed".
While I walked Gallant, I thought back to my conversation with Ridley Wickets earlier in the evening. On more than one occasion, he'd deliberately stopped short of telling me something he'd suddenly thought better of. What had he not told me? I wondered. And, more importantly, why?
What could the man possibly have to hide? What did he know that he wasn't sharing with me? Did he also have a reason to suspect there was more to Mabel's death than met the eye?
I'd have to find a way to entice him back to Mabel's house while I was there, I decided. I could call him in the morning to thank him for taking care of the squeaky door hinges. If I couldn't come up with something to coax him over by then, there was always the possibility of a drawer pull in the kitchen in desperate need of being tightened. If that ploy worked for Mabel, maybe it'd work for me, as well.
After I brought Gallant back inside and gave him a treat, or what I like to refer to as poop pay, I started to gather my things to depart. As I was picking up the last of my cleaning supplies, the lights began to flicker. They went on and off in a pattern. It was as if someone was trying to communicate with me in Morse code. There were three long time-periods of light in the middle of two groups of three really short periods. It was like dit-dit-dit, dot-dot-dot, dit-dit-dit in flashing lights rather than sound.
Suddenly I realized the blinking pattern spelled S.O.S. in Morse code. Did someone need help? If so, who? Then it hit me like a wrecking ball. Maybe it's me who needs help, I thought. Like at a psychiatric hospital, perhaps.
I thought back to what the leprechaun look-alike had said earlier. "She comes to call on me and my mates." Could it be that Mabel truly had been murdered and was now haunting the house? Had she come to call on me, asking for my help in seeing that whoever had taken her life was arrested and punished for their crime? Or was I losing my mind and starting to imagine things? I could have just dreamt I met and chatted with the little elfin guy. It would have been one unbelievably vivid dream, but I might have been under more stress than I realized. Maybe an appointment with a psychiatrist wasn't such a bad idea.
To appease my vivid imagination, I grabbed the fireplace poker off the tool rack on the hearth once again and went from room to room, covering the entire bottom floor. I found nothing to explain the flickering lights. I decided the long, stressful day really was causing my mind to play tricks on me. I convinced myself the flickering was due to nothing more than a short in a wire. Ridley had said he'd fixed electrical shorts in the house before but I had no clue where the breaker box was.
The idea the wiring in the house could be older than I was, and the fact that burning to death due to an electrical fire wasn't on my bucket list at the moment, made me wonder if it was too soon to call Ridley and ask him to check it out while he was working on the hinges that evening. But I was afraid he'd think I was a bigger pill than Mabel had been, so I ignored it.
With the brass poker in hand, I walked up the stairs as quietly as possible, tip-toed softly down the hallway, and glanced into each room. There was no way to prevent the creaks in the floorboards, so sneaking up on an interloper was out of the question. I stopped abruptly when I detected the sound of music. I recognized the tune as The Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairies. It sounded like the song was being played using bells.
At that point, a person who was playing with a full deck of cards would've flown down the stairs and out the front door. But as if I had a pair of jokers missing, I was compelled to find the origin of the sound. I followed the musical bells all the way down the long hallway to the farthest bedroom. When I walked in, I saw a tiny ballerina figurine twirling inside an open music box that was sitting on the top of a chest of drawers. I picked up the music box to see if I could determine how it could suddenly begin to play of its own accord and found an index card lying across the bottom. YOU DON'T BELONG HERE was written across the card in bright red lettering.
I gasped at the message, which felt like a direct threat to me. I dropped the card like a red-hot poker. The real poker, still in my left hand, suddenly felt like an inadequate weapon. What troubled me the most was its resemblance to the nightmare I'd recently had. How do you defend yourself against an unknown, unseen, opponent?
I then glanced inside the music box to see if anything else was in it and discovered the gold and jade ring Rip had recently purchased for me. Trying not to faint in fright, I lifted my right hand and saw a bare ring finger. Then I recalled I'd taken the ring off to protect it from the strong, abrasive, chemicals I'd used for cleaning. I'd set it on the marble table in the foyer where the roach clip had once been, which I realized now was a foolish thing to do. Next time, I'd put it in my pocket where it'd be more secure. After the traumatic recent events, the ring had much sentimental value to me, I was so thankful to have it back in my possession, even if I hadn't even been aware it was missing.
After slipping my ring on, I turned and ran down the hallway. When I reached the top of the stairs, the house suddenly went dark, as if someone had thrown the main breaker to the bu
ilding, another odd reminder of my bad dream. Not wanting to make a misstep and go ass-over-appetite all the way down the staircase, I sat on my rump and slithered down the stairs like a snake. I dropped the fireplace tool on the floor as I dashed through the drawing room, snatched my purse off the piano, and was out of the house in the space of five seconds. It was as if the missing pair of jokers had been returned to my deck, and I had come to my senses when I'd read the note and found my ring. I couldn't get out of that house quick enough. That note was definitely a personal threat. Someone wanted me gone—like yesterday!
Whoever was in the house could've easily made off with the expensive piece of jewelry and my purse as well, but robbery evidently wasn't their intent. Scaring me off the property was!
There are no such things as ghosts, I told myself as I hurried to the truck. And there are no such things as haunted houses. Man, do I need a stiff drink when I get back to the Chartreuse Caboose. Two would even be better.
On the drive back to the RV park, I couldn't shake the notion that no one else had been in the house that evening except for me and Ridley Wickets. Who besides the handy man could have snatched my ring off the table in the foyer, placed it in the box, and activated the ballerina and music? I tried to recall hearing him exit out the front door, and couldn't. Perhaps he'd not actually left when he'd told me he'd show himself out. Had I completely misjudged the man and his intentions?
The truth behind Mabel Trumbo's death was getting curiouser and curiouser, and my increasingly persistent compulsion to do some personal investigating was becoming difficult to ignore.
Chapter 16
Sydney Combs stopped me early the next morning when I passed by the nurse's station at the cardiac center on my way to see Rip. "Do you know who was looking through my aunt's file cabinet in the Heart Shack last night?"
"No," I replied. "But I do know someone was there and tried to scare me into leaving. Successfully, I might add. I'm not certain it's safe for me to return."
"What?" Sydney looked genuinely alarmed. "What happened?"
I explained the incident with the jewelry box that had nearly caused my heart to stop. Sydney claimed to have no idea what or who was behind my terrifying experience. She was confident it was connected to her own troubling experience earlier that morning, however. "Oh, my! I'm so sorry you were frightened like that, Rapella."
"Me too. So what were you saying about your aunt's file cabinet?"
"I stopped by the house after my shift ended to see if you were still there. When I walked into the storeroom, I discovered all of my aunt's file folders had been rifled through. Can you think of anyone who might've done that?" By the tone of Sydney's voice, I had an uneasy feeling she thought I might have been snooping through her aunt's stuff.
"The only person I can think of who might be responsible for both issues would be Ridley Wickets. He stopped by–"
"Who?"
"Ridley Wickets was your aunt's caretaker."
"He stopped by the Heart Shack again?"
"Yes, but it was the real caretaker this time, Sydney, not the Irish imposter."
"What?" Sydney looked at me as if I'd just told her the real caretaker reminded me of Alice Cooper, complete with a Hawaiian lei made out of tulips, who'd I'd discovered tip-toeing through her aunt's storeroom the previous night. Stunned, she repeated herself. "What?"
"It appears the real Ridley Wickets is a very charming, handsome man in his forties, I'd say. He was as confused as I was about the little guy who reminded me of a leprechaun. We chatted and Mr. Wickets seemed very kind and thoughtful. Helped me out a bit by–"
"I don't understand," Sydney said. I wanted to tell her she'd understand better if she'd let me finish and quit interrupting me. Instead, I bit my tongue and listened as she continued. "Why would he try to scare you away? Why would he snoop through stuff in the basement storeroom? He lived there for a number of years and could've pilfered through my aunt's things any time he pleased. I'd have thought he would've moved out after my aunt's passing."
"According to Ridley, he never lived in the home to begin with and–"
"No, I'm almost certain Aunt Mabel said he occupied a spare–"
"Ridley explained to me that he had just stopped by your aunt's house on occasion to repair, replace, and restore things that needed attention. His said his rates were quite reasonable. She paid him a grand total of twenty-three dollars for several years' worth of on-call service. Didn't she ever mention his fee to you?"
"No. For whatever reason, Aunt Mabel was very evasive about her caretaker, but insisted he wasn't merely a fabrication. She never even told me his name was Ridley Wickets. Did he indicate the purpose of his visit yesterday?"
"I got the impression it was primarily for nostalgic reasons. He's interested in seeing the house preserved. After we chatted, he helped me take the drapes down. He then volunteered to take care of all of the squeaky doors in the place, and naturally I jumped all over his offer. He had to leave for a work-related meeting, but I hid the key ring you gave me so he could come back to lubricate all of the hinges after I left. As you've probably noticed, they squeaked like a mouse with its tail caught in a door jamb. I have no idea why Mr. Wickets would be looking in her file cabinet, though."
"Had to leave for a work-related meeting, huh? Yeah, right. The guy was obviously scouring through those files for a reason, Rapella."
"Do you think that's why he wanted to frighten me off? With me out of there, he'd be free to sort through her files. You can be sure, dear, that if and when I see him again, I'll ask him about it."
"Please do. I'd like to know what he was searching for. He doesn't have permission to sort through anything in Aunt Mabel's house, or even be alone in it."
"Of course not! I'm so sorry I let him use the keys you entrusted me with."
Thinking back to our exchange, I recalled Ridley being surprised to find someone in the house. Had I temporarily thwarted his plan to scour through Mabel's files, and then handed my key over to him like some addlebrained numbskull so he could come back later and pilfer at his leisure? And if that was the case, had Ridley found whatever it was he'd been looking for? If so, what was it?
I decided not to bring it up with Sydney. For one thing, I felt embarrassed by my naivety, if that's what truly had occurred. But, I also found it difficult to believe Ridley was the kind of individual who'd snatch up my ring and put it in the music box, along with a threatening note to frighten me. If he'd wanted access to Mabel's files, he already had it. After all, I'd given him my key to the place, and assured him I'd be gone by the time he returned.
I couldn't convince myself the reason behind Mr. Wicket's visit was sinister or amounted to diddly-squat, and I didn't want Sydney getting the police department involved. Not yet, anyway. I wanted to delve into the matter myself a little before turning it into a great big, and possibly unnecessary, hullabaloo.
"Well, I'm not buying his lame excuse," Sydney said emphatically. I almost wished I hadn't even mentioned Ridley's visit. The girl had enough stress to deal with already. Her voice rose as she continued. "To sneak in like that, the man's obviously up to no good. I'm not happy about his trespassing at all! If Ridley Wickets stops by again, please ask him why he was going through my aunt's files and tell him his services are no longer needed. Make sure he knows he's not welcome in the house anymore."
"Um, okay. I'll do that." I was uncomfortable about the idea of banishing him from the house or grilling the nice gentleman as to why he'd gone through Mabel's stuff uninvited. I couldn't be positive it had even been him who'd scoured through the file cabinet. Having helped Mabel out with repairs around the home for several years, he surely wouldn't feel like an interloper when he walked in uninvited. I wouldn't have. "By the way, Sydney, what did you need to see me about last night when you stopped by?"
"I, uh, well, um, I just wanted to make sure you were getting along okay. Didn't want you overdoing it or anything."
"I'm not, but thanks for your
concern. I'll admit, though, that I'm hesitant to go back to the house now that I know someone doesn't want me there."
I noticed Sydney looked away as we talked, as if she were unable to meet my eyes. I wasn't sure I was buying her story any more than she professed to be buying Ridley's. How could Sydney have noticed the file folders had been disturbed unless she'd gone down to the storeroom herself? What was she hoping to discover down there? She hadn't mentioned to me she'd be stopping by. Although I didn't want to even entertain the notion, I had to wonder if she might have been behind the music box incident. Could there be a reason she was already regretting her offer to let us stay there? I shook my head. Don't be silly, Rapella, I thought. You're letting your imagination overtake your good sense.
"If Mr. Wickets left the keys behind the briar bush as promised, I assure you I won't let the keys out of my sight from now on."
"Thanks, Rapella. I wouldn't worry too much about the note you found. Whoever left it had every opportunity to harm you if that was their intention. But they didn't, so they're obviously just trying to scare you away. I'm sure that's all there is to it."
"That's all?" I asked. "Isn't that enough?"
"Don't let them get to you. You have every right to be in my aunt's house. It's the note-writer who doesn't belong there." As Sydney walked away, I noticed a look of apprehension on her face, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I hated that she was under so much pressure. I vowed to get the truth out of Ridley Wickets soon, if only to help alleviate her stress. And mine, too, of course.
* * *
After a brief visit with Rip that afternoon, who was scheduled to be released the following day, I reluctantly headed to the Heart Shack to take care of Goofus and Gallant. I was relieved to find the keys exactly where Mr. Wickets had agreed to leave them.
As I walked into the kitchen, Gallant ambled over to have his head caressed. He was happy to see me. Goofus, however, was just plain rude.
Rip Your Heart Out Page 13
