Cam - 04 - Nightwalkers

by P. T. Deutermann

  "Well, there certainly was a bit of shooting," I said. "Right around the bridge."

  "Perhaps I'll go scout that out tonight, then," he said. "You are to remain on the grounds here, overseer, in case more spies appear."

  "Yes, sir," I said. "I'll do it."

  "Very well, then," he said and rode off across the dam.

  Now the house should be empty.

  I gave the major twenty minutes to clear the plantation and also to make sure he didn't change his mind. Then I grabbed my SIG, called the dogs, and went up to the back door of Laurel Grove. There was no light in the house, as one didn't leave candles burning in an unattended house. I had my small Maglite, which I switched onto its red lens. I took the shepherds in with me, and we prowled that house like any good cat burglar.

  It was spooky, just as the sheriff had said. The chairs and sofas were enormous compared to contemporary furniture. The rooms smelled of beeswax, wood ash, and the stale odors of sachets left here and there. The floorboards creaked when I stepped off the carpets. I felt for the shepherds--their sensitive noses must be overwhelmed by all the different scents. I spent some time in the rear kitchen areas looking for a basement access but didn't find one.

  Upstairs there were four rooms, almost identical in size. I didn't go into the rooms, just examined them from the hallway. I figured out that one was for Hester and the major, a second for family visitors, since it had personal items on the vanity, and a third for Valeria, although that one had two large beds. The fourth appeared to be a sewing room with no beds but lots of fabrics, dresses, a mannequin, and a foot-pedal-operated Singer sewing machine that had to be from the early 1900s. There was one spacious bathroom, which had obviously been added to the house at the end of what had been the long upstairs hall. It contained a single commode, a large freestanding bathtub, a vanity with a washbasin, and three armoires.

  There were no light fixtures nor electrical switches in any of the rooms upstairs except the bathroom, where there was an electric heater. Apparently the nineteenth century had its limitations. There was also electricity in the kitchen, which ran a single large refrigerator. The stove, however, was one of those British Aga cast-iron wood burners, complete with a wood box next to it. The fireplace in the kitchen resembled the one in Glory's End, big enough for a man my size to walk into and turn around, but with a wooden mantel instead of one made from a single enormous slab of granite. There was a bed of ashes in the fireplace and a second wood box, complete with logs and splinters of hardened pine sap. I hadn't seen any telephones anywhere. There was a maid's room off to one side and a large pantry that gave access to the adjacent dining room through a swinging door.

  The ground floor pretty much mirrored the arrangement upstairs. It contained the two drawing rooms, which were nearly identical and opposite each other across the spacious central hallway. A third room appeared to be a library, and the fourth was the dining room. No light fixtures or switches here, either, but there were chandeliers and wall sconces in every room.

  Most important, there was no sign that anyone other than this happy little band of antiquarians had been living there. Now I regretted the events of the night before, because it was pretty obvious I'd been wrong. Valeria's injuries were my fault, and I was going to have to apologize. The only positive result from all of that had been her probably unintentional revelation that Callendar did exist--and something about the bridge.

  I was standing in the hallway, trying to figure out if I should really toss the place or just get the hell out, when I noticed the shepherds were missing. Then I heard the scratch of a wooden match and saw a flare of light in the library doorway.

  I drew the SIG and walked toward the doorway, which consisted of two ten-foot-high mahogany doors that swung back against the wall. I found the shepherds.

  I also found Patience Johnson.

  She was sitting in one of those big chairs next to a reading table. There was a smallish hurricane lamp on the table with a lit candle inside. It threw off a surprising amount of light in the dark room, illuminating the gilt lettering on several books. She was dressed in normal clothes, not her high tea uniform. She was smoking a small brown cigarillo, and she held a snifter of what looked like brandy in her hand. The shepherds were lying on the rug in front of her, looking altogether too comfortable. I felt a little dumb, standing in the doorway with a .45 in my hand.

  "Mr. Richter," she said, ignoring the hand cannon. "Good evening to you. Exploring, are we?"

  "In a manner of speaking," I said. "How's Cubby?"

  "Funny you should ask," she said.

  "He started it," I said.

  "No, he didn't," she said. I couldn't tell if she was mad at me or just depressed. "He worked here, just like me. It was that damned old woman who started all this."

  "I meant he shot at me first, that's all. I shot back in self-defense. I had no idea it was Cubby, and I don't think he knew it was me over in the dark."

  "She knew."

  "Look," I said. "There's been a guy hunting me ever since I signed up to buy Glory's End. I think she's behind that, too. I'd sure like to hear what you know about it."

  She gave me a long, thoughtful look. "Get you some of this cognac," she said. "Then put that gun away and sit you down."

  I did that. It was pretty good cognac. "I was looking for evidence that they have been harboring a man called Callendar."

  "Oh, him," she said, blowing out a long plume of smoke.

  "Strange," I said. "That's exactly what Valeria said last night."

  "She ought to know," she said, looking right at home in the candlelight, which, I guess, she was. "She and her mother. They've been brooding over that insane plot for years. The glorious lost will and all that."

  "So this isn't new?"

  "Those other people tried to sell Oak Grove some years back. I'll bet the Realtor didn't tell you that, did he."

  "Nope."

  "Well, they did. Ms. Hester wasn't too pleased. She let them know it, too."

  "So what happened?"

  "They had 'em a summer party, down at the quarry. It went on all afternoon, like they do. Lotta white folks drinkin' a lot more than they should. It was August, and really hot. Some silly damn girl decided to go swimmin', went in wearin' her party clothes, then they all went in. The owners didn't happen to come out."

  I remembered the ruined party gazebo by the side of the ramp. "They drowned?"

  "Ain't no one knows," she said. "The paper said they was 'both seized with stomach cramps.' In all the splashing and shrieking, no one noticed them go down."

  "I'll bet Hester did."

  "Could be, Mr. Richter, could be. I did the cookin', 'cept for one plate Ms. Hester was passin' all by herself."

  "What was that?"

  "Don't know. Covered plate."

  "And the heirs?"

  "Took that property right off the market."

  "Fancy that."

  She shrugged and sipped her cognac.

  "So you're saying that Hester knew about the will and the potential claim even then?"

  "I work here, Mr. Richter," she said. "Been workin' here for years and years. I won't say I know what they know, but I'm damn sure I know what I've heard. I believe the family has known about the will from the very beginning. That's why Hester and them believe that Oak Grove is theirs."

  "So who is this Callendar? What's his part in all this?"

  "Callendar is Hester's son."

  "What?"

  "That's right. The one the major threw out of the house, declared him dead, and all that foo-raw. That son. The oldest child. What he forgot was the way it is between mothers and their sons, just like it is between daddies and their daughters. He may have been dead to the major, but he and his mama stayed close over all these years. The major, he bein' crazy and all, had no idea."

  Wheels within wheels, I thought, but it was beginning to make sense. Callendar had a stake in Glory's End, however tenuous.

  We talked for another half
an hour, just sitting there in the gloom of the library by the light of one lamp. It all seemed fairly natural, given the surroundings: the old house with its eighteen-foot ceilings, the library, the smell of leather-bound books and cigar smoke. Electric lights would have almost been out of place.

  I told her what had been going on and said that Callendar was now wanted for a homicide, among other things. She, like Valeria, said she'd heard differently about the dog woman, but I think she believed my version of it. I then pointed out that Hester and Valeria would be considered accomplices to the Craney killing, given that Hester was the guiding spirit behind the lost claim to the property and that Valeria had knowledge.

  "They big girls now," she said simply. "My concern is Cubby."

  "If Cubby comes clean and will help us to trap Callendar, I'm pretty sure he'll be in the clear."

  "Pretty sure."

  "Let me rephrase. He will be if that's the deal he makes."

  "You makin' promises you can keep?" she asked.

  "I can only promise to make it so. You know that."

  "You help him make that deal?"

  "I will."

  "Why? The man shot at you."

  "He was being played, just like I was. I don't believe Cubby is a killer."

  "He was at one time, over there in Vietnam. That's why he ran off. That ain't why I'm scared."

  "Okay, what?"

  She took another drag on the cigar. "This family," she said, "has 'em a long history. They don't hold with folks who make mistakes or don't do their job. They git 'em for that, and if it's family, they really git 'em. You understand what I'm sayin'?"

  "Cubby is family, as much as you're family. So Hester and Callendar will get him for talking to me?"

  "Damn right they will. His job was to help Callendar run you off. Now they all in trouble, and they be lookin' for someone to blame, 'cause none of them ever make mistakes."

  Somewhere out in the hall, a large clock began to chime the hour.

  "If Callendar fails to run me off, one way or another, will Hester go after him?"

  She smiled in the candlelight. It was not a pretty sight. "You'd better git on now," she said, "before the major comes back."

  "Is he part of this, Patience?"

  "Hell no," she snorted, "but he come back, find me talkin' to a Union spy or a Pinkerton, right here in the house? We both dead."

  "He was a real major at one time?"

  "Yeah, he was. Came back from Vietnam, he wasn't right in the head anymore. Question was, did he go over there that way--but, yeah, he was in the army. His boy, Callendar, too. Something he did there was the reason the major threw him out."

  That computes, I thought. "Can you tell me what he looks like, Patience?"

  "Who--Callendar?"

  "Yes."

  "You go look in the drawing room, right there over the mantel. Looks just like that, only he a dead-eye. Hester's baby boy. Liked to kill things, growin' up."

  Still does, I thought--but she was right. It was time to get the hell out there and do some of that regrouping everyone wanted me to do. I thanked her for talking to me. She gave me a wave of her hand and then poured some more of the master's cognac. As I went toward the doors, I saw one of those military medal shadowboxes on a low bookshelf. The name on the brass plate read MAJOR COURTNEY WOODRUFF LEE, AUS. Besides the army's usual present-for-duty awards, there was a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, and a Purple Heart. He was indeed a real major.

  The mutts and I went back to the cottage for one last walkthrough. The night was humid, and the sky was running a low overcast. Once again there were flickers of heat lightning over on the Virginia side. I decided to leave the Suburban at the cottage and take the utility vehicle. It had lights, and I wasn't going very far. Frick, being senior, rode on the seat next to mine. Frack sat on the deck in front of her seat. Kitty was relegated to the back compartment but seemed to enjoy it just the same. Nothing much fazed that dog, and I was beginning to really like her. Frick, too, was getting old, and I needed Kitty to take aboard some more of Frick's tactical spirit.

  I made a camp of sorts in the house at Glory's End. I kept all three shepherds inside with me, and we severally conducted a recon of the house from top to bottom to make sure we were alone and that the various doors and secret passageways were all secure. The television monitor showed nothing afoot outside, and, it being past two in the morning, I turned in. I made a mental note to get Tony to research Major Courtney Woodruff Lee, AUS. As I lay there, watching the heat lightning caress the distant Blue Ridge Mountains through the wavy glass of the back windows, I still wondered if Callendar might not be a figment, and perhaps my real stalker had been riding around the countryside right in front of me. Patience might tell me anything to get Cubby out of the crack he was in.

  Sometime just before dawn I was awakened by a rumble of thunder. I got up to look outside and was rewarded with a sharp stroke of lightning hitting down by the river, followed by a thunderclap that had all three dogs wrapped around my ankles in two seconds. Then the rain hit, and I watched as the trees writhed in the wind and tiny, bright pellets of ice danced on the brick walks below. I wandered through the rooms, looking outside as the lightning flashed and illuminated the lawns, the big oaks, the springhouse, and the smokehouse. My brain kept looking for the image of some lurking bad guy to imprint on my vision, but if anyone was out there, he was hating life right about now. I couldn't remember if the house had lightning rods, but if it didn't, it soon would have. It was a really impressive storm, and it took over a half hour for it to dissolve into just plain rain. I went back to my mattress and waited for sunrise.

  I woke up to cold noses touching my cheek and a blast of sunlight coming through the freshly scrubbed windows. It was almost nine. The mutts wanted chow, and I needed coffee. I got everyone back into the utility vehicle and rambled back over to the stone cottage to retrieve the Suburban and go to town. I threw the dogs in back and went to sit down in the front seat. There, on the passenger seat, was another of those white death-mask faces that I'd discovered taped to the cottage windows. Written in black Magic Marker ink across the forehead was a message. Enjoy the day. It will be your last.

  I drove on into town, focusing on first things first. I don't drink a lot of coffee, but I really do need that first line of caffeine to get my brain going. I hit the local Waffle House for breakfast and then carried three doughnuts out for the piranhas in the back of my Suburban.

  So today was my last day, and of course the mask picture was confirmation that Willard was not the great shot he thought he was. While driving back to Glory's End, I called Tony and gave him his research assignment. I added Callendar Lee to the slate because Patience had said he'd been in the army, too. Tony's contacts in the Manceford County Sheriff's Office could get access to military personnel records if it involved a homicide investigation. If Tony hit any walls, I'd get Sheriff Walker to give it a try. Which reminded me: I needed to talk to the sheriff.

  Another call revealed that he was at the county hospital, so I diverted from my trip home and went to the hospital to see the Sheriff. He was visiting Valeria Lee, so I wrote out a note and asked a nurse to pass it to him. He came down to the hospital cafeteria twenty minutes later, where I was indulging myself in a second cup of coffee and listening to the night shift people talk about their lively Friday night in the ER. It had been a payday, with the usual consequences.

  "Mr. Richter," he said as he slid into a chair. He was in full uniform, and he looked tired.

  "Sheriff Walker," I replied. "Does that 'mister' mean something? As opposed to 'lieutenant'? Am I in hot water again?"

  "Absolutely," he said with a grin. "Ms. Hester wants your skin. Ms. Valeria wants your skin, stretched and salted. Apparently she will have to lie on her side for a while and stand up a lot."

  "I didn't shoot her," I said. "That was Mommy."

  "Yeah, but you started it," he said. "What did you find out last night, if anything?"

  I fille
d him in. He was as surprised as I had been that Callendar, the son who'd been "banished" for so many years, was probably our guy.

  "Do you believe Patience?"

  "I do, if only because she wants a deal for Cubby."

  He nodded. "I guess I need to call Ms. Hester into the office," he said. "Formally. With her attorney."

  "I explained the notion of an accomplice to Patience last night," I said. "I'm guessing that wasn't exactly news."

  "Problem is, Hester hasn't been home since Valeria got her ass air-conditioned," he said. Three young nurses sitting nearby had been eavesdropping, and one of them started laughing. He gave them a brittle look, and they decided to finish their breakfast and go in the away direction.

  "Hester claims you caused Valeria to come off her horse," he said.

  "True. I thought it might be Callendar trying to escape, so I got right in the way. I sent the dogs in first, but when her horsie tried to kick their heads off, I fired my scattergun."

  He rubbed his eyes. I wondered if he'd slept at all last night.

  "Well," he said. "What fun."

  I told him about my theory that Callendar and the night-riding major might be the same person. He shook his head.

  "I asked an old friend in the SBI to run a check on Callendar, who I assumed was a Lee. He's real enough. He was a Citadel grad. Went into the army and got cashiered after a training accident that killed three of his soldiers. They fired him for lying about what happened, not for what happened."

  "I wonder how that sat with the major."

  "Not well. He came home in disgrace; the old man declared him a nonperson, threw him out, never to darken the doorway at Laurel Grove again."

  "What's he do for a living?"

  "That gets interesting," he said. "His credit records give his employment as a hunting guide down east of New Bern."

  "Hunting guide."

  "Yeah, but one who lists his income for the past year in the low six figures."