by Byars, Betsy
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1 - A FACE AT THE WINDOW
Chapter 2 - THE GUNMAN
Chapter 3 - IN THE SHADOW OF THE GIANT PEACH
Chapter 4 - THE CAT IN THE HAT
Chapter 5 - GUNFIRE
Chapter 6 - A HOLE IN THE HEAD
Chapter 7 - PROTECTIVE CUSTODY
Chapter 8 - THE LADY IN RED
Chapter 9 - THE GIRL WHO WASN’T THERE
Chapter 10 - TRAPPED
Chapter 11 - LIAR
Chapter 12 - BACKSEAT DRIVER
Chapter 13 - LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS
Chapter 14 - STANDING OUT IN A CROWD
Chapter 15 - SAFER OUT THAN IN
Chapter 16 - MAGOO
Chapter 17 - THE SOUND OF SILENCE
Chapter 18 - NOW THE BULL
Chapter 19 - AT DEATH’S DOOR
Chapter 20 - THE MAN/THE CRIMINAL
Chapter 21 - WITH THE CLICK OF A KNIFE
Chapter 22 - THE UNHARDY BOYS
Chapter 23 - SHOTS IN THE DARK
Chapter 24 - ON THE ROAD AGAIN
Chapter 25 - HOME
Chapter 26 - HOMOPHONE
Chapter 21 - TICKLED TO DEATH
Teaser chapter
IF SHE SCREAMS, WILL ANYONE HEAR HER?
Herculeah picked up the phone and held it against her chest for a moment, overcome with relief.
Her father would have a squad car here in minutes, policemen running up to the store, guns drawn.
She punched in her number and lifted the phone to her ear.
She heard no sound of a phone ringing.
She heard no dial tone.
The line was dead.
And with that thought came others that were even worse.
Somebody has cut the wire.
And whoever did it is out there.
“An entertaining read.”—Booklist
BOOKS BY BETSY BYARS
The Herculeah Jones Mysteries:
The Dark Stairs
Tarot Says Beware
Dead Letter
Death’s Door
Disappearing Acts
King of Murder
The Bingo Brown books:
Bingo Brown, Gypsy Lover
Bingo Brown and the Language of Love
Bingo Brown’s Guide to Romance
The Burning Questions of Bingo Brown
Other titles:
After the Goat Man
The Cartoonist
The Computer Nut
Cracker Jackson
The Cybil War
The 18th Emergency
The Glory Girl
The House of Wings
McMummy
The Midnight Fox
The Summer of the Swans
Trouble River
The TV Kid
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario,
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Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
First published in the United States of America by Viking,
a division of Penguin Books USA Inc., 1997
Published by Puffin Books, 1999
This Sleuth edition published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group,
2006
Copyright © Betsy Byars, 1997
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Byars, Betsy.
Death’s Door / by Betsy Byars. p. cm.—(A Herculeah Jones mystery)
Summary: Super-sleuth Herculeah Jones’s investigation of the attempted
murder of Meat’s uncle leads them to a mystery bookstore named Death’s Door.
eISBN : 978-1-101-12721-6
[1. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Byars, Betsy. Herculeah Jones mystery.
PZ7.B9836Dg 1997 [Fic]—dc20 96-34425 CIP AC
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
1
A FACE AT THE WINDOW
Herculeah Jones sat in a window booth at the Kit Kat Cafe. She was watching the motel across the street.
She had been here for most of the morning, ever since her mom had sent her. Her mom had said, “Now keep your eyes on the Peachtree Arms Motel across the street and when a red-headed man in a tan windbreaker comes out, give me a phone call.”
“But why? Who is he?”
“Just do it. It’s important.”
“But—”
“I need the information, all right? I’ll explain later.”
“But—”
“Five dollars an hour?”
“You got a deal.”
When Herculeah first came in, she had ordered toast and orange juice. Now the toast was long gone, but she was making her orange juice last. Her mother hadn’t said anything about paying her expenses.
“You through yet?” the waitress asked for the third time.
“I wish.” Then Herculeah smiled and added, “I might as well be honest. I’m waiting for someone.”
“He’s sure taking his time.”
“You’re right about that.” She took a tiny sip of her remaining orange juice. It was warm. Then she raised her binoculars and looked at the Peachtree Arms across the street.
“You won’t need the binoculars,” her mother had told her, but Herculeah had wanted them. “I might need to see something up close,” she said. “Anyway, I feel better with binocs around my neck.”
She adjusted the focus. She hadn’t bothered with the binoculars before, but now something she saw out the window was making her curious.
Through the binoculars Herculeah noticed three things: 1. ) There were no cars in the motel parking lot.
2. ) There was a sign in the motel window that said CLOSED.
3. ) A cowboy on the sidewalk was trying to get her attention.
She lowered the binoculars. The face under the cowboy hat was familiar. “Meat? Meat, is that you?”
He nodded and came quickly into the cafe. “How do you like it?”
“The hat?”
“Yes. It’s really done a lot for me. I see why cowboys wear these things. It makes them feel manly. Want to try it on?”
“No, thanks. I feel womanly and that’s good enough for me.”
Meat sat down across from Herculeah.
“The hat really belongs to my uncle, but he’s taking a nap and won’t need it. I probably shouldn’t have taken it without asking but—” He shrugged. “After I saw how I looked I couldn’t help myself.”
“I’d like to meet your uncle.”
“Now’s your chance.”
Meat peered at his reflec
tion in the Kit Kat window. Then, satisfied, he leaned across the table toward Herculeah. “So what are you doing in here?”
“I’m supposed to be watching the motel across the street for my mom.”
“Why?”
“So I can call her when a certain man comes out, but you know what I’m beginning to think?”
“What?”
“I’m beginning to think my mom sent me over here just to get me out of the way. The motel is closed. Look at it.” She offered him the binoculars, and he took a look for himself.
“Nobody’s going to come out of there, Meat.”
“Unless he’s a workman or a watchman or something.”
“If he’s a workman or a watchman, where’s his car?”
Meat caught a glimpse of his reflection in the metal napkin dispenser. What a hat: the tall crown, the purple band, the peacock feathers tucked inside.
“So why is my mom paying me five dollars an hour to watch it? Five dollars, and my mom does not part with money easily. So what is going on?”
The waitress came to the table holding a pad and pencil. “What can I get you?” she asked Meat.
“Nothing, I’m on a diet—oh, maybe a glass of water.”
“Anyway,” Meat said, turning back to Herculeah, “getting back to Uncle Neiman—”
“That’s his name? Neiman?”
“He was named for a store.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“No. All my mom’s brothers and sisters were.”
Herculeah looked at him in amazement. “I’ve heard of people being named for towns and states and even characters on soap operas, but stores?”
“My aunt Tiff was named for Tiffany’s. My aunt Macy was named for—”
“I can guess that one.”
“My grandfather had no idea his kids were being named for stores. He didn’t have a clue. The only store he knew was Ace Hardware. But when Neiman came along and he raised a fuss, my grandmother told him it was either Neiman or Marcus. It was too late then to unname everybody.”
The waitress came back to the table. “We’re out of water,” she said.
“Oh, come on, Meat, let’s go. This is stupid. We’re wasting our time.” Herculeah got up and hooked the strap of her binoculars around her neck.
They paid and left the Kit Kat, and walked to the intersection. Herculeah paused at the phone booth. “What are you doing?” Meat asked.
“I’ve got to call my mom. She told me to call as soon as I saw the red-headed man.”
“But he wasn’t there.”
“That’s the whole point.” Herculeah stepped into the phone booth, deposited a coin and dialed her mother’s number. Her mother’s voice said, “Mim Jones’s office.”
“He just came out,” Herculeah said.
“Who?”
“The red-headed man in the tan windbreaker. The man you told me to watch for.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
Herculeah was the one who broke it. “There wasn’t any red-headed man, was there?”
Her mother sighed. “No.”
“You just wanted me to get out of the way, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her mother didn’t answer.
“Because somebody was coming that you didn’t want me to see, that’s right, isn’t it? It was somebody—”
“I’ve got to go. Good-bye, Herculeah.”
Herculeah hung up the phone and stepped out of the booth to face Meat.
“It makes me so mad when she does that. Anytime it’s something interesting, she doesn’t want me involved.”
“Maybe she’s protecting you from something dangerous.”
“This couldn’t be dangerous. My hair hasn’t started to frizzle.” Herculeah’s hair had a way of sensing danger. It seemed to get larger, the way an animal’s fur puffs up to make its body look more threatening.
“I’m going home and I’m going to find out who my mother saw in my absence.”
Herculeah and Meat started walking in the direction of home. Meat glanced sideways into various store windows to admire himself in his uncle’s hat. “I’m going to have to get one of these things. What do you think?”
Herculeah’s mind was on another matter. “So, what store was your mom named after?” she asked.
Meat’s feet took a double step as if to get him away from having to answer.
“Quit admiring yourself and answer me. What store was your mother named after?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“My mom doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“Is she ashamed of it?”
“Maybe, a little. I don’t know.”
“Then tell me.”
Meat shook his head. “I promised.”
“I’m going to get it out of you. You know that don’t you?”
He nodded dumbly.
“So save us time and effort.”
Meat did not answer.
“What store was your mom named for?”
Meat walked, observing his shoes as if with deep interest. “Would cowboy boots be too much?” he asked. He knew Herculeah would not be distracted and she wasn’t.
“How bad can it be?” Herculeah asked thoughtfully. “K-Mart? Bi-Lo? Budget Shoes?”
“Stop it. Don’t make fun of my mother.”
“Pic-way? Exxon?”
“Stop! Anyway, Exxon isn’t a store.”
“Then tell me. That’s the only way you’re going to get me to stop.”
Meat hesitated. “If I tell you, you have to promise you won’t laugh.”
“I promise.”
Then Meat said one word, delivering it to his shoes rather than to the girl beside him.
“I didn’t hear you.”
Meat lifted his head.
“Sears,” he said.
2
THE GUNMAN
The gunman moved swiftly up the staircase of the old abandoned building. He moved in a crouch, taking the steps three at a time.
He had a duffle bag over one shoulder. His rubber-soled shoes were silent.
He was a big man with powerful shoulders and arms. He moved with the sinewy ease of a large animal.
He paused on the landing. He lifted his head, as if he were sensing the air. His eyes, set back beneath his brow, were small and brown. Yet there was a reddish hue there, as if he had been caught in a bad photograph. He was known as the Bull.
He glanced down the dim hall. His eyes seemed to see through the doors. He made a decision.
Quickly, without a sound, he went up one more flight of stairs to the third floor. There he paused as if in decision. This felt right. He moved away from the stairs.
He tried one of the doors which led to a front office that would overlook the street. The door was locked.
The Bull drew a knife from his pocket. He flicked it open and slid it into the lock. The door opened with a faint click.
The Bull stepped inside.
This office was old. It had not been used in years. It had closed even before the building had been condemned a year ago.
There was still some furniture—a metal desk, old filing cabinets, their drawers pulled out and empty. A three-year-old calendar hung crookedly from the stained wall—a Christmas scene—December.
The gunman shoved the desk chair with his foot. The chair rolled across the warped wooden floor and stopped with a muted thud beneath the window. He followed and stood beside it.
He leaned against the windowsill, bracing himself on the knuckles of his doubled fists, taking in the scene from the window. He liked what he saw. There was the house and the sidewalk in front of it. That was all he needed for a clear shot of his victim.
Satisfied, he sat down and opened his duffel bag. He took out his M16 rifle. As he readied it, he began to go over his instructions in his mind.
“How am I going to know the guy?” he had asked, holding the victim�
��s picture under the light.
He had been in a back booth of a restaurant. He was there because he was a hired killer. The two men opposite him were there because there was someone they wanted killed.
The man pulled a newspaper picture from his pocket and shoved it across the table.
“This is no good,” the Bull said, “I can’t even see the guy’s face. The brim of the hat hides it. I could take out the wrong guy.”
He had shoved the picture back across the table in disgust. He drained his bottle of beer and signaled the waitress for another.
“You got to get me a better picture.”
“You don’t need a better picture. The hat’s enough. He never goes anywhere without it. You’ll know him by the hat. You see that hat and—” The man made a gesture as if firing a gun.
The gunman had picked up the picture again and had taken another look at the hat. He memorized it until he would know it anywhere. It was a cowboy hat with a tall crown, a dark band, and peacock feathers tucked inside the brim.
“There’s only one hat in this town like that, and only one man who would wear it.”
“What’s this guy done—the cat in the hat?”
“He seen something he shouldn’t.”
“Maybe he’s already told.”
“At that moment he don’t realize what he seen. I want him gone before he does.”
The gunman’s eyes had narrowed. “An innocent by stander?”
“Something like that.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
The man shrugged. “I’m not as lucky as I used to be. I tried a little series of accidents and none of them worked. You’ll do it?”
“My pleasure,” said the gunman.
When the gun was ready, he took out a radio from the duffel bag. He prepared for a long wait.
The news was on. “Investigation continues in the attempted shooting of the mayor last Thursday. Police reported...”
He turned up the volume.
The Bull had been in place at the window for an hour when a man came out of the house he was watching. The gunman tensed and threw down his cigarette. He raised his rifle to the slightly opened window.
