Stopping at a corner, I waited as a ninja, a black cat, and a classic toilet-paper mummy ran across the intersection, their plastic pumpkins swinging in their hands.
When they were safely on the sidewalk, I accelerated again, and we were soon on a familiar narrow, country road, which grew more lonely and heavily forested with each mile that passed.
Spotting the turn to Jonathan Black’s house, I steered the old bus onto the bumpy lane.
A minute later, I helped Socrates out of his seat and smoothed my curls, which were getting wilder as the rain drew closer. Then I marched up onto Jonathan’s dark, not exactly welcoming porch. But I could see lights on inside the A-frame house and smell burning firewood, so I raised my hand and knocked, my heart thudding with excitement over the news I had to share.
No one answered for what felt like ages, and I was just about to tell Socrates that we would come back some other time, when the door swung open.
I was a visitor who hadn’t called in advance, so I probably had no right to ask any questions, let alone the nosy one that popped out of my mouth.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m picking up Paris and Milan,” Elyse Hunter-Black politely replied. “I had to run back to the city today, and Jon was nice enough to watch the dogs for me.” She slipped out onto the porch, followed by her greyhounds, who took their usual positions at her side. “Although, I don’t think Paris, especially, enjoyed her time with the yippy little Chihuahua,” Elyse added. “She’s really on edge!”
I looked down to see that both greyhounds, whom I still couldn’t distinguish from one another, wore matching placid expressions. Socrates also seemed baffled by the comment, and disapproving of the dogs’ coordinating orange and black sequined collars.
Then I smiled at Elyse. “Everybody gets used to Artie after awhile. He’s an acquired taste.”
Elyse didn’t appear convinced.
“So, what brings you here?” she asked, folding a long cardigan more tightly around her small frame. The sweater was black, so she blended into the night, but her blond hair and silver earrings gleamed in the moonlight when she cocked her head. “Can I help you?”
“I actually had something to tell Jonathan, and an invitation to extend.” I tried to look past her, into the house. “Is he around?”
I had planned to invite Jonathan to come along with me as I hopefully cracked the case of Miss Flynt’s murder. But apparently he was already working toward that goal himself.
“I’m sorry,” Elyse said. “But Jon and his dogs went into town about ten minutes ago. He had some sort of revelation about Lillian Flynt’s murder, and he wanted to follow up on whatever hunch he had.”
“I had a revelation, too!” I said, getting excited again. “In fact, I really think I’ve solved the case, so if he calls in the next hour or so, could you please tell him that I’m headed over to the mansion?”
“I’m not sure if I’ll talk to him again this evening,” Elyse informed me, stepping back into the house. “But if I do, I’ll be sure to pass along your message.” She hesitated. “Or you could text him.” She seemed uncertain, but offered, “I suppose I could give you his number, if you need it. . . .”
“Thanks, but I don’t have my phone with me,” I said, finally recalling that I held two bags, both of which I offered to Elyse before she could close the door. “And, please, take these homemade donuts I brought. One bag is for Axis and Artie.” I nodded to the correct sack. “And the other is for Jonathan, to help pay off a debt I owe him. But there are enough to share with you and your dogs, too.”
“Thank you, Daphne,” Elyse said, accepting the treats and again moving to close the door. “I’ll let Jonathan know you stopped by.”
A moment later, I heard the latch click into place, and I looked down at Socrates and shrugged. He seemed to agree that, for a woman who helped to run a network that was all about stylish living and entertaining, Elyse hadn’t offered us a particularly warm welcome. She hadn’t been rude, but she hadn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet, either.
“Well, I guess we’ll get going,” I told Socrates, leading the way to the van. A shiver of anticipation, mingled with a little appropriate for Halloween apprehension, ran down my spine. “We have a haunted house to search!”
Chapter 58
I was becoming pretty familiar with Flynt Mansion, but as Socrates and I stood on the porch on a windy, gloomy Halloween night, facing a tall, forbidding door, I felt like I was a nervous kid in a dinosaur costume again.
Moxie believed the house was haunted, and I thought the place had a strange vibe, too.
And knowing that not one, but likely two, women had been murdered there didn’t help calm my nerves.
I glanced down at Socrates, who shuffled on his oversized paws and looked repeatedly toward the van.
He didn’t want to go inside, either.
“Why do I suddenly feel like I’m going to get something worse than a mushy apple?” I whispered to him.
My normally stoic canine friend whined softly in response.
That wasn’t encouraging.
And yet, I had to know if my memory was correct. Because if I was right about the initials on the note—which, unfortunately, Jonathan had confiscated—and what I’d seen under Miss Flynt’s bed, I might have honestly solved my second homicide.
“Here goes,” I told Socrates, reaching out and jiggling the doorknob to open the faulty lock.
A moment later, we were both inside, and the door swung shut behind us.
Chapter 59
Even with the electricity flowing, Flynt Mansion was still pretty dark. The few lamps that I was able to find by fumbling around the first floor all looked like they dated back to Thomas Edison’s time. Their stained-glass shades blocked most of the light from what must’ve been, at most, thirty-five-watt bulbs.
“Lillian must’ve had eyes like an owl to survive in here,” I told Socrates, as I led the way up the stairs to the second floor. I kept my hand on the railing, and when we reached the top, I nearly knocked the decorative top off the newel post again. Grabbing the finial with both hands, I tried to twist it back into place. “Miss Flynt should’ve sold the Tuttweiler to buy some lamps and hire a handyman.”
Socrates didn’t so much as snicker. His head hung low, his brow was deeply furrowed, and his tail drooped.
I’d only seen him look so apprehensive twice before. Once on the day I’d nearly been murdered, and again at Twisted Branch Orchard, when we’d been chased and found Pastor Pete’s body.
Did my normally skeptical sidekick sense a threatening—perhaps ghostly—presence, right then?
“Even if ghosts exist, as I suspect, I don’t really think they can harm you,” I quietly reminded him and myself. I couldn’t find a light in the hallway, so I dragged one hand along the wall, feeling closed doors, then bumpy plaster as we passed down the corridor. When we reached the bathroom where I’d found Lillian’s body, I swore the air got colder, and I could imagine her spectral, misty form hovering in the tub. “I’ve never heard of anyone getting killed by a spirit,” I added. “Never!”
I doubted that Socrates really believed in ghosts. But he continued to seem uneasy, like me, and I was glad when we reached Miss Flynt’s room. The hinges creaked as I pushed the door open, and I went inside first, followed closely by Socrates. Groping blindly, I made my way to the nightstand, where I switched on yet another small, weak lamp.
But the light would be enough to let me see everything I hoped to find, and I bent down next to the bed, lifting the lacy skirt.
And there they were.
Two pairs of slippers, tucked under either side of the bed.
One set was pink, ratty, and small, designed to fit a woman’s feet.
And the other pair—Tinkleston’s former hiding spot—was plaid, less worn, and definitely made for a man.
Chapter 60
“Miss Flynt had a secret boyfriend!” I told Socrates, who didn’t seem half as e
xcited as I was. He sat near the bed, watching as I opened the closet door. Pushing aside Miss Flynt’s extensive collection of dowdy blouses and skirts, I found two men’s dress shirts, a tie, and a pair of slacks. The clothes were hidden, hung at the very end of the rod, but when I sniffed them—which could’ve proven to be a mistake—they smelled freshly laundered. I backed out of the closet. “He kept some stuff here!”
Socrates exhaled loudly, a canine sigh, like he thought we should get out of there.
“I’m done,” I promised, moving to the nightstand again. I planned to switch off the lamp, but right before I pulled the old-fashioned chain, I opened the drawer, hoping to find some proof that my hunch was correct. I was pretty sure I knew who Miss Flynt had been seeing, and why the relationship had to be kept secret. And sure enough, I found a small picture in a gilt frame. The photo was black and white and very old, but I recognized Miss Flynt, who wore a fancy dress and stood in a young man’s embrace. “It looks like they were at a prom,” I said softly. “And, although he’s really changed, I recognize him, too.” I glanced at the edgy basset hound, who’d moved closer to me. “And he signed the fake instructions for Tinkleston’s care with those distinctive initials. I knew that somebody who didn’t care about animals wrote that message. . . .”
“Very clever,” someone noted, in a deep, masculine voice.
For a split second, I thought Socrates had finally spoken. I sometimes believed it was only a matter of time before he couldn’t keep his opinions to himself.
Then I realized that Socrates wasn’t talking. He was growling. A low, rumbling sound from deep within his broad, dappled chest.
I turned slowly around, and although my voice shook, I asked Larry Fox, “Why did you kill Miss Flynt—whom you’ve clearly loved since high school ?”
Chapter 61
“How fortunate that I came back tonight to clear my clothes out of the closet,” Larry said, leaning against the door frame. Apparently, we were going to chat for a while. “I thought no one would come near this house on Halloween night, but I was wrong. Someone was foolish enough.”
“Detective Black knows that I’m here,” I bluffed. I doubted that Elyse had passed along my message. Still, I added, “He’ll arrive here soon.”
I was a terrible liar. Socrates hung and shook his head, while Larry just laughed.
“Really?”
“Yes.” I jutted out my chin, acting far more defiant than I felt. “So don’t even think about killing me. You’ll never get away with two murders.”
“I don’t know about that,” Larry said. “I’m on the verge of getting away with one. I don’t think I’m even on the list of suspects.” He’d been smugly boastful, but he suddenly grew melancholy. “Lillian and I were very discreet. Never together outside this house. . . .”
“Why did you kill her?” I asked softly. I was buying time, and I was incredibly curious about what had gone wrong. I held up the photo, which was still in my hand. “You clearly loved each other for years.”
“Yes, I’ve always loved Lillian,” he admitted, growing quiet, too. I could tell that, although he’d taken her life, seeing Lillian’s image affected him. His eyes softened. “I was a fool to let her go, years ago, when I went to law school. But she refused to come with me. And when I came back to Sylvan Creek, after years away, she wanted nothing to do with me.” He smiled faintly at a memory. “Eventually, though, neither one of us could resist what we felt.”
“Did Tamara know?”
I couldn’t help asking.
“Of course,” Larry snapped. His gaze had been trained inward, but he looked at me again. “She’s no fool! She arrived early on the evening of the big ‘gala’—hoping, as always, to take charge—and she found me with Lillian, right after I’d pushed her into the tub.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe my ears. Tamara hadn’t seemed overly agitated the night of the fund-raiser. In fact, she’d seemed primarily irritated by Tinkleston. I blinked at Larry, confused. “Why didn’t she call the police?”
Larry laughed, a short, disdainful snort. “Tamara would never do that. She cares too much about her ‘image.’ She would’ve ruined her own life if my affair with an older woman became public knowledge. Not to mention the shame she would’ve suffered, if anyone knew she was married to a murderer. Tamara walked out the door like nothing had happened and continued setting up her big party. I never worried for a moment that she’d turn me in.”
“I should’ve known that someone very close to Lillian was the killer,” I muttered, with a glance at Socrates, who watched everything intently. “She was wearing a robe! But I thought somebody—maybe Asa Whitaker or Bea Baumgartner—had come upstairs, following her after an argument. It never occurred to me that she had a romantic side.”
“And you will be the last to know that,” Larry warned me, taking a step into the room. “This love story will die with you.”
Socrates growled again, but—like most people did—Larry underestimated a basset hound’s power when angered. Larry’s gaze continued to bore into mine, and I saw that his eyes were nearly as cold and lifeless as Miss Flynt’s had been on the night I’d found her body.
How strange that Larry had clearly been capable of great passion.
“You never told me why you killed her,” I reminded him, taking a step backward. Unless I planned to escape up the chimney like Santa Claus, I was boxing myself farther into the room, but I had no choice. My gaze darted around, but the only weapons in sight were the little picture I held, the lamp, and some pillows. Shaking off the image of Larry and I getting into a pillow fight to the death, I asked, “Why? Why would you murder the woman you’d finally won back?”
“I wanted to divorce Tamara and leave town with Lillian to start a new life,” he said, his voice dropping lower. He balled his fists at his side, getting agitated. “She was going to do it, too. Sell this old house and go someplace new, with me. But on the day your mother was to show the property to a buyer who seemed intent on making an offer, Lillian got cold feet. Said what we were doing was wrong, and that she couldn’t leave Sylvan Creek. ‘Her town’ needed her.” His chest, under a dress shirt that was a lot like the ones in the closet, heaved as he grew increasingly upset. “She always put this stupid community ahead of me!”
I didn’t blame her. Larry Fox was a lying, cheating, murderous jerk.
I dared to take my eyes off him for just a moment to steal a glance at the smiling, young couple in the photo.
Larry’s hair had been dark and even thicker when the picture had been taken. He’d been scrawny, too, with no hint of the muscular, barrel chest he’d developed over time. And his skin looked like it had been pale, while he now had a perpetual golfer’s tan.
Had his personality been different, too, years ago?
Better? Kinder? Less devious?
And how had Lillian, who’d been in the local newspaper nearly every week of her life, kept so many secrets about her love life, her unacknowledged sister, and . . . who knew what else?
All at once, I thought of another person who had quietly deceived an entire congregation.
“You’ve already committed two murders, haven’t you?” I asked Larry. “You killed Pastor Pete, too, didn’t you?”
The sickening, self-satisfied look on his face gave the truth away. He didn’t even have to answer.
“Why?” I searched again for a weapon, because our conversation had to be coming to a close. “Why murder him?”
Larry seemed almost eager to explain. He probably thought this was his one chance to brag about what he’d done, with no fear of the story spreading, because he planned to kill me, too.
“Kishbaugh caught me leaving the house after I killed Lillian,” Larry explained. “He’d come for a meeting with her.”
The one I’d seen on Pastor Pete’s calendar.
“I didn’t know about their appointment,” Larry continued. “He walked in to find me standing in the kitchen in my wet, bloodstained jacket�
�with blood on my hand, too—and writing a note that would hopefully deter people from snooping around.”
“Why not kill him right then . . . ?”
Larry actually grinned. “I didn’t need to. Lillian had told me everything that ‘Pastor Pete’ was doing with his ‘flock’s’ money. The trips to Europe when he was supposed to be building hospitals in Haiti. The embezzlement. The falsified books. I warned him that I’d go to the police and spill the whole story if he didn’t stay quiet about what I’d done.
“Let’s face it,” Larry added, with a grunt. “Lillian’s death benefited him, too. He was in no rush to run to the police and have them start asking questions. I told him that I’d tried to make it look like an accident, pushing her into the tub, so it would appear that she fell, and dropped in the CD player she always kept in the bathroom.”
“Why did she do that?” I asked, as Socrates moved closer to me. A protective gesture. I was worried about him, too, and hoped that he would run if anything happened to me. “Why keep a CD player in the bathroom?”
Larry frowned, growing reflective again. “She liked to listen to classical music while she relaxed in the tub. It was one of her few indulgences.” He paused, losing himself in memories again. Then he shook his head sadly. “She truly appreciated culture. I can’t even understand the music Tamara listens to. . . .”
Just when I thought Socrates and I might be able to push past him and run for our lives, he snapped back to the present again.
“Unfortunately for Kishbaugh, investigators began to close in on his scams,” Larry continued. “I saw an article in the Gazette that said he’d likely be arrested soon.”
Dial Meow for Murder Page 23
