A Lethal Time (A Samantha Jamison Mystery Volume 4)

by Peggy A. Edelheit

  “Yeah, and if I’m not mistaken, selling books lately hasn’t exactly been lucrative, has it?”

  He conceded the point by nodding and quickly chose neutral territory. “Let’s go see what damage was done.”

  We headed over to have a look. Clay reached down and picked up a rock. “Hey, there’s a message attached.”

  I ripped it out of his hands. “Let me see.”

  “Well, what does it say?” he asked impatiently.

  “This doesn’t make sense. All it says is, ‘If you value your horses, don’t mess with Robinson’s house.’”

  Who was Robinson? Why were Sally’s horses involved?

  Chapter 5

  No Recourse & The Last Course!

  While Clay boarded up the window, I made a quick phone call to Sally. After several minutes, I hung up and rejoined Clay. “It appears this Robinson guy was the owner of the property adjacent to this one. Sally bought it about a month ago with plans to increase her acreage and add an indoor riding arena with more facilities and some pastures.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” said Clay. “But why the rock?”

  “Evidently some locals were against it, especially after someone spread a false rumor she wanted to put in a landing pad for her husband’s helicopter trips to the city.”

  “Does she want us to report the incident?”

  “No. She doesn’t want to take that route, yet.”

  “Why not? I think the authorities should know.”

  “She wants us to check out Robinson’s property first.”

  “What for?” he asked. “I thought we were housesitting.”

  “She feels the sale of the property to her and Tom has suddenly drawn negative interest, but she can’t believe it’s just that rumor. This rock-throwing incident is something more and might be lingering anger.”

  Clay grimaced. “Does this involve any digging?”

  I laughed. “Only for unusual info that might be valuable or historical. Robinson’s house is old, built around 1779. Robinson died suddenly in a nursing home and his estate listed it for sale because his relatives had no interest in the property or its contents. Before they changed their minds, Sally scooped it up, not wanting someone else or a motivated builder to take advantage, buy it, and then build a development running alongside the back of hers.”

  “Was a builder interested in the property?”

  “According to her, yes, a local guy. He was lowballing the relatives, knowing they were extremely eager to dump the property and all its contents for some quick cash.”

  “You mean even Robinson’s clothes are still there?”

  “According to Sally, like the day he left for the home.”

  Clay gave it some thought. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to pay a visit to Robinson’s property to see what’s going on over there in the morning. It might be nothing at all.”

  I nodded. “It would ease her concerns. She said Tom’s too busy running his computer business to check it out. It’s just a feeling she has that something isn’t right.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “Apparently, flickering lights were spotted twice by a neighbor, which made Sally uncomfortable because from the time when Robinson died, that house has been locked for a quite a while, and boarded up since closing, still is.”

  “Maybe it’s an electrical short.”

  “Can’t be. Sally has all the electricity shut off.”

  “Then that flickering light must be a flashlight. Have the police checked it out?”

  “Yes, but only the exterior. Since it was cross-boarded up with the windows locked and still secure, they let it go. And because of those flickering lights, Sally’s uneasy about going there alone.”

  “In that case, we’ll get an early start in the morning to find out how someone might be getting inside.”

  I got up from the leather couch and headed for the stairs, but Clay quickly snagged me back, giving me an evil grin.

  “What?” I asked, startled. “Did I forget something?”

  “Yeah, me,” he said, laughing, and then scooped me up into his arms. “We’ve got unfinished business, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked. “And what might that be?”

  “Here’s a little clue,” said tall, lean and handsome, Clay.

  Then he offered me one of his oh, so lethal kisses.

  I came up for air, breathless.

  If I had any socks on, they would have been knocked off!

  “That was some clue!” I said, slowly running my fingers through his dark hair with a wicked look in my eye.

  “We forgot dessert,” he whispered.

  I pointed to the stairs. “Why, that’s my favorite course!”

  Oh, I had a real bad sweet tooth.

  Chapter 6

  Creepy Doesn’t Even Cover It

  We slowly began walking the perimeter of Robinson’s house, shoving back tall weeds and ribbon grass. We were wearing jeans, shirts with protective long sleeves, and boots. Sally said that until they could start renovations, the front door would stay boarded up. It was too close to the road and a constant temptation to burglars. Seeing nothing disturbed, or any forced entry, we headed for the back door.

  I fiddled with the key Sally said could be found in her nightstand and slid it into the heavy padlock. Already knowing the electricity was off I was hesitant to see what was on the other side of the peeling door and dim interior.

  Wary of the clumps of spider webs too close for my comfort, creeping overgrowth, and tangled vines snagging my jeans, I wasn’t overly comfortable with what we were about to do. I sighed at the sight of the perennial gardens now smothered and overgrown with tall, spiky weeds.

  “What a mess.”

  Clay turned to survey the overgrowth. “How long was Robinson in a nursing home and his house left vacant?”

  “Sally said he had Alzheimer’s and was in the home at least a year before he suddenly passed.”

  “Didn’t anyone visit or care what was going on here?”

  “Apparently not. He was on his own. His relatives in Boston were only interested in what was in it for them. You know, the cash angle, and were waiting for him to die. Rumor has it that, after bickering among themselves about price, they immediately put the house on the market.”

  Why did everyone ignore Robinson?

  Clay turned back to me. “Did he have a wife?”

  “According to Sally, he was an older bachelor, a retired history professor, who in the past used to teach at a college in Vermont, a real loner. His mother lived with him until she passed away about twenty years ago.”

  “So why was he such a pariah to the rest of the family that no one was interested in his well-being?”

  “Indifference? Maybe something they didn’t like?”

  “Or maybe he was somebody they didn’t like.”

  I thought about that. “Any of it’s possible. Hopefully we’ll get a better impression about him once we’re inside.”

  With our plastic gloves already on, Clay said, “Ready?”

  “I guess so.” I turned the key and heard the click.

  Clay gave the door a shove, which was warped from the dampness flooding the interior. “Ugh,” he said, opening it.

  I felt the same way. The air was stagnant and smelled of mildew, rot and something else. “Clay, what’s that smell?”

  He held a hand up, stopping me. “Don’t go any further.”

  It was a foul odor, unlike anything I have ever smelled before. It left me breathless and slightly nauseous. I looked down. There were dead flies everywhere we stepped.

  Clay walked further into the musty house and I followed closely at his heels. In seconds, he abruptly whirled around to face me. “Didn’t I politely ask you to stay put?”

  I looked up at him defiantly. “You and who else?”

  He sighed, then said, “At least stay behind me.”

  “Okay.” I trailed one step behind him through the living room, hallway, din
ing room, and then back to the kitchen. Nothing. Then we climbed the narrow stairway, while dust motes floated around us. Taking shallow breaths helped the gagging sensation that had unexpectedly gripped me.

  The higher we climbed the smell became more intense. At one point, we had to pivot as the steps angled sharply, while watching our footing when the treads narrowed, then ducked our heads just before it opened up to the tiny second floor landing. After a few paces, Clay stopped and listened. Silence. Then we cautiously stepped into the first bedroom which appeared to have been deserted ages ago.

  An old silver comb and brush set lay on the mahogany dresser on top of yellowed doilies over the dust-laden surface. A few faded dresses hung from a hook on the wall. I stared at the flaking, water-stained, floral wallpaper barely clinging to the walls. Could this have been Robinson’s mother’s room? It was creepy the way it was preserved like a shrine, especially since she had died decades before.

  We rounded a corner and Clay stopped short, putting his hand out to stop me. “Hold up, Sam.”

  “What?”

  “A dead raccoon. I wouldn’t look if I were you.”

  “So that’s the smell! I guess it was bound to happen because the old house was unoccupied for so long. Hey, what’s the problem? Why can’t I look?”

  “Because it’s a bloody mess!”

  Chapter 7

  The Victims

  I figured it couldn’t be that bad and peered around Clay to see for myself. “Oh!” I said shakily, stepping back.

  He grabbed my arm to steady me. “Are you okay?”

  I was sickened by the grizzly scene before us as several annoying flies buzzed around. “Look at all that blood!” It was splattered on every conceivable surface surrounding the battered raccoon, including the wall. “Who did this?”

  “Obviously someone who doesn’t like raccoons.”

  I turned, trying not to dwell on the visuals, needing an out and ventured away from Clay while he looked around the room, opening drawers. With my hand over my nose, I left him and continued on to the next room.

  There wasn’t a real hallway on the second floor. You walked through one room to the next, all having narrow doors and low ceilings. The next room was similar in size, but had discarded clothing strewn about mixed with several bird-watching magazines.

  Was this Robinson’s room and this his hobby?

  I moved on to what was the only bathroom in the house and stopped cold, my hand dropping to my side in shock.

  “Uh, oh. Clay, I found something.”

  “What?” he yelled from the other room.

  “It’s in the bathtub.”

  His voice was getting closer to me. “What is?”

  “The dead guy who forgot to take his clothes off.”

  Clay rounded the corner, edged by me, and then leaned over the shabbily-dressed man. “Call the police, Sam.”

  “Vagrant?” I asked, again covering my nose and mouth.

  “Most likely. Word spreads fast when a house is left unattended and vacant for such a long time.”

  Singlehandedly, I grabbed my cell and called, while Clay began searching through some of the man’s pockets.

  “Hmm,” he mumbled as I reported the address.

  “What?” I asked after hanging up.

  Clay turned to look at me, while shoving away an empty whiskey bottle. “You do not see me doing this, do you?”

  I thought that over, thinking Clay must know what he was doing. I was curious, too, but still…“Are you sure?”

  “Trust me,” he said, searching, but after a minute, he came up empty. “Nothing, just that nasty bite on his arm.”

  An hour later, the police carried old Harry in a body bag down the narrow stairs. He was the local vagrant they hadn’t seen around the last few days. He was still holding the bloody stick he’d used to fight off the probably rabid raccoon, and died while drinking and still on guard.

  They would do the necessary tests, but it sure looked that way to the police officer. They were well aware of the vacant house, constantly chasing kids away, and glad Sally and Tom had bought it to finally clean the place up.

  Being a small town, and after some questions about what we found, and showing identification to verify who we were, the police then checked us out via phone with Sally and Tom, who they knew personally. We were then politely asked to leave. They said once the raccoon was taken away and pictures were shot of the scene, we could come back to finish going through the rest of the house for Sally and Tom. And as far as the deaths were concerned, this time it appeared to be nothing more than an unfortunate run-in between a vagrant and a rabid raccoon.

  Chapter 8

  Digesting Disappointment & Surprises

  Reluctantly, we returned home, both of us disappointed that we weren’t allowed to continue further our search of Robinson’s house. It would have to wait until later. I doubted we would find much more anyway. The house appeared as though it had been gone through, most likely by relatives looking for anything valuable, and of course, poor dead Harry, probably looking for anything wearable.

  Still, I was chafing at the bit to get back. Clay was more reasonable. He reminded me that if we made a big stink, the authorities might take a much closer look. For now, the local police were satisfied it was a B & E by a vagrant, ‘a likable one at that,’ they said.

  When we returned to Sally’s farmhouse, we saw two Harley motorcycles parked in the upper graveled area. We parked alongside them and got off Clay’s Harley, curious and looking around for who arrived while we were gone. Within seconds, I heard voices traveling from the back of the house through the breezeway that attached to the old barn. Walking ahead of me, Clay stopped short and turned back wearing an odd look, and then he grinned.

  I was still clueless. “What gives?”

  He gave me a knowing wink. “We’ve got company.”

  As I got closer, I realized why Clay was smiling. I tried to keep it neutral when I saw them, but couldn’t pull it off. The visuals alone were priceless. I started laughing, already mentally typing for future use what I was staring at.

  “Well, ain’t these some digs,” said that familiar voice.

  In her early seventies, Martha was like that loose thread on your sweater. Once you were snagged, eventually everything began unraveling, including your sanity.

  Right behind Martha was Crystal, then Hazel and Betty. Now, I don’t know if any of you have seen any of those spaghetti westerns Clint Eastwood starred in, but I thought I was looking at one, checking out Hazel and Betty, who wore long western style coats like his and…goggles?

  I laughed once again. “Well, this is a surprise,” I said, hugging each one of them. “Did you ride all the way here?”

  Martha laughed. “Why? Does my hair look messed up?”

  Now, that was a loaded question, I thought staring at her spiky-white hair. That’s when I noticed her leather chaps.

  “Tell me you didn’t drive one of these motorcycles!”

  “That’s right. I just got it, figuring, if I can drive a moped, I’d step up to a Harley. Life is too short!”

  Crystal, swinging her brown ponytail and wearing her usual tight jeans, tee, leather vest, and traveling tattoos, said, “Now, did you seriously think I could pass up an opportunity for this motorcycle rally with all these empty bedrooms at my cousin’s just waiting to be occupied?”

  “My, my, Samantha,” said Hazel, her well-manicured chubby fingers combing through her gray, curly hair. “This place is perfect! I sure need a rest after riding with Martha.”

  Betty, taller and on the lean side, methodically removed her goggles and smoothed back her gray-streaked bun.

  “You lost the bet, remember, Hazel? Loser rode with Evil Knievel here,” she said, nodding toward Martha.

  Lately, to my surprise, I’d discovered those two sweet old ladies, Hazel and Betty, took to solving mysteries like ducks to water, proving to be a valuable asset to have around, iPads and all. Now Martha was another
story.

  The only people missing were my agent and editor, who would probably be shaking their heads, and warning me this might lead to serious trouble. Then again, after giving it some serious thought, they might think it could be the start of a very interesting and moneymaking book.

  Martha merely laughed at their jab, then said to me, “I knew you’d miss us. Now that we’re here, you’ve got all your bases covered.”

  I rubbed my temple, which was twitching already.

  Yeah, including my privacy.

  Chapter 9

  Commentary At The Crime Scene

  Now, why did I think I could escape what had followed me for three books? They, meaning the four of them, were bound to my hip, like a clue was to a mystery. How would any puzzles be solved without them, especially mine?

  I made a follow-up call to Sally and Tom, who confirmed it was fine with them that my friends stay at the farm. They were looking forward to seeing Crystal again, a favorite cousin of Sally’s. Suspicious as always, I still had reservations. Why wasn’t Crystal housesitting instead? I had to corner her alone later to find out why, but I was sure, as usual, she’d give me a complicated explanation.

  Robinson’s homestead was around the corner and ran the full length of Sally’s property on the backside. Hers was about a block long, from street to street. In order to get to his property by car, which Clay and I had done, you had to make a left out of Sally’s driveway, go to the next street, make another left turn, and then travel down the hill on the unpaved, dusty road until you got to Robinson’s property.

  I imagine you could, with a compass and some time, cut through Sally’s dense woods and climb over fallen trees to get to Robinson’s, but to me it just wasn’t worth the hike. I’d rather take the straightforward route of the streets.

  We were all piled into an old pickup Sally left for us to use, finding it under her barn with the keys still in the ignition. Since it was a beautiful, sunny day, Crystal, Martha, Hazel, and Betty preferred riding in the open bed of the truck. Clay drove and I rode shotgun.