by J. R. Ripley
“You did?” I leaned forward. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Kim shrugged. “Because I didn’t think anything. He said he saw something shiny. Thought it was a nail, but when he took a closer look it was only a pebble.”
Was he doing something to sabotage my van? Was this the missing piece? Was I finally going to be able to blame Derek Harlan for Matt Kowalski’s murder? My fingers drummed against my thigh.
“What?” said Kim, shooting a look at my hand.
It all made sense now. Well, sort of . . . “All we’ve got to do is figure out his motive.”
Kim narrowed her eyes. “Whose motive?”
I jumped up. “Derek Harlan’s, of course!”
28
I was alone in bed watching a Love It or List It marathon. I couldn’t help wondering if I had been wrong to refuse Gertie Hammer’s offer. I could buy another house, a bigger house. A house without foundation, roof, and other structural problems. A house without ghosts. More importantly, a house without the stigma of murder.
I flicked off the TV and set the remote on the nightstand. My stomach roiled. The enchiladas I’d prepared for dinner weren’t sitting well. I think I’d overdone the peppers. I’d also overeaten. What can I say? It’s hard to resist eating handfuls of nachos when you’ve got fresh salsa to go with them. Mom had brought home a pint of the stuff, complete with artichoke hearts, my favorite.
I punched my pillow, looked at the two books lying there, Birds of Western Carolina and the book John Moytoy had given me on North Carolina’s quirky history. I really should be reading up on birds, but somehow the tufted titmouse just wasn’t doing it for me tonight. I dozed off, then awoke with my nose in the book. I yawned and rubbed my eyes.
I lay still and listened to the wind howling outside. I could hear the rain pelting the roof too. A doozy of a storm was raging outside. Did that explain the noises that had wakened me?
Maybe John was right, maybe I needed to lighten up, and reading about some of North Carolina’s misfits and their misadventures and misdeeds just might do the trick.
I unclipped my reading light from the bird book and hooked it to the back cover of the history book. The preface was well written, lighthearted, and not pedantic at all. I skimmed through the table of contents and flipped to a tale about Blackbeard’s ghost. Apparently the pirate had been run to ground by the British navy off Ocracoke Island on the North Carolina coast. They’d cut off his head, hung it on the bowsprit, and tossed his body to the sharks. Sailors to this day say Blackbeard’s spirit body circles just below the surface of the water, forever searching for his head . . .
I chuckled. I didn’t believe in ghosts. But I didn’t believe in reading spooky tales in bed, alone on a decidedly dark and stormy night. I mean, why tempt nature, let alone the supernatural? The TV weather report had predicted an ugly storm and it had been right. I was letting it get to me.
I stopped the tale halfway and thumbed through the table of contents once more. Thunder crashed overhead, shaking the wood-framed house. The banging had stopped—probably a branch from one of the overhanging trees that had fallen on the roof and then to the ground. It was a relief to know that Cash had finished repairs on the roof. I’d have no more water damage to worry about and he’d promised he’d plug any holes that critters might be finding their way in through.
I was settling into an interesting Indian legend about some giant serpent god at the bottom of a gap in the Blue Ridge Mountains when an inordinately loud boom of thunder rattled the windows, followed quickly by a flash of harsh white lightning. The book dropped from my hands to the floor, but with the little book light attached I had no trouble retrieving it in the dark.
I grabbed the book by the back cover. It fell open on my lap to the index in the back. I was about to try to find my spot when my eyes fell on the name Ruby Lake. “How about that,” I muttered. “We made the book.” John hadn’t mentioned that. I wondered if he was aware of it. There were two notations for Ruby Lake.
I turned the pages to the first. It was the tale about the original owner of my house, Heather Sampson. Interesting. She was the very woman I’d been reading about earlier. I read quickly but didn’t learn much new. The author had probably gleaned most of his information from the Ruby Lake Weekender newspaper archives.
I shivered. The former proprietress, according to the account, had been stabbed in the chest twenty-two times! Who counts these things? How do they count these things? It also mentioned she’d been stabbed to death in her upstairs bedroom. Was that bedroom now my bedroom . . . ?
I felt a sympathetic tingle in my chest and thought I heard a light scratching or scraping sound coming from somewhere—behind the wall maybe, or outside. I paused a moment and listened. I heard nothing but the pounding of the rain against the house and against the windows. I chalked it up to an overactive imagination and lack of sleep.
I read some more. The second notation concerned a shootout in the boardinghouse that was operated out of my home, which had occurred in 1899. A trio of thieves had robbed a nearby mine and holed up in the boardinghouse. After two days of hunting, the authorities had tracked them to Ruby Lake. There had been a standoff for several days with the thieves barricaded inside the boardinghouse, holding several guests prisoner. Then a shootout ensued that left all three of the thieves and one law officer dead. The corundum, purported to be worth several hundred thousand dollars, had never been recovered.
I heard the sound of scraping again from the wall. “Probably that big old elm,” I said to myself. I’d have to get some of those branches cut; they kept rubbing against the siding. Who knew what damage that might cause if left unchecked? I added it to my list of projects for the contractor.
Corundum? What the devil was corundum? As if reading my mind, the author explained. Corundum was another name for rubies. In this case, deep red rubies from the Elixir Mine ten miles northwest of... Ruby Lake.
I sat up straight. Rubies! Of course! At one time, this whole area was noted for its ruby deposits. That’s how the town had gotten its name.
There had to be rubies hidden in this house somewhere!
I flew from the bed. “And that’s what everybody is after,” I muttered, fishing under the bed for my slippers. I tossed my robe over my shoulders and tiptoed out of my room. There was no light on under Mom’s door. Good, she was sound asleep. Sometimes she read late into the night.
The rubies probably weren’t in the attic. After all, Matt had camped out there—Jerry had found his prints all over everything—and would likely have discovered them. Then again, Matt might have found them and then been killed by whoever else was after them.
If not Matt, then Cash Calderon or one of his workers. Surely Cash or one of his crew would have mentioned if they’d found a stash, wouldn’t they? Or would one of them try to keep it for him- or herself?
There was the basement. And somebody had been digging there. It was a likely spot. Though I didn’t particularly feel like going down in the deep, dank hole alone in the dark.
I stepped out into the hall, locking the apartment door behind me. I headed for the basement but stopped at the second floor landing, certain that I had heard that scraping sound again. It seemed to be coming from behind the door of the empty apartment. There had been a rhythmic sound to the noise too. Unnatural. I’d never given the contractor the key, so nobody had been inside that apartment in who knew how long . . .
Maybe it was another intruder, like the one the other night. And maybe I should have called the police. But I was tired of Jerry mocking me. If this turned out to be a false alarm, a tree instead of a killer, I’d never hear the end of it.
Besides, at this hour, the station would be closed and by the time the night operator got through to Jerry or one of his underlings, whoever was prowling around my place could be long gone.
I tiptoed back upstairs to my apartment, fished around in the kitchen junk drawer, and came up with the key to the empty apartment. If there w
as a branch banging against one of the panes, maybe the least I could do was pull the shutters closed to keep the limb from breaking the glass.
I also found a small pencil-sized flashlight. I twisted the rim. Bingo! It worked. I thrust it and the key in the pocket of my robe.
Back on the second floor, I turned the key in the lock but it seemed frozen. Probably needed some lubricating spray. I jiggled the key and the knob up and down, pushing my shoulder against the door. I glanced nervously next door, hoping I didn’t wake Esther the Pester. She would not react well to having her beauty sleep interrupted.
Finally, the door popped open. Fetid odor filled my nostrils and my eyes watered up. I felt like puking. “First thing tomorrow,” I muttered, “I’m going to air out this apartment.”
I groped around for the light switch and gave it a flick. Nothing. I flicked it again a couple of times. Still nothing. The corners of my mouth turned down.
I retrieved the small flashlight from my pocket and twisted. Its thin, weak light played against the floor. At least the wood was dry. Except for the pounding of the rain, I didn’t hear a sound.
I crept forward, the boards creaking under my weight. I didn’t know if they were trying to tell me something or simply old and in need of repair.
A flash of lightning lit the room. I could see a dark tree limb near the glass, shaking madly. I sighed with relief. The rumble of thunder passed overhead. I couldn’t get used to the smell, but I wasn’t about to open that window in all this rain.
I’d let it wait until morning. As I turned, the small beam from my penlight played along the wall.
I gasped and stepped back. Ted Nickerson was folded up inside an open dumbwaiter, a rope twisted around his neck, a small pickax in his bloodless, rigid hand. I’d seen a tool just like it on the floor beside the nightstand in the Nickersons’ cabin at the Ruby Lake Motor Inn. His cold, dead eyes looked at me accusingly.
My mouth went dry and I swallowed hard.
So this was why Ted Nickerson hadn’t returned home. He was dead! By the looks of him, he’d been dead for a day or more. I felt bile rise in my throat. My hand shook uncontrollably as I studied the corpse.
A dumbwaiter? I hadn’t even known there was a dumbwaiter. I looked upward and judged where the dumbwaiter would pass in my apartment. I concluded it would be the wall in my bedroom. But since I didn’t have a dumbwaiter there, someone had to have boarded it up years before.
The Nickersons must have been looking for the rubies. That explained the history obsession and the rock-hunting gear.
Had Ted Nickerson’s wife murdered him and left him here? She couldn’t possibly have thought his body would go undiscovered here for long. She was probably planning to come back and move him out, dispose of his body. Perhaps in the lake. Something must have spooked her when she killed him. Probably me.
Why had she been crying when I went to speak with her then? Was she regretting what she’d done?
I hurried from the apartment and locked the door behind me. I wished Kim was there, but she was home. There was Mom, but I couldn’t risk anything happening to her. I bit my lip and scurried to Esther’s door. I took a deep breath and knocked.
It was several moments before I heard a sleepy reply. “Who’s there?” Esther snapped from behind her door.
“Esther,” I whispered, “it’s me, Amy. Call the police.”
“Darn right I will!” she screamed. “You banging on my door in the middle of the night. Now, go away!”
“Esther,” I whispered harshly. “Somebody is dead. Now you call the police while I check the rest of the house.” No reply. “Esther?”
I cursed her out and hurried back to my apartment. I’d call myself. Before I could get the door open, I heard a clatter outside. I ran to the window looking out over the back parking lot. A gust of wind had thrown the lid of the Dumpster wide open.
I turned away, then stopped. I approached the window once more. The front end of a dark pickup truck stuck out from behind the Dumpster. It was too dark to tell for certain, but I thought it was blue.
Aaron was here! Was he involved in this with the Nickersons? Was he after the rubies too? Were he and his sister lurking nearby? Were they in the house?
My head throbbed. Too many things were happening at once. I unlocked my apartment door, found my phone, and waited for the night operator at the police station to pick up. “This is Amy Simms,” I whispered. “There’s been a murder and I think they might still be in the house!” I waited for a reply. “Hello?” I stared at my phone. The connection had failed. I had zero bars. I tried again. Still no signal. I shook the phone. Of course, it did no good.
I heard those noises emanating from the wall again. What the devil was going on?
Was it the ghost of Heather Sampson coming to haunt me? Looking for her killer? Looking for revenge?
Locking the door behind me, I raced out into the hall. My heart beat madly against my rib cage. I noticed the foyer storage closet was ajar and the hairs on the back of my neck bristled. I was certain it had been shut earlier. I tiptoed closer, pressing my ear to the door.
Not a sound.
If I was smart, I’d go hide under the covers and wait for the police to arrive. If they arrived . . .
I pushed aside the rack of clothes and started up the stairs to the attic.
29
The first step squeaked madly as I put my weight on the old pine plank. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. All I could hear were some unfamiliar sounds, scraping and grunting maybe.
I thought I detected a flapping noise. Bats? I shivered. Did I have bats? I did not want to have bats. Birds I like. Birds I love.
But bats? Those things give me the heebie-jeebies. They also turn into vampires that suck out all your blood, leaving nothing but your withered carcass for the turkey vultures to nibble on the next morning. I’d seen a special on it on cable TV.
I took a long, quiet breath and resumed my climb, this time crawling on hands and knees to lessen the weight on each step. Slowly, I pushed my head up above the level of the attic floor. The last thing I needed was some crazed killer with an ax to chop it off. I did not want to be the next Blackbeard. I liked my head just where it was.
A dark, hulking figure in the far corner breathed heavily. It wore a heavy coat and baggy trousers. A hunting cap covered its head. Its back was to me. I could not see a face.
But I could see what he or she was doing. The intruder had removed some old boards, now lying against the wall and scattered at their feet, and was working with a tangle of rope inside a three-foot hole in the wall that could only be the dumbwaiter shaft.
The intruder heaved, grunted, and coughed, wiping an arm along the side of that unseen face. My skin crawled with fear and excitement. Was this Sally Nickerson, come back for her dead husband?
Whoever it was, they were trying to pull Ted Nickerson’s body back out from the dumbwaiter, probably so they could dispose of it forever.
But what could I do about it? The figure turned. I ducked back down and held my breath. I counted to ten, then peeked out once more.
The figure was leaning over the shaft now. If I was quiet, I should be able to work my way around the furnace on the left. I’d be able to see the intruder better from there, at least in profile. Maybe I’d then see who I was dealing with. Was it Aaron, Grace, Sally? Derek Harlan?
I tiptoed quickly to the side of the metal furnace. It was warm to the touch, but even it couldn’t stop my shivering. After a moment, to be sure I was safe, I stuck my head around the corner.
The intruder stood there, apparently deep in thought. Probably frustrated by how much trouble removing Ted Nickerson’s body had become.
I saw a four-foot-long sawn-off remnant of a two-by-four lying loose on the floor. It had probably been left there by Cash or one of his crew. I bent and picked it up. The treated pine felt substantial in my hands. Almost as good as a baseball bat. The corners of my mouth turned down. I’d recently been remin
ded just what a lousy hitter I was.
Still . . . I bit my lip. I’d only have to hit him or her once.
I hoped. I fingered the board. When the figure leaned into the shaft again, I lunged!
“Hiiyaa!” I screamed as I attacked. The intruder turned and I realized I should have kept my big mouth shut.
“What the—”
I skidded to a halt as the dark intruder stepped from the shadows and aimed a flashlight in my face. I held the board in front of my eyes. There was something eerily familiar about that shape. “A-Aaron, is that you?”
The figure stepped closer. “You!” he huffed. “You just couldn’t keep out of it, could you?” His right hand was clutched tightly around the long, black, solid-looking flashlight. His left hand was clenched in a fist.
I swallowed, keeping the board in front of me for protection. “Dwayne!” I said madly. “What are you doing here?”
The deliveryman frowned and shook his head. “You just couldn’t stop nosing around, could you?” He took a step closer.
“Stay back!” I warned. I took a mad swing. I didn’t come close to hitting the jerk, but at least I got the reaction I wanted. He retreated a step. I swung again and he retreated another.
My mind was racing in circles and my heart was running an uphill marathon. Dwayne Rogers was the killer? “You killed Matt!” I said, incredulous as it seemed. I mean, why else would he be up here trying to remove yet another dead body from my house?
Dwayne smirked. “Accidents happen. Me and Matt were having a little disagreement.” He shrugged. “Things got out of hand.” He took a measured step toward me. “Like they’re about to do again.” There was an ominous and quite sociopathic tone to his voice that set my teeth on edge.
Despite the cold, sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes. Dwayne was a blurry dark shadow. I swung again, listening to the whoosh of air as I hit nothing.
“Strike two.” Dwayne chuckled. He took another step and I retreated.
The sound of banging and awkward thumping caused us both to glance back at the attic stairs. Dwayne’s uncle Theo stepped into the attic. “What the devil is going on here?” He took two steps forward, his cane thumping the boards.
