I heard more muffled steps, pushed my hands against my mouth to keep myself from gasping aloud, and fell backward onto the rug, rocked by the realization that a stranger was creeping through my house. Worse, he must have disabled my alarm system. If someone had broken in, the security company would have called, asking for the safe word, “tomatoes,” to confirm the alarm had sounded in error.
Unless I hadn’t set it.
A strangled moan escaped my throat. No one would have heard it, but to my own ears it sounded as loud as bells tolling from the rafters.
I shook my head. I always set it, just like I always used my key to turn the dead-bolt locks and gave the doors a little tug, just to check. Like I told Vicki, I was a belt-and-suspenders kind of gal. I didn’t recall setting the alarm and locking the doors. Still, I knew I had. I always did. My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard, it felt as if my ribs might break.
I peeked under the bed again, and again I saw nothing but luminous green reflections.
I heard another stealthy step, then another.
I was having trouble breathing. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck rose and a shiver slithered up, then down, my spine.
The footsteps stopped, and I heard a soft whoosh and a rustle. I didn’t recognize the sounds. More silence. Footsteps again, retreating, and then, seconds later, another snick.
According to the clock, it was 1:21. Three minutes had elapsed. I forced myself to count slowly to 120, two minutes more, listening, waiting. I heard nothing. Satisfied I was alone, I crawled across the bed to reach my tote bag and grabbed my phone.
* * *
The alarm hadn’t sounded because my power was off. According to Ellis, wind gusts topping sixty-five miles per hour had snapped off tree limbs, bringing down power lines all over town. Whoever had broken in got lucky. The intruder got lucky with footprints, too. I hadn’t heard a car, so I figured he must have hiked or snowshoed in. With the storm so blustery, all trace of his route would have been obscured within moments.
“What a risk,” I said to Ellis after we’d completed our walk-through by the light of his supersized torch and my standard household flashlight.
“You think so?” he asked. “Unless there happened to be a patrol car in the neighborhood for some reason, it would take the police five to six minutes to get here on a sunny day with no traffic. On a night like this—in near whiteout conditions with roads blocked by fallen trees and live electric lines—they couldn’t make it any sooner than fifteen or twenty minutes. You said the intruder was inside for how long? Three minutes? If he thought it through and did the math, he’d reach the same conclusion. He could get in, do whatever he came here to do, and get out in three, four minutes, tops. He’d be in the woods, out of sight of the street in another minute or two.” He shrugged. “Not so risky.”
“You’re right—and I bet he thought I wasn’t home because my car wasn’t here and the house was dark.”
I scanned the living room again, sweeping my light along the furniture. I saw only my own possessions, nothing out of place, nothing unexpected. I owned and displayed valuable antiques, yet nothing had been taken. My father’s proudest find, a seventeenth-century oil painting he’d purchased on a business trip in London nearly twenty years earlier, hung undisturbed on the study wall. It was called A River Crossing with a Ferry and was attributed to Jan Brueghel the Younger. To update my insurance policy, I’d hired a Boston-based antiques expert who’d appraised it at $425,000 three months ago.
A thief wouldn’t necessarily know the value of the painting, but surely he would find my mother’s sterling silver candlesticks irresistible. They were small enough to fit in any satchel and sat out in the open on the round kitchen table next to the eighteenth-century Waterford cut crystal bowl I’d purchased for myself to celebrate my first year in business. The rare books that lined the shelves in the study were intact, too, as were the framed antique maps on the walls. In the living room, antique Chinese vases decorated tabletops. I owned electronics, too, and sterling silver flatware, and other objects that would be easy to carry and quick to pawn.
“Nothing is missing,” I said, closing the hutch drawer, confirming that my sterling silver wine caddy was untouched.
“Do you have a safe?” Ellis asked.
“No.”
“How about a stash of cash?”
“Upstairs, next to my passport.”
“Let’s take one more look, room by room, then let’s get you packed up for the night. I left Zoë making up the guest room.”
“Do you believe me?” I asked. “Do you believe that someone was here, walking around?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
I exhaled, and only then did I realize that I’d been holding my breath. Without corroboration, it would be easy to dismiss my claims as the product of an overly active imagination.
“How did he get in?” I asked. “There’s no sign of a break-in, and the lock is a dead bolt.”
“Which wasn’t in place,” Ellis noted.
“It was when I went to bed. I always check to be certain. Just like I always set the alarm.”
“Routine is dangerous, Josie, you know that. Anyone observing you can learn your habits, which lets them have the upper hand. Besides, there’s no way to confirm you actually did something. You just assume you did because you always have in the past.”
“You’re right. I can’t say with a hundred percent certainty that I did either thing—I simply have no recollection … but I’m such a nut about safety, Ellis, I just don’t believe I would have skipped either step. It would be like forgetting to brush my teeth. Which means either I’m wrong, which would be one heck of a fortuitous coincidence from the intruder’s perspective, or he somehow managed to unlock a dead-bolt lock without a key.”
“You use the same key for both doors, right, front and back?”
“Yes. There are four copies, total. Ty, Zoë, and I each have one. A spare is locked in my desk at work, and I’m the only person who has that key. I keep it hidden in a hollowed-out chunk of rock I use as a paperweight. My house key is on my key ring, which attaches to a little hook in an inner zippered pocket in my tote bag. The ring is always handy, and I never lose my keys.”
Ellis asked me to show him the key ring, and I ran upstairs to get my bag. The ring was in its place. My key was intact.
“We’ll need to confirm that all of the others are accounted for, but assuming they are, we have a more complex situation. Someone picked a dead bolt.”
“I thought it couldn’t be done.”
“Oh, it can be done, all right. It’s not actually all that hard. The issue is that it takes minutes, not seconds, of delicate finessing to pull it off. It would take a hardy soul to attempt it on a night like this where they’d have to worry about frostbite and where they’d have no way of knowing that the alarm system was deactivated. The intruder counted on gaining access in two, call it three minutes, or less.”
“So what you’re saying is that someone copied my key.”
“Or Ty’s. Or Zoë’s. Or your spare.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Then you tell me. How did he get in?”
I met his eyes. “I have no idea.”
“We’ll check with locksmiths. If someone had a copy made locally, he may remember it. A Hotchkins isn’t an everyday lock.”
“Oh, my God, Ellis! I just thought of something.” I paused to take a breath. “I’m sure everything is fine, because I haven’t heard from my security company—but if the intruder copied one key, maybe he copied them all. Keys to my building, Ty’s house, and my car are all on that one ring. Even if the power went off at my business, I have generators. Ty does, too. But I should call anyway, just to be sure.”
Ellis nodded. “Good idea.”
“Ty uses the same security company I do, and I’m registered on his account, so I can check on his place when I call about mine.”
The man who answered the phone sp
oke with a slight accent, a lilt I couldn’t place. He sounded young. From his tone, not bored exactly, but as if my request were routine, I got the impression I wasn’t the first customer he was taking to during this blizzard.
He had me answer two security questions to prove I was who I said I was, then told me no intrusions had been recorded at either my business or Ty’s residence.
I thanked him, hung up, and told Ellis, “That’s a relief.”
“I want to take a good look at that lock,” Ellis said and led the way into the kitchen.
“Can we stop by Meyer’s farm stand on our way to your place, just to be certain my car is where I left it?” I asked as I followed along.
“Sure,” he said.
Two steps into the kitchen, I froze, gasping.
“Ellis,” I said, pointing to the floor, my heart skipping a beat. Droplets of water dotted the hardwood flooring near the door, the one that led from the kitchen into the little entryway I called a mudroom. I looked up, half-expecting to spot a damp spot on the ceiling, a leak. The ceiling was dry. “How come we didn’t notice that before?”
“That’s why investigations take time. You can’t notice everything at once.” He squatted near the moisture, leaning in close. “There’s no discoloration. No mud, dirt, or debris is visible. Were you carrying a glass of water when you locked up?”
“No. I didn’t wash the floor, either.”
“Let’s see what’s in here.” He stepped into the mudroom and did another close-in inspection, this one of the coir mat abutting the outside door and the inexpensive carpet runner that ran the length of the room. “Nothing. I’ll have the lab take a look, but I doubt we’ll find anything.” He stood and opened the back door, his torch aimed at the lock.
Snow blew into the mudroom, and I shivered and returned to the kitchen. I shone my flashlight into corners, through doorways, and along walls. Nothing anywhere was disturbed. No windows were unlocked or broken. If I hadn’t known better, I’d wonder if I’d imagined everything. Except that the dead-bolt lock on the back door wasn’t engaged and there were a few drops of water on the kitchen floor.
“I don’t see anything on the lock or housing,” Ellis said. “No scratches or jimmy marks.” He locked the door. “You okay going upstairs alone to pack?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll only be a sec.”
Tucking my flashlight under my arm so I’d have both hands free to pack, I tossed a few sundries and miscellaneous supplies into the bag, added a few work projects in case I couldn’t sleep, and placed clothes chosen solely for warmth on top. Everything looked odd, misshapen in the wavering light. I slung the bag onto my shoulder, doubting that I’d ever feel warm again.
Downstairs, I turned the thermostat down to sixty, high enough so the pipes wouldn’t freeze.
“I’m lucky I have gas heat,” I said, thinking that I was also lucky the intruder hadn’t ventured upstairs, hating it that my safety might depend on luck.
When we got to Meyer’s, I was relieved to see that my car was parked in the same spot, buried under a thick blanket of snow as if it were snuggled in for the night.
As we drove through the gusty storm toward Ellis’s house, I kept glancing into the sideview mirror, unable to shake off a sense of foreboding. It was as if a poltergeist had materialized in my home, completed some dangerous or malevolent or mischievous act I hadn’t yet discovered, then vaporized. I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to see lights glimmering in back of us, but the only thing I saw was snow.
* * *
“Make yourself at home,” Zoë said, opening the door to the guest room. The walls were painted light blue with darker blue trim. The curtains were dark blue and maroon plaid. Oval maroon rag rugs covered most of the hardwood floor. “There’s lots of food in the fridge and a carrot cake, a cherry pie, and brownies on the counter. Help yourself.”
“You are a baking machine,” I said.
“I am. Baking is my go-to stress reducer. Just between you and me and the rag rug, Jake is driving me a little crazy. He’s better, but when he’s sick, he gets fussy.” She shook her head, sending her luxurious black hair swinging. “What an unnatural mother I am. My son is sick and I feel sorry for myself.”
“You’re a wonderful mother, not the least bit unnatural.” I patted her arm. Even in the middle of the night, wearing a bathrobe and without makeup, Zoë was striking, with sculpted cheekbones and expressive brown eyes. “How about if I babysit for a while tomorrow, so you can sneak away for some private time?”
She smiled at me, the kind of smile Helen must have used to launch ships. “Want a pie?” Zoë said. “I bake to order.”
I laughed, and my tension eased a notch, maybe two. There is no substitute for girlfriends. “Next time we have dinner, I’ll place an order for my favorite. Boston cream.”
“Done. In the meantime, try to get some sleep, okay?”
She hugged me, then closed the door softly. The sound of the latch clicking home was exactly the same noise I’d heard earlier—snick. I stared at the door for a moment, reliving the confusion and fear that had gripped me during those long minutes while someone had been in my house. I still felt afraid, more so than before, because as I unbuttoned my sweater and pulled off my jeans, I knew it wasn’t a nightmare or my imagination. I knew that something evil was at work.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was nearly four when I got undressed and slipped between the soft flannel sheets in Ellis’s guest room. Despite feeling physically exhausted and emotionally drained, I was certain I wouldn’t be able to sleep, and I was right. I tried. I forced myself to lie still, to think of the Bahamas, to recall the sun-scorched beach and turquoise water where Ty and I had last vacationed, a place where soft breezes blew through palm fronds and my only task was to unwind, but my mind wouldn’t cooperate. Instead of the gentle lapping of a Caribbean tide and the unfamiliar caws and chirps of native birds, I kept hearing the muted sound of stealthy footsteps. I clutched a pillow to my chest and rolled onto my side, then flipped the other way. I couldn’t seem to find a comfortable spot, and the more I tried, the more restless I became. It felt as if tiny jolts of electricity kept sparking inside my veins. I flopped onto my stomach, then twisted sideways, then lay still again, growing more and more anxious with every failed attempt to find a comfortable position and drift off to sleep. Finally, I gave up. I switched on the bedside light and stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing. I felt too tense and fretful to rest or read, so I did what I always do when I’m upset: I worked.
I threw on my jeans and heavy wool socks and a fisherman-knit sweater, made the bed, stacking pillows against the headboard for a comfortable backrest, and drew back the curtains. Sometime during the last hour or so since I’d arrived, the storm had ended. Looking west, the sky was clear. Instead of impenetrable darkness, a three-quarters moon illuminated the bare trees that circled Ellis’s property. Stars twinkled across the western sky. To the east, the clouds had thinned. The storm had nearly blown itself out to sea.
“All right, then,” I said aloud, feeling my mood lighten along with the sky. “Let’s do it to it.”
I extracted a folder containing catalogue copy for the upcoming music objects auction that Fred had asked me to review, work I’d brought along for just this contingency. The auction, scheduled for June, featured rare musical instruments, sheet music, and music-related furnishings and decorative objects. I got settled on the bed, reading his informative and engaging descriptions, impressed, as always, with his ability to interpret meaning while describing details.
Just before seven, I noticed oblongs of pale light running along the wood floor. The sun was rising. I set aside the pages and called Ty. I’d expected to wake him; instead I learned he was more than halfway home.
“I woke up around five,” he said, “and saw the storm was over. I was out of there in about two minutes. How come you’re up so early?”
“I’m at Ellis’s,” I said, looking out the window. Opa
lescent pink and yellow stripes of light marked the sun’s progress. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine, but, well, someone broke into my house while I was home, asleep.”
“I’m pulling over. Hold on.” A few seconds later, he added, “All right, I’m set. You sure know how to get a man’s attention. What happened?”
I explained what I’d heard and done. “I can’t understand it, Ty. Nothing looked disturbed. That someone would break in and do nothing … well, that’s why I’m superscared. There seems to be no rhyme or reason for it.”
“There’s always a motive.”
There’s always a motive, I repeated silently, not reassured at all.
Ty told me he loved me, that he’d be there soon, and I told him I loved him, too, and couldn’t wait to see him, then I flopped over, and unexpectedly fell heavily asleep. Just after eight, I awakened to the homey sounds of Zoë puttering around with the kids. Pots and pans and glasses clinked and clattered. Laughter peaked, then quieted, then rose again. Emma squealed. I rolled out of bed, glad the night was over and the day officially under way.
“Have a coffee,” Zoë said, handing me a steaming mug. “How did you sleep?”
“As expected.” I cupped the mug, its warmth a comfort. “Are those mangoes?”
“Yes. I was thinking about making mango tarts. Why?”
I told her Ty would arrive shortly, and when he did, I’d make us all French toast with my mom’s killer Mango Surprise Syrup and bacon.
Ty pulled into the driveway around 8:30 and stopped to talk to Ellis. I could guess what their conversation was about. I served the kids first, and by 9:30 they’d finished and were settled in the living room, watching cartoons. At 10:00, the four adults sat down to eat.
Lethal Treasure: A Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries) Page 12
