by K. T. Tomb
She would have to proceed carefully at the other end of the wall to avoid giving away her presence, if anyone was there to see her. She crouched and crept as she passed the meridian point to skirt under an open window. From her position she could see into the room beyond the windowsill, by craning her neck a little she saw tiled walls, a pastel blue shade. Evidently the kitchen.
From the front of the house, Riley heard Roberta’s firm and insistent knock and crept to the corner of the house that led to the rear of the property. A low gate barred the way, which Riley decided to vault rather than risk the noise of creaking hinges. All the gates in Savannah creaked, all the old ones like this at least. It was a by-product of the perpetually moist, almost swampy air in the region. Her feet touched down on the far side as Roberta’s knocking stopped, and Riley reached out with her hearing to pick up the noise of bolts being drawn back, and the front door opening.
Looking around the back of the house, Riley saw an immaculately tended garden that was beginning to show signs of needing a touch up. It was made up in the high English style that she had seen in some of the wealthier properties around town, seemingly an affectation of the rich was to emulate the old money in Europe. A large tree stood in the middle of the spacious lawn which was bordered on three sides by brightly colored flower beds, through which butterflies and other insects flitted around their busy purpose of cross pollination.
The house itself backed onto the lawns with a long veranda that ran fully the length of the property, and had been recently painted a bright white. There didn’t seem to be anywhere for the tools required for the maintenance of such a large garden, and at first Riley did not see anything out of the ordinary. Then, she saw the squirrels. Three or four of them were darting through the branches of the large tree in the center of the lawn, and it was when Riley’s eye followed one as it descended to the grass that she saw the pile of freshly dug, raised earth in between the exposed roots. It had been in plain sight for the entire time she had been in the garden, maybe only a minute or two, but had been glossed over by her mind as she looked for something more tangible; although what that would have been, Riley could not have said.
She quickly scuttled over to the tree, sending the gray furred rodents scurrying for higher branches, where they looked down on her with cool, black eyes. The creatures looked unimpressed by Riley’s attempt at stealth, and she was highly conscious that directly behind her now was the tall glass paneled door and long French windows that separated the house from the veranda. Moving with urgency, she got on her knees and investigated the patch of earth. It had been once part of the lawn, but someone had inexpertly dug the turf up, in a crude rectangle about eight inches by six inches. Riley saw that the turf had been replaced, and then covered with dirt in a most haphazard way. While the turf had been cut neatly, it looked as if it had been replaced, or subsequently disturbed by hand alone.
She dug her fingers under the dirt, and gently pried the turf upwards, revealing a shallow pit perhaps six inches deep. Inside it was laid a snap-hinged jewelry box. It was open and face down in the dirt. On turning the box over, Riley’s heart sank to see that it was empty. Ricki was surely doomed.
Or was she? If the box that she had in her hands once held the Rock of Rhodesia, then that meant that someone had taken it and left the box behind. Why? She supposed that the necklace might not fit in someone’s pocket if it were still in the box, but if it had been stolen, why not close the box again, thereby giving a chance—a slim chance for sure—that the theft would go undiscovered, at least for a while? Riley jogged back to the front of the house, thoughts of stealth forgotten. It was time to get some answers.
Roberta was still engaging Mrs. Frome in small talk when Riley reached the front steps of the house, brandishing the velvet lined box at the old woman. Madeline Frome was dressed in a nightgown, and was lacking the heavy makeup she had favored the previous two times Riley had seen her. Despite this, she actually looked much younger and less wild eyed, although that could have been because Roberta’s knocking had awoken her from a peaceful slumber. Her expression was still sour, and became visibly perturbed at the sight of the jewelry box.
“You recognize this, don’t you Mrs. Frome,” Riley stated. “I think you had better tell us the truth, and right away. This necklace might have already cost our sister her life.”
Madeline Frome blanched.
“Wh-What?” she stammered in near fright, and Riley feared she might have a heart attack on the spot. “I don’t know what you mean! My necklace has been stolen!”
“Don’t give us that,” Roberta said. “Our sister has been kidnapped, and the kidnapper told us that you have the necklace, and that we are to retrieve it for him. Why would he say that, if it weren’t true? How could he know what we were looking for, if you didn’t tell him?”
“I never did!” Frome’s voice was shrill. “I never told anyone, oh my stars, this is awful. Your sister has been kidnapped?” Riley confirmed that she had, with a firm nod of her head. “I am so sorry, I had not intended… that is, I would not have…”
Riley dropped the jewelry box at Mrs. Frome’s feet. “Madeline, where is the necklace? Tell us, and do it now.”
Frome’s shoulders sagged.
“I hid the necklace. I did it. Look at this house! It’s run down, and I’m too old to fix it up, and I couldn’t sell it. I had to fire my gardener; he was too expensive. Look at all my neighbors’ houses. They’re in far better condition than mine, and I’m sure that those bastards, the Espinoza family across the street, are laughing at me. I thought I could keep the Rock, and claim on my insurance policy to save my house. I buried it by the tree in the yard, so I wouldn’t lose it. But now someone really has stolen it! What am I to do?” Frome put her face in her hands, and Riley almost felt sympathy for the old woman, except that she had, at the end, been only focused on her own woes.
“What about our sister, you old bat!” Riley yelled at her, forcing the elderly lady to hop back half a foot or so. “You might also like to know that Joseph Cavanaugh is already dead! I guess you don’t care about that either; and I’m sure it has something to do with your bloody necklace. Who knew you had it? Tell us!”
Mrs. Frome looked horrified.
“Poor Joseph, that’s terrible! I mean, he was a bum, but… I don’t know, the only people I really saw for the last fortnight were Joseph, God rest his soul, and Marcos, my former gardener. I swear I never knew that any of this would happen!”
Riley and Roberta shared a knowing look. The gardener, of course! He would know Mrs. Frome’s garden and could have come back, noticed the hiding place of the Rock of Rhodesia, and stolen it to take revenge.
“Do you happen to have a card or an address for this gardener?” Roberta said.
Chapter Twelve
Roberta
The time for picking up clues was over, of that Roberta was sure.
No sooner had Madeline Frome written down the address than she had snatched it from her hands and sprinted for her pickup, Riley and the faint apologies from Mrs. Frome on her heels. Roberta stamped on the gas as soon as Riley had jumped in the passenger side, slamming the door with the forward momentum.
“Hold on!” Riley yelped. “Could you let me get my seat belt on?”
Roberta laughed in spite of the situation.
“You race bikes for money, Riley. Reckon you could bring a little steel to this?”
Riley just glared, and did up her belt as Roberta slammed through the streets toward the address of Mrs. Frome’s former gardener. Every car that contested the road with her was casus belli for an extended blast of the horn, and stop lights were considered optional. Under regular conditions, Roberta might have made the journey in twenty minutes; on this speed trial, Riley on her motorbike would have had a stiff test keeping up. Her brakes smoked and squealed as Roberta slammed the pedal to the floor, the pickup overshooting by twenty feet or more the front of the property apparently owned by Mrs. Frome’s former gardener,
Marcos. The vehicle came to a halt, and in a moment, Roberta was leaning over the back of her seat to scoop up her shotgun. Riley was on the street in seconds, looking up at the inconspicuous house. Roberta joined her, loading a handful of shells into the Browning-made rifle. Her father had used it years ago for hunting wild fowl and the occasional deer. Roberta would now use it to hunt the man who had her sister captive.
“How do you want to play this?” Riley said, indicating toward the door to the house.
“Get your pistol out, and stay close behind me. Don’t shoot until I do, you got it? We can’t take the risk of whacking this guy if we don’t know where Riley is. Say it.”
“No shooting,” Riley said.
“Unless?”
“Unless you do it first, Bobby.”
Roberta nodded grimly at her little sister. She wished she was doing this alone, so that Riley too would be safe, but she knew there would be no way that Riley would stay behind at the truck and miss out on the action. Roberta hefted the weight of her shotgun, and stalked to the front door of Marcos Rubera’s house. The door was closed, as she expected, but it was unlocked when she tried the door handle. This did not fill her with great confidence. Should she knock and wait to see if Marcos came and answered it unarmed, or enter the house and hope to catch the fiend with his pants down? After a moment to consider the potential consequences, she pushed the door open and motioned to Riley to follow her inside.
Marcos Rubera was clearly a strange man. The entrance hall to his property was painted a matte white, unadorned with the usual pictures of family, and bare of furniture. There was a flight of stairs leading up to the upper floor, and Roberta indicated to Riley that she should cover it with her pistol.
Roberta raised her shotgun and moved through the narrow corridor that led to the lounge. Where the corridor had been blank, this room was full of artifacts and trophies. Not the common trophies that adorned the mantelpiece and walls of any self-respecting hunter, although there were two deer heads mounted on a wall. The room was filthy, carpets stained with mud and other, darker marks left by some liquid. Every surface, from the small table in the middle of the room to the top of the television to the arms of the plastic sheet covered fabric sofa were plinths bearing disturbing effigies. It was apparent that Marcos Rubera thought himself somewhat of an amateur taxidermist, judging by the squirrels, rats, lizards, birds and amphibians that had been shot and variously posed and crucified.
Roberta felt nauseous, not from the sheer number of these macabre totems, but the strange, cloying atmosphere in the room. What was this? Witchcraft? Voodoo? The thought of what this monster could do with a human, her sister no less, made Roberta gag and back out of the room as quickly as she could. Back in the corridor, Riley looked with concern at her as she held her pistol pointing up the stairs.
“I’m fine, let’s keep looking,” Roberta whispered, though she felt like fainting.
Roberta checked the kitchen next. No sign of Marcos, although there was a small caliber rifle on the counter with a box of ammunition. No doubt the weapon with which Marcos had obtained many of his grisly specimens. From the kitchen window, Roberta could see a small work shed made of corrugated metal sheets. The door was slightly ajar, but she could not see in. No doubt there would be more horrors there, but the house still had to be secured. She moved back to join Riley at the foot of the stairs, and swapped places with her.
Riley was fortunately small enough to maneuver around to the back of her sister, despite the narrow confines of the hallway. As soon as she had cleared the firing line, Roberta raised her shotgun and climbed the stairs. The bathroom was empty, and filthy. There were only two other rooms on this floor, a bedroom that hadn’t been cleaned in weeks and was strewn with dirty clothes, and a door that led to a small room that had clearly been intended by the architect to be a child’s bedroom but had been appropriated by Marcos Rubera for storage of a large number of gardening implements: hoes, rakes and shears, all bearing signs of severe rust. There was no sign that Ricki had ever been here.
“House is clear,” Roberta said, lowering her weapon. “I saw a shed out back that we should check out. Stay out of the front room downstairs; it’s pretty weird in there.”
Roberta ignored her sister’s inquisitive expression and led her back down the stairs, through the corridor and into the kitchen. The rear door of the property led out to a paved yard, containing broad flagstones with tufts of weeds and grasses poking up rebelliously between them. Marcos didn’t appear to apply his own clearly outstanding professional work to his own property. Roberta once again raised her shotgun, and pointed to Riley that they were heading to the shack, only thirty feet or so away. Every step threatened to reveal Roberta’s shaking knees; intuitively she knew that beyond this door—this door that was really just a crudely hinged piece of steel bolted to the metal frame of the shed—there were answers.
The smell hit them first. It was flesh in the early stages of putrefaction, the cloying air of death, sweet tones of meat and the rapid rot that sets in under the broiling sweat of Savannah in the summer. Riley gagged.
“What does this guy have in there, road kill? It smells terrible!” Riley had forgotten to stay silent, and clamped her hand that was not holding the pistol to her mouth. Roberta winced. No point in recriminations now.
“Hey, in there!” She said loudly. “Come out with your hands up; we’re armed to the teeth and it’s no problem to shoot you!”
There was no reply. A car passed by out the front of the property, and when it was passed, Roberta could hear the buzzing of flies. She took another step closer, and another, and then she was close enough to reach the door with one hand. Riley moved to cover the doorway, and Roberta pulled the door to the shed open with a screeching of metal on concrete. In the dark interior, there was a workbench, upon which a man lay on his back. The entrance of Roberta and Riley had stirred up a great cloud of black flies, which buzzed and scattered away as their compound eyes detected the changing light, signifying a threat.
There was no threat to Roberta and Riley here. The man was Hispanic, in his early forties, and had clearly been murdered most viciously. His throat had evidently been cut, but the cause of death may well have been the agricultural chainsaw that had been buried into the dead man’s abdomen.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell is this?” Riley said in stunned awe.
Roberta had no answers, but looked a little closer at the body in the half lit room. The chainsaw was sticking out from under the rib cage of the corpse, where it had become wedged against the bone. The tip was hidden deep within the body, but the weight of the engine of the device weighed it down at one end toward the groin.
“I don’t know what this is, Riley. With all the weird shit in the house, I thought Marcos must be the kidnapper, but if Marcos is now dead—murdered—I really don’t know.”
“What about Ricki?” Riley said. “We don’t have the Rock of Rhodesia, and this guy has been murdered, so he can’t have done it… could he?”
Roberta shook her head, and backed out of the shed into cleaner air. She gulped some deep lungs full of air, desperate to rid her olfactory system of the horrific stench and filthy air. When she could speak, she said,
“If he did then someone much worse than a kidnapper who wants a diamond is in play. Who else knew that Frome was looking to pull this stupid con?”
Riley considered.
“Well, I guess Marcos knew, but if our theory is correct, he only figured it out accidentally. Or maybe he knew all along, and was in on the plan to steal the Rock, and then he got double-crossed?”
“I guess both could be right, until we find out more,” Roberta said. “Who else? Frome couldn’t do this to a man, and while she’s crazy, I don’t think she’s murder crazy, and even if she was, she’s tiny.”
“Joseph Cavanaugh? Maybe he knew about it. He was trying to court Madeline Frome after all,” said Riley. “She must have worn it around him—yes she did! Remember when we fir
st saw him, when Mrs. Frome was chewing him out before I…”
“Before you repossessed his car,” Roberta finished. Riley shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t feel good about that, seeing how Cavanaugh ended up killing himself. Or being murdered, her thoughts reminded her.
“Yeah, that.” Riley moved on. “So, Cavanaugh knew about the diamond… wait a minute. Cavanaugh!”
“He’s dead, Riley.”
“Not senior, Cavanaugh Junior! Think about it. The Cavanaughs were broke. If that woman Cheryl I spoke to was right, the son had lost his job and they were desperate for cash. Why would anyone be so keen on wooing Madeline Frome? She hates everyone, not to mention is a total racist, but at least she seemed rich! Little did old man Cavanaugh know that she was almost as broke as he was, apart from the Rock of Rhodesia. I think Joseph didn’t even want to court her in the first place, but his son forced him into it, and when he couldn’t win Frome over…” Riley trailed off. It made sense, when taking the body of Marcos Rubera into account. Even so, the idea that Joe Cavanaugh killing his own father… that was surely too far for any man. Wasn’t it?
“We need to get over there, now. If Joe Cavanaugh has Ricki, he already butchered one man and possibly strangled his father, the odds aren’t in her favor.”
Riley nodded, and despite their protesting, tired limbs, they ran away from Marcos Rubera’s decomposing body, hoping to prevent the same terrible fate coming to their sister.
Chapter Thirteen
Ricki
She came to again, passed out again. Came to hours later.
After seeing her captor’s face, he had beaten her savagely. She had lost another tooth to go with the one she had broken herself falling to the floor, and she was sure his heavy blow had cracked a rib or two. He had used a piece of finished wood, possibly a part of a flat packed chest of drawers or other such furniture. It had hurt in any case and it had been nothing short of a blessing when the wood splintered and broke on her shoulder and Joe Cavanaugh had to stop. He had left soon afterward, leaving Ricki to her pain and confusion.
