The Fred Vickery Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Fred Vickery Mysteries)

by Sherry Lewis

  Enos’s face had an argument with itself, struggled to look patient and almost succeeded. He cast an imploring glance at Margaret.

  “Where’s Kate?” Fred demanded. “And where’s Madison? Why aren’t you out looking for them? Are you sure they’re all right?”

  “Ivan picked them up a couple of blocks away from the Bluebird. He took Kate’s statement and he’s bringing them back here right now.”

  “Dad,” Margaret pleaded, “please be reasonable. I worry about you. You could get yourself hurt—or killed.”

  “What’s reasonable about asking me to stay locked up here where I’m nothing more than a sitting duck? I should be doing something.” He pointed a finger in Enos’s face. “And don’t you go telling me I’ve been in your way. You and I both know that’s not true. I’ll admit, though, it almost worked. You almost convinced me I’d been more hindrance than help.”

  “Good billy hell, Fred,” Enos began, “you know how much I think of you, and how much I respect you. But in this one thing—this one time, I’m not going to let you get your own way. There’s too much at stake.”

  Margaret nodded vigorously.

  Fred stared at her for one long minute. “I’m still your father, young lady. Don’t you forget that. I’m not senile and I’m not on my deathbed and I’m tired of you acting as if I’m too old and feeble to do more than sit in this damn chair and rock.”

  “If you won’t take care of yourself, then I’m going to have to. Running around town playing detective at your age is not rational behavior. Whatever else you may think, I love you. I’m concerned about you. Dad . . . you’re all I’ve got left! I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me unless I die of boredom.”

  She turned away from him.

  “I’ve tried hard not to ever dictate to you Margaret. I made it a point to treat you like an adult from the minute you reached the age. I let you make your own decisions once you became an adult, even though you made some downright foolish ones. You’ve done some things I don’t agree with, but never once have I demanded that you do things my way.”

  “This isn’t the same thing at all. I never wanted to do anything that could have cost me my life. If I had—and if you hadn’t stopped me—that would have been wrong. I swear, Dad, if you try to leave I’ll call Joseph.”

  That was a low blow. Of all Fred’s children, Joseph was the most unreasonable. He’d tried to talk Fred into leaving Cutler and moving into an old folks home after Phoebe died. Threatening to pull him into this mess was completely unnecessary.

  Fred looked to Enos for support. To provide the voice of reason, but Enos looked away and in that moment, Fred knew he’d lost.

  In all her life, Fred had never felt so angry with Margaret. Not the time she took the car before she got her driver’s license and ended up broad siding Earl Ramsey’s new Cadillac. Not the time she borrowed $500 from Enos because she didn’t want to admit to Fred she needed it. And not the time she broke up with Enos and decided to marry Webster Templeton.

  He stormed down the hall and closed the door to his bedroom a little harder than necessary. Several minutes passed before he could make himself cross to the window and lower himself into Phoebe’s old chair. What would she think of the way Margaret was treating him? She wouldn’t like it. Fred was convinced of that.

  After a while, the sky darkened with heavy, lead-colored clouds. The trees began to sway gently as the wind rose and he felt, through the window, the temperature drop as another storm moved toward Cutler.

  Long before twilight, the sky had darkened ominously, yet when Margaret knocked furtively on his door, he ignored her. He paid no attention to her imploring whispers to come into the kitchen and eat. Instead, he watched the storm increasing and found himself thinking of the murders again. Who had killed Joan? Who had lured Brandon to the edge of that old mine and shoved him over. Which one of them had tried to shoot him this morning?

  He’d heard Kate and Madison return shortly after he came into the bedroom, exclaiming in high-pitched voices about the shooting in town and the weather. He heard Madison, stocking-footed, run up and down the hall repeatedly and the murmur of voices in conversation. He knew when Enos left and when Webb called demanding that Margaret return home. For the first time ever Fred agreed with him, but Margaret stayed long after the call and Fred knew she’d have trouble later.

  He heard the telephone ring and heard Margaret call Kate to take it. He heard Kate agree to meet someone—to meet Tony—so they could finish tying up the loose ends before she left in the morning.

  It wasn’t until he heard Madison crying for Kate that he emerged from his self-imposed isolation. He found Margaret in the living room, struggling with Madison whose tears and frantic thrashing seemed out of proportion to Kate’s leaving. When Margaret saw Fred, she smiled shyly. He almost smiled back, but he wasn’t ready to forgive her yet.

  To his surprise, Madison reached for him and burrowed her tiny head under his chin when he picked her up. Her body shook until her tears subsided and even then it shuddered with an occasional leftover spasm.

  Rocking her gently, he quieted her fears. He was intensely aware of his own uneasiness but convinced the storm had brought on the sense of impending disaster.

  Margaret retreated to the sofa, her eyes wide and childlike as she watched him. His big old grandfather clock ticked in the silence, measuring time against the wind that buffeted the house. The window rattled and he jumped, unaware until that moment how jangled his nerves were. Turning a sheepish eye toward Margaret, he saw her clutching her hand to her breast and knew it had startled her as well.

  Madison stirred on his lap and yawned, and something inside him gave way to her utter trust. Tightening his arms around her, he kissed the top of her head.

  Margaret shifted position and the scratching of her denim jeans against the crushed velvet sofa, sounded loud in the ominous quiet.

  Madison reached a chubby fist to her face and rubbed her eyes tiredly. “Is Kate coming back?”

  “Of course she is,” Fred assured her. “She won’t be gone very long.”

  Her wide, brown eyes opened and she looked at him earnestly, as if pleading for reassurance. “Mommy didn’t.”

  “This is different, sweetheart,” Fred said soothingly.

  “Mommy didn’t come back and I don’t want Kate to go away, too. I want Kate to come back,” she sniffled.

  Fred brushed her hair from her forehead. “It’s all right,” he said softly.

  “I didn’t like Mommy to go.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  “And I don’t want Kate to get hurt. Will Kate get hurt?”

  “Of course not. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”

  Madison settled back against him, nearly satisfied. “I don’t like him very much. I didn’t want Mommy to go with him. His eyes looked funny and he scared me.”

  What a sad memory for a child to have of her own father. “That’s all over now, sweetheart,” Fred promised.

  She jerked up again and looked at Margaret. “Did his eyes look funny again tonight?”

  “It wasn’t—” Margaret began.

  “But Mommy didn’t go with—” Fred said.

  He stopped, vaguely aware that Margaret had stopped at the same time. His eyes explored Madison’s concerned face, searching for something—anything—to tell him he was wrong.

  He lifted his eyes to Margaret. Fear radiated from her face. He wanted to believe that he’d misunderstood the terrified child, but he knew. In that moment, he knew everything.

  He tried to still his racing pulse, tried to catch his breath, but couldn’t. The feeling of disaster he’d been courting all evening had mushroomed, enveloping his senses.

  “Sweetheart,” he said softly as he turned Madison to face him, “when Mommy went away, did you see her leave with somebody?”

  Madison nodded.

  “Who did she go with, honey? Ca
n you tell me?”

  Madison shook her head.

  “You can’t tell me?”

  Another shake of the head, more vehement this time. Across the room, Margaret stood and slowly crossed the room. As she approached, Fred saw his own terror mirrored in her eyes. He shook his head, wanting to stop her from coming closer, not wanting to upset the child any more than necessary.

  “If I guess it, will you tell me if I’m right?” Fred pleaded.

  Madison tipped her head to one side and looked at him. He tried to smile, but his lips felt stiff and unwieldy. He tried to relax his hold on her arms, aware that his fingers gripped her too tightly.

  Madison nodded slowly.

  “Did Mommy go away with Uncle Tony?” he asked quietly, hardly daring to voice the words.

  Madison frowned into his face. “I promised I wouldn’t tell. He said Daddy would be mad if I telled.”

  He could hear Margaret breathing raggedly above them. He struggled to stay outwardly calm, knowing he shouldn’t pressure or upset Madison, and fearing the danger Kate faced if he had guessed right.

  “You’re not telling, sweetheart. We’re playing a game. All you have to do is say yes or no—okay? The night Mommy went away, did she go somewhere with Uncle Tony?”

  Madison studied his face unblinking. He smiled encouragement. Come on, he urged silently, come on.

  She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly.

  Fred’s heart froze.

  “Oh my God! Kate!” Margaret breathed.

  With infinite care he lifted Madison from his lap and handed her into Margaret’s trembling arms. He removed the pen from his pocket and showed it to Madison. “Have you ever seen this?”

  She nodded solemnly. “It’s Tony’s.”

  He must have seen the pen on the table at the Bluebird. He thought Fred knew it was his, or suspected it wouldn’t take him long to figure it out, so he’d shot at him.

  “Where did they go?” he asked Margaret.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. They were going to finish signing the power of attorney Tony had drawn up for her. I assumed they’d be going up to Cavanaugh’s . . . You’re not going?”

  “Of course not. I’m going to call Enos and pray he can get there on time.”

  He punched the numbers with fingers that suddenly seemed too large for the buttons; the clumsy fingers of an old man.

  No answer.

  He tried again, more slowly this time, in case he’d misdialed. Nothing. He tried Enos’s home number. He had to shout to make Jessica hear him over her television. She shouted back that she hadn’t seen Enos all day and slammed down the receiver.

  Margaret looked troubled, as if she already knew in her heart what Fred began to suspect.

  He dialed the Bluebird. Liz hadn’t seen Enos, hadn’t heard from Grady all night, didn’t know where they were.

  Margaret clutched Madison to her and watched Fred with pain-filled eyes, as if willing him not to go. And for her, despite their earlier disagreements over this very subject, he would have stayed. But now he had no choice.

  He reached for his jacket and Margaret let out a sob of protest. “Dad, please don’t.”

  “Kate’s in danger. I have to go.”

  “But—” she began, but cut herself off and looked away.

  “You aren’t going to try to stop me?” Fred asked, shrugging into his jacket.

  “Could I if I wanted to?”

  “No.”

  He kissed her cheek and forehead. “Keep trying to reach Enos. Tell him what’s happening.”

  She nodded. Tears slipped from her eyes onto her cheeks, leaving tracks as they traveled toward her chin. As he opened the door, she called after him. “Dad? Be careful?”

  “You bet.” He stepped out into the storm and closed the door. The wind whipped furiously, tearing at his jacket, pulling his cap off his head and forcing him to concentrate on walking just to get to the car.

  He stopped by the garage to get his hunting rifle and scope and the box of shells George wanted so badly. He carried them in the front seat with him and propped the unloaded rifle against the passenger door, praying he wouldn’t have to shoot anything.

  Sheets of ice covered the roads and he drove more rapidly than felt comfortable. He scanned the streets for Enos’s truck, for a sign of Grady or Ivan. But by the time he made the left turn and headed up the mountain, he knew he was on his own.

  twenty five

  The wind howled around him angrily, pushed at his car as if it were nothing more than a toy. He gripped the wheel, fighting against the wind and the black ice on the highway. Thank goodness it hadn’t started to snow yet. He’d been on the road over half an hour already and only now did he see the turnoff to Cavanaugh’s place.

  Had Margaret been able to reach Enos yet? Fred hoped so. With any luck, Enos would get here not much after Fred.

  As a precaution, he shut off the car lights and continued up the drive in the dark. He had difficulty making out the edges of the forest and had to force himself to drive slowly. He just hoped that the sound of his car on the drive wouldn’t carry into the house.

  The cabin loomed before him, ablaze with light. The glow radiated from every window, warm and inviting and golden. Fred’s spirits soared. He’d made it in time. The place looked ordinary and inviting. He relaxed a little, feeling the tension leave his back and neck. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Tony hadn’t killed Joan and Brandon after all.

  And then Fred noticed the back door swinging open in the wind and a chill crept down his spine.

  Soundlessly, he pushed open the car door, holding his hand over the dome light. He eased the door closed until he heard a faint click and walked as quickly as he could across the frozen mud to the open door. Not wanting to start trouble by showing up at the door with a gun, he left the rifle in the car but he would have felt safer with it.

  Steadying himself, he looked into the kitchen. Disarray greeted him. Two chairs lay on their sides, overturned in a mess of flour, sugar and rice that must have come from the now-empty canisters on the floor. The breakfast counter had the appearance of having been swept clean, but everything lay scattered on the floor.

  He realized two things at once: first, he was too late. Something horrible had happened here; and second, he couldn’t pretend any longer that Kate wasn’t in danger. Whatever happened here, it hadn’t been an accident. These were the signs of a struggle. Could she have been through this and still be alive? Had she been injured—or worse?

  He tiptoed into the house, his heart racing high in his throat, his mouth dry. Deep silence out before him and the stillness, so absolute and unnatural, heightened his awareness of the danger.

  Where were they? Surely he would have heard them by now if they’d been in the house. Unless the house was too large for that. Or unless they’d heard him arrive.

  He knew he had to find them quickly, but he moved inside cautiously, careful not to slip on the mess. Once through the kitchen, he stole through the hallway and peered into the living room. The earlier disarray had disappeared; the paintings, the crates and packing material. It looked as pristine as it had the day Enos came to break the news of Joan’s death.

  He found a home office and where signs of the struggle continued. Files had been emptied onto the floor. Desk accessories—stapler, scissors, pencils and pens—lay scattered across the floor. His own breathing sounded so loud he could hardly draw a breath, fearing that it would give him away and endanger Kate. He pictured her, terrified and hurt and remembered Joan’s death.

  Turning away from the desk, he saw a small, dark spot on the carpet. Apprehension nearly choked him, but he crouched beside it and touched it. His worst fears were confirmed. Blood.

  Another spot appeared near one of the chairs by the desk, and another. For the first time, he noticed a small trail of blood leading toward the door. Then it stopped.

  Kate’s blood? He fought back the fear and forced himself to move on. Frantic now, he sea
rched the two upper floors of the house. Though every light had been left on, he found no sign of either Kate or Tony.

  In a way, he felt curiously relieved. As long as he didn’t come upon Kate’s body, he might still be in time to help her.

  Hurrying back down the stairs, he cursed at his old knees and legs and how slowly they made him walk. If only he could run, but even his best efforts yielded little in the way of results.

  He went out the front door and hurried back into the night. For the first time, he realized that all three of the Cavanaugh vehicles were parked in a row in front of the garage. His lungs burned as he gasped for breath. In his hurry, he’d pushed himself harder physically than he had in a long time. He wasn’t cut out for this, but he couldn’t stop now. Kate’s life might just depend on him.

  He listened, hoping for a sound that would tell him where to look next, but the wind moaned too loudly for any other sound to carry. Even if Kate could cry for help, he’d never hear her.

  If the cars were here, Tony and Kate had to be close. Suddenly, in the distance through a break in the trees, he made out a faint light moving jerkily as a flashlight would in the hands of someone walking a rough mountain path.

  Wrenching open the car door, he and took his flashlight out of his glove box. He perched on the edge of the seat and opened the box of shells, loading his rifle with trembling fingers. He’d done it a hundred times before, but not since the war had he contemplated shooting another human being. Even now, he wondered what he would do when he finally found Tony.

  As quickly as he could, he followed the path, unsure at first where it led. Not more than fifty feet from the house, he found footprints and he closed his eyes, thankful that there were two clear sets. One, bold and strong, a man’s prints, had sufficient space between each footfall to convince Fred he moved with speed. The other set stumbled erratically.

  Why didn’t Kate fight him? Why didn’t she break away and run? It made no sense to Fred, who knew Kate only as the feisty, stubborn, strong-willed woman who would never do anything subservient. Yet it didn’t look as if she’d struggled since they got outside, and he couldn’t be certain whether she’d fought him in the house or whether tony had done all that damage by himself.