I was alone in the house, I knew, and yet as I stood there hanging on to the railing, trying to regain my equilibrium, the old building seemed to spring to life. Stairs creaked, air rushed through hallways, and a ray of sunlight streamed through the window at the top of the stairs and settled on my shoulders like a shawl of golden gauze.
"Is anybody here?" I called softly, terrified of how I'd react if someone or something answered. Thank goodness there was no reply, and after a few long minutes, I slinked down the hall to the attic stairs doorway.
No bats, please, I whispered, as I swung open the door. The enclosed staircase was dark, but I was reluctant to turn the overhead light on for fear of attracting the attention of the neighbor who had found Maribell. I shuddered when my fingers came in contact with things soft and squishy as I groped my way up the stairs.
After climbing forever, I came into the enormous attic, its gloom only partially broken by faint rays of light streaming through dirtcovered windows in the bays at either end of the expanse.
The dust-covered random planks of the floor creaked beneath my feet, and from the darkness above came faint squeaks from creatures hiding in the rough beams that supported the roof.
Where slate tiles had broken away, thin slivers of light shone through the roof. There were four chimneys of crumbling brick piercing the room from floor to roof, but no walls to divide the great space.
What really caught my attention were the stacks of furniture, steamer trunks from bygone days, cardboard boxes, and several wardrobes from various eras, ranging from ornate Victorian to knotty-pine rustic and cheap Giant Big-Mart pasteboard.
How on earth could I ever determine what Maribell had been looking for in this antique treasure trove? I recalled Alice-Ann telling me that she'd found the box containing Rodney's scrapbooks and diary in an antique wardrobe, and I spotted a trail of footprints on the dusty floor leading directly to a walnut Victorian wardrobe, not far from the top of the stairs. I followed it, and in front of the ornate cabinet I saw the story of Maribell's fall and the arrival of the EMTs plainly written in the dust.
I swung open the double doors of the wardrobe and was dismayed to see only empty cardboard boxes. Perhaps Maribell had found what she was looking for just before she fell, but even if she had, it struck me that she wouldn't have been able to take it with her. And that could only mean that someone had gotten here before me.
I pulled out the empty boxes, one by one, and beneath the bottom one found an old-fashioned reel tape recording. I doubted whether it meant much. If it had it probably would have been taken, too, but I popped it into my fanny pack just in case it had some importance.
I heard someone behind me.
"Who is it?" I asked, looking around for a weapon I could use to protect myself. An old drum major's baton lay on the floor of the wardrobe, and I seized it without much thought.
I spun around to see a mop of silver curls appear at the top of the stairs, level with the attic floor. The mop rose higher, revealing a smiling pink face beneath it. "Oh, there you are," the face said cheerfully. "I saw your truck from my bathroom window. After what happened to Maribell, I was worried, especially when that van pulled up behind your truck, and I didn't see any lights come on inside."
So my ploy of not turning on lights for fear of attracting attention had been as attention-grabbing as turning on the lights had been for Maribell.
The woman was all the way into the attic now, and I saw that she was very frail and that I probably could have taken her out even without the baton. "Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm Sara Meminger, from next door. Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"I'm Tori Miracle, and I'm looking for something Maribell lost here. Was it you who found Miss Morgan?"
"Oh yes. Me and her have watched out for each other for years and years. After my husband passed, she took good care of me. I been sort of keeping an eye on her place since she went into the nursing home." The curls bounced as she shook her head. "Don't know who's going to be watching out for me, now. Maybe I'll have to go into the Sigafoos, too."
"Perhaps you'll get some caring neighbors when the house is sold," I said.
She looked dubious, but only for a second or two before a broad grin split her face. She didn't seem to be a woman who played the "poor me" game. "That would be nice."
What she had said earlier just then registered with me. "Did you say a van pulled in behind my truck? Was it dark green?" Was Haley stalking me again?
"I couldn't tell the color, just that it was dark. My eyes done grew dim about six years ago." I saw then that the pupils of her eyes were rimmed with ice-blue circles. Cataracts. Poor woman.
"When I stepped out on my porch it drove away."
"Could you tell if a man was driving?"
"I couldn't see nothing. Anyway, it had them black windows you can't see through. Is you'uns ready to go? I'll lock up after you." She glanced around the attic as if checking to see if I'd looted it. The tape in my fanny pack weighed heavily on my waist and in my conscience, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that there was no way she could know it was there.
I meekly followed her down the stairs and waited while she tried seven or eight keys before finally managing to lock the front door.
As anxious as I was to listen to the purloined tape, I knew I first had to drop by the office and pick up my assignments.
Because a street fair and sidewalk sale blocked Main Street, I had to park about six blocks north of the Chronicle and walk the rest of the way. A pleasant breeze stirred the trees that lined Main Street, and the temperature had dropped by ten or fifteen degrees, making it a pleasure to be outside. I purchased a fruit-ice from a vendor and made my way past the exhibits of handmade crafts. It felt good to be outside. Back in New York, I'd walked everywhere, and I felt that the lack of exercise since I'd come to Lickin Creek might be one of the reasons I'd put on some extra pounds in the last few months.
Everything sparkled; even the fountain in the square had been freshly painted, and the little mermaid's tail was now a bright metallic green. The summer water shortage hadn't prevented the fountain from flowing, and the bronze rim of the basin was encircled by red geraniums, courtesy of the Lickin Creek Garden Club. I crossed the street there, passed the Old Lickin Creek National Bank, and paused for a moment in front of the drugstore because my fruit-ice was melting quickly.
A hand-lettered sign in the window said CLOSED TEMPRARALEY. And so another Main Street business was gone. I wondered if it would ever reopen, and if it did who would the new owner be? And where was the Old Boys' Club going to get together from now on?
I finished my ice, crumpled the paper cone, tossed it into a mesh trash basket, and took a few steps before something nagged at my mind. Mr. Eshelman had been shot in the parking lot behind his store. To get to the parking lot, he'd had to come out of the side door of the drugstore and walk halfway down the alley. I wondered if Big Bad Bob, who'd been living in the alley since spring, might have witnessed the murder. He was the unseen man in Lickin Creek, the bum who was overlooked by everyone. Perhaps the killer hadn't realized he was there.
I ducked into the alley and called his name.
There was no answer, but that didn't surprise me. I figured he'd probably be asleep in his favorite window well, the one he'd emerged from to scare me half to death. But it was empty. The only evidence that he'd ever been there were an empty whiskey bottle and some candy wrappers.
I checked all the wells. All empty. I was becoming alarmed. As far as I knew Big Bad Bob had been living in this alley for months. It seemed really strange that he'd suddenly leave it. I hoped no harm had come to him.
A slight noise from above caught my attention, and I looked up the brick wall of the drugstore and saw a second-floor window, partially open. What I'd heard was a curtain flapping in the breeze.
I quickly ran to the back of the building, where there was a doorway that opened on a narrow, stale-smelling flight of stairs going
up to the apartments on the second and third floors. I'd visited them before, when I was asking if anybody had witnessed Mr. Eshelman's murder, but I hadn't then thought it necessary to ask if any of the residents knew where Big Bad Bob had gone.
I tapped on the door of the apartment on the left, the one I figured must look out on the alley. Nobody came to the door, but I could hear a television blaring inside and guessed there must be someone in there.
After I'd knocked three or four more times, I heard a man's voice yell, "Hold your horses. I'm coming, damn it."
The door was swung open by a man dressed in jeans and a sleeveless undershirt that revealed several tattoos. I immediately remembered the description of Vonzell Varner's tattoos, but quickly realized these were not the same. No bloody head. No map of Pennsylvania.
"My dreams done come true," he said, flashing a mossy-green grin. "I been hoping you'd show up again."
Now I recalled I'd interviewed this same man during my first visit to the apartments overlooking the Lickin Creek. I let myself take a deep breath before I asked, "May I come in for a minute? I have a couple of questions I'd like to ask you?"
"Be my guest." He stepped aside and let me pass by him into the small, overheated living room dominated by a super-sized television set. His smirk annoyed me. Did he really think I'd found him so attractive the last time I met him that I climbed that nasty flight of stairs to his nasty apartment in the hope of being seduced by him?
He waited till I was seated on the orange-and-green plaid sofa, and said, "I done told you last time I didn't see nothing. You and the cop, both. Maybe you forgot."
"I remember." I searched my memory for his name. "Mr. Fleegle, isn't it."
His half smile told me he wasn't used to being called Mister. "Call me Wrigley," he said.
"Okay, Mr. Flee- I mean Wrigley, let's just go over the events of the afternoon Mr. Eshelman was killed, see if there's anything that might have come to you afterwards." That really wasn't why I was there, but I thought with Wrigley Fleegle the direct approach might not be the best.
He stared into space in a pretense of thinking, then shook his head. "Can't think of nothing. I already done told you I heard the shot, but I thought it was those damn Boy Scouts scaring off crows, so's I didn't even get up to look out."
I let him see me write that down in my notebook. Allowing the pages to close, I hoped I appeared finished with my questioning and stood up.
As if it were an afterthought, I said, "By the way, have you seen Big Bad Bob lately?"
"What's it to you?"
"It's just that I usually run into him in the alley, and today I didn't see him there."
Instead of answering my question, Wrigley rubbed his lower back with his dirty left hand and grimaced. "Got a damn herniated disk. Can't do nothing without pain."
"I'm sorry about that," I said.
He rubbed some more and said, "Can't even work. If it wasn't for SSI I'd be out on the street with Bob."
"I am sorry," I repeated.
"It barely pays enough to keep a roof over my head. Sometimes food is short. Right now I ain't even got enough cash to buy gas for my car."
Like being hit on the head with a sledgehammer, it finally dawned on me what he wanted. No wonder I wasn't getting anywhere with him.
I opened my fanny pack and pulled out the red nylon wallet Alice-Ann had given me for Christmas two years ago and hoped it held something. There was a ten-dollar bill in there, which I purposely hadn't broken to make it last longer. I pulled it out and handed it to Wrigley. "For gas," I said.
He sneered at the bill. "Not even half a tankful." But he could see there was no more where that came from.
The bill disappeared into the pocket of his jeans before he said, "Yeah, I seen Bob."
"Since the shooting?"
"Yeah. Later that same night I done found him in the stairwell. Drunk as a skunk and acting scared to death. Shaking so hard he couldn't hardly stand up. He asked me to give him a ride out to the water tower."
"And did you?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
It really wasn't surprising to hear Bob had wanted to be taken to the water tower. The tower, which had been built next to Lickin Creek's oldest cemetery because the land was cheap there, had become a beacon for local addicts and winos.
"Thanks, Wrigley. I'll look for him there."
"Don't tell him I told you where he was. He didn't want nobody to know"
"I'll be discreet."
"Huh?"
"I won't tell nobody," I translated.
It was a relief to be back in the fresh air, and I continued on my way to the Chronicle. Since I was running late, I was prepared to face my boss's anger, but when I burst into the office P.J. smiled as if she were actually pleased to see me.
"See what I've got," she said, swiveling her chair so I could get a good glimpse at what she held.
"My new book!" I exclaimed. "Where did you get it?"
"Your publisher sent me a copy; it just arrived. Good job, Tori. Very imaginative concept. I think this one could be a success."
"After the immediate disappearance of my first book, that would be nice."
"If you're planning any promotional appearances, just let me know I can probably arrange for some time off with pay."
"Pinch me," I whispered to Cassie when I stopped by her desk on the way to mine.
"I've never seen her this impressed," Cassie said. "Here's your assignments for the next few days."
It all looked easy. Not Pulitzer material, but easy. A car wash opening, the ceremonial weeding of the geranium pots around the fountain, the closing of another small downtown business. I could take care of it all in a few hours.
I quickly wrote a review of Community Concert, trying to come up with synonyms for loud. Deafening, blaring, roaring? I gave up and settled for enthusiastic.
As I handed it to Cassie, I asked what was the fastest route to the town water tower. She drew one of her infamous maps on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to me. Fortunately, I already had a general idea of how to find it. Otherwise I'm sure I would have been thrown by her instructions to turn right where the Dairy Bar used to be.
The cemetery next to the water tower had a beautiful wroughtiron fence around it and was entered through an archway, over which was written in scroll work, HARGELROAD ETERNAL LIFE CEMETERY, PERPETUAL CARE.
The grass I could see through the fence was knee-high, the tombstones cracked and toppled, and crypts were missing their doors. Perpetual care here had meant only as long as the original owner was alive. Visitors were now more apt to discover empty syringes and cheap wine bottles on the graves than flowers or plastic wreaths.
A summer storm was moving in, darkening the sky and piercing it with lightning. Wind bent the trees in the graveyard and swept trash discarded by patrons of the neighborhood convenience store down the middle of the street.
The white tower glowed pale green in the eerie light. I prowled around in the weeds beneath it, hoping it wouldn't draw a lightning strike while I was there, and looked in vain for signs of Big Bad Bob. What did I hope to find? I had no idea.
I called Bob's name, but my voice was lost in the wail of the rising wind. I'd just decided I'd better get back to the truck, when I thought I heard my name.
"Mizz Miracle..." There it was again, only this time it was punctuated by a clap of thunder as rain began to fall in nearly solid sheets.
"Help ...me..."
"Where are you?" I couldn't see anything through the driving rain.
"Help..."
A flash of lightning lit the sky momentarily, long enough for me to see a man silhouetted against the wrought-iron fence that circled the cemetery. In that brief moment, before he was concealed by the darkness, I sensed desperation in the way he clung to the iron bars, almost spread-eagled against the fence. It all happened so quickly, I almost doubted what I'd seen.
If I'd taken time to think about it, I probably would not have rushed forward towar
d the menacing figure.
As abruptly as it had started, the rain stopped, leaving the ground beneath my feet a muddy mess. I could see the fence clearly now, and there was no man standing against it.
Feeling relieved, I turned to walk back to my truck, and then I heard again, "Mizz Miracle."
I ran through the open gate and followed the voice to a bundle of rags at the base of the fence. When it shifted, I knew it was my mysterious figure.
I knelt down beside it and gingerly moved pieces of soaking wet, stinking cloth until I came upon a face.
"Big Bad Bob, what are you doing here?"
The man was in no condition to answer. In fact, it was some sort of miracle that he'd ever managed to stand up or call my name.
"Come on," I said. "We've got to get you out of here. Try to stand up "
I pulled on his arms. His eyes opened wide, and he screamed. "No. Scared."
"Nothing to be scared of, Bob."
He began to cry, great gasping sobs punctuated by hiccups and wet coughs that seemed to originate low down in his chest. If I left him here, he'd die from alcohol poisoning or pneumonia or a combination of both. I had no choice but to move him.
I turned my face to one side, inhaled some fresh air, and held my breath while I pulled him to his feet. Standing close to me, he smelled even worse; he reeked of cheap whiskey and vomit.
Somehow I managed to drag him to the truck and boost him into the front seat. He lay there sprawled out face down, and I had to use all my strength to shove him over enough to make room for me behind the wheel.
Now what? I wondered. It was a fifteen-mile drive to the nearest hospital in Hagerstown, Maryland. And I wasn't sure he needed to be hospitalized.
"Bob," I said, nudging one shoulder. "Do you want to go to the doctor?"
His reply was muffled by the car seat upholstery, but I heard his "no" clearly.
"Scared," he muttered.
5 Death, Bones, and Stately Homes Page 23
