Night had arrived before the two men found the turnoff to Rollingwood farm. Eric turned on his flashlight as they stepped out of the Honda into the rutted mud before the gate. Bradley had taken off his rings and rubber dragon. The gate was locked.
“Let’s climb over the fence,” Smith suggested.
“This is barbed wire, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Don’t you have wire cutters?”
“I do not,” replied his friend in a voice of deep sarcasm, “usually carry such tools about with me.”
“Well, don’t be a bitch about it. I’ll hold the wire down for you and shine the light so you can see.” Bradley put the end of the flashlight between his teeth.
Eric teetered on the wire, praying the crotch of his jeans would not be ripped, and swung his leg over. Then he took the flashlight from Bradley and held the wire for his friend. After Smith was across, Eric scanned the grounds with the flashlight. The beam moved jerkily, courtesy of his nerves. They could see a few sheep in the distance.
“There’s the barn, and the door’s open,” said Bradley.
“Let’s get it then, before this light attracts somebody.”
The ominous black doorway halted them, and Eric took a deep, gulping breath. A sound of “Aaaaauuuugghhhh!” exploded by his ear. The reporter flew upwards, then turned a shaking flashlight beam on his friend. “What the hell!?”
He could just make out Bradley’s grimacing face. “A sheep stepped on my foot!” Smith shouted, wiggling his sore appendage. A bleating sound was moving rapidly away. Bradley had reproved the erring animal with a kick.
“Is that all?! Jesus Christ! Let’s get inside the barn before the whole countryside realizes we’re here.”
“Damn, those things are vicious,” said Smith, staring after the sheep.
They entered the barn cautiously, and the flashlight was pointed into every niche. “Where is it? A scythe shouldn’t be hard to find,” muttered Maxwell.
“It could be hidden in a corner.”
“But the blade on it should keep it from vanishing completely; it won’t disappear into a 45-degree angle.” Remembering Arthur’s description, Eric stepped forward and shifted aside some straw.
“What’s that?” Smith asked.
“It looks like dried blood.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Neither spoke for a moment.
“So Arthur was telling the truth,” said Bradley. “A scythe must have been hanging above here. Someone did steal it. Let’s scrape up some of this blood and take it in for analysis.”
“I don’t think we should,” replied Eric, after pondering a bit. “For one thing, the thief must not know the puddle is here, or he would have cleaned it up. It’s almost completely covered by this straw. I’m surprised Arthur noticed it.”
“But won’t the thief remember the floor later? I still think we should scrape up some blood.”
“It won’t be useful as evidence if we do. We can’t just show up with ostrich blood. It has to be collected by the police and witnessed and photographed to prove it was here in the first place.”
“Well, we’ve witnessed it. Will that help?”
Maxwell shook his head uncertainly. “I’ll tell Wendy we saw it. Unfortunately, Escott may claim this blood stain is just an accidental transfer from the vet. Damn that missing scythe.”
“Well, put the straw back over the spot so no one sees it.”
After they replaced the straw, they left the barn, discouraged. Near the gate they were startled by a howl, long and beautifully wolf-like.
“Dammit, the sheep aren’t anywhere near us! Would you STOP THAT?”
“But that wasn’t me.”
They looked at each other in the halogen beam. “Maybe that vet did know what he was talking about,” said Bradley.
A second later both men were dashing for the fence, and they scratched themselves thoroughly trying to get over the wire. “Don’t climb in the car yet,” Eric gasped, “I don’t want blood all over my upholstery. Let me get some paper towels out of the trunk so we can blot ourselves.”
The howl came again. It was closer this time.
“We need to tell somebody about that wolf or it’ll kill some of those sheep,” said Bradley.
“All right, all right, we’ll call the sheriff. He can notify the Boyles and we’ll stay anonymous that way.”
A faint motion came from the dark woods behind Bradley, right next to the highway. Both men went still. They heard quick breathing, like a dog’s pants.
“Heh,” said Bradley with a nervous laugh, “that sounds so close you’d think it was on our side of the fence.”
They looked at each other and threw themselves inside the car. Maxwell’s tires were spraying mud over the gate before Bradley could shut his door.
“A goddamned wolf! We made utter fools out of ourselves at the sheriff’s!” Eric moaned.
“I’m not a fool,” Smith huffed. “But if that was a wolf, what about the blood on the barn floor?”
“We have to admit it could have been from any animal, or even a man, lacking a scientific test. Hell, we were dripping blood from that barbed wire. It might even be wolf blood, if that ostrich fought back before he died. Could you get the map out of the glove compartment? I can’t remember the route back.” The reporter’s hands were shaking on the steering wheel.
Bradley switched on the overhead light and unfolded the map. “Eric?”
“What?”
“How did the wolf get inside the farm?”
“Squeezed through the barbed wire, I guess. Or he may have dug down a bit, if he was hungry and determined enough.”
“But you’re saying he got through two fences, a barbed wire fence, then the chicken-wire fence around Woofie’s pen, ignored a field full of sheep on the way, then killed Woofie because he was hungry, but didn’t eat anything?”
Eric had no reply to this.
Later that night at Rollingwood, as everyone was settling in to sleep, a scream came from the second floor bathroom. Doors flew open all along the hallway, and Mrs. Marshpool and Armagnac came running out of Boyle’s room. The Salisburys appeared around the corner. A moment later, Lance came plunging down from the third floor in his shorts. Richie and Briarly crouched behind Lance on the stairs, and Barksdale, who was shut up in the library, began to yap wildly.
The bathroom door creaked open slowly, and Bradley was standing there, his mouth full of toothpaste. “Ow!” Smith foamed. He removed a pair of earplugs from his ears. “Never try to brush your teeth while wearing earplugs. It feels like your teeth are being drilled. God, it’s painful. It must alter the way vibrations travel through your head or something.”
“Is that what you were screaming about?” Bert wailed. “Jesus, we thought you were being--”
Cummings broke off at the sight of Lance. Eric was leaning wearily against the wall in his red plaid bathrobe. Unlike the others, he had taken his time emerging, having recognized this scream from earlier today.
“Earplugs! What? What?” flapped Armagnac. “What’s this about earplugs? Is anyone hurt?”
Wearily, Rose and Bert signaled for Arthur to go back to bed. The boy tried to linger, but his father hauled him back inside the bedroom. Lance, however, was just getting started. Wiley was one of those men who cannot face any of life’s difficulties without making things worse, and he was drunk as well.
“You little shit! Right after my sister dies you wake us all up with your feeble little complaint! I don’t even know why the fuck you’re here! Why the hell am I here? I ought to leave right now--”
“Then do so!” shouted Mrs. Marshpool.
“Shut up, you bitch!” Lance screamed.
Bradley darted back inside the bathroom. The sight of the door closing on Smith roused Lance, and he thudded down the rest of the stairs. Then he began to dance angrily in front of the bathroom door.
“Come the fuck back out! I want to have a word with you!”
Inside their bedroom, Rose asked her husband, “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
Bert lay down and pulled the bedspread over himself. Turning his face away, he settled his head against the pillow.
“Bert!”
“There are times when it’s wiser not to take any notice,” said Cummings laconically. “Kid! Get away from that door.” Arthur had pulled the bedroom door open slightly. Reluctantly, the boy shut it again.
“But what if Lance attacks Bradley?” Rose protested.
“He will not. He won’t risk endangering the case he’s trying to make that he deserves to inherit money despite Woofie’s death. Besides, he doesn’t have the guts.”
Out in the hallway, Richie, whose ability to make a situation worse surpassed even Wiley’s, yelled, “Hey, Lance! You must really got to pee, the way you’re jumping around!”
For a moment Lance was too stunned to react. Then he charged the stairs with a roar, and the children fled like wind-blown leaves.
“Proles, proles,” whimpered Armagnac, his face in his hands. “They’re such vulgar people.” The thudding and pounding of running feet could be heard overhead.
Jac sauntered after her children, shaking her head and smiling.
“Uh, Jac,” Phil called out uncertainly.
“Don’t worry, I can handle him.”
Bradley peeked out of the bathroom door. Seeing Lance gone, he escaped to his bedroom.
Above, the sounds of pounding feet halted. There was a long quiet and finally a creak or two as feet shifted. Then came the sound of slow footfalls, and Jac was descending the stairs.
“He’s back to normal,” she told them.
“What did you do?” Phil asked warily.
Jac only tittered and went into her bedroom. Her husband followed.
“Is it over?” Arthur asked. Rose was spying through the doorway. Bert opened an eye from the bed.
“It seems to be,” Rose sighed, shutting the door. “I’m ready to go home.”
“I was ready a long time ago,” Bert said with closed eyes.
Chapter 14
The next morning the Cummingses drove into Chichiteaux to have a late breakfast at the Chichiteaux Bagel Shop. Rose daubed at tears throughout the meal, and Arthur was bored to ditto.
“I can't believe she died so young,” Rose sniffled again.
Arthur couldn't believe Colette had died so young either, but he’d gotten used to the idea by now. He had a stomachache from his bagel and was staring out the window. Uncle Phil had driven past in the Lincoln about an hour ago, but that had been the only thing to pique his interest.
Someone had just dumped a newly published bundle of the Chichiteaux Weekly by the front door, and various patrons were beginning to buy copies. Bert saw ‘Strange Deaths’ headlined on the front page. “Let's go back,” Cummings said.
“Jesus, I couldn’t believe Lance,” said Bradley as he walked the grounds of Rollingwood with Eric. “I thought he was going to kill me. Jac shouldn’t have fed him so much booze.”
He was interrupted by a loud, echoing bang.
“Oh boy,” said Smith, “I’ve heard that before. One of my stepdads liked to shoot off his pistol after a few beers.”
They began to run towards the house.
The Cummingses saw Eric and Bradley sprinting for the house as they drove up. Quickly, Bert parked behind the Lincoln. “What's the matter?” Cummings yelled.
“Heard a shot from the house!” Eric shouted back.
“When?”
“Just now!”
Everyone ran in the front door. Sheila came out of the kitchen, her hands blotchy with bread dough. “It sounded like the third floor,” the cook said nervously.
Arthur tried to follow as everyone charged up the stairs, but Rose grabbed his arm. “You stay here, Arthur.”
The boy wailed. “You stay here,” his mother repeated. Arthur went to the back staircase, intending to sneak up these, but had to step aside when Heydrick came flying down. The gardener dialed the phone and said, “This is a call from Rollingwood. We've just had a shooting.”
Arthur ran upstairs and found a crowd in front of Lance's bedroom. Richie's door was open, and both the children were peeking out, Richie's face eager, Briarly's scared.
“You two get back inside that room!” Jac flared at her kids. Richie shut the door. Desperately, Arthur tried to see inside the room before his parents banished him, but the grownups were obstructing his view.
“No one goes in,” Eric was saying, “we have to leave this room undisturbed.”
Lance was face down on the carpet, partially on his left side. A pair of hand weights were nearby, as if they had rolled away from him after being dropped. Part of the rear portion of his skull was missing. Wiley had obviously been lifting weights with his back to the door, and someone had shot him from behind.
“Everybody out,” repeated Eric. He caught hold of Barksdale’s collar and dragged the excited dog back. Bert jerked his thumb fiercely at Arthur, then pulled his wife away from the doorway. Jac stood staring down at Lance with a hand held to her chest. Armagnac and Mrs. Marshpool stepped away, both, oddly enough, wearing bathrobes. Eric reached out to pull the door closed, but stopped himself from touching the handle just in time.
“What's happened?” asked Willowby, who had just arrived.
“Lance is dead,” Jac said shortly. “Has anyone called the police? I'd better do it.” She left, taking the back stairs.
Willowby appeared stunned and tried to step inside the room, but Eric took him by the arm. “We can't touch anything,” Eric warned. “We’d better leave this floor until the police arrive.” The group moved down the front stairs into the living room.
“Who was the first one up?” Bert asked.
“Heydrick,” said Armagnac. “None of us, um, responded too quickly, I'm afraid. The shot woke Jac up from a nap, and um, Mrs. Marshpool and I were similarly engaged.” The bathrobes worn by Boyle and the housekeeper argued differently, but Bert said nothing. “Mrs. Marshpool and I came out just before Jac ran out of her bedroom in her nylons. Jac yelled at us, ‘What the hell was that?' Then we saw Heydrick heading up the back stairs on his way to the third floor. I don't know where he is now.”
“He was on the phone,” said Arthur.
“Where’s Richie and Briarly?” Jac called out from the landing of the back staircase.
“We forgot about them,” Boyle admitted. “They’re still in their room.” Jac gave a disgusted roll of her eyes and returned to get them.
“Go to the front porch,” Bert ordered his son, “and stay out of everybody’s way.”
Nettled, Arthur obeyed. He was just in time to see the Lincoln speeding off with Phil at the wheel. A posse of police cars was coming up the opposite end of the circular driveway, all sirens and lights. One cop saw the Lincoln vanishing, and the officer floored his patrol car, churning up grass as he chased Phil across the lawn. Arthur stared, perturbed by the sight of his Uncle Phil on the lam. Maybe the cops would shoot Phil.
The three remaining patrol cars skidded to endearingly dramatic stops in front of the marble steps, followed by an ambulance. Arthur, shamefully excited, danced and waved in a frenzy. The paramedics began to unload a stretcher. Murder or no murder, the boy was having a terrific time.
Then the gardener appeared and growled at the boy, and Arthur flinched aside, frightened. Heydrick took over, waving the police inside the house. A cop named Officer Hoffman stayed behind to ask Arthur and Heydrick some questions. Now a fire truck appeared at the end of the driveway, followed closely by a hearse. When the two vehicles came to a halt, Douthit climbed out of the latter and called, “Where is the deceased?”
“On the third floor,” Arthur replied uneasily. Douthit was staring so hard at him that the mortician looked cross-eyed.
“That police scanner is the most unparalleled investment I've ever made,” said Douthit conversationally. “One can never show too much celerity in meeting the bereaved. No
rmally a town the size of Chichiteaux has few deceasures.” He began to enter the house.
“Hey!” yelled Hoffman. “We haven't even investigated yet, goddammit! You wait your turn.”
“Excuse me, but have you forgotten that I am the county coroner?”
“Don't you touch that body,” said Hoffman sharply. “The state medical examiner’s going to be doing the autopsy.”
“Whatever for!? So you need Poole to look at a bullet hole and tell you the victim’s been shot? What imbecility. Surely there’s nothing wrong with a few comforting words to the family?”
“Just stay out of the way,” growled Hoffman.
The mortician went inside, and Arthur watched the firemen, who were waiting to see if they would be needed.
“Did you see anyone leave?” Hoffman asked Arthur.
“Um, Uncle Phil.”
“Was he in that green Lincoln?”
“Yes,” said the boy, feeling like a traitor. The cop radioed Phil's identity to the highway patrol, who, it appeared, were joining the chase.
“I think maybe he was going to get some cigarettes?” said Arthur weakly.
Hoffman ignored this. He motioned Heydrick inside and Arthur was left standing around with the firemen. A few minutes later three more police cars arrived, one posting itself, lights flashing, at the front gate to keep strangers out. About fifteen minutes later several people flowed out of the house. One cop was leading a handcuffed Heydrick, and the gardener was loaded into the back of a patrol car. Arthur gaped. Heydrick had killed Lance?
Armagnac and Mrs. Marshpool came next, dressed now in their regular clothes, and Bert and Rose followed them. None of these were handcuffed, but when his parents got into the back of a squad car, Arthur became frightened and called out frantically, “Where are you going?!”
“Everyone needs to give a statement at the sheriff’s,” Bert yelled back. “A police officer is going to escort you there with Richie and Briarly. Wait until they come out.”
Now Eric and Bradley were passing Arthur on their way to the police cars, with Sheila and Willowby after them. When the others had driven off, Jac came out herding her children. “Yes,” she was saying to Hoffman, who was taking notes. “I was the one who called you. He did? He must have called a few minutes earlier, then. I didn't see him by the telephone. Where's Phil? Has he already left for the sheriff’s?”
A Will To Murder Page 18
