by Byars, Betsy
“That is a better weapon,” Gilda said.
She came closer to Herculeah, and Herculeah could imagine this was how she had looked before stabbing her friend.
Gilda reached out, wrested the dagger from Herculeah, and with a cry of triumph, thrust it at Herculeah’s chest. Herculeah was just ready to throw her to the ground when she heard a scream at the door. It sounded like Meat.
She looked. Mathias King and Meat arrived just in time to see the thrust.
Herculeah’s face was turned to them, and Meat knew it was the last time he would ever look into those hauntingly beautiful gray eyes.
She uttered what he knew would be her last word. “Meat.”
28
WRAP-Up
“I still can’t believe she’s alive,” Meat told the room for the fourth time. “I mean, you see somebody get stabbed like that, they stay stabbed.” He turned back to Herculeah. “I still can’t believe you’re alive!”
“It was a fake dagger, Meat.” She had explained this a lot, too. “The blade went up in the hilt. That’s why I suckered her into using it instead of the knife. I wanted to preserve the fingerprints. Also, I felt that if she’d killed with that knife once, she wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.”
“I still can’t believe you’re alive.”
“Could we get on with this?” Chico Jones said. Herculeah had called her father, and he was here in his official capacity.
They were gathered in the living room at One Kings Row. Herculeah and Meat sat side by side on a sofa. Mathias King stood leaning against the back of the chair in front of the fire-place. He had a faint smile upon his face as if he was enjoying the whole thing immensely.
Chico Jones sat at a table, and on the other side of the table sat his sergeant, taking notes.
Rita Hayworth had been driven to the police station, where she would be charged with assault and, if the fingerprints on the knife turned out to be hers, with the murder of Rebecca Carwell.
“I think I’ve got most of it except for a few points.”
He looked up at Mathias King with his official expression. Chico Jones’s stock in trade was never letting anyone know what he was thinking, but Herculeah could tell that Mathias King was not off the hook.
“Mr. King, how did you come to be in possession of the murder weapon?”
“The knife? I found it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“On the lawn of Rebecca Carwell’s house.”
“And why had you gone to her house?”
“At her invitation. We had become friends. Originally, we had met at a magic show at the Downs—but Rebecca had invited me to her home many times. I liked the house and, from the first visit, intended to use it in the book.”
“And on the day of her murder you happened to find a bloody knife lying on the lawn?”
“Well, yes.”
“In the front yard.”
“Yes.”
“Dad, I just remembered something,” Herculeah interrupted. “When Gilda—Miss Hayworth—and I were going up the walk, at a certain point she glanced over at the lawn and stumbled. I know, I just know she was remembering the day she threw the knife there, because she looked pale and I said—”
“I’d like to get on with my questioning, Herculeah, if you don’t mind.”
“But I felt that would be important. You see, if—”
“Herculeah.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Chico Jones sighed. “Now getting back to the knife. You saw it on the lawn?”
“Yes.”
“And you picked it up?”
“After wrapping it carefully in my scarf.”
“Why, Mr. King?”
“I thought it might turn out to be important. Also”—he gave a shrug—“I have a weakness for weapons. I cannot resist.”
“After you wrapped the knife—carefully in your scarf—did you then proceed up the steps to the house?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I rang the bell, but no one came to the door.”
“Did that seem strange to you?”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
“Nothing. I thought she had gone out and that I would call her that evening. I did call that evening, but got no answer.”
“When did you learn of Miss Carwell’s death?”
“I read about it in the paper.”
“And did you not, upon reading it in the paper, think perhaps the knife was of importance?”
“I guess I didn’t make the connection.”
“Yes, he did, Dad,” Herculeah said, “because he told me that there was blood on the knife and—”
“I’ll handle this, Herculeah.”
“Actually I think I did tell her that.”
Chico Jones turned his eyes back to Mathias King. “You tampered with evidence and obstructed justice, Mr. King, and I’m going to see that you’re charged.”
“Should I call my lawyer?”
“I think you’re going to need one. There may be additional charges after I speak with my daughter.”
Chico Jones turned to the sergeant, who was closing his notebook. “You have anything else, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I suggest we all go home. Herculeah, would you and Meat like a ride?”
“Yes.” They said the word together as if it was old times.
Herculeah and Meat got in the backseat of the car and sat side by side.
“Oh, I’ve got so much to tell you, Meat. I don’t know where to begin. I’ll start at Death’s Door.”
She told about her visit with Uncle Neiman, then about her Tai Chi class, and then about the murder house.
When she got to the part about the tea party at One Kings Row, she happened to glance up and see that her father was watching her in the rearview mirror.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve done something criminal.”
“Have you done something criminal?”
“Well, if you’re planning on accusing me of illegal entry, it won’t stick. I had an invitation. The only thing you can possibly accuse me of is breaking and exiting, which I did.”
She turned back to Meat. “Now, where was I?” she said.
29
A FINAL QUESTION
“You won’t believe who called me,” Herculeah said to Meat. It was eleven o’clock, and she and Meat were having their evening phone conversation.
“Not the murderess.”
“No, Mathias King. He wanted to apologize for everything that happened. He explained that he’d had writer’s block, and he felt that if he could see me on the sacrificial altar, it would cure him.”
“I’m still glad you didn’t do it.”
“Me, too, but you know what? He said he had been writing all evening. He said just seeing the sacrificial dagger pierce my chest did the trick. Course it didn’t actually pierce my chest.”
“It sure looked like it did.”
“And you still can’t believe I’m alive.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” Actually, it had been exactly what he was going to say, but he thought quickly and came up with: “So what do you think this had to do with Hercules? All of your other cases involved one of the labors of Hercules—the Cretan Bull, the Many-Headed Hydra.”
“Well, remember when we were in Hidden Treasures and Mathias King was describing the murders in his book?”
“I remember.”
“And remember he described a poison cup? The goblet was shaped like an apple?”
“I remember.”
“So I immediately remembered the golden apples of the Hesperides.”
“I hope you also remember him almost choking me to death with the golden noose. My throat still feels tight when I think of it.”
“But now I know it wasn’t that. I looked this up on the Internet to make sure; all of Hercules’s labors were done for the
king of Tiryns and Mycenae. His name was King Eurystheus. I hope I’m pronouncing that right.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Of course, just Herculeah’s voice sounded good to him now.
“That king’s labors almost did Hercules in, and our Mathias King almost did the same to me.”
There was a silence. Meat was afraid Herculeah was going to hang up if he didn’t say something soon, but she spoke first.
“Oh, there is something I wanted to ask you, Meat.”
Meat’s heart sank. Here it comes.
“What?”
“Well, I’ve pretty much figured out what happened with you last Saturday.”
“You have?”
“Sure. Like I told my mom, I’m a detective. My talent is figuring things out. I just need you to fill in a blank or two. I figured out that your mom pressured you to go on the outing, with—” She paused for Meat to fill in the name.
“Steffie.” He wished he had said Stephanie, but the damage was done now.
“And I don’t know the name of the woman who asked your mom to arrange the outing.” She still didn’t like the word date.
“Dottie.”
“And I don’t know what movie you went to see—”
“Teen Mutants.”
“Or what kind of pizza you had.”
“Pepperoni.”
“Oh. And there’s one other thing. You’re the only person I know in the world who can answer this question.”
“What? What’s the question?”
“You probably won’t want to tell me....”
“I’ll tell you anything. What do you want to know? What?”
“Well, I can’t get that book you mentioned off my mind. I want to know if, since Hee had the loud hee-haw, well, did it bother Haw that his hee-haw was softer? Would it be possible for him to go to a speech therapist for help with his hee-haw?”
Meat froze. Could Herculeah possibly know about his afternoon nightmare? Could she actually know he had brayed in her face? After all, she knew everything else.
“Have you already forgotten your famous author Elizabeth Ann Varner and Hee and Haw?”
And when she said that, Meat was infused with happiness. He realized that nothing she could have said would have made him happier.
This meant that things were back to normal. You didn’t appreciate how good normal was until you experienced abnormal.
“I’ll lend you the book.”
“You have the book?”
“Yes, but it’s an autographed copy, so you’ll have to promise to take good care of it.”
Herculeah laughed. “I never know when you’re being serious and when you’re putting me on.”
“Good.”
There was another silence. But this was a comfortable silence. Meat was sorry when Herculeah broke it.
“I’ve got to go. Mom’s yelling at me. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“What do you think?”
“I hope so.”
“Oh, you will. You always do.”
“Then good night, Meat.”
“Good night, Herculeah.”
What’s in store for Herculeah?
Turn the page for a sneak preview of her next terrifying adventure,
THE BLACK TOWER
1
THE TERROR IN BLACK TOWER
Slowly she climbed the circular stairs in the tower, drawn against her will to what waited at the top.
Halfway there, she paused. She heard the sound of the tower door close below her. Had it been a hand that closed it? She looked down. The thought that she might be trapped made her dizzy.
She touched the wall to steady herself There was an eerie coldness to the stones beneath her hand.
She lifted her head. She listened.
She heard nothing, but she knew someone was up there, waiting for her.
And whoever it was knew she was coming.
Slowly she took another step and another. Higher ... higher. With each step, her fear grew until it seemed to swirl around her like a cape that held no warmth.
Herculeah stopped reading and let the book fall to her lap. “Are you positive this is the book you want me to read?” she asked.
The old man on the bed blinked his eyes once. That meant “yes.”
“Well, I’m getting spooked,” Herculeah said. “Particularly because this house, your house, has a tower attached to it. It’s exactly like this one, isn’t it?”
One blink. Yes.
“Have you ever been up there?”
Yes.
“What’s up there? Oh, I forgot. You can’t answer that kind of question. Only yes or no. Is there a room up there?”
Yes.
“Does the tower have circular stairs?”
Yes.
“That was stupid of me. I guess all towers do. Either that or they have a ladder.”
Herculeah glanced out the window. She could see the tower now. It rose, black and forbidding, part of the house and yet somehow separate. Halfway up the tower there were windows. They were slits so deep in the stone that no daylight could come through.
Herculeah paused in thought. Her hands tightened on the book in her lap. The silence continued.
Herculeah had come here to read to Mr. Hunt. Her mother, a private detective, had asked her to do this. Mr. Hunt was, or had been, one of her mother’s clients.
“Why was he a client?” Herculeah had asked, instantly curious. “What did he want you to do?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
Herculeah had leaned forward, more interested than ever. “What did he want you to find? That’s what all old people want you to do—find someone or something from their past.”
Her mother’s wry smile made Herculeah think she had hit the mark.
“So what could it have been?” she went on thoughtfully. “What could have happened? Murder? Was it a murder?” Her gray eyes lit up. “It was murder, wasn’t it?”
“Whatever it was happened a long time ago.”
“So it was murder.”
Her mother lifted one hand to silence her. “If you’re going to play detective—”
“Mom, I don’t play detective. I have solved six murders.” She began to count them on her fingers. “Mr. Crewell, Madame Rosa...”
Her mom sighed, and Herculeah discontinued her list. “Oh, all right, what do you want me to do?”
“Just read to him for an hour or so. The man is lonely. He can’t move at all since his stroke. He can only blink his eyes—one blink for yes, two for no.”
“How awful! Sure, I’ll do it. Actually, I enjoy reading to people. What kind of book would an old man like? Something about old horses, old airplanes, or”—she grinned—“old women? I’ll take a bunch of books so he’ll have a choice. First thing tomorrow I’ll go to the library and load up with books.”
“Oh, there’s a huge library at the house. You won’t need to take anything.”
“A huge library? This old man has a huge library in his house?”
Her mom hesitated a moment before she answered. “Have you ever heard of Shivers Hunt?”
“Mom! Not the Shivers Hunt!”
“There couldn’t be but one.”
“Mom, you mean I’d actually get to go inside Haunt House?”
“What?”
“Haunt House. That’s what all the kids call it. And, Mom, nobody has ever been inside it. I cannot believe that I’m going to Haunt House.”
“Well, you aren’t going unless you stop calling it that.”
“Right! Hunt House!”
“I won’t let you go unless you promise you won’t do anything to upset Mr. Hunt.”
“I won‘t, I won’t! I promise! But I can’t help being excited. I, Herculeah Jones, am going inside”—she swallowed the word—“Hunt House.”
But when Herculeah got there, she hadn’t been taken to the library to choose a book as she had expected. The nurse took her straight up the stairs to Mr. Hunt’s bedroom. T
he book had already been chosen for her. It was waiting on the table by the old man’s bed.
Herculeah picked up the book. She read the title aloud. “The Terror in Black Tower. This is what I’m supposed to read?” she asked the nurse.
“Yes, Herculeah. When I told Mr. Hunt that you were coming to read to him, I asked if there was any particular book he’d like. He blinked yes. I must have carried a hundred books up from the library before he finally saw this one and gave a very definite yes.”
Herculeah picked up the book. On the cover, embossed in the black leather, was the silhouette of a tower. It was outlined in gold, but it looked as if someone had rubbed their fingers over the gold, as if to erase the whole tower from sight. It gave the book a sinister look. She rubbed her own fingers over the gold, then stopped abruptly.
“Well, let’s get on with it.” She opened the book. “Ready, Mr. Hunt?”
Yes.
Inside, the pages were thick and yellow with age. They smelled of mildew and dark passages and old secrets. Herculeah loved it.
Perhaps, she thought, Mr. Hunt had read the book as a boy, and back then it had seemed scary, probably full of family madness and secret passages, and—who knows?—maybe some terror actually had been up in the black tower.
But those things didn’t exist in modern times.
They didn’t.
She paused.
Or did they?
2
THE TRAPDOOR
Herculeah glanced at Mr. Hunt. He was waiting for her to continue. She looked down at the page.
“Where was I? Oh, yes, she’s going up the tower steps.” Herculeah smiled. “Actually, this will probably sound foolish to you, Mr. Hunt, but I can understand the girl doing this. I mean, she knows she’s not supposed to. She knows there’s something up there, something dangerous. But she can’t stop herself. That’s the way I am. I would do the exact same thing. The only difference would be that at this point my hair would be frizzling. I have radar hair. It gets bigger when I’m in danger. Like this.”
She laughed and fluffed out her hair. Mr. Hunt watched. His bright bird eyes never left her face.
At that moment, her hair actually seemed to be frizzling on its own, as if it were anticipating the day she would climb the tower, the day she—heart racing with fear—not the character in the book, would take those circular stairs.
