“Yes, thank you. I don’t know where my head is,” Melissa said.
They found the hotel exit to the car park and walked through the long cement underground hall.
Melissa pointed. “It’s over there, the black sedan.”
Together they walked over to the car. The entire place was quiet.
“I’m so afraid it would get a dent. It’s not mine, but Mr. Brickstone’s,” she said.
“Hey! Martha!”
Martha and Melissa spun around to see Helen coming through the heavy metal doors of the parking garage.
“Hi!” Martha called. “Did you find my note?”
Helen caught up with them, a bit out of breath.
“Well, I saw the note and was worried, so I ran down and the porter said you left with a woman heading to the car park.”
“Mr. Brickstone called and needed to get a package to you. Miss Sutherland,” Martha indicated the woman, “brought it all the way from Warwickshire this evening. She forgot it in the car.”
Martha smiled congenially at Helen, who had an odd expression on her face. It resembled someone who’d been shown something terrifying. Martha’s eyes followed the trajectory of Helen’s stare, to find Melissa holding a gun on them both.
“Get in,” she demanded. “Both of you.”
THE LIGHT OF DAY WAS beginning to ebb as the sun slipped behind the tall, stately pines of Greenwoods’ hills, leaving purple and crimson streaks of color across layered clouds. Mrs. Norton, the cook at Greenwoods, scrubbed the wooden kitchen table with a vigor that testified to her troubled mind.
All day something had been worrying her. It started the moment she awoke. It was a sense of urgency and it had increased with each hour as she’d gone about her work, trying to ignore it. Denise’s entrance into the kitchen, interrupted Mrs. Norton’s thoughts.
The young woman went over to the sink and taking a glass from the shelf, she poured water and drank deeply.
“Nellie,” she said, “I’ve had my wits scared out of me.”
Mrs. Norton, but called Nellie by Denise, took in the girl’s face. Noting the lack of color in Denise’s normally rosy cheeks, the older woman laid down her scrub brush.
“Denise, come have a sit-down and I’ll make you some tea. That’ll fix you up nicely. You can tell me what happened.”
Nellie was the mother of three hardy Yorkshire farming men, now all in their thirties and with families of their own. She’d taken this job as a way to have extra money for her grandchildren, all boys as well, but it was in her nature to mother, even when a young person like Denise, wasn’t of her own making.
“I’ve had a troubled spirit all day, m’self, lass. I keep turning around half expecting to see something or someone. Tell me what happened.”
When the tea was ready, they sat by the warm Aga stove propping their feet against some old iron doorstops so as to feel the heat better.
“I was supposed to carry boxes Mr. Brickstone wanted moved out to the front entrance. I’d put them all on the dolly and was almost to the place in the hall where the huge family crest hangs over the banister. I looked up and there was this beautiful lady standing there.”
Denise’s face mirrored what it must have looked like at that moment of seeing the woman. Her eyes were wide, uncomprehending, and her mouth slightly ajar.
“Did you speak to her?” Nellie asked, sitting a bit more upright.
“I did. I said, ‘May I help you.’ She shook her head without speaking and turned to walk out the main doors. I watched her go down the stairs and stop. She turned around, and I swear, Nellie, she wanted me to follow her.”
“Oh, Denise, what did you do?”
Denise swallowed a sip of tea. “I wasn’t afraid, Nellie. She didn’t scare me at all. The room smelled of lavender. I walked out to the top of the entry steps. She’d already somehow made it to the long lane surrounded by pines that leads to the main gates.” Denise took another sip. “She was looking at me from there and I started down the steps, and she smiled, turning again to walk through the pines.”
“Did you feel like you needed to follow her?”
“Yes, more so than ever. I tell you, Nellie, it was like she wanted me to leave the house. I stopped because I knew Mr. Brickstone would be back and I needed to finish my work, so I turned and returned to the front doors. Something, curiosity perhaps, made me turn and look for her. She was there, but her face was sad. That’s when the wind came through, and I tell you, Nellie, she disappeared. Gone.”
Nellie sat back in her chair and scanned the room. Shadows were settling in different corners and the house was entirely too extensive, too empty, and too lonely. Her own feelings all day were of dread.
“Denise,” she said putting down her teacup. “I want you to go and pack all your things.”
The young woman started to object or question the older one’s decision, but she only managed a, “Why?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re in the car. Hurry! Go on. I want to leave in a quarter hour.”
Denise asked, “Are you going to leave, no matter what?”
“I am.”
“Okay,” she said, her mouth pursed to one side in a contemplative expression. “I’ll be right back.”
Nellie went to her own room and threw her things into a few suitcases then returned to the kitchen to wait. She remembered the last time she’d felt this way. It was the last time she saw her husband. Death came that day, and if she was right, it had been skulking about all day today, as well. Nellie would rather error on the side of safety, especially considering her responsibility to Denise, than worry if people called her a looney old woman.
Waiting on Denise, Nellie put the last teacup away. She unconsciously raised her eyes to look out the windows over the sink. What she saw there made her drop the fragile china cup into the sink where it broke in two. Her eyes never moved from the form of a woman in a long black dress standing at the far garden wall staring at her with sad, pleading eyes.
Nellie understood instantly that her course of action was correct. She pulled her gaze away from the specter and collected the broken cup from the sink throwing it in the dustbin.
“Denise! Denise!” she called.
Rapid footsteps echoed down the hall as agile feet hurried toward her.
“What is it?” Denise arrived through the darkness, holding her case and panting lightly.
“Let’s go. I want to get you home.”
Denise’s eyes were round and wide with questioning, but she obeyed Nellie and they walked together out of the house. Within less than five minutes, Nellie’s car’s tires crunched on Greenwoods’ gravel as she maneuvered it down the long drive. It was with a sigh of relief, they passed through the entrance gates and increased their speed toward home leaving Greenwoods to itself and to its lady.
Chapter 33
THE BLACK MERCEDES LIMOUSINE THREADED its way through the holiday nighttime traffic. In the car’s back seat, Helen and Martha sat in extreme discomfort while Brickstone kept a handgun leveled at them. He appeared annoyed by the circumstances in which he found himself. His mouth curled into a thinking expression.
Never taking his eyes off them, he asked Melissa, “What went wrong? We didn’t want Ryes. You screwed this up, Mel. Now I’ve got to kill two more.”
Neither Helen nor Martha talked. They listened to Brickstone berate Melissa about letting him down. Occasionally, the young woman would blubber something about doing exactly what he’d told her to do. Martha watched the man closely and slowly her memory worked at the puzzle of who he was.
Brickstone noticed Martha’s scrutiny. He sighed and wagged the gun as he said, “You must be wondering how we know each other, Mrs. Littleword.”
“Yes,” Martha said slowly, looking at his face, watching his mannerisms and his…birthmark! Her sudden recognition showed in her expression.
“Figured it out, did you?” he said, the gun barrel tapping lightly on the car seat as he leaned over. “I knew you woul
d. It was only a matter of time. The real pity is how pitiful a killer I’ve turned out to be. I mean really, three hits and three misses. Not my specialty. My talents lie in pursuing and procuring valuable commodities.”
“There’s another less pretentious way of putting it,” Helen asserted. “Fraud and thievery.”
Martha reached over and applied a gentle warning pressure to Helen’s arm. “He’s got a gun, so he gets to talk.”
Helen rolled her eyes and mumbled something about another lunatic in her line of work.
Brickstone, like any megalomaniac cutthroat, was finding that his captive audience elevated his desire to delve into his raison d’être.
“All the death, all the killing, it had to be done. If Mrs. Littleword recognized me, she’d blow my sweet situation. Playing the future laird of the estate has been absolutely delicious. I’ve made a tidy sum from the sale of things from Greenwoods. There’s an island with my name on it not far from St. Martin.”
“So you’re not Lord Percy’s nephew?” Martha asked.
“No. He lives in Auckland, New Zealand.”
“Where is Lord Percy?” she asked.
“He died. Didn’t he, Melissa?” Brickstone asked of the woman driving.
“He did, Ricky. He died in his sleep. Went quiet like an angel, not a peep out of him.”
“See. I didn’t have anything against old Farthingay, I only needed Mrs. Littleword’s silence. She had the potential to remember me at any minute. It was pure bad luck, you showing up with Mrs. Ryes that day. Pure bad luck.”
“More for my neighbor Mrs. Cuttlebirt, Saundra Johns and some poor woman I don’t even know who has hair like me,” Martha pointed out.
Brickstone waved the gun. “Better calm yourselves, ladies. I don't want to have to use this in the car. I love this car.” He wrinkled his nose. “Could get messy and unnerve my driver. I need her to get us back to Greenwoods. I have to figure out what to do with you both. I’ve got too many women cluttering up my life at the moment.”
He yawned. “Rather tired of all this slinking about. So, who would you recommend to manage the sale once you’re gone?” he asked Helen.
“Rot in Hell,” Helen muttered.
“I don’t want to kill you, Mrs. Ryes. I need you to sell my manuscript. I guess I’ll have to give Sinead Peters a ring.” Brickstone sighed in a long drawn out martyred way. “You Americans, your veneer of politeness is so thin. Such an aggressive culture.” He turned around and a glass divider slowly rolled up between the seats.
“Melissa, let’s get to Greenwoods. I’m utterly exhausted. I think the old limekiln will be a nice holding place. Hasn’t been used in half a century probably.”
Chapter 34
“When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurly-burly 's done, When the battle's lost and won.”
-Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act I, Scene I
BRICKSTONE STARED GLOOMILY INTO THE blazing fire. He knew his situation was crumbling around him. The minute he’d realized Melissa’s colossal mistake and what it would cost him, he’d decided to rid himself of all his loose female threads. But what did he find, when he’d got home? Two of those threads had already slipped the noose. It was extremely possible Mrs. Norton and Denise sensed something was wrong, once Lord Percy was gone.
He stalked around the library. Picking up another log from the pile, he tossed it onto the fire, watching it catch flame and burn. A smile played about his mouth.
“Melissa!” he bellowed, “Melissa!”
He’d make her start the fire in the kiln, put her hands on the shovel to fill the furnace, and make her light the match. When the authorities came sniffing around, he’d be long gone, and they’d find three sets of human bones and not an ounce of evidence to ever pin anything on him.
SHE’D PACKED HER THINGS NEATLY in a suitcase. Her mind was free to chew on the horror of the last few hours. Melissa walked over to the wall mirror hanging in her bedroom and forced herself to look. The reflection of who she might become terrified her. Every fiber of her body told her to run. Ricky was mad. She knew it for certain, and if he intended to kill the two women, she wasn’t having any part of it.
Leaving the bag behind, she gently let herself out of the room and down the back set of stairs. The key to the tiny door of the kiln was hopefully still on the bureau in the front hall where Ricky left it after locking the women in. Melissa restrained her breathing and made an intense effort to keep quiet as she passed the long hall leading down to the library where Ricky was brooding.
“Melissa! Melissa!” his call froze her in mid-stride, sending the hairs on the back of her neck and arms into upright positions. She willed herself to move. The key was only another fifty feet away. A door slammed somewhere in the darkness. Melissa’s fear propelled her to move in haste. She found the key and thanked Heaven above that it was still where they’d left it. Slipping out into the night, Ricky Brickstone’s last hope and alibi fled down the front stairs of Greenwoods and down the path toward the old kiln.
THE FIRST THING MARTHA BECAME aware of was the cold and the smell of damp. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the pressure would push the other sensations away. Nothing, so she opened her eyes. Instantly, she shut them again. Her mind temporarily shot into a panic. Sitting up, she took in her environment. A room made out of stone, with no windows and only one door. The light of the full moon shown down illuminating the space in a cold light. Her nightmare made real.
She’d lay on the floor wrapped in a blanket. Her head hurt terribly. Another body, warm beside her made a groaning sound. Helen came to life beside her. Martha shook her until she roused herself completely.
“What happened?” Helen sat up, her hair askew and her face smudged with some kind of gunk.
In an effort to make her mind think straight, Martha rubbed her temples.
“The last thing I remember was getting out of the car and listening to Brickstone whine about finding a vacuum to get rid of any evidence in his car.”
“That’s right,” Helen said groggily. “He was in the car and Melissa… They had a needle! Remember?”
“Yes, I remember.” Martha looked around.
Helen stood up and brushed herself off. She was still wearing the yoga pants she’d put on to take a nap in at the hotel.
“It’s freezing in here. Where are we?” she said, rubbing her arms to make them warm.
Martha saw a wooden lid about fifteen feet above her. She must have been asleep for hours, but it was dark, no light filtered down through the cracks in the lid.
“I think they dragged us in here and by the looks of you, they may have used your hair to pull you,” Martha said, handing Helen the blanket to wrap herself in.
Helen patted her hair with both hands. I feel like I’m covered in soot. It’s all over our faces and clothing. Taking the blanket, she wrapped it around her. “Thanks, can we share?”
“Helen, didn’t he say something about a limekiln in the car?”
Standing up, Martha waved off the offer of sharing the blanket.
“He did, and if I remember correctly, he didn’t know what to do with us. There’s a door; let’s try it.”
Helen got up and went to try the ancient iron handle. Only the sound of rubbing metal on metal replied to the effort. The door didn’t budge. Turning around, she moved her hands along the kiln’s wall, looking for a key.
“Maybe there’ll be a key hidden,” Helen said. “Ugh!”
“What’s wrong?” Martha asked, her voice worried.
“Something big is lying against this wall in this shadow.”
Martha went to Helen and knelt down gingerly touching the large mass on the floor.
“Oh, my God! Helen, it’s a body in a bag!”
Both women jerked back at the revelation.
The women moved back to the other side of the kiln’s space. The realization that this was her nightmare come to life, crept into her consciousness and stung
at the back of Martha’s mind. She pushed the idea down, locking it tightly within a mental cryptex. It wouldn’t do to panic.
Suddenly, her right breast buzzed as if something was alive within her bra. Immediately, she panicked thinking it might be an insect that had crawled into her clothing while she slept on the floor. Frantic with the image of a spider somewhere within her shirt, she pulled at her shirt.
“What’s wrong?” Helen demanded.
“It’s a bug in my shirt!”
“Yuck! Come here, I’ll help you.”
Martha, digging down between her breasts, realized with a thrill of joy, it was her phone buzzing her, not a bug. She pulled it free, remembering how she’d stuffed it there earlier at the hotel. Merriam was calling. She tapped the button.
“Merriam!”
“Martha! Thank God! You finally answered. Where are you?” he was practically yelling into the phone.
“I…I…don’t know. We are in some kind of stone pit. It’s freezing.”
“We’ve been trying to trace your phone. Are you….” Johns was saying, but he was gone.
“Merriam? Merriam, can you hear me?” Martha called into the phone, but nothing. She looked down and saw the energy level at the top of the screen showing only one bar.
“I can’t believe you had your phone on you this entire time,” Helen marveled.
“We are so lucky it didn’t buzz while we were in the car with Brickstone. I’m going to try and call Merriam again. We’ve got to tell him where we are.”
She tenderly held the phone as if it might perform better if she were patient and sensitive to its needs. Helen pressed close to lend support to Martha’s ministrations upon the phone. Dialing Merriam’s number, they barely breathed, in hopes it would go through.
He answered. “Merriam we’re in the old limekiln at Greenwoods in Warwickshire,” Martha blurted as fast as possible into the speaker.
An expectancy hung in the air. Had he heard her?
Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 18
