The force of her fall caused the cadaver to wheeze out a froth of blood while its head lifted off the ground to spit the spider onto her cheek. She squealed shrilly, registering both the look of surprise on its face—Abbott’s face—and her own horror reflected in his eyes for a gruesome instant before his head dropped back with a thud. Her cap fell from atop her head and onto his chest. She snatched it between her teeth and, in an adrenalized frenzy, pushed herself to her feet.
Breathing raggedly, Cap’n crammed the cap atop her head and examined the corpse. Abbott’s hand rested by his shoulder, palm up and open. The spider floated in the pool next to it, the segments of its legs tucked in like a parasol. More than happy to end the grisly exercise, Cap’n leaned over, closed the hand around the clip, and turned back to the edge of the pooled blood.
Shifting her balance to one foot, Cap’n lifted the other to remove the wet sock, before slipping her foot into the shoe resting outside the stain. She repeated the exercise with the other foot and stood outside the pool. Folding the length of the socks’ leggings around their blood-soaked feet, Cap’n shoved them in her pocket before hurrying to the kitchen to wash her hands and the tips of her hair.
As she did so, her eyes trailed across the room to rest on the strange door. A man—tall, thin—stood in its frame, clear as day, watching her. At first, her brain didn’t want to acknowledge his presence, then shock went straight to her knees and she dropped like a stone against the kitchen cabinetry, banging her head against a handle. When she opened her eyes, he was gone—as quick as that. She scrambled to her feet, looking everywhere for him, but he’d vanished so completely she began to doubt she’d seen anything at all. Regardless, it was time get out.
She grabbed the first thing she could find, a silver ladle, and made for the base of the stairs as quickly as she dared, her finely tuned instincts insisting that her every move was being watched. A floorboard creaked in the corner and she bolted. By the time she reached the bend between the first and second floor, her heart was in her throat. Another creak, and the thump of something dropped. Muffled laughter? She wasn’t sure.
Petrified, she bounded up the steps, three at a time. Clearing the landing with a leap, she tore down the hallway and into the master bedroom to throw herself against the side wall, her eyes locked on the doorway—waiting for what, she didn’t know, but it—he—was out there.
She glanced at the ladle and threw it aside in disgust. The percussion created by a thump on the wall behind her threw her forward, and she got the hint, racing across the room on all fours, sliding out the window, and scrambling out of arm’s reach at the side of the dormer. She knew the duty guards were below, but if it came to a choice between them and whatever was in the house, she’d take her chances with people made of flesh and blood.
For her part, Annie watched Cap’n appear on the roof with a sense of profound relief. She started to lower herself against the tree trunk to wait for the duty-officer shift change, but a disturbance caught her attention. The pair of policemen stationed at the back of the house wandered toward the source of the noise, only to watch a raccoon emerge from the hedge, stand on its haunches, and wave its front paws over its head while sniffing the air with its delicate, damp nose. Seeing the two men, it hissed and scampered off on paws that seemed too tiny to carry its bulk. By the time the guards returned to their post, Annie saw that Cap’n was gone.
Catching up with her at the street corner, Annie watched Cap’n pull the balled-up socks from her pocket. The girl trembled as she threw them down a sewer and turned to Annie, shaking her head. “I made the plant. The rest is up to the police.”
They made their way through Westport while quietly discussing strategy. Cap’n had several obligations in the morning but agreed to meet Annie afterward to take her to Pierson’s for an auction.
Their conversation was interrupted by an ear-splitting catfight that ended with the crack of a gun and a pair of tabbies streaking across their path. Suddenly, Annie smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. “I’m not thinking! He’ll be on his way soon. I’ve left a road map and practically dared him to follow,” she said.
“Dared who?” asked Cap’n. “We’re here,” she added. “Hmmm?” Annie looked at the hotel marquee in surprise, then back at Cap’n who was trying to stifle a sneeze. “Oh!” She pulled a tissue from her pocket. “Christian,” she said.
Cap’n wiped her nose as she tried to make sense of Annie’s cryptic comments. “More trouble?”
“Only the well- meaning kind. A friend with a big heart and, unfortunately, bigger thumbs.” She searched her purse for the room key, then paused, turning to her confederate. “Cap’n, are you familiar with the stones donated by the Cherokee Council at the duck pond in the park?”
“Yeah,” Cap’n said uncertainly.
“I have a rather unusual favor to ask…”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Money Clip
May 30, 1895
The sun was still on the rise when a squirrel poked its head out from behind the trunk of an oak that bordered the Abbott and McCready homes. Raising its head and testing the morning breeze, the squirrel fixed button- black eyes on something at the base of the tree. Scampering down the trunk, it dashed across a root and ran clever paws through a pile of peanut husks until it found a prize.
The squirrel began to chew while continually spinning the nut round and round between its paws like a lathe whittling down a block of wood, looking over with a twitching tail as the widow McCready walked out to her porch and gazed at the Abbott home. Still in her nightgown and cap, she sipped her tea without taking her eyes off the house. Mrs. McCready was deep in concentration.
Setting the cup down, she walked across the lawn to confront an officer standing guard by the front door. “Have either Officer Kearney or Franklin returned from their coffee break?”
The duty officer looked at her wearily. “No, ma’am. They should be here shortly.”
“Well, I’d like to speak to them as soon as possible.”
The officer’s cheeks twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. McCready nodded to him and shuffled home in a pair of oversize slippers to her rapidly cooling tea.Taking it inside to forage for a biscuit or two, she failed to notice the objects of her inquiry making their way up the block.
“Thanks for the cup, Clay,” said Lieutenant Franklin as the men walked up the drive to the Abbott estate. He pulled a pack of Black Jack from his pocket, popped a piece of the licorice-flavored gum in his mouth, and handed the rest to his partner. Waving to the duty officer, he added, “Do you mind waiting inside for the medical examiner? I didn’t get a chance to speak to the men in the back earlier.” Not waiting for a response, he was starting across the lawn to the back of the house when the duty officer called out.
“Mrs. McCready would like to speak with you when it’s convenient, sir.”
Franklin waved his hand in acknowledgment without breaking stride, then rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on. Turning, he walked across the remainder of the yard to the back door. “Anything to report?” he asked the pair of officers standing watch.
One shrugged. “Got a visit from a raccoon.”
Nodding, Franklin sent them home and walked to where the hedge met the sidewalk. Seeing nothing interesting, he began to walk along the hedge line. As he neared a second oak tree, a startled squirrel scampered up the trunk, chattering at him indignantly. Squinting his eyes against the late-morning sun, Franklin looked up into the canopy, then down to the ground, noticing a pile of peanut shells. Kneeling down, he picked up a husk and rubbed it between his index finger and thumb while gazing back at the house.
“Officer Franklin! Officer Franklin, one moment please!”
Franklin wiped his palms together and turned to face the little figure that rushed toward him. “Good morning, Mrs. McCready.”
“Thank goodness I found you,” Evillene said, breathing heavily. “I
was afraid that the officer to whom I spoke would forget to deliver my message. Is there any news?” She smiled, shifting her feet, while waiting for his response. When none was forthcoming, she continued, “Well, with all the commotion from last night, I do expect some follow-up from the press.”
For all that she was a nuisance, Franklin felt sorry for Mrs. McCready. He’d seen people like her before—ever so slightly ridiculous and, as a result, lonely for company that rarely called. “Nothing yet,” he said, tapping the brim of his hat with his finger. “Good day, Mrs. McCready.”
Evillene watched him head to the Abbott home and step inside as she tried to decide whether or not she had been put off. Clicking her false teeth, she cut through the hedge, kicked some peanut shells in exasperation, and headed home.
Inside, Franklin’s conversation with Kearney was interrupted when an officer knocked and stepped inside the hallway while closing the door behind him. “The medical examiner is here, Lieutenant.”
“Show him in.”
“Yes,sir.”The officer left through the hallway door,and Franklin could hear a muffled exchange at the front of the house.
The medical examiner, a portly, balding man who barely came up to Officer Franklin’s lapel, wandered into the living room holding a large leather satchel. “Morning, gentlemen.”
“Morning, Doc.”
“What have we got?”
Kearney pointed with a pencil toward the body. “Probable homicide. Stabbing.”
The examiner walked over to the edge of the bloodstain, set down his satchel, and peered at the body.
Franklin strode over. “Doc, before you get busy with your end of the investigation, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
Without taking his gaze from the body, the medical examiner nodded. “Shoot,” he said.
“Our primary suspect is a woman—small, elderly. She was seen leaving the scene of the crime by a neighbor. Any opinion there?”
Without hesitation, the medical examiner responded, “I’d start looking for another suspect.”
Franklin nodded. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
The medical examiner rubbed his chin.“She couldn’t have done this…unless she had a lot of cooperation from the victim.” He waved a finger over the corpse. “Cutting through the abdominal muscles and perforating the stomach on a man of this size requires a lot of leverage.” He broke from his monologue and squatted to appraise the body more closely. “Lieutenant, are you aware that the victim is holding something in his right hand?”
Kearney’s head snapped up from the side table he was examining. “What?”
“And that the tip of the little finger on his left hand has been cut off ?” the medical examiner continued.
Setting down a figurine, Kearney joined Franklin beside the medical examiner.
Franklin turned to him. “Has anyone examined the body yet?” he asked.
“No, they were waiting for us…” Kearney’s voice trailed off. “This isn’t the first homicide we’ve seen with the end finger cut off, you know.”
“I know.” Franklin rubbed his forehead as his headache mounted. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Looking at the body and the sticky sheet of blood surrounding it, Franklin crossed his arms. He looked around the room, strode to the fireplace, and grabbed a poker. Stepping to the edge of the pooled blood, he squatted and used it to slowly pry open the extended hand, flinging the money clip across the room with a quick flick of his wrist.
Kearney picked it up.
“What’ve we got?” Franklin asked.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” said Kearney. He held the clip up. “It’s engraved.”
“What?” Franklin made it to Kearney’s side in three quick steps. He peered at the money clip, shaking his head. “Start interviewing the neighbors. See if they know anyone with the initials AC, and”—Franklin started snapping his fingers—“what was the name of Abbott’s business partner that dropped by earlier this morning?”
“Mr. Culler.”
“That’s him. Let’s see if he knows anything.”
Kearney reached into his pocket and fished out the business card. “Arthur?” he said. “He may know more than he’s telling us.”
Franklin had begun instructing the officer out front and looked back at Kearney. “Why’s that?”
Kearney was staring at the card in frank disbelief. “His first name is Ambrosius.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Rendezvous at the Park
June 1, 1995
Christian knocked on Annie’s front door. He’d left a message on her answering machine earlier but never heard back. He knocked again and, after a short wait, decided she must be napping. Unlocking the door with the spare key she’d given him, Christian walked to the side table in the entryway, where he dropped a stack of mail he found scattered below the mail slot, and headed up the stairs to Annie’s bedroom. He tapped quietly. When there was no response, he opened the door and poked his head in the room.
“Annie?” The bed was made— unusual for her, even under the best of circumstances. He headed over to the bathroom, put his ear to the door, and tapped lightly again.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gave the situation a general thinking over, and blood rushed to his face. “Oh no,” he whispered before streaking downstairs and into the kitchen. As he made for the back door, he spied a piece of notepaper held to the front of the refrigerator by a magnet.
Contrary to her generally slovenly habits, Annie never stuck notes on the refrigerator. She had an organizing tray for that, another of her endearing ironies. She would have put the notepaper on her refrigerator for only one reason— to get his attention. Already knowing what the note would say, Christian muttered several words including “headstrong,” snatched the paper from the refrigerator, and started to read.
Christian—
I’m laying odds that you just called me “headstrong.” Guilty as charged. I’ve read through my father’s diary and have decoded the secret of the door’s operation. I’m off to Kansas to set things right and to attend an auction for the purpose of buying a very odd door. I’ll be home soon with details.
Love,
Annie
P.S. You win. I’m starting to hope again. My father solved the bloodline mystery. Note the entry dated May 30, 1894. You love riddles, Christian. Solve this one for me.
P.P.S. Oh, and don’t forget that we have tickets to see “Forrest Gump” next Thursday.
Christian grunted at the final postscript. Only Annie could combine a request to solve the mystery of time travel with a social engagement. He hoisted himself up to sit on the kitchen counter to scan the diary, meanwhile crumpling her note in his fist. He read several pages before focusing on the May 30, 1894, entry, then walked over to study the door. There was a small stain smeared across the top. Blood?
Wandering back to the counter, he absentmindedly picked up a set of plastic chattering teeth he bought Annie last spring at Fisherman’s Wharf. They’d been talking about God-knows-what while shopping for nothing in particular, and he kept running off on some tangent, despite her attempts to keep him on point. Frustrated, she’d grabbed the toy off the shelf and held it in his face, only to burst into laughter when he lost his train of thought and fell silent. He bought the toy for her as a keepsake, a little reminder of a happy moment.
He stared at the toy, using it to fuel the courage he sought, to do what needed doing, despite being unsure how to go about doing it. In the end, the option that entailed direct action won out. He’d need backup, but the only person who could fill those shoes had put a little distance between them since their picnic in the Headlands. The irrepressible Edmond he knew, the one who had a glib response for everything, had gone AWOL, replaced by someone who was… Christian struggled for the proper word. Careful, he decided.
This had something to do with his confession at the picnic. Christian was sure of that, but why
his memory loss was a problem, he didn’t know. Time was wasting, so he stuffed the teeth in his back pocket and picked up Annie’s phone to dial one of only two numbers he knew by heart, while thinking that he really needed the old version of Edmond to show up.
“Marden Landscaping.”
“Hey, it’s me. I’m at Annie’s—”
“Ah, the mysterious Annabelle Aster. Say hi for me and tell her
that I look forward to meeting tonight.”
Glib is good, Christian thought. “I would if she were here,” he said. “That’s why I’m calling.”
“Is dinner off ?”
“Probably. What are you doing this morning?”
“Babysitting Mrs. Kelly’s roses. Why?”
“Can you meet me here in an hour? I have to run an errand, but I’ll be back in time to let you in.”
“Sure. I’ll reschedule with Mrs. Kelly.” As Christian was about to hang up, Edmond added, “Annie lives in that big purple and gold Victorian Stick on Dolores by the park, right?”
Christian rolled his eyes. “No, no, no. Don’t ever let her hear you call it purple. It’s au-ber-gine.”
“We need to talk.” Edmond blinked, and the thought occupying him was lost when he got an eyeful of Christian standing in Annie’s doorway. “What the hell?” he asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he gawked at Christian’s oddball togs.
“Come on in. I’ll explain.”
As Christian guided him through the foyer and to the back, Edmond slowed down in the living room and whistled. “Quite a setup,” he said. When they reached the kitchen, however, his reaction was altogether different. The color drained right out of him. “I’ve been here,” he whispered.
Christian nodded and gently pushed him into the room. “I suspected as much.” He pointed to the door. “And I’m guessing you recognize that?”
The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 20
