by Tyler Colins
The sheriff eyed him suspiciously, then focused on Beatrice. “You bettah put on anothah pot of coffee, ma'am. I suggest we move to the drawing room and stay togethah until we hear back from young Budd.” The tense-faced man regarded each face distrustfully and then motioned forward.
As the others followed, Rey and I took a hurried detour upstairs. We grabbed the canvas bag with lights, tucked in tissues, plastic baggies and both cell phones, perfect for photos and emergency calls, and headed to the hidden corridors. It would be a while before Budd got to them; he'd be searching rooms first.
“Don't forget about the slope and the –”
“Frig!”
“Steps,” I finished.
“Ouch.” Rey winced and straightened. “When we get to the tunnel that leads to the cottage, let's aim to locate more entrances. They have to be there.”
“How many passageways could there be on one estate, for heaven's sake? This isn't the Tower of London or a sixteenth-century monastery.”
“Remember, there used to be stables and a coach-house. They probably had underground connections. I'm betting there are more,” she asserted as we started walking at a snail's pace.
I repeated what I'd told my aunt not long ago. “It seems like overkill.”
“I read somewhere that old Mr. Smith had a black streak. He may have been a scientist, but I bet he didn't use these corridors for scientific purposes. Weird and crazy experiments would be more likely. Like maybe he operated on people and they ended up maimed and/or nutzoid, walking these dark passages like –”
“Old sci-fi movie mutants,” I concluded, laughing.
“Okay, mutants aside, there could have been escaped slaves, robbers and other villainous sorts traveling these dingy walkways.” She poked my shoulder. “I'm betting he was as twisted as that writer suggested.”
“Writer?”
“Albert Humpelmeyer … or whatever the frigging guy's name was. He's some sort of historian.”
I stared blankly. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“This Albert guy wrote a few essays on old New England families and estates. I came across some when I was researching the house and family. He'd said that Caine Granton Smith was a known eccentric, among other things. Caine's father had been placed in an asylum when Caine was ten years old and the mother had been rumored to be into black magic or sorcery, or something like that.”
“Eccentric is a long away from twisted,” I advised.
“Scientist plus eccentric, plus loony-tunes dad and witch-mother, equals twisted,” she contended. “All these below-ground corridors couldn't have been for good Samaritan causes.”
I tried to imagine the place one-hundred-plus years ago and what Rey's “twisted” scientist could have been up to. “It's possible he had these corridors built for personal privacy – like monks or smugglers did back when – or for visitors so they could be discreet.”
“'Discreet' like when visitors or servants have trysts with the master – or mistress – of the house?” She smiled wryly. “Maybe so, Cousin Jilly, but I'm prime for more sinister reasons.”
“Unfortunately, no one's alive from those days to confirm or deny your theories.” I motioned. “We'd better find something soon. Lewis is probably having a fit that we've gone off again.”
My cousin waved off my worry. “He knows us well enough. He's got more important stuff to concern himself with than two wayward cousins.” She stopped and aimed her flashlight. “Feel that?”
I aimed mine, too. “Yes. A draft.”
Cousin Reynalda peered closely. “Whoa Nelly! Another door.”
“A very well concealed one.” I ran a beam over a heavy studded iron door with pintles mortised into the frame. To the far left was a thumb latch featuring heart-shaped cusps and a four-inch grip. “And an old one. Do you think you can manage to open this, Ms. Magic Fingers?”
“Step aside, Useless One.” Rey blew her fingertips like a retro TV safecracker. She pressed, prodded, poked, broke two fingernails, and pressed some more. A loud, blasphemous curse flew from her lips; had she been Catholic, she'd have to say two-hundred Hail Marys. Facial expressions moved from frustrated to angry to livid to determined. Finally, the inch-thick door crashed inward, triggering dust particles and rust flecks to sprinkle legs and feet like jimmies on ice-cream. “Ugh. Smells moldy.”
“It smells like something,” I agreed, shining light ahead and noticing a narrow, low-ceiling walkway. Old cords and tools, and two iron wagon wheels leaned against one wall while something resembling a heretic's fork and other items I didn't want to guess at leaned against another. They looked ominous and deadly. Of course, they could simply have been antique farm implements for all I knew, but somehow I doubted it. “This looks like a psychopath's dream.”
“The dirt and cobwebs add a nice touch,” Rey concurred, peering over my shoulder. “This pretty much proves Smith was a crazed wingnut.”
“We don't know what the space or tools were used for.” I swung away from the walls and focused on the short, dank walkway ahead. “Are we ready to move on?”
“Ready.” She didn't sound overly eager.
I glanced over. “Come on. Let's find that proof we've been talking about since the first body fell.”
“This place looks like no one's been here in decades. But as you're always saying: never say never.” She released a long exhalation. “With our luck, we'll only find red sardines.”
“The phrase is 'red herrings'. And haven't you suddenly become the pessimistic one?”
She stuck out her tongue and eyed the wall, then pulled down a short-handled hoe. “May as well play it safe and protect ourselves if necessary.”
“That thing won't do much good against an otherworldly ghost or deceased body.”
“It will if it's a live body … because if we run into a live one down here, then we've run into the killer.”
“Point taken.” I grabbed a wooden mallet.
* * *
“Pretty gruesome.”
“That's an understatement,” I murmured, staring into Jeana's still face. We'd found the officer sixty feet farther down the corridor, opposite the direction we'd come from. I positioned the flashlight on the ground so that it illuminated the body, which was propped against a dark and fusty wall, and examined it more closely. Crushed cranium aside, her face seemed almost serene; she'd not been surprised or startled. Like Jensen, how could she not have seen or heard her attacker? Or had she faced someone familiar, a person she'd never have expected to turn on her? “She looks like she's napping.”
“Yeah, except for the side of her head,” Rey said sardonically, “where one-third of it is caved in.”
A thick winter police-issue jacket, unbuttoned, was worn over a heavy army-green sweater and jeans. A loosely draped scarf of drab olive hung from her thin neck. It appeared the deputy had intended to venture outside. Why? And what had brought her down here? “I wonder who she ran into.”
“Someone who didn't like having her down here and wanted her to stay quiet – permanently.” Rey frowned and studied the body. “She's got some serious cuts on the top of her hands.”
I scanned torn, bloodied skin. “She appears to have been scratched or clawed, and yet there doesn't appear to be any signs of a fight. Her knuckles aren't bruised, as if she'd punched someone. Her face has no marks. This may have happened elsewhere, and earlier. The blood is dry.”
My cousin shone the flashlight around. “There seem to be scuff marks there. See? She must have been dragged.”
“She's not exactly ballerina petite. It would have had to have been someone with strength.”
“It could have been two people. Or someone insane. I've heard that crazy people have amazing strength.”
“It's possible,” I murmured. “The suspect list is pretty small. If you had to choose, who on the list of two do you suppose is powerful enough, or insane enough, to do this?”
Rey took a deep breath. “Linda's in good shap
e and Prunella is strong. And either one could be certifiable. We're not sure yet. But we do know that Linda killed those Moones –”
“We assume she did, Rey. We only have coincidences and no proof.” I rubbed the back of my neck where tension was creeping in with the dampness. “Jeana can't have been dead long. We saw her at the end of dinner –”
“Around 6:30 or thereabouts,” Rey nodded.
“And Budd saw her fifteen or twenty minutes before he and Adwin were clocked in Thomas's room. That would make it … two-and-a-half hours, give or take.”
“It may be hard to tell the actual time of death. Casper's Law, or Ratio, says when there's a free access of air, a body decomposes twice as fast than if immersed in water and eight times faster than if buried in earth.”
I could feel my eyebrows leave my forehead. “Thank you Dr. Max H5-O Bergman.”
“I was trying out for a forensics role – a pathology student actually – and did some research. Hard as it may be to believe, Jilly, I can remember details and stats.” She smiled drolly. “And sometimes I even understand them.”
I offered her shoulder a gentle punch and looked back to Jeana Malle. “In this case, we can state unequivocally that she hasn't been dead for more than three hours, and that everyone has been in and out of sight at least a couple of times during that period.”
“Death is starting to fascinate you, isn't it?”
“It's the search for facts and evidence that is fascinating me.” I scrunched down, balancing the mallet on my lap. “In this instance, where better to find both than on or around the body? Pass me one of those little plastic bags, will you?”
Tucking the handy-dandy hoe under one arm, she rummaged in the canvas bag, pulled one out, and thrust it in my face.
I gave her a look, slapped it aside, and reached for Jeana's clutched hand. Before this crazy Connecticut week had begun, I'd never been within twenty feet of a corpse, much less touched one. The thought of doing so would have repulsed me; now it seemed part of an abnormal norm. There was a story some somewhere in all this I absently thought as I unfurled the officer's long fingers.
Tucked between were three connected, twisted links. Tiny, dark flecks on them could have been blood. “Do you recall seeing a chain like this on anyone or anything?”
She stared for several seconds. “No. That looks like something from a fancy belt. Or a tool maybe.”
“This is gold.”
“A fancy tool then,” she said with a grim smile.
“Cute.” I took another look, certain I'd seen it somewhere before, stood and stretched my neck and shoulders. A tube of Bengay would be welcome right now.
Rey tucked the links in the bag. “Now that we've handled it, we can discount fingerprints.”
“I don't know how much of a print you could get, considering the size and grooves, but there could be some of the killer's DNA.”
“We know the killer is pretty meticulous, so I'm betting there won't be anything convicting to be found,” Rey contended. “And I'm also betting that whatever this came from won't be found, either.” She held up the bag and eyed it critically.
“You're probably right. It would be kind of like searching for a tiny needle in a huge haystack.” I rubbed my tense neck. “But I can't help …”
“What?”
“Feel like I've seen that piece of chain somewhere before.” I sighed. “We'd better get Sheriff Lewis.”
“Hey, what about a weapon?”
“Huh?”
Rey offered a tired smile. “Why don't we look for one? That hole in her skull had to be made with something: a hammer, a gun handle, or maybe a brick. What do you say we check rooms as soon as we can? Prunella or Linda may have been rushed and tucked whatever was used under a bed or in a closet or wardrobe.”
“I can't see Jeana's killer racing around the house with a weapon or brick, or anything else incriminating in the frantic search for a hiding place, but why not? We have nothing to lose. Let's make sure to ask Lewis if one or both left the drawing room at any time.”
“What if they both left?”
“Then we're still down to two suspects.”
“Unless there's someone we don't know about,” she reminded me.
“Possibly, but not very likely. Didn't we agree on that – even if the shawl may have suggested otherwise?”
She pressed a finger to my chest. “You're the one who always says 'never say never'.”
“I'll take the bag, Reynalda.”
We spun slowly. Prunella stood fifteen feet away with a twisted smile as chilling as the tone and gaze. She'd been as quiet as a church mouse (or we'd been too absorbed in useless chatter). A hand-crank flashlight shone in one hand and a Beretta Tomcat 32ACP in the other; it resembled a toy, but wasn't for play.
“You'll have to kill me first.”
The birder raised the weapon.
“No need to take me literally,” Rey scowled.
She smirked, raised the weapon a little more, and nodded to the bag.
“So you're our killer, Pruney?” I turned to my cousin. “I was leaning toward Linda, what with the Smith connection and particularly the Moone deaths, but maybe they truly were accidents.”
Rey offered a you-could-be-right look.
“Lewis has to be wondering where we are –”
“He may be wondering, but he won't be looking. He knows you're both always off on a sleuthing adventure. Besides, he's given up on keeping the group together, thanks to you two, so he's gone to check on Gwynne, who according to Deputy Budd, 'is groaning and moaning and looking like absolute crap'.”
“You may have thought to scurry off with the weapon, but you got careless with the links.”
She scanned my face. “Do you even know where they're from?”
I scanned hers in return – and remembered. “They came from that pendant you wore when you arrived. Percival said you wore it almost always – you had for years – yet you weren't wearing it for very long here in the house.”
“That's right!” Rey exclaimed.
“You're good,” Prunella smirked.
“Did you lose it when you were killing someone? Jensen perhaps?”
She appeared to consider what she wanted to reveal, then shrugged. “Jeana found what was left of my lovely antique necklace in a corner of the cellar. She looked preoccupied, as if she were set on a critical mission. I asked what was up and she told me she'd found something potentially peculiar and was going to head over to the station.”
“Naturally she had no reason to suspect there was anything to your casual, curious question,” Rey said sarcastically.
Prunella's smile was smug. “I convinced her to show me what she'd found, emphasizing how long I'd know the Moones and how often I'd been in the house. In all likelihood, I could identify what she'd found, and possibly even put it into perspective.” Her expression was reminiscent of a mouser that had cornered its prey: focused, gauging. “When I saw what she had, I said I had a good idea where it came from and told her to meet me in the pantry so I could show her. I requested she not mention it to anyone because I had a suspicion who the killer might be, but didn't want to reveal anything until I verified something before we met. I suggested she dress up for a quick departure to the station in case I was right. She bought it.” She glanced at the body and snickered. “Literally.”
“So Jeana wouldn't have suspected anything, like you swinging at her,” Rey commented dryly. “But then I guess you don't look like a typical murderer or fucked-up fruitcake.”
“I'm quite affable,” Bird Lady simpered.
“As a person? Or a partner?”
“Come on Prunella, tell all,” I coaxed.
“In your dreams, my darlings.” Another simper. She gestured the bag. “Enough chit-chat, Ms. Weather-Girl.”
“I prefer Ms. Meteorologist.”
Rey stepped back and I tried to buy more time in the hopes that a plan of attack and/or escape would fly to mind like one of her swift-sw
ooping feathered friends.
She looked from me to Rey and back again. “Give me the bag. I'm not asking again.”
“Prunella, even if you've left DNA or some identifying substance on the chain, why risk –”
“Coming back down here?” she snapped, then inhaled sharply. “I needed to take another look to ensure nothing else had been left behind, including two nosy aspiring detectives. Although I must admit, I'd not have expected you to find her … at least, not so soon. Back to the bag: please hand it over.”
“You could just shoot us dead and take the stupid thing,” Rey suggested hotly.
“Hey!”
“Sorry, Jilly, but she won't shoot us. It would bring people down here.”
Prunella burst into laughter – that haunting hyena sound again. “They would never hear the shots, Reynalda.”
She lifted her chin. “Sure they would.”
“You aren't the brightest bulb on the marquee, are you honey?”
My cousin offered a dazzling smile before spinning and screaming, “Do like Cousin Chucky!”
A crazy summer episode during our teens had banished us from the Catskills. It flashed before me (why and how I recalled it after all those years I'd consider for days to come). Rey threw herself into the wall while I gripped and swung the mallet like a pro hitter presenting one awesome swing arc. Prunella Sayers' head did a backspin.
Skin split and teeth cracked, and red oozed onto a caramel-colored cashmere jacket. Her gaze registered shock as she peered down at the carmine that resembled Rorschach inkblots. She pointed the gun, but before she could pull the trigger or I could throw up, I jumped forward and propelled her into a concrete wall like a Caterpillar D9 running amok. Hitting cement with a bone-splitting clack, she fell like a bag of wet grain.
“Is she dead?”
“If she's not,” I answered, “she's a foe worthy of The Terminator.”
“It never happens that fast in the books or in the movies.”
We gazed downward.
“Pretty gruesome.”
“That's an understatement,” I murmured, staring into Prunella's still, hideous face.
26
Who REALLY Did It?
