by CeeCee James
“Oh, a wheat penny. A customer came in last week and paid with a penny roll. The thing was almost filled exclusively with those.”
“You’re serious?” I could feel my eyebrows rise.
“Yeah. Pretty cool, huh? Probably why you never see them anymore. Someone’s got them all collected.”
“Do you remember who it was?”
Her gaze cut to the right as she tried to remember. “Hmm. I’ll have to think about that. It was a busy day.”
“Listen, could you call me if you remember?” I tucked the change back into my wallet and then smoothed out the receipt to give her my number. There was no pen around, except the fake one to write on the debit card screen. She saw me looking and pulled out a pen from her drawer. I scrawled out my number and handed it back to her.
“Are you a collector or something?” she asked as she read the number.
“Something like that. I’d really like to connect with the person.” The bags were heavy as I picked them up.
“All right. If I remember anything, I’ll give you a call. Have a good day.” She smiled before turning to greet the person behind me.
I said goodbye, but she didn’t see me. I was glad, because I’m sure I had a goofy look on my face, trying to puzzle out the penny.
I had a clue. I just knew it. But what kind was it? Had it been a customer simply paying with a penny roll and the murderer ended up with a wheat penny as change by coincidence? Or was it the murderer who was flaunting what he was about to do?
Chapter 17
I arrived at the Three Maidens’ at about twenty past noon, having unloaded the baking supplies back at Cecelia’s first. No one answered my knock at the door, but I thought I heard a voice answer back. The front door was unlocked, so I cautiously opened it.
“Leslie? You around?” I called and softly shut the door behind me.
No answer.
I took a step forward and nearly leaped out of my skin as the board under my foot gave off a sound like a gunshot. Darn it. I’d forgotten about that board.
“Leslie?”
Still no answer.
Okay. That’s weird. I remembered she hadn’t answered her phone when I’d called earlier. By now, I was sure that my frown lines were developing frown lines. The entryway seemed filled with dark shadows clinging to the corners. I could easily imagine some menacing ghost not at all happy that I was encroaching on its territory.
I didn’t want to look for the curator, but I knew I had to. This could all just boil down to some simple explanation. I took a step forward, and another board squealed under my foot, not as loud as the first one, but unnerving nonetheless.
The urgency to be quiet—very, very quiet—held me in its icy grips.
On tiptoes now, I moved through the entry. I remembered tripping earlier on the candelabra on the floor and watched for it, but it was gone. I entered the hallway. It was almost completely dark, with all of the doors shut. I struggled to remember if it had been like this the last time I’d come through.
I pushed open the first door. Light dipped in from the windows of the old parlor. I was taken aback to see the furniture covered with black cloths.
Don’t be silly. It’s probably what she does after every tour to preserve things from the light and dust. Didn’t she say she came here early to get things ready?
The curtains were pulled nearly closed but parted enough to see the dust motes dancing in a shaft of light. The room felt more haunted than ever.
Hair prickled on the back of my neck.
“Leslie?” This time I called at half-volume. My voice cracked in the middle. I swallowed and continued forward.
A squeak came from behind me, and I spun around to look. Nothing. Maybe just the floor settling behind me.
I passed the door to the basement. From what I remembered, the kitchen would be on my left. Do I go downstairs? My hand reached for the doorknob, but stopped short from turning it. A cold shiver ran through my body, and I knew I couldn’t go down there. Not alone.
I silently eased into the kitchen, clutching my purse close to my body. I peeked in.
A teakettle was on the stove. Just as I caught sight of it, the kettle let out a squeal as the spout belched steam.
A scream flew up my throat, strangled when I realized what I was looking at. I saw two blue china mugs on the counter—obviously, she was expecting me—and felt instantly foolish. She was around somewhere. Maybe she’d run to the bathroom.
Choking on nervous laughter, I called for her again. “Leslie?”
It was then that I spotted the shoe.
The tip of it peeked out from under a kitchen chair. I moved closer. It was just one, black with a rather low heel. The type a librarian might wear.
Or the curator of a haunted museum.
Quickly, I searched around for the other one as my mind scrambled for some way to explain the absurdity of one shoe. Perhaps she was after a spider? Maybe a bunion hurt?
No. No. No. My inner voice was very indignant at my musings.
The whistling of the teakettle was driving me nearly mad. I hurried over and moved the pot. I turned off the heat, noting it was a gas stove. The flames cut out with a swick sound. The teakettle’s whistling slowly faded as if it didn’t want to give up, but finally it went silent.
I didn’t want to call for Leslie any more. A sick feeling was growing in my stomach. I shuffled my phone from my purse and held it, ready to dial 911. With my finger, I pushed open the door at the rear of the kitchen.
It opened to reveal a mudroom with a back door facing an overgrown garden.
It was getting darker in the house as the sky became overcast. The leaded glass windows let in a dingy gray gloom. As quietly as possible, I tip-toed back into the hall. I pushed opened the door to the bathroom, which was empty and surprisingly fitted with modern fixtures.
The final door led to a bedroom. A wire bed-frame stood in one corner, its thin mattress covered with an old, faded quilt. Clothing from that period hung behind glass on the walls, while an ivory brush with few remaining bristles sat on the wash stand.
No Leslie.
I glanced up the stairs to the second floor, but lost my nerve. My hands were shaking as I dialed Frank. It rang, two, three, four times, each ring tone sending my nerves rattling up the charts. Answer! Answer! You’re probably eating a doughnut. Where are you when I need you?
“Frank here!” he said finally, right as I was about to hang up. I wanted to curse at how loud his voice came through the receiver, never mind his annoying greeting.
“Shhh,” I hissed, glancing around the house. The shadows seemed to grow by the minute. “I’m at the Three Maidens’ Manor. Where are you and how soon can you get here?”
“Who is this?” he asked suspiciously.
Really? Didn’t he have caller ID? “It’s Georgie,” I gritted out. “You need to get here right away. Something’s happened to Leslie.”
“What’s happened?”
I knew he was going to ask that. And no matter how I tried to convince him, he’d come back at me with a logical excuse of where Leslie was.
“Just come. Please. It’s possibly an emergency.”
“Why don’t you call 911 then?” he asked, still deeply suspicious.
“Because I need you. Do it or I’ll tell Cecelia what really happened to her silver spoons. Now come!” I hung up the phone, hoping my childish threat would motivate him to move.
He had a good point. Why didn’t I call 911?
Because, in this town, every cop, paramedic, and reporter would show up. Half the town had scanners dialed in just waiting for something to pop up and break the monotony.
No, until I knew for sure, I needed to keep it quiet. Because it was possible that she was just outside in the garden, or down the road at the neighbors’.
Maybe she enjoyed wearing only one shoe.
But in my heart, I knew where she was and shivered.
I cast another look at the door leading to the ba
sement stairs and flew out the front door.
Chapter 18
I paced in front of the old manor, skittish at every sound and falling leaf. The hammering of my heart didn’t let up until I saw the police car turn down the old museum’s driveway. Frank was inside, staring out the windshield with a sour expression.
He parked the car and climbed out. I thought he slammed the door unnecessarily hard.
“All right. What seems to be the problem?” He pulled off his hat as he walked toward me.
“It’s Leslie. I was supposed to meet her here for lunch.”
His gaze swept the front of the building. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. It was another warm autumn day, but not so warm as to explain the sweating. “And?”
“I can’t find her anywhere. She’s missing.”
I thought he would give me a sarcastic answer, or at least an incredulous look. Instead, he studied the ground around the porch steps, his gaze moving back and forth. Slowly, he walked backward, scanning the driveway.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“A clue, if you haven’t stomped all over it already.” He hiked up his pants as he moved, still staring hard.
His pants seemed extra baggy. They weren’t like that just a few weeks earlier. “You losing weight?” I asked.
“Let me work, would ya?” He squatted and pulled a pen out of his pocket. Carefully, he poked it at something on the ground.
Whatever it was, was concealed in a brown curled leaf. Frank flipped it over.
Small. White. Circular.
I walked over for a closer look. Frank pulled a plastic bag from his back pocket and tucked the object inside. He held the bag out to me for inspection.
It was a button.
“One in a million,” he said. “Stood out to me because it’s white.”
“Anyone could have dropped that,” I said.
“Anyone? How often do you just drop buttons? Usually they pop off, not fall off. But we’ll see. Maybe it’s nothing.” He tucked the bag in his pocket. With a glance toward the house, he waved his hand. “Shall we proceed?”
I nodded. “I searched the ground floor. Didn’t go upstairs or to the basement.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The infamous basement.”
A shiver rolled up my spine. “Yes, exactly that.”
Frank keyed his shoulder mic and muttered a code into it. It squawked as someone returned with a message of “Copy that.” He unsnapped his gun holster, and we started up the stairs.
“You think something weird is going on, too?” I asked.
“Between her not being here and the squealed-out tire tracks at the end of the driveway, let’s just say I’m erring on the side of caution.”
I looked over my shoulder to see if I could spy the tire tracks in the dirt. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Frank had already ascended the porch steps and now stood in front of the door. I hurried after him.
He opened the door, and it made its usual long squeak. “Leslie?” he called. He pulled out his flashlight and turned it on.
No answer. He walked inside. I huddled up behind him like his human shadow. “Leslie Stilton?” He missed the board that squealed, but I didn’t, and we both flinched at the sound. Frank glanced at me with a look of disdain and a short jerk of his head to be quiet.
I shrugged slightly.
The two of us retraced my steps through the ground floor. Frank’s gaze swept over each room. In the kitchen, he nudged the teakettle slightly on the stove with the butt of the flashlight.
I leaned forward to whisper, “I turned it off. It was boiling when I got here.”
Frank’s lips pressed together. We returned to the hallway and now stood before the basement stairs. Frank flexed his fingers a few times before opening the door.
Cold air curled out of the open doorway. We traveled down the steps, our shoes making hollow sounds on the treads. I remembered the filigree lamp that exploded in the hallway, and wondered if she’d replaced that.
Frank peered quickly around the corner, and drew back. “Police!” he yelled. “Leslie, you down here?”
My heart pounded. Leslie could be somewhere upstairs, oblivious to all this drama. Maybe she was asleep.
Frank flashed the beam of his Maglite down the hall. He cursed under his breath and ran to the end.
I followed him around the corner, trying to see what he’d seen.
The light was on in the room at the other end. The first thing I saw was a bare foot poking into the hallway.
Frank reached the room and checked quickly around the corner to be sure it was clear. He ducked toward the body. I came through the doorway just in time to see him take the woman’s pulse on the floor. He swore again and yelled a new code into his mic. My jaw dropped at the sight of Leslie on the ground.
“Is she… is she okay?” I stuttered. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
Slowly, Frank turned her over. A purple knot stood out on her forehead like a plum. He felt again for the pulse. “It’s there, but weak,” he muttered. He tipped her head back to open her airway. “I don’t know who did this to you, Leslie, but I’m going to find them.”
The woman’s eyelids fluttered. Her mouth moved.
Frank moved closer. “Say it again, honey. One more time.”
Leslie moaned and then returned to shallow breathing. Frank didn’t move.
I dropped to my knees next to the woman and squeezed her hand. “We’re right here, Leslie.”
The stimulation seemed to stir the woman again. Her eyes moved rapidly behind closed lids. She lifted her chin slightly.
Frank’s mic squawked with an incoming code. He pushed the button to respond, “10-4.” Then, leaning down, he spoke in a calm tone, “They’re on their way, Leslie. Just hang tight. You’re going to be okay.”
Her lips parted again. I held my breath to listen.
Like a light breeze pulling the last leaf from a tree, Leslie whispered, “Revenge.”
Chapter 19
I watched the EMTs shut the doors of the ambulance behind Leslie. My mouth was dry. Honestly, it was giving me a flashback. Taking me to another day, a little over a year ago, when I watched them take Derek away.
Derek.… The sight of the car swerving…the cliff. I still couldn’t understand why he hadn’t attempted to stop. I’d been following behind in my car….
I blinked my eyes hard. Can’t go there, not now. My palms started to sweat, and I rubbed them on my pants.
Frank must have caught sight of my misery, because the next thing I knew he was standing beside me. He shifted his weight on his huge size twelve shoes—clodhoppers, as Cecelia always called them.
“How you doing?” he asked.
I chewed my thumbnail, not knowing how to respond. Was he referring to us finding Leslie just now, or…?
He rubbed the back of his neck and watched me. His eyes suddenly went soft and pitying, and he looked at the ground and cussed. Then his hand was on my shoulder, patting me like I was a prized pup. “You’re going to be okay, Georgie.”
It was then that I knew he was referring to Derek. His compassion almost did me in. I swallowed a lump in my throat the size of Everest and tried my best not to let the tears come. Stop! No! I gritted my teeth, but those hot tears came anyway. I turned away, feeling weak and sniveling.
Frank’s hand dropped away. He sighed, and I wondered if he regretted even checking on me. With lumbering steps, he walked away.
I balled my hand into a fist and wiped my eyes. They say time heals all wounds. I’d like to find the person who first said that and wring their neck.
I frowned at my thoughts, my inner voice scolding me. Kind of violent, aren’t you, especially at a crime scene?
I guess I was. I wanted to wring my inner voice’s neck, too.
A paramedic climbed into the passenger seat of the ambulance after pounding on the door to assure those inside that it was locked. Another police officer, Jefferson,
stood with Frank. They looked like they were going over their reports.
Frank pulled out the bag containing the button. More notes were taken, and then together, they walked to the end of the driveway. I presumed they were trying to find the tire tracks from earlier.
Weariness hit me like a ton of soggy pillows. I suddenly felt buried under emotion. I reached into my purse for the keys to the van, wondering if I could just follow the ambulance out, or if I needed to let Frank know.
Of course, the two officers had disappeared by then. The ambulance slowly pulled down the driveway, leaving me to stand in front of the museum alone. I glanced at it and shivered. Like a gaping mouth, the front door was left ajar. Years of safety conditioning made it difficult for me to leave with it open. But my nerves kept me from walking up there.
Frank and Jefferson were here, I reasoned. Getting home was probably the best thing mentally for me right now. People knew where to find me if they needed me.
I got into my van, pumped the gas, and it started with its usual coughs and sputters. Carefully, I backed down the driveway. At the end, I spotted the two officers examining tracks that curved to the right. Frank waved me down as I approached.
I slowed to a stop and rolled down my window.
He leaned in, bringing the scent of salty sweat and the cold outdoors with him. He rubbed his mouth with a leather-clad glove, not meeting my eyes. “You okay to drive?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
His eyes met mine briefly, as if to check for himself. “I’ll see you tonight, maybe.” With that, he leaned back and banged the door with the flat of his palm. “Drive safely.”
I left him wandering back to the tire tracks. I can’t say I went straight home. I should have, I knew it. But my mind was a wreck, filled with unbidden memories. Before I could get back to my real life and “fake it,” I knew I had to pack those memories away.
The best way I’d found to do it was a long drive. I’d taken a few over the last year. Memory drives, I called them. I’d drive and drive, and sometimes be surprised at where I ended up. It was a little scary to realize I’d zoned out and not able to recall exiting off the highway, or taking that turn up a mountain road. But suddenly, as if waking up from a dream, I’d look around and realize I’d gone as far as I’d wanted. That’s how I’d know the memories were packed away. I’d pull over and program my GPS for home, feeling sane again.
