An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

house, as if for one last time, to see if there was anything remotely to do with snakes, ladders, or, as Simon had suggested, good and evil. An odd-looking vase atop one of the dining room curio cabinets reminded her of vines wrapped around a tree trunk, and a closer look revealed it was interwoven snakes. Could this be it? She lifted it down carefully and looked inside: empty, save for dust and a dead moth. Likewise, with a cookie jar in the shape of a fire department ladder truck: nothing inside. She set her tote bag under the table by the puzzles, as there was no room on the chairs or on the table itself, and unlocked the basement door.

  Very little had changed since she was there with Simon: there was the same slightly musty basement odor mixed with moth balls, and a hint of damp after all the rain. The boxes of books where they’d found Olivia’s volume of poetry were still where they left them. Charlotte went through them again, this time knowing what to look for, and saw that several of the books had the Sibylline logo. If nothing else, she would bring them upstairs for Helene, in case she would want to keep her mother’s books. After today, Olivia’s thread of clues would no longer function—everything would be in disarray, and everything they didn’t take now would go to the auction barn.

  First, she once again confirmed that there was nothing at all like a notebook in the Chutes and Ladders box, nor was there any other edition of the game. What if, she thought, Olivia put the notebook in the Chutes and Ladders box, thinking that Donovan was unlikely to ever play the game again, but he found the notebook and used it like he used his grandmother’s copy of Least Objects? And Olivia simply never knew about it? If that was the case, it could be in any game box or anything Donovan could have played with or utilized.

  She started to go through every box of games and toys and models, when she heard footsteps upstairs. At first, she thought it was Olivia, coming back in from the garage, and nearly called out to her, then she heard many heavy steps, loud men’s voices, and the sounds of things being thrashed and knocked over.

  The sounds came closer, moving from the front of the house toward the kitchen. Charlotte quickly turned the lights off and moved behind the furnace, suppressing the desire to gasp at the touch of cobwebs against her face and hair. Where was Helene?

  “I told you, I don’t know where it is, I don’t knowww,” wailed Donovan.

  Charlotte could hear them punching him, and Donovan grunting and gagging. Then the cold, flat voice of Toley Banks cut through: “Take his phone and keys. Throw him down the stairs and lock it up.”

  She could just make out a large man, perhaps Bosley Warren—or, perhaps, it was Doc—grabbing Donovan off his feet, and literally throwing him down the stairs. The door slammed shut, plunging the basement into complete darkness, and Charlotte could hear the key turning in the lock. Then the sound of many heavy footsteps going back to the front part of the house.

  What is going on? What do I do? Have they killed him? She felt around in her pockets for her cell phone, to call for help, to use the light from the screen to find the light cord, anything—and then realized with dismay she’d left it in her purse upstairs.

  She heard Donovan groan in pain. He was alive, at least.

  “Donovan?” she whispered. “It’s Charlotte.”

  “Wha—” He sounded confused. “Charlotte? Why are you here?”

  “I’m going to try to turn the light on.” She felt her way toward the stairs, almost completely blind, following the edge of the workbench. It was just enough to orient her; she flailed her arms around, hoping she was close enough to find the string pull for the light bulb. No go.

  She moved forward a little more, and her foot bumped into Donovan, who gasped.

  “It should be right over my head,” he moaned quietly. “I can’t get up. My leg’s messed up.”

  She flailed again and this time found the cord, and pulled on the light.

  Donovan winced in shock at the sudden brightness of the bare bulb. Charlotte, on the other hand, was shocked at the sight of him: blood coming out of his nose and from his lips, his face and eyes swollen from a beating, his hands scraped and bleeding. His glasses were twisted and broken at the bridge. He was leaning on his side, holding his leg.

  “Oh my lord! What did they do to you?” She looked around for something to press against his nose, raiding some of the boxes of old linens and towels. She found old throw pillows and quilted bedspreads to give him something to lie on, and he situated himself with difficulty. Towels dampened with water from the laundry tub cleaned him up as much as he could stand her touching him.

  “I think my leg’s broke, or I’ve got a very bad sprain.” Donovan’s face was pale from the pain.

  “Why have they done this to you? What is going on? Do they have Helene?”

  “I didn’t see Helene. I don’t think they know you’re here, either. They’re coming in tonight, going to clear the place out.”

  “But they’re not supposed to do that until tomorrow!”

  “He’s not—” Donovan winced with pain, and put his hand over his stomach. Charlotte was afraid he might have internal injuries. “He’s not going to take chances.”

  “Who? What chances?” She felt it was cruel to badger him with questions in his condition, but she wanted to know what was going on so she could help him.

  “Toley Banks. He thinks you’ve been asking about the book, thinks you might be getting too close.”

  Charlotte instinctively felt for the book in her pocket, and was relieved that it was still there.

  “But why beat you up for it?” she asked.

  “They wanted me to find out if you or Aunt Helene found it or knew. I refused. Wanted to buy you time—to find Mom’s notebooks.”

  Donovan winced and groaned as another wave of pain struck his abdomen. “Call for help?” he asked.

  Charlotte shook her head sadly, and in sympathy when Donovan swore. “My phone’s in my bag, in the kitchen.” She looked around the basement again for an outside exit, but could see none. “There’s no way out of here, is there?”

  To her surprise, Donovan didn’t say no. “Maybe. Dad used to lock me down here when I was little. For punishment. I used to get out through the old coal chute. Comes out by the driveway.”

  “What coal chute? Where is it?”

  “Over there, up at top. Dad blocked it off, but I still got out. When he realized he couldn’t stop me, he just knocked me around.”

  Charlotte walked to the area Donovan pointed her, trying to understand what she was looking at among the remains of old ductwork and metal parts that looked like nothing she was familiar with.

  “Look for the green board,” he whispered. “Trust me. One way or another, it’s your way out.”

  She spotted the faded green board that covered a large rectangular duct, but it was too high up to reach. She grabbed the step ladder resting on the wall opposite the furnace, and opened it up, trying to be as quiet as possible. An old coal chute, she thought, put here when the house was built.

  A chute. A ladder. Could it be?

  She pulled on the board, but it was stuck, so she pulled harder and harder, determined to get at it, to get at this one last hope of finding Olivia’s first and last notebook, of getting herself and Donovan out of there in one piece—

  It popped off with a squeak that Charlotte was sure anyone still upstairs would hear. She peered inside the chute, full of cobwebs and lord only knew what else, but saw nothing. There wasn’t enough light. She held her breath and reached inside until her fingers touched cardboard and paper: a notebook. Maybe two notebooks. The chute was too small for her to crawl through, at any rate.

  She started to pull a notebook forward, and into the light, but the floorboards began to creak again. Toley and company were coming back. She shoved the notebooks back, and at the last second, added the copy of Least Objects that was in her pocket. She popped the green board back into place, and quietly folded the ladder and put it back where it had been.

  Donovan pointed at the light. She pulled the
switch off and sat down next to him in the dark.

  If ever there was a time to find out what happened to Olivia that night, it was now, but Charlotte struggled to find the right words. She didn’t think Donovan would have hurt his mother, but she didn’t know, and she was sitting right next to him in the dark, with even more dangerous men upstairs. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place, she thought.

  When in doubt, ask outright. “What happened that night?” she asked.

  Donovan sighed. “That was probably the worst night of my whole life. Mom had called Warren Brothers to ask for an appraisal, and evidently Wesley offered to come over after work, instead of having her go to the shop.”

  Charlotte could hear him trying to shift his position, to take pressure off his leg. Her eyes had finally adjusted to the dark, and with a bit of waning daylight coming through the glass block near the top of the walls where window wells would have been at one time, she could just make out that Donovan was in a lot of pain. But there was nothing she could do for him. They were stuck until help came. “So, that’s why Wesley Warren was here, to do an appraisal?”

  “Yeah. I was doing a collection run with Mitchell for Toley Banks. You know I’m having a hard time paying him back. When he says do this, do that, I gotta do it. Somehow Mitchell knew that Wesley was going to be talking to my mother, but he didn’t trust him. He wanted me to go see Mom while Wes was