666 Gable Way

by Dani Lamia

  “You say you awoke, and it was still quite dark. Why is it you opened your laptop again?” The detective spoke reverently but succinctly, his eyes never wavering from her face.

  “I didn’t get around to buying a clock from town. I haven’t even been here a week,” Phoebe explained, adding that small detail this time around. “No cellphone, either. My laptop’s time was close to accurate, so I use that to check the time.”

  “And that time was?” Khalid led. He had written it down from her previous answer.

  “About four forty-five,” she said and shrugged.

  “And then you dressed and went to the first floor, here to the kitchen,” he led on.

  Phoebe nodded and sniffled. “I was going to make coffee.”

  “Then you heard the sound from the basement,” Khalid continued.

  “I opened the door and the lights were on,” she went on. “And that’s when I went down a few steps and found Dzolali.”

  “And you say you went no further,” Detective Khalid went on after checking his notes.

  “I freaked and ran back upstairs. I couldn’t find Auntie Hester, or Glendarah, or Mr. Onenspek,” Phoebe repeated the story, but this time her voice cracked. She thought of Ned Onenspek as just another victim of the Pyncheon family, and as a Pyncheon, she was ashamed and felt pity for the exploited artist.

  Khalid pressed on. “And that’s when you ran up to waken Mr. Maule.”

  “Yes.” She picked up her coffee, now cold, but took a long drink anyway.

  Detective Khalid shifted his eyes to Holgrave, a signal for him to tell his story once more.

  “I dressed quickly and followed Miss Pyncheon downstairs,” said Holgrave. “As she said, the lights were on, and I found Miss Alameda at the bottom of the stairs. I looked about and found the whole horrible scene. I came right up and phoned for help.”

  “And you heard nothing at all,” the detective said, almost hinting that Holgrave should have.

  “Nothing at all,” Holgrave assured him. “The attic suite is quite isolated.”

  Detective Khalid nodded, keeping his face passive.

  Another uniformed officer, this one with sergeant stripes on his sleeves, stepped into the kitchen. “Detective Khalid, Baker needs to see you.”

  “Okay,” Khalid said and stepped from the stool. “Sit tight. Be right back,” he said to Pyncheon and Maule.

  Phoebe gave a curt bob of her head. She peered at Holgrave, who gave a weak, sympathetic smile and patted her shoulder.

  I wonder if the cop suspects us somehow, though how could they think it was us? Phoebe pondered and sighed deeply. What if we’re arrested? Do I even care? Am I the Pyncheon that pays for the crimes of the family?

  ***

  Khalid arrived at the basement door just as the coroner’s people were carting up the first body, zipped up in the shiny black plastic bag strapped to the medical gurney. He watched them arrive on the first floor, drop and lock the gurney’s wheels, and cart Dzolali Alameda’s body through the front door.

  Khalid checked his shoe covers and was about to head down the stairs when he saw Baker coming up. She removed her facemask and held up her hand. Knowing her well, Arman knew not to proceed below.

  “It’s a horror show down there,” Baker said. The petite, curly-haired blonde removed her gloves and shook her head.

  “What’s it look like?” asked Khalid.

  “Each victim died a little differently.” Baker jerked her thumb in the direction of the front door. “Alameda was beaten before being clawed to death.”

  “Like the Hillsborough attack?”

  Patty Baker wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her bare hand. “Hard to say until I get some chunks of her under the microscope, but it could have been an animal. Onenspek was stabbed in the back. We have the murder weapon—”

  “Great,” Arman Khalid interjected.

  “—found in the chest of victim number two, the D’Amitri woman,” Baker finished and grinned crookedly.

  Khalid frowned and crossed his arms. “Okay.”

  “D’Amitri’s body showed a lot of slices and dices, too, similar to those on Alameda,” Patty continued as she leaned against the doorjamb. “The owner of the place, Hester Pyncheon, was the worst of it. Her eyes were scooped out. Looks like a rough tool was used, maybe more claws, dunno yet. She was stabbed in the chest like D’Amitri.”

  “Did you find them?”

  “Nope.” Baker grinned darkly and put her fists on her hips.

  “Here’s the crucial bit,” the detective sergeant said. “What’s the time of death?”

  “They’re all still pretty damn warm,” Baker explained. “No more than an hour to an hour and a half ago. They all died within moments of each other.”

  “And these two,” Khalid indicated the pair he was questioning in the kitchen, “would still be scrubbing the evidence away.”

  “Oh, yeah,” confirmed Baker. “We’ll have fingerprints processed pretty quick. DNA’ll take a few days, but I’d say there’s no way in hell your two suspects had anything to do with it. They’d be covered in people-goo.”

  “Nice,” Khalid said and chuckled. “Did I hear someone say there’s a laundry chute leading to a bin down there?”

  “I sifted through it myself. There’s no blood on any article I can find,” she said.

  “Okay. Thanks, Baker.”

  Arman Khalid thought a moment and decided to check a few things. He found the staircase and made his way to the second floor, where Phoebe Pyncheon had said her room was located, the southeastern turret. He found it quickly and went in after pulling on his latex gloves.

  The detective pulled out his cellphone and began to take pictures of the room. He saw no evidence of blood on the furniture or the doorknob. He opened the drawers of the dresser and saw that she owned few clothes, other than a handful of ancient-looking costumes in the closet. All were clean.

  Pyncheon’s car keys were in the pocket of her hoodie, draped over the wooden chair. He found her laptop, opened it, and turned it on. It was not even protected by a password. He opened her email, but as there was no link to the outside world, all he could see were old messages from a week before. The computer’s history showed only access to a novel she was writing.

  Khalid closed the laptop and left the room. He walked to the bathroom two doors up from the turret and looked around. There was no blood anywhere. Not in the drain of the shower or in the sink. The hand towels were damp from use, but otherwise spotless.

  The detective went up to the third floor and explored. He found the master bedroom that Phoebe Pyncheon had mentioned. Other than it being oddly decorated, with strange statues and candles lying everywhere, there seemed nothing particularly out of place. The bed had not been slept in.

  He wandered by the rooms that Phoebe had indicated had been occupied by the artist, Onenspek. He opened the first door, the bedroom, and stepped in. That bed appeared to have not been used, either.

  Khalid went next door, into the studio. The images that the man had painted were disturbing, but very well done, in his uneducated opinion. The detail was nicely depicted, and the scenes truly horrifying. Stepping further inside, Khalid took a mass of pictures with his phone, then left.

  Finding Holgrave’s attic suite was a little more difficult, but when he poked his head inside, he found nothing unusual. He backed out and shut the door, then something occurred to him. Khalid turned and went back into Holgrave’s room.

  The bed was made.

  Like the rooms of the other victims, Hester Pyncheon and Ned Onenspek, Maule’s bed had not been slept in. Phoebe Pyncheon’s bed was made as well, as he recalled.

  Arman Khalid went from door to door at that point, checking to see which rooms had been occupied by D’Amitri and Alameda. He came to the conclusion that they, Alameda and D’Amitri
, had occupied the third-floor bedrooms of both turrets of 666 Gable Way, and like everyone else’s, the beds had the appearance of not being slept in.

  The detective headed back down to the first floor, noting to himself how loud the steps creaked, as did the floorboards, for that matter. He walked back into the kitchen as another of the deceased was rolled through the front door.

  Saying nothing, Khalid gave Holgrave and Pyncheon a long look, remaining expressionless. He sat upon the stool and took a moment before speaking.

  Holgrave lifted an eyebrow, and he looked to Phoebe and back. “Something amiss, Detective?” he asked.

  “I just came down from upstairs, and everyone’s beds are made,” Khalid said flatly.

  Holgrave didn’t hesitate in answering. “I made mine this morning.”

  Khalid looked to Phoebe, cueing her turn.

  “I made mine, too,” she said. “I do that every morning when I get up.”

  Arman Khalid pointed to Holgrave. “You said Miss Pyncheon came running into your room this morning to get you.”

  Holgrave shrugged and adopted a confused expression. “Yes. She did.”

  “He was already awake, Detective Khalid,” Phoebe inserted before the man had a chance to follow up. “I never said I woke him up. I said I went up to wake him.”

  “I had just finished making my bed and was about to dress when Miss Pyncheon came in,” Holgrave filled in.

  Khalid nodded. Something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know what. In any case, considering what the forensic detective had told him, these two people hadn’t had a hand in the actual crime. Khalid suspected, and strongly so, that they were involved somehow, but the investigation was young.

  The detective smiled and slapped his palms on the kitchen island. “Okay!” He stood from the stool and wandered to the door to see the coroner’s people coming back. There was at least one more stiff to haul away.

  “The basement is a crime scene,” he told them. “It’s off limits to you. In fact, I’d recommend getting a room in town.”

  “Sure. Can I go up and get my stuff?” asked Phoebe

  Khalid caught the eye of the uniform next to him. “Officer Matheson will go with you.”

  Phoebe got up and headed out, and the officer followed.

  “I’ll go with you, Mr. Maule,” Khalid said and dismissed the remaining policeman.

  Holgrave headed up, with Khalid just behind. Once they arrived on the third floor, Khalid called for Holgrave to stop. They were right outside the master bedroom, and Khalid opened the door.

  “What was going on in this house, Mr. Maule?” the detective asked. He waved his arm over the room. It settled upon the statue of Hecate, another of Ba’al, and all the candles strewn throughout the room. “What were you people into?”

  “Oh, no!” Holgrave protested. “I’m just a boarder, Detective. Ms. Pyncheon, Hester, that is, was an eccentric and fancied herself a wiccan. The same can be said for Ms. Alameda and Ms. D’Amitri. They were nothing more than self-proclaimed psychics and fortune tellers. I’m sure they have a reputation in town. They had clients visiting every day while I’ve been here.”

  Khalid grunted and pulled the door shut. “Let’s go.”

  Holgrave went up to his room, leaving the door open for the detective. He began packing his clothes, emptying the chest of drawers first. He turned and noticed Detective Khalid inspecting the table, upon which sat his photographs and cameras. Khalid did this without touching, leaning over the table with his hands behind his back.

  “I see you’ve got a thing for this place,” said Khalid.

  “It is a truly remarkable house, Detective.” Holgrave continued packing, though he kept his eye on the policeman.

  “Why three cameras, Mr. Maule?” asked the detective.

  “I find that traditional film, black-and-white or color, tends to see things that a digital camera cannot. And vice-versa,” Holgrave explained. He stepped to the detective’s side and sifted through the stack of printed photographs. “I like to take long walks about the property and the forest surrounding it. I take the cameras with me and snap a few as I go. The house, quite naturally, becomes the focal point.”

  “I see,” said Arman Khalid. “Leave those for now. Just take what you need.”

  “The cameras as well?” Holgrave asked.

  “Yes, please,” said the detective. “You never know what details might be found on a camera.”

  Holgrave looked at the detective for a moment, but met only a passive stare that told him nothing. “Certainly,” Holgrave reluctantly agreed and went back to packing his clothes.

  ***

  Phoebe took very little time packing her things. She picked up her backpack and reached for her laptop.

  “You’ll have to leave that, Ms. Pyncheon,” said Officer Matheson.

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sure it’ll be released to you once the detective has it cleared.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes but protested no further. She was exhausted, and all she wanted to do was sleep and forget about the horrors she had witnessed in the basement. She wanted to forget it all, though she knew that was too much to ask of her brain. She couldn’t even talk about it, for to do so was to deviate from the story, and then she and Holgrave would be suspects for sure.

  “It’s best to say we weren’t down there to begin with,” Holgrave had told her when the police were on their way. “How would we explain any of it?”

  Phoebe was not a liar, at least not a good one. She was not comfortable in keeping the attempted sacrifice from the police, but Holgrave had been right. They were lucky they hadn’t been arrested on the spot and interrogated in isolation, like they do in the movies.

  Phoebe sighed and shook her head, clearing the image of herself in a black-and-white movie, with Detective Khalid in a tan overcoat and a black fedora.

  “Are you all right, Miss?” asked Matheson. He was a tall, slightly pudgy fellow, balding but still good looking, with sympathetic eyes that she had not noticed before.

  “Yes, fine,” Phoebe answered. “Just . . . this is all just a nightmare.”

  “I understand,” said Matheson. “Do you have everything?”

  “Yeah,” answered Phoebe. She had managed to get her belongings into one of the garbage bags. The rest of her clothes were in the laundry bin in the basement, or crime scene, as the police now considered it.

  Matheson stood to one side and let her out of the bedroom. Phoebe led him back down to the first floor and out onto the porch. Holgrave was there with his two suitcases, as was Detective Khalid.

  “All right,” began the detective. “This is the part where I tell you to not leave town.” He smiled, but it was lightning quick, gone in a heartbeat. “You’re people of interest, not suspects,” he told them as he looked from Phoebe to Holgrave and back. “If I thought either of you were capable of having a hand in this, I’d be taking you in for interrogation.”

  “I understand,” said Holgrave.

  Phoebe remained quiet but nodded her acquiescence.

  “All right,” said Khalid. “Get settled at the inn, and I’ll be in touch. Expect a call or visit from me or another detective later today.”

  With that, Phoebe and Holgrave were allowed to leave. Phoebe, too shaken to drive, let alone put up with any of her car’s issues, rode into town with Holgrave in his Mercedes. A White Lake Police cruiser followed them.

  They checked into separate rooms at the White Lake Inn, a motel near the main route out of town. The inn was old and had been around since Phoebe was a child. Since Phoebe had no money, Holgrave Maule was kind enough to pay for her room, a favor she was most grateful for. She took her key, an actual metal shard with teeth cut into the blade, and unlocked her room’s door. She pushed it open and looked inside before stepping in.

  The
room had a queen-sized bed, a small flat-screen television on top of the dresser, a chair, and a small table with an attached lamp. The main lights were mounted on the wall behind the bed. The walls were white textured stucco.

  “Will you be all right?” asked Maule from her left.

  She was too exhausted to react from being startled. “Yeah. Just need rest.”

  “I’ll be right here,” he said, indicating the room next door.

  Phoebe nodded and went inside. She dropped the garbage bag of clothes onto the rose-colored carpet, dragged the thick purple comforter to one side and collapsed onto the bed. She sank into the mattress and the pillow, noting that at least they were a little more comfortable than those at the House of the Seven Gables.

  A triangularly folded card sitting on the side table claimed that the White Lake Inn had free Wi-Fi.

  “Great, and the cops have my laptop,” Phoebe muttered with irony into the pillow. The vision of Dzolali came to her mind, and despair for her lost love, though it had still been new, struck her hard. She wept hard into the pillow until, exhausted, she fell asleep.

  Epilogue

  Phoebe nervously stepped onto the porch of the House of the Seven Gables. The police had locked it up, and much of their yellow crime scene tape was still fluttering about. Detective Lieutenant Clive Backstrom, who had recovered from his automobile incident, though he depended on a cane to walk, had taken over the still-unsolved murder case from Arman Khalid. Phoebe and Holgrave had been cleared of any crime, but the details of the case had largely been kept from them, and for the most part, out of the media.

  Backstrom had shared the opinions from the forensics team with Phoebe and Holgrave: that the murders were a mixture of ingroup conflict. Fingerprints on the weapons belonged to Hester, Glendarah, and Dzolali, with not a trace from Onenspek, Holgrave, or Phoebe. The other wounds, primarily those resembling claws or bites, were theorized as belonging to a bird of prey of some kind, substantiated by the presence of a large birdcage at the scene.