Terror on Top

by CeeCee James

  I filled the water pitcher, and Frank grabbed glasses. While we finished the table, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” I said.

  Stella had finally arrived. She clutched her purse strap rather tightly. “You nervous?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Me, too,” she said.

  “I can tell.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “You ready to do this?”

  I nodded again. The words stuck in my throat.

  “Okay, let’s go get some answers.”

  We entered the dining room to a chorus of welcomes. Stella waved at everyone and took her seat.

  “So, Georgie was telling us that someone died at the house you listed,” Cecelia said.

  “Yes. Murdered.”

  “Murdered. Any suspects?” Oscar helping himself to the sliced roast.

  Stella shook her head. “No, but while we were there cleaning the neighbor let herself in. She had her own key.”

  Oscar raised a shaggy brow, chewing thoughtfully. He was one of those people who said just as much with his silences as with his words.

  Stella continued. “She kept asking us about a basement. I didn’t even know it existed. After she left, Georgie and I found it outside.”

  “Yeah and under the stairwell we found a hidey-hole. Unfortunately, nothing good was in it. It had been cleaned out.”

  “Any idea of what was in it?”

  I shook my head. “Something small. However, there was something fascinating that was left behind. A painting.” I shared the artist’s name.

  “What? Really?” Cecelia asked.

  “Behind a door, which is very odd spot to keep it.”

  “Who did you say it was?” Oscar hoarsely asked.

  I repeated the artist’s name. “And even more shocking was the value placed on it.” I turned to Frank. “I searched it up. I was curious.”

  “That should be your middle name,” he answered sardonically.

  “Maybe it is,” I shot back.

  Stella interrupted. “Anyway, it made no sense to either of us how Calvin would allow the house to foreclose with the painting there, or why he wouldn’t have taken the painting with him.”

  Oscar eased out of his chair like all of his joints were in need of some oil. Slowly, he walked into the kitchen. We watched, I think all of us slightly confused that he left in the middle of the conversation. When he returned, he was holding a steaming mug. He stood in the doorway, contemplatively.

  “Oscar, what is it?” Cecelia asked.

  “The Lover Spurned,” Oscar said, and slowly let out an exhale. “That’s the title of it. It’s one of the most famous paintings the artist ever did. I’d been tracking it at one time. Shipped through Midnight Trucking.” Here he locked eyes with me.

  A chill went through the room. No one moved.

  “What does that mean, Oscar?” Stella asked.

  “Well, you guys wanted answers about Derek. Yet here you are, bringing it in full circle. That painting was on the last shipment that Derek Summers was a part of. He never made it. The shipment took place the day after he died.”

  The room swirled around me. I felt woozy. Sick.

  “Georgie, are you okay?” Frank asked, his voice raised in concern.

  “I don’t feel well,” I mumbled, closing my eyes to stop the vertigo. My ears buzzed, my lips, my fingers.

  “Cover your mouth and breath into your hands,” Frank directed. He grabbed a napkin and fanned my face.

  I slowly breathed. This was ridiculous. What an overreaction.

  But at the same time I couldn’t stop what was happening to my body. My heart had started galloping at Oscar’s first mention of Derek.

  The cool flow of air from the napkin helped. It was in direct contrast to the warmth I breathed in from my cupped hands. I concentrated on forcing the dreadful memories away. Derek hadn’t chosen to leave me. He had loved me.

  After a few moments, the buzzing dissipated. My head cleared.

  Frank stood behind me to rub my shoulders. “You okay, honey?” he whispered in my ear.

  His compassion brought tears to my eyes. I nodded and rested my head back against him.

  He stroked my arm. “You want to continue?”

  I nodded again and looked towards Oscar.

  “You sure?” Oscar’s voice was gruff but concerned as well.

  “Yes. Sorry about that. I guess the shock just got to me.”

  I hadn’t noticed that Cecelia had left the table until she bustled back through the door with a steaming cup.

  “Have some chamomile tea, love. This will soothe you down.”

  I smiled, remembering the many cups she’d shared with my grandmother years ago. They’d always given me my own cup as well, along with a heavy portion of milk and sugar.

  Oscar sat down again and took a mouthful of beef. Cecelia offered the potatoes.

  I nibbled on the biscuit, letting the melted butter and raspberry roll over my tongue. The sugar helped as well.

  We ate in silence. I think everyone needed a little breather.

  Finally, Oscar began again. “I’d been tracking the painting. We knew it was due to be shipped. I saw Midnight trucking had hired a new guy, had only been there a few months. He seemed just as rough as the rest of them. We did a stakeout and watched through binoculars. When the painting arrived at the warehouse, this new guy opened it. That’s a big deal because the painting was in a nailed frame box. He stared at it for a moment and then nailed the box shut. We watched as he made a mark on it. It was a mark we knew the company made when something was about to disappear.” He glanced at me. “It was because of Derek the painting was stolen.”

  Silence descended in the room. No one would look at me. Forks scraped against plates, cups were sipped.

  Finally, Cecelia spoke up. “Can the FBI go after Midnight trucking now that Georgie’s found it again?”

  “Not enough proof to connect a crime to them. Everything I’ve told you is still conjecture, especially with Derek gone. Art disappears and reappears all the time. Still, I can put a bug in someone’s ear and we’ll see what comes of it.”

  The rest of dinner was a bunch of forced small talk. Frank and I left soon after.

  I heard what Oscar had said about Derek. I knew it looked bad.

  But I didn’t believe it. Something was wrong. Derek was not a thief, nor was he in the mob. And I would find a way to clear his name.

  Chapter 9

  Finally the day arrived for the open house. Stella had asked me to come with her, and after everything that happened, I didn’t blame her. I didn’t want her to do it by herself, anyway.

  We arrived that morning with faces plastered with “Hey, everything’s okay” smiles and went straight to work, adjusting blinds, wiping the counters, and making neat vacuum stripes in the carpet.

  I noticed Stella’s nails were chewed to the quick. I could only imagine how she felt. After all, I had no real investment in the place, but she had the responsibility to sell it.

  “You doing okay?” I finally asked, after she covered the vacuum marks with footprints from her pacing.

  “I can’t wait until this place is sold. The whole house feels like it’s covered in an icky cloud.”

  I nodded, quite agreeing. She took out her phone and started typing. I headed to the study.

  It was quiet and dim back here, despite the overhead light being on. Only one of the bulbs still worked. I shut the door and studied The Lover Spurned one more time.

  The internet confirmed the same story that Oscar had shared. It had been stolen from the executive office of a software company who was selling it through an auction.

  I did learn that, after an extensive investigation, the insurance had paid out in the tune of over a million dollars.

  So what happens now? Do I alert the insurance company that it was found? Frowning, I made a mental note to call Frank and ask his advice on who I should contact.

  A car pulled
up, causing me to glance out the window. Pink caught my eye, the bright pink flamingo by the real estate sign. It was a funny sight, despite knowing the story behind Stella’s uncle’s decision to use the icon.

  I spun around and hurried to the living room. “People are here.”

  “Okay. It’s show time.” She brushed off the front of her skirt as she walked toward the door.

  It was nonstop after that. By the time the third group came through, I was beginning to see a pattern. There were entirely too many people who were highly interested in the master bedroom closet. Morbid curiosity was driving lookers but not helping us much in the area of buyers.

  There wasn’t much for me to do. I spent half of the time tidying up the brochures, photos, and business cards Stella had displayed on the counter, while Stella chased after the potential buyers. I didn’t know how she did it, give the same tour over and over and answer the same questions in an enthusiastic tone.

  She came by the kitchen once with a sour look. “Today, of all days, I had to wear high heels. Ridiculous.” Then she pasted on another smile as more people came through.

  I glanced at the time and groaned. My stomach rumbled in protest as well. Two hours left. This open house was as long and boring as waiting in line at the DOL.

  The front door crashed open. I ran to see what had happened, just in time to see the flamingo hurling across the yard. Screaming followed it.

  A couple hurried in past me, their faces appearing a bit frightened.

  “What’s going on?” Stella asked, appearing from down the hall.

  “There’s some guy going crazy and throwing things. You might want to call the police,” the man said, his voice loud with excitement.

  I moved past the couple and out onto the porch. Sure enough, there was a tall man standing in the middle of the lawn, yelling at the people walking by. While I watched, he ran over to the for-sale sign and began to heave the post from the ground.

  He must have felt me staring because he looked up. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of me.

  “Hey!” His face darkened as he strode over.

  “Calm down, sir!” I yelled.

  “How dare you sell my father’s house!”

  My mouth dropped. Now what do I do? There were plenty of witnesses, with people huddled around the foyer as well as those watching from the sidewalk.

  The man stopped at the bottom step.“My dad’s been missing for months. No one’s helping me. Are you telling me the bank can just take his house and give it to someone else? Who does that? Is anyone even looking for him?” He clenched his fists at the last statement.

  “Sir, please calm down,” I said.

  “Calm down?”

  “Yes. Or I’m calling the police.” I lifted the cell phone, my hands shaking.

  That seemed to sober him up. “Look,” He held out his hands and shook his head. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I know this is just… your job or whatever, but this is screwed up, you know? He’s missing! I’ve searched everywhere.”

  “Did you file a missing person’s report?” Stella asked, appearing next to me.

  “I tried. The cops say there’s not enough evidence to make a missing person’s report since he’s an adult and has shown a history of traveling a lot.” The man slumped until he was sitting in the grass. He dropped his head into his hands.

  He was grieving. There was no doubt about it. And seeing his raw emotion made me feel terrible.

  “I’m sorry,” Stella said softly. “I don’t really know what to do. Unfortunately, I have no control over the house being sold.”

  Just then we heard emergency sirens.

  “Did you call the cops?” He stared up.

  Stella shook her head.

  “Someone watching must have done it,” I said.

  Swear words flew from his mouth as he scrambled to his feet. He ran off, kicking the fallen sign as he passed.

  “Wow, what a… ugh.” Stella shook her head as she walked down the steps. She picked up the sign, before setting it back in the grass with a resigned sigh.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Let’s just round everyone up. This open house is closed. I can’t take any more.”

  I did as she asked, and we soon had the house emptied.

  “Lunch?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but there is something else.” She locked the door behind us.

  “What?”

  “I really want to know more about the guy who lived here. I’m tired of all this secrecy. And I have an idea of where we can look.”

  Chapter 10

  Curious, I followed her to the car. After a trip through the drive-through where we loaded up on a bag of greasy fries and burgers, Stella drove us to a storage facility.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked, before shoving the rest of the burger in my mouth.

  “You’ll see.” She took a sip of her soda and then unfastened her seatbelt. Leaning over, she reached for an attaché case from the back seat. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  It was freezing outside. I zipped my hoody and followed after her. With firm steps, she entered the facility’s office.

  “Hello. Can I help you?” asked a woman. I could barely see her seated behind the counter. On a cart near her sat a little TV. A game show flashed on the screen, accompanied by canned laughter.

  “Yes. I need the key for the unit for the Dunham house. I’m the representative for the house.”

  “You have any paperwork?”

  Stella rifled through the case and produced a folder. She pulled out some paperwork and slid it across the desk. “Here it is.”

  The woman examined it for a minute. She grabbed a key and handed it over. Through the whole exchange, she barely looked up from the TV.

  “Thank you.” Stella headed back outside. After glancing at the number, we walked past rows of storage units. Finally she found what she was searching for and studied the doors of the units.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on yet?”

  “So, when a house is abandoned, this particular bank has a procedure to gather up the personal items and put it in the storage for either the family to claim or to auction off at a later date. Usually they leave the furniture to stage the house, if it’s in good condition.”

  “Why didn’t they take the painting?”

  “I’m not sure. They also didn’t leave hardly any furniture. The whole thing is weird.”

  She stopped before a unit. “We’re here.” Grabbing the lock, she slid in the key and then rolled up the door.

  I expected to see the unit stuffed full of the missing furniture. Instead, there were only a few boxes that appeared to have been carelessly tossed in. A cardboard lid sat by itself.

  “Where’s the furniture?” Stella asked, puzzled.

  “You think they threw it out?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  She walked over to one of the boxes and squatted beside it. After rummaging inside, she pulled out a shirt and then a pair of pants.

  “Should I just dive in?” I asked.

  “Go for it.”

  I wiped my hands, feeling slightly squicked out. When I woke this morning, I never dreamed I’d be digging through some stranger’s personal items. “Anything specific I’m looking for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Got it.” I sat cross-legged on the concrete ground and opened a box. It was full of papers. I pulled one out and saw it was a power bill. The next was for water. Paperwork for car insurance. It went on like this, scattered with irrelevant grocery receipts.

  I picked out the car insurance to read. I must have made a sound, because Stella asked, “What did you find?”

  “I guess Calvin drove an Escalade. Where is it?”

  “Missing as well, I suppose. Maybe he took it.”

  There was a stack of ticket stubs. Flights to China, Russia, and random countries in Europe. It reminded m
e of how his son said he did a lot of traveling. Jennifer, the neighbor woman, had said the same thing. Here was the proof.

  “Check this out.” I passed the pile of stubs over to Stella.

  She pushed her hair back and reached for them. “He sure had an expensive life. I wonder what he did for a living.”

  “Now don’t you think this seems completely contradictory with a modest home with no furniture?”

  “Totally. This makes no sense at all.”

  I went back to digging in a new box. This one also contained clothing. I was about to push it away—finding it too distasteful to paw through someone’s underwear and T-shirts—when I saw something sitting under the pile.

  A small carton.

  I opened it to reveal a pair of car keys, a check book, and a wallet. The wallet didn’t contain any cash, but there was a driver’s license, along with bank cards and other business cards.

  “Stella, look!” I yelled.

  I shuffled through the business cards. They varied from a mechanic’s to a baker’s. There were two that caught my attention. One was for a networking engineer and another was for a coding specialist.

  Was Calvin Dunham was into computer software?

  “Check this out.” I passed the cards over to Stella.

  She glanced through them, her brows lowering. “Why would he leave his wallet?”

  “And look at this. SUV keys.” I jingled them.

  “You think those are a spare pair?”

  “Maybe.”

  Stella handed back the business cards. I placed them in a neat line on the floor and snapped a picture.

  “Smart,” Stella said approvingly.

  “Maybe they’ll lead us to a clue.” I tucked them back in the wallet and shoved it in the box. We replaced everything and secured the lids.

  “Now what?” Stella asked.

  “I guess we figure out what these cards mean.”

  She leaned over to look at the picture I pulled up on my phone. “The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,” she whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “All those different occupations. Those cards make about as much sense as that.”