Deep Night

by Ambrose Ibsen

  But had William really split already? The lawn had been well-maintained, the grass recently cut. It was possible that Villefort had someone coming by the property to preserve the grounds, but would he have risked having some landscaper accidentally unearth his victim? Seeing as how the man had gone about procuring all of the landscaping supplies on his own, it naturally followed that he was committed to doing the upkeep himself, too. To do otherwise would open him to great risk. Only when the body had had a chance to decay and its final resting place had been well-hidden by consistent growth could he allow someone else to care for the property's greenery.

  It was possible that William Villefort hadn't skipped town yet, but he was almost certainly going to. What's more, with time and money on his side, he'd have the breathing room to destroy evidence linking him to the murder of Gloria Ramos and to forge some kind of alibi. The clock was ticking.

  Technically, Ulrich hadn't entered the house legally. This meant that whatever evidence he'd managed to find within wasn't necessarily going to stand up in a court of law. More than likely, if he took these receipts and such to the police, he'd end up in cuffs. He would have to get the authorities involved without letting on everything he knew. It would be a difficult task—and would probably involve some embroidery of the facts on his part—but there was no other way ahead. Short of stumbling upon Gloria's body, this was his best bet. It was safer, too; better that the police handle a killer like William Villefort than Ulrich risk his neck.

  He stood, put out the desk lamp. “All right. If we can find your body, there's probably enough evidence in here to link him to the crime,” he said aloud. “If we're going to catch the bastard, then we need to get the authorities involved immediately. I'm going to meet with the sheriff of Tanglewood and see if we can't get the property searched.”

  He was about to exit the room and leave the premises when he heard something—this time, most startlingly, from outside. Peering through a crack in the blinds, Ulrich looked out across the front of the property. There, idling in the road, was a vehicle.

  A white SUV with tinted windows rolled to a stop in front of the property. For all intents and purposes, they'd looked about to turn into the driveway, but had stopped short upon noticing the detective's heap parked there. The vehicle lingered for a beat.

  Ulrich felt his chest tighten. Oh, good. He's home. He hadn't prepared for this, had hoped to be finished with his snooping before William made a return. Now they were going to meet, face-to-face. Ulrich switched off his flashlight and held it in death grip. Things are about to get real interesting...

  Then, to the detective's surprise, the SUV's tires filled the night with squealing. The driver floored it and the vehicle peeled away, speeding down the dark country stretch and out of view.

  He lost his nerve? Ulrich watched the vehicle's rear lights fade into the distance, then hurriedly left the room. Tramping down the stairs, he burst out the back door and sidled up to the side of the house, where he watched the road for some time. Maybe he wasn't ready to throw down. It could be that his gun is in that safe and he wasn't ready for a confrontation...Whatever the reason for the visitor's sudden flight, the detective wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  And he sure as hell wasn't going to wait around for Villefort to drive by again.

  When he was sure there was no one coming up the road in either direction, Ulrich raced to his car, jumped into the driver's seat and started up the aged engine as quickly as he could. Backing out so fast that he nearly reversed into a drainage ditch, he corrected course and sped off in the direction of town. If he was lucky, he'd make it to the Tanglewood Sheriff's office within thirty-five minutes.

  He hoped that was soon enough. William Villefort had that same thirty-five minutes to play with, and if the cops didn't act fast, he'd slip away—maybe for good.

  20

  “You're a... private detective?”

  Ulrich nodded. “Yes, more than a decade's experience.” He shook the deputy's hand—more forcefully than necessary—then helped himself to an empty chair in the dim lobby.

  He had sped all the way from the Villefort property in the outskirts, arriving at the sheriff's office in a trim thirty-two minutes, and had burst in through the front door only to startle Deputy Marc Kannberg, who'd been sitting at the front desk playing PC solitaire. After a quick introduction—and having rehearsed his piece all the way there—Ulrich had gotten down to brass tacks.

  “Well, it's nice to meet ya,” continued the deputy, eyeing him curiously. “Anything in particular bring you in tonight?” He pulled a pack of gum from his pocket and offered a stick to the detective. Chewing loudly, he smirked and gave the monitor a half-turn, displaying his ongoing game. “As you can see, not much going on at the moment. Working the graveyard shift in a city like this one is both a blessing and a curse, I tell ya.”

  Ulrich offered a polite smile, then leaned forward, hands balled on the armrests of the flimsy plastic chair. “See, that's the thing. I'm here because... I think I've discovered something—a crime that needs investigated. And I'm afraid there isn't much time.”

  Marc arched a sandy brow and gnawed on his gum for a moment. “A crime? What're we looking at? Maybe theft... insurance fraud? That's what you guys typically look into, right?”

  Ulrich licked his lips, replying with only a single word. “Murder.”

  The deputy's other brow went up. Wide-eyed, he echoed the detective and reclined in his office chair. “Murder?” He took a deep breath threw his nose. “A murder in Tanglewood?”

  “That's right.”

  Clicking his gum, Marc gave a snort and looked back at his monitor. “Nah.”

  Ulrich had expected some resistance; without evidence, it would be tough to convince the authorities to look into the matter of Gloria Ramos' death. Getting brushed off so easily threw him for a loop, though. “L-Look, I don't think you understand! In the course of an unrelated investigation, I believe I've uncovered evidence of a recent murder!”

  Marc clicked around for a beat, shaking his head. “Mr. Ulrich, I don't think you understand. You've only been in town like two weeks, right? I'll forgive you for not realizing this, but murders just don't happen in Tanglewood, Ohio. Maybe in Toledo, where you're from, but not here. You know when the last murder took place here in Tanglewood? Take a guess.”

  “I... I dunno,” replied Ulrich.

  “1967. My dad was wearing diapers. The Beatles were still putting out albums.” He propped his chin on his palm and chuckled. “That kind of crime just doesn't pop up around here.” With a shrug, he stood up and stretched. “What kind of case have you been working, anyhow?”

  “I've been working for Nancy Pruitt,” began the detective. Noticing the flash of recognition in the deputy's eyes, he continued promptly. “You know her—paid her a visit two nights this week, if I'm not mistaken? She claims she's been stalked by someone, but... well, I guess you don't have stalkers in Tanglewood, either?”

  Marc dropped back into his seat, jabbing the air with a single finger. “Now, I never said she was lying. I stopped by twice and had a good look around. There was no one there. They probably beat it before I arrived, else Nance is just paranoid.” He frowned. “Anyhow, what's Nance's thing got to do with a murder?”

  Ulrich ran a hand through his hair. How am I going to explain this without mentioning ghosts? “Well,” he began, “I hung around her house two nights, trying to get a look at this stalker. Didn't catch them, but figured there was something they were after. Turns out Nancy had brought a new painting home from her shop—and that the stalker was wrapped up with the picture.” So far, at least, he hadn't exactly lied—only simplified events. “I started looking into the picture, right? Turns out it was owned by a local, William Villefort. Know him?”

  Marc nodded. “I know of him. Rich dude.”

  “Right. I sought out his wife—turns out he's been gone awhile, ran off with his housekeeper, Gloria Ramos.”

  Grinnin
g, the deputy returned to his screen, rearranging a few cards. “You mean to tell me rich guys can be scoundrels?” He whistled in mock disbelief.

  “More than that,” continued the detective, “they can be murderers, too.” He waited till he had Marc's gaze upon him again before adding, “I wanted to talk to him, just ask some questions about the picture. Wife hasn't spoken to him in more than a week. He doesn't answer his cell. Turns out the Villeforts have a second property about forty minutes from here, on the edge of a big pond—Pearson Pond. I went by there today.”

  Marc said nothing. He fixed Ulrich with a firm stare, waiting.

  “The place didn't seem right. There's been lots of lawn work lately, though. I happened upon some supplies—rope, grass seed, things like that—and feel confident he's buried the body somewhere on the property.”

  The deputy nodded slowly, patronizingly. “Whose body?”

  “His housekeeper's. Gloria Ramos, the one he's been having an affair with.”

  “Right.” Marc smacked his gum amusedly, then picked up a pen, drumming against a notepad on his desk. “Now, what proof do you have that this Miss Ramos is dead?”

  For one, her damn ghost has been paying me a visit every night, is what he wanted to say. Admittedly, he had nothing to offer in this regard. “A gut feeling,” he finally replied. Then, before the deputy could mock him further, he added, “Don't you think it's strange that this guy and his mistress haven't been heard from in so long? That William is dodging his wife, that he takes off but somehow has the time to keep his lawn in tip-top shape? He had everything one would need to hide a body—had fresh fertilizer and grass seed spread on the lawn like he was trying to mask any recent disturbances in the soil.”

  At this, Marc laughed. “I ain't gonna indict a man for taking good care of his lawn!” He slapped his desk with his palm. “I appreciate your concern, really I do, but this smacks of bullshit, Mr. Ulrich. Here I thought maybe you'd stumbled upon a body or something horrible like that. 'Gut feeling' isn't how we do things around here, though. What's more, I don't think it's so strange that a cheating bastard would avoid picking up his phone. And what about this woman—Ramos? You checked into her whereabouts lately? What makes you think she's dead? I feel like I've missed something—or that you're not telling me everything.”

  If Ulrich was sure of anything in this case, it was that Gloria Ramos was dead. He'd seen her ghost with his own two eyes. But he couldn't mention that without sounding even crazier than he already did.

  “Get home, get some sleep,” said Marc, waving him off. “Night shift ain't for everyone. You'll wake up in the morning and feel silly about all this, I guarantee it. Though, before you go, let me leave you one piece of advice.” He turned to his notepad and scribbled out a hasty note. Then, tearing the page loose, he folded it over and handed it to the detective.

  Ulrich opened it. It read, Don't go trespassing on private property again, else I'm gonna have to lock YOUR ass up, detective. “Hey, I didn't exactly trespass today, I just...”

  Marc smacked his gum and motioned to the door. “Good night, detective.”

  Crumpling the note in his fist, Ulrich walked out into the warm night. As he approached his car, he noted the figure seated in the back. He slipped into the driver's seat without daring to look behind him. “I tried,” he said, starting the car. “What do you want me to do about it? They won't believe me without a body. Can you tell me where you're buried? Until I know that, they're going to keep writing me off.”

  When he finally worked up the courage to turn around, he saw only the painting there.

  21

  “All right, we're going to go through this again.” Ulrich held up the painting. Pacing back and forth, he ran through all of the evidence, scarcely taking a breath as he did so. “This painting is haunted by the spirit of Gloria Ramos. She was engaged in an extramarital affair with William Villefort, and it doesn't sound like the pair did a good job of keeping things quiet. She's dead, and every night she's been appearing to the owner of this painting, trying to get them to look into the details of her murder. At this point, it all seems black and white to me. Are you following?”

  Flopping onto his side, Beardsley licked at one of his paws.

  The detective had tugged at his hair so much that evening that it was now a wild mess. “It's true that you can't arrest a guy for maintaining his lawn, but I'd bet my bottom dollar that a cadaver dog would turn something up in an instant if only the deputy would get someone on the case. And then there are the huge bank withdrawals. If you look at the whole picture, it's pretty damning. If something isn't done quick, he's going to get away with murder. But I can't go to the cops and tell them that Gloria's ghost led me to the place—they'll have me committed.”

  Beardsley turned his attention to his left flank, his tongue working over his fur inch-by-inch.

  Ulrich had hit a wall. Unless he had a body or some other smoking gun to point to, the local authorities weren't going to play ball. It was a wretched place to be; he was a newcomer, had no local reputation, and had shown up with zero physical evidence. He'd be lucky if he'd ever get deputy Marc to trust him on anything again.

  “I'm not above digging up that lawn,” continued Ulrich, shaking the painting with such ferocity that the cat startled. “They can throw me in county for making some holes, whatever. It's too big a job for one man unless he knows where to dig, though. And William Villefort drove by while I was there tonight—he knows someone is poking around. He may not know I'm a PI, but if he's still in town at all he's going to be extra cautious now. I've surrendered the element of surprise. He owns a gun, you know that? If I cross him unprepared, I stand to end up buried somewhere, too.”

  His phone began to buzz in his pocket. As he set the painting on the bed, the cat glared at it and—as if to distance himself from its oppressive aura—jumped to the floor with a curious growl. Ulrich saw it was Nancy calling. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mr. Ulrich. I'm sorry to be calling so late. I was just getting ready for bed and thought I'd see how you were doing. Any news?”

  “I'll say,” blurted the detective. “I just met your buddy, the deputy.”

  “Marc?” she asked. “Why, what happened?”

  “To make a long story short, this painting is a whole lot of trouble. I think I mentioned that I was going to look into William Villefort when last we spoke, yes? The digging I did on that front led in a rather unsavory direction and now it looks like I might have to do some literal digging.”

  “Huh?” She chuckled. “I don't understand.”

  “Willie Villefort stepped out on his wife with their housekeeper, a young thing named Gloria Ramos. I looked her up today; she's our ghost.”

  There was a long pause. “Wait... he killed his mistress, then?”

  “Sure seems that way. What's more, I think he's buried her on that remote property of his—the one in the painting. I paid the house a visit this evening, and while I was there the spirit showed up. Now, don't breathe a word of this to anyone else, but she let me into the house and I saw some things. There's ammunition in there, plus receipts that indicate he planned this murder ahead of time. It seems he withdrew quite a lot of money over the past few months as well, probably so that he could stage an escape when it was done. This, along with all of the recent landscaping at his place, points to a detailed murder plot and an effort to hide the body on his property.”

  “B-But why? Why would he murder her?” asked Nancy.

  “I haven't had a chance to ask him,” was Ulrich's reply. “Though, before I left today, someone stopped outside the house and took stock of things from the road. I'm pretty sure it was him, and there's no way he didn't see my car. He knows someone is meddling and if he wasn't paranoid already he'll be acting super cautious from here on out. He may have even flown the coop, in which case it's going to be damn hard to nail him if and when the assholes at the sheriff's office decide to act.”

  “So, Marc wasn't willing to look into i
t?”

  “Nope. I'm sensing that's a trend, eh? He didn't buy your stalker story, either.”

  Nancy sighed. “Sure, but can you blame him? Even I didn't realize what we were actually dealing with.” She chewed on her lower lip awhile. “Did you tell him what you just told me? I can't believe that he wouldn't at least file a missing person's report or something. This woman hasn't been seen in awhile—isn't someone looking for her?”

  “I don't know,” replied Ulrich, “but I'm not a family member. I can't just file a missing person's report on whoever I please. What's more, you and I both know there's no sense in it. She's dead, after all.” He plopped down onto the end of his bed and stared down at the painting. “I didn't tell Marc everything, no. How could I? He'd think me insane. I've run into this problem before; when ghosts enter the mix you have to tread very carefully. People will think you're delusional if you spout off about a bunch of ghostly evidence.”

  “I guess so. But what else can you do?”

  Ulrich gnawed at his thumbnail. “Good question. I need to find out where she's buried. If I can do that, I'll unearth her body myself and call it in. They won't be able to argue with that.”

  “That's... that's dangerous,” said Nancy. “This man, William, isn't going to take too kindly to your digging up his yard. What if he comes back and sees you?”

  Ulrich had been thinking about that a lot. No matter how one sliced it, returning to the Villefort property was unsafe. “I just have to keep my wits about me and not get caught, I suppose.”

  “No, I... I don't think you should,” she concluded. “Mr. Ulrich, I really appreciate the lengths you've gone to in sorting this case out. You've done more than I could have ever asked. You already figured out who was coming by my home every night, though. As far as I'm concerned, the case is solved—finished. I don't want to put you at risk by insisting you take it even further. You're talking about digging up bodies... possibly running into a suspected murderer. Please, don't do it. Get rid of the painting instead. It won't be our problem anymore if we do that. Burn it or sell it or abandon it in some dumpster. But don't get killed over it.”