Later, after I’d made Dutch as comfortable as possible on his couch, I went into the study to call Dave.
“Hey, Abby!” he said jovially when he picked up the phone.
“Are you kidding me with this house, Dave?” I said, not wasting time on the niceties.
“Well Happy New Year to you, too,” he said reproachfully.
“Sorry,” I said, pulling in my horns. “But I had no idea the place was such a dump.”
“That’s why we’re getting it for a song. Trust me, by the time I’m through with it, you won’t even recognize it.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, remembering what a fantastic job Dave had done on my own home. “So I talked to Rick, my friend at the bank, and he says that he just got the paperwork for our LLC and we can close early next week if we want.” Cat, Dave and I had just formed the investment firm of CO-MAS-MAC, which combined the first few letters of each of our last names. Not a very glamorous name, but hopefully a profitable one. “Cat’s providing the down payment,” I continued, “and the house didn’t appraise for much, so the loan amount is fairly low. Have you talked with the realtor?”
“Yeah, we’re good to go on that. She said that she’s ready to do the closing whenever you are.” I had been named president and CEO of CO-MAS-MAC and held the signing rights for all investments. Dave and Cat weren’t required to attend the closing. “The quicker we get this thing buttoned up the sooner I can get started on the repairs, so let me know the moment we take possession, okay?” Dave said.
“It should be late next week, but I’ll get back to you with the official date in the next couple of days.”
“Sounds good. I think I’ll go to the Depot this week and start preordering all the wood and supplies.”
“Hey, what’s the deal with that house anyway?” I asked. “It looks like a bomb went off in it.”
“From what I understand, no one’s been living in it for quite some time. The realtor says it’s been abandoned for a while, and the owner has been trying to sell it for a couple of years now.”
“You would think they would have tried fixing it up a little before putting it on the market,” I remarked.
“Yeah, that would have been my plan, but the house needs a ton of work and that costs money. The seller might not have had the resources.”
All of a sudden my intuition began to vibrate on high. The way my intuition works is that when there’s a piece of information that I should know about, a sensation much like a telephone ringing in another room goes off in my head. If I want to know what the message is, I simply answer the call. Automatically I shifted my focus and tuned in to what my guides were trying to tell me. An image of the house came to my mind’s eye and then the vision shifted to an emerald, a sapphire and a diamond sitting in a bird’s nest. I shook my head not understanding the message, and got another vision of a swastika painted on the side of a tank. Confused, I tuned out Dave, who was still talking, and focused on the vision. I saw a small café that had a French flag waving from the doorway in my mind’s eye. Odd. What did all of these images have to do with the house?
“Abby?” I heard Dave call from the receiver. “Abby, you there?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m here,” I said, snapping out of my thoughts. “Say, do you know anything about the owner? Like, did they have a connection to Europe or something?”
“Sorry, I don’t know anything about him other than the house originally belonged to a guy who died in the early nineties. I hear he willed it to his grandson who’s the one trying to sell it to us.”
Alarm bells were going off in my head. I had the distinct sensation that the house was bad news, but when I thought about pulling out of the sale, I intuitively felt that wasn’t a good idea. Dave must have read my mind because he asked, “You thinking about canceling on me?”
I hesitated for just a moment, then said, “No, it’s not that. I just hope you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew here, with all the repairs this place needs.”
“No sweat,” he reassured me. “I’ve got everything under control.” Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .
Great. Now I was really worried.
Ten days later, on January eighth, I scooted away from the closing table and stood up to shake my realtor’s hand. The seller had not come to the closing, but had signed off earlier in the day leaving me to zip through the paperwork in record time.
“Congratulations,” Kimber Relough, my realtor, said.
“Thanks, Kimber, but I’m not really sure I want to be congratulated yet.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” she said with a wink. “You’ve really got your work cut out for you.”
“Not me, my handyman.” I whipped out my phone and speed-dialed Dave’s number. “You can officially get to work, buddy,” I said as he picked up.
“About time, I’ve been parked in the driveway for an hour.”
“Patience isn’t one of your virtues is it, Dave?”
“The quicker I get going, the sooner it gets done and the sooner we can collect our profit.”
I chuckled as I thought about the change I’d seen in Dave since this whole thing began. When he’d worked for me on the renovation of my old house, he’d had one pace that I’d put somewhere just out of park and a little slower than snail, but suddenly, with the prospect of making a significant return on investment he was lit up and ready to go.
“Call me later with a progress report,” I offered as I heard his truck door squeak open.
“You got it,” he said and hung up.
I left the realty office and headed back to Dutch’s, in no particular hurry to get back to playing nursemaid. I might be crazy about my boyfriend, but spending so much time together was beginning to wear on my last nerve. That, coupled with the fact that he had turned into a whiny four-year-old, was testing my patience. It seems that getting shot in the ass is far more debilitating an injury than I’d first suspected. The wound had made it difficult for Dutch to get up and maneuver, but apparently it had also made it difficult to reach the paper on the coffee table, change the channel even with the help of the remote, and brush one’s teeth. In the past few days I’d seen a side of my boyfriend I wished I hadn’t and I was beginning to rethink this whole “quality time” idea. I was thinking that when I got back to his place I should have a little chat with him about hiring a professional so I could go home.
When I walked through his front door, however, I was greeted with a pleasant surprise. A bathed and clean-shaven hunk stood in the living room leaning on a cane. “Hello, gorgeous,” he said in greeting.
“Hey there, yourself,” I answered. “What’s all this?” I asked, waving at him.
“I guess I got tired of sitting around and complaining to you. It took me most of the morning but I managed a shower and got dressed all by myself,” he said proudly.
“And you cleaned too,” I said, noticing that the newspapers had been picked up off the floor then stacked on the coffee table, and the sheets on the couch had been folded into a neat little pile.
“Least I could do,” Dutch said limping stiffly over to me. He’d been taking several steps a day around the living room, which was part of his physical therapy, and day by day it had grown a little easier for him. Today he managed to walk the ten steps over to me without grimacing.
“Way to go, Lightning,” I chuckled.
“I have something for you,” he sang.
“More dirty laundry?”
“That, and . . .” he said, pulling something out of his pocket, “this.”
I leaned in to take a better look at the small red velvet box he was holding in his hand. “What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a present.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Your birthday.”
“You missed it by a whole week there, Gimpy.” I said, the hurt finally showing on my face. The day of my birthday had come and gone with nary a word from Dutch. I had convinced myself that in his injured delirium he
had simply overlooked the date, but now that he’d finally remembered, it brought the sting right back.
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. You should have reminded me,” he said, looking chagrined.
“You’re a big boy,” I suggested. “You’re old enough to remember the important stuff on your own.”
“Just open it,” he coaxed and nudged the box at me.
I smiled, taking the box then pulled up the lid, and there, inside, was the most gorgeous pendant I’d ever seen. It was gold, in the shape of a triangle, and in the center was a fiery red opal with brilliant specks of orange, purple and green. “It’s gorgeous,” I said breathlessly.
“Just like the girl it was meant for,” he said and caressed my cheek.
Just then my cell phone chirped loudly from my purse. I looked toward my purse then back at Dutch who was giving me a look like, “You gonna answer that?”
I smirked back and ignored the phone as I took a step closer to him, intending to kiss his socks off but just as I was about to make my move the house phone rang and Dutch and I both looked at the phone in the kitchen then back to each other. We seemed to both be tempted to answer the line, but we also didn’t want to ruin the spontaneous romantic moment building between us. So we compromised and waited for the machine to pick up the call.
From the kitchen we could hear the answering machine announce that Dutch was unable to come to the phone and to leave a message. The moment the answering machine bleeped, a panicked voice shouted out from the machine, “Abby?! Dutch?! If you’re there, pick up!”
I darted around Dutch and dashed into the kitchen, grabbed the phone and clicked the ON button. “Dave? I’m here, what’s wrong?!”
“You guys gotta get over here right away!” Dave said, the anxiety in his voice making his voice spike.
“Why? What’s happened?” I asked just as Dutch reached my side.
“I . . . I . . . I don’t really know,” he stammered. “You’re gonna have to see it for yourselves.”
“We’re on our way,” I said, and hung up the phone.
“Let’s go,” Dutch said, grabbing his coat off the chair.
Ten minutes later we had pulled up in front of the dilapidated house. As we got out of the car and headed up the driveway, we stopped in front of Dave’s truck, where I noticed him inside, pale, shaking and staring blankly at the house. I knocked on the glass because he didn’t seem to notice that we’d arrived. Without getting out of the truck, Dave lowered the window a fraction and spoke through the crack. “In there,” he said, pointing to the house.
“What’s in there?” Dutch asked.
“Oh man . . . I don’t know!” Dave said, his eyes wide and frightened, and his hand shaking as he ran it through his long hair. “All I know is that I was in there working on the walls, when all of a sudden stuff started flying through the air.”
“Excuse me?” I said as Dutch and I glanced at each other.
“I know it sounds crazy!” Dave said, his voice shrill. “But it happened, okay? I was pulling off the old drywall, and all of a sudden my drill came flying through the air, right at me, and if I hadn’t ducked it would have nailed me in the head! And then my circular saw started up all by itself and chased me around the room! I’m telling you it was like some kind of Amityville horror in there!”
Dutch leaned in just a little closer to the crack in the window. I saw him discreetly sniff at the crack, and I knew he was checking for alcohol on Dave’s breath. “What’d you have for lunch today, buddy?” he asked, his voice calm and soothing.
“A ham sandwich—with a side of 7-Up. I’m not drunk, Rivers,” Dave said, clearly angered by the insinuation.
“He’s telling the truth, Dutch,” I said. Throughout Dave’s panicked speech my inboard lie detector hadn’t gone off once.
Dutch looked at me, a rather perplexed expression on his face. “You two stay here, I’m going in to check it out.”
“That’s a good plan there, Gimpy,” I said pointing to the cane clutched in his hand. “You can barely hobble, much less run. What if someone’s in there and they attack you?”
“I came prepared,” he said, patting his breast pocket.
“Oh please,” I replied. “I’m going with you and that’s final.” And with that I began walking toward the house. Behind me I could hear grumbling as Dutch forced himself to keep up with me.
“Will you slow down!” he hissed.
With a sigh I slowed down just enough for him to catch up, but not slow enough for him to overtake me. I could just imagine him handcuffing me to the front railing to keep me from going inside the house. My thought was that it was probably a bunch of kids or some kind of practical joke, but I’d never known Dave to lie or even exaggerate, and I couldn’t imagine what had scared him so badly.
We reached the front porch and I stopped, suddenly unsure about going in. Dutch rounded me there and pulled me behind him, a move that made him wince, and my heart went out to the guy. He was sweating from the exertion of moving so quickly and I suddenly felt like a schmuck.
“Stay close behind me, and don’t talk until I give the all clear,” he said. With a jolt I suddenly realized he had already drawn his gun. Slowly, Dutch nudged the door open with his cane and after listening for a moment, moved to the doorway and took a very quick peek inside.
The house was silent. There was no clanging, or banging or rustling of chains. No eerie voice calling, “Get out!” and yet, the silence seemed more menacing. Dutch took a step forward, and I followed right on his heels, hanging on to his blazer as much to steady him as to reassure myself. He carefully moved into the front room of the house, his eyes darting around the interior.
I took in the front room and couldn’t believe the sight. The house was a mess. The walls were so riddled with holes that it looked as if they had been attacked with a sledgehammer. The carpet was dotted with rips and tears and I couldn’t even ascertain what its original color had been. Some shade of either blue or green by my estimate. There were no light fixtures but Dave had obviously rigged a bulb in the center of what used to be the living room, and even though it was midday on a sunny afternoon the interior seemed dark and foreboding. Shadows played off the walls as Dutch and I inched into the room, making the place look even spookier. To the right of us I spotted Dave’s drill, poking straight out of the wall as if it had been thrown like a dart.
I pointed this out to Dutch and he nodded, his eyes focused and intent as we moved further into the room. We crossed the living room to the entrance of the kitchen and almost tripped over Dave’s circular saw, which was resting peacefully just inside the doorway.
Just then a scent drifted under my nostrils. Alarmed I yanked on Dutch’s blazer, the movement pulling him into me butt first. He winced, stifling a moan. I shrugged my shoulders in apology, then quickly pointed to my nose and gave a sniff. There it was. Cigarette smoke.
Dutch sniffed too, but shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t smell it. I sniffed again, moving my head in the direction of the kitchen. Dutch took another whiff, but shook his head “no.” He still couldn’t smell it. I nodded again toward the kitchen and we moved slowly into its interior. And as soon as we did so, the smell vanished. I came up short and continued to inhale through my nose hoping I could catch the pungent odor again, but to no avail. I left Dutch’s side and moved about the kitchen looking for the scent, but I couldn’t find it.
After a few beats he motioned for me to follow him again, and we moved into the other rooms—the living room, down the hallway to the two bedrooms and the bathroom—but we could find no trace of anyone or anything amiss, apart from the already demolished interior. Finally we came back to the kitchen. “What do you make of it?” he asked me.
“Hell if I know,” I said, letting my arms slap at my sides. “I’ve known Dave for a year and I’ve never known the guy to be off his rocker. And did you see that drill in there? I mean, that puppy’s really nailed into the wall!”
“What did you smell earlier?” Dutch said.
“I can’t believe you couldn’t smell it. I swear someone was chain-smoking in here.”
“Cigarette smoke?”
“Yeah. It was really clear, like someone was smoking in the next room, but I couldn’t see the smoke. You didn’t smell anything?” I asked.
“Not a whiff.”
“Weird.”
“Very.”
Just then I caught it again, the distinct smell of cigarette smoke and excitedly I whispered, “There! There it is, Dutch! Do you smell it?” I asked, taking several long sniffs.
“I don’t smell anything,” Dutch complained smelling the air just like me.
“It’s coming from over there!” I said pointing over Dutch’s shoulder toward a door that looked like it led to the basement.
We moved to the door, and Dutch stepped to one side and moved me behind him again. Leaning his cane against the wall, he grabbed the door handle in one hand, his gun in the other and pulled the door open. I tensed as the door swung wide, but nothing happened. After a moment I peeked around his shoulder into the dark interior where only the first several steps were visible. Nothing moved and no one said “Boo!” so I began to relax a little.
Just then, Dutch reached for the light switch and flooded the narrow staircase with light. I came around him to get a better view when a sudden burst of fluttering movement came straight at us up the staircase, and began to flap its wings over my head. Scared out of my mind I dropped to the ground and covered my head, screaming. A moment later I felt Dutch’s hands on my arms as he shook me and yelled, “Abby! Abby, stop it!”
I stopped screaming and looked up into midnight blues that were dancing with merriment. “It’s only a bird. Just a swallow that got trapped in the basement.”
“A . . . a . . . bird?” I stammered as I got to my feet. Sure enough a small sparrow was flapping anxiously at the back sliding glass door, desperate to get out. “Oh! Yeah. Right,” I said, laughing now. For some reason the comedy of the situation relieved all of the tension that I had felt when we entered the house and the two of us began to laugh. Dutch imitated my reaction covering his head with his hands and calling out, “Ahhhhhhh!” and that made the both of us bend over with laughter. When I calmed down long enough to remember there was a trapped bird in the house, I walked slowly over to the sliding glass door where the bird was still fluttering, unlocked it and let the little guy out. As it flew away I said, “Now we know what scared Dave.”
A Vision of Murder Page 3