Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries)

by Bartlett, L. L.

  The place was rather ostentatious with its high-beamed ceilings and stonework, reminiscent of pictures I’d seen of the formal entry at Biltmore in Asheville, only on a much smaller scale. Nothing decorated the space, nor the formal living room to the right. The whole place had probably been stripped of everything that could be sold to pay off Morrow’s creditors and victims. I was beginning to think this little foray would be a gigantic waste of time, as there didn’t seem to be anything other than light switches for me to touch.

  Mrs. Walburg motioned for us to follow her. “Come on. I’ll show you the game room.”

  “Did Mr. Morrow spend a lot of time in there?” I asked as we followed in her wake.

  “He liked to play billiards,” she said, and opened an antique cherry door to what was obviously Morrow’s personal domain. A beautiful old and impeccably maintained pool table stood near the far wall, away from what might have once been a seating area. Above the fireplace was a place to plug in a very big flat-screen TV, but of course there wasn’t one there now.

  Mrs. Walburg walked over to the table. “It’s a Brunswick and Balke Exposition Novelty table circa 1880. It’s made of rosewood, with ivory inlays.”

  “It’s a beauty,” I said, admiring the intricate patterns along its sides and legs.

  “It was completely restored before Mr. Morrow purchased it some fifteen years ago. The baize was replaced to match the curtains five years ago when Mrs. Morrow redecorated,” she recited, as though we were tourists.

  The cue sticks were lined up in perfect order up on the wall. A rack filled with balls sat at the far end of the table. “Do you mind if I give it a try?” I asked.

  “Yes, I mind. It’s been sold. The new owners will take possession as soon as they hire someone qualified to move it. That in itself is going to cost thousands of dollars.”

  “How about you let him just hold one of the cue sticks?” Sam suggested.

  Mrs. Walburg looked appalled. “You came here to look — not touch,” she admonished.

  How wrong she was.

  I snapped eight or nine shots of the table and the room, although I wasn’t sure Sam actually intended to use the pictures to accompany his article. If nothing else, it allowed me to look the part of sidekick.

  “Can we continue the tour?” Sam asked.

  Mrs. Walburg scowled but led us to the grand staircase. “There are five bedrooms upstairs, all with en suites. The formal dining room and kitchen are this way.” She held out her hand to indicate where.

  “Would it be all right if we just wandered around the place and took a few more pictures?” Sam asked. He flashed his most winning smile.

  She sighed. “I suppose so. But I’d appreciate it if you could do so as quickly as possible. I do have my regular duties to perform.”

  And what would that entail? A stint with a broom — before she rode it?

  “We’ll try to take up as little of your time as we can,” Sam said sincerely, gave her another smile, and started up the stairs. I followed. Neither of us spoke until we’d reached the landing. “Getting any vibes?” Sam asked.

  “Only that I’m not a fan of Mrs. Walburg.”

  He held out a hand, indicating the door to my right. As Mrs. Walburg had said, we found the first of the five bedrooms. The walls were painted a warm apricot with an accent wall covered in what looked like a hand-stenciled fleur de lis pattern in gold leaf. I bent low and scratched one of the emblems and, sure enough, a fleck of gold came off on my thumbnail.

  “Expensive,” Sam noted.

  “I guess wallpaper was just too gauche.”

  No furniture or art graced the room. It wasn’t a large space, but big enough to hold a queen-sized bed and a small sitting area. At least the dents in the carpet seemed to indicate that. I flipped the light switch and a small chandelier glowed overhead, the prisms sparkling like diamonds. Had this been a guest room?

  “You said Morrow had kids,” I reminded him.

  “A son and a daughter, but I don’t believe either of them lived at home when he was led away in handcuffs.”

  I wandered into the bathroom, which was small, but adequate with a shower-tub combo, toilet, and pedestal sink. I turned on the light. The medicine cabinet over the sink was empty. I ran my hand along the doorframe, but got no psychic signals. Touching the faucet handles brought me no information, either.

  “Nothing?” Sam asked.

  I shook my head.

  We turned and went back out into the hall. The next room was a lot bigger, just as empty, and just as clean as the first. Clean in terms of tidiness and of psychic imprints. Though painted and wallpapered in other colors, the next two rooms were just the same. We were wasting our time.

  The master suite took up the south end of the second floor. Dual skylights lit the room, with built-in shades, as evidenced by the remote I found sitting on a windowsill. The room was huge, with enough space for a king-sized bed and a formal sitting area with a fireplace and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I wandered around, standing in a number of places to try to soak up vibes … and picked up anger. It took me a few long moments to figure it out. Not so much anger, but frustration. Female frustration. Mr. Morrow, for all his supposed power and position, hadn’t been satisfying his wife for quite some time. Was it because he knew his whole Ponzi scheme was doomed to collapse or was it just the ravages of age? I had no clue.

  I wandered around. The room sported two walk-in closets, each bigger than my bedroom over Richard’s garage. I found myself gravitating to the closet on the left, and switched on the light. A ripple of something seemed to crawl up my spine and I suffered an involuntary shudder.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sam commented. “I take it this was Morrow’s closet.”

  I nodded, not that there was any physical evidence to prove it. But it had contained his clothing, his shoes, and they’d left an imprint on the walls and floor. Something flashed in my mind — like a light. Was it that damned near-death vision again? Unfortunately, whatever else I’d picked up wasn’t concrete.

  “You’re frowning,” Sam said.

  “I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to be picking up. If the guy was a prick, it’s not blasting through me.”

  “I haven’t given you too much information because I want you to tell me about him.”

  “I need something more substantial than walking into rooms where he’d been. Let’s face it; he hasn’t been in this house in what, a year or more?”

  Sam frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Just what is it you want me to learn about the guy — besides where he hid the millions they haven’t yet found?”

  “Anything that will help.”

  “Help what?” I practically pleaded.

  “I don’t know. And that’s why I wanted you onboard.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “The fact that he had a house on Grand Cayman — doesn’t that say it all?”

  He shook his head. “There are rumors that he converted money to jewelry, stamps, and coins, and that it’s spread out all over the Buffalo area.”

  “Sounds more like wishful thinking on someone’s part,” I commented, switched off the light, and sidled past him to check out the bathroom which was nearly as big as the home’s smallest bedroom.

  “Whoa,” Sam said with awe. “Check out that shower.”

  The steam shower was not only big enough for half a football team, but had enough controls to outfit a rocket to the International Space Station. Multiple sets of water jets were positioned along the walls. A Jacuzzi soaker tub sat under a window with no curtains or blinds.

  “Why is it rich people never have window coverings in their bathrooms?” I mused.

  “Maybe they’re all a bunch of exhibitionists,” Sam suggested, looking through the window to the backyard beyond. A large in-ground pool had been covered for the winter, which reminded me that we only had days left to play with Richard’s boat before it, too, would again be unavailable for
months on end. That is, if we could play with it at all. I wondered what his insurance agent had said. Maybe I’d call him later to find out. Much later.

  Dual sinks sunk in granite lined the east wall, with separate medicine cabinets overhead — both empty. The cabinets below held nothing but cleaning products, extra boxes of tissues, and a couple of rolls of toilet paper.

  “Unless the kitchen has anything the guy actually touched, we’re done,” I told Sam.

  “Do you think you might get something off of one of those cue sticks?”

  “They’re likely the only things left in the house that he touched. How are you going to distract Mrs. Walburg?”

  “With my charm and good looks,” Sam said wryly.

  Charm he had. Good looks? They had disappeared with his thinning hair. “I’ll corner the old lady and then you make a beeline to that game room. You might only have a minute or two.”

  “Got it.”

  We left the upstairs behind and went back downstairs, where we found Mrs. Walburg in the kitchen, polishing the already shiny taps. I kept to the far end, feigning interest in the wet bar, while Sam cornered Mrs. Walburg. “I have a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind,” he said smoothly, while I snapped a few more pictures.

  “I suppose,” she said, her attention still riveted on the task before her.

  I snapped a couple more photos and wandered out of the room. Once out of earshot, I hurried back to the game room. In the minutes since we’d checked out the back yard, it had begun to rain. Already the windows overlooking the yard were beaded with drops.

  I set my camera on the pool table and grabbed the first cue from the rack. It had been polished with what seemed like beeswax. She had not only obliterated any fingerprints that might have been on the stick, but any auras left behind as well. They were all like that. No one could say that Mrs. Walburg was shirking her duties. I put the last one back in the rack and heard voices approaching. I went to grab my camera and noticed a well-worn piece of blue billiards chalk in one of the table’s pockets. I grabbed it and stashed it in my jacket pocket before hurrying over to the window so that I would appear to be evaluating the yard.

  “I hope you haven’t been messing with that table,” Mrs. Walburg scolded as she entered the room.

  I turned and held my hands up in surrender. “I wouldn’t think of it. Could you tell me who does the landscaping?” I asked, and looked back toward the yard.

  “Why would you care?”

  I pivoted to meet her gaze. “I’m looking for someone to take care of my place.”

  She looked me over and frowned. Okay, so I wasn’t wearing a suit and tie — just jeans, a black turtleneck, track shoes, and a denim jacket. Steve Jobs had mega millions and always seemed to wear the same outfit and nobody claimed he couldn’t afford a gardener.

  “It’s time for you to leave,” Mrs. Walburg sharply.

  I didn’t argue, and without a word headed for the entrance.

  “Thank you for all your help,” Sam said sincerely.

  Mrs. Walburg walked us to the door, opened it, and let us out. The door slammed behind us. She hadn’t said good-bye.

  Sam pulled up his collar as we started walking back down the drive toward our cars. “Well, that was a complete waste of time.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “Let’s go sit in your car for a minute.”

  The rain pelted us and we picked up speed. Once inside the car, I reached into my pocket for the chalk. The second my hand clasped it, I got a jolt of something.

  “What’ve you got?” I showed Sam the paper-wrapped piece of blue billiards chalk. “Hey, where’d you find that?”

  “In one of the table pockets.”

  “Are you getting anything from it?”

  I closed my eyes, folded my fingers around the chalk, and was assaulted with a myriad of sensations.

  “Well — well?” Sam badgered me.

  “Shut up and let me concentrate.”

  Whoever had last held the chalk had been upset — about money. A hazy image of a pool cue slamming into the cue ball, and all the other balls scattering across the table flashed through my mind. There was no way to tell if it was Morrow, his son, or anyone else who might have been in the house, but whoever it was had taken out his — and it was definitely a male — frustrations via the pool table and accoutrements.

  I opened my eyes and shook my head. “Money.”

  “Yeah?” Sam asked eagerly.

  “But I don’t know who it was, or what they were thinking.”

  “Is there a chance you might get more? You know, think about it a while. Maybe things could get clearer.”

  “There is that chance,” I admitted.

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  I pocketed the chalk once more. “What’s up next?”

  “I’m going to do some more research. I don’t want you doing the same. That might taint whatever it is you get from other more tangible sources.”

  I shrugged. “Suits me.”

  “Then again, if you get more vibes, you might want to take some notes — no matter how odd or demented they seem. At this point, we don’t know what could be relevant.”

  It seemed a reasonable request.

  “I need to get going. Like Mrs. Walburg, I’ve got duties to perform.”

  “All the cleaning in the world isn’t going to get rid of that woman’s anger. And by the way, did you get anything off of her?”

  “Just that she’s afraid she’s going to lose her home. You can’t blame her for being pissed about that.”

  Again, he shook his head. “She’s living in the basement of a goddamn mansion. That’s not so bad.”

  “It is if you have nowhere else to go.” I thought about it for a moment longer. “She loved the bastard. She never gave up hope that he would one day turn to her, but it was never going to happen.”

  “He saw her as an employee, nothing else?” Sam guessed.

  “Exactly. “

  “Poor lady.” He shook his head as though in commiseration. “I’ll call you tomorrow — or maybe Thursday.”

  “I’ll be around,” I said, and got out of his car. I hadn’t been lying when I said I had duties to perform. The laundry basket in the bottom of my closet was overflowing. As I climbed into my own car and started the engine, I wondered if it would be better to toss everything into a garbage bag and head for the nearest Laundromat, rather than head over to Richard’s to wash my stuff. If the pantry door to the kitchen was closed, I might not have to run into anyone. I could toss in a load and get out of there in a minute or so, then come back to throw them in the dryer half an hour later.

  With my plans made, I backed out of the drive and headed for home. The pocket that held the chalk seemed warm, and I hoped that later it would give up more of its secrets.

  Chapter 8

  Brenda’s car hadn’t returned by the time I got home. I grabbed my dirty clothes and went directly to the dungeon that housed their laundry room. I kept my own supplies in a cabinet by the side of the washer, dumped in my clothes and the liquid detergent, and hit the power button. The cycle ran a full twenty-three minutes, so I headed back to my apartment over the garage, dodging the raindrops.

  Once back home, I set the timer on my microwave and then settled on my couch. I retrieved the chalk cube I’d set on the coffee table and rubbed it between my fingers. Before I had time to absorb anything, my cat Herschel jumped on my lap, head-butting my chin — a ritual I endured, yet enjoyed, at least a dozen times a day.

  While Herschel purred his brains out, I pressed the chalk to my forehead and again the hazy images of Morrow’s pool table surfaced — game in progress. I ground my teeth, willing the image to solidify, but instead an odd image of dull gray pebbles being tossed on a beige carpeted floor came to mind.

  That hadn’t made a damn bit of sense.

  The microwave timer pinged and I set Herschel down on the floor and headed for the door, stuffing the chalk into my pocket.


  Brenda’s car was still AWOL, so I hurried down to the basement and stashed my wet light-colored clothes in the dryer and hit the start button. I put my darks in the washer and got that load going, too. Settling my weight against the washer, I withdrew the chalk from my pocket, once again pressing it against my forehead.

  Again, the image of greasy dark pebbles were imprinted upon my mind. What the heck? I shook my head and tried again.

  Sam had said Morrow’s money could have been converted to other things, such as stamps, and sure enough I saw rows and rows of carefully preserved vintage stamps. Stamps with old airplanes. Stamps with silhouettes of heads of state. Stamps with flowers, faces, and everything in between. But where were they?

  I kind of got lost in the crazy array of images, for the next thing I knew the dryer buzzed, bringing me back to the here and now. I shook myself and opened the dryer door. I folded my clothes on autopilot, still thinking about stamps and wondering how much I could learn about their value online when the washer finished its cycle, and I transferred those clothes to the dryer.

  Again, I leaned against the washer and contemplated the images that worn out piece of chalk had already conveyed. Of course, all this psychic mental exercise started my head pounding. It was just too bad that physical pain seemed to be part of the process.

  I was staring at the chalk, turning it over and over, inspecting its every imperfection when I suddenly realized Brenda stood before me, waving her hand before my eyes.

  “Hey, pay attention to me,” she ordered none too kindly.

  I shook myself. “Sorry. I was lost in thought.”

  “You seem to be lost in more ways than one these past few days,” she said tartly, her expression fierce. “You haven’t made an appearance in almost two days.”

  I shrugged and shoved the chalk back into my pocket. “I’ve had a lot on my mind — and a lot on my plate.”

  Her penetrating glare seemed to cut right through me.

  The buzzer went off on the dryer, and I opened the door, pulling out the chocolate brown towels and washcloths, piling them onto the top of the washing machine.

  “I understand you have a problem with my houseguests.”