Grasping my arm with a viselike grip, he walked me across to one of the unmarked doors, yanked it open, shoved me in, and slammed it shut. His shove catapulted me into some plastic shelving that lined the back wall. I toppled to the ground as empty plastic storage containers and packages of paper goods rained down on me. The snick of the lock turning resonated like church bells. Struggling to my feet, I grabbed the doorknob and pulled. Nothing. I turned it and pushed. Nothing. I pounded on the panels. Nothing.
“Let me out!” I hollered. “Help! Help! Help!”
Silence.
I was trapped.
I heard people calling out instructions, but the words were indistinct.
“Let me out!” I shouted again. “Help! Help! Help!”
Scraping sounds told me things were being moved around. What if they edged a table under the doorknob?
Help didn’t come.
Slender threads of light showed me where the door met the frame. I reached for my flashlight, pulled gently to activate the retractable cord, and examined my prison.
The shelving I’d crashed into was made of hard gray plastic. White plastic tubs on the bottom shelves hadn’t fallen. Each one contained a pile of food prep, serving, or eating objects, including shish kebob skewers, spatulas, slotted spoons, flatware, steak knives, and two-pronged corn holders. It took me five steps to walk from the door to the back wall and seven side to side. A fluorescent light fixture was mounted overhead, but there was no switch.
I closed my eyes, then opened them. I had no time for self-flagellation. Later, I could beat myself up, but not now.
The rumblings and rasps from outside continued unabated.
Three cabinet hinges were attached on the inside. I could remove them, and the door would fall forward, held in place only by the lock.
I needed a screwdriver. I opened every drawer and cabinet and found lots of pots and pans and dishes, but no tools.
I tried the skewer first, but the point was too thick. I used one of the prongs on a corn holder, and it fit, but snapped off. I tried another, and it snapped off, too. Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I tried a regular knife. Too wide. A butter knife. Too rounded. I reached for a fork, certain the tine would be too large and too blunted, but it fit as if it had been designed for the job. It took less than a minute to remove the two screws. I placed them and the two parts of the hinge in a bowl and started work on the middle hinge.
The noise stopped as suddenly as it had started.
The quiet was even more alarming than the noise had been. They’d left me locked in a dark closet. I told myself to keep focused on the task at hand, to work the problem, to not make things worse by succumbing to paralyzing fear.
Five minutes later, I slipped the last hinge and set of screws into the bowl. I tapped the door, once, twice, then pushed harder. It collapsed at a crazy angle, the lock holding the left side mostly in place. On the right, a two-foot gap allowed me to view part of the room. I eased my head and shoulders through and looked around.
The place was deserted. The door to the room marked PRIVATE stood open, revealing another large room, an outside loading dock with the doors ajar, and the alley that ran behind the building.
Using the flats of both hands, I thrust the door forward, and it opened an additional inch. I rammed it with my shoulder, and the wood around the lock cracked. I rubbed my shoulder. I’d have a heck of a bruise in the morning. I kicked the door, hard, and finally it gave and broke away from the lock, taking some of the frame with it. It landed on the ground with a loud smack.
The contents of my tote bag were heaped on the table, just as I’d last seen them. The bag was on the floor. I grabbed my phone to check the time—unbelievably, only fifteen minutes had passed. I swiped my arm across the table, and everything tumbled into my bag. I was about to dial 9-1-1 when I heard footsteps and froze.
I listened hard but didn’t hear anything else. I unlocked my phone. Wes had texted I’m on it, a simple reply to my request for information about Anthony’s Shoe Repair. I started to call 9-1-1 but couldn’t think of what to say. There was no emergency. I decided to call Ellis from my car instead. I started for the stairs, then paused to look into the other room.
Six- and eight-foot rectangular meeting tables were positioned in staggered rows. Dozens of standard-issue metal meeting-room chairs were shoved against the walls. Half a dozen had fallen over. Playing cards were strewn across a felt-topped round table. A roulette wheel sat on another round table. The social club was really an illegal gambling joint, and at the thought that the police were en route, the staff and players had abandoned it willy-nilly. Evidently, Nora was more of a gambler than I realized. Or Cal was here and she’d come to visit him.
I took a step toward the open room and stopped short, groaning in pain. Sharp daggers stabbed at my upper back and left shoulder. I took stock. I did a deep knee bend. I rotated my shoulders forward and backward. I lifted my arms, then swung them back. Nothing was broken. Everything hurt. I ignored the pain and continued walking, pausing in the doorway to send my eyes around.
With people adding cheer and energy, the room might have been more appealing, although I doubted it. The walls were empty. The windows were painted black. The overhead lighting was harsh. Big, bulky security cameras dotted the ceiling. Rainbows prismed from a mirrored disco ball, circa 1973, coloring the barren tables and scuffed off-white linoleum floor.
I crossed the room, stepped outside onto the concrete platform, and choked on the stench of garbage emanating from a row of old metal trash cans that lined the wall on the left.
A cold east wind whipped through the alley, and I rubbed my upper arms.
The alley was narrow, barely wide enough to accommodate a delivery van. Two cars were parked a few buildings away, their tires up on the weed-filled shoulder. The asphalt was pitted. Tufts of weeds had sprouted in the cracks.
No one was in sight.
Steps at either end of the platform allowed easy access from the alley to the loading dock. I spotted a door on the right two paces from the stairs. I edged my way along the building, hoping to find a window in the door so I could peek in, but it was solid. I tried the knob, turning it gently. It was locked.
I wanted to see if Nora’s car was gone. I considered circling the block but decided it would be quicker to go through the building. I was three steps into the casino when I heard footsteps on the concrete loading dock. I dashed to the side wall, detonating spikes of pain in my thighs. Peering through the open doors, I could see a triangle of platform and alley, but not the door. Lydia, still wearing the navy-blue suit she’d worn to church, her small blue purse dangling from her shoulder, climbed down the stairs and hurried to one of the cars. A few seconds later, a car engine turned over; then a vehicle drove by, hitting potholes and kicking up pebbles.
I backed up to the wall and slid to the ground as I tried to make sense of the images and ideas rattling around in my head.
Lydia was here.
That singular fact had to be explained. Lydia had parked in the alley, which meant she knew about the back door or entered the casino through the loading dock. I glanced around. Streaks of violet and yellow light reflecting off the disco ball mottled the floor. What did Lydia have to do with this dilapidated ersatz grandeur? This place was a dump by any standards, depressing and demoralizing. Why would Lydia come here to gamble when she was a member of the upscale Colonial Club? She wouldn’t. Lydia wasn’t here to gamble—she was here to see Cal. Maybe Lydia came for solace and found Cal with Nora. I used the wall to heave myself upright.
My squabble with the baritone hadn’t felt like an emergency; this did. I rooted through my bag for my phone and dialed 9-1-1. I reported that something was wrong in the basement of Anthony’s Shoe Repair, then sank onto a gray metal folding chair to wait. A moment later, I realized that Nora and Cal might be injured. I needed to check, to see if I could help.
* * *
I zigzagged my way across the casino, avoi
ding tables and chairs. A dull ache radiated from my back to my legs, adding a layer of misery to the pricks of pain punctuating every step.
I approached the inside door near the closet, the only one I hadn’t identified. I held my breath and listened for ten seconds, hearing nothing but the random clicks and creaks of an old building settling, the whirring of a refrigerator in back of me, and a dog barking somewhere outside. I turned the knob. The door opened silently, and I stepped over the threshold into a dimly lit short hall. A closet door on the left stood open. A man’s trench coat hung on the rod. A pair of black wingtips sat on the floor.
Three paces down the hall, I came to a bathroom on the right. The fixtures were old and dingy. Two more steps brought me to the end of the hall and the entryway to a room. I stood on the threshold to survey the space. A bureau rested against the front wall, to my right. Drawers were half open, clothes flung aside. A round oak table stood directly in front of me, with two old ladder-back chairs ranged around it. Papers were strewn across the top, and some had fallen to the floor, including a half-hidden issue of Antiques Insights. I recognized the cover and felt a judder of comprehension. That was the issue where Rheingold Gallery had been highlighted in the “Small Victories” column. A mattress lay on the floor in back of the table, the bedding all tangled. Leaning out to see to the left, my mouth went desert-dry.
A river of blood had pooled on the vinyl tile.
Cal lay on the floor, faceup, dead. I swallowed a scream. I clamped my teeth onto my bottom lip. His eyes were open. His mouth was closed. The top of his head was dented and matted with blood. Horrified, I covered my mouth with my hand.
I stepped into the room, one tentative step. There was nowhere to hide, no kitchenette, no extra closet, no oversized cupboards. Nora wasn’t here. No one was here. I approached Cal’s body and squatted, and a blaze of pain jagged up my back. I took his wrist in my hand and felt for a pulse, just in case. There was none.
I stood, stunned. Cal is dead. The words echoed in my brain. Cal is dead. I couldn’t bear to look at his bloody corpse, but I couldn’t look away. Cal is dead. It took a minute or more before I was able to think. Seemingly unrelated facts and observations clattered against one another as I stared, unseeing, at his body.
I turned to the clutter on and near the table. The issue of Antiques Insights answered the niggling question about why Cal chose Rheingold Gallery. He didn’t study his options—he simply scanned the article, saw that Rheingold sold Japanese art, and figured it would serve his purpose just fine. Maybe he visited the gallery’s website and discovered its logo was easy to download. He never expected to be challenged because he never expected Mo to appraise the print. I walked around the room, examining every flat surface. I crouched over to see into the open drawers. There wasn’t a computer in sight. Lydia hadn’t been carrying anything except a small shoulder bag. Someone else had been here and had ransacked the place. Nora?
Someone hammered on the outside door, breaking into my inchoate thoughts.
Before I could decide what to do, footsteps pounded down the stairs, and a moment later, the inside door was flung open. Two uniformed officers I didn’t know burst into the hall with their guns drawn, aiming them at my chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Four hours later, just after nine, I sat chin deep in my hot tub griping to Ty about being kept at the police station for two hours. One jet shot hot bubbles at my left shoulder blade. Others were aimed at my lower back and legs. I’d hung scores of miniature Japanese lanterns along the path from the back door and around the patio and hot tub, and streaks of muted orange stippled the churning water. Ty sat on the wooden deck, his legs dangling toward the lawn, cooling down in the chill night air.
He drank water from a plastic bottle. “Two hours isn’t unreasonable.”
“Spoken like an ex-cop. I finished my statement in thirty minutes. I looked at mug shots and worked with a sketch artist for another hour. Then they had me sit around and do nothing until I begged to be sprung.”
“You refused medical treatment, so they assumed you were okay.”
“I was. I am. What does that have to do with wasting my time?”
“They needed you to be available in case more questions came up, and don’t forget, you found the body.”
I huffed, leaned my head against the rubberized edge, and closed my eyes.
“I can tell the difference between a recalcitrant witness and a weary one.” Ty’s voice softened. “You’re in the weary category. Are you sure you’re okay, babe?”
I opened my eyes. “You’re so wonderful, Ty. I’m fine.” I closed my eyes again. “Weary is the right word, though. Along with a little beat up. Mental note to self: Next time you’re locked in a closet, don’t use your shoulder to batter down the door.”
“Good tip.”
“Ellis was surprised that I couldn’t ID the thug who tossed me in there.”
“Because you couldn’t ID him or because he’s not in the system?”
“Because he’s not in the system. The whole operation operated without any official notice. They’re trying to figure out who owns the building and who ran the casino.”
“What about the old man upstairs?”
“Anthony. He doesn’t know anything about anything, so he says. When I called Ellis saying that Nora had gone into the shoe repair shop and hadn’t come out, he sent Detective Brownley to check. Anthony was as uncommunicative with her as he’d been with me. Ellis was asking for a search warrant when I called nine-one-one.”
“What’s Anthony’s problem?”
“Follow the money. I’m sure someone is paying him off to play dumb, and he doesn’t want to ruffle any feathers. He has a sweet deal, and he knows it.”
“Anthony’s Shoe Repair. That’s a helluva front for an illegal gambling club.”
“You’d think Rocky Point is a hotbed of gambling. First, Chester’s nonprofit casino, now this no-name place located under a genuine business. What’s the world coming to if sweet little Rocky Point has turned into a gambling mecca?”
“Don’t be naïve. Rocky Point has always been a gambling mecca. Lots of places are. People like to gamble. Let’s start with state-sanctioned lottery games. In Rocky Point, there’s Gibbon’s Tavern, where you’ll find a poker game any night of the week in the back room and bingo run through churches and service clubs four or five days a week. And let’s not forget the high-stakes mah-jongg game Liz runs out of her suburban colonial.”
“How do you know all this?”
Ty kissed the top of my head. “I know everything.”
I pretend-slapped my forehead. “Silly me to have forgotten that.”
“I’ve seen you enjoy a good game of gin.”
“So true. It was my dad’s game. I never play for money, though.”
“Who won?”
“Him. All the time. I am a woman of many talents. Cards isn’t one of them.”
“You’re good at all the important things.”
I smiled and opened my eyes. “I bet Lydia’s still at the station. I was waiting in the lobby when they brought her in. I didn’t notice any blood on her clothes, but I’m not sure I would have spotted anything on that dark material.”
“Any sign of Nora?”
“None, and Ellis wouldn’t tell me a thing. When I reached street level outside Anthony’s, her car was gone. I called Wes on my way to the police station to ask if he knew where Nora was. I’d already asked him to check out Anthony’s Shoe Repair. I added the building and the casino to his list.”
“What did he say?”
I deepened my voice, mimicking an indignant Wes. “‘What do you mean you didn’t take any photos?’”
Ty laughed.
I splashed around a little. “Wes had no idea where Nora was and would see what he could ferret out about the other things. Once we know who owns or runs the place, we’ll probably know why Cal was staying there. The answer might be nothing more than opportunistic convenience. C
al was a gambler. He knew the social club had an extra room in the back. He asked for a favor, and the powers that be said sure.”
“How do you figure Lydia knew where he was?”
“No doubt they’ve been in touch all along.”
“If she helped him avoid the police, they’re going to charge her with obstructing justice.”
“They’ve already got her for murder.”
“They’ll add it on.”
“It’s horrible. Worse than that, actually, when you think about it, because if she was helping him stay clear of the police after he killed Mo, the justice she obstructed involved her sister. I know she’s cold, but surely she cares about finding Mo’s killer—unless she killed her, too.”
“It’s rare that siblings kill one another.”
“But not unprecedented. Lydia saw Mo as an obstructionist to her relationship with Cal. Or maybe Mo found out that Cal had conned her. She warned Lydia she was going to tell the police what he’d done. She would have, too. Mo was that kind of honorable.”
Ty lowered himself back into the tub, settling next to me. “And everyone knows that love is blind. If Mo represented a threat to Cal, Lydia would have struck before Mo could follow through.”
“I understand. I’d do anything to protect you.”
“Would you lie to the police? Hide a killer?”
“Yes.”
Ty placed his arm around my sore shoulder and gently stroked my upper arm. “Me, too.”
“Good.” I snuggled in closer. “One thing Ellis did tell me was about Michelle Michaels, the buyer of the other woodblock print that Pat Durand sold on Antiques Insights. I was right—Pat Durand contacted her about buying another print, but she wasn’t interested. She said no before Pat told her which one she was selling, so it’s just another dead end. It does support the conjecture that both Cal and his female partner were using the name Pat Durand, though. Which is interesting but doesn’t bring us any closer to finding her. Ellis also told me that Cal didn’t have access to the Langdon Museum’s house list. Only the director and the marketing team do. At Ellis’s request, the director checked—no mailing has gone out in a month.”
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