by Shelly Frome
“Hold it, lady. You didn’t answer me about Emily dropping the dog whistle, or her whereabouts, and Oliver, my retriever.”
“That’s right. I’d made up my mind to file a report.”
“Fine,” Will said, heading back to the arbor. “You go call Trooper Dave. You don’t want to talk to me, I’ll have to track Emily and Oliver best I can.”
For some reason, she suddenly became very friendly, rushed back in front of Will and pulled him by a row of bushes. “Look,” she said, “see the way the dog sniffed and messed up the cocoa mulch I just put down? It must be like some wonderful doggy dessert. He’s way past the bank by now, I’ll bet you anything. On to Main Street and beyond with Emily in hot pursuit.”
Will took this in. It made sense about the cocoa mulch and Oliver sniffing and pursuing it far as it would go. But it made no sense that Emily would blow the whistle, drop it, let Oliver knock this lady over, and then take off after him.
Not knowing which way to turn, Will eyed the footpath leading behind the bank to the main street and then shifted back to Pru.
Still beaming, Pru returned to her post at the arbor, surveying the slope as it rose up to the tree line. Not at all like someone pinning her hopes on some old love. More like she was pinning her hopes on something else.
Chapter Thirty-One
Through the pain, woozy fatigue, and the stupidity of her predicament, Emily kept asking herself where she’d gone wrong. All she wanted was to jar something loose and force the authorities to step in. She had incriminating material. She had, at the very least, a sixty-minute window, she’d double-checked. She’d called Pru earlier to find out when she’d be free and clear to jointly tackle the weeds and such. She’d been informed that Silas would be at the lawyer’s office blocks away on South Street. He’d be going over the details of Harriet’s last will and testament, thereby leaving the two of them on their own. It was a perfect setup.
Another sharp jab of pain in her knee, followed by reeling thoughts about gaps in the story that still had to be filled. Otherwise Pru would be right. Just storytelling—bits and pieces depending on whose version you wanted to believe because Pru now had the Harrods bag. Was it poor Pru the victim? Pru the co-conspirator? Pru the mastermind who, at this very moment, might be pulling something else?
And, adding to the whir of her mind, a lingering image of Chris Cooper’s fall.
Trying to snap out of it, she checked the open-mesh pocket of her jacket. She propped herself up on one elbow, the long shadows stretching over swathes of tall grasses right and left, a tracery of leaves quivering in the breeze. Save for an occasional scudding cloud, the heat and blinding afternoon sunlight held steady.
Through the muffled sound of traffic passing by in the distance, she thought she heard the faint echo of someone calling. It could have been Will, or someone else, or wishful thinking. After all, she’d never heard Will call out for anything.
She looked over to the brace of pines at the fringe of the trail, which still offered an exit and cover leading down to the B&B and cottage. If only she could get there. With luck, Silas (who, doubtless, had never experienced a smidge of physical exercise) was stuck by the flags along the upward slope, not only out of breath but in a muddle, talking himself into or out of this convoluted situation.
She sat up straight, brushed aside the ferns, and examined the thick vine and bracken that ensnared her right ankle. She scoured around until she came up with a gnarled, knobby branch with a forked end that had also succumbed to the undergrowth. Tugging it out, she peeled off the damp bark and snapped off a few twigs. Perhaps she could use it to brace herself and free her foot.
She tried to cantilever herself up, ignoring the pain coursing through her twisted knee and ankle, the bright sunlight streaming in and out exacerbating her wooziness. After three stabs at it, straining and swaying on one leg, she poked away at the vine and bracken. But it was useless. Not only was she hopelessly ensnared, everything was so tender that the slightest movement seemed to jolt her whole body.
She shielded her eyes and glanced back over to the way she had come, past the expanse of the meadow to the stand of maples masking the red-flagged slope down to the Curtis side yard. Still no sign of Silas. Only the muffled sound of traffic and perhaps a dog barking way off in the distance. No more cries or calling.
But then, she gradually made out the stooping form slipping through the break in the maples, advancing toward her. He was straggling, mopping his high forehead with a handkerchief, but drifting steadily closer all the same.
In effect, her dash had gained her no more than a few minutes’ head start, an advantage that was now wiped out.
As though commenting on her mishap, the moment he spotted her, Silas shouted, “You see, it’s all the rushing around!” Then muttered, “You, Harriet, Chris Cooper. The rushing . . . yes, yes, the rushing. But even so, I always give fair warning.”
Stopping in his tracks, apparently scouring his memory all the while, he began to itemize. “Yes . . . I have it. Take the invasive creatures. The rabbits and deer in Harriet’s garden. A shock of current and they got the message. They did, they did, of course they did.”
Still poking away with the forked end of the branch, Emily began to decipher what he was saying. He’d rigged that wire fence behind the annuals. His first trial run.
Seconds later, Emily finally succeeded in freeing her ankle just enough so she could almost keep her balance.
Moving closer, his mind back on track, Silas kept convincing himself how fair he had been. “Yes, yes. With Chris Cooper, a tad more was required. But I gave fair warning nonetheless. Every time, I did. I did, indeed.”
Fair warning? Emily pondered. Setting fire to Chris’s greenhouse? Taking the skeleton keys and pick locks from his workroom to break in, using Chris’s hot plate and magazines to set the smoky blaze? That was fair warning?
Getting more and more anxious, she raised her voice. “Keep away from me, Silas.”
But this time, Silas kept coming. “As for Emily Ryder, I fired warning shots. She must have heard, must have seen.”
“Back off, Silas, I’m warning you.”
“But what got into her?” Silas kept ruminating as he advanced. “She hikes, plays sports, guides travelers, and doesn’t meddle. What did she see? What did she hear? What was it?”
Suddenly it came to her. Down in his vault. The multi-volt transformer . . . the short in the model-train tracks sparking like crazy, the tangle of frayed wires by the fuse box, the blown fuse—more practice. Then afterward, the buried burlap sack with the copper wiring after he’d done his worst . . . the damp, crumpled raincoat when he returned, lying by her feet beneath the gun case when she tidied up. All of it signaling to her. But she didn’t get it, had no idea, and sloughed it off.
More shaky than ever, she hollered, “I mean it, damn you!”
But Silas trudged on. “Was it Harriet’s badgering, wanting something done right away? Then Pru egging me on? Was Emily aware?”
Answering himself, Silas said, “No, no, impossible. Emily couldn’t have known. Only I heard it, only I knew.”
When he drew within less than twenty yards, Emily shouted, “Cut it out, Silas. It’s over! Don’t you get it?”
“Oh no. Oh-oh-oh no. Not if Emily is reasonable and all the fluster stops.”
“Forget it! You are out of your mind!”
Silas stopped short. “You’re not listening to me. When Chris Cooper pressed and looked for loopholes, that was not preservation. Causing the Planning Commission to vote no, the GDC to withdraw its offer, the bank to foreclose? Never. Something had to be done after my warning was ignored . . . done immediately.”
Silas wiped the perspiration off his bifocals with his handkerchief and drew his gun out. “No time to calibrate, don’t you see? Upped the voltage a goodly bit . . . so he’ll fall off like those accidents before. Heart might be still beating . . . in a coma then, out of the picture for a good long while. Or out of th
e picture for good would be best. Stands to reason, all stands to reason.”
As Silas hesitated and appeared to lose his train of thought once again, Emily leaned just a bit in order to catch what he was saying. But she couldn’t make out a thing, lost her balance and barely managed to drop to her one good knee.
“Ah,” Silas said, his voice rising again. “There was the rain. Not heavy at first, just enough to draw him over. Pru liked the rain, fit the bill. Then came the downpour . . . just in time. So providential, so perfect.”
Barely up on her feet again, realizing that if it wasn’t for the wrenching pain and having to wobble on one leg, she could’ve taken advantage of Silas’s sputtering lapses and been long gone.
Silas secured his glasses as the sunlight dimmed. “But then there was Harriet. Rushing off . . . threatening to betray us and turn us in. Gave her fair warning too. But she wouldn’t listen. Too much in a rush. Was going to do something. Couldn’t forego the flower show but immediately afterwards—hell-bent on ruining everything.”
Looking directly at Emily, he said, “You can see it all now, can’t you? Of course you can. Say it. Why won’t you say it?”
Emily gave him nothing.
“All right then. You will obey when I count to ten, just like I did with Harriet. One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, four to go . . . Of course, the precious old .32, the regulator, the twin was necessary. Had to retrieve it, had to have it handy to keep her in check, from getting to a phone or that constable. She saw the shammy cloth poking out of the satchel when the cook tried to put it aside, knew full well what was wrapped in it.”
Recalling Harriet’s initial protest that she was “under the gun,” Emily was now completely taken with how it had all played out during Harriet’s last run.
Silas went on, as if sensing Emily’s rapt attention, as if turning to some phantom juror for validation. “Clearly, if she hadn’t panicked, scrambled to the ruins . . . If she would’ve stopped screaming . . . I aimed above her head while the drums were beating. A warning shot, she must have known. But the drumming kept on, louder and louder. And the second shot . . . by her ear, like herding sheep over a cliff, so clumsy, up to the ramparts she scampered, down the stone steps, wet and slippery . . . Providential once more. Providential, surely.”
Scanning the sky, Silas said, “When you give fair warning and become an instrument, a vessel, there’s an end to it. Order restored. Let it be, let it be.”
The whole time, Emily had been tugging at her snare. This time, she yanked so hard that she broke free and turned sharply toward the trail.
“No, no!” Silas yelled. “Don’t make me do it. Please! Please!”
Though the makeshift cane only enabled her to move awkwardly, she pushed on. Glancing back for a brief second, she saw Silas pressing his palms against his temples with his handkerchief, as though his brain had jammed.
Wincing, with the fringe of the trail dead ahead, she was determined to cover more ground and elude Silas before he came out of it. Somehow, she might even signal for help down below at the cottage if she made it that far. If not, hide as a last resort.
But the gunshot echoed all around the treetops. Shaken, with the pain shooting through her whole body, Emily froze.
“Put things back that don’t belong to you,” said Silas, coming after her. “That’s all. All right? Say it’s all right, Emily. It’s the only way.”
Twisting around, all Emily could do was secure her grip on the damp, knobby branch to keep from toppling over.
At the same time, Silas fumbled with the gun and the handkerchief, and pressed his palms against his temples. He wiped his glasses and put them back on. “All they want is a right of way, you stupid girl. Blame the developers, blame them.”
Silas’s eyes drifted skyward. “Wait, wait. The old journal with the history of the greenwoods . . . offer it to the Historical Society in memory of Harriet. As long as Emily turns over the answering machine, as long as Emily promises to behave herself, why not?”
As Silas’s gaze remained fixed on high, Emily sensed how close she was to the brink, only a couple of feet to the trail that was beckoning her. She shifted over another few steps.
But Silas came out of it and fired again. The echo merged with other sounds, possibly voices from all sides or just her desperate imagination.
She called out, got no response and realized that Silas was almost on top of her now, shaking his head so hard the sweat ran down his forehead and his glasses began to slip.
“You’re making me do this,” said Silas, wiping his glasses yet again. “Forcing my hand . . . no choice, no choice, unless . . .”
Bracing herself, Emily nodded as she turned back one last time and tightened her grip on the knobby branch.
Dropping his handkerchief, Silas’s lips curled up in a half smile as he lowered his gun.
With a shudder, she lurched, screaming in pain, and flung the forked end of the branch in his face. He shielded his eyes, knocking off his glasses. In the swirling blur that followed, he fumbled for the gun, got control of it, and waved it around crazily just before a thick-set figure stepped in, smashed his wrist, and landed sharp, quick jabs to his stomach, sending him reeling and sinking to his knees.
Bent over, Silas moaned over and over. Then became silent. Motionless. Like a penitent.
The gun disappeared under Silas’s handkerchief as Doc carefully picked it up. Emily thrashed about on the ground, yanking at the open-mesh pocket of her jacket, worried sick she might have broken something.
“Get away from me,” Emily said, clutching the pocket recorder.
“Easy, easy. He’s down, he’s had it.”
“Get away, I said. Don’t you dare touch me!”
“Hey, cut it out. What is this?”
“You lose, that’s what, Doc. You and the GDC lose!”
When she wouldn’t stop yelling, he yelled right back at her. “Oh, for Pete sake—here! This time will you freakin’ look at it?”
Mingling with the sharp throbbing pain in her knee were the cries of Babs calling for her at the foot of the trail. And Will’s voice along with Oliver’s deep-throated bark approaching from the opposite direction. But it was the business card shoved in front of her eyes that caught her immediate attention:
Bernie “Doc” Kletzky. Ex-Cop, Will Travel
Chapter Thirty-Two
It took a while, but after going over his whole experience in Lydfield-in-the-Moor it all began to make sense as Doc reconsidered Cyril’s cockamamie story. At first, as far as Doc was concerned, Cyril was just a flunky driver. But later on, he was also a key witness. Under pressure from Doc badgering him about the .32, threatening to turn him in, for the first time Cyril actually strung some words together.
“But you can’t grouse on me, mate. Only larking about the ruins whilst you was blinkered, now wasn’t I? Heard a shot. Spotted this wanker from the tea-and-crumpets marquee hopping it toward the High Street, giving a toss to this lovely piece. Wrapped in a shammy, it was. By a drainage ditch with rainwater trickling by, like so much trash or a bloomin’ rock. That bleedin’ sod Trevor, pratting about up the High Street, saw it all too. Side by side, eyeball to eyeball we was when I gave him sod all and told him to push off. Had me eye on that lovely piece the whole time.”
Back there in England, Doc didn’t understand half the words Cyril spewed out, let alone who this “bleedin’ sod” Trevor was. So, the second he caught Cyril fooling around at the garage in Bovey Tracey and showing off in front of Emily, he took the old .32 away from him and, soon after, handed it over to the Teignbridge Police Authority. It was only shortly after he clocked that whacko Silas up on the meadow, when he made a call to the gossipy pub manager Maud who, he’d been told, didn’t let anything get past her. It was only then that he really started to put the story about Silas’s antique gun finagling together.
“Ah,” Maud had said, sounding breathless as though she’d just heard the news about Doc’s act
ual part in all this, “seeing that it’s yourself and not the bounder we took you for. That you’re on the straight and narrow, so to speak. Mind, I’m only saying what I heard, not being one to tittle-tattle.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Doc said to her plain as can be. “Look, I’m close but there’s something I’m missing. It’s the old guns. One here back in Connecticut, one over there. I still don’t get it.”
“Ah, well you’re right lucky you rang me because I have it from the horse’s mouth as I told our Emily. If you’d been less of a prat whilst in my pub, you’d have gotten all this from her by now.”
“Never mind about her, okay? So, as usual, you got it from some horse’s mouth. Come on, will ya? Let’s have it.”
There was a pause as Maud was still having a hard time putting up with him dating back to their first run-in. “Constable Hobbs, for your information. Ever so diligent, mind you.”
“Great, terrific. What did this diligent cop come up with?”
“Well now, the way it was told for my ears only, this antiques bloke in Bath had a consignment arrangement with a client of Emily’s. A matched pair of dueling pistols, if you like. But this client, it turns out—”
“Silas.”
“Right you are. This Silas was also shipping a—”
“.32. You’re saying this Silas character shipped an old .32 with the dueling pistols overseas, then glommed it back from this Brit antiques guy. Then used it to lean on Harriet to make sure she stayed in line. Am I right or am I right?”
“Gone right barmy, if you ask me.”
“Yes or no?”
“Crikey, how you Yanks squeeze the life out of everything.”
“Lady, I just want to get a handle on it.”
“Well, if it’s more you want, either get on Emily’s good side or take it up with the proper authorities. Whilst you’re about it, in future you’ll need to make plain what you’re playing at. And there, me lad, is an end to it.”
As she hung up on him, he realized she was probably right. Shortly, he found himself racking his brains as to how he had fallen into this whole can of worms in the first place.