Her eyebrows were still tilted with concern. “I’ll be here at eight in the morning to pick you up. Not a minute later. Be ready.”
“Eight a.m.,” I said, giving her a thumbs-up.
She waved and drove away as I turned to the big, black, growling beast of a dog in the pen beside me.
“I’m prepared to make friends,” I said, waving my bag of chicken and French fries around.
I pulled a hunk of meat off a chicken leg and stuck it through the fence, trying not to look like I feared for my fingers. Brutus let out a low growl and then lunged for the food. I let go and jerked my hand back, almost becoming part of his meal. “Are we friends now?” I asked him, watching him lick his chops. He sniffed and nosed the fence, eager for more. “Fine. I’ll give you a handful of fries, but the rest are mine. And I never share my food, so you better like me after this.”
He wagged his tail as I opened the bag and grabbed a handful of salty fries. “This isn’t good for you, you know, but I’m desperate.” I tossed them through the fence. He gulped them down before they hit the ground then nosed the fence again, tail still wagging. I held my hand out to him and hoped for the best. Brutus licked the salt from my fingers and pressed his nose against my palm before turning and retreating into a wooden doghouse in the corner of the pen.
I guessed that meant we were friends. Maybe this day hadn’t gone completely to the dogs after all.
The gatehouse had one bedroom, a bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and a sitting room. Ben hadn’t been exaggerating when he said it was like camping. The size made it easy to cover every corner, nook, and cranny, searching for anything that would tell me who framed him. I wished I had a way to dust for fingerprints, but the place was spotless, and I probably wouldn’t have found any anyway.
After turning out all of Ben’s pockets, confirming there weren’t even dust bunnies under the bed, and finding only expired barbecue sauce in the cupboard, I plopped down in the recliner in the sitting room, defeated. How would Nick have gotten in to leave his shoes? Did he take Jenn’s keys when he was seen arguing with her?
This was like having a puzzle with too few pieces. Or the wrong pieces. Something just wasn’t fitting.
Deciding the picture might be clearer on a full stomach, I took my chicken dinner out of the bag and settled back into the chair with the book Brenda gave me. It was a mystery about an old castle, of all things. Being distracted by a house full of people and dogs all week, I hadn’t gotten too far into it yet.
By the time I popped the last fry into my mouth, I couldn’t put the book down. At the same time, the suspense was killing me. I kept looking over my shoulder every other page and considered that it might not be the best book to read while sitting in the gatehouse of a woman who was murdered.
The fictional castle in my book had secret passageways and a locked room harboring an ancient artifact. The artifact was stolen, the butler was murdered, and, by my calculations, the gardener was the killer. Not that my suspicions could be trusted.
I took a break from reading when my eyes got tired and the room grew dark. Thunder rumbled overhead, promising the storm my knee had been foretelling for the past week.
I turned on a table lamp and scrounged around inside my handbag for a teabag I knew was in there somewhere. I really had to do something about the size of my bag and my organizational skills.
Finally finding the teabag, I started filling a pan to boil water when my phone rang. It was Andy. “How’s it going over there?” he asked. “Is Stoddard there yet?”
“Not yet. Things are quiet. Brutus and I are friends, so that happened.”
“Nice. Well, if Stoddard gets in soon, will you give me a call? I had a breakthrough idea. I need to get him on film with the bronze Templar Cross. It’s the heart of Finch’s collection. Finch doesn’t want it on film, but I have to have it. It’s going to make the whole movie’s premise of Metamora being the site of the Arc of the Covenant.”
“Sure. I’ll let you know when he gets here.”
I hung up with mixed emotions. I wanted Andy’s film to be successful, and if it were, the town would get a boost in tourism, but at what price? Finch’s privacy? The castle had already been broken into once, which was why there was the big gate and nobody was allowed on the property. I’d hate to see the castle made into a target once people found out what’s inside.
I grasped the edge of the counter as a lightbulb moment struck. In my mystery book, the castle held an ancient artifact that few people knew about, and one who did stole it. All the time I’d spent wondering who murdered Jenn Berg, I never considered access to the castle, and what might be inside, and who would want to take it.
Dennis Stoddard!
Stoddard was here the night Jenn was murdered. Cory and Nick were the witnesses, not the other way around. They could place Stoddard near the crime scene. Stoddard killed Cory, and Nick left town to save himself.
If Nick and Cory last saw Jenn Berg alive, then someone killed her after they left. Someone who needed her keys to get inside the castle. Stoddard wanted Finch’s Templar Cross!
Stoddard killed Jenn Berg, took her keys, and left his shoes in Ben’s closet in the gatehouse.
No sooner had I made the connection than Brutus started barking his head off. Nothing like having an eleventh hour epiphany.
I peeked through the window curtains over the sink and caught a pair of taillights heading up the driveway to the castle.
Good gravy! I forgot to shut the gate!
My main purpose for being here, and I blew it.
Dialing 911 as fast as possible—because this was definitely a matter of life and death—I was put through to Sheriff Reins. “Dennis Stoddard killed Jenn Berg and Cory Bantum! He’s here at the castle! Send help!”
“Hold on one minute,” he said. “We’ve already arrested Ben. I know it’s hard to take, having your husband behind bars, but—”
“He’s going to kill Carl Finch next! Get over here!”
I hung up and dashed out the door to Brutus’s pen. “We have a job to do, McNasty. Don’t get any ideas about turning on me now.” With a quick flick of the latch, I let him loose. “Go!” I pointed up the hill to the castle. “Get ’em, boy!”
Brutus ran. Unfortunately, he ran in the wrong direction and headed for the road. “No! Brutus! Here! Come! Heel! Fetch!”
No command I yelled got him to come back. He’d slipped into the night to harass—and probably eat—unsuspecting ducks.
With no time to spare, I turned and ran through the gate. My knee protested loudly. Of all the times to be left without a car. But there was no way I was calling Monica and dragging her into this, and Reins thought I was making up nonsense. It was up to me to stop Stoddard.
The slam of a car door echoed, followed by a peal of thunder. I had to move and move fast. I told my knee to be a man, and I huffed and puffed my way to the top of the driveway, vowing to throw away every cookie in my pantry if I made it home.
Panting for breath with a throbbing knee and a cramp in my side, I rounded Stoddard’s Mercedes Benz. The front door was closed. Did I think it would be open? This was a civilized murderer after all. I took a moment to consider if I should knock or barge right in before deciding time was of the essence. I pushed the door open. It didn’t strike me as odd that it wasn’t locked until I got inside. I left the door wide open to aid in a hasty retreat.
The house was silent. Not even a creak from one of the five suits of armor standing at attention in the entry hall. Woven tapestries of coats of arms hung from the stone walls. If I didn’t know I was living in the twenty-first century, I would’ve sworn I’d walked into King Arthur’s court.
I padded along the thick fleur-de-lis rug until I came to an archway on my right. A peek inside revealed a kitchen I thought only existed in heaven. A brick oven in one wall, an eight-burner stove, and a copper sink. It made
me wish I knew how to cook. Almost.
Moving on, I took the hallway to the left and found myself in a library sporting floor to ceiling book cases with glass doors, a rolling ladder, and a dark mahogany desk the size of a tank. Libraries always held secrets, either on the pages of books or in secret passageways behind the shelves. Did Finch have a hidden chamber where he kept the Templar Cross safe?
There was no time to investigate, even though my fingers were itching to hold some of the first editions that were, undoubtedly, tucked away behind the glass. I had to get to Finch before Stoddard made him victim number three. Maybe he’d let me peruse his shelves as a reward for saving his life.
Just as I was passing the mammoth desk, something sleek and black darted out from under it, making me jump. I banged into a medieval dagger on a stand and knocked it over. Thunder boomed, shaking the house and masking the crash of the dagger. Then Spook sat in front of me, licking his paw and looking up at me with his rotten green glowing eyes. “Bad cat!” I whispered. “So you come to my house when you’re slumming it, do you?” He turned his back and flicked his tail at me.
I followed Spook out of the library into the back hallway. I pictured Finch entertaining guests in a den with leather furniture, studded with brass nails, a roaring fireplace with ancient shields mounted over the mantel, sipping brandy poured into cut crystal glasses from an antique decanter.
Although it was drafty in the castle, it was still hot and humid outside. The roaring fire was probably out of the equation, but my mind quickly replaced it with billowing curtains leading to a vast balcony on a stormy night.
Tip-toeing farther along the hall, past closed doors and another tapestry, this one of a knight on horseback, I paused at a register vent, hoping to catch a sound or even voices from somewhere in the house. But there was only the lingering silence.
Finch and Stoddard were somewhere in this castle, and nothing short of being whacked over the head was going to stop me from finding them.
After finding only Spook on the first floor, I ended up outside the only closed door on the second floor. If I was correct, it led to the turret. Would Stoddard be threatening Finch’s life at the top of the tower? How very gothic.
I took a deep breath and blew it out, soundlessly, before turning the doorknob. Locked. How to get it open? Once again, I turned to my trusty handbag, hoping to find a paperclip, or maybe a metal nail file. Something to try to pick the lock. Of course, I had no lock-picking knowledge, but how hard could it be?
I plowed through the contents of my bag, past my wallet and checkbook, down to the deep, dark bottom. Superglue, magnet, a pair of earrings I thought I lost.
Lightning flashed through a window behind me, illuminating the second floor like daylight. Thunder came on its heels, a loud, sharp crack that rattled the roof. Then sweet, blessed rain pattered against the windowpane. I could almost hear my knee sigh in relief.
Somewhere behind the locked door, a man shouted. It was muffled, but urgent.
I dug faster. A lighter—why did I have a lighter?—a spoon, of all things, and a pair of tweezers. That could work! I yanked the tweezers out and dropped my bag. I could really use another flash of lightning to find the little holes in the lock. I felt around with the ends of the tweezers, making what seemed like an obnoxious amount of noise, until one end found its way in the lock. My hands were sweating and shook, making it difficult to hold on to the tweezers. I jabbed and turned them, knowing with absolute certainty that I was never going to open the lock. But what was the alternative? Trying to battle ram my way through the door?
Frustrated, I tugged the tweezers out of the lock and tossed them across the floor. There had to be a better way. A way to get Finch and Stoddard out of the turret and downstairs without getting myself caught in the process.
I began pacing. My brain cycling through possible options.
A) I had a lighter. I could set fire to something, let the smoke drift under the door and up to the turret. How much fire would I need to produce enough smoke for them to take notice? The last thing I wanted to do was set the whole castle ablaze. Bad plan.
2) I could knock and run. Simple. Effective. What if they didn’t hear the first knock, or even answer? Stoddard could have a gun to Finch’s head, have him gagged and tied up. He could ignore it and do nothing. No, I needed something that would ensure action.
Or I could … Yes. I had it. I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I took off, jogging downstairs and around to the entry hall. The front door was still open. Rain came down in sheets, glinting in the security lights. I needed something heavy that I could swing like a bat. Looking around, my eyes landed on a medieval mace one of the suits of armor held. I snatched it out of his gauntleted hand and bolted out the front door.
Stoddard’s Mercedes was an expensive target, one that a man who collected fine and rare objects wouldn’t ignore. I held the heavy mace with both hands, high over my head, and swung it as hard as I could at the driver’s side window. It bashed the window in, crackling the glass into a spiderweb. The car alarm blared into the night, resounding over the thunder and pounding rain.
I struck the windshield, emboldened by the hefty, iron weapon. “That’s for Jenn Berg!” I yelled. I rounded the front and whacked the passenger window. “That’s for Cory Bantum!” I’d just let loose on the rear window when Stoddard came charging out of the house. “That’s for Ben!”
“What on earth are you doing, banshee?” he shouted, waving his arms and running toward me.
I brandished the mace. “Where’s Finch?”
“He’s inside, of course. Now, put that down.” He eased toward me, gesturing for me to lower the mace. Not a chance.
“Get Finch and bring him out,” I said. “Now!” I lunged for him to scare him.
“Fine! Okay. Give me a moment to fetch him.”
He turned back to the house and took a step, then another. Behind me, a deep, guttural growl broke through the rumble of thunder. I spun in time to see Brutus pounce.
A gun fired.
I screamed and dropped to my knees, closing my eyes.
When I opened them again, Stoddard was on his back, pinned under Brutus, who had all of his sharp canine teeth around the man’s arm. A gun lay beside him.
“You were going to shoot me!” I said. “Good boy, Brutus!”
I hurried over and grabbed the gun, tossing it inside the broken window of the Mercedes. Stoddard tried to move, but Brutus growled and tightened his grip on the killer’s arm, making him cry out. “If I were you,” I said, “I wouldn’t budge an inch.”
God bless Jenn Berg for having such a mean, loyal, amazing dog.
I called Reins and gave him the lowdown. He told me to stay put until a squad car arrived.
I told him I wasn’t taking one eye off of Stoddard until they had him in cuffs.
Since a police siren in Metamora was either A) the start of a parade, or 2) an emergency, both served as a signal to everyone in town to be nosy and find out what was going on. Reins was the first on the scene, Monica and Mia were second. Ben was right behind them, free of all charges.
“Thank God you’re okay,” Monica said, hugging me so tight I could barely breathe. “I can’t believe you caught a murderer on your own, with a … what is this thing?” She held up the mace.
“Cam!” Ben yelled, sprinting for me. Monica let go just in time to avoid being tackled. “I could kill you myself,” he said, squeezing the life out of me, “but only after my heart starts pumping again. You scared the crap out of me.” He held me at arm’s length by my shoulders. “I’m proud of you. Don’t ever go after a murderer again.”
“Lecture me later,” I said, giving him another hug. Mia joined us, and we held her in the middle of both of us. “I told you I’d be fine,” I said to her, gathering her hair behind her shoulders. She, of course, rolled her eyes.
> “And I said it would all work out,” Ben said, kissing the top of her head. “I better go find Finch.”
“I think he’s up in the tower,” I said. “The door is locked.”
Ben kissed my forehead before taking off inside the house while Reins cuffed Stoddard and read him his rights.
Since the gate was open, a crowd was accumulating in the castle’s driveway. “We did it, Cameron Cripps-Hayman,” Roy said, ambling up to me. “We did it, Roy.” He held up his hand for an awkward high five.
Anna and Logan ran up to us, hand in hand, which was curious, but I didn’t have time to dwell on that now. “The first case of the Metamora Action Agency has been solved!” Anna said, smiling ear to ear.
“Good thing, too,” Logan said. “I couldn’t find a thing on Nick.”
“Here comes Johnna,” I said, and we all watched her rolling up the driveway in an electric scooter, the knitting in the basket on the front getting soaked.
“Do you think he’ll need handcuff cozies?” she asked, holding up a loop of yarn. “I’m thinking of making them for all the prisoners. Those cuffs must chafe.”
Andy and Cass were next to join our group, Andy giving me a bear hug from behind. “Did you do that to Stoddard’s car?” he asked, raising his camera to get it all on film. “Remind me never to mess with you when you’re armed with a medieval club.”
“I can do some damage with my handbag, too,” I said. Which reminded me that I’d left my bag outside the door to the turret. “I’ll be right back.”
I rushed inside and upstairs. My bag was right where I left it. The door to the turret room was open, so I made my way up. At the top, I froze in amazement.
The round room was gilded from floor to—well, even the ceiling was gold. In the very center of the room, raised on a round dais, stood the Templar Cross. I had to admit, it was a relic worth committing a crime for. Although probably not murder. More like Johnna’s brand of crime, if one had to be committed.
Ben stood over Finch, who was lying on a velvet sofa holding a damp cloth to his head. Ropes were tangled on the floor. “Is he okay?” I asked, but it was Finch who answered.
Deadly Dog Days Page 20