Charles wrinkled his face up. "What? Where did you hear that? It's not true. I hated fountain pens and Gladys knew it. In fact, she hated them, too—ink flying everywhere and splotching up the paper. Oh, I know some people loved using them. Like that writer, Sal Price—always fiddling with his inks and papers and whatnot. I mean, really, why use one of those when you could use a nice, neat, roller pen?"
So, Elspeth had been right. Charles didn't write that note, and if Gladys did, she probably wouldn’t have used a fountain pen. I felt a prickle of doubt starting to grow in my chest.
"How can you be so sure it wasn't Gladys? You said you didn't remember."
"I vaguely remember that day. Gladys left in the morning to meet her sister in New York. Back then, the train still stopped at Downtown Station and we all took it."
"So, what happened that day?"
"I only remember we were going to try to contact Lily to see if she could name her killer, but my crystal was missing. I couldn’t contact Gladys. There were no easy calling contraptions back then like you have now." He pointed to my cell phone sitting on the counter where I'd dropped it. "And then I don't remember what happened after that."
My stomach sank as I listened to Charles. If he was right, Jimmy was about to make a big mistake that could hurt his career … and I was partly responsible. Not only that, but my gut instinct told me that Charles was right.
Gladys wasn't the killer.
But if it wasn't Gladys, then who was it? Claire could have been lying about catching the train. Or there could have been another person there lurking about, waiting for everyone to leave so he could do Charles in.
The problem was I had no idea how to make sense out of all the clues I had whirling around in my head and the clock was ticking. I had to do something soon.
"Right, Willa?" Charles was saying.
"What?"
"You're going to find the killer so I can move along my path, right?"
"Oh sure, I just don't know how—"
"Meow!" Pandora let out a screech from the other side of the room as she snaked her paw under the couch and batted at some unseen object. The object skidded across the floor. It spun at my feet, then slowly came to a stop. A silver pen.
I stared at the pen. A light bulb blinked in my head and suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle started to snap in place.
"I know who the killer is and how I can prove it!"
As I headed for the door, my phone broke out in song. I glanced at it as I ran by the counter. It was Jimmy, but I didn't have time to answer it nor did I want to tell him what I was up to, just in case I was wrong. I didn't want to get him into any more trouble than I'd already gotten him into. I'd call him back once I was sure I could back up my theory with evidence. I raced past him, leaving the persistent phone on the counter.
As I turned to lock the door, I saw Pandora and Ranger looking at me curiously. Charles was standing there, smiling.
"Go get 'em!" I heard him yell as I locked the door and raced to my car.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I was glad the entire police force of Mystic Notch was at the station processing Gladys, because I surely would have been pulled over for speeding if any of them had seen me race out of town.
I was going on gut instinct now, trying to prove my theory and, of course, I could still be wrong. Gladys could have done it and Charles might just be too loyal to see. Or maybe it was Claire … or even Bruce.
But one thing still bugged me. The argument between Bruce and Les Price in the Mystic Cafe the night before Bruce died just didn't ring true. No reasonable person would get that upset over what Les was writing. Sure, most of the people put that down to Bruce having dementia, but just looking through his house, I could tell Bruce was as sharp as a tack—especially with the way he'd organized and arranged the clues on his dining room table.
What if Les Price knew about Bruce and Charles and was going to write about that in his book? Bruce had hidden the affair all these years and maybe he wanted it to remain a secret. But if that was the case, why didn't Les tell me about Bruce and Charles when I told him about my theory on Gladys? Instead, he'd played along. Maybe he didn't want to let on about the affair so it could be a shocking surprise in his book. But would he go so far as to try to incriminate an innocent person?
I sped past Van Dorn's, glancing over at the stream gaging station. The murder weapon had been found there … on a clue I'd gotten from Les Price. Then, it hit me like a medicine ball to the gut as I stared at the sign SGS 17 06-82. That wasn't an identification number at the end—it was a date. The station was built in 1982—almost thirty years after Charles had died.
I remembered a conversation with Pepper about Ruth Walters complaining about the traffic on that road. Pepper had said 'she's been complaining since they put that in thirty years ago'. I could have kicked myself for not picking up on it at the time. Either Les Price had been lying, or he'd been lied to. He'd said his father had seen Gladys coming out of the gaging station, but that was impossible—it hadn't been built yet.
It was all coming into place. I just needed to check one thing and then I could call Jimmy with more confidence in my theory. I pulled up in front of Bruce's cabin, my nerves suddenly on edge. I didn't think anyone had followed me, so why did I feel so uneasy? Probably because I was about to break into Bruce's cottage.
But I didn't have to break in. The door was still unlocked from my earlier visit with Jimmy. I remembered how I'd had to run back in to get Ranger's things after we'd left. Jimmy and I had already been almost to the car when I realized I'd never picked them up. Jimmy had given me the key and I'd run back in while Jimmy waited in the car. I was supposed to lock it, but must have forgotten in the excitement. I realized that twenty years ago, I never would have forgotten, but now my slipping memory was paying off. Maybe pushing fifty had its benefits.
The door creaked open and I stepped inside. It was eerily silent and I felt a little creeped out being there by myself. I hurried over to Bruce's evidence table.
Sliding out Charles death scene picture, I squinted down at the note. It was definitely in fountain pen, but it didn't have the blotches and ink dots that Charles said he hated about using those pens. The penmanship was neat and tidy—someone had taken great care when writing the note … and who would take such care when writing a note more than a professional writer?
I slid the ticket stubs out. Just as I suspected, they were for the train, dated the night Charles died. One early, probably before Charles' time of death and one for the midnight train. Someone had bought two tickets and only used one. The first was merely to provide an alibi.
I picked up the bag with the cuttlebone, tapping the edges so the powder settled on the corner. White powder. Just like the powder found in Lily's hair. My memory conjured up the image of the vial I'd found under Lily's bed. I figured it had contained pounce—a powder used to make ink dry quicker. Centuries ago, people spread it on paper to make writing smoother and some people still did this today. Cuttlebone powder was absorbent—it would make a great powder for pounce.
And if the killer was someone who took pride in their writing, he or she might have carried that vial in their top pocket. The vial might have opened and the powder might have spilled out as they bent over Lily's dead body. And the vial might have slipped out and rolled under the bed.
My eyes went back to the picture of Charles. That orange fountain pen was such an unusual color. Then I noticed the cherry-red pen on Bruce's desk. I'd originally thought it was one of Bruce's pens, but now looking at the picture, I could see the pen matched the one in the picture of Charles. The pen in the picture only looked orange because of the yellow-tinted aging of the photo. I picked up the pen. It was a beauty … a vintage Waterman.
My mind wandered back to the day I'd met Les Price in the cafe—his cherry red mechanical pencil was also a Waterman. My blood chilled as I realized it was probably from the same set as this very pen.
"Bruce wasn't arguin
g about what Les Price was writing, he was arguing about what he was writing with!" I said it aloud, to what I thought was an empty cabin.
"That’s right … that’s my father’s pen. Charles Van Dorn's suicide note was written by my father."
My heart seized and I spun around at the sound of Les' angry voice.
"Your father killed Charles Van Dorn?"
"That’s right."
"And Lily, too?"
"Yep."
"But, why?" Les took a step toward me and I realized I was backed into a corner—he was between me and both the exit doors.
Les's face pinched. "My father was in love with Lily, or so he said. But she didn't return his affections. He killed her in a fit of passion."
"But why did he mark her forehead and why kill Charles?" I tried to keep him talking, hoping to distract him as I inched my way to the side, waiting for an opportunity to slip past him and out the door.
"He panicked after he killed her and knew he had to frame someone. Who better than Charles? He knew Lily had a thing for him and figured he could write it off as a lovers’ quarrel. At first, he was just going to frame Charles, but then Charles wouldn’t let go of trying to figure out who killed Lily, so he had to kill him, too."
"And you knew about it all these years?"
"Oh no, I didn't know a thing until he confessed to me on his deathbed this past winter."
"But he got away with it … why come here now?"
"I wouldn’t have, except I read about the house being inherited and the contents for sale. My father always felt that he got away with it because everyone lost interest after Charles died. The police stopped investigating … it was a neat, tidy ending for them. But he always feared there might be something he left behind in the house that would lead back to him."
"So that’s why you really came here? You're not writing a book?"
"No, I really am finishing the book, but I had to come and make sure his name wasn't tarnished."
"And you killed Bruce?"
"I had to." He gestured toward table. "As you've deduced, he recognized the pen. I didn't understand at first why he would have even noticed it, but then once I realized the suicide note had been written with my father’s favorite Waterman, I knew he'd been collecting clues."
I scrunched up my face, remembering how surprised Les had been when I'd told him about Bruce’s death in the cafe. I could have sworn he had no idea. If only he'd acted the least bit suspicious, I might have figured all this out a lot sooner. "But you seemed so surprised when I told you Bruce had been killed that day in the cafe."
He laughed—not a mirthful laugh—a dark, evil one. "That’s because I was surprised … about the mark on his head. And a little freaked out. He didn't have that when I left him."
"Right, Steve did that." I slid my eyes to the right, judging the distance to the door.
He caught my look and stepped firmly in the path between freedom and me. "Yes, and that almost turned out to be my saving grace. When the police brought Steve in, I hoped the murder would be pinned on him and the house would get closed up again."
"So, you were the one who put the murder weapon out by the gaging station and made up the story about your father seeing Gladys out there fifty years ago?"
A malevolent smile cracked his lips. "Yep. Ingenious, don't you think? I'd actually hidden it there after the murder, then when you told me about your ‘Gladys theory’, I went back and planted the hair. It almost got screwed up, though. I had initially buried it so that the police wouldn’t find it and when I went back to plant the clues, some animals had dug it up. I was just lucky they hadn't moved it and I could still find the thing."
Animals? My mind flashed on Pandora and Ranger. Had they been there before me?
"Anyway," Les continued, "you played right into that one."
It was true. I'd wanted my theory to be right so badly that all Les had to do was give me a gentle nudge in that direction.
"But, if that’s true, how did Gladys's hair get on the murder weapon?"
"Another ingenious idea." He puffed out his chest. "I went to interview her on the pretext of writing the book, used her bathroom, got some hair from her brush and then planted it on the murder weapon. I was a little nervous that you might discover the weapon first, but you didn't and it all worked out in the end."
Under other circumstances, I might have found it amusing that he used the same technique to get Gladys' hair as Jimmy did, but not right now. Right now, I was busy trying to figure out how to get past him. I was running out of things to say and my leg was starting to burn.
"Not so ingenious, really."
"Oh, why is that?"
"Because the gaging station was put in thirty years ago—after Charles' murder. Your father couldn’t have told you he saw Gladys coming from there. I'm sure the police will figure that one out very soon and come looking for you."
He narrowed his eyes. "So, that’s why you came back here? I wondered."
"But how did you know that I'd be coming here?"
"I've been following you. It was obvious you were getting close. I thought I'd framed that housekeeper, but when I saw you come here, I got nervous. You're just a loose end I need to tie up—just like all this evidence." He spread his hands to indicate the evidence table.
So it had been Les following me and not Claire and Felicity. Of course, now I wished Claire and Felicity were following me. I didn't know if they'd realize I was in danger and help me, but I would have felt a little better if someone knew I was out here—I didn't like the way Les had said he needed to 'tie up the loose ends'.
"The police have Gladys in custody right now, so, as soon as I get rid of this evidence and you, both my father and I will be scot-free."
Icy tendrils of fear squeezed my heart. My mind whirled to come up with an escape plan. An image of the bottle I found in Lily's room flashed through it. That pounce bottle was sitting in my purse right now.
"Not necessarily," I said. "Your father left a clue and I found it. It won’t be long until they trace it, and with these clues from Bruce, both you and your father will be nailed."
Les let out a slow, unnerving chuckle. "Poor Willa, you are a little slow aren't you? The police aren't going to find these clues because I'm going to destroy them ... and you!"
Adrenalin shot through my veins as he lunged for me. I darted to the left, twisting my bad leg painfully. It gave out and I stumbled forward.
Les reached out, grabbing a fistful of my hair. Pain seared through my scalp as he jerked me to my feet. I flailed my arms wildly, trying to connect with any part of him, but he was amazingly wiry and strong for his size. He wound his fist tighter into my hair and started pushing me in front of him.
"Wait! You can't do this! The police are sure to find out!"
He laughed. "Don't be silly, Willa. I can do it. Thanks to your help, I've already gotten away with killing Bruce, and now I will get away with killing you!"
I tried to kick out at him, but I couldn’t put any pressure on my bad leg so I was virtually helpless as he dragged me by my hair over to the door. I knew it led to the cellar because I'd opened it when I'd been there with Jimmy looking for birds. Apparently, he did, too.
He ripped the door open with one hand. "It's too bad that your snoopiness is going to cause you to have an unfortunate accident."
He shoved me through the door, but I shot my arms out at the last second and grabbed the sides. I teetered on the top step as Les tried to shove me down. There were only five steps down to the crawl space. I knew the fall down wouldn’t kill me, but I still had no intention of going down easy.
He shoved harder and I tried to maintain my hold, but my leg was throbbing with nauseating, white-hot searing pain. Stars floated across my line of sight and I hoped I wasn't going to pass out. Then he let go of my hair, and for a split second, I thought I was going to get free … until the sole of his foot connected with my back and I toppled forward into the dark.
Chapter Twe
nty-Five
I woke up with a mouthful of dirt and a throbbing leg. I opened my eyes to total darkness.
Where was I?
Then I remembered. I was in Bruce's basement, along with spiders, centipedes and lots of other creepy crawlies that I didn't want to think about. I bolted upright, hitting my head painfully on the ceiling. I had forgotten, Bruce's basement was a crawl space—not even tall enough for me to sit straight up in.
I rolled to my hands and knees, sharp pain tearing at my leg. Gritting my teeth, I inched forward, my hand in front of me feeling for the steps, my injured leg dragging behind me.
My hand connected with wood and I breathed a sigh of relief. The opening for the stairway was tall, so I tried to stand, crying out in pain when I put pressure on my leg.
"Damn!"
I knelt on the first step, and then used the railing to pull myself to a standing position. I hobbled up the steps and reached a tentative hand out toward the knob, not expecting it to be unlocked, but hoping it would be.
Was Les up there hatching his plan to do me in? I had no idea how long I'd been lying unconscious on the dirt floor. Hopefully, he'd left and I could bust my way out.
I tried the knob, but it didn't turn—it was locked. I pressed my ear to the door and held my breath. It was silent on the other side.
I pounded on the door.
"Hello! Anyone out there?" I knew no one would hear me. Bruce's house was too remote, but I yelled anyway because it seemed like the thing to do. I wasn't surprised when no one answered.
Taking a deep breath, I shoved my shoulder as hard as I could against the door. It didn't give an inch, but I kept at it. It was almost impossible for me to get leverage with my bad leg feeling like someone was running hot skewers through it every time I put any weight on it. I pushed and lurched, but my attempts got weaker and weaker, my stomach sinking further and further with each failed thrust.
I glanced back down into the dark basement. I couldn’t budge the door, so finding an exit down there was my only hope. The house was too remote for anyone to happen by and hear me and I couldn’t call for help, either, I realized, as I pictured my cell phone sitting on the counter in my shop where I'd left it.
A Spirited Tail #2 Mystic Notch Series Page 19