"Does he know a lot of words? Other than 'dumb ass?'" John asked.
"Sorry about that. We think he belonged to a sailor before the Jordans acquired him. His language is colorful, to say the least."
Gram walked over to John. "Would you like to hold him?"
John's eyes widened. "Okay, I guess." He held out his forearm. Smitty turned his head to look at Gram and then back at John.
"Go on and visit John," Gram said. "He's a nice boy."
Smitty hopped hesitantly over to John's arm. He pecked a little at the hair there. "Ouch!" John said with a flinch. Smitty flapped his wings and then settled back down. In a soft voice, John said to Smitty, "That's better, isn't it? You're a pretty bird, aren't you? Yes."
Smitty seemed to still be taking his measure of John. He walked back and forth on his shoulder and then over to his ear. There was something in his movement that I hadn't seen before. Almost militant. But instead of giving him a little tug like he did with Gram, he chomped down hard on John's ear, drawing blood.
"Get him off! He's biting my ear!"
Smitty squawked, "Bad boy! Bad boy!" He flapped his clipped wings and tried to fly across the room. He landed on the back of the couch.
John was holding his ear and glaring at Smitty. "You're a bad boy!" he shouted at the bird.
"Please," Gram interjected. "It doesn't help to yell at him. I'm so sorry. I don't know what got into him. Alexandra, please put Smitty in his cage while I take care of John's ear in the bathroom."
I went toward Smitty, who flapped his wings at me and flew toward John's retreating back. "Smitty! Stop it right now!"
"Bad boy, bad boy!" Smitty shrieked.
John slammed the door closed behind him, and Smitty hit the door with a thud.
I gasped and ran over to the bird. He was shaking his head and fluffing his feathers when I reached him. I put out my arm, and he hopped on. "Are you okay?" I asked and stroked his head.
He cooed and fluffed his feathers again.
"You're going back in your cage, bad boy."
He squawked but didn't try to fly away. I opened the door to his cage, and he walked in. I locked the door, saying, "What got into you? You know better than to bite people. John is nice."
I shook my finger at him. I'd seen him go after other animals and, of course, the vet, but I'd never seen him bite a visitor. It was really weird. I hated to think it, but I was starting to believe Smitty really was getting senile.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After the excitement of the bird attack, we all retired to our rooms. Luckily my room was at the far end of the house, away from Gram's room and the guest room. I didn't want to explain where I was going.
I wore dark clothes and sneakers, my hair in its perpetual ponytail. I crossed my fingers as I started my truck and backed down the driveway slowly. Everyone had gone to bed an hour ago. Hopefully they were asleep. It was a cloudy, moonless night, which wasn't going to make breaking into Marlton House any easier. No, it wasn't breaking in, I reminded myself. I was just going to take measurements. You couldn't break into your own house.
I turned down the hill and looked back at Rockgrove in my rear mirror. It was dark; I sighed with relief. Up ahead the town was alive with lights and sounds.
I pulled up behind Some Enchanted Florist at 10:05. The back door was lit by a floodlight. A stylish baby-blue BMW was parked near the back entrance. George came out dressed all in black. He looked like a cat burglar from an old movie.
"That's some outfit," I said, getting out of my truck and closing the door.
"Oh, this old thing." He flashed me a white smile. "Looks like you had the same idea."
I was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans. Not exactly the professional cat burglar attire that George was sporting.
Come to think of it, he looked a little too comfortable. "Now I know what you did before coming to Danger Cove. You were a jewel thief, right?" I laughed.
He shined a small flashlight in my face.
I flinched. "Hey, get that outta my face."
"Sorry, and to answer your question—not even close."
I rolled my eyes. "Let's just get going before I get cold feet," I said.
George gave me a wave. "Follow me."
We darted behind the Dumpsters in the side alley next to the florist shop. A cat ran out from behind a can and dashed out to the street in front of us. I shrieked.
"Really, Alexandra, try to be a little more circumspect."
I stuck my tongue out at him. He couldn't see me, but it still felt good.
We made it to the house without incidence. The backyard was more overgrown than the front. Finding a way in was not going to be easy, but walking through the front door crisscrossed with crime scene tape was not an option.
"You have the keys, right?" George asked.
"Of course," I replied, jingling the ring of iron keys.
"You sound like a jailer with those things."
"And don't you forget it." I marched forward toward the bushes where the back door should be. George turned on his flashlight to light the way.
There appeared to be an entrance on the back porch, but the door was boarded up, and it looked doubtful the porch would support our weight. All I needed right now was to fall through a wooden floor again. The last time I'd had to get fifteen stitches in my thigh, and Big Ron had to cut me out with a jigsaw.
"Looks like we're going with door number two," George remarked, shining his light on the stone stairway that led to a basement bulkhead door. The door was padlocked, and for a few seconds I secretly hoped I didn't have the key on my ring.
"Could it be any creepier?" I whispered as I dug around on the key ring looking for a small padlock key. I held one up to George's flashlight.
"That looks right," he said, taking it from me and trying the lock.
It opened with a grating sound, and the heavy doors swung open with a booming: Creak! Creak! The sound was so loud I wanted to clap my hands over my ears. He got one door open and shined his light down the dark passageway.
"Yoo-hoo!" he called. "Anybody home? Spooks, murderers, anybody?"
I hit him in the arm. "You're getting on my last nerve."
"Just trying to keep it light," he said with a grin. "This is what I call an invigorating date."
"This isn't a date."
"Who says?" George shined the light in my face again.
I swatted it away. "I say."
He laughed softly as he shined the light on the stairs. "Ladies first."
I growled my response.
* * *
The basement was clean and in good repair. It looked as though it had been swept recently. There were no boxes or debris of any kind.
"This is surprising," I said. "I expected this space to be full of crap."
"Looks like somebody was doing some spring cleaning." He swept the light around the room. I groaned when I saw the furnace.
"I guess it was too much to hope I'd be able to use the heating system. You'd think somebody would've updated this thing in the last fifty years." I kicked a boot at the rusty appliance.
"How long has the house been vacant?" George asked as he continued to scan the walls and ceilings with the flashlight.
"Ten years or so. The owner died without a will, and the house got tied up in probate court. But that furnace doesn't look like it's worked for a lot longer than that. Maybe she used space heaters or kerosene. It looks dry," I commented, patting the stone wall. "That's one good thing."
George shined the flashlight on a heavy wooden staircase. It was missing a rail but otherwise looked in good condition. "Let's get this underway. After you, Mrs. Charles," George said, heading up the stairs.
I sighed. "You're not going to let The Thin Man thing go, are you?"
"Not a chance, Nora, dear." He laughed. A rich, warm sound that made me smile. Okay, I was adding nice laugh to his list of positives.
The stairs creaked and groaned under our weight. I reached for the rail
for support and started to fall forward when my hand didn't connect with it. George turned and caught my arm in one smooth move.
"Diving off the stairs, Nora? You're not getting out of our date that easily."
"This isn't a date," I said, inches from his face. "But thanks for catching me."
I backed away, steadying myself against the wall. George turned the knob easily and pushed on the basement door. Nothing. He shoved hard again. Nothing happened.
"How about a hand here," he said.
I crowded in next to him.
"On the count of three. One, two, three!"
We both hit the door hard with our shoulders. There was a cracking sound, and then the door swung open. We fell to the floor in a heap. My shoulder was throbbing.
George helped me to my feet and shined his flashlight around the room. The kitchen was just as old and decrepit as I'd remembered. "Let's avoid the upstairs bathroom," I said, all business now. "I'm sure the police checked that thoroughly."
"Okay, maybe the bedrooms?" George said. "If the guy was staying here, then he might have left something in one of the rooms."
"Why do you think he was staying here?" I asked.
"I heard from Mrs. Simpson—her daughter works at the station—that the police hadn't found a hotel or B&B yet that had the tourist registered as a guest. He had to have been staying somewhere. So maybe here?"
It sounded plausible. "I suppose. I mean, we know he was in town for a couple of days before he was killed, right? Any leads on why the guy was found fully dressed in the bathtub?"
George shook his head. "Nope. Could be the body was moved."
I thought about it. "But that would mean there'd have been blood everywhere. And weren't there shell casings in the bathroom?" I asked, trying to remember the horrific scene.
George turned to me. "You're right. So why would he be in the bathtub fully dressed?" George pondered.
I snapped my fingers. "He was hiding from the killer. He heard someone come in and hid in the bathtub."
George thought about it for a second. "Good theory, especially if the guy was caught off guard."
"Unfortunately, this just confirms that Marlton House and the murder are tied together." I sighed.
"Chin up, Mrs. Charles. We're just getting started." George patted my arm.
I found a spiral staircase off the kitchen. Probably used by servants waiting on the family. The staircase seemed sound enough even though every step creaked and groaned. We were halfway up when a loud thud sounded from downstairs. George turned off his flashlight, and we stopped and listened.
"Any thoughts?" George asked softly.
I shrugged. "Maybe the wind?"
We listened for another full minute. Nothing.
George resumed climbing the staircase, and I followed. We reached the top and found ourselves on a small landing containing several doorways.
"This was probably a storage area used by the servants. Linens and cleaning supplies would've been stored here." I opened one door, and George shined the light inside. It was a cedar-lined walk-in with shelves from floor to ceiling.
"Nice," George said. It really was. Cedar closets. Oh boy!
Unfortunately, there wasn't a suspicious wooden box anywhere in sight. I closed the door and tried another. This one wasn't cedar lined, but it was larger and had a round stained glass window at one end.
"Nursery?" George asked.
I shook my head. "Probably the head housekeeper's office and bedroom. The rest of the servants would've slept in the attic. I wonder where those stairs are." We hadn't reached the family's sleeping area. We were still in the back of the house where the servants ran between floors taking care of their employer's needs.
"There," George said. "That looks like another set of stairs."
There were actually two doors. One that led up another set of narrow stairs, presumably to the servants' attic rooms, and another that opened onto the main bedroom area of the house.
"I doubt the tourist would've stayed in the attic. Let's check out the bedrooms on this floor."
One of the five bedrooms had an old four-poster bed covered with dingy sheets and blankets. There was funny-colored dust everywhere.
"Fingerprint dust," George explained, shining the light around. "I doubt we'll find anything in here."
I looked around the room. There was a closet at one end, which was actually unusual for a Victorian house. It was small but looked to be original. "That's weird," I murmured. I grabbed the flashlight and shined it around the corners of the closet. "It's definitely original molding. But the design seems off. Why would the owner have had this closet installed? They stored their clothes in giant trunks and armoires." Interestingly, this closet had hangers from the local dry cleaners. No receipts attached, but they looked new. George had disappeared from my side. I continued to nose around in the closet. I thought back to some of the articles I'd read about Victorians. Could it be?
Suddenly, George was at my side, propelling us into the closet and pulling the door closed. He grabbed the flashlight and turned it off.
"What are you doing?" I hissed.
"Someone's in the house," he whispered back.
My blood went cold. I could hear footsteps. On the stairs. Coming down the hallway now. There was some rustling in the room next door. "What should we do?" I hissed.
"I'm open to suggestions," George whispered.
"Oh, The Thin Man is out of ideas. Great, just great. Shouldn't you take a swig out of your flask and get ready to deck the guy when the door opens?" I was scared to death, but I couldn't resist getting my digs in.
"Excellent suggestion," George said and pulled a silver flask from a pocket in his jacket. He politely offered me a sip.
I grabbed the flask from his hand and took a big swig. Brandy burned down my throat. I wiped my hand across my face and handed it back. He took a sip and put the flask back in his pocket.
"Good thing for you, Nora knows her way around an old Victorian," I said, already feeling around the walls of the closet.
And then I felt it. The slightest movement of cool air against my hand. I gave a push on the wallboard, and there was a soft click.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Footsteps paused in front of the bedroom, and I heard the door creak open. My hands fumbled with the hidden doorway, pulling it open soundlessly and feeling for the stairs below. I grabbed George's hand and pulled him through the door just as the closet swung open. We saw a light shine through the cracks in the wallboard. And then it was gone. We waited a minute at the top of the staircase before George switched on the flashlight.
"That was close," he whispered. He shined the light down the stairs. They seemed to go on forever. "How did you know?" he asked.
"I'd read about owners putting in secret passages so they could come and go without anyone knowing. This is the first time I've actually seen one though," I said, my breath coming in panicked puffs.
We continued down the staircase that felt more like a narrow, dank tunnel with each step. We reached the bottom, and my feet touched stone or slate. It was damp and cold. We were standing in a four-by-four square landing that seemed to go nowhere.
"Now what?" George asked.
"There must be another secret door," I said, feeling the walls. I found the telltale gust of cool air on the wall to our right. I gave a push, and the door swung open into a much larger room. The air was cool and damp.
George moved the light along the stone walls. "Any idea where we are?"
I tried to picture the layout of the house in my mind. "I think we're in the wine cellar," I said and pointed to the empty bottle racks on the far side of the room. "There should be an exit to the outside. The wine cellar was kept under lock and key. Typically, there was a delivery entrance." I craned my neck.
The cellar appeared to be empty. Besides the hidden staircase, we found steps leading to the bulkhead entrance, but the door was locked from the outside. On the opposite side of the room was a set of stai
rs that appeared to lead to the main level of the house.
"Want to make a run for it?" George asked.
I sighed. I didn't really want to risk getting caught by whoever was up there, but I also didn't want to spend the night in this creepy wine cellar. "Let's give it a few minutes," I suggested. "Give whoever is up there a chance to see the house is empty and get moving."
"That's the question of the evening," George said, crouching down on the stone floor. "Who is up there? What say you, Mrs. Charles?" He pointed the flashlight at me.
I waved away the light but decided to play along. "Well, Mr. Charles," I said, sitting down beside him, "I think we can rule out the police. Whoever it was seemed to be as interested in keeping a low profile as we are. So my guess would be the murderer."
"Returning to the scene of the crime? So unimaginative," George tutted.
I couldn't help giggling. "I've got it!" I said. "It's the killer's henchman come to find the missing box."
"Much better, Mrs. Charles. Unfortunately, if he finds it while we're hiding down here, we're out of luck."
"So you want to try to sneak up and take a peek?" I asked.
"Tempting but not wise," George replied with a sigh.
"So we wait," I said irritably.
George shrugged. "How about some shadow puppets?" he asked, flipping on the flashlight.
"You're kidding, right?" But he wasn't kidding. He made a dog, a bird, a rabbit, and a turkey before the flashlight sputtered and died.
"Great," I muttered. "Way to waste resources."
"Never fear," George said and pulled out his cell phone. He switched on the flashlight app and tilted the phone under his chin. "How's this?" He tried to make a scary face, but it was more comical than creepy.
"Don't waste your battery," I chastised.
He flipped the light off, saying conversationally, "So you really think the box is still in the house?"
I stared into the darkness. He seemed to be looking for reassurance. "Yes. It's got to be here."
"Maybe whoever shot the tourist took the box."
"Then why is somebody snooping around upstairs?" I countered.
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