I reached the place and circled it, sizing it up, scanning all sides from roof to foundation, in search of anything I might have missed in the dark. It was a white clapboard house, as I’d noted the night before, crowned by a mansard roof of gray shingles. I figured it had been built seventy or eighty years earlier. It was unlikely that anyone had been inside since Lucky Chuck had died the previous Christmas, and I wanted to prove that to myself. For my own sense of well-being and security. I knew I’d have to break in, but I wasn’t sure which door to test. Something in the rear, of course, in case someone happened to be driving by on the highway and spied me smashing a window.
First, I tried the back door. It was locked, though I was sure the old wood would not hold up in the face of a couple of swift kicks—even from a smallish woman such as myself. But I didn’t want to leave a mess or reduce the door to splinters. I tried the eight windows in the back of the house, then the six on the eastern side, but none budged. I was about to check the windows facing the highway when I noticed a pair of storm-cellar doors on the western side of the house. An ancient padlock was threaded through the staple of a hasp, but its shackle had rusted through. It was open.
I grabbed the iron handle and pulled up on the heavy wooden door. It took all my strength to budge the thing, but in the end it yawned open, unleashing the cold, musty smell of decades of darkness and damp and fungus and even machine oil. I peered into the hole, asking myself if I really wanted to enter the house through the gates of hell. The answer was no, but I did it anyway. Cupping my skirt to the back of my knees, I stepped into the doorway and climbed down the steep stairs.
Except for the light streaming in from the storm doors, the cellar was pitch black, and I’d neglected to bring my flashlight. I retrieved my cigarette lighter, sparked it to life, and tried to remember the last time I’d filled it with fluid. I’d have hated for it to run out of gas before I’d reached daylight. One tentative step after another, I waded deeper into the darkness with only the faint glow thrown by my lighter to guide me. The basement was filled to the rafters with busted furniture; shelves, barrels, and boxes spilling their tools and farming equipment into an obstacle course on the floor. My path was hazardous, nails and screws scattered everywhere. I felt my way with one hand while holding my torch with the other. The detritus formed a sort of maze with corridors and walls of varying heights and widths. I could see no more than a few feet ahead of me, and my efforts to locate a staircase had so far proved fruitless. I bumped up against the old iron furnace, cold and oily and unyielding.
I changed course and walked straight into a cobweb, which caused me to shriek and drop the lighter. It took me the better part of a minute to brush the dusty web off my face and out of my hair, and still I couldn’t say if a spider might have crawled down my neck. My wayward lighter managed to evade my sweeping hands for another minute and a half as I crawled around on the filthy floor searching for it. Finally upright again with a weak light to show the way, I pushed on deeper into the cellar.
Another cobweb grazed my cheek, or so I thought. After jumping out of the way, I realized it was only a string attached to a bare light bulb above my head. I gave it a yank, certain it would be dead. It was. Surely the electricity had been disconnected when Lucky Chuck Lenoir died the previous Christmas. My lighter, growing ever hotter in my hand, would have to do until I located the stairs and the sunlight above.
The air was close and moist, cool, and malodorous. Cellars usually are. But as unpleasant as the dank smell was, the darkness somehow added fuel to it. A scurrying along the floor to my right told me I was not alone. I wanted out of there. I quickened my pace despite the risks of a fall, and finally a crack of light appeared overhead, sneaking through the wooden planks and around what had to be a doorframe. I’d found the stairs. Now, if only the door was unlocked, I’d be spared a return journey through the dark, past the rats—or whatever I’d heard—and the cobweb jungle.
I climbed twelve groaning steps, grateful that they withstood my weight despite their age and state of disrepair. At the top of the stairs, I fumbled for the knob, and the door swung open, unleashing a flood of daylight into the cellar. I stepped into the kitchen, stowed my lighter in my purse, and shut the door behind me.
It was one of those old farm kitchens. A behemoth of a range—cast iron—squatted next to a tub sink and a long wooden table, gouged and stained by generations of spills, burns, use, and misuse. A hand-cranked washing machine, complete with washboard, had outlived its utility and was marooned next to a water pump. The floor, as foretold by the gaps leaking light into the basement below, consisted of wide boards, hammered in place once upon a time and now warping atop their joists. One day, an unsuspecting intruder was sure to crash through the failing floor. Tiptoeing out of the kitchen, I chose the more stable planks as if playing hopscotch and emerged into a short hallway, then the dining room. There I stopped in front of the fireplace and caught a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror atop the sideboard on the opposite wall of the room. A smudge of soot or oil streaked across my face like war paint, undoubtedly applied by my own filthy hand after my crawl on the floor of the cellar. My hair resembled a bird’s nest after a nasty windstorm. Nothing to be done about it for the moment.
I dragged a finger over the mantelpiece as I made my way to the parlor beyond. There was another fireplace and a single ladder-back chair in the middle of the room. An overturned crate, doing duty as an end table, was home to a stack of yellowed newspapers.
If I hadn’t already come so far, I surely would have given up the fruitless search. This place sure felt abandoned to me. The thought comforted me, and I drew a breath of relief. Whoever might have opened my glove compartment the night before couldn’t have been hiding in the caretaker’s house. But since my face, hair, and nylons were all a mess, I figured I might as well take a look upstairs.
The steps were covered with painter’s cloths, perhaps to protect the boards, though, in truth, that seemed a pointless exercise to me. On the second floor, I found five bedrooms and a couple of baths. There were some old books piled into a corner and covered in dust. And another newspaper strewn on the floor not far away. Nothing but what you’d expect in an abandoned farmhouse.
I bent over and retrieved the newspaper, more from a resigned sense of duty than curiosity. It was the New Holland Republic—my paper—probably one of the last poor Lucky Chuck had read, I thought. Then I glanced at the headline on the front page and felt a true shiver over my shoulders, and I knew it wasn’t a spider from the cellar. The banner read, “Twin Cosmonauts Return to Earth.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mining some hitherto unknown vein of courage—or perhaps recklessness—I managed to produce my Leica, plug in a flashbulb, and shoot a single frame of the newspaper with the chair and some of the room in the background. Then I heard a creak through a wall. I couldn’t say which one. Clutching my camera in one hand and my purse and the newspaper in the other, I made for the staircase and kicked something small and hard that scuttled across the floor. It came to rest against a wall, and I scooped it up. It was a small handgun that I hadn’t noticed before. It must have been hidden under the newspaper.
I flew down the stairs and straight for the exit. I yanked furiously at the front door, but it didn’t budge. Then I remembered it was padlocked from the outside. Glancing over my shoulder to the staircase, I held my breath and looked and listened for what seemed an eternity, though it was probably no more than five seconds. No one was following me. Not yet, at least. But I had no intention of waiting for an update. There, not five feet from the door on each side, a large window beckoned. I bolted for the one on the right. In a trice I unlocked it and threw open the sash. After one last panicked look behind me, I dived through the window and tumbled onto the porch outside where my belongings scattered across the boards. I pushed myself back to my feet, gathered my purse, the newspaper, and handgun, and then I was sprinting for all I was worth toward the highway. My car was parked a
t the entrance, but I sensed the highway would provide my best chance at safety. It was nearing five in the afternoon, and there would be plenty of traffic on the road. I didn’t dare head straight back to my car; that would have involved crossing several hundred yards of the farm out of sight of any passing motorists on Route 67. And I wanted to be seen by somebody. Anybody at all who wasn’t already lurking inside the Tempesta caretaker’s house.
Ten minutes later, I’d made my way along the highway back to my car. Surveying the area from the shoulder of the road, I felt certain the way was clear. No one had followed me, and no one was lying in wait for me. With key at the ready, I made a dash for my car. In a flash, I was inside, doors locked, engine roaring, and tires spinning in reverse. I wheeled the Dodge around, shifted into drive, and floored it.
Slipping into a hot bath, I willed myself to calm down. In the safety of my own apartment, I felt confident that I’d escaped Tempesta unfollowed. I wasn’t so sure I’d gone unnoticed, however. Was the creaking noise that had spooked me merely the sounds of an old house settling on itself? Or had someone else been there, watching me, listening? One thing was certain: someone had indeed been inside the house within the past twenty-four hours. I snatched the newspaper from the stool next to the tub and read the date again: Wednesday, August 15, 1962. I tossed it aside. My thoughts leapt to the .25-caliber Colt pistol I’d grabbed on my way out of the house, and I submerged myself in the soapy water, trying to disappear. Holding my breath under the surface, I wondered if taking the gun was an act of utmost foolishness or a wise decision in the spur of the moment. I knew one thing: I needed to stash it in a safe place until I could hand it over to Sheriff Pryor.
Clean and dressed again, I checked the locks on my kitchen door. A year and a half earlier, I’d had bars installed on the window panel along with a new deadbolt and three surface locks. My investigation into the disappearance of a fifteen-year-old girl inspired a spate of break-ins. I lived on the second floor of a duplex, and the only way into the apartment was through the kitchen door at the top of the stairs. The locks were secure, of course, but I worried that a determined intruder could get in despite the best efforts of the Segal deadbolt and an old wood-panel door. An ax or a healthy kick could destroy the door in a matter of seconds. And, short of a drop to the street below, there was no escape except through the kitchen door.
Why was I worrying about my security? I was sure no one had followed me home. But that provided little consolation in light of the open glove compartment I’d found the night before. If someone had indeed searched my car, he would have found the address of my employer, the New Holland Republic, on the automobile registration. That was dangerous enough, but my press pass had been there as well. With my full name. And I was in the phone book, which meant the mysterious squatter knew where to find me.
“What’s eating you?” asked Fadge, joining me in my usual booth in the back of his shop.
I’d been sitting alone, toying with the crossword puzzle, which wasn’t cooperating. Since it was the dinner hour, the store was quiet. Fadge sold a lot of ice cream in August, but during the week, most of his business came in after seven. He had a few minutes to chat with me.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Any progress?”
I shrugged without committing to an answer. I wanted to tell him about the newspaper from the farmhouse, but not if we were going to be interrupted any minute by a customer.
“How’d you do today?” I asked instead.
“Not bad.”
“What’s that mean? You lost a hundred? Two hundred?”
“A hundred and fifty. But I was close in a couple of races. I’m feeling encouraged for tomorrow.”
I held my tongue, but my face surely betrayed what I thought of his prospects.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, ignoring my silent reproach. “You’re coming with me Saturday, right?”
“What’s Saturday?”
He gaped at me as if I’d just asked what color Washington’s white horse was. “The big day. The Travers Stakes is Saturday.”
“Oh, right. Sure. I’ll go. But I have some work afterward, so I’ll have to drive myself.”
“What work do you have on a Saturday night?”
I lied. Or stretched the truth a bit. I told him I was covering the charity gala at the casino for the paper. Though there had never been any discussion between us, I suspected Fadge might not appreciate my parading some new beau in front of him.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got to get back here for the Saturday night crowd.”
A customer came in for cigarettes, so Fadge went to ring him up. When he returned he said he’d forgotten to congratulate me on my big story. The news that the sheriff suspected Johnny Dornan was the man killed in the fire was the talk of the racecourse after the Republic came out earlier that afternoon.
“Did you know that your boss sent a truckload of papers to the track? Sold every one of them.”
I was flattered. Tickled, really. And impressed by Charlie’s brain wave. Artie Short had been fretting over slipping circulation for the past two years. Maybe this would attract a few more readers in Saratoga County. And it wouldn’t hurt my reputation either. But in light of my two scares at Tempesta, I reconsidered my satisfaction.
“They were quoting you on the radio, too. WGY and WTRY. And—get this, El—Channel Six, WRGB. Television.”
“They mentioned my name?”
“No, but they quoted the paper as the source.”
That was as much as I could hope for. You don’t go into small-town newspaper reporting to become famous, after all. I smiled and thanked Fadge. But then I remembered the pistol that I’d found in the caretaker’s house. It was weighing down my purse at that very moment.
“Can I ask a huge favor of you?” I asked. He nodded. “Will you lock this in your post office safe until tomorrow?”
He stared bug-eyed at the Colt pistol I’d just removed from my purse. Then he gaped at me and back again to the gun. “Where did you get that?”
“Tempesta. The caretaker’s house. Will you keep it safe for me? And this too.” I produced a paper bag that contained the newspaper I’d swiped.
Fadge agreed and locked up both items, even though we both knew he was breaking several federal statutes in the process. I slipped into the phone booth and dialed the Saratoga sheriff ’s office. The deputy who answered stonewalled me, insisting Pryor was unreachable. I left a message for him to call me back right away, giving both the number at Fiorello’s and my apartment across the street.
Back at my table, I took up my crossword again to battle my jittery nerves. Then the bell above the front door jingled. Another customer. I heard a man’s voice order a cup of coffee, then ask where he could find the john. Fadge never liked the idea of customers invading his sanctum sanctorum, especially ones who ordered only coffee. Nevertheless, I heard him dispense instructions, and a figure brushed past my booth on its way to the back room. A minute later I became aware of a presence hovering above me. I glanced up from my puzzle and gave a start. A most unsettling smile greeted me.
“There she is,” said the man. “I been looking for you.”
It was Jimmy Burgh.
He took the seat opposite me without a by-your-leave. I watched him, wondering what he wanted with me, since I hadn’t printed his name anywhere in my articles, respecting his wishes to the letter. And I worried about his sudden appearance so close on the heels of my adventure in the caretaker’s house. Could Jimmy Burgh have been the one skulking around Tempesta Farm? I glanced to the counter to find my three-hundred-pound bodyguard. Where the hell was he?
“Don’t worry your curly little head, miss . . . Eleonora, isn’t it?” said Burgh, aiming for friendly, I could only assume, but landing squarely on menacing instead.
“I prefer Ellie.”
“As you wish. And please call me Jimmy. All my friends do.”
“How may I help you . . . Jimmy?�
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“I want to ask you a couple of questions. I seen your story in the newspaper today. You weren’t lying about being a reporter, were you? I thought you might’ve been exaggerating.”
I shrugged, unsure of what to say to that.
“Anyway, two things,” he said, lowering his voice and dispensing with the off-putting grin. “First, how’d you come to know that Viv McLaglen was the lady killed in the barn?”
“I never wrote that she was the lady in the barn,” I said.
“Not in so many words. But you made it clear it’s likely.”
“Yes, I did. I believe it was her. Now I’m trying to prove it.”
“What makes you think it was Viv?”
“It sounds as if you know her.”
“We’ll get to the part where you ask the questions in a minute. I’ve got something for you. But for now, why do you think it was her?”
“I called every motel and boarding house in Saratoga County until I found one where a lady had disappeared last Friday night without settling her bill.”
Burgh’s bushy black eyebrows inched up his lined forehead. “Pretty smart of you. And, boy, was I surprised to read that Viv and Johnny Dornan were keeping company, even if it was ex post facto.”
I believed he meant “posthumously” because what he’d actually said didn’t make any sense.
“Anything else that points to Viv as the lady?” he asked.
“Not much was left of her. Just the smallest scrap of a fox stole, a little red hair, and an earring.”
Burgh cocked his head and clicked his tongue, as if to say “tough luck.” There was no real sorrow in his reaction, only vague fatalism.
“The second thing is, what can you tell me about Micheline? Any news on her?”
A Stone's Throw Page 16