Clueless Chase

by Wendy Meadows

  “Goodness,” Betty said, reaching out her hand and touching the two thick wooden doors, each of which had a hand-carved snowy owl stationed in the middle. The doors alone cost more money than Betty would make in her entire life, or so she guessed.

  “Each mansion has its own character,” Mitchell explained, unlocking the front door. “This mansion was built by a man named P.L. Wording in 1894. In 1920, P.L. Wording was found dead at the age of seventy-two. His son took ownership of the mansion, but he ended up disappearing. No one knows what happened to him. I don’t even know the son’s name.” Mitchell pushed the front doors open. “Ladies,” he said.

  Mary looked at Betty, swallowed, and stepped through the front doors into a giant foyer lined with deep hardwood floors, dark burgundy walls, and a wooden ceiling holding another handcrafted owl. A suit of armor perched on a wooden stand stood to the left of the door holding a sharp sword. When Betty saw the suit of armor, her face went pale.

  “No, honey, don’t faint!” Mary cried out and began fanning Betty’s face. “Deep breath…deep breath.”

  Mitchell closed and locked the front door and waited until Betty overcame her fright. He drew in a deep breath. “Still smells like cigar smoke in here,” he said. “P.L. Wording was known for his cigars.”

  “Oh my,” Betty gasped.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Mitchell told Betty. “P.L. Wording wasn’t a criminal. He was an architect who, according to the history books, was very charitable and kind to his fellow man. His son, on the other hand, was just the opposite. It’s always been my opinion that P.L. Wording was killed by his son and years later someone…who knows who…settled the score.” Mitchell strolled out of the foyer and approached a staircase that resembled the grand staircase on a ship that had sunk. The ship, if Mitchell remembered correctly, had been named the Titanic. “This staircase is my favorite part of the house.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Mary said in a stunned voice. She reached her hands out and felt the banister. “So beautiful.”

  “This mansion went up for auction,” Mitchell explained. “After P.L. Wording’s son vanished, rumors that this mansion was cursed began floating around town. No one wanted to buy this mansion. Then Monroe Baker came along and decided it was time to join the ranks of the spoiled. He managed to purchase this mansion for half of the asking price. A huge step up from the beach apartment he was living in.”

  “Gee, maybe this mansion is cursed?” Betty asked, looking up the staircase. “After all, Monroe Baker is dead now,” she pointed out.

  “I guess it’s possible.” Mitchell pointed to a door standing to the left of the staircase. “That door leads into the den. Monroe Baker spent a great deal of his time in that den. So did P.L. Wording.”

  Mary removed her hand from the stairwell. “Mitchell, what are we doing in this place?” she asked.

  “Mr. Walsh raced away to tell our loose tiger he delivered the message. Right now, they’re both assuming I’m being a good little boy,” Mitchell explained. “But because I’m disobeying the bad guys, I have time to think of a plan.” Mitchell folded his arms. “I have to admit, this case has taken its toll on me. I honestly expected to capture the killer in Pineville. I didn’t expect to return back to Los Angeles slapping a fire off my tail.” Mitchell looked around. “This woman is very clever, and she means business.”

  Mary eyed the door leading into the den. “Mitchell, we need to secure the mansion, especially the hidden hallway. That woman could be listening to every word we say.”

  “Mary, I assure you, we are alone.”

  Mary drew in a deep breath. She knew Mitchell was speaking the truth, but she needed to move. She needed to look behind every door, check every closet, peek under every bed in order to feel secure. “I still want to check the mansion…please.”

  “I understand,” Mitchell told Mary. He nodded toward the den. “No time like the present. Let’s go.”

  Mary and Betty followed Mitchell into the den. “Spooky,” Mary whispered, seeing a large room that reminded her of a creepy writing chamber where a horrible creature sat hunched over a desk scribbling awful tales of terror and fear. Only, the den was nothing more than a room designed and built by human hands, just like her own house was designed and built by human hands. Yet, for some reason, Mary felt as if the mansion was somehow…a dark hole in time that transformed an otherwise normal man-made structure into a strange and mysterious nightmare.

  Mitchell made his way to a polished wooden desk holding a telephone and a crystal ashtray. “The hidden hallway is right behind that bookshelf,” he told Mary and Betty.

  “Hidden hallway…oh, this is like one of those scary mystery novels I read as a young girl,” Betty said and hurried to Mary.

  Mitchell sat down on the corner of his desk and examined the den. “Betty, this is only a room designed by P.L. Wording. I’m not going to deny that a certain place can’t become cursed, but I’m also not going to admit hidden ghouls live behind these walls. The only monster roaming behind these walls is the woman we’re after.”

  “Mitchell is right,” Mary agreed. “We don’t need to allow our imaginations to turn this mansion into something it isn’t. Mitchell, let’s secure the hidden hallway.”

  Mitchell nodded and walked to the bookshelf. Mary and Betty joined him. “Watch,” he said, bending down and pulling on a red leather-covered book that was resting on the bottom shelf. The book tipped backward a few inches and then stopped. A loud click snapped in the air. Mitchell stood up, put his hands on the end of the bookshelf, and pushed it forward. A dark, dimly lit hallway appeared behind the bookshelf. “There it is.”

  Mary and Betty stepped forward and looked into the hallway, which was lined with an old, rough hardwood floor and wooden walls. Antique lamps with bases shaped like owls were attached to the left wall, sitting ten feet apart and putting out weak light that barely lit the hallway.

  “Goodness,” Betty whispered, “that’s a really spooky hallway.”

  “Smells like cigar smoke, too,” Mary pointed out. In her mind, she expected to see P.L. Wording appear in a ghostly form at any second.

  “This hallway is no different from any other,” Mitchell said. “If you walked into a house, you’d find a closed door leading into a hallway. This bookshelf simply adds a touch of mystery. Writers thrive off of hidden hallways and spooky mansions. Why? Because people enjoy being pulled into a place that scares them while remaining safely tucked in their beds.” Mitchell looked down the hallway. “Ready, ladies?”

  Betty looked at Mary. “First a murder…then a tornado…now this,” she whispered. “All we wanted to accomplish was—”

  “The talent show,” Mary finished for Betty. “I know, honey. I feel like I’ve been pulled through a dark hole and thrown into a nightmare.” Mary allowed her eyes to walk down the hallway and explore the unknown. “My husband is trapped in an ugly war…and I’m trapped in this ugly war.” Mary took her eyes to Mitchell. “At first it seemed very simple in my mind: Catch a killer. But out of nowhere, just like the tornado, this case changed course and destroyed my view of what’s truly happening. I never considered that the woman we’re after might create a dangerous plan to protect her name.”

  Mitchell understood Mary’s frustration. “I believe she knew she was a duck out of water in Pineville and realized unless she came home to do her fighting, she would lose. I also believe she might have realized that unless she took drastic measures, the tide might turn in our favor.” Mitchell fished out a Lucky Strike. “The irony is, she accidentally hurt herself while struggling to protect her life against people she perceived as a threat.”

  “Maybe she tripped while going down the stairs?” Mary suggested.

  “Or maybe she was pushed,” Betty offered.

  Mitchell lit his Lucky Strike. “Come on, ladies, let’s check the hallway.”

  Mary took Betty’s hand and followed Mitchell into the dreary hallway. “Mitchell, you said P.L. Wording was found dead. Where ex
actly was he found dead at?”

  Mitchell stopped walking. He slowly turned around and made a solemn face. “Right here in this hallway,” he said and waited for Betty to faint. Betty didn’t disappoint him. She fainted right on cue. “I was afraid that might happen.”

  “Oh, Betty,” Mary whimpered. She dropped down to the floor, lifted Betty’s head into her lap, and began fanning her face. “Mitchell…how was P.L. Wording killed?”

  “Stabbed in the back,” Mitchell said and then froze. “That’s right,” he said as if he had been struck with a bomb. “P.L. Wording was stabbed in the back.” Mitchell looked down at Mary. “Mary, P.L. Wording’s wife was found drowned one year before he was murdered.” Mitchell paused. “I…my goodness, my mind never made the connection.”

  “Are you implying the woman who murdered Monroe Baker is related to P.L. Wording?” Mary asked, fanning Betty’s face.

  “It’s possible,” Mitchell said and worked on his Lucky Strike. “Mary, I don’t know very much about P.L. Wording’s son. I need to go to the library and do some research. You and Betty can help me. Maybe we can discover a name.”

  “We’ll be happy to help you, Mitchell,” Mary said. “I would rather be sitting in a public library than here in this spooky hallway.” Mary looked down at poor Betty. As she stared at her friend, a thought roamed into her mind. “Mitchell, was P.L. Wording involved in politics?”

  “Mary,” Mitchell confessed, “I read a very brief biography on P.L. Wording. I’ll know more when I dig deeper into his past. We’ll know more.” Mitchell stomped out his cigarette. “I’m going to explore the hallway. You wake up Betty. I want to be certain that our loose tiger isn’t anywhere around. I’m sure she isn’t, but a cop knows to always question himself until his suspicions are proven true.”

  “Hurry,” Mary pleaded.

  “I will.” Before he walked off, he added: “My mansion is a kitchen located in a busy diner. My treasure is to be surrounded by my friends.” And with those words, Mitchell walked down the hallway and vanished around a corner like a foggy figure returning to a forgotten time.

  “I hope you find your mansion and treasure,” Mary whispered as she continued to fan Betty. “Oh, Betty, wake up, honey. Now isn’t the time to be staring at the back of your eyelids.”

  As Mary begged Betty to wake up, Gregory Walsh pulled up to the front of the mansion, studied the gate, and then drove away.

  Chapter 7

  Mary’s footsteps echoed down a long white and gray marble hallway lined with tall wooden bookshelves that seemed to have been imported straight from a foggy London home trapped in a desperate year of cries and anguish. Perhaps, Mary thought, following Mitchell and Betty to a long wooden table, she was feeling a bit pessimistic or even depressed and that was the reason for her views on the bookshelves standing in this colosseum people called a library. The library back home in Pineville, Mary noted as she sat down across from Mitchell and glanced at a large square window that was medieval in design, was a little log cabin compared to the building that housed the Los Angeles library. Outside in the bright sunlight, she saw tall palm trees standing on a sandy and green lawn. She felt rather than heard busy streets filled with yellow cabs, fancy cars, and people rushing here and there doing this and that. A strange feeling suddenly washed over Mary as she stared out of the window—a feeling of…belonging. The feeling was foreign yet compelling.

  “Mary?” Betty whispered, staring into Mary’s face.

  “Huh?” Mary asked in a distant voice. In her mind, a mysterious studio appeared. She saw herself wearing a luxurious blue evening gown. She saw her face doused with soft makeup. Then she saw herself walk into a rich living room filled with men and women drinking champagne, laughing and talking without a care in the world. Some of the women were wearing diamond necklaces while some of the men were smoking cigars too rich to mention.

  “Mary, darling,” a flashy woman called out, waving a white glove at Mary. “Come say hello to my sister.”

  Mary saw herself walk over to a beautiful young woman standing beside a large stone fireplace. The woman’s beauty was extraordinary, or so it appeared. Mary saw the woman’s face begin to change…slowly at first…from beautiful to…a very ugly woman who was filled with…emptiness.

  “Come join us, Mary.” The woman smiled at Mary and handed her a glass of champagne. “Join us, Mary, and become famous. Oh, it’s so wonderful to be famous, isn’t it?” Mary backed away from the woman and tried to run, but when she did, the ugly woman grabbed her and wouldn’t let go. “You know you want to join us, Mary!” she yelled.

  “No!” Mary yelled back.

  “Mary…honey…Mary?” Betty gently shook Mary’s shoulder.

  Mary gave her head a quick shake. When she saw Betty’s lovely face, she sighed in relief.

  “Are you okay?” Mitchell asked Mary in a concerned voice. “You’ve been acting strange ever since we left the mansion.”

  “It’s this town,” Mary said in a weak voice. “This place…reaches inside of you…somehow…and takes you prisoner.”

  Mitchell opened a large brown book and nodded. “The warm sunlight, the palm trees, the Pacific Ocean, the canyons, all work together to lure a person in.” Mitchell studied the book. “There’s nothing wrong with warm sunlight, palm trees, the ocean, the canyons…there’s nothing wrong with the city of Los Angeles. It’s the studios that are poisonous. This little part of the world has been transformed into a hungry monster that demands to be fed.”

  Mary felt a cold chill grab her spine. “Mitchell, why do you live here?” she asked. “You could work as a homicide detective anywhere.”

  Mitchell paused before replying. “I belong here,” he told Mary. “Long ago I allowed this city to capture me—but not the studios. I allowed the beauty of Southern California to become my home. Unfortunately, my home is infested with an unseen poison that people hurry to drink.”

  “Is everyone that awful?” Betty asked in a desperate voice. “The librarian who helped us seemed very nice.”

  Mitchell looked up from the book sitting before him. He gazed into Betty’s sweet eyes and smiled. “Not everyone is bad, Betty,” he explained. “There are even some famous people who walk a straight line. They’re rare, but around.” Mitchell looked out the window. “Los Angeles is a strange town…a place where…well, no one seems to belong but everyone fits in.” Mitchell looked at Mary. “Los Angeles is a world of its own, Mary. A beautiful city turned into an ugly piece of art that people still find beautiful.”

  Mary stared into Mitchell’s serious eyes. She began wondering about her hometown. Even in a small town such as Pineville, there was darkness. “Mitchell,” she said, forcing her mind to walk out of the fog and back into the sunlight, “how about we concentrate on the case?”

  Mitchell nodded. “What we know so far is that our loose tiger hurt her ankle and that she isn’t at the mansion. Where is she? My guess is she’s hiding someplace that Mr. Walsh owns.”

  “The studios?” Mary asked.

  “The studios?” Betty whispered. “Golly.”

  Mitchell shrugged. “This woman isn’t stupid, Mary. She’s going to hide in a place that the law can’t touch, which means she’s protected. Our only chance of catching her is to lure her back to the mansion—but we have to make her believe we’re playing her game.”

  Mary nibbled on her lower lip. “Just think…if that woman hadn’t hurt her ankle…”

  “It would have all been over by now,” Mitchell said in a stern tone. “You ladies would have walked into the mansion as…bait…and I would have attempted to trap our loose tiger. Sometimes a cop just has to toss his cards on the table and see if he wins or loses.”

  “You weren’t planning on losing, though,” Mary pointed out.

  “A cop can never tell which way his cards might fall,” Mitchell confessed. “I don’t have time to play games—we don’t have time to play games.” Mitchell lowered his eyes back down to the book. “I didn’
t come back to Los Angeles to let a deadly tiger run loose, ladies. If she had been at the mansion I would have trapped her…or she would have killed us. It’s that simple.”

  Mary thought of her husband flying dangerous bombing missions over Europe. In a way, she thought, he was doing exactly what Mitchell had intended to do: run a dangerous mission into enemy territory and see whether he returned alive…or dead.

  Life sure was turning ugly, Mary thought as she picked up a second book. “What do you think will happen once her ankle heals?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Betty said in a scared voice, “what will the crazy lady do, Mitchell?”

  “Try to trap us in the mansion,” Mitchell replied. “I’m sure she wants to frame me for Bridget Carson’s and Monroe Baker’s murders and then frame you two for my murder.” Mitchell bookmarked a page and raised his eyes. “At first I believed this woman wanted Monroe Baker’s body for…morbid reasons. Now I know she wants—well, needs—his body in order to frame me. I don’t know how yet, but maybe in time the truth will present itself.”

  Mary pondered Mitchell’s statement. His words settled into the logical part of her mind and rested. “That does make more sense,” she agreed.

  “Yes, it does,” Mitchell said. “Now, let’s get to work, ladies. We have a great deal of reading to do.” Mitchell lowered his eyes and began reading. Mary joined him. Betty hesitated, glanced around the large library, feeling like she was in a scary tomb, and then went to work. An hour passed and then Mitchell raised his eyes.

  “I found the name of P.L. Wording’s son,” he said in a tired voice.

  Mary raised her eyes and watched Mitchell rub his eyes. “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to find anything useful,” she said. “This book only has the name of P.L. Wording’s wife…Ellie Wording.”