We were directly in the hurricane’s path.
There was talk of an evacuation from Cape Cod, but I knew that if we tried, we’d be stuck in traffic during the worst of the storm. There was no way the entire population of the Cape could escape off those two narrow bridges without being bogged down in parking lot traffic for days.
I forced my way into the heavy stream of panicked drivers. “We’d best stay put,” I said. “And what better place than a house that’s withstood storms for the past few centuries?”
Camille shot me a grim smile. “Good point. If it survived two-hundred and forty years, it’ll survive this.”
I chuckled. “You actually calculated its age?”
“Of course. Didn’t you?”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to focus on the long line of traffic that snaked along the two-lane road. “Why don’t you give Jane a call and tell her we’re coming?”
The wind gusts picked up, and it began to rain sideways. I turned the wiper speed to its highest setting, but it barely helped.
A garbage can bounced across the road just in front of me, stalled, rotated as if by the hand of God, then rolled back to the same side from which it came.
“She’s not picking up,” she said, putting the phone down with a frown.
“She might be taking care of the baby. Don’t worry, we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
I turned down Route 6A, which took us away from the main crush of vehicles and quickly brought us to Paines Creek Beach Road. We passed Kate’s, which was already tightly boarded up with plywood on its windows. The parking lot was empty.
The saltbox loomed up on the right. Every light in the house blazed from its windows.
The front door flew open. Jane stood holding Mason in her arms and, once again, she was crying. I secretly hoped that someday we’d see her in a happier state.
“Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re here,” she shouted, pulling us into the house. She slammed the door shut behind her. “I think I know where he went, and it’s not good at all.” Her last few words ended in a wail.
We crowded into the living room but didn’t sit.
“What happened?” Camille said, sliding an arm around Jane.
“He found it. He found the letter.” She turned to me, eyes blazing.
“The letter from Beckett?” I asked, although I knew I was right.
“Yes! I changed earlier and put my clothes in the laundry, forgetting it was in my pocket. When I went to check for it a few minutes ago, it was gone. Grandpa had started to do laundry and must’ve found it.”
“Wait. What letter?” Camille said.
I realized I hadn’t yet told her about the love letter, and quickly updated her.
“You sure it didn’t drop out of your pocket? You checked all around?” Camille asked.
“I did. It’s nowhere. He’s got it.”
Camille and I locked eyes. “The Waterfords’,” we said in unison.
“I’ll go,” I said.
Worry filled Camille’s eyes, but she didn’t try to stop me. “Take some supplies with you in case you get held up. And hurry. Try to get him back here before the storm gets worse.” She thrust a water bottle, flashlight, bag of salted almonds, and pack of batteries at me. “Take your slicker, too.” I quickly rummaged through our bag and grabbed my yellow raincoat. “Got it.” I shrugged into it.
She kissed me for a long time, and then released me. “Be careful, Gus.”
Jane called to me. “Thank you.”
I was surprised she didn’t remind me to give Beckett her reply to his letter. It was still safely tucked into my back pocket.
Thankfully, the side roads were quiet now, except for the debris that flew through the air and the wind shrieking outside the car. The rain still pelted down heavily, and the gullies on the side of the road were starting to fill.
I passed the road to The Seacrest, saying a prayer for Jack, Scout, Iris, their dogs, and the rest of the family. “Keep ‘em safe, Lord.”
It was harder to see through the driving rain, and I had to crawl at ten mph to avoid going off the road. Finally, I saw the sign for the Waterfords’ mansion, with a big curlicue “W” in the upper left hand corner. I pictured it saying, “McNabb” instead, knowing that the original house belonged to that family forever. Just turn the W upside down. I was surprised that Marla had allowed the sign to be changed. Or maybe she’d been relieved to get rid of the reminder of the family’s sordid past?
A massive crack exploded in the air, and in seconds a tree limb crashed to the ground about ten yards ahead of me.
If Camille hadn’t kissed me for so long, I would have been crushed.
I stomped on the brakes, zipped up my slicker, and put the new batteries in the flashlight. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and faced the demons from Hell.
With the bag of supplies knocking against my leg, I lowered my head and started for the mansion. I noticed the front of Albert’s car poking around the back of the house.
So he was here.
Walking wasn’t easy. Several times, gusts of wind pushed me sideways, and I stumbled, nearly falling. But eventually I found a position that worked—leaning down deep into the wind and crab walking—and I made it to the porch where I’d last drunk lemonade and seen a boy flying past me to land in the hydrangeas.
I pounded on the door, but no one came to let me in.
Determined to find Albert, I tried the latch.
Locked.
Getting angrier by the minute, I tried the bell, but because of the storm’s shrieks, couldn’t hear if it rang indoors.
I moved to the window to the right and peered inside.
Nobody.
The only car I’d seen in the front driveway was the Corvette, still with its front grill smashed. I wondered if Marla or Winston had a garage around the back.
Or were they simply away? Had they taken Beckett back to the institution and maybe stayed at a hotel nearby to avoid the wrath of the storm?
No way was I sitting around on the wicker furniture to wait for someone to welcome me inside. Albert had to be in there, and I couldn’t leave until I knew for sure.
I tried the first window.
Locked.
The second and third were just as tightly secured.
But luck shone on me with window number four, which had been left open a crack.
I yanked off the screen and slid my fingers under the window. Slowly, I moved it upward, jerking it side to side to make the ancient painted wood move up.
When I had cleared about two feet, I threw my bag inside, then put one leg through the opening, ducking low to avoid bashing my head on the frame.
“Well, look who’s here,” came a familiar voice.
Chapter 22
Marla Waterford sat in the darkened room, a rifle laid across her lap.
“Marla.” I straightened and unzipped my raincoat. “My God, why didn’t you answer the door?”
She stood, pointing the rifle at my chest. “Why didn’t you just go away?”
“I—what?” I stumbled back two steps, trying to make sense of her strange words.
“You’re tenacious. I guess I can say that about you.”
I ignored the fact that now she was pointing a rifle at my stomach. “I’m looking for Albert. Is he here?”
“That crazy old bat came at me like a madman, waving a letter he says my son wrote about a baby.” She rolled her eyes. “Now why in the world would I let him talk to Beckett when he was so mad?”
I just stood, staring at her. “He what?”
“And then he took out an old diary and claimed I’ve got his danged treasure stashed away in my cellar. He’s obsessed over it. Same as his grandson, that young doctor.”
Well, that I knew was true. But still… “Where is he?”
“He’s nearby.” She huffed. “I haven’t yet decided what to do with him.”
My jaw dropped lower, if that were even possible. “Marla? What
’s going on with you?” I looked around for Winston. “And where are Winston and Beckett?”
“They’ve all abandoned me.” Her eyes rolled, reminding me of a spooked horse. “Winston never loved me. He was ready to take off with that frumpy bitch Cindy. And I thought she was my friend.” She spat the last few words, sounding close to tears. “And Beckett. Well, he’s just impossible.”
“Wait. Where is everyone?”
“In the library, where else?” She brushed back a loose hank of hair. It didn’t look as shiny and bouncy as the last time I’d seen her. In fact, it looked downright stringy, as if she hadn’t washed it in days.
The library. I glanced around at the six doors leading to various rooms.
She motioned to me with the rifle. “That way.”
I shuffled in that direction.
When we reached the closed door, Marla inserted a large iron key into the lock. Her hands trembled badly. “Take it slow, now. I want you in there and seated next to your buddy, the old geezer from that nutso Cook clan.” She pushed open the door with her foot.
The scene before me was surreal. At the great library table sat three people. Winston, his face bloody and swollen, with his hands duct taped to the chair and his mouth taped shut; Beckett, slumped over the table with free hands, but with his waist and legs tied to the heavy chair; and an equally restrained Albert, who glared at Marla.
“Gus!” Albert struggled with his bonds and rocked his chair back and forth. “She’s gone crazy! Watch out, sonny.”
It was too late for that. The sweet, let-me-serve-you-cookies-and-lemonade lady had shown her true colors. And I suspected the rifle was probably loaded.
“Are you okay?” I walked toward him.
“No. She’s threatened to shoot me. Or lock me up in the cellar.”
A banging sound came from below us. I would have expected something from the outside, the windows, the roof, the trees in the yard…and the hurricane was indeed, raging. But this seemed to come from below our feet. I could have sworn I heard a muffled shout.
Marla smiled. “Oh, yes. That’s my other prisoner. Another one of your treasure seekers.”
Winston’s eyes met mine, and in a flash, I sensed great shame mingled with growing horror. It was as if he said I’ve covered for her for too long, but I can’t do it any longer.
I tried to think of a plan. I needed to overcome her, but not get shot.
Simple, right?
I made my choice and faked a stumble toward the fireplace, grabbing a heavy poker. In one wide arc, I swung around to hit her, but connected instead with the gun. The poker went clanging to the floor, and she, in turn, swung the butt of the rifle, connecting with my skull.
She was stronger than she looked.
The room spun, and then faded.
All went black.
***
I stirred, feeling cold. The back of my head throbbed. And the floor on which I lay was gritty and bumpy. Sounds of crashing glass and wailing winds came from above.
The hurricane.
Images began to flood into my brain. Camille, Jane, and Mason, hunkering down in the old saltbox house. Albert, tied to a chair in the Waterfords’ library. And the sound of a rifle swishing through the air toward me.
I reached around to feel the lump. It was a good one, and it had risen up into a nice goose egg. It occurred to me that I wasn’t bound. My arms moved freely. I sat up, pulling my knees to my chin. Good. My legs were free, too.
The next thought was of Marla. Sweet, humble, polite Marla. The lady who’d seemed to be such a victim of circumstances. So troubled by her dear boy’s insanity. So worried. Such a decent wife and mother.
Damn, she’d been good. I’d swallowed it all, without one stirring of doubt.
I tried to take stock of my situation. There was movement around me, sounds of scuffling and the low murmur of voices.
My eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from a spill of yellow sneaking through a small barred window in the door. I stood, feeling a little woozy. Leaning on a rough stone wall, I steadied myself.
In a few minutes, I felt stronger. I shuffled toward the door, realizing I was in a cellar room about twelve by twelve feet. I inadvertently kicked a bucket on the way there, sending it rolling across the floor.
A bucket?
A strange thought hit me. Did Marla put it here for me to use as a toilet?
On a shelf near the door were three big gallon jugs of water and a box of crackers.
My prison food?
I reached the door, feeling for a latch. I found it, but as expected, it was locked. I rattled it, then called through the barred window. “Hello?”
Voices came from the other side. Albert’s was the loudest.
“Gus? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a lump on my head, but it’ll be okay. Where are you and the others?”
“I’m in the next room over. Winston and Beckett are in another room together, next to me. There’s somebody else way down the hall, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. The walls are too thick.”
I recognized the next voice as Winston’s. “Gus,” he said. “It’s me. Beckett and I are locked in here together.”
I shouted through the crack in the door. “Do you guys have buckets and food, too?”
“You mean our prison provisions?” Winston said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Looks like she plans to keep us here for a while.”
Beckett shouted, “Is Jane okay? Did you see her?”
“She and Mason are fine. They’re with Camille, weathering the storm in the old saltbox house near the beach.” As I said it, I realized that both Albert’s house and the mansion in which we were imprisoned were within five hundred yards of the shore when it was high tide. And if the storm surge got bad…we might see some serious flooding. I said a prayer for Camille, Jane, and Mason and silently thanked God that they were in a two-story structure. They could always climb higher than the water. In our case, we were below sea level. Not a good place to be if the area started to flood.
“Does she know you’re here?” Winston yelled.
“Of course. Once the storm’s over, she’ll be here in a flash.”
“Oh, no,” Albert moaned. “I hope that crazy bitch doesn’t catch her, too.”
My heart skipped a beat. “We’ll just have to escape before she does,” I said.
Winston said, “We’ve been trying for five or six hours. There’s no way out.”
“I’m going to look around in here, see if I can find something useful. I think I’m in some kind of storage room. I see tons of chests and boxes. There’s gotta be a way out.” I patted my pockets for my cell phone.
Yes. Crazy Marla didn’t take it!
With trembling fingers, I powered it on.
Of course. No signal. Basements weren’t the best places for wireless devices. But I swiped the screen and turned on the flashlight app. The room flooded with light.
Blinking to adjust my eyes, I surveyed the area.
Originally for food storage, I supposed, it was crammed with wooden boxes and sea chests. And there in the corner, was the plastic bag of supplies I’d brought with me. There were no weapons inside, but a flashlight with fresh batteries, another bottle of water, and the almonds. I pocketed the flashlight. My phone battery was at seventy-three percent, but it wouldn’t last forever. And if—when—we got out of here, I’d need it to call Camille and the cops.
Crouching, I examined the lock in the door. It was an old-fashioned keyhole, like the one in the library door that took a heavy iron key.
What could I use to try to spring the lock?
Another tinkling crash and howl came from above, and I was sure the hurricane had taken out a window.
I flipped open the nearest sea chest, searching through it for a tool.
Inside was a whole set of china, with fancy green leaves with gold trim painted on each piece. I flipped it over. Haviland. I laughed. Camille would have loved it. “V
ery useful. I could have my own tea party down here,” I mumbled.
I closed the lid and started on the next chest. This one contained old kitchen implements. Tin strainers, ricers, bowls, wooden napkin rings, campfire style coffee pots, brass candlesticks, and a set of rusty old knives. I slid the biggest knife in the side pocket of my cargo shorts. It might come in handy.
The next box contained a rock collection.
That’s right, a rock collection with all colors, sizes, and shapes of stones. I hefted a fancy pink quartz the size of a man’s head, round white smooth stones that could have doubled as bowling balls, geodes split to reveal beautiful crystals, and more. I saved one of the heaviest rocks, thinking maybe I could smash the door lock. Maybe.
The next box revealed a collection of old Kodak cameras.
Really? Now I can document my imprisonment. I started to laugh out loud, but it sounded slightly tinged with hysteria, so I shut my mouth and kept looking. It wouldn’t do to upset the others more than they already were.
I continued along the far wall, finding hundreds of porcelain figurines, collections of glass salts, a crystal punch bowl with dozens of mismatched cups.
Then I came to the Christmas collection.
I found a Santa cookie jar, sadly, with no cookies inside.
A small fake Christmas tree, with ornaments already attached.
I pulled off the metal hooks from two of the ornaments and pocketed them. They were probably too fragile to use in the door, but I’d try.
In the next box, I hit pay dirt. Full of silver, I unwrapped soft cloth packages of forks, knives, spoons, serving utensils, knife sharpeners, and finally, a wrapped package of silver picks used for prying meat out of lobsters and nuts.
These might just work.
Chapter 23
I stopped searching through the trunks and went to the door, dragging the bucket over and tipping it upside down to use as a stool. I turned off my phone light and grabbed the mini flashlight, holding it in my teeth so it directed light on the lock.
I’d played around with locks in my youth—just for grins—and had a vague idea of how to move the tumblers around. But it had been years and this was a much older lock than I’d experimented with as a boy.
Murder on the Brewster Flats Page 9