“And they’ll search for the manuscript,” Laura whispered. “They’re going to find it. I know they are.”
“There’s nowhere left to search,” Julia said.
“We have the clues Augustus gave us,” Alex said. He turned that smile on me.
“I’m not going to do any more work on the clues,” I told him, and met his gaze without backing down. Darlene would have been proud of me.
Mrs. Engstrom came into the room with a tray filled with delicate demitasse cups and a large silver pot of coffee. Silently, she began filling some of the cups and offering them to the guests.
Alex ignored her and kept after me. “Maybe you don’t need to work on the clues any longer, Samantha, because you’ve already figured out the solution. Is that it?”
Senator Maggio slapped his cup on the table so hard that it rattled in its saucer. “I don’t want to hear any more about those so-called clues!” he stated. “We have established that they were false and therefore of no value.”
“You may have taken it upon yourself to assume that,” Alex told him, “but there’s no reason why the rest of us have to go along with you.”
“Please, please, please don’t argue!” Laura begged. “We’re in enough trouble. We don’t need any more bad things to happen.”
At that moment the lights went out.
Laura shrieked, and Buck yelled, “Who did that? What happened?”
With no moonlight or starlight seeping through the heavy cloud cover, the room was completely dark. It was like being swallowed by a large, warm mouth, and I struggled to adjust my eyes, trying to make out shapes or shadows.
Thea spoke from somewhere in the blackness. “The generator’s gone out, I’m afraid. We’ve had trouble with it before when there’s been a great deal of wind with the rain. Seepage into the motor, or some problem like that. I don’t remember exactly what Augustus said about it.”
“Can it be fixed?” Buck asked.
“Oh, yes. Chuck—you met him—he pilots our launch and is our general handyman, and he’s very good with the generator. The only problem is that Chuck is on the mainland.”
In the distance I saw a pinprick of light. It wavered and shivered and grew in size as it came closer and closer. I tried to yell a warning, but my throat froze and my tongue turned to ice. All that came out was a gargling gulp.
It was just as well I hadn’t screamed, because the light turned out to be a candle carried by Mrs. Engstrom. She’d brought a basket of candles and candle holders, and as soon as all the candles had been lit the room looked soft and pretty, as though we’d been having a party instead of scaring ourselves to death.
“With the generator out of service, we won’t have heat, so I’ve sent Walter and Lucy to put extra blankets in all the rooms,” Mrs. Engstrom said. “We have a few flashlights in the bottom of the basket for those who want them, and if there is anything at all we can do to make you more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
I liked the idea of a flashlight. It seemed much more reliable than a candle, so I helped myself to one of the flashlights as well as a candle, kissed Aunt Thea good night, and went upstairs. I had a lot more courage now that I knew Lucy and Walter were upstairs too.
I paused on the landing. The light from my candle touched the carvings on the burial urn, and they winked and flickered like tiny, evil eyes. It would be so easy to grab the manuscript now and run with it to my tower room.
But as I hesitated a voice spoke above me on the stairs. Lucy said, as she came toward me, “I put two extra blankets on your bed, Miss Burns, because that tower room is little with lots of windows and can get awfully cold.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She stood on the landing with me, so there wasn’t anything else to do but climb the stairs and head for my room.
“Good luck,” Lucy whispered.
I turned and gave her a quick nod of gratitude. I needed all the good luck I could get.
Once I was in my room I blew out my candle. I wrapped myself in one of the extra blankets and sat halfway down the narrow stairs, leaving the door to the hallway open just a crack. I heard snatches of conversation, a couple of “good nights,” and doors closing as the others straggled up to bed. I wished I’d thought of counting the closing of doors. Had everyone gone to bed? Was it safe now to go after the manuscript?
Too scared to do anything else, I waited for a while, then finally got enough nerve to creep down the last few tower stairs and enter the hallway. Although I had the flashlight in hand, I couldn’t turn it on. Someone might see the light. So I moved to the left side of the hall, feeling my way along the wall through the blackness. Twice I stopped, listening intently. Had I heard a noise nearby or was my imagination working overtime?
Carefully, one hand sliding against the wall, I moved forward step by step. I had almost reached the top of the stairs when my fingers bumped into something hard and warm, something that jerked away, moving fast.
Before I could do more than gasp, an arm wrapped itself around my shoulders, and a hand pressed against my mouth.
I tried to yell, but Alex said, “Be quiet, Sam.” He took the flashlight out of my hand and released me.
I jerked away and brushed myself off, wishing I could see him face-to-face. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.
“Keeping guard,” he said.
“Guard against what?”
“Against you,” he answered. I couldn’t see his smile, but I could hear the mockery in his voice.
“Why? What did you expect me to do? Rob you while you slept?” I wished I had bitten his hand while it was against my mouth.
“I think you know where the manuscript is,” Alex said.
“Don’t be silly.” I could hear the quaver in my own voice and regretted not sounding more positive.
“You know where it is and were going to get it.”
A door opened, and candlelight flickered into the hallway. “Is something the matter?” Aunt Thea asked.
Smooth as a snake slipping into a hole, Alex answered, “Samantha and I were headed in the same direction—down to the kitchen.”
“Oh, dear,” Thea said, “you’re hungry. The electric stove won’t work, of course, so a hot cup of coffee or tea is out of the question, but there’s sure to be cold meat and cheeses, and we can make sandwiches.” She tied the belt on the robe she’d been clutching together and stepped into the hallway. “I’ll go with you.”
“There’s no need,” Alex said. “We can find everything ourselves.”
“Why don’t you come, Aunt Thea?” I asked. “You might be hungry too.”
She rested a hand on my shoulder. “I can’t sleep,” she said, “so a visit to the kitchen sounds like a good idea.”
Alex turned away, but I had seen the angry frustration on his face. Too bad for you, I thought.
Another door opened, and Julia stepped out, carrying a candle. Her robe was neatly tied, and her hair was freshly brushed. “I hope you don’t mind my overhearing the last part of your conversation,” she said. “I’m going downstairs with you.”
“Come along.” Thea smiled. “We’ll make a nice party out of it.”
We walked down to the landing. I kept my eyes away from the burial urn by sticking close to the banister, but that was a mistake, because as I leaned over, looking down into the entry hall, I caught the gleam in eyes that were staring back at me. I started and clutched the banister, but it was only Mrs. Engstrom.
She was still fully dressed, and I wondered why. Had she stationed herself in the entry hall to keep guard, just as Alex had stationed himself in the upstairs hallway? Alex had been waiting to see if I’d make a move, but why was Mrs. Engstrom on watch? Was she protecting Thea?
She met us at the foot of the stairs and led the way toward the kitchen. “Would you like some wine with your sandwiches?” she asked Thea. “I’ll be happy to get it for you. Red? A nice Merlot?”
She opened a door which led to some
steep stone stairs, and I said, “I’ll get the wine for you, Mrs. Engstrom.” I snatched my flashlight out of Alex’s hand before he was aware of what I was doing, and began descending the stairs—thirteen of them. I counted.
“The Merlot is on the right, near the door,” Mrs. Engstrom called, then added, “It’s very nice of you to do this, Miss Burns.”
I felt guilty about getting credit for being nice when my real reason for offering to get the wine was to see that wine cellar, which had the only door in the house that could be locked to stay locked. An idea was beginning to grow in my mind. The key was in the door, and it turned easily.
I swept the small room with my beam of light, touching row after row of bottles lying on their sides. I could see footprints smudging other footprints all over the dusty floor. Some of the prints must have been made by Walter when he came for wine, and some were made by Julia and Alex and whoever else might have searched this room for the manuscript. It didn’t take long to find a couple of bottles of Merlot. I blew some dust off the bottles and carried them back upstairs.
By this time I was shaking. The house was chilly, but the wine cellar was really cold. As I entered the kitchen I shoved the bottles at Alex, who had to take them or lose them, and said, “I’m freezing! I’m going to run upstairs and get my blanket. I’ll be right back.”
Alex didn’t have time to object, and I was pretty sure that with Thea there he wouldn’t run after me. I scrambled up the main stairs to the landing, swooped the beam of the flashlight in a quick arc to make sure no one was around, and turned it off. Tucking the flashlight under my chin I rested my left hand on the urn to balance it and lifted the lid with my right.
A soft hiss seemed to come from the unsealed urn as warm, stale air swept over my hand like crawly fingers.
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and tried to keep my teeth from chattering as I whispered, “Listen to me, O Honorable Royal Ghost Person. I’m not your enemy. I’m your friend. I’m sorry if somebody got careless with your ashes along the way. I can’t do anything about that, but I can remove the manuscript that’s stuffed right down your middle so you can rest undisturbed. Okay?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I really didn’t want one. If a voice had come out of that urn, I probably would have dropped dead on the spot. Slowly, carefully, I reached down into the urn until my fingers touched something hard. As I explored the object I knew I’d been right. Hidden inside this urn was Augustus Trevor’s manuscript!
I grabbed the tightly rolled sheets of paper, which were fastened with rubber bands, took a firm grip, and pulled. The roll was thick and heavy, but I got it out and tucked it under one arm. As I replaced the lid on the urn, I remembered to whisper “thank you” before I ran down the hallway to my room.
All I wanted to do was read that manuscript, but I couldn’t. I had to go back to the kitchen or Alex would know something was wrong. So I stuffed the manuscript inside the pillowcase, straightened the bed, wrapped one of the extra blankets around my shaking self—by this time I had more than one reason to shake—and hurried downstairs, using the flashlight as a guide.
Alex looked up with surprise as I returned, but Thea and Julia were well into a lively discussion of modern theater as they busied themselves by putting together a half-dozen or so sandwiches, so they paid no attention to me. I huddled into one of the chairs, bent almost double, and continued to shake, tremble, and shiver like a poor pitiful thing beyond hope.
Thea glanced in my direction and broke off in midsentence. “Samantha!” she cried. “Are you ill?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m cold, right down to my bones.”
“You’re having chills,” she said, and came around the table toward me.
Thea’s hand on my forehead was cool and comfortable, so I said what I knew she’d come out with. “I don’t have a fever. I’m just cold. That’s all.”
“Maybe a little food …”
“I’m not hungry. I’m cold, and I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Thea said. “I’d suggest that you sleep in your clothes. Wrap up in one of the blankets before you get under the covers. Within a few minutes your body heat should make the bed nice and toasty.”
“I’ll try it,” I said, and stood up, clutching the blanket tightly around my shoulders.
Alex got to his feet and yawned. “I’m tired, too, Thea. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“What about all these sandwiches?” Julia asked. “I thought you wanted to eat some of them.”
“Save them until tomorrow,” Alex said.
I left the room with Alex right behind me. Neither of us spoke to the other until we arrived at the door to the stairs that led to my tower room.
I stopped and glared at him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He grinned nastily. “I’m going to close the door at the foot of your stairs and sit with my back against it. You won’t be able to leave your room to get the manuscript, because I’ll be right here to stop you.” He paused, one eyebrow wiggling upward. “Of course, you can always take me with you to get the manuscript.”
“I hope you’re comfortable sitting out here in the cold,” I told him, “because I’m going to bed. I’m not going hunting for a manuscript.”
He smiled again. “I’ll make sure of that.”
I shut the door at the bottom of my curved flight of stairs and heard him settle against it. It was all I could do to keep from laughing as I hurried up the stairs, shut and locked my bedroom door, and pushed the little chair against it, wedging it tightly under the knob.
So far, so good, I thought. I removed Augustus’s manuscript from the pillowcase and propped myself against the headboard, the blanket around me, the covers pulled up high. Then—so excited that my breath came in bursts and gulps—I removed the rubber bands that kept the manuscript rolled, spread it out on my lap, and trained the flashlight on the title page.
FOURTEEN
“Tarnished Gold, by Augustus Trevor,” I whispered aloud to myself, then began to skim through the pages.
There was some fascinating stuff in that manuscript, a lot of it about famous people I’d heard of. I would have loved to read the whole thing, because right away I saw that this was full of secret behind-the-scenes stories I couldn’t wait to tell Darlene; but there were four hundred and eighty-two pages in this manuscript, and I didn’t have enough time. According to my watch, it was close to one in the morning.
I searched each page for the names of the people Augustus had invited to play his horrible game, but it wasn’t until I reached page 105 that I found the first name: Laura Reed. Augustus wrote well, and that was the problem. He drew me right into Laura’s story, and I could see this young Hollywood actress who had made a good start and had a promising career to look forward to. But she had a problem that could cause all her dreams to vanish: an equally young husband named Larry, who was jealous of his wife and her new life that excluded him. After an argument in which Larry had insisted she forget Hollywood, Laura had tried to patch things up. The use of a sailboat, offered by a director friend … a day on the ocean … It should have been idyllic, but late that afternoon a hysterical Laura had brought the boat back alone. According to her story, as they’d turned the boat toward shore Larry had been hit by the swinging boom and knocked overboard. Laura claimed to have searched for him until finally, in desperation, she gave up and returned to the dock. Two days later, Larry’s body washed ashore at Emerald Bay.
His death was ruled an accident, but many years later Augustus discovered that the boat had not been offered by that director friend. Laura had asked for its use. And it wasn’t until later that the owner had noticed that a mallet, which was part of the ship’s equipment, was missing. He’d thought nothing of it, deciding it had been misplaced, but Augustus had drawn a different conclusion.
I put down the manuscript, shocked by what I’d read. Augustus had practically called Laura a murderer! May
be she’d been telling the truth. Then again, maybe she hadn’t. If she’d murdered one person who had got in her way, she could have murdered Augustus, as well.
This was heavy stuff to think about, and it scared me, but I thumbed through a few more pages and came to Alex Chambers’s name.
I already knew that Alex was a stinker, but I didn’t know how truly rotten he was until I read what Augustus had to say about him. Alex Chambers, the famous dress designer, had made investments under a fake corporation name, and these investments consisted of New York sweatshops, staffed by recent immigrants, many of them children, most of them people from Vietnam who couldn’t speak English.
I’d seen a television exposé of sweatshops, so I knew exactly what Augustus was writing about: guards and padlocked gates at the doors while people bent over sewing machines ten to twelve hours a day for very low pay. Alex Chambers, who publicly gave generous amounts to charity at balls where the women wore his expensive creations—just how wonderful would they think he was if they knew how much of his income came from badly mistreating workers, many of them children?
Would Alex have killed Augustus to keep his secret from being exposed? It was possible.
Fifty pages on I found Augustus’s story about Buck Thompson. In 1979, the last year Buck had played pro ball, he’d fumbled the ball at a crucial time in a big game, and his team had won by a close two points. Buck had claimed a back injury, even spending two weeks in the hospital, but Augustus had come up with an informant, a bookie named Willie Peeples, who’d sworn that Buck had secretly bet on the point spread for this game and other games, and in his manuscript Augustus accused Buck of faking his injury in order to control the score.
I winced, thinking about Buck’s commercials and work with kids. What would happen to this well-known role model if Augustus’s information was printed? To keep the story from being made public, could Buck have killed Augustus? Buck was strong, and he had quite a temper.
Groaning, hating what I had to do, I kept turning pages until I got to Senator Arthur Maggio. A number of years ago his son had been an attorney for one of the organized crime families—Bonino. So that’s where I had heard the name! But the senator’s son had gone into corporate law, breaking any ties with the Boninos, and the Maggios claimed to be free from that taint.
The Name of the Game Was Murder Page 12