Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  They lifted the dog onto the slope. Instantly it retrieved the scent and scrambled upward with Cavanaugh, Jamie, and the handler working to follow. They reached a bluff and hurried along it. Sweat stuck their clothes to their skin. Along another slope, the dog again lost the scent.

  But this time, there wasn’t a tree branch above them to explain how Dant could have lifted himself and fooled the dog.

  “Well, if he didn’t go up and he didn’t go forward…,” Cavanaugh said.

  “He backtracked and jumped off the trail,” Jamie concluded.

  They ran back the way they’d come and almost passed the cave before they realized it was there, camouflaged by bushes. The bloodhound barked frantically, wanting to charge in.

  The handler restrained it.

  Cavanaugh wiped sweat from his face and unclipped a canteen from his belt.

  “Dant, are you thirsty?” he yelled toward the cave. “You covered a lot of distance in a hurry. I’ve got water.” He shook the canteen so that Dant could hear the water sloshing.

  The shadowy cave entrance was silent.

  “Or maybe you planned for an emergency,” Jamie said, “and stocked the cave with food and water.”

  Cavanaugh raised the canteen to his mouth, taking several swallows. Although the water was unpleasantly warm, his parched tongue absorbed it.

  “Fine. We’ll set fire to the bushes and smoke your miserable ass out of there.”

  He and Jamie gathered dead leaves and branches, stacking them in front of the bushes that obscured the cave.

  He struck a match.

  “Stop,” a voice said from the enclosure.

  The bushes rustled. Gradually a figure emerged.

  But he didn’t look anything like Dant. He was bald and bearded. His nose had a bony ridge. A scar disfigured his neck.

  “Never heard of anyone getting cosmetic surgery to look ugly,” Jamie said. “Since you went to all this trouble, why didn’t you try to pretend to be someone else when we arrived?”

  “I was prepared to until I saw you getting off the plane.” Dant’s expression was sour. “I figured I could fool anybody, except people who spent up-close time with me and are experts at paying attention.”

  “Yeah, those camera-friendly blue eyes of yours are hard to disguise,” Jamie said. “Tinted lenses might have done the job, but I suspect you forget to put them on day after day when only the natives are around to see you. Even with tinted lenses, you wouldn’t have fooled us, though. Your cosmetic surgeon told us what you look like now.”

  “But…”

  “Yes, I know—you thought you’d guaranteed his silence by promising him a quarter million dollars a year. The trouble is, the second check you sent him bounced. Worse, he believed what you told him about how well your companies were doing. To impress his clients, he said he had a stock tip that couldn’t go wrong. They invested heavily. When your house of cards collapsed, the clients blamed him for their losses. His practice is ruined.”

  “There are plenty like him,” Cavanaugh added. “Thousands of people lost their jobs because of you. Their pensions are worthless. They can’t pay their mortgages or feed their families. Their lives are destroyed. All because you did whatever you wanted whenever you felt like it.”

  “Big gains require big risks.”

  “Keep telling yourself that in prison. Did you figure the first three attempts to kill you were only the beginning? Novak was behind them incidentally. He couldn’t stand you any more than anybody else does. Did the explosion at your Cape Cod property give you the idea to arrange for the last two explosions on your own, so when your boat blew apart, people would decide you were blown apart also and finally give up searching for you?”

  “Something like that.” Dant glared. “How the hell did you find me?”

  “Once we figured out what you were doing, it became a matter of asking the right questions,” Jamie answered. “Naturally you’d want to change your appearance. After that, you’d want to hole up someplace remote for a couple of years until you felt it was safe to return with a new identity. What property did your companies own that would be acceptable, particularly in terms of your appetite for female companionship? We spent months going through your records. One of your shadow companies bought this island just before your empire started to teeter. That seemed a good clue. So did the half-dressed native women.”

  “Damn it, why couldn’t you leave me alone? I gave you a generous check.”

  “Which bounced. But that’s not what pissed me off,” Cavanaugh said. “I told you protecting people is a very personal thing for me, and yet you treated it like a joke.”

  “I needed to. It was part of the act. I had to show I was so determined to do what I wanted, so controlling, that even the best bodyguards couldn’t have kept me from getting on that boat.”

  “Not bodyguards. Protective agents.”

  “Right. Whatever.”

  “Now you’re the one who’ll be controlled.”

  POETIC JUSTICE

  BY CAROLYN MULLEN

  If it hadn’t been so hot that summer, I sometimes wonder if I, a hard worker, good neighbor, loving mother, and grieving widow, would have committed murder. But it was hot that summer of ninety-six with a muggy, steamy heat that weighs down your body and softens your brain, dampens your compassion, and kindles your hatreds. So, it was to be.

  “Oh, praise the Lord, it is hot,” Miss Pinkett said, fanning herself with her order book. I said nothing, though for once I agreed with her prattle. The dust and grit from the mill’s smokestacks mixed with the sweat coursing down my neck, and my petticoats were already damply sticking to my legs, although it was only ten in the morning. But I had other worries than the heat wave that had settled over our little corner of Baltimore like an invisible evil spirit, sucking out any of the meager energy and pleasure that we might have enjoyed. I was looking through the cheaper fabric selections, hoping I could afford enough to make my daughter’s birthday dress. It wouldn’t be the satin frock of her desires, but at least it would be new.

  “Make up your mind,” Miss Pinkett said. “You can see there are other customers waiting.” I ignored her remark as it was clear that Mrs. O’Casey and Mrs. Reeley, who were plodding their way through catalogs of dress patterns they could never afford, were in no hurry. But then Miss Pinkett rushed to look out the door. Her two sullen young assistants started giggling, and the catalogs were dropped quickly as my neighbors joined Miss Pinkett.

  “Oh, look, he’s come to town,” she said while beckoning me to join her. “Come see how handsome he looks.” Reluctantly I looked out the front window, but the sun reflecting from every surface momentarily blinded me. And then, there he was, emerging from the sun, striding down the pavement as if he owned it, which of course he did, along with everything else in this town.

  And he was very handsome indeed, his slim, tall frame fitted out as the gentleman that he claimed to be. He was wearing a long fashionable sack coat over a silver waistcoat, but appeared to be unaffected by the oppressive weather. He stopped to say hello to our butcher Mr. Brooks and tipped his top hat at a woman who appeared frozen in place as he passed. Who wears a top hat during the day anymore? I thought, but why care about that when I was looking at the man I damned to hell in my nightly prayers. A colored man approached him but quickly stepped off the pavement; there was no tip of the hat for him. At this point, Miss Pinkett appeared to be having the vapors as she twittered uncontrollably. “Mr. C’s crossing the street, and I think he’s coming here.”

  As I watched him approach, the sunlight shifted so that his rings and pocket watch sparkled and even the blond hair not hidden by his hat glittered like the gold he must have stashed away. I looked down and busied myself, going through the fabric in the remnants bin, hoping I would not have to put on a civil face and mind my tongue.

  I needed to get to my cleaning job with Mrs. French, so I looked over, hoping that he wouldn’t stay long. But he talked and talked while Miss Pi
nkett nodded or shook her head in agreement like a sideshow puppet. He was speaking quietly, but I heard fragments about northern radicals stirring up workers in the city. But when he said, “We businesspeople need to stick together on this,” I let out an unintended snort. As if little Miss Pinkett was a comrade-in-arms with the man who owned all the mills in this town and her store and her house. He noticed me then and looked my way. “Hello, Mrs. Morris,” he said with a solemn air, “so sorry about your husband—what an unfortunate accident. He was one of my best workers.”

  I was standing so close to the man responsible for Tom’s death and all I did was respond, “Thank you.”

  I was stuck in place when he suddenly looked at me again. “Aren’t you Rose Morris’s mother?” he asked softly with a gleam in his light blue eyes. “How is she doing? She is certainly a beauty.” I pictured young Jane McMahan, who had worked occasionally in Mr. C’s mansion, packed away in shame to some relative up north, then dying in childbirth. She was beautiful, too.

  “She’s only fifteen,” I said, but the gleam was still there.

  As he started to leave, he turned to Miss Pinkett. “By the way, one of my maids has run off somewhere and I’m looking for someone reliable to take her place. So if you know of anyone…”

  “I could come and work for you.” The words blurted out before I could think of why I was offering them. “I can get you references if you want.”

  “Not necessary, start Monday,” he said with a small smile that chilled my soul while my body still sweltered. Then he left.

  My head was swimming as I tried to understand what I had just done, when I heard Mrs. Pinkett sigh, “I think he has an eye for your Rose. Just imagine what it would be like to be the mistress of Calvert Hall. She’d be richer than a queen.” I quickly left the store, forgetting to buy any fabric because, as the hot air coming off the sidewalk enveloped me, I was beginning to think of murder.

  I HAD BEEN working at Calvert Hall for about a week and still had not seen all the rooms in the house. With the exception of the reception room, which was bright and airy, the rooms I cleaned were surprisingly dark with small mullioned windows that permitted little light to enter. The dining room and parlor, which were my particular responsibility, were filled with massive black oak furniture—imported from England, I was told—that seemed to swallow most of the existing light. I had only glimpsed his bedchamber; just the chosen were allowed to enter there, the young and pretty who were foolish enough to believe that this could be theirs someday. From what I did see and hear, even in the daytime, sunlight was not welcome in this room; the shutters were kept closed at all times.

  So there were not the rumored golden fixtures in the bathrooms to polish, but the rooms were filled with urns and vases and pictures and candlesticks that had to be kept spotless. There were even several full suits of armor that loomed like ghosts in the dim gaslit hallways. The help lined up each morning to hear a lecture from Mrs. Hastings, the head housekeeper, reminding us how valuable everything was in Calvert Hall, followed by a detailed list of our shortcomings discovered the previous day. By her nervous demeanor, I was sure that she had already received a sterner lecture from Mr. C. I was careful not to appear on that list so that no fault could be found with my work. I needed the time to make my plans.

  At the end of the week, I was trying to polish the large dark sideboard in the dining room—no easy task with its ornate carvings and dull finish—when the front door knocker sounded. Mr. C did not have a butler; the gardener and the stable hands were the only men he employed, so the job of greeting visitors normally fell to Mrs. Hastings. She was dealing with some crisis in the kitchen and no one else was around, so I rushed to open the door to a pleasant-looking man with a lush reddish mustache. He came into the foyer and stuck out his hand, but it took me a moment to understand that he wished to shake hands with me. I was flustered and embarrassed; my hands were rough and red and might seem coarse to a gentleman.

  “I’m Mr. Robinson and I’m expected, and who are you?”

  “Sarah,” I managed. Not one visitor to the house had asked me that before.

  “Well, Sarah,” he said, “take me to a room where I can make myself comfortable. I’ve known Dickie since our days at Harvard, and he has never missed an opportunity to make someone wait. He knows I’m arriving today on the noon train, so don’t worry about me. I expect that I’ll be seeing you often as I plan to stay a week or so while I’m talking with a publisher in the city.”

  Mr. Robinson seemed different than most visitors to the house—he actually looked at me. Feeling flustered and a bit uncomfortable, I led him to the ground-floor reception room. I wanted to be noticed as little as possible, and while he seemed nicer than most, I worried whether his presence would be an added complication.

  He stood looking out the window at the green lawns and lush gardens that mirrored the colors in the stunningly beautiful painting by some French artist that’s on the wall opposite the great fireplace. Guests all seem impressed with its cost. “How does he keep his lawn so green?” he asked. “This damn heat has burned most living things in this area to a fare-thee-well.”

  “You haven’t offered our guest a drink? Now that’s no way to treat such an esteemed writer.” I had not heard Mr. C enter the room; the silk Chinese slippers he always wore would slide across his carpets with only the slightest telltale sign that he was behind you.

  I started to stammer a reply, but Mr. Robinson jumped in, “Dickie, it’s fine; it’s only just noon, and that’s a bit too early to imbibe—at least up north where I come from.”

  “Sarah,” Mr. C added in the particular soft but sharp tone that I had learned preceded a rebuke, “you did not turn on the electric lamp.” He turned to Mr. Robinson. “It’s an Edison,” he said, his pride of ownership saving me from a further tongue-lashing. I dutifully turned it on, though any glow from the lamp was washed out by the sunlight pouring through the windows. That, of course, was beside the point.

  “And Sarah, were you going to allow my guest to swelter, why is the ceiling fan not turned on?” He was also proud of this fan—the only one that existed in Baltimore, or so he often claimed.

  As I started to comply, Mr. Robinson once again stepped in. “Why don’t you show me around this huge barn of a place, Dickie, so I don’t get lost.” Mr. C looked disappointed, but to my relief, they both left; I, however, did not. Once I was sure they were elsewhere in the house, I took off my shoes and let my feet sink into the softness of the blue and gold oriental carpet. It was unlike the carpets in the other rooms that were of a dark red color that reminded me of the dried blood on the butcher’s apron. I then turned on the fan and stared at the painting, imagining that I was in that peaceful yet wild garden under a kinder sun, until the layers of heat had peeled away and I felt, for at least the one moment, free from all thought.

  I didn’t see much of either man for the next few days, and though I was working ten hours a day and was worn out from the unrelenting heat and the long walk up the hill to Calvert Hall each morning, I could not sleep but lay awake soaked in sweat in the airless bedroom I shared with Rose. These nights were filled with unanswered—and maybe unanswerable—questions. How could I, meek Sarah Morris, be thinking of committing such a dreadful sin? Would I really be capable of taking the life of a living, breathing human being? What would happen to Rose if I were caught, and since I was not that clever or experienced in criminal ways, was not that a distinct possibility?

  I thought of talking to the priest, but I remembered Tom’s words. “Everything here belongs to the company, Sarah. The church, the police—none of them are on the side of the workingman.” So wasn’t it just better to curse my lot in life and accept it? My husband was dead and was going to stay dead, and Mr. C had everything in life a person could wish for. Not fair, but as my mother used to tell us when we would complain, “We’re just plain folks and that is the way it is, so stop your whining and get on with it.” With a welcome rush of relief, my
mind was made up—I was not a murderer. I would work at Calvert Hall until I could arrange other work to put food on the table, and then I would forget Mr. C and the past so Rose and I could have some kind of future.

  But after only a few days of peace, events occurred that changed my mind. Mr. Robinson, who was always kind when I brought him a drink or cleaned his room, needed to stay an extra week to work with his publisher. One still oppressively hot afternoon, I was bringing iced tea to the reception room where he and Mr. C were talking. The large ceiling fan was making quite a racket so they did not hear me approaching, and I heard my name mentioned. I ducked out of sight into the hall, but leaning close I heard Mr. C say in a grave manner, “It was a terrible accident… very unfortunate. No one knows what really happened. It was at night, and he was alone fixing one of the machines when he fell. Must have been instant, poor fellow. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he was a careless workman and shouldn’t have gone in at night alone. We’ll never know what he was thinking. Anyway, he was also a bit of a troublemaker, always stirring the others up; we probably would have let him go in any case.”

  I could not move and only in time caught the tray as it began to fall. Mr. C knew why Tom was there that night. How dare he concoct such lies.

  Somehow I gathered myself and served the iced tea. I noticed Mr. Robinson looking at me thoughtfully, but I left quickly before anything could be said.

  The next day was even worse. Again I was bringing cold drinks to them, this time to the side terrace, when I felt the ground drop away. Sitting at the table next to Mr. C was Rose, lovely and radiant, laughing at something that Mr. C whispered in her ear while he lazily fingered her lovely long flaxen hair that I had helped her brush that morning. She saw me and turned scarlet.

  “Momma, I just came to bring you some of the banana bread I just made.” Rose is sweet, but there is no way she would have made the trek up that hill to give her hardworking mother a treat.