Haunted: Dark Delicacies® III

by Del Howison

  I turned up a dirt road, passed a cabin, reached a wall of trees, and went back to the main road. Farther along, I turned up another dirt road, passed two cabins, reached a stream that blocked the road, and again went back.

  My search wasn’t as futile as it seemed. After all, I knew what I was looking for: a high fence that enclosed a couple of acres. The female student who’d been fortunate enough to get an interview with Wentworth years earlier had described the property. The high gate was almost indistinguishable from the fence, she wrote. The mailbox was embedded in the fence and had a hatch on the opposite side so Wentworth didn’t need to leave the compound to get his mail. A sign warned No Solicitors.

  But nothing in the north sector matched that description. Of course, the student’s interview was two decades old. Wentworth might have changed things since then, in which case I was wasting my time. How far away from town would he have wanted to live? I arbitrarily decided that fifteen miles was too far and switched my search to the side roads in the west. More farms and cabins, more falling leaves and wood smoke. By the time I finished the western sector and headed south, the afternoon light was fading.

  My cell phone rang.

  “Have you found him yet?” my boss demanded.

  The reception was so poor, I could barely hear him. When I explained the problems I was having, he interrupted. “Just get it done. If Wentworth wrote this book, remind him his last contract with March and Sons gives us the option on it. There’s no way I’m going to let anybody else publish it. Do you have the agreement with you?”

  “In my jacket.”

  “Make sure you get him to sign it.”

  “He’ll want to talk to an agent.”

  “You told me his agent’s dead. Anyway, why does he need an agent? We’ll give him whatever he wants. Within reason.” The transmission crackled. “This’ll go a long way toward proving you’re a necessary part of the team.” The crackle worsened. “Don’t disappoint … Call … soon … find …”

  With renewed motivation, I searched the southern sector, not giving up until dark. In town, I refilled the gas tank, ready for an early start the next morning. Then I walked along the shadowy main street, noticing For Sale signs on a lot of doors. The financial troubles gave me an idea.

  * * *

  Tipton Realty had its lights on. I knocked.

  “Come in,” a woman’s voice said.

  As I entered, I couldn’t help noticing my haggard reflection on the door’s window.

  Again the hardwood floor creaked.

  “Busy day?” The same woman sat at the desk. She was about thirty-five. Her lush red hair hung past her shoulders. Her bright green eyes were hard to look away from.

  “I saw a lot of beautiful country.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “Find …?”

  “Bob Wentworth. Everybody in town knows you’re looking for him.”

  I glanced down. “I guess I’d make a poor spy. No, I didn’t find him.” I held out my hand. “Tom Neal.”

  She shook it. “Becky Shafer.”

  “I can’t get used to people calling him ‘Bob.’ I gather you’ve met him.”

  “Not as much as other people in Tipton. I’m new.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I came here only twelve years ago.”

  I chuckled.

  “I drove into town with my artist boyfriend,” she said. “We loved the quiet and the scenery. We decided to stay. The boyfriend’s long gone, but I’m still a newcomer.”

  “Sorry about the boyfriend.” I noticed she didn’t wear a wedding ring.

  “No need to be sorry. He turned out to be a creep.”

  “A lot of that going around.” I thought of my CEO.

  She gave me a look that made me think she applied the word to me.

  “I do have an important reason to see him,” I said.

  After I told her about the manuscript, she thought a moment. “But why would he use a pseudonym?”

  “That’s one of many things I’d like to ask him.” Thinking of the For Sale signs, I took my chance to propose my idea. “To hear the old-timers tell it, things got crazy here with so many fans wanting to talk to him. You can imagine the effect a new book would create. The publicity. The pent-up demand. This town would attract a lot of fans again. It would be like the excitement of thirty years ago.”

  I let the temptation sink in.

  Becky didn’t respond for several moments. Her gaze hardened. “So all I need to do is show you where Bob lives, and in exchange, next year I’ll have more business than I can handle?”

  “When you put it that way, I guess that’s right,” I said.

  “Gosh, I didn’t realize it was so late.” She angrily pulled her car keys from her purse. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to go home.”

  * * *

  The weathered old Tipton Tavern was presumably the place Wade had told me about, where Wentworth sometimes watched a baseball game. There was indeed a baseball game on the TV, but I was the main interest—the patrons set down their drinks and looked at me. As much as I could tell from recalling the photograph on Wentworth’s books (a dark-haired man with soulful eyes), he wasn’t in the room.

  Heading back to the motel, I didn’t go far before I heard wary footsteps behind me. A cold breeze made me shiver as I glanced back toward the shadowy street. The footsteps ended. I resumed walking and again heard stealthy footsteps. My Manhattan instincts took charge. Not quite running, I passed my car and reached the motel. My cold hands fumbled with the room key.

  In the night, glass broke outside my room. I phoned the front desk, but no one answered. In the morning, not having slept well, I went out to my car and found the driver’s window shattered. A rock lay on the seat. The radio was gone.

  The surprised desk clerk told me, “The town constable runs the barbershop.”

  But the barbershop wasn’t open yet. Nor did I find it open after a quick cup of coffee at Meg’s Pantry. Determined not to waste time, I swept the broken glass from the seat and drove to the hills east of town. But after a painstaking search, I found nothing that resembled Wentworth’s compound.

  By then, it was noon. When I got back to town, the barbershop was open. It smelled of aftershave.

  “Yes, we’ve been having incidents lately.” The heavyset barber trimmed an elderly man’s spindly hair. “A bicycle was stolen. A cabin was broken into.”

  I took a close look at the man in the chair and decided he wasn’t Wentworth.

  “Town’s changing. Outsiders are hanging around,” the barber continued.

  I recalled the two druggies I’d seen emerge from an alley the previous day. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Contact the state police. I hoped the problem would go away as the weather got colder.”

  “Please remember I reported the stolen radio. The rental car agency will contact you.” Hoping to catch him off guard, I added, “Where does Bob Wentworth live?”

  The barber almost responded. Then he caught himself. “Can’t say.”

  But like a bad poker player, he couldn’t repress a glance past me toward the right side of the street.

  “Thanks anyway,” I said.

  * * *

  I went to the left to avoid suspicion. Then I walked around the block and returned to the main street, out of sight of the barbershop. As I stepped from an alley, I again had the sense that someone was following me, but when I looked back, I seemed alone.

  More people were on the sidewalk, many dressed like outsiders, the town finally attracting business as the weekend approached. But the locals paid attention only to me. Trying to look casual, I went into a quilt shop, then continued down the street. Wentworth didn’t live on a country road, I now realized with growing excitement. He was in town. But I’d checked all the side streets. In fact, I’d used some of those streets to drive north, west, south, and east. Where was he hiding?

  Then I saw it. On my left, a gate blocked a lan
e between an empty store and a cookie shop. The gate had the same white color as the adjacent buildings. It blended so well that I hadn’t noticed it despite having driven past it several times. The blocked lane went past buildings toward the edge of town.

  I walked to the end of the street. In a park of brilliant maples, dead leaves crunched under my shoes as I followed a stream. I soon reached a tall fence.

  My cell phone rang.

  “I hope you’ve found him,” a stern voice said.

  “I’m making progress.”

  “I want more than progress. The Gladstone executives phoned to remind me they expect a better profit picture when I report on Monday. I hinted I’d have major news. Don’t let me down. Get Wentworth, or don’t come back.”

  Another gate blocked a lane. It was as high as my shoulders, but I managed to climb over, tearing a button off my sports jacket.

  Sunlight cast the shadows of branches. To my left were the backyards of houses. But on my right, the fence stretched on. A crow cawed. Leaves rattled as I came to a door that blended with the fence. A sign warned No Solicitors. A mailbox was recessed into the fence.

  When I knocked on the door, the crow stopped cawing. The door shook. I waited, then knocked again, this time harder. The noise echoed in the lane. I knocked a third time.

  “Mr. Wentworth?”

  Leaves fell.

  “Mr. Wentworth? My name’s Tom Neal. I work for March and Sons. I need to talk to you about a manuscript we think you sent.”

  A breeze chilled my face.

  I knocked a fourth time, hurting my knuckles. “Mr. Wentworth?”

  Finally, I took out a pen and a notepad. I thought about writing that Carver was dead, but that seemed a harsh way for Wentworth to get the news. So I gave him the name of the motel and left my cell phone number. Then I remembered that Wentworth didn’t have a phone. But if he sometimes left his compound, he could use a phone in town, I concluded. Or he could walk to the motel.

  “I’m shoving a note under the gate!”

  Back in the park, I sat on a bench and tried to enjoy the view, but the breeze got cooler. After an hour, I climbed back into the lane and returned to Wentworth’s gate. A corner of my note remained visible under it.

  “Mr. Wentworth, please, I need to talk to you! It’s important!”

  Maybe he’s gone for a walk in the woods, I thought. Or maybe he isn’t even in town. Hell, he might be in a hospital somewhere.

  * * *

  “Did you find him?”

  In the tavern, I looked up from a glass of beer. “No.” Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a lie.

  Becky Shafer stood next to me at the bar. Her green eyes were as hypnotic as they had been on the previous evening. “I saw you walk in here,” she said.

  “You and everybody else in town.”

  “I thought about our conversation last night. I came to apologize for being abrupt.”

  “Hey, I’m from New York, remember? It’s impossible to be abrupt to me. Anyway, I can’t blame you for trying to protect someone who lives here.”

  “May I sit down?”

  “I welcome the company. Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Rye and Diet Coke.”

  “Rye?” I mock shuddered. “I admire an honest drinker.”

  She laughed as the bartender took my order. “Maybe it would be good for the town if Bob published another book. Who knows? It’s just that I don’t like to feel manipulated.”

  “I’m so used to being manipulated, it feels normal.”

  She gave me a questioning look.

  “When I first became an editor, all I needed to worry about was helping an author write a good book. But now conglomerates own just about every publisher. They think of books as commodities like laundry detergent. If authors don’t sell a quarter million copies, the head office doesn’t care about them, and editors who don’t find the next blockbuster are taking up space. Every morning, I go to March and Sons wondering if I still work there. What’s that line from Joseph Heller? ‘Closed doors give me the willies.’ Damned right.”

  “I know what you mean.” Becky sipped her drink. “I’m also an attorney.” My surprised look made her nod. “Yep. Harvard Law School.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “So was the Boston law firm that hired me. But I couldn’t bear how the senior partners pitted us against each other to see who generated the most fees. That’s why I ended up here. I don’t earn much money, but I sure enjoy waking up each morning.”

  “I don’t hear many people say that.”

  “Stay here longer. Maybe you’ll be able to say it.”

  * * *

  Walking back to the motel, I again heard footsteps. As on the previous night, they stopped when I turned toward the shadows. Their echo resumed when I moved on. Thinking of my broken car window, I increased speed. My cell phone rang, but I didn’t have time to answer it. Only after I entered my room and locked the door did I listen to the message, hoping it was from Wentworth.

  But the voice belonged to my CEO. “You’re taking too long,” he told me.

  * * *

  “Mr. Wentworth?” At nine the next morning, amid a strong breeze, I pounded on his gate. “It’s really important that I talk to you about your manuscript! And Sam Carver! I need to talk to you about him!”

  I stared at the bottom of the gate. Part of my note still remained visible. A thought from yesterday struck me. Maybe he isn’t home. Or maybe—a new thought struck harder—maybe he is home. Maybe he’s sick. Too sick to come to the gate.

  “Mr. Wentworth?” I hammered the gate. “Are you all right?”

  I tried the knob, but it didn’t turn. “Mr. Wentworth, can you hear me? Is anything wrong? Do you need help?”

  Perhaps there was another way in. Chilled by the strengthening breeze, I returned the way I had come and climbed back into the park. I followed the fence to a comer, then continued along the back, struggling through dense trees and undergrowth.

  Indeed, there was another way in. Hidden among bushes, a gate shuddered as I pounded. “Mr. Wentworth?” I shoved a branch away and tried the knob, but it, too, wouldn’t turn. I rammed my shoulder against the gate, but it held firm. A tree grew next to the fence. I grabbed a branch and pulled myself up. Higher branches acted as steps. Buffeted by the wind, I straddled the fence, squirmed over, dangled, and dropped into a pile of soft leaves.

  Immediately, I felt a difference. The wind stopped. Sounds were muted. The air became cushioned, as if a bubble enclosed the property. A buffer of some kind. No doubt, the effect was caused by the tall fence. Or maybe it was because I’d entered sacred territory. As far as I knew, I was one of the few ever to set foot there. Although I breathed quickly, I felt a hush.

  Apples hung on trees or lay on the ground amid leaves. A few raspberries remained on bushes. A vegetable garden contained the frost-browned remnants of tomato plants. Pumpkins and acorn squash bulged from vines. Continuing to be enveloped in a hush, I walked along a stone path bordered by rosebushes. Ahead were a gazebo, a cottage, and a smaller building, the latter two made from white clapboard.

  “Mr. Wentworth?”

  When I rounded the gazebo and headed toward the cottage, I heard a door creak open. A man stepped out. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a sweater. He was slender, with slightly graying hair. He had dark, intense eyes.

  But what I noticed most was the pistol in his hand.

  “Wait.” I jerked up my hands, thinking, My God, he’s been living alone for so long, he’s lost his mind. He’s going to shoot me.

  “Walk to the front gate.”

  “This isn’t what it looks like.” My chest cramped. “I thought you were ill. I came to see if I can help.”

  “Stay ahead of me.”

  “My name’s Tom Neal. I knocked on the gate.”

  “Move.”

  “I left a note. I’m an editor for March and Sons. Please,” I blurted. “I need to talk to you about a manuscript I think you sent us. It
was addressed to Sam Carver. He’s dead. I took over his duties. That’s why—”

  “Stop,” the man said.

  His command made the air feel stiller. Crows cawing, squirrels scampering along branches, leaves falling: everything seemed to halt.

  “Sam’s dead?” The man frowned, as if the notion was unthinkable.

  “A week ago Monday.”

  Slowly, he lowered the gun. He had Wentworth’s sensitive features and soulful eyes. But Wentworth would be in his late seventies, and this man looked twenty years younger, his cheeks aglow.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  The man rubbed his forehead in shock. “What? Who …? Nobody. Bob’s son. He’s out of town. I’m watching the house for him.”

  Bob’s son? But that didn’t make sense. The child would have been born when Wentworth was around twenty, before he got married, before The Sand Castle was published. Later, the furor of interest in Wentworth was so great that it would have been impossible to keep an illegitimate child a secret.

  The man continued to look shocked. “What happened to Sam?”

  I explained about the firm’s new owner and how Carver was fired.

  “The way you talk about the bus, are you suggesting …”

  “I don’t think Sam had much to live for. The look on his face when he carried his belongings from the office …”

  The man seemed to peer at something far away. “Too late.”

  “What?”

  Despondent, he shook his head from side to side. “The gate self-locks. Let yourself out.”

  As he turned toward the cottage, he limped.

  “You’re not Wentworth’s son.”

  He paused.

  “The limp’s from your accident. You’re R. J. Wentworth. You look twenty years younger. I don’t know how that’s possible, but that’s who you are.”

  I’ve never been looked at so deeply. “Sam was your friend?”

  “I admired him.”

  His dark eyes assessed me. “Wait here.”