by Laurel Pace
Ken hurried into the hall and up the stairs. He hesitated midway, alert to any vestige of movement, any wisp of sound. He glanced over the rail into the dizzying vortex formed by the curve of the free-flying staircase. Looking down at the dark hall was like gazing into a bottomless pit, its unseen region full of secrecy and foreboding. Ken hastily turned and cleared the remainder of the stairs two at a time.
The second floor was even quieter than the first, its polished wood floors shielded by antique carpets, its chambers isolated from what little sound carried from the street. Although common sense told him he was alone in the house, Ken instinctively listened outside Richardson's study before noiselessly turning the knob. In contrast to the ground floor rooms, the study furnishings had been left uncovered. Books still filled the shelves; a cluster of potted palms still stood in a corner near the balcony doors. As his flashlight swept the room, Ken was startled by how normal it looked, as if Mona Sams had simply tidied it up to await her employer's return from a trip to Brazil.
Ken followed the flashlight's beam to the big desk. He skimmed the light over the brass paper weight, the engraved letter opener, the Mark Cross pen set in its leather holder. When he found the desk calendar, he bent to examine it. No one had bothered to turn the page since that fateful Saturday night. Ken thumbed past Sunday to Monday. There it was, a notation similar to the one Dani had discovered on Powell Boynton's calendar! "Transfer Bandeira, 9:00 a.m."
If Richardson had been expecting to conduct this as yet undetermined business with his attorney within a couple of days, he might have already assembled the necessary papers or material within easy reach. That thought sent Ken on a methodical examination of the desktop. He pawed through the in box, but its contents amounted to no more than a couple of business magazines and a letter soliciting Richardson's help with a charity drive.
Of course, Bea Lawes had been on hand the previous week to help Sapphira organize Richardson's effects. Her zeal had probably extended to storing away anything of importance. Ken glanced around the room and located a credenza as well as two built-in cabinets beneath the bookcases. Propping the flashlight against the telephone, he decided to begin his search with the desk itself.
The first drawer he tried was unlocked, a lucky break that Ken tried to interpret as a good omen. Unfortunately, the drawer contained nothing more interesting than a stock prospectus and a few statements from a brokerage firm. Ken moved on to the next drawer. This one was fitted with hanging files filled with alphabetized folders labeled in a neat, fastidious hand that he guessed to be that of Beatrice Lawes. Seating himself on the floor, Ken inspected the files. In the limited light, the work was slow and painstaking, made all the more so by the routine nature of the material. He leafed past letters to customers, letters from customers, duplicates and triplicates of the myriad forms generated by an import-export business. As he neared the Fs, Ken was tempted to give the remaining files a cursory once-over, but he resisted the urge. His conscientious attention, however, yielded nothing of value.
At least the next drawer was easy to scan, filled as it was with a few small boxes. One contained business cards; another, some postage stamps that had long since glued themselves together. Ken was beginning to feel as if he had embarked on a very risky wild-goose chase when he discovered a flat box, bound with an elastic ribbon, underneath the stamps and business cards.
The expanding ribbon was so old, it had lost much of its elasticity. The once-gilded coating crumbled in his hands as Ken slid it off the box. A rush of anticipation washed over him when he opened the box. The envelopes and folded stationery were discolored with age, the flowing script that graced them full of the blots and calligraphic flourishes that only an old-fashioned fountain pen could attain. Ken lifted the envelope resting on top of the stack and reached for the flashlight. Just as his hand closed over the metal cylinder, he froze.
Ken snuffed the flashlight and huddled behind the desk. He imagined he could hear the blood thrumming through his own body as he listened, every sensory fiber of his being pressed to its maximum. His mouth went dry as he followed the labored footsteps climbing the stairs one at a time. He had no idea who was in the house, but one thing was certain: the person was coming too close for comfort.
Easing the drawer shut, Ken moved out of his crouch and made a split-second evaluation of his surroundings. The balcony was the only escape route open to him, but he could hardly expect to open the doors, climb over the rail, and drop to the courtyard below without making considerable noise. There was a good chance that the interloper might be headed for one of the other upstairs rooms. If that were the case, Ken could hide in the office and wait for the opportunity to exit the same way he had entered.
That he had no time for hesitation became clear as the footsteps grew more pronounced. Their soil pat-pat on the hallway's carpet runner was coming dangerously close to the study. Shoving the flashlight and the envelope into his pocket, Ken looked frantically around the dark room for a hiding place. He groped the drawn draperies in search of an opening. Ken stepped behind the heavy damask, flattening himself against the floor-to-ceiling window just as the study door opened.
When the light came on, Ken involuntarily flinched. His eyes moved down to the bright band of light running the length of the draperies' hem. Tensing all his muscles, he cautiously inched his feet outward into a splayed semicircle. No one should be able to see them—he hoped. He was awfully damned close to the break between the two drapery panels. They touched, but only barely. He could even make out a thin sliver of the room through the narrow gap.
The person was moving around the office with an abandon that Ken envied, opening and closing cabinet doors without the slightest thought to the noise they made. He closed one eye, straining for a glimpse of the figure that had just hurried across his line of vision. Only when the person paused to stoop over Richardson's desk did Ken get a recognizable view of Beatrice Lawes.
What the hell was she doing here at this hour of the night? The thought reminded Ken that she would probably ask herself the same question about him if she knew he was secreted behind the draperies. Now that he had a chance to observe Bea, she did appear to be rather nervous. After slamming a briefcase open on top of the desk, she began digging impatiently through the drawers, wrenching them open and banging them shut.
Oh, no! Ken's fingers twitched, powerless to intervene, as he watched her remove the box of letters from the bottom drawer, check its contents and then deposit it in the briefcase. Apparently, the single box was all she deemed worthy of removing from the desk, for she now hurried across the room, out of his sight. What was she up to now? Emboldened by his nagging curiosity, Ken risked edging a little closer to the split between the draperies. The heavy fabric stirred slightly, causing him to hold his breath for a second. When he dared spy on Bea again, however, he found her far too busy to have noticed his movement.
She had removed an oil portrait of a mid-nineteenth century Whyte from the paneling and was now poring over the digital keypad of a wall safe. "There!" he heard her exclaim under her breath as the lock clicked. Ken watched her scoop the contents of the safe into her arms. He was startled when she carelessly tossed several fat rolls of cash back into the safe. Bea was kneeling over the pile of legal folders and bound documents, digging through them as if she were excavating buried treasure. She sat back on her heels, flipped through one of the folders, and then put it to the side. Gathering up the remaining papers, Bea thrust them back into the safe and quickly secured the door. Pausing only long enough to adjust the oil painting, she snapped the briefcase shut and rushed out of the office.
Now that the room was once more dark, Ken's ears felt sharper. He listened hard, pushing himself to follow the departing footsteps. After they had died in the distance, he waited what seemed an eternity before he dared to emerge from his hiding place. Reaching for the flashlight, he hurried to the desk. The box of letters was gone, of course, but she could have overlooked something else worthwhile.<
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Hoping against the odds, Ken finished searching the desk. Anger mingled with frustration as he rummaged through the credenza and then the bookcase cabinets. Finally, Ken flicked off the flashlight and sank down onto the big desk chair. Bea Lawes' clandestine visit had proved his hunch: Richardson's office had contained something of great importance. Unfortunately, she had beat him to it.
BEA FELT FOOLISH LUGGING the bulky briefcase. She hated its clumsy feel, the way it banged against her leg when she tried to walk fast. And tonight, she was walking much faster than she normally did. Of course, she had a perfect right to pay a visit to Richardson's office anytime she pleased. She still had her key, would still be called on to help out for some time to come. As far as the peculiar hour was concerned, hadn't she worked late into the night many times in the past, transcribing the long tapes Richardson would forward from Brazil, screening his mail to protect him from trivial annoyances, keeping everything filed just so?
All the same, Bea would just as soon no one took note of this particular nocturnal visit to the Whyte house. Tonight, she had a mission. The gravity of this thought caused her to tighten her grip on the briefcase's leather handle that was by now damp with perspiration. She halted on the corner, trying to appear nonchalant as a lone taxi cruised past. She waited until the cab had turned onto South Battery before dashing across the street to her parked car.
She straddled the briefcase awkwardly, supporting it between her knees while she plundered her purse in search of keys. The call had left her jittery, full of a creeping anxiety that hampered her usual efficiency. Bea snatched the keys out of her bag and promptly dropped them into the gutter. She knocked the briefcase onto its side as she knelt, frantically digging her hands through the leaves collected next to the curb. When she found the keys, she thrust one into the car door lock. Yanking the door open, she shoved the heavy briefcase into the front seat and climbed in behind it.
Bea sagged in the seat, letting her forehead rest against the steering wheel. Now that she was in her car, she felt safe, inconspicuous. Her fears had been silly, when she thought about them. Who on earth would pay her any mind, much less question the contents of her briefcase? Nonetheless, Bea shoved the case onto the floor, just to be on the safe side until she had made her delivery.
Bea had just inserted the key into the ignition when she heard steps on the sidewalk. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a figure moving between the trees lining the street. As the pedestrian stepped onto the street behind the car, Bea almost panicked. Then she recognized the person approaching the car. Lucky thing she hadn't let her nerves get the best of her. She floorboarded the car and squealed out of the parking space leaving a trail of peeled rubber behind her! She would never have lived that down.
Bea cranked the window down and smiled. "I didn't expect to see you..." The words died on her lips. For a moment, her mouth was a gaping, empty hole in her colorless face, her eyes wide, horrified mirrors of the gun pointed straight between them.
Chapter Twelve
If he had searched Richardson's office just one day sooner, he would have found the critical link that connected all the fragmented, conflicting clues surrounding the murder. Ken was as convinced of that as he was certain that Bea Lawes would do her level best to conceal whatever she had taken from the office—or even destroy it. The sobering implication of that last possibility weighed on him as he descended the winding staircase in the dark house.
He would call Derek as soon as he got home and tell him about Bea's nocturnal plundering of the office. The Whytes would listen to Derek, as much as they paid anyone any heed. Ken tried to feel encouraged, but he knew he was grasping at a few very ephemeral straws. The proverbial circle of wagons had been drawn around the Whyte household, and the odds of Derek's penetrating their resistance did not look very favorable.
Reminding himself that he would have plenty of time to consider these unpleasant thoughts later, Ken hastened to the curtained French doors opening onto the courtyard. Tension and the stuffy, close house had given him a raging headache. Right now, he wanted nothing more than simply to get home in one piece, take a couple of aspirin and call Dani. She would be as angry and frustrated as he when she heard about Bea's eleventh-hour raid on Richardson's office. Given her resilient spirit, she would probably start formulating alternative approaches to the case. For his part, he could certainly use a good dose of positive thinking to counterbalance his own sense of defeat. Increasingly, Ken was beginning to feel as if Dani Blake were the only person other than himself who was really interested in unmasking the murderer.
The second Ken opened the French doors, he realized he should have peeked between the curtains beforehand. But he had blundered into the open doorway in plain view of whatever had stirred in the shrubs clustered along the wall, and there was no going back. At least he felt sure a cop hadn't made that noise; the police would have long since yelled "freeze" and taken control of the situation. Ken stared at the thick tangle of oleander and crepe myrtle, straining to penetrate its leafy depths. For the moment all was still. If it was a cat, it would spook, but, of course, it was up to Ken to spook it.
He was weighing his options when a blinding beam of light suddenly landed on his face. Throwing a hand up to shield his eyes, he struggled to make out the figure that had just stepped into the open. The light cut, leaving a kaleidoscope of yellow and orange dots dancing before his eyes.
"Sorry!" Ken heard Dani's soft voice apologize from somewhere behind the screen of Technicolor dots. "I suspected you might have heard me when you stood back in the door, but it took me a few seconds to be sure it was you. I didn't want to startle you by leaping out of the bushes all of a sudden."
Shaking his head, Ken pawed at his blitzed eyes. "This was hardly a gentle introduction."
"Are you okay?" Dani was at his side now, looking up at him with a sheepish smile.
"I'm fine. But just what on earth are you doing here, if I may be so bold as to ask?" Ken fixed Dani with the toughest stare his assaulted vision would permit.
Dani pursed her lips in dismissal. "Come on. You didn't really think I'd be willing to hang around the kitchen making cream puffs while you were prowling around this house, did you? All I could think about was what could go wrong, and finally, I knew I had to do something. On the way over here, I kept asking myself what you would do if someone walked in on you."
"I can tell you exactly what I did—hid behind the drapes," Ken interposed. Despite the evening's depressing outcome, he almost laughed at the startled look on Dani's face.
"You mean someone did surprise you?"
Ken nodded. "You didn't happen to pass Bea Lawes on the street?"
"Oh, my God! Bea showed up?" Dani groaned in dismay. "No, I didn't see her, but then, I got here only minutes before you opened the French doors. What on earth was Bea doing in the house at two o'clock in the morning?"
"Looking for the same thing I was, I'm almost certain. I'll tell you all about it, but first, I suggest we find a less-compromising spot to talk. I've managed to avoid detection so far tonight, but I don't want to press my luck."
"You're right," Dani agreed. "Let's get out of here."
Ken depressed the spring-lock button and closed the French doors behind him. Moving as stealthily as the prowlers they felt like, he and Dani checked the alley and then slipped through the gate. They didn't risk speaking until they were a good half block up King Street.
"Where did you park?" Dani was asking Ken when he suddenly gripped her arm.
"Do you see that car across the street, the dark red Honda Accord?" he whispered hoarsely in her ear. Ken felt her arm stiffen inside his grasp as she stole a surreptitious look and then nodded. "I could almost swear Bea Lawes has one just like it," he went on as they continued walking toward South Battery. "Remember the afternoon I tried to talk with Sapphira at Richardson's house? Bea was doing her watch-dog number, but after she sent me packing, I hung around the park for a while. I was hoping to see her leav
e so I could make another stab at getting to Sapphira. Well, she did leave, unfortunately with Sapphira in tow. I felt so frustrated when she pulled her car up to the front of the house and helped the old lady into it. But I got a real good look at her car."
"And that's it?"
"I can't be sure. If s certainly not the only one of its kind in Charleston," Ken admitted. He resisted the urge to turn and gape at the parked Honda. Although the street appeared deserted, the houses lining it dark, experience had taught him he could never be sure no one was watching.
"Then let's have a better look up close. At the very least, we can get the license number and check the owner's name through the motor-vehicle registration office." At the corner of South Battery, Dani stepped off the curb, pulling Ken with her as she walked toward the parked van. "We'll drive around the block and slow down a bit as we pass her car," she explained, unlocking the van. "That way, we won't look like car thieves sneaking around on foot."
"I've had enough of playing at thief for one night," Ken quipped, but as he slid into the seat next to her, he welcomed the normal, respectable feel the van and her company gave him.
Dani waited for a small station wagon to pass before pulling out into South Battery. She circled the block slowly. As they approached the dark red Honda, she shifted down into second gear.
"I keep a pad and pencil in the glove compartment. Can you make out the tag number yet?" Dani leaned forward in the driver's seat, craning for a better view.
"Got it." Ken jotted the letters and numbers on the pad and then did a quick check of the rearview mirror. "There's no one around. Stop a second and let's have a look inside..." He gasped, slung forward against the harness restraint as the van jolted to a tire-squealing stop. "What the heck..." His voice faded, his eyes riveted on the horrific sight he glimpsed through the Honda's open window.