by K. J. Emrick
“Um. No. That’s not exactly how it works…”
Cha Cha barked his opinion from where he was lying down on the little rug in front of the refrigerator.
“He says,” Zane translated, “that he likes peoples. Peoples give him food and belly rubs.”
“Never mind, Mom,” Colby told her. She patted Darcy’s arm in a very grown up way. “I’ll explain it to him on the way to Audrey’s. Can you guys just hurry up and eat?”
Darcy finished her plate before Zane was done, and made the phone call to Audrey’s mother, Janet, just like she’d promised. When everything was set, she went upstairs to change for the day.
All the while, she was still wondering about what Colby had said.
We won’t have to pick up the pieces.
Pieces of what?
Chapter 4
There was a time when Darcy knew people in the mayor’s office. She’d been very close friends with the previous mayor, Helen, before she died. She’d known Helen’s secretary and several of the village board members. In small towns, people usually knew everyone else.
That was then, and this was now, as they say. Now, Darcy didn’t know anyone who worked in the Town Hall except Mason Barnes, the janitor. He was a sweet man, but he was hardly a high-level employee in Misty Hollow government. She very much doubted that the janitor was going to know who the mayor had hired to make the trophy for SpringFest. What she needed to do was talk to someone who still had their ear to the pulse of the town.
Jon could find out for her, but she hated to bother him for this. He was probably busy trying to find out who had access to the locked room where the trophy was kept, picking through the little bit of video footage the security cameras had to offer. She didn’t know what he might find, but she didn’t want to pull him away from that to help with her idea. So, she would have to find out who made the trophy on her own.
The quickest route to get that information was to go straight to the mayor. But to do that, she would have to go through the hawk-nosed young man sitting at the desk in the mayor’s outer office.
When she knocked and then went in, the man looked up at her as if Darcy had just offered him a dead rat instead of a nice smile.
“Can I help you?”
Darcy cleared her throat and made sure to keep her smile in place. The new mayor had hired all of his own people from outside Misty Hollow. They drove in to work in the morning and drove home again at night. His personal secretary here, and a new town clerk, and a few others. Nobody in town really knew any of them. If the nameplate on the man’s desk hadn’t said his name, Darcy wouldn’t have even known that.
But since it did, she figured she might as well use it to her advantage.
“Tobias Hart, right? Hi. I’m Darcy Sw—”
“I know who you are, Miss Sweet.” He dropped his pencil in a way that let her know she was interrupting his day and she had better have a very good reason. “Everyone in town knows the amazing Miss Darcy Sweet.”
“Um. It’s Mrs. Sweet, actually. I’m married.”
“Good for you. I was married once, too. I can tell you it’s nothing to brag about.”
“Well, I suppose that depends on the marriage, doesn’t it?” she said, hoping to make a connection with a little small talk.
Instead, he tapped a finger on his desk. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Oh, she was not going to like this man. And if Mayor Andy Blanchard surrounded himself with people like this, she doubted she was going to like him very much either. “I do need your help,” she said. “Or, actually the mayor’s help. Is there a chance I could see him?”
“No,” was the answer, short and clipped.
“Well, is he here—”
“No.”
“Okay, do you know when he’ll be—”
“No.”
“Can I maybe leave a message—”
“No.”
Her smile was gone entirely now. “Do you know any other words besides ‘no,’ Tobias?”
He gave her a glare that could have melted ice. “Yes.”
“Oh. Good to know. So we can have a real conversation if we try, right?”
The man sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest. “Was there something you wanted? We are trying to run a town here.”
“I know. I’ve lived here most of my life.”
“I’ve heard the stories.”
Darcy started to say something, but it died in her throat. He’d heard the stories? What did that even mean? “Look, Tobias, I’m just looking to find out who made the trophy for the town’s SpringFest. The one that got stolen.”
The expression on his face had soured. “The trophy?”
“Yeah. The trophy. It got stolen, and—”
“I’m aware it got stolen,” he snapped. “What’s it to you?”
“Just helping the police out. You know. Like all the stories say.”
He didn’t laugh. “That’s what you want to know about?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And I’m supposed to tell you, just like that?”
She made herself count to three in her head. Nothing about this conversation had been ‘just like that.’ “I would appreciate it if you told me, yes.”
“If I tell you who made the trophy, you’ll go away?”
For Pete’s sake, now he was worried about getting her out of his office? “Yes. That’s really all I want.”
“Fine. Gilbert Fischer made it for us. His prices were reasonable and he’s local. The mayor and I know how important that is to all you people who live in town. So. Now you’ll go away, right?”
It took Darcy a moment to remember that name, Gilbert Fischer. Yes. He was an older man, who lived on the edge of town, and Darcy seemed to recall something about him supplying little league trophies to the Meadowood elementary school. She didn’t know him except by reputation…
“Ahem,” Tobias grunted. “You have your answer. You should go.”
Oh, she wanted nothing else in this moment than to be as far away from this man as possible. He didn’t want her asking about the trophy, then fine. She doubted this rude man had anything of value to tell her anyway. She would just go and ask Gilbert Fischer what she wanted to know. Then she would call Jon and see if they could put their heads together and figure something out.
“Ahem,” Tobias grunted again.
“You know,” she told him, finding her smile again, “you really should learn to expand your vocabulary.”
She felt a great sense of satisfaction at how loud the door slammed when she yanked it closed. Out in the hall she buttoned up her coat before stepping outside again without looking back. That was a truly exasperating man. She hoped she never had to see him again. Ever.
“Well,” she said on her way down the stairs of the Town Hall. “If wishes were horses…”
Huh. She couldn’t remember how the rest of that saying went.
“Beggars would ride!” said a helpful voice. “That’s the end of that line, as I remember. And then something about turnips, but I never really understood that part.”
Mark Franks stood down on the sidewalk, his hands deep in the pockets of his winter jacket. He’d left the skis behind this time in favor of a heavy pair of boots. Everywhere in Misty Hollow was within walking distance, after all. On most days you would find just about everyone in town walking down Main Street eventually.
“Hey, Mark.” Darcy gave him a wave and wished that she’d worn her mittens. The weather had turned again and even just the short walk to and from the car was making her cold. “What brings you out here?”
“Uh, well, to be honest I was going down to the bookstore, but I see it’s closed again today. I thought I’d just walk down to see if Izzy was home, but I saw you over here and I figured I’d just ask if you knew where she was instead.”
Oh. Darcy didn’t answer right away. She knew exactly where her friend was, and exactly what she was doing, but that information wasn’t
really hers to tell. She was pretty sure Izzy didn’t want Mark to know she was with another man, in a cabin, hours away from here.
She hated being put in a spot like this, stuck in the middle of this little love triangle that Izzy had gotten herself into. The best thing would be for her to stay out of it, as far as she was concerned.
“Izzy’s out of town today,” she told him after another moment, skirting the truth. “That’s why we closed the store again. She’s busy…I mean, she’s off doing her thing…um, taking care of something. I’m actually looking into the theft of the SpringFest trophy,” she added in a rush, hoping to change the subject.
“Oh yeah? Hey, so am I,” he said, thankfully following her lead. “I think it’s really awesome how you just step in and investigate these crimes when it’s not your job, Darcy. Your husband should be doing this, shouldn’t he?”
“He is. He’s doing his job, but I’m doing my part as someone who lives in this town. We all have to do our part for each other, right?”
“Right-o, Miss,” he said in a dead-on Cockney accent. “Need to ‘elp those what can’t help themselves, as me dear old mum used to say.”
Darcy smiled at his humor. “Exactly.”
With a cough, he brought his voice back to its normal high tenor pitch. “Well, I’m on the SpringFest committee. I guess I should do my part, too. Did you find anything out at the Town Hall about the theft?”
“Um. Sort of. I found out the trophy was made by a local man. I was just about to go talk to him. Want to come with me?”
“Sure. My plans of spending the day with Izzy are shot, I guess, so I might as well do something to be useful.” He looked up and down the street, tracking the snowflakes that had started to fall. “Um. I don’t suppose we could drive there?”
“I think that would be best, yes. My car’s right there. Come on.”
“Thanks, Darcy. So. Izzy’s going to be back tonight?”
She frowned to herself as they got in her car, and she started up the engine. She turned the heater on high to give herself a few more seconds to think about how to answer him. “I spoke to her this morning. She said she’d be back to open the store tomorrow. I think that means she’ll be back tonight, yes.”
He was silent for a minute or two while Darcy drove. Then he shifted in his seat. “Is she avoiding me?”
The question was just too direct for her to dodge it. “Mark, it’s not my place to say.”
“Which means yes, she is.” He sighed. “You’re a good friend to try to cover for her, but I’m a big boy. I can take it. I just thought she and I were starting something, you know? She’s pretty and she’s smart and well, she laughs at my jokes,” he added in a perfect imitation of Patrick Warburton.
“You’re a good guy, Mark. It may have taken me a while to realize it, but you’re a decent person. Izzy likes you. She just takes a while to get close to people. There were things that happened with her ex-husband that you don’t know about. Bad things that really left scars on her heart. She’s not quick to trust and love just doesn’t come easy to her. You just have to be patient. Give her time.”
With another sigh, he rapped his knuckles against the side window. “I can do that. I have a feeling Izzy is worth waiting for. Just hope I’m not left waiting for her while she’s off finding her life with someone else. I’d hate to have my dreams dashed apart by someone else, know what I mean?”
Darcy was sure that she did. Everyone had experienced that in their life at least once. That ache that came from wishing for someone—anyone—to come their way. On the other hand, Izzy did need to make her mind up about who she wanted to be with so that she wasn’t stringing both guys along. Maybe Darcy should take her friend out for a coffee when she got back and have a serious conversation with her about her love life.
Or maybe it just wasn’t her place to get involved.
She reached over and patted Mark’s wrist while they made the turn onto Lancer Avenue. “Just be patient. Nobody understands a woman’s heart. Not even the woman who owns it. You’re right that Izzy is worth waiting for so…just be patient.”
“Well, I have to agree that’s good advice. Heh. Yes, I do. Women do cause no end of trouble for guys like me, don’t they? Oh hey, is this the house?”
Darcy pulled into the driveway of the third place on the left, a small two-story house with an attached garage. Smoke rose from the chimney above the snow-covered roof. There were still a few people in town who heated their homes with wood. It was a cheap alternative to kerosene, as long as you could stockpile enough of it, split and ready to burn. Darcy’s house had a working chimney, but they hardly ever used it. Not unless the power went out. Wood might be cheap, but it was messy.
Apparently, Gilbert Fischer didn’t have a problem with it. There was a large pile of wood blocks on the side of the house, covered under a blue tarp. Long, uncut trunks were stacked beside them, maybe twelve feet long, and as big around as Darcy’s waist. That was a lot of wood for one man.
“Come on,” she said to Mark. “Let’s go and see what Gilbert has to tell us.”
There was a lion’s head knocker on the front door. A little old school, Darcy thought to herself, but cute. She took ahold of the brass ring and rapped it against the striker plate three times. The sound of it echoed inside the house.
And the door swung open.
“It wasn’t locked?” Mark asked. “I thought everybody in this town locked their doors.”
That was true. After a long string of murders and other crimes that had struck in their sleepy little town, people in Misty Hollow tended to protect themselves every way they could. Home security system sales had gone up twenty percent in town according to Jon. Still, there were lots of people who left doors unlocked. Old habits were hard to break. That wasn’t what concerned her.
“It wasn’t just unlocked,” she said, “it was open. Just a couple of taps and it pushed right in. As cold as it is out here…people don’t just leave their doors open in this weather.”
The snow continued to swirl around them as Darcy looked inside, down the short entry hall. There were large, framed pictures of mountains and woods on the walls. Places Gilbert Fischer had been to, she supposed. One was a large boat out on the ocean. One was a dog holding a frisbee.
Somewhere inside the house, a clock ticked. She thought maybe she could hear the crackling of a fire somewhere. Other than that, it was silent as a tomb inside…
Until they heard the scream.
“What was that?” Mark asked, taking a step back.
Darcy felt like running herself. It had happened so fast she couldn’t say for certainty if it was a man or a woman, or where in the house it had come from. It had been a scary sound, high pitched and freaky. She definitely did not like it.
And she couldn’t run away from it, either.
If someone was in there, screaming like that, Darcy knew she had to act. Taking her cellphone out of her pocket she blew on her cold fingers to warm them up before unlocking the screen. She brought up Jon’s number and pushed the button to dial. She let it ring, one ear to the phone and the other listening to the silence that had fallen inside the house again.
The call went to voicemail. She sighed in frustration. He was busy. She could just call the station and have them get a message to him, or send one of the officers out here to investigate…
Deep inside the house, they heard the shriek again. Short and severe, there and gone.
There was no time to make multiple phone calls to get help.
“Leave a message,” Jon’s voice said.
“Jon I’m at seventeen Lancer Avenue. Something’s wrong. Get someone here, right now.”
She hung up and put the phone away. What now?
“People respond quicker to texts,” Mark said.
Darcy gave him a look. “Not helping.”
“I’m just saying. It’s true.”
“I don’t think that matters right now, do you?”
“Um. No, I g
uess not. Are we going to wait for him?”
The scream reached out to them again. It ended with a metallic clang that set Darcy’s teeth on edge.
She reached over and touched the antique ring on her right hand. She felt across the etched lines of the intricate design, and only took a moment to make her decision.
“No. We’re going to go in.”
“What? Darcy, are you insane?” Mark’s words were a whisper-shout. He obviously didn’t like her idea. He probably thought she was taking too many risks.
“Trust me,” she told him, keeping her eyes forward as she started down the hall. “You get used to this sort of thing when you live in Misty Hollow.”
Step by step, she went into Gilbert’s house, armed with nothing but the cellphone in her hand. Did she need a weapon? It might have been a good idea, she thought to herself. Who was making that scream, and what was going—
She heard it again, closer this time, off to the right, definitely inside the house. The room on that side of the hallway was a living room, sparsely furnished with a worn-out couch and battered but sturdy wooden-frame furniture. The books up on the shelves had spines that were creased from use. The small television hanging on the wall looked dusty and ignored. Her kind of place. Well. It would be, except for that scream.
On the far side of the room was another door. If she remembered the layout of the house correctly from the outside, that should be the direction of the attached garage. She hesitated. In horror movies, the victim was always kept in the garage, tied up, tortured and terrified. She hated those movies. Absolutely hated—
“Waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh.”
The hair stood up at the back of Darcy’s neck. It was a gut-wrenching sound punctuated by the sound of metal on metal. It was also…somehow…eerily familiar…
“Do you think he’s dead?” Mark asked her suddenly, making her jump.
“Who?” she said, keeping her voice at the same whisper volume.
“Gilbert Fischer. He’s the guy who lives here, you said. His front door was open, there’s someone screaming on the other side of that door, and nobody even tried to stop us from walking right in. So…um…do you think…?”