Nobody's There

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Idly, as she strolled to her car, she glanced into the window of the antiques shop next to the pawnshop. A Tiffany lamp first caught her eye, but under it stood something that immediately caught her attention—a traditional Asian bronze horse on a teak base, one front leg raised.

  Abbie gasped. That was what had been missing from Mrs. Merkel’s house! Her bronze horse! The thief must have taken it, too.

  Abbie entered the antiques store and went straight to the tall, slender woman who smiled at her.

  “At last, a customer,” the woman said pleasantly. “This has been a slow day for business.”

  Abbie shrugged. “I’m really not a customer,” she said. “I just want to ask you some questions about the horse you have in your window.”

  “Ask what you like,” the woman said. She followed Abbie to the window. “Pick up the horse.”

  “I’m not going to buy it.”

  “That’s all right. Pick it up.”

  Abbie reached for the horse, which—like Mrs. Merkel’s horse—was a little over a foot long and a foot high, but she had to readjust her grip as she lifted it from the window. “Wow, it’s heavy!” she said.

  The woman smiled. “I wanted to give you an idea of how much bronze weighs, so you’d understand the cost.” She named a figure, and Abbie whistled.

  “A friend of mine has a horse like this,” she said. “Except her horse has eyes of a shiny black stone.”

  “Probably onyx,” the woman told her. “I understand that only a few of those horses were made. Those with onyx eyes are very rare … and valuable.” She paused. “I’d like to see that horse. Maybe the owner could bring it in.”

  “I’ll—I’ll tell her,” Abbie said.

  As she placed the horse back on its stand in the window, Abbie shifted it in her hands and raised it, balancing the weight. For just an instant the horse’s rear legs were up, pointing outward.

  Two deep, pronglike puncture wounds. The realization that the heavy bronze horse could have been the weapon made Abbie start so violently, she almost dropped the horse.

  Stumbling over her words, aware that the woman was watching her strangely, Abbie thanked her for her help and fled to her car. She had to get to the hospital quickly. She needed to talk to Mrs. Merkel.

  “She’s doing well, so she’ll be moved to a private room in the morning,” the desk nurse informed Abbie. “She’s still in a coma, but talk to her pleasantly. Hearing friendly voices might just help her recovery. You can visit her for ten minutes.”

  Abbie nodded. She entered the intensive care unit and sat next to Mrs. Merkel’s bed.

  “It’s me, Abbie,” she said.

  Mrs. Merkel, her face still pinched with unhappiness, lay motionless.

  “I’m trying to do what you would do—find out who attacked you,” Abbie said. “But I’m having trouble. They arrested Jose Morales, but I don’t think he did it. I mean, even if his fingerprints were on your coffee cup … Well, that isn’t important to tell you. You’d know who you served coffee to.”

  Abbie reached under the light blanket and took hold of Mrs. Merkel’s left hand. Mrs. Merkel’s fingers were cool and quiet, lying still in Abbie’s palm.

  “You were hit from behind, so maybe you didn’t see who hit you,” Abbie said. “I think you were hit with your bronze horse. Did you know it’s rare and worth a lot of money? Very few of the Asian horses have onyx eyes. That’s what the woman in the antiques shop told me. She said she’d like to meet you. She wants to see your horse. I think she might like to buy it. If your husband gave it to you, you probably don’t like it either. So you might be interested in selling it—if we can find it.”

  She paused. Her conversation wasn’t going right. She’d try something else. “I went to the pawnshop looking for your rings. Charlie said someone stole them. Frankly, I think Charlie did. He didn’t get to your house until after Officer Martin and I had looked around for anything that might be missing. I may be wrong, but I think Charlie took the rings while he went upstairs with Officer Martin and me. Charlie’s big and broad and kind of hard to see around, so he blocked our view for a few minutes. But after all, how much time does it take to grab two small rings and slip them into your pockets?”

  Barely—just barely—with the slightest of movements, Abbie felt Mrs. Merkel’s fingers tighten around her own.

  “I don’t know how to be a private investigator,” Abbie said. “I wish I knew what to do next. I think I’d better go over all our notes and take them to the police.”

  This time Mrs. Merkel’s fingers quivered, then held fast.

  “Please wake up, Mrs. Merkel,” Abbie said. “I know I’m not doing a good job. When I stopped in front of Irene Conley’s house to get a good look, she came out and told me to back off and stay out of her business. Was she in your house? Could she have been the one who hit you?”

  A nurse walked up silently in her crepe-soled shoes and tapped Abbie on the shoulder. “Time to go,” she said.

  Abbie pried her hand away from Mrs. Merkel’s, smoothed the sheet and blanket, and stood up. To the nurse she said, “She squeezed my hand. She knows what I told her.”

  The nurse smiled and answered, “That’s nice, dear.”

  “Shouldn’t you tell the doctor?”

  “The doctor is fully aware of Mrs. Merkel’s condition. Frequently friends or family members imagine that the patient is communicating, they’re so eager for it to happen.”

  Abbie looked down at Mrs. Merkel. “Do you see what I’m going through?” she asked. “It’s not only my dad who thinks I’m a nobody. If you want answers to who stole your things and who hit you, then you’re going to have to wake up and help me.”

  Mrs. Merkel’s nose twitched, and Abbie said to the nurse, “There! Did you see that?”

  The nurse put a firm hand on Abbie’s arm. “Come along, dear, and please be quiet. You don’t want to disturb the other patients.”

  What do I do now? Abbie thought, and the answer came: Talk to Davy. Maybe if they put their notebooks together and compared what they’d found, they’d know what to do.

  Davy was eager to help, and he was excited about seeing Mrs. Merkel’s notebook. Their mother wasn’t due home for at least an hour, so Abbie and Davy sat at the kitchen table, reading each other’s notebooks. Finally Davy raised his head. “Irene Conley was stealing money from the bank where she worked. Maybe the bank president found out.”

  “I know,” Abbie said. “The facts are in these notebooks. It’s not hard to put them together. Irene had not inherited money from her parents. She got it from some other source and over a period of time. Was it the Gulf East Savings and Loan where she worked? Did Mr. Hastings discover Irene was embezzling?”

  Abbie rested her head in her hands. “She might not be guilty only of embezzlement. She might have murdered Mr. Hastings. I think Irene was aware of Mrs. Merkel’s suspicions. Mrs. Merkel liked to confront crooks with what she knew about them.”

  “We need another notebook,” Davy said, “or at least a sheet of paper.” As he tore a sheet from the back page of his own notebook, he accidentally ripped it at the top.

  “Darn,” he said, and jumped up to get a roll of clear tape from the kitchen drawer. He repaired the tear, picked up a pen, and said, “How do you spell Jose?”

  “J-O-S-E. What are you doing?”

  “Making a list of motives.” He wrote for a few minutes, then said, “Okay. Listen up. Jose—to keep Mrs. Merkel from snitching to the INS. The roofers—to get even. The guy stealing cell phone numbers—to get rid of a witness. Irene—to stop Mrs. Merkel from telling what she had found out. Charlie—to get money from his aunt.”

  Davy put down his pen and looked at Abbie. “I’ve been thinking about Charlie stealing the rings,” he said. “If he’s so stupid that he’d describe the actual rings to the police and then try to sell them, he’d be just as stupid about trying to get rid of his aunt.”

  Abbie sat up and reached for the telephone. “I’m
going to call Officer Martin. She might be able to give us some information about some of those suspects.”

  To Abbie’s surprise, Officer Martin was in the station house and available. When Abbie explained what she wanted, Officer Martin put her on hold for a moment, then came back to the phone.

  “Is she there?” Davy asked. He tore off a couple of strips of the clear sticky tape and played with them, twining them together.

  “She’s there. She’s finding something.” Something nudged Abbie’s memory. “Davy, that clear tape—”

  “Here’s the information you requested,” Martin said. “Mitchell and Eddie Krump left town and were last seen near San Antonio.”

  “When were they seen?

  “On Wednesday. Matter of fact, because of a potential customer’s complaint, they spent the night in the county jail.”

  “So they have an alibi. What about the other guy?

  “Bud Kessler, who allegedly stole cell phone numbers. Bud was with his girl friend from Wednesday noon until past midnight.”

  “Would she lie for him?”

  “Probably. But in this case they were with a group of people. Went to a rodeo and out dancing afterward.”

  “So Bud has an alibi too.”

  “Looks that way, but it doesn’t matter. We have our perpetrator.”

  “I don’t think Jose Morales did it.”

  “Can you give me a reason that would hold up in court?”

  Abbie sighed. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. Can I help you with anything else?”

  “I tried to find the stolen rings,” Abbie told her. “I went to the EZ Loan Pawnshop on Main. The owner said he hadn’t seen them.”

  Officer Martin laughed. “Right idea, wrong pawnshop. We recovered one of the rings. The shop owner had already sold the other, but we’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  Abbie was curious. “If somebody bought the stolen ring, how will you ever get it back?”

  “Sometimes the Buckler Bee lists stolen items. Occasionally a law-abiding citizen buys an object in good faith, discovers it was stolen property, and brings it in.”

  “And gets his money back?”

  “Not too often, I’m afraid. The money is usually spent immediately by the person selling the stolen item. The pawnshop doesn’t accept the responsibility, so the purchaser is out of luck.”

  Abbie told Officer Martin her theory, and Martin asked, “Do you think Charlie took the rings from under our noses?”

  “He must have. Unless he lied to us about when he got to Buckler, he didn’t show up until after the attack took place.”

  “It’s possible that he did take the rings during his so-called search,” Martin said. “The rings weren’t pawned until the shop opened this morning.”

  “Could the owner identify Charlie?”

  “As we expected, that pawnshop owner couldn’t or wouldn’t remember who had pawned the rings. His records listed what proved to be a fictitious name and address.”

  “One more thing,” Abbie said. For just a moment she hesitated. “Remember I said that something was missing from the living room, but I couldn’t remember what it was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it was an Asian bronze horse with onyx eyes. If you grabbed it at the head or in the middle, the heaviest part would be in the rear. The horse’s back legs could have made the puncture wounds the doctor found.”

  There was silence for a moment; then Officer Martin said, “That’s interesting, Abbie. We’ll follow up on it, but promise me you won’t try to follow Mrs. Merkel’s bad example. You are not a trained investigator. You are not a member of the police force. Leave this case to us to solve, or you may find yourself involved in a highly dangerous situation. We can’t always keep an eye on you.”

  Abbie couldn’t make any promises. She tried to change the subject back to the weapon. “When you find the horse—”

  “Chances are slim or none. Weapons have a way of getting lost. This one could have ended up in the gulf or could have been buried in a remote spot. It would be almost impossible to find.”

  “Who would throw it away? That horse is rare and valuable.”

  “Very few people would know that. They’d think of it only as incriminating evidence. Even though it was wiped clean, or even washed, enough traces of the victim’s blood would remain for a lab to identify it. The D.A. likes to have the weapon on hand when he brings a case of murder, or attempted murder, to court, but even without the weapon, he has enough evidence against Jose Morales to prosecute him.”

  Officer Martin’s voice became more abrupt and determined. “Abbie, I asked for your promise.”

  “I almost forgot to tell you what Mrs. Merkel found out about Irene Conley,” Abbie said. “According to notes she made, Irene Conley’s father, Buck Steaver, wasn’t rich. Irene got her money by embezzling from the Gulf East Savings and Loan. She spent a lot of money on clothes, a car, and remodeling her house. What she didn’t spend she put in a safe-deposit box in Unity National. Maybe Mr. Hastings found out. Maybe that’s why he was killed. Maybe Irene did it.”

  There was silence for a moment. Finally Officer Martin said, “All I can say is that we are pursuing the bank investigation along a similar line. As for you—you can expect—”

  Abbie interrupted. “Officer Martin, I know not to put myself in danger. Mrs. Merkel is the one who didn’t know that. I’d just like an update, please. Did you find any evidence that Irene Conley was in Mrs. Merkel’s house?”

  “Abbie, I know you’ve put up with a lot from Mrs. Merkel. I can tell you this: We have an eye witness—a next-door neighbor—who told us that Irene Conley had visited Mrs. Merkel early that afternoon.”

  Abbie grew excited. “Did the doctors determine what time Mrs. Merkel was attacked? Could Irene have done it?”

  “Don’t get too involved with police work, dear. Don’t learn from Mrs. Merkel.”

  “Please, just tell me something,” Abbie begged.

  “The witness saw Irene Conley leave the house. Mrs. Merkel stood at the doorway warning her not to come back. Now, as I was trying to tell you about your behavior—”

  “Thanks, Officer Martin. I’ll behave,” Abbie said quickly. “Bye.” She hung up the phone.

  When she told Davy what the police officer had said, he shook his head. “We can’t find that weapon any more than the police can. Whoever hit Mrs. Merkel could have thrown it off Longmont Pier into deep water. He could have driven it west on a farm road and buried it in rangeland where no one could ever come across it.” Davy peeled the clear tape from his fingers and stuck the wad on the end of the table.

  Abbie stood and reached for the tape, tearing off an eight-inch strip. “Watch,” she said to Davy as she opened the kitchen door.

  She held the latch in as she quickly slapped the tape across it, then shut the door.

  “What did you do with the tape?” Davy asked.

  “It’s across the door latch. It keeps it from closing and locking.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “Neither could Mrs. Merkel when somebody used tape on her door to keep it from locking. I stepped on a wad of the tape. It was probably tossed aside after the attack.”

  “But you tried her door. You couldn’t get in,” Davy complained.

  “That was after the tape was removed,” Abbie said.

  Davy looked at Abbie with admiration. “Cool,” he said. “You’re pretty good at figuring things out.” He grinned. “Maybe you’re learning how to be a good P.I. from Mrs. Merkel.”

  Abbie sighed. “It tells us how, but not who did it. And you’re right about the weapon. If the police can’t find it, then neither can we.” She closed the notebook in front of her and said, “Sometimes I get scared.”

  “No, you don’t,” Davy told her. “I’ve been writing down all the things you’ve been doing. You’re very brave, Abbie.”

  “It’s not those things I’m scared about,” Abbie said. “It’s … well, I
don’t want to have dinner with Jamie Lane tomorrow night.”

  “Neither do I,” Davy said, “but it’s a chance to go out with Dad. We like the food at the restaurant and checking out the neat stuff around the fountain. We can pretend Jamie’s not there.”

  “If we’re rude to her, Dad will get mad at us,” Abbie warned.

  Davy thought a moment. “Okay. Then we’ll be polite and say please and thank you and stuff like that. But we can still pretend she’s not there and just talk to Dad.”

  Abbie began to laugh. She tried not to, but she couldn’t help it. It was a strange kind of laughter because it gripped her like a vise and wouldn’t let go. And while she was laughing tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Davy stared at her in surprise. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

  Abbie wiped her eyes, reached for a tissue, and blew her nose. “To us, Jamie’s nothing,” she said. “For Dad now, you and I are nothing. Dad won’t bother to notice—he’s too caught up in himself.” She laid her head down on her arms and began to cry.

  In the middle of the night Abbie awoke. She sat up in bed, shaking a little, as if she had broken away from a bad dream. Without even realizing it, Davy had given her the answer. It seemed clear now. She figured out where the weapon would be hidden from the police. She now knew who had put it there.

  I should call Officer Martin, she thought. One foot was already out of bed and touching the floor when she doubted her own logic. She wasn’t sure. She had no proof, and she had to be sure. She pulled her foot back under the covers, vaguely remembering when she was little and afraid of the monsters she thought hid under her bed.

  Now that she was older, she knew that the dark space under the bed was safe and empty, but monsters did exist.

  Tomorrow is Friday, Abbie told herself as she lay back in bed. Tomorrow I’ll make sure the weapon is there.

  At school Abbie saw Nick in the hallway a few steps ahead and trotted to catch up with him. “Hi,” she said, warmed by his answering smile. “Will you be at Blue Water Beach tonight for your father’s company picnic?”