Here Comes Trouble

by Leslie Kelly

  Ida Mae nodded. “We’ll be sure to pass that along if we see the man.”

  Ivy pushed her sister out of the way and leaned her head all the way out to call, “Do give your grandfather our best, won’t you?”

  Nodding, Max turned on his heel and walked to the edge of the porch, hearing one more thunk from inside.

  A very large rat, indeed. And how appropriate, really—the sexual predator targeting young girls for revenge schemes getting caught in a trap just like the one he’d constructed.

  Smiling, he got into his car, then looked up at the second-story window—the room where he’d found his grandfather.

  As he backed out of the driveway, he murmured. “Hope you have a great weekend, Peter.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WHEN SABRINA saw the man with the gun, she somehow managed not to scream.

  “This can’t be happening,” she whispered—quiet, so quiet as she watched, crouched close against the wall on the second-floor landing. She peeked around to see where the stranger who’d just slipped from the dining room into the living room was.

  The stranger with the gun tucked into the back of his pants.

  God, Max, why aren’t you here?

  He should be soon. He’d been gone an hour. How long could it have taken to find Mortimer and bring him back?

  “Any minute now,” she whispered, hearing the false bravado in her own voice. So much for all her boasting about her self-defense training at the community center back home. Every trick she’d ever learned had involved hand-to-hand defense. Not hand-to-gun.

  Apparently, she hadn’t gotten Max’s voice message soon enough. He’d called shortly after he left—while she’d been wrestling a large clock off the dining room wall—letting her know about Peter getting out. She’d done exactly as he’d asked, making sure every one of those window alarms was set.

  But apparently someone had already been inside.

  Not Peter, though. She’d seen the back of the intruder’s balding head as he disappeared into the living room, and it definitely hadn’t been her ex. That didn’t surprise her. Peter had looked like he was ready to wet his pants the other night when Max threatened to break his jaw, and she didn’t imagine he’d risk coming up here.

  So who is that guy?

  She had no idea. She just knew she wanted more than one story separating them. Moving as quietly as she could across the creaky floor, she made her way back to the third-floor stairwell. Carefully going up it—avoiding the third from the top, which squeaked the loudest—she had a bizarre thought and giggled, only mildly hysterical. Oh great, she thought, I’m turning into a scary movie heroine, going up the stairs toward the attic instead of getting the hell out of the house.

  She suddenly had some sympathy for those heroines. Because there was no way she could go anywhere on the first floor without being seen by the man in the living room. The entrance was directly at the bottom of the stairs.

  Creeping into Max’s attic bedroom, she stepped on one loud floorboard, which screamed like a virgin at a frat party. She froze, praying the intruder had been too far away to hear. When she heard nothing that sounded like an ax-wielding maniac racing up the stairs, she moved again.

  Her cell phone was in her purse, which sat on the table beside Max’s bed. Grabbing it, she looked toward the door, wishing she could close it to create one more sound barrier. Max was at a festival, and he might not hear the shaky whispers of a terrified woman.

  But she couldn’t risk it—that door not only squeaked, it slammed whenever it was shut.

  Thinking quickly, she moved toward the tiny attic door, the one Max had disappeared behind earlier. She didn’t think it had made much noise, but was still careful when opening it. Once inside, she closed it behind her, then leaned against a bare studded wall in relief.

  She dialed quickly. “Max,” she said as loud as she dared the moment he answered.

  “Sabrina?”

  In the background, she heard voices and laughter. The ding of a bell indicated someone had just impressed his girlfriend by swinging a sledgehammer onto a weight. God, would she rather be with them. “There’s someone in the house.”

  “Peter?” He sounded shocked.

  “No. Someone else. And he has a gun.”

  He muttered an obscenity. “Get out, Sabrina, now.”

  “Can’t. He’s near the bottom of the stairs.”

  She heard him talking to someone else, then the sound of heavy breathing—as if he was running. “Hide,” he ordered, and she heard a car door opening.

  “Already doing it. I’m in the attic space beside your room.”

  “Good. Stay there. I’m on my way, and the cops are, too.”

  The car engine started. The tires squealed. On his way. Five minutes. Ten tops.

  “Keep talking to me, sweetheart.”

  “Uh…how’s the festival?”

  His bark of laughter made her hope he hadn’t heard the note of terror she was trying so hard to keep out of her voice.

  “Crowded with people who are going to be very happy to find out what you and I have discovered in that house.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking about that. Whoever’s downstairs…”

  “Did you start moving the clocks? Does he know what we discovered? Maybe he’ll just take the damn things and leave.”

  If only. Sighing, she moved deeper into the attic, balancing her way across the studs and kicking tufts of pink insulation out of her way. “Don’t think so. I hadn’t had a chance to do much with that yet. So unless this guy was here all morning and heard us…oh, no,” she groaned, suddenly thinking of what she and Max had been doing before their discovery. “You know, I could happily go the rest of my life without suspecting someone spied on us making love.”

  He laughed softly. “Does that mean you think we’ll be making love for the rest of your life?”

  Sabrina’s heart rolled over, and it had nothing to do with the fear of the stranger in the house. Sinking slowly down onto a plank-board section of the attic, she murmured, “Max…”

  “Because that’s what I’m picturing. You and me. For life.”

  Oh, please no, he couldn’t be doing this now, could he? Couldn’t be telling her he loved her when she still had this big, nasty secret hanging over her head to tell him. And, oh, by the way, was in fear for her life. “Max, please…”

  “I know. Wrong time. Wrong place.” His voice lowered. “And I’m not alone in the car. That doesn’t change how I feel.”

  “Stop,” she ordered, “not yet. Tell me later. When you get me out of this mess.”

  He hesitated.

  “Please, Max. There’s something I need to say to you, too. First. We’ll talk soon.”

  And they would. She’d tell him everything—after he saved her ass from the psychopath downstairs, who probably kept his gun in his pants so his hands would be free to hold the butcher knife and chainsaw.

  Sighing, he gave in. “All right.”

  About to ask him to describe just how excited Mortimer was over this latest adventure, she heard a noise and sucked in a breath. The door to Max’s room. It had creaked. And slammed. Her stomach started somersaulting. “Oh, shit, he’s in your room.”

  “Look around. Is there anything you can use for a weapon?” he asked, staying calm. A major feat there, because she could tell by his tense voice that he was feeling anything but.

  She glanced around the attic space, which was empty except for something wooden sticking out of the insulation. Crawling toward it, she brushed away the pink fluff. “There’s a big clock back here. You told me you only murdered one of them.”

  “I did. That was back there before I moved in. Can you break something off it to defend yourself?”

  She reached for an ornate, decorative cuckoo carved into the wood over the little house. Remembering what had happened to the former owner, she wondered if she could wield it carefully enough to stab someone directly in the eye. Gushy. Yucky. But she’d do it if she h
ad to.

  “Survival instinct, mister,” she muttered.

  Though she twisted it—hard—the thing would not come off. Careful to be as quiet as she could, she lifted the clock into her lap, the chains and weights making the tiniest clink.

  “Quiet, Sabrina,” she heard Max whisper through the phone—he’d obviously heard. Oh, please, please, please, don’t let the bad guy have heard, too.

  Trying desperately again, she twisted the bird. The stupid thing obviously could come off with enough pressure, because there was a broken stump on the other branch where another bird had once been.

  Still nothing. Not the slightest creak or shift.

  Realizing she wasn’t going to be able to do it, she decided to go for the chains. She’d seen garrotes in movies. If she could get around the guy without him blowing her head off, maybe she could choke him from behind.

  Grabbing the weights, she started to tug, then saw something strange. The dark brown, pine-cone-shaped weights were sparkling in spots. Lifting one and squinting to study it under the sunlight sifting through the eaves, she realized the paint on the weight had chipped in a number of places. Rubbing at one spot, she saw what was beneath it, and it sure didn’t look like iron or brass.

  No. It was much shinier than iron, not as bold as brass—a bit softer. Unmistakable. “Max, I think Mr. Stuttgardt invested in more than jewels,” she whispered, hearing the shock in her own voice. Wonder what gold is selling for these days.

  She didn’t have time to dwell on it, because suddenly the door from Max’s bedroom began to swing inward. Thinking only of having something with which to defend herself, she lifted the clock—straining under its weight, wishing she had room to swing like the person who’d killed Wilhelm Stuttgardt.

  Then she caught a glimpse of the clock face, saw a dark clump of hair tangled in the minute hand. And blood. A bunch of it.

  She thought about the missing bird.

  And realized this was exactly what the person who’d killed Wilhelm Stuttgardt had been holding when he murdered him.

  “SABRINA!” Max shouted into the phone. “Answer me.”

  She said nothing. She’d said nothing for a good fifteen seconds. He’d heard her strange comment about the jewels, some deep breathing, then a tiny clunk and silence. He had the very real fear that she’d dropped the phone and it was right now lying in a mound of insulation.

  “She’ll be all right, boy,” Mortimer said, reaching over and placing a hand on Max’s arm. “We’re almost there.”

  “Hurry,” Allie said from the back seat.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror at the girl’s stricken face, he knew she was terrified. “She’ll be fine,” he muttered, trying to convince Allie. Not easy when he was half out of his mind with worry, too.

  Then he spied the driveway, let the gas pedal off the floor—where it had been since they’d left the carnival grounds—and made a sharp, screeching turn. Right behind him were other cars, including Chief Bennigan’s. The mayor, too, had been standing nearby when Max got the call, as had several other locals. Hell, they might as well lead a parade up to the house so everyone could see him annihilate the bastard Sabrina was hiding in terror from right now.

  Not even cutting the car engine, he hopped out the second he reached the house. Heading toward the porch, he ignored a yell from Bennigan, kicked in the front door and burst inside. “Sabrina!”

  She didn’t reply—he heard only the wail of the stick-on door alarm, which he quickly flipped off.

  “Where are you?”

  Nothing. Not a whisper. Not a sound. She has to be okay.

  He took the stairs three at a time, then went for the attic ones, pounding up them and into his bedroom. And stopped dead in his tracks, not quite believing what he saw.

  Sabrina was sitting on his bed, her arm across the shoulders of an older, balding man…who was sobbing quietly into his hands.

  “Found it. Can’t believe you found it. Here all the time,” the man was mumbling.

  “Sabrina?”

  She looked up, saw him there and flew into his arms. “Max, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  He held her tight, picking her up off the floor so he could squeeze her like he’d never let her go. She coughed a little, then wiggled out of his arms.

  The man lifted his head, watching them, tears pouring over his ruddy cheeks. “Thought you was both gone,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean to scare anybody.”

  Max wasn’t convinced. He pushed Sabrina behind him, shielding her with his body. “Where’s your gun?”

  The man pointed toward the table. “BB gun. Not even loaded. It was for show—to scare you if you ever caught me.”

  Behind him, Chief Bennigan and one of his officers stormed in, followed closely by his grandfather, Allie, and the mayor.

  “Sabrina!” Allie yelped. She moved as fast as her pregnant body could carry her and threw herself against her sister with a loud oomph.

  “Tom, what in holy hell’s goin’ on here?” Bennigan said. “You broke into this house and terrified this woman?”

  “Didn’t mean it,” Tom mumbled again. “I’m sorry, so sorry. I just couldn’t give up, you see. Couldn’t stop hunting until I made up for it.”

  Max slowly began to understand. “You were looking for Stuttgardt’s money.”

  The man’s eyes finally shone with anger rather than moisture. He jerked his thumb toward his chest. “My money. The town’s money.”

  Mayor Newman pushed her way past the men and walked over to Tom, taking Sabrina’s place beside him on the bed. “It’s all right, Tom. You’re going to be fine. Everyone here knows you well enough to know you would never have hurt the lady.”

  Maybe not the lady. But Max had a strong suspicion that this Tom character—who he’d finally recognized as the guy who’d knocked the chicken wings out of Scoot’s hands at the tavern the other day—might have hurt somebody else. This thing he had to “make up” for…“You killed him, didn’t you,” he said.

  Beside him, Sabrina gasped. Bennigan stepped around Max and frowned.

  “Tom, did you do it?”

  “Don’t answer that,” said the mayor.

  “Ann…”

  Rising to her feet, she frowned at the chief. “Ever hear of a little thing called Miranda rights?”

  “I didn’t do it,” Tom said wearily, sounding like he just didn’t want to hide the truth anymore. “Didn’t kill him. Might have, though, if I’d had the chance, when I found out what he did.” Sniffing again and wiping his nose with his shirtsleeve, he rose to stand beside Ann. “He used me, tricked me into helping him steal. I was his bookkeeper, you see.”

  Sabrina slipped her arm around Max’s waist and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Mr. King didn’t know I was here,” she murmured. “He was shocked when he opened the attic door and found me there. We both screamed—then he apologized for scaring me.”

  Max just grunted, not convinced.

  “Woulda run away,” Tom muttered, “if I hadn’t seen what was in her hands.” He nodded toward the attic door. On the floor in front of it was the large, broken clock, covered in insulation and dust.

  The chief and the mayor saw it, too. “Oh, no,” Ann murmured.

  Bennigan walked across the room and stared down at the thing. “I think this is the murder weapon. All this time…it was in the house all this time.”

  Made Max wonder how hard Bennigan had searched—how much he’d cared about solving Stuttgardt’s murder.

  “There are more secrets in this house,” Sabrina said. She slid out from under Max’s arm and walked over to the clock, crouched down beside it.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  “Sorry to break it to you, but my fingerprints are all over this thing. When I thought Mr. King was a psycho killer, I lifted it up and planned to hit him with it if I had to.”

  Ann Newman gasped and the chief sighed heavily.

  “Sorry. I had no idea it was the murder weapon until after
I saw the blood.” She pointed at the face of the clock. Even from a few feet away, Max saw what she was talking about.

  “There’s something else you should know about this clock—something I was telling Mr. King when you all arrived.” She reached for one of the chains, lifted the weight and held it up for all of them to see. It spun around and caught the sunlight coming in through the window. When the light caught those flecks of gold on the tips of the pine cone, the whole thing glistened.

  Max got it instantly. “Gold.”

  “Yeah, I think it is,” she murmured. “Painted over to look like a regular clock weight.”

  Max stepped forward. “It’s not the only secret hidden in one of the clocks.” Quickly explaining what else he and Sabrina had discovered, he watched as every person in the room absorbed the news. The clocks in this house had kept their secret for five long years, but all was now revealed.

  Only one question remained: who had killed Wilhelm Stuttgardt to try to learn that secret?

  “So he was secretly buying up loose stones and gold, probably during all those trips to Europe he made, supposedly to buy Black Forest wood for the clocks,” Ann murmured. “Imagine.”

  “Man always was a miser,” Bennigan said. “Trusted nobody. I figure he liked keeping his riches right under his own roof, tucked safely away in those clocks he was so obsessed with.” He bent over the one on the floor. “I guess I’ll need to bag that as evidence. Should still be able to get something off it even with whatever prints you left on it, ma’am.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  They all looked over at the mayor, who stood quietly with Tom, her hands clenched in front of her.

  “Ann, don’t,” Tom said, putting his hand on her arm.

  “You’re going to find my fingerprints on it, Joe.”

  The chief stood immobile, his mouth opening, closing. Then he finally choked out, “Of course I will. You were his secretary. You were here all the time—hell, you found his body.”