Out of the Dying Pan

by Linda Reilly

  Talia stepped carefully over the cracked walkway leading to the sad-looking clapboard house. The narrow front porch sagged a little, and screamed for a fresh coat of paint. Painted a dull gray with a peeling charcoal trim, it bore the same tired look it had over thirty years ago.

  Praying someone would be home, she climbed the porch stairs and studied the two buzzers adjacent to the front door. The lower buzzer was labeled WANGER, and the upper one read KINSLEA.

  Ria and her mom had lived upstairs, so she pressed the upper button. A muted drone sounded in the distance, so the bell must be working. After three minutes or so when no one had answered, she pressed the buzzer again.

  Underneath her flared jacket she was wearing the wine-colored pantsuit she’d bought when she was still working in Boston. With her crisp white blouse and her favorite ladybug scarf tucked around her neck, she looked neat and professional—just in case she’d be invited to remove her jacket.

  When no one answered the buzzer after the third try, she blew out a disappointed sigh. She was about to press the lower button when she heard a key turn in the lock. The door slowly opened. An elderly woman, her gray hair pasted to her head with bobby pins, gaped at her through a pair of thick eyeglasses. Dressed in a ratty blue robe and sporting fuzzy slippers, she looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed. “What do you want?” she said in a scratchy voice.

  Talia pasted on a cheery smile. She’d practiced what she planned to say, but now it all seemed to have floated right out of her head. “Good morning, ma’am. My name is Talia Marby. I live here in Wrensdale. I own the deep-fry restaurant on the Wrensdale Arcade.”

  The woman frowned. “Never heard of it,” she said, starting to close the door.

  “Wait … please,” Talia said. “May I come in for a moment? I promise not to stay long.”

  Suspicion flared in the old woman’s faded blue eyes. She looked past Talia out to the street, as if expecting to see a windowless van ready to whisk her off to a waiting spaceship. In fact, with all those pin curls, she looked almost ready for outer space. “You from one of those religious cults?” she bleated.

  “No, not at all. I—”

  “Then I’ll say it again. What do you want?”

  “Are you Mrs. Kinslea?”

  The woman paused. “I might be.”

  This was not going to be easy. In truth, Talia didn’t blame the woman for being overly cautious. These days all sorts of lowlifes were out there preying on the elderly.

  Talia gave the woman a sheepish smile. “You see, about thirty years ago there was a family that lived here—a woman and her daughter. Their name was Butterforth.”

  “Means nothing to me,” the woman said.

  She obviously hadn’t been paying much attention to the news, Talia thought, but that was probably a good thing. “I spoke to Mrs. Butterforth recently, and she thinks her daughter might have hidden something in the apartment. Something that was very valuable to the family. Not in a monetary sense,” she added quickly, “but something that was deeply sentimental.”

  It was a huge exaggeration, but it was the only story Talia could come up with that wouldn’t raise too many questions. As it was, the woman was staring at her as if she had loose bolts rattling around in her head.

  The woman looked her up and down. “You want me to look for it?” she said, her horrified gaze cracking the wrinkles on her face.

  “No, no. Not at all,” Talia said. “This little girl, she used to hide things in her bedroom closet. Her mother thinks it might still be there. If I could just have a quick look around that particular closet, I’ll be out of your hair in a flash.”

  With a world-weary sigh, the woman opened the door. “All right. Go on upstairs,” she said, “and don’t touch anything till I get there. I’ve got nine-one-one on speed dial, so if you’re trying to pull a fast one I’ll have the cops here in a jiffy. Go on,” she added impatiently. “It’ll take me a few minutes to get back up there with these creaky old knees of mine.”

  Talia did as instructed, her shadow preceding her as she climbed the stairs quietly in her low-heeled pumps. The sole source of illumination was the weak lightbulb attached to the ceiling over the foot of the staircase. When she reached the apartment, the door to which was partway open, she waited in the narrow hallway. A strong scent wafted from the kitchen, a blend of boiled cauliflower and arthritis cream. She resisted the urge to cover her nose, smiling sweetly as Mrs. Kinslea finally made it to the top. The poor woman was wheezing as if she’d just climbed Mount Greylock.

  “Follow me,” she said. “I’ll give you three minutes, tops, and then you better skedaddle.”

  Three minutes wasn’t much, but if that’s all she had, she’d work with it. She remembered Anita telling her that she’d caught Ria coming out of her bedroom closet one day, a secretive look on her face. Anita claimed she later searched the closet and found nothing, but Talia wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d explored it herself.

  “It was that room,” Talia said, indicating the door to Ria’s old bedroom.

  With a nod, Mrs. Kinslea turned the knob and pushed open the door, sending a cloud of dust motes swirling through the room. Talia tried not to cough as she skimmed her gaze around the cluttered mess that greeted her. Ria’s former bedroom was freezing cold and full of junk—everything from old chairs and tables to a battered Royal typewriter with most of its keys missing. In her mind’s eye she saw the makeshift cage Ria had constructed for the rabbit. The little girl had cut up two big cardboard boxes and duct-taped them together, making a cozy little enclosure for her furry friend. The cage had sat right beneath the window, where the bunny could enjoy the summer breezes as well as an occasional swatch of sunlight.

  “I don’t use this room much,” Mrs. Kinslea said. “Only for storage.”

  No kidding.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” Talia promised, darting toward the closet. Inside, a row of heavy coats hung on the rack, above which was a wooden shelf packed with old-style hatboxes. Dozens of shoes were piled in a heap on the floor. The overpowering scent of mothballs made her eyes water, and she rubbed her lids with the back of her hand.

  Talia pulled out her ladybug keychain and flicked on the tiny flashlight. How could she do a decent search in three minutes? The closet was a mess! She prayed the woman wouldn’t actually time her while she was riffling through all this stuff.

  “Are all these clothes yours?” Talia asked her, glancing over the array of pastel-colored hatboxes.

  “You bet, missy. I was quite the fashion plate in my day, you know. Worked at the old England Brothers in Pittsfield for thirty-three years and got a discount on everything. After my Sammy died, I lugged these all these things with me from our place on Boylston Street in Pittsfield. Now that was a nice apartment,” she said sourly, as if Talia had been the one who’d forced her to move.

  Talia turned back to the task at hand. If everything in the closet belonged to Mrs. Kinslea, then Ria couldn’t have hidden anything in one of the hatboxes or in any of the boots or shoes. Talia flicked her light all around the closet, praying she’d spy an attic door cut into the ceiling, or a secret slot cut into a side wall.

  She heard Mrs. Kinslea’s plodding footsteps recede into the distance. Was she leaving so she could call the police? Talia had to move quickly.

  Of course, it would help if she were tall enough to search behind the shelf, but there was no way she could reach that far back. Did she dare ask Mrs. Kinslea if she could borrow a step stool?

  Aware of the imaginary clock ticking in her head, she decided against it. With a sigh of exasperation, she shone her penlight into every nook she could find.

  She suddenly felt like an idiot. Did she seriously think she was going to find anything? She was on a fool’s errand, without a clue where to begin. With a resigned sigh, she made one last sweep around the floor with her light. No, nothing in the corners, except—

  Wait a minute. What was behind the coats? She shoved aside a
bunch of the coats, her heartbeat going bonkers. Yes, it was a door! A trapdoor about four feet tall and maybe a yard wide, it was cut cleverly into the back of the closet so as to be nearly invisible. It had one of those flimsy latches consisting of nothing more than a curved hook fitted into a metal ring screwed into the wall.

  Pulse pounding, Talia dropped to her knees. She set her mini-light on the floor and crawled over the mound of shoes. A spiked heel jabbed into her shin, but she kept going until she could reach the latch. When her fingers found the metal hook, she lifted it. She pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Years of neglect and lack of use had no doubt made it stick in place.

  Talia looked around frantically. Any second now, Mrs. Kinslea would be trotting back in to announce that her time was up. Her gaze landed on a black boot with a Cuban heel, circa 1965. She grabbed it by the toe and smacked the heel against the door, over and over until she heard something give. This time when she pushed on the door, it opened.

  She snatched up her light again and shone it into a space so creepy it made shivers waltz up her arms. Cobwebs formed the primary décor, along with dust so thick it looked like a lamb’s wool coat. A spider the size of an orange scuttled away from her mini-beam, and she let out an involuntary squeal.

  From somewhere behind her she heard footsteps approaching, a bit more sprightly this time. She had to move fast. Blowing dust out of her face, she swept her beam all around. She didn’t see much other than a filthy, empty attic space. After three sweeps, her beam caught something. Tucked against the wall to her left was a cylinder of some sort. About ten inches tall, it was coated with so much dust and grime she couldn’t tell what it was. From the shape and size, though—

  “Miss, are you done in there? What was all that pounding?” Mrs. Kinslea’s screechy voice echoed through the closet. “I called my son, and he said I shouldn’t have let a stranger in the house. You have to leave right now.”

  “Coming!” Talia called. Gingerly, she reached for the cylinder, her pulse skipping when she recognized what it was—an old oatmeal box. She grabbed it and blew off as much dust as she could, sneezing twice as she backed out of the space.

  “My son says you have to go,” Mrs. Kinslea squawked, “or he’ll call the police.”

  “I’m coming, Mrs. Kinslea.” She sneezed again and pulled the trapdoor shut, latching it closed.

  Mrs. Kinslea gaped at the filthy oatmeal box. “How did you ever find that? I didn’t even know anything was back there.”

  Still holding the box, Talia got to her feet and brushed off her pants. “There’s a trapdoor at the back of the closet, but there was nothing behind it except a century’s worth of dust. And this.”

  Mrs. Kinslea stared at the box and frowned. “Is it filled with stolen goods or something?” Her gaze narrowed. “Are you a jewel thief?”

  “No, I’m not,” Talia assured her. “Do you have one of those plastic grocery bags I could use to put this in?”

  Her curiosity apparently trumping her fear that Talia was a criminal sort, Mrs. Kinslea picked up her pace and returned in less than a minute with a plastic Price Chopper bag. Talia slid the oatmeal box inside and then pried off the cover. To her amazement, it lifted with ease. Thank you, Quaker Oats, for making such a sturdy container. She peered inside.

  Mrs. Kinslea’s faded eyes lit up through her thick glasses. “What’s in there? Money?”

  Talia pulled out the contents, which consisted of several sheets of yellowed paper curled into a tube. Something else was down there, too, something covered in cellophane. A cigarette wrapper? Trying to keep her fingers from trembling, Talia gently unfolded the papers. The top sheet portrayed a childish sketch of an animal of some kind, drawn with a green colored pencil. Her pulse raced. She was anxious to look at all the drawings, but this wasn’t the place to do it.

  Mrs. Kinslea’s disappointment was evident in her scowl. “That’s what you came here for? Some kid’s scribblings?”

  Talia pasted on her best smile. “Yes, well, as I said, they have great sentimental value to her mother.”

  She had to get out of there. If the woman’s son really had called the police, she could get nailed. She could just imagine herself explaining this little intrusion to Detective Patti Prescott. Not.

  She dug into her purse and pulled out a gift certificate for two free fish and chips dinners, thanking the angels that she’d thought to bring it with her. “I’m sorry I troubled you, Mrs. Kinslea. Please accept this in return for my barging in on you like this. It’s good for two free dinners at my restaurant.”

  Mrs. Kinslea snatched it out of Talia’s hand, her mouth twisting as she studied it. “Fish, huh? Well, I do like fish, so long as it’s fresh. Maybe my son will take me over there for lunch one of these days.”

  “Our fish is very fresh,” Talia said, “and I hope to see you both soon.” She looped the grocery bag over her wrist and headed for the stairs. “It was nice meeting you, and I’m sorry for interrupting your morning!”

  Talia fled down the shadowy staircase and out the front door. She sucked in a cleansing breath, hoping her new scent would cover any lingering odor of mothballs. She hopped into her car and slammed the door shut, resting the grocery bag on her front seat.

  The quick glance she’d gotten of the one sketch told her she might have found something important. She desperately wanted to examine all the sketches, but Scott was meeting her at the eatery at eleven thirty. It was a few minutes before eleven. Plenty of time for her to get there, put on a pot of coffee, and go through at the box’s contents before he arrived.

  She started the car and was flicking on the heater when she spotted a dark green vehicle creeping into her side view mirror. Oh no, it looked like a pickup. Her stomach lurching, she locked her doors and shifted into Drive. She started to pull away when the pickup driver rolled down his passenger side window and waved frantically at her. “Talia, wait!”

  She looked over. When she saw who it was, bile rose in her throat. Andy Nash was signaling to her to roll down her window.

  “Andy, go away!” she said.

  He leaped out of his truck, and for a moment Talia thought he was going to block her path with his body. Instead he came over and knocked on the roof of her Fiat. “Please, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  She felt her entire body shaking. Andy was driving a dark pickup, the same kind of vehicle she and Kelsey had encountered a few nights ago in front of Anita’s condo. Was he the one who’d broken in and folded Ria’s nightdress over her pillow? The thought made her insides curdle.

  “I swear, Andy, I’ll call the police right now!” With a shaky hand she reached into her purse and dug around for her cell phone. Naturally it had journeyed to the molten core of the earth. It didn’t help that her fingers couldn’t stop trembling.

  “Oh God, Talia, please don’t call the cops. Just listen to me first, okay?” His glasses hanging crookedly from his ears, he gave her a wild look.

  No, she wouldn’t be tricked again into listening to another tale of woe from a man who might well have murdered Ria. The fact that he’d apparently followed her here like the stalker he was only added to her suspicions.

  Finally, her fingers found her cell phone. She snatched it out of her purse and held it up so Andy could see she was calling the police.

  His face red and stricken with terror, he raced around to the driver’s side of his pickup and tore off. At the next corner he made a hard right, and then roared off through the residential neighborhood at nearly warp speed.

  Her fingers freezing, Talia punched in Detective Prescott’s number. She groaned when the detective’s voice mail kicked in. Talia left her a detailed message, giving a recap of her encounter with Andy. She omitted the part about tricking an old woman into letting her search her closet—that would come later after Andy was behind bars. Unfortunately, in her haste to dig out her phone, she’d failed to notice the tag number on the pickup. Some detective she was.

  It was ten past
eleven when she got to the arcade. She made sure no one was following her before she parked in one of the diagonal parking slots on the street behind the plaza.

  More than ever, she wanted to examine Ria’s drawings. She was confident that before long the police would catch up with Andy. In the meantime, if anything in the oatmeal box pointed to his guilt, she wanted to figure out what it was.

  She hurried across the cobblestone plaza, anxious to get inside. It was the kind of December day she’d always loved in the Berkshires, when the air teased with a promise of snow and Wrensdale’s main drag boasted the same seasonal decorations it had for decades past. Today the arcade was quiet. Suzy’s bath shop was closed. The tea shop didn’t open until one on Sundays. Normally Talia would appreciate the lull and enjoy strolling over the cobblestone. Right now all she craved was the safety of her restaurant.

  Once inside, she instantly locked the door. The first thing she did was set the Price Chopper bag on the floor near one of the corner tables. With all that dust on the oatmeal box, she didn’t want to risk contaminating anything, nor did she want to attempt to wipe it. In case the police questioned where she’d gotten it, she wanted the dust from Mrs. Kinslea’s attic to remain exactly as it was.

  Rubbing the chill from her arms, she went over and turned up the thermostat. She shoved her purse under the counter. After that, she exchanged her pumps for her favorite polka-dot Keds and put on a pot of coffee. Martha’s scarf, she noticed, was hanging on the back of the kitchen door again. She must have forgotten it when she left yesterday.

  Talia pulled in a calming breath. In the scheme of things, it was minor irritation. Once they each had a locker, Martha’s scarf would be stashed away—out of sight, out of mind, out of olfactory range. The thought made her smile. The idea of renovating the kitchen was beginning to appeal to her more and more.

  The oatmeal box was calling to her, and she was itching to examine the contents. Scott was due in about ten minutes, assuming he was the punctual sort. Detective Prescott still hadn’t returned her call, but she was confident the detective had already listened to her message. Talia remembered her saying that she listened to her voice mail nearly twenty-four/seven. Had Prescott already put out an APB, or whatever it was called, on Andy Nash?