Alibi

by Kristin Butcher

  Alibi

  Kristin Butcher

  O R C A B O O K P U B L I S H E R S

  Copyright © 2014 Kristin Butcher

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Butcher, Kristin, author

  Alibi / Kristin Butcher.

  (Orca currents)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0767-9 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0768-6 (bound)

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0769-3 (pdf).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0770-9 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents

  PS8553.U6972A45 2014 jC813’.54 C2014-901590-9

  First published in the United States, 2014

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935393

  Summary: Christine wants to help her aunt by catching the thief

  who has been targeting a small tourist town.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  Author photo by Lisa Pederson Photography

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1

  For my River Writer cohorts—an indispensable posse of beta readers

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  Aunt Maude is standing on the station platform. Even though it’s been two years since I’ve seen her, she hasn’t changed a bit—except for her glasses. The hot-pink frames are new. She pushes them up the bridge of her nose, but right away they slide down again.

  I smile and wave from the bus. She grins and waves back.

  Already I’m excited. I have no idea what Aunt Maude has planned for us, but I know it will be good. It always is. Aunt Maude lives by a different set of rules than other adults. When I was nine, she took me to a horror movie and told my mom it was a Disney film. When I was eleven, she taught me to play poker—for money. On my thirteenth birthday, she took me makeup shopping and didn’t try to talk me out of purple lipstick and glittery black polish.

  Though I call her Aunt Maude, she’s actually my mom’s aunt. That makes her my great-aunt. And she really is. Great, I mean. Normally, I wouldn’t consider hanging out with a seventy-one-year-old lady for an afternoon, never mind a couple weeks of my summer vacation. But when Aunt Maude invited me to Witcombe for a visit, I jumped at the chance. Why wouldn’t I? I have more fun with her than I do with most of my friends.

  “Christine!” I’m barely off the bus when she swallows me in a fierce hug that takes my breath away.

  “Aunt Maude,” I gasp when she releases me. “It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, my girl. It’s been far too long.” She throws an arm around my shoulder and squeezes again. My bones fuse. Old ladies aren’t supposed to be that strong.

  “There’s my bag.” I squirm free and make a dive for it.

  “Just the one?” Aunt Maude says.

  “And my backpack,” I tell her, swinging it onto my shoulder.

  “Well, then, let’s be off.” She laughs and leads the way to the exit.

  Aunt Maude owns an antique shop in downtown Witcombe and lives in the apartment above it. Since it’s a sunny day and the shop is only a couple of blocks from the bus station, we walk.

  Though I’ve visited Witcombe before, I still gawk at everything like I’m a tourist. The town is caught in a time bubble. It’s barely changed at all in 150 years. Oh sure, there are roads and cars and electricity, but there are also wooden sidewalks, hitching posts and old storefronts. On Main Street there’s an ancient red telephone booth. And it works! The mailbox in front of the post office is old-fashioned too. Of course, there are restaurants, drugstores, banks and clothing stores like in big cities, but Witcombe businesses have to be one-of-a-kind. It’s a law. You won’t find any fast-food chains or big-box stores here.

  You’d think that might discourage visitors, but it doesn’t. The town buzzes with tourists all year long. There are cottagers in the summer and skiers in the winter.

  Aunt Maude has lived in Witcombe her whole life. As soon as we step out of the bus station, she waves to a man in a plaid shirt and a ballcap. “Afternoon, George. The pipes have quieted right down.”

  The man smiles. “Glad I could help.”

  “Plumber,” Aunt Maude tells me. “The hot-water pipes were rattling something fierce last week. In twenty minutes George had them hushed right up. He’s a genius with a wrench.” And then she greets the next person. It goes on like that the whole way to the antique shop.

  Aunt Maude fishes a key out of her pocket and sticks it into the lock. “Darn thing,” she fumes after fighting with it for several seconds. “It’s been giving me nothing but grief lately.”

  “Here. Let me try,” I say, taking the skeleton key from her. “This is pretty old, Aunt Maude. Maybe it’s time for a new lock.”

  She waves away my words. “Nonsense. The lock came with the door, and I don’t have any intention of replacing either of them.”

  “But it must be easy to pick. Aren’t you afraid of getting robbed?”

  “Why would I be? I’ve had this shop for over thirty-five years, and in all that time I’ve never had so much as a teaspoon go missing. Besides, if I can’t get the door open with the key, what makes you think a thief will have better luck without one?”

  I ignore the sarcasm and say, “On the bus I was listening to the news, and they said there have been a bunch of burglaries in the area.”

  Finally, the key twists in the lock. I hand it back to Aunt Maude.

  “That’s in other towns,” she says, turning the brass knob. “Not here in Witcombe.”

  I know better than to argue. Aunt Maude may be a free spirit, but she is also very stubborn. Pulling my suitcase behind me, I follow her inside and shut the door.

  “Do you want the sign flipped to OPEN?” I ask.

  “Yes, please,” she says. “It’s only 4:30. We have lots of time before we have to get ready for the tour.”

  “What tour?”

  Aunt Maude’s eyes suddenly look like they’re being held open with toothpicks, and her voice gets all spooky. “The ghost walk.”

  I feel my eyebrows shoot up. “What’s that?”

  She grins. “Something new—I think you’ll like it. The idea came to me last week. All day long tourists come into the shop, and while they’re browsing, I tell them stories about Witcombe. I tell them about Old Joe Miner, the legend of Wheaton’s Bridge, the mystery of the abandoned mill and all the other town stories. So I got to thinking, why not show people the places that go with the tales? It will be interesting for them and fun for me. Tonight is the first tour. You wouldn’t believe how many people have signed up.”

  “Ghost walk, huh? Sou
nds interesting. But are there really ghosts in Witcombe?”

  She shrugs and smiles mysteriously. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

  Chapter Two

  At 8:45 Aunt Maude and I climb the stairs of the gazebo in the park. There are already two people waiting, and Aunt Maude checks them off her list. During the next fifteen minutes, the rest of the tour group trickles in. By 9:00, there’s quite a gang—eleven, not counting Aunt Maude and me. Lucky thirteen, I think—perfect for a ghost walk.

  The sun has already slipped behind the mountains, and though the sky is still blue, the color is leaking out of it fast. Aunt Maude doesn’t waste any time getting started. She spreads her arms and twirls in the middle of the gazebo.

  “This gazebo, ladies and gentlemen, is the heart of Witcombe. It is the oldest structure in the town. It was the first structure to go up, even before the church or any of the houses. That’s right. The founders of the town—Bruno Wittier and Jeremiah Lancombe—lived out of the back of their wagons while they built this gazebo. Of course, the deck and roof have been replaced many times, and the gazebo’s had more coats of paint than people can count, but otherwise it’s the same as it ever was. The timber came from the trees in the area, and the gingerbread trim is all handmade.” She runs a hand down one of the columns. “That’s what I call craftsmanship.

  “While the rest of the town was being built, the gazebo was the center of things. That’s why it was made round. It symbolized the unbroken circle of community that Wittier and Lancombe wanted Witcombe to become. This was where people shared their suppers, held their first town meetings, celebrated holidays and campaigned for political office.” Aunt Maude smiles and sighs dreamily. “More than a few young ladies have received marriage proposals here too.”

  She leads us down the steps and around the side of the gazebo to a shiny metal plaque. “Witcombe Gazebo—erected in 1862 for the citizens of Witcombe, British Columbia. May friends and neighbors always find each other here.” She allows the words to sink in before continuing.

  “Imagine the tales this old gazebo could tell—the secrets it knows, the wishes it’s heard.” Her voice becomes quiet—almost a whisper. “It is said that at night when the town is asleep, the gazebo relives the past. Sometimes it’s a band concert. Sometimes a May Day picnic or a summer dance. It might merely be children playing hide-and-seek. Always happy times though. And if folks waken and hear the commotion, they fall back to sleep smiling.”

  “Oh, my. That sounds lovely,” says an elderly, white-haired woman beside me. I hadn’t noticed her until now—probably because she’s so short. She barely comes to my shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind being haunted like that,” she adds with a sigh.

  “Well then, we’ll have to keep our ears open tonight, sister,” says the woman standing beside her. “Maybe we could join the fun.”

  As everyone chuckles, I blink. It’s like I’m seeing double. The second old lady is exactly like the first, right down to the clothes, earrings and hairdo. These two women are absolutely identical. They even have the same wrinkles. I blink a couple more times. Maybe it’s my eyes. I glance around the group and then back to the old ladies. Nope. There’s only one of everybody else, and there are two of them.

  I must be wearing my confusion on my face, because the woman closest to me pats my arm. “It’s all right, dear. It happens all the time. We’re twins. We have been our whole lives.” She laughs at her own joke.

  Her sister clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “Oh, Agatha, you are such a kidder. Stop teasing the poor girl.” She sticks out her hand. “How do you do. I’m Hilary Spence. And this is my sister, Agatha. We’re on holiday. We’re staying in one of those lovely lakefront cottages on Cedar Road. This is such a beautiful area. I don’t know how we’ll get to see everything in the few days we have, but we’re certainly going to try. Isn’t that right, sister?”

  Agatha Spence nods and points to the group trailing after Aunt Maude. “It’s very nice to chat, Hilary, but we’re missing the tour. Come along.”

  An hour and a half into the ghost walk, Aunt Maude is still going strong. She knows exactly how to play her audience, amping up her stories to keep pace with the growing darkness. Cloaked in shadows cast by the antique streetlights, Witcombe is now eerie, and the group creeps forward in a nervous knot.

  “Greeley House is our last stop,” Aunt Maude announces as we start up a treed lane. “Or Greedy House, as it’s known by the locals.”

  Though the street is well lit, the trees contort the light into unsettling shapes that follow us up the road. It’s like we’re being stalked. At a pair of rusted wrought-iron gates, we stop.

  “This is Greeley House,” Aunt Maude says.

  As one, we turn and look past the padlocked gates. The yard is overgrown with tall grass and unkempt shrubs. Beyond is a two-story mansion, equally unkempt. Moss has taken over the roof, and ivy has claimed the walls. The stairs to the front door are caved in with rot, and the windows are boarded up. The place looks like a teardown to me, but I can tell it was once a beautiful home.

  “This house was built in 1922 by Simon Greeley. His father, Fred Greeley, was the town butcher. A kinder, more generous soul you could never hope to meet. Fred was exactly the sort of citizen Lancombe and Wittier had hoped would populate Witcombe. When he died, everyone thought his son would take over his butcher shop, but Simon had no desire to follow in his father’s footsteps. Simon sold the business and invested the money in the stock market. It was a foolish thing to do, but even fools get lucky sometimes, and Simon made millions from his investments.

  “People expected he would take his money to the big city, but he surprised them again. Instead, he set out to buy Witcombe. He opened a savings and loan, offering incentives to lure customers away from the competition. Eventually, the other financial institution closed its doors, leaving only Simon’s bank. The residents of Witcombe were at his mercy—except he had none. People took loans and mortgages at rates they couldn’t repay, and as a result, they lost everything. The bank foreclosed on dozens of loans. Homeowners became renters. Businessmen became employees. And they all answered to Simon Greeley.

  “Greeley House was Simon’s pièce de résistance. It was his castle. His way of showing that he’d become king.”

  “So what happened?”

  “In 1929 the stock market crashed,” Aunt Maude replies. “Simon lost everything, and one night, in a drunken stupor, he fell down the stairs of his castle and died. The town took over the house for unpaid taxes. No one wanted to buy it, so they locked the gates and walked away. As you can see, the place is decaying. One day it will just fall down.”

  “Are there ghosts in it?” a woman asks.

  Aunt Maude shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised. From the stories I’ve heard, Simon Greeley would never have left his house. But nobody’s been inside for over seventy-five years, so…” She shrugs and leaves her sentence hanging.

  “If the town is waiting for it to collapse, why are the grounds lit up?”

  I’m surprised—not by the question, but by the guy who asked it. He can’t be more than a couple of years older than I am, and he’s gorgeous. How did I not notice him before now? I do a quick head count. There are now fourteen of us.

  “It’s a reminder of the evils of greed,” Aunt Maude says. “Witcombe almost came to ruin at Simon Greeley’s hands. We don’t want that to happen again.”

  “Speaking of greed,” he says, “I just heard on the radio that there’s been another robbery. Kaleden this time. Two customers in a convenience store had their pockets picked.”

  “The thief is getting closer,” I say.

  One of the Spence sisters gasps, though I have no idea which one. They should wear name tags. “That’s terrible,” she says. “Is no place safe? When did this happen?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  That does it. Ghost walk forgotten, people start talking over one another about the ongoing spree of robberies. I glance around
for the guy who gave us the news, but he’s vanished.

  And then I see him—at least, I think I do—beyond the tour group and padlocked gates, at the back of the mansion. But I can’t be sure. In the time it takes me to blink, he disappears behind the house.

  Chapter Three

  I peer over my shoulder before slipping around the corner into Greeley Lane. There’s that name again. I haven’t even set foot on Simon Greeley’s property yet, and already I feel like I’m trespassing. The morning is swimming in sunshine, but the street feels as eerie as it did last night.

  I told Aunt Maude I was going for a run before the day got too warm. I didn’t, however, tell her where I planned to run. I also didn’t tell her about the guy I saw sneaking around the back of the Greeley mansion. Not that I won’t tell her. But I want to check things out first.

  The situation is more than a little suspicious. The condemned house is surrounded by a wrought-iron fence that’s clearly intended to keep people out. But this guy went through it like a hot knife through butter. He obviously knows his way around. How is that possible? He’s not a local. Aunt Maude said she didn’t know him.

  I think maybe he’s the thief, and he’s hiding out in the mansion. Kaleden is only a forty-five-minute drive from Witcombe. According to the news report, the robberies at the convenience store happened around nine o’clock. That would give the thief plenty of time to get back here to join the tour. No one in the group saw him arrive, so he could claim he’d been with us all along. It was an instant alibi.

  I move cautiously up the road, half expecting bad guys to leap out from behind every tree. Talk about an overactive imagination.

  When I reach the front of the house, I’m less than impressed. Cloaked in night shadows, the mansion was imposing and foreboding. Now, in the light of day, it’s just tired and dilapidated. If I sneezed in its direction, it would probably fall down.

  I grab the iron bars with both hands and shake them. They don’t shake. There’s not even a quiver. The fence may be nearly a hundred years old, but it’s rock solid.