“But maybe not your life. Anyway, blame it on me. I led you astray.”
His round, pleasant face hardened. “That will never happen. It’s on me.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake—”
The whoomph of the leaves put an end to the conversation. Seconds later, the nasty neighbors banged open their back door. He started yelling and swearing. She screamed long and loud.
“Call 911, you stupid woman,” he shouted.
The scream stopped abruptly.
Smiley said, “If we’re lucky, it will only take a couple of minutes for the first responders to get here. We might make it.”
“The waiting might kill me. I’m going to check and see if I can find where Karen hides her books. Maybe I can save the Hemingway and with any luck the Sayers.”
“Don’t be crazy! There’s no time for that. We need to stay by the window.”
“One minute,” I said, stumbling toward the far wall. I was pretty sure that’s where Karen hid her valuables. Her house was about to be engulfed, but if there was an opportunity to save her Hemingway and Vera’s Sayers books, I was going to take that minute to do it. There was no chance that reinforcements would arrive that fast. The light was still too dim to see well, but I felt around. Sure enough, there was a metal case tucked inside the huge old stockpot near the shelf where the matches had been.
Of course, the box was locked and I had no picks.
“Hurry up,” Tyler shouted, “or I’m going to drag you back.”
I was starting to push my luck. I grabbed the metal box and managed a stumbling return. Luckily, it wasn’t very heavy. Enough for about four books, I thought.
“I can’t believe you did that,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “If the house goes up, the floors are going to collapse and you need to be near a solid outside wall if you have any chance at all. You need to stay right here.”
A minute later the shriek of sirens cut through the air. We peered through the window as the first firefighters trooped down the driveway, clomping along with their heavy bunking pants and carrying the hose for the leaf fire.
Of course, with the neighbors bellowing and the thunk of boots, there was so much noise that no one heard us shouting for help. Through the racket we thought we could hear the angry neighbor giving the cops an earful and shrieking about where Karen could be found, as if poor Karen would ever do anything like this. I thought I heard a “calm down, ma’am.”
We kept shouting. My throat was beginning to hurt by the time two Grandville police officers started down the driveway.
Of course, we needed to snag the cops before they got to the back door. I teetered on the chair while Smiley on tiptoes was tall enough. We both hollered. I tried to grab at pant legs, but no success. “Help! Down here! Hurry!”
The pair turned and the closest got down on one knee and peered in. “Officer Tyler Dekker. Harrison Falls Police Force,” Smiley said. “My friend and I are trapped, locked in. The perpetrators set a fire on the second floor. Go through the back entrance and open the basement door on your left. It’s bolted on the outside. If you can’t find the key, the firefighters are going to need axes or the battering ram.”
The cop frowned. “I think I know you. Both of you. Wasn’t there some breaking-and-entering issue here in the spring?”
“A misunderstanding,” I said. “Maybe we can discuss it when we’re not locked in a burning building.”
Smiley added, “What she said.”
I wasn’t sure what they’d remembered about that encounter, but let’s just say this wasn’t the first time Smiley and I pulled a fast one on his colleagues. Job one was to get out of the basement. Job two would be avoiding charges about the Molotov business.
I said, “This house is ancient and it’s full of old paper. If it catches fire it will burn in seconds and the whole street will probably go up.”
Smiley said, “Tell fire. We could have a flashover situation here. Accelerants on a stove. Call gas and power and clear the area.”
The first officer headed for the back door. We heard him calling it in. At least he’d believed us. The second officer headed to talk to the firefighters. Next the sound of the glass in the back door splintering. The first officer came out again, moving quickly and gesturing to his partner. “I can smell smoke from the upstairs. We need to get them out.” The rest was lost in the confusion. Whatever it was, it worked. Two firefighters redeployed to our side of the driveway and lumbered for the back door.
“Hey! What the hell!” the nasty neighbor bellowed.
I clutched the metal box to my chest as we rushed over to the stairs. From behind the door at the top, we heard, “Stand well back!”
We stood at the foot of the stairs until the basement door was shattered with the axe.
“You first,” Smiley said, pushing me ahead.
Chapter Fifteen
I DIDN’T ARGUE. I scrambled up and out to the backyard. The smoke was acrid now, choking us even outside. Was it just the bag of leaves, now smoking and smoldering, or had the worst happened upstairs?
As smoke began billowing down the stairs, a firefighter, burly in his bunking gear, started to guide us away from the house.
“You’ll pay for this!” the neighbor shouted as we crossed the street.
Smiley walked back toward him. “Not as much as you’ll pay for refusing to call for help when people were trapped in a burning building. See you in court.”
All along the street, people were spilling out of their homes. Some stared. Some wept. Smiley returned and held me tight. I won’t lie. I liked the embrace. I don’t cry often, but as we stood and watched the Cozy Corpse go up in flames, my face was wet with tears. “Karen’s lost everything. Her home and her business.”
“You’re alive,” he whispered and tightened his hold on me. The box dug into my chest. “That’s what matters now.”
All I could concentrate on was Don’t kiss the cop. You cannot kiss the cop. Whatever you do, do not kiss the cop.
Kellys do not kiss cops. Nor do Binghams.
Ever. Under any circumstances. Even if they think this is their last day on earth.
I kissed the cop.
All those “don’t” thoughts flew away. Vanished. All I was thinking was . . . Well, I wasn’t thinking, really. Just folding into reassuring arms, soft lips, breathing in the dust from each other’s hair. Every rule was broken.
Was it the lure of the taboo that caused me to forget I’m allergic to the police?
I wasn’t sure when I became conscious of the TV truck and camera crew. But it wasn’t soon enough.
“It’s over,” he said.
I shook myself and pushed away. “But it’s not over. What am I doing? I have to go save Karen.”
“But Karen wasn’t home. She’s all right,” Smiley said.
“She’s not safe yet.”
“But you’re safe and you’re alive. Plus you’re not so bad for a woman who keeps almost getting me killed,” he added, holding me tighter.
“And you’re not so bad either. For a cop.” I sniffed and held him back.
We watched as the police officers slowly approached. Now we were out of the fire and back into the frying pan.
What was the matter with me? “There’s no time for making out. We have to stop Candy and Mason.” I pulled away just before the cops reached us.
“You’ve been traumatized,” Smiley answered, reasonably.
“They think she has the book and—”
“What?”
“They know she’s at Lucky’s place. We need to warn her before they find her.”
“These officers are going to want statements from us.”
“We can’t afford the time to be interviewed.”
“No choice. If we leave now, we’ll be suspects immediately.”
Even though I’ve done my best to stay on right side of the law, I found myself saying, “Maybe you can suggest that Candy must have thrown the Molotov cocktail.”
“I know there will probably be a price to be paid for doing that—although it saved our bacon—and maybe they’ll even lay charges, and I’m willing to pay the price, but right now, we need to find Karen.”
“There will be forensic evidence and we are going to tell the truth eventually.”
“Fine. You stay, explain everything to them and I’ll go find Karen.”
“You can’t. You need to give a statement.”
“I’m going.”
“We have to tell them what happened. Those perps took my weapon. I have to account for that. That’s more than just a little paperwork. The Burton police are going to insist on a debriefing.”
“You talk to the police. Tell them what happened. Make sure they get people over to Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques right away. Get a phone and let the Harrison Falls police know. Candy and Mason are going after Karen and Uncle Lucky. I have to stop them.” I sprinted away from him and toward the Saab. Luckily it hadn’t been blocked in by the fire equipment. And just as lucky, I had put my keys in my pocket instead of my purse. Smiley caught up to me. “We’ll send the Harrison Falls police. We just escaped with our lives. These people are just too dangerous. Wait for the cops. Wait a second, don’t go anywhere.” He turned to one of the uniformed officers who had helped us out and who seemed to be keeping a close eye on us. “Look, this officer is going to let you use his phone. You don’t need to leave. Call them. Tell them to be careful.” He must have been feeling his promising career vaporize.
My hands shook as I keyed in Uncle Lucky’s number. Straight to message. In Uncle Lucky’s case, that’s merely a beep. Uncle Mick didn’t answer either, and Karen’s cell phone was not available. I found myself hyperventilating. I tried the special number. No answer there either. By now, I was shaking all over. Smiley wrapped his arms around me once again. It helped but not enough.
From across the street we heard a series of long cracks and then there was a glowing wave of sparks and embers. The house began to collapse. The crowd gave a collective gasp and seemed to surge. That was such a bad idea. The police pushed them back. I thrust the officer’s phone back to Smiley and jumped in my car before Smiley could try to stop me. I tucked the metal box under the seat.
“And after you call your colleagues, please call Vera for me. Right away.”
“Call your boss?”
“I know you have her number. Tell her what’s happened. Tell her I am going to Uncle Mick’s and Uncle Lucky’s because they are in danger. Tell her to send her gardener over.”
“Her gardener? What—?”
“Trust me. She has to send the gardener. Has to. He’s very resourceful. And he will know where to go.” I didn’t mention that he was Uncle Kev. Even after our close encounter, I didn’t want Smiley knowing too much about Vera’s gardener, and I sure didn’t want Smiley making any connection with the crazy man who beaned him with the shovel. Kelly habits die hard.
“Call police. Call Vera. Get the gardener,” I said as I pulled away in the Saab.
“You can’t take on these killers on your own,” he yelled. “I don’t care about the rules. Aw hell. I’m coming.” Or at least he said something like that, carried away on the wind.
• • •
I BROKE EVERY speed law getting back to Harrison Falls. Near the shop, I saw the navy Tahoe and the silver Audi. My chest tightened at the sight. The cars were empty. Candy and Mason were already there. Was I too late to save Karen? And what about my uncles? They were very resourceful, but they wouldn’t have been expecting visitors with guns.
I parked in an out-of-the-way spot, raced toward the shop and slipped around the side to the back. The small shed near the rear door had always been my point of entry as a child. At last the secret parts of the Kelly quarters were going to pay off. I wasn’t quite as limber as I’d been in my teens, but I managed to climb on the portable storage bin and heave myself onto the shed and approach the window that opened into what had been my bedroom closet, now Uncle Kev’s bedroom closet. The window still opened easily. That was the whole idea. I slid into the closet, leaving it dark. I managed not to yelp with pain when I banged my shin on something on the floor. Uncle Kev’s beer cooler? Next I slid on a T-shirt and hit the wall. Thanks, Uncle Kev. Still hanging up your clothes on the floor at your age? I held my breath. Had anyone heard?
I took a few seconds to feel around in the drawer of the bedside table, in case Uncle Kev kept a spare burner phone there. That is another Kelly tradition. Sure enough, my hand closed around a small and most likely untraceable phone.
No one would call this phone, so that was good. Clutching it tightly, I tiptoed out into the hallway.
Everything was quiet, except for a sad snuffling sound that I took to be Walter. I would have expected a hum of printers as Uncle Mick worked on his latest scheme and whatever sounds Uncle Lucky would make on whatever his project was. But I heard nothing. Silence except for Walter. Sad little Walter sniffing and snuffling.
That didn’t make sense. There was no way Mick or Lucky would just leave their new object of adoration alone and neglected. Couldn’t happen. Not with that level of infatuation. Walter would have to have a dog sitter. Therefore, something was wrong. Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky were indisposed, as they used to say, mostly about colleagues who were doing hard time.
I stopped to listen again. Nothing except the sad snuffle and a sorrowful whine. I figured that was Cobain. I clicked a small lever and slid a section of wall outward. Pulling it closed behind me, I tiptoed down the hidden staircase. I hadn’t explored these special Kelly spots since my childhood. I used to enjoy the Nancy Drew feeling, but now I felt only fear for my uncles.
I keyed in Uncle Mick’s number and waited. The phone rang on and on and on. There was no way Uncle Mick would not answer the phone. Unless he couldn’t. Unless he was . . . I couldn’t let myself think about that. Next, I tried Uncle Lucky’s number. It too rang on and on.
Nothing could happen to my uncles. I couldn’t imagine life without them. I felt a wave of hatred for Candy. For her greed, her duplicity and her murderous tendencies. I had to put that bad emotion to work.
At the bottom of the staircase is a small peephole—charmingly disguised in a vintage clock on the kitchen side—where I used to peer at my uncles as a small child. Uncle Mick would always be trying variations on favorite foods, like fried Mars bars, which added to the fun. I felt tears sting my eyes as I tried to crouch low enough to see through the peephole.
Uncle Mick was sitting on the floor, feet straight out, silver duct tape on his mouth and securing his hands and feet. His ginger hair stood on end and his face was redder than the hair. I almost gasped out loud at the sight. That would have been a mistake because Candy was sprawled on one of the dinette chairs, a smirk on her face. The gun in her hand was pointed straight at Mick.
If she took her eye off him for a nanosecond, Mick would have sprung across the room at her. But she didn’t appear to be letting down her guard.
Where was Uncle Lucky? And Karen? Were they in Uncle Lucky’s rooms? Were they also prisoners? I had to find out. Carefully, I crept back upstairs, fighting the urge to cough from the dust in the staircase.
Candy would be listening, waiting for someone to come and rescue Mick.
Nancy Drew might have been jealous of the house with two hidden staircases. Even Agatha Christie might have been impressed. Dorothy L. Sayers was a bit more cerebral, but it was her books that had landed us in this predicament. If Karen hadn’t sold the Sayers firsts to Randolph, we’d be having a normal life at this point rather than facing death at the hands of a sociopath for hire. I tiptoed into the hallway, again closing the wall section, and into the linen closet. From there, another panel, and I began my descent down the second, even more rickety stairs to Lucky’s living room. His room also had a matching peephole, hidden in Uncle Lucky’s vintage seventies’ stereo system. I bent and peered out. I was startled to se
e that the sitting room had been moved around. The rug was rolled up and the furniture pulled to one side. A roll of duct-tape and the scissors sat on the coffee table. Karen was crouched on the floor. Even from where I was hiding, with my limited view through the peephole, I could tell she was shaking. Lucky strained his mighty arms against the duct tape. Normally, Lucky was the largest and mildest of my uncles. Tonight, I could feel his anger rolling off him in waves.
Karen whimpered, “I don’t remember. I keep telling you, I don’t remember things. I don’t remember being given books. We tried to find them but—”
A gruff voice said, “Shut up. I told you to shut up. When you’re ready to tell us, then you talk. You have ten minutes left or I shoot the hulk here.”
Who was she talking to? I couldn’t see anyone. Then Mason’s Blundstones came into view. Pacing. Nervous, unstable Mason.
By this time I had concluded that Candy—obviously the boss—was keeping Mick and Lucky separate, so they couldn’t communicate with each other or collaborate in an escape. A smart move on her part, but something that could work for me. I figured the nervously pacing Mason was the weak link, but on the downside, he had two prisoners instead of one.
While Mason was yelling at Karen, I knocked twice, softly, on the wall. Karen was sobbing, so Mason didn’t hear.
Uncle Lucky turned his head slowly to the stereo, and I saw the almost imperceptible nod. If I had a chance to tackle Mason, Lucky would be right there hurtling through the air.
I was now at the point where it didn’t matter if the cops burst in and found whatever project Mick and Lucky had going. It only mattered that they would live.
I knew if Karen did remember what she had done with the books, that would be the end of all three of them. After all that time, hoping and urging Karen to remember things, now I prayed she wouldn’t.
I crept back up the stairs and into the closet again. Smiley was without his cell phone, so I dialed Lance and asked him deal with the police. I kept it short. The less I spoke, the less likely that the two downstairs would hear me. I explained what was going on. “Let the police know that there are hostages and two armed criminals inside. One hostage is in the kitchen directly in back of the shop and two are in the room on the side. Karen is one of them. Tell them to be careful with her. No sirens. If Candy hears police, she could shoot them and run. I have to go.”
The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) Page 24