Drowning Pool (Miss Henry Mysteries)

by Melanie Jackson

  “And you, Miss Henry?” von Hayek asked. “Are you also nostalgic for the days of high art?”

  “Oddly enough, no. Though I love the art and architecture from the Renaissance. But I have never longed to relive the past. Mine or anyone else’s,” Juliet said, reaching for a cherry from the ceramic bowl that had been placed in front of her. “For many people, it is all they live for. But, for me, the past has always been more of a burden than a blessing. And with the future uncertain, I enjoy living in the now. Especially when there are cherries. These are fabulous.”

  Juliet smiled fleetingly at von Hayek and then glanced down the table. Raphael met her gaze. His eyes softened though his brow was raised, perhaps asking what she was talking about with her host and if she needed help.

  Juliet smiled reassurance. It was the last course. She would be able to escape soon and begin lighting candles and saying prayers that the poza would hold the answers to her dilemma. It irked her to think of returning home without any news of the roundel.

  Chapter 11

  It began to rain right after dinner. There was no wind, and the lightning was some distance away though vivid enough to stamp the afterimage on her retina when she looked right at it.

  “Swell,” she muttered and continued to change into her cat-burglar clothes.

  Nature’s nachtmusik was all that was needed to make her evening prowl truly hideous. Though, it did offer the benefit of likely keeping the guards and assorted other predators indoors. The only thing that would enjoy being out in the storm was Frankenstein’s monster and she didn’t fear him.

  As violent as the outburst was, the rain departed just as swiftly, carted off by the fast-moving clouds. By the time she had dressed and her tool belt in place, moonlight bathed the wet terrain beyond her window.

  That was also lucky. She might not need to use her flashlight. The grounds near the house were lit up like Disneyland but the interior courtyards were dark and would be impossible to navigate without moonlight.

  Juliet tapped on Raphael’s door.

  “Come in.”

  She opened the door and stuck her head in. Raphael looked up from the book he was reading.

  “I’m off. I don’t expect to be more than an hour since I know where I am going and the lock is an easy one.”

  “You brought your tools?” he asked in surprise.

  “Yes. But just in case I am stopping by the garage for a couple extra things. Like a crowbar. Don’t worry. I have no intention of forcing myself in anywhere that someone has made a real effort to discourage visitation. But a crowbar makes for a good weapon against both man and beast. Just in case.”

  “Take your cell. Just in case.”

  “I have it and you are on speed-dial.”

  “Juliet, are you nervous?” The dark eyes studied her.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Our host has been nothing but pleasant, however….”

  “However he probably has his limits. I understand. Truly. I’m just kind of over a barrel here and running out of time.”

  “I know.”

  Juliet blew him a kiss with a lightheartedness she didn’t feel and then headed for the garage.

  As she had hoped the staff was busy in the kitchen with after-dinner chores and there were no guards in the rooms near the garage. There was a poker game in progress on the other side of the limo as she slowly stuck her head out the door, but they were very wrapped up in the game and she was able to get to the tool bench and help herself to a spanner without being seen.

  The raindrops glittered on the wisteria vine and drooled on her as she pushed her way through it. She kept sniffing, hoping to smell if someone were taking a smoke break, but the garden with the metal chair was empty. Apparently the need to get high was not strong enough to encourage lingering in the wet garden where all the bushes were rustling, probably with unhappy lizards and rats.

  Somewhere high up in the vines, a confused bird began to sing, a great waterfall of an aria that seemed louder than the baying of hounds. Juliet tried to console herself that it would suggest to anyone who was passing that the courtyard was empty since the birds were usually very shy in human company.

  The broken fountain had some water in it, but it was full of flotsam that broke the moonbeams that touched the littered surface. Something was swimming around in the water. Juliet was usually compassionate, but not being able to tell what was thrashing in the debris, she limited herself to putting a long stick in the water so the creature could climb out when it wanted.

  The burning, slightly skunky smell she was sniffing for finally reached Juliet as she approached the gate that led into the first abandoned garden. She approached with caution, staying in the shadows that the security lights missed. She peered through the curtain of mandevilla and saw two men sharing a joint. Their posture was sloppy and their rifles were leaned against a listing bench. From the look of them, they were well under the influence of their favorite succubus and would not be inclined to investigate strange sounds in a garden that was rife with them and full of rats and snakes and stinging scorpions.

  Her Spanish was sketchy and they spoke with an accent she was unfamiliar with, but she gathered that Klaus von Hayek was not well. It also seemed that while Henrik was being dutiful, he was also very tired of doing what Klaus wanted. The men hoped that Klaus would live a while yet since it seemed that Henrik was not as security conscious as his father, and they liked the easy work and good wages that Klaus von Hayek paid.

  So the rank and file knew that there was tension between father and son, especially over money. Maintaining a private army would be expensive even for a man who considered possessing Donatello roundels among the necessities of life. Especially if one were still actively acquiring roundels and other treasures.

  The talked changed to talk of Carla, a maid with astonishing assets, and Juliet merged with the next shadow and moved on.

  It seemed an eternity, but eventually she reached her locked door. She paused there to listen for any sound that suggested another human was near but heard nothing but the slow drip of water and the rustle of the nocturnal prowlers.

  The average, law-abiding rationalist is at a distinct disadvantage when tasteless—and even criminal—activity is called for. Juliet, having been deputized by the NSA and also being a pragmatist by nature, did not flinch at a little lock-picking.

  But the setting was eerie and the situation potentially dangerous, and this made her something more than just nervous. She didn’t expect to meet up with Smoking Mirror or any other supernatural beastie featured in the local legends, but there were men with guns aplenty and spiders. She didn’t like spiders.

  Juliet got out her picks and an unusually heavy nail file that was made of steel. It wasn’t one she used on her nails since it could cut through heavy screws. She clasped her small flashlight in her teeth and set to work on the door. She worked very carefully, looking for signs of an alarm, but she saw nothing to suggest that the entry was being monitored electronically.

  Her jaws were cramping by the time she was done with the stubborn lock. Though she was half expecting the hinges to shriek when the door was thrust open, they were silent. The sagging gate did drag on the ground though, perhaps because it was slightly swollen with rain water, and the noise seemed dangerously loud. However, it did not bring men with guns. The only change was that the stealthy rustling in the bushes paused for a ten count before resuming in a slightly restrained manner.

  The camouflage netting was stretched overhead blocking out some of the moonlight. It was not a shock to discover marijuana bushes growing beneath it. There weren’t enough plants for this to be a commercial effort so Juliet assumed it was someone’s pleasure garden. The plants were well spaced in proper rows and she was able to move through them without causing damage. Beyond the bushy plants was another wall with another door. This was also locked.

  Juliet put her flashlight back in her mouth, commanded her jaws to stop complaining, and began working on t
he next lock. This one was stiffer and had partially rusted. She began to wish that she had grabbed some lubricant while in the garage.

  The hinges were also louder than the first door and she moved very slowly as she opened the heavy, warped gate. She was entering the area that had had its other entry bricked up, so Juliet was braced for anything from tigers to Aztecan sacrificial altars.

  She was spared man-eating animals. There were tall dead weeds that were shoved over and ground down beneath the heavy door. They crackled as she walked on them. She didn’t need more proof that the door hadn’t been opened for a long time, at least a growing season.

  Past the weeds, she could see that the tiny courtyard was filled with tombstones. Not many of them, but none had names and they were simple crosses made of wood. There was no sign of flowers or other offerings on the graves. Juliet skirted the edges of the courtyard. She was not superstitious but she had no desire to walk on the bare burial places. They looked too new, too raw, because the oblongs in the disturbed earth had never healed or bandaged over with grass. The outline of every plot was as clear as if they had been dug yesterday, though the presence of dead, cobwebbed weeds said it was otherwise. The dead had been there for at least one season.

  Could this be buried treasure and not human graves? But why the crosses? And why make access so difficult? Wouldn’t von Hayek want to see his precious collection without undue effort? And it would become known if there was treasure there, after all he wouldn’t be digging it up himself and even well-paid men would talk.

  But if not buried treasure then what?

  “Oh.”

  It might have been a pet cemetery, and Juliet would have accepted that, except that in the part of the camouflaged netting that had sagged to the floor was a skeleton. Its hands, minus a few finger bones, were bound at the wrists and clasping the filthy mesh, and the skull was turned upward as though screaming at the moon. Not that the moon would have heard the death cries. The dead man was wearing a gag around what was left of his sagging jaw.

  Someone had been locked in the garden and couldn’t get out.

  Juliet shuddered and then shuddered again, feeling suddenly chilled. The death couldn’t have been an accident, not with a gag and restraints.

  The walls of the courtyard were not that high and Juliet wondered why the dead man hadn’t attempted to climb them. Or had he? Was that why the netting was partially torn down?

  Forcing herself to be cold and analytical, she shone the light at the skeleton’s legs. They were badly twisted in directions legs were not supposed to point, suggesting that they were broken. The pants of the uniform were intact, so the bones had not been disarranged by a large scavenger looking for a meal. She did not recognize the uniform, and it had been stripped of all insignia except the black stripe down the side of the gray trousers.

  Had the damage happened in a fall? Or had someone been left there to die with legs already broken? Who had he been? A guard who asked for a raise? A policeman who got too interested in von Hayek’s affairs? A treasure hunter whose adventure went far wrong?

  This was potential trouble for everyone. Juliet did not want to push the von Hayeks into a corner, and this discovery would surely cause them displeasure and alarm if they were aware of what she had found. Marijuana was one thing—dead bodies were another matter. Nor did she want to supply the NSA with potential red meat if they had had an operative disappear down there at any time. It was better—safer—to pretend that she had found nothing. A part of her felt that she should use her phone to take a picture—to somehow preserve the fact of this death for later, but it was simply too dangerous.

  Juliet shone her light around the small enclosure and then departed as quickly as she could. Enough was enough. She had had to look in case the roundel was being stored there, but a last, quick glance was all she was going to give the awful graveyard. She didn’t have a shovel and wouldn’t dare disturb the ground anyway in case it was noticed. Or booby-trapped. She could thank Raphael for that grisly idea.

  She should probably search the damp uniform for some kind of identification, but she hadn’t the nerve for it and the same objections applied. Chances were good that since either the victim or the killer had taken the time to remove all markings from the clothing that identification had not been left behind.

  And what would she do even if she knew the dead man’s name? There was no one to tell.

  “I’m done,” she whispered to David Merton.

  It was all Juliet could do to work the obstinate lock back into place. She was shaking by then. Juliet told herself it was just the wet and cold, but that was a lie. The night was balmy. She was shivering with fear.

  It was one thing to suspect that her hosts were ruthless killers—or the kind who hired ruthless killers—and another thing to know it.

  Chapter 12

  Naturally there were guards having a smoke break in the courtyard when she returned to the castle. Fortunately the odor was heavy on the damp air and she was warned before walking into them.

  Juliet weighed the merits of getting out of the damp by way of one of the rotting staircases, or the risk of a chill if she remained on terra firma while the guards fed their addiction. After a moment’s consideration, solid but damp ground won out over stairs that were decidedly infirma. But the postponement of her return was difficult and tensions made her muscles stiffen while she waited for them to stop sucking on their home-rolled cigarettes.

  She kept her back turned to the lily painting on the far wall while she waited. A trick of the moonlight had made it stand out in a vivid and eerie way. Instead she meditated on the idea that she was actually warmer than the air around her and therefore in reality more comfortable than anything else in the garden.

  Eventually the guards were high enough to continue their rounds. Juliet gave them thirty seconds’ head start and then forced herself to stop imitating a turtle and to get on her way. She moved warily. If two guards were out, there could well be others, and the closer she got to the castle, the fewer pools of concealing shadow there were to hide in. Her discovery would matter less if she were found in the kitchen gardens, but it was awfully late to be using excuses of listening to birds or an evening constitutional to explain why she was wondering around with lock picks, flashing, and a crowbar while dressed as a cat burglar.

  Juliet made it to the garage and returned her borrowed spanner. She was careful to wipe her shoes before entering the castle so she would not track mud inside. There was no need to leave an obvious trail. She entered the house the way she had left it, but found the place a good deal more active than it had been an hour before. Perhaps it was a shift change, but it could equally mean that something had happened to rouse the household.

  Heavy footsteps approached the corridor to the kitchen. Though she hated deviating from known routes, she took an unfamiliar staircase upstairs. All she wanted was to change into dry clothes and hide in bed until morning.

  Unfortunately, one of the guards followed her up the narrow stair. He was too close behind her for her to run.

  Smothering curses, she reached the next floor and looked for a place to hide. There was nowhere large enough to conceal a person and only one door on that long stretch of straight corridor. It was a huge one, heavily carved and probably stolen from a cathedral somewhere.

  She didn’t see any light under the door, but the carpet was thick and she couldn’t be sure that there wasn’t someone awake behind the carved panel. However, as the saying went, needs must when the devil drives.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed down the door latch and stepped inside the unlocked room. And nearly tripped over a woman in a white uniform who was dozing just inside the door.

  The nurse blinked herself awake and got to her feet. She blocked a shocked Juliet’s way into the room beyond, but a creaky voice demanded in German that Juliet be allowed to enter.

  Juliet shut the door behind her, hoping the guard hadn’t noticed her and the arguing nurse.

&nbs
p; “You are one of the artists, aren’t you?” the wavering voice asked in German. “Come here, woman. In the light where I can see you.”

  Juliet had a working command of the German language and decided that this might be a good time to obey. Bracing herself, she stepped around the nurse and stepped into what had to be the castle’s solar. That wasn’t surprising. No doubt von Hayek saw himself as a lord and demanded suitable chambers.

  The nurse hovered at the bedroom’s entry but did not follow, either because of orders or perhaps because of the heat. The room Juliet entered was hot, starved of oxygen that had not already passed through diseased lungs or been eaten by the blaze on the giant hearth. What little air she could pull into her chest was grudging and smelled of old age. She hoped that she wouldn’t faint. If she fell to the floor she would likely die from asphyxia.

  Klaus von Hayek was old. Seen by firelight, it seemed it was a face that was shrinking in, all the features drawn to the center of the wrinkled skin. The only exceptions were the wattles in his neck where his spare flesh was seeping away like a candle’s spent wax. The eyes were bandaged with cataract and would not see her well no matter how bright the light. He looked like a mummy wrapped in a Chinese emperor’s gown.

  She took a seat in the straight-back wooden chair he indicated with a spasmodic twitch of his veined hand. It was not comfortable and she had a feeling that this was deliberate. She pulled it a little way back from the giant fire which had made the wood of the chair feel dangerously hot. The giant clock on the far wall said it was nearly two in the morning. She needed to get back to her room and reassure Raphael that she was well.

  The wrinkled head turned her way.

  “You look like a painter,” he said abruptly. His voice was weak but his will was not.

  “I am,” she admitted. Her clothes began to steam and she hoped he wouldn’t ask what she had been doing to get so wet.