Reed Ferguson 1-3

by Renee Pawlish

  “We’re looking for any signs of Frank Gray’s memorabilia collection.”

  I hurried to the window and lowered a set of blinds so no one could see in. There was nothing in the house to absorb the sound, so our voices echoed off the walls as we talked.

  “But the collection was sold.”

  “True, but I think there may be more hidden here,” I said.

  “Why?” Cal started opening the cupboards.

  “I doubt anyone would’ve missed anything so obvious,” I said as I watched him check the empty cabinets.

  “I’m thirsty,” Cal retorted. “I’m looking for a glass.” He pawed inside a cabinet.

  “Okay, Einstein, and if you find a glass, what are you going to drink?”

  Cal eyed me as if I were stupid. “Water,” he said, pointing at the sink.

  “The house has been empty for a long time. I doubt the water’s even on.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come on.”

  I smothered a laugh and walked into the living room. Nothing but bare white walls and well-worn tan carpet. A cursory examination of the rest of the main floor proved the same. Cal followed me around like a puppy, nervously biting his lip as he watched me.

  “There has to be more memorabilia here,” I said, strolling down a narrow hall from the bedrooms.

  “If you aren’t going to find stuff in the kitchen cabinets, what makes you think you’ll find it in the bedrooms?” Cal asked sarcastically.

  “I’m looking for a place to hide it, like behind a false door or something,” I said.

  “Why would it be in the house at all?”

  “Ned Healy’s notes about the Oscars matched with Henri’s notes.”

  “What?”

  “When I was at Ned’s house, I found a notepad in his office that had some random Oscar information scribbled on it,” I said as I opened the closet door in a small bedroom. “You know, just trivia things about the statuette, how much it weighs and stuff like that. I didn’t think too much about it at the time, but later I found the same Oscar description on some notes I saw at Henri’s shop.”

  “But what does that prove, other than that both men had researched how the Academy Award was made?”

  “Their descriptions both included the same errors!” I stopped and turned the light on him. “I didn’t even notice at first, but then I compared their descriptions to the official design of the Oscar. Ned and Henri’s descriptions of the Oscar design aren't correct.”

  “Maybe they both checked the same website for the information.” Cal held a hand up to block the light shining in his face.

  “I could see Ned doing that, but not Henri. This is his business, remember? Henri would know exactly how an Oscar statuette is designed.”

  Cal shrugged.

  “Don’t you see?” I couldn’t contain my excitement. “Henri said the fake Oscar that Frank Gray owned, the replica created to look like Barry Fitzgerald’s headless Oscar, had one small thing wrong with it. How could it be that both Ned and Henri had notes about an Oscar statuette with one item wrong in the design, and both of their notes describe the exact same anomaly? Because they were both looking at the same statue,” I said with emphasis. “And how did Ned even get his hands on it? Because he got it from Frank Gray’s collection.”

  “How?”

  “Everything points to this house. It’s too coincidental that Ned Healy, who seemingly had no interest in the movies and no money to buy expensive memorabilia, had what I think is an original Maltese Falcon poster, had notes about a fake Oscar in his office, and was also the real estate agent with a contract on a house that just happened to be owned by one of the premier collectors of Hollywood memorabilia.”

  For the first time I detected a knowing look on Cal’s face. What I’d been saying was finally making sense.

  I continued. “More stuff has to be here someplace, and I think that’s why Ned was killed. He found part of the collection in the house, and told someone else about it – someone who didn’t want to share the wealth with Ned.”

  “But why didn’t the family find the collection when Gray died?”

  “I called Edna Mills, Gray’s daughter, and she said her dad sold off everything before he died, and she doesn’t remember a headless Oscar being sold, or any Humphrey Bogart posters. But she admitted she didn’t know what all her dad had. If I’m right, there’s got to be more stuff around here somewhere that the family didn’t find when they cleared out the house.”

  “And you think the headless replica given to Gray is the same statue with the anomaly that Ned and Henri described?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But if Ned had the Oscar, how did Henri know about it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Ned showed it to Henri and then brought it back here. Maybe he didn’t take it from the house, but someone else did. Maybe he told Samantha about the stuff and she stole items from the collection. But I’ll never know if I’m right unless I can find out if there’s more of the collection here.”

  Cal stared at me for the longest time, then said, “You’re crazy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I stalked into the hallway and aimed the flashlight at the ceiling. “There’s an attic. Help me get up there.”

  Cal stooped down and locked his fingers together, forming a loop. I stepped into his cupped hands and he boosted me up with a grunt.

  “Hurry up,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I am.”

  I used one arm and balanced against the wall, and with the other popped the attic cover back. I clenched the light between my teeth and grabbed the framework with both hands. I hoisted myself up and Cal seized my legs, pushing me further up. Once my head and shoulders cleared the opening, I shined the light into the attic. I didn’t see anything but insulation and cobwebs.

  “Nothing,” I said, again holding onto the framework. Cal let go of my legs and I dropped to the floor.

  “Why not ask Edna to let you in?”

  I brushed dirt off my hands. “I tried that. I finally ’fessed up to who I was, but she didn’t believe me.”

  “The ace detective is foiled again,” Cal said. “Tune in next week for the exciting conclusion.”

  I glared at him. “She believed me when I said I was a detective. She just didn’t believe that there was more to her dad’s collection, and she wouldn’t agree to let me in the house.”

  “So you decided to throw caution out the door, ignore the law, and break into the house yourself.”

  “If Jack Healy could see me now,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I told him I wasn’t too hip on bending the law.”

  “No, but you’re okay with breaking it,” Cal chuckled. “But what if you don’t find anything?”

  “I don’t know.” A sinking feeling hit me in the gut. What if I was wrong? I dismissed the thought. “Let’s take a look downstairs.”

  I’d seen a door off the kitchen when we came in, so we traipsed back through the house and took the creaky wooden steps down to the basement. My pencil-thin flashlight created a tunnel of illumination in front of us, but outside its range was total blackness.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Cal said.

  The longer we were in the house, the more I had to agree. The silence was overpowering.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I turned left into a large family room. A built-in bookcase lined one wall, empty and coated with a layer of dust. As I panned the light around the room, I saw indentations in the carpet where a couch and a television stand had been.

  “Let’s see what else is here.” I started for a hallway at the end of the room.

  “What was that?” Cal suddenly whispered.

  I stopped short. “What?”

  “I thought I heard something.”

  We stood motionless, the flashlight cutting a swatch of light between us. I could barely make out Cal’s face. His eyes were open wide, and his lips were drawn in a tight line.

  �
��The flashlight!” Cal hissed.

  I switched it off. Darkness enveloped us.

  “I don’t hear anything,” I said after a minute, turning the flashlight back on. “It must’ve been a car.”

  Cal shrugged. “Must’ve been.”

  I moved down the hall. Cal shuffled along behind me, his breathing ragged.

  “Nothing but a laundry room and storage,” I said. I searched everywhere, but couldn’t find anything that seemed like a hiding place.

  A tinny melody suddenly interrupted the silence.

  “What the…” I leaped backward, slamming into an old washing machine. It clanked with a loud, hollow sound.

  “A phone,” Cal said, a second ring coming from inside his pants pocket.

  I shined the beam in his face. “Who the hell is calling you at this hour?”

  “How do you know it’s my cell phone?” he asked, oblivious to the ringing.

  “Because my ringer’s on mute,” I nearly yelled.

  “Oh.” He used one hand to block the light and checked the phone with the other. “Just a hacker buddy,” he said lightly, punching buttons. “I’ll shut it off for now.”

  “Good idea.” I glared at him.

  “Reed, let’s get out of here.” Cal edged back into the main room. “We’ve been here too long.”

  “Okay, I’m coming.” I wasn’t ready to give up. “The stuff has to be here someplace.”

  “Maybe you’re wrong.”

  We stood in the family room, watching as the flashlight illuminated bleak cement walls that had been painted white. In desperation I shined the light on the ceiling.

  “You know, there’s nothing wrong with the foundation. At least not that I can see,” I mused.

  “What?”

  “Garrett Owens was right. He got talked into making claims for needless repairs.” I gestured with the flashlight where the walls met the ceiling. “There aren’t any cracks in the foundation, or anywhere else.”

  Cal was over by the stairs, ready to go up. “Come on.”

  I moved the light around. “Wait a second.”

  “Reed.”

  “Hold on.” I approached the bookcases and paced back along the floor to the opposite wall.

  “What are you doing?”

  I turned around and surveyed the room. “It doesn’t add up.” Cal came back into the room. “The front of the house goes further than this.” I walked the space again. “This room is too narrow.”

  “A crawl space?” Cal hypothesized.

  I stared at him in the gloom. We both turned our attention to the wall with the bookcases.

  “It looks solid.” I tugged at the shelves.

  “Here, do this.” Cal began tapping on the wood. “See if it sounds hollow.”

  I watched him work the length of the wall, knocking every foot or so. Each tap sounded the same to me.

  “Well?” I asked when he finished.

  “I can’t tell,” he said sheepishly.

  “Keep looking.”

  We started at one end of the wall and meticulously surveyed every inch of the bookcases, searching for signs of hinges, a door, or a hidden latch, anything that would indicate there was a room on the other side.

  “Guess nothing’s there,” Cal said.

  “I must be wrong,” I finally admitted defeat. “It’s just that everything seemed to make sense.”

  Cal placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t give up, buddy. Maybe your theory’s right, but the stuff is somewhere else.”

  “Maybe.” I stared down at the floor.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  I turned to follow Cal and tripped on a piece of the carpet that lay unevenly. I landed on my knees and the flashlight went skittering across the floor. “Wow. Someone needs to stretch this better,” I grunted. I crawled to where the light lay in the corner. “Garrett Owens should’ve asked for a carpet allowance.”

  I picked up the flashlight and noticed that the edge of the carpet, right in the corner, was not tacked down well.

  “Wait a second.”

  I tugged at the carpet, pulling it back. Cal held it and I aimed the beam on the floor. The pool of light exposed a trap door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Bingo,” I said.

  Cal grinned. “Help me with this carpet,” he wheezed. “It’s getting heavy.”

  I set the flashlight down and we pulled the carpet away from the trap door.

  “It was well hidden,” I said, again shining the light on the door. An iron handle shaped like a ring, and large hinges, were both sunk into the wood so no indentation was created in the carpet. Unless you knew what to look for, or tripped on the carpet like I’d just done, you might never find the door.

  “Wonder what’s in there?” Cal mused. “Maybe a food cellar, with canned peaches and stuff like that. My grandmother had a cellar like that.”

  I stared at him in disbelief.

  “Don’t want you to get your hopes up,” Cal explained.

  “Only one way to find out,” I said.

  I fiddled with the handle until I could grasp it. I lifted the door, straining under its weight. “The whole thing must be made of iron,” I said with a gasp. I finally hoisted the door up. It fell open with a thud. I pointed the light into the opening and saw a wooden ladder. I stuck my head down. A short tunnel led to a dark door.

  “Spooky,” Cal said, peering over my shoulders. “You go down. I'll stay here.”

  “Right.” I swung a leg around and started gingerly down the ladder. “You wait here in the dark.”

  Cal's face turned pale. “On second thought, I’ll come with you.”

  “I thought you might,” I called up as I reached the bottom. I shined the light up so Cal could see. In less than five seconds, he was beside me.

  The tiny passageway, covered in pine planks, was barely wide enough for us to pass through. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, and a slight shift in the air indicated some kind of venting system. A heavy layer of dust covered the floor, but I could easily make out footprints.

  “Someone’s been in here recently,” I said, motioning at the disturbed area.

  I crossed to the door and pushed. It swung inward with a sigh, like it hated to be imposed upon.

  I stepped into the room and stopped in amazement.

  The room was the size of small bedroom, with all four walls and ceiling covered in light wood siding. Metals shelves leaned against two of the walls, and a third wall had a few wooden crates stacked on each other. A framed poster hung on the fourth wall.

  “Wow,” Cal said as he edged around me and gazed at the poster. Charlie Chaplin stared back at him, from City Lights, his feature length movie from 1931. “This is in beautiful shape.”

  I wasn’t looking at the poster. I was gawking at the shelves. Specifically at two gold statues that gleamed in the eerie glow of the flashlight.

  I picked one up and studied it.

  “Luise Rainer,” Cal read over my shoulder. “Best actress in a supporting role, 1937.”

  He gently lifted the other statue and blew dust off of it. “Man, these are heavy.”

  “Almost seven pounds,” I said. I stared at the Oscar. My mind whirled with all it was seeing.

  “Ray Milland. Best Actor in a lead role, 1945,” Cal said. He turned the statue around, examining every detail of it. “I can’t believe I’m touching an Oscar.”

  I set down the statue I held, drawn to boxes on the shelves. I popped the lid off one. Inside was a stack of 8x10 publicity stills for a number of actors. Each was in a protective cover, and most were signed. There was Greta Garbo, John Wayne, Grace Kelly, Frank Sinatra. The list went on and on.

  I pulled my camera from my pocket and began videoing the room. “No one will believe this.”

  I opened another box that had smaller lobby cards with everything from Judy Garland’s The Wizard of Oz to Public Enemy with James Cagney. A third box contained tins of movie reels. I read the label. In The P
ark.

  “If this is an original copy of the film, it’s priceless,” I gasped.

  “In The Park,” Cal said. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s one of Charlie Chaplin’s early movies, when he worked at Essaney Studios. It’s not like there are tons of copies lying around.”

  Cal cocked an eyebrow. “I see what you mean about it being priceless.”

  I lifted the lids off two other boxes. They were empty.

  “This is incredible,” I said. “There must be hundreds of items here.”

  Cal nodded.

  I filmed items on the other shelves. A number of screenplays sat in binders. I flipped open It Happened One Night. “This has notes in the margin. I wonder if it’s Clark Gable or Claudette Colbert’s handwriting?”

  “And they would be?” Cal looked at me to complete the sentence.

  ‘They starred in the movie.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wait.” I found a piece of paper inside that had a description of the script. “It says the writing is by Frank Capra, that it was his personal script.”

  “And he would be?”

  “The director.”

  “How do you know all that?” Cal, who knew almost everything about almost everything, didn’t know much about the movies.

  “Remember who you’re talking to,” I said.

  “Oh yeah. The movie buff. How has this stuff stayed in such good shape?” Cal asked. He stood back while I continued to flip through binders.

  “I don’t know. There must be some way that Gray kept this room temperature-controlled, although that film should be protected better than this. Who knows how long Frank had this stuff stashed away.” Some sort of environmental control would explain why the room didn’t have a dank, musty smell I would’ve expected from a sub-basement.

  “I’ll bet you’re right,” Cal said. “Ned found this little treasure trove and saw a way out of his financial troubles. But who else knew about it?”

  “I don’t know. Samantha, another friend, a realtor associate? Someone who got Ned out of the way, and has been coming in here and taking the stuff, then getting Henri to appraise and sell it.” I couldn’t believe the number of screenplays that were sitting on the shelves, many of them with scrawled notes by an actor or director. Frank Gray must’ve collected them for years, because I found scripts for movies from the ’30’s through the ’80’s.