“And you said the name was Bob Daniel?”
“Yup. Thanks, Scott.” Firth hung up.
If Mike had gone to the police, and assuming the paint can was missing since Pate’s visit to the house which seemed most likely, Firth assumed that he would have brought his boyfriend with him. If he was gone and not expected back today, maybe he was headed to the Adirondacks to see Ann. To plan the blackmail scheme—blackmail also seemed the most likely explanation.
If Mike and Ann Kinnear were both at Ann’s house in the Adirondacks, and if Mike hadn’t gone to the police with the jewelry, assuming he had it, then there wouldn’t be much to link an unexplained death in Philadelphia with a double homicide hundreds of miles away in the Adirondacks.
Chapter 40
Biden took the most direct route to Ann’s house—up the New York Thruway—valuing speed over the ability to stay out of sight of the traffic cams. He found groups of fast-moving cars and stayed with them so he made good time without standing out. It was late afternoon when he reached Tupper Lake, the nearest town to Ann’s house.
At the same hardware store where he had bought the bolt cutter the week before, he bought a box of rat poison and, at a grocery store, a steak. In the parking lot of the grocery store he rubbed the rat poison into the meat then wrapped it in the plastic grocery bag, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. Then he drove back to the For Sale house on Loon Pond.
The house looked much as it had before, if a bit more neglected. It appeared that no one had discovered the replacement locks that Biden had put on the rowboat and the dock box and he was able to unlock them with the key he had kept. It was darker now than it had been the first time he had made the trip but he was able to count the docks until he got to the one he had seen the dog on. And there it was again, still not barking but wagging enthusiastically, glad to welcome a returning visitor.
Biden rowed closer, keeping an eye out for any sign of people. He got the steak out of the plastic bag and, rowing as close as he dared, tossed it onto the dock. The dog sniffed the meat, picked it up, and trotted up the path with it. Biden rowed away to wait for the poison to take effect.
*****
Beau made his way up the hill toward the cabin, carrying his prize. There was an odd bitterness about it but mainly there was the irresistible taste of bloody meat. Not warm—warm was better—but still good.
When he reached the cabin he took the meat to his place under the screen porch and settled in to enjoy his treat, a rising wind beginning to rattle the leaves around him. He had sunk his teeth into the meat when he heard two short whistles, one high, one low. Beau turned his head in the direction of the sound. He heard the signal again—it was the signal to “leave it”—and, reluctantly, he dropped the meat and trotted into the house.
Chapter 41
Mike stopped for dinner at an Italian restaurant not far from Saratoga Springs. Indecision was an emotion he didn’t have much experience with and he wasn’t enjoying it. He lingered over his second glass of mediocre wine, swirling it absently on the tabletop. When his coffee arrived he got out his phone and speed dialed Scott.
“Have you decided on a plan yet?” asked Scott.
“No. I’m stumped. I’m kind of sorry we got it.”
“No, it’s for the best, you’ll think of the right thing to do with it. You and Ann.”
“I hope so,” said Mike. “Hey, let’s agree that you didn’t know why I asked you to go back to the house for a lost St. Christopher’s medal, OK?”
“And in this new scenario, who unlocked the garage door?”
“I don’t know,” said Mike morosely.
“Don’t be melodramatic, we’ll figure it out,” said Scott. “Hey, you got a call from an old friend today. Not an old friend I’ve ever heard of,” he added peevishly.
“Who’s that?” asked Mike.
“Bob Daniel. He’s in town visiting his parents but I think he’s gone by now.”
“Who the hell is Bob Daniel?” asked Mike.
“How should I know, he’s your friend,” said Scott. “He left a number.”
Mike felt a squeeze of discomfort in his gut. He pulled a pen from his pocket and smoothed his cocktail napkin on the table. “What is it?”
Scott gave him the number.
“Let me try him now, maybe I can catch him before he leaves,” said Mike.
“OK, keep me up to date,” said Scott. “Love you.”
“Me too,” said Mike, and disconnected.
He dialed the number and after a few rings a woman answered. He could hear a baby crying in the background.
“Hello, is Bob there?” said Mike.
“Who?” said the woman.
“Bob Daniel. I was given this number for Bob Daniel.”
“No Bob here, wrong number,” said the woman, and hung up.
A sweat broke out on Mike’s forehead and he felt his heart begin to thump. He waved the waitress down and asked to get the check right away, then paid cash so he wouldn’t have to wait for a credit card to be processed. He walked quickly to the parking lot, pressing the speed dial for Ann as he went. The phone rang and rang and eventually he heard, “This is Ann’s voicemail, leave a message …”
Chapter 42
Biden pulled the boat up to the dock, keeping an eye out for the dog. He didn’t know how long rat poison would take to kill a dog that size but he guessed that at this point if the dog wasn’t actually dead it was at least incapacitated.
His steps on the dock sounded very loud, seeming to echo back from the tree-lined shores of the pond, but the wind was picking up—he was sure any noise he might make would be masked by the sighing of the wind through the treetops and the creak of the branches as they swayed.
Biden began climbing the log stairway up the hill and soon a two story cabin came into view among the trees—Biden could see lights on the first and second floors. As he watched, he saw a figure move past one of the first floor windows.
Biden fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the gun. He had originally thought that one of the benefits of its small size was that it would make less noise. Now, he realized, the amount of noise it made when he shot her was immaterial—with the dog gone he doubted there was another living soul within a half a mile.
*****
Ann heard the wind pick up. She checked the windows upstairs to make sure they were closed, but kept a couple of the first floor windows open to catch the breeze. She opened the door for Beau who came in, trotted down the hall, and flopped down on his bed in the sitting room.
Ann had decided to try a rather complex recipe for boeuf bourguignon and was fussing with the sauce. As she cooked, the wind continued to increase and when some papers began blowing off the dining room table she closed the first floor windows as well, keeping only the outside door open to catch the fresh air.
Ann took an experimental spoonful from the pot on the stove. She considered calling Mike to get a recommendation for what to add to make it more interesting, not to mention asking him when he was going to arrive—if he had left West Chester when he said he was going to, he should have arrived by now. There must be something to add to liven it up, she thought, and headed down to the basement pantry to assess the options, closing the door behind her so Beau wouldn’t follow her.
The wind lent unfamiliar creaks and groans to the cabin, so Ann didn’t hear the screen door open as Biden entered. In the sitting room Beau raised his head from the dog bed.
*****
Biden, holding the gun in a gloved hand, had expected to find Ann in the kitchen, and the bubbling pot on the stove supported that expectation. The sitting room area was dark but a light shone from the stairs to the second floor. Biden closed the door behind him and crossed the floor as quietly as possible.
*****
To Ann in the basement the footsteps were clear even over the noise of the storm. “It’s about time,” she muttered, and, putting a can of tomato paste back on the shelf, began climbing the basement stairs as sh
e heard footsteps above her climbing the stairs to the second floor. Her hand was on the doorknob when she hesitated. Had Mike ever come into the house without announcing himself, much less gone straight upstairs? Not that she could remember. Walt and Helen Federman would be even less likely to intrude in that way.
Feeling somewhat foolish, but thinking back on a couple of encounters she had had at the cabin with members of her “fan base,” she descended the stairs again—taking care to be quiet—and looked around the basement for something she could use as a weapon. Her eyes lit upon a large cast iron frying pan that Mike had given her several Christmases ago which she decided had two considerations to recommend it—it was extremely heavy and the handle would make it easy to swing, which would be useful if the person whose steps she had heard turned out to be an intruder, and it was legitimate dinner preparation equipment, which would be convenient if the person turned out to be Mike—no awkward questions to answer. She made her way up the basement steps again, pan in hand.
She listened at the door, unsure of where the other person was. Still upstairs? And where was Beau? As far as she could remember, he had been in his bed in the sitting room when she went to the basement. As that thought passed through her mind she heard the click of his toenails just on the other side of the door, but he passed on to the kitchen before she had a chance to open the door and pull him into the basement stairwell. From what she could tell, Beau stopped at the foot of the stairs to the second floor, then continued the circuit of the first floor back to the sitting room.
She heard her cell phone ring from its charger in the kitchen, then silence as voicemail picked up.
A moment later she heard steps coming down the stairway above her. She was sure it was a man and, she thought, someone heavier than Mike. The steps passed though the dining room and into the kitchen.
*****
Where was she? Maybe she was outside looking for the dog, but she would have needed a flashlight and he was quite sure he would have seen that. Biden glanced around the kitchen and started to turn toward the sitting room then turned back.
Stuck to the front of the refrigerator was a pencil drawing. He stepped closer to take a look and his stomach jolted as he recognized it—it was his garage. The doors, the workbench, the stairway, even the metal cabinet, it was all there. And in the center was Elizabeth, represented by only a few lines, but she was unmistakable. And she was pointing at the cabinet—pointing at the one thing that could tie him to her murder.
The psychic had done it. She had somehow found out about the jewelry—about the engagement ring that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to throw into the Schuylkill River, the ring that he was going to use to torment his father on his deathbed—and she had stolen it from his house. He snatched the picture from the refrigerator, scattering the magnets that had held it there (Ann, her ear pressed to the door, jumped as they clattered to the floor), and began crumpling it in one hand but then noticed the pot bubbling on the gas stove and had a better idea.
He would teach that bitch to invade a man’s home, he would burn her home to the ground—burn it to the ground with her body in it.
He held the edge of the paper to the gas flame until it caught then looked wildly around the room. The curtains, cute little gingham things at the window over the sink—too perfect. He held the burning paper to the cloth and they flared gratifyingly. The whole fucking building was wood, it would go up like a pile of kindling.
He dropped the still burning piece of paper to the floor and whirled back to the room, then he saw a door he had missed on his first circuit through the house, a faint spill of light coming from the gap at the bottom. The door to the basement. Now he knew where she was.
*****
Ann, crouched on the stairs, heard Biden’s steps cross the kitchen and then stop in the hallway just on the other side of the door. Her hand was on the doorknob but she snatched it away as she felt a hand grasp it on the other side and at that moment she heard the whistled command that instructed Beau to attack—the fast ascending whistle followed by five quick high whistles. And then she heard Beau’s paws scrabble on the sitting room floor as he launched himself at the attacker.
*****
Biden heard the noise too and spun toward the sitting room, firing down the hallway as a huge, shaggy dog appeared, leaping, out of the darkness.
Everything then seemed to happen at once. Ann threw open the door and stumbled out, gripping the handle of the frying pan in both hands. The room in which a minute ago she had been fussing over dinner and sipping wine was chaos. She had a confused impression of man and dog mixed together, Beau’s jaws clamped onto the intruder’s arm, the other arm, holding the gun, flailing for balance. The momentum of Beau’s leap had driven both dog and man into the kitchen and their figures were silhouetted against flames dancing at the window. Ann saw a smear of red on Beau’s fur and then the gun discharged again and Beau was on the ground, writhing. Ann raised the cast iron pan above her head and stepped into the chaos.
As Beau fell away from the intruder’s arm, Biden heard Ann and, turning, fired again. Ann felt a pain like a punch in her ribs but as she staggered she brought the pan down on the intruder’s arm and she heard the crack of bone breaking and the gun skittered across the floor. She drew the pan back again and, swinging it like a bat, connected with the side of the intruder’s head and he fell to the floor next to Beau.
Ann followed the sound the gun had made on the floor. Her fingers seemed to register every crack in the wooden floor boards and every piece of gritty dirt Beau had carried in on his paws, but no gun. And as hypersensitive as her sense of touch had become, her vision was fogging, registering only blocks of color and shape. She heard a gasping of breath but whether it was hers or the intruder’s she couldn’t tell. In a panic she dropped the pan and swept her arms across the floor and her wrist connected with metal. The gun slid again but she pounced on it. Fumbling it into her hand, she turned back to the intruder.
He was barely conscious, making motions to rise but lacking the force or coordination to do so. Ann looked down at her body and saw a red stain spreading slowly from under her right breast. Pressing her left hand over the wound, gun in her right hand, she crawled on her knees and elbows over to Beau.
Beau was on his side, panting, blood pooling on the floor from wounds in his chest and his neck. Ann put her hand on his head and Beau’s tail thumped once, twice on the floor. The panting grew quicker for a moment and then slower and then stopped altogether.
Ann pushed herself away from the dog’s body and collapsed against a kitchen cupboard. She could feel the blood pounding in her temples and seeping through her fingers—she could feel the heat of the flames above her head. The pain in her side screamed for her attention. She pointed the gun, wavering, at the intruder who was struggling to a sitting position. He tried to push himself up with his damaged arm and, with a strangled scream, fell back to the floor, his dark hair falling over his face. He tried again, seeming to be regaining some coordination, and managed to pull himself into a sitting position, propping himself against the wall on the other side of the kitchen, only a few feet from Ann. When he raised his eyes to her, she recognized the intruder as the client from Harvey Cedars.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped, through tears of pain and sorrow.
“How did you find it?” Biden snarled.
“Find what?” This man had wanted her to find a spirit in his beach house but she hadn’t—what was he talking about?
“Where is it?” The jewelry must be in her house, he should get it out before it burned.
“Where is what?” she wailed, then she saw the remains of her drawing smoldering on the floor. She brought her eyes back to the intruder, struggling to make some sense of ... anything. Her vision wavered—sometimes she could see the man she knew as Bob Dormand but sometimes he became lost in a sea of murkiness and pain. “Is it blue?”
Biden hauled himself to his feet. “It’s not blue, you s
tupid bitch, it’s an emerald,” he screamed. “I did it right. I did it right. Everything would be all right if it weren’t for a fucking psychic!” and he lurched toward Ann.
And as the darkness finally closed on her, she pulled the trigger.
*****
The quiet that fell was a startling blankness relieved only by the moan of the wind around the eves and the crackle of the flames above the prone bodies. The fire had reached the top of the curtains and was licking at the kitchen ceiling, a lazy dark smoke beginning to curl from the wooden beams. On the end of a beam above the window, a tiny flame sprouted, and then flared as it followed the line of caulk between the beams toward the center of the room. Shadows danced merrily on the walls.
Within the house, a puff of breeze blew, although the doors and windows were all closed. It swirled from the sitting room into the kitchen and stirred the fur on the dead dog’s back. Then it rose toward the ceiling and ruffled the flame which danced for a moment but then, rather than flaring, began to fade. The breeze became more concentrated, blowing opposite the path of the flames, pushing the fire back toward the window, the flame shrinking as it retreated. It reached the window and then, like a birthday candle, winked out, leaving only the wail of the wind to mourn the scene.
Chapter 43
Mike drummed his hands on his steering wheel for a minute and then redialed Ann’s number with the same effect.
“Fuck,” he said hoarsely, then looked up Joe Booth’s personal number in his phone’s contacts list and dialed.
“Hello,” said Joe. Mike could hear a ball game playing on a TV in the background.
“Hi, it’s Mike Kinnear.”
“Yes?” said Joe tiredly, obviously expecting another discussion about a search warrant.
The Sense of Death: An Ann Kinnear Suspense Novel (The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels Book 1) Page 23