by Leslie Nagel
At the mention of Calvin’s name, Millie’s expression darkened. “He didn’t believe me either.”
“Well, it’s a pretty fantastic story. How can you be sure the will exists?”
“Gussie told me so,” Millie said mulishly, jerking her hand free. “She wouldn’t lie. Not to me.”
Charley and Frankie exchanged excited glances. “Did she tell you where it was?”
“Not exactly.” Millie calmed a bit. “Gussie didn’t trust anybody. Only me. She knew that daughter of hers would destroy it if she got her mitts on it first.” She drained her mug. “So she hid it.”
Charley nodded. “In a book, right? Did she tell you which one?”
“That would be too easy,” Millie said sarcastically. “She gave me one clue.”
“A clue?” Frankie exclaimed. Her wide blue eyes sparkled with anticipation. “You mean, like a riddle?”
Charley recalled what her father had said about Augusta’s penchant for puzzles, and her pulse picked up speed. “Millie, what was the clue?” When the old woman remained silent, Charley said firmly, “You need help, and you know it. The house has been emptied, and if we don’t find that will, Holland’s going to have it demolished in a matter of days. I know I bought some of the contents, but I’m beginning to wonder if that wasn’t a mistake.”
Millie stared at her with suspicion. After a long, hostile silence, she seemed to reach a decision. “I told the daughter—not that she believed me—so I might as well tell you. ‘Read between the lines,’ Gussie said, and that was all she’d say.”
So Holland had talked to Millie. No surprise that she’d dismissed Millie’s so-called evidence. Charley’s own hopes deflated. “Talk about a needle in a haystack. But it explains why you kept searching through books whenever you could.”
“For all the good it did. Everything’s gone now. It’s too late.” Millie’s voice turned peevish. “It’s all Gussie’s fault, everything that’s happened. Why couldn’t that stubborn old cow just tell me where it was! If she had, I’d never have…”
“You’d never have what?” Charley asked as Millie fell silent, lips clamped tight. Then a terrible suspicion dawned. “You’d never have asked someone to help you? To keep searching, no matter what? No matter where? Millie, do you know who’s been breaking into all those homes, searching for books from Mulbridge House? Do you”—she could hardly breathe—“know who broke into Calvin’s office that night?”
“Of course not.” Millie’s face twisted with anger and fear. Suddenly her gaze fixed on something behind Charley, and her cheeks drained of color. “I don’t know anything!” she squeaked. “I didn’t tell her anything!”
Charley turned to find Benjy Wycoff towering over her, his thick, brutish body filling the kitchen with palpable rage. She noted the family resemblance in the small mean eyes, the doughy complexion. He’d slicked thinning brown hair straight back in a fifties style that did not flatter his face, with its heavy jaw and narrow forehead. He wore a ZZ Top concert T-shirt that strained across an impressive beer gut. Stonewashed jeans had been cinched tight below the gut, sagging in the seat and pooling around black athletic shoes. His brown bomber jacket looked new and expensive, the leather supple and barely worn. Although the initial impression was of a slow, dim-witted bear, Charley quickly decided that Benjy Wycoff was anything but stupid. His eyes gleamed with malicious animal intelligence as he glared first at her, then at Frankie, then at his terrified aunt, cowering in her chair.
“Out!” he roared, clamping one enormous, beefy paw onto Charley’s wrist and jerking her to her feet. He seized Frankie’s upper arm with his other hand and began hauling both of them out of the kitchen. “Get out of my HOUSE!”
He shoved Frankie ahead of him into the narrow footpath that wove through the piles of debris. His hand kept its painful grip on Charley’s wrist, yanking her nearly off her feet as he dragged her toward the front of the house.
“You’re hurting me!” she gasped, but he ignored her. Frankie managed to get the front door open those few precious inches. She slid through just as Benjy reached it. He slammed it closed with his free hand. Then he twisted Charley’s arm up behind her back and yanked her against his chest. Hot breath stinking of onions blasted her face, his clothes and body giving off the acrid stench of stale sweat and cigarettes, all of it underlaid with the malodorous fog rising from the resident landfill, the combination turning her stomach. She felt her gorge rise, and she fought back tears at the pain in her arm and shoulder.
“I know who you are, Charley.” Benjy’s low voice dripped with menace as his beady, unblinking eyes bore into hers. “I know you’re screwing the famous Detective Marcus Trenault. I know everything you sell at that pretentious, irrelevant shop of yours. I know what you drive, where you do business, where you run. I know that queer who cuts your hair. I know that bitch Frankie Cartolano, her and her Chink lawyer husband. And I know where you live.” He grinned evilly. “You and your crippled dad.” He released her wrist and she nearly collapsed, sobbing with relief and cradling her arm against her body.
“For God’s sake, we were just—”
“Shut UP!” he bellowed. Charley shut up, cowering against a heap of moldering castoffs, afraid to take her eyes off him as he continued, dropping again into that soft, sinister voice. “You are trespassing, a criminal offense. You threatened my aunt Millie, an old woman with incipient dementia and a drinking problem. I came in and found her cornered and afraid. I defended my home and ejected two intruders.” He grasped her chin tightly and jerked her face up to his. He leaned in so close she feared he meant to kiss her, and her stomach roiled again. “I could kill you right now, and I wouldn’t spend one day in jail. But you’re getting a free pass. For old times’ sake, let’s call it. But if you ever come near my aunt or this house again, you will regret it in an unimaginable number of ways.”
He released her chin, stepped back, and opened the door. “Have a lovely fucking day, Charley Carpenter.”
Stumbling onto the front porch and into Frankie’s waiting arms, Charley could hear Benjy laughing as he slammed the door. She dragged in great lungfuls of cold, clean air as they hurried, half carrying, half leaning on each other, down the cracked steps and across the remnant of lawn, nothing on their minds but putting distance between themselves and Millie’s house.
Chapter 12
“Hey, babe. Everything okay?”
Charley closed her eyes and let Marc’s voice wash away the ugliness of the past hour.
“Everything’s great.” A modest exaggeration, since she was, in fact, sitting at her desk with an ice pack the size of an overnight bag on her shoulder. Wycoff had managed to strain the same one she’d dislocated during her final showdown with the Lucy killer. After weeks of therapy the shoulder had finally been feeling one hundred percent, she thought morosely. She’d had to use all her powers of persuasion to keep Frankie from dragging her to the emergency room. “I just wanted to say hi, see if your day was going any better than mine.”
What she actually wanted to do was convey to Marc several facts that might be critical to Calvin’s murder investigation, potentially vital information the police wouldn’t have gleaned on their own. The tricky part was to relay those facts without tipping him off that she’d sort of broken her promise not to investigate. She had a feeling Marc might define tracking down and questioning Holland Mulbridge and Millie Peache as investigative activities.
“You’re not having a good day? After replacing Dierdre, I figured you and Heddy would be turning cartwheels.”
“Oh, Heddy’s delighted. Vanessa’s going to be perfect for Old Hat.” She listened to the silence of a shop yet again devoid of shoppers. “I sent them home. We’ve only had three customers in the past two days, thanks to Pamela and her blessed Facebook post. Did you see the ugly comments people are posting, people I’ve never even met?”
Marc chuffed. “I’ve seen them. You’re sure Bobby’s okay? I’ve got my hands full here, but I’ll
try to see him tomorrow.”
Charley straightened at that, then winced at the pain in her shoulder. “Why are your hands full? Where are you?” She heard a shouted conversation in the background, then the sound of a police radio broadcasting chatter, and realization hit. “You got that search warrant for Mulbridge House!” she exclaimed. “What’s going on? Holland says her fancy alarm system went off twice about a year ago. I’ll bet you that was the K-Man learning the system and how to avoid triggering it. Did they get inside the main house?”
Silence greeted this barrage. “Holland says? When,” Marc asked evenly, “did you speak with Holland Mulbridge, Charley?”
Oops. “I, uh, had to deliver some merchandise to her hotel suite. We were chatting about the sale and how long it took to, you know”—Charley pushed doggedly forward—“organize it. Anyway, I’m convinced she’s afraid of something, and it has to do with her brother, Jamie. Do you remember him? His mother shipped him off to prep school after eighth grade, but you might’ve known him before.”
“Don’t think so. I went to Harman Elementary, not Smith.” After a moment he asked, “What makes you think Holland is afraid of her brother?”
“Not necessarily afraid of him,” Charley corrected. “I think it has to do with their redevelopment plan.”
“Real estate? Not my area of concern, especially right now.” Marc sounded distracted, and she sensed he was ready to end the call.
“About that.” Charley took a deep breath. “I also, um, got a glimpse of Millie Peache’s nephew, Benjy Wycoff. You should take a look at him as a murder suspect.”
“Why?” he asked sharply. “Charley, what the hell have you been up to?”
Charley concentrated on projecting innocence into her voice. “Relax. It’s just that he’s a pretty big guy, like Trent Logan mentioned you all think the killer is, and he lives with Millie. He could know about the will.” She chose her words carefully. “If Millie’s convinced it’s in a book from the Mulbridge House library, and if that’s what the burglars have been searching for, then maybe she asked her nephew to help her find it.”
Silence. “That’s a lot of ifs,” he said at last. Another pause. “Did you notice if he’s left- handed?”
Always on her wavelength, she thought with a rush of warmth. “Nope. But if he has a record, it’d be in there, right?”
“I remember the guy from high school. Couple of years behind me, your basic loser. When Millie’s name came up, Paul told me Wycoff’s managed to compile a sheet of petty crimes: public intoxication, disturbing the peace, misdemeanor possession. Nothing violent.”
“So, he has a record?”
“He does,” Marc confirmed. “And he sounds worth a conversation at least. Although I can’t question everyone that fits the general description of—hold on.” Charley heard Marc cover his cellphone. After a moment, he said, “I need to go. I’ll call you tonight. Maybe we can grab dinner or—”
“What? Come on, Marc!” Charley imagined the activity swarming around Mulbridge House. Her curiosity flipped into overdrive. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know the Tang was active again. Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Marc hesitated. Then he sighed. “A fair point, and you’ll probably wheedle it out of me later anyway. So far we’ve found no drugs anywhere on the premises. If Zach Martin was telling the truth—and I’m inclined to believe him—then the K-Man makes his teenage minions sanitize the site between packaging sessions.”
“So, it was all for nothing?” Charley felt the sting of disappointment.
“Not necessarily. We found the tables and traces of marijuana in the garage, more or less confirming Zach’s story. We’re still processing the scene. The techs lifted a few prints, and they can test the cigarette butts and beer cans we found in the woods for DNA. If we get a match with something in the system, we’ll be one step closer to catching this asshole.”
“K-Man.” Charley stared at the ceiling, fatigue pinning her to her chair, shoulder throbbing, the events of the day catching up with her. “What a stupid name. And none of those stupid kids will be in the system. Which,” she concluded bitterly, “is probably why the K-Man uses them.”
“Agreed. We’ll never get parental consent to take prints, and Judge Harrell has already made it clear that a Magic Marker doodle will not constitute probable cause in her courtroom.”
In her present foul mood, she found his fatalism annoying. “And you’re just going to accept that?”
“What do you suggest?” Marc asked, and Charley heard the edge in his voice, knew he was tired, too, and as frustrated as she was. “She’s the judge. She calls the shots.”
“Whatever.”
“Screw whatever. What is eating you, Charley? What aren’t you telling me? I’m not an idiot. I know when you’re being evasive, and—”
“Nothing is eating me,” she interrupted, unprepared for this conversation at this moment. “I’m sure you’re very busy, Detective.”
And with that, Charley hung up on him.
—
Marc stared at his cellphone in consternation. She’d never hung up on him before. Not in the middle of a—had they just had their first fight? What had they been fighting about? Charley hadn’t sounded like herself. Her voice had been strained, full of frustration and anger. Anger at him? What the hell did he do?
And there had been another note, an element he couldn’t identify, but one that made him uneasy. There was no doubt in his mind: Charley had just lied to him, by omission if not outright.
Marc’s bullshit meter was redlining, but he couldn’t determine what Charley was up to. Not over the phone. When it came to manipulating a conversation, she was as adept as he was.
He started to call her back, then changed his mind. He’d see her later tonight and do some wheedling of his own. He couldn’t allow either the Tang case or his murder investigation to be jeopardized by any unauthorized side sleuthing, if that’s what this was. But she would tell him everything, he promised himself. He would not tolerate deception, not from anyone, not even Charley. Especially not from Charley.
Marc glanced toward Mulbridge House’s three-car garage. As Zach Martin had indicated, it was completely hidden from view behind the main structure. The area around the house and outbuildings swarmed with county evidence techs and uniformed officers. Two official vans blocked the broad gravel driveway.
He stood a moment, gazing at the crumbling yet still magnificent house and grounds. Beyond the perimeter created by the shabby outbuildings, he saw nothing but trees. Bare of leaves this time of year, they were still so numerous he couldn’t see a neighbor in any direction. It was private, peaceful, secluded. Too bad most of it was slated for the axe.
Mulbridge House. He should have gotten out here before this, he thought. Too many threads linked back to this place. Coincidence? Or was it all connected somehow?
Marc didn’t believe in coincidence.
As he headed toward the garage, a late-model luxury sedan roared up the driveway and stopped behind the crime scene vans in a spray of gravel. A uniformed chauffeur scrambled out and whipped open the rear door. A blond woman in a severely cut business suit emerged, her expression thunderous. Marc recognized her from her DMV photo.
“What is the meaning of this?” Holland Mulbridge bore down on him with guns blazing. “Are you in charge? This is private property! I demand an explanation.”
Marc stood silently as she marched up into his personal space, practically stepping on his toes. She was attractive in a pale, narrow, overbred way, her ice blue eyes just a bit too close together for true beauty, her face and mouth owing their contours to art rather than nature. She was a tall woman, standing even taller in blood red high-heeled shoes. They probably allowed her to look down on most men, though at six foot four, not on him. He imagined she found the physical-intimidation tactic useful in corporate negotiations. He was unimpressed.
He held up his shield. “Detective Trenault, Ms. Mulbri
dge. I’ve been trying to contact you. Maybe if you’d bothered to return one of my calls, you’d know what happened here.”
Holland flushed, but didn’t back down. “I’m here. Tell me now.”
Marc removed a folded sheet from his jacket. “This is a search warrant. A local gang has been using your property to distribute illegal drugs.”
“Drugs?” She took a shocked step back. Gathering herself with an obvious effort, she turned and studied the scene, her sharp gaze taking in the CSIs stowing gear in the vans, the uniformed officer posted outside the garage. “The house is alarmed to the hilt. What’s your evidence for this outrageous accusation?”
“In addition to eyewitness testimony that led to this warrant, we’ve found traces of marijuana in the garage. And no one’s accusing anyone. Yet,” he added as he turned away and started walking.
“These drug addicts never accessed the main house?”
Marc stopped. “The sniffer dogs found nothing in the main house or other buildings. Only the garage appears to have been used.”
“Well, then.” Holland waved a hand as two yellow trucks pulled in and parked behind her car. Several men in coveralls emerged. “I insist that you release the main house immediately. I have a salvage team on retainer, and they’ll barely have enough time as it is.”
“Salvage? I thought you sold everything.”
“Architectural salvage, Detective. The house contains a fortune in antique fixtures, fittings, doors, cabinets, woodwork, and the like. Just one of those hand-leaded windows is worth over twelve hundred dollars.”
Marc blinked. “No kidding.”
Holland allowed herself a superior smirk. “No kidding. Aside from the money, it would be criminal to simply demolish the house and destroy all that artistry. The paneling in the dining room came from a fourteenth-century French château. It’s irreplaceable.”
“So, this salvage team is stripping the place to the studs before you knock it down?”