The Antique House Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  “Stay. Behind. The. Motherfucking. Car. Or I will arrest you for obstruction.” Her mouth fell open. Without waiting for a response, Mitch spun on his heel and tore after the suspect.

  Chapter 16

  The driver stood on the brakes, tires squealing on wet brick pavers. Charley swung right to face the oncoming car and vaulted onto it. She slid, none too gently, over the hood of the rusty brown Honda hatchback, finally coming to a stop, belly flat against the warm metal, hands splayed on the windshield, nose inches from the glass, staring directly into the horrified gaze of Sean Ambrose.

  “Charley?” Sean was out of the car in an instant, goggle-eyed, his hands racing over Charley’s legs and torso, pulling at her jacket in a panicked search for injuries. “Are you okay? Don’t move. Just stay put while I—Jesus, where did you come from?”

  “He’s chasing me!” Charley struggled to get down from the hood as Sean tried to hold her in place. “We have to go! He’s coming, we have to get away!”

  “Who’s coming?” Sean asked wildly. “What’s going on? Someone chased you into the road?”

  “Yes, and he’s—” Charley slid to the ground and nearly collapsed as she put weight on her ankle, crying out with the pain.

  “Oh, sweet mother, I broke your leg,” Sean moaned, just managing to catch her before she fell. “I am so sorry, Charley, I never saw you until you were—We have to get help. We should call nine-one-one. You need a hospital.”

  “No, I don’t.” Charley steadied herself on Sean’s shoulder and fought for control. With her free hand she raked wet hair back from her face and forced herself to calm down. She did a rapid self-assessment and decided that her ankle and shoulder hurt, but that she was otherwise none the worse for her impromptu trip across the compact car’s bodywork. If Sean had been driving something bigger, she thought, like an SUV, she’d probably be looking at some cracked ribs, or worse. “I twisted my ankle running away. That’s all.”

  “That’s all? Who the hell is chasing you, Charley?”

  She took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t be positive,” she said at last, voice grim, “but I have a pretty good idea.” She stared back in the direction she had come from, listening hard, but she could hear nothing over the purr of the Honda’s engine as it idled, exhaust pluming in the cold, damp air. Her pursuer, it seemed, had given up the chase. “Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything,” he replied instantly.

  “Take me to Mulbridge House,” she said, then quickly added, “It’s not far from here” in response to his shocked expression.

  “I know where it is. That’s why I’m here, actually. But why do you want to go there?”

  “I’ll explain everything,” Charley promised, limping around the car to the passenger side. “But I’ve got to check something first.”

  Sean hesitated, then sighed and climbed behind the wheel. “Have it your way. We go to Mulbridge House instead of, I don’t know, calling the cops, or maybe an ambulance. Then you’ll tell me what’s going on?”

  “I will tell you,” Charley agreed, “but we need to hurry.” She sank gratefully into the passenger seat, maneuvering carefully to avoid jarring her ankle. “And no police.” She pushed away the thought of Marc’s probable reaction to this latest escapade. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Sean scowled as he put the aging Honda into Drive with a grinding of gears. “Sorry about the crappy ride. Until I land a full-time gig I can’t get a car loan. I held my breath the entire drive up from Florida.”

  “Car troubles I know about.” Charley stared out the front and side windows as if a soda-drenched monster might suddenly appear, perhaps wielding an axe. “You said you were here for Mulbridge House. What were you doing?”

  “Due diligence.” Sean slowed to a crawl as he squinted through the rain. “I’ve been driving along Runnymede at various times of the day, gauging for myself whether the neighbors’ complaints about increased traffic are valid. It’s ridiculous; I’ve had the road virtually to myself on every trip through here, regardless of the hour. Still, a group of them will doubtless bring it up at the meeting this afternoon. I don’t like to express opinions about things I haven’t seen with my own eyes.”

  Two minutes later they were pulling past the bluestone pillars, down the white gravel driveway, now visible without a flashlight, stones gleaming wetly in the first hour after dawn. As they swung around the final curve, they saw two yellow panel vans bearing the words crohn brothers architectural salvage parked before the main entrance. Sean studied the vehicles through the windshield.

  “Did one of these guys come after you for some reason? I assume they’re supposed to be here.”

  “Unlike me, you mean.” Charley got out of the car, careful to place her left foot securely on the ground before hoisting herself erect with the aid of the doorframe.

  “I was sort of wondering why you were running through the woods. In the rain. Before sunrise. Alone,” Sean said mildly. He joined her beside the car as a burly man wearing heavy coveralls and a hard hat walked purposefully toward them.

  “Help you folks? I’m afraid the house is off-limits. Construction area,” he said, indicating the hard hat.

  “How long have you been here?” Charley asked bluntly.

  “Who wants to know?” The man took in her disheveled appearance with curiosity bordering on suspicion.

  “Did you see anyone when you got here?” she pressed. “A man, above-average height, might have been running away?”

  “Running away? What the hell is this?” the man began, but Sean held out a hand and turned on his megawatt smile.

  “Sean Ambrose, Oakwood Planning Commission.” He shook the man’s unenthusiastically offered hand and continued smoothly, “Just checking to be sure everything’s secure here. We’ve had reports of neighbors snooping around. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be responsible for anyone being injured.”

  The man continued to stare at both of them, the only sound the soft rattling of raindrops on the dead leaves in the koi pond. The watery gray light grew steadily brighter. With difficulty, Charley controlled her growing impatience. At last, the man seemed to reach a decision.

  “We got here fifteen minutes ago. The front doors were locked, but someone smashed the terrace door. Glass all over the place. We’re still checking, but so far that’s the only damage. Whoever broke in is gone.” He cleared his throat. “I’d prefer not to involve the cops. They’d probably shut the project down again, and we’re already behind schedule. Any more delays and I start losing money on this job.”

  “Understood. We want the same thing here,” Sean assured the man, “a safe, efficient”—he glanced at the nearest truck—“salvage job. The sooner you finish, the sooner the owners can proceed with demolition.”

  Charley had been listening to this exchange in silence, but at the last word, she blurted, “Are you going to rip out the wooden shelving in the library?”

  The man turned from Sean to her, his surprise evident. “That’s the plan. Why? Are you a buyer?” At this possibility, his manner warmed several degrees. “You’ve got high-quality walnut in there, over eleven hundred linear—”

  “What happens if you find papers or something?” Charley interrupted. “Hidden inside the walls or behind the bookcases? Do you call the owners?”

  Both men were now gaping at her as if she’d lost her mind, but she didn’t care. This might be her last chance to preserve anything Augusta might have hidden.

  “Papers,” the man said flatly. “Hidden inside the walls.” The suspicion was back in full force, but after contemplating Charley for several long moments, he seemed to relent. “Holland Mulbridge and I cataloged this place, top to bottom. We signed a contract based on me and my crew successfully removing, then selling, the itemized salvage for top dollar. She gets a flat rate, I take on all the risk, you understand? That means anything we find in this house is ours. Legally.”

  “However,” he continued, holding u
p a hand and cutting off the protest Charley was drawing breath to utter, “sometimes we find stuff—documents, photographs, things like that, items that don’t have any value, at least not to us. If it’s clear we aren’t talking trash, like old newspapers, we call the owners and let them know what we’ve got. If they’re interested, they can come by and take a look. If not”—he spread his hands—“we pitch. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  Charley was on the verge of asking if she could go inside and inspect the library, but Sean grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

  “We’ve taken enough of the man’s time, honey,” he said cheerfully to her, and then to the man, “Work safe now.” He steered Charley back toward his car. “We are done, young lady. Any more questions and that guy will be calling the cops on us.”

  “But I need to—”

  “What you need,” Sean said, sounding exasperated as he opened the passenger door, “is a doctor.” He helped her into the car. “I can’t make you go to the hospital, Red, but you should at least get inside and warm up. Your teeth are chattering. For Pete’s sake, you just got hit by a damned car. My car.”

  “Fine.” With a final glance at the once proud house, Charley reluctantly surrendered the field of battle to the forces of commerce. She bit back a groan as she folded her stiffening body into the passenger seat.

  As they retraced their route, Charley spotted two men in work clothes and matching red ball caps standing inside the tree line, almost out of sight. One man was pointing and talking as his companion wrote something on a clipboard. She wondered what there was to salvage this far into the woods.

  The pointer turned to watch as they passed, maintaining eye contact with Charley until the car rounded the bend and he was lost to sight. She had the feeling she’d seen him before, or at least a picture of him. He was about sixty, of medium height and build, with thick silver hair, a weather-beaten complexion, and a face you wouldn’t easily forget. She probed her memory, but came up empty. Perhaps she’d dredge up a name when she wasn’t in so much pain.

  Sean headed north on Runnymede, passing a handful of widely spaced mailboxes, each one signaling the presence of a house somewhere behind the trees. These were the homes of the neighbors protesting Oak Bridge Estates. Charley spied a shiny black mailbox with meade spelled out in gold lettering. The street really was quite narrow here, and she tried to imagine the impact fourteen households would have on traffic. Even as the thought occurred, a bulky crossover approached from the opposite direction. Sean pulled even farther right, wet branches clawing Charley’s window as they inched past the other vehicle.

  Ridiculous, Sean had called the neighbors’ concerns. Charley was no longer sure.

  Sean turned left onto a much wider residential street. Houses along here were still three times the size of the Carpenter home on Hawthorn, but at least they were visible from the curb, most sporting wide, sweeping lawns and thousands of dollars in professional landscaping.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Trust me.” He flashed a grin, his high spirits seemingly impossible to dampen for long. “I’ve got just what the doctor ordered.”

  Charley glimpsed a rolling green fairway on her left just before Sean steered the Honda through another pillared entrance.

  “The Dayton Country Club?” she asked in surprise. “How can you afford a membership here?”

  “Funny story.” Sean followed the long drive past a swimming pool and tennis courts, both closed for the season. The clubhouse appeared, a graceful white stucco building with an orange-tiled roof and high arched windows overlooking the golf course. He pulled around and parked under the covered portico, hopped out, and opened Charley’s door.

  “Easy now,” he commanded, gripping her elbow as she balanced on her left foot. “So, Keith Pitzer invited me to this member-guest preseason golf thingy here. Dude probably did it out of guilt for how messed up this Planning Commission gig’s turned out to be.” He chuckled. “Anyway, I got a free lesson down in the practice room, rubbed elbows with the locals, maybe got a job lead—fingers crossed—and bought a few raffle tickets. Keith and I are chowing down on a seriously righteous prime rib dinner, when next thing you know, someone’s announcing that I won a thirty-day trial membership.”

  Supporting her with a strong arm around her waist, Sean half carried Charley up the shallow steps and into the deliciously warm lobby. He steered her toward a lavender velvet love seat tucked into a cozy alcove, helped her to sit, peeled off her sodden ski jacket, then shucked off his dripping trench coat.

  “Sit tight, Red. I’ll be right back!” He dashed off before she could reply.

  Charley took in her elegant surroundings. It had been several years since she’d been inside this building, as a guest at a friend’s wedding. Growing up, she’d received occasional invitations to birthday or swimming parties here, upscale events hosted by school friends whose parents were members. But Bobby Carpenter’s daughter had never been part of the rich, popular crowd, the smug, assured children of wealth and privilege, kids like Holland and Jamie Mulbridge. Or like Marcus Trenault, for that matter. Both avid golfers, Warren and Evie Trenault had been members; Marc had learned to play tennis here under the tutelage of a pro who was formerly ranked on the national circuit. Charley had always felt more at home splashing and goofing off with Frankie and her six brothers at the community center.

  Heavy carved-wood furniture, thick oriental rugs over marble flooring, velvet drapes, and watered silk wallpaper created a timeless, welcoming atmosphere. An enormous fresh flower arrangement sat on a round table in the center of the lobby. Hunting prints in gilt frames adorned the walls. A glass-fronted display case containing antique golf clubs was flanked by several black-and-white framed photographs of men and women posing in old-fashioned golf attire on an immaculate putting green, the clubhouse visible in the background.

  Sean returned with a bottle of extra-strength pain reliever and a snifter half filled with a coppery liquid.

  “Brandy, the cure for what ails you,” he declared as he pressed the glass into her cold hands. “Drink, or I will make you drink.”

  She took a dutiful sip and immediately felt the heat slip down her throat and begin expanding through her frozen core. Sean was accompanied by a young man in the universal waiter’s uniform of white dress shirt, black vest, and black tuxedo pants. The waiter, whose name tag identified him as “Davey,” carried a stainless steel bowl filled with ice, several plastic bags with zipper tops, and a small pile of clean dishcloths.

  “We’re going to ice that ankle, Red, and the shoulder.”

  Davey ducked into the cloakroom and emerged with a vinyl-covered banquet chair. Sean gently untied and eased off Charley’s right running shoe before lifting her leg onto the chair, as Davey filled and arranged ice bags and dishcloth padding under and around her ankle. Sean made up another ice bag and draped it over her shoulder—her second in as many days, she reflected glumly. She cradled her brandy as they fussed around her, grateful for the quiet, feeling the alcohol and pain relievers starting to work their magic. Her terrifying flight through the woods was already fading like a bad dream, sinking into a flickering slide show of impossible images.

  “Thanks, Davey. Can I get some coffee?”

  “Right away, Mr. Ambrose.” As Davey headed out, he passed another employee, this one a young woman in a dark blue uniform who was working her way around the lobby with a feather duster. A vacuum cleaner stood silent and waiting in a corner.

  “You know how to make yourself at home,” Charley murmured, noting the girl shooting curious glances their way.

  “We had a family membership here. Place hasn’t changed a bit.”

  They both fell silent, and Charley took several more sips of brandy, feeling the heat as it slid all the way down, fanning out and into her cold, cramped limbs. Davey returned and handed Sean a thick ceramic mug filled with steaming coffee. He smiled at Charley and winked at the girl with the duster as
he left.

  “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  The remark took Charley by surprise. She glanced up to find Sean contemplating her with a sympathetic air. “Thank you. He’s actually getting better.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “It’s very good. We’ve hit on this plan…” She paused, picturing Sean’s foot pursuit of Zach Martin. “You’re a fast guy, Ambrose. How do you feel about pickup football?”

  His brows rose. “In favor, I guess. Why?”

  She explained the little therapy project she, Marc, and Lawrence had conceived to help advance her father’s recovery. “If you’re interested, I’ll have Lawrence call you.”

  “I’m in. Frankly, I’d love a distraction from that ever-loving Planning Commission. Everyone in town wants to bend my ear about how I should vote. No good deed goes unpunished and all that.”

  Charley smiled in sympathy. “Am I allowed to ask how you’re leaning?”

  Sean sipped his coffee as he mulled the question. “I haven’t finished reading through the mountain of background information I was given. Still, it seems clear Holland Mulbridge has satisfied every aspect of state and local law. Our job is to uphold and enforce existing zoning ordinance, not vote our opinion.”

  “So you are voting in favor of the redevelopment?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t see that we have much choice. On top of everything else, the fact that kids have been using it to distribute drugs only highlights the need to dispose of what’s become a nuisance property.” His glance sharpened. “So, let’s move on to current events. When you broke into Mulbridge House this morning, did you find any sign of Augusta’s second will?”

  Charley gaped at him. “How…how did you know?”

  Sean smiled benignly. “If they teach you anything in law school, it’s how to draw an inference.” He held up one finger. “Yesterday you regaled us all with the story of SOAP’s efforts to find the aforementioned will. You made a pretty convincing argument in favor of its being hidden in a book from the Mulbridge House library—or that at least that that’s what SOAP and whoever is committing all these break-ins believes. This morning,” he continued, holding up a second finger, “you asked the salvage guy about hidden papers behind the library shelves. Why else would you ask him that?”