The Antique House Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  “We all knew. Our Cub Scout den camped out there a few times, courtesy of Jamie’s mom. When I was fifteen, I lost my virginity in those woods.” Sean sighed dreamily. “Good times.”

  Charley swallowed her revulsion. “After Augusta’s death you had Jamie approve the easement. A week ago, when he found out from Cecil Frye what Holland had planned for his childhood home, he was upset. So he called you, his best buddy. I’m guessing you’d already gotten in touch with Benjy before you hit town. You probably figured you’d need someone to help you keep an eye on things, maybe do the occasional bit of dirty work. And now, with an unpredictable Jamie on the loose…” She narrowed her eyes. “Benjy. That’s how you found out about the will. Of course you realized that you couldn’t afford for it to be discovered, so you hired him to help you find it.”

  “Unfortunately, the bastard figured out there was serious money involved,” Sean admitted. “He agreed to help for a cut of the profits. Idiot signed his death warrant with that little demand.”

  “Based on what he’d already learned from Millie, Benjy broke into Calvin’s office to find records of who’d bought any books from the Mulbridge library. When Calvin caught him, Benjy—bashed his head in.” Charley paused as a wave of grief and fear tightened her throat. She forced herself to continue; what else could she do? “Killing a man must’ve been a powerful motivator, pushing him to break into those houses despite the risk. But he realized pretty quickly he’d never find the will that way, so he stopped and called you to get rid of the murder weapon.”

  “Correct.”

  “But, why burn Mulbridge House? Why kill me?” she asked desperately. “You said yourself the approval is a lock. You’ve got your millions, Sean. You won.”

  “Not now that you’ve discovered my little sleight of hand with that petition.” Sean’s mocking expression turned to anger. “I begged you to stay out of it. I warned you that asking questions might be dangerous. But did you listen? This is your own fault, Red. And as I mentioned, my need for cash is somewhat urgent. I’m improvising again, but with the house—and you—gone, I expect approval will be swift. The neighbors’ concerns over traffic will be discounted—by my own carefully documented research—and what will SOAP want with an empty piece of land?”

  Charley opened her mouth to say she wasn’t the only one who knew about the parcel ID numbers, but she stopped herself. That knowledge wouldn’t dissuade Sean from killing her. She was an unquestionable liability, but there was no reason to place Frankie, John, and Dmitri in danger from this homicidal wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  He straightened. “As much as I have enjoyed this final exchange of information, I’ve got to get this party started before those salvage guys return from the wild-goose chase I sent them on. Besides, I have a Planning Commission meeting to attend. May I make a suggestion? As an old friend?”

  “Go to hell,” she spat.

  Sean’s eyes glowed with admiration. “Kicking ass to the bitter end. I could have fallen for you, Red. Fallen hard.” He stilled. “If only…” His gaze softened, and for a moment he was that cocky teenager with a fat lip, riding to her rescue, exploring life’s big questions on her front porch on a hot summer night. Charley’s heart leapt with a wild hope. Then the light died, and the moment was gone. “But of course, you’re dating Super Cop, so I guess not. Even when we were kids, it was always Trenault, wasn’t it?” He smiled bitterly. “As I was saying, my advice to you is not to fight it. Breathe deeply. Let the smoke do its job. Much more pleasant than burning to death. Ciao, Charley Carpenter.” He blew her a kiss, stepped backward through the doorway, and was gone.

  The moment he was out of sight, Charley began working on her bonds. The skin on her wrists chafed red and bloody within minutes as she struggled to undo the loops that bound her to the radiator. After ten minutes of pulling, twisting, and scraping twine against smooth cast iron, her bonds felt no looser. When the first wisps of smoke began floating up through the floorboards and in through the doorway, she redoubled her efforts. The room filled quickly, and she began coughing, her eyes streaming. She might battle against death by fire, but Mulbridge House was embracing its fate all too quickly.

  Fighting to remain calm, she pulled the front of her shirt up over her nose and mouth. It didn’t protect her stinging eyes, but she could breathe a bit more easily.

  “Keep it together, Carpenter,” she commanded herself. From her seated position, she twisted awkwardly onto her knees, seeking a way to slide the twine down and off the radiator coil she was tied to. And that was when she made the discovery that saved her life.

  Like the porcelain fixtures downstairs, the iron radiator had been cut free of its connective piping. It was merely standing in its original position, awaiting removal, while the workmen first harvested the much more valuable copper pipes than ran throughout the house. Perhaps they were concerned they wouldn’t have time to claim everything, she thought, so they’d decided to prioritize their salvage efforts. In his haste, Sean hadn’t noticed the severed fitting, which ended in a neat cut flush with the baseboard.

  Nearly blinded by smoke, Charley dragged the looped twine over and down the back of the radiator as far as it would go. She pulled and strained, stretching her tied wrists toward the razor-sharp pipe edge. She cried out with the pain as the twine dug into the raw flesh, but her efforts were rewarded. By leaning back with her full weight, she was just able to press the heel of her right wrist against the severed pipe. She pulled down hard and felt the loops of twine catch against the raw metal. Sobbing a prayer of thanks, she began sawing the twine against the pipe edge. The rough fibers snagged and caught easily, and Charley felt first one strand, then another, part with a little tug of release.

  Her work was interrupted by an explosion from deep within the house. Charley screamed as the floor shook and a mass of smoke poured into the room. If that was a portion of the roof collapsing, she didn’t have much time. She heard the roar of flames and felt the heat coming through the floor beneath her. A dull reddish light flickered from beyond the open door. She guessed the staircase was now engulfed. There would be no escape that way.

  She sawed frantically, cutting her wrist in the process, the twine loops slicking with her blood. She coughed harder, her thin shirt no defense against the dense black smoke, the racking of her body making it difficult to keep the twine placed against the pipe. Again and again she twisted, strained, ignoring the agonizing pain, until the twine caught and tore. A third strand parted, then a fourth, and suddenly, she was free.

  Scrambling to her feet and over to the nearest window, she tugged at the jamb, but the ancient mechanism was rusted tight. She groped along the wall to the second window; it too was stuck. She banged her fists against the heavy antique glass, but she lacked the strength to break it. Charley stared out at the Eden of trees surrounding Mulbridge House, a cool green haven that might as well have been a thousand miles away. The smoke from this fire must be visible by now, she thought. Where was the fire department? Fire licked into the upper hallway, and she knew she couldn’t afford to wait for rescue. There was only one way out. She needed something heavy to break this glass.

  She felt along the wall until her knee bumped into the radiator. Grasping it with both hands, she heaved upward, but even had her shoulder not been injured, it was far too heavy for her to lift. Pressing her shirt tightly against her nose and mouth, she dropped to her knees and crawled toward the door. Hadn’t the hallway been filled with salvage items? Perhaps she could find something heavy enough.

  The heat in the hallway was growing more intense by the moment, smoke billowing in thick, greasy waves from below. Charley crawled one-handed, feeling along the baseboard, eyes closed against the fumes. Her fingers brushed against a corner; it was one of the cardboard cartons she’d nearly tripped over during her rush into Sean’s trap. The fire was now eating into the floorboards and the carved wooden banister just a few feet from where she knelt. Scorching heat rippled the air. She had minutes
before the flames reached her. Acutely aware of the gasoline soaking her clothing, she ripped at the tape holding the box flaps closed and pulled them apart. As she felt inside, she nearly wept with relief. Cool, hard Rookwood tiles lay neatly stacked within. She grabbed four tiles and scooted backward into the room. Rising to her feet, she gripped the stacked tiles in both hands and, coughing heavily, staggered toward one of the windows. She spun around like a discus thrower, then hurled the tiles with all her strength into the center of the glass.

  The window exploded outward. Sweet, pure air came pouring through the opening, and like a young woman rushing into the arms of her lover, the fire roared forward to meet it. Flames leapt into the room, igniting the doorframe and licking across the floor. Nearly staggering from the intense heat, Charley kicked away shards of glass that protruded from the wooden window frame. The sound of sirens filled the air as she swung first one leg, then the other out onto the sill. She glanced down. Once again, her luck held. This window faced the north side of the house, where the yew hedge grew thick and close to the stone, a drop of no more than fifteen feet.

  The old house emitted a deafening groan that rose to a shriek as timbers started giving way above her head. Charley heard a distant boom and felt Mulbridge House shudder as more brick and stone collapsed. As the floor behind her fell away into the room below, she twisted around and grasped the sill with both hands. Uttering a brief prayer, Charley closed her eyes and let go.

  Chapter 24

  When Marc saw Sharon Krugh’s name come up on his cellphone, he felt a stab of disappointment. He’d hoped it was Charley. After refusing to take her call earlier, he now wanted more than anything to hear her voice. Only now she wasn’t answering, either. “Sharon. You caught the double?”

  “Do not come out here,” Sharon advised. “We’ve got so many sheriff’s deputies tripping over one another, they barely left room for me.”

  Marc put his phone on speaker so Paul could hear. “What can you tell me?”

  “Millicent Peache died of a gunshot wound to the back of the head. Death was instantaneous. It seems she was sitting in an armchair watching television. Hopefully, the poor old thing never saw it coming.”

  “And Wycoff?”

  She hummed. “It appears he shot himself, but it doesn’t feel right. Wycoff’s COD is also a single gunshot wound behind the left ear. The angle’s awkward for self-inflicted, but possible. He’s on the bathroom floor, gun near his left hand.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “From the position of the body and the blood spatter, Wycoff was standing facing the toilet and the mirror.”

  He understood immediately. “Oh, no way, Sharon,” he protested, as Paul began shaking his head in the negative.

  “Not a chance,” she agreed grimly. “Marc, in all my years, I’ve never known a suicide to blow his head off while staring at his reflection in a mirror, much less do it in a standing position. Why didn’t he do what ninety-nine percent of them do and perch on the toilet seat or the bed, or even sit down inside the shower before signing off? Suicides get comfortable. It’s their final act. We’ll have to do a full scene analysis, but I believe it’s at least credible that he was standing at the toilet, getting ready to unzip and do his business, when someone else stepped into the bathroom and shot him from behind.”

  “Jameson Mulbridge?” Marc wondered as Sharon conferred briefly with someone. His stomach clenched. He’d dragged his feet on investigating Mulbridge, a decision driven at least in part by his own anger and jealousy. If he’d swallowed his stupid pride and listened to Charley, could he have prevented two more deaths?

  “Him or Holland. Little Brother’s been in town since Wednesday night,” Paul mused. “Even if she’s the one who hid that golf club, what’s he been up to for the last forty-eight hours?” Before Marc could reply, Sharon spoke again.

  “The lead deputy wants to speak with you.”

  A gravelly voice with a flat Appalachian twang came over the line. “Detective? Jim Partridge, County Sheriff’s Department. I guess the pretty doc here put you in the picture. Our two victims connect to that murder y’all’re working down in Oakwood.”

  “What can you tell me?” Marc asked. “Did anyone see or hear anything?”

  “You betcha,” Partridge said with satisfaction. “I got a description of the shooter’s car. Little chambermaid out here heard the shots when she was cleanin’ two rooms down. She was smart enough to shut and lock the door, but she peeked out the curtains. Saw somebody drive off in a right hurry.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A brown Honda, one of them old hatchback models. That mean anything to you, Detective?”

  Marc stared at the phone in his hand. Details and snatches of conversations from the past few days flew past his mind’s eye as if propelled from a water cannon. Hialeah. Fort Lauderdale. Miami. Wycoff and his classmates in elementary school, still in contact all these years later. Jamie Mulbridge the same age as Benjy, two years ahead of Charley in school.

  Just like Sean Ambrose.

  Sean Ambrose with his crappy brown Honda outside the DCC. Sean Ambrose not working as a lawyer, but dabbling in real estate appraisals, learning all he’d need to know about zoning and redevelopment law. Sean Ambrose living in Fort Lauderdale, but hitting the world-famous Hialeah Race Track just up the road in Miami, where he might certainly have run into his old school chum Jamie. Sean Ambrose mentioning more than once that money was tight, possibly into the same loan sharks as Jamie. Sean Ambrose arriving in town just in time to grab a convenient vacancy on the Planning Commission, just in time to guide the Mulbridge estate project safely through the approval process. Sean Ambrose with as much at stake in the Planning Commission vote as Jamie, and possibly much more, since he didn’t have the Mulbridge millions to fall back on. Sean Ambrose a temporary member at the DCC, with ample opportunity to plant an incriminating murder weapon in plain sight.

  Sean Ambrose with his hands on Charley.

  “Marc?” Paul asked in alarm as Marc’s last thought registered, even as Partridge’s tinny voice could be heard calling, “Detective? Hello? You still there, Detec—”

  Marc clicked off. “It was Sean Ambrose. He killed Wycoff and Millie Peache.”

  “What the hell?” Paul sputtered. “Where did that come from?”

  In a few terse sentences, Marc laid it out for his partner, even as he flipped through a city directory for a number that would provide the last few answers he needed.

  “Hello, is this Keith Pitzer?” Paul’s brows rose into his hairline as Marc quickly identified himself. “I wanted to ask you about Sean Ambrose’s appointment to the Planning Commission.”

  “That was a serious stroke of luck,” Keith Pitzer enthused. “Right on the eve of the most controversial vote in a decade, and Joe Tippett gets a major league job offer, contingent on his starting immediately. The vote’s already been tabled twice. Another delay would guarantee a lawsuit from the Mulbridge family. Sean being an Oakwood native, plus with his real estate experience, well, it was like manna from heaven.”

  “I’m sure it seemed that way,” Marc said drily. “My question is this: Did you reach out to Sean when he hit town, or did he contact you?”

  “Ambrose called me,” Pitzer said, the first hint of concern entering his voice. “Why? What do you mean, ‘it seemed that way’?”

  “One more question. Who offered Joe Tippett that job?” As Pitzer supplied the name, Marc felt the click and knew he had the final piece of the puzzle.

  Paul watched as Marc ended the call. “Well?”

  “Joe Tippett,” Marc said slowly, “is now an account executive in Miami with Mulbridge Shipping Lines, Ltd.”

  Klaxons began to sound. All activity in the squad room ceased. For one long moment, officers and civilians alike listened to the call, a signal they all knew meant danger, destruction, and the potential for death. Although the firehouse was at the far end of the Safety Building, the noise was deafe
ning.

  As if a switch had been thrown, people suddenly began moving again, some striding swiftly through the doors, others answering the phones that began ringing off the hook. Marc saw Camille speak into her shoulder radio at the far end of the squad room. He couldn’t hear the response, but he saw her eyes go wide. She turned to find him watching.

  “It’s Mulbridge House,” she shouted above the cacophony of alarm bells. “Mulbridge House is burning!”

  Marc turned to Paul. “The Planning Commission is voting on the demolition as we speak. What are the odds that’s a coincidence?”

  “I’d say somebody isn’t taking any chances,” Paul said grimly.

  Marc turned to an admin at a nearby desk. “Can you call downstairs and find out if the commission is still in session?” As she dialed, he said to Paul, “Maybe we can take him down quietly.”

  The admin covered the receiver with her hand. “The meeting hasn’t started yet.”

  “Why not? It’s ten after four.”

  She spoke again into her phone, then replied, “One of the members asked the chairman for a thirty-minute delay.”

  “Which member?” Marc growled ominously.

  “Mr. Ambrose.”

  Paul was already heading for the door. “I’ll drive.”

  Chapter 25

  Charley scrambled free of the yew hedge and fell in a heap onto the bluestones. She had apparently miraculously survived a fall from a second-story window without any broken bones, although her sprained ankle had suffered another painful jolt. Her shirt was in shreds, her arms and neck were scratched and bleeding, her eyes streamed, and her throat and lungs felt as though she’d done shots of battery acid. Glancing up at the window from which she’d dropped, she saw that she had made her escape just in time. Where she’d hung by her fingertips only moments before, there was now a blackened hole from which geysers of flame erupted. The intense heat was unbearable. She needed to put as much distance as possible between herself and the burning building.