King of Murder

by Byars, Betsy

  “You’re always curious.”

  “Well, so are you. I’ve caught you time and again in here going through my personal files.”

  “We’re all curious,” Herculeah said. “That’s why you’re a private investigator and why Dad’s a police lieutenant. And I got a double dose of that curiosity gene. Anyway, you never will tell me anything. Why should I tell you all my stuff?”

  “Because you know how horrible it is to be curious and not get an answer.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So?”

  “It is an invitation,” she admitted.

  “To what?”

  Herculeah took a deep breath. “To a party,” she said. She turned to the stairs and put her hand on the banister.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “Maybe I can wash away some of—” She paused.

  She was going to say, “some of these bad emotions,” but that would only pique her mom’s curiosity.

  “Some of what?” her mother asked, her curiosity already piqued.

  “I really don’t know.”

  Then, before her mother could get out another question, Herculeah rushed up the stairs.

  15

  LIES AND MORE LIES

  “Hi, Herculeah, it’s me. You won’t believe what happened. Remember I was going to the dentist’s office? Well, when I got there, the office was closed, and there was this girl there—she’d had an appointment, too, so my mom—you know how she is—took pity on her and insisted she ...

  “Hi, Herculeah, it’s me. Guess what happened? My first cousin from Atlanta—I’ve probably mentioned her—came to town and on the way here she got a toothache, and Mom—you know how she is—insisted that she take my dental appointment and on the way home she—my mom—said...”

  Meat was stretched out on the sofa working on some lies. From the TV in the corner of the room came the muted noises of all-star professional wrestling. Meat’s dad, Macho Man, was in a life-and-death struggle with the Cyclone.

  Usually when Meat watched this tape—even though he knew the outcome—he became anxious for his dad.

  Today, however, he was in a life-and-death struggle of his own.

  “Hi, Herculeah, it’s me.”

  The phone rang.

  “I’m not here!” he yelled to his mom in the kitchen.

  He knew it was Steffie wanting to do something tomorrow. And although he’d been practicing lying all evening, he still hadn’t mastered the art, and even if he did think of an excuse, his mom would be there to yell, “That’s not true,” into the phone. His mother had proven she could not be trusted.

  Also, Steffie was used to getting her way. Herculeah might overlook his having one date, but it would be hard for anybody to overlook two. That was practically going steady.

  “I won’t lie for you,” his mother warned from the kitchen. She came into the room and turned off professional wrestling as she always did. Apparently his mom preferred live entertainment.

  Meat got up from the sofa quickly and stepped out on the front porch. “Now you don’t have to lie,” he called before he shut the door. “I’m really not here.”

  He waited on the porch for what seemed like an unusually long time, but then again, Steffie was a talker.

  As he stood there, he went over his lies, and then a sudden thought stopped him. He did not need to lie. After all, Herculeah didn’t know that he knew that she knew about the date. Or something like that.

  And! Uncle Neiman was his uncle. His own uncle! She had gone to his uncle’s shop. Therefore it was his right, as a nephew, to find out what had happened.

  He would take the straightforward approach. None of these confusing tales of girls in distress.

  “How did it go at Death’s Door?” he would say. “Did you get the Mathias King books from my uncle?”

  He was fine-tuning this approach when his mother opened the door. “It’s safe. You can come in now.”

  Meat entered the living room, turned on the TV, rewound the tape, and threw himself down on the sofa in his original pose.

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  “You have to understand right now that I am not going to lie for you on the telephone.”

  She put her hands on her hips—a pose Meat did not care for. But, hey, he told himself, you owe her. She prevented you from having a phone conversation with Steffie. The only person he liked to talk to on the phone was Herculeah.

  “I know, Mom. I don’t expect you to. If it happens again, I’ll go back out on the porch.”

  “Some girls just won’t give up,” his mom said.

  He certainly agreed with that statement. “Steffie’s the epitome of that type.”

  To himself he began practicing. “Hi, I was curious about how it went at my uncle’s shop.”

  It wouldn’t hurt to stress the words “my uncle.” He was repeating the phrase when his mother paused in the doorway.

  “Oh, that wasn’t Steffie on the phone.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “Steffie’s mom is here. I called Dottie to find out what Steffie had said about the date, and Dottie said the wedding was off. That was why Steffie was here in the first place—because her mom was getting married for the third time.”

  Meat stopped practicing his straightforward approach. He sat up. His whole body was rigid with sudden alarm.

  “It was your little friend across the street.”

  “Herculeah?”

  “Yes. It was Herculeah.”

  16

  THE CANDLES OF TRANQUILITY

  Mathias King stood in the doorway to his Den of Iniquity. He inhaled the scent of the room with a sense of pleasure.

  Rooms dedicated to murder, he felt, had their own special scent—the way a library did, or a doctor’s office, or a hair salon, or ... well he could go on and on.

  He stepped inside the room. He pressed the switch that flooded the room with light. The lights were concealed above the cabinets, for Mathias King liked to admire his possessions—but he would not use those lights when Herculeah came to tea. On that special occasion, a different lighting would be called for.

  He did not let his eyes linger over his weapons as he usually did. The guns that had fired fatal bullets, the knives that had ended lives were ignored. Mathias King had something else on his mind—the Candles of Tranquility.

  There were thirteen of the candles, placed around the room. Some were in sconces on the wall, some grouped on tables, some in tall, wrought-iron candlesticks.

  They were all blood red—“scarlet” the lady at the shop had called them, but Mathias King felt blood red was a more appropriate name in this room. The candles were the same color as the heavy draperies at the end of the room.

  “These particular candles give off the scent of poppies,” the lady had told him. “Some people have said the scent makes them tranquil.”

  “I am not a man who values tranquility,” he had told the woman, “but perhaps some of my visitors would enjoy the sensation.”

  “I’ll light one for you.”

  She had produced a match and lit the candle.

  Mathias King breathed in the scent of poppies, smiled, and said, “As I suspected, I am a man who is immune to tranquility.”

  Mathias King cast his eyes over the entire room for one final time. Everything was in place. Everything was festive and inviting. He smiled, showing his pointed teeth.

  The Den of Iniquity was ready for a tea party.

  11

  CONFERENCE CALL

  Meat got up, instantly, manfully, from the sofa. He passed his mother without a glance and went directly to the telephone in the kitchen.

  He punched in Herculeah’s number with a stiff, accusing finger. He was pleased that his hand was as steady as his intention.

  “Mim Jones,” a voice answered.

  “Hello, Mrs. Jones, it’s me, Meat. I wanted to speak to Herculeah. I’m returning her call.”

  “Just a minute.”

  There was a
pause. He could hear Mrs. Jones’s footsteps. She was probably walking with the cordless phone to the foot of the stairs.

  “Herculeah,” she called. “Meat’s on the phone. He wants to talk to you. Can you pick up?”

  He could not hear Herculeah’s answer, but Mrs. Jones said, “I’m sorry, Meat. She can’t come to the phone. She’s in the shower.”

  “Well, did she happen to say what she was calling about, Mrs. Jones?” He was pleased that his tone of voice continued to be purposeful and businesslike, the voice of a person who had nothing to hide such as a date with Steffie.

  Before Mrs. Jones could reply, he heard Herculeah’s voice.

  It did not sound as if the voice was coming from the shower. It sounded as if it was coming from the top of the stairs. Obviously Herculeah’s mother did not have the same reservations about lying on the telephone as his mom.

  “Ask him something for me,” he heard Herculeah yell down the stairway.

  “What?”

  He steeled himself. Now Mrs. Jones would say Herculeah wanted to know what he was doing with a girl when he was supposed to be at the dentist.

  And he knew that if he reverted to one of his lies, he would have to listen to Mrs. Jones repeat his lie up the stairs, and then he would have to hear Herculeah catch him in the lie. But then if he didn’t lie, the truth being thrown back and forth on the stairs like a ball wouldn’t be much better....

  Meat began to feel dizzy, as if he were watching a fast Ping-Pong game.

  As usual, Herculeah surprised him.

  “Ask him if he got an invitation to the party.” Again she was careful not to say it was at the Den of Iniquity. Her mom wouldn’t let her go to a place like that.

  “All right.”

  Mrs. Jones’s voice came back on the phone. “Herculeah just wanted to know,” she began, “if you received an invitation to—”

  Before she could complete the sentence, Meat said, “No, I didn’t get an invitation.”

  “I’ll tell her.” She called up the stairs, “No, Herculeah, he didn’t get an invitation. Anything else?”

  “No, Mom, that’s all I wanted to know.”

  “That’s all she wanted, Meat. Good night.”

  Mrs. Jones hung up before he was through with the conversation. He didn’t even get to return her good night. He stood there, listening to the dial tone.

  What he really wanted to do was give Mrs. Jones a warning. Meat remembered how interested Mathias King was in Herculeah. He didn’t want her anywhere near him.

  “Whatever you do, don’t let your daughter accept any invitation from Mathias King. The man’s a murderer.”

  18

  THE PRINTOUT

  “Mom, are you asleep?”

  “Not anymore, Herculeah.”

  “Well, can I use your computer?”

  “What’s wrong with your own computer?”

  “Nothing, only I don’t have the program for looking up addresses. I just want to print out a quick map.”

  “I suppose there’s no point in my asking what address it is you want to print out.”

  Herculeah sighed. “Just tell me yes or no.”

  “Well, if the address is One Kings Row, don’t bother; I already printed it out myself.”

  “Mom! You read the back of my envelope.”

  “May I remind you again that I could have steamed the whole thing open and sealed it back if I’d wanted to. When I was half your age, I was an expert at steaming open envelopes illegally. My mom used to have me do it all the time when my dad received a suspicious letter. Dad never suspected a thing. I was that good.”

  “I would accuse you of steaming open my mail except that I don’t get any.”

  “Also the name of the street rang a bell.”

  “You’d heard of the street before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did it have something to do with one of your cases?”

  “I thought it might.”

  “Which one?”

  “But then I thought maybe it rang a bell because there was a movie by that name.”

  “Mom, get to the point.”

  Her mom obviously had no intention of getting to the point. She said, “I lay here, thinking and thinking about it, and then I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I remembered.”

  “Tell me!”

  “A couple of years ago I was contacted by the League of Women for Education. Every year, the league would have a tour of homes—they raised money for scholarships that way.”

  “Go on!”

  “They’d get eight or ten homes and there was always a theme. One year it would be homes of artists, one year homes of the rich and famous, once it was musicians.”

  “Is that why they contacted you? They wanted to do a tour of homes of private detectives?”

  Her mom laughed. Even though the room was dark—Herculeah had not turned on the light—she enjoyed her mother’s smile.

  “This was to be a Halloween tour. The theme was secret rooms, secret passages. The league contacted me because they weren’t having any luck. I had a case at the library at that time—remember someone was ripping off books—and I got up a list of old houses that qualified and, if my memory serves me correctly, One Kings Row was on the list.”

  Herculeah was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Secret passage or secret room?”

  “My memory doesn’t serve me that well.”

  “But you did print the map?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you find the house?”

  “I did. Actually there’s only one house on the street. It’s marked on the map by a small red star, so you can’t miss it.”

  “And will I go there by bus, by foot, by bicycle, or will you drive me?”

  “Oh, bicycle.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “You can take the bike trail through the park.”

  “Good. I’ll do that.”

  She turned to go back to her room, and her mom said, “Come sit down by me for a minute.”

  She patted the side of the bed, and Herculeah went over. The queen-size bed was the same bed her parents had shared when they were married. Her mom still slept on her own half. She shifted to make room for Herculeah, and Herculeah sat down.

  “I’m a little worried about you.”

  “Oh, Mom, it’s just a party.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I get the feeling that there’s something more serious troubling you. And I don’t like you to be troubled.”

  “Well—”

  “Did you and Meat have a misunderstanding?”

  “Well.”

  “Is that ‘well’ a ‘yes’?”

  “I guess so, but, Mom, this is something I have to figure out for myself.”

  “Are you sure you can figure it out?”

  Herculeah smiled. “Hey, of course I can. I’m a detective, remember?”

  19

  ONE KINGS ROW

  HAVE TEA WITH ME

  IN THE DEN OF INIQUITY.

  TOMORROW.

  3:00.

  REGRETS ONLY.

  555-1313

  The invitation wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. The invitation was in Herculeah’s pocket, folded in its envelope. She had seen it only once, but she didn’t need to see it again. She knew the words by heart. She had memorized the picture of the house as well.

  Herculeah had the ability to see something once—particularly if it was important—and remember it forever.

  Now she stood at the entrance to Kings Row. The street sign was green, the street name in white letters, just like all the other city street signs. Yet she could see that this street was not like other city streets.

  There were no sidewalks, no curbs. Trees, hundreds of years old, lined the sides, their branches meeting over the street and forming a gloomy arch.

  She glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch. She loved this watch. Her dad had given it to her long ago as a reward for learning to tell time. She
could recall how proud she had been to visit her dad at the police station and have everyone want to know what time it was. Sometimes her dad would have to help her a little.

  She would say, “Mickey’s little hand is on two, and his big hand is between the four and five.”

  “Are you saying it’s two twenty-two, Herculeah?”

  “Yes!”

  And a very enthusiastic police applause would follow. Cops didn’t have a lot to clap about, so they welcomed the chance.

  Mickey indicated that the time was now five minutes before three. Time to get moving.

  Herculeah pushed her bike forward. As she moved into the gloom, she moved her sunglasses up to the top of her head.

  She paused again at the entrance gate to One Kings Row, and glanced up at the house. Herculeah didn’t know enough about architecture to know Gothic from Grecian, but she could always recognize Ghoul. This house qualified as early nineteenth-century Ghoul.

  If Meat were here, Herculeah thought with a sudden pang of loss, he would not approve of the house. He would immediately comment on the round window in the attic.

  “The house has a Cyclops’s face,” he would say, “and that one eye is staring at us right now.”

  She sighed. Of course, Meat wasn’t here, and she had begun to wonder if he would ever be with her again. Still, he would have been right about that round eye in the attic—the only unshuttered window in the house. It did seem to be watching her.

  She continued to push her bike forward. The crunch of her tires on the gravel drive was the only sound in the afternoon stillness. Even the traffic on the street was silenced by the thick foliage of the trees.

  Ahead, parked beside the house, was a long black car. It did not surprise Herculeah that Mathias King’s choice of wheels seemed to be a hearse.

  She stopped behind the hearse and kicked down her bike stand. She glanced up once again at the tall, forbidding house, and then down at her watch.

  Mickey’s little hand was on the three and his big hand was pointing straight up.

  “Are you saying it’s exactly three o‘clock, Herculeah?”

  With a smile—not of anticipation but of remembrance—she swept up the stairs and paused at the door.