Catnapped

by Gabriella Herkert

  I ran upstairs, turning the knob to Millicent’s room. I meant Margaret’s room, I guess. It was locked. It hadn’t been the first day I came out to the manor, but now it was. I tried the keys on the ring one by one, holding my breath each time a key ground in the old lock. Finally the lock turned and I let myself into the room. I stared in disbelief. The room was a shambles, drawers overturned, clothes dumped all over the floor. This wasn’t like the first search. Whoever had searched then had at least tried to be discreet. This new search was done without any attempt to hide the fact. Jepsen had grown sloppy, desperate, as the cops asked questions and he couldn’t find the money.

  I knew he didn’t have it. He’d said as much in the garage before Connor’d jumped him. What had he said exactly? Something about a computer. That was right. They’d take the computer and hire a hacker, Jepsen had said. I didn’t remember a computer in the house, but I moved across to the office anyway. This room was in the same condition as Millicent’s. Everything had been torn apart. I went to the desk. The drawers were all open, their locks pried loose. Beneath the desk the carpet had been cut away to reveal a floor safe. The keyhole was gauged, the metal scraped but unyielding. I tugged at the metal handle. It was locked.

  I thought I heard a squeak and froze. Floorboard? Mouse? I held my breath, moving farther beneath the desk. I couldn’t see the door from my position, and I couldn’t stand not knowing. I crept out from my hiding place and moved to the side of the desk on my knees, staying crouched and watching the door. Nothing happened.

  “You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Sara,” I muttered to myself, going back to the safe.

  I took the smallest key and tried to insert it in the lock. It didn’t fit. I swayed a little as the adrenaline crested. I took the next key, then the next, until I’d tried every one on the ring twice. None of them fit the lock on the safe. I couldn’t believe it. I sat down on the wood floor.

  I’d been so sure. The computer had to be in there. It had to be in there. There wasn’t anyplace else it could be. Jepsen had the disk, but I’d bet a night with Connor that there was still a copy on a hard drive somewhere. Well, maybe not great sex, but something valuable anyway. I knew I wouldn’t keep only one copy of the account number where millions were stashed.

  I wanted to pull at my hair in frustration. I yanked at the handle on the safe. I pulled again and again. I took the handle in both hands, the remote-entry device gouging my hands as I pulled with all my might. I let go of the handle and slammed the little plastic device on the table. I heard a click and a bookcase moved, revealing a shadowy recess behind it.

  I stared. I picked up the remote control and pushed the button. The bookcase closed and the lock clicked. Another push and the chamber beyond was once again revealed. I shook my head. Of course. Masterson had been a gadget guy. He wouldn’t use a key. Stewie had told me: a hidey-hole. I’d dismissed it as drug-induced delusion. Note to self: Even lunatics occasionally talk sense. I moved from the desk toward the narrow opening.

  A frigid draft raced into the office, carrying a strong wave of must and urine. The odor was thick and suffocating, causing me to gag. The elegant leather-bound books flanked the darker space beyond like sentinels on watch. I went closer, coughing harshly as the smell got stronger. I jerked my T-shirt collar up over my nose and mouth, holding it like a makeshift mask with one hand. My throat began to close up and I coughed, again trying not to breathe. I took baby steps over the edge.

  It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the little room. This was crazy. A wild-goose chase. No way were female intuition and dumb luck going to get me to the answer faster than careful investigation by professionals. The cops had Jepsen. They had the secretary. This was a wild hair. I heard a creak behind me and froze, my sweat chilling as I got closer to the source of frigid air. I waited, my eyes searching out the gloom of the room, trying to see past shadows. It was nothing. Just an old house, probably cringing at the god-awful stink. A high-pitched scream preceded a flying projectile, and I threw my arms up to protect my face, swallowing a scream as the object hit me full force, gouging my forearms before ricocheting off and landing nearly at the door to the hallway. The scare had forced putrid air into my lungs, sending me into another round of coughing spasms as my stomach pitched and rolled. Intent eyes were transfixed on me, and I reached up a hand to rub at the stinging scratches left on my neck, feeling the blood the attacker had drawn. Flash. He stared at me for a long moment before walking to the door and reaching up to scratch his demand for release, yowling piteously.

  “So the prodigal returns.”

  He stopped long enough to fix me with a look of disdain before returning to his eloquent scarring of the door’s old oak.

  “What’s in the room, Flash?”

  He never even turned around. I turned back to face the opening. Having a cat trapped in that little room for a week probably made quite a mess, but I somehow doubted that smell could be entirely blamed on feline hygiene. Jepsen had found the computer in that room. I knew it. I walked to the opening, careful to keep my body behind the protection of the bookcases. I swallowed hard, then jerked my head into the opening for a quick peek before resuming my position behind the shelves. I waited a minute, then darted in for another quick look. Discerning no lurking murderers, I stepped carefully into the room.

  It was small, barely twelve-by-twelve but it seemed to be fully equipped. The room had an eerie green glow provided by a dimly illuminated set of nine closed-circuit video screens, set up like a tic-tac-toe board. I could make out the study, the kitchen, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, the front of the house, the rear of the house, and the living room in the guest cottage. Bud Masterson had been right: His father did have a little place of his own. One that let him play voyeur with his guests.

  That wasn’t its only use, though. The room was a sort of bunker, and it offered all the comforts of home. I could make out the dull outlines of a bunk and a drop-leaf table, both of which appeared fixed to the wall but could obviously be opened when needed. There were built-in cupboards, nearly black against the far wall of the room. I reached for the light switch. Whatever that smell was, I didn’t want it on my shoes. I started breathing through my mouth, through the filter of my shirt, but it didn’t help. I turned on the light, blinking in the glare.

  A computer sat on the desk, surrounded by a variety of other gadgets neatly stored in the recesses of the wooden desk hutch. This place could give Radio Shack a run for its money. With my eyes adjusted to the light, I looked around and gasped, choking on a combination of surprise and foul air. The carpet underneath my sneakers was soundproof-thick, which explained why no one outside the room had heard Flash’s yelling for freedom. I figured it was probably the bullet wound in the head that had kept the man inside the room from offering assistance. It also explained the smell. Something had died in here.

  Somehow his being the second body I’d practically tripped on in a week took away some of the horror. Maybe I was getting used to it. It was kind of fascinating in a way. I took a step nearer the body propped up in the far corner. The wound gaped at me, a perfect crimson hole ringed by a darker smudge. The skin of his temple had pulled back from the wound, leathery and dried. His skin was nearly black, sunken like an old apple left in the sun. I had to admit, I did manage to stumble across exceptionally well-dressed corpses. This one’s navy pin-striped suit could have come from the same tailor who had designed the first dead guy’s gray ensemble. His navy-and-gold silk tie still held its Windsor knot; his patent-leather shoes still gleamed with polish. I wondered how long he’d been dead. How long did it take a dead body to turn into Tales from the Crypt? I hunched down nearer the body and craned my head to look at the face turned toward the wall. I couldn’t recognize him. Stuart Masterson, probably. The grainy newspaper photograph that I had seen had been of poor quality, but long-term decomposition was infinitely worse. I had guessed he was probably dead, but there’d always been the chance that h
e’d just headed for a nice tropical island to forget his troubles. I continued to stare at his face until I noticed the green mold forming along his eyelashes. Gross. I jumped back.

  I glanced back at the desk, considering my options. The guy had been dead awhile. I doubted he would mind if I had just a quick look around before I called the cops. He wasn’t going anywhere. Amazing. Less than a week ago I was practically losing my cookies because I had seen a dead body, and here I was contemplating a leisurely little search with a reeking corpse for company.

  I walked to the computer and sat in the leather chair. I needed to find the money. I crossed my fingers, hoping that Masterson had the same approach to security as my boss. I wanted to find the money, but I didn’t want to commit to a long-term relationship with a moldy dead guy who stank to high heaven. I couldn’t wait to tell Connor I’d found the money. Maybe not. He’d probably be ticked that I went off on my own. Wesley, too, since I’d had to resort to a little breaking and entering. Still, they could hardly complain about the end result when I found the cash. If I found it. No, when I found it. If a techno-idiot like Jepsen could find it, I certainly could. I just needed to think positive. I booted the computer.

  A creak sounded behind me and I whirled, the leather chair squeaking a loud protest. On second thought, discretion was the better part of valor, and I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was stupid. Maybe I should just let the professionals handle it. I’d done all the hard stuff. I knew where to look, and I had found the cat to boot. The cops could handle the bodies. I would call in the troops. At the rate I was going, I should probably get Wesley’s direct line. I spun back to the desk and picked up the receiver. No dial tone.

  I sat up straighter, suddenly realizing that Flash had also gone quiet. No howling, no scratching, nothing. I dropped the receiver into its cradle and rose from the chair, pushing away from the desk and spinning toward the door. The first step brought me face-to-face with the biggest gun I had ever seen.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me.” Jeff, dressed in tailored pants and another polo shirt, this one a deep forest that enhanced the bronze of his tan, said casually from the far side of the gun. I closed my eyes, willing his image away, internally screaming at my own stupidity. When I opened my eyes, the gun was still there. I raised my hands. Connor was right: Sooner or later my headlong approach was going to get me into serious trouble. Welcome to sooner.

  “It’s more like disappointment.” It was, too. I’d thought he was such a nice guy. So much for my judgment. It wasn’t like I’d had any proof. Just a picture. The sort of picture only a parent or a significant other would put in a silver frame. I’d wanted so much to be wrong. The gun in his hand told me that I’d finally gotten it right.

  “How’d you figure it out?”

  “It was the picture of Flash, the one you used to make the posters. You kept it in a fancy frame. In your cottage, not the main house. What was Margaret Trilling to you? Was she your wife? Your lover? I know she was your partner. Did you plan the whole thing together?” I could still talk myself out of it. Maybe some of that nice guy was real. All he wanted was the money. He wasn’t a killer; he was a thief.

  “Plan it together? She tried to leave me. She took my money and cut her deal and went all boring on me. I did five years and what did she do? She took typing. She bought ugly suits. She forgot that everyone’s on the con.” He glanced over at the body. “The late, unlamented Stuart Masterson, I presume.”

  “That would be my guess.” He seemed surprised. Amen to that. “You haven’t killed anyone, Jeff. This thing can still go away as long as you don’t do something crazy.”

  He smiled slowly, the light in his eyes telling me he was way past crazy. “You’re standing three feet from a moldering body on the wrong side of a gun and you’re going to try to talk your way out of it?” Jeff laughed, genuine amusement rippling through the room in waves. “I’m afraid I seriously underestimated your moxie, my dear Sara. It’s too bad about the husband and your penchant”—he pronounced it puhn-shunt—“for doing the right thing. A lack of imagination is the worst sin, Sara. On the other hand, you have much better nerves than the last investigator did.”

  “I know you didn’t kill Masterson.” Last investigator? What was he talking about? Stay cool, Sara. Just take it easy.

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “You didn’t know about this room. You don’t have the money. You wouldn’t have killed Masterson before you had the money. You’re too smart for that. My money is on Henry Jepsen. He’s under arrest for murder and fraud.”

  Jeff laughed. It made the room colder.

  “Murder? Maybe. He is of questionable temperament. Fraud? No. Henry Jepsen doesn’t have the brains. It takes a certain level of intellect to run a good con, Sara. Intellect and imagination.”

  “Millicent?”

  Jeff made a sound like a buzzer. “Wrong again. My less-than-lovely wife could never do it on her own. She needed someone to do her thinking for her. For ten years she did what I told her, and I made more money than a hundred Harvard Business School types. Then she went stupid and I paid the price. Now I’m going to get mine.”

  “The two million in trust.”

  “Much more than that, my dear girl.”

  “You said she took your money. That’s what you meant. You came to get it back.”

  “Originally, yes. Only that stupid slut put it into an irrevocable trust. Told me she couldn’t spend it. It was blood money. Of course, she didn’t give it back either. She gave it to the cat.” Jeff laughed again and I wanted to retch.

  “She named a bank as trustee,” he continued. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to remove a bank as a trustee? She knew that. She knew I’d come for it. She knew I’d make her give it to me. She’d never be able to deny me anything.”

  “So Millicent made sure you’d never get the money.” I didn’t want to provoke him, but I kind of admired Millicent’s—Margaret’s—determination to remake her life. She did bad things under the influence of an evil man, but, on her own, she’d tried to be a decent person. She’d been surrounded by snakes and liars, but she’d still tried.

  “She showed you the trust document, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. I made her call the bank while I listened in.”

  I could imagine it. Millicent scared out of her mind. Jeff coldly holding his ear to the phone.

  “I was going to strangle it in front of her.”

  I swallowed the nausea.

  “Flash?”

  “She’d brought it on herself. She’d always been obsessed with that stupid animal. I never wanted it in the first place, but it fit our image at the time. She acted like it was her child or something. Sentimentality is a waste of time.”

  My knees felt weak, and I leaned against the desk.

  “The cat ran away. It kept disappearing and reappearing. Like smoke. It’s how she named it. It would be just a flash and then it would be gone.”

  Gone. The cat had gotten away.

  “Why did you stay once you knew the money was gone?”

  “She needed to make it up to me.”

  “You were going to con Stuart Masterson?”

  “She was already in place. There were deep pockets.” Jeff gestured with the gun. “Unfortunately, Masterson was unavailable.”

  I nodded. “Henry Jepsen killed him when he realized Masterson was setting him up to take the fall for the pension theft. How did you figure out the pension money was missing?”

  “Margaret knew. Some bean counter figured it out and wanted to warn her.” Jeff chuckled. “Warn her. Like she was the Virgin Mary.”

  “She didn’t have anything to do with taking that money.”

  “Are you sure about that? I trained her well.”

  I wanted to punch him in his smug mouth. Two people had been killed for this stupid scheme, and he wanted to take credit for its inventiveness. My fear was fading fast. Too fast.
At least fear kept me from doing something stupid.

  “Not well enough, apparently. She didn’t find the money. And her death left you scrambling. She needed you? More like you needed her. How did you get the bank to appoint you as guardian? Did you force her to write a letter? Or maybe you forged one after she died.”

  One of his eyelids fluttered just a bit. It wasn’t much of a reaction, but it showed he knew his back was against the wall.

  “It’s evidence. That letter. It’s a way the cops can tie you to this. A link in the chain. Did you like prison? Looking forward to going back, are you?”

  His finger tightened on the trigger and I flinched. I needed to push him but I didn’t want to die.

  “Margaret died before I could help her on her way.” He lifted the barrel of the gun an inch. Sweat rolled down my back. “You, however . . .”

  “I know where the money is.”

  He hesitated. A feral look crossed his face. It lasted only a second before the smooth facade slid back into place. He looked so normal. Average. Sane.

  “You know where my money is?”

  “It’s why you called the firm in the first place, isn’t it? Flash wasn’t missing, or maybe he was, but you didn’t care about that. You wanted someone in this house, searching. You made sure that the firm would send someone inexperienced. It was a missing pet, for God’s sake. Then you hooked me. You sent me to that alley. It was a novice investigator’s dream. A real case.”

  “It was very clever of me, I must say.” Jeff preened a little. “When that investigator called I knew I was running out of time. I had to know what the police knew and how close they were getting. I had to get rid of the investigator. And I needed additional resources. You were perfect, my dear. I had thought that the police would suspect you, at least initially, in the death of Mr. Cort. Your firm would have been forced to rally around the troops. It is such a litigious society. In the end, they cleared you right away, but it didn’t matter. You wouldn’t let it alone. You were like a dog with a bone, Sara. Really very determined, and such a clear view into the police pursuit.”