With a faint smile, Ben watches her go.
Deep night. A swollen yellow moon between massed clouds. Ansford House, tall and imposing, rides a dark sea of trimmed grass. A bedroom window glows with light on the second floor.
Ansford is awake in his wide, canopied bed. He tosses aside the evening edition of the Boston Globe, muttering to himself. “War and murder... that’s all they print these days.” Raises his voice. “Laura! Where the devil are you?”
He grabs a heavy, weathered-hickory cane, bangs it hard against the floor.
The bedroom door opens. Laura is there, with a tray. Warm milk and wheat toast. “I burned the milk. Had to heat up some more. That’s why it took so long.”
He scowls up at her, his mouth twisting in scorn. “Can’t even heat milk! My God!”
Nervously, she arranges the tray on his lap. Spills a few drops of milk. They spatter the old man’s arm. He jerks back, cursing her.
“I’m sorry, Charles.”
She starts to examine his arm, but he twists away from her. “Leave me alone! You’ve done enough damage.”
Her eyes search his face. “Why are you always so cruel to me?”
He snorts. “Cruel! You’re lucky I didn’t throw you out with Carrick. Believe me, I considered it.”
They both react to a thudding sound, muted but distinct. From below stairs.
“Somebody’s in the house,” Ansford declares.
With amazing agility, he slides his body from the bed into a wheelchair, opens the drawer of a night table, removing a .45 automatic. Checks the load. Satisfied, he wheels toward the door.
Laura steps in front of his chair, blocking him. “Don’t go out there. I’ll phone the police.”
“Get out of my way. I can handle this.”
He wheels to the door, opens it.
Panic in Laura’s voice. “Don’t go out there, Charles!”
Ansford ignores her, his eyes burning. He wheels down the dim hallway to the main stair landing. The marble steps drop away into darkness below him, wide and silent.
The old man takes the automatic from his lap, releasing the safety. “Anybody down there?”
Silence.
“Damn you, I’m coming!” And he eases the chair onto an elevator platform, reaching out to activate the mechanism.
A hand snakes from the darkness to close, viselike, on his gun wrist. Ansford cries out in pain—as the automatic clatters to the marbled landing.
“Carrick!”
“Right, you withered old bastard.” A harsh chuckle.
“You’re here to kill me!”
“Right again.” And Carrick jams the heels of both hands against the back of Ansford’s chair, propelling it forward with a violent shove. The wheelchair sails into blackness.
Ansford’s gasping cry is lost in the slamming descent of the heavy chair as it batters its way, twisting and rolling, to the bottom of the marble stairway.
There is now no sound.
In the silence, Laura stands at Ben’s shoulder, horror in her shocked eyes. “You’ve killed him!”
“He had an accident. Thought he heard a noise. Came out here to the stairs. Got frightened and put a wheel over the edge. Chair carried him down with it...”
As he says this, Carrick is descending the stairs. He reaches Ansford, checks the old man’s body. “... and the fall broke his neck.” He looks up at Laura, smiles thinly. “A tragic household accident.”
“Ben, I don’t—”
“You’ll report it all to the police. And they’ll believe you. No problems.”
She has joined Carrick at the bottom of the stairway. Laura stares at the broken body of her husband, motionless in the smashed chair. One of the chrome wheels continues to revolve slowly, glinting faintly in the light from the upper hallway. The old man’s eyes stare back at her, wide and unblinking. His head is twisted at a sickening angle.
“I won’t do it, Ben. I won’t lie to save you.”
“Sure you will.” he says. “Because you hated him as much as I did.”
She is sobbing, head lowered.
“I’m leaving now.” Carrick tells her. “Nobody saw me come here tonight. And nobody will see me go. Once I’m clear, phone the police. Okay?”
She raises her head, staring at him, the shock still in her eyes.
Ben takes her firmly by the shoulders, pulls her close to him. His tone is intense, commanding. “Just do as I say and we’re out of this, free and clear. Will you do as I say?”
Numbly, with a half-sob, she nods.
A narrow blacktop ribbon, looping below sun-spangled autumn trees. The orange GT Mustang, Ben driving, with Laura beside him, hums smoothly around a long turn.
“I’m not sure this is right... us driving down together,” says Laura. “As district manager of Ansford Enterprises I’m expected at the old boy’s funeral. And, as a gesture of courtesy, I volunteer to drive the grief-stricken widow to the ceremony. All perfectly normal.”
“How do you know he didn’t tell anyone he was firing you?”
“Because he didn’t want to admit that you and I were having an affair. I’ve checked around—and no one knows. He would have announced my resignation, with deep regret, at the stockholders meeting next week.” Ben grins. “It’s like I said, we’re in the clear.”
“The police seemed to accept what I told them—but I’m not a very good liar. I hate doing it.”
“You did great. They bought the accident story, just like I knew they would. No problems.” He glances over at her, runs the fingers of his left hand along her cheek, “And I do love you.”
She smiles at him, A tentative, nervous smile. “I want to believe that, Ben. I really want to.”
The GT rolls into a graveled parking lot, pulling to a stop behind a painted sign, red script on white:
SUTTER CREEK INN
Famous For New England
Hospitality since 1890
WELCOME!
Ben and Laura exit the Mustang and walk inside the trim Colonial style building. A hostess leads them to a booth at the far side of the long dining/bar area. The room is warm with color, old-worldly, with a beamed-oak ceiling and heavy gilt mirrors.
Laura begins to relax as a waitress in starched green, with lace at her throat, takes their drink order: a Manhattan, straight up, for Laura; Scotch rocks for Ben.
At the bar, three men eye the couple. The tallest of the trio, Brig Rollins, leans toward his two companions. “Well willya lookee there. Never seen them two in here before.”
Ted Aker stares at them, finishing his whiskey with a quick swallow. “In for the funeral, most likely. Wouldn’t you say, Arly?”
Lean and unshaven, Arly Stubbs narrows his dark eyes to study the newcomers. “Real fine folks, those two. And dressed real fine. Yeah... down from Boston sure enough. Seems as like I’ve seen that lady’s picture in the paper.”
Rollins nods. “Me too. By damn, I think she’s Ansford’s widow woman.”
“Oughta go over there an’ innerduce yourseff, Arly,” Ted Aker tells him. “Seein as how you’ll he plantin’ her mister tomorrow.”
Rollins and Aker exchange grins.
“What you figure to get off the old man, Arly?” Aker wants to know. “New watch, maybe? Silver tieclip?”
“I’m an honest man,” protests Arly. “I just do my job.”
“Yeah,” says Rollins. “I hear you do a job on them stiffs, once they’re proper buried.”
Aker chuckles. “Little extra diggin at night, eh Arly? Kinda like your own personal treasure hunt.”
“Shut your holes!” Arly’s face is flushed with anger. His eyes are slitted.
He pushes his stool back and walks over to Ben and Laura. They look at him as he smiles down at them, a gold tooth glinting in his lower jaw. “Hi, there, folks. Welcome to Sutter Creek.”
“Who are you?” Ben asks.
“Arly’s the name. Arly Stubbs. I caretake out at the cemetery.” He fixes his dark eyes on La
ura. “You’d be Mrs. Ansford—am I right?”
“I’m Laura Ansford.” she says.
“Well, now...” He wipes his hand along the edge of his trousers, extending it toward her. “Real proud to meetcha.”
Laura ignores the grimed hand. Arly slides into the booth, facing them. “I’ll be buryin’ your mister out at Summervale. The cemetery, that is.”
Ben gives him a hard look. “We prefer to be alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, I can understand that, me bein’ a stranger to you an’ all—but I figure you oughta listen to what I got to say.”
“And just what is that?” asks Ben, with an edge to his tone.
“It’s about the plantin’... the burial. I got orders to put the deceased in the Old South Yard.”
Laura nods. “That’s what my husband wanted. His parents are there—and it was his wish to be buried in the Ansford family plot. Is there any problem?”
Arly scratches his chin with a dirty-nailed finger. “It’s just that the Old South Yard has been closed for years now. Kinda dangerous. Grounds all ate out.”
Laura frowns. “I don’t follow you.”
“Well, ma’am, it’s the rats. They got tunnels dug all through that section. Real active they are.”
“Doesn’t every cemetery have a few?” Ben asks.
“Oh, these ain’t a few. Must be...” More scratching. “Thousands of ’em. An’ big, too. You’d be sorely surprised.”
“Can’t you eliminate them?”
“Well sir, we tried poison... traps... the lot.” Arly shakes his head. “Don’t do much good, though. They just keep on breedin’ down there.”
“Sounds dreadful,” Laura says.
Ben pats her arm. “I’m sure this man is exaggerating the situation.”
“No, mister, nosir! I’m givin’ you gospel. You take that coffin you folks got him in. Won’t last long down there. He should be in one of our all-steel jobs.”
Ben laughs harshly. “Now I get it. You come over here and give us your rat-scare story—and we’re supposed to buy an expensive new coffin from which you make a fat commission.”
Arly looks offended. “I was just tryin’ to do you folks a favor.”
“Then do us one.” Ben snaps. “Leave us alone.”
Arly stands. His face is pale. “All right, then... I’ll see you tomorrow at the buryin’... sorry to have bothered you.”
And he walks back to his bar friends.
Watching him go, Laura shudders. “I’ll be glad when all this is over.”
“By tomorrow night we’ll be back in Boston.” Carrick assures her. He smiles coldly, his voice soft. “And if the rats want old Ansford, they’re welcome to him.”
The South Yard at Summervale. This section of the cemetery is in ruin. High grass, vines and heavy brush intermesh over the chipped, slanted stone grave markers. The grass has been cut back from the Ansford family plot, creating a raw-earth starkness.
Ben and Laura stand among the group of mourners. A flower-draped coffin of polished oak rests on stretched webbing above the open burial trench as a bony minister in black completes his eulogy. “... and thus we consign the body of Thy faithful servant, Charles Murdock Ansford, to the good earth that he may sleep content in the bosom of his family. Ashes to ashes... dust to dust. Amen.”
The minister raises a hand, and Arly Stubbs begins to lower the coffin into its dark slot.
Ben takes Laura’s arm, leading her away from the burial site, back toward the parked Mustang. A somber-faced man falls into step beside them. The estate lawyer, Peter Janeings. He speaks in a low, respectful tone. “Are you all right, Mrs. Ansford?”
She nods. “Yes, Peter. Thanks to Mr. Carrick. He’s been a great help to me.”
“The will is scheduled to be read tomorrow at our office. At two. If you feel that this is too soon, we could delay it until—”
“No, no. Tomorrow is fine. Ben will drive me over.”
“Then I’ll see you there.” He nods at Carrick and moves off to his black Mercedes convertible.
Ben and Laura exchange glances. She frowns. “I think he may suspect something.”
Garricks eyes flash. “I don’t give a damn what he suspects. He can’t prove anything. Nobody can. Just relax. Were on the last lap.”
Spading fresh earth over the coffin, Arly Stubbs watches them drive away in the orange Mustang. The corners of his mouth twist up into a thin smile.
He spits contemptuously into the grave.
Cork walls, accented by gold-framed hunting prints, deep wine carpet, a Bach concerto, softly-muted, pulsing from hidden ceiling speakers. The waiting room of Janeings and Lang.
Ben is riffling nervously through a copy of Forbes. Now he tosses the magazine aside as Laura emerges from the inner office. She looks stunned, shaken.
They leave the law office, walk down the long corridor toward the elevators. “Well, how did it go?”
“Dandy. Just dandy.” Her tone is tinged with sarcasm.
“Any surprises?”
“One or two.”
“He did leave everything to you, didn’t he?”
“Of course. Except, in this case, everything is nothing.”
Ben stops walking, stares at her. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying there’s nothing left.”
“But, the company... the stock...”
“The company is virtually worthless. A hollow shell. Charles has been quietly converting everything into cash over the past six months... merchandise, equipment, stock shares.”
“Then where’s the cash?”
“The records indicate that he transferred it to a coded Swiss account somwhere in Zürich.” She looks at him with numbed eyes. “And we can’t touch the money.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because the code book is missing. Janeings saw it once. Charles kept all the account data in it.”
“Well, all we have to do is find it.”
“We’re not going to find it, Ben. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Charles left a note in the wall safe of his office, saying that he had burned the codebook. There was another envelope with the note...” Her tone is flat, defeated, “... filled with ashes.”
Carrick is silent as he drives Laura back to Ansford House. He’s stunned by the loss of the prize within his grasp.
“We have each other, Ben.” Laura is telling him. “We don’t need his money Maybe this is the way things were meant to go for us.”
“The old bastard did it on purpose. He burned that codebook to keep you or anybody else from—” Suddenly he swerves the GT to the curb, turns to face her, his eyes shining.
“What’s wrong?”
“Look...” he says, “this thing just doesn’t make sense. Ansford had no idea of dying—and as long as he was alive he’d never destroy the code.”
“But the note... the ashes...”
“To throw you off in case he did die suddenly—of a heart attack or a stroke. He didn’t want you to have his money. He burned the codebook all right—but the code still exists.”
“What makes you think so?”
Ben’s tone is intense. “He was a photography nut. It was a big hobby of his. The way he planted those hidden cameras to record our love-making... He enjoyed fiddling around with cameras.”
“But, Ben, I still don’t see—”
“It’s simple. He microfilmed the code.”
She stares at him.
“All we’ve got to do,” he says, “is find the piece of microfilm with the bank numbers on it. That’s our solution to the Zürich problem.”
“But if you’re right he could have hidden it anywhere in the house—or the office.”
Ben shakes his head. His eyes are fierce. “No, not Ansford. The old fox would keep it on him.” He grips her arm. “You buried him with that fancy antique of his, didn’t you? The biggold pocket watch?”
“Yes. He left instructions that he be buried wearing it.”
<
br /> Ben smiles broadly. “Well, there you are! The strip of microfilm is inside that watch. I’d stake my life on it!”
She glares at him, “Ben, I want this kind of talk to end right now. There’s no microfilm. That’s in your mind. It’s fantasy Charles kept the code in his notebook. He knew he was old and sick and might die soon, so he burned it—just to keep me from having his money. But what he didn’t know is I don’t care about the money, I care about you! Let’s just forget Charles and go away together, the way we planned. We don’t need his money!”
Ben is silent fora long moment. There is a gleam in his narrowed eyes as he makes an inner decision. Then his glance softens as he leans to kiss Laura’s cheek.
“I’m sorry, honey. Guess I just freaked out a little when you told me about that envelope full of ashes. Christ knows, I was counting on the money—but you’re right, we have each other. That’s the important thing—the two of us.”
“Do you really mean that, Ben?”
“Of course I mean it. If the damn money’s gone, then we just have to accept it. Besides, I can earn plenty on my own when I get established again.”
And he kisses her.
Laura has tears in her eyes.
The GT Mustang brakes to a stop in front of the main entrance to Ansford House. Ben and Laura get out and mount the wide veranda steps. At the door, he takes both of her hands in his, smiles at her. “You get packed while I arrange things in town. I’ll pick you up here in an hour, and we’ll head for New York. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful,” she says.
Carrick walks back to the Mustang, climbs inside, waves, drives off.
But not to Boston.
He takes the main highway north.
To Sutter Creek.
A wind is thrashing the trees along the highway as Bens car pulls up to the locked gates of Summervale Cemetery. It is night. Thunder cannons from the jetblack sky as Carrick gets out, carrying a flashlight, the collar of his suit coat turned up against a sudden spatter of rain.
He moves to the trunk of the GT, opens it, takes out a shovel. He tosses the shovel over the cemetery wall, then climbs up. Drops into the damp ground on the other side.
Things Beyond Midnight Page 18