Frustrated, he stepped out of the car, shuffled his boots around in the roadside dirt and kicked the front tire of the vehicle. He looked down at the boots with disgust. How did these western cowboys manage to wear them, anyway? He supposed they might feel different once they were broken in, but these brand spankin' new buckets of stiff leather had him yearning for his soft, Italian loafers. He could hardly wait to get back to the East Coast and leave this costume gig behind.
Which reminded him, time was running short. Sid had made it clear he needed to get into town, find a stash of sapphires and get back out before anyone became suspicious or, worse yet, found the real Sheriff Myers where he'd left him. Not to mention the fact that the gem conference was coming up fast. Sid needed time to set the stones. And options were limited for handling stolen jewels. There weren't many trustworthy crooks. He laughed out loud at the last thought. He should know.
He leaned back against the side of the patrol car and drew a pack of cigarettes from his vest. Pulling one out of the crumpled cellophane wrapper, he pressed it between his lips and lit it, cupping one hand around the tip to shield it from the wind. He inhaled and exhaled quickly, determined to figure things out. There had to be a way to get into the tunnel. If not inside the town, then where? Suddenly a smile curved up around the burning tobacco. Of course. He took one more drag, tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and smashed it flat with his boot. He jumped back into the car, fired up the ignition and drove back toward Timberton.
* * * *
Myers parked the patrol car in front of the cabin he'd been using as a temporary place to hole up. The weathered building had been the perfect spot for his makeshift living quarters. It was far enough out of Timberton and far enough from Utica to avoid attention. And its tool shed held every piece of equipment known to man and miner. Much of it was about to come in handy.
Thirty minutes later, he pulled into Timberton. The town was dark except for bright lights flowing from the hotel. Of course, that was where townsfolk would be gathering. He imagined the crowd growing as the news spread that the reporter was missing. They'd be sitting or pacing, drinking coffee and waiting for word from his latest updates on the search. As if he cared what happened to her. At least the drama was distracting the town's inhabitants.
He turned right just after passing the gem gallery, shut off the car's headlights, killed the engine and coasted down to the Timberton Trestle. Gravel popped beneath the tires as he edged the car under the pilings and stopped it. He'd packed most of the tools he needed in the trunk – a pick ax, lantern, flares, backpack, flashlight and ladder. He’d also piled the stretch of rope on the front seat, along with a tire iron and roll of duct tape. Betty had inadvertently warned him that he may have company. He'd barely opened the car door when he saw the grate swing forward. Hollister stepped out, a baffled, innocent look on his face that irritated Myers. How he hated the dumb guy's stupid expressions.
Myers put on the pretense of a smile for no more than ten seconds, the exact amount of time it took him to step casually from the car, tire iron hidden behind his back. Five seconds later, a quick blow to the side of the homeless man's head sent Hollister reeling to the ground. Myers dropped the metal tool and retrieved the rope from the car's front seat. Dragging the unconscious man to the grate, he tied his ankles and wrists together and then wound the rope in and out of the metal design. For good measure, he wrapped duct tape around the bindings and, though it hardly seemed necessary, plastered a thick strip across Hollister's mouth.
There were definite advantages to subduing a man who couldn't talk or scream. He rarely had that luxury back east. Most guys were cursing him out before they even knew he was about to take them down. This was tidy. No sound to attract any attention. It almost took the fun out it. But it didn't matter. He had work to do.
He opened the trunk and pulled out the lantern, placing it inside the compartment behind the grate. Blankets lay tossed on the left side of the space; piles of old clothing littered the floor to the right. The back wall appeared solid, but, thanks to the sketches Mist had given him, he knew better. At least he hoped he did.
The lantern cast a low light, illuminating the floor. Myers lifted it up to bring the glow higher, taking a good look at the wall’s surface. It was covered with indentations that looked like hand and fist prints, as well as scratches and scrapes that appeared to have been made by rocks or sticks. Had the town's homeless resident been trying to get through the wall, too? Did he know about the mining tunnel?
Back at the car, he lifted the pick ax out of the trunk and returned to the wall. Letting the tool hang at his side, he felt around the edges of the dirt, searching for cracks or crevices. Not finding any, he stood back, swung the pick ax over his shoulder and plunged it into the dirt. Only a few small clods fell to the ground. He attacked the surface again, with the same result. He paused and sighed. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jake returned to Paige’s room to search again, no longer worried about trespassing into her private territory. His only goal was to turn up clues that could help find her. Still, even focused as he was, he lost a good three seconds when he pulled a minuscule bikini top from her suitcase. Holding onto a thin spaghetti strap, he watched it dangle in front of his face, twirling below his fingertips. He could envision the snug fit of the soft, emerald green Lycra against her smooth skin.
He dropped the skimpy top and forced himself to stick to the task. The sheriff had to have missed something. Timberton wasn't a big enough town for someone to get lost. It was a tiny, crime-free community. And Jake refused to contemplate the possibility that Paige could have come to harm.
Pushing the clothing off to the side, Jake started digging through the pockets of the suitcase. It was remarkable how complex modern luggage had become. The suitcase he’d used when he was young for family trips had been nothing more than a rectangular box with an elastic-edged pouch against the inside back panel. It had clicked shut with a flat metal latch and opened when the sides of the lock were pressed. In contrast, the piece of luggage that sat before him now might as well have been an astronaut's suit. How many zippers and compartments did the thing have, anyway? Twenty? Thirty? One after another he unzipped each section, finding only shampoo, perfume, ponytail holders, a sewing kit and granola bars, nothing that would help him find Paige. Frustrated, he abandoned the suitcase and looked around the room.
The open dresser drawers were empty, reminding him that she wasn't staying long. That thought alone sent his spirits spiraling further downward, if that was possible. The only other obvious place to search was the writing desk, where notes and folders cascaded over the edges. A tornado could not have done a better job sending them flying than the shuffling that the sheriff had obviously done. Jake gathered a handful of scattered papers from the floor and threw them on top of the desk. He lifted up an overturned chair and sat, gathering the papers in front of him. Strange how violent the sheriff had been when he searched.
Most of the paperwork was what he expected – maps of the area and outlines for the article Paige was writing. There were photographs of different stages of gem processing, ranging from the rough stone brought up from the mines right up to the polished cut gem. The examples of dazzling, finished products were numerous and varied, far more so than he'd ever considered. His impressions of precious gems had always fallen into two categories: round and not-round. But the photos Paige had gathered told a different story, one that could keep a wealthy jewelry addict busy collecting for decades. Just the variety of gem stone cuts alone was an eye-opener – emerald, princess, pear, baguette, marquise, trillion, radiant, triangle, checkerboard and briolette. The list went on and on.
Jake set the photos and outline aside. He picked up a folder with “sapphire mining history” written on the front, flipped it open but found it empty. Maybe these pages were lost somewhere in the mess on Paige’s floor. Maybe the sheriff had taken the notes. There was no reas
on to think her disappearance had anything to do with the article. The outline was straightforward and obviously well researched. With the quantity of information Paige had accumulated during her short stay, he was surprised she wasn’t already on her way back to New York. Certainly she had enough for a newspaper article.
He indulged in a bit of male ego when he hoped part of her reason for lingering was to spend time with him. But, again, that had nothing to do with why she'd be missing. It had to be a result of the one trait that often got Paige into predicaments – curiosity. And what she’d been most curious about recently was Silas Wheeler's painting.
Jake stood up, rummaged quickly through the desk drawers and slammed them shut. He scanned the room’s furniture and decorative items until he saw the radiator. This triggered a memory of the first conversation he’d had with Paige about Wheeler’s diary. He rushed across the room, ran his hand down the wall behind the heating unit, found the loose panel of wallboard and cast it aside. He searched the hole inside the wall. Nothing was there. Only after flattening himself on the floor and looking under the bed did he find the old diary. Myers must have tossed it there during one of his hasty searches. Jake retrieved it, sat down and scanned the entries. They were all familiar from discussions with Paige.
Finding the diary would have been encouraging had it not been for an uneasy feeling developing in his gut. Why was the diary even there? Wouldn't the sheriff have thought it interesting enough to take with him? It was an obvious lead to follow. Something wasn't right.
Jake rushed back down the stairs, where he found Betty pacing and looking out the front window. Mist sat quietly in a lobby chair, arms extended, palms up, eyes closed. Betty faced him immediately as he stepped off the last few stairs. Mist remained immobile. Jake did a double take at Mist before focusing on Betty.
“Betty, do you know anything about that old diary Paige found?” Jake asked. “Why would the sheriff leave it behind?”
Betty looked puzzled. “What old diary?”
“The one Paige found in the wall. She pulled it out, but part of it tore off and fell back inside. She's been trying to find the rest of it the whole time she's been here. She didn't mention it to you?”
“I thought she was researching sapphire mining,” Betty said. “I don't know anything about a diary.” She paused as Jake's words sank in. “And what do you mean she found it in the wall?”
Mist had opened her eyes and watched Betty and Jake as they exchanged questions.
“Yes, she is researching sapphire mining for the article,” Jake said. “But she accidentally found an old diary inside the wall one night when she tried to figure out how to turn on the radiator.”
Jake ran a hand through his hair. Betty was too confused to respond.
“Anyway, she thinks it was written by the artist who painted the piece in Clive's gallery. And Clive wants to sell that painting to raise money to rebuild the café. So, Paige has been trying to find the rest of it.”
“I have the rest of it,” Mist said. “I found it in the laundry room where the wallboard was crumbling behind the dryer.”
Jake stared at Mist. “In the laundry room?”
“Yes. I wonder … Paige came in there looking for something. I thought she wanted towels. It must have been the diary. Do you need it?” Mist stood, ready to fetch the diary remnant.
Jake shook his head. “No, I don't think the diary itself has anything to do with finding her, especially not a section she hasn't seen. The thing that hits me as strange is that the portion she found is still in her room. I don't understand why the sheriff wouldn't have taken that with him. It looks like he took the notes on sapphire mining, but nothing else. Not even her cell phone.”
Now Jake was pacing. “If you were trying to find a person, wouldn't you take anything that might be a clue?” He stopped and looked at Betty and Mist
Betty was starting to see a bigger picture. “So Paige found a partial diary and was still searching for the missing part, hoping it would help Clive sell the painting to rebuild Moonglow? Is that what you're saying?”
Jake nodded. “Yes! So the question is where would she look?”
It was Mist who put the pieces together. “She didn't know I found the rest of the diary in the laundry room, so she would have kept looking for it. If she thought it had continued to fall, she would have tried another floor down.”
Mist stood up and looked at Betty. “Does the hotel have a basement?”
Betty gasped. “A basement? No, that's not possible! I mean, yes, we have a basement. But we don't use it because of water damage from that old boiler. The flooring isn't safe. I keep it locked for just that reason.” Betty grew more frantic with every word. “She wouldn't be able to get in there. For one thing, she wouldn't know where to find the key.”
Jake closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them again. “You don't know Paige. I've never met anyone as persistent in my life. If she was trying to get into the basement, she got in.” He leveled his gaze on Betty. “Where do you keep the key?”
Betty spun around and bolted for the kitchen with Jake and Mist close behind. She stopped when she saw all the supply boxes stacked up on the counter, paused and patted her hands against her cheeks, as if that would help her find the key. Each time she pressed her hands to her face, her cheeks puffed out like the underbelly of a frog. The gesture reminded Jake of the fish faces kids used to make in his elementary school.
“Betty?” Jake’s voice focused the hotelkeeper. She stepped forward to the sink, slid a box of groceries aside and eyed the hook where she kept keys. It was empty.
“Just as I thought,” Jake said. His tone was clipped. “Where's the door to the cellar?”
Betty did a quick about face. “Follow me.” Jake and Mist followed her down the main hallway to the rear of the building. The door to the cellar stood ajar, the jumbled keys hanging in the lock.
“Why wouldn't Sheriff Myers have said anything about this?” Betty said.
Jake didn't hesitate to answer. “Because he never bothered to look back here.”
“But he kept coming back to search the hotel!” Betty insisted.
“I'm sure he did,” Jake answered. “But he wasn't looking for Paige. He was just looking through her things.” His voice trailed off as he swung the door open and started down the stairs.
“Now I'm really mixed up,” Betty said.
Mist, too, looked bewildered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Paige moved sideways, keeping both hands pressed against the tunnel's wall. Her stomach growled from hunger, and her head pounded from exhaustion and worry. The gash on her forehead stung like a family of wasps had used it as target practice. She was growing cold and starting to shiver. How many hours had she been trapped underground? Six? Eight? Twelve? If only she had her cell phone on her. It was stupid leaving it in her room, but she hadn't planned on the extended trip she was taking. Would she even be in her current predicament if she had her phone? Probably not. Cell phone reception was fine in the hotel. One quick call could've had her out hours ago.
Her balance faltered as she reached the main tunnel. She'd been leaning against the wall with increasing weight and hadn't anticipated the end of the side passage. She reassessed her direction, determining the hotel was to her left. Rounding the corner, she continued, stopping every few feet to gather strength. It was becoming more difficult to get started again each time she took a break. Her legs trembled, and her mind was foggy. Beneath all these challenges, an inner voice pushed her forward.
She’d left the packages behind, unopened, although she suspected their contents. Aside from having no light, there was no reason to tackle them immediately. If she got out alive – was she really thinking 'if' – she'd be able to check them out later. If she didn't make it out – was that dreadful thought even a possibility? – it wouldn't matter if the packages contained mediocre paintings by Silas Wheeler or masterpieces by Renoir.
Minutes passed, or
were they hours? Her arms grew too heavy to hold up. She resorted to leaning against the wall, her cheek scraping against the dirt as she pushed forward. Her legs were numb. She inched ahead, shuffling clumsily.
Eventually, she paused and let her eyelids flicker open. Was she imagining it or was there a trace of light ahead? She tried to calculate the distance she'd covered. Her skin was raw from sliding against the tunnel's wall, and her mind had grown increasingly clouded. But it seemed the reasonable conclusion – she was nearing the section below the hotel.
Encouraged, she pried herself off the wall and took an eager step forward, only to see the glow shift upward as her foot caught on debris and sent her tumbling to the ground. Her head struck a jagged rock, and the light faded away altogether as she lapsed into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Myers leveled blows against the hard surface, watching as the mound of dirt at the base of the wall grew. Beneath his uniform, sweat poured down his back. Even the cold night air was no match for the exertion required to dig into the tunnel. He'd tossed his jacket aside not long after taking the first few swings with the pick ax.
There was no turning back now that he had the old homeless guy tied up. He'd already wasted the better part of a week trying to find the gallery's sapphire source. He was running out of time. Any day now a police supervisor could show up in town to check on the real Sheriff Myers. He needed to be long gone by then.
Irritated, he directed his frustration into attacking the wall. Sid's plan had gotten a lot more complicated than it was supposed to be. Now he had the old man to deal with and, on top of that, was supposed to be finding the reporter. Even though her disappearance had given him an excuse to search the area for the sapphires, the townsfolk still expected him to show up with her safe and sound at some point. Her nosy nature might have made her suspicious of him already. They hadn't hit it off too well the night of the fire. That could mean another messy situation he'd have to deal with.
Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set Page 36