A Lethal Time (A Samantha Jamison Mystery Volume 4) (3 page)

Chapter 7

The Victims

I figured it couldn’t be that bad and peered around Clay to see for myself. “Oh!” I said shakily, stepping back.

He grabbed my arm to steady me. “Are you okay?”

I was sickened by the grizzly scene before us as several annoying flies buzzed around. “Look at all that blood!” It was splattered on every conceivable surface surrounding the battered raccoon, including the wall. “Who did this?”

“Obviously someone who doesn’t like raccoons.”

I turned, trying not to dwell on the visuals, needing an out and ventured away from Clay while he looked around the room, opening drawers. With my hand over my nose, I left him and continued on to the next room.

There wasn’t a real hallway on the second floor. You walked through one room to the next, all having narrow doors and low ceilings. The next room was similar in size, but had discarded clothing strewn about mixed with several bird-watching magazines.

Was this
Robinson’s room and this his hobby?

I moved on to what was the only bathroom in the house and stopped cold, my hand dropping to my side in shock.

“Uh, oh. Clay, I found something.”

“What?” he yelled from the other room.

“It’s in the bathtub.”

His voice was getting closer to me. “What is?”

“The dead guy who forgot to take his clothes off.”

Clay rounded the corner, edged by me, and then leaned over the shabbily-dressed man. “Call the police, Sam.”

“Vagrant?” I asked, again covering my nose and mouth.

“Most likely. Word spreads fast when a house is left unattended and vacant for such a long time.”

Singlehandedly, I grabbed my cell and called, while Clay began searching through some of the man’s pockets.

“Hmm,” he mumbled as I reported the address.

“What?” I asked after hanging up.

Clay turned to look at me, while shoving away an empty whiskey bottle. “You
do not
see me doing this, do you?”

I thought that over, thinking Clay must know what he was doing. I was curious, too, but still…“Are you sure?”

“Trust me,” he said, searching, but after a minute, he came up empty. “Nothing, just that nasty bite on his arm.”

An hour later, the police carried old Harry in a body bag down the narrow stairs. He was the local vagrant they hadn’t seen around the last few days. He was still holding the bloody stick he’d used to fight off the probably rabid raccoon, and died while drinking and still on guard.

They would do the necessary tests, but it sure looked that way to the police officer. They were well aware of the vacant house, constantly chasing kids away, and glad Sally and Tom had bought it to finally clean the place up.

Being a small town, and after some questions about what we found, and showing identification to verify who we were, the police then checked us out via phone with Sally and Tom, who they knew personally. We were then
politely
asked to leave. They said once the raccoon was taken away and pictures were shot of the scene, we could come back to finish going through the rest of the house for Sally and Tom. And as far as the deaths were concerned, this time it appeared to be nothing more than an unfortunate run-in between a vagrant and a rabid raccoon.

Chapter 8

Digesting Disappointment & Surprises

Reluctantly, we returned home, both of us disappointed that we weren’t allowed to continue further our search of Robinson’s house. It would have to wait until later. I doubted we would find much more anyway. The house appeared as though it had been gone through, most likely by relatives looking for anything valuable, and of course, poor dead Harry, probably looking for anything wearable.

Still, I was chafing at the bit to get back. Clay was more reasonable. He reminded me that if we made a big stink, the authorities might take a much closer look. For now, the local police were satisfied it was a B & E by a vagrant, ‘a likable one at that,’ they said.

When we returned to Sally’s farmhouse, we saw two Harley motorcycles parked in the upper graveled area. We parked alongside them and got off Clay’s Harley, curious and looking around for who arrived while we were gone. Within seconds, I heard voices traveling from the back of the house through the breezeway that attached to the old barn. Walking ahead of me, Clay stopped short and turned back wearing an odd look, and then he grinned.

I was still clueless. “What gives?”

He gave me a knowing wink. “We’ve got company.”

As I got closer, I realized why Clay was smiling. I tried to keep it neutral when I saw them, but couldn’t pull it off. The visuals alone were priceless. I started laughing, already mentally typing for future use what I was staring at.

“Well, ain’t these some digs,” said that familiar voice.

In her early seventies, Martha was like that loose thread on your sweater. Once you were snagged, eventually everything began unraveling, including your sanity.

Right behind Martha was Crystal, then Hazel and Betty. Now, I don’t know if any of you have seen any of those spaghetti westerns Clint Eastwood starred in, but I thought I was looking at one, checking out Hazel and Betty, who wore long western style coats like his and…
goggles?

I laughed once again. “Well, this is a surprise,” I said, hugging each one of them. “Did you ride all the way here?”

Martha laughed. “Why? Does my hair look messed up?”

Now, that was a loaded question, I thought staring at her spiky-white hair. That’s when I noticed her leather chaps.

“Tell me you didn’t drive one of these motorcycles!”

“That’s right. I just got it, figuring, if I can drive a moped, I’d step up to a Harley. Life is too short!”

Crystal, swinging her brown ponytail and wearing her usual tight jeans, tee, leather vest, and traveling tattoos, said, “Now, did you seriously think I could pass up an opportunity for this motorcycle rally with all these empty bedrooms at my cousin’s just waiting to be occupied?”

“My, my, Samantha,” said Hazel, her well-manicured chubby fingers combing through her gray, curly hair. “This place is perfect! I sure need a rest after riding with Martha.”

Betty, taller and on the lean side, methodically removed her goggles and smoothed back her gray-streaked bun.

“You lost the bet, remember, Hazel? Loser rode with Evil Knievel here,” she said, nodding toward Martha.

Lately, to my surprise, I’d discovered those two sweet old ladies, Hazel and Betty, took to solving mysteries like ducks to water, proving to be a valuable asset to have around, iPads and all. Now Martha was another story.

The only people missing were my agent and editor, who would probably be shaking their heads, and warning me this might lead to serious trouble. Then again, after giving it some serious thought, they might think it could be the start of a very interesting and moneymaking book.

Martha merely laughed at their jab, then said to me, “I knew you’d miss us. Now that we’re here, you’ve got all your bases covered.”

I rubbed my temple, which was twitching already.

Yeah, including my privacy.

Chapter 9

Commentary At The Crime Scene

Now, why did I think I could escape what had followed me for three books? They, meaning the four of them, were bound to my hip, like a clue was to a mystery. How would any puzzles be solved without them, especially mine?

I made a follow-up call to Sally and Tom, who confirmed it was fine with them that my friends stay at the farm. They were looking forward to seeing Crystal again, a favorite cousin of Sally’s. Suspicious as always, I still had reservations. Why wasn’t Crystal housesitting instead? I had to corner her alone later to find out why, but I was sure, as usual, she’d give me a complicated explanation.

Robinson’s homestead was around the corner and ran the full length of Sally’s property on the backside. Hers was about a block long, from street to street. In order to get to his property by car, which Clay and I had done, you had to make a left out of Sally’s driveway, go to the next street, make another left turn, and then travel down the hill on the unpaved, dusty road until you got to Robinson’s property.

I imagine you could, with a compass and some time, cut through Sally’s dense woods and climb over fallen trees to get to Robinson’s, but to me it just wasn’t worth the hike. I’d rather take the straightforward route of the streets.

We were all piled into an old pickup Sally left for us to use, finding it under her barn with the keys still in the ignition. Since it was a beautiful, sunny day, Crystal, Martha, Hazel, and Betty preferred riding in the open bed of the truck. Clay drove and I rode shotgun.

After parking on the previously trampled-down weeds, we climbed out and made for the back door. Clay and I had filled everyone in on what was going on at Robinson’s. And with the go ahead of the police, they couldn’t wait to see the crime scene and interior of the house.

IPads and iPhones at the ready, we all ventured inside, single file. I expected something to be said about the lingering, foul odor, but apparently Clay had already warned them. Heads were ducked and bodies sidestepped up the narrow stairs that led to the bedrooms.

No one spoke for a moment while everyone took in the visuals of the blood-splattered walls and bed covers. Then all you heard and saw were clicks and flashes, documenting everything minus the raccoon and Harry. Clay gave a walking commentary of what happened as we all filed from room to room, finally ending up in the small bathroom with everyone staring down at the infamous, blood-stained tub.

I’d never look at a claw-foot tub the same way again.

Martha elbowed her way to the forefront, snapped a few pictures, and then stood there. “Rabies! Unbelievable! And those little critters look so cute wearing their masks.”

I agreed, nodding. “Cute didn’t cut it this time, did it?”

Chapter 10

Taking A Stab At The Truth

We all got to work, searching through the numerous dressers and cabinets. Moving on, we eventually made our way downstairs, cutting through the dining area. I noticed a narrow door off to the side of a built-in china cabinet.

“Hey, guys, wait a minute while I check out this closet.”

To my surprise, it wasn’t a closet. It led to another room, Mr. Robinson’s by the look of it. I thought his was upstairs where the bird-watching books were. Why didn’t I notice this before?

Then I realized that from the outside, I had figured his bedroom window was the dining room, and with the door being so narrow, we’d all assumed it was a small closet, one of the few in the entire house. We started to open drawers and built-in cabinets and were rewarded by an assortment of World War II photographs. I flipped through some. These weren’t everyday photos, but appeared to be close-ups of the East German Army. Many were duplicates.

What was the purpose of that?

“Hey, come over here and take a look,” said Clay.

We all joined him at the small bookcase.

“It was hidden behind these other books. It’s a handwritten book in what appears to be German script, written in pen with a hand-sewn binding.”

I turned some of the pages. “Why would he hide this?”

“Maybe it’s stolen. Let me check with a book expert.”

“Good idea. Let’s see what else is here.”

Everyone went back to methodically tossing one article after another onto the bed not wanting to miss a thing. The only interesting item was a photo of a younger Robinson in an American army uniform, sitting in a jeep. It was labeled.

“Hey,” Martha called out from across the room. “Looks like someone made a false-bottom to this drawer.” She pulled on a latch and it lifted. “Well, looky here! It’s a bunch of old daggers with German writing on them.”

Crystal grabbed one, examining it. “Why hide them in there? Doesn’t make sense.” She turned it over. “How do we tell if they’re real or not?”

“Maybe a collector would know,” I said. “Let’s take one and go, hopefully the rest will be safe for now. It’s almost dark and getting hard to see without electricity hooked up.”

Later that evening, after a light supper of Caesar salad laced with chicken that received a thumbs-up, we were still discussing those strange daggers, while polishing off the last bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and trying to figure out what was going on over at Robinson’s house.

“What are your thoughts, guys?” I asked, trying to come up with possibilities myself.

“Having all those daggers is not normal,” said Hazel.

“What would he be doing with that many?” Betty asked.

“I’ve heard of guys bringing home souvenirs from the war, but that looked like more than one man alone would find and drag home,” said Martha. “Think they’re phony?”

I nodded. “That’s a good probability.”

“But why hide them?” asked Betty.

“For a shady business venture, maybe?” Clay ventured.

Being tired, everyone left it at that and said goodnight.

Hmm… A history professor selling phony daggers?

…Well, why not?

I stayed up late that night in Sally’s library. The whole Robinson thing felt like a great storyline for my next book. Clay was used to me wandering off until the wee hours with my laptop. He knew how I got when the story was flowing and I didn’t want to forget or leave out anything while it was still fresh in my mind.

What intrigued me was that some questions were beginning to accumulate in the unexplainable column. That usually meant something was going on that didn’t feel right. And when it didn’t feel right, I had to dig deeper.

I know, I know, I’m looking for trouble.

But after finding an old handwritten German book, war photos, daggers, including one bludgeoned, dead raccoon, and dearly-departed Harry, what would you do, just sit there? Besides, nothing was going to surprise me, now. I’d probably seen the worst of what was out there. But a pushy voice deep inside me kept saying,
‘Ha! Think again.’