Blackvine Manor Mystery (6 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING ALEXIS
IS awakened by the sound of hammering. Rolling over in preparation to be indignant, she realizes it is already 9 a.m. Quietly agreeing with her father’s voice in her head, she decides to spend the day thinking about the future. Her severance package runs out in two weeks and Maxwell already thinks she’s a con artist. She’d hate for him to turn out to be right.

Sleep is now impossible so she gets up and goes to the window. “No. Oh no!”

She watches Maxwell finish pounding a “For Sale” sign into the lawn of Blackvine Manor Apartments before flinging the sledgehammer in his trunk and slamming it shut. He then leans on the trunk with his back to the building and waits.

He’s still waiting, refusing to set foot inside, when Alexis finishes getting dressed. She’s about to charge outside and confront him when she sees a town car slide up to the curb behind Maxwell’s car. A man gets out and shakes his hand before they both proceed towards the front door.

Her worst fears are confirmed when she opens her door a crack and hears them coming up the stairwell. “Most of the apartments are currently rented, a new roof was put on three years ago, and the neighborhood is very desirable. I’ll show you the penthouse apartment first. It really is the crown of Blackvine Manor.”

Alexis panics and steps out into the hallway, pretending to be on her way somewhere. “Oh, good morning.”

Maxwell clenches his jaw but manages, “Mr. Wells, this is Alexis Cole, our newest resident. She hasn’t let the foolish ghost stories scare her off. Those kind of rumors and make believe aren’t really a factor in real life here.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Cole,” the man says awkwardly.

“Mr. Wells is thinking of buying the building.” Maxwell slides a hand out and, using his forearm, gently pushes her aside so Mr. Wells can pass.

The potential buyer looks like he wants to say something else to Alexis but pops his mouth closed and continues down the hallway. She watches, frozen, until they open the wide door and climb upstairs to the penthouse. In seconds she is ripping off her shoes and running down the hallway to hear what they are saying.

“Was that the Miss Cole from the news stories?”

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t look like addiction is a problem in her life, does she? Maybe she can actually see what other people can’t?” Mr. Wells wonders aloud.

Maxwell ignores his train of thought completely. “Here is the penthouse. As you can see, it is spectacular when the sun hits the cupola. Actually it is light and sunny up here all day.”

Alexis peeks her head just over the stair rail, far enough to confirm what was hinted at last night. The penthouse glows with comfortable elegance. Even empty it is warm and inviting.

The potential buyer sniffles slightly. “My sister would have loved it.”

“Would have?” Maxwell pauses after opening the French doors to the dining room.

Mr. Wells continues, almost to himself, though loud enough that Alexis can hear, “She loved plants, and reading, and was always writing letters. Anywhere she lived was always sunny and bright.”

Maxwell clears his throat quietly then coughs outright when Mr. Wells turns to him and makes a wildly generous offer to buy the building. “You have a deal. I’m so glad you love the place so much. I’m sure your sister will love it.”

“Oh, my dearly departed sister won’t be seeing it. I plan to raze the building and develop a shopping center.” He turns on his heel and heads towards the stairs.

Alexis makes it down to the second floor just in time, rushing to George’s door. He opens it, looking blurry-eyed and confused.

“He’s selling the place. There’s already an offer.” Alexis pushes into George’s apartment and perches on a chair covered in extension cords.

“What place?”

“Blackvine Manor! Maxwell is selling it. And if he does I’m never going to find out what happened to my mother.”

George pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Nothing much will change; the new owner can’t kick us out. He might change the hallway carpet or something.”

“I just heard the new owner say he’s going to raze the building and develop a shopping center! George, what are we going to do?”

“Check the zoning? I don’t think he can do that here.” George puts both hands on top of his wild, black hair. “Or convince the world this place is really haunted.”

He warms to the idea. “If we capture real evidence maybe it will scare the buyer away or convince him this place is worth more than a strip mall. I’ll make us a website and ghost-hunters from all over will want to check it out. They’ll pay for tours.”

Alexis jumps up. “Okay. You get all your equipment ready for tonight.”

“Where are you going?”

“To learn everything about ghost hunting, we’re going to prove this place is haunted tonight.”

“
T
HIS IS CRAZY
,” ALEXIS SAYS, feeling tight-throated. “It’s a long shot even if we capture anything. Maxwell wants this place sold and advertising real ghosts is not going to save it.”

She and George have been sitting on the bench in the courtyard for nearly four hours with nothing to show but boredom and worry.

“We could try putting it on the national registry of historic places?” George wonders.

“What history? A woman whose own family let her disappear without a fuss and has kept quiet even after she was found?” Alexis sweeps both hands over her hair and slumps further down on the bench.

“What?” she whispers back at George who is suddenly slumping down next to her.

“The camera is picking something up.”

“What about the thermal?”

George smiles. “Hey, listen to you. You really did your ghost-hunting homework.”

Alexis checks that her digital recorder is working in case there is any Electronic Voice Phenomenon, “Yes, I need real, legitimate, concrete evidence. Then we can use it to save this place.”

“You said ‘I’,” George whispers.

She scowls at him. “Yes, alright, I’ll admit it. And I want to prove I’m not crazy.”

George turns a handheld camera on her, “So, tell me what you are sensing and hopefully all this equipment can back it up.”

Alexis takes a few breaths, worrying she is too anxious to be open to any communication. “Wait, do you see that?”

“What?” George keeps the camera steady on her.

“A mist. It’s Fenton. Delia is waiting for him on the bench. He’s tearing up a note. Angry, very angry.”

She doesn’t see the thermal camera picking up two figures near the fountain as she continues. “She’s helping him but he’s still angry, threatening to do something.”

“Can you see anyone else?” George tries to ask casually despite the obvious third figure appearing on the thermal camera.

Alexis whimpers, “My mother. She’s looking out the window. He sees her! Oh, God.”

She shakes her head, fumbling with the digital recorder in her hand. “Please be there.”

She hits play on the recorder and they hear Alexis speaking. In the static between her observations an angry voice breaks through.

“No witnesses!”

* * *

M
axwell refuses
to open the door all the way. “What are you doing here?”

“You buzzed me up,” Alexis points out, standing in the hallway of Maxwell’s condominium. “The least you can do is hear what I have to say.”

“I know what you and George are trying to do, and I don’t care what shadows and bad audio you managed to capture.”

Alexis bites her lip but says evenly, “It’s about what I found in the files you gave me to review. Unless you want me to return them to your grandfather myself.”

“Fine. Tell me.” He leaves the door open and strolls down the long hallway to his kitchen.

Alexis notes the stylishly updated loft, its towering ceilings and exposed brick the hallmarks of an expensively repurposed warehouse. A warehouse specializing in the packaging and distribution of war rations for soldiers, she notes, and then wonders how she knows that for certain.

The kitchen is a wide L-shape, open to the living room around a substantial granite-topped island. Maxwell leans on the far counter, keeping the island between himself and Alexis.

She slaps the file down on the black granite and tells him, “They could never prove that Fenton was the jewel thief because he never sold any of it.”

“I saw enough of the file to know he was sent to jail.”

“They finally caught him trespassing. He had jewelry on him that he claimed to have found. Between those things and a judge who was from the social circle targeted by Fenton’s thefts, he was imprisoned.”

Maxwell crosses his arms. “I know this little fairy tale, it’s local legend. Debonair burglar sentenced by crooked judge before he can become Robin Hood.”

Alexis opens the file and sifts through it. “He even got letters while in prison. Love letters like this one.”

She points to an evidence photograph and Maxwell pushes off the kitchen counter to come look at it. He shrugs and stands in front of her, his arms still crossed.

“Does the handwriting look familiar?”

“Just get to the point, Ms. Cole.”

Alexis balls up her fist and taps it on the police file. “Delia and Fenton went to school together. I proved that. Delia wrote coded letters to Fenton; the evidence is right here. So, it is not a crazy theory to think she helped him hide his stash of jewelry. And from that theory it is not a far leap to think she hid it at Blackvine Manor.”

Maxwell uncrosses his arms, putting his hands down heavily on the black granite. “I’m still selling it. And what does any of this have to do with finding your mother? That’s what you’re really after.”

She steps back. “You really think I planted those photographs? Why wouldn’t I just ask you if you remembered Amelia Tennon?”

“Exactly,” he says, unmoved.

Alexis turns and strides towards the door. Maxwell catches up to her easily and puts a hand on the door over her head before she can open it.

“What, no more ghost stories? What is your game, Ms. Cole?”

This close up she can see his pain and doubt, and feel the heat of their attraction. She shoves at his chest in frustration.

“This isn’t a game. I may be hearing and seeing things you don’t believe in. You may not believe in me, Maxwell, but I will find the evidence I need with or without your help.”

She yanks open the door and steps into the hallway.

“The least you can see is that Delia’s death and my mother’s disappearance happened at the same time and the same location. The same time and place that a notorious thief made his last appearances in public.”

Maxwell lets his shoulders fall. “Fine, at least tell me your theory.”

“Delia was helping Fenton hide his stash; my mother witnessed their meeting. She made the mistake of telling Otto. Either Otto killed Delia out of jealousy or Fenton killed Delia to keep his secret. And my mother ran.”

“Alright, now how are you going to prove that?”

“Gotta run,” Alexis tells him, “your grandfather is expecting me.”

“
C
OME ON IN
,” OTTO CHARLES yells before he reaches the door.

Alexis steps inside and immediately turns to lock the door behind her. “Sorry, I think we might get interrupted soon.”

She backs against the door, fumbling to unlock it when a German Shepherd comes around the corner, lowering its head and locking eyes with her.

“He likes you,” Otto chuckles before calling off his dog. “Come on, Johnny.”

Otto waves a hand for her to follow and shuffles back to his armchair in the living room. “Let me guess, my grandson. Not much of a talker but the ladies tell me he’s handsome.”

She joins him in the living room, sitting on the edge of the worn leather sofa.

“And you’re quite lovely,” he whistles. “The drugs haven’t done a number on you. Rehab must really be working, huh?”

Alexis pauses and swallows her angry retort. Otto’s eyes are twinkling without malice. She can’t reconcile her suspicions with his clear blue gaze and quiet charm. He reminds her of Maxwell, except he is sharper, chiseled by the sense of purpose that has driven his well-known career.

“I can’t wait for fake rehab to redeem me from problems I never had.”

Otto glances at his watch, pops open a pill bottle on the tray next to him, and knocks back two pills with the rest of the bottled beer he is drinking. “Look, sweetheart, I can understand you wanting to clear your name and all but you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m old, addled, and not about to open up the can of worms you’re pawing at.”

Alexis stands up and pulls the delicate envelope from her purse. “I just need you to look at a few pictures.”

He pulls back his hand as she approaches. “Is that a rose imprint?”

She notices the stamped mark on the flap of the envelope for the first time. A rose wrapped, thorns and all, around the capital letter ‘D’.

“Where did you get those?” Otto folds his hands on his lap, refusing to take the envelope.

“At Blackvine Manor.”

“Where?”

“The compartment in the window seat of the penthouse apartment. You used to live there so I thought there was a good chance these are yours. Even an alleged drug addict could figure that out.”

Otto scowls slightly and reaches for the photographs. “How exactly did you get in there?”

“I know the guy with the keys, remember?”

There is a pounding knock on the door and Maxwell calls out, “Otto, I know you’re both in there. Open up.”

Johnny barks wildly until Otto drops a hand and snaps. The German Shepherd growls once in defiance before settling back onto his bed, eyes riveted on the door.

“Let him bruise his knuckles,” Otto tells her as he gently pulls out of the photographs.

Alexis sits back on the couch, ignoring Maxwell’s continued pounding, and gives Otto a moment to look at the photographs. She can tell he is biting the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to react—until he reaches the fourth photograph and tears suddenly spring to his eyes. She knows it’s a close up of Delia, a scandalized smile on her mouth as he has pulled her onto his lap and is grinning at the camera.

“I notice you don’t have any pictures of her anywhere,” Alexis realizes. “I’m sorry, this must be hard for you.”

“Hard? A week after I reported her missing we packed up every piece of her. Every indication of her was gone and I still expected her to walk through the door. I still heard her footsteps on the stairs.”

“So that is Delia?”

Otto flips to the next photograph. “Yes. Look, here’s her handwriting.”

She stands up and looks at the photograph he’s handed her. The handwriting matches the letter Fenton received while in jail. “Who are the other people here?”

“The Maxwells; at least her mother and brothers. Her father never liked me much. Haven’t seem them since. Their namesake doesn’t even know that side of the family.”

Alexis looks at the photograph closer. “So that’s her brother?”

Otto looks up. “Yes, why?”

“He’s trying to buy the building and demolish it.”

Otto nods. “Must be William. Tell him I say ‘hi.’ Now it’s about time you answer one of my questions.”

Alexis narrows her eyes. “Okay.”

“Why do you look so much like the woman in this picture?” Otto holds up the 4th of July photograph and points to her mother.

“Why ask that? Is it because she saw what happened to Delia?” Maxwell appears from the back door, the spare key still in his hand. Johnny is on his feet, growling fiendishly, but settles down with one glance from his owner.

Otto laughs. “Always so dramatic, Maxwell. I don’t know who that woman is, except she looks a lot like this lovely here.”

“Liar.” Maxwell comes to stand next to his grandfather’s chair. “Her name is Amelia Tennon. It took me a while to remember, seeing as lots of memories got buried, but I remember her now.”

He takes the photograph from his grandfather and holds it up. “She helped Delia take care of me though it was more than that. They were friends. After Delia disappeared, I just figured she moved on.”

“People move on,” Otto shrugs, tossing the photographs on the tray next to him.

“Not like this.” Maxwell snaps up the photographs and hands them back to Alexis. “If you’ve taught me anything it’s that there is always evidence, always something left behind.”

Otto laughs again, now a dry, sad sound. “Not this time, kid. Delia’s gone and apparently so is this Amelia.”

“What about Collin Fenton?” Alexis speaks up.

“He died in prison, but you two already knew that. I could have you arrested for stealing.”

Maxwell throws the police file down onto the coffee table. “Well, we still have you and you can tell us your story.”

“You’ll never believe it. I can’t prove a word of it,” Otto says, leaning back in his armchair and closing his eyes.

Alexis sits back down. “Try me.”