Hidden Motive (11 page)

Her hand went up to the watch hanging from the silver chain around her neck.

Bryce came over wearing a pair of jeans Randy had outgrown many years ago. “These'll work.”

Sable lowered her light and inspected the fit. They were a little loose on him, but serviceable. “Are there any other pairs? You may be here awhile.”

“There's a couple more, and…hey, is that a map of the cave?” Bryce stepped closer and peered at the wall. “Wow! That's great.”

“My Grandpa drew it, and he kept it updated as we explored and found more passages.” As she spoke, she continued to search for pieces of the puzzle. The funnel…what could that be?

“Can we go down there?” Bryce turned to Sable beseechingly.

Sable didn't respond. A sinkhole? Could the funnel be a sinkhole?

“Maybe after we eat…or whenever you're free,” Bryce was saying.

“Craig makes a good guide,” Sable said, still distracted.

“But it was your grandpa who owned the cave, right? And he's almost like a legend, hearing Craig talk about him. Come on, Sable.” Bryce leaned forward and gave her a dimpled, entreating smile. “Why can't you take me?”

She grinned. She could imagine him charming his mother with that smile. “We'll see.”

“All right! When do we go?”

“I'd like to wait until morning.”

He glanced toward the pictures Sable held in her hand. “Are those of the cave?”

She held them up in the glow of the lantern for him to see more clearly. “Yes, I took them myself. So, do those other jeans fit?”

“They're okay. I thought Craig said something about a collapse in the cave.”

“A minor one, and nowhere near where we'd be going.” Sable set the old pictures back in the box, thinking about the sinkhole Grandpa had stepped into last November. “There's usually no danger of a collapse in a natural cave.”

As Bryce joined Jerri and Audry and chattered to them about caves, Sable wandered to the far corner of the attic, where the door of Grandpa's safe was still camouflaged by a rack of clothing. Beside it was an old metal file box. Sable opened the rusted latch and pulled the lid back. There was a manila envelope at the top. On it was the return address of Tri-County Labs in Freemont, the same firm that had analyzed the silver inside the watch casing. She placed the tray into a box of clothing and covered it with an old blouse.

She had some work to do.

T
he attic door squeaked softly when Sable pulled it shut behind her. She made sure the latch caught before turning away and picking up her box from the floor.

Jerri's voice drifted along the hall. “Probably can't fit into any of these, but I'll give it a try. Too bad Sable didn't have any fat family members.”

“Perry's the one who needs to worry,” Audry said.

“I heard that!” came Perry's voice from behind the closed door of the sewing room.

Sable carried the box to her room and closed the door behind her, then took the blouse from atop the metal tray. She raised the lid and pulled out the manila envelope. Inside, she found several stapled pages under a cover letter to Grandpa listing the enclosed three analysis reports. The next page was a smaller thin sheet of paper that reported on the galena, with a high content of lead.

Could that explain why the specimen collection downstairs had been rearranged? Maybe Grandpa had taken the galena and sphalerite to Tri-County Labs to be analyzed.

She turned the page to the analysis of the sphalerite. It was rich with zinc, but so what? Why even bother to have it analyzed? Grandpa knew it wasn't native ore. Or maybe he'd requested the analysis for another reason. Perhaps it was connected to the ore-filled shotgun shells in the gun closet? But how?

She flipped back to the cover letter. It specifically listed three analysis reports.

She knew where the third one was. She fingered the watch. Grandpa was up to something. But what did it all mean? What did it all have to do with Grandpa's death? And Noah's?

She slid the sheets back into their envelope and searched the rest of the tray. She found a couple of letters from Grandpa, which she opened and scanned.

It was correspondence written in November, when Grandpa had fallen into a sinkhole down by the creek and broken his ankle. In one letter, he thanked Mom for caring for him while he was incapacitated, then went on about what a good thing it was he fell. He'd found another opening to the cave, a sinkhole which was ordinarily underwater.

That was it—the fresh markings on the map upstairs. The funnel shape was a sinkhole. He'd already drawn it in.

In the second letter, he wrote about buying the Seitz property, in partnership with Noah and Otis. He didn't sound enthusiastic about the arrangement—an unusual attitude for Grandpa. Ordinarily, if he didn't feel passionate about something, he regarded it as a cue not to be involved.

But then, what made her think she knew all her grandfather's motives?

Nothing else in the letter seemed significant. She folded the pages, replaced them in the tray, and sifted through the remaining contents. Near the bottom she found an open envelope, again in Grandpa's handwriting, dated three days before Christmas. She quickly pulled out the pages.

The police. Which police had he talked to?

She flipped the page, and gasped. There were copies of a note and a deed of trust.
To this place.

Otis Boswell held the mortgage. At the top of the first page was a handwritten note in blue ink: “Just thought you'd appreciate a reminder.”

The papers seemed to burn her fingertips, and the letter fell to the floor. Grandpa had borrowed the money from Boswell to buy the mine, using the house as collateral. Was that blue-inked note in Boswell's handwriting?

Sable slumped against the dresser. Boswell again. It always came back to him. What if he suddenly called in the loan? How deeply was he involved in this fraud? He always seemed to be lurking in the background.

Footsteps sounded gently along the hallway. There was a familiar creak, and then the footsteps receded in the direction from which they had come.

Sable shoved the metal tray beneath her bed. She wanted to slip back upstairs and get a better look at that map, to study the location of the funnel-sinkhole more closely.

For some reason, the huge old attic seemed darker than it had been earlier. And colder.

Hulking shapes of heavy furniture loomed around and over her, and inexplicably she developed an acute case of goose pimples. She raised her lantern high, dispelling a few of the shadows.

A small squeak echoed in the darkness. She paused to listen. A mouse, probably, but she shivered.

Jerri's laughter rang out from below, and Sable relaxed. She had never been afraid of mice before, no reason to start now.

The tall, mirrored bureau stood at the edge of the top step. She turned, caught the reflection of her movement in the mirror, and jumped.

“Stupid,” she told herself impatiently. The fear in her eyes reflected back at her in the glow from her light. Did she appear this obviously spooked to the others?

Her safety and Murph's depended on how well she kept her fear in check, and how well she remained prepared for attack from any side.

Floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she stepped past the looming furniture, many pieces covered with sheets to protect them from dust.

She stopped between the dormer windows and looked at the boxes and chests stacked in rows. Something looked different. Of course, several of the smaller clothing boxes had been taken downstairs…but there was something else….

She inspected the rack of clothes in front of the safe. Had it been disturbed? She stepped closer and pushed the garments aside, holding the lantern high. The door was tightly closed, lock in place. But something…she glanced over her shoulder with a frown, and saw an empty spot between the two windows.

The map was missing.

But how could that be? She'd been the last one to walk out of here only a few minutes ago.

Feeling less and less comfortable, she went to the file cabinet. What else was missing? What if there had been someone up here besides Bryce, Audry, Perry and Jerri? There were hiding places…

“Stop being ridiculous,” she whispered to herself. She needed to trust her own sense of hearing. She'd just left here a few minutes ago. Anyone would have had to pass her door. She would have heard footsteps.

So who took the map?

There was another rustle somewhere in the darkness—the skittering feet of a tiny mouse. Big deal.

But it sounded strangely like breathing. She held her own breath and froze, perfectly still. She did hear breathing.

Someone was in the attic with her. She studied the room again, her gaze roaming over sheet-covered furniture and boxes. She noted something different about the bulk of a tall pie safe covered by a paisley-print sheet. The sheet wasn't hanging right. The noises she'd heard earlier had come from that direction.

She crept quietly across the floor, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. When she drew close enough to reach out and touch the sheet, a board squeaked beneath her foot.

The sheet moved with a jerk, lifted, came toward her and down over her head. She opened her mouth to cry out, and a rough hand shoved a wad of the sheet into her mouth. Her attacker jerked the material tightly around her body and shoved her to the floor. She whacked her elbow on the hardwood as she rolled over, kicking the air, struggling with the bonds as someone raced across the attic and down the steps.

She rolled the other way, kicked at the bottom of the sheet and gripped a loose end. By the time she was free of the sheet, it was too late to pursue her attacker.

M
urph tossed another log into the furnace in the basement and closed the heavy iron door. If the weather didn't break before long, he'd chop more wood, but not alone.

He touched the aching welt on his face, and he couldn't stop thinking about Sable's reaction when she thought he was badly injured or dead.

He smiled at the thought of her. Every time he looked at her, she was more beautiful than before, even with the darkness of grief and fear that had tightened the delicate features of her face over the past forty-eight hours. He wished he possessed the power—or at least the knowledge—to ease her pain.

“Lord, protect us,” he whispered. “Strengthen my faith in You, because right now I'm really struggling with it. And let this draw Sable closer to You instead of damaging her fresh faith.” He felt so helpless. As Uncle Noah used to say, it was especially good for a man to be forced to depend on the strength of Jesus Christ alone. That was where a man found his power…and his humility.

“Okay, so I need more humility, Lord,” he murmured. Before he could continue in prayer, the sound of rushed steps reached him from above, and he looked up to find Sable racing down the basement stairs to him, holding her elbow. Her face was flushed, eyes wide.

“I was attacked in the attic.”

“Attacked?” He rushed to her. “By whom? Are you hurt?”

“I didn't see who it was, and I'm not hurt, I just bumped my elbow.”

“You went up there alone?” She exasperated him.

“It should have been safe. I could have sworn no one came past my door. You know how the stairs creak. I apparently surprised someone, and whoever it was hid. When I got too close, I was attacked.”

“Thank God, literally, that whoever it was didn't see fit to do worse damage. Where's Dillon? Come upstairs with me.” Murph took her hand. “Did you see anyone when you came through?”

“Most of the doors are closed—everyone is either trying on clothes or resting. Bryce is reading in the family room by candlelight.”

Murph led the way cautiously up the steps to the living room. “Dillon,” he called. “Here, boy.”

They heard the click of canine nails on brick, and the German shepherd trotted out from the kitchen, ears perked forward, water dripping from his mouth. Even a watchdog had to eat and drink.

“Come, Dillon.” Murph drew Sable up the stairs to the second floor. “I don't suppose you would agree to stay in your room with the door locked while I investigate.”

“Nope.”

Murph reached for the gun beneath his shirt as they crept along the hallway. “You could at least stay behind me.”

To his surprise, she did as he suggested.

When they passed Audry's closed door, Murph heard feminine laughter. Jerri and Audry. That reduced the suspect list.

Maybe.

He felt the rush of cold air when he opened the attic door. He went up the steps into the huge, cavernous room, gun at the ready.

The attic was deserted. Dillon sniffed at the colorful sheet that had been tossed in a heap.

“Somebody must have sneaked past my bedroom door,” Sable said. “Whoever it was hid under this sheet, then threw it over my head and wrapped me in it, knocked me down and ran.”

Murph checked the shadows thoroughly with his flashlight. He found nothing.

He returned to Sable's side and reached for her, needing contact with her, to reassure her and himself that they were still okay. She stepped into his embrace and rested her forehead against his chest. He found himself wishing this were happening under different circumstances. And then he caught himself—no time to dream now.

“Did you get any sense of your attacker?” he asked. “Size? Was anything said?”

“Nothing. I was too startled.”

He released her with reluctance, examined the welt on her elbow. “Please tell me you didn't try to give chase.”

“By the time I got untangled, I was alone.”

“Sable, you could have—”

“I know, I could have been killed.”

Murph groaned, feeling more helpless every moment.

“You could have been, yes,” he said at last. “You weren't. Thank God.”

She looked up at him. “Speaking of God, if we belong to Him, why is this happening to us? Why aren't we being protected?”

“What makes you think we aren't? Look at all that's happened, and we're still here.”

“But for how long?” she whispered. “Someone's stalking us for information.” She drew back and looked into his eyes. “I might have just found a big clue.”

“What kind of clue?”

“A deed of trust to this place, with Boswell's name on it.”

“How? Why would he—”

“Grandpa apparently borrowed money against this place when he and Noah and Boswell purchased the Seitz mine. There was also a letter attached to two analysis reports, one for galena and one for sphalerite. The letter mentioned three. The third must have been for the silver. I'm not sure why Grandpa would have had those samples analyzed.”

“Unless he suspected the ores really were native to the mine.”

Sable turned away. “Or unless Grandpa planned to use them to dupe—”

“Don't say it. Stop allowing your disappointment with Josiah to cloud your deductive reasoning. He was human and he made mistakes, but I can't help feeling there are pieces to this puzzle that haven't been revealed yet.”

She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I thought I
could
depend on my knowledge of my grandfather, and I was apparently wrong.”

“Don't jump to conclusions. We need to keep collecting pieces. I wonder if Boswell knows the results of the analyses.”

“I believe he had his ways of finding out. For all I know, Grandpa had the ore analyzed just for that reason, so Boswell would think this place was worth more than it is, and would loan the required amount of money.” Her voice wobbled. “And I'm not jumping to conclusions now, I'm just trying to make the pieces fit.”

“But your grandfather didn't admit to that, did he? It seems to me, if he confessed one transgression, he would confess everything.”

She stepped to a dormer window and looked out. “What if Otis Boswell knew about the silver assay? He's been after my grandfather to sell this place to him for a long time. He might have been willing to do anything to get it. Now he could call in the loan, and my family can't pay it. Otis Boswell could have controlled Grandpa, holding that mortgage over his head.” She glanced over her shoulder at Murph. “The mortgage contract had a note attached to it that seemed like a taunt. And it wasn't in Grandpa's writing.”

“A taunt?”

“I'm not trying to excuse Grandpa for what he did, but isn't it possible Boswell coerced him into it?” Sable asked.

“It's possible, if Josiah even did anything wrong in the first place.” He joined her at the window. “Tell me, how many accident victims from the mines have you seen since you went to work at the clinic?”

She shrugged. “A few. The other docs are likely to see more, since they have more patients. I tend to see miners' wives and children. Why do you ask?”

“Because one reason Noah suggested I go to work at the clinic in Freemont was because he thought there might be some safety issues in the mines.”

“Safety issues?”

“He thought Boswell cut corners to save money. It has seemed to me that the clinic received more mine accident victims than I would have expected in the six weeks I've worked there.”

“I've seen some results of stupid actions,” Sable told him, “but I always reported them properly. I'm sure the other docs are diligent about that, too.”

“Of course you would do the right thing,” he said.

Sable looked up at him, her gaze flitting across his features searchingly.

Murph was struck by the sensuality a woman could bring to a single glance. “Are you going to look for anything more tonight?” he asked. “Because if you are, I'm sticking to you like Dermabond adhesive.”

“I'd like to try to make some sense out of what we already have.” She spread her hands in a gesture of frustration. “My grandfather placed himself in deep debt putting his three grandchildren through college. We were all paying him back, but if I'd known he was struggling, I'd have applied for a school loan and never allowed him to pay for my education.”

“Maybe he didn't want you to try to talk him out of doing what he wanted to do.”

“We're missing something,” she said, looking at him.

“It looks like we're missing a lot. If you insist on going down into the cave in the morning, I'm going with you.”

“Bryce will be with me. I want to check a hunch.”

“Is it important?”

“It could be,” she said. “I'd like to see the crystal cavern again, and I want to look for a sinkhole my grandfather mentioned. The map had some new markings on it, and I think it had the outline of a clock face.”

“A clock?”

“Or a watch.” She touched the pocket watch. “Our intruder took the map, and I'm not sure about the location.”

“Then we'll look for it together. I want you safe.”

“You just want to go spelunking.”

“You have a problem with that? Sable, your strength and independence are admirable. In fact, they are two of the many qualities that attract me to you.” He lowered his head and kissed her quickly, before she could stop him—before he could stop himself. The touch of her soft lips on his was almost his undoing. “But in this case self-sufficiency is just plain dangerous,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control. “Accept help where you can get it. We don't know who else we can trust.”

He saw the sudden vulnerability in her eyes and he almost regretted what he had just done, kissing her like some impetuous teenager. But then, in the fleeting expressions that washed across her face, he saw something else—something he knew she would not want him to see. He saw desire flash in her eyes. He couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face.

Sable pulled from his grasp and spun away without a word. He watched her bulldoze past a stack of boxes, a dresser, a washstand. He followed meekly behind her. Time to play it cool for a while.

 

This time, Sable couldn't hear the squeak of the attic floor over the roaring in her ears as she rushed across the darkened room. She was no longer afraid of the shadows.

Instinctively, she raised a hand to her lips, acutely aware of Paul Murphy's nearness, and desperate to concentrate on the danger—and the puzzle—at hand. It was difficult.

Murph picked up the sheet, shook it out, searched around the edges of the pie safe. “You've told me about some of the records you found up here. Where is the confession note?”

Sable reached into the front pocket of her slacks. “I've kept it on me.” She spread it open in the glow from Murph's flashlight. Together, they began to read it again.

Sable caught something significant quickly. She looked up at Murph, struggling to temper her sudden surge of hope. “I don't think this is a confession at all.”

“What do you mean?”

She pointed to the first paragraph. “He says it's been more than eleven years since Grandma died. Grandma died twenty years ago. That's a lot more than eleven. I was so stunned by the confession that this didn't register before.”

“What could it mean?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. “The first sentence hints for us to look closely at the words he uses.” She pointed to the second paragraph. “He says here that by the time we get this letter, we will have already heard the story. Murph, he only used that term when he was telling a tall tale. He would trick us that way, tell us a long, fun story about his past, have us believing him, then explain that it was just a story. Fiction.”

“But why write the note at all?” Murph asked. “Why not just talk to you in person?”

“It seems he would only do that if he thought he wouldn't be able to talk to us,” she said.

“Keep reading. What else do you see?”

She continued scanning. “Here it says he's sorry to miss my birthday party this year because he knows how much I love them. He knew I hated birthday parties.”

“So why mention your birthday? And why use the number eleven when it should have been twenty? He also mentions the watch being a combination Christmas-birthday—”

“Combination!” Sable exclaimed.

“And look—it says, ‘Don't worry, I'm
safe
in the afterlife.'”

Sable slid the note back into her pocket as she led Murph through the shadows to the far wall. She shoved the clothing rack aside to reveal the dark gray mass of the old safe.

“Does anybody besides family know about this old safe?” Murph asked.