Lord of the Wings (35 page)

“Blasted music is giving me a headache,” Judge Jane said. “Well, that and the fact that it's way past my usual bedtime.”

“Why don't you go home,” I suggested. “Ms. Ellie and I are both night owls—we can wait here for the deputy.”

“I'm taking Ms. Ellie home,” she protested.

“I can take her,” I said. “It's out of your way.”

“Don't you have patrolling to do?”

“Yes, and this is a valid part of it,” I said. “Go on.”

She grumbled a bit more, but gave in fairly easily, which suggested how very bad she really felt. I saw her safely to her pickup and then scurried back in to lock the gate and the front door before any of the tourists got their hopes up that the house was reopening.

“You're sure you don't mind?” Ms. Ellie said.

“Mind a chance to sit down for a bit, in peace and quiet? Well, more peace and quiet than I'd have if I was out there,” I added, wincing as the Dreads emitted a particularly powerful guitar riff. Or was it only a blast of feedback? Sometimes it was hard to tell with them. “And Michael will be happy. In fact, I should text him.”

I pulled out my phone and texted: “Safely locked up in Haunted House with Ms. Ellie, waiting for a deputy to arrive to take over. Love.”

I figured he'd probably be asleep by now, but the speed with which he texted back showed he must have been awake.

“Hope the deputy's a long time coming so you can stay safely locked up there for a while. XXX.”

Ms. Ellie opened her mouth, but whatever she said was drowned out by the enormous wave of sound that signaled the end of one of the Dreads' songs, and then a huge roar of applause and cheering from the audience. She shook her head and leaned back in her chair.

Outside, the cheering died down and the Dreads launched into another number. This one started slow and, for the Dreads, relatively quietly. Ms. Ellie sighed.

“I suppose I should be pleased that those young men are becoming so successful,” she said. “But being pleased for them is one thing, and listening to them quite another. How much longer are they going to play?”

“We were going to hold them to a two a.m. curfew in town,” I said. “Which was going to be even less popular than last night's midnight ending time. Out here? We told them they could play as long as they liked.”

She shuddered slightly.

“It's not as if either of us has to stay to the end,” I said.

“I was just wondering how much longer before Sammy gets back,” she said. “Of course, if they catch Mrs. Griswald—or Lydia, for that matter—the wait will be worth it.”

“Should I feel guilty for recruiting you to do this?” I asked.

“No.” She put her hands on her hips and gently stretched backward, as if easing her back and shoulders. “It's been fun, in a peculiar sort of way. And Jane's good company. But tell your Mother not to expect me at the early service tomorrow morning.”

“You mean later this morning,” I said. “And she won't give you a hard time—she'll be too busy reproaching me. Look, I'm going to check all the windows and doors from the top floor on down. In theory, since it's after midnight, everyone who needed to break in here to play that stupid game has either already done so or missed his chance. But just in case.”

“Want help?”

“No, you keep an eye out front for Sammy. And make sure everyone's still paying attention to the concert and not trying to sneak over here.”

“All right.” She sat back down on one of the spindly black chairs and I could tell she was weary.

“If he's not here by the time I get back from checking all the windows, I'll recruit a few Goblins to stay here till he arrives,” I suggested. “Or borrow a few of the Brigade.”

“Good idea.” Ms. Ellie brightened at the thought.

“And don't let anyone in,” I said, as I climbed up the stairs to begin my search.

 

Chapter 26

I started with the third floor. I unlocked Dr. Smoot's private quarters. Nice to know that he wasn't putting up a false front—his taste in décor for his living quarters didn't differ much from the public areas of the house. All of the furniture was either painted or upholstered in black—a black velvet sofa and matching chair, a black lacquer coffee table—didn't the man ever yearn for a bit of bright color? I locked the door behind me as I entered and searched every spot that could possibly hold an intruder. Not many spots in the living room other than the coat closet, with its dozen assorted black capes, and all the windows were shut tight and locked. In the bedroom, I checked under the bed and in the closet, which proved that nearly any garment a middle-aged man might possibly want to wear either was made in or could be dyed black.

I also noticed a small pile of mail on the dresser and found my fingers itching to tidy it and take it back to the desk I'd seen in the living room. And why not? Assuming he eventually came out of his coma—and Dad seemed reasonably optimistic—he'd still need a lot of help before he got back on his feet. And some of those envelopes looked like bills—not a good idea to let those get scattered. I should make it easier for whoever stepped in to help him. Especially considering that it could very well be me.

I gathered up the envelopes and returned to the living room. The desk was black, of course, like nearly everything else, but really rather nice—a small black lacquered Oriental writing desk. I set the stack of mail on top.

“What the heck,” I muttered. I picked up the stack again and sorted it. Four bills, three of them not yet opened. I set them in one pile. Six pieces of what I would define as junk mail, but Dr. Smoot's definition might be different, so I set them in another pile. And a nine-by-twelve brown envelope.

I was about to set it in a pile of its own when I noticed the return address: Mr. and Mrs. W. P. Walmsley. A familiar-sounding name. Arabella Pratherton Walmsley's parents?

The envelope had already been unsealed so I pulled out the contents. A sheet of cardboard. A letter. And a vintage black-and-white studio portrait of a pretty, dark-haired young woman in an elegant bias-cut satin evening gown sitting in a chair with a tall, handsome man in a tuxedo standing at her shoulder. A Brimfield, I decided; his features bore a striking resemblance to those of William Henry Harrison, John Tyler, and Josiah, and he had those same odd pale eyes. But the young woman's gown looked like something from the thirties, so I deduced that this was probably Zachary Taylor or Millard Fillmore.

Then I turned the photo over and saw the inscription on the back, in an elegant, almost calligraphic handwriting: Mr. and Mrs. William Pratherton.

I flipped the photo over in surprise. So this was Billy Pratherton, the bootlegger? Still, with those eyes, he had to be related somehow to the Brimfields. It was a small county. I'd tell Ms. Ellie about it and let her chase down their family trees.

Looking at the picture didn't really feel like snooping—after all, odds were the Walmsleys had sent it to Dr. Smoot so he could display it in the museum—but reading the letter certainly would. I turned it facedown and picked up the envelope to stuff it back inside.

What the heck. In for a penny. I turned the letter over again and read it.

Dear Dr. Smoot,

I'm enclosing the picture we discussed. You're welcome to keep it if you want it for your museum. To me it would only be a sad reminder of Arabella's accident. And don't ask me for anything else. I know it's not your fault, but I can't help but think that if Arabella had never visited your museum, never gotten interested in trying to trace the family genealogy, and never gone to San Francisco, maybe we'd still have her with us.

Respectfully yours, Mary P. Walmsley

“Wow,” I murmured. Dr. Smoot was right—Arabella's parents did blame him for her death.

And what was the connection between Billy Pratherton and the Brimfields? This was definitely a case for Ms. Ellie's research skills.

Speaking of Ms. Ellie, she was probably getting impatient. And with any luck, Sammy would have arrived so we could leave. I'd fill her in on the ride home.

I locked Dr. Smoot's apartment door and went down to the second floor. No one hiding behind any of the black velvet curtains. No one crouching beneath the tablecloth of what I'd finally decided was probably a re-creation of Miss Havisham's wedding feast. No one crammed in beside the animatronic vampire in the coffin.

When I came down to the ground floor again, I noticed that the basement door was open. I couldn't help smiling—Ms. Ellie had probably been unable to contain her curiosity and had decided to take a peek at what was left of the museum. I probably should have warned her that most of the historical exhibits weren't there. Perhaps she'd find the ruins of the non-wax wax museum amusing.

I checked the rest of the ground floor. She didn't emerge while I was doing so. At any other time, I'd have let her have her fun, but it was late. Maybe the thrill of the hunt for historical clues had reenergized her, but I was already afraid I'd fall asleep on the way home. And I was getting a headache, too. It was probably the stress and lack of sleep causing it, but proximity to the Rancid Dreads wasn't helping.

“Ms. Ellie,” I called—not all that loudly, because shouting would bother my head.

No answer. She probably hadn't heard me over the music. But what could be keeping her?

I sighed, and then began trudging down the circular stairway to the basement, walking carefully because fast movements really hurt my head. Time to get home and get some sleep—if possible before my headache reached killer proportions. And as I descended, the music faded to a tolerable background roar, and I realized why Ms. Ellie might have preferred to stay in the basement even after she realized the artifacts were gone. You could hear the music just fine, but it wasn't quite as eardrum-shreddingly loud down there.

I stepped out into the basement and saw Ms. Ellie on her hands and knees on the floor, searching through the ashes and rubble there, while above her stood a figure in a black hooded cloak wearing a Darth Vader mask. Not Mrs. Griswald, though—this Darth Vader was much taller.

And carrying a gun. Not a very large gun, but both James Green and Wayne Smith had been killed with a .22.

I froze. No way he could have heard me over the Dreads, so if I could just duck back up the stairwell—

“I see you, you know,” he said. “And if you run away, I'll shoot her.” He stretched out the arm with the gun to make it obvious that he was pointing it at Ms. Ellie. “If you find what I'm looking for, I might let you go.” His voice was familiar—not so familiar that I recognized it, but familiar enough that I knew I'd heard it before.

“I already told you, they're not here anymore,” Ms. Ellie said.

“Shut up,” he told her. And then, to me: “Step into the room. Away from the staircase. Come over here. Down on your hands and knees and look.”

“Look for what?” I asked. I was following his orders, but as slowly as I thought I could get away with. I was trying to figure out where I'd heard that voice before.

“Photos,” she said. “He wants the framed photos that were here. I told him I had no idea where they went.”

“I do,” I said. “They've all been taken down to the police station and locked up as evidence.”

“Then what's this doing here?” He held up a charred frame. The photo inside it was visibly waterlogged.

“They must have missed one,” Ms. Ellie said. “I can't find what isn't here.”

“You'd better hope the rest of them are here.” There was a slight note of panic in his voice as if he was starting to suspect that we might be telling the truth. “Get busy,” he snapped at me.

I picked a promising patch of charred rubble and started sifting through it.

I glanced up and noticed something. The Darth Vader mask hid his face, but not his eyes—spooky pale eyes. Our masked intruder was either Josiah Brimfield or someone who shared his DNA.

“Why do you want the photos anyway?” Ms. Ellie said. She was sifting through her own patch of ash and rubble with her hands—pretty much the same rubble she'd been searching since I came in.

“He's not searching for all the photos,” I said. “Just that World War One photo of the two Brimfield brothers. I have no idea why.”

“I have,” she said. “Probably something to do with my theory that there was something fishy about the dates of William Henry Harrison Brimfield's death.”

I couldn't be sure, but I thought Brimfield stiffened slightly.

“Oh, I remember,” I said. “The one you told us all about in the paper you presented to the historical society last month.”

“Paper?” Ms. Ellie only looked puzzled for a second, then she caught on to what I was doing. “That's right, you were there. You know, I really think the World War One Historical Association may run it in that magazine of theirs.”

“I know what you're trying to do,” Brimfield said. “You're trying to convince me that everyone already knows everything so there's no use trying to get the photos back and I should just give up and go home. But I know better. You haven't published any papers.”

Okay, that didn't work. But I had another idea.

“Yes, you've been keeping your eye on Caerphilly recently, haven't you?” I said. “It all started when poor Dr. Smoot contacted you, thinking your family connection to Caerphilly would make you willing to provide financial support for his museum. Instead, he inadvertently alerted you to the fact that an old family secret was in danger of being exposed. You tried to bully him into giving you that World War One photo, or at least taking it off display, but he wouldn't budge. I expect he'll confirm all this when he wakes up.”

“If he wakes up,” Brimfield said.

“So that's when you created the GameMaster e-mail and started up this stupid scavenger hunt game,” I said. It was a guess, but as far as I could tell from his eyes, a good one. “I'm not sure whether you were expecting one of the players to steal the photo for you or whether you planned all along to use the game as cover for making your own trip to the museum, but anyway it backfired. The murders caused the police to close down the museum and move most of its contents to the evidence locker, so now it's only a matter of time till your secret goes public.”