Vultures at Twilight (31 page)

The upstairs was typical colonial; four small bedrooms and a single bath that had been added at a later date. In each of the bedrooms, the floors tracked with mud from the troopers, Mattie did a quick but thorough survey of potential hiding places.

Back in the hall, she located the pull-down stairs to the attic. She yanked on the rope. ‘You stay here,' she cautioned Ada as she disappeared up.

With her flashlight in one hand and her revolver in the other, Mattie moved cautiously. She noted the thick undisturbed dust that coated the wide floorboards. She stood on the top rung and let the beam traverse the sharply pitched space. It was like looking in the warehouse of an antique store. Jumbled floor to ceiling were chests, chairs, bookcases and trunks. Carefully labeled boxes were stacked in towers, their contents hidden from view. ‘What's three-mold glass?' she yelled back, reading the label on one of the cartons.

‘Early-American glass,' Ada replied. ‘Three-mold is how they made it.'

‘Expensive?' the detective asked.

‘Can be.'

‘What about historical flasks?' she asked letting her flashlight play over the labeled boxes.

‘Big money,' Ada replied. ‘They're old whiskey flasks. I don't know why, but those go for thousands of dollars each.'

Mattie holstered her revolver and came back down. ‘Where the hell is he?'

They went down the small back stairwell that ended in the kitchen. Hank was coming up from the basement, two of the heavily armed troopers at his back. ‘Nothing,' he said. ‘Not a trace.'

Kevin came in, water puddling at his feet. ‘Anything?' he asked.

‘No,' Mattie replied.

‘The engine's still warm,' he informed them. ‘And it's white paint on the bumper . . . freshly scraped.'

‘So where is he?' Mattie asked, walking back to the pantry, and looking at the puddles that had been left by the boots. ‘He can't just have vanished.'

Ada followed; as she did, her eye caught on a tiny swatch of rain-soaked dark green wool that had gotten snagged and shredded on the cast-iron lock plate. ‘That's Lil's,' she stated, holding up the material to the light.

‘What?' Mattie turned to see what she was talking about.

‘There,' Ada said. ‘I couldn't tell at first because it's so wet. But it's Lil's coat; She grabbed it as she was leaving.'

‘You're sure?' Mattie said, feeling a rush of emotion; relief that this wasn't a goose chase and a mounting fear as the seconds ticked.

‘I'm positive.'

‘What about secret passages?' Kevin asked.

Mattie glared at him.

‘I'm serious. A lot of High Street houses have hidden tunnels. They date back to the Revolution and the War of 1812.'

‘He's right,' Hank agreed. ‘Whenever we do street repair, or a new septic system gets dug, it's not uncommon to break into the remains of a tunnel or false cellar.'

‘Great,' Mattie replied. ‘So where do we start?'

Ada stared at the torn fabric. ‘She's trying to leave a trail.' Ada reached for the lock plate, remembering a detail from a lecture she and Lil had attended at the historical society.

‘What are you doing?' Mattie asked.

Ada twisted and pulled back on the plate. As she did, a dull click was heard behind the far wall of the pantry.

‘There you have it,' Hank replied as he stepped into the pantry and pushed back the wall of priceless pewter.

THIRTY-SEVEN

L
il
, I thought as my teeth chattered uncontrollably,
he's going to kill you
. A single lantern illuminated Calvin Williams' face as he paced the narrow confines of the dirt-floor cellar. Shadows flickered against the ceiling and the walls. My wrists throbbed from the sharp metal of hand-forged cuffs and I felt blood, thick and warm, oozing down my forehead. I'd been injured in the accident, and soaked by the driving rain, but other than the ache in my wrists, I couldn't register pain; just fear and a chill that ran deep.
He's going to kill you.

I listened to Calvin's heavy breathing and the sound of his boots. I thought about the little boy I had babysat, and the man who'd been my dentist. He stopped and stared at me. ‘Get up,' he ordered.

I struggled to oblige, the weight of my soaked winter coat making it particularly hard.

‘It's time. I have to show you something. Move!'

It seemed he'd forgotten that I was handcuffed, or that he was carrying a loaded handgun as he led me down a tight passage that ended in a partially excavated cave. I wondered if this was where he had killed the others. I searched the shadows for traces of blood. All I saw were the rough-hewn walls, spider webs and the smooth floor walked flat and level over the centuries.

‘Stand back.' He motioned me against the wall.

Keeping his eye on me, he placed the small handgun into the pocket of his camouflage hunting jacket and reached overhead. His hand disappeared behind a rock; I heard a snap and flinched. I wondered if the gun had discharged, but it was too soft for that, more like a branch breaking.

He backed up, and the wall fell away behind him.

‘Incredible.' I heard the word leave my mouth.
This is impossible, but what is that smell?

‘It is, isn't it?' He motioned for me to follow. ‘I thought you'd appreciate it. Wait.' He led me into a darkened space. The panel closed behind us. I watched as he moved around the room lighting kerosene lamps. As their glass shades smoked to life, I tried to make sense of the scene. The air was thick with the oily fuel. It was an arsenal, only all the weapons had been made centuries ago. Along one wall stood rows of ancient muskets, their barrels pointed at the ceiling as though waiting for some long-forgotten militia. Above those hung in neat rows was an exquisite collection of pewter-and-brass powder flasks, and beneath them barrels of iron ramrods.

‘It's like a museum,' I commented as he illuminated his exhibits.

‘My great-grandfather collected the muskets and the flintlocks. I managed to get most of them back,' he explained. ‘Now, sit.'

‘Back from where?' The words coming out choppy as I shivered.
Just keep him talking
, I told myself as I eased myself to the floor.

‘My mother did very foolish things.'

‘She sold them?' I asked, finally coming to rest. I felt so helpless, off my feet, my hands shackled.
Remind him of your history together.

‘It wasn't her fault; none of it. She got Alzheimer's. Although, I didn't know that for years. And one by one she let the vultures into the house. They all told her how sad it was to have invested in “reproductions” and “inferior quality antiques”. Of course, they would be willing to help her get rid of them, but really, they couldn't offer much.' His voice dripped with sarcasm.

‘Couldn't you stop her?' I asked, watching his every move. I knew he was six years younger than I was. He was clearly fit, judging by the ease with which he'd carried me around like a sack of mulch. He had always been considered an attractive man and it was a source of curiosity as to why he had never married. The commonly held belief was that in caring for his mother, he'd opted not to have a family.

‘I didn't know until it was too late. By the end, she was so far gone she didn't even cash their checks, just hid them in her jewelry box, which that Potts woman was only too happy to empty out for her. All of the heirlooms that had been in my family, even the cross that came over on the
Mayflower
, all sold to that evil woman for two thousand dollars. Imagine how I felt when I passed her store and saw my great-grandmother's gold pocket watch on display. Then, when I went inside, all of my family's treasures tagged and priced for the tourists.'

‘Couldn't you buy them back?'

‘I did. It took all of my savings. But that was just the tip of it. What I discovered was that while I was working away inside the mouths of Grenville's solid citizens, Mother was selling my inheritance. When I found out, it was too late. I didn't have enough to buy things back.' He paused and looked around the cellar space. ‘I hid what I could, anything I thought she could carry. That should have been the end of it.'

‘It wasn't?' I asked, wanting to keep him talking.

‘She invited them in. Can you imagine what it was like, my poor demented mother showing the local sharks untouched pieces of American Chippendale?'

‘They took advantage,' I offered, wanting to sound sympathetic.

‘They robbed me blind.'

‘Couldn't you go to the police?' As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I'd said the wrong thing.

His mouth contorted. ‘Are you making fun of me?'

‘No, I just thought . . .'

‘You thought that our kind and goodly Chief of Police would right this egregious wrong? Perhaps for you and your precious Bradley he might have. Hank Morgan and I don't exactly see eye to eye.'

‘Why not?'

‘So much history,' he answered. ‘Does it bother you getting older, Lil? All those years back when you'd look after me; did you know I loved you? I even thought that we'd get married when I grew up. Then later, I'd watch you and Bradley, so well liked and respected. Everyone always deferred to Doctor Campbell. “Should we put in sewers? Dr Campbell, what about town water? Do we need a new school?” For God's sake, the man was a GP.'

Ada had been right
,
and I'd never suspected; he did have a crush on me.
‘It must have been hard,' I said, struggling to keep him talking. In the flickering lanterns I could see him again as the little buzzed-headed blond boy I'd babysat for. He'd tell me he loved me, and that he wanted to marry me; who knew that a seven-year-old's crush for a thirteen-year-old girl could turn to murder?

‘I'm a doctor too. You think anyone remembers that? Well, this is one dentist people won't forget.'

‘What were you saying about Hank Morgan?'

‘Nice stall. It doesn't matter. Everything's all set.' From his pocket he retrieved a box of blue-tipped matches.

I glanced around the flickering space, the ancient weaponry and the acrid odor of kerosene. I had assumed it was from the lamps, but then I saw the metal drums, and realized what he intended. ‘Calvin, please, stop this. Don't.'

‘You've got to be kidding. I couldn't live with myself.' He laughed without humor. ‘Of course I won't be living . . . at all.'

‘What are you saying?

‘Look around, Lil, what do you see?'

‘An incredible collection . . . Museum quality.' I tried to flatter him, to slow him down, but the look in his eyes made me realize he was beyond reason.

‘You're right; it's the best collection of eighteenth-century American firearms in existence. And you're the only one who will ever see it. You see those barrels, Lil?'

‘Yes.'

‘One hundred twenty gallons of kerosene. We're about to give Grenville something to talk about.'

‘But all of your beautiful antiques . . .'

‘That's the point. What do you think would happen to my collection if I didn't destroy them? I had intended to leave it all to the town, as a museum. They could have had the house as well; I know it needs work, but it's a seventeen-twenties center hall colonial.'

‘That's a wonderful idea.'

‘Things change. I was willing to forgive a lot of things. But not that.'

‘Wendy Conroy?' I asked, having moved past fear to clarity. Like a switch had been thrown I stopped shivering, my jaw unclenched and everything clicked in place.

‘So you do know, or at least think you do. But it wasn't what you think. She was insane. She'd sit in the chair begging me to do it. How was I to know that each detail was being stored away? If she'd kept her filthy mouth shut, none of this would have happened.'

‘I don't understand.' Struggling back against the wall, my rubber-soled shoes searched for purchase on the dirt floor as rivulets of rainwater squeezed from the thick wool and trickled down my neck and back.

‘This.' He pulled a crumpled piece of torn notebook paper from his back pocket. ‘Look at it.' He thrust it in front of me.

The light flickered across the wrinkled page making the words difficult to read.

Drill me now, my mid-day lover

Drill me hard, make me bleed.

Take me rough, away from mother

Drill my teeth, spread my knees.

How I long to feel you.

Then swish and spit away our guilt

Whisper soft; send me

‘It wasn't Bradley,' I whispered, knowing in my heart it couldn't have been, but relief nevertheless.

‘It's crude,' he commented, ‘and Conroy led me to believe there was more.'

‘That's why you killed Philip?' I suggested, pretending a boldness I didn't feel.

‘It's not what I'd intended. But you have to understand, I saw everything I'd worked for was about to come undone. The last things I had . . . my reputation and this . . . he was going to take them from me.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘He tried to blackmail me. Attach himself like a leech and suck away my collection piece by piece. “Retribution”, he called it, for the damage I had done to his sister. What a joke. How many other men had a piece of his precious Wendy; she was no innocent. Of course, try telling that to Philip Conroy.' Calvin gazed at the wall above my head. ‘And when he started to jab his finger into my chest. I couldn't stand that.'

‘Couldn't you have gone to the police?' I asked, knowing it was a stupid thing to say, but desperate.

‘And tell them what? They're just as bad. Did you ever wonder why my mother's lawsuit against Carl McElroy was dropped?'

‘I thought there was a settlement.'