Buried Trust, page 13
part #5 of A Turst Mystery Series
She set the knife box on Billy’s chest of drawers, then angled the rocker beside his bed, listening for any suspicious sounds in the house. She knew its very heartbeat. If anyone tried to harm her baby, she’d slit his throat with the carving knife she readied on her lap.
From the pegs in the basement, Todd swapped his street clothes for black sweats, a nylon parka, and a black knit skull cap. His face—what would work? He couldn’t bring himself to use paint or varnish that would have to wear off. Greece—or boot polish. That would work. He unlocked the case that held his hammer drill, grabbed it and a strip of ten 22-caliber loads, which he inserted into the gun. From a drawer, he grabbed a handful of concrete nails and dropped them into his jacket pocket. He crept up the steps of the Bilco doors, setting the drill beside him on the top step. As he slid the latch and cracked one heavy metal door, he listened. Rain hammering the doors, accompanied by thunder and lightning, covered any sound he might make. He chanced lifting the heavy door farther to scan the yard at eye-level.
Momentarily disoriented, he remembered he was on the west side of the house, facing Jacob’s farm. Todd never came or went to the basement via the Bilco doors, using the barn for mowers and yard tools instead. He grabbed the nail gun and raised the door just enough to crawl into the muddy side yard. As he stood perfectly still in the inky darkness, back pressed against the house, he trusted that he was concealed. He prayed that Kingsley and Billy were safe and that she had been able to raise help.
As he peeked around the backside of the house, he saw a figure, nearly invisible, until the next flash of lightning illuminated his pale complexion. Todd jerked back around the house. How many times he’d loaded and shot the hammer gun during his shop project should now be engrained in muscle memory as he fingered the concrete nails in his pocket. With dripping hands, he fingered their familiarity. Positioning one at the end of the gun, he crept around the back of the house. He waited until the rhythm of lightning and thunder might give him an interval of darkness.
The skulking figure’s back was turned, his right arm extended toward the kitchen door’s glass pane with what looked like a rock in his hand. The man lifted his arm above his head as if preparing to smash the glass. Did the security system have a battery backup? Would the alarm sound if the glass had been shattered? It was supposed to, but had the security company tested it after the gas leak episode? He’d had no reason to ask.
Todd’s mind narrowed to primitive man. Not knowing how far a nail would travel, Todd pulled back the hammer, adjusted the nail, and taking careful aim, pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The blast split the air with such explosive volume that Todd was momentarily deafened. Was the intruder armed? Might he turn and charge? Todd prayed his deception had worked. He screamed, “Next shot, you’re dead!”
He ducked behind the house while cocking the gun and inserting another nail. Only then did he risk glancing. The perpetrator was limping toward the far side of the house. “Gotcha!” he muttered, too surprised to take further action. His sense of urgency returned. He had to make a quick decision—fight or flight. He scrambled back through the Bilco door and threw the bolt. He tossed the hammer gun and what remained of the ammo strip aside, which he’d lock up after defending his family. Exchanging his slippery muddy clothes for shop overalls, he grabbed a box cutter from his toolbox then tore up the stairs, two at a time, to protect his family.
Chapter 15
Although the Henning house was shrouded in darkness, their land and driveway pulsed in a kaleidoscope of first responders’ lights. Beyond their front door with binoculars, Kingsley identified the power company’s vehicles high on the hill, hopefully dealing with a blown transformer. Restoring the electricity quickly would be awesome. Through the pines she could distinguish two red oblongs—firetrucks, no doubt, making sure the torrential rain had doused the blaze and prevented a forest fire.
Todd beckoned to her with a nod as he led a township police officer and state patrolman around toward the back. She sighed. If the excitement was over, all she wanted to do was lie down. As Todd entered the back hall, shepherding the cops toward the kitchen table, she darted upstairs to check on Billy. The child, miraculously, had slept through the ordeal. O’Malley was not on his rug but curled beside Billy. He looked up when she entered the bedroom wearing that guilty look he had refined to a science. “It’s okay. You can stay.” He thumped his tail, lowering his head and curling his balled body against Billy. She closed the door and hurried to join the others.
“…-so, the passerby loads the guy into his car and drives him to the ER. He’d been shot in the leg near an artery and had lost a lot of blood. The ER doc said he’d survive, although we couldn’t talk to him until he’s in recovery and regains consciousness. The good Samaritan insisted he didn’t know the guy or what had happened to him. Just saw him staggering down the road before he collapsed, coming from this direction. At first, he thought he was drunk, but then he saw the blood.”
Todd looked at Kingsley, and she back at him, telepathing should they tell them? Would they believe us? Do we need a lawyer?
The patrolman produced a photocopy of a PA driver’s license. “Ever see this guy before?”
Both squinted at the postage-size picture and shook their heads no. “Who is he?” Todd asked.
“Guy that’s been on the most-wanted list for some time in connection with a series of arsons. He’s suspected of torching properties, businesses, vehicles et cetera for profit, like a hitman. When it’s light enough, the fire inspector’s going to take a look at that transformer. Power company says the totality of the damage doesn’t look like a lightning strike; more like sabotage.”
“Why would anyone blow up a transformer in a thunderstorm?”
“What better timing to conceal a crime?”
Kingsley turned to the state patrolman. “Did you respond because the highway’s an interstate and you were in the vicinity?”
“No. Because my barracks got a call from Henry Alderson of St. Davids that his daughter was in danger, her landline was down, and her cell phone connection was breaking up. Said she’d tried phoning and texting for his help, and would we please send someone to this address.”
Kingsley smiled. “That would be my dad. The connection was breaking up so badly I had no idea if anyone heard me.”
“He’d made out the words ‘explosion’ and ‘fire’ and ‘intruder.’ Did someone break in?” Both said no, a little too emphatically, but the officers, distracted by gathering their things in preparation to leave, missed their mistake.
“I must apologize,” Kingsley said. “You came out at three in the morning, and I didn’t even offer you something to drink or eat. I’d be happy to make coffee if we had electricity, but there’s soft drinks and water. And there’s cookies.”
“Thank you, ma’am. That’s kind of you, but we need to wrap this up.”
The minute the pair was out of earshot, Kingsley and Todd exploded with unanswered questions. Somebody had it in for them big time, and they needed to find out fast who it was.
* * * * *
Weary from a full day of putting out different kinds of fires at their respective jobs, Kingsley and Todd collapsed, finally having a private opportunity to ferret through recent events. “When did our lives get so out of hand?” she asked, curling into an afghan in her chair by the fire. The cold front, ushered in by the monstrous storm, had left their home damp and chilly. Given the past twenty-four hours, her nerves felt raw and the fire, good.
Todd set aside the speech he’d been writing for a banker’s symposium. “Thinking back, it began with that call from our realtor, Greg, with an outrageous offer to buy our property, supposedly on behalf of another realtor’s celebrity client. And, in that same anonymous vein, a so-called heir to the original William Penn land grant pops up out of nowhere. Of the latter, I would have put money on a scam to extort money from us in exchange for withdrawing the claim, except for that other offer. Somebody tried to force us out, and when we didn’t budge, things got ugly.”
“No,” Kingsley interjected. “Our lives were peaceful until that construction project next door wreaked havoc with our sleep.
Todd shook his head. “That did result in some ugly confrontations, but I think the man in charge is committed to making peace if we’ll ignore the inconvenience for a couple more weeks and stay off his site. The owner, whoever he or she is, has no need whatsoever to harm us.”
“So that leaves the celebrity and the heir. I’ll pick Greg’s brain—maybe he could find out a bit more about that wealthy entertainer. And see what Uncle David thinks about that William Penn heir’s claim. Surely whoever is behind a scam like that would have been stupid not to realize we have the means to fight them, even if that meant a protracted legal battle.”
She rubbed her temples, shaking her head. “Is it possible that whoever’s behind this has an ulterior motive that hasn’t occurred to us? But what? We aren’t a danger to anyone. Maybe it’s bank-related. We should pick through our rejected loan applications and people who have been fired or passed over for employment. The only people who’ve threatened me in recent years are in prison. Our lives have become, well, dull. And our property could be duplicated anywhere within the three adjacent counties. I just don’t get it.”
“Let’s approach this like a business plan to stop whoever is intent on harming us. There’s the gas leak, the transformer fire, and the arsonist skulking around and trying to break in.”
Kingsley tossed the afghan to the floor and snagged a pencil and pad from her desk. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll summon our contractor, the guy from the gas company, and our security tech and find out exactly what caused that leak. And I’m going to ask why the system wasn’t armed. We were not careless! If it malfunctioned, they need to fix it, or we’ll find someone who will. Would the system have alerted us if an intruder broke the glass? If not, we need an upgrade. We need to be safe in our home.”
“And I’ll follow up with the fire marshal and whether the transformer was sabotaged. And what the cops know about the guy who tried to break in. Don’t say it—I won’t let on that I shot him with a shop tool.”
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! Shriek! The parents looked at the ceiling simultaneously. “At least we know where he is and what he’s doing,” Todd said, a grin overtaking his face, relieved to focus on a happier subject.
“I could strangle Randall for giving him those cowboy boots without discussing it with us. Did you know at daycare he wouldn’t take them off for his nap?”
Todd laughed. “I had to bribe him to take them off for his bath.”
“I draw the line at sleeping in them.”
“Good luck with that.”
Having momentarily forgotten the seriousness of the issue at hand Kingsley asked, “What are they doing?” It sounded like Billy and O’Malley were running circuits through the upstairs hall and bedrooms. They could follow the footsteps, giggles, and yips from Billy’s bedroom, down the hall and, looping into the front guestroom, through their bedroom, then back down the hall to Billy’s door. The game seemed to stop by the rear guestroom door.
“Listen,” Kingsley said. “Billy’s voice diminishes inside the guestroom while O’Malley’s whines can be heard in the hall. He’s not following Billy into the back room. I wonder why.” Kingsley padded sock-footed upstairs to spy on their antics. She arrived on the landing in time to see Billy streak red-faced into the front guestroom. Momentarily, not noticing his mother, he erupted from their room and sprinted down the hall, the dog at his heels. Before he could reach the rear bedroom door again, O’Malley had beaten him to it and stood guard-like at its entrance, legs braced, head lowered, emitting a whine. Billy blew right past him, but the dog didn’t follow.
Something clicked—Suzanne Meade’s story about the house being haunted. Her nerves were simply too edgy from their harrowing experience and sleep deprivation. “Billy!” she chided in her no-nonsense voice. “Enough!” The child skidded to a stop, face beet red, panting. “It’s bedtime.” O’Malley, she noticed, had disappeared.
* * * * *
Sleep eluded Kingsley. Exhausted, but over-stimulated, she could not stop the mice from running around in her brain. She glanced at the clock, her near-sighted eyes squinting at its oversized numerals. She saw 2:15. Todd turned toward the interior wall, slept like a dead thing. She gave his arm a gentle shake to make sure he was still breathing. Good. He was alive. Slipping out of bed and into her slippers and collecting a penlight from the nightstand, she slipped into the hall and approached Billy’s room.
With a finger’s light touch, she widened the crack enough to see her son and his dog. O’Malley’s head jerked to attention as if to ask what was up. Kingsley opened the door a bit farther and patted her thigh for him to come. He did without hesitation. Gathering him against her hip, she closed Billy’s door and crossed the hall. Moonlight cast an eerie glow into the depths of the unoccupied room, throwing silhouettes of an ancient maple’s limbs on the interior wall. O’Malley whimpered.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What bothers you about this room?” She lit the penlight, and closing the door behind them, set the pup down. She stooped beside him, and when she pulled him close to her side, felt him trembling. “It’s all right. You’re safe with me.” She sat on the rug, her dog snuggled against her, stroking his fur from nose to tail tip in the calming way he enjoyed. “I wish you could tell me what you know.” He cast doleful eyes at hers with a sadness that broke her heart. “If only I knew your history and how you ended up on the highway.”
She had an idea. “Come. Let’s check it out.” When she rose, he stayed close by her side as she circled the perimeter of the room. When they came to the back outside corner, however, he backed up, as if retreating from danger without taking his eyes off the floor.
“What?” she asked, looking first at him, then toward the spot on which he was focused. Or was he listening to something that she couldn’t hear? Then she felt a sensation of cold. Not like a draft or the heat pump’s circulation, which would have been warm this time of year. Forgetting about O’Malley, she took small steps as if to delineate the cold spot’s footprint. What startled her was that she only felt it when she stood utterly still as if it were communicating with her; becoming one with her. She shivered. As soon as she moved, the sensation disappeared.
Stunned, she determined to investigate further. Alone. Tomorrow. And she’d track down the story of the murder. She did not believe in ghosts. Grammy had insisted that one could not be superstitious and Christian at the same time, and Grammy fiercely believed in the latter. How she wished she could have just one more conversation with her grandmother. One never knows when time was running out. She looked at O’Malley with renewed appreciation, having stayed with her where he dreaded to go.
Chapter 16
“Hey Greg. Kingsley Henning. Got a minute? I’m hoping you can do me a favor and save me hours of digging.”
“Sure. If I can.” The realtor asked with colloquial phrasing. “What can I do you for?”
“I need contact information for a prior owner of our home. I recall he was the heir to the Krick estate. Andrew or Ansel or some other A name. And, if you have it, the name and number of the fellow we outbid. And finally, the most recent owner. The huge favor—would you be comfortable calling them on my behalf and asking if they’d be willing to speak with me? Tell them I have questions about the home’s history that they might be able to answer.”
In the background, Kingsley could hear keys tapping. “I have numbers for all three. The heir is Amos Krick. You outbid Michael Flannery. And the previous owner, from whom you bought the property, is John Black. I’ll give them a call right now.” Thirty minutes later, Kingsley had her answers. “Michael is local; he said to call on his cell. John Black, ditto. Amos Krick is a retired, long-time resident of Michigan. He gave me his landline. I’ll email the numbers. And good luck with your project. And, if you’re thinking about a cabin in the Adirondacks…?”
“You’ll be the first to know.” Kingsley paced around the living room, cordless phone in hand, screwing up her courage. When she got no answer at the Krick home in Michigan, she decided to try again later and didn’t leave a message. Her mission was too complicated for a few sentence summary.
After taking a few more laps around the living room, she dialed Michael Flannery. When she identified herself, he responded with a jovial laugh. “Ah! My savior. I wanted to thank you and didn’t know how.”
“I thought you’d be angry with us, practically stealing the house out from under you. My fiancé was determined after years of research and touring with realtors that this house was perfect.”
The man chuckled. “You saved my marriage. After I made my bid and did a walk-through with an inspector, I realized I was in way over my head. I attached all kinds of conditions to the sale, hoping I could flip it and break even. Then you came along. Thank you. It was my dream and never my wife’s. She’ll take a new track house in the suburbs anytime. And that’s what we bought.”
“Did you know anything about the history of the house? Old stories about a murdered couple? Or it’s being haunted?”
“Hell no! If I had, we woulda been outa there.”
After they disconnected and feeling less timid, Kingsley dialed John Black, the previous owner, and found him to be a kindred spirit and lover of old homes. “Ever see the movie The Money Pit? I had no idea what I was getting into, especially with that slate roof. According to my research, originally it would have wood shingles, but someone replaced it with slate that turned out to be poor quality. Good slate should last 75 years.
“I hired a reputable contractor to replace missing or broken tiles. It got to the point where I dreaded seeing his name on my caller ID. Long story short, most shingles were shot, there was damage to the underlying wood, and matching slate wasn’t available. By the time he finished, I’d spent my entire renovation fund without touching the plumbing and wiring. I was up shit creek. But the house has an excellent roof.
