Page 16 of In the Dead of Night

CHAPTER FIVE

Darkness had fallen by the time Sara left the library. She’d lost herself in research and somehow spent the entire afternoon reading and printing enough material to keep her busy for a week. The most important thing she’d discovered was the photograph of her mother and Nicholas Tyson looking at the manuscript. Had her mother carried on a relationship with the true-crime writer? Was there, indeed, a missing manuscript?

Sara couldn’t get the questions out of her mind as she parked the rental car in the drive. The anonymous caller had mentioned a manuscript. Until this afternoon, she’d dismissed the notion. Now that she’d seen the photo, she wasn’t so sure. Nicholas Tyson had been a true-crime writer. He’d written several books, but had never become successful. Had he been working on a book? If so, what was it about? Did the book somehow involve her parents? Did Nick know anything about it? If so, why hadn’t he mentioned it when she asked him to reopen the case?

Distant thunder rumbled as she lugged her notebook and oversized purse to the front door and let herself in. Turning on lights as she went, Sara made her way to the kitchen and set her things on the bar. Rain lashed the windows as she traversed the foyer and ascended the stairs. The long and narrow hall stood in darkness. She was midway to her parents’ bedroom when it struck her that the bathroom light was on. She was certain she’d turned out the lights before leaving…or had she?

Sara’s heart jumped into a fast staccato. Someone was in the house. She hadn’t noticed anything out of place downstairs, but she hadn’t been paying attention. How did they get in? The front door had been locked. Of course, she hadn’t checked the back door….

A clap of thunder made her jump. But the sound was nearly drowned out by the hard pound of her heart. She reached for her cell phone only to realize she’d left it on the counter downstairs. Never taking her eyes from the slash of light beneath the bathroom door, she backed away.

The door swung open. A gasp escaped her when the dark figure of a man emerged. She got the impression of a rail-thin frame and a baseball cap before the flight instinct kicked in and sent her to the stairs. She was halfway down when recognition stopped her. Gripping the mahogany banister, she halted and looked back. A man with silver, shoulder-length hair stood in the hall, looking down at her. He wore gray coveralls, a cap and work boots. She knew his face. His clothes. She knew the way he moved.

“Skeeter?” she ventured in a shaky voice.

The caretaker grinned, his head bobbing vigorously. With the grace of a mime, he stepped back and motioned toward the bathroom. With deft hands he signed something to her. Sara didn’t understand sign language, but knew enough to realize this man didn’t mean her harm.

Feeling like a fool, she climbed the steps, flipped on the hall light and crossed to him. “You scared me.”

Skeeter spread his hands and gave her a giant shrug.

“How did you get in?” she asked.

Shoving his hand into the pocket of his coveralls, he pulled out a key ring with a single key.

Sara didn’t like the idea of anyone having a key to the house, particularly in light of the anonymous calls and the message that had been written on her windshield. She held out her hand. “Thank you, but I’ll take that for now and return it when I leave.”

He bobbed his head and dropped the key into her hand.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He motioned toward the bathroom.

Only then did Sara relax. “You fixed the leak.”

He nodded, pleased she understood.

“Thank you.” She extended her hand. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”

His gesture told her not to worry. He shook her hand gently, as if afraid he might break her fingers.

She hadn’t seen Skeeter since she was a child. He hadn’t changed much in twenty years. He was still tall and wiry and moved with an odd shuffle. He still wore gray coveralls and work boots with his hair pulled back into a ponytail. But it had receded and turned gray. Her parents had hired him as caretaker over twenty years ago. Deaf and mute, he’d frightened Sara as a child. But with a child’s open mind, she’d quickly realized the man didn’t need a voice to communicate—or to be her friend. Because of his deafness, Skeeter dropped out of school and never received special education for his deafness. But over the years, though he was mostly illiterate, he learned to read lips. In the years she’d known him, he’d fixed swing sets, repaired bicycles and erected a basketball net over the garage. By the time that last summer rolled around, she didn’t even notice the strange way he moved or that he couldn’t speak.

“I didn’t see a car,” she said. “How did you get here?”

Using his fingers, Skeeter indicated he had walked.

“So you still live in the cottage?”

He nodded.

The “cottage” was actually a tiny mobile home from the 1960s perched high above the cliffs a mile or so down the beach. Skeeter had lived there alone for as long as Sara could remember.

He signed rapidly, mouthing words and then picked up the toolbox at his side. From his body language, Sara understood he’d finished his work and was leaving. “Can I drop you at the cottage?”

Shaking his head, he headed toward the staircase. Sara trailed him to the kitchen, waving as he went through the back door to the steps that would take him to the narrow beach below.

She’d always liked and enjoyed Skeeter. She’d been happy to see him, pleased to know he was still around. It wasn’t until she grabbed her notes off the kitchen counter and looked down at the photo of her mother, Nicholas Tyson and the missing manuscript that she realized his being inside the house also troubled her.