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No monsoon clouds loomed today, and it was bright and sunny, warm verging on hot. I adjusted my sunglasses as I got out of the car and headed up the walk to the front door, then retrieved the key from an inner pocket of my purse.
The door swung open. By this point, the stink inside had subsided to a dull murmur, sort of like a hotel room where someone had smoked but the cleaning staff had done their best to get the place sanitized. I wondered what the trickster had done to make that terrible smell. Containers of skunk spray sitting in the air ducts? It probably had to be something more controlled than that, though, because otherwise the stench would have continued to foul the place.
Whatever the reason, I was just glad I could walk around the house without feeling like I was going to gag.
The curtains were still pulled back the way Henry Lewis and his team had left them the day before. I was glad of that, glad of the bright sunshine pouring in and brightening the place. Now the Bigelow mansion looked cheerful and welcoming, rather than the typical Victorian haunted house that played a cliché role in way too many horror movies.
Not so cheerful was the big hole on the landing. Seeing it now, with the place as well lit as it was, I realized what a godawful mess we’d made. Of course, it could be repaired, but it was going to take a lot of work.
Well, I’d deal with the fallout from the excavation later. I’d already mentally resolved to pay for the repairs, considering I was the one who’d taken a tire iron to the wall in the first place.
I was just about to step into the hole and start touching the exposed frame when my phone pinged from inside my purse.
Calvin.
Ben managed to dig up some info, his message ran. You’re not going to believe this, but The Lightman Trust was established by Miriam Jacobsen. I don’t have much more than that right now. I’ll keep you posted.
I stared down at my iPhone’s screen in shock. Miriam Jacobsen? The dragon lady who ruled the Chamber of Commerce with an iron fist? Why in the world would she be mixed up in something like this? I didn’t know much about her — and was glad of that, considering my run-ins with her had been anything but cordial — but I knew that she seemed to live a comfortable life in her big house up near the top of Bailey Street, living off investments and the small honorarium the Chamber paid her. She seemed like the last person in the world to get her hands dirty in some kind of real estate scheme.
“Ahem.”
The throat-clearing had come from the foot of the stairs. I emerged from the hole in the wall and shoved my phone back in purse.
Standing at the base of the steps was a stocky dark-haired man who looked like he was probably in his late fifties. He shot me a friendly grin, showing white teeth that seemed sort of at odds with his overall rumpled appearance, and said, “I came over to take a look at the damage.”
“‘Damage’?” I repeated stupidly.
He cocked his head toward the gaping hole behind me. “Uh, the damage to the wall.”
“Oh, right.” Man, my mother moved fast. Maybe Chief Lewis had gotten in touch with her and let her know that they were done investigating the opening in the wall, and so she’d decided to get going with repairs. So, did that mean she planned to hang on to the place? I went down the steps and extended a hand. “I’m Selena Marx. My parents are the owners.”
Another smile. “I know,” the man said as he took my hand and shook it. “I’m Al Loomis.”
It was like a blinding flash of monsoon lightning — the pendulum spelling out “A-L-L,” the truth itself flowing from his fingers to my own.
Al Loomis had put the boombox and the mallet device in the wall. And no doubt it had been those same hands that had pushed me down the stairs…had pushed Brant Thoreau to his death.
I don’t know what my face looked like right then. My expression must have changed — and not for the better — because a look of almost regret passed over his blunt features.
“I’m really am sorry about all this,” he said. “But Miriam said to get it done, and I will.”
And he reached behind him to pull a gun out of the waistband of his jeans.
16
It All Comes Out in the Wash
I froze. It was actually the first time I’d ever seen a gun in person, since I’d never had any desire to go shooting for recreation, and I generally didn’t hang out in the sorts of places where guns were brandished on a regular basis.
And yet, here I was.
The gun itself was shiny, with a longish barrel. The opening at the end of that barrel looked big enough to swallow me whole.
“You really don’t have to do that,” I said, my voice all breathy and tight, not at all like my own. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Al’s shoulders lifted infinitesimally. He wore that same almost sad expression. “I’d like to believe that, but since you’ve already helped track down two murderers, I don’t have much reason to believe you wouldn’t do the same to me.”
Fair point. Still, I could tell he was reluctant to pull the trigger. Pushing someone down the stairs in the darkness was one thing. Having to shoot them point-blank as they stared at you and asked you not to hurt them was something else entirely.
