Emory and Jeff meandered through Cleeson’s department store until they found Peter West, his left arm laden with dresses. He stopped re-racking the clothes when he saw the PIs and groaned. “What do you want? You’re going to get me fired.”
Jeff placed his forearms on top of the clothes rack and stared him down. “You weren’t honest with us, Peter.”
“What do you mean?”
Emory answered for him. “You said you never met Corey Melton.”
Peter continued with his task. “I knew you would jump to conclusions if I told you. I talked to him. I didn’t kill him.”
Jeff huffed at his response. “You did more than talk to him. You did everything short of punching him and probably would’ve done that had you not been forcibly removed.”
Peter stopped what he was doing. “Did you know there was another piece of land they were looking at? I was trying to get him to change his mind and go with that one. There were no houses on it, so it seemed like a no-brainer to me. Not to Corey Melton. He said our properties had better wind and that the… what did he call it… investing rate.”
Emory asked, “Return on investment?”
“That’s it! The return of investment would be higher for mine and my neighbors’ land. I told him I didn’t give a damn about that and he should be more concerned with the people he was kicking off their land.”
“How did you find out about this other land they were looking at?”
“Someone at the TVA actually returned one of my calls. I don’t remember his name, but he told me that he suggested the other property and Corey ignored him.”
Jeff took the remaining clothes from Peter’s arm and slung them over the top of the rack. “What’s his name?”
“I told you I don’t remember. I was calling every number I could find on their website.”
“Does Frank Belcher sound familiar?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe it—” Peter West was interrupted by an approaching ruckus.
From the men’s department, Mr. Hall, Peter’s manager, pointed in their direction. “That’s him over there.”
Jeff turned to Emory. “Well this sucks.”
From Mr. Hall’s side rushed two TBI special agents. Wayne Buckwald brandished handcuffs for the sales associate and a sneer for the PIs. “Peter West?”
“Yes. What—”
“I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Corey Melton.”
“I didn’t kill him. I didn’t!”
While Wayne cuffed the suspect and recited the Miranda rights, Emory questioned the special agent’s new partner, Steve Linders. “How did he do it?”
Steve drew open his taut lips to release his baritone voice. “We haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Okay. We know he had motive, but if you don’t have means or opportunity, why are you arresting him?”
“Actually, we have—”
“Linders!” Wayne pushed Peter toward the exit while his eyes fixed on his partner. “Don’t help them out.”
As his employee was being escorted away, Mr. Hall had some parting words for him. “You’re fired, Mr. West.”
Now alone with his partner, Jeff asked the question he knew was on Emory’s mind. “Do they know something we don’t?”
After dinner by himself at a local restaurant, Emory opened the door to his apartment and at once was struck by a chill that shivered the back of his neck. Why is it so cold in here?
He could hear wind whistling through the open window near the kitchen and the familiar tapping of the ceramic cherub that hung from the pane. He flicked the light switch with one hand, and with the other, he pulled the silver and black M1911 pistol from his shoulder holster.
Toe-to-heel, he crept around the bar that half-walled the kitchen. He paused to take a breath before swooping into the kitchen. He aimed his gun at the bare linoleum floor, where he expected to find a crouched intruder. Nothing there. He tilted around and verified that the window was indeed open. I know I didn’t do that. I haven’t opened that window since September.
Emory scanned the adjacent living room, but he didn’t notice anything that seemed out of place. He eyed the closed door to the apartment’s lone bathroom. Did I shut that?
With his back against the wall, he twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. He peeked inside before jerking his head back. Nothing inside at first glance. He threw himself into the doorway. With his pistol before him, he turned on the light and inspected the bathroom. Nothing, confirmed.
Returning to the living room, his gaze fixed on the door to the only room left – his bedroom. He followed the same procedure to open that door before stepping inside. Light from the street lamps and the neighboring apartment building outlined the bed and nightstand but nothing more. His hand slid up the wall to the light switch. Nothing in the bedroom either.
As his shoulders dropped an inch, Emory relaxed his breathing and his grip on the gun, lowering it to his side. Nothing’s missing. No one’s here. I’m three stories up. How did my window get opened? Should I look under the bed? No, it’s five inches off the floor. He dropped to his hands and knees. What the hell. He peered under the bed with even the down-quilted comforter tucked into precise hotel corners, and again he found nothing. I watch way too many horror movies. I knew no one could possibly fit under there, but I look anyway?
Working his way back to his feet, Emory found himself staring at the closed closet door. I guess I might as well check that too. He raised his gun again and threw open the door.
Whatever he expected or even feared to see did not come close to what his eyes actually beheld. A hideous face grinned at him! It lacked contour and was paper white with red-outlined circular eye holes and a super-elongated red smile that zigzagged from one ear to the other – if there had been ears to see.
The CURSE!
Emory froze, body and mind. The man in the ski mask knocked the gun from his hand and shoved him out of the way.
The intruder darted to the bedroom door and out of sight.
Wait! I recognize that mask! Emory pursued the ski mask man into the living room and lunged for him, tackling him to the floor.
The man locked his lean but strong legs around Emory and twisted their bodies in such a way that he was now on his knees, straddling the PI. He punched Emory once and again, just enough to daze him. He planted his hands on the floor and kicked his legs up in the air so he was in a brief handstand before flipping his feet to ground. Now standing, he bolted for the open window.
Emory pursued and grabbed the intruder’s arm. The man reached behind himself to grip Emory’s shoulder for leverage, walked on the wall and flipped over the PI. Now standing behind Emory, the man hurled the PI over the couch before jumping out the window.
“Oh my god!” Emory rushed to the window. Instead of seeing a body on the sidewalk, he watched the intruder making his way to the ground by swinging from window sill to window sill.
The PI raced to the door, down the stairs and out to the street to chase the intruder. He looked to his left and to his right, but he didn’t see the man in the ski mask – or anyone else.
He ran down the street to his left, scanning for any movement. Nothing. He raced the other way and looked again with the same result.
“Damn!”
As Emory retreated to his apartment building, the intruder in the ski mask watched him from the top of a street lamp.