17

SNOWFLAKES DRIFTED AROUND them in the darkness as they stood under the trees, staring down at the weathered boards over the abandoned well. They spoke in hushed tones like a little band of medieval grave robbers and their breath made puffs of frost in the cold air.

“You can see the scratches,” Susan said, moving the flashlight over the boards. “Something in there interested the dog.”

Parkhurst, collar of his gray coat turned up, shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Could be a rat.”

Osey, in hiking boots and light-brown sheepskin jacket with beige cross-stitching, glanced from her to Parkhurst, then crouched and peered with beady-eyed intent at the rusty nails as he focused his flashlight on each one.

“They been lifted.” He straightened up in a series of awkward jerks.

“How deep is it?” she asked.

Osey shrugged and looked around as though judging distances. “Twenty feet maybe hereabouts.”

“Water?” Parkhurst said.

“Probably.”

“How deep?”

Osey screwed up his mouth and wrinkled his forehead. “No way to tell till I get down there.”

With a frown, Parkhurst looked around, half-turned and looked back in the direction of the house. “Where was the dog when Lynnelle was killed?”

“She must have been out,” Susan said. “Because she was out the next morning when David and Egersund found the body.”

Parkhurst scowled. “Why didn’t she attack the killer?”

“Well—” Osey lifted his shoulders and crossed his arms. “That lil’ dog just ain’t the kind that attacks.” The dog in question was in no way little, but Osey tended to use the word in affection rather than description.

“Right,” Parkhurst grumbled. “Let’s get on with it.”

Osey inched the lab van in under the trees as far as he could—she hoped he’d be able to get it out again—and they set up lights. He and Parkhurst manhandled a winch from the van to the side of the well and got to work removing rusty nails and then lifted rotten boards.

“We’ve got somethin’,” Osey said, rocking back on his heels.

Yes. A faint musty sweetish odor of death and decay tainted the clean cold air. Could be a rat, she reminded herself, to slow her racing pulse.

Crouching forward, Osey shined a flashlight down the inside of the well, brick-lined with a row of rusty metal rungs running down one side. Far below, the light fanned out, bounced off slimey bricks, and dissipated like translucent fog against black night.

“Water down there all right,” Osey said. “Hard to tell how far.” He looked at her. “We could drop in a rock and count till we hear the splash.”

“No!”

He grinned. “Joke, Chief.”

Ha ha. Hidden beneath that country bumpkin exterior lurked a good investigator, but now and then he couldn’t resist getting a rise out of her by playing the dumb hick; too often, she fell for it.

“You okay to go down there?” Parkhurst asked.

“Sure.” With his usual amiable willingness, Osey ambled off to the van to change into a wet suit. She’d never known anyone as affable and compliant as he was. His appearance reminded her of a scarecrow, tall and lean, and he moved with a disjointed awkwardness. When he clomped back, he sounded like a rubber raft on a choppy sea.

“You be careful,” Parkhurst said as he buckled a webbed safety harness around Osey’s chest and attached a line from the winch.

“Don’t worry, Mom.” Osey adjusted a light—the kind used by underwater divers—on his forehead. Gingerly, he put his foot on the top rung and bounced lightly. “Seems okay. Mortar’s a little crumbly round these bricks.”

He went down a rung and rested his elbows on the rim. “You reckon this is why I became a cop?” He pulled the mask over his face, stuck the air hose in his mouth, and with a jaunty wave started down.

Slithery sounds of rubber against brick drifted up, but the winch line stayed easy as he worked his way down. Watchful silence seemed to creep in with the falling snow. Atmosphere. Auras. Had Lynnelle found them welcoming? Susan didn’t feel any welcome, or malignancy either, only this watchful waiting. Bullshit. Irritably, she cinched tighter the belt of her trenchcoat.

Parkhurst, snowflakes dusting his shoulders and glistening on his dark hair, waited motionless, breathing a thin stream of frost, a gloved hand lightly on the line. He’d be terrific on a stakeout, all that ability for unagitated waiting. She hated waiting; impatience acted on her like hives, making her itch and twitch. She tried to curl her cold toes inside her boots and shifted her feet.

Splashing came from the well and Osey yelled, “Ooo-kay!” The long syllables split through the stillness like the ripping of cloth.

His head popped up and he jerked off the mask. “We found it.”

“Audrey Kalazar?” Susan asked.

“Don’t know. A body, all right. Wrapped up like a package.”

“How deep’s the water?” Parkhurst asked.

“Not more’n fifteen feet.”

Jesus. Osey was groping around at the bottom of a black well in fifteen feet of water. Shivering, she hunched her shoulders.

Osey went back down to attach lines to the body. Several minutes later, he climbed out and Parkhurst worked the winch, slowly bringing the body to the surface. Wrapped in black plastic trash bags and tied with thin rope, it streamed water all around as they maneuvered it to the ground.

“Suitcase down there,” Osey said, “and a couple other things.” He slapped the mask back in place and started down again.

Some moments later, there was a tug on the line and Parkhurst winched up the suitcase. Osey reappeared with a handbag slung over his shoulder and a briefcase in one hand.

“I think that’s all,” he said as he handed them over to Susan. “But I want to check something.”

“It can wait till morning,” Susan said. “Get out of that wet suit and into some warm clothes.”

“A couple a minutes,” Osey said. “There’s something funny about places in the mortar.”

“Osey—” Parkhurst growled.

“One quick look.” He climbed back in and his voice came up with a hollow sound. “Body bumped some coming up. Looks like—yeah, crumbling away.”

Susan shined a flashlight down on his head. Three rungs down, he scratched and picked away at the mortar, flakes and bits and chunks plopped into the water.

“Knock it off,” she ordered. “You’re contaminating the site. Get out of there.”

“Oh. Right. I just—” From between the bricks, he eased out a flat packet.

*   *   *

Telling the family was always the worst of it, Susan thought as she poked the doorbell. Keith Kalazar opened the door and the look of friendly inquiry on his face slipped into brittle caution when he saw her.

“It’s about Audrey,” she said.

He seemed to sag and, holding tightly to the edge of the door, he stared blankly past her shoulder and down the flight of steps behind her, as though he hoped she might turn and walk away. “Come in,” he said thickly.

She followed him into a large kitchen with recessed lighting in the high ceiling and hardwood floors polished to a glossy shine. Audrey’s absence was evident in scuff marks on the floor, smudges on the gleaming cabinets and dirty dishes on the ceramic-tiled countertops. A rumpled newspaper lay on the light-colored round wooden table, along with an ashtray filled with pipe debris.

“Coffee?” He motioned her toward the table and pushed up the sleeves of his brown sweater, got out filters, fit one into the coffee machine and spooned in grounds. He was putting off the moment of bad news and concentrating on the familiar. She felt sympathy. He had a lot of difficulties ahead, and the police poking into his affairs would compound them.

While the coffee dripped through, he stood with his back to her, leaning slightly forward, arms outstretched, hands clutching the edge of the countertop and his head bowed. His shoulders shook and he mumbled, “I never would have—”

She didn’t hear the rest. He poured two cups, carried them to the table and carefully eased himself into a chair. Not looking at her, he sipped hot coffee as though it might bring some relief.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kalazar. We found your wife’s body earlier this evening.”

“What—?” he whispered, cleared his throat and tried again. “What happened?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“I’ll have to tell Julie,” he said bleakly and set the cup down. “And Audrey’s parents. They live in Florida. They’re retired.” He looked at his watch. “I don’t know what time it is in Florida.”

He picked up the cup and studied it. “Where?”

“Where did we find her?”

He nodded.

“In the abandoned well at the Creighton place.”

“She drowned?”

“We won’t know until after the autopsy.”

He covered his face with his hands and sat very rigid in an attempt to control his emotions. If he had known his wife was dead, or if he had killed her, he was a terrific actor. “Is there anything I can get for you?” she asked when he got himself under control and sat straighter, squared his shoulders.

He shook his head, apparently not trusting himself to speak.

“I could call someone. Your Doctor. Reverend Mullet?”

“No.”

“I’ll leave now.” She stood. “Call me if you think of anything that might help.”

*   *   *

Tired and angry, sorry for the Kalazars and keyed up by finding the body, Susan headed for the hospital. She’d left Osey and Parkhurst to handle the removal of the body and by now Audrey Kalazar should be in the morgue.

In the parking lot, she turned off the motor and took a cigarette from her bag. The flare of the lighter hurt her eyes. Leaning back, she sat in the dark and smoked the cigarette. It was snowing hard, flakes swirled around the parking lot lights creating silvery haloes, and the red neon of the emergency sign winked and shimmered. Another search of the well and the woods was in order, but that had to wait for daylight. The snow wasn’t going to help any. Some lucky officer got to freeze his butt off standing guard. She crushed out the cigarette and went inside.

On the stainless steel table in the autopsy room, water still oozed from Audrey Kalazar’s sodden clothing. Susan wrinkled her nose at the pungent odors and tried not to breathe deeply. Owen Fisher, dressed in gray pants and white shirt, hands clasped behind his back, prowled around the table and gazed at the body from different angles with bright interest.

The strong overhead light glared harsh and uncaring on the dark bloated features. Short gray hair pasted to the skull, pinstriped suit and white blouse, neat black pumps still on her feet. Her hands showed the dimpling effect of long immersion, but very little decomposition was evident because of the coldness of the water. Audrey had been a small woman and in death seemed even smaller; it was the force of her personality that had lent size to the living woman.

“Well?” Susan said. Every conversation she’d ever had with Dr. Fisher seemed to start that way.

He reached for a pair of latex gloves and stretched them over his long-fingered hands. Squatting, he peered closely at the skull and lightly, almost like a caress, ran his fingertips over it.

“Head injury,” he murmured as though talking to himself. He looked on every body as a fascinating mystery he was privileged to unravel.

“Cause of death?”

He rose, giving her a look of mild reproach. “I’ll do the autopsy first thing in the morning. Then I might have something.”

“How long has she been dead?”

His dark eyebrows drew together. “You’re asking me to reach a conclusion before I’ve examined the facts.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can safely say she probably died around nine twenty-five.”

“That much I know.” Audrey’s watch, the face circled with diamond chips, had stopped at that time, probably shortly after it hit the water. “What day is more what I had in mind.”

He nodded judiciously. “I believe that’s going to be an interesting challenge.”

“Owen, would you give me an informed guess? From superficial examination, based on your years of experience and your expert knowledge, has she been dead for anywhere around four days?”

His eyebrows did their thing again, but amusement glinted briefly in his hooded eyes before they turned blandly thoughtful. “That seems possible,” he said.

All right. The two deaths were connected; they had to be. It was too much to believe two killers were roaming around this quiet little town with wide clean streets and conservative citizens. Why Audrey? She knew something about Lynnelle’s death? What, for God’s sake? And how did she know it?

“After the autopsy,” Dr. Fisher said, “I might be able to tell you something.” Pathologists never liked to commit themselves until after cutting, peering, snipping and prodding. Even then, it was only within a set of limits, never unequivically on the nose.

Snow was still falling when she left the hospital and meandered through the dark streets on the north side of campus. They were mostly deserted, the good citizens probably preparing for the ten o’clock news before retiring to bed. Except at the Kalazars. She hoped Keith and Julie were able to give some comfort to each other.

On Victoria Street, she pulled up in front of David McKinnon’s two-story white shingle, pleased to see lights still on inside. When she slid from the truck, the cold hit her and she hugged her trenchcoat around her, plowed through drifts to the porch, slipping slightly on the steps. She poked the doorbell.

The porch light blinked on and David opened the door. “Susan,” he said with surprise. “Looking for a port in a storm?”

“Something like that. May I come in?”

“Of course.” He took her coat and hung it in a closet, then led her into the living room.

“You’ve been eating salami,” she said. The garlic smelled wonderful after what she’d just left.

“Leftover pizza. Marvelous things, microwaves. Would you like some?”

She hesitated only a moment. The last solid food she’d eaten was the cheeseburger six hours ago. When she nodded, he set off for the kitchen and she settled on the couch, long and low, of a deep blue color, new since the last time she’d been here. For months there’d been only a card table and two folding chairs, as though he were camping out. Now the place looked like somebody had moved in. It was warm and pleasant with polished wood floors and oriental rugs in ivory and blues, Impressionist prints on the walls, silver candlesticks on a dining room table.

He set a plate on the oak coffee table in front of her, two generous slices of pizza, piled with salami and dripping cheese.

“Beer?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Ah,” he said. “Business then, and not pleasure.”

“Don’t be so smart.”

“Designer water? Coffee?”

“Instant will do. You don’t need to grind exotic beans and brew up excellence.”

“Your education has been sadly lacking in some areas.”

“Hey, I’m only a dumb cop.”

The coffee appeared, boiling hot. He fetched a bottle of beer, took a long swallow and sprawled in the easy chair, which gave a soft sigh. She felt like sighing too. The adrenaline jazzing through her system ever since they’d opened the well ran out, leaving her with all the energy of a large rock. Ridiculous thoughts skated across the surface of her mind. He looked good, even in faded jeans and old gray sweatshirt. Why not hurl herself in his lap and run her fingers through his blond curls?

The thought startled her. Not since Daniel died had a thought like that come to her. She wrapped both hands around the cup and took a sip. Too hot. Risk ruining a good friendship? Get a grip on yourself. And remember you’re here on business.

Carefully, she approached a slice of pizza, trying to keep control over long strings of cheese. She chewed and swallowed. “Dr. Egersund came to see you,” she said.

“She did.”

“She tell you she was Lynnelle’s mother?”

He smiled. “Is that what this is about? You know I can’t tell you what she said.”

“Good old privileged information. Just thought I’d give it a try.”

“Now that’s out of the way, would you like a beer? No? So why have you come?” His tone more than the words hinted at cozy possibilities.

Didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Must be unused hormones. She picked out a disk of salami and poked it in her mouth. Getting involved was too open to pain. Never again.

She could hear her father’s approval—just the kind of man you should be with. That was enough right there to make her turn away. Stupid leftover from childhood, this perverse instinct to mutiny.

Her father was an attorney, had wanted her to be one. She graduated from law school and passed the bar exam, all according to his plan; then became a cop because she was afraid she’d never be good enough, never measure up to his standards.

“We found Audrey Kalazar’s body,” she said.

“Body? She was killed?”

“She was indeed.”

“Where?”

“Where killed? I don’t know yet. Where found? Abandoned well. On your property. Did Lynnelle ever mention it?”

“A well? Of course not. Why would she?”

“We also found something else in the well.” She watched him for a reaction; if he gave any, she couldn’t see it.

He waited, enquiring look on his face, took a swallow of beer. “You going to tell me?”

Why not? She was too tired to set little verbal traps and pounce when he fell in. It had been a long day, the room was too warm and her mind was too soggy. He was too sharp for traps anyway. “Bonds.”

“Bonds?” He plunked the bottle down and stared at her.

“When did you get this annoying habit of repeating what you’re told? Bearer bonds. Sealed in mortar between bricks in that well. Several packets, apparently. We don’t know yet how many. More thorough investigation in the morning.”

“Bonds,” he said as though they were something he’d never heard of before.

“There you go again.”

“I’ll be damned. You found old Uncle Howie’s fortune.”

“You knew nothing about them?”

“Come on, Susan. Do I look like the kind of man who’d leave bonds in a well?”

No, he didn’t.

“Howie went sort of nutty after Lowell died.”

“Lowell?” Now she was doing it.

“Howie’s son. Committed suicide.”

Oh, yeah. George had told her about that.

“Well, well. Small wonder nobody ever found anything.”

“Lynnelle ever give any indication she had found them?”

He shook his head. “She couldn’t have. What would she be doing in the well?”

Stealing bonds. Though how she’d know they were there to steal was a good question. How many people examine abandoned wells just on the off chance? Someone killed her to get greedy hands on them? They were legally David’s, although he might have a hard time proving it if someone else had possession.

“Whoever killed Lynnelle killed Audrey Kalazar?” he asked.

“Anything you can tell me to help?”

“I wish I could,” he said.

What did that mean? He wished he had information? Or he wished he could tell her information he did have?

She sipped coffee that was finally cool enough and tore off a bite of pizza. She chewed slowly and swallowed. “You called me this afternoon. What did you want?”

For a moment, he looked blank. “Oh that. Dr. Egersund started me thinking.”

He paused long enough that she prodded him. “About what?”

“That old house.” His eyes seemed focused inward.

“Why did talking with Egersund make you think of that?”

Slowly, he shook his head. “Just remembering stuff from years ago.”

“What stuff?” she prodded again. The warmth and the food and the comfortable couch were making her drowsy; her mind wanted to drift, not ask questions.

“I worked for Howie a summer when I was a kid.”

Her mind snapped alert. “When would that have been?”

“Twenty years, maybe more.”

“Did you know Carena Egersund then?”

“No.” He shook his head, started to say something, then changed his mind. “No, nothing like that and now I think about it, it’s probably not important. You probably already know about the kitchen cabinet.”

“What about it?”

“Tall narrow cabinet by the stove. The floor boards lift out and there’s a space underneath. Secret compartment,” he added with a smile.

“How do you know this?”

His smile grew broader. “Do I assume from your tart tone that you didn’t find it? I happened to see Lowell replacing the boards one time. He was such a funny kid, and it was obviously something he didn’t want anybody to know about that I never mentioned it. I forgot all about it until this afternoon.”

“Funny in what way?”

He thought for a moment. “Troubled. I don’t really know. I was only a kid myself and I just thought he was weird. I didn’t know how to talk to him so I left him alone.”

Buried treasure, secret compartments. What next?