King of Murder

Herculeah took the bike trail through the park on the way home. She took it because it was quicker, but also because she feared that Mathias King might try to follow her in the hearse.

When she got home, she put her bike in the garage and started up the steps.

The phone began to ring. She knew it would be Meat calling to find out how the afternoon had gone. She knew he would be watching from the front window, so she took her time opening the door and going inside.

When she picked up the phone, she was surprised to hear Gilda’s voice.

“Oh, I’m so glad I got you,” Gilda said. “I just went by Rebecca’s house and there was a SOLD sign in the yard. I called the realtor on my cell phone and guess what?”

“It’s been bought by someone who’s going to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast! Isn’t that wonderful? Now it will be a happy house again with—”

“Gilda!” This time her voice was so forceful that Gilda stopped.

Somehow Herculeah got the feeling Gilda wasn’t that surprised.

“Yes. He’s got a room called the Den of Iniquity, and in that room is the very knife that killed your friend.”

There was a silence that continued so long Herculeah said, “Are you still there?”

“I was locked in the room with the knife and I had to break my way out. I was all the way outside before I realized that I should have brought the knife with me. Why did I leave it? Now Mathias King can get rid of it, and we have no proof he was the murderer.”

“I’ll call him on my cell phone and see if he’s there.”

“I know the number,” Herculeah said. “I remember it from the invitation.”

She gave Gilda the number and waited while the phone rang on and on at One Kings Row.

“Can you get us inside the—what was it? Den of Iniquity.”

“Let’s find out. I’m not far from your house. I’ll pick you up.”

Herculeah wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but she didn’t have a better one. So when Gilda honked her horn, she ran out and got in the car.

They drove quickly to Mathias King’s street with Herculeah pointing the way.

“You can’t see the house from here,” Herculeah said at the entrance to Kings Row. “Park here and let’s slip through the trees.”

“The hearse is gone,” Herculeah said. “It was parked right there.”

“But what if he moved the hearse, put it in a garage or something, and is in the house waiting for us?” Herculeah said.

Herculeah had pretty much taken all the chances she wanted to for one day, but she led Gilda around the side of the house.

As they walked toward the door, Herculeah said, “I don’t understand why a house would have stairs leading outside.”

“Oh, it’s not strange at all. Victorian gentlemen were very secretive—didn’t want their wives to know their comings and goings. They’d go into the room, ask not to be disturbed, and go out carousing. You lead the way up the stairs.”

Herculeah wasn’t as afraid with Gilda on her side. That woman was very strong. She had seen that in Tai Chi class.

The door at the head of the stairs was as Herculeah had left it. She slipped through and stepped over the fallen curtain. Gilda followed.

“Now, where’s the knife? Where’s the knife?” Gilda said.

She looked closely at Gilda. Gilda was very pale. It was as if all the blood had drained from her head.

“Are you all right? You look like you’re going to faint. Don’t faint, because I could never get you and the knife back down those stairs.”

“We shouldn’t have come. It’s too much for you to see the actual knife—”

As if in a trance, Gilda stretched out her hand toward the knife.

But Gilda paid no attention to Herculeah’s warning. Her hand hovered over the knife.

Herculeah said, “No! No! You’ll mess up the fingerprints. You’ll ruin everything.”

Herculeah glanced around the tabletops, looking for something. She said, “We need to get something firm—this manuscript cover ought to do it. I’ll slide this under the knife and the scarf. We won’t even fold the scarf over the knife. We don’t want to do anything that would erase Mathias King’s print.”

“You don’t have to worry about his prints.” “But that’s the whole reason we’re here—to get Mathias King’s fingerprints on the knife.”

“Because the prints on the handle of the knife are not his.”

Gilda turned and looked at Herculeah. Her face was still pale, but in the vague light that filtered through the open doorway, her eyes burned with the intensity Herculeah had last seen in the library of the murder house.

It was as if a mask had slipped from her face, and Herculeah’s blood froze at what was revealed.