Gretchen led the way to the driveway. They stopped in the shadow of the tall hedge. Gretchen wrapped her hands around one of the old-fashioned-looking lampposts and leaned forward, peering up the wide, gravel driveway.
The house stood at the top of a sloping lawn. A line of tall evergreen trees ran along the far edge of the property. Oak trees dotted the lawn, already winter bare. The grass had been raked. A tall mound of dead leaves leaned against one side of the house.
“The house is dark,” Gretchen whispered. “That’s a good sign.”
Sid didn’t reply. He had his hands shoved into his jeans pockets. His eyes glanced all around, revealing his nervousness.
“The garage is attached to the house,” Gretchen reported. She shielded her eyes with one hand. “Wow. A three-car garage. The doors are closed.” She turned to Sid, who lingered at the curb. “Are you with me or not?”
“I think you’re crazy,” he replied. “But I’m with you.”
She motioned him forward. “If we keep in the shadow of the trees, it will be hard for anyone to see us.”
Sid tapped her shoulder. “You don’t think Mr. Dalby has a gun—do you?”
She pushed his hand away. “Now you’re being stupid. He’s not going to shoot us. If he sees us, he’ll think we’re friends of Devra’s.”
“Friends of Devra’s snooping around in the garage.”
Gretchen began trotting up the gravel drive, her shoes crunching loudly. “No sign of life, Sid. There’s no one home. Let’s hurry.”
He hesitated another few seconds. Then he followed her, his eyes darting from side to side, his clenched fists still buried deep in his jeans pockets.
A gray squirrel, its jaws bulging with nuts, stood up straight in the center of the lawn and gazed at them as they jogged past. Its tail was raised behind it, and its eyes followed them warily as they made their way to the side of the garage.
Even though it was a short distance, Gretchen found herself breathing hard as she pressed herself against the brick wall at the side. She turned and did a quick survey of the windows of the house. No lights. No movement.
Feeling a little more confident, she slid around to the front of the garage and peered into the window of the first of the three doors. “Only one car in there,” she reported to Sid. “At the other end. A convertible. I think it’s a Jaguar.”
“Sweet,” Sid murmured.
Gretchen moved to the window on the middle door and pressed her face against the glass. She cupped her hands around the sides of her head to cut the glare of the sunlight behind them.
“Do you see a cabinet?” Sid stayed by the side wall. His eyes kept darting to the house.
“No. No cabinet,” Gretchen reported. “Lots of shelves with gardening tools and supplies and other stuff. All very organized and neat.”
“They probably have a garage servant who dusts the garage every day,” Sid joked.
“Not funny.” She turned to him. “Devra didn’t work on the cabinet in here. We’re going to have to get into the house.”
Sid nodded. His expression went blank.
“They probably have a basement workshop,” Gretchen said. “I’ll bet that’s where Devra worked on the cabinet.” Keeping against the wall, she edged toward the entryway down a short passage from the garage.
Sid shook his head. “Maybe someday I’ll write a book about two people who broke into a house to see if there was no acid bottle there.”
“I didn’t know you like to write,” Gretchen said.
“I don’t,” Sid replied. “But I’ll have to do something while I’m in prison for breaking and entering.”
“Sssshh.” Gretchen stepped down the five or six concrete steps that led to the door. She peered into the window. “Hey, this door leads right into the basement. We don’t even have to go upstairs.”
“Awesome,” Sid whispered, brightening. “If we’re real quiet…”
Gretchen tried the door knob. She turned it and pulled, and the door slid open. “Not locked. Come on. We got a break.”
Sid took one last look around the backyard and side of the house. Then he slipped through the doorway after Gretchen.
“I don’t hear any burglar alarm,” Gretchen whispered. “Maybe we’re okay.”
They found themselves in a small, carpeted room. Gretchen saw a long counter obviously used as a desk, a laptop and printer, a small armchair, and a low vinyl couch. A tall bookshelf filled one wall. A framed photo of the Eiffel Tower in Paris was hung over the desk beside a wall calendar.
“It’s like a little office,” Gretchen said. She motioned for Sid to follow her as she stepped through a narrow, open doorway.
Gym equipment filled the next room. Gretchen saw a StairMaster machine, a stationary bike, an elliptical machine, a treadmill, several weights stacked on a shelf against the wall. A flatscreen TV was suspended on the wall facing the exercise machines.
“Wow. They’ve got everything,” Sid whispered. “And it’s just Devra and her dad?”
Gretchen didn’t answer. She had her eyes on the low ceiling. She listened for footsteps or any other sounds above them, signs that someone was home.
Silence.
They both crept through the doorway on the far end of the gym. Orange sunlight through windows up at ground level revealed that this was the part that looked like a basement. No carpeting here. A massive furnace took up nearly half the room. Pipes and cables and rolls of insulation material, wooden crates, old furniture covered in bedsheets.
“I knew it. A workshop,” Gretchen said, pointing. A long workbench stood against one wall with wooden shelves above it, a huge metal vice attached to one end. As she moved toward it, she saw a large power saw resting on a separate table. Small chunks of wood sat in a puddle of sawdust, littering the floor.
“There it is,” Sid whispered, grabbing her shoulder. “You were right. That has to be the cabinet.”
Gretchen followed his gaze. There it was, a small wooden cabinet with six drawers across the front. It was about the size of a bed table. Each drawer had a brass knob in its center, newly polished. The top was framed by a carved wooden design that looked a little like ocean waves.
“She removed all the paint,” Gretchen said. “Look. She’s already started to stain the cabinet with some kind of dark stain.” Her eyes went to the shelves above the workbench. “So where’s the acid she used to remove the paint?”
Sid stepped up to the workbench. He gazed at the shelves filled with tools and supplies. A large can of wood stain stood at the edge of the workbench, a paintbrush beside it.
“I don’t see it,” Gretchen said, turning and searching for another table that might hold the supplies Devra used. “Nope. No acid bottle. I think I was right, Sid. I think the acid she used is in my garage.”
“You’re wrong,” Sid said. He reached onto the highest shelf and pulled something down. He turned and showed it to her.
Gretchen gasped. An orange bottle, a little larger than the one in her garage. She squinted hard at it. “Is it—?”
“It’s an acid bottle,” Sid said. “And it’s almost empty. You were wrong, Gretchen. This is what Devra used. The acid in your garage—”
“Let me see it.” She grabbed the bottle from his hand. She turned it so she could read the label. She raised it closer to her face and read the label out loud. “Muriatic Acid.”
She and Sid stared at each other.
“What’s Muriatic acid?” Gretchen whispered.
Sid shrugged.
Gretchen fumbled in her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her fingers trembled as she brought up the Google app and typed in Muriatic Acid.
“It’s an acid used to remove paint,” she read it to Sid. “It’s usually used to remove paint from cars. But it also works on furniture.”
Her shoulders slumped. She suddenly felt as if she was deflating, like a balloon emptying out. “Oh, wow.”
Sid placed the bottle of acid back on the shelf. “Have we proved anything here?”
Gretchen shook her head. “I don’t think so. I … I don’t know what to think, Sid. Now I’m totally confused. The acid in my garage … sulfuric acid.… That’s the acid that killed Madison. And … and…”
They both heard the car door slam. They froze and listened. The hum of a garage door lowering itself. And then … the thud and bump of the basement door being pushed open.
Soft footsteps.
Gretchen gasped. “We’re caught.”