When I die, I’m leaving my body to science fiction.
—Steven Wright, comedian
SEYMOUR AND BRAINERT returned to the van, perfectly willing to wait outside Walt’s house. I was, too, until my gumshoe spirit refused to let me rest in peace.
Turn around, he ordered. Now’s our chance to case the scene.
“But, Jack, the dispatcher warned us to stay out of the house.”
She ordered you to stay out. Not me.
“But you can’t go anywhere unless I take you!”
Exactly, honey. I’m so proud of you. You catch on real quick.
“Don’t tease me. This is serious.”
Yeah, serious as murder. And that’s my business.
“You mean it was your business, past tense. When you expired, so did your license.”
I still got the know-how. Just not the body. So get yours moving!
“Do you really think we should—”
GET IN THERE NOW! BEFORE THE COPPERS GET HERE!
“All right, all right, calm down . . .”
I approached the house again.
“Pen, where are you going!” Brainert cried.
“I’ll be right back!” I sang, trying to calm his fears—and mine.
As I crossed the porch and peered into the house’s shadowy interior, the ghost piped up again—
It’s as quiet as a tomb in there.
“I’ll excuse your tasteless pun, but only because it’s as dark as a tomb, too.”
Which should make you wonder: Who turned out the lights?
“You’re right, of course. I doubt Walt’s thoughts were on energy efficiency as he plunged to his death.” Pausing at the doorway, I felt unease mounting. “I’m nervous, Jack. I don’t want to disturb any evidence. And I feel terrible snooping around with Walt just lying there.”
All you have to do is act like a professional. Look at it like I would. No emotions. Stay in your head, Penny. Think, don’t feel.
“Easier said than done . . .”
Death was no stranger to me, but that didn’t stop the hackles from rising as I approached Walt’s corpse. With a sharp intake of breath, I took Jack’s advice, pushed my feelings aside, and slipped through the door.
Remember what the mailman said about not being a forensics expert? Well you’re not, either, so don’t try to examine the old man’s body.
“Then what are we looking for?”
The reason Walt Waverly is dead, not the cause. In the private eye profession, we call that a motive.
“There’s only a motive if there’s foul play.”
And that’s what you’re looking for.
“I need something more specific.”
Okay. Look at how the ladder fell. What do you notice?
I saw the obvious, of course. The top rungs struck the antique grandfather clock and shattered its face. Following Jack’s advice, I took an even closer look, peering through the damage to read the time.
“Jack, the clock stopped ticking at 11:29.”
And what does that tell you?
“That’s barely thirty minutes after Walt ended our call. I remember hearing the dong of this clock striking eleven. That’s when the buyer showed up, pounding on his door.”
Coincidence? If you believe that, I’ve got some real estate in Florida to sell you, and it’s not entirely swamp. I promise.
“So you think he was—?”
Iced. Bumped off. Deep-sixed. Put to bed for the big sleep—
“Okay, okay, I get it, but you could be jumping the gun here. This might simply be a terrible, tragic accident.”
Nuts to that. Too many things spell murder—the unexpected visit, the promised picture previously purchased, Walt’s own experience with crazy buyers who lost a sale and lost their heads.
“If Walt did have some kind of argument with the buyer, would it be possible to knock the ladder aside while Walt was on it?”
Sure, why not? Walt was a beefy guy, but he was no spring chicken. Why don’t we have a look around? These hayseed coppers are going to take their good old time. They’re probably off goldbricking at the town fishin’ hole. Might as well see if we can find any helpful evidence.
“Like what?”
Like something out of place. Something that looks wrong.
“Wrong? Is that the technical term?”
Like it or don’t, it worked for guys like me. You’ll know it when you see it.
“Fine.”
My footsteps echoed as I crossed the hardwood foyer and entered the library. The large room was dark, the curtains still drawn. The only illumination came from the dying embers of last night’s fire. The scene felt even eerier because of Walt’s removal of so many paintings from the walls. The smudged squares left behind felt almost ghostly, their impressions once clear were now gone.
“I don’t see any sign of struggle or disruption,” I said loudly as I looked around. The sound of my own voice gave me some reassurance. “I don’t see that anything was left behind—no scarf or hat or gloves.”
Keep looking while we have the chance.
“To do that, I’ll need more light.”
I found the switch and was about to turn it on when the ghost boomed—
Fingerprints!
“Oh, right. Thanks, Jack.”
After fishing in my pockets, I found my leather gloves and pulled them on before flipping the switch on the dusty chandelier. As light flooded the gloomy room, I noticed the refreshment table by the fireplace hadn’t been cleared.
“The cookie plate is still there,” I noted. “And I remember Walt snacked on a cookie as he spoke to me about his color-coded notebooks—the red and black ones he brought down from his archives in the attic.”
And where are these notebooks?
“I don’t see them.”
Keep lookin’, honey.
I searched the table—on top and underneath—and then the entire library. But there was no red or black notebook. There were no notebooks whatsoever!
“The blue one is missing, too. That was the newest one, and the last entry was Seymour’s purchase. I remember Walt asking him to write down his name and address.”
As I looked under the table one more time, I was no longer skeptical that Walt’s death was an accident. I couldn’t prove those notebooks were stolen. I knew it, from the tips of my toes to the top of my—
A blast of supernatural air suddenly shocked me. The frost was so cold it nearly froze the nervous sweat under my ponytail.
“What’s with the warning freeze?” I blurted aloud. “You know what I’m looking for!”
“Excuse me?”
The sharp female voice startled me into stumbling backward. As I caught my balance, I saw the uniformed figure of a woman stepping through the library’s doorway. I stared. I couldn’t help it, even though I knew it was rude.
The diminutive, short-haired brunette had so many freckles her pale face seemed ruddy. But what really got my attention was the fact that she was wearing a badge and that one of her hands rested on a very large but thankfully holstered handgun.
“Did you come with the ambulance?” I asked. “Are you a local deputy?”
“Sheriff,” she answered. “I’m Sheriff Taft.”
“The operator said Sheriff Gus Taft was on the way.”
The sheriff’s intense brown eyes flashed and then narrowed. Just like that, her annoyance morphed into suspicion.
“My full name is Augusta. And it’s time for me to ask the questions. Why are you so interested in the private property of a dead man?”