“So the photographer was a Peeping Tom?”
“Peeping Jerome, actually.”
“What did he keep in these cabinets?” Karla asked, tugging open an empty drawer.
“Pictures and stereopticon slides, I think. There’s some broken glass in this drawer. By the way, I found a couple of slides mixed in with the View-Master reels I bought. You’re welcome to them.” I knelt to pick up a torn black and white photograph. Someone’s arm. I passed it to Karla.
“This was taken here,” she said.
“Here?”
“In the sitting room at the end of the hall. See, the fireplace is in the background.”
She was right, not that it mattered. There was no way to tell whose arm it was or even when it was taken. The photo wasn’t dated. More scrap. Which summed up everything we’d seen.
We poked our noses into every room on the upper floors. Zip. The attic had a small trove, a few toys, some doll furniture, a rusty tricycle. Karla consulted with me on prices but it was strictly a courtesy. She knew this kind of merchandise better than I did.
“I think we’re done,” Karla said, taking a final look around the attic. “A few pieces of furniture from below might be salvageable but I think Mr. Trane has already sold off everything of value. I’m guessing he left this stuff up here because it isn’t worth toting downstairs. If the execution sale clears fifty bucks tomorrow I’ll be amazed.”
Chastity was waiting for us at the foot of the stairs.
“Satisfied? I told you there wasn’t nothin’.”
“You were right,” Karla said. “And I don’t blame you for avoiding the upstairs. It’s like The Shining up there.”
“We found a darkroom on the second floor with a concealed storage room,” I said. “Do you know what was in there?”
“Trane found some French postcards in a closet upstairs. Weird pictures, little boys undressing? Plus some old cameras and stuff. Sold ’em for a few bucks, then he kicked the crap out of the place lookin’ for more secret rooms.”
“Any luck?”
“Sure. He found a million bucks stashed in the walls. That’s why we’re still squattin’ in this beautiful mansion. Are you two done screwin’ around?”
“For tonight,” Karla said. “I’ll be back in the morning to set up the sale. I’ll try not to disturb you but—”
“Disturb all you want. I’m bailin’ outa here in the morning. Had enough of this town, enough of Trane, too. Beat it and lemme get some sleep. I got a big day tomorrow.”
“No problem,” Karla said sweetly. “Pleasant dreams.”
“Sorry this turned out to be such a bust,” she sighed, as we walked to our cars.
“Not your fault. Execution sales are never much fun. I’m just sorry we didn’t get to see the place before Trane tore it apart.”
“The house has obviously been closed up for years. I wonder what he thought he’d find? Other than porno postcards, I mean.” I hesitated. “Maybe he did find something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t looking for antiques, since he wrecked some pretty fine furniture looking for whatever it was. None of the stuff at his clearance sale last night was valuable. I wonder if he showed us everything? Or maybe set the good stuff aside?”
“Where? We went through the whole house.”
“But not the garage. I asked Lurch about it last night and he got hostile... hey, wait up!”
Karla was already trotting up the driveway around the house to the rear. A two-car, two-story garage as old as the house and just as decrepit.
“Wow. It’s certainly big enough,” she said.
“There were no automobiles when the house was built. This was probably a carriage house first, converted for cars later on. Maybe servants’ quarters upstairs. Unfortunately, the windows have been painted over and that’s a pretty hefty padlock on the door.”
“The clerk gave me a key ring for the house,” Karla said, fishing through her purse. “Maybe we can open it. Assuming I don’t keel over from the stench first. What is that godawful smell?”
“Maybe Lurch hides the bodies back here—”
“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” Trane roared, charging around the corner of the house.
“Pricing items for the execution sale tomorrow,” Karla said firmly. “We need to see what’s inside.”
“There ain’t nothin’ inside!”
“In that case you won’t mind if—”
“Forget it! Maybe the city can run me out by claimin’ I owe bogus taxes but I still got rights. My personal stuff’s in this garage and you two are nothin’ but frickin’ thieves! You’d best get steppin’ or you’re by God gonna need an ambulance. Move!”
“Absolutely,” I said, taking Karla’s arm, hauling her off. “We’re on our way.”
“And don’t come back!” A gust of wind howled up the driveway, echoing his rage.
“Now wait just a darn minute,” Karla protested.
“Quiet!” I hissed, taking a firmer grip as she struggled to twist free, hurrying her back to her car.
“Damn it, Kenyon, let go of me! What are you doing?”
“Getting us out of serious trouble.”
“That big goof doesn’t scare me—”
“Well he should! Did you see his eyes? Pupils dilated, twitching, hyperaggressive. He’s stoned to the bone on something, probably methedrine. You could clip him with a sledge hammer and he’d look around for mosquitoes. He’s irrational and touchy as a time bomb.”
She hesitated, scanning my face. “Okay,” she nodded, “maybe you’re right. So why does an antiques dealer know so much about methedrine?”
“Because I’ve prosecuted forty or fifty crystal meth cases, everything from DUI to murder.”
“Prosecuted? You mean you’re an attorney?”
“Used to be. I was an assistant D.A. for Wayne County. Had an auto accident. My wife was killed. I got my face rearranged and my brains scrambled. Massive head injury. Wasn’t expected to live. But I did. Sort of.”
“How do you mean, sort of?”
“I was comatose for months, came out of it with my memory damaged. Some sections of it are missing. Years. You can’t try cases if you can’t remember precedents or even whether you took a course on precedents.”
“You seem all right to me.”
“I am okay. I’m walking, talking...” I froze, staring at her. “Who are you?”
“Karla,” she said, concerned. “I’m... you jerk! You did it again.”
“Sorry. I think the crash twisted my sense of humor.”
“Assuming you ever had one,” she said, shaking her head. “Clara warned me you were a little strange. Nice, but strange.”
“Then humor me. Don’t come here alone tomorrow. I’ll call my father-in-law and get a deputy to escort you, okay?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second. Let me arrange some protection anyway. Please.”
“Maybe it’s not a bad idea. Our friend back there does seem a little spacey. A deputy? Can your father-in-law really fix that?”
“Sure. Bay Harbor’s a nice town, but it’s old fashioned. The same families have been running things here for the last hundred years. My father-in-law, the sheriff, local judges, businessmen. All buddies who grew up together, went to the same schools.”
“An old boy network?”
“Something like that. But in a good way.”
“Maybe. If you’re one of the old boys.”
“I’m not, but my father-in-law is. Let me fix this.”
“Okay,” she said, climbing into her VW. “But tell him to be on time. I’ll be here at ten.”
“The deputy will be waiting.”
“You know, it’s really a shame. This was a beautiful house once. Didn’t Mr. Barrett say the Potters were old money? Wouldn’t that make them part of your old boy network?”