“It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” he told me sweetly and shook my hand. His grip was weak and bony, but his smile was genuine.
“I’ll send you a consignment contract by Express Mail first thing in the morning, Mr. Chesley,” I assured him. “You should have it Tuesday, before noon.”
I thanked the elderly man and discreetly moved to the car to allow Sadie a few minutes alone to say goodbye to her old friend. At the end of the adieu, I noticed Peter forcing his arthritic form to bow so he could kiss my aunt’s hand.
When she finally settled into the passenger seat, I could see Sadie biting back tears. We drove away in silence. In my rearview mirror, the manor became a dark silhouette against a rolling purple sky. Roderick Road was still free of traffic, but now the rain had all but ceased. A steady wind gusting at around forty miles per hour was blow drying the landscape.
“Oh, my, that was hard,” Sadie said at last. “Seeing how much Peter aged during our years apart…and he’s been so isolated, holing himself up in that dreadful place.”
“He does live a strange existence,” I said, struggling to be diplomatic. “But he spoke of finding himself the patriarch of the family, and his responsibilities to that family. That means there are relatives out there, too. And he did mention it was the butler’s night off.”
“I think Peter made up that story about the butler,” Sadie replied. “What butler would let his employer live in such conditions? If he’s lucky, Peter has a home-care nurse who checks on him weekly.”
I heard Sadie sniff, saw her brush her glove across her damp cheek. “Well, now that I know he needs me… that he didn’t simply remarry some other woman and run off, I’m going to come visit him every weekend. I’m going to find out what’s really going on in that man’s life whether he likes it or not!”
I smiled, happy to hear the fight in my aunt’s voice. If anyone could lift the eccentric Peter Chesley out of his gloomy, mildewed hole of an existence, it was Sadie Thornton.
“I have tissue,” I offered, seeing her tears continue to flow. “In my purse in the back—Oh, no!”
“What?”
Now I knew why I hadn’t heard any wisecracks from Jack since we’d left the mansion. “I was so busy loading the trunk with boxes of books that I left my purse in Mr. Chesley’s library. My driver’s license and credit cards are in there, everything I need…” (Including my connection with Jack!)
“We have to go back,” Sadie declared. “Turn around.”
We’d been driving for ten minutes already, but I slowed the car to a crawl, looking for a place to make a U- turn. Before long, we were rolling through the iron gates of Prospero House once again.
“I do hope Peter hasn’t retired already,” Sadie fretted.
I glanced at my watch. “We’ve only been gone about twenty minutes. I’ll bet he’s still awake.”
“Let me go inside. I can be in and out in a moment.”
I gladly agreed. Chesley’s Mildewed Manor gave me the proverbial creeps, and I wasn’t keen on an encore appearance. As we rolled under the stone portico, however, I noticed that both massive front doors were wide open, the wind rippling the hanging curtains in the entranceway.
Sadie stiffened. “Something’s wrong.”
I stopped, cut the engine, and thrust the keys into Sadie’s gloved hand. “Wait here.”
“What? No, Pen, wait for me—”
I was much faster than my aunt, and out of the car and up the three stone steps before she’d gotten out of the passenger seat.
“Mr. Chesley?” I called. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
The howling wind was my only reply.
I peered through the door and saw the motionless form on the hard stone floor. A hinge squeaked as the wind moved the door. I glanced at the locks, the doorknobs. There was no sign of forced entry.
Behind me, I heard the car door slam, and seconds later my aunt was at my side. When she saw the man on the ground, she choked back a scream, took a step forward. I grabbed her arm, stopped her.
“Just in case we’re not alone, we go in together.”
I was more convinced than ever that I’d heard another person in the house earlier in the evening. Now I wondered whether that person was dangerous.
Sadie understood my concern. Face pale, she nodded.
Arm in arm, we stepped over the threshold. Cautiously, we scanned the room, searching for any sign of activity. The house seemed deserted, except for the man on the floor. We hurried to Peter’s side.
“Watch my back,” I whispered.
I bent over the man. He lay facedown at the bottom of the stairs, one bare foot resting on the bottom step, his velvet slipper missing. I felt his flesh for signs of life, but he was already cold. Even before I searched for a pulse, I suspected there was no life left in his frail, broken form.
When I put my hand on his throat, I discovered an unnatural lump—as if he’d broken his neck—then drew my hand back so quickly I lost my balance and fell on my behind. Sitting on the ground, I glanced around, spied the bamboo wheelchair parked in the corner of the room, far from the stairs.
There didn’t appear to be any marks on Chesley, nor signs of violence beyond the broken neck. I scanned the stairs, saw his missing slipper in the middle of the staircase near the second floor.
My aunt looked away. She was distraught, sobbing. There was nothing she could do for the living Peter Chesley, not anymore, but we couldn’t just leave his corpse here.
“We have to call 911,” I said.
Sadie, still in shock, offered me a blank stare. “I…I don’t know where Peter keeps his phone,” she said.
“Stay here. Don’t touch anything!”
My tone was brusque, almost harsh, but I needed to get through to Sadie, who was clearly shaken by her friend’s sudden demise.
I strode quickly back to the library. My purse was where I’d left it—dangling by its strap from the arm of the chair. I needed the cell phone inside to call the police. But as soon as my fingers touched the purse, a familiar voice filled my head.
“Jack, something terrible has happened—”
As I filled Jack in, I reached for the old buffalo nickel he once owned. I rubbed the coin between my fingers, like some stupid, scared kid looking for a genie in a bottle.
“Huh?”
“Jack! My God. What do you want me to look for?” I cried—out loud, as it turned out.
“Sorry. I just got excited.”
As I fumbled for my cell phone, a frantic cry interrupted the conversation in my head.
“Pen! Pen!” Sadie shouted. “Come here!”
CHAPTER 4
While the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” 1841
WHEN I RETURNED to the entranceway, rippling red lights were flickering along the wall. The glow came through the still-gaping double doors. A shiny white police car had pulled up to the manor house, emergency lights
