King of Murder (8 page)

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Authors: BETSY BYARS

BOOK: King of Murder
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“Pay particular attention,” he said, “to the golden sacrificial altar in the center of the room.”
Herculeah looked at the altar. Pagan pictures and letters adorned the sides. Leather straps dangled over the sides of the pagan pictures.
“And why do I need to pay particular attention to the sacrificial altar?” she asked.
“Because, my dear, it will be the site of your murder.”
She turned her steely gray eyes to his. “My murder?”
“Your literary murder,” he corrected himself.
“Even literarily, I am not getting on any sacrificial altar.”
He smiled, showing his pointed, animal teeth. “I was afraid you were going to say that. But as a special favor to me?”
“I don't owe you any favors.”
She hesitated a moment, eyeing the altar. Strangely enough, her hair was not frizzling. She felt as if she were playing a game—a dangerous game, perhaps, but as long as she played by the rules, she felt she would be safe. Never let anyone know you're afraid of them, she reminded herself.
“Seen enough?” Mathias King asked.
“More than enough.”
He closed the door and moved to the next. “Now for the Den of Iniquity.”
“And tea,” Herculeah reminded him.
“Ah, yes, I had forgotten. Tea.”
He opened the door, and for a moment, all she could see was the blazing lights of candles. She smelled the scent of wax and something she could not identify—some sort of foreign incense, perhaps.
She stepped into the room, followed by Mathias King, and the candles seemed to have been placed so that they threw shadows on the wall. The corners of the room were in darkness.
“Don't you have an overhead light?” Herculeah asked. “I want to see this stuff.”
“This stuff, as you put it, is best viewed in a soft, mysterious light. But, I assure you, my dear, you will perhaps see more than you like. Come.”
21
TRAPPED
Herculeah and Mathias King proceeded slowly down the left side of the room.
“My old murders,” he said with a gesture toward the display cases.
Glass-fronted cabinets lined the wall. The cabinets contained weapons, newspaper clippings, letters, and more—all pertaining to a particular murder. Most of the murders had taken place long ago, and Herculeah had never heard of the cases or the victims.
Beneath the glass cases were drawers and a white golden-edged card with lovely writing that Herculeah recognized as Mathias King's identifying the contents of each by case. The Ahitmore case. The Elison case. The murdered monk.
“You aren't interested in my real-life murders?” Mathias King asked.
“I guess I never heard of any of them.”
“I'm sure your father has.”
“Probably.” She gave him a quick glance. “You'll have to invite him for tea.”
“Perhaps.”
At the end of the room was a wall completely covered by a heavy red drapery. “Let's open the curtains and let some light and air in here,” Herculeah suggested.
“Light would spoil our mood.”
“But some air would—”
“Come, this is what you came to see,” Mathias King interrupted, speaking quickly as if to distract her from opening the draperies.
She eyed the draperies as they passed. She wondered if there was something behind them he didn't want her to see.
“These three tables contain all the things pertaining to my mystery novels. I haven't had cases built for them yet.
“This first table contains everything from A Sip of Death. The manuscript—see, it's all in my own handwriting as I said. And here is the cup I bought at Hidden Treasures.”
“But there's no snake on it.”
“Here's the one with the snake. I had a silversmith make it for me. The weapons I buy at Hidden Treasures—though I wouldn't hurt Mrs. Jay's feelings for the world—are seeds. I see them and my mind begins to nurture them and let them grow.”
They moved to the next table. “A Slash of Life. I have the feeling that interests you most of all.”
“Yes, it does. I spoke to a woman who felt you were somehow involved with the murdered woman.”
“Did she now? Some people will claim anything to get attention.”
“I didn't get the feeling she was that kind of woman.”
“This is the letter opener I bought at Hidden Treasures, a mere seed of the knife over there that did the murder.” He pointed to the center of the table.
There lay a knife nestled in the folds of a black silk scarf. Herculeah reached out her hand to push aside the silk so that she could get a better look at the knife.
“Don't touch that,” he said quickly.
“Why not?” she asked, but he had spoken so forcefully she had already withdrawn her hand.
“I have reason to believe the fingerprints of the murderer are still on the knife.”
“This is the knife that actually committed the murder? This is not a knife you had made up by some silversmith?”
His statement did not make sense to her. Perhaps it was the smell of the candles that was causing her confusion. She had never cared for artificial scents.
“I believe so. Even I, clever as I am, could not produce real blood on the blade of the knife.”
“So this
isn't
the knife you bought at Hidden Treasures. Mrs. Jay doesn't have anything this fine.”
“Perhaps it is a substitute for that knife.”
Before she had time to form another question, he had guided her to the next table. “Now this table is the most important to the two of us. It concerns the murder in which you will participate.”
Herculeah didn't want to leave the table for A Slash of Life. She still had questions, if only she could remember what they were—but she couldn't seem to help herself.
“The weapon”—he picked it up—“will be a sacrificial dagger.”
She blinked her eyes so she could make out the dagger. It seemed to be wavering in the candlelight.
“In the book, you, my dear, will be the magician's assistant. I, of course, will be the magician.”
He twirled the dagger in a masterful, threatening way.
“We will be doing an act. The act consists of a trick where I pretend to stab you, but this is a trick dagger. The blade recedes into the hilt on forceful contact.” He acted out his part of the trick, striking the table hard enough for the blade to disappear.
“You didn't get that at Hidden Treasures.”
“No, my dear, I got the sacrificial altar there. It was used in a play. But now, back to the trick. Unbeknownst to us, someone has rigged the dagger so that it will not collapse and it has become a lethal weapon. Someone, you see, wants you dead, my dear.”
“I've got to get out of here,” Herculeah said.
“I deliver a lethal blow with the knife. Naturally, I am accused of murder while the real murderer—”
“I've got to get out of here,” she said again.
“No, no, my dear, you need tea. Sit! Sit!” He fairly pushed her into a chair and, although she didn't want to, she sat.
“I'll be right back with the tea. Lemon and sugar?” he asked.
“I don't care.”
He was in the doorway and she was just ready to say, “Don't close the door,” when he did.
She heard the door close and then a faint click as if it had been locked. She got up quickly, crossed the room, and tried the door. It did not open. She was locked in.
And the scent from the candles was really getting to her. She swirled and ran to the heavy drapes at the end of the room.
She thrust them aside, ready to open the windows, even with force if she had to. She'd break the glass with the heel of her boot.
The curtains parted, and Herculeah stood facing the paneled wall.
She noticed three things:
1. There was no door in the wall.
2. There was no window in the wall.
3. She was trapped.
22
AFTERNOON NIGHTMARE
Since Saturday, Meat had been in one of two places. He was either at the window watching for Herculeah, or he was lying on the sofa thinking about her.
At present, there was no point in being at the window. Herculeah had come out of the house at ten minutes past two, gotten her bicycle from the garage, and, without a glance in his direction, ridden off.
Knowing she had gotten an invitation, he had suspected she would be going out this afternoon. He had decided to follow her, but his plans were foiled when she got on her bike.
It was very hard to follow someone unnoticed on a bike, particularly when your bicycle was adorned with Day-Glo strips (his mother's work) so that he would be singled out from all other traffic.
Therefore, he was lying on the sofa, clicking the remote from channel to channel. He paused for a moment on the Disney Channel.
Pinocchio
was on. Meat didn't feel up to watching a movie about a boy who'd paid dearly for his lies. It came too close to his own situation.
Coming up on the TV screen was the scene on Pleasure Island where the boys began to turn into donkeys. Meat had never liked this part. Even as a child, as he sat in the theater laughing with all the other kids, he had not found it funny.
He punched the MUTE button and closed his eyes, but kept his face turned toward the TV. It wouldn't hurt to check Pinocchio's progress every now and then.
He was almost asleep when he felt something lumpy resting under his head against the pillow. He tried to adjust the pillow. The lump got bigger. He lifted his head.
A long ear! He had grown an ear just like the boys on TV. And another ear on the other side.
He shared the horror of the mutating boys on the screen. No MUTE button could deaden the sounds of those terrible donkey screams, and he screamed right along with them.
And now he was sitting on something bumpy. Not a tail! Please, please don't let it be a tail.
He eased a hand beneath him, and of course it was a tail. It was such a forceful tail that it had split his pants open and was sprouting like a stalk of corn.
He got up at once. He had one goal, one chance to become a boy again. He had lied, and lying was just as bad an offense as those committed by the boys on the screen—smoking cigars and playing pool. He had to cross the street and retract that lie.
His hand had become a hoof, so it was difficult to open the front door, but he was so desperate he managed.
He tripped going down the steps—again, hoofs weren't made for steps—and crossed the street.
He was on
all
fours now, but at least that
allowed
him to gallop. He galloped across the street without being run over, and up the stairs to Herculeah's house. He punched the bell with his long nose and almost at once—to his great relief—Herculeah opened the door.
All he had to do now was say two words, “I'm sorry.”
He threw back his head and brayed two words into her startled face.
“Hee-haw!”
Meat woke up in a cold sweat. He clasped his hands to his face, actually expecting to feel the features of a donkey. They were the features of a donkey, all right—but a human one.
He opened his eyes.
On the screen, Pinocchio was dancing with Gepetto and Figaro, and Cleo was splashing happily along to the music in her fish bowl.
“After you become a real boy, pal,” Meat warned Pinocchio, “your troubles are just beginning.”
23
THE CURTAINS' SECRET
Herculeah stood looking up at the heavy curtains. She was breathing through her mouth now.
Something bothered her about the curtains, but she had to struggle to think what it was. Her mind was becoming fogged.
She squinted up at the heavy folds.
The opening. It had something to do with the opening.
She recalled that when she had thrust the curtains aside, she had had a moment's difficulty in finding the opening. It was off-center.
That was strange. Why would the opening be off-center unless ... unless there was a reason. And the reason, she thought, had to be that there was something directly behind the opening.
She thrust the curtains aside again, but again saw only a bare paneled wall.
Frustrated by the sight, she was suddenly filled with the strength that often came from anger and frustration. She was furious at the man who had invited her here, who had tried to get her on a sacrificial altar and then locked her in a room full of suspicious candles—so furious that she could accomplish anything.
She would show Mathias King.
She felt the way Hercules must have felt during his labors. Hercules probably felt like this just before he diverted whole rivers, before he made mountains. Strengthened by the thought, she lifted her hands, grabbed fistfuls of drapery, and pulled.
With a tearing sound, the curtains came free of the rod that held them and fell. Herculeah was momentarily enveloped in the heavy cloth.
She threw it off. She grabbed a candle from a holder behind her and held it up to the wall with one hand. With the other, she tested the wall, knocking on it, trying to find where it sounded hollow.
There! And there! All along this strip of paneling.
Now she could see the faint crevice in the wood. She looked down, then up, then from side to side, trying to find some way of opening the door. There was nothing. Perhaps there was some knob hidden in the room, some piece of molding to turn—
She gave a frustrated yelp.
She didn't have time to look for it. If Mathias King's hearing was as keen as he claimed, he might have heard the draperies being ripped from the wall. She had no time to waste.

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