Murder on the Candlelight Tour (15 page)

"Oh, yuck." But my eyesight was keener than his. "It's not a rat. Too small." I leaned forward, peering hard. "Jon, it's a kitten."

We both heard a tiny meow, a feeble cry for help. Jon got down on his hands and knees, stretched both arms between the steps. "I think I can just reach it."

I knelt beside him, meowing all the while so the kitten wouldn't be frightened. Jon lifted the tiny ball of black fur out from under the steps. "It's really young. Not much more than newborn."

"Let me," I said, taking it with both hands. It felt incredibly soft and fragile.

The kitten didn't have the strength to fight a stranger's hands. In fact, he nestled in my palms. "You're okay, kitty. We're not going to hurt you. Jon, we've got to get him home. He's shivering."

Jon stroked the tiny head with a fingertip. "Yeah, but maybe we'd better take a minute to look around. There might be others, if this one is part of a litter."

Jon is so smart sometimes.

My sweater had large patch pockets and I slipped the kitten into one. We broke up to explore the foundations of each house, looking under steps and porches, behind bushes, while making puckered-up kissy noises. From time to time I reached into my pocket to reassure the kitten that dinner was coming soon.

"This one seems to be on his own. I'm just going to walk over and take a look around those stones. Then we'll get this little one straight home."

I headed for a pile of stones under some trees, part of a fallen wall, or the remainder of the foundation of a former structure. "Here, kitty, kitty," I called softly, walking hunched over, searching the ground for another small kitten or the mama cat. I saw nothing but weeds growing out of pockets in the stones. Dry grasses reached my thighs.

I turned around, about to start back, when suddenly soft ground under my feet yielded and caved in, taking me with it. "Help! Jon!"

As I slid down what felt like a giant rabbit hole, I heard Jon's panicked voice shout my name and the pounding of his feet as he ran toward me.

I landed on a layer of river sand at the bottom of a small underground room of some sort. I wasn't hurt, but the bruises I'd have tomorrow would be beauts. Instinctively, I'd held on to my sweater pocket and the kitten while I was falling. Light filtered in from the hole above, so at least I wasn't trapped in total darkness.

Then the patch of light above grew dim as Jon leaned over the hole. "Ashley! For godsakes, are you all right?"

"I'm okay," I called. "Nothing's broken." But the kitten hadn't even meowed and I wondered if it was dead. I slipped my hand into my pocket, so relieved to feel a heartbeat.

"Ashley, I'm calling 911. The firemen will get you out!"

"Jon! No! Don't! If you call 911, Nick will find out and he'll be here making a fuss. He already thinks I haven't got any more sense than this kitten."

"Well, I've got to get you out of there, and I can't reach you."

I could see his face looking down at me. He must have flattened out on the ground.

"Don't go to any of the neighbors either," I instructed. "They'll just call the police. My house is five minutes away. There's rope in the basement. Get it and come back. I'll be perfectly all right while you're gone."

"There's just one thing wrong with that scenario, Ashley."

"What's that?"

"I don't have a key to your house."

"Oh. That's right. Okay, well, stand back and I'll throw the keys up to you."

I didn't want to jostle the kitten, so I took him out of my pocket and hugged him against my breast with my left arm. It took several tries for me to throw the keys directly through the ceiling hole.

"I'll be right back," Jon called. "Don't go anywhere."

I knew he was trying to cheer me up. "Very funny," I shouted. "Hurry."

Overhead, the thuds of Jon's racing feet grew fainter as he ran to Palace Street.

With his head not blocking the hole, a shaft of sunlight penetrated my prison. The underground room was dry and small. River rocks lined the walls. On shelves made of juniper logs, what once had been heaps of root vegetables--potatoes, onions, turnips, rutabagas--had decomposed into pyramids of dust.

I moved around, exploring. In one corner, a flight of stone steps started up, then ended at a solid wall of tumbled stones. Someone had sealed the entrance to the root cellar. But over the years the ceiling timbers had rotted under their layer of earth. Then I happened along, and stepped on the most vulnerable spot. I sat down to wait, my sore rump pressed against the cold ground.

The kitten was very still. I hugged him to my chest, crooning, "Please don't die, little kitty, please don't die." Tears filled my eyes. "You can't die," I whispered. "Everyone around me is dying. You can't. Just hang on. Please hang on. I'll get you home soon, and we'll manage to get some milk into you somehow." I stroked him with my fingertips, remembering that I'd heard somewhere that mama cats lick their newborns vigorously to instill life into them.

Jon returned very quickly. He lowered a rope, yelling instructions for me to tie it under my arms. "Be sure the knot is tight."

Soon, my feet were dangling above the floor as I twisted on the rope. Jon was lying on the ground again, struggling to haul me out. "You're going on a diet," he said when I emerged into daylight. I grabbed the ground and pulled my leg up and over.

Kissing Jon's cheek, I said, "You were fast."

"I drove back," he said, leading me to his van. "On the way, I called a vet who makes house calls. She's on her way to your house now with emergency supplies. She'll show us how to take care of our little friend here."

"What would I ever do with you?" I asked, and kissed his cheek again.

He smiled at me. "You'll never have to find out. Oh, and we've got to report that cave-in to the police. I'll do it anonymously from my cell phone. We don't want anyone else tumbling down in there."

On my lap, the kitten stretched out his paws and kneaded my denim jeans. Instinctively, he was trying to nurse. I rubbed his back and he purred.

20

"Rachel's parents were here this afternoon," I said. Nick, Jon, Binkie and I were gathered around my kitchen table to share Thai takeout. "They came to Wilmington to arrange to have Rachel's body sent to Greensboro for burial. Talking to them was one of the hardest things I ever had to do."

Little Spunky, for that is what I named the kitten, was asleep on a heating pad in a basket at my feet. Nick was still clueless about my fall into the root cellar that morning. I told him the kitten had turned up at my back door. I reflected that if I'd gone to New York as I'd planned, this little guy would have starved to death. Sometimes things work out the way they're meant to.

"Rachel's home is in Greensboro," Nick told Jon and Binkie.

The Thai food was fragrantly spicy. We had See Ew--noodles with black soy sauce, broccoli, and shrimp--and chicken Gra Prao, plus Gang Ped, red curry with fresh vegetables. I was working on my salad. Peanut dressing, I was addicted.

I swallowed quickly. "Oh, the Jacobs told me something interesting. Evil Eddie is from Greensboro too. Rachel and Eddie met at UNC-G. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs never liked him. Well, I can sure understand why."

Nick said, "The Greensboro police are working with us. They went to Eddie's parents' home with a search warrant but he wasn't there. And they claim they haven't heard from him."

Well, I should have known that Sherlock Yost would be one jump ahead of Ashley Watson.

"You'll get him," Jon said. "I'll bet he's hiding somewhere here in town. He doesn't strike me as a man with many resources."

"He hinted that he was about to come into big money," I said. "He's probably involved in drugs."

"He's got a rap sheet," Nick told us. "Dealing."

That didn't surprise me.

"Is Eddie now your prime suspect?" Binkie asked Nick, inserting the knife and giving it a twist. Not that I blamed him.

Nick blanched. "Professor, you aren't a suspect in Rachel's murder. We know you didn't kill her."

"I didn't kill Sheldon either. Lord knows I hated him enough, but I'm not a killer."

"I know you're not, Professor. It's just that all the evidence points to you."

Well, that got my attention. Just when I think I've got him pegged, Nick surprises me. "Circumstantial evidence, Nick," I argued. "No witnesses."

"True. But the D.A. has won cases with less. I shouldn't even be sitting here talking to you about the case, Professor."

Binkie gave Nick a half-smile. "But you are. You wanted to see Ashley. And I'm not feeling kindly toward you so I'm not bowing out. I was here first. Besides, you know I didn't kill him, no matter how much evidence points to me. If you had any sense you'd be asking for my help. But you young people, you think you know it all."

Jon choked on his food and got up and went to the refrigerator for a bottle of iced tea. He stood leaning into the refrigerator for a long while, his hunched shoulders shaking. He's trying not to laugh out loud, I thought. I wasn't inclined to come to Nick's rescue. Besides, I reminded myself, he's not mine to rescue.

Nick defended himself with, "Look, Professor, when Rachel was killed on Saturday morning, you were conducting the Ghost Walk tour. Dozens of people saw you. It's different with Mackie's murder. You have no alibi. You were found alone with him in the room where he was killed. Ashley found you with the murder weapon in your hand. You understand how it looks."

"Don't drag me into this," I said. "You ought to take him up on his offer, Nick. He can help. He's got the low-down on everything that's ever happened in this town. Maybe he can help you identify the corpse."

"We've already identified him," Nick announced.

Jon, who'd rejoined us and had just picked up his chopsticks, dropped them. "Well, why didn't you tell us, man? I'm having nightmares about digging up that body. Who was he?"

I gave Nick a hard stare. Any other man would have blurted out the news the moment he hit the door. But Nick was first and foremost a cop. The way he operated confused me. I'd never understand him. My love for him was hopeless. This is not going to work, I told myself. I laid down my fork. The sweet basil chicken turned sour in my mouth.

"Who was he?" I asked.

"His name was Jimmy Weaver. There was a wallet with identification in his pocket. The medical examiner says he's been buried in your yard for about forty years. He . . ."

"Nineteen-sixty. The Atlantic Coast Line payroll robbery," Binkie interrupted, looking smug.

"He was involved!" I exclaimed. "Ohmygosh, that means Mrs. Penry's son must have been involved too."

Nick leaned back in his chair, clasped his arms behind his head. "Why don't I deputize all of you?" There was a twinkle in his eyes and his dimples looked adorable.

"Well, Nick, you told me the other night that the robbery was pulled off by three young men. And this is where Mrs. Penry's son lived in nineteen-sixty."

"Might have been four if there was a getaway driver," he speculated.

"But where is Mrs. Penry's son now?" I asked. "The nursing home manager told me no one ever comes to visit her."

"We're looking into that," Nick replied.

"Wait a minute," Jon interjected, "just because this Jimmy Weaver was killed forty years ago doesn't prove he robbed the Coast Line."

Nick was chuckling. "Civilians," he muttered under his breath.

I heard him. "Oh, and what is so funny about civilians?"

He threw up his hands. "Nothing. Just the old blind pig theory."

Binkie laughed. "Even a blind pig can dig up an acorn once in a while."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Jon asked.

Nick said, "It means that for amateurs you've come to the correct conclusion. Jimmy Weaver was a security officer for the Atlantic Coast Line. He disappeared several months after the robbery. The Coast Line had already moved to Jacksonville, but their employee records show that Weaver did not relocate with them. I guess the investigators back then assumed he left Wilmington to find work elsewhere. He was never charged with anything. He was free to leave town if he wanted to."

"So with his body turning up dead forty years later," I said, "you've got to assume he was the inside man. And one of his confederates killed him for the money. Maybe Penry."

"Looks that way," Nick said, enjoying himself.

I remembered him saying he'd give anything to crack the old case. So he'd come to my house and thrown down the bait, and we'd all swallowed it.

Accustomed to being in charge in the classroom, Binkie took over. "Let's review what we know. Well, let me rephrase that, what I know."

He started to tick off items on his fingers. "One. I know that I did not kill Sheldon Mackie. Therefore, it had to be someone who slipped in with the other tourists. Ashley recognized many of the guests, as did I. And you, Nick, have got a partial list of names."

I jumped in. "Number two. Only Binkie's fingerprints were on the poker handle, when mine should have been there as well."