Claws for Alarm (22 page)

“Whatcha got there, buddy?” I leaned down and scooped up the tiles. A P, an L, an E, an A, and an N. Put them all together and they spelled . . .

“PANEL!” I breathed. I'd read enough Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries growing up to remember they used to be chock-full of old houses with secret panels, usually behind walls, and that they made a clicking sound when they slid into place. I shuddered. It would explain the sound, and also how the murderer could have gotten away so quickly without anyone seeing him—or her.

Nick's upper lip curled back, exposing his sharp fangs. He shuffled over to the wall. He rubbed his furry body against it.

I leaned over to give Nick's head a pat. “Good theory, boy. But how can I prove it?”

I walked over to the window and nudged the curtain aside. The unmarked car still sat there, parked at a vantage point where it could see both the front and side entrances. “The easiest way would be to check out Pitt's office again, but that won't happen while Big Brother is watching.”

I frowned. From the way the car was parked, he'd surely see me even if I snuck out the back way. Dammit. Where was a teleportation device when you needed it? I stepped back from the window and glanced down at Nick. His tail was a black furry bush, his ears flat against his skull.

“Nick? What's wrong?”

I paused as a sound, very faint, came to my ears—a slight whir. I stared in amazement as the left wall of my room started to move slowly inward. A moment later Irene stepped through the opening, a bunch of freshly laundered towels in her arms. “Sorry.” She tapped her ear. “I left my hearing aid downstairs. I didn't realize you were still in your room.” She patted her bundle. “I was just going to drop off a load of fresh towels.”

I looked over her shoulder at the half-open wall and the inky blackness beyond. “Is that—is that a secret passageway?”

“Eh, what was that? Did you ask about Joel McCrea? I didn't think a gal your age would remember him. Great actor. He's been dead for . . . oh gosh, I don't know. Longer than I care to remember.”

“No, no. I didn't say Joel McCrea.” I raised my voice a few decibels and pointed at the open wall. “Is that a secret passageway?”

She chuckled. “Sure is. Your aunt doesn't use it much,
but I like to when I stay here. The stairs aren't as steep. This one leads straight from here down into the basement and the laundry room. This house was built back during the Mexican-American War, you know. Lots of homes around here were. They had passageways like this to hide stuff like gold and firearms.”

“Do tell. Lots of homes in this area, you say? Would the Pitt Institute happen to be one of them?”

“Oh, honey.” She waved her hand. “Of course it was. I'll tell you something else, too. I happened to find it out from the former owner—met him one day at a tea at the library: The Pitt school is a larger version of this house.” She stuck her chest out proudly. “They were built by the same architect. Why, there are probably dozens more of these secret passageways networked throughout that old building. Probably in all the same places, too. Isn't that interesting?” She chuckled. “Your aunt never uses this. She thinks it's spooky. Me, I think it's a time-saver.”

“Extremely.” I closed my eyes and did some quick calculating. If I remembered correctly, Pitt's office was in the west corner of the top floor—same as my room. If the buildings were similar in construction, that would put the secret passage behind the far wall next to the bar. The same one with the bookshelves bearing the sculptures.

“There's a whole network of secret passageways running through this house,” Irene continued. “Secret panels, too. Good for hiding stuff. See!”

She walked over to the wall next to the entryway and tapped along the bottom molding. A few seconds later, a bit of it shot out, revealing a small three-by-four crevice. Irene reached inside and pulled out a small necklace.

“Your aunt does use these. She hides stuff all over the place.” She chuckled. “Beats paying the fee on a bank vault.”

I was studying the aperture. “Are there more secret panels like this in the house?”

“Every room has at least three, as far as I know. Some are in the walls, some are under the floorboards.” She crossed to the bed, moved the braided rug, tapped again, and a small opening appeared in the floor. This one looked large enough to fit Nick inside—or maybe a decanter of wine?

I turned to Irene and, keeping my tone loud, said, “I got some good news and some bad news today, Irene. The good news is, I'm very close to proving Lacey didn't kill Pitt.”

Irene laid the towels on the bed and cocked her brow at me. “Really? Well that's great. Your aunt will be thrilled when she hears.” Her eyes narrowed. “You said you had bad news, too?”

“Yes. I may not have enough time to prove her innocence. They've moved Lacey's trial up to tomorrow.”

“Really? Your aunt will be devastated if your sister is found guilty, and frankly, with the evidence as it is now . . .”

“I agree.” I took a step closer to Irene. “There's something I can do, though, that can break this case wide open, that can prove Lacey had nothing to do with it, but in order to get it done, I need help. And I think you, Irene, could provide it.”

Her stance relaxed a bit. “I could? Well, your aunt would want me to help in any way I can, so . . . tell me just what it is you think I can do. How can I help you prove Lacey's innocent?”

I pressed my lips close to her ear, so she'd be certain to understand me. “Just how loud can you scream?”

T
wenty minutes later I slid my SUV into a space about a block away from the Pitt Institute. I got out of the car, locked it, and then hurried toward the school. I was going to have to take back everything negative I'd thought about Irene. The woman should be on the stage.

I felt something warm and furry brush my leg, and I looked down. “How did I know you'd be here?” I said to Nick, who blinked twice and then fell into step beside me. “Just stay close.”

We reached the rear entrance of the school, and I immediately zeroed in on a flight of stone steps leading down. If Irene's theory was correct, and this was built like Aunt Prudence's house, then these steps would lead to the laundry room. Or, in this case, the basement, aka school archives. Fortunately, the door at the bottom of the stairs was unlocked. The basement was one endemic to old edifices,
complete with the traditional cobweb-laden low ceiling and beams with nails poking out every which way, waiting to stick a tall person forgetting to duck. I stood a minute to let my eyes adjust to the inky blackness, when suddenly, the room was flooded with dim light. I whirled and saw that Nick had jumped up on a stack of boxes, right next to an old-fashioned light switch. I mouthed thanks at him and took a swift look around. The entire left side of the basement was filled with old, battered filing cabinets that had definitely seen better days. Off to the right stood an antique washer and dryer, and a creaking boiler occupied space in the very back of the room. I noticed one file cabinet in the far corner had a drawer partially open. I walked over and peered at the label. The word
PLANS
was printed in large capital letters. I pulled the drawer all the way out and sucked in a breath. From the looks of things, I wasn't the only person to rummage in here. Sets of blueprints were jammed in the drawer, some in manila folders, some not. I thumbed through them quickly. There appeared to be one for every floor of the old building except, surprise, surprise, for the third floor. I shut the drawer and turned toward a small archway that looked as if it led further into the edifice's subterranean bowels. The room beyond was inky black, and I felt along the wall, frowning as I realized there was no light switch for what lay beyond.

I heard a scraping sound behind me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Nick push a large lantern forward with his nose. I snatched it up. It worked, although the battery was pretty weak. I hoped there'd be enough juice left to take us where we wanted to go: Pitt's office. I swept the light over the dirt floor and the curved brick walls, stopping at a large
opening in the wall farthest away. A flight of stone steps led upward. I started climbing, Nick at my heels. At last we reached the top step. In front of us stretched a long wall.

“Hm. Now let's see,” I mused. “How did Nancy open all those secret panels?”

I stepped forward and started rapping lightly against it with my knuckles. Nothing. I crossed to the middle, laid both my palms flat, and pressed. Still nothing. I shifted my position to a bit lower down, and then stopped as a faint click reached my ears. I splayed my hands, set my feet apart, and pushed harder. The wall suddenly caved inward, and in my peripheral vision I saw Nick jump backward into the shadows as I spilled forward into Pitt's office. My purse slid off my arm and tumbled to the floor, its contents spilling out, but that was the least of my worries. Apparently my sudden presence had startled the woman who stood behind his desk, the drawers pulled out, papers strewn all over the thick carpeting. Her hand came up like lightning, and I suddenly found myself looking once again down the barrel of a .45.

“So, Nora,” Jenna Whitt said calmly. “Mind telling me what the hell you're doing here?”

I struggled to my feet and found my voice at the same time. “Me? I could ask you the same thing. This room is still sealed.”

She looked at me pointedly, the gun still aimed at my midsection. “You're in here.” She gave a tight little laugh. “So you figured it out. About the secret panel, I mean. Not bad.”

“That's not all I've figured out,” I said boldly. “Pitt found diamonds in the sculpture; that's why he was killed, right? To prevent him exposing your scheme?”

“You just can't help being snoopy, can you?” Jenna sneered. “Lacey used to talk about you, all the awards you won, and how smart you were, but frankly, I used to think she was exaggerating.” She cocked her head to one side. “Your sister's nothing like you. She can be a real hothead, acting without thinking. When she blew up at Pitt that morning, I knew she'd be the perfect patsy.”

“So you'd already planned to kill Pitt.”

“Pitt was a pompous ass. Trust me, no one shed any tears over his death. He fancied himself a patron of the arts. He hated defacement of art in any form. He called my brother that morning, complaining he'd discovered the ‘dirty little secret' in the artwork he sold him, and unless he settled the matter to his satisfaction, he'd report him to the authorities.” Her tongue snaked out, licked at her bottom lip. “How in hell were we to know he meant the forged Engeldrumm and not the sculpture?”

My eyes widened. “Pitt meant the painting? He never found the diamonds?”

She shook her head. “We assumed he meant the sculpture, because when we checked the records, we discovered that Taft had delivered the wrong one to Pitt. He should have delivered the sculpture with the left hand holding the mask. The right-hand ones have the gems inside.” She tapped her chest proudly. “I do them, and they're damn good, if I do say so myself. It isn't easy to get those diamonds down far enough in the plaster so no lumps show. And I use a lead-based paint, to deter detection by X-ray.” A deep sigh escaped her full lips. “Now that the feds are onto us, though, tonight will be our last shipment. Tomorrow, the gallery will be closed and we'll be gone, back to Europe, with new identities, looking
for our next score. Your sister will take the rap for Pitt's murder, and poor Julia's death will remain unsolved, unless we can find some way to pin it on Taft. He wasn't good for much, anyway,” she spat. “Sure, he painted the forgeries, and that was a nice little side venture, but our real cash came from the gems.”

“That would be difficult,” I said stiffly, “considering he was working at a bar at the time of her murder.”

“Don't worry, we'll find a way. Taft is remarkably stupid. I'm sure we can convince someone at the bar that night to say he left for approximately forty minutes.” She gestured with her gun for me to sit in Pitt's chair. I lowered myself and, as I did so, cast a quick glance at the entryway.

Nick was nowhere to be seen.

I looked at Jenna. “I know you didn't work alone. You have a partner.”

She angled her jaw. “Sure do.”

I turned. Armand Foxworthy was standing in the entryway, also leveling at gun at me. But he looked much different than he had on the two other occasions I'd seen him. Gone were the battered jeans, shirt open to the navel, and greasy gray ponytail. Now he wore a three-piece blue pin-striped suit with a light blue shirt and blue and yellow tie. He still wore the dark sunglasses, but the ponytail was gone. Now he had thick black hair, shot through with gray, cut in a sort of Elvis style. He moved all the way into the room and went behind the desk, slipped an arm around Jenna. He gestured toward the mess on the floor. “Nothing?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Julia didn't hide 'em here. I've been through everything, Foxy,” Jenna said. “I might have to search her place again.”

He shook his head. “Julia would never have left them in her apartment. She would think it would be the first place someone would look for them. Besides, the FBI and Miss Charles have already searched there, am I right?”

As I stared at Foxworthy, something suddenly clicked in my head. “You fled to Europe,” I said in a tight voice. “You went there when your schemes here were exposed, but something must have happened over there, too . . . something really, really bad, for you to need to fake your own death.”

Jenna looked at Foxworthy, puzzled. “What is she talking about, Foxy?”

“She doesn't know?” I asked. “And as for your allergy, that's bogus, too, right? You're no more allergic to fluorescent lighting than I am. It's all catching up to you; you might as well admit it.”

Jenna stamped her foot. “What's going on, Foxy? What should you admit?”

He chuckled. “It would seem, my dear, that my rather inglorious past has caught up with me.”

He whipped off his glasses in a single motion, and I stared straight into eyes that belonged to a living corpse: one sky blue, one mud brown.

The eyes of Bronson A. Pichard.