Authors: Betsy Byars

The Dark Stairs R/I (7 page)

BOOK: The Dark Stairs R/I

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“Yeah, Dad, I'd like that a lot. I'll talk to you later.”

Herculeah hung up the phone, and looked up at Meat. There was a look of determination in her gray eyes that he didn't like.

Meat raised both hands as if for protection. He said, “I am not going back to that house, Herculeahâever. My mom made me promise I wouldn't and, believe me, she did not have to twist my arm. She said, âMeat, I want you to promise me you will never go to that house.' And before she could finish, I'd promised.”

“We are not going to the house.”

“I don't believe you. It's a trick. You'llâ”

“We're going to the public library Meat. Is that safe enough?”

She passed him.

“Even the public library wouldn't be safe with you,” he mumbled before he followed.

A FACE IN THE CROWD

“You read it aloud,” Herculeah said. “I'm going to put on my glasses so I can think better.”

She took her eyeglasses from her pocket and lifted them to her face.

“Could I try those?” Meat asked.

Herculeah looked at him. “Yes, but be careful. They're fragile.”

Meat and Herculeah were in the periodical room of the library. The old newspapers were on microfilm, and Herculeah had threaded in the reel and located the article of October 5, 1990.

There was a picture of the crowd outside Dead Oaks, but on the microfilm it looked like a negative.

Meat put on the eyeglasses while Herculeah watched. He peered through the thick glasses. His face was pulled into an expression of deep concentration.

“So,” Herculeah asked after a moment, “what are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

“Meat, you can't be thinking of nothing. Even when you're asleep, you're thinking of something.”

“I was thinking of nausea. I'm getting sort of nauseated.”

“Take my glasses off, this minute. Give them here.” She spoke as if he had offended her.

“I'm sorry.”

Herculeah took the glasses and hooked them behind her ears. She stared through the thick glass.

“Go ahead,” she said, “read it aloud.”

Meat bent closer to the screen. He cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder to see if the noise had disturbed any of the other library patrons. Lowering his voice, he began to read.

“âA crowd gathered this morning in front of the Crewell house on Antique Row as police entered the residence. This was in response to an anonymous letter to the police.' It doesn't quote the letter, but we know what it said. âThere is somebody dead in Twin Oaks. Look down the dark stairs.'” Meat knew it by heart now.

“Read the newspaper story, Meat.”

“âHamilton Crewell, the owner of the residence, has not been seen in several years, and there was speculation that he might be ill.'”

“Or dead,” Herculeah interrupted.

“Yes, I think that's why there was such a crowd. For some reason people like to see other people being carried out in body bags. Why that is, I don't know.”

“Me either. Go on, Meat.”

“âThe police went through the entire house, but were unable to locate Mr. Crewell or any signs of foul play.'”

“No signs of foul play,” Herculeah repeated. “You know what that means. No blood, no dead bodies, no weapon on the premises, no threatening note.”

Meat looked at her with respect. “Those glasses do work,” he said.

Herculeah said, “The police report said there was a broken window upstairs, but that was the extent of the damage. Keep reading.”

“There's just one more paragraph. âHamilton Crewell, a retired businessman, has been a recluse since the unfortunate accident resulting in the death of his wife, Edna Foster Crewell.”'

“I wonder what the unfortunate accident was.”

“It doesn't say.”

“That's it?”

“Yes.”

Herculeah sat without moving, staring intently into her thick glasses.

“Are you still thinking?” Meat asked, finally breaking the silence.

“I'm trying to.”

“You want me to be quiet?”

“It would help. What I want to find out,” she went on slowly, “is about the death of his wife. Lots of times things are connected. My mom told me that. My dad too. Always look for the connection.”

Meat turned back to the screen. He looked at the picture of the crowd in front of the house. He scanned the faces.

Suddenly he gasped and drew back.

Herculeah whipped off her glasses and looked at him. “What is it now?”

“Look.”

Herculeah sighed. “What is it I'm supposed to be looking at?”

“The picture.”

She bent forward. “Oh, that. I saw it. It's just a crowd of people.”

“I think you better look again. I didn't see this at first, because it's like a negative, but we know somebody in that crowd of people.”

Herculeah began to search the faces.

“Someone we wish we didn't know.”

“In the front or back?”

“I'll give you a hint,” Meat said. “The one we know has got on a black hat and it's pulled down low on his face, like he doesn't want to be recognized, but he's so big nobody could miss him.”

Herculeah drew in a ragged breath.

At the back of the crowd, standing alone, towering over the others, was a man with a black hat pulled down low on his face.

“The Moloch,” she said.

“Yes, the Moloch! That man keeps turning up in my life. I want to get away from him, but I can't. Even in the public library.”

“It's just a picture.”

They bent forward to look again.

“What do you think he was doing there?” Meat asked.

“The same thing as the other peopleâwaiting to see if old man Crewell was brought out in a body bag.”

“But why?”

“I don't know,” Herculeah said, “but when I was in that basement and the Moloch came in, it was like he was familiar with the place. He went right over to the workbench and got the hammer and nails. I think he had been there before.”

“But what's the connection?”

“That's what we've got to find out.”

TAPED

Herculeah had been sitting on the sofa with her glasses on since they got back from the library, staring into the thick circles of glass. So far she had not had one single thought.

“At least I'm not getting nauseated,” she said to herself.

Herculeah had wanted to talk to her mom, but her mom had already left the house. So Herculeah had not been able to get any answers from her. She had to depend on these glasses to make her think.

“Think,” she told her brain.

The phone rang. Herculeah slipped her glasses up on her head and moved to her mother's desk to answer it.

“Mim Jones's office,” she said.

There was no response.

“Mim Jones's office.”

Again there was no answer. Then a low, hesitant voice said, “Is she there?”

Herculeah would have recognized that voice anywhere. The Moloch. Her heart began to pound as it had the night before in the basement of Dead Oaks.

She said, “She can't take your call right now,” as her mother had instructed her to do. Her mother's advice, “Never let anyone know you're here alone,” seemed to fit the occasion.

“When will she be back?” the Moloch said.

“I'm expecting her at any moment.”

Again there was a pause.

“Can I take a message?” Herculeah asked.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“The key is still there.”

She heard a click on the other end of the line and then the dial tone.

She hung up the phone, sat, and leaned back in her mother's swivel chair. She drew her glasses back onto her face.

And at that moment, the glasses worked. A thought made Herculeah sit up abruptly.

She remembered her mother's tape recorder. Why hadn't she thought of that before? Her mother had a tape recorder under her desk, and she often taped her conversations with clientsâsometimes with their permission, sometimes without.

Perhaps she had taped her conversation yesterday with the Moloch.

Reaching under the desk, Herculeah felt the tape recorder and punched the Rewind button. Then she punched Play.

Her mother's voice came from the tape. “I charge thirty dollars an hour, plus expenses.”

“What expenses? You just need to get inside the house and find the body.”

“It may be that simple, but the police came up empty-handed.”

“That's why I'm here.”

“And I require an advance ofâ”

Herculeah clicked off the tape. This was the end of the conversation. She rewound the tape.

The Moloch was speaking.

“Your friend shouldn't be looking in other people's windows. He could getâlet us say, arrested for things like that.”

Then her own voice. “I'll tell him. Momâ”

“While you're at it, tell him not to spy out his window.”

“Momâ”

“Some people take-let us say, offense at being spied on. They don't like to be offended. It makes them, let us sayâ”

Herculeah stopped the tape. This was the conversation that had taken place while she was in the room. She wasn't interested in that. She rewound the tape to the beginning. This time she got what she wanted.

Her mother's voice said, “What can I do for you, Mr.... ?” Her mother paused, giving the man time to supply his name.

“Smith.”

Herculeah knew, from the brief pause before he spoke, that the man's name was not Smith.

“How can I help you, Mr. Smith?”

“I want you to find something for me.”

“What?”

“A body.”

“Whose body is that?”

The man hesitated. And while Herculeah waited for the answer, the phone rang.

With a sigh of impatience, Herculeah pushed Pause on the recorder and picked up the phone. She hoped it wasn't the Moloch again.

“Mim Jones's office.”

Meat's voice said, “You want to come over and watch TV?
Oprah's
got private investigators on, and one of them is investigatingâ”

“I don't care what they're investigating, Meat. Guess what I'm doing?”

“What?”

“I am listening to the conversation between my mom and the Moloch.”

“Your mom taped that conversation?”

“Yes.”

“Yesterday's conversation?”

“Yes.”

“The one she wouldn't tell you about?”

“Yes! ”

“I'll be right over,” Meat said.

THE MISSING BODY

“Start the tape from the beginning,” Meat said. He made himself as comfortable as possible on the foot-stool beside Herculeah's chair.

There was a whir as Herculeah reached under the desk and rewound the tape. She punched the Play button, and her mother's voice came from the recorder.

“What can I do for you, Mr....?”

“Smith.”

Meat said, “I bet that's not his real name.”

Herculeah put one finger to her lips to silence him. The recorder continued.

“How can I help you, Mr. Smith?”

“I want you to find something for me.”

“What?”

“A body.”

There was a gasp from Meat, but he didn't speak. On the tape recorder, Herculeah's mother's voice was as calm as if she were taking statistics.

“Whose body is that?”

“My father's. ”

“And your father's name? Is it also Smith?”

“No.”

“I'll have to have his full name.”

There was a pause so long that Herculeah wondered if the tape recorder had stopped on its own. She leaned down and checked. The reel was still turning.

“My father's name isâwas Hamilton Crewell.”

Meat said, “The Moloch is the old man's son.”

Again Herculeah put her finger to her lips.

There was a silence on the tape as well as in the room. Herculeah heard her mother say, “Your father is Hamilton Crewell? I wasn't aware he had a son.”

Perhaps the Moloch nodded. There was no sound on the tape.

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

“It was ten years ago.”

“Where?”

“In the house. I went there to ...” another pause, “see him. I had wanted to go for a long time, but I couldn't get, let us say, out.”

“Out?” repeated Herculeah.

“Prison.” Meat breathed the word.

Herculeah heard her mother say, “If you are Hamilton Crewell's son, then I would think you stand to inherit a great deal of money.” At the same time she heard what sounded like a voice-over. “And just what do you think you're doing?”

This second question did not come from the recorder. It came from the doorway.

Herculeah and Meat looked up. Mrs. Jones was in the door to the hall. She repeated her question, “And just what do you think you're doing?”

Herculeah tried to think of an answer while the tape recorder continued playing. “That's not why I'm here,” said the Moloch.

“Why haven't you come forward before this?”

“Let us say, I couldn't.”

“Why not?”

BOOK: The Dark Stairs R/I

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