The Name of the Game Was Murder (18 page)

“It’s right where Augustus hid it, in that golden burial
urn on the landing.” I balked, tugging at her hands. “Aunt Thea, please call the police right away. They’ll know how much time went by between the time you found out your phone was working and the time you made the call. If you wait too long it will look suspicious.”

Thea thought about this for only an instant. She gave a brisk nod, picked up the phone, and called the police. The conversation was brief, and after she hung up she told me, “They said the sea is still quite rough so they’ll have to use one of their cruisers. It will take them close to an hour to get here.”

“Then we’ve got time to talk and try to work this out,” I said. “Please, Aunt Thea. I told you where the manuscript is, and you know that no one can get to it except you. Please help me find out who committed the murder.”

“Half an hour,” Thea said. “That’s all.” She allowed me to lead her to the nearest sofa and sat down beside me. “Where do we start?”

“Which one of the suspects had the strongest reason for murdering Augustus?”

She shook her head. “According to what you told me they each had a reason. I think it all comes down to personality. Which one would be most inclined to commit murder?”

“I don’t think Laura could do it.”

“No, and no matter what Augustus claimed about the death of Laura’s first husband, there wouldn’t be enough substantial proof to make a case. Would scandal hurt her? I don’t think so. The publicity might even help her career.”

“So Laura’s out. What about Julia?”

“If Augustus didn’t have solid proof about the death of Julia’s friend, it adds up to nothing more than rumor.”

“What about leaking the information that Julia doesn’t write her own books? That could be damaging, couldn’t it?”

Thea sighed. “The people who read the kind of novels Julia writes might be a little shocked at discovering she’s simply a figurehead, but I doubt if she’d lose many readers. It’s the sensationalism they’re interested in, not the author.”

“We’re making progress. We’ve already wiped out two suspects,” I said, excited by what we were accomplishing. I began to feel like a detective character in a mystery novel. “How about Alex Chambers and the sweatshops he makes a profit from?”

“The city officials have to know about the existence of the sweatshops,” Thea told me. “The shops were even the subject of one of the national television news magazines. If the authorities want to make arrests, they can.”

“But what about Alex’s reputation?”

“If his customers cared more about his treatment of people than about his latest creations …” The corners of her mouth turned down and she shook her head. “I’m afraid only a few of them might.”

My excitement was giving way to discouragement. “Senator Maggio?” I asked.

Thea sighed. “Don’t you think that if Augustus could come up with information about Arthur’s ties to organized crime, then some sharp reporters and politicians from the other party could too? Probably they’re waiting with the information until Arthur announces his candidacy.
Arthur knows this. He’s too intelligent to commit murder.”

“That leaves Buck,” I said.

“I don’t know what the statute of limitations is on the crime Buck committed, but he’s been out of pro football for years. His reputation would suffer, but would it matter so much to Buck that he’d commit murder?”

“Buck has a bad temper.”

“A bad temper isn’t necessarily a prerequisite for committing murder. Hate … fear … there are other factors to take into consideration.”

“I can see why Augustus was willing to take out the stories about anyone who was able to solve his clues.” I groaned and said, “Aunt Thea, this won’t work. With your system we’ve eliminated all of the suspects.”

“What about me, Samantha?” Thea asked quietly. “I’m a suspect too.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re my aunt, and anyway, what happened in Acapulco took place a long time ago. I know there isn’t a statute of limitations on murder, but probably no one in Mexico even remembers the case or has any records on it.”

“We can’t be sure,” Mrs. Engstrom said from the doorway.

Aunt Thea looked into my eyes. She seemed even more softly gray than ever, and she kind of folded into herself as she said, “I didn’t kill Augustus, Samantha.”

I squeezed her hands reassuringly. “I know you didn’t. Let’s look at this another way. Whoever killed Augustus knew something about computers, because the entire document file was erased.”

Thea said, “If you remember, everyone claimed not to
understand computers. It seems as though I’m the only one in the group who knew how to use Augustus’s computer.”

Computer
, I thought.
Computer.
It should mean something. I got a funny, tickling feeling in my mind, but I couldn’t grasp it.

“Some of them lied,” I said bluntly. “Senator Maggio knew how to turn on Augustus’s computer. He even brought a lap-top with him. And Alex understands all about files and disks. Before dinner on Friday he was talking about computerizing his designs. Julia knows computers too, no matter what she claims.”

Thea’s fingers trembled. “How can we possibly accuse them of lying?”

“Maybe we won’t have to. There’s something else to go on. The person who killed Augustus didn’t know how writers work—that there would be an extra copy of the manuscript. That might be the key.”

Key? The moment I said the word, things began to fall into place.

Thea didn’t answer. I could tell that she was thinking as hard as I was.

I clutched her hand more tightly now, this time because I was scared and I needed someone to cling to. “Your guests don’t know that all the bedroom keys are the same and fit all the upstairs locks, do they?”

“Why, no,” Thea said.

“Someone who did know about the keys searched my room, looking for the clue Augustus had given me—the one he lied about when he said it told more than all the others.”

“Samantha, believe me. I didn’t.”

“I know that,” I said, “because I know who did.”

I twisted around and looked at Mrs. Engstrom, who was standing just inside the doorway, the rolled manuscript in her hands. “
You
knew about the keys, and you use a computer, so you know how they work.”

Aunt Thea gripped my fingers so tightly, they hurt. She knew what was coming. “You’d do anything for my aunt, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Engstrom?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I would.” She crossed the room and stood in front of Thea. “When I saw that folder from Acapulco in your hands I knew what that horrible man had done. If his manuscript were published and the contents made known, authorities in Mexico could ask for you to be deported. You could be arrested for murder, Mrs. Trevor.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

Thea didn’t answer. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she didn’t even try to brush them away.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to destroy the manuscript, so you’re safe now,” Mrs. Engstrom told her. Her eyes were dulled with a terrible sadness.

I jabbed at the button near Thea’s chair. “I’ll get Walter!” I shouted.

Mrs. Engstrom shook her head. “Walter won’t hear the bell. He’s with Tomás and Lucy, working in the other house.”

Thea cried, “What are we going to do, Frances? When the police arrive …”

“I’m not worried about the police,” Mrs. Engstrom interrupted. “I’m going to take the small boat to the mainland. I’ll be gone. The manuscript will be gone.” She smiled, and it was so chilling, I shivered.

Thea rose to her feet, releasing me, and I rubbed my hands together, trying to bring back the circulation. “You can’t take that little boat into rough seas! You’ll be swamped! You won’t make it as far as the mainland!”

“I’ll take my chances,” Mrs. Engstrom said. She turned the manuscript roll on end and caught the handle of a long, sharp kitchen knife that she had hidden inside it. “Come, Miss Burns,” she said. “You’re going with me.”

T
hea cried out as Mrs. Engstrom grabbed my arm and propelled me out of the room. The point of the knife was aimed at my neck, and I wasn’t about to argue.

As we left the house the wind whipped against us. I clutched the railing to keep from falling, and trotted and skidded down the slippery steps leading to the dock. Even inside the shelter the small motorboat bobbed wildly. Out in the bay, waves leaped and crashed and spit foam, and all I could think about was that we were going to drown.

“I’m not a good swimmer,” I told Mrs. Engstrom.

She jerked me around and stared at me with eyes dark with despair. “Why didn’t you just leave things alone? Why did you have to pry? Only three of us knew what happened in Acapulco. Now you know too.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone.”

She waggled the knife toward the ropes that fastened the boat to the dock. “Untie them.”

I wrestled with alternatives and made an instant choice. “No,” I said.

She blinked with surprise. “Do what I told you,” she insisted and waved the knife under my nose.

“I can’t. We’d both drown in that boat,” I said.

Mrs. Engstrom’s face crumpled like wadded paper, and she began to cry. She let go of my arm, and the knife clattered to the dock. “I wouldn’t have taken you with me,” she said. “I just needed you to untie the boat. I can’t work those heavy knots.”

She rubbed a hand across her eyes and looked into mine. “You’re not in any danger. You’re Thea Trevor’s niece. Do you think I’d do anything that would hurt her?”

Just to play it safe, I kicked the knife with the side of my shoe. It skittered across the dock and plopped into the water. “Come back into the house with me,” I told her. “We can wait there for the police.”

Her gaze had shifted to a point far over my left shoulder, and I turned to see what had demanded her attention. In the distance, dipping and rising with the waves, came the police cruiser.

“There’s just one thing left to do,” Mrs. Engstrom said.

Before I knew what she was up to, she opened the supply chest, pulled out a can of gasoline and a tin box of matches and ran toward the open end of the dock.

“It’s windy! You’ll set everything on fire!” I shouted at her.

She scowled, but didn’t take time to look at me. “Don’t you think I know what I’m doing?” she demanded.

She tossed the manuscript to the damp ground, saturated it with the gasoline, and lit the match.

I was right behind her with a bucket I’d used to scoop
up water from the bay, but I held it. I waited until Augustus Trevor’s damning manuscript was nothing but a squirming, twisting bundle of glowing ash. That’s when I let fly with the water.

The pile sizzled and smelled as most of it slid off the dock into the ocean. A few pieces of the wet ash swirled up into the wind and vanished, and I was satisfied that burning embers weren’t going anywhere to cause further damage. Neither were the many personal secrets Augustus had so easily blabbed in print.

I rested a hand on Mrs. Engstrom’s arm. “Please believe me,” I said. “I’ll never tell anyone what I read about Thea.” Not even Mom. Not even Darlene. That was a promise I intended to keep forever.

Her expression was dubious, so I added, “And I’ll never write about it, either.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “Write about it?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m planning to become a writer. I thought I couldn’t do it without getting help from Augustus, but I was wrong. I don’t know why I thought I needed his opinion. I finally figured out that it’s my own opinion that counts.”

Mrs. Engstrom gripped my shoulders, her fingertips painfully digging in. For an instant I thought she was going to fling me off the dock into the sea, but instead she pressed close to me, our noses almost touching, and said, “You’ll never tell what you read in Mr. Trevor’s manuscript! And you won’t write about it, either! You promised!”

“I’ll keep my promise,” I insisted.

Her gaze shifted to the police cruiser, and she whispered to herself, “No more games.”

With his mind on his manipulations, his mean little digs and complicated clues, it had never occurred to Augustus Trevor that his terrifying game might draw one player too many. He never had a clue that the name of the game was murder.

JOAN LOWERY NIXON has been called the grande dame of young adult mysteries. She is the author of more than 130 books for young readers and is the only four-time winner of the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Young Adult Novel. She received the award for
The Kidnapping of Christina Lattimore
,
The Séance
,
The Name of the Game Is Murder
, and
The Other Side of Dark
, which also won the California Young Reader Medal.