The Trap (6 page)

“It could be,” I answered. But I quickly added, “There was no sign of the nails themselves or of a string under the stairs. I looked carefully.”

In spite of the cast on his foot and ankle, Uncle Gabe nearly bounced out of his chair, grabbing for his crutches. He winced and fell back into the chair, then grinned in triumph and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Glenda! Where are you?”

Glenda came running into the living room, a wooden spoon still in her hand. “What’s the matter?” she cried.

Uncle Gabe leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. With a smug look on his face, he announced,
“Glenda, call Deputy Sheriff Dale Foster. Tell him to get here before it turns dark. Tell him I’ve got proof that my fall wasn’t an accident. Just as I’ve been saying, it looks like someone really did try to get rid of me!”

GLENDA’S FACE TURNED A GREENISH WHITE, AND SHE
dropped into the nearest chair as if her legs had turned into Jell-O. She took a couple of deep breaths before she spoke. Scared by what I had unwittingly done to her, I was grateful that color was coming back into her cheeks and her voice was as strong as ever.

“Before I go making any fool calls that might embarrass us both, you’d better tell me what you’re talking about,” she said.

Gabe was so proud of himself for being right, he looked like a rooster puffing up to crow. “Julie found two small nail holes across from each other at the top of the stairs. If someone had hammered in a couple of nails and tied a string across them, I would never have noticed them there. I would have tripped and taken a header down the stairs. Which I did.”

Glenda gave me a hurt, puzzled look as she asked, “Why didn’t you tell
me
about this, Julie?”

I squirmed. I should have seen this coming. “I—I
wasn’t sure what had happened. I thought I’d better ask Uncle Gabe. I didn’t want to give you anything more to worry about. You were worried enough already.” I managed to stop babbling and said, “I’m sorry, Aunt Glenda. I should have told you right away.”

She stood, put down her spoon, and beckoned to me. “Show me,” she said.

“What about calling our deputy sheriff?” Gabe said.

“That’s up to you.” Glenda shoved the cordless phone into his hands and marched out of the room.

I trotted after her, trying to catch up with her long stride. When we reached the stairs, we climbed them together, and I pointed out the tiny nail holes at the top. She measured their exact distance from the top step between thumb and pointer finger, then looked warily at me. “They match,” she said.

For just an instant, her shoulders sagged and she seemed a dozen years older. But the moment passed quickly. Her back stiffened as she said, “Two nail holes don’t really prove a thing.”

“Then why are you afraid?” I asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” she told me. “Gabe was so insistent that something had tripped him, I think I let it influence me. I wasn’t thinking rationally when I called the family for help. Later, as I began to calm down, I was sure that no one had tripped him, that he needed an excuse for growing old.”

She glanced to each side and shuddered. “We’re so alone out here,” she said quietly. “It’s silent and lonely during the day, but at night there are dozens of strange noises—a crack of a twig or a footfall—with no one
there to have made them. Unless we have a full moon, it’s as dark outside as a bottle of ink.”

A marked car pulled up and stopped behind the Hollisters’ cars in the carport. A sun-reddened man, dressed in khakis with an official patch on one broad shoulder, stepped from the car. He touched the brim of his western hat and said, “Mornin’, Miz Hollister.”

“You got here awfully quick, Dale,” she said.

“Yep. I was right down the road when I got Gabe’s call. He said there were some nail holes you wanted me to see?”

“Yes, please. Up here,” Glenda said. “Dale Foster, this is Julie Hollister, our nephew’s daughter.”

He touched his hat brim again and said, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“I’m glad to meet you, too,” I said. I stood up quickly and hurried down the stairs as the deputy climbed them. There wouldn’t be room for three of us there at the same time.

I watched Glenda point out the holes. Foster bent double to examine them, then rose, chuckling. “I wouldn’t worry my head over those nail holes,” he said. “There’s a good reason why you didn’t find the nails that made ’em or a string tied to ’em. It’s ’cause there weren’t any. Take a close look at the stairs. You’ll find other empty nail holes.” He pointed as he said, “Here … and over here. That happens when the builder’s an amateur.”

He stepped off the bottom step at this point, Glenda following.

Puzzled, I asked, “How can you tell that the builder was an amateur?”

The deputy let out a guffaw before he answered, “Your uncle Gabe was the builder. That’s how I know.”

“Oh.” I could feel myself blushing.

“Drat!” Glenda cried. “I forgot the stew!” She took a couple of quick steps toward the house before she politely turned and said, “Dale, it’s a pretty simple supper, but would you care to join us? We’d be happy to have you.”

“No thanks,” Foster said. “I’ve got to be gettin’ back to the office.”

As Glenda disappeared through the front door, Foster said to me, “All the men who live on Rancho del Oro retired from busy desk jobs. To keep from bein’ bored to death, they try their hands at buildin’ and paintin’ and fixin’ their own plumbin’.” His face crinkled into a broad smile. “And they’re not very good at it.”

“But Uncle Gabe said something tripped him and made him fall.”

Foster walked to his car and opened the door. I trailed after him. “Did you notice how steep those stairs are? Don’t you think your aunt gave your uncle a hard time about climbin’ up and down them at his age? He’s got to have a good excuse for fallin’.”

“Do you really think that’s all it is—an excuse?”

“I showed you some of the other nail holes, didn’t I?” he answered.

As he drove off, I walked back to the stairs and slowly climbed them again, this time looking for nail holes. I found even more than the deputy had pointed out. I couldn’t miss them. The nails that had made them were good-sized, leaving holes that couldn’t be completely filled by a primer coat, then paint. But the holes I had discovered at the top of the stairs had been made
with tiny nails. They were not the same kind of holes at all. And they’d been made later, after the stairs had been painted.

Foster had come with the opinion that Gabe was just looking for an excuse. He either hadn’t noticed what I had said about the nail holes, or he hadn’t cared. But I cared.

There was one more question I had to ask Uncle Gabe.

The potatoes in the stew were mushy, the julienne strips of carrots and inchlong cuts of string beans were soggy, and the few pieces of beef were overcooked. But Glenda had baked a roll of baking-powder biscuits from a container and put together a salad of field greens to go with the package of frozen instant stew, so the meal wasn’t too bad.

Glenda ate serenely, but Gabe wasn’t in a very good mood. He didn’t like what the deputy had reported.

As we ate, I said to Gabe, “I’m impressed that you built that room and staircase by yourself.”

He looked up at me sharply. “
Practically
by myself,” he said. “I told you I got Luis to help me.”

“Luis Garcia,” Glenda reminded me. “Miguel Garcia’s son. Luis is in high school.”

“Did you call Luis about fixing the sink?” Gabe asked.

Glenda nodded. “He’s coming tomorrow morning,” she said.

I turned to Gabe. I tried to make sense, although I wasn’t sure what I was talking about. “Isn’t it complicated building a room and stairs on a house? Don’t you have to buy certain nails for one thing and other nails for other things?”

“No,” he said. “You get nice long, sturdy nails, and that’s all you need.” He glanced in Glenda’s direction and said, “The deputy may have been flummoxed about those nail holes, but he’s wrong, and someday—when I can get around like before—I’ll prove it.”

Glenda rolled her eyes. “Deputy Sheriff Foster gave us his opinion, so no more talk about nail holes,” she said. “It’s over and done with.”

I bent over my plate so she wouldn’t see the doubt in my eyes. It wasn’t over and done with. I now believed those tiny nail holes hadn’t been made by Gabe or Luis. Someone else had put them there. They were a totally different size than the others.

I needed to talk to Robin.

Gabe and Glenda went to bed early. Although it was close to nine o’clock, the sky was still light, and pink-and-gold-streaked clouds stretched above the hills to the west.

Glenda suggested, “You might like to watch television until you’re sleepy, Julie. Just keep the volume low.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I’d rather spend some time online.”

I turned off the lights in the living room and was crossing it, headed for Uncle Gabe’s office, when a small flash of light from outside caught my attention.

“What was that?” I said aloud.

As I walked toward the windows, the flash of light came again. It was off to the side of the house, near the carport. Maybe it was an outside light with a bad connection. Maybe it came from one of the cars.
No matter what had caused the flash, it needed to be checked out.

I walked out the front door, glad it was not dark enough to keep me from seeing my way, and walked to the carport. I had no sooner reached the foot of the observatory stairs than a dark shadow unfolded from under them and stepped out. The beam from the flashlight in the man’s hand shone first on me, then on the ground.

I jumped back, yelling, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders. His deep blue eyes were narrowed like crevasses in the craggy Sierra Madres, his skin as sun-browned and weathered as earth. “I’m Cal Grant, the foreman of Rancho del Oro.”

My heart was still pounding loudly. I tried to calm down and said, “My aunt and uncle don’t know you’re here. They’ve already gone to bed.”

“I didn’t come to see them,” he said. “And I didn’t mean to disturb anybody. After I talked to the deputy I came to see what you was fussin’ about. Foster was right. There’s nothin’ there.”

“Nail holes are there,” I said.

“Right. A passel of ’em, up and down the stairs.”

“That’s not what I meant. There are two holes near—”

“It’s gettin’ dark,” he interrupted, and shined his flashlight beam along the walk to the house. “Better get inside while you can still see where you’re goin’ or you might trip and fall.”

I realized there was no point in trying to get to know Cal Grant or asking him any questions about the
ranch and the people who lived and worked there. He wasn’t the least bit friendly. Also, I didn’t like it that he had come to the house without letting Gabe and Glenda know he was there. I walked back to the front door and, after I stepped inside, made sure it was securely locked.

I went straight to Gabe’s study, settled into his comfortable office chair, and turned on my laptop.

The familiar voice told me, “You’ve got mail.”

But I saw from my buddy list that Robin was already online, so I sent a message her way:

I typed in
Thanks. Bye
and leaned back in Gabe’s chair, more frustrated than ever, as I tried to think.

Tomorrow I’ll try to work it out, I told myself with a long sigh. Tonight I needed to answer my e-mail.

There was another note from Mom, complaining that I had been gone three whole days and hadn’t told her anything in my only e-mail to her. She added: