Winds of terror (14 page)

have. You're the only one of those who have encouraged me to leave this place strong enough to do it."

"I was in my room most of the afternoon, once it started raining. Until that time, I was with the field hands in the bam tending to a sick mule. I've got witnesses."

**I don't believe you."

"I don't care whether you believe me or not. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. Then I think you should start packing and get out of here. We can manage without you. You're nothing but trouble. Aunt Addie has all but suffered another stroke, and it's your fault."

Melanie was flabbergasted. "My fault? You think I hit myself on the back of the head and put myself in that mausoleum?"

They glared at each other. Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

"Yes?" Mark called over his shoulder, eyes still intently upon Melanie.

The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman with an unpleasant face. "The sheriff is downstairs and says he wants to talk to Miss Melanie."

**Fine, send him right up," Mark said curtly, smiling acidly at Melanie as he did so. "I'd like for him to hear my dear cousin's wild accusations. Perhaps hell agree that she and my aunt should share a padded cell at a mental hospital."

He followed the new housekeeper out, leaving Melanie bristling with indignation. She was pacing the floor nervously in her robe a few moments later when there was another knock on the door. This time she opened the door herself. A big, heavy-set man stood there, holding his hat in his hand, the bald spot on the top of his head shining. His face was hard, almost mean, but his eyes had a softness to them, as though he could be gentle if need be.

"Sheriff George Dixon, ma'am," he said politely. *T was there when they found you last night, but, of course, you weren't in any condition to be questioned. Do you feel up to answering a few questions this morning?'*

"I'd be happy to," she said, beckoning him to enter. She sat on the edge of the bed, and he pulled up a chair in front of her, taking out a notebook and pencil. He was wearing khaki-colored shirt and pants. There was a gun

holster strapped beneath his sloping belly, and a star pinned on his chest. Melanie stifled the impulse to giggle when she noticed egg stains on his dark brown tie.

"All right," he drawled, "would you tell me eversrthing that happened as best you can remember it?"

She told him first of all about Butch, and how he had been murdered.

Sheriff Dixon frowned. "You sure he was murdered, miss? Mark told me about that, said the dog just poked his head into an old trap that had been forgotten. Mark said he was a nosy dog, too, always into stuff."

"That's a lie," she cried. "And Aunt Addie says the traps hadn't been set in over fifteen years. Uncle Bartley took them all up because Todd was torturing animals . . ." Her voice trailed off as she saw the blank way he was looking at her. He was chalking her up as a hysterical female, and she didn't want that. There were too many things she wanted him to see as she had come to see them.

She began talking about burying the dog, and how, when she was almost through, she was dealt a painful blow.

"There are so many weird things going on around here!" she cried. "Footsteps in the night . . . Aunt Addie swearing she sees Todd at the foot of her bed, shaking the bed and swearing he will take her to the grave with him."

"Yes, ma'am," the sheriff nodded. "I've heard all that. I also remember how Miss Addie thinks Todd raised his head out there in the bam after he was dead and made the same threat."

He closed his notebook and looked at her soberly, as though he felt sorry for the girl. "Listen, Miss Melanie, I think someone was just playing a prank on you. If they had wanted you dead, they could have done a better job. Maybe you should go home. This isn't the place for a young, pretty girl like you. Your aunt has problems . . ."

"You think she's crazy like everyone else does," Melanie cried as she got to her feet. "I think she's perfectly sane. I think Mark is doing all these things because he wants to see her dead before she can change her will and disinherit him I"

The sheriff sighed, as though he were used to the hysterics of young, distraught females. "Well, if you need me, you just call me," he said, standing up. "As for your

thinking your cousin Mark is responsible, Tve checked on his alibi, and there are witnesses that saw him here all morning and most of the afternoon, so he couldn't have done it."

Melanie was fuming, but she was not about to argue with the stupid man. In her opinion, it was obvious he wasn't worthy of his badge. He walked to the door, started to leave, but paused and turned around, scratching his head as though trying to decide whether or not he should say what was on his mind.

"I think you would do well to listen to Mark, Miss Melanie," he said, slowly. "He's the most level-headed person in this family. He's held it together since his father died, you know. Don't be so hard on him."

After he walked out and closed the door, Melanie scrambled to get dressed. There was a bottle of pain pills on the bedside table that Dr. Ambrose had left, and she took two, gulping them down with her coffee. Her head was hurting, but not nearly as much as it had the night before.

She hurried down the hall to Cale's room and rapped on his door. Her knees were aching, and she looked down to find that someone had coated them with mercuro-chrome and covered them with bandaids. When she remembered scraping her knees against the concrete floor of the mausoleum, she shuddered.

She knocked again, and this time Cale's voice called out, "Come in, Melanie."

"How did you know it would be me?" she asked with a smile as she pushed the door open and stepped inside. Cale was sitting in his wheelchair just inside the door, and she leaned over him.

"I knew you would be in to see me sometime this morning, and I heard you yelling at Mark a little while ago, so I figured you'd be in soon." They kissed and he reached to take both her hands in his.

The smile he gave her seemed to illuminate his whole face. "I'm so glad you're okay, Melanie. I can't begin to tell you how worried I was when you disappeared yesterday."

She knelt at his feet. "It was pretty scary, believe me. I didn't know whether I was blind or what. It was pitch-dark in that place."

"I talked to Dr. Ambrose last night after he examined 108

you and gave you something to sleep. He brought his nurse along, and she spent the night, you know."

She hadn't known.

'*So tell me all about it," he urged her. **IVe only talked to Dr. Ambrose. I haven't spoken to Mark." His eyes narrowed when he mentioned the name of the person who had shamed his mother's memory the day before. That was a score he would settle one day.

Melanie told him all the details, what few there were to tell. He shook his head from time to time in sympathy, and then she told him about the visit from Sheriff Dixon.

"He won't believe it was Mark who was responsible, and Cale, I'd almost swear to iti I can't prove anything, but he wasn't even willing to listen."

Cale let go of her hands and rolled himself backwards, then turned and stared out the window. *1 don't think it was Mark, either, Melanie. Maybe it was a prank. If you would only listen to me and leave—"

"Nol" The sharpness of her voice shocked her, but it expressed her firm intention to find out exactly what was going on and why everyone wanted her to go away. "I'm going to stay, and I'm going to find out why Mark killed Butch, and why I was hit on the head and thrown in that horrible old mausoleum. If Mark isn't responsible, then I have to find out who is or I'll never have any peace."

The look he gave her mingled amazement and disgust She was a remarkable young woman; someone else might be hastily beating a path to the first bus out of town, but Melanie had no intention of leaving. He had hoped that the horror of the day before might make her want to leave as quickly as possible, but now it seemed that it had served only to make her want to stay even more than before.

Melanie was watching him warily. Why didn't he seem more upset about the terrible thing that had happened to her? Why wasn't he quick to agree with her that Mark was the only logical culprit, especially after what Mark had said about his mother only the day before? Something wasn't right. Something just didn't click. There was a puzzle here, she thought, and it was a puzzle that needed solving.

There was a knock on the door. Cale and Melanie exchanged questioning looks, then Cale called out, "Yes? Who is it?"

"It's me, Eleanor, the new housekeeper.'* The woman sounded as though she were annoyed. "I'm looking for Miss Melanie."

Melanie walked over and opened the door. ''Yes. What do you want?" she asked pleasantly, in spite of the emotions that were churning inside her.

"I'm Eleanor Leland," the woman said rapidly. "Mr. Beecher didn't introduce us before ... He has so much on his mind. Anyway, I'm supposed to give Miss Addie a bath, but she refused to let me touch her. She won't take her medicine, and she insists that she see you right away. I told her you were probably resting, what with your going through so much yesterday and all. I went to your room, but you weren't there, and I started looking for you . . .** She glanced into Cale's bedroom somewhat disdainfully.

"All right, I'll go to her." Melanie started out of the room, but Cale called to her.

"Wait, 111 go with you. I'd like to see how my grandmother is this morning. Dr. Ambrose said last night she was pretty upset over all that had happened. Let me get my shoes."

Melanie offered to help. The shoes were beside the bed, and as she reached for them, her hand suddenly froze. The soles and sides were caked with clay—red clay, Alabama red clay, a substance that seems to coat everything when it rains. But only when you walk in it, her brain screamed! And Cale could not walk!

Her eyes moved slowly to where he sat, intent on struggling to pull on his socks. He had not noticed that she had seen his shoes, and she decided quickly not to let him know. She would have to start figuring things out for herself, putting the pieces of the puzzle together without help, without flimsy explanations and reasons that shouted down her beliefs.

She would say nothing to Cale about the shoes. She would find out for herself why a man confined to a wheelchair would have red clay caked to the soles of his shoesl

Chapter llf.

Melanie was shocked to see how wasted Aunt Addie looked after worrying over yesterday's ordeal. Her skin was pale and drawn, her eyes watery and hollow; and she looked very, very tired.

"Oh, Melanie, Melanie, you're all right," she said, her voice hoarse. She raised a limp hand which Melanie hurriedly grasped. Tears trickled down Addie's wrinkled old face.

"I'm fine, Aunt Addie, just fine," Melanie answered calmly. She was sincerely worried about the woman's condition; "You shouldn't fret so. It isn't good for you."

"Who is that behind you?" Addie's eyes narrowed, •*Cale! What are you doing here? I didn't send for you!"

"Grandmother, I was worried about—"

"Nonsense! You're worried I'll leave you out of my will, and you'll wind up on a street corner with a tin cup. Get out of here! I don't want you here!"

Addie's face reddened slightly, and Melanie sensed that her annoyance was causing her blood pressure to rise.

"Go," she whispered to Cale. "You're only upsetting her."

Frowning, he whipped his chair around with amazing speed and swished towards the door and out.

Addie reached out and clutched Melanie's blouse and pulled her close. "Did you see him?" she pleaded, desperation evident in her eyes and her voice. "Tell me, did you see Todd? I know it was him ..."

Melanie sighed in desperation, wanting to shame the old woman into calming down. "Now, Aunt Addie, do

you want people to say you're crazy? You know that

Todd is dead . .."

"Yes, yes, I know he's dead. But Mark is alive, and Todd has taken possession of his soul. He's making him do these things. Don't you see?"

Melanie could have told her that she had seen a lot of things, many of which she didn't understand. Now she trusted neither Mark nor Cale. She had to rely solely on her own resources to find out what was going on.

"Aunt Addie, I want you to get some rest," Melanie said to soothe her. "Let me give you your bath and freshen your bed, and then I'll read to you. Won't that be nice?"

Addie's face crumpled. She had thought she could convince Melanie of Mark's possession after the ordeal the girl had been through, but Melanie would not listen.

"I want Mr. Garrett brought here today!" Addie said firmly, angrily, realizing she could not rely on Melanie for any semblance of understanding. "Get him here as soon as possible. And I want Sheriff Dixon here, too. I want to tell him to be sure that Mark gets off of my property and stays off."

Melanie nodded and began to get Addie's bath things ready. She would pretend to humor the old woman. There was no ne^d to argue with her. Meanwhile, she would be on her toes conducting an investigation of her own.

It took until after the lunch hour for Melanie to settle her aunt down for a nap. Then she went down to the kitchen to prepare a meal for Cale and Mark, only to find that Eleanor, the housekeeper, had already done so.

It annoyed her that Mark had hired the woman. She wanted to do some snooping, and she didn't want anyone in the way. Eleanor was busy scrubbing the kitchen floor, though, so Melanie decided to check on Mark's whereabouts and then get busy.

Finding Mark occupied in the field with the workers, Melanie decided to search the old house from attic to basement. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she knew that there had to be a clue somewhere that would tell her why Butch had been murdered and why she had been hit on the head and thrown into the family mausoleum. Perhaps she could find out why Mark acted so strangely . . . and why Cale had red clay on the bottom

of his shoes when he wasn't supposed to be able to walk!

By late afternoon, Melanie had searched all over the house and found nothing suspicious. She wound up standing outside Bartley Beecher's room, and some slowly surfacing intuition told her that the secret lay behind its closed door. Wasn't it the only door in the house that Butch had scratched—scratched with vicious determina-ion—^to enter?