Shatter the Night Read online

  Bull knocked on the front door again as I said, “This property is fenced. How did I get out of the yard? The cabin has to be at least a mile north of here.”

  Bull drew a hand over his mouth. “We never did figure that out. The back gate was closed. I’ve always believed one of those kids you liked to pal around with opened the gate and then shut it behind you. A practical joke.”

  We heard the telltale clack of high heels on wood floors.

  I did my best to switch gears, from frightened little girl to confident detective. Edith Montgomery would open the door soon, and when she did, Bull and I would talk to her from two very different places. Murder is never easy; it’s ten times harder when the victim is a friend and his soon-to-be ex-wife is also a friend.

  And now, possibly a suspect.

  No matter what Bull said, a pending divorce is always taken into consideration during a murder investigation. The complications, the emotions … and in this case, the immense wealth at stake.

  Edith opened the door, a surprised look in her eyes. “Well, well. You’re not the trick-or-treaters I expected. Bull, you know that Caleb is staying at the Tate. And Gemma, dear, my goodness. It’s been a while. I haven’t seen you since Grace was born.”

  She leaned forward, grasped my shoulders, and gave me a kiss on each cheek. She smelled of tobacco and rose-scented lotion.

  “Hello, Edith.”

  She had aged in the last few months, though still was stunning. Her short silver hair was coiffed, her nails manicured, her cornflower-blue silk bathrobe both tasteful and casual. It was the dark circles under her eyes and the puckering of her lips, as if she’d sucked on a slice of lemon a moment too long, that made her look far older than her fifty-five years. Some of that was her decades-long addiction to cigarettes.

  I wondered if the rest of it had to do with the separation. Edith had been very young when she married Caleb. For the first time in her life perhaps, she was living on her own, making decisions of her own accord.

  “Edith?” a deep male voice called from somewhere within the depths of the house. “Is everything all right?”

  Or perhaps not.

  “Yes, Tom,” Edith said over her shoulder. She turned back to us and frowned. “It’s quite late and you still haven’t said why you’re here. I’m beginning to worry.”

  “Edie, the thing is…” Bull paused, cleared his throat. “Can we come in? We need to talk to you.”

  Nodding, Edith stepped to the side, then closed and locked the door behind us. We stood in the foyer, a handsome space with antique furniture, potted ferns, and framed portraits on dark-paneled walls. A half-empty bowl of candies sat on a side table, an earmarked paperback next to it. From the adjacent sitting room, a man appeared. He was in his thirties, of average height and weight, remarkably unremarkable save for his twin black eyes and the bandages covering his nose.

  Still, something about him was vaguely familiar.

  “Thomas Gearhart, at your service.” He bowed dramatically, sweeping his blond hair from his forehead where it fell in unruly locks. “You may call me Tom. Please excuse the ghoulish appearance. I had plastic surgery recently. Reconstruction of a broken nose, an accident I sustained on set years ago. I should have fixed it back then, but you know how these things go. Hollywood waits for no man.”

  “Tom is my younger brother. Half brother, actually, from my father’s second marriage. He’s an actor and unfortunately, the Los Angeles tabloids are ruthless. He flew to Denver for his surgery and is spending a few weeks here with me as he recovers.” Edith gave her brother a pat on the shoulder. “It’s been too long since we spent time together.”

  Bull and I introduced ourselves and Tom shook our hands enthusiastically, even giving me a little bow. “I played a detective once, maybe you saw it? I was Teddy Carmichael in The Night Is Silent.”

  The actor stared at me, then at Bull, hope shining in his swollen eyes.

  “Hmm, I do think I saw that one,” Bull murmured politely. “Heck of a movie. Edie, darling, can we sit down in the living room? We need to talk and I’m afraid I’m not as young as I once was. Between the dampness of the night and the late hour, these bones are weary.”

  Edith led us into the living room. She took a seat on a pale pink sofa and I watched as her right hand moved to her throat. She knew it was bad. When a cop knocks on the door at midnight, it’s rarely good news. Tom sat in a nearby chair and gripped the arms, his gaze moving from me to Bull to Edith and back again to me. He, too, sensed the worst.

  Edith’s lips began to twist and pucker. “It’s Caleb, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here, something has happened to him.”

  I took the spot next to her and gripped her left hand. Her skin was cool, her hands bony and free of jewelry. I realized that I’d never seen her before without the enormous engagement ring she wore next to her wedding band. For a moment, I couldn’t help wondering what had gone through her mind as she removed the diamond set, after she and Caleb had separated, likely believing she’d never wear them again.

  I’d worn my own engagement ring for six months now, and putting it on for the first time had been both exhilarating and terrifying. My hands, for so long my own, anonymous and functional, now told the world a story: they were hands that were held.

  I was tethered to someone.

  “What happened?” Edith asked urgently. She closed her eyes, steeling herself.

  Though I’d made notifications to next of kin more times than I liked to count, it never got any easier. Nor should it; it is a moment of profound sadness and despair, absolutely devoid of peace or hope.

  I swallowed hard. “Caleb was killed this evening in an explosion, in his car. It happened very fast and I don’t believe that he suffered.”

  Edith slumped down on the sofa and began to weep. Tom jumped up and hurried from the room, returning a moment later with a box of tissues. He handed her a few, then took a seat on the other side of her and placed an arm around her shoulders.

  “I can’t believe this. I want to see Cal’s body.” Edith sat up, dabbed at her eyes. “Where is he?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. He was badly burned and the medical examiner is performing an autopsy,” I said gently.

  Tom’s brows furrowed. “Is an autopsy really necessary? You said there was an explosion … isn’t the cause of death obvious? Hasn’t my sister suffered enough?”

  “It’s standard procedure with any suspicious death,” I replied. “Edith, it’s too early to know what caused the fire. But you should know that I saw Caleb tonight, while Brody and Grace and I were trick-or-treating. In fact, I think I may have been the last person to see him alive. He showed me the threats he’s received and I believe there may be a connection.”

  Silently, moving like a silver-screen actress, Edith rose from the couch and went to the grand piano near the window. Her fingers moved over the keys, filling the space with jarring, discordant notes. After a moment, she sighed and stopped playing. She moved to the window and flicked the curtain to the side.

  Staring out into the night, Edith muttered, “Halloween. What a joke. The ghouls are here now, they’re always here. As if they’d only come out on one night to play.”

  From her robe pocket, she withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. A moment later, she was smoking, moving the cigarette to and from her mouth and exhaling deeply. She turned from the window and faced us. “I begged Caleb to go to the police. He always was a stubborn son of a bitch. He only agreed to go after the noises started up again yesterday.”

  I asked, “Noises?”

  “Yes. At night, there are strange noises and lights coming from the Ashley Forest. You’ll think I’m crazy but they seemed to start around the time that the letters began to appear. The noises are incredibly loud thumps, like someone is taking a mallet to a stack of wood. And the lights … they’re dizzying. Blues and reds and greens, tiny flickering lights. Like lightning bugs, if lightning bugs had nestled into every availabl
e nook and cranny in those woods.” Edith glanced at me. “I remember that night, you know. The night you got lost out there. Have you been back since?”

  I shook my head.

  Edith said, “No, of course not. Not after what you went through. Perhaps one of your colleagues could check out the woods, just the area beyond our property. I’ve asked the neighbors and they haven’t seen or heard a thing. Maybe I am going crazy.”

  “You’re the least crazy person I know, darling,” Tom said, then shuddered. “Death threats … noises in the dark … My God, Edith, what is going on here? Detective, is my sister in danger? Am I in danger? I have a spot in a pilot for a television project in Seattle in two weeks. I absolutely can’t miss it.”

  The man was too much. I swallowed the hysterical, exhausted giggle that threatened to burst from my lips. “Tom, I don’t believe you’re in any danger, though I’ll be honest, I do feel better knowing you’re here with Edith.”

  The actor drew himself up to his full five feet, five inches and puffed out his chest. “I’ll stay as long as Edie needs me.”

  Edith returned to her seat on the couch. I asked, “What can you tell me about the letters?”

  She thought a moment, then said, “They started arriving a few months ago, one every couple of weeks or so. It was about the time that Caleb and I first talked about separating. He didn’t show them to me until, oh, maybe the fifth or sixth one. I read the first one so many times I ended up memorizing it: ‘Time’s up, old friend. I will take your eyes and then your tongue, leaving you unable to see or speak. Only then will your lies end. I’m one nightmare you’ll never wake up from.’”

  “Good lord,” Tom exclaimed. He turned pale and drew his left hand to his bandaged nose. He began to gently prod at it, wincing with each poke. “Are they all like that?”

  Edith nodded. “Some are worse, more graphic. They were mailed here, to the house, even after Cal moved out. I found that odd, though reassuring, to be truthful. It seemed to me that if the sender didn’t know Caleb had left, then he must not be watching the house.”

  “Maybe the author wants you to think that, so that you’ll let your guard down,” Bull murmured.

  “You know the kind of people that came before Caleb, the men and women whose fates he, and his juries, decided,” Edith said to Bull. “Didn’t you ever receive letters like this?”

  Bull looked uncomfortable. “Well … well, sure. Of course. It comes with the territory of being a judge. But I’ve reported every letter I ever received, every threatening call ever placed to my house. Edie, I know for a fact that Caleb followed the same protocol in the past. Why did he not do it with these letters? There’s something about them that is different. Wouldn’t you agree, Gemma?”

  I nodded. “Yes, they’re disturbing. My partner even called them poetic. There’s an obsessive feeling to them as well. Edith, the letter you quoted just now, it mentioned ‘lies’ and ‘old friend.’ If I had to guess, I’d say the author was known to Caleb. Caleb might not have been able to name the author, but the familial tone indicates some kind of relationship.”

  Edith quickly shook her head. “No, I don’t think Caleb did know the author. He certainly didn’t know what ‘lies’ were referenced. Well … I imagine the threats will stop now. Either the sender killed Caleb or he’ll hear about it on the news and that will be the end of it.”

  “You could be right. Edith, I have to ask … why did you and Caleb separate?” I posed the question gently, but inside, my emotions were anything but gentle. The answers I received could point me in any number of directions and motives: lovers, affairs, jealousy, resentment.

  Edith sighed deeply. “Lack of attention. I think marriages are like leftovers in the fridge; you stop paying attention and pretty soon you’ve got mold on what was once a nice meal. Wait too much longer and it’s ruined. We were busy, Caleb and I. He had his practice, I’m on a number of boards and do various charity work. Silence over dinner soon became silence at breakfast, then at lunch. I zigged and he zagged. They say opposites attract but they don’t tell you that you’ve got to constantly seek the middle ground. It’s the only way we get out of this alive. No pun intended.”

  Tears began to stream down her pale cheeks. I felt queasy at her words, wondering if I’d been paying enough attention to the “leftovers in the fridge,” so to speak, in my own house.

  We spoke for a few moments more, explaining the next steps in the process that is an investigation. Eventually, the medical examiner would release Caleb’s body to Edith. In the meantime, she could begin planning a funeral, contacting his attorneys, letting them know of his passing. She remained remarkably composed, though I knew grief takes on many forms. Bull and I left when it was obvious that Edith could not take any more. She moved slowly up the stairs in her bare feet, her slippers dangling from her right hand, her left hand hugging the polished banister as though holding on for dear life.

  Bull and I spent another few minutes talking outside, at our cars. The fog had lifted, though the night had turned bitterly cold. In the Rockies, autumn often dies a sudden, quick death of her own, her glorious display of color suddenly smothered by a whiteness that will stretch on for miles, for days at a time.

  “It bothers me, the fact that the letters continued to be sent to the house and not Caleb’s hotel room; his murder, after all, was the work of someone close by, someone mere yards away.” I drew my jacket tight. “Could Caleb have known the sender? Perhaps he was protecting someone?”

  “Caleb wasn’t the type to shelter criminals,” Bull said. He started to say more, then his words were swallowed by an immense yawn. My grandfather had aged tonight before my eyes and I knew that before this was over, the death of his friend would take a heavy toll on him.

  “Promise me you’ll take precautions, too, Bull. You and Caleb were close, and you were the sitting judge before he was. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Always.”

  I asked him a final question, one I hadn’t been comfortable asking Edith yet: “Why did they really separate? Was that true, what she said? They grew apart?”

  Bull gave the smallest of shrugs. “Marriage is hard work, Gemma. I think perhaps Caleb and Edith both got too tired to keep fighting for the union. But at the end of the day, what goes on between a man and a woman is between them.”

  “Not when one of them is brutally murdered.”

  “I suppose not. Let’s talk more tomorrow, honey.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  * * *

  I drove out of town with the radio off, embracing the long minutes of silence and the darkness around me. At home, I stood in the kitchen and drank a glass of ice-cold orange juice. The counters were clean, the day’s mail sorted into orderly piles to file, deal with, or recycle. In her high chair, Grace’s favorite doll was tucked in, patiently awaiting a meal she couldn’t eat. The doll, with its black stitched eyes and sunken crab-apple face, was my least favorite of Grace’s toys. It reminded me of something cursed, something from a horror movie.

  Even the floor had been swept and the dog’s bowls wiped clean.

  It was all so normal, such a comforting tableau of home and family and routine.

  It could all so easily be taken away.

  Upstairs, I checked in on the baby. Grace was fast asleep, her arms and legs tucked in under her body. From the corner of the room, a night-light emitted a soft, warm glow. All was safe, all was secure.

  All was at peace, for now at least.

  I moved to our bedroom, stripped, and climbed into bed. Beside me, Brody snored softly, and from the floor, cozy in his dog bed, our basset hound, Seamus, grunted. I closed my eyes as moments from the day marched by: the gruesome threats; Caleb’s body, burned beyond recognition; the hooded man in the burlap mask.

  Was he the one that I would chase in the days to come?

  The last thing I remembered before I fell asleep was a witch, and a little girl, running blindly, consumed by fear, headed into a dark a
nd cold night in the Old Cabin Woods.

  Chapter Five

  I woke early on Tuesday from a restless sleep with the taste of ashes in my mouth, the lingering aftermath of a dark dream in which I walked among the ruined stalks of a burnt cornfield, an army of crows at my side. I pulled myself out of bed and went to the window and glanced out, not terribly surprised to see a thick layer of frost on the trees and ground.

  After a long, hot shower, I dressed in a sweater, dark jeans, and my sturdiest leather boots.

  I peeked in on Grace and found the baby on her stomach, still asleep, her face turned to the side. She’d taken to throwing pacifiers out of her crib and I stealthily replaced them, hoping if she woke up, she’d find one, pop it in, and doze back off to sleep. Then I leaned in and gave her the lightest of kisses on her soft cheek. She smelled of deep sleep and baby breath.

  She smelled of home.

  Downstairs, I made a pot of fresh coffee and reheated a slice of week-old pizza. Breakfast of champions, I thought, as I checked the forecast online. I groaned when I saw that temperatures would continue to drop over the week, with another chance of snow by the weekend.

  Summer, and now fall, had come and gone too fast.

  Footsteps behind me, then flannel-clad arms around my waist. “Morning,” Brody murmured into my ear. “I didn’t hear you get up. Or come in, for that matter.”

  “It was late. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  Brody stepped away and went to the windows to open the curtains. “Looks cold out there.”

  “It’ll snow by the weekend.”

  “I’ll check the firewood supply,” he said. We had an old iron wood-burning stove in our living room that heated the whole house. I loved the coziness of it, but it was Brody who cut and stored the wood for it. If we were busy, he’d often end up buying wood at the hardware store in town.

  He asked, “Did you get any sleep?”