Shatter the Night Read online

  Moriarty picked up a blue-and-white vase and whistled. “This is probably worth more than my house.”

  “Double, I’d say,” said a low voice behind us. Tom stepped out of the shadows and gently took the vase from Moriarty’s hands and replaced it on the side table. “Best not to drop it. Caleb bought that for Edith in China, on their honeymoon. They left straight after the wedding, flying first class all the way to Beijing.”

  “Speaking of their wedding…” I removed the photograph from my jacket pocket and handed it, still in the clear, protective evidence envelope, to Tom. “Do you know who that might have been? Standing next to Edith?”

  Tom gazed at the photograph for a long moment, then shook his head and handed it back to me. “Haven’t a clue. I spent most of that night with my head in a punch bowl of champagne. You found it like this, torn?”

  “Yes, in Caleb’s things at the hotel.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll let you finish. Edith is in the kitchen, with a cup of tea, if you’d like to search the third floor now.” Tom slipped back into the shadows of the large plants, and after a moment, we heard a door softly open and shut.

  “Creepy little guy.” Moriarty made as if to pick up the Chinese vase again, then apparently thought better of it, because he moved away and went to the windows, testing the locks more out of habit than anything else. “What’s his story?”

  “Tom’s a Hollywood actor. You’ve probably seen a few of his movies; he’s usually in the, ah, more supporting roles. Let’s head upstairs.”

  “You know, now that you mention it, he did look familiar. Tom Gearhart, right?” Moriarty chuckled. “Like I said, rich folks are nuts. Who’d have ever thought I’d meet the actor who played Teddy Carmichael in person. The Night Is Silent is a classic. ‘Teddy! You’re an animal!’”

  “Whatever you say, Lou.”

  We joined up with Armstrong and Finn on the third floor. Once more we split up, though we decided for the sake of time we would move through the floor alone rather than in pairs. I ended up with the attic, a long and narrow room that spanned the length of the house. I stood in the doorway, flicked the light switch a few times, not entirely surprised when nothing happened. After a few moments of letting my eyes adjust to the dimness, I found a set of heavy encyclopedias on the floor close to me and used one of them to prop the door open.

  “No one’s been up here in months,” I muttered, noting the thick layer of dust that covered every surface. A couple of dead flies and spiders rounded out the ick factor. When I was a child, the attic was filled with the stuff of hazy daydreams, or perhaps nightmares: mannequin torsos draped in soft velvet clothes; ancient tomes that seemed to hint at spells and incantations; old rocking chairs, their seats occupied by dolls and teddy bears that hadn’t been held in decades.

  In the years since I’d last been up here, someone had cleaned house. A dozen storage boxes with neatly printed labels, a couple of piles of dated cookbooks, and a dismantled bedframe had replaced the mannequins, tomes, and rocking chairs. It was more shadows now, less storage.

  Less special, somehow.

  I moved slowly through the attic toward the one stream of steady light coming into the room: rainbow-hued beams came through the small, though radiant, stained-glass panes set into a single door at the far end of the room. It was this door that led to the balcony, where I’d spent at least six or seven Independence Day holidays watching fireworks set off on Lookout Mountain.

  I reached the glass door, my body momentarily imprinted with rays of blue-, green-, and red-tinted sunlight. I gave the dusty knob a halfhearted turn, expecting to find it rusted shut.

  To my surprise, it turned easily and the door swung inward an inch, its hinges screeching in protest. A heavy cobweb slipped down, then fell completely, landing at my feet. I swallowed and looked back at the attic door; it was as I’d left it, propped open, bright light from the hall spilling into the space.

  And as the balcony door opened wide, more light came in to break up the shadows and the gloom. I checked the knob, clicking off the locking mechanism so that I wouldn’t be trapped outside should the door shut, then I stepped out into the cool, crisp air.

  The balcony was even scarier than I remembered it. It was narrow, about three feet wide from the side of the house and seven or eight feet long. The vertical black wrought-iron railings came to my waist, so I imagine as a child it might have been about eye level. The wrought iron was detailed with an intricate floral pattern, with no chance of a child falling through it … though I suppose one could easily climb the thing; a climb that would no doubt result in a long tumble down to the ground below.

  A likely deadly tumble.

  The view from the balcony, however, was incredible. The Ashley Forest stretched as far as I could see. And directly ahead was Lookout Mountain, where an old fire lookout tower acted as ground zero for the annual holiday fireworks.

  For the first time, I wondered why the balcony had been built; it would have made more sense to put one off the master bedroom, or above one of the ground-floor terraces. I shrugged; it didn’t matter, really, more just a curious decision on the part of the original homeowners.

  As I leaned on the railing and peered out at the forest, a sudden blast of wind blew past me. The gust lifted my hair, swept over my neck and cheeks with an icy chill. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the door swinging closed behind me.

  It shut with a definitive clicking sound that immediately made me nervous. I lunged for the knob, twisted it this way and that, but it was no use. I must have inadvertently put the knob in a lock mode when I thought I was setting it to unlock.

  Stupid, Gemma, stupid.

  “Okay, don’t panic. Just call one of the guys and have them open the door for you.” I said the words out loud, feeling better about the situation already. Then I pulled my cell from my pocket and saw that there was no signal.

  I punched in Finn’s number; nothing. Then Moriarty, Armstrong … even the station. Nothing.

  Slowly, I put my phone away. Still no need to panic; surely someone would start looking for me when I didn’t rejoin the group.

  Another gust of wind and I shivered; my thin jacket did little to protect me from the wind this high up. I waited another five minutes with my hands in my pockets to keep them warm, then accepted the fact that it could take a long time before anyone thought to look for me out here. If I was going to take action to rescue myself, I needed to do it soon, before my fingers were too numb to be of any use.

  The balcony was narrow, dangerous … but the eaves were wide and generous. And there was a good five- or six-inch lip around the outer edge of the balcony that would offer a decent toehold. I took a deep breath, blew on my hands to warm them one last time, then moved quickly, before nerves kept me frozen in my tracks.

  Very carefully, I hoisted myself over the railing and made my way to the edge of the eave, where I breathed a sigh of relief. From a distance, the house’s exterior brick walls looked smooth, seamless. This close up, though, there were numerous handholds and footholds. I said a silent prayer of thanks to Brody, who had gifted us with a couple of indoor wall-climbing lessons two or three years ago. We’d gotten really into it one summer, then life and other interests had pulled us away.

  But the basics had stuck with me, and perhaps now they’d save my butt. Very carefully, I crouched and peered over the side of the eave. There was a wide gutter that ran the length of the house; I could use that to get from the eave down to the brick wall. From there, it would be a relatively straightforward climb down, assuming I could find enough hand and toe grips with sufficient width.

  Of course, the last time I’d done this, I’d had chalk on my hands, bouldering shoes, and a safety harness.

  * * *

  By the time I found my colleagues, sitting in the warm kitchen with Edith, each drinking a cup of steaming coffee, I was dirty, dusty, and tired.

  And bleeding profusely from both hands.

  There was a c
ollective gasp when the group saw me. Edith stood and hurried to the counter, where she grabbed a handful of paper towels and brought them to me. She pressed them to my hands. “What on earth happened?”

  “I was in the attic, out on the balcony. The wind pulled the door shut and I was trapped outside. So, I climbed down the side of the house.” My hands were killing me. They’d been scraped raw from gripping the bricks, and the paper towels, while catching the blood, did little to help with the pain.

  “You what? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard; you could have called us from your cell,” Finn said. He came over and took the paper towels from me and looked at my hands. “Jesus. You need to see a doctor.”

  “I’ll be fine. There was no reception up there. Edith, may I use your sink?” I went to the large basin and filled it with warm, soapy water, then, wincing, plunged my hands in and let the dust and dirt and who knew what else wash away. I tried to remember when my last tetanus shot had been and decided I was okay, that I’d gotten it or a booster while pregnant with Grace.

  Finn just shook his head. Armstrong and Moriarty at least had the grace to look impressed. They came to the sink, took an appraising look at my hands, and before leaving, proclaimed me a badass.

  After a few more minutes of soaking my hands, I checked them. They still looked terrible, though at least now they were clean. Edith retrieved a roll of white gauze from a medicine cabinet and she carefully began to wrap my palms. I silently cursed; it would be a few days before I’d be able to grip my gun, let alone pull the trigger. Not that I anticipated needing to do that anytime soon, but I tended to get a little twitchy when I knew I didn’t have access to my full faculties.

  Tom had joined us by then. He took a seat at the kitchen table, cell phone in hand.

  As Edith finished wrapping my hands, she held them a minute and said, “I wasn’t totally honest with you, Gemma. You asked if I knew what the lies in the threats were about, and I told you I didn’t have any idea. But that’s not entirely true. I suspect they are related to a trial that came before my husband years ago, twenty, maybe twenty-five years now. Caleb was very protective of me—he sheltered me from a lot of things. I couldn’t even tell you which case it was. But he confessed to me in a moment of weakness once, after a bottle of wine, that he’d done a terrible thing. He suspected there was a dirty cop on the case, and he did nothing as it was someone he knew, someone he cared for. He did nothing, and though the defendant deserved to be put away for eternity—in Caleb’s words—Caleb still failed his obligation to the court, the law, and the defendant. It broke him.”

  “But you don’t know what case? Which defendant?” Was one of the names on the list I’d compiled the sender of the threats? If a defendant had known there was a dirty cop on his case, perhaps someone who had planted evidence or coerced a witness, and the judge had done nothing about it … well, that right there was a hell of a motive for murder.

  “No, I never knew. He told me about it years after the fact. I’d say in a strange way that guilt contributed to our separation. There are other reasons, of course, but … oh, listen to me blather on. I’m probably making a bigger deal of all this than I should.” Edith glanced at her brother. “I’m sorry you have to hear this, Tom. You weren’t fond of Caleb to begin with.”

  From the kitchen table, Tom looked at Edith and shrugged. “It’s no secret I despised Caleb, Edie. I’m just sorry you stayed married to the son of a bitch for as long as you did. But I know why you did. Money and power never do lose their appeal.”

  Edith flinched. “Don’t you ever forget that I brought the wealth into the Montgomery family, not the other way around. I loved Caleb.”

  “Love makes people do strange things,” Tom sneered. “Caleb was so smug. Always rubbing it in my face that what he did mattered; that his education and his career somehow made him more of a man. What can I say? I’m a man of the people, not the books. I provide entertainment. It’s priceless, really, what I’ve dedicated my life to doing.”

  “Still, it must have been hard to be around Caleb,” Finn said quietly. He leaned back against the counter, sipped the last of his coffee. “I always thought he was an arrogant man myself.”

  “Yes, well, I never did have to spend much time with him. I just regret it kept me from seeing more of my sister all these years.” Tom checked his phone and stood. “Edie, I’m going upstairs to my rooms to work on this script.”

  Edith waited until he was out of the room before turning to Finn and me and murmuring, “Tom’s always been protective of me. But he was intimidated by Caleb. It made things hard. Holidays, family reunions … they inevitably ended in anger and tears, usually on my part.”

  “Families are complicated,” I offered lamely, wincing even as I said it at the triteness of the words. “Edith, I’d like you to look at a picture we found in Caleb’s suite at the Tate. It was in your wedding album. It may not be important, but the picture’s been ripped and we’re not sure who did it, or why.”

  I slipped the photograph from my pocket and gave it to her. She stared at it, frowning in concentration, then reluctantly handed it back to me.

  “I’d guess Caleb tore the photograph, if he had it in his possession, but I couldn’t tell you who the man is, the man with his arm around me. It’s been too long, and there were so many people there. My parents threw me a hell of a wedding.” Edith smiled sadly as tears silently fell from her eyes. “I’m going to miss Caleb. Quite a lot. It’s strange; being separated was oddly wonderful. We were still in each other’s lives but it wasn’t so immediate, so constant. The space did us good.”

  Outside, in the car, Finn spoke first. “Thoughts?”

  “I’m certain Edith didn’t pack Caleb’s car full of explosives. But … you said it yourself a few hours ago, she could have hired someone. What are you thinking?”

  “It’s weak. She strikes me more as ‘Lady of the Manor’ than a black widow. The female husband-killer, not the spider,” Finn unnecessarily clarified. He shifted in his seat, scratched at a small old stain in his cup holder. “Her brother is something else, though. A guy like that, he’s got connections, too. Sure, he seems harmless enough, especially with those ridiculous plastic surgery bandages. But I’m telling you, all those actors and actresses … they’re all connected. Big, dirty money. Every single one of them. They spend years pretending to be other people on the screen and after a while, it all starts to blend together. Half of them don’t know reality from fiction. Everything’s an act, a play.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’m certain that most small towns have a haunted house or two. In Cedar Valley, we were nothing if not overachievers, and we not only had the haunted Old Cabin Woods, we also had a haunted theater.

  The Shotgun Playhouse had sat empty for over a hundred years when presiding Judge Gloria Dumont and her husband, stage director Nash Dumont, took possession of it. The historic jewel-box theater, a popular opera house in its past life, was the kind of place that children dared one another to get close to and teenagers illegally entered with the intention of scoring bases and drugs only to leave moments after entering, tears of terror streaming down their cheeks.

  There were whispers that the two-story stone structure, with its elegant trompe l’oeil murals, stained-glass windows, and frescoed ceiling, was haunted not only by the ghosts of the various nineteenth-century actors and actresses who’d performed on the stage but also by the German miners who’d built the structure, many of whom had toiled in brutal conditions for pitiful wages only to die in poverty years later.

  I’d seen enough of the macabre in my line of work that the idea of a few harmless ghosts didn’t bother me too much. It did help, though, that Nash and Gloria Dumont truly had breathed new life into the old building. Since taking ownership two years ago, they’d poured their life savings into restoring the theater. The grand opening was set to occur the following week, with an evening performance of William Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

  I parked i
n the adjacent lot then walked in and stood a moment in the lobby, taking in the changes that had occurred even in the last few days. Red tapestries hung from the ceiling, and a sparkling-clean refreshment counter and a row of gleaming tap handles took up one corner. The box office had new letter boards, and vintage posters of old Hollywood actors and actresses hung on the walls. As I moved through the playhouse, my footsteps were muffled by the plush navy-blue carpet, and the entire lobby smelled of fresh paint.

  It was by far the nicest theater I’d ever set foot in.

  But I wasn’t there for the décor, and Nash Dumont got to me before I’d taken ten steps.

  He was a short, round man with a head like an egg, bald and smooth, and a Van Dyke beard of black hair. He wore fedoras and favored tan blazers made of corduroy, paired with dark blue jeans. He was ten years younger than his wife, about my age, and rumors around town painted a marriage of convenience.

  The ice queen and her jester, I’d once heard someone snidely call them.

  The director, as usual, was full of frantic energy, his every gesture grandiose, his words coming rapid-fire. “Gemma. Thank goodness you’re here. I can’t take much more of this bullshit.”

  “What happened now?”

  “It’s better if I show you.” He turned abruptly on his heel and strode to a corner of the lobby. Once there, he yanked back a discreet black curtain.

  Behind the curtain was a closed door.

  After a moment more, I prompted, “There’s something behind the door?”

  Dumont nodded and stepped back. “Open it.”