1 Death Pays the Rose Rent (7 page)

CHAPTER 7 

The sun was high in the sky when I woke up. I cautioned the cats to be quiet and tiptoed down the stairs with them. Good. No sign of Richard. I hurriedly put them in the laundry room and refilled their bowls with fresh Tasty Tabby Treats and water.

The kitchen had been cleaned up and most of the evidence of last night’s battle was gone. Only someone who’d seen the room last night would notice that the china cabinet was almost empty, and that one oak chair had a cracked leg.

There was a fresh pot of coffee on the stove, so I got down one of the few remaining cups and poured myself some. Since there were no bowls left intact, I ate Sugar-frosted flakes dry from the box. On the table, weighted down by a set of car keys, was a note:

“Tori: My friends, the McFerrens, have taken Marie to spend the day and night at their house. Didn’t want him to be home when I have it out with Richard tonight. Got a lot of work to do downstairs, so please take my car and have fun exploring the town. Love, AA.”

It was pretty easy to read between the lines. I knew she wanted to be alone for a while. Since it appeared I had a free day ahead of me, I thought perhaps I’d visit the public library and see if I could find additional information about the Lickin Creek caves. The more I thought about them, the more eager I was to learn more about them, maybe even do some exploring. After all, if Jules Verne and Mark Twain could write about caves, why not Tori Miracle?

I dressed in my favorite yellow slacks and matching silk blouse and decided even if the outfit didn’t make me look thin, it did complement my dark hair and eyes. I told the cats where I was going, and after a few minutes of trying to master the complexities of the VW’s gearshift, I was heading down the shady drive toward the highway.

What a contrast the highway was to the peaceful seclusion of the old estate. Behind me were a forest, stream, stone bridge, and historical homes. Before me, a kaleidoscope of eighteen-wheeled trucks, cars from every state, motorcycles, bicycles, and even a few pedestrians who were crazy enough to risk their lives by walking on this road.

It took me almost thirty minutes to drive the mile and a half through that traffic. In town, I reached a confusing maze of one-way streets that didn’t take me anywhere near the library. A series of left turns got me past the same appliance store—twice. I had just begun to feel I had been doomed to travel forever in one of Dante’s circles of hell when I spotted the dome of the courthouse. I pulled into the municipal parking lot behind it and was pleasantly surprised to

find an hour of metered parking cost only a nickel. I cut through a brick-paved alley to the front of the courthouse and found myself in the square. The library was across the street, just as I remembered.

There is something reassuring about a public library, like seeing a familiar face in a strange town. This one was no exception. Carved into the marble above the large double doors were the words
POST
OFFICE
. A hand-lettered sign taped onto the door said
LIBRARY
OPEN
. The exterior facade was grand, garnished by a row of Ionic columns. The interior was jammed with too many bookshelves, chairs, tables, and card catalogs. I loved it immediately.

A smiling, gray-haired woman stepped out from behind the circulation desk. She knew I wasn’t a regular patron and was determined to show me every square inch of the library.

“It’s no trouble at all,” she assured me when I tried to stop her. “I really enjoy showing people around.”

On top of the card catalog was a display of novels about the supernatural by women authors: Shirley Jackson’s wonderful Haunting of Hill House, Ann Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, The Mirror by Marlys Millhiser, and to my great delight, my very own book. I managed to interrupt the librarian’s explanation of a subject card long enough to tell her I was the author of that book, and the next thing I knew I was sitting in the small back room having a cup of bitter black coffee with the head librarian and several of the staff.

The head librarian, Maggie Roy, was a bubbly young woman, probably in her late twenties, who was well on her way to having a serious weight problem (I decided I was definitely going to start my diet tomorrow), but she was such a pleasant person that her looks were not a handicap. She wore a large diamond on her left hand, so obviously some man agreed with me.

The others finished their coffee and drifted back out front, but Maggie put a hand on my arm to detain me. “How is Alice-Ann doing? Is she working things out with her husband?”

I was surprised. “How did you know I was staying with Alice-Ann? And what makes you think she has marital problems?”

“Praxythea Evangelista isn’t the only psychic in town,” she said. Then laughed. “Honey, this is a small town and everybody knows everything that’s going on. That was my second cousin, Janet, who works at the bus station. Naturally, she was on the phone the minute she got home.”

“Naturally.” I grinned.

“I was the assistant librarian here when Alice-Ann was head librarian. We became good friends. It really used to hurt me to see her come in with her eyes red and swollen from crying all night. Couple of times I suspect he even hit her, but she always had an excuse about having tripped in the garage or bumped her head on an open kitchen cabinet.

“I’d hoped when she had Mark, things would settle down, but Richard got worse than ever. Now he’s absolutely blatant about running around with that so-

called secretary of his. I’d be surprised if she can even type.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Maggie. Richard seems very ambitious, almost ruthlessly so, and social status is important to him. Wouldn’t having an affair like this be a detriment, socially?”

Maggie hooted. “Richard MacKinstrie is so wrapped up in himself and his self-glorified position as a member of the ‘first family’ that he thinks he’s above reproach. He actually believes he’s an aristocrat because some idiot ancestor, who couldn’t even fix a wagon wheel, got here before anyone else. He has one of those super-egos that says, ‘If I want it, it must be right.’

“Enough about him. Was there anything particular you were looking for in the library?”

I told her of my interest in the Lickin Creek caves.

“I’ve heard about them. Before and during the Civil War they were used as part of the Underground Railroad. I’ll dig around in the historical section and see if I can find something for you.”

“Please don’t go to any trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I like doing research work. Makes me feel like a ‘real’ librarian. Just had a call this morning from Silverthorne asking me if I had any biographies about Thomas Alva Edison.”

I groaned. “I’ll bet that’s for my benefit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was over there last night and admired Sylvia Thome’s antique Edison phonograph. I was soundly berated for not knowing anything about the inventor. She’s probably going to sit me down tonight and teach me what she thinks is lacking in my education/’

“And you’ll listen, I’m sure. She does have a way of getting one’s attention.” She looked at her watch and grinned. “Hey, this is great! I’ve successfully managed to stretch my morning coffee break right into my lunch hour. This is the kind of workday I dearly love. How about joining me at the drugstore? It’s the local equivalent of the ‘smoke-filled back room.’ One of the regulars there is our chief of police, who’s sort of a local-history buff. Been a hobby with him ever since he was a kid. If there’s anybody who can tell you about those caves, he’s the one. And the food’s not too bad, either.”

“Sounds great,” I said with enthusiasm.

The drugstore probably hadn’t changed at all since it was built. The wood-plank floors looked as if they hadn’t been washed since then either. High overhead, squares of tin pressed into a star design covered the ceiling. Greasy black cobwebs filled in the corners, and a ceiling fan slowly stirred the soupy air. The place reeked of cigarette smoke.

The restaurant was in the rear. A long counter curved around a central area where one sweaty waitress was trying to serve at least ten men, all wearing plaid shirts. Last night, I’d noticed half the men at the castle wore plaid shirts, almost like an unofficial male uniform.

Through the blue smoke-haze, I saw four small booths on our right; the seats were covered with a vile yellow plastic and had black, hairy stuffing protruding from several large holes.

It was to the first of these booths that Maggie led me. The man sitting there, wearing the standard police uniform of light blue, short-sleeved shirt and navy trousers, jumped up and gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. He wasn’t too tall, about five ten maybe, with a well-muscled body that the form-fitting uniform covered but didn’t hide. He had straight, sandy-brown hair, a little too long, that kept falling in his eyes. I liked what I saw.

“Maggie, love. You’re looking wonderful, as usual. Is Bill meeting you here?”

“Not today. I really came to see you. I want you to meet a new friend of mine, Tori Miracle. Tori, this is Garnet Gochenauer, our local police chief.”

“Garnet Go—Gok—?” I felt as if I were going to strangle over his name. Whoever heard of a man named Garnet?

“Go-ken-our,” he pronounced slowly, as if talking to a very dull child. “I hear you’re visiting the Mac-Kinstries.”

“Amazing grapevine system you’ve got here.”

“Very useful when you’re the chief of police,” he said with a crooked grin. “Have a seat, please.” He stepped aside to let me into the booth.

I ignored his gesture and squeezed in the opposite side. Maggie sat down across from me, and he slid in next to her. That crooked grin was damned attractive! The two front teeth on top that overlapped a bit didn’t detract from his looks at all. I couldn’t help but notice he had beautiful blue eyes.

“Maggie’s been trying to find a girl for me ever since I came back to town. You are a definite improvement over the last dozen she introduced me to.”

It was an egotistical, chauvinistic thing to say, and I despised myself for grinning like a ninny at him. Only one day out of New York, and I’d discovered my hard-earned layer of sophistication could be shattered as easily as an eggshell. I let the subject drop by asking Maggie what she recommended for lunch.

“Either the tuna-salad plate or the chicken. They both taste the same.”

I thought that over for a moment and decided on the tuna. When the waitress came over, Garnet ordered for all of us, three tuna salads and cherry colas. “The real thing,” he warned her. “Not that canned crap. Better make those diet colas.”

After our order arrived, Maggie told Garnet that I was interested in learning about the Lickin Creek caves.

“Odd interest for a woman, isn’t it?” he asked me.

“I don’t see what being a woman has to do with it,” I retorted. The feminist side of my personality was sending up furious warning signals: MCP alert! Male chauvinist pig! MCP alert! The other side of me, the less controllable female side, was admiring those bulging biceps.

“Hey, don’t get so huffy. I didn’t mean anything. Some of my best friends are women.” He chuckled, then saw by the look on my face that he’d better shut up. He concentrated on his tuna salad, but I could see by the twitching dimples in his tanned cheeks that he was still amused by his cleverness.

“Stop teasing her, Garnet,” Maggie reprimanded

him. To me, she said, “Tori, he’s really a very nice person. Just don’t pay any attention to half of what he says. He likes to playact the role of a country-bumpkin policeman for strangers. Garnet has a law degree and is chairman of the county’s Equal Opportunity Board.”

“I’m surprised you’re not in practice,” I said. “Seems to me it would be a lot more profitable than being a police chief in a small town.”

His blue eyes turned to ice cubes. “Maybe I was just a little kid who always wanted to be a policeman and never outgrew it.”

“Truce time,” Maggie broke in. “Garnet, Tori’s a novelist. I’ve got her new book about a haunted house in the library right now, and it’s good. She thinks our caves might make an interesting subject for a book. I told her you were our local history expert, so why don’t you show her I was right.”

“Sure, Maggie. Sorry, Tori.” He smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

I accepted his apology, but couldn’t help wondering why my remarks had upset him so.

“When I was a kid, one rainy day I was poking around in our basement trying to find something to do and noticed a place where some rotten wood had fallen away from the back wall. I pulled some more of it away and found it concealed an archway. Just beyond the archway was a small room with a trapdoor
in the floor. The trap covered a hole about three feet
wide, with a wooden ladder going down into it, so I grabbed a flashlight and climbed down. At the bottom I came upon a narrow, descending, limestone tunnel, which I followed for a while until I came to a large cave.