Wicked Deeds

  “We’ve searched the attic—totally ripped it to shreds,” Hallie said.

  “She’s nowhere. Dead or alive,” Sven said. “Sorry, sorry! I mean...something didn’t happen to her, at any rate. We’d have found the body, right?”

  Would they?

  Franklin Verne had been easy enough to find—he’d been left there, sitting in a chair.

  Brent Whaley? Not so easy to find.

  Griffin looked over at Jackson and Carl Morris, who both shook their heads.

  “We don’t know—we seriously don’t know—that any harm has come to Liza,” Alistair said. “She’s, as we’ve said over and over again, just Liza. If she was mad at everyone, she might have walked off. She could have called an Uber or a taxi. She isn’t here. Everyone has searched. Has anyone tried her cell number?”

  “Of course!” Lacey said. “Yes, I’ve called and called. It goes right to voice mail.”

  “Can we get a track going on her phone?” Adam Harrison asked.

  “Yes. Although officially, she’s not a missing person,” Carl said.

  “But we suspect foul play. Under these circumstances, I think we’re fine. We can initiate, or the Baltimore Police Department can,” Griffin said.

  “I’ll get it going immediately,” Carl told Griffin. “And we’ll get an APB out on Liza. Hopefully, she’ll show up soon. Maybe she went to her house. I’ll send a patrol car by just in case.”

  “I doubt that,” Griffin said. “Let’s go over this. Hallie and Sven—you were upstairs in the attic until you heard the screaming, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Hallie said.

  “And you have no idea of how Alice was drugged, who screamed and where Liza might have gone?” Griffin asked.

  “Not a clue!” Sven assured him.

  “Okay... Alistair?”

  “I came out when I heard Gary yelling at Jon,” Alistair said. “And no, and no. I didn’t drug anybody. I don’t even know how to get illegal drugs. And as to Liza... I think she walked off somewhere to drive us all crazy. She’s dramatic like that.”

  “Monica?” Griffin asked quietly.

  “Oh, please, Griffin. I just got here with Adam. We said good-night up in the hall. Like everyone else, I came out of my room when I heard the shouting,” Monica said, looking to Adam for help.

  “He has to ask,” Adam said.

  “Okay,” Monica said. “I didn’t drug anyone. Like Alistair, I don’t think I’d even know where to get illegal drugs. And as for Liza... God knows. I’m not so sure I believe she walked off—we don’t have a great track record here. What about you, Lacey—what were you doing in the middle of the night?”

  “Sleeping! I came out to the hall, too,” Lacey said.

  “And last!” Griffin said quietly. “Jon. What the hell happened?”

  Jon looked torn, as if he was about to weep. “I don’t know! Why doesn’t anybody believe me? I love Alice, I love her so much! We went to sleep together. That’s the last thing I know.”

  “Was she wearing that gown when you went to bed?” Griffin asked.

  Jon suddenly straightened, looking around. He frowned. “No...no! She was wearing one of those long T-shirt kind of nightgown things. She wasn’t in that gown at all.”

  Hallie gasped. “The gown! The gown was in a trunk in the attic. Do you know what that was?” she demanded. “I know, because Gary showed me one day. The trunk. It had everything that he’d kept that had belonged to his wife. The white gown... She wore it when they went on their honeymoon. He was keeping everything there for Alice. He figured she’d want something of her mother one day.”

  “We’re really just stating the obvious,” Jackson Crow said quietly. “Whoever did this wanted to haunt Gary—and he did it with a Poe theme. Make someone look like a man’s true love, and how much easier could it be than to dress up a daughter who is the image of her mother?”

  “Which brings us back to the main question,” Griffin said. “Where is Liza?” He glanced at Carl Morris and added, “People, we’re going to have to search through all your personal belongings.”

  “What?” Monica asked.

  “That’s not very American!” Sven said.

  “Don’t you need search warrants?” Hallie asked.

  “I’m sure we have Gary’s permission to search the house,” Griffin said.

  “But—our belongings! Like—like our underwear?” Jon Skye protested.

  “I don’t think we want to search your underwear, Jon,” Griffin assured him. “But we do need to find out who had that drug. And, yes, warrants might be in order.”

  “But not if you give us permission to search your belongings,” Carl Morris said.

  “And, of course, if you don’t give us permission, we will hold up your belongings until we do have a warrant,” Griffin said.

  “All right, all right! You want to search? Come on up—you can start with my room. That room I share with Alice!” He was angry and walked past them all, starting up the stairs. He looked back at them. “Oh, my God! You don’t think...you really don’t think that Alice could have had that drug, and that she would have done something like that to herself on purpose...to get to her father?”

  “Let’s see what we find,” Griffin said quietly. “Maybe nothing. Let’s go ahead and start with you—and then we’ll get to everyone.”

  * * *

  Vickie was startled to find Poe by her car.

  He was pacing just outside it.

  “How did you get here?” she asked him.

  “I rode with you—you just didn’t see me. I didn’t care to be seen—I was... Frankly, I was exhausted. I mean, that whole thing you do. It’s almost as if I have a body again. But...but a rather useless body, I’m afraid.”

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry, it’s just that, well, you’re just lying there, and it’s all a mind or soul manipulation or a miracle—a curse as you might see it—or...or, I don’t know! And so strange. But it makes it so that I can’t make myself seen or heard, even by you. Because, as I said, I’m just so...exhausted. Drained! But I could see, at the house, anyway. I could observe... Alice, running into the night. That scream. And then the confusion! The police, the paramedics! And then... I just slipped out to the car with you and that lovely blonde—”

  “Angela.”

  “Yes, truly an angel! Anyway, now...well, I’ve some strength back. And I still am so little help to you. And I’m so angry! Seriously, who would do this with my work? Yes, you know, of course, with my story ‘The Mystery of Marie Rogêt,’ I based it all upon the death of beautiful young Mary Celia Rogers, who was murdered most cruelly in New York. I chose to study real life for the creation of my detective. But you must understand, that while scholars have said, ‘Oh, this woman is Poe’s Lenore, or that woman was his Ligeia!’ I wrote fiction, Victoria, fiction. I based my characters on people in life, yes, but on others as well. This killer... I don’t understand. Why does he use my work so heinously?”

  “I don’t know. Until we discover the killer, we’ll never break through to his—or her—mind. But sir, tell me, please—who exactly was Reynolds and why were you to meet him, and why, in delirium, would you call out his name?”

  “Reynolds?” He stared at her hard, and then sighed deeply. “Reynolds!” he said softly. “Walter Reynolds—or his name as he gave it to me.”

  “You were to meet him in Baltimore.”

  Poe nodded. “We met on the streets of Richmond one day, soon after I joined the temperance society. He told me that his home was in Baltimore, and that we might work there.”

  “If you were going to work in Baltimore, why didn’t anyone know about it?”

  “Because it was to be a grand surprise. He claimed that he had a family inheritance, and that he was a tremendous fan of mine. He w
as a writer himself—but he knew talent when he saw it, and he was convinced that I knew far more than he ever could. He wanted to publish a literary magazine, and he wanted me to be editor. I would choose the material while others were chosen for more menial editorial work. That way, I would have time to continue creating my own stories.”

  “And you went to meet him, but you were attacked. The burlap bag was thrown over your head,” Vickie murmured. “Did you ever see Reynolds?”

  “No.”

  “How did you know where you were to go to meet him?”

  “A boy met the train and he gave me the address. Now, as I went there, I became quite curious and a wee bit concerned, for—as you have seen—the address was down an alley.”

  “Was Reynolds the one who attacked you?”

  “I don’t know. You know I don’t know!”

  “Right,” Victoria murmured. “Well, I’m going to have to find out about this Reynolds. He never appeared at the hospital when you were ill.”

  “I only know that with what he promised, Elmira and I might have lived happily. There would have been no dissension from her brothers or her children, for it would be my income and no inheritance that supported my household. I told you—I loved Elmira. I swore to temperance. I meant to make our lives sober and dignified.”

  Vickie nodded. “All right. I am, somehow, going to find out about this man. Now I must get back to Frampton Manor. I believe that a life may be at stake.”

  * * *

  There was nothing to be found in the room that Jon Skye had shared with Alice Frampton.

  They searched meticulously.

  And then it was time to go through the belongings of everyone who had stayed at Frampton Manor through the night.

  Because someone, somehow, had drugged Alice Frampton.

  And because Liza Harcourt was still missing.

  But before they could move on to another room and another suspect, Griffin could hear car wheels on the gravel drive outside the house.

  Vickie had returned.

  “I’ll see if she’s gotten anything else, anything at all,” Griffin told Jackson and Carl Morris.

  “We’ve got this,” Morris assured him wearily.

  Griffin hurried out to meet Vickie.

  “Nothing yet? No Liza?” she asked him anxiously.

  “No.”

  “The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that Alice’s situation was created just to throw everyone off.”

  “Morris has an APB out on Liza. I didn’t see a handbag in her room. But her other belongings are still there. As far as the situation with Alice, Jon definitely appeared to be the most suspicious—after all, he was sleeping with her. But we tore apart their room and his things. Jackson and Morris are upstairs now, going through Alistair’s stuff. We will do it with every person who was here. We will find out if anyone has any sign of drugs or anything suspicious whatsoever in their personal belongings.”

  “And then?”

  “We will keep looking until we find something.”

  “Griffin, no.”

  “No? We have to solve this.”

  “Yes, but we can’t waste time. Liza is somewhere.”

  “Taken by the killer, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Griffin looked at her steadily. “Do you think she’s already dead?”

  Vickie inhaled and exhaled slowly and deeply and then shook her head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. But I do believe that she was the real victim, and that we were drawn out to the cemetery on purpose. And here’s the thing, Griffin. The killer didn’t kill either Franklin Verne or Brent Whaley immediately. He used Poe-inspired methods. That meant drugging and then putting the victim in a position where they died on their own. I believe that the killer has Liza Harcourt. And that she’s somewhere she is meant to die. We have to find her before that happens, Griffin.”

  “And where do you think she might be? Vickie, I’m telling you, we’ve gone over this place thoroughly. Are you thinking the cemetery? A Poe place, where the women who were loved sometimes seem to rise from the grave? Vickie, Alice came running out to the cemetery. Jackson and Angela spent most of the night among the tombstones. Even if the killer is something of a magician, I don’t know how he could have gotten Liza out there.”

  “Not the cemetery, Griffin. Somewhere in the house.”

  Griffin paused for a moment. “All right, in ‘The Fall of the House of Usher,’ there was a crypt. This place has a cemetery, but not a crypt. It does have a basement.”

  “And,” Vickie reminded him quietly, “we have experience with basements—and people who like to bury their victims.”

  He nodded, tempted to pull her close. His heart was beating a little too hard. He knew that he had to accept that he was going to be afraid for her; he always would be.

  He had to accept that she would be afraid for him as well.

  “I’m fine!” she said, as if reading his mind. She smiled at him. “I’m with you!” she reminded him. “Now, you looked in the basement, but did you really tear it apart? Should we get the others, get some kind of help from them?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll let Jackson know, but not the others. If we’re right—if we’re close—we don’t want to warn the killer that we just might find the victim alive. Morris can keep searching and we’ll get Jackson down with us.”

  “All right,” Vickie said.

  Griffin called Jackson and told him about his conversation with Vickie.

  “We might find a living woman,” Griffin said.

  “Or we just might find a dead one,” Jackson said.

  Griffin didn’t argue. One way or the other, he hoped that they found Liza Harcourt.

  Quickly.

  14

  Jackson joined Griffin on the stairway.

  He explained that they really didn’t want any of the others to know what they were doing.

  “We did search the basement,” Jackson reminded him.

  “Yes, but we didn’t knock on walls, try the floors or any of that. And with what has been going on, it seems the next logical step.”

  “I agree,” Jackson said. “But no one here is a prisoner. I’ll go talk to Adam quickly and make sure he knows that we need that group to stay in the parlor, the kitchen or the dining room. With the cops and us searching personal belongings—they’ve pretty much all huddled together there, waiting, to the best of my knowledge.”

  Griffin agreed.

  “I’ll see Adam. You two head down and start searching.”

  Griffin nodded and joined Vickie at the foot of the main stairs. “Through the kitchen,” he told her.

  He’d already visited the basement; he’d been down when they’d first tried to find out who had emitted the horrible scream.

  Vickie hadn’t been there.

  He led the way down rickety wooden stairs.

  Even when the electricity worked, the basement was certainly a dark and dank place. Although he’d had a flashlight when he’d come down the first time, Griffin had already cracked his head against the single bulb for the place, which hung from a cord on the rafters.

  The basement smelled of earth, a rich, redolent, but almost overpowering scent.

  The space was filled with spiderwebs.

  While the rest of the house was seldom used, he had a feeling that—other than today—the basement had been untouched for months.

  Perhaps years.

  It was truly a kingdom for the spiders.

  While the walls were mainly bare brick, at some time in history, wood paneling had been added to parts of the walls. There, the spiders had enjoyed a heyday. Webs tangled in fantasy knots, almost glistening when Griffin hit them with the glow from his flashlight.

 
As the spots of light swept around the dismal space, Griffin couldn’t help but worry about Vickie.

  During the Undertaker case, when he and Vickie had met again after so many years apart, she had been buried alive. But then, as now, Vickie was a fighter. He knew that if he ever tried to stop her from going to the academy, from joining the Krewe, he’d be tearing the two of them apart. The Krewe had become so important to Vickie. In her mind, it made no sense to be tormented by the souls of those gone who now needed help—or intended to help. Using their very strange abilities to help was a way to stay sane.

  And he still couldn’t help himself.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  She turned and smiled at him. “I’m fine. I’m with you. Jackson and Adam are upstairs. No one is going to bury me. And,” she added quietly, “the more I go through all of this with you and other Krewe members, the more comfortable I feel. Except that man’s inhumanity to man will always hurt. And that’s why we stop it as much as we can, right?”

  “Right,” he told her. He hesitated. “You’re right.”

  She moved ahead in the basement.

  It was cluttered with luggage trunks that appeared to be well over a hundred years old, fishing gear that was nowhere near that old, hockey sticks, tennis rackets, household tools and garden implements.

  Vickie walked through something of a trail to the rear where the water heater stood. She shined her flashlight all around it.

  Griffin realized that he was just watching her.

  He began to go through the basement methodically, keeping to the left, while he suggested that she take the right.

  “I can’t find anything—or see anything—that suggests that a wall might have been rebuilt or that the floor might have been dug up,” Vickie said. “And I was so convinced that she was being held here somehow.”

  Griffin had moved back through an area where a number of old dressmaker’s dummies were crammed together. He ran his hands over the wall there; nothing was new.

  He got down on the floor, sliding a trunk to one side, thinking that they were going to have to move everything in the basement.