Grave Robber for Hire (19 page)

“Sure is basic.” Tyreal opened a door and peered into a dark small room. It was lined with shelves like a pantry, but was six times larger.

“Too big.” We kept searching.

At the sixth door, Tyreal opened what appeared to be a broom cupboard. I sighed. “No shelves, this isn’t it.”

“I’d say not.” Tyreal went to shut the door. Viggo slammed his hand on the door forcing it to stay open. Tyreal frowned and glanced inside to see what jammed it. I bit back a giggle. Vig scowled at me, and then lifted his chin toward the inside of the cupboard.

“Look.” Tyreal ran his finger in a groove that sat between the planks of wood of the wall. He lifted his hand two feet, and slipped his finger into another groove. “Shelves sat here once.”

I looked down at the cupboard’s base. It sat proud four inches above the rest of the floor. I gawked a few seconds. Let my neurons fumble through their excitement to form a cogitative thought beyond,
wee, woot, and wow
. “It has a raised floor.”

I swallowed. “Holy moly Tyreal, this could be the find of the decade, especially if we discover both the Rubens and the Rembrandt.”

“Don’t go counting those chickens yet, Princess. Clyde could have moved it, or someone might have found it years ago, sold it and made off with the money.”

“But judging by the state of how Ira lived, it wasn’t him. And he inherited this house from his grandmother, Amelia.” I started humming.

Tyreal looked down the hall. I high-fived Vig, leaned over and whispered in the barest exhalation, “Vig, you awesome ancient, I do love you.” He grinned and tugged my hair.

“What did you say?”

Christ, trust Tyreal to have super-sonic hearing. “Nothing.”

“Hang on, Princess, I want to check this out.” He bent to the raised floor and tapped it. “Sounds hollow.”

“Yes.” I did an arm-pump and Vig laughed.

“Chickens, Princess.”

“I know, I know—but shit, I like chickens. This could buy a huge tract of land and set up a real animal rescue center.”

“We alright in here folks?”

Tyreal turned to Craig, real estate agent. “Yeah, thanks. We’re just finding all the odd rooms. It’s like a maze.”

A smooth liar. Typical male.

Outside we checked out the backyard. In the corner, the sun backlit a majestic eucalypt tree. A bigger older version of the one I’d seen when Clyde buried the boys.

I pointed to the small porch. “That would keep me hidden while I picked the lock.”

“No need.” He nodded upward. “We’ll crawl through that broken window.”

At the side of the porch, the window had no glass and was large enough for two people to crawl through at once.

I snorted. “This place has about four hundred thousand in antiques inside, and they leave the window broken?”

“Must be a good neighborhood.”

“N
o
neighborhood is that good.”

Vig looked at the window. “No, never.” And I think he meant a thousand years of never.

#

The house was dark and the backyard’s only illumination was from streetlights reflecting off the neighbor’s windows.

Tyreal put his small backpack, holding the crowbar and hammer we’d bought at the hardware store, on the ground. “I’ll lift you to my shoulders, push you through the broken window. Drop to the floor, land on your feet.”

“Head first, land on your
feet?
Kidding, right?”

His hand gripping my hips, he lifted me. Guess he wasn’t.

“Grab the windowsill, Princess, pull.”

I did as told, used my one good arm to pull
myself over the base of the window. Tyreal pushed my butt. I slithered through the black void. Pain knifed into my head as I hit the floor. My body slid the rest of the way to the floor.

I lay sprawled and stunned but wasn’t surprised.

Vig poofed in looked at me on the floor and started to laugh.

“Ass.”

He laughed harder.

Tyreal landed on the windowsill like a freaking frog and hopped down.

“Christ you’re clumsy. How the hell have you managed to stay alive this long.” With both hands under my shoulders, he lifted me to my feet. Our eyes met and Vig stopped laughing.

“Clumsy? You’re the dick that shoved me through head first, jetted me into the air with your butt shove. Didn’t they teach you about gravity at your school?” Clumsy? I’d clumsy him and tie his shoelaces together. I snickered at the picture in my head, of him falling on his head.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” I tried to sound normal. Instead, I sounded insane.

“Got your pencil flashlight?”

I clicked it on. “So Dr. Watson, you have the crowbar?”

He pulled it out of his backpack. “Why of course Sherlock, every good ex-cop carries one.”

“Absolutely.” Tiny flashlight aimed at the floor, with Viggo at my side we strode toward the servants’ area of the house. At the cupboard, I stepped to the side.

Tyreal crouched and ran the tiny flashlight’s beam over the board decorating the front of the false floor. He wedged the crowbar under a corner and pressed. The seal of the wood tight from nails, age, and fifteen decades of filth sent out a loud dusty crack. Tyreal pushed the bar up and down in jagged movements, sliding the bar under the full length of timber. The wood broke free in one piece. Three cockroach shells fell with it. Recently deceased, or incarcerated into a tomb of death when Clyde hammered in the timbers? They could be antique cockroach shells.

“Neat job.”

“Dad’s a cabinet maker.” He got down on his hands and knees and turned the flashlight to the newly made gap and grunted.

Bloody man. I was ready to pee myself with excitement and he grunted. Actually I really did
need to pee. “Throw me a freaking bone. Do you see anything?”

“Another piece of wood.”

“Another … shit.”

He shoved the crowbar under the first raised floorboards. “All’s not lost, Princess.” Three boards removed later, he stopped, and with our dinky flashlights aimed at the object, we stared at what looked like old, old, wonderfully old, fabric.

All my excitement whooshed out, “Shit.”

“Good vocab.”

“It’s an all-purpose word. Covers many varied emotions and exclamations.” I wanted to pee, giggle, dance a jig with Vig, and throw up all at once. Excitement’s confusing on a girl’s body.

Tyreal started wedging off the next board and then the next. After removing eight boards, he put down the bar, stuck his hands into the void and dragged and tugged out the fabric wrapped object. I felt like a kid staring at a huge unexpected present. It wasn’t officially mine, but this picture, if real could solve my I need a bigger farm crisis. The discovery of a Rembrandt and a Rubens would mean media coverage and more lucrative jobs. My farm grew in acres, the animals’ shelter became mini palaces.

I put out a shaking hand and touched the old oil cloth. “It’s exactly, other than the dirt, as I saw it.”

“Will we do the reveal here, or later at your home?”

Vig shook his head. “Home.”

Good idea, where we couldn’t get busted. “Home.”

Tyreal put the boards back into place, but couldn’t hammer them in because of the noise levels. “Nobody will notice until they try and put stuff in here.”

“Wait, we can’t leave yet. We didn’t see all of the rooms earlier. I need to check for that desk with the hidden compartment.” The hair on the back of my neck waved in a chilled breeze, I shivered and wished we were doing this in daylight.

Vig sighed and Tyreal flicked his penlight down the hall. “Okay, but walk quietly and use the flashlight as little as possible.”

Down one hall, we found three bedrooms and a bathroom straight out of
a 1930’s magazine. The site of the old bath, with the overhead showerhead looking like army WW1 surplus, made my skin feel as if insects swarmed on it. “I can’t believe anyone would want to live like this.”

Tyreal looked in and whistled. “This place is the house time and style forgot. I wonder why he never updated.” He stopped and looked around. “I feel as if we’re being watched,” Tyreal whispered.

“House not right,” Vig said as he looked into the bathroom. “Ugh.”

“Yeah I feel watched too.” My voice came out in a nervous girly squeak. I looked at Vig hoping for him to say why.

He shook his head. “I check down hall.”

The first bedroom Tyreal and I stopped at held an iron four poster bed, a set of side drawers, and two old wardrobes. When we opened the doors we found clothing, musty and stale with age. I tugged on the skirt of what might have once been a blue dress, and found a high neck, tiny waist, fabric covered buttons. “Circa 1880. Incredible.” My amazement made me forget my fear. “I want to buy this house more than ever just for the included goodies.” I ran my flashlight’s beam over an embroidered and fine lace evening dress. The delicacy of the work stole my breath.

“Stop gawking at the pretties, Angel. Focus on the task.”

I stuck out my tongue,
reluctantly tucked in the dress and closed the closet door.

Down the hall we passed two more long forgotten rooms. The master bedroom facing the street had a bay window matching the main parlor. A small, boarded over fireplace, and an ancient double bed, showed recent occupation. “Deceased’s bedroom.”

Tyreal nodded.

Vig joined us again. He lifted his shoulders. “No find anything.”

Good we could continue. “The den, we haven’t found Clyde’s den. It had a fireplace too. There are five chimneys on this house, how many have we passed?”

“Parlor, kitchen, main bedroom,” Tyreal ticked off the fireplaces we’d seen so far.

“Dining room had one, I saw it today. But there is one more near the back of the house.”

The three of us headed for the back of the house, took another hall and opened a door.

My throat went tight, my stomached dropped. I clenched the hand I held to my chest. “This is it. This is the den, or study. Jesus, it’s hardly changed.” I pointed across the room. “See that chair? I’ve seen Clyde in that chair.” I glanced across the room and pumped my fist in the air. “It’s the desk.”

Viggo looked around. “That?” I grinned at him and pointed
to the desk as I hustled over and slid into the ancient stiff backed chair. I fiddled with the front of the desk, pushed, tried to slide pieces, reached under and felt for levers, looked for finger stained areas, and found nothing.

Viggo, face in concentration ran his fingers under the edge of the desk top. “Not
on top.”

I fell back and thudded the arm of the chair with my right fist. “Damn, I can’t get this open. I saw Clyde put his hand under here to open the secret compartment, but I can’t find or feel anything that moves.”

“Push back, I’ll look.” Tyreal came around the side and bent and peered under. I heard a grunt, the rasp of wood on wood, and a click. “Pull it now, Princess.”

I tugged. Part of the front panel slipped forward half an inch. “It’s stuck.”

Tyreal slipped out from under the desk. “Probably hasn’t been used in more than a century.”

I vacated the chair. “You try. I’m voting we go find an axe.” Patience is not one of my multiple virtues.

“That’d be helpful.” Tyreal pushed in the slide, reached under and waited for a click again and pulled on the ornate panel. It scraped out for two inches and jammed. He slid it in, out, in, out. “Fuck.” Then he started jiggling, sat back, “Fuck.”

“Good vocab.”

“It’s a multi-purpose word, covers many emotions.”

I pointed my tiny flashlight in and Tyreal peered into the shallow recess. “There’s a book in there.”

My chest squeezed all my breath out in a whoosh. “We have to get it out. I’m sure the Rembrandt will be listed there.” What a night. All the cherries were falling into a neat winning row. I felt punch drunk on pre-spent cherries.

More jiggling and swearing scored another two inches. I slipped in my hand, my fingertips touched the journal.

Yes
.

An electrical blast shot up my arm. I flew backwards.

“Hayyel.” Vig swung and tried to catch me. I sailed past his arms, hit the floor, and slid on my butt. Jeez, I just couldn’t catch a break. Now my ass would match the other bruised and damaged areas of my body. Good thing too, that area had been feeling left out.

My fingers stung and vibrated, my pulse raced hard and fast. I held my hand up to the dim light and counted five fingers. Five was good.

Tyreal helped me to my feet. “What the hell? You just flew backwards.”

I glared at the desk. “It zapped me.”

“How the hell can it zap you?”

I cut my glare to him. “Do I look like I know?”

Vig stared into the void of the shelf. “Leave it.”

The tiny beam of Tyreal’s light hit my face. “No. You look scared.”

No shit, Watson. “A book written by an evil man just acted as if I stuck my finger in an electrical wall socket. Shit yeah, I’m scared.”