This Little Piggy Went to Murder (20 page)

“Stop.” Sophie laughed. “I’ve just had dinner and you’re making me hungry all over again.”

“You know, with all our talk about food, I never got to ask him about that book he’s writing.”

“Are you sure, you want to know?”

“Sure!”

“Well, for starters, it’s a novel.
Forests of the King
. I guess you could say it’s science fiction.”

Alice scrunched up her nose. “Give me a good mystery any day.”

“Me, too. But the book will be fun.”

“What’s it about?”

“Well, it’s set in America in the year 2216. The country has been completely reforested and the populace is worshiping Elvis Presley as a god. You know how everyone calls him The King today? Well, Bram wanted to explore —”

Alice held up her hand . “That’s okay. You don’t need to go into detail.”

“He’s fascinated by time travel. Unusual cultures.”

“Has he ever visited the Iron Range?”

“Alice, be nice.”

“Pardon me, but I grew up in Calumet. Sometimes I can’t help myself. Anyway, getting back to your original question about a typewriter. It seems to me there used to be an old manual around here somewhere. I haven’t seen it in years. You might try the attic.”

“Thanks,” said Sophie.

“Don’t let the cobwebs scare you. There’s some fascinating stuff up there. You never know what you’re going to find.”

“That sounds like just what I want!”

The stairway to the attic was narrow and uncarpeted, with faded rose wallpaper peeling from the top of the wall. The light switch was at the base of the stairs. Sophie flipped it on as she began her ascent. The attic itself appeared to be one long room lighted by a single, bare ceiling bulb of minimal wattage. She gave the space a brief examination before deciding on a plan of attack. It was simply filled to overflowing with furniture, old clothes, books, cracked mirrors, and boxes of assorted memorabilia. She made a mental note not to tell Bram about it. With his penchant for collecting, it would be next spring before they got the U-Haul loaded. She shuddered when she thought of their basement at home in Minneapolis.

Edging her way in between two large oak chests, she began searching through the contents of a long shelf. Finding an old typewriter in this warehouse of antiquity would be like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. Books, magazines, even an old stereopticon lay buried under a thin frosting of dust.

A velvet patchwork quilt was stuffed haphazardly onto one end of a bare wood shelf. As she brushed past it, it fell to the floor. A centipede slithered away. Shuddering, she stepped carefully around the quilt. As she did so, she noticed a gray metal case that had been hidden before. That was interesting. It didn’t even look dusty. The initials J.M.G. were stamped in gold letters on the outside next to the word REMINGTON. Jack M. Grendel. So this was
Jack’s
typewriter case. She picked it up, realizing immediately that it was empty. Damn. Rotten luck. But where was the typewriter it had once contained? It was obviously an old manual. Could it be the same one on which someone had typed those sinister
piggy
notes?

Returning it to, the shelf, she continued to poke through the assortment of junk. Under one of the dormer windows she spied an old Tiffany lamp. She inched in front of several badly water-damaged cement statues and leaned down to take a better look. It was truly a work of art. Some of the glass was cracked and a couple pieces were missing, but the design was still lovely. As she studied it, she thought she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Curious who might be coming up, she turned her head.

“Welcome to the junkyard,” she called. The creaking stopped.

That was odd. If someone was out there, why didn’t they answer? She called again. “Hello? Who’s there?”

Again no reply.

Perhaps it was just her imagination. Old houses were full of odd noises, things that went bump in the night. She waited a moment longer, but when everything seemed quiet, she went back to examining the base of the lamp.

Outside the room, the stairway creaked again.

This time there was no mistaking it. Before she knew what was happening, the light was switched off, plunging the musty chamber into total blackness. Her heart started to pound. Damn, why had she let herself be so vulnerable? The silence in the room was enormous. Any sound, any perceived movement sent jolts of adrenaline into her system. She had to get out. In the darkness, the junk-filled space would be almost impossible to navigate quickly, but she couldn’t simply whimper in a corner, offering herself up like some helpless sacrificial lamb. All her adult life she’d hated that part of herself that, in her youth, had acquiesced to a fascistic, fanatical religion, a crazy church with a mad, charmingly evil leader, and a husband whose basic motivation was not love but self-aggrandizement and absolute control. A victim felt powerless. A victim saw no choices. But Sophie Greenway was never going to see herself that way again. She wasn’t going down without one hell of a fight.

Crouching on all fours, she began to crawl toward the door. Her hand grasped the first solid object that could be used as a weapon. The words Wardlaw had used earlier in the day echoed in her ears like a taunt.
Not in any danger
, he’d said. Not in any danger? So much for his infallible police instincts. She banged her head on the edge of something sharp. Christ! She was bleeding. She could feel the sticky liquid ooze from her scalp and dribble down onto her forehead. Wiping it away, she stopped for a second to catch her breath. It didn’t take the instincts of a guard dog to notice, that, for some reason, no one was making any move toward her. She waited a moment longer. Could it be that someone had flipped off the light switch down below merely to scare her? She listened. The room was absolutely still. The only sound she could hear was heavy breathing. Her own.

Well! She brushed off the dust on her hands, feeling more than a little embarrassed by her rather obvious overreaction. Somebody must like playing games. Carefully, she scrambled to her feet. Her eyes had finally begun to adjust to the darkness. She could now see a faint light coming from the partly open doorway. Taking a deep breath, she walked swiftly toward it, managing to bang her hip only slightly on the edge of an antique dresser.

Just as she had suspected, the stairway was empty. The floor below was quiet. She tugged her sweatshirt indignantly over her jeans and started down.

Entering the second floor hallway, she headed immediately for her bedroom. She could hear Bram’s typewriter plunking away in the tiny cook’s quarters at the end of the corridor. The familiar sound warmed her. He was only a few feet away. It had taken a few minutes, but the prankster’s intentions were beginning to come into a kind of perspective. She was no longer scared. No. Now she was pissed.
Extremely
pissed.

As she passed the partially open bedroom door next to hers, a figure stepped farther into the darkness, waiting until Sophie had entered her own room. Then, looking both ways down the hall, the figure proceeded quickly to the stairs, the long red hair disappearing into the easy anonymity of the basement rec room.

Jenny ran her finger along the smooth wood of a stately grand piano that sat near a series of windows in one corner of the living room. She knew Luther played it on occasion. Amanda had said she’d tried to learn many years ago, but seemed to have no talent for it. They’d purchased it on Chelsea’s ninth birthday and given her lessons until she was fifteen, when she’d announced, apparently rather dramatically, that she no longer had any interest in music and refused to go into Two Harbors for her lessons. Jenny wished she’d had something this fine to practice on as a child. The ancient upright her mother had saved for years to buy couldn’t even hold a tune. To Jenny, that flat, slightly dissonant sound was the sour, unmistakable chord of poverty.

She passed in front of the antique couch and sat down in Amanda’s favorite comfy chair by the fireplace. Next to it on the floor was a sewing basket. Amanda wasn’t much for knitting or crocheting, but she occasionally did some embroidery. Jenny knew she would find a needle and thread somewhere in the basket. She’d noticed a button about to come off of Ryan’s favorite chambray shirt. Before the next movie started, she wanted to sew it on. It would only take a minute.

She pulled off the wicker top and began her search. Lifting a light blue spool of thread out of a narrow tray, she quickly spotted the pin cushion. As she reached for it, she noticed a tattered, leather-bound book tucked into the side. Silently, she read the title:
A Child’s Garden of Verses
by Robert Louis Stevenson. Interesting. She’d been looking for some more poetry for her day-care children. Sometimes, before they went down for a nap, she liked to read to them. Amanda had loaned her her own copy of Claire’s new book. The kids loved the poems. It seemed to help calm them down. Jenny had read the inscription in the front so many times she knew it by heart.
To a

kindred spirit
, it had said.
Perhaps here and now we have the beginnings of a new child’s garden, filled with joy and hope. My love to you always, Claire
. Slipping this new book into the pocket of her baggy wool sweater, she selected a needle and stood. She had one more errand to perform before heading back downstairs. Luther had asked if she would find a sweater for him. The basement rec room could be cold, even on an early fall night.

Saying a silent goodbye to the grand piano, Jenny walked straight to the back hallway and into Luther’s study. He’d said he’d left a sweater on the footstool near the TV. There it was. Jenny liked this room. She liked the heavy furniture. Sometimes it seemed like the only comfortable spot in the entire house.

She sat down at Luther’s desk and reached into her pocket for the book again. Such a beautiful little volume. She opened it up to the center and read:
Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along like troops in a battle, All through the meadows the horses and cattle.
Perfect. Her children would love this.

“Jenny!” said a deep voice from the doorway. Ryan stood framed against the dark passage. His short, muscular body looked tense, his fists clenched. “Everyone’s waiting for you. Come on.”

Jenny dropped the book on the desktop. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Really, I just stopped to look for a needle and thread and —”

“Fine. I don’t want to hear it. Forget that poetry book, just come on.” The look on his face said everything was not
fine.

She stood, brushing a stringy hair away from her face in an apologetic gesture. “Sure. Right away, hon.” Before she could get to the door, he’d turned on his heel and left. She could hear him in the kitchen, talking to Alice. Ryan was a good man, but he sometimes had no idea how he affected other people. He shouldn’t talk to Alice that way.
Ordering
her to make more popcorn. Couldn’t he just ask nicely? He was oblivious to her intense dislike of him. To Ryan, she was probably just some old woman. He didn’t need her, therefore, she wasn’t important. No, that was unfair. He was just so stressed right now. Jenny knew she’d added to that stress and that’s why he’d been so short with her tonight. But he would get over it. Later in the evening, he’d be as affectionate as ever. She knew she could count on that.

As she crossed to the doorway, Sophie suddenly appeared in front of her.

“Jenny!” said Sophie, a look of surprise on her face.

“Hi! I thought you’ d be downstairs watching the film.”

It was then that Jenny remembered why she’d come into the study in the first place. “Luther asked me to fetch him a sweater.” She rushed over and picked it. up. “Are you coming down? We’re just about to start an old Tyrone Power movie. Something about a bullfighter. Amanda said it was really good.”

Sophie smiled. “I guess I’m kind of a party pooper tonight. I’m awfully tired. I thought I might see if Luther had something interesting to read before bed.” She glanced at the walls of books.

Jenny nodded. “I’m sure you’ll find something. Well, I better get going. I’ll probably see you tomorrow then.” She hurried out.

“I hope so,” said Sophie to her disappearing back. She sank down in the leather chair behind Luther’s desk and picked up a well-worn, leather-bound volume of what looked like poetry. Her eyes locked on the title.
A Child’s Garden of Verses
. My God, it was a book! This had to be the meaning of that note! She opened the front cover and read the words,

To my darling daughter on her sixth birthday. This book belonged to me when I was a little girl. I wanted nothing more than to live in the garden for the rest of my life. It’s a special, magical place, Chelsea. I hope you love it, too.

Your loving mother.

Sophie looked up.
Find the Child’s Garden, find the murderer
. That’s what the note had said. But she’d found the book in Luther’s study. Did that mean? No, impossible. Then again, the book had been given to Chelsea. But that was hardly likely. The original owner was Amanda. Did that make her the murderer? God, how could she sit here and think something like that?