P Deutermann - Nightwalkers

The ground floor pretty much mirrored the arrangement upstairs. It contained the two drawing rooms, which were nearly identical and opposite each other across the spacious central hallway. A third room appeared to be a library, and the fourth was the dining room. No light fixtures or switches here, either, but there were chandeliers and wall sconces in every room.

Most important, there was no sign that anyone other than this happy little band of antiquarians had been living there. Now I regretted the events of the night before, because it was pretty obvious I'd been wrong. Valeria's injuries were my fault, and I was going to have to apologize. The only positive result from all of that had been her probably unintentional revelation that Callendar did exist-and something about the bridge.

I was standing in the hallway, trying to figure out if I should really toss the place or just get the hell out, when I noticed the shepherds were missing. Then I heard the scratch of a wooden match and saw a flare of light in the library doorway.

I drew the SIG and walked toward the doorway, which consisted of two ten-foot-high mahogany doors that swung back against the wall. I found the shepherds.

I also found Patience Johnson.

She was sitting in one of those big chairs next to a reading table. There was a smallish hurricane lamp on the table with a lit candle inside. It threw off a surprising amount of light in the dark room, illuminating the gilt lettering on several books. She was dressed in normal clothes, not her high tea uniform. She was smoking a small brown cigarillo, and she held a snifter of what looked like brandy in her hand. The shepherds were lying on the rug in front of her, looking altogether too comfortable. I felt a little dumb, standing in the doorway with a. 45 in my hand.

"Mr. Richter," she said, ignoring the hand cannon. "Good evening to you. Exploring, are we?"

"In a manner of speaking," I said. "How's Cubby?"

"Funny you should ask," she said.

"He started it," I said.

"No, he didn't," she said. I couldn't tell if she was mad at me or just depressed. "He worked here, just like me. It was that damned old woman who started all this."

"I meant he shot at me first, that's all. I shot back in self-defense. I had no idea it was Cubby, and I don't think he knew it was me over in the dark."

"She knew."

"Look," I said. "There's been a guy hunting me ever since I signed up to buy Glory's End. I think she's behind that, too. I'd sure like to hear what you know about it."

She gave me a long, thoughtful look. "Get you some of this cognac," she said. "Then put that gun away and sit you down."

I did that. It was pretty good cognac. "I was looking for evidence that they have been harboring a man called Callendar."

"Oh, him," she said, blowing out a long plume of smoke.

"Strange," I said. "That's exactly what Valeria said last night."

"She ought to know," she said, looking right at home in the candlelight, which, I guess, she was. "She and her mother. They've been brooding over that insane plot for years. The glorious lost will and all that."

"So this isn't new?"

"Those other people tried to sell Oak Grove some years back. I'll bet the Realtor didn't tell you that, did he."

"Nope."

"Well, they did. Ms. Hester wasn't too pleased. She let them know it, too."

"So what happened?"

"They had 'em a summer party, down at the quarry. It went on all afternoon, like they do. Lotta white folks drinkin' a lot more than they should. It was August, and really hot. Some silly damn girl decided to go swimmin', went in wearin' her party clothes, then they all went in. The owners didn't happen to come out."

I remembered the ruined party gazebo by the side of the ramp. "They drowned?"

"Ain't no one knows," she said. "The paper said they was 'both seized with stomach cramps.' In all the splashing and shrieking, no one noticed them go down."

"I'll bet Hester did."

"Could be, Mr. Richter, could be. I did the cookin', 'cept for one plate Ms. Hester was passin' all by herself."

"What was that?"

"Don't know. Covered plate."

"And the heirs?"

"Took that property right off the market."

"Fancy that."

She shrugged and sipped her cognac.

"So you're saying that Hester knew about the will and the potential claim even then?"

"I work here, Mr. Richter," she said. "Been workin' here for years and years. I won't say I know what they know, but I'm damn sure I know what I've heard. I believe the family has known about the will from the very beginning. That's why Hester and them believe that Oak Grove is theirs."

"So who is this Callendar? What's his part in all this?"

"Callendar is Hester's son."

"What?"

"That's right. The one the major threw out of the house, declared him dead, and all that foo-raw. That son. The oldest child. What he forgot was the way it is between mothers and their sons, just like it is between daddies and their daughters. He may have been dead to the major, but he and his mama stayed close over all these years. The major, he bein' crazy and all, had no idea."

Wheels within wheels, I thought, but it was beginning to make sense. Callendar had a stake in Glory's End, however tenuous.

We talked for another half an hour, just sitting there in the gloom of the library by the light of one lamp. It all seemed fairly natural, given the surroundings: the old house with its eighteen-foot ceilings, the library, the smell of leather-bound books and cigar smoke. Electric lights would have almost been out of place.

I told her what had been going on and said that Callendar was now wanted for a homicide, among other things. She, like Valeria, said she'd heard differently about the dog woman, but I think she believed my version of it. I then pointed out that Hester and Valeria would be considered accomplices to the Craney killing, given that Hester was the guiding spirit behind the lost claim to the property and that Valeria had knowledge.

"They big girls now," she said simply. "My concern is Cubby."

"If Cubby comes clean and will help us to trap Callendar, I'm pretty sure he'll be in the clear."

"Pretty sure."

"Let me rephrase. He will be if that's the deal he makes."

"You makin' promises you can keep?" she asked.

"I can only promise to make it so. You know that."

"You help him make that deal?"

"I will."

"Why? The man shot at you."

"He was being played, just like I was. I don't believe Cubby is a killer."

"He was at one time, over there in Vietnam. That's why he ran off. That ain't why I'm scared."

"Okay, what?"

She took another drag on the cigar. "This family," she said, "has 'em a long history. They don't hold with folks who make mistakes or don't do their job. They git 'em for that, and if it's family, they really git 'em. You understand what I'm sayin'?"

"Cubby is family, as much as you're family. So Hester and Callendar will get him for talking to me?"

"Damn right they will. His job was to help Callendar run you off. Now they all in trouble, and they be lookin' for someone to blame, 'cause none of them ever make mistakes."

Somewhere out in the hall, a large clock began to chime the hour.

"If Callendar fails to run me off, one way or another, will Hester go after him?"

She smiled in the candlelight. It was not a pretty sight. "You'd better git on now," she said, "before the major comes back."

"Is he part of this, Patience?"

"Hell no," she snorted, "but he come back, find me talkin' to a Union spy or a Pinkerton, right here in the house? We both dead."

"He was a real major at one time?"

"Yeah, he was. Came back from Vietnam, he wasn't right in the head anymore. Question was, did he go over there that way-but, yeah, he was in the army. His boy, Callendar, too. Something he did there was the reason the major threw him out."