of the Berkshires put together. Was there an alarm system I didn’t know about? Something that would start wailing or—worse—click in silently as soon I opened the door? The local cops didn’t worry me. They hadn’t even sealed the front door, and the yellow crime scene tape was easy enough to duck under. But Charles was big city. He might be wired into the state. My hand hesitated, holding the key. I was already halfway to the porch. Could I expect sirens?
Charles had expected me yesterday morning, too. Whatever alarm system he’d installed hadn’t been activated then. After all, someone else had gotten inside his house, as well.
I unlocked the door and waited. No electronic wail. No sound on the street, either, though what the response rate would be in our sleepy burg was anyone’s guess. With a shrug, I made my way in. To the left was Charles’ open-space living and work room. I remembered the pooling of blood, and turned away. In front of me, a flight of stairs led to the second floor. To the right was a kitchen-dining area done in the height of ’50s fashion, a stark contrast to the ultra-modern work area. Not a cook then. I wondered briefly how he’d found our meager take-out facilities, took a deep breath, headed up the stairs.
To the right, over the kitchen, I found two bedrooms. One held dusty furniture and a load of boxes, probably not touched since moving day. In the other, a tousled blue comforter and two misshapen pillows reminded me of the gentle man who had once slept here. Charles wasn’t my type, never had been. But nobody deserves to be left to die, bloody. Not in his own house. I let myself pause for a moment, remembering Charles, and then moved on. Past the master bath, I hit gold. Two more rooms combined into one made a home office fit for a rising entrepreneur. Unlike the spare downstairs, this one had file cabinets. A table top of white and silver, screens big enough for a movie theater with a speaker system to match, faced another picture window, a smaller version of the one downstairs. The moonlight was way too weak to see the view, though I could guess which mountain lay outside. Inside, the vista was stunning.
Not being a complete yokel, I knew enough not to handle the keyboard. A small brush and—yes—the screen came alive. Using a pencil I hit “return,” eager to move beyond the screensaver. I was rewarded with a corporate logo—a glowing green brain—and a request for a password. So he didn’t have an automatic logon, not even in his home office. I’d have been more curious, but just then something clicked in. A low whirr from deep down in the house—air conditioner? dehumidifier?—spooked me to step back from the desk, and then I heard it.
A voice, the hint of a voice. Soft as that machine whirring, but coming from somewhere much closer. A whisper. And that was it.
I lowered my flashlight to floor level and began to crawl, peeking under the table. Under the baseboard heating. The place was ridiculously clean, especially for a bachelor. With this much equipment, maybe that was necessary. Or maybe someone had gotten here before me.
That thought woke me up to why I was really here. Motive—or some threatening letters—would have been great. But Lily’s papers, they were key. Using that same pencil, I hooked the desk drawers open. I was betting on the right hand side, where we keep our personal stuff. If I was wrong, I’d hit the file cabinets. The man was neat, too neat for my taste, but I relaxed a bit. Anyone who would alphabetize his warranties might actually have done the kind of complete clean up I was witnessing. It wasn’t just warranties, either. After a folder on his refrigerator—a Kenmore—I found it:
Tetris/Papers.
But just then the whirring stopped. In its place, a deep silence that spooked me more. And so I stood up and brushed some nonexistent dust from my knees, just to make myself feel better. I tucked the folder inside my jacket and was making
Charles had expected me yesterday morning, too. Whatever alarm system he’d installed hadn’t been activated then. After all, someone else had gotten inside his house, as well.
I unlocked the door and waited. No electronic wail. No sound on the street, either, though what the response rate would be in our sleepy burg was anyone’s guess. With a shrug, I made my way in. To the left was Charles’ open-space living and work room. I remembered the pooling of blood, and turned away. In front of me, a flight of stairs led to the second floor. To the right was a kitchen-dining area done in the height of ’50s fashion, a stark contrast to the ultra-modern work area. Not a cook then. I wondered briefly how he’d found our meager take-out facilities, took a deep breath, headed up the stairs.
To the right, over the kitchen, I found two bedrooms. One held dusty furniture and a load of boxes, probably not touched since moving day. In the other, a tousled blue comforter and two misshapen pillows reminded me of the gentle man who had once slept here. Charles wasn’t my type, never had been. But nobody deserves to be left to die, bloody. Not in his own house. I let myself pause for a moment, remembering Charles, and then moved on. Past the master bath, I hit gold. Two more rooms combined into one made a home office fit for a rising entrepreneur. Unlike the spare downstairs, this one had file cabinets. A table top of white and silver, screens big enough for a movie theater with a speaker system to match, faced another picture window, a smaller version of the one downstairs. The moonlight was way too weak to see the view, though I could guess which mountain lay outside. Inside, the vista was stunning.
Not being a complete yokel, I knew enough not to handle the keyboard. A small brush and—yes—the screen came alive. Using a pencil I hit “return,” eager to move beyond the screensaver. I was rewarded with a corporate logo—a glowing green brain—and a request for a password. So he didn’t have an automatic logon, not even in his home office. I’d have been more curious, but just then something clicked in. A low whirr from deep down in the house—air conditioner? dehumidifier?—spooked me to step back from the desk, and then I heard it.
A voice, the hint of a voice. Soft as that machine whirring, but coming from somewhere much closer. A whisper. And that was it.
I lowered my flashlight to floor level and began to crawl, peeking under the table. Under the baseboard heating. The place was ridiculously clean, especially for a bachelor. With this much equipment, maybe that was necessary. Or maybe someone had gotten here before me.
That thought woke me up to why I was really here. Motive—or some threatening letters—would have been great. But Lily’s papers, they were key. Using that same pencil, I hooked the desk drawers open. I was betting on the right hand side, where we keep our personal stuff. If I was wrong, I’d hit the file cabinets. The man was neat, too neat for my taste, but I relaxed a bit. Anyone who would alphabetize his warranties might actually have done the kind of complete clean up I was witnessing. It wasn’t just warranties, either. After a folder on his refrigerator—a Kenmore—I found it:
Tetris/Papers.
But just then the whirring stopped. In its place, a deep silence that spooked me more. And so I stood up and brushed some nonexistent dust from my knees, just to make myself feel better. I tucked the folder inside my jacket and was making
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