Goodfellowe House Read online

  “Come here,” Sutton yelled. “You can’t get away.”

  He was back on his feet and coming after me. I took off again, but my feet slipped wildly and I fell. I got up and tried again. But he was right behind me and got a handful of my coat. I squirmed out of it. I was almost free, when he slipped. His feet went out from under him and he landed hard, bringing me down, too.

  I wrenched my arm free. Then it came, a sound one never forgets, the dull explosive crack of breaking ice.

  He lay flat on his stomach, staring at the fissure beneath us. Then he looked at me. We both knew what was going to happen. In that second, I rolled away, the ice broke and he fell through. I gaped, shocked. There was nothing there. Nothing but black water. Was he really gone? Was I safe?

  Then he shot up, flailing, gasping and spitting water.

  “Help me,” he sputtered. “Please.”

  Frozen with fear, I hesitated.

  “Please!”

  I admit it. My first instinct was to just do nothing. To let nature take its course. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. For every reason, from the practical to the humane, I had to save him. My coat was lying half on, half off the ice. I took hold of the sleeves and flung the bottom of the coat toward him.

  “Grab hold of it!”

  I anchored the toes of my shoes in the ice as best I could, but that was less than a little and he was heavier than a boulder. For a few seconds it was a toss-up as to whether he’d pull himself out or pull me in. Kicking his feet as though swimming, he managed to get his elbows on the ice. For a moment his upper torso was up, over the edge. Then he slipped back, pulling the coat with him and yanking it out of my hand. I thought he was a goner, but he came up again, spitting water.

  I took off my belt and tossed him the buckle end. But the belt was too short to reach him, so I inched forward and threw it again. He was able to grab hold of it and pull. But this time I couldn’t anchor myself. Instead of pulling himself out, he was dragging me forward.

  There was no way I could save him.

  And he knew it.

  The whites of his eyes were gone. From lid to lid, they were bottomless black pits, the eyes of the damned and the doomed.

  “Esther,” I whispered. “Tell me about Esther.”

  That lethal grin came back. “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “C’mon man, you’re gonna die.”

  He pulled on the belt again.

  I tried to dig my toes in, but slipped forward. “Tell me what you did with her.”

  “Never.” His voice was ragged, his face bluish white. His gaze went over my face as if searching for an explanation and he shook his head. “I just never thought,” he whispered, “that it would be you…”

  Then he gave me a ghost of that deadly smile, let go and dropped under. One minute he was there; the next he was gone.

  And the secret of Esther’s fate was gone with him.

  Chapter 55

  The wide beam of a flashlight shot across the ice, moved up my body and hit me full in the face.

  “POLICE! Stay where you are.”

  Someone in the neighborhood had heard the shots and called the cops. They didn’t let me go with Beth to the hospital, especially not after the tally was taken: one dead cop, one dead security chief and a gunshot victim who was rapidly going into shock.

  Soon, I was back at the Harlem station house, facing interrogation. They did let me change into dry clothes: a prisoner’s uniform. I never thought I’d be glad to don those particular glad rags, but they were more than acceptable that night. The uniform was dry and warm, something that couldn’t be said of my clothes.

  But there the feeling of warmth ended.

  I had a lot of explaining to do.

  With all those pale faces staring at me, I knew I couldn’t go it alone and I was suddenly tired of being strong all on my own. I asked to make a phone call.

  Sam answered on the first ring.

  Those were a long two hours we spent at the station. If it weren’t for Sam, and input from Blackie, they wouldn’t have allowed me to go home. Sam brought me to my door.

  “You need me to stay, Lanie?”

  I nearly said no, but caught myself.

  He set off to run a bath of hot water. I went to my bedroom and undressed, dropping the clothes in a heap on the floor. I took a good look at myself in the mirror and grimaced at the sight. My forehead and cheeks were scratched and bandaged. My jaw was bruised and swollen. There was a knock at the door. I slipped into my bathrobe.

  “Come in.”

  Sam entered. “Your bath’s ready.”

  We were both aware of my nudity under the bathrobe. I put a hand up to cover my battered face. He reached out and took it away. Lacing his fingers with mine, he led me down the hall to the bathroom. He’d lit candles and set them on the floor around the tub. The light was soft and warm. He gave me a kiss, gentle and protective. “I’ll be downstairs,” he said, then went out and closed the door.

  I slipped out of my robe and eased down into the water. It felt good. I leaned back, closed my eyes and tried to expunge all thoughts of the struggle on the ice. But I couldn’t forget Sutton’s dark eyes, windows into a soul condemned, just before he let go of my hand.

  I shuddered. The water’s warmth—welcome as it was—couldn’t lessen my inner chill and failed to ease my sense of guilt.

  What could I say to Ruth? That I now knew why Esther had disappeared, but didn’t know what had been done to her or where she was? I felt deeply saddened and couldn’t relax, so I reached for my towel and got out.

  Sam put me to bed. He tucked me in as though I were a child. He started to leave, but I asked him to hold me. He stretched out next to me and wrapped his arms around me.

  “You’ve got to get some sleep,” he whispered.

  “I can’t. I keep seeing Sutton’s face right before he went under.”

  “First time you’ve seen a man die?”

  I nodded. “It was horrible, but…” I rubbed my forehead, “that’s not all of it. I failed. I didn’t find out where Esther is. Ruth and her mother still don’t have her back. I wanted to do that for them, Sam.”

  He drew a deep breath. “Lanie, you tried—”

  “That’s not good enough. I went in like a bull in a china shop. Now’s everything’s broken.”

  He was thoughtful. “You know … from everything you’ve told me, the answer’s there, among those pieces.”

  “If it is, I can’t see it. I’ve wracked my brains for something, anything. I went over my notes. Came up with the Powell angle, but…” I sighed.

  “You did well, real well. Now, get some rest.”

  I nodded and closed my eyes. He started to get up.

  “Don’t go,” I whispered.

  “Are you sure?”

  I knew I could trust him. “Yes, very sure.”

  That was not the night for discovering each other. We fell into an exhausted sleep, but not for long. I woke up in the dark. Sam, still fully clothed, was sleeping with his arm flung across my waist. I listened to his regular breathing. It was nice to have him there. I hadn’t let any other man get this close—emotionally or physically—since Hamp died. It was nowhere near as frightening as I’d thought it would be. Instead of feeling threatened, I felt protected. I felt Sam’s goodness and strength and warmth. I wanted to reach out and wake him, to touch him and get even closer, but one thought stopped me.

  One worry I couldn’t put aside.

  Easing out from under his arm and the blanket, I got out of bed and threw on my robe. Sam slept on. I blew him a kiss and went out, softly closing the door behind me.

  Downstairs, in the living room, I took out my notes and sat down to study them. Twenty minutes later, I sensed another presence and looked up. Sam stood in the doorway.

  “Lanie, you should be sleeping.”

  “I’ve found something.”

  He sat down next to me and we put our heads together. He’d been right. The answer
had been in front of me all the time. It was right there, in the notes from Bellamy’s interview.

  “He might’ve been one of the ones who sat across from us and talked about what a wonderful person she was … all the time knowing he was the sick fuck who took her, and maybe even still had her, buried in his basement...”

  We called the Harlem station house and left a message for Blackie.

  “There’s nothing more we can do now,” Sam said. He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly three. Try to get some sleep.”

  I didn’t think I could, but I must’ve. Next thing I knew, the telephone was ringing and Sam was gently nudging me. I’d fallen asleep, curled up next to him on the sofa. He handed me the phone.

  Blackie listened intently. After a short exchange, we hung up. I told Sam: “Time to get going.”

  I put on work clothes—an old pair of pants, a large man’s shirt—and grabbed some heavy gloves. Then we set out for Bayside—Bellamy’s place.

  Blackie and two patrolmen were already there. He’d just ordered his men to go to work on the front door. One officer stepped forward with an axe. Sam raised his hand.

  “Whoa. You don’t have to destroy it. Let me have a go at it.”

  “Be my guest,” Blackie said.

  Sam pulled out a small set of tools, selected one—a thin metal rod-like tool—and inserted it into the keyhole. A few sensitive twists to the left and right and the door popped open.

  “I didn’t know you could do that,” I said.

  “Where’d you learn it?” Blackie wanted to know.

  “Just one of my many talents,” Sam said. He pushed the door open and made a sweeping gesture toward the inside. “Shall we?”

  We all trooped inside.

  “You’re thinking the basement?” Blackie asked and I nodded.

  We found her buried behind a wall. Her body was wedged into a narrow space between the stone foundation wall and a newer brick one. He had wrapped her in red carpet and propped her up in a standing position.

  “Bring her out,” Blackie said. “But be gentle about it.”

  The men used pick axes to remove more of the wall encasing her, and then slowly, painstakingly, set her free. They laid her on the ground and unwrapped her, then stepped back, struck with surprise, horror and dismay.

  “God, she’s like a mummy,” said one. “Like one of them people they talk about finding in an Egyptian tomb or something.”

  Her face was sunken, the skin stretched over her skull, but her features were still recognizable. One could see the rippling scar. The corner of a dark and rotted cloth protruded from her mouth. Her killer had bound her wrists with an electrical cord. There were no signs of apparent injury.

  “I wonder what killed her,” said the second patrolman.

  Blackie knelt beside her. With infinite care, he gave the cloth a little tug. It didn’t come out. “It’s wedged fast.”

  He reached for it again, but then stopped. “It’s better if the coroner does it. I’m guessing he’ll say she choked to death. That the guy stuffed this rag down her throat to keep her quiet and stuffed it too far.”

  “This wasn’t an accident,” I said. “From what Sutton told me, I’d say it was planned from the beginning.”

  “But you said Bellamy wasn’t in on it at first. That he came later.”

  “Maybe they moved her body here later. Maybe agreeing to keep her was Bellamy’s way of proving that he’d keep his mouth shut.”

  “Or of making sure Sutton didn’t betray him,” Sam said.

  “Either way …” Bellamy said. “It would’ve been kinder if they’d just put a bullet in her head. Dying like this, and in the dark,” he shook his head. “It must’ve felt like forever.”

  Chapter 56

  Later that morning found me knocking on Mrs. Goodfellowe’s door.

  Roland shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in. Miss Katherine says she don’t want to see you no more.”

  “Well, she’s going to have to. She’s got bad news coming and it’s better if it comes from me.”

  His forehead creased with deep worry lines. “What bad news?”

  “Roland! Who’s that at the door?”

  Katherine Goodfellowe’s querulous voice rang out from the living room. The sliding French doors to the room were slightly parted.

  I slipped past Roland, left him in the entryway.

  Mrs. Goodfellowe sat in her wheelchair by the fireplace.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  She used her good hand to back her chair away from me. Despite her outer show of imperiousness, she was good and scared. She had reason to be.

  “Roland!” she cried out.

  He came to the doorway.

  “You don’t want him to hear what I have to say,” I said.

  Her eyes flicked from me to him, her fear battling her pride. Finally, she nicked her head at him. “You can go.”

  Her gaze followed him. As soon as he was gone and the parlor doors were slid shut, she turned on me. “You’re on thin ice.”

  I thought of the evening before. “Ma’am, you have no idea.”

  “What do you want?”

  How would she take the news?

  “We’ve found her,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Esther.”

  A moment passed. A heartbeat. Her voice was tight as she asked, “Where was she?”

  “In a most obvious place.”

  Her eyes searched mine. “You’re sure it’s her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s?”

  “Dead, Mrs. Goodfellowe. Been dead, for a long time.”

  The only sound was of the flames crackling in the fireplace.

  “I’ve always known,” she said. “I just hoped…” She blinked back a tear. “If the family will let me, then I’d like to help make the arrangements.” She paused. “Do they know what happened? Why or who?”

  “Why? No, no, they don’t. But it’s a good question, don’t you think?” I studied her. “A very good one.”

  Waxen mask or not, her eyes were a dead giveaway. They were dark with fear. Using her good hand, she half turned her wheelchair away.

  I gripped the arms, swung her back and made her look me in the eye. “Bellamy’s dead, Mrs. Goodfellowe. I shot him.”

  “You what—?”

  “Sutton shot Beth and now he’s on ice, too. Literally. The whole rotten scheme’s fallen apart. Do you understand? It’s been shot to smithereens.”

  She drew herself up. Her heavy-lidded eyes grew narrow and her lips pressed into a tense pink line.

  “Get your filthy hands off me. And get out.”

  Cold anger chilled my spine. This lady wasn’t getting the message. She needed me to drive it home.

  “You’d better stop thinking about my hands and start worrying about my lips, ‘cause they’re about to spread the word––about you and your husband and how he killed his best friend ‘cause he needed a corpse to hide behind.”

  “No—”

  “Your man Sutton helped him do it and then kidnapped Esther. He did it right before the heist to make it look as though she was in on it. Then Bellamy and Ritchie entered the scene. They weren’t as clumsy as the papers made them out to be. They actually figured it out. Sutton offered a payoff and Bellamy went for it, but Ritchie didn’t, so Bellamy nailed him.”

  “I don’t—”

  “And you were the puppet mistress, pulling all the strings.”

  The clock ticked on the mantelpiece. The flames in the fireplace hissed and spit.

  “You’re a fool,” she said.

  “Yes,” I sighed, straightening up. “I guess I am—because I didn’t want to suspect you. Not for your sake, but for Esther’s. Her family trusted you. They believed in you and, for their sake, I wanted to believe, too. Even when you told me straight to my face that Esther was dead—”

  “I never told you that.”

  “But you did. You said it
, sitting right here, trying to convince me of how much Esther meant to you. ‘Esther was the same age as my daughter when she died.’ Those were your exact words.”

  “I was talking about my daughter.”

  “That’s what I told myself, too. But you weren’t. At best, it was what Freud would call a ‘slip of the tongue.’ At worst, it was arrogance talking. You knew that Esther was dead, not just disappeared. Now, I want to know why. Why did you do it?”

  She was silent. On previous visits, the room had felt warm, even suffocating. Right then, it felt frigid. And I sensed currents, currents swirling around me every bit as dark, deep and as icy as the river.

  Mrs. Goodfellowe assessed me. Whatever she saw she decided she could handle. Her eyes were cold, as cold as a mama crocodile studying its young. They showed no remorse, none.

  “Why not tell you? You can’t do anything. You never could.” Her lips twisted with contempt. “Why?” Her gaze moved over the grand room, and returned to me. “Isn’t it obvious? It takes money to maintain all this, to uphold an image. I didn’t have it.”

  “But your husband—”

  “My first husband spent as much as he earned. I used a good part of my inheritance just to keep up appearances. And then I went and married Eric. When I found out what kind of man he was, I realized what a fool I’d been. I was always weak for scoundrels, men who didn’t think the law applied to them. I should’ve known better.”

  She was thoughtful, nostalgic but bitter. “When Mr. Sutton told me what sort of man I’d married, I decided to make the most of it. Eric had married me for my money. Soon he’d learn that I didn’t have any. I decided to use him before he could leave me. We’d become partners in a way he’d never foreseen.”

  “So the heist was your idea.”

  “Mine and mine alone.”

  “Sutton tried to say it was his.”

  She smiled wistfully. “I liked him. If I’d been younger …” Her smile faltered. “He was trying to protect me. But the idea was mine. Sutton and I forced Eric to go along. If he refused, we said we’d turn him in. He told me he didn’t believe me. That there was no way I’d face that embarrassment. I told him he was right. If I couldn’t turn him in, then I’d kill him—or have him killed. Now, that he believed.”