What Lies Behind Closed Doors
Stories similar to this that you might like too.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Lucy asked, peering through the window. The room was dark and there didn’t appear to be a bed or any other furniture inside. “I don’t see anything.” She turned to me with her hands on her hips.
I shrugged my shoulders as if I knew nothing about it either. It was possible that he’d been in an accident and died while out riding. But then again, how could we have missed his body? He would’ve had to die at least two weeks ago for his remains to be so well preserved.
That meant he hadn’t died recently, but more than likely not long before we found him. We couldn’t assume it was a death by natural causes until we were absolutely certain. And since no one appeared to have seen him dead, that left us with murder—which would mean that whoever killed him also kept the body hidden away from everyone else.
If we assumed that he’d been murdered, then that made us both suspects.
“The only way to find out what happened is to go inside,” I said. “And since we’re already here, let’s look around.”
Lucy opened the door and stepped into the room. I followed behind her. There was just enough light coming from the hall windows to make out the interior of the room. A man lay sprawled across a large bed covered with white sheets.
His chest rose and fell rhythmically, which told me he still lived. It looked like someone had dressed him in some sort of black suit. One leg was bent at the knee and crossed over the other, while the other leg stretched straight out.
His arms were folded across his stomach and his fingers rested against his lips. What little hair remained on his head was neatly combed back. On top of the bureau near the footboard of the bed sat several books. The floor was clean except for a few scattered coins, a silver spoon, and a broken glass. All of these things seemed odd considering that we were talking about a corpse.
We moved closer to examine the body. The man wore a plain gray shirt with a pair of trousers that must have belonged to another person. They weren’t dirty, but they weren’t spotless either. There was no sign of blood anywhere on them.
Was that why the clothes were still in such good condition? Maybe they’d been taken off after the man’s death and cleaned before being put away. Or maybe he was wearing something different when he died. As much as I hated to admit it, the mystery surrounding the circumstances of his death only deepened our suspicion that foul play might have been involved.
There was no doubt in my mind now that we should call the sheriff and tell him everything. Even though it was early morning, he probably wouldn’t mind getting called out of bed to come to take a look at the body.
Since neither of us had a cell phone, we walked down to the front porch where we picked up the landline telephone. We dialed the number and waited patiently as the line rang. After several rings, the answering machine kicked on. “You’ve reached the house of Mr. Pendergast. Please leave your message at the sound of the tone…” The recording continued to loop until we hung up.
“He isn’t here,” Lucy said quietly. “But we can try calling the office later to see if he has time to talk to us.”
It wasn’t worth bothering him unnecessarily. Once we talked to the sheriff, we’d know exactly who we needed to contact. Still, I felt a twinge of disappointment at having failed to reach anyone at the ranch. No one answered the phone; no one came to the door.
Not even a servant or cook came running to answer our questions. When we tried ringing the doorbell, a muffled voice shouted, “Don’t bother!”
As soon as we got back to town, I went immediately to the hotel and booked rooms for Lucy and myself. Then I drove to the jailhouse where I explained what had happened and described the body. Sheriff Wilcox listened intently without interrupting. When I finished, he nodded thoughtfully.
“This doesn’t add up,” he said. “Why would a wealthy rancher disappear in the middle of the day and end up dead in his own bedroom? Something definitely smells fishy. Do you think the ranch hand did it?”
“No, he certainly didn’t seem capable of murdering someone,” I replied. “If we’re right about his disappearance being connected to this crime, then there’s a chance he may know who the murderer is.”
“That makes sense. But even if he does, we won’t get very far in interrogating him. You’ll have to go alone and ask him yourself.”
“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” I assured him.
Wilcox rubbed his chin and studied me. He was older than I expected, not quite fifty years old, with an angular face and bushy eyebrows. Most people considered him handsome. That made me wonder how many women he’d known during his life.
“I don’t want to be too forward, Miss Burke, but could I offer you a ride home today? If you need help investigating the crime scene, I’ll drive you to the ranch tonight.”
“Of course, I appreciate that,” I said. “Do you want me to meet you here this evening?”
“Actually, I’m planning on taking a trip to the ranch to question the ranch hand. Why don’t you come along with me? I promise, there will be plenty of opportunities to investigate. And besides, I’m curious to hear what you found out.”
“All right,” I agreed. “What time shall we meet?”
“Whenever works best for you. Where are you staying?”
“In the same hotel as Lucy,” I told him. “Can you drop by the hotel around six o’clock? If that’s inconvenient, just give me a call.”
“Sounds good.”
When we stepped outside into the hot afternoon sun, I noticed that the street seemed unusually busy. A steady stream of horse-drawn wagons passed us by while a group of men carrying guns rode toward the city center. It took me a moment to realize what was going on: they were coming from the ranch. Was that why Wilcox hadn’t bothered to bring his car to work?
We climbed into Wilcox’s police cruiser and sped off toward the ranch. As we pulled onto the gravel road leading to the ranch house, I saw a man standing on the front porch talking to two uniformed officers.
One was Wilcox himself, and the other was another deputy. They stood side by side and spoke casually. In contrast, when Wilcox saw us approaching, he turned abruptly away and started walking quickly down the steps.
Lucy leaned over and whispered, “Is that Mr. Pendergast?”
“Yes, that looks like him.”
The man turned and looked straight at us. His eyes widened slightly before he broke into a broad smile. “Miss Burke! I didn’t expect you to show up so soon. What brings you here?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. But we found a dead man in the ranch house—”
Pendergast stopped short and stared at me. For some reason, his expression reminded me of a wolf. He held my gaze for a long minute, then said, “Who killed him?”
“You haven’t seen anything suspicious around your property lately?” I asked.
“Not unless you count a few stray cattle wandering through.”
“Did you happen to notice any footprints near the house?”
“A few. Did you find them?”
“Yes, but they weren’t human prints.”
“Was there any sign of a struggle?”
“There might be.”
“Please tell me.”
After a brief pause, Pendergast continued. “Two sets of footprints were left near the bed. The first belonged to the victim, Joseph Harwood. The second set—which you probably noticed yourself—was much smaller and ran across the floor to the door. We believe both sets belong to the killer.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “It seems strange to me that anyone would leave footprints in their own blood.”
“Maybe he wasn’t wearing shoes,” Pendergast offered.
“Perhaps,” I conceded. “But the tracks also led to the kitchen and dining room. So whoever killed him had to step carefully. Unless, of course, a murderer is actually a barefoot person.”
Pendergast frowned. “Why would the killer run around without shoes on?”
“Because he knew he wouldn’t be able to escape,” I said. “He wanted to make sure the murder was discovered as soon as possible.”
“I see,” Pendergast said slowly. “So it appears our murderer has a sense of humor.”
“Or maybe he doesn’t think we can catch him,” I added.
“That remains to be seen.” Pendergast turned back to the sheriff. “Sheriff, did you get a look inside the house? Does it seem like someone was searching for something?”
“No, ma’am. Nothing appeared out of place to us.”
“Any signs of a break in?” I asked.
“None whatsoever. There aren’t even any marks on the window frames or doors where someone might have tried to force entry.”
“Does anyone know who the victim was?” I asked. “I understand he came here recently from New York City.”
“Mr. Harwood is an associate of mine,” Sheriff Wilcox answered. “We’ve been doing business together for years. That’s how we met. Of all things, he decided to buy a cattle ranch!”
“Well, he certainly got a bargain,” I quipped.
“How do you mean?” Wilcox demanded.
“According to the newspaper, he paid only $3 million for the entire ranch.”
Wilcox laughed. “Yeah, well, not everyone can afford to pay millions for land these days. You know how hard it is to sell anything these days.”
“What about the rest of the ranch?” Pendergast asked. “Has anyone else bought property there?”
“Just one other family. Two brothers from Montana named Collins. Their mother owned the ranch until she died last year. Her sons inherited her interest in the ranch. Then they hired me to manage the ranch for them. I don’t know why, since they already had a full-time manager, but the brothers are nice enough people. At least I hope they’re nice enough.”
“They seem friendly enough.”
“Sure. Until they found out I’d been managing their ranch for free. Then they fired me. Now I’m suing them for breach of contract.”
“Interesting.” Pendergast studied Wilcox closely. “Have you ever heard of the Black Swan Society?”
“Of course I have. Everyone knows about them. They’re supposed to be secret fraternal societies that operate throughout the country. Rumor has it that each member owns at least two ranches. One in Texas and another in Montana. And that members of the society have sworn never to allow outsiders onto their properties.”
“And yet you let this stranger wander off with your horse. How does that square with the rules of the Black Swan Society?”
“Now just wait a minute, Sheriff! If you knew about the Black Swan Society, why didn’t you warn me?”
“I guess because I forgot myself, thinking it was just a rumor,” Wilcox admitted. He looked down at his boots. “Anyway, I’ll admit that when I saw Mr. Harwood ride off with my horse, I thought it was strange. But I figured the man must have some sort of emergency. It seemed reasonable to let him go.”
“Why would the man need your horse?” I wondered.
“Probably because he needed to reach the nearest town faster than walking. Which he could have done if he hadn’t ridden through my pasture and scared away my horse.”
“Did you ask Mr. Harwood to stop by your office before riding off?” Pendergast asked.
“Yes, I did. But he refused to come in. Said he couldn’t take the time. I told him we could discuss matters later. Maybe over dinner. But then he rode right past me. I thought he was going after you again.”
“Was there anything unusual about the way he acted toward you?” I asked.
“Not really,” Wilcox answered. “You know, the usual thing. The way he always acts—like a total stranger. Not so much as saying hello to me. Like he’s afraid I’ll recognize him.”
“It seems unlikely,” I said. “The man hasn’t changed a bit. His voice sounds exactly the same. Did you notice whether he wore gloves?”
“Gloves? No, I didn’t.”
“Neither did I. Nor did I note any distinctive clothing.”
“Maybe he’s wearing different clothes now.”
Pendergast nodded. “Very possible. We should assume that Mr. Harwood has disguised himself somehow.”
“So what happened to him once he reached the next town?”
“He went straight into the bank to cash his check. Then he went to the saloon and ordered a whiskey. After that, he walked around town a while and left.”
“Which means he made it to the train station without trouble. So far our trail ends there.”
“Unless we assume that someone followed him on foot.”
Sheriff Wilcox sighed loudly. “That’s a possibility, too. When I stopped him, I noticed something odd: There were no tracks leading back to the ranch. Either he rode alone or someone took off after him on foot.”
“There’s still one more question,” I added. “Where was the body found?”
Wilcox pointed. “Down there. Near the creek. Just beyond where those trees are growing. That’s why the sheriff brought us here. To show us where the body was found.”
We walked across the grassy area and stared down at the rocky ground near the water. A few yards away from the creek lay an overturned rock, its top cracked open like a giant eggshell. Under the rock lay a small skeleton, wrapped in blankets and lying face up.
“Someone placed the blanket over the victim’s head,” Pendergast remarked. “Perhaps to cover up the evidence of violence. Or perhaps simply to conceal the victim’s identity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me see the skull,” Pendergast said. “Can you remove the jawbone and lower teeth?”
After removing the jawbone, Pendergast turned it over carefully. “This is not a Native American Indian.” He examined the bone closely. “Nor is it Caucasian. This person died long ago.”
“But who?” I asked. “Who is buried here?”
“A murder victim. Perhaps a woman.” Pendergast knelt beside the corpse. “Here, I believe the bones may have been disturbed recently. Probably during the burial process. Let me look closer.”
Using thin needle-nose pliers, Pendergast extracted the tiniest fragments of bone, examining them for clues. In the end, he returned everything to the grave. “Whoever put her in here clearly intended to bury her again. It looks as though they only managed to get her feet covered. And they probably had to dig out quite a lot of dirt first.”
“Could this be another missing girl?” I wondered aloud. “Like the ones the Black Swan Society keeps track of?”
“Or someone else entirely,” Pendergast agreed. “But whoever she is, her remains are very well concealed. Someone buried her here with great care. But how did she die?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say a gunshot wound,” I mused. “Either suicide or murder.”
“And yet,” Pendergast added, “the bullet wasn’t fired from close range.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because the gunpowder residue on the barrel would have burned away the hair and skin of the victim’s hand. Yet the powder marks are all gone. She died many years before this weapon was ever fired. More likely she died at some distance. Possibly even miles away. If we knew which direction the bullet came from, we might be able to find her killer.”
I looked up at Pendergast. “Do you think anyone knows the answer?”
Pendergast shrugged. “Hard to say. One thing is certain: Whoever killed the victim must have known that the body would eventually wash ashore.”
***
Pendergast led the way back to the wagon and helped Sheriff Wilcox load the coffin onto it. As soon as the wagon rolled forward, we set off along the road back to the ranch house.
Wilcox drove slowly, staring ahead through the dusty windshield, but neither of us spoke until we reached the gate and the wagons started rolling inside. The sheriff got out of his seat. “Mr. Pendergast, thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for bringing us here.”
“You’re welcome. You’ll want to stay indoors tonight. We’ve alerted everyone to be extra vigilant. We won’t let anything happen to you.”
“That will be fine.”
Sheriff Wilcox nodded. “Now I’m going home. Will you join me for dinner? I could use your expert opinion on a problem.”
“Of course,” Pendergast replied.
The sheriff glanced at me. “As usual, Miss Marlowe, I wish you hadn’t come today.”
I smiled. “It was my pleasure.”
“Not really.” With that, Wilcox climbed into the wagon and headed toward town. Pendergast and I waited by the gate for the last wagon to roll past before following it into the yard.
“So what do you make of it?” I asked as we entered the front door of the ranch house. “Any ideas?”
“No,” Pendergast answered. “At least none I can share.” He paused. “By the way, Mr. Wilcox has already contacted me about the case of the murdered cowboys.”
“He called while we were on our way here. What happened?”
“Two men went out riding yesterday afternoon. They never returned. Now one man’s brother claims the two men left their horses unattended and rode off alone. They didn’t return when the sun began setting. So Wilcox thinks the two men may have been attacked and shot.”
“Shots!” I exclaimed. “Someone actually shot the cowboys?”
“Yes, although no one saw the killers. We don’t know where these bullets came from either. That makes tracking down the shooters more difficult than it otherwise would be.”
We walked to the stairs leading upstairs. “Wilcox says he wants me to help him investigate the murders.”
Pendergast stopped abruptly. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Miss Marlowe, there are three things wrong with this investigation. First, it is being conducted in a small community like a frontier outpost. Small towns tend not to cooperate with outsiders. Second, we still don’t know who killed the cowboys.
Third, the local law doesn’t seem to take the deaths seriously enough to devote much time or resources to the investigation.”
“Then why do you think you should assist Wilcox?”
“First, because I believe it important to learn how people react under pressure. This is something you lack experience with, but I hope you will gain an understanding of. And second, because this crime is so unusual—so far outside the norm that most people simply dismiss it as another senseless killing.
It’s only natural to wonder if other such crimes exist elsewhere in America. And since I am uniquely qualified to discover them, I feel compelled to lend a hand.”
I took a deep breath. “All right, then. But I need to ask you again: Do you mind staying here tonight?”
“Certainly not. I will sleep in my room upstairs.”
Pendergast followed me up the stairs, and I opened the door to the attic bedroom. The window overlooked the main street below. I switched on the lamp sitting beside the bed and turned to face him.
“If you need anything, call for me,” I said. “But please be careful.”
“I always am.”
With that, Pendergast closed the door behind him and disappeared from sight. I sat down on the bed and stared out at the night sky. Why had Pendergast agreed to stay with us? For all his expertise in forensics, he seemed to lack the ability to read people.
Was he truly worried about the dangers facing me here? Or was he just concerned for me personally? In either case, I decided not to press the issue. I needed to give myself some time to adjust to his presence around me.
The End