The Locked Room Page 4

  “Sheriff, how did you get my phone number?”

  “Oh,” he said as he reached into his other pocket. “I got it off Dave’s cellphone.”

  When he handed it to her, she stared at it. “He had a cellphone?”

  “Everybody has one these days. I took the liberty of turning it off. Well, call if you have any questions. I’ll tell Artie...”

  She couldn’t help but smile as she finished his sentence for him, “I don’t want to get married.”

  He returned her grin, touched the rim of his hat with his index finger, nodded and closed the screen door behind him.

  Still sitting in her father’s favorite chair, she set the phone on the end table next to the house phone. He always used the house phone to call her. She was sure because she recognized the number. How very odd. It took weeks to talk him into letting her have one, and...he still paid the bill even after she left him. In fact, she didn’t even know when the bill was due, not that she could pay it.

  Colette rubbed her tired forehead, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. An imagined picture of her father’s white car flying off the cliff appeared in her mind, so she opened her eyes and shoved the image away. That was something she just wasn’t ready to face yet. Besides, there were other things to consider. What did she know about funeral arrangements? Colette hated being a family of only two, and now more than ever, it would have been nice to have someone helping her make all the decisions. Would she have to choose the casket and...where was her mother? At a time like this, her mother should be the one handling all the details, but no...her mother took off, or died, or whatever.

  Colette buried her head in her hands. She wasn’t even sure she had something to wear. She was about to go see when she heard another knock on the door. “Come in,” she yelled.

  “Hey Other, you’re back!” Artie Steele said. He let the screen door slam, sunk to his knees in front of her and laid his head in her lap. “Do not ever, and I mean ever, leave me again.”

  “Get up, Simpleton.”

  He instantly jerked his head up, causing a lock of bright red hair to fall across his forehead. “Simpleton?”

  “Other?” she shot back.

  “Oh, you mean you want me to stop calling you that.” He got up, ran his fingers through his hair to put the lock back in place, and went to sit on the sofa. “I always thought it was kind of cute.”

  “No you didn’t, you always thought you could get away with it. No more, okay. It is time to put our childish things behind us.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “I’m never growing up. Me and Peter Pan have a thing going, you know.”

  The best way to handle Artie was to change the subject. “Look at you, you lost your freckles.”

  “Makeup.”

  “Really?”

  He chuckled. “No.”

  “How did you know I was home?”

  “Duh, we live just two doors down. I saw your truck and, well, I was ready to beat somebody up if it wasn’t you.”

  “Right,” she sarcastically said. “You heard I was back from your dad.”

  “Oh well, Sheriff Dad did kind of mention something. Is it true you still won’t marry me?”

  “Is it true you asked Emma Rose to marry you?”

  Artie suspiciously looked around to see if anyone else was there. “How long you been home? Ten minutes? Oh I get it; you just couldn’t wait to find out if I was still available. Missed me that much, did you?”

  “I picked Ben up on the way here.”

  Artie got up, walked to the screen door and looked at the house across the street. “He’s home too? I wonder if Emma Rose knows yet.”

  He barely got a cellphone out of his pocket before Colette said, “She’s the one who called your dad. If Emma Rose saw me, she saw Ben too. You know Emma Rose – lightning doesn’t strike as fast as Emma Rose does.”

  “True. Well, I better let you rest.” He turned around just to make sure she could see his famous silly grin. “Don’t cry little girl, I’ll be back.” With that, he opened the screen door and let it slam behind him – just as he always did. Why not? Her dad wasn’t there to yell at him.

  She almost asked if he would bring her a sandwich, but at the last minute she decided against it. She wasn’t hungry enough to start begging. Besides, her father must have left some money somewhere, even if by accident.

  It felt strange being in the house alone, so she turned on the TV, found her favorite music station and listened for a moment. That was better. She picked up her bag and headed upstairs. Her bedroom was at the front of the house, her father’s was in the back and on each side of a middle hallway were the third and fourth bedrooms. One was a guestroom they rarely used, and across the hall was the room she was not allowed to enter. As she always did, she turned to door knob just to see if he left the forbidden room unlocked. He didn’t.

  Colette turned around, leaned against the door and asked, “How can one old man have so many secrets, that he needed to lock everything up? Better yet, how can I sell the place if I can’t show all the rooms? AND why did you paint the house red?”

  She went to her bedroom next. It looked just the way it always did. In fact, it looked better. She was so mad when she decided to leave, she left the room a total disaster and didn’t pack half of what she needed. Even the computer monitor she threw against the wall was gone and all the glass cleaned up.

  She could still hear herself scream, “I HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW!” as she yanked all the cords out and threw the monitor clear across the room. On her way out of town, she laughed at the strength she didn’t know she had.

  She was not laughing now.

  The memory of that horrible day came flooding back and made Colette bow her head and close her eyes once more. She didn’t say she was sorry when he called the next day because she wasn’t. All she wanted was to know what happened to her mother. Why was that so wrong?

  Thinking about his refusal to tell her changed her regret back to anger.

  She put her bag on the bed, sat next to it and folded her hands in her lap. She was tired, but more than that, she was hungry and broke. Even though it was not even close to her regular bed time, there was nothing she could do about that, so she shoved the bag off the bed, curled up and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 3

  THERE WAS JUST ENOUGH daylight left to see where the highway guardrail was broken and it made Steven cringe as he slowed down to get a good look. He maneuvered the remaining curves and then started into town. Main Street looked just as he imagined it would and the hotel was all lit up. He parked, grabbed the suitcase out of the backseat and went in.

  The moment he saw Margo Allen sitting in the lobby, he set his suitcase down and went to give her a big hug. “It is good to see you.”

  “And you,” she answered. “Have you talked to Oliver?”

  “Yes, he’s a few hours behind me.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No, and I’m starved.” He picked his suitcase back up, went to the desk, check in, and got the cardkey to his room.

  “How long will you be staying?” the hotel manager asked.

  “Two days, maybe more,” Steven answered. He put his arm around Margo, walked her into the elevator and then punched the button to the top floor. He dropped his suitcase off in his room and then followed Margo to the suite next door. Unlike his smaller room, the suite had a living room, a kitchenette, a bedroom, and a view of Mt. Lankton and the eastern end of the farm lands. The shadow of the mountain was slowly creeping toward several acres of grape vines.

  “You look wonderful, as always,” he told her, leaving the window and choosing a chair to sit in.

  A small, slender woman in her late fifties, she didn’t look a day over forty, although her light brown hair was beginning to turn gray. She made herself comfortable on the sofa and confessed, “I called the Denver paper and let them know Davet was dead.”

  “Did you? Do you think that was a good idea?”

&n
bsp; “How else will Paige find out? I am hoping papers all over the country will pick up the story.”

  Steven wrinkled his brow. “She might not see it for days, though.”

  “I know, but I have a hunch she’s been in Colorado all this time. If not, then we’ll just have to give up.”

  “I’m not willing to give up no matter how long it takes.”

  Margo nodded. “I feel the same. How are your parents?”

  “Good, very good. Both are in excellent health and happy to have all their children grown and out of the house.”

  “Has Rapid City grown too?” she asked.

  “Not that much, although the tourists still come from all over the world.” On the end table next to him, he spotted the room service menu and picked it up. “What would you like?” he asked Margo.

  “Hot tea would be welcomed.”

  Steven quickly scanned the menu, placed his order, hung up the hotel phone and then paused before he said, “Today is my wedding day.”

  “Oh dear, I am so sorry. Did you tell your wife about Paige?”

  “My wife of about thirty seconds? No, she doesn’t know. I don’t want her to worry. As it is, I left her with enough confusion to make her file divorce papers before I get back.”

  “You should call her.”

  “And tell her what?”

  “That you have arrived safely, at least.”

  “You’re right, I can’t call her, she’ll ask questions I can’t answer, but I should send her a text.”

  “Yes you should.”

  He considered it, checked his messages which were by now numerous and then sent Julianna a text – I have arrived safely. Love you with all my heart. See you soon. Steven immediately turned his phone off and stared at the floor. “Do you think this will end it finally? When I tell Julianna, I’ll like to be able to tell her it is all over with.”

  “I hope so...I truly do.”

  “You saw Colette?”

  “Just that once and I didn’t get a very good look at her.”

  “I’m worried about her,” said Steven. “Maybe we should tell Colette now, or as soon as Oliver gets here.”

  “I’ve considered that, but we might spook her and never find her again. Do you not agree?”

  “I guess I do.” He didn’t sound convinced, even to himself.

  Margo had her phone in her lap when it rang. “Oliver?”

  Oliver huffed, “Speeding ticket, can you believe it?”

  “Oh no, are they hauling you off to jail?”

  “No, but I could tell that cop was not impressed with my New York City driver’s license.”

  “Where are you?” Margo asked.

  “I’m about half way through Glenwood canyon, I think. Is Steven there?”

  “He is, and we can’t wait to see you.”

  “I can’t wait either. I got a room at the hotel.”

  “That’s where we are. Come to room 510 after you check in.”

  “You got it,” Oliver said just before he hung up.

  Steven watched her put the phone back in her lap. “How did you find out Davet died?”

  “He had dementia and it was getting worse every day. I made arrangements for him to live in the retirement community where I live, and when he didn’t show up and wouldn’t answer either of his phones, I called the sheriff.”

  “I see. All the way here, I prayed it was a mistake and he wasn’t dead. I guess he truly is.”

  Margo was quiet for a time, thought of something and giggled. “He painted the house red.”

  “You’re kidding? Red? He really was in trouble mentally.”

  “More so than even I thought.”

  “When is the funeral?”

  “I doubt it has been arranged yet and I feel bad that Colette will have to take care of it by herself.”

  “Maybe there is something we can do to help her through this. I don’t know what, but...” Steven started.

  “Yes, maybe we can think of something in the morning.”

  “What if Colette reads the article?”

  “The press never got wind of the whole story, so I doubt there will be anything in the paper she doesn’t already know.”

  When someone knocked on the door, Steven got up and let the steward push his tray of food into the room. He tipped the man and then closed the door. “I’m starved.”

  “You didn’t fill up on wedding cake?”

  Steven shook his head and poured hot water from the small pitcher into the only teacup. He grabbed the teabag and carried both to Margo. “No time for cake. Only one daily flight to Denver and I almost missed that one.”

  LARRY PHILLIPS HEARD the news of Davet Bouchard’s death in a local tavern late that night. A short man with a round face and blond hair, he was half drunk when he walked across the street to his office building, took the elevator up to the third floor, and opened the door to Phillips, Phillips and Phillips, Attorneys at Law. He had to try twice before he finally located the light switch. Next he went to his office, found the number, cleared his throat and called his client. As soon as she answered, he did his best not to slur his words, “Mrs. Martin, this is Larry Phillips. Davet Bouchard is dead. Do we still have a deal?”

  “Indeed we do. Half of any money you find is yours.”

  “Great. I’ll call when I have more news.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Phillips. You just made my day.”

  Mr. Larry Phillips, of Phillips, Phillips, and Phillips hung up his desk phone and leaned back in his plush swivel chair. He was the only remaining partner of the law firm, therefore half of the money Mary Martin claimed Davet Bouchard had hidden somewhere would be his and his alone. He could already taste his success. Phillips had no reason to doubt her word. How she knew, he didn’t bother to ask. Married with children and deeply in debt, he was about to solve a mystery that had captured half the world’s imagination for years – what happened to all that glorious money?

  He was about to fall asleep in his chair when he realized he needed to go home and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow might just be his lucky day. He made it to the door, forgot to turn off the lights, went downstairs, got in his car, and cautiously drove home. The last thing he needed was another drunk driving charge.

  IT TOOK A LONG TIME, but Mary Martin finally settled the lawsuit against the state and the mental institution that falsely imprisoned her. The very idea that she was insane was ridiculous. She knew exactly what and who she was, even if they did not. They claimed they found her muttering something no one could understand, and aimless wondering on the streets of Gunnison, Colorado. She was bruised, bloodied, and wearing nothing but a see-through nightgown. She didn’t remember what happened to her, not at first anyway. Besides, that wasn’t the worst of it. A few months later, one of the inmates attacked her, and the bungling state doctor who repaired her face did such a horrible job she hardly recognized herself. Her nose was too small, her lips were too thick and there was still a large lump where the inmate broke her jaw.

  On the other hand, she doubted anyone else could recognize her either.

  Mary Martin was not her real name. It was a name that simply popped into her head when the authorities insisted she tell them who she was. It stuck, and when the institution set her free fifteen years later, they supplied her with fraudulent identification papers. That was the only thing they did that she was grateful for and she put it to good use when she got out.

  Her real name was Paige Fowler.

  Seated in a small alcove that the home builder called a breakfast nook, Paige savored the one and only nightly drink she allowed herself and reached for the three newspapers she had not yet taken time to read. Moving from an apartment to a house took days and far more energy than she expected. Finally, everything was put away and it was time to rest and enjoy her new home.

  That’s when Larry Phillips called to give her the good news.

  Even winning the lawsuit hadn’t brought her so much joy. She set her drink down, stood up a
nd began to pace between the living room and the dining room. “Where, you sneaky old man,” she muttered, “did you hide the money?” There were a billion places he could have hidden it, especially after all this time, but Davet Bouchard was a predictable man. She was certain he kept it safely hidden away, no doubt counting it often, and then stuffing it back inside one of the walls of his house.

  It took months searching for him on the internet and when she finally found him, she was not surprised he lived in a little town in the mountains. It was such an out-of-the-way place that it was exactly the kind of town she would have chosen, if she ever needed to hide. In the beginning, it was not just the money. It was Davet’s fault her husband was arrested for embezzlement in the first place. Indeed, all of it was Davet Bouchard’s fault and she could not, and would not, ever forgive him for it.

  Mace Fowler was the most handsome man she had ever seen and Paige knew she would never love another. The couple were on their way up, both in money and society before Davet spoiled everything and made off with the money. She suffered the police interrogations, three separate house searches, the long stifling trial, and then the death of her husband. The money was hers. She earned it, she wanted it – and she was determined to have it.

  Now Davet was dead too and it served him right.

  Waiting, especially for a phone call, was something she was not very good at, and this wait would be the most excruciating of all. Yet, there was nothing she could do short of going there herself. It was tempting and living just a few hundred miles away, she could probably get there in a little over three and a half hours. Nevertheless, such things were best left in the hands of her lawyer.

  Paige went to the kitchen, poured herself a shot and tossed it down. She set the shot glass on the counter, went to her bedroom and took off the silk robe that matched her light green nightgown. She laid the robe over the back of a chair, climbed into bed and began the thriller novel she’d been wanting to read for days.