"But the killer found out? Perhaps we should call the other person X?"

I snorted. "OK, we can call the person X. So Frankie repacks the stuff into a few cardboard boxes and takes the loot to Adamstown, where he makes what seemed like a mint to him. He still has merch left over, and he knows there are fourteen more boxes down here and all these figures. So he plans to come back for the grand haul with Red."

"But X gets wise to him... I'm so liking this detective talk."

"Yeah, OK, X gets wise. X is no slouch. X figures out Frankie is stealing the private stash and gets very angry. X checks around down here." I pointed to the floor. "See here are X's footprints. Sensible shoes, about a men's size 7 or 8, I'd say."

"So X waits for Frankie in the crypt the day before the next flea market and when Frankie goes to open the pa.s.sage, X shoots?" said Kathryn.

"Right, but misses with the first shot. Frankie spins around and pushes Red out of the way and from the crypt X shoots again and hits Frankie. And then X just melts back into the earth, undiscovered. We all heard the rumble of the pa.s.sage closing." I considered for a moment. "Probably surprised X that Red was there. Had he not been, X probably would have followed Frankie to be sure he was dead."

"It's so cold-blooded when it's about one person killing another," said Kathryn.

I nodded. "Stay here a minute." I stepped back from the boxes and gently walked back to the door. I got down low and held my flashlight so the beam swept over the floor surface at a low angle. There were many footprints. I could see Frankie's sneakers and X's sensible shoes. I could see ours and at least two others.

I scanned the whole room again. I said, "We're in a bas.e.m.e.nt. So..."

We both said, "It's the Majestic!" in unison. We were below the old theatre that now shows art movies and hosts the community playhouse.

"How could dozens of volunteers not know this studio is down here? After all, there are windows to the outside," said Kathryn.

I looked up at the windows and then glanced at my watch. It was 7 a.m. but the windows were still black. "Maybe they're covered up. And... I guess we could be in the back of the building, on the side they just use for storage. Ya know, the Carbondales' book mentioned that there was a speakeasy in the bas.e.m.e.nt of one of the town theaters. That could explain the tunnel here. Somebody could easily roll a keg or a cartload of bottles down that ramp."

I flashed on the footprints again, then followed them past the wall of shelves toward the two narrow doors. As I walked past the large clay vats I noticed a whiff of something that made me hesitate.

It was then that we heard the voice.

Chapter 17.

Kathryn and I froze. Human sounds were coming from behind one of the narrow doors. I reached in my holster, drew out my Beretta, and clicked the safety off. I waved Kathryn behind me. She slipped silently back behind the vats.

I moved closer to the door. It had a pull handle and it was fastened shut with a thick old barrel bolt.

"Who's in there?" I called, but I already knew the answer.

"Maggie?" croaked a dry voice. "It's me."

I slid the bolt over and pulled the door open. Samson Henshaw tipped into the room. He'd been sitting in the door frame at the top of a steep staircase, leaning against the door. He blinked in the light, shading his eyes with a shaky hand. He had a two-days' growth of beard and he stank.

When his eyes finally adjusted, he saw Kathryn and flinched back. "Oh, it's you," he said, recognizing her. He looked around the room like he'd never seen it before. "Do you have any water?" he rasped.

Kathryn went to the old sink on the side wall and twisted the handle.

The pipe gurgled and groaned and suddenly a gush of rusty water flowed out. Samson pulled himself up and dove for it.

"Wait for the rust to clear," Kathryn cautioned, and in seconds it did. I didn't mention to Samson the probability of lead pipes, because the fact that he'd gone without food or water for two days was the priority. He drank and drank until his stomach was distended.

"How'd you find me?" he finally croaked.

"More to the point, how the h.e.l.l did you get in here?"

"I don't know. No... wait, yes I do. Oh G.o.d I really stink. I'm sorry."

"What happened?" I asked in an even voice that calmed him.

He went on slowly, breathing deeply between every few words, "Right, well, I was waiting outside Gabe's and I saw Suzanne go in. I'm sure it was her, because you know, I told you, I rang Suzanne's phone and I could hear it ringing If I Had A Hammer as she went into the yard. So I called you. Geez, it seems like that was years ago."

"What happened then?"

"In just a few minutes, maybe four or five, I could hear Buster barking. She came out, so I rang the phone again. You know, just to be sure it wasn't a fluke coincidence. It rang again. Same song. This time Suzanne turned her phone off, but I followed her. She had a flashlight, so it was easy to see her from pretty far away."

Samson stopped to get another drink, then splashed the water over his face. "She went fast. I worked hard to keep up, but I didn't want her to see me yet."

If Samson was so sure Suzanne loved him then why not just speak to her? Obviously he was afraid of what he might find out.

"She hurried out to Washington Street. I could barely keep up. I was just coming around the corner when I saw a light go on in a big SUV or something, so I ducked back. The light went out and I thought she was going to drive off, but she pulled something onto the sidewalk and when she got under a streetlight I could see it was a big hand truck. She rolled it in front of her, north along 10th Street, then up Fen, and then into the cemetery. It was so dark in there I could follow closer. I was almost ready to call out, but then she just disappeared. But see, I heard branches moving and I figured she was hiding in some bushes, like maybe she'd seen me."

Samson considered a minute, then said, "I used my phone to see. Inside the bushes there was a vault. Just as I got in there I saw this hole closing up in the floor and Suzanne's light was gone. When the floor finished closing, this tilted over statue sprang back up. So I just tried pushing on it and the hole opened and I went down. But at the bottom I dropped my phone. The screen went to sleep. It was so dark I couldn't find it."

"But, you could still see the light ahead of you, right?"

"I didn't want to lose her. I started to run and she went around the corner. When I made it to the corner, I could see the light going up the stairs. She left the door open so I followed. When I got in here I saw something kind of flickering. I got to that door." He pointed to the narrow door we'd found him behind. "There was a candle a few steps down. I stepped in and someone hit me on the head." He touched there and winced.

Kathryn looked at the back of Samson's head. "You have quite a b.u.mp there." His hair was sticky and matted from the blood that had come from a cut on his scalp.

"Did you fall down the stairs?" I asked.

He nodded. "I guess so. I don't remember that part so well. But I woke up at the bottom. My knee really hurt and my arm and, well, everything hurt and everything was dark. At first I just couldn't figure anything out. Then later I thought I might be... blind. I kind of panicked and pa.s.sed out, I guess."

Samson shrugged loose his jacket and pulled his collar over to the edge of his shoulder. He was black and blue over most of his skin.

"I could feel the steps, so I dragged myself up, but the door was locked. I tried to rest and I think I pa.s.sed out again. When I woke up, I could see some kind of purple light coming from round spots in the ceiling. I was glad I wasn't blind, but it was still so dark. What day is it?"

"It's Thursday morning." I looked at my watch. "It's nearly 7:30."

"Oh s.h.i.t, Lois must be out of her mind. I told her I'd be back in an hour on Tuesday night."

Now he's thinking of Lois? Do people still use the word fickle?

"Samson," I said, "we need to get you to the hospital."

"Yeah, there's this ringing in my ears and I have a headache. But mostly I'm really hungry. Why would Suzanne push me? She must be out of her mind."

"Did you see her face?"

"Yeah, I saw her.'

"Her face? You're sure it was Suzanne? What was she wearing?"

"A dark red coat and a scarf over her head. s.h.i.t, it was cold out. It was her Maggie... The ring tone."

"Samson, all you saw was a shadow with a scarf. If it was Suzanne, then you're saying she pushed you down the stairs and left you in there to die?"

"No, no. I'm not saying that..." His voice trailed off. He'd been thinking this already, but he didn't want to admit it out loud.

Kathryn edged over to the top of the steps. "What's down there?"

"I dunno. I was afraid to go back down there and get lost."

I pulled my flashlight back out of my pocket and went over to the narrow door. I flashed it around the walls just to see if there was a light switch. That would be a kick in the pants.

Just like the steps we'd taken up to the studio, there were about twenty steep steps down to an irregular stone floor. It was a miracle Samson hadn't broken anything. It was a miracle he hadn't died.

In fact, whacking him on the back of the head with... I looked around. There was a broken face mold with a small dark flaky stain on it on a shelf near the door. The big hunk of plaster must have sent Samson arcing into s.p.a.ce before he began to roll. I didn't say attempted murder, but I thought it so loud, Kathryn looked at me pointedly.

Halfway down the stairs a thin chain dangled from a ceiling fixture. I could just barely reach it with the tips of my fingers. I pulled gently and a low wattage bulb bathed the brick-walled room in yellow light.

There were flakes of the plaster mold and some lack of bathroom stains under the steps. Well, it had been two days.

I went carefully down the stairs, trying to breathe minimally. The s.p.a.ce was the beginning of a rough tunnel that went... I took out my compa.s.s... east. But it ended in a pile of rubble that filled the tunnel to the ceiling only about twenty feet along.

It looked as though Victoria had used this s.p.a.ce for storage. There was a wide door under the stairs. I opened it and swept the flashlight around. A large room that extended far back under the studio held dozens of pallets with stacks of canvas bags. The first few pallets were marked PLASTER, but the rows beyond were all marked Red, Porcelain, and Terra Cotta CLAY. I lifted one of the heavy bags near the door out of my way. It tore open, puffing plaster dust into the air. I made my way carefully between the stacks toward the back of the room just to be sure no one was hiding there or that there wasn't another door that led out to the street or something. No luck. I tried to avoid stepping in the plaster dust, but I was tracking it all over.

I marveled that Victoria had ama.s.sed so much material. Of course the clay pieces in the studio would have taken hundreds of pounds to make. I wondered what would happen to this stuff. Using Victoria Snow's clay to make a sculpture would be inspiring.

I stepped out and closed the door. I could see marks where Samson had fallen in the dust on the floor. Some of the step edges were freshly splintered and sc.r.a.ped. There were also marks that looked like someone had dragged something from the storage closet to the steps.

The rubble that blocked the other end of the room seemed new. There was rebar in it. It must have been some kind of cave-in that happened after Victoria died. When she was alive, this tunnel probably connected to the main one. There was an old-fashioned four-wheel cart against the other wall that Victoria could have used to bring in all this material.

I couldn't understand why Victoria would choose a workplace with no daylight. It seemed unnatural. She had to get here by climbing under a coffin in a graveyard through a sewer tunnel. Yet Victoria had created some great works here. There's a moral in this somehow.

She must have been pretty spry to have worked this s.p.a.ce into her later years, I mused. Maybe she'd had a helper, perhaps a younger woman who was Victoria's able right hand, just like the young man who lived with Georgia O'Keeffe as she painted into her nineties. Maybe Victoria hadn't been as reclusive as everyone supposed.

"Maggie? What are you doing? I think we should get Samson out of here." Kathryn came partway down the steps.

"Just looking around. Is he OK?"

"I'm OK," croaked Samson. "I just needed a drink. I want to see where I was. Holy s.h.i.t, I can't believe I sat in the dark for two days when I could have just reached up and pulled on the light. Oh c.r.a.p and there's a faucet over there too. Do you think that works. Seeing this is making the whole thing worse," he groaned.

Kathryn said, "We should take him out. He's still shaky."

The three of us went back into the studio. Kathryn said, "There's a strange odor in here. Is it sewer gas?"

"No, that's not a sewer smell." I'd noticed it when we first came in. It was faint but I'd smelled that odor before and just like the gawker who can't turn away from a highway accident, I was drawn to it despite the sense of dread it stirred up. I'd hoped it was just some dead sewer animal that had crawled up the steps. An alligator maybe.

I sniffed again and knew it wasn't an alligator. I went to the nearest clay crock with a lid on it. It was glazed cast-iron, like a big round bathtub. The cover, a four-foot disk of white glazed earthenware, served to prevent the clay inside from drying out.

I pushed against the lid, lifting its slight lip over the edge. It was heavy, but the smooth glazed surfaces slid against themselves easily. The lid had a good seal. That's why the smell had been faint. As soon as the top was pushed back, the dusty clay and plaster smell of the studio was replaced by the odor of death. The overhead bulbs cast light into the open vat. The three of us looked in.

Samson barked a short scream. Kathryn took two giant steps backwards and I felt a rush of sadness that filled my eyes with white and then a rim of tears.

"Oh my lord," said Kathryn. "It can't be Victoria Snow." She put her hand over her nose and mouth. "Who is it?"

"It's Suzanne. Suzanne Carbondale," I said softly.

Samson roused and rushed forward. Then he turned, vomited the quart of the water he'd just drunk, and crumpled to the floor in a dizzy faint. He roused in a second and began sobbing, "No... Oh no."

"We have to get out of here. It's a crime scene. I need to call the police," I said firmly.

Kathryn came closer again and looked over my shoulder into the vat. "Crime? Are you sure? She might have just fallen down the steps like Samson and hit her head, or... broken her neck." Kathryn whispered the last part. The closeness to sudden death was sinking in, but she was trying to be a.n.a.lytical. I found myself pleased by that, but Kathryn was missing a key point.

"Kathryn, she didn't die naturally and then crawl into this vat and pull the lid over herself."

I leaned in. Suzanne's body lay on its side with knees drawn up nearly to her chest. She was wearing a red and green sweater with reindeer on it and a green enamel wreath pin. Her head was against the side of the vat. There was a lot of blood on her shoulder. It had stiffened the collar of her shirt. I took out my flashlight and played it over Suzanne's body slowly, then closer to her neck and the area around it. I took a pen from my jacket pocket and pushed back her collar. There were two wounds at the base of her neck. Suzanne's blood had stained the side of the vat wall and pooled on the surface below.

I turned and swept the flashlight around the outside of the vat. There was plaster and clay dust on the oak flooring.

I looked back at Samson, who was sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, his head nodding as though he was dizzy again. He looked so white he seemed opaque.

"Um..." I whispered.

Kathryn took the hint and came closer. I said in a voice inaudible to Samson, "Looks like she died in there. Which either means someone forced her in there and then killed her, or she was knocked out, put in there and then finished off. There are neck wounds. That's where the blood came from."

"How do you know she was killed in there?"

"You can see footprints and drag marks but no blood stains on the floor. It's clean but not washed. If it had been washed, the dust would be smeared and caked. It's murder."

Kathryn turned toward Samson, then back to me. "I doubt he did it. There's no blood on him. Well, I guess he could have fallen down the stairs when he was trying to leave the crime scene."

"He could have, but she's been dead a long time, not just the last two days. Look, she's wearing a Christmas sweater and pin. I think she's been in here since just after Jessie saw her on Christmas Eve. If he did it, he's the stupidest murderer in the world. Coming back down here and getting locked in with the corpse so close by? And he's been pining away for her for the last six weeks."

Kathryn whispered back, "What if he came down here to hide the evidence, wipe up the fingerprints. Maybe tried to hide the body and then he fell down the steps and couldn't get out?"

"Possible. But then we're posed with a pretty big question. How did he manage to lock himself in?"

"Oh, yes, there's that," said Kathryn, looking at Samson.

"So if he wasn't following Suzanne, who was the person he followed?"

"The killer? Maybe she was trying to implicate him?"