A Noise Downstairs(100)

Her mind was able to cut through the panic and confusion to ask, “So what if it’s the actual typewriter? What difference does it make?”

“Oh, a great deal,” Gabriella said.

Gabriella leaned over and peered into the inner workings of the Underwood. “And it looks as though Kenneth was right to be concerned.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Charlotte asked.

Gabriella raised her head. “Blood. There’s dried blood in the keys.” She looked at Charlotte. “It’s nothing short of amazing that you found it. At a yard sale, yes? What are the odds? Someone must have found it in the garbage before the Dumpster was emptied, or maybe it was found at the dump. Then it ended up for sale in someone’s driveway, and of all the people in the world who could buy it, it was you.”

“I didn’t buy it at a yard sale! And that blood is Josh’s!”

“Josh?”

“Paul’s son. He got his fingers caught in it. You’re right, it would be amazing if this were that typewriter. But it isn’t.”

Gabriella frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t buy it at a yard sale. I bought it at an antique store. We—me and Bill—were trying to find a typewriter like the one Kenneth made those women write their apologies on.”

Gabriella’s expression was one of genuine puzzlement. “Why?”

A tear escaped Charlotte’s right eye and ran down her cheek. “We did a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible thing.”

Gabriella, intrigued, smiled and said, “They say confession is good for the soul.” The smile twisted into something jagged. “Although Kenneth might not entirely agree with that.”

Charlotte gave her the broad strokes of what she and Bill had done.

“Why ever would you do that?” Gabriella asked, her face full of wonder.

Charlotte swallowed hard. “We wanted to make it look like he was losing his mind. And, then, when we . . . when we killed him . . . everyone would think it was suicide. Except we thought he’d actually done it. Killed himself. But it was you.”

Gabriella’s wonder morphed into one of irritation. “So all our worries have been for nothing?” She ran her fingers along the Underwood’s space bar. “This was all something you and your lover cooked up?”

“Yes!” Charlotte said with sudden enthusiasm. “You don’t have to worry! And I don’t even understand why you are worried. What is it about the blood? Why were you concerned about that?”

Gabriella glanced at Bill’s body, then gazed pityingly at Charlotte. “Every time you think you’re done, there’s always one more thing left to do.”





Sixty-Three

Anna White drove slowly down Point Beach Drive. She had her window open slightly, and she could smell the brisk salt air wafting in from the sound. The last time she’d had to find the Davis house it had been dark, and so it was that again she had to rely on artificial light to check house numbers.

She did recall that the house was near the end of the street, although she couldn’t remember any particular characteristics.

But then she spotted Charlotte Davis’s car in a driveway and, to Anna’s relief, the only other car in the driveway was Paul’s. She did not see Bill Myers’s car there. If she had passed it coming down the street, she had not noticed it.

Luckily, there was a space on the street directly out front of the Davis house that she was able to pull straight into. She killed the engine, got out of the car, and closed the door softly. She wasn’t sure she wanted anyone to know she was here until she rang the bell.

Her stomach was full of those proverbial butterflies. Was she doing the right thing? Was this a totally misguided course of action? Hadn’t she already been through all this interior debate before leaving her house?

One thing she no longer believed she had to worry about was waking Charlotte Davis. A glance up to the second floor showed that plenty of lights were on in the kitchen area. Surely Charlotte wouldn’t have gone up to bed without switching off those lights.

She walked up the driveway and stood at the front door.

Just ring the bell. You’re not going to turn back now.

She put her finger to the button, and pushed.

Maybe the doorbell sounded, but Anna did not hear it. It was drowned out, at that very moment, by a much louder noise.

A woman’s scream.

A shrill, chilling scream that went through Anna like an icy wind, causing her to shudder.

It would have made sense for Anna to run, to get back into her car as quickly as possible, lock the doors, and call for the police. But Anna would have been the first to understand that people did not always do what made sense in emergencies.

Sometimes, they acted solely on instinct.

And Anna’s instinct was to help. She had dedicated her life to helping.

She immediately tried the door, in case it was unlocked.

It was.

Anna pushed the door open with such force that it went as far as it could on its hinges, hit the wall, and bounced back. She launched herself into the house and was about to fly up the stairs but had to stop.

Someone was coming down.

Now it was Anna’s turn to scream.





Sixty-Four

We can work this out,” Charlotte said pleadingly. “We can solve this. I know we can.”