Chapter 11 #2
The memory of the night she burst into Traeger Hall, the bell’s echo still ringing over the valley, was enough to seal her lips.
The blood that had soaked her uncle’s chest from the stab wounds, the gruesome scene of her aunt splayed on the bell tower’s steps .
. . No, Waverly couldn’t trust Preston any more than she could trust, well, she could trust very few people.
And the more she considered this, the more her trepidation grew.
Yet Preston had suggested one thing that, after careful consideration, made some sense to Waverly.
“Very well.” Waverly spoke to the empty study, lifting her chin and feeling more confident now that Preston had departed. She looked toward the door and addressed the man who was no longer there. “I shall look through my uncle’s papers.”
With that, Waverly stepped behind the desk and looked down at the many papers lying there.
Leopold Traeger didn’t appear to be a well-organized businessman when it came to his notes.
She thumbed through a few pages and was loath to admit that indeed they made no sense to her.
Reaching for a ledger, she opened it and saw columns of numbers and scribbling in the margins and even bits and pieces of dried tobacco leaves jammed into the spine.
Waverly brushed them away. The only thing she understood in this ledger was the tobacco remnants, as well as the smell of the tobacco that permeated the pages of the ledger.
Waverly was disappointed that the only thing she could glean from what she’d seen so far was that Uncle Leopold was also quite messy when he rolled his own cigarettes.
Preston was right. She knew very little about how to interpret her uncle’s records. The ledger appeared to be a list of loans given, debts owed, and the like.
Waverly sat in her uncle’s chair and slumped forward over the desktop, thankful Aunt Cornelia was not there to reprimand her about her posture.
Of course, her corset did enough reprimanding as it was, and Waverly shifted in her seat so she could breathe.
As she did so, a page fluttered from the desktop as if an invisible hand had lifted it into the air and made a show of its floating to the floor.
She reached down and picked up the page, then turned it over. It was written in Uncle Leopold’s hand. Waverly frowned as she read her uncle’s words.
To the members of the Newton Creek Council:
It is no secret I have undergone the construction of a bell tower addition to my home at Traeger Hall. Be aware and be forewarned of its purpose, which is as follows:
When you hear the bell toll, hasten to Traeger Hall.
Summon the best and the strongest and urgently come.
For if you dare to hesitate, all within will be dead, and the people of Newton Creek will be dismayed.
My blood will seep into the soil, rotting the earth, and when the last turn of the mill wheel comes to a halt, you will perish with me.
Waverly’s hand trembled as she lowered the page. These were the words her uncle had been known for in the last days of his life. These were the words—in writing—that had sealed his reputation of eccentricity, but now were the exclamation mark on his true prediction.
Newton Creek had heard the tolling of the bell.
She had heard the tolling. It was an unfamiliar sound, the bell having never rung before.
It sounded deep and mournful, as though already grieving the violence taking part in its shadows below.
Waverly remembered vividly where she was at the time, what she was doing, and with whom she’d shared that moment.
She had startled, met the eyes of her companion, and whispered, “Surely not!” in utter disbelief.
Maybe it was her hesitation to act, something the townspeople had in common with her that night, which had resulted in their aid coming too late.
And yet Uncle’s letter didn’t make sense.
Hadn’t Mr. Grossman said that Uncle Leopold had assigned the lawyer to be in charge of his assets, so that the town might continue to thrive in Uncle Leopold’s absence?
Even after death, it seemed her uncle still wanted to have his mark on the town’s economy.
Had provisions been made, she wondered, with the town given access to the profits of her uncle’s businesses?
And wouldn’t that mean—contrary to Uncle Leopold’s prophesy that without him, the sawmill would cease to exist and Newton Creek would perish—that the entire town had motive to kill him?
He held most of the loans, he employed the majority of the townspeople.
They were all under his rule, so to speak.
With Uncle Leopold gone and Mr. Grossman’s firm managing the assets, wouldn’t that lend hope that the dominant force of Leopold Traeger would be dissolved and the town continue to grow?
That way they would be free of Leopold, but not of the benefit of his assets.
Waverly pushed up from the chair and turned to eye the painting on the wall behind her uncle’s desk.
It was one of many that hung in Traeger Hall.
It appeared Uncle Leopold had a hobby of collecting fine art.
Aunt Cornelia, too, had a strong interest in it.
Preston’s efforts were centered on the sawmill and logging company, while Mr. Grossman was focused on the business assets, namely the financial foundation of Newton Creek, including her uncle’s bank.
But the paintings? Surely no one had forgotten to consider those.
If the Hall was sealed with the paintings inside, that meant thousands of dollars’ worth of art had been left behind.
Waverly considered her uncle for a long moment.
He was devious. Savvy. He was thrilled by the fact he was in control of Newton Creek, and he was so sure of his eminent position that he believed someone would try to murder him.
So if he left his business assets to Mr. Grossman’s management, and he left nothing to Preston or her, then what was the one thing that her uncle upon his death would still retain control of, the one thing that might be to the detriment of the town?
She lifted her hand and, though instructed many times never to do so, ran her fingertips across the oil paint, feeling the tiny bumps and ridges made by the painter’s brush.
Her uncle had entombed his art collection so that no one would come to possess it, but what was it about the paintings in Traeger Hall that could ruin the town of Newton Creek?
Sleep was fitful. Waverly had barred her bedroom door by wedging a chair beneath its handle. Foo the cat had lain down beside her so close to her face that she was breathing in fur fluff. But Foo’s familiar scent was comforting, and tonight, God knew she needed comfort.
The small fire Aveline had started in the fireplace before reluctantly retiring to her quarters had gone out. Every minute, it seemed, Waverly awakened to squint into the darkness to make sure Preston wasn’t looming in the shadows, hoisting a knife high above his head to bring down on her.
What would it feel like to be stabbed? For a blade to slip into her body and then withdraw only to be thrust in again?
She hoped it would happen so quickly she might not have time to feel the pain.
And it mattered where the knife entered.
If her abdomen, she would slowly bleed out.
But if her chest, it might pierce a lung and then breathing would be near to impossible.
If Preston was the wicked culprit, motivated by a quest for wealth and influence, then why had he bothered to leave her alive?
He could have been rid of her in private over dinner or in her uncle’s study.
He could hide her body in the cellar. Or, because no one was at Traeger Hall besides herself, Preston could drag her through the hallway and out the back door into the woods.
Few people would notice her missing, not while she was supposed to be holding vigil over the bodies of her guardians.
Preston would have plenty of time to leave her to be taken care of by coyotes or bobcats or even black bears.
As Waverly considered all of this while under her bedcovers and comforted by a cat who probably would take part in the disposal of her remains, she drifted in and out of sleep.
It was little wonder why it was so disturbed.
No one in their right mind could sleep when they feared their impending murder.
Had this been what Uncle Leopold had endured?
A rush of empathy filled Waverly as she drifted off to sleep once again.
It was the sound of the floorboards creaking that awakened Waverly for what must have been the eighty-seventh time that night.
Her eyes fluttered open. Her hand reached for Foo, but the pile of feline fluff had disappeared.
The traitorous cat had left her alone. Waverly lay frozen in her bed, her head resting on the pillow.
If she lay perfectly still under the quilts, whoever had caused the floor to creak wouldn’t see her.
Her childish reasoning was foggy with sleep, and Waverly fought disorientation as she peered into the darkness.
The two arched windows on the far wall were shuttered, their gauzy white curtains undisturbed, as if they were ghosts hanging there to oversee the night.
The wardrobe at the far end of the room was outlined by what little moonlight filtered through the shutters.
The floor creaked again. It was the obvious creak of a carefully placed foot on a floorboard unwilling to bear the weight.
Someone was in the hallway outside her room.
Waverly’s fear from her earlier imagination overtook her. This time, however, it was real, not just the result of an overactive mind.
Someone was there . . .
As she stared into the shadows, it was the form of a man that stole her breath. She couldn’t have moved or screamed or pleaded for help if she’d had the inclination. All reason had taken flight.
Another creak.
The man stilled.
Or was it a man?
For a terrifying instant, Waverly thought she could see right through her bedroom door to the figure beyond.
“Wavvverly . . .” The voice, indistinguishable as male or female, dragged out her name, the whisper drifting through the keyhole and floating toward her like an invisible fog. “Open your door.”
Waverly squeezed her eyes tight, but knew it would serve her no good. She had left her uncle and aunt’s sides in the parlor and gone to her own bed, sought her own comfort, hidden from a man she feared. But now?
She opened her eyes. Maybe if she peeked out her door, just enough to confirm the ghost of Uncle Leopold was not taunting her from the beyond, from outside her bedroom door. But her body was exhausted, her mind heavy with worry, fear, the puzzle of her uncle’s estate, and the motive for his murder.
The whispering had ceased. The floor’s creaking had subsided. All was as it should be . . .
Fully awake now, Waverly sat up in bed. Sunlight pushed its way through the shutters, lighting her room with morning’s kiss of promise.
“Uncle Leopold?” The sound of her voice spoke reason into the room. It was real. She was real.
Uncle Leopold was not.
Or he hadn’t been.
Or . . . maybe he had.