Broke

Chapter 1

Imogene Duckworthy was sure her boss would approve, but she would have to be careful how she worded her request. Mike Mallett, Private Investigator, had once fired her for taking too much time away from her job. She had been working on her own cases, which she considered an aspect of job training, but he seemed to take a dim view of that.

Immy knocked on his open door. Mr. Mallett?

The look on his narrow face was pained. What’s with the Mr. Mallett? When you don’t call me Mike, it’s usually trouble. His raspy voice went with his rumpled white shirt, giving him a bit of a Columbo aura. Columbo was probably a lot taller that Mike Mallett though. Mike also never smoked a cigar.

My appointment is for four o’clock, Immy said. It’s the only time she had available. The eyes in his weasel face narrowed. My filing is all done and the bills are in my purse. I’ll mail them before I have my meeting.

Oh, all right.

She waved away some of the walnut scent from the candle on his desk.

But I need a full day from you tomorrow. I’ll be doing surveillance and I’m expecting a few calls.

Immy assured him she would be at her desk promptly at nine, grabbed her jacket and purse, and skipped out.

Her car was parked in the next block since she’d gotten in a little late this morning and there had been no spaces in front of Mike’s office. She flew past the display window of the travel agency next door without even glancing, as usual, at the posters of Hawaii and the Caribbean and longing to be somewhere warmer than chilly northwest Texas in autumn.

She got into her Hyundai Sonata. The powder blue car was eight years old but brand new to Immy, her latest pride and joy. She’d saved for months to get the two thousand dollars to buy it. Now she was free from having to make arrangements to use the ancient green van she had shared with her mother for years.

Freedom. She could come and go as she wished.

Well, not quite exactly as she wished. There was the job. And there was Hortense, her mother. And, most importantly, there was Nancy Drew Duckworthy, her beautiful four-year-old daughter, usually known as Drew.

Immy drove the half mile to Shorr’s Real Estate. The office was in a strip mall, flanked by a dollar store and a coffee shop. Garish red and blue signs in the window proclaimed: Houses Galore with Shorr and Open the Door with Shorr. She pushed the glass door open and waited near it, politely, for the woman at the metal desk to finish her phone conversation.

The woman slammed down her desk phone and stood. You’re Imogene Duckworthy?

Immy nodded, wondering how she could tell. Maybe because she had only one four o’clock appointment. And you’re Ms. Shorr?

Call me Jersey.

Jersey Shorr, thought Immy. Where have I heard that?

The woman stepped from behind her desk to greet Immy with a firm handshake. She wasn’t tall, about Immy’s medium five-four height, but she was built like a model, sleek and taut. Her smooth brown hair was pulled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck and her beige suit fit just right. Immy pushed her own straight, brown hair behind one ear and tugged at her stiff, new blue jeans. There was something wrong about the way they fit, but Immy couldn’t decide what it was.

I’m sorry, Jersey said, but that was the owner of one of the places I wanted to show you. No go.

They won’t show it to me?

They don’t want to take a chance on your pet pig.

My daughter’s pig, really. And he’s very nice. His name is Marshmallow.

Yeah, yeah, she waved a manicured hand, then gathered her purse and coat. Most people don’t want pigs in their houses, even if they’re nice ones. We have four properties we can look at. That surprises me, actually.

Immy followed her out of the office, climbed into the agent’s pristine black Beemer, and they drove to the first property.

* * *

Two and a half hours and three houses later, daylight was failing, along with the hunt for a place to live. Immy had had such high hopes and was now getting discouraged. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to find anything in her price range in all of Wymee Falls, Texas.

She loved her mother, she just didn’t want to live with her any more. A twenty-two-year-old with a child and a job, she thought, should be independent, out on her own. Her first steps toward steering her own course in life had been getting the PI job and buying her own car.

It wasn’t really a PI job, if she were honest with herself. It was more of a support job, a desk-work job. The actual job description was file clerk, but Immy never thought of it that way. She was studying hard to become a real PI so she could assist Mike with his cases. She’d even solved a few of her own, she was proud to say.

But the three houses, bland, brick things, that she and Jersey Shorr had just seen were no places to bring Drew. She didn’t want her daughter breathing all those fumes from the gas station next to the first one. The second one faced one of the busiest streets in Wymee Falls and Immy would worry about Drew and Marshmallow running into the traffic. The third was too close to Allblue Unit, the prison. What if an escaped convict ran to the house and took them all hostage? Immy shuddered thinking about it.

Besides, all three were so expensive it would be a stretch for Immy to make the payments.

This is the last one. Jersey stopped the car before a crumbling mansion, like something out of Poe, or maybe an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Immy loved both Poe and Hitchcock. A crow cawed from a tree next door.

What’s the rent? Immy asked eagerly.

It was substantially less than the other three. The house looked even better now.

Jersey put her hand on the car door handle, but didn’t get out. There’s something I should tell you. Some people say this place is haunted.

Immy decided she liked it. It had character. She’d always wanted to meet a real live ghost. Or maybe that would be a real dead ghost.

Chapter 2

Jersey twirled the dial on the lockbox. After a couple of tries, she got it open. When a sudden wind whipped up behind them, Immy stuck her hands in the pockets of her sweater to keep them warm. The door creaked as it swung open.

At first Immy thought the huge hallway was filled with piles of snow. It was nearly cold enough outside for snow. Cold enough inside, too. But the mounds were sheets, covering furniture that the owner must have left behind. There was a slight musty smell, but Immy didn’t think it was too bad. She was getting used to having a pig in her backyard and smells didn’t bother her like they used to.

Jersey frowned. I haven’t been inside this one before. I had no idea the owner left all this crap here. I’ll have to speak to him about that.

Whose ghost is here? asked Immy. Is that what’s making that noise?

Jersey blew out a breath of exasperation. There isn’t really a ghost. That’s only a rumor. There’s no such thing as a ghost. And the faucet in the powder room drips. Jersey motioned toward a door standing ajar. Immy spied a small half bath through the door, near the front of the house.

A scraping sound seemed to come from deeper inside the building. Jersey paled. Immy’s heart quickened. Would she meet a ghost today?

Jersey swallowed audibly. I’ll show you the house and you can ignore the furniture. I’ll get it all cleaned out.

If no one wants it, you can leave it here. I don’t have any furniture.

Don’t you think you should look at it first?

Immy lifted one of the dust covers, revealing a floral brocade settee. It was most likely stiff and uncomfortable, but maybe any couch would be better than none. She lifted another cover and found a footstool.

Oh look, she said. The cover is needlepoint. I think it’s handmade. Her mother, Hortense, would love to see that. Maybe she’d give this stool to her. Hortense was not happy about Immy moving out, so a peace offering would not be a bad idea.

Jersey tapped an impatient foot. Let’s see the rest of the rooms and get out of here. It’s cold.

Immy thought something else might be making Jersey want to leave—a ghost?

The ceiling was three stories above them. The front wall had mullioned windows on the first two stories, small oriels pooching outward on the third. The glass was so murky and dirty that hardly any light came through. Immy tried a wall switch and a fantastic, but dust-covered, crystal chandelier shed a dim light onto the hardwood floor.

Oh good, said Jersey. The power’s on at least. I don’t see a thermostat, though. We could warm it up in here if I could find it.

It was warmer in the house than it was outside. But the temperature was in the thirties today, cold for October, and Jersey was very right. It wasn’t warm in the house. They wandered through a dark paneled dining room, a large kitchen with two islands and a breakfast nook, and a library with a faded oriental rug and shelves so tall there was a ladder to reach the top ones. The books, however, did not look like they were in good shape. Still, Hortense, being a retired librarian and a huge book lover, might want to explore them. The small powder room Immy had noticed earlier nestled off the library. A steady plink still sounded from the drippy faucet.

Do you want to see more? said Jersey when they’d seen the complete first floor.

I’d better see the whole thing before I sign anything.

You’re really still thinking of taking this?

Immy nodded. I like it.

Jersey shook her head slightly, but led the way up the curving staircase. A balcony overhung the main hall. Immy thought it might be dangerous for Drew, but she’d have to make sure Drew knew not to lean on it. Or climb on it. Maybe Ralph could construct something to make it safer. He was good with his hands.

Another rasping sound came from down the hallway. Immy peered into the darkness. Was that a sudden flash of light in the gloom? Had she seen the ghost?

Who is the ghost supposed to be of? she asked.

The widow woman who died here. Old Mrs. Tompkins lived here all alone for years and years after her husband died. After she kicked the bucket, her nephew, Geoffrey Tompkins, inherited this dump, I mean this place. I don’t know if he ever lived here, though. It’s been empty for a few years.

So Mr. Tompkins is the owner?

Jersey nodded, then flinched at another of those mysterious sounds. It was coming from one of the bedrooms down the hall. This time it sounded like someone snoring.

Would you be willing to take something off the rent if I exorcise the house?

At Jersey’s blank face, Immy rephrased. You know, if I get rid of the ghost?

Jersey’s harsh laugh sent puffs of breath into the air. If you can prove there’s a ghost here and if you can prove you got rid of it, we’ll talk.

Jersey led Immy into the first bedroom. It was bare of furnishings. Strips of sad, striped wallpaper dropped off the walls. The second bedroom held two dressers, one with a round mirror and a kneehole. A narrow bed with a faded coverlet was shoved against the wall. Next, they inspected a bathroom between those two bedrooms with an old-fashioned pedestal sink and a claw-footed bathtub.

Then they made their way to the third bedroom. Immy was pretty sure the sound was coming from it. Jersey hung back and let Immy open the door. The room reeked of alcohol. It held a four-poster bed, an armoire, and an ornate carved chest of drawers. And—Immy took a second look—a man sleeping in the bed.

He sat up, his eyes wide with alarm.

Immy and Jersey both jumped back.

Chapter 3

There was something about that guy in the bed, Immy thought. For one thing, he looked out of place in a four-poster, wearing nothing but boxers. He had a cowboy look about him that would go better with a bunkhouse. His lean face was weathered, but pale. It looked like he’d gotten a lot of sun in his life, but not recently. For another thing, he looked kind of familiar. But Immy couldn’t think where she’d seen him, in the commotion that followed.

When he stirred, Immy recognized the rasping sound in the bedsprings. He must have been turning over, or tossing when she’d heard some of those earlier spooky sounds.

The guy grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor and jumped into them, then snatched a flannel shirt off the foot of the bed. Never said a word.

Jersey made up for his silence. What in the hell are you doing in here? You filthy bum! Get your stinkin’ carcass outta here before I call the cops.

The man nodded and walked toward them.

Get away from me, Jersey screamed. I’m callin’ the cops right now. She whipped her phone out and started punching 9-1-1.

The guy stopped, cleared his throat. A cloud of liquor fumes hit Immy. I’m leaving, ma’am. If you’ll step aside, I’ll just go on out the door.

That sounded reasonable to Immy, but Jersey was still panicking, her polished veneer cracking like a thin-shelled egg. She not only stepped aside, she pressed herself tight against the wall. Don’t touch me, she yelled as the poor wretch ducked his head and scurried out into the hallway.

Immy heard his soft footsteps descending the carpeted stairway, then the creak of the front door as he left. The aroma of whiskey left a trail behind him.

No, you need to come now, Jersey was saying. No one’s hurt, but he’s getting away. She gave the address. Yes, I’ll stay on the line.

Sirens sounded within minutes and the two women met the police on the front porch. Jersey ran onto the main sidewalk and pointed at the vagrant, half a block away and walking slowly. One of the officers took off after him and soon brought him back.

This him? asked the policeman who had the vagrant by the arm.

Jersey peered at the police badge. Yes, Officer Hadlock, that’s the one. Arrest him, please, for trespassing.

Officer Hadlock? Immy had run into the man. Last summer. Yes, those were his frowning eyebrows. Not wanting the policeman to remember her, she stepped back and let Jersey do all the talking.

What were you doing there? asked the second officer, giving the vagrant a grim expression.

I, I stayed the night. There were three of us last night. We got together to, well, we were all drinking.

Yes, we know that, Jersey said.

Officer Hadlock shot her a glance that said, Shut up, lady.

Names of the other two? asked the policeman who was not Officer Hadlock.

Lyle Cisneros and, and a guy he called Grunt. Friend of Lyle’s. The guy was barely able to stand. Immy wondered if he was going to be okay.

How do you know Cisneros? The officer was writing in a notebook.

The miscreant hung his head. Lyle was my cellmate.

The policemen exchanged charged looks.

Where was that? asked one of them.

Allblue.

The third house Immy had looked today at had been too close to that prison, she’d thought.

And what’s your name, buddy? asked Officer Hadlock.

Dwight Duckworthy.

Duckworthy! He looked a bit like old photos of Immy’s father, Louis. Immy made an anguished sound and the policemen swiveled their heads toward her.

That’s right, Hadlock said, peering at her more closely. You’re a Duckworthy, aren’t you?

Imogene, she said, her voice small, wishing she were somewhere else. This criminal must be related to her.

The man raised his head and peered at her. Yeah, you do look like the family. If you’re the daughter of one of my brothers, I’m your Uncle Dewey.

Immy opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Good thing, because she couldn’t think of a word to say.

Dewey finished telling the cops that he couldn’t remember much of what happened last night. When he fell asleep—Immy thought that might mean when he passed out—the other two were still there, though they seemed to be gone now. The guy named Grunt had let them in the back way.

The cops hustled the guy who was probably Immy’s Uncle Dewey into the rear seat of Hadlock’s cruiser and, after saying they’d contact the two women if they needed statements or more information, drove away.

That’s why the guy had seemed familiar. He greatly resembled Immy’s dead father, Louis Duckworthy, a Wymee Falls cop who was shot and killed ten years ago, when she was twelve. Her Uncle Huey, who had died less than a year ago, hadn’t resembled his brothers. Took more after his dumpling of a mother. Immy had never been certain there was another brother. She’d heard things, but her mother was reluctant to talk about him. Probably because of the prison thing, she figured now. When she got home, she’d cross-examine Hortense.

Jersey and Immy went back inside and Immy walked through the house again, this time making it to the third story. It was divided into smallish rooms that lined up behind the railing. Immy stepped up to it and peeked over at the floor of the entry hall, far below. Her palms prickled and her heart sped at the distance. She had a teensy touch of fear of heights, after all. Each room had one or two of the oriel windows. In some the mini bays were outfitted with cushioned window seats. Several of the rooms were crowded with furniture and boxes, but some were empty of furnishings. None were empty of dust and cobwebs.

They finished up downstairs, in the kitchen, at the rear of the house. It was apparent, now that they knew, that someone had been here last night. A couple of whiskey bottles poked out from under the lid of the wastebasket. A damp towel hung on the sink. Jersey waved a hand in front of her face. I might have to fumigate this place now.

Immy sniffed, but couldn’t smell anything beyond musty old vacant house, and a fading, faint odor of liquor. That’s all right. I’ll take care of everything.

Jersey stared at her. "You mean you still want this place?"

Did she? It was