A House of Ruin Read online

  “Mr. Newman?” I recognized her voice from the many phone calls we’d had as plans were arranged, details exchanged, in preparation for today’s interview.

  “Miss Fenty, I’m in the library!” I called to her.

  A tap-tap-tap of high heels and Keisha Fenty stood before me. Her dark skin offered a striking contrast against a white wool coat, where mustard yellow cuffs peeked out from each sleeve. When she smiled, her brown eyes sparkled with what I read as rare kindness, especially in this narcissistic age. Chin-length ringlets framed her heart-shaped face. I briefly wondered how someone so beautiful could be fascinated by something so ugly as murder.

  While some critics dismissed her unsolved mystery documentaries as tabloid TV garbage, they’d been ratings bonanzas, fueling renewed interest in cold cases and, more often than not, helping to bring the killer to justice. Her subsequent interviews of these twisted murderers were probing and unflinching, even as they revealed lurid details best left to the imagination. Critics still scoffed, but criminal profilers regarded these programs as valuable primers into the psychotic mind.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” she said, extending her gloved hand. In the other hand she carried a large purse.

  “You as well, Miss Fenty.” I embraced her hand in mine, self-conscious of the swollen bulbs of my aging knuckles.

  “Keisha, please,” she corrected me gently. “I feel like we’re practically friends, considering how often we’ve spoken the past few weeks.”

  “Then I suppose you ought to just call me Derl.” I grinned, catching a glimpse of myself in the gilt-framed mirror hanging on the far wall. I was a much younger man, with a full head of hair and a trim body, the last time I’d gazed into this mirror. Now I was a very old man with a balding pate and a paunch. I reflexively sucked in my gut, as if this beautiful young woman would have any interest in an old fossil like me.

  Feeling a slight tightness in my chest and neck, I reached up to loosen my tie. I regretted my choice to use a café knot, an extremely complex style of knot that didn’t have much give.

  “Are you okay?” Keisha asked with concern.

  “Yes, of course. Just a little warm in here.” My eyes caught the large fabric buttons of her overcoat, and the unique 1950s stitching. “Is that a vintage Peau de Faille overcoat?” I wondered aloud.

  She chuckled, clearly impressed. “It sure is. You know your fashion.”

  “I used to work for a fashion designer before becoming caretaker for the Eylers.”

  “That’s quite a career change.”

  “Not by choice. When I caught my boss taking advantage of his assistant and reported it to HR, it was either me or him. You can guess who was more integral to the company. But fashion is still a passion of mine, though I’m far too old to know what’s trendy anymore.”

  “Trendy is a state of mind.” She gave my arm a gentle squeeze, then skimmed the room from wall to book-covered wall, floor to arched ceiling, where above the beams a lone spire pierced the broody sky.

  “Wow, this place is incredible.” Her gaze settled back down to me. “How did you convince the family that lives here to let us film on site? They fervently declined when I had asked.”

  “I guess you could say I have my charm.” I took a slight bow. “Though I’m surprised to see it hasn’t changed much since I was last here.”

  “Really? I wonder why. There’s got to be thousands of dollars’ worth of books in here.” She nodded toward the antique gun case on the wall. “And I’m sure someone could have sold the guns for a pretty penny.”

  “After the Eylers passed, no one wanted to have anything to do with this place. So the estate left everything in the house to be sold with it, including the books and furniture. I guess the Portman family liked it all enough to keep it.”

  Keisha ran a gloved fingertip along the dirty spine of a book. “Or they haven’t bothered to really check it out…”

  “Would you, after what happened here?”

  “Absolutely! It’s the most intriguing room in the house. But … I’m not like most people, I suppose.” She wiped the grime off her glove and turned to the center of the library. “Well, Derl, while we wait for my cameraman to arrive, let’s sit down and chat for a moment.” She led me toward the armchairs around the empty fireplace’s hearth.

  Her stride showed a confidence I didn’t feel, for she was unaware of the true nature of what happened here. Still, I followed her across the room, along a dusty floor-to-ceiling bookcase packed with precious hardcovers, rare signed copies, and some more recent literary collections that had been passed down with the house. Pausing at the gap where the Unwin & Allen first edition of The Hobbit should have been, I involuntarily cringed. Mr. Eyler would turn over in his grave if he knew his pride and joy had been propped open across his face, hiding his gaping eye socket.

  I bumped into the rolling library ladder, wheels rigid with rust. Keisha jolted at the squeal. “What was that?”

  For all of her cool demeaner, even she felt the darkness lurking here.

  I pointed to the ladder. “Apologies for my clumsiness, ma’am. Sometimes I swear this house is alive.”

  “If it was, it’d make my job a whole lot easier.” Keisha sat in one chair and gestured to the other one opposite her. While she set down her purse and removed her coat and gloves, a dark memory stalked me.

  Standing before the hollow fireplace, I envisioned the bodies that had been strewn here, blood pooling on this very floor. I shook it off and sat with an achy groan, wondering whose flesh had last warmed this seat. The thought taunted me.

  “My cameraman should be here any moment,” Keisha said as she peered around me at the open door, “but I wanted to make sure you were comfortable before we began. And also answer any questions you have.”

  I shrugged. “Everything seems pretty straightforward, far as I’m concerned. You ask questions, I answer. Then you put it all together and hopefully make the police finally believe me.”

  “It sounds like you’ve been thinking about this murder for a while.”

  My inflamed joints radiated pain. I cracked a knuckle, relishing the pop of relief before I answered. “Sure have. Not much else to do but dwell on it.”

  “I can relate. This case is of particular interest to me, mainly because no one else has been able to figure it out. I guess you could say I like the challenge.”

  After pulling an envelope from her purse, Keisha leaned toward me, handing me a large crime scene photograph. The image instantly dragged me back to that night—when I first saw Tony Eyler’s dead body. This color photo captured that horrible moment in agonizing detail.

  Keisha, seeing the repulsion on my face, instantly grabbed it back. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have shown you that.”

  I shook my head, willing the swelling nausea back down. “No, it’s okay. It’s just…difficult…seeing it again.”

  She placed the photograph upside down on her lap just as the cameraman, a chubby, bearded fellow in a porkpie hat, tramped into the room. He sported an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a dingy, wrinkled T-shirt that he must have been wearing for days. His cutoff denim shorts left frighteningly little to the imagination. It appalls me how the younger generation thinks it’s acceptable to go around looking like an unmade bed. He gave me a curt chin jerk fashionable with the too-cool-to-say-hello crowd and went about setting up his equipment. Keisha didn’t bother to introduce him. One look at him was all the introduction I needed.

  Grabbing a notebook and pen, Keisha returned her attention to me. “Before we begin, in one of our calls you mentioned you knew a lot about the Eyler family secrets. Care to tell me who your source is?”

  “I guess that’d be me. You can learn a lot just by watching people. Over the years I’ve acquired quite a bit of material on why someone would want vengeance on this family.”

  Her eyes widened with interest. “Vengeance seems like a strong word.”
>
  “So is murder.”

  Keisha held up her hand. “Wait—are you saying a member of the Eyler family murdered someone?”

  Only now did I notice the tapping of my foot, the quiver of my leg. I gripped my knobby knee, willing it to stop. “You could say that. Though I don’t have solid proof.”

  “And the plot thickens…”

  “Oh yes, thick as my father’s hair. Full head of it until the day he died.” I chuckled, gesturing at my own nearly bald head. I was the unfortunate progeny who inherited my uncle’s receding hairline.

  “So you’ve got a pretty good idea of who killed the Eylers?”

  “Not just an idea. I’m certain.”

  “How can you be so sure? According to the police report, there were no motives, no evidence, no witnesses.”

  I waved her assumptions away. “Oh, but there was one witness. A witness who never got the chance to speak out. Except to me.”

  Help me, the ghost implored again in the back of my mind.

  In this moment I knew how to silence it. Keisha was the key, and I was the lock. Once I told her my story, she could finally exhume and free the ghosts who tormented me. They sought justice, so justice I would give them.

  Part 1

  Keisha Fenty: “When the Eyler Family Massacre happened back in November of 1982, you had been working at the estate for nearly a decade by then. So it must have come as quite a shock that anyone would want to kill this family, considering all they had done for the community. Not only did Mr. Eyler represent some of the biggest authors in science-fiction and fantasy, but his wife founded several literacy nonprofits. But being the estate manager, you would know more than anyone what happened behind closed doors. Can you share a little about what the family was really like when no one was watching?”

  Derl Newman: “Oh, if only walls could talk. There’s a lot about this family that no one knows, and I only caught glimpses of the shadows that surrounded them. They had a darkness in them, all of them. Even the kids. But it all starts with the father, Tony Eyler. Long before my time there. But I heard the rumors. And in 1979, I discovered what he had done—what they had done. The whole brood. The kind of people they were beneath the philanthropic façade. You see, when you make a deal with the devil, you’re bound to get burned by the flames.”

  Chapter 2

  The Sins of the Father

  June 1979

  I didn’t make it a habit to root through my boss’s dark secrets, but today I made an exception. I had no choice, after what I’d overheard. The low conspiratorial tones between Mr. Eyler—I wasn’t permitted to call him Tony, not to his face, at least—and some unknown voice on the other end of the avocado green rotary phone couldn’t be true. But then again, I knew more about Tony’s true nature than most of his so-called friends or colleagues. And that terrified me.

  “His blood is on your hands too, you know,” Mr. Eyler said into the receiver, pressed close to his lips. It could have been an innocent turn of phrase if not for what followed.

  “My career—my whole life—relies on your silence.” From inside his den Mr. Eyler’s voice grew low, urgent. “As does yours. You’re an accomplice, and no number of years can erase your part in what happened. We both know I’m not the only one who benefited from his death.”

  Shortly after he hung up, Mr. Eyler rushed out of his office past me, his fashionable cognac leather briefcase bumping against his leg. He paused before descending the stairs to turn and address me.

  “Derl, I’ve got to make a run into the city.”

  “On a Saturday, sir?”

  “Duty calls. Let my wife know I’ll be home late tonight, and tell the chef he’s on call for a late dinner.”

  I nodded understanding.

  There was no thanks or please when it came to Tony Eyler, not with his staff, nor his wife, nor his colleagues. Tony Eyler didn’t ask, he commanded. I watched the back of his rust-colored paisley silk shirt and cream polyester pants descend the stairs, wondering how he managed to beat the heat in clothing far too warm for this summer day.

  I glanced at my OMEGA Constellation watch, an original 1952 design, the leather worn soft by long service upon my father’s wrist. It was the most expensive thing I owned, gifted to me from my father on his deathbed. Although the Pittsburgh steel mills had afforded Dad and our family a relatively comfortable life, lung cancer had stolen his last breath. According to the time, I still had a couple hours before Mrs. Eyler returned with the children.

  She had taken them to see The Muppet Movie at The Oaks Theater, an escape offering central air conditioning on this hot, humid day, followed by a trip to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal. The kids had been begging to try this latest addition to the fast-food menu, after all their school friends had bragged about the McDoodler stencil toy inside. I couldn’t imagine the appeal of the wagon-train-themed meal in a box, but kids had always been something of a mystery to me.

  After arranging the dinner schedule with the chef, I tiptoed across Mr. Eyler’s office, cracking open the desk drawer he didn’t know I had a key to. Between the shuffle of folders and my held breath, I glanced out the office window down onto the sprawling gardens lush with summer color that surrounded the orange brick driveway. While I rooted through each drawer, I listened for the echoing footsteps of the family returning home, or the children’s chatter over who had the best Happy Meal toy. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked off each passing minute, but no one came. Not a single sound cut the eerie silence, save the rustle of my fingers rifling through documents.

  After another handful of minutes I began to give up. If there was anything incriminating, he certainly wouldn’t leave it here for anyone to find. I put everything away where I’d found it, for Tony was nothing if not attentive to detail. Rounding the desk, I paused at the doorway and turned to face the den, hoping something, anything, would stand out. That’s when I found the smoking gun I was searching for, not in some secret hiding place, but right out in the open. The last place one would ever expect.

  A sliver of dying sunlight sparkled against the glass hanging smack dab on the wall, for all the world to see. As if he wanted to get caught. How many times had I passed by this framed newspaper article, never realizing until now what it signified: my boss was a killer.

  My breath fogged the glass as I leaned toward it. The article, dated June 1971, marked a major milestone in Mr. Eyler’s publishing career. A two-column photo captured a younger version of my boss smiling broadly and shaking the hand of the then CEO of New York’s top literary agency as he accepted his new promotion.

  I pulled the frame down from the wall and read the article in its entirety:

  A new name has stolen the publishing world spotlight after the shocking loss of the agency’s top literary agent in a bus-related accident that took his life last week. With a background in accounting and contracts, Tony Eyler has taken the position of Senior Agent in an unprecedented six-figure deal, where he’ll be representing some of the top names in the literary world.

  Accident, my ass.

  Part of the article, the part that interested me most, had been folded over underneath it. I flipped the frame over, searching the back. Fiddling with several tiny clips that held it in place, it finally came free, scattering a thin stack of papers across the floor. Picking up a loose page, I immediately understood one thing: I held in my hands the answer to whose blood stained Mr. Eyler’s hands, and what exactly he stood to gain from it.

  Tucked between articles about President Richard Nixon’s newly inaugurated “War on Drugs” and French daredevil Philippe Petit’s groundbreaking (no pun intended) high wire walk between the towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral, one specific headline from the June 27, 1971, clipping gripped me:

  Top New York Literary Agent Dies in Deadly Bus Accident

  An image of the smiling victim, Scott Orson, accompanied the suspicious circumstances of his death.

  While standing at a busy New
York City intersection, the article detailed, the Mr. Orson tripped and fell in front of an oncoming bus and was instantly crushed to death. His personal assistant, none other than Tony Eyler, was quoted as saying, “It all happened so fast. One moment he was standing beside me, the next he just stepped out. I tried to stop him, but I wasn’t fast enough.”

  That single moment catapulted Personal Assistant Tony Eyler upward into a skyscraping corner office as Senior Literary Agent Tony Eyler when he took over his dead boss’s client list. Being the smooth talker I knew Mr. Eyler to be, I imagined it wasn’t too tough to steal the position from some other up-and-coming and perhaps more deserving applicant. After all, Mr. Eyler knew the ins and outs of his boss’s job. He knew Scott’s clients personally. He helped handle their projects. With the right half-truths and manipulation, which were second nature to my Machiavellian boss, his ascension would have been a piece of cake.

  Kneeling on the floor, I skimmed the scattered articles, which further documented Scott’s death and the subsequent investigation. It had started innocently enough as the funeral arrangements were publicly announced:

  Funeral Draws Biggest Names in Modern Literature

  But soon the police inquiry turned up details that had been buried, along with motives for possible suicide:

  Investigation into Star Literary Agent’s Death Uncovers Embezzlement Scheme

  One clipped article after another, I flipped through the pile, unfolding a series of mysteries behind Scott’s death that even to me seemed obvious red flags. Embezzled money that investigators discovered in a secret but not well-hidden account under his very own name. The inherited posthumous wealth that his wife denied knowing about. Conflicting witness accounts of the accident. Tragic accident, or a last resort death wish?