Once Buried Page 7

  She had to make up her mind about this woman quickly.

  In her mind, she imagined what Ellery Kuhl’s neighbors might say about her if Riley and her partners only had time to interview them.

  She had a pretty strong gut feeling that they’d describe the woman as kindly and reclusive, someone whose entire life was centered right here in her store. She probably seldom talked to other people except here.

  Nevertheless, Riley knew that serial killers sometimes impressed their neighbors as perfectly gentle, harmless people.

  Riley said, “Ms. Kuhl, I wonder if you’d come outside and have a look at something.”

  “Of course,” the woman said.

  Riley, Bill, and Jenn took her to the SUV and opened the back, revealing the two enormous sand glasses inside.

  A look of delighted surprise crossed the woman’s face. She climbed into the SUV to get a closer look.

  “Oh, these are impressive,” she said. “Very impressive indeed.”

  She took a small magnifying glass out of her pocket and began to examine the objects in detail.

  Any lingering doubts Riley may have had about the woman’s innocence pretty much disappeared. She felt sure that even the most hardened psychopath couldn’t fake the pleasure the woman was exhibiting at the sight of these sand timers.

  Riley said, “These aren’t your work, I take it.”

  “No, but I wouldn’t mind taking credit for it. This is very good work. They’re twenty-four-hour timers, you said?”

  Jenn said, “Can’t you tell by looking at them?”

  Riley detected a lingering note of suspicion in Jenn’s voice. Perhaps Bill, too, wasn’t yet convinced of Ellery’s innocence. But Riley was quite sure of it now.

  Ellery said, “Well, I’m willing to take your word for it. It’s not an exact science, you know. There’s no formula for the amount of sand needed to measure a certain amount of time. When you make one of these, you just have to keep trying different amounts until you get it right and seal it up.”

  Ellery chuckled a little and added, “Imagine how hard that must have been before clocks were invented!”

  For a fleeting moment, Riley felt disappointed that they hadn’t found their killer. But that feeling quickly passed. Perhaps this woman could help in other ways.

  “What can you tell us about these timers?” Riley asked.

  “Well, for one thing, the frames are made from excellent wood. The empty one looks like black walnut. The one that’s still running is probably mahogany. And they’re expertly carved.”

  “What about the glass?” Riley said.

  Ellery sat back from the timers a little.

  “Well, I’m hardly an expert on that. I only make the frames, like most other people who make timers like these. I order the glass bulbs I use from China. There’s really nothing very special about the glass. It’s the same you might use to make vases and pitchers and such.”

  She leaned toward the timer again and peered at it.

  “This sand, though—it is rather unusual.”

  “How so?” Riley asked.

  Ellery was examining the sand with her magnifying glass.

  “Well, because it’s actually sand. Most people use other materials—marble dust, tin or lead oxides, rock flour, pulverized burnt eggshell, powdered glass. Materials with better flowing properties. When sand gets used at all, it’s usually river sand, because of its smooth, round granules. This looks like regular quartz sand—the kind you’d find on a beach. That’s unusual, because the granules are angular and don’t flow as smoothly.”

  Bill asked, “Does that mean these two timers don’t keep good time?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that—not at all. Whoever made these timers sifted the sand very carefully, removed any larger grains so that the rest are uniform. Anyone who went to that kind of trouble probably tested these over and over again to make sure they kept perfect time.”

  Ellery paused and scratched her chin.

  “It’s not unheard of to use regular sand. Sometimes people use sand from specific areas for sentimental reasons.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe the sand had some kind of significance for the maker. I really don’t know.”

  She began to peer closely at the timers again.

  “It’s the woodworking that really impresses me, though—the decorative knobs and grass-like fronds on the spindles, the wavy ridges on the tops and bottoms. So distinctive, such excellent craftsmanship.”

  Bill asked, “Do you have any idea who might have made these?”

  The woman chuckled again.

  “Someone who works and lives in this area, you mean? How many sand-timer makers do you think there are around here? And yet …”

  She fingered the wood admiringly.

  “This woodwork is so remarkable. And it does remind me …”

  A dark look crossed her face.

  She shuddered deeply.

  She said, “I think I know someone you should talk to.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Riley was struck by the woman’s expression of extreme distaste—and perhaps of something worse.

  Still stroking the woodwork, Ellery said, “This could be the work of Otis Redlich. He also lives and works in Williamsburg. Pretty close to here, in fact.”

  Riley watched the woman’s reaction as she said, “I take it you don’t like him very much.”

  Ellery shuddered again. She spoke in a distinctly gloomy tone.

  “I used to like him. We were once good friends. Rivals, but friends. He’s a woodworker too, you see. Specializes in furniture restorations. He also makes sand timers.”

  Ellery fell silent for a moment.

  “He was a good man, back while his wife was still alive. Charming, funny, intelligent, a wonderful conversationalist. As you can see, I don’t get out much, don’t socialize. But I did like to spend time with Otis and Peyton, his wife. We’d get together for dinner from time to time. But Peyton died of ovarian cancer about ten years ago and …”

  Ellery shook her head slowly.

  “Otis changed. Completely changed. He got bitter … and mean.”

  Ellery shivered deeply. Riley sensed she was remembering some personal wrong he’d done to her.

  She asked, “Did something happen between you?”

  Ellery seemed to be trying to shake off a memory.

  “Nothing I’d rather talk about,” she said. “It wasn’t anything important, just petty—and hurtful. That’s the way he got—hurtful and manipulative.”

  “And violent?” Riley asked.

  Ellery squinted in thought.

  “No—at least not that I was aware of. The truth is, maybe I shouldn’t … Well, I hate to speak ill of people, but …”

  Riley was tingling all over with keen interest.

  “I’d like for you to give me his address,” she said.

  *

  A few moments later, Riley was driving Bill and Jenn across Williamsburg toward Otis Redlich’s house.

  Jenn asked Riley and Bill, “Do we have any reason to think this could be our guy?”

  “I don’t know,” Bill said. “A lot of this job is about chasing bad leads to dead ends, but we have to do it. What do you think, Riley?”

  Riley didn’t reply. But she kept flashing back to Ellery’s expression when she’d been talking about Otis Redlich.

  She also kept thinking about how Ellery had described how he’d been before his wife’s death.

  “Charming, funny, intelligent, a wonderful conversationalist.”

  Riley remembered her own impressions back at the two crime scenes—her sense that the killer had been charming and likeable.

  She also remembered words Ellery had used to Otis Redlich after he’d changed.

  “… bitter … mean … petty … hurtful … manipulative …”

  Riley couldn’t be sure, but it was starting to seem likely.

  Or was that only wishful thinking? But of course Bill was right. They had to
follow all their leads.

  Riley couldn’t see the sand timers from the driver’s seat. But she could see them clearly in her mind—especially the one that was running now, its fine trickle of sand continuing to flow, with every granule marking the possible difference between life and death.

  As she drove through town, she passed a pair of women walking along in wide, full-length skirts and fancy hats. No doubt they were workers in costume for their jobs in the restored colonial area. At least there, Riley thought, they could create an appearance of time turned back. She and her companions didn’t even have the luxury of that illusion.

  When they arrived at the address Ellery Kuhl had given them, it was quite unlike the little storefront they’d just visited. It was a two-story brick house with decorative shutters beside each window in the classic Williamsburg style. It was a well-kept property in a reasonably prosperous residential area. It appeared that Otis Redlich was markedly better off than Ellery Kuhl.

  Riley parked the car, and she and her colleagues walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. The man who answered was tall and imposing, with big arms and a jutting chin. He carried himself in a rather stiffly dignified manner, and he looked like he was in his fifties.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Are you Otis Redlich?” Riley asked.

  His thin lips twisted slightly at Riley’s question.

  “I am. I wasn’t expecting customers. I’m sure you must know that I do business by appointment only.”

  Riley produced her badge and introduced herself and her colleagues.

  The man’s mouth broadened into a smile.

  “The FBI!” he said. “What a pleasant surprise! Do come in!”

  Riley was taken a bit aback. She couldn’t remember ever paying an unexpected official visit to anyone who’d actually been happy to see her. But on her last case, a pair of killers had feigned delight that the FBI was there. This man’s enthusiasm made her suspicious.

  Riley glanced at Bill and Jenn and could see that they felt the same way.

  They followed the man into a living room decorated with elegant furniture.

  Otis Redlich proudly fingered the fine dark woodwork on a settee.

  “This is an original Chippendale. The demilune table over there is a genuine Sheraton. The mahogany desk is Victorian. Everything here is museum-quality, I assure you—although I do make reproductions. Very good ones, if you happen to be so interested. Indistinguishable from the real thing to the untrained eye. But of course, I don’t suppose you’ve come here for that kind of thing.”

  Riley’s eye was caught by a sand timer sitting on the fireplace mantel. Although it was much smaller than the ones they’d found at the murder scenes, it looked somewhat similar.

  Redlich said, “Oh, I see you’re interested in my hourglass. No, that’s not an antique, it’s my original creation. I quite like hourglasses. I make them as sort of a hobby. Would you care to look at my workshop?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Redlich exited through a door in the back of the room. Riley and her colleagues followed him through a hallway and into a workshop filled with benches, tools, and pieces of furniture in different states of restoration or construction. On one shelf was a row of sand timers of various sizes. Several glass globes were lined up on another shelf, ready to be put into wooden frameworks. Here and there, tiny glints of light sparkled on the smooth surfaces.

  Unlike Ellery Kuhl’s workshop, this one was almost painfully neat and clean—as was Redlich himself. If it weren’t for his large, calloused hands, Riley would find it hard to believe that he ever did any carpentry here or anywhere else. The man struck Riley as weirdly obsessive.

  Redlich said, “Now—how can I help you?”

  Riley said, “Mr. Redlich, could you tell us where you were at around six o’clock this morning and yesterday morning?”

  The man’s smile twisted into a slight sneer.

  “Around the times of the murders, you mean?” he asked. “The ones down at Belle Terre?”

  Riley felt a jolt of surprise.

  How does he know that’s why we’re here? she wondered.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Redlich’s words left Riley speechless. This man was a step ahead of them.

  But if Otis Redlich noticed her surprise, he gave no sign of it. He just kept talking.

  “That is what you’re here about, isn’t it?” he said. “After all, weren’t sand timers found at both of the murder scenes? And how many craftspeople in this vicinity are known to make timers of that sort? Oh, there’s Ellery Kuhl, of course, but I’m sure you’ve already eliminated her as a suspect. A harmless little woman, obviously.”

  Redlich let out a growl-like chuckle.

  “Now where was I during the times in question? Well, I could tell you that I was here at home in bed. But would you believe me? I can’t prove it.”

  Riley’s brain clicked away as she tried to figure out what was going on. Redlich could easily have found out about the murders from the media—the hourglasses too. But he seemed determined to ask the questions as well as give the answers. She knew that guilty people sometimes behaved this way when they felt overconfident.

  This man was obviously very self-confident. But was he guilty?

  And what the hell did he think he was doing?

  Without any change in his condescending smile, Redlich sat down on the only available seat in the room, leaving Riley and her colleagues awkwardly standing.

  He said, “Tell me—in your line of work, is this sort of crime common? A murderer obsessed with time, I mean? I would think that it does happen now and again. After all, the obsession with time is as old as human thought.”

  Riley had to bite her tongue. In fact, she and Bill had dealt with such a killer just last October—the so-called Clock Killer in Delaware, who had posed the arms of his dead victims to signify times on a clock.

  Did Redlich know about that?

  Surely not. He was just enjoying lecturing his audience. And he probably realized that he was successfully pushing Riley’s buttons.

  Apparently Bill was finding the man annoying too. He said sharply, “I think you’d better answer Agent Paige’s question.”

  Redlich raised his eyebrows.

  “Didn’t I answer it already? I thought I did. Yes, I’m quite sure I did. I was here at home in bed. It’s a fact.”

  He crossed his arms and looked smugly at Riley and her colleagues.

  He added, “So you’d better run along, shouldn’t you? Time is of the essence, after all. Literally running out, like sand through your fingers.”

  Riley glanced at Jenn. She saw that the younger agent didn’t look at all disturbed by the man’s torrent of words. She seemed to be listening with great interest.

  Ignoring Bill’s demand, Redlich leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

  He said, “There must have been a magical moment in history—I wish I could have been there—when someone first became aware that they lived in time. That there was a past behind them that they might or might not remember, and a future ahead that they couldn’t predict.”

  He pointed at the sand timers on the shelf.

  “In fact, you could say that humankind has been at war with time all along, trying to conquer it with one invention after another—sundials, candle clocks, oil lamp clocks, water clocks—clepsydra, I believe those are called. And now we have atomic clocks of extraordinary accuracy. But even so, time always wins the battle. No clock can tell us what’s going to happen tomorrow, or an hour from now, or a minute …”

  He leaned forward and whispered …

  “Or a second! We’re helpless against the future. It’s a lost cause. But there’s something heroic about lost causes, isn’t there? And beautifully tragic.”

  Riley recognized the anger behind the man’s words. His cool determination to control the situation was built on an underlying fury with the world.

  She could feel her own temper rising. He cou
ld easily bait her into physical action, but she was determined not to let that happen.

  She realized that Redlich probably hadn’t always been like this. As Ellery Kuhl had told her—he had changed for the worst after his wife had died.

  But had his anger turned him into a murderer?

  Riley glanced at her watch. She almost shuddered to see how many precious minutes they’d spent here already. If Otis Redlich wasn’t the murderer, they were already overdue to eliminate him.

  Whatever was going on, Riley couldn’t let him get the best of her. And if he wanted to play games, she could play them too.

  She took out her cell phone and brought up photos of the two sand timers.

  She said, “Tell me, Mr. Redlich—what do you think of these two timers?”

  Redlich peered closely at the photos.

  He said, “In terms of craftsmanship, you mean? Quite good, I would say. Not unlike my own work. You’ll notice some of the same sorts of patterns on my sand timers—similar images based on plant life.”

  He squinted at the photos.

  “Of course, if the maker was trying to make the two timers identical—well, that’s another story. In that case, I’d consider it quite sloppy. When I choose to make matching pieces, they’re utterly indistinguishable. If that’s what this craftsman intended, he failed.”

  Riley knew she had to make her next tactic do the trick.

  She pointed to the images on her cell phone.

  She said, “What impresses me is the delicacy of the detail. It’s hard for me to imagine the person who made these doing anything ungraceful and vulgar—much less brutal and cruel. For example, breaking all the limbs of his victims before burying them alive—forearms, upper arms, shins, thighs. It strikes me as—inconsistent.”

  “Yes,” Redlich said. “That does seem rather jarring.”

  Riley saw no change in his expression at these phony, made-up details—none at all.

  And that told her everything she needed to know.

  He knew nothing of the murders except what he’d picked up from the media.

  Again she felt a knot of anger rising up in her throat. Since they’d arrived, he’d been giving them a performance for his own sick entertainment.