In Silence Sealed Read online

  IN SILENCE SEALED

  by

  J.R. Lindermuth

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  Published by

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC

  Copyright © 2018 by J.R. Lindermuth

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-68299-273-9

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Kelly Martin

  Editor: Dave Field

  Printed in the United States of America

  Other Books by Author Available at Torrid Books:

  www.torridbooks.com

  Shares The Darkness

  Whiskey Creek Press

  Something in Common

  Cruel Cuts

  Corruption's Daughter

  Watch The Hour

  The Limping Dog

  Being Someone Else

  Practice To Deceive

  A Burning Desire

  Dedication

  For those who struggle to understand love.

  The family only represents one aspect, however important an aspect, of a human being’s functions and activities.

  ~ Havelock Ellis

  The human heart has hidden treasures,

  In secret kept, in silence sealed;

  The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,

  Whose charms were broken if revealed.

  ~ Charlotte Bronte

  For my sister Jerry

  in appreciation for her continued support.

  Chapter 1

  Hetrick rounded the bend and spied a man striding across the stubble-field towards him.

  The detective pulled off the road and parked. Hetrick knew Clay Stoneroad by reputation, though they’d never met, and he had no idea why the writer wanted to meet out here in the country. He got out and stood by the truck, waiting for the man who’d called him.

  A short man in his mid-sixties, though still physically trim, the writer wore a light gray sweater over a russet canvas shirt, faded jeans, and an old pair of leather boots. He had a long, lean face distinguished by dark eyes under bushy brows. An untrimmed mustache covered his upper lip.

  “Hetrick?” Stoneroad asked, extending a hand.

  “Yes.” They shook. “How can I help you?”

  Stoneroad cocked his head, gazing at him with a crooked grin. “My wife said they call you Sticks. I see why. A bit on the tall and rangy side, aren’t you?” When Hetrick didn’t reply, he went on. “Sorry. No offense meant. I’m sure people call me a lot of names I’m not aware of behind my back. At least your nickname suits you.”

  A stiff breeze rippled across the field, rattling brush and raising a flock of grackle from the field. The breeze struck the trees around the field, shaking loose a flurry of colored leaves that fell to join those already littering the ground.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Stoneroad grinned again. “A man who gets right to the point, eh?” He nodded. “I guess there is no reason to put it off. Quite simply, I need protection.”

  “Someone’s threatened you?”

  A curt nod. “Yes.” He hesitated, then added, “Well, maybe. I’m not exactly sure.”

  “Have you contacted the police?”

  “I called you.”

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  Stoneroad pursed his lips and blew breath. “I don’t know anyone on the police force. I’m sure they’re competent. But I heard good things about you. I’d rather put my trust in someone with a sound reputation.”

  “I’m county detective, sir. I don’t take on private security assignments.”

  Stoneroad drew a flask from his hip pocket and extended it. “Have a taste. It’s good bourbon.”

  “No, thanks.”

  The man shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He drew the stopper, raised the flask, tilted his head, and took a swallow.

  “About this threat?”

  Pocketing the flask, Stoneroad grinned and nodded. “You are interested.”

  “Curious. Since I’m here I might offer some suggestions.”

  The wind spun leaves around them. The writer hunched his shoulders and shivered. “Think we might continue our conversation in your truck?” He jerked his chin in its direction.

  Hetrick beckoned him to follow.

  “Tell me about the threats,” he said once they were seated in the cab.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” Stoneroad asked, pulling out a pipe and pouch.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “All right. I won’t then.” He put the pouch back in his pocket but kept the pipe cradled in one hand. “Have you read any of my books?”

  “No.”

  “Good. They’re all nonsense—not worth the time of a sensible person. I write what’s commonly identified as Roman a clef. Generally, that means the characters are real people depicted with fictitious names. In my case it’s bullshit. It’s all fiction. I don’t know anyone worth using in this way. Yet, you’d be surprised how many people see themselves in my work. Or at least think they do.”

  “And you think one of those people has taken offense?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Actually…”

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s happened? Has someone said something to you…”

  Stoneroad chuckled. “You must think I’m an old fool, imagining things.”

  “Sometimes the things we imagine turn out to be too real.”

  “Ah, good line. I’ll have to remember it for one of my stories.”

  “You still haven’t told me why you feel threatened. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  He grunted. “That’s usually the best place to begin a story. All right. We’ve only been here for less than a year. I’ve lived in a variety of places, but usually in a city. I’m city-born and bred. Lillian—that’s the wife. She’s been begging me for years to buy a place in the country. She’s an artist. Not a landscape artist, though. Her work is abstract. The kind of stuff an artist can do in any environment. Anyway, she grew up in the country and has been longing to get back to her rural roots.” He paused, glancing at the detective. "Are you married Hetrick?”

  “I’m a widower.” He didn’t feel inclined to reveal his relationship with Anita.

  “At least you can remember how it was to try and please a woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “An old friend of Lillian’s lives in Swatara Creek. Millicent Klinger. Maybe you know her?”

  “I know her husband. I know Mrs. Klinger to see her.”

  “She told Lil about the farm being for sale. Lillian had no rest until we drove up from Philadelphia to see it. She was so thrilled with the place, I made an offer on the spot. The agent—young girl name of Brubaker—was ecstatic. I think it must have been her first big ticket sale.”

  “Lydia Brubaker. Her dad’s the police chief.”

  “Really? I wasn’t aware of that. Anyway, in the short time we’ve bee
n here I’ve discovered I like living in the bush even more than Lillian. When I’m not working I like getting outside and walking over the fields and in the woods. No people. Just goddamned wonderful peace and quiet. Sometimes I think the world would be a much saner, better place if there wasn’t so much humanity cluttering it up. Know what I mean?”

  Hetrick ignored the question. “When did you start feeling threatened?”

  “I’m getting there.” He fiddled with the pipe. “Be patient with me.”

  “All right. Listen, if you really need to smoke…”

  Stoneroad gave a little laugh. “Uh-huh. You sound like an ex-smoker—a man who knows how trying it is when you’re trying to resist the desire.” He put the pipe back in his sweater pocket. “It’s all right. I can wait.

  “The threats—I’m not sure if that’s the right word. They’ve been more rectilinear than direct. The phone rings, and there’s no one there. Someone skulking about in the woods, following me. When I try to confront them, there’s no one around. The impression someone is staring at me through a window. When I turn around, he’s not there.”

  “You said he. Is there a particular person you think responsible?”

  “You sound as though you believe me.”

  “I’m taking you at your word.”

  He laughed again. “I’m relieved. Finally, someone believes me. Lillian and the others don’t.”

  “Others?”

  “Nan. My secretary. And Jason. My stepson.”

  “They live with you?”

  “Yes. It’s a big house. Why not?”

  “Of course. Please—go on.”

  “There isn’t much more to tell.”

  “These threats—are you certain they’re directed at you?”

  Stoneroad scrunched up his forehead and peered at Hetrick. “I’m not sure I understand you.”

  “There are other people in the household. Could the threats be directed at them?”

  He guffawed. “Not likely. Lil is the gentlest, kindest woman in the world. She has no enemies. Nan? Same thing. Sweet, lovely girl. Can’t imagine anyone threatening her.”

  “What about the stepson?”

  “Even less likely. He’s a worthless shit. Never did a bit of work in his life. Sponges off me. Did the same with his mother before I came along.”

  Hetrick thought a moment, then said: “I wouldn’t be too concerned about the phone calls. People call wrong numbers all the time and hang up without the courtesy of apologizing. As to the other things…”

  “Dammit, man. I’m not imagining it.”

  “So you do feel you’re the one being threatened?”

  “I do. Gawd, I hate admitting it. I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life. Until now. Now I hesitate to go outside at night. I hate being alone in the house. Thank God, I seldom am. But, yes. I do feel threatened. I fear for my life, Mr. Hetrick. Won’t you help me?”

  * * * *

  “What are you going to do?” Anita asked.

  Hetrick had told her about his encounter with the man over dinner. Now, as they had their coffee, she brought up the subject again. Sticks thought he’d already made his position clear.

  “There isn’t much I can do. I suggested he talk to Aaron—a suggestion he declined. I’m not in a position to go out there and be his bodyguard, particularly since he’s not shown any evidence of being in imminent danger.”

  “Do you think he’s imagined the threats?”

  Couperin’s Harpsichord Suite No. 6 played softly in the background.

  “I can’t say. They seem very real to him.” He paused for a sip of coffee. “Fear is an irrational thing. Who can say what provokes it in one person and not another. From our conversation I have a theory. He told me since they came here he hasn’t been able to write. Writer’s block I believe it’s called. This is a man who has always lived in the hustle and bustle of the city. Now he finds himself in a strange, new place, a place where everything is different to him. As he’s adjusting to this he discovers himself unable to do the thing most important to him. Walking about in these new surroundings, anxious about his problem, he experiences unaccustomed sounds, movements, shadows, whatever…”

  “So you do think he’s imagining things?”

  Hetrick shrugged. He brought the pot from the stove and refilled their cups. “It’s only a theory,” he told her.

  “But what if it isn’t his imagination?”

  He sat down, moved the creamer over to Anita. “When he refused my advice about talking to Aaron, I offered another suggestion. I told him to consider hiring a private detective. I gave him the names of a couple retired cops who might take on the job of providing on-site security.”

  “What did he say?”

  Hetrick snorted. “He made me a financial offer he thought I might not be able to decline.”

  “And?”

  “I told him it was a more than generous offer, but I couldn’t possibly accept.”

  “Do you think he’ll hire someone else?”

  “I don’t know. I hope he does for his own peace of mind, even if there is no real danger. It seems he could afford it without any hardship.”

  Anita stirred sugar into her coffee. “Have you read any of his books?”

  “Doesn’t sound like my sort of thing. Have you?”

  “A couple. I liked the first better than the latest. You’re right. I don’t think they’re the kind of book you’d enjoy.”

  “Chick-lit?”

  She chuckled. “Oh, no. They’re very literate. I just don’t think you’d have much empathy for the type of characters he writes about.”

  “Truthfully, I don’t think I even recognized his name when Izzy Flint wrote that article in the Herald, after word leaked out they’d bought the old Swanger farm. Aaron told me about the nice commission Lydia made on the sale, and I was more happy about that, than curious about the man.”

  Anita nodded. “After I read the story I sent him a note asking if he might be willing to talk to our book club at the library. He never replied. I didn’t feel inclined to embarrass myself by asking again.”

  “I didn’t get the impression he’s the most courteous of men.”

  “Still, if he’s really in danger…”

  “I don’t think he is.” Hetrick drained his cup. “But, to be on the safe side, I will mention our conversation to Aaron.”

  They cleared the table, Anita put their dishes in the dishwasher while Hetrick took out the trash. Then they retreated to the living room, had a glass of wine, and watched the evening news on television.

  Through the evening, for reasons not altogether clear to him, Hetrick’s thoughts kept returning to Stoneroad and he wondered if his impression of the man’s situation was the correct one.

  Chapter 2

  “My dad would have a fit if he knew I came here,” Lydia Brubaker said.

  Jason grinned. “What’s wrong with Vinnie’s? I kind of like the place, considering it’s where we spend most of our time.”

  Lydia felt his hand on her thigh beneath the table. She leaned forward. “It has a reputation.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “It is when it comes to my dad.”

  Jason gave her another of those boyish grins that were among the things she found so enticing about him. “I’ve never dated a cop’s daughter before. Is he strict?”

  Dating? Lydia wondered if that was the right word for it. They’d been seeing one another for about two weeks now, meeting in bars here and over in Harrisburg and out at the diner on the highway where she’d always been the one paying for the beers and their food. Making out in their cars. Could any of this be classified as dating? Jason was attractive—well, sexy. No guy had turned her on the way he did in a long while. Still, it was more than a sexual attraction made her want to be with him. She couldn’t explain it, even to herself.

  “Lydia?” he said again, and she realized he was waiting for an answer to his question.

 
“He can be,” she said. “Mostly he’s a big pussycat when it comes to me. But there’s a limit to what I can get away with. For instance, being seen in this place.”

  Jason laughed. “What’s he gonna do—ground you? You’re an adult, aren’t you?

  “Of course. It’s just…”

  He leaned closer, his brown eyes peering into hers. “You know, that’s something I don’t understand. You make a pretty good buck, yet you’re still living at home with your parents.”

  “This from a guy who still lives with his mother.”

  “My case is different. We just moved here. And I don’t have a job.”

  His hands were both flat on the table again. Lydia regretted her remark. She reached across and squeezed one of those beautiful hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure you’ll find something soon.

  “My parents are pretty cool. They’ve insisted I stay with them and build up a good bank account before I go out on my own. Actually,” Lydia added and felt the heat of a blush she hoped Jason wouldn’t notice in the dim light of the bar, “I think they’re hoping I’ll meet somebody and get married rather than moving into an apartment on my own.”

  “I’m sure you’ve already had plenty of offers.” He squeezed her hand back.

  Lydia frowned. “None I’ve taken seriously.”

  “I’d like to meet your folks.”

  “Really? But I’m not supposed to socialize with yours. Like last week when I offered to come out to the farm and pick you up…”

  Jason shook his head. “You don’t want to spend time with them. They’re the original odd couple. Besides, I like it better when it’s only the two of us.”

  Just then Lydia was jolted forward as someone bumped against the back of her chair. “Hey, watch it!” she shouted, twisting around.

  “Sorry, hon,” a seedy-looking older man holding two mugs of beer in his hands said in apology. “I don’t think I spilled none on you.” He nodded at the two of them and continued on his way, weaving a staggering path toward another table to the rear.