Amateur Hour

Lisa descended the ladder, once Tuck was at the bottom to hold it steady, for her. The farther she got from the opening above, the more her heart seemed to race, and the heavier her breath sounded, in her ears. She didn’t understand her own apprehension. Tuck had thought of everything, including flashlights that could be used with or without the holders strapped to their wrists.

They wouldn’t be in the dark, and she could no longer smell the fetid air, thanks to the mask’s filters. What was she expecting, then? Some kind of under-the-house monster? It would be a cellar—probably very much like the basement in the church. Just a little bit darker.

By mutual agreement, the shoe covers had remained topside, still in the bag, and the floor of the cellar was gritty, under their shoes.

“You okay?” Tuck asked her, when she reached the bottom of the ladder.

“Of course.”

The first thing Tuck did was to check out the original ladder, which had been shunted aside, in favor of his own sturdy aluminum one. Lisa was shining her light around, taking in nothing at all, when a muffled crunch made her whip around, to face him.

“Damn,” Tuck exclaimed mildly. “The Judge was right about this thing.” He had seized the ladder, put his foot on the bottom rung, and it had broken through. After that, the whole assembly had just come apart, in his hands.

“Vandal. Just drop it, Tuck. It’s beyond this world, now.”

He did drop what was left of it, and it produced a soft clatter where it landed in the dust.

The cellar was a large square of a room, built under her bedroom above, the bathroom, her laundry area, and what would probably be half the length of the hall.

“It’s half the size of your house,” Tuck remarked, as if he’d read her thoughts. “Check this out—“ He headed toward the opposite wall, and shined his light on a set of steps that led up the wall, to nowhere. “It was a storm cellar. These steps led to an outside door.”

“The church has a basement.”

“Probably not large enough for a whole congregation. The church basement may have been intended just for storage.” He chuckled at the bemused look on what was visible of her face. “Welcome to Dixie Alley, Darlin’,” he said.

“Do you have a basement? Are tornadoes that common, around here?”

“I do, and they’re common enough. Remind me to show you where the door is, when we get home. It’s in the goat kitchen.”

“I can’t see anyone taking refuge, in this place.” Lisa shined her light around at the dusty shelves, moldy walls, and cobwebs that were everywhere.

“In its day, it was probably tidy and organized,” Tuck shrugged.

“Please, tell me this isn’t food.” Lisa approached a freestanding shelf, stacked with old cans that had taken on an alarming bulge, and Mason jars filled with cloudy brownish liquid. Tuck was right about one thing, though. The cans and jars were stacked neatly. She could see the remnants of labels on the glass jars.

“It used to be. Looks like some pastor’s wife enjoyed canning. I wonder if this could be rescued.” He was wiping about about a century’s worth of dust from a good sized rectangular box that had various knobs on it.

“What is it?”

“It’s a battery operated radio. Circa 1920, I think.”

“So, a piece of junk.”

“An antique.”

“It’s not even pretty. It wouldn’t be pretty, if you cleaned it up, and it would never be functional. I mean, if you want it, help yourself. You’ll play hell getting it up the ladder.”

“I can come back for it, with something to carry it in.”

Lisa had to laugh, as he gave it a possessive little pat. She laughed even harder, when she spied the moldering, leaking box sitting next to the radio. “Make sure you don’t forget the batteries,” she hooted.

“Those,” he intoned, “are flashlight batteries, Madam.”

Lisa doubled over, mirth getting the better of her. It dried up, when she spotted the shed snake skin, on the floor. When she pointed to it, Tuck stepped on it with the toe of his boot. It crumbled to powder.

“It’s very old,” he observed. Probably a king snake, or something. The rodent hunting was good here, at one time, I reckon.”

Something caught Lisa’s eye then. It appeared to be a large trunk, against the wall opposite the nowhere-leading steps. The thing that had got her attention was the shape of the padlock. It was very old, and as she could see when she reached it, forged in iron. It struck an odd note, as the box was cedar. A simple brass lock would have been more in keeping, she thought.

“Now this,” she said, “might be something worth keeping.”

It was Tuck’s turn to laugh.

“Yeah, and you’ll keep it right down here, too. Talk about something that wouldn’t go up a ladder, let alone through the hatch at the top. That thing came down here, when there was a proper door for it to come through.”

“Shut up. The lock is draconian looking, but the chest is cedar.”

“Whatever, Pandora. I can see the gears turning, right now. What is it with women and boxes, anyway?”

“Curiosity. Don’t you wonder what’s in it?”

“No. I know what’s in it. Dry-rotted clothes and maybe a dry-rotted quilt or two.”

“I’m sure you’re right. After all, I’ve always used an iron lock the size of my beau’s fist, to secure my old clothes in a cedar chest,” she retorted, with a pointed look at one of his hands.

“Beau, huh?” Tuck laughed, and reached for the handle at one end of the chest.

“That’s the only part of that sentence you heard?”

“It was the best part,” he chuckled, then lifted the end of the chest, to test its weight.

He wasn’t ready for the thumps of something solid striking the side of the box, then the bottom.

Lisa jumped back, with a stifled shriek, and Tuck let go of the handle, as if it had shocked him.

“It’s not full, and that’s not clothing.” He absently wiped his gloved hand against his leg.

“You don’t say.”

“I’m sure it’s just…”

“Yes? This should be good.”

“Well, I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out.”

“Where are you going?” Lisa demanded, following him to the foot of the ladder.

“To get my hammer, and a couple of other things. I’ll be right back.” He was up the ladder faster than a man with a recovering knee injury should have been, and she could hear him jogging across the wood overhead, until he reached the other half of the house.

Every second he was gone seemed like an hour, as she was overcome with apprehension again. It was preternaturally cold, all of a sudden, and her mouth felt dry. Lisa reached out and gripped the frame of the ladder, feeling it bite into her right thumb, as she played her light around the room.

There was nothing to see, of course. A pair of ancient, steel bladed oscillating fans on a low shelf; a filthy old mirror; a cluster of oil lamps on an old table. There were things down here, yes, but not a lot of clutter. Nothing appeared to be of a later vintage than the fifties, anyway. She had spotted some children’s toys that looked to be of about that era.

It seemed creepy that children would be playing down here, at all, until she remembered what Tuck had said about it being organized and tidy, once upon a time. She supposed people might simply retreat to the cellar, if the weather was threatening enough, lacking much in the way of early warnings. Keeping toys downstairs for the kids was sensible, viewed in that light.

Nothing more loathsome than a screaming brat.

Where had that thought come from? For the most part, Lisa liked children.

What would you give, for a pinch of salt, right now? The thought-voice jeered at her. No, you’re not alone.

Intrusive thoughts. It had been years since she had had them. They were brought on by stress, and they sounded just like this—sly, taunting, poisonous.

The sound of Tucks returning footsteps made her want to weep with relief.

As if he could save you from your own mind…

“Shut up,” Lisa growled.

“You say something?” Tuck’s face appeared above her, peering down.

“Probably nothing you want to hear. Where did you go for the hammer? Atlanta?”

“That Will—he has everything in that truck box, including these,” he dangled a pair of bolt cutters into the opening. “Can you reach them?”

“Yeah.”

“Careful, they’re kinda heavy.”

They were, but not too heavy. The weight of them was enough to make her right thumb throb, however. Lisa had taken them into that hand, in order to avoid blinding Tuck with the flashlight attached to her left wrist.

Tuck climbed down, the tools on the belt around his waist making an absurd clatter against the frame of the ladder. “I’m loaded for bear, now,” he said, stepping off the bottom rung.

“I haven’t seen any bears.”

She saw the smile lines around his eyes, quickly followed by the frown lines.

“Are you okay?” He placed both hands on her shoulders, gripping them lightly.
“Just a little tired.” In truth, she felt more tired than she should have.

“It is getting a bit late. Let me have one quick go at that lock, and we’ll call it a day.”

What could she do, but nod in agreement? “Why not just go straight for the bolt cutter?” she asked when Tuck hunkered down, in front of the lock.

“Want to see if it’s necessary, first. Give me a little light?”

Lisa trained her light more onto the lock.

“Sometimes the inner mechanism breaks down, and the hasp will pop loose, with a little persuasion.” He proceeded to draw a hammer out of its loop, then a chisel from somewhere else. The first blow had no effect, nor did the second. After three tries, he gave it up. “Too bad,” he shrugged, and rose to his feet.

Lisa handed him the bolt cutter, when he had replaced the other tools.

“Here goes,” he said. “Hope I have the upper body strength, for this.”

The bolt cutter bit into the iron pretty well, but not well enough. Tuck rested a moment, and tried again. The cutter sank more deeply into the metal, yet not all the way through.

“Can I help?” Lisa offered.

“Maybe. See if you can slip in under my arms, and grab the handles, just a little in front of my hands.”

It wasn’t a difficult maneuver, and she was able to stay well clear of the ends of the handles.

“On three?” she suggested, over her shoulder.

“On three. One; two—“

On the count of three, Lisa squeezed the handles with all her might. The blades sundered the hasp, with a snap. Lisa couldn’t suppress the yelp that escaped her.

“Are you hurt?” Tuck demanded, dropping the cutters, to turn her around, by her shoulders.

“No— It’s just a sting from the recoil. Surprised me, is all. Will we have to cut both sides?”

“Not if our luck is in. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Getting a little tired, but fine.” She felt like she had been run over by a steamroller.

Tuck nodded, not entirely convinced, she saw. He knelt in front of the chest again, and grabbed the lock. “Hallelujah,” he muttered, when the lock turned freely on the remaining half of the hasp. After a little twisting and manipulation, the lock lay in his right hand. “Heavy,” he noted, rising. He bounced it in his big paw, a couple of times, then offered it to Lisa.

The weight of the thing surprised her, and she nearly dropped it. She handed it back to Tuck, who set it aside, on a nearby crate.

“You want to do the honors?” he asked.

“Not particularly. You go ahead.” She did step closer, to observe, however.

“Here we go, then,” he smiled, then lifted the lid.

Lisa bit off a scream, but she did jump backwards. Tuck merely stared at the contents of the box, mentally cataloging what he could see. One skeleton, presumably male, from the way it was dressed; with a shattered bone in the left leg– visible because the pants leg had been cut away; a brown stained makeshift bandage; one candle stub, two hanks of rope, and a burnt match. The skeleton was seated in an upright position. The skull lay at the bottom of the chest where it had fallen when Tuck had picked up the end.

For a moment, he debated whether to close the lid, or push it the rest of the way open. He opted for the latter, and shined his light directly into the chest, for a better look. A sitting skeleton, a candle stub, and a match that had been lighted. Tuck didn’t like what that suggested. He reached into the chest, to search the clothes for any identification.

“Leave it, Tucker.” Lisa’s voice was pleading. “It’s getting dark, up there,” she nodded toward the opening in the floor.

At that moment, Tuck’s fingers snagged something. It was the chain of a pocket watch. He extracted it, quickly, and lacking a plastic bag, grabbed the wrist end of his right glove and drew it down so that the glove was now inside out, enclosing the watch. He stowed it in the front pocket of his tool belt. He shut the lid of the chest.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said. He was as eager to leave as Lisa was.

She ascended first then turned to reach down for the bolt cutters, which he passed up to her, before mounting the ladder, himself.

She’d been right. It was falling dusk, now. The room blazed to light, even as he thought it. Lisa had switched on the lights, to make it easier to fit the hatch back into place. She had taken off her mask, he noticed, and he did likewise. The cold air in the room hit his face, like a reviving slap.

Tuck lifted the door, stood it on end, and let it drop toward the opening. A small shove set it into place. He looked around for the bolt cutters, then saw they were already in Lisa’s hand.

“You really are ready to go,” he remarked, with a smile.

“I believe I said as much.” Her tone was weary.

“You did, and we’re out of here,” Tuck nodded. He followed her down the hall. They were both silent, as they removed their coveralls. Tuck stripped off his remaining glove, and waited for Lisa to follow suit. The left glove came off, quickly enough.

She began to turn away, to remove the right one, but stopped when he shook his head. Defiantly, she tore off the right glove—or, she would have done, but the jury rigged bandage underneath got in the way.

There was a very large bloodstain on the bandage, but it was almost dry. That being the case, Tuck opted for the mild approach.

“Let me guess—you were bitten by a dull utility knife.”

“It turned, in my hand, and cut the other one,” Lisa admitted.

“That’s going to have to be soaked of. By now, it’s glued to the cut. Is it very deep?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Let’s go soak it, then.”

“Let me look this over, first. You relax and soak.”

Tuck didn’t see her indignant look. He was focused on the watch, in his gloved hands. “This isn’t gold,” he remarked. I think it might be pinchbeck.”

“Which is…?”

“It’s an alloy that looks more or less like gold, depending on the formula. These gemstones aren’t genuine, either, I’ll bet.” He pressed the clasp, and opened the case. “NGL,” he read.

“Not gonna lie?” It was a nervous joke.

“No, those are the initials inside. Noah G. Lovejoy?”

“Maybe we have Lovejoy on the brain, both of us. Why would a Lovejoy be found dead, in an old church storm cellar?”

“Someone else put him there, obviously, if it is him. I’ll look into Noah a little more, tomorrow.” Tuck closed the watch case, and examined the fobs on the chain. One looked to be of a better quality than the others. It was smaller than those, and was made of sterling. It was set with an onyx, and opened like a locket. The onyx was shattered.

Tuck had to use his thumbnail, to open the cover. Inside was a lock of chestnut hair, and an inscription. “Happy Anniversary, to my Beloved ‘G.’. Beatrice—,” he read. He glanced at Lisa. “What are you doing?” he demanded, watching her tug on the bandage. “Stop that!”

“I’d like to get rid of this, before the kids get home.”

“They practically just left. Soak for a few more minutes, then I’ll dump that bowl, for fresh.”

“Who even owns a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, that big?”

“Someone with livestock, dirt, and things that will cut, scrape, or spindle you.” He was detaching the silver fob, as he spoke.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Because, if the body we found was Noah’s, I don’t think this belonged to him.”

“Whose could it be, besides his?”

“Not all anniversaries are wedding anniversaries.”

“No. And, if it is Noah, he wouldn’t be likely to have been Beatrice’s ‘Beloved’,” Lisa admitted. “You think it belonged to the Judge.”

“’Beloved ‘G.’ ?’ Yes, I do. I’ll be right back,” he got up from the table, and found a smaller bowl than the one she was using for her hand. He pulled another big bottle, from under the sink and dumped a copious amount into the bowl.

Lisa wrinkled her nose a little, at the smell of the alcohol. “I’m not putting this hand into that.”

“It’s not for you,” he smiled a little, recapping the bottle, and stowing it back under the sink. He disappeared for a moment, and came back with a pair of tweezers and another thing that she knew all too well—a horsehair acid brush.

“If you mean to scrub that fob, you’ll want to trim those bristles, some. They don’t need to be half that length.”

Tuck nodded, somewhat impressed. She wasn’t going to try to talk him out of it, then. With a pair of kitchen shears, he trimmed the brush to the length she described.

Back at the table, he reopened the fob, and lifted the lock of hair out, using the tweezers. Gripping it firmly, he lowered it into the alcohol, and swished it around gently, until it was saturated. He pulled it out, and laid it on a paper towel to dry. He submerged the fob, next, and pulled off the gloves.

“Come on— Let’s change your peroxide.”

Lisa pulled her hand out of the bowl, and placed it on an old scrap of dishtowel, trying to drip as little as possible.

“Leave the bandage alone,” Tuck said, walking away, to dump the bowl. He had the scissors in his other hand, when he came back, with the bowl of fresh liquid. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

He held out his left hand. “Palm up, into my palm,” he instructed. Lisa complied, and he worked the scissors up under the bandage. Luckily, it was t-shirt material, and had some give.

In two whacks, of the scissors, it was halved. It fell away from her hand, to the base of her thumb on the back. Tuck cut that excess off.

“Back in, you go,” he said, carrying the bandage to the trash. He resumed his seat, and pulled the gloves back on. He attacked the fob, with the brush, scrubbing every crevice. Alcohol wouldn’t remove the tarnish, of course, but it would disinfect the thing. He wondered what had broken the stone. The fob was in good structural condition. Temperature extremes, he guessed. “It is only glass, after all…” he muttered, to himself.

“What is?” Lisa asked.

“Oh, I was thinking about the stone. Onyx is only glass. No wonder it broke.”

“You’re thinking of obsidian,” Lisa told him. “Obsidian is glass. Onyx is a stone.”

“Oops. Well, it still could have been extreme cold.”

“The Mason jars are still intact. So are the old oil lamps. All of the black stones in my house, on the other hand…” she trailed off, with a shrug. “What are you going to do with it?” she asked as he set it aside, to dry. “By the way, it’ll dry faster, if you put a small frying pan on the stove, on a low heat, and put the fob in the pan.”

He gave her a surprised look.

“Trust me,” she said.

“I’d like to have it restored,” he replied, following her advice. “I don’t know why. It’s just a notion.”

“No harm in that, I suppose.”

“No.” He turned to wash his hands with hot water, from the sink. “Let’s have another look.”

Lisa sighed in relief, when the rest of the bandage came off at his light tug.

Tuck turned her hand, to survey the damage. “Soak it some more, to get it clean. It doesn’t look too deep. We might get away with butterflies, if you don’t get infected.”

Lisa frowned. He had been brusque, since they had left the rectory. The ride in Will’s truck had been tense, making Lisa wish she had driven her own car.

She was very tired. Drained. She knew she wouldn’t rest tonight, though, with this still hanging over her. She decided to be direct.

“I should have told you about my hand.”

“Yes,” Tuck agreed. “Why didn’t you?”

“Pride, I guess. It was embarrassing.”

“I see.”

“I’m trying to apologize, and you’re not helping.”

“Okay. I accept your apology. I’m just disappointed. Blot that dry, while I get the patch-up stuff.” He offered her a little smile, before he left.

When he returned, he had a good-sized first aid bag. Lisa balked, when she saw the alcohol bottle come out.

“Relax. I just want to wipe the area where the adhesive needs to stick. When was your last tetanus shot?” he asked, as he swabbed the area, carefully avoiding the raw part of the wound.

“The last I remember was the one I had when I was eight.”

“We’ll take you in for one, tomorrow, and have someone look at this. They might want to give you an antibiotic, too. I wonder if I can get some ointment on it, without making a mess. Probably should have done that, before the alcohol.”

“You’re tired.”

“Yeah.” Tuck squeezed a miniscule amount of antibiotic ointment onto the end of a cotton swab. “This may hurt, a little.”

Lisa managed not to move, while he worked the ointment into the cut, trying not to go too deeply. It was more painful, when he applied the butterfly closures, pressing the sides of the wound as close together as he could.

“Sorry,” he apologized, seeing her grimace, once. “I thought I had some lidocaine ointment, but I couldn’t find it.”

“I’m fine. You’ve done this, before.”

“Many times,” he half smiled. “There. That should hold you, for tonight.” He followed it up with a non-stick pad, and a light wrap of gauze. “Try not to flex it, too much. Do you want anything for pain?”

“Couple of aspirin, maybe? And something with caffeine?”

“Go on out to the living room, and I’ll bring us some coffee, when it’s ready.”

Lisa obeyed, installing herself on the sofa. The mantel clock chimed seven. It was hard to believe that it was still so early. The kids would just be going onstage, soon. She felt like everyone should already be home and getting ready for bed. Tuck was still bustling around in the kitchen, putting things away and running water for the coffee when she nodded off.

When she woke up, he was already sitting next to her, and had been, for a little while. According to the clock, it was 7:30. Lisa sat up, and reached for the two tablets on the table, and swallowed them with her first sip from the cup. It had cooled to the perfect temperature for drinking.

“I was wondering if I was going to have to give you a nudge,” Tuck remarked.

“Everything’s still not all right, is it?” She sighed. She was at a loss.

“Not quite, but it will be. I just have to work through my own stuff.”

“Your disappointment.”

“Yeah. It’s not really fair for me to expect you to grasp, all at once, that you’re not just an island.”

“You sound like Janice.”

“Do I?” He smiled a small, rueful smile.

“Yes. You’re both probably right, too. Does that help?”

“A little,” he nodded, and sipped at his own cup. “It gives me some hope, at least. You’re also under a tremendous amount of stress, so I have to consider that, as well.” Tuck seemed to be directing the last comment to himself. “Are you hungry?” He changed the subject abruptly.

“I could eat,” Lisa admitted. The coffee was beginning to revive her. She was still tired, but less sleepy.

“Pizza?”

“Sounds great.”

“I know a place that has really good pizza, but they don’t deliver this far out. I’ll make a run. You stay here, rest, enjoy the dogs—“

“Do the horses need to be fed?”

“Will got them, before he left.”

Tuck was in his jacket and out the door, in seconds. Lisa heard the truck start, then pull away. When she could no longer hear the engine, she got up and put on her own jacket. Will might have fed the horses, but had he put their blankets on, as well? She decided to go and check.

The horses were happy to see her. They had not been covered, for the night, as it turned out. Will had most likely figured that she and Tuck would take care of it. It hadn’t been the coldest of days, but it was quite chilly, now. The occasional stomp of a hoof told her that the horses were feeling it, too.

Lisa started with Polly, at the rear of the barn, and worked her way, forward, finishing with Luna. Not one of the animals gave her any trouble—even antsy Rocket seemed grateful for the added warmth. She spent a little extra time, with her own horse, stroking, patting, and talking soft nonsense.

More time had passed in the barn than she had realized, because Tuck pulled up in the truck, at the same time she reached the house.

“I was dressing the horses in their evening gowns,” she explained, at his questioning look.

His expression lightened. “That was very thoughtful. Thanks, Darlin’. Let’s eat, before this gets cold.”

He seemed better, over dinner, and was nearly himself again, by the time he kissed her goodnight.