Whispers

Below the body of the letter, in ink, there was a fine forgery of Bruno Frye’s signature. It had to be a forgery, of course. Frye was dead already when these lines were written.

The skin tingled on the back of Joshua’s neck, and for some reason he thought of Friday night: walking out of Avril Tannerton’s funeral home, stepping into the pitch-black night, being certain that something dangerous was nearby, sensing an evil presence in the darkness, a thing crouching and waiting.

“What is it?” Preston asked.

Joshua handed over the paper.

Preston read it and was amazed. “What in the world?”

“It must have been put in the box by the imposter who cleaned out the accounts,” Joshua said.

“But why would he do such a thing?”

“Perhaps it’s a hoax,” Joshua said. “Whoever he is, he evidently enjoys a good ghost story. He knew we’d find out that he’d looted the checking and savings, so he decided to have some fun with us.”

“But it’s so … strange,” Preston said. “I mean, you might expect a self-congratulatory note, something that would rub our faces in it. But this? It doesn’t seem like the work of a practical joker. Although it’s weird and doesn’t always make tense, it seems so … earnest.”

“If you think it’s not merely a hoax, then what do you think?” Joshua asked. “Are you telling me Bruno Frye wrote this letter and put it in the safe-deposit box after he died?”

“Well … no. Of course not.”

“Then what?”

The banker looked down at the letter in his hands. “Then I would say that this imposter, this man who looks so remarkably like Mr. Frye and talks like Mr. Frye, this man who carries a driver’s license in Mr. Frye’s name, this man who knew that Mr. Frye had accounts in First Pacific United–this man isn’t just pretending to be Mr. Frye. He actually thinks he is Mr. Frye.” He looked up at Joshua. “I don’t believe that an ordinary thief with a prankster’s turn of mind would compose a letter like this. There’s genuine madness in it.”

Joshua nodded. “I’m afraid I have to agree with you. But where did this doppelganger come from? Who is he? How long has he been around? Was Bruno aware that this man existed? Why would the look-alike share Bruno’s obsessive fear and hatred of Katherine Frye? How could both men suffer from the same delusion–the belief that she had come back from the dead? There are a thousand questions. It truly boggles the mind.”

“It certainly does,” Preston said. “And I don’t have any answers for you. But I do have one suggestion. This Hilary Thomas should be told that she may be in grave danger.”

***

After Frank Howard’s funeral, which was conducted with full police honors, Tony and Hilary caught the 11:55 flight from Los Angeles. On the way north, Hilary worked at being bubbly and amusing, for she could see that the funeral had depressed Tony and had brought back horrible memories of the Monday morning shootout. At first, he slumped in his seat, brooding, barely responding to her. But after a while, he seemed to become aware of her determination to cheer him up, and, perhaps because he didn’t want her to feel that her effort was unappreciated, he found his lost smile and began to come out of his depression. They landed on time at San Francisco International Airport, but the two o’clock shuttle flight to Napa was now rescheduled for three o’clock because of minor mechanical difficulties.

With time to kill, they ate lunch in an airport restaurant that offered a view of the busy runways. The surprisingly good coffee was the only thing to recommend the place; the sandwiches were rubbery, and the french fries were soggy.

As the time approached for their departure for Napa, Hilary began to dread going. Minute by minute, she grew more apprehensive.

Tony noticed the change in her. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know exactly. I just feel like … well, maybe this is wrong. Maybe we’re just rushing straight into the lion’s den.”

“Frye is down there in Los Angeles. He doesn’t have any way of knowing that you’re going to St. Helena,” Tony said.

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