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noirornothing · 5 years ago

Text

The Cider Field

Word Count -- 1956

Genre – Descriptive Drama, Established Business Partners

Warnings -- Brief similies related to child abuse and spousal conflict. Allusions to alcoholism.

“Evidence is dead, Tinsley.”

It was the end of the world as he knew it.

Empty streets haunted by the reflections of what may or may not have been eyes, tracking his every move. The invisible glint of a gun barrel under the streetlamps accompanied by phantom scuffing of leather shoes on the pavement.

He ducked into an alley, back pressed against wet, crumbling bricks as he listened—his efforts met with nothing but dripping water, pooling beneath his feet. Remnants from the rainstorm earlier that day.

Convinced he hadn’t been followed, Tinsley continued down the alley, traveling with brisk steps as he traversed the near-abandoned neighborhood. It was the district that separated his office from the more upscale facilities closer to the city’s core financial sector. Essentially, it was what stood between him and the only man who might be able to save his life.

A cat hissed on his right before scrambling behind some debris, earning a gasp of surprise. Once he recovered he discovered he was almost out—the bright lights of professional buildings shining bright in the distance, despite the odd hour.

Goldsworth hadn’t answered his calls. That meant either he had returned home for the evening, or he’d been targeted as well. The latter was unthinkable, so he refocused on the former. The home of Ricky Goldsworth.

Tinsley hadn’t ever mentioned it, but he knew the address—a short three minutes from the man’s respective office. An easy commute.

He picked up the pace, crossing a wide street which signified a transition into a finer neighborhood. The street was only three blocks away and there hadn’t been any cause for concern, but nevertheless, he bordered on running. There was no time to waste in love and war.

Thankfully not long after that, the apartments came into view— nice, but not overly extravagant, offerings. He conquered the staircase in seconds, racing up two flights after crossing through the unguarded lobby. It wasn’t until he reached the door marked 214 that he stopped, knuckles hovering just over the wood. He dropped his hand at the last second, opting to press his ear against the door instead.

Muffled voices. Charismatic. Scripted.

He knocked, three swift motions, and waited. His chest rose and fell with more intensity than he would have liked, but he felt it was appropriate regarding the situation.

A shadow appeared in the space between the door and the floor. No sound or twisting of the lock meant the man was checking to see who had come to his door so near to midnight.

“It’s important,” he said, once he was certain Ricky was listening. The shadow shifted, and the knob subsequently turned. For a brief second, he entertained the idea that it might not be Ricky at the door but shoved the thought down with the rest of his worries. There was nothing he could do about it if that was the case.

Fortunately, when the door slid open it revealed a figure that was very much Ricky Goldsworth.

He was clad in partial work attire—dress shirt, pants, and shoes still on, though Tinsley suspected a jacket had been discarded. His hair was undone, and an unfamiliar set of glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. The usually sharp, coy, and cutting eyes replaced with a soft confusion.

“Better than an inquisition,” the man said, voice a bit quiet as if he were still trying to make heads-or-tails of the situation. “What is it?”

“Someone broke into my office,” he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, where to put them. All he knew was he felt utterly exposed, stuck in the hallway. “And I think I know who sent them.”

That was all he needed to say as Ricky’s demeanor switched from leniency to business in the blink of an eye. The man stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in, and locking the door behind them once he did.

It was a well-furnished place, just as the man’s office was. Neat accents tying the place together which said he had either good tastes or an interior designer. But there was no time for that.

“I didn’t stick around, in case they came back,” Tinsley explained as they made their way to what appeared to be the kitchen, “but the files on my desk were missing.”

Ricky didn’t look back at him, instead pulling a bottle of scotch off the shelf and digging two glasses out from an unorganized cupboard. It seemed to be the least orderly sector in the home, as if most else went untouched. Tinsley noted the bottle was half empty, and subsequent bottles on the shelf were in similar states.

Ricky himself seemed a bit thinner than when they’d first met a couple of years previous.

“The ones regarding our favorite law firm,” Ricky guessed, pouring the drinks and sliding one over to Tinsley.

He wrapped a hand around the glass and took a sip, casting a casual glance out the window. “The very same.”

The other man swore and looked as if he might crush the glass with his bare hands. Tinsley leaned an elbow on the counter, trying to ignore the rapidly-firing signals in his brain to ACT.

The whisky vanished down the other man’s throat, but he didn’t return the glass to the table. Instead he moved to pour another and drank that as well. Once finished, he retired the near-empty bottle to its resting place before turning to face Tinsley.

“How’d they find out it was you,” he asked, as if discussing the weather.

“It’s like you said,” he shrugged, trying to ignore the persistent heartbeat in his chest, “the PD wanted a scapegoat.”

“It’s the beginning of the end,” Ricky said with enough scorn to make him feel like a battered child, trapped in the corner beside two feuding parents.

All he could do was nod in agreement. But what else could he have done? Turned them down and risk the entire department going after his practice for to non-compliance? It was a twisted world in which he had no say in being a consultant as soon as the force decided they wanted a new man on a case. A man who existed on the outside. The farthest target at the shooting range.

Both glasses discarded, they made for the living room. A faint, colorless glow illuminated the mostly well-done room, the charming drone of reporters acting as white noise. A few papers were sprawled across the coffee table. Tinsley recognized a photograph of the police commissioner at once.

“You know there’s nothing in those files to incriminate you,” he tried, though they both knew it was a futile effort. They’d become too embroiled in the affairs of other, more important people to find themselves innocent in the eyes of those who sought to criticize them.

If they’d been in the same positions as when they’d first met, things might have been different.

He’d been working a case regarding some missing funds—by no means was he an accountant, but they were charity funds, so he had made an exception. The funds had been funneled over time by a member of the board so that he could pay off a blackmailer. At first, Tinsley had thought he could kill two birds with one stone and pin a thief and a blackmailer until he’d discovered the reasons behind it.

“Heard you’re on my tail,” the other man had flashed him a smile from across his desk, casually reclined as if he were a confident client, “you might want to think twice about that.”

The Boardman had a secret mistress. The mistress had no money and a severely ill son who bore a striking resemblance to the barely compliant Boardman. So, in a bizarre turn of events, that stolen charity money had, at least in part, gone back to a good cause.

Though, once Ricky had found out where the Boardman's money had been coming from the smile had fallen off his coy little face, along with a promise to find other means of taking care of the situation.

Tinsley had never bothered to follow up on those means once he’d received confirmation that the funds would no longer be disappearing at random. But at the same time, he’d unknowingly been added to Ricky’s long list of business contacts.

They’d shared brief communications and overlaps since then, occasionally learning subtle facts about one another. Ricky, for example, had secured his own safety outside the boundaries of the law after forcing the previous commissioner to step down and be replaced by the current.

Coming together on the Night and Co. offices had been their most recent escapade and only true cooperation. The firm had been putting a bit too much pressure on Ricky’s business, and Tinsley had been dragged in by the forces that be. So naturally, they’d done everything in their power to prevent exactly what had occurred that night.

The firm had pressed where it needed to press, likely using its resources which had greatly exceeded both he and Ricky’s expectations and found the police’s consultant. Eliminating him would be the final straw, as he was the last in a fairly long line of consultants. After that, either the force would bend to the wills of organized crime, or the city would find itself engulfed in a power struggle the likes of which it had never seen. Countless lives would be lost, and all the remaining inncoents would be left to sort through the wreckage.

Tinsley would be the catalyst, and Ricky would be a simple casualty.

“Evidence is dead, Tinsley.” Ricky draped his arm over the back of the couch, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cushion. Tinsley hesitated only a second before taking a seat on the other side. “And so are we.”

“I don’t want to die,” he said so softly it could scarcely be heard above the broadcasted chatter. It was some internal voice that only emerged in times of crisis—foreign to his day-to-day identity. But, once the images of brutal killings and blood seeping through pavement cracks invaded his brain, there was little else to do. No one deserving of the firm’s wrath had escaped it, thus far. In short, it was hopeless.

“That’s the difference between you and I,” Ricky said, eyes still closed. “I’ve been faced with that possibility my entire life. I may not welcome it, but at least I’m prepared.”

He peered lazily at Tinsley, who didn’t dare to sit back so casually. Despite their acquaintanceship, Tinsley was painfully aware of some of Ricky’s more controversial acts. Ones which only bordered on justified or dove hard into the opposite direction. The man was capable of far greater evils than he.

“But you’re more than welcome to join me for the finale,” Ricky watched him, careless as if he were considering which apple to pluck off a tree.

He didn’t answer, simply tugging his coat tighter around his body as the gore dripped and crackled in his imagination. Fear, potent and real, pervasive in every breathe.

Seemingly realizing he wouldn’t get an answer, Ricky rose from his seat and stretched a bit. He cast a glance towards what Tinsley imagined was his bedroom.

“Or just stay the night,” Ricky shrugged, and took a few steps closer, pausing in the doorway. “Either way, we’ve got an early morning.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Tinsley alone and terrified in an unfamiliar house. Eventually, he sat back, feeling the fabric press against his spine as he stared at the ceiling, listening for noises in the dark.

Left to wonder what might have been if the city hadn’t curdled like milk in the sun.

#cc tinsley #ricky goldsworth #buzzfeed unsolved #the cider field #i've been reading too much present tense #take me back to the PAST #practice piece #my writing

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noirornothing · 5 years ago

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House Atop a Hill

Summary [mystery, comedy] - There were a number of private detectives in West Virginia. Occasionally, Tinsley wondered if the others ever found themselves fetching groceries on-the-clock, armed only with a feather duster, in an attempt to reclaim a Mayor’s house from a well-dressed stranger.

Word Count - 4238

“—next thing I knew, I was on the doorstep! He just sauntered right on in and made himself at home.” The Mayor looked downright devastated, fiddling with his coat buttons as he tried not to meet the detective’s eyes.

Tinsley wanted to feel sorry for the man but was still dumbfounded as to how he’d come into the situation in the first place.

“Was he armed?” It was the only reason he could think up to imagine why the Mayor had simply stepped aside and allowed his house to be commandeered by a stranger.

The man scrunched up his face, the shameful flush spreading to his ears. “I don’t think so.”

Tinsley sighed, jotting it down in his notepad. “And no one else knows about this?”

“They can’t,” he held up his hands in a flash as if to beg. “That’s why I called you. I need to get this thing resolved before anyone else finds out.”

“Then maybe, uh,” Tinsley looked around the crowded diner, “we should’ve met somewhere more private?”

There wasn’t much more talking after that. The Mayor busied himself with a coffee mug as the detective organized his notes, readying himself to march up to the house on the hill. Sometimes it was best to get straight to the point—especially when the client was right useless at providing any valuable information.

They parted with polite goodbyes, the Mayor staying at the table as Tinsley took his leave. He moved to set a few dollars down for the waitress when the Mayor waved him away. Least I can do, he said. Tinsley nodded and headed out the door, the little bell ringing to signify his departure.

It was a crisp spring afternoon. Half-melted mounds of snow stuck fast in the shade while the rest of the earth turned to soft mud. A small cluster of businesses marked the town square, but aside from that, it was rural. A small logging town, not known for anything in particular—a bizarre place to commandeer.

Gravel squished into the silty dirt with each step, the sounds of squelching and scraping enough to send chills down any outsider’s spine like nails on a chalkboard. But to him, it was home sweet West Virginia. Outlandish tales like the Mayor’s weren’t all that uncommon, but each story was unique enough to warrant his services. Strange occurrences meant he got to keep his job.

The Mayor’s house sat atop a hill, the driveway winding through towering conifers. The nearer he got, the more he began to understand. It was a sizeable structure—two stories of gorgeous, hand-built mansion. Clearly a product of the town’s wealthiest days.

Bare gardens and hibernating shrubs lined the property, eagerly awaiting their resurgence. A carefully arranged stone path led to the doorway. He climbed the few stairs to reach it and stopped. The door was mostly glass. Whoever answered would probably see him first. He sucked in a breath and knocked loud and clear.

A minute passed and he knocked again. Just as he was lowering his hand, a figure descended from the grand staircase within. He felt eyes on him. He was being observed.

The figure moved slowly, taking its time reaching the door. From what Tinsley could tell—male, quite a bit shorter than he, lithe, and careless in the way to sauntered across the hardwood floors.

Soon enough, they stood on opposite sides of the glass, watching one another. The man, presumed to be Mr. Goldsworth, had a devious grin plastered across his face. Tinsley tried to keep his face so as not to betray his curiosities. The door swept open without a creak.

“Ah, you must be the butler.” Goldsworth took a step forward and leaned in the doorway, head cocked.

Tinsley shook his head. “Afraid not. I’m here to speak with the new owner.”

“That would be me.”

“Fantastic.” He pulled the notepad from his pocket along with a pen and began to jab at the text. “Well Mr. Goldsworth, I’m here to inform you that you are trespassing on private property.”

The man balked in mock-offense. “If anyone’s trespassing, I’d say it’s you. Did we not just establish I’m the owner of this fine home?”

Tinsley shrugged and let the notepad slide back into his pocket. “Self-proclaimed owner.”

“I don’t see anyone trying to stop me.”

It was true enough. The Mayor, in his shame, had refused to contact the authorities. He hadn’t had the bravado to stop the man himself and had instead called the first private detective he could find. Two hours later, Tinsley had arrived. To frame the situation— Goldsworth had only been on the property for the better half of a day. And yet Tinsley had never seen a man look more at home.

He was well-dressed, suited for the extravagance even if it found itself in the middle of nowhere. Dark hair, dark eyes, and Tinsley assumed, dark intentions to match. He waited for the man to say more but was met with radio silence as Goldsworth turned his attention over his shoulder.

“If you don’t mind, I’ve got a fireplace to attend to and no one else to do it for me. So—” he made a motion for Tinsley to scram. “Tell the butler to hurry it up if you see him.”

Tinsley sucked in a breath to protest but exhaled when an idea lit up his brain like a shoddy string of Christmas lights. Multi-colored at all angles, tangled up in details, and undeniably dangerous near a suspicious outlet.

“Alright, you got me.” He held up his hands in defeat. “The Mayor sent me up here to pose as a warden. I was actually hoping this was my chance to get out of the butler game, but—”

“The Mayor’s a fool,” the man interrupted, waving one hand in disgust. “I think you’ll find I’m a much more…generous employer.”

Though he’d left all of his things back at a motel room in town, Tinsley felt an invisible sack of luggage fall onto his shoulders courtesy of the statement. Needless to say there was a lot to unpack in that sentiment.

He put on his best butler-speak and went for it. “As you say. It is Mr. Goldsworth, correct?”

“Sure.” He smiled and leaned out of the doorway, taking a step back into the house leaving enough room for Tinsley to slide through.

Not wanting to break his cover before he was more than one step inside, Tinsley went straight for the fireplace. A hearty stack of firewood sat beside it, caged in with black iron bars. He retrieved a couple of logs and arranged them expertly around the flames. He may not have been a butler, but he did know how to tend a fire. Another consequence of being a local.

“Don’t forget to change,” Goldsworth called to him from atop the stairs. The man vanished at the top, disappearing into one of the many rooms, leaving Tinsley alone in the main hall. He was about to start a full search of the ground floor when the voice sounded again.

“And go buy some more food, will you?”

“What happened to the real butler?” Tinsley asked over the large collection of grocery bags he’d set on the table. He’d found the Mayor almost exactly where he’d left him, a few seats over to be precise, chatting with some townsfolk in the diner. He seemed to be pretending it was a catch-up-with-the-people day.

“You mean the housekeeper? She had the day off. She’s only part-time-- lives just up the road. I should, ah, tell her she’ll be taking a paid vacation this week.”

Tinsley pushed a couple of the paper bags aside so that he could actually see the man. “I would do that, yes.”

The Mayor was fiddling with the buttons again, and Tinsley noticed one of them was getting loose. The man finally looked up from them, nervous but thoughtful. “You wanted to know how to take care of the house?”

“Just for a day or so.”

“You could stay in the kitchen,” he suggested, finally managing a bright idea. “There’s a closet with cleaning supplies off to the side. Say you’re making a very complex dish in honor of the house’s…new owner.”

It was visibly difficult for the man to say, and finally he felt the pangs of sympathy. He didn’t disagree the Mayor was a fool, but most people were, himself included.

“I’ll get this thing sorted out soon,” he reassured the man, planting his palms on the table as he rose out of the seat. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sorry detective,” he looked down at his shoes, “no-can-do.”

Tinsley smiled, but the expression was wrought with pity for them both. He gathered up the hefty load of groceries and began moderate the trek back up the hill.

Goldsworth had yet to reemerge since he’d returned to the house. It was quiet, save for the crackling of the fireplace. He’d added more wood, paying close attention to the quality of the flames. The last thing he needed to do was burn the place down.

A pan hissed as a mess of chopped vegetables met sizzling oil. Sourced from a nearby in a saucepot, garlic-scented steam wafted into the air. Tinsley wasn’t entirely sure what he was making, but he knew how to look busy. Create as many dishes as possible. One burner contained a pot of water which had been boiling for half another. Multiple cutting boards had been dug out from the cupboards, all piled with ingredients which couldn’t possibly form a single, cohesive meal.

He jerked his hand away from the pan as the oil crackled, having met the moisture from the vegetables. He probably should have dried them off first.

“Careful there.”

The voice surprised him enough to nearly send the pan flying. He spun to see Goldsworth making his way into the kitchen, the same grin still curling up the corner of his lips. He leaned both elbows on one of the tall counters and rested one hand atop the other.

“I was, uh,” Tinsley looked over what he’d prepared so far. It was a whole lot of nothing. “I wasn’t sure what you liked. Sir.”

“Well, I’m not so crazy about the outfit after all.”

Tinsley looked down and sighed. He’d found the cleaning supplies earlier, and a few of the housekeeper’s spare aprons. He’d thrown one on over his clothes, having hung his coat up by the door. It was a neat black piece, perfectly acceptable for anyone who was five feet tall, which the housekeeper must have been. On him, however, it was quite the opposite.

“Can’t say I am either. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what the Mayor was thinking.” He earned a laugh from the other man and decided to question him while he was in good spirits. “And you. Any personal preferences I should know about?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” The man stood back up to full height. It wasn’t much of a change. He made his way over to the cutting boards, inspecting their contents. “I won’t be sticking around too long.”

“No?” He watched the man out of his peripheral, stirring the vegetables far more than was necessary.

“Buy low, sell high.” Goldsworth slapped him on the back and shot him a look that said he wouldn’t be getting any more on the subject. The man walked away after that, turning the corner into the living room.

Tinsley finally stopped stirring and realized the carrots had nearly been reduced to mush. Not like pan-frying carrots had been a good idea in the first place. He shot a look over his shoulder to make sure the man was gone and slid the contents of the pan into the trashcan.

He went to retrieve the next vegetable, untying the apron and tossing it over his shoulder as he did so. It landed with a quiet fwhump, and the next set of ingredients sizzled in the pan.

He’d lain the Meal out on the table just as the sun had set beneath the rugged mountain peaks surrounding the town. The trees were bathed in amber light, and the mansion glowed with firelight. Lovely scenery aside, he called it the Meal because there was no one word for it. It was simply everything.

He didn’t stick around once Goldsworth seated himself at the table, toting a collection of files. He flipped the first one open as Tinsley climbed the staircase, feather duster in hand, to do some investigating.

All the lights were off in the upstairs hallway. He flicked them on and stepped into the first room—an office. Presumably, the Mayor’s.

One of the filing cabinets was open. He slid the drawer our further, noticing some sizeable gaps. He assumed those were the files the other man had been walking around with. The other files in the drawer contained a collection of land grants and sales. Most were sales between locals accompanied by the occasional federal exchange. He left the drawer as he’d found it, half open, and went to the Mayor’s desk drawers.

It was impossible to tell if they’d always been messy or if Goldsworth had been rummaging through those as well. He rested his hands on his hips and tapped one foot in debate. Goldsworth had spent half the day hunting for whatever he was looking for, and apparently, he’d found it. Tinsley figured whatever was in those folders would tell him the reasoning behind this whole affair.

He slipped out of the office, flicking off the light and heading back downstairs. The other man was still at the table, food mostly untouched as he scanned through the paperwork. He dragged a finger across the pages, reading intently. Tinsley approached the table, trying his hardest not to look as if he were reading over the other man’s shoulder.

“Anything to drink, sir?” He asked, hands clasped behind his back.

Goldsworth mumbled a confirmation, but no specific request. Tinsley took off into the kitchen and retrieved the first bottle of wine he saw. It was a light red— made from grapes of some hybrid variety. He rifled through the drawers for a corkscrew and once he found one, twisted it deep into the porous material and pulled the cork out with a decisive pop. He returned to the table, holding the bottle with both hands as if it were one a makeshift silver platter.

It was only once he’d reached the table what he realized he’d only set water glasses. He made a split-second decision to go through with it and poured the wine into an empty water glass. And in that moment, he was close enough to read a few precious words on the page.

…for the acquisition of land…natural resources…recipient’s signature…

And then he leaned away from the glass, tilting his head, awaiting dismissal.

“Anything else?” Goldsworth looked up at him, finally remembered he was there, and noticed the wine-filled water glass.

He felt the dark eyes pierce his alibi, traveling from his own eyes down to the bottle. “Join me for a drink?”

Tinsley pulled out the nearest chair and did exactly that, pouring himself a glass. He was at an angle, but still close enough to read the text in between glances.

They didn’t speak for a while—Tinsley sipped at the wine in an effort to look preoccupied. It was a legal document concerning the sale of a valuable property to an unspecified recipient. It wouldn’t have taken long to read, but for the large chunks of fine print lining the bottom third of the page. Goldsworth seemed to be scanning them all for anything unexpected, but eventually he sat up straight, looking satisfied at having found nothing to annotate.

“How long have you been working here,” Goldsworth drew out the last word, “he who shall remain nameless.”

Tinsley swirled the contents of his glass. “Just a couple months.”

He closed the files, resting one hand atop them as he reached for his own glass. “Is that so.”

A heavy silence descended upon the dinner table. As it carried on, the air seemed to crackle like the oil in the pan. Goldsworth took a sip, then opened his mouth to speak again.

“What exactly does a butler do in his free time,” another sip, “sit in the gardens? Chat up the locals? Read?”

“I think I left the oven on.” He gave a decisive slap on the table and practically flew out of his chair and into the kitchen. There, he pretended to fiddle with the knobs on the oven before grabbing ahold of the edges. He would have to go back into the living room. He’d have to find a way to finish their conversation without incriminating himself and report back to the Mayor.

Unless their conversation had to be postponed.

He murmured a silent apology to the house’s true owner and turned one of the burners on full blast. The flame rose high and eager as Tinsley went to the storage closet, withdrawing a couple of rags. He scanned through the labels on a few of the chemicals, quickly finding a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. He doused the rags and went back over to the burner. He took a deliberate step back and tossed the balled-up fabrics onto the burner. They lit up at once, quickly becoming engulfed in flames.

The mass quickly became a fireball, seeming to undergo a minor explosion as smoke began to fill the air. He began to wonder if he’d gone a bit too far when the flames swallowed up the fabrics entirely.

“Mr. Goldsworth,” he ran into the dining room once he was sure the smoke had reached past the kitchen. The man was already looking in his direction, far too suspicious. “I’m going to have to ask you to evacuate the property.”

The man made it clear he had no intentions of moving and stayed seated at the table. He tapped one finger on the files.

“It’s, uh, on fire.”

Goldsworth frowned, sliding the files off the table and into the crook of his arm. “Fine.”

He pushed past the detective, not looking back as he slid open the main door and disappeared into the dark. After a few precious seconds, Tinsley raced to the door and peered outside. There was the roar of an engine, followed by two headlights illuminating the driveway. The car pulled away, leaving him alone in the house.

He swallowed and thought about what to do next. Then he remembered the fire.

The stovetop, presumably the rest of the oven, and part of the countertop had been reduced to a charred mess. Thankfully the flames had dissipated once their fuel had turned to ash, and a simple turn of the dial extinguished the remainder.

He’d gone to the phone after that and called the motel. Once he’d realized he’d be staying in the house he’d offered up the room to the Mayor. The man answered after just one ring.

“Tinsley, what have you found?” He sounded downright miserable.

“He broke into your office and took some files. They were all regarding the sale of a rather large amount of land. Anything you might know about?” He waited through the silence on the other line.

The man cleared his throat. “I might, yes.”

Tinsley frowned, leaning in closer to the phone. “Did you know something like this could happen?”

“No, no, nothing like this,” the man scrambled, “I have no idea why he’d come for the files.”

“What then?”

“The land,” the Mayor spoke quietly, barely registering on Tinsley’s end of the line. “Was recently sold. Or, it was about to be.”

“That I gathered.”

A heavy sigh. “At a very high price. It’s not something the folks around here know about.”

Tinsley waited for the nervous man to explain himself. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have to push.

“I—I just wanted to bring some property back around. There’s not much money in timber these days, detective. They—they found natural gas deposits nearby, and I had the say over that particular sector. So, I sold it. I thought maybe it’d bring some industry to town, give the people something to be hopeful about.”

“Then why don’t they know?”

But Tinsley knew. His hometown had fallen into similar straits before, until the discovery of certain natural resources. But it had come at a great cost. The risks to harvest it, the new bureaucracy, and the old-ways-die-hard mentality could ruin a good idea in no time at all.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” the Mayor mumbled. “But the deal’s been made. All that was left to do was ship off the paperwork and have the last couple pages notarized.”

That caught his attention. “So, the deal’s not done yet. It won’t be official until after the meeting?”

“That’s right.”

“So, all we have to do is show up first!” Tinsley looked around for a clock. It was creeping on in the evening, but there was still plenty of time to set a plan into action. “When is it?”

“One week from today, in Charleston.”

Tinsley was about to say something else when a bright light shone through the glass lining the front of the living room. Crunching gravel signified that Goldsworth, or perhaps someone else, had returned. Part of him had been hoping the man would disappear altogether, but such was not the case as the shorter man climbed out of the driver’s seat.

“He’s back.” Tinsley slammed the phone down on the receiver and made to look like he was dusting off the table as the other man came through the door. He shut it quietly, and once again a thick silence descended over the great hall. All the files were gone.

“I went into town to drop some paperwork into the mailbox,” he made his way closer to Tinsley, steps falling softly onto the hardwood floors. “And ran into a local. Funny, I didn’t think country folk stayed out so late. But while I was there, I happened to ask about what kind of company the Mayor kept in that big old house of his.”

Goldsworth was close. Too close. He stopped just before they collided, an unreadable expression glinting in his eyes.

“Not much, apparently. Just him and his housekeeper. Mary.” He said the name half in jest and half in something far more sinister.

“It’s a family name,” Tinsley choked, feeling his back press against the table.

Goldsworth shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

Tinsley half-expected the man to whip out a knife and gut him then and there. Or maybe shoot him and bury him in the gardens. But then again, he would be one hell of a deadweight to drag that far. He involuntarily raised up both hands in self-defense, holding his breath until the man spoke again. Or rather, laughed. Goldsworth finally stepped back, placing one hand on hip, and looked him over.

“So, you’re not a butler. I’m betting you’re some kind of spy.” Goldsworth looked lazily around the room. “Who hired you?”

He thought for a moment about how to answer. “The buyers. Wanted to see who they were dealing with.”

The eyes on him became harsher. “Not very trusting, are they?”

He shook his head. “Skeptics. But that’s how they made their fortune.”

The other man seemed to understand the sentiments. He abandoned his stance and crossed the room to a relatively large armchair and sunk into it, motioning for him to do the same. Like walking on eggshells, he did as the man instructed, taking a seat on the couch across from the chair.

“I’m going to give you two options.” He had one arm on each rest, impossibly casual. “One, you leave now. You walk down that hill and never come back. You tell your bosses I check out, and you’re done. Case closed.”

Tinsley sat frozen, waiting for option number two.

“Two means you stick around, gather me a little information here and there, and earn double your paycheck.” Somehow, the man seemed to relax further, sinking deep into the chair.

“Why?” He couldn’t help but ask. Why he’d even give him the option was unthinkable.

Again, the man laughed. It was almost light enough not to be sinister. “You’re the worst spy I’ve ever seen. If you try to pull anything, I’ll know. I always know.”

The logs in the fireplace had been reduced to coals which smoldered with a dying heat. As the glow faded, plunging them low lights, Tinsley felt a shiver run down his spine. All he could see was tiny flecks of ember and the white gleam of teeth. Like those of an animal. He took in a breath to steady his nerves and exhaled.

He slapped both knees and stood up with a purpose. “Well then!”

He felt the eyes on his back, curious as he crossed over to the fireplace, and began adding more fuel. It would need to be rekindled, but that was easy enough. He looked over his shoulder at Goldsworth who watched him shamelessly over the back of the chair. Tinsley set one final log and admired the neat arrangement. It would burn well.

“I guess I have some explaining to do.”

#buzzfeed unsolved #ricky goldsworth #cc tinsley #house atop a hill #fanfic #oneshot #probably #too much fun to call filler #my writing

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