A Grave Display by R M Wild

Author:R M Wild [Wild, R M]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mod 29 Media
Published: 2019-10-26T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

Jimmy’s footfalls were heavy enough to shake the staircase loose. The lower he and Detective Gibbons descended, the fatter his feet felt. The blood was pooling in his shoes, his feet scorched and moist. He might as well be walking south. Way south. Deeper than the devil.

At the bottom, Jimmy grabbed for the dangling chain, missed it once, but got it on the second try, and the naked light bulb turned the brick walls deep crimson and cast the hard shadow of the swinging chain like a pendulum scythe across his neck.

Detective Gibbons pulled his collar up over his mouth and nose. “Which of these rust heaps is the furnace?”

“Over there,” Jimmy said. He pointed to the octopus unit beside the washing machine. It was a large cylindrical contraption about the size of a mausoleum. Asbestos insulated ducts extended in every direction like something that had attacked one of Jules Verne’s submarines.

Detective Gibbons pulled an army-green Boy Scout flashlight from his coat pocket. Other than the clip and the button, the flashlight resembled a section of piping with an elbow joint. He shined the beam over the furnace, at the duct arms, at the flakes of paint gathering on the floor. The unit was breathing, burning oil, the system humming.

Proudly, Jimmy pointed to a small red unit near the floor. “That’s the part that throws the burning oil into the oven. It’s regulated with electricity and connected to the thermostat in my office. It’s much more efficient than coal.”

“When’s the last time this was serviced?”

“A few months ago,” Jimmy said.

“Who did you call?”

There was only one heating guy between here and Bangor. “No one. I did it myself.”

“And you painted these ducts?”

“Only the insulated ones, you know, in case the guests take a peek. The uninsulated arms supply fresh air. And these in the middle vent to the chimney.”

Detective Gibbons concentrated his light on one of the massive ducts running up between between the joists overhead. The paint was lumpy and flaking. “Am I to assume all the ducts in the house are in a condition similar to this one?”

The color drained from Jimmy’s face. His toes were tight, crowding out each other, desperate for air, and he wanted to rip off his boots and douse them in the harbor. “I couldn’t say. I haven’t torn up the floors.”

“This is a place of business, Mr. Casket. You know that right?”

“Of course.”

“You have responsibilities to the public. Maintenance duties.”

“The unit is working fine. It may get a little loud from time to time, a little troll banging on the pipes I tell my guests, but never any problems. I spend upwards of fifty dollars a month in oil to keep my guests comfortable.”

“These ducts look corroded.”

“It works fine, Detective.”

“Are you familiar with carbon monoxide intoxication?”

Jimmy swallowed hard enough to make his throat hurt. “No.”

Detective Gibbons shined the flashlight on Jimmy’s face. “If you’ll permit me, a quick chemistry lesson: carbon monoxide is a colorless, odorless gas produced by burning fuels. It’s a phantom killer, Mr.

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