The Murder Pit
By Jeff Shelby
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE MURDER PIT
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2014
cover design by Eden Crane Designs
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.
Books by Jeff Shelby
The Joe Tyler Novels
THREAD OF HOPE
THREAD OF SUSPICION
THREAD OF BETRAYAL
THREAD OF INNOCENCE
The Noah Braddock Novels
KILLER SWELL
WICKED BREAK
LIQUID SMOKE
DRIFT AWAY
The Moose River Mysteries
THE MURDER PIT
LAST RESORT (JUNE 2014)
The Deuce Winters Novels (Under the pseudonym Jeffrey Allen)
STAY AT HOME DEAD
POPPED OFF
FATHERS KNOWS DEATH
Short Story Collections
OUT OF TIME
ONE
I wanted an old house.
I did not want an old house with a dead body in it.
“Move the light a little,” Jake said.
It actually seemed more like his butt said it because at the moment, he was on his hands and knees, trying to fit into an elevated, three-and-a-half foot crawlspace that appeared to not have been entered in close to 150 years. Given that he was a little over six feet and two hundred pounds, he was…struggling.
And being stubborn.
“Why don’t you just let me get up there?” I said, trying to move the light to wherever he wanted it. “I’m half your size.”
“More to the left,” his butt said. “Because we have no idea what the hell is up here.”
“Well, we know there’s a frozen pipe up there,” I said.
He grunted, which I knew was his way of telling me that he didn’t think I was funny.
I got that a lot.
My husband of six months was in the crawlspace of our 150 year old home for a couple of reasons:
The aforementioned frozen pipe, which is more or less a regular thing when you have to deal with Minnesota winters.
And because we owned a 150 year old home.
When I got divorced, I also divorced myself of the 5,000 square foot modern monstrosity that had been forced upon me by first husband. I’d made mistakes in both husband and house choosing. So when we finally cut the cord, I decided I wanted a house with character. It took me two years to find the right house and during that time, I’d also found the right husband. Jake, the one boy I’d truly loved in high school had found his way back into my life and we’d picked up right where we’d left off twenty years earlier. And right before our wedding and merging our families, I’d found my house with character.
A century and a half old. (Have I mentioned that already?) Right next to the railroad tracks. One bathroom. A dilapidated garage. Doors that didn’t close properly. A hole in the roof. Bats in the attic. A much-rumored ghost.
Jake stood outside with the realtor the first time he saw it and said, “This might have…too much character, Daisy.”
But it didn’t. I’d fallen in love with the original wood floors and the narrow staircase and the small rooms and the stories that were lurking in the walls. I wanted it and when he saw how much I wanted it, he relented with a smile and a shake of his head.
And now he was trying to get a hairdryer close enough to a frozen pipe to thaw it out. I couldn’t see his face, but I was fairly certain there was no smile.
“I can’t reach it,” he said.
“Which is why I should be up there,” I reminded him.
He muttered something and slid himself backwards, his feet coming out first. He lowered himself down to the ground, easing his way over the concrete ledge that made up the floor of the crawl space. I tightened the elastic wrapped in my hair, tugging the pony tail to make sure it was tight.
“You look like one of those people,” I said to him.
He surveyed his dirt and dust covered body. “A coal miner?”
“No, one of those people in Pompeii. The ancient massive volcano?”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“I know,” I said, taking the hair dryer from him. “But I still love you. Now boost me up.”
He lifted me up and I slithered into the dirty, concrete space. Spider webs clogged the wooden beams above my head and the dust lifted up into my eyes and mouth. I coughed and wiped at my eyes.
“Having fun yet?” Jake asked.
Pretty sure he was smiling now.
I ignored him and crawled forward on my elbows, trying to get to the back wall where the offending pipe from the kitchen was located. He angled the flashlight for me and I saw the pipe up above me and next to the brick wall. I reached out to touch it and was glad my fingers weren’t wet. Because it was so icy cold, I was certain my flesh would have stuck permanently to the frozen metal. And there wasn’t enough room for Jake to come up and help me. I looked down, squinting in the darkened space, trying to locate the hairdryer. I saw it, the pearly gray barrel blending in seamlessly with the layer of dust and dirt.
But I saw something else, too.
“Did you see this?” I asked, my eyes zeroing in on the floor.
“See what?” he said. “My eyes were full of dirt.”
“This door. Did you see it?”
“Nooo. I was looking for the pipe.”
“There’s a door,” I told him. “Like, a wooden door. That opens up.”
“Excellent. Can you get the hair dryer up there now so the pipe doesn’t burst?”
But I was enamored with the door. It was about three feet by three feet, made of several two by fours. I used my hand to clear the dust from it. A splinter sliced into my palm and I winced but even that couldn’t deter me.
“There’s a hole,” I said. “To pull it up and open it.”
“Daisy,” he said sternly. “The pipe.”
“Just a second,” I said. I stuck my fingers into the hole and tried to lift it out, but it was too heavy. “Do you have a screwdriver?”
“No.”
“Liar. There’s one right there on the table.”
He sighed and a moment later, slid the screwdriver into the space. I reached back with my hand, grabbed it and brought it over to the door.
“If that pipe bursts…”
“Oh, please,” I said. “It’ll be fine. It’s been frozen for hours; a few more minutes isn’t going to hurt. Did you know there was a door here? Where would it go?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “To someplace beneath the crawl space?”
I’d never even thought about the crawl space actually being above something. It was just sort of…there, this elevated concrete space in our basement that, after studying for about half a second, I’d decided would be good for storing things. To me, it was like a bonus shelf, four feet off the basement floor. I’d already thought of putting valuable up there, off the floor that I’d been warned by our home inspector might be susceptible to flooding.
But the area underneath, the concrete tomb that the crawl space created? My mind was already spinning. I was thinking of secret tunnels and buried treasure and mementos left by previous residents. I didn’t want to see what was down there; I needed to see.
I wedged the screwdriver into the hole, set my elbow against the concrete and lifted the door up out of the ground. It lifted easily and I used my other hand to get it out of the square and slid it to the side.