Fate Prevails

P. Schaeffer

Description

During the 80 Years War (1568-1648) between the Netherlands and Spain, a three-paneled altarpiece (tryptic) by Dutch artist Hieronymus Bosch, disappeared. It hasn’t been seen since.
Fast forward four centuries. In Charleston, South Carolina, Jacob Dyke lives alone in a once-opulent, now decrepit, mansion (Dyke Huis). He lives as a hermit, his only outside contact is his housekeeper, Barbara Dahl.
Hanging on a wall in the mansion is a painting that Dahl recognizes as a triptych in the style of Bosch. If authentic, this would send shock waves through the art world. It would also be worth a fortune. Dahl cannot believe it is the real deal.
The housekeeper overhears her employer in conversation with a stranger, breaking all precedent. She eavesdrops and hears a plan to pass the tryptic off to the stranger, to keep it hidden from the world at large. Maybe the tryptic is real. To save the work, she removes the painting herself and stashes it in one of the many hidden nooks in the house…just in time.
That night, two culprits enter the home to lift the painting; of course, it’s not there. That’s when people start dying. The burglars kill Dyke, then the burglars are killed. Forces are at work that will do anything to possess the Bosch.
Detective Jack Scott is brought in on the case. A New York City private investigator whose specialty is recovering stolen art is engaged as a consultant to investigate the theft. He has his own baggage—PTSD from his service in Afghanistan. He is paired with Charleston police detective Adam Newman to find the Bosch and solve the murders. The two find themselves engaged in a tumult of murder and spine chilling events. Sadly, evil prevails.

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Revenge
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 14 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669838319
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Fate Prevails
A Gothic Mystery
P. Schaeffer

Copyright © 2023 by P. Schaeffer.
 
Library of Congress Control Number:
2022913416
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-3833-3

Softcover
978-1-6698-3832-6

eBook
978-1-6698-3831-9
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 02/13/2023
 
 
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
833867
Contents
Chapter 1—Dyke Huis
Chapter 2—At Odds
Chapter 3—The Mysterious Stranger
Chapter 4—Allies
Chapter 5—Tête Á Tête
Chapter 6—The Pinch
Chapter 7—The Dirty Deed
Chapter 8—Dahling Dahl
Chapter 9—Detective Newman
Chapter 10—Some Final Points
Chapter 11—Remorse
Chapter 12—The Cub Reporter
Chapter 13—Captain Talon
Chapter 14—Attorney Mazlov
Chapter 15—Nice to Meet You, Rachel
Chapter 16—Meet Jack Scott
Chapter 17—Loose Ends
Chapter 18—Rainbow Row
Chapter 19—The Underbelly
Chapter 20—The Aftermath
Chapter 21—The Roving Bug
Chapter 22—Scott Meets Talon
Chapter 23—She Crab Soup
Chapter 24—The Crime Scene
Chapter 25—The Attic
Chapter 26—The Nephew’s Not Home
Chapter 27—Cat and Mouse
Chapter 28—Yikes
Chapter 29—The Resident Spirit
Chapter 30—Mazlov’s Turn
Chapter 31—Secrets
Chapter 32—Basement Redux
Chapter 33—The Scavenged Corpse
Chapter 34—Alas, Ms Dyke
Chapter 35—Au Revoir
Chapter 36—Eureka
Chapter 37—Officer Down
Chapter 38—The Beat Goes On
Chapter 39—A Gamble
Chapter 40—Egress
Chapter 41—Tumult
Epilogue
Chapter 1—Dyke Huis
Charleston, South Carolina boasts a unique display of architecture, from the antebellum to the Belle Epoque. Numerous Queen Anne, Greek Revival, and Federalist mansions have been maintained with their original beauty intact—veritable time capsules. Dyke Huis is one of those vestiges—a Queen Anne beauty. It was built with the money of unfettered capitalism. In its time, Dyke Huis was foremost among the city’s ostentatious showplaces. The majority of fortunes are made on the backs of other fortunes and in the shadows of bold men with big ideas. While the internal combustion engine was being developed in the nineteenth century, Geert Dyke got into the game. He was not as insightful as the far-seeing minds of his age, nor was he as inventive as the original thinkers who were shaping the future, but he was practical. Geert learned about the internal combustion engine and about the heavy machinery made possible by this source of power. The founder of the Dyke American pedigree contributed nothing to the genesis of this technology, but he secured a pittance of the capital being generated by the progress of mechanization.
And a pittance of the nation’s industrial boom was a sizable fortune that had lasted the Dyke family for three generations. The power of the internal combustion engine required a new kind of fuel: petroleum products. In Geert Dyke’s time, the distillation of petroleum products from oil frequently resulted in overheating and the degradation of the products. Dyke solved this problem by developing a prototype that reduced pressure, allowing the oil to be boiled at a lower temperature. The end result of this inspiration was a baronial lifestyle for Geert Dyke. Dyke Huis was a relic of that grand eraIt should be noted that Geert Dyke was a playful eccentric. When he threw parties, he would ask his guests to bring their children. He, himself, sired nine children. He would have them play games in which he, also, participated. On this account, Dyke Huis was designed for children to play. They could race along the great central corridor. The attic was suited for hopscotch, The impressive structure built by the great grandfather of Jacob Dyke was a red brick edifice with decorative wood details and a slate roof with four chimneys. Dark green shutters framed the front windows. The show-place home had been erected in an exclusive section of the city, among other impressive houses of the upper class. Now, 150 years later, Dyke Huis was one of the few Queen Annes still well-maintained and inhabited by a single family—a family of one, at that. Set farther back from the street than most of its neighbors, it had a twenty-five-foot-long walk to the front door.
Every morning, a tall, middle-aged woman with short brown hair showing hints of grey, (and wearing soft-soled walking shoes this day), appeared before the house and followed the walk to the entrance. She picked up the newspaper lying on the stoop, entered the security code into the keypad, and let herself in.
Chapter 2—At Odds
Entering Dyke Huis, one was greeted by the warm sheen of burnished woodwork. Its patina, seeming to glow from within the wood itself, was impressive. One’s eyes followed the elaborately carved banister to the second floor, to the soft colored tones of light filtered through stained glass
The tall woman, the housekeeper, Barbara Dahl, had been performing the same morning ritual for almost 20 years. Proceeding along the central hallway of the home, she passed the parlor, living room, library, great room and the formal dining room on her way to the kitchen, where she prepared the usual breakfast: one soft-boiled egg, a saucer of fresh fruit, toast with marmalade, and coffee. She laid this on a small silver tray and retraced her steps to the front door.
As she returned to the stairway, she looked at the beautiful things Mr. Dyke had acquired throughout his long life. The man—young and in love who bought his bride the purple enameled Faberge jewelry box with elaborate gold trim that now sat on a shelf in the great room; the ardent young beau who bought for his wife’s birthday a Tiffany hammered silver teapot with gold dragonfly embellishment which was now found in the dining room.
This man, this lover of life and beauty, was no longer of this world, although he was not yet beyond it. He had become cantankerous, withered and worn out—capable of bristling and being bristled. At the base of the flight of stairs the housekeeper retrieved the newspaper from the small table where she had left it and began her climb. Twenty years earlier, when she had become the caretaker of Dyke Huis, she thought the stairway was magnificent. The heavy, artfully carved oak balustrade and turned spindles, with their elaborate details, seemed like works of art. She had never seen anything like the soft rose and green, silk and wool, runner carpeting the upstairs hall. Most impressive of all were the stained glass windows in the exterior wall—to one’s left, when climbing the steps—four 8 foot tall, narrow windows that banked upward with the stairway’s incline, displaying stylized scenes from nature: hollyhocks, wisteria, serpentine branches with wind-fluttered leaves…all in brilliant greens and blues and pinks and gold, illuminated by the sun.
Now, at 57 and carrying extra pounds, her effort going up the stairs had become a labor. She had to carefully place one foot on a tread and warily lever herself up, one slow step at a time. Her knees rebelled. When she reached the second floor, her forehead glistening with perspiration, she set down the tray, primped her hair and realigned her skirt. Then she tottered to her employer’s bedroom. Ms. Dahl knocked three times on the bedroom door and waited for a response.
“Yeah? Is that you p-pigeon?”
Pigeon was the name old Dyke used as a show of affection—an indication he was in a good mood this morning. The housekeeper thought, this would be a good time to discuss restoring the once-beautiful garden at the front of the house. It was currently overgrown with weeds and volunteer trees—not even a glimmer of its once resplendent appearance. The garden’s state was a bone of contention between the woman and her employer.
Pigeon gently pushed open the bedroom door and slipped in. She placed the breakfast tray on the bedside table and asked, “How are you this morning, Sir? Did you get a good night’s sleep?”
“Ya, I’m feeling p-pretty good today,” answered the frail, thin old man with a gaunt, angular face.
“It’s beautiful out. Maybe you would like to go for a short walk. The flowers are blooming; the gardens are beautiful.”
“Dyke shouted, “Don’t treat me like I’m senile. I see where you’re going. You’re going to p-pester me some more about the old flower bed out front. Well, save your breath. You know what it would cost to p-put it straight? They’d send three men out here…each one getting $20 an hour. And they’d spend three days at it…over $1400. You want me to take that out of your wages?”
Ms. Dahl shrank back. “I was only thinking it would improve the appearance from the street.”
Old Dyke propped himself up on his elbow. He scolded, “Ideas are cheap when you’re spending someone else’s money.” His voice go