Caught Dead Handed (12 page)

She made a face. “Foolishness.”

I decided not to tell her that I planned to see River again.

Even though I kept telling myself,
It's not a
real
date,
I took extra care in getting ready for the evening. I changed into dark blue jeans that were just a bit on the tight side and a creamy Irish knit pullover. I caught my hair back with a wide silver barrette and decided on the same boots I'd worn earlier. I wouldn't need my big leather purse at a football game, so I transferred wallet, lipstick, and comb to a smaller one. The purse also yielded several business cards I'd accumulated since I'd been in Salem. Contact information on Jim Litka, the cabdriver, Detective Pete Mondello, Janice Valen, and River North was quickly entered into my phone's memory. Recalling some chilly evenings at Bertram Field, I pulled a short leather jacket with a NASCAR logo on the sleeve from the closet and tossed it over my shoulders.

The doorbell rang at precisely six thirty. Scott Palmer's punctuality didn't surprise me. The time-ruled structures of radio and television made us that way. He looked taller than I'd remembered, and in jeans and a faded denim jacket over a close-fitting black T-shirt, he looked younger, too.

“Ready?” I could see approval in his eyes as he gave one of those up-and-down looks men do so well.

“Ready,” I said, “but please come in and say hello to Aunt Ibby.”

“Glad to. After you left, Rhonda told me a lot of good things about her.”

“Rhonda seems to be a fountain of information.”

“You bet.” He grinned. “How do you think I got your phone number?”

Aunt Ibby was in the den, her laptop open on the Governor Winthrop desk. She extended her hand. “Mr. Palmer! What a pleasure to see you again. I'm enjoying your work at the station.”

Scott shook her hand. “Thanks so much, Miss Russell. Don't let us interrupt your work.”

“Just catching up with my Facebook friends,” she said. “I'm afraid I've been neglecting them since my niece arrived home. You young people run along now. Don't be late for your game.”

I hadn't seen or heard O'Ryan coming into the room, but there he was, in the center of the doorway. He approached Scott slowly and paused. Scott bent and patted the cat's head.

“Hello, big fella,” he said. “Isn't this Ariel's cat? The one who witnessed the murder?”

“I hadn't thought of it quite that way,” I said. “But yes, I guess he is.”

“He's come to live with us now,” said Aunt Ibby. “And apparently, he's none the worse for his experience. Do you like cats, Mr. Palmer?”

“They're okay, except for the litter box part.”

“We haven't had to deal with that,” I said. “O'Ryan uses a cat door and just takes himself outside whenever he likes.”

“Good cat,” Scott said and patted O'Ryan again. “We'd better get going, Lee. Don't want to miss the kickoff.”

Scott's yellow Toyota was parked at the curb in front of the house. He held the door for me.
He's polite. Aunt Ibby would like that. I like it, too.
I pulled my jacket on and climbed in. He started the engine, then paused and looked down at the logo on my sleeve.

“NASCAR. Barrett. Florida. Oh, jeez. Johnny Barrett. You're Johnny Barrett's wife. Widow. I'm sorry. I mean . . .”

“It's okay,” I said. “Yes. I was married to Johnny Barrett.”

“Wow.” He looked like a kid for a moment. “I was a fan. Used to do sports for a small cable station in Illinois.”

Thought so.

“I saw him race once at the Chicagoland Speedway. He had a great career ahead of him.”

“Yes, I know.”

There was a moment's awkward silence as we approached the common, where there were still lines outside the tent.

“Look,” I said. “It's a psychic fair. I ran into River there this afternoon.”

“River?”

“River North. The witch you interviewed.”

“Oh, yeah. River. What's she doing in there?”

“Telling fortunes.”

“No kidding? Did she read your palm?”

“Nope. Read my cards—” The disembodied voice from the GPS on the dashboard interrupted with instructions to turn left in 1.5 miles. “So. You didn't really need me to help you find the football stadium,” I teased.

“You've got me there.” He smiled. “It seemed like a good excuse to ask you out.”

We found a parking space not far from the entrance to Bertram Field, and we joined the crowd heading for the stands. The sound of the band tuning up and the smell of hot dogs and popcorn brought back happy memories.

“What a nostalgia rush!” I said. “I haven't been here in a dozen years, and it feels like yesterday.”

The weather had cleared a bit, and the stadium lights gave the grass on the field a warm golden glow. A roar from the crowd announced the home team. Cheerleaders formed an arch with red-and-white shakers, and a dry ice – induced fog lent drama to the arrival of the young athletes. Cries of “Go, Salem Witches” rang loud and strong.

“It's a wonder those witch protesters aren't here to complain about the team name,” Scott said, looking around as though he halfway expected to see the purple-hatted Mrs. Doan and her sign-waving minions marching into the stands.

“Wouldn't do them any good,” I told him. “They've always been the Salem Witches. Salem likes it that way. Haven't you seen the statue of Samantha from
Bewitched
over near city hall?”

“You're kidding!”

“Nope. She's there, and most of Salem loves her.”

A loud cheer from the bleachers across the field announced the arrival of the Swampscott Big Blue. A coin was tossed; the kickoff positions were decided. Scott studied his program, making notes in pencil along the margins.

“That Roberts kid looks good,” he said.

“How can you tell?”

“Read his stats this afternoon. I figured I might as well study up on the team. I expect Doan will recruit me for high school sports reporter.”

“I heard that could happen.”

“Yeah. Everyone seems to wear at least two hats at WICH-TV.” He stuck the pencil behind his ear and turned toward me. “Wonder what he has in mind for your second job.”

“Whoa!” I laughed. “He hasn't officially hired me for the first one yet. Anyway, River says I'll be out of work within a month.”

His smile was warm. “I doubt that. At least I hope not. I'm counting on seeing you there. On-screen and off.”

The much-admired Roberts kid returned the kickoff for a ninety-yard touchdown, and I found myself caught up in the excitement of the game, cheering and jumping up and down like the teenagers around us. At halftime we drank hot coffee and applauded the band and baton twirlers. When Salem kicked the winning field goal with seconds to spare, a spontaneous hug led to a brief awkward moment before we joined the crowd heading for the exit.

A light mist had turned into rain when we reached Scott's Toyota.

“I'm hungry,” he said. “You up for a burger?”

“Sure.”

“Better stick a raincoat over that nice leather jacket,” Scott advised. “There're some in the glove box.” He reached across and pressed the latch. “Help yourself.”

Within the lighted compartment I saw several green plastic envelopes. “Thanks. There's one just like these in Aunt Ibby's glove box, too. George's supply of raincoats must be getting low.”

“Marty says everyone in Salem must have at least two.”

Including a murderer,
I thought, remembering the blood-soaked raincoat in the Dumpster.

We rode in companionable silence, punctuated by the rhythmic whisper of the windshield wipers and the hum of tires on wet pavement, and before long we pulled into a crowded parking lot.

I wriggled into the raincoat as Scott hurried around and opened my door. We dashed for the entrance. The restaurant was warm and noisy. I slid into the red vinyl upholstered booth, and Scott went to the counter and ordered burgers and fries and milk shakes for both of us.

I was hungrier than I'd realized, and the food tasted wonderful. I was just enjoying the last sip of my chocolate milk shake when Scott reached across the table and took my hand.

“Lee,” he said in a serious tone. “Lee, I wanted to talk to you tonight about more than a football game.”

Uh-oh. I don't think I'm ready for this. Don't rush me.

Aloud, I said, “Oh?”

“It's about the Pelletier murder.”

“Huh?” I pushed the straw into the empty plastic cup and stared at him. “The Pelletier murder?”

“Yes. How do you know so much about it?”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

“When I called you today, you said something about the woman dying on her own kitchen floor.”

“Yes. So?”

Scott let go of my hand. “The murder scene. How did you know the body was in the kitchen?”

I frowned, annoyed. “TV, I guess. Same as everyone else.” I recalled the vivid image.

“Can we talk about something else besides that poor woman's death? After all, we just ate.”

“Come on, Lee. There is no footage of the murder scene. And even if there was, none of the stations could show it. So what made you think it was in the kitchen? Who told you that? Was it that Mondello guy?”

“No! I don't know anything about it. Really, I don't.”

“If you've got connections . . . if you have a source with that kind of information . . . can you share it with a struggling reporter?”

My first reaction was a vague sense of embarrassment. He wanted to talk shop, and I'd imagined he had something more personal in mind. Embarrassment morphed into anger.

If I had inside connections on a murder case, I'd have your job, buster.

Of course, I knew exactly where I'd seen that sprawled body and the blood-smeared kitchen. It was inside the swirling depths of a black obsidian ball.

What could I say? If I told the truth—that I was apparently some kind of scryer, that I could see pictures no one else could see in shiny black things—he'd think I was nuts. And he might be right.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I told him a big, fat lie.

“You know,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster, “you might be right. Maybe I did hear it from one of the detectives. I mean, maybe I
overheard
it. I mean, I wasn't
meant
to hear it. . . .”

He looked puzzled. “What
do
you mean?”

I took a deep breath. “Well, there was a lot of conversation going on around me, you know, after I found poor Ariel's body.”

“Yeah. I imagine there was.”

“Uh-huh. A lot of conversation.” I thought back to that day.
May as well tell as much of the truth as possible.
“Anyway, they called me back to the station to return some of Ariel's books I'd borrowed, and the chief was on his cell, and the techs were all talking to each other. Detective Mondello was talking to a couple of the regular policemen, the ones in uniform. I'm pretty sure I heard somebody say, ‘Blood all over the refrigerator.' That must be where I got the idea that the body was in the kitchen. Yes, I'm sure that must be it.”

Another deep breath. Was he buying it?

He still had the puzzled look. “When was all this?”

“It was when I was getting swabbed and fingerprinted.”

“You? Swabbed and fingerprinted? Why?”

“Because my blood showed up in the parking lot.”

Scott's posture stiffened, and he moved back in his seat. It didn't take a body language expert to realize that he was distancing himself from me.

Oh boy!
This was a clear example of what River meant by TMI.

I explained quickly about tripping over O'Ryan and threw in the fact that I'd been on a Southwest jet between Tampa and Boston when the murder—or murders—occurred. Just in case he thought . . . you know.

He seemed to relax a little and leaned toward me again. It looked as though he was satisfied with my explanation about overhearing the cops. In fact, it sounded so plausible that I began to halfway believe it myself.

The ride home was pleasant enough. We made easy small talk about the football game, about the people we'd met at the station, about our backgrounds in broadcasting, our families. And, thankfully, neither of us mentioned the fact that he'd landed the job I'd wanted.

Scott walked with me to the front door. “Good night, Lee. I'll see you at work.”

“Thanks, Scott. It was fun.”

He stood there in the rain for a long moment, not speaking, just looking into my eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “It really was, wasn't it?”

Then he dashed for his car, turning to wave briefly. I watched the Toyota until the taillights disappeared.

“Maralee?” Aunt Ibby called from the den. “Come in and tell me all about your date. Did you have fun?”

“The game was fun,” I said, thinking about Scott's blatant pitch for information, “but it sure wasn't what I'd call a
real
date.”

During what was left of the weekend, I crammed as though I was preparing for final exams.
Linda Goodman's Sun Signs, A Beginner's Guide to the Tarot,
and
Crystal Enlightenment
were spread out on the study desk, along with the tarot deck, some blank index cards, and a couple of nice sharp number two pencils.

I played the first Ariel DVD again and fast-forwarded my way through a couple of Aunt Ibby's
Dark Shadows
episodes, writing down some of Ariel's phrases on the index cards. I practiced saying things like “Surround her with golden-white light” and “Blessed be.” By Sunday afternoon I could recite with ease the directions for programming a quartz crystal. I'd also picked up some astrological lingo. I understood how the layout of the tarot cards worked, and I felt that I had a pretty good grasp of the kinds of calls I might get.

One more trip to the attic had yielded a couple more off-the-shoulder blouses and some full skirts left over from somebody's long-ago foray into square dancing—just in case the promised wardrobe budget wasn't forthcoming. I planned to wear the red skirt and my mother's blouse again for my first show, and I added a few more strands of beads and a couple of glitzy rings.

By Monday I felt almost confident.

I planned to get to the station well ahead of the time
Nightshades
was due to start. I turned down Aunt Ibby's offer of the Buick. It was her evening for book club with “the girls.”

“I'm perfectly comfortable taking a cab,” I told her. “But I hope you'll be home in time to watch my psychic debut!”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” she promised. “But you come straight home after it's over. I don't want to be worrying about you being out so late at night with a murderer on the loose.”

I called Jim Litka and asked if he'd be available for a late-night fare. I wanted to get to the station by nine thirty and to leave after my last live shot at around two thirty in the morning.

“Sure, miss,” he said. “No problem. We're all working crazy hours this month, what with Halloween parties and goings-on. You can count on me.”

At 9:15 p.m. the green-and-white cab pulled up in front of the house. I climbed into the backseat, carrying the garment bag, along with another bag containing the books I'd been studying, index cards, Aunt Ibby's black silk handkerchief and the tarot deck.

“Thanks for fitting me in, Mr. Litka,” I said. “I know you're awfully busy.”

“Just call me Jim,” he said. “And it's never any trouble getting a pretty lady to where she's going.”

We pulled up in front of the station, and I reached into my purse to pay the fare. No wallet.

“Oh, no! Mr. Litka . . . Jim, I changed purses, and I'm afraid I've left my wallet in the other one.” I checked my watch. “Maybe we have time to go back and get it.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “No worries, miss. I'll be picking you up later. We'll just settle up when I take you home tonight.”

I thanked him and made a mental note to double the tip.

When I entered the office, I was surprised to see that Rhonda was still at her desk.

“You're working late, Rhonda,” I said, glancing up at the sunburst-shaped clock. “What's up?”

“Mr. Doan asked me to stay for a while. He said somebody called in sick and I might have to sub.”

“Oh? Who?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. I hope it's Wanda, though. I love doing the weather.”

“Have you done it before?” I found it hard to believe that the station would use the inexperienced receptionist for on-air talent.

“Once,” she said. “It was during a blizzard. We were snowed in, and Wanda couldn't make it. It was wild. Janice and I took turns doing the weather, and Mr. Doan did the news. Marty was the only camera. We lost the network feed for part of the day, so we just showed a lot of movies.”

“I saw the enormous movie list. I'll have plenty of scary old movies to pick from.”

“Awesome. Hey, listen. Marty's down on your set. She wants you to see if you like the way she's fixed it up.”

I hurried past the glass-walled newsroom, where Phil Archer pulled long paper pages from the news-line printer. Scott was there, too, his back to me, working at a battered desk. He didn't look up when I passed.

I stepped into the long, darkened studio. Stopping at the dressing room, I hung my costume on the rack, and then, carrying the other bag, I hurried toward the
Nightshades
set, where Marty was already positioned behind her camera.

“Hey, Moon! How was your weekend?” She didn't wait for an answer. “What do you think of this for an opening shot?” The camera was poised for a close-up of a picture of a cemetery. “It's a Halloween card. Nice and spooky. We'll play the theme music with a shot of this graveyard, then zoom in on the headstone in the front and roll titles on the stone. What d'ya think?” She stepped aside, motioning for me to take her place behind the camera.

“Looks good to me. Where'd you get the charming card?”

“Chamber of Commerce sent it. It's Ariel's invitation to the annual Witches Ball. Guess it's yours now.”

“I probably won't use it.”

“You ought to go. Two free tickets. It's an A-list party, and it's almost sold out. Maybe you could get another date with Scotty.”

“What date? I mean . . . how do you know?”

“Rhonda. He called you from her phone. Nothing much gets by Rhonda.”

Great. Nobody needs to be psychic around here. Rhonda sees all, hears all, tells all.

I changed the subject. “You wanted to show me something about the set?”

“Oh, yeah. The stuff on the table. It looks pretty much the way Ariel had it. Do you want to rearrange anything? Give it your own look?”

“Not yet,” I said. “It looks okay the way it is.” I added my three books to the grouping and placed the tarot deck and the index cards where I'd be able to get to them easily. The obsidian ball was in the center of the low table. I tried not to look directly at the thing as I reached into the bag for the black silk square. But the swirling colors were already there. I tossed the handkerchief as quickly as I could over the glowing surface, but not before I saw the image of a yellow cat, back arched, mouth open, teeth bared.

I looked at Marty. Had she seen anything in the black ball?

Of course not, dummy. No one sees this stuff but you.

Had she noticed any strange reaction on my part?

Do I even react to the pictures anymore? Or do I just accept them?

Marty's expression hadn't changed. “What's with the silk rag thing? You don't have to cover this one up. It doesn't glare like Ariel's old crystal one did.”

“I know. It's not for glare. I've been reading up on crystals.” I tapped the
Crystal Enlightenment
book. “You're supposed to keep the obsidian covered with black silk or velvet when you're not using it. I just thought in case anyone who really knows about this stuff is watching, they'd appreciate the authenticity.”

“Sure. Okay. I see.” Marty straightened the fabric so that it lay evenly over the globe. “Makes sense to me. Hey, you'd better get dressed for the show.”

I left the set, happy to avoid any further discussion of the care and feeding of obsidian. Once inside the dressing room, I closed the door and sat in front of the mirror.

Why had I seen O'Ryan in the obsidian ball? Why the arched back? The bared teeth? I'd never seen him like that. Was that cat even O'Ryan? He was home alone. Was he all right?

I shook away the image, the bad thoughts. It was time to transform myself into Crystal Moon. I'd been an actress long enough to have learned the old “show must go on” discipline. I'd deal with visions later. I dressed carefully, adjusting the neckline of the blouse up and down several times, tying the fringed shawl just so, fiddling with the lengths of the colorful bead necklaces. I pressed powder onto my nose and forehead, applied bright red lipstick, and added an extra coat of mascara. I ran my fingers through my hair for the tousled look Johnny had always loved. When the mirror finally reflected Crystal Moon the way I thought she should appear for her introduction to the
Nightshades
audience, I looked at my watch. The eleven o'clock news would be under way.

I pushed the door open and stepped out into the corridor. One of the ever-present overhead monitors displayed the news anchor's face, and closed-captioning showed his words.

An artist's rendering of an open straight razor filled the screen.

A shot of Ariel, seated on the same turquoise couch I was about to occupy, was next.

Scott's image appeared on the screen. I'd seen the interview before, on the six o'clock broadcast. Hurrying to the
Nightshades
set, I sat on the couch, thumbed through my index cards once more, while Marty outlined the format we'd use for the show.

“Okay, Moon. You look good. Listen, first we use the graveyard bumper shot. Then we move in on you for your monologue, then cut to commercial. Then second commercial. Then back to you for intro to the movie. Then, midpoint in the flick, you take calls. Commercial, commercial, more calls. Then back to movie, commercial, commercial, then your close. Got it?”

“Got it. The only part I'm freaked out about is the calls. I'm glad Janice is screening for me. She won't let anything too weird get through.”

“Oh yeah. About that. Janice got one of her migraine headaches. George had to take her home.”

“Then who . . . ?” I remembered what Rhonda had said. “You mean on my first night I get Rhonda?”

“You got it, babe. Ready? Counting down. Ten. Nine. Eight . . .”