Caught Dead Handed (15 page)

The waitress delivered wineglasses, and Scott put his hand over his. “None for me, thanks. I'm still on company time. Might have to leave if anything interesting happens.” I wished I had a similar excuse. Ditching this meeting looked more like an attractive option with every passing minute.

It was Scott's turn to change the subject. “Lee, the police notes mentioned some kind of little fracas in your neighborhood this morning. What's the story?”

I wasn't about to report on O'Ryan's adventure just yet. “Somebody said that they thought it might have been some kind of Halloween party scavenger hunt gone bad,” I said. “I really don't know exactly what went on.”

Sort of true.
Anyway, I wasn't about to feed Scott information about anything!

We were only partway through our entrées when Scott's phone buzzed. He glanced at a text message, tossed his napkin on the table, and stood up. “Sorry, folks,” he said. “Thanks for inviting me, Mr. Doan. Something's going on at the police station. Gotta run.”

He actually did run, too. I couldn't help wondering if the message was really all that urgent or if he was just glad to get away.

“Oh, crap,” Janice said. “If Scott has to go out on a story, that probably means George does, too. He won't be able to take me home. Now what am I going to do?” She made a pretty pout and drained her wineglass.

“I'd like to help you out, honey,” said Doan, consulting his Rolex, “but I'm due to meet Mrs. Doan in half an hour. Some kind of church thing. How about you, Ms. Barrett? Or can I call you Lee? Will you give Janice a lift? She lives over near you.”

Near me?
I didn't know that.

“Yes, of course you may. And I'll be glad to drive Janice home.”

“Great,” he said. “Thanks. And, Janice, you'd better take the rest of the day off.”

It was a good suggestion. And George was right about not letting her drive. She appeared to be getting quite smashed. Doan had had only one glass of wine, and I was still slowly sipping my first one. We all declined dessert, and I suggested to Janice that she sit on the bench in the lobby while I brought the car around. Doan signed the tab, and as he stood to leave, he reached into his suit coat pocket.

“Lee, here's a company credit card for you. Pick up a few costumes like the one you wore last night. Looked really good.” His smile was darned near lascivious. “Oh yeah. Rhonda gave me this phone message for you.” He handed me a wrinkled pink slip with a name and number on it. The message said,
Call me.

It was from River North.

I wished I could return River's call right away, but I was committed to driving the hammered program director home now. I tucked the pink slip into my purse with a vow to call the young witch as soon as I could.

Doan was right. Janice did live near me. Not in the same neighborhood, but about a mile away, on the opposite side of the common. If it wasn't for the trees and the striped tent, I'd probably be able to see her place from Aunt Ibby's front steps.

The house, which had been converted to condominiums, was a handsome old Federal-period mansion—probably once the home of some long-ago Salem ship captain. Janice tripped, losing and then regaining her balance, when she stepped out of the car. George had told me he'd “loaded her up with her pain pills” the night before. That, in combination with several glasses of wine, was undoubtedly having an exaggerated effect.

“Whoopsie.” She giggled, steadying herself with a hand on the Buick's hood. “I think I might be a teensy bit tiddly.”

“It's okay,” I told her. “Wait a sec. I'll give you a hand.” I locked the car and took her arm, guiding her gently toward the house. At first she shook my hand away. After staggering a few steps, she allowed me to put a steadying arm around her waist and propel her forward and into the entryway of the place.

She retrieved a key from her Prada purse and, after a few stabs at the keyhole, opened the door to the first-floor condo. “Come on in, Leezy,” she said. “Welcome to happy Valenville.” Kicking off those expensive shoes in the high-ceilinged, chandeliered foyer, she lurched toward a spacious, gleaming state-of-the-art kitchen and dining area.

“See?” she said. “Georgie and I share this fine kitchen, and we each have our own bedroom, bathroom, and living room. Mine's in there.” She pointed to the left, then, whirling unsteadily, pointed to the right. “Georgie lives in there. Come on to my house,” she said, taking my hand, pulling me toward the doorway on the left.

Janice's living room was a surprising contrast to her starkly modern office at the station. It was furnished in traditional style. The chintz-patterned sofa and love seat were flanked by a Sheraton-style side table.
Probably the real thing,
I thought, observing the delicate reeded legs and simple hardware. Oil paintings on the cream damask-covered walls featured seaport scenes and portraits of men and women in period dress. The cushy maroon carpet was a perfect complement to the furnishings.

“Such a beautiful room, Janice,” I said. “My aunt would love this.”

“Bring her over sometime,” she said. “Glad you like it. A decorator did the whole thing. Right down to the freakin' magazines on the coffee table and the books in the bookcases.”

“It's lovely.”

“George didn't want a decorator. Did his own place. Wanna see?”

“No thanks. I don't want to go into anybody's space uninvited.”

Janice plopped down onto one of the flowered sofas. “Oh, I'm sure you'll be invited in there sooner or later. He thinks you're beautiful. He told me,” she said. “And you've got those big boobs he likes.”

What the hell is all this preoccupation with breast size?

Growing increasingly uncomfortable, I ignored the remark. But Janice wasn't through with the subject.

“Are yours real?”

So that's it. Janice must be thinking about getting implants!

“Yes, but quite a few of my friends in Florida have had implants, and they're all very happy with the results.”

Janice shrank back against the bright cushions, and her face paled. “Oh, I could never do that! No doctor's going to use a knife on me!”

Oh boy! TMI again!

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to upset you. I think your figure is just perfect the way it is.”

“Thanks. Come on!” She jumped up, moving much faster than I thought possible in her condition. “I'll show you the pictures!”

Shoeless, she raced across the room, through the kitchen, and into the open entrance to her brother's half of the condo. By the time I caught up with her, she was in George's living room, kneeling in front of a plain, tan-colored wooden bureau. The bottom drawer was open, and Janice had pulled a large black photo album out from under a pile of neatly folded linens. She looked up at me with the expression of a mischievous child.

“Georgie doesn't know I look through his stuff all the time when he's not here,” she said. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

I knew I had no business in this man's private space. But as long as I was there, however reluctantly, I couldn't resist taking a quick glance around the room. The surroundings were far different from the decorator decor of his sister's quarters. A couch and two chairs were upholstered in striped mattress ticking. A glass-topped trunk served as a coffee table, and wooden side tables and a desk were all of simple construction—the kind people buy ready to finish in the big chain home stores. All of it was painted in shades of tan, in stark contrast to the navy-blue walls, which were covered with scores of neatly framed photographs hung in orderly rows.

Janice replaced the folded fabrics with swift efficiency. It was clear that she'd done this before. Closing the drawer, she scampered back across the kitchen and into her own living room. I hurried along behind her.

Pushing a few color-coordinated magazines aside, she placed the album carefully on the mahogany coffee table. “Come on. Sit with me. I'll show you the boobies Georgie likes.”

“No, Janice. I don't want to. . . .”

Too late. She'd flipped the book open to an eight-by-ten matte-finished black-and-white photograph of a nude woman. It was a beautiful and tasteful pose. The woman stood in partial shade in a wooded area. She leaned against a tree, one hand above her head, touching the rough bark, her ample bosom thrust forward. Long dark hair framed her face.

“That's my mother,” she said.

What are you supposed to say when someone shows you a naked picture of her mother?

“She's very beautiful,” I said truthfully.

“Not is. Was. She's dead.” Janice's voice was flat. Unemotional.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Was she a professional model?”

“Not really. She posed only for Georgie.”

Jesus! What kind of a nest of weirdos have I wandered into?

She turned to another page, this one showing a pastoral scene. “You know,” she said in a thoughtful tone, “they're quite good, aren't they? Imagine. He must have been only about fifteen when he took these.”

“You'd better put that away.” I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. “I've got to go.”

Barely saying a quick good-bye, I dashed out of the building to my car, my mind buzzing.

Was George some kind of oedipal pervert? What was the message River North had for me? Should I invite Scott to the Witches Ball? Did I have enough time to finish my show prep for tonight's edition of
Nightshades?
Why would someone want to steal the cat?

There were only two things I was absolutely sure about.

I needed a shower, and I desperately needed a nap.

I began to feel better as soon as I'd parked the Buick in the garage. Hurrying up the brick pathway, I could smell Aunt Ibby's famous snickerdoodles before I'd even unlocked the back door. With a long spatula, she was arranging the fresh, hot cookies on a wire rack. I came up behind her and gave her a big hug.

“I love you, Aunt Ibby.”

“Why, thank you, Maralee. I love you, too. But what have I done to earn such special attention?”

“I'm just glad to be home.” I sat on a high stool and helped myself to a cookie. “It's been a strange day,” I said, kicking off my shoes the way Janice had. Mine were not Jimmy Choos.

O'Ryan padded into the room and leapt up onto my lap. He turned around once, then settled down and closed his eyes. No doubt he was shedding yellow cat hairs all over the front of my green suit, but I was just too beat to care.

“Did you have a nice lunch?” She placed neat circles of dough onto a fresh cookie sheet. “The Lyceum is always pleasant, I think.”

“The food was good, as usual, but Mr. Doan and Janice got into a row—something about witches. It was embarrassing. And Janice got a bit drunk. I think it was partly from the pills she'd taken for her migraine. Scott Palmer had to leave early for an assignment. . . .”

“You didn't mention that Scott was going to be there.”

“I didn't know. But I'm sure he was glad to leave.”

“That bad?”

“It was pretty awful. I had to drive Janice home. Her condo is gorgeous, by the way. You'd love it. The kitchen is fabulous, and Janice has some really nice antiques and paintings.”

“Does she live alone?”

“No. She shares the place with her brother George.” I explained briefly how the condo was divided into his and hers segments, separated by the
House Beautiful
kitchen.

“That makes a lot of sense, what with the high prices they get for condos these days. It's nice for families to share the space.” She smiled. “Like you and me. I take it they're both single?”

“As far as I know.”

“How old do you think Janice is?” my aunt asked.

“I don't know for sure. I saw a photo of her taken in London when she was an actress—maybe a showgirl. The date on it was 2005 and she looked as though she might be in her early twenties. So I'm guessing she's probably somewhere around my age.”

“She's very attractive. How old do you think her brother might be?”

“George? Hard to tell. Could be forty-something. I get the impression that he feels responsible for his sister. He kind of hovers over her.”

“Maybe she has health issues, what with the headaches and all.”

“Maybe.”

“You look tired, Maralee. Why don't you take a nice warm shower and try to sleep for a couple of hours? I'll wake you in plenty of time for tonight's show.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“And take the car tonight. I won't be needing it.”

“Thanks. I will.” I lifted the sleeping cat from my lap and put him on the floor, where he yawned and stretched. I picked up my shoes, reached for a warm cookie, and climbed the stairs, with O'Ryan trotting along behind me.

After a hot shower, and wrapped in a cozy terry robe, I headed for my room. O'Ryan was already there, curled up at the foot of the bed. I propped myself up on a few pillows and dialed the number on the pink slip Doan had given me.

River answered right away. “Oh, Crystal, I'm so glad you called. I watched your show last night. Why didn't you tell me you were a psychic?”

“I'm not really, River. Like the man says, ‘I just play one on TV.'”

“Well, it's exciting that you're a TV star. I'd love to have a job like that.”

“I'm hardly a star, River. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“While I was watching
Nightshades,
I laid the cards out for you again. There are some things you need to know. To be extra careful about.”

“That doesn't sound too good.” I tried to keep my tone light.

“Some of it is okay, but some of it might not be. Listen. It's mostly about your aunt. She's the only thing standing between you and the reversed King of Cups. Please tell her to be very careful.”

“I will,” I promised. “Should I make an appointment to see you again?”

“I'm all booked up for today, and I know you have to work tonight. Could you come over to the tent sometime tomorrow afternoon? I'll be doing tea leaves.”

“I can be there around two, if that's all right,” I said. “Tea Leaves, huh? Another gift?”

“Two is good. And you don't need a gift to do tea. It's not hard, and people seem to like it.”

“October must be an awfully busy time for you.”

“You bet! I read the cards and the tea leaves most every day, along with some private readings. Then, a couple of times a week, I put on my pilgrim dress and do a few nighttime ghost tours. Have to go now. Here comes a customer. See you tomorrow. Bye!”

I patted the snoozing cat. “What do you think about that, O'Ryan? More bad news from the tarot.” I picked up the remote and turned on the TV. “Let's see if I can stay awake long enough to catch the afternoon news. Maybe they'll be running whatever it was that made Scott run out on that delightful lunch!”

Police Chief Whaley's craggy face filled the screen. “MIT has completed their examination of the straight razor presumably used last week in the murder of Yvette Pelletier.”

A split screen showed a studio portrait of the deceased woman on one side and an artist's sketch of a straight razor, blade exposed, on the other. Yvette Pelletier had been a rather pretty woman with large eyes and long dark hair. The razor, even in a drawing, looked lethal.

“The sequence of numerals scratched onto the weapon has been confirmed as a service number,” the chief continued. “It was issued to a member of the United States armed forces during the Korean conflict. The number has been traced to a patient at a Florida veterans' hospital. A Salem detective is en route to Tampa to interview that individual. I'll take a few questions.”

Scott asked the first question. “Do you know the man's name?”

Whaley shook his head. “Not releasing that information yet.”

Scott asked another. “Any idea how the razor wound up in Salem?”

“No idea. It's an old item. Could have come from an antique store or pawnshop. We're checking all avenues.”

One of the other reporters wanted to know when the media could get the name of the razor's original owner. The chief said he didn't know, announced that the press conference was over, and ignored shouted questions as he walked back inside the station.