Caught Dead Handed (19 page)

“Yes. Nigel. He's with New Scotland Yard.”

“Do you think he could find out if there was a George Valen, a Janice Valen, or a William Joseph Valen Jr. living in the London area around the late 1990s?”

“Consider it done,” she said.

“Oh, and one more thing. Do you have access to old newspapers?”

“Sure. The microfiche at the library goes all the way back to newspapers from the seventeenth century.”

“Great. Can you check obituaries in the
Cincinnati Enquirer
for a notice of the death of a Marlena Valen? It would be around twenty years ago.”

She promised to get to work on both requests right away. We said our good-byes, and I realized about then that all I'd eaten since yesterday was a granola bar. No wonder I felt confused. Remembering what the driver had said about his lunch, I slipped the room key into the pocket of my shorts, along with my wallet, and headed out in search of a grouper sandwich of my own. One thing there is no shortage of along Florida's gulf beaches is seafood restaurants. I knew I wouldn't have to walk far to find one.

A rustic-looking beach bar with outdoor tables was practically across the street from the motel. It even had a sign advertising fresh grouper. Perfect. I headed for it with visions of a golden-brown chunk of flaky white fish resting on crisp lettuce and smothered in freshly made tartar sauce, all nestled in a soft sourdough bun. Pickles on the side. And maybe a nice cold beer. I began to cross Gulf Boulevard, and for the second time that day, a firm guiding hand grasped my arm.

“You hungry, too?” Pete Mondello looked cool and comfortable. He wore khaki shorts, and his short-sleeved white shirt fit so snugly across his well-muscled chest, it was obvious that he was no longer carrying a gun. Dark hair, wet from a recent shower or swim, curled slightly across his forehead.

“Starving,” I admitted. “Grouper sandwich, here I come.”

“Never had grouper,” he said. “Anything like haddock?”

“Not really. Try it. You'll like it.”

Pete was easy to be with. We sat together at a round table with a blue- and white-striped umbrella shielding us from the October sun.

“You did some fast shopping,” I said. “You look much more comfortable.”

“Thanks. I feel better, too.” He studied the menu briefly, then ordered us a couple of light beers and two grouper sandwiches. “Lee, you were a big help at the hospital. I completely missed those postcards when I questioned the old gent.”

“I don't know what they mean,” I said, “but maybe they're a clue to something.”

He smiled. “You sound like Nancy Drew. Looking for clues.”

“I do, don't I? But there are so many questions, and everything has happened so fast ever since I came home to Salem.”

His expression became serious. “I wasn't making fun of you. It can't have been easy, finding Ariel Constellation's body the way you did, then landing right in the middle of a crime investigation. Old soldiers, dead seagulls, kidnapped cats and all.”

Our food arrived, and we both grew silent, enjoying the meal and the sunshine.

“Pete,” I said when I was about halfway through with my sandwich, “did you see the body of the Pelletier woman?”

“Sure I did. Why?”

“Was she wearing a crystal necklace, by any chance?”

The relaxed look was gone. The cop face was in place. He put his sandwich down, looking at me intently. “How did you know about that?”

“I didn't. But I found out that Yvette Pelletier was a regular caller to
Nightshades.
And Marty told me that Ariel used to reward callers with those necklaces. I was just wondering if there's some connection. What do you think?” I wasn't ready to tell him, or anyone, about the vision of the camouflage-uniformed murderer stepping on Ariel's fingers.

“Could be. I'll run it by the chief.” He took a sip of beer. “You ever think about becoming a detective? I think you'd be good at it.”

“Not me. I still want to be a news reporter when I grow up.”

He raised his glass in salute, and I raised mine to meet it.

“Cheers,” we toasted in unison.

Pete and I spent the rest of the afternoon together. The evening too. At sunset, as the sky turned to improbable shades of pink and gold and magenta, we joined a group of turtle watchers waiting for baby loggerheads to hatch. We stopped at another beach bar and listened to bad karaoke. We strolled to the end of a long pier and watched the fishermen casting their lines into the moonlit gulf. It was nearly midnight when we returned to the motel.

“This was fun, Lee,” he said.

“For me too.”

He stood very close as I fished the key from my pocket and pushed it into the lock. He smelled good.
Like sunshine,
I thought. I made no attempt to move away. Maybe I even stepped a little closer.

It was one hell of a good-night kiss.

Going to sleep just then was out of the question. Wide awake, I pulled the Ariel DVD out of my bag and popped it into the player attached to the TV. Might as well study Ariel's psychic technique a little more. Maybe it would help clear my mind of naughty thoughts about Pete Mondello.

Maybe not.

The date on the cover indicated that this DVD was newer than the one I'd viewed earlier. Ariel's hair was a little poofier; her jewelry a little glitzier. O'Ryan was there, sprawled along the back of the couch, looking relaxed and handsome. I wondered if the big cat would ever be willing to come back into the studio. It would be fun to have him as part of my show, and I was sure the viewers would love it.

The first call was from Linda, a Leo, who'd recently broken up with Ray, a Taurus. She wondered if she'd made the right choice. Ariel advised her not to give up on Ray entirely and told her that a more compatible friend might be coming into her life in the near future.
Harmless advice that sounded good and didn't really promise a darned thing.

The next call was from a woman who was sure she was being haunted by the spirit of her dead mother-in-law. Ariel told her to sage the house and burn red candles.

How do you sage a house? And what do red candles have to do with anything? I need more studying!

A call from a woman who'd misplaced her husband's wallet brought a suggestion to meditate, visualize the wallet, then expand her field of vision until she could recognize the surroundings. Pretty much what I'd done when I searched for that lost watch for
my
caller.

Except that I'd really found the stupid thing!

A kid named Billy called to say his big brother was always spying on him. “I'm pretty sure the dude follows me around, y'know?” he said. “Like what's up with that? Is he nuts?”

Ariel hit the finger-on-the-forehead pose and told him not to worry, that his brother was just being protective, and to choose his friends carefully so that his family wouldn't have reason to worry about him so much.

I began to yawn, feeling sleepy, and shut off the TV. I got ready for bed, thinking about Ariel and the way she handled calls. I was becoming confident that, with a little more study, I could do just as well with the
Nightshades
audience.

I lay there quietly in the darkness, listening to the gentle sound of the surf on the beach. Something about the show I'd just watched nibbled at the corners of my mind. I knew I hadn't watched this particular DVD before, but somehow it was familiar. Maybe one of the callers was a regular, and maybe I'd heard the voice on the other DVD or on Aunt Ibby's
Dark Shadows
shows.

But reflections about Ariel and the
Nightshades
callers kept drifting away, replaced by thoughts of the handsome Salem detective I'd so recently, and wholeheartedly, kissed good night.

It had been a very long time since I'd felt attracted to men at all. When Johnny died, it seemed as though that part of me died, too. But I certainly felt something for Pete. To make it more confusing, I had to admit that I'd recently felt a tiny something for Scott.

I pulled a pillow over my head and tried to make the thoughts go away.

Scott is a job snatcher. Pete might be married.

But I sure hope he isn't.

I awoke to predawn light and the raucous calls of gulls greeting the sunrise. I bolted upright, realizing what had been familiar about that Ariel DVD. It was the kid. Billy. The one with the snoopy sibling. Billy had the same voice, the same inflections, the same whiny tone as another kid caller, the one whose mother didn't want him to buy a car. I'd have to remember to tell whoever screened my calls to watch out for a youngster who apparently made up problems because he liked to hear himself on TV.

Wide awake, in spite of the early hour and my recent sleep-deprived days and nights, I pulled on shorts and a sweatshirt and headed outside. Early morning on the gulf beaches is a lovely time, and there's nothing better than a brisk walk along the water's edge to clear the mind and get the day off to a good start. I walked about a mile down the beach, then turned and headed back. I'd worked up an appetite, and the fresh coffee and warm blueberry muffins offered in the motel lobby smelled wonderful. I carried mine outside to enjoy in the comfort of a bright red Adirondack chair facing the gulf.

I heard the scrape of the blue chair next to mine moving on sand, and I knew without looking up that Pete Mondello had joined me.

“You're an early riser, too,” he said.

“I am. Always have been.”

“Best part of the day.”

“I know.”

A nice thing about morning people is that they don't talk a lot. Pete and I sat there, enjoying our coffee, without feeling the need to make conversation. I watched the gulls cartwheeling gracefully just above the waves and thought of those poor poisoned birds under the police tarpaulin. I thought, too, about my interview with the old soldier and about the kiss I'd shared with the man sitting beside me.

I finished my muffin, brushed the crumbs onto the sand, and tried to brush away the thoughts. The birds were collateral damage. Someone had tried to kill the cat. The interview had proven nothing and would be credited to Phil Archer, anyway. The kiss could probably be chalked up to a couple of beers and the Florida moonlight.

I stood up and tossed my paper cup and muffin wrapper into a nearby trash barrel.

“Guess I might as well start packing. Checkout time is eleven o'clock.”

“Our flight isn't until three thirty,” Pete said. “You have any good ideas for killing time between now and then?”

I checked my watch. “If you happened to buy a bathing suit on your shopping trip yesterday, I think we have time for a swim right now.”

“I did, and we do.”

“Meet you back here in five,” I promised, glad that I'd packed a really cute hot-pink two-piece.

“Make it three. It might be a long time before I get to swim in the gulf again.”

I didn't actually check, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes before we were both at the water's edge. I'd thought he looked hot in his khaki shorts and white shirt the day before, but he looked even better in swim trunks and no shirt. We swam for nearly an hour, then spread a couple of motel towels on the warm sand and flopped down on our bellies, facing each other. I shared my tube of sunscreen with him but didn't offer to help him apply it.

“You're a good swimmer,” he said.

“You too.”

If Ariel had been able to swim, could she have escaped from her killer?

We lay there for a while, careful to turn occasionally so his New England skin wouldn't burn. My tan was pretty well established, but I never like to overdo it. We chatted about the weather, the plane trip, my job at the station. I found out he wasn't married. We each avoided any mention of the evening before, or of the serious police business that had brought both of us there.

“Can I give you a lift to the airport, or is that limo guy coming back?” he asked.

“Limo guy,” I said. “I'm supposed to call when I'm ready to leave.”

“Can't you call and tell him not to come? That you already have a ride with an old friend from home?”

“Oh, Pete. I don't know. Mr. Doan has already arranged—”

“Come on. You can show me the sights around here.”

“We do have a few hours to kill before flight time. I guess maybe it would be okay.”

He stood and reached for my hand, pulling me to my feet. “Great. Let's get started.”

I laughed. “All right. Give me a little while, though. I have to check with the station and then call the limo guy. And I need to dry my hair.”

Back in the room I aimed the hair dryer with one hand and speed dialed the station with the other. Rhonda answered.

“Hi, Lee. How's Florida? And what's that noise?”

“Hair dryer. Been swimming.”

“Oh, rub it in, why don't you? You want to talk to the boss?”

“Yes, please.”

I shut off the dryer when the station manager answered. “Yes, Lee. What's up?”

I asked if it was all right if I canceled the limo ride, and told him I'd be with a Salem detective.

“All right? It's a great idea. Save us a few bucks on the ride, and maybe you can sweet-talk the cop into giving us some inside info on the case. Didn't get much from the old fellow, did we?”

“Not much. Sorry, Mr. Doan.”

“Not your fault. At least our viewers will know what he looks like,” he said. “By the way, did Palmer set it up to get plenty of shots of you at that Witches Ball shindig?”

Publicity shots! That weasel!
And I'd been dumb enough to think he was asking me for a date!

“Publicity shots. Sure thing. All set, sir.”

“Good. Use that credit card Janice gave you and pick out something nice and sexy. The Boston stations will be there, too. The more shots of you, the better for
Nightshades.
”

I called the limo service and canceled my afternoon ride, then punched in Aunt Ibby's number. I'd shoved the bad thoughts away for quite a while, but the worry was back. I wanted to be sure that the alarm system was being installed and that O'Ryan was safely inside the house.

My aunt answered on the third ring. Yes, the man was there to install the alarm system. Yes, O'Ryan was fine, pacing back and forth in the front hall, as though he was waiting for someone. No, she hadn't had a chance to go to the library to check the microfiche for the death notice of Marlena Valen. Yes, she had e-mailed Nigel in London but hadn't heard from him yet. And would I please stop being such a fussbudget? She'd been taking care of herself just fine for sixty-odd years, thank you very much.

There wasn't much I could say to all that, so I said my “Good-byes” and “I love yous” to my aunt and cat and hung up.

Soon, hair dry and brushed into some sort of order, bathing suit plastic-bagged and packed with my other belongings, I was ready to check out and start my stint as tour guide. We'd agreed to meet in front of the motel at nine, and I was right on time. Pete was already there, rental car engine running and trunk open. He put my bag alongside his, held the passenger door for me, and off we went. I'd decided that a ride through a few of the gulf beach towns was a good starting point.

“Lots of motels and restaurants,” he said.

“Sure. Tourism is a big part of the economy here.”

“Salem too,” he said. “Seems like everybody's interested in witches these days.”

“Seems that way,” I agreed. “Especially around Halloween.”

I know I'm a lot more interested in them than I used to be. I've been seeing a dead witch in a black ball, and I seem to have acquired a witch's familiar for a pet.

We rode through St. Pete Beach and crossed the bridge to Fort DeSoto Park. Got out of the car and walked around the old fort for a few minutes, then headed back toward the city.

“Have you been to Florida before, Pete?” I asked as we approached downtown St. Petersburg.

“Once. When I was a kid, the whole family went to Disney World.”

“I bet that was more fun than sitting in a hospital corridor.”

“In a suit and tie,” he said. “Mickey Mouse was great, but I think I like spending the day with you better.”

I was pretty sure I blushed. It wasn't every day I got to trump an American icon.

“Thank you. I'm having a nice day, too.”

Let's not go there, please. I don't want to talk about yesterday. Or last night. Or even this morning.

We made a quick tour of St. Petersburg. I pointed out the modern Dali Museum and the old Tropicana Field, the USF waterfront campus and the vintage Vinoy Hotel. We cruised past the yacht club and the marina, the shuffleboard courts and the souvenir shops. We stopped so that Pete could buy a Tampa Bay Rays cap.

“You a Rays fan?” I asked.

“Not really. Just want to bug the chief. He's a big Red Sox fan.”

“He doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humor. He sure was deadly serious when he questioned me about where I was when Ariel died.”

“But he had to question you about all that.” He gave me a serious look. “After all, you found the body, left some blood at the scene, and got the dead woman's job!”

“True. What about you? Did you think I had something to do with all this mess?” I could feel my anger beginning to rise. “Well, did you?”

“Never, Lee. Not for one minute.”

“Really? You didn't?”

“Of course not. I mean, not after I found out you were on a plane at the time.” He smiled. And I had to laugh.

We had lunch alfresco in the tree-shaded Garden Restaurant, then started for the airport, with plenty of time to spare before our flight. Conversation came easily then. He told me a little about himself, how he'd come to chase criminals for a living. He'd wanted to be an attorney, but there wasn't enough money for law school, so he'd followed his dad's footsteps and joined the Salem Police Department after two years at the local junior college.

“Have you thought about going back to school?”

“I'm taking an online criminology course.”

“Good for you.”

Criminology, huh?
How could he not have at least thought about the possibility that I might have had something to do with Ariel's death?

We turned in Pete's rental car, passed through security, and rode the shuttle to airside.

“Your ticket is business class?” he asked.

“Right.”

“Mine's coach. City budget constraints, you know.” He smiled. “So I probably won't see you again until we land in Boston. Got a ride home?”

“George Valen is picking me up.”

“George? That could make for an awkward ride home.”