Caught Dead Handed (24 page)

George's voice changed to a harsh whisper.

“Willie! You little son of a bitch! Leave her alone! What do you want?”

I didn't dare budge. I just sat there on the hideous purple toilet seat, eavesdropping. After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only a minute or two, I heard the slam of the heavy metal door. Was he gone? Did I dare to creep out of this claustrophobic closet?

I took a deep breath, grabbed the bag of clothes, burst out of the bathroom, and raced for the lobby. Should I get into the slow-moving elevator or take my chances in the dark, winding stairwell? I opted for the elevator and punched the DOWN button.

Thankfully, Pete was there when the doors clanked open.

“Hey, where've you been?” There was real concern in his voice. “I was getting worried about you.”

“I was getting worried about me, too,” I told him. “Let's get out of here.”

Tossing the garment bag over my shoulder, I practically raced him to the street.

“In a rush to get home, Lee? Come on. My car's right here.” He held the door of the unmarked police car open, and I climbed in, feeling safe for the first time since I'd overheard that chilling exchange from outside the dressing room.

“It's not that, Pete,” I told him. “I just wanted to get out of there. Listen, I was in the bathroom and I heard George on his phone.” The words tumbled out in an excited rush. “He was talking to Willie. I heard him. He called Willie a little son of a bitch and told him to leave Janice alone. And, Pete, Willie was in George and Janice's condo! Let's go over there, and you can arrest him.”

“That's not the way it works, Lee. You know that. I'd need a warrant. And we don't know if there really is a Willie.”

“Someone is sending those postcards to Bill Valen,” I pointed out. “And we know the most recent ones came from here.”

“Sure. Someone. But has anyone actually seen this mysterious Willie? Hearing conversations from behind closed doors doesn't count.”

“You don't believe me.”

“Yes, I believe you heard something . . . someone. But, Lee, I'm a cop. I need facts. Eyewitnesses. Real people. No witch tricks or sound effects.”

“At least can we drive by the Valens' condo? George told Willie to get out. Maybe we'll see him leave.”

“Okay. It's on the way to your place, anyway. I guess we can do that.” His tone was a little condescending, but I decided to let that pass. “Now,” he said, “tell me exactly what you think you heard George say on the phone.”

“It's not what I
think
I heard. It's what I heard.”

“Sorry. That's what I meant.”

“That's all right. He thought he was talking to Janice. He said ‘Hello' and ‘Did I wake you?' Then, I guess, someone answered, because he was quiet for a minute. Then he said, ‘Willie! You little son of a bitch! Leave her alone!' Then he said, ‘We got rid of you before, and we can do it again.'”

“And you heard all this through the bathroom door?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Is that all he said?”

“No. He said that it was too bad about something that happened to Willie back in Cincinnati, but that whatever it was wasn't Janice's fault.”

Washington Square was eerily still when we cruised to a stop in front of the big old house turned condos.

“Looks quiet enough,” Pete said.

“Maybe too quiet,” I whispered. “I'm worried about Janice, Pete. That man, that Willie, if that's who it was, threatened her. I heard what I heard.”

“You know I can't do a darned thing officially here, Lee. But would it make you feel better if I knock on the door and ask George if everything is all right in there?”

“Oh, would you?”

“Sure. I'll be right back.” He opened his door.

“Are you kidding? I'm not staying out here alone! I'm coming with you.”

I was sure he wanted to object but probably figured it would be a waste of time. Which it would have been. I joined him, and together we approached the Valens' front door.

Pete consulted the glass-covered directory and pressed a combination of buttons.

George answered immediately. “Yes, Pete. I see you. What's up?”

I looked around and spotted a small camera above the door.

“George, sorry to bother you at this hour,” Pete said, “but Lee is worried about you folks. Is everything okay in there?”

“Sure. Why wouldn't it be?”

“Are you sure Janice is all right?” I asked.

“Oh, hi, Lee. Janice is fine. Sleeping like a baby,” came the quick reply. “Go home and get some rest, you two. We're fine. Thanks for asking. Good night.”

“Good night, George,” Pete said. “See you later.”

“But, Pete,” I whispered. “What if they're not okay? What if Willie has a gun pointed at them? What if... ?”

“Shhh.” He took my arm with a firm grip and led me back to the car. “We've done all we can for now. I'm going to get you home. Your aunt will be worried. Then I'll radio for a cruiser to do an extra patrol around the neighborhood for the rest of the night.”

What a nice guy.

“Thanks, Pete,” I said. “That makes me feel a little better.”

He smiled. “Just a little?”

“I'm still worried about Janice. But you're right. We've done all we can for now.”

It was just a short distance to Winter Street from the east side of Washington Square. We pulled up in front of the house in minutes. Pete picked up the garment bag and walked to the front door with me, much as Scott Palmer had a couple of nights ago. But there was no long, deep-in-the-eyes look from Pete Mondello.

Instead, without a second's hesitation, with his free arm he pulled me close and delivered another one of those knee-weakening, toe-curling, heart-pounding kisses. And this time beer and Florida moonlight had nothing to do with it.

He handed me the garment bag. “Good night, Lee. I'll call you tomorrow.”

I just stood there, surprised and pleased at the same time, probably looking like a goof, while he walked down the steps, then turned and waved. “Good night,” he said again.

I managed a wave and then unlocked the door. I thought that Aunt Ibby would be up waiting for me, and I was right.

“I'm glad you're home, Maralee,” she said. “You did so well with all the questions tonight, and I enjoyed the movie, too. And you looked so pretty. But, dear, were you a bit nervous?” She took my hand, leading me into the den. “I don't think anyone but me noticed, but is something wrong?”

“Yes, something is very wrong.” I told her about the disturbing conversation I'd overheard between Janice and the man behind the dressing room door. I didn't leave anything out. I told her about Marty hearing an argument between the two. I related the telephone call between George and someone he called Willie.

She sat quietly and let me pour it all out. “So you believe that Willie, George's younger brother, is here in Salem and, for some reason, means to harm Janice?”

“I do. I'm really frightened for her. Pete and I went over to the Valens' place after I finished the show so that we could check with George and be sure they were all right. He said they were, but I'm still worried. What do you think?”

“I think you did well to tell the detective all about it. That was the responsible thing to do. Meanwhile, you and I will learn everything we can about this Willie person. You keep your ears open around the station, and I'll do some more research online.”

“Have you turned up anything interesting so far?”

“Well, for one thing, the police in Cincinnati declared Marlena's death an accident with alcohol involved. Also, I heard from my Facebook friend Nigel. Remember I told you about him? He's with New Scotland Yard.”

“What did he say?”

“So far, he's found information on both George and William Valen. They had valid passports and traveled between the United States and England. They arrived in London from the U.S. together and departed together about six years later. He says that George worked in London as a freelance photographer for several of the London tabloids. Sort of a paparazzo, apparently.”

“What about Janice?”

“Nothing on a Janice Valen so far. But there were three women with the first name Janice on the plane they flew home on, and he's looking into that.”

“You have some great Facebook friends. Nigel seems to be going all out for us.”

“Yes. Nigel is a very special friend. We met last year, when he was here on sabbatical.”

“Oh?” Was my staid and proper aunt blushing? “A
special
friend?”

“We went out to dinner together a few times. Don't look so surprised.”

I didn't press the subject. “Well, he's certainly been very helpful. Did he say anything more?”

“He looked into that nightclub—the Purple Dragon. He says it closed years ago. And, Maralee, he says it was one of those female impersonator clubs. You know, where men dress up like women and sing and dance and such.”

“That's strange. I'm sure the Purple Dragon was the name I read on Janice's photo.”

“Nigel says there was no Janice Valen listed as an employee there. But there was a Billie Jo Vale. Do you think that could have been a stage name that Willie Valen might have used? William Joseph . . . Billie Jo?”

“You may be right. I'm going to call George in the morning and ask some questions. He can tell me it's none of my business, but I'm going to at least try to get some answers.”

My aunt looked at her watch. “It's been morning for quite a while already, my dear. Let's go to bed and think about all this later.”

“You're right. Where's O'Ryan?”

“I think he's already up in your room, waiting for you.”

“I won't keep him waiting any longer. Good night.”

The cat was on the bed, just as Aunt Ibby had said he would be. He opened his eyes briefly when I turned on the light, then settled back onto the pillow with what looked like a contented smile on his face.

I could hardly wait to join him. Exhaustion hit me like a giant wave, and I hurried through the face-washing, tooth-brushing, pajama-donning ritual and tumbled into bed.

“Good night, O'Ryan,” I mumbled.

“Gnufff,” he answered.

In seconds I was sound asleep.

But not for long. I awoke with a start. As if in a dream, I heard once again the plaintive voice of Paul, the boy who wanted to get a job instead of studying. His speech pattern was the same as Billy's, the kid who thought his brother was spying on him. I'd connected the two voices before, when I was at the motel in Florida. But the reason for the sudden awakening this time wasn't just the connection between the two calls. It was the realization that Paul was not even a real kid. He was one of the callers on my own audition tape.

And all the voices on that tape belonged to Janice Valen.

At least, I'd thought they did.

I tried to recall the details of that day not so very long ago. I remembered that I'd wanted to thank Janice for helping with the audition. But she'd told Marty that she couldn't come down to the studio, because she was calling from home. So had the voices really been Janice's? Or had Willie been there even then? Taking the telephone from her and pretending to be a teenage kid? How many other voices on
Nightshades
had Willie provided? And had Ariel been tricked the same way I'd been? Just how had Willie achieved such control over the program director, who had, at our first meeting, seemed to be such a confident, take-charge woman?

Too many questions. Too many difficult things to figure out—especially at four o'clock in the morning. I rolled over, careful not to disturb the cat, and went back to sleep.

When I awoke a few hours later, O'Ryan had already left to join Aunt Ibby in the kitchen, where the melded aromas of coffee, bacon, and apple muffins promised a delicious, if caloric, breakfast—just what I needed to fortify myself for the busy day ahead.

I needed to shop for a few more outfits for Crystal Moon, along with something glitzy and sexy for the Witches Ball. The station's credit card was about to get a good workout. Salem at Halloween is probably as good as New Orleans for great masquerade wear.

I'd see River at the Lyceum for the evening tea-leaf reading, and somehow during this day I'd find the time—and the courage—to confront George Valen about what was going on with the elusive Willie. He could tell me it was none of my business. He could probably get me fired. But if Willie was responsible for trying to steal O'Ryan, it was my business, and I intended to get some answers.

If it was Willie who was running around after dark in Salem, wearing a camouflage outfit, stabbing one woman and drowning another, and if it was Willie who'd threatened Janice so cruelly, and who'd hidden in the yard at Winter Street and stuffed my poor cat into a pillowcase, then George needed to do something about it, younger brother or not. And he needed to do it now. Before someone else got hurt.

Was Willie the King of Cups reversed? Was he my secret enemy? What would River think if I told her everything? If I told her about finding Ariel's body, about seeing visions in the obsidian ball, about hearing voices behind closed doors, about my fears for Janice Valen's safety, and about the growing mystery of Willie Valen? Maybe a witch would be the perfect person to talk to. But do witches have a confidentiality agreement, like doctors and lawyers? I had to smile at that idea.

I hurried downstairs, and Aunt Ibby greeted me with a hug and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Sit down and have a good breakfast, Maralee,” she said. “Most important meal of the day, you know. You've been running yourself ragged with this crazy job and murders and mysterious voices and whatnot.” She waved a spatula. “Now sit.”

I did as she said, and between bites of perfectly crisp bacon and warm apple muffin, I told her about my realization that Willie's voice had come from Janice's home phone.

“What do you think, Aunt Ibby? Could Willie be stalking her after all these years? And is Janice Valen one of the Janices who flew home from London with George and Willie?”

“I don't know, Maralee. Nigel didn't say that any of the three Janices was
with
them. Those are big planes. Chances are that there're at least one or two Janices on any of them.”

I sighed, more confused than ever. “You're right. Thanks for breakfast. I'd better get moving. I have some serious shopping to do.”

“Want the car?”

“No thanks. I'm sure I'll find what I need on Essex Street. It's nice out, and I can walk off some of this food. I'll take a cab home if I'm weighted down with bags and boxes.”

I put my wallet into the pocket of the NASCAR jacket and set out to spend the station's money. There were plenty of shops in downtown Salem, and I was pretty sure most of them would be featuring costumes and accessories this month. I was right. Within the first hour I found three Gypsyish skirts, which I could mix and match with the ones I already had. In a vintage fashion store I found two beautifully embroidered blouses, sufficiently low-necked to please Mr. Doan. I was about to leave when I thought to ask about the dress I'd need for the Witches Ball.

“Got anything with lots of sparkle? Something really glitzy?” I asked. Maybe I could save the station a little money, I thought, by buying vintage instead of new.

“I have something in the back you might like,” said the woman. “Wait a sec.”

She returned, carrying a large cardboard box. “This just came in.” She opened the lid, pushing aside blue tissue paper. “Take a look. It's a 1980s vintage Bob Mackie.”

It was gorgeous. Silver and crystal beads sparkled across fabric so sheer, it was almost invisible. The bead design on the bodice was gracefully constructed to cover strategic areas, and the long, pencil-slim skirt was divided with a thigh-high slit.

“Try it on. It's just your size.”

She was right. It fit as though it had been made for me. I turned in front of the full-length mirror.

“How much is it?”

“One thousand seven hundred. It's a steal at that price.”

So much for saving the station a little money. I knew Doan would love the dress, but would he love it seventeen hundred dollars' worth?

I did one more turn, admiring my own reflection. “I think that might be more than the station's budget allows.”

“The station?” The woman smiled into the mirror. “The TV station?”

“Right.”

“I thought you looked familiar. You're the new
Nightshades
girl.”

“That's me. I'm supposed to find something fabulous to wear to the Witches Ball. This is fabulous enough, but I doubt that my boss will want to pay that much.”

“Bruce Doan's the boss over there, right?”

“You know him?” I asked.

“He comes in with the missus once in a while. I call her if anything nice in purple comes in. If it's something he likes on her, he doesn't question the price. Why don't you take it over to the station and model it? See if he likes it.” She handed me a vintage French telephone. “Here. Call and see if that's okay.”

I took another turn in front of the mirror.

Oh, he'll like it, all right.

I accepted the phone and dialed the station's number. I was surprised when Janice answered. She sounded cheerful, unaffected by the events of the night before.

“How are you feeling, Janice?” I asked. “You okay?”

“Sure. Why wouldn't I be? What's up?”

How could she be so calm? So normal? So untouched by the threats she'd received just hours ago? I wanted to tell her that I knew she was in danger. To tell her to be careful.

Instead, I just told her about the vintage Mackie. And the price. “It's lovely,” I said. “But awfully expensive. They say I can take it over and show it to Mr. Doan. I'll need a ride, though. I walked here.”

“Hold on. I'll check.”

In less than a minute she was back. “Okay, Lee. All set. I'm sending George to pick you and the dress up. You can model it for Doan, and if he likes it, it's a go.”

By the time I'd changed and the gown had been carefully repacked, George's car pulled up in front of the store. Carrying the dress box and all my other packages, I climbed in.

“Wow! Are you buying out the city?” He sounded perfectly normal, just as Janice had, with no hint in his voice or appearance that anything out of the ordinary had happened to either of them.

Was there going to be more of the “small talk” George and Janice seemed to favor, or was this the time for me to come right out and tell him what I knew about Willie?

There's never going to be a right time to tell a guy that you think his little brother is a serial killer. Just do it.