Caught Dead Handed (7 page)

They say that when you're drowning, your whole life flashes before you. That moment in the attic was like that for me, as soon as I looked at those shoes. Long-forgotten scenes rolled by, along with glimpses of recent events.

Again, I saw the yellow plane bursting into flames. I saw my mother's face, mouth open in a silent scream. I saw sad-faced people and big bouquets of flowers. I saw my five-year-old self curled up in my bed, unable to speak. Scenes of school days, childhood friends flashed by. I saw my wedding day. I saw Johnny at Daytona, proudly hoisting a trophy. I saw the black car careening toward me out of the night, and I watched my own hands on the steering wheel as I tried to get out of the way. And again, I saw Ariel's hand, floating, beckoning from the water.

I threw the shoes onto the dusty attic floor. Maybe I fainted then. I'm not sure. The screaming had stopped, and I was crying, great gulping sobs against Aunt Ibby's shoulder.

I was vaguely aware of walking downstairs, sipping a cup of hot tea, patting the yellow cat, who'd climbed into my lap. Slowly, reality returned, and I felt self-control kicking in.

“Feeling better?” Aunt Ibby's face mirrored her concern.

“Yes,” I said. “Sorry I kind of lost it there.”

“Oh, Maralee, forgive me. I never should have told you.”

“You were right to tell me, Aunt Ibby,” I assured her. “It's just so overwhelming. Things I'd forgotten are all crowding into my mind at once. I just need to sort it all out. Especially the gazing thing.”

“I wish I knew how to help,” she said. “From what I've read, some gazers are able to control the visions.”

“Well,” I said, “if I really have it, it's apparently been under control for all these years. Maybe it'll go away again.”

“Maybe.” She didn't sound convinced. “After it happened . . .” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “After it happened, and you told me what you'd seen in your shoes, I still thought it was your imagination. Then the phone call came, and I knew it was real. But I didn't tell anyone about your . . .
vision.
Not a soul.”

She paused, looked away, and then continued. “After the funeral you stopped talking. Didn't speak a word for nearly six months. You walked and you ate and you looked at your books, but you couldn't be coaxed to speak. Then, one day, you began to talk again. You knew your parents were gone, of course, and you were sad about that. But you never said anything about what you had seen. Naturally, I put the shoes away and made sure you never had another pair of Mary Janes, but other shiny things, mirrors and the like, didn't seem to bother you at all. I thought . . . I hoped . . . this
thing,
whatever it is, was gone for good.”

I patted her hand. “Maybe it'll never happen again. And probably what I saw in the ball was really just a reflection.”

“I hope so, Maralee. I truly hope so. But you saw something in the shoes again just now, didn't you? Do you want to talk about it?”

I tried to describe what I had seen. “It went by so fast. It was all blurred together. But it was very real.” The admission came with difficulty. “I'm afraid you may be right. About me being a gazer.”

“I'm sure you understand now why I've tried to discourage you from taking on this psychic thing at the station. It's not a good idea. Please be sensible and tell them you won't be hosting
Nightshades.
”

“No,” I said, surprising myself with the firm sound of the word. “No,” I repeated in a softer tone. “What did you tell me just yesterday, before I drove to the station, when I admitted I'm still terrified every time I get behind the wheel of a car?”

Her smile was brief and wistful. “I handed you the keys to the Buick and told you to face your fear.”

“And you were right. I know I have to face my fear of this . . . ability I seem to have. But I'm still struggling. I'm not sure how to handle it.”

“I understand. But what are you going to do about it?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “It's too new. I'm afraid to even think about using it for anything. But I'm going to try to keep the
Nightshades
job. It's just an acting gig, after all, and it won't be forever. I'm sure something better will open up before too long.”

The ringing of the telephone interrupted my thoughts of what “something better” might possibly be.

“It's for you, Maralee,” my aunt stage-whispered. “And it's the
police!
”

She handed me the phone.

“Ms. Barrett? Pete Mondello. I spoke to you yesterday?”

“Yes, Detective. I remember you.”

“Uh, Ms. Barrett, the chief asked me to call you about some items you removed from the station.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The chief is on his way over to the studio, and, well, it would be a good idea if you brought all that stuff you took back. Save an officer from going to your house. With the neighbors watching and all.”

What on earth is this man talking about?

“Of course I'll return the books and cards,” I told him. “And the obsidian ball.”

“You're coming over right away?”

What is the big rush about some cheap books and a chunk of glass?

“Yes, sure.” I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice and was not sure I'd succeeded. “I'll be right along.” I hung up.

“What was that all about?” Aunt Ibby wanted to know.

“It was that detective who interviewed me yesterday. Mondello,” I said. “I have no idea what he was talking about, but apparently, they're in a big hurry to get Ariel's things back.”

“The police need Ariel's things? Do you suppose they're thinking she didn't fall in by accident? That she was pushed—”

“I don't know what they think,” I interrupted. “And you read too many mysteries! I'll pick up Ariel's stuff and get down there.”

“Want me to come along?” She looked worried.

“If you really want to.”

“I do,” she said. “Let's go.”

We dressed quickly for the cool October morning. I dumped Ariel's things into a WICH-TV canvas bag and looked around to make sure I hadn't missed anything. “Not much point in returning half a bag of cat food, I guess.”

“I'll take it to the animal shelter later,” Aunt Ibby said, “where the cats aren't so picky. I certainly hope they don't think I'll be returning the cat! Come on. I'll drive.”

As Aunt Ibby approached the green expanse of Salem Common, she slowed the Buick and pointed. “Look, Maralee.”

A huge striped tent now covered the area from the wrought-iron fence to the bandstand. A sign proclaimed
PSYCHIC FAIR – THREE DAYS ONLY – 12 PSYCHICS – NO WAITING – READINGS ONLY $25 EACH
!

“Maybe I can pick up all the psychic lingo I'll need with one twenty-five-dollar stop,” I said.

“Worth a try,” Aunt Ibby agreed. “Maybe you can walk over later today.”

When we reached the WICH-TV parking lot, police cars with lights flashing barred both entrances, so we circled the block and found a space on a nearby side street. I grabbed the canvas bag, and we walked the short distance to the station.

With every driveway and even the front doorway blocked, I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. I glanced around, looking for Detective Mondello. A uniformed officer standing beside one of the patrol cars noticed my confusion.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“I'm Lee Barrett,” I said. “Detective Mondello is expecting me.”

“You got ID?”

I pulled out my wallet and handed him my Florida driver's license. He squinted at it for a long moment, then handed it back. He nodded toward Aunt Ibby.

“You with her, Miss Russell?”

Library buddy? Facebook friend? Does she know everybody?

“She's my niece, Patrick. How's your mother?”

“She's fine, thanks. Go on back, you two. Chief Whaley's waiting down by the water.”

“Patrick's mom is in my Zumba class,” my aunt explained as we crossed the lot.

Chief Tom Whaley was a big cop. I'm five-eight, close to six feet in heels, and he towered over me.

“Ms. Barrett?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at Aunt Ibby. “And you are . . . ?”

“Isobel Russell. Maralee is my niece.”

“You work at the library. I've seen you there.”

“Yes. What's all this about?”

He consulted a notebook, and I looked around. Everything seemed a lot different than it had the day before. Felt different, too. The yellow tape now read
CRIME SCENE,
instead of
DO NOT CROSS. A
paneled truck marked
CSI
was parked nearby, and several jumpsuited technicians had congregated beside the wall, close to the spot where I'd found the buzzing phone. A few yards away stood a group of people in lab coats. At their feet, in a neat, still row, were the bodies of five dead seagulls.

I nudged Aunt Ibby.

A few dead birds in a parking lot hardly constitute a crime scene!

My aunt put my thought into words. “Chief Whaley, it's certainly a shame about those poor birds, but killing birds isn't a real crime, is it?”

He snapped the notebook shut. “Of course not. We're investigating a homicide here.”

“You mean . . . Ariel?” I asked.

He ignored my question. “Do I understand that you have been hired to replace the deceased, uh, psychic?”

“Yes. That is . . . ,” I stammered. “I think I have the job. I don't have a contract yet.”

“You spoke with someone about that job within a few hours of the discovery of the body?”

“Yes. Janice Valen.”

Once again he consulted the notebook. “And you were the person who discovered the body?”

“Yes.”

“At approximately what time did you discover it?”

“A little past nine.”

He scribbled in the notebook. “And how did you happen to be in this area?”

“Well, as I explained to Detective Mondello yesterday, I'd just been told that the job I wanted had already been filled. So I came down here for my car.” I gestured toward the space where the Buick had been. “That's when I heard a phone buzzing. I went to the wall to see what it was, and then I saw the body.”

His uh-huh sounded skeptical. He lifted the yellow tape so the three of us could duck under. The CSI people paused as we approached. One motioned to the chief.

“What's up?” the chief asked, frowning.

“There's a trace of blood on the pavement here,” was the reply. “We're swabbing it now.”

Aunt Ibby couldn't remain silent any longer. “So Ariel's drowning wasn't an accident?”

“No, ma'am. We don't think so.”

Aunt Ibby persisted. “Why?”

“I guess there's no harm in telling you. It will be in all the papers. The fingers on both of her hands were broken. As though someone had stepped on them. With heavy boots.” He looked pointedly at my booted feet and then directly into my eyes. “Does that bag contain the articles you took from the
Nightshades
set?”

I handed him the bag. “I didn't
take
anything. I borrowed a few props—with permission.”

“I see.” His tone was almost casual. “Can you account for your whereabouts at around midnight the night before last?”

“Of course I can,” I snapped. “My aunt picked me up at Logan Airport around eleven. I flew nonstop from Tampa. It took about forty minutes to get to our house. Then we sat up and talked for a while.”

“That right?” He faced Aunt Ibby, who looked ready to explode.

“Of course it's right! Why are you interrogating my niece?”

“Just routine, ma'am,” he said in the same tone. He motioned to a uniformed officer and handed the canvas bag to the man. “Take this inside and give it to Mondello to inventory.”

“So,” he said, looking down at me with that stern expression on his craggy face. “Miss Russell here can vouch for your whereabouts during the night of the murder.”

“Yes,” I said, trying hard to mask my resentment. “She will. Why are you asking? You can't seriously think that I had anything to do with Ariel's death.”

“Just routine,” he said again, and again consulted the notebook. Aunt Ibby and I stood there in silence. A wrinkled tarpauilin had been placed over the dead birds, and a chill wind stirred up the harbor. Whaley looked toward the sky, where dark clouds marred the lovely blue I'd admired earlier.

“Rain on the way,” he said. “We'll finish up inside.” He opened a heavy door in the side of the building leading to the black-walled studio. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I took Aunt Ibby's arm, and we followed him to the
Nightshades
set.

Detective Mondello was there, along with George Valen. I made quick introductions to my aunt. The cards and books and the black ball were once again arranged on Ariel's table.

“Are these the items you returned, Ms. Barrett?” the chief asked.

“Yes,” I said. “They're all there.”

He flipped a page of the notebook. “It says here that you took a bag of cat food and a cat.”

Aunt Ibby assumed a hands-on-the-hips position, which I recognized. She was irate. “The station manager gave me the cat!” she said.

The chief held up his hand. “Don't worry, Miss Russell. No one wants the cat back.” He returned his attention to me. “Where's the bag of cat food now?”

“It's at my aunt's house,” I said. “The cat wouldn't eat it. I didn't think it was important to bring it back.”

“I'll send an officer to pick it up. Now, is there anything else you want to tell me? Any more items you might have borrowed from the station?”

“No, sir. But there is one thing I think you need to know.”

“What's that?” Once more the pencil was poised over the notebook.

I extended my hands, palms up, exposing the adhesive bandages covering scraped and bruised skin.

“I'm afraid the bloodstains out there in the parking lot might be mine.”