Dark Places (4 page)

I leaned down and looked at the title of the book.
Angels Above: The Complete Guide to Angelology
. Angelology? This was beginning to look like somebody had quite an unhealthy obsession with the heavenly host. Maybe the guy was a preacher. Or that Bosley guy from
Charlie's Angels
reruns that hung around when Charlie called up and gave the angels their assignments. I looked around for a framed picture of three silly, giggling, skinny bimbos in skimpy outfits, but didn't see any.

I crossed the room to the closet, stood to one side with the Glock held ready against my shoulder, then quickly thrust open the door. The clothes inside mocked me and my big weapon. “Well, you never know what's going to jump out of a closet at you,” I muttered in self-defense. I'd found monsters in closets before, I might add, among other things. I found lots of starched white dress shirts, tweed jackets with leather elbow patches, and argyle sweaters hanging inside. There were some ball caps on the shelf but not a single halo. No women's clothes in sight, either, so Classon obviously lived alone. I wondered if he had a girlfriend and where she was when the doorstop got itself all bloody and nasty.

There were two other bedrooms, smaller and less lived in, and a single tiny, old-fashioned bath. All neat and tidy, drawers mostly empty except for Classon's clothes stacked neatly here and there.

Angels decorated everything, and I mean everything, everywhere, from the dainty little angel figurines to angel books to angel wallpaper, angel towels, angel shower curtains, angel night-lights. Heaven on earth, for sure. Excuse me, Saint Peter, could you tell me how to get to the cherubs' dormitory? I was getting seriously eager to meet Mr. Classon and see if he played a harp or had wing bulges under his arms.

I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Bud give a short yelp. I bounded down the rest of the way and found him safe and secure in the kitchen. He was standing in front of the kitchen sink. The cabinet doors under it stood open. He appeared a bit sheepish.

“What happened?” I looked around at the yellow angel window shades and matching place mats and the red angel oven mittens hanging on the refrigerator door.

“Man, when I opened that cabinet, a bunch of spiders started running around. Shit.” He shuddered.

It's a well-known fact around the station house that Bud does not like spiders, or any other creepy crawlies for that matter. “Did you kill them?”

“Hell, no. They ran off too fast. God, I hate those freakin' things.”

“What are you, Little Miss Muffet?”

He looked offended, so I said more kindly. “They're itty bitty, Bud. All you have to do is step on them with your great big size-thirteen shoe.”

“I know, I know, but man, they're ugly as hell. Have you ever seen a close-up of one of 'em? They've got eyes that stick out on these kind of antenna-looking stalks, and stuff, and these fang things that they stick in you. And I'll tell you somethin' else. They're not all itty bitty, there's some back home in the Georgia woods as big as saucers. And they run real fast and jump at you. I've seen 'em.”

“Well, if that happens, pull your weapon and shoot it. I'm not going to worry much until I see one the size of a cat. Now that'd be scary.”

Bud shuddered at that image.

I said, “You already checked under there, I take it.”

This time he appeared slightly ashamed. “Not yet. I was gonna look for some Raid first.”

“For God's sake, Bud.”

I knelt and shined my flashlight into the dark corners. “Well, well, it looks like Mr. Classon forgot to clean his house. There are spiderwebs everywhere under here.”

“Yeah? Told ya.”

I angled the beam and held it steady on a foil-wrapped package wedged up into the pipes. “Whoa, now, lookee here what I found.”

I knocked away some webs with the flashlight and pulled out the stash. “I bet this'll weigh out at half a kilo of cocaine, all parceled out in little plastic Ziploc bags, too. Looks like Classon's not so angelic, after all.”

“Think he's dealing?”

“Oh, yeah. Or he's saving up for a rainy day.”

“Pennington should've found this.”

“Maybe he's scared of spiders, too.”

I stood up, and Bud slammed the cabinet door with his toe. “Everything clean upstairs?”

“Yeah. I think he might've been reading when somebody knocked at the front door. Looks like he went downstairs to see who it was, and they jumped him in the foyer. Maybe one of his baser clients.”

Bud said, “Yeah. Maybe somebody thought his prices were too high. I'll run his name and see if we get any hits.”

“Right. I'll see if I can find an address book with names of his friends and relatives. We need to apprise next of kin that he might be missing, then we'll have to get a statement from the neighbor lady before we leave here. My gut's telling me it's drug related, and wherever Classon is, he's in big trouble.”

“Yeah, likewise. Unless he fell, gashed his head on the doorstop, and drove himself to the hospital. I guess that could've happened. Or maybe his angel friends flew him there.”

“Call the hospitals while you're at it so we can rule that out.”

“Right. I'm on it.”

When the emergency rooms came up blank for Simon Classon, we branded the case a bona fide missing person/assault, secured and documented our evidence bag to take downtown, then called for our nutty but expert criminalist, Johnny Becker, a.k.a. Shaggy, to sweep the Classon crime scene. By the time we skidded down the ice-slick road, trudged up onto the neighbor's front porch, and I stomped the snow off my stilettos, it was getting close to ten o'clock.

Bud said, “Better not let this lady see what you've got on underneath that coat, or she might brand you a hussy and bar the doors.”

“If you'd grabbed the duffel bag with my sweats and Nikes and thermal socks like you were supposed to, I could've changed a long time ago and wouldn't be freezing my toes off in these stupid shoes.”

“So I got in a hurry and forgot. Sorry. You want my coat?”

“Keep it. It doesn't go with my fishnets.”

The house was an old forties-style bungalow with yellow stucco walls and an open-air balcony just above the front porch. A gaily patterned swing set at one end, dusted with snow and longing for July nights and lightning bugs. There was no storm door, only an old wooden one that looked original to the house. It had a rectangular window with frosted glass, and after a few minutes, the door opened a crack that was, just maybe, wide enough to squeeze a piece of typing paper through.

“Yes?” A teeny-weeny grandma voice, not at all sure she wanted to let anybody in her house without a signed warrant.

“Mrs. Talbott? Edith Talbott?”

“Yes?” A little less concerned, but not much. The door widened enough for an anorexic inchworm to wriggle through.

“I'm Detective Claire Morgan from the Canton County Sheriff's Department. This is my partner, Detective Bud Davis.”

“Have you found Mr. Classon yet?”

“No, ma'am.” I smiled at the faded blue eye now peering out through the crack. “We thought maybe you could help us find him.”

“I don't know where he is. I didn't do anything to him. I mind my own business and expect him to do the same.”

Bud said, “Yes, ma'am. We just need to talk to you for a minute or two.”

“Go ahead then, talk to me.”

“It sure is cold out here, ma'am.” To prove it, Bud energetically beat his gloved hands together and exhaled a smoky breath.

“You blaming me for that, too, are you? I'd say weather like this is to be expected this time of year. Winter's like that, you know. Cold, sometimes snowy.”

Bud slanted me a we've-got-a-real-wiseass-here look, then we both eyed the eye in the door. It blinked. Twice.

“Well, let me see your badges. I watch TV. I know how killers get in people's houses pretending to be cops. And I know what badges that come from Toys “R” Us look like, too.”

We got out our legitimate badges and let Cyclops eyeball them.

“Well, okay, I guess, but I'm gonna call the sheriff first and make sure you're for real. It's a little late in the evening to come knocking on a person's door without calling first, don't you think? You stay right where you are and don't try anything.” The door shut in our faces. The lock clicked, then two more.

“Hell, it'd be easier gettin' into the Oval Office with a hand grenade.” Bud shuffled his feet some more to keep warm. I shivered patiently and blew into my gloved hands to warm my frozen nose. My bruised cheekbone was beginning to ache.

Finally, the door opened all the way and revealed to us the inhospitable Mrs. Talbott. She was leaning on a cane, a big aluminum one with a curved handle, but it was painted red, white, and blue like the American flag. She was little and wrinkled and prim, and looked exactly like Granny in the Tweety Bird cartoons, all the way down to her white-haired bun. I looked around for a birdcage. There was a brown wicker one on a table by the front window but it was empty. Maybe Sylvester finally got lucky.

“Well, I'm sorry if you became chilled waiting out there, but a lady my age can't be too careful. I am eighty-seven, you know. And I watch
America's Most Wanted
and C
ops
and
NYPD Blue
.
Law and Order
's pretty good, too, and the Court TV channel is nothing less than a public-service network, in my opinion. I see how criminals like to treat us senior citizens. That's why I had bars put on my windows and the Brink's alarm system put in. I don't got a lot but what I got is gonna stay mine.” She glared at us, and we smiled graciously, also fans of those programs.

“Yes, ma'am, we appreciate your caution.” When she finally let us step inside, her home was a relief after the angel grotto down the street. Not a cherub or seraph in sight. Lots of books, stacked newspapers, and a giant big-screen television muted on a rerun of
Sex and the City
. Hmmm. Looked like Mrs. Talbott had a feisty streak.

“Go ahead then, sit down, and I'll fix you some tea. I am not going to even offer you coffee because it's not good for you. Green tea is all I drink and all I fix for myself or anybody else.” She glowered at me, then Bud, as if we were going to pull our weapons and shoot her dead if she didn't produce some Folgers in a hurry.

“I do love a spot of green tea,” said Bud, suddenly the British lord with a southern accent. Next he'd be asking for crumpets and yelling tallyho.

The fireplace was crackling and popping, all excited about its real, live hickory logs. I backed up to it, my frozen feet grateful for the heat. Sometimes winter sucked. Most of the time winter sucked. I perused a bookshelf full of old silver-framed family pictures circa 1912 while my backside began a slow spring thaw. Bud settled into watching Sarah Jessica Parker do the dirty on television. She didn't have on much, but she did have on a pair of stilettos like mine, so she was safe from attack. Hers were red and definitely not from Goodwill Industries.

It didn't take Granny long to return, pushing an old-fashioned, mahogany tea cart with a tarnished silver tray on top. She leaned heavily on her patriotic cane and seemed relieved when she got to sit down in a big easy chair covered with blue and pink floral chintz. With all the grace of Princess Diana's dowager aunt, if she'd had one, the old lady began what amounted to a British high tea ceremony. She had arranged six cucumber sandwiches and six little square cupcakes on a white plate covered with red roses. The pattern was called Old English Roses. I knew that because my Aunt Helen had a whole set of similar dishes, including the prized cake stand.

Sweet old Granny latched her keen blue eyes on my face. “Tell me, Detective Morgan, or Claire, if I may, why are you dressed like a whore? Have you been involved in one of those prostitution stings that I like to watch on
Cops
? And is that where you got that bruise on your face? Truth be told, I think it's just good enough for those johns, to get caught and embarrassed that way. My late husband was known to frequent a house of ill repute before we spoke our marriage vows, but he never did so afterward, not once. I wasn't the kind of woman who'd put up with a roué.”

Bud said, “A rue what?”

I said, “A roué, Bud.”

Bud looked perplexed. “What's a rue a?”

I said, “You know, a roué, a rake.”

Bud said, “What do you mean a rake? Like for leaves?”

Mrs. Talbott showed her impatience. She pursed her lips and addressed Bud directly. “It's a rogue, a womanizer, a ne'er-do-well, a profligate, a Bill Clinton. No sir, I will not abide hanky-panky.”

Bud brightened considerably. “You know where the phrase ‘hanky-panky' comes from, Mrs. Talbott?”

Oh, brother. I made plans to sneak that book out of Bud's house and burn it to ashes.

However, Mrs. Talbott was over her miff and perked up. “No, my dear boy, I do not.”

“Well, back in the old days, magicians used to wave handkerchiefs around so the audience would watch that hand and not notice what he was really doin' with the other hand. Thus, ‘hanky-panky.' ”

“So where'd the panky part come from then?” the old lady demanded, apparently not pleased at all with his explanation.

Bud shrugged. “I guess they just sort of added that on, you know, like hocus-pocus. Just for the sound of it, I guess. You know, a rhyme.”

Mrs. Talbott smiled, revealing her impressively white, Tom Cruise dentures. “Detective Davis, I must say I find that intriguing. How did you know that?”

“I have this really cool book. It's got just about every popular sayin' there is in it.”

“Indeed. How very interesting. I must say I've learned something today. I still like to learn new things, even though I'm an octogenarian.”

Okay, enough of the small talk already. “Mrs. Talbott, what can you tell us about Simon Classon? Do you know him well?”

Mrs. Talbott presented me with a dainty, rose-covered teacup. She handed a matching cup to Bud and dropped in two cubes of sugar with tiny ornate silver tongs. I hadn't seen a sugar cube since I was a little girl; I didn't know they still made them. Maybe I'd get a box of them for my next fancy tea party.

“No, I don't know him well. The only time I ever saw him was at the mailbox. He was very good about fetching his mail every day. Sometimes he would walk down and bring mine up onto the porch, you know, if it was raining or snowing, although I am perfectly capable of getting my own mail. You see, I have to walk with the cane but I manage quite well. I used to have to use a wheelchair but not so much anymore.”

“Did you ever see anyone visiting Mr. Classon? Does he have family that you know of? A girlfriend or wife?”

“Yes, of course, I saw various cars stop in front of his place from time to time. I never paid much mind to it, though. I suspect he might be more apt to have a boyfriend.”

Bud said, “He's gay?”

“Well, I've seen him prancing around and acting rather like a fop. Conclude what you may, young man.”

Bud said, “Does that mean gay?”

I said, “A fop is an effeminate man, Bud. Mrs. Talbott, did you ever see men or women going in and out of Mr. Classon's house?”

“They call that a fop, really? You're kiddin' me,” Bud said. He laughed.

Mrs. Talbott shook her head. “No, none that I could identify, if that's what you mean. But I do know, and for a fact, that he thinks he's an angel come to earth to help others.”

My hand froze the teacup at my mouth in the middle of a sip. I swallowed the warm, fragrant tea then said, “I'm sorry?”

“You heard me right. He thinks he's a real angel—the Bible's full of male angels, you know. Most of them, actually, I think, are male.”

Bud said, “So he came right out and told you he was an angel?”

Mrs. Talbott sipped daintily and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a lace-edged white linen napkin. “No, but I saw as much on his website.”

“He's got a website?”

“That's what I just said, isn't it? Mercy, you young folks. I was the Camdenton librarian hereabouts for almost thirty-five years. I'm retired now, of course, but I am completely computer literate. I Googled him once, just out of curiosity, you understand. He's got his own website called callupanangel. com. Which is quite corny, if you ask me. Silly, even. Really.” She gave a little offended sniff.

“He has a few angels around his house, too.” Sometimes I am prone to understatement.

“It's truly a rip-off, my dear. You see, he purports to be able to converse with angels on his clients' behalf. He calls them angel readings, and he has a chatroom, and everything.”

Bud laughed, then realized by Mrs. Talbott's glower that she wasn't joking around. He said, “You're kiddin'.”

“No, young man, I assure you that I am not. If I remember correctly, he said online that he does not speak directly with his client's angels, but that he has his own personal guardian angels who speak to other people's angels for him, then he relays the message to the gullible nincompoops who fall for his nonsense.”

Bud said, “And he's paid a hefty fee for these angelgrams, I take it?”

“Of course. I believe he quoted a price of $80 for a full reading. He'll take cash or any of the major credit cards, and he says he speaks to Uriel, Michael, and Gabriel. They're all archangels in the Bible, in case you've forgotten your Sunday school lessons. I taught Sunday school to little ones for near forty years.”

Very few of my foster parents had taken me to Sunday school, so I said, “Is this website still up and running?”

“I suspect so. It was linked to that school where he works.”

Bud and I exchanged a significant look. We do that sometimes. “What school is that, ma'am?”

“The Dome of the Cave Academy for the Gifted. Have you heard of it?”

I had heard of it, vaguely. “It's nondenominational, if I remember correctly? A boarding school for troubled young teens, right?”

“Yeah, bright kids, supposedly. It's northwest of here, way out in the woods,” Bud said. “I was up there once on a call.”

“Really?” That surprised me.

“Yeah. A kid ran away, but it didn't amount to nothin'. It turned out he'd caught a bus home to Paducah, Kentucky, and his parents called and informed the school he'd made it home safely. It's a pretty cool campus, almost like a prep school.”

“Yes, that's where you need to go to find out all about Simon Classon, I suspect. The people out there will know him much better than I. Actually, I always considered him sort of a lunatic. Imagine anybody giving him eighty hard-earned dollars to contact angels. Silliest thing I ever heard of.”