Haunting Refrain (2 page)

Abruptly she straightened. The remaining color drained from her face. Her eyes widened,
then
rolled upward as she swayed like a reed in the wind.

Martin threw his arm around the stricken woman and snatched the headband from her hands, tossing it onto his desk.

Kate leapt from the chair and caught
Venice
's icy hands in her own. The three of them clung together for a minute until
Venice
took a deep breath and drew
herself
up. “It's all right—it's gone now. Is there any more of that drink?”

“I can't believe this is happening.” Stifling a burst of hysterical laughter, Kate gave herself a mental shake and put the remaining Coca-Cola in Martin's outstretched hand.

Martin, none too steady himself, held the drink for
Venice
. “What did you see?”

“A lovely young woman with brown hair.
Hands closing tightly around her throat.”
Venice
shivered, touching the gold band at her neck.
“'Bitch.
Lying bitch.'” Frowning, she added, “I'm sure I heard the words over the roaring in my ears—a deep, grinding voice.”

Kate rubbed her eyes. Why? Why was this happening to her? She wasn’t psychic, just had a modest little ability to see things in her mind when she touched something—and even that wasn’t reliable.
And now this terrible vision.
She felt as if she were the woman being strangled. “
Venice
is seeing it from the outside. I see it as if it’s happening to me,” she said.

“That’s an interesting point. I’ll have to record that in my journal.” Martin brightened as he considered the new information and returned to the intellectual implications of the experiment.

Why this sudden clear vision of murder? Kate wondered while the professor scribbled happily in his black notebook, the women momentarily forgotten. She had no connection to the missing girl. Nor had she ever experienced such a vivid vision.
Nothing on this level.

“I wonder how Kate is receiving such a personal picture,” Martin said, fingering the card in his pocket.

“Perhaps Kelly was in this classroom, or sat in this desk. Maybe there’s a stronger link than you’re aware of, Kate,”
Venice
said.

Was I thinking out loud?
Kate looked at the pair of them, startled to have them both reading her mind, although she should be used to it with
Venice
. Kate forced a smile, knowing
Venice
meant well in spite of her insatiable curiosity. The plump older woman always seemed to be slightly out of focus to Kate. She had a scarf or shawl trailing down her arm, bracelets tangling in her clothes, or her hair was askew—always something. But she had a good heart, and Kate could count on her. She’d known
Venice
for years, but they only became friends during the last couple of years when
Venice
commissioned a portrait in Kate’s new photography business. The picture was outstanding, a great advertisement. Kate hadn’t wanted to charge her, but
Venice
insisted on paying, making it official.

Looking at her now, Kate wondered how she had ever achieved such a haunting effect. Daffy, dear, kind—those were the words that came to mind, but the darkly enigmatic study thrilled
Venice
.

Noticing the older woman’s struggle, Kate reached over to release
Venice
’s bracelet from her shawl. Smiling briefly, Kate thought that with the portrait, she might have committed fraud instead of capturing the essence of the woman’s soul, as
Venice
believed.

Kate sank back into the desk and thought about the portrait. It had gotten her into Martin Carver’s parapsychology experiments. The mysterious picture somehow convinced Venice of Kate’s psychic ability, and she insisted the young woman join the professor's group. Kate found it fun until tonight.

“This is too much,” Martin said, interrupting her thoughts. “We have to call the police. I don't know what any of this means, but that sweatband belongs to someone who's been missing for four days, and you're seeing something that could be important.”

“No, please don't,” Kate said. “I'm not a real psychic, and I don't want any part of this. They won't believe us anyway.” She fished her hat out from under the desk where it had rolled, and brushed it off. Looking up, she dared them to contradict her. “I'm not touching that headband again. Not for anything.”

“But, dear. If we could help the police through our gifts—”

“You can help them with your gift,
Venice
, but leave me out of it. I am
not
psychic. Besides, how could this possibly help? The police already suspect something has happened to her.” She jammed the hat on her head, glaring at the pair of them. “And no one had better mention my name in this. I'd probably loose my only serious clients—they’ll think I’m crazy.
Or worse.
Don’t forget, a significant portion of the people here in the Bible
Belt
do not look kindly on this sort of thing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with what we do.”
Venice
tried to step away from the desk but was secured by the tangled fringe of her shawl. Tugging at the length of silk, she said, “Besides, we could use
my
name. I do give readings for people.”

“Well, I don't. Leave me out of it.” Kate crossed her arms over her chest, hunching her shoulders. The memory of cold fingers brushed across her neck. She didn’t want any part of this.

“I can’t help but feel you’re right about Kelly. I hope I’m wrong.” Martin reached over and extricated
Venice
. “Come on, Kate. I'll walk you and
Venice
to your cars.”

“Thanks.” Kate wanted to get home, but she was still shaken and didn't relish the idea of being responsible for
Venice
in the darkened parking lot.
“The car—Kelly Landrum's.
Where was it found?”

“Behind the library,” Martin said, “where she was last seen on Friday night. The keys were still in the door.”

“It would have been dark. That’s why you wanted to know the time of day—to see if it fit,” Kate said, digging out her car keys.

“Yes.”
Venice
waved her hand skyward. “It was night, and the library is just over there, through those trees. That’s what I saw—the trees at the back of the parking lot.”

“I'll wait until tomorrow and think about it, but I’m convinced we should report what you’ve seen. Meanwhile, don't say a word about this to anyone. Is that clear?” Martin looked pointedly at
Venice
, who rounded her eyes innocently.

“Yes, Martin.”

Venice
sounded unusually meek to Kate. “
Venice
, you won’t call them, will you?”

The older woman turned to Kate. “I won’t call the police, I promise, but you do realize there’s a murderer out there, don’t you?”

Kate accepted her promise but remained skeptical.
Venice
always managed to do things her way.

John Gerrard scrolled through a short article on his word processor and frowned as he prepared for tomorrow's edition of the
Times Herald
. The Kelly Landrum case had dried up—the police hadn't come up with anything since finding the car. At least, nothing they were willing to talk about. And having just come from the police station, where he talked to Lynne Waite, the detective in charge, he didn't think they were keeping anything back. Waite was a good cop, fair, and while he knew she would withhold anything she thought necessary, he believed she was being straight with him this morning. She needed a lead as much as he did. He considered checking the morgue, the reference files of old news stories, for any unsolved murders. And he wanted to review one in particular that he'd covered a year or so ago. As he rolled his chair back to stand, the phone rang.

“News room.
Gerrard.”

“Are you the reporter covering the missing student? Kelly Landrum?”
came
the female voice.

Grabbing a pencil, he said, “Yes, I'm the one.”

“I have some information about what happened to her. I thought we could meet somewhere and discuss it. Are you interested?”

“Yes, but who is this? Do you know her?” The voice sounded older, well educated—there was something old-fashioned about it, John thought, cupping the phone under his chin.

“My name is Venice
Thurn
Ashburton.”

She sounded as if the name should mean something.
Thurn
was a big name around here, but there were hundreds of them. John scribbled it on a pad and pushed it across to the desk that backed up to his, signaling another reporter to check the name for him.
“Right.
How do you know Miss Landrum?”

“I don't know her directly, but. . . .
 
It's a little difficult to explain. Do you know the Black Forest Cafe on
Poinsett Street
? Perhaps we could meet this morning for coffee. I'd like to bring a friend who has also had contact with Miss Landrum.”

“Contact?
You mean someone who's spoken to her?”

“Not exactly spoken.
Been in touch is more accurate. Can we meet at eleven?”

“Who's your friend, Ms. Ashburton? I don't know what you mean by ‘been in touch.’” John nodded his thanks as Mike, waving his finger at his temple in a circular motion, returned the pad with '
Thurn
' underlined. The cryptic note read
Vincent
Thurn
—old money—daughter tells fortunes.
John shook his head, wondering if tonight
was a full moon
.

The woman interrupted his thoughts. “It's Mrs., not Ms., although I'm a widow. She's a charming woman named Kate McGuire, a portrait photographer. I'm sure you'll find what we have to say interesting, Mr. Gerrard. The pastries at the
Black Forest
are wonderful. Shall we see you at eleven?”

The line went dead. He replaced the receiver.
Was her rapid change of subject deliberate?
The
Thurn
name intrigued him—
In
his day, Vincent
Thurn
owned several textile mills and gave generously of his wealth to the community and the local college.
But his daughter a fortuneteller?
Mike was right—it sounded crazy. John wondered if the other one, McGuire, was nuts, too.

He retrieved a phone book from a desk drawer and turned the yellow pages to
photographers, portrait
. An inconspicuous little ad for K. McGuire, specializing in creative and period-costume portraits, was barely noticeable among the larger, bolder listings. No frills. He recognized the address. It was the same as that of The Principal Players. He couldn't remember seeing anything else in the vast warehouse where the Players had their theater. Probably senile, he decided, thinking about the women. Still, breakfast was a long time ago, and he didn't have any other leads on Kelly Landrum.

* * *

John circled the block, checking out the area. The cafe was in one of
Greenville
’s older neighborhoods, where small businesses could afford the rent. A parking lot lay between the
Black Forest
and the neighboring businesses. He circled through it, looking for an empty space, and noted a dusty white Land Rover in the shade behind the restaurant. He left the filled lot and found a metered spot on the street.

A bell tinkled when John opened the door of the tiny restaurant. Although a baritone hum drifted out from the kitchen, no one appeared, so he selected a corner table and looked around the room. The tables, each with a condiment basket dead center, were neatly arranged in rows. Several trays of pastries were displayed in a small glass case beside the cash register. On a blackboard behind it, someone had written the menu in precise script.