Haunting Refrain (5 page)

“If you had told me he worked for the newspaper, I would never have spoken to him at all,” Kate said. “He could have at least mentioned it, the swine.”

Venice
refused to see him in the same light. “It wasn't his fault.” Looking away from Kate, she touched the back of her hand to her left eyebrow.

“
Venice
, you can drop the drama. I’m not mad anymore. Let's see the article. If I'm going to be burned at the stake, I want to be prepared.”

“Don't be silly. Ever since you married that nitwit, you’ve been paranoid about the press.” She held out the paper to Kate. “Here. Read it yourself.”

“They made my life miserable,” Kate said.

“Don’t whine, Kate. It’s unbecoming. J. B. made your life miserable. He was the one who thought the press found him irresistible and watched his every move—and yours.”

“Well, it’s over now. I just want it to stay that way. I don’t want any involvement with the news media in any shape or form.” She folded back the paper to read. The headline caught her eye immediately
. coed still missing, no leads
. Guilt made her wince. Martin had been after her to call the police. Still, what could she have told them?

Kate put the paper down long enough to pour coffee and bring napkins for the pastries. Then she settled on the sofa beside
Venice
. Finishing the sweet roll and the article at the same time, she said, “There's nothing new here. Maybe no one will read it.”

“That's just what I said—no one will read it.”
Venice
still sounded disappointed.

Refolding the paper, Kate dropped it on the coffee table, thinking about Kelly Landrum. She couldn’t imagine what caused her reaction to the sweatband. Why? Was it because, by perspiring into the band, the girl's aura inhabited it so strongly? Could they possibly help find her?
And how?

“Yes, dear.
I believe we can help her.”

“
Dammit
,
Venice
!
I hate it when you do that. At least pretend you can't read my mind!”

Venice
laughed. “Your face is so expressive that I don't have to. Your thoughts are very clear.”

The phone interrupted them. Kate licked the sticky pastry filling off her fingers and answered while
Venice
continued to eat.

 
“Kate, this is Martin Carver. Sorry to bother you, but I've just read the article by John Gerrard. He came to see me yesterday and told me about your meeting. I wish
Venice
hadn't called him, but it's too late now.”

“It's not as bad as I thought it would be. We just need to gag
Venice
if anything else comes up,” Kate said.

“That's partly why I'm calling. I happened to be talking to Detective Waite yesterday, and I mentioned your visions. As you thought, the police weren't very interested.”

“You
just happened
to be talking to the police? You sound like
Venice
.”

“I thought it was important.” He cleared his throat and added, “But after reading
Gerrard's
article, I called her again. This is too serious to ignore, Kate. I'm convinced you saw Kelly Landrum.”

“Martin, I know you believe in us, but no one else is going to get excited about a few visions—most people consider us closer to psychotic than psychic. Please, just drop it.”

“No, I can't do that,” he argued. “I told Waite the university was concerned that the police weren't taking you seriously, especially as the missing girl was one of our students.”

Kate lowered her face into her hand. Sighing, she asked, “So what are they going to do? Give us a lie detector test?”

“If Kelly Landrum is still missing Tuesday night, Detective Waite wants to send someone to the
para
group meeting.”

“
Wants
? I'll bet. She's probably disparaging your ancestry right now.” Kate could hear the professor's indignant sniff. “I'm sorry. I know you're doing what you think is right. I just don't think I can help. I may never see anything else. Maybe
Venice
can do something—
If
you can get her to stop showing off long enough for anyone to believe her.”

“I want you to go first at the session for just that reason.
Venice
makes such a bad impression sometimes.”

“Go first?” Her voice dropped an octave.

“I insisted Detective Waite bring something of Kelly's for you to test. You might have some valuable insights to offer.”

After she hung up, Kate turned to
Venice
. “I don't know why I thought no one would read that stupid article. Martin Carver was so impressed he called the police about it.” She told
Venice
about the plans for the next meeting.

Venice
left in a frenzy of excitement, hardly able to wait until Tuesday.

Thinking of her recent—and probably short-lived—commission to photograph a group of bank officers, Kate was so depressed she cleaned out the refrigerator. When the phone rang again, she was down to a plastic dish of something green and slimy that appeared to be growing. She dropped the whole thing in the garbage and let the answering machine get the phone.

The voice belonged to Betsy, one of the students from the
para
group. “Hi, Kate, are you there? I saw the article in the paper today. Why didn't the Professor tell us that sweatband belonged to Kelly Landrum? Now that I know, your vision is really creepy.

“But you know,” her tinny voice continued through the machine, “this story sounds like you saw the whole thing. At the meeting you said that poor girl had been strangled. Her family's going to be really upset. And if she
was
strangled, what will the murderer think?”

Kate groaned.
My thoughts exactly
.

* * *

By Tuesday, she had heard nothing new about Kelly Landrum. She sat at a table in Gene’s Restaurant, idly poking at her mashed potatoes. The nagging feeling of unease that had followed her home last night had almost disappeared. She thought about calling John to see if he knew anything—after all, she reasoned,
Venice
had called him, and the article wasn't that bad.

“Hello, Kate. Mind if I join you?”

She looked up, startled to find Thomas Andrews staring down at her. Yes, she did mind, but she couldn’t say so to the overly handsome man.
“Of course not.
What are you doing here, Thomas? This doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”

He gestured at the crowded tables and smiled. “How’s your photography business?
Anything interesting in your life right now?”
He brushed off the seat of the chair opposite her and sat. “I remembered your mentioning this place when we were in Business Law last fall.
When you were too busy to go out with me.”

Trust him to remember something like that, she thought. He had asked her out several times, but she had demurred, blaming it on the demands of her new studio.
“Nothing new.”
Unless you count a sudden descent into murder and the supernatural
.
“Still working, trying to get it off the ground.”

He picked up the menu, a little distastefully, she thought. “Didn’t I see your name in the paper the other day? I didn’t know you had other talents.”

I hate John Gerrard.
“I don’t. It was a fluke.
Just a dumb experiment that went wrong.”
And she had thought no one would read it! Was there anyone who hadn’t?

“It sounds interesting. I had no idea there was such a group in
Greenville
. How does it work?” He leaned forward, resting on his elbows, and folded his hands together.

She gave him the barest possible explanation, searching desperately for a distraction. “Are you still taking night classes? Weren’t you working on a graduate degree?”

“Yes. I should get my MBA in the spring. I’m considering starting my own firm. Maybe I’ll need some photographs, for brochures and advertising, you know?”

 
“Good luck.” She wouldn’t take the bait, didn’t want to give him an opening for further conversation. Had he come here to ask her out again? She hoped not. She couldn’t think why the obviously successful, immaculately dressed man would be interested in her. However unfairly, he reminded her of J. B., and she would never accept an invitation from him. She crossed her knife and fork over her half-eaten lunch and swallowed the last of her iced tea. “I have to get back. I have a client due soon.”

“Goodbye, Kate. Good to see you again.”

She left quickly. Where were the average guys? The ones she might like to spend time with? John Gerrard flashed into her mind, but she refused to allow the thought. Once more she considered calling about news of Kelly Landrum. In the end she couldn't do it. Anyway, she could always ask the police at
tonight’s
meeting. God in Heaven, how had she gotten to such a state?

Pushing everything else from her mind, she returned to her work, but she ruined two sepia prints before she was able to concentrate on a portrait of a mother and child in Victorian dress. A shaft of light, artfully provided by Kate, lent a luminous quality to the mother's somewhat plain face. Kate was pleased with the results of the third print and her enthusiasm returned.

The work was going so well she hated to quit and change clothes for the
para
group meeting, but since the police were going to be there, she wanted to look like a sober, responsible member of society and not some glue-sniffing new-age hippy.

She locked the studio and pushed the button for the ancient freight elevator. Two paneled models had been installed to take patrons from the lobby to the theater on the third floor, but only the old freight elevator in the back of the building came to Kate's studio on the fourth floor.

Stepping in, she thought about a morning some months ago when, with her camera, she had captured the figure of a sleeping drunk sprawled in the shadowed cage. She thought the stark portrait would be an interesting contrast to the beautiful people on her walls—a little reality to contrast with the illusions. The gritty black and white she’d chosen to print the photo in enhanced its desolate character. She was preparing to hang it when
Venice
swept in and recognized him—a local businessman with a family.

The sight of the photo, which Kate, after much soul-searching, gave him, first shocked him and then sent him into a rage of denial. Kate had left, sorry she tried to help. A month ago she received a bouquet of roses and a letter saying the picture had finally sent him to Alcoholics Anonymous. He told her he just reached the end of his third sober month and that he kept the photograph in a drawer, to look at when he had a bad moment.

She thought about him on the drive home. Even as her thoughts drifted, Kate checked her speedometer and then, guiltily, her rearview mirror for police cars. A beat-up blue pickup a car or two behind her caught her eye. She’d seen the same truck last night when she left the studio. She recognized it by the dented front bumper.
A new neighbor?
Somehow, she didn't think so. The uneasy feeling she experienced last night returned.

Before she got a look at the driver, her attention was diverted by a couple of men walking unsteadily along the street. Swerving to give them plenty of room as she passed, she thought maybe
Venice
was right about the neighborhood.

Easing the car onto the broken concrete strips that formed her drive, she stopped, resting her forehead on the steering wheel. What was she doing, she wondered, living on peanut butter and calling herself a photographer? She could have found a job at a reasonable salary in the business world, but she loved working with a camera.
 
And the business was getting better—if John Gerrard didn’t frighten off her hard-won clients.