In the Dead of Night (29 page)

Jackie’s suggestion sounded good to me. I had no doubt Angie would be okay. The guys also agreed to leave, although Ed seemed the most reluctant. Thankfully, Fiona told me she was ready to go.

By then it was almost 1:30 a.m.

Fiona and Jackie hugged everyone in our group, urging the guys to stay safe and not stray from each other until this thing got sorted out. They even offered a hug to Ed, which I think surprised him, though I’m sure any personal space invasion from my wife was a welcome intrusion for him.

After all goodbyes were said, Fiona peeked around the corner near Nurse Vicious’s workstation, to make sure that Angie would be okay. I think seeing the uniformed officer sitting outside her semi-private room finally put her mind at ease.

With my wife wearing a faint smile for the first time that night, she and I walked hand in hand until we reached the parking garage where the Camaro awaited us.

***

“So, what’s up, hon?” she asked me, preparing to lean back in the passenger seat. We had just exited the Hospital’s parking garage. “This was the last rehearsal tonight, right? Are y’all ready for the party this weekend?”

She seemed almost like her normal self: vivacious and filled with such joy and love for life—her hallmarks. But without even talking about it, I knew she was absolutely terrified by what tomorrow might bring.

“Yeah, it went really well tonight,” I confirmed. “I can hardly wait until Saturday night!”

No half-hearted enthusiasm, though I did try to downplay it a little. I mean, we’re on the verge of some great success with our paranormal group, too. But, music has been my first love for damn near twenty-five years—long before I ever got involved in paranormal investigations. Of course, my love of music pales in comparison to the devotion I feel toward my wife and kids. They’ll always be number one, and the rest falls in line after that.

Yet, as excited as I’ve felt about Saturday’s gig, in no way do I want to pull our attention from what’s going on around us right now. The slightest misstep and we could end up in far worse shape than Angie.

This made me think about my earlier musing, about the killer being someone we know—someone in our immediate circle of friends. Granted, that could mean at least a hundred candidates if you consider all of Fiona’s friends…hell, it could be as high as several hundred if we thought long and hard about it.

“Hey, babe, I’ve been thinking—“

“About the fact the killer could be someone we know?”

“Yeah, how did you…never mind. That’s right. I think it’s somebody we know
well
—someone you and I’d consider a friend.”

“Well, it’s not what Ed thinks,” she said, snickering, though her tone sounded cynical and a bit forlorn. “He thinks Vito Travini has come back, and his earlier assumption that he finished his killing spree and headed back to Jersey was incorrect. His support comes from the fact Mr. Travini has yet to meet with his parole officer, and other mafia families are rumored to be looking for him as well. Ed says it doesn’t make sense to any of the authorities back east, since he has a sizable fortune to manage out there…just waiting for him. And without absolute proof, he would never be held accountable for the killings here.”

“Are you saying he could get away with this?”

I tried not to sound too incredulous.

“Yes. But it isn’t him…at least not him working alone.”

The ideas floating around my head began to swirl faster.

“So, if he’s really involved, do you think he’s developed a taste for a new level of violence?” I asked, taking my eyes off the road to look toward her for a moment.

“Possibly,” she said. Her tone was now indifferent, which told me that she tried to gain further insight via her gifts. She kept her focus on the road ahead, either to make sure I didn’t crash the car, or more likely, because she didn’t want to face my penetrating gaze. “But, if the guy I keep seeing isn’t related to Vito Travini in any way, then I feel the killer could very well be somebody we know…someone we’d never suspect. Which means it can’t be the people I normally read for, since their lives and motives are an open book to me.”

“How in the hell are we supposed to figure this out?” I mumbled, still trying to wrap my mind around it all. I brought my attention back to the road. “What if we don’t learn the truth until it’s too late?”

“Welcome to my world, hon,” she told me, releasing a low sigh. This was her naked truth...the worst; her tone now reflective of how she really felt about everything. Despondent, it was like she really had no clue. That sucks…
real
bad, actually. “I had another dream last night about Candi.”

“You did?” I was all ears then, even though I’d been formulating more questions for her about the previous subject.

“She was riding on a river boat, like the General Jackson,” she said. “She stood on the deck, looking down at me…. I sat in a rowboat, trying to get close enough to climb on board with her. She kept saying, ‘this ain’t for you’ and then she told me to go visit her house again—the same stuff she said in the last dream.”

“I thought that was more about mafia stuff and what we later learned about Travini,” I said, trying to recall what Fiona had said before.

“Yeah, I thought so, too,” she agreed. “Even Candi acknowledged this in my dream. Then she said there’s something else in the house—in her bedroom, to be precise—that will shed enough light on
who
the killer is.”

“Well, that brings us back to where we were with this a week and a half ago,” I said. “How do we get into her place? I’ll bet it’s guarded more than ever, after all that’s happened.”

“Jackie said there have been all kinds of people trying to get a closer look at the estate—mostly fans of Candi’s,” she said, motioning for me to not miss our exit to Goodlettsville. “It might not be possible to get into the house, but Jackie also told me that Candi’s mom is still here in town. I had a nice visit with Shirley at the funeral service, so maybe she wouldn’t mind us taking a look inside Candi’s former home. From what I understand, Candi left everything to her mom.”

“Well, okay then. Were you planning to call her tomorrow?”

“It’s already on my list of things to do,” she said, chuckling at my persistence…the control-freak side of me. “I think you should call out from work tomorrow.”

“We’ll see,” I told her, and I think my readiness to consider playing hooky from work surprised her. But, I’ve still got a few more vacation days left.

Besides, now that the killer’s focus had shifted to our ghost hunting gang, how can I justify leaving my wife and kids’ safety to the lone officer charged to protect Stella’s place? Not to mention Dick Tracy still hasn’t arranged any protection for me and the guys in our gang, especially going to and from work.

It meant stepping outside the boundaries of our arranged protection at our own risk...a risk probably not worth taking.

Chapter Twenty-four

Time really drags on when one’s
forced
to stay put.

No one can swim forever in Stella’s secluded water haven unless they don’t mind looking like a Post Raisin character, and she’s definitely not into the racy TV programming I prefer. With football season still more than a month away, there’s only so much Oprah and The View I can take. I’m pretty sure it’s been the same stir-craziness for Fiona, but she so loves doting on our boys and chatting with her auntie that she could easily outlast me. In fact, I’d bet everything I’m worth that our separate interpretations of the past thirty-eight hours are one hundred and eighty degrees apart.

Not that I mind hanging out with my kids, lovely wife, and even Stella, but everybody needs a break now and then. Even in the little paradise surrounding me, where finding time and space to practice my chops uninterrupted isn’t an easy deal.

What I wouldn’t give for just a little private Idaho, man.

Thank God, Friday finally got here, with the prospect of a busy weekend. Fiona and I are about to meet with Shirley Miller, Candi’s mom, depending upon traffic. Still struggling with terrible grief from the loss of her only child, Shirley was kind enough to allow us full access inside Candi’s estate. Just as long as we get there by 4:00 p.m. sharp. That’s a helluva lot more than what Fiona expected before the two spoke yesterday afternoon.

At least my wife got a much better response than the one I received when I spoke to my boss yesterday morning. I could almost see Matilda’s head spin, like the vomiting little tart in
The Exorcist

“What for
now?!”
she snapped, loud enough for me to pull the phone’s receiver away from my ear “How in the hell am I going to explain this to Peter? We’re already short staffed with all of the other vacations going on!”

“Would he take a written excuse from a friendly neighborhood homicide detective?” I hoped she saw more humor than sarcasm in my words. “It’s not like I can apply for FMLA or some other personal leave, right? I mean, I doubt our medical officer in Florida would agree that ‘a psycho killer threatening to slice n’ dice my family and me into tiny bits’ qualifies for leniency.”

“You don’t have to be a smartass to make your point!”

The hell you say, Matilda Baby.

As long as my boss sides with the corporate dark side, I’ll be her huckleberry.

“Would you rather have a limp biscuit as your top dog?”

“No,” she shot back sternly, and then chuckled. The tension over the phone began to dissipate. “I prefer you being the guy running things for me on the floor. But I’d
really
prefer that you do it
in
person!”

“I’ll try to be back in the office on Monday, okay?” I suggested, making sure my tone remained upbeat. “Maybe things will finally lighten up for us over the weekend.”

“Don’t you have a gig this Saturday?”

Shit! I forgot I told her about it…must’ve been a couple of months ago. She has a memory like an elephant.

“Yeah…but there’s no guarantee I’ll actually get to play,” I lied. Damned straight I’ll be there—with or without a police escort. “I imagine I’ll be holed up here in Goodlettsville all weekend.”

“I’m sorry to hear that…I know your music is important to you,” she said, her voice much quieter. “I hope somehow it works out.”

“Me, too.”

After a rundown regarding my team’s performance, she let me go. Next, I touched base with the few friends of ours who had VIP passes for the gig on Saturday, including Freddie Marlowe, my reporter friend, and his wife, Trisha. If not for the continued string of murders, Fiona and I would’ve probably gotten together with the Marlowes for a barbecue a week or so ago.

The other good news came from Jackie this morning. Angie was released from the hospital after breakfast. It made for a fairly long drive for us down to Franklin earlier this afternoon, since Fiona couldn’t wait until later this weekend to visit her and Jackie. The ranch they’re staying at is real sweet, man, and a great place to hole up for awhile. Angie looks great, considering what she went through, and her wounds are healing pretty quickly.

It totally blew me away when Angie insisted on doing the investigation she scheduled for us this Sunday. I guess she’s afraid if we postpone the event, it’ll get canceled or replaced with another locale. But seeing Muscle Mutt’s determination to go from needing crutches to walking on her own—with only a slight limp—less than two days after her attack, I wouldn’t feel right seeking a postponement. Neither does Fiona.

There must be something in all that PowerAde shit and whatever hyped- up protein mixes and vitamins Angie takes. Even her bruises and cuts are healing up pretty fast….

“We’re here to see Shirley Miller,” Fiona told the guard at Finley Farms’ main entrance, the posh neighborhood where Candi used to reside. 3:55 p.m. We made it with a few minutes to spare.

Behind the gate’s steel bars and the neighborhood’s protective tree line loomed the tops of several large mansions. The guard phoned Ms. Miller, who awaited our arrival at Candi’s sprawling Italianate estate.

“Man…too bad you can’t take it with you,” I said, drawing a look of reproach from my dear wife, once we pulled up to the three-story mansion. “It’s just a joke, babe. Seriously,” I added, after regretting my initial observation. Or, at least the reaction I got in response to my initial observation. Candi’s former home is
so-o-o
nice.

“I’m sure she would’ve readily parted with stuff like this if her life could’ve been spared,” she said, her tone a bit perturbed at my obvious fascination with Candi’s fabulous estate. “There’s Shirley.”

Fiona finished parking Nan’s Cadillac in the circular drive in front of the mansion. Honestly, this particular place has always made me feel a little envious. Okay, a lot of envy, since it’d be damned hard to find a more rock n’ roll pad anywhere else east of L.A. Imported marble from Milan, along with the finest glass and millwork this side of the Atlantic. Six million was the original price tag a couple of years ago when Candi purchased the property from one of the top music execs at Sony Nashville. At least that’s what Fiona told me awhile back.