Nightingale's Nightmare (Cassadaga Book 4 (15 page)

Jorie let out a wail the likes of which Zach had never heard emitted from any of his call girls
as she received his thrust. “It’s okay, I’m turned on, too,” Jorie said between breaths. “Fuck me!”

They rocked and bucked in rhythm
ic order, panting most of the while in between Jorie delivering squeals of pleasure. Neither had expected such intensity to occur, such alarming passion.

It had been months since Jorie and her husband had had sex. For Zach, it had been about the same time frame. Neither could contain their passion given the conditions.

They climaxed noisily, Jorie yelping and Zach bellowing like a bull, his normal behavior. Panting, they collapsed against the sheets separately, starved for breath. It took several minutes for each to regain a normal head.

Zach looked over at Jorie, a rare grin on his face.

“Again?”

Her mischievous chuckle was the answer.

Twenty-two

“Would you like some coffee?” Bill was holding his own cup of java as he shut the door behind.

“No. No stimulants. Maybe after.” Nightingale took a seat at the interrogation table
, hooking her purse onto the back of the chair.

Bill sat across from her, his pad on the table, pen poised to write. “What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing, I guess. I’ve never done this before in such surroundings. An interrogation room?” Nightingale wiggled her head playfully.

“My
desk isn’t private, everyone’s close by. This was the most privacy I could offer you.”

“I get it. Okay, give me a minute.” Nightingale closed her eyes, then they popped back open.
“Wait, do you have anything I can touch, hold, that’s from the scene? Joe’s shirt, maybe?”

“Yes, I thought you might want something.” Bill unsealed the manila envelope sitting on the table. “I don’t have his shirt, but I do have some dirt from the scene in this baggie and his wallet in this baggie.”
Bill placed the two plastic bags in front of Nightingale.

“Perfect. That will work.” Nightingale closed her eyes again and breathed deeply.
After a moment of  centering herself, Nightingale reached out for the baggie containing the wallet. She held it in her hand with her eyes closed.

Bill watched Nightingale carefully, wondering what Martinez would say about any information he might glean?

“Joe was very particular. Everything had to be just so, perfect. He was all head, little heart. Everything he did was logical and with a purpose. He doesn’t fit the picture of people living here, even though he was raised in the community.” Nightingale paused, eyes still closed, the wallet resting in her palm. “He was relaxing, yes. Gardening was a way for him to relax, unwind. Joe was peaceful when he died.”

Nightingale opened her eyes, saw the baggie with dirt and drew it toward her. As soon as she cupped the baggie between both hands, she jumped. “Oh, my, ouch. My head hurts.
Release, release,” she said, remaining quiet for a moment. “What I see and sense is Joe digging in the plant bed. He opens the manure bag and lifts it to pour. His head is struck in the back, and he falls forward into the manure, rolling over onto his back. His face is covered with manure. Oh, another strike to the side of his head, ouch.” Nightingale holds the side of her head. “It hurts.”

After a moment, she continues.
“Yes, I see it now. He was struck by a rake because I see it in a man’s hand being carried away. The man’s thin, tall, but I can’t see high enough to view his head or face. It’s like my vision is focused lower.”

“Is anyone else there?” Bill asked.

“No one else, just the killer and Joe.”

“What is the motive?”

“Motive,” Nightingale repeated. “I see the number thirty. This goes way back, maybe thirty years. The killer had a grudge with Joe. I see pages of numbers, papers… documents… signatures. All official looking stuff. Important papers.”

Bill was writing furiously even though he had turned on the di
gital recorder. He wanted a hard copy to refer back to later.

“Could the killer have been a client of Joe’s?”

“Yes, that feels right…A client.”

“What else do you see?”

Nightingale sat quietly before she spoke. “This doesn’t make sense, but I see a ritual taking place. Candles burning in a circle. A woman’s body is laid out in the center and her hands are tied in back with that green gardening wire. You know, the plastic coated wire used to hold up plants. The ankles are tied, too. Her wrists hurt from trying to release herself; my wrists hurt, too…Now it’s gone...Just like that. That’s all I see.”

Nightingale focused on Bill, looking hopefully at him. “Did that help?”

“I don’t know, I think so.” Bill flipped the pages back in his notepad. “It would appear, from what you’ve said, that someone with a thirty-year-old grudge killed Joe. Possibly a former client.”

“What about the ritual I saw?”

“I haven’t a clue what that means. You would know better than me.”

“Not really. I don’t do rituals
, only house cleansing. That’s not in my line of work.” Nightingale shrugged her shoulders. “Voodoo? I don’t know.”

“Guess I’ll have
to do some research on rituals and Joe’s former clients. At least this has given me some other avenues to explore.”

“Well, I’m glad for that,” Nightingale said, shooting him a sweet smile.
“I’ll have that coffee now.”

“Got it,” Bill left Nightingale alone in the room. When the door clicked shut, Nightingale felt the presence of a spirit.

It wasn’t a nice spirit.

The heaviness that emanated from the spirit flowed over her and cocooned her inside the evil cloak, leaving Nightingale to feel smothered.
Struggling to breathe, she whipped out both arms to her sides repeatedly in an attempt to beat back the invisible cover and stimulate her body. Visualizing white light, Nightingale ordered the spirit to leave. “Go to the light. Go to the light
now.
”

The door opened
when Bill entered with Nightingale’s coffee. The spirit departed immediately. She sat white faced in her chair as Bill handed her the coffee.

“What’s wrong? You look pale.”

“A spirit. It felt like I was being smothered.”

“By a spirit?” Bill glanced around the room as if he expected to see the spirit or someone else.

“Yes, by a spirit. It happens.”

“I didn’t know.”

“It has something to do with this case, but I’m not sure what at the moment.”

Bill stood rigidly nearby, looking down at Nightingale. “Well, that’s probably a first inside this room.”

“Probably.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am now.” Nightingale sipped the coffee. “I’m okay.”

But she knew this wouldn’t be the last incident. There was more due to come.

~~

“Let’s do a toast for abundance,” Latisha said, raising her glass. “We could all use a little more moolah rolling in.”

“Here, here,” Nightingale said. “Times have been tough for me with people thinking I might have killed my ex-husband.” 

Sheila clinked her glass against the other two, nodding her agreement. “Supporting a teenager isn’t easy.”

They
were having lunch at the Hotel after a long week. It had been Sheila’s idea. Nightingale figured this would be an opportunity to watch Latisha’s behavior for any other clues. Then Alex walked into the dining room.

“Oh, Lord, here comes the barracuda,” Latisha said none too softly.

“Hello, ladies,” Alex said after she approached their table. She was dressed strikingly in a pants suit the color of kiwi
. “Is this a special occasion?”

“No, we’re just relaxing,” Nightingale said.

Silence followed when no one invited Alex to join them.  Thinking it was obvious, Sheila felt compelled to make the offer so as not to insult Alex.

“You could join us, Alex, if you have time.”

“Maybe for a glass of wine, then I have to run into DeLand.” Alex sat down as the waitress approached.

“Something to drink?” the server asked.

“Yes, Chardonnay,” Alex said.

“What have you been up to?” Nightingale asked. “I haven’t seen you around much.”

“Well, since I was appointed to the board of trustees, I’ve been trying to straighten out the clerical mess in the office. It’s a crime how they’ve let that place become so disorganized. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve had to do.”

“Really?” Nightingale found it hard to believe that the office was in that bad of shape. Alex being a perfectionist was probably the reason it appeared so to her.
There were two secretaries in the office. How bad could it be? “What else are you interested in doing?”

“
Some of those old fuddy-duddies on the board need to retire. Their thinking is so antiquated.” Alex accepted her glass of wine, taking a big swallow before placing the glass on the table. “They also need to weed out some of the readers here. One guy is a lecherous old coot. He’s always giving me the eye and I swear he rubbed his hand over my butt one time.”

“Oh?” Latisha cocked one eyebrow. “How’d that happen?”

“We were in the bookstore and he was reaching around behind me to get a book from the shelf. His full hand slid over one cheek of my ass, and none too fast either. It was a slow, deliberate movement.” Alex picked up her glass again. “I called him on it and he said it was an accident, he didn’t have his glasses on. Sorry, but no one accidentally slides the full palm of their hand over someone’s butt. So I don’t trust him. He’s a creep.”

“Isn’t he married?” Latisha asked.

“Yes, he is. That makes it even worse.” Alex and Latisha locked eyes in agreement. 

“I can’t stand a cheat. Just makes my blood boil,” Latisha fumed. “My daddy was a cheat. My mama
shoulda cut his balls off.”

A bite of Nightingale’s burger caught in her throat. “Where is your father now?” she asked, knowing the answer.

“In hell, I hope.”

Sheila swung her surprised eyes over at Latisha. “Hell? You mean he’s dead?”

“Yeah, dead as your burger.”

Sheila replaced her burger onto the plate. “What happened to him?”

“He was mysteriously killed because of some woman—other than my mama.”

“Killed? As in murder?” This time Nightingale asked the question.

“Uh huh, murder. And he deserved it, too.” Latisha expressed no sympathy toward her father. “He was messing around with this married woman, at least they told me she was married, and that woman came over to our house and had this big argument with my mama. They were screaming at each other and everything, right out there on the front steps. Then my father showed up.”

“Oh, boy,” Sheila murmured.

Alex sat quietly, listening, tasting the wine on her tongue.

“So, what happened?” Nightingale asked.

“All three got into this big ruckus and then my mama went and got her gun.”

“You witnessed this occurring?” Alex asked
the question.

“Uh huh, I sure did. My mama
was waving the gun at the woman, threatening her. She was going to shoot that woman.”

“Uh oh,” Sheila said,
totally entranced by the conversation.

“I tried to get the gun away from my mama and when I did, it went off with a bang, killed that woman dead.”

Everyone sat in stunned silence.

“You killed the woman?” Nightingale
finally asked.

“Sort of. The gun went off.” Latisha shrugged her shoulders
. “But daddy said he did it when the cops got there. I was only twelve.”

Silence rimmed around the table again.

“What happened to your father?” Alex asked.

“He went to jail, got bonded out because they thought it was an accident and then
somebody
killed
him
.”

“Do you know w
ho killed your father?” Nightingale asked.

“Don’t know, they never found out,” Latisha said.

Nightingale studied Latisha and knew she was holding something back. She definitely knew more than she was saying about the situation because while she talked, her eyes were cast down at her lap.

“Well, ladies, I have to get to DeLand,” Alex said as she was rising. “It’s been interesting.”

Nightingale and Sheila looked warily at Latisha.

“So they never found out who killed your father?” Sheila asked.

“Nope. But that’s okay. It was a service to humanity, the way I figure it, the cheating fool. He had no business messing around with that woman, cheating on my mama like that.”

“Didn’t you mo
urn the loss of your father?” Sheila asked.

“Nope. Not one minute. He was a cheater. I hate cheaters. They all deserve to have their nuts cut off.” Latisha didn’t bat an eye wh
en expressing her sentiments. “And that woman wasn’t no better.”