Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3) (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Richie awoke to his doorbell ringing at ten o’clock that same morning. He had a raging headache. No, a hangover.

Now, awakened by the ringing and pounding on his door, he vaguely remembered Vito dropping him off at home last night. He blinked a couple of times. Looking around, he saw that he had managed to take off his shoes, but that was it, before collapsing face down on the bed. Apparently, he hadn’t moved all night.

He stumbled out to the front door and opened it.

His other closest friend stood there. Shay was about as different from Vito as anyone could be. He was at least a half-foot taller, blond and aristocratic. He even dressed like some English lord, preferring a wardrobe of mostly what Richie learned were “heather” colored sport jackets—what the hell kind of color was heather?—and with it, he usually wore a cravat (another word from Shay) tucked into a white shirt.

On top of that, women claimed the guy was movie-star handsome. The first time Mayfield saw him, she’d looked like a victim of lockjaw the way her mouth gaped open. But then she got to know him, and he didn’t look so hot to her anymore.

Shay didn’t date. Not women or men. Richie had no idea what was up with that, and the one time he asked about it, he got such a cold stare he thought his liver would turn into a block of ice and he’d drop dead on the spot. He never asked again.

“What the hell happened to you?” Shay asked as he walked into the house.

Richie just shook his head and went off to the bathroom.

After a hot shower and clean clothes, he felt a little more human except for the headache. He went out to his kitchen, a bright—too bright this morning—good-size room with granite counter tops and all the latest appliances in stainless steel. Shay had already turned on the espresso machine and made him a triple shot Americano.

Richie sat at the table, a bottle of Motrin at his side and coffee in hand. Shay had the good sense not to say a word until both kicked in.

After a second cup of coffee, Richie was able to talk to him. “What did you find out?”

Shay leaned back in the kitchen chair and studied Richie before speaking. Richie hated it when Shay did that. “Before I tell you what I found,” Shay said, “what went down with you last night?”

Shay and Vito had been the two guys who pulled Richie out of his depression, including too much drinking and screwing around, after his fiancée was killed in an auto accident some four years earlier. “What happened last night was a big mistake, nothing else,” Richie mumbled. “I was acting stupid. It won’t happen again. That’s a promise, okay? Now, what did you find?”

“First, Claire Baxter. Not only has the FBI talked to her a couple of times, they’ve started leaning on people who’ve worked with her over the years. It could get ugly. She’s going to have to come clean with them, or leave. She can’t keep playing both sides.”

Richie nodded. He didn’t really want to deal with Claire or her problems. He had enough of his own. “Okay. I’ll talk to her. What else?”

“I got into Neda Fourman’s bank records. It’s weird. She did have money to start with. Over forty thousand dollars. Hardly a fortune, but enough, especially coupled with Social Security and her nurse’s pension, to keep her in her own apartment and living well in her old age. But then, soon after Geller showed up in San Francisco, she started writing out checks to him. They were small to start with, but after she joined the Sandoristas, her checks grew in size—often, for five hundred dollars. Some months she wrote out two such checks to Geller. By last year, most of the forty grand was gone.”

“Any indication that anyone tried to stop her, or helped her take care of her money?”

“None.”

“What about her other expenses? Did they go up, down, anything?”

“Down. Way down. By the end, she was doing little but paying bills and seeing Geller. Even her grocery bills went really low, as if she couldn’t have been eating much or eating right.”

“I can’t get over the fact that nobody seemed to care,” Richie said. “No one tried to stop her or help her.”

“Well, that’s where it got really odd,” Shay said. “Somebody did. Sandy Geller. After most of her own money was gone, he started sending her five-hundred dollars a month. It was the difference between her having to leave her apartment and being able to cover her basic expenses.”

Richie nodded. “I’ve heard that before about him. I don’t get it. First, he gladly took a grand a month from a little old lady, and then the pillar of society gave her back five hundred? That bastard is all heart, isn’t he?”

“How many con men pay their marks back anything?” Shay asked.

“Good question.” Richie rubbed his temples. “Damn, but it just doesn’t make sense. Is it that he’s got a conscience after all? Didn’t want to see her thrown out on the street? Or are we missing something? Actually, if she was thrown out, the city’s social services or somebody might have questioned where her money went. And if she told them, they might have come down on Geller like flies on shit, which is exactly what he is.”

“There’s more to it than that.” Shay looked like the cat that swallowed the canary.

This, Richie knew, was the money shot—the part of the story Shay had been itching to tell. “Shoot,” he said.

“I was so curious about Geller, I hacked into his bank accounts. The guy’s loaded; close to seven million in Swiss banks. But it wasn’t until I looked at the money in this country, the three or so million he leaves here, that things got really interesting.”

“Okay.”

“He’s sending monthly payments to eight
other
people—both men and women—who at one time had sent money, tens of thousands of dollars in every case, to him.”

That was the last thing Richie was expecting to hear. “Eight? What is he, some friggin’ Robin Hood?”

“One lives in Denver where Geller was located before he went to Los Angeles, two in LA, and the rest in San Francisco.”

Richie just shook his head.

“And one of the women who’s been paying him quite a bit of money recently is your mother’s friend Geri.”

“So I’ve heard,” Richie said glumly.

Then Shay’s voice turned low and quiet as he added, “Your mother’s now seeing him, too. To the tune last month of one thousand dollars.”

Richie’s mouth dropped open. “Christ almighty!”

o0o

“Richie, what’s wrong with you? You aren’t yourself.”

Richie had been so horrified by Shay’s news, he drove straight to his mother’s home. She lived on the top floor of a three-story building on Russian Hill. Richie had bought the building for her a few years earlier. She rented out the flat below her, and also rented the garage since she didn’t drive.

Judging from the way his mother was studying him, coming here might have been a mistake. Carmela was in her early sixties, short, and a little overweight. Richie guessed she was still considered attractive because when men around her age saw her, they inevitably stood a little taller and sucked in their gut—not that he didn’t find it kind of gross to think of anyone checking out his mother.

“There’s nothing wrong,” he said. He couldn’t just start questioning her about what she and Geri were up to. Her hackles would rise and he’d get nowhere. Instead, he had to ease into the conversation, slowly.

They were sitting at the kitchen table. Although the kitchen had state of the art appliances and new cream-colored cabinetry, it still had a cozy, old-fashioned look. Carmela poured them each a cup of coffee, and then put a plate of home-made cookies within Richie’s easy reach.

“You want some lunch?” She opened the refrigerator to see what she could offer him.

“No.”

“See, I told you.” Carmela shut the refrigerator door and then stared at him as if she were considering calling a priest to give him last rites.

“I’ve got to watch my weight,” he said gently. “It goes on too easy.”

She sat across the table from him. “It’s the age. You’re getting up there, Richie.” She added a half-teaspoon of sugar to her coffee and stirred it. “You got to get married before you get fat and lose your hair. I hope you take after your father’s side. They all had such hair, wavy, like yours is now. On my side, the men all look like cue balls by the time they’re fifty.”

“I’m not getting married because I might lose my hair.”

“You’re too old to mess around.”

“What’s all this about my age?” he cried.

“You heard me. You think I don’t know why you’re not eating?” She had dark brown eyes, and short copper-colored hair that was styled every week and then so heavily sprayed it didn’t move a single strand until she went back to the hairdresser. Right now, her eyes turned beady as they bored into him.

“Because I’m not hungry?”

“Because you’re still thinking too much about
her
.”

“Her?”

“The cop! Who else?”

“Christ, Ma! I’m not thinking about anybody. Give me a break!”

“I can see it.” She stared at him hard. “These are a mother’s eyes. They know when her son is getting ready to have his heart ripped out and torn into little pieces.”

“My heart’s just fine.”

“She got you shot!” Carmela waggled her forefinger at him. “Don’t you forget it!”

“She did no such thing.” He shoved aside the coffee as if about to leave. “Ma, I can’t take this!”

She stood and put her hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “You’ll be happier if you’re married, Richie, to some sweet girl.”

“I’m happy now,” he bellowed, then slumped back in his seat. She sat down again. “Besides,” he added, “before I get married, I do want to be in love—at least a little.”

“Love? You’ve had love. True love. May Isabella rest in peace.” Carmela quickly crossed herself. “Now, you just need security.”

“Don’t talk about Isabella, okay?”

Carmela folded her arms. “Look, Dora Petalucchio’s daughter just broke off her engagement because her father caught her fiancé with another woman.” She nodded the way she always did when she had a good story to tell. “Not just with her, but
with
her, if you know what I’m saying—in the men’s room at the Sons of Italy hall, no less. They thought no one would try to use a stall, only the urinals, but her old man ate a bad
cannoli
and what’re you gonna do? Anyway, the daughter, Kathy, Kaylie—one of those American ‘k’ names—is already thirty. So she doesn’t have time to start over—to go out and date and do all that stuff to find someone to love. But she’d make a good wife for you.”

“I heard about that,” Richie admitted. “But I’m not taking Joey Hands’ cast off.”

“Joey Hands? I thought he was Italian?”

“He was. Is. The guys call him that because he’s … Just forget it, Ma. Believe me, if she’s not attractive enough for Joey Hands to marry, forget it.”

“But you need—”

“No. I don’t.” He stood. “I’m leaving, and when you want to have a normal conversation about séances and ghosts, you call me.”

The reference to Sandy Geller didn’t faze her. He headed for the door with Carmela following, her words ringing in his ears. “I’ll say no more, Richie. But I want you to be happy; right now, you’re a mess. I pray so much for you, my knees are getting blisters!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rebecca sat alone back at her desk and fumed.

Mr. Stick-Up-His-Butt FBI Agent had told her that Richie was a fixer. She knew what a “fixer” was, although there were fixers … and then there were
fixers
. Most of the time, it meant someone who could mend a bad situation for a client, someone who knew their way around the law, or the system, or enough important people to get a client out of a jam, legal or otherwise.

She understood, now, exactly why Richie didn’t broadcast his job.

Was she surprised when Agent Seymour had told her that? She had to admit, she’d suspected it. Richie knew too many important people, and had too many people reporting to him about topics of the hush-hush variety. Did it mean he was a criminal? No, but it could mean he was walking a fine line. When a person helps enough big shots with money and influence, soon, that person learns enough secrets that he ends up with money and influence as well. That’s when it’s easy to cross over to the dark side.

She was going to have to find out if he had or not. No more coyness; no more hints. He needed to be straight with her.

Richie weighed heavy on her mind when she met with Sandy Geller. Geller picked her up outside Homicide in a Mercedes two-seat roadster.

“I hope we didn’t have too much demon talk last night,” he said with a sly grin.

“No. Not at all. Actually, I’d like to hear more about demons.”

“I should think there are a lot of them in your line of work.”

“Perhaps too many,” she murmured as she forced her thoughts away from Richie to study Sandy a moment. His light brown hair was naturally lank, and without mascara and other make-up his eyes were faint. His nose was straight and small, and his lips cupid-bow shaped, which she never particularly liked on a man. “I take it you believe in demons.”

Sandy’s lips upturned. “Some people are good, some are bad. Why should spirits be any different? Demons are simply spirits who want to do us harm. And yes, they do exist. A lot of mediums will go into a trance state and allow a spirit to take over control of his or her body. I don’t do that because it can lead to permanent possession by demonic forces.”

“Oh? I thought mediums were supposed to allow spirits to take over their bodies,” Rebecca said. “Isn’t that what you do in your show?”

He smiled stiffly. “It’s not exactly a ‘show.’ And I
channel
the spirit, not let it take over.”

“What about the kind of séance where the medium asks the spirit to do strange things like blow out candles and ring bells?”

“Ah, yes!” he said. “It’s actually quite interesting. That type of séance became wildly popular in the mid-eighteen hundreds, because of an incident that took place near Rochester, New York,” Sandy said with a smile.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, the infamous Fox sisters. Maggie and Kate Fox were only fifteen and eleven years old when they claimed to have made contact with the spirit of a murdered peddler.”

Sandy proceeded to tell her the story of the Fox family and how unexplained noises began to afflict the family home. At some point, the younger girl, Kate, started asking whoever was making the noise some questions. The questions soon led to a system using a number of raps as an answer. From the answers, the family realized the dead peddler was the one causing the noises.

“Neighbors were brought in to see what was happening,” Sandy said, “and the girls became famous practically overnight. Soon, people rushed to the Fox house to watch the girls interact with the spirit. The girls soon began conducting séances with their older sister, Leah, working as their manager.”

“So it was a scam from the beginning,” Rebecca said.

“We don’t know that,” Sandy offered. “But we do know that as the girls’ fame and popularity grew, so did skepticism. They were accused of tricks, including concealing of lead balls beneath their dresses to make noise. People formed committees to test them, but couldn’t find any evidence of fraud. Things changed for the better after the girls held a séance for the famous author James Fenimore Cooper. He came away convinced of their authenticity, and wrote news articles about his experience with them. Those writings help spread their fame.

“By the 1850’s, you could find spiritualist groups in many major American cities, as well as England and Europe. But soon, mediums vied with each other for attention, and did increasingly outrageous stunts to entertain their audiences. Levitation was a huge one. Such things pushed the ‘Rochester Rappers’ as the Fox sisters were known, out of the spotlight. In fact, the girls tried to recant and regain popularity by saying they had been instructed by their older sister on how to fake their connections with the dead, but few people cared about them at that point. Eventually, both died as penniless alcoholics.”

“What a story,” Rebecca said, surprised she had never heard it before.

Sandy nodded. “It is, and it’s also what gives psychics a bad name. Tables levitating, pendulums swinging, candles going out or coming on all by themselves, automatic writing, Ouija boards, planchettes—they’re all easily faked. It’s ludicrous for anyone to ask a spirit to answer questions with a ‘rap once for yes, twice for no.’ Do people really think spirits are here to play a game of twenty questions?”

o0o

Richie wanted nothing as much as to meet Rebecca after her work day ended and to talk to her. He managed to convince himself he’d been wrong about her reasons for spending last evening with Sandy Geller. She couldn’t possibly have any romantic interest in the guy. It was intellectual, that’s all. And she was investigating.

He hoped.

But before he could contact Rebecca, Claire Baxter had contacted him. She was scared and said she needed to see him right away. He believed she was innocent of the FBI’s accusation that she consorted with known smugglers of stolen Middle Eastern artifacts. He drove over to her condo near the crest of Nob Hill.

Her front door was at ground level, and stairs led up to her living area which was a testament to her success. Filled with paintings, sculptures, and antique furniture, it was beautiful. Even the clocks on her walls were works of art. When he reached the top of the staircase, he gawked at her in shock.

One side of her face was swollen and bruised. Her wrists were also black and blue, and her usually perfect manicure had several “fake” fingernails missing. She had clearly been crying. As he studied her, she threw her arms around him.

“What happened?” he asked, holding her. She was in her fifties, although no one would ever know it by looking at her. She had a great figure, and usually hid any wrinkles she might have had with Botox, a hairstyle of thick bangs down to her eyelashes, turtlenecks and neck scarves. Right now, though, she looked her age and more.

“Those men, those horrible men!” She began to sob.

He guided her to the living room. Chairs had been knocked over. He lifted two spindly ones, but after looking at them, decided they’d better sit on the small chaise lounge. The antique furniture filling her house might be pricey, but it was also stiff, undersized, and uncomfortable. Once they were settled, he said, “Now, tell me what happened.”

“Two men were in my house when I got home. They’re going to kill me.” Her hands shook as she grabbed his lapels. “You’ve got to get me a new identity. I need to run.”

“Why would they want to kill you?”

“Because the FBI came back here again—to my house! Those men said if I tell the FBI who they are …” She started breathing too hard to speak.

“But the FBI has no proof that you have the Nimrud gold jewelry, right? Only hearsay that you were selling some of it?”

She swallowed hard. “They somehow found out that I had three pieces here.”

Now it was his turn to stop breathing. She had lied to him, swearing she had nothing to do with any jewelry that even resembled the Nimrud gold. “You had smuggled artifacts here?”

“I didn’t know they were contraband. Only that they were Middle Eastern and old and valuable. I had to have them to show my buyers. No sight-unseen sales—ever—in antiquities. But now”—she burst into more tears—“the FBI confiscated them, and told me to either give them the name of the seller or go to jail. That horrible Agent Seymour claims he’s watching me constantly.”

Richie ran his fingers through his hair. So now, by showing up here, he would also be on the FBI’s radar—if he wasn’t already simply because of associating with her. This was getting better by the minute. “Let’s think about this. If the FBI is watching, they must have seen the two men who attacked you.”

She shook her head. “Maybe not. They disarmed my alarm system from the back door and used it to come in and to leave. I doubt the FBI is out there.”

“But aren’t all those back yards small with no street access? How could they get out?”

“Who knows?” She shrugged.

He took a deep breath. He really hated this kind of garbage. “Did they say anything else?”

“They sure did. They want their money. The three pieces the FBI took are worth a hundred-fifty thousand dollars. They want that much from me. And if they don’t get it, I’m dead. I don’t have that much cash. I’ve got to run.”

“What about your art pieces? Do you have any that are worth that kind of money?”

“Sure, but it takes time to sell valuable art and antiquities, Richie.”

“Look, come up with at least two-hundred grand worth of whatever antiquities and art that you can, plus appraisals to prove the value. Tell me how to reach the people you’re dealing with and I’ll see if legitimate artifacts will interest them enough to leave you alone. Sound good?”

“Two hundred grand?” she asked, incredulously.

“You need to convince them to take the deal. Less than two hundred would be an insult. Or would you prefer they kill you and steal everything you own? You said they’ve broken in here once already, right?”

Her tears again overflowed and once more she wrapped her arms around him. “Can you lend me some money Richie?”

“Not on your life.”

She drew back, pouting. “By the way, when the FBI was questioning me, I said you could vouch for my story that the art dealers I’m working with have reputations for dealing with legitimate merchandise—as do I.”

He felt as if his hair was on fire. “You know that’s not true,” he shouted. “I warned you—”

“So what,” she yelled back. “I need help! Your help!
”

Richie was beyond furious at her. “Get the piece you want to give the Iraqis, the paperwork, and let me know how to contact them. I’ll handle it. And stop your goddamn talking to the FBI.”