3 Can You Picture This? (13 page)

Lots of questions…‌and no real answers. My vibes were dormant again. They usually came to life only when I was around a criminal, or sometimes around a victim or a clue. Nothing today. Nada.

I had an idea.

“I’d like to take a walk.”

“What?” George asked, still engrossed in a show about the Cardinals, and how they were doing in the pennant race.

“I’d like to take a walk.”

“Okay, I’ll go with you.” I knew he just said that because it was my birthday. He normally didn’t take walks with me.

“I’ll go by myself. It’s kind of relaxing to walk without Clancy every now and then. I’ll be back in a little while. Just walking in the neighborhood.”

He nodded. I grabbed my cell phone and went to the door.

“I think I’ll stop by work for a minute and see if Marian happens to be there.” We often went in on our off time to catch up on paperwork. There was always a lot to do.

George wisely didn’t say anything but, “Have a nice walk.” Surprisingly, he didn’t act like I needed a guard.

As soon as I got past Gus and Georgianne’s house I dialed 411 and got the number of Creighton Jameson’s wife. The operator connected me “at no extra charge,” and I waited impatiently for someone to answer as I walked slowly down Maine Street.

“Hello,” a soft voice finally said.

After finding out this was indeed Mrs. Jameson, Enid Jameson, I introduced myself and asked if I could stop by.

“I guess so,” she said, “but why do you want to talk to me. Do I know you?”

“No, ma’am. But I’m working as a consultant with the police, and I’d like to talk to you. It will just be a few minutes, I promise.” I crossed my fingers as I fibbed. It would all be worth it if I figured out the solution to these murders.

She acquiesced and I told her I’d be there in about an hour or so if that was convenient. It was.

I kept walking until I hit the Quincy Community Clinic, located between 14th and 16th on Maine. I used my key. The lobby was empty, but I heard soft noises that let me know there were some people in the big house.

I walked to the other side of the converted house to see if Marian was busy. Her door was open and she was at her desk doing paperwork, her height hidden behind her desk. She looked up as I began to speak. After we exchanged hellos, I got to the reason for my visit.

“Marian, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to be my therapist?”

“Of course,” she said as she stood to come nearer. “I have time now if it’s an emergency.” She towered over me, but I didn’t feel intimidated by her. Her kind face made her height irrelevant.

“It’s not an emergency, but it is kind of urgent. Something is causing a lot of trouble in my life, and I’d like to talk about it.”

Marian ushered me in and closed the door.

“Since we don’t have clients today, now would be perfect.”

I sighed and a tear escaped. Once I started I couldn’t stop. I spent the next 45 minutes giving her details on all my faults, primarily my impulsivity, and when I left her office I had a huge smile on my face.

How could she do that? How could she figure it out in less than an hour?

Of course I diagnosed people myself within 53 minutes, the traditional therapy hour. I wondered how many people walked out of my office as happy as I walked out of Marian’s.

I left a note for myself to ask Clara to schedule another appointment with Marian for the following week. I wanted Marian to be able to “get credit” for seeing me, plus my insurance would pay for it. If I told my clients that there was no shame in seeing a therapist, then I needed to live that myself.

“I am happy. My life is good,” I said aloud as I exited the Clinic.

I remained amazed that such a short period of time could make this significant a difference in my attitude. But it did. And I couldn’t wait to tell George. And all my brothers and sisters who had teased me for years.

I walked down to 14th and Maine and turned right. Enid lived in a large home converted into apartments on 14th and Hampshire, so it was a short jaunt.

I knocked on the appropriate door, and it was answered by a teenage boy. He had a sad or sullen face, I couldn’t tell which, but after I introduced myself and asked for his mother, he stepped aside so I could enter.

“Mom, she’s here.” A quick yell brought Mrs. Jameson to the foyer. She was dressed informally in jeans and what might have been one of her husband’s dress shirts.

“Please come in,” was all she said, as she led me to the living room.

She indicated that I should sit, and asked, “Why are you here?”

Saying no to an offer of tea or coffee, I said, “I consult with the police on certain cases,” a little white lie. “And I have a few questions to ask about your husband’s death.” I didn’t say suicide on purpose. First of all, it’s a word fraught with emotion and judgment. Secondly, I wasn’t totally convinced he had committed suicide. It wasn’t anything that anyone told me. It was just a feeling.

After saying a few things to make her a little more comfortable, I was ready to approach the subject.

“Enid,” she’d told me to call her that, “I want to ask how Creighton died.”

At her almost imperceptible nod, I continued, “Do you believe Creighton killed himself?”

Damn, the waterworks started. Normally, my straightforward approach worked well. This time, not so much.

“I’m sorry, Enid. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” she said. “It’s just that you’re the first person to ask that since the police. Everyone just assumes it was suicide, and…”

“And…‌what?” I asked, tired of waiting.

“And…‌I don’t think he killed himself.”

EIGHTEEN

S
he looked around as if she didn’t want anyone to hear her.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Just what I said. I don’t think he committed suicide.” At that she looked around again, and her voice dipped even lower. “I think Creighton was killed.”

“Did he have any enemies that you knew of?”

“Not what you would call enemies,” she shook her head as she answered. “I don’t know if everyone loved him or not, but I’m pretty sure no one hated him enough to do this. No. It can’t be someone we knew. Except…”

“Except what?”

She hesitated before continuing. And sent her son to the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Except he only had a few days, maybe a week, to live.”

“I’m aware of that. The coroner’s report said as much. Do you think he might have killed himself to spare you a drawn out suffering and death?”

“No. I’m sure of this. He was a fine Christian man. He would never, under any circumstances, kill himself. We’d even talked about it. He told me he would never do it.”

I thanked her for her time, expressed my condolences, and walked back toward my house. What if her words were true? What if Creighton Jameson hadn’t killed himself?

That meant the killer was still out there. That meant the guy who ran from Clancy and me was probably the killer, and not a prankster.

George was going to kill me when he found out what I was up to. I knew it. At least he would if the killer didn’t do it first.

Suddenly frightened for the first time, I ran a few blocks. By the time I opened my door and stepped inside I was out of breath and hot.

“Omigod, Sam. What’s wrong?” George had jumped up at my entrance. He walked to the door and picked me up, no mean feat. He lay me on the couch and put his hand on my forehead. “You have a fever.”

“No, I don’t,” I said as I tried to sit up. He pushed me back down and I tried again to sit up. This went on like a bad Three Stooges movie. Finally, I pushed him away and succeeded in sitting. “I’m fine, I promise. I just ran a few blocks, that’s all.”

He sat on the edge of the couch, but didn’t take his eyes off me.

“Why did you run? Exercise?”

“Yeah.” Another white lie. “Exercise.”

“Well, I don’t believe you.” His handsome face said the same things as his words. “Now tell me the truth.”

He knew me. And wasn’t afraid to challenge me.

“The truth is that I don’t think Creighton Jameson killed himself, and neither does his wife.”

“What do you mean?”

So I told him. I left nothing out, except the fact that I was now a little bit afraid. Well, maybe a lot afraid. But I didn’t want to be under house arrest or protective custody or whatever. How could I solve this murder for George if I couldn’t continue my investigation? So I didn’t mention the fact that I was probably still in danger.

But that wasn’t all of it. There was something else, nagging me. Something else besides the blue hoodie. My vibes were vibrating, trying to tell me something. I just couldn’t bring it to the surface.

At that point my kids walked back in and Clancy bounded over to me. I hadn’t seen as much of her as usual since the kids had been home, and since George and I became a thing. I hugged her and didn’t let go, putting my head against hers. She could tell something was wrong, and didn’t leave my side.

“Oops, looks like we came home at the wrong time. George, next time put a necktie on the doorknob so we know to stay away,” Adam said, raising his eyebrows at my still-pink face and the fact that I was breathing a bit harder than normal.

“Adam,” Sarah said as she fake punched him.

George was speechless. I just laughed.

“You guys have the wrong idea. I just ran a few blocks and it’s taking me a while to recover.” In the recent past my running had fallen by the wayside, in favor of slow, leisurely walks. “Sit, you two, and talk to me.”

“Can’t, Mom,” Adam answered. “Gotta run.” And he did that, literally. He ran up the stairs, and ran back down with a different shirt on. A quick kiss for me and off he went.

Sarah sat on the love seat, looking over at George and me on the couch. I was still holding on to Clancy, but did allow her a little breathing room.

“How was your date with Jimmy last night?” I asked.

Sarah smiled shyly.

“Did I know about this?” George asked. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“You went home last night, and that’s when I found out about the date. I didn’t think to mention it this morning. Sorry.” I gave George’s hand a squeeze to show there was no harm meant. “So…‌,” I said, turning my attention back to Sarah.

“So…‌,” she repeated, with a hint of red on her cheeks, “we went for a late meal at the Rectory. I saw some folks from school and we joined them.”

“Did Jimmy go to St. Francis?”

“No, he went to GCHS, but we know some of the same people.”

Then it hit me. I couldn’t express any emotion over it in front of Sarah. But I thought of something I hadn’t known before. Something that had been bugging me.
Jimmy.
I knew I had to talk to George privately, but I did want to finish the conversation with Sarah first.

“So you had a good time?”

“Yes, Mom. I had a good time. Anything else?” When I shook my head no, she continued, “Then I’d like to take a nap. I need to work tonight, and I got up awfully early this morning for your surprise.”

I nodded, and she came over and kissed me, saying, “Happy birthday. I love you.”

“I love you, too, sweetie.” But I wanted to say, now hurry along. I couldn’t wait to talk to George.

As soon as Sarah was safely out of earshot I turned to George.

“I think Jimmy might be involved.”

“What do you mean, involved? You think he’s dating someone else while he’s going out with Sarah? I don’t think he’s that kind of guy. But if he is, he’ll be very sorry.”

“I love that you’re protective, but it’s not that. In fact it’s worse.”

“Worse?”

“Yeah. He might be the killer.”

NINETEEN

“S
am, you must be overheated. This is crazy. Jimmy Mansfield is no more a killer than I am.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said.

“Okay, reasons,” he demanded. “Give me reasons. Give me facts, not just feelings.”

“Remember that he was the one who came up to me right after the guy in the blue hoodie tried to attack me? Clancy chased the guy up to a fence, but then couldn’t go over it. Just a few minutes later, Jimmy came round the corner. He said he tried to get the guy, but couldn’t. I remember that he didn’t look hot or sweaty. He looked very put together for someone who had just tried to chase a bad guy. He was gasping for breath, but that could have been phony.”

George just looked at me.

“And Sarah said he went to GCHS. I don’t know if that’s important, but it seems to me that it should be.” I wanted some affirmation from George. “With the sweatshirt color and all.”

“You’re letting your imagination get carried away, Sam. Don’t get me wrong. I love your imaginative, creative side. But you can’t go accusing good cops of murder. You just can’t.”

“George, right now you have zero suspects. Zero. There’s no one to investigate. There’s no one to question. Zero.”

“Yeah, but that’ll change.” He sounded a little defensive, and I couldn’t blame him.

The last murders I had helped solve had involved logical suspects from the start. Too many. But it least it gave the cops someone to question, and me someone to spy on. This time wasn’t as much fun. I was just as scared, but didn’t know who I was scared of. I needed a suspect. And fast.

Then came the blow I was dreading.

“Sam, I’m going to have to put you under protective custody again.”

“Okay.”

“Whoa.” George looked at me with his eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong? That’s not like you to agree so easily.”

“I hate protective custody. Hate it. But I love having to be with you. That’s all. Nothing wrong.”

We made a quick sandwich for my birthday lunch, and George said not to eat too much. It was obvious to me that he was excited about his surprise. In the afternoon, while he watched TV and worked in the living room, I sat in the dining room and caught up on Facebook.

“Hey,” I said, “why don’t we call Richie and see what’s up with him?”

“Good idea. I’ll call the station and get his number.”

A few minutes later George had the number and in no time at all I overheard him say, “Hello.”

I heard George ask Richie how things were going. Then a long pause as Richie spoke.