Caught Dead Handed

Books by Carol J. Perry

 

 

 

Caught Dead Handed

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

For Dan, my husband and best friend.

A big thank-you to my critique group—Adele, Laura, and Liz—for their keen eyes, editing skills, friendship, and support. Special thanks to Rose and Mim of Plum Island, Massachusetts, for providing me with a calm and quiet place to write, and to my daughter Debbie for providing the same in Florida. Much appreciation to Linda Bennett, a real-life radio call-in psychic who taught me about crystals and golden-white light, and to my editor, Esi Sogah, for her gentle and perceptive suggestions and patient understanding of my technical shortcomings. And, of course, eternal gratitude to my parents for having the good sense to raise me in the magical city of Salem.

'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.

 

William Shakespeare

After parking the borrowed Buick in a space marked
VISITOR
, I pulled down the visor mirror and smoothed a couple of strands of red hair into place. I stepped out beside a granite seawall onto a sparse, brittle strip of grass that was already winter-killed, although it was only October. Hiking the strap of my handbag over the shoulder of a new green wool suit, I took a deep breath of salty air. A dingy, mouse-colored sky hung over Salem Harbor, threatening but not yet raining on the sprawling New England city I used to call home.

Ducking the chill wind by staying close to the weathered brick structure housing WICH-TV, I rounded the corner of the building. The Salem cable channel's ad for a field reporter had come along at just the right time for me. Dodging a page of soggy newspaper cartwheeling across the parking lot like so much urban tumbleweed, I dashed up three broad marble steps to a gracefully arched doorway.

Some things don't change. The old streets are still messy, and the old buildings are still beautiful.

Some things
do
change. Ten years can be a long time in the life of a city. Or of a person. Half a lifetime ago I'd walked along this same street on my way to school—teenage Maralee Kowolski with big dreams of becoming an actress, a star. Now I was back. Thirty-year-old Lee Barrett, unemployed, with hardly any dreams left, Salem born, orphaned early, married once, widowed young. Just yesterday I'd flown here from Florida. I'd come home to the place where I was raised, my aunt Ibby's big old house on Winter Street, exchanging sunshine and theme parks for Salem's unpredictable weather and historic architecture.

The station's lobby featured an old-fashioned black-and-white tile floor and a brass-doored vintage elevator, which growled its way slowly upward. At the end of the second-floor corridor I found the office I was looking for. Gilt lettering across the glass spelled out WICH-TV. No tile floor here. A turquoise carpet vied for attention with purple leather and chrome furniture. A curved reception desk was topped with a towering arrangement of silk lilacs. A brunette receptionist looked in my direction. Her name tag said RHONDA, with the
o
in the form of a heart. I glanced at the gold sunburst clock. It was a couple of minutes before nine. I was right on time for my interview with the station manager. I felt almost confident.

“Good morning,” I said, trying to modulate my normally throaty voice. “I'm Lee Barrett. I have a nine o'clock appointment with Mr. Doan.”

That voice had become sort of a trademark for me, first as a weather girl on a Miami cable station and more recently as a show host on a Central Florida TV home-shopping program.

I mentally crossed my fingers. If this interview went well, there'd be no more cumulus clouds or cubic zirconia in my future. I'd have a
real
TV job.

Rhonda consulted an open notebook. “Mr. Doan said that if you showed up, I should tell you that he's very sorry. The job you applied for has already been filled.”

“What do you mean, if I showed up?” I reached into my handbag and pulled out a letter. “Here!” I waved the paper, signed with the station manager's name. “Mr. Doan specifically said that I was under serious consideration for the field reporter's job. I flew here from Florida for this interview!”

She arched black-penciled eyebrows and shrugged. “Sorry. He hired somebody else. Some guy.”

Some guy.

“Some guy,” I repeated. “Well, that's just great! Please tell Mr. Doan thanks a lot for his consideration.”

“Sure.” If she'd caught my sarcasm, she didn't show it.

I've been told that I have the typical redhead's temper, but I've learned to control it pretty well. Too angry to say anything else, and close to tears, I headed down the long corridor toward the elevator. Rows of framed photographs lined the walls. I recognized Phil Archer. He'd been an anchor on WICH-TV since I was a little kid. A cute blonde was posed in front of a weather map, and an athletic-looking guy held a football. There was one blank space with a dusty outline of an oblong frame.

Must be reserved for the photo of the next field reporter. Some guy.

“Damn,” I whispered. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

“Bad day?” The voice came from just over my shoulder. I turned and looked into brown eyes, just about level with my own green ones. The man was slim and wiry, probably in his mid-forties, with a prominent nose and dark hair graying at the temples.

“A really bad day,” I agreed. “One of the worst.”

The door of the office I'd just left burst open, and a red-faced man stormed out.

“Cancel my appointments, Rhonda,” he shouted. “That sow! She can't do this! I'll sue the bitch! She has a contract!”

He stepped in front of me and punched the already lit call button.

“Problem, Mr. Doan?” Brown Eyes spoke softly.

“Huh? Oh, hello, George. Yeah.” Doan ran a hand through thinning hair. “Seems the psychic walked out in the middle of last night's show. Just like that. And now the bitch isn't answering her phone. Walked out! She'd better never show her fat face around here again!”

The elevator rattled to a stop, and sliding gates slowly began to part. Doan pounded on them, then seemed to notice me for the first time.

“You going up?”

“Down,” I said.

“Well, I'm taking this one up.” The doors clanged shut, and the elevator growled upward.

“Nice guy,” I muttered. “What was that all about?”

“Seems our late-show psychic has resigned suddenly,” George said.

“Psychic?”

He nodded. “Right. Ariel Constellation. WICH-TV's late-night movie host and call-in psychic.”

I smothered a laugh. “Ariel Constellation?”

“Yep.” He tapped one of the frames. “There she is.”

It was one of those coy, hand-under-the-chin poses. A round face was topped by an enormous platinum beehive. An arrangement of shiny stars and moons decorated the lacquered hair. A star-shaped beauty mark on her cheek accented lavender-lidded eyes, and the large onyx ring on her extended pinkie finger was set with a five-pointed star at its center. A big yellow striped cat snuggled against an ample, satin-clad shoulder and stared, golden-eyed, into the camera.

“Wow,” I said, pointing at the symbol on the ring. “Does she think she's a witch?”

“So they say.” He smiled. “She always wears that witch's pentagram. I think it's just part of the act. A Salem thing.”

The elevator doors slid open once more, and we stepped inside.

“You've really never seen Ariel?” he asked. “You must be the only person in Salem who doesn't watch
Nightshades.
”

“I've been away for quite a while. What does Ariel Constellation do, exactly?”

“She hosts
Nightshades,
our late-night show. It's mostly old
Twilight Zone
s and
Outer Limits
and some of the classic horror films. Stuff like that,” he said. “In between commercial breaks she takes phone calls. Live. She answers questions. Gives advice.”

“Like Miss Cleo? And the old Psychic Friends Network? I thought that sort of thing had been pretty much discredited.”

“Only because they used to charge for it. Advice is free on
Nightshades.
”

“Neat programming idea,” I said. “Is she good?”

He shrugged, smiling. “I don't care much for that kind of baloney myself, but the audience seems to love it. The ratings are amazing for that time of night. She beats
The Tonight Show
sometimes.”

“No kidding? Do you think she really quit?”

“Might have. She and Doan never got along. And she's managed to get on the wrong side of Mrs. Doan somehow, too. Anyway, Ariel's kind of an old hippie. Lost in the sixties,” he said. “She always talked about going back to California. Maybe that's what she did.”

When we reached the ground floor, he stuck out his hand. “I'm George Valen,” he said. “Cameraman. I didn't get your name.”

I shook his hand. He had a good grip. “Lee,” I said. “Lee Barrett.”

“Well, so long, Lee. I hope your day gets better.”

“Thanks.” I gave a brief wave, pulled the car keys from my handbag, and stepped out the front door onto Derby Street. I turned the corner of the building and headed along the edge of the paved lot toward the wall where I'd parked Aunt Ibby's Buick. The seawall beside the car was a little more than knee-high, and a fine mist of salt spray fanned out over the top of it with each slowly rolling wave. I could taste it on my lips. The cries of seagulls and the soft
slap-slap
of waves against rough stone had a calming effect, and I paused there for a moment, just listening.

I could sure use some calming down right about now,
I thought, anger rising again.
I wanted that job. I
deserved
that job. Maybe working for the unpleasant Doan wouldn't have been much fun, after all, but what am I supposed to do now?

Then there was another sound. One that didn't fit in. A tiny buzzing noise. It seemed to come from the top of the wall. I bent toward the buzz and identified it immediately. Someone had dropped a slim cell phone, and it vibrated there, wedged between two of the huge granite slabs.

I leaned cautiously, reaching for it. Below the wall a tangle of seaweed drifted, mixed up with Styrofoam cups and beer cans, all the usual debris the tide brings ashore every day. There was a bright orange glove down there, the kind that lobstermen use. There was even a big lavender sofa cushion.

But sofa cushions don't have platinum hair, do they? Or a hand? A strangely discolored hand that seemed to wave in a languid motion as tiny fishes bumped and nibbled at the shiny ring on a plump finger.