Caught Dead Handed (11 page)

Crossing Washington Square, I passed the huge stone Civil War monument that marks the corner of Winter Street. I crossed the street and, walking carefully, stepped over the curb in front of the house. Vintage brick and cobblestone sidewalks might be charming to look at, but they can be hazardous to wearers of high heels!

Turning my key in the lock, I smiled at O'Ryan, whose pink nose was pressed against one of the tall windows beside the front door. He greeted my entrance with something that sounded like a happy combination of a purr and meow.

“Why all the attention, O'Ryan?” I leaned down and scratched between his ears. “Not that it isn't welcome.”

Aunt Ibby appeared in the dining-room doorway. “Are you talking to me, dear?”

“Nope. Just having a chat with O'Ryan.”

“He's been quite talkative today—meowing and purring ever since I came in. How was your bargain-priced psychic experience?”

“Brief, but interesting,” I said. “I had my cards read, and the reader was that young witch who was interviewed on TV this morning.”

“Really? Did she give you the usual spiel? You are a caring and sensitive person? You have a handsome secret admirer? You are about to come into a large sum of money?”

“Not exactly. She says I talk too much, there's some man who secretly hates me, and I'm going to be out of work within a month.”

“Oh, dear.” Her eyes widened. “Of course you know it's all nonsense.”

“I know,” I said. “I'm not really worried about it. But I bought a set of tarot cards, anyway. I wish I still had Ariel's books about how to read them. Do we have any?” Seeing her look of disapproval, I added, “It might be useful on the show if I sounded as though I knew something about wands and cups and whatever.”

“We probably have something. Look around in nonfiction. Maybe one-thirty-three point thirty-two.”

“Thanks.” I headed for the study, O'Ryan a few steps in front of me, as though he knew exactly where I was going.

“Have you had lunch?” my aunt called after me.

“Nope. Never got around to it.”

“How about a nice salad?”

“Sounds good.”

With the cat on my lap, I settled down behind the big desk with
A Beginner's Guide to the Tarot.
I skipped over the introduction and turned directly to the page showing the Queen of Wands.
If the woman is Caucasian,
I read,
she has red or brown hair and blue or green eyes.

“That fits,” I told the cat as I scanned the page further.

 

She has great sales ability.

 

“I did pretty well on the shopping shows,” I said.

“Mrruff,” said O'Ryan. He hopped up onto the desk, putting his paw on the part of the illustration that showed the cat in front of the seated queen.

“What about it? It says here the cat is supposed to protect the queen from harm. But look. You're supposed to be a black cat. Not all stripey and yellow.”

O'Ryan put both paws across his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, seemingly dismissive of black cats in general, and resumed purring.

I looked up the Seven of Swords. River had told me it meant I was good at giving advice, as long as I didn't overdo it. The card showed a man who was apparently stealing some swords.

“What does sword stealing have to do with advice?” I wondered aloud. The printed explanation suggested that I might need to change my thinking to find a new approach to problems. That made some sense, since I'd be dealing with other people's problems, not mine, but the sword analogy still escaped me.

“It's all nonsense, you know.” I repeated Aunt Ibby's words to the now-sleeping cat. “So let's see what the Five of Pentacles has to say about my soon-to-be unemployment.”

I flipped through the pages until I found the card.

“Uh-oh. This doesn't look good at all!”

O'Ryan's ears twitched, but he kept his eyes closed. “Don't want to look at it? I don't blame you. It's creepy.”

The card showed two people dressed in rags, struggling through snow beside a church with stained-glass windows. Each window displayed a pentagram—like the one on Ariel's ring. The text told about forthcoming financial woes.
Change is coming,
it said.
Find your true purpose in life,
which, if River was right, was not the career of a call-in TV psychic.

I'd saved the King of Cups for last. The idea of a violent man who might be a secret enemy was frightening. Even if it was all nonsense.

The King of Cups didn't look like a bad guy at all. He was just sitting on his throne, holding a cup. The text suggested a father figure and mentioned maturity and creativity. But River had said that the King of Cups was reversed.

I read further.
The King of Cups reversed is an entirely different story. That king comes from a position of fear. He keeps information about himself hidden, while watching all the time to find another's weakness. He feels that he's been wronged somewhere along the line and is looking for revenge. His ability to find love or compassion has been forever changed, perhaps from something that happened early in his life.
I slammed the book shut.

The sound woke the sleeping cat. He stretched, yawned, and sat on the back cover of
A Beginner's Guide to the Tarot.
His tail pointed straight up, what might be interpreted as a cat version of a rude gesture.

“You're right,” I told him. “It's total garbage. I haven't even been here long enough to tick anybody off, let alone a king. Come on. Let's go get something to eat.”

The cell phone in my pocket began to vibrate. The caller ID told me the call was from WICH-TV.

“Hello,” I said. “Lee Barrett speaking.”

“Hello.” The male voice was familiar. “This is Scott Palmer. We met this morning. At the station.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Palmer. How are you?”
And why are you calling me?

“Just fine, thanks. Look, I thought we were going to have a chance to get acquainted at the restaurant today. Maybe get that job thing smoothed over. Dropped the ball there, I guess. So, I was wondering, since we never got to eat, would you like to join me for a late lunch?”

Boy, do I wish Janice hadn't made that job-grabbing crack!

“That's very kind of you, Mr. Palmer, but my aunt is making lunch right now. I appreciate the invitation, though.”

“I'm disappointed,” he said. “Maybe another time. And please call me Scott.”

“Okay, Scott. Thanks again. We'll probably run into each other at the station.”

“I hope so,” he said. “It seems as if I've been out on assignment ever since I got here.”

Right. Those assignments that could have—should have—been mine.

‘Yes,” I agreed. “You've been busy.”

Polite. Noncommittal. Just right.

Then the proverbial lightbulb went off. If Pete Mondello couldn't give me information about the killer, maybe Scott Palmer could. I was pretty sure he'd seen the surveillance tapes by now.

“Uh, Scott,” I said. “Did anything interesting show up on those surveillance tapes? Like a better look at the man? What he was wearing?”

“There were a few shots of him as he moved along Derby Street. The videos are all pretty grainy, though. His face was covered by some kind of hood. About all you could really tell was that it was a guy wearing camo and boots.”

Bingo.
The killer wore boots. That was all I wanted to know. Time to end this conversation.

“I hope they catch him soon,” I said. “It's just terrible about that poor woman. Dying that way on her own kitchen floor.” I was ready to hang up. “So long, Scott. Thanks again for the invitation.”

He was silent for a few seconds. “Okay. No lunch. But here's an idea. How'd you like to go to a football game tonight? Salem High is playing Swampscott. I scored a couple of fifty-yard-line tickets this afternoon.”

He'd hit a soft spot. I love football. High school, college, pro—didn't matter. Aunt Ibby started taking me to New England Patriots games when I was six.

I couldn't resist asking. “Did Mr. Doan give you the tickets?”

“Yeah. He knew I used to play. Nice guy.”

“Very nice,” I said.

He's softening you up for your second job—announcing high school games!

“Well, how about it? Would you like to go? Rhonda says you're a native. You can help me find the stadium. We can grab a late supper after the game.”

“I think you've sold me. Salem High is my alma mater. What time is the game?”

“Seven o'clock. Pick you up at six thirty.”

“It sounds like fun.” I gave him directions to Winter Street and hung up. “Was that a good idea? Making a date with a fellow employee?”

O'Ryan crawled under the desk.

“I know. I know. I haven't been out with a man since Johnny died.”

A scratching sound from below.

“I mean, a high school football game isn't a
real
date.”

“Mmfff,” came the muffled reply.

“Oh, what do you know? You're a cat!” I put the tarot book back on the shelf and started for the door. “Come on, O'Ryan. Let's go downstairs.”

A yellow paw snaked out from under the desk, causing River's business card to land neatly at my feet.

“Must have dropped that when I pulled out my phone.” I picked it up and tucked it back into my pocket. “Maybe I'll give her a call.”

O'Ryan trotted to the doorway and looked back at me, his tail this time forming a furry question mark.

“Soon,” I promised. “I'll call her soon.”

I followed the cat into the kitchen.

Aunt Ibby looked up from her
Boston Globe.
“Ready for a bite to eat? I've fixed a nice salad.”

“A salad will be perfect.”

“Did you find anything helpful about the tarot?” She smiled, but her tone was disapproving.

“Yes, thanks.
A Beginner's Guide.
I don't expect to get past beginner's status.”

“I should think not. Ariel rarely referred to it, other than using a sprinkling of the vocabulary. Knaves and wands and such. Anyway, I'm glad if the book was helpful.”

She opened the refrigerator and produced two bowls of crisp, colorful salad. “Looks yummy,” I said.

O'Ryan, pink nose twitching, hopped onto a stool and put his front paws on the edge of the granite counter surface.

“This isn't for you, O'Ryan,” I told him. “Scat!”

“He wants to sniff everything,” Aunt Ibby said. “I think he heard me when I said that someone had put p-o-i-s-o-n in his food.”

I had to laugh. “He isn't so smart that you have to spell in front of him.”

She shrugged. “He might be.”

I wasn't prepared to argue the point, and O'Ryan had apparently lost interest in both the food and the conversation. Within seconds the cat door creaked open.

We ate in silence for a while; then I put my fork down and took a deep breath.

“Is something wrong, dear?” my very perceptive aunt asked.

“I'm not sure. But there are a couple of things I'd like to talk to you about.”

“Go ahead, dear. I'm listening.”

“Okay. I saw . . . I think I saw . . . something else in that obsidian ball.”

“Oh, God. I had hoped . . . What did you see?”

“I think I saw Ariel's killer,” I said. “I saw him stepping on her hands. It was as though I was looking up at him, just the way Ariel must have.”

“Lord! Who is he?”

“I didn't see his face. But I'm sure it's the same man they're looking for in that other murder. The woman in her kitchen.”

“Yvette Pelletier.”

“Right.” I explained about the camouflaged pants legs and the boots. “The clothes match the description of the man they're calling ‘a person of interest.'”

“Did you tell the police?”

“Of course not. I wanted to, but what could I say? I sometimes see pictures in an old black ball? They'd think I'm nuts!”

She nodded her agreement. “You're right. I understand. But, Maralee, what
are
you going to do about it?”

“I don't know what I
can
do. I'll keep asking questions. Look at as many surveillance tapes as I can. Detective Mondello said the man showed up on cameras all the way down Derby Street. But there's no picture from outside the TV station. Strange, isn't it?”

“It is,” she agreed. “I'm sure we'll see some of those tapes on TV soon. Probably today. They'll want people to be on the lookout for that man. Someone might be able to identify him.”

“I hope so.”

“Anyway, please don't look at that cursed ball anymore.”

“I'll try not to,” I promised. “That reminds me. Do you have a black silk handkerchief I can use to cover it?”

“I'm sure I do. Why black silk?”

“Instructions from
Crystal Enlightenment.
It's supposed to help it rest.”

Her expression was grim. “May it rest in peace. You said you had a couple of things to talk to me about. What else?”

“I have sort of a date. With a man.”

“How nice! Anyone I know?”

“It's not a
real
date,” I insisted. “I'm going to the Salem-Swampscott game tonight. With Scott Palmer.”

“The good-looking reporter who took your job?”

“Yes. I know it's kind of crazy, but do you think it's okay?”

“I think it's fine, unless the station has some sort of policy against employees dating. But then, you're not officially employed yet, are you?”

“No, and, anyway, the card reader said I'd be out of work within a month. Remember?”