Caught Dead Handed (13 page)

The new
Nightshades
theme, Doppler's
Fantaisie,
boomed from the speakers, and the gloomy graveyard scene filled the screen. It was time to shake away worries about my surprise call screener and fears for my home-alone cat. The credits rolled, the music faded, and Marty moved in for a close-up. I'd decided not to dwell too much on Ariel. There'd been a long, sad retrospective on Saturday night, and of course, every newscast, day and night, kept viewers up to date on the progress of the investigation into the psychic's death. I moistened my lips and leaned toward the camera.

“Welcome, children of the night.” I deliberately pitched my voice lower than usual, making use of the husky, sexy quality I'd cultivated over the years. “My name is Crystal Moon, and I'm your psychic and host for an adventure into the realms of the unknown. As you all know, our dear Ariel has crossed over, and I ask that you send her light and love to aid in her journey beyond.”

I bowed my head for a couple of seconds. “Tonight I invite you to join me in watching the 1944 mystery classic
Shadows in the Night.
Later, I'll be taking your calls. Let's get acquainted, my dear new friends.”

The camera light winked off, and a recorded commercial showed a barrel of lentils. A professional voice-over recited the benefits of buying in bulk at a downtown health-food store. The next commercial was mine to read from the prompter. It was a promotion for one of Salem's many shops specializing in things mystic. I held a rose quartz crystal necklace toward the camera. Allowing each smooth, graduated bead to slip slowly through my fingers, I described the power of the crystals, the beauty of the lustrous pink color, and the fashionable appeal of the thing. All in all, it wasn't much different from selling jewelry on the home-shopping show I used to host in Florida. I leaned back against the turquoise cushions.
So far, so good.
It was time to introduce the movie.

“Tonight's thriller,
Shadows in the Night,
takes us into the terrifying dreams of a young designer. There are strange and ghostly happenings in an isolated mansion on a rocky shore. Watch with me, friends. I'll be back at intermission to take your personal calls. The number is at the bottom of your screen.” The black-and-white image of a frightened Nina Foch struggling through a driving rain began the film.

Marty turned the sound off and gave me a thumbs-up. “Nice goin', kid,” she said. “You're almost halfway home. Take a break, if you want. Or are you really going to watch the movie?”

“I don't think so. Watched it once when I was a kid, and it about scared me to death.”

“Well, there's coffee in the break room, and I brought doughnuts. Help yourself.”

“Thanks. Will you join me?”

“Nah. I've got stuff to do around here.” She gestured broadly, indicating the entire studio.

“Me too. I think I need a little more studying.” I reached for the book pile, randomly selecting
Witchcraft in Old Salem
and
Dissociative Disorders.

“Okay. The movie runs sixty-seven minutes. So you've got about half an hour to kill before phone calls.”

“I'll be here. Don't worry. Now, if I can just find the break room . . .”

She gave me quick directions, and I found the small, warm room. It was painted yellow, a nice change from turquoise and purple, and the fragrant coffee smelled good. I poured a cup, wiped a slight residue of fingerprint powder from the book covers, and opened the witchcraft volume. A corner of one page was turned down, making the book fall open to a chapter headed “Bridget Bishop.”

Back in middle school, when we'd learned about Salem's history, we'd been taught that the victims of the “witchcraft delusion” were all innocent. But according to Ariel's book, the Bishop woman was really a witch. A thoroughly evil one at that. And she'd been the first one to die on Gallows Hill.

Someone—
Ariel?—
had highlighted a sentence in yellow.

I puzzled over that for a moment, then closed the book. There'd be time enough for Salem history later. I checked my watch for about the twentieth time. Couldn't afford to miss my cue for intermission phone calls. Less than ten minutes had passed. I reached for
Dissociative Disorders.
I didn't notice any turned-down corners in this one, but a quick page flip revealed quite a few yellow highlighted words.

“Hey. Hi, Lee!”

I looked up, startled. Scott Palmer stood in the doorway. “Caught the first part of your show. Looking good.”

“Thanks. You're working late.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I've become the official ‘crime reporter.' At least that's the way Archer introduced me tonight.”

“No kidding?” I stifled a smile. How many hats was Scott going to be wearing? My single-purpose job was beginning to look pretty good. “What was tonight's crime report about? I missed it. Sorry.”

“The alleged murder weapon. The razor the old guy found. I got a look at it before it got sent to the MIT lab.”

“The early news said it had numbers on it.”

“It does. They're real faint. Just kind of scratched into the top part of the blade.” He sat opposite me at the table and pointed to the coffeemaker. “Is that coffee still hot?”

“Sure. Help yourself. Have a doughnut, too. Marty brought them.”

He poured a cup. Black. No sugar. Didn't take a doughnut. “Anyway, they think the lab can bring up the numbers so that they can read the whole sequence. Then maybe they'll make some sense. Maybe even provide an ID.”

“Good. I hope they'll catch the guy soon.” I checked my watch again. “Well, I have to get back to work. See you later.”

“If you need a ride home, I could hang around. I noticed your car isn't in the parking lot.”

So. He noticed. Wonder what he's after now.

“Thanks. That's really nice of you, but I've got a cab coming.”

He smiled. “Okay, then. I'll just go home and watch you on TV. Maybe I'll call up and ask for help with my problems.”

“Please don't! Rhonda's screening my calls. She'd probably put you right through, and I'd have to try to keep a straight face. Anyway, I doubt that you have many problems.”

“You must really be psychic. You're right. I don't have many.” Again, the nice smile. “But why Rhonda? Janice told me this morning that she'd be doing
Nightshades
herself tonight. Seemed to think it was important that she be here for your first show.”

“I wish she could be, but Marty says she had a bad headache and George had to take her home.”

“Bummer.” He finished his coffee, rinsed the cup, and headed for the door. He stopped, turned back toward me, and gave another one of those long, quiet, deep-into-my-eyes looks.

I held my breath.

“Break a leg!” he said.

I hurried back to the
Nightshades
set, where Marty sat on the turquoise couch, feet on the table. She looked up from the book on her lap, then held it so that I could see the title.

Astral Projection in Thought and Action.

“You believe in this hocus-pocus?” she asked. “You think people can pass through walls and all that?”

“I've never really given it much thought,” I admitted, “but I remember reading somewhere once that just because we don't understand something doesn't mean it isn't real.”

“Yeah. Ariel used to say that all the time.” She put the book back on the table, and I added the ones I'd borrowed to the stack. “Listen,” she said, “if it's okay with you, I'm going to use some of these crystals and stuff for the bumper shot to lead into your call segment. I'll put it all back on the table during the first commercial.”

“Well, uh, sure,” I said, but she was already arranging the big quartz crystal cluster, a chunk of pyrite, the rose quartz beads I'd used in the earlier commercial, and a little silver figure of Buddha in front of the felt background where the cemetery card had been.

Then, before I could object, she folded the black handkerchief neatly and placed the obsidian ball right in the center of the tableau.

“Perfect,” she said. “Like it?”

“It's lovely,” I said. And it was. Except for the fact that the damned black ball was uncovered again.

I didn't want to see it, so I looked up at the monitor screen instead. There, the evil doctor was in a dark cave, trudging through murky water. Marty picked up a remote.

“Want me to turn on the sound so you can watch? Ariel always did that so she could say something to make the audience think she really watched all this dreck.”

I thought about Aunt Ibby being among the faithful
Nightshades
viewers. “I like old movies,” I said, “and I remember this one pretty well, but yes, I'd like to see where we're breaking. Thank you.”

“Oops. Didn't know you liked 'em that much. Ariel couldn't stand the things. I thought you might feel the same way. I'm sorry.”

The studio filled with the somber sound-track music and the evil doctor's voice as he cursed the darkness, realizing that crashing ocean waves lay just ahead.

The shot of Marty's crystal arrangement came next, followed by a canned commercial for a local auto dealership. Marty moved quickly, dismantling the display and putting everything back on the table just as it had been.

Except for the covering on the black ball.

The commercial ended. I made the obligatory comment about the sad plight of Nina Foch, and the call button on my console glowed green. With my hand shaking ever so slightly, I tapped it, anticipating Crystal Moon's very first call.

“Hello, caller. Your first name and your question please.”

“Crystal?” The man's voice was thin and querulous. “You're better looking than the other one.”

What would Ariel do with this guy?

“Inner beauty is all that is of importance,” I said, with a silent vow to strangle Rhonda at the first opportunity. “Your name and your question please.”

“Oh, I'm Marvin. Listen, Crystal. My children are trying to steal my money. They want to put me in a home so they can steal my house and my dogs and my collections.”

Oh boy.

I pressed my fingers against my temples, Ariel style.

Damn. This isn't easy.

“Could you give me the first name of one of the children you say have made up this plan?”

“Sure. Albert. That ungrateful little snake.”

“Marvin, you have it within your power to make sure that everything that happens between you and your children will be for the good,” I told him. I hoped I sounded powerfully psychic. “I want you to meditate quietly and send golden-white light to Albert and the others. That way you can help them to make good decisions for you all.”

“I can?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, honey,” said Marvin. “You got great tits.”

I smothered a laugh, hoping against hope that Rhonda had hit the dump button in time to keep Marvin's observation from the viewers.

The call button on the console glowed again. I pressed it. “Hello, caller. Your first name and your question please.”

In quick succession I fielded questions from a man looking for his lost wallet, a woman who wanted to reach her dead mother-in-law, and a man who wanted to know if his house was going to sell. I told the first one that I felt that he would get his wallet back, minus the money.

Nothing psychic about that. It usually works out that way.

To the viewer interested in contacting the dead, I gave the number of the mystic shop that had provided the rose quartz crystal necklace, suggesting that the people on the staff there could contact a psychic who specialized in that sort of thing.

Passing the buck while giving a sponsor an extra plug.

I told the prospective house seller that he might need to drop his price and exhibit patience.

Easy answer. The lousy state of the housing market was in the papers every day.

It was time for
Shadows in the Night
to resume. Marty wheeled the camera away and signaled that my live shot was over.

“Good job, kid.”

“Thanks. That dirty old man's remark didn't go out over the air, did it?”

“'Fraid so. Rhonda's not real quick on the uptake, y'know.”

“Great. Have I got time to go up and kill her before the movie ends?”

Marty shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

Red skirt swirling, I headed for the sound booth. Killing her seemed a bit harsh, but Rhonda was going to get blistered ears, at least. I looked overhead, making sure the “on-the-air” light wasn't glowing, before I pushed the heavy door open.

“Rhonda!” I began. “What the hell . . .”

But it wasn't Rhonda I saw seated before the blinking lights and multiple screens of the control-room wall.

It was George Valen.

“George? What . . . ? Why . . . ?”

He held both hands up in front of his face. “Whoa. Hold your fire! It wasn't me! I would never have let that caller get to you!”

I glanced around the room. “But . . . Rhonda?”

“I sent her home. I was watching the show, naturally. As soon as I heard what was happening, I jumped into the car and raced over here. Look. Pajamas.” He unzipped a few inches of a Boston Red Sox jacket, revealing a striped pajama top.

I sat on a beige plastic-topped counter, furrowed with cigarette burns.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it. Between the dirty old man and the lady wanting to talk to the dead, this wasn't starting out well. I was really hoping the delay button was working on that one call.”

“You mean the old fart who thought you had nice . . . um . . . you know.”

“Uh-huh. Him.”

“Don't worry. You handled it fine. Doan will be impressed.”

“Thanks again, George. I'd better get back. Have to take another call or two at the end of the movie. I'm glad you're doing the screening.”

“No problem. Glad to help out.”

I started for the door and turned back. “I almost forgot to ask. How's Janice? Marty said she went home with a terrible headache.”

“Yeah. Poor kid.” He shook his head. “She's sound asleep. I loaded her up with her pain pills. She should be okay by morning. But I'll scram for home as soon as your show is over.”

“You're a good guy,” I said. “She's lucky to have such a nice brother to watch out for her.”

After hurrying back to the
Nightshades
set, I checked my makeup, dabbed on a little more pressed powder, refreshed the lipstick, and fluffed up my hair. I returned to the turquoise couch, arranged the red skirt, and fiddled with the neckline of the blouse. Marty and I watched and listened together as Nina Foch regained her senses and justice triumphed over evil.

I read one more commercial, this one about the almost sold-out Halloween Witches Ball.

It sounded like fun. Maybe Marty was right. Maybe I should invite Scott to go with me. After all, free tickets for an A-list party . . .

The call button glowed.

“Hello, caller. Your first name and your question please.”

“Hello, Crystal. William here. You're doing great. Welcome to
Nightshades.
” The voice was youthful, cultured, pleasant.

“Thank you. Do you have a question for me?”

“I'm having some problems with my mother.”

“Your mother's name?”

“Lena.”

“What do you want to know about Lena?”

“I just can't figure it out, Crystal. I do everything she asks me to do, and she's just never satisfied.”

I used my fingers on the temples, brows furrowed pose.

“Do you live with your mother?”

“Yes. She watches everything I do. She makes me do things I don't want to do.”

I pretended to concentrate on the cluster of crystals. What was this? A grown man still living with Mom and refusing to do his chores? Or was the old lady just unreasonable? I decided to ask. “Do you feel that she asks too much of you? Or could you perhaps try a little harder to help around the house?”

I looked past the crystal cluster, glanced at the obsidian ball, then quickly looked away. I smiled into the camera, waiting for his answer. There was a long pause. I could hear his breathing. When he spoke again, he sounded younger.

“I try to be good, Crystal. I really do.”

“I'm sure you do, William.”

Marty moved her hand in the circular motion, which meant “Speed it up.”

“We're nearly out of time, William. I'm sorry. I feel that it may help if you and your mother can meditate together. There are some fine books on the subject at the Ultimate Journey Bookstore in downtown Salem.”

“Okay, Crystal. Thanks. She wants me to get her a cat now. I guess I'll do it.”

“That would be nice, William. A cat is good company.”

A loud click, and he was gone.

Marty moved in for a close-up. “Thanks for watching, everyone,” I said. “Please join us again tomorrow night for another edition of
Nightshades,
when we'll watch a classic tale of horror, Edgar Allen Poe's
The Pit and the Pendulum.
”

Marty gave the “cut” signal, and the camera light winked out. The phone lines ceased blinking, and the studio lights brightened. George Valen's voice came over the intercom.

“Good job, Crystal. Night, Marty. I'm buttoning up in here and switching over to network. See you guys tomorrow.”

I looked at my watch. Nearly 2:15 a.m. Jim Litka's cab should be out front in a few minutes. “I've got to go, too,” I said. “Are you leaving now, Marty?”

“You go along, Moon,” she said. “I'll just get things tidied up around here. I'll be finished pretty soon.”

“I hate to leave you alone here,” I said.

“I'm fine. Anyway, I won't be alone. George is still here, and the cleaning man came on at two. Always on time.”

“All right, then. But don't we have a security guard?”

“The cleaning man is the security guard.”

“Of course he is. I should have known. Good night. See you tomorrow.”

I headed for the dressing room and paused, looking back at the black ball. Its shiny surface was unblemished. No body. No boots. No snarling cat. I turned back, picked up the folded black handkerchief, and re-covered the thing.

There wasn't time to change. I tossed my jacket over the gypsy rig, stuffed my jeans, sweater, and boots into the garment bag, grabbed my purse, and took the clanging elevator down to the lobby. I waited inside, peeking from behind the glass pane in the front door every few seconds, searching for the green-and-white cab. I wasn't about to stand outside the TV station at two thirty in the morning.

Not with a killer out there somewhere.

The cab zoomed up to the curb exactly on time. I'd barely opened the door when a smiling Jim Litka came bounding up the stairs, took the garment bag with one hand and my elbow with the other, guiding me carefully to the waiting taxi.

“Can't have you standing around here alone at this hour,” he said. “Not in this neighborhood. Did I keep you waiting at all?”

I climbed into the backseat. “Not at all, Jim. You're right on time.”

“Whew. That's good. I was worried about you. Show go all right?”

“I think so,” I said. “I think I did okay. For a first time, I mean.”

“Aw, I'll bet you were great. Sorry I couldn't watch. It's been crazy out here. Parties all over the place. Leadin' up to the big one, I'm guessin'.”

“The big one?”

“The Witches Ball.”

“Everybody says that's a good one.”

“You goin'?” He looked at me in the rearview mirror as we pulled away from the curb and headed for Hawthorne Boulevard.

“Thinking about it,” I admitted.

I was surprised to see the amount of traffic coming and going on Salem's darkened streets. There was pedestrian traffic, too, and the cab stopped at more than one intersection, allowing people to cross.

“I see what you mean about things being busy around here. Where are all these people going in the middle of the night?”

“Well, like I said, some of them are partiers. Headin' home from the bars. But a lot of them are night workers, like you and me. And besides them . . .” He caught my eye in the mirror again. “There's always the bad guys. The ones who need the dark to cover up what they're doin'.”

We'd made the turn onto Winter Street, and even that familiar stretch of road, with its mellow brick sidewalks, fine old homes, and sturdy trees, had somehow been turned into a scary, alien place. Leafless branches clawed at a starless sky, and long, wavering shadows stretched from between darkened buildings. Unlike the other streets we'd traveled between the station and here, not a human was in sight and automobiles were few.

The cab pulled up in front of Aunt Ibby's house. The brightly illuminated doorway was a welcoming sight. With a promise to be right back with the money I owed, I hurried up the steps, my key in hand.

Aunt Ibby called out “Hello” from the living room as soon as I pushed the door open, and O'Ryan appeared, curling himself around my ankles and purring loudly. No arched back. No snarling. Just a big, soft yellow cat.

“You both waited up for me. How sweet!”

Aunt Ibby, in flowered housecoat and fuzzy slippers, joined me in the front hall, beaming.

“You were just wonderful, Maralee. And you looked so pretty! Come into the kitchen and tell me all about it. I'll make us some nice hot chocolate.”

“That sounds great. I will. But first I have to run upstairs and get my wallet.”

I explained about the cabdriver waiting out front and started up the stairs. Aunt Ibby headed for the kitchen, promising to get the hot chocolate started, with the cat hurrying along ahead of her. I heard the cat door creak, announcing that O'Ryan had left the building. I got the wallet and headed back downstairs. The silence was shattered by an earsplitting yowl, and I raced for the kitchen.

“What's wrong? Where's O'Ryan?”

Aunt Ibby had already hit the light switch for the outdoor floodlights and was looking out the kitchen window.

“Maralee! There's a man out there, and he's got O'Ryan. Oh dear! He's going over the wall!”

“Call 911,” I yelled. “I'm going to chase him!”

The wall backed up to Winter Street, so I headed to the front door, threw it open, and scrambled down the steps. I could see the man, struggling with a large sack, running toward Salem Common.

“Mr. Litka! Help!” I called as I ran by the cab, slipping and stumbling in the silly gold sandals on the uneven brick sidewalk. “Help me catch that guy! He took my cat!” I pointed at the running man.

Jim Litka pounded past me and chased the fleeing thief across the street. They both disappeared behind the massive Civil War monument on the corner, and again I heard that frightful yowl. “Got your cat!” the cabdriver yelled, emerging from behind the monument, carrying the wiggling bag. “But the guy got away!”

By this time some lights had started to appear in upper-story windows along the street as people peered out to see what the commotion was about, and flashes of blue announced the arrival of the police.

Grinning, Jim Litka bounded onto the sidewalk and handed me the writhing bag—a pillowcase, actually—containing the frightened cat. Aunt Ibby was on the front steps, facing two uniformed policemen. We all began to talk at once.

“Calm down, everybody,” commanded the tallest cop. “Can we step into the house?”

Aunt Ibby opened the door, and we filed inside.

“Now,” he said, “one at a time please, can you tell us what's going on?” He looked at the pillowcase, which was quieter now, but still in motion. “And can you safely let whatever that is out?”

It was a good suggestion. Once freed, O'Ryan dashed up the front staircase to the second floor and safety. Aunt Ibby led the rest of us into the living room. What a strange-looking group we were! The burly cabdriver, the elderly housecoat-clad woman in fuzzy slippers, and the redhead in a gypsy costume showing far too much cleavage for the occasion. But the officers—who, because it was Halloween season in Salem, had probably seen stranger things that night—showed no surprise.

One at a time, we told our stories. They let Jim Litka talk first because, as he explained, he had to get back to work. He told them how he had picked me up from the TV station and had remained parked out front because I had to go inside to get my wallet. He described how I had run screaming from the house, and he said that was when he first saw the man with the bag running down the street, heading toward the common.

“When Ms. Barrett here yelled for me to help her,” he said, “I jumped out of my cab and ran after the guy. He wasn't all that fast, y'know, and he was carrying that cat bag, so it wasn't too hard to catch him. I got him up against that big rock thing at the end of Winter Street, grabbed his arm, the one holding the bag, gave it a good twist, and he dropped the bag. I let go of him and picked it up, so's the cat wouldn't run away, y'know, and he took off runnin' over that way.” He gestured in the direction of the common. “He got behind some of them big trees and that tent thing, and I lost sight of him.”

Jim said that the man was of medium height, had a slim build, and was wearing some kind of uniform, gloves, and a dark-colored ski mask. Jim couldn't tell what color his eyes were.

“Anything else?” the tallest officer wanted to know.

Jim thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “You know what? He smelled of naphtha.”

“Naphtha?”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “Naphtha. It's in some of the chemicals they use to clean the upholstery in the cabs.”

“It's in mothballs, too,” Aunt Ibby offered.

Jim snapped his fingers. “Mothballs. That's it. He smelled like mothballs.”

The other officer, who was taking notes, asked Jim for his phone number and told him he could leave. I paid the two fares, tripled the tip, and told him I'd call again soon.

Then it was Aunt Ibby's turn. She'd gone to the kitchen to make hot chocolate. O'Ryan had run on ahead of her and had gone out through the cat door. Within less than two minutes, she'd heard him yowl.

“I was standing right next to the light switch,” she said. “The one that turns on the outdoor floodlights. He had O'Ryan by the scruff of his neck. Cats hate that, you know. Shoved the poor creature into a big cloth bag.”

“Can you describe the man?” asked the note-taking officer.

“Well, as Mr. Litka said, he was medium height and slim. He was wearing one of those army outfits that look like camouflage. He had a brown ski mask on and brown gloves. And boots. Army boots perhaps. After he stuffed poor O'Ryan into that sack, he jumped over the stone wall. That's when my niece ran out the front door and chased after him.” She stopped speaking and sniffed the air. “I think my hot chocolate is burning,” she said and dashed for the kitchen.