Caught Dead Handed (25 page)

“George,” I said, “it's time to get serious. You didn't think it was odd that I showed up on your doorstep with a cop at two o'clock in the morning? You're not just a little concerned that I overheard a man threaten your sister? That the man is your own brother and might be a killer?”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, but he didn't speak.

I kept right on talking. “Is Willie at your house? We know he's in Salem. Sarge got a postcard from him. It was mailed from the station.”

“Willie's going away,” he said, speaking so softly that I had to lean toward him to hear. “And Janice will be all right. I've made an appointment with a specialist in Boston.”

“A doctor? For Janice? Has he injured her? My God, George! Why are you protecting him?”

“You don't understand, Lee. Nobody does.”

“Try me,” I said. “I want to understand—to help, if I can.”

He turned and faced me, not loosening his grip on the wheel. “I want so much for her to be all right. Maybe this new specialist can do something for her.”

“Is Janice injured somehow?” I repeated my question. “Has Willie hurt her?”

“She's not hurt that way. I mean, not her body. It's her mind. He's messed up her mind again.”

Again? He's messed up her mind again?

I remembered the woman's frightened look when I mentioned plastic surgery. “Janice is afraid of doctors. Has she agreed to go?”

“I haven't told her yet. I'll get her there somehow. This doctor says he thinks he can help. That what she has is just a psychosomatic problem.”

I knew I'd seen or heard that term somewhere very recently. I searched my memory as we approached the station. George wheeled the car into the parking lot, coming to a halt close to the seawall. The engine continued to run, and he made no attempt to open the doors.

“I hope the doctor can help, George. But what about Willie? Surely you know he's dangerous. That he may even be a killer. You have to turn him in to the police.”

“Oh, I would if I could ever catch the little bastard!” He pounded on the dashboard. “He manages to disappear every time I get close to him.”

“You mean he
wasn't
at your house last night?”

“Oh, he was there, all right. I even talked to him on the phone.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “But, as usual, by the time I got home, he was gone.”

“Where could he go?” I wanted to know. “Does he know anyone in Salem who'd shelter him?”

George dropped his hands, and his shoulders began to shake. Was he crying? I didn't know what I should do or say. I froze, feeling helpless as he made strange gasping sounds. In the face of the fact that his brother was suspected of murder and that his sister might be in grave danger, the man was laughing.

That little voice we all have inside our heads but usually ignore was telling me,
The guy is cracking up. Exit stage right.

This time I listened, opened the passenger door, and stepped out next to the seawall. In full fleeing mode, I was ready to dash for the station's back entrance.

You can't leave all those packages in the backseat, dummy. Especially the seventeen-hundred-dollar one.

I tried the back door, but, of course, it was locked. There was nothing to do except knock on the window and motion to the driver, who had apparently recovered from his badly timed fit of hilarity. He rolled the window down.

“Sorry, Lee. You must think I've lost my mind.” He patted the seat beside him. “Come on back in. I'll try to explain.”

Yeah. Fat chance of that happening!

“Uh, that's okay, George,” I said. “We'll talk some more later. Right now I have to get my stuff out of the backseat. Mr. Doan is waiting for me.”

The back door lock clicked open, and I reached in, grabbing the dress box first, then piling the bags on top of it.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, knowing as I spoke how inane that sounded.

If poor Janice has a psychosomatic problem, you've got one, too, Buster.

Hurrying toward the studio, I balanced the packages with one arm and pushed the door open. At that moment I remembered where I'd seen that term before. It had been highlighted in one of Ariel's witchcraft books.

The seventeenth-century medical doctor was likely to attribute symptoms he could not explain to witchcraft, much the way today's physician is apt to characterize whatever he cannot understand as a psychosomatic problem.

There were areas of bright light within the usually dark studio. Both the news desk and the weather set were illuminated, and a glance at my watch told me it was nearly time for the noon news show. The anchorman rummaged through a stack of papers, while Wanda the Weather Girl searched for a place to clip a mike to the very low neckline of a tight red sweater.

The
ON AIR
signs weren't yet lighted, so with the pile of packages nearly at my eye level, I hurried across the room to the door leading to the upstairs offices.

Rhonda helped me dump my assorted bags onto one of the chrome and purple chairs, and I put the dress box on the counter.

“Janice says you got a real Bob Mackie!” She sounded breathless. “Can I see it?”

“Sure.” I opened the box, pushed aside the blue tissue, and lifted the delicate bodice. “What do you think?”

“Jeez. I think if you even lost a couple of those shiny crystals, you'd be kind of exposed.”

“I know. If Mr. Doan wants me to wear it, I'll have to be really careful.”

The door to Janice's office swung open, and the program director joined us. “Is that it? The million-dollar dress?”

“This is it,” I said, studying Janice's expression, her body language, her tone of voice with much more attention than ever before.

What does a person with psychosomatic problems look like, anyway?

Janice glanced at the dress, gave me an up-and-down appraisal, and nodded her approval. “It'll be spectacular on you. Doan's in his office, waiting for the fashion show. Put it on.”

“You can use the little powder room right here,” Rhonda said, pointing toward the closed door. “I'm dying to see how it looks on you.”

Janice objected. “No. Use my office, Lee. That dinky little bathroom is useless. There's barely room to take a whiz in there.”

Yeah. Tell me about it.

I lifted the dress carefully from its tissue cocoon and started for the open office.

“There's a full-length mirror inside the closet, Lee,” Janice said. “Take your time. It'll have to look perfect if Doan's going to spend big bucks.”

“Thanks,” I said, carefully closing the door behind me. For a moment I stood in the center of the room, admiring the soft golden color of the walls, the spare but elegant lines of the Scandinavian modern furniture, a calming contrast to the garish decor of the reception area.

I opened the closet and gingerly arranged the dress on a black satin-padded hanger. There were only a few other things there—a couple of Janice's business suits in plastic dry cleaner bags and a plain gray jogging outfit. I smiled when I saw a pale blue fairy princess costume, complete with silver wings and a shimmering tiara. Janice must have decided to go to the Witches Ball, after all. Next to the princess getup was a man's suit and a black derby hat. In a small plastic bag attached to the pocket was a fake mustache and a bow tie. A wooden cane completed the look.

I'll bet Janice picked out the Charlie Chaplin outfit for George. He probably sees himself as Han Solo or Indiana Jones
.
I don't know how I see him anymore, after that meltdown in the car.

The Mackie dress required that I strip down to bikini panties. I hesitated and looked around the room for cameras. After all, if George had a camera in Janice's bedroom, he might have one in here, as well, and I most certainly didn't want to be displayed in the buff on his cell phone. Janice had told me to take my time, so I did. I walked around the perimeter of the room, peeking behind draperies and picture frames. Satisfied that I wasn't being watched, I undressed quickly and slipped the pricey creation over my head.

The mirror reflected a glamorous me. Johnny would have loved this look. I checked my makeup and smoothed my hair a little, turned a couple of times, then realized I hadn't brought proper shoes. Maybe Janice had shoes to go with the fairy princess thing. Bingo! A pair of silvery sandals were neatly lined up on the floor, below the blue dress, next to a pair of men's shoes with slightly turned-up toes, just right for the Little Tramp.

I slipped the silver sandals on. Too big, but the general effect was okay, and I was sure she wouldn't mind my wearing them. I was ready for Doan's inspection.

Leaving my own clothes folded on Janice's closet shelf, I stepped back into the reception area, posing in the doorway for a second for dramatic effect. It was a wasted effort. No one was looking at me.

The TV monitor over Rhonda's desk was tuned to the noon newscast. Rhonda and Janice, their backs turned to me, watched.

“Looks like George and Scott got there in time,” Janice said. “Hey, there's the chief.”

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Hey, Lee. While you were changing, the chief called a presser. More news about the murders, I guess. George and Scott took off like a couple of bats out of hell.”

I gave up the posing and joined the two women. The craggy face of the Salem police chief filled the screen.

“This will be a brief update on our progress with the investigation into the deaths of Yvette Pelletier and the woman known as Ariel Constellation,” he announced. “We are now actively searching for the man in the camouflage outfit who showed up on various surveillance videos along Derby Street on the night of the murders. The missing data from the cameras located outside the WICH-TV building has now been recovered. The same man who was observed near the Pelletier home was also filmed approaching Ms. Constellation in the television station's parking lot. This man, who was at first considered a person of interest, is now a suspect. We have obtained a DNA sample from an article of clothing that, we believe, belongs to the suspect.”

A grainy video in black and gray tones showed a tall figure in camouflage pants and shirt, a ski mask covering most of his face. I recognized a bit of the seawall. I didn't see Ariel, but I was sure I saw the shadowy figure of a cat following close behind the man as he disappeared behind the building.

“We are asking for the help of the community,” the chief continued. “If anyone recognizes this person or happened to see him on Derby Street late on the night in question, or has any information that might be helpful in this investigation, please call the number at the top of your screen. That's all.”

He turned and headed back into the police station, obviously hurrying, avoiding shouted questions from the press.

Scott Palmer appeared next. “Guess that'll be all from the chief for now, folks,” he said, “but a source has told WICH-TV that the article of clothing in question is the suspect's ski mask, which was recovered at the scene of an attempted burglary at another location in the city.”

That would be at the scene of an attempted
cat
burglary. And all this is getting entirely too close to home.

The noon news had made my grand entrance fall kind of flat, but Janice and Rhonda each made the appropriate oohs and aahs the Mackie gown deserved. If the fact that Camo Guy was now officially a suspect in a double murder held any special meaning for Janice, there was nothing in her behavior to indicate it.

If she thought her own brother was killing people, wouldn't she react somehow?

“That dress is worth every cent,” Janice declared. “Doan won't be able to say no.”

Rhonda agreed. “You look like a movie star on the red carpet.”

Janice approved of the borrowed silver sandals and quickly propelled me toward the station manager's office door. “Go on in,” she said. “You'll knock his socks off.”

“Are you coming with me?”

“Sure. If you want me to.”

“I do,” I said, and together we approached the huge stainless-steel desk. Mrs. Doan had clearly had a hand in decorating her husband's space. The shades of purple here were of a darker hue, a bit more masculine perhaps, but purple just the same.

Bruce Doan rose from his chair when we entered. Out of courtesy or just to get a better view of my scantily covered self, I couldn't tell. Without speaking, he gave a circular hand motion, indicating that I should turn. Slowly. So I did.

Janice broke the silence. “Well? What do you think?”

“This shindig draws big coverage,” he said. “I think every TV station in the state will be running shots of the gorgeous red-haired psychic from Salem, Crystal Moon!” he said. “You'll be the belle of the Halloween Ball. And sponsors will be falling all over themselves to buy time on
Nightshades.
Am I a marketing genius or what?”

“Yeah. No doubt,” Janice said without much enthusiasm. “So I can okay the invoice? It's worth seventeen hundred bucks?”

“Oh, sure. Pay it. When is the big event, anyway? This weekend?”

“Friday night,” I said. “Before the show.”

“Day after tomorrow. Good. Listen, Lee. Just leave the dress at the station, all right? You get dressed here and ride over to the party with Palmer so George can get a shot of you as soon as you arrive at the door of the place. Palmer will be wearing some kind of costume, too, so you'll look like a regular couple. He'll be miked so he can tell our audience what's going on, what bigwigs are there, and all that crap. Then you get seen schmoozing around the hall, getting as much face time as you can from the other stations. Maybe even some national.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Then you both come back here with plenty of time to do
Nightshades,
and Palmer might have time to do a piece on the new basketball coach at the high school for the eleven o'clock news. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said. He certainly had it all figured out. Scott, the Mackie dress, and I would serve as a kind of animated billboard for WICH-TV for an hour or so, then would do our regular jobs. And I wouldn't be a bit surprised if the gown got sold later on eBay at a profit.

Yes, Bruce Doan was a marketing genius.

“Oh, Lee. By the way, buy yourself some better shoes,” he continued. “Those don't seem to fit right.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

“And turn around one more time, will you?”

I did as he asked.

“Who did you say that designer is?”

Janice answered, “Bob Mackie. Very famous. Dressed the beautiful people, from Cher to Barbie.”

“It's pretty clever, isn't it? How everything important is really covered up, but it looks like she's showing a lot of skin. I wonder if I can get one of those for Mrs. Doan.”

We left on that interesting thought, and I hurried back to Janice's office. I returned the gown to the padded hanger in the closet, replaced the fairy princess sandals beside the Little Tramp shoes, got dressed in my own clothes, and mentally checked off
Buy costumes
and proceeded to the next item on my to-do list.

Find the Bridget Bishop spell book Ariel recommended in her margin notes.

The noon newscast had ended, and an old
Seinfeld
ran on the monitor over Rhonda's desk.

“Did they have any more about that ski mask on the news?” I asked the receptionist.

“Nope. Look. This is where Elaine tries to bribe the old people to give her an egg roll. I love this part.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

If I was going to find out any more about DNA on the ski mask, it looked as though I'd have to wait until the evening news. Or until Pete called.

If he called.

“Rhonda, do you mind if I leave my shopping bags here while I do a quick errand?”

“No problem. What did you buy?”

“Just a couple of Crystal Moon outfits. You can look at them if you want to.”

I left the station and headed down Derby Street to the shops on Pickering Wharf, confident that this wouldn't take long. I was sure there'd be a bookshop there, as well as plenty of places featuring witchy stuff.

I was right about the shops. Witchy stuff abounded, but no one seemed to know what I was talking about when I asked for Bridget Bishop's spell book. But I'd be seeing River North later. She'd know where to get it.

On to the next thing on the list. Which had actually been the first thing but hadn't worked out all that well.

Talk to George about Janice.

I'd already made up my mind to try again. I'd just have to get past George's peculiar outburst. What had I said to trigger a fit of laughter in such a decidedly unfunny situation, anyway? I went over the conversation in my mind. I was sure all I'd asked was whether he knew of anyone who might shelter Willie.

What's so laughable about that?

I wasn't ready to give up on trying my best to help Janice. But if the police couldn't protect her, if even her big brother didn't know what to do, and if Janice herself seemed oblivious to the whole weird situation, exactly what could
I
do? I'd have to arrange another one-on-one conversation with George.

It turned out that I didn't have to do any arranging at all. When I returned to the station—without a spell book but with a nice postcard to send to Bill Valen—the first person I ran into was George. Couldn't miss him. He was right in front of the building, holding a clipboard and looking up toward the roof.

When you see somebody doing that, you have to look up, too. So I stood there next to him, staring at the rain gutter, where there was nothing to see but a few silent seagulls standing in an orderly row.

“Oh, hi, Lee,” he said.

“Hi, George. What are we looking at?”

“Surveillance cameras. Taking inventory. Doan wants to know if they all look secure.”

“Do they?”

“Don't know yet. Want to walk around the building with me?”

It was the opportunity I'd been looking for.

“Okay,” I said. I tucked the tiny bag containing the postcard into my pocket, and together we began slowly walking the perimeter of the old brick structure.

“I owe you an apology, Lee,” he said. “You must think I'm an insensitive boob. Laughing like that when you're just trying to help us.” He shook his head. “It's pretty complicated. You probably wouldn't understand.”

“Try me,” I said. “I've dealt with some pretty complicated stuff myself.”

Especially lately.

He paused, looked up at the roofline, and made a note on a yellow pad attached to the clipboard. We resumed walking. “Well, here goes. You wanted to know who would protect Willie.”

“Right,” I replied. “He may be really dangerous! I know he's family, and maybe you and Janice don't want to think he'd really hurt anyone, but, George, the evidence is piling up. We know that somebody took all of your dad's things out of that trunk in your living room. The police say that Yvette Pelletier was killed with his razor.” I waved toward the cameras overhead. “Some cameras on the street showed a man in what looks like army gear. Sarge's clothes? Sarge's boots?”

He stopped walking and looked at the ground. He spoke so softly, I had to move closer to hear him. “Maybe. Probably. And you're right. Willie is dangerous. Has been for a long time. But it's not all his fault.” His eyes welled with tears. “He was such a nice little kid. So cute and smart.”

“What happened to him, George? What made him change? I mean, if it
is
Willie the police are looking for.”

“I'm afraid it is. But I never thought he could be violent, you know? I knew he had a lot of anger in him, but nothing like . . . like what's been going on around here.”

We started walking again, slowly heading toward the seawall. “So,” I asked again, “what happened to him?”

His expression changed. No tears now. His jaw tightened; his eyes narrowed.

“It was the abuse.” We'd reached the seawall. He slammed the clipboard on the granite slab, letting it fall on the ground. “I should have figured it out. I should have been there to protect him. An innocent little kid like that.”

“Abuse?”

“Yeah. But we thought . . . I thought . . . he was finally at peace with it. That he was in some kind of a safe place now, where nothing could hurt him anymore. You know what I mean?”

“No, I don't know what you mean. At peace? It sounds as though you thought Willie was dead.”

A mirthless laugh. “In a way, that's how I've thought of him for a long time. I didn't expect to see him again . . . not in this life, anyway.” He picked up the clipboard, and together we rounded the corner of the building. “The doctor said he probably wouldn't ever be able to come back.”

“I don't understand, George. Is the safe place some kind of hospital? Is that where Willie's been?”

We were behind the station now, where the back of the building faced the harbor. A narrow wooden structure with flaking and faded gray paint was attached to the brick wall.

Doan's secret staircase.

George had stopped talking. Scanning the roofline and window ledges, he made notes on the yellow pad. Maybe he didn't want to tell me anything more. And it was, after all, none of my business. But if I was going to help Janice, I needed information. The wind whipping across the water had turned cold. I jammed my hands into my pockets.

“Why is Willie tormenting Janice? I can't believe
she
abused him.”

“Of course she didn't!” He sounded indignant at the suggestion. He dropped his voice to a whisper, even though there was no one around to hear except me. “The abuse was sexual. And it was awful. But I thought I was the only one who'd been singled out. I ran away.”

Oh boy. I don't want to hear this.

My first thought was of Sarge. I clutched the postcard in my pocket. That dear old man in the veterans' hospital couldn't be guilty of anything so heinous. Could he?

“Not Sarge!” I blurted.

“No. Not Sarge. It was her. Our beautiful mother. Marlena.”