Caught Dead Handed (26 page)

“There aren't any here.” George made another note on his pad.

“Huh? Aren't any what? Sexual predators? What are you talking about?”

He gestured with the pen toward the roof. “Cameras.”

“Are there supposed to be?”

“Guess not.” He put the pen in his pocket. “Let's go inside.”

The man was a master at changing the subject. And when the subject was his child-abusing mother, I couldn't blame him. I didn't really want to hear the gory details, anyway. But I still didn't have the answer to my original question.

Who was protecting Willie?

So I asked again. “George, I don't want to pry into your personal business, but who do you think
is
protecting Willie?”

“Protecting him? Why, it's Janice. She's always protected him. Come on. Let's go in. It's getting cold out here.” He grabbed my hand, steering me toward the parking lot, then led the way to the street with long strides. I almost had to run to keep up with him.

Janice? Janice was protecting the man who'd threatened her? Called her terrible names? Made her cry? It made no sense.

I caught up with George in the front entryway. He'd already pushed the elevator button, and the doors had begun their noisy opening slide. Janice Valen, stunning in a long, A-line white leather coat, stepped out.

“Oh, there you are.” George linked his arm into hers and started back toward the street entrance. “Ready to go?”

“Ready, big brother,” Janice said. “We're going to Boston, Lee. See you tonight. I'll be back in time for
Nightshades.
”

“See you later, Lee.” George aimed a brief wave in my direction. “Have a good day.”

So the Valen siblings were heading for Boston but would be back in time for the show. This must be about the appointment George had made with the doctor who'd be treating Janice for “psychosomatic problems.”

I mumbled, “See you later,” and took the elevator up to the second floor, wondering if Janice knew yet where her brother was taking her. I was pretty sure he hadn't told her the truth, and I felt even sorrier for her than I had in the first place.

Poor Janice. No wonder she takes a drink once in a while.

Rhonda was at her desk, peering into a small compact mirror, carefully applying mauve lipstick in a shade nearly matching that of a nearby arrangement of silk lilacs.

She looked up. “Oh, hi, Lee. You caught me. The cops were here taking spit samples from everybody, and my lipstick got a little messed up.”

“You look fine. That's a pretty color on you.”

“Thanks. The cute cop was here, too, looking for George.”

“Mondello?”

“Yeah. I told him George was outside checking cameras, so we looked out the window to see where he was.” She clicked the compact shut and smiled. “We saw you and him holding hands and running out from behind the building. What's up with that?”

“Holding hands? Me? We were not! I mean . . . not like that.” I remembered how George had pulled me along when I couldn't keep up with him. “George was in a hurry. He needed to take Janice . . . someplace.”

“Yeah. To Boston. He's taking her to Bella Luna for an early dinner. It's her favorite restaurant.”

Will the trip to the doctor's office be the appetizer or dessert?

“So Pete . . . Detective Mondello . . . has left?”
Now Pete thinks he saw me holding hands with George.

“Yeah. He said that they could get George's spit later and that they already had yours from before.”

“That's true. Well, see you later, Rhonda. Got my bags?”

She reached beneath the counter. “Here you go. I put them into one of the company canvas bags for you. Easier to carry that way. The outfits are cute.”

“Thanks, Rhonda. That was thoughtful of you. You working tonight?”

“Not unless I have to cover for someone.”

With a silent prayer that if she did, it wouldn't be as my call screener, and with the canvas bag slung over my shoulder, I started walking home. I could have called a cab, but without the bulky dress box, and with the blouses and skirts all in one bag, walking was an easy enough option. Anyway, it would give me some time and space for thinking.

The information George had shared with me hadn't really cleared anything up. In fact, it had further complicated an already muddy situation. The elusive Willie was almost certainly involved somehow in two murders. Did Willie have the missing key to Sarge's old footlocker? He apparently had access to the Valens' condo. I was sure he'd been there when I overheard George talking to him. He must have been at the station at some time, too, because the most recent postcard to his father had been postmarked from there. Most disturbing was George's revelation that the Valen children had endured sexual abuse from their own mother.

I still felt strongly that Janice was in danger, but how could I help her if it was true that she was the one protecting Willie? George had said that she'd
always
protected him. Did that mean from childhood? And if they'd been children together, why would Sarge deny her?

I was concentrating so hard on the thoughts spinning around in my mind that I didn't notice the car moving along slowly beside me until the driver tapped the horn.

“Want a lift?” A smiling Pete Mondello leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door.

I did—especially from him. I climbed into the car, a little bit surprised by how very pleased I was to see him, and probably grinning like an idiot.

“Thanks, Pete. It's starting to get a little nippy out.”

“Not much like Florida,” he agreed. “I'm glad I caught up with you. I looked for you back at the station, but I guess you were out checking cameras with Valen.”

“George was checking them, but he was in a big hurry and was just dragging me along for company. He and Janice had a dinner date in Boston.” I hoped the “dragging me along” part explained the momentary hand-holding. “Did you know there are no cameras on the back of the building?”

“Sure. Your boss says he never saw any need to go to the expense of installing them, because there's nothing to see but the seawall and the old fire escape.”

“Mr. Doan's priorities are hard to figure out sometimes,” I said, thinking about the seventeen-hundred-dollar dress hanging in Janice's closet, “but I wish we could have seen what Camo Guy was doing when he ducked back there.”

“Camo Guy?”

“Rhonda named him. Seems to fit.”

“It'll do until we've got his real name, and I think we're getting close.”

“No kidding?” Was Pete actually going to share some information? “What's going on?”

He looked over at me and nodded his head. “I think it'll be okay to tell you this, since you helped a lot in getting some important evidence.”

“Me? I did?”

“It is the stamp on the old postcard from London. It's the kind you have to lick. We got the DNA from the back of the stamp, and it matched the DNA from the hood the guy dropped when he tried to grab your cat.” Again the big smile. “You were the one who noticed the postcards. Not me.”

“Wow! That means now you can arrest Willie, and Janice will be safe!”

“Not so fast. Doesn't work that way.” His cop face was back. “What we have is a postcard signed by somebody who calls himself Willie. And we have a hood the same person wore while allegedly trying to steal a cat. Hardly the stuff murder convictions are made of.”

All too soon we were in front of the house on Winter Street. Pete walked me to the door, insisting on carrying the canvas bag, No kiss this time, but a quick “I'll call you” sounded good to me.

Aunt Ibby and O'Ryan greeted me in the front hall, O'Ryan with deep-throated purrs and Aunt Ibby with a quick hug and an excited “What did you buy?”

“A couple of outfits for Crystal Moon and a fabulous dress for the Witches Ball, except I can't show you that one, because Mr. Doan made me leave it at the station.” We headed into the den, and I dumped the contents of the canvas bag onto the couch. “And I learned some more about Willie and George and Janice.”

“I did, too,” she said, unfolding skirts and blouses and arranging them against the couch cushions. “Nigel called. These are cute. I found some more jewelry for you, too. Why did you have to leave the dress there? Tell me everything.”

There was a lot to tell. It had, after all, been a very busy morning. I started with the shopping part, mostly describing the Bob Mackie dress, then moved right into the creepy ride back to the station with George.

“You mean he started laughing even though he knew his sister was in terrible danger?”

“He did,” I said. “At first I thought he was crying.”

“What did you do then?”

“I got out of the car as fast as I could, thanked him for the ride, and ran inside the station. A pretty chicken reaction, I guess.”

I launched into a description of Mr. Doan's reaction to the million-dollar dress, as Janice had called it. I told her about the costumes in Janice's closet and about how I'd checked around for cameras in her office before I tried the Mackie on.

“I don't blame you for that,” she said. “But I really wish you'd been able to bring it home. I'd love to see it on you.”

“I know. But you'll see it soon, I promise. The ball is Friday, and I'll get Scott to drive by here before we go so you can see it in person before we go to the party.”

“Scott?”

I explained about Doan's plans to make our “date” a publicity stunt for the station.

“It does make a certain amount of sense,” she said. “If that gown is as spectacular on you as I think it must be, you'll be the most photographed person there.” She cocked her head to one side and looked at me intently. “But I'll bet you wish you were just going there on a regular date with somebody special.”

“Yeah, well, that's not happening. Let me tell you about what else I learned from George.”

“You talked to him again? After the laughing jag?”

“Sure did. I ran into him outside the station. He was checking the outside surveillance cameras. He apologized for what had happened before, and I finally worked up the courage to ask some really pointed questions about Willie.”

“I can tell by your expression that you got some answers.” Her bright eyes sparked, and even O'Ryan seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the conversation. He stopped playing with imaginary creatures on the rug and jumped up onto the couch, being careful to avoid stepping on Crystal Moon's new outfits.

“I did. And the story gets even weirder. Apparently, according to George, the Valen children were abused. Sexually.”

Her reaction was exactly what mine had been. “No. Not Bill Valen!”

“Not Sarge. It was the mother. Marlena.”

“Oh dear. How terrible. It's hard to even imagine such a thing. But what about Willie? Does George believe his brother is responsible somehow for these Salem murders?”

“I'm afraid he does. And the strange thing is, he says it's Janice who's protecting Willie.”

“Janice? I thought you said Willie torments her. Makes her cry.”

“That's right. Doesn't make a lot of sense. Does it?”

“So perhaps Janice knows where Willie is. Could she be hiding him somehow? What else did he tell you?”

“Not much. By that time Janice had joined us, looking fabulous, and they were off to Boston for dinner. At least she
thinks
they're just going to dinner.”

“The plot thickens?”

“Yep. George told me he'd made an appointment with some kind of doctor who's going to treat her for ‘psychosomatic problems.'”

“That could mean anything.”

“I know. Ariel's book says that in the old days psychosomatic problems were called witchcraft.”

O'Ryan's ears perked up. Did he hear the name Ariel or the word
witchcraft?
Hard to tell. I patted his head and explained to Aunt Ibby how frightened Janice seemed to be of doctors.

“I'm sure she has no idea of where he's taking her. She doesn't need any more stress. I want so much to help her. I think she's in real danger, and I don't know what I can do.”

She reached over and patted my knee. “I know you care about her very much. But you may be dabbling in a situation that's way over your head. I think you need to step aside and let the police handle this.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Speaking of police, wasn't that the nice young detective who brought you home just now?”

“Detective Mondello? Yes. He saw me walking and offered me a ride.”

“Did you tell him the things you told me? About Janice protecting Willie? And about the child abuse?”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “I wanted to, but I'm sure George told me those things in confidence. Anyway, things that happened in their childhood are pretty far removed from the current murder investigation, don't you agree?”

“I think he'd be interested, anyway, but do what you think is best. Anything else, before I tell you about Nigel's call?”

I'd almost forgotten about the call from my aunt's British friend. “Not much. I went down to check the shops at Pickering Wharf,” I said. “I was looking for a book Ariel mentioned in some margin notes, but they didn't have it.”

“Maybe we have it upstairs. We'll check later. I love those shops. Did you buy anything?”

“Just a postcard to send to Bill Valen. He likes to get postcards. And Pete . . . Detective Mondello . . . shared a little information with me.”

I told her about the DNA on the old postcard Willie had sent from London, and how it matched the sample on the ski mask the cat stealer had dropped.

“I suppose they'll be checking everyone at the TV station, looking for a match.”

“They already have,” I told her. “They've checked everybody except George Valen.”