Caught Dead Handed (29 page)

The reception area was empty when I passed through on my way to Janice's office. Her door was closed, so I knocked a couple of times before pushing it open. The place was dark except for a pale beam from a streetlight filtering through partially closed draperies. I felt for a light switch on the wall and had a moment of uneasiness when I didn't find it right away.

Come on. Turn on the lights. Grab the dress. Pose for the stupid pictures and get out of here.

After a second or two of semi-frantic pawing at the wall, I hit the right button and welcome brightness filled the room. I was glad to see it. What I didn't expect to see was George sitting at Janice's desk.

I took a step back. “George? What are you doing here? Alone in the dark?”

“I thought Janice might have come in here.” He shook his head. “She's gone again, Lee.”

“But she was here all evening. She screened my calls. Did a good job of it, too.”

“No,” he said. “She wasn't. She was here for the first few calls, then asked me to ride the board while she went to the bathroom. She never came back. I've looked all over the station. Detective Mondello is looking around outside.”

Is Pete looking in the water next to the granite wall? Ariel went outside late at night, and in the morning I found her drowned body.

I shook away the unpleasant thought.

“Did you call your house? Maybe she didn't feel well and went home.”

“I tried. No answer.”

“What about her cell?”

“It's here. She left it.” He lifted the slim phone, then slammed it down on the desk. “Damn it. She just keeps going away. I thought she'd be able to stay here with me. Safe. Forever. The doctors in Europe thought it was possible. Even likely. But no. He had to come back!” He pushed the chair back and stood, glowering in my direction. “There's nothing here for him! Nothing left of him, really!”

Again, a short burst of the strange laughter.

I backed up a little more and tried to speak calmly. “George,” I said, “this isn't helping to find Janice. If she's in trouble, we need to figure out where she's gone.”

“I'm sorry. Lee. You don't understand what's happening here. No one does.” He looked down for a moment and seemed to regain control of himself. “Sorry,” he said again. “Listen. Let's get those pictures taken while we figure out the best way to handle this.”

“If that's what you think we should do,” I said. “I'll just get the dress and take it down to the dressing room.” I edged along the wall toward the closet. Getting out of this office seemed like a really good idea. “Marty's fixing up the set. You go on down. I'll see you there, okay?”

I waited until he'd left the room before I popped open the closet door, reached inside, and pulled the dress from its hanger with far less care than the delicate fabric deserved. With the Mackie over my arm, I dashed for the reception area and raced down the stairs to the studio.

Marty had done some rearranging of the set. She'd moved the couch and table to one side, revealing an unobstructed portion of the star-spangled blue wall backdrop. I could see what she had in mind. George's pictures of me would be uncluttered, but would have a definite
Nightshades
look.

She had borrowed a Doric column from the sports set—I recognized it as the one that usually held a half-size replica of the Stanley Cup—and had made a tight arrangement on its top with the quartz crystal cluster, a tall wooden candle holder with a half-melted white candle, and the obsidian ball.

“How d'ya like it, Moon? Not bad, huh?”

“Very effective, Marty. What did George think?”

“George? Haven't seen him yet. But he'll like it. You standing next to the pillar thing. That's a good look. I figure that's a standing-up dress, not a sitting-down dress. Am I right?”

“Absolutely right. I'm not sure I
can
sit down in it. But I'd better put it on and get this done.” I looked down the long, dark aisle leading to the dressing room. “Can you turn on a few lights? It's kind of spooky down there.”

“Sure.” She pushed a series of buttons, and I hurried along the welcome path of brightness provided by ceiling track lights. It had become impossible for me to be in that dressing room without thinking of the voices I'd heard there. Of the terror in Janice's voice and the cold threat in Willie's.

Trying to blot out the memory, I stripped to bikini panties and slithered into the beaded beauty. I fluffed my hair, added a squirt of hair spray, and reapplied eye makeup. Satisfied that the me in the mirror would probably photograph well, I returned to the revamped
Nightshades
set.

“Hot stuff, Moon.” Marty's greeting was enthusiastic. “Not much to it, is there?”

“Mostly beads and thread,” I admitted. “And I'm freezing.”

“Yeah. Those goose bumps won't look good in the pictures.” She opened one of the cabinets. “Here. Wear one of Ariel's capes until it's time for the shoot.” She placed Ariel's long purple velvet cape around my shoulders. “Better?”

“Much better,” I said, gathering the soft folds close, enjoying the immediate warmth of the thing.

“Looks good. That one was Ariel's favorite.”

I still wasn't comfortable with the idea of sitting, so standing, I dialed Aunt Ibby's number. She answered right away.

“Hi,” I said. “Just wanted to let you know I'm running a little late. Mr. Doan decided he wants some still pictures of me in the Mackie dress. George is going to do the shoot, and then Detective Mondello will take me home.”

“I'm glad you called. O'Ryan is starting to pace in the front hall. He always does that when he thinks you'll be home soon.”

I smiled at the thought. “Well, you be sure to tell him everything is fine. I'll be home as soon as I can.”

“I'll tell him,” she promised. “And, Maralee, Nigel sent that picture of Billie Jo Vale.”

“Really? Can you tell who it is?”

“Looks quite a lot like your friend Janice to me. Of course, there's a big, fancy headdress thing on her head and she isn't wearing much, but it does resemble her quite a bit.”

Has Nigel sent a duplicate of the photo on Janice's desk?

“Set looks perfect, Marty. You ready, Lee?” George Valen spoke from behind me.

“Thanks, Aunt Ibby. We'll talk about that when I get home.” A quick good-bye and I turned to face the photographer.

“Any luck?” I asked, knowing by George's worried expression that he hadn't found his sister.

He shook his head. “No. And my car is gone again. She left hers.”

Marty looked up, bright eyes alert. “Janice took off?”

“Yeah. Pete's going to drive around and look for her.”

“Mind if I do that, too?” the camerawoman asked. “You don‘t need me here for anything else, do you?”

“No. Everything here is good. Thanks, Marty. You're a pal.”

“No problem. I've been worried about her lately. She seems a little . . . I don't know . . . a little spacey. Like she's been popping a lot of those pills she takes.”

George didn't respond, and I couldn't think of anything to say. Marty waved, shrugged into a quilted jacket, and left us.

The studio seemed very quiet. And very dark. The only sound was the click-clicking of a single switch as George focused a spotlight on the place where I was supposed to stand—next to the pillar, where the obsidian ball sparkled with reflected light.

I stood there, still wearing Ariel's cape, feeling increasingly uneasy.

George's voice seemed to come from a distance when he began to speak.

“It started, you know, when I was only twelve years old.”

“Twelve years old,” he repeated. “That was the year I got my first camera. Did I tell you that?” He didn't wait for an answer. “It was a good one. A nice, expensive Ricoh. Extra lenses and all. Zoom, wide-angle, the works. She taught me how to use it, too. Knew a lot about photography, my beautiful mother did. Said she'd been a model when she was young. I don't know if that was true or not. She was such a liar.”

He laughed then, a short, ugly sound. “I started with landscapes, then buildings. I'm still good at buildings. Salem's a good place for buildings. Don't you think so, Lee? Beautiful old buildings.”

I nodded but didn't speak. Interrupting just then didn't seem like a good idea.

“When I was thirteen, she decided I was ready to photograph the human body. Her body.”

He grew silent, then motioned for me to move into the spotlight. “Drop the cape,” he ordered. “Turn to your left.”

I tossed the cape onto the couch and faced left.

“Good,” he said. “You're very lovely, Lee.”

This one-sided conversation was starting to creep me out. I looked around the studio, deciding which was the closest exit—just in case I might want to leave in a hurry.

“She was lovely, too, Lee. She took me out into the woods one day. I thought I'd be taking pictures of trees. I like trees. Did you know that once Salem had wonderful elm trees? They were all lost to a blight. A blight is a terrible thing.”

Then, for a few minutes, the only sounds were the whirr of his camera and his brief commands.

“Smile.

“Turn right.

“Toss your hair. Nice.”

I followed his directions and wished that Marty or Pete or the night watchman/security guard would interrupt us. No such luck.

“She knew about trees, too. She knew about a lot of things, I guess. ‘That's an ash,' she'd say. ‘And that one's an oak. The bark has a pretty texture, don't you think?' Then she did the most amazing thing. She took off all her clothes.” Again the short laugh. “It didn't take very long. She wasn't wearing any underwear.”

The camera stopped whirring, and George's voice turned into a high falsetto.

“‘Oh, Georgie, before you take my picture, help me arrange my breasts the way you think they should be. They're so big, I never know what to do with them. Come on. You can touch them. I'm your mother, after all.'”

Oh my God.
Was this the way that picture of Marlena had been set up? Could she really have told a thirteen-year-old boy to touch her breasts?

The camera began whirring again. “What the hell was I supposed to do? I was thirteen, for Christ's sake.”

There was a long pause, then more directions. “Turn your back toward me. Look over your shoulder. Moisten your lips. Great. Look up a little. Perfect. I'll tell you what I did, Lee. I squeezed off one shot of my beautiful mother leaning against the beautiful bark of that beautiful oak tree, and then I ran. I ran out of the woods. I ran all the way home. Got into my bed and pulled the covers over my head. Face forward, Lee. Can you turn so your leg shows through that front slit? Good.”

Then it was all professional directions for a while. He knew his business; that was certain. I could tell already that the photos would be good. I struck pose after pose, hoping that he was through telling me things I didn't want to know about. He wasn't.

“She never mentioned that day again. Never even asked to see the picture. But she wasn't through with me. No. Not her. She waited a couple of years. She'd started drinking pretty heavily by then. Started coming into my room at night. Climbing into my bed. Saying she'd had a nightmare, or she was cold or lonely. Then one night she was naked. She started touching me. She knew what she was doing to me.” Again the ugly laugh. “Know what I did, Lee? I ran away again. The next day I talked a friend into letting me stay at his house. I was making enough money selling my pictures so I could pay his parents board. Stayed there all through high school. I only went home once in a while to see Willie.”

Yes. Talk about Willie.

“See, I thought it was just me. I thought she'd singled me out for some sick reason. Willie was just a skinny little kid. I mean, when I was fifteen, he was only eight. A cute little third grader who loved the Ninja Turtles. You getting cold, Lee? Put the cape back on for a minute. I want to try a warmer filter on this spot.”

I pulled the cape around me and looked at the studio clock. Had I been posing for only fifteen minutes? It seemed like hours. Again, I wished someone—anyone—would interrupt us. George fiddled with the tall lamp for a moment, and the circle of light took on a pinkish glow.

“Back to work, Lee. Just a little longer, I promise. You're a great model. I'll make up some prints for your portfolio.”

“Thank you, George,” I said, taking off the cape. “That would be nice.”

“Anytime. No problem. Ahh. That light is better. Great on your hair. On the dress, too. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Willie. Poor little Willie. Left there all alone with a monster.”

The quiet sounds of the camera were interspersed with George's staccato demands. “Turn right. No, just your head. That's good. Sexy look now. Gorgeous. Smile. Turn the other way.”

Get back to Willie. What happened to him?

He answered my unspoken question.

“I guess she'd learned something from my reactions to her. She must have taken her time with Willie. The doctor said it had gone on for years. You know what a dissociative disorder is, Lee?”

“No, I don't,” I said. “Ariel had a book with that title, but I haven't read it.”

“Ah. Poor Ariel. Had a book on it, did she? She must have figured it out. That's probably why she's dead.”

Why
had Ariel died? What had happened to Willie?
There are so many questions. Pete says I need to stop playing girl detective. Let the department handle it.

I asked, anyway. “What had Ariel figured out?”

“Look over your right shoulder now. Tilt your chin up. Good. Did you ever see the movie
Sybil?
Sally Field starred in it.Maybe you're too young to remember. Look at me. Smile. It was about a child who had been abused so horribly that she developed other personalities. She became other people, really, who could bear the pain for her. Her name was Sybil. And she wasn't aware of the other personalities, but they were aware of her. Put your hand on your hip. The other hand. Hard to believe, isn't it?”

I followed his directions while searching my mind for the old movie. “I think I saw it once on TV a long time ago. It was supposed to be a true story.”

“Right. And what Sybil had was dissociative identity disorder. So does Willie. Sometimes it's called multiple personalities.”

“Willie has multiple personalities?”

“At least one.”

“One?”

“After our mother died and I got ready to take Willie to London with me, I noticed that he acted strange. Even his voice sounded different. Of course, he was the one who'd found her body at the foot of the stairs, so I chalked it up to that.”

“That would be pretty shocking to a kid,” I said. “Finding a body is frightening for anybody. I know.”

“His behavior was so bizarre, he was so unlike the kid I remembered, that I took him to a doctor. A psychiatrist. Look to your left. Well, the doctor tried hypnosis. That's when we discovered Billie Jo.”

“Billie Jo?”

“Yep. My little brother's extra personality was a girl. And that brave little girl had taken years of Marlena's abuse. See, that way, Willie didn't have to have sex with his mother. Billie Jo did it for him.”

“But still . . . I mean . . . how . . .”

“I know. Sex is sex, and the whole thing makes no sense. But after Marlena was dead, probably after being pushed down the stairs by one of them—I don't know which one—it was up to me and the doctors to try to straighten things out.”

I knew which one it was. I had heard Willie admit to it. And he had threatened to throw Janice down the stairs, too. I didn't tell George about that, though. Why complicate things even more? He kept talking.

“It turned out, according to the doctor, that neither personality wanted to be a boy. Anyway, Willie was appearing less and less as the Billie Jo personality took over. The doctor prescribed hormone treatments, along with the psychiatric sessions. By then Willie's voice and looks had become completely feminine. He'd started wearing girl's clothes, and before long, I almost forgot that he was my brother, not my sister. I guess he forgot it, too. Can you lean back a little? Push your hips forward. Stick your leg through the slit. There you go. Perfect. Hell, when he was seventeen, he even got a job as a female impersonator! Billie Jo Vale. Quite the local celebrity.”

At the Purple Dragon. Willie sent Sarge a postcard from there.

“Billie Jo was pretty young for a sex change operation, but we found a doctor in Barcelona who'd do it. Only took a couple of hours and
voilà!
There she was. Janice.”

Willie is Janice. Janice is Willie.

I said it aloud. “Janice is Willie.”

He nodded. “The Spanish doctor suggested the new name. For Janus. You know, the Roman god with two faces. Look to your left again. No. Look down a little.”

Following his instructions, I looked directly at the obsidian ball. The colors swirled, the pinpoints of light glowed, and I saw the front door of the house on Winter Street.

I knew George was still talking, but I couldn't stay focused on his words.

Why is the ball showing me the front door of Aunt Ibby's house? Or, if River's theory is correct, why is Ariel showing it to me?

I tried looking away. Tried to concentrate on what George was saying. I didn't want to see pictures in the damned thing anymore.

“Lee? You okay? Do you need to take a break?”

“What? Oh, no, George. I'm fine.” I kept my head turned away from the obsidian. “You say the doctor gave Janice her name?”

“Yes. And Willie stayed away from her. From us. For years. At least I think he did. But lately—I don't know exactly when it started—lately he's been popping in and out. Like that grinning cat in
Alice in Wonderland.
”

“Have you told the police any of this, George?”

“No. I can't. She's my sister. I'm supposed to protect her.” The camera grew silent. “They'll come for her soon enough. As soon as the test on that stamp comes back, they'll know she's the one they're looking for. They'll know she killed that poor woman. And Ariel, too, I suppose.”

“She killed Yvette Pelletier?
Why?
”

“I didn't know at first. But then I watched some old
Nightshades
tapes. Yvette was a regular. Ariel advised her to get rid of her husband, and she left him. She had two boys. Fifteen and eight. Just like us. That was all it took for Willie to want to get rid of her. He did it to save the boys, you see?”

“Janice stole the clothes from your trunk,” I said, “and Willie wore them.”

He nodded, and the camera began to click and whirr again. “Pete says she threw them away, though. Maybe she's trying to keep Willie from getting out again by getting rid of his clothes. Look left, Lee. Smile.” He laughed. “It isn't as though he couldn't find something else to wear.”

I followed his direction and looked left. But I didn't smile. The blackness of the obsidian glowed brightly with the image of the house on Winter Street. I knew what Willie had found to wear. The Little Tramp, carrying a lighted jack-o'-lantern, twirled his cane and climbed the front steps toward my aunt who stood, smiling, in the open doorway.