Caught Dead Handed (30 page)

I was surprised by how calm I sounded as I moved away from the spotlight.

“George,” I said. “I have to go home. Willie is at my house, and my aunt is in danger.” I grabbed my purse, threw Ariel's cape around my shoulders, and extended my open palm to the surprised cameraman. “Give me the keys to Janice's car and call 911. And find Pete.”

George stuttered and sputtered half-formed questions. “What . . . how do you . . . what . . . ?” But at the same time he reached into his pocket and handed me the key on its heart-shaped silver ring.

“Call 911,” I repeated as I raced toward the lit exit sign. “Send them to my house.”

He nodded and was on the phone before I reached the door.

It was lucky that the streets were nearly empty while I proved that the Porsche really could go from zero to sixty in five point five seconds.
Eat your heart out, Danica Patrick.
I roared down Hawthorne Boulevard, pushing ninety, careened past the statue of Roger Conant, rounded the Civil War monument, and with tires squealing, pulled up in front of the house and dashed up the front steps. The door was ajar; the house dark. I pressed the light switch. Nothing.

“Aunt Ibby?” I called. “Are you okay?”

My voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hallway as I listened for a reply. There was none.

“Willie, I know you're in here. Where is my aunt?”

A small gleam of light appeared at the head of the stairs. I squinted into the darkness and recognized the flickering orange glow and the eerie grin of a Halloween pumpkin.

“Is that you, gypsy woman?” The voice was the one I'd heard threatening Janice.

Wait a minute. It
is
Janice.
It was hard to wrap my mind around this multiple personality thing.

“Yes. It's me. Are you here, too, Janice?”

He laughed. “She can't hear you, Gypsy. She can't do anything. I'm in control now.”

“I see.” Somehow I maintained my calm tone of voice. “What are you doing in my house? Where is my aunt? And what happened to the lights in here?”

“I put the old woman up in the attic,” he said. “Then I threw the main switch. I'm waiting for the damned cat. It can see in the dark, you know, and I'm sure it will come looking for me, like Ariel told it to. Then I can kill it.”

I fought back a rising panic.

What does he mean, he put her in the attic? Is she alive?

“Willie, is my aunt . . . safe up there?”

“The old woman? I guess so. I had to tie her up. Put a gag in her mouth, too.”

I have to get past him somehow and get to the attic. Make sure Aunt Ibby is all right.

I put my purse on the floor and started slowly up the staircase. I kept talking.

“Why do you want to hurt the cat?”

“He wants to kill me. When I stomped on the witch's hands just before she went under the water, she called to him. ‘Orion,' she said. ‘Orion, revenge me!'” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “It's a witch's cat! It has to do what she says!”

I was close enough to see his face, illuminated by the candlelit pumpkin he held in his lap. He didn't look much like Janice. The features seemed coarser somehow, the eyes narrower, and the mouth was twisted into a downturned grimace.

Of course,
I reasoned,
he isn't wearing Janice's carefully applied makeup, he has that fake mustache, and Janice's fine blond hair is tucked up under the Little Tramp's bowler hat.
Still, it was like looking at a complete stranger, someone I'd never seen before.

Keep him talking.

“Why did you push Ariel into the water, Willie?” I pulled the cape closer around me and tugged the hood over my hair. The dark purple color might make it harder for him to see me in the darkness, especially with that candle flickering just below his eyes. I pressed my back against the wall, creeping closer to the stair where he sat, not taking my eyes away from his face.

“I was in a hurry,” he said. “Had to get into the station and change back into the stupid cow's clothes. I was kind of excited, you know? I'd just killed that evil bitch down the street. The one who was going to make her kids do bad things to her, you know? I saved those kids!” The tone of voice was smug, self-satisfied. “I told her I had one of those crystal necklaces for her. From Ariel. She let me right in. Even turned her back and asked me to fasten it for her! Made it so easy to use my nice sharp razor. My raincoat kept the blood off my good clothes.”

I suppressed a shudder. “And Ariel saw you when you came back?”

“Worse.” He put the pumpkin down on the stair next to him. “She called me Janice. Then she said, ‘I guess you're using your other personality tonight. What's his name?' She knew about me! The witch knew about me. She was sitting there on the wall, so I just put my foot on her back and pushed her over. Easy!”

“She tried to get out of the water, though,” I said, catching a flash of golden eyes in the dark hall, where O'Ryan silently stalked Ariel's killer. “The police said she tried to climb back out.”

“Oh, she tried.” He giggled. “But she was too fat. The water was too deep. The wall was too slippery. And I had my big boots on! Stomped on her hands real hard. After a while, she gave up. Then I went up the secret stairs, hid my clothes, took the disk thing out of the video machine, and yanked out a bunch of wires, too.”

“The cat saw all this?”

“It did. And I knew it would come after me, you see? I tried to make it eat rat poison, but it wouldn't eat it. Then I grabbed it out of its yard, but it got away. Too bad. I had it in a big bag, and I was going to throw it in the water.” He laughed. “So it could drown like Ariel did.”

At that moment, O'Ryan made his move. He leaped onto Willie's back, clinging there as the killer spun around, struggling to shake him off. I dashed past the grinning pumpkin and reached the door to the attic. Slamming it shut behind me, I called Aunt Ibby's name and raced up the stairs. A muffled groan led me to where she lay behind a bureau. Pale beams from streetlamps filtered through the uncurtained attic window. The ropes around her wrists and ankles looked like worn clothesline, tied in simple, but tight knots. Her nightgown, twisted around her body, was torn and dirty. A rag was stuffed in her mouth, and she made gagging noises deep in her throat.

I pulled the rag out as gently as I could. “Shhh,” I warned. “He's still out there. The police should be here any minute.” She nodded, extending her arms toward me. I got to work on the wrist bonds, and in moments the clumsy square knot fell away.

“I thought it was you at the front door,” she whispered. “The voice sounded just like you. ‘Let me in, Aunt Ibby. I've forgotten my key.' Sounded exactly like you! He ran in and hit me with a cane and dragged me up here. Said he was going to kill O'Ryan!”

“I know,” I said. “Janice is really good at voices. Can you undo the rope on your ankles?”

“Janice?” She bent to untie the knotted rope.

“Janice. Billy Jo Vale. Willie. All the same. I'll explain later. Listen. Hear that?” The welcome wail of police sirens sounded in the distance. “We're going to be okay. Here comes the cavalry!”

Our relief lasted only seconds. The attic door creaked open. “Here, kitty, kitty,” came a hoarse stage whisper. “Are you up here?”

The grinning pumpkin bobbed up and down as Willie climbed the stairs, the candle's glow casting his long, distorted shadow across the dusty floorboards. We ducked behind the bureau. The sirens' shrieks grew louder. Willie drew closer.

“Come, kitty, kitty. Uncle Willie has something for you.”

The bowler hat was gone, and Janice's smartly styled blond hair was incongruous with Willie's crazed facial expression. The black mustache had become partially unglued, and it tilted at an odd angle on his upper lip. He balanced the lit pumpkin on the seat of the rocking chair, where just weeks ago I'd sorted costume jewelry. In his right hand a long knife glittered.

Too close to our hiding place, he looked from side to side. A scratching sound came from outside the window behind him. In the streetlight's glow I saw O'Ryan out there, hind legs on the slanted roof below the windowsill, paws on the glass pane. The cat meowed loudly and scratched again.

No! Run away, O'Ryan. He has a knife!

“How did you get out there, damned cat?” Willie put the knife down on the sill and struggled with layers of old paint, grunting and swearing as he pounded upward on the sash with both palms. The wooden frame gave suddenly, and O'Ryan leapt into the room, a yellow blur in the dim light, as the knife clattered to the floor. Willie quickly retrieved the knife, and whirled in the cat's direction.

I spread one side of the purple cape over my aunt's shoulders and pulled the other side close around me, hoping the voluminous folds would protect us from the killer's view. As I clutched the cape's edge, I felt something beneath the velvet. Slowly, I ran my hand along the soft fabric. There was an opening, a neatly formed pocket, just inside the front panel. I slid my hand into a narrow slit, then withdrew it quickly. There was a small sound, like paper crackling.

Did Willie hear it, too?

The wail of sirens must have drowned out any other noise he might have heard. But police out in front of the house or not, my aunt and I were alone in a dark attic with a knife-wielding killer and a witch's cat. I dared to peek out from behind the velvet hood.

Wait a minute. It's not as dark as it was. And there's another crackling sound.
Not
paper. Fire.

Orange plumes of fire and bright red sparks shot up from the seat of the old rocking chair, where the antique pumpkin lay on its side, the face half eaten away by flames. I tugged at Aunt Ibby's arm and whispered, “Come on. We have to get out of here!”

Fire spreads quickly in an old, dusty attic, and ours was packed with plenty of flammable stuff. As we watched, a dress form, draped with sheets, formed a hideous human-shaped pyre, and black smoke rose from a stack of old
National Geographic
s.

Willie, standing between us and the stairway, seemed oblivious to the growing conflagration around him. Knife upraised, he faced the snarling yellow cat. O'Ryan, fur bristling, teeth bared, stood on top of a walnut bureau, eye to eye with the killer.

The sirens had stopped, and we heard the pounding of feet in the house below. Drawing the cape around us both, I again felt the little pocket and pushed my fingers into it, withdrawing a brittle paper packet.

“You first,” I told my aunt as we crawled toward the open window. “I'll be right behind you.”

She pulled herself up to the sill and, feetfirst, wiggled out onto the second-story roof. My long cape caught on a nail, and I shook it off onto the floor. I was starting to follow my aunt when I heard Pete's voice calling from downstairs.

“Lee! Where are you? Where the hell are you?”

“We're here, Pete!” I yelled. “In the attic! It's on fire! And he has a knife!”

Willie whirled, first toward the sound of Pete's voice, then toward mine.

I heard the splintering of wood as the attic door burst open and, at the same time, the roaring
whoosh
of flames caught in the draft between the door and the open window. Willie screamed, and the knife fell to the floor as the sleeve of the Little Tramp costume caught fire.

I watched, terrified, as a yowling O'Ryan hurtled himself from the top of the bureau onto the back of the man, who tottered on the top stair.

“Maralee! Hurry!” my aunt called to me and reached a guiding hand through the window. The smoke and flames made it impossible to see across the room any longer. I took her hand and, kicking off the gold sandals, climbed over the sill, aware that the gossamer fabric of the beaded gown was shredding, catching on splinters of rough wood.

More sirens sounded as fire trucks approached. I couldn't hear Pete's voice any longer. Or Willie's screams. Or O'Ryan's yowls.

“Let's move over as close to the edge as we can get,” I said. “The firemen will see us there.”

I realized then that I still clutched the brittle paper I'd pulled from the pocket of Ariel's cape. I held it toward the streetlight. There were several thin pages filled with cramped writing, sewn together on one side to make a little book. On the cover, spidery letters in brownish ink spelled out the words
Bridget Bishop. Her book.

I didn't hesitate for a second. I threw the damned thing back through the window, into the flames, and followed my aunt to the edge of the roof.

We slid on our fannies toward the edge of the slanted roof, yelling for help all the way. Rough granules coating the shingles tore at both dress and skin, and angry flames shot from the window behind us. I looked down, calculating just how far we might have to jump if the firefighters didn't reach us before the fire did.

We were on the back side of the house, and we could hear the fire equipment arriving out front, on the Winter Street side. Below the second-story roof was the walled garden off the kitchen, where O'Ryan did his business.

O'Ryan! Poor dear cat. Did you get away?

“If we have to,” my aunt said in a remarkably calm voice, considering the circumstances, “we can probably hang onto the rain gutter and drop down to the top of that wall. After that, it's easy.”

“Piece of cake,” I said, thinking of Marty. “Let's hope we don't have to.”

But, as it turned out, we did have to.

Our cries for help were heard, and men carrying ladders ran toward the garden below. But by then, we were being bombarded with tiny hot embers and fiery pieces of debris had started to roll toward us.

“Come on,” she said. “Let's go.” And with my sixty-five-year-old aunt leading the way, I backed, feetfirst, facedown, over the edge of the roof. Grabbing the slippery but sturdy rain gutter, I dangled there, inches above the garden wall.

It was Pete Mondello who caught me. My arms were tight around his neck; my face was pressed against his shoulder. He made no attempt to put me down, holding me close. One of the firemen had rescued Aunt Ibby. She stood there in the garden, bunny slippers still amazingly intact, trying to arrange her torn and stained flannel nightgown into some semblance of modesty. She gazed upward as fire ate away at the top of the old house.

“Oh, dear. We're going to have quite a mess to clean up here, aren't we?” she said. “Are you all right, Maralee?”

“I think so,” I said, reluctantly loosening my hold on Pete's neck. “But, Pete, did you get him? Did you arrest Willie?”

He frowned, lowering me gently until my bare feet touched the cold ground. “I've read Janice Valen her rights. She's under arrest. We're waiting now for the ambulance to take her to the hospital.”

“Can I see her please, Pete? Talk to her?”

He hesitated. “I guess so. Come on. She's hurt pretty bad.”

More sirens screamed, and flashing red lights reflected on darkened windows. The ambulance had arrived, but so had the news photographers. Pete tried his best to shield me from the cold and the cameras, draping his jacket around my shoulders as we ran toward the front of the house.

The murderer looked very small, lying there on the brick sidewalk. They'd cut the right sleeve of the costume off, and I had to look away, fighting nausea. From shoulder to wrist, the long, slim once-white arm had become a bulging chunk of raw red and yellow meat surrounded by charred black flesh. One leg stuck out at a strange angle, and blood streaked both face and hair. I reached for the undamaged left hand as paramedics lifted the stretcher, and a low moan escaped the cracked lips.

“Lee? Is that you?” The brown eyes opened wide, and despite the soot and blood and her singed lashes, I knew I was seeing Janice, not Willie. As always, she'd taken the pain for him.

“Yes. I'm here. They're taking you to the hospital.”

“The man said I'm under arrest,” she said. “Where's George?”

“I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here.” George had pushed his way through the crowd of police and press and spectators. He elbowed me out of the way, knocking Pete's jacket to the ground, and grasped her hand. “Don't worry. Everything will be all right.”

“George, there was a fire. And a cat jumped on me. And Willie threw me down the stairs, like he always said he would.” Janice began to cry.

I backed away as the paramedics lifted her into the waiting ambulance. They let George go with her, and sirens blaring, they sped away.

It wasn't until then that I realized that the clicking sound I heard was cameras. They were aimed at me. A quick downward glance told me why. Between racing up to the attic, crawling on splintering floorboards, sliding along on rough shingles, and dangling from the rain gutter, I'd literally destroyed the million-dollar dress. All the strategically placed beading on the bodice was gone. The knee-high slit now extended to my waist. I was, in fact, standing in front of my burning house, virtually naked. These were definitely not going to be the publicity photos Mr. Doan had in mind.

Pete wrapped me once more in his jacket and waved the photographers away. “Come on. You and your aunt can sit in my car until I finish up here. Then we'll see about finding you someplace to stay.”

Aunt Ibby and I huddled together in the backseat of the police car, watching through the rear window as streams of water from fire hoses finally knocked down the flames. After what seemed like hours, Pete climbed into the front seat and handed me my purse.

“Found this at the bottom of the stairs. Thought you might need it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Can we go inside and get some clothes?”

“Nope. Sorry. Not safe.” He turned and faced us. “But look, I've got a couple of those WICH-TV raincoats in my glove box. Those'll cover you for now. I've called the hotel, and they're expecting you.”

“But what about O'Ryan? Did you see him at all? Did he get out of the house?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I didn't see him. But, hey! Cats are smart. Especially that one. He'll be okay.” He didn't sound convinced.

 

 

The hotel staff greeted us as though every night they checked in guests with bare feet or bunny slippers, and with oversize raincoats over torn nighties or ruined designer gowns.

“I'm going to need statements from both of you,” Pete said. “I'll wait here while you get cleaned up, and then you can tell me exactly what went down at your place tonight.”

After taking warm showers and wrapping ourselves in big, fluffy white Hawthorne Hotel bathrobes, we opened the suite door and invited Pete in. He sat on the sofa, all business, with notebook open, pencil poised.

Aunt Ibby spoke first, describing how Willie had tricked her into letting him in and how he had shut off the electricity and hit her with the cane, then dragged her up to the attic, binding her with the clothesline.

Holy crap! How am I going to tell him that I was looking at a black glass ball and I saw Aunt Ibby opening the door and that was how I knew I needed to get home?

I started by telling him everything George had told me about Janice and the multiple personality disorder. Aunt Ibby offered the information she'd received from Nigel about Billie Jo Vale. I told him what Willie had told us just a little while ago in the dark attic. I told how he'd confessed to killing both women. That he thought he was saving Yvette's children from the abuse he'd suffered from Marlena. And how he'd come there to kill O'Ryan.

“Why'd he want to kill the cat?” Pete asked.

“O'Ryan saw him push Ariel into the water. She told O'Ryan to avenge her death,” I replied.

“She told the cat?”

“O'Ryan is a witch's cat,” I explained. “He has to do what she says. Ask River about it some time. She'll fill you in.”

He looked doubtful but continued to write in his notebook.

I told him about the papier-mâché pumpkin and the crystal necklace and the secret staircase. I told him every single thing I could think of that had anything to do with Janice Valen and the murders. I told him how neither Willie nor George could drive Janice's car, and how I'd had a strong feeling that my aunt was in danger, so I'd borrowed the Porsche and sped home. He seemed to buy it. I didn't tell him about the pictures in the obsidian ball. And I never told him, or anyone else, about Bridget Bishop's book. When he finally closed the notebook and stood to leave, I asked what would happen to Janice.

“She clearly has mental issues,” he said. “I doubt that she'll ever go to trial. I imagine she'll be hospitalized.”

“And George?”

“Accessory after the fact, maybe, though he's clearly got some mental issues, as well. That'll be up to the court. Walk me to the door?”

Aunt Ibby pretended a yawn and headed for the bedroom. “Good night, Detective. Don't stay up too late, Maralee.”

Pete Mondello and I shared a very long good-night kiss. More than one, actually.

A gentle knock surprised us both. I adjusted the neckline of the bathrobe and, trying not to appear too flustered, ran a hand through my hair and peeked through the peephole.

The night desk clerk stood there, cradling a big, beautiful yellow cat in her arms. I threw the door open.

“O'Ryan! Where did you come from?”

“Isn't this Miss Russell's cat?” the desk clerk asked. “The security guard heard him scratching at the front door.” She put the cat on the carpet. “I recognized him right away from her Facebook page. I wonder how he knew she was here.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Pete said as O'Ryan, shaping his tail into a question mark, took a leisurely stroll around the edges of the room, yawned, and headed for bed.

 

 

I never did get to the Witches Ball. Mr. Doan talked Scott into adding the job of program director to his regular duties. Marty got promoted to head cameraman. When the news got out that both murders had been committed by a WICH-TV employee, and that
Nightshades
had been the start of it all, the show was canceled and my career as a TV call-in psychic was over, just as the tarot cards had predicted.
Nightshades
was replaced by
Tarot Time,
with River North as host, doing over-the-phone readings between vampire and zombie movies. I'm afraid some of the shots of me in the messed-up Mackie went viral. I'm still kind of avoiding looking at black, shiny objects, and so far, no problem.

There was a sad call from the VA hospital. Sarge passed away peacefully in his sleep the night before all the excitement. A blessing, really. He didn't have to learn how his boy Willie had ended up.

The Winter Street house isn't habitable yet, so Aunt Ibby, O'Ryan, and I are still living at the hotel. One thing I learned during my stint at WICH-TV—it's not a bad idea to be able to do more than one job. I've signed up for one of those online criminology courses Pete told me about. I'm looking forward to some interesting study dates, and I'm pretty sure he is, too.