Caught Dead Handed (8 page)

I explained how I'd tripped over the cat, cutting and scraping both hands and knees. The chief, expressionless, wrote in his notebook, then glanced down at me. “Any witnesses to this, uh, fall?”

“I don't think so,” I admitted.

“Say, Chief,” Detective Mondello said, “I think I was the first one to interview Ms. Barrett here after she found the body, and, well, I noticed that her, um, stockings were ripped.”

“Was that in your report, Detective?”

“No, sir. It didn't seem important.”

“How did you happen to notice this seemingly unimportant detail, Detective?”

Mondello colored slightly. “I was, well, looking at her legs, sir—”

George interrupted. “I saw her before she found the body, Chief. Definitely no rips then.”

“Looking at her legs, too, were you, Mr. Valen?”

“Right,” the cameraman said. “Guilty.”

Aunt Ibby spoke up. “Chief Whaley, I can vouch for the fact that my niece left the house for her interview with her hose perfectly intact. She returned with scraped hands and knees. That should put the matter to rest. Am I correct?”

Whaley snapped his notebook shut, nodding in my aunt's direction. “Yes, ma'am.” He turned to face me. “We'll ask you to allow us to swab your mouth for a matchup. And we may as well take a set of fingerprints at the same time. Permission?”

“Okay,” I agreed, but he was already phoning the CSI techs, ordering swab and print kits. In less than a minute, two of the jumpsuited techs appeared. One stuck a skinny swab into my mouth, sealed the thing in a plastic tube, slapped a label on it, and put it in a poly bag marked EVIDENCE. At the same time the other one inked my fingers and pressed each one onto a pad.

George Valen watched, unsmiling. “Look, Chief,” he said, “we have to prepare a show, and we only have a couple of days to do it. Can we use this set? Is it all right to handle Ariel's props or not?”

“We'll probably be finished up in here late today or early tomorrow,” Whaley said. “Then it's all yours.” He turned toward Mondello. “Tape this area, Pete. I'll be down the street at the other murder site if you need me.”

George motioned for Aunt Ibby and me to follow him toward the double doors leading to the newsroom. “Lee, want to do a test video today and get it over with? We can use another set and fake up a couple of props.”

“Well, sure. I guess. Costume and all?”

“Yep. I know I'm rushing you. You've had a busy couple of days.” He pushed open the doors.

“She sure has!” The click of high heels and a whiff of J'adore announced Janice Valen's presence. “How're you guys doing? Rhonda says Whaley looked steamed when he came in.”

“He was really annoyed about the stuff I borrowed from the set. And they think Ariel was murdered,” I said.

“I know. That's why I came in. This was supposed to be my morning off.” She sounded testy. “Doan's not too happy about all this, either. Seems Whaley questioned him for about half an hour last night about that stupid WICH-TV raincoat. Are we going to be able to do Lee's test? Doan wants it ASAP.”

“Just now trying to schedule it,” George said. “We'll have to use another set, though. The cops are still messing around with Ariel's.”

“Great. The whole damned city's going to be festooned with yellow tape by Halloween, what with the murder down the street and Ariel taking a header off the wall.” Janice nodded toward Aunt Ibby. “You must be Lee's aunt. Rhonda told me about you. Sorry you have to be involved in all this.”

“How do you do?” Aunt Ibby offered her hand. Janice shook it briefly, then turned her attention back to George. “I've called Marty to come in and help deal with this mess. She'll be able to mouse up some kind of set for the test. I'll sweet-talk the cops into clearing the regular one in time for the show.”

“Good idea,” George said. “We're going to shoot the test today. Can you stick around to make some fake calls for Lee . . . Crystal Moon . . . to answer?”

“Oh, all right. Just call when you need me.” She waved a hand toward me. “And don't worry about Doan liking the test. He'll like it fine.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Will he find a red-haired Gypsy believable?”

“Red-haired and overqualified. Doesn't matter. Too late for him to find anyone else. Just go for it.”

“And what's so wrong about being overqualified?” Aunt Ibby wanted to know.

“They always think you'll want more than they're willing to pay,” George explained. “And that you'll leave the minute something better comes along.”

“I'm not too worried about the money part,” I said, “but I was really hoping for something better. I came here in the first place to audition for the field reporter's job, you know, but that Palmer guy beat me to it.”

The green door opened, and Scott Palmer strode toward us.

“Well, speak of the devil! Hi, Scotty!” Janice was suddenly all smiles. “We're figuring out how to make a temporary
Nightshades
set for the overqualified, red-haired Gypsy here.” She pointed an accusing finger in his direction. “Seems you grabbed the job she wanted, so you can help.”

Scott shook his head, clearly confused. “Sure. Glad to help out.” He moved closer and stared at me intently. “Who are you? And how did I grab your job?”

George made the quick introductions. “Didn't realize you two hadn't met yet, with all the excitement around here. Lee Barrett, aka Crystal Moon, Scott Palmer. And this lady is Lee's aunt, Ms. Russell.”

There was a chorus of “Hi there” and “Glad to meet you” and “How do you do?”

George wasn't going to waste a minute with any further niceties. “Okay. Let's get started. Lee, want to run home and pick up whatever you're planning to wear?”

“Good idea.” Janice smoothed her butter-soft tan leather skirt over slim hips and turned slowly, pausing to study each shadowy set in the long room. “Can we get some lights on in here?” She gestured toward the ceiling.

“Got it!” came an answering voice. Lights flooded the studio as Marty moved toward us, clipboard in hand. “What's up?”

Does she never sleep?
Doan was certainly getting more than the requisite two jobs from the gray-haired camerawoman.

“We can't use Ariel's set for Lee's test. Need to fix one up, pronto,” Janice said. “Can do?”

“Can do.” Marty moved quickly down the center aisle. “The sports desk will work. It's pretty plain. A hunk of cloth over the table and a little bit of hocus-pocus crap on top should do the trick.”

“Sounds good. Do it.” With that carefully practiced model's walk, Janice left the studio.

“Maralee, why don't I just run along home and pick up your outfit? You stay and help get things ready here,” Aunt Ibby offered.

Made sense to me. “Okay. Thanks.” I waved a quick good-bye to my aunt, wondering how helpful I might be to the superefficient Marty or the very professional George. And Scott Palmer probably didn't know any more about what a psychic's temporary surroundings should look like than I did.

In the end, it wasn't that difficult. George tossed a length of yellow velvet fabric over the sports desk, explaining that it was the skirt to the annual lobby Christmas tree. Marty provided a potted silk chrysanthemum for seasonal color, along with a ceramic black cat. Scott and I tacked up a couple of posters advertising the upcoming Halloween Witches Ball, neatly covering the sports logos on the backdrop.

“Good enough,” George said. “All we need for Doan is general effect. The
Nightshades
regulars want to see a bunch of mystical tchotchkes like Ariel has . . . had.” His nice smile had disappeared. He looked almost angry. “They really swallow that psychic crap, hook, line, and sinker.”

“Seems you don't think much of it,” Scott said.

“I was raised with it. My mother didn't make a move without checking her horoscope, talking to her quartz crystals, and reading her tea leaves. And God only knows how much money she spent on séances, card readings, and astrological charts and other stupid shit. Drove us kids nuts.”

“A real believer, huh?” Scott said. “Your dad, too?”

“Nope. She finally drove him off altogether. Some nutcase card reader told her that true love was in her future. So she dumped the old man.”

“Did she ever find it? True love?” I asked.

“Of course not.” He laughed. “And Sarge was probably glad to have a reason to leave for good.”

“Sarge?”

“Yeah. Our dad was career army. We were army brats. Moved around from base to base. State to state. Country to country.”

“My folks moved around a little,” Scott said. “But nothing like your family did. Did you enjoy it?”

“What was that like? Having all that travel opportunity?” I wondered aloud. “I had the same address until after I'd finished college.”

George paused for a long moment, adjusting the velvet drapery. “I liked taking pictures everywhere we went. That's how I knew I wanted to be a photographer. My mother gave me my first camera when I was twelve. There are albums full of shots I took when I was a kid. But I hated changing schools, leaving friends, that part.”

“And Janice?” I asked.

He shrugged. “She was pretty young. She doesn't seem to remember much about those days. She—” His buzzing cell phone interrupted. “Yes, Rhonda? What's up? Sure. Bring it down, will you?” He tucked the phone back into his shirt pocket. “Lee, your aunt dropped off your clothes. Says to call her when you need a ride home.”

Things were moving fast. Rhonda dashed into the studio, tossed a garment bag toward one of the tall stools behind the sports desk. “Gotta run,” she gasped. “Doan's on a tear.”

Marty rescued the bag as it began to slide toward the floor. “Look, you guys, I'll hang this in the dressing room and fool around with the set a little more.” She looked at her watch. “Why don't you three grab lunch somewhere and we can shoot this thing when you get back?”

“Good idea. I'm starving.” George gave the velvet cloth a final tug.

“Me too,” Scott said with a broad wink. ”Maybe Lee will tell me how I got a reputation as a job grabber.”

“Don't worry about it. No big deal,” I said. “And, Marty, won't you please come with us?”

“Nah.” She waved the invitation aside. “I brought a sandwich. Anyway, I'd rather putz around here, make sure everything is ready.”

“Come on. Let's go.” George was already on his way to the outside exit. “Marty loves this place. She'd never leave if she didn't have to. Isn't that right, Marty?”

The reply was a dismissive “Get outta here!”

I remembered Marty's story about sleeping on Ariel's couch the night of the murder, getting a clean shirt from George's locker, and making coffee in the break room. I wondered if she was in the habit of sleeping here, just like O'Ryan used to.

“We'll be over at the bar if you need me,” George told her.

“Won't need you. Nothing here I can't handle.” Marty was firm.

“Okay.” George looked at Scott and me. “The Pig's Eye isn't really just a bar. They have great sandwiches. Everybody from the station goes there. It's close, and the food is always good.”

“I'm sorry Marty isn't coming,” I said. “She's so sad about Ariel. I'm sure you all are.”

“Not so much.” George's laugh was short and unfunny. “She'd made some enemies here. Doan will miss the ratings and the revenue. That's about it.”

In A Pig's Eye was just a couple of blocks down Derby Street. The three of us walked briskly, facing into an increasingly chill northeast wind, with George leading the way. Scott and I followed along the narrow sidewalk, dodging wind-borne dry leaves. The warm, food-fragrant atmosphere of the cozy restaurant was welcoming and friendly.

“Service is faster at the bar,” George said, shepherding us toward tall stools.

“Hi, George,” said the pretty barmaid. “You're early. Brought along some friends today, I see.”

“Yep. Couple of new hires at the station. Lee and Scott. Thought we'd beat the lunch-hour rush. Can we see some menus?”

“Sure thing.” She slid three menus across the polished wood surface. “Can I get you folks something to drink?”

George ordered a beer, Scott asked for black coffee, and I opted for sweet tea. Studying the menu did away with the necessity for small talk, and I had just taken my first sip of tea when George's phone buzzed.

“Yes, Mr. Doan.” I could hear the rumbling tone of the station manager's voice but couldn't make out the words. “Yes, sir. Right away,” George said. “Palmer's right here with me. We're on our way.”

“What's going on?” Scott asked, already on his feet.

“Jesus! Come on, Scotty. Let's roll! Something's happening at the station.” George headed for the door, Scott close behind. “Lee! Tell the girl to put those drinks on my tab.”

I could only nod wordlessly. The restaurant door swung open, and an instant later the two men passed the mullioned windows, both at a dead run toward the station.

In a few minutes I was headed in that direction myself, wind at my back, wondering what could have caused the hasty exit. But then, George and Scott were newspeople and had to be ready to jump and run at a moment's notice.

That could just as well have been me. I would have been glad to jump and run.

I looked down at my high-heeled boots. Well, maybe I couldn't run quite as fast. But I would be a good news reporter. And maybe it would have been Mr. Scott Palmer leaving a tip for the barmaid and tagging along behind. My smile at that thought faded as I crossed Derby Street and approached the station.

What now?