Murder by Candlelight (16 page)

Not so funny when they had their hooks
in you.

All Z could do now was go
to the seance himself. Surely, with him right there, Jamie would be
reluctant to go too far. It was just that Z was afraid of what
Jamie might consider as
not
going too far. Then, too, Susan's coworkers would
also be at the "party," women neither he nor Jamie knew, Jamie not
apt to pull a fast one in front of total strangers. That's why, if
you wanted to break up with a girl, you'd take her to a fancy
restaurant to tell her, a place where she couldn't very well make a
scene. (Not that Z had ever done that. He'd seen it in a movie,
though, and thought it was a good idea.)

On the only other topic worth thinking
about, the one good thing that had happened since the row with
Jamie, was Harry Grimes' check coming in yesterday's mail: five
hundred much-appreciated dollars. Since Z was back to eating peanut
butter and jelly, Z could stretch that kind of money into several
months of survival.

Back to ... the problem.

Z didn't know anything about seances,
except what he'd seen in movies: people sitting around a table in
the dark, holding hands. There was also something about table
rapping -- the favorite way "spirits" got messages to the living.
Apparently, the afterlife couldn't produce something as technically
advanced as a megaphone -- to say nothing of a Mr. Microphone.
...... So much for "pie in the sky, by and by."

He also remembered seeing a TV program
about seances; gauzy ghosts appearing from nowhere to hover over
the table, ghosts looking sad and, for want of a better word, dead.
He thought he remembered the seance table itself flying up in the
air. And clanking chains -- or was that Marley's ghost?

He'd also seen movie versions of
turban-headed Madams going into trances so that "spirits" could
enter their bodies. (The best reason he could think of for stocking
up on Ex-Lax.)

The phone rang.

Now used to the phone ringing right at
his elbow, Z picked up the receiver.

"Bob Zapolska Detective
Agency."

"Z. Susan."

This was the second time that month
Susan had called Z at his office.

"Yeah."

"I just had to ring you up to tell you
how proud I am of you!"

Better than the opening
line a newly enlightened Susan
might
have used, the one that
started with, "You two-timing rat!"

On the other hand, what
did Z say when he didn't know why he was the object of Susan's
"pride." Better to wait until
he
received enlightenment.

"I thought you said it wasn't going to
happen?"

"What?" Z asked, still
mystified.

"The interview with Dan Jewell, on
channel 1492. The Morning Show."

"I did talk to him."

"I
know
!"

Something wasn't connecting. While Z
had promised Susan he would talk to Jewell, he hadn't told her he'd
done it. How could she ...?

"And
I
said it would be good for
business," Susan explained to show she remembered their
conversation. "You said you were not going to be on the
radio."

"Yeah."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, when did you change
your mind? You don't
ever
listen to
my
suggestions, Z, so I didn't think there was a
chance I was getting through to you."

"Talked to him, but said no
quotes."

"Technically, that's right," Susan
said, a frown in her otherwise elated voice. "The man doesn't have
to quote you if you're speaking for yourself."

What was she talking about? "What are
you talking about?"

"This morning's radio show. The start
of the series about law enforcement in Kansas City."

"So?"

"So tell me all about it!"

"Didn't hear it."

"
You
know what I mean!"

"Didn't hear it."

"Of
course
you didn't hear it, dummy,"
Susan growled in her cute, low voice. "How
could
you when you were on the
program?"

Not connecting.

What was needed here was a little
detective work.

There had to be a reason for Susan to
call, just as clearly, she wasn't going to tell him what it was. It
followed, then, that it was Z's job to ferret out the missing link
in this conversation.

Perhaps the way to start was to
provide some information of his own. "I did go for the interview.
At Jewell's home. Last Sunday."

"Go on."

"That's all. Haven't seen him
since."

"Haven't seen ...." There
was a pause. "Of
course
. You taped your comments when you were at his
house."

Taped ......

Suddenly, Z had a sick feeling. "You
heard ... something on the radio."

"Sure."

"Me?"

"Sure. It must have been part of the
conversation you had with Dan Jewell last Sunday. I'm sorry. I
didn't realize you'd taped the interview. I thought you'd gone to
the studio in person ......"

The blood rushing through Z's veins
drowned out whatever Susan said next.

Tape.

Without Z being aware of it, Jewell
had taped their conversation. No quotes, the slippery little man
had promised. And as Susan had pointed out without realizing what
she was saying, Jewell hadn't "quoted" Z. The little bastard had
used Z's comments directly!

Z's next thought was of
pulling off a Howard Kunkle-style "accident" for the D.J. -- though
it didn't matter whether or not Dan, the P.P. Jewell met with a
similar fate. The damage had been done, moreover, done all over
Kansas City, the radio carrying Z's "running-off-at-the-mouth
disease" faster than a rat could spread the plague. The only
remaining question was
what
Jewell had used of their conversation.

Thinking back -- Z
apparently more "liquored up" than he'd realized at the time -- Z
had trouble remembering
what
he'd said.

"What was used?" He'd gotten a grip on
himself at last, Susan's jabber petering out in the
meantime.

"Something about what detectives do
for a living."

Good news! Drunk as he
was, he hadn't told Jewell the truth about
that
.

"And about some of your successful
cases."

Z's memory was a good bit fuzzier
about what he'd said in that regard.

"Let me think." Susan paused. "You
said you did divorce cases. And sometimes were a bodyguard, like
you were for me." So far, so good. "Something about getting a
contractor to honor his agreement. You never told me about
that."

"It wasn't much."

"I'll bet!" Susan
never
liked being left
out. "Then you lowered the boom on the police captain."

Lowered the ... boom? "Were any names
mentioned?"

"Oh, yes. The captain's name was
Scherer. Mr. Jewell said the captain's name a number of times. Like
he would ask you a question about Captain Scherer and you would
give one of your short answers, but with a lot of force, if you
know what I mean."

"Like ... what?"

"Let's see." Susan, thinking. Z
trembling. "The D.J. asked you about the captain, and you said he
was more interested in his political career than in law
enforcement."

"I ... what!?"

"Not in so many words, but that was
the idea. And ... Oh, here's something I thought was particularly
good. So good, it stuck in my mind. Let's see. The D. J said, 'If
he's so bad,' meaning the captain -- 'how does he keep his job?'
And you answered, 'Criminals are generally dumber than
Scherer.'"

Z had no memory of
saying
that
. At
least, not that way.

"Then you said that the captain
couldn't find rotten meat with a bloodhound." Susan laughed. "I
didn't know you had a sense of humor like that."

Humor.

"And then something about your being
smarter than the captain because you tracked down a lady when he
couldn't."

As humorous as setting fire to your
balls.

"Anyway, I wanted to call and
congratulate you. I'm sure you'll be getting a lot more business
soon."

Z was
also
sure he'd be getting "the
business."

"I know you're coming over tonight,
but with all the hustle and bustle at the seance, I didn't want to
forget to tell you I'd heard your interview."

"Right."

"See you, tonight."

"Right."

They hung up.

Z had been had. The liquor. The
interview being taped without his knowledge. A little "cut and
paste" here, some "out of context there." But nothing like what
would happen to him once Scherer heard what Z had blabbed to all of
Kansas City.

To say nothing of
still
having to face the
uncertainties of tonight's seance!

And so it was that the afternoon ended
like the morning had begun, with a quantity of "goddamn son of a
bitches" fired at one file cabinet and an abundance of "hairy-pawed
pussy-lickers" hurled at the other.

* * * * *

Chapter 10

By that evening, Z had gotten enough
control of himself to feel sheepish about how he'd been acting --
particularly, about sitting around his office, swearing. Since his
Mother had been dead set against profanity, he'd not done that much
cussing -- wasn't that good at it. While an experienced swearer
raised blaspheming to an art, Z was in the minor leagues when
compared to the professional cursers of this world -- sailors,
drill sergeants, and anti-gay moralists.

Susan had called once more to tell him
that the time of the seance was ten o'clock, total darkness
necessary for "spiritual manifestations." Spiritual manifestations?
Over the phone, Z couldn't tell if Susan had said that
tongue-in-cheek or with a straight face. In the one case, he was
still talking to the girl he loved; in the other, he had a duty to
call for the men in the white coats.

Z had put on his best shirt: the
short-sleeved blue one with the white Z monogram on the sleeve, the
shirt Susan had given him for his birthday. He had on his black
slacks, the ones she liked. Taking a page from Teddy's book, he'd
even found a can of mostly dried-up shoe polish at the back of his
hall closet to have a go at shining his shoes.

"Ready" at last, he'd
cranked up the Cavalier on this mildly hazy summer night and
drifted off down 72nd. At the light, he'd turned left on Oak, to be
immediately caught up in what appeared to be mostly teenage
traffic, Z herded along at twenty miles per hour above the speed
limit. High schoolers -- with nowhere to go and nothing to do after
they got there -- were
always
in a hurry. Another of life's
mysteries.

Approaching the private access road to
the Bircane apartment complex, Z came up on the newly built sex
shop in a national chain of soft porn stores. "Sex toys," said a
billboard out front. "Party gags."

Z wondered what was meant by "gags."
Could mean jokes. Could mean .... But he didn't want to think about
that. A flashing light marquee on the red and white facility
promised "adult" videos (in Z's day, called stag films.) As for
"adult entertainment," from seeing similar movies, Z knew there was
nothing "adult" about them. What was "adult" about pointless sex
scenes so badly plotted, acted, and filmed they could barely arouse
the perpetually horny?

On the other hand,
watching staged contests between man and silicone made more sense
to Z than the placards carried by religious people who routinely
picketed sex shops, the favorite sign of today's Jesus Jumper
saying: "Real Men Don't Use Porn." Z wondered if that slogan meant
what it
seemed
to
imply: that "real" (meaning religious) men were so overheated they
didn't need sex shows to arouse their lust.

Seeing the beat-up old
broads who picketed with their oversexed mates, Z couldn't help but
feel inferior to the lumpy ladies' husbands. If Z was expected to
"make it" with women that ugly, he'd need a
crane
to get it up.

Past the sex "toys," shop, leaving the
traffic by turning right, Z now coasted down a two-lane, blacktop
road, then into a country lane that led to the Bircane. A complex
of moderate to upscale apartments, the Bircane's wooden structures
trimmed with used brick, dark-stained timber, and expensive
shake-shingle roofs. Wood and brick duplexes, triplexes, quads --
none with shutters.