The Seance (7 page)

If he heard it, he gave no sign, and left.

She closed and locked the door, then looked around. The house was silent. Then the old grandfather clock chimed out the hour of 8:00 a.m. and she jumped.

With an irritated sigh, she headed for the kitchen and the coffeemaker. While coffee brewed, she raced upstairs. She'd been wearing those damp blades of grass just a little too long, and she had too much to do that day to be hanging around in her nightshirt.

Maybe she was crazy, she thought as she showered. Or at least more fragile than she had thought, too open to suggestion.

Because he was right. No one broke into a house just to move a Ouija board.

Unless…

Unless they wanted you to think you were crazy.

 

Police Detective Shot and Killed Disposing of Victim.

Police Detective Beau Kidd Identified as Interstate Killer.

The newspaper headlines gave no indication that Beau had only been the alleged killer. A little voice inside Jed nagged at him guiltily, even though he knew, rationally speaking, that if the department, the news and everyone else had condemned Beau Kidd, there was no reason why he shouldn't have done so, too.

He had seen the story as terrifying, horrible, sad—and a lesson about how impossible it was to know even those closest to you, those who should be trustworthy. He had been completely convinced of Beau Kidd's guilt.

Now he was equally convinced he'd been wrong.

Why?

Sitting at his computer in his townhouse overlooking one of the area's natural lakes, Jed called up his files on the case. He stared at the names and ages of the previous victims as if some new truth would suddenly be revealed. Kelly Dunhill, twenty-four; Janet Major, twenty-eight; Denise Grant, thirty-one; Theodosia Wallace, twenty-two; and Grace Garcia, twenty-five. Only one of them, Grace, had come from the area, and she had been born in Tampa. The others had migrated south from four different states, Kelly from Tennessee, Janet from New York, Denise from Iowa and Theodosia from California. All had long red hair, ranging from strawberry-blonde to a deep, dark auburn. Their eye colors had been different, and their heights had ranged from five six to five nine. Each one had been found in the grass off one of the state's highways, naked, arms crossed over her chest. None had shown signs of torture, such as cigarette burns, but there had been bruises on the bodies, as if they had been pushed around when they were alive.

As if they had tried to fight their abductor.

They'd all been sexually molested, but no semen had been recovered; their killer had used condoms. Nor had there been any flesh beneath their fingernails, so there was no way to test for DNA. The killer had been very careful.

The “no's” were endless.

No fingerprints, no DNA, no footprints, no cigarette butts found by the dump scenes. Simple physiology said that something was left behind when two bodies came together. But not in this case. Nothing of any use whatsoever had ever been discovered. It was baffling, and had been seen as indicating that someone in law enforcement or forensics had been involved.

He read through everything he had acquired from the newspapers and police files, hoping to see something, anything new, a spark of information or even misinformation that might help him. There was nothing.

He decided to take a trip down to his old precinct.

 

Christina looked around the house while she waited for a new singer, a local girl named Allison Chesney, to show up to work with her on a new nonfat potato chip commercial. The promotions department at the giant food manufacturer had chosen her because of one of her previous jingles, which had been filled with “pep,” or so her contact had told her.

She'd managed to get rid of the boxes, storing most of them up in the attic—a perk most of the houses in the area didn't have. She even had a basement, another rarity in the state. Going up to the attic and down to the basement had been a bit overwhelming. Why, she wondered, hadn't she realized just how much stuff she would find there? Despite that, there had been plenty of room for her boxes. In time, she promised herself, she would check out everything that was already there.

She sat down at the piano in the parlor, feeling happy as she ran through the jingle herself one more time. She was ready to try out Allison Chesney's sound, she decided, just as the doorbell rang.

Being smart, as she had promised everyone she would be, she looked through the peephole before opening the door. The young woman on the other side was a pretty brunette with flashing hazel eyes. As soon as Christina opened the door, she offered her hand with a shy smile. “Christina? I'm Allison.”

“Hi, great to meet you. Come on in.”

“This is your house?” Allison said in awe as she stepped inside.

“Yes.”

“It's fabulous.”

“Thank you. It's been in the family a long time,” Christina replied. “Can I get you something before we get started? Tea? Coffee? A bottle of water?”

“Water would be great, thanks.”

“Make yourself comfortable in the parlor,” Christina told her, pointing the way.

She got a bottle of water from the kitchen and returned to find Allison standing by the piano, looking out the bay window.

“This is really spectacular,” Allison told her. “I grew up in a place just like this.”

“Really? Where are you from?”

“The Gainesville area.”

“It's pretty around there.”

Allison laughed. “Pretty quiet.”

“It can't be too quiet. It's a university town,” Christina reminded her.

“Yeah, and that's about it. But at least it's close to the action here. Well, action Florida-style. I thought I was so good when I was a kid that I was sure I'd be a big deal in New York by now,” she said ruefully. “But that's not the way it happened.”

“Don't put yourself down. I listened to your demo,” Christina told her. “You're good.” She sat down at the piano bench and smiled in return. “Or are you trying to tell me that doing jingle work is slumming it?”

“Oh, good God, no!” Allison said. “Not at all. It's just that…well, I guess it's this house and, quite honestly, you. What are you? About twenty-five?”

“On the nose.”

“And you're so successful,” Allison murmured.

“I'm paying the bills,” Allison said, smiling.

“Did you ever want to compose great operas or something?” Allison asked, openly curious.

“Nope. I always liked writing little ditties. Must be my Irish heritage,” she said dryly. “Quite frankly, I just got lucky with my first jingle and found a good agent. My cousin Dan is an actor, though, and he's still trying to get a break into the big time. Well, the bigger time, anyway.”

“Really?”

“He's a few years older than I am, and he's done some great shows, but you know how it is. Every time something ends, you're looking for something new. At the moment he's playing Raccoon Ralph at the new park, but he's been promised a lead in their next main stage show, so he's feeling pretty hopeful.”

“Cool,” Allison said, looking more relaxed.

“So…ready to get started?”

“Can I hear you do it first? Just so I can get a sense of how you hear it?”

“Sure,” Christina said, and sang, “Keep it off your hips, try our great new chips, Sanina's is a trip if you're looking for a chip.”

Allison smiled broadly as she finished. “Cool,” she said again, then apologized. “I'm sorry. There are other words in my vocabulary. Really.”

“Not to worry. There's no reason to be nervous around me.”

“Sure there is. You can fire me.”

“I told you, I liked your demo. I really liked it. Okay?”

Allison started singing then, without waiting for the piano accompaniment. She had just the voice Christina wanted. Women would hear her and think they could be just like her; men would think there was suddenly something sexy about potato chips. Most important, people had to find it catchy enough to make them think about Sanina's Chips frequently.

“Great,” Christina told her, and Allison blushed proudly.

They ran through it a few times with the piano, until Christina was more than satisfied that Allison could do the job.

“Okay, we've got an appointment with the Sanina's people at the recording studio next Tuesday morning, nine o'clock.”

Allison nodded vigorously. “I wrote it all down the first time we talked. This is great. Thank you. Thank you so much!”

“Thank you,” Christina told her as she walked with her to the door.

“I'm going to be the voice for Sanina's Chips,” Allison said happily.

“Let's both hope they're good, huh?” Christina said with a laugh.

Allison smiled and thanked her again, and Christina waved, then closed the door. As it clicked shut, she jumped.

Someone had played a note on the piano.

A single note.

A cold chill swept over her body. She swallowed hard. Something had fallen on the keyboard. That had to be it. Because there was no one else in the house.

She forced herself to turn and retrace her steps. She stood in the doorway and stared into the parlor. There was no one there. Of course not, she told herself. She'd known there was no one else in the house.

She walked into the room and looked at the piano. There was nothing on the keyboard. It was just as she had left it.

Feeling as if cold fingers were raking down her spine, she sat down and forced herself to hum the Sanina's Chips tune as she hesitantly picked out the notes on the piano.

Suddenly she stood abruptly and walked into the kitchen, then back around to the other side of the house to check the library and the dining room.

It was only midafternoon. The sun was out. The day was sparkling.

She walked up the stairs and into every room. She paused on the landing before going downstairs again.

“This is my house,” she said aloud. “A good house, where good people, kind people, lived. And still live.”

I'm talking out loud to invisible spirits, she moaned inwardly.

“And I'm heading to the coffee shop,” she added aloud, then gave herself a shake. No more talking to the air.

Downstairs, she collected her purse and headed out, making certain that she locked the door behind her.

 

“Hey, it's the local big shot,” Alex Mars, who had graduated with Jed from the police academy, called out.

“Hey there,” Hal Rather, Alex's partner said, grinning and rising to shake Jed's hand.

“Hey yourself,” Jed said, and looked across the room. Jerry Dwyer, looking haggard, was just coming out of the lieutenant's office.

“Jed,” he said, grinning, as everyone in the room rose at once and came over.

“Hello, golden boy,” Sally Griegs, the communications officer, teased as she gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Lieutenant Tiggs came out of the office when he heard all the noise. He was tall and slim but tough as nails, as Jed well knew. He'd seen the lieutenant in action, before his promotion to his current status. Tiggs been attacked in a bar and turned into Jackie Chan. His attacker had wound up on the floor, begging to be cuffed and taken away.

“To what do we owe the honor?” Tiggs asked him.

Jed shrugged. “Frustration?” he suggested.

“You got that right,” Jerry muttered.

“You're a civilian now, Jedidiah,” Tiggs said, using his full name, just as, for some unknown reason, he always had.

“Licensed private investigator,” Jed reminded him lightly.

“Hired by whom?” Tiggs asked skeptically.

Jed shrugged again. “A writer who might have gotten it wrong.”

Tiggs stared at him and shook his head. “Has to be a copycat,” he said quietly.

“A damned good one, then,” Jed said.

Jerry shuffled his feet. “You know we can't give you anything that hasn't already been released—even if we had it,” he said.

“Can it, Jerry,” Tiggs said. “I know you had him at the autopsy.” He leveled a finger at Jed. “And I know you have copies of the old files. So if you find out anything…”

“You know damned well I'd never conceal pertinent information, Lieutenant,” Jed said.

“Sometimes I think I know damned well,” Tiggs said, “and sometimes I'm not so damned sure I know anything.”

“Kidd's old partner—” Jed began.

“Retired. But of course I interviewed him,” Jerry said, then added, “But no one can stop you from talking to the man yourself, unless he refuses to talk to you.”

Jed looked at Tiggs.

“Be my fuckin' guest. I'd take help from hell itself right now, if it was offered.”