Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3) (11 page)

She might not have the people skills that Richie had, but she did have a cop’s sense for danger and bad guys, and that sense was now on high alert. Those guys surely had nothing to do with Richie—that would be a weird coincidence—but she watched them nonetheless, glad she had her gun in her handbag. 

She reached for it now as they slowed down not far from her. She couldn’t see anything about them in the dark street, only that they didn’t have the jaunty, light movements of teenagers.

They stopped at the same beige building Richie went into. So coincidences do happen. A few steps led from the sidewalk up to a covered entryway. From the car, she couldn’t see the actual doorway to know if it was open or shut, or when Richie was leaving his client’s home.

Taking care not to let the car door make any noise, Rebecca got out of the Porsche, taking the keys with her. She swung the door closed but didn’t even let it latch so as not to alert the two skulkers. She stooped behind the car and waited to be sure they hadn’t heard her.

As a muni bus drove down the street, she used it to shelter her as she darted closer to the beige building, and then ducked behind a minivan.

Now, the two sneaks stood with one on each side of the entry, and waited.

She held her gun. A door banged shut and then Richie stepped onto the sidewalk, a flat box tucked under his arm.

The would-be robbers sprang in front of him, both brandishing handguns. “Hand it over,” one ordered.

“Easy, guys,” Richie said. “This isn’t worth getting killed over.”

One of them laughed. “Who’s going to kill us? You? I don’t think so.”

“No—the cops who are watching.”

Now both laughed. “Yeah, ri—”

“Police! Drop your weapons!” Rebecca shouted from behind the van.

The men both glanced in the direction of her voice, and then sped off in the opposite direction.

Richie backed up and leaned against the building, one hand over his heart, the other still clutching the box.

She ran to him. “You all right?”

“Nothing a stiff shot of bourbon won’t cure. I hate guns when they’re pointed at me.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Come on,” she said. “I think we don’t want to go to the movies. We want to go back to my place to see what’s so interesting that those guys were ready to kill for it.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“How did you know those men weren’t going to shoot you and try a standoff with the police?” Rebecca asked as she got into Richie’s car. If they decided to fight it out, it might have turned ugly.”

Richie didn’t want to think about it. He started the engine. “Too many questions when my heart’s still in overdrive.”

“Just one then, how did you know I wasn’t still sitting down the street in the Porsche?”

“Maybe I had faith in you,” he answered.

“Blind faith,” she said with a shake of the head.

“Not really.”

He mainly had faith that she’d been watching and listening. In fact, he’d been stunned to hear her voice so close, and that her reaction was so quick. Thank God!

They returned to her apartment. Fortunately, she did have bourbon, and he did need it. His hands were still shaking from those two morons holding a gun on him.

He drank his glass down in one gulp, and was surprised to see her do the same. He realized she, too, had been shaken up seeing guns drawn.

He sat on the sofa, and she sat beside him.

“So,” she said, pointing at the brown-paper wrapped box on her coffee table, “what is it?”

Her breathing sounded back to normal. His might have returned as well except that she was so close. “The box is actually a wooden crate. Inside, carefully packaged so it isn’t harmed in any way, is an Assyrian relief on alabaster from about eight-hundred B.C.”

The box was about a foot and a half square, and four inches tall. “Sounds valuable.”

“Extremely. Mainly because almost all of these reliefs are now in museums. It’s almost impossible for a private collector to get one. One was sold at auction a few years back for over eleven million dollars. This one is ‘only’ worth about two-hundred grand.”

“My God! Definitely, don’t open it.”

Richie saw that she was surprised by the price, but nothing else. That had to mean the FBI agent who’d been watching Claire Baxter was very likely watching him as well. Seeing Rebecca with him, he probably approached her. He wondered how much they had already told her.

“Why did your client give it to you tonight?” Rebecca asked.

“My client’s an art dealer. Claire Baxter. But I suspect you know that.” She lifted her eyebrows in surprise, but he continued. “Claire is well known in the business—a sterling reputation for only having the highest quality pieces with no questions ever about their authenticity or anything else.”

“Claire is the red-haired woman I once saw next to your car?”

“She is noticeable that way,” he said. “It all started some two or three weeks ago. She called asking me to check out a new art dealer, an Iraqi, who had some antique pieces for sale. Claire is big with the Silicon Valley crowd who want to invest their money in tangible things that should increase in value—art and antiques, especially museum quality pieces. And they don’t care if they’re overpaying if they find something they really want.”

“I’ve heard that about them,” Rebecca said.

“I had a guy I know look into the dealer. He didn’t like what I saw. The dealer’s paperwork was incomplete. I suggested Claire back off. She chose to believe the Iraqi when he said he couldn’t get more information from a war-torn country. His argument was plausible, but my source still nixed him. The dealer offered Claire a twenty-percent commission, and that was that.”

“Money talks, as usual,” Rebecca said.

“Exactly. So Claire was working on sales of three pieces of gold jewelry at over fifty grand each, when the FBI came to call, saying the items she sold were stolen from a museum in Baghdad. She freaked and came looking for me. Shay told her I was at some Geary Street theater and apparently she drove to each one looking for my car. But when she saw you, she split.”

“She’s got a mess on her hands,” Rebecca said. “And I guess the FBI confiscated the pieces she was trying to sell.”

“Oh, yes,” Richie said. “Which means the smugglers want
her
to pay for them. But that’s the least of her problems. The FBI wants her to help them capture the man she’s been in contact with. But she knows that if the Iraqi, or whatever he is, gets wind of her working with them, he’ll kill her. She tried to tell the FBI she wants no part of them, but the agent said she’s their best lead, and if she won’t help, she’ll be charged as an accessory and put in prison.”

“So she’s between a rock and a hard place,” Rebecca said. “Given that, I’d rather take my chances working with the FBI and hoping they’ll protect me.”

“I agree. I told her to have nothing more to do with the Iraqi. What little I could find tells me the person she’s working with is a front man for an entire smuggling ring. The situation is too volatile for her to face alone. I told her I’d talk to the man in charge and find out what they want to make them leave her alone, but keep her out of Federal prison.”

“But doing that puts you in danger.”

He simply nodded.

She realized that in his explanation of how he made his money, he left out one very important detail—his work easily put him in danger. He wasn’t breaking the law, but along its edges were many not so nice people who could turn deadly in an instant.

“It stinks, Richie,” she said finally. “Do you have any idea who the two men were waiting for you outside her home?”

“One way to find out.” He picked up his cell phone and called Claire Baxter’s number. The phone rang, then went to message. “It’s Richie. Call me.”

He put the phone on the coffee table, and stared at it, expecting her to call back right away.

“Want more bourbon or coffee or food?” Rebecca asked, then with a smirk added, “I’ve got a lot of left-over Chinese.”

“No, nothing. Thanks.”

Five minutes later, he called again with the same result. “It makes no sense that she isn’t answering or calling. I know she was expecting to hear from me.” Richie stood. “I’m going back to her house.”

Rebecca put on her jacket and joined him. “Let’s go.”

It only took a few minutes to reach Claire’s condo. Richie rang the doorbell, and when he received no answer, he turned the doorknob. To his surprise, the door opened.

“Claire?” Richie said as he started up the stairs.

“Wait!” Rebecca took her firearm from her handbag and motioned for Richie to get behind her. One glance at her weapon reminded him of the two men waiting for him the last time he’d been here. He nodded and did as she wanted. If he lived somewhere other than San Francisco, he might be able to get a concealed carry permit and not have to hide behind Rebecca, which he hated. Here, however, hen’s teeth were more common than concealed carry permits for private citizens.

As quietly as possible, they went up to Claire’s living quarters.

The top of the stairs opened onto the living room. It looked as if some sort of struggle had taken place—a couple of chairs and tables were sitting in awkward positions as if they’d been shoved around. But also, several places on the walls that once held paintings no longer did, and large empty areas gaped on the display shelves.

Rebecca faced him, her expression questioning. He shook his head.

She led the way as they searched the dining room, kitchen, bath and two bedrooms. Claire Baxter wasn’t in any of them.

They returned to the living room, and Rebecca put her gun back into her handbag. “I imagine those walls and shelves weren’t bare when you were here earlier?”

“The room looked like a showplace,” Richie said. “Beautiful furniture and art. This is a real shame.”

“I wonder if Baxter ran when whoever robbed her came in.”

Richie took out his cell phone and punched in a number. A phone rang in the room. His heart sank. They found Claire’s phone under the sofa.

“Don’t touch it,” Rebecca said. “It might have the fingerprints of the robbers—and likely kidnappers.”

Richie used tongs from the kitchen to pick up the phone and then put it in a baggie. “What are you doing?” Rebecca asked.

“Giving it to Shay. He’ll be able to find out who she’s been talking to. It could help us find her.”

“You can’t do that! There might be some vital evidence for the police. I’m calling this in.”

He put his hand over her phone. “Calling it in to who? We don’t know that anything happened to her. Plus, she’s an adult which means there’s some sort of waiting period before she’s officially missing.”

“But you said her home has been burglarized, the furniture knocked around.”

He stared at her. “Did I? Hmm. I don’t remember that. For all I know, she’s messy, and she might have taken her things to sell them. Buying and selling art—that’s her business.”

“What if something happens to her while you’re playing games?” Rebecca cried. “What if she’s killed?”

“The fastest way to get her killed is to have the police start snooping around. Besides, isn’t the FBI watching her? They might already know where she is.”

“Richie—”

He walked down the stairs. “I’m going to find Shay. Get him started right away. And I’ll get Vito to keep an eye on this place in case someone comes back.”

She followed.

They reached the sidewalk. “But first I’m going to drop you off back at your apartment.”

She frowned. “Not on your life.”

“I don’t know where this is going to lead, but I do know it’s not the sort of thing for you to even know about, let alone take part in. So, yes, you’re going home.”

She opened her mouth to complain, but then shut it and got into his car.

They both knew he was right.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next morning, Rebecca showed Lt. Eastwood a copy of Candace Carter’s twenty-thousand dollar life insurance policy in which she made Lucian Tully her beneficiary. Given that, Eastwood approved an autopsy on Carter. Medical examiner Evelyn Ramirez agreed to perform it immediately.

She contacted Rebecca that same afternoon.

“Good instincts, Rebecca!” Ramirez said. Rebecca had never heard her so cheerful. “You were right to be suspicious. Candace Carter was killed by batrachotoxin poisoning. Without your insistence, I doubt anyone would have found it. It’s a neurotoxin, but it also has a terrible effect on the heart muscles. Basically, it interferes with a person’s heart conduction, causing arrhythmias, extrasystoles, ventricular fibrillation, and other changes which lead to cardiac arrest.”

“Does this mean that if someone already has heart condition, chances of the poison ever being found would be close to impossible?”

“Right. It mimics a heart attack, so no one would bother to look further when dealing with a person with a heart condition, or even in a high risk age group. And it’s rare, making it even harder to detect. It’s produced by what laymen call a ‘poison dart’ frog whose habitat is in the warm, high humidity regions of Central and South America. Interestingly, the frog doesn’t produce the batrachotoxin itself, but it comes from eating ants or other insects that probably get it from eating a plant we haven’t yet identified. Certain beetles also carry the toxin.”

For some strange reason, Evelyn assumed Rebecca shared her enthusiasm for details about the weird poison. Rebecca was glad they were talking by phone so Evelyn couldn’t see her eyes glaze over as she spouted details and ten-syllable long names. But Rebecca didn’t interrupt Evelyn. They were friends and anything that made cutting up dead bodies interesting or in any way enjoyable was okay in Rebecca’s book. And she also hoped Evelyn would look upon her strange requests a bit more kindly in the future.

“The way it works,” Evelyn continued, “is that when one of these frogs is agitated, feels threatened, or is in pain, the toxin is reflexively released through its skin. They say the Chocó Indians in Columbia first impale a frog on a piece of wood, and then roast it alive over a fire. Bubbles of poison form as the frog's skin begins to blister. The Indians prepare their dart tips by touching them to the toxin. Poison darts are enough to drop monkeys and birds in their tracks. When enough toxin is used, nerve paralysis is almost instantaneous. With lesser doses, as in the case of Candace Carter, the heart muscle gives out first.”

The description of torturing little innocent frogs was quite enough for Rebecca. She used to play with them when she was a kid in Idaho. She thanked Evelyn and was about to hang up when Evelyn stopped her. “One bit of information to keep in mind,” Evelyn said. “This poison is so toxic a medium-size man can be killed with the equivalent of two grains of table salt. It’s fifteen times more potent than curare, a more common arrow poison, and ten times more potent than tetrodotoxin found in puffer fish. If someone out there has a supply of this poison, you’ve got to find it, Rebecca. You’ve got to find it and stop him.”

Hearing that, Rebecca first went to Lt. Eastwood with the news and requested that Neda Fourman’s body be exhumed and autopsied immediately, and then, to find out more about Betty Faroni, the woman she’d been close to who also died suddenly, as well as the as-yet-unnamed-Sandorista who died a pauper, Rebecca telephoned Richie’s mother.

o0o

“This is my friend, Geraldine Vaccarino,” Carmela said. “Geri, this is Inspector Rebecca Mayfield, a friend of Richie’s.”

When Rebecca called Carmela saying she’d like to talk to her and Geri about the Sandy Geller situation, Carmela invited her to her home. Rebecca had been there once before, during an awkward interlude with Richie. But then, she thought, when wasn’t being with Richie awkward for one reason or another?

Geri was waiting when Rebecca arrived.

“I know you’re investigating Sandy,” Geri said, then pursed her lips. “And I’d like to hate him for my sister’s sake, but to tell the truth, I think he’s a good man with a good heart. We don’t understand what’s going on with him. Nothing makes sense, so I really don’t want to talk about him.”

“I understand, Mrs., uh, Geri,” Rebecca said. “But it’s up to the police, not you, to determine what’s going on. I simply need you to answer a few questions.”

Geri looked at Carmela. “What, am I talking to a wall here? Didn’t she understand what I said?”

“Help the girl, Geri. For Richie.”

For Richie?
Rebecca’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “I understand your sister, Betty, went to Sandy Geller’s séances, and that led to your going to them as well,” Rebecca began as she faced Geri. “I’ve heard she may have spent a lot of money on Geller. Is that true?”

“I don’t like this,” Geri whispered again, very loudly, to Carmela. “I feel like a double-crosser.”

Rebecca couldn’t help but sympathize with the feeling.

Carmela glanced at Rebecca. “Geri’s very stubborn.” Then she leaned closer to her friend. “I know you’re no snitch. But you need to help the girl. What if she loses her job if she doesn’t get answers? I don’t want Richie dating any more women who don’t have jobs. They take advantage of him. He’s got a good heart, my son. Anyway, it’s a simple question.”

Rebecca clenched her jaw. She didn’t know how much more of Carmela she could take, but then she put what she hoped was a pleasant smile on her face, and waited.

Geri grimaced. “I checked out Sandy Geller because of my sister, god rest her soul. It’s true that she gave him all her money. Carmela and I went to a couple of his shows, and afterward, I asked about his séances. A young lady took down information about me, and a week later, I was called in to be interviewed by Sandy himself. The next day, I learned I was accepted. Then, the more I went to see Sandy, the more I saw he was all right. It was my sister who was stupid about taking care of her own money.”

Rebecca was surprised to hear that. “Does this mean all is forgiven with Sandy?”

Geri glanced at Carmela before speaking. “Last month, as I left the séance, I said I had no more money and probably couldn’t go to any more of them. Two days later, Lucian Tully came to visit me. He said the Sandoristas had a kind of ‘scholarship’ fund for people who couldn’t afford the séances and asked if I’d like to apply for it. A scholarship, at my age? I wanted to laugh, but I went ahead.”

Geri proceeded to tell her the story Richie had already recounted about putting Lucian on as beneficiary to her life insurance policy in exchange for a monthly stipend.

“It’s an interesting scheme,” Rebecca said when Geri finished. Her thoughts went to fraud, but she doubted many prosecutors would touch the case. It sounded more like a civil suit, if anything since, apparently, no one was coerced into making Lucian their beneficiary.

“But is it a scheme?” Geri asked. “He didn’t force me to do anything. Same with Betty, I suspect.”

Rebecca didn’t tell Geri there was a distinct possibility that her sister had been murdered. If so, ‘scheme’ was too mild a word for what was going on here. “I understand your sister, Betty, had a lady friend who had gone to Geller and then suddenly died. Do you have her name?”

Geri squared her shoulders, her mouth pinched. “I’ve heard there was such a woman. I have no idea who she was. Betty and I weren’t close.”

“I see,” Rebecca murmured. She tried a different approach, including Carmela in her next question. “I also heard that both of you attended the funeral of another woman who often attended the séances. Someone who should have had money, but seemed to have lost it all. Can you tell me her name?”

“Oh, yes,” Geri said. “That was … hmm. What was her name, Carmela?”

“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” Carmela said. “Nancy? No, I don’t think that’s right.”

“No. Definitely not Nancy.” Geri pursed her lips. “I’d remember if it was Nancy.”

“Yes, poor thing. First most of her money was gone, and then she started getting a bit forgetful,” Carmela said to Rebecca.

“Yes, such a shame,” Geri added with a firm nod. “What was her name?”

“I can’t remember either,” Carmela said.

Rebecca looked from one to the other. “If you remember, give me a call.” She thanked them for their time, and said she needed to be on her way.

Carmela walked her to the door. “So,” she said, “I heard you have a new boyfriend.”

“Me?” Rebecca was surprised at the statement.

“Don’t worry about hurting Richie’s feelings,” Carmela said. “I don’t know if he’ll ever settle down.”

“Right,” Rebecca murmured.

“Women have a biological clock running—if they ever want to have kids at any rate. Not so with men. Sometimes it’s not fair.”

Rebecca gaped. Where in God’s name is all this coming from?

“Richie would make a good father, but sometimes I suspect he’ll just wait to be reunited with his fiancée in the next life—she was a saint, that girl, too good for this world. She was perfect for him—and she knew how to cook all his favorites.
Manicotti, saltimbocca, grispedi.
You know?”

Rebecca shook her head.

“No, I guess you don’t. Oh, well. No matter. I’m glad to hear you have someone new in your life. It makes it easier. So, you take the information you got from Geri, and you do good with it, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

“Bene.”
With a quick good-bye, Carmela shut the door on her.