Girl Blue

by Maggie Shayne

  “Too much. It’s creepy.”

  We got into his car. He reached across the space between us, smoothed back my hair, then cradled my head in his big hand. “I wish it wasn’t this hard on you. But it’s gonna be okay. You know that, right?”

  The tension in me dissolved just because he’d touched me and told me it was going to be okay. Did I have it bad, or what?

  So when was the idiot going to pop the big question?

  My God, you are gagging me.

  I’m gagging myself, Inner Bitch. Can’t be helped.

  “I know it’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m good. I mean, it’s what I do, right? It’s my gift.”

  “And your curse.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Monk.” He got the reference, which made us both smile. “Can we look around for Gary now?”

  “The kids–”

  “Josh was picked up shortly after we left. Today was the Hershey Park thing.”

  “Chuckie’s birthday trip. Right.”

  “And Jeremy’s spending his Sunday reconnecting with his high school friends. I told him it was okay. Because we have to share him whether we like it or not. Like grownups.”

  He made a face at me.

  “The dogs will be okay for a couple more hours,” I said. “Let’s check the shelters for Gary.”

  “While I drive,” he said, “Find a psychiatrist named Dr. Guthrie. Maybe she’ll talk to me.”

  “To us,” I corrected.

  “To me,” he said. “You don’t have the equipment.”

  “A dick?” I asked, widening my eyes at him.

  “A badge.” All fake-shocked at my gutter brain. God, I loved him.

  Mason sat in Dr. Melissa Guthrie’s waiting room. The receptionist was behind glass. There was a fish tank and a patient in the waiting room with him. The patient was a brunette about forty with worry lines around her eyes. They’d exchanged a nod. He’d thrown in a smile. She hadn’t reciprocated.

  Once she’d found Guthrie’s office address, Rachel had dropped him off and headed out to check the shelters. Mason didn’t like it, but you couldn’t really argue with her once she’d made up her mind. And she’d made up her mind.

  A closed door opened, a woman leaned out and said, “You can come in Detective Brown. Gloria, I’ll only be ten minutes. Okay?”

  The worried brunette nodded.

  Mason wished Rachel was there to tell him how pissed off she was. “It won’t even take ten minutes,” he told her as he got up, even though it might.

  Dr. Guthrie reminded Mason of his mother. She had the same lean frame, dignified manner, and chic white-silver hair. His mom’s was shorter and not as curly. Mason flashed his badge and said, “I need to talk to you about Gary Conklin.”

  “You can talk to me about anyone you want. I can’t talk back.” She tipped her head to one side. “So? Talk.”

  “My um…significant other is Rachel de Luca.”

  “Oooh.” The sound she made spoke volumes. Mason had no doubt what the psychiatrist thought of self-help gurus like Rachel. "I've read her."

  Non-committal as hell. “Gary is a fan," he said.

  "Several of my clients are fans."

  "Well, this one showed up at our home yesterday, in Whitney Point. Said he walked there from Binghamton.”

  “Oh, my.” She lifted her silver brows. “Well, I’m concerned too, then. But Detective, let me ease your mind. I don’t think Gary’s dangerous. I really don’t. He’s a sweet young man.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “I’m fond of him.”

  “We got him a room for the night, but he was gone this morning. Do you think you could check in on him?”

  “If you know where he is, of course I will.”

  “We're working on that right now. I got the feeling he was off his meds. Can you tell me when you last saw him?"

  "I'm afraid not." She took a card off her desk and handed it to him. “Let me know when you find him.”

  He took the card and headed out, texting Rachel on his way to the elevator. “Any luck?”

  “None. You?”

  “Pick me up," he tapped. "I’ll fill you in.”

  Jeremy and Mason took the pontoon boat out on the lake for some Sunday afternoon fishing. After catching up with his friends all morning, Jere had come home and actually asked Mason to hang out with him. If I was sappier, I’d have teared up. I didn’t mind being left out. They needed the one-on-one time, and besides, I wanted the house to myself. I wanted to delve into every detail I could remember about that dream, disturbing as it was. And everything since. I was missing something, I knew I was.

  I took a long, steamy shower, put on my most comfy cuddly fleece, and brewed a cup of herbal tea. Chamomile. It had been a Christmas present from a new editor, and still hadn’t been opened. I silenced all the ringers in the house, and put a big silk pillow on the floor of my office. I was going to meditate. Woo-woo is woo-woo, right? Might as well play the part.

  Not long ago, a phony psychic had taught me her method for "opening the channels," as she called it. And even though I'd pegged her for a fraud, I'd given it a try, cause my shit was on the fritz, and she hadn't tried to kill me yet. That came later. To my utter shock, it had actually worked.

  So, I assumed the position, or what I thought was the position. Sitting on a soft pillow with my legs crossed, guru-style. I took a few deep, calming breaths, followed by a blissful sip of my herbal tea, and then I spat it all over the place.

  “Ohmygawd, that stuff is awful!”

  I was on my feet and back in the kitchen in three point five seconds. I rinsed the cup and poured it full of coffee from the pot, added abundant quantities of French Vanilla creamer that was neither fat-free nor sugar-free. I am nothing if not a rebel. Then I headed back to my office.

  Tea had seemed to go with the whole Natalia DaVine open the channels thing, until I remembered–I detest tea.

  So I sipped my coffee–nectar of the gods–and got all comfortable. Closing my eyes, I imagined a spiral staircase descending into the ground. I tried to remember which color the first step was supposed to be. Red, that was it. So I stepped onto the red step, and–

  He was a malignant tumor that had to be excised from the world.

  The words echoed up at me from the bottom of my imaginary staircase, and my eyes popped open. I said it again, out loud, so I’d remember, word for word. “He was a malignant tumor that had to be excised from the world.” Aiming my gaze ceilingward, I said, “Damn, Natalia. That shit really works. I guess even a murderous bitch like you isn't an entire waste of oxygen. Or wasn't. May you rest in peace. Sorry I shot you, by the way.”

  Meditation, complete.

  I pulled my laptop over and typed the phrase into the search bar.

  It was a line from an old movie starring Reginald D’Voe, arguably the greatest horror movie actor of all time. That voice. Those eyes. He’d died just a couple weeks ago, too. Was that coincidence?

  There's no such thing as coincidence.

  You’re right, IB, there’ s not.

  I Googled Reginald D’Voe and found about a dozen obituaries, all of which agreed that he had lived and died in the place he loved most, his gothic mansion in the small Finger Lakes town of Dilmun, NY.

  The same town the late Dwayne Clark, recently strangled in the back of his Jag while I knelt on his back, was from.

  Inner bitch and I had an identical reaction. What the actual fuck?

  I could barely wait to tell Mason my news. But Josh returned from his fun-park trip, juggling carnival prizes and a three-foot-tall alien with a straw in its head. I estimated it had a soda capacity of approximately three gallons.

  Okay, one.

  "You are sunburned," I said. "You didn't even take that sunblock I packed out of your backpack, did you?"

  He grinned at me, white rings around his eyes. "Nope."

  "I didn't think so. You have fun, though?"

  "We rode the Skyrush like six times! It's aw
esome." Then he looked around, "Did Jeremy go back?"

  "He's outside with your Uncle. They caught enough fish for supper this afternoon. They're cleaning and cooking tonight."

  "I'll help!" Backpack, stuffed animals, and a four-foot alien fell like autumn leaves as he raced through the house and out the back door. The dogs raced after him, and I had to lunge to catch the door before they went out.

  "Uh-uh, no way. No fishy dog breath. Not today, my friends." Myrtle sighed and plodded back to her favorite sleeping spot, a plush doggy bed I had to replace every few months because no one had the brains to make one with a waterproof inside, and a removable, washable outside. Yet. The results of their froggy hunting expeditions were constantly soaking their beds.

  I worked on my newest self-help book while they made dinner, and actually got quite a bit done. Natalia, the late murderous fraud from hell, had inspired a section about every life having value, no matter how poorly it was lived. Good stuff.

  By the time Josh yelled, "It's ready, Aunt Rache!" so loud I could hear him on the third floor, I had the new section hammered out, and emailed it to Amy with a "tell me what you think of this" note.

  We ate together at the actual dining room table. Everyone had enjoyed their day. I got to hear Jeremy and Mason’s moment-by-moment recap of their fishing trip, and Joshua’s excited retelling of his day at Hershey Park. There were thirteen roller coasters, but only three worthy of Josh and his pals' time waiting in line.

  Mason and the boys and I had gone there once. It had been a crushing disappointment for me. It was hot. It was crowded–mostly with idiots. And it turned out that the park was not, in fact, made of chocolate. That name is false advertising.

  The fish was so good we cleaned the platter. I convinced the kids to take the dogs for a walk, waved them off, closed the door, turned to Mason and said, “I got something!”

  “So did I,” he replied, and he looked like he’d been waiting as impatiently as I had.

  I said, “You first,” as we headed into the kitchen to stack dishes in the dishwasher. Then I looked around in surprise. "There's not oil and flour everywhere. What gives?"

  "The guys and I tag teamed it. I cooked, they cleaned up as I went along."

  "That is a good system!"

  "Hey. I'll have you know sloppy cooks are the best cooks."

  "I'm going to embroider that on an apron for you someday. Coffee?"

  "Yes."

  I put on a cup of decaf.

  “Rosie texted me the background on the victim,” Mason said.

  “Dwayne Clark of Dilmun, New York."

  He picked up on my excitement and paused. "Yes. Why'd you say it like that?"

  “You first. Tell me the rest.”

  His eyebrows did that bendy thing they do when he’s trying to figure out some odd thing I’ve said. I loved that bendy thing.

  “Dwayne Clark,” he said at length, “Was recently of Dilmun, New York. He moved to an apartment in Binghamton a few weeks ago. He and his wife Juanita were in the middle of a divorce. And there was a nasty a custody battle over their six-year-old son, Juan.”

  “Wait, Juanita named her kid Juan?" I asked. "Isn’t that a little Norma and Norman Bates-ish?”

  “Aha! Sexist!” he said, pointing at me.

  “You’re right. It is.”

  Oh, he looked so smug. “We’ll meet them tomorrow. We’re going to the funeral.”

  “Tomorrow’s Labor Day, babe,” I moved his coffee out of the way, stuck my mug in its place on the one-cup brewer, and deftly switched out the coffee pods. Reusable ones. They were a gift from Misty, who said if we didn’t use them, we hated the planet, so you know, we caved. “It’s Josh’s last day before starting seventh grade.”

  “I haven't forgotten that for a minute,” he said. “Fortunately, the service isn’t until seven. We’ll have the whole day with the boys. And you don’t have to go if you don’t–”

  “The hell I don’t. You need me.”

  “That, I do.” He sipped his coffee. I was jealous that mine wasn’t done yet. “What did you get today?” he asked.

  “I decided to do the Natalia meditation.”

  “With the spiral staircase?”

  “Right. I barely got my big toe on the first step when I remembered what the killer was thinking. Well, not remembered exactly. It just sort of played in my head. Like an ad in the middle of a Youtube video. Unwanted, from outside. And what it said was, ‘He was a malignant tumor that had to be excised from the world.’ So I Googled the phrase, just in case it was something. I mean it was so precise. It felt memorized, not organic. Not to me and not to whoever was thinking it.”

  “And what did Detective Google say?”

  My coffee was done. I took it, added my French V–though it was darn near time for Pumpkin Spice–stirred three times and took a delicious sip. Then I said, "It’s a line from an old horror movie, The Devil’s Lambs, starring Reginald D’Voe.” I sipped some more, savoring the coffee as much as the telling.

  Mason frowned, clearly unsure where I was going. “Didn’t he die recently?”

  “Two weeks ago.” I tapped my phone to bring up the page I’d saved, and turned it his way. The headline read: “Small-town Dilmun, New York plans monument to its most famous resident, the late great Reginald D’Voe.”

  I’d already read the story, of course. Some in Dilmun wanted to memorialize the actor with a statue depicting his role as The Headless Horseman. There was a sketch of a rearing horse with a cape-wearing body, sans head.

  The head was cradled in the crook of the actor's arm, but instead of the sinister sneer and sharply crooked brow the world had come to know and love, this face wore a knowing smile, and was winking. The plan’s opponents said it was undignified and too dark. Supporters said Reggie would’ve loved it. I guessed the jury was still out.

  “He was from Dilmun,” Mason said softly.

  “And so was Dwayne Clark," I reminded him, though he clearly got it. "And the killer was thinking one of the actor’s lines during the murder.”

  Mason nodded slowly. “Could be coincidence. Might just be that the killer is from the same town as the victim, and has probably seen a D’Voe flick or two. Maybe that’s all it is.”

  “Okay, sure, it could be coincidental," I admitted. "Statistically, most killers live near their victims.”

  “Usually with their victims,” he said.

  "And people from Dilmun might be more into D'Voe horror flicks than most. But then why do I keep getting it?”

  “Maybe it’s just–”

  “‘He was a malignant tumor that had to be excised from the world.’ My stuff keeps hitting the Play button on that line. And I don’t get random shit. You know that, Mason. If I’m getting this, then it means something. Jeeze, where have you been the last two years?”

  “Okay.” He held up both hands.

  Yeah, I’d been sliding into pissed off. I hadn’t asked for this thing, but I had it. It was real and it was a part of me. And if Mason didn’t believe in it one hundred percent, then he didn’t believe in me. And that hurt.

  Yes, I was over-sensitive on the issue. The merest hint of him doubting my stuff sent me into an indignant, offended, wounded spiral.

  “Okay,” he said again. “I didn’t think that far into it. You’re right. If you’re getting this, it’s for a reason. Maybe we’ll find out more at the funeral.”

  I lowered my bristles and sipped my coffee. “Did Jeremy mention a problem with one Professor Asshat?”

  “Professor Ashton. And yes, we talked about it this afternoon, out on the water. It was a good day.”

  “I know it was. I’m glad.” I clinked my coffee mug to his. “So he never gave me the details. What did Professor Asshat do?”

  “Gave an assignment to write about a personal trauma in the form of a police report. He told the class to pick the most emotional experience of their lives, and then write it, leaving all emotion out of it.”

  “That’s ki
nd of cruel.”

  “I think it’s kind of brilliant. Cops have to learn to keep their emotions out of their work.”

  “Writing about a trauma reactivates it in your psyche, and therefore, in your life,” I said, quoting one my own tomes, though I'd be pressed to say which one. “He’s had so many traumas. Which one did he pick?”

  “He wrote about his mother abducting him and Josh last year.”

  “Oh hell no.”

  “The professor accused him of making it up. Gave him a zero.”

  I got off the sofa. “Are you fucking kidding me? Hand me my phone. Who does this asshole think he is? Ashton, you said?”

  “Jeremy doesn’t want us to do anything,” Mason said. He gave my sweater a tug and I sat back down beside him. “He says he’s a man now and can handle his own shit.”

  “But he can’t, though. We both know he can’t. Do you think he’s…okay?”

  “I think he’s shaky.”

  I closed my eyes. “Why the hell isn’t he living at home and commuting to school? He could ride in with you if he wanted.”

  “Because he’s trying to grow up,” he said. “And I think we have to let him.”

  I heaved a giant sigh. “Anything else?”

  “He wanted to talk about Eric.”

  Eric? As in your dead brother, whose sons don’t know he was a serial killer? I asked with my eyes.

  “I changed the subject and he let it go, but…I think it’ll come up again.”

  I tipped my head back. Our big fat sofa was there to cradle it. “Kids are hard.”

  “Yeah they are. That’s all I got.”

  “I’m spent.” I reached for the remote and hit the search button. “I think after the boys hit the sack, we should make some popcorn and queue up a classic old horror flick,” I said, as I keyed The Devil’s Lambs into the search bar.

  4

  The setting sun made the surface of Cayuga into a lake of fire. We had an excellent and stunning view of the spectacle from the Dilmun Hills Cemetery, where we’d sidled in behind the mourners without too much interaction. I wore a black tank dress with a sheer black, long-sleeved wrap. I hated wearing black. I made a mental note to put it in my will that no one’s allowed to wear black at my funeral. I want colors. Bright, vivid colors.