Crime Seen

by Victoria Laurie

  ‘‘Did my mother say anything to you?’’ Bree asked. ‘‘Did she tell you anything about who might have murdered her?’’

  I frowned. ‘‘No,’’ I said, which was not quite a lie. Bree’s mother hadn’t actually told me anything—she’d shown me, a technicality that I would work on after I gave the info to Dutch. The last thing I wanted was for the name to mean something to Bree and for her to do something stupid, like confront her mother’s killer.

  ‘‘Well, she’s gone,’’ said Theresa. ‘‘The minute you went into your little trance her energy closed itself off to me.’’

  ‘‘Can’t you get it back?’’ asked Bree. ‘‘I mean, that wasn’t enough time! I didn’t even get a chance to tell her I love her!’’

  ‘‘Hey there,’’ I said, reaching out to place a hand on Bree’s arm as tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘‘She’s just pulled her energy back a little. She’s not gone for good. And trust me, she can hear every single word you say. So if you want to tell her you love her, then by all means, say it out loud or in your head. She’ll hear it both ways.’’

  Bree was again openly sobbing, and I felt like a real shit for taking up the last of her mother’s energy before she had to sever the connection. Theresa, ever the softy, said, ‘‘Bree, I have my appointment book right here. And I have a cancellation at the end of the month. Why don’t I slot you in, and we can try again to reach out to your mom after she’s had some rest, okay?’’

  Bree nodded at the speakerphone and said, ‘‘That’d be fantastic. Thank you.’’

  ‘‘Good. Abby can give you my number, and you call me around this time on the thirtieth, okay?’’

  ‘‘Thanks, T,’’ I said, trying to make a mental note to myself to send Theresa a big fat bouquet of flowers for being such a great friend.

  ‘‘My pleasure. Now I’ve got to fly. Bree, you hang in there and we’ll talk again in a couple of weeks, okay?’’

  After Theresa hung up, Bree collected herself with the help of several tissues and a sip of water. ‘‘I can’t believe how emotional I am,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Sometimes we don’t realize how much we miss someone until we’re faced with hearing from them again.’’

  Bree nodded. ‘‘I gotta get going,’’ she said as she stood up and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. ‘‘Thank you so much for doing this, Abby. You and Theresa are amazing. I can’t believe you need two jobs! If I had your talent, that’s all I’d do.’’

  I smiled but didn’t comment on that one. ‘‘You drive home safe, okay?’’

  ‘‘I will, and if there’s anything I can ever do to repay you, you just ask.’’

  ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind,’’ I said slyly.

  A little later that night there was a knock on my front door. ‘‘Come on in, Dutch,’’ I called from the kitchen, where Eggy and I were snacking on some chips and salsa.

  ‘‘Why are you eating?’’ he asked when he came in and found me happily munching away.

  I slid a chip to Eggy, who crunched it loudly and wagged his tail at the same time. ‘‘I had to close on Fern Street this afternoon and I didn’t have time to grab lunch.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean you didn’t have time? You have the whole day at your disposal,’’ he said.

  I took a long pull from the Coke I was drinking and tried to think up a quick answer to that. I decided changing the subject and putting Dutch on the defensive was the way to go. ‘‘Speaking of all day to get something done, I notice you haven’t gotten your haircut yet.’’

  Dutch ran a hand subconsciously through his hair. ‘‘I had to cancel my appointment. We were in briefings all day.’’

  ‘‘I could cut it for you,’’ I offered.

  ‘‘You can cut hair?’’

  ‘‘Sure!’’ I said while I thought, How hard can it be?

  ‘‘Okay. You want to do it now before we go to dinner?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely,’’ I said, feeling giddy with the combination sugar/caffeine/salt high I was currently experiencing. ‘‘You wet your head down in the sink and I’ll get the scissors.’’

  I raced to the bathroom and dug around in my medicine cabinet for an old pair of haircutting scissors that I kept on hand to use whenever my extra-long locks needed a little trim and I didn’t feel like paying fifty bucks for a haircut. I also grabbed a towel and comb, then headed back to the kitchen. Dutch was seated at the kitchen table with a head full of wet hair, looking a little nervous.

  I flashed him an enthusiastic smile and wrapped the towel around his neck, tucking it into his collar, then began combing his hair. I was about to open with the big news that I knew the first name and physical description of the man who killed Cynthia Frost when the phone rang. Distracted, I glanced at the caller ID. It was Theresa. ‘‘Hey, chick,’’ I said as I answered.

  ‘‘How you feeling?’’ she asked me.

  I tucked the phone between my ear and my shoulder and continued combing Dutch’s hair. ‘‘I’m fine. Just got sucked into the ether for a minute is all.’’

  ‘‘I’m assuming you saw more in that ether than you let on to Bree,’’ Theresa said.

  I picked up the scissors and pulled up a lock of Dutch’s hair. ‘‘I did indeed,’’ I said as I took a tentative snip. ‘‘It was pretty ugly,’’ I added, pulling up another lock.

  ‘‘I’ll bet,’’ Theresa said. ‘‘Listen, the other reason for my call is that Cynthia came back to me this afternoon.’’

  ‘‘You’re kidding,’’ I said as my scissors snipped away.

  ‘‘Not kidding,’’ Theresa said seriously. ‘‘I was giving this guy a reading and in she popped. She basically took center stage and wouldn’t leave until I promised her to deliver a message.’’

  ‘‘To Bree?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Theresa said. ‘‘To you.’’

  I frowned. ‘‘This doesn’t sound like I’m going to like what she had to say.’’

  ‘‘It’s not all bad,’’ Theresa said. ‘‘But she was insistent I get this to you. She wants you to watch over Bree, because she could be in real danger.’’

  I felt goose bumps form on my arms. ‘‘That’s why I didn’t tell her what I saw in the ether,’’ I said. ‘‘I was afraid she’d do something stupid.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, well, you’ll need to watch out for her, Abby. Her mother seemed extremely concerned.’’ Just then my doorbell rang.

  ‘‘Got it, T. Thanks again. I gotta fly.’’ I hung up with Theresa and with a pat on Dutch’s head I said, ‘‘Hold tight, cowboy. Let me see who’s here.’’

  I headed to the door and opened it to find Dave, covered in sawdust and looking frightful. ‘‘Wow, when you clean up you really go all out,’’ I said with a smirk.

  Dave looked down at himself and began to pat his shirt, which sent clouds of sawdust up in the air. ‘‘Sorry about that. I’ve been working on a new project and it’s a little intense.’’

  ‘‘You here for your check?’’ I asked as I turned away from Pigpen.

  ‘‘Yep,’’ he said. ‘‘I just cut your jeweler friend a check and I gotta make sure I have enough in the bank to cover it.’’

  I looked over my shoulder as we crossed into the kitchen. ‘‘I’m proud of you, David. You’re growing up so fast.’’

  Dave rolled his eyes. ‘‘Yeah, well, at least she’s been a good wife all these years.’’

  ‘‘Just think how good she’ll be with a big ’ol rock on her finger,’’ I quipped. ‘‘Have a seat at the table and I’ll get your check.’’

  Dave stepped carefully over the hair on the floor as he walked around the table to sit across from Dutch. ‘‘Getting a haircut, buddy?’’ he said with a pat on Dutch’s shoulder.

  ‘‘Abby’s idea,’’ Dutch replied without much enthusiasm.

  I grabbed my purse from the counter and was about to dig around inside of it for the certified bank check I’d had drawn up for Dave when I happened to catch the look he ga
ve Dutch as he sat down.

  ‘‘What’s the matter?’’ Dutch asked, also catching the expression on Dave’s face, which was a mixture of shock and horror.

  ‘‘Uh...’’ Dave said with wide eyes.

  ‘‘Oh, God,’’ said Dutch, his hand going up to his hair. ‘‘How bad is it?’’

  Dave stood up abruptly. Looking nervously at me, he said, ‘‘You know what? You two are in the middle of this. Why don’t I just stop by in the morning before the bank opens and pick up my check then?’’

  ‘‘Abby!’’ Dutch said as he swiveled around to face me. ‘‘Bring me a mirror!’’

  It was then that I noticed that he looked an awful lot like someone who’d just escaped a close call with a combine. ‘‘See ya!’’ Dave said and he bolted for the front door.

  ‘‘I can fix it!’’ I said as Dutch stood up, his face turning a purplish hue.

  ‘‘Bring... me... a... mirror,’’ he growled. I gulped and shook my head no. ‘‘Fine,’’ he said and yanked the towel from his neck as he moved to go around me.

  I put two hands on his chest and said, ‘‘Wait! I swear I can fix it!’’

  ‘‘I can’t believe I let you do this to me,’’ he said, his expression a mixture of anger and dread.

  ‘‘It’s not that bad!’’ I said, then lunged for his waist, desperate to keep him from looking in the mirror.

  Dutch dragged me to the bathroom. I didn’t let go until he was a foot away from the mirror—and then I ran for it.

  Chapter Nine

  I hung out in my bedroom until the swearing stopped. Then I heard my front door open and close—okay, maybe it did slam a little. After waiting a few extra seconds, I opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked out. ‘‘Dutch?’’ I said tentatively. ‘‘Yo, Dutch!’’ I called a little louder. Eggy came to the door and sniffed at my feet. ‘‘Did he leave?’’ I asked Eggy, who replied by wagging his tail.

  I sighed as I stepped out of the bedroom and picked him up. ‘‘I’ve really done it this time,’’ I said to him. Eggy pumped his tail harder and gave me a slurpy kiss. He agreed.

  Just then I heard the front door open again. I tightly gripped Eggy, preparing to bolt back into the bedroom. We both listened as the TV went on. We waited to see what would happen next. Nothing but the sounds of a ball game filled the silence.

  Finally, I worked up the nerve to venture out into my living room. I found Dutch sitting on the couch with an FBI baseball cap pulled down low on his head. Little tufts of hair poked out under the hat and I worked very hard not to giggle. ‘‘You want some dinner?’’ I said when he didn’t look up as I entered the room.

  ‘‘I called for Thai food from my cell,’’ he said. ‘‘Should be here in twenty minutes.’’ Dutch’s tone was low and even, which meant he wasn’t just pissed—he was super-pissed.

  ‘‘Great,’’ I said as I set Eggy down. ‘‘How about a beer?’’ When in doubt about how to proceed with a very pissed-off boyfriend, offer alcohol—lots of alcohol.

  Dutch gave me one curt nod.

  I hurried into the kitchen and pulled out two beers, and then I grabbed a frosted mug from the freezer. Uncapping the beers, I went back to the living room, set a coaster on the table in front of Dutch, and poured his beer into the frosted mug. When he failed to thank me, I went back to the kitchen and put the chips into a decorative bowl, carrying them and the salsa out to him. ‘‘Nothing goes better with beer than chips and salsa!’’ I said brightly.

  Dutch grunted and switched the channel to CNN.

  I sat down in the leather chair next to the sofa and Eggy jumped into my lap. We all sat in silence watching the television until the doorbell rang. ‘‘I got it!’’ I said, jumping to my feet and hurrying to my purse. ‘‘This one’s on me,’’ I said to Dutch, who continued to moodily stare out from under his cap at the flickering light of the set.

  I paid for the Thai food and took it into the kitchen. There, I put a healthy portion onto a dinner plate and began to walk it out to him, then stopped and swiveled back to the fridge, where I grabbed another beer. ‘‘Here you go,’’ I said as I set the plate and beer down in front of him. I waited several seconds for Dutch to say ‘‘thank you,’’ or ‘‘you’re the best,’’ or ‘‘I appreciate it,’’ but I didn’t get so much as a grunt.

  With a heavy sigh I went back to the kitchen and got my own plate. Taking it back to my chair, I sat down and ate with Dutch in silence. Finally, after an hour, I got up the courage to say, ‘‘I solved your case today.’’

  Dutch slid his eyes to me, then moved them back to the TV.

  ‘‘I know who killed Cynthia Frost.’’

  That was the ticket. Dutch clicked the MUTE button and turned his whole head to look at me. He didn’t say anything; he just waited for me to continue.

  ‘‘I tracked down Cynthia’s daughter today,’’ I said, nervous under his steely glare. ‘‘And I convinced her to let me try and contact her mother using Theresa. We were able to make a connection and Cynthia replayed her murder for me.’’

  ‘‘Go on,’’ Dutch said quietly when I paused.

  ‘‘I got a really good look at the man who killed her. His first name is Ray and I never heard his last name, but I could work with a sketch artist and give you a good idea what he looked like.’’

  Dutch unclipped the cell at his belt and flipped it open. Punching a few keys, he said, ‘‘Hey, Uli, it’s Dutch. I know it’s late on a Friday, but any chance you’re free to come to Royal Oak and do a sketch? My girlfriend is a professional psychic, and she says she has a good description of the guy that murdered Cynthia Frost.’’ There was a pause and Dutch said, ‘‘Great. Here’s the address...’’

  I cleaned up the dishes while we waited for Uli to show up. Dutch continued to ignore me in the living room, so I did a little tidying up around the house. After all, I didn’t want Uli to think I was a slob.

  The doorbell rang about the time I was putting the vacuum away. Dutch got up to answer it. He greeted a beautiful woman of about fifty with wavy brown hair and soft ebony eyes. She wore a gorgeous lavender pashmina over a white silk blouse, skinny jeans, and high heels. Her jewelry was large and chunky, and her hands had slender fingers and prominent veins. She looked every bit the artist and I instantly liked her. ‘‘Welcome,’’ I said as Dutch made the introductions.

  ‘‘Lovely to meet you,’’ she said in a thick German accent.

  I’d noticed that Uli did a double take when she looked at Dutch. After coming in and setting down her bag and sketch pad she turned to him and said, waving to his head, ‘‘What has happened to you?’’

  Dutch’s face turned a shade of pink as he replied, ‘‘My gal here decided to trim my hair while gabbing on the telephone.’’

  Uli’s hand flew to her mouth as she attempted to stifle a giggle. ‘‘I see,’’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘‘After we are done with the sketch, I shall fix for you.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Uli, but I’d hate to put you out—’’

  ‘‘I shall fix for you,’’ she interrupted firmly. ‘‘I was hairstylist back in Germany. I cut many heads. I do good job.’’

  Dutch gave her a tight smile. ‘‘Why don’t you and Abby get started? There’s better lighting in the kitchen.’’

  ‘‘Ja,’’ she said and followed him into my kitchen.

  She and I sat at the table while Dutch went back out to smolder in the living room. While she was setting out her pencils and such, I whispered, ‘‘Can you really fix his hair?’’

  ‘‘Ja,’’ she said. ‘‘I shall fix for him. Next time do not talk while you cut with the scissors.’’

  ‘‘Believe me, that’s the last time I’ll be allowed anywhere near him with so much as a toenail clipper.’’

  Uli started by asking me about the general shape of Ray’s face, nose, lips, ears, and eyes. She offered several sketches of just those features so that I could pick the ones that looked similar.

  She asked me to
sit next to her as she drew so that I could guide her in the basic shapes and shading as she went along. A little into the process I noticed a frown form on her face, and she began to ask me a few questions about Dutch and me, like had I ever been to his office and met any of his coworkers or his boss. I hadn’t, and I couldn’t figure out why she seemed particularly troubled by that information. ‘‘So, you had a vision of this man and that is how you know he is the one who murdered Cynthia?’’

  I told her all about my session with Bree and Theresa and how I’d been sucked back into the energy of that event. I described what I’d seen, how Cynthia seemed to know her killer, and that his name was Ray and that he had snapped her neck like a twig. Uli’s brow furrowed and there seemed to be deep concern in her eyes, but she continued to sketch per my instructions.

  Within about an hour she had a really good sketch going, and after two it could have been a black-and-white photo of the guy. ‘‘That’s him!’’ I said when I saw the final picture. ‘‘Man, Uli, you are really good at this!’’

  ‘‘Ja,’’ she said, but there was a look on her face that was hard and firm. ‘‘Dutch,’’ she called over her shoulder, ‘‘we are finished.’’

  Dutch came into the kitchen looking like he was in a slightly better mood, but that could have been because of the third beer he’d sucked down. As he glanced at the sketch his face changed too, matching Uli’s in its seriousness. He studied the sketch long and hard, then glanced at me and asked, ‘‘Are you positive this is the man you saw?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ I said, giving him a curious look. ‘‘That’s the guy who murdered Cynthia.’’

  ‘‘What are you going to do?’’ Uli asked Dutch.

  Dutch rubbed his face with his hand. ‘‘Damned if I know.’’

  I scowled. I hate being left in the dark. ‘‘Can someone please explain to me what the heck is going on?’’

  Uli ripped off the page from the sketch pad and left it on the kitchen table. ‘‘I won’t say a word until you decide what to do,’’ she said to Dutch. He nodded and then she grabbed him by the arm and pushed him into the chair she’d been sitting in. Turning to me, she said, ‘‘I will need a towel and scissors.’’