Speak of the Wicked (Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery: A Cozy Mystery on Kindle Unlimited Book 9)

by Lotta Smith

“Then again, we don’t want you to hear about certain things,” Mr. Macomber interjected while Father Harten froze with deep frown lines between his eyes.

  “Why not?” Karen cast an intense look at him.

  “Michael would never want you to learn about it,” Mr. Macomber said sadly, shaking his head. “He’d been keeping it from not just you, but from the outside world as well.”

  “Oh my God….” Looking at the two older men, Jackie blushed. I gave her an inquisitive look, but all she did was shake her head and turn pink. Yes, you heard me right. Despite being a ghost, she turned pink, which was an extremely rare color for ghosts.

  “Yes, the secrecy is meant to be for Mr. Rosenberg’s sake as much as for yours,” Father Harten muttered. His voice was hoarse, his eyes dark.

  “Okay, so you guys are talking about sub rosa,” Rick suddenly chimed in with a chipper tone that sounded out of place. He even flashed a wide grin, as if he was totally enjoying this conversation. “Now I get it. Everything was about retribution, right? And I’d say an ugly one at that.”

  “Rick?” Clueless, I looked at him. All I could guess based on my little knowledge of Latin was that it seemed like something related to roses.

  “Father Harten, Mr. Macomber, and Mr. Tillard, the three of you have been working in cahoots since the very beginning of tonight’s stunt, right?” he said. “The reason for having this séance thing was your way of payback.”

  “No,” Father Harten responded in a strong tone. “Revenge was never our interest. All we want is to make him turn himself over to the police.”

  “Oh yeah?” Rick cocked his head to the side. He was talking in the mocking tone he used whenever he wanted to tick someone off. He’d often used that tone with me when I began working as his assistant at the FBI.

  “Are you an imbecile? I’ve been telling you that revenge has never been my intention, and—”

  “Why don’t we give this argument a rest?” Ken interrupted. His voice, trained in the decades of his stage career, was deep and clear. It enchanted the audience, making them shut up because they wanted to hear his voice instead of the chatter and buzz of the crowd.

  Just like his audience, we shut up. And as our eyes focused on him in silence, he suddenly looked down at the table as if he couldn’t bear being the center of attention.

  I tilted my head to the side, having a bit of difficulty fathoming his behavior, but Jackie commented by my side. “I think he’s a really quiet person off stage. There are two types of actors out there. One type must always be actors, and they have to be the center of the universe all the time—indeed, that type of drama queen seeks attention until they literally drop dead. The others are ones who don’t want to attract attention when they’re not acting. I think Ken Tillard is the latter.”

  Ken cleared his throat, then mumbled, “Look, even when things don’t go as written in the scenario, every show must go on until the curtain falls. You can’t just tell Mrs. Rosenberg about certain parts of her husband’s death and expect her to accept everything as it is. Why don’t we come clean about everything with her first? We can work out the rest later.”

  That time, Tillard’s tone was subdued, but his voice hadn’t lost the resonance.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mr. Macomber and Father Harten exchanged glances. After that, the priest took a deep breath and opened his mouth. “I met Michael in the confession room of my church. He seemed tipsy at that time. Perhaps he’d been having a drink, and with the help of alcohol, he developed a need to talk about his issue to someone.”

  “Church?” Karen muttered. “He’d never been religious.”

  By her side, Mr. Macomber slumped his shoulders, covering his face with both hands.

  Father Harten continued, frowning. “We somewhat hit it off at our first session, and following that, he occasionally dropped by at the church. As we became closer, we visited the cafés and lounges he used to invest in, and it didn’t take long for him to invite me to his condo in Gramercy. In retrospect, I’m assuming he came to trust me partly because I’m a priest, and he eventually disclosed some of his secrets that he’d never shared with others. One of them was about his hidden cameras.”

  “Hidden cameras? Why did he—” Karen’s eyes widened.

  “Well….” Father Harten fumbled with his words. “Michael liked to have company at his condo… and he was particularly fond of shooting documentary videos of his visitors. He asked me to get rid of his secret videos in case something happened to him and he couldn’t discard them on his own.”

  “I don’t understand.” Karen wrinkled her forehead. “Why did he take videos of his visitors? I knew he used that condo to work on his investment strategies and relax, but why did he record his visitors? I mean, not just recording but using hidden cameras….”

  “Look, Karen, your husband had a slightly different side than the one he used to show you.” Mr. Macomber groaned.

  “And this hidden side of Mr. Rosenberg would only be seen sub rosa,” Rick interjected, crossing his arms.

  “Sub rosa—under the rose,” Karen muttered. “I’ve read somewhere that roses are the symbol of secrecy, but I’m not so sure.”

  “According to Greek mythology, Aphrodite—the goddess of love, beauty, and desire—had many lovers outside her marriage to Hephaestus. Whatshisname, the beautiful god of war, was one of them. Eros, her son, witnessed her affair with the god of war, so in order to keep Eros from snitching about her affair to other gods, Aphrodite begged Harpocrates, the god of secrets, to keep her son’s blabber mouth shut. A red rose was gifted to him as a token of gratitude,” Rick explained. “Since then, roses symbolize secrets.”

  “I wonder how Greek people keep track of all those gods and goddesses.” Jackie rolled her eyes. “There are too many of them, and whenever I had a small role as a not-so-famous god, I always had difficulty memorizing the name of my own character.”

  Karen tilted her head to the side and stayed that way, as if to absorb Rick’s words. “Okay, what does that have to do with my husband?”

  “I have a hunch that the condo in Gramercy was the rose for him,” Rick responded, uncrossing his arms.

  Karen gasped sharply. “You mean… he was meeting his mistress… or mistresses?”

  Rick glanced at Father Harten, Ken Tillard, and Mr. Macomber and shook his head. “I don’t think he had mistresses.”

  The trio of men squirmed uncomfortably in silence.

  “If Father Harten indeed had the video capturing the murder of Mr. Rosenberg, he could have brought it to the police in the first place. But considering he elected to hold this ridiculous séance thing instead and is still insisting that making Mr. Grasso turn himself in to the police was his purpose for this circus, it means he wanted to avoid going to the police and reporting the murder like any other law-abiding citizen at all costs. At first, I couldn’t figure out why, but….” Rick cleared his throat. A corner of his lips twitched, threatening to curl up into a grin, but he seemed to be keeping himself from laughing. “Mr. Rosenberg, the patriarch of a dignified family with influences to the world of businesses and politics as well, was in an intimate relationship with a priest. Also, I’m assuming the cafés and lounges he used to visit weren’t your regular places for coffee, drink, and eatery. Anyway, the late Mr. Rosenberg must have had many more lovers other than Father Harten. On top of it all, he had all the juicy details captured on video. That’s a hell of a scandal.”

  The priest was silent, bowing his head—but his silence was much louder than a million words.

  “Intimate relationship with Michael? As in lovers? With a priest, of all people?” Karen sat there frozen.

  Without acknowledging her, Rick moved his gaze toward the men again. “I’m assuming you guys have more dirty laundry. Considering the three of you have been working together so far, you guys share each other’s secrets, including but not limited to sexual preferences. Or perhaps all of you starred in the video. That explains why you never submitted
it to the police.”

  None of them objected. Each of them turned red and then pale, as if their blood disappeared from their bodies into some imaginary place.

  “Hey, how did you hide the video and cameras before the police investigation started? I get that the video data didn’t stay in the condo as it was sent to the external server, but the cameras should have stayed there. I’m quite interested in spy cameras that are so discreet even the police missed them,” Rick asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve meddled with the crime scene.”

  “We didn’t do anything to meddle with the crime scene,” Ken Tillard said through clenched teeth. “At least I didn’t. Had I known that everything was recorded, I never would’ve gone there. How can I tamper with something I never knew existed? I don’t know how the police missed them.” He was as red as a beet.

  “Fine.” Rick shrugged. “I can see you didn’t take an active part in hiding the video. To be honest, I have a hunch you would have destroyed it instead of just hiding it.”

  Karen looked at Ken and then Rick. “The police seemed to regard his death as an accident from the beginning, but….” She covered her face with both hands.

  “Hmm… perhaps they might have simply overlooked the hidden cameras.” Rick nodded at Karen. Turning to the trio of secret-keeping men, he went on. “Anyway, you guys decided to turn Mr. Grasso in to the police without utilizing the video footage. If the video is submitted, the NYPD would definitely want to know how it was captured and, of course, who the starring characters are. Editing it would have been out of the question, as you couldn’t doctor the video without leaving traces. By all means, turning the alleged killer in to the police had the risk of said police growing suspicious of you three hombres, so you didn’t want to use the video unless absolutely necessary. Then again, you didn’t have other evidence. That’s why you decided to have this silly séance thing, faking a visit from the late Mr. Rosenberg’s spirit, hoping Mr. Grasso would make a tearful confession, followed by turning himself in.”

  “Oh my God!” Jackie wailed by my side, clutching her head in both hands. “I can’t believe Ken Tillard—and I mean, the Ken Tillard, the boss man of Broadway—resorted to such audacity.”

  I wanted to say some comforting words to her, but I refrained from talking. I was still in front of people who couldn’t communicate with dead people. On top of all that, they had been conducting an absolutely fake séance until just minutes before—without the slightest clue of yours truly looking for said spirit with hawk eyes and the ghost of a drag queen snickering that the self-proclaimed psychic medium was fake. Without actually speaking, I tried to communicate my sympathy to Jackie. Hey, your hero often turns out to be a loser, you know, I thought, hoping she’d catch on. Considering Ken’s an actor, him being gay isn’t a problem, right? I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to point out that she used to date gentlemen when she was alive, so I tried not to think about that part.

  “I know what you’re trying to tell me, Mandy.” Jackie shook her head sadly. “Not that there’s anything wrong with him being gay, but… aiding and abetting is a whole new low. Considering he elected to participate in this phony séance thing, and he chose not to go to the police and share what he knows with them, he chose to be silent to keep himself out of the scandal instead of doing the right thing. In my opinion, that’s aiding and abetting!” she fumed. I suspected her anger had something to do with her past of being murdered with absolutely no clue about her killer for years.

  In the meantime, while my ghostly pal was having difficulty coming to terms with her longtime hero’s hidden side and the possible crime he’d committed, the living humans were having their own drama.

  “Why don’t you shut up for a moment, young man?” Mr. Macomber snapped at Rick, glaring at him with pure hate. “Stop treating us like a bunch of idiots! We were doing great. If it weren’t for your acerbic remarks, denying every part of the paranormal activities as some scientifically conducted pranks, we would have already turned that SOB in to the police! Don’t you ever get the big picture? You might be a former FBI agent, but all you’ve done so far is obstruct us from serving justice! Shame on you!”

  As the politician went on with his tirade, Rick remained silent.

  I cast a cautious glance at him, because whenever he was quiet while being admonished, it was a synonym for danger. I had a hunch he was plotting a million ways to strike back at the bossy counterpart. Then again, considering Mr. Macomber was a USCAB customer, offending him too much didn’t seem like a clever idea.

  Then I noticed a hint of a lopsided grin threatening to appear at the corner of Rick’s lips, which was so typical of him. He had this annoying habit of enjoying a chuckle at other people’s expenses. And he especially loved to see that kind of person who had status, authority, and so on fuming like a locomotive on meth. Also, from my experience, Rick Rowling himself was often the very person who was responsible for driving them crazy in the first place. You might wonder what brought me to marry such a cocky guy, but he has a sweet and soft side as well.

  I was going to whisper, “Hey, I don’t know what you’re thinking about telling him, but don’t,” in his ear, but before I had a chance, Karen interjected.

  “Wait a moment, will you please?” Even at such an occasion of full-blown stress, her elegant, ladylike attitude didn’t seem to be rattled at all. She took a deep breath and looked at Father Harten with brimming eyes. “Did he… did Michael prefer men over women as his partners in bed?”

  No one answered her question. Father Harten was silent as before, Mr. Macomber massaged his temples as if he’d suddenly developed a headache, and Ken Tillard opened his mouth to say something… except no words came out. Rick responded with just a slight twitch of an eyebrow. Perhaps that question might have been something unexpected even for him.

  As for Jackie, she said, “Look, Karen… I don’t know how to express it to you, but I’m a bit surprised that you’re asking this question now. Had your husband kept his sexual preference from you all those years?”

  The ghost glanced at me as if she expected me to relay her words to the widow. I looked the other way so I didn’t have to respond.

  After a long silence, Father Harten bowed his head. “Mrs. Rosenberg… perhaps you’re flabbergasted with my gall to appear in front of you. I… I should have stayed out of your way. I’m deeply sorry. Still, I couldn’t sit around, knowing Mr. Grasso had—”

  “You know, I used to believe Michael didn’t care about me,” Karen said, interrupting the priest’s speech. Without even glancing at him, she looked at the night spreading outside the windows and smiled fondly.

  “Look, my marriage to him was arranged by his late uncle, who sort of forced him into marrying me. In retrospect, I think I was selected just because I was young and I’d never appeared on Page Six before. After trying to produce offspring without success, we started to sleep separately. We used to visit the clinic periodically for a while but at some point, both of us got tired of trying. He said he didn’t want to wake me up at odd hours, but I assumed he had other reasons. Anyway, I came to believe that Michael didn’t love me at all.”

  Karen stood up slowly and approached the window with broken glass. “Still, I didn’t want to separate from him… much less a divorce. Even though he ceased to make love to me, he’d been always kind to me. I’ve seen more than my share of ex-wives of Mr. Big-type men in the Upper East Side, and I didn’t fancy turning into one of them—haughty, arrogant, always trash-talking about anyone who looks happier than them, when in fact they’re so lonely and empty inside they can barely breathe. Some say you’re better off walking out of a loveless marriage, but I didn’t believe so. Then again, our marriage was nice in its own way. We never fought or argued, and every moment we were together went past so quietly. Peacefully, even. Of course, it was a loveless marriage, but I couldn’t throw it away.”

  She picked up a large piece of the broken glass.

  �
��Karen, you have a serious misunderstanding,” Mr. Macomber interjected in a determined tone. “Michael wasn’t capable of physically loving the female body. Then again, he always used to tell us that you were the only living lady whom he called his family. He thought about a divorce so you could be a free woman and live your life, but he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. He once told me in his drunken stupor that it was his ego, that he needed to keep you with him in a little birdcage…. Regardless of whatever happened, he loved you as a person—and, of course, the roses you grow.”

  “You think so?” When she turned, the glass flickered, reflecting the candlelight.

  “I think Michael felt remorse over keeping you in a marriage that was much different from your ideal, but he dreaded losing you,” Mr. Macomber went on. “Believe me, you’re the only lady he’d ever needed so badly in his life.”

  Karen closed her eyes in silence for a brief moment. When she opened them, she said, “If that’s the case, I feel so—” Pausing like she was looking for the best word, she finally smiled. “—happy.”

  “Look, Karen, Mr. Macomber is right. Of course, I know it’s hard to believe us, after attempting to trick you into this,” Ken chimed in, looking at the Ouija board uncomfortably. “Still, Michael’s love for you was true.”

  Karen nodded slowly and looked out the window again, almost as if she was expecting to see her late husband coming back.

  “On a lazy weekend afternoon, Michael and I used to have tea at the table decorated with a ton of roses, chatting about nothing and everything. Those are the moments I cherished more than anything. Whenever we did that, it was either raining or snowing, because they don’t play golf in bad weather. I still love rainy days….” Whispering with dreamy eyes, she fiddled with the piece of glass.

  The way her hands moved looked so clumsy. Fearing she might cut herself, I stood up and scurried toward her. Smiling, she reached for my hand with her free one. As I looked at the glass shard, I asked, “May I?” She handed it to me.