A Minister's Ghost: A Fever Devilin Mystery

by Phillip DePoy

  “I’d expect the same,” he told me, stone-faced.

  “Of course.”

  “Won’t you have a seat?”

  He indicated two worn chairs in the tiny reception area. They were made of nicked wood and natty fabric, thirty years past any sense of fashion.

  “Who was it that came to you?” I asked. “I mean, the other ‘nonofficial personnel.’”

  “I’m really not at liberty to say.” He sniffed.

  Then why did you tell me about it at all? I wondered to myself.

  We sat. Gray light somehow found its way into the room through the windows. It only made the room seem ancient.

  “So your autopsy?” I prompted.

  “Standard,” he answered curtly. “Sudden trauma. Both girls died instantly.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary?” I prodded.

  “Like what?”

  “No evidence of anyone else in the car with them,” I suggested, “like hair or skin?”

  “No.” He held his breath a moment. “But there was a strange anomaly. Something you don’t ordinarily see in a case of sudden death or in any accident of this order.”

  “What was it?” I caught his eye.

  “I only found it by accident. I wasn’t satisfied with the toxicology report.” He stopped, at a loss.

  “You mean you thought the girls might have been drinking,” I allowed. “Why else would they let a train run into them?”

  “Not exactly,” he said slowly. “The report had already been run and eliminated that possibility. But the brain chemistry of both victims seemed to indicate elevated 5HT. An excess level of serotonin.”

  “I’m not certain what that is,” I confessed, though it somehow sounded familiar.

  “The brain chemical serotonin,” he lectured, “is the main one that LSD, PCP, and other psychedelic drugs mimic in order to produce the hallucinogenic effects.”

  “That’s right,” I remembered. “During certain folk ceremonies in Mexico, peyote buttons are sometimes ingested and they increase serotonin. I did some research—”

  “So I performed a few more tests,” he interrupted impatiently. “But I didn’t really get a chance to finish everything. That’s what’s got me worried.”

  “You think the girls had taken some sort of hallucinogen?” I didn’t even take the question seriously, knowing the girls.

  “Not exactly,” he admitted. “It’s a tricky thing. Elevated 5HT levels can mean anything from schizophrenia to psychosis, autism, Alzheimer’s disease, anorexia, even blood clotting.”

  “I see,” I responded contritely. “What was your conclusion?”

  “After careful reconstruction of what I believe was their blood chemistry before the accident,” he droned on, “it appears that both girls had a rush of endorphins and neuropeptides, blood vessels were dilated, and blood pressure went down in addition to high levels of serotonin.”

  “You can tell all that?”

  “Or infer it.”

  “And that indicates?”

  “Extreme, prolonged laughter.”

  “Really?” I hadn’t meant to sound so surprised. “They were laughing when they died?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see that you’d want to know why.” I nodded.

  “I mean, I’ve asked around. These girls weren’t the type to have been experimenting with hallucinogenic drugs, but it’s not unheard of that someone might have slipped them something in a soda pop. These teenagers do it all the time at their parties.”

  I realized then that his demeanor reminded me of Jack Webb from the old Dragnet television series. That, in turn, reminded me of my friend Dr. Andrews. Tall, blond Manchester native, a great Shakespeare scholar and a vicious rugby player, Andrews never failed to find himself perpetually fascinated by American television. He had forced me to watch dozens of episodes of that police drama, each, to him, more hilarious than the last.

  “What was your final ruling?” I asked him point-blank. “I mean about the death?”

  “Accidental,” he sighed. “But the boys at the funeral parlor were in such a rush to get their job done for the family, and they can be intimidating. I’m not entirely happy with the finding. I told the sheriff I’d like to run some more tests. Why would they have been laughing like that? I mean, wouldn’t you like some kind of answer that’s better than that?”

  “For example?”

  “Well,” he suggested casually, “if, in fact, someone slipped them a drug at a party, say, then my finding might change from accidental death to murder, you understand. The drug being the actual cause of their untimely demise.”

  Millroy got a phone call then, before I could ask him anything more about his theories. I excused myself with a wave. The phone call was from Skidmore.

  I spent the rest of that Saturday with Lucinda. She had called in sick to her hospital duties. The rain kept her from gardening, so she turned to her indoor variant of the same impulse: cooking. I sat in the kitchen, helping when I could. Mozart French-horn concertos filled the house; we played them over and over, round, golden sounds that were perfect for November rain. We didn’t speak, the music and the rain eased us of that obligation, and I saw no reason to upset her with Millroy’s suspicions until I was more certain of things.

  She was making apple tarts. The pastry was so simple I always marveled at the luxury of the final product. How a cup of flour, an eighth of a teaspoon of salt, a stick of butter, and three tablespoonfuls of ice water could accomplish perfection was beyond me. I attributed it to Lucinda’s touch.

  The apples were fresh-picked, rock-hard Red Delicious, cut in paper-thin crescent slices. Two drops of vanilla and two tablespoonfuls of sugar were added, along with a tiny squeeze of lime. The tarts themselves were less than half an inch thick, cooked to gold. The production of these miracles occupied us well into the early part of the evening.

  Only once, when the horizon turned the same gold as the pastry, did Lucinda stop her work. She looked out at the setting sun and spoke to me without turning.

  “The girls used to love these apple tarts.”

  “You can do this if you want to,” I said as gently as I could manage, “but I can’t see that it does you any good.”

  “Do what?” she asked, still staring at the sunset.

  “Pick at the sore place, needle yourself with thoughts about Tess and Rory. I’ve been doing it too, a little, but it doesn’t help them, and it’s certainly not improving your spirits.”

  “Listen.” She turned. “If you have to try not to grieve about this so you can concentrate, I understand that. But I have to grieve or mourn or whatever you’d call it. I have to do it in my own way and let it wash over me. If I deny it now, it’ll only come back to bite me sometime later.”

  Her eyes were red, her hair uncombed. She sniffed. Her apron was spotless, a deep blue that would soon match the night sky. She had completely given herself over to her spirit, and she was beautiful.

  I envied everything about her in that moment.

  “I wish I could do that,” I confessed softly. “I can’t, but I would really like to be able to let feelings take me over that way and have done with them. My style is more in the way of holding on to pain, pushing it deeper down until it’s a block of granite that dynamite wouldn’t budge.”

  “You’re a deeply troubled individual,” she answered, the whisper of a smile on her face for the first time all day.

  “Exactly what makes me so fascinating.”

  “Is that it?” She returned to her work. “I’ve been trying to put my finger on it.”

  “I’m going to talk to their parents first thing tomorrow,” I said, trying to return to business, “and then to the movie theater to show their picture to a person who was working there.”

  “Why?” She crimped the crust of the tarts to an artful frill.

  “Make sure they actually went to the movies.”

  Lucinda stopped what she was doing, didn’t look at me.

 
“Teenaged girls,” I began before she could object to my plan, “you may be amazed to hear, sometimes tell their parents one thing and do another. It doesn’t make them bad people, it makes them teenaged girls.”

  “So you’ve got to check up on them.” She took a breath to say something stronger, but settled on “I’m too tired to argue. You do what you think’s best.”

  There was proof of just how sad she was. Any other day of her life she would have debated the merits of her nieces until I ran screaming from the house.

  “I’ll stay here again tonight if you like,” I went on, scrupulously avoiding eye contact, “or go on home. Whichever you prefer. Do you want company or peace and quiet?”

  She went back to her work, about to put the tarts into the oven.

  “I don’t like to ask,” she said hoarsely, “but I surely would appreciate it if you’d stay again tonight. I know you don’t have clothes or your things here—”

  “Lucy,” I said, stopping her. “I’m happy to stay.”

  She scooped up the apple tarts, swung open the oven door. It creaked, a pleasant, warm sound.

  “We wouldn’t have to sleep on the sofa again, you know.” She slid the pastries into the oven and closed the door. “You’ve never seen it, but I’ve got a perfectly nice bed upstairs in my room.”

  Four

  Lucinda’s husband had been dead seven years, and my last relationship, with a graduate student at the university where I’d been teaching, had been gone for more than three. Incredible as it might have been to admit, neither of us had slept with anyone since. Lucinda always busied herself with work at the hospital; I’d been back home in the mountains for two years writing or researching, occupied with my work. Hollywood movies or New York television about urban sociology paint a picture of human sexuality that would shame a bacchanalian. But I’ve found that the genuine experiences of most honest Americans who live in small towns is much more sedate, slow moving—and secretive. Lucinda and I were in a glacially paced courting mode.

  Until the events of that night sped up the pace of our interaction significantly.

  Suffice it to say that the details of our mutuality will go to the grave with me, except to report that the process was gentle, silent, and slow enough to take up the entirety of that night.

  I was out of bed at dawn. Lucinda had just fallen asleep. I wanted to get an early start on the day, and I knew if I allowed myself to fall asleep, I wouldn’t continue my investigation until the middle of the afternoon.

  Lucinda’s bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn. A painted wooden angel hung over the headboard of her oak Lincoln bed. The rest of the room was stark, clean. The wooden floors were polished glassy. The only other piece of furniture was a large antique wardrobe with deer carved into the top piece.

  The promise of morning sun tantalized through the edges of the curtains. I crept into the bathroom, took a quick shower. I put back on the same clothes I’d been wearing the day before and tiptoed downstairs.

  I considered for a moment that I wouldn’t make it through the day without going home and making my requisite espresso. I finally opted for an English muffin and three mugs of Earl Grey tea.

  Ten minutes later, only slightly invigorated by the breakfast, I made it to my truck and slipped off the parking brake. In relative silence the truck rolled far enough to make it out of Lucinda’s yard before I had to start the engine.

  The morning was dawning much more pleasantly than the day before. Clouds were few, birds were abundant. The sky was turning blue quickly, the hard blue of November days.

  I had debated over and over about contacting the girls’ parents. I wanted to ask them a few questions, and a phone call seemed too cold. I was afraid to call them at all, in fact, because it’s easier to hang up on a person than it is to turn that same person away from your door. I thought if I showed up on their front porch, I could be done with my work and leave them alone in short order.

  I knew as I was driving to their house that my plan was ill-advised, but I couldn’t see an alternative. On the other hand, I knew well that I was sleep-deprived, caffeine deficient, and generally insensitive. Confusion was my only touchstone.

  I considered then that I ought not to be allowed to roam freely, that some sort of county ordinance should be passed requiring me to stay a hundred yards away from most decent folk.

  The Dyson household, the only home Tess and Rory had ever known, was a grand, white construction, Victorian and stately. It was close to Blue Mountain’s courthouse, on Main Street, only several blocks from the business center of town. Mr. Robert Dyson was head of our county school system if I remembered correctly what Lucinda had told me about him. I couldn’t recall his title. Lucinda and Robert were not especially close, and for that reason there had always been some tension between Lucinda and her sister Sara, who had married Robert when she was too young. Tess and Rory were the only children, and the true link between the sisters. Mrs. Sara Dyson, née Foxe, was a tireless churchwoman in Blue Mountain’s tiny Catholic community. Lucinda always said that Sara had converted to irritate her husband. Mr. Dyson was a Baptist. The religious disparity had raised eyebrows in town twenty years ago, but the dispute was an old, tired one when the century turned.

  The Dyson house was pristine from the outside, a small front yard with a brick walkway that ran from the street to the large wraparound porch. The door was dark red, the only spot of real color: the trim was battleship gray and the gingerbread frofrou on the facade was charcoal.

  There was no sign of life in the house. I parked on the street and got out of my truck. Instantly the blinds in the front room fell, as if the house were squeezing its eyes shut.

  I stood a moment in the street, uncertain what to do. I realized that I probably looked a fright, no change of clothes in three days, black leather jacket, strange high-top tennis shoes still a little soggy. Before I could make up my mind, the front door flew open. A burly man in a white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, appeared in the doorway.

  I waved. He stood frozen.

  “Is that Mr. Dyson?” I ventured, heading his way.

  “I’m certain you can understand, Dr. Devilin,” he began coldly, “that we’re not really in the mood for company. We’re preparing to go to a funeral. I don’t mean to be rude.”

  “Yes, sir,” I interrupted, heading up the walkway. “I only have one or two questions. It’s really more for Lucinda than anything else.”

  “I can’t fathom what questions would help my wife’s sister understand this any better than I do,” he answered, his voice hardening.

  “Lucinda’s got it into her head—,” I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t hear it.

  “I know what she thinks. She’s called. And to tell you the truth, I think she’s right. There’s not a chance in this world that my little girls just sat there and let a train run into them. They were deliberately killed.”

  He stepped back, about to close the door.

  “Let me help find out what happened, then,” I said quickly, picking up my pace toward him. “That’s exactly what Lucinda wants.”

  Deliberately killed? I was thinking.

  “Sheriff Needle said you might come by,” Mr. Dyson said, his voice rasping. “He told me not to talk to you. He said the same thing to Judy, I’m sure. Go home. This is a police matter. If you don’t leave now, I’ll have to call someone and tell them you’re trespassing here.”

  He slammed the door. There were low voices inside, then silence.

  I stood, foolishly, on their front lawn in a golden autumn morning, trying to figure out why my best friend, Sheriff Skidmore Needle, had warned these people against me.

  It seemed clear to me that Mr. Dyson was serious, that he would surely call the police if I didn’t leave.

  I got back in my truck, sat for a moment thinking what to do. Though it happened rarely, I had been run off from mountain cabins a few times when I was trying to collect folk material, even shot at twice. But the shock of a profe
ssional man in one of the grandest homes in town all but booting me off his lawn had me momentarily stunned.

  All that came to me, thanks to Mr. Dyson’s mentioning her, was the memory of the pumpkin-carving contest the girls had won, and Lucinda telling me that the fabled “Aunt” Judy lived on the same street where I was parked.

  What was her last name? I fumbled, closing my eyes to concentrate.

  After a moment, mostly to ease the Dysons’ minds, I started my truck and pulled away from in front of their house. I turned the corner and parked on the side street, got out, and stared down the street.

  Her name is Judy Dare, I remembered in a flash.

  Pleased with my powers of memory, I started down Main Street again, hoping the name Dare would appear on a mailbox.

  Hope proved unnecessary. Before I had surveyed half a block, another door on Main Street opened, and a child’s voice called my name.

  “Dr. Devilin!” A stage whisper.

  The house with the open door was a brick Tudor-style, half-timbered above the door. A screened-in porch to one side was obscured by floor-to-ceiling bamboo blinds. The front door, rounded at the top, was painted red. It was on the other side of the street from the Dyson house, and two doors down.

  The lawn was perfectly manicured. A fieldstone walkway led straight from the sidewalk to the door through a thick carpet of weedless grass. I could not make out the figure in the doorway, she stood back from the entrance.

  “Yes?” I finally answered, trying my best not to sound startled.

  “Come on in!” A little hand beckoned furtively, adding urgency to her voice.

  I looked around. I was alone on the sidewalk; not a car was in sight on the street. I crossed and headed up the walk.

  “I’m hoping that you’re Judy Dare,” I ventured.

  “You know perfectly well who I am,” she chided lightly, stepping into the doorway.

  She stood three feet and eleven inches tall, a blond, attractive woman in her late twenties. She wore a chic blue dress, very adult couture for such a child’s frame. When I got closer, I was able to see a more mature face than I had expected. There would have been no mistaking her for a little girl. Her eyes were filled with seven or eight lifetimes; her expression betrayed a complexity of mind I had rarely seen in the mountains or in Atlanta.