Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2)

by Lawrence Kelter

  He unwrapped his scarf and took off his coat. He was wearing a merino turtleneck that accentuated the contours of his formidable physique. I felt my lungs filling with air—usually a prelude to subtle chest heaving. I caught myself. This was not the time or place to ignite a spark. Under the right circumstances, Twain and I were as combustible as seasoned kindling wood. I didn't want to go up in a ball of flames in front of Ma and Ricky. I averted my eyes, wondering if Twain noticed that I had done so intentionally.

  Twain cleared his throat. "Ricky's making some lovely progress. He's growing stronger on an emotional level every day."

  I looked at Twain in fond admiration. He was my dark sentinel, a friend I had learned I could always count on. "That's great news." I said this despite the fact that I knew that Ricky was still several pine trees short of a forest. Forgive me, Anne Robinson. "You've done wonders with him. You're a good friend, Nigel." He blushed from the compliment.

  Ma's door was unlocked. I knocked and then pushed it open.

  Ma raced out of the kitchen. "Hello, sweetheart." It was good to see her out of a housecoat. She was wearing tan slacks and a loose fitting seed stitch sweater with a fresh gravy stain on the sleeve. We kissed and then stepped apart.

  "Good security, Ma," I said, motioning to the unlocked door.

  "Bah." She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. "I just unlocked it. Besides," she continued with a smile, "I got a man in the house." She focused on Dr. Twain. "Doctor, please come in. Give me your coat." She leaned forward, kissing his cheek and taking his coat in one motion.

  "Hello, Mrs. Chalice. A pleasure as always."

  "Chal-e-say, " Ma cooed as she gently swayed her shoulders. "Don't you love the way Dr. Twain pronounces our name, Stephanie?"

  Amen. "Ah, it's alright," I said, giving Twain a playful wink. I wondered if he had the same effect on Ma that he had on me—God, how could he not?

  "Did my daughter invite you for dinner? I'm making spedini."

  "Yes, actually—she did. Thank you for the invitation. I don't think I've ever tried that before—what exactly is spedini?

  There was a note of apprehension in Twain's voice. Can you imagine him concerned over the taste of homemade Italian food? Him, a citizen of the country whose most notable culinary contributions to the world were haggis and shepherd's pie? Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable.

  "I take the thinnest veal cutlets and roll them up with bread crumbs, butter, garlic, parsley, and Pecorino Romano." She kissed her fingertips. "You'll love it."

  "I'm sure I will." He closed with a charming smile. "Is Ricky ready for our session?"

  "I just heard the TV go off," Ma replied.

  "Then I'll go straight to it." Twain squeezed past me in order to get to Ricky's room. He brushed up against my backside in the process. I'll be damned if it didn't feel like he was packing heat. "Pardon," Twain apologized. He looked a tad embarrassed as he hurried by. No complaints from me.

  Twain knocked on Ricky's door and then entered, closing the door behind him.

  "Madonna," Ma whispered. "May God forgive me, that man—"

  "Ma.” I exaggerated my surprise.

  "And that voice—ah."

  My eyes widened.

  She slapped herself playfully on the cheek. "It's like a romance novel come to life...and he makes house calls. It's like a visit from Sidney Poitier."

  Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. Ma's analogy was a bit dated—nonetheless the message was loud and clear. I certainly knew what she was talking about. She had been spiritually dead since my dad's death. I was glad to see she was still alive, even if she needed God's forgiveness after every tiny transgression.

  In the next instance, she was crossing herself, "God forgive me."

  See what I mean?

  "It's alright, Ma," I explained. "He's a handsome, sophisticated man—no one blames you for looking."

  "It's blasphemous."

  "Having a pulse is not blasphemy. How sad would it be if you spent the rest of your life ignoring works of art like that? It's not as if you jumped on top of him in the middle of Fifth Avenue. For God's sake, Ma, you're still á young woman. You've still got a few good years left."

  "It's not right. I shouldn't have these thoughts."

  "Live a little, Ma. Take a good hard look at his fanny and then go to church and say a dozen Hail Mary's. It won't kill you. We're Catholic, remember? We believe in the forgiveness of sin."

  Ma glared at me and then turned and headed toward the kitchen. "No more, Stephanie. Your father, God rest his soul—"

  "Was the most wonderful man that ever lived," I said, completing her sentence. "All the same, Ma, life should be lived to the fullest. None of us knows how much time we have." I wasn't advocating that she abandon decency and run naked through the streets fornicating with every available man she could get a hold of, but I had almost lost her a few months back. She's still a young woman and I don't want to see her spend the rest of her life denying herself of...well...everything.

  "Help me get dinner ready," she said as she tied an apron around her waist. She was building to a frenzy, becoming absorbed in her work. "The spedini's ready to go into the oven—help me with the potatoes and the melanzana." Her hand flew up to her mouth. She crossed herself again. "I didn't mean to say that."

  I searched the counter. "All I see is cauliflower. Madonna, Ma, melanzana? You can't get him off of your mind." For those of you who don't know, melanzana is the Italian word for eggplant. It's also slang, a reference to a black person. It's akin to calling an Italian a wop. Believe me, Ma didn't mean it in a derogatory sense.

  Ma spun around. She pinned me with one hand and shook the other. "I'm going through the changes—one minute hot, one minute cold—I'm losing my mind. I'm feeling things I haven't felt in years. There are thoughts in my head...oh my God, I'm afraid to say."

  I gasped. The dreaded changes...it was a subject I knew little about. I mean, I understood the process, biologically speaking, but the stories I'd heard over the years—the intense emotional changes a woman goes through—was not a subject I was expert in. Thank God. I had already bitten off more than I could chew and the last thing on earth I was prepared for was a discussion on my mother's hormonal surges. My mind was racing through a litany of possible things to say. I was searching for something clever. The best I could manage was, "Oh."

  "Is that all you have to say?" She shook my shoulders. "I need help, Stephanie, serious friggin help. My mind's fuzzy and my antiperspirant's not doing its job." She checked her underarm for dampness and wrinkled her nose. "Finish up," she barked as she blew out of the kitchen. "I have to change."

  I took a deep breath and called after her. "You want the cauliflower sautéed or steamed?" I didn't expect an answer.

  Ma stole glances at Twain while we ate. She was good at it, peeking when everyone's eyes were focused down at the table. It was as if she had been trained in covert protocol and would've gotten away with it completely had I not been on the lookout.

  Twain and Ricky finished up their session while Ma and I did the dishes. I could feel her eyes on me and knew she wanted to pick up on the conversation we had begun before dinner. I played with her, staring at the dirty dishes, ignoring her gaze.

  "So what's with you?" she said. "You're over him? Just sitting across the table from that man—dear God."

  I broke up. Ma snapped a dishtowel at my butt. "Over what? I'm spoken for."

  Ma gritted her teeth and showed me the back of her hand. "You're such a rotten kid." She checked her armpit again. "My God, these hormones...it's a curse."

  "Tell him."

  "Tell him what?"

  "How you feel."

  "Get real."

  "Then take a cold shower."

  She smacked me on the arm. "You're no help at all. Change the subject. What kind of case are you working on?"

  "Kidnapping."

  "Madonna. That's terrible. Pretty little blonde girl I'll bet—how old?"

  "No, M
a, nothing like that."

  "Details, Stephanie, give me details. All of a sudden you're a woman of few words?"

  Sorry, didn't mean to be cryptic. "I'm just preoccupied, Ma." I was thinking about the Nostradamus angle. It was puzzling, after all. I didn't believe the spiritual implications, but I kept considering it. Ma had always been a good sounding board so I figured why not. "Say, do you believe in all that spiritual connection type of thing?"

  "Come again?"

  "You know, mysticism, fru-fru...communication from beyond the grave?"

  "You're nuts, do you know that? We were discussing that poor little blonde girl. What the hell are you talking about now?"

  "Humor me. It has something to do with my case."

  "Be more specific."

  "Do you believe that we can communicate with the dead?"

  Ma shook her head and pressed her lips together. "Where's the anisette? I need a good stiff one."

  I gave Ma one of those obvious winks and poked my head in the direction of Ricky's bedroom. I didn't have to say anything. I snickered. She belted me and then went off in search of after dinner libation. Ma offered me a shot but I declined. She sipped at the liquor, clearing her throat as the alcohol burned its way down.

  "No!" she said resolutely.

  "No, what?"

  "No, there is no communication with the dead. The dead don't talk. They don't walk. They don't eat. They don't pee. I know it and you know it, so why in God's name would you ask?"

  "Just checking. Is there anyone else you can date? How about Morris down the hall? He's still got a full head of hair."

  Ma's eyes grew wide. "What the hell is wrong with you?" She tapped me on the head. "You got a loose wire or something? Would you stick to one topic?"

  I giggled.

  Ma wrinkled her nose. "You date that old codger." She kissed me on the cheek. "Bitch," she said as she chuckled. "Tell me about that poor little blonde girl and don't change the subject."

  I was still smiling as I began telling her about Manny's abduction, in hypothetical terms of course. More importantly, Ma had confirmed what my instincts had told me from the get go-Manny's abduction would be solved with details and good solid case investigation. The answers were in the here and now and not in the what was or might someday be. Mothers know and Ma knows best of all. Case closed on the Nostradamus angle.

  Twelve—GUNS

  The good Dr. Twain had come via subway and was happy to go home the same way, but I had my unmarked, so I offered him a ride. It occurred to me during dinner that Dr. Twain possessed a comprehensive knowledge of the Renaissance. The drive gave me an opportunity to pick his brain and see if he could offer any info on the works of Nostradamus. Experience had taught me that Nigel Twain was wise in areas most were not.

  Ma's dinner was delicious and we drank lots of jug wine—it was inexpensive, but it was damn good. I was feeling a bit flushed as I got into the car. I ripped off my coat and threw it on the back seat. I fastened my seatbelt and got comfortable behind the wheel. I caught a glimpse of Twain ogling me discretely. It was then that I realized what I looked like—the seatbelt was running diagonally down the center of my chest. I was wearing a shoulder rig. My boobs looked huge. I closed my eyes momentarily. Just peachy. I looked like some kind of neo-Nazi techno-dominatrix, replete with a large caliber sidearm. I wondered if that turned him on.

  I flashed him a quaint smile. He returned one of his own. We were both clearly uncomfortable. Twain had made it clear early in our relationship that his interests in me ran way beyond professional. I had never shared my feelings with him—all the same, I think he had more than an inkling about what went on in my head.

  The wine was still in my system—not enough to impair my judgment—I am not a DWI girl. All the same, I could feel waves of heat flowing over me. God, I hope I wasn't all red. I was too embarrassed to check myself in the rearview mirror. I looked forward and cranked the engine, threw the unmarked into drive, and pulled away from the curb. His eyes were on me all the way to the first red light. I'll be damned...he was looking directly at my chest. Now I was getting turned on. Isn't it great having a light buzz?

  I was beginning to overheat while waiting for the light to change. "You have to admit, we Italians can cook." Look, I was desperate. I didn't know what to say. I was on the verge of a meltdown and didn't want it to show, so I said the first thing that came to mind—believe me, I was considering several more forward remarks, Want to get a room? My place or yours? Or the ever popular, Strip and let's have at it.

  "Luscious."

  I can't believe that he was still staring—was he talking about dinner or...

  "I must have the recipe." Aw, how disappointing, he was talking about food, but he was still staring.

  I was ready to pull over and go for him when an image flashed in my mind. I was in a boxing ring, seated in the corner—sweaty, panting. Lido was fanning me with a towel and flicking water in my face. By the way, Twain was still staring.

  "I say, Stephanie, that is a rather large gun you've got there." Hey, that's supposed to be my line.

  Oh my God, what a letdown. He was looking at my gun all the while. "My gun?"

  "Yes. Lately they fascinate me. May I see it?" That's supposed to be my line too. Men, can I see it? Can I touch it? All the wrong priorities.

  Suddenly, I felt cold and clammy. "Now?"

  "Yes, please." You've got to be kidding.

  I was now cold sober and unhappy as can be. We hadn't gotten very far. I shrugged and pulled over to the curb. "I thought you were staring at something." I didn't think it was my weapon—how flattering. What is it about men and their attraction to guns? I'm afraid every woman knows the answer to that one.

  "Was it that obvious?" Twain seemed embarrassed.

  I put the unmarked in park and drew the .45 caliber light double action from my shoulder mount. The Para Ordnance automatic was the best firearm I'd ever had—deadly accurate, right out of the box. I ejected the clip and cleared the loaded round from the slide. "Careful," I said as I handed it to him. "Any experience with guns?"

  The LDA was an impressive weapon. Twain's eyes widened with delight as he examined it. "This is quite formidable." He weighed the piece in his hand. "Very substantial." He pointed it at the back window and lined up the sites. "Bloody marvelous. I'd love to fire it." He ran his hand over the barrel. He seemed to be tingling all over.

  This is getting too phallic for me.

  Twain was too preoccupied with the gun to notice how disappointed I was—Stephanie Chalice, woman of the world, object of desire, buzzed on cheap wine, free for the asking—forsaken by a hunk of polished metal. Life sucks. "Have you ever been to a target range?"

  "Me? Never."

  "Would you like to go?"

  "Now?"

  "Why not. It's early."

  "I'd love to." His eyes were the most incredible electric blue. This was really a damn shame.

  "There's a civilian range not far from here. You can shoot your load." Asshole. I could have kicked myself for saying that. Twain was a great friend. I held out my hand. "All right, give it back." Twain did so reluctantly. Now I'm sure he was turned on.

  "You're serious about this?"

  "Yes, Nigel. I'm completely serious." If he wouldn't let me play with his gun, the least I could do was let him play with mine. "It'll cost you, though."

  Twain smiled mischievously. "Name your price." Twain's response sounded unconditional. He was ready to ante up.

  I toyed with the idea of toying with him, bit my lip and got serious. "Information, Nigel. What do you know about Nostradamus?"

  "Nostradamus?" Twain seemed puzzled by the question. "Detective Chalice, what in the Lord's name do you want to know about that old charlatan?"

  "It appears you're an authority."

  "Of sorts—why do you ask?"

  "It has something to do with a case I'm working on."

  I should have made the connection more quickly. Who better to talk to
than a paranormal psychiatrist? I had personally sought out Twain on a matter that defied the normal tenants of modern psychological theory. It was Twain that had provided a reasonable explanation to an otherwise implausible question. He had used hallucinogenic drugs to gain profound religious and psychological insights. There was no need to be delicate with a man like Nigel Twain, so I flat out told him. "Have you ever heard of hypergraphia?"

  "Stephanie," he pouted, "you insult me."

  I smirked. "I’ll take that to mean yes. Well, there's an autistic youth that falls into a trance and dashes off quatrains in French, and he's never been taught the language."

  Twain started to giggle uncontrollably.

  "Hey," I protested. "That's rude." Nonetheless, Twain continued to laugh. "I'm sorry, do I sound that stupid?"

  "No," he cackled. "It's not stupid at all."

  "Then what?"

  "I know of the lad."

  Twain was eccentric and brilliant, but the thing that really drove me crazy was his uncanny intuition. So much for Celia Thorne's so called closely guarded secrets. "Oh really? Give me a name."

  "Emanuel Navarre." He was now giddy with himself.

  "How could you?"

  "I belong to a community that takes a keen interest in such curiosities—a boy that allegedly transcribes the quatrains of a sixteenth century prophet? Interesting on many levels, don't you think?"

  "Interesting? Yes. Credible? That's why I'm asking. So what do you think?"

  "I've never met the boy, so it's impossible for me to say one way or another."

  I told Twain about Manny's last quatrain and its unnatural similarity to the shooting aboard the Gold Coast. "Coincidental?"

  "Stephanie, there have been numerous cases over the years about individuals who have been able to channel the thoughts of the deceased. Most often it boils down to scandal."

  "So you think it’s bull?"