The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries

by Laura Belgrave

  “Prove it.”

  “I might have to.”

  Markos looked away. “Donna and I had a thing for awhile. Then we busted up, I don’t know, about a month ago—”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “So okay, two weeks ago. And so what? There a crime in that?”

  “There’s a crime in murder, Mr. Markos.”

  “Look, Donna broke it off because it didn’t turn out to be right. We weren’t a good fit.”

  “How so?”

  Markos leered. “I like beer better ’n broads.”

  “Where’d you meet her?” asked Claudia, ignoring the look.

  “Outside the grocery store,” said Markos. He foraged through a pocket and produced a pair of nail clippers. “She’d gotten a couple of bags of groceries and when she was leaving, her car wouldn’t start.”

  “Go on.”

  Markos worked around his nails, taking his time. “I’d just pulled up and was about to go in. It had been raining and she’d left the lights on. Battery was dead. I had my truck and I gave her a jump. We got to talkin.’ She told me her old man used to fish in tourneys. We went for coffee. One thing led to another. We started going out regular-like. And yeah, we slept together.”

  Holding his left hand out, Markos examined his nails. He started on the right hand. Both hands were dark and scarred.

  “You were married once, long ago, weren’t you, Mr. Markos?”

  Surprised, Markos looked up. “Something wrong with that?”

  “If you knock your wife around, and you did.”

  “Once is all. She hit me first.”

  “I see.”

  Markos leaned forward abruptly, rocking the boat. “I was married to this woman for a year, tops. We were kids. She was wild and so was I. We both drank too much. We were drunk when we went at each other. Later, she called the cops. I spent the night in jail and then got three month’s probation. It was just kid stuff.”

  “Kid stuff?” said Claudia. “Is that also how you explain the bust for assault with a deadly weapon over in Loxahatchee? What was it? Back in 1979? And what about the battery charge eight years later? Was that kid stuff too?”

  “So you dug up my sheet.” Markos pocketed the nail clippers. “I’m impressed. Even Indian Run’s got access to a computer.”

  “Yes, and it suggests you like to rough people up, Mr. Markos. It also suggests you’ve had your nose in drug activity.”

  “Never convicted and I’ve been clean since ’90.”

  “So you say.”

  “That’s right. So I say.”

  Claudia studied Markos’s face. “Let’s try again. Where were you late Friday ni—”

  Markos lunged. The boat dipped violently and Claudia brought her arms up, one hand reflexively reaching beneath her jacket toward the trouser holster that held a Colt .38 Special. She felt Markos fall against her, forcing her to snatch at the side of the boat. Her knee rapped hard against the bow. Water cascaded over the side, stinging her with its icy chill.

  Claudia gasped, angling for purchase, and got a lock on the gun. Her knuckles scraped against the frame of the boat, but she slid the revolver from its holster.

  At the same instant, Markos pushed to his feet. He shouted unintelligibly and swung something in an arc. Claudia took awkward aim, and in a heartbeat second of indecision, saw an indistinct form fly from his hand. A snake, long and dark, twisted acrobatically, then hit the water and slithered out of sight.

  Claudia exhaled sharply.

  Looming above her, his Rasputin face stone-like and dark, Markos said nothing, but his eyes shifted to the gun. Claudia lowered it slowly, catching her breath.

  Markos looked at her dispassionately. “Water moccasin.”

  He gestured toward a cypress branch parallel to the boat. “Thing was hanging off of there. They move quick and this one was too close for comfort—mine or yours. They say snakes can smell blood from a hundred feet. Might be the truth.”

  Claudia’s mouth was as dry as old paint. Gradually, she eased herself back onto the chair and holstered the revolver. The adrenaline rush left her spent, but she hooked her eyes on Markos and kept them there.

  The boat swayed mildly when Markos returned to his seat. He patted his shirt pocket for cigarettes, then shook his head. “Damn. The pack fell out.”

  Claudia saw it drifting toward a cluster of sword grass. Darkness was descending rapidly. “Let’s get back. The next time we talk it’ll be in my office, not yours.”

  Smirking, Markos asked, “Not so keen on fishing anymore?”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Suit yourself.” Markos reached down and fiddled with the engine. It spit once, then sputtered to life. They made their way back to the camp in silence. Claudia watched Markos tie up and told him they would talk again. He acknowledged the comment with a shrug.

  Claudia irritably picked her way back to the car, tripping once on a tree root. She paused outside the vehicle, peeling off her wet jacket and tossing it in the back. Black with minuscule threads of burgundy, the jacket was one of her favorites. It would run her ten bucks for dry cleaning.

  She stowed the revolver in her handbag, thought about the hour, and headed off.

  * * *

  Lucille Schuster wasn’t home, but a babysitter awed by Claudia’s badge told her where the teacher and her husband could be found. Claudia stopped for gas, found a phone and touched base with Robin, then broke every speed limit on her way to Denny’s restaurant.

  The place was crowded with the dinner trade. Claudia pushed past a line-up in the waiting area and made for the non-smoking section. Lucille Schuster’s hair was redder than the babysitter had described it and in seconds Claudia descended on her table.

  “Mrs. Schuster?” she asked, ignoring the woman’s husband.

  The woman looked up quizzically. She was in her mid-twenties and had a Kewpie doll face. “Yes?” she said pleasantly.

  Claudia showed her shield. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Claudia Hershey and I need to talk to you about Donna Overton.”

  The woman’s face drained of color. She looked at her husband uncertainly. “Well, I… can it wait?”

  “No, it can’t.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Look, Detective, I think—”

  “You’re Mr. Schuster?” Claudia asked in a clipped voice.

  “Yes, Ralph—”

  “I don’t need to talk to you just yet, Mr. Schuster, although I will want to later. Right now, only your wife.” Claudia returned her gaze to Lucille Schuster. “Let’s go. Outside.”

  Diners around the Schusters’ table watched surreptitiously as Claudia clipped toward the door, Lucille Schuster trailing meekly. Someone held the door for them and Claudia led the teacher outside, out of earshot.

  “The police chief in this town takes murder personally. We both take it seriously,” Claudia began. She lowered her face until her eyes were level with the younger woman’s. “Donna Overton was murdered the night she conducted a seance at your Halloween party. I know you know that.”

  Lucille Schuster whispered a yes.

  “She may have been killed less than an hour after leaving your home, but apparently you didn’t find that interesting enough to come forward and say anything to the police. I hope you have a good reason.”

  Tears formed in the teacher’s eyes. Claudia held up a hand. “Save the theatrics, Mrs. Schuster. I’ve had a bad day and I’m not in the mood.” She watched the woman fight for control, then said, “Why didn’t you come forward?”

  Lucille Schuster waited for a couple to pass them. She looked at the ground and said, “I didn’t want the school administration to know I’d had a . . . a seance.”

  Claudia strained to hear. “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

  “I said I was afraid of the administration finding out.” Lucille Schuster’s voice wobbled. “The principal is a very straight-laced kind of man. I didn’t think he’d find it fitting, you know, that teachers were doing tha
t sort of thing. I mean, there’s all this worry over kids these days getting into heavy metal music and-and devil worship—that sort of thing. It wouldn’t look good.”

  “So you simply said nothing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Schuster whispered. She began to sob. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  Claudia sighed. This was a major screw-up. Until now, the investigation had been proceeding with the assumption that Donna Overton had never left her house that night. No one had seen her go or return. Nothing had been written in her appointment book to indicate she’d had an appointment. And now this. The seance may have had nothing to do with the murder. Or everything.

  Lucille Schuster sniffed. “Do you have a Kleenex? I left my purse at the table.”

  Without comment, Claudia rummaged through her own bag. She pulled a small packet of tissues free and handed it to the woman. She waited while Mrs. Schuster blew her nose.

  “Thank you,” the teacher said to Claudia, her voice muffled in the Kleenex.

  “All right. Let’s go through it step by step,” said Claudia. “You’ll still have time for dessert.”

  Claudia started to grope for her jacket pocket, then remembered the wrap was in the back seat of her car. She dug in her handbag again. The back of an envelope would have to do for notes. She clicked a ballpoint pen open.

  The teacher began to bawl all over again.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mrs. Schuster,” said Claudia, “knock it off already. Your tears move me about as much as a dead roach would and I won’t stop for them again.”

  With a snuffle, Lucille Schuster looked up tentatively. She blanched, then pocketed the Kleenex.

  * * *

  Sergeant Ron Peters answered the phone. “Oh, hi, Lieutenant. What’s—”

  “Ron? Grab some paper. Grab a pen. I’ve got a lot of information to pass along.”

  Claudia clamped a hand over her right ear. She was at a roadside phone booth, midway between Denny’s and her house. Trucks favored the rural route, and they rumbled along steadily.

  “All right, Claudia. Paper ready. Pen ready. Fire away.”

  With the receiver clutched between her chin and shoulder, Claudia consulted the back of her envelope. It was black with ink, cramped notes marching down, then straight up the margins.

  “You’re not going to believe this one,” Claudia told the sergeant. “There was a little more to Donna Overton’s Halloween than trick or treat.”

  In five minutes, Claudia filled Peters in. There had been twelve people at Lucille Schuster’s Halloween party, not counting the medium. Festivities kicked off at nine o’clock, giving guests with children enough time to troll for candy door to door. Donna Overton appeared at ten-fifteen, conducted a seance at ten-thirty, and left just after eleven o’clock for her rendezvous with death. The party started to break up at one o’clock. The last straggler left at one-thirty.

  The seance—having Donna Overton in—was a spontaneous idea; the teacher had found the medium’s name in the phone book and contacted her at seven o’clock that night, tickled at being able to arrange something like that so quickly.

  According to Lucille Schuster, the seance was a huge success. She described the way lights were dimmed and guests were shushed while the Reverend Donna Overton went into a Shirley MacLaine mode. It seemed like hours were passing, but it must have only been minutes before Overton’s head tightened, then suddenly flopped and her eyes closed. Then they fluttered open, whites showing. Guests gasped and nervously looked at each other for reassurance. And then, when Donna Overton began to speak, it was in another voice—something deep and throaty—what guests took to be the voice of someone long departed from the corporeal world.

  The performance—or whatever it was—said Lucille Schuster, was absolutely spellbinding. And afterward, with the comfort of lights again, there were giggles and nervous titters and the booze flowed. No one was sure if Donna Overton had actually communed with a spirit or if she was just a fantastic actress. But then, no one much cared, Lucille told Claudia. It made for great theater and everyone at the party claimed to have had an enormously good time.

  Ron whistled appreciatively. “Unbelievable,” he said. “I had no idea this fortune-telling business could get so serious.”

  A truck hauling livestock barreled past Claudia. Someone should slap the driver with a ticket, she thought.

  “Look, Ron. Here’s what I need next. And I need it fast.”

  “Ready.”

  “Schuster says she’s absolutely sure no one left the party before one. But I want you and Moody to talk to each of them anyway.” Claudia gave Peters the names Lucille Schuster had provided. “I want to know their ages, their weight, their height. Schuster said it was a costume party. I want to know what everyone was wearing. I want to know what each of them did immediately prior to the party and immediately after. I want—”

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down just a little.”

  Claudia gave it a beat. “All right. Get each of them to describe the party, down to every tiny detail. Let them prattle on. Get everything you can. And I want to know every single thing that Overton said, whether it had to do with the seance or not. Everything. Find out if any of them knew Donna Overton before that night, no matter how casually.”

  “Yeah, but if Schuster says none of them left until at least one and we know Overton was killed between eleven at the soonest and twelve-thirty at the outside, then why—”

  “Because, damn it, this is the closest we’re probably going to get to the last minutes of Donna Overton’s life. Schuster could be mistaken. For that matter, she could be lying. We need every shred of information we can get, no matter how inconsequential it seems.”

  “Okay.”

  “More importantly—and I need you to jump on this the minute we hang up—one of the guests, the one named Tom Orben—he apparently brought a video camera and taped the whole thing. We need to see what he shot. We need it now. Unfortunately, Orben’s out of town on—”

  “Good timing.”

  Claudia waited for another truck to pass. The phone book shook. “What’d you say?” she asked.

  “I said, ‘good timing.’”

  “Exactly. Anyway, find out from the school principal exactly where Orben is. Lucille Schuster thinks Boston. Find Orben. Get the film. It’s Monday. I want that video on my desk by tomorrow evening, by hook or by crook.”

  “Maybe his wife is home—”

  “Think, Ron! Did I give you two Orben names?”

  “Well, no. I—”

  “He’s single. Lives alone.”

  Claudia pressed her forehead against the smudged glass of the phone booth. She took a deep breath. Ron Peters was one of three uniformed officers Claudia had pulled for assistance. Suggs bellowed about overtime and the gaps their instant detective status would leave in the patrol shifts. But Claudia was adamant. On her own, she couldn’t track every lead, talk to every neighbor, twist every arm that needed to be twisted. Peters was no gem—none of the three was—but they showed instinct the remaining officers didn’t. They would have to do.

  “I’m sorry,” said Claudia. She pictured Peters’ taking notes, his milky white countenance coloring slightly at the rebuke. “I’m being a bitch. It’s been a helluva day, but that’s no reason for me to take it out on you.”

  While Ron murmured something, Claudia thought of Robin. The day wasn’t even close to folding.

  “I’ll call the chief from home tonight, let him know what’s going on,” Claudia continued. “I’ll be in, oh, probably by six. Please get in touch with Carella and Moody now. Let’s plan on meeting at eight. Maybe if we put our heads together we can steer this—”

  Two cars drag-racing flashed past Claudia. Kids, probably. She sighed, registered what the cars looked like and told Peters to get a patrolman on the road.

  “Anyway, Ron, maybe something’ll break out of all of this. We’ve got a few names. We have some interviews under our belts. Now we have the party, and if I�
��m lucky I’ll learn a little more tonight.”

  “We could use a break,” said Ron. “We’re getting a lot of calls on this. The mayor’s office, of course. Joe Public, scared to death. A couple of reporters. And psychics who didn’t even know Overton are coming out of the woodwork, wanting to work with us on this.”

  “Just what we need.” Claudia grimaced. “There’s nothing supernatural about Overton’s murder and if we bring in psychics we’re only going to feed the hysteria.”

  Ron snorted. “Just wait’ll the press learns she conducted a seance the night she was killed.”

  “Whoa! The press better not learn it. The less we make of the fact that Overton was a psychic—”

  “—Medium.”

  “Right. Medium. Anyway, the less the better.”

  “Okay. I hear you.”

  “Yeah, well please make sure everyone else does, too, all right?”

  They talked for awhile longer, then Claudia hung up. She stood silently in the phone booth for a minute, rotating her shoulders. Tension always started there. Before long, it would work its way into her head.

  Chapter 5

  The grocery store was called Philby’s—just plain Philby’s—and it was the only game in town unless you were of a mind to drive eighteen miles to the Winn-Dixie across the county line. Claudia was not. She had the energy of a dead campfire.

  After untangling a shopping cart from the battalion of baskets at the front of the store Claudia moved robot-like up and down the aisles. In fifteen minutes Philby’s would close, but so what? She’d be out in five. In another ten, she’d be home. Lamb chops, a baked potato, a veggie, hell, maybe even some of that Pillsbury dough you could twist into rolls and bake for only twelve minutes.

  Claudia didn’t cook often, and she didn’t cook particularly well. Her daughter did, but heaven forbid the kid would think of throwing something together for the two of them. At thirteen, Robin was playing adolescence by the book. Parents were the pits. Zits traumatized. Boys tantalized.

  Oh God, oh God , what to do, what to do.

  The check-out clerk swept each item across a laser beam with a proud flourish. Modern technology had come to Philby’s at the same time Sunday hours did.