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

by Laura Belgrave

  Winn nodded. “Yeah. I think that’s right.”

  Suppressing a sigh, not knowing how much was bullshit just to shut her up, Claudia nodded for them to continue.

  “Let’s see . . . Madonna, I think she bought one of those little travel boxes of aspirin,” said Yastrepsky.

  “Bayer,” added Winn. He looked up at Claudia, pleased. “I remember because she made some stupid joke about wishing it was a real drug.”

  “Hey, man, this is kind of like a game,” said Yastrepsky. He took a swallow of beer. “It’s like, um, free association.”

  “Yeah, well, free associate some more,” murmured Claudia.

  “Okay, okay, we’re just warming up now,” said Yastrepsky. He narrowed his eyes.

  Claudia hoped it was for more than effect.

  “All right. Here’s another one, man. The guy in the all-black costume? The one with bad breath? He bought a bag of ice. Then he came back a little later and bought a second one.”

  “Actually,” Winn intervened, “I don’t think it was bad breath. I think it was just everyday body odor.”

  “No, man. It was bad breath. I know ’cause I took a direct hit when he paid.”

  “What else, what else?” Claudia asked irritably. She fished a cigarette from her pocket and lit up.

  “Well,” said Winn slowly, “the guy in the tuxedo, he picked up a package of corn chips—or some kind of chips—but then at the last minute he just put them down and walked out. That was kind of weird.”

  “Naw, people do that all the time,” said Yastrepsky. “They get impatient in line, figure they can do without.”

  Yastrepsky and Winn argued the point until Claudia cut them off. The exercise was getting her nowhere. They remembered some of the customers in costume, and few who weren’t, which stood to reason. But they couldn’t be sure about who they saw when, and Claudia finally let it go.

  Maybe something would be important later. Meanwhile, luck had shown a benevolent streak. At least she had Donna Overton at the store. For what that was worth.

  Chapter 23

  By the time the lights went off in the house, the man had been crouching in the shrubs for almost forty minutes. But he waited another twenty minutes, making sure. When he stood, cramps jacknifed through his calves. It was insignificant pain, though. What tormented him most was the voice screaming at him.

  Her power was diminishing, but it wasn’t gone. Not yet.

  As silently as a lizard, the man weaved cautiously through the shrubs. They lined the six-foot privacy fence, affording protection intended for the homeowner. The big man liked that. Probability was working in his favor. He didn’t feel nervous. Just purposeful. In a way, he had become something of a public servant. They should be thanking him, not hunting him down like some wild animal.

  When he arrived at the back door, the odds doubled. With effort, he contained his delight. The lock was old and simple. He dismantled it with a screwdriver in less than two minutes and slipped from the shadows inside.

  For a moment he hesitated, getting his bearings and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The voice had stopped, but of course, it was just a trick. Something to throw him off. He waited, head tilted, listening. Light snoring filtered from the bedroom. A clock gently drummed a steady beat. From the kitchen, he heard the refrigerator cycle on.

  Slowly, each footstep as deliberate as a cat’s, the man moved toward the bedroom. There were, he knew, two of them: a husband and wife. He would have to be swift.

  When he rounded the corner of the bedroom door, partly in a crouch, the man paused long enough to caress the knotted tree branch he carried. Over two nights’ time, he had sanded and polished the bottom of it to make the grip sure, and it felt good in his hands, even through the thin gloves. The weight was comfortable; the swing excellent.

  Their names were Harold and Betty Lancashire, he a psychic and she a medium. They cuddled like spoons, wrapped as one, a comforter pulled to the tops of their shoulders.

  From the doorway, the man watched them sleep through dispassionate eyes. He took no joy in his mission, but neither did he feel remorse. The two were merely vessels, evil vessels for the voice—her more than him, but he would have to go, too.

  In four steady paces, the man reached the bed. A floorboard creaked, and Harold Lancashire stirred slightly. But his eyes never opened to see the thick branch when it rocketed toward his brain. And in the time it took for Betty Lancashire to pull away from dreams and open her mouth in sleep-drugged confusion, the branch was already whistling toward her face to silence her forever.

  The man grunted heavily with each blow he delivered. Muscles bunched at his shoulders, tightening his forearms. He stood with his feet apart, the shirt pulling a little looser from his slacks every time he drew his arms up to raise the branch. Blood answered the strikes. In seconds, it tinted the perspiration on his face.

  But he didn’t stop. He raised the branch, brought it down repeatedly in precision blows until he could no longer recognize their faces. Two minutes passed. He waited, gulping air, watching the comforter spasmodically jerk where the woman’s foot played out an erratic and final dance.

  When he caught his breath, he leaned toward the bed. Wearily, he pulled the comforter down and reached for the woman’s hand. The medium. He sucked in a final lungful of air, grabbed Betty Lancashire’s right index finger, and snapped it backward. The woman was elderly and the finger broke as easily as if he had stepped on a twig.

  After he pulled the comforter back up, the man looked down on the pair, satisfied. He listened: nothing from the voice.

  Chapter 24

  Dressed like a prowler, Claudia stood silently at the side of her daughter’s bed and watched Robin sleep. One leg poked outside the covers, bent from the knee over the side of the bed. Headphones from a portable radio were still clamped to her head. Claudia smiled and gently removed the headset. Robin never moved.

  After closing the door, Claudia went back to the dining room. One-forty-five in the morning. She pushed herself through a grueling round of exercise, and reviewed her plan. Nothing could be left to chance. Then she scribbled a casual note. If her daughter woke, she would read that Claudia had been called in to work.

  At five to three, Claudia pulled her car to the edge of the Feather Ridge Golf Course where the fourteenth hole stood a hundred feet from a densely wooded area. Markos had chosen well. Nothing stirred, and from the fourteenth hole—a narrow dogleg that cut sharply right of the fairway—isolation was assured. He wanted her out in the open, in the middle of the green, shielded by nothing more than a prayer. Twice earlier, Claudia had reconnoitered the area, once at dusk and once in the dark. Knowing the layout shored her confidence. Still, her best guess at what Markos might do remained but a guess; she had to be sure what she would do.

  Guided only by the dim illumination of a half moon, Claudia stepped away from her car, and paused briefly to get her bearings. If Markos had driven, she saw nothing of his vehicle. But she knew he was here somewhere. He would have made a point of arriving long before she, watching to ensure that she had come alone.

  Cautiously, Claudia began her perambulation toward the fourteenth hole, a tiny plug swallowed by dark and marked only by memory. When she got there, she turned around and scanned the woods, identifiable now only as a splotch slightly darker than the open area around it. She waited, not moving.

  Markos’ first surprise was coming up behind her. She hadn’t heard his steps across the soft grass and stiffened when she felt the revolver against the back of her neck.

  “Looks like you don’t know your way around a golf course anymore than you know your way around a lake,” Markos said with a trace of amusement in his voice.

  “Put your gun away, Markos.” Claudia labored to inject authority in her tone. “Weapons weren’t part of the deal.”

  “Well, now, I guess you weren’t listening too well,” Markos said. “I told you not to bring anything. I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” He chu
ckled from the throat. “Now turn around.”

  When she did, the big man ordered her to hold her arms out. Reluctantly, Claudia complied.

  Markos clucked disapprovingly at the gun clipped to her waist. “Looks to me like you weren’t listening at all, were you?”

  Claudia shrugged.

  “Of course, I figured as much,” Markos said. “I figured you’d be carrying, but it’s still a disappointment, Hershey. Now hand it over real slow.”

  With her left arm still outstretched, Claudia carefully withdrew the .38 from its trouser holster. She held it out. Markos took the weapon, examined it briefly, then tucked it in his waistband.

  “So okay, Markos. Can we get down to business now?” Claudia started to lower her arms.

  “Uh-uh. Back up. That’s better.” Markos casually waved his gun. “We’re not done yet.” A faint smile showed through his beard. “Take your jacket off, and then your pants.”

  Claudia’s breath caught in her throat. Markos’ second surprise.

  An owl hooted low and mournfully. When it stopped, the only sound Claudia heard was her own uneven breathing. “You’re out of your mind,” she said slowly.

  Markos’ smile broadened. He was enjoying himself. “That’s not very polite for a lady,” he said. “But then, you’re really not a lady. You’re a cop. A pig with teats.” Markos’ eyes narrowed. He brought the gun level with her chest. “Strip, Hershey.”

  Claudia’s heart banged erratically. She measured the distance between them. No good. If she charged him, she would be dead before she made contact. And stalling would change nothing.

  Hesitantly, Claudia shucked the jacket. She kicked off her shoes. When she stepped out of her slacks, stumbling once, the material swished audibly against her skin. Throughout, her eyes held his face. She tossed the slacks on top of the jacket.

  The ankle holster with its silver-plated .22 showed clearly.

  “Not much more than a pea-shooter, but I’ll take it anyway,” said Markos. There was no surprise in his voice.

  Claudia handed it over, shivering. “Satisfied, you bastard?”

  “Now the shirt,” said Markos. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “For God’s sake, Markos. It’s damned cold out here. There’s nothing else on me.”

  “Just do it.”

  When Claudia stood free of her clothes, Markos made her rotate once. His eyes traveled leisurely up and down her body. Then he nodded approvingly.

  “Very, very nice,” he said in a husky voice.

  But indecision threaded his tone. Claudia heard it, understanding suddenly that although his original intent was merely to disarm her—perhaps humiliate her, demonstrate her vulnerability—there stood but a fragile moment before he might bow to more.

  She couldn’t let him take it.

  Swiftly, Claudia reached over and picked up her shirt. She snapped it casually, as if she were merely shaking off wrinkles at a Laundromat.

  “All right, Markos,” she said briskly, sliding the shirt over her arms. “You’ve got my weapons. You’ve had your fun, but the show’s over. Let’s get down to business. I’m freezing my butt off.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Claudia snagged her pants from the slick grass. Markos grunted something, but he didn’t stop her, and she finished dressing quickly.

  Claudia ran a hand through her hair. She glared at him. “You either talk to me now, and fast, or I’m leaving.”

  “Slow down,” said Markos. He gestured with the gun. “I’m still making the rules.”

  “Markos, what do you want from me?” Claudia said, not even bothering to keep the exasperation from her voice. “If you called me out here to talk, talk. If you called me out here to shoot me, then shoot me. Otherwise, goddamn it, I’m out of here and believe me, you won’t find another cop in this state who’s even mildly interested in what you have to say.”

  A cloud scuttled past the half moon, momentarily drawing a blanket over what little light touched down. When it passed and Claudia could see again, Markos was pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He shook one loose, then held the pack toward her.

  Claudia took one, waited for him to light both. The gun remained in Markos’ hand, but he lowered it. They both took a step back, watching each other.

  Smoke rose around Markos’ face. He shifted his weight to one hip. “That guy who put out the reward money on me—”

  “Matheson?”

  “—yeah, him. He’s the one who killed Donna.” Markos took a pull on his cigarette. “He’s the son of a bitch you should be after.”

  Claudia felt her heart buck, but she looked at Markos with practiced skepticism on her face. “This is it? This is the best you can do?” she asked. “Matheson’s the bad guy and you’re really just a victim.”

  Agitated, Markos fumbled with his pocket again. He thrust a sheet of paper toward Claudia. It was badly rumpled from many creases.

  Squinting, Claudia said, “What am I looking at, Markos? It’s too damned dark to read anything.”

  From another pocket, Markos produced a pen light. He handed it to Claudia. “That’s a page from the back of Donna’s scheduling book. Matheson was paying her to keep her mouth shut about his wife’s visits. Donna told me the wife said Matheson hated her seeing a medium. Said he was worried it would ruin his career if the public found out.”

  Claudia ran the pen light quickly over the page.

  “He also hated that she blabbed everything under the sun,” Markos continued. He blew a plume of smoke. “Man had a couple of women on the side. And he had a couple of interesting business deals on the side.”

  It was all there, in neatly penned notations. Full names. Dates. Amounts.

  “I figure that some expert somewhere can verify that the handwriting is Donna’s,” said Markos. “And someone can probably verify that the page came out of the scheduling book, which I’m sure you cops now have.”

  Claudia nodded to herself more than to Markos. “So Donna was blackmailing him?” she asked.

  “No,” Markos said impatiently. “She’d never do something like that. Too prissy.”

  “What, then?”

  “Look, Matheson approached Donna when he found out his wife was seeing her. He’d already told the wife to stop, but she didn’t. She just changed the days she was going. But when Matheson figured that out, his next move was to pay Donna to keep her mouth shut about everything. See, he offered her the money.”

  “Quite a boost to her income,” Claudia said. “But so what? It’s not exactly illegal.”

  “Not at first, but it got to be that way.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like when I found out about it.” Markos shrugged. “See, Donna, she never liked the arrangement. Oh, she loved the money all right, but it made her real nervous. Me, I felt real comfortable with it. Fact is, I thought it should be more.”

  Big surprise, thought Claudia. “Go on,” she said.

  “I put the squeeze on the son of a bitch, and he upped the payments. Hell, he had the juice.”

  Claudia was beginning to understand.

  Markos flicked his cigarette away. It glowed briefly on the dewy grass. “I didn’t tell Donna right away, but the first time Matheson doubled the amount it all came out.”

  “So what you did, Markos, was turn things into an extortion scheme.”

  “You’re pretty bright for a cop,” said Markos. He smiled thinly. “That’s exactly what I did. Matheson’s filthy rich. He could afford it.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Donna.” Shaking his head, Markos said, “I should’ve known. Me and her, we was oil and water. A bad mix. It was really a simple shakedown, no big deal, but it bothered her more and more. We fought about it. Finally, she booted me out of her life. Said goodbye.”

  “You’re really an enterprising soul,” Claudia said dryly. She crushed her cigarette. “Did Donna know about your drug dealing, or the supply behind the medicine chest?”

  Marko
s looked up. “No to both. Aw, she could’ve if she’d ever given it much thought, what with the way I’d come and go. But I don’t think she wanted to know much about me—you know, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

  “Hardly true in Donna’s case,” Claudia muttered.

  “Anyway, it was the drugs that made me go back,” Markos continued. “I gave it awhile—figured the hell with the Matheson thing and the hell with Donna—but the drugs, uh-uh. No way was I gonna let more’n twenty G’s in good dope sit in her house.”

  “Oh, but you’re a cold bastard,” said Claudia.

  “Screw you!” Markos leveled the gun at Claudia briefly, but it was just for show. “It wasn’t that way at all. Truth is, I liked her. Maybe loved her, best I could.”

  “You had a funny way of showing it,” said Claudia.

  Ignoring her, Markos said, “I tried to talk to Donna a few times, but she wasn’t having none of it. Then I figured I’d just slip in quiet-like one night, cozy up to her, make nice, maybe she’d come around.”

  “And even if you couldn’t salvage the relationship, you could get your drugs.”

  “Right. And I could get my drugs.” Markos sighed. His voice softened. “The night I went back—Halloween—I let myself in through the front door. Still had the key. I was a little surprised the lights were still on because Donna usually went to bed by eleven at the latest, and this was, I don’t know, maybe one, two in the morning.”

  Katydids began shrieking in unison. Claudia waited, studying Markos’ expression. His eyes blindly wandered the flat grass.

  “I found her on the kitchen floor, and I . . . I didn’t recognize her. I went over to her, bent down, tried to lift her some. She was gone, though.”

  If explained Overton’s blood on his shirt. If his explanation were true. “So what you did was run,” said Claudia.

  Markos looked up. “Hell, yeah, I ran. I knew I’d be first on the cops’ hit parade. But it was Matheson who killed her—or had someone kill her. Had to be. And the other broad, too. She was Donna’s best friend. Donna probably told her everything.”