“I’m sorry.”
“You know, if you were to explore the newspaper morgue, you would find another interesting obituary, that of a woman named Oresta Mueller.” A small smile played at Washington’s lips. “Oresta was Frieda’s only friend—and perhaps she was really more of a professional acquaintance. They spent a lot of time together, but what’s interesting is that as frequently as they saw each other, even to Frieda the woman was known only as Reverend Oresta Mueller, sometimes simply Madam Oresta.”
“A medium,” Claudia murmured.
“She communed with spirits, yes,” said Washington, “and I gather hers was not a gentle nature.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, Lieutenant Hershey, that those who sought the Reverend Mueller’s spiritual services could expect fire and brimstone advice, straight from whatever ‘spirit guide’ supposedly spoke through her. Frieda sought Madam Oresta’s spiritual counseling, and relied heavily on it.”
“And in turn used it to nurture and raise Victor the way any other parent might use Doctor Spock,” said Claudia. She looked up thoughtfully. “Under the medium’s influence, Frieda’s way would have been—what? Exacting? Maybe even harsh? The stuff of nightmares?”
“One might speculate as much,” said Washington. He examined his cigar. “For this area, the good Reverend Mueller did financially well until her death six months after Frieda’s.”
“Her death, was it like Frieda’s?”
Choosing his words carefully, Washington said, “She was mugged, yes.”
“Mugged.” Claudia shook her head. “Where was Victor?”
Washington shrugged. “The boy had vanished. He’d been placed in a shelter immediately after his mother’s death, but a month later he simply disappeared.”
“Was there—”
“Really, Lieutenant, I’ve gone far beyond what I intended in trying to help you,” said Washington. “As much as I respect the difficult time frame under which you’re operating, if public offices weren’t closed because of Thanksgiving I would not even have agreed to meet you.”
“I understand and believe me, I appreciate your help, but please, just one last question,” Claudia persisted. She studied Washington’s face. “It’s important.”
“And I already have the answer,” Washington responded. “Yes, in both cases, autopsies showed an index finger had been broken.”
Chapter 31
With the telephone receiver cradled between her chin and shoulder, Claudia squinted at the numbers on her calling card, then punched the appropriate digits on the dialing plate. She cupped a hand over her right ear to hear better. The terminal was jammed, and no one was going anywhere; the airport was socked in by snow.
Marty answered on the third ring, the surprise evident in her voice when Claudia identified herself.
“I expected to see you rolling up any time now,” the younger woman said. “Where are you, anyway? It sounds like you’re calling from the bottom of a well.”
“I might as well be,” said Claudia, vexed. “I’m still in Duluth, waiting to board a plane that I’m now told won’t be leaving until sometime tomorrow morning. Snow is descending like the wrath of God.”
“It’s bad here, too,” said Marty. “A miserable sixty-eight degrees, a threat of rain—”
Claudia chuckled wryly. “You been taking lessons from that kid of mine?”
“I might make her my next research project.”
They laughed again.
“Listen, Marty, I hate to ask, but would it—”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Claudia,” Marty interrupted. “I’ll stay the night. My briefcase travels well, and it’s all I really need. Besides—and don’t dare tell my aunt I said this—it’s refreshing to be away from all her—energy. She can be a little daunting at times.”
“You sure?” asked Claudia. “Because between the delay and plane changes, I probably won’t be in until—mmm—tomorrow evening, maybe even early night.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, and thanks. Can you put Robin on for a sec?”
“I can put her on, but not in a sec. She’s in the shower.”
The kid showered at night. She showered in the morning. The only thing she did more often was change clothes.
Disappointed, Claudia asked Marty to tell Robin her mother missed her, but would see her the next night.
“So what about you? Are you heading back to your hotel for some sleep?” Marty asked.
“Nah, I don’t think so,” said Claudia. “I’ve already turned in my car. And anyway, maybe God and the airport director will change their minds and open the runways sooner than we’re being told. I’m just going to find myself a good paperback and hunker down on a chair.”
After hanging up, Claudia called Peters at the station, relaying the same information about the delay, asking for a case update. No, Flynn’s activities hadn’t deviated. Yes, they’d hounded the FBI. The agency’s profile would be dispatched no later than Tuesday. And yes, Carella thought he had a match on the glasses. Sergeant Peters got eight minutes.
In the next call, Dennis got twenty. He missed her so much he was combing his carpet for her hairs. He bet he could weave them into ribbon. Did he really have to learn how to cook an omelet? They had to go fishing again; next time he would bring insect spray. Claudia hung up agreeing to meet for dinner Sunday. What was with her? For the first time in years she found herself actively missing a man. He had a paunch. When he shaved, he missed patches at the corner of his chin. She suspected he sometimes wore the same socks two days in a row. And his idea of a good time was fishing. Loneliness swept in.
Claudia wandered dispiritedly toward the gift shop. She flipped mindlessly through the Studio cards, identified with the Ziggy cards, then bought a book, a pack of cigarettes, and a small stuffed panda bear she hoped Robin wouldn’t be too old to enjoy. When she’d found the coffee shop, Claudia settled into a chair, opened the book and began to read. It looked to be a long, long night.
* * *
Of the many perplexities in Victor Flynn’s character, one that Claudia found most confounding was his penchant for mathematics—for that matter, for teaching altogether.
From everything she knew, Flynn was not at ease in social situations. The video showed a man who struggled with banter, whose sentences evaporated into shrugs. Likewise, much of his life had been spent in work more attuned to things physical, not cerebral. Yet somewhere along the line, he had learned—indeed, possibly taught himself—enough about math to secure employment in schools. And socially skilled or not, he had managed to portray himself convincingly enough that no one ever checked his qualifications.
Where was the common denominator in a man who could sling fifty-pound sacks as a laborer at a seaside port, teach the intricacies of algebra to adolescent children, and murder women without hesitation—even his own mother?
Claudia gazed through the thick window of the 747, which magically had lifted off at ten-thirty in the morning. The novel was long finished and now, stiff, cranky, and tired, she filtered information in an effort to trap sensible explanations. Knowing Victor Flynn—peering into the dark recesses of his soul—wasn’t Claudia’s job. As a homicide investigator, it wasn’t necessary that she grapple with what motivated him. Shrinks and lawyers could do that. Claudia had only to prove that Flynn had killed, and then take him to jail. She could do that now.
Still—was it control? There was a certain logic in that, she thought. Mathematics were precise; the numbers could be controlled so that they always came out the same way, the only way they could. And the jobs that had required physical strength—those, too, demanded a control that in its most absolute sense belonged to the man wielding the muscle.
Claudia tried to imagine Victor Flynn’s upbringing. She had driven by the house in which he was raised by Frieda Ostermann Flynn. Small and unpretentious, it was one of many widely spaced houses in a quiet neighborhood whose ethnic makeup was largely of German extract
ion.
What kind of routine defined Flynn’s days as a youth? Did one monotonously drag into the next? With only his mother for company, how did he bridge loneliness? Were Frieda’s ministrations sufficient? She fed him, clothed him, tutored him. Was it enough?
For that matter, Claudia mused, was it even her?
Frieda didn’t work alone. What nurturing she provided was governed by the Reverend Oresta Mueller’s tyrannical spirits. They guided Mueller; Mueller guided Frieda; Frieda funneled their dark wisdom and unrelenting discipline into young Victor. How long did it take before he confused them all? How long before he rebelled? And what sort of fury must he have stored?
Claudia perfunctorily smiled a thank-you at a flight attendant bearing cold drinks and pretzels. She tore the package open and plucked a few out, chewing methodically. The captain’s voice scratched over an intercom. In another thirty minutes, the plane would touch down.
When Victor Flynn killed his mother, then Mueller—the spirits, really—he made sure they would never look at him again, never speak to him again, and never point a finger at him again.
And maybe they hadn’t, until Donna Overton raised a finger at the seance. Maybe . . .
Claudia closed her eyes. Trying to unlock Flynn was like trying to unlock a combination safe with a toothpick. The exercise would make her nuts.
* * *
Crickets and cicadas trilled with the enthusiasm of a gospel choir. A frog bugled in throaty response. Two blocks over, a dog barked faintly. Claudia idly tuned in, warming to the reception. It was seven-fifteen and home had never looked so inviting.
Too much sitting had provoked spasms in her back. Her eyes burned. Smart would have been returning to the Holiday Inn the night before. But never mind. They would pick Flynn up in the morning. Afterward, a twelve-hour stretch in bed. Some time with Robin. Then Dennis.
Humming lightly, Claudia unlocked the front door and went in. Marty was parked on the couch in front of the TV. She rose and greeted Claudia warmly. The silver streak in her hair flared with each step.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” said Claudia, meaning it. She unceremoniously dumped her overnight case and stretched. “God, I’m beat.”
“Want some coffee?” asked Marty.
“Twist my arm,” said Claudia, pantomiming. She looked around curiously. “Robin in her room?”
Midway to the kitchen, Marty paused and said, “No, she’s not home yet.” She glanced at her watch. “Should be any time now.”
“Wait a minute. What am I missing?” said Claudia. “Where’d she go?”
“Wow, you must be bushed,” said Marty. “It’s Saturday. That fishing tournament? The fund-raiser? It’s today, remember?”
Claudia’s eyes darkened. “I remember Robin asking me about it, all right. I also distinctly remember telling her no. She’s grounded.”
“Oh-oh,” Marty said uncomfortably. She sighed. “Look, Claudia, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Robin, she never said a word about that.”
“Yeah, I bet she didn’t.” Claudia pressed a fist into the small of her back. “I don’t want to put you on the spot, Marty, but what exactly did Robin tell you?”
“Well, she asked me if I’d drop her off and pick her up, that it looked like you wouldn’t be able to make it back in time to do it yourself.”
Claudia swore softly.
“She didn’t actually say she had permission,” Marty said swiftly, trying to placate. “It was just sort of implied.”
With a wan smile, Claudia said, “Don’t try to protect her. She knew exactly what she was doing, Marty, and I bet the subject came up almost the moment you told her that my plane wouldn’t be getting in until tonight.”
Marty nodded feebly.
Claudia took her jacket off and hung it on the back of a chair. “The only thing that surprises me is Robin’s timing. You’d think she would intend to be back before me. What time was this thing supposed to end, anyway?” Claudia irritably peered through a window. “It’s been dark for at least an hour.”
Marty checked her watch again. “Actually, she called about a half hour ago. Said she was going to stick around and help clean up. I guess there were booths and refreshments, things like that. Anyway, she said I didn’t have to bother going out for her. Someone was going to give her a lift home.”
First the report card. Now this.
“I’m gonna kill her,” Claudia said matter-of-factly. “Plain and simple, I’m just gonna kill her.”
“God, I’m sorry. I—”
“Did she say who was going to drop her off?” Claudia asked, sinking into an arm chair.
“Yeah, it was one of the chaperons, a teacher, the one she doesn’t like.” Marty pursed her lips thoughtfully. “The name will come to me in a minute.”
Claudia felt her chest constrict. She straightened. “Marty? The name—it’s not possible that . . . you’re not thinking of Victor Flynn, are you?”
Marty snapped her fingers. “Yes! That’s the one, the algebra teacher who—”
Claudia shrieked and vaulted from the chair. “My God, no!” Her face twisted, fell to white. She grasped Marty’s wrist. “What else, Marty? Quickly, quickly. What else did Robin say, and how did she say it? How did she sound?”
Stunned, Marty worked her mouth soundlessly.
“Please, Marty? What did Robin say?” Claudia frantically pumped the younger woman’s wrist. “I have to know now!”
“Well, I-I . . . It didn’t seem . . .”
Claudia squeezed her eyes shut. She released her grip, fought for breath.
Calm down, calm down. Give her room. Let her think.
“Marty, nothing you’ve ever tried to remember is more important than what you’re trying to remember now,” Claudia said hoarsely. She tried to blot the perspiration from her hands. “Please help me.”
“Claudia, I . . . it was just a brief conversation.” Marty blinked spasmodically, confused. “It was over in five minutes. Less than that.”
Slow down. Don’t rattle her again.
“It could be important, Marty. Even five minutes. It could be . . . please try to remember. Think. Think!”
Tears fell freely down Marty’s face. “She said, she said that Flynn was going to drive her home when everything was packed up. That he’d volunteered to finish up and that she’d offered to help him.”
No, please God, no. NO!
Claudia inhaled sharply, brought both hands to her lips. “How did she sound, Marty?”
“I . . . she sounded a little funny.”
“Funny how, Marty? Worried? Distant? Was her voice quivering?”
“I don’t know, Claudia, I don’t know!” Marty bit her lip.
“All right, all right.” This couldn’t be happening. This could not be happening. “Take your time,” Claudia said. “Close your eyes. Try to remember picking up the phone, hearing Robin’s voice.”
“Okay. All right. She . . . ” Marty briefly closed her eyes. “She sounded stiff, somehow. Formal. I-I didn’t think much of it. She would’ve been tired and—”
“Quickly, Marty. What else did she say? What else?”
“She said—God, what was it—yes, she said that Flynn—only she called him ‘Mister’ Flynn—that he had some important advice about fishing. She repeated that it was important.”
“What, Marty? What did he tell her to say?”
“I’m not sure this is exactly right, the exact words, but,” Marty let out a sob, “his advice was that the biggest and the best fish were caught only when you fished alone.”
Her world spun out of control in a heart beat.
Flynn. Robin.
Claudia whirled from Marty and into the den without another word. She was gone for thirty seconds. When she returned, it was with a flashlight and her revolver. She secured the holster at her waist and slid the gun into it.
Flynn had escaped surveillance. It didn’t matter how. He was on his own, and he had Robin.
“Listen to me car
efully, Marty,” Claudia said. Her voice still trembled but her hands were almost steady. “I’m going out to the lake. If you don’t hear from me in forty minutes, call the police and tell them to get out there. Do not call them sooner.”
“Claudia, what’s going—”
“Just do it, Marty!” said Claudia. “This man wants me out there. If I don’t go, he might kill Robin. And if I show up there with reinforcements he’ll kill her without hesitating. If there’s any way to stop him I have to fish alone.”
She didn’t say the unspeakable, that Robin might already be dead.
Claudia flung the front door open and sprinted into the night.
Chapter 32
Victor felt giddy. It was providence, divine intervention, something.
After all, he didn’t know that the girl would attend, not with any certainty. Oh, sure. She was popular, one of those giggly ones who clustered in hallways and crowed at boys. They moved like packs of wolves, these girls, always together, always sniffing out the action.
So yes. It did stand to reason she would attend an event the students all deemed so important.
And yet, anything could have happened. He had taken quite a risk to leave his house without detection just to embrace a possibility. Fortunately, Mother had been right. Of course. She was always right. She was his strength, his life. He would serve her well, make her proud at last.
Victor grinned, one hand on the tiller, the one with a knife at the girl’s throat. He could feel the pulse in her neck beating like hummingbird wings.
“Thank you, Mother,” Victor said softly into the night. He nodded, hearing her reply. “Yes. She’ll come, too.”
* * *
Fog thick as paste shrouded the trees, camouflaging the lake beyond. Powered by humidity, the rising mist dampened the air and cast a stillness that trapped noise like an empty room. What moved was not visible; sound shrieked.
Claudia’s heart ran like a jack rabbit. She felt its feet thrum inside her flesh, swore she could hear it. And she was cold. Where fear seized her skin, gooseflesh stood out.
The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries Page 24