Play Dead

by Anne Frasier

"I won't promise you that."

  "Why do you do it? You have to know it's dangerous. Do you get some kind of thrill out of it? Or do you just not care about yourself?"

  For an instant, something seemed to fall away from him. She saw a bleakness in his eyes, and despair.

  Then it was gone.

  "I have trouble sleeping," he said, sitting down on the couch, pulling on socks and shoes. "Running helps."

  "How long have you had this sleeping problem?"

  He tied his shoes and stood up. "Ever since I got here, but it's been a lot worse lately."

  "How many nights a week?"

  "Every night."

  He grabbed his apartment key and stuck it in his pocket. He shrugged into his black jacket. "All night." Before she could respond, he pushed the conversation away.

  "Come on," he said. "We can talk about this later."

  The streets were deserted, and it took Elise and David only a few minutes to get from his apartment to the funeral home. When they arrived, two police cars were parked in front of the green, arched awning above a wide walkway.

  Officer Eve Salazar was guarding the door.

  "What's the story?" Elise asked.

  "The guy who does the embalming came in to get the body ready for the service. I guess dress it and stuff." She pressed her lips together and fatalistically shook her head. "Couldn't find the body."

  "Any sign of a break-in?" David asked.

  "Nope. The building has a top-of-the-line security alarm that wasn't tripped. No sign of anything. Nothing knocked over. Nothing out of place. Just a missing dead guy."

  "What about the crime scene team?"

  "We're holding off." She leaned closer. "Until you verify that a crime has been committed and we're not dealing with just a misplaced body."

  "Good call."

  "Everybody else is downstairs where they keep the bodies."

  Officer Salazar pointed across a deep red carpet. "Take the steps to the basement. Then make a right. You can't miss it."

  "These places certainly have a distinctive odor, don't they?" David whispered as they headed downstairs. "Kind of heavy. Kind of sweet."

  "Like a rich dessert, only deader?" Elise asked.

  "Exactly."

  There were three uniformed police officers in the room, along with the owner of the funeral home and the mortician who'd alerted everyone to the missing body. The funeral director, a man named Simms, had managed to throw on the obligatory dark suit.

  The partners introduced themselves.

  "I can't explain it." The director's frantic gaze went from Elise to David, and back again.

  The detectives perused the room. "Anything out of place?" Elise asked.

  "Nothing."

  They interviewed the mortician, an earnest little man named Benjamin Ming. He didn't have much to tell them that they didn't already know.

  Elise strolled into the adjoining crematorium. David and the director followed.

  The room temperature was cool. She examined the heat gauges on the machine.

  Nothing registered anything.

  "How long does it take for the oven to cool down after use?"

  "Hours," the director told her. "The oven hasn't been used in days. The police officers already asked me about it. Why are you trying to point the finger at me? Ever since the ugly business with the funeral home that had uncremated bodies stuck in every corner, we're all suspect. I resent it. I'm the one who's the victim here. Along with poor Mr. Turello."

  "Nobody's trying to accuse you of anything," David said. "We have to consider every angle so we know what to rule out. Once we've eliminated accidental cremation, then we can focus our investigation on other possible scenarios."

  The director grabbed a tissue from a nearby box and wiped it down both sides of his face. "Sorry. We pride ourselves in having an impeccable reputation. I'm the third generation in this establishment, and we've never had this kind of thing happen. Ever."

  Elise felt sorry for him. Normally he was the one who remained calm and collected, who soothed the upset patrons. "Mr. Simms," she said in a voice that was soft and serious, "have you ever had any employees who seemed particularly … fond of the dead?"

  He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

  "We're talking about necrophilia," David said. "Being in this line of business, you've surely heard of it."

  "Of course." The director was flustered. Angry. "But I'm here to emphatically tell you that no one— NO ONE—in my employ has ever . . ." His words trailed off. He seemed unable to continue.

  "We will need a list of everyone who now works for you," David said. "Plus everyone who's worked here in the past three years. Cleaning people. Lawn care. Everybody."

  Elise called in a crime scene team to collect evidence, then moved on to the more traditional questions.

  Anybody suspicious around?

  Anybody who might be doing it to make Hartzell, Tate, and Hartzell look bad?

  That was followed by an exchange of cards and phone numbers. "Call us if you think of anything," Elise told Simms. "We'll be checking back."

  "You know what people are going to be saying about this, don't you?" David asked once they were outside, both of them squinting and flinching like vampires against the bright morning sunlight.

  "That Gary Turello got up and walked out of there all by himself?" Elise asked.

  "You got it."

  "We need to talk to Strata Luna again," she said. "Find out if she knew Turello. My guess is she did."

  "Go ahead. Give her a call." David pulled a pair of dark glasses from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. "But this time I'm coming along."

  Chapter 23

  "Is this your store's logo?"

  The scruffy-haired kid behind the cash register examined the CD in Elise's hand. "Yep."

  Next to her, Gould spread more bagged CDs on the glass countertop. "Notice anything strange about these?" he asked.

  The kid looked them over. "This some kind of test?"

  "Look closely," Gould insisted.

  The kid fiddled with the hair on his chin. "Well... oh, hey. I get it. They're all suicides! Is that it?"

  "That's it," Elise said. "But more important, they all have your sticker on them. Would you or any other employee possibly recall someone making a purchase of this sort a year and a half ago?"

  "Wow." The kid scratched his head. "I have a hard time remembering what happened last week."

  Another guy wandered out of the back room. He was heavily pierced and wearing spiked leather wristbands.

  "Hey, Tobias. Come 'ere." The kid at the counter looked at the detectives. "Toby's the manager. He's worked here a long time." Then back over his shoulder, he shouted, "Take a look at these, will you?"

  The sleepy-looking kid took his time getting there.

  The clerk pointed to the CDs. "You remember anybody buying these?"

  "Who're you?" The manager eyed Elise and Gould with suspicion.

  They flashed their badges and introduced themselves. That settled him down a little.

  "I don't remember. Sorry."

  "Would it be possible for you to locate a record of the sales?" Elise asked. "Especially if they were all purchased at the same time?"

  "I dunno...."

  "Maybe in your tax files?" Gould prodded. "I'm sure you keep cash register tapes."

  "You're talking about a lot of stuff," he said doubtfully. "And it could take a long time."

  "It's extremely important," Elise told him.

  "I'll try, but I don't know...."

  Gould presented the photos of Winslow, Turello, and Harrison.

  Negative.

  Elise handed the manager her card. "Call if you find anything or happen to think of something you forgot." She thanked them both for their time. Then she and Gould headed for the parking lot, passing a small playground on the way. In the center of the basketball court, three girls jumped rope.

  Lady in a black veil

  Babies in
the bed

  Kissed them on the forehead

  Now they're both dead.

  "What a serendipitous segue." Gould looked at her over the top of the car. "Isn't it about time for our meeting with the priestess of death?"

  Elise had been able to schedule another appointment with Strata Luna, this one at the woman's home. When she'd asked if her partner could come along, Strata Luna had surprisingly agreed.

  The detectives hopped in the car and drove to the Victorian District, where they parked on the street and approached the mansion on foot. Elise announced their arrival to the intercom and they were buzzed in, the black iron gate swinging wide.

  The partners stepped through the opening, broken shells crunching underfoot.

  "Where no man has gone before," Gould said.

  "Person," Elise reminded him. "They upgraded Star Trek: TNG to the politically correct person."

  "That was because the vainglorious James T. Kirk was of the martini-swilling, swinger generation, where women were conquests and trophies," Gould added.

  "With large breasts."

  "A requisite."

  They were conversing with neither giving much attention to what they were saying, both taking in the lush surroundings as they paused side by side at the start of a straight drive lined with live oaks, their sweeping branches creating a curved canopy. At the end of the lane stood a pink antebellum mansion trimmed in black.

  Breathtaking.

  Behind them the gate clicked shut.

  "An ominous sound," Gould muttered.

  The ever-present Enrique met Elise and Gould at the door. He gave them a serene smile, then led them down a dark hallway to a secluded courtyard, where they found Strata Luna sitting in the shade at a round cafe table. She wore her signature long black dress minus hat, veil, and gloves.

  Elise introduced her partner.

  Neither seemed terribly impressed with the other.

  "I hope you like hot tea," Strata Luna said, introduction over and Gould's importance quickly minimized. She seemed to be tolerating him because he was with Elise.

  A china teapot had been placed on a tray in the center of the table. Beside it was a plate of shortbread cookies, sugar cubes with a pair of tiny silver tongs, and cream.

  They were being treated like visitors, not detectives, something that made Elise feel slightly uncomfortable. She shot a glance at Gould, wondering if he was thinking what she was thinking—that this had a tinge of a Mad Hatter's tea party.

  He missed her glance, distracted as he looked beyond the courtyard to a massive, ornate fountain.

  The fountain where Strata Luna's daughter had drowned?

  In the center was a statue of a young girl. Elise had heard that a life-size memorial of the drowned child had been erected somewhere on the property.

  As they drank the dark exotic tea, Elise questioned Strata Luna about the prostitute Gary Turello. Gould pulled out the dead man's photo.

  "He worked for me at one time, but I can't tell you anything about him." Strata Luna passed the photo back.

  "Did he have any friends we might be able to speak to?" Gould asked.

  "I don't know. That's the truth. When did you say he died?"

  "A year and a half ago."

  Strata Luna frowned, appearing puzzled. And for the first time, maybe a little worried. "You think his death has something to do with these recent ones? But that doesn't make any sense, does it? It was so long ago."

  "We believe they're connected," Elise told her. "We just haven't come up with the evidence necessary to link them."

  Gould remained focused on Strata Luna. "You seem worried," he observed bluntly.

  "Of course I'm worried," she said in a defensive tone. "Everybody in this city is worried."

  "Can you give us names of anybody he may have associated with?" Elise asked. "Or people who may have known the slightest thing about him?"

  Strata Luna shook her head. "I wouldn't know, dar-lin'. I don't socialize with my employees."

  "What about Enrique?" Elise asked in an attempt to trip her up. "You seem on fairly good terms with him."

  'That's different." Strata Luna waved a long-nailed hand. "He's more like family."

  "And Flora Martinez?" Gould asked, an unusual note in his voice.

  "She's like a daughter."

  Before Elise could give the episode much thought, Strata Luna continued. "There is one person you might want to talk to. I thought about him a few days ago. His name is James LaRue. He comes to Black Tupelo sometimes, sniffing round my girls, asking questions."

  "What kinds of questions?" Elise asked.

  "About me."

  "I wouldn't think that would be so unusual. People are curious about you."

  "Newspeople, yes. Reporters, yes. But a retired scientist? What does he wanna know? I ask myself. I finally agreed to speak to him on the phone."

  "And?" Elise asked.

  "Said he was studying tetrodotoxin. Writing a book. But I think he was looking for a place to buy tetrodotoxin. He insinuated I use it to get high." She lifted her chin and looked down her nose. LaRue was unworthy of her. "People wanna see me for many reasons. Some are curious. Some want a story. Others just want their fortunes told."

  "You tell fortunes?" Elise asked.

  "Used to. Years ago, when I was hardly more than a child. 1 gave a few people some good advice on stocks and lottery numbers. People who've heard 'bout my early success have offered large amounts of money for advice. But I don't do that no more."

  "Why'd you quit?" Gould asked. "I'd think fortune-telling would be less unpleasant than . . . escort service."

  "Humans are intuitive, but few know how to channel that power, including myself. I couldn't foresee the deaths of my own children. I could pick stocks and lottery numbers, but I couldn't save the people who meant the most to me."

  All three fell silent. Strata Luna finally looked across the table at Gould. "It's a beautiful fountain, isn't it?"

  Gould was once again staring past the potted plants, creeper vine, and magnolia tree, to the fountain. Strata Luna's direct statement caused his cup to slip. He caught it as it rattled against the saucer.

  "Do you have any children, Detective Gould?" Strata Luna asked in a way that seemed deliberate as well as elusive. "Alive or dead? Because we must always remember the dead."

  Gould pulled his gaze from the statue. He stared at Strata Luna for a long time before attacking her question with one of his own. "You lost two children, didn't you? Two girls?"

  "I had two daughters," Strata Luna said. "Both are dead. Deliliah drowned, and Marie hung herself." She glared at him. "But you would have already known that, so why talk about it to me?"

  "Just my job," Gould said, refusing to be intimidated.

  "I know what people say. They say I killed them. Is that what you think? Is that what you're implying? Are you looking for a confession?"

  Gould blinked, apparently figuring he'd gone too far. "The question was out of line. I'm sorry."

  His words might have fooled anybody else. But Strata Luna was a perceptive woman. She would know he didn't mean them.

  "Would a mother kill her own child?" Strata Luna asked.

  "It happens," Gould said flatly.

  The sudden tension and hostility between the two was palpable. Should she jump in? Elise wondered. Or let the scene play out?

  "Not this mother." Strata Luna jabbed a finger at herself. "This mother would never kill her own children."

  "I said I was sorry."

  "Words are real. Even if you can't see them, or hold them. Once you send them out in the world, they have power. Never speak words you don't mean."

  Gould was trapped. There was no response that could placate the woman. Elise had decided it was time to intervene when Strata Luna spoke again.

  "You need to stop your self-destructive ways," she told him.

  The eye lock was broken.

  Gould suddenly made a big deal out of peering into his empty cup. "D
id I miss something? Did you read my tea leaves?"

  Always turning everything into a joke.

  "I try to guide people," Strata Luna said. "I try to keep them from being foolish."

  Gould replaced his cup on the saucer. "Thanks for the advice." His voice may have been level, but Elise didn't miss the underlying sarcasm.

  He stood. "I have a couple of questions for Enrique."

  "He should be in the house unless he's left for the grocery store." Strata Luna waved behind her, clearly glad to be rid of Gould. "Feel free to look around. I have nothing to hide."

  "I'll catch up in a minute," Elise told him.

  Gould nodded and strode away.

  "He could use some lessons in self-discipline," Strata Luna said once he was gone.

  "Detective Gould's okay," Elise said, surprised to find that her opinion of him had changed for the better. He was more than holding his own, and sometimes a detective had to ask tough questions to get the right answers. His tactic had been a good one, just misplaced.

  "Thanks for agreeing to see us," Elise said, getting to her feet.

  Strata Luna reached out and grabbed her arm, fingers squeezing tightly. "Sit down."

  Elise remained standing. "Remove your hand." Now it was her turn to confront Strata Luna.

  The woman released her hold, apparently realizing her forceful nature hadn't gone over well.

  "Have you thought of something about Gary Turello you forgot to tell us?" Elise asked, her voice now remote and businesslike.

  "No."

  Elise checked her watch. "Then I have to go. You have my card. Call if you think of anything." She began to walk away.

  Strata Luna's next words stopped her. "Your mother was one of my girls."

  Elise felt a heavy thud in the pit of her stomach. She pulled in a breath and swung around.

  "Her name was Loralie," Strata Luna said. "She was beautiful. Exotic. Popular with the men. Oh, I'm sorry. You didn't want to hear that."

  Elise waited.

  Strata Luna picked up a cookie, turning it this way and that. "Did you know that when I heard you'd been left in a cemetery, I thought about adopting you myself? But I knew they wouldn't give a baby to somebody like me. Not even a baby with devil eyes."