A Vision of Murder

by Victoria Laurie

  I thought about what M.J. was saying to me, and squirmed in my chair. Years ago Theresa had tried to teach me how to open up to spirits who had crossed over. My experience hadn’t been fun, because unlike her I couldn’t get names, I could only identify the energies I came in contact with through a physical sensation. The way these spirits identified themselves was typically by the last physical sensation they had experienced, like a heart attack or awful sickness. The last time I’d physically experienced this kind of thing had been when I’d opened up to a young man who’d overdosed on drugs, and had died of asphyxiation when his lungs filled with vomit. It had been awful and I’d never opened up again. “I’m not a medium in the traditional sense,” I finally said, “but, to answer your question, yes, I can open up to energies who have crossed over. This was a similar experience, but far more visual and violent than I’m used to, and it also happened without my permission.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure Jean-Paul likes the fact that he practically highjacked you. But now you know his tricks, and if you protect yourself it shouldn’t happen again.”

  “How can I do that?” If there was a way not to have to go through that again, I was all for it.

  “The answer is so easy you’re gonna laugh,” M.J. said.

  “Tell me,” I begged.

  “Magnets.”

  “What?”

  “Magnets,” she repeated. “As in what’s probably hanging on your refrigerator at this very moment.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said, mentally scratching my head. “How could a refrigerator magnet ward off evil spirits?”

  “It’s simple,” M.J. continued. “Magnets screw with the electromagnetic frequencies we all emit and it’s like the ghost doesn’t want to be in the same room with one. It’s the equivalent of having a smoke alarm blaring in a small room, all you want to do is get away from the noise. Now, determined ghosts like Jean-Paul may be able to take it for a minute or two, but after that they want no part of it. It’s very uncomfortable for them and they tend to recede as far away from the magnets as they can get. So, if you need to go back to your haunted house before you solve your mystery, take plenty of magnets, and place them in the four corners of each room. I guarantee you won’t see much of Jean-Paul after that.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that in the beginning?” I asked, more than a little annoyed. If M.J. had simply shared that little tidbit with me, we could have gotten rid of Jean-Paul and Dave could have had the house fixed up and ready to go by now.

  “Because the right thing to do is not to lock your ghost down with a bunch of magnets, Abby,” M.J. explained patiently. “It’s to discover the reason they’re in pain, and help them cross over. Even if Jean-Paul did commit murder, he deserves to cross over and face his own judgment day, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I sighed heavily and gave in. “Yeah, I suppose. Still, that would have been good to know,” I said stubbornly.

  “Well, now you do, and you also know a lot more about what specifically happened to Liza. You’re ahead of the game even though it wasn’t the most pleasant experience. Don’t worry, you’ll figure out what triggered Jean-Paul’s rage and solve the mystery, and once you know that you can leave the rest up to me. Now, I gotta fly, but call me when you’re ready for me to come to town, okay?”

  “Sure, sure,” I said and we disconnected. I sat on the edge of Dutch’s bed for a few moments considering everything M.J. had said and knowing she was right. Even so, magnets were going to be at the very top of my shopping list this week.

  “Abby?” I heard Dutch call from downstairs. “You still on the phone?”

  “Nope,” I said, getting up and heading for the stairs. When I reached the bottom I noticed Dutch and Dave still seated on the couch, both eyeing the wooden box with interest. “No luck opening it, huh?”

  “Oh, I can open it,” Dave said as he leaned back against the sofa cushions. “It’s just a question of how many pieces you’ll have after I do that’s the question.”

  “No!” I said sternly. “You promised not to damage it, Dave.” My guides had insisted that the box remain intact.

  “Then I don’t have a friggin’ clue how you expect to find out what’s inside it, Abby. There are no moving parts, no latches, or seams, or hinges for that matter, and the only way I know that it opens is that it’s too light to be solid and when you shake it you can hear something shuffling around inside.”

  I looked questioningly at Dutch to get his input and he shrugged his shoulders agreeing with Dave. “Sorry, Edgar, I’m with him. I say we get a saw and cut this baby open . . .”

  “No!” I said and bent forward, retrieving the box. “No one is sawing open anything!”

  “Why not?” Dutch asked me, surprised by my outburst. “I mean, you could be holding the key to this entire little mystery. Why be stubborn about an old wooden box?”

  I cradled the box defensively in my arms. “I don’t know, Dutch, but trust me, it’s important that this thing remain intact.”

  “Important to whom?” he said, still perplexed.

  “Liza,” I said without hesitation.

  “The dead girl?” he asked.

  “Yes. This was hers, and she doesn’t want it ruined.”

  “How do you know?” Dave asked me.

  I paused for a long moment and thought about that. The truth was, I didn’t know how I knew. The only thing I could think of was that when Jean-Paul had taken me through Liza’s death, some of her energy must have imprinted itself on me. I knew what I knew as if it were something I’d lived through, but couldn’t remember. “I don’t know how, Dave, but I just do. Okay?”

  Dave threw up his hands and said, “Have it your way, honey, but I don’t think you’re going to get that thing open without a good hammer.”

  My intuition buzzed, and my guides assured me they would help me find a way. “Give me some time and I’ll figure it out,” I said, and left it at that.

  The next day I took Dutch to get his stitches removed and then dropped him off for his first physical therapy appointment. His physical therapist was a pretty brunette named Lori, and she promised not to be too hard on him. Given that he’d just had two-dozen little black threads pulled out of his butt and was in one hell of a mood, I could only hope that he’d return the favor.

  While Dutch was put through his paces, I took advantage of the time and location of the physical therapist’s office and scooted two streets over to Opalescence. I managed to find a parking spot just down the street, and extracted the wooden box from the back seat of my SUV, where I’d hidden it when Dutch’s back was turned. Given the watchful eye he’d been scrutinizing me with lately, I didn’t want to give too much away about what I was up to.

  Coming into the store I spotted James right way behind one of the counters munching on a freshly opened bag of peanut M&M’s. Being a true chocoholic I trotted over to him, hoping for morsel.

  “Hi, Abby!” he said happily when he saw me.

  “How’s it going?” I asked as I stopped in front of him, placing the box on the counter.

  “What’cha got there?” he asked as he extended the bag my way.

  I gratefully nodded my head at the bag and he poured a generous portion into my outstretched palm. “This is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma,” I said as I popped a blue M&M into my mouth.

  “Hmmm,” James said as he picked up the box. “Well, Mr. Churchill, I doubt Stalin could actually fit in here, but I guess anything’s possible.”

  I laughed. “Actually, I don’t know what’s inside. That’s why I thought of you. I found this box hidden in a crawl space at my house, and I think there’s something inside, but I don’t know how to open it.” I watched James’s face carefully for any sign of recognition of the box on his counter. It was a huge gamble, I knew, but I had to know if he knew about the box hidden by his grandfather.

  “You know,” he said, his expression inquisitive, “I’ve seen one of these before at a trade show. There’s
a trick to opening them, but the last time I saw one was years ago, and I don’t remember how to get inside. If you’d like, I can do some research for you, and maybe track down someone who could help?”

  “Normally, I’d take you up on that, James, thank you. But there’s one more source I think I’ll try before I give up and leave it with anyone.” Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . . The truth was there was no other source, but there was no way in hell I could risk leaving it with James and have him open it to discover what his grandfather had hidden so long ago, and how that was connected to Liza.

  “Okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Say, your earrings are coming along really nicely. We should have them ready for you by the end of the week.”

  “Sounds great. My sister’s going to love them,” I said as I picked the box back up preparing to leave, when my intuition buzzed loudly in my ear. “Say, James,” I said, pausing for a moment. “Do you have an old friend or something coming for a visit? A family member or something?”

  James cocked his head slightly at my question. “No, not that I know of.”

  “You sure?” I asked, as my intuition insisted that this was the case. “A cousin or a really close friend or something?”

  “Nope,” James said, shaking his head slowly back and forth, looking perplexed, “no one is planning a visit as far as I know.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, scratching my own head. The thought continued to swirl in my mind so I went with it and explained, “Sometimes I get stuff that isn’t on the agenda yet, but let me just say that if you end up inviting a relative, or close friend over to your house, look out. Whoever this guy is isn’t the best of houseguests and he could take advantage of you. It feels like he’s a pest or a nuisance or something, and you’ll end up regretting having him over.”

  James’s face turned from confused to thoughtful, then, to something that for a moment looked very much like fear. It was gone as quickly as it came, however, and after he’d recovered himself he said, “Thanks, Abby, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “No sweat. Say how’s the puppy?”

  James smiled. “She’s terrific, thanks for asking, almost house trained and, so far, she’s only chewed up a few pair of shoes.”

  “Yeah, my puppy went through that stage, too. It’ll pass eventually and you can go back to wearing something other than ratty old sneakers.”

  “Good to know,” James chuckled. “I’ll be sure and give you a call when your earrings are done. Let me know if you want me to help figure out how to open that box.”

  “Sure thing,” I said and took my leave. I walked back to the car, and stowed the box back in the trunk, then headed back over to pick up Dutch. When I got to the PT’s office he was waiting for me in the lobby, leaning heavily on the cane.

  “Did you get your errands done?” he asked, looking at me with a suspicious eye.

  “Yep. Ready to go?” I didn’t want to have to explain myself.

  “Abby . . .” He said in a tone that meant he knew I’d been up to something.

  “I’ve got the car nice and toasty for you. . . .”

  “Tell me what you did,” he demanded, refusing to budge.

  “Why does everything have to have an ulterior motive?” I asked him.

  “Because I know you.”

  “Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” I shot back.

  “Oh, trust me,” he said chuckling, “I know you well enough to understand when you’ve been up to something, now tell me or it’s going to be a mighty long ride home.”

  “Fine, but let’s talk about it in the car,” I coaxed. I figured if he got upset at me while I was driving I could always run over a pothole to take his mind off it.

  Once we were settled and on our way Dutch asked, “So?”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but first you have to promise me you won’t get mad.”

  Dutch sighed audibly and rubbed a tired hand over his face. I had to hand it to him; he was really working hard to hang on to his patience. “I knew it,” he said finally, “I knew you were up to no good.”

  I gave him a look and said, “It’s no big deal, see? I’m safe and sound.”

  “So who did you go see?”

  “James Carlier.”

  Dutch’s lips thinned a bit at the mention of Jean-Paul’s grandson. “And what did he have to say?”

  “Not a lot. See, I went to his jewelry store a few days ago to check it out, and he seems like a perfectly harmless guy. He doesn’t know I’m the one who purchased his grandfather’s house. As far as he knows the house was bought by a real estate investment firm.”

  “So why did you go back to see him today?”

  “I took the box to him to see what his reaction would be.”

  Dutch gave me a cold hard look as his face turned flush, his lips formed a thin line and I began to frantically look for a pothole. I found a little one and swerved slightly to hit it. “Hey!” he yelled as the car bumped. “Cut that out!”

  “Sorry, tough road,” I said and nonchalantly turned on the radio.

  Dutch snapped the radio off. “Abby, stop it.”

  I gave him a Bo Peep smile and small shrug, that said, “Who, me?”

  “I mean it,” he demanded crossly. “Now keep your eyes on the road and don’t you dare hit any more potholes, got it?”

  I saluted smartly, but stopped short of promising until he calmed down a little. “It was no big deal,” I mumbled after a minute of silence while Dutch worked to rein in his horns.

  “You don’t know that,” he said sharply. “All you do know is that you found a mysterious box in a house where a woman was murdered. You don’t know who the killer was . . .”

  “Actually, I do. I witnessed the whole thing at the house yesterday.”

  “Excuse me?” he said in a tone that meant business.

  “Uh . . . I mean . . . uh . . .” Crap! I’d let the cat out of the bag.

  “Lucy,” Dutch said in a great Ricky Ricardo impression, “you got some ’splainin’ to do.”

  I sighed, looking for a way out. We were stopped at a stoplight and I looked around for distractions. Spotting Spago’s Coney Island I offered, “Okay, I’ll tell you all of it, but how about we do it over lunch? I’m starved.” Dutch was always more agreeable when he had food in his stomach, and Spago’s was a particular favorite of his.

  As our waitress hurried away from the table to place our order, I took a long pull on my Coke and began telling Dutch what happened at the house on Fern the day before. He interrupted once or twice to clarify about what the mist that had surrounded Dave and I looked like, and why we didn’t just get the hell out of there before things got too dicey. Mostly, though, he just listened as I told him about what I’d seen through Liza’s eyes in the moments leading up to her murder.

  “So Jean-Paul killed her, you’re certain?” he asked when I was through with my story.

  “Yes, it was definitely him. I recognized him from the photo in the newspaper, but he was considerably older at the time.”

  “How old?”

  “I’d guess somewhere between sixty and seventy.”

  “Pretty strong for a guy in his midsixties to hurl a woman down a flight of stairs.”

  I thought about that for moment and said, “I can tell you that I saw and felt everything through Liza’s perspective. I know that sounds weird but her thoughts were my thoughts and her feelings were mine. I obviously didn’t retain her memories, or her history, and I don’t know her last name, but I can tell you that she was tiny, she was much smaller than Jean-Paul and probably didn’t weigh over a hundred pounds soaking wet. I remember clutching at the hands around my neck, and they were so big compared to mine. James is fairly tall, so his grandfather probably had some height on him as well.”

  “Speaking of which,” Dutch said, eyeing me critically, “what were you thinking taking that box to him, anyway? He could be just as evil as his grandfather, Abby. And if his granddaddy was willing to ki
ll for the thing, the apple might not fall far from the tree.”

  “I know, that’s what logic would say, but I don’t think he’s like that. I opened up my spidey sense when I asked him about the box, and he didn’t recognize it, I’m sure of it. He’d never seen it before.”

  “So did he know how to open it?”

  “No, unfortunately he didn’t.”

  “I see,” Dutch said, giving me his best “told you so” look. “Listen, I may know of someone who can help,” he offered.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I know a guy at the Bureau who’s a crack safe opener. If there’s a way to open that box, he’ll figure it out. But,” he said, looking meaningfully at me, “the condition for my help is that you promise to behave yourself.”

  I made a face to show him what I thought of his condition. “You act like I look for stuff to happen to me,” I said, crossing my arms.

  Dutch’s mood softened and he said, “I figure that’s the only way someone could get into as much trouble as you do, sweethot.”

  I sighed at him and said, “Come on, Mr. Bogart, let’s get you home.”

  Later that night as I was putting clean sheets on the bed, Dutch’s phone rang. A minute later I heard him call, “Abby? Your sister’s on the phone.”

  “I’ll get it up here,” I yelled back and picked up the receiver. “Hey, Cat!” I said happily. It’d been a few days since we’d talked and I was anxious to catch up.

  “You have got to help me!” she said.

  Uh-oh. This sounded bad. “Don’t tell me, Claire and Sam are still unhappy?”

  “That isn’t even the half of it, Abby. You just wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through!”

  “Dish,” I said, relaxing down onto the bed. This sounded like a long one.

  “As you know, I went to extensive expense to repaint the entire guesthouse all over again.”

  “Paint still not neutral enough for Claire?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. She was fine with the color; it’s now the smell that bothers her. So to accommodate our Mommy Dearest I opened every window and door, airing it out but good, and in the middle of winter no less.”