Tony Marcella 05 - Witch House

by Dana Donovan

  “He did, but don’t you want to hear the other interesting tidbit he had for us?”

  “There’s more?”

  Carlos held his notepad close to his chest as if guarding a killer poker hand. He stole a glimpse at it and then came up smiling. “Guess who the arresting officer was that caught Landau leaving the burning cabin that day.”

  I shook my head. “I give up.”

  “Ronald Powell.”

  “Sergeant Powell?”

  “Yeah, only he wasn’t a sergeant back then.”

  “We just saw him this morning.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think he knew who Landau was?”

  “I don’t see how he couldn’t. He was right there when you found his prison ID card.”

  “He didn’t say anything.”

  “Well,” Carlos slipped his notepad back into his jacket pocket, “I told you it was an interesting tidbit.”

  “Yes you did. I am beginning to think there are many interesting tidbits to this case. I only hope they begin adding up soon.”

  “Coffee?” Trish came back to the table with my coffee and toast and a large tea for Carlos, no ice. “Yours will be up in a minute,” she said to Carlos.

  I thought she would turn and skedaddle as quickly as possible, but she did not. When it became obvious that she wanted to say something, only she did not know where to start, I asked her, “Is there something else?”

  She kept her head down, her chin nearly to her chest. I could see there was something. She took a shallow breath and said, “Detective, I….”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to tell you that I lied to you earlier.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. I told you earlier that I never met Adam’s father. The truth is I did. I met him yesterday when he came to the house to see Adam.”

  I looked at Carlos. His brows were fish-hooked in perpetual surprise, and I imagined if I looked into a mirror, I would have seen a similar expression on my face, too. I made it a point to scowl in an attempt to display my disapproval, and maybe convey a sense that I knew she was lying all along. “All right then,” I said, “why don’t you tell me about that?”

  I watched her eyes carry off on an invisible thread to the corner of the room before snapping back to mine. “He was already agitated about something,” she said of Landau. “I walked in on him and Adam while Mister Landau was on the phone. He was yelling at the man, calling him a swine and a crook.”

  “Do you know who he was talking to?”

  Trish shook her head. “No, but I heard him say to whoever it was, ‘I’ll see you at the bar tonight’, and then he slammed the phone down.”

  “I’ll see you at the bar tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know who it was, a man or a woman?”

  “No.”

  “Does Adam know?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I asked him. After Mister Landau left, I asked Adam who that was on the phone, and he said he didn’t know. He told me that his father came in, said hello, they hugged and then he went right over to the phone and made the call.”

  “So, Mister Landau placed the call?”

  “Yes.”

  “Trish, why didn’t you tell us this earlier?”

  “I wanted to,” she said, “but when Adam called here, he told me not to mention that. He said we didn’t need to get mixed up in it, and that whoever killed his father might want to come back and hurt him or me.”

  “I see, but you know it is against the law to obstruct or mislead an active criminal investigation. You and Adam can find yourselves in serious trouble for holding back information.”

  “I know. That’s why I am telling you this now. All I ask is that you don’t tell Adam I spoke to you about it. I don’t want him to hate me.”

  I took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. We won’t tell. Just make sure you keep us informed if anything new develops, or if anyone suspicious tries to contact Adam. Okay?”

  “I will, Detective. Thank you.”

  She walked away, and this time I made it a point not to watch her, so that Carlos could not accuse me of lusting after women one-third my age, even though I am her age now. It is not so much that I dread dealing with Carlos and his adolescent teasing; I do not. It is Lilith, should she ever catch wind of it. The everyday girlfriend may show mercy for such trivial infractions, but never the witch. The witch will make your life a living hell just for looking. Sometimes I think she knows when such fears have me thinking of her, as was the case then when she called me on the phone, even before I took my first sip of coffee. I shook a stern finger at Carlos and warned him, “Don’t you say a word.”

  “About what?”

  Only then did I realize that my phone did not yet ring. When it did, I pulled it out of my pocket, flipped it open and said, “Yes, Lilith.”

  “Tony, you will never guess what. Ursula and I were just….” She paused.

  “Just what?” I said.

  “Are you with a woman?”

  “I’m with Carlos. Does that count?”

  “Hmm, listen. Ursula and I were just looking at a house across town.”

  “Oh?” I covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Carlos that the girls found a house. “That’s nice, Lilith, but I really can’t talk about buying a house right now. We are in the middle of an investigation and—”

  “It’s haunted.”

  “Come again.”

  “It’s haunted, really. As soon as we walked in, we got this cold chill and a vibe like there was something paranormal afoot.”

  “A paranormal foot?”

  “No, Tony, something afoot—in the house, there is something paranormal taking place. You should see it. The minute you walk into a room, the mirrors and windows fog up, the temperature drops. The floor shakes. We didn’t even see any rodent or bug droppings lying around, and the house has been empty for years.”

  “So, you’re saying it’s clean?”

  “I am saying we think there is a restless spirit living there and we want to investigate further. Ursula and I are going back with some candles and incense later. We want to do a séance.”

  “Is the realtor going to mind you conducting a séance in the house?”

  She laughed at that. “Tony, trust me. The realtor won’t mind. She is too afraid to go inside again, but that’s all right. The locks don’t work. Honestly, you have to see this place. It’s a riot. There is this one room where you turn the light on and it shuts itself off, but if you turn it on and off real quick, it will turn itself on again. It’s a hoot, I swear, whoever this ghost is, he’s not that bright.”

  “That’s great, Lilith.” At this point in the conversation, I had turned the phone on speaker so that Carlos could hear, too. “Just remember we don’t buy anything until a home inspector checks it out.”

  “Inspector? You kidding? This place doesn’t need an inspector. It needs a ghost buster.”

  “Lilith, please don’t make any irrational decisions without me. You promise?”

  “What does that mean? You want to help me make irrational decisions?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Tony, it’s just a séance. Chill. Here, say hello to Ursula.”

  “No, Lilith, I don’t want to say—”

  “Greetings, Master Tony!”

  “Hello, Ursula. Listen, don’t let Lilith get you—”

  “Oh, Lilith speaks of going now. I must say fare thee well.”

  “Goodbye, Ursula.”

  I flipped the phone shut. “You see this? See what I have to put up with every day?”

  Carlos only smiled and sipped his tea. I know he must think I am a total bore. He has let me know countless times how lucky I am to have Lilith, and even more so to have a second chance at life. But it has taken me considerable time to adjust to my new life, which seems funny, as I have walked in these
shoes once already. I guess the thing is, the first time I took that walk, everything seemed so new and wonderful. Now everything still seems new and wonderful, only in an old déjà vu sort of way. I guess I am afraid of stepping on life’s little land mines a second time around—one being Lilith, a powder keg with a short fuse. If flirting with fire is living on the edge, then I am on the rim of the volcano, sliding down its throat.

  FIVE

  The clouds were beginning to break when we arrived at Stephanie Stiles’ apartment. A good sign, I thought, anticipating a break in the case as well. Her simple one bedroom flat on the third floor of a low-rise condominium overlooked the river along Edgewater Boulevard. She did not seem too surprised to see us, although if she knew we were coming, I would have thought she would have put on a robe. She answered the door in a sheer, if not see-through, nightgown, unbuttoned to her navel and cropped just above the knees. Her hair looked like a rat’s nest, her makeup faded, smudged and worn, as though she had slept on it without trying to remove any of it first. She probably had. Earlier, Carlos had shown me her photo and said she looked chassis. I wondered if he still thought so now.

  Stiles invited us in, lit up a smoke and offered us a seat on the sofa. On her walk to another chair across the room, she passed in front of a glass slider leading to the back balcony. Only then, with the sun silhouetting her figure, could I say without reservations that her gown was indeed see-through. I looked at Carlos and caught him in a flinch, as though he had just suffered a carpet shock. In a way, I suppose he had.

  “Ms. Stiles,” I said, “we are sorry to barge in on you like this without calling, but we have come to ask you a few questions, if we may.”

  “About René, I suppose.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  She took a long, slow drag on her cigarette and let it out her nose, allowing a plume of blue-white smoke to wrap her face in a ghostly shroud. Then she pitched her head back toward the ceiling and watched the cloud evaporate around her. “Detective, as far as I am concerned, René is dead to me.”

  That caught my attention, and Carlos’, too. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I don’t care if I ever see him again. You can tell him that next time you see him.”

  “Won’t do any good,” said Carlos.

  “What?”

  I reached over and slapped his knee. “Ms. Stiles, when was the last time you saw René Landau?”

  She stole another drag of her cigarette and expelled it in a manner I described previously. “Yesterday,” she said. “He came here in a taxi, all bent out of shape, yelling and screaming.”

  “About what?”

  She hesitated, took an abbreviated drag and then blew it out sharply. “He accused me of seeing other men while he was in prison.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I denied it, of course.”

  I gave Carlos a subtle look to gauge his expression. Surprisingly, his poker face kept me guessing. I said to Stiles, “What happened then?”

  She pointed with her cigarette into the bedroom. “That’s when René found the watch on the night stand.”

  “Watch?”

  “A man’s watch.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Yes, and apparently, so did he. He threw the watch at me, cut me here.” She held her arm up in a defensive posture and showed me a mark on the back of her wrist. “Then he told me the wedding was off and that he wanted his ring back.”

  “So, you gave it to him.”

  “I did. I threw it at him; threw that damn watch at him, too. Hit him just below the eye with it. Sorry he didn’t lose it.”

  “The watch?”

  “The eye! It bounced off his face and landed in the toilet. Probably a good thing, or the son-of-a-bitch would have stolen it from me.”

  I looked at Carlos again. He still wore his poker face, but I knew what he was thinking. I turned again to Ms. Stiles. “Where is the watch now?”

  “My boyfriend has it. I fished it out of the toilet and gave it back to him this morning.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t know, ten o’clock? What time is it now?”

  I checked my watch. “It’s almost one.”

  “Then yes, ten o’clock.”

  “I see. Ma'am, I understand you met René Landau while he was in prison. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did that come about?”

  “We met through his attorney.”

  “Paul Kemper?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you know Mister Kemper?”

  “I don’t know, met him in a bar, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  I had not noticed when, but at some point along the interview, the curtain of smoke around her has stopped lifting, but for what it was worth, she seemed more at ease in its embrace. “Yes, it was in a bar,” she said, “a little hole-in-the-wall on Jefferson. He bought me a few drinks, we had a few laughs, and then he said he thought I should meet a friend of his, who just landed a guest room at MCI up at Cedar Junction.”

  “You knew he meant Walpole,” I said.

  She expelled a cloud like Mount St. Helen. “Yeah.”

  “Did you get the impression that Mister Kemper and Mister Landau were good friends?”

  “No.”

  “Did Mister Kemper tell you why René Landau was in prison?”

  “He did.” She waved her hand to dismiss the reason and a large cigarette ash fell to the floor. “But I thought René was cute, and I figured if I made him my boyfriend, he couldn’t cheat on me so long as he was in prison.”

  “With another woman,” said Carlos. I knew what he meant.

  “Of course,” she said, perhaps not catching his drift. “Men are such flirts. I liked the idea of having a man on a short leash. It was my idea to get married while he was still in prison.”

  “But you didn’t marry.”

  “No.” She crushed her smoke out in the ashtray and settled in to her chair, crossing her legs and letting her gown ride up her thigh until nothing remained for the imagination. “He didn’t want to marry me until he got out. I don’t think he trusted me.”

  “Did he ever say anything to you about the money from the armored car robbery?”

  “Money?”

  “From the robbery.”

  She seemed to dwell on that curiously long before answering. “No.” She shook her head. “He never mentioned anything about the money.”

  “Did you know about the money?”

  “I don’t know, maybe Kemper mentioned it.”

  “What did he say about it?”

  She shrugged uneasily, and I got the sense she wished she had not said anything to me about it. “I don’t remember.” She uncrossed her legs and edged forward in her seat, eyeing her smokes on the coffee table. Carlos met her halfway and knocked the pack to within her reach, saving her from having to stand and lean over the table to get them. “That was seventeen years ago, Detective,” she said, easing back in her chair. “Who remembers details like that from so long ago?”

  “Indeed,” I said, “Who?” I waited until she lit her cigarette. “Ms. Stiles, I am afraid I have something to tell you that I probably should have told you sooner. It’s about René.”

  “Oh?”

  “I am sorry to have to tell you this, but René is dead; someone murdered him last night.”

  This is the part where I expected one of two things: both textbook reactions from a potential suspect in a murder when she learns of the victim’s demise. Either she breaks down to some degree in mock disbelief, perhaps crying, perhaps not, but usually after staring into an imaginary black hole at a distance just beyond reach; or the same occurs out of genuine disbelief. The latter assuming she is entirely innocent. However, that was not the case with Stephanie Stiles. Her reaction puzzled me, and Carlos, too, if I read him correctly. Instead of the visible signs of a woman brokenhearted by the loss of her fiancée, Stiles appeare
d perplexed, as if contemplating alternate routes for a journey she had already taken.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Stiles?” I said, after realizing she had no comment about it. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “René is dead.”

  “Are you not shocked by that news?”

  “Shocked? Hardly, Detective.” She drew on her cigarette and blew the smoke directly at me, her eyes and mine locking in a sort of showdown to see who might blink first.

  “Do you have any knowledge as to who would want your fiancée dead?”

  “Are you asking me if I killed him?”

  “No, I wasn’t, but since you ask?”

  She blinked. “My, you don’t beat around the bush.”

  I heard Carlos laugh at that, but he managed to turn it into a convincing cough, complete with aggressive hand fanning of the smoke enveloping us like a fog. I noticed then that Ms. Stiles had opened her legs just enough that Carlos, if not careful, might have caught an accidental glimpse of something he did not want to see.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “No,” she said. “I did not kill René. If I had, I would have kept his ring. It is the least he could give me after all the years I waited for him.”

  “Do you know anyone else that might have held a grudge against him?”

  “Not really, unless you consider that Indian chief down at the casino. He was mighty pissed at René.”

  “The Wampanoag Indian Casino?”

  “Yes, it was the casino’s money he stole. René told me several times over the years that someone from the reservation tried to kill him in prison.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Check it out for yourself.”

  “I will do that.”

  She hit her cigarette one last time and crushed it out in the ashtray. “Is that all, Detective?”

  “Almost. I have just one more question. Can you tell me where you were between one and three this morning?

  “Is that when he died?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was here with a gentleman friend.”

  “Can you give me his name?”

  She shook her head. “I prefer not.”

  “Why?”