Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3)

by Joanne Pence

  She was escorted to Geller’s office. He seemed happy to see her until she told him she was looking a bit further into Candace Carter’s death. Then, it was as if a light had switched off. All his laughter, smiles, and charm vanished and he turned cold and hard answering only with crisp “yes” or “no” response, and offering no help whatsoever. He soon glanced at his watch and announced he needed to get ready for that evening’s performance at the Geary Street theater, and showed her to the door.

  She left his office, but rather than leaving the premises altogether, she decided to question Lucian Tully.

  She met Sandor’s assistant in one of the smaller meeting rooms. It was the first time she’d talked one-on-one with him. His skin was so pale, it was actually distracting.

  “How long have you worked for Sandy?” she asked.

  He folded long fingers together and gave her a wide-eyed stare. “I’ve been here five years.” His breathing came fast and heavy. “I was one of Sandy’s first hires.”

  “I see that you’re twenty-six,” she continued. “Are you married or anything?”

  “No.” He blushed. “I’m way too busy for anyone but Sandy. I’m always there when he needs me.” His smile was both proud and shy. As she studied the way he answered, she saw no hint of anything sexual between the two men. If anything, Lucian evinced a juvenile case of hero-worship.

  “Did you know Candace Carter very well?”

  He blinked a couple of times. “Not really.”

  “But hasn’t she been a client for several years?” Rebecca pressed.

  “I suppose. But I leave the clients to Sandy. I’m not good with people. All I remember about Candace is Pearl is with us now.”

  “What?” Rebecca was confused.

  “That’s what she always said. ‘Pearl is with us now.’”

  Rebecca looked at him a long moment. “Okay. Thanks. That’s all for the moment.”

  Rebecca also questioned Sandy’s other staff, but none admitted to knowing anything about Candace other than her face, name, and telephone number.

  Rebecca headed home. When she arrived, she considered going to Big Caesar’s later that night to see Richie—to help gather information for the FBI, of course. But then she decided that was playing with fire.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Richie, you’re here so early. What’s wrong?” Carmela said the next morning as she opened the door to her flat. She was still wearing a bathrobe and hadn’t yet put on her make-up. She patted her hair. Even first thing in the morning, it still resembled a stiff helmet, except that one side of it—the side she must have slept on—was squashed down. Combing it probably consisted of doing whatever it took to make it round again.

  “I have to talk to you.” He walked straight into the kitchen and sat at the table.

  “You want coffee, Richie?” she asked, pouring him a cup before he even answered. “What’s happening? A new girlfriend maybe?” She put the cup in front of him. “You aren’t here so early to give me some good news are you?”

  “Of course not, Ma. Sit down.”

  “Sit? How can I sit? Did you eat breakfast? I’ve got bacon and eggs. Or maybe French toast? What would you like?”

  He was going to refuse, but then realized she’d be in a much better mood after cooking, especially if she also ate. And if he said no, she’d try to figure out why he didn’t like her cooking anymore, or if she needed to come up with a more appealing food for him and if so what, instead of listening to what he had to say.

  “Bacon and eggs sounds good.”

  “Bene! And I’ll even give you three eggs. You used to be fat, back when you let yourself go after the terrible tragedy. But now, you’re getting thin. What’s going on with you?”

  “I wasn’t fat.” Well, maybe. “And now I’m actually going to the gym at least once a week. Sometimes more. I’m not thin; it’s that the flab has turned to muscle. I’ve never felt better.” Sometimes he wondered why he even tried to have normal conversation with her.

  “Yeah, well, you might be healthy, but you could use a little more meat on your bones.” She added two more slices of bacon to what already seemed to be half a pound.

  As she cooked, she told him about going shopping to try to find a present for a baby shower for the daughter-in-law of one of her friends, and how she was getting tired buying all these presents for other people’s grandkids. He tuned her out as best he could. Soon she put a platter of food in front of him, with toast that she had buttered, and made a smaller plate for herself. “I’ll just take a little,” she said, sitting across from him as he began to eat, “to keep body and soul together. I’m meeting the girls at noon mass today, and then we’re going to lunch after. Why don’t you come to church with me, Richie. It’ll help.”

  “One of these days,” he said, doing his best not to get distracted from the reason for his visit. “The girls” were her lady friends, all age 60-plus. He pointed at the food with his fork. “This is great, Ma. You make the best eggs.”

  “Bacon grease. A little dab. When you get married, be sure to tell your wife.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Sure. But I’m not getting married.”

  “Your cop girlfriend might have different ideas. Zi’ Maria saw you and her out on Union Street yesterday. She said you two looked real friendly.”

  “Christ, Ma, you got the Italian hotline checking up on me?”

  She shrugged. “I have friends.”

  “First, she’s not my girlfriend. And trust me, she wants to get married even less than I do. And never to me.”

  “Well, I’m glad of that since she got you shot a couple months ago! But any woman who doesn’t want to marry you has to be cacootz.”

  It was a Calabrese word for squash, but also was slang for idiot, or “squash head.”

  “Not really,” he said. “Besides, she’s got a boyfriend, so forget about her. Anyway, speaking of girlfriends—”

  “Yes?” She actually sounded a bit hopeful.

  “Your girlfriend—I heard some disturbing news about Geri.”

  He told her he’d heard that Geri was spending a lot of money on Sandor Geller’s shows and séances. The one thing he didn’t say was where or how he got the information. Being the kind of guy he was, nobody questioned how he found out what he knew. It was just accepted that he did, and every so often, like now with Geri’s money, such beliefs were confirmed.

  When he finished, a long moment passed in complete silence. “So, I tell you a little about Geri wondering about her sister’s money and next thing I know you’re looking into how Geri spends her money?” Carmela glared. “Geri can take care of herself.”

  “Like her sister did?”

  “That was different.”

  “It’s more than that,” he said. “And isn’t there something you want to tell me?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened innocently—another tell that she was lying. “Me? Niente.”

  He folded his arms. “No? How about explaining why you’re doing the same thing?”

  She put down her fork and cast steely black eyes at him. “What are you saying?”

  “I know you’ve gone to that charlatan’s séances. I know you’ve spent money on him. Lots of money.”

  “How …” she began, but then she pursed her lips and didn’t bother to continue. “So, wise guy, you think you know so much, eh?”

  He put down his fork as well. “I know plenty! I know you gotta stop this. What’s the matter with you? I know you say all this supernatural garbage interests you, but this is going too far. What are you trying to do? Talk to Pa? After all these years, is that it? You still miss him that much?”

  Carmela stood. “Madonna mia!” She crossed herself and slapped her palms together, fingers pointed upward as she looked heavenward. “How did I give birth to such a buttagatz?”

  “I’m not an idiot,” he said indignantly. “I have proof.”

  Fist on hip, she stared hard at him. “Proof. I spit on your proof! That man,
that psychic, is nothing. Stunad! How stupid do you think I am? Your poor father—let him rest in peace.”

  “Okay, Ma, calm down and tell me what’s going on.”

  She looked indignant a while longer, then rolled her eyes and sat down again. “I went to two séances, but I did it for Geri. I wanted to see what they were like, and see that Sandor Geller up close.” Her eyes narrowed and her forefinger tapped the table as she continued. “I knew there was something wrong with him the minute I laid eyes on him. When he smiles at you, you can’t see his teeth, and when he laughs, it’s too loud and too long.”

  Richie didn’t want to get into that. “And what did you find out about him?”

  “He’s un gazzo di chooch.”

  He nearly choked on his coffee. She’d just called Geller a donkey’s dick. He agreed.

  “We know that after he found out Geri’s sister had no more money to go see him,” Carmela said, “the big shot gave her a little money each month to help with expenses. Plus, every so often, he let her attend a séance for free. To keep her happy, I guess. But it makes no sense.”

  “I agree,” Richie admitted.

  “Geri wanted to find out what the catch was, so she found out how to get invited to his private séances. For a long time, she didn’t tell me she was going. But I knew something was up. She’s so stubborn, that Geri, she kept saying, ‘No, there’s nothing.’ But I knew better. I could see the lie on her face. Finally, she confessed.”

  “Confessed?”

  “She temporarily moved most of her money to her sons—under threat of eternal damnation if they touched any of it. Then she went to Sandy in tears and said she could hardly afford to see him anymore, but she wanted to keep going. He knew she was Betty Faroni’s sister, of course, and had even connected her with Betty during a couple of séances. Geri laid it on thick and said she’d rather die than no longer be able to visit with spirits.”

  “Uh oh,” was all Richie could say as he heard this. Thoughts of assisted suicide swirled around his head. Was that what was happening?

  “Sandy told her he was sorry, but not to do anything rash. That these things had a way of working themselves out. Two days later she found out how.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a sin against nature, but I don’t think it’s illegal. I’ve got a copy.” She rummaged through a stack of papers on the corner of the counter, then pulled one out and handed it to him.

  As Richie read it, his jaw dropped open.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rebecca spent most of Sunday at work learning what she could about Neda Fourman, Candace Carter, and Elisabetta Faroni, and found that when people lived quiet, normal lives, there really wasn’t much for the police to be able to find out about them. Even if they did take up with con-artists in their last days.

  Agent Seymour, or Bran, as he asked her to call him, phoned her, and she explained again that she had no information for him. God, but he was a pest. Next, she wasted a lot of time explaining to Dr. Evelyn Ramirez why she wanted an autopsy done on a woman that the two homicide inspectors charged with investigating the death had declared her to have died of natural causes. Ramirez explained the cost of an autopsy, and if it wasn’t officially authorized, her staff would need to absorb it, which she didn’t want to do, yada, yada.

  Finally, Ramirez agreed to continue to hold Candace Carter’s body in the morgue until Rebecca secured an official request for an autopsy along with the funds to do it.

  All in all, Rebecca was quite glad to head for home by late afternoon.

  She turned onto her alley and slammed on the brakes. Parked up ahead were a Porsche and a Maserati. Richie and Shay. They were either in their cars, in her back yard, or in her apartment. She should throw them out. And would, except that she wanted to see them. Or, to be honest, she wanted to see Richie.

  They weren’t in their cars, the breezeway, or the yard. Given the people they sometimes dealt with, and the FBI’s concern, she put her hand on her weapon as she unlocked her apartment door, then carefully opened it.

  “Don’t shoot, Rebecca. It’s just us.”

  She scowled as she entered.

  Richie and his creepy friend Shay sat at the small dinette. They were an incongruous pair, particularly in her little apartment—the blond and serious Shay with his wheat-colored jacket and emerald green ascot, looking like he was about to take a constitutional across the moors, and Richie with his cocky grin, casually tousled black hair, and wearing a black wool pullover and gray slacks that were suitable for a wine-and-cheese nosh.

  They had Shay’s laptop open and angled so that they could both read from it, and in front of each was a bottle of Blue Moon ale.

  Spike sat on Richie’s lap. He lifted his head, and the little weasel seemed to think about it a moment before he jumped down and ran over to greet her.

  She pointedly exchanged greetings with only Shay as she petted her dog, then faced Richie.

  “It’s bad enough you barge in without being invited, Amalfi, but trying to steal my dog’s affections is going too far.”

  “Can I help it if Spike has good taste?”

  She forced her eyes from his. A while back, circumstances caused her to give him keys to her apartment. When she asked him to return them, he pointed out that sometimes a person wanted help, but not necessarily 9-1-1’s. She said she had people in her building who’d help her—Kiki Nuñez and Bradley Frisk. He made no comment, but his look said it all, as in, “If you need serious help, do you really think they’d be able to provide it?”

  He had a point. She agreed it would be a good idea for him to keep the key for emergencies. This, however, didn’t qualify.

  After taking off her jacket, and putting her gun away, she took a deep breath before she faced them again. “You have such a beautiful home, Richie,” she said, keeping her voice light. And in truth, he did. “Why did you let yourself into mine?”

  She could see from his expression that he had a devilish answer to that, but he simply said, “Shay found something important, and I figured it’s easier to show you than to try to explain. Besides, I thought you’d be home on a Sunday. You’re not on-call today.”

  How would he even know that? She gave up. “Okay. Let me feed Spike first.”

  “I fed him,” Richie said. “But I’ll get you some beer or wine. I brought over a good chardonnay—it’s in the fridge. You’ll like it, and you might need it once Shay gets started. This is all about numbers.”

  “Wine sounds good,” she said as she took off her boots, and joined the men at the table. Richie had put a chair for her between him and Shay so she could easily see the screen. Her wine was beside the computer and she reached for it, taking a long sip. Something told her that he was right—she was going to need it.

  “This,” Shay said as he opened a PDF document, “is a life insurance policy that Neda Fourman had from her employer. She worked as a nurse for over forty years, and had a really good pension and insurance plan. She made Lucian Tully her beneficiary, and in return, she was given a monthly stipend, plus she could attend a free séance once a month—that alone was worth five-hundred dollars to her.”

  Rebecca’s head was already spinning. “Lucian Tully? Life insurance? What?”

  “It means,” Richie said, “she sold her life insurance policy in exchange for the money she needs now.”

  “I thought that sort of thing was illegal,” Rebecca said.

  “It’s actually not,” Shay told her. “What you’re thinking of are viatical settlements, where the policy holder was close to dying when the transaction was completed. A lot of changes were made to the insurance industry since those were hot investments, back when young men of working age and insured by their employers were dying of AIDS and needed cash. What Geller is doing is closer to what’s called a ‘life settlement’ but instead of a middle man getting involved, Geller is working directly with his customers. He finds ones who have life insurance, but for whatever reason have no family members
as beneficiaries. If such a person becomes strapped for cash, Geller offers a way for them to have money now. Sort of like a reverse mortgage, but it doesn’t put a person’s home at risk. In fact, there’s no risk at all to the policy owner. In most of these cases, they like the idea of Geller getting their life insurance policy to ‘carry on his good work,’ as one of the people wrote right on the policy when he signed it over.”

  She looked from Richie to Shay and back again. “How in the world did you find out all this?”

  “Carmela told me about it,” Richie admitted. “Somehow, her friend Geri convinced Sandy that she was all alone in life—no close family, and, now, she had little money. She was visited by Lucian Tully who said Sandy was concerned about her. Together, they filled out a form. He started asking about other assets she might have. She kept saying she had nothing until he asked about life insurance. She remembered her sister Betty once told her she had one. Something made Geri say she did have a policy. A few days later, Lucian returned with a promise that Sandy would send her five-hundred dollars each month if she signed a form for her life insurance company that, if processed, would make Lucian her beneficiary.”

  “What?” Rebecca had never heard of such a thing.

  “Right. Of course, she didn’t sign the form.”

  Shay chimed in. “Once Richie gave me the information, I knew what to look for. I found that Lucian had been made beneficiary for her sister Betty’s life insurance. And I’ve already tracked down similar beneficiary changes on five of the eight others Geller is sending money to. They’re all in their seventies or eighties and relatively healthy. Most have insurance, small policies, from their jobs or pension funds that they probably haven’t thought about until Lucian came knocking at their door with an offer of money. Since the monthly stipends they receive come out of Geller’s account, Lucian must be Geller’s stooge in this, and nothing more.”