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

by Joanne Pence

  As they walked away from the house to the north side of the small peninsula, far from the beach with Lucian’s car, she pointed out the path down the hillside to the beach, the path she had taken with Geller.

  “We did it,” Richie said as they stood on the shore. “You and I. We saved them.”

  He sounded completely overjoyed. “Yes, we did,” she said with a laugh.

  As their gazes met, she saw joy and much more as he looked at her. Her breath caught. “Let’s keep going.” She turned away from him.

  He quickly caught up and put his arm around her shoulders as they slowly ambled along the shoreline. “It’s crazy,” he said, “when you think about what started this whole mess. A bunch of people going to séances, looking to the past, looking backwards to live through loved ones who were gone. It makes sense it wouldn’t turn out well.”

  “It was sad,” she said.

  “If at all possible, a person needs to look to the future. That’s where there’s hope—and life.”

  The thought struck her that he might be thinking about himself and his fiancée when he said that, whether he realized it or not.

  “You’re right,” she murmured.

  He dropped his arm and walked closer to the ocean. He picked up a piece of driftwood and flung it toward the water, watching with satisfaction at the distance he achieved.

  She stepped to his side and put a hand on his shoulder. When he faced her, the raw emotion coming from him rolled over her like a wave. She was unnerved by what she saw, and what she felt for him. Unnerved because she knew, whatever she might be feeling, that the two of them as a couple would never work.

  She dropped her hand and searched for what to say to bring things back to their usual casual relationship. “After seeing the pain losing a loved one brought to all those people who gave their money to Sandy, I guess I’m glad I’m not looking for that kind of a deep relationship.” When he made no reply, she added, “I suspect you feel the same way.” She forced a smile. “There’s much to be said for ‘no strings.’”

  He didn’t reply for a moment as his gaze searched hers. “I think it wasn’t the pain of loss that caused those people to fall into the Sandorista trap. The problem for them, what they couldn’t deal with, was loneliness.”

  She hadn’t expected that from him, and she realized he was right. They started to walk again, side-by-side, down the beach.

  “It’s good then,” she said, trying once more, “that neither of us leads a boring life. We don’t have time to be lonely.”

  “Busy people can still be lonely, Rebecca.” He reached for her hand as they continued to skirt the water. His jaw tightened for a moment, and then he said, “But you’re right. It’s good we’re busy.”

  She couldn’t leave it at that, not after hearing the honest sadness in his words. “I must admit, I do find you a surprisingly good companion.”

  He glanced quizzically at her, but then his face slowly spread into a smile. “Good, because I find you the same. It’s nice, you know, when two people find this … what should we call it? Companionship.”

  She felt suddenly empty inside. “Yes. Of course. That’s what it is.” They walked along the sandy beach until they reached a stretch of rocks that headed out into the water.

  Richie climbed up onto the rocks and helped Rebecca join him. She did, and the two of them walked nearer to the water, and then sat. Waves gently rolled up onto the rocks a little way below their feet.

  “It’s beautiful here,” he said.

  Their shoulders touched, and she could feel the warmth in his dark eyes as he faced her.

  “Yes. I wish we could stay here a long time.”

  “I’d like it,” he said.

  Despite her caution, she couldn’t help but to lean a little closer to him as they watched and listened to the waves lap against the shore.

  But soon he looked towards the house. The county detectives stood at the top of the hill waiting for them.

  Behind the detectives, the house seemed oddly brighter than it had before, as if some darkness, perhaps some sadness, had been lifted from it.

  “Come on, Inspector,” Richie said, holding out his hand to help her climb back down onto the sand. “Your duty awaits.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Rebecca woke with a start to the sound of her cell phone buzzing. The first thing she thought was that it was the dispatcher calling, but then she remembered that her on-call shift had ended.

  After leaving Half Moon Bay, she had worked most of that night and again all day Friday on Geller and Lucian’s deaths, as well as doing all she could to make sure the cases against Henry and Marta Highfield were airtight. She and Richie had managed to convince the San Mateo detectives that she had given the “mystery men”—Shay and Vito—approval to leave since they weren’t needed for the case. She ended up chewed out by Lt. Eastwood for that—what else was new?—but she found it better than possibly opening Shay up to more scrutiny, especially if the FBI got wind of his identity.

  More important was the jurisdictional issue between San Francisco and San Mateo counties, but by late Friday night when, exhausted, she went home, she was pretty sure she’d get the case.

  She had talked to Richie briefly about his statements, and was glad to hear Carmela and Geri were doing just fine.

  Now, she sat up in bed and reached for the phone. First she saw the caller: Richie. Then the time: 3:00 a.m.

  “Hello?” she mumbled.

  “If you’re alone, open your front door. It’s raining.” Then he hung up.

  It took her a moment to process what he had said, and then she got out of bed. She was wearing her old yellow cotton pajamas, three big buttons kept the top closed, and an elastic waistband held up the bottoms. She went to the door.

  He was standing there in the rain, his eyes troubled and questioning. “I know this is crazy, but—”

  “Come inside,” she said.

  He walked into the apartment.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He ran his hand through his damp hair and then brushed some of the raindrops off his jacket. “Put on shoes. Or slippers. It doesn’t matter which. And a coat.”

  “Shouldn’t I get dressed first?”

  He couldn’t help but smile as he looked at her pj’s. “They’re fine. Hurry.”

  “Hurry?” She did as he asked. Something—a sixth sense?—told her to go along, or she might always regret it. She put on her leather jacket. “Why?”

  He lifted Spike and put him in her arms, then found a couple cans of Spike’s food and put them in his pockets. He picked up her handbag, added her badge, gun, and cell phone, and then took her hand and pulled her outside the apartment.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded as she watched him make sure both doors were locked. “It’s cold and wet out here.”

  “It’s warm and dry in the car.”

  She and Spike got in. “Now will you tell me what this is about?” she asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  He tore across the city. The streets were all but empty, and he didn’t even bother to wait for red lights to change once he saw no cars were coming. It was as if they were the only people out and about in the city.

  Rebecca soon realized he was heading for his house. And it was clear he wasn’t about to answer any of her questions, so she just stared at him as he drove, wondering what madness had overtaken him.

  He pulled into the garage. They walked up the stairs to the door that opened to his kitchen. She envied his kitchen—large, attractive and modern with white cabinets and pale blue, gray, and white granite countertops. If she ever had time to cook, which she rarely did, she’d love a kitchen like this one to work in.

  She put Spike down. Richie opened the back door, and Spike trotted out. He left the back door open for Spike’s return as he put a bowl with water on the floor for him. In thirty seconds flat, Spike was back inside, shaking off the rain.

  Richie finally
faced Rebecca.

  She wondered if he’d explain. “Now, will you—”

  He took her handbag from her arm, placed it on the counter, and then led her into the living room. The living room was dominated by a picture window. From his home near the top of Twin Peaks the city lights far below were like a sparkling carpet, interrupted by lit spires of tall buildings. Beyond the downtown, the outline of the Bay Bridge was like a Christmas decoration spanning the bay.

  The living room had a cozy warmth, with a light gray sectional, two blue chairs, coffee and lamp tables of pale ash, a fire place, and a 60-inch plasma TV.

  He helped her out of her coat and placed it on the sofa, then removed his jacket and tossed it beside hers. He flicked a switch to light his fireplace. “Would you like some wine?”

  “No.” She gawked at him.

  “Good.” He put his arms around her.

  She drew back, her hands on his arms. “What is this? Have you gone crazy?”

  “No. Sane. It’s time to finish what we started months ago—the last time you were here. We would have back then, except my mother showed up.”

  “And now she’s not here?” Rebecca’s pulse pounded. Well did she remember—almost too well—how it had felt holding him, kissing him, the last time she was in this room.

  “No. She and her friend both wanted to sleep in their own beds tonight, thank God. So she won’t be interrupting this time.”

  “This time?”

  “She was a little crazy back then with worry, and I was a little crazy with a different kind of worry—about you. I tried to walk away from you. And that made me even crazier.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t you?”

  He drew her close, and this time she let him. But instead of moving faster, everything slowed. She could feel the heat from his hands against the thin cotton of her night clothes.

  “Tell me to take you back home,” he murmured. “Tell me you never want to see me again, and I’ll do as you ask. And I’ll promise to never bother you again. Never.”

  She couldn’t do that.

  She lifted a hand to his head, her fingers twining in his hair. She loved the feel of it, soft, and wavy. A part of her was tempted to give it a good hard yank, to hurt him for having hurt her when he ignored her for so long, but much more than that, she wanted him, and had for a long time.

  She let go of his hair, and studied his face, a face she had come to know well over the course of one bit of craziness after the other that she had been through with him. And perhaps the craziest thing of all was how much she had come to care about him.

  Her eyes never left his as she pulled his shirt free of his belt, lifting it and his undershirt so that her cool hands could touch his warm skin. As soon as they did, his mouth found hers. She pressed her body closer as their kisses grew fiercer, hungrier. He started moving forward, towards her, and she stepped backwards even as she kept him close. She knew where he was headed, and pulled him along every bit as much as he was pushing her.

  His fingers found the buttons on her pajama top, and he opened them while she struggled with his first button. At that same moment, the back of her legs bumped the bed.

  In no time they were atop it, their clothes in a heap on the floor.

  She had found out once before that she loved the way he kissed, but she learned those kisses had been nothing compared to the way he made her feel now.

  He surprised her, somehow knowing how to hold her, kiss her, touch her; how to make the conflagration that was her body grow even hotter.

  He overwhelmed her, and she loved it.

  When their breathing became steady once more, and their heartbeats calmed, he rolled onto his back and then reached for her hand, lacing his fingers between hers. “I always thought,” he murmured, “that making love with you would be special, but I never imagined …”

  She liked hearing that. And for this moment, at least, her heart filled with … emotion … for him, with more feelings than she ever wanted or suspected. She did what she could to tamp them down. But despite her caution, she couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing his lips, his cheeks, his aquiline nose, and what she always thought of as his “Al Pacino” eyes.

  “What are you doing?” he asked with a smile.

  She leaned back and drew her finger from his ear to his jawline, to his neck, and shoulder. “I wish I knew,” she whispered, a little frightened by the amount of emotion she heard in her voice, and realizing he heard it, too. “But I know it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long, long time.”

  “Good,” he said. Then he rose up and flipped her onto her back as he took her in his arms once more.

  o0o

  Much later, she opened her eyes. It was still dark outside, but the living room lamp had been left on, and cast the bedroom in a soft glow. The red numbers of the clock-radio on the nightstand read 5:23 A.M. Spike was curled up at the foot of the bed. She looked over her shoulder and there, beside her, lay Richie, sound asleep.

  She turned to face him. Sleeping, his hair tousled and falling onto his forehead, he looked completely angelic. She listened to the deep, steady rhythm of his breathing. The pillow beneath her head carried his scent and she liked it. She liked everything about being here with him.

  And that’s what worried her.

  Her relationships had always turned out badly, which meant chances were that eventually they’d part. As much as he might be wrong for her, she feared she was even worse for him. After losing a fiancée, the last thing he needed was a fly-by-night affair. He needed someone who could always be there with him. Someone who would make all those foods with long names that ended in i’s and a’s that she couldn’t begin to pronounce let alone cook. Someone who could see to it that he stopped getting involved with dangerous people like smugglers of ancient artifacts.

  Someone she could never be.

  If she was smart, while he slept, she would gather up her clothes and her dog, call a taxi, and leave. And yet, she hated the thought of not seeing him again. Of not feeling the excitement that always filled her whenever he was near.

  As she watched him sleep, as she felt him easing his way into her very protected heart, she couldn’t help but to move a little closer to him. His heavy lidded eyes opened. “Good morning,” he mumbled, and then he quickly went back to sleep.

  She smiled.

  Listening to her head, she would tiptoe from the room and go back home. But listening to her heart …

  She snuggled deeper under the blankets and, as sleep overtook her and her eyes drifted shut, the thought struck that although she had no idea where this would lead, she could be certain of one thing: it was going to be an interesting journey. And it was one that she didn’t want to miss.

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  Find out what happens next in the lives of Rebecca and Richie when the clock strikes FOUR O'CLOCK…coming in 2016

  o0o

  Rebecca and Richie met and shared their first mystery/adventure in the novella The Thirteenth Santa. Their first full novel adventure took place in One O'Clock Hustle. They also make a brief appearance together in the Angie Amalfi mystery, Cook’s Big Day.

  If you missed it, here's the beginning of The Thirteenth Santa:

  THE THIRTEENTH SANTA

  It was Christmas Eve, and Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield was on a case.

  Garlands of silver tinsel and strings of cheery lights decorated the outdoor parking lot of San Francisco's largest mall. In the center of it, while curious shoppers gawked and impatient drivers raged over the loss of parking spaces, yellow crime scene tape surrounded a black body bag. Homicide detectives were put in charge when a suspicious death occurred, and as soon as Rebecca arrived the concerned merchants of Stonestown descended on her, scre
aming their outrage over the distasteful police presence. A corpse could dampen tidings of good cheer under the best of circumstances, they protested, but to see one at high noon on the day before Christmas would cause shoppers to flee to the competition.

  Frankly, surveying the crowd, it didn't appear as if anyone much cared.

  Earlier, as she drove to the mall in answer to the SFPD dispatcher’s call, she'd worried about the crime scene because of both the day and the location. She hoped the death would have a simple and obvious explanation—bad health, for example. Joggers, in particular, were big on dropping like flies in the damnedest locations.

  Given the strange smirks on the faces of the patrol cops who guarded the body, though, she had the bad feeling that there’d be nothing at all normal about this case.

  Officer Mike Hennessy was a friend from the Taraval Station. Like her, he was single and therefore a prime candidate for holiday duty. They’d dated a couple of times until both realized it wasn’t going to work. Maybe it was because as a homicide inspector, she was superior to him. Or maybe something else. She didn’t know, and preferred not to analyze it.

  "What’s so funny, Mike?" She pushed back the sides of her black wool blazer, her hands on the hips of her black slacks as she surveyed the area. The air was crisp, the sky pale blue. Gulls swarmed overhead awaiting discarded food from overfed, harried shoppers. "You guys look ready to split your guts about something."

  Officer Hennessy’s eyes darted toward his partner. His mustache twitched in his effort to keep a straight face. "There’s nothing funny, Rebecca. A man’s death is never amusing."

  His partner sputtered and clamped a hand over his mouth. Rebecca glared. The more he tried not to laugh, the more his shoulders shook.

  "You’re right, Mike." Rebecca flipped open her pocket notebook. "A man’s death is a grave matter."

  Hennessy’s partner stomped his foot, and doubled over from his struggles.

  "Remove the sheet, please," she ordered.