by Nic Saint
“You guys! I’ve got it!” Alice cried.
She placed her phone on the table, and the others all gathered round. On the small screen, Felicity saw a dedication the president had written on the first page of his official biography, which was published the year he took office. A proud reader had posted the picture on his Facebook page. They eagerly compared it to the note Reece had copied from Bucky’s original, then Felicity let out a sigh. The handwriting was noticeably different. While the president’s hand was spidery and sloping, the note was written in a blocky, erratic scrawl, obviously not by the same person.
“So the president didn’t write this note,” Rick voiced the conclusion.
He seemed as disappointed as the others. On the other hand, Felicity had to admit she was actually kind of glad. If the president had indeed ordered the murder of the senator, they would have been hard pressed to go after him. No detective would even consider accusing the president of murder until he had some hard evidence in his possession. And a ghost note hardly fit the bill.
“You know what? I’ll take these pictures into the office and show them to a couple of colleagues,” Rick suggested. “Maybe someone recognizes them.”
“You do that, and perhaps we’ll have another chat with the senator,” Felicity added. Then she looked over to Bo. “Do you want to tag along, honey? Maybe this time your dad will manifest himself to you as well.”
Bo smiled. “I’d like that very much, Fee.”
“That’s settled then. You’re coming with us.”
“You know what’s troubling me?” Alice asked all of a sudden.
Felicity saw that her friend was staring at her phone. “No, what’s that?”
“What happened to Reece? Wasn’t he supposed to meet us down here?”
“Have you tried calling him?”
“I have. He’s not picking up his phone.”
“I’m sure he’s simply stuck in traffic,” Felicity hastened to reassure her.
“Yeah, possibly. But that doesn’t explain why he doesn’t pick up.”
“Perhaps his battery died?” Bo suggested, picking up her purse.
She seemed eager to join them in this visit to her dad, and Felicity wasn’t surprised. If her own dad would suddenly exchange the temporary for the eternal, she’d want to talk to him in ghost form as well, now that she knew that death wasn’t the end. Though her father wasn’t going anywhere soon, unless perhaps to that retirement resort in Florida he kept harping on about.
Chapter 25
Reece had only made it into The Parton Club’s opulent vestibule when a sour-looking guy halted his progress with upheld hand. “You can’t go in there, sir. This club is for members only.”
Mahogany-paneled walls, faux-marble pillars, sumptuous Persian rugs and paintings of horses dominated the vestibule. It all looked ancient and very distinguished, and Reece wondered why he’d never applied for membership. He was, after all, a member of at least a dozen other New York clubs. But then The Parton tailored to a clientele of executives, high-powered lawyers and top politicos, which was not exactly his cup of tea.
He gave the exquisitely tailored self-appointed guard a wink and a ten-dollar note, and whispered, “Just popping in to have a quick look around, buddy.”
The guy frowned at the note. “What do you think I am? A ten-year-old?”
Reece’s smile increased. “No, but perhaps a hundred-year-old?” And he pressed a few more notes into the man’s hand. His gamble paid off. As soon as the pile reached the magic number, the man’s frown turned into a pleasant smile, and he stepped aside, allowing Reece to proceed into the club proper.
He didn’t know why he’d come out here, exactly. A hunch, possibly, or perhaps even an intuition. But then again it could have had something to do with the fact that that nice Senator Vickar he’d been talking to earlier had confided in him that the last thing he remembered before waking up dead were the many pleasant moments he’d spent at his private club, where he met like-minded people and often drew inspiration for his political views.
He’d even given him the address: The Parton on Sixth Avenue, named after its founder Davis Parton, who’d been something of a millionaire back in the day when that still meant something. So Reece had figured that while the others proceeded into Happy Bays, he might as well conduct his own little investigation. He wasn’t a fool. He knew that the others thought he was the weak link in their small band of four. But he was going to show them that Reece Hudson, too, could solve a crime when he put his mind to it. And the senator’s club was the first step in that noble scheme to redeem himself.
Besides, it was all part of his research into the life and times of Job.
He stepped inside and was immediately assaulted by the smell of food wafting in from the grill room to his immediate left. He proceeded to the dimly lit club room, deciding this was where he’d make his first inquiries. Great was his surprise when he suddenly recognized a familiar face.
Like ships in the night, this person was leaving, even as Reece was arriving. But unlike ships in the night, a conversation quickly ensued.
“Detective Garfield!” Reece cried, well pleased.
“Reece Hudson,” the detective grumbled, not nearly as pleased. “What the hell are you doing here? This is a private club if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, I thought I might sniff up a bit of the atmosphere,” he said genially. “I am, after all, one of the foremost artistes of my generation, always looking to expand my horizon and meet interesting people.” He gazed at the detective fondly, for he met that description to a T: he was new people, and even though he hadn’t given any indication, he was probably interesting as well.
“Mind that you don’t go around asking all sorts of questions. Oh, don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing here, Hudson. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing at. And don’t you think for a second that I don’t know that you’re thinking about inserting yourself into my investigation.”
Reece blinked a few times. Double negatives always threw him for a loop. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Detective,” he replied cautiously.
The detective jabbed his finger into Reece’s breastbone. “You’re here to investigate the murder of Senator Vickar, aren’t you, Hudson?”
“I thought you said it wasn’t murder?” Reece shot back.
“I may or may not have changed my mind about that—but that doesn’t give you an excuse to harass the members of the senator’s club by asking all sorts of annoying questions.” He puffed out his chest. “I already did that.”
“Well, you are right. I was just about to do the same.” He tapped the detective’s breastbone. “Great minds think alike, huh, Detective Garfield?”
The detective stood glowering at him some more. “What gives you the right to conduct your own investigation, Hudson? This is strictly police business, and outside help is neither required nor wanted nor allowed.”
“Bo Vickar happens to be a personal friend of mine, as well as my future co-host, so I owe it to her to figure out what happened to her father.”
The detective eyed him keenly. “By talking to ghosts, huh?”
Reece was about to acknowledge this fact but then remembered that Alice had given him an earful about that the moment they’d left the detective’s company. Apparently, she didn’t feel it was wise of him to go shooting his mouth off about the Wraith Wranglers or any dealings they may or may not have had with the recently departed. She was right, of course. It could only lead to a lot of awkwardness. So he decided to prevaricate. “You must have misunderstood, Detective. What I meant to say was that Bo had a hunch her father was murdered. She has psychic powers, you know.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t go in for all that nonsense,” the detective muttered, stroking his mustache critically. “Though I must admit that for a man as keen on seeing his life’s work finally come to fruition suicide seems awfully out of character. Furthermore, since his Truth Bill was opposed by a
lot of the senator’s colleagues, that gives a hell of a lot of people a hell of a motive to have him erased from the scene, and with him that damned bill of his.” He sighed. “Can I trust you with a little secret, Hudson?”
“Always,” said Reece, glad to be promoted to police confidant.
“If we’re talking murder, then we’re in deeper waters than I thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“If a plot was hatched in Washington to have the senator killed, this case no longer belongs on my desk but on that of the FBI.”
“So why don’t you call them in?” Reece asked the logical question.
“They won’t take the case. I’ve got nothing to substantiate my claim apart from my gut instinct and that mysterious note of yours.”
“You never found that note on the senator’s body?”
“Nope—I didn’t, Hudson. Which reminds me; where did you find that note? If not in your own extremely fertile imagination?”
“Oh, Bo Vickar saw it in a vision. She described it to me in great detail.”
The detective stared at him. “A vision, huh?”
“That’s right,” Reece said as innocently as he knew how. Even though he was an actor, lying was not his strong suit, and most definitely not to a police officer’s face. But he was loathe to make the same mistake again and jeopardize both the Wraith Wranglers and his own career. Actors might widely be considered to be a bunch of kooks, but there was a line they couldn’t cross, and that line clearly stated, ‘Thou shalt not believe in ghosts.’
After a long scrutiny, the detective grumbled, “Anyway, like I said, don’t bother the members of The Parton, Hudson, or else I’ll have to haul you in for trespassing, as I’m pretty sure you’re not a member.”
“Yes, Detective,” he said meekly and watched the cop exit stage left.
Then he strode into the club room and marveled at the buzzing of activity. He’d entered the realm where billionaires and top policy makers rubbed elbows. Where the fate of the country, and perhaps even the world, was being shaped. So he rubbed his hands and proceeded inside. At least someone here must have known the senator intimately, he thought, and have a clue or two to share. And as he approached the first gaggle of stately gentlemen entrenched in sumptuous leather club chairs, he promptly plunked down into a seat next to them and launched into his inquiry with the refreshing zeal and admirable lack of restraint typical of an A-list celebrity.
Chapter 26
“Watch out!”
The yell sounded in Felicity’s ear just when she became aware of the danger herself. Another van had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and was on a collision course with her bakery van. She instantly gave the wheel a mighty jerk and managed in the nick of time to avert a collision. And as the old van lurched and the wheels screeched, she caught a glimpse of a black van, its tinted windows preventing her from seeing the face of the driver.
“Christ!” yelled Alice, her hand on her heart. “What did he think he was doing?!”
The black van had swerved from its own lane at the exact moment Felicity had drawn level with it, as if purposely trying to ram her.
“Probably just some drunk driver,” she offered.
They’d been trundling along the expressway to New York, where they were going to have another chat with Job Vickar, mainly because Bo was eager to finally talk to her father, either personally or through Fee or Alice.
“I don’t think that was a drunk driver,” murmured Bo, equally startled. She was seated next to Alice, her face now white as a sheet.
Felicity looked over. “Why? Don’t tell me you think it was on purpose?”
Bo stared before her, grim-faced. “About a month ago the same thing happened to my father. He was driving his own car as usual—he’s always refused a driver—when suddenly a black van came alongside him and forced him off the road. It’s a miracle he wasn’t hurt.”
Alice gasped. “Do you think it’s the same people?”
“Could be.” Bo turned to stare at them. “I sensed a very evil intention from the man behind the wheel just now.”
Felicity shared a look of alarm with Alice. This wasn’t good.
Bo had closed her eyes. “I can see him clearly now. He’s in his forties… with a buzzcut… extremely muscular…” She gasped and opened her eyes wide. “Quick. Give me your phone,” she told Felicity. She quickly flicked through the pictures that Rick had transferred. Her thumb hovered over the screen, her hand shaking violently. “That’s him,” she said in a choked voice. “This is the man who tried to ram us just now. I’m sure of it.”
Felicity glanced over and saw she was indicating one of the gardeners.
“Crap,” she muttered. “So now they’re after us, huh? But why? What did we ever do to them?”
“Not you,” Bo said, in a small voice. “Me. I can see their intent. They’re definitely after me.”
“But what could they possibly want with you?” Felicity asked.
“Possibly disgruntled Temptation Town viewers?” Alice ventured a guess.
Bo’s bottom lip quivered. “They seem to think I’m some kind of threat to them. Because I was working with my father on the Truth Bill…”
She focused again, closing her eyes and frowning.
“Don’t strain yourself, honey,” Felicity said, as she saw a vein throb in Bo’s temple. She didn’t know how this psychic stuff worked, but the senator’s daughter had grown very pale, her face extremely drawn.
“I have to know,” Bo muttered. “I have to…” She remained like that for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, she muttered in a low voice, “It’s something I’ve seen or heard or… felt. Something I shouldn’t have… They—they’re after me because of something I know…” She shook her head. “I can’t quite catch it.” She opened her eyes and groaned in frustration. “They seem to think I know something that can endanger their plans. I also sensed they’re not in this for themselves. They’re hired help, working for a third party, only I can’t quite seem to see who they’re working for. I did catch a name. Tarantula. An old man—wrinkled face, wizened features—that’s all I got. Just a flash.”
Felicity thought about this for a moment. So an old man who called himself Tarantula—or perhaps simply was the so-called spider in a web of crime—had been conspiring against the senator and now against his daughter as well, because they’d caught him in one of his lies? What could possibly be at the heart of this? The Truth Bill hadn’t even been implemented yet. Bo had never had the chance to take up her role as human lie detector.
“Do you have any idea what you could possibly know about these people that makes you such a threat to them?” she asked.
Bo held up her hands, then let them drop into her lap. “No idea.”
“Perhaps when we talk to the senator we’ll get a clearer picture,” Alice offered. “He might have heard about this Tarantula fellow. And perhaps this time he’ll remember what happened yesterday.”
“Let’s hope so,” Felicity murmured as she kept her eyes on the road.
If she hadn’t had such quick reflexes, they’d be lying dead in a ditch right now. Her heart was beating its usual steady rhythm again, but for a moment there she’d been really scared she might end up a ghost herself. She had one consolation, though. Her mother could also see ghosts, so at least she’d have her to chat with. And Rick and Reece, of course. And a bunch of other folks, actually. In fact, now that she came to think of it, not all that much would change if she turned into a ghost. Except that she would never be able to savor the delicious taste of her father’s baking, and would never feel Rick’s arms around her, or the wind on her face, or the spray of the ocean when she went for a swim. She sighed deeply. No, she was quite attached to life thank you very much, and much preferred not to leave it behind just yet.
And then she stepped on it, wanting to get to the bottom of this thing pronto, so they could eliminate this threat from their lives once and for all.
Chapter 27
Rick showed the pictures of the gardeners to a couple of his colleagues, but none of them had ever seen the men before. Finally he decided to drop by his editor’s office. The old man eyed him querulously when he knocked and immediately entered without waiting for an invitation.
“Dawson!” he growled. “When will you ever learn how to knock?!”
“Hopefully never,” Rick said as he took a seat on his editor’s desk.
Suggs Potter’s scowl deepened. “And get your butt off my desk,” he grunted, picking up a stapler. “Unless you want me to cause you grievous bodily harm with my office equipment!”
Rick grinned and slid into the opposing chair. He and Suggs went way back. He’d worked for him for years when Suggs fired him at the request of Murphy Roops, who owned the New York Chronicle. Suggs had always regretted it, and had felt he should have stood up to the owner, but then he would have probably lost his own job. In the end, it had all worked out, when Suggs had rehired his star reporter, adding another war story to his belt.
“I’m still looking into this Senator Vickar murder, chief,” Rick announced, now putting his feet up on the desk. He slid his phone across, and it skidded to a halt against Suggs’s impatiently drumming fingers. “Take a look at those goons. They were hanging around outside the Vickar place the day before he was killed. Any idea who they are?”
Suggs leaned back in his chair, after scowling at Rick’s feet for a moment. He snatched up the phone and flicked through the pictures. “Nope. Never seen these ugly mugs before,” he confessed. “But they look like they mean business, and I don’t mean of the horticultural variety.”
“I’m starting to think these bozos took out the senator. Only problem is finding out who they are and, more importantly, who their paymaster is.”