Wicked Deeds

by Heather Graham

Her voice trailed.

  “What we need can’t really be seen through statistics or the internet. I can’t tell you how happy we are to meet you—Baltimore is a big city. I can see where there are dozens of people working and where there are constantly hundreds of projects. But you love the city, too, don’t you, Mrs. Warren?” Griffin asked.

  “Oh, I do! Preserving history here is so important!” Hermione Warren said.

  “So, what we’re looking for,” Griffin said, “is just who might have been in during the last year or so, intrigued or interested in what renovations were being done to the Black Bird building.”

  “One in particular,” Mrs. Warren said gravely.

  “Oh?” Griffin asked.

  The woman nodded. “Why, here’s what is so very strange. None other than Franklin Verne himself was in here,” she said. “That’s why... Well, when we first heard that he had been found dead there, why, I have to admit, I thought myself that he had chosen that way to die. But then, of course, Mr. Whaley has now been found there, so... So sad!”

  “But he was looking into the Black Bird?” Griffin asked.

  “Oh, yes. I was working that day, and I am a huge admirer of the works of Franklin Verne. Hey, I even love his TV commercials! He said that even with the TV commercials, people seldom recognized writers, and that I was very kind and that I had flattered him tremendously. You don’t forget meeting a man like Franklin Verne!”

  “Of course not,” Griffin said. “So, remembering others might be much harder.”

  “Well, Gary came in many times.”

  “Of course,” Vickie murmured in agreement.

  “Anyone else you can think of?” Griffin asked her.

  “Hard to tell, because sometimes people just come in to look up public records, and we don’t always know just what they’re up to,” she said. “Public records are—public! And honestly, we talk about a ‘big brother’ society, but it’s still the US of A! Oh! Well, I don’t know exactly what she was doing, but the head of that society was in here. Now, she might have been looking something up regarding her own property.”

  “You mean Liza Harcourt?” Vickie asked.

  Mrs. Warren pursed her lips. “Yes, exactly.”

  “Interesting, thank you. Any others that you know about?” Griffin asked.

  She shook her head. “At one time, there were contractors, painters, electricians—you name it—in and out on that property. That would mean a lot of young men and a few women in the construction trades. Gary and his daughter—and that Lacey woman who works for him. I wish I could help you more, but...”

  “Do you know Alistair Malcolm?” Griffin asked her.

  “I do! His family has been quite influential in this city. Old money—from way back. His family were sea captains and traders. They are legendary here. And he’s a very nice man.”

  “Has he been in lately?”

  “Not that I know about. You can’t possibly suspect... Oh! You do suspect!” she said, her mouth a huge O after she spoke.

  Griffin smiled. “No, actually, I don’t suspect anyone at the moment. That’s why we’re out looking for anything we can find.”

  “Oh, well, that Alistair. He’s a lovely man. Old money and still just as fine and nice and feet-on-the-ground as a man can be. I’m so glad you don’t suspect him.”

  “You’ve been a tremendous help,” Griffin told her.

  When they left, Vickie wasn’t sure at all that anything had been of any help.

  “Well, we can probably eliminate Alistair Malcolm, although even that I wouldn’t do as of yet—Mrs. Warren is so enamored of him, she might have kept back information if she had seen him in there. Other than that, we’ve learned that just about everyone could have found out just about anything.”

  “So what did we learn?”

  “That this was very well planned. And, of course, something very curious.”

  “That Franklin Verne was intrigued by the place himself?”

  “Precisely.”

  * * *

  Myron Hatfield’s voice droned on as he recorded his vocal notes, working over the body of Brent Whaley.

  There was just no way for an autopsy to be kind.

  Brent Whaley appeared like a large hunk of bloodied, puffy flesh on the silver gurney. He’d been washed and ripped open.

  His incision had yet to be sewn.

  It was not a pretty sight. Standing a short distance back from the body, Griffin had to wonder if they hadn’t imagined the thump-thump of a heartbeat and been informed of the body because of the odors that had been emitted from it. Here, with no floorboards, with the corpse naked and dissected, the scent of death seemed to fill the air—quite unpleasantly. But then he was just inches from the cadaver, which now seemed to be stripped of everything that had made Brent Whaley a human being.

  He’d been to many autopsies. It was possible for Griffin to slide into a protected place in his mind as he observed the procedure.

  And in that place, he now wondered how in God’s name anyone had come up with such a truly horrid plan, luring two men to the restaurant—two big men—and getting one down to the cellar to drink wine and another into the private room to lie down under the flooring!

  Baby-baby. Newest street drug. And yet, it must have been horrible. The two men wouldn’t have been able to protest, but each man would have known what was happening to him as it happened.

  He was almost startled when Hatfield finished and stepped around the table, leaving the body for his dernier to stitch up.

  “Detective, Special Agent,” he said gravely, addressing Carl Morris and then Griffin. “Naturally, we’re having all kinds of tests done, but at this point, I believe I’m safe to say that the actual cause of death was a heart attack brought on by trauma, and I’m assuming that trauma to have been the fact that the man was boarded into the floor. As soon as possible, of course, I’ll give you reports on toxic substances, stomach contents and so on.”

  “Thank you,” Griffin said. They all looked at each other for a moment. There were no surprises in what the ME had discovered.

  “Do you think—” Morris began.

  “A street drug, making our victims pliant?” Hatfield asked. “I think so, yes—though we will wait for lab results, as I said. I can’t imagine that either Franklin Verne or Brent Whaley just decided that they’d head to the restaurant and let someone kill them. There is, however, something I believe might be important—though I’m still waiting for lab results there, too. Just to verify what seems obvious to nose and eyes.”

  “What is that?” Griffin asked.

  “Both Mr. Verne and Mr. Whaley enjoyed the last same meal—at, I estimate, the exact same time. Maryland crab cakes—trust me, you can’t miss crab cakes even when they’ve been in the stomach. Crab cakes, tater tots and broccoli, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Great!” Morris murmured. “It’s Maryland! Where do they serve crab cakes? Everywhere!”

  His phone buzzed and he turned to answer it. “Forensics!” he muttered briefly, before giving his attention to the caller. “I see, I see. Yes, of course. We’ll head back in.”

  He hung up and looked at Griffin. “They’ve matched some fingerprints—very interesting fingerprints—on the raven souvenir that we found in Franklin Verne’s hand. At the very least, we have reason to bring in a suspect for questioning. And, really, we can all guess who it is. Where does one always look first in a murder case?”

  * * *

  It was late in the day but there were still a number of visitors to Poe’s grave. Vickie had come to the site, hoping that the ghost would show himself.

  Some of the dead who remained in the physical world never frequented the place where they had been buried or interred; they loathed the very concept of a burial ground or a graveyard.

/>   Some came now and then, just to remember their time on earth—or to see who might be there to visit their mortal remains, and even try to comfort them at times.

  Poe, Vickie was pretty sure, stopped by his memorial now and then because he loved to see the people who came to honor him. Of course, he could stop by almost any time and find someone there. She wondered if he ever marveled at just how much his work was respected so many, many years after his death.

  Dusk was coming, and Vickie knew that the graveyard would close when darkness began to fall. She glanced at her watch, admired the monument again and then headed out.

  As she did so, she saw that he was there; he’d been watching her.

  “Miss Preston. I see you are alone.”

  “I am.”

  “Where might your federal lawman be?”

  “With Detective Morris. They’re at the morgue.”

  “Ah.” Poe seemed to shiver. “Dreadful places, morgues.”

  “Well, they are important.”

  “Indeed! Had they had half the medical acumen they have now when I died, I’m sure someone could have explained exactly how it came to be.”

  Vickie hesitated. She indicated the street. “Want to wander? You do have a talent to make me forget that it appears I am talking to myself. I could wear headphones as if I were talking on a cell phone, but then I’d feel ridiculous myself and it just isn’t comfortable!”

  He grinned at that.

  “But I’m here to help you.”

  “I believe that. But I also believe that you want my help.”

  “I do,” he agreed. “Let’s wander.”

  Vickie started down the street, walking at a leisurely pace. The ghost of Edgar Allan Poe fell into step beside her.

  “I don’t know how or why, but I believe I’m dreaming what happened to you,” she told him. “Maybe there are things deep in your mind that my mind is touching, memories that you’ve repressed, and things that happened when you were... I don’t really know yet.”

  “You think I was hit on the head or drugged or something?”

  “Maybe you suffered an injury to your head—”

  “Ah, but not fair! As I don’t actually have a head anymore, or any other body part. Well, of course, they existed, but...”

  Vickie interrupted him quickly. “I believe that you were kidnapped. But you were walking down a street—a Baltimore street. I’m not sure where you were, but it was dark and late—I think that you were going to meet with someone.”

  “Yes, possibly,” he murmured. “It’s so hard to remember now. At the end...” He paused and looked at her. “I know that my biographers have been harsh. But I do remember what was going on before I left Richmond. I meant to marry again. I wasn’t a saint. There had been other women in my life, often writers...women who intrigued for a day or so. Believe me, I did love my Virginia—and I had the deepest respect for my mother-in-law as well. I was going to bring her to town to live with me. You have to understand—I really loved Elmira as well. She was truly my first love—and, as you know, I imagine, her father destroyed all my letters to her.” He paused, looking back in time. “Sarah Elmira Royster—of course, at that point in life, Sarah Elmira Royster Shelton. We weren’t children anymore. We weren’t at all young and silly. We knew about the seriousness of life—and how her family and her late husband’s family might not be at all pleased about our marriage. But she was my first love, and my last love, and the inspiration for much of my work! She wanted me sober, so I was ready to join the temperance society. I didn’t walk around with my head in the clouds all the time. Yes, I was a binge drinker, and I was not at all a pleasant man when I was drunk, but...I loved Elmira. And I meant to stay sober. A heinous enemy wrote my obituary—Rufus Wilmot Griswold! Of all the injustice!”

  “I’m truly sorry.”

  He nodded and sighed. “Elmira... Such a dear, good woman! Before I left, she made me see a doctor. He advised me to stay a few more days in Richmond. They say that I didn’t look well.”

  “But you left, anyway.”

  He nodded. “In Philadelphia, I was to meet with a woman. I had an editing job there. And I wanted to bring my mother-in-law, Maria Clemm, home. You know—from New York to Baltimore, where I’d live with my Elmira. Maria was my aunt as well as my mother-in-law. Elmira understood that. She was, as I said, an incredibly good woman. She had no jealousy of my poor dead wife, Virginia, nor did I feel any for her deceased husband.”

  “The doctor in attendance when you died—John Moran—claimed that you were not drunk, that you hadn’t been drinking. But...”

  “But no one believed him!” Poe said.

  “Well, here’s the bright side. People are still fighting over it all—politely, in an academic way—and they probably will be fighting over it for years and years to come,” Vickie told him.

  “I’m afraid I am a man of pompous ego, my dear, and that does somewhat bring a gentle balm to my soul!”

  “Do you remember getting on the train out of Richmond?”

  “Of course!”

  “And Baltimore?”

  “Yes, I remember getting off the train!”

  Vickie studied him carefully and sighed. “History gives us little but speculation for the days you were missing. And a number of fun stories and movies. But from the time you got off the train there, most of anything is speculation.”

  “And yet...you saw me kidnapped?”

  “You were walking down a shadowy street in Baltimore. It’s as if...” Vickie paused, and then realized that she was worried about telling a ghost something that he might not believe. “It’s as if I’m you—I feel your fear. I heard what was behind me. I—we—felt it when a bag went over our head, and then...”

  “Then?”

  “Then I woke up.”

  “Most annoying and irritating!” he told her.

  “As is the fact that you’re apparently helping us—but saw nothing!” she said.

  “Actually, there is something I didn’t mention to you.”

  “Something important?”

  “Under the present circumstances, it would seem.”

  “So—what is it?”

  “I believe that Franklin Verne and Brent Whaley had their supper together on the night they died—like a late supper.”

  “Where? I saw the security footage from the restaurant—Brent Whaley was at the Black Bird in the afternoon.”

  “I’d say six-ish, maybe,” Poe said.

  “And where?”

  Poe smiled. “They both dined at Franklin’s house.” He sighed softly, grinning at her slightly. “They say that Monica Verne is an excellent cook.”

  Vickie’s phone began to ring. She fumbled in her purse for it, looking at Poe.

  He smiled, and faded away.

  She answered her phone.

  “Where are you?”

  “Near Poe’s grave. What’s up? Should I get you?”

  “No, Detective Morris has a car; I’m still with him. He’s bringing in a suspect. Meet me at the police station.”

  “Who is the suspect?”

  “Monica Verne.”

  * * *

  They had Monica Verne sitting in one of the interrogation rooms; there was a cup of what Griffin assumed to be very bad station coffee in front of her. She wasn’t touching it. In fact, she was just sitting silently—looking like a deer caught in the very bright headlights of a monster truck.

  Griffin felt the urge to hurry out and take her comfortingly in his arms.

  Not likely at the moment. He was looking at her through the one-way mirrored glass.

  “I’ll ask you to observe, please,” Carl said to Griffin.

  “Sure. Vickie is on her way in. Will someone bring her here, please?” Griffin asked
in return.

  “No problem.”

  Morris left him alone to observe and opened the door to the interrogation room.

  The detective was polite as he took a seat in front of Monica Verne.

  “What am I doing here?” she demanded.

  “I need to ask you some questions, Mrs. Verne.”

  “You don’t think that I’ve been asked enough questions? My husband is barely cold—and you choose to harass me with questions?”

  “Mrs. Verne, you know that we found the body of Brent Whaley at the Black Bird today, too.”

  “Yes. I have ears and eyes and a television set,” Monica said.

  Morris smiled with no emotion. “Mrs. Verne, were you at that restaurant with your husband?”

  “I have never been at that restaurant, period, Detective Morris.”

  “And yet your fingerprints were found there.”

  “My fingerprints? That’s not possible,” she said.

  “Science doesn’t lie,” Morris said.

  “But it can be misinterpreted. Wait a minute! Am I being accused?”

  Near Griffin, a door opened and closed. Vickie had arrived. “Hey,” she said quietly.

  “Strange turn of events. Monica’s prints were found on the little raven that Franklin Verne had in his hands when he died,” he explained quickly.

  “On a souvenir?” Monica was saying. “Are you kidding me? We’ve had dozens of those little ravens through the years!”

  “Maybe he knows about Brent Whaley having had dinner at the Verne house,” Vickie murmured.

  “What?” Griffin asked. He turned his attention from the view through the one-way glass to Vickie—completely.

  “What did you say?”

  “Dinner. Friday, early evening. Well, that’s what Poe said. Monica is supposedly a very good cook. The two men had dinner together the night they were both killed,” Vickie told him.

  Griffin swore softly. He didn’t believe for a minute that Monica had killed her husband or Brent Whaley.

  Monica was speaking. “I see. Now Brent is dead, too. He ate at our house on Friday. I must have killed them both. Did I poison them somehow? It was probably easy to poison my poor Franklin. Let’s face it, his physical condition sucked. And Brent, now. He was a decade younger and in decent health. But the man was big, and that can put a strain on his heart, all right. He didn’t look after himself, and that made him possibly vulnerable. But then, of course, they would have both trusted me, right?”