Third Time's a Crime

by Diana Orgain

  When we reached the pool, the officer peered over the side. “Is that how you found him?” he asked.

  “Huh, no,” I confessed. “He was facedown. I flipped him over.”

  The officer chewed on the inside of his cheek, annoyed. “You’re not supposed to touch him, you know.”

  “Yes, I know that,” I said.

  He scowled at me. “As former SFPD, you should know better.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t know if he needed medical attention.”

  “All right. Well, I’ll need your prints to put on record,” he said.

  “My prints are already on record, but I’m happy to go down to the police station and give them to you again.”

  He made a note in his notebook and mumbled something under his breath. He looked at Cheryl. “What’s that package in the corner of the pool? Any idea? It looks new.”

  Cheryl nodded. “Our tech put it there yesterday. It was something Georgia was supposed to find.”

  The officer looked from Cheryl to me. “All right. I’m going to want to talk to the person who put it there.”

  “Of course,” Cheryl agreed.

  “And I’ll have to take it into evidence,” he added.

  “I understand,” Cheryl said. She turned to me. “I’ll have to arrange something else for you.”

  I shrugged. Not knowing what was in the original package, I couldn’t be happy or sad if it was replaced with something else. “That’s fine,” I said to her, then turned to the officer. “I wanted to tell you something else. Something the psychic said.”

  The officer frowned. “The psychic?”

  I shrugged and glanced at Cheryl. “Have you explained to him what we’re doing here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I told him we’re doing a paranormal TV show, a reality show, trying to solve the murder of Jane Reiner. The cold case in the castle.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard all about it. It’s quite the talk in town.”

  “Well,” I continued, “the psychic has some strange reason to think that the man in the pool drowned.”

  The officer straightened, fixing his eyes on me. “What reason?”

  “He had a vision,” I confessed.

  The officer snickered. “Oh, right. Yeah. I’ll go ahead and make a note of that,” he said sarcastically.

  I looked at the man at the bottom of the pool. “Any guess as to what the cause of death was?”

  The officer said, “I don’t know. It looks like he fell, probably hit his head on the bottom of the pool, or broke his neck, or something.”

  “Not much blood down there,” I said.

  “Trauma to the head doesn’t always mean blood,” he countered.

  “I suppose you’ll have the coroner or ME take a look,” I said.

  The officer grunted.

  An ominous feeling surfaced in my gut. “You are going to investigate, right?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Well, it looks like an obvious accident.”

  I glanced at Cheryl for support. She scowled at me, trying to ward me off. “Well, at least an autopsy,” I insisted. “You’ll have them do an autopsy, correct?”

  “I’m waiting for the medical examiner right now. The next of kin need to be notified, and we’ll go from there.” He glanced at Cheryl. “I’ll need to cordon off this area.”

  A look of panic crossed Cheryl’s face. “For how long?”

  “We’ll see,” he answered. He looked around back at the castle. “I suppose I’ll need a list of everyone who was here last night.”

  Cheryl said, “Consider it done.”

  The officer turned to me. “And I’d like to speak with the man you were with when you found the body.”

  “Adam Flynn, our senior cameraman,” Cheryl said. “He’s inside. I can get him.”

  From the officer’s shoulder-holstered radio came a chirp. He nodded at Cheryl as he momentarily stepped away from us. The sound of gravel crunching under tires, the telltale sound of a car approaching, made the officer wind his way back to the front of the castle.

  Cheryl took advantage of the distraction and pulled me aside. “What are you doing with all those questions, Georgia? We don’t want them to investigate. They’ll shut us down. Just let them call it an accident.”

  “But Cheryl,” I said. “What are the chances of it being an accident? We’re investigating a cold case and somebody dies on the premises. It’s pretty darn suspicious if you ask me.”

  “Well, no one is asking you,” Cheryl hissed.

  She was right. No one was asking me, and it stung. I’d been ousted by the San Francisco Police Department—not that I’d ever been a homicide detective—and now I was being ousted here.

  But still . . . there must be a connection between this case and the cold case. It seemed the timing was too coincidental. Could this man have known anything about Jane’s murder?

  Had he known her? What was his connection to the castle?

  “Who is he?” I asked Cheryl. “Do we even know that?”

  “A groundskeeper,” she said.

  “A groundskeeper of the castle?”

  She nodded. “That’s what Gertrude, the lady who runs the historical society, said. She was anxious because when she went to call on him this morning at his cottage, he wasn’t there. Apparently they always have coffee together in the mornings. Anyway, when she took her tour of the castle while we were waiting on the police, she identified him.”

  The officer returned with the crime scene crew in tow. The team unfolded themselves around the pool, some screeching down the ladder. The officer took my name and information. “We’ll be in touch,” he said, as a dismissal.

  I glanced at Cheryl.

  She grabbed my arm and dragged me back into the castle. “Let’s get back inside before they put a stop to our filming.”

  The rest of the cast was still inside the dining room. When Cheryl and I entered, Scott came to my side immediately and put an arm around me. Cheryl called Adam over and told him to speak with the officer outside. Then she clapped her hands together and got the attention of the cast and crew.

  “Folks, there’s been an unfortunate accident on the grounds,” she said.

  I grumbled and she shot me a look so fierce it could have frozen the depths of hell—reminding me why I’d nicknamed her the Wicked Witch of the West when I’d first met her. Scott’s grip around my shoulders tightened and he whispered, “Just breathe.”

  Cheryl cleared her throat. “The groundskeeper to the castle has had an accident—”

  The room filled with gasps and chatter: “Oh, dear.” “Is he all right?” “Nothing serious, I hope!”

  Bert, the psychic, flashed me a disbelieving look. “It was no accident,” he said under his breath.

  Dr. Arch asked, “Is there something I can do?”

  “Or perhaps my services are necessary?” Father Gabriel asked.

  Cheryl held up a hand. “No, no. There’s nothing to be done at this point. Except stay out of the way. The police are on site—”

  “Police?” Jessica asked. “Why are the police here?”

  Cheryl pressed her lips together and managed to look contrite. “The poor man fell into the empty pool outside, I’m afraid. The police are here to take his body away and notify his family.”

  Jack, the ghost hunter, shuddered. “I knew there was way too much paranormal activity on my EMF this morning!”

  Ashley, the paranormal docent, shrieked, “You’re right! Those readings were off the charts!”

  Martha, the historian, let out an anxious wail, while Father Gabriel steadied her.

  “Now, now,” Cheryl said. “I don’t think there’s anything paranormal about this. The man simply had an accident. It’s unfortunate, yes, but I wouldn’t say that any kind of supernatural activity caused i
t.”

  Irritation prickled my neck. There was no way that groundskeeper had fallen into the pool accidentally. He was a groundskeeper of the castle. How many times had he pruned those roses and walked around that pool? It didn’t seem likely to me that his death was accidental.

  Cheryl let out an uncharacteristic nervous giggle. “Well, anyway, if there was something peculiar about it, we’ll know soon enough, there are cameras everywhere.” She motioned around her and suddenly it seemed like the walls had eyes. There were small automatic lenses hidden throughout the panels.

  Instinctively I watched the cast’s reaction. Had anyone just discovered their crime had been captured on camera? Sadly, the cast seemed more horrified to discover that we were secretly being filmed than to learn about the groundskeeper’s demise.

  Cheryl gave us a few minutes to wrap up our lunch and then instructed us to get touch-ups on our hair and makeup before proceeding with the rest of the filming. She meant to capitalize on any news leaks about the groundskeeper, and if all went well, use it for ratings.

  Suddenly the cast and crew seemed energized to get back to work, leaving me wondering about the future of humanity.

  Kyle approached me. “Ladies, on the third floor,” he said. “That’s where you’ll go to get your touch-up.”

  “Third floor?” I asked.

  He nodded at me, then turned to Scott. “Men are on the first floor, as usual.” He scurried away before we could ask more questions.

  Scott wrapped his finger through mine. “Are you okay, G?”

  I nodded, feeling grateful for his attention. “I’m okay, but my gut is screaming. Something is up and we have to watch our backs.”

  Scott squeezed my hand before releasing it. “Be careful then,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  The room was beginning to clear out and we separated in the hallway as he hurried off to the men’s makeup area.

  I made my way up the rickety steps to the third floor, suddenly feeling desperately alone.

  The castle seemed colder than usual, and I tried not to let it get to me. The fact that no one wanted to investigate the poor groundskeeper’s death was bothering me.

  Instead, we were focusing on a cold case, but I knew everyone was more motivated by ratings than justice.

  As I made my way up the staircase past the second floor, the steps became uneven. There were large gaping holes in the wood and I had to grip the banister and hoist myself up several steps at a time in order to get to the third floor.

  When I arrived, I realized the floor was deserted.

  Where was everyone?

  How was I supposed to get my hair and makeup done if no one was up here?

  “Hello?” I called out.

  No answer.

  I walked down the corridor. The floor was rotted, creaking and groaning as I put my weight on it. The walls were full of water stains, and the passageway reeked of mold. It was eerily quiet and creepy at the same time. Then, I heard urgent whispers, two voices, but I couldn’t make out who they were or what they were saying.

  What’s going on?

  I rapidly made my way toward the noise. It sounded like men’s voices, but that was wrong. The men were downstairs. This was supposed to be ladies only. I hurried toward the voices, coming from behind a closed door.

  I gripped the knob and pushed open the door. There was a loud splintering and shattering sound, then the floor gave away. My body jolted furiously, and I unwillingly yielded to the sickening sensation of falling, like poor Alice through the looking glass.

  Seven

  My life flashed before my eyes as the shocking sensation of falling through the air ricocheted through my body. I screamed and flailed for something to stop my fall. Then a scorching pain seared through my leg as rotten wood stabbed and ripped at my thigh.

  I roared in pain as I dangled in midair, my leg painfully pinched between two boards. Father Gabriel and Dr. Arch rushed out of the room at the end of the hallway.

  “Georgia! Georgia! Hang on!” Dr. Arch yelled, as he ran toward me.

  Both men grabbed ahold of my arms and hoisted me upward.

  The wood tore deeper into my flesh and I yelped, “My leg!”

  Dr. Arch gingerly pulled the wood back and freed me. They yanked me back onto the third floor. The house seemed to shudder as I rolled onto the rotted floor, and then another loud rumbling resounded.

  “It’s going to give way!” Father Gabriel yelled.

  They quickly dragged me forward, toward the staircase. Then a thunderous crashing burst forth as if the entire third floor was about to collapse around us. I scrambled to my feet, a hot stabbing pain shooting through my thigh as we raced toward the stairwell. We tussled headlong down the steps to the second floor just as what remained of the hallway on the third floor gave way onto the second floor.

  We stood in shock, huddled together in the stairwell, our arms covering each other as best we could. When the wood planks seemed to stop raining on us, Father Gabriel said, “Good Lord. Georgia, are you all right?”

  I felt lightheaded and dizzy, but before I could answer, one of the crew members rushed up the stairs. “What’s going on? What happened?”

  He was followed closely by Scott, who shouted. “Georgia! Georgia!” He reached out for me and grabbed my wrist.

  I collapsed into his arms, the burning in my leg making me feel nauseous.

  “Let’s get off the staircase,” Dr. Arch said.

  Scott took in our damaged surroundings. “Holy smokes. You all could have been killed.”

  We descended the stairs toward the lobby, where Cheryl stood with her arms folded across her chest and an angry scowl on her face.

  I left a trail of blood in my wake. We must have looked a fright because Cheryl didn’t scold us; she only snapped her fingers at one of the show runners, a girl with dyed purple hair and multiple piercings in her nose.

  “Get Jose!” Cheryl said, pointing at my leg. “Georgia needs attention.”

  The girl with the purple hair raced off.

  The pain in my thigh sizzled and I searched for a place to rest. Scott’s grip around my waist tightened as he sensed my discomfort and I clutched at him.

  “Do I need to call 911?” Cheryl asked, with an expression on her face that seemed like she was in more pain than I was.

  “I can take a look,” Dr. Arch said. “Let’s go over to the living room area and see if you can lie down a minute.”

  Scott frowned. “I thought you were a forensic archaeologist.”

  Dr. Arch smiled. “I only play one on TV. I’m a podiatrist.”

  I would have laughed, but the pain in my thigh was beginning to overwhelm me and my knees buckled.

  Scott caught me, and between him and Dr. Arch, they helped me out of the room.

  Down the hall, the girl with the purple hair retuned with Jose in tow. He wore torn blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He had a tattoo of a snake that ran the length of his arm and hand. He gripped a red first aid box in his hand, but the effect of the tattoo looked as if the snake held the box in its teeth.

  “First aid?” Jose asked, looking at my leg.

  Dr. Arch nodded. “Let’s get her recumbent and take a look.”

  Scott set up a sleeping bag for me, while Jose pulled out a pair of scissors from the first aid box. As Jose cut away my jeans, Dr. Arch sanitized his hands.

  My leg throbbed and I closed my eyes to distract myself from the never-ending stream of blood that pooled around my leg.

  Cheryl stood over me, her hands on her hips. “Georgia, what were you doing up there? I thought everyone knew that the third floor was off limits!”

  “Kyle sent me up there,” I moaned. “He said hair and makeup had been relocated . . .”

  Cheryl reddened and looked around the room. “Where is Kyle? He knows b
etter. Nobody should’ve sent you upstairs.”

  Dr. Arch tsked as he looked at my leg. “It’s deep. We’re going to have to do stitches.”

  My heart thumped through my chest.

  Stitches?

  Jose agreed, then said, “Georgia, we have to clean the wound. It’s going to sting.”

  Scott squeezed my hand. “Don’t you have any pain relief in there?”

  “Give her something local,” Cheryl said. “I don’t want her all dopey, then I’d have to give up the whole day of filming.”

  “Some heart you have,” Scott scoffed.

  Cheryl blew him off. “She’s tough.”

  “I can do a local,” Jose said as he prepared a syringe.

  Cheryl tapped her foot. “I guess we can film some confessionals in the meantime. So we don’t burn too much of our schedule.”

  Scott’s face turned red. “You’ll excuse us if we’re more concerned about Georgia bleeding all over the place instead of your bloody schedule.”

  Cheryl pursed her lips and said nothing.

  Jose pinched a bit of my leg and gave me the shot. “How did this happen?” he asked.

  “The wood flooring upstairs is so deteriorated that I literally stepped right through the floor,” I said, through gritted teeth.

  Jose gave a shudder. “This place is giving me the creeps. I’m glad the crew doesn’t have to sleep here.” He suddenly looked at Cheryl, fear in his eyes, as if he realized he shouldn’t have mentioned a vulnerability in front of her.

  Cheryl, for her part, snickered, then waved a hand around, indicating to Jose and Dr. Arch that she thought they were taking too long.

  Jose tested the local anesthesia by pinching at my leg. “Do you feel anything?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. He poured some disinfectant on my open wound and I yelped. “I felt that.”

  Jose grimaced. “Sorry.”

  I took a deep breath and decided to focus on something else. “If the third floor was off limits, what were Dr. Arch and Father Gabriel doing up there?” I asked.