“Roommate troubles, huh?” I offered, hoping our conversation would be ending soon. “Not a lot of fun, I would imagine.”
“Yeah, my last roommate was Arnold. He sold cars for a living when he wasn’t complaining about his boyfriend troubles. All he did for the three months he lived here was bitch about my hair in the bathroom sink and make deals on his cellphone. Every gay man I know is either a hairdresser or an interior designer—but a car salesman? What’s up with that?”
“Beats me, I don’t know any hairdressers. I go to the barber at the mall.”
“Oh yeah, my Dad used to go there. Do you have a roommate?”
“No, just a cat.”
“Right, you said that,” she nodded. “Well, I’ve put another advertisement in the newspaper and my friend Rene said she might move in with me, but her boyfriend is a total butthead and he’s always hitting on me. Hey, are you married?”
‘Nope, never married.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. “You look like you’re almost as old as my Dad, he’s fifty-two.”
Crap. I should have seen that one coming.
“I’ll be fifty-two in twelve years,” I said, sourly.
“Really? Dammit! I’ve just made an ass of myself, haven’t I?” Her face turned bright red. “Please tell me you’re not offended. I’m just coming off the week from hell now that Arnold moved out, plus I’m going to have to knit next month’s rent.”
I nodded in sympathy for her financial woes.
“Don’t sweat it,” I said, forcing my mouth into something resembling a smile. “I’m sure you’ll find a roommate sooner or later.”
I wanted to address Walter’s grievance with Shakira, but I had to be downtown in thirty minutes. The Greenfield County Sheriff’s Department was holding a news conference with an update on the search for Stephen Hodges, a sixteen-year-old who had been missing for three days,
“I’m making applesauce. Want a jar?” Marnie asked. “It’s the least I can do since you were nice enough to deliver my magazine.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” I said, politely. “I just live one floor below and it’s not like I was moving a piano or anything.”
Marnie shoved the mason jar into my chest. “I insist,” she said. “This is my first attempt at canning, and I’d really appreciate some feedback by someone who isn’t a family member. Plus I said you were old. My bad.”
I have a phobia about food prepared by strangers—it’s part of the whole hermit thing. I imagine a shrink would say I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, and they might be right. You could hand me a black forest cake with cherries picked from the Queen’s own private orchards, if it’s not wrapped in plastic from the factory or prepared in my own kitchen, I’m not going to eat it.
I glanced at my watch. I’d spent enough time engaged in idle chit-chat with Marnie. Since it was an honest gesture, I decided to accept her gift and use it as a doorstop.
“Thank-you for the applesauce,” I said, still using my best artificial smile.
“Great!” Marnie chirped. “I’ll look forward to your critique. Maybe I can come downstairs sometime so I can meet Walter.”
“Maybe—Crap! I have to get going. My sister is coming over and I have to clean up my place or I’ll never hear the end of it,” I lied.
“Okay, Mr. Conrad. Have a good one and say hi to Walter for me,” she said, closing her apartment door.
As I sauntered down the hall, I felt like I’d suddenly become a relic or worse, Mr. Frederick Graves, my fifth grade teacher who always wore a brown corduroy blazer with the patches sewn into the elbow. He was a veteran of the Second World War who reeked of Aqua Velva and cigarettes, and he’d force you to suffer through an entire Rudy Vallee album during a detention for what he called “acting smart” in class.
I wandered into the front foyer to leave a note for the mailman thanking him for his happy little prank. As I pulled my notepad out of my breast pocket, it occurred to me that crime fighting was beginning to take its toll on me.
Clairvoyance is not a gift, no matter what James Van Praagh has to say about it. I literally cringe whenever he’s a guest on Larry King or Dr. Phil, because celebrity psychics earn millions by convincing innocent people that family members who pass on still watch over us in a kind of spiritual guardianship.
Like that ever happens.
My psychic abilities are a pain in the ass because my brain acts like a satellite dish for graphic images of what is yet to come. As a foreteller, I am the unwitting recipient of the average person’s subliminal intent, and I’ve probed the fractured minds of people whose habits are of a malevolent nature.
It is no easy thing when a macabre canvas of rape, murder and torture pillories your senses every time someone conspires to kill a human being or commit a serious crime. Your brain pounds relentlessly as the migraine headaches persist until you intervene and your spirit peels away like dried paint on a long-abandoned house. When you’re not stopping a crime, you still have bills to pay and groceries to buy. You celebrate your birthday alone while everyone else is in the company of family and friends. Christmas is just another day on the calendar and you wind up disclosing your fears and frustrations to a fat Siamese cat.
Well, at least I do.
I resolved to pull my head out of my ass because self-pity is a quality I loathe, especially when it’s coming from me. I tore a sheet out of the notepad and scribbled a message for the mailman that was sure to provoke his wrath:
“Dear US Postal Service: I live in Apartment 112 and the only magazine I subscribe to on a regular basis is Fly Fish America.
—Marshall Conrad
P.S. You Got Me. Ha. Ha.”
Chapter 3
Stella Weinberg is not long for this earth.
She doesn’t realize it yet, but I’ve foreseen her demise and it will likely occur within the calendar year unless she makes some significant changes to her lifestyle. I first met Stella during a hastily assembled news conference at the Greenfield County Sheriff’s Department. Search and rescue teams had scoured every square inch of a wooded area in Crossfield where Stephen Hodges was last seen partying with friends, and I assumed the worst.
The meeting room overflowed with reporters from the local news media who took up the first three rows. I craned my neck for a place to sit and spotted a metal chair beside an obese woman who sat alone, stuffing her face with cheese doodles.
She flashed me a friendly smile and pointed an orange-stained finger to the empty chair beside her, then motioned for me to come over. I nodded politely, then reluctantly sauntered over and wedged myself between the fat lady and the wall. I’d been sitting for less than ten seconds when she gave me a hard nudge with her elbow.
“They’re going to say they found a body,” she whispered. Her breath smelled of artificial cheddar and fried cornmeal. “Did you see the Sheriff? He’s looking pretty grim—spooked, I’d say.”
My fist impulse was to get up and watch the news conference from the back of the meeting room, but the look on the Sheriff’s face suggested that she might be onto something.
She pointed a meaty finger at a middle-aged woman seated beside the podium. “See that lady over there? She’s the new Coroner. Oh yeah, that kid is dead—why else would she be here, right?”
“You have an insider’s knowledge,” I whispered. “Are you a reporter?”
She glanced at me through the corner of her eye. “Not likely. Reporters have a nasty habit of ignoring the glaringly obvious,” she said, crumpling the plastic cheese doodle bag into ball. “It’s obvious the kid is dead. Less obvious is that he’s victim number one. I’d say this is the first of many murders that are about to happen in our safe little city.”
Her suggestion that Stephen Hodges was the first victim in a yet-to-happen killing spree surprised me. My abilities allow me to see violent crimes like murder well in advance because a perpetrator’s willful intent stands out like a warning sign on the highway.
“I
t’s possible that he simply got too drunk and died of something like alcohol poisoning if he was partying with his friends,” I whispered, deciding that I’d listen to her theory.
“Not a chance,” she said. “You’ve heard the old saying about a person’s eyes being a window into their soul, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, trash that idea—it’s all in the face. Look at the Sheriff. He’s practically gray. You’d think he’d be used to seeing dead bodies by now.”
She was onto something.
Sheriff Don Neuman is a twenty-five-year veteran of law enforcement, first coming to Greenfield back in 1988 after suddenly resigning from the Homicide Division of the Boston Police Department. I assumed that his reasons for moving to Greenfield had something to do with rumors that he’d experienced a nervous breakdown after a particularly violent murder-suicide. I studied the Sheriff closely and noticed that his hands were shaking as he tentatively flipped through a yellow legal pad. Something had rattled him and if the woman’s hypothesis was correct, then it was going to be a short news conference.
“This morning at three-forty-four, search and rescue teams working in conjunction with the Greenfield County Sheriff’s Department found a body in a wooded area of Crossfield,” the Sheriff read aloud. “The area around the body was immediately cordoned off and the County Coroner arrived on scene at approximately four-eighteen.”
The woman nudged my arm again. “Never doubt a fat lady in a frock,” she whispered.
“The body was removed from the area at seven-forty-five, and an autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning,” he continued. “We are initiating a homicide investigation in partnership with the County Prosecutor’s Office. At this time we cannot disclose the identity of the victim until notification of next of kin. We will schedule another news conference when more information becomes available. Thank you.”
The reporters started shouting questions at the Sheriff as he retreated from the podium with the Coroner, and he motioned for everyone to settle down. “It would be inappropriate for me to disclose further information while the investigation proceeds. We can only report the information contained in the news release,” he said, as three Sheriff’s Deputies blocked the doorway leading out of the meeting room.
“Well, that’s that,” the fat lady said. “By the way, my name is Stella Weinberg. I own The Curiosity Nook over on Shelby Avenue.”
“I’m Marshall Conrad,” I said, shaking her hand. “I’m a curious onlooker.”
“You’re a cat lover too, huh?” she said, pointing to the cat hair on my black trousers. “Siamese, it would appear.”
“It looks like you’re batting a thousand,” I said, brushing Walter’s hair off my leg. “Your predictions are bang-on and apparently you’re an expert on cat hair. Do you have any more insightful gems to share?”
“No gems today, just a handful of rocks,” she said, as she heaved a large wicker bag onto her lap.
“Rocks?”
“The curiosity business isn’t exactly booming lately,” she continued. “I started my business because I have this habit of finding odds and sods that few people notice as they go about their daily business—that and I’m a pack rat.”
I liked her candor.
Stella Weinberg appeared to be the kind of person who, like me, is an outsider—although in her case, the fact that she is five foot two and weighs over three hundred pounds might have something to do with her reclusive lifestyle.
“Things are going to get pretty ugly in town. I can feel it,” she said, grimly.
“Okay then, I’ll bite. Why is a killer on the loose, and when will he strike again?” I asked.
“Because of this.” Stella pulled a rock out of her handbag and placed it on her lap. “I’ve been lugging this bugger around all day. Have a look at it and tell me what you see.”
I picked up the chunk of granite and guessed that it weighed about five pounds.
“It seems rather heavy for something the size of a baseball,” I said, gauging its weight with my right hand.
Stella frowned. “Take a gander at what’s on the bottom.”
I flipped it over and noticed a spiral that looked like it had been stamped into the rock’s granite surface with a die.
“I’m no archeologist, but this looks like a symbol of some kind,” I said. “Maybe it’s a Mi’kmaq artifact.”
“If that’s a Mi’kmaq symbol, then I’ll wear a bikini and give you a private fashion show,” she winked.
“Okay then, you found a shape that was etched into a rock by space aliens,” I said, trying to get the image of a near-nude Stella Weinberg out of my head. “I don’t see how this is related to a dead sixteen-year old or murders that may or may not happen.”
She gave me a disapproving frown. “Mr. Conrad, I’ve been a Greenfield resident for over forty-five years,” she huffed. “Once upon a time when I was thin and glamorous, I used to hike the forests and hills all over the County and I’ve found everything you can think of—from arrowheads to petrified bear turds. Want to know something else that might surprise you?”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve acquired twenty rocks just like that one in the past three weeks. Each rock is almost identical in size to the one in your hand, and there’s a spiral doo-dad carved into each of them. What do you think of that?”
I considered Stella’s question carefully before answering. Maybe she’d chanced upon some archeological treasure that had gone unnoticed until now. That seemed to be the logical explanation.
“Don’t even think about telling me that it’s an archeological relic,” she said, reading my mind. “I found each rock in different locations along my bus route.”
“Let me get this straight—you’re linking this with a murder in Crossfield? I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it.”
Her frown deepened as she scratched the back of her neck. “I’ll be frank with you. I’m an overweight woman who rides the bus and I know that people stare at me,” she said, with a hint of resignation.
I nodded sympathetically. “Because I’m a big woman, I don’t have the freedom of mobility that most people enjoy. The bus stop is two blocks from my house. I get off the bus and walk one block to my store. When I open my doors at nine-thirty in the morning, my feet are sore and I’m usually out of breath. Twenty days in a row—twenty rocks in a row. Combine that with the discovery of a murdered sixteen year-old and you’ve got yourself a bona-fide mystery.”
It might have been a coincidence, but there was a certainty to her voice that gave her theory a lot of credibility. I’d seen all kinds of bizarre patterns of behavior on the part of criminals over the years and there was no reason to doubt what she was saying.
“Naturally if you tell the police about this they’ll show you the door,” I said. “Maybe you should get in touch with Chesterton College to find out what they think.”
Stella nodded . “I’m not sure if it’s the spiral symbols or the locations where I found the rocks that has me unsettled.”
“Why’s that?”
“A spiral is one of the oldest symbols throughout history. You can find them scratched into boulders from thousands of years ago on every continent, and it’s pretty much accepted that a spiral is emblematic of resurrection or rebirth. You don’t find them on a bench inside a bus shelter or lying in the middle of the sidewalk for you to trip over.”
“So you think a killer has taken up residence in Greenfield and he leaves rocks all over the place like a business card?”
“In a strange way, yes,” Stella said. “A lot of effort has gone into preparing those little symbols—it’s shiny, like someone buffed it. Whoever did this might be a gemologist or a craftsman. That’s my take on it, anyway.”
I ran my index finger over the buffed contours of the spiral engraving, and ran through the facts. Stephen Hodges was dead, the Sheriff looked spooked, and twenty spiral-engraved rocks don’t just appear unexpectedly out of thin air.
&nbs
p; “Right now we have one dead kid and no confirmation from the police that a murder has occurred.” I shrugged. “You run a curiosity shop and I am just an average Joe who came to a news conference one afternoon. It’s been fun playing Sherlock Holmes with you, but I need to head back home.”
Stella grabbed my arm and squeezed.
“Average Joes don’t hang out at news conferences, and you’re about as average as Chinese food at a doughnut shop,” she said with a sly smile.
“Maybe I’m an author and I’m writing a book about crime in Greenfield County.”
She flashed me a skeptical look.
“It’s also possible that I’m just a concerned citizen who’s been following the story about a missing sixteen-year-old kid. Had you considered that?”
Stella pointed to my hands. “Pretty scuffed up knuckles you’ve got there, Mr. Conrad. Either your hobby is brawling at the Regis Hotel on Friday nights or you’ve got a few mysteries of your own.”
“We’re just chock-full of mysteries in Greenfield these days, Stella.” I said. “Tell you what—if you make any more supernatural discoveries that might have something to do with Stephen Hodges, let’s talk about it over coffee.”
She nodded and handed me her business card. “You’re right about going to the police—we’ve got nothing to offer their investigation that would be taken seriously. Who wants to listen to a fat lady talk about her rock collection anyway?”
I nodded as I opened my wallet and inserted her card. “I don’t normally accept business cards from people who are stranger than me, but for you, I’ll make an exception. I might even buy one of your curiosities if you’re nice to me.”
She heaved her bulk off the metal folding chair and stood up. “What’s this? No card for me?” Stella feigned surprise. “Don’t tell me, you’re an investigative journalist who suffers from prolonged shyness.”
“I appreciate your discretion Stella, but really, I’ve got nothing to hide from anyone,” I said, sliding my wallet in my back pocket.
She raised a single painted eyebrow. “Nothing to hide, eh? You’re a strange bird, and coming from me, that’s a compliment.”
Marshall Conrad: A Superhero Tale Page 2