When the Spirit Calls (When the Spirit... series - Book 2)

by Thomas DePrima

  Mr. Dvorak carefully returned the manuscript to its protective case and closed the gold-plated clasp. After signing the receipt for the tome brought by Madam Elana, he drew two identification badges from an inside pocket of his suit jacket and passed them to the women. Without further word, he delicately picked up the case and left the room.

  "He seems very unhappy that the museum had to allow us access to the archives in order to get the loan of the manuscript," Madam Elana said with the hint of a grin.

  "It doesn't really matter," Renee said, "but he shouldn't be. We've both gotten what we want. Shall we get to work? Perhaps that museum docent can direct us to where we'll find the manuscript we came all this way to examine."

  * *

  An hour later, Madam Elana and Renee were sitting in a temperature- and humidity-controlled chamber somewhere in the bowels of the museum with the centuries-old Italian tome on the table in front of them. Madam Elana's Italian was limited, so Renee read and translated the Italian to English for all important passages as she proceeded.

  * * *

  As the sheriff's car driven by Lt. Bolger pulled up to the county jail, it was immediately surrounded by members of the fourth estate anxiously seeking to photograph the murderer of one of their own being dragged unceremoniously into the jail. They were surprised when the Detective Lieutenant climbed out of the driver's seat and walked around the vehicle to offer his hand to Arlene. They were immediately surrounded by deputies to keep the press back as the pair walked to the jail door and disappeared inside. Although the reporters had shouted questions the entire time, they had not received even one answer.

  Bolger led Arlene to an interrogation room and gestured to a chair at the table located in the center of the room. "Wait here. I'll be right back." After leaving the interrogation room, he headed to the sheriff's office.

  "Go right in," the sheriff's secretary said. "He's expecting you."

  As Bolger closed the door behind him, Sheriff Joseph N. Canaar stood up behind his desk. His face was a mottled red color and the glare in his eyes was not a welcome sight. "Dammit, Dick. I told you to bring her in cuffed. You made it look like we were extending the welcome mat and prepared to shower her with roses."

  "I'm positive she had nothing to do with the murder."

  "I don't give a damn if she did it or not. Meredith Blakely was a pain in the ass, and I'm glad someone finally ended her lies and innuendo. But this was our opportunity to get rid of two pains in the ass. And now we're still going to have that little bitch here in town."

  "She agreed to come in willingly and make a statement. She told me that if I embarrassed her by handcuffing her, there would be so many legal people here by tomorrow that it would seem like there were a lawyer's convention in town, except that they would all be filing lawsuits against the county, town, and you personally for five hundred million dollars. Sheriff, I told you she comes from big money. You don't try to intentionally embarrass someone like that when the person is obviously innocent. She has enough money to buy this entire town a dozen times over. Now, you can fire me if you want, but I just saved the county, the town, and you from making a major mistake."

  Canaar plopped back into his chair and sighed, then looked up at Bolger. "Five hundred million dollars? Really?"

  "Her words, not mine. Sheriff, if there was the slightest doubt in my mind that she wasn't innocent, I would have done as you said, but I know she didn't kill Blakely. I don't know who did, but it wasn't Madam Arlene. I mean Arlene Watson."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "She arrived at Georgina Antiques early with her three friends and was only there for thirteen minutes before returning home to get a notebook she had forgotten. Sheriff, you should see the video system they have at the antiques store. I think it's more sophisticated than the system we have here at the jail. Anyway, I verified that the security system in the store proves her arrival, brief departure, and later return. Given the testimony from the eyewitness across the street from the rental house, it's easy to determine that Miss Watson didn't have time to commit the crime following the very minor altercation with Blakely outside the house. The witness who put her at the scene about the time of the murder reported that when Watson got into her car and drove away, Blakely was alive and healthy. There wasn't time for Watson to return and commit the crime. Finally, there are no obvious blood splatters anywhere on Watson's clothes. The video log at the store proves she was wearing the same clothes when she returned as she had been wearing when she left. Judging from the amount of blood on Blakely's clothing, the floor, and the surrounding area, whoever did stab Blakely would have been covered by a substantial amount of splatter. Watson didn't do it. And she doesn't know who did."

  "How do you know that last part?"

  "We're trained to read people by listening to what they say and don't say. We listen to the inflections in their voices and watch their eyes and body movements. Everything I've been taught in that regard tells me she's innocent. Putting it all together, I know she didn't do it and doesn't know who did."

  "Okay. Interview her and get her statements on video. Then take her back to the Georgina Antiques store. I'll break the news to the press that we're releasing her for lack of evidence."

  "That makes it sound like we believe her to be guilty."

  "It's also the truth. I can't help it if it leaves the question of her guilt open. We don't declare any major suspects innocent until we find the guilty party. You know that."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Go complete the interview of Watson."

  "Yes, sir."

  * * *

  When the interview was over, Bolger drove Arlene back to Georgina Antiques. It was only a one-block drive, but he wanted a few minutes alone with her to smooth ruffled feathers. The press had disappeared after the sheriff announced Arlene Watson would be released. As soon as the doors were closed, Bolger said, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to do that but the sheriff ordered me. I told him before the interview started that I was confident you had nothing to do with Blakely's death."

  "So what happens now?"

  "Well, the house is still a crime scene. You'll have to stay somewhere else until the lab folks are done."

  "How long do you think that will be?"

  "You'll probably be back in the house within several days— if you really want to go back there."

  "Why wouldn't we?"

  "Some people are squeamish about being in a house where someone was killed."

  "I'm a spiritualist, remember. The dead don't make me squeamish."

  "They're not really dead to you, are they?"

  "Their mortal existences might have ended, but they still live on— either here or in the hereafter."

  "Have you seen any sign of Blakely's spirit?"

  "Her spirit? No."

  "Isn't that unusual?"

  "I haven't had enough experience in that regard to tell you the odds of whether the spirits of murder victims are more likely to remain here or immediately cross over when they die. Most spirits do cross over immediately. The ones who stay usually have a compelling reason to remain here."

  "I'd say being murdered is a compelling reason."

  "To most people it probably would be. But if the person had an unhappy life here, they might want to cross over right away to join loved ones who have preceded them in mortal death."

  "Simona hasn't gone."

  "I believe Simona remained here to watch over her daughter, as well as to help see that her killer was punished."

  "That case is so old and cold it might never be closed."

  "Perhaps."

  "So Simona should cross over."

  "She may still want to watch over her daughter as Papa Gianni is doing with his daughter."

  "Perhaps he'll cross over once Maria marries Tony."

  "Perhaps. He said he would."

  "You've spoken to him? I mean, he's answered?"

  "Briefly. Maria didn't believe he was really there, so she invited me to discus
s it in her office. Papa followed me in."

  "And?"

  "And he demonstrated to Maria that he was really there."

  "How did he do that?"

  "I'll only tell you if you swear never to tell anyone else."

  "I can't do that."

  "Then I won't tell you."

  After several seconds of silence, Bolger said, "Okay, I promise never to say anything— unless I'm under oath and asked pointedly to verify whatever it is that happened."

  "Since you weren't there, you can't verify it actually happened. It would only be hearsay."

  "True, but an attorney or judge could ask me if I'd heard about it."

  "Okay, as long as you're not responsible for initiating the question."

  "I promise not to do that."

  "Okay. When I was alone with Papa and Maria, Papa pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and handed it to her."

  "You're saying the tissue appeared to float through the air? Seemingly by itself?"

  "Papa did it twice. After that he had me relate things that only Maria and he could know. They concerned things that happened just after Maria's mother died when only Papa and Maria were present. I simply acted as a conduit between them, telling her exactly what he said. Oh, and when Maria requested it, Papa manifested. It was only briefly, but when I left, Maria was completely satisfied that Papa really is there."

  "Manifested?"

  "It's when a spirit makes themselves visible to people in the mortal world. I'm not sure how they do it, but they appear as wispy images. It's almost as if they can coalesce water vapor from the air, kind of like a fog surrounding them as closely as their skin once did, but they can only do it briefly because it requires so much of their ethereal energy. Afterward, it takes quite a while before they completely recover, which is why they do it so seldom. I guess it would be like me running a marathon. If I did make it to the finish line, I'd probably have to sleep for a week. But it's the most effective way for a spirit to prove their existence and presence to people in the mortal world."

  "Wow. I understand now why Maria is supporting you one hundred percent. Seeing Papa in the flesh, so to speak, would even convince me. That must have been one interesting conversation."

  "You observed one yourself the day you came to my house."

  "But I never actually believed Simona was there. She didn't manifest."

  "And I'm sure Maria didn't believe Papa was really there when the conversation started. I think you would have believed Simona was really there if I had been able to tell you things that only happened between Simona and yourself while she was alive."

  "Maybe."

  "And now?"

  "Let's just say I'm starting to wonder if I might have been totally wrong about ghosts— er, spirits— all my life."

  Arlene said, "It's a beginning," and punctuated it with a smile.

  * * *

  Bruce Macrone awoke and rolled over, surprised it was so light in his motel room. Looking at the clock on the nightstand, he was shocked to see it was almost three p.m. The clock had been set to awaken him at six a.m. each morning, and it had worked fine every day since his arrival in Lake Georgina. He pushed back the sheet covering his naked body and moved to a sitting position to have a cigarette. As he reached for the pack on the nightstand, he realized his right hand was covered in a dried, dark brown substance. Examining it, he realized it appeared to be dried blood. Stunned, he looked at his left hand. It, too, was covered in what appeared to be dried blood. He'd had enough experience with blood in his lifetime to reach the conclusion that, in all probability, it was blood.

  Macrone jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, believing he might have suffered a nosebleed while he slept. As he stared into the mirror, he learned the blood hadn't come from his nose, but there were blood splatters on his face. He then began examining his naked body, but he could find no wounds or open cuts and no other signs of blood anywhere else on his body. Picking up the bar of soap supplied to his room, he thoroughly washed his hands and arms. He couldn't make sense of it until he returned to the bedroom and discovered that the clothes he had worn the day before were likewise covered in brown stains. Even his shoes were covered in blood splatters. He sat down on the bed and tried to remember the previous day, but he could only recall the early morning. The last thing he remembered was leaving a local diner after having a filling breakfast. He remembered getting into his rental car and pulling out of the parking lot. A sudden flash had momentarily blinded him, and everything after that was a blank until he'd awakened today.

  Macrone knew something serious had happened and supposed he was suppressing a tragic event from his conscious mind, but that didn't make sense, because as an assassin-for-hire he was used to seeing the often bloody bodies of his dying and dead victims. Depending on the wishes of his client, he'd strangled some and some he'd shot, either up close or from a distance. Others had died in what were supposed to appear like accidents from fires or car crashes. Still others should never be found, so he'd had his choice of weapons in those cases. His preferred killing method was a quick knife-cut across the throat, because although quite messy, it left no ballistics evidence, and knives were so easy to acquire and dispose of. A hired killer didn't need to suppress horrific memories of kills. If death bothered him, he would have known long ago that he was in the wrong business. And it was an accepted fact that a killer became more and more immune to feelings of angst over the deaths of his victims.

  Whether he would remember the event later didn't really matter as he went into self-protection mode. He first climbed into a hot shower and thoroughly cleansed the dried blood from his skin and hair. As he emerged from the shower stall, he used a nail file to carefully clean under his fingernails. His bloodstained clothes, including the shoes, went into a plastic 'laundry' bag provided by the motel for a guest's soiled clothing. This would keep everything together until he could dispose of it.

  He didn't find any bloodstains in the bedding, but there were dried blood flakes, so he removed the sheets and pillowcases, then shook them out and replaced them. Forensics people might be able to find blood flakes in the carpet, but once the carpet was vacuumed tomorrow morning and every day following, it would become increasingly difficult to find any evidence of a crime.

  With his room clean of any visual evidence, he dressed, took the plastic bag containing his clothes, and tossed it into the trunk of his rental car. The car's door handle and steering wheel had dried blood on them, so he washed them down and looked around the interior of the car. He couldn't see any other evidence of violence, so he walked back inside and sat down to think.

  Several hours later, after struggling to remember every moment of the day before, he gave up. He simply could not remember where the missing day had gone after he'd eaten breakfast or what he had done to be covered in someone else's blood.

  He was hungry, not having eaten all day, but before he sat down to a meal he had to dispose of the bloody clothes in the trunk of his car. He walked outside, intent on finding a remote location where he could ditch the plastic bag containing the clothes.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  "Here it is!" Renee said excitedly as she stared at the pages of a book written nine centuries earlier.

  "You found a chronicle of the demon banishment?" Madam Elana asked. While Renee had been reading from the book that was the basis for their trip, Madam Elana had been examining other ancient books written in Old English, which she might never have access to again.

  "Yes. The chronicle of the event and the chant." As she read silently from the Italian tome, she said dejectedly, "Oh, gopher wings. They're identical, word for word, to the one we found in your book back home. I guess this was a wasted trip."

  "Not at all. This somewhat confirms the account of the banishment in the other book. It's a verification of sorts."

  "Okay. I guess we can head home now."

  "How far into the book have you read?"

  "About seventy-
five percent, I'd estimate."

  "Since you're in so far, why don't you finish— just to be sure there's nothing else regarding the event."

  "Okay. I've been reading slowly to make sure I didn't miss anything. I'll speed up a bit now."

  "No, I wouldn't. We've come a long way to read this book, and we had to bribe our way in to access it. We can't easily come back, so let's make sure we don't miss anything in there that might be helpful."

  "Okay. I'll make sure I read and understand every word."

  * * *

  "I just can't get into this right now," Arlene said as she carefully closed the ancient book she had been trying to read. She, Megan, and Erin were alone in the reading room below the antiques shop.

  "Yeah, I'm having trouble concentrating as well," Megan said. "Who do you think did it? And why?"

  "Well, she was the real pushy reporter type— and more than a little obnoxious. She had the nerve to ask me if I'd ever sought professional help to cure my delusion that I can converse with the dead."