by Jane Tesh
BABY, TAKE A BOW
The Fifth Grace Street Mystery
“...readers seeking a cozy, feel-good mystery will enjoy this outing to Grace Street. The delightful characters navigate their worldly and otherworldly challenges with affection and humor, and Tesh maintains a whimsical tone that doesn’t detract from the serious subject matter.”
—Publishers Weekly
“North Carolina PI David Randall and his psychic sidekick Camden contend with a missing baby and surly ghosts in Tesh’s fifth book in the series. What seems like an open-and-shut case of a purloined newborn mushrooms into a run of investigations for Randall and Camden, whose talent for seeing the undead leads to a string of misadventures.”
—Library Journal
“The fifth in Tesh’s psychic series is again more enjoyable for the odd mix of characters.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“...the main plot is solid, and the characters remain the chief source of appeal.”
—David Pitt, Booklist
JUST YOU WAIT
The Fourth Grace Street Mystery
“Fans of lighter mysteries will welcome the adventures and misadventures on Grace Street.”
—Publishers Weekly
NOW YOU SEE IT
The Third Grace Street Mystery
“Randall’s investigations turn up some amusing characters among the flamboyant magicians and stagestruck wannabes, and the Grace Street residents contribute their share of quirkiness to the proceedings.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This is the third Randall mystery, and readers who have yet to try this series should be encouraged to crack this one open.”
—Booklist
MIXED SIGNALS
The Second Grace Street Mystery
“Randall’s second appearance combines a solid mystery with a plethora of suspects and quirky regulars.”
—Kirkus Reviews
STOLEN HEARTS
The First Grace Street Mystery
“Tesh brings a gentle touch to her new series featuring a psychic, his PI friend, and a houseful of intriguing cast members. These young men have suffered great losses in their lives, but together they are poised to solve mysteries. Definitely partner this title with Mark de Castrique’s The Sandburg Connection for regional interest, music history, and world-weary characters.”
—Library Journal
“A P.I. and a psychic team up to solve a series of crimes...Tesh gets her new series off to a promising start.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“This is a good choice for southern-cozy fans who don’t mind paranormal elements in the mix.”
—Barbara Bibel, Booklist
Death by
Dragonfly
A Grace Street Mystery
Jane Tesh
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Jane Tesh
First Edition 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018931990
ISBN: 9781464211126 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781464210525 Trade Paperback
ISBN: 9781464210532 Ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
4014 N. Goldwater Blvd., #201
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
www.poisonedpenpress.com
[email protected]
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
Death by Dragonfly
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
This book is dedicated to a brand new Camden,
my great-nephew, Camden Ryan Andrew Tesh,
born March 2, 2018.
Chapter One
“Art is Calling For Me”
When I became a private investigator I assumed all my clients would be alive.
I was wrong.
Besides breaking up an illegal baby ring, I’d recently caught a murderer and solved a big case involving the mayor of Parkland’s wife. I’d also helped Camden free a ghost from a mirror. Here’s where things get peculiar. The ghost, Delores Carlyle, had been a restless spirit whose only wish was to see her daughter one last time. Apparently happy with my work, she told all her dead pals in whatever spirit world they inhabit to contact the Randall Detective Agency for all their undead needs. Already, one spooky message had appeared on my own mirror saying “Delores Sent Me.” There was no way to predict how any of this was going to turn out.
This hot Thursday morning in July I had an actual living client sitting in my office in the gracious old home renting rooms to an unusual collection of residents at 302 Grace Street. Leo Pierson was big and overly theatrical. With his large protruding eyes and mane of dark red hair, he looked like the leading man in a seedy acting troupe, the guy who always plays the kings and generals, and in fact, he was an actor. He’d driven up in a pearl gray Mercedes and parked next to my white ’67 Fury. I was already tired of talking to him. But not only was he alive, he had money. So I sat forward in my chair and put on my most attentive face.
“How many items were stolen from your collection, Mr. Pierson?”
He reached into a pocket in his jacket and brought out a piece of paper and some photos. “Here is a list and pictures, Mr. Randall. The police have been completely useless. They simply do not appreciate the value, the mystique, the sensuality of Art Nouveau.”
The items on his list were written in gold ink, all swirls and curlicues. The photos showed a set of silver spoons with twisted leaf-shaped handles, a glass dragonfly with rainbow wings, a poster of a woman surrounded by black and gold flowers, a brass ashtray decorated with a mermaid and flowing flowers, and a bright blue vase stenciled with birds. Okay, so not your usual missing items, but I didn’t mind a challenge.
When I looked up, Leo Pierson fixed me with a goldfish gaze, a goldfish that would very much like a piece of bread. “These are very distinctive,” I said. “I’m sure someone will have seen them.”
Pierson set his silver-headed cane on the floor with a firm tap and placed both hands on top. “The poster and the ashtray are worth around twelve thousand dollars each, but the Lalique peacock vase is worth at least forty thousand dollars, the silverware I last had appraised at two hundred thousand, and the dragonfly is priceless, at least to me. It’s my favorite piece. My father inherited them from a relative of his, Isabelle Duvall, whose great aunt was the model for the poster. They used to decorate
her parlor, so they have sentimental value, as well.” He leaned forward. “There is cause for haste, Mr. Randall. My greatest wish is to have my own theater, and one has become available here in Parkland. Now, the dragonfly is worth more than all those other items combined, plus at least another hundred thousand more, but I would never sell it. I am willing to part with my other treasures in order to procure this theater. The seller is open to my offer, and I have a buyer for the items, but I must have payment by the twenty-third.”
I glanced at my desk calendar. Ten days! “I’ll get started right away.”
“Yes, well, where’s the psychic?” He looked around as if expecting someone to crawl out from under my desk. “I understand you have a psychic on your staff who can find lost objects. Camden, I believe his name is, and his wife runs the Psychic Service Network.”
Camden owns this home. Usually, he is at his job as a salesclerk at Tamara’s Boutique, but he wasn’t needed there every day, so he was practicing with his church softball team. I wouldn’t call him “on staff.” Camden becomes involved whether he wants to or not, thanks to his considerable and erratic psychic ability. “I’m sure I can find your items, Mr. Pierson.” I turned to my laptop to make notes. “If you’d give me the details of the robbery.”
“It happened this past Saturday night. Someone managed to dismantle my alarm system. It’s quite a good one, or so I thought. The alarm is up in my bedroom, and if someone tries to break in, I should know immediately. Only this time, the alarm didn’t work. I didn’t hear a thing. The next morning, I found a window broken and my treasures gone. Of course, I called the police, but they were of no help whatsoever.”
I typed this in. “They didn’t get any fingerprints, tire tracks? No clues of any kind?”
“No.” He took out a gray silk handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “By now, my treasures could be anywhere.”
“What kind of alarm system do you have?”
“A Guardian Electronic, for all the good it did.”
I also typed this information in. “Who knew about your collection?”
“A few friends and acquaintances from the art world. Lawrence Stein, who’s on the board of the Parkland Art Museum; and Nancy Piper, who also works there in the finance department; Richard Mason, who runs the Little Gallery here in town; and Samuel Gallant, curator of the Princeton Art Museum in Madison.”
“Any problems with these friends?”
“Oh, no. In fact, I had them to my house for luncheon and a private viewing a week ago.”
The perfect opportunity for any one of them to case the joint, as we hard-boiled gumshoes like to say. I added this to my list. “Anything else I should know?”
“Nothing comes to mind at the moment. This reminds me of my role as Inspector Trumpet in Railway to Murder, Mr. Randall. There’s a wonderful speech at the end of Act Two.” He stood, shook back his hair, and pointed one finger toward the sky. “‘The fewest clues I’ve ever assembled, but by far, the cleverest. No mere criminal shall deter me!’ He fixed me with his large eyes as if I were responsible for this imaginary crime. “I’m sure you’ve seen the play.”
“I’ve missed that one, sorry.”
“Unfortunately, real life can’t be solved in three acts. Get back to me as soon as you can.”
Pierson hadn’t been gone five minutes when I heard another car drive up, and Jordan Finley from the Parkland Police Department soon filled my office doorway. And by filled, I mean filled. Jordan’s as large and square as a pro fullback. His short black hair bristled and his little blue eyes fixed me with a piercing stare.
“Did I see Leo Pierson leaving your house?”
“He hired me to find some missing artwork.”
“I don’t suppose he mentioned he’s a suspect in a possible murder investigation?”
What the—? “No, he left out that part.”
“Gee, I wonder why?” Jordan squeezed himself in the office chair. “What did he tell you?”
I indicated the photos on my desk. “He said his house was broken into and several valuable Art Nouveau items had been stolen. What’s the deal? Did he kill the burglar?”
“Samuel Gallant is missing. Pierson was the last one to see him, and neighbors report hearing a quarrel between the two men the day before Gallant disappeared.”
Gallant had been at Pierson’s luncheon and viewing. “When did this happen?”
“This past Saturday, and it looks like the break-in happened late Saturday night or early Sunday.”
Why didn’t Pierson tell me about this? “Does Gallant have any sort of criminal record? Does Pierson?”
“Gallant, not even so much as a traffic ticket. We’ve searched his home and his place of business. As for Pierson, his record’s clean, too. For now. You need to back away.”
“I can’t do that. Pierson just hired me.”
Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “Look. Right now we don’t care about his artsy little doodads. We want to find out what happened to Samuel Gallant. I’m only sharing this info with you so you’ll drop Pierson and let us handle this.”
“How about this? You hunt for Gallant. I’ll hunt for the doodads. I doubt our paths will cross.”
Jordan gave a snort and pushed himself up. “Our paths always cross. But not this time. Do you hear me?”
I heard him, but that didn’t mean I was going to listen.
As soon as Jordan left, I called Pierson. “You left out a few important details. Samuel Gallant’s missing, and you’re suspect number one. What’s going on?”
Pierson heaved a huge theatrical sigh. “I don’t see the relevance to the robbery. He wouldn’t have taken my treasures. He had no interest in Art Nouveau and made that perfectly clear at my party. I have no idea where he is. He’s very indecisive. He’s probably standing in the middle of an airport somewhere trying to decide where to go.”
“Neighbors heard you arguing with him the day before he disappeared.”
“Of course I was arguing with him. He owed me money, and he was very late paying me back. Then he had the nerve to ask to borrow more, and I refused. That’s what our quarrel was about. The fact I was the last one to see him is irrelevant.”
“The police don’t see it that way.”
“I can’t help that.” There was a pause. “This isn’t going to affect our working relationship, is it?”
“No, but you should have told me up front. Got any more secrets I oughta know?”
“I sincerely promise there are no more secrets.”
I sincerely doubted that.
I went online and found some information about my theatrical client. He was independently wealthy and spent most of his time acting with theater groups here in North Carolina, as well as taking part in regional productions in neighboring states. Many pictures of Pierson in costume showed his face contorted with emotion, his large eyes bulging. I didn’t recognize the plays, except Arsenic and Old Lace and My Fair Lady. I never had much interest in theater—aside from dating a very attractive theater major in college—but a previous case had involved actors and those very plays, so I’d learned enough to know that actors could be extremely needy and jealous. Leo Pierson didn’t fit this mold—yet.
I wanted sustenance before I went on what would probably be a wild goose chase for Pierson’s treasures, so I crossed the foyer and headed for the kitchen. We call the center of the main room “the island,” a cluster of worn comfortable Goodwill chairs and a sofa where everybody sits to relax, read, watch TV, whatever. Kary’s piano stands in the front left corner, a battered upright she can make sound like a concert grand. There are lots of plants, books, and the usual clutter. By the back bay window is a large round table and chairs for group meals. Separating this area from the kitchen is a counter and stools if you want to perch and snack.
Our home, 302 Grace Street, is in the older, greener part of what u
sed to be Parkland’s ritzy section. The house is an old yellow three-story structure with a big front porch and a yard full of huge old oak trees. It also has a leaky roof, unpredictable plumbing, and all the other charming quirks of a house built in the late Thirties. With its big windows, clean bare floors, and informal furniture, the place reminds me of a beach house or a well-kept frat house, but it’s actually a boardinghouse. You’ve heard of halfway houses for runaways, flops, and failures. Well, this is an all-the-way house for Camden’s refugees.
One of our latest tenants was a skinny would-be rock star named Kit who’d recently found success with his band, Runaway Truck Ramp. Kit and his attitude had been a real pain in the rear until Camden discovered the young man was also psychic and didn’t know how to deal with the constant stream of unwanted information bombarding him all day. Once he’d shown Kit how to keep the worst of the visions at bay, Kit had become almost normal. He usually slept during the day, preparing for his nightly gigs at local clubs.
Our other new tenant was a woman named—I promise—Vermillion. She’d been wandering in the neighborhood and sleeping on a park bench. The local women’s shelter was overcrowded, so Camden told her she could stay a few days. A few days had stretched into a couple of weeks.
Vermillion was a wannabe flower child in her late thirties. Her hair looked like something you’d find clumped in the loft of an abandoned barn, but dyed tomato-soup red. Everything about her was tie-dyed and fringed. Everything she said was full of peace, love, and harmony except when she was hungry or got up too early. Then she was grumpy like a regular person. I didn’t see her anywhere and figured she was probably over in the park having a sit in with her fellow hippies and smoking some illegal substances.