“Hi, Deborah. I hope I’m not intruding by dropping in like this.”
“Of course not,” she says. “Come in.” She leads the way into her living room and points me to a chair.
“I wanted to let you know I heard from Sergeant Yates,” I say.
“Oh, wonderful. Did he give you the name of that woman?”
“Yeah, he did. It’s Thelma Paige. She lives in Indio.”
Deborah immediately picks up her phone and dials information for Indio. In a few seconds she’s got the number of Thelma and Roger Paige. “Would you make the call?” she asks, handing me the phone and a slip of paper with the number on it.
“Sure.” I dial the number; it’s answered by a man I assume is Roger Paige. “Hello,” I say, “I’m calling for Mrs. Thelma Paige.”
“Hold on,” he says.
Almost immediately Mrs. Paige comes on the line. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Paige, my name is Lucas Tunney. I’m calling from Cutter’s Grove.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Tunney. Are you, uh, with the police department?”
“No ma’am, I’m not.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed that … well, never mind. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know quite how to put this Mrs. Paige. I would very much like to talk to you about the Anne Marie Alvarro case.”
“Are you a writer then, Mr. Tunney? Or a reporter?”
“No, again, Mrs. Paige. I’m calling on a personal matter, but it does have some bearing on the Alvarro case.”
“I see,” she says. “Well, I don’t normally---”
“Mrs. Paige,” I say, sensing I’m losing her, “I know you’re probably bombarded all the time by people who want something from you. I can assure you I’m not looking to be a bother. But something happened to me recently that I believe may be of great interest to you in connection with this matter.”
“Well, Mr. Tunney, have you spoken with the Kern County Sheriff’s Department? They’re in charge of that---”
“Yes, I’ve spoken with Sergeant Yates, but … well, I’ll be honest with you, I’m reluctant to say too much to the police at this stage. I'd really appreciate it if we could get together briefly so that I could explain my position to you. I’m afraid what I have to say is somewhat difficult even for me to believe, let alone explain to the authorities.”
Whatever I’ve said, it’s suddenly made an impact. “Very well, Mr. Tunney. I could see you this coming Sunday if that’s convenient for you.”
“That would be great, ma’am. We could be there in the early afternoon. I’ll be accompanied by a friend if that’s all right.”
“That will be fine, Mr. Tunney. I’ll see you on Sunday. Do you have my address?”
“No, ma’am.” She gives it to me and I repeat it while Deborah writes it down.
12
I don’t know exactly what I expected Thelma Paige to look like but my hazy mental image of her was certainly way off base. When Deborah and I arrive at her upscale home in the growing community of Indio - the last in a line of communities stretching east from Palm Springs - we’re greeted at the door by a woman who looks a little like a cross between an aging showgirl and a librarian. She’s in her late fifties, on the tall side, with an athletic build and still very attractive. Her gray hair and studious-looking glasses are in stark contrast to the rest of her. Unless I miss my guess, she was once a real knockout.
“Hello,” she says. “You must be Mr. Tunney. I’m Thelma Paige.”
“Please call me Lucas, ma’am. This is my friend, Deborah Miller.”
“I’m pleased to meet you both,” Thelma says. “Please come in.”
We’re led into the living room of an immaculate home. The furnishings are understated but elegant, there’s no clutter, and everything is spotless. “May I offer you something to drink? I have some coffee on if you’re interested.”
“That'd be great,” I say.
“Thank you,” says Deborah.
Thelma leaves and a moment later returns with a china tray containing three full cups of steaming coffee and matching cream and sugar containers. The set looks like it cost more than my Jeep. I’m reminded of my prize set of plastic picnic ware that I picked up for less than three dollars.
“So,” Thelma says, handing us our cups, “did you have a pleasant trip down from Cutter’s Grove?”
"Yes, thank you," I respond. "Traffic was light."
"With summer coming on most of the tourists have fled for cooler climes by now," she says smiling. She sets her coffee aside and looks at us expectantly. "So... how can I help you?"
I look to Deborah to put in her nickel's worth. “Well, Mrs. Paige,” Deborah says, “I’ve lived in Cutter’s Grove all my life. Last year when that lovely young girl, Anne Marie Alvarro, went missing it was just about the most tragic thing that’s ever occurred there in my memory. After it happened the sheriff’s department conducted interviews with practically everyone in town, myself included. When nothing came of the investigation we were all devastated, as you can imagine, it being such a small town and all.”
“Yes, I can certainly appreciate the affect something like that can have on a community,” Thelma commiserates.
“Well, in my case,” Deborah continues, “I had reason to be a little more disturbed by it than most. From my very earliest childhood I’ve had the ability to sense things from the auras I see around people.”
“Ah,” Thelma says, nodding knowingly.
“But my parents were worried or embarrassed by it and so it was kept a secret from everyone. No one in town knew I had this ability. And … well, I saw Anne Marie that day she disappeared. Just before it happened actually. Her aura was nearly black. I just knew something horrible was going to happen to her, but I said nothing.”
“And you blame yourself for what occurred,” Thelma says.
“Somewhat, yes.”
“And what has happened now that has involved Mr. Tunney?”
“I met Lucas quite by accident not long ago. When I saw him his aura was exactly the same as Anne Marie’s was that day. I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I had to say something to him.”
“And?”
I take over. “Deborah warned me that something dire was about to happen to me. Her exact words were, ‘death is all around you.’ At first, to be honest, I thought she had a screw loose. Then I happened to meet Paco Alvarro and his wife. They showed me a picture of their missing daughter. I was … surprised is too modest a term for it - astounded, blown away, overwhelmed don’t even do it justice - when I realized the picture I was looking at was that of a girl I had seen in the desert several weeks earlier.”
“You saw Anne Marie in the desert?” Thelma asks, wide-eyed.
“Not exactly, Mrs. Paige.” I’m getting a little uncomfortable with the retelling of this but I blunder ahead anyway. “What I saw was a vision of the girl. It looked like … she was a … ghost.” By the time I finish this last sentence I’m speaking barely above a whisper.
Thelma looks at me for several moments without speaking. “Well,” she says finally, her gaze shifting off to the front door as she licks her lips nervously. She looks like she’s wondering how she can get us out of her house without causing damage to the furniture.
I stumble on again. “At that point I was trying to convince myself that what I had seen was just a figment of my imagination. I’d been driving for over nineteen hours when it happened, I was stressed out from a personal situation, I had bumped my head, and … Anyway, after seeing Anne Marie’s picture I realized there was much more to this than a simple hallucination. I had seen something that made no sense to me but clearly it hadn’t just been my imagination. It was then that I started thinking about what Deborah had said to me. I decided to confide in her and I told her everything that had occurred in the desert. She believed me but we knew we’d come off sounding like lunatics if we went to the police with it. Deborah remembered you had been involved in the police inves
tigation of Anne Marie’s disappearance and that’s when we decided to look you up.”
Thelma purses her lips. “Forgive me for asking this Mr. Tunney, but have you been under any kind of medication? Have you ever suffered from delusions---”
“Mrs. Paige, I’m not crazy. I know it must sound like I am but I assure you I’m as sane as anyone in this room.” On reflection I start to wonder about whether that’s much of a qualification.
“Please, Mr. Tunney … Lucas, don’t be offended. I had to ask, that’s all. Actually, it’s far from the strangest story I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s a relief, I suppose,” I say.
“But what is it you expect from me?” Thelma asks.
“We were hoping,” Deborah says, “that you might share with us what you felt about the case when you were brought in on it. I’d heard that you had some very specific feelings about it at the time.”
“Well, yes I had but, as it turned out, the sheriff’s department wasn’t able to come up with anything at all from what I was sensing about Anne Marie’s disappearance. The truth is Sergeant Yates was, to say the least, highly skeptical that I would be of any help with the investigation. I believe he felt pressured into contacting me when Mrs. Alvarro read about me. She’s a very staunch Roman Catholic you know and so, apparently, was Anne Marie. Mrs. Alvarro believes that if Anne Marie is dead, her soul will never be at rest until she’s found and buried in consecrated ground. ”
“Considering what’s happened to me now,” I say, “isn’t it possible that what you felt might have more validity?”
“Perhaps,” Thelma says thoughtfully. “You must understand, however, that my gift is far from an exact science. I don’t even have a name for it. All I can tell you is that sometimes I get strong impressions from crime scenes or objects associated with victims of violent crime, bits and pieces of information thrown at me in flashes. It’s like I’m standing in a completely dark room and, for a fraction of a second, the lights are turned on. I haven’t really seen anything specific but there’s an impression left on my mind of what was there, or what has happened.”
“It’s not like you see a killer’s face in your mind,” Deborah confirms.
“No, it’s never that specific,” Thelma responds. “My husband and I just moved to Indio last year, after he retired. Prior to that we lived in Los Angeles and I consulted on several dozen homicides and missing children cases for the LAPD. Often what I was able to do was provide the police with some seemingly inconsequential bit of information about a killer that eventually allowed them to identify a suspect. Sometimes it was a certain facial or physical characteristic, a description of an item of clothing, frequently the general location of a body, that kind of thing.”
“And what was it that you felt in Anne Marie’s case?” I ask.
“In her case there were several things that made an impression on me, but nothing specific enough to be of any help to the police I’m afraid. I had a strong sense that the girl was dead and that her body was not far from where she had lived. I also sensed a large man had an involvement with her death. Also of men coming together for some business purpose, that money was exchanged. The number six was prominent in my mind. The only other thing that came to me was a diamond shaped decoration, maybe a pendant, or something of that kind.”
The three of us are silent for several moments, digesting what Thelma has said. Her words have stirred something in my subconscious mind but I’m unable to put my finger on anything specific.
“Well,” I say, “you’ve been very kind to put up with our questions, Mrs. Paige. I think we’ve taken up enough of your time.”
We stand to leave and Thelma shakes hands with us both. “Please feel free to call me if you think I can be of any more help to you,” she says, and shows us to the door. “And please … be careful.”
Outside, Deborah looks at me and touches my arm. “Something happened in there,” she says. “When Mrs. Paige told us about what she sensed you looked like you’d seen another ghost.”
“No, nothing so dramatic,” I say. “But you’re right, something she said did seem to stir up a memory of some kind.”
The more I try to zero in on it, however, the more elusive it becomes.
13
An unremarkable week goes by. Beth and I see each other a couple of times, Victor becomes a permanent fixture, and I find myself settling further in to the pace of existence in this sleepy little town that I am somewhat surprisingly coming to think of as home.
Deborah and I have spoken on the phone nearly every day and despite her urgings that I rack my brain for a clue as to what had so affected me during our meeting with Thelma Paige, I’ve drawn a blank. Although something continues to niggle away at the farthest reaches of my consciousness, teasing me relentlessly, the details simply won’t crystallize enough for me to put it together. If I try to focus on what it might be that triggers these feelings of discomfiture I’m experiencing, I immediately zone out. It’s only when I’m least committed to the problem - when my mind is completely occupied with other things - that the answer almost appears. It is, to vastly understate the situation, bloody frustrating.
Work at the garage occupies me for an average of three or four hours a day. The rest of the time, when I'm not with Beth, I’m reading novels, tinkering with the Jeep, or killing time with Victor.
I’ve thought a lot about the notion of life after death, about what it really means to die. The concept of a God has been on my mind more in the last few weeks than in the combined total of my life before the desert thing happened.
Is it really possible that I’ve witnessed the presence of an honest-to-God ghost? And if I have, what was this ghost trying to tell me, if anything? What quirk of fate has brought me to this place and involved me in this bizarre adventure? And how will my collision with the world of the supernatural - if that is in fact what it was - be resolved?
Even more critical: is there a child-killer living amongst the inhabitants of this remote little burg? And, if so, who is he?
Again, I’m overwhelmed with questions and underwhelmed with answers.
These cogitations are most likely unanswerable, I decide, but they dog my thoughts continually nonetheless.
One positive aspect of these mind-occupying dilemmas is that I’ve hardly given Karen, or the life I left in Seattle, a cogent thought in weeks.
****
Before I know it, poker night has rolled around again. This time, I resolve that concentration will be the order of the night. Nothing will alter the rugged determination of my will. My mind is a steel trap - impenetrable, impregnable, invincible.
As Sonny and I walk down Main Street in the direction of the hotel, we pass the diner and I catch sight of Beth serving a table. I’m reminded of the many delights of her magnificent body. Suddenly all of the aforementioned mind qualities vanish like a rabbit in a magic act.
I figure if I can keep my losses to under a hundred I’ll be ahead of the game.
All the usual players are on hand for the night of gambling. When I enter the hotel room behind Sonny I see there’s already a heady pall of smoke hanging in the air.
The custom is for everyone to congregate around the bar for a drink and some banter before getting down to the business of poker. Every one of these guys considers it unlucky to break with tradition. There are, after all, none so superstitious as speculators of chance.
We maintain the custom as called for but there is no dallying beyond the accepted norm. Herb, the big winner last time out, downs his third double scotch in two serious gulps. “Let’s get at 'er,” he says. “We’re here to play poker, not jaw.”
Nobody argues and we take our places around the table. Herb breaks out a new pack of cards.
I watch as his chubby hands expertly fan and shuffle the deck. This is followed by a flurry of dealing and, like magic, the cards begin to pile up in front of each player.
Then it hits me.
There are six of us at this
table. We’re all what most people - certainly most women - would call big men. To some degree we’re all businessmen. We’re here to exchange money. And the cards are adorned with the customized figure of a diamond.
I swallow hard. Twice.
The truth seems inescapable.
Somebody at this table killed Anne Marie Alvarro.
14
For several minutes I’m too stunned by my sudden revelation to think straight. I struggle through several rounds of cards with my mind in a stupor. I begin coming to my senses when it dawns on me I’ve just folded a hand of seven-card stud with three kings in the hole. The last time I was dealt a hand like that there was a peanut farmer sitting in the Oval Office and the poker pot was comprised of Halloween treats.
The rest of the night is torture for me. All I want to do is get out of here. I keep looking around at the other players, wondering which of them has it in them to murder an innocent child. I study each of them in turn, analyzing their movements, focusing on their facial expressions. I scrutinize every aspect of their body language and speech patterns. I look for telltale signs of nervousness.
Is it Mel, the no-nonsense, in-charge guy with all the bucks who gets his way no matter what? Or Arliss? Maybe the handsome face and laid back attitude is a facade to mask a murderous rage that churns inside him. Or Paco, hot blooded Mexican, unable to control his violent urges? How about Herb? It doesn’t take too much of an imagination to see him as an out of control maniac. Then there's Sonny. Well, that takes a little more imagination, of course, but appearances can be deceiving.
In the end, the only person I’ve ruled out as a suspect is me.
At quarter to twelve I’m broke, down almost two hundred. “That’s it for me, fellas,” I say. “I’m busted flat in Baton Rouge.”
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