That Voodoo That You Do
Page 19
“You need to talk to Zach,” she told Crystal. “Straighten things out.” She stepped closer to the other woman. “And there’s one more thing, Crystal, you can’t, under any circumstances let this get back to Luke. It would break his heart.”
Crystal looked at her strangely. “Would it? You’re awfully anxious to protect him.”
Jessie was uncomfortable with the other woman’s scrutiny. No doubt everyone could see she was in love with Luke. She wasn’t putting it into words. “I’m protecting his interests. They’re my interests, too. Don’t forget, we’re getting married.”
She’d meant the words to sound mercenary, but they unlocked something deep inside her.
Joy.
She was getting married to Luke.
She barely heard her buzzing cell phone.
“Your phone,” Crystal murmured. Jessie picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Jessie,” Mabel Ruth said, “can you come over to Maude’s?”
****
Mort’s face was as white as the bleached bones of a skeleton left too long in the desert. His left eye twitched noticeably as he eyed the briefcase on the floor. It contained a couple of million dollars. He longed to touch the money, fondle it, spend it.
He knew he wouldn’t get the chance.
How stupid he’d been. Of course there couldn’t be any witnesses. He deserved his fate.
“Your gun.”
He handed over his weapon. What else could he do? There was a loaded gun barrel not five feet away. He found himself staring at the face opposite him. It was ruthless, implacable, a face the public would never see. The face of a cold, calculating killer.
“Let’s take a walk.”
The words were uttered in a bland voice, but Mort felt the fire. Sweat poured out of him. His plastic glasses slid down his long nose and fell to the floor. He let them go. He wouldn’t need them.
Chapter Nineteen
Maude lived in a brownstone Victorian. Her kitchen, like Blanche’s, was big, square, and inefficient. An old-fashioned mangle iron filled one corner.
The ladies motioned for Jessie to join them at an oak farm table that was too big for the kitchen.
“Have some chamomile mint tea,” Maude urged. “You look a little stressed.”
“Thanks,” Jessie said, accepting the cup. She turned to Mabel Ruth. “Is there something going on?”
“Several things,” Maude said, vaguely.
“Let me tell her,” Millicent interrupted. There were two bright spots on her pale face. “Maudie took a nap a little while ago, and she had a visit from Blanche.”
Jessie nodded. She’d had the same sort of dream the other night. Right before Luke showed up, sinfully sexy in those unbuttoned jeans. Heat flashed through her. The chemistry between them had to mean something. She knew he didn’t love her but love didn’t always come at first sight. She thought he could be happy with her.
She was sure she could be happy with him.
“Jessie,” Mabel Ruth interrupted, “you seem a little flushed.”
Jessie found a smile. “Just the excitement of Christmas, and everything.”
“Here’s the thing of it,” Maude said, her blue eyes as round as saucers. “She told me she wasn’t murdered at all.”
“She?” Jessie had lost the thread of the conversation.
“Blanche, dear. No one killed her. She just went to sleep and didn’t wake up.”
That couldn’t be right. “But we’ve been so sure there was a murder.”
“There was a murder all right,” Mabel Ruth said, grimly. “Blanche told Maude that Letty’s food was doctored with peanut oil. Someone wanted her out of the way.”
“I still say it was Reverend Prendergast,” Millicent put in. “Letty probably discovered his liaison with Lois Epps.”
“Now, Mil,” Mabel Ruth said, looking down her nose at her friend, “the reverend may be a philanderer, but it wasn’t he who shot at Jessie last night.”
“So Aunt Blanche didn’t mention any names?”
“She was vague,” Maude confessed. “Spirits can be vague.”
“And bad spellers,” Millicent put in.
“Or perhaps I wasn’t concentrating,” Maude admitted. “It was just so nice to see dear Blanche.”
Jessie knew there were many who would discount information that came in a dream to an elderly lady, but she wasn’t one of them. Whether the dream was an actual visitation or the product of Maude’s experiences, Jessie thought it was legitimate.
“That’s all we learned from the dream,” Mabel Ruth corrected. “We have other information, too.”
Jessie felt a flicker of excitement. “What information?”
“Hattie Bexler called me this afternoon,” Millicent said. “She wanted to let me know my cod liver oil had come in.”
“It’s wonderful stuff,” Mabel Ruth put in.
“It cleans out the pipes,” Maude added. “If you know what I mean.” Jessie smiled.
“Anyway,” Millicent continued, “Hattie has chronic insomnia and it flares up in the winter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mabel Ruth took up the narrative. “When Hattie’s awake at night, she paces her upstairs hallway. She lives above the pharmacy.”
“So she has an excellent view of the Green,” Maude said.
“Now the point,” Mabel Ruth said. “Last night she saw someone.”
“Mister J. Mortimer Epps,” Millicent said, with a pleased smile. “Hattie says he suffers from insomnia, too, takes pills for it. When they don’t work, he walks around the town.”
“What time was this?”
“Eleven fifteen,” Mabel Ruth said. “Right around the time you and Lucas were in the church.”
“I remember checking my watch just before we left the house,” Jessie said. “It was a bit after eleven. We must have been there ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Could Mister Epps have shot at Jessie and then hurried out onto the Green?” Maude asked.
Jessie wondered. Epps’s “alibi” depended on the accuracy of Hattie Bexler’s observation, but there was a little leeway timewise. But wouldn’t the mortician have stuck around to see if anyone else came to check out the coffin? Would he have squeezed off a shot and then paced the streets of the small town?
Maybe. If he needed an alibi. But how could he be sure Hattie or anyone else would see him at that time of night?
“If it wasn’t Epps,” she said, slowly, “and it wasn’t Prendergast whose footsteps I heard, who was it?”
No one spoke. All three elderly faces looked tired, wilted. Oh no. The suspect was a friend. All at once she knew.
“There’s a short list of people who had access to the church and mortuary,” she said, slowly. “If we can account for the whereabouts of Dennis Prendergast, Mortimer Epps and Lois Epps that leaves only one person.”
Maude’s sigh was shaky. “Poor Eleanor.”
“She never has had any luck,” Millicent added.
“Save your sympathy, girls,” Mabel Ruth said, bracingly. “If she didn’t murder Letty she doesn’t need it. And if she did kill her, she doesn’t deserve it.”
Sensible words, Jessie thought, but they ignored the strings of friendship.
“If Eleanor Prendergast was the shooter,” Jessie said, slowly, “she must be involved in the corpse looting.”
“I imagine so,” Mabel Ruth said, heavily. “She lives next to the mortuary, and well, her late father was an undertaker.”
It occurred to Jessie that she’d been a little distracted. She should have found out the background on everyone involved in this business.
“We can’t let her hurt anyone else,” Jessie said, suddenly. “Let’s call Chief Smith.”
“We tried. His phone is turned off,” Mabel Ruth explained. “And Edna’s not answering at the house.”
“I imagine she’s at church by now,” Millicent pointed out. “It’s nearly time for the pageant to start.”
Jessie looked her question.
“Eleanor reads the Christmas Story,” Mabel Ruth explained. “She and Francine co-chair the Pageant Committee.”
Jessie wondered if it was the first time in history a Christmas Pageant co-chair had murdered someone. She suspected not.
“We need to get over there,” Jessie said, jumping up. “We may need the element of surprise to catch her.”
The social hall at St. Michael’s looked like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. People buzzed here and there, greeting neighbors, trading holiday wishes, stuffing their children into costumes, and setting up the cookies for the post-pageant reception.
Jessie waded through the crowd and up the stairs. The sanctuary was already filling up. She saw her family, including Kit and Crystal, sitting near the front on the right side. Eleanor Prendergast, wearing an ill-fitting gray suit, sat quietly near the lectern. The pulpit was empty. Zach leaned against the wall in the narthex. He never took his eyes off Francine who was working as a troubleshooter, soothing hurt feelings, creating angel costumes out of shepherd’s garb, and lining children up for the processional down the aisle.
The redhead looked as if she might drop. Jessie figured there was nothing she could do about Eleanor Prendergast at the moment. They didn’t have any proof, and she couldn’t exactly make a citizen’s arrest. She studied her pregnant friend. And then she looked at Zach’s glowering face. Had Crystal had a chance to talk with them? The least Jessie could do was help out now. She crossed the room to Francine. “Need some help?”
“Lord, yes.” Francie’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Eleanor usually helps with this part but she got here late and she’s had to take her place at the lectern.”
Jessie wondered where the pastor’s wife had been. And where was Prendergast himself? Dead in an alley?
“Where’s the reverend?”
“I believe he’s in his office getting robed,” Francie said. She seemed a little distracted, too. “Are you okay?”
Francie grimaced. “Zach and his mother and father are watching me like hawks. He must have told them about the baby.”
She opened her mouth, but the redhead interrupted.
“Listen, could you put on that hooded bathrobe? The Sanderson’s golden retriever, Bosco, is supposed to play Rudolph.”
Jessie glanced at the big yellow dog with a pair of felt antlers on his head. He grinned at her.
“Bosco’s pretty well behaved, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
The assignment was perfect. She’d have a legitimate excuse to go right up to the front. She could keep a close eye on Eleanor. If the woman was innocent, well, no harm done. If she was a killer, Jessie would make sure she didn’t hurt anyone else.
****
“Damn.”
Dennis scrambled out from under the toasty comforter. Why hadn’t Ellie wakened him? He felt groggy and slow and now he’d have to rush. He hated to rush.
He pulled on his gray wool slacks, shouldered into a fresh white shirt, buttoned it, clumsily, then tried to knot the Christmas tie she’d left for him. It was mauve and cream with Christmas tree outlines fitted together like an Escher puzzle. Very tasteful. He glanced at his Rolex. The pageant was set to start in twenty minutes. She must have left a good hour earlier.
Dennis barely had time to style his hair, grab his topcoat and his new phone, and hurry out the back door. Thank God he only had to cross the parking lot.
He noticed Eleanor had left her seven-year-old sedan in the driveway. She always parked next to his late model BMW. She must have been in a helluva hurry.
Maybe she’d fallen asleep, too.
He glanced into the backseat window on his way past. Then he stopped and took a second look. He grinned at the box constructed of carbon fiber and aluminum. A Henk. It was the Rolls Royce of suitcases and something he’d mentioned he’d wanted. So that was his real present. Dear Ellie. She knew he’d missed out on gifts as the son of a parsimonious pastor. She always came through with good presents, but this year she’d outdone herself. He patted the pocket that held the light-as-a-feather cell phone.
He was late enough that the social hall had virtually emptied. He slipped past it and up the stairs to his office. Someone, probably Ellie, had unlocked the door for him. All he had to do was climb into his robe and stole. If he forgot about Mort Epps, he could really enjoy this Christmas Eve.
Dennis hung up his coat, replaced his sweater with a robe, and had just started to work the zipper when he heard someone clear their throat. His pulse jumped, and he clamped down on the cry that made its way up to his throat. Mort.
The head that appeared over the top of the sofa facing away from him, however, was female.
“Hello, lover,” she said.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he exhaled. “You scared me to death.”
Lois pulled the cord of a small lamp. The light allowed him to get a good look at her. The dress was Christmas red, and it barely covered her nipples. Her breasts mounded like foothills in the Appalachian mountain chain.
“Jesus,” he breathed again. He felt the blood rush to his groin, felt the rush of need. He was barely aware of a leather briefcase in Lois’s hand.
“Mort told me to come and give you this,” she said.
The money. Hall-le-lu-jah.
Lois set the case down and moved closer. He could see a faint sheen of sweat between her breasts. The flesh quivered under his gaze. He tried to be sensible.
“There isn’t time.”
She smoothed her hand over the rock hard flesh beneath his zipper.
“Feels like we’d better make time.”
She was right. He could barely remain standing.
He let her push him onto the sofa and unfasten his pants.
Lois was good. It took less than a minute. Still breathing hard, he tucked himself back into his pants and got to his feet. He zipped his robe and pulled the satin stole over his head.
“How’s my hair?”
She smoothed the strands with the fingers of one hand. He watched her breasts expand as she breathed. He felt himself expand, too.
“Damn.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m hard.”
“What’d you have for lunch, sugar? A Viagra sandwich?”
“Very funny.” He placed her hand against him.
It took a little longer this time. He gathered himself for the climax that would bring him relief when he heard the organ swell. He frowned.
They’d started without him?
“What’s that?”
“A hymn,” he said. Her hands kneaded his erection. “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” She giggled and paused.
Dennis was out of patience. “C’mon. I’ve got to get down there.”
Minutes later he zipped up and dashed for the door only to make two dismaying discoveries.
The door was locked from the outside.
And he was hard. Again.
There was no way he could go downstairs even if he could get the door opened. He couldn’t even call for help. Sweat began to roll down his face.
“Hey, sugar,” Lois said, “does it seem like it’s getting hot in here?”
****
They found nothing at the mortuary. The place looked the same, peaceful, if funereal, but empty. A search of the office revealed most of the files missing. An electronic search told Luke the computer memory had been erased.
Someone had known they were coming.
“We’re too late,” Ezra said, heavily. “He’s skipped.”
“Maybe.”
Luke stepped out of the office and into the hallway. The place felt empty. His footsteps echoed as he paced the corridor. This time he didn’t go into the unmarked door. This time his sixth sense took him in another direction.
He went into the crematory.
The pile of
ash in the oven was still warm. Whose ashes? A client? Or was the answer more sinister? Luke flipped on the lights and looked around the room. There was something over there, behind the equipment. Chief Smith poked his head in the room.
“Find anything?”
Luke pulled a rubber glove out of a box and put it on and picked up the object. He’d been slow on the uptake, distracted. He held up the plastic-rimmed glasses.
“Those look like Mort’s,” Ezra said.
“They are,” Luke replied. He nodded at the pile of ashes. “We’ve been after the wrong person.”
“Who’s the right person?” Ezra’s intelligent eyes met his.
“The last person to see Letty alive. Eleanor Prendergast.”
Ezra stared at him then shook his head. “Hell,” he muttered. “Never underestimate the fury of a woman scorned.”
The pieces of the puzzle clicked together in Luke’s mind. “The murders and the corpse-looting, they are only the first part of her plan,” he said. “The coup-de-gras has got to involve Prendergast. My guess is she’ll kill him tonight.”
Ezra was already moving. “We’ll pick her up over at the church, but we’ll have to go slow. Everyone in town will be there.”
Everyone in town. That meant the Maynards and Crystal and Jessie. Luke set his jaw. Eleanor Prendergast was a loose cannon. A premonition made him shiver. The pastor’s wife had set everything up for tonight when she’d have a stage and a captive audience. What if her grand finale included fireworks?
He couldn’t let that happen. The two men sprinted toward the church.
****
Jessie proceeded up the aisle with Bosco and a bevy of small boys dressed in bathrobes while the congregation sang, “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night.” When the music stopped, Jessie stood near the stable. She estimated she was five to eight feet away from Eleanor Prendergast. The pastor’s wife stood at the lectern waiting to read her next line.
“And, lo, an angel of the Lord stood before them and they were terrified.”
From underneath her hood, Jessie scanned the congregation. Where was Luke? She wished she could warn him, wished she hadn’t acted like a petulant child earlier. She glanced at the plywood stable and memories surged.