The plate, on Justin’s car, had an M in its center. It was blue. Exactly as Dr. Jewel had said.
Chapter Thirteen
JEWEL’S ASSISTANT STEPHANIE WAITED in the lobby of the Grand, talking to the owner’s daughter in an animated conversation that Cameryn guessed had to do with ghosts. Stephanie had changed into a camel-colored pantsuit, a designer outfit that pinched her waist and flared over her small hips. Gone were the chopstick hairpins. In their place was a single gold bar, like a Mayan ingot, and diamonds that sparkled from her lobes. When she saw Cameryn, Stephanie quickly excused herself and hurried to where Cameryn stood. Cameryn had called from the road.
“You’re sure this is an emergency?” was Stephanie’s greeting.
“Yes. Like I said, I’m working the case.” Cameryn tried to sound calm, but she was afraid Stephanie would be able to read the hammering of her heart. Lifting her chin, she said, “It’s important I talk to Dr. Jewel.”
“Personally, I would have said no, but Dr. Jewel is soft-hearted. We can’t take too long, though. Tight schedule and all. Follow me.”
As Stephanie began to walk through the lobby toward the stairs, her tone became more conversational. “I was just hearing stories about the Grand—did you know there are three spirits that haunt this place?”
Cameryn glanced at the ceiling above. “Three ghosts?”
“Yes, three. That girl behind the counter?”
“Diane—”
“Diane told me she hears them at night, creaking doors and slamming drawers. I explained to her she’s got to call out to the spirits, really loud, and tell them, ‘You’re dead. You need to pass on to the light.’ Sometimes the spirits get confused and don’t know where they are. You’ve got to let them know it’s okay to move on to the next dimension. That happened to your friend Rachel.”
“It did?”
“When she came to Dr. Jewel he explained to her that she’d passed on. Rachel had been caught halfway between this world and the next. Poor child didn’t know where she was. Shall we?” she said, sweeping her arm up the staircase. Nervous, Cameryn followed.
The worn, flowered carpeting was so padded it muffled every step, and Cameryn had always thought the gilded handrail, curved and golden, would have been more suited to an opera house. The Grand was a time capsule of a building—nothing had been changed much since Wyatt Earp left his bullet hole over the bar. The second floor had an old-fashioned lobby filled with backless couches. Each had been upholstered in wine-colored velvet dimpled with buttons, set in polite lines against three of the four walls. The lounges were relics from a bygone era, a time when ladies received visitors in a neutral space because they would never allow an unrelated male to enter their rooms.
She took in the striped wallpaper laced with faded, yellowed roses, and the windows from the late 1800s, made of glass as thin as rice paper. Although she worked in the restaurant, Cameryn had rarely been in the hotel side of the building.
“Diane said one of the ghosts that haunts this place is a doctor,” Stephanie went on. “The lady who hanged herself in room thirty-three is still here, too. They found her in the closet with a belt around her neck and the word ‘good-bye’ written in lipstick on the vanity mirror. Jewel’s been trying to contact her but he thinks she’s already passed into the light.”
Cameryn fought the urge to turn and run. Was she really buying into this craziness? And yet there were so many facts that couldn’t be explained. No, she had to see it through, no matter where it led. They stopped at room 23. Rapping her knuckle gently on the door, Stephanie announced, “We’re here, Dr. Jewel. It’s Stephanie. I’ve brought Cameryn Mahoney.”
A moment later the door swung open and Dr. Jewel ushered them inside, saying, “Yes, please come in. I’m afraid I’m in a terrible rush so I don’t have much time. We’ll have to talk in here.” He wore the same tunic he had worn earlier, but now he wore ankle boots with zippers on the side. He flashed a smile, but his eyes seemed guarded.
“Cameryn’s here to talk about the Christopher Killer,” Stephanie said. “Her father’s the coroner, remember? She said she had some questions.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, nodding, “of course. Have a seat, Cameryn. I’m afraid the accommodations are not the best, but these old hotels have a lot more spiritual energy than a plain old Hyatt. Please,” he said, pointing to a small sofa, “sit.”
Cameryn dropped into the love seat while Stephanie perched on the end of the bed. Jewel sat on an uncomfortable-looking chair that creaked beneath his weight. The man looked different up close. The skin on Jewel’s face was much more sallow than it had appeared at a distance, and there were bags beneath his eyes that had been undetectable under the show’s blazing lights. His sleek hair, scrupulously brushed for the camera, now appeared rougher, less sculpted, tumbling forward toward his chin. But his smile was still broad and the teeth had their same, unnatural whiteness.
“So, refresh my mind. Your father’s the coroner, and the two of you worked on Rachel’s remains, correct?”
“Yes. I work with my father as his assistant. I’m assistant to the coroner.”
Dr. Jewel looked impressed. “That’s extraordinary for a girl your age. Before we get to your questions I’d like to ask you about the crime scene. I’m curious, you see, to compare my impressions with the actual facts. Sort of a psychic check-up, if you will, to see how accurate my reading was.”
“You already know it was accurate. You ‘saw’ Rachel’s body and the Christopher medal. We found her just like you said.”
“My accuracy troubles you. And there’s so much more, isn’t there?”
Cameryn could sense Jewel’s excitement as he asked this—from the way he leaned toward her, his elbows drilling his knees, his chin resting on the bridge of his fingers, it seemed as though he could hardly contain himself. In a flash she realized his desire to pump her for information was probably the reason he’d agreed to see her. But she knew how dangerous it was to give out details, especially when the killer was still free. Shaking her head, she answered, “I’m sorry, Dr. Jewel, but it’s like I said when you were taping the show—I can’t talk to you about the details of the case.”
Dr. Jewel bent forward cozily. “I won’t tell anyone,” he told her softly.
“I’m…I’m sorry.”
The smile deflated. They stared at each other in silence until finally he broke it by saying, “Well, maybe as you learn to trust me you’ll change your mind. You are a very guarded person, Cameryn. I understand you’ve always been a bit of a skeptic.”
Cocking her head, Cameryn asked, “And you know this how?”
“Because Rachel’s telling me right now.”
Cameryn blinked. Goose bumps pricked her flesh. “She’s here?”
“Yes. As well as another female presence.” Dr. Jewel straightened himself and leaned into the back of the chair. “The second one’s a little girl. She’s standing to the side of you, your left side, actually, and she’s got her hand on your shoulder. Does this make sense to you?”
Instinctively, Cameryn whipped her head to the left, but saw nothing more than an old-fashioned lamp shade with a beaded fringe.
“She’s a little dark-haired girl, probably no more than three years of age. She’s wearing some sort of pink jump-suit. Do you understand this?” He slid easily into his Shadow of Death banter. “I’m listening,” he said.
“I don’t know about any little girl.”
“Doesn’t matter—she seems to know you.”
Cameryn shrugged, feeling silly about the conversation. “I don’t know what to say. Maybe she’s a friend of Rachel’s. Maybe they met on the other side.”
Dr. Jewel smiled tolerantly. “That’s not it. But, seeing as I don’t have much time, why don’t you tell me why you are here. I’m listening.”
Why was she here? Sitting on the sofa, under the gaze of Stephanie and Dr. Jewel, Cameryn began to wonder at the stupidity of her plan. Even as she prepared to articulate
her questions, she desperately wanted everything she was thinking to be wrong. The emotions fighting inside her were like waves, each one swelling up and replacing the tide that had come before: fear, condemnation, skepticism, doubt, attraction. The last emotion was the hardest for her to deal with, because Mammaw had been right: Cameryn hadn’t guarded her heart.
She pictured Justin with his blue-green eyes, the patient way he talked to her and his slow smile. It was impossible to plumb what being right would mean.
Out on the glider, when she’d talked with Justin, her thoughts seemed clear enough. One thing she hadn’t listed under characteristics of an organized killer was their choice of profession. Hadn’t the book said that organized offenders chose jobs that projected a “macho” image, like a police officer? The exact job Justin had.
The scratches teased her. They could have been caused by trimming branches, exactly as he claimed, but what if they were from Rachel? She pictured Rachel struggling, her fingernails clawing as she gasped for air, and the image made her shudder. At the autopsy they’d clipped Rachel’s nails and sent the little slivers to the lab. But the DNA results wouldn’t be back for weeks. In the meantime, what if Justin disappeared? Or worse, killed again?
And there was more: Justin lived in the East, where two of the murders had happened. Hadn’t he lived in Albany? And his trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains placed him close to Braxton, West Virginia. Worse still, a girl in Silverton died the week after he came to town. But it was the letter M that made all the pieces click together. Jewel had thrown that letter out at the reading, the very letter on Justin’s New York license plate.
The bigger part of her believed crime was solved by science, not mystics, and the science side of her laughed at her own naïveté. But hadn’t Jewel proven himself by knowing about Rachel’s dyed hair? And what about the hoop earrings? A real scientist followed the evidence, no matter what. If Dr. Jewel was genuine, she needed to follow the thread that led to Justin. No matter what the cost.
“Talk to me,” Jewel prompted.
“Um, you say Rachel’s here in this room?” Cameryn began. Her voice had a slight tremor, betraying her nervousness. She could feel her palms dampen with sweat, so she rubbed them against her knees as she watched Dr. Jewel watch her.
Sitting on the bed, Stephanie had crossed her legs; her foot, sheathed in a high-heel shoe, jiggled back and forth as though it had a life of its own. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve just got to ask the obvious. Why are you here, Cameryn? You don’t believe. Jewel has proven himself again and again, but still you doubt.” Her voice was impatient. “If he sees a little girl, you can count on a little girl here with some connection to you. If he says Rachel’s here, you can count on it. What’s it going to take for you to trust him?”
“I’m trying, okay?” Cameryn said. “This is all very new to me.”
Dr. Jewel stared at her, impassive. “Of course I understand your skepticism. It’s natural for a person raised in a rigid faith system. But believe this: I’m looking right at Rachel, at this very moment. She’s extending a teddy bear to you, which is her way of saying she gives you warmth and comfort from beyond.”
Cameryn pushed her hand toward Jewel as though she held up a stop sign. “Okay, ask her to tell me the name of her killer.”
Dr. Jewel rose from the chair. He went to the small wooden nightstand and picked up a glass already filled with water. A jar sat next to the water, and next to that sat a spoon, which he dipped into the jar labeled DMSO. After dumping the contents into the glass, he stirred the water vigorously. The cloud of white disappeared almost immediately. “For my stomach,” he apologized.
“Dr. Jewel is under too much stress,” Stephanie explained. “Speaking to the dead is hard work. No one appreciates the toll it takes on the man.”
“Now, to your question. I can’t give you a name. To put it simply, psychic energy isn’t as easy to read as, say, regular language we might speak.”
“People don’t understand about Dr. Jewel,” Stephanie said. “They think he just listens to the spirits while they talk in words. It’s not like that. The dead are trying to send impressions, and it can be like trying to read a newspaper underwater. Things get distorted. That’s why Dr. Jewel needs his cleansing period—”
“Cleansing period?” Cameryn asked.
“You don’t know much about his work, do you? Dr. Jewel goes away, by himself, with no human contact or food for twenty-four hours—not even water. During that time of deprivation he centers himself so he can hear the vibrations from the spirits. He had a cleansing period in Santa Fe before Rachel came to him. That’s why he could hear her so clearly.”
“Exactly,” agreed Jewel. He looked at Cameryn expectantly. Then, draining the glass, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “But even now I can read you, Cameryn. You’re wondering if the killer is someone from Silverton, aren’t you?” He set the glass down and then turned to her. “You’re afraid it’s someone you know, perhaps, someone you like. That thought is hard for you.”
Cameryn felt her heart jump as she formed the next question. “I want to ask you about the letter M. You mentioned that letter this morning and I…Can you…can you ask Rachel about that? Please, it’s very important.”
“She’s right here,” Jewel replied. “Ask her yourself.”
Cameryn shook her head. “Would you do it? Please?”
Sighing, Dr. Jewel said, “Very well. As I explained, Rachel has already heard the question. Spirits aren’t deaf, you know.” He squeezed his eyes shut, frowning for a moment in concentration. When he opened his eyes again, they had grown soft with appeal as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Rachel, I don’t understand.”
“What’s she saying?” Cameryn asked. Her nerves pulsated with energy.
“I can’t get her to acknowledge the letter M. She’s saying the little girl with her wants to come through. The little girl wants to speak to you, Cameryn.”
“I told you, I don’t know about any little girl! That’s not what I’m here for.”
“And I told you I can’t control what the spirits say. Rachel’s insisting on bringing the girl through.”
Cameryn’s eyes drifted once again to the nightstand, and as they did, something fell into place. A piece of information, one she’d forgotten she knew, now surfaced from her memory, like a fin breaking the surface of the water. And then there was a soft rapping on the door, and a female voice announced that the news crew was waiting downstairs in the main lobby. Instantly on her feet, Stephanie smoothed her hair and tugged her jacket while checking herself in the small vanity mirror.
“Well, that means our time’s up,” said Jewel. “I’m sorry it was so short. I hope I’ve been helpful.”
“You have,” Stephanie told him, before Cameryn could reply.
Dr. Jewel stopped in front of Cameryn, towering over her like a totem, his expression carved in wood. He took her arm and helped her to her feet. His hand felt dry and strong against her skin. Rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand, he said, “I understand how difficult it is to lose someone you care about, but remember, you needn’t fear death. There’s life beyond. Hold on to that. And don’t be afraid to believe. You can have faith and science, too.”
“I’ll remember,” Cameryn told him. “I think I understand a lot, now. Much more than before I came in.” Pulling her hand free, she said, “Good luck on your interview.”
The three of them stepped into the hallway; Dr. Jewel locked the door with his old-fashioned key that dangled from a large key ring. “I hope Rachel comes through when I’m on camera,” he said. “That’s what the newspeople want to see. The spirits can be so temperamental.”
“Are you going to walk down with us?” Stephanie asked. She had taken a comb from her purse and was fixing the doctor’s hair. He had to bend at the knees for her to reach the top of his head.
Cameryn answered, “No. I need to make a quick call. You two go on.”
“Good-bye, then,�
�� Dr. Jewel told her as he straightened. “I wish you the best in finding your murderer.”
Cameryn watched as Stephanie, precarious on her pencil-thin heels, and Dr. Jewel, moving with elegant posture, descended the winding stairs to the reporters below. When they were out of sight she checked to see if anyone else was around. The lobby was empty, with only the rubber plant nodding in the corner as a witness. Pulling her cell phone from her back pocket, she quickly punched in the sheriff’s number, her heart thumping so hard she could feel the beat in her ears.
After three rings she heard, “Hello?”
The voice on the other end didn’t belong to Sheriff Jacobs. Biting her lip, she said, “Hello, Justin? It’s me, Cameryn. I need Dr. Moore’s number. Fast.”
With a pen she wrote the number on her hand as Justin obediently recited it back to her. “What’s going on, Cameryn?” he asked. “What are you up to? You’re hyper-ventilating.”
“Nothing,” she lied. She slipped the pen back into her pocket and made one more sweep of the Grand. It was empty save for the fan spinning gently from the ceiling.
“Come on, give it up,” Justin said. “You were weird on the swing and now you’re acting even stranger. Something’s up,” he told her. “I can feel it.”
“I said it’s nothing.”
“And I’m saying you’re a bad liar. I just helped you with Moore’s number, so it’s only fair you keep me in the loop. What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure yet.” She hesitated. Her hands shook and she knew she was clutching the phone too hard. “I need to check something first. That’s why I’ve got to talk to Moore.”
“What thing?”
“Justin—I think…” She hesitated. It seemed strange to utter the phrase out loud, but this time, forensically, the pieces fit. She was no longer dependant on Jewel’s fantastic claims. Now she was back in the world of science. “If I’m right,” she blurted out, “swear to God, I may have just found Rachel’s killer.”
The Christopher Killer Page 16