Death Opens a Window

by Mikel J. Wilson

  Jeff popped out of his chair and grabbed Emory by the arm. “We’ll be in touch, Frank.”

  Emory followed Jeff out of the office. “What’s the rush?”

  “No rush. I just want to get back to Peter West before I lose the urge to punch him in the face for lying to us.”

  “Well you’ll just have to control yourself. I have more questions for Frank.” Emory took a single step before Jeff grabbed him again. “Let go of me.”

  “Another reason we should leave.” Jeff nodded toward Wayne, sauntering through the main entrance.

  Chapter 15

  Emory and Jeff meandered through Cleeson’s department store until they found Peter West, his left arm laden with dresses. He stopped re-racking the clothes when he saw the PIs and groaned. “What do you want? You’re going to get me fired.”

  Jeff placed his forearms on top of the clothes rack and stared him down. “You weren’t honest with us, Peter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Emory answered for him. “You said you never met Corey Melton.”

  Peter continued with his task. “I knew you would jump to conclusions if I told you. I talked to him. I didn’t kill him.”

  Jeff huffed at his response. “You did more than talk to him. You did everything short of punching him and probably would’ve done that had you not been forcibly removed.”

  Peter stopped what he was doing. “Did you know there was another piece of land they were looking at? I was trying to get him to change his mind and go with that one. There were no houses on it, so it seemed like a no-brainer to me. Not to Corey Melton. He said our properties had better wind and that the… what did he call it… investing rate.”

  Emory asked, “Return on investment?”

  “That’s it! The return of investment would be higher for mine and my neighbors’ land. I told him I didn’t give a damn about that and he should be more concerned with the people he was kicking off their land.”

  “How did you find out about this other land they were looking at?”

  “Someone at the TVA actually returned one of my calls. I don’t remember his name, but he told me that he suggested the other property and Corey ignored him.”

  Jeff took the remaining clothes from Peter’s arm and slung them over the top of the rack. “What’s his name?”

  “I told you I don’t remember. I was calling every number I could find on their website.”

  “Does Frank Belcher sound familiar?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe it—” Peter West was interrupted by an approaching ruckus.

  From the men’s department, Mr. Hall, Peter’s manager, pointed in their direction. “That’s him over there.”

  Jeff turned to Emory. “Well this sucks.”

  From Mr. Hall’s side rushed two TBI special agents. Wayne Buckwald brandished handcuffs for the sales associate and a sneer for the PIs. “Peter West?”

  “Yes. What—”

  “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Corey Melton.”

  “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t!”

  While Wayne cuffed the suspect and recited the Miranda rights, Emory questioned the special agent’s new partner, Steve Linders. “How did he do it?”

  Steve drew open his taut lips to release his baritone voice. “We haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “Okay. We know he had motive, but if you don’t have means or opportunity, why are you arresting him?”

  “Actually, we have—”

  “Linders!” Wayne pushed Peter toward the exit while his eyes fixed on his partner. “Don’t help them out.”

  As his employee was being escorted away, Mr. Hall had some parting words for him. “You’re fired, Mr. West.”

  Now alone with his partner, Jeff asked the question he knew was on Emory’s mind. “Do they know something we don’t?”

  After dinner by himself at a local restaurant, Emory opened the door to his apartment and at once was struck by a chill that shivered the back of his neck. Why is it so cold in here?

  He could hear wind whistling through the open window near the kitchen and the familiar tapping of the ceramic cherub that hung from the pane. He flicked the light switch with one hand, and with the other, he pulled the silver and black M1911 pistol from his shoulder holster.

  Toe-to-heel, he crept around the bar that half-walled the kitchen. He paused to take a breath before swooping into the kitchen. He aimed his gun at the bare linoleum floor, where he expected to find a crouched intruder. Nothing there. He tilted around and verified that the window was indeed open. I know I didn’t do that. I haven’t opened that window since September.

  Emory scanned the adjacent living room, but he didn’t notice anything that seemed out of place. He eyed the closed door to the apartment’s lone bathroom. Did I shut that?

  With his back against the wall, he twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. He peeked inside before jerking his head back. Nothing inside at first glance. He threw himself into the doorway. With his pistol before him, he turned on the light and inspected the bathroom. Nothing, confirmed.

  Returning to the living room, his gaze fixed on the door to the only room left – his bedroom. He followed the same procedure to open that door before stepping inside. Light from the street lamps and the neighboring apartment building outlined the bed and nightstand but nothing more. His hand slid up the wall to the light switch. Nothing in the bedroom either.

  As his shoulders dropped an inch, Emory relaxed his breathing and his grip on the gun, lowering it to his side. Nothing’s missing. No one’s here. I’m three stories up. How did my window get opened? Should I look under the bed? No, it’s five inches off the floor. He dropped to his hands and knees. What the hell. He peered under the bed with even the down-quilted comforter tucked into precise hotel corners, and again he found nothing. I watch way too many horror movies. I knew no one could possibly fit under there, but I look anyway?

  Working his way back to his feet, Emory found himself staring at the closed closet door. I guess I might as well check that too. He raised his gun again and threw open the door.

  Whatever he expected or even feared to see did not come close to what his eyes actually beheld. A hideous face grinned at him! It lacked contour and was paper white with red-outlined circular eye holes and a super-elongated red smile that zigzagged from one ear to the other – if there had been ears to see.

  The CURSE!

  Emory froze, body and mind. The man in the ski mask knocked the gun from his hand and shoved him out of the way.

  The intruder darted to the bedroom door and out of sight.

  Wait! I recognize that mask! Emory pursued the ski mask man into the living room and lunged for him, tackling him to the floor.

  The man locked his lean but strong legs around Emory and twisted their bodies in such a way that he was now on his knees, straddling the PI. He punched Emory once and again, just enough to daze him. He planted his hands on the floor and kicked his legs up in the air so he was in a brief handstand before flipping his feet to ground. Now standing, he bolted for the open window.

  Emory pursued and grabbed the intruder’s arm. The man reached behind himself to grip Emory’s shoulder for leverage, walked on the wall and flipped over the PI. Now standing behind Emory, the man hurled the PI over the couch before jumping out the window.

  “Oh my god!” Emory rushed to the window. Instead of seeing a body on the sidewalk, he watched the intruder making his way to the ground by swinging from window sill to window sill.

  The PI raced to the door, down the stairs and out to the street to chase the intruder. He looked to his left and to his right, but he didn’t see the man in the ski mask – or anyone else.

  He ran down the street to his left, scanning for any movement. Nothing. He raced the other way and looked again with the same result.

  “Damn!”

  As Emory retreated to his apartment building, the intruder in the ski mask watched him from the top of a stree
t lamp.

  Chapter 16

  While showering the morning after the break-in, Emory couldn’t push the intruder out of his mind. I know that was the same man I saw watching my apartment a few weeks ago, the day I lost my job. The one who slipped that postcard under my door. What did the card say again? Who bears the iniquity of the son? What the hell does that mean? And how did he get that picture of me at Crescent Lake when I was a kid? I don’t even have that picture. It burned with everything else. Why was he in my apartment? He didn’t take anything, as far as I can tell. It just doesn’t make sense.

  Emory stepped out of the shower, and the steam followed him out like a vaporous shadow seeking a surface on which to form. As he patted himself dry, something on the mirror caught his attention. Revealed by the mist were words that made him gasp: “For these be the days of vengeance.”

  Emory dropped his towel. “Oh my god.”

  As Emory bustled down the sidewalk, he cradled his phone to his ear, waiting for Virginia to answer. Voicemail. “Hi Virginia. I’m going to be a little late getting into the office. If you can avoid it, don’t tell Jeff.”

  He hung up the phone and came to a stop outside the door to “Miss Luann, Clairvoyant.” He checked both ways to make certain he wasn’t spotted before pushing open the door.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his first sensation was the scent of heated tea tree oil. Smells more like a spa than a gypsy’s lair. He could make out a high-top table and framed photos on the wall but little else. What the hell am I doing here? This woman’s going to tell me anything I want to hear while she’s picking my pocket. Probably why she keeps it so dark in here. He placed a hand over his back pocket to make sure his wallet was still there.

  “Hello?”

  Through a black – or at least it looked black – door sauntered a short woman with hair in a spray-shellacked updo. Wearing a pantsuit of indistinguishable color, she greeted him in drawled Southern style. “Hello there. How are you?”

  She looks like a Sunday school teacher. “Good. Are you Miss Luann?”

  “I am. What can I do for you?”

  Embarrassed at saying the words, Emory hemmed and hawed for a couple of seconds before spitting them out. “I think someone cursed me, and I need you to remove it.”

  A gremlin-like giggle burst forth from Miss Luann. “Honey, I doubt that very much. It’s very difficult to cast an actual curse. What makes you think that?”

  “For one, she told me she was cursing me. For another, I’ve had a string of bad luck since then. I’ve had a couple of close calls – almost dying in a car crash and fighting off an intruder in my home.”

  Miss Luann cupped her mouth to cover a gasp. “Oh dear!”

  “I lost my job and had to take one I didn’t want. Of course, that was before the curse, so I can’t blame it for that.”

  “That sounds awful, but sometimes bad luck is just bad luck.”

  “Wow. You know, you’re not what I expected. I’ve never been to a fortune teller before, but I imagine most of them don’t try to talk potential clients out of spending money.”

  A gracious, preacher’s-wife laugh slipped from Miss Luann’s reserved lips. “Sweetie, I’m a nice person, but call me a fortune teller again, and I’ll curse you myself.”

  Emory could feel his face flush. “Sorry.”

  “I’m clairvoyant. I’m sensitive to the spiritual realm, and sometimes it sends a little knowledge my way if I ask nicely. As for the money, if I took it from you when you didn’t need me, you wouldn’t come back when you really do need me.”

  “Pragmatic. So I haven’t been cursed?”

  “As I said, it’s very difficult. You’d need the blood of the one being cursed…” Miss Luann’s attention focused on Emory’s hand. “Is that a scratch?”

  Emory displayed the four parallel cuts on the back of his hand. “She clawed me before she supposedly cursed me. I feel so stupid saying it now.”

  Miss Luann’s face hardened, and the lilt in her voice vanished. “I think you’ve been cursed.”

  “What? You just said—”

  “That was before I knew she drew blood. Come on back. Let me check on you.” She led him to the small, darkened room on the other side of the black door. Several comfortable-looking chairs encircled the space, and a TV hung from one wall. Miss Luann turned off the talk show she was watching and sat in one of the chairs while motioning Emory to take the one beside her. “Before we get started, let’s get the ugly business out of the way. Fifty dollars. Cash if you have it.”

  “I think I do.” Emory handed her three twenties from his wallet, and kept his hand out, expecting change.

  Instead, she pocketed the money. “Trust me, you’ll want to tip me.”

  “You see that, do you?”

  She shook her head. “Experience.” She pumped a dab of clear liquid from a bottle on the floor and rubbed it into her hands.

  “Is that some kind of oil to help you get a reading?”

  “It’s hand sanitizer.” Miss Luann extended her palms toward him. “Place your hands in mine.” Once Emory complied, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back as if straining to hear something behind her. She started to hum – nothing melodic, just varying in decibels. The humming turned to whispers, “Allow me entry. Allow me entry. Allow me entry.”

  Emory wanted to laugh but refrained. Here comes the crazy!

  Miss Luann screamed, causing Emory to jump. “He’s coming for you!”

  Emory jerked back in his seat, his eyelids leaping into his brows. “Who? Who’s coming for me?”

  “He’s found you! Run!” She hurled her shoulders forward as if she had just been punched in the gut. When she again lifted her face, tears trickled down her cheeks. She looked at him but without focus. “Too late. Too late.” She shook her head, and her trance was over.

  “What’s too late?”

  “I… I can’t say.”

  “Is it the curse? Can you get rid of it?”

  “I’m sorry.” Miss Luann wiped her eyes. “I didn’t get a reading on that.”

  Emory threw up his hands. “Well then what the hell was all that?”

  Miss Luann looked as if she didn’t want to answer. “At times, I get flashes of the future, but I don’t like to share them because people dwell on them instead of living in the now.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I can’t tell you right now. I need time to understand how I can help.”

  Frustrated, Emory stood up. “Fine. What am I supposed to do about the curse?”

  “I tried to see about that, but sometimes I’m just not meant to see. I suggest going to the one who cursed you and getting her to remove it.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Emory frowned at her and walked toward the door. Waste of sixty dollars!

  Luann called to him before he left. “Emory, stay away from the woods!” It wasn’t until he was back on the sidewalk that he realized he had never mentioned his name.

  Emory dashed through the front door of Mourning Dove Investigations, trying to minimize his tardiness, if only by seconds. He found no one in the reception area but Virginia, who sat cross-legged on a mat before a pink rock.

  Opening her eyes, Virginia stretched her arms above her head and clasped her hands at her chest. “Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to meditate at home this morning, and I really need to prepare myself for today.”

  Emory nodded. “Corey’s funeral. Are you going to be okay?”

  “I have to be strong for Becky.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Emory dropped his wool satchel on his tiny desk. “What does meditation do exactly?”

  Virginia simpered at him. “You think it’s hokey, don’t you?”

  “No. I just don’t understand it.”

  “Well, it really works, so don’t dismiss it. After I got out of the Marines, I was constantly on edge. I couldn’t relax. Jeff’s the one who suggested I try meditation. Actually, his first suggestion was tequila.”
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  Emory grinned at the remark. “Of course, it was.” He sat at his desk and pulled his laptop from his wool satchel. “So do you meditate every morning?”

  “I center myself each day. It keeps my life in tune.” Virginia rose and rolled up her mat.

  “Don’t stop on my account.”

  “I was done.” She grabbed the pink rock and returned it to the table by her desk.

  “What’s the rock for?”

  “It’s not a rock. It’s a crystal. Pink tourmaline.”

  “Huh. Is it common to use a rock… a crystal when meditating?”

  “Both actually. It depends on what you’re seeking. Crystals and certain rocks have different properties, each helping with different needs. Pink tourmaline helps connect my heart chakra to the universal energy, invigorating compassion and opening me up to love.” She grinned. “I’m totally ready to meet someone.”

  Emory thought back to something that happened earlier in the week, and his eyes widened. “What would someone use to get over a phobia?”

  “I’m not sure. Let’s find out.” She sat at her desk and searched on the computer. “Looks like the best is rutilated quartz.”

  “Quartz. Is it translucent?”

  “Yes, in some of these pictures I’m seeing. In others, it’s almost clear like glass, except it has strands of brown filaments in it.”

  Emory came over to see the images. “That’s it! I need to go.”

  “What is it?” The intercom on Virginia’s phone buzzed. “Hang on.” She hit the speaker button. “What is it, Jeff?”

  “Was that Emory at the front door?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Rome. So nice of you to mosey on in to work. Could I see you in my office?”

  Emory displayed his displeasure at Jeff’s tone with an exaggerated frown. “I’ll be right in.” When he entered Jeff’s office, he found his partner looking in a wall-mounted mirror, fussing over his tie. “Wow, I’ve never seen you in a suit before.”

  Jeff untied the knot and started over. “For the funeral. By the way, I’m thinking of changing our hours of operation to open the office an hour later. Maybe that way you could get here on time.”