New Title 1

by Carol Davis Luce

"I've just come from interviewing your neighbor, Thelma Klump. She makes brownies from scratch."

  "If you ate one, you may need a stomach pump." She glanced over at him. "Did she see anything?" "Unfortunately, no." Holmes walked around the room. He stopped before some sort of crude design spray-painted on the wall above the bed. With his hands clasped behind his back, he studied it. "Do you know anything about devil worship?"

  "I sat halfway through the Exorcist. That's about the extent of it.”

  "Then you wouldn't know if this was a satanic symbol?"

  "No," she said guardedly. "Would you?"

  "I've been involved in a few occult cases. In this town most of them are the result of mixed-up kids trying to make a statement. They have initiation rites, and sometimes they carve or tattoo satanic symbols into their flesh." With his hands in his pockets, he swung around to face her. "And then there's the real thing."

  "Would they do something like this?"

  "Yes. They feed on fear. Evoke power from the shock and terror of their victim.”

  "Do you think this case involves satanism?"

  Holmes turned back to the painted wall. He paused for an undetermined amount of time before saying, "No. Two reasons. There aren't enough symbols—these people want recognition. The second is the absence of a ritualistic killing. Cats and dogs make convenient sacrificial offerings.”'

  At the mention of cats, Alex thought of Winnie. Blackie had been acting strange since the day of the party. Did he know something?

  Margie walked in. She looked from Alex to Holmes. Without mincing words, she said to him, "Who are you?"

  "Margie Meacham, meet Detective Holmes," Alex said by way of an introduction. "He's come by to fill me in on all kinds of goodies. Blood writing. Satanical deeds. It seems the only thing we're missing is the slaughtered lamb."

  "Don't mind her," Margie said to Holmes. "She always gets sarcastic when she's scared.”

  Holmes smiled.

  "Is it okay to paint the walls?" Alex asked.

  "Sure. We have the pictures.” He scanned the room, gave the design a final look, then said, "I have to get back to the station." He stepped to the door, but turned around to face Alex. "If you haven't called the alarm system company, I suggest you do it today. With those two prison escapees still at large, their business is booming. You also might want to lock up after me.”' He went out the door.

  Margie closed the slider, lowered the latch. Staring off in the direction in which Holmes had gone, she said evenly. "I don't suppose you noticed that your detective has one crackerjack bod."

  Alex smiled as she rubbed at the mirror.

  Two hours later, after the kitchen window had been replaced, the locks changed on all the doors, the house put somewhat back in order, and Margie was on her way home, Alex flopped on the couch, rested her head on a throw pillow, and closed her eyes.

  So he had actually followed through on his threat, she thought. David Sloane had said she would be sorry. God, was she sorry. Sorry she'd ever laid eyes on the slimy bastard.

  She picked up the phone, dialed the number for Norday Investments, and, before she could lose her nerve, asked for David Sloane.

  "Mr. Sloane is out of town," the receptionist said. I don't doubt it, Alex thought bitterly. "When did he leave, do you know?"

  "He left yesterday morning.”

  Alex sat up straight. "Are you sure? Yesterday was Monday. You're sure he left in the morning?"

  "Who's calling, please?"

  "Uh . . . Mrs. Chambers. I had an appointment with him yesterday. We were to meet for lunch. He didn't show."

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Chambers. I'm sure he tried to get in touch with you to cancel. It was imperative that he and Mr. Norday be in Fort Worth for a conference."

  "Are you certain he left in the morning?"

  "Positive. I drove Mr. Sloane and Mr. Norday to the airport.”

  "But you didn't see them get on the plane?" Alex asked tightly.

  "Actually, I did. David—Mr. Sloane, that is —had left the Landon folder on the backseat of my car. I hand-delivered it as he was boarding the plane.”

  "I see."

  "He'll be back in the office tomorrow morning. May I take your number and have him return your call?"

  "No, that's all right. I'll call again." Alex hung up slowly. Damn, that certainly shot down her theory. The break-in had occurred sometime in the late afternoon, Monday. If David had left in the morning, there was no way he could have done it.

  The phone rang. Groaning, she lifted the receiver.

  "Hi, Mom, guess who?"

  Todd's voice sounded so close. Her stomach fluttered. Just hearing from him cheered her up.

  "How are you, honey? Where're you calling from?"

  "I'm fine. I'm at Dad’s place."

  "How is your father?"

  "I thought you could tell me."

  "What?"

  "Dad's not at home, so I figured he was there with you. He said something about flying in for some tax papers. Did he call you?"

  "No."

  "Then he's probably out sailing. So how've you been, Mom?"

  "Great, hon, just great," she lied. She had been tempted to tell him about the break-in, decided there was no point in upsetting him. He'd only worry "What tax papers did your father want? Is he being audited again?"

  "Yep. There's no slipping by those crafty computers."

  "What year."

  " 'Eighty-five."

  "I'll dig them out. Tell him to call me."

  "Mom, I know you just got rid of me, but is it okay if I come home for the weekend?"

  "This weekend?"

  "Yeah."

  "Honey, I'd love it. But why?"

  "A couple things. Homesick for one."

  "Tracey for the other," Alex answered for him. Tracey, a senior in high school, was Todd's girlfriend.

  "I promised to take her to some school dance. It'll only be for one night. Dad's paying for the flight."

  "You don't have to convince me. Come on home. I doubt I'll see much of you, what with your friends and all, but it'll be great having you here— even for a short time." They talked about Todd's school, the fraternity he had joined, the California weather, and Joe's obsession with Lexy, his sailboat. She ended the conversation without mentioning the break-in.

  The lower level of the house, where Todd's room, the guest room, and the study were located, was cool and dim. Alex found the tax papers and put them on the desk. She was about to leave the room when something about the desk top made her pause. She'd waxed the furniture in this room five days ago. In the left corner a narrow ribbon of polished wood gleamed through the fine layer of dust that had settled on the surface. What had been on the desk that wasn't there now? she wondered. Of course. The photograph. The framed eight-by-ten photograph that Todd had given to her as a birthday present four years ago was gone.

  She pulled open the desk drawers slowly. Pencils, pens, paper clips, all the usual paraphernalia of a desk lay inside . . . undisturbed.

  She collapsed into the swivel chair to think. The last time she'd been in this room was the night before — with the police. They were finishing up in the study when they were called upstairs. They had not returned. But no — she had come back into the room to get the papers on the gun for Holmes.

  She stood, walked to the file cabinet, and pulled out first one drawer, then another, until all five drawers were open. All was in order.

  Todd couldn't have taken it. It was here, on this desk, after he'd left home. It had to be somewhere in this room.

  She checked the bookshelves, the small closet and all the drawers large enough to hold the thick oak frame.

  It didn't make sense. She stood at the desk and, rubbing the tight muscles at the back of her neck, wondered if— and more mystifying — why someone would take it.

  A loud bang, like a sonic boom, shook the house. Alex jumped, spun around, knocking a dried-flower arrangement off the desk. Her heart held off a beat, then promptly
made up the lost beat by thumping a rapid tattoo in her chest.

  When the lawn mower sputtered into action, she exhaled slowly and silently cursed Hawkins. After taking the power mower out of the garage, the fool had just let the heavy door drop, shaking the house on its foundation.

  She picked up the vase and dried flowers, laid them on the desk, and moved around to the telephone. She dialed the police, asked for the detective division and then Sergeant Holmes.

  "Holmes speaking."

  "Sergeant, it's Alex Carlson.”

  "Yes, Mrs. Carlson."

  "I really feel foolish calling you about this, but you said if I found anything else missing . . ."

  "What's missing?"

  "A photograph." She cleared her throat nervously. "A framed eight-by-ten photograph from the study."

  "A photograph of what — or whom?"

  "Me. That is to say, the photograph was of me." Alex closed her eyes and, with her fingers, pinched the bridge of her nose.

  A long silence. What was he thinking?

  "Are you sure you didn't move it? Maybe you gave it to someone?"

  "I tore the room apart looking for it, every nook and cranny. Whoever broke in has also been in the study."

  "I wasn't aware of that.”

  "Well, that makes two of us. I didn't notice anything missing last night.”

  "You mentioned you had a son in college. Could he have taken the picture without your knowledge?"

  "No.”

  "Anything else missing from that room?"

  "I don't think so.”

  "Okay," he said. "I'll be out to take a report as soon as I can square away some priorities here — say a couple of hours?"

  She looked at her watch. It was eleven o'clock.

  "In the meantime," he went on, "I want you to go through the entire house, everyplace you think the perpetrator had access to. That includes all the drawers in your bedroom." When she did not respond, he continued. "Specifically the drawers that contain underthings. Do you understand?"

  She understood. With that understanding came a sharp prickly sensation on her scalp. `Yes," she said slowly. "I understand.”

  She replaced the receiver without saying goodbye and, not at all thrilled with her mission, walked into her room and began the task of searching through her underwear drawer.

  She had thrown out all the slashed and spray-painted clothes. Very little underwear had escaped. Sorting through the dresser drawers, the trash, and even the laundry hamper, she could not find one pair of her lace bikini panties.

  Detective Sergeant Justin Holmes hung up slowly. There was something about the break-in that gnawed at him. And there was something about this Carlson woman that seemed out of kilter.

  He picked up the receiver and called downstairs. From the duty officer he determined which officer had been dispatched to the Carlson resident the night of October fourth.

  He dialed the squad room and asked for Gunther.

  "Yes, sir," Gunther said. The two words sounded crisp, heavy with respect. Respect, Holmes thought, and wondered why the word when used in conjunction with Gunther came out cynical.

  "You responded to a complaint at the Carlson home on the fourth, is that right?" Holmes asked.

  "Yes, sir. Anonymous call. Disturbing the peace."

  Holmes waited, finally said, "Tell me about it."

  "She was having a party . . . Mrs. Carlson, that is. I went out just before midnight, sir."

  "A rowdy party?"

  "Hard to say, sir. By the time I got there it was breaking up."

  "You've had two encounters with Mrs. Carlson in one week. What's your opinion of her?"

  "Well, sir, I'd rather not say. After all, she is supposed to be the victim. What I think is irrelevant."

  The words "supposed to" didn't go unheeded by Holmes.

  "Unofficially, Gunther, what's your opinion of her?"

  "She keeps bad company."

  "Care to explain?"

  "She and that attorney, Ott. It's common knowledge that Ott is a pervert. I'd question the scruples of any woman who's involved with him. Then there's the other guy."

  "Other guy?"

  The voice lowered, became muffled. Holmes could visualize Gunther's lips pressed to the mouthpiece.

  "At the door while she's talking to me, Ott's all over her and she's letting him do what he wants. Then, after everyone leaves, she's alone with this other guy. They stood at those big windows acting mighty friendly. He had her blouse open."

  "I don't understand. Where were you?"

  Gunther cleared his throat. "I stopped at the bottom of her drive, there on Rockridge."

  "Oh? Why?"

  "My report, sir," he said, clearing his throat again.

  "Anything else?"

  "No, sir. The rest, sir, is speculative."

  Justin could almost see Gunther smile "You wouldn't happen to know who the other guy was? The one she was friendly with at the window?"

  "Not by name. But he was driving a snazzy sports car. Corvette, I think. Typical cock's-mobile."

  Justin had to smile — he owned a Corvette. "Texas plates."

  "Pardon?"

  "The plates on the Corvette, sir, Texas issue. Dallas to be exact."

  "I'm impressed, Gunther."

  "And it was personalized."

  "Oh yeah? What'd it say?"

  "LUV2WIN."

  Holmes jotted it down. "Thanks, Gunther." He hung up, dialed again.

  With a little checking, Holmes discovered that at twelve-thirty on the night of the party someone from the residence of one Alexandra Carlson had dialed the emergency number 911 and then had hung up on the dispatcher. Holmes had the dispatcher play back the ensuing conversation.

  ". . . it was a mistake . . . Someone I know tried to get a little physical with me. He's gone now." Definitely Alex Carlson's voice.

  Peculiar that she hadn't said a thing to him about a possible assault.

  He picked up the phone, dialed information, and asked for the number of the State Department of Motor Vehicles in Austin, Texas.

  The discovery of the missing underwear gnawed at Alex like acid eating into metal. When one o'clock had come and gone with no sign of the detective, she felt a growing irritation. When nearly three more hours had rolled around and still no Detective Holmes, her nerves felt raw, exposed. She could have been doing something constructive, such as painting for her show. Instead she was pacing, playing the waiting game.

  At four o'clock, just a little more than an hour before she had to leave for the art center to teach a painting class, Holmes showed up.

  She opened the door to see him standing on the bottom step of the brick porch, gazing up the hill. "Your cat?" he asked without looking her way.

  She spotted Blackie lying on a large flat rock. "Yes. Is he doing something illegal?" she said, not bothering to hide the irritation in her voice.

  "He's being a cat.”

  With one forepaw crossed over the other, Blackie looked around in a bored, lazy way. Gingerly, he lifted his paws and Alex, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, saw a small furry animal run out. Blackie had caught a field mouse. This wasn't the first time she had seen him in action. Fear, torture, and finally death. The cat versus mouse game had always sickened her.

  Alex looked away, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Blackie leap off the rock. He was allowing the prey a little more freedom . . . spicing up the game.

  "Could we go in? If you don't mind I'd rather not watch him make the kill."

  Holmes followed her inside. "Did you make an appointment for the estimate?"

  "Estimate?"

  "The alarm system."

  "Oh, that. No, not yet."

  “What are you waiting for?"

  "I've been a little preoccupied."

  "In light of the new circumstances, I'd have thought securing your home would be your first concern."

  "It's right up there at the top, Sergeant, but —"

  "What if
he comes again while you're here alone in the house? What will you do? Scream? Run to a neighbor? Sic your cat on him?" He was staring at her intently.

  "Now wait a minute . . .

  "No, you wait a minute. There are at least a dozen ways for someone to forcibly enter this house. He didn't have a problem getting in before, and he won't have one now."

  She stared at him. Then, slowly nodding her head, she said, "You're enjoying this. You enjoy scaring me, don't you?"

  "Is that what you think?"

  "Yes."

  "You should be scared. You should be terrified. Unless, of course, you know something I don't know.”

  "You seem to know everything, Sergeant," Alex shot back at him. Then, breathing deeply, making an effort to calm herself, she went on. "Look, I don't want to fight with you. I'll call them, all right? I wouldn't want to complicate your job.”

  "It's just a matter of precaution, Mrs. Carlson."

  Alex nodded wearily. She led the way downstairs. In the study, Holmes circled the room slowly.

  "Find anything else missing?" he asked, taking the notebook and pen from his pocket.

  "Yes.”

  He stared at her.

  Alex felt herself tensing. She hesitated before saying, "A couple pairs of panties.”

  "Were the missing items in a drawer or in the laundry?"

  "Is that question relevant?"

  "It's relevant. I'm trying to establish the sort of character we're dealing with here.”

  "I see." Whose character? she wondered. She busied herself with putting the dried flowers back in the vase. "I don't know where they were taken from. I just know they're gone.”

  "Anything else?"

  "No. I don't think so. Could he be dangerous?"

  "What sort of frame was the photograph in?"

  Why is he being so evasive? she wondered. He treats me as though I were suspect. He believes me, doesn't he? Why wouldn't he? Who would want to make up such things?

  "Mrs. Carlson, the frame.”

  "A thick oak one with ornate brass corners. Very heavy."

  He leaned on the edge of the desk and flipped the page of the notebook. "Describe the picture to me."

  "It's a color photograph of me. . . in a bikini, standing on the deck of a sailboat."