by Jane Tesh
Just You Wait
A Grace Street Mystery
Jane Tesh
www.JaneTesh.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by Jane Tesh
First E-book Edition 2015
ISBN: 9781464203701 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Just You Wait
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Author Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
To my mother, Helen “Peggy” Tesh,
whose beautiful voice inspired me to sing
and to love musical theater.
Author Note
Chapter titles are from My Fair Lady by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe
Chapter One
“Get me to the church on time.”
Although I was expecting a call from a client this Friday morning, things had been slow for the Randall Detective Agency lately, so slow I actually called Jordan Finley at the Parkland Police Department. I’d been reading about the mysterious disappearance of elderly Viola Mitchell. What interested me about Viola’s case was her connection to the Parkland Little Theater. According to the newspaper, she was a regular performer and well-known for her character roles.
“We do not need your help, Randall.”
Jordan’s standard reply. The trouble is, I usually end up being a lot of help, and Jordan really hates that. I was pretty sure his stiff black hair was bristling. “Just answer one question. Did she disappear from the theater?”
“No, and why is that your concern?”
“Camden’s going to be in their next show, and Kary’s playing in the orchestra. If there’s a Bermuda Triangle backstage, I want to know about it.” Camden’s psychic ability guarantees he’ll be a lightning rod for anything remotely weird, and Kary’s insistence on helping with my cases will have her burrowing into whatever dark corner she can find.
“Nothing happened at the theater. She was last seen at her home. A neighbor heard the animals and went over to see what was going on. They hadn’t been fed. The neighbor said Mrs. Mitchell would never neglect her pets, and that’s when we started looking for her.”
“Let me in on this. Missing people are my specialty.”
“No, getting in my way is your specialty, and it’s not going to happen today.”
On this, Jordan hung up. I was not deterred. I went back to the Parkland Herald’s account of Viola Mitchell’s disappearance and found her address. It wouldn’t do any harm to wander over there and see what was going on. Jordan could complain all he liked, but the last time I looked, Parkland, North Carolina, was a free city, and I could roam about the streets as I pleased. Camden could come with me to talk to the neighbors. People always talk to him because he looks completely harmless. What they don’t know is his psychic insights could be very useful in my investigations. If I could unscramble the visions.
My cell phone rang. It was my client, Mrs. Folly Harper. Her voice was light and feathery. “Sorry, Mr. Randall, but I’m running a little late. Could we make it three-thirty?”
“Let me check my schedule.” I counted slowly to five. “You’re in luck, Mrs. Harper. I can fit you in then.”
“Thank you. Now, what was your address again?”
“It’s 302 Grace Street. A large yellow house with white trim and pink azaleas.”
“I’ll be there at three-thirty.”
“I’ll see you then.” This was the third time she’d changed the appointment. I was beginning to think that whatever she needed found, I could find. She sounded like the type of woman whose missing glasses are on top of her head.
Yep, whatever was missing, I could find, all right, because I was so damn good at finding everything except when it counted the most.
This time of day was usually quiet in the neighborhood. Even the busy traffic on Food Row one street over was muted, a soft murmur of white noise. Birds chirped at the feeder and rustled in the branches of the oak trees. A slight warm breeze billowed the sheer curtains at my open office window.
But the peace was shattered as I heard Ellin’s voice rising in one of her classic scolds. I turned my chair around to the window. My office has a good view of the front porch and the old oak trees that keep everything cool and shady. Ellin Belton, Camden’s fiancée, was on the porch talking with him. He was, no doubt, in his favorite seat, the porch swing, and she was—as everyone in the neighborhood could probably hear—engaged in her ongoing and futile effort to pry Camden from 302 Grace Street.
“If you would just consider it, Cam. We could live in my condo until I sell it. I know I can get top dollar. We could afford a new house anywhere in the city.”
“Ellie, I’ve told you over and over, I’m not going to move.”
“But this house is falling down! It needs constant repair.”
“And I enjoy fixing it.”
She paced by my window. “But what about this constant stream of boarders moving in and out? There’s Rufus and Angie and grumpy old Fred and Randall and Kary and who knows who else you’ll let in. How can we ever have any privacy?”
“I told you I’d remodel the third floor any way you wanted it.”
“We need a place of our own.”
“This is our place.”
“But these people!” She made an exasperated growling sound not unlike a lioness who does not want to share the gazelle. Then she checked her watch and rolled her eyes.“I’ve got to meet with the caterer, and Mother said my sisters might pop in for a surprise visit. That’s all I need. I know they’re planning something stupid and disruptive. We’ll continue this discussion later.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Neither am I!”
By rolling closer to the window, I glimpsed her blond curls bouncing indignantly as she charged out to her sleek silver Lexus. She lo
oks really good going away. She has a dynamite figure, plus big blue eyes and a great smile. But I’m rarely on the receiving end of that smile, and Camden, gripping the edge of the porch railing, didn’t look like he was smiling, either. He’d recently proposed, Ellin had accepted, and everything had been hearts and rainbows for about a week. Then reality set in. Because of Ellin’s work schedule and her lifetime goal of controlling the world, she’d decided they would be married by the end of May—this month—so the past two months she’d been, as our resident redneck boarder, Rufus Jackson, would say, “Wild as a buck.”
I left my office and went across the foyer and through “the island” to the kitchen. We call the main sitting area in the house “the island” because the blue armchair, green corduroy sofa, and other various chairs are parked in the middle of the room on a worn oriental carpet, as if someone had called a meeting of the living room furniture. The TV is there, as well as a coffee table covered with books, magazines, and a stack of coupons held in place by a paperweight shaped like a pear. There’s always a scattering of cat toys even though Cindy, our gray housecat, usually amuses herself with an empty toilet paper roll. Kary’s needlework is piled in a basket by one chair, and Camden’s growing collection of UFO materials sits by another. Mismatched lamps and cushions complete the gypsy caravan look.
I got a can of Coke out of the fridge. Camden came in a few minutes later and put two Pop-Tarts in the toaster with a little more force than necessary.
“I don’t know why the hell we just don’t elope.”
I popped open the Coke and took a sip. “It’s never too late. Sling her over your shoulder and head for the border. You know she loves that cave man stuff.”
“Her mother would hunt me down and kill me.”
If he wants to know what Ellin’s going to look like in thirty years, all he has to do is eyeball her mom. Ellin looks exactly like Jean, only Mrs. Belton is shorter, stouter, and lightly wrinkled. Lately, I had seen far more of Ellin’s mother than I ever wanted to see. She isn’t really sure Camden’s a suitable husband for her daughter, but then, who would be? Ellin’s father, a reasonable sort of man, did a lot of sighing as he handed over credit cards and checks. He’d indicated to Camden he’d be glad to see Ellin married to anyone willing to put up with her moods. Ellin’s sisters were already married and living out of town, but they’d be here for the wedding in full force. Four Belton women in one place. I wasn’t sure the ozone layer was ready for this.
I took another sip of Coke. “Mom still hasn’t given her seal of approval?”
“I think Mom is a little afraid of me.”
“Well, she should be. You are damned scary.” This is a laugh. Camden’s about five-foot seven and looks like somebody’s sloppy little kid brother. His pale hair is always in his eyes and he dresses like a starving artist. It’s the eyes that get the girls. They’re large and blue and they See All, no joke. If he shakes hands with someone, or touches an object, he can get powerful impressions. This psychic ability is mighty attractive to Ellin, who has no psychic powers at all, but to Mrs. Belton, it’s all about “my weird son-in-law, the fortune-teller.”
The Pop-Tarts popped up, and Camden put them on a plate. “Jean thinks Ellin should marry Reg.”
“Reg Haverson? Mr. Prep?”
“At least he doesn’t have fits.” He got the tea out of the fridge and poured some into a large plastic Carolina Panthers cup.
“Is that what she calls it?”
“And he has a proper job.”
“She doesn’t think being a part-time sales clerk at Tamara’s Boutique is a proper job? She should be thinking about all those employee discounts she and Ellin can get.”
We wandered back to the porch. On the way, Camden peered into my office. “Don’t you have a client?”
“She’s coming by later.” I sat down in one of the rocking chairs. “You and Ellin get anything settled?”
He sat back in the porch swing and took a bite of Pop-Tart. They’re the brown sugar kind, appropriate, he assures me, for any hour of the day. “Well, let’s see. I wanted to be married in Victory Holiness, but I’ve agreed to Ellie’s choice of Parkland Methodist. Ellie found her wedding gown, but she’s still working on the type of flowers and the music. She keeps changing her mind about bridesmaids. I think she’s finally settled on four.”
“She has four friends?”
“The invitations spelled her name “E-l-l-e-n,” God forbid, so they had to be redone. The church hall had to be rescheduled for the reception. And I haven’t even mentioned the cake, the rehearsal dinner, or the photographer.”
“Wow. I can’t believe I went through all that two times. Of course, all I had to do was show up.”
“And she doesn’t want to live here.”
“I believe I may have heard something about that.”
“She said we’d never have any privacy. I said we have the whole top floor to ourselves. She said we need a place of our own. I said this is our place. Then she said, ‘But these people!’” He did a fairly accurate impersonation of Ellin’s exasperated tone.
I joined in. “Not these people!”
The odd collection of tenants Camden attracts is his family and he isn’t going to abandon them. I think he took over the big three-story house for the express purpose of filling it with strays. That includes me. If I trace my path backwards, I can see the chain of events that led me to 302 Grace Street—the car crash that destroyed my perfect little American dream, the argument with my second wife that cast me adrift, a tenant moving out, leaving the downstairs room free for an office and an upstairs room free for a bedroom, the odd cases that kept me financially afloat. I’d come in as one of Camden’s strays, and like so many before me, I’d stayed.
I often stand on the porch and think, what the hell are you doing here? Then I think, because if you can possibly keep from screwing things up, you have found a new family and a new chance for love, if you can convince Kary of that. And I’m not giving up my peaceful green second-floor bedroom, my conveniently located office, my favorite faded blue armchair, and being in the same house as Kary Ingram, especially not to please Ellin Belton.
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s settled,” Camden said. “Her place is too small. This house is perfect. The neighborhood’s quiet, lots of big trees, she can get to work easily off of Food Row, she knows everybody here. What’s the problem?”
“Did she bring up all the times I drag you into these cases to help solve them for me?”
“Once or twice.”
As if she never uses his considerable psychic talent to further her goals with the slightly off-the-level Psychic Service. “You know she’s much more likely to drag you.”
“No kidding.”
“How could the two of you afford a new house, anyway?” Fortunately, 302 Grace is paid for. When Camden first came to North Carolina, he’d stayed in the boarding house. After he saw something in the owner’s future that saved him from financial ruin, the man gave Camden the house. Getting a big old house that always needs repair may not have been a bargain, but, as I said, it’s paid for. “Ellin’s still producing the TV show, right? But it doesn’t bring in the big bucks, does it?”
“It’s doing surprisingly well.”
“Even without you.”
“Even without me.”
Ellin is always after him to be on one of the programs, but he hates to do anything that even halfway resembles flaunting his talent. “You could be raking in the dough.”
“No, thanks. Things have been very calm lately, and that’s the way I want them.”
“So all is well with the cosmos?”
He nodded and took another bite of Pop-Tart. “Just get me to the church on time.”
“Well, before all that, I want you to come to Marshall Street and talk with Viola Mitchell’s neighbors. She’s still missing.”
“You haven’t gotten any vibes about that? Has anyone from the theater stopped by to check on her? Is she likely to wander off?”
“A member of the cast said he thought she was visiting a cousin. She wasn’t needed for every rehearsal, so she could leave town for a few days.”
“Somebody filed a missing persons report. I want to see what’s going on.”
“I definitely want to come along. Let me check on Fred first. He hasn’t been feeling well lately.”
“How can you tell?” Fred, Camden’s oldest tenant, gacks and wheezes like a rusty air-conditioner, has skin the color of old liver, and maybe three sprigs of hair growing from unlikely places.
“He hasn’t asked me for any money today.”
Camden finished his nutritious snack, went down the porch steps, and headed in the direction of the park. Fred spent most of the day with several other old fossils hunched over checkerboards and drinking out of paper bags. The only good thing about Fred is he doesn’t hang around the house. I’m all for local color, but this would be laying it on too thick. The sight of moldy old Fred draped across the porch railing might discourage clients.
Camden came back and reported all was well with Fred, so we got into my white ’67 Plymouth Fury, a dashing choice for an ace private investigator, and drove over to 494 Marshall Street. There was a “For Sale” sign in Viola’s front yard with a big red “SOLD” sign pasted over it. The small brick houses were spaced widely apart, but the next-door neighbor knew everything that had happened. She was a thin woman with a permanently alarmed expression.
“Wednesday, I heard the awfullest racket, and it was all of Viola’s pets going wild. I went over there and gave them some food and water, and I didn’t see Viola anywhere. The same thing happened Thursday, so that’s when I called the police.”
“You didn’t see anyone else at her house?” I asked.
“No, but she never did have many visitors. Kept to herself mostly. Her only friends were those theater people. She didn’t drive, and I didn’t see any strange cars at her place. Mostly she took a taxi if she wanted to go anywhere, or somebody from the theater would give her a ride home.”