Now Mourn the Space Cadet (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  Walking into this place of soft candlelight, low conversation and delicious smells made her feel a bit grungy, even more aware of having worn the same clothes since morning. More than ever, she wanted that bath.

  Paul was waiting. He was solid and stocky, in contrast to Mickie's slenderness. Unlike her dark, straight hair, his was a brown mass of uncombed waves. With his beard of the same color, he reminded Mickie of a leprechaun, totally unpredictable and touched with a bit of magic. She half suspected he could appear and disappear at will.

  "Where you been," he asked, "chasing Boy Scouts off the beach?"

  "Don't start with me," she answered. "I'm in no mood."

  The hostess became alarmed to the point of almost dropping her smile. The last thing she wanted was a couple who fought their way through dinner, especially if they got loud. What she hadn't noticed was the way Paul's bearded face lit up when he saw Mickie coming through the door, or the lift it had given Mickie when she saw it.

  The best tables overlook the beach. Lights along the pier illuminate the green froth of the surf and a long stretch of the beach. Mickie was surprised when they were shown to one of them, especially on a Saturday night.

  "How did you get them to save us this table? I expected something with a view of the parking lot."

  "I told them it was our anniversary."

  "Of what?"

  "I didn't say. We must have done something this time last year."

  A gin-and-tonic with a twist of lime furthered relaxation and, by the time they were ready to order, she was feeling nearly human.

  Paul closed the menu, saying, "I was afraid you wouldn't make it."

  "I didn't think I would."

  "That business about Tina Siegert? It's all over the news."

  "It's a circus."

  "Are they going to get Harry back for this? You keep telling me he's the expert."

  "He's back. He was still on vacation, but he made the mistake of letting them know he was in town."

  "He should know better. So you're helping him on this?"

  She smiled at that. "Not exactly."

  She started to tell him about it, but the waiter appeared with his litany of specials of the day. She chose the grilled tuna salad, knowing that would leave room for dessert. Paul went with the red snapper, then selected one of the more expensive Chardonnays from the wine list.

  Mickie finished her drink. "You're feeling rather grand." They usually settled for a half carafe of the house wine.

  "I told you this was a celebration."

  "That's right. I'd forgotten. What is it?"

  "I'm about to become a filthy capitalist. Well, maybe not too filthy. Still.... A woman called me the other day."

  "Oh? Attractive?"

  Managing to not smile, he answered, "Yes. Very. She had seen some of my stuff and was impressed."

  "How did she know where to call?" Oh God, she thought, I'm asking questions like a cop, trying to find the weak spot in his story.

  Paul didn't seem to notice. "From her daughter. She's an art major. She was in my ceramics class."

  "At least she has good taste."

  "True. Anyway, she had a proposition. Her name is Ruth Babineau. She has a shop in Wilford, Chez Babineau. Women’s clothes and accessories. It's the kind of place you go when you want to splurge a little. Posh. You know the kind—no racks of clothes to look through, hardly anything on display. Everything simple, tasteful, and expensive."

  "I know the place. I walk by whenever I feel like drooling. What does she want from you?"

  "Pottery. She wants to set up one corner of the shop to sell stuff from local artists. Pottery, silver, beads and bangles. Just a few select, tasteful pieces, of course. It's a no-lose situation. I keep anything that doesn't sell, and we split anything that does."

  "She takes half?"

  "With the markup she'll put on those things, fifty percent is mostly profit. At least I should make enough to pay for this wine."

  "That's wonderful!"

  "We'll see. Now, let's talk about more pleasant things. You were telling me about a murder."

  "No, I wasn't."

  "Then it's time you did. Did you say you were working on it?"

  "I said not exactly."

  "That's right. What does that mean?"

  "You won't believe it."

  "Probably not. I only believe half what you say, anyway."

  "Harry's letting me run the investigation. Unofficially, of course."

  "Is that kosher?"

  "No, I don't think so. He just sits back and lets me make the calls, do most of the questioning."

  "That's pretty heavy. It's good, though."

  "It's scary. What if I do something to really mess it up?"

  "He wouldn't let you go too far wrong."

  "You don't know Harry. He believes in education through error. He lets you screw up, then makes you tell him what you should have done. It's a lesson that stays with you."

  She leaned back in her chair, watching the roll of the surf crashing silently beyond the glass. "Not too long ago, I was still in uniform, hoping that someday I'd make detective. Since then I've worked mostly on petty break-ins, vandalism, one case of arson. I helped Harry on the Carlsberg murder, but...." She shook her head, finished with, "I just don't know about this."

  The waiter arrived with dinner in each hand, and began sliding dishes before them. Paul unfolded his napkin, saying, "You know what I think? I think you ought to stop feeling so damned sorry for yourself. The man has spent the last ten months teaching you how to be a cop. You said yourself it was more like master and apprentice than partners. And that's what you want, right? So now he's saying you're ready to handle the big one, and here you are pissing and moaning about it. I'll tell you what else I think. I think you'll feel a lot better with some of that tuna in you. And some of this very fine, very expensive wine. Now, tell me, do you have any suspects?"

  He's right, she thought. Suck it up, Wilder, and stop being such a wimp. Nothing terrible has happened yet. This case is the best chance anyone has ever handed you, so don't blow it by going soft.

  "Yes, we have suspects. So far we've talked to three people connected with this. They all had reasons of a sort, and they all could have done it. No alibis."

  "Any favorites?"

  "There's one guy I'd love to lay this on. He made a threat to get her just a few hours before she was killed. Also, I think he's lying about where he was. He's arrogant, he thinks he's a stud, and I don't like him. The only problem is, I don't think he did it."

  "A minor inconvenience. Why not?"

  "When we talked to him he was smug as hell. Then we told him she was dead, and he almost wet his pants. He was really scared, but I'd swear he didn't know until we told him."

  "Maybe he's just a good actor."

  She speared an olive from her salad, smiling. "Now that's a happy thought. I'll keep that in mind."

  * * *

  The tiger, her gray and black stripes freshly washed, sat watching the man through narrowed yellow eyes, trying to appear not really interested. It was time for her nap, the nineteenth of the day, and the man was not cooperating. Normally, his short, wide legs made an excellent lap, firm and rounded, just right for a curled up sleep. Now he had one chubby leg crossed over the other while he talked into the phone. Half a lap is no lap at all. Hopeless. Probably did it on purpose, just to make her life difficult.

  The other one, the woman, was still in the kitchen, moving about, opening and closing cabinet doors, doing things. Not much chance there, anyway. She never sat still long enough for a decent nap, and when she did, the lap was always full of other things, baskets and cloth and threads, that left no room for tigers. She often wondered how she put up with the two of them.

  She was about to settle for the bed in the guest room, when the man's crossed leg came down—and there was the lap. Not only that, but he pulled the footrest of the lounger up, and leaned back. He still had the phone attached to his ear, but h
e had that thoughtful look, as if he were working on a problem. That was always a good sign—it seemed to take people a long time to think. But then, what else could you expect?

  The voice in the phone asked, "And that's all there is?"

  Harry grunted. "Isn't that enough?"

  "Well, yes and no."

  "Which means?"

  "Yes, it's too much and no, it's not enough. It's the wrong stuff. Was there a circle of any kind around the body?"

  "None that I saw."

  "Which way was the body pointed?"

  Harry tried to line up in his mind the body, the room, the house, with the way the beach ran, which was generally northeast to southwest. "About southeast, I guess."

  "And there was nothing else weird about the scene? No missing body parts, no wax drippings or incense? No bones or feathers?"

  "Now, that is weird. No, it was just like I said. No more, no less."

  "Then it's certainly not orthodox Satanism. That's the worst kind. It's very vicious, very cruel, very secret. It's not just a bunch of individual nuts that get together to be naughty. It's families, clans. The children are raised to be the servants of Satan—literally. But it's also very formal, especially in the observance of ritual. Whether it's the torture of sacrifices or the abuse of their children, they do it by the book. They don't dare deviate in that. They worship His Nastiness, but they're also scared to death of him."

  "Sounds like the fire-and-brimstone kind of old time religion."

  "It is a religion, and don't be a cynic, Harry."

  "Not me."

  "I suppose it could be a dabbler, someone going into it on his own. But whoever it is doesn't know diddly about it."

  "Okay, you're the expert. In your opinion, what are the odds we're dealing with Satanism."

  The voice in the phone said nothing for several moments, and Harry was not going to hurry it. Finally he heard, "It's hard to be an expert on something so secret, something you're not a part of, but ... I'd have to say, not a chance in hell."

  After he had hung up, Harry sat quietly, his eyes focused on some distant spot, one hand idly stroking the cat in his lap. He was trying to get a feel for the case, trying to understand what they were dealing with, even though he knew it was probably too early for that. Schatz, the SBI agent, had been right—this one wouldn't be easy. He became aware of the cat and wondered, not for the first time, how it had managed to slip into his lap unnoticed. If the killer is as smooth as this cat, he thought, we’re in for a very bad time.

  CHAPTER 9

  SOMETHING WICKED

  Mickie drove while Harry filled her in on what he had learned. They went into an outlying residential section of Wilford, then turned roughly southeast, toward the Waterway. Tracts of homes gave way to individual lots, then to stretches of thick pine, broken only occasionally by a driveway.

  "I talked to a friend of mine, an SBI investigator. He's handled quite a few of these satanic cult cases. Supposed to be the guru."

  Mickie shook her head. "It's hard to get serious about things like that. Everyone's heard the stories, but I've never seen anything like that around here."

  "You've led a very sheltered life."

  "So he thinks that's what we have here?"

  "His exact words were, 'Not a chance in hell!' He said all those marks on the body were mystical symbols, but they're all the wrong ones. It just doesn't fit a real ritual killing."

  "Maybe it's some loony trying to start his own group."

  Harry grunted. "More likely someone wants us to look at those symbols, and not see something else. And where are we, by the way? Does this road actually go anywhere?"

  The way had narrowed as it passed through a low, wet area close to the Waterway, then had turned again into the woods. For the past few minutes they had passed no houses. Harry peered into the deep green shade of tall pines, recalling scenes from an illustrated book of fairy tales that Karen used to read to the children. "Great place for a witch to live."

  "I was thinking the same thing. I half expect to see Hansel and Gretel dropping bread crumbs."

  Almost as she said it the woods thinned, then gave way to an open, low-lying area with only occasional clumps of trees. The sun, after the darkness of the woods, seemed to glisten on everything. They saw the house, on a slight rise, to their right. It was small and plain, in the Cape Cod style, with steep roof, white with blue shutters and trim. A separate two-car garage in the same style stood beside it, an orange MG ragtop in the drive. The mailbox was painted white, with CONVERSE in blue letters on the side. A rail fence bordered the front and, behind it, the yard was sectioned into neat beds of freshly turned earth, a few of them already planted and showing a variety of colors. Neatly trimmed boxwoods bordering the front of the house were showing the pale green of early spring growth.

  "That doesn't look much like a witch's house," complained Mickie.

  "What'd you expect—gingerbread?"

  As they walked up the drive, a curtain flicked back and then closed, but they could see no one behind it. The door opened almost immediately after they rang, but just barely. Standing in bright sunlight, they could see very little of the interior. It seemed to be unnaturally dark. A woman's voice said, "Yes?" and they dimly made out a tiny figure standing a few steps back from the door.

  "Mrs. Converse?"

  "That's right."

  It was not a young voice and, as her eyes began to adjust, Mickie made out the silhouette of a very small woman. There seemed something odd about the eyes. "I'm Detective Wilder. This is Detective Chervenic. We're with —"

  "Detectives? Well, come in."

  The door opened just wide enough to let them slip into the gloom. Shades were pulled down to within inches of the sill, letting in only a soft glow filtered through lace curtains.

  "What can I do for you?"

  Even in the muted light, Mickie could see that her dark trousers and red blouse were neatly cut, stylish and probably expensive. Her gray hair was cut short and carefully groomed. The odd part of all this was her eyes. Even in this cave-like atmosphere, she wore dark glasses. She seemed to be peering at them, waiting for an answer, but they couldn't actually see her eyes. It occurred to Mickie that she might be blind. She said, "We're sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Converse, but we'd like to ask you about Tina Siegert."

  "Ah, I see. Yes, I saw it on the news. Quite shocking."

  "We were told you had been, well, instructing her. In, uh, witchcraft."

  "Me?" The mouth under the black lenses broke into a delighted grin. She brought her hands together, saying, "Oh, my dear, no. Don't you see? You have the wrong one."

  "The wrong one?"

  "The wrong Mrs. Converse. I'm Maggie. You want my daughter-in-law, Dana. She's the witch."

  She was clearly delighted with the error. She led them through to the back of the house saying, "I suppose it was natural, your thinking I was a witch. I could play the part. All I'd need is a peaked cap and a broomstick. The only problem is I think it's a lot of crap. But then, most religions are, aren't they? Not that it's much of a religion. It’s got no pizzazz, you know? No martyrs, no miracles, no bloody religious wars, no eternal damnation. What kind of religion is that?"

  She stopped at a sliding glass door covered by heavy drapes. "Dana is out back, probably in the middle of her arcane rituals. I'll let you open the drapes—after I've left the room, please. I have a rather severe case of photophobia. It's a real pain in the rear, but I can't stand too much light."

  Harry found the drawstring and opened the drapes just enough to let them through. They stepped into a backyard that was much like the front. Much of the space was filled with raised beds of bare earth bordered by railroad ties. A graveled walk led to a tool shed and several large compost bins by the back fence. A bed of bare, severely pruned rose bushes waited for warmer weather. Dogwoods stood guard in one corner; a large forsythia had the other. Both were just beginning to send out their blossoms, white and yellow. A bird feeder hung from the
nearest dogwood, a pair of small gray birds chasing each other from one perch to another, grabbing seeds at each stop. Another walk led to the right, past a picnic table and benches, to a group of tall, leggy bushes.

  Standing amid the bushes was a rather plump woman, somewhere in her forties. She wore brown cords, and a sweatshirt, and a straw hat with a curled brim. She was watching them with very blue eyes.

  "Good morning," said Mickie.

  "Good morning, yourself."

  The woman took off heavy gloves, and leaned her shovel against a garden cart. As they walked toward each other, Mickie did the introductions again. She was becoming almost used to Harry's silence. "I hope we're not interrupting anything."

  "No, I was just spreading compost around the blueberry bushes. They're hungry devils, but if you feed them they do their best to return the favor."

  "We hoped you could tell us something about Tina Siegert."

  Dana Converse had a pleasant, oval face that reflected the soft plumpness of her figure. When she heard Tina's name, her expression tightened in distaste. She indicated the picnic table and benches. "Let's sit down. I could use a break."

  Mickie sat across from her, while Harry sat at one end, leaning back against the table, gazing out at the yard.

  Mickie started by asking how well she had known Mrs. Siegert.

  "I met her once."

  "Just once?"

  "Yes, she came here one afternoon. Someone had given her my name."

  "What did she want?"

  The woman frowned, then shrugged. "She wanted to learn about the craft. Witchcraft. At first, I thought she was sincere. I asked her about her background, what she believed, what she felt, what she wanted from life."

  "What did she say?"

  "I don't think she had any idea what I was talking about. I got the impression she wasn't all that bright. We talked for a while, but I could see where it was going. She was looking for some kind of dark power, something she could get through ritual or incantation."

  Without turning, Harry asked, "Magic?"