After a few uncomfortable moments had passed, Mike began, “Why don’t we plan to have lunch with Lawrence next time—” when Ann turned back from the window in some excitement.
“I know, I’ll paint it!” she said.
“What?” said Mike and Mavis at the same time.
Ann sat up straighter in the seat. “The visual part of the sensing was much more ... vivid than usual, like you said, Mavis. I think the spirit I was sensing was trying to show herself to me, not just as some kind of colored light but as she actually was. I think maybe if I could paint it for you it would be a better representation of what I experienced than if I tried to describe it.”
“A painting of it,” said Mavis, excited. “Yes, that might be very interesting. Plus it would provide a memento of our experience, wouldn’t it?”
“A memento mori, one might say,” said Mike as Ann rolled her eyes at both of them.
They dropped Mavis off at her home in Collegeville and Mike called Walt to let him know they were wrapping up. Then he turned to Ann. “So what did happen in the house?”
“Let’s wait until we get to the airport, then I’ll only have to tell it once.”
Mike drummed his fingers on the arm rest impatiently, then said, “Hey, the painting idea is a good one, I should have thought of it before now.”
“I don’t think it would have worked before now, it would have been just spots of color—I’m not even sure I’m going to be able to come up with anything recognizable from today but it seems worth a try.” She paused. “Plus it seemed like a good excuse to jettison Mavis.”
“I hope that wasn’t the primary reason,” said Mike sternly. After a moment he added, “We should stay off the internet on this one, it wouldn’t be good to happen on a photograph or other information that might subconsciously influence your painting.”
“Yeah, I never surf the web anyway,” replied Ann.
When they got to the airport they found Walt, a copy of Aviation Safety tucked under his arm, chatting with a tall, heavy-set man near the windows overlooking the ramp area. Ann and Mike approached them.
“Mike, this is Joe Booth,” said Ann. They shook hands.
“I appreciate you coming back,” said Joe to Ann.
“Lucky for us Walt was available,” said Mike, nodding to Walt.
“No problem,” said Walt. He turned to Ann. “Ready to go?”
“I will be in a few minutes,” she said.
“I’ll just get her checked out then,” he said and, tipping his baseball cap to the two men, headed outside.
The three of them sat down. “How did it go?” Joe asked.
“It wasn’t as bad as last time, not as strong. But still bad,” she said.
“What happened?”
Ann looked out the window. “The whole house is filled with bad feeling. All except for the nursery and the kitchen and I figure the owners didn’t spend much time there. But the two rooms that had the worst feeling were the library and the entrance hall. In the library I got anger and … disdain. But in the entrance hall I got fear. Terror. I think there was an argument in the library and someone died in the entrance hall. Is that what you were expecting?”
“Yes, that’s what I think happened but I can’t prove anything.”
“Tell him about the garage,” said Mike.
“I got the strangest sensation in the garage,” said Ann. “The sensations in the rest of the house were very emotional but in the garage it was more …” she searched for a word, “… directive. Like someone was trying to tell me something.” She didn’t mention the sensation of a hand grabbing her wrist—that sort of physicality in a spirit was not something she had ever sensed before and she was still somewhat flustered by it. Best to consider and plan for the possible responses to such a revelation before she shared that fact with anyone.
“What was it they were trying to tell you?" asked Joe.
“It was directing me to this metal cabinet in the garage, it wanted me to look there. For something blue.”
“And you had me get rid of Pironi,” interjected Mike. “Why was that?”
“Who’s Pironi?” asked Joe.
“He was the seller’s realtor. He wasn’t there for the first visit,” said Mike.
“I felt like I’d get a clearer message if I was alone,” said Ann. “But I also sensed the spirit especially didn’t want to show me whatever it had to show me with Pironi there.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Joe.
“No, there was a lock on the cabinet.”
“But you could look,” said Mike.
“I can’t,” said Joe, running his fingers through his hair, “not anymore, it’s been too long.”
“Too long since what?” asked Mike.
Joe looked out the windows toward where Walt was peering into the wing fuel tanks. “The house was owned by Biden and Elizabeth Firth. Mrs. Firth disappeared back in February and her body was found in April in Tinicum Marsh near the Philadelphia Airport. The husband is always a suspect in these types of situations and I question his story, especially since it sounds like the relationship between them was strained, but I haven’t found anything to prove he’s not telling the truth.”
“What did the husband say happened?” asked Ann.
Joe related Firth’s description of his activities over the day of his wife’s disappearance and the following day.
“We confirmed that he had just lost a lot of money in an investment he had made and also confirmed with the housekeeper that she had washed a shirt and sweater of Firth’s that smelled like scotch. The credit card company has a record of his call and someone at one of the hotels remembers talking to him. The timing of when he left for the shore house and when he returned generally jibes with his story, and the friends of his wife who he said he called confirm it.”
“Maybe he is telling the truth,” said Ann.
Joe scratched his chin. “You know, I think in general he is telling the truth. A lot of criminals get caught because they come up with elaborate stories and can’t keep the details straight. I think that with the exception of a couple of key omissions he is telling us what he did those two days. It’s a smart strategy. Plus, he was lucky.”
“Why lucky?” asked Mike.
“Because there’s no definitive evidence to tie him or the house to the crime. No blood, no witnesses, nothing that he doesn’t have a viable explanation for.”
“So what do you think happened?”
“I think he accidentally killed his wife when they argued, maybe in the entrance hall. Maybe she fell and hit her head on something. I could ask the forensic guys to re-do the entrance hall but it’s probably too late now. The housekeeper confirms that he was at home that night so I think he hid the body somewhere until the next morning and then he disposed of it at Tinicum, probably on his way back from the shore house. I think he ate lunch as late as he did on that day because he had to kill time so it would be dark when he dumped the body.”
“But why would I have an especially strong reaction to some storage box in the garage?” she said.
“Maybe he hid the murder weapon in there,” said Mike.
Ann shrugged. “Or maybe she really did leave the house and got attacked by some stranger and that person dumped the body.”
Joe nodded. “It’s certainly possible. When her body was found all her expensive jewelry was missing which makes it look like it could have been a mugging.”
“There must be something in the cabinet,” said Mike, with increasing excitement. He turned to Joe. “Can’t you get a search warrant?”
“I don’t have any valid reason for getting one now,” Joe said and held up his hands as Mike opened his mouth, “despite what Ann experienced. We searched the house shortly after Mrs. Firth disappeared and I don’t have anything that would justify searching it again now. His father would probably have me up on harassment charges.”
“I don’t think anything I told you is going to help y
ou,” said Ann. “I doubt I would be considered a viable witness for the prosecution, let alone providing a reason to search the house again.”
Joe sighed. “I know, but at least I feel like I’m not crazy for continuing to look at the husband as a suspect.” Joe didn’t want to add fuel to Mike’s enthusiasm by mentioning that Amelia Dormand had also felt that her daughter was trying to communicate with her.
“This is going to sound terrible,” said Ann, “but … why do you care? Couldn’t you just close the case?”
Joe looked out the window and shrugged. “It’s never a good feeling to leave a case unsolved. It’s not only a professional failure, but you also leave a lot of people wondering what happened. It can eat people up.” He thought of Amelia’s expression when she had asked him to find the bastard who killed her daughter.
A few minutes later Walt waved from the plane and Ann kissed Mike on the cheek and shook hands with Joe who promised to be in touch after he had had a chance to mull over this latest development. Ann walked out to the plane as Joe and Mike watched from the waiting area.
“It would be huge if we could see what’s in that cabinet,” said Mike presently, as Walt and Ann got settled in the plane.
“Seems like you’re more curious about it than she is,” said Joe.
Mike began to bristle, then sighed. “She’s sometimes conflicted about her skills. But if she could use them to help in some concrete way—like bringing a murderer to justice—I think it would be good for her. Not to mention good for business,” he added with a grin.
The plane’s engine fired up and they turned from the windows and made their way down the steps to the parking lot, Joe stopping at a rack of brochures to pick up one for the Helicopter Museum next door. He was always looking for ideas for the days he babysat his niece and nephew.
Chapter 21
As the Kinnears’ limo had pulled into the parking lot of Brandywine Airport, a black Mercedes, following at a discreet distance, pulled into a spot on the opposite side of the small parking lot from the equally small passenger terminal. In the Mercedes, Biden watched Ann Kinnear and a man he assumed was her brother get out of the limo, the brother tip the driver, and the two of them climb the stairs to the terminal as the limo pulled away.
The hill into which the terminal was built kept Biden from seeing the planes on the ramp behind the building. He noticed a stairway leading up the hill on the right side of the building and took that, using the bushes along the stairway to screen himself as he got near the top. For a minute or two nothing happened and then a tall, thin older man wearing a baseball hat and aviator glasses emerged from the building, crossed to a white four-seater plane with orange, gold, and red stripes along the fuselage, and began doing what Biden assumed was a pre-flight check. Biden noted the plane’s tail number.
After some time the man waved toward the terminal building and shortly Ann Kinnear came out of the terminal and crossed to the plane. The older man removed the chocks from the plane’s wheels and climbed in, followed by the woman. Beginning to feel exposed in his observation point, Biden started down the stairs, hearing the plane’s prop rev as he descended.
He reached the bottom of the stairs just as Mike Kinnear came through the door of the terminal, stopping on the pavement outside the door and, hands in his pockets, looking idly at the sky.
“Damn,” said Biden. He had expected the man to stay in the terminal until the plane took off. He thought for a split second about stepping back behind the bushes but if the man saw him out of the corner of his eye that would certainly look suspicious. The man was turned slightly away from Biden and, besides, even if he did glance his way, it’s not as if he would be likely to recognize Biden—as far as Biden knew, no photographs of himself had been published in connection with coverage of Elizabeth’s disappearance or even of the murder investigation (even photographs of Elizabeth herself had been rare after the initial push for leads from the public after her disappearance). He suspected he had his father and father-in-law to thank for that.
Biden stepped out from behind the bushes and started for his car just as a second man left the terminal. This man stepped up to Kinnear and they shook hands and had started toward the parking lot when Biden realized with a jolt that the other man was Joe Booth. His heart pounding, he changed his direction from his car to the pavement the men had just vacated and, beyond it, the door of the terminal. He struggled against the urge to pick up his pace, not wanting to do anything that might attract the attention of Booth who had now reached his car which was, Biden noticed, parked quite close to his own. Biden reached the glass entrance door and slipped in and, with an exhalation of relief, climbed the stairs to the passenger waiting area.
A man stood behind a desk reading a magazine but otherwise the waiting area was empty. Firth stood by a display of tourist brochures near the windows overlooking the parking lot, picking ones up at random as he watched Booth drive away. When both Booth and Kinnear were safely on their way, Biden headed back to the parking lot, dumping the brochures into the trash can near the front door as he left.
On his way home, Biden stopped at a public library and used one of their workstations to do a search on the tail number of the plane Ann Kinnear had boarded and found that it was based in Lake Clear, New York.
He also did a search on “ann kinnear” and found the web site, reading through it and the linked material as Joe had done. And, also as Joe had done, he looked up the contact information for the police department that had handled the Barboza case. From a public phone outside the library he placed a call to the department and asked if there was anyone there who had been around fourteen years ago when the Beth Barboza disappearance occurred.
“Sure, hold on,” said the person who answered the phone and in a minute a man with a deep, gravelly voice picked up. “Brunauer.”
“Hello, my name is Jim Smith and I’m calling from Sports Illustrated. I’m doing a story about spelunking safety …”
“What safety?” interrupted Brunauer.
“Spelunking. Caving.”
“Oh.”
“I understand that some years ago a young woman died when exploring an undocumented cave near Lewistown. Were you around for that case?”
“Sure. Beth Barboza. What magazine did you say you’re from?”
“Sports Illustrated,” said Firth. “I understand that the circumstances surrounding the recovery of her body were quite unusual.”
“You could say that. A woman named Ann Kinnear located the body—I’m getting a lot of calls about her lately.”
“Who else is calling about Ann Kinnear?”
“Detective from Philly. What did you say your name was?”
“Smith.” Biden couldn’t remember what first name he had given. His hand was suddenly slippery on the phone. “Why was a detective from Philadelphia interested in Ann Kinnear?”
“Can’t recall off-hand. Hold on a minute, I probably have some notes here somewhere ...”
Biden didn’t hear any telltale rattling of papers or clicking of computer keys. He felt his breath getting short. He pushed his thumbnail under the nail of his index finger, into the quick. “I have a call coming in from my editor, I have to take this—”
“Sure, just give me a phone number and I’ll call you back.”
There wasn’t a number on the phone. Biden rattled off a random series of numbers.
“You going to be there for a while?” said Brunauer.
“Sure,” said Biden and hung up. What was going on? Was it possible that Joe Booth was actually taking Ann Kinnear’s skills seriously? Biden wiped his hands down the sides of his pants, his gouged finger leaving a small smear of blood. Taking a deep breath, he started down the street, sidestepping to avoid a teenager in an Alice in Chains t-shirt from whose earbuds the strains of heavy metal were clearly audible. Biden was about to hit the key fob button to unlock the Mercedes when he heard the phone ringing.
Alice had just reached the pay phone and stopped�
��how could he possibly hear anything with that music blasting in his ears? He looked around, shrugged, and, pulling out one of the earbuds, picked up the phone. Biden unlocked the Mercedes with his key—he wanted to avoid even the chirp of the key fob-activated unlock—and slipped into the car just as the teenager looked up and down the street and, shaking his head, said something into the phone. After another minute of conversation he hung up the phone, replaced his earbud, and continued down the street, Biden feeling as if he could still hear the sound of discordant strings and drums in his head.
*****
An hour later, Biden was seated behind his desk with a scotch, staring at his dormant computer monitor. If he could just spend some time online on his own computer, not hunched over a PC in some fucking library or internet cafe—he was always sure that the person next to him was looking over his shoulder—he could save himself a lot of trouble.
Why had he followed the Kinnears? It had been a way to kill some time—he had been vaguely curious about what a psychic would look like (more normal than he had expected, actually fairly attractive) and he had expected to be able to follow her back to her home or office, but it looked like her services were more high end than he had thought if she flew in from, as it turned out, upstate New York.
But it had turned into something more serious if Joe Booth was taking an interest in her. What would a Philadelphia detective want with some “spirit senser,” as her web site called her? Booth didn’t take her seriously ... did he?
Well, if the man investigating his wife’s murder was taking Ann Kinnear seriously, Biden would too.
Chapter 22
When they landed at Adirondack Regional, Ann left Walt to wash down the Arrow while she drove to his house, only a few miles from the airport, to pick up Beau who stayed with Helen Federman when Ann was away. Beau enjoyed playing with the Federman’s Jack Russell terrier, Fizz, and, Ann suspected, enjoyed eating people food that he didn’t get at home.
The Sense of Death: An Ann Kinnear Suspense Novel (The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels Book 1) Page 14