The Sense of Death: An Ann Kinnear Suspense Novel (The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels Book 1)

by Matty Dalrymple

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  “What do you see?” she replied.

  “Asked you first,” he said with the ghost of a smile.

  She scanned the clearing. “Faint lights, maybe twenty of them, about five or six feet off the ground, moving slowly back and forth, sort of like a wave. Sometimes coming together in the middle of the clearing and sometimes moving apart.” They continued watching in silence for a few minutes. Finally Ann said, “What do you see?”

  “Soldiers. Soldiers in a battle.”

  “Soldiers? How can you tell?”

  “Because they don’t look like lights to me. They look like men. Men in uniform.”

  Ann looked at Masser and then back at the lights. She had thought of them originally as beautiful, even calming, but the way they moved, coming together and breaking apart, swaying first one way then the other—they were the movements of men locked in combat. And now she sensed a faint crimson tint to the lights, like a few drops of red paint added to white, like killing anger dimmed by many, many years.

  “How did you know they were here?” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  “In the parlor, before dinner, on that interminable tour, one of them came in and said, ‘Hurry, they’re here!’ and ran out.”

  Ann smiled despite herself. “You told the owner you didn’t sense anything.”

  “I certainly was not going to give that officious little twit the satisfaction of knowing that his inn is haunted.”

  Ann looked back to the clearing where the lights were beginning to fade, sinking into the ground like fireflies in reverse. “Why did you tell me?”

  “I was curious if you would see it.” Ann watched the last light flicker out as Masser turned back to the inn. “Plus, they weren’t lights to me. I could follow their sound but it was faint. I thought since you are sensitive to the light essence you would be able to locate them more quickly and we didn’t have much time. Let’s get back before your tedious brother notices we’re missing.” And he strode off through the orchard, leaving Ann to struggle back in his wake.

  When Ann got back to the inn, Masser was nowhere to be seen—she assumed he had gone back to the sitting room. She returned to the ladies’ room to tend to the damage done by her walk through the orchard. She used some paper towels to clean the mud from her shoes and, finding that a branch had torn a hole in her panty hose, removed them, and, after stuffing them into a feminine hygiene disposal bag, threw them into the trash can. She wasn’t sure why, but she wanted to keep her visit to the orchard with Garrick Masser a secret.

  When she got back to the sitting room the party was breaking up, Mike had made his cape comment, and Masser was sulking on the front porch waiting for the bus to be brought around. When they boarded, Masser took a seat in the back while Mike chose one toward the front for himself and Ann.

  “Window?” he said, standing aside for her.

  “Thanks.” She scooted in and tried looking out the window but it was opaque in the darkness, revealing only a hazy reflection of the interior.

  “What happened to your stockings?” he asked, dropping into the seat next to her.

  “Only a gay guy would notice something like that. I got a runner and threw them away. Why do you still have a drink?”

  Mike swirled what looked and smelled like the remains of a scotch on the rocks. “I figured he owed me one to go after mistaking me for the famous Ann Kinnear.” He took a sip and said contemplatively, “I would have thought straight guys would be more likely to notice missing stockings.”

  Ann was vaguely irritated that Mike was willing to take her explanation at face value—it took her adventure in the orchard and turned it into a sartorial inconvenience. She turned back to the window.

  Then she realized why she wanted to keep her experience with Masser a secret—it was the first time in her life that she had shared the experience of sensing spirits with another person, even if the way they had experienced it had been quite different. Masser had sought her out to share the experience—had, in fact, required her assistance. It had involved a kind of intimacy.

  Before now, outside of her consulting engagements, Ann had only spoken about her sensings with Mike—and, of course, briefly with Dan. She was eternally grateful to Mike just for believing her—having him as a salve to the wounds inflicted by all those who thought she was unbalanced or an attention-monger or a liar had saved her sanity, she felt sure. When she did talk with him about her sensings, Mike responded just as she would have hoped—seriously interested but not agog. But speaking with him about her experiences was like an explorer of the North Pole trying to explain his experience to the armchair traveler—as attentive and appreciative an audience as the armchair traveler might be, he would never truly understand the arctic explorer’s experience.

  But Masser did understand—in fact, he understood even more than she did. He had seen and heard the spirits as they had been in life—she had no doubt of that. And she had no doubt either he could communicate with them if he wanted to—the test Corey Duff had posed for Masser in the documentary had convinced her. In comparison to Masser’s talents, her own were puny, like a parlor trick. But far from making her feel inadequate or jealous, it gave her a feeling of comfort—that she was not alone in her abilities, and that there was someone she might look to for guidance in how to navigate the “normal” world from her abnormal perspective.

  Then she heard a murmured query from the back of the bus and Masser’s response—“Don’t be an imbecile!”—and, smiling slightly, decided that perhaps Garrick Masser should not be her sole model for managing her relationships with her fellow mortals.

  Chapter 32

  Biden pushed the door of the Trenton pawn shop open and jumped as a bell on the door jingled. Despite the “disguise” he had obtained at the Swarthmore Goodwill store—tan work pants, a denim shirt, a Phillies baseball cap, and sneakers—he felt ridiculously out of place. The shop was dark and as Biden waited for his eyes to adjust he heard a voice from the back of the store.

  “Help you?”

  Biden made his way down a narrow cleared space between old television sets, kerosene heaters, and ancient bikes on one side and a grimy glass-topped case containing jewelry on the other, his eyes gradually acclimating to the dim light but his sight clouded now by the fug of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

  The man behind the counter at the back of the store was just what Biden would have expected in a place like this—cheap western-style shirt with fake mother-of-pearl buttons, a greasy comb-over, rheumy eyes.

  Biden spoke with what he hoped would pass for an Eastern European accent. “I need some protection—” he began.

  “They got machines in the men’s room for that,” said the man with what could have been a laugh or a cough.

  “Uh, not that kind of protection,” said Biden. “I drive a cab. I need protection in case someone tries to rob me.”

  “Oh, that kind of protection,” said the man. “Anything particular in mind?”

  “No. Something inexpensive.” Biden thought he should probably have said “cheap.”

  “Inexpensive, eh?” The man looked down into the glass case he was leaning on where rows of handguns were laid out on display. The man unclipped a ring of keys from his belt, sorted through them, and opened the case. “What did you have in mind spending?”

  “I don’t know,” said Biden, hating the situation more with each passing moment. “I can pay cash. Up to five hundred dollars.”

  The man scanned the case. “Five hundred, eh?” He reached for one of the guns on the top shelf.

  “And it has to be off the record,” added Biden quickly.

  “Off the record?” said the man, his hand wavering. “I don’t do off the record.”

  “I’m afraid they’ll take my cab license away if they knew,” said Biden.

  The man snorted. “Who’s going to find out? Your boss?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid they’ll
find out,” repeated Biden.

  The man looked at him, Biden struggling to meet his gaze. After a time the man picked up a cigarette from someplace behind the counter, took a drag, and replaced it. Biden waited.

  “Five hundred dollars, you said,” said the man, smoke coming from his mouth and nose as he spoke.

  Biden nodded, trying not to cough.

  The man reached down to the bottom shelf and pulled out a gun. It looked like a toy in comparison to the other guns in the case.

  “It’s ... small,” Biden said feebly.

  “It’s perfect for you,” said the man. “Enclosed space like that—if you’re going to be shooting someone in the back seat of your cab you don’t want to make a big mess, right?”

  “Right.” Biden picked up the gun and turned it over in his hand.

  “Easy to conceal, too,” added the man, taking another puff of his cigarette and blowing the smoke into Biden’s face. “Listen, you’re that close—from you to me—you don’t need a big gun. You just stick that baby into the robber’s face,” the man pushed two fingers, held out like a gun barrel, up to Biden’s face, “and BANG, problem solved.”

  Between the churning of his stomach and the smoke in his face, Biden began to be afraid he would throw up. “Sure, that’s good,” he said, “I’ll take it.”

  “Five hundred cash,” said the man. “Want it wrapped?” And he gave the hacking laugh again.

  “No,” said Biden. He took an envelope out of his pocket with five hundred dollars in it—a second envelope in his other pocket contained $1,000 since he had had no idea how much a gun would cost—and handed the cash to the man who counted it and then slid the gun across the counter to Biden.

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  “Want ammo for it?”

  Biden swore to himself. “Yes, ammo too.”

  The man disappeared behind the counter and after some shuffling and muttering reappeared with a small box.

  “Twenty bucks.”

  Biden considered arguing—after all, he had already told the man he only had $500—but he wanted to get out of there. He took out his wallet and, opening it as little as possible, pulled out a twenty and placed it on the counter. Biden was unsure what to do next. The man took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled smoke out his nose. After a moment he said, cigarette still dangling from his mouth, “Bag?”

  “No.” Biden slipped the gun into his pants pocket—he hoped it wasn’t loaded—and turned toward the door.

  “Hey, buddy,” said the man, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

  Biden turned back to him.

  “It’s called a hack license.”

  The trip to the pawn shop had not gone well—he had made it too complicated. “Hack license,” not “cab license”—he should have thought of that, but he couldn’t even do research on the fucking internet at home. He shouldn’t have made up a story to tell that scum, he should have just put on a pair of sunglasses and told him he wanted a gun. The idiot had been laughing at him—that was clear. Biden’s face burned to think of it.

  He had changed out of his pawn shop clothes at the visitors’ center at Valley Forge Park and disposed of them in a dumpster. It had been a ridiculously long detour but Biden figured that the less logical his movements were, the more difficult is would be for someone to follow his tracks.

  He was home now, in the master bathroom with the door locked, like a randy teenager. He had sent Joan out to pick up some Chinese take-out and, as she always did these days, she had taken Sophia with her. He was going to have to spend more time with Sophia—he had happened upon her in the kitchen the other day holding onto Joan’s pants leg and peering up at the counter where Joan was stirring something and Biden had ruffled her hair in what he considered to be an appropriately paternal display of affection. She had cried and Joan said it was just because she was startled but Biden suspected it was because for a moment Sophia hadn’t known who he was. He would spend more time with her when things were settled.

  He pulled the gun out of the bag he had used to smuggle it into the house. As a boy he had gone skeet shooting with his father during a trip to Scotland but he hadn’t held a gun since then. In the pawn shop it had looked small but now, resting in his hand, it looked deadly enough. He had initially been alarmed when he realized that the pawn shop owner had sold him a revolver, not a pistol, but as he examined it he realized its simplicity was an advantage—no need to sneak off to the library to research how to use a more complicated gun. He spent some time seeing how quickly he could load and unload the gun and soon he found himself liking the small size, the idea that he could go anywhere with it and no one would know. And if he had to use it he planned to use it up close.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he liked what he saw—powerful, not a man to be trifled with. He raised the gun and pointed it at his reflection. “I’m not going to let you fuck me up, you bitch. I’m going to do this right.” He slowly squeezed the trigger—the click of the empty chamber was loud in the tiled room and he jumped. “Fuck,” he muttered. His hands shaking, he put the gun and the ammunition in an old leather toiletries bag of his grandfather’s and, stowing it under some towels in the linen closet, snapped off the light as he heard Joan’s steps on the marble floor of the foyer below.

  Chapter 33

  A little over a month after his first Elizabeth Firth-related visit to the Delaware County Medical Examiner’s office, Joe was back, showing his badge to the gate guard and making his way to Roger Stanislas’s office. Today Roger was casual in a salmon cashmere sweater and grey slacks.

  “Cheerio, Detective, how goes the hunt?” he said cheerfully from behind his desk when Joe appeared at the door.

  “Not so good, Roger, I’m hoping you have something for me.”

  “I do, I do,” said Roger, waving Joe into a chair. He sat back and tossed his glasses on the desk. “I ran into your favorite Firth this weekend.”

  “Do tell,” said Joe tiredly.

  “Yes, indeed. Not looking like his usual patrician self these days. Looks to me like something is wearing on him.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows. “And what do you suppose that could be?”

  “I may have an idea.” Roger slid a manila folder out of the top drawer of his desk, set it on the blotter, and laid his hands on top of it, suddenly serious. “He’s been untouchable up until now, yes? Rich parents, expensive lawyers. But if you had something that even they couldn’t ignore ...”

  Joe sat forward. “And what might that be?”

  “We just got the report on the analysis of scrapings from the fingernails. God only knows what took them so long—maybe you have Firth Senior to thank. I just got it yesterday ...” Roger stood and gestured Joe to join him behind the desk. “More automobile carpet fibers, but different from the ones on the body and the sleeping bag.” Roger pulled a paper from the folder, a print out of what looked like a page from a car sales web site showing the open trunk of a car. “Not Biden Firth’s car but the same make and model, same year, same exterior color.” Roger pointed at the picture. “There were black fibers on the body and the sleeping bag but the fibers under her fingernails were gray.” Roger’s finger moved on the picture and he glanced up at Joe to see if he understood. By the tightening of Joe’s mouth and the narrowing of his eyes, Roger could that see he did.

  *****

  Joe sat in his car in the parking lot outside the ME’s office, contemplating a stormy gray sky that mirrored his mood. It had been almost three months since he had first interviewed Biden Firth after Elizabeth’s disappearance and over a month since her body had been found. He had interviewed every person with the slightest connection to the case, he had followed up on every lead. He had gotten himself involved with a woman who claimed to be able to sense spirits, for God’s sake. And all the while, Biden Firth had lived on in the house where Joe was sure he had murdered his wife, driving the car in which Joe was sure he had hidden
her body, living off his parents’ money and hiding behind their name. Amelia Dormand wanted her son-in-law locked up for killing her daughter and Joe was no closer to doing that now than he had been the day he had given her his jacket in the restaurant of the Hotel du Pont.

  Biden Firth had been lucky—but he had also been smart enough to keep his head down. Joe needed something to draw Firth out from behind his barricade—and now he thought he had it.

  Chapter 34

  Joe strode down the street toward Biden Firth’s house, Harry Deng hurrying to keep up.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Harry puffed.

  “I’ve run out of good ideas,” said Joe. “I’ve even run out of mediocre ideas. I’m relying on questionable ideas now.”

  “Wick’s not going to like it.” “Wick” was Joe and Harry’s boss, Margaret Fraker, the Wicked Witch of the West. There had been another nickname but Margaret had heard about it and there had been hell to pay.

  “She’ll only not like it if it doesn’t work. We don’t need him to break down and confess, we just need to rattle him a little. Enough to make a mistake.”

  “I hear Firth’s dad doesn’t like ‘rattling.’”

  “That’s why you’re here, so you can confirm that it didn’t get out of line.”

  “Great,” grumbled Harry.

  Joe knocked on the door of the Rittenhouse Square house and was surprised, but grimly pleased, when Biden Firth himself opened the door. Firth stood in the doorway looking at Joe wordlessly, as if he didn’t recognize him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Firth, may we come in?”

  “I didn’t expect you,” said Firth. “There’s somewhere I have to be. Is it urgent?”

  “A development in your wife’s case I’d like to update you on. It should just take a couple of minutes.”

  Firth hesitated for a moment and then stepped aside to let them enter, barely sparing a glance at Harry.

  “Where’s Joan today?” asked Joe as he stepped into the entrance hall.