In the Dead of Night

by Aiden James

  What I wouldn’t give for just a little private Idaho, man.

  Thank God, Friday finally got here, with the prospect of a busy weekend. Fiona and I are about to meet with Shirley Miller, Candi’s mom, depending upon traffic. Still struggling with terrible grief from the loss of her only child, Shirley was kind enough to allow us full access inside Candi’s estate. Just as long as we get there by 4:00 p.m. sharp. That’s a helluva lot more than what Fiona expected before the two spoke yesterday afternoon.

  At least my wife got a much better response than the one I received when I spoke to my boss yesterday morning. I could almost see Matilda’s head spin, like the vomiting little tart in The Exorcist

  “What for now?!” she snapped, loud enough for me to pull the phone’s receiver away from my ear “How in the hell am I going to explain this to Peter? We’re already short staffed with all of the other vacations going on!”

  “Would he take a written excuse from a friendly neighborhood homicide detective?” I hoped she saw more humor than sarcasm in my words. “It’s not like I can apply for FMLA or some other personal leave, right? I mean, I doubt our medical officer in Florida would agree that ‘a psycho killer threatening to slice n’ dice my family and me into tiny bits’ qualifies for leniency.”

  “You don’t have to be a smartass to make your point!”

  The hell you say, Matilda Baby.

  As long as my boss sides with the corporate dark side, I’ll be her huckleberry.

  “Would you rather have a limp biscuit as your top dog?”

  “No,” she shot back sternly, and then chuckled. The tension over the phone began to dissipate. “I prefer you being the guy running things for me on the floor. But I’d really prefer that you do it in person!”

  “I’ll try to be back in the office on Monday, okay?” I suggested, making sure my tone remained upbeat. “Maybe things will finally lighten up for us over the weekend.”

  “Don’t you have a gig this Saturday?”

  Shit! I forgot I told her about it…must’ve been a couple of months ago. She has a memory like an elephant.

  “Yeah…but there’s no guarantee I’ll actually get to play,” I lied. Damned straight I’ll be there—with or without a police escort. “I imagine I’ll be holed up here in Goodlettsville all weekend.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that…I know your music is important to you,” she said, her voice much quieter. “I hope somehow it works out.”

  “Me, too.”

  After a rundown regarding my team’s performance, she let me go. Next, I touched base with the few friends of ours who had VIP passes for the gig on Saturday, including Freddie Marlowe, my reporter friend, and his wife, Trisha. If not for the continued string of murders, Fiona and I would’ve probably gotten together with the Marlowes for a barbecue a week or so ago.

  The other good news came from Jackie this morning. Angie was released from the hospital after breakfast. It made for a fairly long drive for us down to Franklin earlier this afternoon, since Fiona couldn’t wait until later this weekend to visit her and Jackie. The ranch they’re staying at is real sweet, man, and a great place to hole up for awhile. Angie looks great, considering what she went through, and her wounds are healing pretty quickly.

  It totally blew me away when Angie insisted on doing the investigation she scheduled for us this Sunday. I guess she’s afraid if we postpone the event, it’ll get canceled or replaced with another locale. But seeing Muscle Mutt’s determination to go from needing crutches to walking on her own—with only a slight limp—less than two days after her attack, I wouldn’t feel right seeking a postponement. Neither does Fiona.

  There must be something in all that PowerAde shit and whatever hyped- up protein mixes and vitamins Angie takes. Even her bruises and cuts are healing up pretty fast….

  “We’re here to see Shirley Miller,” Fiona told the guard at Finley Farms’ main entrance, the posh neighborhood where Candi used to reside. 3:55 p.m. We made it with a few minutes to spare.

  Behind the gate’s steel bars and the neighborhood’s protective tree line loomed the tops of several large mansions. The guard phoned Ms. Miller, who awaited our arrival at Candi’s sprawling Italianate estate.

  “Man…too bad you can’t take it with you,” I said, drawing a look of reproach from my dear wife, once we pulled up to the three-story mansion. “It’s just a joke, babe. Seriously,” I added, after regretting my initial observation. Or, at least the reaction I got in response to my initial observation. Candi’s former home is so-o-o nice.

  “I’m sure she would’ve readily parted with stuff like this if her life could’ve been spared,” she said, her tone a bit perturbed at my obvious fascination with Candi’s fabulous estate. “There’s Shirley.”

  Fiona finished parking Nan’s Cadillac in the circular drive in front of the mansion. Honestly, this particular place has always made me feel a little envious. Okay, a lot of envy, since it’d be damned hard to find a more rock n’ roll pad anywhere else east of L.A. Imported marble from Milan, along with the finest glass and millwork this side of the Atlantic. Six million was the original price tag a couple of years ago when Candi purchased the property from one of the top music execs at Sony Nashville. At least that’s what Fiona told me awhile back.

  “Hi Fiona....Jimmy,” Shirley greeted us, motioning for us to join her on the front porch. “It’s good to see you both.”

  “It’s good to see you, too,” I told her, echoed by Fiona. “We really appreciate your allowing us to come here today.”

  Shirley nodded in response and then she and my wife embraced tightly while I waited nearby, again admiring the expensive craftsmanship. I also kept an eye out for anything unusual, following my instincts as an experienced paranormal investigator. Fiona told me on the way here how Shirley looks at that sort of thing as a load of bull. So, I’ll need to be very discreet as far as taking pictures is concerned. Damned straight I planned to snap a few in case Candi’s around to show us something from the other side.

  Once inside the house we moved quickly, since Shirley advised Fiona yesterday she’d only allow us ten to fifteen minutes upstairs. Even as we climbed the grand staircase to Candi’s bedroom upstairs, I could tell how much being here tore Shirley up. She’s dealing with a level of pain and torture I hope to never know, made worse since this was her only child. Unthinkable. To her credit she’s trying to stand strong, and has only hung her head twice to where her long blonde hair covered her face. But each time she’s looked up at us, her sky blue eyes have been misty with redness around the rims.

  “We’ll be back in just a moment…unless you care to join us,” said Fiona, as we neared the top of the stairs. Candi’s enormous bedroom sat to the right of the staircase.

  “No, thanks,” said Shirley, moving away from the foyer. “I’ll be in the kitchen and will meet you down here when you’re finished.”

  Fiona led the way to the bedroom. The double doors were already open, which made me feel less intrusive. I’d never been upstairs before, since the get-togethers I was invited to in the past took place downstairs or outside near the pool.

  “I’m not sure exactly where to look, so why don’t you follow me instead of splitting up like usual?” my wife suggested, leading the way inside the room.

  Sounded like a good idea. My biggest concern was getting overwhelmed by the room’s opulence. No expense had been spared, or so it seemed. Thomasville, Chippendale, and other brands Fiona told me catered only to those with money. Lots of it.

  At first glance, eight hundred square feet seems like a lot to cover. But once I got over the sheer luxury of our surroundings, I began snapping pictures. Meanwhile, Fiona walked around with a frown on her face. Intense concentration…focused energy while she searched for the mysterious item Candi’s spirit told her about.

  “Any luck on figuring out what we’re supposed to take from here?” I asked, gently after a few minutes, so as not to disturb the flow of information from her guides. />
  “I’m not sure,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s something that was given as a casual gift…but at the same time was some sort of personal item.”

  Gee, that narrows it down. Every wall in the house was covered with gold records, signed guitars, and all sorts of paintings, prints, and other artwork from fans across the globe. Her bedroom walls might be less ostentatious than the industry stuff downstairs, but there were a number of ‘admirer’ items. Roughly fifty by my count.

  Fiona veered toward one corner of the room, where Candi’s vanity and armoire sat. Not sure what would be personal gifts among the rows of lipstick, nail polish, makeup, and brushes along her vanity’s mirrored surface, but there might be some very personal lingerie items stored inside the armoire. After grazing past the impressive cosmetic collection, Fiona stood in front of the armoire for a couple of minutes, questioning her guides quietly.

  “Nothing,” she muttered, turning to face me. “The only thing left to do is tear this place apart and I’m not comfortable doing that. Especially after Candi said the item would be readily apparent.”

  “So, I guess we should leave, huh?”

  I snapped another round of rapid shots, focused this time on the armoire and vanity.

  “Yeah…I guess we should,” she agreed.

  I could feel disappointment radiating from her, but it seemed pointless to stay there. Besides, I heard foot soles click against the marble-floored foyer below.

  Candi’s mom is restless and ready to leave….

  Fiona placed her camera back inside her purse and headed for the hallway. That’s when we heard it.

  I damn near jumped out of my skin. The noise was so unexpected, as I was lost in thought for just a moment. Something tipped onto the vanity and then rolled over to the edge and fell to the floor with a soft thud.

  The item lay on the carpet, glistening, and Fiona walked over to it.

  “What in the hell?”

  She bent down and gingerly picked it up, while retrieving a plastic sandwich bag from inside her purse.

  “I need you to open the bag so I can put this inside,” she told me, looking over her shoulder. “I don’t want to risk touching it too much.”

  She held the item by the very tip of its applicator/cap between her fingernails and showed it to me. It was a bottle of fingernail polish, some exotic purplish turquoise hue.

  “So, this is what she wanted you to find?”

  I took the baggie and opened it up, and awaited her reply.

  “I believe so.” She paused to shoot me a look to watch my tone. My best efforts to hide a slight smirk proved futile. “It’s all I have to go by, and you heard the damn thing roll off her vanity, same as me. Nothing else fits the description Candi gave me.”

  True.

  I bit my lip to keep from saying anything else. My next concern was how this would fly with Shirley when Fiona told her about it once we returned downstairs. And, yes, she would tell her. I guess it was part of the deal to get inside this place, even though Ms. Miller doesn’t buy into the ghost hunting business. Yet, Candi’s mom does believe in psychic premonitions to solve murders. She must be a Court TV fan.

  “Here’s what I’ll be turning over to the police,” Fiona told her, holding the baggie and its hostage for Shirley to view, once we returned downstairs. The nail polish’s hue seemed more lavender under the late afternoon sun’s rays shining through the immense foyer window above us. “Hopefully this will help them catch Candi’s killer.”

  “I hope so,” said Shirley, eyeing the bottle as most skeptical people would, her voice betraying deep sadness within. “And I hope they catch him before this monster hurts anyone else.”

  ***

  We drove through Candi’s posh neighborhood in silence, and it wasn’t until Fiona veered toward downtown Nashville that I realized we weren’t heading back to Stella’s place…at least not right away.

  “Where are we going next?” I asked.

  “Ed’s office,” she said. “I think he’ll forgive us for disobeying his orders to stay put at Auntie’s place once he sees this and hears the story behind it.”

  Oh joy. I could hardly wait to witness Dick Tracy’s initial reaction.

  “Seriously, Jimmy, it’s the right thing to do,” she told me, and I could hear the growing agitation in her voice. I need to do a much better job of hiding my disdain. “Especially since Candi told me there are fingerprints to identify the killer.”

  “Huh??”

  “Yes!”

  Now she was really irritated.

  “Okay, I believe you!” I sought to assure her. “Fingerprints would definitely be easiest to lift from a glass surface. And, from what you told me last week, Ed told you there was only a partial print left at Johnny’s place. Everywhere else the killer has struck, the dude wore gloves.”

  “So, this could prove to be something big...very big,” she said, her tone much calmer. “Ed can get the forensic specialists to put the prints through the national data base for a match on known felons. I’ve always felt the killer has done this before. If a full print from the bottle matches the partial and also belongs to a previously convicted felon, the police will know for sure who they’re looking for.”

  “Meaning a quick arrest, I imagine,” I added, picturing the sequence of likely events. “I guess this means we might know right away if the killer is Vito Travini, or worse, one of our friends.”

  I turned to look at her, her eyes fixed on the road. But her deliberate slow nod told me she thought the same thing.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Saturday afternoon, just after four-thirty.

  I almost feel like a bonafide rock star.

  I’m on my way to the biggest gig thus far in my fledgling music career. Wait, I need to take that back…no sense in being too humble about where I’ve been and where this might lead.

  I’m standing at the door to the elusive Big Time.

  There that’s better…if only this were a limo instead of Mr. Ed’s cruiser.

  Yeah, that sucks. Add to this fact my wife’s riding in the front passenger seat, and this definitely is not how I envisioned my trip to our Green Hills destination.

  Fiona had little choice of where to sit, as Ed wanted a full rundown on her current ‘impressions’ regarding the murder case. The little nail polish bottle was sent to the lab for analysis last night, with preliminary findings available as early as tomorrow afternoon. But of course he wants more.

  He treats her like some damned genie—hell, he looks at her like my dad used to ogle Barbara Eden’s character on “I Dream of Jeannie”. Wishing he could rub her curves and get three wishes granted. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce what that’d mean for ole Dick Tracy.

  “Are you nervous, hon’?” Fiona asked me, reaching over the seat to rub my knee affectionately.

  I hope Ed caught that.

  “Just a little, babe,” I told her, taking this opportunity to overdo it just a bit, grasping her hand and kissing it. Stuff I normally practice discreetly, between us. Not this time…it’s definitely show n’ tell time.

  Today, Ed has had very little to say to me beyond the basic pleasantries. A weak façade to his true contempt, I assume, and back to his normal Hob-Goblin self. He probably hopes I choke and fall off stage tonight, and end up impaled on my fretless Fender.

  Okay, I’ll drop it…for now.

  Fiona’s hope that he’d go easy on us for breaking our curfew didn’t turn out that way. It pissed him off, royally. Hence the police escort to the gig tonight. I better get ready to ham this up, or my band buddies will never let me live it down—regardless of the legitimate danger hanging over us.

  “There’s the entrance,” advised my wife, pointing to a wrought iron gate nearly as ornate as the gate we encountered at Candi’s exclusive neighborhood yesterday. “Do you know anyone working tonight?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Ed, looking over at the two Metro cruisers parked on eit
her side of the entrance.

  Four of Nashville’s finest guarded the entrance, holding nightsticks and wearing riot helmets. It’d be a terrible decision to try to crash this party. These suckers looked like they’d enjoy busting somebody, or at least bust their chops with a little harassment number. Their eyes lay hidden behind reflective shades, and they resemble giant menacing wasps.

  The cops stopped the car, and this was one time I doubt Detective Ed Silver could’ve gotten us inside on his merits. I thought we might have to get out and walk. But then Fiona told them who I am, and just like that they let us in.

  That’s totally awesome.

  Our manager, Michael Dickenson, really came through this time. What the band originally considered a significant ‘step down’ from our normal venues gained immediate credibility just now. And at Mr. Ed’s expense, at least a little.

  It stayed like this all the way inside, until we reached the main grounds beyond a sprawling mansion much bigger than Candi’s place. The area was packed with people and carnival tents. After Ed parked his cruiser, we were led by several event attendants to where the band gathered, near a large stage. Michael—all five foot-six of him—seemed aglow as he stood near my buddies, his intense blue eyes on fire. It’s definitely money time. He greeted me, then Fiona, who introduced him to Ed. Several A&R people from Nashville and New York were here, too.

  I forgot their names almost as quickly as they introduced themselves, on account of my nerves. Only Jim Stanford from Mercury, since I’d met him a couple of years ago. He’s a friend of Max’s and a heavy metal freak, despite working in the record company’s country division.

  “Bro, over here!”

  Ricky called me away, and I hesitated, wondering if I should bring Fiona with me. She could tell before I did that the invitation was for me alone, since the band wanted to review the playlist before hitting the stage