Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  "Loose shutter, blowing in the wind?"

  "I thought of that. Except the apartments in the complex don't have shutters." She looked down at the table. Swallowed. Straightened to stare across at Z.

  "Late at night, there's this ... moaning sound. To say nothing of the furniture being ... rearranged."

  "Rearranged?"

  "Yeah. I leave for work in the morning with everything in place. When I return at night, something has been ... moved."

  "Maintenance?" There was a service that cleaned apartments at the Bircane. Part of the lease.

  "On days when no one should be in the apartment. I checked with power and light and the gas company. They sent people out to look, but couldn't find what was making those sounds. ... Spooky sounds."

  People who heard "unusual noises" generally tried to hide it. Didn't want to end up in a padded cell in Tri-County.

  "I don't want to admit it," Susan began again, suddenly whispering, "but I may have ... a poltergeist in my apartment."

  "A ... what?"

  "A noisy spirit. One who moves things around. It sometimes happens when a teenager is nearby, but not always. For the first few nights, I was scared. But I've almost gotten used to it."

  "Can I help?" Z was expected to offer, even though ....

  "Nothing you can do, Z. This is job for an expert."

  "A priest?" When Susan got like this, Z had to jolly her along.

  "No. The only thing that will help someone like me, with no connection to a church, is to have a seance in my apartment. Discover what the spirit wants so it will go away."

  "Where'd you get that idea?"

  "I know it sounds ... crazy. But that's what it takes. I found that out because I've been talking to a lady who knows all about these things. She came into the insurance company. Lost. Wanted to talk to someone about purchasing a policy. And while she was waiting, we struck up a conversation. It turns out she's quite knowledgeable in the field. Pretty soon, we were chattering away like old friends. Even went to lunch together.

  "Anyway, talking about this and that, the topic came around to ghosts. And that led me to tell her about the noises. She seemed to understand just what I was talking about, because the same thing had happened to her, once. That's how she got so interested in the subject. She's done a lot of reading in order to find out what to do.

  "So here's where we left it. She's going to conduct a seance in my apartment next Wednesday night. Several of the girls at the office are going to come. And I want you to be there too, Z. To sort of hold my hand." Susan gave Z a crooked smile.

  No way Z was going to get mixed up with this. After the "ghost light" case Z had worked, he'd had enough of the "supernatural" to last a life time.

  "Please? You'd really like this girl I met. She's not ... weird. Doesn't talk or dress or act funny. You'd like her. Her name's Jamie Stewart."

  Z could feel the oxygen being sucked from Rembrandt's air. Barely able to talk, Z's last memory of lunch at Rembrandt's was croaking out, "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

  * * * * *

  Chapter 7

  The odd thing about the recent Jamie-Susan meeting was that Susan hadn't tumbled to who Jamie was. And she should have, Susan worming out of Z that he'd worked with a "Jamie Stewart." Why diamond-bright Susan hadn't connected her Jamie Stewart with Z's Jamie Stewart, he didn't know, perhaps because "Jamie Stewart" was such a common name. If that was the case, thank God Jamie's parents hadn't named her Penelope Stewart. Or Hildegard Stewart. Or Flossie Stewart. Or Hortensia ....

  It was only a question of time, however, before ....

  Z had to stop that line of thought! Torturing himself wasn't going to help. For now, his Jamie-secret was holding; for the future, he had to find a way to keep Susan and Jamie apart!

  Adding to his troubles, Susan had called Friday night with some additional excuse why she couldn't see Z on either Saturday or Sunday.

  No fun times planned with Susan, he'd slept most of Saturday morning, going out for something less fattening than a peanut butter sandwich for lunch -- a double pepperoni pizza at Pizza Hut. It was at Pizza Hut, in fact -- nothing satisfying the inner man like gooey cheese and hog jowl drippings -- that he'd begun to put together a plan to regain control of his life. (While Z seemed to be having a lot of trouble with Susan these days, he still loved her too much to see brash Jamie Stewart threaten his and Susan's relationship.) It was bad enough that Jamie had found Susan's workplace and had been talking to Susan. Simply impossible to have Jamie invited into Susan's apartment. To say nothing of the sick feeling Z had about what Jamie would want to see once she'd gotten herself inside.

  At the same time, Z was thinking about a way to shore up yet another uneasy front of Z's increasingly chaotic life, Z deciding -- just before scarfing down the last pizza piece -- to give the Kunkle house another once-over. No way the cops would be watching the house now. Anyway, Z was pretty good at spotting a stakeout. No. Z was determined to give the Kunkle place another toss.

  Thinking about what he'd found at Kunkle's house, Z remembered something John Dosso said about little Howie, that Kunkle was a small-time gambler, A bit of information that explained the decks of cards Kunkle had in the secret drawer. As for the rest of the stuff in there ....?

  The plan Z thought up, while munching down the final bite of pizza crust, was to kill two birds (Jamie and Kunkle) with one stone, so to speak. What he'd do was get Jamie to "aid him" on the Kunkle case; ask her to use her special "magic" to help him search the place. After tossing Kunkle's pathetic house and pretending to pay attention to whatever Jamie came up with -- women loved to be paid attention to -- Z would find a way to play on Jamie's sympathy in order to get her to call off the seance.

  No matter what, Z had to keep Jamie and Susan apart. Nothing good could come from those two being together!

  Going to his office from the Pizza Hut, Z found he had a message to call D.J. Jewell, Z dialing and getting the man sooner than Z expected.

  The only day of the week Jewell wasn't either working on his radio show or doing it, the D.J. said, was Sunday. So he wanted Z's interview tomorrow evening at six -- Z reluctantly saying OK -- Jewell giving him directions.

  The rest of Saturday, plus all day Sunday, passing slowly as it always did without Susan, Z set out at 5:30 for the address Jewell had given him, Jewell's apartment in the snazzy new Valley Forge complex a couple miles off Barry Road.

  Easy to find, particularly since the appointment was in the early evening, the sun still two hours from going to ground.

  Through the outer wall of the development, past an eventually-to-be-manned security station, Z had no trouble locating the row of two-story buildings Jewell had indicated.

  Parking -- to the odor of recent macadam, new-sawn boards, fresh latex, and well-watered sod -- Z crossed the asphalt road inside the apartment addition, hopping the curb to pass toy shrubbery that in a year or two, would become bushes.

  This particular group of apartments was designed to look like a New England town, the manager's apartment building complete with a clock tower sporting a copper weather vane shaped like a fish. The individual units were painted blue or gray with white board trim.

  Jewell had said to go to the first fourplex down the right branch of the access road. Apartment A-1.

  Easy. Z was a detective, after all.

  At the proper door, set in the proper-shaded alcove, Z pushed the buzzer to hear chimes from inside.

  Two beats and the door opened, the D.J. appearing, Jewell dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt. Also white slacks and shoes. Looked like he was wearing a hazmat suit.

  "Come in," Jewell said in his rich baritone, Z entering.

  Jewell was a short, small-boned guy with big ears, tiny nose, and the eerily unlined skin of a man who made his living under artificial lights.

  Though Z knew better, he was again struck by how little a person's voice resembled a person's looks.

  Closing the door, Jewell led Z into wha
t builders were calling a Great Room, a peaked, story-and-a-half chamber that combined living room, dining room and den, these areas set off, not by walls, but by furniture groups. The space looked even larger because practically everything in the room was white. Walls, sofa, chairs, carpet. All white, with accents of dark green.

  Fronting the sofa were two end-to-end, flat topped trunks, the containers serving as a coffee table. Two limed-oak chairs completed the "living room" part of the open area.

  A freeze-dried tree decorated one wall.

  A tall fern, another.

  Covering what looked like an entire wall of windows, were full-length, pleated draperies -- also white.

  Specialized furnishings marked off other areas, one end of the room set off by a bookshelf, a grouping of chairs and a low couch.

  The other end of the Great Room contained a small, but formal

  dining table -- enameled a dark shade of white -- and four slender, ivory-colored chairs with padded nubby-silk seats.

  WHITE OUT, was Z's overall impression, Z feeling that without an Eskimo's slit glasses in this quietly howling wilderness, he would soon go snow blind.

  "Nice," is what Z said.

  "This is just temporary. Until the house I'm having built in Leawood is finished. For all I know, Kansas City may be temporary. My show's mix of talk and rock is doing so well it's attracting national attention. Could find a spot in L.A. or the Big Apple."

  After proclaiming his excellence, Jewell pulled up one of the smaller wood chairs, then, the other, placing the chairs on either side of the trunks coffee table.

  They sat.

  "Before we start," the D.J. said, his voice a rich rumble even without amplification, "let me get us a drink."

  "Don't drink."

  "Never?"

  "Well ...."

  "I've found in this business that people being interviewed sometimes feel a certain amount of stress. Perfectly normal, I assure you. On my radio show, people call in from the comfort of their own homes. And even they have trouble saying what's on their minds. Hem and Haw. Stutter around. What I'm trying to say is that a drink would help you relax. Help you to just be yourself."

  "OK."

  Rising, Jewell went to a cabinet that Z hadn't seen -- its off-white hue blending with the wall's shadow. Opening the double-swinging doors, Jewell pulled down a foldout bar; took a flat bottle from a narrow glass shelf; got two medium-sized glasses.

  Unstoppering the decanter, he poured each of them a drink.

  Returning with the glasses in one hand and the uncapped bottle in the other, Jewell sat wearily.

  Putting the frosted flask on the table, taking a quick gulp from one glass, he handed the other drink to Z.

  Accepting the amber-colored liquid, Z took a swig. Stifled a cough.

  Now and again, Z drank a little beer, but was not used to ... whatever this was. .........

  The second sip went down more smoothly, though.

  "That's better," Jewell said, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand. "Being a D.J. looks easy. All the D.J. has to do is talk. Yak, yak. All day long. Men come up to me in the street and tell me their wife would make a perfect radio personality. Nag, nag, nag. Day and night."

  "I've been doing this job, or one similar to it for twenty-five years, my friend. And this is the first time I've hit it big. Got to have snappy patter, sure. Helps to have transcripts of what other jocks are saying across the country. But the secret is something deeper. Talent. That's the secret. Some got it, some don't. I always had it. It just took me a long time to find the right vehicle. And that's talk radio.

  "In the bad old days, I spun 'platters' -- golden oldies. Did weather. Hell, I did farm market reports when I was on Radio Nebraska. Sow bellies. Hog futures. Done about every damn thing there was to do around a radio station. When I was a pup and there were still a few radio dramas trying to compete with TV, I did sound effects. But the right vehicle is talk radio.

  "There's a lot of competition, though. Got to be timely. Got to shock the listeners so the great unwashed will call in and shoot off their mouths. It helps to have a crazy or two out there. Regulars who call in. The kind of fools the rest of us love to hate. Ku Kluxers. Black militants. Fem libbers. Dykes. And if you pick up a mad bomber, that's heaven!"

  Z didn't know what to say. He hadn't heard much talk radio; and what he had, he didn't like. Seemed to him like an opportunity for folks to show their prejudice. Display their hatred for people unlucky enough to be on welfare. Show disrespect for young people. Women. The government. (While, at the same time, hiding their faces.) He'd heard some people brag about how they'd made their pile all on their own, so they shouldn't have to pay taxes. What they meant -- but didn't say -- was that, though they'd gone to public schools themselves, they didn't want to pay to educate "nigger" kids.

  Call-in radio was the place to say nasty things about community leaders who were trying to help the poor. Calling them leftists. Or liberals, said with a sneer. The attitude seemed to be, I got mine and to hell with everybody else.

  Z didn't say that, of course. Took another drink to calm himself down.

  Z's parents were proud, hard-working people who, through bad luck in the depression, never had a pot to piss in. The insurance company had reneged on his Father's life insurance policy, leaving his Mother destitute. His mother, who sewed and even did other people's wash, never could save up two nickels to rub together, to say nothing of being able to afford health insurance. It was because of self-satisfied people saying that folks like Z's Mother were trash, that she'd refused to go to a "charity" hospital. It was people like that who'd made his Mother too ashamed to live!

  Z took another nip to bring some warmth back to his cheeks.

  "Well, to business," Jewell said, picking up the bottle, freshening up his drink and Z's. "I know what the police are supposed to be doing, whether or not they're doing it. I know about county sheriffs. And federal law enforcement. And security guards of one kind or the other. Falling through the cracks, are private investigators. Just what is it you do?"

  "Anything."

  "By which you mean ...?"

  "What the client wants."

  "And if the client wants something done that's illegal?"

  "That's different."

  "I ... see. Perhaps if you told me how you make your living, it'll be a place to start."

  "Security work, sometimes."

  "By that I take it you shadow someone suspected of stealing business secrets. Stealing clients."

  "Also protection."

  "Being a bodyguard?"

  "Yeah. And divorce work."

  "I think we've see enough of that on TV to be familiar with the divorce aspect of your job. Unless you have something to add that will flesh out the popular perception of the P.I. breaking through the bedroom door, camera at the ready."

  "It's not all taking dirty pictures. It's running down child support delinquents."

  "Do much of that?"

  "Not me."

  "Why?"

  "Costs to travel."

  "I see. And what else?"

  "There's warranty work."

  "Yeah?"

  "Had a case where a contractor provided poor service. Refused to honor his guarantee."

  "So where did you come in?"

  "I was hired to reason with the contractor."

  "Threaten him?"

  That was exactly what Z had to do, though Z didn't think it wise to admit it.

  Z felt ... light-headed. Maybe it was the liquor. He'd have to be careful what he said.

  "Just pointed out the problem. He made it good."

  "I'm sure."

  Was Jewell being sarcastic? It was hard for Z to tell, Z also having a little trouble seeing, at the moment. The whiteness of the place was beginning to get to him.

  "Is it always private citizens who hire your services?"

  "Mostly."

  "Ever work with the police?"

  "More beside the police
."

  "Could you give an example?"

  "Parents of a missing girl. The cops couldn't find her. I did." Unfortunately, Z had found the girl's decomposed body in a Johnson County field.

  "I guess what I meant was, do the police ever ask for your services? Like, for instance, police departments have been known to call in a psychic now and then, to help them locate a missing person."

  "Not locally!"

  "Ah! Have I struck a little gold here? If I'm not mistaken, you just said, not only 'no', but 'hell no.' Does this mean that law enforcement doesn't exactly appreciate your services?"

  "Depends."

  "On what?"

  "Which law enforcement."

  "Go on."

  "I get along with K.C. cops OK. Did some cooperative work with Kansas City."

  "But ...?"

  "Don't see eye-to-eye with Gladstone."

  "Let's see." From his shirt pocket, the D.J. took out a piece of paper. Unfolded it. Scanned the contents. "The Gladstone force would be lead by ... a Captain named ...."

  "Scherer."

  "I gather that you and the captain don't get along?" the D.J. said softly, tucking his law enforcement checklist back in his shirt pocket.

  "Right."

  "Why?"

  Z wanted to say because Scherer was an asshole. But didn't. Z wanted to say a lot of things about Scherer. Instead, kept it low key. "I messed him up, once."

  "Got in the way of one of his cases?"

  "You could put it that way."

  "Tell me about it."

  "It was Scherer's Betterton bust. Scherer thought he had Mrs. Betterton for narcotics. Found a lot of weed in a van she was supposed to have been driving. Arrested her. That was to be his ticket to big-time politics in Clay County. Mr. Drug Crusader. Only I proved Mrs. Betterton was somewhere else at the time. Took the wind out of Scherer's sails."

  "You say the captain's arrest was politically motivated?"

  "It was to be his big claim to fame as a drug fighter. Except he didn't do his job."

  "How's that?"

  "If I could find out the whereabouts of Mrs. Betterton, he could have, too."

  "What you're saying is that Captain Scherer is incompetent."