Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  Almost asleep, curled comfortably around Susan's fetal flanks, Z heard, "... and I don't ... what to do ... Margaret."

  "Hmmmm," Z said, flecks of dream-stuff drifting behind his sleep-stitched lids.

  "All she wants ... is ... talk to me. And I've got work to do."

  "Hmm." A hmm Z hoped sounded like agreement.

  "She used to listen to the radio. And while that was also distracting, at least the radio didn't expect me to answer back."

  With his last waking breath, Z managed another "Hmm."

  "Z? Are you asleep?" Asked in a tone that implied he'd better not be.

  "Ummm."

  "Good. Now where was I? ... Oh, yes. And it's all the fault of the radio station."

  "Station." If barely connected to his brain, at least Z's lips were working.

  "Right. If they'd been nicer to Mr. Jewell, he wouldn't have left." No response. "You know, the talk show host who interviewed you."

  "What?" Z's eyes opened of their own accord. Saw ... darkness.

  "You remember. The radio personality."

  "D.J. Jewell."

  "Right."

  "What about him?"

  "He's gone."

  "Gone?"

  "To another city."

  "When?"

  "A week ago. He was all the time saying what a hit he was in Kansas City, how his ratings were going up and up, asking his listeners to write-in and to call the station. Then he came on and said he couldn't get his contract renewed for what he was worth, so he was leaving Kansas City. And he was off the air. Just like that."

  "He say where he was going?" Finally, a topic of interest, Z fully awake at last.

  "Des Moines."

  "Des Moines? Des Moines, Iowa?"

  "Right."

  "And they're paying him more than the K.C. station?"

  "That's what he said."

  Maybe yes, maybe no. Like most people willing to swear on the Bible, talk show "personalities" only told the truth occasionally, and then, by accident. The chance that a radio station in a small city like Des Moines would pay more money than one in Kansas City -- and Z was under the impression that Jewell was popular -- was remote. Non-existent, was more like it. Successful radio "personalities" moved from medium-sized towns to larger ones. For three big reasons. Money, money, money.

  So, Dan, 'the D.J.' Jewell, was Kansas City history.

  As Susan changed topics, Z was smiling to himself in the dark, Z hoping he'd been the one who'd run off that little shit. Z would never know for certain, but ....

  * * * * *

  It was on the twentieth of September that Z got a third indication that his sex/drug party had been a success, Z putting down his paperback to pick up his desk phone.

  "Detective Ted Newbold, speaking." Ted so loved his title; used it like the club a Neanderthal would swing to brain a bear.

  No need to answer, Ted knowing Z had a one-man office.

  "So, Z-man, what's been happening lately?" Insincerity, insincerely asked. Ted called for one reason and one reason only, to talk about himself. ...

  Too harsh a criticism.

  There was another reason Ted called -- when Teddy needed Z's help.

  This time, though, the cocksure confidence in Teddy's voice meant something good had happened on Ted's end of the phone.

  "Get a raise?"

  A shock of silence on the line. Then, "How the hell did you find out about that? I just got the news a minute ago, myself."

  "A lucky guess."

  "Yeah ...." Ted said, hesitating to consider the possibility that Z's "guess" could have been anything but luck. Unable to figure out how Z could have known about the salary increase, Ted brightened. "Lucky. That's right. I've always said you're one of the luckiest fucks who ever lived. I don't know how you can be so lucky and still be so poor."

  "Yeah."

  "What I'm callin' to say is that I'm movin' up, boy. Which is nothing more than I deserve. In fact, I don't know what's taken the captain so long to see my true worth to the department. I refer," Teddy continued testily, "to the captain bringin' in that asshole Tabor like he done. Putting him over me like that."

  "Tabor get fired?"

  Again, the pause. This time, a long one.

  "If that don't beat all. How you know that?"

  While Tabor might have thought he was endearing himself to Scherer by getting his captain out of that little drug-girl fix, Z knew better. A savvy politician like Scherer wouldn't want Tabor around after Tabor's "rescue." In the cops, like in the robbers, you see too much and it's bye-bye baby.

  Meanwhile, Teddy was elaborating. "... so Tabor got a ... he says it's a lateral transfer." Ted giggled. "Same money, but he's up in North Dakota. Personally, you'd have to pour gasoline on me and light me afire to make me go there. 'Course," he continued, this time with a wicked cackle at his own joke, "being lit afire might be the only way a man could warm up his balls in deep freeze country."

  Though more of Teddy's boasting followed, Z had stopped listening. What Z was considering was, not Tabor's inevitable exit from the local scene, but that Captain Scherer had left Z alone since the "party." Unlike Jamie Stewart who knew Z was responsible for the setup, there was no way Scherer could have discovered Z's involvement. For all Scherer knew -- Scherer not the most lovable cop in town -- someone in his own department might have sandbagged him. Maybe Tabor himself. Or even Teddy -- though Scherer would have a hard time believing that Ted Newbold could cobble together a trap that tight. Still, not knowing his tormentor, it made sense for Scherer to be nice to everyone for awhile. Producing, coming full circle, the most probable reason for Ted's raise.

  From Z's perspective, what mattered was that Scherer was now too busy worrying about his own ass to concern himself about kicking Z's.

  So much for the "party" and its beneficial effects.

  On the bad dream front, Z's taking action like Dr. Calder had suggested had failed, unfortunately, to produce the desired effect. Though the nightmares were, maybe, a little better, they still raged, Z continuing to lose the kind of sleep that drove him, once again, to look for relief.

  * * * * *

  One day later, more because he had nowhere else to turn than believing it would help, Z put in another call to Dr. Calder; made a second lunch date to talk to the chubby psychologist.

  Though running on the fumes of last night's hour and a half of sleep, Z had remembered to put on his good blue shirt and yellow tie (dining with a college professor a dress-up occasion), Z meeting Dr. Calder at the Golden Corral in Liberty, the "Corral," like its name implied, a steak and fries kind of place.

  At the "Corral," you started in a "cafeteria" line where you picked up an orange plastic tray, stamped-out flatware, paper napkins, and a drink. Moving slowly in the noontime line, diners had time to study the black-on-white bill of fare posted on the wall behind the counter, the menu listing: steak, shrimp, fish, hamburger, broiled chicken breasts, and buffet.

  Arriving at the front of the line, you placed your order.

  Their order put in, threading through the crowded dining room, dodging kids and oldsters, they arrived at an out-of-the-way table in an alcove, unloading the glasses and utensils from their trays, stacking their trays on a second, yet-to-be-cleaned table.

  After sitting, the professor performed the "tea ceremony" Z had seen before, Calder squeezing his lemon slice just so, tearing off a thin strip from two pink sweetener packets, sprinkling the white saccharin in the exact center of the mound of crushed ice floating in his red plastic glass, picking up his tea spoon, stirring slowly as if counting strokes.

  For Z's part, he was proud of not wanting to burn the empty paper packets in the table's black ashtray. (Though Z used to have a "thing" about fire, he'd largely conquered his need to burn used paper products. Of course, he still cleaned up his apartment by dumping table scraps in his firebox.)

  The food arriving, they ate.

  Then got down to business.

  Their conve
rsation kept private by the buzz of table talk around them, the clatter of utensils, and the constant noise of traffic to and from the buffet, Z started by reminding the professor of Z's trouble with bad dreams.

  Also in review, Calder responded with his dream theories, adding a summary of what he'd said Z could do to stop the nightmares.

  "Another thing you can try," Calder said, after again recommending hypnosis to an obviously reluctant Z, "is to attempt to pinpoint when the nightmares started."

  "I know when."

  "Anything important happen at that time?"

  "No," Z lied.

  "Something must have started them," Calder mused. "No reason you should remember what, however. Dreams don't have to be the result of an earthshaking event. The sleeping brain is irrational, you see. To trigger a terrifying response, all it has to do is interpret some relatively minor occurrence as threatening.

  "What I can recommend in addition to what we've talked about so far, is to sit down with yourself and try to remember, event by event, what happened just before the nightmares started. To help you do that, you might keep notes on a piece of paper, jotting down in considerable detail what you were doing at that time. If you went to the movies, for instance, you would list that -- plus the name of the picture and your reaction to it, if any." Calder grinned in his good-natured, open-faced way, nodding to himself, the mirror-flat surfaces of his glasses flashing. "I've known this to work. Sometimes, just remembering long-forgotten events will help your mental machinery get everything straight. Convince your inner self that nothing that bad happened in your life. After which, your nightmares should subside."

  Z wasn't sure that would do it, particularly since something bad had happened. But was willing to give it a try. An old saying of Z's mom, "Desperate people do desperate things," was beginning to apply to this nightmare business. For Z was getting desperate. He had to find a way to tone down the dreams enough to get some sleep.

  "OK," Z said, the prescriptive part of their conversation quickly concluded.

  After that, the waitress bringing them complimentary cups of coffee -- Calder taking three creams and four packets of sugar, Z pushing his away like any diet coke drinker would -- they'd talked about the detective business, Calder still enthusiastic about his being a part of it.

  "I know I haven't done anything yet, except to 'shadow' Dean Ashlock," Calder said, lens-magnified blue eyes shining. "All the same, I've taken considerable pleasure from thinking about being a detective." Again, the boyish grin. Again, the swipe of stubby fingers to brush his fine, dark blond hair from his forehead.

  Z looking blank, Calder continued. "It's like this. When I was younger, I bought a motorcycle. A financial stretch for me, considering what I was making at the time. It was when I was in graduate school. Working on my Ph.D. I had no business buying that. And to top it off, I never had time to ride it anywhere.

  "What I found, though, was that the bike did me a lot of good. For every time I thought about my motorcycle, about flying across the country, free as a bird, I took a mini-vacation." Calder looked at Z. Decided he'd better explain further. "You need a break when you're in grad school. Need to get away from the scholarly grind of it. Five minutes here. Five minutes there." Calder grinned. "That's the way it is when I get to thinking about working for you in the detective game. I know I haven't done anything yet. Anything that's real. It's that even the thought of being of use on a case gives me pleasure. If you never get around to using me, just thinking about being an amateur detective has done me a world of good." Calder shook his head, his limp hair sifting back over his broad forehead. "Oh, I like teaching. Love teaching, actually. But it's much the same from day to day. Thinking about playing P.I. is just the mini-break I need to spice up my life."

  "Yeah," Z said.

  "Not that things are not going well with teaching. In fact, my career seems to be in high gear."

  "Oh?"

  "Remember at the end of the summer? The last time we met? At the Hardware Cafe?"

  "Sure."

  "Funny, how you'll get the wrong impression of events. I remember thinking -- and I believe I said so at the time -- that the man who was keeping me from moving up, was Dean Ashlock. I thought he didn't like me for some reason, that he was standing in my way." Calder laughed. "I'm a psych instructor. If any discipline can do it, psychology should help people understand other people. Their motives. How people think. But I admit to being totally wrong about Dean Ashlock. I still don't understand him, mind you, or even like him very much, but I was totally wrong about his being my enemy."

  "How so?"

  "About not understanding him?"

  "Right." That wasn't exactly what Z had meant, but it would do.

  "Not too long after I'd been trailing him to prove to you I could do P.I. work, I ran into him in the Social Science building. Now, seeing Ashlock there -- where the teaching process of the college takes place -- was a rarity in itself. Deans don't have much to do with teaching. They stay in the Administration building for the most part. Associate with their own kind. But here he was in Social Science. Outside of my office, even. Almost as if he was lurking there, waiting for me to come out of my lair." Calder shook his head. Still amazed. "And he said the strangest thing to me. He said something about his birthday party. Or, maybe, about me planning his birthday party." Calder shook his head again. "I knew the reference. It had to be to the question I'd asked him, some days before, about a birthday party that was being planned for some administrator. I'd made that up, of course. Faking up something about a party was just my way of trying to learn the dean's birthday. But why Dean Ashlock would bring up that part of our former conversation is beyond me. It happened so fast, and I was so shocked to see the dean outside my office, that I can't recall just what he did say. But it was definitely something about the party I'd thrown for him.

  "I don't know what I said in reply. Probably nothing.

  "Anyway, he walked with me, all the way to my classroom, saying how pleased he was with my performance as a teacher, how I deserved a promotion, and how he, personally, was going to see that I got it. The whole thing was so bizarre I almost think I dreamed it." Calder looked over at Z -- Calder's eyes the clear blue of gas-fed flames. "Except that this turned out to be the way things went. Just like that, I got the promotion. Moved up in academic rank. Got a raise."

  "Great."

  "It's like what religious people say to explain events that don't make sense. 'The Lord moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.'"

  Quite right, Z thought, the same saying one of his Mom's favorites, as well. "The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform." Sometimes, with a little help from His friends.

  So much for Z's meeting with Calder.

  Leaving only Z's nightmares as unfinished business.

  Exiting the "Corral," waving to Calder who got into a new, black Honda Civic, the sporty-looking car emphasizing the change in financial status that Dean -- "the party animal" -- Ashlock had provided the likable professor, Z walked to his aging Cavalier.

  Opening the tinny door, squeezing into the driver's seat, Z felt the need to roll up the windows for the first time since late last spring. Since he and the prof had been inside, the wind had come up, blowing from the north. The air smelled of dust and oil (oil, from the newly applied, black tar surface of the Golden Corral lot.) Of dust and oil ... and winter clouds.

  Leaving the lot, angling through the store-cluttered, suburban side of Western Liberty, making the left sweep that put him on the highway, Z though over Calder's advice. Although uncertain how it would help to make a detailed list of Z's activities around the time the dark dreams pounced on him, he decided he had nothing to lose by doing what Dr. Calder had recommended. If he could stay awake long enough to get home in one piece.

  Now past the edge-of-town traffic lights, able to get up to speed on the new, string-straight Liberty-Gladstone four-lane, Z began to rethink -- for the umpteenth time -- the unfortunate death of
Howard Kunkle, Z finding, to his surprise, that he was no longer all that clear that the little man's passing was the cause of Z's nightmares. Certainly, Kunkle's death had something to do with Z's dreams. On the other hand, since Z had not meant to kill Kunkle, only to threaten him, what was there to get all torn up about?

  As for Z's method of persuasion -- dripping wax on Kunkle's head -- Z had often used fire to intimidate the bad guys.

  It could even be said that Z had been responsible, in an indirect way, for the demise of several baddies. There was that recent incident, for instance, of Z convincing the thug, Cristoforo, that Cristoforo was on Minghetti's hit list, the punk then killing Minghetti. Viewed one way, Z was the cause of the mob boss's death, a happenstance that hadn't disturbed Z's sleep at all.

  All of which had Z doubting that the death of a bottom-of-the-barrel punk like Kunkle was what was producing those ghastly dreams.

  Could it even be that it wasn't the fact of Kunkle's departure from this veil of tears, but the mystery surrounding the death that was causing the nightmares? A mystery, because Z had never believed dripping candle wax had caused Kunkle's demise.

  The more Z thought about it, the more he believed it likely that his nightmares sprang as much from Z's uneasiness about how Kunkle died, as that he died, unresolved problems keeping Z awake in the past. Perhaps, once again, it was the lingering puzzle of Kunkle's passing that was causing Z to dream.

  Off 152 to curve past the rustic Maple Woods "forest," more awake than he thought he would be, Z took his rat run through Gladstone, going directly to his office. Where he put in a restless afternoon, pretending to read.