Beaker slowed his pace. "Not at all, Mayor. We're considering the possibility of putting Ms. McBeth on Martin West's show. There's a chance, if the murderer's still around, we can draw him out."
"Using Cassandra McBeth as bait?" The mayor considered the possibility as he spoke. "This could end up looking bad for the city. I mean murderers and psychics. We don't want to look ridiculous."
"But we do want to catch the killer."
"Just don't go overboard. You know West likes to exaggerate everything. He could make us all look like a bunch of hillbillies."
"Ken, if we don't catch this guy, then the next murder will bring the national media in here. Serial killers are big television."
"How much does Ms. McBeth actually know?" The mayor stopped and shifted his weight from foot to foot. A sheen of perspiration touched his upper lip.
Beaker shrugged. "Who knows for sure?"
"Do you really believe she knows anything?" The mayor wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. The afternoon was not hot, but he was uncomfortable.
"I don't buy into this mumbo jumbo crap. She's an eccentric. But she doesn't have to convince me, only the killer."
"Well, let me know if the city can be of any assistance." The mayor looked up and down the street with some anxiety. "I'd better be getting back to the office."
Adam ducked behind a trash can. So that was Mayor Ken Simpson. Adam didn't particularly care for the way Simpson had referred to Cassandra as the mountain witch. Neither man had much concern for her welfare, either. They were both too caught up in protecting their own little niches.
The mayor and sheriff parted ways. Beaker headed for the small café where coffee and fresh hot doughnuts were a specialty. Adam followed close behind. He waited for the exact moment to speak.
"Sheriff, if Cassandra does this Martin West show, how many deputies will you put on her for protection?"
Adam's question stopped the lawman in the door of the café. Beaker turned, one hand still on the doorknob. "Enough to take care of the job. We have no intention of setting Ms. McBeth up as a sitting duck."
"No? How about a cooked goose?" Adam felt his temper begin a slow burn. Beaker was so damned superior. "I think this is a serious mistake. If anything happens— "
"Can the melodrama," Beaker interrupted. "Ms. McBeth knows the dangers. She agreed to do this because she wants to help. My suggestion to you is that you either stay out of the way or, in general, make yourself scarce."
"I'm not some local you can intimidate," Adam said. Beaker's attitude was infuriating. It was almost as if the man wanted to put Cassandra in the worst position possible.
"That's right, Mr. Raleigh. You aren't a local. As far as I'm concerned, you're becoming a troublemaker. If it becomes necessary, I can have you locked up tight." He took a step closer. "I want this case solved. It isn't my intention to endanger anyone, especially not Cassandra McBeth. But you forget, she came to me and volunteered information. Now I'm just going to use it in the way I deem most beneficial to my investigation."
Adam held his ground. "You'd better make certain the protection you give her is adequate."
"I don't take too kindly to threats."
"I don't give them lightly. And while you're at it, it might be nice if you asked the mayor not to refer to Cassandra as the mountain witch."
Beaker smiled. "Ken Simpson and Cassandra went to school together. He knows her family history as well as I do. We both remember when her father fell in the apple orchard. Some folks said it wasn't an accident." Beaker let the implication hang.
"I guess the law enforcement was about as good then as it is now." Adam smiled as he saw Beaker's face grow red. "If foul play was suspected, someone should have done something then. Besides, Cassandra isn't responsible for the past."
"You'd better stay clear of me and my work," Beaker said carefully. He opened the door of the café and stepped inside, slamming it behind him.
Adam checked his watch. He had one last idea. Sarah Welford's funeral. He would have liked to go back for Cassandra, but there wasn't time. Besides, she was too well-known. He hurried to a drugstore where he could find a telephone directory and a list of funeral homes. He had only half an hour to find what he needed before the funeral was set to begin.
* * *
SITTING ON THE BACK PEW, Adam scanned the crowd. He saw no one who even remotely came up to the physical description of the man called Ray. There were weeping relatives, and some of the waitresses from Crockett's that he remembered. No bodybuilders, though. He was about to give up the hunt when a slender woman entered. She wore a black veil and took a seat on the pew opposite him. Adam could hear her sniffling as she sat down.
His heart rate increased as he scrutinized the woman. He'd come looking for Ray, but he might have found the mysterious Ellen. He couldn't be certain about her hair. It was done up in a bun and covered with the hat and veil. It was dark, though. And there was something about her, a sadness that went beyond loss of a casual friendship.
Throughout the service, Adam kept his attention on the young woman. As soon as it was over, she stood up and stepped toward the door. He made it a point to be right behind her.
"Excuse me," he said.
She turned, her eyes hidden by the veil. She couldn't disguise the intake of breath.
"Leave me alone," she whispered.
"Ellen?" he asked.
"My name is JoAnn Reed," she said, her voice shaky but clear. "I was Sarah's roommate. Whatever you want, please leave me alone."
Adam felt a moment of confusion. "Could we talk for a moment. This is terribly important," he said, taking her elbow and guiding her away from the front of the chapel. Sheriff Beaker, Chief Haggin and several other law enforcement officials had been at the memorial service. He wanted a chance to talk with this young woman without interruption.
He felt her tense, as if she intended to pull away. Suddenly she started to cry. Adam put his arm around her in a gesture of comfort and drew her to the side of the chapel where a hedge allowed her some privacy. For a few moments, he held her while she cried.
When at last her sobs began to diminish, he shifted her toward a wrought-iron bench that had been placed in a small secluded garden beside the chapel.
"What do you want?" she finally asked. "Why are you hounding me?"
Adam searched her face behind the veil. It was swollen and splotchy. Was she the woman Cassandra called Ellen? Did that woman exist? He realized for the first time that he was on the verge of accepting everything about Cassandra. He'd never really believed in special talents. Now, though…
"I have a friend who's been worried about you, I think," he said. "It's a long, rather strange story, but I have no intention of harming you in any way."
"Sarah told me about you. You and that woman." She touched beneath the veil with a crumpled tissue. "She said you bothered her. The night she died…"
"Ms. McBeth and I were looking for a young woman we thought was named Ellen." He saw the girl flinch slightly at the name. His hopes rose. "We wanted to warn her about something Ms. McBeth dreamed." He put his hand on the girl's forearm. "I know this sounds bizarre, but at least listen to me."
"I don't know." She started to rise, but Adam's hand gently restrained her. She resumed her seat, her head bowed.
"Cassandra saw a girl like you in a dream. She was riding with a man in a car. The man intended to kill her." He waited for a reaction, but JoAnn Reed didn't move. "We only wanted to warn the young woman to be careful. That's all."
"Sarah thought you were from my parents." She looked up at last. A tear dropped from her chin beneath the veil and landed in her lap. "She thought you were someone my folks had hired to make me come home."
"No." Adam shook his head.
"She was only trying to help me." JoAnn's voice cracked. "I feel like it's my fault that she's dead." Her voice rose and then she started to cry again.
Adam put his arm around her, giving her his shoulder to cry on. "The s
heriff said it was an accident. A hit-and-run driver."
The young woman struggled away from him. "Hit and run? Yeah, it was a hit and run. But it wasn't an accident. What was Sarah doing on the highway alone? That wasn't the way home and she would never have gone that way. What happened to her car that it broke down? Sheriff Beaker doesn't want it to be a murder, so he's acting like it isn't. But I know Sarah. Somebody killed her!" JoAnn's voice rose to a high note of hysteria. She backed away from Adam. "She was afraid of you. Maybe it was you!"
"Raleigh!" Beaker's voice cut through JoAnn's hysteria. "I warned you about causing trouble."
The sheriff stepped through the small black iron gate and stood at the bench. "Harassing young women in town is not something I'm going to put up with."
Beaker motioned JoAnn to his side. She rose, turning from one man to the other. Before Beaker could stop her, she ran through the gate and disappeared.
"You need to talk with that woman," Adam said.
"You need to mind your own business. I warned you about making trouble."
Adam stood up and faced the sheriff. He was desperate to track JoAnn Reed, but he couldn't afford to let Beaker see his intentions. "Are there any charges?"
Beaker waited, watching Adam closely. "What were you doing with that young woman back here all tucked away?"
"Talking. As you clearly saw and heard."
"Sounded to me like she was crying."
"Her friend was murdered." Adam hit the last word hard.
Beaker rubbed his chin with two fingers. "Take a word of warning, Raleigh. Don't nose into business that isn't yours."
Chapter Eleven
It's time someone took things in hand around here and found some answers. Lancelot is down the mountain, and Miss Locks has gone off the deep end with this television idea. Geez! Humans are such creatures of emotion. If I understood the conversation I just heard, Running Stream and Cassandra both think Bounder is involved in the murders— by choice or happenstance. Now, let me put my thinking cap on and assume the pose of E. A. Poe's inspector in my favorite, "Murders in the Rue Morgue." Excellent title. Macabre twist. Those French have such wonderful street names.
I must have been an expatriate writer in a past life. Paris promises so many exciting things. Clotilde, the little calico feline who holds my heart, had a bit of Parisian blood. No, she wasn't long-haired and prissy. Not Persian, Parisian. Her great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was an immigrant. Clotilde had that bit of French…chic. It was in the way she held her tail when she walked. Elegant, yet a tease. Ah, Clotilde.
Anyway, back to Poe. Inspector Dupin knew the difference between inductive and deductive reasoning. Now think back with me. The earring is, of course, the crux. Both earrings. Why would Bounder find an earring with Adam if he intended to keep his involvement secret? This is the part that doesn't fit. I mean, Bounder didn't have to find that earring in the mud. He could have ignored it. Why find something that would be better to be lost?
How did Bounder get the second earring? My conclusion, or I should say that I deduce that if Bounder's friends are up to criminal behavior, he didn't know in the beginning.
Before you clap me on the back in congratulations, consider the implications. If Bounder is missing now, then he might be in danger. That is, if he found the earring in the possession of his two Indian friends, he might have found more than he should have. Another possibility is that he found the earring somewhere else. So where?
He had it the night he was watching this house— another example of behavior that could be interpreted a number of ways. Was he protecting or plotting? If he is a psychotic killer, my normal feline instincts might not detect it. I can sniff out bad guys sometimes, but the psychotics are impossible. They don't reek of guilt. It's a frightening thought. I remember how gentle Bounder's hands were when he stroked me. Once again, evidence that is either very good or very bad. Gentle. Tender. Sensitive…Abnormal. Geez! I need a bit of fresh air.
The thing to do is go back to the bushes where Bounder was hiding. Maybe I can detect something there, some lingering odor or emotion. I've got a lot on my mind, too. I was thinking— if I could get on television with Cassandra, Peter or Eleanor might see me. It's a slim chance. Martin West's show isn't nationally syndicated, but it might play on some of the cables. If Eleanor is as sick as I think she is, maybe she's watching television.
Whatever happens, I can't panic. So, I'll saunter over to the door and demand an exit. I can explore while the humans thrash around in complex emotion.
* * *
"MEOW."
Cassandra looked up from her intense conversation with Running Stream. Familiar was at the front door, asking to be let out. "Coming, boy," she said as she stepped away from her friend.
"Stay close to the house," Cassandra admonished the cat as he exited. "No telling who's out there watching us."
"Meow," Familiar agreed, walking to the edge of the porch and taking a seat. He yawned and stretched his body full-length across the wide boards. He sat up and began to clean himself.
"Stay close." Cassandra watched him a moment longer and then shut the door. She'd never seen a cat who took up with a place so readily. Familiar had never budged from his new home. He hadn't even given a thought to leaving. In fact, his only aberrant behavior was his passion for turning the television on and off.
"What is Familiar up to?" Running Stream's casual question broke the tension the two women had shared in their concern for Bounder.
"I don't know." Cassandra had returned to the kitchen, but on an impulse she went back to the front door. When she opened it, the porch was empty. "It was almost as if he knew I was watching him," she said. "Like a little boy, he pretended to settle on the porch, but the minute my back was turned, he disappeared."
Running Stream nodded. "Familiar has his own agenda. He came here unexpectedly, and his behavior is unique." She started to say something else but stopped. "I'd better go home. There's a chance Bounder has returned."
"Maybe." Cassandra didn't hold out much hope. "If he isn't home by tomorrow, we'd better notify the authorities."
"Don't dream tonight, Cass." Running Stream put a hand on her shoulder. "For both our sakes." She smiled, but it held only sadness.
"That's one request I'd gladly oblige. The trouble is, I think Sarah Welford was murdered, and I didn't dream a thing about that. So my dreams, or lack of them, don't seem to mean much."
Running Stream paused before she spoke. "I'm not certain what this means. The other girls were strangled, Cass. Sarah Welford was struck by a car. I agree, I don't think it was an accident. But why the change in the method of killing?" She shook her head. "We must try hard to think of every possibility. No closed doors."
"No closed doors." Cassandra forced a smile. "As soon as Adam gets back, I'll tell him everything. We'll come up with a plan."
Running Stream nodded as she opened the front door. Tears glimmered in her eyes and she brushed them away as she hurried down the steps without looking back.
Cassandra watched the car disappear down the lane. She took another look around for the cat, who was nowhere in sight. She'd give him an hour, then look for him in earnest while she waited for Adam to return. He was far later than she'd anticipated. Worry gnawed at her as she slowly climbed the steps to the shade of the porch. She felt as if her entire life had narrowed down to the minute passage of time, minutes ticking slowly by.
The brisk shrill of the telephone drew her back into the house. She felt a sinking sensation as she recognized Martin West's voice.
He gave her the instructions for the afternoon filming. The show was broadcast live and she had to be at the studio early. She was to bring a list of questions she wanted him to ask, and he had some tips for handling audience questions that he thought would help her. He assured her he was thrilled with her participation.
"This could be the show that sells the networks on me. Have you had any more dreams?" he asked eagerly.
"None."
Cassandra couldn't keep the note of depression from her voice. As much as she hated the dreams, she'd come to feel they offered her only chance of solving the murders. Now, even they had abandoned her.
She hung up feeling more and more trapped by the circumstances of her life. How valid was it to go on television now, when Sarah Welford was dead and Cassandra hadn't even had an inkling of her murder?
For a few moments Cassandra paced the house. She straightened cushions, picked up her gardening gloves only to throw them aside, went to make tea, turned off the kettle and finally walked out the front door. If she couldn't do anything else, she could look for Familiar.
She took the path that lead to the upper orchard, moving on instinct. The cat could be anywhere, but she felt he'd taken the path she and Adam had used on their picnic. She didn't like the upper orchard. It was lovely, with one of the best views anywhere. But it was also where her father had died, and when she went there alone, it made her sad. Her life had changed so radically when Blake McBeth died. All permanence had evaporated. Sylvia, never one to love the settled life, had finally given up any attempt to make a home. Cassandra allowed a smile to play across her face as she thought of her mother. Where was she this week? Budapest? Prague? Or was it Brussels?
She received postcards on an irregular basis. They were loving and filled with Sylvia's adventures, both psychic and of the flesh. It wasn't the kind of life that Cassandra had ever wanted, but she loved her mother and wished her only happiness. After all, Cassandra had learned to take care of herself long ago, when she was just a teenager.
The past led to the present, and Cassandra gave in to her need to think about Adam. He'd begun to fill a void that she'd never even acknowledged before.
That was the thing that made him so special. Somehow he'd slipped into the tightly woven fabric of her life without disturbing a single thread. He was the element that had been missing. Someone to share with. Someone to…love. Yes, if she had to admit it, she did love him.
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