I'd Kill For That

by Marcia Talley

  “He lives in a little house on my bedside table.”

  Miranda’s eyes went wide, then Ford winked, and she giggled again.

  “We went to Santa’s Village last Thursday. And to the Dairy Queen. It was pretty cool.”

  Ford’s radar sounded a beep.

  “Thursday?”

  “Uh-huh.” Miranda looked down at the thing in her hands.

  “Are you sure it was Thursday?”

  “Yep. ’Cause I was on the news for the deer protest, then we went to Santa’s Village; but we had to really hurry ’cause it was closing. Then I went to Bertha’s house and watched What About Bob? That’s a really funny movie. Bill rented it. Bertha said it was all right, even though it was late, ’cause the next day was Friday and no one had to get up early ’cause our teachers had a meeting.”

  Excitement gunned the engine in Leland Ford’s mind.

  “You’re a very observant little girl.”

  “That’s what Mama says.”

  Mama also says she spent that whole evening at home with you. Ford couldn’t wait to call Robards.

  “Where was your mama after the demonstration?”

  Miranda shrugged again, her attention on the buttons she was pushing with her thumbs.

  “That a Game Boy?”

  “No.” Miranda made a face as she raised her plaything to give Ford a better view. “Found it in the garden. It’s boring.”

  The excitement spun a wheelie.

  Miranda was holding up a Palm Pilot.

  * * *

  Lydia Upshaw crouched below the sill, watching the car with its three silhouettes. Only when the Volvo station wagon rounded the corner did she feel it safe to stand.

  Two hours! Two full, wonderful hours! Lydia raised both arms above her head and stretched, slow, and lithe, and sinuous as a cat.

  She was alone.

  Gloriously alone.

  As Lydia allowed the Sunday morning quiet to envelop her, she felt a tiny prick of conscience. She should have gone to church with Parker and the twins. She shouldn’t have faked a migraine.

  Forget it, her conscious mind countered. You’re doing them a favor. A sermon, then pancakes. It’s a perfect opportunity for father-offspring bonding.

  Lydia dropped her arms and smiled. What to do with her minisabbatical?

  Bubble bath? Sleep? Long, uninterrupted rendezvous with the Sunday Times? Mimosa with a little umbrella stuck in the glass? All of the above?

  But first the chore.

  Lydia hesitated. Why now? It can wait.

  No. It has to be done.

  Slipping on a robe, Lydia hurried down to the first floor. After retrieving the newspaper from the back stoop she stood in the kitchen, clutching the plastic-wrapped roll to her chest.

  It has to be done.

  Deep breath.

  Lydia laid the paper on the counter and withdrew a key from the farthest recess of a kitchen drawer. Opening the basement door, she flicked on the light, stepped onto the top riser, and hesitated again.

  Go.

  Breathing deeply, Lydia crept down the stairs. At the bottom, the subterranean quiet seemed more threat than comfort.

  Without hesitating, Lydia went straight to a door in the far wall, opened a padlock, and entered a small room lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  Propping a ladder against one end of the back wall, Lydia climbed the rungs and began checking labels on the top row of boxes. She was working her way along the shelf, her back to the door, when an odd rustling caught her attention.

  Lydia froze. Had she locked the kitchen door? Any door? Was the security system on? People were being murdered in Gryphon Gate.

  Lydia listened with every fiber of her being.

  Nothing.

  Find the damn thing and get on to the Mimosa.

  Lydia resumed her search.

  Seconds later, she heard more rustling. Louder. Nearer.

  What the hell is that? Lydia thought.

  Heart thudding, she scrambled down the ladder, scurried across the room, and threw open the door.

  And stared into the greenest pair of eyes she had ever seen.

  8

  IT WAS NO ACCIDENT THAT Peter’s church was the most popular place of worship in Gryphon Gate. There was a lot more to the Reverend Peter Armbruster than most people thought.

  At least in Peter’s opinion.

  With the possible exception of Mignon Gervase, just about everyone in the community thought him boring. Sanctimonious. But he was actually a very learned man, with an undergraduate degree in comparative religion underlying his seminary training. No one seemed to appreciate the fact that it was he who had made St. Francis truly an interfaith experience. He’d taken a cue from the Unitarians in providing something for everyone. And another from the great congregations of the 1970s in turning religion into entertainment.

  It was a little hit or miss, of course. The zen roshi was definitely a hit. He’d made everyone sit on the floor, taught them to sit zazen, and rapped them authentically on the shoulders with wooden sticks when their focus wandered. Mignon had particularly enjoyed that service.

  On the other hand, the neopagans, with their candles and robes and pentagrams, got mixed reviews. The children loved them, but some of the more conservative adults found them over-the-top.

  Most notably Laura.

  For today (purely by coincidence—even one so highly attuned couldn’t have predicted the murders) Peter had scheduled a scholar from Johns Hopkins to speak on the afterlife. The professor’s subject was “Urban Myth or Muslim Heaven—the Twenty-Six Dark-Eyed Virgins,” but at the last second Ahmed had been called to the White House for a briefing.

  So Peter had to scramble. There was a Christian rock group he’d been thinking of scheduling.

  But even as he reached for his card file, he knew it was hopeless. It was seven A.M. on Sunday morning. Anybody who wasn’t already booked was sound asleep with the phone turned off.

  Desultorily, he started to pick through the file, wondering if he knew anyone who owed him a favor, and his eye fell on the one card that was different from all the others. It was red.

  And he knew just whose it was. He’d had it only a few days.

  Excitedly, he grabbed for it, a voice, a sweet female voice, echoing in his ear: “Don’t forget about me, Peter. I’d just love to give you a demonstration.” The red card had been given to him by the owner of the voice, one Tiffany Turner, a waitress at the club.

  Ms. Tiffany was full of surprises. It seemed she belonged to a group that did what she called “trance-drumming.” Only a few nights ago, for the umpteenth time, she’d practically begged him to call “anytime” for a demonstration. Naturally, he’d thought she was just hitting on him.

  Well, all the better, he thought now. If she had a thing for him—and obviously, she did—he of all people should be able to talk her into performing at the church on short notice. (No notice, actually, but there was also no choice.)

  He plucked the card and dialed.

  So here he was, standing up before the good people of Gryphon Gate with a motley crew of mixed racial and national origins, all dressed in white and placing offerings of rum and cigars on the altar. Peter was sweating; this was a bit more than he bargained for.

  Crossing his fingers, he turned the pulpit over to Tiffany.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “it’s my pleasure this morning to introduce to you eight of the most gifted mediums at Umbanda House, where I live and worship.”

  The girl must be some kind of fanatic—she actually lived in a cult commune. Peter had had no idea. Laura was looking at him as if reconsidering the barbecue fork of two nights before.

  But Tiffany was saying all the right things. “Afro-Amer-Indian” particularly caught his attention. How could you go wrong with that?

  * * *

  Diane Robards listened with half an ear, a lot more interested in her fellow churchgoers than in the musical program that was about to unfo
ld. She’d slipped on heels and wriggled into a simple black dress for the occasion. Looking around her, she decided the pain of pantyhose was worth it. She blended rather well, so long as nobody checked her label. Some of the men were in golf clothes, but most had on jackets (though some wore them with deck shoes). The women were Ungaro’d and Buchman’d and Karan’d as usual—probably going on to lunch at the club.

  The truth was, black was Diane’s least flattering color. She knew she looked awful, and for more than one reason. She’d been up half the night and spent the early morning hours surfing databases available only to P.I.s and law enforcement personnel. She’d spent a good amount of time Googling, too. It was surprising how many people had an Internet presence, whether they knew it or not. Even more surprising, some had none—some who you’d expect to have high profiles. What she’d learned made her look at her fellow worshippers with a new and suspicious eye.

  Jerry Lynch, Wall Street honcho, for instance. You’d think he was a nobody if you went on-line.

  And Toni Sinclair. Funny, her interest in animals seemed of pretty recent vintage.

  Then there was Vanessa Smart (before she got hyphenated). Vanessa had quite a little history behind her, including a jacket that wasn’t Armani.

  And there were others.

  Diane had gleaned more tasty tidbits than Toni’s herd of deer at feeding time.

  * * *

  Anka thought her head was going to split. That drumming! Ow!

  What was the point?

  Sweet little Tiffany had said something about calling on the spirits. Was this a séance or what? Anka really had no patience with it. She was here for one reason and one reason only—to see and be seen. She’d be history soon, and good riddance to Gryphon Gate.

  The gated communities of the world were lovely places for a while, delicious treasure troves of jewelry and cash and bearer bonds, maybe the occasional portable artwork. She loved them, she really did. But now and then you hit a snag.

  Jerry Lynch was a big fat mistake. Or, more properly, Renée Lynch was. What was up with a woman who kept her jewelry locked in a safe deposit box? Never left so much as a tennis bracelet lying around? Anka had had to make other plans, and fast.

  Worse, there was another complication—one so annoying there might be another murder before she left. She and her partner had worked this con at least five times, and Anka was gathering quite a little nest egg when suddenly her dear partner quit on her. Chucked the whole thing for a bigger score, just when Anka was floundering over at the Lynch mausoleum. She’d really had to scrounge around, but when you looked like Anka, it wasn’t that hard. She’d found exactly the right person, too.

  * * *

  Having just lost her husband, Rachel Vormeister came to church looking for solace (though her mother was there for something else).

  And what was she getting? Drums.

  It wasn’t what she had in mind, but it brought back memories of another life—the fulfilling one she’d had before she married. When she thought about it, life in Gryphon Gate was going to be pretty empty without Sigmond. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted her unborn child to grow up in this expensive vipers’ nest. In fact, if she weren’t so sad, she could be pretty amused about what was happening here.

  Rachel figured what Tiffany said went over most people’s heads, but she knew the name for what they were about to witness—and she was pretty sure this was one church service they’d be talking about for the rest of their lives.

  Some might find the drums compelling in ways they never dreamed.

  Rachel knew enough to see that what Tiff and her buds were doing was calling the “entities” or “spirits” of their faith, sometimes called “saints” and “orishas” in Santeria, “loa” in a certain sect that was probably too much, even for Peter Armbruster.

  “The belief,” Tiffany was saying in that sweet voice of hers, “is that the entity can actually enter the body of a trance medium, and then that person is no longer himself, but literally becomes the saint during the ritual.”

  Rachel doubted a single person there—except herself—had a clue what that cute blonde kid was talking about. She leaned back to enjoy the show.

  * * *

  “As our custom dictates,” Tiffany continued, “first we’ll call Eleggua. He’s sort of a gatekeeper to the other side, sometimes associated with the Christian Satan. But, of course, there’s really no comparison.”

  Tiffany didn’t seem to hear the collective gasp that ricocheted round the sanctuary.

  The drumbeat changed, grew more intense. The earnest, white-robed Umbandans were already dancing at the front of the sanctuary. They began to chant something in another language.

  As they chanted, the dancing grew more and more ecstatic, until one young man reeled abruptly, his eyes rolling back in his head. He struggled to keep his balance; immediately a cadre of dancers rushed to his side, some holding him up, one shaking a rattle at him.

  Suddenly the young man—a cherubic redhead—stood erect, seeming to have grown a good six inches. His eyes bugged out. He picked up one foot and began to dance again.

  On one leg only.

  “Eleggua has arrived!” Tiffany pronounced, obviously thrilled to pieces. She resumed her commentary as if she were narrating a documentary. “Note the bugging eyes—this is often the case with spirit possession. It’s said that the body is really too small to contain the orisha, and the bugging eyes indicate the strain.

  “When the entity takes over the body, the ’horse,’ or human host, channels the spirit. If we’re lucky, Eleggua may speak to us through Danny.”

  Vanessa didn’t like the sound of that at all. A talebearer revealeth secrets …

  But neither Danny the horse nor his captured Eleggua showed any sign of speaking. The horse galumphed to the altar, seized the bottle of rum, and chugalugged mightily, after which he belched with enthusiasm. Then he began dancing again, seemingly oblivious of the chaos around him.

  A willowy Hispanic girl, not even needing the rattle inducement, began to dance on one leg.

  The rest of the Umbandans continued on two legs, ardently entreating Eleggua to claim their bodies as well, circling and weaving in delight.

  The drums pounded.

  Vanessa was still thinking of the fax. Showtime? she wondered. Surely this wasn’t all for her. She glanced nervously at Peter, who was watching his tight-assed wife. Never in the history of Gryphon Gate had such a spectacle occurred. This had to be way, way out of line for Laura. Vanessa’s eyes followed Peter’s.

  Laura was about to pop an artery. She leapt to her feet, obviously furious, and teetered for a moment on her Bruno Maglis. Her arm shot out, finger pointing at Peter, about to make him put a stop to it, and then the same arm rose slowly above her head, briefly circled, and, picking up her right leg, she began dancing on her left.

  Peter rose in horror. “Laura! Are you all right?”

  Laura didn’t answer, only danced one-legged to the altar, plucked a cigar, lit it, and whooshed out a great stream of smoke. “Ahhhh!” she sighed, patting her stomach in a thoroughly unladylike way.

  Miranda whispered loudly, “Mommy! Mrs. Armbruster’s smoking!”

  In Gryphon Gate, you could be forgiven for sleeping with your next-door neighbor—and usually were—but never for smoking. This was an ironclad no-no (unless you were Lance McClintock, of course—expensive cigars were exempt from derision).

  Laura gulped down a huge swig of rum, the jacket of her green silk suit riding up to reveal orchid underclothing. Then she turned around to face the congregation. Her eyes bugged like tennis balls. As she danced, she whipped her arms about as if she’d just learned how to use them, and she laughed often, producing a deep, throaty rumble as much like Laura Armbruster’s laugh as a dog’s bark. (Or so it seemed at the time—actually, no one could remember ever hearing her laugh.)

  No one moved. Peter turned the color of his affected clerical collar. Laura jumped and stomped and pirouetted in
masculine abandon, clearly having the time of her life. Vanessa feared for the delicate heels on the fabulous shoes. Laura was practically Imelda Marcos when it came to footwear.

  Finally, landing heavily after a particularly high leap, Laura swiveled to face the congregation, and once more she pointed. She spoke directly to the assembly, her bugging eyes as terrifying as they were green: “I need to talk to the werewolf.”

  The collective gasp echoed again, this time more like a scream. The voice was raspy and deep, and unmistakably male.

  “It’s a trick,” someone whispered.

  Laura set down her right foot and stood hips out, feet wide apart like a lumberjack. “Werewolf, stand!” she commanded.

  Roman Gervase stood.

  Laura pointed. “All bets are off,” she announced. “You will cease and desist your absurd behavior.”

  Sweat poured down Roman’s face. “Thank you,” he whispered, sitting down hard, apparently overcome with fear and awe.

  Vanessa noticed suddenly that the music had changed. “We’re bringing in Oggun,” Tiffany said. “The warrior god.”

  Laura raised her left leg and began to dance on her right, once again laughing her deep, throaty laugh, alternately puffing her cigar and swigging from the rum bottle.

  Almost immediately a young black Umbandan reeled, received encouraging rattling, and stood up straight like Danny. Only this one seemed not merely taller, but suddenly giantlike. With august, noble strides, he approached the altar, jerked a candelabrum, fire and all, from its perch, and shouldered it like a rifle. Hot wax dripped on the crimson carpet. Laura would have a fit if she ever came to her senses.

  The flames bloomed dangerously close to the young man’s dreads.

  Peter had gone from dead white to a frightening watermelon hue. Again he rose as if to halt the debacle, but Tiffany stopped him. “It’s his machete,” she said. “Oggun clears paths.”

  “He’ll burn the place down!”

  “Dr. Armbruster, you can’t argue with the divine; I really can’t be responsible if you try.”

  Nervously, Peter glanced at Oggun’s pacing mount. He was about five ten and slight, but right now he looked as if he could take every man in the church—all at once.