“Is that true? Can you prove any of it?” Wenders asked. “Even if you can, where's the luck?”
“Every word is true. I can prove it. As for luck… The crash altered the legal criteria of her situation and made Danita instantly rich. Exposed to imminent peril, a plane crash, without returning, neither Callicoat's body nor years of waiting were required to file a petition for a 'death in absentia' ruling. Only seven bodies came out of that disaster intact. There was no question of Callicoat being aboard, no reason to suspect he wasn't among those who would never be identified, or that he might have pulled a fast one and been alive somewhere else. The court had no cause to deny the petition.”
“Not here! He isn't here!” I heard them again, in my memory, as I'd heard them in my vision, all two hundred and ninety-seven souls wiped out in an instant in that field, screaming at me that Reginald Callicoat was not among them. “Not here!” I said, repeating the phrase in a whisper. “He isn't here!”
Wenders roused me from my ghostly reverie. Not with applause for a case well-solved, I assure you. He was screaming at me, as usual, if not with slightly more vitriol. “That's enough! Boy, that's more than enough! You're spewin' accusations all over the place, but you ain't sayin' nothin'. Proof, Blake. Have you got any proof of anything? You lay out a fancy insurance scam based on Mrs. Callicoat being a murderer. But you ain't said squat about a murder. If Callicoat is a victim of homicide it's time to spill it. And prove it! You called Callicoat the drowned man. Who drowned him? How? And where? And where's his body?”
“Nearby,” I told Wenders. “So close even you ought to be able to find it.”
I stepped to Danita's raised lounging area and turned to take in the wagon barn. “This pavilion was erected three years ago,” I said. “There's a building permit recorded in the county clerk's office. In the same office, same file, is a permit taken out six months ago for the construction of this center ring.” I pointed. “Technically it's a deck, so she needed a permit. Danita's charming breakfast circle.”
“The remains of what used to be a full pallet of fifty-pound bags of concrete mix still sit beyond that calliope. I know,” I told Wenders. “And so do you. We were cringing behind it only a few minutes ago hoping not to be shot or stabbed.”
Wenders sighed, hating me. “Get on!”
“A check of bank accounts, going back no further than eight months, will produce all the evidence anyone needs to confirm certain incriminating purchases and secure search warrants. Survey maps of this estate, as with every property in the county, are also a matter of public record. Consult them as I did. This new concrete slab is laid over top of the property's original well. You know, the old-fashioned kind we used to holler into as a kids to hear our echoes, or throw pennies into to make a wish, or haul up buckets of fresh cold water to sip from a tin cup.”
“Blake!” Wenders barked. “You got diarrhea of the mouth again. What are you babbling about?”
“Listen, will you! Reginald Callicoat didn't go out in a blaze of glory, with 297 others, when a DC-10 fell from the sky at the end of its runway and exploded in a ball of fire in a nearby suburb.”
“You say!”
“I do!” I gave up on the tub of lard and turned on the rich widow. “You murdered your husband, Danita, for his estate and his life insurance. You scammed the court and the insurance company. Rudy helped you with the killing. Your husband's class ring was the first bauble in his little cigar box of collectables. You didn't loan Alida a practiced lover, you passed on an experienced killer. But, a few minutes ago, you relieved everybody of the need to care about his involvement. You're the only one left to fall for it. You incapacitated your husband. Then, while he was still alive, you chucked him into the old estate well.
“To his terror, Reginald came awake in the dark bottom of that well, choking and spitting up filthy water. While he struggled unsuccessfully for a way out, you rained fresh water and cement mix down on him from above. When he became cognizant enough to kick up a fuss, you shot him. I imagine you'll claim you did it for him, to put him out of his misery. But you were doing it for you, to put him out of your misery. Funny thing is, you missed.”
I wandered away, putting space between us, enjoying a laugh at her expense. “Dead-Eye Danny missed a simple shot like that. I shouldn't criticize; I would have missed too. It was black as pitch down there. You hit the wall beside him. The ricochet caught your husband in the head.” I touched my left temple. “It didn't kill him. It stunned him and shut him up but didn't spare him the agony as his bronchi choked with dirty water and wet cement. All it did was spare you the noise, left you in peace and quiet to drown him and bury his corpse at the same time.” I shook my head. “Your mother-in-law doesn't need a medium to search for her son. He isn't in the great beyond.”
I turned to Wenders. “He's entombed there, beneath that decorative cap, eighteen feet down if the County plat books are accurate, under several feet of concrete. He drowned in a filthy oatmeal of cement and he's waiting to be found.”
Still dabbing a handkerchief to his throat, Wenders waddled over and, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence, informed Danita he was arresting her on suspicion of murder. He recited her Miranda Rights. She seemed not to be listening. She was staring holes through me instead. Wenders finished his speech and asked the rich widow if she understood her rights. Ignoring him, Danita told me, “I knew the moment I met you at that séance… I knew my life was over.”
I opened my pie hole, to respond, but Wenders cut me off. “Don't feel bad, honey. Everybody meets Blake ends up feelin' the same way.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
For the drowned man, the waiting would soon be over. The experts would move in, wreck the hastily erected deck that served as his tomb, and return him to the mother that still had things to say to him. Reginald Callicoat III would find a safer rest in friendlier confines. For everyone else, the waiting had just begun.
We'd all slipped into different groups, in separate sections of the Callicoat estate, based upon our duties, intended destinations, or various depths of despair.
Lieutenant Wenders, as he would, had retired into the Callicoat mansion with the lady of the house to await a Chicago patrol unit. They would take custody of Danita, shuttle her into the city, and book her for murder. Though it was against the rules, and bad policy, Wenders allowed the self-made widow to while away the time sipping fine brandy. Dispensation had been granted because, while he couldn't honestly appreciate it, the fat lieutenant liked brandy too. The two suburban police officers, watching Danita from a quiet corner of the room did not partake. They were on duty.
In the drive outside, Alida Harrison sat handcuffed in the back seat of Wenders' car waiting for the Chicago paddy wagon ordered on her behalf. She may have been a star headliner, but she was not a millionairess circus owner. Her First Class days were behind her. From that point on, she would travel the route of all perps.
Mason leaned against the rear quarter-panel of the same car, guarding Alida, holding his abdomen and wishing the prescription in his pocket would magically morph into pain pills. I mention it but that's as far as my sympathy stretched. (Being allergic to most pain killers, I felt worse than he did and had no prescription. So nuts to him.) Besides, Mason complained out loud. He hated the wait. He wanted to go home. He didn't trust the pixie contortionist and fully expected her to pull a vanishing act of some kind. He was whining, if you asked me. Aurelia Herman was boxed in and couldn't twist out.
One of the suburban units remained at the estate's front gate, waiting to let the police scientists in and preparing to keep the media out. The second unit had come up from the gate and the officers now stood guard at the wagon pavilion. Whatever romance the Callicoat's barn had once held was gone. The gateway to the glories of the circus past was now just a crime scene – and a temporary morgue.
Inside the pavilion, Rudy remained face down on the bloody gravel, awaiting the arrival of the coroner's van and his penultima
te ride. Reginald awaited the jack hammers. Neither of them minded. The dead were patient.
Willie, Lisa, and I sat in the soft grass of the manicured lawn hanging out like Woodstock hippies. Willie hugged himself, supporting both his newly shot and his partially healed shoulders, whining about the pain and waiting on the ambulance the cops had insisted on calling. They were too short-handed to take the slug to the hospital themselves and wouldn't let us do it. The rented and wrecked Pinto was part of the crime scene and couldn't be moved. That was just as well. With its shot-out windows and skinned doors, the poor little Ford didn't look like it wanted to go anywhere.
As for us… Lisa and I had statements to make and questions to answer. Many many questions, I suspected.
Emotionally exhausted, Lisa had so far been holding her tongue. I appreciated that. Physically done in, I ached from tip to toe and held my head hoping it wouldn't explode and mess up the pretty yard. The hopeful part of my mind roamed through a dream involving my next life; a life in which murder was something you visited in museums and read about in history books. The darker chunk of my brain, on the other hand, the part that directed most of my days, slogged its way through a mire of depressing questions I couldn't help but ask myself.
“Nod,” Lisa said, touching my shoulder and shaking me from my dream. “What are you thinking so hard about?”
“Oh. I'm just curious about this… What do you call it? This… head thing. Would we have solved Reginald's murder sooner, would we have saved Alfonso's life, or Sybil's, or The Major's, or even Rudy's, if I'd just touched the poster of Dead-eye Danny instead of Mickey's picture?”
“You can't do that to yourself. There's no telling what, if anything, would have happened. The circus murders and the Callicoat murder were connected, you said so yourself. How were you supposed to un-jumble the flashes? You're too hard on yourself.”
“I just wish I had a handle on this–”
“Head thing?”
“Yeah. The head thing.”
“You got it to work today when you wanted it to. You controlled it. That's big, isn't it?”
“I don't know. It was a wild guess. Now it's a guess whether or not it really worked.”
“Nod,” Lisa said, getting that gleam in her eye I really, really hated. “There's this professor I've read about. He's some sort of psychologist or psychoanalyst, but he's also a spiritualist. He's doing this lecture at one of the local colleges.”
“Lisa, no.”
“I was just thinking he might…”
“No, Lisa. Every time you try to study my head, I wind up in a sea of crap. I'm going to chain you to your desk.”
“What kind of thing is that to say to your confidential secretary? Your faithful dogsbody? Your sometimes partner?”
“You're not my partner!”
“Sometimes!”
“Not ever! I don't have a partner. I work alone.”
“You're missing the point, which is, what kind of thing was that to say to me? Come out of the Dark Ages, Blake! It's 1979! Haven't you ever heard of Women's Lib?”
“No. I've heard of Women's Lip. You've got more than your share of that.”
“No, this is different. This is with a 'b'. Women's Lib. You should check it out.”
“I'll do that.”
We were interrupted by the arrival of the paddy wagon for Alida and a shiny squad for Danita. Behind came the police scientists in an impressive parade and Willie's ambulance. As the ladies were led, Danita from her digs, Alida from Wenders' car, to their official conveyances, the picture takers, finger print lifters, blood samplers, and distance measurers unloaded and went to work. Organized chaos ruled then settled into a rhythm. Wenders reappeared, barking my name and demanding our “little talk.”
“You're hurt again and I feel responsible.” Lisa said, helping me to my feet. She ducked under my arm and supported my weight.
“Well, don't go out on a limb. What do you mean you feel responsible?”
“I'm saying, I guess, in a way, this was partly my fault.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked, ogling her like the Two-Headed Boy in, forgive me, a circus Sideshow. “The whole thing was your fault, Lisa. The entire case from front to back.”
“That's not fair!”
“Fair? I was in the hospital because of the Delp case, which was your fault. You insisted I get my head scanned, your fault. You dragged me to a phony medium to talk to the dead. That was your fault. And who, asked the bleary-eyed detective, told you to go to the harbor and find a body? Nobody. You did it on your own. It's your fault!”
“Well, I don't feel that way.”
“That's because you've forgotten the first rule of detecting: The facts don't care about your feelings.”
“That's ridiculous. There is no first rule of detecting.”
“How would you know? You're not a detective.”
“I'm going to be! Someday soon.”
“Over my dead body.”
“See,” Lisa said, assisting me toward the scowling police lieutenant. “We agree. And, at the rate you're getting beat up, that'll be in no time at all. Gosh, I'm going to be a detective even sooner than I thought.” Lisa smiled wide beneath her goofy glasses. “I better get ready.”
I sighed a ton. “I think I better get ready too.”
About the Author
Doug Lamoreux is a father of three, a grandfather, a writer, and actor. A former professional firefighter, he is the author of eight novels, a novella, and a contributor to anthologies and non-fiction works including the Rondo Award-nominated Horror 101, and its companion, the Rondo Award-winning Hidden Horror. He has been nominated for a Rondo, a Lord Ruthven Award, a Pushcart Prize, and is the first-ever recipient of The Horror Society's Igor Award for fiction. Lamoreux starred in the 2006 Peter O'Keefe film, Infidel, and appeared in the Mark Anthony Vadik horror films The Thirsting (aka Lilith) and Hag.
Other books by Doug Lamoreux
The Devil's Bed
Dracula's Demeter
The Melting Dead
Corpses Say the Darndest Things: A Nod Blake Mystery
When the Tik-Tik Sings
Seven for the Slab: A Horror Portmanteau
Books by Doug Lamoreux and Daniel D. Lamoreux:
Apparition Lake
Obsidian Tears
Dear reader,
Thank you for taking time to read Red Herrings Can't Swim. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.
Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2) Page 27