Hell You Say

by Josh Lanyon

  Right. Because — fingers crossed — my health might give out at any moment, thereby fulfilling Lisa’s dire predictions for the past sixteen years.

  “All I needed to know,” I said crisply and hung up.

  After which, I stared in disbelief at the receiver sitting there in its cradle. I’d never hung up on Lisa in my life. I don’t think I even interrupted her very often. Jeeeesus. I waited for the phone to ring.

  Waited.

  Slowly I expelled a long breath. I glanced over at Velvet. She looked away hastily.

  * * * * *

  Late morning, the Misses Dauten showed up en masse. It was like someone had decided to film a shampoo ad in my shop: The door flew open, and suddenly the place was full of shiny bouncy hair, bright eyes, bright smiles, bright voices. All that was missing was the kicky soundtrack.

  “We have to talk to you about the engagement party,” said Nancy — no, Natasha. Natasha?

  “What engagement party?”

  They laughed merrily at that — all of them, including the kid — although I didn’t get what was so funny.

  “No, but seriously,” I said. “Isn’t that kind of thing for first weddings and…well, younger couples?”

  “Now you sound like Daddy,” chided Lauren, which shut me up. She spread a selection of embossed cream and white cards on the counter like a Vegas dealer fanning the deck. “What do you think?”

  I stared at the elegant assortment of invites. “But…I was under the impression that we had to…stall. That you couldn’t pull off a wedding so close to the holidays.”

  Lauren nodded as though this was a good point from one who didn’t have all the facts. “You have to look at this from Lisa’s point of view,” she said kindly.

  Well, yeah. When did one not? Did they honestly think they had to explain the center of the universe to Galileo?

  They continued to stare at me expectantly. I realized I was expected to cast a vote for stationery.

  I pointed at a crisp white card with crisp black writing. Lauren’s fawn-colored eyebrows drew together infinitesimally. Natasha bit her lip. Emma — initial test results continuing to prove promising — had wandered off to explore.

  “Whatever you think is fine,” I declared.

  They looked relieved.

  “So here’s the plan,” said Lauren. She proceeded to outline the festivities for a small intimate gathering of one hundred and eighty of the prospective bride and groom’s nearest and dearest.

  “How many people are invited to the wedding?” I asked faintly.

  Lauren shrugged dismissingly. “Three hundred or so, I believe.”

  I blinked.

  They burst out laughing at my expression. “I’m teasing,” said Lauren. “The wedding is going to be very small. Private. Family and close friends.”

  “But very elegant,” vouchsafed Natasha.

  I was still trying to assimilate that as they detailed the engagement party plans which included the Mondrian SkyBar, ice sculptures, scented candles, champagne cocktails, and 1940s Big Band music. So bizarre. I still had the images of the night before buzzing in the back of my brain like flies, and they were talking party favors.

  I think I had blanked to the Indian Head test pattern when I heard a voice pipe, “Sooooo, what do you think?”

  “Wow,” I said.

  They laughed delightedly. Were they always like this, bubbly as champagne, talking all at once, finishing each other’s sentences, laughing at each other’s jokes in a kind of silvery harmony? Could they maybe be on some kind of medication?

  The shop bells jangled, the door opened. In walked Jake and a lanky scarecrow of a man who had to be another plainclothes cop. They stopped short at what might have appeared to be an in-progress fashion shoot. The scarecrow brightened, scoping out my sisters-to-be.

  Jake looked as tired as I felt. His eyes found mine. “Hello again, Mr. English,” he said formally. “Detective Rossini and I were hoping you would answer a few questions in connection with the Angus Gordon case.”

  The Dauten Gang never moved a muscle, but you could feel the shock wave bouncing off the safety shield of their poise. They didn’t so much as exchange glances, yet I knew they were communicating telepathically, à la Village of the Damned.

  “If it’s not too inconvenient,” Rossini said. He appeared to be talking to Lauren’s breasts.

  “Sure,” I said. Not in front of the womenfolk, though. I turned to Lauren. “Sorry about this. Maybe we can finalize details later.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Emma appeared at my elbow with a tattered copy of The Mystery of Lilac Inn. “How much is this?”

  “Five dollars,” I said automatically. “But for you, ten.”

  She giggled, happily oblivious to the electricity snapping in the air.

  I took the book, handed it across the counter to Velvet, who watched us like a favorite TV show. She looked blank. “Put it in a bag for her,” I muttered.

  “Oh. Sure. Right.” She took the book belatedly.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Lauren seemed to be trying the telepathy with me. I wasn’t getting the message. Jake’s message, on the other hand, was coming through loud and clear; I didn’t have to meet his eyes.

  “We’re done here, right?” I said to Lauren, resorting to old-fashioned speech.

  “Are we?” Natasha said ominously. Was she concerned about the police presence, or did she suspect me of trying to skip out on my share of picking hors d’oeuvres?

  “Is everything all right, officers?” Lauren inquired evenly.

  I wondered what Lisa had told them that led them to conclude that I might need protecting from the fuzz.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said quickly. “I’ll call you. But really, whatever you guys — girls — ladies —”

  They laughed, though their laughter was no longer so silvery sweet. Rossini and Jake stared in fascination.

  “I’m fine with whatever you work out.”

  “What about the book?” inquired Emma, gazing seriously up at me with those big blue eyes.

  “It’s a gift,” I said. “A before-Christmas gift.”

  “Adrien,” Lauren said quietly, “do we need to call Daddy?”

  “Caaa —” I sounded like Michael Palin in A Fish Called Wanda. “No. Seriously.” Naturally I couldn’t say aloud, And don’t tell my mother! But I telepathed for all my life was worth.

  They looked unconvinced. I couldn’t look at the cops. Then Natasha exclaimed, “Christmas! We haven’t talked about Christmas yet!”

  “Oh, my gosh!” Lauren responded without missing a beat.

  Ad lib or did they rehearse this stuff?

  “We’ll talk,” I assured them. They were making protesting noises as I grabbed the book bag from Velvet, pushed it into Emma’s hands. I gestured for the coppers to follow me.

  They followed, unspeaking, footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. I led them into the backroom, shut the office door firmly.

  “What did you need?” It came out abruptly. I was angry with Jake, angry to find myself in this position — and I was apprehensive.

  “I’m sure you’re aware that we’ve arrested Angus Gordon?” Rossini said.

  I nodded. Glanced at Jake, then looked away. Easier if I didn’t look at him. If I pretended he wasn’t there at all.

  Abruptly, I remembered the first time I’d met him. Even less happy circumstances than these. We’d sat in this same crowded office with him asking questions about a murder. Today the other cop — Rossini — did most of the talking. I answered mechanically. They showed me photos of Kinsey. She was a year or two younger and a lot cleaner in the photographs.

  I admitted I had seen her before, that she had come into the store asking for Angus. I admitted I had given Angus money when he had expressed fear over harassment from fellow students.

  Rossini was inclined to follow this line of questioning. He began to ask about my relationship with Angus.

  “Safe to say, G
ordon was more than an employee?”

  I opened my mouth, but Jake cut in. “We’ve already established Mr. English’s role.”

  This breach of etiquette naturally irritated the other detective. He tapped his pencil on the edge of the desk as though trying to recover his train of thought.

  “For the record, Mr. English, what were you doing last night from the hours of, say, six p.m. to ten p.m.?”

  Ten p.m. So she hadn’t been dead for long when I walked in. I wondered if she had been killed at the house. Looking back from a safe distance, I thought that — considering those terrible wounds — there hadn’t been as much blood as you’d expect at the crime scene. Which isn’t to say that it hadn’t been plenty gory…

  Once again I was standing in that dark hallway staring at the broken bloody corpse lying in the tumbled bed clothes.

  I wondered what would have happened if I’d walked into the house forty-five minutes earlier.

  I swallowed hard. “I closed the store around five-thirty. I ate dinner here —”

  “What’d you have for dinner?” Rossini interrupted genially.

  “Uh…a kind of Lean Cuisine thing.” That was the truth; it was the question itself that gave me pause.

  He didn’t speak, so I went on. “I host a weekly writing group on Tuesday nights. They met from seven to nine. After that I did paperwork, and at some point Angus called.”

  “At what point? What time exactly?”

  “Eleven-ish. Eleven-thirty at the latest.”

  No comment. He could verify the time, and certainly would, if he was any kind of cop at all. It didn’t matter; this was all basically true. “I went to bed after leaving the message with Detective Riordan.”

  I thought it was a pretty tight alibi — assuming I actually needed one. Maybe it was remotely possible that I could have hunted Kinsey down and murdered her in the hour after Partners in Crime dispersed — or killed her before everyone arrived and then calmly discussed sentence structure for a couple of hours before carting her corpse over to Angus’s — but I was betting on Rossini’s commonsense. (Although the guy did wear red socks with blue trousers.)

  Where my story fell apart was after the time of the murder. Hopefully no church ladies selling raffle tickets or Girl Scouts peddling cookies had turned up banging on my door after I split for Angus’s. Hopefully, the police had no interest in my actions after the hours of six and ten.

  Rossini made a note.

  “The message you left was regarding this phone call from Gordon?”

  Jake’s silence was like a fourth person in the room, a formidable presence.

  “Right.” It took willpower not to look toward Jake. Why would Rossini ask that?

  “Why again did you think Detective Riordan should investigate Gordon’s house?”

  He was a smart cop. He had good instincts. He knew something was fishy with my story, but the fact that Jake, in essence, vouched for me, made it awkward.

  “I guess the…fear factor,” I said. “Angus sounded terrified. He sounded in fear of his life. Besides, Detective Riordan had told me to get in touch with him if he — Angus — called.”

  I cast a look at Jake, wondering if it had occurred to him yet that Angus was unlikely to back our strangers-in-the-night scenario.

  His eyes met mine, sheared off. His lips were tight, all feeling held in check.

  “You had no idea why Gordon was terrified?”

  We had already been over this, so I wasn’t sure why Rossini was angling around again.

  I said, “I thought I had a pretty good idea. I was wrong. I thought he was being harassed, bullied by other kids. I assumed it was student hazing, something like that. I had no idea that it might tie into this…thing in the papers.”

  This multiple homicide thing in the papers, that is.

  “You thought he was the victim of hazing? But he was a grad student. He was working as a teaching assistant. How likely is it that someone like that would be targeted that way?”

  Rossini must not have gone to college. “It happens,” I said.

  “Oh, for Chrissake, Rossini,” Jake said, bored. “English acted like a good citizen. Why are you giving him a hard time? Look, we’ve got places to go and perps to talk to.”

  This was so far out of line that Rossini almost couldn’t swallow his anger. He stopped writing. He didn’t tap his pencil, he didn’t move a muscle. I was guessing that he was the senior officer in this investigation. He could probably have Jake removed from the case if he chose.

  I said, “I admit I didn’t think it through. I just threw money at the problem.”

  Rossini snorted as though this were a common mistake that led to countless cult murders.

  He asked me a few clipped questions about my encounter with Kinsey, which I instinctively downplayed. Rossini resumed jotting his notes.

  There was a lull in the questioning. I said, without thinking, “Do you think any of this has to do with Gabriel Savant’s disappearance?”

  They scrutinized me.

  Rossini said, “Gabriel who?”

  “The mystery writer who disappeared a couple of days ago,” Jake supplied without inflection.

  “Why would there be a connection?”

  I had already explained all this over the phone to the cops handling Savant’s missing person case. They hadn’t been impressed with my story, and I had to admit, hearing myself now, it did sound like I might be the kind of guy who wore aluminum foil hats in the privacy of my own home.

  “He writes about the occult. When he did a signing here last Friday night, he announced that his next book would be an exposé of a local cult.”

  I saw the first glimmer of humor on Rossini’s morose puss.

  “And you think the secret cult snatched this Gabriel dude?”

  “I don’t think anything.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true. “He thought it. I mean, he seemed fearful that something like that might happen.”

  “He expressed to you a fear that he might be kidnapped?”

  “Sort of. Nothing that concrete. He said stuff that —” I caught Jake’s chilly eye and stumbled. “He mentioned a group called Blade Sable.”

  “Say what? Black Sable? Sounds like a cartoon character,” Rossini commented. Adding, “I think we’ll leave your mystery writer to the boys in Missing Persons.”

  My face must have made my thoughts clear. He said affably, “You have to understand, Mr. English. Cults are like big business. What we’re looking at here is more of a mom-and-pop operation.”

  There was a quaint analogy. Murder, Inc.

  “You’re not exploring the possibility that these murders are cult-related?”

  “We’re taking a look at a couple of scenarios. But you’ve got to remember that there are more movies about cults than there are genuine real live cults. You can’t hide a whole cult,” Rossini explained. “Nowadays you can’t really hide anything,” he finished, and glanced briefly at Jake.

  Something in that quick look, in the mildness of his tone, made me uneasy.

  He asked more routine questions, while Jake preserved impassive silence, then finally slapped shut his notebook, stood, and thanked me curtly for my time.

  I moved to the door. Jake followed Rossini out without a backward glance.

  I didn’t think much about Jake. I didn’t even worry much about whether I had managed to convince Rossini that I was a harmless goof. My attention zeroed in on the sight of Velvet hurrying up the aisle toward the front desk.

  The self-conscious line of her back, the guilty haste with which she moved, gave me the distinct impression she had been hovering outside the office.

  Had she been listening through the door?

  Chapter Twelve

  “So they’ve arrested Angus,” Guy remarked at last.

  I nodded, selected another home-baked chip from the sandwich basket.

  We had agreed to meet for a late lunch at the Corner Bakery Café in Westwood. Guy had an hour and a half before he had
to head back to UCLA for his evening course on the “History of Terror: Mystics, Heretics, and Witches in the Western Tradition.”

  We’d ordered at the counter, found an empty table in the corner, wasted about ten minutes in awkward small talk before Guy got down to it. I didn’t particularly mind. The café smelled of warm baking bread, and the muted Christmas carols playing in the background were sort of soothing. I was dead tired and glad for a moment’s respite.

  I asked, “Did you know Kinsey Perone? The girl Angus is accused of murdering?”

  “Know her? No.” Avoiding my gaze, he said, “She could have taken a class or attended a lecture series. Her picture looked familiar, but then, they all look alike after a while.”

  I described Kinsey’s accomplice right down to her pink heart-shaped glasses. “She was in that lecture you gave on the occult in popular film and fiction.”

  Reluctantly, Guy said, “It sounds like Betty Sansone.”

  Betty? What kind of evil henchgirl is named Betty?

  “Why?” Guy questioned, his gaze finally direct on mine.

  I told him why. Sort of. I told him that Kinsey and Betty had paid me a visit the day before. I left out how I spent my evening.

  “That doesn’t sound like Betty. She’s smart and focused. I wish I had more like her.”

  I let it go. “Guy, would you have a list of the students who were in the Practical Magic class you taught a year or so ago?”

  “No,” he said crisply. “As I explained to that cop investigating Tony Zellig’s death, roll books are turned in at the end of the semester. I’ve got enough to do keeping my current class load straight without hanging on to out-of-date seating charts and test scores.”

  If by “that cop” he meant Jake, I had news for him. Nothing stopped Jake. He’d go straight to the college administration to get what he needed.

  I could be stubborn too, but I didn’t have Jake’s resources.

  “Well, when you said you had talked to the kids who you believed were involved in harassing Angus, who did you talk to?”

  He shifted in his chair, an unconsciously evasive movement. “I spoke to one former student. He denied any involvement, and I believe him. I gave his name to that asshole cop, but I’m not comfortable sharing it with you. I feel that would be a breach of ethics.”