by Nora Page
“Well …” Cleo said, hedging. In the case that Madame was a killer, Cleo’s plan was hoping the psychic didn’t give her guilt away by attacking them. She mentally acknowledged that it wasn’t her best plan ever.
“Oooh,” Mary-Rose said. “I know what we can do. We’ll ask her to ‘see’ how the killer did it. That way, she can say without implicating herself. That worked on Ted Bundy, the serial killer. I just saw a documentary. He gave up all sorts of sins, talking in a hypothetical third person. It was creepy beyond creepy.”
Mary-Rose rested her canvas shopping bag on her boots. Green-gray curls of kale poked out. She’d been at the farmers’ market and then to Dot’s, where she’d bought an “excessive” quantity of chocolate bars.
Cleo considered no quantity of chocolate excessive, especially on a cloudy day with talk of serial killers. She was about to propose that they have some chocolate, for fortification and courage, when Mary-Rose hoisted her bag and strode across the street. Mary-Rose was tugging open the psychic’s creaky wire gate when a sunny greeting sailed up the sidewalk.
“Hey, ladies.” Gabby Honeywell strolled toward them, her ponytail swinging and a large backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Hi, Gabby,” Mary-Rose said, frozen halfway through the gate. “Nothing going on here!”
“Exactly what all the innocent people say to cops.” Gabby grinned at Cleo, head shaking. “I was just finishing up my fruitless search of the Gilded Page.”
She paused while Cleo exclaimed, “Of course it was fruitless!”
Gabby continued. “Imagine my surprise, looking out the upstairs window. My favorite neighbor and my favorite pancake maker, heading for a witness’s home, acting furtive.”
Mary-Rose dropped her shopping bag and set about repinning her loose bun, murmuring about “furtive.”
Cleo went straight to confessing. “We’re just visiting. I think Madame knows something.”
“You think she’ll tell you outright?” Gabby said, adjusting her backpack. “Or do you plan to trick it out of her?”
“Trick sounds dishonest,” Cleo said.
“We’re lying,” Mary-Rose said, a hairpin between her lips.
Lie sounded worse. “Madame is the one lying,” Cleo said. “I’m sure she knew Hunter Fox. She might have been a victim of his book scouting. She has—or had—magic books she considered valuable. People like to talk with me about books. She might reveal something she wouldn’t tell you.”
“That’s the truth,” Mary-Rose affirmed, patting her redone bun. “Cleo’s like a book whisperer.”
Gabby was scowling at the little cottage with its wild purple scales and riotous garden. “It’s not a bad idea,” Gabby conceded. “Madame wouldn’t let me inside when I interviewed her. I wondered why. But I don’t like the idea of you ladies going in there alone. What if you’re right? If she had bad dealings with Hunter Fox, then she’s a murder suspect.”
“Oh, we have a plan for that too,” Mary-Rose said. “We’re going to get her talking in the hypothetical, like Ted Bundy.”
Gabby rubbed her temple as if pained. “How about this? I’ll wait right outside, and if anything—anything at all—doesn’t seem right, you leave immediately, okay? If you can’t leave, yell. Loudly.”
Cleo nodded obligingly. She didn’t predict they’d be shouting.
Mary-Rose, however, was looking worryingly eager. “Leave it to me,” she said. “I’m an acclaimed amateur screamer.” She turned and unlatched the gate.
Gabby raised an eyebrow.
“Community theater,” Cleo explained. “Mary-Rose did the Phantom of the Opera scream several years running.”
“So listen for that,” Mary-Rose called back.
* * *
“She certainly likes wind chimes,” Cleo said.
“It’s like an infestation of ’em,” Mary-Rose said, frowning.
Cleo understood her friend’s reaction. The gusts sent up cacophonies of clanking in every discordant tone. Chimes hung all around the porch, from trees, and even from a bird feeder, where a harried finch flung seed to the ground.
Mary-Rose added to the ringing. She pressed her finger on a doorbell that screeched.
Unearthly wooooo sounds surrounded them.
Cleo spun, her eyes scanning all directions, including upward. A bird’s nest nestled in the upper right corner of the porch. Behind the tight circle of twigs hovered a black box with a mesh front.
“Speakers,” Cleo said, pointing. She turned and identified three more in the other corners. “Surround sound,” she added with distaste. Cleo found the technology disorienting and dizzying, even in movies.
Mary-Rose wedged her finger into the buzzer. “Nice,” she said as the ghostly howls surrounded them once more. “I’m thinking of getting surround sound for my sun porch.”
“You are?” Cleo realized she should sound more supportive. “I mean, how nice.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t want it making these silly sounds,” Mary-Rose said. “I suppose it adds to the fun, though. Listen, Cleo, I had a thought. We should warm Madame up before we start asking about stolen books and murder. What if I say I want to contact my great-gran, the one who inflicted freckles and bony ankles on me?”
“You have lovely ankles,” Cleo countered, but she saw another potential trouble. Mary-Rose loved to get caught up in a good story, especially campfire ghost tales. Inconceivably to Cleo, Mary-Rose utterly adored getting scared. “We have to be on guard,” Cleo warned. “Don’t let her lull you with sound effects and ghost stories. She’s a salesperson too, like those appliance salesmen you cautioned me about the other day. She’s selling a scam.”
“That’s half the fun, isn’t it?” Mary-Rose said. “I want to see how she does it.”
A voice came at them from all directions. “The other world is watching. The beyond sees all …”
Mary-Rose grinned back at Cleo. “Don’t make the beyond angry, Cleo Jane,” she whispered. “Don’t you worry, either. I am ready to scream.” She inhaled deeply as the door swung open, seemingly on its own.
Mary-Rose stepped boldly in. Cleo followed with more reasonable caution. She peeked behind the door, expecting Madame Romanov to pop out and yell, “Boo!” The reality was scarier. No one was there. They were met only by the thick scent of incense.
An antique globe lamp glowed dimly in a corner. Potted plants clogged the windows, and filmy fabrics with shimmery threads plumed from the ceiling and walls. A round table took center stage, dressed in purple satin, like the floor-to-ceiling curtains behind it.
“Look, a crystal ball!” Mary-Rose exclaimed, pointing to the centerpiece. “Oh, this will be good.” She called out, “Yoo-hoo, Madame? Beyond? Anyone home? We’ve come to commune with the spirits.”
Cleo’s eyes adjusted to the dimness and zeroed in on something that could tell them more than any crystal ball.
“Books!” Cleo started for a wall of shelves, partially covered by filmy fabric. She lifted the cloth and tipped her head to read the spines. The titles revealed Madame’s interest in crystals and Russian history, astrology, and dog training. The shelf at eye level was tight with books. Cleo remembered Kitty’s words, Hunter Fox’s scouting motto: Look high, look low. The lower shelves were filled. The upper had a gap of several inches, with books from either side tipping into it. Cleo stood on her tiptoes, but the shelf was above her level.
“Sit! Sit before the crystal seer,” a female voice demanded, coming from above and all directions. “Visitor, step away from the books! Move to the crystal ball.”
“You heard her,” Mary-Rose said. “To the crystal, Cleo.”
“It doesn’t sound like Madame Romanov,” Cleo whispered, following Mary-Rose to the table, where chairs were wedged tight as teeth. They pulled out two and sat with knees bumping.
Mary-Rose whispered, “Play along. Remember? We’re all fibbing here.”
The curtains behind the table rippled. Cleo heard scuffling and feet and, she was sure,
a muffled giggle. What was going on? A wavering, otherworldly voice filled the room, female but youthful.
“To whom do you wish to speak?”
“I’ll go,” Mary-Rose whispered. “Amelia-Rose Honoree,” she said, loudly giving her great-gran’s name.
“She knew you were coming,” the voice proclaimed. “She says she wants you to … ah … see her in your every freckle.”
“Oh …” Mary-Rose said, nudging Cleo. “The family freckles! That almost gives me chills.”
“Almost,” Cleo muttered.
“Amelia-Rose also says you should stand strong on your feet and legs,” the voice said. “You carry her … her …” Mumbles and mutters filtered out before the voice blurted, “Her visage! You have her visage.”
“Yep, that’s the truth,” Mary-Rose said. “My bony ankles are her very visage, right between my strong feet and legs.” She nudged Cleo. “Your turn. Go ahead, ask for your dead guy.”
But now Cleo had a different question. She wanted to know who was behind the curtain. The Wizard of Oz came to mind, one of her favorite movies and books too. Her grandmother had owned a later edition of the original 1900 novel, replete with gorgeous illustrations. Somewhere in a long line of relatives and visitors, book borrowing and swapping, it had become lost. Cleo made a mental note to look for a copy at the fair.
Cleo cleared her throat. “Madame, will you appear to us?”
Mary-Rose whispered, “Good one.”
The curtains ruffled and rippled. A crash sounded in the back, followed by a muffled curse. “The spirits are restless,” said the voice. The woooos began again. “Feel the spirits approaching.”
“I do feel something!” Mary-Rose exclaimed, wiggling in her seat.
Cleo did too, a bump at her ankles, fast and firm … and furry? Claws skittled on the wood floor.
“Oh!” Mary-Rose said. “Oh my gracious, the spirit just licked my foot! Begone, beast, or I’ll scream.”
“No!” Cleo cried, imagining Gabby racing in, gun drawn. She pulled back the satin tablecloth to reveal a chubby dachshund grinning up at them. “Behold, the beast,” she said to Mary-Rose.
“Slim!” the voice hissed from behind the curtains. “Slim! Come, Slim.”
“Aw, little angel!” Mary-Rose proclaimed, bending to pet the panting pup.
While Mary-Rose gushed on Slim, Cleo slipped out of her seat. Slim was no Toto. She’d have to pull back the curtains herself.
The heavy satin opened with a fine plume of dust, revealing two young women. Teenagers, Cleo guessed. Goths, she suspected, although perhaps there was an updated term for the tortured-hair, blackened-eye look.
“Hey, you’re not supposed to see behind the curtain,” said one. She had blonde hair reminiscent of Wanda Boxer’s shrubbery. Shredded. Pained. Hacked. Her companion wore all black, from her outfit and heavily ringed eyes to what looked like rusty nails protruding from her earlobes.
Cleo gave them her best grandmotherly smile. “Oh, you were very good. You had us fooled. Are you apprentices of Madame Romanov?”
They exchanged a look that Cleo easily read. Old people are so gullible. Cleo held her smile, happy to play along. For now.
“Sure,” rusty-nail girl said. “Yeah, we’re apprentices to the Great Madame Romanov.”
Her blonde choppy-haired friend snorted.
“Lovely,” Cleo said. “I’m sure Madame Romanov feels fortunate to have such fine apprentices. Where is she, by the way? My friend and I want to get in touch with her, and the spirits too, of course.”
“She’s somewhere … beyond here,” the blonde said, jutting out her chin. “Do you want your palms read? Fortunes? Tarot? Reiki? We can do that.”
Cleo politely declined. “When you say that Madame Romanov is ‘somewhere,’ where might that be?”
The teens stared back blankly. They could be skilled actresses, or they might not know. Cleo waited, stretching out the silence, an interrogation technique she’d effectively employed as a mother, a librarian, and a sleuth.
The blonde broke first. “Look, she’s somewhere, okay? It’s fine we’re here. I’m her niece and we’re, like, magic apprentices, like you said.”
Cleo interpolated key information. Madame didn’t know they were here. She might not approve. They didn’t know where she was.
“Do you know why she left?” Cleo asked.
The blank looks returned until the rusty-nail girl said with teen exasperation, “Because she wanted to. Maybe the spirits told her to go. She sees spirits.” She paused and then intoned darkly, “The seer sees all.”
“Does she, now?” Mary-Rose popped her head inside the curtain. “Why, look at this, behind-the-scenes sorcery. Isn’t this cozy?”
Chubby Slim trotted in, wagged his tail, woofed sharply, and ran back out.
“Slim!” the rusty-nail girl said, clapping her hands at him. He didn’t reappear.
The room was rather cozy, Cleo thought. Once, it had probably been a dining room. Now curtains blocked the windows and wires and cables stretched between overtaxed outlets and electronic devices. Cleo hazily identified routers and a multiline phone, headsets, and a big-screen computer showing a dozen or so tiny video images. She stepped closer, recognizing the scenes.
“Hey, that’s private,” rusty-nail girl said, stepping to block Cleo.
Playing up the image of elderly befuddlement, Cleo said, “Look at this, Mary-Rose. Madame can watch a dozen TV channels at once.”
“What fun!” Mary-Rose said, clapping her hands and playing along. “We could watch all our shows, Cleo Jane. Oooh, and look, there’s a pretty photo of the porch and the crystal ball and Slim, chewing on a chair leg, naughty little angel! She can see everything, even the birds out in the garden.” Mary-Rose pointed to a square image just off-center. In it, the nervous finch flicked away his seed.
Madame could also hear, Cleo guessed. Headphones were plugged into the machine. If clients chatted on her porch or in the parlor, Madame could listen, gathering clues for her supposed fortune-telling.
Another scene interested Cleo even more. A camera showed the back edge of the carriage garage, a line of trash bins, and fluttering yellow ribbon. The alley. The crime scene.
Cleo backed away slowly, trying to cover her thrill. Madame Romanov might have recorded the killing. Gabby could get a warrant, and Henry could be cleared, and—
Worry interrupted Cleo’s good thoughts. Why hadn’t Madame come forward? Where was she?
“You really don’t know where your aunt is?” Cleo asked the niece. “I don’t want to alarm you, but there was a crime recently.”
“Yeah, like everyone knows that,” the niece said.
“Everyone,” her friend confirmed. “You, like, shouldn’t go back in that alley. It has bad spirits. We can feel them.”
Cleo felt frustration, but a growing conviction that the niece had no clue as to her aunt’s whereabouts. She touched Mary-Rose’s elbow and forced a bright smile at the teens. “We’ll come back when Madame is home. Any idea when that will be?”
They nodded their heads in a synchronized negative.
“You sure you don’t want a Reiki session?” the friend said. “Palm reading? Future prediction? Past-life regression? We’re as good as Madame Romanov.”
“I’m sure you are,” Cleo said truthfully, digging in her purse for tips. “Thank you for your time. This has been very entertaining.” And very useful. She predicted that Gabby would think so too.
Chapter Twenty-One
Later that afternoon, Cleo went to find Henry at the fair. His stall was at the far end of the Depot. The location offered a good view of the other dealers and visitors. However, Cleo guessed it wasn’t the best spot for drawing in customers. The two tables closest to him stood empty, and Henry had his nose in a book. Mr. Chaucer lay under the table, flat on his back, his legs twitching in a canine dreamtime romp.
“You’re all alone back here,” Cleo said, rousing Henry. Mr. Chaucer kept on snoring.
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br /> “Not quite.” Henry bobbed his head backward. Behind him, at another otherwise empty table, slouched Gabby’s colleague, Sergeant Earl Tookey. The young sergeant wore civilian clothes, a rumpled plaid button-down, jeans, and a University of Georgia Bulldogs cap. The hat covered his eyes. His mouth gaped slightly open, and Cleo guessed he was sleeping as soundly as Mr. Chaucer.
“What is Sergeant Tookey doing?” Cleo said, suspecting she already knew the answer.
“He’s been my shadow today,” Henry confirmed. “Seems I’m under police surveillance.” He smiled. “I prefer to think of it as police protection. There is a murderer about.”
Cleo huffed before reminding herself that Sergeant Tookey was a nice young man with a keen interest in cookbooks. In his free time, the sergeant competed in barbecue contests and was a local celebrity for his winnings in smoked-meat categories.
“Police time would be better spent looking for the murderer than watching you,” Cleo said loudly. Tookey kept snoozing.
Henry looked drowsy too. “The Thursday lull,” he said. “It’s been a slow day for everyone. The final shoppers will be waiting for the upcoming Friday and weekend bargains.” He looked up the row. “It doesn’t help my customer flow that those two stands closed up early.”
“For the day?”
His rueful look suggested otherwise.
“They went home early?” Cleo said.
“They didn’t feel safe.” Henry’s cheeks flushed. “I got the impression they think I could be the killer. Word has gotten around about my revised statement, and Sergeant Tookey isn’t exactly undercover.”
An ache lodged in Cleo’s limbs. Poor Henry.
Henry stood, stretched, and gave her a weak smile. “I’ve assured folks that it’s a misunderstanding. I think my close colleagues believe me. I’ve told them we have fine detectives in Catalpa Springs too.” He twinkled at Cleo. “Even finer amateur sleuths.”