by Nic Saint
His eyes darted from me to Blane. “So you don’t think this was an accident? You think someone actually… did this to her?”
Blane nodded solemnly. “This was no accident, Mr. Warrilow, which is why it’s so important we figure out what happened, exactly.”
He gestured at the picture. “Don’t you have cameras inside the ride?”
“We have, but we found no evidence of foul play,” I said.
“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” said Johann, leaning back and placing his arms on the headrest of his couch. “Is that what this whole Phoenix drama was about?”
“Yes, Mrs. Reckitt was her voice doctor,” I said. “Phoenix has been struggling with her voice lately, and she was seeing Mrs. Reckitt, hoping she’d be able to restore her abilities. Now that she died, and on a ride of her great rival Charlene, she feels that my grandmother is somehow responsible.”
The attorney’s eyes were flickering. “She believes Charlene killed her doctor. To destroy any chance of recovering her voice.”
“That seems to be the gist of it,” I said.
Johann shook his head amusedly. “The drama never ends.”
“No, it certainly doesn’t,” I agreed with a sigh.
I got up and held out my hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Warrilow.”
“Yeah, look,” he said, taking my hand, “I know I haven’t exactly been helpful, but once I’m on a ride I lose all track of whatever is going on around me and I focus solely on the ride. Those things are short enough as it is, so I want to get the most out of the experience.”
“Of course,” I said. “I understand.”
“So am I free to leave?”
“We would like to ask you to stay one more night,” said Blane.
The attorney grimaced. “I’m supposed to be back at work tomorrow.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Blane said.
“Thanks. Much appreciated, Detective—Miss Rugg. And I hope you figure out what happened. I’m sure she didn’t deserve what happened to her.”
“No one does, Mr. Warrilow,” said Blane.
Chapter 21
We left the hotel and walked back toward Main Street.
“So? What do you think?” Blane asked.
“I think the lawyer didn’t do it either,” I said. “I mean, did you see those cheeks? How can anyone with cheeks like that be a murderer? It’s just impossible.”
He gave me a level look. “You think he’s innocent because of his cheeks?”
“And his smile. He had a funny smile.”
“All smiles are funny. That’s the definition of a smile. They’re supposed to be funny.”
“Yes, but he had an extra-funny smile.”
He shook his head. “There’s no such thing as an extra-funny smile. It’s not like a pizza with cheese. You can’t order a smile with extra funny.”
I laughed. “For a cop, you’re very funny, you know that?”
“Why can’t a cop be funny?”
“Well, it’s like lawyers. It’s not a profession I generally associate with funniness.”
“I see.” He gave me a keen look. “Does funny add to my attraction or detract from it? I need to know if I’m going to improve on the kissing thing.”
“There is no improving on any kissing thing. That was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. A fluke. An accident. It won’t happen again ever.”
“Even the fact that I’m a funny cop isn’t going to change that?”
“Not one bit,” I assured him. “There will be no more kissing.” Or groping in the dark.
“Fine,” he said.
“I’m glad I managed to get my point across.”
“So what’s next?”
“I thought we might check out the ride. My dad just texted me. They put the whole thing back together and they’re going to start doing test runs to see if there are any problems.”
“You want us to take a ride together?” he asked with a grin.
“We’re going to take the ride—as a way of finding out what happened to the victim of the heinous crime that was perpetrated yesterday, yes,” I said.
“Well, if you put it that way, it sounds a lot less romantic.”
We arrived at the Haunted Ride and I walked right in. There was a small gathering of people standing in front of the ride, snapping pictures and selfies, and a camera crew stood doing its thing, with a reporter speaking into the camera, and rehashing the events of the previous day. No doubt there would be others, as this drama was capturing the imagination of viewers everywhere. Phoenix had made sure of that.
My dad was waiting for us at the operator’s station. “Hey, honey—Blane. Are you ready to take the ride?”
“We are,” I assured him. “Unless you think we shouldn’t?”
“We did a dozen test runs already. No problems. None whatsoever.” He fixed me with an intense look and I noticed once again how haggard he looked. “The more I noodle around with this thing the more convinced I am that someone unlocked that harness mid-ride and made that poor woman plummet to her death.”
Just at that moment, the ride came clattering into the station, one of Dad’s mechanics on board. He gave us a thumbs-up to indicate the ride had been smooth. I exchanged a look with Blane, and saw that his goofy grin had been replaced by a look of determination. “Let’s go,” he said.
I hesitated before getting on. I gazed down at the seat where Mrs. Reckitt had been seated. “Do you think one of us should sit there?” I asked my dad.
He shrugged. “I checked and rechecked that seat and that harness, honey, and I can’t find anything wrong with it. So you should be safe.”
I nodded, but before I could sit down, Blane beat me to it. So I got in next to him, and I gave Dad my thumbs-up. The harness came down and snapped into place and I gave it a good rattle just to make sure it was fastened tight.
“Have you ever ridden on one of these?” I asked Blane as the ride slowly started to rumble away toward the dark tunnel ahead.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Just not this one.”
I noticed he’d paled beneath his tan. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” He was holding onto the harness. “Or at least I will be once this ride is over.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of haunted houses.”
“Well, not afraid afraid, but it’s true that I don’t like them.”
“A big bad detective like yourself? Afraid of the dark?”
“I’m not afraid of the dark,” he growled. “Just… spiders, and… monsters.”
“They’re not real, you know,” I said, leaning in a little. “They’re just rubber.”
“I know. I saw them, remember? But now that the ride is functioning—aargh!”
We’d just gone down the first slope, and the car was picking up speed. “Just hold on tight. And if the monsters come, I will protect you,” I said.
“Ha ha. Very funny—aargh!”
Yep, another slide down the incline, this one much steeper than the one before. The tunnel was plunged into darkness, with only a few faint lights illuminating our progress. Dusty giant spiders dangled from spider webs above us, and from time to time a ghoul with red eyes hovered almost directly over us. All around, scary sounds accompanied the monsters that were seemingly creeping in from all sides, and loud howls sounded over the whistling wind.
“So…” Blane gulped. “So when did this shadow appear next to our victim?”
“We’re coming up on it,” I said. Suddenly we were surrounded by darkness blacker than the blackest pit, the sound of rushing water growing louder. And then we rocketed down a steep incline, racing for the bottom while water splashed around us, a light spray hitting our faces.
“He must have switched seats just before the waterfall,” I yelled over the noise.
“Which means he knew this ride and had taken it before.”
“This is it, Blane,” I yelled. “This is the Pit of Doom!”
Suddenly the ride went into a corkscrew motion, whirling around until we were hanging upside down, and just then the car was flung down into a vertical drop that was so sudden my stomach lurched and I screamed out an involuntary yelp of terror. From all around us spiders seemed to jump out at us, ready to take a nibble, and ghouls and skeletons yammered out their horrific lament, a light show making everything all the more real and scary.
Next to me, Blane was screaming his heart out, but at least he was still in his seat, and hadn’t been flung down into the pit like poor Mrs. Reckitt. We raced up out of the pit, the sudden turn practically ejecting us from the car but the harnesses held, just as they were supposed to, and then we were covered in darkness once again, all around us the sounds of a jungle taunting us.
“This must have been the point when he returned to his seat,” Blane said.
Just then, a gigantic anaconda snapped her jaws at our heads, and we both screamed. This part, I didn’t remember, and I had to admit it was nicely done. In fact the whole ride was a great experience, and if we hadn’t been here to reenact the crime, it would have been fun to do this with Blane.
The ride finally emerged from the dark forest, and we passed into what looked like the home of a serial killer, a display of his murder weapons of choice dangling from the ceiling, and a wild and crazy cackling accompanying this part.
“So, what do you think?” he asked.
“I think we’re looking for a person who knew exactly what they were doing,” I said. “Someone with intimate knowledge of this particular ride.”
“Which could be just about anybody,” said Blane.
“Johann Warrilow is a roller coaster fanatic, and Dom Mathie used to come here every ten years with his wife.”
“And Sophronia Hucklebridge and Sebastiane Magg could have taken this ride a million times and we’d never know it. How long do you keep the security footage of this ride?”
“Six months. But to go through all of the footage would be impossible. I mean, we have rides every five minutes—dozens a day, every day.”
“You’re right. We’ll just have to hope our next interviews give us some clue.”
The car rolled into the station and my dad seemed relieved to see us. Well, I was relieved I hadn’t been flung out, too, of course, and so was Blane, who couldn’t wait to clamber out of his seat and back onto the safety of the station floor. He clapped my dad on the shoulder. “A great ride you got here, Clive. Pretty impressive.”
“You look pale, Blane. Don’t tell me a few monsters scared you?”
“No, they sure didn’t. Must be the centrifugal force that drained the blood from my extremities.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what this is. Oh, and there’s a lady waiting for you over there.” He pointed at a gray-haired dowdy-looking woman, who stood looking around. “Luitpold sent her over.” He lowered his voice. “She’s Anny Reckitt’s sister.”
Chapter 22
Colleen Reckitt was holding a bouquet of yellow roses, and when she saw we were all looking at her, she came walking up hesitantly.
“Hi, Mrs. Reckitt,” I said. “My name is Mia Rugg. My condolences.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. She glanced at the ride. “Is this where she died?”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “She was flung from her seat at a point where the ride reaches its lowest point.”
“Yes, I read the reports. The Pit of Doom, you call it, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Hi, Mrs. Reckitt,” said Blane. “I’m Detective Blane Jamison. Miss Rugg and I are investigating the death of you sister.”
“Oh, was it you I spoke to on the phone yesterday?”
“Yes, that was me.”
“I got on the first flight out.” Her eyes were drawn to the car again. “Such a horrible, terrible way for her to go. She was just the sweetest soul in the world.”
My dad excused himself, and Blane and I escorted Mrs. Reckitt to a waiting booth away from the station. A couple of seats had been put out, and a few wooden tables, and a soda and candy stand was set up for refreshments—closed now, of course.
“So what exactly happened?” Colleen asked. “You told me there had been an accident, but I keep reading that these kinds of accidents aren’t supposed to happen. And then there’s that whole thing with Phoenix who insists my sister was murdered. What’s going on?”
“We’ve ruled out the possibility of an accident,” I said. “Which leaves us with only two possibilities. Either someone murdered your sister or… she committed suicide.”
“Oh, no!” Colleen said instantly. “Anny would never do that. She was a happy person. She had so much to live for. She loved her work, her life… everything.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Because that means someone else…”
“Killed her? Yes, I’m sure. She was a very successful professional. And beloved. She’d helped so many people recover their voice that she was known throughout the industry as the go-to person for voice issues.”
“Is it true that for many voice artists she was the last resort?” I asked.
“Yes. I worked for my sister as her assistant for many years, and we saw the evolution. Artists these days are under a lot of pressure. They have to do a lot of shows, and with the advent of mobile phones every show has to be perfect. If they drop a note or sing out of tune, the Internet will mercilessly turn it into a meme. The pressure is enormous. And that takes its toll on an artist’s voice. Artists used to play one show per country. These days an artist performs many shows in every city. The number of artists that came to my sister for help was increasing year by year.”
“What about Phoenix?” asked Blane.
“Well, Phoenix is a different case altogether. When an artist ages, the voice changes. Many singers will experience a stiffening of the vocal cords, pitch range will be reduced, and the voice will become weaker and breathier. Which is exactly what’s happening to Phoenix. Which isn’t to say there aren’t certain techniques that can help an aging voice to stay toned and energized. Like any muscle, the voice needs to be trained and kept in shape. But not too much.” She smiled. “As you can probably tell, I’m just as fascinated and passionate about this work as my sister was. She helped a lot of people. Performed hundreds of operations. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Did your sister have any enemies?” I asked. “Anyone who could have wanted to cause her harm?”
“There have been cases of singers who never fully recovered, of course. She couldn’t help everyone. But there have never been any threats or anything. I would have known if there were. We worked closely together.”
“Do you recognize any of these people?” Blane asked, placing a composite picture in front of the woman made up of security pictures of all six suspects.
She studied the picture very carefully, lingering several seconds over each face before moving on to the next. Finally, she shook her head. “No. None of these ring a bell. If they did, I would know. I’m very good with faces.”
Disappointed, Blane removed the picture. I shared his disappointment. I’d hoped Colleen would recognize someone who’d held a grudge against her sister.
“The only explanation I can see,” said Colleen, “is that my sister was the victim of a random act of violence. A senseless murder. Because nobody that knew her could have caused her harm. She was a ministering angel. There is no other word to describe her.” She folded her hands and bowed her head as a single tear rolled down her cheek. “And now she’s with God.”
When we left Colleen, I told Blane, “Maybe she’s right. Maybe someone just killed Anny Reckitt for the pleasure of it.”
“A psychopath, you mean. That’s certainly a possibility.”
“Why else would anyone kill a voice doctor? She saved so many lives.”
“At least now we know she didn’t kill herself,” he said.
“Yes. At least there’s that.”
The conversation with Colleen Reckitt had tou
ched my heart, and now more than before I was determined to find out who had done this to her sister. Who had murdered such a sweet, wonderful soul in cold blood. “Promise me one thing, Blane,” I said suddenly. “Promise me that we will catch this killer.”
He gave me a serious look. “I promise I will not rest until we catch the person who murdered Anny Reckitt,” he said. And I believed him.
Chapter 23
“So who’s next?” I asked as we stepped from the Haunted Ride. I’d taken us via the back exit, to avoid the throng of visitors and media gathering outside.
“Well, we only have two suspects left,” said Blane, checking his notebook. “First and foremost, our best shot yet, Morrison Burlet.”
“Ah, yes. The man who was seen crawling past Dom Mathie, brushing against his shoulder as he did so.”
“Dom didn’t say it was Morrison who crawled past him,” Blane said. “He just said someone crawled past him. It could have been anyone.”
“Morrison was sitting right in front of Mr. Mathie. It must have been him.”
“And then there’s Anscom Rider,” Blane continued. “He’s the CEO of a company that’s developing a human cloning solution.”
“Interesting. We might have to talk to him about cloning Charlene. I’m sure she’d be interested in living forever.”
“He is currently under investigation by the SEC for securities fraud, though,” said Blane. “So his company might not exist long enough to clone your grandmother.”
“Oh, well. Maybe one Charlene is enough.”
“Yes, I don’t think the world can bear two Charlenes,” he said wryly.
“I think it’s her dogs,” I said. “I think you’re still afraid she’s going to sic her Corgis on you.”
“I told you. I’m not afraid of dogs. They just don’t like me, that’s all.”
“Like they made a collective deal not to like you? As a species?”
“That’s exactly what happened.”