by Alexie Aaron
“He may not be, but my instincts tell me otherwise,” Kalaraja said. “Remember, Catherine said that some books are life-snatchers.”
“Did any of the other teens die?” Clara asked.
“No.”
“Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe the book is a parasite, and Ron’s death was accidental. The book influences him much like the red devil that supposedly sits on one of our shoulders. It says, ‘You’ve always been curious, go ahead and try it.’ He does, and the book takes his memory, leaving him no idea what he is doing at the time, and he dies.”
Both men looked at Clara.
“I’m still going to stay with Nash. I don’t doubt your concern and will remain vigilant,” she promised.
“You could be right,” Kalaraja said. “Nash, it could be a parasite that got a taste for death. It pushes the reader to tap their dark desires and writes them into the book. If it tapped the wrong person, then someone dies or becomes a killer. Either way, it has to be stopped.”
“How?” Clara asked.
“I put a bug in Catherine’s ear about using her grandmother voice to our advantage. I asked her to call Marianne Irving’s therapist-priest and tell him about the others involved with the book. If anyone would know how to stop an evil book, I do believe the Catholics have the information squirreled away somewhere. In the meanwhile, Clara, you’re to spend your nights and off time with Nash. The Richardses will be here tomorrow, and I’ll fill in when you can’t be here.”
“I have the Sunday brunch crowd, and on Monday I promised to interview pastry chefs, but I think I can take the rest of the week off. Johan will understand, or I’ll find myself another position.”
“Clara, you don’t have to…”
“I want to.” She looked around. “I’m going to have to get some sleep. Mind going downstairs to continue the conversation so I can hit the sack?” She went in search of where she dropped her duffle.
Nash got up. “The bathroom works up here, but I’m not sure if it has toilet paper.”
Clara pulled a roll out of the large duffle she had left beside the large box of Popular Mechanics magazines. “I always pack a roll when I visit Craig,” she explained. “Toilet paper seems to be something my brother never thinks about.”
Nash followed Kalaraja down to the first floor. He kept looking up.
“She doesn’t snore,” Kalaraja said.
“She shouldn’t be here. What if she gets hurt?” Nash said.
“If you die, her heart breaks. Seems to me, she’s not only fighting for you but for herself too.”
“If the black book comes, how will I know if it’s here?”
“The other books will tell you. Trust the shop. I’ll send over some bedding, towels, and groceries. It’s the least I can do.”
“Why?”
“Clara called me Spider-Man earlier. I haven’t felt this vital in decades.”
Nash laughed. “She has a way about her.” He showed Kalaraja her earlier text on his phone.
“You’re a lucky man, Nash,” Kalaraja said.
“I know,” he said, extending his hand and shaking Kalaraja’s.
Clara washed up and pulled on the pajamas she wore when she visited her brother. She pulled out her baseball bat from the duffle and unpacked what clothes she planned on wearing the next day. She looked at the couch and debated sleeping there. She fluffed her pillow and set it down, preparing to make the best of it on the old couch.
“Don’t you dare,” Nash said from behind her.
“I don’t want to disturb you when I get up,” Clara explained. “I know you’re not ready to sleep yet which puts me against the wall.” She pointed to the bed. “I’d have to crawl over you in the morning. This is just a smarter way of doing things.”
“Who says I’m not going to bed now?”
“Nash, it’s…”
Nash pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He grabbed her pillow in one hand and the waistband of her pajama pants with the other. He walked over to the bed, tossed the pillow on it, and then began to undo her buttons on her shirt. “You’re wearing way too much clothing.”
“But…”
“Don’t you want me, Clara?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll not keep you up all night, but I’m going to show you a good time. Trust me, you look beautiful with bags under your eyes.”
Clara bit her lip.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
~
Wendell spoke with the doorman. The doorman, at first, narrowed his eyes but was taken in by the concern the older man had for his tenant.
“I haven’t seen her in a while. I thought maybe she was visiting her folks. I’ll let the maintenance manager know of your concern and see what he wants to do? Either way, I’ll make sure she gets this note.”
“Thank you. It’s not from just me. You see, it’s the book club.”
“Monica talks all the time about the book club. She has given me a few of the books she finished reading. Honestly, I think you could kill it with Conrad for a while. Bring in some Hemmingway.”
“He’s a hard one to understand,” Wendell said.
“Give them a challenge.”
“You wouldn’t be interested in joining us, would you?”
“My bread and butter is made at night. If you ever put together a matinee group, give me a call,” the man said, presenting Wendell with his card.
“You’d be surrounded by old ladies during the day,” Wendell warned.
“I love the grannies. Bring them on. Any granny who reads Hemmingway is a woman I’d be interested in listening to.”
Wendell looked at the card and said, “Roger, I believe you have inspired me. I’ll be in touch.” He walked outside with more of a bounce to his step. Wendel didn’t notice the police sedan idling across the street. His mind was occupied with the possibility of a daytime book club.
Officer Blunt nudged Jones. “He’s leaving now. Do you want me to follow him?”
“Yes. I’ll get out and see if I can flush Ms. Voorhees out of hiding,” he said, getting out and crossing the street.
Roger opened the door, and when he was presented with the CPD shield and was told of the concern for the welfare of the tenant, he called up to Ms. Voorhees’s apartment. When there was no answer, he called the maintenance manager. “I’ve requested that the maintenance manager let you in,” Roger explained to the detective. “His name is Andrew Connolly, and he will meet you there with the key. I do hope she’s just out of town.”
“Me too,” Jones said. “Before I go… The guy who just left here, what was he up to?”
“He dropped off this note,” Roger said, handing it to the police officer. “He was also concerned about Ms. Voorhees.”
“In your experience, being the gatekeeper for this building, what kind of vibe did you get from Mr. Baumbach?”
“Proper. I think he is genuinely interested in Ms. Voorhees’s welfare. I didn’t pick up a perv vibe from him.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, Detective, Ms. Voorhees has spoken fondly of Mr. Baumbach before. She calls him a ‘dear little man.’”
Brenda shadowed Wendell to the Jewel grocery store and maintained a discreet distance in the store as he selected an array of baked goods. He paid for his purchase and headed in the direction of West Oak Street. He paused as he passed the bookshop. He looked at his watch, cupped his hands, and looked in the window. She saw him raise his fist to knock but stop himself. Instead, he wrote a note, folded it, and secured it in the metal gate that protected the glass door. He walked off. Brenda followed him to the address he had listed as his home, and once he was inside, she sped back to the store. She walked over and eased the note out, took a picture of it, and replaced it.
She got back inside and headed back to Ms. Voorhees’s apartment building. She sent Detective Jones a text to let him know she was waiting outside. He responded that he was waiting to b
e let into the apartment. He told her he left word for the doorman to let her up when she arrived.
“Well, I better get up there,” Brenda grumbled.
Jones was still waiting when Brenda reached him. She handed over her phone so he could view the note as she reported on Wendell Baumbach’s movements.
Nash,
I’ve tracked down a very interesting book. I’ll be in to see you during store hours.
Wendell Baumbach
“Why not just call him?” Jones mused.
“Part of me thinks he may know I was following him and he’s playing us,” Brenda said.
“Could be,” Jones said.
Andrew Connolly walked out of the elevator and over to the waiting officers. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I had to find someone to watch my kids. It’s my week with them, and if my ex gets a sniff of me leaving them alone in the apartment, it’s going to cost me,” Andrew explained.
Jones looked at the forty-something and then at the door.
Andrew sighed and drew out his key ring for the floor of apartments and selected the one marked Voorhees 10C. “Did you knock or ring the bell?” he asked before he inserted the key.
“I did both and announced I was the police. There isn’t a back door to these apartments is there?”
“Yes. It leads to the garbage and recycling chutes and to the emergency stairwell. You need a pass key unless there’s a fire, and then the doors automatically open once the alarm is raised.”
“So, Ms. Voorhees could use it to exit her floor.”
“But she’d have to go all the way down to the ground floor or to the basement. Each floor has a different lock keyed to the tenant’s floor. It keeps the children from using the building as a playground.”
“What’s in the basement?” Brenda asked.
“Storage lockers, and mechanical.”
“No laundry?”
“Each apartment has the setup for the tenants to have their own washer and dryer. Very few don’t have them.” Andrew turned the key and was presented with a chain. He called in, “Ms. Voorhees, Andrew Connolly and the police are requesting to enter your apartment. Ms. Voorhees!” He waited, and when he didn’t get a response, he picked up his bolt cutter and cut through the chain.
As the door opened, an aroma of potpourri and lilac moved out into the corridor.
“Smells like someone is overcompensating for stink,” Andrew commented.
“Stand back,” Jones said.
Brenda drew out her weapon and followed Jones into the apartment. He turned on the lights. Displayed in the middle of the table in the dining room was what looked like a woman wearing a Venetian mask. The nose of the mask was tilted as if giving Jones and Brenda a snub. The woman was dressed in an expensive floor-length gown, Louboutin boots, and elbow gloves. She was adorned with jewelry, featuring both paste and real jewels. There were six large kitchen canisters sitting on the buffet table against the wall. Brenda moved cautiously towards the tableau. She housed her weapon, put on gloves, and gingerly touched the body. “Cold.”
“Lift the mask.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for forensics?” she asked.
“I’ll take the heat. I have to know if this thing is real before I call them in.”
“Photo first,” Brenda insisted.
Jones pulled out his iPhone and snapped a few pictures. “Go ahead.”
Brenda gently lifted the mask off. “It’s a woman. Her skin has been painted white. It reminds me of the shoe polish I use on my tennis shoes. I can see applicator marks.”
“Mr. Connolly, have you met Ms. Voorhees before?” Jones asked the man waiting in the hall.
“Once or twice. She showed me a portrait of herself in her bedroom. I thought she was trying to seduce me, but she only wanted to show me the painting.”
“Could you come in and identify her?”
Andrew walked in and stared at the thing on the table. “I’m not sure. There seems to be a resemblance. Wait, there are a lot of photos in the living room,” he said.
Brenda set the mask beside the corpse. She walked into the living room and flipped on all the lights. She looked at the photos and saw the one woman consistently in each group shot. “It’s not her.” Brenda called. She held one of the group photos to the light and walked back in. She handed the wedding photo to Jones. “Monica is the third bridesmaid. The woman on the table could be the bride.”
Andrew looked at the photo and confirmed. “The woman who showed me the painting is the third bridesmaid.”
“Call it in. We need the works,” Jones said. “Mr. Connolly, could you supply the forensic team with the proper keys?”
“Yes. I need to call my babysitter.”
Jones nodded. “I need to alert the doorman…”
“I’ll take care of that,” Andrew said, his hands shaking. “How dangerous is Ms. Voorhees?”
“We don’t know she did this. She may be a victim. Officer Blunt, we need to get a look at every room before it’s full of forensic people.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until it’s processed?”
“No. I need to see things first with my eyes. Later, we’ll digest the photos the crime scene photographer takes.”
“Yes. Detective, if I may be so bold to give you my observation of the woman on the table?”
“Please.”
“A woman wouldn’t dress another woman this way. The boots and the gloves are overpowering the dress. I believe either Monica has bad taste or a man, who isn’t versed in design, dressed this woman.”
Jones pulled out a set of gloves and walked through the kitchen, flipping on the lights. “There is a large bloody handprint on the back door,” he called out. “How large is Monica?”
“She’s…” Brenda faltered and managed, “here. She’s in the bedroom. I’d say she’s five-six, and very dead.”
Jones rushed through the apartment. He stood outside what he assumed was the master suite door. Officer Blunt stepped to the side, and under a beautiful portrait of a woman in her youth, lay a corpse dressed in a casual outfit. Her bare skin and hair were covered in what could only be dried blood. The female looked like she had been injecting something into her arm when she died. Beside her was what appeared to be pages torn from a magazine. In between the lines of text seemed to be a confession of sorts. He took pictures of the pages in situ. He was faintly aware that his officer had walked into the bathroom.
“Detective,” Brenda called. “There is a spa bathtub with a few inches of what looks like blood inside.”
Jones walked in, and the sickly smell of copper was overwhelming. There was vomit on the floor, the wall, and the toilet. He walked out again and marveled at the difference in smell. Just then, an automatic air freshener spritzed the aroma of lilacs into the bedroom. He feared that he would forever associate that smell with this murder-suicide scene. No more happy walks with his wife in the park in springtime without seeing that blood-covered woman with a needle sticking out of her arm, or the macabre woman laid out like an Egyptian princess in a room that was otherwise pristine.
“Why is there only one bloody handprint? Why is Monica covered in blood, but there is no other blood in the apartment?” he asked himself. “The carpet in the bedroom was dark, but the floors and carpets in the other living areas were snow white.”
The sound of his team arriving jolted him into action. He gently guided his officer out of the bathroom.
The pounding left Brenda’s ears, and she shook off the horror of what must have happened in that bathroom. She knew it was going to be a long night processing the apartment, and she would get through it. All her training hadn’t prepared her for this, but she would be professional. After, she would seek out counseling.
“She couldn’t do this alone,” Brenda said as she passed Jones on her way to brief the forensic people.
“I know. Question is, was it Kabir Patel or Marc Davis or both?”
“I
think you shouldn’t count out Wendell Baumbach. I’ve got a bad feeling about him,” Brenda said.
“Nash Greene fits into this somehow.”
“Do you want me to bring him in?” Brenda asked.
“No, not yet. Let us get a handle on what happened here first. I want a complete inventory of all the books. Make sure no one touches or reads any with black leather covers.”
Brenda walked into the living room and scanned the shelves. The motif of the room was black and white. The furniture was either white leather with black throws or pillows, or black with white adornments. All the books on the white shelves had black leather covers. Some were just slipcovers over the books’ existing cloth hardcovers. The opposite was true of the books on the black shelves.
“What’s black and white and read all over…” Brenda mumbled.
“A newspaper,” one of the techs said.
“Let’s make sure none of this gets in the newspaper,” Brenda said before she gave the crew very clear instructions on how to handle the books.
Chapter Twelve
Clara pulled the note out of the gate and walked it back into the store. She clipped it to a hastily scrawled message about where she found it.
Sunday at the Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz demanded not only a full crew in the kitchen but an additional group to come in to spell the exhausted team halfway through the day. Johan came in and manned the grill so Clara could concentrate on spelling her sauce chef.
Clara cornered Johan when they both took a break. “I need a few moments of your time.”
“Time, I’ve got,” Johan said, snagging one of the less than perfect biscuits they wouldn’t serve to customers as they walked into his office. “Don’t forget that you’re coming in tomorrow to interview pastry chefs. The first interview is at ten. Sleep in, and I’ll see you here at nine.”
“I’ll be here and stay as long as needed. I’d like to take the rest of the week off. Tuesday is one of my days, but I’m going to need Wednesday through Friday off too.”
