by Jane Tesh
Kary got up to check on the Christmas tree. Sure enough, Cindy’s little gray cat face was poking out from the branches.
“Cindy, this is not your personal playground.” Kary pulled her out and set her down.
I found the fallen ornament and put it back on the tree. “No harm done.”
Kary inspected the pile of presents. “Did you get that UFO book for Cam?”
“Yes, and I wrapped it.” Not that wrapping his presents ever did much good.
“I bought a scarf for your mother.”
“She’ll love it.”
She straightened one of the angels Cindy had dislodged. “I hope Fred likes the space calendar Cam and I found. He hasn’t been in a very good mood lately.”
Fred, Camden’s oldest and moldiest tenant, was born in a bad mood. “I don’t think Christmas is his favorite holiday.”
Ever since we brought in the tree, Fred had been sniffing and grumping about the foolish waste of time and money. Despite Fred, we’d put a wreath on the door, a row of wooden angels across the mantel, and Christmas cards on top of the piano. Camden spent one whole day stringing lights along the porch roof and sticking giant plastic candy canes along the walk. Because they missed a lot of Christmases, the holiday’s a big event for Camden and Kary, so every time Fred tunes up, I tell him to shut up. I can tell by his squinty gaze there won’t be a package signed, “All best holiday wishes, Fred,” under the tree for me, either. But Kary, as usual, was her understanding self.
“I know how he feels. For a long time, Christmas wasn’t my favorite holiday, either. I kept remembering all the happy Christmas times I had when I was little and wondering if they’d ever be like that again.”
Christmas didn’t mean the same to me, either
Her hand lingered on the angel. “But now I have new Christmas memories that are even better.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Here we were, standing beside the tree, a perfect time and place for me to declare myself, but I held back, anxious not to make another mistake. Our relationship was in two different places. Kary was focused on finishing her degree and getting a job. I was still floundering after divorce number two. Although we had a great deal in common, we had a long way to go to even meet in the middle. Still, our friendship was solid and that meant more to me than I cared to admit.
Kary stooped to rearrange the presents and then straightened. “I’m really looking forward to meeting your mother.”
I was glad she was looking forward to meeting Mom, but I was concerned about Mom meeting Kary.
Because I knew exactly what my mother would say.
Chapter Three
“Why Do the People Imagine a Vain Thing?”
Since Kary was home in case Camden had another bad spell, I went to Boyd Taylor’s neighborhood and found his house. I also found a squad car parked out front and a grim-faced Jordan standing by the door. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.
Before I could reply, he came around to block my way.
“I warned you. You will not interfere in this investigation.”
“I just stopped by to see how Taylor was getting along.”
“Boyd Taylor is our prime suspect. We have witnesses who can put him at the scene. And we have a report of an argument he had with Jared Hunter yesterday. As far as I’m concerned, he’s our man.”
“Camden says he didn’t do it.”
Jordan paused for a moment. “I saw how Cam was. Do you really believe he was thinking clearly? Besides, I can’t use any psychic information. I need solid proof. And that’s what I’ve got.”
“What about the murder weapon? What about a motive? They could’ve been arguing about anything. That doesn’t mean Taylor killed him.”
“Why are you defending this guy? You want Jared’s killer found as much as I do.”
“But I want to find the right guy. If whoever stabbed Jared is still running loose, then locking Taylor up isn’t going to help.”
“If you don’t leave this alone, I swear I’ll have your license. Back off.”
Jordan gets mad, but not this mad. He must have doubts about Taylor’s guilt. That was the only reason I could think of. And could Camden be sure of anything as disconcerted as he was?
Jordan folded his arms and glowered. “Why are you still here?”
He was as immovable as a tank. But there were ways around this tank, and I was determined to find one.
***
That night, Camden wanted to go to chorale practice, so I drove him to the First Baptist Church for rehearsal. The Parkland City Chorale has its share of divas, male and female, temper tantrums and power struggles, but Camden says he likes learning new and difficult pieces of music. I say, if you’ve heard one requiem, you’ve heard them all. So while the singers were going over their interminable runs and trills, I stepped outside to call Petey to see if he had any news for me.
I had my cell phone ready when a strange jangly version of the “Hallelujah Chorus” sounded from the park across the street. I walked over to investigate and saw Camden’s huge friend, Buddy, and Evelene Fiddler pounding away on banjo and hammered dulcimer for a small audience. This unexpected spin on the music completely changed its somber mood. A few people walking by had their noses in the air, but most of the crowd loved it. Some people hooked arms and danced around. Tonight Only: Barn Dance at Handel’s.
After the last hallelujah rang out, Buddy gave me a big wave and turned to spit a stream of tobacco juice into the grass. “Merry Christmas, Randall!”
“Merry Christmas. What’s going on here?”
He jerked a thumb at his teenaged partner. “All Evelene’s idea.”
Evelene had joined Buddy’s group for the Falling Leaves Festival in October. With her spiky pink hair and nose ring, she looked like a punk rock princess, but apparently bluegrass was in her soul.
“I call it the ‘Alternative Messiah,’” she said. She pointed toward the church with one of the dulcimer hammers. “Not like that stiff stuff over there. We’re going to be playing here most every evening. Give people a choice, you know?”
“Not a bad idea. What are you calling yourselves these days?”
Frog Hollow Boys and Goose Creek Fever had been top contenders for the group’s name. Buddy scratched his unshaven chin and readjusted his ever-present baseball cap. This one said, “Beer Me.” “Well, Evelene’s thought up a few.”
“I like Zombie Strings,” she said. “Only Buddy and the others don’t want to dress up like zombies. I told them they wouldn’t have to go full zombie. I could do that. Or Shock in the Grass, you know, for bluegrass, because we’re shocking people with our song choices. Bet nobody’s ever thought of doing the ‘Messiah’ like this before. And it sounds like snake in the grass. Kinda edgy.”
Buddy gave me a look and a grin. “That’s us. Edgy.”
Evelene raised her little hammers. “Wait till you hear what we do with ‘For Unto Us a Child is Born.’”
I listened for a while until it ran together and sounded like every other bluegrass tune. I tossed a few dollars into Buddy’s banjo case and went back across the street to call Petey. He apologized for his lack of information.
“I’ve talked to Main Street Jewelers, Silver Palace, and the new little shop called Charming. They’re going to check their records, too, but so far, no Jared Hunter. We’ll keep looking.”
I thanked him and went back inside. Someone had left a Parkland Herald on a back pew. I read the newspaper account of the burglary at Royalle’s, which didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. There was also a story in the Herald about the Parkland Avenger. As Petey had said, a would-be superhero was attempting to foil crimes and getting in the way of legitimate police business.
The by-line for the Avenger article said “Brooke V
erner.” I grimaced. I’d met Brooke Verner a few times, and she impressed me as a woman, somewhat like Ellin, who was determined to get her way, even if it meant annoying and alienating everyone in the city. Plus Brooke seemed to think I’d be attracted to her. Well, ordinarily, I might be, but once I met Kary, my hound dog ways were over.
Back to business. I read the Avenger article. “‘Last night, two armed men broke into the Fidelity Trust Bank on Creek Street, escaping with an estimated fifty thousand dollars. Witnesses say the thieves would have been apprehended, but police efforts were hampered by a man calling himself the Parkland Avenger, who tried to block the getaway car and instead blocked the police car. The robbers, two white men of medium build wearing black clothes, got away in a gray van. The Avenger, who also escaped, is described as a white man in his thirties wearing a red costume, a mask, yellow tights, and a red cape. Anyone with information is asked to call Crimestoppers or the Herald.’”
Creek Street was one street over from the Old Parkland district. If this inept Avenger had been around last night when Petey’s was robbed, and if he wasn’t the robber, he might have seen the real thief. I didn’t want to ask Brooke Verner about it. There were other people at the Herald I could talk to.
So what else was in the paper? A waste of paper and ink called “Your Turn.”
“Your Turn” was a fairly new feature in the Herald and had caught on like a particularly sticky disease. Readers were encouraged to call a special phone number and record their opinions on whatever’s pissing them off at the time. Unlike letters to the editor, no one had to reveal a name or address. The rambling, grammatically challenged musings were printed the next day, so all the world could see the subterranean workings of the average Parkland citizen’s mind. Hate your job? Hate your boss? Think your wife’s running around? Careless teens peeling rubber in the church parking lot? Neighbor’s dog peeing on your rose bushes? A simple phone call and slam, bang, into the Herald.
Camden started his solo, and I noticed with amusement how all the women in the chorale turned rapt expressions toward him. Camden’s singing voice doesn’t wobble or squeak like some tenors. It’s a very nice clear sound, and, as I’ve jokingly told him, the chicks dig it. The women were giving him their full attention. Tons of attractive, willing women—and he wants Ellin.
Camden finally got that valley exalted and sat down. The chorus started in on another pile of notes. The director led the group through two more numbers, and then they were dismissed.
“Sounded good,” I told Camden as we walked up the aisle.
“Thanks,” he said. “Singing helps.”
“Pizza would probably help, too.”
***
Before stopping by Pokey’s Pizza to pick up a large pepperoni, we walked across the street where Buddy and Evelene were still plunking away on their “Hillbilly Handel.” Camden tried to sing along, but they were going way too fast, and everyone had to stop because we were laughing too much. Our plans for food and a bad science-fiction movie were put on hold when we found Jordan waiting at the door of 302 Grace Street.
I was a bit surprised that he’d come calling. I offered him the pizza box, but he waved it away.
“Cam, when’s the last time you saw Alycia Ward?”
“Not since the last comic convention.”
“How well do you know her?”
We went into the house and stopped in the foyer to hang up our coats. Camden unwound his muffler and hooked it onto the hall tree. “About a week ago, she and Jared went to a party, and she stopped by here afterwards. She was more Jared’s friend than mine.”
Camden’s friends add whole new dimensions to life in Parkland. You could find any one of them in the Guinness Book: World’s Weirdest; World’s Stupidest; World’s Most Likely to Cause Grief and Death—and we’d have to include me, World’s Most Promising Yet Struggling Detective.
Jordan followed us around to the island. “You got a number?”
“No, sorry. Come have some pizza.”
Camden switched on the lamps and moved piles of magazines, coupons, and other debris off the coffee table. He sat down on one end of the green corduroy sofa. Jordan took the other end. They made quite a study in contrast: the cop, big and block-shaped with his short black hair standing at attention and his shrewd little eyes narrowed as if the world was one big suspect; Camden, small and slight, with all that pale uncooperative hair and large blue eyes seeing right through time.
“She didn’t kill Jared if that’s what you want to know.”
I put the pizza box on the coffee table and took my usual seat in the faded blue armchair. “Maybe she’s the Parkland Avenger and she’s meeting with the Justice League.”
Another glare from Jordan. “This isn’t a joke, Randall. This Parkland Avenger clown is interfering with police business, plus now he’s got the press behind him. That Verner woman is chewing up our asses.”
“Don’t mention Brooke Verner.”
Jordan’s glare turned into a grin. “Oh, that’s right. She’s in love with you, isn’t she? How about telling your girlfriend to back off?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. She just thinks she is.”
“And Mister Lothario doesn’t want her?”
I paused, a piece of pizza halfway out of the box.
“What’s the matter?” Jordan said. “Amazed by my insight?”
“No, I’m amazed you can use ‘Lothario’ correctly in a sentence.”
“She’s not bad looking. What’s the problem?”
“She’s not my type.”
“She’s breathing, isn’t she?”
I pointed my piece of crust at Jordan. “You have this Avenger running around the city and no clues as to who he is. You do have me, however. I’m very good at finding things. Hire me. I’ll crack this case, and you can return to your Fortress of Solitude.”
“Believe me, you’d be my last resort.”
“I’m everyone’s last resort.”
“It’s only a matter of time until we catch this clown. Then Ms. Verner and everybody else at the Herald can find someone besides the police to gnaw on.”
Camden peeled a piece of pizza from the box. “I thought the paper cooperated with you guys.”
“When it’s to their advantage. But apparently making us look foolish sells more newspapers. Ralph Galvin is having the time of his life. Of course, we were on his shit list long before this.”
“How come?” I asked.
“He thinks we botched an investigation involving his family. That’s why all this Avenger crap suits him just fine. Makes us look like idiots.”
“What about his family?”
“Galvin thinks we ruined his son’s reputation.” He glanced at Camden. “Jared had a record. Did you know that?”
“He mentioned once he’d done something stupid he regretted, but he didn’t tell me the details, and I didn’t ask.”
“About a year ago, he was caught breaking into the history museum. The arresting officer was certain Galvin’s son Bert was there, too, but he got away. Ralph Galvin was on the museum board at that time, and he was livid that his son was accused.”
Breaking into the history museum didn’t sound like big time crime to me. “Didn’t Jared rat him out?”
“Nope. He took the fall. He said somebody had dared him, that it was just a prank, and Ralph Galvin, for some reason, convinced the museum not to press burglary charges. The museum couldn’t determine that anything had been stolen, so Hunter was charged with trespassing.”
“Did he serve time?”
“It was a first offense. He was fined, put on probation, and did community service.”
I got myself a beer from the fridge and a Coke for Camden. “So this Avenger stuff is personal. Ralph Galvin’s editor of the Herald, isn’t he? Could he be
making it all up?”
“No, there really is a nut out there, and he’s really getting in the way. But we’ll catch him, and we’ll catch whoever killed Jared Hunter.”
Now I knew why he was here. There hadn’t been enough evidence to hold Boyd Taylor, and Jordan was sniffing around for more clues. “You had to let Taylor go, didn’t you?”
He glared. “For now.”
Camden set his Coke on the table. “Boyd Taylor didn’t kill Jared, either.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. How about telling me who did?”
“I wish I could.”
Nobody said anything for a few moments.
Jordan got up. “Doesn’t matter. I’d still have to have real proof. And you could be wrong about Alycia Ward and Taylor. But I don’t want you to be dead wrong. So stay out of it.”
I saw Jordan to the door and out onto the porch. “Camden zoned out again today. He keeps seeing Jared Hunter’s murder. I’m thinking he might be picking up bad vibes from the killer. He’s done that kind of thing before.”
Jordan reached into his pocket for his cigarettes “Must be hell having all that going on in your head. Why doesn’t Ellin come by and take his mind off things like that?”
“She did, but she didn’t stick around.”
“I thought they were an item.”
“It’s a bit one-sided right now.”
“Too bad.”
It would be better for everyone if Camden could find a new girlfriend, but what do I know?
Jordan took out a cigarette and his lighter. “Couple a months ago, Cam was channeling some dead guy. You saying he’s sharing a brain with this killer?”
“Who knows?”
“Is Cam going to go through this every time somebody gets killed?”
“I think he’s connected because he and Jared were at Green Valley at the same time.”
“Green Valley. That’s the orphanage he lived in, right?”
“Jared was several years older, but they had the same stories. I guess Camden thought of him as an older brother, or at least a veteran of the same war.”
