Mixed Signals

by Jane Tesh

I do, too, Mom.

  “He sounds like a wonderful man, Sophia.”

  “Yes, I was very lucky.”

  “I wish Cam had a little more drive, more ambition. He seems content to stay where he is in life.”

  And what’s wrong with that? I thought. At least he’s content and not all squirrelly like you.

  “Is there someone else?”

  Yeah, I’d like to hear the answer to that question. It didn’t surprise me that Ellin mentioned her work.

  “No, not unless you count the PSN. I’ve built this network up from nothing, and its success means a great deal to me. It’s the one thing I’ve really accomplished on my own, and how I look had nothing to do with it.”

  “How you look?”

  “Being the youngest and only blonde in a family of brunettes has been impossible. ‘Well, of course you got an A, Ellin. All you had to do was bat your eyes.’ I could never get beyond my appearance. No one could. But the network is all mine. I wish Cam would be more supportive.”

  “In what way?”

  “He could be a huge star. Every time I manage to get him on a program, there’s a terrific response. Our ratings shoot way up. But he never wants to be on TV. I don’t understand it. We could build a whole series around him, but as I said, he has no ambition. He likes everything to be exactly the same. He eats two brown sugar Pop-Tarts and drinks a glass of Coke for breakfast every single morning. He works at Tamara’s, comes home, does some repairs on the house, reads, watches TV, eats supper, and then looks out his telescope for an hour before he goes to bed. I know his early years were chaotic, but this is taking things to the other extreme.”

  “There’s something to be said for a calm routine life.”

  Amen, Mom. You tell her.

  “Except when Randall involves him in some ridiculous case.”

  Oh, I knew eventually we’d get around to Evil Me.

  “Sorry, Sophia, but your son manages to find the stupidest crimes, like songwriters back from the dead, and here’s Cam, stuck in the middle because he won’t say no. Oh, he’ll say no to me, but with Randall, it’s always how far and how high.”

  As Mom chuckled, I made my presence known. “Hi, there. Ready to go home?”

  “Davey, we were just talking about you.”

  I grinned at Ellin, who tried to look pleasant in front of my mother. “Yes, Randall, we were just saying what a good influence you are on the world.”

  I gave her my most modest look. “I try. Mom, let me treat you to the best hot dog in town.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” she said. “See you later, Ellin.”

  ***

  I took Mom to Janice Chan’s. Janice owns and operates one of the few restaurants left downtown. Her specialty is hot dogs. The little brick building was full of fragrant steam that clouded the windows. Janice saw us come in and gave me a nod. She was occupied, as usual, with four customers at once. As soon as she’d scooped three hot dogs in a bag for one man, handed another bag to a second man, plopped a fully loaded dog in front of a large woman, and set a tray full of hot dogs and slaw onto one of the small tables for a family, she came up, smiling and tucking her long black hair behind one ear.

  “Janice, this is my mother, Sophia, visiting from Florida. Mom, this is Janice Chan.”

  Janice took her pad from her pocket and a pencil from behind her other ear. “Pleasure to meet you. What will you have?”

  “Two all the way, hold the onions on one. Coke or coffee, Mom?”

  “Coffee, please.”

  Janice was back in a few minutes with our order. As I bit into the juicy hot dog surrounded by mustard, slaw, chili, and onions, I wondered how in the world Alycia fit into these crimes. She was just as elusive as the Parkland Avenger. Come to think of it, maybe she was the Parkland Avenger. And this map. Did it have anything to do with this case?

  “Davey.” From Mom’s tone, I could tell this wasn’t the first time she’d said my name.

  I gave her my attention. “Sorry. Thinking about my case.”

  “These cases of yours don’t sound like very much.”

  “They never start out that way. By the time I solve them, usually they’ve gotten way out of hand.”

  She wiped mustard from her mouth. “I don’t like you putting yourself in danger. All this about murders and people running around like Batman.”

  “That’s what makes it interesting. Another hot dog for you?”

  “No, thank you. This is very good, but one is enough.”

  I wanted to change the subject before I got a lecture about my dubious career. “Parkland has a really good history museum. Sound interesting? We could go tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  We ate for a while and I thought of something else I wanted to ask her. “Mom, whatever happened to Dad’s pocket watch, the one that played ‘Twelfth Street Rag’?”

  She wiped traces of chili off her fingers. “My goodness. I haven’t thought of that in years. I suppose your Uncle Louie has it. Why?”

  “I always thought it was neat.”

  “You want me to call Louie? Do you want it?”

  I couldn’t hide my expression.

  “Of course you want it. You don’t have that many things of your father’s, do you? I’ll call him as soon as we get home.”

  “I remember every night after reading me a bedtime story, he used to take it out and let it play. Maybe that’s why I like jazz.”

  “Maybe that’s why you like people. You had a father who read to you every night. You were damn lucky, David Henry Randall.”

  I leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I still am.”

  Chapter Ten

  “All We Like Sheep Have Gone Astray”

  I brought Mom home and she went upstairs. Kary got home a few minutes later. She sat down at the kitchen counter, accepted her Diet Coke, and told me her news.

  “I got your message, thanks. I talked with the reference librarian at the public library. Most of the older historical documents aren’t in the general collection, but she said she’d look in all of them and see what she could find.”

  “That’s great, thanks. It’ll save me a lot of time.”

  “What have you found out?”

  I’d learned my lesson. I was going to be straight with her from now on. “I had a talk with Boyd Taylor. He says he’s innocent, and so does Camden. The guys at Ben’s Garage remember a woman fitting Alycia Ward’s description who came to see Jared and basically called him a coward for some reason. And as I told you earlier, we found a piece of a map in Jared’s comics he left at Comic World.”

  “And you think this map will help connect all these incidents?”

  “Or at least explain some of them.” I took the little scrap of paper with “Old P.” on it out of my pocket and showed it to her. “When are you going back to the library?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Take this with you and see if it matches anything they have.”

  “I’ll be very careful with it.”

  “And my apologies for being elusive.”

  “‘Elusive.’ That’s what? Ten points?”

  “Camden would give me only five for that one.” I felt myself relax. I hadn’t realized how tight my shoulders were, hoping she’d accept this apology.

  “You said a woman fitting Alycia’s description stopped by the garage. What does Alycia look like?”

  “She’s a tall black woman, attractive, athletic.”

  “Were she and Jared a couple? Why do you think she called him a coward?”

  “I don’t know. The guys at the garage said he didn’t want to talk to her.”

  “They must have quarreled.”

  “If that’s the case, it doesn’t look good for Alyc
ia.”

  “Camden believes Boyd Taylor is innocent?”

  “He said Boyd didn’t do it. But you know Camden’s impressions won’t work for Jordan.”

  “That leaves Alycia. Maybe it was a crime of passion.”

  That would explain the many stab wounds. “Or somebody wanted it to look like one. The problem is, we don’t know very much about Jared except he was a few years ahead of Camden at the Green Valley Home for Boys. He could have made a lot of enemies. ‘Old P’ could be a drug dealer for all we know.”

  “Wouldn’t Cam have picked up on that?” She reached for the phone book. “Have you called Green Valley?”

  “That’s something else you could do.”

  She turned to the Yellow Pages. “Where’s Cam? How’s he been today?”

  “He was okay, but I left him at the studio. Ellin said she’d bring him home. We’ll see what sort of state he’s in then.”

  Kary paused for a moment in her search. “She really loves him, you know.”

  And I really love you, I wanted to say. I love the way you’re all fired up about solving this case. I love the way you believe the best in everyone.

  She turned a few more pages. “By the way, where’s Sophia?”

  “She’s upstairs.” Talking to Grady, no doubt. I unclenched my teeth. “I thought I’d treat everyone to my famous chicken pie tonight.”

  “Excellent idea. Oh, here’s the number.” She punched it in and listened for a while. “Their office is closed for today. I’ll try again tomorrow.” She hung up the phone. “Anything else?”

  “Marry me.”

  “Besides that?”

  “Accept my proposal.”

  “Or that?”

  “Become Mrs. David Randall.”

  She patted my arm. “You’d better get started on that pie.”

  ***

  The next morning, I found Brooke Verner sitting in my office, filing her nails and looking as if she owned the place.

  “Out,” I said.

  She got annoyed. “What is with you?”

  “Pardon the pun, Brooke, but you’re bad news. I don’t want to have anything to do with you or your schemes.”

  “Not even if I have information that will help your case?”

  “Such as?”

  She waggled a finger. “Huh-uh. You’ve got to give me something in return.”

  I could think of several things. My expression must have conveyed this, because she shivered in mock fear.

  “Oo, the big bad detective is going to get rough, is he? Then you’ll never find out what I know about Jared Hunter.”

  “Withholding evidence always goes over really big with the Parkland PD.”

  She put her fingernail file away and fluffed her hair. “You help me find the Avenger and I’ll tell you.”

  “But you already know who the Avenger is. You’re paying someone to leap around at night so you can write your stories.”

  “Why does everyone assume I’m that stupid?”

  “Because you want a Parkie award, and I think you’ll do anything to get one.”

  She tried to look uninterested, but she couldn’t fool me. “Why would I want one of those ridiculous plastic statues?”

  “Why do I want you out of here? Because it would make me happy. Scram.”

  She got up and huffed out, pausing at the door to say, “I suppose you don’t care who killed Jared Hunter.”

  “Any information you have would be highly suspect.”

  A few minutes later, Camden looked in. “Was Brooke here?”

  “Yes. I’m going to have to sleep with her to get her off my back.”

  “That conjures up an interesting picture.”

  “You know what I mean. Don’t women understand that when a man says no, he means no?”

  “Where are you going today?”

  I checked my calendar. “Mom to the museum, Winthrop at three, Auto Club tonight.”

  “I’ve got to get a Christmas present for Ellie.”

  “You mean you haven’t done that already?”

  “She’s been deciding what she wants.”

  “Besides the moon? How about a ride down to Royalle’s Fine Jewelry? When do you have to be at work?”

  “One.”

  “No problem. We can stop by after our museum tour. I need to talk to Petey, anyway.”

  He started out and then came back. “Oh, Lily says she might be able to help with the Avenger case.”

  “Don’t tell me: she shared a saucer with him.”

  “A member of the ASG also belongs to the SHS.”

  ASG stands for Abductees Support Group, an organization of deluded souls who believe they’ve been taken up in UFOs. Camden’s neighbor, Lily Wilkes, is the founding mother and guiding light. “Do I really want to know what SHS is?”

  He was enjoying this way too much. “Superhero Society.”

  “You mean Parkland has its own Justice League?”

  “They meet every Friday at four thirty. You can easily fit them in today.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “No, I’m not. Lily says they’ll be delighted to talk to you. They’re very concerned about the Avenger.”

  “So he’s not one of them? He’s a rogue Avenger?”

  “Lily says they feel he’s giving superheroes a bad name by not cooperating with the police.”

  If there’s any sort of deviant in Parkland, eventually I get to shake his hand. “Where do they meet?”

  “They’re at Lily’s today.”

  “Great. I’ll pick up a mask and a cape while I’m out. Is my mom ready to go?”

  “She’s reading the paper.”

  “If you can call it that,” Mom said when I walked into the island. “What in the world is this ‘Your Turn’ section? Are these letters for real?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mom. Parkland at its best.”

  “But it’s so ridiculous. Listen to this one: ‘You are not putting the landfill near Sherman Glen because of the buzzards and rats. You are putting it there because you think we won’t protest. Well, I protest hardly.’ Do you suppose the poor soul meant ‘heartily’? Doesn’t anyone proofread these? Oh, and I love this one. ‘A big thank you to the man who stopped and helped my daughter-in-law change a flat tire on the highway this past weekend. What a kind jester.’ At first, I thought they meant a fool in cap and bells was out changing tires, and that I wanted to see. They meant ‘gesture.’”

  Baseford had fumed about the lack of proofreading, but I thought the jester was pretty funny. “I can’t imagine how that one slipped by.”

  Fred squinted at the paper. “And what’s this about voting a tax on cigarettes? They didn’t let me vote. I smoke, and I ain’t paying no taxes. See if I vote for Hoover again.”

  She tried to explain. “Fred, Herbert Hoover isn’t president anymore.”

  “Kennedy, then. I like him. He’s all for the space program. When are we gonna get into space, that’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Fred, you’re already into space,” I said. “Let’s go, Mom.”

  ***

  Parkland has several museums, but the one I was interested in was the Parkland Museum of History, which chronicles the rise of the city from railroad stop to bustling metropolis.

  As we paid for admission, Mom said, “You boys don’t have to stay. I can look at exhibits by myself.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “I haven’t seen this museum.”

  “Me, either,” Camden said.

  We started with prehistoric Parkland, a wilderness full of deer and bears and an obscure Indian tribe that no longer exists. Then we moved on to Early Parkland, a muddy stop on the road called Park’s Hollow. Mu
seum artists had sketched three small buildings and a barn located where Main Street runs now. The next exhibit was called “The Railroad Years.” Life comes at last to Park’s Hollow. Faded photographs showed groups of serious-looking men standing in front of an old locomotive, more men hammering away at the tracks, other men posed in the front porch of the Park Hotel. One of the informative posters told us that Park’s Hollow grew from thirty-five people to over two hundred in just a month, the town was formed, and a great-great grandson of the original Park family, Charles Park, was elected mayor. There was a large display of Civil War artifacts and weapons, including information on the Underground Railroad, General Nathaniel Greene, and a famous battle near the river, where several members of the Park family fought valiantly and died. On May 15, 1887, the town was officially called Parkland.

  The next display was devoted to Charles Park and his family. We saw photographs, articles of clothing, and personal items, including Mister Park’s pocket watch.

  “That reminds me,” Mom said. “Louie says he doesn’t have your father’s pocket watch. He doesn’t know where it is.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “No, it isn’t. I really want to know what happened to it. I’ll call Thomasina. Maybe she knows where it is.”

  Parkland progressed through the ages, growing steadily through the Twenties, taking a hit in the Thirties, going to war in the Forties, booming in the Fifties.

  Camden pointed to a photograph. “Here’s old downtown. It hasn’t changed much, at all. There’s Royalle’s, and Moore’s Hardware, and the bank.”

  I was more interested in a collection of old blueprints and schematic drawings. “This is a pretty detailed map of the old shoe store and the cafe. Do you see one for Royalle’s?”

  “Just this photo.”

  The drawing for the shoe store showed every detail, including what looked like a tunnel connecting it to the shop next door. “I think a drawing like this could be very handy.”

  While Mom checked on Parkland in the Sixties, Camden and I went in search of a museum employee. The young woman at the front desk directed us to the curator’s office. The curator, a thin scholarly looking man, looked up from a pile of old photos, and smiled.

  “Can I help you?”