Death Song (Episode Eight: The Nightshade Cases)

by Larsen, Patti

  “But?” Gerri knew that look, the one that she’d seen on Ray’s face at the crime scene. The medical examiner knew more than she was saying just yet.

  Even Robert got up from his chair and came to the table as Ray gestured for Gerri to join her. He’d only recently found out about Ray’s ability to see the deaths of others. He was human, as far as Gerri could tell, not like them but in on the secret, one he seemed okay with keeping.

  At least he wasn’t freaked out about it anymore. His introduction to the weird had been helping them babysit Jordan Michaels, the dude who refused to die. That kind of stuff would shake up anyone, let alone a newbie to the paranormal.

  Right. And she was an old hand at it.

  “Druit missed the underlying cause,” Ray said, pointing into the brain cavity of Mr. Bill Climpton, Vic #3. Gerri found it helped not to look at the man’s face, to treat him like a thing now he was just a meat suit. “And I’m not surprised.” She shivered ever so slightly. “Their deaths were slow and horrible, Gerri. Over a few hours.” She pointed at the brain. It seemed perfectly normal to the detective. “But it had to do with their blood and their brain tissue. So, I X-rayed Mr. Nelson here. While it looks reasonably normal on the surface,” she used a scalpel to pry open a cut she’d already made, exposing a dark spot beneath, “there is massive internal damage that doesn’t show without deeper examination.”

  Robert whistled softly under his breath. “Drooler should have excised the brain, Ray.”

  She didn’t comment. She didn’t have to.

  “Every capillary is clotted,” Ray said, releasing the edge of the brain. It squidged back into place with a soft sucking sound. “Not the major veins, those remain clear. Just the smallest and most fragile. While normally such an occurrence wouldn’t be enough to kill, the vast amount of tissue damage led to a slow and painful death.”

  “Ray.” Gerri leaned back, hating to ask the question, and knowing her friend wouldn’t have an idea anyway but needed to voice it. “Could this have been caused by sound?”

  Ray’s frown deepened, Robert looking back and forth between them.

  Ray shook her head. “I don’t see how.”

  “We could do a test.” Robert actually looked eager. “CSI Chase has access to some awesome new equipment—”

  “Why do you ask?” Ray patted Robert’s hand, silencing him.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Gerri exhaled. She’d leave that part to Kinsey, at least for now. “You said the tox screen was clean.” Ray nodded slowly. “But.”

  “As you know, most tox screens run for standard substances,” Ray said. “Not for something that could cause this.”

  “I’ll do some research,” Robert said. Why was he suddenly eager to help? Could he be getting off on the weird stuff? Freaked Gerri out. “See what I can come up with. Might be some toxins or poisons out there that affect capillaries this way.”

  “Thanks.” Gerri stepped back, head already on the case. She might not be able to pursue the weird part, but she could investigate the mundane. And the cop in her refused to just let this go. Or to believe anything until it was proven to her.

  ***

  ***

  INT. – 27 CLUB – AFTERNOON

  The 27 Club’s back door was open, the rattle of beer bottles letting Gerri know she wasn’t alone as she climbed the old, metal stairs and entered the dark hallway. Her eyes quickly adjusted from the bright, California morning to the gloom of the back entry, a red exit sign flickering overhead. The long, unhappy fluorescent did its job with halfhearted willingness.

  Someone turned and yelped, making Gerri jump, hand falling on the butt of her gun. When the tall, skinny guy with the hipster beard and geek boy t-shirt stopped, panting out of fear, she flashed her badge.

  “You scared the crap out of me.” He shifted to the side from where he’d been stacking empty beer bottles out of the way. “Detective.” An add-on, a bit more respectful.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, grinning. Was it wrong that tickled her funny bone? “Detective Geraldine Meyers.”

  “Nate Witten.” He rubbed both palms on the legs of his jeans before shaking her hand. “Is Juliette okay?”

  “You know Ms. St. Clare?” Great opener.

  He shrugged, looked away, posture telling her far more than his attitude. He seemed nervous, hands in his back pockets, shoulders tilted to the right, away from Gerri.

  “I work here, hear her sing every weekend,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. Real concern shone in his. “I tried to get her to wait last night. To give her a ride home, because of the other two deaths, you know?” His posture shifted again, from nervous to jerking, angry. “She’s so stubborn.”

  Gerri bought that. “You work the bar?”

  He nodded, but didn’t get to say anything else. The door at the far end of the hall opened and a woman marched through. Literally marched, arms swinging, eyes locked on Gerri, a man behind her looking harried and in a hurry to keep up.

  Nate sighed before going back to stacking bottles while the woman came to a stomping halt in front of the detective.

  “Vayle Atherton.” Her grip firmed up around Gerri’s hand a bit more than necessary, her pale eyes empty, and flat.

  “Detective Meyers, SCPD.”

  Vayle dropped her arm with a thud at her side, expensive suit doing little to hide the lumpy oddness of her body shape, makeup barely masking her plain features. Mousy hair threaded through with an attempt at highlights finished off the picture.

  Trying too hard, Gerri thought as the woman went on.

  “You’re investigating the deaths of patrons of this establishment?” How did she know Gerri was here? The detective shrugged.

  “My job, Ms. Atherton,” she said.

  “Of course.” Vayle spun, snapped her fingers. “As it is mine to know when the SSPD might be investigating my establishment.” The man behind her handed her a sheaf of papers which the woman presented to Gerri. “Lists of names of all employees, both former and present as well as musicians licensed to perform here and any patrons we’ve had issues with going back two years.”

  Wow. Efficient. And more than a little anal. “Thank you,” Gerri said, not embarrassed to admit she was floored by the woman’s attitude. Wasn’t often the SSPD were just handed what they needed without asking.

  “I’m an honest businesswoman,” Vayle said. “If there’s anything I can do to help you clear up this… misunderstanding, just ask.” So, this was about appearances. Not that Gerri was very surprised. When Vayle turned and looked Nate up and down, Gerri almost laughed.

  “Mr. Pittle,” she said.

  “Witten,” he corrected her, though under his breath and softly enough Gerri wasn’t sure the woman heard.

  “You will offer any and all assistance to the detective.” Vayle nodded sharply to Gerri who held out her card. “Any and all.”

  “Have you owned the bar for long, Ms. Atherton?”

  “Exactly two years,” she said. Man, did she go to military school as a kid or something? “This is only one of many business ventures. And I honestly bought it to appease my husband.” The man behind her appeared long-suffering. He had to be the victim she spoke of. Gerri couldn’t imagine being lock stepped with this creature for more than five minutes, let alone marry her. “If there’s nothing else?”

  “Unless you can tell me who killed those men, you’re free to go.” Gerri meant it as a joke. But when Vayle turned to leave, her husband’s sad head shake was followed with words.

  “Poor Juliette,” he said. “She’s a lovely singer, isn’t she?”

  Gerri let them leave for the moment. But, she’d be peeking behind the iron curtain Vayle Atherton had around her, she surely would.

  Nate watched them go with a look of disgust on his face. “You have no idea what it’s like to work for her.”

  Gerri laughed, thinking about Captain King and his massive temper. “I think I can guess.” She tucked the pages Vayle Atherton gave her under one
arm before flipping open her notebook, red light from the exit sign shining on the silver pen. It always made her think of her mother. Damn, she really had to call.

  “You said Juliette sings every weekend?”

  Nate set a box of empties on a towering, tottering stack before answering. “Thursday, one show, 9PM. Friday, two shows, 9 and 12. And Saturday two shows, same times.”

  “You seem to know her schedule really well.” Gerri was just fishing. He was a bartender, after all.

  Nate’s shoulders twitched in response. Odd. There it was again. Not a reaction to her questions, but a reaction of physical pain. Was he injured? When he met Gerri’s eyes, they were flat and dull. “This place pays minimum plus cuts our tips,” he said. “Juliette means big money. She always packs the house. We fight over her nights. Even with a 50% tip cut, we take home a load when she’s here.”

  Sounded like a classy place to work. Her eyes fell to his wrist where a small scar stood out, white and circular, on his wrist. “Hurt yourself recently, Mr. Witten?”

  He shrugged. “I was in Rio with some buddies, watching soccer. You know how it is.”

  She didn’t, but his discomfort wasn’t relevant. The men hadn’t been bludgeoned to death.

  “Anyone in particular show any special interest in Ms. St. Clare?” It was a long shot, but if Juliette had someone who was stalking her, and it turned out the men had died of poisoning or something similar, it might give Gerri a place to look.

  “Do they.” Nate’s shoulders tightened further, though this time in visible anger. “Don’t tell his wife, but one of them just walked out of here.” He wiped at a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip, the thin hair there wet from it. “Terrence Atherton has the hots for Juliette, has since she started singing here. Caught him leaving flowers and love letters for her a couple of times. Steamy stuff.” What kind of guy read another man’s love letters? “If the boss found out, he’d be a dead man. But I guess he was a big fan of hers back in the day she was still doing the fame and fortune thing.”

  “How did Juliette react to the attention?” She’d be asking her personally, but an outside perspective was always a good thing.

  Nate shrugged. “She was nice. Boss’s husband and all. But nothing ever happened.” He seemed smug about that.

  So, Terrance Atherton was semi-stalking Juliette St. Clare. Not a reason to accuse the man of murder, but one more poke and prod to her instincts. She’d be looking into the Athertons, you betcha.

  Nate pointed at the papers tucked under Gerri’s arm. “And another dude, every damned night she’s here, all five shows. Won’t leave his table in the corner, won’t buy more than the minimum and never tips. Or drinks.” He rolled his eyes at Gerri. “Creepy.”

  Gerri put her notebook away and retrieved the papers from her armpit, handing them to Nate. He scanned the first page, pointed out a name, holding it to her. The small scar bounced over his pulse as he did.

  “That’s him,” he said. “Gary Bunch.”

  Gerri took the pages back, tucked them into her jacket. “Thank you for your cooperation,” she said, handing him her card. “If you think of anything that might help, please give me a call.” It was standard protocol, but felt useless to say. Aside from questioning this Bunch fellow, there didn’t seem to be much she could investigate without the results Ray and Robert worked on.

  Until she knew if this was murder, banshee power or just a freak of coincidence, Gerri had to keep trying.

  ***

  INT. – KINSEY’S APARTMENT – AFTERNOON

  Kinsey poured hot water into the glass mug over the small tea bag, the scent of brewing Earl Gray filling the apartment’s kitchen. Juliette helped herself with a murmured thank you, sipping the black tea without straining the bag first.

  “Want something a little stronger to add to that?” Kinsey kept a bottle of vodka in the freezer in case of emergencies. But the singer simply smiled and shook her head.

  “I never drink,” she said. “I have to protect my voice.” Her face crumpled momentarily, leaving Kinsey feeling uncomfortable for her, wanting to soothe her. She’d gone home with Juliette, waited for the singer to change into more casual jeans and a sparkle-covered tank top before Juliette followed Kinsey home to her condo.

  “I’m sorry this is happening to you.” Kinsey pressed her fingers over Juliette’s, her power softly stroking the woman’s heart, instinctually.

  Juliette’s eyes widened, her lips smiling again. “Your mother used to do that,” she said. “She was the only Nightshade I knew who willingly shared her energy to comfort another.”

  “Against the rules?” Kinsey had a feeling she was going to have a serious hate on for these damned rules before too long.

  Juliette shrugged, sipped her tea. “The Nightshade League protects us,” she said.

  “I don’t see them rushing to your aid.” Not that Kinsey should be irritated, not really. But, then again, it seemed her entire life had been either a lie or a giant manipulation, so she was going to be at least ruffled, thank you very much.

  Juliette laughed, patted Kinsey’s hand in turn. “Not that way, silly girl,” she said. “Not as individuals.” She shook her head, thick, curly hair now tied back with a kerchief. “Your mother thought the way I can only assume you do. That paranormals should use their abilities openly, for the benefit of all.” Her amber eyes smiled, but held depth and weight. “Am I correct?”

  Kinsey didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure what she felt. “And the Nightshade League?” Probably a silly question.

  Turned out she was right. “It is their belief, and has been for centuries, we do better hiding in plain sight and keeping ourselves out of the limelight.” Juliette’s dark cheeks flushed. “I’m not doing a very good job either, it seems.”

  “I can guess why Mom loved you,” Kinsey said.

  Juliette’s breath caught, one hand at her throat. “You look so much like her, when she was your age. I wish I knew what happened to her.”

  “Grandmother refuses to talk about it.” Something Kinsey was going to see to as soon as this case was over. Her gaze drifted with her thoughts, though the moment her eyes settled on the red leather book sticking out of her laptop bag, she had an epiphany.

  Kinsey rose, retrieved the exorcism manual. The red leather book always seemed so small and insignificant in her grasp, but the tome Father Dante gave her was anything but. She handed the source of part of her knowledge about the races to Juliette with trembling fingers. The woman shuddered when she opened it, tried to hand it back, but Kinsey squeezed her hand closed around it.

  “You know what this is?” Juliette’s horror was almost tangible.

  “A book,” Kinsey said. “With only the power we give it.”

  Juliette calmed immediately, eyes sparkling. “Ahnet would be proud of you, Kinsey. I know it.”

  Together, they combed the pages of the book, looking for a possible combination that might explain Juliette’s odd evolution. But, no matter the races the book seemed to mention, there was never any description of a singer being able to kill precisely or in the specific way Ray had told Kinsey the brains of the victims had been damaged.

  “Worth a shot.” Kinsey finally sighed and sat back.

  “The Church’s descriptions might be abhorrent,” Juliette said, “but they are surprisingly accurate. But, imagine thinking these paranormals were possessed.” Her snort was as musical as the rest of her.

  “You believe what you’re taught to believe,” Kinsey said. “Including that an organization bigger and older than you knows better.”

  The parallel between the Church and the Nightshade League wasn’t lost on Juliette. She tipped her mug, now mostly empty, in Kinsey’s direction as a salute.

  “Clever girl,” she said. “Just like Ahnet.”

  “You do realize this means there’s a possibility you aren’t to blame.” Kinsey desperately wanted proof of that. There was no way her mother’s close friend—a woman she was already attac
hed to—could be a murderer, even by proxy.

  Even Juliette seemed hesitantly optimistic. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “It would be a great load off my mind, knowing I won’t have to turn myself over to the League. And that I can keep singing.” Her voice throbbed with excitement. “That would be a great gift, as great as meeting Ahnet’s daughter.”

  Kinsey’s phone rang, interrupting. She almost let it go to voice mail, but glanced down. Saw the number and the name over it.

  She caught her breath, about a second before she angrily punched the answer button.

  “Kinsey.” She knew that deep, smooth voice. Hadn't she been thinking about the woman on the other end of it all day?

  “Grandmother.”

  “I don’t like your tone of voice, young lady.” How just like her grandmother to try to suppress her even over the phone. Kinsey gritted her teeth, surged to her feet, pacing as she answered just to keep herself from throwing the handset across the room.

  “A lot has happened since I saw you last.” Kinsey hated how formal her speech became when she dealt with her grandmother, but it was so deeply ingrained she doubted she’d ever shake it. And wondered if Margot’s insistence on precise speech had anything to do with passively training her in preparation for being introduced to the League. If she would ever be introduced at all, or how deeply Margot was connected to that organization. So many questions, many of them now about her grandmother.

  “So I understand.” Margot didn’t sound apologetic.

  “I have a copy of an exorcist’s handbook,” Kinsey said.

  Silence. Well, finally. She’d made her grandmother speechless.

  It was a long moment before Margot spoke again.

  “You might as well be reading a romance novel to discover the truth of the history of the universe.” She sounded nervous, just barely a hint. Only audible because Kinsey was listening so intently and because she knew her grandmother well enough to pick up on nuances. They’d mattered a great deal when she was a child and now was no different.