The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries

by Laura Belgrave

  It was impossible to discern whether the accusing finger was actually meant for anyone, though nearly every guest that Orben managed to capture on film reacted as if it had been personally intended.

  “Oh my God,” Julie Kawalski whimpered. She buried her face in her husband’s shirt, a frightened clown who’d lost her balloons.

  “Relax, honey,” John Kawalski said. He rested his chin on his wife’s head. “It’s just a show, remember?”

  Flynn’s eyes opened wide. They never left Overton’s face, but he wrenched his hand free from Jennifer O’Reilly’s and toyed with his sideburns. His mouth parted slightly.

  Jane Brown said something in Spanish; it may have been a curse.

  “It’s lonely where I am, you know,” the voice continued. It was slipping back to its earlier, weary state. Overton sat. Her eyes closed again. “It’s . . . not a bad place, but it’s . . . very, very, lonely. And quiet. Birds don’t sing here. They would, if you had only . . . listened. If only you’d paid more attention.”

  For another two minutes, the voice carried on about loneliness and isolation, about being right and being wrong, about mistakes, and once, fondly, about good times.

  “You loved the bread, remember? And on wash day, you always wanted to leave the sheets to dry longer than they needed to. They were so clean. They smelled so good. You were . . . good then. You were almost perfect. You could have been perfect. Try harder. Try harder. Don’t disappoint me again. You’ll never be without me. I love you. It’s not so bad. I’m here for you. I . . . love you anyway.”

  That was it. That was all. Just a bunch of nonsense. Orben’s camera dogged Overton’s face until her posture relaxed and her eyes opened. The medium blinked, looked around, and smiled kindly.

  “I see we got someone,” she said softly. “Judging by your faces, it was someone a little more like Halloween than Christmas?”

  A flurry of questions followed. Did she know who the spirit was? How had she felt? What did the spirit mean? Boy! It all seemed so real!

  Overton laughed delightedly. “I’m sorry. I have no idea who came calling, folks.” She looked around the table helplessly. “It’s just as sure a bet that it was no one anyone here knew. Could’ve been someone who died two days ago or two centuries ago.”

  Orben chuckled. “Well, it was a lot of bang for Lucy’s buck,” he said. “God, I thought we might have to summon the paramedics. Damn, if you didn’t have us going there!”

  “It always wears me out,” said Overton.

  Indeed, the woman did look exhausted. With the lights back on—and with them, a reassuring return to the land of the living—Overton’s face seemed pinched; she was damp with perspiration.

  The whole episode lasted less than fifteen minutes, though it seemed a great deal longer. Except for Flynn, whose face still seemed frozen, the spell was broken. Julie Kawalski surrendered her husband’s arm. He gaped at the red mark where her hand had clutched him.

  Guests began to move around, to reach for booze. They’d just been to hell and back and had plenty to talk about. The pitch rose rapidly. Laughter replaced gasps. Words such as “illusion” and “great theater” could be heard through the din.

  Orben got someone to handle the camera once more so he could get himself on film standing beside Donna Overton. He held two fingers behind her head and made noises from the movie, Jaws. Then he retrieved his camera and followed the party chatter, finally zooming in on Overton as she collected from Lucille Schuster and said her good-byes.

  At first, their conversation was difficult to follow because of all the background noise. Claudia heard someone bellow that the ice was running low. She heard a woman shriek: “Hey, watch it! Your drink’s splashing on my costume!” A guffaw followed.

  Just as Claudia irritably wished Orben would move in a little closer, he did. The film danced momentarily while Orben elbowed nearer to the two women.

  “Thank you, dear,” Overton was saying to Schuster. “It was great fun—you throw a marvelous party. I’m just sorry I couldn’t produce someone famous—although, who knows? Maybe we did have someone famous.”

  Overton rummaged through her purse, produced car keys, then rooted through her bag some more. “Damn. I don’t suppose you smoke?” she asked Lucille Schuster.

  “Sorry, never picked up the habit.” Lucille Schuster frowned, apparently a little put off that the soft-spoken medium was guilty of so vile a habit.

  The video carried Orben’s voice from off-stage: “I do, but only after.” His giggle was lewd, and full of booze.

  Overton chose to overlook the comment, said a final goodbye and left. The video abruptly segued to Jennifer O’Reilly, who was putting on a cat act of a suggestive nature.

  There was more, but all of it was increasingly disjointed. Orben evidently kept turning the camera off and on, with longer and longer moments between filming. His last shot showed the door frame leading to the kitchen, and then a bit of the ceiling, liquored filming that no doubt explained his waning enthusiasm for Pulitzer material.

  All in all, Orben had encapsulated a solid forty-eight minutes of the party. The focus wasn’t bad until the end. The lighting was excellent considering the circumstances. Everyone had their chance at amateur stardom.

  But other than the seance itself, there wasn’t a damned thing to connect anyone at the party to the Reverend Donna Overton.

  Claudia thanked Lucille Schuster for her time and called for a patrolman to drive her back to the school. The others drifted from the room. Suggs, crabbing about a waste of time for a lot of mumbo jumbo, patted his pockets for Tums, shot Claudia an annoyed look, and left without another word.

  Well, sometimes it was just like that. Claudia took a moment to stretch, get another cup of coffee, and check her desk for messages. Of those, there were plenty, and she dismissed most. More intriguing was an oblong package loosely wrapped in stiff brown paper. Cautiously, Claudia pulled the paper free.

  “I’ll be damned,” she murmured to herself. She held up a carton of eggs from Philby’s. Then she unsealed an envelope and shook open a piece of paper. At the top was a message: “Something tells me you’re eggsactly my speed, Detective Hershey.” Below the words was a detailed cartoon showing her and that guy, Dennis Heath, outside Philby’s. Both their bodies were exaggerated in size so that they loomed over the vehicles—which nestled bumper to bumper in the parking lot. Smashed eggs and fallen groceries showed everywhere.

  Claudia glowered in the drawing; Heath looked at her adoringly. His phone number was carefully penned at the bottom of the cartoon.

  “What do you have there?” Peters asked, looking over.

  “What? Oh, nothing. Just the usual,” Claudia said. She busied herself with some clutter on her desk, trying to shield the package from Carella’s view.

  As unobtrusively as possible, Claudia rewrapped the package and tucked it beneath her desk by her handbag. She pocketed the cartoon and returned to the all-purpose room.

  Her notes were still on the chair. Claudia scanned them quickly. She’d filled three sheets on the legal pad. Pushing Heath from her mind, she picked up the remote control, rewound the film, and watched it again.

  Chapter 7

  The man watched distractedly, his big feet propped on the coffee table. He hated television, but he knew he had to stay in touch right now. He had to know what was being said.

  Indian Run didn’t have its own local news station, but a reporter from Land of Rivers stood at the entrance to the police department, a microphone with the number “3” clutched importantly in his hand. He stared into the camera, effecting a somber expression. He introduced himself as Eric Morley and announced to viewers he was bringing them a live report. The kid looked like he was barely out of college.

  Beside him and just within camera range was a reporter from the Indian Run Gazette, some middle-aged yahoo who the man had seen more than once staggering out of the bar beside Philby’s. He held a notebook poised in one hand, a pen in the othe
r. The man couldn’t recall the reporter’s name.

  Good. A kid and a drunk were the only ones there. The man clapped two fists together, smiling. Didn’t they get it?

  Morley chirped background details, trying to make them sound new: The victim’s name and address, the time the body had been discovered, that an investigative team had been assembled under the direction of Detective Claudia Hershey, who was expected to emerge momentarily. He made much of the fact that the victim had been a medium. The man scoffed. Morley nattered on exhaustively, but the story was cold. The kid was just trying to milk it, make it sound like something was up.

  After a few minutes the scene shifted to a previously filmed segment in the victim’s neighborhood. The man rolled his eyes. Channel 3 had run the same piece at six. The camera panned on Donna Overton’s house, then focused on two neighbors who Morley interviewed in a low voice that failed to suggest much sympathy. Filler, that’s all it was.

  The man impatiently shifted his weight into the couch. He held the remote control forward, about to flick the TV off, when suddenly the broadcast segued abruptly back to the police department. The detective’s face filled the screen. The man lifted his legs off the coffee table and sat upright.

  Claudia Hershey was just leaving the police department when Morley ambushed her and thrust his microphone under her chin. He spit out questions: Did the police have any suspects yet? How about a motive?

  The detective stopped briefly. She looked tired. She shaded her eyes against the setting sun, which only in the last hour had flickered into life. “I have nothing new to offer,” she said evenly. “I told you Saturday and I’ll tell you again now: We’re investigating a number of possibilities. As soon as I have something concrete I’ll have a formal statement. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “But Detective!” Morley yipped. “This is already Tuesday. Shouldn’t there be something by now? The residents of Indian Run are understandably anxious and—”

  Her mouth set tight, Hershey brushed past Morley, who stood at least five inches shorter than she. But like a puppy mistaking her action for some game, he trotted after her. Four feet into the chase, he accidentally clipped her heel with his shoe.

  Whirling, the detective faced the reporter and leaned down. With her face inches from his, she said, “I don’t think you heard me, so let me repeat myself. I have nothing to say right now. When I do, I’ll issue a statement. Now step back!” She nodded cordially toward the Indian Gazette reporter—who hadn’t said a word—and moved briskly to her vehicle.

  Morley, his face bright pink, turned back to the camera. For a moment he said nothing, seeming to be listening to a plug extending from his ear. He smiled uncertainly. “That, uh, was Detective Lieutenant Claudia Hershey. She’ll be—we’ll have an updated report, uh, as soon as we can.”

  The segment faded into a commercial about dish soap.

  The man laughed out loud. This was good, this was good. The cops didn’t know jack shit. What was he worrying about? He’d been right all along. And that cop Hershey—he’d been right about her, too. She was nothing special. Just poking around.

  The man flicked off the television and rose. Although he’d eaten just an hour earlier he felt hungry again and considered putting a sandwich together. Yeah, maybe that and then company.

  He headed toward the kitchen, then wheeled abruptly. He cocked his ear, listening. For a moment he thought maybe he hadn’t turned the television off. But then he saw a shadow.

  Wait a minute! Was that her? Watching him all along?

  Perspiration broke out on the man’s forehead. He looked into the darkness of the hallway. Thought he heard her whisper something. No! He did hear her whisper!

  Damn it! How could that be?

  He clamped his hands over his ears.

  “Get out!” he bellowed. “Get away from me! I don’t want to hear any more from you. I won’t listen!”

  But he couldn’t tune her out. She was pointing at him now. Accusing him. Carrying on again. God, he hated her.

  Why wouldn’t she leave him alone? Hadn’t she done enough? He stared hard into the blackness of the hallway, watched her advancing.

  No. Forget it. She was trying to wreck his life and he couldn’t listen to another word. He wouldn’t. She couldn’t make him, not anymore.

  Breathing hard, the man lumbered toward the front door. He threw it open and stalked out. He closed his ears. He didn’t look back.

  Best just to get away. Had to get away. Had to make her go away.

  Chapter 8

  “Take a look at this.” Emory Carella dropped a sheaf of papers on Claudia’s desk. “A little gift from the gods.”

  Without looking up, Claudia rapidly flipped through the papers. Bank statements, most of them. “Okay, Emory. So what am I looking at here?”

  Carella beamed. “Our Reverend Donna Overton? All-around nice lady, Sunday-go-to-church type?”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Claudia impatiently pointed at a chair beside her desk. “Sit. Tell me what makes you think she isn’t.”

  Whenever compressed, the cushion in the chair gave off a gasp of air like flatulence, usually good for a snicker or locker room observation. But Carella was too pleased with himself to notice. He leaned toward Claudia, his hazel eyes bright behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Look,” he said excitedly, jabbing the bank statement on top. “Take a gander at the deposits made to our late medium’s account.”

  Claudia followed Carella’s knobby finger. Listed among nine deposits to First Indian Bank was one for two thousand dollars. The other eight were for a variety of amounts, everything from forty-five dollars to three hundred and fifty-five. Altogether, Donna Overton had deposited $3,505 during the statement period.

  “Okay, but—”

  “Wait, wait! Now look!” Carella flipped to the monthly statement below it. “Look at this baby,” he said, pointing to another $2,000 deposit. Like the first statement, the remaining deposits were of varying amounts, and none greater than $265.

  “You with me?” Carella asked. He peered into Claudia’s eyes, then flipped to the next statement before she could respond. “Check it out. Another $2,000 entry! And it gets better. The previous two months, she had nice, even $1,000 deposits. All of them in cash, all around the fifteenth of the month.”

  Claudia didn’t need a degree in accounting to see where Carella was headed, but she let him go on.

  “Here’s the deal, the way it looks to me,” said Carella. He jabbed the air with a finger. “Oh—and first of all—I pulled bank statements going back two years, okay? Okay. The lady’s tooling along, not doing doodly-squat in deposits until—bam, June. That’s when the first $1,000 entry shows up. Then July—bam, another $1,000 entry. And hey, at this point she’s already just about doubled her deposit activity, okay? Then comes August, September and October: $2,000 cash deposits around the fifteenth each of those months!”

  Carella sat back in his chair. He propped one leg over the other. “You see what I’m seeing?”

  Like a spring flying off a pen refill, Carella leaped from the chair before Claudia could respond.

  “The woman’s monthly income, if that’s what we can assume her deposits were, usually floated in at about fifteen hundred, maybe sixteen hundred dollars,” Carella said. He snorted. “Big deal. In fact, her other financial records show she could barely keep up with her bills, mostly VISA. Then all of a sudden, here come these gigantic entries. VISA and her other bills get paid off and the lady buys herself a twenty-eight-hundred-dollar TV set, complete with stereo sound.”

  Claudia remembered the set. A beauty. Something that belonged in a bigger house.

  “It’s like, where the hell does this sudden infusion of money come from?” Carella asked. He sat again. The chair farted. “She’s not getting any kind of Social Security. No pension. Nothing except what looks to be income from readings, or whatever they’re called. So where does a lady who charges twenty-five to fifty bucks a pop to gossip with
spirits suddenly get big bucks like that?”

  “Mmm,” said Claudia. She plucked a rubber band from her desk. She stretched it between her forefinger and thumb, took aim at the crusted coffee maker across the room, and let go. The rubber band pinged off the carafe. She smiled at Carella. “Come on, Emory. Let me buy you a tube steak at the bowling alley. I like the way your mind works.”

  “I think I just died and went to heaven,” said Carella. He sprang from the chair again and gave a little war whoop. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Yo! Someone take notes! Detective Hershey just gave me a compliment.”

  * * *

  By Indian Run’s standards, the bowling alley was a hot spot. Beyond the leagues that clogged the twenty-eight lanes most evenings, the alley drew a steady lunch and dinner crowd. The bar, a dimly lit room with two pool tables and a dart board, likewise did well.

  Claudia and Carella anchored themselves to stools at the snack counter and ordered chili dogs and fries. Country music turned low filtered through a ceiling system. It was only eleven o’clock and just three lanes were busy. Claudia swiveled around to watch for a minute.

  “I used to bowl on a league in Cleveland,” she told Carella.

  “Yeah? You?”

  Claudia gave Carella a look. “Come on. Am I that much of a square peg? Anyway, anyone who grows up in Cleveland learns to bowl. I think it’s practically a requirement for residency.”

  “So were you any good?”

  “Not bad. I carried a 170 average.”

  Carella whistled. “I’m not on a league, but every now and then the wife and I bring my kids in. I got twins—girls—and I swear they’re better than me.”

  “Oh, yeah? How old are they?”

  “Eight.” Carella lifted a hip and dug out his wallet. He showed Claudia snapshots of his daughters. Munchkin-faced blondes, one with a gap in her front teeth. “Amy and Jessica. Angels.”