Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3)

by Joanne Pence

  She opened her mouth to complain, but then shut it and got into his car.

  They both knew he was right.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning, Rebecca showed Lt. Eastwood a copy of Candace Carter’s twenty-thousand dollar life insurance policy in which she made Lucian Tully her beneficiary. Given that, Eastwood approved an autopsy on Carter. Medical examiner Evelyn Ramirez agreed to perform it immediately.

  She contacted Rebecca that same afternoon.

  “Good instincts, Rebecca!” Ramirez said. Rebecca had never heard her so cheerful. “You were right to be suspicious. Candace Carter was killed by batrachotoxin poisoning. Without your insistence, I doubt anyone would have found it. It’s a neurotoxin, but it also has a terrible effect on the heart muscles. Basically, it interferes with a person’s heart conduction, causing arrhythmias, extrasystoles, ventricular fibrillation, and other changes which lead to cardiac arrest.”

  “Does this mean that if someone already has heart condition, chances of the poison ever being found would be close to impossible?”

  “Right. It mimics a heart attack, so no one would bother to look further when dealing with a person with a heart condition, or even in a high risk age group. And it’s rare, making it even harder to detect. It’s produced by what laymen call a ‘poison dart’ frog whose habitat is in the warm, high humidity regions of Central and South America. Interestingly, the frog doesn’t produce the batrachotoxin itself, but it comes from eating ants or other insects that probably get it from eating a plant we haven’t yet identified. Certain beetles also carry the toxin.”

  For some strange reason, Evelyn assumed Rebecca shared her enthusiasm for details about the weird poison. Rebecca was glad they were talking by phone so Evelyn couldn’t see her eyes glaze over as she spouted details and ten-syllable long names. But Rebecca didn’t interrupt Evelyn. They were friends and anything that made cutting up dead bodies interesting or in any way enjoyable was okay in Rebecca’s book. And she also hoped Evelyn would look upon her strange requests a bit more kindly in the future.

  “The way it works,” Evelyn continued, “is that when one of these frogs is agitated, feels threatened, or is in pain, the toxin is reflexively released through its skin. They say the Chocó Indians in Columbia first impale a frog on a piece of wood, and then roast it alive over a fire. Bubbles of poison form as the frog's skin begins to blister. The Indians prepare their dart tips by touching them to the toxin. Poison darts are enough to drop monkeys and birds in their tracks. When enough toxin is used, nerve paralysis is almost instantaneous. With lesser doses, as in the case of Candace Carter, the heart muscle gives out first.”

  The description of torturing little innocent frogs was quite enough for Rebecca. She used to play with them when she was a kid in Idaho. She thanked Evelyn and was about to hang up when Evelyn stopped her. “One bit of information to keep in mind,” Evelyn said. “This poison is so toxic a medium-size man can be killed with the equivalent of two grains of table salt. It’s fifteen times more potent than curare, a more common arrow poison, and ten times more potent than tetrodotoxin found in puffer fish. If someone out there has a supply of this poison, you’ve got to find it, Rebecca. You’ve got to find it and stop him.”

  Hearing that, Rebecca first went to Lt. Eastwood with the news and requested that Neda Fourman’s body be exhumed and autopsied immediately, and then, to find out more about Betty Faroni, the woman she’d been close to who also died suddenly, as well as the as-yet-unnamed-Sandorista who died a pauper, Rebecca telephoned Richie’s mother.

  o0o

  “This is my friend, Geraldine Vaccarino,” Carmela said. “Geri, this is Inspector Rebecca Mayfield, a friend of Richie’s.”

  When Rebecca called Carmela saying she’d like to talk to her and Geri about the Sandy Geller situation, Carmela invited her to her home. Rebecca had been there once before, during an awkward interlude with Richie. But then, she thought, when wasn’t being with Richie awkward for one reason or another?

  Geri was waiting when Rebecca arrived.

  “I know you’re investigating Sandy,” Geri said, then pursed her lips. “And I’d like to hate him for my sister’s sake, but to tell the truth, I think he’s a good man with a good heart. We don’t understand what’s going on with him. Nothing makes sense, so I really don’t want to talk about him.”

  “I understand, Mrs., uh, Geri,” Rebecca said. “But it’s up to the police, not you, to determine what’s going on. I simply need you to answer a few questions.”

  Geri looked at Carmela. “What, am I talking to a wall here? Didn’t she understand what I said?”

  “Help the girl, Geri. For Richie.”

  For Richie? Rebecca’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “I understand your sister, Betty, went to Sandy Geller’s séances, and that led to your going to them as well,” Rebecca began as she faced Geri. “I’ve heard she may have spent a lot of money on Geller. Is that true?”

  “I don’t like this,” Geri whispered again, very loudly, to Carmela. “I feel like a double-crosser.”

  Rebecca couldn’t help but sympathize with the feeling.

  Carmela glanced at Rebecca. “Geri’s very stubborn.” Then she leaned closer to her friend. “I know you’re no snitch. But you need to help the girl. What if she loses her job if she doesn’t get answers? I don’t want Richie dating any more women who don’t have jobs. They take advantage of him. He’s got a good heart, my son. Anyway, it’s a simple question.”

  Rebecca clenched her jaw. She didn’t know how much more of Carmela she could take, but then she put what she hoped was a pleasant smile on her face, and waited.

  Geri grimaced. “I checked out Sandy Geller because of my sister, god rest her soul. It’s true that she gave him all her money. Carmela and I went to a couple of his shows, and afterward, I asked about his séances. A young lady took down information about me, and a week later, I was called in to be interviewed by Sandy himself. The next day, I learned I was accepted. Then, the more I went to see Sandy, the more I saw he was all right. It was my sister who was stupid about taking care of her own money.”

  Rebecca was surprised to hear that. “Does this mean all is forgiven with Sandy?”

  Geri glanced at Carmela before speaking. “Last month, as I left the séance, I said I had no more money and probably couldn’t go to any more of them. Two days later, Lucian Tully came to visit me. He said the Sandoristas had a kind of ‘scholarship’ fund for people who couldn’t afford the séances and asked if I’d like to apply for it. A scholarship, at my age? I wanted to laugh, but I went ahead.”

  Geri proceeded to tell her the story Richie had already recounted about putting Lucian on as beneficiary to her life insurance policy in exchange for a monthly stipend.

  “It’s an interesting scheme,” Rebecca said when Geri finished. Her thoughts went to fraud, but she doubted many prosecutors would touch the case. It sounded more like a civil suit, if anything since, apparently, no one was coerced into making Lucian their beneficiary.

  “But is it a scheme?” Geri asked. “He didn’t force me to do anything. Same with Betty, I suspect.”

  Rebecca didn’t tell Geri there was a distinct possibility that her sister had been murdered. If so, ‘scheme’ was too mild a word for what was going on here. “I understand your sister, Betty, had a lady friend who had gone to Geller and then suddenly died. Do you have her name?”

  Geri squared her shoulders, her mouth pinched. “I’ve heard there was such a woman. I have no idea who she was. Betty and I weren’t close.”

  “I see,” Rebecca murmured. She tried a different approach, including Carmela in her next question. “I also heard that both of you attended the funeral of another woman who often attended the séances. Someone who should have had money, but seemed to have lost it all. Can you tell me her name?”

  “Oh, yes,” Geri said. “That was … hmm. What was her name, Carmela?”

  “It’s on the tip of my tongue,” Carmela s
aid. “Nancy? No, I don’t think that’s right.”

  “No. Definitely not Nancy.” Geri pursed her lips. “I’d remember if it was Nancy.”

  “Yes, poor thing. First most of her money was gone, and then she started getting a bit forgetful,” Carmela said to Rebecca.

  “Yes, such a shame,” Geri added with a firm nod. “What was her name?”

  “I can’t remember either,” Carmela said.

  Rebecca looked from one to the other. “If you remember, give me a call.” She thanked them for their time, and said she needed to be on her way.

  Carmela walked her to the door. “So,” she said, “I heard you have a new boyfriend.”

  “Me?” Rebecca was surprised at the statement.

  “Don’t worry about hurting Richie’s feelings,” Carmela said. “I don’t know if he’ll ever settle down.”

  “Right,” Rebecca murmured.

  “Women have a biological clock running—if they ever want to have kids at any rate. Not so with men. Sometimes it’s not fair.”

  Rebecca gaped. Where in God’s name is all this coming from?

  “Richie would make a good father, but sometimes I suspect he’ll just wait to be reunited with his fiancée in the next life—she was a saint, that girl, too good for this world. She was perfect for him—and she knew how to cook all his favorites. Manicotti, saltimbocca, grispedi. You know?”

  Rebecca shook her head.

  “No, I guess you don’t. Oh, well. No matter. I’m glad to hear you have someone new in your life. It makes it easier. So, you take the information you got from Geri, and you do good with it, okay?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Bene.” With a quick good-bye, Carmela shut the door on her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rebecca thought she would hear from Richie immediately after meeting with Carmela and Geri. She even imagined him storming into Homicide to complain about her questioning his precious mother. But he didn’t.

  She heard nothing at all.

  Now, at home, as she ate leftover Chinese food by herself, she realized she felt disappointed.

  Okay, that did it. Enough was enough.

  Whenever she and Richie were together she knew his words as well as her own about not wanting anything to do with each other beyond friendship, simply weren’t true. Not that she thought he was seriously falling for her, or God forbid, her with him, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt such a “zing” when a man simply touched her—or gave her a quick kiss while standing on a sidewalk.

  Lust.

  That summed up exactly what she felt for him. Nothing more.

  Yesterday, poor, sweet Ray Torres had asked her for a date Saturday night. She realized that would be like going from a Ruth Chris Steakhouse to Chuck E. Cheese. And yes, she hated herself for feeling that way even as she said, “No.”

  Looking at the situation with Richie logically, the only reason he was still on her mind was because nothing sexual—like making love—had ever happened between them. The last time she’d been in his house, they’d come close. He’d kissed her. And not only had she kissed him back, but immediately knew she wanted lots more than kisses from him. The poor fellow had just been stitched up and was on pain medication from having been shot in the arm, but none of that mattered to her—and from his reaction, it hadn’t to him either.

  She had no doubt where that kiss would have led if Carmela hadn’t taken that moment to swoop in on them like Florence Nightingale, vowing to care for Richie until he was back to normal.

  Rebecca suspected that if she had treated Richie the way she had other men she’d been attracted to over the years, he’d be out of her life. He would have disappointed, bored, or otherwise irritated her, and she’d have dumped him every bit as fast as she had the others.

  The best way to deal with this situation now was head-on. And so she would. That very evening.

  She phoned Bo Benson and asked if he’d cover for her that night since she was supposed to be on-call. He agreed since she’d taken three of his night shifts recently and he owed her. Besides, no one was murdered on a Tuesday night (usually), so it should be easy for him.

  She then changed into an attractive, but casual dress—again with the nylons which meant she was seriously lusting after the man—and headed for Richie’s nightclub.

  The interesting thing about Big Caesar’s was that, while the main part of it was a posh nightclub with a live band and singers, its large bar area was fast gaining the reputation of an upscale place for well-heeled, age thirty and up singles to meet. But she wasn’t there to meet someone new. She went there to see one person only. Mr. Big Caesar himself.

  As she walked in, the band was playing Big Bad Voodoo Daddy’s “Mr. Pinstripe Suit.” Recent jazz and swing tunes as well as the old classics were played at Big Caesar’s, and seemed equally popular with all age groups.

  She took a stool at the bar, and ordered a Mai Tai. A nice looking but persistent fellow came by to talk to her. She was doing her best to ignore him when Richie showed up. “This is a surprise,” he said. The look he gave the stranger caused him to quickly slink away.

  For some reason, Richie didn’t look or sound happy to see her there. She wondered if she’d read him wrong until she met his eyes. Naw. “Just wondering what’s happening with your client. I haven’t heard from you.”

  “It’s being worked on,” he said. “Not a police matter.”

  A police matter? He might have thought that put her in her place, but not so fast. “I had an interesting conversation with your mother and Geri earlier.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Why am I not surprised? Anyway, I think she’s worried about ‘us’ because she mentioned how highly she thought of your fiancée, and made it clear I’d never measure up.”

  He had the decency to look embarrassed. “I didn’t know.”

  “Maybe you should let her know she has no worries on that score.”

  He studied her a moment, as if trying to figure out where she was going with all this. “I’ve tried.”

  “Good,” she said. “I must say, I’m surprised any woman interested in you ever got Carmela’s blessing. I wonder how she did it.”

  He thought a moment, then shrugged. “She died.”

  Rebecca’s mouth dropped open. But then, the more she got to know the Amalfis, the more sense his answer made.

  He said nothing more about it.

  All of a sudden, she felt bad about her bitchy mood, about her reaction to his mother, even about his fiancée. Not only had she put her foot in it, she put both feet in. The band started playing “It Had to be You.”

  “One of my favorite old songs,” she said softly, hoping he saw the apology in her eyes.

  He nodded, but made no move to ask her to dance, not even to make small talk. And he loved to talk.

  Okay, she’d officially blown it. Bringing up his fiancée, what had she been thinking? Coming here was one of her dumber moves ever. “I should get going.”

  That seemed to jar him. “Wait. I’m sorry—a lot’s on my mind.”

  “It’s okay—”

  “Let’s get a table. We’ve got some great shrimp cocktail tonight. Very fresh. And oysters.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You know what they say about oysters.”

  She couldn’t deal with him, not after her blunders. She swiveled on the barstool, ready to get off it and leave—to get away and try hard to forget about him. “I’ve got a date. He won’t need any help.”

  “That’s for sure,” he said, stepping in front of her. “But if you can tear yourself away from that date, you might want to go along with me to see what Shay found on Claire’s phone. I’m meeting him at ten tonight. As I said, it’s not a police matter, but if you’re interested …”

  Damn. She was. “Let me make a phone call.”

  “Send a text,” he said. “It’s faster. Easier.”

  She took out her phone and texted herself, then put her cell phone away. “All
done,” she said, a bit too brightly, hoping he hadn’t seen through her ruse.

  The band, with an alto sax taking the slow, wailing lead, began to play “Embraceable You.” Richie didn’t need to ask. He took her hand, and they went out on the dance floor. It felt almost too good to be in his arms once more, and the closer she got to him, the better it felt. Afterward, they talked, laughed, ate—including oysters—and drank tonic with lime. Once again Rebecca found, to her dismay, how much she enjoyed simply hanging with Richie. But then it was time to go and meet Shay.

  o0o

  After leaving Rebecca’s car back at her apartment, Richie drove them both to meet with Shay. As they neared the ritzy Presidio Heights area of the city, with huge mansions that had survived the city’s devastating 1906 earthquake and fire, she wondered if Shay lived in one of them. If she thought she’d see his home, she was wrong. They met at a restaurant near Arguello.

  Shay was already waiting when they arrived. The place was practically empty, and booths offered privacy.

  He had a list of phone calls to and from Claire. Several were suspect, and five were from burner phones. One of his skills was to trace the untraceable, but these phones were worse than most. The difficulty only caused Shay to double his efforts.

  Finally, he cracked one number and tracked it to a lawyer in San Francisco.

  “A shyster.” Richie grumbled. “That, we do not need. Let’s hope he has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Except that his phone call to Claire came Sunday evening, five minutes before two other burner phone calls to her.”

  “Who’s called her since Sunday?” Richie asked.

  “No burners. Only the FBI, Brandon Seymour. The only other calls were from old clients, clearly not having anything to do with art smugglers.”

  Richie nodded, then turned to Rebecca. “Maybe it’s time to let Seymour know you can’t find Claire Baxter, and neither can I.”