* * *
“I was in the bar downstairs,” the chief said, slipping off his suit coat. “Bryce and I were at loose ends this evening and decided to stop in here for a drink.”
“Thank heavens you did, otherwise the cameras would have gotten an eyeful of a dragon and a knight taking out a clown,” I said, slumping back into my chair. Alex, the chief, David and I were in our room, huddled around the small fireplace. Lawrence Bryce had taken Linda Borders and the plate of poisoned dessert away. Doctor Potter was attending the ball with his wife and they were seeing to Laurie Dillon who was sick with alcohol poisoning, but not from ingesting cyanide.
“Now, you want to explain why I arrested this woman and what is going on?”
I took a deep breath.
“Linda Borders tried to kill her sister-in-law with cyanide. And blame it on Chelsea Towers—Herb Dillon’s lover-- if she got the chance. I think that if we hadn’t been there, she might have gotten away with it.”
“But… how?” Alex and the chief looked surprised at this question. David looked worse. I guess maybe he was serious about this girl.
“Cyanide is not that hard to find. A lot of people have rat poison left in their basements or tool sheds. It is also naturally occurring in certain foods like peach pits, apple and mango seeds. Those beautiful trees covered in pink blossoms out in Linda’s yard? Those are bitter almonds. The seeds look almost like regular almonds, but you never see squirrels or birds eating them, do you? Grind the seed and mix the emulsion with water and you get almond oil and cyanide.”
“Dear God,” the chief said it but Alex and David looked like they agreed. “And people grow these trees on purpose?”
“The trees are not that rare even in the mountains. And cyanide is an old favorite for murderers. It’s what was in the Kool-Aid at Jonestown,” I reminded them.
“Aaron’s rod,” Alex muttered. The chief and I nodded, understanding what he meant. In the Bible, Aaron’s Rod brought forth both kind of almond flowers. It bore sweet almonds on one side and bitter on the other. If people followed the Lord and were righteous, the sweet almonds would be luscious and edible, but if they were to do evil, the bitter almonds would grow instead.
“As to why Linda did it, I think David can tell us.” David looked a bit blank and I stifled a sigh. What had I ever seen in him? “Doesn’t Herb Dillon’s trust say that Linda inherits everything if Herb’s wife dies? Laurie only gets the house and things for as long as she lives, then it reverts to Linda, right?” I prompted. He nodded slowly, looking grim. In a way I was glad that David was beyond speech. “I figured, since the money came from his family. Maybe Linda meant to stop at killing her brother to get out from under her onerous loan, but when she found out how much money her tightwad brother had in the bank— half of which she felt should have gone to her, except her parents disinherited Linda when she decided to live in a commune and grow dope— and how little of it Laurie was willing to share with the sister-in-law who had done her such a big favor when she offed her philandering husband, I think she decided to take steps. Linda probably knew that you were escorting Chelsea to this party. Here was her chance to make a move, everyone in one place, a crowded room, and a patsy who would be thoughtful enough to take food to his widowed client if asked. She told nerveless Tom to stay at home and invited Laurie instead.”
“But—I would tell everyone that she asked me to do it, not Chelsea.” David found his voice.
“And Linda would agree with you, but then point out that Chelsea was right there at the buffet and that she had plenty of opportunity to poison the gateau. In fact, Linda would probably ‘remember’ seeing Chelsea do something with the plate.”
“I— I need to go check on Chelsea,” David said, rising to his feet. I wasn’t sorry to see him go. “I’ll make a statement tomorrow, Chief, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, go ahead and go. I need to get a search warrant,” the chief said to himself, pulling out his phone. “It will help if we can find some traces of cyanide at her house.”
“Or the tree farm,” I reminded him. “They have a work shed out there.”
The chief nodded and walked over to the window looking for a stronger signal.
“You know the two ghosts who haunt the inn?” I asked of Alex.
“Yeah.”
“Rumor has it that they were killed with cyanide. Maybe that’s what gave her the idea.”
Chapter 13
“Life with you is never boring,” Alex said as he closed the door behind the chief. The New Year revel was well underway, though both of us were too tired for any more celebrating. The ball would have to go on without us. That suited me fine. I had Alex and champagne. If need be we could sing Auld Lang Syne for ourselves.
“Are you very disappointed in this evening?” I asked, slipping off my velvet cloak. I laid it on one of the overstuffed chairs by the fire. Taking it off really meant the night was over and I felt a little sad.
“Nope.” Alex pulled the gold foil off the champagne bottle that was waiting on the dresser. “You got your man—er— woman. And you stopped another murder from happening. I’m proud of you.”
“Yes, but this wasn’t how you planned our evening to be.” I told myself to shut-up and not spoil the moment by insisting that Alex be unhappy.
The cork popped and Alex poured out two glass of sparkling wine. It was a demi-sec because he knows I prefer sweeter things to bruts. I sat down on the bed. It was mussed from earlier
“So,” Alex said, handing me a glass. “I have a proposition to make.”
I looked up, pretty sure that I knew what he was going to say but not wanting to jump the gun. Though I tried to keep my face blank I must not have succeeded.
Alex began to laugh softly. “And you already know what it is.”
“Will you be happy here in Hope Falls?” I asked softly, maybe hoping he wouldn’t hear me ask this. “Being dragooned into helping Dad? Dog-sitting in the winter? Knowing that I will probably— at least sometimes— end up investigating things?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been living two very different lives for a while now and I find the one without you is lonely and boring.” He sat on the bed beside me. “And what about you? Is there room in your busy life for one more stray?”
“Of course.”
“Then I guess we’re set.” Alex clinked his glass against mine. “Now, I was thinking—”
“That the duplex next door is empty?” I suggested.
Alex laughed again. “Yes, Miss Know-it-all, and it could be fixed up into a nice office and also give us a spare bedroom for when my folks come to visit.”
His folks. I swallowed deeply for courage and then said: “Good idea.”
“You may know everything, but you don’t lie real well,” Alex said taking the glass from my hand and setting it on the nightstand.
“I expect I will learn to like them eventually. For your sake.”
“Hmmm. We’ll see. Tolerating them would be a good first step.”
“I’ll try,” I promised earnestly as his arms came around me.
“That’s all any man can ask,” he said and then kissed me. “Happy New Year, Chloe.”
“Happy New Year, Alex.”
The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis
The following is a sample of The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis, available now in eBook format.
Prologue
‘Frae ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties and things that gae bump in the night, O Lord, deliver us.’
— 14th century Scottish Prayer
I dream.
And so do you, of course. Animals too. But dreaming is my job. Or rather, the policing of dangerous sleep, being the guardian of dreamers gone awry, that is the task that has devolved upon me.
You may have met me in the Narcoscape, a silent shadow at the edge of your imaginings as I went about my business. Perhaps you saw me as an angel, if you believe in such things. You probably did not fear me when we pass
ed, for you knew that I was not one of the creatures that go bump in the night. Chances are good we may meet again some night because I get around.
Sleep can be many things. It is the calling of the sweet daydreams of the parted lovers, or the longing of the child stuck in a classroom on a fine May day. It can be the refuge where we see to the knitting up of the raveled sleeve of care left tattered by daily life. It is the place visited by mystics and swamis, and the destination for deep meditation and prayer. It is a tapestry embroidered with our unconscious thoughts. Without it, we would die.
It is other things, too, many of them dangerous and predatory. It is the place where infants are so beguiled by visions that they do not wake in the morning. It is the shadowy realm where the coma patients live—sometimes by choice but sometimes because they have become weak in mind and soul, and other darker things have begun to prey on them. It is often the last stop for the drunks and drug-users who come one too many times to the arms of Morpheus and Hypnos seeking oblivion. This is also the kingdom of schizophrenics, paranoids and other members of the insane fraternity whose grasp on waking reality has slipped. For them monsters abideth here.
Most people come and go from the Narcoscape without incident, but once in a while something goes wrong on the dreamside. If it goes a little wrong and the victim’s kin are ignorant, the family will have to wait for the Dream Police—aka the NarcoNazis—to sort it out. When it goes very wrong, if loved ones are in the know, they call me. I’m the retrieval expert, the ghost hunter, the slayer of night terrors who won’t negotiate with the Dream Police.
I own and run Hypnos Inc. and have a scary Greek title conferred at birth (my parents said) by gods of sleep and dreams, but you can call me Nic. That’s short for Nicodemus. Yes, that’s traditionally a man’s name. I am called after my paternal grandfather. It’s one of the trials of being an only child in a family with large expectations of offspring to carry on the familial traditions. I’m a little surprised they didn’t stick me with a whole string of my aunts’ and uncles’ middle names while they were at it, but I guess my parents figured that naming a girl Nicodemus was enough of a sacrifice to generational expectations. The other relatives went begging.
My namesake, Grandpa Nic, was the great-great-something-grandson of the first Nicodemus, best know for his psuedepigrapha, The Gospel of Nicodemus. Only according to family legend, there is nothing psuede about it. His visions were real dream visitations and his descendents had been having them ever since, though most of us have escaped the curse of prophecy.
Not too surprisingly, dream consulting is a family calling, a difficult job that few can manage and stay sane, so I haven’t got a lot of competition in this field. Of course, I can’t really advertise in the yellow pages either, so it all kind of evens out. I am not like a dentist or a stylist or an accountant. For one thing, I’m not that well paid. Also, my cases are the kind you can’t schedule for in advance—though certain people keep me on retainer, just in case. When I am needed, I am needed now. That was why I was on my way to Mercy Hospital, driving in the pre-dawn darkness without my usual skinny café-mocha or indulging in the regular Monday morning visit with Aunt Gertrude. The hospital was one of my long-standing clients who keep me on retainer for emergencies. It is also the place where my husband and parents died. Without me. They were gone through Death’s door before I even knew to look for them and there is a hole in my heart that I have never managed to fill.
Most hospital work I can do from home, but proximity helps when it is a fast snatch-and-grab job, which this might well be. It sounded like I wouldn’t have a lot of time for hunting down one Thomas Seymour before the family arrived, so I needed to go into the dreamside close to where he was sleeping. I may have lost my own husband, but I would not lose this man.
As so often happens, the threat on the patient’s life was an impatient family, just like this one. They were already on the way to the hospital to pull the plug on the unlucky Thomas Seymour (whose insurance had run out) and the hospital administrator wanted me to have a last look at their patient, age thirty-four, minor car accident victim with no apparent physical injuries but entering month four of an expensive and unexplainable coma.
It sounded fairly routine.
The hospital contract that had me up and driving at six in the morning had been negotiated by my parents before my birth. As I said, they are dead now and the previous hospital administrator has retired, but the family business lives on anyway. Officially, I am listed as a grief consultant, but what I really do is save the hospital from possible lawsuits for wrongful death and inconvenient reviews by medical ethics boards when it is decided that it is time to turn off life-support. The hospital administrator feels better knowing for certain that there is no mind left in the body and that the soul has actually moved on before they terminate life support. As a bonus, I sometimes rescue lost souls who have just wandered off in the Narcoscape and are in danger of becoming ghosts. When all goes well, which is most of the time, I bring them back to their families with their minds intact.
When the mind isn’t intact… well, we have ghosts in the Narcoscape too, lost minds who will not go to Death but refuse to return to Life. You recall that horrible feeling when you know you’re in a nightmare but can’t wake up? That’s what this is for the lost. It is a terrible fate, leading to a rapid mental degeneration similar to Alzheimer’s, though much worse because something predatory will almost always find a confused ghost and accidentally—or deliberately— enslave or consume them. I didn’t want this to happen to Mr. Seymour. If possible, I’d bring him back to the wakeside. But if all else failed, I would help him to find Death and move on. And I had to do it before his physical body died or he’d be stuck alone on the dream-side until something stronger ate him up. I can help the dreaming, but not the dead.
Chapter 1
‘Judge of your natural character by what you do in your dreams’.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
I pushed my way out of the heavy velvet curtains and into the meadow of ruby red grass that swayed gently under the breath of a southern zephyr that smelled like Coppertone suntan oil. This time I was sure I’d gotten it right. The wandering one had been located.
My linen skirt rustled as it moved through the field and I had to keep a hand on my sunhat because the playful breeze was determined to whisk it away. I found myself wishing that I had time for some kite-flying.
The man sitting on a camp stool at a large easel put down his paintbrush and smiled at me in a vague, distracted way.
“Hello, Thomas,” I said in my calmest voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Hello,” he said back, brow wrinkling as he tried to recall my name and face. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve never been formally introduced. My name is Nicodemus Smith.” I didn’t offer my hand.
“Oh.” I line appeared between his sandy colored brows. “You’re my first visitor today. I came out here to paint the meadow. I always thought that grass would look like this over here.”
I nodded. Thomas’s medical records said that he was colorblind. It was probably this ailment that prevented him from noticing that the traffic light he ran was red instead of green.
“Do you know what that building over there is?” he asked, pointing a paint-smeared finger over my right shoulder. “It’s really pretty and I keep thinking that I’ve seen it before.”
I turned to look.
The poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was a frequent visitor to the Narcoscape in the nineteenth century. Little is permanent dreamside and only rarely will some construct survive the death of its creator. But Coleridge’s Xanadu is still there, the pleasure domes still shining brightly in the sun. Most drug-users dream of pink elephants and melting faces, but Coleridge’s opium-induced dreams had been beautiful and the remnants were still a joy to everyone who saw them. Enough high school and college age kids still read his poems that Kubla Khan’s Pleasure Dome was actually something of a tourist attr
action on the dreamside at the start of the Fall semester.
There are other vestiges of extinct cultures in the Narcoscape. There is a fine Incan temple brought into existence by the collective will of a people so strong and sincere in their beliefs that it survives even today. The Greeks have a place too—a sort of artistic ruin of the Parthenon. There is a sacred pagan grove that had gone feral for centuries, but is now once again tame and the place where neo-druids come to worship at the solstices and equinoxes. The Hindus and Buddhists have their places too.
And there is an enormous Egyptian pyramid that overlooks almost everything in the Narcoscape. Unlike the Greek temple, this one shows no sign of erosion. Of course, worship of the old gods was never completely abandoned even with the birth and ascendance of Allah. Understandable when these old gods are still accessible to anyone who wishes to worship them.
“That’s The Pleasure Dome,” I said. “Would you like to go see it?” We didn’t really have time but it was important to build trust before I asked him to follow me.
“No thank you,” he said. “I have to wait here.”
“Why is that?” I asked, glad that he had broached the subject. Things generally go better when the client is ready to discuss matters.
“I have to be here when my wife comes.”
“Ah. Do you think she’ll be coming soon?” My question was mild.
“I’m not sure.” Thomas looked suddenly sad. “I think I killed her,” he confessed.
“Killed her?”
“Yes, we were having an argument. In the car. And I wasn’t paying attention and all of sudden there was this truck coming at us. It hit her door.”
“That’s what they told me at the hospital,” I answered. “But I have some good news for you. You’re wife didn’t die in the accident. She only broke her arm. She’s fine and so are you.”
Murder on Parade Page 7
