The detective’s massive arms uncross, and he runs a hand over his face as if weary. “A lot of strange things have occurred in this building. Unexplainable things.”
I wasn’t expecting that, and wonder if he knows about Tallulah and the baby. “Like what?”
“Like, I don’t believe this is the first murder to occur on these grounds.”
A cold cramp forms in my belly. Surely Emanuele wouldn’t kill his grandson. But if not that, then what?
My wild imagination—thanks to too much stress and not enough sleep—wonders if Kalina and Baldwin have some sick enterprise going on the side. I’m almost afraid to ask. “There have been others?”
“My grandmother was a maid here in the late sixties. While most of the year was dead, summers were busy. Tallulah refused to hire extra help. Mammie Pauline was a hard worker, but she couldn’t keep up with this huge place when it was crowded. They had dumb waiters in the kitchen, the laundry, a couple other locations. Most had been boarded up, unused. Mammie discovered one and knew it could come in handy—they didn’t have an elevator then.”
It looks original, I’m surprised. “I can’t imagine trudging up and down three floors every day.”
“Carrying food, laundry, bed linens. Her back never was right after she worked here. The elevator wasn’t added until the nineties when the next owners bought it and turned it into a spa. Had to meet codes for handicapped guests.”
He toys with the pens that represent Cathi and the photographer in my scenario. “Mammie found it hidden behind wallpaper in the barroom. She asked Miss Tallulah for permission to uncover it, and I guess Tallulah flew into a rage, according to her, ordering her to patch it up and never go near it again. But Mammie was curious as a cat. Sneaky as one, too.” He eyes Tabby, now lounging in a chair next to him and purring. “She found bones in it. Always said they belonged to a child.”
Logan rears back. “Bones?”
The earlier cold spreads, a heavy brick in my stomach now. I swallow. “Did she report it?”
“A black woman in the fifties, here in Georgia, with a steady job and a half-crazy, white employer? Sure, she rushed right down to the police station.”
His thick sarcasm fills the air. “She told you, though, when you became a cop.”
His chin dips in acknowledgment. “Tallulah was long gone by then, but I was curious. Your daddy and I investigated. The owners back then cooperated, albeit reluctantly. When we opened up the space, it was empty. We assume Tallulah moved them.”
I think of the cemetery and the simple square-cut stone. “Oh my,” I say, the letters rearranging themselves in my mind, like drawings on a chalkboard. “Monroe, Romone. She named the baby after him.”
Both Jones and Logan stare at me, questions brewing in their gazes.
“Come again,” Jones says.
“There’s a grave under the tree outside with only the name Monroe on it. I think it may have been Tallulah's baby.”
Sherlock looks up and touches the side of his nose signifying I’ve hit the truth.
Jones narrows his eyes. He knows my reputation for being a ghost whisperer. He doesn’t believe in such things, being all about logic and evidence he can see and touch.
“Maybe it was an accident,” Logan offers. He’s always seeking the most logical answer, too. “The child may have went in there on his own and died somehow.”
“Guess we’ll never know.” Jones continues studying me. “But from the way Mammie described them, the child probably wasn’t old enough to even crawl.”
I feel sick. I need to believe it was as Logan said. “What does this have to do with Sal?”
His eyes dart around the room. He waves a finger. “This place has a lot of secret doors, passageways—hidden things such as those dumb waiters. Our killer may know of and have used more than one to assist him or her on Thursday night. I can get a warrant, but a search like that could take days, maybe weeks. There’s over six thousand square feet. There are so many nooks and crannies, we could get lost ourselves. At the moment, I believe our culprit and the weapon are here inside this hotel, but I need an inside man, so to speak. Someone to bring me a piece of solid evidence to close this case before the fair is over tomorrow afternoon.”
“You have the weapon,” I remind him. “The shoe.”
He leans forward, placing both elbows on the table. “This has not been released to the public yet. I want your word you won’t share it with anyone.”
Logan and I exchange a glance, then nod in unison. “We promise,” I say.
“That is not the only weapon.”
I point at a pen. “We know about the object that knocked Sal down. Something hard and metal, with a sharp edge to it that broke the skin.”
“There is that, and I shared that information on purpose so those women might give up something, but they haven’t. What I’m talking about is a different matter altogether. A cylindrical item with a sharp point caused the initial neck wound. Our murderer knocked Mr. Luxton out, then while he lay on the ground, took something like an ice pick, and stuck it into his neck.” He motions at the corresponding placement on his own. “The heel was inserted in the puncture wound created by that cylindrical object afterward to try and disguise it.”
I sit back at this news. “An ice pick? Like they might have in the bar?”
“The medical examiner almost missed it, thanks to the tearing caused by the end of the stiletto , but we believe so. The killer missed the jugular, but death would’ve been quick regardless. There should’ve been a healthy amount of splatter on the person who struck him.”
“Did you search for an ice pick?” Logan asks.
“The owners claim they don’t have one.” He rubs his face again. “Whoever jabbed our victim had to be facing him, they would’ve been hit with blood, then took the time to shove a shoe heel into the wound as some sort of statement.”
I pick up the pen, reenacting what must have happened, jabbing it down as if Sal is on the table. “The blood would have been on the killer’s hands, her face…”
A nod from the detective. “Barring a confession, I need that weapon or a witness.”
“You want Ava to do what, get it for you?” Logan glares at Jones when he doesn’t argue. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Jones keeps his focus on me. “Think you’re up for the task, Fantome?”
Ironic. Normally, the detective is railroading my family into situations where I have to fight him. “Am I up to doing your job for you? It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”
A hint of a smile quirks his lips. “You’ve tried, I’ll give you that. Since you think this killer may be attempting to frame you, I thought you might want a hand in bringing them to justice.”
“It’s too dangerous.” Logan gives him a scorching rebuke. “Go get your search warrant.”
I set down the pen and extend my hand to Jones. “Deal.”
We shake.
“Ava,” Logan says, my name a warning.
“I’ll be fine. You’ll be here to help me.” To Jones, I add, “By the way, you better look under the table.”
Jones releases my hand with a curious stare. “Why?”
I motion for him to lean down. Shifting his big body, he manages to do so.
Logan does, too, the three of us staring at the rocking chair and shoe. Tabby jumps off to sit next to the chair. She paws at the shoe, and I snap my fingers at her. “Don’t touch.”
“Is that what I think it is?” Jones asks.
Sherlock chuckles. “He’s quite shocked.”
“Yep,” I say. “The matching shoe to the bloody one left in Sal’s throat.”
We all rise, and he pulls out an evidence bag from his jacket. “I’ll have it tested for prints and DNA. Anything else I should see?”
“You can’t seriously put my client in this dangerous situation,” Logan states.
“I like him,” Sherlock says.
Jones disregards Logan’s concern. “As Ava s
aid, you’ll be here to protect her. I’ll be stationed about a mile down the road tonight. I’m dog-eared tired, but we’re not letting this killer leave tomorrow and make us look like small-town hicks. Anything happens, text or call, I’ll be here in minutes.”
Logan shakes his head, still unhappy. I glance between the men. “Let’s catch us a killer.”
23
Jones leaves, making sure the other women see the shoe in the evidence bag. They clamber after him as he makes his way to the elevator.
“Aren’t you arresting her?” Victoria’s voice rankles my nerves.
Jones punches the button. The sound of the cables kicking in echoes down the hall. “Her alibi is tight.”
“She claims she was chasing a cat,” Christine practically yells. “No one saw her.”
Jones looks up at the numbers above the door, completely unperturbed. “Actually, she was making out with her boyfriend in a broom closet next to the atrium.”
All three women’s heads snap to the right, glaring at Logan and me.
“She’s lying.” This from Victoria.
Jones shrugs. “I’ve got no solid evidence against her.”
The doors open and he climbs inside. They shove in, continuing to berate him about my suspected guilt, their voices fading as it closes and the elevator descends.
Logan glances at me and shakes his head. “What’s your plan?”
Honestly, I don’t have one—yet. I look at Tabby. “Anything you want to tell me?” Like who the killer is? She blinks as if bored and says nothing. “I think I need to talk to my dad.”
Back inside the suite, I dial his cell. Daddy picks up on the first ring. “Hi, sweetie, everything okay?”
I put him on speaker. “Remember that look you used on me growing up? When I was in trouble, and you wanted me to fess up to my crimes?”
He chuckles. “You never were a natural liar, but you still tried. Your mother would get so upset when she knew you were pulling her leg, but you’d never break with her.”
Logan grins. I return it. “But I did every time with you. What’s the secret? I mean, when you were on the force, you used that technique with suspects, I bet, right?”
“Sure, lots of times. People tend to talk too much when they’re guilty. Most have sort of an internal button that, when pushed, makes them implicate themselves, and they can spill all kinds of secrets.”
He pauses, and I hear Mama in the background, asking a question. “Be right there,” he calls, then he lowers his voice to me. “Is this about the murder investigation?”
He knows me well. “You didn’t teach that technique to Detective Jones, or if you did, it isn’t working for him on this one.”
“He has his own methods, and you should leave the police work to him.”
I don’t want to worry my father, and telling him I’m collaborating with his former partner on this isn’t wise. “I’m trying to get a secret out of Logan.”
I’m glad Daddy can’t see my face, since he’d pick up on the whopper I’m telling now.
This seems to relieve his mind, though. He chuckles again. “You think he’s going to pop the question?”
Logan’s humor fades, and he drops his head and leans on the back of the plush sofa.
“Something like that.” Guilt wells inside my chest. I push it aside. “So what’s the trick?”
“Silence.”
“I don’t understand.”
“People want to fill it. You tell them you know their secret and then you wait. In the case of a suspect, you pretend you already know why they did it. This is validating and sounds sympathetic, which always helps. Then you shut up, and you stare at them like you can see their truth written on their foreheads.”
“That’s it?” I’ve used the silent technique before and had fair results, but not in a life and death situation like this.
“Well, my pretty blue eyes might have helped.” His laughter is contagious, making Logan and I both grin again. “Gotta run. Your mother has something planned. Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie. I hope you get what you want.”
“Me too,” I say. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy.”
I disconnect and put my phone away. Logan grabs a flashlight and taps it against his palm.
“Afraid the electricity will go out? It’s not storming.”
He leads me to the door. “You’re about to provoke a killer. Staring them down might get a confession, but it won’t do any good if they try to stop you from revealing it.”
Good point.
In the hall, Tabby is playing with one of the fancy pens, using her paw to smack it around on the floor runner. I retrieve it and stick it in my pocket. She meows, indignant.
I bring it back out and hold it up. It’s heavy and cylindrical. It has a sharp point. Nottingham Hotel is written on the barrel in a vintage script. “I bet this is an original.”
Logan eyes it, the overhead light glinting off the casing. “They don’t make pens like that anymore.”
I study the point. “Could easily puncture someone’s throat, don’t you think?”
The elevator doors open as if by magic. We give each other a look before stepping inside. Tabby follows. Logan takes the pen and examines it in more detail. “Definitely could break skin with enough force.”
On the first floor, we pass Kalina, once more on duty at the desk. She glares at me suspiciously. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“The chocolates were delicious. We’re just on our way to talk to Cathi. She’s in room twelve, right?”
I actually have no idea if the girl is still here, but Kalina reveals she is.
“Six.” She stands to keep an eye on us. Laughter filters out from the Sweetheart Saturday crowd in the dining area. “Why do you want her?”
“Because she stole my shoes.”
I have no proof—it’s simply an educated guess, but I’m taking Daddy’s advice and pretending I know more than I do.
Halfway down the hall, I stop and pivot back to stare at her. “Plus, I’m pretty sure she knows who the killer is.”
Kalina’s face goes ashen. She glances at a couple exiting the ballroom. They hustle past and head for the lobby doors. “Shh,” she hisses. “You’re scaring the guests. Detective Jones said—”
“Yeah, I know. He’s taking the shoe I found to be dusted for fingerprints and DNA. The funny thing is, Cathi was wearing them.” Again, I’m throwing out a theory without any concrete evidence. “If she jabbed Sal in the throat with one, there’d be blood splatter on the other as well as the gown she wore. But…she was spotted over here”—I point—“with the photographer at the same time Sal died. Curious, don’t you think?”
She’s reluctantly come around the counter and edged closer. As the dining room noise fills the space between us, I let the question hang and see the wheels spinning in her brain. “So, she took off the shoes before she came out here to talk to Jason?”
Plausible. “She left them near the murder scene, and quite possibly saw who was around Sal at that moment.” I spin once more to the door and knock.
“Who is it?” A man’s gruff voice calls.
“I’m looking for Cathi. Is she in there?”
The door flies open a foot, and a bare-chested Jason with his hair mussed looks me over. “Where’s the food?”
He’s not much taller than I am. “Sorry, not room service.”
I spot Cathi over his shoulder. She’s trying to sneak into the bedroom, nothing but a blanket around her frame. I call over his shoulder. “Can I have my shoes back? I know you stole them—er, borrowed, I guess. No hard feelings, I won’t press charges, but I need them.”
Jason stares holes through me. “Hey, I know you. You’re the gal that Christine hates.”
Okay then.
“Watch it,” Logan growls, tapping the flashlight in his palm.
My watchdog seems quite menacing, and Jason takes a step back. I make a mental note to reward Logan later.
“Loo
k, Jason, I just want them back. If you and Cathi don’t return them, I’ll have no choice but to file a complaint with the police. Detective Jones will be returning with a warrant to search the hotel soon. You’re going to appear highly suspicious if you have a dozen boxes of stolen shoes in this room, and who knows what else.”
Cathi peeks out, her eyes wide. “I didn’t steal nothing. I only wanted to try them on.”
I give her an understanding smile, hiding my irritation. “I know you did, but now you’ve had your fun playing dress up,”—I glance at Jason and his chest—“fantasizing about your wedding and honeymoon.”
“Wedding?” Jason turns on her. “What is she talking about? You don’t think…?”
He makes a disgusted noise, grabs his shirt from the floor, along with his camera bag. He shoves past me and Logan, leaving the door open. “I’m out of here.”
“Noooo,” Cathi calls running after him, nearly tripping. “Jason, don’t leave!”
It’s a scene worthy of a reality show as she chases him down the hall and into the lobby, clad only in the blanket.
Meanwhile, I motion to Logan and we enter the room. The boxes of my shoes are neatly stacked next to the mirror attached to a door. Several wedding gowns hang on hooks around the room and in the open closet.
“Oh, dear,” Kalina says, having trailed in after us.
“You might want to make sure she didn’t steal those as well.” I point to the gowns.
Logan and I confiscate my boxes, clearly marked with Enchanted Events, and walk out.
I lead us to the ballroom. He flips on the lights and we stack the items on a table inside the booth. Flipping off lids, I’m checking that they’re all accounted for when Christine bursts in.
Fire in her eyes, she marches across the floor, swinging her arms with determination, a mannequin appendage in one hand.
She raises it as she draws near. “How dare you threaten my sister!”
24
She stalks us, shaking the bare appendage at me. “You made her cry!”
Hearts & Haunts, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 3 Page 11
