Final Call

by Rachel Ann Nunes

Good. No one could say to recruits, “This is what happens when a crazy woman pretends to read emotions and experiences on objects in a murder investigation.”

  My knees threatened to give way, but I edged onto the chair before they could notice. My hands were shaking, too, and I clenched them in my lap and waited for them to stop. “What now?” I said, keeping my voice steady.

  “You don’t want to take a break?” Tracy asked. “You were out for a good two minutes.” I was glad it was her who said it instead of Shannon or I might have thrown something at him. Maybe a clue that I should stick with Jake. I didn’t have any internal conflict about accepting his help.

  “I’d rather finish.” There were two objects left. A chunky turquoise-and-silver necklace and a thick silver bangle bracelet. Of the two, the bracelet was worth more and therefore more likely to be important to Cheyenne. I made a silent vow to drop it immediately if I experienced even a hint of suffocation. Better yet, I wouldn’t even pick it up. That way, if I fainted, I’d lose contact with it anyway. Provided, of course, that I fell on the floor and not over the objects.

  It was almost laughable the way Shannon and Tracy both stood over me, waiting to snatch away the remaining objects if I so much as sighed.

  I reached out a finger, but it went to the necklace, not to the bangle, and I almost wept with relief when all I felt was the joy of ownership and the contentment Cheyenne had experienced two years ago when she’d bought it.

  I shook my head and reached for the bangle, using two fingers this time. Bold.

  At once I was scrabbling at the silver bangle, trying to get it off Rosemary’s wrist. She wouldn’t have this. I didn’t want Paxton, but I didn’t want her to have him, either. She already had the role that should have been mine.

  Clutching it at last in my hand, I sat staring at her prone form. No, Cheyenne was staring, not me. But the difference didn’t really matter. Why was Rosemary lying so still? Wait, the hammer. It lay on the floor beside the fallen woman, and red stained the back of her brown hair. All at once I remembered the blackness, the hatred I’d felt. Horror sweeping through me at the memory. What have I done?

  I didn’t mean to hurt you, Rosemary. Not like this. My stomach twisted. Was she dead?

  Wait, she was moving. I needed to get help. But what if she pressed charges? Did she see it was me? What should I do? Oh, why had I confronted her about the Juliet role? She’d only come back tonight to watch me in The Comedy of Errors. I should have taken it up with her back at the apartment, not here where everyone would soon be arriving for final call.

  Had she really come to support me or to flirt with Seaver?

  Rosemary had stopped moving. “What should I do?” I moaned. The bangle in my hand felt heavy. If I didn’t call for help, Rosemary might die. But if I called for help, she’d tell and I’d go to prison.

  An arm came around me. “Don’t worry. I know what to do.” The voice came from a tunnel, familiar and known to me, but my focus was the body and the part I’d just played. I pushed the bangle onto my arm, and the scene vanished.

  Another imprint followed, and I was looking into the face of Grady Mullins. “It’s beautiful, Grady. Thank you.”

  “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” he asked. “That company is smaller.”

  “It has connections. I think I have a chance. Cheyenne says there aren’t many there who have my talent. She’s a good friend.”

  Grady frowned. “I don’t like it. And I don’t like her, Rosemary. She only hangs with you because you tell her how good she is.”

  “Oh, Grady. She is good. Don’t be jealous. Be happy for me that I have this chance.”

  “Okay. Here, let me put it on. That way, even when we’re not together, you can remember me.”

  He was silly and a bit sweet. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I thought we needed time apart. We’d spent almost every moment of the past two years together, but I wasn’t sure we belonged together. I wanted space, a chance to find myself. Another reason for switching theater companies. Grady was a little too controlling. He reminded me of my father.

  The imprint vanished and nothing followed, so I took back my hand, which now seemed to weigh fifty pounds.

  I sighed, meeting Shannon and Tracy’s expectant gazes. “Cheyenne was the one who hit Rosemary with the hammer. Apparently after Rosemary saw her father, she went home—that must be why her princess rock was there—but she came back later to support Cheyenne in The Comedy of Errors. They must have had a fight. Probably because Cheyenne was angry about her getting the Juliet role but also because of this bangle. Grady Mullins gave it to Rosemary sometime earlier, before the Juliet auditions, but for some reason Cheyenne seemed to think it was from Paxton Seaver.”

  “But it was definitely Cheyenne who hit Rosemary?” Tracy asked.

  “I didn’t see the actual hit, but she grabbed this bangle off Rosemary afterward. She felt guilty when she looked at the hammer.”

  “Obviously not guilty enough,” Tracy said.

  “She was afraid of going to jail. That’s why she didn’t call for help.”

  “That supports the DNA testing we did on the hammer.” Shannon sat on the edge of the table. “It came back two hours ago positive for Rosemary’s blood. Too bad we couldn’t lift any prints besides yours, but it’d definitely been wiped clean.”

  I frowned. “The state Cheyenne was in, I don’t think she would have thought to wipe it. But I was just going to tell you that she wasn’t there alone. Someone came in, someone who may have helped her hide the bo—” I’d been going to say body, but I didn’t know for sure that Rosemary was dead. “Helped her hide Rosemary,” I amended.

  “Who?” Shannon and Tracy asked together, both leaning forward eagerly.

  I was suddenly all too aware of the video camera pointed in my direction, the red record button aglow. “I’m sorry,” I said. “The person spoke only two short sentences and the imprint stopped before Cheyenne looked at him or mentally identified him. Or her. I can’t even say if it was a man or a woman.” I shrugged. “That’s the drawback of imprints. I can only experience what they experience. Or see what they saw right at the moment.”

  In the past, I’d been able to recognize people in imprints that the person creating the imprint hadn’t personally known enough to identify, and often people mentally identified people they interacted with during their imprint. But in both the ring imprint and the bangle imprint, Cheyenne had been too involved with her own pain or emotions to register anything else. That could have a lot to do with who she’d been—a self-centered person who, when it came right down to it, cared first and foremost about her own welfare—but it was more likely caused by her emotional state.

  “It could come to me,” I said. “If I hear the voice.”

  “At any rate, Cheyenne knew whoever helped her, as well as her killer,” Shannon said. “That narrows it a bit. Could even be the same person.”

  “Cheyenne was a user,” I mused, “but somehow it doesn’t make her death any easier.”

  Shannon shook his head. “It never does.”

  “It could be Paxton Seaver,” Tracy said. “He was in love with Cheyenne, and obviously, she had some emotion toward him if she became jealous thinking he’d given the bracelet to Rosemary.”

  “But why didn’t Rosemary tell her it was Grady?” I asked. “They were friends, after all. Grady had met her. Wait a minute, Grady didn’t like Cheyenne, and it was possible Cheyenne felt the same way about him. Maybe Rosemary was embarrassed to tell her friend that she’d accepted a gift from Grady when she planned to break up with him. Cheyenne could have assumed it was Seaver since Rosemary won the Juliet role. Maybe she couldn’t believe someone actually landed the role on merit alone.”

  “Maybe it’s time to talk to Mr. Seaver again,” Shannon said. “To confront him with this new
information. Crime of passion and all that.” He started for the door. “Want to come along, Autumn?”

  I did want to go along, except my body wasn’t complying. The idea of trying to read another imprint made my stomach turn.

  “Oh, no,” I mumbled and barely made it to the trash receptacle against the wall before losing my pancakes from that morning. Or what was left of them. Unfortunately, I was in full sight of the video camera. Great.

  “No more imprints for you today,” Shannon said firmly.

  I didn’t even care that he was ordering me around. I guess dying changes you—at least for a while. Anything I might find imprinted on Seaver’s belongings would have to wait until they made an arrest, or at least until tomorrow. Just the fact that he and Cheyenne had fought might be enough to get a warrant to search his car and his house.

  “Imprints may not be needed,” Tracy said. “The information about his failed relationship with Cheyenne might drive a confession.”

  Except there was still the unanswered question about Grady’s father, who had once worked for the Portland Players, and the identity of whoever had broken into the theater to steal that second glass. Seaver and the other actors at the theater yesterday had alibis, so that only left Grady or someone we hadn’t focused on yet.

  “Why don’t you get some lunch?” Shannon suggested. “We’ll let you know if Seaver spills anything.”

  “I’ll come back,” I said. I knew a place where they made great organic fried chicken. I’d order a double helping and the protein would get me back into shape, maybe enough to field more imprints today.

  “I’ll see you later, then.” Shannon’s eyes met mine, which would have made my heart jump if I’d been in any condition to react. Those eyes held a promise that had nothing to do with imprints or police work, and I was going to hold him to it.

  Maybe.

  Tracy walked me out of the station. I was replacing my antique rings when she asked, “Why do you think only the ring had the death imprint? If she was wearing the earrings and the rest, too, when she died?”

  “Maybe because she was clenching it so tightly.” I really had no answer. Imprints and the way they were made often didn’t follow logical patterns. I knew they had to be attached to the way different people’s brains worked. Some people imprinted on things they wore, and others only on things they held in their hands or fingered often. Somewhere someone was probably doing scientific experiments about it.

  I left the station and was two bites into my second chicken breast when I checked the time on my phone. It was already nearly two o’clock. If Shannon didn’t need me, I had plenty of time to go back to the shop and get in a little work before my martial arts class that evening. I also had two voice messages. Not surprising since my phone had been silenced and in my coat pocket during my time at the station.

  The first message was from Thera, saying she’d discounted the antique grandfather clock in order to sell both the clock and the same-era wall table. It was a good move, and I was smiling with satisfaction and thinking I should probably stay away from the shop more if Thera did that kind of business without me, when the other message from Tawnia began.

  “Autumn, it’s me. Look, someone from the theater called. A woman. She said they were going ahead with rehearsal after all, so I’m heading down there. But not to practice. I thought about it while I was shopping, and I’ve decided to drop out of the play, and not just because of that weird phone call or because you want me to quit. Emma had a meltdown at the grocery store, and I had to take her out to the car and comfort her and feed her, and, well, I know you and Bret would like the alone time with her, but I’m just not ready to leave her for hours of practice time every day and then for performances. I mean, that’s why I quit working full time—I wanted to be home with her. I don’t want to miss a minute of her growing up. Besides, she really needed me today, and while I know that you and Bret would do everything to make her happy, I can’t bear thinking she might cry like that while I’m practicing a lousy play. Not that it’s lousy—you know what I mean.

  “Anyway, you’ll probably be finished at the station soon, and it’s closer to the theater than the store where I am now so maybe you can meet me there and watch Emma while I run in to tell them in person. I know I’m letting them down, but my baby comes first. I can do plays later when she’s in school—and I’ll do it at a place where they don’t have poisonings or creepy phone calls. It’s best to be on the safe side with Emma around, anyway. If you can’t make it, don’t worry. I’ll just run in really quick and call you when I’m finished. All the cast will be there, so I won’t be alone.” She laughed. “I promise not to drink any lemonade. See you when I see you!”

  My heart went into overdrive. When I’d left the police station, Seaver was still there. No way would they hold a practice without him. Tawnia couldn’t know that. And she hadn’t called back to tell me she’d finished at the theater, which meant she was still there.

  “Waiter!” I called. “I need my check. Actually, pay it from this. Keep the change.” I gave him two twenties, all the cash I had on me, and headed for the door, dialing my sister’s number as I went.

  Her voice mail picked up. I tried twice more with the same result. Then I dialed Shannon before I knew I’d made the decision to do so.

  “I was just going to call you,” he said. “Seaver admits to the argument, but he doesn’t know anything about the bangle, though he says Cheyenne stuck it in his face during Saturday rehear—”

  I broke in. “So Seaver’s still there?”

  “Yeah. We’ll have to release him, though. We’re trying to get a warrant. Might take an hour.”

  “Tawnia went to a rehearsal at the theater. Someone called her. A woman.”

  “Seaver claims he’s not holding rehearsal until we find the murderer. He’s says he’s afraid he’s next. Could all be for show.”

  “I’m going to the theater. Something’s not right. Tawnia’s not answering her phone.”

  “Wait. Let me call Walsh. Maybe he scheduled the practice. Tawnia could be busy with lines or feeding the baby.” The line went dead.

  I reached my car and climbed inside. Let him call—I wasn’t waiting around. Because in the past two minutes, something in my chest told me my sister needed me. A feeling, my imagination, it didn’t matter. I was going now.

  I turned the key to my ignition. Nothing.

  Desperately, I tried again and again. A sense of surrealism fell over me. No! my mind screamed. Of all the times for the Toyota to die on me. What should I do?

  I jumped out and opened the hood.

  “Need a jump?” a man leaving the restaurant asked.

  “Yes. Would you?” Hurry, hurry, I thought. What would I do if we couldn’t make it start? What if it wasn’t the battery but something else more serious? In the movies, the good guys would pull out a gun and steal someone’s car. Could I do that if it meant saving Tawnia?

  The Toyota started, so I would never know what my choice would have been. I thanked the man, jumped inside, and roared away.

  Long minutes ticked by as I raced through the streets of Portland, almost hoping to be pulled over by an officer who Shannon could order to come with me. While impatiently waiting at a light, I turned on my phone’s GPS, just in case I couldn’t remember how to get to the theater. This was one moment I couldn’t afford to be directionally impaired, especially as I went through downtown with all its one-way streets.

  Why hadn’t Shannon called back? What was taking so long? Maybe Walsh was behind the murders after all. On Saturday Erica had called him a womanizer, and maybe he and Vera were in this together.

  I didn’t remember how long ago Tawnia had left that message. What if I arrived too late? A sick feeling washed over me.

  My phone finally rang. I didn’t let off the gas as I answered. “Walsh is at home wi
th his wife,” Shannon said. “He claims he doesn’t know anything about a rehearsal, but he’s worried now that he knows about it. I can hear it in his voice.”

  “I’m on my way there,” I said.

  “Wait for me.”

  “She’s all the family I’ve got.”

  He hesitated a second. “Then take the gun.”

  “I have it.”

  “Rack it. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Okay.” At the next light I pulled out the gun, unzipped it from the cloth case, and racked the slide. All I had to do now was pull the trigger. The guy in the truck next to me was staring down through my window, his eyes wide at the sight of the gun.

  Ignoring him, I punched the engine and sped forward, anticipating the green light. Please, I prayed, don’t let me be too late.

  Chapter 17

  If something happened to Tawnia, it would be all my fault. Unequivocally. True, I’d let her come to the theater, never dreaming she’d end up in the fatal play, but I was still responsible. Every bit as responsible as on the day I’d let Winter go with me to hunt antiques and we’d ended up in the river when the bridge collapsed. I’d survived. He hadn’t.

  I could see the Willamette now, and as with every time I saw it, I remembered that horrible day. I usually avoided the river as much as possible, but that was hard since I lived and worked in downtown Portland where eight bridges spanned the Willamette.

  After what seemed an eternity, I arrived at the theater. No cars out front, but that was to be expected. In the back parking lot, the only car there was Tawnia’s. A chill shuddered through me. My careful sister would never have stayed if no one else had been here, so where were the other cars now? Had whoever enticed Tawnia here taken her somewhere else?

  No, I’d been feeling the connection with my sister since I pulled into the lot. She was here. Somewhere. And still alive—for now.

  I checked the car, but no one was inside. No car seat, either, or Destiny’s diaper bag. A cloud drifted over the weak sun overhead, signaling more rain and filling me with dread. I had to find my sister and her baby.