by Meg Benjamin
“I’m sorry,” Cerrone whispered. “I didn’t . . . That wasn’t . . .”
“Show’s over,” Mini-Augie barked. “Everybody leave now.”
Chapter 16
“Interesting evening,” Evan muttered as they walked toward Commerce Street.
“We seem to keep having them.” Rose kept her eyes straight ahead. The chalcedony pendant bounced against her chest under her blouse.
Grandma Caroline’s pendant. Caroline says . . .
She took a deep breath and told herself for the dozenth time to calm down. Brenda Cerrone was a wretched medium. She made William Bradford look like a genius. The idea that her grandmother, the celebrated Caroline Riordan, would choose to communicate through such a shoddy vessel rather than the family spirit guide was ludicrous.
But somehow she couldn’t shake the feeling that that was exactly what had happened.
“We need to talk to her,” she blurted.
“Who? Cerrone?” He shook his head. “What the hell for?”
“To find out if she knew Alana DuBois. Even if she didn’t, she could tell us more about the Nightmare’s séances. We need to talk to her.”
We need to find out who Caroline is and what the hell she was trying to say. Although Rose hadn’t the faintest idea how to ask that question.
He sighed. “Okay, let’s go back and see if she’s still in the building. I have a feeling Augie wouldn’t be too forthcoming if we asked for her phone number.”
Rose grasped his arm as they turned back down the block. The street was fairly well lighted, considering the part of town they were in. She couldn’t see anyone else around. There was really nothing to be nervous about. Really. Nothing.
Up ahead, the door opened at the séance building and the bouncer, José, stepped out. Evan slowed his pace, moving into the shadow of a nearby storefront. Rose peered around his shoulder.
José pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket and counted out some bills. A moment later, Brenda Cerrone stepped next to him. Evan and Rose leaned closer, listening.
“Eighty?” Cerrone’s voice was higher than it had been during the séance. “Augie said a hundred.”
“He said a hundred if we got fifteen people. We didn’t. Eighty’s your cut.” José sounded bored. Rose watched him tuck his wallet back into his jacket again.
“That’s not fair,” the medium grumbled. “I did all the work.”
“I wouldn’t call that work, Brenda. Count yourself lucky nobody asked for their money back.”
She jabbed her glasses back up her nose. “I’d like to see you do it. Without me, you’ve got no show.”
He leaned past her to lock the door. “Don’t kid yourself. There’s plenty more mediums available. We could hire somebody else easy. On the other hand, you got eighty bucks for an hour’s work. Not too bad.”
Cerrone’s expression seemed to indicate she didn’t agree, but she didn’t say anything more, folding the money and tucking it into her purse.
He gave her a curt nod. “Augie’ll get in touch if he needs you again. ’Night.” He walked away without glancing back.
For a moment, Rose almost felt sorry for Brenda Cerrone, abandoned with her eighty dollars on a semidark side street. Then the medium slung her purse over her shoulder and extended her middle finger at the bouncer’s back before stomping up the street in their direction.
Rose stepped out of the storefront entrance where they’d been standing. “Ms. Cerrone?”
The medium pulled up short, clutching her purse to her chest. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“We were at the séance,” she murmured soothingly. “We just wanted to ask you some questions.”
“I don’t do readings on the street. I’ll give you my card. We can set something up later.” The medium still clutched her purse tightly.
“We don’t want a reading,” Evan explained. “Just some information. We’ll pay you for your time.”
She studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “How much?”
“Fifty and a cup of coffee.”
She let her purse slide down slightly. “Seventy-five. And pie.”
“Sixty-five and pie. Let’s head over there.” He pointed at a café on the next corner.
Seeing Brenda Cerrone in the unforgiving fluorescent light of the diner, Rose revised her estimate of the woman’s age. Judging from the crow’s-feet and the lines across her forehead, she was easily in her fifties, if not older, and the years hadn’t necessarily been kind.
She sat sipping her coffee, a slice of plastic-looking apple pie on a plate in front of her. “What do you want to know?”
Evan took a sip of his own coffee. “Do you know a medium named Alana DuBois?”
“Alana.” She shrugged. “Sure. We’re not buddies or anything, but I know her.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. Last month, maybe. I ran into her at the Nightmare one night.”
“Did she say anything about leaving San Antonio?” Rose asked, trying to keep her voice casual. “Maybe a vacation?”
Brenda shook her head. “Didn’t say anything to me, but like I say, we’re not that close.”
Evan leaned forward. “Did you ever hear her mention William Bradford?”
She gave him a sour smile. “You mean Willie Bradinski? That’s his real name—Bradinski. That’s what Alana said.”
“How did she know?”
“They grew up in the same town. Only he wasn’t a medium then, you know. Just some snot-nosed kid. ’Course neither was Alana. She came to it later.”
Rose started to sip her own coffee then thought better of it. “Did she try to contact Bradford? Once he’d moved down here, I mean?”
Brenda shook her head. “She went to one of those shows once. Said she was going to talk to him afterward, but then she didn’t.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “If you ask me, he told her to get lost. But she said he wasn’t the same guy. He wasn’t Bradinski.”
Evan’s brow furrowed. “You mean she was wrong about growing up with him?”
“No. She said she grew up with Bradford, but that the guy she saw wasn’t Bradford. Didn’t make any sense to me. Everybody knows Bradford moved down here. It was a big thing—on the TV and everything. If he wasn’t really Bradford, somebody would have said something about it.”
“The last time you saw her, did she say anything about Bradford?”
“She could have. She talked about him a lot, about how he wasn’t who he said he was. I don’t remember exactly.”
“Was it foggy? One of those foggy nights we’ve been having this fall?” Rose swallowed against the tightness in her throat.
“Yeah, it was.” Brenda shoveled the last bite of apple pie into her mouth. “Cold that night, I remember. That’s why Alana could wear that damn fool cape of hers. Her Little Red Riding Hood thing.”
“Was she going to a séance?”
She nodded. “That’s why she was at the Nightmare, getting the list of customers.” Her lips tightened slightly. “I mean we look at the list of people who have reservations, you know, just to make sure nobody shows up who isn’t supposed to be there. And Alana had people fill out cards, too. I don’t do that myself.”
Right. The sucker list. Rose carefully avoided Evan’s gaze. “Was there anything unusual about that séance? Anything Alana might have mentioned?”
“Not that I recall.” Brenda tipped up the last of her coffee. “We don’t talk a lot about what we do. We’re sort of professional rivals, you might say.”
Meaning Alana didn’t tell her squat and Brenda probably returned the favor. Rose glanced at Evan. He raised his shoulders in a small shrug.
“That all you want to know?” Brenda jabbed her glasses up her nose one last time.
Rose nodded. “Yes. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Evan pulled out his wallet, dropping some money on the table.
Brenda smiled a bit smugly. “Thanks.” She folded the bills into her purse, then fumbled in her jacket pocket. “Here’s my card. Like I said, I do private readings. If you should want more information.”
Rose took a breath. “Yes, we might. In fact, I was wondering about the séance tonight . . .”
Brenda’s shoulders became stiff. “What about it?”
“Well, about what happened.” Rose tried to smile. “I mean, what did happen tonight?”
“Nothing,” Brenda snapped. “Nothing unusual. Sometimes the spirits get a little playful, that’s all. Just a special message for one of the guests.”
“So that last message, where you said, ‘Don’t look back’—was that meant for anyone in particular?”
Brenda shook her head quickly. “I don’t know. The spirits don’t always tell me. I don’t know what that was about or who it was meant for.”
“And Caroline . . .” Rose tried not to sound as tense as she felt.
Her lips became a tight line. “Just a name. From the spirits. Like I said, I don’t know anything about it.”
Cerrone got to her feet, slinging her purse strap over her shoulder. “Tonight wasn’t typical, believe me. Most of the time it’s better. You want a private reading, I could give you a special rate. I have to get home now.” She turned away abruptly, threading her way through the tables with quick steps.
Evan watched her retreating back. “‘The spirits get a little playful.’ I get the feeling that bit of improv didn’t work out the way she expected.”
“‘Don’t look back.’ What does that mean, anyway?”
He pushed up from the table. “Maybe she’s a Bob Dylan fan. You know, ‘Don’t look back, something might be gaining on you.’”
She sighed, getting up herself. “I guess we should just go home. We’re not likely to find out much more tonight.”
“Sounds good to me.” His voice was slightly husky.
She glanced at him. His eyes seemed smoky all of a sudden, heated amber. Hmm. She took a deep breath. Okay, he hadn’t forgotten their kiss last night after all. A possibly even more interesting evening stretched ahead.
As they started back toward the parking lot, she found herself rubbing her arms again. The air had grown cool and moist while they were in the café. She glanced up at the streetlight overhead and frowned. Droplets of moisture hung in the air, reflecting the light.
Fog.
Her shoulders stiffened as her throat went dry. She took a deep breath. “It feels like it might rain. Maybe we should get back to the car. Quickly.”
He glanced at her. “We’re not far. Turn here.” He headed up a side street with even fewer streetlights than the one they’d been on. Fog swirled around them now, threads of mist floating across the light.
Rose peered up the block—someone was walking ahead of them. It took her a moment to recognize Brenda Cerrone, stomping along the sidewalk as if she were mentally dismembering the bouncer from the séance.
She paused at the intersection, peering in both directions. The fog was much thicker now, Rose noted, obscuring the street signs. Maybe Brenda was lost.
She started to say something to Evan, then paused.
Brenda stood very still, her head cocked slightly to the side. After a moment, she turned and looked over her shoulder, down the other cross street.
Suddenly, the air was filled with light.
For a second, the medium seemed outlined in blinding bluish white radiance, the kind of light you saw in very expensive headlights and baseball stadiums. Rose looked up in the sky, half-expecting to see a helicopter hovering overhead.
Except . . . Rose blinked, her heart rate accelerating. Except there was no sound, and the light seemed to be coming from inside Brenda’s body rather than outside as it should. Her skin glowed like white fire.
Rose began to move forward more quickly, reaching out as if there were something she could do.
And Brenda silently exploded.
Evan yelled, and then he was running down the street past Rose, toward where Brenda had been standing only a moment before. Rose remained rooted in place, too shocked even to scream.
After a few seconds, she forced herself to stumble toward the corner where he stood, cursing softly.
“What happened?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “A bomb? I don’t know exactly.”
She steeled herself to look at Brenda’s remains, then stared into the street.
Nothing. Dust.
“Where is she?” Rose gasped. “What happened?”
He shook his head. “Gone. Blown up. Vaporized. I don’t know.”
“Did you hear anything?”
He stood silent for a moment, then shook his head again. “No. No sounds at all.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something small and black lying next to the curb. She reached for it.
Brenda’s purse, the purse she’d slung so firmly over her shoulder, lay crumpled on the street.
“Evan,” Rose whispered, “something very, very bad is happening.” Her stomach clenched suddenly, and she tasted bile in her throat. “Oh shit.”
He put an arm around her shoulders, turning her gently to the side. “Okay, babe, if you’re going to be sick, do it over there, so you don’t contaminate anything.”
She staggered back toward a storefront doorway. “Contaminate?”
“It’s a crime scene,” he said grimly, pulling out his cell. “The cops will want to keep it clean.”
Rose turned and was very sick indeed.
Chapter 17
The detectives didn’t believe them. Evan hadn’t figured they would. He hardly believed it himself.
“Exploded?” one of them said. “Went boom? Funny thing is, Delwin, nobody else reported any explosion around here. Just you two.” He raised an eyebrow.
He knew the detective. Haberman. Up for retirement in less than a year. He wouldn’t have been Evan’s first choice to investigate a mysterious death. Particularly not one this mysterious.
“There wasn’t any noise.” Rose’s voice sounded tight, as if she was having trouble getting the words out. “I don’t . . . she just flew apart.”
Haberman turned back to Evan. “Flew apart?” He looked like he expected Evan to pat Rose on the arm and take her home to sleep it off.
“Not exactly flew apart. More like incinerated. But Rose is right about the noise. There wasn’t any.”
The other detective made a disgusted sound. “Incinerated.”
Evan pointed at an elongated dark spot near the center of the street. “That’s what’s left of Brenda Cerrone. You might want to get it analyzed.”
Rose looked like she was considering vomiting again. He rubbed her back lightly.
“That’s Cerrone’s.” He pointed at the purse lying next to the curb.
Haberman motioned for a lab tech to photograph the purse where it lay, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves before he picked it up and rifled through it. After a moment, he sighed. “Okay, so it’s Brenda Cerrone’s purse. That doesn’t prove anything. You sure she didn’t just walk down the other street while you weren’t looking?”
Evan gritted his teeth. Yes, detective, I’m such an idiot I don’t know the difference between someone walking away and someone becoming a human torch. “She didn’t walk away. She blew up.”
Haberman looked back at the dark spot in the street and sighed again as he turned to one of the techs. “Okay, Rodriguez, better check it out. See if there’s anything human in that grease spot.”
Even in the street light, Evan could tell Rose was paler than she should be. He moved her back so that she was leaning against him.
“Okay?” he murmured.
She gave a tiny nod. “I’ll make it.”
Of course, that was the point at which Harry Dominguez arrived—while Evan was standing with Rose pressed against him.
Harry glanced at him, apparently trying not to grin and largely succeeding. “So what’s going on, Haberman? You’ve got people torching themselves in the street here?”
The detective gave him a narrow-eyed look, then shrugged. “That’s what Delwin says. You might as well talk to him.”
Harry turned to Evan, then glanced down at Rose. “Your friend looks like she could use some coffee. Let’s get out of here.”
Given that Rose still looked like she might pass out at any moment, Evan took him up on it, even though he knew it would lead to questions he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer.
They went to the same café where they’d sat with Cerrone. Rose ordered hot tea and then drank it in a daze. Evan drank another cup of lousy coffee.
“So tell me again what happened.” Harry gave them both his best naive-cop smile, not that Evan believed it for a minute.
“We talked to Ms. Cerrone here in this restaurant and then she left and we saw her walking up the street and then she blew up.” Rose delivered the entire sentence in a monotone, without looking at either of them.
Harry’s forehead furrowed as he watched her. “It’s the ‘blew up’ part that’s bothering me. No one else heard anything.”
Evan shook his head. “We didn’t, either. One minute she was standing in the street, then she just went poof. No noise, no explosion, no nothing. Just . . . flames. Sort of.”
Harry gave him an incredulous look, then jotted something in his notebook. “‘Flames’? ‘Sort of’? Are we talking spontaneous combustion here?”
Evan shook his head. “No, Harry. This was something different.”
Dominguez sighed, jotting down another note. “What was her name again?”
“Cerrone,” Rose said dully. “I think her first name was Brenda.”
“Brenda Cerrone?” Harry stopped writing. “The medium?”
