by Jane Tesh
I’d been joking when I thought Graber would use Sunday to stake a claim. I’d underestimated his ambition. Vermillion took the bag of cookies and backed out of the kitchen.
Camden tried to stem the flood. “Ellie, I’m sure it’ll all work out.”
“Are you? Are you sure about anything these days? Are you off those pills?”
“Yes, I told you.”
“If you would let me create a program around you and your amazing talent I wouldn’t have to put up with second-rate psychics like Graber and his snakes waltzing in like he owned the place.”
“I don’t think that’s the answer.”
“Then I’m stuck with three big reptiles. The PSN is my domain, and I resent his interference.”
“It will always be your domain. You can work with him. He might be good for ratings.”
She sat down on one of the stools at the counter and heaved an exasperated sigh. “He’s just so arrogant, so—where’s Rufus when I need a description?”
She had to be upset if she was calling on Rufus. “Graber’s not moving in permanently, is he?” I asked. “He has his own studio.”
“Oh, he calls the PSN his ‘satellite.’ How do you like that?” She waved away Camden’s offer of tea. “There are times when I wish we had something stronger in this house.”
“I can make a run to the liquor store,” I said.
Kary had a suggestion. “Why not let him have his program and see what happens? It might be a flop. He might be spreading himself too thin.”
Ellin was not in the mood to be comforted. “Right now, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Let’s take a walk,” Camden said.
She agreed, and the two of them went out. Kary exchanged her Sixties outfit for a tee-shirt and shorts, plopped herself in the chair I have for clients, set her laptop on my desk, and went online. She found out cell phones and MP3 players could cause problems for people who had pacemakers if carried in a left-hand shirt pocket. Metal detectors and high-tension wires were a threat, and it was recommended that patients stay two feet away from industrial welders and electrical generators and avoid close and prolonged exposure to household appliances.
“So the warning about microwave ovens is true,” I said.
Kary finished the article. “Batteries can last as long as fifteen years, but most are good for six or seven. Doctors check the patient’s battery every three months as well as the wires to make certain none are broken or dislodged.”
I sat back in my chair. “I didn’t see an industrial welder in the closet, and I doubt Gallant would play with high-tension wires. Something caused his pacemaker to malfunction.”
“We think,” Kary reminded. She flexed her fingers. “Okay, on to the Duvalls.”
After a few minutes, she said, “Ah-ha, look at this.”
The black-and-white photograph captioned “Miss Isabelle Duvall in Her Parlor” showed Isabelle standing in front of a display cabinet indicating the dragonfly, which sat innocently on the top shelf. On the second shelf was a small box open to show the leafy little forks and spoons. A small round table holding the peacock vase and ashtray was positioned on one side of the cabinet with the framed poster hanging above. The only things not mentioned on Pierson’s list were two unremarkable chairs and a lamp on a matching round table. Isabelle’s dark hair was cut in a short bob. She wore a short fringed and beaded dress and long strings of pearls, a cigarette holder in one hand, the perfect picture of a 1920 jazz baby.
“And then there’s this,” Kary said.
A second newspaper article dated three months later detailed the break-in and murder of Isabelle Duvall. “Police were called to 815 Woodbine Lane at four-fifteen the afternoon of the twelfth where they discovered the body of twenty-nine-year-old Isabelle Duvall. It appeared she surprised an intruder who shot her and took several valuable Art Nouveau items from the house. The crime is believed to be related to a long-standing feud between two families concerning ownership of the artwork.”
A third article was dated the following day with the headline: “Pierson Confesses to Duvall Murder.” “Early this morning, police arrested Theodore Pierson of 1029 Parker Avenue, who confessed to the murder of socialite Isabelle Duvall and the theft of her Art Nouveau.”
I read the rest of the article, but already knew the main point. The Piersons and the Duvalls had it in for each other. “Kary, check and see if there’s been anything more about Gallant’s death.”
She skimmed through the Parkland Herald’s website. “Looks like it’s the same information—oh, no, wait, here’s the latest. ‘According to the preliminary autopsy, Gallant’s heart received a severe electrical shock, caused either by a malfunctioning pacemaker or an outside source. His body appears to have been moved a short distance. The murder investigation is still ongoing.’”
“A severe electrical shock. Doesn’t sound like cell phone interference.” I glanced at my calendar. “I’ll be talking with Stein tomorrow.” Day five of my ten-day search. “According to Pierson, he has all kinds of electronic devices on his boat.”
Kary closed her laptop. “What about the black SUV? Is that a real threat, or just an inept driver?”
“That’s something else I’ve got to figure out.”
By suppertime, Ellin’s anger had settled to a dim roar, and Rufus provided her with “As sneaky as a sheep-killin’ dog,” which she agreed was appropriate for Graber. Angie said she’d be happy to alter one of Kary’s gowns for Miss Panorama, and then Rufus and Angie rode over to River Street to check on the house they were planning to buy. Kary had promised to rehearse with one of the participants in the art song festival, so I took Camden and Vermillion to Kelso Street to check out a possible home for Vermillion. The members of the commune squatting in the abandoned sock factory were large and noisy. The smell of marijuana guaranteed the promise of a police raid. Luckily, Vermillion took one look at the drum circle, wildly gyrating dancers, and the few screaming babies and decided she’d like to return to the backyard at Grace Street. Camden was equally relieved.
When we got home, Kary was still rehearsing with the singer, a thin young woman with dark hair pulled back severely in a tight bun. Camden and I took our seats in the island and were treated to an extremely dramatic rendition of something called “O cessate di piagarmi” before they were both pleased with the results. The singer and Kary agreed on their next rehearsal, and Kary saw her out.
“What’s the commune like?” she asked when she returned to the island.
“A hell hole,” Camden said.
“It didn’t sound like a good idea.” She moved Oreo from her chair and sat down. “It’s really not a problem for Vermillion to stay here, is it? Or is Ellin giving you a hard time?”
I looked around. “Yeah, where’s your sweetie? She didn’t go back to the studio, did she?”
“I told her to take a long relaxing bath and I would relax her further when I got home.”
“I have the solution to Ellin’s problem. You could always have a word with Slim and Jim. Tell them to act all floppy and unresponsive whenever Graber brings them out at the PSN. No snakes, no show.” I reached for the remote and hunted through the channels. “Is Cosmic Healing on tonight?”
“You and Kary can enjoy another stirring adventure. I have better things to do.”
We heard feet pounding down the stairs, and Kit bounded into the island. “Death coming up, Cam. Are you on Channel 14?”
I turned to Channel 14 and looked up to see Kary’s quizzical expression.
“Death coming up?”
“It’s like living with the Grim Reaper’s cuckoo clock.”
At that moment on the TV, a serious-looking fellow with hair combed way back intoned a few brief sentences about the president’s latest doomed bill, a famine in Africa, a civil war in some country I’d never heard of, and then, on t
he local scene, prominent Parkland lawyer and financier Lawrence Stein died in an explosion on board his yacht, Wall Street Wanderer.
I couldn’t believe it. “What?” I upped the volume in time to hear Mr. Combed Back say, “Details coming up after your complete weather.” I sat back in my chair. “What the hell is going on?” On screen, weather statistics scrolled by, but all I could see was a cloud of black smoke and pieces of yacht and possibly pieces of dragonfly sinking to the bottom of the sea.
Kit obviously knew what had happened, and now Camden did, too, but Kary and I listened in disbelief to the rest of the report. Little was known about the accident. Stein had been out alone. His body had been recovered by the Coast Guard. A full investigation was underway by Atlantic Shores Police, but early reports cited a glitch in the ship’s electrical system.
“Cam, didn’t you see six deaths?” Kary asked.
“Six deaths in the past.”
“Let’s hope the dragonfly doesn’t need six more. That’s two already, and we—” she halted because the magazines on the coffee table, the remote, and all the balls of yarn from her basket rose into the air and began to circle the room. “Cam?”
“Oh, good Lord,” he said as the objects sped up. Oreo ran in to see what all the excitement was about and was immediately caught up into the circle.
“Whoa!” Kit clutched his wiry hair. “This is full-on awesome, man! How do you do that?”
He watched the spinning circle in dismay. “It shouldn’t be happening.”
“It’s because of that guy’s death, isn’t it? It must be the dragonfly.”
I had a bigger concern. “Can you make it stop?”
He closed his eyes and put his hands to his forehead, concentrating hard. Abruptly, the objects fell, the magazines fluttering and yarn balls bouncing on the rug. I caught the remote, and Kit was close enough to catch Oreo, who struggled until he put the cat down. Oreo ran for the kitchen.
“You gotta teach me that,” Kit said.
Camden kept his head down in his hands. “I am losing it.”
Kary came and sat beside him, her arm around his shoulders. “It must be all these deaths associated with the dragonfly. As soon as David finds it, things should settle down.”
But I’d just lost another source and possible suspect. If Richard Mason couldn’t shed more light on the case, I wasn’t sure I could find Pierson’s artwork.
Chapter Thirteen
“Can She Excuse My Wrongs?”
I’d hoped to hear from Lindsey, but neither she nor Isabelle had anything to say that night. Monday, I called Lawrence Stein’s office and feigned ignorance of the accident. A secretary filled me in. She agreed it was an electrical mishap on the boat, a dreadful tragedy. The office was in an upheaval, and no one was interested in hearing about curses or family feuds.
Tamara called to say she needed Camden at the store, so after giving him a ride to Tamara’s Boutique in Friendly Shopping Center, I stopped off at Guardian Electric, located inside Myers, Parkland’s largest department store, a building that took up one whole corner of the shopping center. I wound past racks of jewelry, scarves, and handbags, past riding mowers and air conditioners, past all kinds of power tools and automotive supplies to reach a small office between smaller offices for Premium Insurance and VisionClear Contacts. A thin bored-looking man looked up from his newspaper. If I had to place the security of my home and office in his lackadaisical hands, I’d feel the need for Premium Insurance. His pale blue eyes blinked at me without interest. Maybe he could use some VisionClear contacts.
“Can I help you?”
I offered a hand. “John Fisher. I’m interested in buying a security system for my home.”
The prospect of a sale did not perk him up. With a longing glance at the sports section, he set the newspaper aside and shook my hand. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Fisher?”
“What do you have?”
He was going to have to show me the full line, a serious dent in his reading time. With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a large folder stamped with a bright green shield with “Guardian Electric” in gold letters. He flipped through the laminated pages.
“Basic locks, padlocks, deadbolts, cross bars, screens, electronic locks, voice- and pressure-sensitive, silent alarms, car alarms, complete home systems—”
I interrupted. “I was thinking along the lines of pressure plates, something a thief might set off and not realize it till it’s too late.”
“Of course. Let me show you our complete home system. It’s our most popular model. We’ll be glad to come to your house and give you an estimate.”
“How complicated are they?”
He flipped through a few more pages and showed me a schematic. “It’s really quite simple. Everything is connected to a master switch, which you can place anywhere. Most people like to have them in a bedroom. You can have lights or alarms or both. By pressing this button here, you can arm or disarm your system.”
“What about a password?”
He gave a snort. “We’re way past that. The system’s keyed to the client’s thumbprint.”
“A friend of mine recommended your company—Leo Pierson.”
Pierson would be hard to forget. “Oh, yeah. Big red-haired guy. Quite a job that was.”
“He was robbed, did you know that?”
Nothing bothered this guy. He shrugged. “It happens.”
“You don’t offer any insurance on your system?”
He gave me a pitying look. “The insurance company’s next door. No system’s foolproof, but Guardian Electronic guarantees to keep your home or place of business safe as long as you operate the system properly. Now, obviously, the day his house was robbed, Pierson forgot to set it.”
I let him show me some estimates and labor costs. I asked questions like a real customer. Meanwhile, questions of my own went round in my mind. Wouldn’t Pierson have noticed it was disarmed? The lighted display on the master control panel of this alarm system clearly stated “Armed” and “Disarmed.” Then I remembered Gallant’s pacemaker and how the autopsy report mentioned an electrical shock.
“What about an electrical disturbance? Power outage, power surge, something like that.”
“The system reboots itself.”
“Does it default to ‘Armed’?”
“If the client has set it up that way.”
I’d have to ask Pierson about that. I thanked Mr. Personality and said I’d be in touch. On my way out, I picked up one of the brochures from a display near the door. When I glanced back, the man, who never introduced himself—a good habit, I guess, if you want to be truly secure—had folded his paper back to the sports. Another successful day at Guardian Electronic.
A quick phone call to Marlin Enterprises in Atlantic City informed me they had their own electronics department and did not use Guardian Electric. They could not give me any more details about Stein’s boat. I got the impression that Marlin Enterprises was not going to be held responsible for the explosion.
I wanted to ask Ms. Piper of the yellow leather outfit a few more questions, so I gave her a call next. She said she could spare a few minutes.
Today, she had on a purple silk suit with a very short skirt, purple hose, and red shoes. The suit jacket had a red silk flower that flopped down as if peering into that splendid cleavage. I wondered if she purposely chose outfits that admired her. She said I could call her Nancy, and she definitely had a gleam in her smoky eyes.
She settled back behind her shiny desk and gave me an impish smile. “So, what have you learned about Renoir?”
Fortunately for me, I’d done a little research on the internet. “Let’s see. He was the son of a tailor. He started out painting porcelain. His work combines radical impressionistic brushwork with conventional figure painting and luminous s
kin tones. He often said that art should be likable, joyous, and pretty. A critic once said Renoir’s work is a dream of what life could be or sometimes is for a moment.” I was pleased to see that red eyebrow go up, impressed.
“Anything new on the case, or are you allowed to discuss it?”
“You heard about Lawrence Stein?”
“Yes, awful news.”
“An electrical mishap, the same as Samuel Gallant.”
“Really? How curious.”
Something else was curious, and I realized what it was. The lamp on her desk looked a lot like the lamp I’d seen in the picture of Isabelle Duvall’s parlor. The base resembled a tree trunk and the glass shade dripped with green leaves and purple grapes. “That’s a beautiful lamp. I think I’ve seen one like it before.”
Both eyebrows went up. “Are you familiar with Tiffany’s work?”
“I know that kind of lamp when I see it. Where did you get this one?”
“Oh, I borrowed it from the museum’s collection. I’d like to know more about you. What’s your story?”
Well, she had certainly changed the subject. “Ladies first.”
“I’m originally from Virginia. I majored in art history and business, worked for a while at the Riverside Museum in Temple, moved to Parkland when I got the job at the museum. Used to be married. Now there’s only me and my daughter, Leslie.” She opened her purple leather purse. “Of course I have a picture.”
She took out her cell phone, touched the screen, and handed it to me. The sight of her child’s smiling face, long brown curls, and beautiful clear eyes made my heart dip for a moment, but then I saw how Leslie Piper’s nose was upturned like her mother’s, and her face was pert—not as soft like Lindsey’s—and with a promise of Nancy’s sophistication. I returned her phone. “She’s lovely. How old is she?”
“Ten.” As Nancy put her phone back in her purse, I noticed the familiar green and gold logo of Guardian Electric brochure peeking up from the depths.
