by Jane Tesh
Rufus scratched his scraggly beard. “So somebody’s goin’ around knockin’ off people, and it all may be connected to this glass dragonfly trinket what’s got a curse on it? Business as usual for you, ain’t it, Randall?”
“Yes, and now we have a few obscure lines from an art song Gallant left behind.” I showed him the lyrics on my phone.
He read them and shook his head. “Don’t make no sense to me.”
I turned my phone so Camden could read the lyrics. “‘Revenge will start’ sounds ominous,” he said.
“If we had the original copy, you might get something off of it—or not, the way you’re operating these days.”
Rufus parked himself at the counter. “Well, good luck with that.” He indicated the boxes. “If you two want some of this, come on. Once these boxes are open, pizza’s gonna be gone real quick.”
I had to ask. “How quick?”
He gave me a wink. “Quick as a hiccup.”
Chapter Fourteen
“I Do Not Feel More in My Heart”
There was still some pizza left when Kary came home. She was brimming with excitement. She plopped down at the dining room table where we had gathered to eat and pulled a piece of paper from her pocketbook.
“Not only did the festival organizers know ‘The Cruelest Heart,’ they knew Norma Gallant. They said she used to sing with the Parkland Oratorio Society and was always in demand for solos at the Renaissance and Madrigal fairs in Asheville. Here’s the rest of the song, but I didn’t see anything pertinent to our case.”
She read the paper aloud. “‘O loving hands that once caressed my face, I would expire for one embrace, but your sweet words do not erase the cruelness of your heart. Can you but find some kindness to impart? My love for you lives on despite your cruel heart.’”
I agreed there wasn’t much to go on. “Sad, but not useful.”
“One of the older organizers who knew Norma said she loved to sing and sang right up until the last few weeks before she died of cancer. He said Gallant always came to her concerts.”
“Sounds like Gallant did not have a cruel heart.”
Kary took a paper plate from the stack on the table and peeled a piece of pizza from the open box. “About the lyrics he left behind—have you had any flashes of brilliance?”
“Not a one.”
“Cam, hold this paper and see if you get anything.”
He held it for a few minutes. “Nope.”
“He’s got a hole in his screen door today,” Rufus said.
Kary gave Camden a keen glance. “You stopped taking those pills, right?”
“Just a couple this morning.”
She set her pizza down. “Cam.”
He pushed his plate aside. “Kit had some concerns about a vision he had, and after we worked it out, I took two pills to hold off a headache. That’s it. Tamara can tell you I was okay. That doesn’t mean I can’t get something from these lyrics the old-fashioned way. ‘Art that’s hidden within art.’ Has anybody looked through the museum? Leo’s poster might be hidden behind another poster, or his ashtray with other ashtrays.”
“Not a bad idea,” I said. “There’s your assignment for tomorrow, Kary. Camden and I will go touch Pierson’s remaining Art Nouveau while you check under all the paintings and sculptures in the museum.”
“I’m up for it,” Kary said. “Coming with me, Rufe? You can lift the heavy stuff.”
He took a swig of his Mountain Dew. “Pump the brakes, girl. I’ve got real work to do. You want this last piece?”
“Yes, thanks.”
He tossed it onto her plate. “You go hunt for dragonflies. I’ll be paving another section of I-40.”
Kary caught the chunk of sausage that fell off the pizza slice before it hit the floor. “How did your search go, David?”
“Sorry to report that Nancy Piper has no ties to the Duvall family.”
“None at all? Shoot.”
“But the mystery car came by.”
Her reaction was very much like Cam’s. “Oh, my God, are you serious? On Grace Street? Did you see the driver? Did you get the license number?”
“No, but I put a few holes in it, thanks to the slingshot.”
“So these sightings are not random.”
“What’s this?” Rufus asked.
“A black SUV has been very interested in us,” I said. “Somebody thinks we know something.”
His brow lowered. “I’ll be on a lookout for ’em. They try anything, I’ll see ’em deep in hell as a pigeon can fly in a week.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Damn, that’s deep.”
“Better believe it, Yankee boy.”
Tuesday morning we set out on our missions—Kary to the museum, Camden and me to Pierson’s house. I thought Amber Street was in town, but Pierson’s directions lead us out to Old Route 60. On a Tuesday morning, the traffic was light. I had a suspicion traffic didn’t get much lighter on Old Route 60, which doubled as Main Street for Windale and Far Corners, Fairmont, and Dixley—little rundown towns sitting amid fields of corn, soybeans, and tobacco, with only a deserted train station or stop light to boast about. These little towns remind me of Pond, Minnesota, of Florence and Potter and Evan Fields, except the Southern towns seem to be sinking back into the land, pulled down by kudzu and warm wet rot. The Minnesota towns dry up, rust, and blow away.
Camden and I passed shops dead and alive, gas stations barely breathing, old farms with sagging barns, cows, horses, and a few sheep, all suspended in the thick haze of July, like pollen dust in the heavy air. Weeds grew high around the unused railroad tracks that ran alongside the road. Homemade signs fluttered from telephone poles, signs for yard sales, gospel sings, car races, and auctions. Between the tired little towns, we could see green fields and woods and glimpses of rounded dark blue mountains.
Camden had been quiet during the ride, his gaze far beyond the scene outside the windows.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m over it. I’ll admit I was annoyed that Pierson insisted on this little road trip, but I’ll go along for now.”
“That brooch. I should have gotten something from it.”
Was he still concerned about that? “So it didn’t have anything to say, so what?”
“It’s puzzling, that’s all.”
I slowed down to let a wild granny in a huge old Ford pull out in front of me. After her mad dash, she predictably drove twenty miles an hour. “You’re always telling me what a curse clairvoyance is. You should be happy you’re not reeling back from some evil vibrations—and since we’re talking vibrations, if Pierson’s house starts acting up, I’m taking you home.”
He turned a worried blue gaze my way. “What if it doesn’t?”
“Then consider yourself cured.”
We drove on for a few more poky miles until Grandma decided without signaling that she’d swerve onto a dirt road and leave us. “Aw, please don’t go,” I said. “Look, Camden, we can go forty now.”
I didn’t really want him to look, because he now had that power stare going, the stare that could bore holes into mighty oaks.
“About Nancy Piper.”
“Is she actually a secret Duvall?”
“There’s some sort of connection, but I can’t see it.”
The answer to this seemed obvious to me. “Have you considered the fact that Tranquillon is blocking your visions?”
“Yes, and you’ll be happy to know I didn’t take any this morning.”
We finally got to Amber Street. Pierson’s house didn’t surprise me. Somehow a big gray stone English-style farmhouse, all flat in the front with little square windows was exactly his style. The door was a treat. It looked like a squid had been plastered overhead, its arms curving down to squeeze you as you walked through.
The squid door was only the beginn
ing. Inside, there wasn’t a straight line anywhere. Everything curved—the chairs, the mirrors, the staircase, the clock. Somebody needed to control the horizontal and the vertical. I felt like that guy in the painting who’s screaming because wiggly lines are all around him.
I stared at a bureau that looked as if it had been pulled out of taffy and left to harden. “What is all this?”
Camden gave the bureau a careful touch. “I would guess this is Art Nouveau.”
“Calm quiet Art Nouveau, or screaming with past horror Art Nouveau?”
“This bureau has nothing to say.”
Pierson came forward to greet us. “Come in, come in! I’ve prepared a brunch in the sunroom. This way.”
Weaving our way around the squiggly furniture, we followed Pierson to a large dining room that was practically all windows. The chairs were curlicues and carved flowers, but the table looked solid enough. We had flowery plates and leafy spoons and glassware with vines for stems. The food was good—biscuits with plenty of butter and jam, cinnamon buns, and fruit piled in flowery glass bowls.
Camden put more sugar in his tea and complimented Pierson on the decorations and the snack. “You have some amazing things here, Leo. You really should have a better security system.”
“I’m having one installed today,” he said. “I thought the other one was sufficient, but, alas, I learned a hard lesson.”
Yes, he really did say “alas,” the old ham. I was more interested in the robbery. “Where was the break-in? I want to see the master switch for your alarm.”
“I’ll show you everything after we’ve eaten.” He watched Camden eagerly. “Although, perhaps you’ve picked up on something?”
“Not yet.”
When we finished our brunch, Pierson led us into the front parlor, another large cool gray room. “This is where I had the objects arranged exactly as they were in Isabelle’s parlor.” Pierson looked at the empty table sadly. “I haven’t had the heart to touch it. As far as the police and I can determine, the thief, whom I assume was Gallant, broke this window here, and when he came in, he knocked over this table. Then he took my silverware, green box and all. He tore the poster off this wall, grabbed the ashtray and the dragonfly, and went back out the window.”
Camden carefully touched the window and the small three-legged table which had been set upright. He touched the wall where the poster had been. By now, he should have been tuning way out, but he stayed with us.
“I’m not getting anything.”
Pierson looked disappointed. I had mixed feelings. On one hand, I was glad Camden wasn’t lying on the floor, twitching uncontrollably. On the other hand, why wasn’t he getting any signals? If taking too many pills set him off like a wild man, why would only two shut him down?
“Try again,” I said.
He touched everything. “I see someone, but I can’t tell who it is. I can’t see any features. Broken glass. He’s very happy he’s found what he’s been sent to steal.”
“Can you tell if it’s Gallant?”
Camden shook his head. “I can’t tell. Policemen—” He stopped. “Now I’m getting all the policemen’s lives. Wait a minute.” He put his hand over his eyes as if to clear the picture. Then he touched the windowsill. “He went out here.” He looked up at Pierson. “I’m sorry, Leo. I’m not being very helpful.”
“No, no, don’t apologize,” Pierson said. “This is fascinating.”
Camden sat down in one of the swirly chairs. He had that puzzled look again, and he rubbed his forehead as if it hurt. “Could I have some more tea?”
“Yes, of course.” Pierson rushed off to get it.
“Level with me,” I said to Camden. “Are you really not getting anything?”
He leaned back in the chair. “I don’t understand this. I’m in a room that should be full of psychic reverberations, complete visions of past events, plus the lives and fortunes of all this stuff, and all I’m getting is a slight murmur.”
“I’m telling you it’s those pills.”
When Pierson returned with the tea, Camden apologized again for being useless. Pierson insisted that he was not disappointed and gave us a tour of his house, which was all as wiggly and screwy. The only items with straight lines were several framed theater reviews from Raleigh and Greensboro newspapers. Some were about Pierson’s performances, but others were reviews he had written.
Pierson pointed to one review. “This was my first published piece. I’m very proud of it.”
The review of The Odd Couple was well-written and full of humor. “This is very good.”
“I’d love to do more, but I really prefer acting.” He smiled at the review. “Still, it would be a nice little occupation. Oh, look at this one about my performance in King Lear.”
I don’t know a lot about Shakespeare, but I’d heard King Lear was one of the more demanding roles. The review was glowing. “Pierson reinvents the role with vigor,” was one comment. Another said, “Masterful control of the material.” So, maybe old Leo could act, after all. I wondered for a moment if all this about a theft was an act. No, he seemed genuinely upset—or was his emotional state merely “masterful control of the material”?
We went upstairs to have a look at the main alarm switch, located on a swirly little table next to a huge bed shaped like a sleigh with mermaid heads. Like the switch at the Guardian Electronic office, it had clearly marked “arm” and “disarm” panels.
“Pierson, was there any kind of electrical disturbance the night of the robbery? A thunderstorm? Power outage?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“You’re sure? Think about it. You said Gallant, Nancy Piper, and Richard Mason came to have lunch. Did you show them your alarm system? After they left, did you notice if your system was armed or disarmed?”
“I don’t remember. But if one of them turned it off that day, I’m sure I would’ve noticed and turned it back on. The luncheon was a week ago. Now Cam can’t see anything. It’s too late.”
“Don’t give up. I’m going to figure this out.”
“I appreciate that, Randall.” He lowered his voice about two octaves. “Please don’t see this as having lost faith in your abilities. After that remarkable reaction the other day, I had to try Camden out.”
“I understand.”
“When I heard about Lawrence Stein, it gave me quite a shock. Is it possible the dragonfly is at work?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Pierson’s eyes bulged again, and for a scary moment, I thought they’d float loose in tears and leave his sockets. “If you can find the other objects, that’s all well and good, but the dragonfly—” He gulped down some emotion. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose the most precious object in your life?”
Her image formed immediately: white lace dress, long brown curls, the world’s sweetest smile. “Yes,” I said, “that’s why I’m still on this case.”
Chapter Fifteen
“On the Day When Death Will Knock
at Thy Door”
If I thought Camden had been quiet on the trip to Amber Street, on the trip back, he was nonexistent, lost in some psychic zone, and uncharacteristically irritable. He said his headache was gone, but he still looked confused. I thought maybe we’d better swing by the doctor’s on our way home, but he said no. When we stopped for gas, I asked him if he wanted a Coke, and he shook his head.
“Anything? They have ice cream.”
“No.”
Definitely a bad sign. I got my drink, paid for the gas, and we were on the road again.
“Quit blaming yourself for not being Superman this time out,” I said. “I’ve said all along I could find this stuff.”
“I’ve said you shouldn’t take this case.”
“Only because you saw too much death.”
H
e pushed his hair out of his eyes. “That was a particularly strong power surge. I don’t know how to explain it other than to say it was the curse.”
“When did you first notice these surges?”
“A couple of weeks ago.” He hesitated. “I can think of only one reason.”
I didn’t have to have a link with him to know what he was thinking. Since no one can really explain his psychic talent, Camden’s decided it must come from an alien source, aka his missing father. I’ve offered to find the man, but Camden’s all, “I don’t want to know,” pretty much the way I am about my future with Kary. “Tell Dad you don’t want to ride around in those UFOs anymore.”
The dark look he sent my way was intense. “Don’t joke about this, Randall.”
“The Evil Seed of Doom.”
“Shut up.”
“That would be you. I guess we call Dad Doom. Mr. Doom, perhaps. No wait. Camden’s a Scottish name, isn’t it? Mr. McDoom. I like the sound of that.”
“We could call him a heartless bastard.”
“Don’t hold back.”
“He appears out of nowhere, gets my mother pregnant, and then disappears. He might as well have beamed back to his spaceship.”
“I believe you might have an issue with this.”
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “No. It’s just stupid.”
“If Tranquillon makes you crazy and you’re still having headaches, you ought to see a doctor.”
“Just shut up.”
I dropped him off at Tamara’s. He could be in a foul mood if he liked. I had an appointment with Richard Mason at the Little Gallery.
I went to the Little Gallery for my appointment with Richard Mason. The Little Gallery lived up—or maybe I should say down—to its name. It was about a tenth of the size of the Parkland Museum, a square brick building covered in ivy across the street from a small Parkland Bank and Trust. But what interested me more was the black SUV parked in the parking lot. Not only did it have a crack in the back windshield, it had a fat rock-sized dent above the right rear tire.
Mason met me by the natural history exhibit. He was a skinny, well-dressed man, nervous and eager to please, with a voice that went up at the end of every sentence. He reminded me of Barney Fife, if Barney had gone to Harvard—thin hair, nose, neck, and elbows, not much chin.
