The Fred Vickery Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Fred Vickery Mysteries)

by Sherry Lewis

  Summer relaxed a little, evidently somewhat pacified by the sympathy she thought he was offering. “Don’t get me wrong, I liked Joan—I really did.” Her voice lowered confidentially. “I tried to warn her about the energies I saw around her. Until a couple of months ago, her aura was light. Then, suddenly everything around her became dark. That’s when she started to change.”

  Fred pulled his eyes away from Summer’s with some effort and caught a glimpse of Kate giving him an odd look. He could only imagine why. Maybe he should have warned her that Summer was crazy. But in his defense, if he’d warned her how cuckoo Summer really was, Kate might already have been on her way back to San Francisco and Joan’s murder would never be solved.

  He studied the kitchen walls, the dirt around the light switch and the cobwebs stretching across the corners and tried not to let either woman catch his gaze.

  “What happened around that time—the time her. . . aura turned dark?” Kate asked. “Is there anything you can think of that might have brought about the change?”

  In spite of himself, Fred turned toward Summer again. As he did so, a wall calendar hanging off center beside the refrigerator caught his attention. Last Sunday’s date—the day of the Cavanaugh’s dinner party—had been circled in red. Now that was interesting.

  Summer smoothed the wrinkled fabric of her skirt and gave Kate’s question some thought. Before she could speak again, something behind her gave a plaintive yowl. She ran from the room and returned a second later holding a large gray cat whose thick fur totally obscured its face. She spoke to it with tiny mewling noises, apparently forgetting that Fred and Kate were still there.

  Kate’s impatience began to show. “Ms. Dey?”

  Summer’s head jerked up. Sure enough, she looked shocked to see them sitting there. “Yes?”

  “Can you think of anything that might have happened about the time Joan started acting differently? About the time her aura changed?”

  Summer scratched the cat absently and stared at the ceiling as if hoping she would find the answer there. “No,” she said at last, “nothing.”

  They weren’t getting anywhere, and Fred didn’t want to stay here all day. He signaled Kate with a wave of his hand. Maybe if he asked the questions they’d get somewhere. “I’ve got to tell you, Summer, I don’t believe Joan killed herself and I’m going to prove that she didn’t. If you know something—anything at all—tell us right now.”

  She looked like she wanted to speak, but he held up a hand to stop her from interrupting.

  “Keep this in mind: If her death is made to look like a suicide, her killer will still be around, probably living and working right here in Cutler.”

  Summer’s hand moved more rapidly across the cat’s back. The gray fur rose in protest, but she appeared not to notice. “Why can’t you just accept the fact that she killed herself? Everyone else believes it!”

  Fred had heard that attitude expressed one too many times, and he was getting fed up with it. “Who’s everyone?”

  “Why does it matter? What’s done is done, no matter the reason behind it. No tears can undo it. No regrets can call it back . . .” She stopped and bit her bottom lip. Moaned. Looked up at Fred for a second, then closed her eyes and began to sway. “Her marriage.”

  “What about her marriage?” Kate asked.

  “It was doomed from the beginning. Doomed. She should have seen it. She should never have married him. Something . . . something was wrong.” Summer’s voice sounded far-away and a chill crept up Fred’s spine as he watched her. Starting tomorrow, he told himself, Ben would have to find another place to work.

  Suddenly Summer’s eyes opened wide and she went back to normal—normal for her, anyway. “I mean, look at them,” she said matter-of-factly. “Besides all their other problems—she was a Virgo, right? and he’s a Gemini—totally wrong for each other. If you want, I could do their numbers. That might help you focus on what was really wrong between them.”

  Kate stood abruptly and tugged the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “I tried to warn her,” Summer went on as if Kate hadn’t spoken. “I wanted to give her some idea how to protect herself, but she wouldn’t listen. It was there, though. All around her. I guess she finally couldn’t take it anymore.” Her hand moved roughly across the cat’s back. The cat arched and growled low in its throat.

  Kate took a step toward Summer. “If you know anything concrete, please tell us. If all you’re going to do is rattle on about this kind of stuff, skip it. I want to know what you heard the night Joan died.”

  The cat yowled, broke free of Summer’s grasp and disappeared. Summer’s eyes, as wild as the cat’s, flicked around the room as if seeking an avenue of escape. She took two steps backward, ran into the wall and cried out. She threw her hands over her head in a protective move and slid to the floor in a puddle of black.

  Fred pulled himself to his feet and stared at her. If that didn’t beat all. Maybe Doc ought to have a look at her. Take her to some hospital or give her something that would straighten her out.

  “I’ve been so afraid,” Summer said softly. “I did hear something that night, but I’ve been trying to tell myself it’s all in my imagination. I mean, it doesn’t make sense.”

  Kate crossed the room and crouched beside her. In a gesture almost too tender to be Kate’s, she touched Summer’s arm. “Tell us anyway.”

  Summer cringed, pulling away from Kate a little. But something in Kate’s face must have convinced her she faced no danger because all at once she began talking rapidly, as if she couldn’t tell her story fast enough. “I was working on this new painting—an impression of the free election process—and I lost track of time. I was really depressed, which is good because that’s the only time I can really paint well. That’s why I wear black all the time—to help create the proper mood.

  Kate sighed and Fred made a mental note to call Doc for sure.

  “Anyway, I thought I heard a car turn in here about nine o’clock or so, but when I went to look, I couldn’t see anybody. It didn’t bother me until I heard it leave a little while later—fifteen minutes or so, I guess. I looked out the window. I didn’t think anything was there—there weren’t any headlights or anything. I went to turn around again and all of a sudden I saw a flash of red by the road, like someone stepping on the brake for a minute, and then it was gone.”

  She pushed the hair out of her face and looked at Fred for his reaction. He smiled encouragement and nodded at her to go on.

  “It bothered me, you know, living out here alone and all. I have contacts in the other world who help protect me, but they must not have been here that night because I felt totally alone. Sometimes it’s necessary to order them away when I’m working but . . .” She broke off and shuddered.

  Kate met Fred’s eyes and raised her eyebrows in disbelief. This was the first thing Summer had said that didn’t sound completely crazy, so he said, “Go on. What happened then?”

  “I worked a while longer,” Summer said. “I didn’t really pay attention to how long because the work was going so well. But then I heard it again—the sound of a car or something being driven past the house. Not on the highway, you know, but right here on my drive. When I looked at my watch, it was one-thirty. It spooked me, so I stopped working and turned out the lights and waited. After a few minutes I went to the door and looked out. I saw Joan’s truck in the moonlight over by the lake.”

  Fred felt himself leaning forward, anticipating her next words. “Then what?”

  “Then? Nothing. That’s all.”

  “Wait a minute,” Kate said. “You saw Joan’s truck? That’s all? Something must have happened after that to make you so nervous.”

  “That was all.”

  “Did you go outside? Did you check on the truck? Did you see anybody get in or out of it? Did you hear them leave?” Fred shot questions at her like ammunition.

  “I never did see anyb
ody and I didn’t hear a thing after that.”

  Kate looked confused. “Then why did you feel so afraid?”

  “I heard about Joan the next day. At first I worried that somebody might think I had killed her and then I realized how crazy that sounded.”

  Her story had holes a mile wide in it, but Fred thought there was some fact mingled in with the fiction. “Why were you worried about that if you believed she committed suicide?”

  “Because we’d had that argument just a couple of days before she died.”

  “What argument?” Kate snapped. “And why didn’t you mention it before?”

  “The one when she threatened to sue me for slander or something if I didn’t stop telling people what she did. And I didn’t think it was important.”

  “You thought it was important enough to worry about being accused of killing her,” Kate pointed out. “Besides, I thought Joan wasn’t involved in the store anymore.”

  “I didn’t care about the store. I just wanted her to take responsibility for what she’d done to me. She’s the one who stole from me, she’s the one who should have been in jail, but she threatened me.”

  “And she wouldn’t admit what she’d done?”

  Derisive laughter burst from Summer’s lips. “No, she wouldn’t. Big surprise.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Fred said. “If you believed she killed herself, why were you afraid you’d be suspected of murdering her? Surely you had some reason.”

  Summer rolled her eyes at Kate and looked exasperated. “I already told you—the paintings. The money she owed me. The way she was trying to cheat me. She got mad when I pulled my work out of the store, but what else was I supposed to do? I couldn’t let her get away with that, could I? So maybe I got a little carried away trying to make sure she didn’t cheat somebody else. I got scared. She couldn’t have sued me, but it still scared me at first.”

  Kate rubbed her forehead. She looked exhausted. “And her truck? Was it still parked by the lake that morning?”

  “No. It disappeared some time during the night.”

  “But you didn’t hear that?” Fred asked.

  “No. I went to bed. I didn’t see or hear anything else.”

  “How could her truck disappear after she committed suicide?” Kate asked.

  “That’s easy,” Fred said. “Obviously somebody else drove the truck down here.”

  Kate got to her feet and moved toward Fred. “Where does this leave us?”

  Summer watched them both suspiciously. “You can’t really believe she was murdered?”

  Kate answered before Fred could, and her answer surprised him. “Honestly, I’m beginning to wonder.”

  Fred suppressed a shout of triumph, but as they walked back to the car a few minutes later he noticed that the ache in his knees had almost disappeared and his step felt unnaturally light. In fact, he felt a little giddy with success and reluctant to call himself back down to earth. He waited until Kate had fastened her seatbelt before he found the nerve to break the mood.

  “You know what comes next, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to have to talk to Brandon. Until we know what happened at that party . . .”

  She stared out the window. “I can’t.”

  He started the car and sat for a minute, letting the engine warm up. “You have to. You’re the only one who can. Enos won’t question him and I don’t think Brandon won’t talk to me.” He shifted into reverse and backed slowly onto the street. You have to do everything you can to prove Joan was murdered, or her killer will go free. Don’t you understand that?”

  “I said I was beginning to wonder. I didn’t say I was completely convinced.”

  “For Pete’s sake!” Fred shouted. “You know as well as I do what happened, you just won’t admit it.”

  She sat for a moment, not moving. “You don’t understand the history we have, Brandon, Joan and me.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No,” she said sharply. “It’s all too complicated and it has nothing to do with why Joan died. I’ll stick around another day or two—just to see what comes up, but don’t ask me to talk to Brandon. I won’t do it. Not now, not ever.”

  twelve

  Monday morning dawned gray and gloomy; a scant illumination of the clouds, nothing more. Almost before dawn, Fred headed outside for his daily constitutional. He found himself back home in record time, before Kate even stirred.

  He fixed breakfast and ate with relish—oyster stew from his secret supply in the garage. He liked it thick with crumbled crackers and black with pepper. He ate slowly, waiting for Kate to wake up. She didn’t.

  He cleared the dishes and left her a note telling her where to find everything he thought she’d need before he got back. He’d spent an entire weekend working on her, but she’d barely given in inch and she still absolutely refused to speak with Brandon. Clearly, compromise didn’t come easily to her.

  The last time he’d seen her, she’d been angry with him—again. She’d turned a deaf ear to all his arguments and had ignored his reasons for why she had to talk to her brother-in-law. She’d stayed in Cutler all weekend, but she’d remained infuriatingly mute, refusing to tell him why she didn’t want to talk to the one person who’d known Joan the best.

  Well, as Fred had always said, if you want something done you might as well buckle down and do it yourself. You just couldn’t count on anybody else to help you out. It didn’t make sense to waste time arguing with Kate. He’d just have to talk with Brandon himself.

  Whistling a tune he remembered from boyhood, he headed toward the garage. The first few lazy flakes of a snow storm fluttered past his eyes, soft and white and innocent, but Fred knew that by nightfall ice would form black sheets across the roads and blankets of snow would cover every surface. Best to get out and back before the storm hit full force.

  He started the Buick and let it run for a minute to warm up before pulling out of the garage. As he drove slowly through town, he checked the brakes three times. He still couldn’t get them to fail, but he knew there was something wrong, no matter what those jokers at the garage told him. He made a mental note to drive the car down to Granby one of these next days and have the brakes checked by somebody who knew what they were doing.

  He crept past Lacey’s and glanced quickly to see if he could see Margaret’s Chevy. Sure enough, it was in a spot near the front door. That meant he was right on schedule. He wanted to get to Cavanaugh’s before she arrived to take care of Madison. Joan had been dead a week, and Margaret was still taking care of the child. Brandon hadn’t bothered to make other arrangements and Margaret probably hadn’t pushed him to. She was doing too much, Fred thought. Hadn’t even had time to make him his every-Sunday pot roast yesterday.

  At Porter Lane, he turned north and started up the mountain. The snow was still falling in light, dry, lacy flakes but thick gray clouds hovered over the tops of the trees and dropped onto the highway here and there, giving the day an ominous feel. Fred turned on the headlights and hunched over the steering wheel, hoping any deer and elk out there would stay on one side of the road or the other until he passed.

  Usually a fifteen minute drive from town, the trip this morning took over half an hour because of the fog. In the gray morning light, the Cavanaugh house looked uninviting. Though Brandon’s BMW stood in the driveway next to Tony’s sleek red car, no lights showed in the windows, no curl of smoke escaped the chimney.

  The wind had picked up again, and the effect—the deserted house, the heavy silence in the clouds, and the mournful cry of the wind through the trees—seemed unearthly.

  Fred knocked on the door, so certain the house was empty that when muffled footsteps sounded inside, they startled him. Brandon answered wearing a white bathrobe. His hair stuck out and creases lined his face as if he’d just been roused from sleep.

  Fred resisted the urge to glance at his watch and tried to look friendly and pleasant, which wasn’t easy
considering Brandon’s expression. Brandon looked over Fred’s shoulder as if expecting to see someone else. Was he expecting to see Kate?

  Apparently deciding that Fred had come alone, he barked, “What the hell do you want?”

  Nice guy. “Can I have a word with you?”

  “What about?”

  Now there was a stupid question. Fred said only, “Would you mind if I came in for a minute?”

  Brandon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Fred was counting that he’d be too polite to refuse. Then again, considering the way he was acting, maybe Fred was counting on too much.

  After a moment Brandon shrugged. “I guess not,” he mumbled and turned away.

  Fred followed him into the living room where Brandon immediately went to the bar and poured a shot of whiskey from a nearly empty decanter. Fred removed his coat and gloves and sat on the sofa. He waited, watching as Brandon tossed off the shot and poured himself another. The bitter aroma of liquor flooded the room.

  “Where’s Kate? Didn’t she come with you?” Brandon asked thickly as his throat worked to get around the whiskey. His apparent interest in Kate made her refusal to see him even more peculiar to Fred.

  “No, she didn’t.” Fred fell silent while Brandon crossed the room and planted himself in a chair. His robe gaped open at his chest and fell away from one thigh. He downed the second shot of whiskey and groaned softly.

  The man had a problem, but it was one Fred understood. Whiskey hadn’t been his medium, but he’d longed for something to cut the pain and shock of losing Phoebe. In the end, time had been the healer, but if he’d been a drinking man, alcohol might have dulled the pain for a while.

  Brandon put his glass on an end table and ran his fingers through his hair as if he’d suddenly realized that he wasn’t presentable. “Well, it’s too bad. Tell Kate I’d love to see her again. How long is she staying?”

  “I don’t know,” Fred answered truthfully.

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Kate and me.”

  Something made Fred vaguely uneasy. Was it the tone of Brandon’s voice? Or the look in his eye?