The Telltale Turtle (The Pet Psychic Mysteries)

by Jim Lavene;Joyce Lavene

  "Dio! Is she dead?" Danny asked in a breathless voice.

  "I believe she is," Mary Catherine confirmed, taking in the scene. "I think we should call the police."

  Besides the turtle bowl on the floor, there was also a potted plant. Dirt was scattered all over the dead woman's slippers. Had she been surprised by a thief in the middle of the night? Was it an accident? All the mess could've been caused by a struggle. Or the woman might've had a heart attack and stumbled across those things. Still, that didn't account for the front door being open.

  Compassion for the other woman made Mary Catherine touch her hand. It was cold. "Rest easy now. God provides."

  Danny's handsome dark features had turned a terrible pasty shade that looked like old buttermilk. He hurried out of the house to throw up the Snickers bar on the pristine emerald green lawn.

  "Oh, dear," Mary Catherine said to the turtle in her hand. "There's a frog out there that wasn't too happy about that!"

  Hi, Mary Catherine;

  My name is Edwin and I live in Perth, Australia. I love your show! A kangaroo saved my life this week! A young kangaroo thatl saved from a truck accident three years ago rolled me over to keep me breathing after I was hit in the chest by a tree branch and lost consciousness. She kept jumping up and down and causing a commotion until someone finally came out of the house to see what was wrong.

  Do you think I should set her free?

  Two

  "WHO FOUND THE BODY?" The detective adjusted his tie several times, in classic body language for frustration. His shirt collar had wilted in the heat and humidity, curling around his throat. There were burrito stains on his pocket and on the notebook he used to take notes. He licked his fingers and smudged it clean.

  "I guess we found her together," Mary Catherine told the detective. Danny couldn't come in the room again without being sick. He waited by the front door, chafing his sneaker against the pink marble.

  "All right. Detective Angellus will take his statement." He directed the younger man toward the foyer, then turned back to her.

  She sighed as she sat and knitted in the far corner of the wide room, trying not to see the detective's furrowed brow. It would have been like not seeing a hurricane coming up from the sea.

  "Roberts? Is that right? Mary Catherine Roberts" He looked up from the paper in his hand where the responding police officer had written her name and address. He glanced at Baylor. "Does that animal belong to the deceased?"

  "No, he's mine." She put aside her knitting and lifted her head, hoping her chin didn't seem to fold into her neck as it sometimes did. Reaching the ripe age of fifty-plus left little room for vanity; she still didn't want a good-looking man to think badly of her. "Baylor, say hello."

  The tabby cat meowed, then tucked himself into the folds of her wide green cotton skirt. He'd insisted on coming inside while she and Danny waited for the police.

  "He's feeling a little shy right now."

  "Of course he is." The athletic-looking man in the dark brown suit shook his graying blond head. "Okay. I'm Detective Walt Abraham of the Wilmington Police Department. I'll be investigating this case. Do you always bring your cat along when you visit friends?"

  She put out her hand to him. This forced Detective Abraham to reach out and shake it. He had good, strong hands. She liked that in a man. It was a sign of character, her mother always said. "Mostly. But I wasn't here on a social call. I don't even know that poor woman.

  She shuddered as she glanced at the splash of red that still marked the pale carpet where the woman's body had been. Blueuniformed people had removed her only a few minutes before. A dozen more police assistants walked around the room, collecting things in plastic bags and taking pictures.

  "Oh?" Detective Abraham looked at her in a different light. Mary Catherine looked like a bag lady, or a caricature of a gypsy from the last century. Green skirt, purple vest, and ruffled white blouse seemed to flow around her. Her hair and shawl were almost the color of the tabby cat at her feet. She was roughly middle fifties, five-foot-five, maybe 180 pounds. "What were you doing here then, Mrs. Roberts?"

  "The poor thing was screaming out in pain. I heard him and came to help."

  Detective Abraham eyed his partner near the door, obviously wishing he'd taken the taxi driver to question. "You heard Mrs. Jamison screaming out when she died. Was this as you went by?"

  "Heavens no!"Jamison? That was a strange coincidence. Was the dead woman related to Colin? "I came to save her turtle. Of course I didn't know it was a turtle at the time. Animals aren't very good at classifying themselves the way humans do. I only knew he was in some kind of trouble and his name was Tommy. I came here to help him."

  "Her turtle?"

  She took the yellow-bellied slider out of her purse. "You can see where he must've been in the bowl when it fell. His front leg was cut by the glass. It pains him but I'm sure he'll be fine. He'll probably need a new home."

  "Don't look at me," he said quickly, then checked himself. "Are you for real?"

  She sighed and put the turtle back. "That's part of the problem. No one wants to take responsibility. I'll take him in, at least until he mends. Then we'll see if we can find him a good home. Or he might rather be released into the wild again. I believe someone found him near a stream."

  "So the turtle talked to you? Was that before or after Mrs. Jamison died? Were you here when he told you he was in pain?"

  "No. I was down by the river. That's why Danny's here. He drove me up in his taxi."

  "If you weren't here, how did you hear him? I mean, he couldn't talk very loud, could he? He's a pretty small turtle"

  "I heard him, but not the way you mean it. They don't really have a language I can understand. I hear his thoughts. They're strange and disjointed. Non-mammals are. But it was clear to me he was in pain and needed help. I'm a pet psychic."

  "Pet psychic?"

  She handed him her card. "I do a syndicated radio talk show called Mary Catherine Roberts, The Pet Psychic, at Lite 102.5. I've been on television a few times. Life magazine did a story on me once. I've helped people all across the world with their pets. I lived in California for a while with my second late husband. I worked with several famous movie stars there, although I'm not at liberty to divulge their names. It can be as simple as two dogs fighting because one of the dogs has taken a favorite toy of the other dog. Once he agrees to give it back, everything is fine. Or it can be very complicated. Once-"

  "You talk to animals." Abraham scribbled something in his notebook, not concealing his urge to laugh.

  She frowned. This wasn't going very well at all. "I know it can be hard to understand, Detective, but I assure you I'm legitimate. I've helped thousands of people with their pet problems. I communicate with animals that need to express something to their owners. It can be about what they're eating, behavior problems, illness. Or in this case, something more tragic."

  "And people pay you to do this?"

  "Yes, they do." He'd touched on her sore point. Why was it people thought the worst of someone who made money using their gifts? "But I also run a free clinic where we take in hurt and stray animals and find homes for them. I like to help wherever possible. It's my calling."

  "Of course." He smiled at her. "Will you excuse me a moment?"

  She watched him speak to the detective at the door. The two men looked at her, then glanced away quickly. She sighed. This was much simpler in Los Angeles. And if George Wilson, her second late husband, hadn't died, she'd still be there with him. He should have told her he was allergic to bees. They shouldn't have been walking through the garden. Unfortunately, she'd never had much luck communicating with insects.

  Detective Abraham came back to her. "We'd like you to come with us to the station and make a statement, ma'am, if you wouldn't mind."

  Mary Catherine wished she could hear what he was thinking. He probably thought she was a flake or worse. She didn't like using parlor tricks to impress people, although she did it when i
t was necessary. What was he up to? "All right. But I hope this won't take long."

  "It shouldn't take too long, ma'am." He put his hand under her arm to help her to her feet. "Just a few questions."

  As she was gathering her knitting together, Colin walked into the house. "Aunt Ferndelle? Aunt Ferndelle?"

  "She's not here." Abraham stood in front of Mary Catherine, long legs spread wide like a pirate on the deck of a ship. "And you are-?"

  "Colin Jamison. What's happened? Why are you all here? Where's my aunt?"

  Detective Abraham explained that a woman was found dead in the sitting room. Colin sat down hard in one of the upholstered chairs. "I can't believe this! She can't be dead."

  Baylor brushed against Mary Catherine's leg and she nodded. "You're too suspicious. Besides, there's no reason to think this wasn't an accident."

  A small cry from her purse had a different view. Tommy was sure there was more than one person present when he fell on the floor. There were loud words. One person fell down and stayed on the floor. It was the human who'd taken him from his home in the creek.

  Mary Catherine put her hand to her head. Listening to the turtle's random thoughts gave her a headache. "You might be right to be suspicious, Baylor. We have to tell the detective about this!"

  But no one would listen to her. They took her to the police station, gave her a can of Coke and she waited for three hours in a small gray room before she talked to someone again.

  Detective Angellus finally came in and sat down with her at the rickety old table. "I have to tell you, Mrs. Roberts. You pretty much freaked out my partner. The first thing he checked when we got back was to see if anyone had escaped from the state mental hospital. He thought you were Looney Tunes."

  Mary Catherine didn't see anything funny about that theory. She didn't like the smirk on the detective's swarthy young face as he glanced through a file with her name on it. "The next thing he checked was to see if you have a record. I see you're originally from Wilmington. Born Mary Catherine Conner. Is Roberts your real name or a stage name?"

  "I'm surprised that file doesn't answer all your questions. The Internet is a good source of information. I have at least fifty pages about me. It's my real name. My fourth late husband was George Roberts from West Palm Beach. He died two years ago. I moved back here after his accident."

  "And George Wilson of Los Angeles? He died from a bee sting. Who was he?"

  "My second late husband. And it was several bee stings. They were swarming."

  "And Andrew Smith of Chicago?"

  "My first late husband. He was killed in an unfortunate boating accident on Lake Michigan."

  "And Per Van Eppen?"

  "My third late husband, from Long Island." She sighed. "Why are you asking me about my past? What does this have to do with what happened today?"

  Detective Angellus sat back. He made a pyramid of his long hands as he stared at her and smiled. "You're a colorful character, Mrs. Roberts, pet psychic. A widow four times over. Each husband died from something unusual. Long Island. Chicago. LA. You get around, don't you?"

  "What do you want from me, Detective? Surely dredging up painful memories for me won't help you solve this case."

  "Is there a case? Do you think Mrs. Jamison was murdered?"

  "I don't know. I'm not a detective. The room was a mess but I suppose that could've been from death throes. Tommy doesn't think it was an accident."

  "Tommy?"

  "Her turtle." She coaxed the tiny creature out of her bag again, though he protested pitifully. "He saw the whole thing, you know. His field of vision isn't very great but he says there were two people in the room before Mrs. Jamison fell down and broke his bowl. You'd be wise to pay attention to him. The door to the house was open when I got there."

  "Very observant." He snapped his chewing gum and nodded. "Maybe you should've been with the police. Or maybe you're the other person who was there with her when she died."

  "Don't be ridiculous! The woman was stone cold already!"

  "You touched her?"

  "She was another human being, Detective Angellus. A woman my own age." Her eyes blurred with tears. "How could I not touch her?"

  "But you didn't know her."

  "No. Although I work with her nephew, Colin Jamison, that young man who collapsed at the house. He's the station manager at WRSC."

  "He's the man who wandered into the house this morning." Angellus opened another file. His dark eyes were suspicious. "Seems his aunt was worth some money. Did anyone ever mention that to you?"

  "I was here when his parents were killed in that boating accident," she replied. "I remember all the press the family got when his aunt inherited the family estate and fortune. I don't think Colin would be involved in something like this. He's not the type."

  "What type is he?"

  "The kind who waits until his relative dies a natural death. Colin isn't a killer."

  "Oh yeah. What does the turtle have to say about that?"

  "He has plenty to say, but as you can imagine, his perspective is a little different than ours. He was a wild animal, not raised with humans. They think differently than say a cat or a dog. Sometimes it's hard to understand them."

  "So you can talk to animals, but you can't always understand them, and the turtle is telling you about his owner getting killed, but you can't tell us who did it. Does that sum it up?"

  "I'm afraid so. Maybe as the shock wears off, he might remember a little more."

  "Lucky for you your vet at the clinic verifies where you were last night when we think Mrs. Jamison died." He closed her file and stood up. "Go home and don't get into trouble here in Wilmington, ma'am. We're not like LA or New York. It's a small town. You know that from living here. We tend to remember faces and names. Marry some guy who lives a long time, okay?"

  "What about Ferndelle Jamison?" Mary Catherine ignored his ultimatums. "I'm sure her death wasn't an accident. I might be able to coax something more from Tommy."

  "We can handle it without the turtle, thanks anyway. Lucky for you, the medical examiner thinks it happened about midnight, while you were at your clinic. The taxi driver seems to have a pat alibi for that time as well"

  "So she was murdered?"

  "We don't know for sure yet. But if it was an accident, it was one of those weird ones like your late husbands had. I'll have an officer drive you home, ma'am."

  "Thank you, Detective Angellus." She got to her feet slowly after all that time sitting in the hard wooden chair. "I hope it won't be necessary for me to come back again."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Someone killed that poor woman. I hope you can find out who it was on your own. If not, as I said, Tommy might be some help. I've been involved with police investigations before. In LA, there was a young girl who was kidnapped. The only witness was her dog, Sparky. The police were very happy when I told them Melissa's kidnapper was her uncle, a man Sparky knew well because he frequently brought dog treats with him when he visited. It seems the uncle was setting things up for a while before the incident. People think dogs are only concerned with what they eat, but that's not true." She handed him a business card. "Here's where you can find me."

  "The turtle is gonna help us out, right?" He laughed. "Sorry, ma'am. It just got the best of me. I think we can take care of this without the turtle. But tell him thanks for offering." "

  I will. Goodbye, Detective."

  "Goodbye, Mrs. Roberts. Stay out of trouble, you hear?"

  THREE

  THE BLACK AND WHITE squad car let Mary Catherine and Baylor out in front of the red brick building that faced River Street. The building leaned slightly backward as though drawn by the sound of the sea coming from that direction. To the front was the Cape Fear River. Lights blossomed across the smooth, dark surface of the water as daylight faded into evening.

  Light also illuminated the dozen or so windows that faced her from her home. Around the building were others like it where downtown rejuvenation h
ad created antique shops, bookstores, bars and restaurants. The same spaces had housed taverns, inns, and bawdy houses two hundred years before.

  It was this building that brought her home after so many years. Her Aunt Sylvia Caldwell had left it to her. It was a surprise since she didn't even know she had an Aunt Sylvia. But everything was in order. Sylvia had been her mother's sister. Mary Catherine's mother had been a Conner, married to Douglas Conner who had left her mother the day after their second daughter was born. Not an auspicious beginning.

  The bequest came on the day George Roberts, her fourth late husband, fell off the grandstand at Hialeah. He had a habit of betting on bad horses. It was the first and only time she'd given him a tip about what the horses were feeling. She didn't believe horse racing was good for the animals; horses weren't competitive naturally. She hadn't wanted to encourage George either. He was already an inveterate gambler who wouldn't have had a thing if it wasn't for the huge fortune his family had left him.

  When he'd won, George was overcome with excitement. He gave out a loud whoop and fell backward, crashing over the rail to the ground below. He'd managed to break his neck on the way down.

  Mary Catherine was devastated and vowed never to get married or help anyone at the track again. But since George was only her fourth husband, the bets were against her. When she'd received the letter from Aunt Sylvia's attorney, it was like a gift from heaven. She'd left Wilmington right after her mother's death when she was eighteen and had never gone back. She'd had a wonderful, exciting life, but she suddenly felt a yearning to go home.