Now Mourn the Space Cadet (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  "And did you?"

  "No. There was some yelling. When she came out of his office, she seemed very upset."

  "In what way?"

  "Angry. Very angry. Tina has never been able to hide her feelings. She doesn't try."

  "Do you know what she was angry about?"

  "No. She left. I knew she didn't want to talk, and I didn't want to hear it. Not until she'd calmed down."

  "What did you want to talk to her about?"

  A long pause, then, "Nothing much. Just to say Hi."

  "But you didn't see her again?"

  "No. The last time I talked to her was one day the week before. She came by the office and we went to lunch."

  "Was that usual?"

  "Oh, yes. We've known each other since grade school. We can talk."

  "And what did you talk about that day?"

  A definite hesitation, then, "Nothing important."

  "And Mr. Clarke? You've known him long?"

  "Since high school. Tina met him somewhere. He didn't go to our school. He's Catholic, you know. He went to St. John's. I was maid of honor at their wedding."

  "What's he like?"

  Cheryl glanced sharply at Mickie, then back. "I'd rather not talk about my friends."

  "Would it be that bad?"

  "Of course not. He's not perfect, but no one in this world is."

  "All right. Could you tell me how you spent yesterday?"

  "I was at church in the morning, helping to set up for a Saturday night social. I left around noon to go home for lunch. After lunch I went to Bryan's. We're taking some classes together. We studied for a test we have Tuesday night. After that, I came home to get ready for the social."

  "What time did you get to Bryan's?"

  "About two, I think."

  "How did he seem? His usual self?"

  Mickie didn't think she'd get an answer to that, but it came quickly, Cheryl's voice rising slightly. "You mustn't think Bryan had anything to do with Tina's death. He couldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "He just couldn't, that's all. It's not his way. Bryan is a follower. He's a hard worker but he needs direction. He needs someone to show him the way."

  "Could Tina do that?"

  Again, the stubborn silence. Mickie noticed her pull the shoulder bag between them, as if it would shield her from the questions. Where had she seen someone else do that?

  "Ms. Doles, the fact is your friend is dead. Someone killed her and we need to know who it was. Frankly, whether or not you say something unflattering about her doesn't seem all that important at this point."

  They came to a church, a small, white, clapboard-sided building. Plain windows, no stained glass, but the paint was fresh and the shrubbery neatly clipped. Cheryl stopped where a slate walk led up to a door at the rear. She faced Mickie with those steady brown eyes. "Of course. I'm sorry. How can I help?"

  "I only met her once. What was she like? Was she afraid of somebody, or worried about something?"

  "I'll tell you one thing. She was no good for Bryan. She was my friend, but I had no illusions about her. She was glamorous and spontaneous—things I'll never be. It was exciting being with her. I liked it. Tina was a butterfly, beautiful and alluring. Butterflies are nice to look at, but it does you no good to follow them—they're not going anywhere."

  "And when you had lunch with her? What happened then?"

  Cheryl cocked her head as if she were studying Mickie, trying to decide something. Then she asked, "Do you believe in evil?"

  "I don't know. I suppose so."

  "I do. It's all around us, and when we're honest, we know it's in us, too. It's always there, waiting. It's frightening and fascinating. Some people deny it, some try to hide from it, some of us try to strengthen ourselves against it." She stopped, shaking her head sadly. "And some people, God help them, reach out to embrace it."

  She walked up the smooth, slate path and disappeared into the back of the church.

  * * *

  Harry sat on the sofa. Bryan, a little nervous, asked, "Want a beer?"

  "Sure, why not."

  "I thought you guys didn't drink on duty."

  "I try not to be fanatical. Besides, technically I'm on vacation." Also, thought Harry, I want to keep this as informal as I can.

  Bryan came out of the kitchen, a brown bottle in each hand. He stopped, doubtful. "Do you want a glass?"

  "Nah. That's fine."

  Bryan sat down opposite him. Harry looked at the label on the bottle. Not quite his choice, but better than he'd feared.

  Bryan asked, "Just the two of us this time?"

  "Detective Wilder is talking with your friend," putting a little emphasis on the last word.

  "Cheryl? That's all she is. Really."

  Keep it light, thought Harry, keep it light. He grinned and asked, "Your idea or hers?"

  Bryan didn't answer, but sank farther back in his chair, taking a pull on the beer. That's right, thought Harry, relax. Nothing to worry about. We're just two buddies having a beer.

  Bryan gave him a quizzical look. "Did you say you had some more questions?"

  "Well, see, that's the problem. I'm not sure. Maybe I'm wrong. Wouldn't be the first time. It's just that when we were here before, I had the feeling there was something else you wanted to tell us."

  "About what?"

  "Probably not much, but you can never tell what's important. Something you don't mention because you don't see how it can matter. But it may be just the thing we need to wrap it up. See what I mean?"

  Bryan looked doubtful. "I guess."

  "Like when you said Mrs. Siegert came to see you."

  "Yes?"

  Harry saw Bryan's hand tighten around the beer. He took a drink of his own before continuing. "You didn't want to tell us why. I got the impression you didn't want to talk about it in front of Detective Wilder. I can understand that. Some things guys don't talk about with women. Hell, I don't tell her everything."

  Bryan looked down at the bottle, took a long breath as if preparing himself. "I don't know why Tina ever married me. For a while there, when we graduated, I thought she was going to dump me, but then.... It was her idea. Getting married, I mean. I had planned to go on to college, but she couldn't see it. She just wanted to get married. She kept saying we were young, we should be living. Somehow it made sense when she said it. The point is, I never could say no to her."

  "And Thursday?"

  "And Thursday I didn't want to."

  "What happened?"

  Bryan’s eyes were on the bottle in his hand, his thumbnail making little cuts in the label. Starting quietly, he said, "She brought a bottle of red wine. Good stuff. She said it was one her husband had bought. Said we hadn't seen each other in a long time, said she just wanted to talk to someone. I opened the bottle and got a couple of glasses, and we sat there on the couch, drinking and talking."

  "About anything in particular?"

  "No. I think she was having some trouble with her husband, but she didn't go on about it."

  He paused, hesitant to go on. Harry said nothing to prompt him, just waited.

  "After a while, she asked me if I was uncomfortable being alone with her. I said no, and she gave me that teasing look of hers, said something like, Aren't you hoping something will happen? I didn't know what to say. She laughed and leaned over and kissed me on the cheek and said, Poor Bryan. She stood up and took off her blouse and unzipped her skirt, watching me all the time, smiling. She let her skirt drop and stepped out of it, toward me. God, it was like.… Then she picked up a paper bag she'd brought with her, held out her hand to me and took me into the bedroom."

  Harry pictured it, honestly wondering how he’d have handled an invitation like that.

  "In the bedroom, she took a framed picture out of the bag and put it on a table so it faced the bed. It was a picture of her husband. She knelt on the bed, doing a kind of squirming dance, facing the picture while she took off the rest of her clothes. She wanted him to wat
ch. And all the time we were doing it she was looking at the picture, smiling. The only thing she said to me was, Wouldn't it be fun to have him standing there, watching?"

  Harry waited until he was sure there was no more. "Have you told anyone else about this?"

  "I told Cheryl the next night. I wouldn't have, but she was worried about Tina. She said she had started doing some really weird things, you know, talking about evil being the source of all real power, stuff like that. I guess she was afraid Tina was losing it." He took a long pull at the beer, then added, "She might have been right, at that."

  * * *

  If you lose your balance, you'll fall. You can put your hand out to break your fall, but then you'll simply fall on your hand. But you will fall. And, since the wrist and arm bones are some of the weakest in the body, breaking your fall often means breaking your arm. Mickie had spend literally hours in this gym, on these canvas-covered mats, learning how to fall down—how to roll out of a forward fall, how to fall to the side or back, distributing the force on the large muscles of the leg and back. In time, she had overcome the natural instinct of breaking her fall, replacing it with the unnatural (and infinitely safer) habit of falling with her hands and arms out of the way.

  Tall and thin as she was, she didn't have the ideal build for martial arts. But she liked it. While still in college, before she had met Paul, she had gone with a boyfriend to a martial arts class. He had thought of himself as the next Chuck Norris, and had wanted to show off some. She hadn't been much impressed by him (now, she sometimes couldn't recall his name), but had found the class fascinating. The boyfriend had eventually lost interest and dropped out; she had joined.

  The Sensei, the teacher, had taught them first how to fall down. Later, when they began practicing the techniques of throws and sweeps, she had learned how to keep from falling down. At least, most of the time. Her balance had improved (necessary to remaining upright when someone's trying to dump you on your back), and the work had made her stronger. She had noticed an increase of alertness, of awareness of her body, of herself. Confidence—physical and personal—had blossomed.

  It was a large, bare room with pale yellow walls. Canvas mats covered the floor, and she felt their familiar roughness on her bare feet. The room, usually noisy with students, was empty now, and quiet. It gave her a lonely feeling.

  She stood loosely, dressed in the white pants and jacket of her 'gi', a quilted green belt knotted about the jacket, going through the warm-up exercises, the pushups, crunches and stretches she used to begin each session. When she was finished, she began practicing falls and rollouts.

  It was Sunday. There were no classes scheduled, and no other students she could work against. She had known it would probably be this way, but felt she had to get away from vampires, and devils, and people who told her lies and half-truths.

  She worked hard at what she could do, feeling more than a need for practice, purging the stress and emotional demons with pure physical exertion. When she had managed to work up a good sweat she stopped, hands on her hips, waiting for her breathing to come back to normal. Then she sat on the rough canvas mat, her legs folded under her. She closed her eyes, took a few slow, deep breaths, and let it all go. Now, she thought, a hot shower and the world could be right again. What else could she need?

  * * *

  Mickie sat on the floor, her legs crossed in the lotus position, her eyes closed. Just behind her, Paul sat on the edge of the couch, a hand on each of her shoulders, his heavy fingers kneading the long muscles of her shoulders, then moving up to work her neck and the base of her skull. She rolled her head in slow rhythm with the movement, feeling the tension drain, feeling almost sinfully relaxed.

  "Oh God, that's good."

  "Damn straight. If you want a good massage, get a potter. Strong hands. Maybe a piano player in a pinch."

  "How about a masseur?"

  "Nah, they want money."

  "Mnnn, it's nice to have someone who works for free."

  Paul stopped long enough to kiss the side of her neck. "Who said anything about free?"

  Without opening her eyes, she said, "You're evil." Then, remembering her talk with Cheryl, she said quickly, "No. No, you're not." She turned to look up at him, her expression serious. "Paul, am I getting hard?"

  "Whoa, you really jump around. What's all that about?"

  "It was something Harry told me once. He said that cops see so many really cruddy things, they see people at their worst, and eventually it all adds up and it changes them. They get angry and suspicious of everyone. And they get hard. He was trying to warn me."

  "And you think that's happening to you?"

  "He said something about it this afternoon. Something about me getting hard edges."

  Paul began working the muscles of her shoulders again. "Maybe you need a few in that job."

  "Okay, but not angry. I don't need that. Paul, promise me something. If I start getting angry, not at something in particular, but at things in general, promise you'll be patient with me."

  He leaned forward, kissed the top of her head, and said, "No."

  She looked up at him in surprise.

  "If you get that way,” he said, “I shall bind thee hand and foot and have thee delivered unto the Land of Spring. And there you will be forced to lie on sunny hillsides, and be tormented beyond endurance with tender kisses, gentle caresses and chocolate chip cookies."

  She turned, rising to her knees, looking him straight in the eye. "You wouldn't dare!"

  "And if that doesn't do it, I'll volunteer you to host a birthday party for about two dozen screaming, runny-nosed, four-year-old house apes. All of them will have missed their naps, all will have a sugar high from the cake and ice cream, and the clown you promised them won't show up. If that doesn't get your priorities straight, you're past redemption."

  She kissed him very lightly. "I was right the first time—you’re evil."

  He laughed gently. "And don't you forget it.”

  * * *

  The inner voice came again, stronger now, more confident. It said, "You'll have to meet him. He's dangerous. He knows."

  "Maybe not. How can he be sure? Maybe he's just guessing."

  "Then why would he call? You have to find out."

  "And what if he really knows?"

  "Then...."

  "No, I can't. Not again."

  A long pause.

  "It wasn't so bad. Not as bad as you thought it would be."

  "No, not so bad. Better than I thought."

  CHAPTER 13

  CAN WE TALK?

  When Mickie came awake on Monday morning, she heard the sound of water dripping off the eaves into puddles outside her window. A vague memory persisted of rolling thunder and the chatter of windswept rain during the small hours. The dim light seeping through the slats of blinds was even more muted than usual, leaving the room still almost dark. The beautiful weather of yesterday had given way to the other side of spring. A wonderful morning for sleeping in. She thought of Paul and last night, closed her eyes and burrowed deeper into the pillow.

  Then she remembered two things. The first was that it was her birthday. She was now twenty-six. So what did that mean? One more than twenty-five, that's all. She had expected Paul to say something about it the night before. She had expected at least a dinner at Sailor's. But, oh no. Like any other man, he had totally forgotten.

  All he had said was that he was going to be busy for the next week, making pottery for the display at Chez Babineau. She knew he taught a full schedule during the days, and to be ready he'd have to put in extra time, but damn! Even her mother had failed to call, and she was one who regarded birthdays as close to religious festivals. Well, what the hell! Twenty-six is just one more than twenty-five.

  The other cheery thought was the load that Harry had laid on her. This was Monday. There'd be a meeting with Ross this morning and, if Harry stayed true to recent form, he'd just sit there and listen. She'd have to be ready. While she showered
, dressed, munched on English muffin and marmalade, she went over all she had seen and heard, trying to separate what they knew from what they had been told. She felt she should have some kind of conclusion from all this, but knew she had no more than speculations. The only conclusion she could reach was that she wasn't ready for this. Damn Harry, anyway.

  It promised to be a really bitchin' day.

  * * *

  Ross, The Connor Beach Chief of Police, sat behind his desk, his fingers idly playing with a chain of paper clips. Behind him, raindrops oozing down the window blurred the image of the bridge linking Conner Beach to the mainland. Directly across from him sat the stumpy figure of Harry Chervenic, what there was of his legs stretched in front of him. Mickie sat to his right in a swivel chair she had wheeled in from her office. On the other side of Harry was Morris. And just what, thought Mickie, is he doing here?

  As if reading her mind, Ross said, "I asked Mo to sit in so he could get up to speed. There's no telling where this could lead—you might need backup. And I don't think I have to add that we're going to get one hell of a lot of press. Even the Raleigh and Charlotte papers have picked it up. The Vampire Murder seems to be the favorite name, but there was even some mention of Dracula."

  Morris shifted from one slouch position to another. "And satanic cults."

  Harry said, "This isn't cult work."

  "Maybe not, but with all their jabber about cults the past week, they were bound to make the connection."

  "I've been out of town." Harry turned to Mickie. "What's this about?"

  Mickie said, "They've been running a string of feature articles on occult practices, mostly on devil worship. Satan sells papers."

  Harry grunted and settled back in the chair. Ross caught his eye and said, "I know you have more to do than attend meetings, so let's make this quick. What do we have so far?"

  Harry shrugged. "Not much. It's too soon for the autopsy report, but cause of death is pretty certain—a hard blow to the back of the head. All the rest was window dressing. The SBI people lifted a lot of prints, but we don't have their report yet. We have all the principal players coming in this morning to be printed. We'll see."