Scry Me A River: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (Blood Visions Paranormal Mysteries Book 2)

by Donna White Glaser

  Jane, face pale enough to star in her own black-and-white movie, chose that moment to flick on the lights. "Everyone calm down! Take your seats."

  Viv shoved her way past the crowd around her. She was still clutching her head. "What the heck is wrong with you? You almost ripped my goldarn head off!"

  "I'm sorry, I..." Belinda pulled her sweater around herself. "My button must have gotten caught. I'm so sorry." Several strands of medium-length gray hair were dangling from a button on the garment.

  "Sorry don't cut it, princess," Viv snarled.

  "But what happened?" Arie asked. "Why are you so upset?"

  "What? I don't... I'm not. I just... I don't feel well. I need to go lie down." Belinda was shaking, a noticeable quiver in her usually placid voice. Grumpa held her elbow, helping to steady her.

  All three staff converged on the group and set about trying to manage the situation. Those on the periphery reluctantly acquiesced to being herded back to their seats. The drama in real life held more interest than a seventy-five-year-old movie, even with Bette Davis.

  Carly clapped her hands. "Let's get back to the movie, folks. Take your seats."

  "Well, the movie's spoiled now." Viv flounced back to her chair.

  "It was made in the forties, for crying out loud," Grumpa said. "It's not like everyone hasn't seen it."

  Viv's lips thinned at Grumpa's retort, and she turned her face away.

  "I'm fine," Belinda said. She covered Grumpa's hand where he still held her arm. "I just want to go back to my room."

  "Not after a tumble like that," Jane said.

  Karen stepped forward to commandeer Belinda's elbow from Grumpa. "We'll need to have you looked at. Did you get dizzy? Do you have any pain?"

  "No, really. I'm fine. I'm just going to go lie down for a bit."

  "That's fine. After you see the doctor," Jane said. "Never mind, Karen. I'll walk her over. You stay and help Carly get everyone settled." She led Belinda toward the exit.

  Grumpa stood, watching them leave, a troubled look on his face. Viv approached, slipping her arm into his.

  "Goodness, what a lot of fuss. She almost scalped me," she said. "Too bad the movie isn't a Western. It would fit right in. But come on, Harlan. We're supposed to sit back down."

  Grumpa let himself be dragged back to his seat, but not before he sent Arie a worried glance. She nodded.

  She was worried, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A phone call brought Arie up out of a sound sleep and set her heart pounding. Good news never comes at 3:00 a.m. She stumbled out of her bedroom and down the hall, hoping to get to the phone before it woke Grumpa.

  "Hello?"

  "Is this the Wilston residence?" a voice whispered.

  "Yes. Who's calling, please?"

  "She's not who she seems. It's all a mask, like the shawl. The white shawl."

  "The mask is a shawl?" Arie pressed the phone against her ear as though that would help her hear the caller better. The speaker was slurring a bit, and because he or she was talking so softly, Arie wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman. "I'm sorry. I don't understand. Who's wearing a mask?"

  "Listen to me," the voice said. "It's guilt, not... I was so stupid. Unforgivably stupid." The caller broke off, mumbling or perhaps crying. "...must have hated him. She wasn't the only one, but... Tell Harlan. Tell your friend, too."

  "Tell them what?"

  "Shh! Someone's coming."

  "Who's coming? Who is this?"

  A soft click told Arie the caller had hung up. She slowly hung up the phone. Tell your friend... Which friend? Connor? But tell him what?

  "What's going on?"

  Arie squeaked and spun around. Grumpa stood in the kitchen doorway, his ratty green bathrobe wrapped tight around his scrawny torso.

  "Who was that?"

  "I'm not sure," Arie said. "It was really strange, but it had to be someone from River Rest. Did you give anyone our phone number?"

  Grumpa hesitated, a look of consternation flooding his face, and suddenly, Arie knew.

  "It was Belinda, wasn't it?" Arie said. "You gave her our phone number."

  Grumpa nodded. "The other day. When you were talking to Jane. Is she okay?"

  Then Arie hesitated.

  "Is. She. Okay?"

  "I don't know. She sounded... different."

  "Different how? Sick?"

  "No, actually, she sounded drunk. And she wasn't making a lot of sense."

  "Nonsense." Grumpa scoffed. "Belinda doesn't drink. Hasn't for over a year. She told me."

  "She told you? How did that come up?"

  "It just did. Now, what was she saying?"

  Arie took a deep breath. "She said something about a mask. That someone—a woman, I think—wasn't what she seemed. That she wore a mask... or a shawl. And something about guilt and Bernie being an awful man."

  "A shawl? What the heck does that mean?"

  "That's what I mean," Arie said. "She wasn't making a lot of sense. She said the mask is like the white shawl."

  Grumpa froze, his eyes darting back and forth as he thought. "A white shawl? Or the white shawl?"

  Arie shrugged. "What difference does it make?"

  "I think she was talking about the one from the movie."

  "What movie?"

  "You know, the Bette Davis one. She was knitting that lace shawl thing through the whole movie. She wore it when she finally faced the blackmailer."

  "I don't think it's called knitting when it's lace. I think—"

  "That ain't the point. It's like the shawl was a symbol for, like, she's supposably all innocent and ladylike, and actually she was a killer and an adulterer."

  "Adulteress."

  "Is this some kinda vocabulary contest or something? The point is that Bette Davis’s character wasn't what she seemed."

  "Okay, okay. I get it. The shawl is a symbol. Of what?"

  "How do I know?" Grumpa said. "That someone isn't who they seem, I guess. And you're saying she sounded drunk?"

  "Well, she was slurring. And then she got off the phone really quick because she was afraid someone was coming. And just before that, she told me to tell you and also tell my friend."

  "Tell which friend what?"

  Arie shrugged. "The only one I can think of is Connor."

  Grumpa started pacing back and forth. "Connor... She knew he was a cop. She's in trouble."

  "I don't know. Maybe she just—"

  "You call him right now, missy. I'm not foolin' around with this. She called me because she's in trouble."

  Arie gave in. "All right. Fine."

  But she still hesitated. She and Connor weren't exactly on call-each-other-in-the-middle-of-the-night terms, and he'd been especially irritated with her at their last meeting. Grumpa was right, though. They had no choice.

  "Arie?" His voice was crisp and alert, with none of the muzzy-headed sleepiness that Arie had expected.

  Must be a cop thing. "Uh, hi. It's Arie." Well, duh.

  He obviously already knew that.

  She hurried on. "I kind of have a... It's not an emergency."

  Grumpa snorted. "The heck it ain't!"

  "I mean, it's not a real emergency. Unless maybe it is. I guess it could—"

  "Arie, what's going on? Just tell me."

  "Well, we got a call a few minutes ago from someone at River Rest. It was really weird. The person—we think it was Grumpa's friend Belinda—she was really upset. And we just... We think something's wrong over there."

  "Hold on." A muffled rustling told Arie he was holding his hand over the speaker. Despite that, Arie heard him say, "It's okay. Go back to sleep."

  Who the heck is he talking to?

  Connor came back on the line. "Sorry about that. So, let me get this straight. Some woman called you from the nursing home, and you two think she's... what? In danger?"

  Arie's body flushed with heat, and not the good kind that interactions with Connor usually provoked. "Bernie Reynolds was
murdered. I don't think it's ridiculous to assume that someone else might be in danger. I think something clicked for Belinda. Something she saw or heard made her suddenly realize something about Bernie's death."

  "What exactly did she say?"

  "Uh, that Bernie was awful and that someone there wasn't who she seemed."

  "All right, listen. I'll call the place and check in with them. I'm sure everything's fine, but if it'll make you feel better, I'm happy to do it."

  "Thanks." The word came out sullen and miserly. Arie cleared her throat and tried again. "I mean, I really do appreciate it. And, um, will you call me back and let me know what you find out?"

  "Sure. Hang tight."

  It became obvious neither she nor Grumpa was going back to sleep. Arie decided to make them each a cup of hot chocolate. Her phone beeped while she was still puttering around the stove. Grumpa jumped as if an armed burglar had crashed through the window.

  "Relax," Arie said. "It's just a text message."

  She picked the phone up and looked at the screen: "On my way to RR. CYL."

  "What the heck does that mean?" Grumpa asked. Arie could hear the fear in his voice.

  "It means Connor's going to check it out, and then he'll call us," Arie said. "I guess we'll just have to wait."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Connor didn't call for several hours. By that time, Arie had convinced Grumpa to go back to bed—or at least to his bedroom, where he shut the door. She grabbed her phone as soon as it rang, hoping that if he had managed to go to sleep, it wouldn't wake him up.

  "Hello?"

  "It's Connor." After a long pause, he said, "It's not good news, Arie."

  Arie's breath caught. "What is it?"

  "I checked in with the nursing home as soon as I hung up from you. Turns out one of the residents actually was missing. They had just started to search. I decided to go over there... just in case. Had a bad feeling, you know?"

  "Was it Belinda? Did you find her?"

  Another pause. "We did. I'm sorry, Arie, but she's dead."

  For several moments, Arie was rendered speechless. When she could finally talk, she blew her nose and got back on the line. "What happened?"

  "By the time I got there, they'd already found her. Supposedly, she'd wandered away and, somehow, just happened to get outside. Apparently, she'd fallen and hit her head."

  "Is that what you think?"

  "Something doesn't add up. For one thing, they can't explain her call to you. They're claiming there wasn't any way she could have called you. Apparently, they activate some kind of cell-phone block after eleven o'clock to keep the residents from ordering pizza or calling their loved ones in the middle of the night."

  "Isn't that dangerous?" Arie asked. "What if there was a fire?"

  "The staff's landlines still work, and the residents can still call room to room, just no outside calls and no cell-phone service. I guess they've had problems with prank calls in the past. But they claim she also didn't use any of the facility's phones, either. They're certain someone would have seen her."

  "Maybe the staff were sleeping."

  "Maybe. I wouldn't put it past them. They deny it, of course. And on top of all that, they can't explain how she got past several nurses, through a supposedly alarmed door, mind you, and ended up in the parking lot, under the dumpster, with her head bashed in."

  Arie gasped. "Is that what happened?"

  Connor sighed. "I shouldn't have said all that. I need sleep."

  "But is that how she died? Someone hit her on the head and... and left her like a bag of trash by the dumpster?"

  "Like I said, she appears to have wandered away, slipped, and hit her head as she fell."

  "But you don't think so," Arie said. "Do you?"

  "I'm a homicide detective. I'm paid to think the worst."

  Arie dreaded having to break the news to Grumpa, so she let him sleep in. She was sitting at the kitchen table in the same chair she'd sat in the night before when he walked into the kitchen. His bleary eyes met her red, swollen ones, and he slammed to a stop in the doorway.

  Arie took a deep breath. "I have something to tell you."

  Grumpa suddenly looked every minute of his age. He shuffled over and sat next to her at the table.

  Arie reached over and held his hand. "Grumpa—"

  He held up his other hand, palm out, stopping her. "Don't say it. Just... don't."

  "I'm so sorry," Arie said.

  They sat there in silence for several long moments. Eventually, Grumpa straightened his shoulders and met her gaze. "Okay. How did it happen?"

  Arie chose her words carefully. She wanted to avoid any mention of the dumpster. The idea of poor Belinda crumpled next to a slimy, disgusting metal bin was abhorrent, and she wanted to spare her grandfather that image. "They're saying she wandered out of the building somehow and fell and hit her head."

  Grumpa shook his head. "That don't make sense."

  "I know," Arie said. "Connor doesn't think so either."

  "Well, that's one good thing. What's he think happened?"

  "He's looking into it," Arie said, still trying to avoid the details.

  Grumpa studied her face carefully then nodded. "All righty then. Be ready in twenty minutes." He stood and made for the hall.

  "Ready?" Arie said. "Ready for what?"

  "To head over to that place, of course. We've got things to do."

  The rec center felt like a stage set—the same people, the same decorations, even the same craft project as everyone worked on their birdhouses, but it felt... wrong. For one thing, the mood was somber. The chair where Belinda usually sat stood like a mute accusation. Grumpa touched the back of it as he passed by it to his own seat, but whether it was for physical support or emotional, Arie couldn't say. As Grumpa picked up his paintbrush, the group mumbled subdued hellos to the two of them then went back to a conversation they'd apparently been having prior to their arrival.

  "First Bernie, now Belinda," Alan said. "We're supposed to die in our beds, not in the dark next to the garbage can. Why would she be out there, anyway?"

  Grumpa's head snapped up.

  "I heard she was drunk as a skunk," Viv chimed in. "Not the first time, either. Explains why she wandered away and fell down."

  "Don't be stupid," Grumpa said gruffly. "She certainly was not drunk."

  Viv's face flared red, and an uncomfortable silence descended. After a few moments, Larry said, "Not to speak ill of the dead, but Belinda did like to nip every now and then. Bernie used to get it for her."

  "Maybe in the past," Grumpa said. "But not since they put her on her heart medicine."

  "How do you know?" Viv asked.

  "We talked about a lot of things," Grumpa said. "She was a smart lady."

  Viv broke the respectful moment of silence with a loud sniff. It wasn't a tearful sniff, either.

  "Well, Belinda may have been smart," Viv said, "but she didn't need to act all holier-than-thou and queen it over everyone that she was a therapist. Always wearing those flowing scarves and artsy-fartsy clothes, acting all fancy. Why, she even—"

  "Shut up, you jealous twit," Grumpa said in a voice thick with anger. "You don't know what you're talking about. Belinda was one of the loveliest women I've ever met. Simply... lovely." Tears welled up in his eyes.

  Viv's face scrunched up, but she wasn't ready to—or couldn't—let it go. "Well... I guess if you like that type. But she did like her cocktails, and it's no good saying otherwise. If she fell and hit her head, it's her own fault."

  Grumpa slammed his hand on the table, accidentally hitting a paintbrush that splattered Viv with dark-green paint. Viv burst into tears then jumped up and stumbled to the bathroom.

  In the wake of Viv's tearful retreat, Grumpa mumbled an awkward apology to the group.

  Marilee waved it off. "She had it coming. She had no right to talk about poor Belinda that way. Especially now." Tears slipped from her eyes, wicked away by the soft wrinkles that fra
med them.

  Kathy reached over to hold her hand. "It's not right."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Grumpa repeated Kathy's words moments later. "It's not right." He and Arie were seated in the Caddy, engine running as if poised for a quick getaway, as indeed they were. They had waited a few minutes to see if Viv would return, but she had locked herself in a stall in the ladies’ room and refused to come out.

  As yet, the staff were unaware of the brouhaha, and Arie wanted it to stay that way. They slipped out of the rec center as discreetly as they could.

  Arie was nervous and wanted to leave, but Grumpa asked her to wait. He sat in silence, staring out the front window. After several minutes, he said, "You didn't tell me she died next to the garbage."

  Arie flushed. She had thought her grandfather was staring at the rec center, but instead the dumpster on the side of the building was holding his gaze.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't want to make it worse for you than it already was."

  "It can't get any worse. She's dead."

  "Grumpa..." Arie didn't know what to say. "I wish there was some way I could help."

  "Maybe there is," he said, turning to her.

  Arie gave him a helpless look. "How?"

  "Can't you see what happened?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Grumpa gestured toward the dumpster. "She died right there. Can't you... you know... hocus-pocus a vision of her. See what happened?"

  Arie really didn't know what to say. "It's... not that easy."

  "Why not?" His blue eyes peered straight into hers, his face stripped of artifice and heart-stabbingly vulnerable.

  Arie swallowed. "For one thing, I need blood."

  Grumpa shifted his gaze back to the dumpster.

  Oh boy. Arie gave in. "Okay, look. You stay here. I'll go see if I can... um... find some material to use." She switched the car off.

  "I'm coming too."

  There was no arguing with him, so Arie didn't even try. They crossed the blacktop, avoiding craterlike holes and discarded wads of gum. The metal receptacle was one-quarter dark-green paint and one-quarter rust, leaving the remaining half to slime and chunky bits of gunk. It obviously hadn't been hosed out in many years. Arie's stomach churned at the thought of Belinda, such a quietly elegant woman, dying there of all places. She hoped Grumpa wasn't picturing it, but she knew he was.