“I believe I am,” I said. “What’s more, I think Felicity here has synesthesia, too. I don’t think her case is as messed up as mine, but I’m certain she has some form of it. That’s why she said my hair smelled like purple.”
Felicity had retreated into her corner, and she squatted there, hugging her legs, listening and watching as we spoke. I looked over at her and smiled.
“Everybody here is your friend, Felicity,” I said to her. “Won’t you come sit with us and draw some pictures?” I didn’t wait for her to answer. I sat down cross-legged on the floor—my newly freed leg protesting with a dull ache that reminded me I wasn’t fully healed yet—and opened the bag of crayons. I took a piece of paper and found a flesh-colored crayon that was more orange than anything. Using it, I drew the shape of a face and then added a nose and some ears. Then I swapped the crayon for a blue one and colored in some eyes. Next, I used a black crayon to provide the outline of the eyes, some eyelashes, and a head of short black hair. I finished it off in red, drawing some lips and adding a rosy color to the cheeks.
Irene had joined me, and she began to draw as well. Her picture was of a flower: a bright green stem, several green leaves, and red petals. The woman obviously had some artistic talent; the flower she had drawn was a rose, and there was shadowing, color fades, and linear details that gave it a three-dimensional look.
Duncan, Ms. Parnell, and Jerry stood in the doorway, watching quietly. Felicity stood, sliding up the wall, and took a step toward me and Irene. But then she stopped and eyed the trio in the doorway suspiciously.
“Mind if I join you?” Jerry said. He stepped into the room, sat down on the floor next to his wife, and took a piece of paper and a crayon.
Duncan and Parnell remained standing in the doorway. “I need to make some calls,” Duncan said. “Do you mind if I go upstairs?”
“Not at all,” Irene said. “Make yourself at home.”
Ms. Parnell glanced at her watch and said, “It seems you have things under control now. If it’s all right with all of you, I’m going to head out. I have another case I need to follow up on.”
I waved her away, glad to be rid of her. I got the sense that Ms. Parnell was suffering from a bad case of job burnout, and her presence here would only complicate things.
Both she and Duncan disappeared upstairs. The rest of us sat on the floor coloring pictures, and after a moment, Felicity walked over and sat down with us, positioning herself close to me. She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them, watching us but not participating.
“Felicity, I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened at your house,” I said. I kept drawing and didn’t look at her. Irene and Jerry glanced at her, but they, too, kept drawing. “Something bad happened at your house yesterday,” I said. “I’m wondering if you saw any of it.”
Felicity began to rock back and forth.
“If you did see something,” I continued, “you could draw a picture of it.”
A minute, perhaps two, ticked by. Felicity continued to watch and rock, and I was about to try coaxing her some more when she suddenly reached forward and grabbed a piece of paper. She set it on the floor in front of her, turned it ninety degrees, stared at it, and then turned it back to its original position. She then repositioned herself so she was lying on her side. After studying the bag of crayons for a moment, she reached in and pulled out a red one. Holding it in her fist like a dagger, she put it to the paper and began scribbling. The crayon slashed across the page over and over and over again, eventually becoming more circular. Felicity quickly filled the middle of the page with a deep, red blotch. Gradually, she increased the pressure on the crayon, and the paper began to tear.
Irene, Jerry, and I had ceased our own efforts, and we watched Felicity with a mixture of worry and curiosity. Once the tear in the paper made it nearly impossible for Felicity to continue scribbling on it, she raised her hand up and stabbed the paper, breaking the crayon in the process. Then she looked up at us, her eyes huge, and yelled a single word at the top of her lungs.
“BANG!”
All three of us jumped. I waited, expecting Felicity to burst into tears or crawl back into her corner, or do some other version of an emotional withdrawal. But instead she sat there staring at me with those big eyes, the most direct eye contact I’d ever had with her.
After taking a few seconds to calm myself, I pointed to the torn, red, scribbled page and said, “Is this blood, Felicity?”
She nodded. I swallowed hard, realizing this meant she had likely seen her father’s dead body at the least, and perhaps had seen him get shot. Then the darker thought came to mind, the one I didn’t want to consider. Perhaps she was the one who had shot him. Even as the thought went through my mind, I shook my head. I didn’t want to accept the idea.
I took out my cell phone and pulled up the picture of Mal that I had shown her before. “Felicity, do you know this man? I showed you this picture yesterday. Do you remember?” I was tense, half-expecting her to scream or scramble backward toward her corner, but she did none of those things. She simply nodded.
“This man was in your house yesterday. Did you see him?”
Clear as a bell, she said, “Yes.” She looked away toward the wall, made a fist with one hand, and then punched the palm of her other hand, saying, “Pow!”
I gathered from this that she had seen Mal struggle with her father. She must’ve come out of her cubbyhole, though in the heat of the moment Mal hadn’t seen her.
“Bad man,” Felicity said, the same descriptor she’d used the day before. It made sense, given Mal’s recitation of the events that had taken place. But I also knew Mal hadn’t shot Sheldon Janssen. And I didn’t want to believe Felicity had either.
“Did you see anyone else in your house yesterday?” I asked Felicity next.
She nodded again, and my heart leaped. “Can you tell me who you saw? Or if you don’t want to talk, can you draw who you saw?”
There was no response from her for a minute or so. Then she reached over, picked up a black crayon, and drew an arch of black circles on a piece of paper. She paused and studied it a moment, and then traded the black crayon for a pink one and drew an oval shape beneath the black circles. I realized she was drawing a face. Over the next couple of minutes, she added brown eyes, a pink nose, and a red mouth to the face. Then she picked out a blue crayon and drew wavy blue lines running down from both of the eyes. When she was done, she set the blue crayon aside and sat there, her face bent over the picture, her arms hugging her torso.
“This looks like a woman,” I said. “Is it a woman?”
Felicity nodded, her head still down, staring at the picture.
I studied the blue lines and asked, “Is she crying?”
Again, Felicity nodded.
“Do you know her name?”
Felicity finally looked up at me. “Little peach,” she said in a soft, sad voice.
I pondered her answer, trying to figure out what it meant. Was she referring to some sort of synesthetic reaction to the woman? Or some reference to the woman’s name?
“Is that her name?” I asked.
Felicity turned and crawled back to her corner, curling into a sitting fetal position, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around her legs. She began to rock.
I looked over at Irene. “Does the term little peach make any sense, or mean anything to you?”
Irene shook her head.
Duncan returned then, and he paused in the doorway, studying the scene in the room. “Any progress?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.” I showed him the picture, explained how it had come to be, and then told him what Felicity had said. “I have no idea what she means by little peach,” I concluded.
Duncan’s brow furrowed as he contemplated the term.
“And I don’t know if she’s going to give us anything more right now,” I added. “Perhaps we should take the picture she drew and show it to someone e
lse, to see if it rings any bells?”
I knew Duncan understood right away what I was referring to. We could show the picture to Mal and ask him if he recognized the woman, or had any idea what the little peach reference might mean. Duncan nodded. “Good idea.”
I grabbed the picture and got up from the floor. I walked over and handed it to him. “Let me see if I can get her settled down for the night before we leave.” Again, he nodded. I switched my attention to Irene. “Do you have a mattress of some sort that we can put on the floor in here?”
She nodded, and gave her husband a questioning look. Jerry disappeared and returned a moment later with a twin-size mattress that had a sheet on it. He carried it into the room and set it on the floor next to where Felicity was sitting.
“I’d like some time alone with her, if you don’t mind,” I said to the room. “I’ll see if I can talk her into being a little more cooperative and a little less upset with things.”
No one questioned or objected, and I soon found myself alone in the room with Felicity.
“Okay, Felicity,” I said. “It’s just you and me now, and we need to have an important talk.”
Chapter 14
I spent an hour with Felicity, bringing her some food and making sure she ate it, getting her to the bathroom to wash up and brush her teeth, and giving her the clean water glass Duncan brought us to use, which I then carefully handed back to him. He dropped it into an evidence bag so it could be used to lift Felicity’s fingerprints. Felicity and I then returned to the bedroom, and I settled her on the mattress, which Jerry had kindly augmented with a top sheet, two blankets, and a pillow. I talked to Felicity the entire time, sharing my synesthetic reactions to the various things we encountered, and explaining to her that Jerry and Irene were good, friendly people who wouldn’t hurt her and wanted to help her. She cooperated fully and showed no signs of revolt. I told her I would be back to see her again, but I wasn’t sure when.
“Just be patient and wait for me, okay?” I said, and she nodded, studying her thumbnail like it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. “And do what Irene and Jerry ask you to do.” Again, she nodded. “I’m your friend, Felicity, okay? You and I are friends.”
She looked me in the eye for the first time during this hour of one-on-one companionship, and her face broke into a tentative smile. On impulse, I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. As soon as I did it, I realized it might be too aggressive a move for her. She didn’t like people touching her. I anticipated a sudden withdrawal, but instead, she shocked me by letting forth with a hearty laugh.
I left her, still smiling, and closed the door to her room. Then I went upstairs to clue the others in on what had transpired. The mood in the house, now that Parnell was gone, was noticeably lighter. Irene and Jerry thanked me profusely and had no objection to my coming back to see Felicity again. In fact, I got the sense they wouldn’t mind if I simply moved in with them for a while.
It was dark when we left, and Duncan and I rode in silence for the first five minutes or so. I was content with the quiet—my head creates enough noise all on its own—and was almost disappointed when Duncan finally spoke.
“You’ve got quite a way with the kid,” he said.
I shrugged. “Just lucky, I think.”
“I think not.”
I looked over at him, smiled, and said, “Thanks.”
“While you were working your magic with Felicity, I made some calls regarding the case your Capone Club members were curious about.”
“And?”
“And the lead detective on the case said it was closed. The victim was overweight and smoked, and it seemed apparent he died of a heart attack in his sleep. The ME decided not to do an autopsy.”
“So we’re just going to let it go?” I said with a frown, dreading the passing on of this news to the group.
“No. I persuaded the detective on the case to convince the ME to post the guy.”
“You did?” I gave him a grateful smile.
“I did. It wasn’t easy.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said in a cautionary tone. “Odds are the ME either won’t do the post, or will do it and find exactly what they expect.”
“At least if they do the autopsy, I can tell the group there’s nothing to the case,” I ventured. I realized then that we weren’t on our way back to the bar. “Where are we going?”
“To see Mal. I want to show him that picture the kid drew.”
“Good,” I said. “I want to check in on him anyway, to make sure he’s okay.”
I saw Duncan shoot me a glance. “You’re quite fond of him, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I admitted. “He’s a great guy.”
“I’m a little jealous.”
“You don’t need to be,” I assured him. “Though I understand why you are. I do care a lot for Mal, and if you weren’t in the picture, I suppose I might try to make something work between the two of us.”
“Then I best make sure I stay in the picture,” Duncan said, sounding grave. He reached over with one hand and took mine.
He drove one-handed the rest of the way, holding my hand the entire time. His touch and warmth were reassuring and comforting to me, and it was with reluctance that I finally pulled my hand free when we had reached our destination. I started to get out of the car once Duncan had parked and turned off the engine, but he reached over and grabbed my arm, stopping me.
“Hold on a second,” he said. He pulled me toward him and leaned into me at the same time. Then he gave me a nice, long, delicious kiss on the mouth.
“Wow. I kind of like this slightly jealous version of you,” I said when we finally pulled apart.
“Good,” he said with a wink and a smile. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
We finally got out of the car and headed around to the back of the house, entering through the same basement sliding door we’d used on our previous trip. Duncan had called Mal to let him know it was us, using the burner phone he’d gotten for him earlier.
I was heartened by the sight of Mal. His color had improved, and he no longer looked haggard and sickly. He wasn’t back to his old self yet, but I could tell he was on the mend. I greeted him with a hug—a gentle one, lest I aggravate his wounds—and told him his family was safe but worried about him.
“I thought they might be worried,” he said, looking pained. He handed me an envelope. “I wrote them a letter. Would you mind giving it to them?”
“Of course.”
He stepped back then, and eyed me from head to toe. “You got your cast off,” he said with a smile.
“I did. And I don’t miss it a bit.”
“I’ll bet not. How’s the elevator project going?”
“It’s almost done. And it’s fantastic. Thanks so much for tackling the project for me.”
Duncan cleared his throat behind us, and I gave Mal a guilty smile and rolled my eyes before turning away from him.
“Mal, I’ve got something I need you to look at,” Duncan said, taking Felicity’s drawing from his pocket. “The little girl, Sheldon Janssen’s daughter, drew this for Mack today. She indicated that she saw someone at the house when Janssen was killed, and when Mack asked her who it was, she drew this. Does it look familiar to you?”
Mal took the picture and studied it. Despite the crudeness of the drawing, the basic descriptors were apparent. He gave it a full minute and then shook his head.
“No worries,” Duncan said, taking the picture back. “How are you fixed for food and supplies?”
“I’m good for another few days,” he said. “Any other leads in the Janssen case?”
Duncan shook his head. “I talked to Klein and asked him when he last saw Janssen. He said it was on the night before he was killed, and only for a few minutes. Janssen dropped by his house, and when I asked him why Janssen was there, he said it was to discuss some problems with one of the job sites. When I asked
him what sort of problems, he gave me some vague answer about personnel issues.”
“I’m guessing I was that issue,” Mal said. “And I’m certain Janssen shared his concerns regarding me.”
“Assuming that’s true, you need to stay hidden for now,” Duncan said. “Work on that picture. If that woman was there when Janssen was killed, there’s a good chance she was the one who killed him.”
“When I asked Felicity if she knew the woman’s name, she said little peach,” I told Mal. “Does that trigger anything for you?”
Mal arched his eyebrows. “Actually, yes, it does. Though I’m not sure how it relates. I overheard Janssen talking to one of the other guys on the job site about a kid of his who he said had died. He never mentioned her by name, but he referred to her as his little peach.”
This information was disappointing. “So maybe Felicity was referring to her dad being there,” I said. “Maybe she didn’t understand what I was asking. Except . . .” I hesitated, thinking.
“Except what?” Duncan asked.
“Well, that picture she drew definitely wasn’t her father, and it certainly looks like a woman.”
Mal scratched his head. “You might want to try talking to a guy named Norman Chandler,” he said. “He works for the company, and he and Janssen were good friends. Based on conversations I’ve heard between the two of them, they go back a long way and socialize together. Maybe he’ll know who this woman is.”
Duncan nodded. “Okay. I’ll see if I can track him down.”
We spent an hour with Mal, chatting about the case and other things, including his family and the elevator. He thanked me for taking his family in and ensuring their safety, and said he felt bad they had put me out.
“I’m not out,” I said. “I’m sleeping in a very cozy bedroom set up in my basement.”
Mal looked surprised at this. “You mean the bed I’ve been sleeping in?”
I nodded. “I hope that’s okay,” I said.
“Of course it is,” Mal said with a chuckle. “It’s your house, your bar. You can sleep anywhere you want to. I just assumed you were staying at Duncan’s.”
Last Call Page 14
