by J. C. Eaton
One look at the lipstick and I froze. “I’ve seen that crimson color before. On the murder victim’s face. When she was alive.” Alive and accosting me at the winery. “Oh, my gosh. It had to have been written by Devora. That’s the dead woman. Did you read what it said?”
“‘Meet me at the watering hole’ or something to that effect.”
I handed him the bag and all but gave him a hug. “No doubt in my mind. This was written by Devora. The victim. Not a random tourist. Holy cow! Did you read it carefully? It says, ‘Agreed. Pick the time. It better be a scenic watering hole for a reshoot.’ Reshoot! Scenic watering hole! The Ipswiches’ irrigation pond! Whoever had Devora’s note in their possession is the killer. You have to call Deputy Hickman right this minute.”
“He’ll get my report. There are procedures, you know.”
“Look, whoever killed Devora lured her to that pond. She probably didn’t want anyone else in the film crew to know she was reconsidering the location for the shoot. She couldn’t say anything out loud so she wrote a note on a memo pad. Heck, everyone takes those things from hotel rooms. I think it’s included in the price.”
The lab guy rolled his eyes and started to say something but I kept talking. “Don’t you get it? Most likely the killer stuffed the note in a coat pocket and it fell out. Take a good look at it. It wasn’t wadded up like trash.”
“Uh-huh. I need to get going. I only gather the evidence.”
“If you must know,” I said, “Deputy Hickman and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms. I think he considers me to be nosy and intrusive.”
The lab guy rubbed his chin and stared at me. “Uh-huh.”
“And he doesn’t like me speculating or theorizing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you’ll call him, right?”
“I’ll follow the protocol outlined by the Yates County Sheriff’s Office. Don’t worry, he’ll get a full report.”
On what? The brand of lipstick?
“You have to call him. Like now. Like right now. You need to compare the lipstick on that note with Devora’s. I guarantee it’ll be a match. Not many women can get away with wearing vampire red lipstick. Listen, I know Devora’s purse was in the van. It’s got to be in some evidence locker by now. Get the purse, find her lipstick, and do whatever it is you do in order to make the comparison. Hurry.”
“I’m the only technician in the lab today and right now my immediate concern is writing that report.”
“To hell with the damn report. Do something useful. Find the killer. Do I need to hunt you down and make sure you do that? ”
I’ve seen people run during all sorts of sprints and relays, but the lab guy had them beat by a mile. He raced to his car without even a simple, “See you” or “Bye.” In retrospect, I may have been a bit overly zealous.
I didn’t hold out any great hope that he or any member of the forensic department would immediately process the evidence, but I was sure of one thing—that note came from Devora Dobrowski and not her restless spirit, as Glenda would profess. Like it or not, that part of the puzzle would have to wait, unlike Godfrey’s discovery.
I picked up the landline and dialed his number, anxious to find out who was behind the wheel of that Mercedes and what possible connection they could have to Stefan. Drat! The call went to Godfrey’s voicemail, directing me to leave a message or to call the entomology department’s main line if it was an emergency.
What kind of emergency? Stink bugs in the pantry? Been there.
I groaned and, trying not to sound too whiny, asked Godfrey to please call me the minute he got my message.
Zenora wasn’t due for another couple of hours so I used that time to boil spaghetti for dinner, work on my screenplay, and review the suspect clock I had completed in the guest bathroom. Under Devora’s name I added, “Left cryptic note with time and place for killer.”
True, I wasn’t a hundred percent certain it was Devora’s note, but honestly, who else could have written it? Not Priscilla. Her shade of lipstick was more peachy. Pinkish even, but certainly not blood-spattering red. And as far as I could tell, none of the men were into crossdressing. It had to have come from Devora. Maybe Deputy Hickman would run a handwriting analysis but I didn’t count on it.
Meanwhile, I had to find an unobtrusive way for Zenora to read Priscilla’s tea leaves and find out if the actress was the one who snuck into my bedroom. And if so, who was she protecting and why? With the filming over, there was no reason for her to return to the winery, unless, of course, I could come up with one. And if I did, it would have to be convincing.
I added Ragu sauce to my spaghetti and opened one of Francine’s packets of soy-a-meal meat-like crumbles. I was too lazy to prepare a meal that took more than two or three steps, and I was way too tired to head back to the bistro. With enough sauce and grated cheese, the soy crumbles could almost pass as meat.
With the dishes done, I returned to my screenplay and waited it out for Godfrey’s call and Zenora’s visit. Outside, wet snow began to fall with more intensity than it had during the earlier part of the day. It was that heavy, yucky stuff that called for studded snow tires, or at the very least newer treads. I figured by Sunday we’d be socked in if the hype about Neville turned out to be true.
Sometimes we’d get forecasts predicting record snow, only to wind up with a few inches and feeble excuses about changes in the jet stream. I wondered if Neville would hold up.
I returned my gaze from the window back to the laptop when two things happened at once. I heard a weird screeching noise from the front of the house at the exact moment the phone rang.
“Probably an owl,” I said to Charlie as I got up and walked to the landline. No sooner had I answered than the outside noise got louder.
“It’s Godfrey. Are your bird-in-distress machines running, because I can hear them in the background.”
“Um, I hear it, too, but it’s not our machines. We only run those during the harvest to prevent anything with feathers from eating the grapes before we can pick them. Give me a second. It’s still light out. I’ll take a peek and see what’s going on.”
I put the receiver on the table and walked to the front window. A few yards away, a woman clad in a long yellow cape with bizarre renderings of suns, moons, and stars was circling the house, lifting her arms in the air and spreading them out as she continued to walk around the building. She paused at intervals and assumed what looked like yoga warrior poses.
That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the chant. It sounded like a combination of keening, screeching, and yowling. I stood by the window with my mouth wide open until I remembered Godfrey was still on the line. I hurried to the phone and took a breath. “It’s Zenora. Glenda’s friend. Doing a ritualistic house cleansing. Apparently she decided to start outside.”
“Yeesh. Zenora. I remember her from that reading of your wine distributor’s will. Is her hair still whirling around her face like a giant tumbleweed?”
“I can’t really tell. She’s wearing some sort of bizarre head covering. Looks like a turban that started to unroll.”
“Why on earth is she there in the first place? You don’t believe in that stuff.”
“True, but Glenda wouldn’t let it go so I figured what would be the harm to have Zenora come over.” Just then, the most horrific, bone-chilling wail cut through the walls of the house like a blade. “Hang on, I better go check this out.”
Back to the window I went, only Zenora was out of my sight line. I ran to the kitchen window, and sure enough there was Zenora, only this time in a pose that would defy the most accomplished yoga instructor. I opened the door and shouted, “What happened?”
Zenora rose from the ground and walked toward me. “The darkest energy field imaginable. I need to complete my protective circle before I can enter your house.”
“Okay, but can you do it quietly? Alvin’s not too far away and he has a tendency to go berserk when he hears strange noises.”
“Everything’s fine,” I told Godfrey. “Protective chant, that’s all. Tell me, who owns that black Mercedes? How did you find out?”
“The car’s owned by Brouse Candies out of Toronto. Good thing you were able to get the plate number. I contacted a friend at the agricultural department and asked him if he knew anything about a visit from Brouse Candies. Honestly, Norrie, I really wasn’t up for sifting through all that boring departmental correspondence.”
“Did he know who was in the car?”
“He works with food additives, not law enforcement. The only reason he knew the car belonged to Brouse Candies was because they have to register the license plate number with security so they can park the car in a reserved section on campus. All my friend did was call and confirm that the car was on campus the day you spotted it. He already knew that Brouse Candies had meetings with representatives from the agricultural department and told security as much.”
“Then the rumors were true. About Gerard Dobrowski being in the area during the time of Devora’s murder. I can’t put it off any longer. I’ve got to force the truth out of Stefan and get him to admit why he was in that Mercedes. It wouldn’t surprise me if Gerard paid him off to kill Devora. Gerard certainly didn’t want his estranged wife to get her hands on his candy fortune. What better way than to use someone she trusted?”
“I’ll give you this much, money and greed are strong motivators, but how would Stefan have managed it?”
“The note! The note was meant for him!”
“What note? You lost me.”
“Oh, my gosh. So many things keep happening at once that I’m losing track myself. I need to add a time line to my suspect clock.”
“Suspect clock? Now I’m really baffled.”
I inhaled, relaxed my shoulders, and proceeded to tell Godfrey about the lab tech and the murder notes that had now taken over the guest bathroom. When I finished, the only thing he could say was, “Whoa.” Well, that and “Let Deputy Hickman deal with it. If Stefan is the killer and you go after him, you’re likely to be his next victim.”
“You sound like Bradley and Theo,” I said. “The three of you should team up. I wanted to confront Stefan days ago but everything else got in the way. I can’t put it off.”
“Aargh. Francine warned me about how impulsive you were. Look, if you must speak with the guy, make it a public place. Better yet, a crowded public place. And maybe you shouldn’t go alone.”
“Is that an offer to help?”
“It’s an offer to keep you out of trouble. Don’t do anything rash without calling me. Fair enough?”
“Uh-huh. And thanks, Godfrey. I really do owe you.”
Just then I heard three raps on the door followed by a singsong wail, “It’s meeeeeeeeeee.”
Unless banshees had moved to the west shore of Seneca Lake, it had to be Zenora.
Chapter 27
I put the receiver in its cradle and went to the kitchen door to let Zenora in. The sky had gone from murky gray to pitch black in a matter of minutes. The second she set foot in the door, she recoiled and pulled a small vial of who knows what from the pocket of her black gauchos.
“Hyssop oil for combating negativity. I ran out of myrrh.”
She said it matter-of-factly, as if she had run out of milk or sugar.
I held up my palm and widened my eyes. “Don’t drip it anywhere. Um, maybe you’d like to put your cape over one of the chairs.”
“Good idea. Don’t worry, all I plan to do is wave the vial of oil in my immediate vicinity until a sense of calmness takes over and I can begin the interior chant.”
With that, Zenora removed what was left of the turban and flung the solar system cape, for lack of a better description, over one of the kitchen chairs. She proceeded to wave the glass vial across her chest. Her long grayish black hair fell in waves across her back and shoulders. Up close, I could see small crow’s-feet and the start of marionette lines around her mouth. With the dark hair against her pale skin, I guessed her age to be late forties or maybe even early fifties. I was pretty certain the contrast in coloring made her look older and more severe.
“I can begin now,” she said.
“Um, sure. You can—”
“Yeeowl! Yeeaw! Yeeyee habamana, habamana.” The words flew out of her mouth like a primordial scream. Charlie raced up the stairs and most likely hid under the nearest bed. Zenora continued her protective chant while I stood speechless in the middle of the kitchen before venturing into the other rooms to watch. She moved about the house, staying close to the exterior walls. Occasionally she’d pause, take out that vial of hers, wave it around, and then continue with her mantra.
It was hard to believe that the woman I watched was formerly known as Mabel Ann and still made her living as a file clerk for one of the university libraries. Most likely in a remote part of the building.
Finally, I took a seat at the kitchen table, leaned my elbow on the flat surface, and rested my head in the palm of my hand. The loud screeching, grinding noise penetrated my eardrums and I wondered if I’d ever be able to decipher human speech again. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Zenora walked into the kitchen and said, “I used an elemental dispersion technique to send the cleansing spirits to the upper level of your house.”
“Dispersion technique?”
“A special waving motion to capture the energy in the air.”
I swallowed. “Good. Very good.” I figured if nothing else, the dog would appreciate her remaining on the ground floor.
“I need to do the same thing with your basement. Can you point me to the door?”
“Over there,” I said, pointing to the latched door. “If you need the light, there’s a switch on the other side of the door.”
“No light needed. Only energy.”
I watched from my seat at the table as Zenora opened the door, waved her arms and mumbled something that sounded like “habanero peppers.” When she completed her ritual chant, she returned to the table and sat down.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “Cleansing a house takes so much spiritual and physical energy.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee? Or some tea? I’ve got peppermint and green tea.”
“Green tea would be lovely.”
I walked to the Keurig, selected the appropriate K-Cup pod and plopped it in.
“Automatic tea?” Zenora gasped. “You’re making automatic tea?”
I nodded. “Is something wrong? It tastes fine. I think it’s just dehydrated tea leaves compressed into these tiny pods.”
Zenora looked as if she’d dropped a priceless heirloom. “But there won’t be any tea leaves to read.”
Suddenly I had my moment. My opportunity to request the favor of all time from her. I added bottled water to the Keurig and turned on the machine. “Zenora, would you be willing to read Priscilla McCoy’s tea leaves?”
“The actress? The one who was filming in your vineyard? Glenda told me all about her. Does she want her tea leaves read?”
“No. I do.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
The blue light came on the Keurig and I plopped the green tea pod into position. “Okay. I’m not sure how much Glenda’s told you exactly, but Priscilla might have been coerced into sneaking in here to leave the victim’s eyeglasses in my nightstand.”
“Glenda mentioned the glasses. Thought it was Devora’s doing.”
“Yeah, well, I’m more inclined to believe it was someone who could actually hold them, as opposed to . . . oh, I don’t know. Teleporting them?”
“Glenda and I understand the powers that the restless dead may have. It’s a gift.”
I tried not to roll my eyes but it was tough. “If it wasn’t Devora’s doing, it might have been Priscilla. I thought maybe if you read her tea leaves, you could say something that would convince her to tell the truth. Priscilla’s kind of high strung and one Kl
eenex away from a full- blown sobfest.”
The machine stopped its chortling noises and I handed Zenora the cup of tea. “I have sugar and honey.”
“I like my tea as is.” She took a sip and held the cup in her hand. “You know, reading someone’s tea leaves could take hours. And from what I sense, having cleansed your house, Priscilla might not have acted alone. I felt more than one undesirable presence in here.”
Most likely Deputy Hickman.
“So you won’t do it?”
“Not the tea leaves, something more profound. If you really want to find out who was in your house, you’ll have to accept the fact that it may have been the murderer. In order to do that, I will need to read everyone’s auras.”
Auras. At least I won’t have to go to Wegmans to buy loose-leaf tea.
“The entire film crew? All seven of them?” I swore I could hear my voice crack.
Zenora placed the cup on the table and covered her mouth. For a moment I thought she was going to be sick. “Seven. The number seven. Glenda didn’t prepare me for this.”
“What’s wrong with the number seven? It’s a prime number, sure, but there are lots of those.”
Zenora pressed her fingertips into her temples and took a breath. “Seven is a biblical number and a mystical number. Its associations are far-reaching and incomprehensible.”
“So I guess the answer is no?”
“On the contrary. One murder victim and seven auras is a sign I can’t ignore.”
“Great. Auras. Um, not to sound dismissive, but isn’t aura reading about personality traits? How’s that going to help me find out the truth?”
“Auras can change with a person’s current circumstance. Think of them like flickering lights. And some colors cannot be ignored. Brown for confusion. Deep red or purple for sudden change, and black, the most toxic of all. A black aura can mean someone is harboring anger, or worse yet, hatred. Once revealed, the puzzle pieces you’ve toiled over will suddenly fit. Names and information will be like tiny pieces of metal drawn to a powerful magnet.”
For a minute, all I could think of were those silly magnetic games we played as kids, putting hair on a cartoon character’s face. I knew Zenora didn’t go into the guest bathroom because I watched her as she did her chant. And yet, I had the most unsettling feeling she knew exactly what was on the oval mirror.
