Day Shift

by Charlaine Harris

  Freemont said, “So you contend that you were at Vespers for your . . .” He looked down at a paper. “Client weekend, the same weekend your friend from this tiny, tiny town is there, completely by coincidence. Also by coincidence, the people you both meet happen to die.”

  It did sound fishy, put that way.

  “He doesn’t contend that, he states it,” Ms. Powell said calmly. “Because that is exactly what happened. He never met the couple who died so tragically. His acquaintance, Olivia Charity, never met Rachel Goldthorpe, at least not to my client’s knowledge. This is all nothing more than coincidence, the kind the world is always throwing at us. Mr. Bernardo has never seen Mrs. Goldthorpe’s allegedly missing jewelry. You can hardly charge my client with her death when you don’t know what killed her. So that’s the end of this conversation.” Ms. Powell got smoothly to her feet. Following her lead, so did Manfred. “This was a long way for my client to drive to answer a few questions he’s answered before.” Nobly, she did not mention her own inconvenience, because she would get paid for it. “I trust you won’t demand his presence again.”

  “Only if the tox screen shows something,” Freemont said, suddenly sounding bored. He stood, too, towering over them. “And you ought to know, that little shit Lewis Goldthorpe plans on dragging your client through as much mud as he can.”

  Ms. Powell and Manfred left the Bonnet Park police/fire station within an hour of entering it. Manfred realized he was now much poorer, but since he was walking out a free man, the price was fair. Ms. Powell was silent until they reached her car. Then she said, “I think we should bring action against Lewis Goldthorpe.”

  “Won’t that just draw more attention to a bad situation?”

  “Depends on what he accuses you of. If he tells the world you’re a thief, you may be sorry you didn’t get a preemptive strike in.”

  “It would be best for me if this just went away. Any more time in the news, and my reputation’s going to be terrible, anyway. If there’s any big exposé on me because of this publicity, I’m not going to come out looking good. And frankly, I’m as nice a guy as they come in the psychic business.”

  “Interesting way to put it.” The lawyer looked at him.

  He shrugged. “But so true.”

  “Why do you think Lewis Goldthorpe is gunning for you?”

  “Because Mom always liked me best.”

  When Ms. Powell looked blank, Manfred said, “Because his mother never got along with Lewis, and she did with me. She didn’t know me very well, so that made it easy. If she’d really spent a lot of time with me, it might have been a different story. But I didn’t want her possessions, I got along fine with her husband because he was dead, I listened to all her stories because she was a nice lady, and I believe in an afterlife, like she did.”

  “Whereas Lewis . . . ?”

  “Fought with her husband when he was alive, badgered her about anything she planned to leave her children, didn’t believe in any psychic help I could offer her, and wasn’t at all interested in his nieces and nephews. Plus, he doesn’t really believe in life after death.”

  “So you think that’s all it takes to keep a woman’s attention and loyalty? Not coveting her possessions? Listening to her stories?”

  “Whoa! I think we just veered off the course. I wasn’t saying that at all. I was saying that was why Rachel was glad to talk to me rather than her own son. I was less demanding and more accepting.”

  Ms. Powell took a deep breath and visibly calmed herself. “Sorry,” she said.

  “You’re going through a rough patch in your own life,” Manfred observed.

  “Not hard to tell,” she said, and smiled ruefully. “Sorry for being unprofessional. I’m back in lawyer mode now.”

  “Has Lewis actually accused me with the police?”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “So why haven’t I been arrested?”

  “Because there’s no evidence to prove you took her jewelry.”

  “Then why can’t his allegations be ignored?”

  “Because her jewelry still isn’t around, and though they don’t really believe him, it’s possible he’s right.”

  “So I’m over a barrel until the jewelry is found. My situation is completely the same. Why did they call me in here?”

  She was looking off into the distance. Her eyes went to his face. “Fishing expedition,” she said. “A waste of my time and your money.”

  Manfred looked at her doubtfully. “My time is money, too,” he pointed out. He couldn’t help but feel a little offended.

  “I’ll bet it’s not as valuable as mine,” she said.

  And he was sure that when he got his bill, he would agree.

  As he drove back to Midnight, Manfred thought about the bottom line on this little “fishing expedition.” The detectives didn’t know anything new, he hadn’t completely dispelled their suspicions—though he was convinced he’d weakened them—and he’d lost hours of work time.

  On the plus side, he’d gotten to know his lawyer, and he found himself much more confident he’d stay out of jail.

  Magdalena Orta Powell was not exactly what he’d expected, and he was pretty sure she felt the same about him.

  15

  Olivia had gotten a phone call from Lemuel during the middle hours of the night. Lemuel did not like the telephone, but he had overcome his natural aversion to call her because he knew it would make her feel better. The conversation had been brief.

  “Olivia, I am now in New Orleans.”

  She was silent for a second, dismayed at how relieved she was to hear his voice. “You learning a lot about the books?” she said, when her silence made her uncomfortable.

  “I have found a woman who is knowledgeable. A female vampire.”

  “Great. Are you feeling . . . Have you gotten enough food?” Olivia was always cautious about being explicit on the telephone. She knew how easily someone could listen in.

  “There is abundance here,” Lemuel assured her. “I need only walk into a bar.”

  She smiled. “And do you have an idea of how long you’ll be gone?”

  “Not as of yet.”

  “Then let me know when you’re coming back.” She hesitated. “It feels strange to walk past your apartment, since I know you’re not in it. It feels funny that you’re not here.”

  “I miss you, too. Be careful and vigilant.”

  “Good-bye.”

  And he’d hung up without saying good-bye in return. That was Lemuel’s conversational style. She was satisfied with the conversation, though she had to repress a twinge of unease, bordering on jealousy, that Lemuel’s source for information about the long-lost and mysterious books was a female, and a vampire. Lemuel was more susceptible to women than men as bedmates, though he would take energy or blood from anyone except small children. Having two sources of sustenance was like being a hybrid car.

  He preferred the energy, because it was easier and cleaner to acquire, and he could sip it from many people. Taking blood left an obvious mark, and sometimes a body, because it was certainly possible to get carried away on the odd occasion. In the same way, though he preferred sex with women, he’d had connections with men, he’d told her quite casually. “Weren’t too many women around,” he’d said, during her favorite together time—postsex. “And vampires like me don’t have the gift of the glamour.”

  There had been a lot of questions Olivia had wanted to ask, but in the interest of appearing tolerant and sophisticated, she had not. And she had realized the next day, while Lemuel was in his day sleep, that no matter how curious she might be about Lemuel’s past and how he’d managed to live his life under his strange circumstances, the most important thing to her was that she had him now. Lemuel was not “hers,” like her car or her bed was hers. And she knew he would outlive her, barring extraordinary circumstances. But he
was hers in a way no one else had ever been; that certainty gave her a fixed point.

  Her cell phone rang, the secret one. The caller would be her agent or someone preapproved.

  A man said, “Is this Rebecca?”

  “I can get a message to her.”

  “I have a job for her.”

  “Who and where?”

  “My bitch of an ex-wife has a family heirloom. She’s holding it for ransom. If I want it back, I have to make concessions in having my kids on the weekends. If I have it, I can tell her to go to hell and I’d see my kids more often.”

  “I don’t need to know why. I need her name and address and a description of the item. Details about her routine.”

  There was a pause. “Sure. Where can I send all that?”

  Olivia gave him an address in Oklahoma.

  “Okay. How do I pay you?”

  “You already know that.” What was he trying to pull? The money went to her agent first, and he took his cut. Then he sent the bulk of it to her account, which wasn’t in America. Lemuel had asked her once how she could be sure her agent was honest. “I know where he lives,” she’d told him.

  “When . . . ?”

  “Soon. I’ll call you at this number when I’ve gotten it.”

  And she hung up, as abruptly as Lemuel had. That thought made her smile. But the smile faded immediately as she thought over the man’s story. She didn’t believe him, at least not entirely. He had tailored it to make her feel good about the theft. He might be a terrible father, and his soon-to-be-ex-wife a paragon of virtue. But it didn’t make any difference to Olivia. She was not a social worker. She took the side she was paid to take.

  She would not go to check the mailbox for another two or three days. It was a long drive. Maybe, in the interim, she could take care of Manfred’s problem. Then the Rev would be off her back, the news media would never again come to Midnight, and the mysterious fast-growing boy—whoever he was—would be safe. And when Lemuel returned, he would not be spotted by anyone who shouldn’t come to Midnight.

  She went out that day, stopping by Manfred’s to see if he’d gotten any more news. He told her about his visit with the Bonnet Park police the day before and about his new esteem for his lawyer. “There aren’t any reporters here today at all,” he said, casting a look out the front windows. “I guess I’m not news since the more exciting developments at Rachel’s house. Yee-haw.”

  “Don’t relax. All it’ll take is another accusation by Lewis Goldthorpe, and you’re back on the hot plate,” she said. She came to the window to look out herself.

  A car pulled up in front of Manfred’s little house.

  “Who . . . ? Oh, shit,” he said, with heartfelt disgust.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Olivia’s lips curled back as she watched a man and a woman get out of the aged car. The man was Lewis Goldthorpe. The woman was a news blogger, and her site had gathered a certain amount of attention from people who liked their news on a screen and on the sensational side. Olivia had seen her on a minor national show. “That’s PNGirl. You know, Paranormal Girl.”

  “She’s asked me for interviews before. Should I answer the door?” Manfred said.

  “Only if you want her to take your picture and put it on the Internet,” Olivia said. “And you know Lewis is going to scream and holler.” She glanced sideways (and a little down) at Manfred. “This is going to make the Rev furious.”

  “Maybe he won’t find out,” her companion said feebly.

  Olivia snorted. “Right,” she said, loading the word down with contempt. “See?”

  The door to the chapel opened. The gaunt, small figure of the Rev was clearly visible for a moment, another person right behind him. Then the chapel door shut.

  “Was that the boy?” Manfred said.

  “Yep.” Olivia thought of sneaking out the back of the house to give Lewis a flat tire, but that would only mean he’d stay in Midnight longer. “If he’d come by himself,” she said, “I could have taken care of this whole situation.”

  She expected Manfred to say something angry and decisive, but when she glanced over at him, he just looked exasperated. “Because finding his car here, and Lewis missing, would sure let me off the hook,” he said, in the manner of one speaking to an idiot.

  “Of course I would take care of the car,” she snapped. She was offended at the suggestion she could not make someone disappear in a professional manner.

  “But he didn’t come by himself, because he doesn’t really want to talk to me person-to-person,” Manfred pointed out. “He wants to rant at me in front of a witness, to emphasize how terribly I exploited his poor sainted mother. He wants to ruin me, because his mother turned to me when she’d reached the end of her tether with him.”

  “Okay, Mr. Insightful, so what’s our next step? By the way, knowing why he’s doing it doesn’t really help a lot.”

  Manfred looked down. He appeared to be counting to ten. Olivia smiled.

  “We still have to get the jewelry back,” Manfred said. “And I think we have to show that it was there all the time. Then he’ll have no more excuse to harass me. Or if he drums something up, no one will credit it.”

  “I can’t gain entry again by a ruse,” Olivia said. The knocking at the door had begun, and they both stepped away from the window, retreating farther into the house to the former dining room. “I’ve tried to break in at night, and that didn’t work. I could try it again. This time, maybe, there won’t be anyone there waiting on me.”

  Though since Falco had died, Olivia’s father had to be sure she’d been in the area. Maybe other men were just hanging around waiting for her. Maybe they would come to Manfred’s place of residence to look for her now. To try to find what connection he had with her. At least her name hadn’t been in the paper; she’d finally tracked down the article online.

  “Or we could ask Fiji if she could help,” Manfred was saying when she pulled herself out of the abyss.

  Olivia felt her mouth fall open. “Fiji? You’ve got to be kidding me. She can’t break and enter.”

  “She wouldn’t go about it the same as you,” he said. “I don’t think you know how powerful Fiji is. You don’t know what she can do.”

  “And you do?”

  He nodded.

  Olivia felt piqued. “In what way?” she demanded.

  “Olivia! You know she’s a witch.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And?”

  “Do you know how good a witch she really is?”

  Olivia reconsidered the first answer that almost flew out of her mouth. Instead, she said, “I guess I can hardly be a big skeptic since I sleep with an energy-draining vampire.”

  “Good point. Anyway, she might come up with a solution that we haven’t thought of.”

  “We can’t cross the road until Lewis and his pet journalist are gone.”

  Without a word, Manfred turned on the television and they watched the news, ignoring the sound of persistent knocking at the front door. Then at the back.

  There was unrest in the Baltic, refugees were dying in Africa, and the stock market wasn’t doing well. Just another wonderful day on the news circuit. In a ludicrous attempt to make the future seem less grim, nutritionists had discovered that cheese curd was a miracle food.

  Olivia said, “I’ve never even seen a cheese curd.”

  “Me, either.”

  That was the extent of their conversation until the knocking stopped and they heard a car drive away.

  Manfred called Fiji right away. “We’re coming over, okay?” he said.

  Olivia heard her say, “Sure. It’s so hot. Want some iced tea?”

  16

  Was that the guy?” Fiji asked as she opened her door. They’d passed an exiting customer as they’d come in, a smiling white-haired lady who’d wished them a good day. She’d been
carrying a cloth shopping bag, and it looked heavy.

  “She sure looked happy,” Manfred said, glancing after the old woman, who’d climbed into an aged Cadillac.

  “Yes,” Fiji said. “She did.” She waited, looking pleasant.

  “Yes, that was the amazing Lewis and a blogger who’s evidently a big name if you love the Internet. Oh, your spell worked great at the police station,” Manfred said.

  “Good!” She turned to lead the way in. The shop area was less crowded; when some of Fiji’s display cases had been destroyed the previous year, she’d liked the look when the room had been cleaned up. When she’d gotten her insurance payment, she’d added more wall shelves and fewer freestanding cabinets. Now Fiji retrieved her office chair from behind the counter and rolled it out to the two upholstered chairs flanking a little wicker table. On the table was a tray with a pitcher of tea and a plate of cookies.

  Olivia and Manfred both helped themselves, though Olivia looked as if she were thinking sarcastic thoughts.

  “What did your visitors want?” Fiji asked.

  Manfred said, “Here’s our problem.” He went on to explain (in what he felt were clear terms): the charges by Lewis, the consequences of Lewis’s harassment to the whole community, and (to Olivia’s anger) the attack she’d faced at the Goldthorpe house.

  Fiji said, “Well, I feel like Don Corleone when the undertaker comes to see him about the rape of his daughter.”

  Manfred began laughing, then stopped in midcackle. “You mean, we should have come to you first? That you could have taken care of it better than we have from the get-go?” Olivia was not laughing a bit.

  Fiji smiled. “Hey, don’t push the analogy too far. I just meant it’s appealing to have someone ask me for help instead of treat me like an extra appendix.”

  “I’ve seen what you can do,” Manfred said. “With great respect.”

  Fiji nodded, her eyes on Olivia. After a moment, Olivia nodded in agreement. Fiji’s shoulders relaxed, and Manfred saw that he hadn’t read the situation right, at all. Fiji had been very anxious about what they’d come to her for, and his request had been a relief. He had to wonder what she’d thought he might say instead.