The Power of Faith: Science Fiction Faith Ferguson Series Book 3

by Andrea M. White

  The Power of Faith

  Andrea M. White

  The Power of Faith

  Copyright © 2019 Andrea M. White.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photo-copying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by iStock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  ISBN 13:9781728961927

  Printed in the United States of America. date: 5/11/19

  Chapter One

  As its doors opened into the entryway, the small private elevator that serviced Faith Ferguson’s Bay State Road condominium was crammed full of her luggage. So much so, that to get out, Faith had to climb over one particularly overstuffed suitcase. She pulled each bag off, then pushed the button to close and lock the door. Kicking off her shoes, Faith walked into the kitchen to make some tea and was pleased to see a box of her favorite pastries sitting on the counter, with a note from her boyfriend, Edward Sinclair, taped on top. It said that he’d been there that morning and that he’d stocked her refrigerator.

  “Oh,” she said, aloud, “thank God.”

  Faith pulled out her phone to call him, and before she had a chance to speak Ed said, “Hey, is this Faith the Fáidh?”

  “Enough of that, I’m hoping to get back to normal, sooner rather than later.”

  “Normal it is,” Ed said. “Are you too tired for me to come over tonight?”

  “No, I’m going to take a nap now, and I should be fine by then. By the way, thanks for the food.”

  “Beth gave me the elevator code. Hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s more than okay. I think that I would have actually cried if I’d had to go out and forage for something to eat.”

  “Shetland to Boston is a long haul, that’s for sure. See you tonight.”

  “Love you,” Faith said, as she ended the call.

  Faith’s desire to be normal was, however, not to be fulfilled as she suddenly received the strongest vision, she’d ever experienced.

  She could barely breathe, as a vision of a dead woman appeared before her. The woman was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. The image was clear, but Faith was so shocked by it, she didn’t make any attempt to see if she could look around and gain any additional information about the scene in front of her. Instead, she immediately placed another call to her boyfriend.

  Ed was a Boston homicide detective, and Faith wondered if he’d been working on a case, and she’d somehow picked up a telepathic message from him. They were both witches of Scottish heritage, known as Buidseach. While Faith had known of her abilities, to at least some extent, all her life, Ed was a newly minted member of the clan and had only learned about his powers over the summer.

  “So much for normal,” Faith said, as he answered.

  “What’s happened?” he asked quietly, not wanting to have to explain anything extraordinary to his, very normal, police partner, Paul Malloy.

  “I just got a vision of a woman lying dead on a floor. You working on anything like that?”

  “Jeez, no. Paul and I have spent the morning going over reports and getting ready to testify at a trial.”

  Stepping away from his desk so as not to be heard, Ed said, “I know you’ve had premonitions, but have you ever had visions before?”

  “Nope, this is all new. Must be related to this Fáidh thing.”

  Over the summer, Faith had learned that in addition to her rather substantial Buidseach abilities, she was also a Fáidh, or seer, who could communicate directly with the Divine. Although the full ramifications of that discovery had yet to be revealed.

  “What exactly did you see?” Ed asked.

  “A woman lying on what looked to be a living room floor in a pool of blood. Nothing to tell me who or where she was.”

  “We don’t have any unsolved cases like that going on. Are you okay?”

  “I am. If this is going to be my life, I’ll just have to roll with it. See you tonight.”

  “Get some rest,” Ed said.

  There were any number of people that Faith could have called to try and get answers about this latest development, but she was just too tired. So, after making herself a bowl of soup, she went into her living room. Her large bay windows overlooked Boston’s Charles River, and Faith found the familiar scene to be both beautiful and reassuring. She was home, and would deal with whatever her new, enhanced, life presented her.

  ******

  Ed Sinclair had been home from Scotland’s Shetland Islands for over two months, and since that time, as Faith had predicted, the fact that he was Buidseach had faded into the background. He was back to his real job of Boston homicide detective, and that was just fine with him. That said, Ed was having some fun doing things like using his power of levitation to retrieve the television remote, and his power over the natural elements to save what had been a rather sad looking ficus tree in his apartment. Other than those mild indulgences and reading some books on the craft that he’d brought back from Scotland, Ed focused on the real world, and his real job. That was about to change, however, as a call came into Boston’s District Four Police Station.

  “Come on, we’ve got a body,” Paul Malloy said as he put down the phone.

  A drive across town brought them to the Haverland Theatre, which they found to be surrounded by police cars and emergency vehicles.

  Walking into the lobby, they saw a group of people corralled in one corner.

  “Who are they?” Paul asked one of the officers.

  “Some of the cast, and that guy over there’s the director. He found the victim. She was evidently the star of the show.”

  “Okay,” Paul said, “get their statements, contact information, and hold on to them.”

  As they walked toward the stage, the detectives saw a young woman lying motionless on the floor. Ed’s eye’s widened. The woman was lying in the middle of a set that appeared to be a living room. Without comment, he stepped off to the side and called Faith.

  “Can you describe the scene you saw?” Ed asked.

  “A blond girl, in a maroon dress, lying on the floor.”

  “Do you remember anything about the living room?” Ed asked.

  “It was old fashioned. Like something from the early nineteen hundreds.”

  “It was a stage set. I’m there,” Ed said.

  “Why the heck did I get a vision of that?”

  “You tell me,” Ed said.

  “I wish I could.”

  “We’ll figure it out. Right now, I have to find out who killed her,” Ed said.

  “You still coming over tonight?” Faith asked.

  “Yes, but it could be late,” Ed said, then whispering, “Love you,” and walking back to his partner.

  “Who was that?” Paul asked.

  “Faith’s home.”

  “Oh – Well, not much of a mystery about cause of death.”

  “No, I’d say the slashed throat is a clue, but who is she?” Ed asked.

  Handing him the ID, that, along with the keys, he’d pulled out of the victim’s handbag, Paul said, “Claire Spencer.”

  “So,” Ed said, “the murderer was likely male
.”

  “Maybe,” Max Leavitt, the medical examiner, said, “but the cut is just deep enough to do the job, and it looks straight. So, the assailant might not have been much taller than her.”

  “She looks kind of tall,” Ed said.

  “She does, I’d say about five nine or ten,” Max said.

  “What do you think about time?” Paul asked.

  “Late last night, somewhere between ten and twelve,” Max said.

  “All right,” Paul said to Ed, “let’s go talk to the director.”

  The detectives found the small group of thespians still standing where they’d left them being interviewed, with some beginning to protest their confinement.

  The two detectives walked up to them and introduced themselves.

  Ron Gould, a sturdy looking man of about fifty, introduced himself as the play’s director and said, “We’re opening in a week. When will we be able to use the theatre?”

  “I’d say a day or two. But, right now, we need a place to do interviews,” Paul said.

  “Back here.” But, before he left, Ron turned to his cast and said, “Nobody leave. I’ll find us someplace to rehearse.” Then Ron turned to lead the way backstage with the detectives following along. Entering a small room with three chairs in it, he said, “You can use this space.”

  Paul closed the door, and the three men sat down, knee’s almost touching.

  “Sorry, there aren’t a lot of private spaces here. There are dressing rooms if you’d rather take over one of those.”

  “This’ll do,” Paul said. “We will need a complete list of everyone who works here. Not just the cast; custodians, ushers, anyone who works in this building.”

  Opening his briefcase and pulling out some paperwork, Ron said, “Here’s a list of everyone I hired for this production including my AD. You’ll have to get the list of permanent employees, and interns from the theatre’s general manager. I’d have my AD get it for you but he’s not here.”

  “AD?” Paul asked.

  “Assistant Director. Ethan Blackett.”

  “Should he be here?” Paul asked.

  “Yes, but I’m fairly sure that doesn’t have anything to do with Claire’s death. Blackett is just never where he’s supposed to be or doing what he’s supposed to do.”

  “Why keep him on?” Paul asked.

  “Politics. His brother is one of Haverland’s major patrons.

  “So, Claire Spencer was playing the lead role,” Paul said.

  “She was. A complete unknown but talented. I could have gotten more publicity if I’d gone with one of our other actresses, Tiffany Palmero. She’s an up and comer in Hollywood and would bring in a butt load of publicity,” Ron said.

  “Why didn’t you go with her?” Ed asked.

  “Claire was the better actress, and I have standards.”

  “Any conflict between the two?” Ed asked.

  “Oh, they hated each other, but it was just theatre stuff. You can’t run around killing everybody you don’t like in a production. It’d really put a damper on your career. Egos, however, are tolerated.”

  “So,” Ed said, “any thoughts on who might have killed her?”

  “Absolutely none. She was prickly. Knew she was the lead and wanted deference. You know theatre companies are just like any other workplace, they can be full of people who are difficult and trying to undercut each other, or not. This was, unfortunately, the former, but I can’t see anybody slashing her throat because she was rude to them.”

  “What are you going to do now, promote Tiffany Palmero?” Ed asked.

  “No. Although, I suspect she’ll want it, but I’m going with another actress in the play, Bella Moore. She was Claire’s understudy, and she’ll be good to go. Bella’s young, but she has real talent. If she wasn’t still a college student, I might have gone with her, to begin with.”

  “Is there anything of value in the theatre?” Ed asked.

  “Overall, the props and costumes are a big expenditure, but they’re not worth anything to anyone who’s not putting on a play.”

  “Okay, but let us know if you find anything missing,” Ed said.

  “Of course.”

  “Tell us about Claire,” Ed said.

  “All I know is that she was from England, was a decent actress, lived in Boston, and hated Tiffany because she recently got the lead in a TV series that Claire had evidently gone up for, as well.”

  “Really,” Ed said.

  “Yes, some sci-fi series. It’s being filmed here in Boston, and Tiffany starts work on it in March.”

  Ron Gould’s face turned solemn.

  “What?” Paul asked seeing the change in his demeanor.

  “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her. So much blood. It’s a shame.”

  “It is,” Paul said with genuine compassion. Then he asked, “Did Claire get enough acting jobs to support herself?”

  “I wouldn’t say so. Just a few amateur productions, and a couple of jobs here at the Haverland.”

  “Then she must have had some kind of job. Do you know where she worked?”

  “No idea.”

  “Is there anything else that you can tell us?” Paul asked.

  “No.”

  “Where were you last night?” Paul asked.

  “At the symphony with friends, then drinks at my friend’s house until one. My wife and I drove directly home after that.”

  Looking at the cast list that he’d been given, Paul asked. “Can you check off who’s here?”

  Ron obliged and handed the paper back to Paul.

  Glancing down the names, Paul said, “We’ll interview them all, starting with Tiffany Palmero.”

  “I’ll go get her for you,” Ron said.

  Ron Gould was a sturdy looking man of just under six feet. Professionally, he had a modest but not inconsequential resume. He’d directed several low budget movies, as well as dozens of regional theatre productions. He was also, however, out of favor in the industry, having earned a reputation for being abusive to actors and craftsmen, alike.

  The search for his cast brought Ron to the lobby and to a young police officer who’d apparently lost control of his charges. The officer handed Ron a note from his AD, Ethan Blackett. The note said they’d all gone for breakfast at a nearby diner. Livid, Ron burst out the front door and across the street. Entering the diner, he found Ethan at the head of the table holding court.

  “The police want to interview all of you. Tiffany, you’re up first,” Ron said with authority.

  “My meal hasn’t even come yet,” Tiffany said.

  “Claire is dead.”

  “Who cares,” Tiffany said.

  “If I go back and tell them that was your response, odds are you’ll jump to the head of their suspect list,” Ron said.

  Reluctantly, Tiffany got up.

  “As soon as you’ve eaten, the rest of you get back to the theatre and meet me at the manager’s office. We’ve got a lot to do,” Ron said.

  He escorted Tiffany back, made the introductions, and before he left Ron said, “Here, I picked up a couple of programs for you. I figured the cast pictures would be helpful. Oh, and my AD is here, do you want to talk with him too?”

  “Yes,” Ed said, “thanks.”

  Suddenly, faux grief was the order of the day, and Tiffany dabbed the corners of her eyes as she sat down.

  “You’re Tiffany Palmero?” Paul asked.

  Tiffany nodded.

  “What can you tell us about your relationship with the deceased?”

  “I’ve known who she was for about a year. We’ve gone out for some of the same parts.”

  “Mr. Gould told us that you just landed the lead in a TV series and that Claire wasn’t too happy about it,” Ed said.

  “Yes,” Tiffany said, once again sniffing and dabbing. “But she got the lead in this, so it all works out.”

  “I’d hardly compare this to a TV show,” Ed said.

  “No, but at this point in
our careers, it’s all about building credibility, and a lead at a respected theatre, even in a secondary market like Boston, gets you respect.”

  “But not money,” Ed said.

  “No, if this series goes, and I manage my money, it’ll set me up. But what’s that got to do with poor Claire?” Tiffany asked, dabbing and sniffing, once again.

  Ignoring her contrived gesture, Ed asked, “Why do you think you got the TV job instead of Claire?”

  “I had more experience. I’ve done three plays here, some summer stock, and,” she said with obvious pride, “last year, I filled in for an actress on Broadway.”

  “That’s great,” Ed said. “And yet, with less experience, Claire got the lead in this one.”

  “Showbiz,” Tiffany said with a shrug.

  “Do you know where she worked, or anything about her life?”

  “Not much. She lived in a super nice building in Brookline. I don’t know how she could afford that, but she did.”

  “Nothing about friends or family?” Ed asked.

  “She was from England, and I think she’d been in Boston for about a year or two.”

  “Did she have a partner?” Ed asked.

  “I just don’t know.”

  “Where were you last night?” Ed asked.

  “I was at home with a friend.”

  “Can you give us their contact information?” Ed asked.

  “No. If I have to I will, but I didn’t kill anybody, so who I was with is none of your business.”

  Knowing that, at this point, she was not legally required to tell him, Ed didn’t push the issue.

  “Should I send Ethan in?” Tiffany asked as got up to leave.

  “Yes,” Ed said.

  “I do not believe,” Ed said when she was out of earshot, “that Tiffany was genuinely sad.”

  “No. That was about the worst acting I’ve ever seen,” Paul said.

  “That phony eye-dabbing is always a tell,” Ed replied. “Let’s see what the AD has to say.”

  Paul stepped out the door to see Ethan Blackett, a thin, pale man in his early sixties, pacing in the hallway.”

  “Mr. – Blackett – is it?” Paul asked.

  “Yes.”