21 Shades of Night, page 451
It was my turn to give her a look of concern. “Do say? Not with Tim.”
“What’s the matter with Tim?”
“I’ve heard things.”
“From whom?” When I hesitated, she carried on. “Not from Peter or that assistant of his. I wouldn’t take—”
“Dulcie, Opal’s a good girl. She might be from a lowly station—”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Opal’s sharp as a tack. She’s heard things. Heard Peter and Tim fighting. She overheard Tim saying malicious things to Peter Dune.”
“Such as?” Dulcie nibbled on a fingernail.
“Opal couldn’t make out exact words. She only said Tim thinks he’s always right.”
“Maybe he is.” Her insulted tone proved she didn’t buy what I was saying.
“Doubtful.” I gathered up my belongings, and then gave Dulcie a hug. “I’ve got to head out too.”
She looked suddenly bereft. “Will I see you again soon? Another swim lesson?”
“I’m a fast learner. I’m ready for the ocean next.”
“Fiera,” she growled as she thrust items in her already-loaded carpetbag.
“Don’t Fiera me, Mama Bear,” I teased. “Stop by the beach soon. Now that I have a job, I’ll buy the Moxie. For three of us—including Opal.”
She nodded, registering that for better or worse, Opal was part of our team now. We strolled out past people in their expensive loungewear and the ornate gates of the club. I was headed to the sidewalk and a long walk back to the Starfish Inn, and Dulcie back to her finer lodging.
Chapter 16
“MAY I SPEAK with Mr. Dune?” a piercing bass voice demanded.
I cringed. It was my boss Sam Dickerson, the head of the whole New York operation. And he sounded grumpy as all get out. “That would be me.”
“What’s your progress in Asbury? Tim tells me you boys haven’t turned up much. He says you’ve been getting a little too friendly with one of the females you’re tracking.”
My blood immediately rose to a boil. “That’s absolute hooey. No merit whatsoever to that accusation.” I clenched my jaw to stop myself from barreling on about Tim’s many gaffes—how combative he was, how he flirted shamelessly with ladies regardless of their married status, how he soused around in the speakeasies, and pilfered company money on flashy outfits. My own ire would only be construed as traitorous to the operation here.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Mr. Dickerson barked. The image of his red-face with the shoulders and neck of a linebacker came into my head. He had a lousy reputation for firing his staff on a whim, and I had no desire to be in his crosshairs.
“I’m doing my job. I have my eyes on the Circle of Light group and um, the lady in question.”
“Who is she and what is she doing in Asbury?”
“She’s not a spiritualist per se, but she claims to be a medium. She reads Tarot cards.”
“Well, what can you get on her? What’s her name? Is she connected to the Circle group?”
“No. I hired her to read the cards. Fiera works for me here; she’s under my thumb.” I stopped short of revealing I put her up in the inn down the street with company money. I didn’t want Dickerson bellyaching about cash flow. That was his pet activity, and it was highly aggravating. This particular sting operation was funded by a group of wealthy New Yorkers burned by the Circle of Light group, but also other mediums in the north Jersey area that had conned Dickerson’s clients when they’d vacationed at the shore. The company coffers were stocked, but he meted it out like a Scrooge.
“Fiera, what kind of name is that? Unusual. Is it Italian? French?”
It irritated me to no end that he suddenly sounded interested. “I’m not an expert on origins of names, sir.”
“Did you catch her in anything yet? What do you have on her? I want the lowdown.”
My back prickled. Something in me hated ratting Fiera out. I didn’t want to tell him diddlysquat—how the cards seemed to soar at her command or about her uncanny ability to make me faint at the touch of her hands. I won’t describe anything I can’t explain by rational means, I reasoned.
When I’d sought out Dickerson after my sister got swindled, I told him I’d done private investigative work. It wasn’t a lie. I’d worked briefly for another private eye, getting evidence on gambling dens and illegal liquor imports by the Lower East Side piers.
Dickerson’s outfit specialized in routing out psychic phonies, and I’d been gung-ho about seeing every last Circle of Light, or any, fraud strung up by their ankles. But since I’d met Fiera, the lines were not so sharply defined between hero and villain. She wasn’t a bad person, or out to take someone’s hard-earned cash. What was her motivation exactly? Of course, she needed money like any other person, but she seemed to derive real joy from the process of reading the cards, and she’d gotten truly upset when that first client called me, and then her, a fake. It was confounding. I needed more time to figure it out on my own before Dickerson pressed me any further. I loosened my collar in a heated surge of annoyance for accepting work from this blowhard.
“Listen, Tim tells me you fainted during one of the séances,” Dickerson went on. “He says you’ve been getting too chummy with the dame to be able to make hard choices. Are you ill? Have you had a checkup recently? You sure you’re up to the task?”
“Tim’s a lousy liar!” I blurted before I could contain myself.
I heard the blunt wham of Dickerson slamming his meaty fist down on a hard surface. “You’re a goddam private dick for hire. Who are you to talk?” he shouted into the phone.
“Look, Mr. Dickerson, I took this job because so-called spiritualists ruined my only sister’s life. I’m not going soft on you, sir. But let’s stick to our first target, the Circle cult. The woman—Fiera—is only a distant second.”
“I call the shots, Dune. Any and all psychic shams in the Asbury and Belmar shore areas are our targets. We need hard evidence to keep the gravy train going. But I’ll give you one more chance to get something solid on those Circle cretins. And not just silly retouched photos, you hear? I want incriminating conversations!” This, too, he punctuated with the slam of a fist. “I rented a wire recorder from some detective mucky-mucks. Tim has it. It’s costly, Mr. Dune, so you better record some very guilty chats on it before we have to return it to the rental agency and pay a golden arm. Is that clear?”
I involuntarily shuddered. He’d already met with Tim and I wasn’t part of that? “Quite clear. I’ll nab those Circle—”
“You nab that dame too. Our clients are clamoring for warm blood. We need to serve some up real soon. We go for our annual party cruise on the Morro in ten days.”
Oh, hell no! In my state of agitation, I’d forgotten all about the upcoming business conference. I’d only worked for Dickerson & Dickerson for nine months. But the Morro was notorious. Everyone in the boroughs and Jersey knew of it. It was an enormous cruise vessel that made regular runs from New York Harbor to Cuba, with film stars, Mafiosi, and wealthy businessmen who craved secrecy, tropical rum, and the rest of the hard stuff. No doubt some of Dickerson’s anti-spiritualist clients would be partying with us, and they wanted something to party about.
On the ocean, it was anything goes; prohibition laws were suspended on the high-rolling waves. We all had our hypocrisies, I guessed, even royal flush Dickerson.
“Ten days, Mr. Dune. When you come to Manhattan for the Morro cruise, I want my ears to explode from those recordings, you hear?”
“I won’t disappoint you.”
“If you do, your days at the agency are over.”
* * *
ON THE RIDE to Belmar, there was only the crackle of static-laced band music on Tim’s car radio to breach the tense silence. He knew I’d had my ears twisted by Dickerson. It was evident in his darting side-glances. Not wanting to give Tim the satisfaction of knowing the call had upset me, I stared out of the window at the passing cars. After this sting operation, when I could really let loose on his treachery, he’d hear my anger loud and clear.
The wire recorder Dickerson had rented sat between us on the car seat. It was almost as large as Tim’s beefy briefcase. How we were going to smuggle this behemoth into the Circle’s headquarters was a mystery. At least Tim had finagled Talcott into inviting us to their meeting. That was one point in his favor.
Tim pulled up to a tall Gothic revival on Eighth Street bordered by a black, wrought-iron fence. The same elegant scroll railings wound around each circular balcony. Its front garden was brimming with the strangest flowers, comprised only of black or the deepest ultramarine—the hues of a Halloween night. Imagining them tended to by a coven of witches, I smiled. More and more, my mind was wandering into obscure nooks. Maybe I was beginning to believe in Fiera’s powers—or at least the possibility. How else was I to explain our uncanny connection, my sudden half-conscious states at her touch, my own visions?
Tim shoved the wire recorder in his leather briefcase. Struggling out of his vehicle beneath its bulk, he tripped on a rut in the road and pitched forward. Catching himself just in time, he windmilled his other arm and teetered clownishly, which made me chuckle.
“Want to let me in on the joke?” he groused.
“Not particularly.” I choked down another laugh.
Walking up to the house, I grew even more impressed with the garden. It might be a mystifying color choice, but whoever planted it had done an impeccable job. The dusky blooms glistened like dark jewels from their dawn watering. In contrast, the wholesome look of the American flag sticking up from the flowers looked terribly awkward.
I gripped the circular brass knocker and rapped. Talcott greeted us in his requisite white seersucker suit and red shirt. Two other solemn gentlemen dressed in identical gear flanked him. “Welcome to the Circle’s Sunday service,” Talcott said crisply as he shook our hands. His was cool and rough—like old tree bark. “Right this way,” he said, turning on his heels.
We followed him into a large sitting room with bay windows and dark flooring. About eighteen men in uniform sat in chairs arranged around a table. They were chatting amongst themselves, but when we arrived, a curious lull descended. Most of the men were older, professorial-looking types, but a few younger recruits stood out.
Talcott led us to two adjoining seats before he glanced at his pocket watch. “We’ll start in five minutes.”
I took a closer look at the crowd. There were no women, not that unusual for a private club. Though it had me wondering whether most of the men were married and if so, what kind of wives they had. What woman would find a man attractive who always wore the same garish outfit, to say nothing of their foolish medallions? I choked down a snicker.
“We have two guests,” Talcott explained to the crowd. “Peter, and his business partner Tim are owners of Peter Dune’s Paranormal up in Asbury. They are readers of the cards, and are fellow believers in the ethereal world. They wanted to see how we manage our groups. So, give them a warm welcome, and an inspiring session, shall we?”
Welcomes reverberated around the room. I glanced over at Tim, impressed at his ability to turn our last bumpy experience at my store with Talcott around. While I’d been getting a lecture from Dickerson, Tim must’ve been charming Talcott all over again, not an easy task with someone as stern and humorless. I broke into a grin, wanting Tim to know I appreciated this factor. This was when I noticed he no longer had the briefcase. Had he put it down on purpose in a corner of the foyer after Talcott let us in? He saw me eyeing him with concern and made a slight reassuring motion with his head.
Just as Talcott was lowering the window drapes, Tim announced he needed to use the facilities. Looking closer at him, I saw his face was damp with sweat. Though he often brimmed with energy, he wasn’t normally the anxious type. I worried that having to deal with the wire recorder had given Tim a sudden case of the heebie-jeebs.
Damn it all, I silently cursed. I should’ve insisted on being the one to manage the wire recorder. Tim obviously didn’t trust me anymore, and sad to say, I didn’t trust him either. I thought of following him out, but I decided that might blow our cover.
This unexpected delay was rousing impatient chatter among Talcott’s followers. I overheard bits and pieces: “What do they want with the Circle? Are they friends of Talcott… If he was going to initiate them, he should’ve discussed it with us.”
Abruptly, Tim burst back into the room and swiped his brow with a handkerchief. As he turned to sit, he gave me a subtle, reassuring nod. Talcott flicked off the lights.
The session began with a long, tedious silence while the men conjured the so-called spirits. They could be doing anything in here, and we wouldn’t know because it was pitch dark. I listened to sounds of life from outside: a burst of children’s laughter, a dog barking, and the honking of horns. After about ten minutes, someone’s voice—not Talcott’s—trailed up from a low growl to a soft wail. It raised the gooseflesh along my arms. “A spirit descends. The spirit of someone barely alive.”
Looking up, I saw a faint blue glow hovering inches below the ceiling. It was, indeed, lowering itself into the room. It had to be trickery. I might be starting to believe in Fiera’s powers but this so-called blue spirit was bunk. Any electrician worth his salt could rig the ceiling with carnival lights.
Its opalescent gleam illuminated the edges of our faces, so I could now make out the man who went on in the same plaintive wail. He was sitting on the opposite side of the circle, and he was shorter than Talcott. The man’s eyes fluttered as he spoke. “This poor person is hooked on demon drugs. I see her press the needle in her arm. She comes to warn us… or should we warn her? She will die if she continues this.”
A she! Why a she in the midst of this distasteful men-only club? My heart raced of its own accord. Talcott’s eyes were shut, as were the eyes of all the other men except the one who was speaking. Looking up, I saw the light had moved closer to me and was now shimmering just above my head. This wasn’t funny at all.
“Do you have any questions, Mr. Dune?” It was Talcott’s voice that rang out this time.
“Who is this person? What is her name?”
“It starts with a G,” said the man with the fluttering eyelids. Detecting an edge of malicious humor in his tone, my worries immediately flew to my sister. Had Talcott and his Circle done research on my background? How dare they! Was Talcott getting his revenge for us not luring Alyse to my own last session? No… that seemed too extreme a reaction. What then?
Hopefully, the recording device was capturing every line of this outrage. “Tell me,” I said, “what’s the rest of the woman’s name, and what might she want with me?”
“G… G… a Gabby. No, a Gertie.”
My heart hammered so alarmingly I managed to only gasp out the next question. The blue light slid down to shudder in front of my face. “What does this Gert want with me? I don’t know anyone by that name. She must be here for someone else.” I refused to lead him by admitting he’d hit on my sister’s name.
“No, this message is for you, for you,” he replied in a singsong voice, which rose to a girly wail. “Brother, if you don’t come for me now, I will soon be gone from this earth.” Abruptly, the blue light winked out. Once again, we were in total darkness.
Talcott and his minions had real nerve to game me like this! Seething with rage, I barely registered anything else except the hot blood thrashing around in my head, and my insatiable urge to punch Talcott’s face in.
What followed were a few minutes of uneasy silence. Afterward, the man who’d spoken went on to talk about some trivial club matters. I felt the lightest tug on my shirt cuff and the tickle of Tim’s warm, onion breath on my ear. “It’s recording in a vent behind this wall. Distract them when this is over.”
Then, unexpectedly, the lights came on. Like a nocturnal possum, I’d gotten used to the dark, and the sudden brightness bit into my pupils. Tim leapt up, claiming he had stomach troubles. “Sorry for the disruption. I’ll be right back,” he promised. By some miracle, no one marched out after him.
The men started to talk about the session. Talcott got up, stretched, and ambled toward me. Despite whatever game he was running on us, his relaxed manner assured me he wasn’t suspicious of Tim and me. “What did you make of the message today, Mr. Dune?” he asked.
Still fuming inside, I had to work at keeping an amiable tone. “Quite curious, Dr. Talbot. I don’t know a soul named Gert.”
The man who’d mumbled the line stepped over to us. “There must be some connection. A friend of a friend, perhaps?”
“Absolutely not,” I lied.
Talcott shrugged. “Who knows the mysterious ways of spirit? Shall we go find Tim?” He walked me down the hall. “Let’s wait for your friend here by the front door.”
Tim came barreling out of a different side hall, lugging the briefcase. At least his face was expressionless and he’d wiped the sheen off it.
As I leaned over to grab the door handle, Talcott outstepped me and used his lanky body as a barricade. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
My gut clenched with a dark premonition. “No,” I replied. “We’ll be on our way now. Thanks. It was…” I searched for the right word, “illuminating.”
“I’ve got my briefcase,” Tim reasoned, holding it up with difficulty, “and that’s all I came with.”
“You did forget something then,” Talcott insisted. He lunged forward and seized Tim’s case. “You forgot to give me your wire recorder, that’s what,” he snapped. Yanking open the attaché clasps, he pulled the device out with both hands. The case clunked to the floor along with some of the wire recording rolls, which began to unspool.
“Now, you wait a minute. That’s thievery,” Tim shouted and reached for it, but Talcott was too fast for him and took some steps back, clutching the case to his chest.
