Linda Welch - A conspiracy of Demons Read online

Terry wiggled bushy eyebrows. “Well hello, you delicious creature.”

  “She wouldn’t look at you twice, you putrid excuse for a man,” Polly sneered.

  “Putrid?” Terry turned his shoulder to her. “You changed your tune. I was your world not so long ago.”

  “I’m dead, aren’t I, and it’s your fault. If you’d told Olivia about us - ”

  “She’d have shot us sooner.”

  “You never intended to tell her. All that about leaving her, you were stringing me along.”

  “Must we rehash this?”

  “Hey!” I said. “Pack it in! I need a word with you.”

  Polly sat up away from the headboard. “Oh, you see us.”

  “Yeah. I won’t take up much of your time. Can - ”

  “Time’s all we have.” Terry left the chair and sat on the mattress. “But we can’t tell you anything we didn’t tell the other one, and it was all in the papers.”

  “The decorators had a newspaper,” Olivia said. “The reporters got it right.” She chuckled and faked an officious tone. “We have nothing to add at this time.”

  I folded my arms across my body and put my weight on one leg. “The other … um … psychic, Lynn. Tell me about her.”

  “Was that her name?” Terry shuffled a bit, as if to get comfortable. “Skinny little thing, blond. Said she couldn’t see us clearly, we looked like people made of smoke.”

  “Gave me the shivers,” from Polly.

  “Still, someone knew we’re here, and she explained everything, about us being dead and having to wait until Olivia passes over. I hope they execute the fucking bitch soon.”

  They would have a long wait, but I kept that to myself. “Lynn is dead, murdered. I’m trying to find out why, and who killed her.”

  “Ah, poor thing.” Polly inched down the bed until she sat with Terry. “Could it have something to do with us, is that why you’re here?”

  “She said she’d try to come back,” Terry added.

  Lynn would have popped in to see them were she in the area. I try to do the same with the shades I meet, if they are of the pleasant variety. Or at least bearable. They either mellow with time, or spend the rest of their earthbound years with a gigantic chip on their spectral shoulders.

  “I don’t know if her death has anything to do with your murder, that’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Well, nothing unusual happened, if you call talking to us usual.” Terry scratched his chin. “She asked who killed us. We told her and described what happened. That was it.”

  I went to the chair Terry had vacated and eased down. “Okay. Will you tell me exactly what she said, what you said, as much as you remember?”

  I listened, and tried to memorize what they told me. It was fairly formulaic, the usual routine. Lynn told them why they lingered and what to expect. They told her what Olivia did.

  Olivia didn’t speak to them. She marched in holding the pistol and shot Polly. Terry scooted off the bed and made for the door. Olivia shot him in the back. Polly woke to find herself dead on the bed, Terry’s body in the doorway and policemen milling around the room. He woke later and found himself on the floor and Polly kneeling beside him in the empty room. They both had hysterics at first. They found they could move about the suite, but not leave it.

  After a while, they decided they were dead. Lynn arrived the next day.

  “She was sympathetic,” Terry said.

  “As if that helped.” Polly threw up her hands, then collapsed back on the pillows and through them. She looked like a headless body.

  Her head emerged. “Sorry, this is new to me. Sometimes I forget.”

  Not for the first time, I wondered why shades made the effort to appear as if they interacted with solid objects.

  “And now she’s gone,” she moaned, “and I’m stuck with him and only him for God knows how long.”

  “Will you… ? Do you get up this way often?” Terry asked.

  I rose from the chair. “This is a first for me, but I’ll come see you if I’m in the area.” I doubted I’d be here again, but you never know.

  “Waste of time,” I told Royal as we trotted down the stairs and walked along in front of the motel. We stepped on the sidewalk and almost ran into Detective Haney.

  “Mr. Mortensen? Miss Banks?”

  We stared at one another for an awful, frozen moment. My eyes felt as if they wanted to pop out of my head.

  The screech of tires, a horn honking. Haney looked over his shoulder at the street.

  I barely had time to mouth Oh shit to Royal, and we stood in an alley across from the motel with our backs to the brick wall.

  My innards felt like they would come up my throat along with anything else in my stomach, but I swallowed it down, leaned over with hands braced on knees and drew in deep breaths.

  One last breath and I came upright. “What’s Haney doing?”

  “He’s taking off his hat. He is scratching his head.”

  “What’s he gonna think?”

  “That his imagination ran wild; it is the only explanation.”

  I peered around the corner. Haney paced up and down the sidewalk across the street, hat in hand, looking first at the motel, then twisting to look along the street. Poor man.

  I persisted in asking Royal questions he couldn’t answer. “What’s he doing here?”

  He edged back in the alley’s shadows. “I imagine Provo is following the few leads it has. This is a homicide investigation and Lynn consulted.”

  “So he flew here.”

  “Apparently. It’s about an hour and a half from Salt Lake City.”

  I flattened my back on the wall next to Royal. “I have a feeling the shit is about to hit the fan.”

  I fretted the entire drive back to Maple Valley. Our encounter with Haney was the equivalent of stepping in a giant mound of moose turds; you can scrape most of it off the bottom of your shoes but a lingering trace remains. Maybe you don’t realize it’s there till someone asks, “What is that smell?” Haney and Provo PD coming up with proof we were in Portland seemed impossible, but had we left a trace? Did I leave fingerprints in the motel room, would Haney think to dust for them? When you need to prove - if only to yourself - you’re not going insane and imagining people who aren’t there, you may perform every test in the book from sheer desperation.

  We stepped out of the empty building in Montague Square at five-to—nine. The walk to Royal’s truck and the drive to my home took less than ten minutes.

  Sure enough, a black and white zipped out of a side street as we turned on Beeches. The officer did not activate his flashing lights or try to stop us, he followed us to my house. He parked behind the pickup and joined us as we got out.

  Royal walked to the rear of the truck to meet him beneath the streetlamp. “Hello, Bob. Is there a problem?”

  The street lamp made Officer Bob Gervaise’s dark skin shine. He lifted one gigantic shoulder. “Roy, Mike wants you and Tiff at the precinct.”

  I joined them. “It’s nine at night. Can this wait till tomorrow?”

  He gave me a sour look. “Would I be here if it could wait till morning?”

  Being the contrary type, I would have argued, but Royal opened the rear door and got in the cruiser. With a glare at Gervaise - because I had to have the last word, even when not a word - I joined Royal. We settled back, but I didn’t much like seeing the mesh between us and Bob, it made me feel like a criminal. I hoped none of my neighbors saw us, or tongues would be wagging a mile a minute.

  I already had celebrity status in the street, and not in a good way. My neighbors would never forget, or forgive, the day they were shooed from their homes while a bomb squad went through my house.

  Streetlamps, house lights and lit-up neon signs flashed past as the cruiser took us downtown. I groped for Royal’s hand; it encompassed mine and squeezed. His gaze met mine and held it, conveying a silent message before he turned his gaze back to the street. We guessed why Mike wanted
us at the precinct.

  Officer Gervaise parked behind the court house and escorted us through the rear entrance. I climbed the stairs to the second floor as if lead weighted my shoes; tired, thirsty, irritable and not happy about a confrontation with Mike.

  Gervaise left us at the door to the squad room.

  “Hell,” I murmured when I saw who waited with Mike in his office.

  Royal tucked my hand in the crook of his bent arm. “Calm, Tiff. Remember, Haney did not see us in Portland.”

  “Yeah I know, but Carrie’s here with Stirland.”

  He didn’t react, but he did not comprehend the difficulty of talking to the cops while Carrie chattered at me. Which she surely would.

  Two detectives and a cop in uniform stood at the coffeemaker. They eyed us as we moved through the squad room to Mike’s office. Royal smiled and nodded at them. Fixated on Mike’s scowl, I tried to ignore Carrie as her arms shot ceiling-ward in greeting.

  His door stood open, so we walked in. I took the vacant chair facing Mike’s desk before he could tell me to sit. Royal stood behind me, hands resting on the chair-back either side of my shoulders.

  “What a lark! Were you really in Portland?” Carrie asked.

  My eyebrows made a deep V as I threw a quick glance in her direction. She got the message and pulled an invisible zipper across her lips. I recalled her doing the same thing in a British police headquarters building.

  Royal dipped his head at Mike and got right to the point. “Mike. Why are we here?”

  “Where were you this afternoon?” Looking up at Royal, Mike clasped his hands on his desktop and clenched, hard.

  Royal’s expression remained calm except for the compressed lips. “Are we under investigation? Is this an official inquiry?”

  “If that’s the way you want it. Or you can answer our questions and maybe walk out of here,” Stirland said in a voice like chipped ice.

  I laid my free hand on Royal’s arm. “Tell them, hon. I know it’s none of their business, but what’s the harm?”

  He looked at me with a tiny, tight smile. “Yes, you are right.” Then he said to Stirland, “We took a drive over Monte Cristo and on to Bear Lake.”

  “And you just returned? Can you prove your whereabouts?”

  “Not unless my pickup made an impression on a passing motorist.”

  “You didn’t stop to eat?”

  “We took a picnic,” I piped up. “Pulled into one of those little camping spots near the road and ate.” Oh my God, I am getting too good at lying.

  “I don’t believe - ” Stirland began.

  Mike cut in. “Detective Haney saw you in Portland, Oregon, this afternoon.”

  Royal and I let a minute go by, as if trying to wrap our minds around Mike’s statement, then burst out in chuckles at the same time.

  “Had a heavy night last night, did he?” I chortled. “Tied on one too many?”

  Royal snorted. “Perhaps he overindulged during his flight?”

  Carrie clenched her fists and her body trembled. Keeping quiet was killing her, figuratively speaking.

  Stirland’s face turned rosy. “I’ve worked with John for five years. He’s a damn fine partner, honest to the bone, and he does not imbibe. If he says he saw you in Portland, you were there.”

  Smirking, I squinted at Royal. “We’re good, but not that good.”

  I asked Stirland, “Guess you checked flights outta Utah?”

  “Not yet, but we will.”

  “You won’t find us on one.” I tapped my chin. “So how did we get there? Drive?” I tipped my head to look up at Royal. “How long would you say it’d take to drive to Portland?”

  “Hm.” Royal looked thoughtful. “Twelve hours?”

  I nodded solemnly. “Plus stopping for gas and a snack, and we had to stay the night or we wouldn’t be this wide awake and chirpy. And the same to get back here. Even if we left from Provo after chatting with the detectives at - when was it, near eleven? - that’d put us … sometime tomorrow?”

  Mike shot a furious look at Stirland. He knew we dare not deny flying to Portland if indeed we did; it was too easy to corroborate.

  “No, Haney’s right!” I sat upright. “We were there, compliments of our friend Superman. Zipped us right over.”

  A faint smile tweaked Royal’s lips. “Only way to travel,” he agreed.

  My hand swept the air. “Zoom-zoom.”

  Gaze still on Stirland, Mike thrust his hand at the door. “Get out of here you two.”

  We obliged. I aimed a shit-eating grin at Stirland as we left the office.

  “Shall I come with you now?” Carrie asked from Mike’s doorway.

  I couldn’t ask if she’d discovered anything pertinent. Maybe she did, maybe not and never would if I took her away. I bet Haney would call Stirland when he left here. And perhaps Haney would get back to Provo tonight. If he did, he’d want to meet his partner and go over what they had ASAP.

  I jogged my chin a little.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she called.

  I managed a barely-there nod.

  Nursing his oversized coffee mug in both hands, Brad Spacer sat at his desk. I stopped, perched my hip on his desk and leaned over. “What’s with Mike’s office?”

  He grinned, scratched behind one ear, then poked his fingers through wiry salt and pepper hair. “Mike was on vacation. The Chief went in his file cabinet for some paperwork, which wasn’t there. She did find a pizza box. When he got back, Mike said he used it to fill a gap and keep the files upright. Chief said he could use actual files, the ones supposed to be in there.”

  I snorted.

  “So he spent a weekend cleaning up his office. In his defense, Mike did file the box under P.”

  We clomped down the stairs. Rather, I clomped while Royal seemed to glide from step to step.

  “Will Mike read them the riot act?”

  “Not Mike,” Royal replied. “But no doubt he will ensure their captain does.”

  “So we’re okay, then.”

  “This time. But continuing to draw attention to ourselves is unwise. First our visit to Provo; now this.”

  My mouth twisted. “Yeah, you’re right. One small slip and we’ve had it.”

  Garvaise waited at his unit with the rear passenger door open. We climbed in back and said nothing more as the officer drove us to my home.

  The black and white drove away. I flicked an eyebrow. “Want to stay the night?”

  He didn’t hesitate. As I waited on the sidewalk, he unlocked his truck and reached in to pull an overnight bag from behind the seat. Unlike yours truly, Royal believes in being prepared.

  It had been a long day and not over yet. Mel and Jack waited in the hall. I threw them a pointed look and nudged my chin at the kitchen as I deactivated the alarm. They ignored the message.

  “We saw you get in the police car,” from Jack.

  “Were you arrested?” Mel asked.

  I peeled off my jacket and hung it on a hook at the bottom of the staircase. “No, we weren’t arrested.”

  “Sorry, what?” Royal asked distractedly.

  I sounded apologetic without meaning to. “It was … you know.”

  “Ah, right.” He brushed one hand over his chin. “I’ll go on upstairs.”

  I snagged him before he could head for the stairs, wrapped my arms around his waist and snuggled in his neck. “Go on. I’ll be there soon.”

  “You do like to make leaving you difficult,” he said as I whispered kisses on his skin.

  “They say practice makes perfect.” I drew skin in my mouth before I let him go, eliciting a tiny gasp.

  He kissed me before going upstairs. I had to stand still a moment and try to refocus on my surroundings.

  “Of all the things I miss… .” Mel’s voice sounded breathier than usual as it trailed away.

  “Don’t look at me,” Jack responded.

  “If I could kiss anyone, believe me, it wouldn’t be you.”
r />   I went in the kitchen with Mel and Jack trailing as they bantered. Mac, at his place in front of the pantry door, got to his feet and waited expectantly.

  “For pity’s sake! That’s all you’re ever interested in,” I grumbled as I opened the pantry, making him move aside.

  But then I went to my knees, pulled Mac on them and against my chest and buried my face in his brindle-black hair. Because one day, like Lynn, he would not be here.

  He didn’t appreciate the loving when it kept him from his supper bowl. I let the heaving, wriggling, chunky body slip off my knees, climbed to my feet and got his food from the pantry. He dove in.

  “Well?” from Jack.

  Without a trace of enthusiasm, I told them why Royal and I were ferried to the precinct, then went up to join Royal. Depression followed me upstairs to my bedroom and settled over my shoulders like a weighty, moth-eaten old blanket. My thoughts went in directions I wanted to ignore.

  Royal lounged in bed, the sheet up to his waist, arms crossed behind his head and hands clasped on his nape. The glow from the single, small bedside lamp turned his pale-copper chest to a landscape of flat planes, gentle hills and shallow vales. He tweaked an eyebrow at me, but I was no longer in the mood.

  I think he got the message when I went to the window and looked out at a mountainside cut from black velvet, the sky above densely spackled with stars.

  “What is wrong, Sweetheart?”

  I shook my head mutely. The chill coming through the glass panes made my skin pebble.

  “Come to bed. You look cold.”

  With a deep sigh, I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it, then sat on the edge of the mattress to peel off my jeans. They landed on top of my shirt, followed by my socks.

  Royal lifted the sheet and duvet for me to slip beneath. I lay with my head on his shoulder, his arm beneath my back, holding me to his chest. With a deep sigh, I luxuriated in the warmth and comfort his body so readily gave me.

  This felt so nice, but my thoughts would let not me relax. I couldn’t keep still. I wriggled. Then I rolled on my back. Royal’s arm shifted to accommodate me.

  I gazed at a ceiling I could barely see, a grayness above our heads.

  Royal was good about giving me space when he saw I needed it. He lay beside me silently, but I could tell from the way in which his muscles hardened beneath my neck that I transmitted my discomfort to him.