Baby take a bow, p.8
Baby, Take a Bow, page 8
“Yes, and if we can get her daughter, Beverly, to come visit, the curse will be broken.”
“If her son moves in with us.”
I put more mustard on my hot dog. “He may or may not want to move in. He looked a bit angst-y.”
Camden blew the paper off his straw. “I don’t care what he looks like, as long as he doesn’t do drugs or bother the girls.”
“He won’t bother me,” Kary said. “I deal with moody children on a regular basis, and that’s not counting you two.”
Camden drank the rest of his Coke. He looked across the groups of people eating and laughing and beyond the little restaurant where the hot dog spirit girl was probably making faces at him. After a long while, his gaze returned to me, dark blue and serious. “Randall, Rufus didn’t kill Bobbi.”
“This time, I’m going to have to have a little more evidence. Look back about a week and tell me who did kill her.”
I was being flippant, but he kept his serious look. “I’ve already tried that, but I couldn’t see anything.”
I took a drink of my soda, wishing I had something stronger. Not seeing anything meant one of two things. Either there was nothing to be seen, or, in some way, Camden was involved or would be involved in whatever happened next. “Let’s hope that’s because Rufus is a close friend.”
Kary gathered up our trash and tossed a handful of crumbs to the sparrows that hopped hopefully around the table. “What are you going to do now?”
“We’re on the trail of Bobbi’s cousin, Trace Burwell, the double blank.”
“Then I’ll go to Bobbi’s neighborhood and hunt for food and clues.”
Camden finished his Coke. “Could we stop by the PSN for a few minutes? I promised Ellie I’d put in an appearance today.”
A visit to the Psychic Service Network is always an experience. “Sure. I’d like to see what’s left of Reg.”
***
Camden and Ellin have an ever-changing system that keeps both of them happy and the rest of us at peace. Ellin desperately wants him to return to the Psychic Service, specifically to star in one of her TV programs. Camden flat-out refuses this exciting offer, agreeing to stop by the studio a certain number of times each month as an observer, although she’s roped him into being a guest on “Ready to Believe” and her latest idiotic program, “Past Forward,” a show that gives reincarnation all the recognition it deserves.
Things were hopping at the network. The paid audience had filled all the seats. Bonnie Burton, an anxious-to-please fluffy-haired blonde, and Teresa Perello, a serious brunette, hosts of “Ready to Believe,” were getting their microphones arranged on their flowing psychic dresses.
Ellin was at her best, ordering everybody around. “Five minutes! Mitch, fix that light over the table. Bonnie, straighten the flower arrangement, thank you. Reg, get in here now.”
I looked at Camden and feigned surprise. “Reg is still with us? I thought he was psychic history.”
“He must have done some serious groveling.”
Reg Haverson came onto the set, adjusting his microphone to the collar of his immaculate gray suit. As usual, Reg looked like the perfect advertisement for an exclusive men’s cologne. His hair was sculpted, his Ken-doll features covered with a layer of makeup. He managed to make his tone polite and testy at the same time. “I’m right here, Ellin.”
“Three minutes.”
“Thank you.”
In exactly three minutes, the PSN was on the air. Reg beamed at the audience, his voice now Jolly Game Show Host.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to ‘Ready to Believe’! Our special guest today is Pet Psychic to the Stars Jessie Vardaman!”
I turned to Camden. “What? No Archer Sisters?”
Reg worked the crowd into a psychic frenzy. “Yes, this is the program that dares to explore the unknown, reach into the corners of the supernatural, and grasp infinite dimensions! Are you ‘Ready to Believe’?”
The audience called out “Yes!” and cheered and clapped like they’re supposed to.
“Then, without further delay, let me introduce our charming and beautiful hosts, Bonnie and Teresa!”
More clapping and cheering. The camera zoomed in on the two women. Once they’d greeted the audience and the viewers at home, a dreamy-eyed woman dressed like a Gypsy, came out to read palms. Ellin came over to us and gave Camden a kiss.
“I see you’ve granted Reg a reprieve,” he said.
“He’s on probation. One more stunt, and he’s out of here.”
She knows that would kill Reg, because he has his eye on her job. I guess he sees it as a stepping stone to another network. Fashion World, maybe.
“Shoot,” I said. “I wanted to see the Archer Sisters.”
She ignored me and spoke to Camden. “How did things go at Janice’s? Is there a spirit haunting the restaurant? Anything the PSN might be interested in?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
She glanced back where the Gypsy woman was giving an audience member a special Tarot card reading. “We need more local paranormal happenings, breaking news kind of stuff.”
“I don’t think this is going to be a very big deal.”
“Can you stay a while? Jessie’s brought a huge lizard.”
“Gee, I can’t miss that.”
Camden and I took seats in the audience and were properly awed by Jessie Vardaman’s “reading” of Balthazar the Iguana. Seems Balthazar missed his favorite chew toy and would prefer a seventy-five rather than a hundred-watt light bulb in his cage. His owner was chastened and grateful by the news.
“I didn’t know what was wrong with him,” the man said. “He was so flushed and listless.”
Yeah, I’d be flushed, too, lying under a hundred-watt light bulb without my rubber carrot. It was easy to see why Jessie Vardaman was in tune with the iguana. He looked like a lizard himself, thin and beady-eyed, with a long, pointed face.
“It’s quite all right. Balthazar knows you mean well. He thinks a lot of you. He’s very happy to be your iguana.”
“That’s such good news. He’s such a wonderful pet.”
During all this, Balthazar hadn’t moved.
“And so expressive,” I said to Camden, who grinned. I wondered if he had tuned into the lizard’s thoughts. He says animals usually keep their thoughts to themselves, but I know for a fact he talks to Cindy when she lets him.
Balthazar’s owner heaved the unresponsive lizard into his arms and carried him off. The next person was a young woman with a sad-looking parrot in a cage.
“Let me guess,” I said. “The cage needs a southern exposure, and the crackers are stale.”
Vardaman took care of this one pretty quickly. Susie Q the parrot was longing for the Amazon and wished her owner would leave the TV on the Discovery Channel more often.
“This is great stuff, Camden. I’m glad we stayed.”
The third animal needing a psychic adjustment was a fox.
Camden and I both sat up a little straighter. A young man in a dark blue sweat suit held a little fox in his arms.
“A very unusual pet,” Vardaman said. “Wild animals are best left in the wild, but occasionally, and for a brief time, a sick or wounded animal can be taken into a home. This lovely little creature is Mimi. She was hit by a car and broke her leg. Fortunately, Mr. Miller here saw the accident, stopped his car, and brought her to a vet. He’s kept her for a couple of months now and wants to know how she’s really feeling. Please sit down, Mr. Miller. Hello, Mimi.”
“Wonder if Mimi likes hot dogs,” I said.
Vardaman held out both hands as if feeling vibrations from the fox, closed his eyes for a few moments, and then opened them and addressed Mr. Miller. “Mimi would like you to know she’s very grateful for all your help. She says she’s feeling much better and would like to go back to the forest.”
The fox turned her gaze from her owner and looked directly at Camden. For a moment, Vardaman was distracted. He started to say something and changed his mind. At this point, the little fox broke contact with Camden and snuggled into Miller’s arms. Vardaman shook his head as if to clear it.
“Excuse me. I want to make sure I say this correctly. Mimi says if there’s ever anything she can do for you, all you have to do is ask.”
Mr. Miller rubbed Mimi’s head. “I don’t know what a fox can do for me, but I’ll put her back in the forest soon enough.”
“Mimi thanks you.” Vardaman still looked a little rattled. “That’s all we have time for today. Back to you, Bonnie and Teresa.”
“And back to you,” I said to Camden. “What did Mimi have to say?”
“She said, ‘Hello, Cam. This guy’s a goof, isn’t he?’ Then she said all that last part.”
“No wonder he looked surprised.”
“Ready to Believe” wound to an end. The audience filed out. Reg called for a drink. Jessie Vardaman came straight to Camden.
“You’re Cam, right? Ellin’s husband? I know you’re psychic. Did you happen to hear anything during my segment?”
“A little bit.”
“It was that fox, wasn’t it? What did she mean by calling me a goof?”
“I think she was just joking. She is a fox. That’s what they do.”
Vardaman hadn’t held Mimi, but he brushed his jacket as if removing all traces of fox. “I did not appreciate it. What was all that about if there’s ever anything she can do, all Miller has to do is ask? Sounded like something out of a fairy tale. She can’t do anything for him except maybe kill rats.”
“Maybe she was trying to be nice. It sounded good.”
“I’m not having any more foxes. I’m sticking to domesticated animals with normal dull problems.” Still grumbling, he walked off.
“I don’t think that little message was meant for Miller,” I said. “Or Jessie Vardaman.”
Camden shook his head. “I can’t figure any of this out. Let’s go talk to Trace Burwell. If he’s like Rufus said, he won’t be cryptic.”
I knew what I wanted him to be. “He’d better be a big red-haired man with a Bigfoot truck.”
Chapter Nine
“Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home?”
The Cave Bar on Emerald was a small, dark establishment with black wrought-iron chairs and tables and a bar made of faux black marble. I asked for Burwell and was directed to the bar where a man was wiping the countertops. Trace Burwell was a short, dark-haired man with a sad excuse for a moustache. It hung over his top lip like a fake moustache glued on for a low-budget community theater production. He had dull little eyes and a weak chin. If this had been a TV movie titled The Mystery of the Murdered Ex-Wife, the part of the Loser would’ve been played by Trace Burwell.
“Mr. Burwell? We’re friends of Bobbi Jo’s. Could we ask you a few questions?”
He looked startled. “Friends?”
“Yes. I’m David Randall, and this is Camden.”
He stared at us with frightened eyes, finding no comfort in my dashing air of authority or Camden’s calm demeanor. “You know she’s dead? She was murdered in her own home and her baby stolen,” he said.
“Yes, we’d like to help.” I sat down at the bar. Camden also took a seat. “When did you last see Bobbi?”
He clutched the towel to his thin chest. “Are you with the police? They’ve already asked me questions. I don’t know anything. Her ex-husband’s been in here bothering me, too.”
“I’m not going to bother you. I’m a private investigator. I want to find the killer and the baby.”
He took a couple of deep breaths. “I’ve had enough hassle for one day.”
“Just a few questions.”
“But I don’t know anything.”
“How about a couple of beers, then?”
He thought it over. “I suppose.” He put the towel down on the counter to pull two Budweisers. Camden moved the towel a little further, keeping his hand on it for a few minutes.
Burwell came back and set the beers in front of us. “Thanks,” I said. “When did you last see Bobbi and the baby?”
“Last week. Monday, maybe.”
“Did she seem happy? Worried? Excited?”
He picked up the towel and made a halfhearted attempt to wipe the counter. “She was okay.”
I took a sip of beer. “The salesgirl at Oriental Imports said Bobbi was fired but didn’t seem upset about it.”
“Told me she never liked that job and had better plans.”
“Do you know what those plans were?”
“She never told me no plans.”
“Did she have any particular friends at Oriental Imports?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Was there anyone else in her life? A boyfriend, maybe? Someone else who came to visit her?”
He put the towel aside and started fiddling with the napkin holder. “I didn’t see her that often.”
“Bobbi wrote a letter to Rufus to tell him about the baby. According to that letter, you asked her to write, ‘Trace says hello.’ So you were there when she wrote the letter?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“Did she have any enemies, anyone with a grudge against her?”
He made a feeble attempt to sound tough. “The way I see it, the only one who could be mad at her would be that Rufus Jackson, if he didn’t want to be the father. She never should’ve sent that letter.”
I put money for the beer on the bar. I glanced at Camden, who nodded. While I kept Burwell talking to me, Camden had reached over and touched the towel again. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Burwell.”
He was on a roll. “Yeah, I think both of you should leave now.”
Out in the Fury, I said, “Get anything?”
“He’s terrified.”
“I managed to divine that myself.”
“No, he’s really scared. The vibes off that towel were pure fear.”
“Does he think he’s next?”
“Possibly.”
“Rufus was right. The guy’s a zero. We could’ve gotten more information out of Mimi the fox.” I turned on the car and put it in gear. “Let’s swing by Forest Cove and see how Kary’s doing.”
***
Forest Cove was as dismal as before. I pulled up beside Bobbi’s ancient little Toyota. We got out. I looked in the car. No car seat.
“Whoever took the baby, took everything she would need. Seems to me someone had a plan.”
Camden put his hands on the hood of the car. He shook his head. “Nothing here.”
“I’d be seriously concerned if you could read the car.”
“It’s not locked.”
I started to compliment him on his powers when he indicated the passenger door. The little button was up. I assumed the crime squad had been all over the car, because there wasn’t a thing in it. Kary’s Turbo was parked up the street. We walked toward her car and saw her talking with a woman on the woman’s front porch. Kary handed her a plastic bag and we heard her say, “Thanks so much.” She met us on the sidewalk.
“Not a lot to report, guys. Only a few people are home right now. The woman I was talking with said most of the people in the neighborhood were at work when Bobbi was killed, and only a few of them had ever spoken with her.” She held up her few remaining plastic bags. “On the bright side, I’ve left bags on all the doors, which gives me an excuse to come back. Any luck with the cousin?”
“Trace says he saw Bobbi and the baby last week. He’d like to pin the crime on Rufus, but he’s spooked by something.”
Kary’s gaze took in the sad little houses baking in the afternoon heat. “This is a depressing place, isn’t it? No wonder everyone stays inside.”
“Trace also said Bobbi told him she had plans for a better life. Sounds like she was trying to get out of here. Oh, and there’s no car seat in her car, which makes me think whoever took the baby made plans of their own.”
But what kind of plans? We took one last look at dismal Forest Cove Drive. Kary returned to Turbo and started up the little car. Camden’s eyes were distant. He must have been hearing my thoughts. Bobbi Jo knew her killer. She’d been expecting him or her because she said, “Here it is.” Or did she hand over the mysterious “it” to one person and was killed by another? A home invasion? Someone surprised to find a baby in the house, or someone desperate for a child? Someone hired to kill Bobbi and bring the baby back? Was there a black market baby ring in Parkland?
That was the first thing I was going to investigate when we got home.
***
I was in my office trolling the Internet when Kit Huntington drove up, the sound of his motorcycle shaking leaves from the trees. He was still in his black Angry Young Teen outfit. He knocked on the screen door, and I opened it. He hadn’t lost any of his charm.
“So where’s the room?”
“Upstairs.”
I took him up to the second floor and showed him Fred’s room. I didn’t expect much of a reaction, but he stood for a while, his stance and expression reminding me oddly of Camden’s.
“Did someone die, some old guy?”
“Yes, this used to be his room, but he didn’t die in here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Nah, I’m not worried. He died in the park.”
He must have read about Fred in the newspaper. He went to the window and looked out. “How much did you say?”
“Two hundred.”
“Do I give you the money?”
“I’ll get the landlord.”
We stepped out into the hallway. Camden came down the stairs from his bedroom. He and Kit paused and regarded each other with a sudden stiffness. I’d seen the same reaction when Cindy met a strange cat in the yard. Neither offered to shake hands.
After a long moment, Kit said, “Christopher Huntington. I go by Kit.”
