Waltz Macabre Read online

  “She’d been buried in the dune in the first place. We think she was killed on the beach, close to where she was found.”

  “’We?’”

  “I’ve been working with the Sheriff. Alison was an amateur photographer, and her tripod and some of her gear were found at Marineland, near some projecting rocks. There’s a beautiful view from that point, and a lot of people like it. We’d been focused on searching in that area. The initial theory was that she’d been concentrating on her shot and got careless, maybe fell from the rocks. But the location where her body was actually found was much further south, between Tropical Breeze and Flagler Beach, where the sand is gritty and the beach is fairly narrow, especially at high tide. Not many people go there. The storm carved out a lot of sand, leaving her body in an undercut that formed below the road, where the dune had been. When the work crews came in, they found her. The killer hadn’t done a very good job of burying her, and the hurricane uncovered her.”

  “What was on her camera?”

  “That hasn’t been found. At first, we weren’t surprised there was no camera among her equipment. We figured it fell into the ocean along with her. But the divers sent down to look for it came up empty-handed, and it never showed up at either location – Marineland or the spot her body was found.”

  “Hmm. Suggestive. Maybe she took a picture of her killer?”

  Rita didn’t look impressed. “Anything is possible.”

  “It had to be a digital camera. Nobody uses film these days. Did she have cloud storage?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I’m impressed, Taylor. That’s an excellent question. No, she didn’t have cloud storage. I’m sorry to say that Alison wasn’t very tech savvy, other than as it related to photography. She only had a digital camera so she could enter her pictures into local photography contests. Before it began to get hard to even find film, she liked to develop her own pictures in a darkroom.”

  I was nodding. “People are getting more and more suspicious about technology, especially the ones who don’t understand it very well. Every day there’s news about another hack in cyberspace. She was probably worried her pictures would be pirated or something.”

  Rita was keeping it slow, while I was letting my imagination spread out in all directions.

  “Maybe,” she said without emphasis.

  “What about her car? Could she have walked to the place where her body was found?”

  “Yes, but not carrying a tripod and an equipment bag.”

  “But we’re assuming that was planted by her killer, right? Making people search in the wrong place. Maybe she walked over to the place where her body was found with just her digital camera hanging around her neck. That’s possible, right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Where was her car found? At Marineland?”

  “No. Her car was found in her garage. That was one of the things that had us stumped. Nobody admitted to driving her to Marineland, and she couldn’t have walked that distance, with or without her equipment.”

  “So she walked to the beach just south of town and ran into her killer, who somehow got her photography gear – which she didn’t even have with her at the time – and left it in another place entirely to throw the searchers off afterward. It was somebody she knew. Somebody with access to her equipment. Did she keep it in her house?”

  “On her property, yes.”

  “Oh, please. You’re not a G-man anymore. It’s obvious: whoever killed her had access to her stuff. It was somebody she knew.”

  “That’s a strong possibility. She may have had her equipment with her, and the killer simply moved it up the coast. Or moved her down it.”

  “In which case it still had to be somebody she knew. If she had heavy equipment with her, she took her car. How could a random maniac have put her car back in her garage afterward? And why? No, this was somebody she knew. Did the cops go over the car for evidence?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And?”

  After a pause: “They didn’t find anything useful.”

  My cell phone rang, and I decided to ignore it but couldn’t help but look to see who was calling. My contact photo on the screen was a surprised-looking cartoon ghost.

  “It’s Ed.”

  “You’d better get it,” Rita said, getting up to clear the empty cups off the table. “Teddy may be having a crisis.”

  I knew that couldn’t be; the two men weren’t together. Ed was with Barnabas, and that was something I did want to know about.

  “How’s it going, Ed?” I asked, planning to keep it short.

  “I’ve finished for the moment. I’m heading to Cadbury House now to report back to you. I just wanted to let you know I was coming. You’re not still with Teddy are you?”

  “No, and I’m not at Cadbury House either. I’m in town.”

  “Oh. So am I. I haven’t left yet.”

  “You’re still at the site of the investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “No,” he said, lowering his voice, “I don’t want to be overheard. Meet me at Girlfriend’s in the back room. If the shop is too busy, we can talk in my car.”

  We weren’t going to talk in his car, but I didn’t bother to say so. I’d been in the passenger seat of his car. It was built for munchkins. If Girlfriend’s was too busy or noisy, we were going to talk in my car.

  Chapter 7

  Ed was already there, waiting in his Metro, when I pulled into the parking space behind Girlfriend’s. I should have known. Resale shops tend to be full of women, and Ed finds women unnerving. I’m different, of course. He thinks my cat is a goddess. That gives me cachet he can’t resist.

  “Come on out of there,” I said through his driver’s side window. “Your passenger seat is halfway into the driver’s seat. I don’t want to sit in your lap. What’s wrong with Girlfriend’s?”

  He shuddered. “The Red Hat Society.”

  “Wow. Okay, my car’s going to have to do. Come on.”

  Once we were settled and Ed had hit the door lock (who knows why), he opened his satchel and pulled out a tablet of hand-written notes.

  “Naturally, I recorded Barnabas’s playing of the waltz, followed by the interview. Would you care to hear that first?”

  “No. It seems like I can’t stop hearing that waltz, and I heard the whole story from Barnabas last night. Let’s just skip ahead to your impressions.”

  “Ah, yes. Well. I did some scanning with the EMF meter of course . . . .”

  I rolled my hand impatiently, wanting to skip the preliminaries. “And you didn’t pick up anything. You never do. And then . . . ?”

  “Actually I did pick up some impressive readings on the EMF. Responsive readings. I must say, I’ve never been successful with that kind of interaction before. I was . . . startled.”

  “What do you mean, responsive?”

  “Oh, you know the kind of thing. You suggest to the hypothetical entity that it make the needle move, then watch for a reaction.”

  “And you got one?”

  “Big time. Buried the needle. I almost dropped the meter. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting it. Barnabas is a highly suggestible individual, and his airy references to spirit friends among the bookshelves have never impressed me. I’m respectful, of course, but he’s never let me do a sweep of The Bookery before, and I was skeptical, as always. Also, I had to take into account that he knows the history of the material he acquired at the estate sale. An item with a ghost attached was almost inevitable.”

  “But you think there really is one?”

  He turned squarely around in the seat to face me. “What do you think?”

  I hesitated to admit anything, but the memory of the dim shapes mindlessly drifting with the music, and the insistence of the waltz, still pulsing like machinery buried in the earth beneath my feet – I couldn’t get it out of my head.

  “I think there’s a possibility,” I finally sai
d.

  He flickered an eyebrow. “Coming from you, that’s a thundering yes. Tell me – this is important – did you sense one entity only?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, then stopped myself. I closed my mouth and looked blindly through the windshield, thinking it over. “I seemed to see many. But a strong presence? Yes. One.”

  “Quickly now – man or woman?”

  “Man,” I said. Then I sat back and wondered why I’d said that. I’d been watching the woman during the dance. The man – the men – were mere props, passing through and turning her in their arms along the way. “It was a man. And he’s trying.”

  “Trying to do what?”

  I turned and looked into Ed’s eyes. “He’s trying . . . .” The thread broke and I felt myself sag. “I lost it. I don’t know.”

  But Ed was nodding, looking pleased. “You’ve caught hold of something. No – never mind right now – don’t try to chase after it. This is a brilliant beginning. Positive instrument readings and confirmation from a psychic. I’ve started with less and still gotten results. Yes, this is very auspicious. I’m thrilled.”

  He didn’t sound thrilled, but that’s just Ed. I took his word for it.

  “Great,” I said listlessly. For some reason I was suddenly exhausted. “And don’t call me a psychic.”

  I think he chuckled, but at that moment I started the car and I couldn’t be sure. I whipped around to glare, but he was looking innocent. He leveled his gaze at me, signaling an important moment, then said, “This may be critical, Taylor, so I want you to be honest with me.”

  “When am I ever not honest with you?”

  “When you’re not able to be honest with yourself.” My mouth fell open, but before I could respond to that, he went on quickly. “Bastet. How is she behaving?”

  I thought back to the intense green eyes that had been glaring at me when I’d innocently fluttered my own green eyes open that morning. “She’s acting like she always does, only moreso.”

  “Explain.”

  “She’s acting like she’s unhappy with me about something.”

  “Oh, dear.” He faced forward and stared blindly through the windshield. “Oh, dear. That’s bad.”

  “She’s a cat, Ed. Who knows what she’s thinking? I love cats, but I’ve never been able to master cat-think.”

  He hadn’t heard me. “She’s against this investigation. Somehow – I don’t know how – I knew it. Do you feel she has conveyed some kind of a warning to you?”

  “Ed, forget Bastet.”

  “No, Taylor, this is important. What has Bastet done to make you think she’s unhappy?”

  “When I woke up this morning, she scared the bejeepers out of me.” I explained, but he still wasn’t really listening.

  “Oh, this is bad,” he kept muttering.

  “She’s a cat. They’re all practical jokers. She probably laid there for hours waiting for me to wake up, just so she could scare me. Listen, we’ve got to get our heads together about Teddy. I think I’ve got something for him to chew on, but it’s going to mean his coming into town, and you may end up crossing paths. Is that all right with you?”

  “Once I’m in The Bookery, I’ll be safe. Teddy never goes into book stores. What have you got?”

  “It’s – oh, blast.” My cell phone was ringing again. As always, I decided to ignore it, but I just had to see who it was anyway. It was Michael, so of course, I answered.

  “Taylor, where are you?” His voice was terse, strange.

  “I’m in town. Why? Where are you?”

  “I’m still in the club house, but I’m leaving for home now. I just got a call from Carlene. She’s at the shelter. One of the dogs just found a human skeleton in the scrub on the west side of the estate.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “What is it?” Ed asked. I stared at him but didn’t answer.

  “Now it may be nothing,” Michael was saying. “She said a skeleton, not a body. It could be ancient. Prehistoric. That land has never been developed, remember. But I’m heading for home, and I think you should be there too.”

  “I’m on my way.” I ended the call and turned to Ed. “I think that hurricane uncovered more than one corpse. Carlene just found a skeleton near the shelter.”

  “Would you like me to come too?”

  I couldn’t think. I didn’t know. “You can if you’d like, but I’ve got to go now.”

  “I understand.” He got out of the SUV and before he closed the door he bent down and said, “I’ll be right behind you, Taylor.”

  Chapter 8

  Law enforcement was already on site when I arrived back at home. Ed, true to his word, was right behind me. Parked in the unpaved area to the left of the house was the Flagler County Sheriff’s car along with a couple other assorted vehicles. I didn’t look too closely. I was just glad that Kyle was there. Kyle Longley was the Flagler County Sheriff, and I knew him well. He was a comforting guy, very low-key, with a tendency to drawl things out in a way that brought the tension level down.

  Michael was waiting for me, and after calling to us, he started heading west into the coastal scrub and oak forest before we even got to him. He didn’t seem to be curious about why Ed was there.

  “It’s down in a little swale, about half a mile from the house,” he told us.

  “Carlene was walking one of the shelter dogs half a mile into the woods?” I asked.

  “He got away from her.”

  “That doesn’t happen very often,” I mused. “Carlene’s pretty good with the leash. Which dog?”

  “The new spaniel mix.”

  “Oh. He’s just a puppy, but he’s a strong little dude.”

  We were already working our way through the mulchy floor of the woodland. I was keeping a sharp eye on the ground, watching where I stepped; I have this fear of stepping on a snake, even though that’s not very likely. They don’t have ears; they sense vibrations in the earth, so in that way they would have “heard” our footsteps and gotten out of the way. They don’t want to be stepped on even more than we don’t want to step on them.

  Ed trailed us, silent. I could hear him behind us, stepping carefully along.

  “Is Carlene very upset?” I asked.

  “Right now she seems more excited than upset, but she may have a delayed reaction. You’d better be there when she calms down.”

  “I will be.” Carlene and I go back a long way. She had helped out at the shelter for over twenty years, since she’d been a teenager. I finally hired her.

  I consider myself a capable woman, if not a tough old broad, but that day I embarrassed myself. As we got near the area, before I could even see the corpse, something hit me. That’s the only way I can describe it. My vision jelled before my eyes in a kind of lava lamp effect, and I became so dizzy I had to sit down. Michael was a little ahead and he didn’t realize something was wrong, but Ed was behind me, and in an instant, he was kneeling beside me.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Anyway he told me I said that. I don’t remember. The next thing I knew, I was laying on the ground with a head full of pain, opening my eyes and looking up into the face of a stranger whose head was surrounded by the bare branches of January trees and a blinding blue sky.

  * * * * *

  A strange man. Dark. Moustache. Wrong place, wrong time. And then the face morphed into that of a woman. In fact, I was soon to find out that she was a doctor. She was asking me how many fingers, or something ridiculous like that.

  “No, don’t sit up,” she said.

  I sat up.

  Bad idea. I let them lay me back down while the pain in my head wobbled around and nauseated me. By that time, Michael was beside me, Ed was still there, and Carlene was in the background, hovering. There was no dog, and I wondered what she’d done with it, in an idle, disconnected way.

  “Who was that man?” I asked.

  “What man?” the doctor said.

  �
��You know . . . the –“ I tried to remember his face – the one I’d seen when I’d first opened my eyes – and failed. At first I got an impression of a blurry, dark face, but even that drained away, as if it didn’t want me to catch it. I blinked, trying to put all the pieces back together, then I looked at the stranger-lady and said, “Oh, no, I guess it was you.”

  Everybody laughed, breaking the tension.

  “Well,” she said, “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never a man.”

  Michael said, “Taylor, this is Dr. Melanie Shrover. She’s the Medical Examiner. She was already here when we got close to the, um, the find.”

  “Oh, yeah.” This time I really did sit up, and I was okay going that far but didn’t feel like standing up yet. “The skeleton. Is it, like, an ancient Indian or something?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Dr. Shrover said. She was looking intently into my eyes. “How are you feeling now?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll just sit here a minute. So, who is it?” I looked nervously to the area thirty yards away, where Kyle and two uniforms were still looking down.

  “It’s not a recent death, Taylor,” Michael said, trying to reassure me. “He’s been here for quite some time.”

  “How long?”

  “Too soon to tell,” Dr. Shrover said. “Forensics is taking over as soon as they get here, and then I’ll get him back to my office and do an examination. Don’t worry; you don’t know him. Judging by what’s left of his clothing, he’s been here since the early 1900s.”

  “Oh, good,” I said without thinking.

  I heard footsteps and looked up to see Kyle headed our way. Behind me, I heard other people coming, but I was still too woozy to want to turn around and look.

  “How ya doing, Taylor?” Kyle said as he got to where I was sitting on the ground. He squatted down beside me.

  “Oh, you know what we Southern Belles are like,” I said. “Always having the vapors. And it works. See? I’m getting more attention than the dead guy.”

  Lame, I know, but he liked it, and he took the opportunity to remind me that I was still a Yankee and I always would be. I was born and raised in Chicago. Over 30 years in Florida wasn’t going to change that.