Inside the Executive's Pocket Page 6

  Jean hopped off her stool, pulled her pants up so they rested just under her boobs and continued. “Nobody believed we had vampires in Normal until it was too late to do anything about it either. It was a massacre.”

  Rosalie shot her cousin a look. “Honestly, Jean. Please stop saying things like that. People will think you’re crazy.” She turned to me. “I haven’t heard anything abnormal going on in Normal.”

  “You wouldn’t, no,” her cousin said, cutting her off. “The government keeps it all hush-hush. And I would never call it abnormal. Abnormal’s like a hot day in the middle of January or something explainable like that. ‘Oh, what abnormal weather we’re having. Must be a warm front.’ I’m talking para-normal. Super-natural. Deadly. The kind of abnormal that sneaks into your house at night and latches onto your neck, not letting go until you’re a shriveled, bloodless corpse.”

  “Oh-kay.” Rosalie said, sneaking the crazy sign to me like we didn’t do paranormal, weird stuff ourselves with our seances, readings, and openings to the gates of hell.

  I never once said anything to Rosalie about the people I knew to be shifters here in Landover, though, and not just because my boyfriend was included in the list. People believed what they wanted to believe. And Rosalie believed in ghosts but not shapeshifters, or apparently, vampires.

  There wasn’t much I didn’t believe in anymore.

  Jean went on. “It’s why I’m here. I’ve been tracking one. I hear you all have your own shapeshifting problems here in Landover, so be careful. Don’t trust anyone you suspect is paranormal. Getting you to trust them is their game. They make you think they’re normal or like they’re someone to be pitied. They’ve just been marginalized their whole lives, poor things. Then, next thing you know, seventeen people die in your town overnight. That massacre was what killed my husband in 1987.”

  I thought about a young Justin, hearing these kinds of things about himself as a kid. Most people did believe shifters were all monsters.

  Jean walked to the door and the ghost followed her. “I’ve got to get going. I’m trying to learn as much about this Dead Forest as I can. You’ve heard the rumors, right?”

  We both nodded.

  She looked out the window like she was waiting for something. “The trick is to keep the shapeshifters in that Dead Forest, hear me? Doesn’t matter if they’re bat shifters or bear ones. They’re killers who cannot live amongst the rest of us.”

  A car pulled up and Jean nodded to it. “My Uber.”

  The ghost looked at me with sad, “aren’t you going to help me” eyes that were very hard to ignore.

  “Did your husband have curly brown hair and glasses?” I said as she reached for the door.

  She stopped and turned around, cocking her head to one side. “Yes. Why?”

  “I see ghosts. And he’s right behind you. I think he has a message…”

  She chuckled and opened the door like I’d just told her I liked meerkats. “You’re as bad as Rosalie. Ghosts. I tell you, paranormal is real, but ghosts are not.”

  As soon as she left, Rosalie exhaled like she was holding in her breath. “My sister Goldie warned me Jean was acting crazier than usual. The whole family’s concerned about her.”

  “Is Goldie the sister whose son was a serial killer and she didn’t even know it?”

  Rosalie nodded.

  “She might not be the best judge of crazy,” I said.

  “I didn’t know he was one either, and neither did you.”

  “You’re not making a stronger case here.”

  Rosalie pulled her dreadlocks into a lumpy ponytail and fanned her exposed neck with her bare hand. “Jean’s been sulking over her lost husband for the last thirty years, and we think she’s finally lost it. She’s making up a lot of nonsense about vampires. We’re worried she might hurt herself or someone she thinks is a vampire or a shapeshifter. It’s gotten serious.”

  “So what’s your family going to do about it?”

  “We don’t know. We’re just in the worried stage.”

  I could tell Rosalie was really worried. I was too, but I was only worried Jean might kill an innocent shapeshifter or vampire. She seemed to be tagging them all as monsters.

  One thing I knew for sure. I was going to visit Normal City someday. I needed to see these vampires for myself.

  “I’m channeling with Sylvia tonight,” I said as I helped myself to a cup of coffee from the new coffee station Rosalie put in so people would feel guilty for not buying from that lady who gave out free coffee. “I don’t know if we’ll get to the Dead Forest part of that night, but I’ll let you know how it goes,” I said.

  Rosalie’s face went extra pale. “Are you sure that’s good for your psyche? Whatever happened that night, paranormal or not, could not have been good. Plus, I do remember Sylvia. She was not a very nice person.”

  I almost spilled my vanilla creamer. “What on earth makes you say that?”

  “Louis only took me to the Executives Club twice, but I remember her. She and her friend… the one who killed everyone that night, they seemed to always be competing with each other for everything. I guess you’d call them frenemies now.” She pointed to the coffee. “Can you pour me one of those? That smells good.”

  I nodded and grabbed her turquoise Goddess coffee cup from the side of the coffee pot.

  She went on. “I couldn’t stand anybody in that cult. They were all phonies. All about themselves. I thought Louis and I would make a life helping people, not trying to make money our number-one goal. I don’t know. When he joined that club, he started to change, and then, he wanted me to change with him, but I couldn’t.”

  I stared blankly at Rosalie while I stirred my coffee, handing her hers. The smell of vanilla bean made my mouth water. “Sylvia seems nice now. Maybe death changes a person.”

  “Doubt it. More likely, if you think she’s nice, she’s playing you.” She blew on her cup.

  “Well, if she’s playing me, she can’t play for long. I’ll see everything in the channeling.”

  “If I were you, I’d stay as far away as possible. I was probably the only one in Landover who didn’t follow Rebecca’s trial…” She snapped her fingers three times in a row. “Torrance. Her last name was Torrance. That’s right. I knew I’d remember it.”

  “Do you think Mr. Peters knows what happened to Rebecca?” I asked.

  “I have no idea who Louis keeps in contact with from that cult. Hopefully no one. But if you want to find Rebecca, why don’t you just ask her family?”

  “What are you talking about? I heard they left after the incident.”

  “The Torrances? Yeah, they left. Hard not to when the whole town knows your daughter’s been making dirty movies in your vet business. But everyone knows her father sold that business to his favorite nephew before he left. His sister’s kid.” Her voice raised up a little at the end as if she expected me to guess who the favorite nephew was, like I would know who could possibly be clamoring to buy a porno studio/animal hospital.

  I thought about that one. I did know. “Dr. Dog.”

  Rosalie nodded.

  Dr. Dog was the name Rosalie called Dr. Vernon Gleason because he hit on every woman at his vet clinic. The man was a 60-year-old thug, if veterinarians could be considered that. Tall and oafish, not too bright. Jackson called him a knuckle-dragger and wouldn’t let him near Rex. It was why we always had a private veterinarian come in from upstate. That, and a few other more obvious reasons.

  I took a deep breath. I hated to do this, but Rosalie was right. I needed to head over to the Landover Animal Hospital after work.

  Opening the door to the animal hospital, I was greeted by the eye-watering smell of some sort of strong disinfectant oozing out of the painted brickwork while a dog barked in the background.

  Marylou Marvelton sat behind the only counter. She was a thick brunette woman around 50 who was a friend of Mrs. Carmichael’s and always wore about six layers too much makeup. Needless to say, sh
e was Shelby’s best customer, and that was saying something because the vet clinic was right next to Landover’s biggest discount makeup store, the Makeup Emporium. The woman obviously liked options.

  I barely knew her, but I’d been invited to her condo every time she hosted a makeup party for Shelby. (Because once word gets out that you’re the kind of sucker who feels obligated to buy stuff at a makeup party, you get invited to every last one of them. Hostess incentives are tied to the take.)

  “Carly Mae,” she said when I entered. “What can I do you for?”

  “Is Dr. Gleason in?” I asked, looking around, only picturing a cheesy porno being filmed in every nook and cranny of this place. I went to lean against the counter then thought better about it.

  “Of course he’s in. He’s the doctor, right?” She looked me up and down. “What do ya want to see him for? I don’t see you with an animal.”

  “It’s private.”

  “Private?” she said in such a loud tone the dog started barking in the back room again. She got up, her long gold necklaces dangling off her thick neck as she waddle-strutted into the back. “Private,” she said again. I guessed no one had ever come in here to talk privately with Dr. Gleason before.

  After a while, she came back out. “He’ll be finished in a minute.” Her swivel stool let out a “whoosh” when she sat back down. “What do you want to talk to a veterinarian about in private?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Something wrong with your dog?”

  I nodded because the woman obviously had no idea what the word “private” meant.

  “You can make an appointment, you know?” she said. “That’s what normal people do.”

  Too many people were finding out I wasn’t normal anymore. I sat down on the cold plastic bench that lined the wall of the lobby. “You having a makeup party soon, Marylou?” I asked to change the subject, like a normal person would do. “You always have the best parties.”

  Her face softened into a nice smile. “You know, I’ve been thinking about having one of those for a while. I ought to. It might cheer poor Shelby up, don’tcha think? What with her fiancé gone missing and everything. That might be fun.”

  “I think they have some nice colors for spring.”

  “I bet they do,” she said, touching her face. “I don’t know about you, but I like to experiment with color. They say I’ve got warm undertones so I can handle a bit more of it than others, but I just don’t know…”

  I heard Dr. Dog come into the lobby before I saw him. His heavy boots squeaked along sticky linoleum. He was a huge man with greasy dark hair. “Carly Mae,” he said. Even his smile made my skin crawl.

  Marylou turned her head toward the man. “Carly Mae has something private to talk to you about,” she said then turned back to me, like she was waiting for me to get going on that private conversation, already.

  “What’s this about, Carly Mae?” Dr. Dog asked. He was close to me now. I could see his pale face was dotted in sweat, smell the hand sanitizer he’d probably just put on. He sat down beside me on the bench, his lab coat brushing against my flimsy jacket.

  I stood up. “I was hoping we could talk in private.”

  He smiled at Marylou who was suddenly very interested in her computer. And I realized this kind of sounded like a cheesy porno. I was the lonely woman walking into the vet’s office and asking to talk in private…

  I tried not to think about it as I followed Dr. Dog to a small office in the back with a desk, microwave, and dorm fridge. He motioned for me to sit down.

  “Now, what did you want to talk about?” he said, sitting casually on the edge of his desk right next to me, like he was ready to star in this movie.

  “As you know,” I began, trying to figure out a way to say this without sounding crazy. I looked over to make sure the door was closed and Marylou couldn’t hear me. “I do seances at the Purple Pony and I am in the middle of writing a book about some of the ghosts in Landover County.”

  He took a long breath. “And, I am a very busy man,” he said, sitting down on the opposite side of the desk now. “I thought this was going to be important.”

  “It is,” I said. “Long story short, I’d like to talk to Rebecca, your cousin.”

  His chair creaked under his weight as he leaned forward. “And what does that have to do with a seance at the Purple Pony?”

  “I made contact with one of her friends from the drive-in incident. Sylvia Darcy.”

  “So you talked with a ghost? You know what? That makes you sound crazier than your boss. Now, I’ve always liked you, Carly Mae. Rosalie? Not so much, but I have always thought you were on the up and up and could possibly be… a very fun person.” The way he emphasized fun made me want to vomit. I knew my ex-husband’s seedy reputation for strip clubs and debauchery sometimes gave people the wrong impression of me, but I never appreciated it.

  He was still talking. “But this is nonsense. Do you know how hard it was on Rebecca and her whole family forty years ago? I will not bring that up again. Not so you can write a convoluted ghost book, I won’t. No matter how much I want to help you.”

  “I’d like to get her side of the story. This could clear her name.”

  “She was never convicted.” His nostrils were flaring now. I could tell this was a touchy subject.

  I stood up. “She deserves to know what happened. The whole town does. And I think with the ghost’s help and Rebecca’s, we can figure it out.”

  “We? Well, you can count us out of that we you are talking about, because we’ve put that all in the past. Rebecca’s a grandmother now. Happy. Or as happy as she can be for having something like that happen to her. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to wrap up some paperwork then I am heading home.”

  When I opened the door to leave, Marylou darted down the hall and back to her desk so fast she almost hit the wall on her way by. She’d been listening in.

  I smiled at her as I headed for the door. “I suppose you heard all of that?”

  “All of what?” she said.

  “Nothing. See you at your next party.”

  She leaned forward as I passed. “Did I ever tell you I write out the Christmas cards around here for Dr. Gleason? To all of his friends and family,” she said. “Birthday cards too. I make sure they get signed and mailed out on time. Probably not in my job description, but I have never minded because I always try to be a helpful person.”

  I was really glad this woman had no idea what the meaning of private was. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying,” I began, “I am going to be your best customer at the next party you throw. The best ever.”

  She squealed, and I walked out with an address, realizing that maybe I’d earned the seediest parts of my reputation myself.

  Chapter 8

  Diplomatic

  Sylvia sat across from me the whole time I ate my leftover garlic shrimp and pasta later that night, watching me, making me feel like I should hurry up. She was ready and eager to figure out her murder. And, I couldn’t blame her, but I also wanted to enjoy the last bits of my garlic shrimp, which was even better the second day.

  I thought about what Rosalie said about this ghost, and how she was probably playing me somehow. What could a ghost want? And why?

  I casually told Sylvia about getting Rebecca’s address to see what her reaction would be. “It’s only about an hour’s drive from here,” I said, licking the garlic sauce from my lip.

  She didn’t answer, didn’t say anything or seem interested. She just hovered and stared.

  I swallowed another bite of shrimp and pasta. “How did you and Rebecca get along in life?”

  “Okay,” she said. “We were best friends, but…”

  “But you think she may have murdered everyone,” I said.

  “I was going to say that we had our moments. I was actually surprised to read those articles and hear that the police thought she might have done it.” Sylvia’s coloring was particularly goo
d under the light of my dining room chandelier. She had a natural beauty with her roundish face and freckles. A very girl-next-door, Dove commercial vibe. “But, I’ll be honest, ever since I found out Rebecca was tried for the murders, I just started thinking, ‘What if she did do them?’ My mother never trusted Rebecca. She liked her, sure. Rebecca and I had been friends since we were kids, but she never trusted her. And she didn’t even know half the things Rebecca was into.”

  “Do you think she killed you?”

  She shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  She was what my mother called “diplomatic.” And my mother didn’t trust diplomats. Sylvia was only saying what she thought I wanted to hear.

  “I’ve got this Monday off, so I’m going to head over to Rebecca’s then,” I said, resisting the urge to lick the sauce off my empty plate. Instead, I took it to the sink. Sylvia followed.

  I didn’t have a phone number for Rebecca, not that I would have called first even if I had one. Rebecca seemed like a woman who didn’t want to be found, and calling first would have been a tip-off to run and hide. So, I was just going to head over there and take a chance. See if she was there. Stakeout her place all day if she wasn’t. It was a foolproof plan.

  “Should I come too? I could let you know if she’s not telling the truth,” she said.

  I thought about that one. Maybe that’s what Sylvia really wanted. Did she blame her frenemy for the murders, and now she was looking for a little payback?

  “Probably not a good idea,” I said, using my best diplomatic tone. “You’ll probably still be resting up from our channeling. And I want to get a feel for things myself.”

  I rinsed my plate, finished my chores for the evening then sat on the couch. “Tell me all you remember from the day of the murder, and we’ll decide where to start the channeling,” I said. I put my notebook on the coffee table in front of me and opened to a new blank page, writing October 13, 1978 at the top. “You and Rebecca both worked at the roller rink together, right? Did you have work that day?”