Superstition Page 5

  Now she recognized it as the recipe for disaster that it was.

  Too damned late.

  “Nicky. I haven’t even had a visit from Dorothy. Not in ages,” Leonora confided in a hushed tone that riveted Nicky’s attention faster than a shout would have done.

  The glance she gave her mother was truly alarmed. Dorothy was Leonora’s Spirit Guide, and for as long as Nicky had been on this earth, Dorothy had been as constant a presence in her mother’s life as Nicky herself and Livvy and Uncle Ham.

  “Mother. Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Pinky swear.”

  Ohmigod. Pinky swear, that precious holdover from childhood. The pledge of truth that she, Livvy, and Leonora never violated. Pinky swears were never taken lightly. From one James woman to another, it meant that whoever said it was telling the absolute, total truth.

  “Don’t panic,” Nicky said aloud, as much to herself as to her mother, as visions of Geraldo Rivera and Al Capone’s empty vault danced in her brain. Leonora, naturally, took that as a cue to panic. Digging her nails into her wrists so deeply that dark crescents formed around them, she dropped her head back against the seat and started panting like a very large dog in a very hot place.

  Like hell? The way she was feeling right now, Nicky wouldn’t take any bets against it. She should have flown in from Chicago days ago, should’ve known that trusting an airline to get her to her destination within any reasonable definition of “on time” was trusting too much, especially when she really had to be there, should’ve anticipated the bad weather that had caused the delay that had caused her and her crew to have to rent cars and drive from Atlanta, which had gotten them to their hotel on the mainland less than two hours ago—just in time to catch part of the regularly scheduled Twenty-four Hours Investigates for which Nicky had done the big (taped) setup for tonight’s special.

  Live at nine—or not.

  Nicky shuddered.

  “Leonora, you’re going to hyperventilate.” Having apparently been monitoring the action in the front seat at the same time as he’d been contributing to the turbulence in the back, Uncle John leaned forward and passed Leonora a small paper bag. If it wasn’t the one he’d been holding over her mouth and nose in the house, it was its twin.

  “Remember,” he said. “Just put it over your nose and mouth and breathe normally. Like I showed you in the house.”

  Leonora grabbed it, pressed it to her face, and started breathing into it.

  “Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale . . .” John encouraged her.

  “Oh, God, I can’t let anybody see me like this,” Livvy wailed. “I look like Moby Dick. I know I wanted to come, but . . . Nick, you’ve got to take me home.”

  Nicky was willing to bet that working for 60 Minutes was never like this.

  “Livvy—” Nicky broke off as the car crested a rise and the Old Taylor Place came into view. To her left, the western fringe of the island was swampy near-jungle. Tall marsh grass crowded close to the road, and the still waters of the creek beyond it gleamed faintly in the moonlight. To her right, the higher ground on which the houses were built was shaded by a thick canopy of live oaks, pines, and cypress. Unlike the pretty pastel bungalows in the center of the island where the year-round residents tended to live, the houses along Salt Marsh Creek were mostly big, older ones that predated the turn of the century. At present, most of them were still empty, awaiting their summer residents. In other words, except for the Honda’s headlights, the area should have been as dark as the inside of a cave.

  But it wasn’t. The Old Taylor Place was lit up like the Washington Monument. Every light inside the house seemed to be turned on. Bright klieg lights illuminated the exterior. Half a dozen vehicles were parked in the driveway.

  Nicky felt a small lessening of tension as she realized that everything looked just as it should for the upcoming broadcast—until she noticed the pair of police cars, blue lights flashing, that were parked on the shoulder in front of the house.

  She was just frowning at them when her cell phone, which she had stowed in the console between the seats, started to ring.

  “Yes?” she said into it, shooting an encouraging smile at her mother, who had lowered the paper bag and was now, with a cautious expression on her face, seemingly trying to breathe without it.

  “Nicky, you’re not going to believe this,” Karen whispered over the phone. “They’re shutting us down.”

  3

  BRIAN WAS GONE BY the time they got to the Old Taylor Place. That made Joe feel marginally—but not a whole hell of a lot—better. It had been almost two years now. He was beginning to think—fear—that Brian might be a permanent part of his existence.

  The ramifications of which he didn’t even want to think about.

  “They don’t have a permit. I told ’em to pack it up.” Vince greeted Joe and Dave on the porch with that information, one hand in his pocket jingling his keys, his shrewd little black eyes snapping with satisfaction. A massive man, he was about six-four and nearly as wide, with huge shoulders, chest, and belly atop oddly short legs. He had a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, pugnacious features, and a lot of trouble just being still. Even after years spent in this motivation-sapping climate, he still brimmed with the kind of raw vigor and nervous energy that was as foreign to South Carolina as kudzu was to the North. At the moment, he was wearing a coat and tie and dress slacks, which made Joe think that—devout Catholic that Vince was—he’d been on his way to or from Mass. Or maybe not. Vince wasn’t a big believer in the island’s casual dress code under any circumstance.

  Which was one reason Joe had pulled on the spare uniform shirt he always kept in his trunk before heading up the yard to the porch. Anyway, he kind of liked that uniform shirt: short sleeves, gray, with a big, shiny silver badge pinned to the breast pocket. In it, he felt like Andy Griffith.

  “So they did need one?” Joe asked without much real concern. On the way over, it had occurred to him that the botched investigation, if indeed the investigation had been botched, hadn’t happened on his watch. What had or had not been done fifteen years ago was not his problem. Therefore, whether the program was broadcast or not didn’t particularly matter to him; he was simply on board with whatever Vince wanted. It was easier that way. Getting all worked up over things that didn’t really matter used to be part of his personality, but it wasn’t any longer. He’d left that part of himself, along with lots of other things, behind in Jersey.

  “Hey, I’m the mayor. If I say they need a permit, they need a permit,” Vince said, his keys jangling harder.

  Joe took that to mean that nobody Vince had been able to reach actually knew whether or not a permit was needed for this type of thing.

  “Works for me,” Joe said.

  The last vestige of twilight had faded away long since. Beyond the perimeter of the brightly lit house, the night was dark and quiet. A breeze blew in from the ocean; it smelled of the sea, of course, and also just faintly of flowers. The front door of the Old Taylor Place stood open, although the screen door was shut. Through the faint blur of its mesh, he could see into the wide entry hall all the way back to the curving staircase and into part of what he took to be the living room. Twelve-foot ceilings, dark wood paneling extending three-quarters of the way up the walls, gloomy shadows everywhere. Except for a few folding chairs and the TV crew’s equipment, as much of the house as he could see was bare of furniture. A bright light had been set up in a corner of the living room behind some kind of translucent white screen that was intended, he guessed, to diffuse its intensity. A group of people—not locals, as he could tell from their clothes, which, being mostly black and mostly business-friendly, were about as far from island mufti as it was possible to get—huddled together not far from the light. He could see only about a third of them, but it was obvious that they were conferring frantically about something, although in hushed words that he couldn’t actually overhear.

  Three guesses as to what it was. They weren�
�t likely to be pleased about having the plug pulled on their program.

  “Uh-oh, we got one on the move,” Dave warned under his breath.

  A young woman with short, black hair had just detached herself from the group in the living room to move into the hall. She was frowning as she talked into a cell phone. Automatically, Joe registered that she was attractive, bone-thin in a white blouse, black skirt, and flat shoes, and not really his type. She was also headed their way.

  “O’Neil. Go see what they’re up to in there.” Vince was charting the young woman’s progress, too. He glanced at Dave and jerked his head toward the house. “They’re supposed to be shutting things down.”

  Dave nodded and headed into the house. The young woman, still talking on her cell phone, reached the screen door at the same time he did. Ever the gentleman, Dave ended up holding the door open for her. She shot him a sidelong glance rife with disdain as she passed through it onto the porch.

  No gratitude there.

  Just then, the sound of quick footsteps on the porch stairs made Joe glance around. His eyes widened slightly as he beheld the redheaded TV reporter ascending them two at a time. A motley collection of newcomers straggled across the lawn in her wake, all clearly headed toward the house. Behind them was the trio of klieg lights that had been set up about thirty feet from the house to light the exterior, causing their shadows to elongate until they stretched across the overgrown grass, almost all the way to the thicket of oleanders that hugged the porch. Joe beheld an older woman, redheaded like the reporter, in a long, flowing purple dress, leaning heavily on the arm of a short but muscular blond guy. A little behind them, another man, less bulky but also less toned, had his hand around the elbow of a heavily pregnant lady who seemed to be huffing and puffing with every step. But it was the reporter who was nearest—and closing fast, he discovered as his gaze snapped back to her. She was pencil-slim—slimmer than she had looked on TV—in a figure-hugging black skirt suit that made her absolutely killer legs look about two miles long, and tall heels that clicked loudly on the wood. Her shoulder-length hair looked dark in the shadows at the top of the steps, but then she gained the porch and strode into the glow of the klieg lights. He saw that her hair was indeed the true deep red it had appeared on TV. Earlier, though, it had hung straight to her shoulders, all smooth and shiny like a shampoo ad. Now it was disheveled, with one side pushed behind an ear and bangs straggling over her forehead. Her cheeks had acquired a hectic flush, and her previously luscious mouth appeared hard and tight. Her eyes narrowed as they focused on him and Vince, her lips pursed until they were downright thin, and she said something into the cell phone that she had pressed to her face.

  She must have felt him looking at her, because she glanced up just then and their gazes collided. Joe felt a stirring of slightly bemused interest as it occurred to him that she was his type—hell, hot-looking redheads were probably everybody’s type—except for the fact that at the moment, she was clearly royally ticked off and itching to take it out on some poor, unfortunate soul. Like him? Probably. It had been one of those days.

  Reaching them, she snapped her cell phone shut. An echoing snap to his left made him glance in that direction. The black-haired woman was about ten feet away and on the move toward them, her now-closed cell phone in hand.

  It was obvious that the two had been talking, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to guess what they’d been talking about.

  Good thing for Vince they weren’t holding any popularity contests out at the Old Taylor Place tonight.

  “Nicky.” The black-haired woman greeted the reporter with obvious relief, scooting past Joe and Vince and shooting them a venomous look in the process.

  “Got it covered.” Nicky dropped her cell phone into a side pocket of the purse slung over her shoulder as her gaze slid between him and Vince.

  “Mayor Capra?” she asked crisply.

  “That’s me,” Vince said, squaring up to her. Her eyes zeroed in on him, narrowed still more.

  Right, Joe reminded himself. This was Vince’s call. Vince’s problem. You go, Vince, he thought, and took a small sideways step out of the line of fire.

  If he was any judge of human nature—and, once upon a time, he had prided himself on that—this was going to be something like the clash of the Titans.

  “Nicole Sullivan.” Her tone was brusque. She stuck out her hand and shook Vince’s. Joe wasn’t exactly sure whether Vince had cooperated, but whether he had or not, the result was the same: handshake accomplished. The woman was obviously a go-getter, and what she was used to getting was her own way. “Twenty-four Hours Investigates. I understand there’s some question about whether or not we have the necessary permission to film here?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Vince said, going for polite but firm. “Or rather, no, ma’am, there’s no question. You can’t film here. You don’t have a permit.”

  Nicky smiled. Or more accurately, Joe thought with a bystander’s objective appreciation, bared her teeth. Very nice, straight, white teeth they were, too.

  “Actually, we don’t need a permit. All we need is the permission of the homeowner, which we have, in writing. Would you care to see it?” She unslung her purse from her shoulder.

  “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t. The bottom line is, you don’t have a permit. That being the case, I’m going to have to ask you and your people here to leave.” Vince held his ground as she unzipped her purse and plunged a hand inside.

  “Here.” Nicky thrust a piece of paper at him. “Written permission from the homeowner. We checked, believe me, and that’s all we need.”

  Vince took the paper and scowled down at it.

  “Hey, Vince,” the blond guy called by way of a casual greeting as he and the older woman reached the top of the porch stairs and started toward them.

  Vince—who knew everyone on the island while, so far, Joe was basically acquainted with the guys in his department, their families, the city council, and various assorted lawbreakers—looked up. Joe watched him focus and frown.

  “John. Mrs. Stuyvescent.” Vince nodded at the newcomers perfunctorily. “I hate to tell you to turn right back around, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Nobody’s leaving,” Nicky said through her teeth, snatching the paper from Vince and thrusting it back into the depths of her purse. “We’re on the air, live, in”—she glanced down at her watch—“oh, God, eight minutes.”

  “Without a permit . . .” Vince began, shaking his head in pseudo-sorrow.

  “Stuff the permit.” Nicky’s eyes shot sparks at him. “We don’t need one.”

  “You cuttin’ it close, girl.” The chiding voice, a woman’s, interrupted before the exchange could grow truly heated. It came from behind Joe. Three people—clearly, they’d come from inside the house—rushed past him. A small, wiry, Hispanic-looking man, a tall black woman with close-cropped hair, and a tiny little blonde with a waist-length ponytail and huge platform shoes surrounded Nicky. They wielded, respectively, a hair-brush, lipstick, and a giant pink powder puff. The blonde had what looked like a translucent overnight case hanging from her arm; it was full of makeup. Joe watched with surprised interest as the trio swooped around Nicky like hyperactive fairy godmothers, everybody working on her at once.

  “I know,” Nicky replied. “I had to . . .”

  “Quit talking and purse your lips.”

  Nicky pursed. A thin brush—lipstick—was whisked over her mouth. Joe watched in fascination as the full, pouty contours he had admired on the screen earlier were restored.

  “Hold on there.” Vince raised his voice to be heard over the hubbub. His face, Joe noted with interest, was becoming flushed. “There’s no point in all this, because there’s not going to be any TV show. Not here, not tonight.”

  If anybody was listening, they could have fooled Joe. Even as the guy used his brush to flip up the ends of her hair, Nicky pulled Mrs. Stuyvescent, who released John with seeming reluctance and murmured something t
hat sounded like a panicky Nicky, no into the circle.

  “Guys, I think a little powder here,” Nicky said. “And . . . should we touch up the lipstick?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  Mrs. Stuyvescent was attacked by the same giant puff that had just dusted Nicky’s face as the fairy godmothers went to feverish work on her, too.

  “The show is cancelled,” Vince announced loudly, to no visible effect. “Cancelled, do you hear?”

  “If I were you, Vince, I’d give up on trying to interfere with Leonora’s big TV comeback,” John said, his eyes, like everyone else’s, on the women. “You can’t stop a runaway train. Anyway, why would you want to?”

  Leonora? Leonora James? For Joe, the other shoe dropped as he figured out that Mrs. Stuyvescent, who was at that moment cringing in the midst of the makeover frenzy, must be the famous psychic who was supposed to conduct the séance that was supposed to air live on Channel 8 in just a few minutes.

  “We don’t need to have the whole country thinking about us in terms of a triple murder, especially with the high season coming up,” Vince growled. “It’s bad publicity.”

  “There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” John said.

  “Hold your breath!” This hardly adequate warning came from one of the fairy godmothers, and it was followed almost immediately by a hissing sound as an aerosol can discharged its contents over the two women at the epicenter of all the activity. To his horror, Joe found himself engulfed in a drifting cloud of hair spray. He accidentally breathed in, choked, and started coughing even as he backed up out of the way.

  “Stop . . . this.” Vince was coughing too, and waving his hand to clear the vapors. “Damn it, how many times do I have to say it: There’s not going to be any TV show broadcast from here tonight.”

  “Choo-choo,” John murmured.

  Vince’s face turned an interesting shade of magenta. He shot John a fulminating look. “Folks, it ain’t happening .”

  For all the reaction that got, he might as well have been talking to himself. The screen door opened. A short, chubby, sixtysomething woman with gray hair curled close to her head hurried through it. As she bustled toward the party, Joe saw that she was wearing an ankle-length flowery skirt and a pale pink sweater set and looked like somebody’s nice old granny. Behind her, carefully holding the door so it wouldn’t bang shut, came Dave.