Cold reading murder, p.6
Cold Reading Murder, page 6
Merrie spoke up next. “Since Milton wears a tux so much of the time when he delivers our telegrams, we can see how that vision might be pretty scary for him. He obviously thought it referred to him. He even turned to us and asked, ‘Do you think my life might be in danger now?’ I think that was a perfectly reasonable question to ask under the circumstances.”
“I would agree. So, what did you say to that?”
“We tried to calm him down, of course,” Merrie said. “He really is such a sweet boy, and I hate to see him in any kind of distress. We suggested to him that she might not be a real psychic at all and that she might be playing him. But Milton seemed convinced that there really was a dark cloud of some kind hanging over him. He said the woman accurately predicted the plot of this writer guy in the group, and he hadn’t told anyone about it. That does seem to make the case that she might be a genuine psychic, don’t you think?”
“That’s possible, but I’ve also suggested to Wendy that all of this might just be an act, though,” Ross told them. “At this point, it’s impossible to tell if Aurelia Spangler is the real thing, or if she’s just running a clever game. Taking people at face value can sometimes be a huge mistake. As a detective, I can assure you that that can sometimes get you in serious trouble.”
“I get that much. But why scare the hell out of somebody like that?” Merrie said. “Seems like that might end up chasing them away as a customer.”
Ross finished up another of his notes and nodded. “I tend to agree with you. Offhand, I’d say there’s a fine line between a bit of harmless fortune-telling and instigating terror. I don’t see the benefit in that unless . . .” He paused and shifted his eyes sideways. “Well, perhaps I’d better not pursue that angle right now.”
“Do you think we’re right to be worried, though?” Rex said. “From what Milton told us about the rest of the readings, this woman seemed to be pretty accurate. Everyone else seemed to be vouching for her accuracy. What if something has happened to Milton that’s related to this vision? It makes you wonder what else the woman might have in her head. Is she the one who’s the danger to him? Should he and the others be wary?”
“Not everyone is on Aurelia’s bandwagon. I can tell you that my Wendy wasn’t as impressed as the others were, although she had certain concerns. But you’ve done what you should do,” Ross said. “We’ll give you some forms for you to fill out, and then we can start working with law enforcement officers around the state and also down in Baton Rouge. We can get all the info we need from the DMV about Milton’s car and license plate and then issue a BOLO. Once that many eyes start looking for him, he’s much more likely to turn up.”
“Alive, we would hope,” Merrie said. “And certainly not with a knife plunged in his chest. As I said, he’s a darling kid—maybe a little too naïve for his own good, maybe too impressionable—but it’s so not in his nature to just not show up for work without some sort of explanation. We need to get to the bottom of this. I don’t know if I could handle it if something terrible has happened to him.”
Ross lowered his voice, trying to sound as soothing as possible. “Try not to go there if you can.”
“It’s hard to unsee that image of a knife or something plunging into that tuxedo shirt. That’s pretty graphic,” Merrie said. “If I had been in Milton’s shoes during that reading, I’d have been freaked out, too. And your wife might consider whether this Aurelia woman is a good choice for the others to play bridge with when all is said and done, Detective Rierson. I keep getting this image of a fox in the henhouse.”
“I’m afraid that decision will be up to Wendy,” Ross told her. “But I’ll call her down at the paper and bring her up to date on Milton Bagdad, and she can take it from there. Meanwhile, I want to thank both of you again for coming in and reporting this. Sometimes, people wait too late in matters like this.”
“You sound as if you expect the worst,” Merrie said, drawing back with a slight note of panic in her voice.
“No, I’m not jumping to any conclusions, you understand. I’ve found it best not to do that in this business. We officers have to stay calm and objective to get the job done right. Who knows? The guy could turn up any minute now with a reasonable explanation for everything that’s good for a laugh.”
Ross said nothing further, but the young man’s sudden disappearance struck him as alarming. The first thing he did after Rex and Merrie had left was to call Wendy on her cell and get her started on what might become her next investigative assignment for the Citizen.
* * *
Wendy had just settled in across from Lyndell in her editorial office and revealed what Ross had just told her about Milton Bagdad going missing, as well as the details of his disturbing cold reading that Ross had learned from Rex and Merrie Boudreaux. Her tone was animated, her posture restless. It was quite clear that she was more than ready to go into her investigative reporting mode.
Meanwhile, Lyndell began unwrapping a tuna fish sandwich at her desk. It was more of a task than it should have been because the cellophane was not behaving properly, despite its translucence. “You don’t mind my eating while I listen, do you? I have a million things to do today and don’t have time for a real sit-down lunch in the cafeteria or anywhere else in town. This is it—just me cutting corners and brown-bagging it from home.”
Wendy brightened immediately. “Editorial privilege.”
“Well said. But this sounds like a developing story we’ll want to follow,” Lyndell added, after taking her first bite. “You’ll want to get Aurelia Spangler’s side of this immediately, of course. She’ll probably shed an entirely different light on things, which could either clear everything up or muddy the waters further. You have to start somewhere, but I think your path is well lighted in this case.”
“I tried to set up an interview as soon as I hung up with Ross ten or fifteen minutes ago,” Wendy began. “But Aurelia didn’t answer my texts, and her cell went to voice mail. That always especially annoys me. But I left a message for her to call me back as soon as she could. She’s probably just temporarily out of pocket, and I’ll hear from her any second now.”
Lyndell continued to enjoy her sandwich, occasionally taking a sip from her white ceramic coffee mug, which had her name scrawled on it in black magic marker. “It seems your efforts of any kind regarding the game of bridge always lead to some sort of intrigue. I’m sure you’ve noticed that pattern.”
“I have, and I really don’t know what to make of it. More than one person has suggested that the gods of bridge are against me and that I should just stop playing altogether.”
“Do you think you would ever do that after all you’ve put into the game? The odds have to break your way eventually, I would imagine.”
Wendy thought about it seriously for a while. “The problem now is that after two years of playing regularly, I’ve gotten pretty good at the game, if I do say so myself. That was my objective all along. I won’t say I’m addicted or anything close, but I enjoy bridge immensely. No two hands are ever alike, of course. You can learn something new on practically every deal. I think it’s a good thing for me to try to get more people in Rosalie interested in it, and that’s the main reason I decided to go ahead and teach.”
Lyndell had finished half of her sandwich, wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin, and caught Wendy’s gaze firmly. “There’s more than likely a fascinating story behind this young man’s whereabouts. Let’s go on the assumption that the reason is benign. We always cross our fingers and hope for that when someone disappears. No one wants to end up on a milk carton or in the morgue. So, if you don’t hear from Aurelia Spangler soon, I suggest you go out and track her down so she can help you and the police do the best job all of you can.”
Then an idea filled Wendy’s brain, giving her a tingling sensation at the back of her neck. She found the moment decidedly unpleasant. “What if by some chance she’s gone missing, too?”
“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself. I think cell phones have made the entire population much too impatient. Life seems to be all about instant gratification these days. That, and not paying attention to where you’re going when you’re crossing the street, in the supermarket, or on the sidewalk. Not to mention the rudeness I’ve seen everywhere. As if everyone is interested in your end of a private conversation in confined spaces.”
But Wendy wasn’t willing to let go of the conversation, despite the fact that she agreed cell phone usage and tweets had conquered the known universe, taking no prisoners.
“I can only tell you that while Aurelia and I were planning the logistics of that first bridge lesson out at Overview, we were constantly texting and talking on our cells. She was always prompt about getting back in touch with me when I needed to clarify something, or vice versa. Rex and Merrie Boudreaux said that it was so unlike Milton not to communicate with them, much less not show up for work. I just this second got that same uneasy feeling about Aurelia. She should have answered my texts and messages by now because she’s one of the most organized people I’ve ever met. I have this terrible feeling that several worrisome things are happening all at once.”
“If you don’t hear from her soon, don’t hesitate to run by Overview and see what’s going on with her,” Lyndell said. “I know this sounds corny, but the plot may thicken, you know.”
Wendy drew back and frowned. “Funny that you should use the word plot. Vance Quimby couldn’t get over the fact that Aurelia seemed to know the details of the mystery he’s working on—even before he’d started writing on it. How do you grab thoughts out of thin air like that—unless you’re the real thing? Or so you think I’m being naïve?”
Lyndell looked puzzled briefly, but that was soon replaced by a rush of recognition.
“Vance Quimby is the writer in your group, right? He was very gregarious at your wedding reception. He even told me that he hoped I wouldn’t mind answering a few questions since he was doing research for his novel. Of course, as a journalist, that clicked with me. We are all about research, as you know.”
“So you didn’t mind, then?”
“Not at all. He was very charming about it, but I made sure he understood that I’m not a native, nor to the manor born, and have only been here in Rosalie myself for a little more than a year. I’m not privy to all the skeletons in the closets and ‘what-all’s-hiding-under-the-bed,’ if that’s what he needed, and at times he seemed to be going for National En-quirer –type stuff. Even if I were aware of info like that, I doubt I would have shared it with him. That’s just not my style.”
“Yes, well, what he revealed of his actual plot was what really got everyone on Aurelia’s bandwagon as authentic.”
“I can’t finish this now,” Lyndell said, rising from her chair with what was left of her sandwich, again doing battle with the wrapping. “Back into the break room fridge it goes.” She checked the time on her cell. “I need to head out to a meeting with the mayor. Meanwhile, you track down Aurelia Spangler and see what else she can tell you about Milton Bagdad’s cold reading. I’ll check in with you later at the end of the day.”
* * *
Wendy waited in her cubicle for another fifteen minutes or so to hear from Aurelia Spangler, but there was no contact of any kind forthcoming. Impressions of Overview being an unlucky place for most of its owners to date swirled inside her head. She had been an instinctual person all her life, particularly in the matter of solving puzzles. So when she left the building and slid into the front seat of her Impala to head out to Overview, she was far from calm. Her pulse began quickening on its own, and she had the sense that something out of the ordinary was about to happen. Before she started the engine, she proceeded to text Ross to let him know where she was going. Their unwritten agreement was to always keep the other informed of their whereabouts, unless it was a security breach on his part.
On my way to interview Aurelia about Milton. Will keep you posted.
Then she decided to text Aurelia again.
Headed your way for a chat. Let me know where you are if not at Overview. Need to talk asap.
But although Ross acknowledged her text by telling her to stay in touch, there was once again no reply from Aurelia during Wendy’s drive through town toward the High Bluff. She had never been good at handling feelings of foreboding, but these were particularly weighty and uncomfortable. They grew even stronger as she reached her destination and saw that Aurelia’s black SUV was parked in front of Overview just ahead of her. She got out of her car and headed toward the impressive veranda. For a moment, she thought about returning and honking the horn but quickly abandoned the idea. She was not in high school picking up a girlfriend to go shopping.
Wendy rang the doorbell and waited. The humidity and ninetysomething-degree heat of late June were unbearable, and there was no breeze of any kind, despite the great length of the veranda to coax it out of hiding. In the short trek from the curb to the front door, she had started to sweat. A minute or so passed. She rang the doorbell a second time and cried out, “Aurelia? Are you there? It’s me, Wendy. Did you get my texts?” Then she tried knocking a few times—politely at first, then with more force. Who knew? Aurelia might be the type to take a nap. Or might she be the type to be “entertaining company” and be indisposed?
When no answer still came, Wendy grabbed the gleaming silver doorknob and was surprised to find that the door was unlocked. First, she experienced a rush of adrenaline. Then a rush of cool air embraced her as she opened a crack ever so slowly. She yelled, “Aurelia? It’s me, Wendy Rierson. Are you in here?”
The silence both emboldened and worried Wendy. She entered the foyer cautiously and called Aurelia’s name out twice more. Still no response. Then she turned to the right, walking warily into the enormous, shadowy parlor where she had taught her first bridge lesson a couple of evenings before. Aurelia was nowhere to be seen, and Wendy’s pulse continued to race.
She took a deep breath, knowing what had to be done next. As had been the case several times in the past, her fearlessness overcame her recklessness as she approached the door to the reading room. The latest spurt of adrenaline beneath her chest felt almost like touching a faulty electric socket, and she could not bring herself to turn the doorknob just yet. First, she had to center herself with another deep breath. She even found herself counting to ten in her head. But ten was not enough. The count turned to twenty, then thirty. This was becoming absurd. She was a grown woman acting like a little girl playing a game.
But it was another few seconds before she was actually able to open the door to what now seemed like an inevitable sight to her. Where that perception had come from, she did not know. It was as if she, herself, had become psychic for the task at hand. She wondered if Overview somehow brought that out in people.
All speculation aside, Wendy gasped at the gruesome sight of Aurelia Spangler in her chair, accompanied by the faint smell of beginning decomposition. Her opaque, empty eyes were staring up at the ceiling, and her mouth was agape. There was no doubt that she was dead, but Wendy called out her name twice as a reflex action. No answer, of course. There was also no rise and fall from her chest, and she was as stiff and motionless as a figure in a wax museum. The lace tablecloth that had decorated the table the evening of the cold readings was in a heap on the floor; on the bare table surface, there was a note written in cursive, and nearby were a ballpoint pen, a short plastic straw, and the faintest remnants of a powdery substance. While being careful not to touch anything, Wendy managed to position herself so that she could lean down and quickly read the note:
I’m tired of making my living this way. This has gone on too long. I’m doing more harm than good to people, and it’s time for me to leave. I’m sorry for everything.
Aurelia Spangler
Wendy could almost feel the raw emotion and desperation rising up from the words, but she was still shocked by them. Suicide and Aurelia Spangler did not seem to belong in the same sentence. Though Wendy had only known the woman for a short time, leaving this way seemed completely out of character. The Aurelia she had worked with was confident and efficient, determined to get things accomplished and achieve her goals. It was difficult to believe that she had abandoned that sort of energy and drive within the space of a couple of days.
Except that there was that uncoordinated, strange behavior from her when she and Milton had practically lurched out of the reading room following his session. If that was part of her act, it was wildly inconsistent with everything about her except this suicide note that had followed days later. That version of Aurelia who had appeared so depressed and down in the mouth at that juncture might have written such a note. So, what was it about the vision of a knife to the tuxedo shirt that seemed to have shaken her as much as it had Milton? Both had made their exits because of it—Aurelia permanently. It remained to be seen about Milton.
Wendy took out her cell from her purse, steadied herself, and punched up 911, calling for first responders and then texting Ross.
Aurelia Spangler is dead. Apparent suicide. Need you here at Overview asap.
Wendy was relieved that his response was almost immediate:
Are you okay, sweetheart?
No, not really. Discovering bodies not my thing.
Hang on. I’ll be there in no time.
I’ll be okay once you get here but hurry.
Headed over now.
Wendy took her cell with her and walked out onto the veranda, despite the overbearing heat that awaited her. She did not want to be alone inside Overview with Aurelia’s body. When Ross and the paramedics arrived, only then would she be up to returning to the air-conditioned death scene to do and say whatever was asked of her.
