Poltergeist

CHAPTER 10

Phoebe had reacquired articulate fury by the time I arrived at the back door to Old Possum's. I knocked and was greeted with a storm of words as the door opened. "Harper! You are mean and sneaky! You askin' me all those questions and already knowin' Mark was dead! You better have some good damn reason why you didn't tell me. You bring your sneaky-ass self in here and start talkin'." Phoebe waved into the dim interior of the back office with an emphatic gesture.

I held position on the stoop. Bright sparks of red and white fury leapt from her, stabbing the air and leaving a sour tang of grief. She glared at me until the sparks died down and her lower lip began to tremble.

"Aren't you comin' in?”

I leaned left and right, making a big show of looking around her. The big overhead fluorescent light was off and only a pair of green-shaded clerks lamps threw pools of light onto the big messy desk in the room.

"OK," I said.

"What are you looking for?”

"I'm looking for Phoebe Mason.”

"What d'you—”

"She said she was going to have an obeah-woman curse me and you don't seem to be doing a very good job, so I thought I'd have to tell her to get her money back.”

She reached up and clouted me on the shoulder—Phoebe's not very tall and though her temper is just as short, so are her grudges. "Girl! Listen to the mouth on you. You get in here, now. But I'm not making you coffee this time. I'm still mad at you.”

I blew out a sigh of relief. "OK. I can take my punishment without caffeine." Which was technically true, since I'd managed to miss both sleep and my morning coffee and it looked like I wouldn't get any lunch, but I'd have to carry on without my favorite crutch. At least until Phoebe relented.

I entered the dim office and went to tuck myself into a chair too ratty to be allowed on the shop floor. "I'm sorry, Phoebe," I started. "When did you find out about Mark?”

Phoebe sat behind the desk and squirmed the chair back so her face was hidden in shadow. I could still see the wavering colors of her distress casting her into Grey silhouette. "Yesterday afternoon. Some detective from the police came round.”

"Hispanic?”

"Uh-huh." The chair creaked as she nodded and I could hear her sniffle in the dark. I couldn't see her expression, but I could imagine it well enough. "Why didn't you say anything Wednesday? Why'd you just let me find out from some stone-faced stranger?”

"Detective Solis asked me not to. And I didn't want you to feel you shouldn't say anything bad about Mark because he was dead. We both need to know what he was really like and what he was doing. And if anyone already knew what had happened.”

"Well, we didn't.”

"Who was here when Solis came in?”

"Jules and Amanda—poor thing—and me. I had to send Manda home in a taxi. She started crying so hard her eyes all swelled up and I couldn't let her go home on a bus like that.”

"What sort of questions did Solis ask you?”

"Pretty much the same as you—how long had he worked here, what was he like, was he upset or in trouble recently, who were his friends, and like that. I even told him about the poltergeist, but he didn't seem very interested, so I didn't tell him about the accident.”

"What accident? You didn't tell me about any accident, either.”

"I did! I told you things fell on people." She shrugged. "It wasn't such a big thing. Couple of days ago Mark was shelving books in the back near the espresso machine and there's a customer talking to him. Then one of the gargoyles come right up off the mantel and smacks into the shelf by Mark's head and the big book he's putting up falls and hits Mark in the chest. Mark fell down and the book fell down and hit the gargoyle and broke the base and the customer goes yelling out the front door.”

"Who was the customer?”

"I don't know. I wasn't in on Monday—yeah, it was Monday. Manda saw it all in the mirror.”

I bit my lip. "Amanda saw it. Was the customer male or female?”

Phoebe flipped her hands upward in impatient annoyance. "I don't know! Ask Manda!”

"Did anyone else see the accident?”

"Mark.”

"Besides Mark and Amanda and the customer?”

"I don't think so. Monday's pretty slow. Why is this so important? That stupid gargoyle didn't kill Mark and the customer didn't throw it at him, anyhow. Manda said it just come after him all of its own.”

I looked through the dimness toward Phoebe. A sad kind of gray green funk wrapped around her. The minions were as much family to Phoebe as her own huge clan of actual relatives, and angry as she was at me for not telling her about Mark, the sadness was worse. It would be awful of me to tell her Amanda was now the prime suspect— ex-girlfriend and the only witness to some kind of attack that couldn't be proved would move her to the top of Solis's list. The chances of finding the mysterious customer weren't good—if there had been one at all—and Solis would think the same thing. It looked as if I was stuck between deceiving Phoebe some more or hurting her worse.

I sighed.

"Phoebe, you do know Solis is investigating this as a homicide?”

She flapped a hand at me. "Of course I do. Didn't he say so? Someone broke into the apartment and killed poor Mark.”

"Is that what he told you?”

"Of course it is! That's what happened! Poor, poor Mark. Poor Mark…" She began crying, her round, dark face dipping into the light as she lowered it into her hands.

"Oh, Phoebe, I'm so sorry," I said, getting up to put my arm over her shoulder. "So very, very sorry.”

She shuddered and gulped air, heaving in a huge breath, then howled a bellow of deep red agony. I clenched my eyes shut and shook with it.

Phoebe cried like a hurricane for over an hour. I finally got her into my Land Rover and took her to her parents' place. Most of the clan was down in the restaurant, already prepping for Friday night rush, but her brother Hugh was at the house, behind it. He took Phoebe inside, asking me to stay a moment, until he got her settled.

He came back down a few minutes later and I told him what had happened. He nodded, looking grave. "We'll look after her, don't worry." Hugh had a soft voice for a man with a chest as broad as a Buick. "She's got a big heart, my sister. It's got a little hole in it right now, but we've got the love to patch it up with. She's gonna be OK. Shop, too. Poppy and Mamma'll scare some of those no-account cousins into helpin' out till Phoebe can't stand it. She'll be running back to the shop in no time to save it from Germaine and his sisters, and once she's back to bustling about and bossing people, she'll be fine.”

I gave him a smile. "You certainly know your sister's soft spots.”

He laughed in warm billows. "I should—she was bossing me from way back. I had to learn to defend myself." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Now, you take care of yourself, Harper—and you know what I mean.”

"Yes, Hugh," I replied with mock exasperation, grinning. "I'll go out and tie some steaks on my body so you can tell Poppy I put some meat on my bones, OK?”

He laughed again and waved me off and I smiled and laughed as I left.

Once I was back in the Rover, the grim feeling of trouble returned. It was a good thing I was already heading to Solis's office. The business of the accident couldn't wait.

The police department offices in the glass-and-granite tower of the new justice center were much nicer than the aging lino and fifty-year-old paint of the old public safety building, but Sous still did not have an office. Like most of the crime investigators, he had a large cubicle with walls high enough and thick enough to cut the noise down to an acceptable degree for phone conversations but not private enough to encourage isolation. As a result, he preferred to have meetings almost anywhere else. He met me in the lobby with a folder in his hand and we walked down the steep pitch of Cherry Street to the SBC coffeehouse above the Seattle Mystery Bookshop.

SBC was only a block from my office, and I wished he'd thought to tell me to meet him there in the first place. At least I'd be able to have a decent cup of coffee, at last. Solis chose a small table in the corner farthest from the door.

I spoke first. "I haven't had much chance to meet with the project members yet. So far the only person I've talked to you'd have any interest in is Phoebe from Old Possum's, and I understand you've already talked to her.”

"Yes.”

"Have you talked to Amanda Leaman yet?”

Solis cocked his head and raised an eyebrow a little. "For a short while, yes.”

"Did she mention an accident on Monday?”

Solis said nothing.

"I was talking to Phoebe a little while ago and she said that there had been an accident in the shop on Monday when Mark and Amanda were alone with a single customer. Phoebe didn't witness this. She only reported the story she got from either Amanda or Mark, so this is hearsay, but might be important.”

"Go on.”

"According to Phoebe, Mark was shelving books near the coffee equipment in the back of the shop and talking to a customer while Amanda was at the cash desk. Supposedly, one of those cat-gargoyles on the mantel was flung against the bookshelf Mark was stocking and dislodged a very heavy book, which hit Mark in the chest and knocked him to the floor. The customer left the shop immediately. I've seen the gargoyle and it has been chipped on the base recently.”

"So your conclusion is that the customer threw the gargoyle at Lupoldi?”

"Phoebe claims that the gargoyle levitated by itself—that's what she was told—and that the customer left in fear.”

His mouth twitched with amusement. "Flying gargoyles? Not a very convincing story.”

"No, it's not, is it? Did the medical examiner find any bruising on Mark's chest that might be consistent with the falling book?”

Solis tapped the folder in front of him thoughtfully. I stole a gulp of my coffee as he deliberated.

"Yes, he did. At first we thought it might indicate something about whatever mechanism was used to kill him, but it was several days older than the fatal injuries. Now I shall have to ask Miss Leaman about that accident.”

"And go looking for the customer.”

He gave half a nod and looked into his coffee cup. "If there is such a person.”

"If there isn't, then you have two possibilities—Amanda threw the gargoyle at Mark, or the gargoyle threw itself.”

Solis shook his head. "Or the book simply fell.”

"Then why make up the story about the gargoyle?”

Solis considered. "It is an interesting question. Would you consider Amanda Leaman capable of such a cold-blooded murder?”

I squinted, trying to remember the exact conditions of Mark's apartment. My instinct agreed, but I wanted to know Solis's reasoning. "Why murder?" I asked. "Why not an accident? Mark was notorious for playing elaborate jokes on people. If it was Amanda, maybe she was paying him back.”

Solis was quiet for a while and I noticed that he had no bright corona around him this time, only a sort of cold blankness—an absence more than a presence—that constrained his emotions. Then he picked up the folder and looked into it. He closed it again and put it down on the table. He was very still as he spoke. "Mark Lupoldi was lifted and flung about five feet with enough force to crush the back of his skull and fracture his spine and most of his ribs. But there is no sign of a fight with an attacker. He was surprised and killed very quickly. He was in excellent health and condition and it would take a lot of force to pick up a young man of his size and throw him. It's what you expect in an explosion. But there was no explosion. Amanda Leaman could not have the strength to throw him like that—a single very large man perhaps could, but only perhaps. If she were responsible, she would have had to use some kind of machine. To assemble the machine and disassemble it afterward, leaving no discernible trace, would take nerve. If Amanda Leaman harbored such malice toward Lupoldi after their relationship was over, her facade of friendship for so many months while she plotted his murder would require very cold blood.

"This is a thing that bothers me. A well-liked young man is found dead in his apartment. If it were an explosion in the steam pipes or an overdose, it would be an accident. Had it been a gang killing or a quarrel, it would be a tragedy, but quickly resolved. There is nothing to account for the force it would take to kill him like this, and yet he's dead. It's a mystery. I don't like mysteries. They belong in books and TV shows. We had thirty-four murders in Seattle last year—a bad year. Half of them were cleared within a few days by the simplest police work, the rest within months—perpetrators bragged, confessed, or were ratted on by friends. None of them were mysteries. Now I have this." He glared at the folder and tapped it with his fingertips.

"You don't usually share information, so. . what do you want from me for this?”

"I want your list of the participants in that project you're investigating.”

"Why don't you just ask Tuckman?”

"Because, until now, you hadn't told me who your client was.”

I gave myself a mental kick in the head. "Ah. I'm still not sure the cases are related…”

"It doesn't matter what you're sure of, Ms. Blaine." His voice was still calm and low, but he was starting to show that angry orange glow again. "I need to talk to everyone who might know the victim well enough to want to kill him. This is a crime of motive, not of a moment's anger or opportunity.”

I bit my lip. There was no reason to withhold the list, but I hadn't gotten well started on my own investigation yet, and I didn't want to deal with the complication of frightened subjects.

"I'd like to have a few days to interview them myself, before you start on this list. They don't know that Mark's dead yet—or they shouldn't—and I'd like to get in a few questions first.”

He studied me. "Monday. I'll give you until Monday.”

I shook my head. "Tuesday morning. Today is Friday and it's already half shot. You can chase down the rest of the employees and the family over the weekend while I chase down these guys.”

"I've got my own family to see.”

"Come on. I've never known you to take a weekend off during an investigation like this, Solis.”

He growled a sigh. "All right. Tuesday morning.”

I pulled the list from my own folder, but hesitated to give it to him. "This is my only copy.”

"I'll write it down.”

I put it on the table between us and snatched his folder as he was copying the information. Solis didn't even look up. "I don't know why you want that. Preliminary autopsy report's got nothing to do with your case.”

"Hey, I'm a snoop. Sue me.”

"Don't tempt me.”

I leafed through the report, but there was little I hadn't already gotten from Solis or my own impressions. They'd done some experiments to see if Mark had been flung from the Murphy bed, but the angle was wrong. The long, rectangular bruise on his chest was noted, as was a smaller one about the same age on his left shoulder and some kind of old marks on his forearms. A photo showed what looked like shallow dents running all the way around his arms about four inches above his wrists. There were no defensive wounds and nothing under his fingernails but the usual dirt. Residue in the bedsheets indicated a woman had been there very recently and very intimately, but little else of interest. The long catalog of items found in the apartment ranged from the bicycle, with its lock intact, to the contents of the bathroom cabinets and dresser drawers, and I skimmed over it all without much interest.

I handed the report back to Sous as he returned my list of project participants.

"I've got a freebie for you, Solis.”

"You are too generous. I wonder what you'll expect in repayment later.”

I smiled. "That's for later. Now, you should know that Mark's job on the project was to fake poltergeist phenomena during séance sessions. The rest of the participants didn't know, but the research team did.”

He looked thoughtful and the orange glimmer receded a little. "That's interesting.”

"Yeah. I thought so, too." I finished my coffee and stood up. "Now that you've got what you wanted, I have a request.”

He glanced up and waited.

"I've been yelled at once for not saying Mark was dead. I'd like to earn that myself, rather than by keeping secrets for you. Is it OK if I say Mark's dead now?”

He gave a shrugging nod. "Sure.”

"Thanks. I have to get back to work. I imagine I'll be seeing you around.”

"Probably.”

I left Solis studying his file with his eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits.

I walked back to my office through a traffic jam of ghosts. Pioneer Square seemed to be gearing up for Halloween in a couple of weeks and the spooks seemed to know it. I'd gotten to the point of recognizing some of the ghosts, though I didn't know who they'd been when alive and I didn't care to. Most were just loops of memory going through some repetitive routine of their lives for as long as they persisted. A few others were more autonomous and aware. If I'd ever been curious about them I'd too often come to regret my curiosity to indulge in it anymore. If they wanted anything from me, they would let me know. In the meantime, I preferred to avoid them the same way most people avoid too-talkative or nosy neighbors and relatives who expect favors.

I let myself into my tiny office not quite overlooking the historically unattractive parking structure and noticed the flashing of my answering machine. All of the messages were numbers forwarded from my pager service. I reminded myself I'd have to do something about that soon, then sat down and called Tuckman's cell phone.

He was in a bad mood when he answered.

"What is it?”

I got perky just to irritate him. "Hi, Dr. Tuckman. Sorry to disturb you, but I just got finished talking to the police about Mark Lupoldi.”

"Oh, for heaven's sake! Is he in jail? Is that why he didn't come to the session? Thoughtless son of a—”

I dropped perky. "No, Tuckman. Lupoldi is not in jail. He's dead.”

I could hear Tuckman breathing and the noise of students echoing around him. He took his time replying. "When did this happen?”

"Wednesday afternoon.”

"So this would have been before the session he missed?”

"Yes. The report says he died about two o'clock. About an hour before the session.”

His voice was still tense. "What happened? Is there any connection to the project?”

I wasn't inclined to give too much information to Tuckman—who was showing no concern for Mark's death except as it affected him— since he hadn't proven himself to be discreet and thoughtful in the recent past and I doubted he'd suddenly changed. "I don't know if there's a connection. He was killed in his apartment and it wasn't pretty. I arrived as the cops were collecting evidence, but there isn't much I can tell you. Besides, you'll be talking to the police yourself, soon enough.”

"What? Why?”

"Because that's standard operating procedure for homicide investigations. They'll want to talk to anyone who might know why Lupoldi was killed or who killed him. Since the project was a major part of his life recently, they'll be interested in everyone else who was involved. Don't get paranoid about this—they'll talk to everyone he knew, from his family and co-workers to the bums he gave handouts to. It's a cop thing. They're kind of like me—when they want information they ask for it and they don't like to be lied to." I paused to let that sink in. "If I were you, I'd cancel Sunday's session.”

"Absolutely not!”

"Why?”

He explained as if I had not been paying attention in class. "If we're to expect disruption, it's all the more important to get as much done as possible before the group can be distracted. It's just as important that you complete your assignment in good order, so this is no excuse to let your investigations slide. The group will be less interested in you so long as the project is moving ahead. The moment it stalls, they'll start to fragment and focus on you or on Mark rather than the work. I can't allow that. The session must go on as planned and you must not tell the subjects about Lupoldi's death until I can break it to them in a way that causes minimal disruption. Now, do you understand?”

"Oh, I understand, but I don't think you do. You're about to be involved in a murder investigation and the detective you drew isn't very forgiving or easily distracted. He is very smart, though, and he has a glacier where his heart ought to be and will tolerate no bullshit. If he thinks you deliberately concealed the fact of Lupoldi's death from your program participants and staff, he will wonder why and he will dig relentlessly to find out. And unlike me, he has no interest in protecting you from any fallout. If you're not going to cancel the session and if you don't tell the group what happened to Lupoldi, you had better be prepared to answer the questions that will raise. I'm working for you, so if you insist that I say nothing I'll have to do that, but I would advise you to consider what that will look like to the police.”

"Ms. Blaine, you persistently lecture me, and I find it extremely annoying.”

"Dr. Tuckman, I suspect you'd be annoyed by anyone who didn't let you trample over them. I am trying to do my job and keep you from being hampered in doing yours. If you choose not to take my advice, that's up to you.”

I could hear him simmering. "I will brief the group on Sunday. Meanwhile, work on finding my saboteur.”

I started to tell him off on that point, too, but he'd hung up.

I made more phone calls to his project team, but only managed to catch up to two of them: Dale Stahlqvist and Ken George. From the voices, I recognized George as the artist who'd made the picture of Celia, and Stahlqvist as the middle-aged, blond businessman. George was on his way out, but said he could spare me some time on Saturday morning. Stahlqvist granted me the last hour of his day, if I could be at his office in ten minutes. The swanky Columbia Center wasn't any farther away from the dirt-crusted charm of Pioneer Square than the justice center, though it required another hike up the hill. I said I'd be there and rushed back out.