Deadly Readings Page 4

  “Shhh!”

  “Why? Do you think she’s more of a standing ovation kinda gal?”

  “Dean, please!” she hissed beneath her breath. “I don’t want to get started on the wrong foot—”

  “Good morning, Elise.” Karen breezed her way past the photographer, nearly knocking him off his feet as she did. “Good morning, Dean.”

  “Good morning, your highness.”

  The scowl the society reporter flashed in Dean’s direction was unmistakable and made Elise more than a little grateful for the arrival of yet another staffer—Tom Miller.

  Tom was a pretty squared-away, easygoing guy. Not much Dean could stir up with him. His quiet nature endeared him to everyone on staff, and his sports writing had won the paper the kind of awards Elise hoped to earn one day for her news and feature writing.

  “Okay, everyone, let’s get started.” Sam strode into the room and sat down at the head of the table. He looked around at the faces of his staff members and smiled. “First off, I want to commend everyone on yet another outstanding paper yesterday. We had some tough material to cover and you did it with professionalism and tact. Nice work.”

  His smile widened as he trained it on Elise and Dean.

  “Elise, your coverage of the funeral was outstanding. Dean, you caught some really thought-provoking shots this week.”

  Elise tried hard to keep her answering smile under control, but Sam’s praise got the best of her. She could feel her cheeks redden and hoped no one noticed.

  “Someone call the fire department, quick!” Dean quipped. “Elise’s face is on fire!”

  The room erupted in laughter as Sam donned an imaginary fire hat and Tom mimed the spraying of a hose.

  Note to self, Elise thought as she watched the guys try to outdo each other’s antics—never, ever sit across from Dean again.

  Finally, Sam brought an end to the torture by clearing his throat and bringing the meeting to order. “Okay. That’s enough. So who wants to go first?”

  Tom took the ball and gave a brief rundown of the sporting events that were happening around town.

  “Summer ball is going strong for the Little Leaguers so I’ve got lots to cover there.” The sports reporter pulled out a sheet of paper from the back of his notepad and held it up for everyone to see. “And don’t forget that the annual Family Fun Fest at St. Theresa’s is this Saturday night. There’ll be a celebrity volleyball match this year that should be pretty cool. It’s gonna pit some of the town’s head honchos against each other. Great photo ops for you, Dean.”

  “Thanks, Tom. How about you, Karen?” Sam shifted in his seat and took a sip from the coffee mug he carried in his hand all day long.

  “I’ll be covering a lot of the behind-the-scenes action in preparation for the festival, as well as the silent auction and pie-making contests during the actual event.” Karen paused dramatically as she flipped over her notes. “I’ll also be starting some preliminary work on one of my profiles for later this month.”

  “Who’s the subject?” Dean asked.

  “Kevin Maynard.”

  “Maybe if you’re really nice he’ll show you all his medals and guns,” the photographer whispered in a sensual voice.

  “Dean . . . please.” Sam nodded at the woman seated to his right. “Thanks, Karen. It’s about time we got to know the police chief a little better. And as for you”—Sam pointed at the unruly photographer—“I want a two-page photo spread on the festival. Got it?”

  Raising his hand to his head in a salute, Dean sat ramrod straight. “Got it, Chief.” At Sam’s return salute, Dean slumped back down in his chair. “I’m also stepping up my tourist pictures now that the little buggers are starting to swarm all over town again. Flyswatter, anyone?”

  Sam just shook his head in amusement and moved on to Elise. “How about you, hon?”

  The smile Sam flashed in her direction was all the encouragement she needed. Besides, she’d kept her interview with Maureen to herself long enough.

  “I had a very interesting chat with Maureen O’Reilly yesterday afternoon in my apartment. She was Susie Carlson’s best friend,” Elise said slowly, aware of the excitement in her voice. “Get this—Susie had her palm read by one of those ladies up on the boardwalk the night she was murdered.”

  Dean snorted. “So much for seeing the future, eh?”

  “But that’s just it, Dean,” she countered. “From what Maureen said, this Madame Mariah person actually warned Susie that something bad was going to happen.”

  The room grew eerily quiet except for the ticktock of the wall-mounted clock above Sam’s head. Elise could feel the eyes of everyone in the room staring at her. Nervously she flipped to the page in her notepad that contained her list of suggestions for stories.

  “With that in mind, I think it might be neat to do a feature story on the fortune-tellers who set up camp on the boardwalk each summer. Kind of an exposé about who they are and why people gravitate to their booths every year.”

  Pushing back from the table, Sam stood, signaling the end to yet another weekly staff meeting and the start of another hectic week. “I say go for it. Sounds like an interesting angle all on its own, and it’ll probably be our last chance to feature them if Johnson and Associates has anything to say about it.”

  “Why’s that?” Elise asked.

  “Because that’s the portion of the pier they’re hoping to level for their luxury condos.”

  Chapter Six

  Monday, June 14

  5:30 p.m.

  “C’mon, Cindy, it’s gonna be so cool. Don’t you want to know if you and Bobby are gonna get hitched one day?”

  If there was one trait she was glad she had missed when genes were being passed out, it was the one that made a person incredibly annoying, like the one her cousin had gotten in spades.

  “Sure, I want to know, but these kinds of places give me the willies.” Cindy looked through the open doorway at the empty folding chairs and strange lighting. Was it possible for a place to be any creepier? She shivered.

  “You need to loosen up, girl,” Barbara said, propelling her into Madame Mariah’s parlor and over to the front desk. “Besides, you’ve got ten bucks. I saw your mom hand it to you when we left.”

  “Remind me again why I asked you to visit me this year.” She pulled her purse away from the overeager hands of her mother’s favorite niece.

  “Because you have the time of your life every time I come to see you and you can’t deny it.” Barbara pursed her lips and inflated a thin pink bubble of gum that expanded beyond the length of her nose. Slowly but surely, it grew until she finally popped it with her teeth and sucked it back into her mouth. “Let’s face it, cuz, your life is a boring blur of school, work, an occasional movie with Bobby, and endless church functions with your parents. You need to live it up a little.”

  Before she could come back with a clever retort, the fortune-teller known as Madame Mariah pointed at Barbara and motioned at her with a long, bony finger. “It is time.”

  “Wait, Barbara. Don’t go.” But it was too late. Barbara simply flashed a wicked smile in Cindy’s direction and then disappeared behind the red curtain that separated the waiting area from the shadowy back room.

  Five minutes later, Barbara was back, beaming like a fully lit Christmas tree.

  “Well?” Cindy asked in a shaky voice. “How-how’d it go?”

  “My life is golden. G-o-l-d-e-n. And now it’s your turn.”

  She felt her cousin’s hand shoving her forward despite her protests to the contrary. “Barbara, please. I don’t want to—”

  But it was too late. She was behind the curtain.

  “Tarot cards or palm?”

  Cindy felt her mouth gape as Madame Mariah beckoned her over to a tiny table in the corner of the dimly lit room. It was hard not to stare at the imposing woman with jet-black hair and black-as-night eyes, especially when those eyes were trained on hers. Waiting.

  Inhaling slowly, d
eeply, she walked toward the table, the sound of her heart pounding in her chest deafening.

  “Tarot or palm?” the woman repeated.

  Cindy looked at the crystals hanging from the ceiling, the deck of cards to the side of the table, the dim floor lamp covered with a black cloth, and back to the woman’s heavily lined face. Squaring her shoulders, she offered the only answer she could eke out. “Palm.”

  And just like that, the fortune-teller reached for her hand and pulled it under the light. “You have lived good life. Cautious life. But now . . .” The woman’s words trailed off as she pulled Cindy’s hand still closer.

  “Now what?” she demanded.

  Madame Mariah shifted nervously in her seat. “I . . .”

  An inexplicable chill shot down Cindy’s spine. “What’s wrong?”

  “You are in danger, young lady. Grave danger.”

  Yanking her hand from the fortune-teller’s grasp, Cindy pushed the red curtain aside and headed for the last remnants of daylight on the boardwalk.

  “Hey! Cindy! Wait up!”

  She couldn’t wait. She had to get as far from Madame Mariah’s booth as possible . . .

  Her feet pounded on the wooden boardwalk as she ran toward the bright lights of the game booths that seemed so far away.

  “Cindy! Cindy! Wait up! Please!”

  A strong tug on her sleeve ended her run but not the garbled noises that escaped her throat. “Cindy? What the hell happened in there?”

  “That lunatic looked at my palm and said I’m in danger.” She could feel the tears spilling down her face but could do nothing to stop them. “I-I told you I didn’t want to go in there, Barbara! But you wouldn’t listen!”

  “C’mon, cuz. She’s a crock. What can she possibly tell about your life from looking at your hand?” Barbara grabbed hold of Cindy’s shoulders and tried to steady them. “Just blow her off and don’t give her another thought.”

  “Blow her off? Don’t give her another thought?” Cindy screamed. The sound of her own voice startled her, as did the questioning faces that turned in their direction. What was she doing? She had to calm down . . .

  Nibbling on the inside of her lip, she willed herself to relax, to find a voice that wouldn’t have half of Ocean Point staring at them. “You know what? You’re right. That lady is a nut job.”

  9:00 p.m.

  “Cindy, would you run down to the corner and get me a gallon of milk?”

  She looked up at her mom and smiled, grateful for the opportunity to take a much-needed break from Barbara.

  “Sure, Mom. Need anything else besides milk?”

  “Nope. That’s it.”

  Slipping her mother’s five-dollar bill into the pocket of her shorts, Cindy offered a silent wave and stepped out into the night. The four-block walk to the store was an easy one, especially when it afforded the kind of quiet she’d been craving all evening. She loved her cousin to death, but she’d had more than enough of the girl for one night.

  The convenience store wasn’t busy at all when Cindy walked in, just a few sunburned tourists wondering around aimlessly looking for the suntan lotion they hadn’t thought to buy sooner. Grabbing a gallon of milk from the refrigerator in back, she willed her thoughts away from yet another replay of the fortune-teller’s words and focused instead on the familiar face behind the cash register.

  “Hi, Mr. Salsbury, how are you tonight?”

  “Doing great, Cindy. Say hi to your folks for me, will you?”

  She nodded at her elderly neighbor and smiled. “I’ll do that, thanks.”

  Once she was back outside, she found herself heading toward the beach. The beach route home took a little longer than the road, but that was okay. The longer it took to get home, the more Barbara-free time she could enjoy. Besides, the sound of the pounding surf always had a way of clearing her head and helping her to refocus.

  When she reached the beach, Cindy leaned down and pulled off her shoes. The cold night sand felt great between her toes. Looking up, she searched the star-filled sky for the Little Dipper. Her second-grade teacher had been the first to show her what the constellation looked like and she’d been fascinated by it ever since.

  A muffled footstep somewhere off to her left dropped her focus back to the beach, but it was too late. Before she could turn, before she could see who was there, she fell to the sand, unable to move, unable to do anything other than cry.

  She tried to focus, tried to see the face of the person who tugged at her index finger. But it was no use.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday, June 14

  11:00 p.m.

  It was one of those nights when no matter what she did she couldn’t sleep. Warm milk didn’t help. Soft music didn’t help. Staring at the ceiling didn’t help. There was just too much on her mind. The fortune-teller connection to Susie Carlson was just too hard to let go and she was excited about the feature story she had pitched to Sam that morning.

  Elise threw off her sheet and slipped out of bed. If she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well use the time to get some work done. She pulled on some sweatpants and a light jacket and grabbed her purse. The office wasn’t that far away and the walk would do her some good.

  With any luck, being in the newsroom would help her get her thoughts down on paper and, in turn, allow her to sleep. So many ideas were swirling around in her mind for her feature on the fortune-tellers. But she had to pick an angle and she had to come up with the questions she would ask.

  Ten minutes later she was at her desk and rummaging through her top drawer for a brand-new notepad, question after question firing away in her thoughts.

  According to Maureen, Madame Mariah had foretold Susie’s death. But how could a crease in someone’s hand mean life or death? How did someone like Madame Mariah become a fortune-teller? Did she take classes? Did she read books?

  One by one she jotted each question down as it popped into her head.

  How long had she been telling fortunes?

  Has she ever predicted a tragedy before Susie’s?

  A long, slow beep from the police scanner in the corner of the room made her jump. Dropping her pen onto her desk, she ran over to the machine and turned up the volume in time to hear the dispatcher call out a homicide at the beach—the location of the body no more than two blocks from the office.

  • • •

  As she approached the beach, Elise could see that half the police department was already there, including Detective Mitch Burns. Officers scurried about, flashbulbs flashed, and the detective spoke into a recorder in his right hand.

  Oh, what she wouldn’t give to hear what he was saying . . .

  But she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. It was an active crime scene.

  Instead, she planted herself on an edge of the beach that was illuminated by one of two high-powered spotlights the police had set up. It was a great spot to be in. Perfect light for writing, and a great vantage point for watching the police conduct their investigation. Likewise, she was close enough to tell that there was a body, but far enough away that she wouldn’t be haunted by the vision.

  Leaning forward, she listened closely as Detective Burns ordered the department’s photographer to get as many shots of the victim as possible. She noticed as he took charge of the men around him, giving each one a job to do. Even though she had only spoken to him twice, it was obvious to Elise that Detective Burns was under great pressure.

  Suddenly, she saw him whirl around and stare at her, his long legs bridging the gap between them in mere seconds.

  “Miss Jenkins, you can’t be here! This is an active crime scene! Call the department tomorrow and I’ll give you a statement then.”

  She rose to her feet. “Detective, I’ve stayed out of your way since I got here. But you have to realize that our readers are going to want to know their hometown is the site of another murder.” Squaring her shoulders, she held his eye. “Can you at least tell me the victim’s age?”

  “She’s
a teenager.” He raked a frustrated hand through his hair and released a weary sigh. “Look, Miss Jenkins, I don’t have time for this right now. If you really insist on being here then you need to keep out of our way.”

  Her answer came in a nod he didn’t see, but she couldn’t fault him for cutting their conversation short. Not this time, anyway. For as intense as her job was at the moment, his was harder.

  She stepped back farther on the beach in an effort to relieve some of his anxiety over her presence, the smell of the salty sea and the sound of the crashing waves suddenly magnified tenfold. It was hard to imagine such a beautifully peaceful place could be the scene of something as awful as murder. It didn’t fit.

  A burst of light just over her shoulder made her turn in time to see a station wagon screech to a stop just a few yards from where she stood. A couple in their mid-forties jumped out of the car and ran toward the beach, a teenage girl just steps behind them. A police officer held them back as they approached the victim’s body.

  “That’s Cindy! That’s my baby!”

  Elise watched in horror as the man grabbed his wife and pulled her away from the gruesome scene, the sound of the woman’s grief-stricken shrieks echoing in the night.

  Desperate to give the couple the privacy they so desperately needed, Elise turned to find the girl who’d gotten out of the car with the victim’s parents yet never made it past the edge of the beach. Willing herself to be strong, she started over to the girl, hoping against hope her presence would be some sort of comfort.

  Instead, she found her feet rooted to the sand as the girl began whispering the same four words over and over again.

  “Madame Mariah was right.”

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesday, June 15

  10:30 a.m.

  He carefully removed the crime scene pictures from the large manila envelope on his desk. The head shots, the wound shots, the full-body shots, the location shots. Each picture was a chilling reminder of the fact that two young women were dead, two families altered for the rest of their lives.