Death by Dragonfly Read online

  Ellin led Camden along a row of round tables where people leaned forward anxiously, ready for the words of wisdom from the wispy so-called psychics, the swarthy palm readers, the ascetic-looking shamans, the earnest Tarot card readers. No wonder Camden didn’t want to have anything to do with this circus.

  His table was covered with a blue cloth patterned with gold stars. There was a blue chair for him and a white one placed opposite. A line of people stood waiting patiently. Before he sat down, he said to Ellin, “One hour, Ellie.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Camden sat, took a minute, and then smiled at the first person in line. “How can I help you?”

  I stood off to one side and prepared for whatever shocks and explosions that might occur. The questions were routine. Is my mother happy in heaven? Where is my grandfather’s Civil War rifle? Can you see any ghosts around me? Did my father see me graduate? Apparently, no one had a deadly secret or a violent wish.

  I’ve heard Camden give psychic advice for some time now, and his answers were also routine, maybe a little too routine.

  “Yes, your mother is very happy and is watching over you,” he told the first woman in line. “Look for the rifle in your uncle’s barn,” he said to the second woman. “It’s underneath a fake drawer in the old chest.” He didn’t see any ghosts around the man who was concerned he might be haunted, and he assured the young man that his departed father had attended his college graduation. He was calm and understanding, but he sounded exactly like someone giving cold readings the next table over.

  At the end of an hour, he’d talked to everyone in line. Ellin came back, thanked him, and gave him a kiss. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? I’ll see you at home. I’ve got to make sure the panel on Crystal Healing starts on time.”

  “Sure you don’t want to hang around a little longer?” I asked Camden. “Get your soul realigned or your life regressed?”

  “No, thanks. I’d better leave while I can. This really wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I expected a major headache.”

  And I expected him to be more in tune with the universe. Must be some lingering aftereffects of Tranquillon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “The Death of Loves”

  Wednesday morning there was still no word from Pierson, and I had a day filled with tasks, the main one being another chat with Chance Baseford. Baseford was in his office at the Herald, chewing out a cringing assistant. Something about his coffee being too cool. The assistant was a scrawny young fellow with slicked-back hair and an unfortunate bow tie. In his agitation, a lock of Baseford’s white hair stood up over one ear, and his broad face bloomed with angry color.

  “I specifically asked for nondairy creamer. Can’t you even handle the smallest request? Get out. I have work to do.”

  The assistant scurried past me, head down. Baseford smoothed back his hair. He looked at me as if I had slithered up from the primordial ooze. “What do you want?”

  “A little information. Mind if I sit down?” I didn’t wait for his answer. I slid into the empty chair in front of his cluttered desk. “Thanks. It’s about the mystery surrounding the specific Art Nouveau items belonging to Leo Pierson. You of all people should know the answer to that riddle.”

  “If I did, do you think I would be sitting here, dealing with fools and the daily nonsense that is the Parkland Herald?”

  “Come on, you love being ruler of your empire, and you know it. Two Ls, an H, an M, whoever made the ashtray’s initial, and words off a poster. What initial and what words are we talking about?”

  I knew Baseford couldn’t resist showing off his vast knowledge. He pursed his lips a moment. “The poster by Mucha, I believe is the one titled Chansons D’Aieules. That’s ‘Song of Grandmothers.’ But you could also take into account the first initial as well as the last. So you’d have ‘R.L.’ for Rene Lalique, ‘A.M.’ for Alphonse Mucha, ‘J. H.’ for Josef Hoffmann, and so on. Plenty of letters to choose from.”

  “But someone wouldn’t have to have the items if they knew all this.”

  “I agree.” He leaned forward. “Why on earth are you pursuing this, Randall? It’s bound to be a hoax. Why, I’ve tried solving the puzzle and if I can’t solve it, I don’t see how anyone else can.”

  I thought of Mason’s black SUV circling like a shark and the anxious words Kary had overheard between Mason and Nancy Piper. “Somebody’s serious about it.”

  As I left Baseford’s office, I almost bumped into his assistant. The man had another cup of coffee. I hoped for his sake it was the proper temperature.

  “I’m all done,” I said. “You can go in now, if you dare.”

  He gave me a sickly smile. “Baseford’s a jerk. He’s hell to work for.”

  “I would imagine so. What’s his problem?”

  “He wants to be God. But that job’s taken, so the next closest thing is to judge everyone’s artistic efforts. Only ‘judge’ is far too nice a word. He shreds them, annihilates them.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

  He took the spoon and stirred the coffee violently, as if enough stirring hard enough could turn the coffee into poison. He lowered his voice. “He’s a heartless bastard. A friend of mine had a perfectly respectable opening at the Little Gallery. Just starting out, a fresh vision, nice technique. Old Yahweh in there decided to call the paintings infantile and clumsy. He ruined the exhibit. My friend was crushed. I don’t know if he’ll ever paint again.”

  “But that’s only one man’s opinion.”

  The assistant gave me a pitying look. “You’re not an artist, are you? You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You shouldn’t let him bully you. I hear he got his start in the tabloids.”

  “Hah! To hear him tell it, there wouldn’t be any tabloids without his first important efforts in the world of exploitive journalism. Even being editor isn’t good enough for Baseford. He has to be the reviewer, the features editor—hell, he’d be sports editor if he knew anything about sports. We thought he’d like someone to take over some of the work. And write some of the reviews. Boy, were we wrong.”

  I knew someone who wrote very good reviews. “Was Leo Pierson considered for the reviewer’s position?”

  “Oh, yeah. What a blow up that was! Here we thought we were doing the boss a favor, and he accused us of mutiny. I say Pierson’s lucky he didn’t get the job and have to deal with all the jealousy. But that’s okay. One of these days, Baseford will burn out. Now that’ll be front page news.” He gave Baseford’s closed door a worried glance as if he expected the man to burst forth. “I’d better get this coffee to the Lord before he smites me in his rage.”

  I went back to my car, my mind full of new ideas. Did Baseford know more about my case than he was telling? Was something going on between him and Pierson? I still had trouble imagining my flamboyant client as a criminal mastermind. Could he have sabotaged Stein’s boat? Killed Samuel Gallant and stashed the body? Was he on some angry warpath of revenge for his lost items? He’d joked about the wrath of the dragonfly, and I’d envisioned a clunky superhero. Maybe this was a lot closer to the truth than I thought. Pierson could easily take on another persona. Not a complete chump, either, if the review of King Lear was to be believed.

  This time when I called, Pierson answered on the first ring. “I was about to call you.”

  “Pierson, where have you been?”

  “Where have I been? What does that matter? If you have to know, I was visiting a friend.”

  “So this friend can verify that?”

  He made some snorts and insulted noises. “Yes, of course! I’m not wandering about picking off members of the museum, Randall.”

  “Where were you when Lawrence Stein’s boat blew up?”

  “Here in town, of course!”

  “With this same friend?”

&
nbsp; Pierson continued in his injured tone. “You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to, but yes, with the same friend.” He went off on one of his tangents. “I don’t mind telling you I find this very disturbing. I feel as if I am responsible. I never should have let anyone know I had such a thing as the dragonfly. Then it wouldn’t have been stolen, and this awful curse wouldn’t have been unleashed onto an unsuspecting world. It’s exactly like The Eye of Death, you know, when the explorers come across the rare pearl, and bodies start appearing all over the stage! ‘To your left! I say, isn’t that Sir Nigel? And across his chest there blooms the rose of bloody death!’”

  I was not in the mood for dramatics. “Who is this friend you were with? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Francine and I were at a Dramatists League meeting discussing my future theater. You can check.”

  “Were you with Francine the night your artwork was stolen?”

  “Yes. We’ve been seeing each other for some time now.” He heaved a theatrical sigh, and I could imagine him rolling his large eyes in dismay. “I wouldn’t kill anyone, Randall. What’s my motive?”

  “You’re heartbroken over your treasures.”

  “Heartbroken and psychotic are worlds apart.”

  Sometimes I wondered about that. “Give me Francine’s number.”

  Francine sounded like a Southern Dame Edna.

  “Oh, Leo is one of my dearest friends. Whatever can I do to help?”

  “I need to know if he was with you the night his artwork was stolen and this past Sunday and yesterday.”

  “Yes, we’ve spent many hours together. He is distraught over the loss of his art treasures. This past Sunday, we dined in Asheboro, at Delman’s, a perfectly divine new place. They had the most wonderful spinach soufflé. Have you been there? I can already tell it will be one of our favorite places to dine. Yesterday, we were at my house, and my maid was in attendance, if you need an eyewitness.”

  I started to ask her another question, but she plunged ahead.

  “Leo has told me you’re helping him solve this mystery and find his Art Nouveau so he can finally purchase his own theater. I’m so glad he has assistance. He hasn’t been the same since the theft of his artwork. I can’t imagine anyone hating him enough to steal it. He’s a wonderful man. If you don’t find anything else, you must find the dragonfly. Even though it’s cursed, it means the world to Leo.”

  She finally took a breath and I jumped in with my question. “Where were you the night the thief broke in?”

  “We attended the monthly meeting of the Dramatists League. Have you heard of it? A simply wonderful organization for those of us who love the theater. Leo is one of the leading lights. Now, I haven’t done as much acting as he has, but I don’t mind telling you I was a hit as Lady Macbeth during our summer season of reader’s theater at the Angels of Grace Chapel in Merryville. ‘Out, damned spot!’ Oh, it even gave me chills!”

  These two were certainly well suited. I imagined Francine as a large imposing woman with prominent eyes dressed in one of those tent-like dresses covered in big sequined flowers.

  “Now, when I move in with Leo, nothing as horrible as a burglary will ever happen again.”

  “You’re planning to move in?”

  “Yes, of course. If I had been there that night, you’d better believe I would’ve stopped that thief. The nerve some people have!”

  She proceeded to tell me exactly what she would have done. Twenty minutes later, I managed to thank Francine for her time and hang up. I wondered if Pierson knew about her plans for his future. Sounded to me like the Curse of the Dragonfly was out in full force.

  I got back to the house around lunchtime. Vermillion was poking around in the ’fridge.

  “Hey, Randall, what’s happenin’, man? You want some of this macaroni?”

  Macaroni and cheese had turned out to be one of Kary’s culinary successes. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  “I’ll heat some up for you.”

  Camden’s aspirin bottle was on the kitchen counter. I shook out a handful and looked at them. They looked like ordinary aspirin.

  “Did Camden take some of these today?”

  She pulled the baking dish out of the ’fridge and set it on the counter. “Took some with those Pop-Tarts he likes.”

  “Did you happen to notice how many he took?”

  “No. I reckon he has to be careful and not take too many like he did the other day.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  She took one of the wooden spoons from the holder on the stove and scooped a heap of macaroni onto a plate. “Kary and me had started to the park, and we were almost there when that little green car of hers whizzed by. She didn’t think it was hers at first, but when it went around the corner, she saw Cam was driving. She’d left her phone at home, so we had to run back and get it so she could call you. She told me later he’d taken too many pills. Gotta be careful with any kind of pill, you know. You can overdose on anything. I told him that’s what happened to me.”

  I realized I’d never had a real conversation with Vermillion. I sat down at the counter. “Can you talk about it?”

  “Oh, sure. It was about a year ago. I was hanging loose with some friends and we decided to take something called Light Fantastic. It was new stuff and made real pretty pictures in your head. Seemed harmless, but then we took too many and got way strung out. Some other people called 911. I was lucky. Some of my friends weren’t.” She put the plate in the microwave and turned it on. “I still have flashbacks, but it’s better than being dead.”

  “Have you told Camden this?”

  “Yeah, he knows. He says whenever I have a flashback, he can see those pictures in my head, too. But he hasn’t seen them lately.” The microwave dinged, and she took out the plate. “Here you go. See if it’s hot enough.”

  “Thanks. I have an idea Tranquillon is shutting off Camden’s visions as well as his headaches. What do you think?”

  She handed me a fork. “I think you oughta take that bottle and throw it away.”

  After lunch, I took the bottle right to the Drug Palace and let Ted O’Neal, head pharmacist, have a look. Ted’s a big cheerful man with a fringe of black hair around an ever-growing bald spot. I’ve done some store detective work for him in the past, and he’s always willing to help me on a case.

  He examined the pills. “Yep. It’s Tranquillon. I told Cam they were safe as long as he didn’t take too many. Has he had a reaction to them?”

  “Of course he has. He says he’s stopped taking them, but could there be some aftereffects?”

  “Best thing would be for him to see a doctor, have some blood work done, check everything out.”

  Given Camden’s intense concerns about doctors. hospitals, and anything resembling a needle, this was not likely to happen. Hopefully, the Tranquillon would run its course.

  Speaking of motive, I had something to say to Camden. I went by Tamara’s Boutique. It was a small shop, all chrome and silk flowers, with lots of black and silver mannequins in the windows dressed in pieces of silky stuff that looks like oil in water and probably costs as much. Tamara Eldridge was talking with a customer by the dresses, her own dress a slinky gold creation, her long dark hair braided with a gold ribbon. She looked like a Greek goddess. Tamara, Goddess of Good Times. Camden stood at the cash register, ringing up a suede jacket for a bored woman and her equally bored teenage daughter. I had a moment to observe him. He looked remarkably neat in his shirt and tie, and most of his hair was cooperating. He smiled at the woman as he returned her credit card. There was no way on earth he could convince me he was enjoying this.

  When the woman and her daughter left, I took their place at the counter. “Any messages for me?”

  He shook his head. He rearranged the money in the drawer. “Nothing. Sorry.”

 
“Then lay off the pills.”

  This earned me a dark look. “I finally feel normal—if this is what normal feels like.”

  “Nobody knows what normal feels like.” I glanced around the store. The few pieces of clothing on display were artfully arranged in subdued lighting, as if this were the Expensive Dress Museum. “I don’t believe in the Curse of the Dragonfly, but I need to find it and all the other pieces so you need to be back online.”

  His gaze was steady. “I told you not to take this case. I told you there was too much death involved.”

  “Yeah, back when you were surfing the psychic tidal waves. You also said, ‘This is not the life you want.’ Who were you talking about then?” I knew he couldn’t possibly want what was passing for his life these days. “I think you were talking about yourself. Look, get rid of those pills. Whatever they’re doing, it can’t be good for you.”

  Behind him, several dresses had been hung back askew. He paused in the act of straightening them. “I know at first I was concerned about what was going on, but now—” He sighed and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Randall, you don’t know what it’s like to have this silence after years of being bombarded by thoughts and pictures. It’s eerie. It’s like being at the bottom of a calm blue lake.”

  “That’s because you’re drowning, you idiot. Give them up. You can’t stay on them forever. I took the bottle out of my pocket. “Vermillion saw you take some this morning. How many? Six? Fifteen? Thirty-three?”

  “Two, if it’s any of your business.” He gave up on the dresses and faced me. “The visions were going away. That’s why I didn’t see the pipes breaking or get anything off Leo’s peacock brooch or the things in his house. That’s why I didn’t see Stein’s death or hear from Isabelle or Lindsey. No more visions, no more telekinesis. I can’t get anything to move now, not even a pencil or a penny. For once in my life, everything is quiet and maybe I like it that way. As long as I don’t take more than two, I don’t freak out and run to the PSN.”