Death by Dragonfly Read online

  With Camden’s wife, Ellin, at work, our regular extra-large tenants Rufus and Angie visiting Angie’s sister in South Carolina, Kary rehearsing for a music festival at the Performing Arts Center downtown, and Camden at a softball game, I had the whole house to myself. This was not necessarily a good thing.

  I got a Coke out of the fridge. I filled the water dish for our housecats, Cindy and Oreo, and made a few peanut butter crackers to hold me until supper. I took my snack out to the front porch and sat down in one of the worn wooden rocking chairs. Cicadas sawed away in the trees, and the sparrows and cardinals argued over the seeds in the feeder. A few cars went by, but this was a quiet neighborhood, and everyone else was inside to escape the July heat. We can’t afford central air, but we have air conditioners in the bedrooms and ceiling fans, and the big house is usually cool enough, thanks to all the oak trees. A slight breeze stirred the thick leaves that shaded the porch. I’d almost gotten used to summers in the South. There wasn’t much you could do this time of day except sit and think.

  This wasn’t how I’d planned things. I’d had a wife, a child, and a home. We ate dinner around the table every night and talked about what we did all day, as nice and normal as any family could be in this century. I was going to find lost things and solve crimes and clean up the world. Barbara was going to lead the Women’s League and Garden Club, win tennis championships, and climb mountains. Lindsey was going to—well, Lindsey never had the chance to discover what wonderful things she could accomplish when a car accident killed her and Barbara left. But something wonderful had happened lately, easing my grief. I now looked forward to my dreams of Lindsey. Safe and happy in a celestial playground, she often reminded me of the many spirits that needed my help. I was beginning to believe she and Delores had their own investigation service going on over there.

  Enough sitting and thinking! I had a list of names and ten days to find Pierson’s artwork. I started down the porch steps when a horn beeped, and a red Ford pickup pulled up out front, full of laughing men in blue-and-white tee-shirts. Camden hopped out and waved good-bye as the truck sped away. He came up the walk, tossing a softball into his glove, his cap on backwards like some twelve-year-old, which is pretty much what he looks like.

  He threw me the ball. I caught it and tossed it back. “Did you win?”

  “Five to three. Emmanuel Baptist is history.” He took off his cap and wiped his face with the edge of his sweaty tee-shirt. His pale hair was beyond tousled. I’ve seen many a brave comb commit suicide rather than make the attempt. “We could use another outfielder. The guys asked if you were interested.”

  “I’m surprised they let you play. Must be a real challenge for you.”

  He flopped down on the porch swing and grinned. “I only use my powers for good. You know that.”

  That grin is one reason every female within fifty miles thinks he’s, in their words, “cute.” The blue eyes are another. Someone once said the eyes were windows to the soul, or something Hallmarkish like that. If that’s the case, then Camden’s are cathedral style, floor to ceiling. When he wants to, he can give you a look that peels back every layer of your brain. You’d swear he was flipping through the synapses to find the info he needed. It’s damned annoying. He could sit there, looking as innocent as he pleased. I knew he’d read the pitcher’s mind and the catcher’s and everyone else’s on the rival team. Emmanuel Baptist didn’t have a chance.

  He smacked the ball in his glove a couple of times and then gave me one of those long eerie blue stares. “Something on your mind, Randall?”

  “You tell me.”

  Another long look. I swear I could feel little fingers picking around in my brain. Camden and I have a strange psychic link. This link can be useful when I need to find him, but I’m not exactly sure how it works. It’s not useful when I’d rather keep my emotions to myself.

  I leaned on the porch rail. “I really thought this last case would do it. I expected to be on top for once. But every time, it’s like I’m starting all over. Like things never change. I want change. I want something to happen. I’m stagnating here. I’m circling the drain.”

  “Damn.” Camden looked impressed. “That’s poetic.”

  “An indication of how low I’ve sunk.”

  “But you have a new client.”

  I straightened. “And a deadline. A two-for-the-price-of-one special named Leo Pierson. Not only did someone steal articles from his Art Nouveau collection, he’s a suspect in the disappearance of art museum board member Samuel Gallant. Jordan delivered his standard warning, and Pierson insists he’s not a murderer, so there you are. I’m on my way to hunt for all his little stuff, and I might do a spot of investigating into Gallant’s disappearance, purely by accident. Want to come along?”

  Before he could answer, the screen door squeaked and Kit came out, blinking in the daylight. He wore his usual tight black jeans and black vest studded with safety pins over a white tee-shirt that clung to his rail-thin body. His hair stuck up like a patch of stubby weeds.

  “You’re up early,” I said.

  He scratched his chin where all attempts to grow a goatee had failed. “Yeah, I gotta go see about an amp. Fella said he’d be at Foster’s right about now. He was going to pawn it, but he might cut me a deal.” He paused to give Camden a searching look. “You still thinking about that girl? I told you there was no way you could’ve stopped her.”

  “I know I could’ve done something to help.”

  The two of them obviously conversed on another plane. “What are you talking about?”

  “My drummer’s sister committed suicide,” Kit said. “She wasn’t gonna let anybody help her, no matter what. We both saw it coming, but Cam thought he could prevent it. Told him he couldn’t. It was a pretty bad scene.”

  Since Camden can’t see his own future, Kit makes a handy early warning system, but he can’t keep the worst incidents from replaying. Camden had taught Kit what he called a “Shut the Door” technique to halt unwanted visions. It sounded to me like it didn’t work this time.

  “You couldn’t shut the door on this one?”

  Camden rubbed his forehead. “No. I’ve had quite a few intense visions lately. I hope I’m not headed for an upgrade.”

  “I got your back,” Kit said. “I’ll let you know if anything really bad comes up.” He ran down the porch steps to his gleaming black motorcycle parked under one of the large oak trees. In a few moments, he roared down Grace Street, rattling the trash cans on the curb.

  Camden watched him go and then turned back to me. “You know, I’ve only now gotten used to the telekinesis. Extra visions are not what I want.”

  “You don’t want change. I want change. Same song, second verse. We’re not going to sit around moaning about it. I’ve got ten days to find Pierson’s treasures. Kit reminded me about Foster’s. We could check there for Pierson’s stuff.”

  Camden pushed himself out of the swing. “Yeah, I could use a diversion.”

  “Okay, partner, let’s ride.”

  Chapter Two

  “Whither Must I Wander”

  While Camden took a quick shower and changed clothes, I called Lawrence Stein’s office at Fishburn, Capra, Miles, and Stein on State Street and was informed that Mr. Stein had gone on a weekend fishing trip and wouldn’t be back until Monday. Would I care to make an appointment? Yes, I would, and did. Next, I called the Parkland Art Museum and asked to speak to Nancy Piper. She was unavailable, but the secretary connected me to her voicemail. I left a message that I needed to meet with her as soon as possible. Richard Mason’s contact information was on the Little Gallery website, but he was unavailable as well. I gave my desk calendar a worried glance as I left a similar message on his voicemail. This was Thursday. I had a week and three days to track down Pierson’s artwork. It was vital I talk to everyone on his list.

  The website for the Princeton
Gallery in the neighboring town of Madison had a picture of Samuel Gallant, a tall willowy-looking man with a bored expression in his light blue eyes and a sneer in his smile. He was indeed curator, as Pierson had said. No one answered the phone. Okay, enough phone calls. The Princeton Gallery would be our next stop after Foster’s.

  Foster’s is a big generic-looking box in one of Parkland’s older shopping centers, a clean brick building with lots of windows, a far cry from the dim cluttered holes you see on TV. Kit must have made his deal for the amp because we didn’t see his motorcycle in the parking lot. Inside the store, more amplifiers and banks of shiny guitars and other abandoned musical instruments lined the walls. CD and DVD players, toaster ovens, cameras, and other discarded appliances sat on clean metal shelves. Toward the back were glass cases filled with watches, rings, bracelets, and more costly items. Bilby Foster, owner and fence, hunched behind the counter like a troll guarding the king’s treasure. I showed him the pictures of Pierson’s lost articles and received a snort.

  “Nothing much useful there.” His short brow furrowed into a single line. “Don’t do much trade in fancy artwork. Smartphones and tablets, now, there’s where the money is. Bring me something tried and true.”

  “You’ll let me know if something like this shows up?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. This connected to some big jewel heist?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Thought maybe after all the hoopla with that murderer you caught, you’d be moving on to bigger stuff.”

  Why did the world need to know this today? “Yeah, well, I thought so, too. It hasn’t worked out yet, but it will. Maybe this will be the case that does it.”

  Bilby’s little brown eyes surveyed the pictures of the frilly spoons and flowers skeptically. “Don’t count on it.”

  Camden had stopped before an array of mirrors. I’m through with mirrors and the things that lived behind them. Fortunately, nobody was home. Camden moved on past the chainsaws and flat-screen TVs and paused beside an old-fashioned baby stroller.

  “When did this come in, Bilby?”

  He peered up over the counter. “The pram? That’s a nice one, isn’t it? Somebody found it in their grandma’s attic. You interested?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Check it for vibes.”

  He’d already touched the handle. “It’s okay.”

  “No evil devil babies or nothing? I’ll give you a good price on it.”

  Camden was ready to be a father. He gave the stroller an experimental push. “I’ll have to check with Ellie. She might want something more modern.”

  If she wanted anything at all. Ellin was not thrilled by the prospect of three children Camden had seen in her future. “Bilby, you know anything about a man named Samuel Gallant? Missing, possibly foul play involved?”

  Bilby’s features wrinkled in thought. “Gallant. Tall fella, looks like he smells something smelly?”

  “Good description.”

  “In here all the time pawning stuff. One of those guys always needing cash.” He shrugged. “I figure he’s in deep to a gambling den, so somebody might have bumped him off.”

  That sounded too noir. “Any idea who?”

  “No, but you could ask his niece. Her name’s Rainbow. Works part-time for Janice.”

  I’d planned to head to the Princeton Gallery, but Janice was one of my best sources, and if Gallant wasn’t at his museum, perhaps his niece knew where he was. A quick side trip and a hot dog wouldn’t take much time.

  Janice Chan’s hot dog restaurant was one of the last fast food restaurants left in downtown Parkland. The little building burst with fragrant steam and the aroma of chili and French fries. I had to wait a while, then wade through the crowd before I caught Janice’s eye. She had two drinks balanced in one hand and a container of slaw in the other. Slaw on hot dogs. It’s a Southern thing.

  Janice gave me a nod as we slid onto a couple of empty stools at the counter. Last month, the restaurant had been haunted by the ghost of a young girl whose treasured possessions were buried underneath floorboards in the kitchen. Thanks to Camden and Kit communicating with her to discover her problem, the Hot Dog Ghost’s items were transported to a better resting place in the park. A grateful Janice paid us with free hot dogs. In a few minutes, she returned with my usual order: two dogs all the way, fries, and a Coke, and the same with extra cheese for Camden.

  “Got a minute?” I asked.

  She blew a strand of fine black hair out of her eyes. “I’ll be back.”

  She took several more orders from customers, plopped hot dogs into buns, wrapped them, and slipped them into white paper bags. People shouted out orders, tossed money on the counter, and rushed in and out. I sensed heartburn on the horizon. Someone spilled a Coke, and Janice’s long-suffering partner, Steve, heaved a sigh and got out the mop. Finally, the rush of customers moved on, causing a lull in the action.

  Janice peeled off her mustard-and-ketchup-stained plastic gloves and tucked the wayward strand of hair behind one ear. Her beautiful dark eyes were opaque, as usual, but she smiled.

  “What’s up?”

  I reached for the ketchup. “Couple of questions. Do you have someone working for you with the colorful name of Rainbow?”

  “Yes, Rainbow Gallant. She should be here in a few minutes.”

  “Her uncle Samuel Gallant is missing. Has she said anything to you about that?”

  “She doesn’t say much. Sort of drifts about. She’s a good worker, though. Are you on the case?”

  “Yes, and I’m looking for some stolen Art Nouveau.” I showed her the pictures of Pierson’s missing artwork. “Anybody been bragging about stealing some leafy spoons?”

  She gave the pictures careful consideration. In her busy little restaurant, Janice overhears a lot of useful information, but after a few minutes, she shook her head. “No. Sorry.”

  “It was stolen from a home on Amber Street this past weekend.”

  “Looks like museum pieces. I’ve seen posters like this before in art appreciation class.” She handed the pictures back to me. “Wish I could be more help, but the only thing I know about art is it’s something I can’t afford. Who’s your client, can you say?”

  “Leo Pierson.”

  She smiled. “Big guy, too much hair, eyes like a carp?”

  “That’s him. How do you know?”

  “He stopped in here, looking for directions to Grace Street.”

  “So you’re the one who gave me a glowing recommendation.”

  “I do what I can. If I hear anything about his artwork, I’ll call.” Motion outside alerted her. “Oh, here’s Rainbow. I’ll send her over.”

  Rainbow Gallant arrived in a Geo Metro, a car about the size of Turbo, Kary’s Ford Fiesta. She held a brief conversation with Janice, who motioned to us. Rainbow did indeed drift over. She was tall and willowy like her uncle, and like her uncle, she had pale blue eyes and a bored expression, but her smile was pleasant. She wore her long pale hair tied in two braids, a plain green tee-shirt, and a long multi-colored skirt in some gauzy material that reminded me of crepe paper.

  “I’m Rainbow. How can I help you?”

  We stood and offered her a seat at the table. “I’m David Randall and this is Camden. We’re investigating the disappearance of your uncle.”

  “Oh, don’t bother.” She gave a little dismissive wave as she sat down, her skirt billowing. “I may have overreacted when I notified the police because he’s probably on the run from his creditors. Such a goof. But he’s never been out of touch for this long, so I thought they’d better find him.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  She rearranged the many bracelets dangling on her wrists. “Sunday afternoon. I stopped by his house to help him with the laundry. He’s hopeless with the washing machine. My aunt used to do al
l that before she died. I was supposed to come back Monday and help him move some furniture, but he wasn’t there, and he didn’t show up here at Janice’s for lunch Tuesday. That’s when I called the police, but it’s probably nothing.”

  “The police say he quarreled with Leo Pierson. Did you hear their argument?”

  Rainbow was now interested in untangling her hoop earring from one untidy braid. “No, I don’t know who Leo Pierson is. Uncle Samuel most likely owes him money.”

  She was right about that. Maybe I should take Bilby’s suggestion seriously. “Are you concerned one of his creditors may have decided to end his gambling ways?”

  “No, like I said, he does this all the time. Only he’s usually pretty good at letting me know if he can’t come to lunch.”

  “Would he take someone’s artwork to sell to pay his debts?”

  She stopped playing with her jewelry. “Steal it, you mean? Oh, no, I can’t see that. He said something Sunday about a sure thing and if the deal came through I wouldn’t have to work at a hot dog place anymore. He’s had sure things before that never panned out, so I didn’t believe him.”

  “Did he give you any details about this deal?” I didn’t think I would get anything useful from Rainbow, but her answer made me sit up and take notice.

  “No, he showed me this weird little spoon and said, ‘This is going to make me rich.’”

  This had to be one of Pierson’s treasures. “Did he tell you anything more about this spoon, like where he got it?”

  “No. I thought he was crazy. Who’d want an old bent spoon?”

  I took out my phone and showed her Pierson’s silverware. “Did it look like this?”