Comes the Dark Page 2

  “What’s up, Detective?”

  Dan raised his hand in dismissal of his own brief expletive and moved forward, making a careful stroll around the table’s circumference, looking for anything that might be lying on the floor. He settled each foot one step at a time, eyes downcast. No scuff marks on the carpet, no debris. With the exception of the uncanny positioning of Alva’s body, all appeared in order. “Who called this in?”

  “A neighbor noticed the parlor lights on. Figured it was late for that, so asked us to check on her.”

  He shot a glance at Whitley. “And what was this neighbor doing out at this hour?”

  “Walking his dog,” Whitley informed him. “Seemed straight up.”

  Dan nodded and completed his circuit around the table, pausing once again at the woman’s right side. He bent and studied Alva’s neck, her face. He looked over her clothing, her hands resting on the table, the right turned up, a single card gripped in the fingers. Beyond them, a series of illustrated cards lay in a pattern on the table. Dan assumed the card in Alva’s hand coincided with the one empty space. He didn’t know anything about Tarot reading, although he had heard that people sometimes performed their own. Across from Alva, the guest chair remained pushed against the table and the rug beneath undisturbed. He felt safe in concluding the presence of the cards didn’t necessarily mean someone had been there.

  Dan’s gaze strayed back to the card in Alva’s hand. He wondered what the picture on it signified and supposed each card held a meaning. Perhaps the pattern in which they ended up on the table did, as well. Quackery, if you asked him. The pictures, however, were quite beautiful, especially the one in Alva’s hand. What he could see of it appeared to be a woman in ceremonial garb, dark hair curling down her shoulders but partially concealed by some type of headdress.

  He heard the voice of the local ME outside at the bottom of the short flight of steps leading to the front door. God, he’d forgotten to close it. He glanced at Alva apologetically, but stopped at the realization she was beyond caring. He turned back to the two officers. “I always heard Alva didn’t have any family. Did you locate any signs of her people? Photos?”

  Green stirred. “Not in here, but we’ll check around the house. Hello, Dr. Rankin.”

  Charlie Rankin lumbered into the room carrying a folded black bag. He nodded. “Jonathan. Dick. Dan, congratulations on the promotion.”

  “Thanks,” Dan said. The young officers exchanged a glance. Dan ignored them. Rankin’s assistant arrived dragging a rattling gurney.

  Rankin cleared his throat. Beside him, the younger man, eyes wide, glanced at Alva, then around the decorated parlor. Rankin’s face wrinkled in amusement. “Ed here thinks Alva’s ghost is going to follow him home.”

  Dan frowned. “And why would he think that?”

  Ed’s voice squeaked like a dry hinge as he answered, “The things she’s done. You know, seeing the future, talking to the dead. All of it.”

  Grunting, Dan stepped out of their way. “Ed, that’s a load of bullshit. She was good at fooling people, that’s all.”

  Rankin chuckled and started his cursory exam. Dan backed to the corner, instructing Whitley and Green to check the house for photos or paperwork that might help with notification. “You see any evidence someone else has been searching the place before you, give me a shout.”

  “No family?” Rankin asked.

  “Not that I’m aware. Never heard of any, and it’s always been rumored she was the last Mabry.”

  “A shame.”

  Dan released a breath as Ed unzipped the bag and laid it on the floor. Rankin removed the card from Alva’s fingers, placing it on the vibrant tablecloth. Dan lifted the card to the light fixture centered over the table. The corners were worn with use, the sheen gone, yet the blue of the woman’s dress remained strong, shimmering in the bulb’s illumination against a background yellowed with age. The woman’s eyes stared out from the picture in an enigmatic gaze. Other symbols lurked in the illustrated scenery. Yes, really quite beautiful. Dan was about to toss the card down when Ed spoke beside him.

  “The Priestess card,” he said.

  Dan frowned. “The what?”

  “The Priestess.”

  “What is that? And how do you know?”

  Ed shrugged. “Been around it some growing up. The women in my family fancied themselves touched by the Sight or something. Hate all of it.”

  “Hate’s a pretty strong word. Some reason for that?”

  “Don’t mind him,” Rankin said with a jerk of his head toward Ed. “He’s a superstitious youngster.”

  “Oh, because superstition is something you outgrow,” Ed shot back at him. “I’ve seen you cross yourself before moving a body.”

  “That’s religion. There’s a difference.” With that, he raised his hand and did precisely what Ed had said.

  Funny, Dan had never noticed that ritual of Rankin’s before. Ed grunted without further reply and turned to assist with moving Alva’s body into the bag. Dan watched dispassionately, noting how Alva remained somewhat pliable. Less than three hours since she’d died then. “Look natural to you?” he asked Rankin.

  “Given her age and some of the indications, probably a heart attack. I’ll do a few tests back at the morgue. Not a full-out autopsy, but just something to tell her next of kin, if she has any. And for the death certificate.”

  Dan nodded. Whitley and Green returned, the latter shaking his head. “No photos,” he said. “Not a one. A basket full of bills, some marked paid, others…well, not. Could be something in the attic. We didn’t go up there. The house didn’t look disturbed. How much do you want us to dig?”

  Dan’s gaze followed the slow pull of the zipper on the heavy black bag. “Before we tear the house apart, I’ll ask questions of the neighbors in the morning. Thanks.”

  “Kinda sad, having no one,” Green added.

  Dan gave the junior officer a curious look. “Agreed.”

  “What do you know about her? Alva Mabry,” Green persisted.

  Cocking an eyebrow, Dan shrugged. “To most of the residents, Alva was a harmless fortune teller relying more on a practiced formula than any psychic ability. That is, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

  From the floor on his knees beside the body bag, Ed raised a hand with forefinger and pinkie extended like a pair of horns. When he saw Dan watching, he muttered, “To ward off the evil eye.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Rankin said. “Enough already.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Dan said. “She’s not going to make any more predictions, no matter how inaccurate.”

  “I wouldn’t joke,” Ed said in a warning tone.

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  Rankin stood and stretched. “I’d bet on natural causes without blinking an eye.”

  Before Dan could make a suitable reply, his cell buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out the phone. “Stauffer.”

  “Detective, there’s a woman here at the station asking for you.”

  Dan’s mind jumped to the owner of the perfume still scenting his shirt. For the sake of propriety, he suppressed a grin. “Who is it, Mac? What’s her name?”

  “She won’t give me her name. But I wouldn’t keep her waiting.”

  Had to be the perfume owner, but why the hell she’d shown up at the station, he had no idea. Especially at this hour. “Hot?”

  “In so many strange but perfect ways,” Mac said.

  Snorting, Dan hung up, his heart doing a little dance in his chest. He issued last minute instructions to Green and Whitley and returned to his car with deliberate nonchalance. Once inside, he checked his hair in the rearview mirror. Since making detective, he’d let his hair grow out a little from the close-cropped style he’d worn for years. Sometimes strands stuck out at ridiculous angles, but it all looked reasonably placed for the moment.

  Putting the car in gear, he headed for the station. Halfway th
ere, he remembered picking up the Priestess card and his hand flew to his breast pocket. “Crap-freaking-tastic.”

  He knew better. Damn it, he knew better. Crime scene or not, no one walked out with material from the location, but Dan had slipped the blasted Tarot card into his shirt. Without conscious thought, sure, but still he’d done something that stupid.

  He considered turning the car around but rejected the idea. No point now. It wasn’t like anyone was going to miss it. He’d restore the oversize card to the deck tomorrow.

  At the station, he parked and hopped out, feeling somewhat rejuvenated by anticipation of a pleasant interlude with the woman from the bar. He locked the vehicle on the fly as he raced up the steps. Despite the fact he couldn’t remember the scented woman’s name, he found himself recalling certain promising attributes. And if the woman was that anxious to hook up with him that she tracked him down, well, so be it.

  Dan let himself in the back door. He slowed his steps in the hallway that led toward the front desk. No need to act like a fool. He rounded the corner at a stroll with his hand in his coat, nodding at the officer on duty. “Mac. Where’d you put her?”

  “In your office.”

  “Thanks.” Dan strode inside, pretending an intense study of the car keys he’d removed from his pocket. A rustle of cloth greeted him as the woman in question stood. He paused, arranging his features into a look of mild curiosity prior to facing her. When he turned, his heart gave a sharp jolt at the sight of the woman before him. Short, dark hair framed an amazing face and the most striking eyes he had ever seen.

  He met her gaze. “Who the hell are you?”

  Chapter 3

  Maris focused all her annoyance into the hand gripping her purse and then discharged the emotion with a single, long breath from her nostrils. Better. After all, this man looked to have had a hard night. No need to judge him on his opening statement. Obviously, he had been expecting someone else. “Dan, is it?”

  “Yes, yes, Dan Stauffer,” he replied impatiently. “Detective Dan Stauffer. Why don’t you go ahead and sit back down. You can tell me who you are and why you demanded I return to the station.”

  As he was speaking, he had stridden to the chair behind the desk and dropped into it like a lead weight. The chair squeaked, rolling back a few inches across the plastic mat beneath. Yes, aggravated and disappointed. He had been expecting another woman. Maris wondered who as she resumed her seat and crossed her legs at the knee with a flip of the long skirt over her boots. Not his wife. Not with that kind of reaction. No ring on his finger anyway. She had noticed when Detective Stauffer yanked open a drawer in his desk from which he pulled a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen. No thinning of the flesh on the ring finger either. If he’d been married, must have been a while ago. Some men didn’t wear rings, though…

  Dan Stauffer cleared his throat. Maris straightened.

  “Detective Stauffer, I did not demand your return.”

  The man clicked the pen twice with the ball of his thumb. “That wasn’t the impression I got.”

  Maris shrugged. “I cannot help the impression you received. I can only tell you that I did not demand anything.”

  “Except to speak to me.”

  “I was adamant,” Maris clarified. “Not demanding.”

  The man gave the pen another click and wrote something at the top of the lined page. “Name?”

  “Mine?”

  He squinted at her. “Who else?”

  “Maris. M-a-r-i-s. Granger. G-r-a-n-g-e-r.”

  His lips quirked at one corner as he applied pen to paper again, gaze intent on the pad balanced across his cocked knee. Maris took advantage of his preoccupation to study his face. The annoyance had left it, leaving his features relaxed, the vivid blue eyes she had glimpsed shuttered now by thick, short lashes and downturned lids. A cowlick in his sandy hair stuck up at a point to the right of his forehead. He lifted his gaze and looked at her. She lowered hers, avoiding his eyes, to concentrate on pulling a piece of lint from the sleeve of her jacket.

  “Why did you ask for me, Ms. Granger?”

  “I asked for Dan.”

  “And that’s me. No other Dans or Daniels in this station. Once again, why did you ask for me?”

  Maris’s fingers shook. She shoved them beneath the hem of her coat. “I was…I was told to.”

  “Who told you?”

  This wasn’t going to be easy. She didn’t like lying, but she’d spent so long skirting certain truths that to tell a falsehood in these matters had become second nature. She never really felt they were lies, only misleading statements in avoidance of ridicule and disaster. Besides, second nature or not, she wasn’t much good at it. She always wanted to preface her words with “I’m a good person,” and even though she didn’t, she figured the sentiment often showed on her face because it had been very hard to keep friends as a child. As an adult, well, she continued the loner pattern with resigned acceptance.

  “Ms. Granger?”

  “I’d rather not say, Detective.”

  “That’s not really acceptable. Not in my line of work. What is it you want?”

  Maris let her breath out in a long, silent release. She reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet, and flipped through the old-fashioned protective pages until she reached a certain photograph at the very back. She wriggled the photo free and slid it across the desk to the man. Frowning, he picked up the picture, turning it toward the bulb in the lamp at his side. His attention snapped back to Maris.

  “Is your child missing?”

  “I have no children. The baby is my father. And the woman holding him is his aunt.”

  “You look exactly like her.”

  “Check the clothing and the condition of the photo. The woman is not me.”

  Brow wrinkling in further study of the photograph, Dan Stauffer’s lips thinned in displeasure, possibly at being directed to see the obvious. Maris nodded at the picture in his hand. “My great-aunt, to be precise. Alva Mabry. And I believe she has died. This very night, in fact.”

  He said nothing.

  “Tell me,” Maris persisted, “am I right?”

  He turned the pen and tapped it several times on the top end of the pad. His left hand lifted to the pocket on his shirt and hovered there briefly before returning to lie flat on the desktop.

  “Yes.” He clicked the pen again twice. Point in. Point out. Thoughts flew across the man’s face more swiftly than he could possibly have realized. “I’m sorry for your loss. I wasn’t aware Alva had any family left. No one at her house tonight was either. Someone at the station contact you?”

  “No.”

  He leaned toward her. “I’d be interested in knowing who did call you, then. Was it the neighbor who contacted the department? We would have gotten around to the neighbors later today regarding family.”

  Maris drew a steadying breath. “No one called me, Detective. I drove straight here from my home.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I…I had a dream.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  She’d been hiding this—gift? curse?—for so many years now she’d forgotten what it felt like to witness the derision. Except in him, it wasn’t quite that. He’d known someone like her in his past and didn’t want to admit it. She felt sure of it. “I had a dream my aunt wanted me here, that I needed to come right away, after all these years. And then, on the way, I knew she had died and that you were at her home.”

  Stauffer’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll forgive me if I’m a little skeptical about what you’re saying. Do you, by chance, have access to a police scanner?”

  “A police scanner? I live a hundred and fifty miles away. Even if I did have such a thing as a police scanner, I certainly wouldn’t hear about anything in Alcina Cove. It took me more than three hours to get here.”

  “Address?” he asked in a gruff tone, shooting a look at the clock on the wall above his des
k.

  “Pardon me?”

  He shook the pen poised above the pad. “What is your address? Also, some identification if you wouldn’t mind?”

  With a lift of her brow, Maris took out her license and slid it across the desk to lie beside the photo. “There. You can copy my information from that. The address is current.”

  He took his time in doing so, writing everything out with deliberation. After studying the license a moment longer, he held it out to her. “You don’t have to prove to me you were related to Alva. That would be an issue for her estate attorney, although if that really is a picture of your great-aunt, I would say there is no question. Did she have a large estate? She didn’t live like she did, but you never know.”

  She bristled, snatching back both items. “Of course it’s Aunt Alva. And I resent your implication. I really do.” She dropped the wallet into her purse and followed with a pull to the zipper that broke it. Maris swore under her breath. She dropped her hands to her lap. “There was an estrangement in the family years ago. I…I was too young to understand the reasons why.” Yes, another lie. Damn it, would she ever be permitted to stop? “I haven’t seen or spoken to my great-aunt since, I’m ashamed to say. All I know is that she came to me in a dream, and that alone brought me here.” Maris blinked back tears of frustration and—even after all this time—grief. “I only want to know what happened.”

  “What happened? She died, Ms. Granger. I’m still curious as to how you knew.”

  “I told you—”

  “I know. You had a dream.” He sighed. “Where does your aunt live?”

  “What? You were there, weren’t you? You didn’t deny it.”

  “Oh, yes, I certainly was there. But I’m asking you the question. Where does—did she live?”

  For some reason, Maris had been foolish enough not to expect this type of interrogation. She frowned. “Here. In your town. After all this time, I don’t remember her exact address, or I would have driven straight there. An old white house, tiny, with a fence, and there used to be a small business sign out front, too.”