And a third to whatever saint had seen to it that there would be no need for a trial.
“You say there was no sign of anything or anyone else?” he asked the young woman. She’d already told him that she was a librarian—that was shortly after she’d taken advantage of their arrival to close herself into the bathroom and throw up. He almost took her to task for possibly destroying evidence, but what was the point? This was one murder he didn’t really want to solve.
She was sitting in the only chair in the living-room, carefully not looking at the outline on the carpet, or the blood-spattered mess of pictures and leather straps a little distance from her feet. He’d asked the same question at least a dozen times already.
“Nothing, no one.” She shook her head. “There’s no back door, just the hatches to the crawl-space, in each closet.”
He looked where she pointed, at the open closet door with the kitchen stool still inside it. He walked over to the closet and craned his head around sideways, peering upward.
“Not too big, but a skinny guy could get up there,” he said, half to himself. “Is that attic divided at all?”
“No, it runs all along the top floor; I never put anything up there because anybody could get into it from any other apartment.” She shivered. “And I put locks on all my hatches. Now I’m glad I did. Once a year they fumigate, so they need the hatches to get exhaust fans up there.”
“A skinny guy, one real good with a knife—maybe a ’Nam Vet. A SEAL, a Green Beret—” he was talking mostly to himself. “It might not have been a knife; maybe claws, like in the karate rags. Ninja claws. That could be what he used—”
He paced back to the center of the living room. The librarian rubbed her hands along her arms, watching him out of sick blue eyes.
“Okay, he knows what this sicko is up to—maybe he just now found out, doesn’t want to call the cops for whatever reason. He comes down into the bedroom, locks the kid in the closet to keep her safe—”
“She told me that a bear locked her into the closet,” the woman interrupted.
The detective laughed. “Lady, that kid has a knot the size of a baseball on her skull; she could have seen Luke Skywalker lock her in that closet!” He went back to his deductions. “Okay, he locks the kid in, then makes enough noise so joy-boy thinks she finally woke up. Then when the door opens—yeah. It’ll fly.” He nodded. “Then he gets back out by this hatch.” He sighed, regretful that he wouldn’t ever get a chance to thank this guy. “Won’t be any fingerprints; guy like this would be too smart to leave any.”
He stared at the outline on the blood-soaked carpet pensively. The librarian shuddered.
“Look, officer,” she said, asserting herself, “If you don’t need me anymore—”
“Hey, Pete—” the detective’s partner poked his head in through the door. “The kid’s parents are here. The kid wants her teddy—she’s raising a real howl about it, and the docs at the hospital don’t want to sedate her if they don’t have to.”
“Shit, the kid misses being a statistic by a couple of minutes, and all she can think about is her toy!” He shook his head, and refocused on the librarian. “Go ahead, miss. I don’t think you can tell us anything more. You might want to check into the hospital yourself, get checked over for shock. Either that, or pour yourself a stiff one. Call in sick tomorrow.”
He smiled, suddenly realizing that she was pretty, in a wilted sort of way—and after what she’d just been through, no wonder she was wilted.
“That was what I had in mind already, Detective,” she replied, and made good her escape before he changed his mind.
“Pete, her folks say she won’t be able to sleep without it,” his partner persisted.
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead and take it,” he responded absently. If things had gone differently—they’d be shaking out that toy for hair and fiber samples, if they found it at all.
He handed the bear to his partner.
“Oh—before you give it back—”
“What?”
“There’s blood on the paws,” he replied, already looking for trace evidence that would support his theories. “Wouldn’t want to shake her up any further, so make sure you wash it off first.”
Satanic, Versus . . .
Okay, so I don’t always take Diana Tregarde very seriously. When this story appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, however, there was a reader (a self-proclaimed romance writer) who took it seriously, and was quite irate at the rather unflattering picture I painted of romance writers. She wrote a long and angry letter about it to the editor.
The editor, who like me has seen romance writers at a romance convention, declined to comment.
A note: The character of Robert Harrison and the concept of “whoopie witches” was taken from the excellent supernatural role-playing game, Stalking the Night Fantastic by Richard Tucholka and used with the creator’s permission. There is also a computer game version, Bureau Thirteen. Both are highly recommended!
“Mrs. Peel,” intoned a suave, urbane tenor voice from the hotel doorway behind Di Tregarde, “We’re needed.”
The accent was faintly French rather than English, but the inflection was dead-on.
Di didn’t bother to look in the mirror, although she knew there would be a reflection there. Andre LeBrel might be a 200-year-old vampire, but he cast a perfectly good reflection. She was too busy trying to get her false eyelashes to stick.
“In a minute, lover. The glue won’t hold. I can’t understand it—I bought the stuff last year for that unicorn costume and it was fine then—”
“Allow me.” A thin, graceful hand appeared over her shoulder, holding a tiny tube of surgical adhesive. “I had the sinking feeling that you would forget. This glue, cherie, it does not age well.”
“Piffle. Figure a back-stage haunt would know that.” She took the white plastic tube from Andre, and proceeded to attach the pesky lashes properly. This time they obliged by staying put. She finished her preparations with a quick application of liner, and spun around to face her partner. “Here,” she said, posing, feeling more than a little smug about how well the black leather jumpsuit fit, “How do I look?”
Andre cocked his bowler to the side and leaned on his umbrella. “Ravishing. And I?” His dark eyes twinkled merrily. Although he looked a great deal more like Timothy Dalton than Patrick Macnee, anyone seeing the two of them together would have no doubt who he was supposed to be costumed as. Di was very glad they had a “pair” costume, and blessed Andre’s infatuation with old TV shows.
And they’re damned well going to see us together all the time, Di told herself firmly. Why I ever agreed to this fiasco . . .
“You look altogether too good to make me feel comfortable,” she told him, snapping off the light over the mirror. “I hope you realize what you’re letting yourself in for. You’re going to think you’re a drumstick in a pool of piranha.”