In the Dead of Night (49 page)

I’m sure that everyone is wondering if this terrible crime was related to the murders surrounding NVP and our ongoing Civil War ghost tour. According to Ed—who also stopped by and was wearing a sling—this is a different killer, or killers. Could it be a copycat? Neither he nor the Metro detectives assigned to work Paula’s murder are ruling out anything at this point. All anyone is acknowledging is that the M.O. is different from the crimes plaguing our ghost hunting efforts.

The crimes have nothing in common, other than Pauline being ambushed in the hallway near her hotel room. She was grabbed from behind and her throat was slashed before she could scream. She was than shot in the back of the head for good measure with a small caliber handgun—one that is common among street thugs. Nothing high tech either, like what was used in the Peters and Anderson’ murders, and the caliber of bullets didn’t match those used on Detective Silver and Officer Morrisey.

Needless to say, Fiona and I didn’t go in to work that day. Since she was in much worse shape than me due to her close friendship with Pauline, I looked after our boys. They were ecstatic to stay home from school and daycare, and we watched
Toy Story 3
and
Brave
together—two times each. Meanwhile, I checked in with the love of my life between showings, with the excuse of fixing more kettle corn and chocolate milk for Ryan and Alex.

After dinner, and after the last showing of
Brave
, Alex managed to convince Fiona to decorate the barren Christmas tree that had been waiting for our attention since the past weekend. We had hoped to squeeze in a moment to do that on Sunday, but there just wasn’t time to get it done—much to the chagrin of our impatient boys. Monday was out, too, and the magnificent Fraser fir was beginning to look lonely in its nakedness.

“You did a great job with the lights,” said Fiona, admiring the handiwork that is usually her preferred task. We prefer traditional multicolored bulbs, since the kids especially love the twinkling colors’ reflection off the more fragile glass ornaments that my wife and I would later add to the tree.

“Thanks, babe.” I gave her a light kiss on the lips and lingered with another along the delicate arch of her neck. “You smell fantastic.”

“Hmmm…maybe I’ll allow you a longer tour later on tonight,” she whispered, though unable to
conceal a slight sniffle. But she caught herself and turned on a huge smile for our sons, who could scarcely contain their excitement. “Who’s ready to put their ornament on first?”

My wife is a master at hiding her grief when necessary, and realizing we might not have another opportunity this week as a family to put up the tree in our ‘traditional’ style, she summoned her joy from somewhere deep within her soul and nearly banished all of her sadness. Only her swollen eyes betrayed the compounded pain that was taking its toll on her heart and psyche.

At least she still had the three of us to get her through this second hour of darkness in less than a year and a half. Candi Starr and so many close friends leaving us through Angie’s violence had left wounds in Fiona’s soul that were viciously reopened by the latest rash of killings. She couldn’t handle much more without facing an emotional breakdown.

“I’ll go first!” shouted Alex.

“No, let
me!”
cried Ryan.

Before the two of them could turn their excitement into their own little civil war over first rights to the glowing tree, I grabbed my youngest and placed him on my shoulders while motioning for my oldest boy to get ready to place his ornament on the lower branch of his choosing.

“Ryan, as soon as I bring Alex close enough to the tree, both of you will put your ornaments on a branch. Okay?”

He nodded, although he was frowning at the fact Alex was getting a higher vantage point, and therefore, more prime tree turf to choose from. No worries, though…I knew how to sweeten the pot for my older boy by negotiating with his younger brother.

“Now, Alex…since you’re getting a higher branch for SpongeBob, it’s only fair that Ryan gets to put Spiderman on the branch of his choice first. Okay?”

Well…maybe I overestimated my skills just a tad. In the end, Ryan did get his ornament where he wanted it, and smiled proudly when Fiona and I applauded the choice. But it came at the price of allowing Alex to hang
two
ornaments instead of one. Otherwise, there might not have been peace in the Alea household until well after midnight.

After the boys were upstairs in their beds, and their light snores drifted down to Fiona and me lounging in the living room, in front of our magnificent tree and a crackling fire on the hearth, I cashed in on the seductive promise from earlier. But this wasn’t aggressive lovemaking. Rather, it was me listening to Fiona’s unspoken needs for comfort and smooth caresses that lasted until the wee hours of Wednesday morning. It was ecstasy and sweet communion with the woman I love above all else, except our tender young sons, of course. And it was exactly what we both needed….

***

The dawn’s light peering in through the tall windows along the eastern side of our two-story living room woke us up nearly half an hour earlier than either Fiona or I would’ve liked. But, after we got the kids up and ourselves ready to meet the day, it turned out that we needed the extra time. Traffic was a nightmare. The thirty-minute head start had been whittled down to four minutes by the time we dropped the kids off and finally stepped through the Franklin Tattered Pages’ main entrance.

At least we were both in much better spirits after last night’s ‘quiet’ frolic by the fire. In fact, it only took a moment to get into the routine of me, as a customer service assistant/stocker/whatever else was needed person, and Fiona heading back to her office to meet with her assistant manager for this store, Becky Stevens. I should mention here that Becky has been Fiona’s most trusted work confidante for nearly five years, and is largely the reason my wife willingly took on the responsibility of running two other stores, in addition to the one we fondly call ‘the mother ship’.

Becky hopes to retire in the next few years, when she reaches her sixty-second birthday. That will end a long and fairly successful career in retail. She’s a sweet gray-haired lady with a touch of southern orneriness, and her anecdotes that she draws upon to make a point are quite humorous. Since I’m still learning the ropes as far as how things are run here in the store, on more than one occasion she has quipped about me ‘making a far better door than a window’ when I’m inadvertently standing in her way when she’s trying to find a book or audio title on one of the shelves. I’m sure it’s more annoying for her than she lets on, especially since she’s a small portly woman whose only chance of standing five feet tall is if we include her low heels and the bouffant hairstyle she favors.

For a short while that morning, it seemed like we might be able to push aside all the bullshit going on around us in the paranormal investigation biz. That illusion appeared especially viable after Becky and Fiona concluded their meeting and returned to the floor. Both wore blissful expressions that I assumed were the result of one of Becky’s funny observations about life. But, then my wife’s cell phone’s exotic chirp pulled her attention back to her desk, where she had laid the damned thing soon after our arrival.

“I’ll be there in a moment to help you finish yesterday’s inventory reconciliation,” she said over her shoulder to Becky, who was making her way to the cashier desk. “Just let me get this first…it might be important.”

It proved to be a fatal hit to the day’s sunny start, as Lisa Stanfield was calling from the station. Lisa apparently had something urgent to pass on to us. Urgent enough for Fiona to storm out of her office after she spoke to our producer, while the genteel cover that usually holds up well for her in public rapidly crumbled.

“Shit!” she hissed. “I can’t fucking believe this
bull
shit!!”

Not normally one to drop full-scale f-bombs, I realized immediately the final button for demolishing her once-impervious state of mind had been pushed. It had to be bad news…
really
bad news.

“They’re canceling next Monday’s show, and maybe the rest of them, too!” she said, her tone anguished. “Those mothers got what they wanted—they have officially halted the tour after Saturday’s visit to Fort Negley!”

“I know you thought yesterday they might suspend things after what happened to Pauline,” I said, making sure I sounded compassionate while looking around me to see who might be listening in.

Becky stood nearby with an ‘uh-oh’ expression on her face. Honestly, she had heard far worse language from Fiona before. Hell, on one occasion, her husband, Bob Stevens and I got to cussing so bad during a Titans game that we made both ladies and quite a few others in attendance turn away in embarrassment. So, obviously she had heard much worse…. It made me wonder if perhaps Fiona had shared some of our most recent traumatic events during their meeting that morning.

“And, I would be okay with that…but they’re not canceling for security reasons or respect for Pauline’s passing,” my wife continued. She was on the verge of shedding some serious tears. I approached her, but she motioned for me to not try and hug her. I’m sure in her mind she was still in her manager role, and I tried not to snicker at the fact her outburst had already negated that notion fairly convincingly. “Nick is canceling because he says it has all ‘become too big of a headache’, and that ‘every week it’s something!’”

“So, Pauline’s death pushed him over the edge because of its inconvenience?” I couldn’t believe it, and yet it fit his seersucker personality in my mind.

“Yes!”
she said, and that was it. I went over to her and took her in my arms, not giving a damn whether she or the two patrons who had just come into the store thought this was inappropriate or not. “Everyone that is still depending on this thing to work will be so
devastated!
… Louise and Marie were really looking forward to being on the show next week, and told me yesterday that this would be their way to honor Pauline, since they’ve known her longer than Jackie and me. I should’ve known…I
should’ve
understood this could happen and had Pauline wait until spring to join us!”

“It’s not your fault, Fiona,” I told her, soothingly. “Nick’s a dick. Maybe we can reason with Lisa. Or, maybe—”

“Shhhhh
, Jimmy! You’re making it worse!!” she began to weep. “Just hold me…I’ll be alright in a moment.... Hold me and don’t let go!”

“Okay, darlin’…I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you…always.”

That was right before we left for the day. Fiona’s beleaguered persona had held up quite well for months, and she had been the rock for all of us. But her cup of grief and sorrow was now overflowing to where she could no longer rise above it all. It was time for someone else to step up and take the reins from her and see us through. For her role as manager, this meant Becky, who responded to my subtle nod. She would confidently handle the store biz for the day.

As for NVP? It didn’t seem like it would be hard to convince Jackie and/or Tom to step up and carry the group through this latest tribulation. But if they gave Fiona any pushback or unnecessary horseshit in response, then I’d flip the game table on ‘em and they could deal with my ass in the lead instead. I pictured very clearly how things would be run if it came to that. Say goodbye to the easy going bullshit and hello to ‘Jimmy’s now kickin’-your-ass’ time!

Okay, I know that sounds beyond cocky…it’s just me blowing off some steam. Don’t for a moment think that I take myself anywhere near that seriously, or you’ll be standing alone in that department. Especially, if you’d bother to check with those who know me well. Truth is, my NVP pals would likely see through the
Full Metal Jacket
act and then treat me like the teddy bear I am.

After spending the afternoon comforting my wife, and taking care of dinner for her and our boys, I recruited my black-belted brother-in-law, Gerald Simms, to stay over for the night. Then it was time for me to rejoin my band mates in Madison for our Wednesday night rehearsal. I literally begged the Good Lord for a productive night with
no
additional drama. Maybe we could even wrap up our work on
Dragging the River
and finish demoing the tune.

“You’re here early,” said Max, who had pulled his new Mustang in behind me in the small parking area we all share. “Everything okay at home?”

An odd thing for him to say, although the first part was accurate. Rehearsal was scheduled for seven o’clock, and according to the Camaro’s dash, it was 6:37 p.m. Max Racine is the most self-centered human being I know, and normally has no use for the lone married guy with kids in the band. David is married, too. But he’s childless, and his bride doesn’t care if her man carouses deep into the night since they have a mutual ‘understanding’. Some may envy that kind of arrangement, but not me. As I’m sure everybody can already tell, I like being faithfully married an awful lot.

Max and Ricky, along with our new guy, Melvin, are the single dudes, although things are beginning to get serious between Ricky’s main girlfriend and him. Max is a whoremonger, period. Girls are good for one thing, in his mind, and it might surprise everyone how many chicks are willing to give him what he wants. And they all have the same stupefied expression, as if believing Mr. Max will take them with him on his trip to greatness…until they find him boning someone else. It’s sad. Really it is…except to those who are just like him.