Magicide (9 page)

The interview with Larissa had not disturbed her as much as she’d anticipated. The surprising thing was how much it had saddened her.

So sad that Larissa’s great love had come to this. She remembered Maxwell’s courtship of the young dancer, how all the girls had thought it was so romantic. Then they had had the perfect child, a handsome son with talent of his own. Their daughter would have been beautiful.

If they’d stayed together they might have become the First Family of Magic. Larissa had a passion and flamboyance that had led her to stardom in her own right.

But the interview had done nothing to erase Cheri’s worry for her old friend.

Could Larissa’s obsession for Maxwell have morphed into hatred passionate enough to kill?

CHAPTER 20

Tuesday, August 9, 9:45 p.m.

After Cheri finished her Tuesday day report she drove the Explorer home to the three-bedroom house she’d just purchased in the suburb of Green Valley, envisioning a shower and a cup of chai tea. As she pulled into the driveway and pressed the garage door clicker, she noted lights on in the kitchen, dining room and living room. Tom was still up, or perhaps Bonni was getting ready for a date. Wednesday and Thursday “mornings” were her days off.

“Hey,” Tom said when she entered the dining room. His face registered gleeful animation.

Whatever happened to the “hi mom” part of the greeting? Cheri wondered. Times like this reminded her that her child was sixteen years old—a young man, really. She intended to give him a hug, but he bounced out of reach. Scissors, white rope, candles, glue, a bowl of flour paste, a torn up white sheet, and a jar of black paint littered the dining room table.

“Watch this!” In his hand he held something that resembled a small ghost-figure, a draped white sheet painted with three big black dots that reminded her of Munch’s painting, “The Scream.”

“He’s under my command. He’ll float where I tell him.”

Bonni appeared, wearing a long cotton tee-shirt over her well-formed body and scrub-drying her wet blond curls with a towel. “He’s been practicing magic stuff all evening,” she said, her grin at Tom showing perfect teeth. “He’s getting good, I think. It’ll be fun to have a real magician nephew.”

Cheri scowled at her. The last thing she wanted was encouragement for Tom’s new hobby. When her sister had come down from Seattle after three bad marriages to “start a new life”, she had welcomed her presence. Now she questioned if she’d made the right decision.

“You have another date tonight?”

Bonni laughed. “Naw, a girl’s gotta wash her hair sometime. Tom, you’ve got a new audience. Make him float.”

Dramatically Tom drew his fingers away from each side of the ghost’s head, leaving it floating in mid-air. He told his ghost to rise toward the potted plant at the top of a baker’s rack in the corner of the room, and when it rose instead to the left, toward the doorway, he caught it and drew it back. “Naughty, naughty ghost.” His thin, dark brows met in a mock frown.

“Cute.” Concerned to hear that he’d spent the whole evening playing magician, Cheri asked, “You have any homework I should know about?”

“Ghost is kind of generic, though. I’m thinking of redesigning him into a ghoul.”

“Homework?” she repeated.

Tom threw the ghost onto the table. “No. Wait till I tell you who I met today.”

“I’m going to make tea and a snack,” she said. “Tell me in the kitchen.”

Both Bonni and Tom followed her. Tom continued, “I found this cool magic shop on the Internet, and it’s right here in Vegas. The Rabbit & The Hat. So I went there after school to check it out, and I met the owner. You’ll never guess—it’s Robert the Great. We got to talking and he said he’d help me learn some real illusions.”

Cheri’s heart froze. She couldn’t tell her son that the great old magician was a suspect in a murder case.

“You ought to work topless, Tom,” Bonni said, pulling the chai tea out of the cupboard. “Like a Chippendale guy. There aren’t any male magicians doing that. You’d be a hit.”

Teapot in hand, Cheri mumbled, “Don’t encourage him.”

“Mom, isn’t that great? I was looking at all these pictures he had on the walls. He knows everybody. He was Maxwell’s mentor. Maybe he’ll agree to mentor me.”

When she could find her voice, Cheri said, “He was probably just being nice. He’s a busy man, a business owner and all. MAGIQUE DU MONDE opens Saturday night, and he’s got to get ready—he’s the special guest emcee.”

“Wow, yeah. I’d sure like to see that.” Tom pointed to a stack of newspaper sections draped over the edge of the kitchen counter. “There’s a big story today in the
Post
about Maxwell’s death.”

Bonni reached for the top section. “I’ll read it to you.” The entire front page of the
Las Vegas Post
was devoted to a story about the world’s most famous magician, Maxwell Beacham-Jones, “
his tragic death while performing the roller coaster escape at the Dunes Park Resort & Casino.”

The article described Maxwell’s career in glowing accolades. Famous entertainers said how talented he was and what an irreplaceable loss his death was to the entire magic community, and Bonni mimicked their different voices. “They call him, ‘The Grand Master of Las Vegas’,” she said.

Cheri opened the refrigerator to look for leftover chicken and veggies, and the chill from inside the refrigerator slammed against her face. Grand Master of Las Vegas, indeed.

“No mention of Regine?” Tom asked. “I like Regine.”

“Patience, kiddo. I’m getting there.” Bonni followed the lines on the page with one long fingernail while she read to the end of the article, then raised her eyes. “You’re right. No pearls of comment from Regine.”

“How do you know about Regine?” Cheri asked, willing herself to not be afraid of the answer.

“Internet. You making something to eat?” Tom stared at a book spread out in front of him on the breakfast bar,
Elemental Magic Effects to Impress and Amaze Your Friends
.

“Put that up,” she said. “Yes, we’re going to eat there.”

She spread pieces of cold chicken on a plate. What could she do about this new interest in magic?
She hated the idea of a career in magic for him—nothing to do with show business, please.

But then, she reminded herself, he’s only sixteen. He could change his mind again dozens of times.

To a bowl of cold, blanched vegetables she added olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Maybe this magic thing would be a passing hobby—she could hope. She ground pepper vigorously over the bowl. And she would do whatever it took to keep him away from Robert Digbee.

Bonni threw her wet towel on the back of a chair and sat on the bar stool next to Tom. She nudged his wrist next to the open page of the book. “As in, make the book disappear,” she whispered.

Tom closed the cover with an agitated sigh, and Cheri set the plate of chicken and bowl of vegetable salad in front of them.

With two long fingernails Bonni delicately picked a carrot chunk from the bowl. “Want to hear about my glorious afternoon at the Sultana Spa?”

Just when Cheri thought the subject would change, Tom said, “Maybe Robert the Great can introduce me to Regine. He must know her. He knows everybody in the business.”

She picked up a fork and forced her breath to calm. It was Bonni who voiced the question pounding in her head. “Why do you want to meet Regine?”

He grinned. “I’d like to learn to work with doves. And, she’s sexy.”

Cheri started. He thought Regine was sexy? Where was this going? Regine—another suspect in the murder of Maxwell Beacham-Jones, but she couldn’t tell him that.

“The Sultana Spa?” she said. “I’ve never been there. Nice, huh?”

* * *

Cheri wiped down the counter while Bonni loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. Tom had gone to bed, taking his magic book with him. Glaring at a stain on the formica that could have been grape juice or wine, she said, “Hope he doesn’t stay up late reading and sleep through his morning classes again.”

Bonni pursed her lips. “That’s not what’s bothering you.”

The sponge seemed to stop of its own accord. “What?”

“You know
what
. This magic stuff. Close to home, isn’t it?”

She lowered herself to a stool and gave her sister an icy stare. “We’re not going there. Not now.”

“So, when?”

“When I’m ready.”

“He’s sixteen. You’ve got to tell him sometime.”

When Cheri thought about the night Tom was conceived, she felt engulfed by warring storm clouds of regret and gratitude. “No, I don’t. I don’t have to tell him at all if I don’t want to.”

“Cheri, that’s not fair. He deserves to know.”

The sponge had become a tight ball in her fist. “I’m sorry I ever told you, Bon.” She stood up and flung it at the sink. “That was my second mistake.”

Bonni ducked, picked up her towel, and headed for the door. “Magicians have ways of finding things out. You better be sure you’re ready.”

CHAPTER 21

Tuesday, August 9, 11:15 p.m.

Darkness obscured the Industrial Road business center around Robert Digbee’s magic shop, The Rabbit & The Hat. His neighbors—the transmission shop, the upholstery shop, the yoga studio—had long since locked their doors and gone home to have dinner with their families. Only the purple neon logo of the magic shop blazed.

Digbee often stayed late, for his second love after performing was the business of magic. He loved everything about the world of magic; in addition to designing new and bizarre illusions, he collected antique posters, playing cards, costumes and tricks. These were not for sale.

The old magician took pride in the knowledge that The Rabbit & The Hat was known to magicians all over the world. He had carefully designed his business to specialize in rare books, old manuscripts, and collectible memorabilia related to magic and magical apparatus. The result was that he had developed quite a following, especially in London and Berlin, among both professionally established and wanna-be magicians. The effects he sold were classic and well-constructed; never had one been returned. 

The wall clock—he loved its gargoyle design—showed not yet midnight as he circled his work table, rubbing his chin in thought. The dark hours, when the rest of the world slept, were his favorite time. He thought best at night. He could enjoy long hours with the only interruption an occasional trip to the bathroom. He could even avoid that if he drank no liquids after about 8 p.m.

He contemplated the long table, where his drawings for the Bullet Catch lay spread. For months he’d worked to incorporate his ideas for a new, safer presentation of the infamous Bullet Catch, and tonight he expected to complete the design. The effect, dating from the 1600s, had over the centuries caused the death or crippling of many magicians. It fascinated him because it was undoubtedly the most dangerous effect in magic; the performer “caught” in his teeth a marked bullet, fired directly at him from a real rifle. It had proven so dangerous that even the famous Houdini had always refused to perform it.

Digbee had wanted the Bullet Catch to be Maxwell’s next television spectacular. That wouldn’t happen now, and he could perform it himself at the opening of MAGIQUE DU MONDE. Resentment churned in his stomach that as the star emcee he’d been second choice to Maxwell, but you had to do what you had to do to show them.

He stopped at the end of the table to consult his drawings. The thought of such a frightening presentation with such a dark history made tingles of delight surge through his body. He would astound the magic world. Anyone who thought he was a has-been would think again.

He moved back to the apparatus and began to make a tiny adjustment. “Damn.” He had scraped his thumb against a piece of metal, and as he stared a bead of blood appeared. His focus was shit. As long as he couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand, he’d get nowhere. He hated to quit when he was so close to success, with the entire quiet of the night before him, yet his mind wouldn’t let go of the roller coaster escape and Maxwell’s death.

He sat down on a stool, sucking his thumb. The roller coaster escape, so perfectly planned, down to the last minute detail. He could still feel the night air on the platform below the track where he sat until the police dragged him down. He felt the numbness of his body crouched there, heard the accelerating roar of the approaching car overhead and the sickening
shunk
and shrieking metal of the impact.

So fast that Maxwell sat up in time to see it coming and didn’t scream.

How had it come to this? A dull pressure behind his eyes told him tears wanted to come.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Had he become old, beyond his years? Had he outlived his profession? Surely not—he knew magicians who’d worked well into their eighties. In Europe and other parts of the world, of course. Not in Las Vegas. While he aged, Las Vegas went younger, had gone
nouveau Playboy
.

He kept a bottle of cognac locked in a cupboard under the counter at the front of the shop. He didn’t know why he kept it because he rarely drank in the shop, but he liked the idea of it being there. He was thinking he might get it out and pour himself a little shot when the telephone on the worktable rang. With no curious thought to the late hour, he picked up the receiver and in a habitual voice said, “The Rabbit & The Hat. How can I help you?”

When he heard the caller’s voice, his blood chilled. Cognac forgotten, every nerve sprang to alert. When he could speak, he rasped, “What have you done?” Any feelings he’d had of old-and-tired disappeared like an outdated magic routine in the blue smoke of a long-established instinct for professional survival.

His rasp morphed into a low snarl. “I’ll find that DVD. And when I do, you’ll pay.” His thumb throbbed from the tightness of his grip on the telephone. “I won’t go down alone. It wasn’t my fault…magic powers be damned. I never believed in that stuff, anyway. When I have that video, I’ll show you powers you never dreamed of.”

A tremble coursed through his body as he listened to the caller’s response. “I don’t want to know. Do not dare to call me again.”

He jammed the receiver into its cradle, his hand shaking. Bullet Catch and cognac forgotten, he got up and stumbled to the wall, flipped out the lights. He let himself out the front door of the shop. His hand shook as he inserted the key into the deadbolt. He climbed into his car, praying that his half hour drive through the night streets to his home in Summerlin would calm him.

So there really was a record of last summer’s solstice ritual. Digbee had to see this DVD. His mind probed every dark corner of the hidden temple on Sunrise Mountain, searching for the hidden camera. How much did it reveal? The blood-letting? The drinking from the pewter vessel that transformed the energy flow into the partaking magician? Would the casual viewer understand what they were seeing? The questions scurried through his mind like too many rats in a maze.

He had to know. Whatever was revealed must be concealed. He had to find out who possessed the DVD so that he could destroy it. He didn’t even want to think about copies floating around like stage ghosts.

In his driveway, he clicked the garage door opener and waited, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, for the panel to rise. By the time he was finally in the house, he had worked out a plan. First step was to call Maxwell’s personal coordinator. Robert Digbee didn’t dislike Edmund Meiner all that much, he just had no respect for the little wimp. If Meiner knew anything about this menacing DVD, it wouldn’t take much to get the information out of him.

In his living room, he removed the cordless telephone and dialed. He paced the oriental carpeting until he heard the voice on the other end answer.

“Edmund? This is Robert.”

Meiner’s voice betrayed annoyance, as if at this hour he had been interrupted while doing something he thought important. “Robert the Great. What a pleasure. What do you want?”

Digbee saw no reason for pleasantries and got right to the point. “Do you know there’s a DVD of Maxwell’s last solstice ritual?”

From the other end of the phone he heard a deep intake of breath. “How did you find out about it?” Meiner snapped.

“Never mind.” Not yet sure how much Meiner knew, he wasn’t ready to share the shock from his midnight caller. “Do you have it?”

Meiner’s voice cracked. “I’ve heard about it but I haven’t seen it.

“It’s got to be found. We’ve got to know how incriminating it is. Do you think it’s somewhere in the house?” Digbee pressed two fingers to the center of his forehead, where the pressure behind his eyes had now centered.

“I’ve searched this place high and low. It’s not here.”

“Are you sure?” He wanted to go over there right now and search for himself and he knew Maxwell’s bulldog manager—his
personal
coordinator—would never let that happen.

Meiner’s voice rose in irritation. “Trust me, Robert, I’ve turned this place upside down. When I tell you it’s not here, it’s not here. If I had it and I’d seen it, why wouldn’t I tell you?”

“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Look, I’m doing my best here. There’s been so much stress. The press, the arrangements—”

“Yes, yes, I know all that.” Digbee found the whine in Meiner’s voice disgusting. He forced himself to be patient, to try to get Meiner on his side. “I’m sure you’re doing your best, Edmund. But you’ll agree we must find that DVD. We can’t have it falling into the wrong hands. It wouldn’t be very nice for either of us. Do you have any idea where it might be, or who has it?”

“Maybe Dayan?” Meiner suggested.

“Why Dayan?”

“He was the one Maxwell had make it.” Anger entered Meiner’s voice. “Maxwell wanted to have something on you and me. He wanted us to be even more dependent on him than we already were.”

“Dependent on him? I was
never
dependent on him!” The insinuation infuriated Digbee. “I didn’t need him; he needed me. I made him everything he was. He should have been grateful for it.”

“Well, he wasn’t,” Meiner retorted.

“How could you let him do this?”

“I didn’t
let
him. I didn’t even know about it until after the fact. Dayan let it slip one day. I was mortified. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d known he planned to photograph the damn ritual. I don’t know how I could have
stopped
him.”

“Where’s Dayan?” Digbee asked, seething inside at Meiner’s helpless tone.

“How would I know? I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. He was excited about something, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. Then he got a phone call, I think from his mother. His parents are elderly, you know. I think something happened to his father and he had to go to the hospital, which is why we didn’t see him Monday night.”

Digbee forced composure to enter his mind. He asked Meiner a few more questions that resulted in nothing he wanted to hear and ended the conversation. He continued to pace the oriental carpet in an effort to quell rising frustration as he considered what to do next.