Ed Gorman - Voodoo Moon

But still, there were those locals who insisted that he had not only survived but had returned in another guise. This was at least in the realm-however unlikely-of the possible.

The supernatural stories were another matter. Rick Hennessy wasn't the first person to claim that he had been possessed by the malignant spirit of Renard. At least three others accused of murder had also blamed Renard's hardworking ghost for their troubles.

A sanitized version of Renard's life story (wanton mental-hospital voodoo orgies not included) was told to local students at Halloween. And a Hollywood producer, no less ( Angels and Tramps, Sisters in Sin , and My Bed or Yours? ) had visited here twice, both times discussing at length the Paul Renard story. He was especially interested in the "wanton mental-hospital voodoo orgies," a descriptive phrase that he, as a matter of fact, had come up with. So far, the cap was still on the lens.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" the librarian said when I brought the file back to the front desk. She was a nice-looking woman in a navy blouse and bias-cut print skirt.

"He was a busy boy."

"You think there's any chance he's still alive?"

"He'd be seventy-two years old now."

She gave a little shudder. She was fiftyish and very cute. "I guess I just like scaring myself. I still love ghost stories. And I always watch the horror movies with my two boys." Then, "But you know, a lot of people still believe that he's still here somewhere."

"Just wandering around spooking people?"

She gave me an impish smile. "You picked yourself an interesting case to work on, Mr. Payne."

Iraised my hand and was about to knock when I heard Tandy's voice say, from behind the motel room door, "Just go fuck yourself, Laura."

"Oh, that's nice. I'm holding all this together and you're telling me to go fuck myself."

"Don't play the martyr. If you're holding this together, it's for your own sake. Not mine. You like all this bullshit."

I figured I'd do them a favor by knocking. I knocked. Tandy opened the door. "I'll bet you heard us screaming."

I smiled. "Just the 'fuck off' part."

"Oh, good," Laura said behind Tandy. "He didn't hear the 'stick it up your ass' part."

"Now, that would've shocked me."

Tandy waved me in. "Our secret is out, I'm afraid. My sister is an arrogant, cynical, selfish bitch. Nothing personal, of course."

"This is just like pro wrestling," I said.

"The diva is throwing a diva fit," Laura said. "The cable folks want her to do a couple of teasers about the ghostly spirit of Paul Renard. And she won't do it."

"We don't even know if there is a ghostly spirit," Tandy said.

"That's why I won't do it. If I honestly believed that Rick was possessed, then I wouldn't mind doing it."

"You want me to show you our last Nielsen, babe?" Laura said.

"Don't call me babe."

"Lowest rating we ever got."

"The ratings'll get even lower if I start faking stuff."

"They can't get any lower. Babe."

The motel room was identical to mine. Badly scuffed brown outdoor carpeting. Heavily glued but surprisingly spindly desk, a small water-scarred bureau, bed. And paintings of horses done by somebody who didn't know much about anatomy, equine or otherwise. There was a submarine-like darkness and dampness to it, a netherworld atmosphere-with the door closed at least-where salesmen battled loneliness and adulterers battled guilt and drifters battled those stray dangerous impulses that came on with meth or coke.

"You know a teenager named Emily Cunningham?" I said.

"Sandy's cousin," Laura said.

"She was over at Rutledge's office. Says she's going to cooperate. What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sandy supposedly told Emily something right before she died," Tandy said. "But Emily has been reluctant to tell the Rutledge woman what it was."

Tandy looked down at her sister, who sat on the edge of the bed. "I hate you, Laura."

"Well, I hate you ."

"Go to hell."

"No, you go to hell."

Tandy sat down next to her and they were soon enough entangled in girly white arms, giggling and sort of half-assed crying and saying, "Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry."

And I could see them in that moment as little girls, sweet and pretty and smart, making up over some idiotic fight they'd had.

"You think we'll ever be adults?" Tandy asked me.

"Probably not," I said. "And I won't, either. Very few people ever make it."

"I'll be an adult before she is," Tandy said.

"Huh-uh," Laura said. And playfully nudged her with an elbow. This was their makeup routine, apparently.

"I think the chief has a crush on you," Tandy said.

"I doubt that," I said.

"Yes, she does," Laura said. "The way she kept looking at you."

"She was setting me up."

"Setting you up for what?" Tandy said, now genuinely interested in the subject of Chief Susan Charles.

"I'm not sure. But she asked me to go bowling tonight."

"Wow," Laura said, "talk about hot dates. And maybe the malt shop afterward?"

"She wants to pick your brain," Tandy said.

"Right," I said. "I just wonder what she's so curious about. The only thing I can think of is that she thinks I have something that takes suspicion away from Rick Hennessy. She's convinced there's no other legitimate suspect."

"Maybe she thinks Tandy can prove that Rick is actually possessed."

I shook my head. "This is a very no-nonsense woman. No room for the occult in that beautiful head of hers."

"Then she really must think we can screw up her case for her," Laura said.

"How did your interview with Rick go, by the way?" I said.

Tandy shook her head. "He wasn't cooperative at all. He keeps denying he murdered Sandy but it's like he does everything he can to look guilty."

A knock. And moments later Noah Chandler graced our lives. "Boy, what a seedy bunch you three are."

Tandy smiled; Laura rolled her eyes.

Chandler said, "Well, Payne, you'd be proud of me."

"I doubt that," I said.

Chandler looked at Tandy. "He hates me. Thinks I'm just a Hollywood glamour boy. Nobody home upstairs. Tell him that I once read nearly a hundred pages of Thomas Wolfe."

"He did," Laura said, "and it took him a year and a half."

He sat on the edge of the overstuffed armchair and lit a cigarette. "I hope nobody minds."

"I think you're supposed to ask that before you light up, Noah," Tandy said.

He grinned. He was posing for a publicity shot. "Why stand on formality?" He took a drag, exhaled. "There's a girl named Heather Douglas. Her boyfriend dumped her for Sandy. A guy at the gas station where they're putting on some new tires for me-remember I said something felt funny yesterday, Laura? It was the tires, worn right down to cord-anyway, I told this kid why we were out here, working on the Hennessy case and all, and he told me about this Heather Douglas. Said she'd really gone crazy when her boyfriend dumped her. Said she threatened to kill Sandy quite a few times in front of several witnesses. He said two or three people even went to Chief Charles. Said the chief interviewed Heather a couple of times but decided there wasn't any real point in pursuing it. She had her killer-Rick." Another deep inhale. Exhale. The smoke blue and lazy on the shadowy damp air. "Sounds like I scooped our detective here."

"I know you're still working on your profile, Robert," Laura said, "but is there any chance the killer could be a girl?"

"Sure," I said.

"She might be worth checking out," Laura said.

"Definitely."

"Did I hear somebody say 'Thank you, Noah, for that fine detective work?'" Chandler said.