Heather Graham - Wicked Deeds

Beyond a doubt, something of the mischief maker had certainly remained with the soul of the man.

“Well, Franklin Verne was dearly beloved by many—and therefore had hidden enemies somewhere,” Morris said. “I’m going to the office. We’ll be speaking with Monica Verne and looking into Franklin Verne’s known associates. And you?” he asked Griffin.

“I think we’ll return to the restaurant,” Griffin said.

“It’s closed until tomorrow,” Morris said. “I’m studying the architect’s old layout for the building, trying to decide if there was any other way in. I may be sending crime-scene techs back in.”

“Of course. I’d like to look around now, if you don’t mind,” Griffin said.

“Not at all. I don’t give a damn who solves this—I just want it solved,” Morris assured him.

“My sentiments exactly, sir,” Griffin said.

Morris made a saluting movement with his hat. “We’ll keep in close contact,” he said, and then he left.

Griffin turned immediately to their ghost once Morris was out of earshot. “Mr. Poe. A pleasure,” he said. “I am a tremendous fan of your work.”

“Intelligent lad,” Poe informed Vickie. “FBI!” he continued. “Such an institution did not exist in my day. People were not fond of the federal government being in their business, you know.”

“Nor are they today,” Griffin assured him, “but then, there are times when the abilities of a far-reaching body to coordinate with offices everywhere is often beneficial. The world is easily traveled these days—the worst criminals can quickly hop from state to state.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I have been observing. Enough about the rest of the world. Let’s move back to dear Mr. Franklin Verne. You must prove that he didn’t go to that cellar and drink himself silly. You do have a plan, of course?”

“I do, yes,” Griffin told him.

“I shall help in any way I can.”

“Help would be most greatly appreciated. So to begin, what is your concern here? Do you know anything of what happened?”

“Do I know the killer?” Poe asked Griffin.

“Yes.”

“Don’t be daft, man!” Poe said, irritated. “If I knew, do you not think I’d have shared such information by now?”

Vickie hid her smile. Griffin looked downward for a minute.

The ghost had gotten him.

He looked up. “We are heading back to the restaurant.”

“Fine. I shall, when appropriate, tell you what I know of the people there.”

“You do know them, then?” Vickie asked him.

“Know them? Ah, to know one infers that there has been an actual volley of information, affection and ideas. Know? I know what one can from observation of people,” Poe said. He seemed to puff up a bit. “After all, they are part of a Poe society. Naturally, I find the members intriguing, and, of course—with all humility—I cannot help but admire their taste in the subject matter they choose to honor!”

“With all humility!” Griffin said to Vickie, but he was smiling, and she knew that he was fascinated—delighted that they had actually been able to meet the ghost of the poet and author.

“Touché!” Poe said softly. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bit of detective work I’d like to be doing on my own. I trust that you two will be avidly pursuing leads, and when we meet again, an exchange of information will help build the bridge to the truth!”

Poe turned and walked away. They seemed to see him...

And then they did not.

He had moved on.

“Where to now?” Vickie asked Griffin.

“Back to the scene of the crime,” he told her. “Where’s the car?”

Vickie led the way. Griffin was thoughtful. He glanced at her as they reached the car, and he smiled again.

“You’re driving? I’m driving?”

“Whichever. Here, you drive. You know Baltimore better than I do—and the way to the Black Bird.” Vickie tossed him the keys; he caught them deftly. They got in. For a moment, he paused.

“Poe!” he said.

She smiled. It wasn’t that often that she saw Griffin impressed.

“Poe,” she agreed. She hesitated. “It’s great—and it’s sad, too, really.”

“What’s sad?” Griffin asked, pulling out onto the street.

“Well, he had a hard life. His parents died. His foster mother loved him, but died. He argued with his foster father, who didn’t support him through college. He fell in love and the girl’s father hid his letters. He fell in love again, and his bride died. And then, as far as his own death went...no one really knows. And now...he’s still running around, haunting Baltimore,” Vickie said.

“Many times, life can be sad. And sometimes, it’s as they say—life is what we make it. Poe was incredibly talented. He did have an ego the size of Texas. He argued with people. He was a drunk.”

“Not as bad as his biographers might have made him out to be, Griffin!”

“Hey, I agree he was talented, and I think it’s great he’s helping on this,” Griffin told her. “But there was something dark about him—he did provoke a lot of his enemies. And there you go—there’s your next project. A book on Poe—in his defense.”

Vickie thought about that. “I’m not so sure I can do the research the way it should be done while I’m in the academy. But...yeah! You’re right.” She laughed. “And now I have insight.” She fell silent, hoping that they were able to find the truth—and that in doing so, they might, in a way, help the long-dead author as well.

Griffin pulled into the parking lot for the Black Bird.

“Showtime!” he said softly.

“Showtime?”

“Well, I would bet that we’re going to discover that Franklin Verne was killed by someone who knew him well.” His expression was grim as he looked toward the restaurant. “I believe he was killed by a friend, the worst kind of betrayal. And perhaps...”

“Perhaps it was the same with Edgar Allan Poe as well.”

4

The officer nodded to Vickie and Griffin and opened the door for them to enter. The restaurant was closed that day out of respect for Franklin Verne, and because it was an active crime scene.

While the restaurant was shut, Gary and Alice Frampton and Lacey Shaw from the gift shop had still come in.

Gary, a man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair, a medium build and an easygoing manner, was sitting at a table near the bar, frowning as he read the paper.

Alice was drying glasses behind the bar, inspecting them for spots.

Lacey was opening boxes. They were filled with little bobblehead statues of Poe and little ravens.

The same as the little raven Franklin Verne had been holding when he’d died.

But of course, no one knew that but the crime-scene technicians, the ME, Detective Carl Morris—and whomever he had shared with at the BPD—and Griffin and Vickie. Lacey Shaw certainly had no way of knowing that Franklin Verne had been holding one of the little bird models.

Unless, of course, she had killed him.

Lacey, along with Alice and Gary, looked up and ceased their activities when Griffin and Vickie arrived.

“Hey!” Alice said, seeming relieved that they were there.

“Hey, how are you all doing?” Griffin asked.

“Handling the situation the best we can,” Gary said, his mouth a grim, glum line as he finished speaking.

“Sad, sad, so sad!” Lacey said. Then she pointed to the TV screens above the bar and groaned. “Have you seen this yet?” A reporter was interviewing Monica Verne.

Alice hit a button on a remote control; the volume increased. Monica was an excellent subject for the TV news. She was bereft, and she was passionate, promising that she’d pay for any information leading to the truth behind her husband’s death, and vowing that she would get to the bottom of the situation. Her husband’s murder would not go without justice.