Wicked Deeds. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.”
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.
The reporter suggested that there had been no murder, that Franklin Verne might have fallen back into his old ways.
That brought another flurry of passionate denial from Monica. So much so that the reporter turned red and took a step back.
The bar phone rang shrilly, making everyone there jump.
“Don’t answer it!” Gary Frampton groaned. “It’s another kook.” He looked at Griffin and Vickie and sighed as if with great exhaustion. “We reopen tomorrow. Staying closed today as the police asked, but we’re already booked solid for tomorrow, from the first seating until midnight. I don’t get it. I wanted Franklin Verne’s patronage—I sure as hell never wanted him to die here! Now the phone rings off the hook already! And half the calls are from mediums, certain that they can contact Franklin Verne and that when they do, they’ll solve the mystery of his murder.”
“Mediums. Nice,” Vickie murmured, gazing at the phone. “Shall I?” she asked them.
“Please!” Alice said.
She answered the bar’s landline. “The Black Bird, may I help you?”
“No,” came the answer. “But I can help you!”
“I don’t think I need any help at the moment,” Vickie said. “The restaurant is booked for tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like to make a reservation for a future date?”
“I’m Liza Harcourt!” the voice said indignantly.
“And Liza Harcourt, you are...?”
Lacey, Alice and Gary moaned before the woman could answer Vickie.
“I’m the head of the Blackbird Society!” the woman said indignantly. “And I can come over right now and we can set up a séance. I will channel my spirit guide, and will take us all to the night and point us all in the right direction of the murderer!”
“Ms. Harcourt,” Vickie said, looking out at the others, “I’m so sorry. The police have closed the restaurant for the day and while the crime-scene tape stays up, the restaurant is closed to everyone except for law enforcement and the owner.”
The woman went off with such virulence that Vickie held the receiver away from her ear.
“You can hang up on her if you want,” Lacey suggested.
Alice looked at Vickie wide-eyed and shuddered.
Vickie let the tirade go on. When it seemed that the woman was forced to pause for breath, she quickly cut in. “The restaurant will reopen tomorrow. At that time, you’re welcome to speak with the owner about a séance.”
Gary Frampton let out a grunt of disgust.
“Well, excuse me! And who, exactly, are you—answering the Black Bird’s phone?” Liza Harcourt demanded.
Vickie hesitated. She was tempted to tell the woman that if she had psychic power, she should figure it out herself.
“I’m with law enforcement,” she said simply. That, of course, could be taken many ways, but it wasn’t a lie. “Good afternoon, Ms. Harcourt,” she said. And then she hung up the receiver.
“Hmm,” Griffin murmured, watching her. He looked at Gary Frampton. “And just who is this woman, Liza Harcourt?”
“As she said, she’s the head of a society—the one based here, in and through the Black Bird,” he added with a sigh. “I love books—and I love Poe, as you can see by the restaurant, I imagine. So, of course, I’m a member myself. I encouraged the creation of the society—at the very beginning, it was all that guaranteed me I’d have a customer now and then.”
“And she’s really harmless,” Lacey said. “A snob—but harmless.”
“She’s very wealthy,” Alice explained. “She really is a snob—elite, you know. Above all the rest of us. She doesn’t like me at all.”
“Why?”