Murder by Candlelight (40 page)

"Hmmmm," Z said, flecks of dream-stuff
drifting behind his sleep-stitched lids.

"All she wants ... is ...
talk to me. And
I've
got work to do."

"Hmm." A hmm Z hoped sounded like
agreement.

"She used to listen to the
radio. And while that was also distracting, at least the radio
didn't expect me to answer
back
."

With his last waking breath, Z managed
another "Hmm."

"Z? Are you asleep?" Asked
in a tone that implied he'd better
not
be.

"Ummm."

"Good. Now where was I? ... Oh, yes. And
it's all the fault of the radio station."

"Station." If barely
connected to his brain, at least Z's
lips
were working.

"Right. If they'd been nicer to Mr. Jewell,
he wouldn't have left." No response. "You know, the talk show host
who interviewed you."

"What?" Z's eyes opened of their own accord.
Saw ... darkness.

"You remember. The radio personality."

"D.J. Jewell."

"Right."

"What about him?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"To another city."

"When?"

"A week ago. He was all the time saying what
a hit he was in Kansas City, how his ratings were going up and up,
asking his listeners to write-in and to call the station. Then he
came on and said he couldn't get his contract renewed for what he
was worth, so he was leaving Kansas City. And he was off the air.
Just like that."

"He say where he was going?" Finally, a
topic of interest, Z fully awake at last.

"Des Moines."

"Des Moines? Des Moines, Iowa?"

"Right."

"And they're paying
him
more
than the
K.C. station?"

"That's what he said."

Maybe yes, maybe no. Like
most people willing to swear on the Bible, talk show
"personalities" only told the truth occasionally, and then, by
accident. The chance that a radio station in a small city like Des
Moines would pay more money than one in Kansas City -- and Z
was
under the impression
that Jewell was popular -- was remote. Non-existent, was more like
it. Successful radio "personalities" moved from medium-sized towns
to larger ones. For three big reasons. Money, money,
money.

So, Dan, 'the D.J.' Jewell, was Kansas City
history.

As Susan changed topics, Z
was smiling to himself in the dark, Z hoping
he'd
been the one who'd run off that
little shit. Z would never know for certain, but ....

* * * * *

It was on the twentieth of September that Z
got a third indication that his sex/drug party had been a success,
Z putting down his paperback to pick up his desk phone.

"
Detective
Ted Newbold, speaking."
Ted so loved his title; used it like the club a Neanderthal would
swing to brain a bear.

No need to answer, Ted knowing Z had a
one-man office.

"So, Z-man, what's been happening lately?"
Insincerity, insincerely asked. Ted called for one reason and one
reason only, to talk about himself. ...

Too harsh a criticism.

There
was
another reason Ted called --
when Teddy needed Z's help.

This time, though, the cocksure confidence
in Teddy's voice meant something good had happened on Ted's end of
the phone.

"Get a raise?"

A shock of silence on the line. Then, "How
the hell did you find out about that? I just got the news a minute
ago, myself."

"A lucky guess."

"Yeah ...." Ted said,
hesitating to consider the possibility that Z's "guess" could have
been anything
but
luck. Unable to figure out how Z could have known about the
salary increase, Ted brightened. "Lucky. That's right. I've always
said you're one of the luckiest fucks who ever lived. I don't know
how you can be so lucky and still be so poor."

"Yeah."

"What I'm callin' to say is that I'm movin'
up, boy. Which is nothing more than I deserve. In fact, I don't
know what's taken the captain so long to see my true worth to the
department. I refer," Teddy continued testily, "to the captain
bringin' in that asshole Tabor like he done. Putting him over me
like that."

"Tabor get fired?"

Again, the pause. This time, a long one.

"If that don't beat all.
How you know
that
?"

While
Tabor
might have thought he was
endearing himself to Scherer by getting his captain out of that
little drug-girl fix, Z knew better. A savvy politician like
Scherer wouldn't want Tabor around after Tabor's "rescue." In the
cops, like in the robbers, you see too much and it's bye-bye
baby.

Meanwhile, Teddy was
elaborating. "... so Tabor got a ...
he
says it's a lateral transfer."
Ted giggled. "Same money, but he's up in North Dakota. Personally,
you'd have to pour gasoline on me and light me afire to make me go
there. 'Course," he continued, this time with a wicked cackle at
his own joke, "being lit afire might be the only way a man could
warm up his balls in deep freeze country."

Though more of Teddy's
boasting followed, Z had stopped listening. What Z was considering
was, not Tabor's inevitable exit from the local scene, but that
Captain Scherer had left
Z
alone since the "party." Unlike Jamie Stewart
who
knew
Z was
responsible for the setup, there was no way Scherer could have
discovered Z's involvement. For all Scherer knew -- Scherer not the
most lovable cop in town -- someone in his own department might
have sandbagged him. Maybe Tabor himself. Or even Teddy -- though
Scherer would have a hard time believing that Ted Newbold could
cobble together a trap that tight. Still, not knowing his
tormentor, it made sense for Scherer to be nice to
everyone
for awhile.
Producing, coming full circle, the most probable reason for Ted's
raise.

From
Z's
perspective, what mattered was
that Scherer was now too busy worrying about his own ass to concern
himself about kicking Z's.

So much for the "party" and its beneficial
effects.

On the bad dream
front,
Z's
taking
action like Dr. Calder had suggested had failed, unfortunately, to
produce the desired effect. Though the nightmares were, maybe, a
little better, they still raged, Z continuing to lose the kind of
sleep that drove him, once again, to look for relief.

* * * * *

One day later, more because he had nowhere
else to turn than believing it would help, Z put in another call to
Dr. Calder; made a second lunch date to talk to the chubby
psychologist.

Though running on the fumes of last night's
hour and a half of sleep, Z had remembered to put on his good blue
shirt and yellow tie (dining with a college professor a dress-up
occasion), Z meeting Dr. Calder at the Golden Corral in Liberty,
the "Corral," like its name implied, a steak and fries kind of
place.

At the "Corral," you started in a
"cafeteria" line where you picked up an orange plastic tray,
stamped-out flatware, paper napkins, and a drink. Moving slowly in
the noontime line, diners had time to study the black-on-white bill
of fare posted on the wall behind the counter, the menu listing:
steak, shrimp, fish, hamburger, broiled chicken breasts, and
buffet.

Arriving at the front of the line, you
placed your order.

Their order put in, threading through the
crowded dining room, dodging kids and oldsters, they arrived at an
out-of-the-way table in an alcove, unloading the glasses and
utensils from their trays, stacking their trays on a second,
yet-to-be-cleaned table.

After sitting, the professor performed the
"tea ceremony" Z had seen before, Calder squeezing his lemon slice
just so, tearing off a thin strip from two pink sweetener packets,
sprinkling the white saccharin in the exact center of the mound of
crushed ice floating in his red plastic glass, picking up his tea
spoon, stirring slowly as if counting strokes.

For Z's part, he was proud of not wanting to
burn the empty paper packets in the table's black ashtray. (Though
Z used to have a "thing" about fire, he'd largely conquered his
need to burn used paper products. Of course, he still cleaned up
his apartment by dumping table scraps in his firebox.)

The food arriving, they ate.

Then got down to business.

Their conversation kept private by the buzz
of table talk around them, the clatter of utensils, and the
constant noise of traffic to and from the buffet, Z started by
reminding the professor of Z's trouble with bad dreams.

Also in review, Calder responded with his
dream theories, adding a summary of what he'd said Z could do to
stop the nightmares.

"Another thing you can try," Calder said,
after again recommending hypnosis to an obviously reluctant Z, "is
to attempt to pinpoint when the nightmares started."

"I
know
when."

"Anything important happen at that
time?"

"No," Z lied.

"
Something
must have started them,"
Calder mused. "No reason you should remember what, however. Dreams
don't have to be the result of an earthshaking event. The sleeping
brain is irrational, you see. To trigger a terrifying response, all
it has to do is interpret some relatively minor occurrence as
threatening.

"What I can recommend in addition to what
we've talked about so far, is to sit down with yourself and try to
remember, event by event, what happened just before the nightmares
started. To help you do that, you might keep notes on a piece of
paper, jotting down in considerable detail what you were doing at
that time. If you went to the movies, for instance, you would list
that -- plus the name of the picture and your reaction to it, if
any." Calder grinned in his good-natured, open-faced way, nodding
to himself, the mirror-flat surfaces of his glasses flashing. "I've
known this to work. Sometimes, just remembering long-forgotten
events will help your mental machinery get everything straight.
Convince your inner self that nothing that bad happened in your
life. After which, your nightmares should subside."

Z wasn't sure that would
do it, particularly since something bad
had
happened. But was willing to
give it a try. An old saying of Z's mom, "Desperate people do
desperate things," was beginning to apply to this nightmare
business. For Z
was
getting desperate. He had to find a way to tone down the
dreams enough to get some sleep.

"OK," Z said, the prescriptive part of their
conversation quickly concluded.

After that, the waitress bringing them
complimentary cups of coffee -- Calder taking three creams and four
packets of sugar, Z pushing his away like any diet coke drinker
would -- they'd talked about the detective business, Calder still
enthusiastic about his being a part of it.

"I know I haven't done
anything yet, except to 'shadow' Dean Ashlock," Calder said,
lens-magnified blue eyes shining. "All the same, I've taken
considerable pleasure from
thinking
about being a detective." Again, the boyish grin.
Again, the swipe of stubby fingers to brush his fine, dark blond
hair from his forehead.

Z looking blank, Calder continued. "It's
like this. When I was younger, I bought a motorcycle. A financial
stretch for me, considering what I was making at the time. It was
when I was in graduate school. Working on my Ph.D. I had no
business buying that. And to top it off, I never had time to ride
it anywhere.

"What I found, though, was
that the bike did me a lot of good. For every time I thought about
my motorcycle, about flying across the country, free as a bird, I
took a mini-vacation." Calder looked at Z. Decided he'd better
explain further. "You need a break when you're in grad school. Need
to get away from the scholarly grind of it. Five minutes here. Five
minutes there." Calder grinned. "That's the way it is when I get to
thinking about working for you in the detective game. I know I
haven't done anything yet. Anything that's
real
. It's that even the
thought
of being of use
on a case gives me pleasure. If you
never
get around to using me, just
thinking about being an amateur detective has done me a world of
good." Calder shook his head, his limp hair sifting back over his
broad forehead. "Oh, I like teaching. Love teaching, actually. But
it's much the same from day to day. Thinking about playing P.I. is
just the mini-break I need to spice up my life."

"Yeah," Z said.

"Not that things are not going well with
teaching. In fact, my career seems to be in high gear."

"Oh?"

"Remember at the end of the summer? The last
time we met? At the Hardware Cafe?"

"Sure."

"Funny, how you'll get the wrong impression
of events. I remember thinking -- and I believe I said so at the
time -- that the man who was keeping me from moving up, was Dean
Ashlock. I thought he didn't like me for some reason, that he was
standing in my way." Calder laughed. "I'm a psych instructor. If
any discipline can do it, psychology should help people understand
other people. Their motives. How people think. But I admit to being
totally wrong about Dean Ashlock. I still don't understand him,
mind you, or even like him very much, but I was totally wrong about
his being my enemy."