FM for Murder Page 12

  “That’s not the worst of it!” shrieked Arliss, “She plans to get her personal designer to create a dress for me!”

  “Would that be so horrible?” asked Pamela, thinking how much she wouldn’t have minded having a couture wedding dress when she and Rocky got married.

  “I prefer jeans!”

  “Not for your wedding!” scolded Joan, interjecting her first comment since arriving. Obviously she was tired from arguing with Arliss already.

  “Wedding—schmedding!” sneered Arliss. “It’s my wedding, whatever it is! Bob’s mother shouldn’t be directing it!”

  “No,” agreed Pamela, “you and Bob should. Have you told him that?”

  “He’s a coward where his mother is concerned,” said Arliss, her body sliding down into the leather bench and leaning against the wall.

  “Really?” queried Pamela. “Bob has never struck me as a coward. He’s probably one of the most principled individuals I know.”

  “Have you seen his mother? She looks like a flower-covered truck,” cried Arliss. She was almost in tears. Pamela had never seen her friend so desolate.

  Just then, the waitress arrived with their orders and the three women suspended discussion while they chewed and sipped.

  “My dear,” said Joan eventually, leaning across the table to Arliss, “I’ve told you this, and I’m sure Pamela will agree. We’re happy to serve as sounding boards for you, but ultimately, you must talk honestly to Bob about this. He is your fiancé…” Arliss grimaced at Joan’s use of the word ‘fiancé’ which she obviously did not consider herself. “He is your boyfriend…mate…future husband…whatever…and I know he considers you his equal. If you can’t work together on this problem, how do you ever expect to solve problems once you’re married?” Joan glanced knowingly over the tops of her reading glasses at Arliss, holding them firmly to her face.

  “All right, all right,” said Arliss, huffing. “Thank God, my parents are nothing like Bob’s mother. They could care less when...where…how…or if I get married.” She smiled smugly at her two friends.

  “In the grand scheme of things,” continued Joan, “so you wear a beautiful dress and let people gush over you for a few hours. Isn’t it worth a little bit of discomfort to make Bob—and his mother—happy?” Oh, Joan, thought Pamela as she savored her cup of sassafras coffee, you diplomat. The horrible discomfort of a Vera Wang!

  “I suppose,” said Arliss, now totally deflated. “I’m still going to talk to him and try to talk him out of it.”

  “You do that, my dear,” said Joan, reaching over the table and patting Arliss’s hand. “Now, Pamela,” she said, turning to her, “whatever happened yesterday after we left you alone with that strange detective?”

  “Not much,” said Pamela, lightly, stretching her arms out over the blue and white-covered tablecloth. “He just asked me to consult on the disc jockey murder.”

  “What?” yelled Arliss, completely forgetting her wedding blues.

  “Yes,” said Pamela, smiling and straightening her collar with pride, “seems he wants me to try to identify the killer from a recording of the murder.”

  “Just like you did with Charlotte?” asked Joan.

  “Exactly,” responded Pamela.

  “So,” said Arliss, her thin frame leaning over her sandwich platter, now totally involved in the conspiracy, “did you identify him?”

  “Or her,” said Pamela, “The killer used a gun. It could have been a woman.”

  “It could have,” agreed Arliss. “It could have been Bob’s mother!”

  “But it was a man,” said Pamela, cup to lips. “At least that’s what Willard and I believe by listening to the recording. A southern man. We believe the killer actually spoke on the recording when he—or she—brought out the gun. It’s hard to hear—but there’s a soft “ah” sound and we’ve analyzed it and that’s our best guess.”

  “A Southern man,” said Joan, wiping a dab of mayonnaise from her upper lip, “describes half the population of Reardon.”

  “It’s still better than what the police had on their own,” said Pamela, her chest heaving as she defended her findings.

  “True,” said Arliss. “Pam, I bet you solve this murder just like you did Charlotte’s.”

  “I’d like to. Of course, I can’t tell Rocky,” she added, clutching her cup with determination “He’s far too protective.”

  “See!” screamed Arliss, “I’m not the only one arguing with their significant other.”

  “Yes, dear,” agreed Joan, “but Pamela has learned how to circumvent her husband and his demands—not to confront him directly. You will learn too, eventually.”

  “True,” agreed Pamela, “I’d like to circumvent Rocky and go down to that Blue Poppy.”

  “The blue what?” asked Arliss.

  “The Blue Poppy,” repeated Pamela. “It’s a club downtown, a few blocks south of here, where they play a lot of this alternate music that that disc jockey Ted Ballard—I mean Black Vulture—played on his show. I’d like to talk to some people who maybe knew him or know about this type of music. I’d like to see if I could find out more about him—particularly who might have had it in for him.”

  “Pam,” gasped Arliss, “surely, the police don’t expect you to do that?”

  “No,” replied Pamela, “it’s just something that I think would help give me some background material to make my acoustic analysis easier—like research.”

  “Yes,” said Joan, folding her napkin neatly and placing it beside her plate. She smiled sedately, “I know what you mean, my dear. You need to conduct some research. Well, we’re all three researchers, aren’t we? Why don’t the three of us check out this Blue Poppy? How much different can it be from our regular girls’ night out haunt—Who-Who’s?”

  “Oh, Joan,” exclaimed Arliss, “that sounds like a great idea! Pam, let’s go researching!”

  “I can’t go tonight; I have my graduate seminar,” she replied, “but tomorrow night might work. Can you both make it tomorrow?”

  “My nights are free!” said Joan “I’m the merry widow!”

  “Mine too!” agreed Arliss, “It will give me a break from wedding planning!”

  Chapter 18

  Previous week--Friday evening, December 14

  Daniel found himself driving on back highways—something he usually didn’t do. It turned out that Reardon was directly west of the Bridgewater factory in Compton—probably around 200 miles as the crow flies. Unfortunately, there were no direct routes and certainly no Interstate. When he entered Reardon into his GPS navigational system on the dashboard of his Acura, the map that popped up—purportedly the shortest distance—showed a winding snake-like curved line. All the roads he noticed were small state—or worse-- county roads.

  Now, it was early evening around five o’clock he realized as he checked his watch, but mid-December made it seem more like nine o’clock. The scenery here was pleasant—he’d seen pheasants and lots of woodland creatures zip across the road as he turned the many curves, probably an indication of how few actual vehicles took these back roads. Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, he briefly glanced down at his on-board map. There were precious few towns between here and Reardon he realized. Normally, he would never talk on his iPhone while driving—he was a stickler for obeying the law, but the road was virtually deserted and he was carefully watching his speed because he’d heard about speed traps in locations just such as these.

  “Hey,” he spoke into the cell when Amy answered on the first ring. “I’m looking at a beautiful sunset and thinking of you.”

  “I appreciate poetry,” she replied, “but I’d rather have you pay attention to your driving.”

  “It’s calm,” he said, “no traffic to speak of. It’s just taking me longer than I anticipated. These are really winding roads and I ran into a lot of construction about an hour back.”

  “You don’t think you’ll make Reardon tonight?”

  “I’m thinking maybe I
should stop,” he agreed, “It’s getting dark and I’ve got over 100 miles left. It might be better to make my appearance at David’s doorstep when I’m fresh—and when he’s fresh. Tomorrow. Besides, he might be in class today—he is a student.”

  “But not late on a Friday night,” she suggested.

  “No,” he agreed, “I guess I’m just exhausted and probably putting off the inevitable.”

  “You could come home,” she said, with a slight pleading note. He knew she wasn’t thrilled about this trip.

  “It’ll be all right,” he assured her. “I’m thinking I may stop for the night, get some supper and a good night’s sleep and then I can arrive early tomorrow and go straight to his apartment. You know, catch him before he leaves for the day.”

  “If he leaves,” she said, “Maybe he sleeps late. You said his radio program was Saturday night, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he answered, seeing her wheels turning as she helped him plan the best approach to the long-lost David. “He might sleep late. Even so, I think tomorrow morning is the best time. Besides, I’m beat and driving on these winding roads is much worse than driving on the Interstate.”

  She laughed. “Okay,” she said, “but good luck finding anyplace to eat as good as Sam’s.”

  “Sweet,” he sighed, “there’s no place as good as Sam’s. I’ll just have to make do.” They laughed together and he added, “I probably should tell you that I told Harold about our situation.”

  “You did?”

  “He’s very discreet,” Daniel explained, “but I wanted you to know in case you should need anything—you can go to him.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Do you want me to Google good restaurants in your location?”

  “Nah,” he chuckled, “I can rough it. Besides, remember, I have the GPS. It does restaurant and hotel locating as well. I’ll give it a workout in just a bit.”

  “Oh, technology,” she exclaimed. “If only you could GPS me a kiss.”

  “No way,” he pouted, “I don’t want some keyboard getting between my lips and yours. Anyway, I’d better get going—it’s really starting to get dark and I’ve got to concentrate.”

  “Okay,” she said, “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” He clicked off their conversation and replaced his iPhone in his jacket pocket. Poking around on his GPS, he hit the button to search for nearby hotels and restaurants and discovered that he was nearing a town on the state border. The device indicated a host of several hotels and motels and accompanying eateries. Great, he thought. I’d better stop here, because I have no idea if I’ll find anything better between here and Reardon.

  As he reached the top of a small hill, he could see lights flickering in the distance. Several large colorful signs stood out and several billboards proclaimed the wonders of an upcoming inn. Hmm, he thought. That one looks clean and presentable—hotel and food. Let’s see if there are any vacancies. He guided his GPS cursor to the spot where the multitude of small red dots clumped. The advertised hotel popped up—Green Forest Inn. He pulled out his iPhone again and tapped in the number of the inn. Within a few minutes, Daniel had booked himself a room in the cozy-looking place and extracted directions from the pleasant sounding desk clerk. Evidently, not many people chose to stay at the Green Forest Inn, in the middle of nowhere, a week before Christmas.

  He drove a few miles further down the far side of the hill and followed the next two or three billboards which gave excellent directions (actually better than those of the desk clerk) to the inn. As he maneuvered his Acura up a small and winding trail, following the arrows, clearly labeled “Green Forest Inn” he soon discovered himself in front of a large white mansion with an expansive front porch, green shutters and a large green door with one of those old-fashioned brass knockers. Several cars were parked in front, so the Green Forest Inn wasn’t as out of the way as he thought. He gave it a brief rap and it was immediately opened by a young woman who welcomed him into a warm, wood-paneled lobby. He could see a dining room in the distance where a fire crackled in the fireplace. The aroma of home-cooked food wafted from the direction of the room. It smelled wonderful, he realized, though, of course, not as wonderful as Sam’s. As luck would have it, he was able to get a room and after a filling and delicious dinner in the Christmas-decorated dining room, he returned to his room and plopped down on a bouncy four poster bed with an extremely soft, even plusher comforter.

  If he were not on such an important task, he might actually enjoy this wonderful little inn. He certainly wished that Amy were here with him. She loved traditional places like this with home-style decorating. She’d probably want to sit in the dining room in front of the beautiful stone fireplace and drink mulled wine. Not a bad idea, he thought, with a sigh. Too bad. He decided he’d better forego all thoughts of enjoying himself and get to bed promptly so he could get up as early as possible. He had a big day tomorrow and he wanted to get on the road early. If he left here by six he could probably be in Reardon by nine. That should be early enough, he thought.

  He sprawled across the old bed and sank down into the springs. Just a few more hours and he’d be face to face with David. So many years. What would he be like? How would he have changed? He knew he’d recognize him. But, what he was like now? Why had he disappeared and never contacted them since? It was a mystery—one he hoped would soon be solved. He fell asleep—but he did not sleep soundly.

  Chapter 19

  Present time--Tuesday evening, December 18

  Pamela’s graduate acoustics seminar was finishing up a successful semester. She felt lucky that she had seven such excellent students and future researchers in her class. They were all enthusiastic and intelligent and stimulating; her Tuesday nights were never boring. Tonight they had met in the computer lab rather than the seminar room so they could try out some of the new acoustic software available for sound analysis that Pamela believed they needed to have in their repertoire. She was standing at the front of the lab, behind the master console (where she had first detected the recording of Charlotte Clark’s murder that was made inadvertently while Charlotte was being strangled). On the overhead screen she demonstrated a filtering technique that could be used to discriminate various sounds from others on a recording—something she had just used to extract that small bit of sound that she believed was the voice of the murderer on the recording of the killing of the disc jockey.

  “Dr. Barnes,’ said one of students, a male—pointing to his computer screen which displayed the same perspective as that on the overhead, “I understand how to filter, I’m just not certain how we would determine when to filter out a segment?”

  “Paul,” she said, smiling at the young man, “I’m afraid that decision is a judgment call. There are so many instances where you’re going to have to try different things—many of which won’t work. You’ll just have to go with your gut.”

  “That doesn’t sound very scientific,” said one girl with a friendly leer.

  “It doesn’t, does it?” she laughed with the class.

  “Dr. Barnes,” continued the first young man with the filtering concern, “I guess my underlying problem is I can’t put any of this in context. I just don’t see how it would function in a real world situation.”

  “Real world?” asked Pamela.

  “You know,” Paul explained, “such as, where would I ever use this filtering protocol?”

  “Hmm,” she said, tapping her fingers on the console desk and looking around as if she expected a spy to appear from nowhere. “Real world? Did any of you hear about the murder of the local disc jockey at KRDN on Saturday night?”

  The class looked around at each other, mumbling and nodding that most of them had heard of it. Some admitted that they had actually been listening when the murder itself took place.

  “So, you would consider the disc jockey—his name was Ted Ballard...”

  “Black Vulture,” added one somber-looking dark-haired young woman in the second row of com
puters.

  “Yes,” continued Pamela, “Black Vulture. A real world problem. Either way, this murder was recorded. It took place at a radio station and the station automatically records all programs—including anything their on-air talent says.”

  “So, Dr. Barnes,” asked another girl in the front row, “do you have a recording of the murder?”

  “I do, Ellen,” she responded, and grabbed her pocket book, which was on the console, opened it, and drew out a CD in a plastic container. “Would you like to see if you can analyze the acoustic output?”

  The students all answered in enthusiastic agreement as Pamela entered the CD into the master console, where immediately on the overhead screen and simultaneously at each computer, appeared the wavy and jerky line of the recording in the sound analysis software they had been using in the course. Pamela placed her cursor on the spot on the line that she knew would include the last few moments of the recording and hit the play button. The familiar voice of Ted Ballard, alias Black Vulture, boomed from the overhead speakers and from each student’s computer speaker. All heads were riveted to their screens as the unseen murder played out while the cursor raced horizontally over the wavy line and ended abruptly with the gun shot—then a few seconds and then the sound ended.

  They all looked up. It was as if they had just witnessed a murder and for a moment, no one could speak. Then suddenly, everyone seemed to have ideas and questions. Pamela anticipated this.

  “Dr. Barnes,” said the enthusiastic Ellen in the front row, “there’s another speaker! Right there after the disc jockey says….look! There’s two lines! You can see them!”

  “Yes!” agreed a tall boy in the second row, “the second voice is softer but you can definitely hear it. That must be the murderer!”

  “Okay,” said Pamela to her excited class, holding her hands up to calm them all down. “Yes, there is a second voice—Dr. Swinton and I discovered it yesterday and reported it to the police. We even analyzed the voice and believe it to be male and Southern.”