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Mixed Signals

Poisoned Pen Press

Chapter One

It's a good thing Handel's already dead, because if he weren't, I'd have to kill him. I'd heard Camden practice singing "Every Valley Shall Be Exalted," his solo for the Parkland City Chorale's Christmas concert of "Messiah," until I thought I might have to kill him, too. He sings really well, but talk about monotonous! Handel must have enjoyed seeing how much he could cram into a song. Maybe he was paid by the note.

So I was relieved that evening when Camden stopped singing. He paused at my office door, toolbox in hand, and asked me if I'd take him by his friend Jared's house.

"Thought you'd finished those cabinets."

"I have one more door to put on. It won't take me five minutes. You can wait, or Jared can bring me home."

"I'll wait."

I obligingly turned my '67 Fury toward Jared Hunter's neighborhood. When I pulled up in front of the small brick house, Camden frowned at the dark windows.

"Is he home?" I asked.

"There's a light on in the garage."

He got out of the car and went toward the open garage where Jared kept a fine 1959 blue and white Marlin. I yawned and then drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, annoyed to find I still had the tune and rhythm of "Every Valley" in my head. I was considering which of my many New Black Eagle Jazz Band CDs to play when the music abruptly slid into a strange minor key, horns blaring, violins shrieking. I felt a sensation of panic from somewhere in my brain, panic that wasn't coming from me. I was already running for the garage when I heard Camden's voice full of horror.

"Oh, my God. Randall! Randall, come here."

I ran to the garage and stopped. Jared Hunter lay in a pool of blood in front of his washer and dryer, a pile of laundry scattered across the floor. It looked as if he'd been stabbed several times. For a few moments, I couldn't move, my brain trying to process what I was seeing. I've seen some bad things in my time, but the crumpled body and the stark red blood splattered against the white floor and colorful towels was so horrible I had to take a few quick panic breaths to keep myself upright. There didn't seem to be a chance in hell the man was still alive, but I leaned down and carefully checked for a pulse in his wrist.

"I'm sorry, Camden."

He was holding onto the car, his face chalk white and his eyes glazed over. I couldn't begin to imagine what visions he was seeing. "No," he said, shaking. "No."

As I punched nine-one-one on my cell phone, I heard a thump from somewhere in the house, and a noise that sounded like a door slamming shut. I ran out of the garage and around to the front of the house, my angry private detective self wanting to catch the murderer and my sensible self screaming that a killer with a knife could be planning to attack again. But I couldn't see anything. For the moment, both Camden and I were completely in the dark.

Well, this was going to be one hell of a Christmas.

* * *

If the killer had been hiding in the house, by the time the police came and searched the area, he or she was gone. Officer Jordan Finley was one of the first to arrive. He usually warns me away from crime scenes, but when he realized Jared Hunter was a friend of Camden's, he agreed to let us stay.

"Don't touch anything," he said to me, as if I didn't know this.

The coroner finished his examination and the EMS team took Jared's body to the ambulance. I had managed to calm my breathing, but Camden sat on the ground, trying to control the tremors that still shook him. I told him several times I'd take him home, but he said no. After a while he got up and slowly crossed the garage to the dryer. One of Jordan's colleagues started to stop him, but Jordan said, "It's all right."

Camden put his hands on the dryer as if to steady himself. He was trembling, and his blue eyes were an odd murky color. "If I can get past the blood—"

"Try the car," I said.

The blue and white Marlin sat gleaming the in the half-light. Despite the lingering smell of blood, I smelled car polish and something sweet, like auto air freshener. Camden moved over to the Marlin and put his hands on the hood.

"Anything?"

"It's not the car. Someone came by."

"What did they want?"

"They're angry, frustrated." He shuddered. "I want to look in the house."

I glanced at Jordan, and he nodded. Even though he can't officially use psychic evidence, Jordan's found Camden's talent useful in the past.

Inside Jared's house, the furniture was unremarkable, the curtains plain beige, the carpet a dreary gray. The bedroom and bathroom were also very plain, with nothing out of place. In the living room, an entertainment center took up one wall. A few framed photographs hung on the opposite wall. One picture showed Jared with a tall black woman. She stood with one arm draped around his shoulders.

"Who's this?" I asked.

"Alycia Ward, a friend of Jared's," Camden said.

Alycia was wearing an elaborate charm bracelet, large gold earrings, and a nose ring. "Looks like an expensive gal."

"Jared was always buying her jewelry."

"Are they engaged? Maybe they had a quarrel."

"No, they're just friends."

In my experience there's often more to "just friends." "And these guys?" A row of grinning men stood in front of the Marlin and a 67 Mustang.

"The guys at Jared's auto club."

There was a photograph of Jared, Alycia, and somebody dressed in a green monster costume. "Halloween?"

Camden took a closer look. "Comic convention."

"What's this guy supposed to be, the Incredible Hulk? Who is he, do you know?"

"It's probably Boyd Taylor. He went to a couple of conventions with us."

Jordan had been taking notes. "Alycia Ward, Boyd Taylor. Anyone else?"

Abruptly, Camden sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. "Oh, my God. Terracon's next week. Jared wanted to go. I forgot to tell him."

Jordan gave me an anxious look. "It's okay, Cam."

He pushed his pale hair out of his eyes. "I can't think right now. I came over to fix his cabinets. He'd been wanting cabinets in the garage. I was almost through—"

"Cam, you need to go home. We'll take care of this."

"The blood—I wish I could see something useful! I have no idea who'd want to kill Jared."

"I'll keep you posted on how the investigation is going." Jordan pointed his pencil at me. "You, however, are going to keep out of this."

"Somebody kills one of Camden's friends, and you want me to back off? I don't think so."

"Both of you are way too close to this. Let me handle it."

I started to argue and then reconsidered. I already had two starting places: Alycia Ward and Boyd Taylor, plus whatever else Camden could tell me about Jared and his activities. With or without Jordan's approval, I was going to work this case.

* * *

I took Camden home. 302 Grace Street is Camden's old three story boarding house in what used to be Parkland's wealthiest neighborhood. Tenants come and go, but for now, 302 Grace was home to a huge bawdy couple named Rufus Jackson and Angie Dawson, Fred Mullins, World's Grumpiest Old Man, and Kary Ingram, my soul mate, if I can ever convince her of that. Since October, the house, to my surprise, had become my home as well, and the office for my detective agency.

...