Fic: Quite a Buzz, by delurker
Title: Quite a Buzz.
Author: delurker
Fandom: Dead Zone
Pairing: None.
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~3800 words.
Warnings: Animal death, murder mystery.
Disclaimer: Dead Zone is not mine.
Author's notes: I wrote this for E. E. Beck/lightgetsin for the 2006 Yuletide rare fandom exchange. Further notes at the end.
Summary: When Reverend Purdy asks Johnny for his help, Johnny reluctantly agrees. After Walt argues him into actually getting started, everything seems to be going well - apart from all the dead bees...
"Ah, there you are, Johnny," said Reverend Purdy. "Just the man I was hoping to find."
Johnny turned from his contemplation of the apples to find Purdy standing behind him, smiling.
"Well, here I am. Morning, Reverend," he replied, straightening. "Nothing the matter, I hope?"
"No, no, not at all. Actually, I was hoping you could do me a favour."
Johnny put down the apple he was holding in preparation for a quick getaway. "Uh, well, I-"
"Just hear me out, Johnny. It's something that only a man of your unique talents can help me with, and I think you'll find it enjoyable. My limousine is just out the front; we can talk there, if you don't mind."
"Actually, I was just on my way to meet Walt for lunch-"
"Then let me give you a lift to where you're going, and we can talk on the way."
Resistance was, clearly, futile.
* * *
There wasn't a great distance between where Purdy's limousine was waiting and where he was meeting Walt for lunch. Johnny had wondered how Purdy would cope with the inevitably short drive - it was hard to imagine Purdy speeding through his request - but Purdy's driver possessed the uncanny ability to circle the block without obviously doing so.
Purdy, well accustomed to his driver's ability, wasted no time on speculation, but opened the briefcase on the seat beside him and pulled out a rectangular object wrapped neatly in black cloth. Unwrapping revealed it to be a badly water-damaged record book.
"A few weeks ago I was approached by one of the church leaders from St. Mary's, who was seeking my help in regard to this book - or, more accurately, the help of the Faith Heritage Alliance. Their 70th anniversary is a few years off, and they wished to commemorate the occasion with a history of the church. Unfortunately, their records were not stored well, and time has taken a heavy toll on some of them. As you can see, this book - the records of the church's flower committee, from the 1960s - is one of them.
Some years ago it apparently fell victim to a leak in the church roof and, rather than being carefully dried out, was left on a shelf until a few weeks ago. Consequently, many of the pages have stuck together, and on the pages we can open, the ink has run so much that the writing is illegible. The church leaders came to me for funding to have it restored, but I really can't justify the expense, and in any case the restorers I spoke to are doubtful they could achieve worthwhile results. But you, Johnny - if you could get a vision from it, if you could just give us a place to start, then they could recognise the contribution these women have made to the church in their history. Will you help them, Johnny?"
"Reverend Purdy, the visions don't exactly come on demand."
"I know that, Johnny. All I'm asking is that you try." Purdy held out the book.
"Just a place to start?"
"That's all we need, Johnny. I can take it from there."
Johnny sighed, almost inaudibly, and took the book. It started to slip out of the thin cotton wrapping before he arrested its slide, clapping one hand onto the battered cardboard cover --
the ground around the tree is carpeted with dead bees, their bodies nestled between and on top of the blades of grass --
"- seems we've arrived, Johnny. Enjoy your lunch with Walt. Give him and his family my regards, will you?"
Dead bees? Johnny blinked, disoriented, then recalled himself and nodded, getting through the correct responses on autopilot while untidily rewrapping the book in its cloth and fumbling for his cane.
"You may be doubtful of your abilities to do this, Johnny, and I know the visions aren't terribly predictable, but God will provide. I have every faith you'll find the information."
An autopilot will only get you so far through a conversation. Fortunately for Johnny, it was just then that Purdy's driver opened the door, and Johnny gratefully made a break for it. In his opinion, it was well past time for lunch.
* * *
Walt was already sitting at a table when Johnny walked in, and he slid into the seat opposite Walt with mingled apologies and relief. Walt waved the apologies off - "but no complaining about what I ordered for you, not all of us are psychics to know these things" - and further conversation was put on hold for the moment while the waitress whirled over, plunked down a plate with a burger and fries in front of each of them, and left.
Johnny surveyed the plate in front of him with satisfaction. "No complaints from me, Walt," he said, and started his attack on his burger.
"Well, it's hard to go wrong with a burger and fries," replied Walt easily. "So, was that Purdy I saw out front dropping you off?"
"It was indeed. He cornered me at the grocer's. He wanted my help with something."
"Yeah?" Walt gestured with a fry for him to continue.
"Yeah. The Faith Heritage Alliance has been approached by some people from St. Mary's for help in deciphering some of their records, and Purdy thinks I'm a cheaper way to go about it than restoring the records to a legible state." Johnny slid the record book across the table to Walt, who unwrapped it and attempted to leaf through it, but stopped at the crackling hiss the pages made as they ripped apart.
"They can actually restore something this damaged?" Walt asked incredulously.
"Apparently so, provided you're willing to give them a check with a lot of zeros."
"And Purdy doesn't think it's worth it. Can't say I blame him, really."
"Are you kidding? Walt, I can't do the vision-on-demand thing!"
Walt sprawled lazily back on his chair. "You sure about that? Seems to me you usually pull through."
Johnny glared at him. Walt was unfazed. "Look, all you have to do is have a go. Either you don't see anything, so you tell Purdy to break open his checkbook and suck it up, or you do see something, so you tell him what you saw and leave it up to him. Either way, you've done him a favour and he owes you one. Personally, I can't see any downsides here."
Johnny thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "You may have a point."
"No might about it. Why don't you do it now and get it over with?"
Johnny sighed, but reached towards the book. To his utter relief, his fingers started to tremble in the way that always preceded a vision, and --
"Would you like some more cake, dear?" asks Mrs. Pollard, and Walt holds out his plate with alacrity.
"I certainly would, ma'am. Your cooking is delicious."
"Oh, you flatterer!" Mrs. Pollard replies, but she looks pleased. "Johnny, can I interest you in another slice?"
He nods and holds out his plate: he still remembers the brownies Tommy Pollard gave him at Christmas as thanks for getting him through science, and her cake is perhaps even better than the one he remembers.
As she deftly transfers a piece of cake to his plate, Mrs. Pollard says, "You get tucked into this while I go and get those photos for you." She hands him back the plate and bustles out of the room.
-- the waitress had just asked him a question.
"What?" Johnny asked, shaking off the vision that clung to him like sleep.
"Are you done, sir?"
"Yeah, we're done," Walt replied for him, and made an apologetic face at Johnny. Johnny shrugged: no-one was at fault, although it occurred to him that that was another reason he didn't usually try to see things in public, if it could be avoided. The waitress cleared their table of everything but their unfinished drinks and bustled off.
"So, does Purdy need to break out his checkbook?" asked Walt, once she was out of earshot.
"Actually, no. I saw someone I know: Mrs. Pollard. I taught her grandson, Tommy Pollard. She used to pick him up when both his parents were working. I only met her a few times, though."
"Well, then, all you have to do is pass her name on to Purdy, and you're done. And in less than an hour, too."
Johnny hesitated.
Walt looked at him. "You're not done? Johnny, I'm sure one name's sufficient..."
"It's not that, Walt. The vision I just had? We were in it. We were at her house, eating cake. And she went to get some photos for us, but I didn't get to see those, so I have no idea what was in them."
"And now you're curious, and you think we ought to look her up, see what it's all about?"
"If you have the time."
"I'll find it somewhere."
"Thanks, Walt, I really appreciate it."
"Don't mention it, Johnny. I owe you for all the times you come along while I ask questions. Besides, I understand there'll be cake. You about done here?"
"Yeah, thanks," said Johnny.
"Come on then, I'll give you a ride back to your car."
Johnny smiled at Walt, and smoothed out the black cloth to wrap the book in. He reached out to drag the book across the table, and --
"When you're done looking at the photos, Walt, pass them across to Johnny," says Mrs. Pollard, and Walt dutifully hands one over to him. Johnny looks at it; a younger Mrs. Pollard is standing in a garden outside a house, her arm resting in the crook of the man's arm on the left of her, with another woman standing on her right. Mrs. Pollard's facing the camera, but the two people flanking her are looking at each other instead.
"Are you right for a drink?" asks Mrs. Pollard, interrupting his scrutiny of the photo.
"Yes thanks, ma'am," says Johnny, and puts down the photo and picks up his cup to prove it, but his tea has turned to dead bees, piled irregularly in his cup, and his teaspoon is a cigarette.
-- "What is it, Johnny?" asked Walt.
"I just had another vision. Mrs. Pollard served me a cup of tea, and when I went to drink it the cup was full of dead bees. Dead bees, Walt! And I had another vision of them earlier, when Reverend Purdy gave me the book. They were lying on the ground under a tree then, though."
Walt frowned. "So that's why you've been so edgy about this."
Johnny nodded.
Walt thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "I see no reason we can't go with our original plan in spite of the dead bees. We'll just proceed with caution." Walt checked his watch. "And now we really have to go, or I'll be late."
* * *
As things turned out, Walt was late getting back to work: they'd paid the bill and made their way to Walt's car in good time, but then they'd been ambushed at Walt's car by Dana.
"Sheriff Bannerman! How about a quote about the recent poisoning of Counsellor Emerson's dog for Monday's paper? The news is creating quite a buzz around town."
"No comment."
"Oh, come on! The people of Cleaves Mills need to know if they need to worry about their pets, or if it's their Counsellor they need to pray for."
"No comment."
"How about a comment on the involvement of our local psychic, Johnny Smith? I saw you eating lunch with him just now. Is he working on the case with you?"
"As of the present moment, we are merely determining whether or not there are grounds for an investigation, and I can categorically state that we have not approached Johnny Smith for help in regard to this particular matter. My meeting with him today was purely social."
"I'll quote you on that, Sheriff."
"Quote away, Dana. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for work."
* * *
"I was right," said Walt. "This is far better than the times I normally go to people's houses and ask them questions."
Sitting on Mrs. Pollard's couch with a fat cushion at his back and a slice of cake bedecking the plate in his hand, Johnny had to agree. After greeting them enthusiastically at the door, Mrs. Pollard had ushered them inside to her living room, made sure their seats were comfortable and pressed refreshments on them.
("Would you care for a cup of tea?" Mrs. Pollard had asked.
"Uh, just a glass of water, please," Johnny had said.
"Just water? Would you like some cordial for it?"
"Plain water's fine, thanks."
"Well, if you're sure..."
"Positive.")
Having made sure her guests were settled, Mrs. Pollard had chatted on for half an hour about her time on the flower committee ("Would you believe she tried to use lavender? And instead of yellow chrysanthemums, too! As if you could see lavender from the back of the church. Clearly inappropriate."), then had disappeared towards the back of the house to collect her photos from her time on the flower committee. Shortly thereafter, the sound of footsteps heralded her reappearance, triumphantly clutching a bundle of photographs. She sat back down in her chair and began to sort through them.
"Let me see, what have I got to start with. Oh, here we are. This is the reverend and Mrs. Scott - our committee leader, you know - in front of the first flowers for Easter. We really outdid ourselves that year, everyone agreed on that. Next year's seemed rather nothing in comparison, of course, but you have to expect these things... Ah, here's one of us all, standing in front of the main doors." She shuffled the photos together again and passed the top few over to Walt, who looked at them politely.
"When you're done looking at the photos, Walt, pass them across to Johnny," said Mrs. Pollard, and Johnny could feel himself tense as Walt dutifully handed one over to him. Johnny took it, and saw a younger Mrs. Pollard looking out of the photo at him, standing in a garden, while the man and the woman on either side of her made eye contact with each other over the top of her head.
"Are you both right for a drink?" asked Mrs. Pollard, interrupting his scrutiny of the photo.
Johnny glanced down at his glass carefully, but it remained thankfully free of dead bees.
"Yes, thank-you, ma'am," said Johnny with relief.
"I'm fine, thanks," said Walt.
"Who are these people in the photo with you?" Johnny asked, passing the photo back to Mrs. Pollard.
She paused for a moment, then said carefully, "My husband, and one of my old friends." She paused again, then added, "This is one of the last photos taken of him before he died. Car crash."
"I'm... sorry to hear that," said Johnny.
"Thank-you. It was a long time ago, I suppose."
An awkwardly burgeoning silence began to lengthen. Walt cleared his throat. "Was your friend on the flower committee with you?"
Mrs. Pollard looked up from the photo. "Yes, she was. Of course, she moved away shortly after he died, and things just weren't the same without her on the committee. That was why I resigned, you see. But would you believe that she's moving back here all these years later? We'd quite lost touch, or so I'd thought, but a few weeks ago I got a letter from her, letting me know she was coming back and asking if I wanted to renew our friendship, which of course I do. I am so looking forwards to our meeting."
* * *
"That was a bit awkward," said Walt, afterwards.
"At least there were no dead bees," said Johnny.
"Always a plus."
They walked the rest of the way to Johnny's car in silence, but as Johnny pulled his car keys out of his pocket, Walt said, "We got the lab results back on the poisoned dog."
"Then he was poisoned?"
"Fed meat laced with cyanide."
"So was it a targeted attack on Counsellor Emerson?"
"Honestly, we have no idea. We haven't had any more specific threats directed to him from anyone, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, and we can't afford to be wrong."
"And so you want to involve the local psychic."
"If he doesn't mind."
"Not at all. I'll meet you at the station."
* * *
The Counsellor's dog fitted awkwardly on the autopsy table, his legs poking stiffly over the edge. Johnny brushed his fingers over the dog's fur, and --
The dog is covered in bees. They spill off his fur and onto the stainless steel bench on which he lies. --
"Why bees again?"
Walt frowned. "You're seeing bees again?"
"The dog was covered in them."
"Could it be ... leftover from before?"
"I don't know." Johnny reached out again to touch the dog, and --
The dog is barking at a figure standing in the shadows by the gate. The figure unwraps an object and throws it over the fence; Johnny is just able to see that it's a hunk of meat before the dog tears into it. The figure watches as the dog collapses, then turns to leave, and as it passes under the lights, Johnny sees her face --
"It's Mrs. Pollard," said Johnny.
"Mrs. Pollard poisoned the dog?"
"Yes. But I don't know why."
"Guess we'd better go talk to her." Walt sighed. "Something tells me we're not going to get cake this visit."
* * *
"Did you boys forget something?" asked Mrs. Pollard when she opened her door and found them on the doorstep.
"No, ma'am," said Walt. "We're here to ask you a couple of questions about Counsellor Emerson's dog."
Mrs. Pollard held herself utterly still for a moment, then sighed. "I guess you'd better come in."
When they were seated once more for the day, she picked up the photo she'd been looking at earlier. "My husband Charlie, and my best friend Betty. Or at least she was, until I found out she was having an affair with my husband." She lifted her gaze from the photo and looked at them. "Do you have any idea how much that hurt? How betrayed I felt? My life had fallen apart, and it was because of the two people I trusted most of all.
"I said nothing about it for three months. I'd hoped, vainly, that they'd break it off, or at least say something about it to me. But they didn't. And then this photo was taken." She gestured with it angrily. "They weren't even bothering to hide it! Once I saw this photo, I knew they weren't going to even try to sort things out with me. So I decided to sort things out myself."
"You talked to them about it?" asked Walt.
"Oh no. I killed him." She smiled. "It was ingenious, really. We'd had a beehive in our eaves, and Charlie had bought some insecticide to kill the bees. Calcium cyanide, it was. There was some left over from that, so I took it. Of course, I couldn't just poison him with it. Far too obvious.
"I thought about it for three weeks, and then one afternoon I was cleaning out the car and I saw the cigarettes Charlie always kept there to smoke as he drove along and it came to me: the perfect way to do it. I'd dissolve the cyanide in some water and soak the cigarettes in the mixture, then dry them out and put them back - ready to give him a fatal dose the next time he lit up. Oh, they may have been a bit worse the wear for it, but he never paid much attention to his cigarette when he was driving, and he'd hardly be suspicious. And best of all, he'd be driving when he died, and the car crash would explain the body so neatly. It was perfect. And it worked. As far as everyone else was concerned, Charlie died in a car crash one dark wet night when he ran off the road and hit a tree. Why look for another explanation?
"Unfortunately, I still didn't have a way to deal with Betty. I'd used the last of the cyanide from the bees, and I didn't have a way to get rid of her body either. And then, while I was still planning things, she moved away. Clear to the other side of the country, that's all I knew. But I didn't give up. I bought some rat poison - they used cyanide to kill rats too, did you know? - and I've kept it, all these years. When I heard she was coming back, I was so excited. Finally, I could finish what I'd started. I must confess that I was a little worried that the rat poison would have lost its potency over the years, but I tried it out on that infernal barking dog down the road, and it still works a charm." She paused, reflectively. "But I suppose that's all over now."
"I'm afraid we can't let you kill someone, ma'am."
"Understandable, I suppose. Well. Just let me get my jacket and lock up, and I'll come along quietly."
* * *
There was a predictable flurry of excitement in the papers around the arrest of Mrs. Pollard: cyanide and betrayed wives made good copy, even without the lead-in of the dog poisoning.
Purdy took the outcome of Johnny's investigations calmly ("God works to bring justice to the world in many ways, Johnny. You have my thanks for your work, and, I am sure, the thanks of Mrs. Pollard's friend."). Johnny didn't know what Purdy was going to do about St. Matthew's quest for information on flower committees past, but he was quite content to leave that problem to someone else.
"I guess the Lord really does move in mysterious ways," said Walt, some days later, after things had quieted down and they were sitting on Johnny's couch and waiting for the game to begin. "Cake and an easy arrest. I wish more of my cases could be like this."
Johnny rolled his eyes at him good-naturedly. "Just drink your beer, Walt."
Final notes:
Author's notes: I had an absolute blast writing this! I've always wanted to write a murder mystery, but until now I could never manage it. I'm so happy with how it turned out, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it.
Many thanks to dzurlady, who betaed this and encouraged me. Thanks also to alvafan, who gave it a final lookover with new eyes before I posted, to thefourthvine, who encouraged me in my Yuletide madness, and to all the folks on the Yuletide IRC chat, who provided hours of entertainment as well as offering suggestions and clarifications.
Feedback: Feedback of all sorts is very welcome, from one word responses to analytical paragraphs to constructive criticism. You can leave it in the comments or via email: delurker at livejournal dot com.
Author: delurker
Fandom: Dead Zone
Pairing: None.
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~3800 words.
Warnings: Animal death, murder mystery.
Disclaimer: Dead Zone is not mine.
Author's notes: I wrote this for E. E. Beck/lightgetsin for the 2006 Yuletide rare fandom exchange. Further notes at the end.
Summary: When Reverend Purdy asks Johnny for his help, Johnny reluctantly agrees. After Walt argues him into actually getting started, everything seems to be going well - apart from all the dead bees...
"Ah, there you are, Johnny," said Reverend Purdy. "Just the man I was hoping to find."
Johnny turned from his contemplation of the apples to find Purdy standing behind him, smiling.
"Well, here I am. Morning, Reverend," he replied, straightening. "Nothing the matter, I hope?"
"No, no, not at all. Actually, I was hoping you could do me a favour."
Johnny put down the apple he was holding in preparation for a quick getaway. "Uh, well, I-"
"Just hear me out, Johnny. It's something that only a man of your unique talents can help me with, and I think you'll find it enjoyable. My limousine is just out the front; we can talk there, if you don't mind."
"Actually, I was just on my way to meet Walt for lunch-"
"Then let me give you a lift to where you're going, and we can talk on the way."
Resistance was, clearly, futile.
* * *
There wasn't a great distance between where Purdy's limousine was waiting and where he was meeting Walt for lunch. Johnny had wondered how Purdy would cope with the inevitably short drive - it was hard to imagine Purdy speeding through his request - but Purdy's driver possessed the uncanny ability to circle the block without obviously doing so.
Purdy, well accustomed to his driver's ability, wasted no time on speculation, but opened the briefcase on the seat beside him and pulled out a rectangular object wrapped neatly in black cloth. Unwrapping revealed it to be a badly water-damaged record book.
"A few weeks ago I was approached by one of the church leaders from St. Mary's, who was seeking my help in regard to this book - or, more accurately, the help of the Faith Heritage Alliance. Their 70th anniversary is a few years off, and they wished to commemorate the occasion with a history of the church. Unfortunately, their records were not stored well, and time has taken a heavy toll on some of them. As you can see, this book - the records of the church's flower committee, from the 1960s - is one of them.
Some years ago it apparently fell victim to a leak in the church roof and, rather than being carefully dried out, was left on a shelf until a few weeks ago. Consequently, many of the pages have stuck together, and on the pages we can open, the ink has run so much that the writing is illegible. The church leaders came to me for funding to have it restored, but I really can't justify the expense, and in any case the restorers I spoke to are doubtful they could achieve worthwhile results. But you, Johnny - if you could get a vision from it, if you could just give us a place to start, then they could recognise the contribution these women have made to the church in their history. Will you help them, Johnny?"
"Reverend Purdy, the visions don't exactly come on demand."
"I know that, Johnny. All I'm asking is that you try." Purdy held out the book.
"Just a place to start?"
"That's all we need, Johnny. I can take it from there."
Johnny sighed, almost inaudibly, and took the book. It started to slip out of the thin cotton wrapping before he arrested its slide, clapping one hand onto the battered cardboard cover --
the ground around the tree is carpeted with dead bees, their bodies nestled between and on top of the blades of grass --
"- seems we've arrived, Johnny. Enjoy your lunch with Walt. Give him and his family my regards, will you?"
Dead bees? Johnny blinked, disoriented, then recalled himself and nodded, getting through the correct responses on autopilot while untidily rewrapping the book in its cloth and fumbling for his cane.
"You may be doubtful of your abilities to do this, Johnny, and I know the visions aren't terribly predictable, but God will provide. I have every faith you'll find the information."
An autopilot will only get you so far through a conversation. Fortunately for Johnny, it was just then that Purdy's driver opened the door, and Johnny gratefully made a break for it. In his opinion, it was well past time for lunch.
* * *
Walt was already sitting at a table when Johnny walked in, and he slid into the seat opposite Walt with mingled apologies and relief. Walt waved the apologies off - "but no complaining about what I ordered for you, not all of us are psychics to know these things" - and further conversation was put on hold for the moment while the waitress whirled over, plunked down a plate with a burger and fries in front of each of them, and left.
Johnny surveyed the plate in front of him with satisfaction. "No complaints from me, Walt," he said, and started his attack on his burger.
"Well, it's hard to go wrong with a burger and fries," replied Walt easily. "So, was that Purdy I saw out front dropping you off?"
"It was indeed. He cornered me at the grocer's. He wanted my help with something."
"Yeah?" Walt gestured with a fry for him to continue.
"Yeah. The Faith Heritage Alliance has been approached by some people from St. Mary's for help in deciphering some of their records, and Purdy thinks I'm a cheaper way to go about it than restoring the records to a legible state." Johnny slid the record book across the table to Walt, who unwrapped it and attempted to leaf through it, but stopped at the crackling hiss the pages made as they ripped apart.
"They can actually restore something this damaged?" Walt asked incredulously.
"Apparently so, provided you're willing to give them a check with a lot of zeros."
"And Purdy doesn't think it's worth it. Can't say I blame him, really."
"Are you kidding? Walt, I can't do the vision-on-demand thing!"
Walt sprawled lazily back on his chair. "You sure about that? Seems to me you usually pull through."
Johnny glared at him. Walt was unfazed. "Look, all you have to do is have a go. Either you don't see anything, so you tell Purdy to break open his checkbook and suck it up, or you do see something, so you tell him what you saw and leave it up to him. Either way, you've done him a favour and he owes you one. Personally, I can't see any downsides here."
Johnny thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "You may have a point."
"No might about it. Why don't you do it now and get it over with?"
Johnny sighed, but reached towards the book. To his utter relief, his fingers started to tremble in the way that always preceded a vision, and --
"Would you like some more cake, dear?" asks Mrs. Pollard, and Walt holds out his plate with alacrity.
"I certainly would, ma'am. Your cooking is delicious."
"Oh, you flatterer!" Mrs. Pollard replies, but she looks pleased. "Johnny, can I interest you in another slice?"
He nods and holds out his plate: he still remembers the brownies Tommy Pollard gave him at Christmas as thanks for getting him through science, and her cake is perhaps even better than the one he remembers.
As she deftly transfers a piece of cake to his plate, Mrs. Pollard says, "You get tucked into this while I go and get those photos for you." She hands him back the plate and bustles out of the room.
-- the waitress had just asked him a question.
"What?" Johnny asked, shaking off the vision that clung to him like sleep.
"Are you done, sir?"
"Yeah, we're done," Walt replied for him, and made an apologetic face at Johnny. Johnny shrugged: no-one was at fault, although it occurred to him that that was another reason he didn't usually try to see things in public, if it could be avoided. The waitress cleared their table of everything but their unfinished drinks and bustled off.
"So, does Purdy need to break out his checkbook?" asked Walt, once she was out of earshot.
"Actually, no. I saw someone I know: Mrs. Pollard. I taught her grandson, Tommy Pollard. She used to pick him up when both his parents were working. I only met her a few times, though."
"Well, then, all you have to do is pass her name on to Purdy, and you're done. And in less than an hour, too."
Johnny hesitated.
Walt looked at him. "You're not done? Johnny, I'm sure one name's sufficient..."
"It's not that, Walt. The vision I just had? We were in it. We were at her house, eating cake. And she went to get some photos for us, but I didn't get to see those, so I have no idea what was in them."
"And now you're curious, and you think we ought to look her up, see what it's all about?"
"If you have the time."
"I'll find it somewhere."
"Thanks, Walt, I really appreciate it."
"Don't mention it, Johnny. I owe you for all the times you come along while I ask questions. Besides, I understand there'll be cake. You about done here?"
"Yeah, thanks," said Johnny.
"Come on then, I'll give you a ride back to your car."
Johnny smiled at Walt, and smoothed out the black cloth to wrap the book in. He reached out to drag the book across the table, and --
"When you're done looking at the photos, Walt, pass them across to Johnny," says Mrs. Pollard, and Walt dutifully hands one over to him. Johnny looks at it; a younger Mrs. Pollard is standing in a garden outside a house, her arm resting in the crook of the man's arm on the left of her, with another woman standing on her right. Mrs. Pollard's facing the camera, but the two people flanking her are looking at each other instead.
"Are you right for a drink?" asks Mrs. Pollard, interrupting his scrutiny of the photo.
"Yes thanks, ma'am," says Johnny, and puts down the photo and picks up his cup to prove it, but his tea has turned to dead bees, piled irregularly in his cup, and his teaspoon is a cigarette.
-- "What is it, Johnny?" asked Walt.
"I just had another vision. Mrs. Pollard served me a cup of tea, and when I went to drink it the cup was full of dead bees. Dead bees, Walt! And I had another vision of them earlier, when Reverend Purdy gave me the book. They were lying on the ground under a tree then, though."
Walt frowned. "So that's why you've been so edgy about this."
Johnny nodded.
Walt thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "I see no reason we can't go with our original plan in spite of the dead bees. We'll just proceed with caution." Walt checked his watch. "And now we really have to go, or I'll be late."
* * *
As things turned out, Walt was late getting back to work: they'd paid the bill and made their way to Walt's car in good time, but then they'd been ambushed at Walt's car by Dana.
"Sheriff Bannerman! How about a quote about the recent poisoning of Counsellor Emerson's dog for Monday's paper? The news is creating quite a buzz around town."
"No comment."
"Oh, come on! The people of Cleaves Mills need to know if they need to worry about their pets, or if it's their Counsellor they need to pray for."
"No comment."
"How about a comment on the involvement of our local psychic, Johnny Smith? I saw you eating lunch with him just now. Is he working on the case with you?"
"As of the present moment, we are merely determining whether or not there are grounds for an investigation, and I can categorically state that we have not approached Johnny Smith for help in regard to this particular matter. My meeting with him today was purely social."
"I'll quote you on that, Sheriff."
"Quote away, Dana. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for work."
* * *
"I was right," said Walt. "This is far better than the times I normally go to people's houses and ask them questions."
Sitting on Mrs. Pollard's couch with a fat cushion at his back and a slice of cake bedecking the plate in his hand, Johnny had to agree. After greeting them enthusiastically at the door, Mrs. Pollard had ushered them inside to her living room, made sure their seats were comfortable and pressed refreshments on them.
("Would you care for a cup of tea?" Mrs. Pollard had asked.
"Uh, just a glass of water, please," Johnny had said.
"Just water? Would you like some cordial for it?"
"Plain water's fine, thanks."
"Well, if you're sure..."
"Positive.")
Having made sure her guests were settled, Mrs. Pollard had chatted on for half an hour about her time on the flower committee ("Would you believe she tried to use lavender? And instead of yellow chrysanthemums, too! As if you could see lavender from the back of the church. Clearly inappropriate."), then had disappeared towards the back of the house to collect her photos from her time on the flower committee. Shortly thereafter, the sound of footsteps heralded her reappearance, triumphantly clutching a bundle of photographs. She sat back down in her chair and began to sort through them.
"Let me see, what have I got to start with. Oh, here we are. This is the reverend and Mrs. Scott - our committee leader, you know - in front of the first flowers for Easter. We really outdid ourselves that year, everyone agreed on that. Next year's seemed rather nothing in comparison, of course, but you have to expect these things... Ah, here's one of us all, standing in front of the main doors." She shuffled the photos together again and passed the top few over to Walt, who looked at them politely.
"When you're done looking at the photos, Walt, pass them across to Johnny," said Mrs. Pollard, and Johnny could feel himself tense as Walt dutifully handed one over to him. Johnny took it, and saw a younger Mrs. Pollard looking out of the photo at him, standing in a garden, while the man and the woman on either side of her made eye contact with each other over the top of her head.
"Are you both right for a drink?" asked Mrs. Pollard, interrupting his scrutiny of the photo.
Johnny glanced down at his glass carefully, but it remained thankfully free of dead bees.
"Yes, thank-you, ma'am," said Johnny with relief.
"I'm fine, thanks," said Walt.
"Who are these people in the photo with you?" Johnny asked, passing the photo back to Mrs. Pollard.
She paused for a moment, then said carefully, "My husband, and one of my old friends." She paused again, then added, "This is one of the last photos taken of him before he died. Car crash."
"I'm... sorry to hear that," said Johnny.
"Thank-you. It was a long time ago, I suppose."
An awkwardly burgeoning silence began to lengthen. Walt cleared his throat. "Was your friend on the flower committee with you?"
Mrs. Pollard looked up from the photo. "Yes, she was. Of course, she moved away shortly after he died, and things just weren't the same without her on the committee. That was why I resigned, you see. But would you believe that she's moving back here all these years later? We'd quite lost touch, or so I'd thought, but a few weeks ago I got a letter from her, letting me know she was coming back and asking if I wanted to renew our friendship, which of course I do. I am so looking forwards to our meeting."
* * *
"That was a bit awkward," said Walt, afterwards.
"At least there were no dead bees," said Johnny.
"Always a plus."
They walked the rest of the way to Johnny's car in silence, but as Johnny pulled his car keys out of his pocket, Walt said, "We got the lab results back on the poisoned dog."
"Then he was poisoned?"
"Fed meat laced with cyanide."
"So was it a targeted attack on Counsellor Emerson?"
"Honestly, we have no idea. We haven't had any more specific threats directed to him from anyone, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, and we can't afford to be wrong."
"And so you want to involve the local psychic."
"If he doesn't mind."
"Not at all. I'll meet you at the station."
* * *
The Counsellor's dog fitted awkwardly on the autopsy table, his legs poking stiffly over the edge. Johnny brushed his fingers over the dog's fur, and --
The dog is covered in bees. They spill off his fur and onto the stainless steel bench on which he lies. --
"Why bees again?"
Walt frowned. "You're seeing bees again?"
"The dog was covered in them."
"Could it be ... leftover from before?"
"I don't know." Johnny reached out again to touch the dog, and --
The dog is barking at a figure standing in the shadows by the gate. The figure unwraps an object and throws it over the fence; Johnny is just able to see that it's a hunk of meat before the dog tears into it. The figure watches as the dog collapses, then turns to leave, and as it passes under the lights, Johnny sees her face --
"It's Mrs. Pollard," said Johnny.
"Mrs. Pollard poisoned the dog?"
"Yes. But I don't know why."
"Guess we'd better go talk to her." Walt sighed. "Something tells me we're not going to get cake this visit."
* * *
"Did you boys forget something?" asked Mrs. Pollard when she opened her door and found them on the doorstep.
"No, ma'am," said Walt. "We're here to ask you a couple of questions about Counsellor Emerson's dog."
Mrs. Pollard held herself utterly still for a moment, then sighed. "I guess you'd better come in."
When they were seated once more for the day, she picked up the photo she'd been looking at earlier. "My husband Charlie, and my best friend Betty. Or at least she was, until I found out she was having an affair with my husband." She lifted her gaze from the photo and looked at them. "Do you have any idea how much that hurt? How betrayed I felt? My life had fallen apart, and it was because of the two people I trusted most of all.
"I said nothing about it for three months. I'd hoped, vainly, that they'd break it off, or at least say something about it to me. But they didn't. And then this photo was taken." She gestured with it angrily. "They weren't even bothering to hide it! Once I saw this photo, I knew they weren't going to even try to sort things out with me. So I decided to sort things out myself."
"You talked to them about it?" asked Walt.
"Oh no. I killed him." She smiled. "It was ingenious, really. We'd had a beehive in our eaves, and Charlie had bought some insecticide to kill the bees. Calcium cyanide, it was. There was some left over from that, so I took it. Of course, I couldn't just poison him with it. Far too obvious.
"I thought about it for three weeks, and then one afternoon I was cleaning out the car and I saw the cigarettes Charlie always kept there to smoke as he drove along and it came to me: the perfect way to do it. I'd dissolve the cyanide in some water and soak the cigarettes in the mixture, then dry them out and put them back - ready to give him a fatal dose the next time he lit up. Oh, they may have been a bit worse the wear for it, but he never paid much attention to his cigarette when he was driving, and he'd hardly be suspicious. And best of all, he'd be driving when he died, and the car crash would explain the body so neatly. It was perfect. And it worked. As far as everyone else was concerned, Charlie died in a car crash one dark wet night when he ran off the road and hit a tree. Why look for another explanation?
"Unfortunately, I still didn't have a way to deal with Betty. I'd used the last of the cyanide from the bees, and I didn't have a way to get rid of her body either. And then, while I was still planning things, she moved away. Clear to the other side of the country, that's all I knew. But I didn't give up. I bought some rat poison - they used cyanide to kill rats too, did you know? - and I've kept it, all these years. When I heard she was coming back, I was so excited. Finally, I could finish what I'd started. I must confess that I was a little worried that the rat poison would have lost its potency over the years, but I tried it out on that infernal barking dog down the road, and it still works a charm." She paused, reflectively. "But I suppose that's all over now."
"I'm afraid we can't let you kill someone, ma'am."
"Understandable, I suppose. Well. Just let me get my jacket and lock up, and I'll come along quietly."
* * *
There was a predictable flurry of excitement in the papers around the arrest of Mrs. Pollard: cyanide and betrayed wives made good copy, even without the lead-in of the dog poisoning.
Purdy took the outcome of Johnny's investigations calmly ("God works to bring justice to the world in many ways, Johnny. You have my thanks for your work, and, I am sure, the thanks of Mrs. Pollard's friend."). Johnny didn't know what Purdy was going to do about St. Matthew's quest for information on flower committees past, but he was quite content to leave that problem to someone else.
"I guess the Lord really does move in mysterious ways," said Walt, some days later, after things had quieted down and they were sitting on Johnny's couch and waiting for the game to begin. "Cake and an easy arrest. I wish more of my cases could be like this."
Johnny rolled his eyes at him good-naturedly. "Just drink your beer, Walt."
Final notes:
Author's notes: I had an absolute blast writing this! I've always wanted to write a murder mystery, but until now I could never manage it. I'm so happy with how it turned out, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it.
Many thanks to dzurlady, who betaed this and encouraged me. Thanks also to alvafan, who gave it a final lookover with new eyes before I posted, to thefourthvine, who encouraged me in my Yuletide madness, and to all the folks on the Yuletide IRC chat, who provided hours of entertainment as well as offering suggestions and clarifications.
Feedback: Feedback of all sorts is very welcome, from one word responses to analytical paragraphs to constructive criticism. You can leave it in the comments or via email: delurker at livejournal dot com.