Now, the real question was: Was Sandra’s murder a one-off? Or the start of something? And if it was the start, like Ferguson seemed to genuinely fear, given the news that more spiritoscopes existed, and maybe he was imagining a repeat of the Barnum curiosities strewn about the city… who was next on the killer’s list?
“Did Sandra have enemies?” I asked, hoping for some of the hot goss that Rose had refused to share.
Jazz shrugged. “I’m friendlier with Marie than Sandra. But I guess a lot of the other psychics in town didn’t love her.”
“Because she stole clients?”
“I don’t really know. I write receipts for other people’s dirty underwear for a living. I’m not exactly on the up-and-up with Hell’s Kitchen drama.” He flapped the collar of his shirt again. “Sandra had an argument with someone about a week ago. I was rolling down the security gate, so I didn’t really hear what they were saying, but it was pretty intense. They were standing in the open doorway, and then the person took off. Sandra slammed the door shut.”
“What’d the person look like?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Man? Woman?”
“Come on, dude. Maybe a man. Maybe a tall woman.”
“Did you tell Detective Radcliff about the fight?” I tried.
“Yeah. But I didn’t have much to tell him either. Just a disagreement, the other person stalked off, and Sandra never acted like there was a reason to be concerned.”
“Did anyone ever mention a spiritoscope to you?” I motioned with both hands. “About this big, made out of wood—”
Jazz interrupted, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No one ever does,” I said with a sigh.
“Hey,” he called one last time. “You’re married. Got any advice for me and Harmony?”
“Er… don’t compare her to a piece of artwork. She will misinterpret that in a very specific way.”
I left the Wash & Fold and trekked to the end of the block, where I ducked under the awning of a UPS drop-off for a bit of respite. I took out my cell, opened a text message at random, and tapped the keyboard absently while I thought, so no one would think I was stroking out from the heat as I took a minute to stare into space while gathering my thoughts. What did we—I—know so far?
Sandra Habel was murdered Monday, after neighboring businesses had closed for the evening. Her killer knew she’d be open in the later hours. Her killer had also purposely left the spiritoscope behind, which was taken into evidence by the police. Because of me, it’d been suggested that the antique was a message, possibly an indirect reference to Sandra’s moral compass. Sandra had been in business for a few years and was, for the most part, beloved by clients and despised by competition.
Mystifying Rose, aka Rosie D, aka whatever her real name was, was one of those in the community who felt slighted when Sandra moved in on already-claimed territory. Rose had left a series of negative reviews over the last week in an attempt to take Sandra’s business rating down a few notches. That would be the same weeksomeonehad a loud and public disagreement with Sandra. Was that fight the possible catalyst?
Marie Yang had found Sandra dead on Tuesday morning, most likely around eight o’clock, which was when Jazz said she came to clean the shop. And Marie, if that quote printed inThe Citywas anything to go by, had liked Sandra a great deal. That didn’t mean she wasn’t a suspect, though. Killing someone and then pretending to find the body was one of the oldest tricks in the book. I had no idea what Radcliff had initially made of her, but I knew how Calvin’s mind worked, and he’d want to ask her follow-up questions of his own, if he hadn’t already done so this morning.
What did this all boil down to?
Rose had motive.
Marie had means.
…And I needed provenance on that fucking spiritoscope—if it even existed.
I looked at who I’d been typing a very long gibberish message to and instead gave him a ring. “Good morning.”
“It’s one in the afternoon, try again,” Aubrey Grant said.
“Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“I’m on my lunch break.”
“I thought you had something else in your mouth.”
“I wish,” Aubrey said, sounding a touch forlorn. “Is this important?”
