Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3) Read Online Free Page B
Business. But then, there were a lot of rumors about Shay, including that he’d been in the CIA. Richie was one of the few people who knew the truth—he and Shay had been friends for years—but at times Shay’s eyes held such icy coldness that even Richie wondered if there weren’t parts of the story he didn’t know.
The one thing Richie was certain of, was that Shay was too damned smart to be doing hacking, or worse, for a living.
But right now, it was Shay’s hacking skills he needed. Shay would be able to find out things about Neda Fourman’s life that not even Homicide could learn. And if “call me Sandy” had anything to do with it, Shay would find that out as well.
o0o
That same morning, Rebecca went through her notes about Neda Fourman. The review confirmed that there was no reason for her and Sutter to have questioned Neda’s death as anything but natural. She was simply an old woman who’d had a heart attack.
Rebecca called her contacts in the Los Angeles Police Department to find out what she could about Betty Faroni’s death. There again, a heart attack, no question about it. They also had nothing on Sandor Geller.
Rebecca wondered if she really wanted to pursue this, or just drop it. On the one hand, she had no case. Despite what might or might not have happened in Los Angeles, Neda Fourman’s death appeared as natural as any elderly person’s with a heart condition. And for that matter, so did Betty Faroni’s.
But, what if Richie was right? There could be four old ladies all biting the dust a wee bit earlier than nature intended: not only Neda Fourman and Betty Faroni, but also the unnamed woman Richie simply referred to as “Betty’s girlfriend,” and, possibly, the woman with the funeral fit for a pauper last week.
Although she was probably wasting her time, Rebecca picked up the phone and got through to Geller’s secretary—a woman who sounded awfully cheerful for someone who worked around séances and, supposedly, the dead. Rebecca set up a meeting with Sandor Geller at 5 p.m. to discuss Neda Fourman who, at least, had once been her case.
At the appointed time, she went to his suite of offices in a Victorian-style house on Octavia Street near Vallejo. With its dark blue, purple and white gingerbread facade, a turret, and gabled windows, it looked like the perfect place to hold a séance.
The interior appeared to have been completely renovated. Despite the Victorian furniture and faux oil lamps, it was set up like an office suite. The young, teeth-achingly perky receptionist led her from the parlor/reception area through a long corridor. On the left she passed open double doors that looked in on a generous room with a sofa, comfortable chairs, a large round table, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with thick, serious-looking tomes. She wondered if Sandy held his group sessions there.
On the right, a row of offices gave insight to the size of Geller’s business. Answering phone calls, emails, and requests for private meetings and public appearances seemed to require a couple of people full time, plus a bookkeeper.
All this was quite amazing for someone who held public performances at what was essentially an old, run-down theater smaller than many high school auditoriums.
At the end of the hall, the receptionist had her enter Geller’s surprisingly sterile office, with a desk, and a small sitting area with a leather-covered sofa, chair, and coffee table. One modern painting filled with red and yellow lines and squares hung on a wall. As she took the chair by the sofa, the receptionist offered tea or coffee. She chose coffee.
Some ten minutes later, the doorknob turned, and Sandor Geller walked in. He was casually dressed in jeans and a blue pullover. She stood. As they introduced themselves, she saw he was older than he had appeared on stage where he wore make-up, with freshly washed and blow-dried hair that flopped youthfully about. Now, she could see age lines on his
The one thing Richie was certain of, was that Shay was too damned smart to be doing hacking, or worse, for a living.
But right now, it was Shay’s hacking skills he needed. Shay would be able to find out things about Neda Fourman’s life that not even Homicide could learn. And if “call me Sandy” had anything to do with it, Shay would find that out as well.
o0o
That same morning, Rebecca went through her notes about Neda Fourman. The review confirmed that there was no reason for her and Sutter to have questioned Neda’s death as anything but natural. She was simply an old woman who’d had a heart attack.
Rebecca called her contacts in the Los Angeles Police Department to find out what she could about Betty Faroni’s death. There again, a heart attack, no question about it. They also had nothing on Sandor Geller.
Rebecca wondered if she really wanted to pursue this, or just drop it. On the one hand, she had no case. Despite what might or might not have happened in Los Angeles, Neda Fourman’s death appeared as natural as any elderly person’s with a heart condition. And for that matter, so did Betty Faroni’s.
But, what if Richie was right? There could be four old ladies all biting the dust a wee bit earlier than nature intended: not only Neda Fourman and Betty Faroni, but also the unnamed woman Richie simply referred to as “Betty’s girlfriend,” and, possibly, the woman with the funeral fit for a pauper last week.
Although she was probably wasting her time, Rebecca picked up the phone and got through to Geller’s secretary—a woman who sounded awfully cheerful for someone who worked around séances and, supposedly, the dead. Rebecca set up a meeting with Sandor Geller at 5 p.m. to discuss Neda Fourman who, at least, had once been her case.
At the appointed time, she went to his suite of offices in a Victorian-style house on Octavia Street near Vallejo. With its dark blue, purple and white gingerbread facade, a turret, and gabled windows, it looked like the perfect place to hold a séance.
The interior appeared to have been completely renovated. Despite the Victorian furniture and faux oil lamps, it was set up like an office suite. The young, teeth-achingly perky receptionist led her from the parlor/reception area through a long corridor. On the left she passed open double doors that looked in on a generous room with a sofa, comfortable chairs, a large round table, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with thick, serious-looking tomes. She wondered if Sandy held his group sessions there.
On the right, a row of offices gave insight to the size of Geller’s business. Answering phone calls, emails, and requests for private meetings and public appearances seemed to require a couple of people full time, plus a bookkeeper.
All this was quite amazing for someone who held public performances at what was essentially an old, run-down theater smaller than many high school auditoriums.
At the end of the hall, the receptionist had her enter Geller’s surprisingly sterile office, with a desk, and a small sitting area with a leather-covered sofa, chair, and coffee table. One modern painting filled with red and yellow lines and squares hung on a wall. As she took the chair by the sofa, the receptionist offered tea or coffee. She chose coffee.
Some ten minutes later, the doorknob turned, and Sandor Geller walked in. He was casually dressed in jeans and a blue pullover. She stood. As they introduced themselves, she saw he was older than he had appeared on stage where he wore make-up, with freshly washed and blow-dried hair that flopped youthfully about. Now, she could see age lines on his
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