Wicked Deeds. Heather Graham

I think that some person or persons unknown set up Mr. Verne. I think that he was struck on the head with some blunt object. He was somehow spirited down to the cellar of that club, and wine and other substances were forced into him. Will I say this yet for the record? No. Yes, the man might have fallen, gotten up, stumbled in—and drank a ton of wine or whatever. His wife might have pinched his face. He might have pinched his own face shaving. I will not go on record yet. But neither would I have you waste your time assuming this to be the man’s own downfall or an accident. I suggest you begin your hunt for a killer now, gentlemen. And I believe, as in all such cases, the sooner one suspects the worse and seeks the truth, the better. Mrs. Monica Verne is no fool—her husband was murdered.”

      * * *

      Vickie waited outside the morgue for Griffin. She could have gone in; she chose not to do so. For one, Poe didn’t want to go in. She explained to him that there was a reception area that was corpse-free at most times, but he wasn’t interested.

      For a ghost, he was pretty squeamish.

      “Thankfully,” he told her, “there is something about the body and the tragedy of the decay that befalls us all. Rot is not, nor never has been appealing, as well I should know, since I have a talent for description of all that is foul and ghoulish in the extreme. That one can find the words to create the tremendous discomfort and fear to be found in such sadness does not mean that one enjoys...rot!”

      And so they stood outside on the sidewalk.

      At length, Griffin appeared, exiting the building with Detective Carl Morris. Morris noted her first, pointing her out to Griffin.

      Griffin surely saw Poe at her side, but he barely batted an eye.

      Griffin was skilled at seeing the dead—and not appearing as though anything strange was going on.

      “Why, Vickie!” Morris said, smiling as he approached her. “There is a cool and comfortable vestibule, though I had thought—since you are about to enter the academy—you might have chosen to join us within.”

      Vickie didn’t reply to his words but rather smiled and asked, “Did you learn anything?”

      “Well, we learned that our illustrious ME believes that the man was murdered. He’s waiting on test results to discover just what caused the death,” Griffin offered. He kept from looking at Poe. “He was apparently struck on the head with a hard, blunt object.”

      “And forced to drink,” Morris added. “Only tests will explain exactly what caused the damage to his organs,” he added, “and they’ll let us know what they discover.”

      “He was somehow brought downstairs to the wine cellar of the restaurant—as we, of course, suspected. There—or perhaps to get him there—he was struck on the head. A good, hard blow. It might have rendered him temporarily unconscious. Wine—and possibly other substances—were forced into him. We saw the bruises on the cheeks that suggest his mouth was forced open. As far as poison or some other deadly substance being forced into him, yes, the tests will tell,” Griffin said.

      “Dear God—too much like my own wretched demise!” Poe said. He looked at Griffin, a strange expression on his face. His words had been dark, but there was almost a smile on his face. He was testing and teasing Griffin—and her!

      Griffin didn’t react.

      The ghost was completely aware that Griffin saw him.

      And aware, too, that Morris did not.

      Beyond a doubt, something of the mischief maker had certainly remained with the soul of the man.

      “Well, Franklin Verne was dearly beloved by many—and therefore had hidden enemies somewhere,” Morris said. “I’m going to the office. We’ll be speaking with Monica Verne and looking into Franklin Verne’s known associates. And you?” he asked Griffin.

      “I think we’ll return to the restaurant,” Griffin said.

      “It’s closed until tomorrow,” Morris said. “I’m studying the architect’s old layout for the building, trying to decide if there was any other way in. I may be sending crime-scene techs back in.”

      “Of course. I’d like to look around now, if you don’t mind,” Griffin said.

      “Not at all. I don’t give a damn who solves this—I just want it solved,” Morris assured him.

      “My sentiments exactly, sir,” Griffin said.

      Morris made a saluting movement with his hat. “We’ll keep in close contact,” he said, and then he left.

      Griffin turned immediately to their ghost once Morris was out of earshot. “Mr. Poe. A pleasure,” he said. “I am a tremendous fan of your work.”

      “Intelligent lad,” Poe informed Vickie. “FBI!” he continued. “Such an institution did not exist in my day. People were not fond of the federal government being in their business, you know.”

      “Nor are they today,” Griffin assured him, “but then, there are times when the abilities of a far-reaching body to coordinate with offices everywhere is often beneficial. The world is easily traveled these days—the worst criminals can quickly hop from state to state.”

      “Yes, yes, of course, I have been observing. Enough about the rest of the world. Let’s move back to dear Mr. Franklin Verne. You must prove that he didn’t go to that cellar and drink himself silly. You do have a plan, of course?”

      “I do, yes,” Griffin told him.

      “I shall help in any way I can.”

      “Help would be most greatly appreciated. So to begin, what is your concern here? Do you know anything of what happened?”

      “Do I know the killer?” Poe asked Griffin.

      “Yes.”

      “Don’t be daft, man!” Poe said, irritated. “If I knew, do you not think I’d have shared such information by now?”

      Vickie hid her smile. Griffin looked downward for a minute.

      The ghost had gotten him.

      He looked up. “We are heading back to the restaurant.”

      “Fine. I shall, when appropriate, tell you what I know of the people there.”

      “You do know them, then?” Vickie asked him.

      “Know them? Ah, to know one infers that there has been an actual volley of information, affection and ideas. Know? I know what one can from observation of people,” Poe said. He seemed to puff up a bit. “After all, they are part of a Poe society. Naturally, I find the members intriguing, and, of course—with all humility—I cannot help but admire their taste in the subject matter they choose to honor!”

      “With all humility!” Griffin said to Vickie, but he was smiling, and she knew that he was fascinated—delighted that they had actually been able to meet the ghost of the poet and author.

      “Touché!” Poe said softly. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bit of detective work I’d like to be doing on my own. I trust that you two will be avidly pursuing leads, and when we meet again, an exchange of information will help build the bridge to the truth!”

      Poe turned and walked away. They seemed to see him...

      And then they did not.

      He had moved on.

      “Where to now?” Vickie asked Griffin.

      “Back to the scene of the crime,” he told her. “Where’s the car?”

      Vickie led the way. Griffin was thoughtful. He glanced at her as they reached the car, and he smiled again.

      “You’re driving? I’m driving?”

      “Whichever. Here, you drive. You know Baltimore better than I do—and the way to the Black Bird.” Vickie