Wicked Deeds

“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 tossed him the keys; he caught them deftly. They got in. For a moment, he paused.

“Poe!” he said.

She smiled. It wasn’t that often that she saw Griffin impressed.

“Poe,” she agreed. She hesitated. “It’s great—and it’s sad, too, really.”

“What’s sad?” Griffin asked, pulling out onto the street.

“Well, he had a hard life. His parents died. His foster mother loved him, but died. He argued with his foster father, who didn’t support him through college. He fell in love and the girl’s father hid his letters. He fell in love again, and his bride died. And then, as far as his own death went...no one really knows. And now...he’s still running around, haunting Baltimore,” Vickie said.

“Many times, life can be sad. And sometimes, it’s as they say—life is what we make it. Poe was incredibly talented. He did have an ego the size of Texas. He argued with people. He was a drunk.”

“Not as bad as his biographers might have made him out to be, Griffin!”

“Hey, I agree he was talented, and I think it’s great he’s helping on this,” Griffin told her. “But there was something dark about him—he did provoke a lot of his enemies. And there you go—there’s your next project. A book on Poe—in his defense.”

Vickie thought about that. “I’m not so sure I can do the research the way it should be done while I’m in the academy. But...yeah! You’re right.” She laughed. “And now I have insight.” She fell silent, hoping that they were able to find the truth—and that in doing so, they might, in a way, help the long-dead author as well.

Griffin pulled into the parking lot for the Black Bird.

“Showtime!” he said softly.

“Showtime?”

“Well, I would bet that we’re going to discover that Franklin Verne was killed by someone who knew him well.” His expression was grim as he looked toward the restaurant. “I believe he was killed by a friend, the worst kind of betrayal. And perhaps...”

“Perhaps it was the same with Edgar Allan Poe as well.”

4 (#u4c1cea3e-c0dc-5289-b0af-5bb3f1177773)

The officer nodded to Vickie and Griffin and opened the door for them to enter. The restaurant was closed that day out of respect for Franklin Verne, and because it was an active crime scene.

While the restaurant was shut, Gary and Alice Frampton and Lacey Shaw from the gift shop had still come in.

Gary, a man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair, a medium build and an easygoing manner, was sitting at a table near the bar, frowning as he read the paper.

Alice was drying glasses behind the bar, inspecting them for spots.

Lacey was opening boxes. They were filled with little bobblehead statues of Poe and little ravens.

The same as the little raven Franklin Verne had been holding when he’d died.

But of course, no one knew that but the crime-scene technicians, the ME, Detective Carl Morris—and whomever he had shared with at the BPD—and Griffin and Vickie. Lacey Shaw certainly had no way of knowing that Franklin Verne had been holding one of the little bird models.

Unless, of course, she had killed him.

Lacey, along with Alice and Gary, looked up and ceased their activities when Griffin and Vickie arrived.

“Hey!” Alice said, seeming relieved that they were there.

“Hey, how are you all doing?” Griffin asked.

“Handling the situation the best we can,” Gary said, his mouth a grim, glum line as he finished speaking.

“Sad, sad, so sad!” Lacey said. Then she pointed to the TV screens above the bar and groaned. “Have you seen this yet?” A reporter was interviewing Monica Verne.

Alice hit a button on a remote control; the volume increased. Monica was an excellent subject for the TV news. She was bereft, and she was passionate, promising that she’d pay for any information leading to the truth behind her husband’s death, and vowing that she would get to the bottom of the situation. Her husband’s murder would not go without justice.

The reporter suggested that there had been no murder, that Franklin Verne might have fallen back into his old ways.

That brought another flurry of passionate denial from Monica. So much so that the reporter turned red and took a step back.

The bar phone rang shrilly, making everyone there jump.

“Don’t answer it!” Gary Frampton groaned. “It’s another kook.” He looked at Griffin and Vickie and sighed as if with great exhaustion. “We reopen tomorrow. Staying closed today as the police asked, but we’re already booked solid for tomorrow, from the first seating until midnight. I don’t get it. I wanted Franklin Verne’s patronage—I sure as hell never wanted him to die here! Now the phone rings off the hook already! And half the calls are from mediums, certain that they can contact Franklin Verne and that when they do, they’ll solve the mystery of his murder.”