A Faire Day for Murder: A Psionic Corps Mystery

By Alan Scott

The brutal murder of an old man in his isolated farmhouse and very few clues leaves local law enforcement with no alternative but to ask the Psionic Corps for help. Ian Houston with his paranormal abilities is called in but his presence isn’t welcomed by all. The sheriff is convinced the owners of the nearby renaissance faire are behind the murder, especially since the victim was about to evict the faire from his land just as their season was getting underway.

Ian is not convinced the case is so straightforward, especially since there are other people with just as motive for doing away with the old man; the neighbor whom he has had a long-going property dispute, the son who will inherit his lands although the farm isn’t very profitable; one of the many participants and patrons of the faire whom the old man harassed over the years. To keep innocent people from being charged with murder, Ian must join the renaissance faire as a cast member to see if there is a murderer lurking among the ren folke.

Compounding his investigation is the beautiful actress Diana Morgan who instantly steals his heart. But as a cast member, she is also under suspicion and Ian discovers she may have a dark past, too.

A second murder confounds the investigation and the mystery becomes even more confused. Meanwhile the sheriff is moving closer to charging the renaissance faire owners with murder.

Can Ian use his powers to find the real culprit and prove his new-found friends innocent?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387717613

Book preview

Chapter 1

Saturday Night, March 30

The warm breeze wafted across the field, whispering over the darkened landscape. The chirping of crickets hidden in the tall weeds sounded musical in the peaceful night. The croaking of the frogs in the riverbed nearby joined in chorus with the crickets, creating a soothing, natural choir. Overhead, the stars glittered. Venus could have cast shadows that night if it wasn’t for the lone outdoor light on the utility pole. Standing on the front lawn of the farmhouse, it shone a bluish-white glow, casting a sickly, creepy pallor.

Nearer to the isolated abode, the songs of the night vanished under the volume of the television turned up so high that it drowned out any sound coming from the outside.

The doors and windows were open to the night. Tom Eskew sat in his favorite chair, so old and worn that the springs had long given way and offered no support for his wide derriere, which had become larger over the years. He struggled to raise his big, ancient body out of the chair but would rather die than ask his son or anyone else who might be nearby for assistance. It didn’t matter if it took him several minutes to get up; asking for help was a sign of weakness.

Screens in the thresholds and windowsills kept out unwanted pests and unexpected nocturnal creatures, allowing only the evening breeze through. Although it did not cool the house much, it was better than turning on the air conditioner. That cost money.

Tom sat close to the television, staring at it with rheumy eyes. Much easier to see and hear, but there was not much worth watching these days. Too much sex and too many half-naked kids on the screen. His son, John, had bought a cable package that included an all-Western station, but most of the time, he couldn’t remember the channel number. Even if he could recall it, he never figured out how to work the goddamned remote, and John wasn’t here to do it for him.

The phone sitting on the table next to the old man’s chair rang, barely audible above the noise of the television. Tom slammed a fist on the arm of the rickety chair in annoyance.

Right in the middle of Wheel of Fortune.

The old man picked it up and squinted at the numbers on the caller ID.

Another waste of money, he growled to himself. What’s the use of having this feature on the phone if I can’t even see it?

Hello! Tom barked into the receiver, his fleshy, bulldog-like jowls quivering as he spoke. It wasn’t a greeting as much as it was a challenge. What? he shouted as he tried to hear the caller over the TV.

It was John.

I said I ran off the road a few miles from the house, Dad!

What the hell did you do that for?

Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ve already called Sheriff Weaver, and he’s on his way! John went on without responding to the insult.

Tom berated his son, shouting questions and issuing threats if the truck John had been driving was damaged in any way.

I think it’s totaled, John replied.

Well, you’re gonna pay for it. I’m not buying another damn vehicle.

Deafened by the cacophony of his own voice and the television, Tom did not hear that the crickets had stopped chirping nor hear the screen door behind him open. He didn’t notice the shadowy figure that stepped through the threshold and into the living room behind his chair.

Shouting a final threat into the phone, Tom slammed the receiver back into its cradle. He sat back in his chair and glared back at the TV.

Commercials? What was that last puzzle? I was about to solve it, he thought sourly, throwing his hands up in disgust.

A shotgun blast pierced the din of the television and the back of Tom’s skull, splattering the TV screen with blood. The remainder of his head slumped forward against his chest.

The crickets waited until the dark visitor left the house and walked away before they resumed their nighttime song with the frogs and the breeze.

Chapter 2

Wednesday Morning, April 3

El Reno baked under an unusually warm April sun. White, puffy clouds dotted the pale blue sky, bringing little relief as the omnipresent wind pushed them across the sun. Summers came early to Oklahoma, but this one had arrived with a vengeance, bringing August-like temperatures to the Southwest.

Chief of Police Eugene Rivera called a meeting that morning, knowing it was necessary, although it would tax his patience. Murder was not unusual in El Reno, but the few instances that did occur were easily solved: domestic violence or bar fights getting out of hand. The killing of Tom Eskew defied all logic. No clues, no witnesses, no motive. It was as if the murderer appeared and disappeared with the hot breeze.

Perhaps it was a random killing. Perhaps a vagrant or someone set on doing evil happened upon the Eskew house, isolated and remote. John said they only locked the doors when they retired for the night.

With no leads in the case, Rivera decided he had no choice but to contact Senator Roger Hobbes, the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence Responsibilities and Activities. The committee’s tasks included assigning and dispatching the Psionic Corps, a group of men, one in each state of the Union, who possessed paranormal abilities such as telepathy and clairvoyance. Initially, law enforcement officers were reluctant to work with men with such arcane abilities, but the Psionic Corps soon proved its worth, solving impossible crimes like this one. Chief Rivera could’ve contacted Psionic Officer Ian Houston himself, but he preferred to get the committee’s backing. He hated to bring in the Psionic Corps so soon, but with the absence of any tangible clues, he realized he may have to start searching for the intangible.

Of course, as a matter of protocol, all of law enforcement had to be involved.

He stared at the other two men, one older and dour-faced and the other younger with the blank countenance of nonchalance. The older man, Canadian County Sherriff George Weaver, had just finished reporting his observations from the night of Tom Eskew’s murder. So far, the meeting had gone without a hitch, but it only started a few minutes ago.

Eugene sat in his short-sleeved uniform, but sweat formed under his arms and ran down his back and chest, creating wet spots on his shirt. The air conditioning in the headquarters struggled to keep up with the heat outside. He glanced down at the legal pad in front of him and recited the notes he had taken during Weaver’s report. Tom’s son, John, ran off the road a few miles from the house and called his dad. John then called you. He looked up at the sheriff, who nodded. And you arrived about ten minutes later.

Weaver nodded and took up the story. I waited with John until the wrecker showed up and then I took him back to the house. That’s when we found Thomas.

Rivera consulted a report in front of him. The autopsy report puts his death between 8:00 and 10:00 P.M. Since we have John’s statement that he spoke to his father right before his 911 call to you just after nine o’clock, we can place the murder between nine and ten o’clock.

Any motives for the killing? The third man at the table spoke up. Eugene glanced at the head of long, blond hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Psionic Officer Ian Houston had been listening without speaking since the meeting began. His silence and lowered eyelids might have given the casual observer the notion he was uninterested and not following the conversation, but the chief had worked with him long enough to know that Ian had soaked in every word.

Since the emergence of the Psionic Corps, crime rates had plummeted, satisfying everyone except the staunchest conservatives who mistrusted the arcane powers Ian and his colleagues wielded. They enjoyed immense popularity among the younger set and elected officials.

Most of them.

Tom’s billfold was missing and some valuables were taken, so robbery seems to be the alleged motive, Sheriff Weaver said in clipped tones.

Alleged? Ian looked up.

The pattern of the intrusion and attack seem to suggest that the robbery was a cover for the murder.

Rivera nodded. This isn’t a case of the victim catching a burglar in the act and then getting shot. We believe the intent was to kill Tom Eskew.

You’ve told me there were very little clues, Ian said. Why do you think this was premeditated?

Rivera glanced at Weaver, who rolled his eyes. The lack of clues suggests it was carefully planned, so the murderer was sure not to leave any incriminating evidence. Someone had it in for old Tom.

Ian shrugged. What about suspects?

Weaver flashed an angry glare at Rivera, who held up a hand to silence him.

According to John, their neighbor, Aaron Stein, had a long-standing feud with Tom over ownership of a small strip of land between their properties, the chief said while the sheriff squirmed in his chair.

That would preclude the motive of robbery, wouldn’t it? Ian kept his head lowered but raised his blazing, blue eyes to look at Weaver. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, his biceps bulging. If the expression wasn’t intimidating enough, his physique was. The white tank top he wore showed off his gymnast build.

If Weaver was threatened, he didn’t show it. Rather, he seemed to get even angrier.

And that may be Ian’s purpose, River thought sourly. These two had been at odds for years, never seeing eye to eye on any issue other than the color of the sky, and even then, they’d most likely argue about that. Weaver embodied the good ol’ boy persona with an ultraconservative constituency in a red state, which helped him get reelected and remain in office for almost twenty years. Ian was the antithesis of the sheriff. Where Ian was charismatic and outgoing, Weaver was dull and aloof.

We’re wasting our fucking time here! Weaver exploded. It was those fucking hippies that done it!

Ian looked at Rivera. Hippies?

Rivera sighed, showing his annoyance at Weaver’s outburst. The Oklahoma Renaissance Faire rents land from Tom Eskew, and there have been rumors that he had been threatening them with eviction.

Doesn’t sound like much of a motive, Ian stated flatly.

Tell him, the sheriff demanded of the chief while glaring at Ian.

We questioned Patrick and JoAnn Wallace, the owners of the faire. They admit that they went to see Tom Eskew Saturday night a few minutes before nine o’clock to talk about extending their lease to quiet the rumors. When they got there, they knocked on the door, but the TV was so loud, they don’t think that Tom ever heard them. After banging on the door several times and never getting an answer, they left.

Humph, the sheriff snorted in disgust. More like they snuck in and shot him.

Is there anything beyond that? Ian asked the chief, ignoring the sheriff. Has the faire site been searched? What did you find?

Nothing! The sheriff exploded again. But that doesn’t prove anything! They probably threw the billfold and the jewelry in the creeks somewhere. I know they did it! He turned a burning gaze on Ian. Isn’t that what you ‘psychics’ do? You just ‘know’ who did it? His tone mocked Ian.

Ian did not rise to the bait. Even we rely on cold, hard facts and evidence, he said without emotion. If you want proof against the faire, you’re going to have to find it.

"No. You are," the sheriff responded in a smug tone.

Ian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. What do you mean?

The sheriff sat back in his chair without speaking and smirked at Ian, who turned to the chief. Rivera looked down at his papers, avoiding Ian’s gaze.

What is he talking about, Gene? Ian leaned forward, sounding curious.

Still reluctant to speak, Rivera took a little longer than necessary to gather papers into a tidier stack. This was not how he envisioned breaking this news to him. We want you to get involved with the faire, he said, at last mustering the courage to look at Ian. We’d like you to become part of the cast and get to know everybody. As much as I hate to admit it— he gave the sheriff an icy glare, I agree with Weaver that the answer to this mystery lies with someone connected to the ORF. Although there are very few clues, this doesn’t seem to be a random act of violence. There’s an element of premeditation here.

Weaver snorted again. With that long hair of yours, you should fit right in with those weirdos. He crossed his arms across his chest, still looking smug and triumphant.

You want me to become a rennie? Ian asked incredulously, leaning forward.

It won’t be easy to get in there now since rehearsals have already started for the faire, Rivera continued, emboldened by the mild reaction from Ian. We think that you would be more successful than anyone else in either the police or sheriff’s departments. There are so many different aspects to the faire, such as the cast, staff, and vendors, that an official investigation would be counterproductive.

Probably all of them are murderers, the sheriff muttered.

I see. Guilty until proven innocent? Ian shot back, anger and annoyance flashing across his eyes. So this neighbor Aaron Stein has been completely cleared? There is absolutely no doubt at all that he’s innocent? He glanced back and forth between the two.

This time, Rivera didn’t feel uncomfortable. He fixed his stare on the sheriff.

Let him answer that.

I spoke to him, Weaver said. He was home all night, and his wife vouched for him. So, yeah. He’s not even considered a person of interest. But as for the faire people…killing a nice, old man in cold blood.

May I see the Wallaces’ statement? Ian asked.

Rivera handed the document to him and sat back. Goosebumps raised on his arms as a chill spread over his body. He glanced in the direction of the vent in the ceiling and wondered if the central air conditioning had just kicked into high gear.

Or maybe someone walking over my grave, he thought.

Rivera noted that Ian had more skin exposed than he did, but the psionic officer seemed oblivious to the sudden chill. He reached for his cup of coffee, resisting the urge to rub his arms.

This is interesting, Ian said after a few minutes. "They say in their statement that Tom Eskew wanted to talk to them about extending their lease? He looked at the sheriff. You said Eskew wanted to evict them."

Weaver exhaled in annoyance, his breath forming a white cloud in front of his mouth. Gene, goddammit! Now the fucking air conditioning is too cold. He spun back to Ian. That’s where you can catch them in a lie. John told me just the opposite. His father wanted to get rid of them! They’re lying! We all know it! They aren’t going to get away with it! Weaver continued his rant as he rose from the table and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Rivera and Ian looked at each other first in relief and then with laughter. The chief got up and checked the thermostat on the wall.

Don’t bother, Ian said. That was me, but I stopped.

Rivera whirled around. You were fucking with the temperature here? Why? I nearly froze my nuts off.

Ian waved a hand to the chair Sheriff Weaver had just vacated. I had to get rid of him somehow. He was getting on my nerves. The heat wasn’t working, so I had to switch gears. I had forgotten that cold-blooded animals like snakes prefer the heat.

Don’t use your power or whatever it is like that when I’m in the room again. Rivera didn’t sound convincing to himself.

Ian leaned forward with a smirk. Come August, you’ll be begging me for some cold temperatures.

Maybe so, but until then…. Rivera waggled a raised forefinger.

Ian chuckled and turned his attention to the papers in front of him.

Getting back to our meeting, overall, I thought it went pretty well, Chief Rivera said.

Why does the sheriff hate the renaissance faire so much? I know he’s a bit…. He let the sentence hang without ending it.

Prejudiced? Rivera put in when Ian paused. He raised his eyebrows with a sarcastic lilt to his voice.

Just a tad, maybe, Ian offered. Judgmental. Racist. Holier than thou. But in this case, he’s prejudging someone’s career. It must be a genetic flaw or something because he’s always been like that. He’s so ultraconservative, he won’t even let his jock strap support the left side.

Eww! Eugene contorted so violently his arms and legs curled and his face screwed up in extreme distaste. Don’t ever give me that visual again! It took a few seconds for him to calm down, and Ian’s laughter didn’t help. I’m not so sure it’s as simple as that, Eugene said when he could speak. That ‘nice, old man,’ he crooked the first two fingers of each hand in the air to make quotation marks, as the sheriff put it, had a reputation as a curmudgeon, stating it mildly, from the interviews with acquaintances. Not many would admit to calling him a friend. But he kept on the sheriff’s good side and vice versa.

Do you think Eskew had Weaver in his pocket?

It’s entirely possible, but I couldn’t tell you for certain. I don’t think Eskew had those kinds of funds. The chief picked up his cup of coffee and put it to his lips. He made a face when he discovered it was ice cold and set it away from him.

Ian leaned forward. After making eye contact with Rivera, he glanced at the coffee cup and then back up at the chief with raised eyebrows.

Oh, all right, the chief muttered. Just this once.

Ian reached across the table and touched the side of the chief’s Styrofoam cup. Rivera, in awe, watched as steam began to rise from the cup after a several seconds and bubbles rose to the top.

See? I can go both ways, Ian said with a wink and a smirk.

The chief choked on his drink and sputtered for a few seconds to clear his windpipe. Don’t say that again, either.

It could have been that Eskew felt he could influence local politics or tip the long arm of the law in his favor by snuggling up to an elected official, the chief said, continuing the earlier thought. But I don’t see Weaver letting just anybody sidle up to him like that without some sort of benefit.

Ian grimaced at the visual that formed in his mind. Why schmooze Weaver and not you?

Eugene’s look was disdainful. Hello? I’m Hispanic. I didn’t even register on Eskew’s radar.

Ah, yes, stupid question. Well, if it helps, you’re my favorite Hispanic police chief in Oklahoma.

"I’m the only Hispanic police chief in Oklahoma, dumbass!"

Ian nearly fell off his chair laughing, and even Rivera had to chuckle at Ian’s reaction, even if it was at his own expense. As the hilarity died down, the chief pushed a folder, thick with papers, in front of Ian.

What’s this? he said, wiping his eyes.

These are police reports and files of numerous tiffs between Eskew and the people connected with the faire over the past few years, ever since ORF moved onto his land.

Ian looked up at the chief. Wait a second. I remember where I’ve heard the name Eskew before. Wasn’t there a disappearance with that name about a year ago?

Yes. About a year ago, Ellen, Tom’s wife, went missing in the middle of the night. John said that she had been getting more and more forgetful. They were going to have her tested for Alzheimer’s disease, but she disappeared before they could. She’s never been found.

Why wasn’t I called in? Ian asked.

You don’t have to have your finger in everybody’s pie, Rivera said, hoping to defuse the young man’s anger. The glare he received in answer indicated he failed.

I do have faculties and resources that may have helped find her.

Rivera shrugged. I’m sorry, Ian. I don’t know why you weren’t contacted.

Ian waved off the apology, but the expression of annoyance remained. He tapped