Archive of Our Own

Rouge

Author: G. Waldo
Rating: Case-fic’. Light angst. Light humour. Pairing: Jane/Lisbon friendship-fury
Characters: Jane/Lisbon friendship; Jane/Cho - light (According to CBI office protocol).
Summary: Jane, tea and little old ladies. Jane solves a murder that no one thinks is a murder. This will be an episodic, shorter fic’ than you are used to seeing from me.
Disclaimer: Not mine though I wish he was.

CBI

“Why do you want to go?” Lisbon asked Patrick Jane, her blonde and most persistently evasive employee. “This is my grandmother’s second husband who’s died. A hunting fishing man you wouldn’t give a passing glance. And you don’t even know my grandmother, you only know me.”

Jane said, looking insulted. “Well, it’s no ulterior motive if that’s what you’re thinking. Can’t I show my respects, you know, give a friend support in a time of need?”

Lisbon narrowed her eyes. “Thanks, Jane, but I think it would be a little awkward. My grandmother doesn’t like strangers.”

Jane’s shrewd aqua-coloured eyes searched her face. He could sniff out a lie from a hundred miles away. “I find that hard to believe, Lisbon, because if she’s anything like you and I think she must have passed some of your most tenacious qualities down to you through your mother, she’s fine with strangers. You talk to strangers every day, brow-beat them even - occasionally shoot them.”

Lisbon tried a different tack. “You’re playing me, Jane, there’s some reason you want to attend my grandfather’s funeral beyond friendship and, by the way, give me a break.” It came to her and she saw through him, glad that after four years working with the uncanny mentalist, she could sometimes do that. “Did you overhear me talking to Tommy?” At his silence Lisbon knew she’s stumbled onto the truth. “You did, didn’t you?”

Jane shrugged in his best physical representation of an apology. “It was an accident.”

“Well, Tommy may look like a grown-up but inside he’s still a child. He sees conspiracy everywhere – he watches film noir for god’s sake, and what’s more - he’s wrong. My grandfather was eighty-nine years old.”

“Was he sick?”

The question was a little impertinent, though not unexpected from Jane. “No-o, but he was old and his health has been failing for a while.”

“How long, failing?”

Lisbon shook her head, stacking papers on her desk, clearing it away for the long weekend. From experience Lisbon could see where this was going. “Jane, we’re not doing this. I’m sorry if the business of murder has been slow for you lately, I for one love that no one’s been shot or stabbed this week, but my grandfather was not shot or stabbed or poisoned, I don’t care what ridiculous ideas Tommy comes up with or that you, unfortunately, overheard.” Lisbon gathered up her coat and keys. “Now I am leaving for my grandfather’s funeral –alone. You are staying here. Have a nice weekend.”

The picture of calm, Jane watched her go. He waited four minutes and slipped down the side stairs to the parking lot, almost bowling over two people ascending. “Sorry, sorry.” He called over his shoulder.

Keeping to the late afternoon shadows of the palm trees that were planted in rows next to the desert stone-coloured bricks of the CBI building, Jane watched Lisbon climb into her vehicle. She started it up and steered her SUV toward the busy road, leaving the parking lot. Jane got into his silver French Citroen and followed, keeping well back in traffic. His car did not exactly blend in.

During the hour long drive to Lisbon’s grandmother’s house, Jane contemplated several possibilities. Poison - out of the ideas rolling over in his persistently restless mind, poison was the most likely. Yes, he decided, the old man was probably poisoned.

CBI

Teresa Lisbon took a moment to pull her hair into a pony-tail before exiting the car. Her grandmother’s house was a modern two-story crowded with rose bushes and greenery. A stone walkway lead to a roomy veranda outfitted with a table and a cushioned two-seater swing. Fake flowers adorned a small round table for drinks and what-not. A glass receptacle, scrubbed clean, sat waiting for her husband’s cigar ashes that would no longer fall.

Inside Lisbon could hear voices and the clinking of glasses. She had planned to come for only the afternoon but her grandmother, Elizabeth Teresa St-Pierre, had insisted on her staying the night and possibly two.

Lisbon was about to ring the doorbell when the door opened and she was greeted by Elizabeth herself. “Teresa.” She reached out and drew her into a length hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

Lisbon smiled. Elizabeth looked just the same, only older. But she was woman who had retained her razor thinness right into her late seventies, though her hair, about which she had always been rather vain, had thinned and turned white. Still she kept it piled on top of her head in a meticulous do’.

Elizabeth looked passed her granddaughter and said “And who’s this?” She looked at Teresa, “Don’t tell me you’ve finally landed one?”

Lisbon looked around to see what in the world her grandmother was talking about only to see Jane bounce up the stairs and extend his hand to the elderly lady before him. “Patrick Jane, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Misses St. Pierre.”

Lisbon set her lip to hide grinding teeth while Jane smiled at her pleasantly.

Elizabeth smiled warmly at him and turned to Lisbon. “Teresa, you’ve been keeping secrets.” She leaned in and, much to Jane’s amusement, whispered. “Oh, he’s cute - good for you.”

Lisbon shook her head vigorously. “No, no, grandma’, I –he –we’re not together. He just works for me.” Lisbon turned to Jane. “And he’s only here to give me a message,” She said her voice dropping a deadly tone, “aren’t you, Jane?” She said to Elizabeth. “He won’t be staying.”

But Elizabeth stepped over to him and, wrapping her arm though his, scolded “Nonsense! Teresa - where are your manners? Come with me, Patrick, and please call me Beth.”

Jane was lead inside and Lisbon followed, closing the door with a solid bang that turned a few heads.

Elizabeth ignored her granddaughter’s inexplicable show of temper and took Jane over to a group of her lady friends. Lisbon heard her introducing Jane all around. “And this,” She announced to them, “is my granddaughter Teresa’s employee Mister Patrick Jane. Mister Jane, may I introduce Celia and Ann, Rachel and her husband John and my own sister-in-law Eliza-Marie St. Pierre.” Lisbon overheard Elizabeth saying to one of them “She’s not even dating him – can you believe it!?” And, as though her granddaughter’s hour-glass was down to its last few grits of sand, she added “But that’s my Teresa, I’m losing hope that she’ll ever get married.”

Ever-so-often Jane would look over to Lisbon, smile and shrug as though he couldn’t help being adorable.

Eliza shook his hand, her colourfully made-up face smiling sweetly out from behind glasses so thick they made her eyes appear as large as china saucers. “You know, my own room-mate died just a year ago. Isn’t that a weird coincidence, Mister Jane?”

“Dying a year apart?” Jane said, nodding. “Yes, very strange indeed.”

Eliza twittered at this young, good-looking man who worked with her sister-in-law’s daughter. “Having two detective’s in the house at the same time.” She said. “How exciting, even if it is during a funeral for poor Harold.”

“You were close?” Jane asked.

“Oh, yes, but we hardly ever saw each other. I had my life and he had his you know. Plus I travelled a lot. That’s why I had a room-mate, a house-mate really. Margaret stayed and looked after the dogs while I went to Europe and Asia twice a year. Harold was always so good to me – sending me money whenever I needed it. And I sent them gifts all the time. I crochet you know and I’ve made Harold lace covers for his cigar box collection. Over fifty of them so far.”

Beth smiled indulgently. “But you slacked off the last year or so, Eliza, not that it matters to Harold anymore. He’s smoked his last cigar.”

Jane could imagine the snorting reaction of a masculine, cigar smoking, hunting, shooting, fishing type bulk of a man opening a gift box to find a feminine lacy thing inside made to fit one of his prized collector’s cigar boxes. Jane could also imagine a seldom opened drawer somewhere in the house filled to the screws with them, not one of the delicate doily-like creations actually having been put to its creator’s intended use.

Lisbon said perfunctory hello’s to her grandmother’s assortment of friends and relations whose names she hardly remembered and waited for her grandmother to release Jane from her widow’s iron grip.

When Beth was distracted with more arriving guests, Lisbon grabbed his arm and non-too-delicately dragged him into a private corner of the spacious living room crowded with expensive Victorian furniture. “I want you to leave. Right now.”

Jane looked offended. “I can’t leave, Lisbon, I’m hungry and Elizabeth promised me a cup of tea and cookies. Besides it would be rude.”

Anger percolating beneath the surface - “I don’t care!” Lisbon realised her voice was beginning to carry and dropped it to a whisper, dragging him again, this time through an ornately carved swinging door into the kitchen. It was deserted but for a very fat woman wearing an apron, evidently the cook that had been hired to cater the funeral, setting out food dainties on several massive stone-ware trays. Lisbon snarled “I didn’t invite you.”

Jane realised it was time for some damage control. “Take it easy, Lisbon, I promise to behave, besides since I’m not on the market I want to see what distant cousins your grandmother’s invited to marry you off to.”

Lisbon said. “Jane, my grandmother’s been trying to marry me off since I was twelve. If I was in the market for a man, it would not be you or a cousin or – or...” She stopped, coming to a decision, and with two hands physically waved away the entire conversation. “You know what, never mind. Fine, stay, be a pain in the ass if you must but just so you know - I’m going to ignore you the whole time.”

Lisbon stormed off and Jane said to the cook who had been listening but trying not to appear that she was listening. “She’s in mourning, angry, turning on those closest to her - you know how it is.”

CBI

Food was served inside and on the veranda to where many folding chairs found their way, Jane doing his part. Beth worked side by side with her granddaughter’s good-looking Patrick, endlessly chatting him up about Teresa’s childhood adventures and foibles.

“She was a stubborn girl, but we all knew she was meant for something special. I for one had hoped she’d become someone who did not carry a gun and shoot people but that’s my Teresa.” Regarding her granddaughter it was evidently her favourite saying.

Jane sat down on the chair Beth offered and accepted some tea in a delicate cup belonging to an old, expensive looking tea service.

“Sugar?” She asked, holding out the bowl. “Or honey?”

Jane was enjoying being spoilt. “Honey would be lovely, thank you.”

Beth sat down, easing the burden after having been on her feet since dawn. “My mother would have approved of you, Patrick; such fine manners in a man of this generation.”

Jane decided not to enlighten her about his colourful past and steered the conversation away from him and onto matters of which he was far more curious. “How long were you married to your late husband?”

“Oh – thirty-two good years. My first husband died in France in nineteen-forty-four. He was a good man but so set on going to Europe that I couldn’t talk him out of it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, thank-you dear but we hardly knew each other when we got married. That’s how it often happened in those days. But Harold, my second husband, that’s who you asked about didn’t you? He was a wonderful man, Patrick, and so good to me. We travelled and did everything together – and he was rich. Very well off. He had made his, as he would say - investments long before we met.”

“Where is the funeral happening?” Jane hoped he could weasel his way into an invite to the grave-side.

“Oh we’re having it here. Harold is on view in the master bedroom.”

Jane had not expected that. The tea was delicious and Jane sipped quietly for a moment, unsure how to ask the next series of questions. “Was he ill long?”

“Not a day in his life. We were finishing breakfast, and by we I mean my sister-in-law and myself – Harold didn’t eat a large breakfast; said it dulled the mind but Eliza and I were raised in London until we were ten and there large breakfasts are the way. It’s amazing isn’t it? This will be first time Eliza – Harold’s only sister - and I have spent any time together in nearly thirty years. She’s the only family I have left. And we only live two hours apart. Life can be funny that way I suppose.”

Jane glanced at Beth’s stick arms and legs and concluded that she was one of the few women in the world lucky enough to have been born with a race-car metabolism. Her rotund sister-in-law Eliza had not been so graced. “If it’s not being rude, may I ask how he died?”

Beth poured them each out more tea. “Oh I don’t mind, you do work with Teresa after all, and that’s what you people do –solve crimes. Though this is of course not a crime, no, Harold just didn’t wake up one morning. Heart, the doctor said.”

“So there was an autopsy?”

“No, no, Harold was eighty-nine years old. The coroner saw no need of it. Said his heart had probably been slowly failing for some time, and one day - just like that – it went.”

It was not unusual for an elderly person’s death to be chalked up to “organ failure”. It was an easy explanation and one often used by the County to avoid spending county-money on what might turn out to be a natural death.

For the time being, Beth shook off talk of Harold and scooted her chair closer to Teresa’s good-looking young man. “Now I want to hear all about you. Since you and my granddaughter are not involved – and unfortunate is all I can say about that – I want to know who you are seeing, and don’t be embarrassed about it either. A good looking young man like you must have some sweet thing waiting for him somewhere - I’m sure of it. Besides there’s not much fun left in the life of a woman my age so you must be a dear and allow an old lady her nosiness and bits of gossip.”

Jane didn’t think it prudent to let on that the only person he had been seeing or, rather, hunting of late was a killer. “I am seeing someone, sort of, it’s not serious.” Jane was aware he possessed a smile that could charm the pants off of nearly anyone but refrained from using it here. It didn’t feel right, lying to Beth about it, though he could not explain why. Instead he smiled into his cup, to himself really, if no one else, but allowing that much freedom of feeling left him anxious. He simply wasn’t sure how far Red John’s “generosity”, as the killer had termed it, would go.

But Beth saw the warmth in his eyes and nodded. “Ah, I thought so. Who is she? I hope she’s smart and not one of these ridiculous young women who think only about hair and clothes. Now I know you’re too smart to fall for that stuff.”

“We really a-aren’t together. Not really. It’s...difficult.”

Beth was taken aback. “But why on earth not?” She all but gasped. “You’re young, good-looking and a brain. I’m the first to admit that love can be a trial but if it’s going to amount to anything at all, Patrick, it must begin by being serious.”

Jane smiled. “I admire your attitude.” He unconsciously twisted the ring on his left hand with nervous fingers. Any time when talk turned to his love-life or lack there-of, he started feeling uncomfortable.

Beth saw the ring. “You’re not already married? An affair, Patrick? Is that why - Oh!” She grabbed his arm ferociously in a sudden flash of motherly understanding. “It’s a divorce isn’t it? I’m so sorry, Patrick, I should not have asked such a personal question.”

Jane shook his head. “No, no, it’s fine, I’m not married. Not anymore. We – it was - she died.” Jane, as much as he did not like talking about his dead family, saw it as an excellent way to gather Beth’s sympathies, and therefore her willingness to give him the license he might require to delve into the death of her second husband. “We had a daughter, Charlotte. She was killed too.”

Beth all but wept, taking his hand in hers. “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear Patrick. How did it happen? Was it a car accident?”

Once she knew, he would have her eating out of his poor, sad widower’s hand. “They were murdered.”

Beth covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, that’s terrible. You poor thing.”

“It’s why I started working for Lis - your granddaughter.” Jane was used to feigning woe when necessary to get what he wanted during an investigation but the problem with using his murdered family as a game piece was it often stirred up feelings of real grief. He could sense the old, cobwebbed sorrow bubbling up and stood up suddenly, abandoning his tea. He looked down with watering eyes at the grand old woman sitting there with a kerchief to the corner of her eye, her expression dripping rivers of empathy. “Excuse me, Elizabeth, I-I’m – thank-you for the tea. I – um, excuse me...”

“Of course – I’m so sorry dear Patrick.” Beth watched him walk into the house, used to the male gender that often had difficulty showing their emotions. The decades went by but men never changed. Beth gathered up her lace kerchief and hurried off to secretly share the sad, macabre story with her girlfriends.

Jane made good his escape, asking for directions to the washroom on the second level. Once he had himself under control again, he wandered into the master bedroom where old Harold was laid out for viewing, a custom, thanks to Red John and his knife, that Jane had not been able to grant his dead wife and daughter.

Jane leaned over the casket, judging that in his youth Harold had been a large boned but good-looking man. Jane sniffed and noticed the antiseptic smell of chemically treated satin and wood oil, but those were both overpowered by the deodorizing spray Beth must have used on her late husband. Most mortuaries used a neutralizing spray or powder to absorb the unpleasant stink of formaldehyde. Perhaps they had, but Beth had neutralized it with her own version of odour-control. Harold stunk of citrus and vanilla.

“Hey.”

Jane turned to see Lisbon leaning against the door jamb.

“Hey.” He replied in same, not in the mood to provoke her.

Lisbon did not appear in the frame of mind to argue either. “Grandma’s taken a shine to you. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Jane wasn’t sure if that was compliment or not. “Beth said he wasn’t sick a day in his life.”

Lisbon shrugged. “So? Athletic people drop dead on basketball and tennis courts every year.”

“But in those cases there are autopsies. In Harold’s case, there wasn’t and there should have been.”

“Why? Because Tommy thought so?” Lisbon asked. “He goes to the emergency when he has hang-nail.”

Jane frowned. “You don’t like your brother much do you? I mean you don’t approve of him.”

Lisbon stepped into the room. “I love Tommy, but like you he sees conspiracies everywhere.”

“I feel for him. It must be hard working under the shadow of Sister Dragnet. And I only see conspiracies when they’re there to be seen. I’m not looking for a murder under the rugs, Lisbon, but one has happened here just the same.”

Lisbon was tired of asking the question. “Why? And I mean why other than the fact that he’s dead.”

“Experience, the human condition, human greed, maybe instinct - take your pick.”

“What do you mean greed?”

Jane looked at her, leaving his viewing of dead Harold for the moment. “Harold was rich. Now he’s dead, and that means a large financial legacy waiting to be had.”

“Well, if you think my grandmother is guilty because she gets it all, that’s where you’re wrong. She gets one third of what-ever there is. The rest goes to Harold’s sister and his nephew.”

Jane had planned on getting around to discussing the money with Beth but now he didn’t need to. “Thank you, Lisbon, I was wondering about it. Your grandmother tells you everything?”

“Most things, but mostly how to get married.” She shared the humour of it with Jane by lifting one corner of her mouth.

“Well don’t worry about her trying to pair us off, I told her I was already involved with someone.”

Lisbon was surprised to hear it. “I thought you had sworn off ....I mean, you seem so casual about... relationships.”

Jane wandered around the room, lifting this and sniffing that, an ashtray, some real pink roses, a small photo album. He flipped through it, skimming over old family photographs. Most were in black and white, from the nineteen-forties and fifties. A visual record of Harold St. Pierre and his siblings. Eliza had been a skinny thing as a young woman. And Harold had been, as Jane had surmised, quite dashing. “I have.” He said, referring back to relationships. “But, no, never casual,. It, no, nothing right now” He could afford nothing else.

Lisbon was curious about it. Jane in an actual relationship? She couldn't see it. Romantically Jane was...with his obsessions and single-minded focus on revenge...a risk. “But you’re not, I mean...” She had no idea how to ask it

“Am I "in love" with anyone? No.” Jane turned and looked at her. “Do you really want to have this discussion now? We’re trying to find a murderer.”

Lisbon dropped it and took up the other thing she did not want to talk about. “I’m not looking for a murderer, and you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“I’m not barking yet nor have I even found the right tree but when I do, you’re going to change your tune.”

“Wanna’ bet?”

Jane thrust his hands in his suite pockets. “Always a bad idea when you’re betting against a con man.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

Jane smiled at the challenge and pointed an accusing finger at her. “Stop trying to goad me.”

“Fifty bucks says you’re wrong.”

Jane shook the idea off. “No, and especially not for money, that would be too crude. You know I don’t care about money.”

It was true enough. She crossed her arms “Okay, name your bet then, if you’re not afraid.”

Jane thought it over. Lisbon was wrong. He was certain Harold had been murdered, but if by some miracle she was right, what could he offer her that she did not already have or visa-versa?

“Truth.” He said. “We wager for truth. If I win, you tell me something about me, something that you have never told me or anyone else. And it has to be true, plus you have to say it in front of everyone else.”

“And if I win?”

“I’ll do the same. Don’t worry, even though I have dozens of hilarious stories I could reveal, I won’t say anything embarrassing about you when I win. Deal?”

He was so damn cocky. “Deal.” She said, smiling. This was one where Jane would not come out on top.

Lisbon left him and Jane slipped into the guest bedrooms. There were three and, taking into consideration the hair curlers, the large pink-coloured face powder sitting open on the dresser, an extra-large brazier hanging off one chair, the two flowery wrapped gift-boxes not yet handed out to, he assumed, the host and her nephew, and the smell of rose oil, the room he was in was clearly being occupied by the visiting sister-in-law Eliza.

Of the other two rooms one was occupied by a man. Black socks lay on the floor and a man’s grey trousers were draped over the foot of the bed. A black suitcase made of imitation leather sat on the floor. This was the nephew David’s room for the night.

In the third room the bed was neatly made and the room smelled of fresh pine cleaner. Fresh cut carnations adorned the very female make-up dresser. This was where Lisbon would be sleeping.

Jane wasn’t certain how, or where, he was going to spend the night but if Beth did not invite him to sleep on one of her several comfortable looking couches, he would find a hotel. Grave-side was late tomorrow and he had until then to solve this murder. After all, there was his reputation with his boss, and a very important wager, on the line.

CBI

Lisbon made her way back to the living room on the main floor. She wandered by the dining table that was now filled with trays of delicate quarter-cut sandwiches of every concoction, meats, cheese, crackers and sweets. The caterer was keeping coffee and tea piping hot and flowing. And her grandmother, always a woman of good taste in the kitchen, had real Devonshire cream for the sweets and proper thick cow’s cream for the beverages.

Lisbon gathered up a small Chinaware plate with a few sandwiches and cheese. She sat down by one of her grandmother’s numerous lady friends. “And her name was Charlotte.” An exceptionally wrinkled woman to her left was discreetly whispering to the one beside her who was leaning in so her unreliable hearing would not to miss a single syllable. “That poor man, and what a lovely old-fashioned name for a daughter, don’t you think. Charlotte, it’s so pretty. Reminds me of my mother - her name was Caroline. And then his wife and the daughter get murdered.” She said the last word with all the horror she could muster in the fading voice of the very old. “No wonder he works with the police.”

The second old lady nodded, chewing on a bit of cheese. “I hope he catches people like that awful murderer and puts them away.”

“I think a killer ought to be killed himself.” Said Eliza. “Enough with putting them in jail and giving them television and meatloaf. A life for a life, that’s what the good Lord thinks and it’s fine with me.”

Lisbon wandered away roughly toward where her grandmother was sitting talking to her late husband’s nephew. She saw Lisbon and waved her over. “Teresa, you remember David?”

Lisbon smiled. He looked vaguely familiar. “Of course, how are you?”

David St. Pierre stretched out a work worn hand. He was older than Lisbon by fifteen years and had the look of a tired man worn down by the difficulties of the lower class life, one much in need of a nest egg as though Harold’s death hadn’t come too soon. Lisbon mentally kicked herself for drifting into Jane’s way of thinking; that everyone is guilty of something and the world was full of greedy, dishonest, unsavoury characters, much like he had once been.

Maybe that’s why Jane was so cynical toward most people, she reasoned. Once upon a time he himself had been a liar and a cheat, so now he imagined evil lies and greed were everywhere, believing they would manifest in almost anyone. It must be, Lisbon thought, an unhappy way to live.

David and Lisbon exchanged pleasantries for a moment until Beth said. “Oh, look, there’s Patrick. David you must meet Patrick. He works with Teresa and is a very smart man, but a little sad you know.” She whispered. “His family was murdered – isn’t that the most awful thing you ever heard? But you musn’t mention it.”

That her grandmother was, ironically, mentioning it to anyone who would listen was not lost on Lisbon.

Beth took Jane’s arm and made him sit beside her once more. Lisbon decided to hang nearby and listen in on the conversation. Jane was a hit with her grandmother. If nothing else, it ought to be entertaining. Jane was in for it because when it came to thorough soul-digging, her grandmother was a master-craftsman. No one had found a window into her soul the way her grandma St. Pierre had.

No one that is until Patrick Jane came to work for her.

“Patrick, this is David. He’s staying over tonight - and Teresa of course.” Beth was suddenly struck by an idea and her face took on a light as though a very real bulb was hanging above her noggin, shining down. “And you must stay, too, Patrick. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it until now. You’ll stay too.” It was a bona fide Elizabeth St. Pierre Commandment. “There’s a room at the back of the house. Very comfortable bed, a single, but still very comfortable. You won’t have any of that nasty insomnia you spoke of.”

Lisbon raised a bemused eyebrow at that. Jane had been telling her grandmother quite a bit about himself. Or she had wrung it out of him. Elizabeth St. Pierre was not a woman one could keep things from for long. She’d look at you in that cultured old-world genteel way and you just had to spill your guts or melt into the carpet. Either way you were done for.

Beth was far from finished entertaining the new, most favourite young man she’d found in Jane. “Harold used it as a den. His “Thinking Room”, he used to call it. He kept whiskey and brandy in there and his imported cigars.” Beth leaned toward Jane’s ear and he obligated her by leaning back and giving her his whole attention. She whispered conspiratorially into his ear “Real Cubans.” She giggled. “Harold used to have his Canadian hunting friend order them for him special and ship them down here in a box of Hunter’s Monthly magazines. Only he never hunted anymore.” Beth finally came to the end of her friendly but slightly long-winded banter and took a well needed deep breath, asking “Do you smoke, Patrick?”

At his head-shake “Well, David smokes like his uncle did. Harold’s sister Julia was David’s mother, God rest her soul. She used to smoke, too. I’m glad you’re smarter than that, Patrick. Why it might have been all those cigars that finally killed Harold.”

Jane wanted to steer the conversation over to other things besides who did or did not smoke. “You must be happy to have your family here after so long. Especially Eliza.”

Beth nodded emphatically. “Yes, yes. And you know, I hardly recognised her, she’s gained so much weight, not that I’d mention it. But she’s still the same Eliza. Still loves red wine with dinner – even if it’s chicken – and she still is so generous with the gifts though she had to bring store-bought this time. I guess the years and arthritis have taken away her agility with the crochet needles. She used to make the most fabulous table cloths and even dresses when she was young. She even made her own wedding dress.”

Beth looked over to her nephew. “And David here is an electronics expert.” She said, giving it high praise.

Lisbon doubted her grandmother exactly knew or could explain just what it was an electronic expert did.

“He has the most wonderful daughter, Patricia-Rose who’s in college now – what is she studying again David?”

“She’s in medical school.”

Jane looked impressed. “Wow, good for her. The tuition must be a killer. Fourth year?”

David shook his head. “No - first.”

Jane nodded. David was sweating. He was overweight and his suit jacket did not match his trousers. David had evidently fallen on some rough times.

David noticed Jane looking at him and stood up. “I’m going for a smoke, Aunt Beth.”

Jane jumped up. “I’ll join you.”

David did not seem either pleased or annoyed. “This is a long smoke. Afraid I’ve got the same cigar habit as my uncle.”

Jane followed him to the door. “It’s a fine night for it.”

Lisbon watched Jane disappear onto the porch with her cousin.

Beth noticed her granddaughter’s eyes as Patrick left the room. “Are you sure you and he aren’t...?” She said wistfully. “He’s such a pleasant young man, Teresa. You could hardly do better you know.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence was what passed through her mind but what she said was “Even if Ja - Patrick and I wanted to, CBI rules say we can’t.”

Beth shook her head. The world could be a sorely disappointing place. “Too bad, dear. He’s such a nice catch.”

On the veranda, in the fading light of a warm July California evening, David the nephew held a match to a five inch cigar as round as his thumb. He had to burn the match almost it down to the end before he was satisfied that it was well, good and lit.

Where two hours earlier, Lisbon’s grandmother had sat and fished for his life-story, Jane sat watching the evening slowly pass as Lisbon’s cousin enjoyed his cigar, blowing the aromatic smoke out with a sigh of satisfaction. Jane had never taken up the habit of smoking, a thing his circus father had regularly derided him for, but if he was ever going to, it would be a genuine Cuban cigar he put to his lips and nothing else. The faint but sweet smell of the fine wine and the barrel the cigar was aged in made the smoke practically intoxicating.

David saw the look of interest on Jane’s face and pulled a second cigar from his pocket, offering it to him. Jane smiled, accepting it. “Thanks. A real Cuban huh?”

“Nothing but the best for Harold.” He was struck with a fit of coughing, loudly clearing his throat.

“Trying to quit?” Jane asked. “I mean the other habit?”

David tilted his head wryly. “They’re a bugger, cigarettes. That’s why I took up cigars.”

“You should see a doctor about that cough.” Jane fumbled with the match-book, striking but not getting a spark. “You didn’t call him uncle.”

David laughed. “Can’t afford a bloody doctor.” But he didn’t look over at his porch companion. “Me and Harold didn’t get along much - hardly ever saw each other actually. He didn’t like what I did for a living.”

“Oh? He had something against electronics or computers?” Jane didn’t much get along with the beeping, whizzing things either. That’s what computer geeks, like Van Pelt, were for, to make the damn things make sense and do what he needed them to.

“No. Just me.” David drew on his cigar, holding the smoke in for a few seconds, and then blowing it out as though it was his best friend and here it was leaving him behind. Jane had the feeling David would have liked to disappear just like the cigar smoke. “He didn’t like that I made no money at it.”

“Oh.” Jane gave up on the matches and reluctantly put the cigar down on the round table. It was probably for the best. “Brother’s, father’s, uncles can be like that. I wouldn’t worry about it, especially not now that he’s dead.”

“I’m not.” David insisted though looking every bit as worried as he had a moment before.

Jane sat back, relaxing into the cushioned wicker chair. Lisbon’s grandmother’s house was nice. He had never experienced life in a nice house until he met his wife and bought the biggest one they could afford, and then moved into an even bigger one after embarking on his own career of professional conman and started making the real money. When his family died, Jane was surprised to discover, after working for years to attain it, he didn’t miss the house at all. To him overnight it became nothing but an empty, dust-covered reminder of how swiftly the good things can come to a screeching end.

David announced “I’m beat. I’m going to bed. ‘Nite Pat.” He butted out his cigar and left the three inch nub in the ashtray, disappearing inside the house through the screen door.

Jane nodded. “’Nite. Thanks for the cigar.” Jane left the unlit cigar gift beside the ashtray and moved to the porch swing. It was a bit cramped but he managed to squeeze himself and one bent leg onto it, leaving his other leg on the floor to gently swing it into motion, tucking one arm behind his head. It was a luxury, to sit and swing on a porch in the warm evening light and just listen to the birds and feel the breeze on his face.

When a child, Jane had never known any of his grandparents or recalled having a house like this one to come to on holidays. He could not in fact remember any holidays. And when he closed his eyes, he thought he could see the face of his mother who had died when he was very young, but he wasn’t sure if the memory was real or not. It was vague and when he looked too closely, the image shimmered and shifted from side to side, blurring in his mind.

Lisbon knew her brothers and her parents and her grandmother and her grandmother was so nice. She was a bit of a gossipy hanger-on but she was also very kind and gentle, she served good food and lived in a nice house with nice things. And she had welcomed him in and made him feel at home as though he were no stranger at all. It was almost a shame that he had to solve a murder, that murder victim being Elizabeth’s already dead husband, and spoil it all.

But for the present anyway he could relax and enjoy this little bit of home-grown family comfort. Lisbon was a lucky woman.

Sleep overcame him and Jane closed his eyes.

CBI

Lisbon woke him up with a few taps on his arm. “Hey. Everyone’s gone home. It’s almost midnight.” She said when he opened his eyes.

“Hey Lisbon.” He said through a yawn and sat up. The air had chilled and he shivered.

“How long have you been out here?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Oh. Well, Grandma left you a pair of pyjama’s on the bed. Goodnight. Breakfast is at nine.” Lisbon left him to find his own way to the back room. The late Harold’s “thinking room”.

The room, previously sounding like a cubby hole, was in fact a fully outfitted den complete with bed, a private bathroom and a stocked bar.

Jane shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, the hot spray felt wonderful on his skin which the nap on the porch had wrinkled. He stretched out some of the stiffness in his back from the cramped swing and turned off the water. At least the shampoo was scentless, but during his clandestine trailing of his boss to her grandmother’s house, he had not had the chance to pick up any personal items.

Letting his body drip-dry, Jane searched the mirrored cupboard and the spaces below the sink. There were two un-opened deodorant sticks sitting side by side. Misses St. Pierre had believed strongly in keeping her husband well taken care of and happy.

Angela had been much the same. After meeting her, for the first time Jane had known what it was like to be cared about and fussed over. He had decided to marry her by their second date. His father had mocked his declaration of love for her calling it instead a lack of options but his heart had been unmovable.

Jane applied the un-perfumed stick to his underarms, replaced the lid and left it on the sink counter. The pyjama’s Beth had laid out for him were a blood red cotton splashed with a hideous pattern of cigars and palm trees. Her late husband’s taste in sleepwear was not to his liking, and Jane left them where they lay, making the choice to sleep in the buck.

It felt wonderful to slide in between silk sheets and feel them on his skin. He shifted positions five times at least, willing sleep to come. Closing his eyes, his thoughts filled with Charlotte. Open, they saw the shadowed ceiling and a murder case.

Jane sat up. It was no use. The bed was comfortable and the sheets were a luxury but he could not sleep, no matter how red his eyes or fatigued his body. His mind was galloping like a race horse. D And despite his claims to contented single-hood, Jane was feeling the stinging absence of family life more now than during the eight year interval since the death of his wife where he had enjoyed none at all. It was this house, he supposed, and the strong remnants of family within.

Absence makes the heart a stray.

Jane dug his phone from his trouser pocket and turned it on. Cho was fourth on his speed dial and Jane let it ring while biting his lip.

At the other end a sleepy voice answered. “Cho.”

Foregoing any customary greeting he said “Hi. Feel like taking a drive?”

CBI

Forty-five minutes later they were sitting in a booth in an all night diner, looking at the menu. Cho thrust his aside. “I brought the clothes and stuff you wanted. They’re in the car.” When the waitress came Cho ordered a coffee. “And tea for my friend. No milk with honey.”

Referring to the suits and small list of supplies Jane had asked Cho to pick up for him. “Thanks for doing that.” He looked at him searchingly. “Are you ordering my drinks now?”

The drinks came and Cho spent a moment adding cream and sugar to his, stirring it well. “I know what you like if that’s what you mean. We've worked together for years and spent enough time on all night look-outs...so, yeah, I know you like tea.”

It had not been a complaint, just a micro-revelation; they were slowly but surely becoming friends and Jane wasn’t sure yet how comfortable he felt about it. He was enjoying it certainly but it still didn’t feel anywhere inside the ballpark of safe. His friendships with his team-mates had been given the green light by Red John but with a caveat – the killer himself would decide its duration. “Are you buying?”

Cho looked at him not wholly surprised. “You don’t have any money? Where’s your wallet?”

“I left it at the house.” Jane was aware of his own mental prowess when it came to reading people and detecting the little lies all around him in the world, but he was equally aware that he had a tendency to be absent-minded if the thing just wasn’t important. Usually, though he did not leave his wallet behind. It had to be Beth. She had made him feel so at home, he was already forgetting things, as a son would let his mother gather up his carelessly discarded mittens or his misplaced lunchbox. Jane determined that he would henceforth resist her charms. After all, she could be a murderer.

“What are you doing?” Cho meant what Jane was doing at Lisbon’s grandmother’s house and during a funeral no less.

“Solving a murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“The grandfather.”

“You think he was murdered?”

“Yes. No one else does but I know I’m right.”

Unlike anyone else, Cho saw through Jane’s mask that insisted he was fine and nothing but. “Are you okay?”

CBI

"Okay enough."

Cho rose to leave, obviously signalling the mid-night meeting was over, and Jane offered his thanks. Each went their separate ways.

THEMENTALISTTHEMENTAILISTTHEMENTALIST

Jane helped himself to a buffet breakfast which Beth had the caterer/cook continually replenished until just after eleven in the morning. Scrambled eggs, a toasted muffin and home-made cherry jam were his choices and Lisbon found him just as he was finishing up the last bite.

Lisbon watched him eat. There was something about a hungry man enjoying his food and in that persuasion Jane was no different than any of his sex. “I think grandma wants to adopt you.”

Jane stopped chewing and swallowed. “That would be fine except for one thing.”

“What one thing?”

“She may be a murderer.” He said simply.

Lisbon sighed, shaking her head. “I’m tired of this nonsense, Jane. We both know there has been no murder committed in this house and why you can’t just let it go -”

Jane set the plate aside and shook his head back at her. “How can you have worked with me for four years and not know me well enough to see that I’m serious about this? Harold was murdered. Just because I haven’t found any evidence – yet – doesn’t mean it didn’t happen – that it isn’t real.” Lisbon disappointed him. She could be such a professional and so quick minded that he couldn’t understand her reluctance now. It was simply her habit to doubt him. “Because it’s your grandmother, you doubt me? Do you think this house or the people in it are immune to evil?”

He stood. He was suddenly tired of having his boss look straight at him, after four years and countless solved cases and even the worst - Red John – and not think he was on to something, to think he was just idling away his time in her own grandmother’s house out of boredom.

Lisbon could see the hurt on his face. “Jane. It’s not that I don’t think you can solve a case when there is one, I’d be an idiot to ignore you in that instance but there is no case here. Come on.” She urged him to sit down again with a touch to his hand. “Admit it. You came here this weekend because –“

Jane stared down at her, challenge in his eyes, daring her to suggest what she was about to suggest. “Because why? Come on Lisbon. Tell what you really think of me; that I had nowhere else to go or that I was bored or lonely.” He had plenty of places to go when he felt any of those things - work for one, but the truth was he liked spending time alone. He did his best thinking alone.

Lisbon dropped it, unable to find a way to speak her mind without hurting him more. Jane always set his back to the world, offering them an impenetrable wall of solitude but she suspected the truth was that he was far more sensitive than most people knew or ever let on. Over hard times and circumstances that would have broken and scattered most people to the four winds, Jane instead had grown a hard shell and metaphorically spent most of his waking hours inside it. But in flesh and soul, the man was still as vulnerable as anyone.

“Your uncle was murdered.” Jane said. “Eighty-nine may be old but according to Beth his health was good with no sign of heart disturbances until the day he died. There is a murderer in this house, Lisbon, so I only ask that you think about this: If I’m wrong what do you have to lose? Or if I’m right?” Jane refused to let her look away, leaning closer, using his “I’m right, Lisbon!” voice. “Now why can’t you do that for me? Why can’t you trust me?”

If she moved just two inches, they would bump noses. Lisbon saw his point. She usually did but she was angry with him for inviting himself along, for sneaking along in fact. She had been angry. That muted slow broil had suddenly lifted. She had nothing to lose after all by allowing him his little investigation, and everything to gain if he was correct.

“I’m sorry.” She said, waiting for him to accept her apology. When his eyes said he had, she added “You’re right. There’s more to lose by ignoring the possibility.”

“Thank you.” He said, sitting back down. “And before you say it again, yes, I will be discreet. I’ve behaved so far haven’t I?”

Lisbon had to give him that. “Grandma wants you to come to the grave-side. It’s at six.”

Jane looked at his watch. He had five hours now to produce a killer and no methods to route him or her out save for talking and listening and analysing their answers. It was no parlour trick, this sort of detecting. It was simple brain power, thinking and reason. Jane had an idea. “Do you think a magic show would be out of place today?”

Lisbon had expected anything but such a suggestion. “Not really a funeral activity.”

“Can’t you ask Beth about it?”

“I suppose I could ask her about it. I don’t know how she’ll react.”

Jane nodded his thanks. “Tell her it would cheer me up.”

Lisbon smiled. He sounded in every way confident. No surprise since Elizabeth was already eating out of his hand. “Going to play the poor, sad widower card huh?”

Jane smiled a little. His boss was no fool. “It has its uses.”

“What are you planning?”

“To catch a murderer.”

“And how is putting on a magic show going to do that?”

“The easiest way to catch a killer is to let the killer reveal him or herself to you and the easiest way to do that is to ask them for help. Murderers are egoists. If they think they’ve gotten away with murder, they relax. You ask them for help, they happily agree, believing they’re safe and that they’re too smart for the police anyway. Today I’m going to upset that smug murderer’s assumption, only he or she won’t know I’m upsetting it because I’m going to be lying, or rather we are. The best way to hide a lie is inside the framework of an even bigger lie, an elaborate lie - hence a magic show.”

“What can I do?”

Jane stirred his tea. Lisbon had been so absorbed in his little speech she had only half paid attention when he got up and poured himself a cup from the buffet table next to where they sat. “Everything. Most especially I need the team here. If I had more time, I could do it all myself, but we’re running short.”

A thought occurred to her. “Do you already know who killed Harold?”

“So now you think he was killed?” Not a direct answer.

She looked away to the door where her grandmother was welcoming back most of the guests who had left the previous evening. Harold’s passing was being commemorated by a mixture of European traditions as Beth had explained to her. Yesterday was The Viewing and today was the Internment at the graveyard. In between the will would be read. Her grandmother had scheduled no time for a specified period of mourning for her guests. “Why cry and wail?” Beth had insisted. “He’s gone to a better place. It’s life here that can be hard.”

“Well, I did agree to play along.” Lisbon reminded him. “And we still have a bet.”

“Yes we do. But to answer your question I suspect. The magic show among other things will confirm for me who.”

“How?”

“The killer will tell us.”

Lisbon shook her head. Jane had not performed as a psychic for many years but the showman was still alive and well in him, in particular how he liked to keep facts to himself and then make a big splash at the end of cases. “This all sounds very iffy, Jane. I mean I know you’ve done some things that were –“ She was about to say amazing but chose instead “unusual in the past but do you honestly think that one of those old people you met yesterday is a killer?”

“They’re not all old and anyway what does being old have to do with it? Old people aren’t always harmless. And people who appear harmless are often devious. I come across as harmless do I not?”

Lisbon hadn’t seriously thought about it before but yes, at least at first, Jane had been out-of-place, a decidedly none-law-enforcement type tossed in among experienced officers. A fish with a banjo situation, and occasionally had worked left-center of correct police procedure that, despite closing cases, Jane had swiftly gained a reputation as little more than a harmless kook. It was only after working with him for a while that she learned much of that was an act too.

When first meeting him, most people saw a rather ridiculous and slightly pathetic clown – a former circus/showman pretending to be a cop. And often Jane actively invited this scorn from others. As Lisbon had learned early on in their working relationship that first gut reaction any suspect had of him became their first mistake. While they publically mocked or laughed he was quietly absorbing everything there was to learn about them and filing it away. Former fake psychic or not, sometimes it seemed as though Jane was peering directly into their minds.

“Occasionally.” Lisbon said, answering his last question.

But of course, Jane was in a sense not at all harmless. He was riding his new career as a CBI consultant on a horse named Revenge. He spoke often of killing Red John when he found him, making him bleed and watching as the killer died. It always made her a little afraid, if not of him, then for him. Jane was brilliant, but Lisbon knew CBI had taken a risk employing him in the first place. The mess with Jane’s killing of Tim Carter was a strong point in that argument. “What do you want me to do?”

“Lots of things but most of all I need the team here to lie along with us.”

“Why?”

Jane stared at her unblinkingly for a few seconds. “Trust me.”

Lisbon knew he was challenging her to put the whole thing in his hands, something she was reluctant to do because this time it was her own family that was involved. It was a struggle but finally she nodded. “Okay.”

“And tell Van Pelt to wear something pretty.”

Van Pelt adjusted the fake gem-stone-studded belt. “I hate this.” She grumbled to Lisbon. Both were in the privacy of Lisbon’s bedroom in her grandmother’s house. Lisbon soothed. “It’s only for Jane’s magic show.”

Van Pelt was not appeased, pulling at the black tights that kept riding up. “The damn seat in this thing keeps disappearing into the crack of my –“

A knock at the door forestalled any more complaint. “Two minutes.” It was Jane.

Van Pelt was ready to tell him where he could stick his two minutes. “This isn’t Vegas, Jane. Keep your shorts on.”

Lisbon could see Jane’s eyebrows on the rise even through the door.

“No, Grace, it’s grandma’s house and there is a murderer to be caught, and we’re almost out of time to do it.” He said. “So please chop-chop!”

Van Pelt was not amused. “Remind me to spike his tea with a laxative when we get home.”

Lisbon smiled at the idea. Good times. “Look, we all know our jobs here, let’s go and get this over with. Personally I think Jane is wrong this time but he’s having fun and, call me silly, but I for one am reluctant to squelch that just yet.”

Van Pelt nodded. Jane having fun was a rare enough event and as much as the blonde had tried to hide it from everyone, he’d been left a bit of an emotional mess after everything that had happened in the last year. Jane plus fun was a good sight to see. “Okay, I’m ready. What am I supposed to say again?”

“Just welcome everyone and introduce Jane to the guests. Hey at least you don’t have to go through your relatives cars during the show.” Lisbon had drawn that short straw, Jane providing her with a nifty, and very illegal, electronic car-lock override gizmo. One he’d had made many years ago, back when he regularly lied to make mere money, and not to catch bad guys.

Lisbon and Van Pelt made their way to the living room where Jane had a table set up complete with a red table cloth. Jane was nowhere to be found. Neither was Cho or Rigsby.

Lisbon smiled at the guests already seated, including her grandmother. “Excuse me.” She said and with Van Pelt in tow found the remainder of her team in the kitchen with Jane who was looking very show-man formal in his black three-piece suit and dark purple silk dress shirt. A white and mauve hanky was tucked in the left upper pocket and a real gold watch chain was looped from where it was clipped on the front of his vest to the lower left pocket.

Cho had once explained to her a thing he had learned from his reading and from Jane himself, who had enlightened him about magicians, psychics and showmen. They wore vests with their suits because they needed the extra pockets to hide things. Lisbon recalled on more than one occasion at a crime scene or at a suspects’ house Jane pulling this or that unexpected item out of his pocket to use in conjunction with some aspect of the investigation.

Lisbon had seen lots of things pop out of Jane’s pocket or appear in his hand as though by magic at one time or another. Things like playing cards, cups, balls, coins, safety pins, string, wire, various lock-pick tools, tiny scissors, toothpicks, elastics, a small note book, pencils, a match book - even glue. Cho had told her of at least one of Jane’s grey suits that contained extra pockets sewn on the inside of both the vest and jacket, making eleven pockets in total and according to Cho Jane only wore that suit if he thought he might need to pull a fast one over on a suspect.

But Lisbon was pretty certain she had seen Jane in that grey suit at the office at least once, pulling coin and card tricks on unsuspecting employees when a case got him down-in-the-dumps or during a slow week when he was just plain bored.

Lisbon smiled, enjoying the rare sight of watching Jane work within one of his own specialties. Even Jane’s hair was combed into something resembling order and Lisbon was forced to admit that Jane, looking happy and handsome in his fancy get-up, was in his truest element here. He looked fabulous.

Jane was speaking. “You all remember what to do? Just talk. Talk to the people I indicated on your list, but pay special attention to the underlined names. Those are my strongest suspects.” Jane drew three squares of paper from his pocket. “These are questions I want each of you to ask the suspect on your list whose name is underlined. One question per.” He read each square of paper and then handed each out to the correct team member. “Keep talking to your designated audience member and asking the question until you get an answer. Doesn’t matter if they lie, I’ll know if they do.”

Rigsby was dubious. He asked “But we’ll be talking during the show. Won’t they get annoyed?”

Jane shook his head. “Nobody’s going to get annoyed, Rigsby, this is just a forty minute magic show. Just some simple tricks, nothing special - I’m not going to make an elephant appear. Plus there’ll be a five minute time-out for drinks, munchies and a bathroom break. A good opportunity to chat freely.”

Rigsby read his question. “I’m supposed to ask cousin Charles about his thyroid gland?” He asked Jane in disbelief.

“I suspect he suffers from hypothyroidism.” Jane said.

“How is talking about a goitre supposed to help you catch a killer?” Rigsby’s stunned stare said it all.

“It won’t, but sick people like to talk about their illnesses. It makes them feel better.” Jane explained. “And he’s looking down in the dumps.”

Cho read his note aloud. “I’m asking David about Harold’s attitude toward women.” He looked at his confusing team-mate. “Harold’s the dead guy. He doesn’t have an attitude anymore.”

Jane said “Yes, but he did and that’s what I need to know. I need to know what his true feelings were about women in general.”

Lisbon read her question. “I’m asking grandma about Eliza’s trips to Europe? By the way how am I supposed to talk to Beth and be out snooping through her and everyone else’s cars? What am I looking for anyway?”

“Information, driver’s Licenses, other personal ID – anything that will tell us more than what we already know about that person. And not everyone’s car, just my three prime suspects’ cars. And to answer your second question, I don’t know, Lisbon, pace yourself perhaps? Wait until the second act and slip out the side door, you now, be creative.”

Van Pelt asked her own question. “You didn’t give me a note - who am I talking to?”

“No one. I’ll handle Eliza myself.”

Van Pelt looked unhappy. “I can talk to her. You’ll be busy with the magic stuff.”

Jane asked “Can you speak Italian?”

“No.” Van Pelt admitted.

“You speak Italian?” Lisbon asked Jane.

“Some.” Jane answered. “A little. Enough.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Van Pelt already hated her non-role more and more in Jane’s little case of Find-the-Murderer. “I mean besides introduce you?”

“Distract everyone, especially the men. Women will talk during a show, men like to sit and just watch. But the distraction of a pretty women will help them relax and talk freely, even if they might, as Rigsby stated, get annoyed about it.” Jane said.

Van Pelt felt exposed and shivered. The damn house was cold. “I don’t know how to do that - how am I supposed to distract them?”

Jane coughed. “Just smile and look sexy.”

Van Pelt narrowed her eyes at Jane. “You’re a pig.” Van Pelt left the kitchen to take up her spot beside the magic table.

Jane dismissed her disgruntlement with a wave of his hand. “She’ll feel better once the show starts. But she looks nice, doesn’t she? Don’t you think she looks nice?”

CBI

Jane had given her an intro’ line to say. “It’s from my psychic days.” He had explained.

Van Pelt, dressed in a little leotard, feather and lace number stepped out from the kitchen and announced in the most convincing voice she could muster, managing not to roll her eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to The Amazing Jane!”

Jane followed her and took his place behind the table.

Previously Lisbon and the rest of the team had taken their seats among the audience, positioning themselves beside their target suspects. All in all, Jane had a crowd of nineteen people to entertain, including his colleagues.

His first offering of magic was the three cups and balls trick. And as Jane displayed to his audience the little yellow balls and the empty cups, Lisbon got her first glimpse into why Jane, in his previous career as a multi-talented showman, had been so successful – his hands moved in perfect rhythm, not too fast, not too slow. When he switched to performing coin tricks his fingers were as fast as the wings of a humming bird or flowed like liquid honey. Whatever he needed at any given fraction of a moment, his fingers became the instrument he needed them to be.

Lisbon was sure neither she nor the team had never seen Jane do anything more than a quick card trick here or there, in the office when he was bored or to help speed along some aspect of a case, but nothing like he was performing here. Deft and graceful, his hands made any and all objects surrender. They danced or skipped, disappeared and reappeared yielding to his dynamic fingers seemingly at his will. It really did look like magic. It was wonderful to watch.

“I would like a volunteer from the audience – David.” Jane pointed to Elizabeth’s nephew. “Would you be so good as to give me some assistance?” He waved the reluctant man to come forward. “Come on, don’t be shy, this won’t hurt a bit.”

Jane smiled at David and then the audience. “Please focus your attention on this coin.” He drew said coin from his pocket, one that appeared to be real gold. It was as large as a silver dollar and shone beautifully in the light of the delicate crystal chandelier hanging from Beth’s living room ceiling.

Jane said to David “Please hold out your hand.” And when David did so Jane placed it in his palm. “Feel the weight of that coin.” Jane said to him. “It’s eight ounces of twenty-two karat gold - half a pound - almost pure.” Jane turned to the audience again. “Back in 1879 its’ estimated worth was approximately five British Pounds or one hundred and twenty dollars. On the current market its worth is fifteen thousand dollars and I’d like to tell you a short story about this coin.”

Jane continued to hold the coin up to his audience. “This coin belonged to my father who inherited it from his grandfather who came over to America from Holland. My great-great-great grandfather was a descendant of Netherland gypsies, who were very poor. But this coin was gifted to him by the last Royal Scottish Gypsy - Queen Esther Blyth for having saved the life of her three year-old son who almost drowned in a river.

“This coin was handed down to me from my father and I treasure it very much. It is the only thing I have of value that belonged to my father and it is a reminder to me of roots and family – I love this coin!”

Jane paused, his smile widening when he said “And I’m going to make it disappear! This antique, valuable gold coin is going to vanish before your eyes.” He turned to David. “David, I’m going to need your help with a little demonstration.” Jane said. “Please hand me that small metal box.”

Off of one of Beth’s side-tables, one closest where to Jane and his magic show stood, David picked up the box in question, a small, square poinsettia-flowered tin with matching lid. Jane accepted it with a thank-you and placed it in the middle of the table. “Beth was so kind as to loan me this box that she uses to hold her Christmas candy. I assure you, Beth, the box will not be damaged in any way.”

Jane said to David. “Would you please examine both the table and the box to assure yourself and the audience that there are no holes or secret compartments of any sort on the table or on the box?”

David took a moment to knock on the table, to lift the table cloth and look beneath it, and to also examine the box, tapping on all sides and holding it up to the audience so they could see that it was empty and solid. “Seems solid to me.” David said.

“Thank you, David – oh no, no! Don’t go away yet.” Jane gently caught his forearm as David was about to step back to his seat. Jane chuckled along with the audience, sharing the humour of David’s tiny fit of anxiety with them. “You don’t get off that easily.”

Everyone laughed. Elizabeth was smiling like the sun.

With David settled down beside him once more, Jane said to everyone “Now you all know and are satisfied that there is no possible way that, once this coin is in this box, it can be removed. To make this even more certain, once the coin is inside the box, I will place this paper-weight” Jane held up the glass ball with the tiny image of a village inside it for the audience’s inspection “on the box. After that neither I nor David will touch it except when, and only when, David tapes down the four corners of the lid.”

Jane held out his hand to David. “May I please have the coin?”

When David handed it to him, Jane put his hand to his mouth and blew on the coin. He grinned sheepishly at his audience. “For luck.” He explained. “I really hope I can get it back.”

The audience chuckled along with him.

Jane placed the coin in the box. “David. You have seen me place the coin in the box?”

David looked in. “Yup. It’s in there.”

“Thank you, David. Now would you please place the paper-weight on the box?”

David obeyed.

“And please tape the box shut.” Jane instructed.

Jane and the audience waited while David drew four lengths in succession of sticky tape from a plastic tape dispenser and applied them to the four sides of the box, taping the lid firmly in place.

Jane motioned for David to step back from the table while he himself did the same. He then slowly waved one flat hand palm-down over the box, and then again, even more slowly, grimacing as he did so as though he was passing his hand through a flame. Then he dropped his hand and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

Jane took a second breath. Then a third and final breath, slowly in and out, with his eyes never wavering in their total concentration on the box. Finally in the silent room, with perspiration on his forehead, and all eyes on him - “David,” Jane said quietly, “will you please open the box.”

David tore off the pieces of tape, removed the glass paper-weight and lifted the lid.

“Jesus!” David swore. He picked up the box and stared into it, and then turned it outward toward the audience. “The bloody coin’s really gone!” David stared at Jane with astonishment. “How the hell could it be gone? How in the bloody Mary did you manage it?”

The audience clapped along with some enthusiastic Ah-h’s and Oh-h’s.

Jane smiled and bowed. “And now on to my favourite tricks of all– cards!” He brought out a pack of new playing cards from an inner pocket. “Thank you, David. You may sit down now.”

David leaned in and whispered. “But - but aren’t you gonna’ bring your coin back?”

Jane winked and said under his breath. “Don’t worry. The real coin’s in my right suit pocket. I switched it for a dissolving fake.”

David returned to his seat and watched along with the others as, here again, in Jane’s hands the cards became like a living thing. Fanning them, tossing them then splitting the fan in mid-air, and then bringing them back into a pile as though by silent command, Jane wowed the audience with his agility and slight-of-hand. He then cut the deck with the fingers of his right hand, and then did the same with two half decks in each hand, his fingers perfect in their precision – a deck-of-cards-ballet.

Jane looked out over the audience until his eyes settled on one person. “Eliza.” He said. “Would you please come here and help me with a card trick? I need an audience member – please dear? It won’t take long – I promise.”

Hardly a woman in the audience, young or old, could have resisted that beaming smile and hand extended for her to accept. Eliza was no different and got to her feet. Bumping her leg against a chair just for a second, she then straightened her skirt and obeyed, walking up to stand beside Jane’s make-shift table of magical things. She peered up at him through her thick glasses and asked. “What do I need to do?”

Jane splayed the cards face-down across the table. “Using only your thumb and index finger, please pick a card and draw it from the deck - any card you like but do not show it to me. You may show it to your friends in the audience, but be certain that I cannot see what it is.”

Eliza sifted through the cards and made her choice. She drew it from the splayed deck and held it tightly to her bosom, then showed it face-out to the audience, all the while her eyes watching Jane for any sign of cheating on his part. He smiled winningly at the audience as though to say “Isn’t that sweet? She thinks I’m going to peek.”

“Once again making sure that I cannot see the card,” Jane explained “Please again using only your thumb and index finger slip it face-down back in the deck - anywhere you like, dear.”

Eliza did so and then waited for Jane to wow them by finding the card. With hands that seemed to move too fast to be human, Jane scooped up the cards and proceeded to do a series of sweeping over and under cuts using both hands, his motions flowing like rapids breaking over rocks. It was impossible to keep track of where in the deck Eliza had slipped the card.

Lisbon altered her view of Jane’s magician’s skill at that point. His hands did not merely move, they glided, twirled, and whirled with perfect authority. The choreography of his motions and the sheer beauty of his flying fingers and swooping hands that manipulated perceptions made what he was doing, for all intents and purposes, magic.

After several seconds of cutting the deck of cards again and again, finally Jane slowed his motions, entertaining his audience even in that by making it appear as though his hands were machines which batteries were running out of juice. When he was done, the cards sat in a perfect pile, neat as a pin, awaiting their human master’s next move.

“Eliza, if you would be so kind as to flip over the card that is on top of the deck.” Jane asked.

Eliza turned the card over, appearing startled. “But that’s not my card.” She exclaimed, showing it to the audience.

“Oh.” Jane said, startled, too. “How forgetful of me! I almost forgot the most important part of the magic.” He said to everyone, embarrassed. “Please put the card back in the deck, anywhere you like.”

Eliza did so and watched as Jane scooped up the deck, repeated the lightening-fast cutting motions and then, in a sweep of his hand too fast for anyone to see, he bent the cards almost in half, sending them seven feet across the table in a streaming arc, to land on face-up the floor at Van Pelt’s feet. Then he turned to Eliza and said. “That’s better. Now, would you please go over and look at the card that is face-up on the pile, pick it up, and tell me whether that is your card?”

Eliza walked over on sensible shoes and bent down. “Oh goodness!” She squeaked. Grabbing the card she straightened up and turned to her friends and relatives in the audience to show it to them - and then to Jane. “I don’t believe it. It is. The ten of diamonds. That’s my card – I don’t believe it. How in the world did you do that? I just don’t believe it.”

Jane smiled warmly at his helper Eliza and exclaimed “Thank you for your excellent assistance, Eliza. Dei morti parla bene!”*

Eliza looked at him oddly and Jane translated for her. “Sorry. It means “You are goodness to your relatives.”.”

“Oh.” Eliza smiled back. “Why, thank you Mister Jane – I mean The Amazing Jane.” She giggled and returned to her seat.

The audience broke out in applause. Lisbon could hardly believe it either. As Van Pelt announced the coffee and snack break, Lisbon sided over to Jane as he and Van Pelt gathered up the scattered cards.

“How did you do that?” Lisbon asked quietly.

Jane kept his voice low. “I watch where she puts the card back in the deck the first time and when I scoop them up, I wedge her card with my thumb nail so when I’m doing all the multiple cuts I know exactly where it is all the time - always on the bottom of the deck. When I shoot the deck across the table, that bottom card usually lands more or less on the top of the pile. It’s a pretty simple trick but it takes practise. ”

Lisbon helped Jane and Van Pelt gather up the cards. “But what if the card doesn’t land on top of the pile?”

“Eight times out of ten it does but if I’m unsure which card it is, I simply use the fake psychic shtick, you know, wave my hand over the cards while watching for a tell. If I had lost the card in the air, I still would have known approximately where it landed and then Eliza’s eyes would have told me exactly which one. Still an effective gag that way but not quite as dramatic.”

Even with the trick explained, it was still impressive. “Well, I’ve done my chatting and the cars I’ll do during the second act.” Lisbon whispered.

“Thank you, Lisbon.” Jane whispered back, taking the gathered cards from her. “By all means check out the cars though I think I already know which of our three suspects is guilty.”

“Really- who?”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure, yet. I still need to hear from Cho plus I need you to look for one thing in particular.” Jane whispered in her ear what it was.

Lisbon pulled her face back. She asked softly. “Are you sure about that?”

“I’m sure there is a murderer present, or at the very least a big, fat fraud – whether or not we can prove murder is another question.” Jane left the rest unsaid.

CBI

During the second act, while Jane performed more slights-of-hand that ceaselessly astonished his audience, Lisbon slipped out to the vehicles and applied Jane’s lock device to her grandmother’s car, finding nothing more interesting than an old black and white photo of her grandmother standing beside a young soldier. Never-the-less she tucked it into her pants pocket and moved on to David, and the Eliza’s cars. In David’s car she found a stack of unpaid parking tickets and a post-card from his daughter at medical college asking him about tuition and speaking highly of a fellow named Brandon, the boyfriend Lisbon assumed. She stuck that away in her pants as well.

Eliza’s car was the last car, a small standard Toyota with rust on the bumpers. Lisbon emptied the glove compartment, finding nothing of interest. Then she spotted a small over-the-shoulder bag tucked on the floor of the back seat. Dumping it upside down a cornucopia of pill bottles tumbled out. Lisbon read the labels on all of them. Vitamins and minerals mostly, plus one small bottle of sleeping pills.

Interesting but none of the things she found seemed incriminating. Still, she took the sleeping pill bottle since it was the only thing in Eliza’s car that, compared with the rest of the bottles, was slightly out of the ordinary.

Returning to the house, Jane was just wrapping up his show and thanking Van Pelt for her “valuable and beautiful assistance.” Jane took Van Pelt’s hand and made her bow along with him.

Elizabeth walked up to Jane thanking him with many words and insisting she and Eliza would clean up the table and put things away. “It was wonderful, Patrick – simply wonderful.” She gushed.

Feeling a little overheated after the show Jane shed his suit jacket, leaving it draped over the back of a chair by the curtained window behind him and made his way into the kitchen where cook was serving up pre-graveside hot snacks of beef onion soup, oven-crisp sausage rolls and fresh warm buns soaked in butter. Rigsby, Cho, Van Pelt and Lisbon joined him as Elizabeth was kept busy with Eliza tidying up the living room. David was outside puffing away on a cigar on the veranda and the other varied guests were helping themselves to the food cook continually carried into the dining room, and then bringing back the empty trays and plates.

Jane looked around to ensure no one else was listening except the cook who, intent on keeping her fussy hostess happy, was busy preparing more sweet or and pickled dainties for later. “Questions first.” Jane said. “What did you find out?”

Cho said “David didn’t much like his uncle. According to David his uncle didn’t approve of him because he wasn’t rich. Harold wasn’t only rich, though. David claimed he was a womanizer and had affairs through-out his marriage. Affairs David said Elizabeth didn’t know about except for maybe one during the second year of their marriage. That’s it.”

Rigsby piped in. “Charles is sick with hypothyroidism. He feels like crap and told me all about it.” Rigsby rolled his eyes. “Seriously, he told me all about it, during the entire show – I missed most of the disappearing coin trick. But I’m not sure how being ill makes him a suspect.”

“It doesn’t.” Jane said, “But we had to cover all bases. Besides didn’t he look more cheerful afterward?”

Lisbon explained to him what she knew. “Well, I spoke to Eliza as best I could about her dead room-mate and she says she died of heart failure a little over a year ago. She was a good companion but a bit neglectful with the dogs - and a home-body. But that’s it. There was nothing else unusual, and these,” Lisbon pulled the three items from her pocket, “were the only things that seemed even remotely out-of-place that I could find in the vehicles.” She dumped them into his hand. “Sorry, Jane, no cyanide capsules or arsenic sulphide powder - it was a bust.”

Jane took a look at the photo. Elizabeth had been a young vibrant beauty. In the photograph her arm was hooked through the bent arm of a young soldier, and she was smiling happily though her eyes looked a little sad. “The husband who went away and never came back.” Jane muttered. The soldier’s face was the stiffly smiling but sober look of a man of barely twenty years old who was about to go off to war and fight for his country.

Jane read the post-card from David’s daughter, and then looked at the label on the sleeping pill bottle. He opened the bottle and looked inside, then replaced the lid. Tucking all three things away into his pants suit pocket he said “Thank Lisbon.”

Jane turned to go, but Lisbon grabbed his arm. “Wait a second.” She said fiercely. “I know that look – you’ve figured something out here. What?”

Jane shrugged. “You really want me to walk up to a possible murderer and simply announce it? Don’t you want proof?”

Lisbon agreed. Everyone present nodded in fact. “Proof would be nice but we can’t really get it without knowing who to detain and check out.”

Jane patted her arm. “You will. I promise. At the graveside, you’ll get your proof.”

“What sort of proof?” Lisbon insisted.

“Sheesh - so impatient – I’ll get a confession, probably.”

“Probably?” Cho said.

“Sorry. Despite what you’ve seen today I don’t do magic. I don’t pull killers out of my hat you know.”

Jane escaped to his guest room’s bathroom. Once inside he turned the lock on the handle and evacuated his bladder.

He flushed. Washing and drying his hands gave him another moment to think. Jane drew the pill bottle out of his pocket, and shook one out pill onto the counter. Then using a fine crystal glass he crushed the pill into a powder and pushed it into a small pile. Jane then ran the hot water tap until it was warm and filled the glass half full.

He paused, turning to look at the door, even putting his hand on the door handle and leaving it there for a few seconds before withdrawing it with a change of mind.

Heaving a sigh, he let the air out between slack lips, knowing what Lisbon was going to say later. Jane placed two fingers at the pulse on his throat and looked at his watch. His heart rate was elevated at 98 beats per minute but then he adrenaline was running as he was about to do a very dangerous, and Lisbon would say stupid thing.

“Here goes...” Jane scooped the powder to the edge of the counter and into his cupped palm. Then he threw back his head and poured the powder into his mouth, quickly swallowing down the water. Then he sat down on the closed toilet seat and waited.

It took under a minute for the effects to begin. He could feel his heart’s pumping action increase in vigour, though his heart rate seemed to have slowed. To be certain, after two minutes he re-checked his pulse – 78 beats per minute.

Jane read the label on the pill bottle. “Triazolam.”

“Hello?” A knock on the bathroom door. It was Elizabeth. “Patrick? We’re almost ready to go to the grave-side. And there’ll be a dinner after? Are you ready?”

“Thank you, Beth. I’ll be right there.”

“It was a wonderful show, Patrick.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” It had been fun to ply his old trade one more time for the entertainment of some close friends and his one new acquaintance in the dignified Elizabeth St.Pierre.

And of course, for one murderer.

CBI

At the grave-side, Harold’s coffin sat draped in flowers patterned and coloured like Old Glory. The priest droned on and on about ashes and salvation, and then asked if anyone had any words.

David stepped up and began to mumble a few things about family, good memories and moving on.

Jane was feeling rather ill. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he could feel nausea building in his stomach. He was starting to feel the side effects of the pill.

Lisbon finally noticed something was amiss and leaned in with a concerned frown on her face. “Are you all right?” Elizabeth was standing on the other side of him with her arm linked through hers, and Cho was to their immediate rear.

Jane took a few deep breaths to try and counter-act the effects of the pill he had swallowed, to no avail. “Don’t think so.” He said and fainted.

Elizabeth shrieked as Jane collapsed to the grass beside her, nearly pulling her down on top of him. “Oh my goodness - Patrick!” She yelped, turning to her granddaughter. “Teresa – what’s wrong with him?”

Cho bent down and took Jane’s pulse. “His pulse is racing.”

In seconds Lisbon was calling for an ambulance and answered Elizabeth. “I don’t know grandma. But we’ll get an ambulance here right away.” Lisbon barked into her cell phone, giving them directions to their precise location in the acres and hundreds of acres that made up North Sacramento Memorial Garden Cemetery. “How is he?”

Cho’s face was stone which told Lisbon he was both worried and had no answers. “I don’t know.”

Just then, Jane stirred, moving his head from one side to the other. He opened his eyes to see Cho, Lisbon, Elizabeth and an assortment of other faces all looking down on him, blocking out the early evening sun. He focused in on Lisbon. “You didn’t call for an ambulance did you?”

Lisbon heard all she needed to hear. “Why-y-y-y? What did you do?”

Jane sat up. “I’m feeling much better.” With the help of Cho’s powerful left arm, Jane got his feet under him and stood. Elizabeth tut-tut-ed that idea and brought over a folding chair for him to sit on, urging him to use it. Jane thought it best to indulge her as he was still feeling very light-headed and nauseous.

“I’m fine, really.” He insisted. “You can cancel the ambulance.”

Lisbon shook her head. “Absolutely not, and until you tell me what’s going on, the ambulance is going to come, strap you on a gurney and haul you off to the hospital.”

Jane appeared insulted. “Are you threatening me with a hospital stay, Lisbon? That’s coercion.”

“Yes it is.” She said pleasantly. “I know how much you hate hospitals, now what did you do?”

But Jane noticed that much of the crowd of mourners were beginning to disperse. Only those who were members of Elizabeth’s family remained behind, and the grave-site workers were preparing to lower the coffin down into the prepared hole.

“Oh wait!” Jane called out, pointing frantically at the workers. “Don’t do that yet. No, no, no. You can’t do that yet.” He stood and tried to walk over to them, but Cho grabbed his arm, holding him back.

Jane tried to pull away. “Let go of my arm, I’m fine.” A wave of dizziness came over him and he almost toppled over again.

Lisbon motioned for Cho to keep a grip on their recalcitrant consultant. “Why don’t you want them to lower the coffin, Jane? Tell me what’s going on right now or so help me –“

Elizabeth took Jane’s hand in her own and held on tight, accomplishing with old-world grace what Lisbon had been unable to with angry demands. “Patrick. Something obviously has you very upset. Won’t you tell me?”

Jane looked up into the refined lady’s grey eyes. His own were kind. “Yes, there is, Beth. Your husband did not die of heart failure, he was murdered.”

CBI

Elizabeth sat in a chair, her legs crossed at the ankles, in a state of lady-like shock. Her eyes were dry. “But are you sure? Are you absolutely sure, Patrick? How do you know this?”

“Because I fainted.” He said, and then looked over at Eliza St. Pierre. “More specifically I fainted because I took one of the pills from your sleeping pill bottle, Eliza.”

Eliza peered at him through her owlish glasses. “Well, I don’t know why you would steal and then take one of my sleeping pills, but it would certainly explain why you fainted.” She said, indignant that he had gone through her things.

“I didn’t actually steal them – Teresa did. But I took one to find out if they were really sleeping pills. I was fairly sure they were not because of the colour and shape. You see, I’ve taken plenty of sleeping pills over the last decade and I know pretty well all the brands on the market.”

He drew the pill bottle out of his pocket.” I know what they all look like and their shapes, colours and the common dosages, and yes I’ve taken Triazolam too, but these are not Triazolam. See? Even the stamp of the tablet itself.” He shook one out and, squinting, read it out to them “J-S-P-5-4-4 does not match anything I’ve ever seen on any sleep-inducing drug.

“These are not sleeping pills Eliza. Oh they’re in a sleeping pill bottle all right, but my guess from the symptoms I have experienced for the last hour, that these are digitalis – a pill used to treat CHF – Congestive Heart Failure.”

Eliza looked at them all. “Well, those must have belonged to my house-mate and gotten mixed up in my luggage somehow.”

“A minute ago you said they were yours. And even if they were Eliza’s, why would she switch them from their proper bottle into a sleeping pill bottle?” Jane pointed out the obvious. “Why would anyone do that if not to conceal their true nature?”

“You took a heart medication?” Lisbon asked. “Are you insane? You could have died!”

Jane shook off her fussing. “Not from a single dose, but it goes to show what happens when a person with a healthy heart takes digitalis. Isn’t that right, Eliza?”

Eliza was perspiring, her wary eyes staring out from behind the thick glasses with, instead of little old lady sweetness, black hatred. “I told you, my room-mate had a heart condition, that’s why she was on digitalis. Her heart finally gave out.”

“Come on, drop the act.” Jane urged, his voice mocking. “Eliza St. Pierre never had a heart condition, but you did. Still do, in fact.”

Lisbon looked at Jane strangely. “Jane, are you sure you’re okay?”

Jane gently pulled his arm free from Cho’s grip. He was feeling much better. “Perfectly, because this woman isn’t Eliza St. Pierre, she’s the supposed dead house-mate. She murdered Eliza and probably Harold as well.” Jane stared at the woman with confidence. He smiled and knew he was right when the woman didn’t protest.

Everyone present was beginning to see that, yes, something here was probably off. “Whaddya’ say we have an autopsy done on Harold?” Jane asked Eliza. “Because whatever residual drugs that were in his system when he died should still be there and do you know why? Once the body dies it can no longer eliminate anything from its tissues.” Jane explained. “If Harold’s tissues contain digitalis – this digitalis – then we’ll know that his death, despite his advanced age, was not a natural one.”

Eliza took a single step back, removing her glasses. “This is ridiculous. Elizabeth you know me. I’m Eliza.”

But Elizabeth was looking at her supposed sister-in-law with new eyes. “No, my god, no, but I don’t think you are. I never noticed it until now, but you’ve aged quite well, Eliza but that’s not your name is it? It’s Margaret. Margaret Payne, the house-mate. Eliza, she always looked older than me, but here you are, looking younger, even behind those thick glasses. My god, you’re not my sister-in-law at all.”

Jane was feeling woozy again and sat back down on the chair. He explained it to Eliza while Elizabeth and everyone present listened. “You gave a large dose of digitalis to Eliza in her drink or food and that’s what killed her. Her death didn’t surprise anyone, probably not even her doctor since she was in her late seventies. No one would suspect anything other than a sudden stroke or something else that’s common in the elderly.

“But I’ll wager that until the hour you killed that poor woman she wasn’t sick a day in her life. She had the same genes her brother Harold did - stubborn genes that kept hanging on, keeping Eliza around for you to watch in jealousy as her brother funded her life of ease, and sent her to places around the world that you would never see as a poorly paid companion and dog-sitter.

“You probably resented her for years until you saw that you yourself were starting to get old. Soon it would be too late to enjoy life, so you devised on a way you could live hers. You knew she had an inheritance coming, probably talked about it all the time and where she would spend the winters – the life you always wanted. You also knew that Harold and his wife had not seen Eliza for twenty years so they would be unlikely to recognise her. But for good measure, you took Eliza’s glasses, arranged your hair the way she had and borrowed her clothes. And then you arranged to visit.

“But of course you soon realised that Harold was also stubbornly hanging on and the good years you had left were running out, so you decided that he had to die too. After all he could be around for another ten years and that just wouldn’t do.”

Jane took a deep breath. Finally his heart was settling down to its normal pace although it was still a little difficult to breath. “It was the little things that first caused me to look at you, Margaret. That as Eliza you claimed you had to stop making cigar box covers for Harold due what you said as arthritis, but when you were handling the cards during the magic show, I noticed your fingers appeared very dexterous and you seemed to have no trouble with refined movements like drawing a card out of a deck and putting it back.

“Also those glasses would have impeded your ability to see well enough to do any needlework here because Eliza wore thick glasses to do her needlework but you don’t. Eliza’s house-mate Margaret also did needle work with a passion but you couldn’t with those glasses on all the time – so you purchased gifts for Beth and her nephew because you knew when Eliza went to visit her sister-in-law she always brought gifts; only hers were home-made. I suspect working with your hands was the only thing you and Eliza had in common with each other. And then there was your speech.”

“My speech?” Eliza yipped. She took one more step back. “What on earth does my speech have anything to do with anything?”

“Plenty.” Jane said. “After the card trick I said something to you in Italian and you could not answer me because you had no idea what I had just said. You had not even an inkling what the words meant and that was not likely in one who had supposedly made nearly a dozen trips to Italy during her life. I told you what the words meant but actually I lied. What I really said was: Of the dead speak well.”

Jane heard a siren and threw a pained look to Lisbon. He supposed it was probably a good idea to be checked out to make sure he hadn’t damaged anything. Besides if he cooperated with Lisbon now it would help minimize the severe ass-chewing she would no doubt later inflict.

Eliza took a third step back, but Jane was not worried. Van Pelt had shifted her position slowly to the other side of what small crowd of people remained to watch the surprising show-down.

“But you never spoke well of Eliza other than a comment here and there. I noticed that, too - an odd thing in someone who had spent half a life-time as a companion. And as Eliza you had nothing to say about your brother at his own funeral despite how he had sent money to you for all those years. And you wore all that heavy rouge like Eliza used to, only it’s much too red for your complexion. A woman of means, a woman like Eliza who traveled the world and would have wanted to look her best, would most likely have gone to a professional make-up expert and had her rouge properly matched to her skin tone.

Jane waved his hand as though to dismiss everything he had just said. “Anyway, none of this will matter once we do a DNA test and find out that you’re no match to the family and therefore can’t be Eliza St. Pierre.”

Eliza bolted and had a surprising turn of speed for one who was supposedly seventy-five.

Lisbon made a move to run after her but Jane held her back with one arm. “Let Grace tackle her. She needs to get in a good tackle I think.” Jane watched in amusement as Grace caught the woman in five long strides, taking her down with a grunt.

Lisbon said to him "What about our wager?"

"Eh, forget it. It wasn't fair."

"No, it was perfectly fair, and I lost."

"Okay. If you want to go through with it."

"I do only there's almost no one here to say it in front of."

"That part really wasn't fair."

Lisbon smiled to herself and told him "I'm glad you're becoming friends with Cho. Friendship looks good for you. This is the first time I have ever seen you happy." She looked over at him. "And I'm glad to see it."

Jane nodded. "Fair enough." Then he fainted.

The local police arrived and Margaret-Eliza was taken into custody. Jane was loaded into the back of the ambulance, and Lisbon drove her distraught grandmother who was frantic over Jane, to the hospital as she was sharply demanding to be brought along.

Lisbon spoke to the attending and Jane was to be kept overnight for observation.

Lisbon and Cho waited in the room for Jane to wake up and when he did, Lisbon opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind but then her grandmother walked in with a big bowl of bright carnations and a box of chocolates.

She walked straight to his bedside and took one of his hands. “Patrick!” She admonished and then said to her granddaughter and the man called Cho. “Would you two please give us a moment?”

A little surprise, Lisbon said “Sure, grandma, uh take whatever time you need.” Once she and Cho had left the room Beth turned her whole attention on the sick man laying on the bed, her new and very special friend. “That was a very brave but very foolish thing you did, Patrick. But I understand why and I want to thank you deeply for exposing that horrid woman.”

He patted her hand. “My pleasure. What about Harold?”

“Oh there’ll be autopsy now, I assure you. We need to put that woman away for good. And together,” she announced with certainty, “we will.”

Jane smiled at her enthusiasm. “Yes we will.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “Patrick, I wonder if I might explain...that is, for you to understand...” She bit her lip.

“After what we’ve been through together, Beth, you can tell me anything in confidence. You have my word.”

She squeezed his hand. “Harold was a good man, good to me and by that I mean he was a good provider but-“

“You didn’t really love him - I know. But you were loyal all those years anyway because that’s the kind of woman you are – loyal, even when he lied to you, or neglected you. Even when you should have gone out and found a far better man than he was.”

Elizabeth was a shrewd woman herself. “I wanted my grand-daughter and nephew to be provided for later in life, so I stayed.”

“He didn’t deserve you, Beth.” Jane said.

A tear escaped one of her eyes and rolled down the thinning skin on her still delicately beautiful face. Jane understood. “I think the only man you ever really loved, Beth, was your first husband.”

Elizabeth cried a little more, sniffing. “Yes, you’re right. I never really got over losing him - not completely. You don’t, you know – get over that first great love. But you find a way to live with it and be happy.” She smiled sadly at him. He was so like her first husband in manners and countenance and that refined gentility that was so rare in the modern man. And in his secretly tender heart. “Are you doing that, Patrick? Are you happy?”

The sudden flash of sorrow that came over his face was not lost on the woman who had lived many more years than he had in hidden heartache. “Just try, Patrick.” She leaned over and kissed him on the lips just once. “Oh, if only I were thirty years younger...”

“You mean you aren't?”

ElizabetH, with eyes as clear as crystal, winked, said her goodbyes and rounded up her granddaughter. “Teresa, there is something I want to know...”

CBI

On the ride home, Cho driving Jane’s car, and Lisbon following in her own, Cho asked. “Who else did you suspect?”

“David for one, but as nervous as he was acting I realised the reason for it was his daughter was flunking medical school. She had been doing well at one time, back when he had no money to pay for it, but now that he knew he was getting an inheritance he was still a nervous wreck, so I figure maybe he needed immediate cash to cover other debts – that’s why I left him with an opportunity to steal my coin. But he didn’t bite.” Jane drew the gold coin from his pocket.

Cho looked, seeing the coin up close for the first time. “Well, a thief isn’t always a murderer.”

“But usually they are.”

“Is that real gold?”

“Yup. Worth exactly what I said it was, too.”

“And the story of your family and the royal gypsies?”

“Meh. If you’re going to lie it should be a good lie, an elaborate lie. I won this in a card game when I was doing a show in Denmark.”

“So this coin never actually went in the box?”

“’Course not. I switched it out with a dissolving Pop-rock coin - a thin, hollow fake sprayed with gold coloured sugar. I wet the box ahead of time with a thin film of water which when it touches the coin creates a fast reaction with the sugar and Carbon Dioxide gas components. Then it’s just a matter of giving the reaction sufficient time to dissolve the coin to almost nothing. Usually there’s nothing much left but a bit of discoloured powder or a few hard granules. I knew since Beth used the box to store sugary chews, anyone who looked too closely afterward would assume it was residue from the candy.”

“Suppose the water had evaporated?”

“It was a tin box and the lid was on. Wouldn’t happen, at least not that quickly.”

“Cool.” Cho said.

“Cool?” Jane repeated. “Cool? It’s unbelievably cool. It’s incredibly cool. It’s one of the coolest coin tricks ever.”

“Right. Didn’t mean to insult your former profession. That Eliz – er - Margaret is a real piece of work.”

“Yes.” Jane agreed. “And she would not have stopped killing.”

“Why do you say that? If not for you, she would have gotten away with it and had Eliza’s money. She’d be rich. Why risk it?”

“Harold was rich but his riches were being split up, so Margaret would have been well off, for a while, but not rich. Undoubtedly she would have shortly run through that money living the high life, and then she would have wanted David’s money. So he would have to die as well. His money would have passed down to her, too, and when that was gone then the only one left would have been Teresa.”

Cho nodded to himself. Jesus of course! Lisbon would have been next in line. Jane had not only solved two murders, he had probably prevented two more. He really was The Amazing Jane.

“Once a murder has gotten away with it once,” Jane contended, “he or she thinks it’s all too easy to do it again. All it takes is an ego and a dramatic lack of conscience.”

Cho said “I’m glad you’re on our side, man."

CBI

When the anniversary of the death of his family rolled around, Jane took Cho along to visit the gravesite. It was the first time anyone had come with him and Cho recognised it for what it was; a gesture of true friendship.

When they approached the head stones, Jane saw something already sitting in the glass vase that stood there all year around like a tiny soldier. Six bright yellow roses. A small card was tied to the bundle with a white ribbon. Jane took the card and opened it. In Elizabeth’s neat, generous script it read: “For your family and for you, Patrick. From this day forward – be happy. Take it from one who knows. Fondly - Beth.”

CBI – END

* Literally – “Of the dead, speak well.”

Stayed tuned for our next fic’-isode: Steady Red Means Stop. Former attorney and now television reporter/host Karen Cross has a new show. Her special interview-e? - Patrick Jane! During her two-show in-depth interview with the CBI consultant, Jane solves a cold case and Karen Cross receives a special, and unexpected, guest via a call-in viewer.