A tumble of books hurtles to the ground behind me and I scream.
Grams appears out of nowhere. “What is it? Is someone after you?”
I hold a hand to my heaving chest and thudding heart. I gasp for breath and reply, “No idea. I don’t see—”
A single sound pierces the night. “Reow.”
Of course. The demon cat, out for some late night fun. “That cat tried to kill me.”
A ghostly snicker tinkles though the darkness.
“It’s not funny. I could have a weak heart. Those frights could be deadly.” I stomp off to the back room and flood the bookshop with light. “Now, let’s see what kind of mess he’s made this time.”
Grams ghost-pets the purring CAT-astrophe while I clean up.
I put a few books back on the shelf before I recognize the pattern. “What are you doing with all these books about guns in your bookshop? A US Army technical manual?” I slide it into place. “Or The Theory and Design of Ammunition?”
“I don’t recall adding those to the collection, dear. Sometimes Twiggy picks things up at estate sales. You’d have to ask her.”
I look from the book in my hand to the pesky fur-covered terror. Did he knock these down on purpose? I shake my head, but keep the ammunition book all the same. “I’ll take this upstairs for a little light reading.”
Pyewacket purrs loudly and bounds up the steps ahead of me.
“That’s a good kitty,” coos Grams.
“Please don’t encourage the tan terror.”
A phantom throat clearing cuts the silence when I drop the Donna Karan suit on the floor, but I choose to ignore it. Instead, I climb into the heavenly bed, click on a bedside lamp, and open the weaponry treatise.
Soon the tantalizing lull of dreamland—
A furry torpedo knocks me awake and possibly fractures my floating rib.
The riveting text on bullets, sub-projectiles, and grains per pound times the acceleration of gravity had lulled me into a lovely sleep. I was right in the middle of a magnificent dream starring Sheriff Erick when kitty-bomb attacked.
“Anything?” Grams floats next to the bed.
“I can’t keep my eyes open.” I lay the book on the bedside table and snuggle in for the night.
Pye kneads his claws into my shoulder.
“Shove off.” I give him a tentative push. I want him off, but I don’t want to draw his wrath. “I’ll keep reading in the morning with a strong cup of coffee and—some Fruity Puffs, if you don’t let me sleep.”
Pyewacket growls softly, but parades to the end of the bed and curls up like an angel.
Cut to—angel falls from heaven, directly onto my chest, and I wake up gasping for air.
“I’m up. I’m up.” I push the comforter and Pyewacket off my scared-to-life body and stumble to the bathroom.
“Are you up already?” Grams calls from a modest distance.
“Yes, apparently I couldn’t wait to jump back into that enthralling book.” I gesture toward the manual on the nightstand and see Pye stretched across my pillow with one insistent paw resting on the spine.
As soon as I make eye contact his tufted ears twitch and his hefty paw slides.
The book thunks to the floor.
“I said I’m going to read it!” I throw my hands up.
“He needs his breakfast, dear. And you need some coffee.” Grams swooshes through the wall as she mumbles, “Not a morning person.”
“I heard that!” I open the bookcase and Pyewacket rockets past, knocking me sideways.
I pour a bowl of Fruity Puffs for him and one for myself.
Pyewacket gives me an “if looks could kill” stare.
“Just this once, Pye. I haven’t had time to get to the market.”
He ignores me and eats.
I push “brew” on the coffeemaker and munch the cereal while I wait for my go-go juice.
Steaming mug in hand, I climb back up to the apartment.
Two cups of coffee and one argument with Pyewacket later, I’ve actually found something. “This sounds promising . . . ”
“Do tell, dear.”
“There’s a thing called a sabot. It’s made out of plastic and can hold a bullet inside the barrel.”
“Isn’t that where all bullets go, honey?”
I drop the book on the bed and sigh. “I’m not explaining it right. If I understand all this technical mumbo jumbo, it means that you could shoot a small bullet out of a bigger gun.”
“And?” Grams circles her hand impatiently.
“Well, technically, Darrin could’ve placed a 9mm bullet in one of these sabot thingies that fit into his .45-caliber gun. That would explain the lack of rifling on the second 9mm bullet.”
“What about the third shot?”
“Maybe there wasn’t a third shot. I keep reading Darrin’s statement and it seems like the mysterious third shot was how he explained the gunpowder residue on his hands. But the police never found a third bullet or the missing security tape.”
“If there was no third shot—if Darrin fired the shot that killed—”
It’s hard to watch a poltergeist cry. “This is good news, Grams. This means it’s actually possible that Dad didn’t kill the store manager.”
“That’s why I’m crying, dear. We turned our backs on him. We let him rot in jail.” The tears turn into full-blown weeping. “What kind of mother must I be?”
“Grams, you can’t blame yourself. The police didn’t even figure out what Darrin did.”
Pyewacket adds his mournful call to the keening.
After years of hiding my pain from taunting foster siblings, I don’t “do” emotion too well and I can’t imagine how to begin comforting a ghost. I slip into black skinny jeans and a “Hot Mess No Stress” tee with a stack of syrupy pancakes pictured.
The mourning duo doesn’t acknowledge my exit. Fine by me.
I hustle down to the station.
“Is the sheriff in?”
“Whom may I say is asking?”
Wow. This clerk has to be the only person in town who doesn’t know me. “Tell him Mitzy Moon has urgent news.”
Her eyes widen and one eyebrow does a comical arch.
Now that is the reaction I’ve come to expect.
She picks up the phone and delivers my message.
Sheriff Erick rounds the corner, looks down at my T-shirt, grins, and shakes his head.
I shrug and follow him back to his office.
“What’s the urgent news, Moon?” His smile is warm and his gaze lingers.
I toy with the idea of saying I had a dream about him, but I need him to be cooperative and I want to engender some good will. I’ll save that little gem for later. “I promised I’d share any information with you and I’m here to keep up my end of the bargain.”
Surprise tainted with suspicion paints his handsome face.
“I think Darrin MacIntyre killed that store manager.”
Erick leans forward and confusion floods his expression. “I thought you were here about Cal’s case?”
“Not today.” I smile innocently.
“Well, the protests of a long-lost daughter are expected, but that case was decided many years ago. In fact, your dad’s already out of prison. Why would you point the finger at Darrin now?”
Anger rises faster than I can tamp it down. “Are you saying that it’s all right for my father to serve a fifteen-year prison sentence for a crime he didn’t commit just because he’s out now?”
Sheriff Erick leans back.
“Are you saying that my dad should carry the label ‘murderer’ around for the rest of his life when there’s a better-than-average chance he’s innocent?” I take a deep breath and power up for more.
Erick stands and puts his hands up. “Easy, Erin Brockovich. Why don’t you tell me why you think he’s innocent and we’ll take it from there.”
I look down to see that I’m standing and waving my hands like a nut job. Deep breath. One more for good measure. I lowe
r my arms and sit. “Are you aware the bullet that was recovered from the victim didn’t have rifling.”
He narrows his gaze. “Where did you get that information?”
“Did you know or not?” I sidestep his question.
“I wasn’t on the force back then. Rookies hear rumors, but I never saw any evidence to support that claim.” He leans forward. “Have you?”
“Let’s assume I have.” Feint and parry. “If that were the case, is it possible that Darrin MacIntyre fired the kill shot from his .45 by using a sabot to jacket the 9mm bullet?”
He shifts his sexy jaw back and forth. “Where are you getting your info, Moon?”
“Oh, Pyewacket got me a book on guns and ammo.” Touro! I swish my imaginary bullfighter’s cape. I slip by without answering another query.
I can see by the look on his face that what I’ve proposed regarding the use of the sabot is possible. That’s enough. I stand and smile. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff.”
He opens his mouth, but I twist on a dime and rush out like a hipster to an artisanal cheese shoppe.
I’m tempted to stop at the diner for a proper breakfast, but a flash of nervous tummy hits me and I hurry back to the apartment.
I’m going to meet my father in less than two hours. I should probably shower.
I peel off my tee before the bookcase closes.
“What’s the hurry?”
“I’m freaking out about meeting him.”
“Jacob? Oh, he’ll love you, dear. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“I’m freaking. It’s what I do.”
“Where’d you go?” Grams pats under her puffy eyes. “Pye and I didn’t see you leave.”
“I ran my theory past Erick. He wouldn’t answer, but I could see by the look on his face that it’s possible.”
Grams disappears into the closet. “I’ll find you something lovely to wear.”
Why argue. I unhook my bra with one hand while I twist the hot water on with the other.
A slightly sweaty, crumpled piece of paper falls to the bathmat.
I pick it up and smooth it out on the counter. Oh yeah, in the flying book fiasco, I forgot all about the PI.
Grams bursts through the wall from the closet. “What PI?”
I grab a towel to cover myself. “Grams, rule number two: no phase-shifting into the bathroom without an express verbal invitation.”
She giggles. “Number two, in the bathroom. You’re a stitch, Mitzy.”
She vanishes back through the wall, still giggling.
I’d close the door, but what’s the point?
I slip under the glorious spray of water. Hot, steamy showers will never get old.
I wrap a thick cottony towel around myself and sit down at the vanity to attempt a replication of the makeup I applied for the ladies’ luncheon.
“You look lovely, dear.”
I go for a more casual version of the sleek hairdo that Grams had supervised, but I use product and a blow dryer all by myself.
“Come and see what I’ve picked out.”
Grams heads through the wall and I walk around, like a civilized person.
“Where is it?”
“I can’t actually move anything, honey. I’ll point and you grab. These boots.” A pair of knee-high, black-leather riding boots
I nod approvingly.
“And I thought this sweater with your own jeans.” She points to a chic black-and-grey-striped cashmere boyfriend sweater.
I touch the soft knit and purr appreciatively. “This will look great with skinny jeans.”
“I thought you’d like to pair it with something of your own. To feel grounded in yourself.”
“Kinda woo woo, Grams.”
“I was just trying it out. Seemed like something you kids would say.”
“Not this kid.” I put on the outfit and look at myself in the full-length mirror. “Do you think he’ll like me?”
“How could he not, dear? You’re his daughter.” She brushes a tear from her cheek.
“You should’ve been buried with a handkerchief, Grams.”
“Oh, Mitzy.” She laughs. “You’re too much.”
I walk to the secret door and turn to look up at Grams. “Ready?”
“You want me to come?”
“Can you?”
“I actually haven’t tried to go into the museum. I’ll be there if I can.”
“All right. But don’t say anything. I’m crazy nervous already. If I start talking to ghosts in front of him . . . Just be there for moral support.”
“You got it.”
I walk out into the Rare Books Loft and the bookshop actually has customers milling around on the first floor.
“It’s on the third shelf at the end of the self-help stack.” Twiggy’s knowledgeable yet impatient voice drifts up to my ears.
Good to know that’s being handled. Now I need to figure out how to get into the museum.
Grams floats down to my side and winks. “Follow me,” she says.
I guess her thought-hearing comes in handy in a crowded room.
Near the double-stacked rows of windows at the front, there’s a grey metal door marked “Employees Only.” Man, I have got to get familiar with this place.
Grams fades through the door and pops just her head back toward me. “Looks like I can access the museum.” She slips out of view.
I depress the metal push-bar and follow.
A new world. The smell of ink, metal, and history.
The space is only half the size of the bookshop, but it has an entire second floor rather than balconies and a mezzanine. The ground floor houses large equipment in a variety of historical displays. “Is that an actual Gutenberg press?”
“I’ll give you a full tour later, dear. I hear Silas.”
I turn to face the door I just passed through. There’s a scrape as the metal bar is pushed. The door swings open— My chest constricts. I can’t breathe. Beads of sweat pop out on my forehead.
“Breathe, dear. Focus on me and breathe.” Grams hovers between the opening door and me.
My heart races, but I manage to gulp down some air.
Silas walks through first. His balding head, thick grey mustache, saggy cheeks, and baggy brown suit give me a strange sense of calm.
The man behind him is tall and handsome. His close-cropped, ice-blonde hair is the exact hue of my own, and his piercing grey eyes lock onto me with intense worry.
“Mizithra?”
Years of emotions agitate in my gut like a washer on spin cycle. Longing. Hate. Anxiety. Fear. Disappointment. Loss. Abandonment. Love. “Dad!” I lose all sense of modesty as I close the distance between us, and despite the fact that I promised myself I would not cry, I sob into his blue cotton shirt.
His strong arms engulf me and I feel safe, safer than I’ve ever felt in my life. I wish my mom could’ve felt this safe.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me.” His raspy voice is barely a whisper.
His voice is thick with emotion. He actually thought I might not agree to see him? This poor man. I squeeze my arms around him. “I can’t believe you’re real.”
I swipe the flood of tears from my face and assume that my careful application of makeup is caput. But I don’t care, because my dad is alive. I’m not an orphan.
He leans back and looks down at me with so much love I might melt. His voice catches a little as he says, “I can’t believe you’re here. What have you been doing since you got to Pin Cherry?”
Before I can reply, Grams swirls in and blurts, “Tell him about the sawb-oh thing and how we think he’s innocent—and that wicked Darrin—”
I wave my hands. “Give me a second, Grams. My world is spinning for the third or fourth time this week. I’ll tell him everything in a minute. Gimme a second to process.”
Silas grins. “Isadora never had the gift of patience. I see that hasn’t changed.”
I look at my dad and my shoulders sag. We just met and I’
m hearing voices. He’ll probably disown me on the spot.
“Silas brought me up to speed on the way over. I’m not sure if I believe in ghosts, but if anyone could find a loophole in death, it would be my mother.” He glances around the room and announces to the air in general, “I’m sorry I wasn’t at the funeral, Mom. I didn’t think the town would take too kindly to my return.”
“Tell him I love him. And tell him we know he’s innocent.”
“She says she loves you.” I shrug self-consciously. “And I’m not sure if Silas mentioned it or not, but we’ve been looking into your case and we think we can prove that you didn’t commit the murder.”
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. “I guess we’re jumping right into it then.” Jacob takes a deep breath and walks to the front windows.
“We’ve lost too much time already,” I offer quietly.
He nods and stares into the distance. His fingers wipe absently at the dust on the sill and he exhales.
I want to ask a million questions about the time he spent with my mother, if he loved her, and if he ever thought of me, but the best way to give him a fresh start is to clear his name. I plow ahead. “Darrin shot the guy, right?”
Jacob laughs, but it’s a bitter, humorless sound. “I stopped saying that after my first nickel in lockup.”
I walk over and put my hand on my dad’s arm. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I understand what it’s like to serve a sentence for something you didn’t do, but I got accused of murder about an hour after I arrived in this town. You lost fifteen years of your life. You want to give up the rest of it, or are you gonna fight?”
He has to pull himself back from a faraway place. It takes a moment for his eyes to fully focus on me. “Who accused you of murder? Whose murder?”
“Sheriff Er—Harper arrested me for Cal’s murder.”
Jacob shoots Silas a worried look. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
Silas shrugs. “She’s been all but eliminated. He’s moved on to questioning Kitty and Finnegan Wells.”
“Kitty,” grumbles Jacob.
“Do you know anything about the interrogations? Did they admit to the fake fundraising?” I walk toward Silas as I fire questions.
“I delved into the ‘charity’ that benefits from the Halloween Masquerade philanthropy and your suspicions were correct. It funnels through several convoluted pipes, but in the end it lands in Finnegan’s pockets.”
Fries and Alibis Page 12