W is for Wicked (Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery Book 2)

by Lotta Smith

  “Oh yeah?” His lips curled into a grin.

  “Stop giving me the look that says ‘You’re way too heavy to fly.’”

  “No. I was just thinking it would take a hell of an anti-gravity field generator for you to fly like Tinker Bell.”

  “Hello? That’s as bad as calling me fat!”

  When I punched his arm, Giselle cleared her throat. “Um… excuse me.” She was standing sheepishly by our side. After a moment of fidgeting, she said, “Mandy?”

  Without responding, I gave her a glare, which was as mean as I could muster. After some staring, I said, “What now?”

  The ghost of Giselle McCambridge mumbled, “I apologize for the earlier outburst of my… emotion.”

  I wasn’t ready to accept her apology after almost getting smashed like a rotten tomato, but standing up, I said, “I can understand you’re upset.”

  “No, you can’t. You have never been killed. I can’t believe I’m dead! I was so looking forward to the debutante ball, fund-raising dinners, luncheons, shopping trips to Paris, my beautiful grand niece’s bat mitzvah, and everything!”

  “Will you please calm down?” I recoiled and faltered.

  “Is she still upset?” Rowling asked, holding my shoulders from behind and supporting me.

  “We’re working on a civilized conversation,” I stated sarcastically, but the temperamental ghost wasn’t listening.

  “Hello, you look familiar.” Blushing, Giselle cooed around Rowling.

  “Meet Rick Rowling, my boss,” I informed, rolling my eyes.

  “Stop rolling your eyes at me.” She scolded me. “Rick Rowling… Oh, you must be the grandson of Nate Rowling!” she went on, but Rowling didn’t respond, so she nudged me. “Ask him if his grandfather’s name is Nathan.”

  I did as I was told, and Rowling said yes, smiling. “He was known as Nate.”

  “Oh my goodness! What a fine young man he’s turned out to be! I remember him as the cute little boy Ricky, who followed his mother everywhere. Now he’s all grownup, looking just like his grandfather in his youth.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling.

  “Why are you laughing?” Rowling asked.

  “She remembers you as the cute little boy.”

  “I know. I’ve been photogenic my entire life.” He flashed a cocky grin.

  “And she remembers you as a mama’s boy.” I wiggled my fingers.

  “You’re making that up.” He narrowed his eyes.

  “Oh, when he narrows his eyes like that, he’s almost like Nate’s double,” Giselle said fondly. “I had a crush on him. Indeed, everyone had a crush on him.”

  “Wow.” I smiled. It was a cute story.

  “Mandy, don’t forget you’re supposed to ask her about the case and not gossip,” frowning, Rowling pointed out.

  “Rest assured. Now that I came to terms with my unanticipated death, I need to know who killed me and for what reason—a prank or otherwise. So, Mandy.” Giselle looked me straight in the eye. “Please summon everyone who was in this house on the night I got killed. And I need you to summon every single person, immediately.”

  “Um… I’ll check with my boss.”

  “What does she want?” Rowling demanded. When I told him about the ghost’s request, he said, “Fine. I’ll have NYPD arrange the meeting,” and walked toward the captain.

  “Now that I’m dead, I know I can’t stay here forever. I have to leave to a better place sooner or later. Before my departure, I must demonstrate to the world that the nasty accusation placed on my son is wrong on all levels. Clearing my son’s name will be my last gift to my family. And I’m telling you, he’s the most gentle-hearted person in the world,” Giselle said, looking at the chandelier, which was intact after the mayhem.

  As she mentioned the word “departure” I felt a surge of emotion within myself. “Madame Giselle…”

  While I blinked hard, fighting back tears, she added, “About the earlier incident, you know, I had no intention of crashing the chandelier. When Patrick, my late husband, remodeled this house following our marriage, he custom-ordered it from Baccarat.”

  “Oh…” I mumbled. Suddenly, my eyes turned dry. “How nice.”

  “Also, I saved good pieces of art, like the Matisse and Chagall paintings. The pieces currently scattered on the floor are either replica or junk, and they’re not suitable for Christie’s or Sotheby’s. I’m afraid any decent arts auction services reject them at first sight.”

  “Excuse me? You tried to crack my head like Humpty Dumpty with the vase, didn’t you? You could have at least used a better piece for that purpose, couldn’t you? Getting killed by an original Galle is one thing, but being wacked by some cheap craft is a completely different story.” I narrowed my eyes.

  “I didn’t try to kill you.” She snorted. “I knew you’d be fine. You’re standing here unharmed because Ricky covered your back, just as I predicted.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “Mandy.” Giselle, who ditched her previous formality and snobbishness, grinned like Cheshire Cat. “You should have kissed him while you were in his arms.”

  “Excuse me?” I almost shrieked. As I felt the eyes of people gathering at the foyer on me, I lowered my voice and insisted, “Don’t get me wrong. We’re not like that.”

  “Don’t be such a killjoy.” She pouted. “If you did, I could have taken a ride on you and tasted the sweet kiss of him. You’re such a procrastinator. Unbelievable!”

  “Did you just say take a ride on me? Will you please stop treating me like a bus?”

  “Oh-la-la! If only I were younger by fifty years, I would definitely throw myself at him. By the way, I have a hunch about my killer.”

  “Excuse me? You said you couldn’t see who pushed you, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but I can name a person who might have killed me.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you, yet.” She pursed her lips in an enigmatic way.

  “Um… Madame, you have no time to waste. I really hate to tell you this, but…” I informed her about the potential exorcism by Brian Powers.

  “Brian Powers?” This time, her previously rigid and unmoving eyebrows shot up. “Ha!” She gave an über-scary dirty look.

  “I’m not the one who called him! Don’t shoot the messenger!” I said hurriedly.

  “I won’t shoot you.” Giselle took a deep breath, and said through her gritted teeth, “But I won’t make it easy for them! If they try to get rid of me like a kidney stone, I’ll bring them all with me to the nation of death!”

  “Oh, no… that’s not good for your karma.”

  “Karma? Screw karma!” she spat. “Who cares about karma when you’re killed? Besides, like I used to joke with Patrick, I have no intention of going to such a boring place like Heaven. Basically, Heaven’s dead people’s version of the Hamptons, and I have no intention of becoming a boring dead person lounging at the beachside cabana in Heaven.”

  Without words, I slapped my forehead over and over, wishing I’d wake up from this nightmare.

  * * *

  “The killer must be Miranda, the victim’s sister. She paid Aurora big bucks and had her send evil spirits to the McCambridge mansion. And those evil spirits pushed Giselle off the stairs, totally offing her.” Nana expressed her opinion about the potential killer of Giselle McCambridge while holding her forkful of meatball spaghetti in midair.

  “No, the killer should be the maid,” Mom interjected. “It’s often the first person to come across the scene who committed the murder.”

  “Martha, you’re an amateur, and we’re talking about a real murder investigation.” Nana waved her left hand to make her point.

  “You, too, are an amateur, Mother,” Mom responded to Nana’s reminder.

  “But I’ve lived longer than you, which means I’ve watched many more cop shows on TV than you,” Nana shot back.

  Then, both of them turned to Rowling and said in
unison, “Isn’t my theory right, Rick?”

  I was at my parents’ home, which was also my place of residence, thanks to my student loan. I was at the dining table, eating lunch with Nana, Mom, and Rowling. As it was a weekday, Dad was at work, peacefully away from home. It was going to take a few hours to contact and reassemble everyone who was at the McCambridge mansion on the night of the murder. Rowling decided it was a great idea to drop by my parents’ home in Queens, for lunch. While I was being grilled by the ghost of Giselle, he was texting with Nana, and he happened to like meatball spaghetti.

  Rowling responded with a polite smile. “Actually, I feel that even Giselle’s not 100 percent sure about the killer’s identity.”

  “I see. That’s possible.” Nana nodded. “By the way, Rick, can I ask you a favor?”

  “What favor?” Rowling asked nonchalantly, but one of his eyebrows was slightly raised. He had recently caught on to Nana’s eccentricity.

  “Can you take a photo of the McCambridge mansion to see if you can take a clear ghost photograph?” Nana asked eagerly.

  “That’s interesting. I can do that.”

  “Thank you, Rick!” Nana threw a kiss at him.

  “My pleasure, Leonora.” He caught the invisible kiss in midair. For some reason I didn’t know and didn’t want to know, he hit it off well with Nana, and they were on a first-name basis.

  “More spaghetti?” Mom asked.

  “Yes, please. Thank you.” Rowling flashed a dazzling smile, which prompted Mom to blush and serve him more.

  “Mom, can I have another meatball, please?” I requested before she served the last remaining meatball to my boss, but it was too late.

  “Mandy, honey.” As I groaned, Mom patted my cheek. “Maybe you’re better off without an additional meatball. You don’t want to grow bigger than your favorite dress, do you?”

  “Excuse me? I might be taken away to the land of death and this might be my final meal in this world. Oh, did I mention I’d be dragged into Hell? The murder victim’s determined to avoid Heaven at all cost, claiming that Heaven’s a dead person’s version of the Hamptons, and it would be boring,” I pointed out.

  “Oh my stars! No. You’re so not going to die!” Mom sucked in air.

  “Mom…,” I muttered, a little touched by her sweet gesture.

  “You can’t just die on us, leaving your humongous student loan behind,” she declared.

  “That’s not my fault!” I defended. “His!” I indicated Rowling with the palm of my hand.

  “Who? Me?” Rowling put on a shocked expression, which was obviously fake.

  “Mandy, stay safe and don’t die, okay?” Nana chimed in. “If you suffered an untimely death, your mother’s going to Hell, literally hell-bent to hunt you down. And that won’t be pretty.”

  I rolled my eyes while my boss laughed his ass off. I didn’t even feel the urge to replace the A-word with behind. I was going to Hell anyway.

  “You’ll be fine,” Rowling said, recovering from the laughing fit and moving one of his meatballs onto my plate. “We’ll sort everything out soon.”

  “Don’t worry, Mandy. Rick has your back.” Mom smiled reassuringly.

  “That’s so true,” Nana chimed in. “Trust Rick and you’ll be fine.”

  To my horror, my folks—especially Nana and Mom—are super fond of Rick Rowling. I’d been warning them about the perils of hanging with him over and over, but they don’t believe me. Moreover, they tend to treat me as if I have a crush on him but having trouble admitting my feelings.

  “I hope so.” I stuck the meatball with my fork before my boss changed his mind.

  “I don’t know if I want to spend eternity in Hell, but it sounds like a fun place to visit,” Nana commented, “especially with all three generations of the Meyer women gathered there, slaying demons like The Three Musketeers.”

  “Speaking of The Three Musketeers, Charlie Sheen used to be so cute back in 1993.” Jackie, the ghost of a slain drag queen who claimed to be my guardian angel, popped out of nowhere.

  “Hello? Do I know you?” I said with a cool demeanor.

  “Come on, Mandy! Don’t be cruel to your guardian angel.” Jackie breezed off my sarcasm.

  “My guardian angel? Excuse me? What kind of guardian angel hides away when the person you’re supposed to protect almost gets killed by a menacing ghost of a super-rich widow?”

  “Mandy, relax. We’re having the nice chocolate Rick brought us for dessert,” Mom said to me and turned to Rowling. “Rick, you really shouldn’t bring gifts, but I love, love, love this chocolate! Thank you!”

  “My pleasure.” Rowling, who bought champagne truffles from Charbonnel et Walker on the way to my home, smiled politely.

  “Maybe being Mandy is way more exciting than a one-day trip to Hell,” Nana commented.

  “Jackie, how were the people in the upstairs doing?” Rowling asked while I grumbled. While I interviewed Giselle without much success, the foyer was set off-limits to the McCambridge family members or the servants.

  “Oh, yes. I was totally working hard while you were intimidated by the scary lady. And I have even spotted someone suspicious.” Jackie stuck out her tongue.

  According to her, Wilma-Diane McCambridge, the wife of the victim’s adopted son, was the only McCambridge member who stayed at the mansion while I interviewed Giselle. When Jackie snuck into her room in the upstairs, she was busy watching reruns of Breaking Bad.

  Other than Wilma-Diane, people who stayed on the premise during our earlier visit to the McCambridge mansion were Marcus Warne-Smith, the butler, and Willow Ganong, the maid. And Jackie insisted it should be the maid who pushed the victim. When Jackie observed them, while the butler nervously busied himself by pacing around in his waiting room, the maid was pretending to polish the silverware while chain-smoking and endlessly texting. On top of all that, Jackie witnessed the maid sneaking a silver spoon into her pocket.

  “So, my money’s on the maid who killed the victim. The butler guy seemed nice enough. He came out of his waiting room to see what it was all about when the scary lady had her temper tantrum. Actually, he took a few steps down the marble stairs, and I suppose he would have jumped in to intervene if he hadn’t been stopped by one of the officers. Oh, by the way, I recommend everyone come to the mansion wearing exactly the same footwear as the pairs they had on the night of the victim’s death and walk down the marble stairs again. Maybe she’ll remember her killer when she listens to how each person’s footsteps sound on the stairs.”

  As I conveyed Jackie’s words to Rowling, he nodded. “Rest assured. Everything’s covered.”

  CHAPTER 6

  When we went back to the McCambridge mansion at 1:30 p.m., DeLaurentis informed us that the victim’s three grandchildren—Wolfgang, Wyatt, and Whitney—came back from school, and Wilfred McCambridge—current CEO of McCambridge Steel, who was still at a conference in downtown—was the only person yet to come.

  Jackie volunteered to snoop on the McCambridge kids waiting for their father’s return upstairs.

  According to Jackie’s report, Wolfgang, who was a sophomore at Columbia, was working with his laptop. Whitney, the eldest of the McCambridge kids, who was a junior international politics major at Columbia, was busy with the PlayStation.

  “And there’s Wyatt, a high school sophomore, my favorite boy. He was chatting nonstop with his buddy on the balcony with the shirt off.” Jackie winked.

  “Ewww,” I recoiled.

  “Ewww, what?” Jackie and Rowling said in unison.

  “I’m not a big fan of men who go shirtless for no good reason,” I replied, and added for Rowling, “Jackie says Wyatt was shirtless when he was in his room.”

  “Your opinion will change when you see a really hot shirtless guy.” A corner of Rowling’s mouth quirked up into a smile.

  I cleared my throat. “By the way, Jackie, how can you identify each of them? You don’t know them personally, right?” I asked.

 
“I’ve never met them, but I read Page Six,” was her reply.

  Rowling’s response to the information provided by Jackie was a brief nod followed by a chuckle. “A ghost who reads Page Six. How cool is that?”

  At 3:00 p.m., Wilfred and two friends of Whitney’s arrived at the McCambridge mansion, and the rest of the house who were previously stuck upstairs came down and gathered in the huge foyer.

  “Thank you for your cooperation regarding the investigation of the late Mrs. Giselle McCambridge’s death.” DeLaurentis announced we had only seven hours and thirty minutes until the deadline.

  I took a glance at Giselle’s ghost, who nodded curtly at me.

  I cleared my throat, ready to start asking questions, and that was when the intercom beeped to notify us we had a visitor.

  Marcus Warne-Smith, the butler in his late fifties who looked just as elegant and composed as any of the butlers from Downton Abbey—totally representing a personal gentleman serving ladies and gentleman—excused himself to answer the intercom. After a brief moment, he came back looking slightly distressed, which he apparently worked hard to conceal without a success. He hurried to the new master of the household, Wilfred.

  As the butler whispered something into his ear, Wilfred McCambridge let out an audible groan. “Can’t you tell her we’re traveling or something?”

  “I can try, sir. But I have a hunch that Mrs. Wollf is going to squat in front of the house forever, making major noises,” the butler suggested.

  “You have a point.” Wilfred grimaced and sighed. “Fine. Let her in.”

  As the McCambridge kids exchanged their glances and rolled their eyes, Miranda Wollf—a thin, blonde, more heavily botoxed and breast-implanted version of Giselle McCambridge—came in.

  Clad in a pink chiffon dress and carrying a hot pink croco Birkin, she looked exactly like Elle Woods from Legally Blonde who had just hit early seventies.

  “Hello, everyone. As a concerned sister of Giselle, I am here to help in finding the truth regarding her death!” she declared dramatically.