by Libby Howard
I let out my breath in a whoosh. “You caught her. Did she confess?”
He rocked in his chair, causing it to squawk a bit. “No, she lawyered up. But we’ve got her.”
“She confessed to me,” I told him. “I can testify to that as well as her trying to stab me and locking me in the dumpster.”
He sat forward and fixed me with a rather intense stare. “I owe you my thanks. We’ve got a good case, but this additional footage plus your testimony will help.”
That meant a lot. “Maybe you’ll consider using Pierson Investigative and Recovery Services as a consultant on future cases?”
He grinned. “Don’t push your luck, Carrera. Now go home and shower. You stink.”
I grinned back and spun on my heel, hardly noticing the ache in my arm and shoulder as I practically skipped out of the station. He’d definitely consider using us in the future. And he was right—I did stink.
Chapter 22
J.T. was right—the tamales were amazing. I’d managed to make it home before Judge Beck and was able to shower and even put through my clothes through a heavy-stain cycle in the washer before he came through the door. Then I told him all about my adventures over tamales and a big chef salad. I left out the part about being nearly stabbed and being locked in a dumpster for half an hour. My arm and shoulder were feeling better thanks to some aspirin, and I wanted him to see me more as the savvy almost-detective and not the woman who gets trapped in a dumpster by a murderer. I had a habit of finding murder victims. I didn’t need to add the habit of being nearly killed by murderers to that.
After dinner, the judge spread all his papers out on the dining room table and went to work. I was just settling in with the second Fanged Darkness book when a shadow appeared over by the bookcase.
“I was wondering when you’d show up.” I whispered the words, not wanting Judge Beck to hear me and think I was in here talking to myself. “Mystery’s solved. Murderer is behind bars. Take a hike and I’ll see you tomorrow at work. It’s going to be boring stuff from here on out, though. That stuff today doesn’t happen all the time, so don’t think you’re going to be rescuing me from dumpsters and helping me find murder victims several times a week.”
The spirit darkened and moved closer. His presence felt heavy, insistent.
“Thank you, by the way,” I told him. “I’m not sure how long I would have been stuck in that dumpster if you hadn’t helped. I really appreciate it.”
Holt stayed where he was and I shivered at a sudden blast of cold. The front window frosted over, then cleared, just like Olive’s mirror.
The mirror.
I got up and snuck behind Judge Beck as quietly as I could so as to not disturb him. Then I slid open the silverware drawer of the sideboard and took the mirror out. Walking on tiptoes, I headed back into the parlor and set the heavy mirror on the coffee table.
It immediately frosted over, neat block lettering filling the surface.
Can’t imagine Sherlock Holmes getting locked in a dumpster.
Ha, ha. Yeah, thanks. I scowled at the mirror.
Or those guys from NCIS. Or Gator Pierson.
“Gator would totally get trapped in a dumpster,” I hissed. “He’d just make sure he didn’t film that part.”
The mirror frosted over again. It was fun, but not as much fun as football.
I suddenly felt bad for the guy once more. “No, I’m sure it’s not as much fun as football.”
Season starts soon. I miss it. I miss the guys. I’m thinking I might head to Atlanta and haunt them for a bit.
“Won’t that be like rubbing salt in the wound?” I asked the ghost. “How difficult will it be for you to watch them play, knowing it could have been you out there with them? Knowing you’ll never be able to do that again?”
The frost on the mirror slowly melted and I wondered for a moment if I’d upset him.
It’s going to be hard, but I want to watch them. Maybe help them.
I grimaced at the thought of a poltergeist helping an NFL team. Guess we wouldn’t be seeing Atlanta in the Super Bowl this year.
“If it’s too painful and you want to come back, you’re welcome here.” What was I saying? “Well, you’re welcome here sometimes. Only when I’m working or at barbeques, and only if you leave Taco’s food bowl alone.”
Ugh. I hate your cat.
I laughed. “My cat hates you.”
I wanted to say goodbye and thank you. You made this easier for me. And I don’t think I ever laughed as hard as I did when you got locked in that dumpster.
“Glad I could be of comedic value.” I looked up at the shadow, and for once he wasn’t just in the corner of my vision but right in front of me. “Good luck, Holt. I’ll miss you.”
Well, kind of.
Yeah, you’ll miss me. You and all the other hot bit—ladies. All the other hot ladies.
I laughed, then watched as the shadow faded and the words vanished from the mirror, leaving the surface clear and wet. I hope wherever the ghost went, he found his peace.
I knew I had. With a contented sigh, I curled up on the couch, picked up my book, and lost myself in a world of vampires and ghouls.
Don’t miss the next Locust Point Mystery, Root of All Evil
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Lyndsey Lewellen for cover design and typography, and to both Erin Zarro and Jennifer Cosham for copyediting.
About the Author
Libby Howard lives in a little house in the woods with her sons and two exuberant bloodhounds. She occasionally knits, occasionally bakes, and occasionally manages to do a load of laundry. Most of her writing is done in a bar where she can combine work with people-watching, a decent micro-brew, and a plate of Old Bay wings.
For more information:
libbyhowardbooks.com/
Also by Libby Howard
Locust Point Mystery Series:
The Tell All
Junkyard Man
Antique Secrets
Hometown Hero
A Literary Scandal
Root of All Evil (August 2018)