by Angie Fox
That was it? Step back? “I found these tracks,” I pointed out. “You wouldn’t even be here if I wasn’t helping.”
“Officer Wydell found these tracks, and right now you’re in the way,” he said, dismissing me as easily as if I were a nosy bystander instead of an active participant in this case.
Of all the nerve. Sometimes, I think Marshall treated me so dismissively precisely because Ellis didn’t. Or maybe the man was just a jerk.
“What now?” Constance demanded as we scooted away toward the front of the house. “You said they’d take care of it. I don’t have a lot of time here. Vincent is expecting me back shortly to take a walk with him. If I don’t go back there, he’ll know something’s up.”
“The police will handle this,” I promised. They just weren’t rushing to the scene like I’d hoped they would. Or focusing on the evidence I held in my hand. “If not Marshall, then Ellis.”
He would have taken me seriously. He would have dropped everything had he been here.
Her eyes widened. “You left Ellis a message. You told him you were with me. What if he says something to Vincent?”
“He won’t. He has the photos,” I said.
“If he checks his texts,” she said, getting hysterical. “If Vincent learns I talked to you…”
She’d be in trouble.
Poor Constance would have an honest-to-God reason to fear for her life. We had Vincent where we wanted him, but that was when men like him got desperate. If Marshall made any calls and tipped Vincent off…
She gripped my arm hard. “Hide the envelope in your purse,” she said, her fingernails biting my skin. “You keep it safe and give it to Ellis.” She yanked her hand back, patting her mussed hair and her wrinkled dress. “I’ll go back. I’ll pretend this is all normal.” She gave a sweet, trembling smile. “I’m a Southern girl. I can manage it.”
She shouldn’t have to. It would be wrong to put her in danger like that, not when we could do something about it.
“There’s a better way,” I promised her. We certainly didn’t need to be standing around in the front yard. I tucked the letter into my purse. “We’ll give this to Ellis now.”
He already had Vincent in his sights. We wouldn’t give the black widower a chance to escape, not this time.
“We’ll confront Vincent with the evidence,” Constance agreed, not moving an inch. In fact, she seemed rooted to the spot.
We had another problem, though. “I don’t have my car.” And Ellis took his truck to confront Vincent.
“I can drive,” Constance said, reaching into her purse. “The society has the van.” With shaking fingers, she withdrew a set of keys. “They haven’t taken these away from me yet.”
Because Julia had never had her board meeting. She’d died instead.
Constance and I walked quickly toward the van all by itself at the back of the parking area. She hit the remote locks and I opened the passenger-side door. A large cardboard box swallowed the seat. I grabbed it by the sides and, oomph, it was heavy.
No problem. “I’ll ride in the back,” I said, sliding the rear door open and finding the entire van crammed with boxes, folded tablecloths, and plastic tubs filled with what appeared to be flowered centerpieces.
Constance cringed as she settled into the driver’s seat. “They’ve already packed the van for the Sweet Tea Luncheon. Can you ride in the middle somewhere?”
“Maybe.” It was jammed.
“Or…” A look of utter dread crossed her features. “I have Julia’s car keys. Vincent threw them at me when I refused to ride in that car.”
Nice guy. “Let’s take her car, then,” I said.
“I can’t ride in that car,” she vowed. “I won’t.”
“Then I’ll follow you,” I said, holding my hand out for the keys.
She handed them over like I’d asked her to handle a live spider. The designer fob had Julia’s initials monogrammed in pink on white. “It was hers, you know?”
And Julia’s husband was not?
I slammed the door to the van.
She rolled down the window on the passenger side. “You go first. I’ll be right behind you.”
“You can’t leave,” I warned her. “Ellis needs to listen to us. Both of us.”
“I know. I can do it,” she promised.
Even if she lost her courage, I had possession of the evidence. With any luck, it would be enough for Ellis to make an arrest, or at least prompt a confession.
“You’re doing good,” I called to Constance, rushing for Julia’s classic red Corvette.
The instant I opened the driver’s side door, I was greeted with the scent of oil-rubbed leather mixed with Julia’s sweet, earthy signature perfume.
I slid into the driver’s seat, amazed at how low to the ground it felt. I was used to the land yacht or Ellis’s truck. I grabbed the handle and the door snicked closed.
All right. I nodded to Constance and we set off toward old river road near Southern Spirits. I’d taken it once before, on the way to question Vincent.
The narrow road ran back through the woods, turning as it ascended the big hill toward the bluffs overlooking the river. I checked the rearview mirror. Constance kept a steady pace behind me.
Good.
She had a death grip on the wheel and fire in her eyes. She could have left a bit more distance between our cars, but she was nervous. And she was staying with me, just as I’d asked.
We followed the curve of the hills and I laid off the gas as we came upon the sheer drop that had made me so nervous before. I steered away from the edge, hugging the hillside as close as I could, when Constance’s van crashed into the back of my car.
I pitched forward, teeth and bones rattling from the impact. The Corvette spun sideways on the road, the nose skimming the hillside. Rocks and debris tumbled down on the hood.
The car lurched, throwing me backward as the van made a hard reverse.
Before I could brace myself, she sped forward again. I held up my hands uselessly as she rammed my passenger-side door. My stomach dropped as I felt the back of the car go weightless beneath me.
I grabbed my bag and flung open the door, rolling out of the car onto the hard pavement. My shoulders screamed with the impact as I watched the rear tires of Julia’s Corvette spin over thin air before the entire vehicle gave way and pitched off the bluff and down into the river.
Heavens. I scrambled to stand, to do something. I tossed my purse strap over my shoulder and looked for somewhere to go as the white van backed up and then surged full speed directly for me.
I tried to dodge, but there was no use. The road was too narrow and there was nowhere to hide.
At the last second, I jumped forward instead, landing on the hood of the van. There was no way to hold on, nothing to grab as I scrabbled for the exhaust grate at the top of the hood, a windshield wiper, anything.
Constance glared at me from the other side of the glass, with murder in her eyes.
She wasn’t a whimpering flower. She was a cold-blooded killer and I’d misjudged her badly.
“Stop!” I pleaded.
She braked hard at the edge of the cliff and I lost my grip on the grate. I snatched at the wiper as I slid across the hood.
“You didn’t do it!” I hollered as she reversed, readying herself for another run. I wouldn’t be able to hold on if she tried to pitch me off again. “It’ll be okay!” I pleaded, desperate now and fooling no one, least of all myself.
“You’re wrong.” Constance gripped the wheel, cold and calm. “I killed Julia, and with my luck, my prints are on that pearl.” The corner of her mouth turned up. “But not for long,” she said.
And then she hit the gas.
Chapter 22
I held the windshield wiper in a death grip with both hands, unable to even feel my fingers anymore, knowing I didn’t have enough strength to hold on much longer.
Constance surged toward the edge of the cliff when a gruesome, shrieking spir
it flung itself directly onto the windshield in front of me.
The silver, swirling body passed straight through my hands in a wet invasive touch that chilled me to the core, but I refused to let go.
Constance let out a sharp cry and steered hard right, flinging me into the bushes on the hill. She sped past, smashing the front of the van into the thick trunk of a tree not five feet away.
The hood of the van steamed.
I shook, my arms numb and bloody with scrapes. Constance lay with her head buried in the airbag, not moving.
“She’s still breathing,” said a raspy voice behind me.
I turned and saw an old woman in a long black robe. Her gnarled hands clutched a rosary.
Those were the same hands I’d seen in the study that day. I’d never forget them.
“Mother Mary,” I whispered.
Her cheeks were sunken, her face weather-beaten. She looked scary as all get out, but she hadn’t attacked me. If I wasn’t mistaken, she’d saved me.
Maybe she really was a nun.
The spirit turned and hid her face from me. Long black hair floated behind her, rippling in an unseen breeze. Or maybe it was a tattered veil. “Are you all right, child?”
“I-I think so,” I said, attempting to extricate myself from the bush.
It was harder than I imagined. My limbs didn’t want to work. Still, I wasn’t safe. I had to keep hold of my wits. Mother Mary had shocked Constance into crashing, but I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
I pushed myself out of the shrubbery and slid down through the dirt. “She tried to kill me,” I said, still processing the wreck and my narrow escape.
Constance could have just as easily driven off the bluff.
“I warned you,” the ghost said, her voice so gravelly I had to focus to understand her. “I’ve been watching you. Guiding you. You need to listen.”
“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.” Slowly, I pulled myself to my feet.
“You amuse me. You go your own way.” She turned to me, her wrinkled mouth turning up in a satisfied smirk. “You remind me of me, a long, long time ago.”
I took a step toward her and my knee gave out. I stumbled and caught myself. Barely. I touched a hand to my head and it came away bloody. I must have hit it when I jumped out of Julia’s car. “You called me before you knew me. How did you do that?” She’d dialed me up on the phone like it was nothing and told me about a murder.
“I directed my energy,” she said plainly.
“Oh, sure,” I said, as if it happened all the time, “but why did you need me?”
Her expression grew stormy. “Julia’s husband is a wife killer. She hid the proof in my office. She died before she could use it.”
“I know.” Mother Mary had hovered right above the folder that contained the evidence against Vincent. She’d shown me her hands and pointed it out. I hadn’t understood.
I bent over, fighting a wave of dizziness, bracing my shaking hands on my bloody knees.
“It is wrong,” she hissed. “Men who mistreat women should be punished.”
I nodded, staring at the dirt and rocks stuck in my knees. “I’m working on it,” I promised her.
“I trust that you are. The spirits whisper about you. You are the only mortal in this town who speaks to ghosts.”
It didn’t feel like such a hotshot job at the moment.
I forced myself to stand, glad when I didn’t keel over. “You said I was next, right after I suggested driving the red Corvette. No offense, but how could you know?” It wasn’t like nineteenth-century Mother Mary had ever tooled around in a classic car.
The ghost glared at the injured woman. “I watched her bring a man to my house. His job was to inject a substance to make the brakes fail. She had murder in her heart.”
So it hadn’t been a crime of passion. She’d planned to kill Julia. On a road like this, brake failure could be catastrophic. And when Julia had opted to walk home, Constance murdered her anyway. “She’s dangerous,” I said, forcing my aching body toward the wrecked van.
Constance could have a gun for all I knew. In cases like this, survival could depend on whomever recovered faster, whomever stayed conscious long enough to keep the upper hand.
Blood flowed from a wound on her temple, but when I touched her shoulder, she groaned. She wasn’t out of the game yet.
My shoulder screamed as I opened the side door of the van. Boxes of Sweet Tea Luncheon supplies lay tossed on their sides, erupting with tablecloths, vases, and polka dot tea pitcher party favors. I should bash her over the head with one. Instead, I found a box of centerpieces and dragged them out, spilling silk flowers and glitter all over the road.
Then I tied Constance to the steering wheel with ribbons meant for the centerpieces.
“Now this reminds me of the old days,” the old ghost said.
I didn’t even want to know.
“It’ll hold her for now,” I said, tightening the knots that bound her wrists to the wheel and wrenching her keys out of the ignition.
When I’d stowed them safely in my purse, I called Ellis.
He answered this time. “I’m sorry, Verity, I just finished with Vincent.”
I braced a hand on the side of the van. “Constance just tried to kill me.”
“What?”
“I have her tied up on the river road, by the sheer drop-off—which, by the way, needs a guardrail. I have proof Vincent is a killer. And my head really hurts.” My temple throbbed as I tried to keep a grip on the phone.
“Holy hell, Verity. I’ll be right there. I’ll call Marshall on the way. Stay put!” he ordered.
I didn’t have a choice. The phone dropped out of my hand and my knees went weak. So I went ahead and sat down on the side of the road in the dirt.
I really wished this road got more traffic.
The ghost hovered over the roadway next to me. “Your Ellis is a good man.”
“He is,” I said.
Ellis was coming down the hill. Marshall would be coming up. But for a few minutes it was just the ghost of Mother Mary and me. I’d wanted to talk to her since the first phone call, and this might be the best chance I got.
“In the trunk you showed me, were those ashes…you?”
She pursed her lips. “That’s where I kept my papers when I was alive.” Her gaze traveled to Constance. “She burned them.”
Mother Mary had shown me the ashes in the fireplace.
“I didn’t know.” About any of it really. I leaned my back on the front tire of the van and looked up at her. “So you really were a madame.”
She gazed at me and I recognized her confidence from the ghostly portrait I’d seen in the hall. “I didn’t plan it, but my husband died in the war and I had children to support. We lost everything—the farm, the house. And there were more like me.”
“Women with children to support,” I said, sad for her and for all of them.
She notched her chin up. “There is only so much seamstress work, only so many wealthy enough to hire out for laundry. I did what I had to do, and I made sure we had food for the children.”
“And Father Flagherty didn’t approve,” I concluded.
She smiled, despite herself. “He’s my brother. He returned home from the seminary and about fainted when he learned what I’d done. He was convinced he could write for donations, secure enough support from out of town for us. Nobody in town would give us the time of day.”
“He loved you, then.”
“In his own bossy way,” she said, rolling her eyes, “kind of like you.”
“I’m not that way,” I said. I’d shown her nothing but respect.
She laughed despite herself. “You looked through our things on the second floor. You give orders to your friend. You forget ghosts are people, too.”
“Oh, wow.” I hadn’t thought of that.
Her image faded. “I didn’t choose to die looking like this.” She was leaving. “As I lay dying, my brother put his favorite
rosary in my hands, as if I wanted it. His letters talk about me as if I were a saint, as if I needed that. Now I even look like an old nun. His vision of what I ought to be has replaced the person I was.”
“Please don’t go.” I held out a hand, even though it hurt like the dickens. “Keep me company.” I didn’t want to be alone.
Her image flickered. “I don’t like appearing this way. I don’t like talking this way.”
She did sound like a trucker with a bad CB connection, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.
“Just…please,” I said. My whole body hurt. “Please stick it out for a bit longer.”
She fingered her rosary. “I suppose there’s no harm, now that you’ve already seen me.” She sighed. “It was the one thing I’ve avoided for the last hundred years, even in front of Father and the girls.”
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it most sincerely. She didn’t have to save me. She didn’t have to appear for me or stay with me. “You look nicer than you think.”
She snorted. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you lie.” She placed herself between me and the injured Constance. “My brother says vanity is the worst of the seven sins, but I tell him lust is more fun.”
There it was again, that twinkle in her eye. She must have been something back in the day. I smiled even though it hurt. “I can’t believe you said that to a priest.”
“He wasn’t always a priest, although he always did act like one. He ministered to me and the girls in life, and he still serves many of the souls on this side.” She glanced at the trussed-up Constance. “He did his best to take care of my girls, and so do I.”
I didn’t even mind that she’d included me. Not when she’d saved my neck.
I let myself relax a little under the watchful gaze of Mother Mary. “So your house really was a bordello,” I said. “Nobody talks about that now. I mean nobody.” My sister couldn’t even find records in the library.
She stiffened and directed a dirty look at Constance. “And now nobody ever will. This woman burned my customer logs and my photographs.”