by Mona Marple
“I haven’t spoken to anyone yet.” Taylor says. “I like to speak to the victim first, if possible.”
Good policy, I think, but he’s never spoken to a murder victim before. And this victim isn’t all innocent herself.
“Did Nettie do it?” I repeat.
Lola approaches Taylor, until she is almost touching his face with her own. She flutters her eyelashes at him, pouts her lips. He shivers.
“He’s not bad.” Lola says. “And a wife with two new babies. He must be in the market himself for a younger model. Shame I can’t fill the vacancy…”
“Lola, try and pay attention. We’re trying to help you.” I scold. She’s infuriating.
“Geeze, can’t a spirit have a little fun now and then? You really should lighten up. Now, where were we? Nettie, Nettie, Nettie. The grieving widow. Isn’t it a coincidence, both her husband and his mistress dead.”
I sigh. “She isn’t being very helpful, Sheriff.”
“That’s okay.” He says. “She’s been through a lot. She probably doesn’t know who to trust. Lola, if you’re listening to me, I promise I only want to help you. I want to help you because you didn’t deserve to be hurt. But also because you didn’t deserve to be used the way you were when you were alive. You should have been treated better.”
His words stop her in her tracks. “What does he mean?”
“She asks what you mean by that.”
“I know what happened to you.” He says. “I know what you were running from.”
Lola clenches her hands into fists. “Tell him to shut up. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“I know you were running from a man who promised to protect you. He wore my uniform, didn’t he? That’s why I’m here in my casual clothes. I’m not like that man. I promise you, Lola, I want nothing from you. And I know you’re not used to that.”
“He needs to stop talking.” Lola says, agitated. She glares at Taylor. I feel my heart pounding in my chest.
“She’s asking you to stop talking.” I say.
“I’m not going to.” Taylor says. “You have nothing to hide, Lola. Nothing to be ashamed of. That man was no Sheriff. That uniform wasn’t real. He was a criminal and a bully, and he made you promises he couldn’t keep. He told you he’d keep you safe, didn’t he? From the boyfriend who’d been beating you.”
“Shut up!” She screams, and Taylor flinches. He can’t hear her but he senses her energy, I realise.
“It started with small things, didn’t it? Stealing small things. Selling little bags of powder. You knew it was wrong but he was the only one who’d looked after you. If he said it was okay, you trusted him. But then you started to see another side to him. He let his guard down, let the mask slip. A slap, a kick… a trip to the hospital. He wasn’t protecting you, but you were stuck, weren’t you?”
“He needs to stop.” Lola says, and this time, her voice is cracked, through tears.
“His name was James Thompson. And you weren’t the first girl he treated that way, or the last. But it’s finished now. I built a case against him, just like I’ll build a case against whoever took your life. He’s not going to hurt anyone else.” Taylor says, his own eyes wet with tears.
I gulp. “Lola, can you give us some information about who hurt you?”
She lets out a bitter sneer. “Everyone in my damn life hurt me. Take your pick. They can all rot in Hell.”
“We’re here to help you.” I say, trying to soothe her, to reach the girl she must have been before she entered a world of manipulation, crime and fear. “Please let us help you.”
“You want to help me?” She asks, and she dries her tears and moves across towards Taylor again. Her bravado has gone, and in its place is pure anger. “You? You want to help me?”
“Yes, we want to help you.” I say.
“Lola, I won’t rest until the person who hurt you is locked away. They will be punished for what they did to you. You can trust me. I will make sure they’re caught, and punished.”
“You have no idea.” She says with a sad smile, and then she pulls her arm back, clenches her fist, and shoots forward, her fist connecting with Taylor’s jaw. The blow knocks him into the back of the chair. A single tooth rolls out from his mouth as he grips his face. Blood drips onto the couch.
And that is how I realise.
Spirits can harm the living, after all.
19
Sage
I insist on going with Connie as she walks Taylor Morton back to his house, because frankly this town is becoming crazy and I don’t want my sister out of my sight any more. I float along and try to stay tuned in to the energy around us, but the Sheriff is a steaming pile of anger and humiliation and I’m a little worried I’ll miss anything else that might be out there.
“I wish you’d let me take you to hospital.” Connie says, for the millionth time.
Taylor shakes his head. He has a wad of tissue paper in his hand but the bleeding has mainly stopped. His lost tooth has been cleaned by my industrious sister and is in his pocket. Lord knows why he wants to keep it, but he does. Probably so used to gathering evidence he can’t help himself.
“This has never happened before.” Connie says, also for the millionth time. She talks too much when she’s nervous. “I’m mortified. I mean, Lola had such an attitude, but she was never violent. And everyone knows spirits can’t hurt humans.”
“Clearly.” I mutter.
Connie shoots me a glare.
“Look, I’ll take it from here.” Taylor says. “I’ll be fine, honestly. I was provoking her and I got what I deserved. I just thought if I could cut through the tough-guy act, she might work with us more. I need to explain this to Adele on my own. I’m still going to keep an eye on your place, okay? You need to be cautious still.”
“Okay.” Connie agrees. “If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely.” Taylor says. He walks ahead and we turn to head back towards home.
“I prefer Patton.” I say.
“Sage, are you serious? How can you think about that kind of stuff at a time like this?”
I shrug. “I like to try and find the light-hearted pleasures in life.”
“You like to find the fine men in life.”
“Or in death.” I quip, and a small smile passes across her lips.
“I can’t believe a spirit has hurt a living person.” Connie says. “This is huge news. We need to tell Patton.”
“It is a little worrying.” I admit.
“It’s terrifying.” Connie says.
“And she didn’t give any suggestion of who killed her?”
Connie sighs. “She just kept mentioning Nettie. But not saying she’d actually done it. And Nettie says she wasn’t even at the party. Do you remember her being there?”
“Nope.” I say. “And I was looking. I knew there’d be some big ass drama if they were both there together. I didn’t see her.”
“Hmm.” Connie murmurs. “I don’t buy it. I don’t think it’s her. It’s too obvious.”
“So who does that leave us with? As suspects?” I wonder aloud. “Atticus is determined it’s Desiree, but she wasn’t in town. Violet was practically begging to be a suspect.”
“What about the supermodel?” Connie says.
“Devin Summer? No way.”
“Why? Because she’s famous and beautiful?” Connie scoffs.
“Well, yeah.” I say. They sound like as good a reason as any other in this crazy case so far.
“She’s got such a dark energy.” Connie says. “And whoever hurt me, they had that energy.”
I shrug. “I think she’s just one of those moody artistic people.”
“Ugh, modelling is not art!” Connie exclaims. “It’s pure vanity. And vanity for people who are a size zero. I hate the whole industry.”
“Okay then.” I say, eyes wide, unsure where her outrage has come from. “Don’t shoot the messenger, it’s not my fault that I happen to be beautiful and a si
ze zero.”
“You died when you were young enough to still be a size zero.” Connie says, which is just mean, and blatantly untrue. She’s never been a size zero in her life. Clearly, we’re getting nowhere discussing this together.
“Let’s talk it all through in the next meeting.” I say.
Connie sighs as we approach the Frasier house. “There’s something strange going on in there.”
“I did tell you that.” I say, trying not to gloat too much.
“It’s like the house is working against her.” Connie says.
“Well, anything’s possible.” I say. I’m distracted. Tonight, I get to visit Rydell Grove’s police station with Patton. It is absolutely not a first date. But still. It’s the closest I’ve come to a first date in a good two decades and I plan to be entertaining, adorable, breathtakingly attractive, and, of course, incredibly professional.
Tonight, I feel, may be the night that Patton falls head over heels for me.
Not that I’m on the market. I’m officially married, although one lifetime was long enough with that man, thank you very much. No, I don’t want to hook up, but I’d quite like an admirer. Someone who looks at me the way Adele Morton looks at those plump little babies. Wait. Is that weird?
“Earth calling Sage.” Connie calls to me.
“Huh?” I ask.
“I said, what’s she doing.” Connie repeats, gesturing to Nettie’s front lawn, where Nettie stands, staring into space.
“I have no idea, but it’s nothing to do with us.” I say, because I know how my sister’s mind works. She wants us to go over there. And there’s no way I’m doing that.
“We need to check she’s okay.” Connie says.
“No we don’t.” I say. “There’s every chance she killed Lola and tried to kill you. I’m not letting you go across there. Let’s just tell Patton, or Taylor. Let them deal with it.”
“Fine.” Connie says, and as we cross the street away from the house, I watch Nettie walk towards the metal bin at the side of the house, lift the lid, and toss something inside.
“Did you see that?” I ask.
Connie nods. “One of us can come out later and take a look.”
“Not one of us.” I correct. “This is over our heads now, one of the Sheriffs can pick up this lead.”
“You know what? Let’s find Patton and see if he can look now.”
I nod my agreement. If I argue it, she’ll only be tempted to go across on her own.
**
We find Patton in Connie’s attic, which she is not happy about. She spends a good two minutes muttering under her breath about privacy and nobody respecting laws anymore, which is a little ironic in front of the Sheriff.
“So. Taylor Morton?” Patton says, and it’s me he directs the question at.
I flutter my eyelashes just a little, going for effortless beauty rather than full-on flirt. “The Sheriff? I think that’s his name.”
“I know damn well that’s his name. I can’t believe his cheek.”
“He said he knew you.” Connie says.
Patton smirks. “You could say we have some history.”
“Ooh, is there drama here, Sheriff?” I ask. “I told my sister you’re clearly the better Sheriff by miles, by the way.”
Patton rolls his eyes.
“Can we stay focused?” Connie barks. “Patton, something major’s happened. Lola Anti hit Taylor Morton today. I saw it with my own eyes.”
I expect Patton to laugh at the thought of his arch-rival being attacked, but he gasps. Actually gasps. “She hit him?”
Connie nods. “Connected with him. Drew blood. Have you ever heard of that happening before?”
“Never.” Patton says. “It doesn’t happen. It can’t. Except, clearly it can.”
“And there’s more. We’ve just seen Nettie Frasier acting strange, and then she hid something in her garbage. I think we should go and check it out.”
“Let’s go.” Patton says, springing into action. He’s like a coiled spring, ready to move into action with a moment’s notice.
Connie turns to me. “You’re coming.”
I sigh and follow them out of the house and across the street. Nettie’s lawn is empty, her front door is closed. Her car isn’t on the drive.
“She’s gone out.” Connie says, reading my thoughts.
“Okay, what did you see exactly?” Patton asks.
“It was over here.” Connie says, leading the way. I hang back, by the picket fence. She strides across the lawn to the garbage bin, Patton floating at her heels. “She was just staring into space, as if she was in shock or something. And then she came across here, and lifted the lid, and -”
“Stop.” Patton says as Connie reaches out for the garbage bin. “Don’t touch it, you’ll leave prints. Let me.”
The whirr of a car approaching makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. I glance down the road, see the vehicle I know getting closer. “Guys, we have company.”
“We only need a second.” Connie calls to me as Nettie’s vehicle approaches.
Patton lifts the garbage lid and begins to rifle through Nettie’s laundry.
Nettie pulls in to the driveway and notices my sister at the side of her home. “Connie? What are you doing?”
I take a deep breath and edge onto the lawn. I have no idea what help I will be, but I know I can’t do anything hiding out by the fence.
Connie spins on her heels and offers Nettie a smile. “I thought I smelt something…”
I groan. She’s always been an awful liar.
“I’m calling the police.” Nettie says. “This is getting out of hand, your interest in me.”
She stalks back across to the house, gives Connie one last withering look, slams the door behind her.
“I’ve got it.” Patton says, and he emerges from the bin. At first I don’t see the blade, but when I do, I feel as if I may faint.
She did it, she did it, she did it.
“Connie.” I warn.
“Oh God.” She murmurs.
I focus on the lush green grass, the chipped wood of the veranda, the glow of perspiration on my sister’s face. Anything but that weapon.
“It’s still got blood on it.” Patton says. “As much as I hate the man, we need to get Taylor across here so he can bag it and tag it.”
“I’ll fetch him.” Connie says, and takes off towards the Sheriff’s house in her idea of a run.
I float awkwardly on the veranda, watching as the blinds twitch and Nettie peers out. She watches Connie leave and, for a moment, looks right at me. Or right through me. She shows no sign of being able to see me. It’s the strangest sensation, seeing but being unseen.
Taylor appears just seconds later, his boots clonking on the sidewalk as he comes running into sight. Patton lays the knife back in the garbage and stands aside as the new Sheriff approaches, spots it, and takes out his cell.
“I’m bringing in a suspected murder weapon, have the lab open and ready.” He says, authoritative.
The front door opens. “What the hell is going on here?”
Taylor and Patton both turn and eye up Nettie, scouring her body for concealed weapons, assessing the threat this immaculate woman may present to them. Their training transforms them into mirror images of the other.
“Nettie Frasier.” Taylor says. “You’re under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Lola Anti and the attempted murder of Connie Winters. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court. I’ll require you to come with me now, ma’am.”
“Wait.” Connie calls, as she reaches the picket fence. Her face is beet red and the baby hairs around her forehead lay flat against her skin, glued to her by the sweat that covers her face and leaves damp patches across her body. She grabs on to the gate and bends over, gasping for her next breath.
&
nbsp; “Are you okay?” I call. I’ve never seen her like this.
She nods, gasps, then returns to a standing position. Taylor is manhandling Nettie into a hold.
“Wait, Sheriff.” Connie repeats. “She’s being set up.”
20
Connie
All of the eyes are on me, and it’s pretty disconcerting. I’ve just ran further than I have since upper school, when the awfully named Mr Chicken had taunted me with cries of put some effort in and you run like a wet lettuce while I legitimately confronted my fear of death and gave in to what I was certain must be a heart attack.
I hadn’t died then, clearly, but I always felt I’d skimmed death with a proximity I didn’t want to repeat. And so, my running career was declared over on that day. For the remaining PE lessons before I was able to leave with flying colours in every single subject except, you guessed it, PE, I faked sick notes. It was the height of my rule breaking and I didn’t even feel shame.
And yet here I find myself, years later and a couple of stones heavier (okay, more than a couple), struggling to breathe, droplets of salty sweat dripping into my open mouth, and the people gathered around watching me appear entirely unimpressed.
I ran here, you buffoons is what I’d like to say, as they stand around and wait for me to explain more.
Nettie stands in a bizarre position, restrained by Sheriff Morton who isn’t quite ready to let go of her yet even though he isn’t in uniform and has nowhere to take her. There’s no squad car to pile her into. What does he plan on doing? Walking her across town to the nearest jail?
I collapse to the ground and focus on my breathing, which refuses to steady.
This could be it. The end of the road.
I wonder if Mr Chicken is alive and what he’d make of news of my sport-related death. He’d probably forgotten my name before I’d made it off school premises that final time.
Not one of the pretty girls who hung around the football pitch pretending not to be interested in matches the popular boys played, and not one of the sporty girls who brought home medals for him to display in the wall cabinets for hockey or rounders or netball or, well, anything more exerting than algebra. I was of no interest to him.