A Breath of Dead Air (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 8)

by Nic Saint

  “I wanted to ask you guys, what’s with this Wraith Wranglers thing?” Bo asked. “Reece kept mentioning it when he explained about the note. It took him quite a while to convince me he was really in touch with my dad’s ghost.”

  She felt embarrassed about that now. She of all people should have been the one to believe in the afterlife, and that it was possible to communicate with the dead. Instead, she’d remained critical until Reece had given her a few messages from her father, things only he could have known, and she’d realized he was speaking the truth. That her dad was in the room with them.

  She hadn’t been able to see or hear him herself, though, which struck her as odd, as she was the one with a heightened sense of perception. She had felt his presence, though, and it had been a soothing experience after the shock she got when asked to identify her father’s body. It had been so horrible. Her father had always been the most lively person she knew. A real live wire. And now there he lay, cold and dead. Without a doubt it was the worst day of her life. But the fact that he was still with them had been balm to that wound.

  “Well, the whole thing started a couple of months ago,” Alice began. “Isn’t that right, Fee?”

  “Yeah, you saw a ghost at the morgue, and I saw one at our place.”

  “I saw several, actually. Three, I seem to recall.”

  “But why?” Bo wanted to know. “Why did you suddenly start seeing ghosts? And how?”

  Felicity shrugged. “No idea. Just that they sought us out. Right, hon?”

  “They needed to resolve some issues, and apparently they thought we could help with that. But why they came to us, exactly, I have no idea.”

  “I can see ghosts too,” Chazz suddenly burst out. “Don’t ask me how or why, but I can see them, all right. As clear as I can see you right now.”

  “Me, too,” Rick said somberly. He didn’t sound very keen, though.

  Bo shook her head. “It’s as if everybody can see ghosts except for me.” She felt excluded somehow, from this exclusive club of wraith wranglers.

  “Don’t be sad, honey,” Felicity said, scooting over and putting an arm around her shoulder. “I’m sure in due time you will be able to communicate with your dad, too. Just give it a little more time.”

  “I did feel his presence in the room. And it was wonderful to know that he’s not completely gone yet.”

  “He told Reece that he’s going to help him write the script of his life,” Alice supplied. “Which means he’ll be around for a long time.”

  “A very, very long time,” Rick muttered acerbically.

  “See? That will give you plenty of opportunity to communicate with him,” Felicity said softly.

  Tears started falling from Bo’s eyes, as she allowed the sadness she’d kept inside to emerge. Dad had been her rock, the lodestar of her life, and now he was gone.

  “He’s not gone, honey,” Felicity said, as if she could read her mind. “He’ll always be there, watching over you.”

  She nodded, wiping away her tears. She felt embarrassed, crying before these new friends of hers. She was Jezebel Baskerville, hardened TV show host, and now she was crying like a little girl. But then Jezebel was just a mask, of course, the real Bo a very vulnerable soul. Especially today, after all that had happened. “I just want to thank you guys for helping me out.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Alice assured her. “We’re going to solve this murder. Isn’t that right, people?”

  “Definitely,” Felicity confirmed.

  “We’re on top of this,” Rick chimed in. “Oh, and by the way, thanks for supplying me with that alibi. I would have been in quite a pickle without it.”

  “Well, I did lie a bit, but I don’t think anyone will mind.” She shrugged. “You didn’t kill my father, I’m sure about that. And now the police are, too.”

  “Thanks for that,” Chazz muttered. “I wouldn’t like to see my son in jail.”

  “Speaking of jail, what about Johnny Carew and Jerry Vale?” Alice asked. “Are you still keeping in touch with your Pet Bandits, Chazz?”

  Chazz made a throwaway gesture with his hand. “I fired those bozos a long time ago. You know that.”

  “I want to talk to these Pet Bandits,” Bo said. “Get Dad’s dog back.”

  “Oh, that’s right. We still need to find Pronto,” Rick said.

  “You know what?” Alice asked. “Why don’t we all go and pay Johnny and Jerry a visit? Perhaps they can shed some light on this dreadful affair.”

  “Those two idiots? No way,” Chazz grumbled. “They couldn’t even tie their own shoelaces unless you pointed them in the right direction. Which is the main reason I fired them. They kept bungling the jobs I gave them.”

  “So you didn’t fire them because they were crooks? That’s interesting,” Rick murmured.

  “The worst crooks in the world,” Chazz was quick to add, clearly missing the note of criticism in his son’s comment. “I had no use for them.”

  They were driving into town, and Bo gazed out the window at the lovely houses and the beautiful streets. She’d only been here a couple of days, and already she was starting to fall in love with Happy Bays. Perhaps she should stick around a little longer? It appeared as if the hustle and bustle of the real world simply subsided here. As if Happy Bays was located in a world all of its own, the dreadful things that happened out there simply a bad dream.

  Although that wasn’t entirely true, of course. The bucolic little town had also seen its fair share of murder and mayhem these past few years. And as Chazz instructed his driver to head to the Happy Bays Inn, where apparently these so-called Pet Bandits were holed up, she whispered a silent prayer that they would find Pronto alive and well. At least she would have a tangible reminder of her father, one that she could actually clutch to her heart.

  “Dad,” she whispered. “If you’re out there, give me the strength to go on.”

  But no answer came, and she lamented the fact that her powers were so limited, especially at a time like this.

  Chapter 21

  President Jack Gnash gazed out the window of his oval office. The phone had been ringing off the hook all day, one crisis after another. The Libyans were upset because a US drone had apparently bombed the palace of the wrong dictator. Here at home the teachers were on strike, and so were the nurses, farmers, firemen, policemen and even pool boys. And finally, as if that wasn’t enough, Congress was threatening to shut down the government again, for some reason nobody seemed quite to understand. This country, and by extension the entire world, was going completely bananas, Jack thought grimly as he smoothed his graying hairs. When he’d been sworn in, three years ago, he’d had a full head of glossy brown hair, even at the age of fifty-one, but now the last remaining stragglers were irrevocably turning gray.

  Catherine, his wife, had insisted he have his hair dyed, lest he suddenly look a decade older. He’d refused. He’d run his campaign on the promise that he would always be honest with the people of this great nation of theirs, and even though his hair might be a small matter, if he started hiding its true color now it felt like the start of a slippery slope. What would be next? Botox to hide his wrinkles? A nip and tuck for his sagging jawline? Or perhaps some liposuction to get that belly fat removed? He was the president, not a model.

  Although of course he hadn’t kept his campaign promise. He hadn’t been truthful at all. Not about the things that really mattered.

  His gray eyes hardened and his handsome face twisted into a furious frown when he thought about the news that had just reached his ear: the news that Senator Job Vickar had been found dead, presumably having taken his own life. Bucky Vickar, he thought with a sad shake of the head. His best bud in college. They’d shared a dorm room together, he and stocky, brilliant Bucky. He’d liked the guy from the first. He’d been bluff and hearty and bigger than life. The opposite of Jack, who was movie star handsome and had a real way with words but always chose them very carefully.

  When Ja
ck had run for governor of the state of Illinois, and Job had run for Congress, they’d exchanged ideas on how to run a successful political campaign. And when Jack had decided to run for president, he’d asked Job to be his running mate, as he trusted him more than any other politician out there. Job had told him he was sorry, but he couldn’t do it. And soon Jack had discovered that his old friend was right. They never had that choice.

  Job had already been tinkering with the idea to launch this Truth Bill, having discovered his daughter’s psychic abilities. And even though Jack had advised him against going forward with his scheme to clean up Congress and make the place run along more ethical lines, Job had insisted, claiming it was the only thing that made sense to his personal conscience.

  In theory, Jack agreed with the idea: make all politicians tell the truth. Create a better, more honest Congress. The truth was that you couldn’t run a country like that. Diplomacy was a prerequisite for any politician, and definitely for a president. You simply couldn’t tell the leader of a foreign nation that you thought he was a dumb schmuck. At least not if you wanted to keep him on board as an ally. But Job didn’t see it that way. Which was admirable, of course, and secretly Jack had rooted for his old friend.

  And now he was gone. He watched as the light on his phone blinked to life, and he stabbed it angrily. “I told you to hold all my calls,” he growled.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” his secretary spoke, “but it’s your wife, sir, and she says it’s urgent.”

  “Put her through,” he said in a low voice. The moment his wife’s voice sounded, he said, “Hello, honey. What’s the big emergency?”

  “I need you in here right now, Jack. Things are getting out of hand.”

  He frowned. Great. Another crisis. “What is it?”

  “That daughter of yours is breaking up the place with that new toy you gave her. She already destroyed one of my best Ming vases!”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Whatever else was going on in his life, his daughter could always be relied upon to add a little excitement.

  “What toy? You mean that hoverboard? Didn’t I tell her not to use that thing inside the White House?”

  “You did! And I did! Repeatedly! But she insists she wants to learn how to work the thing before being seen by anyone. She says the Secret Service guys will all laugh at her if they see her bumble about and fall on her tush.”

  Their daughter Susan had just turned sixteen, and for some reason seemed to think that every Secret Service guy infesting the White House was obsessed with her. Well, maybe they were. She was a lovely young woman.

  “Just tell her they’ll be happy to help. They might even teach her a few tricks.”

  “I told her, but she’s stubborn. Says there’s one guy who offered to help her master the thing, but she won’t take his offer because he’s cute as hell, with a great set of dimples and incredible golden eyes, and the moment she takes one look at his gorgeous face she’ll simply fall from her board and make a total fool of herself and then he’ll never speak to her again!”

  “Who?” he asked, his voice suddenly serious. “I need a name, Catherine.”

  “Jonas, Jackson, Jason—who the hell knows?”

  “Yeah, that’s helpful.”

  “All these guys’ names start with a J, honey!”

  “And they’re all swoonworthy to a sixteen-year-old. You know? Why don’t I just fire them all and hire only women from now on?”

  “Can you do that?”

  He laughed. “In my dreams, honey.”

  “And mine.”

  “I’ll be home in a couple of hours. Try to keep her from crashing into the furniture too much, will you? That stuff belonged to Andrew Jackson.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack. I thought you said you’d be home early today?”

  Yeah, well, that was before Job Vickar killed himself and messed up his plans. But he didn’t tell Catherine that, of course. “Something came up, honey. Some crisis in the Middle East. You know how it is.”

  “What else is new?” his long-suffering wife sighed. “I swear, Jack, I’m this close to telling you not to run for a second term. I’ve had it up to here.”

  And as he hung up the phone, he secretly concurred. Being a president was all fine and dandy when you were still trying to make it to the top of the political ladder, but once you arrived, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  And now that Job was dead, things were suddenly looking a lot worse.

  He picked up his phone again. “Get the chief of staff in here, will you? Well, I don’t care if he’s on his way home. I need him in here right now.”

  Twenty minutes later Ashley Wince came pottering in. The septuagenarian was Washington’s grand old man and had served in Congress for forty consecutive years before assuming the role of chief of staff.

  “What’s wrong, Jack?” the old man wheezed as he plunked his bony frame down on the couch, fixing Jack with his remarkably vivid blue eyes. “I was almost home when that harridan you insist keeping on as a secretary told me to get my butt back in here right away.”

  Jack eyed the old man keenly. “Job Vickar’s dead.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. Most unfortunate. Suicide, huh?”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Job wasn’t the kind of man to kill himself.”

  The chief of staff didn’t move a muscle. “So? What’s it to you?”

  “Did you know that he was a personal friend of mine?”

  “Sure I did. Everyone knows you were friends with that loser.”

  Jack suppressed a surge of anger. “Talk to me, Wince. I need to know.”

  Wince stared at him unblinkingly, much like an owl, Jack thought, whom the guy most resembled. “You’re going into your final year, Jack. Soon a rank outsider is going to take your place, and I suggest you don’t fight it.”

  “I knew it,” he grunted. “Who? Have you decided yet?”

  The old man inclined his head. “It’s been decided that Chazz Falcone fits the bill.”

  “Chazz Falcone!” He rose swiftly, pacing the floor. “Are you nuts? He doesn’t know the first thing about politics! Or how to run a country!”

  “Neither did you, Jack. But you do have a great smile, charismatic personality, and a way with words, which is exactly why we picked you.”

  “Falcone looks like the monster from the deep. You can’t be serious.”

  “He’s what the people want, even if they don’t know it yet. They’re gonna want an outsider in the White House. A guy who’ll give it to ‘em straight. Who shoots first and asks questions later. Chazz Falcone fits the bill to a T.”

  “Job Vickar didn’t beat about the bush. He was a straight shooter.”

  Wince drummed his fingers on the leg of the couch. “Vickar was never an option.”

  Of course he wasn’t. Then it dawned on him. “You know who killed him, don’t you?”

  Wince gave him a piercing look. “Remember where we are, Jack. The walls have ears.”

  “Christ,” he cursed.

  “Jack, why don’t you simply enjoy the time you’ve got left, and try to do some good for a change?” Wince raised a single eyebrow. “We always told you that you were a one-term president. You knew that going in.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. A transition figure. You told me, and Job told me.”

  “Well, Vickar was a very wise man. Perhaps you should have listened.”

  “He also told me to run for office, and look where it got me.”

  “It got you into the White House, Jack. It got you to make a little difference for a little while, which is more than you can say about Vickar.”

  He stared at the old guy. He couldn’t get over the fact that Wince would stoop to murder to further his goals. Though he shouldn’t be surprised.

  Ashley Wince rose with some effort. Though his mind was as sharp as a tack, his body was that of a seventy-year-old man. “Call it a night, Jack. Kiss your wife and kid and count your blessings.
Soon Chazz Falcone will take your place, and you’ll enjoy a very nice retirement package, along with the respect the people of this country owe you. Not a bad deal as deals go, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Just get out of here, Wince.”

  Wince smiled, a little evilly. “Sometimes you forget who’s the master and who’s the slave, Mr. President. I decide who stays or goes. Not you.” And with these words he strode out without deigning Jack another glance.

  Jack stared at the closed door. Job had been right. He’d never stood a chance, and neither had Job himself. The dreams they’d had as young politicians, the ambitions and ideals, none of them had come to fruition. They’d been nothing but pawns in a much bigger game. Puppets on a string.

  “Job,” he muttered. “Wish you were here, my friend.”

  “Did you call me, Jack?” suddenly a voice spoke in the falling dusk. And when Jack looked over, he saw to his surprise that his good friend was indeed standing there, looking quite well for a dead man. Well, apart from the noose around his neck, the chapped lips, and the deathly pallor, of course.

  Chapter 22

  “That’s it?”

  The guy seemed disappointed. Extremely disappointed even, if Edison’s keen perception was a guide. And he was right, of course. If a customer expects to find a tawny ball of fluff perched on the mat and instead finds a ginger ball of fluff, he is allowed to feel a little miffed. But then that was life for you. You rarely got exactly what you ordered. Not that it mattered. A Pomeranian was a Pomeranian was a Pomeranian, as Shakespeare himself had so eloquently put it. So Edison Worthington, or the New Pet Bandit (NPB®) as he liked to call himself, eyed his client with mild indulgence.

  Edison was a gangling young man, who looked like a spaghetti string turned animated. His brick-red-colored hair and fair complexion had earned him the nickname Bolognese, which also happened to be his favorite dish.

  “Yep, that’s it. One Pomeranian called Pronto, delivered pronto,” he quipped. “Exactly as advertised. What NPB® promises, NPB® delivers.”