The Ex Who Wouldn't Die (Charley's Ghost Book 1)

by Sally Berneathy

  “That gun—”

  “Let’s get out of here, Amanda,” Charley said.

  She moved her gaze from Kimball to Charley and back again—the two men whose crimes had put her in danger of losing her freedom. She’d married Charley, and he’d brought Kimball into her life. At least Charley looked somewhat abashed, but Kimball looked complacent, in control, certain he’d won. Damn both of them, but especially that smug, arrogant jerk looking so self-satisfied and pleased with himself, so sure he’d beaten her.

  She took a step toward him. “That gun you stole from my apartment and disposed of, it wasn’t your gun. It was mine. Charley gave me that gun when we got married.”

  Kimball’s arrogant smile widened. “I have no idea what gun you’re talking about, Amanda, but if Charley gave it to you, you can bet it was stolen. Our discussion is over. It’s getting late. I think you should leave before I call Ted and his partner to come back and take you to jail for trespassing.” Kimball turned and started up the steps to his house.

  “Hey!” Charley protested. “I didn’t steal that gun! I bought it for you because I was afraid this jerk would find me after I took his money and ran. I was trying to take care of you, Amanda.”

  “Good job,” Amanda snapped, her hands clenching into fists as she watched Kimball’s back moving up the steps, walking away from his crimes, returning to his world of wealth and power where he always got his way.

  “You made a mistake, Roland,” she shouted after him. “That gun you stole from me was not the one you used to kill Dianne.”

  He paused then continued, turning the knob, opening his front door.

  Damn him! She had to do something. She couldn’t let him get away with messing up her life so easily. “I wouldn’t leave valuable evidence like that lying around the house. The gun you used to kill Dianne is hidden away somewhere that’s safe from you.”

  He didn’t go inside. Slowly he closed the door and turned back to her. He was still wearing the arrogant, confident expression, but she had his attention.

  “It’s in a safe deposit box,” she improvised, trying to come up with the most secure place she could think of. “And also in that safe deposit box is a document with the whole story of how Charley saw you throw that gun into the trash behind that bar, how you had blood on your shirt, and how he fished the gun out of the garbage bin. It’s all written in Charley’s handwriting.” She hoped Kimball wouldn’t know that Charley’s handwriting was completely illegible.

  Kimball did a good job of maintaining a stoic expression, but she thought his face paled a little, enough to notice even in the moonlight.

  “My dad,” she continued, emboldened by his lack of reaction and her own rising anger, “he’s a judge, you know. He has a key to the safe deposit box, and if anything happens to me, he’ll open it and they’ll match the bullet to the one that killed Dianne, and, poof!” She threw her hands in the air. “No more Governor of Texas.”

  “You go, girl!” Charley encouraged. “Tell him you know the details of how he killed me.”

  “Shut up!” Amanda snapped at Charley then returned her attention to Kimball. “You killed Dianne, and you killed Charley. You wore motorcycle gear so you wouldn’t be recognized going into his apartment, and then you made him call me, asking for the gun you used to kill Dianne, the one he used to blackmail you, but I’m not stupid. I didn’t bring it. You hid behind the door, and when I left, you killed him, and you thought you’d killed me too, so you strolled through my apartment and took the first gun you found—the wrong gun.”

  Kimball glared at her. Even in the low light she could see storms roiling in the midnight depths of his eyes. Apparently he hadn’t noticed that Charley’s duplicate gun wasn’t the one he’d tossed into the garbage after killing Dianne. “I advise you not to go around town telling lies like that.” Kimball still spoke with authority, but his voice had lost some of its self-assurance.

  Amanda moved closer to the porch and put one foot on the bottom step as if she might go after him. “You tampered with my bike and caused it to be destroyed, and you’re going to pay for that. I loved that bike.”

  “It’s not a good idea to threaten people, Amanda, especially people with a lot more power than you have.”

  She jutted her chin forward defiantly. “You think you have power? You have no idea the power I have. I need that gun you stole from me to prove I didn’t use it to kill Charley. Whatever you did with it, you need to find it and return it to me. If you don’t—” she moved back from the steps and leveled her gaze on him— “I’ll have to take Charley’s story to the cops along with Dianne’s murder weapon.”

  She spun around and stomped back down Roland Kimball’s driveway before he could recover his arrogance, call her bluff and kill her on his porch, in front of God, his wife, Charley and all the creatures hiding in the trees and bushes.

  “You need to be careful, Amanda.” His words were heavy and dark and carried well on the still night air.

  Amanda glanced back, trying to put a smug smirk on her face. “No, Roland, you need to be careful.”

  “That was awesome,” Charley declared, strolling happily beside her. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  “Go away.” The adrenalin of righteous anger was leaving, and fear was returning.

  “I’m so proud of you, the way you stood up to him! Stroke of genius, telling him we had his gun hidden away in a safe place.”

  “Are you insane? Well, yes, you are. And so am I, going along with a madman’s...a mad ghost’s plan. Almost getting arrested. What would your mother think if she had to come bail me out of jail? And then on top of that, I stand there like a crazy woman, baiting a murderer!”

  “So you finally believe me, that Kimball’s a murderer, that he killed Dianne and he killed me?”

  Amanda turned back to see the murderer in question still standing on his porch, watching them. In the moonlight his tall silhouette seemed to glow with an unholy light. “Yes, I believe you.” She increased her pace toward the end of the driveway. “I believe he’s an egotistical, self-centered monster who thinks he has the right to take the lives of commoners, and I believe I just tweaked his tail. I never should have listened to you.”

  “But we had to do something. We can’t let him get away with killing me.”

  “Yes, we can. If he could do away with your ghost too, I’d give him a medal. All I wanted to do was find evidence to prove I didn’t kill you, but I think all we accomplished tonight was to set me up as his next victim.”

  “Nah. You warned him that your dad would get that gun and my story if anything happened to you.”

  Amanda snorted. “Even if he believed me, what would it prove? He studied law. He knows we can’t connect the gun to him without your eye witness testimony, and you’re dead. He’ll feel a lot better when I’m dead too.”

  Charley was quiet for a few moments as if considering that possibility. “He already tried to kill you once, and that didn’t work.”

  Amanda walked through the gate which closed quietly behind her. Creepy. Obviously the jerk was watching her on video. She tried to shake off the feeling that he’d be watching her no matter where she went or what she did. “What if he succeeds this time?”

  Again Charley was quiet.

  Amanda wanted to shake him or punch him or somehow inflict physical pain, but that was now impossible, thanks to His Honor, the Mayor of Silver Creek. “What if he succeeds in killing me this time?” she demanded.

  “It’s not so bad,” he finally said, “being dead.”

  Amanda glared at him then shoved her motorcycle helmet onto her head. “Thank you for sharing that information. I feel so much better now.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Amanda did not feel safe until she was back at the house with the door closed and locked behind her. Even then she stared out the window of Charley’s old bedroom, half expecting to see Kimball standing among the trees, looking up at her, that self-satisfied smirk on his fac
e, murder in his eyes.

  “You’re safe here,” Charley assured her. “Dad’s a hunter, and he’s got this old shotgun—”

  Amanda whirled from the window to face him. “Shut up! I don’t want to hear about any more freaking guns. That’s what started this whole thing in the first place, Kimball’s gun in the trash. I wish you’d never seen it, and you wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been hanging out with another man’s wife.” She plopped down on the edge of Charley’s old desk chair. “After tonight, I believe he killed Dianne, but why? The man has everything. Why murder someone like Dianne, his former girlfriend, the town saint? They hadn’t had any contact since college.”

  Charley shrugged. “Maybe they still had something going. Maybe she threatened to tell his wife.”

  Amanda shook her head in disgust. “Of course you’d come up with something sordid and stereotypical, something you could relate to.”

  “Hey! That kind of thing happens all the time. That’s what makes it a stereotype.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Amanda stood. “I’m going to bed. You need to leave.”

  “What if I don’t leave?”

  “Then I sleep in my clothes.”

  “I’ve seen you without your clothes.” Charley smiled smugly.

  “Seen being the operative word. Past tense. Not present, not future.”

  “You gotta admit, we made a good team tonight. We’ve got Kimball on the run.” He looked pleased with himself.

  “Excuse me? On the run? We stirred up a hornet’s nest! Yeah, we’re a great team. Between the two of us, we’re going to get me killed.”

  “Relax, Amanda. I know how to read people. You’ve got him on the defensive. He’ll mess up, and we’ll catch him.”

  “Stuff it, Charley! This is all totally, completely, one hundred percent your fault. Even dead, you continue to cause problems.”

  “You’re getting all worked up. That’s not good for you.”

  She flopped across the bed and pulled a pillow over her head.

  Charley gave a deep sigh. “Fine. I’m leaving. I’ll go outside and stand guard for you. Let you know if I see anything threatening. I’ll take care of you, Amanda.”

  She rolled over, tossing aside the pillow so she could glare at him. “Great. At the rate you’re taking care of me, I’ll be joining you soon.”

  

  After a night of tossing and turning, dreaming of Kimball shooting her, choking her, dismembering her and in other ways disposing of her, Amanda dreaded the thought of breakfast, of being polite and shoving food into her knotted stomach.

  But then she came downstairs to the smells and the people.

  Breakfast in the Randolph home was a rushed, frantic, completely wonderful affair. That morning Irene made biscuits, sausage, fried eggs and hash browns. Yesterday they’d had scrambled eggs and bacon. Cholesterol heaven. Amanda’s mother would have had a heart attack just looking at the food.

  “How do you want your eggs?” Irene stood at the stove, tending a skillet. “Over easy? Over medium? Please tell me you don’t like them just dipped in hot grease and still all slimy on top like some people.” She arched an eyebrow in Herbert’s direction.

  “Eggs sushi.” In his faded denim work shirt and blue jeans, Herbert sat at the table already eating some of the maligned eggs, dipping pieces of biscuit in the yolk and grinning.

  Penny—or maybe it was Paula—stood at the counter making ham sandwiches for the girls’ lunches. The other twin cut two pieces of apple pie and put them in plastic containers.

  “Over medium,” Amanda replied. “Can I do something to help?” She stood behind a chair at the place setting with a can of cold Coke instead of the coffee or orange juice at the other places.

  “Not a thing. You just sit down and relax. Penny, Paula, here’s your eggs. Come to the table and eat.” She slid eggs onto two of the plates then returned the skillet to the stove.

  “Mom, we gotta hurry today. We have debate practice before school.”

  “All the more reason to eat a good breakfast.” Irene cracked four more eggs into the hot grease. Apparently everyone got two eggs, no need to specify. None of this, I’ll have one poached egg, a croissant and fruit.

  Amanda sat and helped herself to a hot biscuit, breaking it open and spreading with butter. Real butter. She smiled as she imagined the shock on her mother’s face if she were at the table. Would her oft-touted manners require her to eat of the commoners’ fare, or would she politely request a poached egg and fruit? If she did, Amanda had no doubt Irene would prepare it for her.

  The twins moved to the table and sat down. The one sitting closest to Amanda added hash browns, a biscuit and sausage to her plate then leaned over close to Amanda to whisper. “I heard you talking to Charley last night.”

  Amanda almost choked on a bite of light, fluffy biscuit. “You...you heard?” Could Charley’s sister hear him too? Could she see him? How could she be so calm about it?

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” the girl continued. “Our room’s right next to yours, and we were up late reading. It’s okay. I sometimes talk to my cat that died last year. At first I was really mad at my cat for dying just like you’re mad at Charley. It’s a stage. It’ll get better.” She patted Amanda’s hand then returned to her breakfast.

  Amanda felt small and guilty, taking this girl’s sympathy under false pretenses. She was involved with the whole family under false pretenses. They had loved Charley. They missed him.

  In her defense, she’d loved him once. And she might miss him if he’d ever go away.

  Nevertheless, she was enjoying being a member of this family way too much. She wasn’t entitled to their caring, their concern, the total acceptance they gave her. She should cut this visit short, leave that day. Go back to her apartment, her work at the motorcycle shop, her life with her own family.

  Irene slid two perfect fried eggs onto Amanda’s plate, the other two onto her own, then sat down beside her husband.

  “Your eggs okay?” Irene asked, and Amanda realized she was sitting with a cooling biscuit in one hand, staring into space.

  “They’re delicious.” She returned her attention to the food cooked by her newly-discovered family.

  Maybe she’d leave tomorrow. What difference would one more day make?

  

  That afternoon Irene gave Amanda a lesson in preparing homemade bread.

  “Just pretend the dough is somebody you’re really mad at and whack the living daylights out of it.” She demonstrated by slamming a fist into the mound of dough.

  Amanda laughed. “That’s a pretty good punch you’ve got there. Remind me never to make you mad.”

  Irene smiled, then her face became serious. “Never you, sweetheart. Right now, I’m punching the face of the monster that killed my son and your husband.”

  That ruined Amanda’s plan to pretend the dough was Charley’s face.

  As if summoned from her thoughts, the person of discussion appeared at her elbow. “Dawson’s calling on your cell phone. He must have information. Hurry!”

  “Excuse me,” Amanda said, “I’ve got to answer my phone. I’ll be right back.”

  “You sure do have good ears,” Irene said. “I don’t hear a thing.”

  Amanda dashed upstairs where she’d left her phone on the charger. “Hello? Dawson?”

  “Hi. You okay? You sound out of breath.”

  “Ran up the stairs. I’m fine.” For the moment. Until Kimball decided how to do away with her. “Did you find out anything about Roland Kimball?”

  “Lots, but most of it’s public information, probably stuff you already know.”

  “Let’s hear it anyway.” She sank onto the bed. Charley joined her, leaning close to hear what Dawson had to say.

  “Mayor of Silver Creek. Comes from money. His grandfather started out with a sawmill. Family owns most of the county now. Dad’s a bigwig in Silver Creek and has a lot of friends in high places in Dallas and Fort Worth. Mayor’s
making noises about being the next governor of Texas.”

  “That’s a scary thought,” Amanda said. “He’s not a very nice person.”

  “No,” Dawson agreed, “he’s not. And Daddy knows it. All is not well in Camelot.”

  “That’s what I want to hear. Tell me more.”

  “Dad’s a megalomaniac, but he’s hard line when it comes to morals and ethics. Son got a little wild when he went to college and out of Daddy’s sphere of control.”

  “Wild, like how?”

  “The usual. Drinking, drugs, women. When he was in high school, he dated that woman you asked me to check on, Dianne Carter. Her name was Dianne Ferguson at that time. Sounds like she was a nice person. Dad approved of her even though she didn’t come from wealth. Her family went to his church, and she had a good influence on Roland. He was running with a pretty rough crowd in high school until he started dating Dianne. All was well for a while. Looked like Roland and Dianne would get married and live happily ever after. But during their junior year in college, they broke up. After that, Roland got in so much trouble, he almost failed to graduate.”

  “I knew it!” Charley exclaimed.

  “Did not,” Amanda said.

  “Yes,” Dawson said, his tone puzzled, “he did.”

  “Sorry. Just clearing my throat. Tell me about the trouble he got into.”

  “Received a couple of DUIs that Daddy got him out of, missed a lot of classes, got in a few fights, that sort of thing. Things Daddy could buy him out of, but a couple were pretty expensive like his senior year when a girl almost died from some kinky sex activities.”

  Amanda gulped. “Kinky sex activities?” Was she in danger of more than just a straight murder?

  “They take a rope—”

  Amanda shuddered. “Never mind. I don’t want details. Kinky tells me all I need to know.”

  “Anyway, that near-miss with the justice system seemed to get Roland’s attention. He straightened up, graduated, went to law school, returned to Silver Creek and married Catherine Montgomery, the daughter of a buddy of his dad. Combined the family fortunes.”