Kindred Spirits

by Jean Marie Bauhaus

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jimmy’s ghost box sat on the coffee table amidst piles of paper and two identical boxes. The others, labeled “Ron” and “Joe,” were each placed far enough apart so as not to cause interference or confusion as to who was speaking. At that moment, though, the boxes sat silent while everyone gathered around the breakfast bar in Doug’s kitchen. They all crowded in to watch the sketch artist at work as Chris relayed Ron’s description of the ghost she and Joe had encountered at the jail.

  “No, the hair was spikier,” Ron said as Chris repeated her words to the artist. “And the cheeks were narrower. He looked gaunt, and he had more of a caveman brow. No, not that much. There! Now widen the eyes just a smidge.”

  “I recall a number of scars covering his face,” Joe supplied.

  “Yeah. The guy clearly had an acne problem.”

  As Chris passed all of this information along, Derek and Jimmy hung back, waiting. The artist sketched furiously, erased, then sketched some more. Finally, Ron declared, “That’s him!”

  “Yup,” Joe agreed.

  Chris blew out a sigh. “That’s him,” she told the artist with a glance at Derek.

  The artist, whose name was Chad, tore the image off of his sketch pad and handed it to Derek. “That definitely has the look of someone who’d be in the system.”

  Derek nodded as he examined the sketch. “Hopefully, I can get the detective to let me comb through mugshots to see if we can ID this guy.”

  Jimmy edged closer to his brother to get a better look. If it were possible for a ghost to turn pale, he managed to pull it off. “No,” he muttered.

  “What’d this guy do, anyway?” asked Chad, oblivious to Jimmy.

  “We think he might have had something to do with my brother’s murder,” Derek told him, equally oblivious. “At the very least, he might know something.”

  “Well, I’m glad I could help.”

  Chris cleared he throat to get Derek’s attention and jerked her head in Jimmy’s direction, signaling him to wrap this up. “It’s a huge help,” he told Chad. “Thanks for coming out, man. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” Chad closed his sketchbook and tucked it into a messenger bag. “Just be sure to buy me a beer sometime and we’ll call it even.”

  Derek smiled. “Will do.” He saw Chad to the door and let him out. Once the door closed behind him, he turned to Chris. “What’s going on?”

  “Good question. Jimmy?” She turned to where he’d been standing, but he was gone. She looked around, only to find Ron and Joe looking equally confused. “Did you see where he went?”

  “He just disappeared,” Ron said.

  “He looked mighty shaken by what he saw in that sketch,” said Joe. “Maybe he went to his room?”

  “We should check his room,” Chris told Derek. “Grab his box.”

  As they approached Jimmy’s old room, a crash from inside confirmed their suspicions. Derek opened the door and moved aside for Chris to enter. Jimmy had pulled a stack of books off the bookcase and knelt on the floor in the middle of them.

  “Jimmy, what’s going on?”

  He selected a slim volume and held it out for her. “This one.” It was a high school yearbook from the year he died. Chris laid it on the bed for him. Then she took the box from Derek and placed it next to the yearbook.

  “That sketch,” Jimmy said as he flipped through the yearbook’s pages. “I know that guy.”

  “Wait,” said Derek. “You mean you went to high school with him?”

  Jimmy nodded, then he seemed to remember that Derek couldn’t see him. “Yeah. I mean, I think. He looks a little different in the sketch, but….” He trailed off as he examined the pages more closely. He turned another page, ran a finger along the rows of faces, then tapped on an image. “There. Scottie Tucker.” He looked up at Chris. “He was the manager for the football team.”

  She picked up the book and looked more closely at the image. She carried it over to Ron and Joe, who peered in from the hallway. “Is this the guy you saw last night?”

  Ron looked closely. “It was a slightly older, sicklier-looking version, but yeah. That’s him.”

  Chris handed the book to Derek, who looked disbelievingly at the picture. “You’re sure he was there that night?” He glanced around the room. “The night Jimmy was killed, I mean.”

  “Positive,” said Ron, her voice filtering through the ghost box on the bed. “His voice was unmistakable.”

  Derek looked at the box, then at Chris. She pointed him to where Jimmy sat on the bed, and he directed his gaze there. “Why would the manager of your team want to kill you?”

  “Beats me,” said Jimmy. “I mean, the kid was unpopular, but Steve and I were always decent to him. I don’t know why he’d have a beef with me.”

  “To be fair,” said Joe, “he did say that nobody was supposed to get hurt that night. I don’t think he went there with murder on his mind.”

  “And he’s not the one who pulled the trigger,” Ron added. “Whoever the big guy was who shot Jimmy, this kid was terrified of him. It was like he thought that not even death could protect him from the guy.”

  Derek carried the book back to the bed and laid it down. “Is there anyone else here who might fit the physical build of the guy who shot you?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “No. Steve was the only guy in our class who was bigger than me. In the whole school, even.”

  A shadow seemed to pass over Derek’s face, but he shook it away.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Chris.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  Jimmy looked up at him, his eyes narrowed as if studying him. “You’re not thinking it was Steve.”

  “No, of course not.” The glance he gave Chris belied his words, which didn’t escape Jimmy’s notice.

  “It wasn’t Steve!”

  Derek held up placating hands. “I’m not thinking that. I’m just thinking about who had the most to gain by you being out of commission.”

  “It wasn’t Steve,” Jimmy insisted once again. “Don’t you think I’d have recognized my best friend, even if he was wearing a mask?”

  “Who’s Steve?” asked Chris.

  “He was the backup quarterback on Jimmy’s team. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Steve Lansing?”

  Chris felt her eyes widen. “The Chiefs’ running back?”

  “Former,” said Derek. “But yeah. He’s on the city council now, and he owns a local car dealership.”

  “Scottie said the guy was an upstanding citizen now,” Ron pointed out from the doorway. “Sounded like someone with power. He said the guy’s dad had his record erased after he was busted for drugs.”

  “Steve was also like a brother to me,” said Jimmy. “And he never so much as smoked a cigarette. I’m telling you, I’d know if it was him.”

  “Okay,” said Derek. “Consider him ruled out. At least that’s progress, I guess.” He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Why don’t we all go back out to the living room and look through the files? Maybe this new puzzle piece will help us see a connection that wasn’t there before.” He picked up the yearbook and headed out of the room. Chris gave Jimmy a reassuring smile as she retrieved his box and followed.

  Chris and Derek sat camped at opposite ends of the couch, each with a stack of papers in their lap. More article printouts were spread on the coffee table, where the ghosts each sat poring over them in their assigned spots.

  The police file lay on top of Chris’s stack. After scanning yet another news transcript about how the high school and community were pulling together in the wake of this tragedy, she pulled the file back out and looked over its contents for about the dozenth time.

  She couldn’t believe how paltry the file was. It contained a description of the stolen gun that had been used as the murder weapon, as well as statements from Derek, his parents, and a few neighbors, none of whom had seen anything helpful. Derek’s description of the intruders was the most he
lpful bit of info in the file, but it wasn’t anything they didn’t have already.

  The file also held a sheet of yellow legal paper, turning brown with age. On it were handwritten notes that she presumed had been written by the police detective. A list of crossed-out names were likely suspects that had been ruled out. Another list appeared to contain possible motives for the crime.

  One word, hastily scrawled in a corner of the paper, was hard to make out. After squinting at it for a while, Chris decided the word must be “Scott,” followed by a question mark. She showed it to Derek. “Looks like the detective was onto something.”

  He squinted at it. “Does that say Scott?”

  “As far as I can tell. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Maybe Scottie died before the detective could question him.”

  “Maybe.” Chris squinted some more at the bad handwriting. Was that actually a U? “What about scout? Does that word mean anything?”

  Derek shook his head. “Jimmy?” He did the same, reminding Chris of a younger version of his brother.

  She blew out a sigh. “I guess Scott makes more sense.”

  Derek lowered the printout he was reading and looked around the room. “Maybe we should get one of those big white boards.” He turned to Chris. “You know, like they use in all the crime shows.”

  “Couldn’t hurt. Then at least we’d look like we know what we’re doing.”

  Ron uncovered the yearbook on the coffee table and flipped it open. Idly turning the pages, she said, “Maybe we can go back to the jail and take another crack at interrogating this guy.”

  “What makes you think you’d have any better luck a second time?” asked Chris.

  “I don’t know. Maybe if we tell him we know who he is—”

  “Maybe that’ll just rile ‘im up and turn ‘im dangerous,” Joe pointed out.

  She batted her eyelashes at him. “That’s why you’d be there, my big, intimidating personal body guard.”

  Joe stared at her a moment, then held up a hand. “Okay, one,” he raised a finger, “you ain’t got a body to guard. Two,” his second finger joined the first, “I’ve done had my fill of vengeful spirits. I’d think you’d feel the same way.”

  Ron sighed. “Fine. But there’s got to be a way to talk to this kid, get him to spill.”

  “I wonder if he still has family in town,” said Chris. “Maybe they could tell us something useful.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard to track down.” Derek set aside his stack of papers and got up. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some lunch.”

  Chris’s stomach growled at the mention of food. “Now that you mention it.”

  He took his phone from the pocket and headed for the kitchen. “How does Chinese sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  Ron sighed. “Seriously? You guys are gonna eat Chinese food right here in front of us?”

  “We still have to eat. You don’t have to watch.”

  Derek went to the other side of the bar, opened a drawer, and pulled out what Chris presumed was a menu. “Anything in particular you’d like?”

  “Mu shu pork.” Ron groaned. Chris ignored her. “And a side of lo mein.”

  Derek grinned. “Nice to see a girl who doesn’t automatically go for the healthy options.” He made air quotes around the word healthy. He dialed the phone, and as he placed the order Ron grumbled with each menu item he mentioned.

  “You know, you really don’t have to stick around,” Chris told her.

  “Actually,” said Joe, “I’m gettin’ a might tired. I could stand to go home and recharge.”

  Ron looked at Joe, then glanced up at Chris before turning to Jimmy. “Will you be okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ve had to watch Derek eat enough times over the years that it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He smiled. “I know. I’ll be fine. You guys have already done more than enough.”

  “Okay, then.” Ron got to her feet. Joe followed. “If you find anything, or if you decide you need me, call home. I’ll be camped out by the answering machine.” With that, they departed.

  Half an hour later, Chris knew they’d made the right choice. Ron would’ve been tortured by the sight of all this food. Not to mention by the involuntary sounds of pleasure Chris kept making as she ate. “Remind me to get the name of your takeout place,” she told Derek before popping the last half of a dumpling in her mouth.

  “Hot Wok,” he mumbled around a mouthful of lo mein.

  “Is that on 41st?”

  He nodded. “Over by Garnett.”

  “Darn. That’s probably too far to deliver to my neighborhood.”

  “Then I’ll have to bring you some sometime.”

  Chris smiled and polished off the last of her mu shu pork before washing it down with a sip of a microbrew from Derek’s fridge.

  Jimmy kept working as they ate. Finally, he shoved a stack of papers aside and leaned back. “I’m not finding anything, guys. None of this is jogging any memories. It’s just making me feel sad for all the people I left behind.”

  “Take a break, Jimmy,” said Chris. “You’ve been a big help, but we can take it from here.”

  “I hate to just leave it all to you guys, though. I mean, it’s my murder you’re trying to solve.”

  “That’s what brothers are for,” said Derek.

  “And it’s what I do,” Chris reminded him. “We just want you to have peace.”

  Jimmy’s gaze darted back and forth between the two of them, and a sly smile spread across his face. He leaned his elbows on the coffee table. “You know what would give me peace?”

  “What’s that?” asked Derek.

  Jimmy looked meaningfully at his brother, then back at Chris, and lifted his eyebrows suggestively. She got the hint. “Stop.”

  “Stop what?” asked Derek. “What am I missing?”

  “Nothing. Jimmy’s being a doofus.”

  “I seem to remember him being good at that.”

  “Hey!” said Jimmy, and Derek smiled. “Watch it,” Jimmy warned him. “I could tell her stories. And I don’t just mean about your childhood. I’ve been watching you a long time, you know.”

  That wiped the smile from Derek’s face. “I think I’m ready for another beer.” He got up and gathered empty and half-eaten food containers. “You want one?” he asked Chris.

  She was tempted to say yes but remembered how much the margarita the day before had tempted her to lose control. “No thanks. I’m good.”

  Derek nodded on his way to the kitchen. While his back was turned, Chris made a face at Jimmy and tossed a throw pillow at him. It went right through him. He frowned and turned to look at where the pillow landed. “I meant to catch that. I guess I really am running out of steam.”

  “Go. Rest. We’ll let you know if we find something.”

  With a weary nod, Jimmy faded out of sight. Chris retrieved her stack of print-outs from the coffee table and shuffled through them until a headline caught her eye. Union Head Coach Dies. Below it a sub-headline read, Father of murdered quarterback succumbs to heart attack. Before she could read any further, Derek returned with his beer.

  She placed the article back in the stack. “How old were you when your dad died?” she asked softly.

  Derek paused to look at her before taking his seat on the opposite end of the couch. He sipped his beer before asking, “Why do you ask?”

  She handed him the article. He scanned it with a grimace. “I mean,” she said, “if you don’t want to talk about it—”

  “No, it’s fine.” He handed it back to her. “I was seventeen.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Derek shrugged. “To be honest, it’s amazing he lasted that long. He took Jimmy’s death badly. Stopped sleeping, started smoking again. And it’s not like his diet was ever on the healthy side. It was almost like he wanted to have a heart attack.”

  “That must
have been so hard on you and your mom.”

  “Yeah. She couldn’t wait to get away from here. As soon as I finished college, she gave me the house and moved to Jacksonville to live with her sister. I can’t really blame her. Too many painful memories for her here.”

  “Man. You must have felt abandoned.”

  He let out a short, humorless laugh. “It’s funny. A therapist once said the same thing to me.” He glanced shyly at Chris, as though realizing he’d just made a confession. He took another sip of his beer, then shrugged. “Not really, though. I had Uncle Jim.”

  “Was that your dad’s brother?”

  “Best friend, actually. He’s not a true uncle. But he was like a brother to my dad, and he’s watched over me ever since Jimmy was killed. He was really there for my mom and me after Dad’s heart attack. He’s almost become like a second father.”

  Chris smiled. “That’s nice.”

  “Yeah. It is.” He took a long pull on his bottle before setting it on the side table. “Here, help me move the coffee table. Maybe we can just spread out on the floor in lieu of a white board.”

  Chris got up to help. Once the floorspace was cleared away, they settled on the floor in front of the sofa and spread out their work for a better big-picture view.

  “What about you?” asked Derek. “Was there anyone in your life like that after your mom died?”

  “Not really. Ron did her best, but she was just a kid, you know? Our Aunt Judy would have us come stay with her during the summers, but she never really tried to fill the mom role.”

  “And I guess your dad never had anyone?”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Not until Marsha.”

  “I take it you weren’t exactly enamored with her.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I don’t know. I thought she seemed nice enough.” At the look Chris gave him, he added, “Awfully young, though.”

  Chris sighed. “That’s not it. Well, it doesn’t help. But she’s just so…”

  “Not your mother?”