Nothing to Ghost About

by Morgana Best

Tara grinned. “You two must have made up if you’re defending him. Did he dump the wicked witch of the tabloids and proclaim his undying love for you?”

  I snorted rudely. “Hardly!”

  “So nothing’s changed?” Tara slumped in her seat, her disappointment obvious. “So what could’ve happened at the dinner that you couldn’t talk about over the phone?”

  At the mention of that dinner, my heart beat rapidly.

  “Soy latte?” a voice said behind me.

  I jumped. The waitress placed the latte in front of me, while Tara raised her eyebrows.

  “You’re so jumpy today. Was dinner that bad?’

  I shook my head. “Much worse.” I took a sip of the latte. It was as weak as dishwater, but as Tara had bought it for me, I could hardly comment. I only came to this café when Tara invited me. Their coffee was always bland, and their food wasn’t much better. “I didn’t want to call you to tell you because I went to bed as soon as Basil left. John Jones and Ian were still there. I wouldn’t put it past any of them to listen outside my door. Plus there was too much to text—that’s why I said we should meet for coffee.”

  Tara giggled. “John Jones, your future husband?”

  “That’s not funny!” I pulled a face. “He’s unbearable! He’s almost as bad as Mom. I really need to get that apartment over the funeral home renovated and move in. I have got to get out of Mom’s house.”

  “Why haven’t you started renovating it yet?”

  I rubbed my temples. “I’ve been consumed with the business. Don’t forget, the business wasn’t in a good state when I took it over, so I’ve had to build it up. Plus, as soon as I got back, I had to get my head around the fact that I’d inherited the business, and then there was Tiffany’s murder, and now there’s Preston Kerr’s murder. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had any time to think.”

  The waitress came back, pen and paper in hand, ready to take my order.

  “Nothing to eat, thanks,” I said. When she left, I added, “After last night, I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Tara nodded. “Is there much to do in the apartment?”

  I groaned. “Dad used it as a storage area for years, so it needs cleaning out. It has a ghastly old-fashioned bright orange bathroom, with those hideous sixties tiles. You know, the orange tiles with yellow concentric circles drawn on them?” When Tara nodded, I pressed on. “The kitchen is tiny and has laminate countertops, but it’s okay, I guess. The plumbing isn’t connected, so I’d have to get a plumber. The apartment was half built when Dad bought the funeral home, and it was never finished. I wasn’t born then.”

  Tara tapped her chin with a finger. “Why don’t you ask Basil if you can claim it as a tax deduction?”

  “Good idea.” I chuckled. “Is that your way of bringing the subject back to Basil?”

  Tara laughed. “Well, no, and yes. You still haven’t told me what happened.”

  “It was a nightmare dinner with Mom, Ian, and John. Like I texted you last night, Mom invited Basil over to try to fire him. Can you believe that? The nerve of her! I put my foot down, and Ian and John were shocked. Mom was, too.” I laughed, remembering the looks on their faces.

  Tara laughed, too. “I wish I’d been there to see you tell off your Mom.”

  “She wasn’t game to say anything to me for the rest of the night, but I bet she said plenty after I went to bed. Gosh, it’s so hot!” I picked up a napkin and fanned myself.

  Tara followed suit. “I thought there’d be a breeze with the storm coming. Anyway, get to the point! Basil?”

  I scratched my neck where a mosquito had just bitten me. “He was tense at first, but he did seem happy that I don’t share Mom’s views. I wonder if he thought…” My voice trailed away.

  “That you would try to convert him with every breath?” Tara filled in, looking skeptical. “If he hasn’t figured out that you’re nothing like Thelma by now, then he’s a pretty hopeless cause.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tara chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I think his ex-fiancée was fairly religious. Don’t quote me, though. It wasn’t like I hung out with her crowd. He keeps to himself pretty much. Maybe he’s into something that he thinks you’ll frown upon.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  Tara shrugged. “I’d be happy for you if it worked out, Laurel, but don’t get your hopes up too high. If I knew why his fiancée stormed off the way she did, maybe I could offer better encouragement than that. But just deal with this with eyes-wide-open. Okay? I don’t want you to get crushed by those mood swings of his again.”

  “I wouldn’t call them mood swings,” I began, but Tara cut me off.

  “No, but it sounds nicer than multiple personalities. I doubt you could compete with voices in his head.” Her tone was light, but I knew she was serious. “Relax and take it a day at a time. If he really likes you, he’ll spell it out eventually.”

  “How long is eventually?”

  Tara fanned herself again. “Who knows? Men are hard enough to read at the best of times. But what I’d really like to talk is about is how you put your foot down on your Mom.”

  As I recounted the events to Tara, my mind was still on Basil. It didn’t sound like much when I told Tara, but there was something about the way he had looked at me when he asked me if I shared Mom’s views. And what was up with him and Anna? Were they really dating? I did not want to think of the possibility that they were having any sort of relationship. At the same time, part of me wanted to wash my hands of the whole thing.

  I didn’t know what to think. I knew there had been something with Basil, one-sided or not. I hoped there was still something there now, hidden under the confusion and polite distance. Yet what it was, I had no idea. Did I want to know the answer? Or would the answer be worse than the wondering?

  Tara was concentrating on her food, and as I wasn’t eating, I turned my thoughts once more to Preston Kerr’s murder. There were two possibilities. Preston’s ghost himself had told me that he had overheard the murderer speaking to Alec Mason’s corpse, admitting to his murder. It was therefore likely that the murderer of Alec Mason and the murderer of Preston Kerr were one and the same person. The only caveat was that Preston Kerr’s wife, Donna, had a solid motive for killing her husband. I did not think she had the physical strength to strangle anyone, but she was having an affair with Preston’s brother. Preston was the most insubstantial ghost I had ever met, always fading in and out, and his trauma could be explained by him being in denial that his own brother had killed him.

  I shook my head. My stomach was rumbling constantly. I had the shakes from caffeine overload, and my head was spinning.

  I looked up to see Tara speaking into her cell phone. I’d been so lost in thought that I hadn’t even noticed it ring.

  “Gotta run. Sorry, Laurel,” she said. “Duncan needs the car. Call me later?”

  I nodded and followed her out of the café. Just as I stepped out on the sidewalk, the storm arrived with a vengeance. I sprinted for the car and tripped on the roadside. I managed to right myself before falling completely over, unlocked the car and dived in. I was drenched. I turned on the wipers, only to see something stuck under one of them.

  I jumped out into the driving rain, grabbed the envelope, and dived back into my seat. It was a parking ticket for not being within the designated lines of the parking spot. “How could I park in them?” I yelled. “That idiot behind me parked across two spots!”

  “That’s terrible,” a voice said beside me. I shrieked with alarm. I turned to see Preston Kerr. I would never get used to ghosts suddenly materializing. Luckily, no one outside the car had seen me yelling, as no one in their right mind was out in the storm.

  “Hi, Preston,” I said, starting the engine. I needed to get home in case hail was on its way. Thunderstorms in this district often brought heavy hail, large enough to put dents in a car. I carefully pulled out onto the road. I had the wipers set to maximum, b
ut visibility was poor.

  “I found out about my wife,” he said simply.

  “Preston,” I started, but I didn’t know what to say. I was a jewelry valuer by profession, not a psychologist.

  “Did you know?” he asked.

  “Yes. I found out recently. I’m sorry.” I swerved to avoid a driver who had pulled out in front of me.

  “I think I already knew, deep down,” Preston said sadly. “I finally found out how to go over to my old home. I saw my brother there.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not right, what they were doing.”

  “That’s life,” he said. “Sometimes it doesn’t go your way. Well, I guess I don’t get to say that anymore, do I? That was life for me. At any rate, I don’t think I care as much as I would have if I were alive.”

  “I don’t know if this is any consolation,” I said, “but I don’t think this will bother you at all once you cross over.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “It won’t matter at all. Ernie is really getting on my nerves, and that’s another reason I hope I cross over soon.”

  I shot him a glance, but he had vanished. I really had to find his murderer, for his sake, and for the sake of my business.

  It was time to focus on the mayor.

  Chapter 18

  I needed a reason to speak with the mayor, and I had a good one. I was a registered jewelry valuer. The mayor’s family heirloom jewelry had been stolen. That was an in right there. I wanted to see if his anger over the theft was enough to give him a motive for murdering Alec Mason.

  “I’d like to make an appointment with the mayor,” I said to the abrupt woman on the other end of the phone.

  “Regarding what?” she asked curtly.

  “Jewelry,” I said.

  “Jewelry,” came the woman’s snarky reply. “Today at four?”

  I was surprised that it was that easy. “Yes, thanks,” I said.

  She hung up.

  “All right then, thanks so much,” I said sarcastically to thin air.

  At ten minutes before four I was sitting in a small waiting room outside the mayor’s office. The woman I had spoken to on the phone sat at a small desk behind a glass screen. When I had announced myself, she had nodded, but not looked at me.

  Four came and went, and then so did four thirty, and the door to the mayor’s office hadn’t opened once. At four forty-three it finally did, and the mayor appeared. He was a short man with hair exactly like Donald Trump’s. It was the precise style and the precise color. The fact that he was so short was a good thing, because everyone, even short people, could see more of his amazing head of hair. He wore thin-framed glasses that glinted gold in the bright, artificial light.

  He came forward and shook my hand, and then ushered me into his office. I was still staring at his hair.

  “Ms. Laurel Bay?” he said with a slimy smile.

  The mayor nodded to a plush green leather chair and indicated that I should sit in it. He took his place in a much taller chair behind his large oak desk. The walls were lined with bookcases crammed with old books that didn’t look as if they had ever been touched, or for that matter, dusted.

  “So, you wish to speak about jewelry?” he said.

  I nodded. “I own Witch Woods Funeral Home.”

  The mayor nodded. “I was so sorry to hear about your father,” he said. “We actually had my mother’s service with him three years ago, and he really went out of his way for me.” Then the mayor smiled a snake-like smile and leaned forward. “Of course, when you’re the mayor, everyone goes out of the way for you. It’s a perk of the job!”

  I forced a laugh.

  “I’m intrigued. Please tell me what you mean when you say you want to talk jewelry with me,” he continued.

  “Your wife came over to my mother’s house for dinner recently.”

  The mayor nodded. “She was excited to get out for a change, instead of waiting for me at home. And I got to stop and pick up a hamburger for dinner without feeling too bad about it, so we both thank you! She’s always on me about my bad eating habits.”

  I smiled again. The mayor was really working me over, trying to be a likable and charming person. I could just see him kissing babies for newspaper photos.

  “She told us about your mother’s stolen jewelry,” I said.

  His mood at once darkened. His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared. “That man!” he said with a shake of his head.

  I nodded. “I did Alec Mason’s funeral.”

  The mayor looked at me for a moment. “Did you know he was a criminal?”

  “Yes, and I know he was murdered.”

  The mayor frowned. “I am sure people in organized crime don’t last long. He stole from people who worked hard for what they have. I can never replace what he stole from me. It had sentimental value, you understand. It wasn’t about the money.”

  “Your wife is quite upset about the whole thing.”

  The mayor nodded. I wondered if he knew that wasn’t true. She hadn’t liked her mother-in-law and so she didn’t much care for the woman’s jewelry—at least, if she was telling the truth.

  “I’m a registered jewelry valuer,” I said. “I’d still be working as a valuer now in Melbourne if I hadn’t inherited the funeral home. I thought I could help you.”

  “How so?” the mayor asked me.

  “If you would send me the insurance photos of the missing items, I can send them to all my contacts. I realize that the police would’ve put them in a database already. I know it’s a long shot, but I do have good contacts in the business for high-end jewelry.”

  The mayor nodded. “Thank you. If you’ll give me your email address, I’ll email you the photos.”

  “That would be great.”

  The major opened a desk drawer and pulled out some photos. “These aren’t insurance photos, of course, but at least you can get an idea of the jewelry. There’s the necklace.” He held up a photo of an elegantly dressed, elderly woman in an evening gown. “Mom, at her wedding anniversary at the Park Hyatt in Sydney. That was five years ago, the year before Dad died. Mom was one of the Hunters, you know.”

  I didn’t know. The Hunters were one of the wealthiest mining families in Australia.

  The mayor leaned over the desk and dropped the photos in front of me.

  I stared at the photos, my reason for being here forgotten for the moment. Sure, I didn’t have my 10x lens, but I could tell the quality of the jewelry from the photos.

  The ring had a huge pear-shaped yellow diamond in the center surrounded by white diamonds. To color grade the white diamonds properly, I would normally need comparison stones and have them unset, but just by looking at them I could see that the color was better than a G. Despite the fact that pear-shaped diamonds are worth less than round brilliant cuts, it was nevertheless obvious that this stone was unique and very costly. It would be easy to identify once it was found. There couldn’t be too many stones around like that.

  I estimated the size to be around 7 karats, perhaps even more depending how deeply the stone had been cut. If the colored diamond had a certificate from the Argyle mines in Australia, stating that they’d been mined there, the values would be greater. Better diamonds are often laser inscribed on the girdle with a number for identification, and this made them traceable.

  Why hadn’t the stolen jewelry come to light? I could only assume it had never hit the market. That meant that one or more people in the gang were holding onto the pieces, perhaps for their wives or girlfriends.

  I peered at the photos once more. The earrings looked to be yellow and white gold, with cushion cut yellow and white diamonds. They were probably worth more than twenty thousand dollars, as was the yellow and white diamond ring.

  When I saw the photo of the tennis bracelet, I gasped. The diamonds were enormous, and unusual Asscher cuts. If the setting was platinum, the bracelet alone would be worth around a quarter of a million dollars. I looked back up at the mayor. “Wow,” I
said. “This would be worth a small fortune.”

  He nodded. “Yes, but it’s not the money. It’s the sentimental value. This jewelry had been in my mother’s family for years. They were my mother’s favorite pieces.” His face went bright red and his cheeks puffed. He loosened his tie. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack or a stroke.

  Had he killed Alec Mason and then killed Preston Kerr? I had no idea. He did harbor a lot of resentment toward Alec Mason, but that was surely to be expected, given the circumstances. The mayor appeared to be nice enough, and normal—apart from his hair—but then I supposed all killers appeared to be normal, at least to some degree. At a stretch, I could perhaps see him stealing a car to hit Alec Mason, but would he go so far as to strangle an innocent man to cover his tracks?

  Chapter 19

  I was surprised to see a pick-up truck parked in the driveway of Mom’s house. It was white with big silver splotches where the paint had worn away. It looked like something someone would buy for two hundred bucks. Even more surprising, there was a ladder at the side of Mom’s house and there was a man on the roof.

  I walked into the funeral home and found Mom leaning against the office door. “The office is locked, Laurel,” she said. “How could you be so hurtful? Why didn’t you give me a key when you changed the lock?”

  I ignored her questions. “Who is on your roof?” I said.

  My mother smiled in a rather sanctimonious fashion. “Terence Bailey.”

  “Who is he?” I said. “Does he go to your church?” I have no idea why I asked the latter, as I already knew the answer.

  “Of course he does.” Mom put her best pious look on her face. “He was trying to find God.”

  “I didn’t know God was missing,” I said with a snicker.

  Mom was furious. “God does not approve of jokes! And let me tell you, Laurel, Terence was a crimson sheep who had gone astray. He had turned each to his own way, but now he is back with the flock.”

  I scratched my head. The whole sheep thing was confusing, as was her syntax.