Dead Man Talking

by TM Simmons

  Chapter 23

  In the laundry room Twila hummed one of those oldies songs she loved amidst splashing sounds. Jack’s gunbelt and pistol hung on a peg with some multi-colored aprons over by the door. I stuck my head in the laundry room door. Trucker sat quiescent on the floor, draped in one of Katy’s fluffy bath towels. Twila rubbed another towel over Miss Molly and, much to my surprise, the cat didn’t struggle like she did when I infrequently bathed and flea-dipped her. Twila had a way with cats, though, even those not her own.

  “I’ll be in the dining room in just a second,” she told me. She’d already changed into a long, straight skirt and a soft, hip-length sweater. Uh oh. We were eating in the dining room?

  I felt out of place in my worn jeans and T-shirt when I walked into the formal dining room. Sue Ann had set the table with china, candles, and a fall foliage centerpiece. Golden fried chicken heaped on a silver platter, with mashed potatoes and various other vegetables mounded in crystal bowls. A crisp salad set in front of the two unused place settings. At the head of the table, Katy wore a flowing blue pantsuit, Granny on her right in a high-necked silk dress, clasped with a cameo broach. I’d never seen her look so spiffy. Even Jack, on Katy’s left, had come up with a jacket somewhere, and the black T-shirt beneath it gave him a rakish, stylish air.

  I sat beside Jack. “I didn’t know we were dressing for dinner.”

  “We normally do,” Katy answered.

  “I’ll remember." I reached for a silver pitcher of salad dressing. Yum, blue cheese, my favorite, despite the cholesterol. “Everything looks wonderful.”

  “Chicken’s a little dry,” Granny said, but she had a bare leg bone on her plate and was working on a breast.

  I buttered a still-warm yeast roll, and managed to eat every bit of half of it and a few bites of salad before all hell broke loose. Miss Molly’s yowl signaled the beginning of the riot. Everyone froze, forks poised with chunks of food. For a split second, I thought Twila had finally found a cat she couldn’t charm, but knew instantly that was a lie. Trucker let loose next, a series of howls and growls. The hair on the back of my neck crawled as though hundreds of fleas were scurrying through it.

  “Alice!” Twila screamed, but I was already out of my chair, Jack right behind me.

  The cat met me at the dining room door, the towel-caped dog behind like a four-legged super hero. Miss Molly crawled up my leg, claws digging in, and I yowled in pain. Her claws sank through my T-shirt, and I jerked her loose as she went for my shoulder just as Trucker hit my legs. The dog knocked me into Jack, who reacted — but not quickly enough. We fell into the table, and Miss Molly sailed out of my grasp, splattering straight into the mashed potatoes.

  She’s not a potato cat. She yowled and leaped free, scattering china, dishes, and centerpiece in her bid for a hiding spot. She scrambled off the far side, claws tangled in the snowy white linen and lace.

  “Oh, no!" Katy grabbed for the tablecloth, but the cat’s weight pulled it out of her hands. Precious china and crystal were now history — as was our meal.

  Jack set me on my feet, and I glanced around for Trucker. He was halfway curled onto Granny’s tiny lap, his head on her shoulder, trembling and whining. I grabbed his collar and pulled him to the floor, and Granny heaved a sigh of relief.

  By then, Jack was out the door, and I raced after him. In the hallway, I stuck my head back in. “Stay in here!” I ordered Katy and Granny.

  “Bet your boots,” Granny said. Katy only sat there, stunned, staring at the mess.

  Jack stood in the kitchen, gunbelt hanging from his wrist and pistol drawn. After the cacophony in the dining room, the eerie silence here gave me the creeps. “I don’t think that gun will do you any good,” I whispered. Then tiptoed to the laundry room door, motioning Jack to stay back when he tried to grab my arm.

  He grabbed again, and dragged me to a halt. “I’ll go first.”

  “Damn it, no!" I jerked free. “You’re out of your depth here, Jack. And Twila’s in danger!" I edged to the door, Jack close behind. With a breath of courage, I eased into the room.

  Twila was at the laundry tub, the bar of soap in her hand held out protectively. Bucky stood over in a corner, the doll’s head from my room perched on his neck.

  “My God,” I breathed.

  The doll’s head swiveled to stare at me. The mouth opened, and I half expected to hear a “mama” bleat, but no sound emerged. Bucky evidently hadn’t learned to manipulate the vocal cord part of his new appendage.

  “What do you want me to do?” I whispered to Twila.

  “About what?” Jack asked. I whipped a quick glance at him. His puzzled face stared around the room, pistol lax in his hand. Damn, he couldn’t see Bucky.

  But Bucky saw him. Or maybe it was me he was after. The ghost lumbered forward, then stopped and lifted one hand to his nose. The head swiveled toward Twila, and she jabbed with the quince soap. Bucky took a step backward.

  “He smells the soap,” Twila whispered.

  “Who?” Jack asked.

  “Get over here with me, Twila,” I said quietly.

  She slowly slid one foot, then another in a sideways motion, the quince soap extended. Bucky watched her...me...continuing to rub the back of his hand across the doll nose.

  “Will one of you tell me what the hell’s going on here?” Jack demanded.

  Twila slid a little closer.

  “If you know what’s good for you, Jack, stay behind me — watch out, Twila!”

  With Jack distracting me, I yelled too late. She stepped in a smear of soap bubbles on the floor, and her evening sandaled-foot slid from under her. Instinctively, I rushed forward, but my rubber-soled tennis shoes didn’t have any more purchase than her sandals. We whomped together, tangled our arms around each other, and stayed on our feet somehow. I hit the laundry tub and swore viciously as tears of pain clouded my eyes. Damn, I was going to end up with a mess of bruises and scratches on my body before this was all over with.

  “Don’t, Jack!” Twila screamed.

  I disentangled myself and batted at my pain-teary eyes — in time to see Jack totally ignore the warning. He headed straight for Bucky, whose doll head now focused on the new antagonist. And Jack wasn’t protected by quince soap.

  “Jack, get the hell out of here,” I warned. He ignored me and walked another couple steps, a grim but confused look on his face as he stared around the small room. His hand hung by his leg, the pistol dangling.

  “There’s nobody else in this room,” he muttered.

  “There is!” I contradicted. “You just can’t see him!”

  He rolled his eyes. “A ghost, huh?”

  “Yes!”

  He started to re-holster his pistol. “My jurisdiction doesn’t cover that end of the county.”

  And that’s when Bucky lunged.

  “Watch out!” Twila and I both screamed.

  Bucky swiped the pistol out of Jack’s hand. Jack’s mouth gaped, and he froze as the pistol thudded on the top of the industrial-size washing machine, skidded across, and bounced against the control panel. Twila and I were already on the move. I lunged for Jack, placing myself and my protection between him and the ghost. Twila went after the pistol. Bucky beat her to it. He grabbed the gun, holding it threateningly. I glanced at Jack, imagining what he saw: pistol wavering in the air, pointed straight at him.

  Twila threw the quince soap. It hit Bucky’s gun arm, and he howled. I guess his vocal cord was working with his new head. Or perhaps the surprise and pain reestablished his vocal ability. He dropped the gun and grabbed his arm.

  Two things happened. Twila dove for the pistol and hit the floor in a flurry of skirts and body-thud. She pulled the gun against her body. Sir Gary materialized behind Bucky and slapped that silly doll’s head off his shoulders. It rolled toward Twila and she froze in fear.

  I went for Twila. Grabbed her by the sweater and hauled. The sweater ripped, but I dragged her several feet, Jack just standing there, shaking hi
s head.

  “Damn it, help me, Jack!” I screamed.

  He lunged forward, but didn’t help me get Twila to her feet. Instead, he took the pistol from her fingers and aimed it at Sir Gary. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  Shit. At least he saw that ghost.

  Sir Gary stared haughtily at Jack. “I, sir, am Sir Gary Gavin, Earl of the House of Spencer. And you?”

  Flustered, Jack replied, “Jack Roucheau. Homicide." Then his mouth dropped as though he couldn’t believe he’d actually spoken.

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. And Jack glared at me.

  The confrontation between the two of them distracted Twila’s and my attention from Bucky. I heard a thud on the washer as the head bounced there. Bucky had somehow found it on the floor. He fumbled again and victoriously grasped it, plopping it back on his shoulders. Then he leaped straight through the laundry room wall and disappeared.

  “How the hell does he manage to take that head with him through a wall?” Twila mused. “It’s real, not an other-dimensional object.”

  “If you’ll tell that bobby to point his bloody gun elsewhere, maybe I can answer that,” Sir Gary said.

  I stifled a stab of satisfaction at Jack’s white face. Still, he held the pistol in a ready-to-shoot grasp, both arms extended, the barrel steady, pointed at Sir Gary.

  “Jack, he’s a ghost." I chuckled with both relief at Bucky’s absence and amusement. “If you shoot, you’ll just put a hole in Katy’s dryer.”

  Jack took his eyes off Sir Gary. Stared at me. Stared at Twila. Then he slammed the pistol into his holster. I reached out to touch his arm, but met his back. He stormed out of the laundry room and slammed the door behind him with a resounding thud.

  “Well,” Twila said. “Looks like Jack’s finally met his first ghost.”

  “And a perfectly fine meeting it was,” I said with a nod. “I wonder why, though, he could see Sir Gary but not Bucky.”

  “Because Sir Gary’s a much more developed ghost,” she explained as though chastising a small child. Which she was in effect doing, given her weighty experience against my fairly fledgling status. “He’s been a ghost a lot longer than Bucky. But did you notice? I do believe Jack saw the doll’s head, once it was off Bucky’s shoulders.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at Sir Gary, silently asking for the explanation he’d promised. He shrugged nonchalantly. “I assume it becomes part of this Bucky person when he attaches it, thus, invisible to those who cannot see us." He grimaced at the door. “Especially a bobby who thinks with his brains rather than senses.”

  “Jack’s a disbeliever,” I said, “but make no mistake about it. He’s not a bumbling cop.”

  “No?” Sir Gary said. “Not like that Columbo detective I see on Katy’s TV, huh?”

  I bristled in defense of my ex-husband. “If you’ve got anything to do with Bucky’s death, Jack will ferret it out. He will crack this case." My anger died as I remembered just which way the investigation was leading. “No matter who the killer is.”

  “Well." Twila stared around the floor and crouched to dig her bar of quince soap from a stack of plastic laundry baskets. “I, for one, would like to have something to eat.”

  Sir Gary stepped away from us, and his back half disappeared into the wall behind him. “Uh...you aren’t going to bring that stuff with you during our discussions, are you?”

  “No,” Twila reassured him. “I’ll do a white-light procedure when we talk. Even though I’ve bathed with it, it won’t bother you then...unless you give me a problem of some sort.”

  Sir Gary sniffed in disdain. “I have an important quest. I have no time for foolishness.”

  “You really helped us with Bucky,” I told him. For once I felt quite happy with Sir Gary. “We both thank you for that. But you might not be around the next time. Do you have any idea where Bucky’s hiding out?”

  “None at all.”

  “Jack says that one thing that helps him in an investigation is to put himself inside the mind of the killer,” I pondered. “Maybe the same thing would work for us — trying to figure out what Bucky’s thinking. I suppose he can think now, with the he — ”

  Twila and I both stared at each other at the same time, mouths agape in understanding. Then we looked over at Sir Gary, who gave a regal nod. “His real head,” we all whispered.

  “Yes,” Twila confirmed. “And since he’s hanging around Esprit d’Chene, he obviously believes the head is hidden here somewhere.”

  “They’ve searched the manor house,” I told her. “And the grounds. Sir Gary’s searched, too. Maybe we’re wrong, and the killer did take the head.”

  “I don’t think so." Twila placed a finger on her cheek. “If he...or she...had taken the head, I believe Bucky would be off there looking for it, rather than here. Now, maybe I better go change again before I go into the dining room. This sweater seems to be a tad ragged.”

  “Uh...there’s nothing left to eat. Miss Molly made a mess of the table. But Katy’s probably whipping up a replacement meal.”

  The laundry room door opened, and Katy peered in. “Everything all right? Hello, Sir Gary. Jack’s waiting outside for you, Alice, and there’s another platter of chicken in the oven, Twila.”

  Mouth watering, I headed for the oven. Let Jack stew a few more minutes. After all, he had at least part of a meal under his belt. I didn’t have to worry that he’d head off to the Holey Bucket alone. He had way too many ghost questions.