The Ex Who Wouldn't Die

by Sally Berneathy

  Amanda waited, knowing Charley would get to the point eventually. He loved being the center of attention and milked every opportunity.

  "So after I saw the story in the newspaper, I got to thinking about Dianne's death and Kimball's visit to the alley right around the time she was killed. It would have been great if I could have got Kimball's gun, but when I went back, the trash had already been hauled off." He sighed. "Luck was not on my side. I didn't have anything except a theory. But, fortunately, I've always had the ability to make my own luck. I called Kimball. Couldn't get through to him, of course, not an important man like him. I left a message telling him I had something he'd dropped the night before. Anyway, long story short—"

  "A little late for that, isn't it?"

  Charley ignored her. "He met me in a bar, and I told him I had the gun he'd tossed into the trash, the gun he used to kill Dianne. I told him unless he paid me twenty-five thousand dollars, I was going to take that gun to the police. He paid me, but I couldn't give him the gun because I didn't have it, so I left town, and everything was fine until a couple of weeks ago."

  He paused. Dramatic effect.

  "And?" Amanda urged.

  "Well, you left me and filed for divorce and I had to get my own apartment and pay a lawyer, so I needed money."

  "My fault, of course."

  "I didn't say that, but if you're feeling guilty…"

  "I'm not."

  "Anyway, I needed money, and Kimball's getting ready to make a bid for governor, so I called and told him I wanted another payment."

  Amanda groaned. "Oh, Charley! That was crazy."

  "Yeah, I guess, but I was desperate. Kimball was pretty upset. He said he'd only give me more money if I gave him the gun first this time." Charley shrugged. "I couldn't very well give him what I didn't have. I thought I'd better just let that one go and never called him again. A couple of weeks later, he slips right past that lousy lock on my door and walks into my living room wearing motorcycle leathers and a helmet—"

  "That's why nobody saw anything! Your neighbors would have thought that was you." Then another thought hit her. "Or me."

  He nodded. "Yeah, he explained all that to me before he killed me."

  "Some maniac comes to your apartment and threatens you, so you call me to come over there? Nice, Charley. That shows real concern for me."

  Charley actually looked somewhat abashed. "It wasn't like that. He forced me to call you and tell you to bring the gun after I told him I didn't have it because I left it at your apartment. And if you'd brought the gun like I asked you, I could have given it to him and I might still be alive."

  Amanda sprang to her feet, hands on her hips. "You are not going to blame this one on me, Charley Randolph! If I'd showed up with that gun, he'd have killed you anyway. This whole thing is totally on you!"

  Charley lifted his arms in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, okay! Anyway, you showed up without the gun. I tried to keep you out of my apartment. I was trying to protect you. But you shoved your way inside."

  "Yes, I did!" Amanda settled back into her chair. "I wanted to see what you had in there that you were so anxious to hide from me. And you know what I saw? Nothing! No mysterious stranger. No Kimball."

  "He was behind the door. I got you out of there before he saw you and killed you." He sighed. "I didn't know then he'd already jacked with your bike so you'd have a wreck and die. He told me that just before he shot me. Then he came over here and stole your gun, and I saved your life, and here I am. End of story."

  Amanda shot up from her chair again. "End? This is not even close to the end of the story! The cops think I killed you. I could get sent to prison!"

  "Well, Amanda, it's not like you didn't threaten to do just that more than once."

  "And you deserved to be murdered by me, but that didn't happen because somebody else beat me to it, and I shouldn't have to go to prison for something I didn't have the pleasure of doing!"

  Charley brightened. "Well, now I've told you the real story, you can tell the cops, and they'll arrest Kimball, and you'll be safe, thanks to yours truly. Presto, white light, angel wings and all that good stuff."

  Amanda sank back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. Insane as it sounded, this must really be Charley's ghost. Surely her imagination couldn't create a conversation so totally Charley.

  She withdrew her hands from her eyes and stared at him. He now hovered a couple of inches above the bed, looking pleased with himself.

  "Did you not hear what happened this evening when I tried to tell that cop about somebody stealing my gun?"

  "Yeah, I heard, but you were trying to tell him I wasn't dead. You have to admit, Amanda, you sounded a little crazy. I'm not surprised the man didn't believe you. You tell him the whole story, and everything will be just fine."

  "Why, of course! All I have to do is tell the cops that the Mayor of Silver Creek, a respected man running for governor, killed his former girlfriend, then killed you and stole my gun because he thought it was the gun he used to kill his former girlfriend, but it isn't." She waved a hand through the air. "No problem making that story believable, especially if I tell him the ghost of my ex-husband swears it's true!"

  Charley grimaced, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. "Okay, maybe there are still a couple of things you'll have to work out, but I've done my part. I'm outta here." He looked around the room expectantly. "Yep. I did my good deed, redeemed myself. Time for me to move on, get my wings."

  Amanda followed his gaze, half expecting to see a bright light of some sort, even if it came from a blazing fire accompanied by the smell of brimstone.

  No light. And Charley didn't vanish, didn't even dim.

  His smile became a little strained. "I don't see any tunnel of light."

  "And I don't see any less of you."

  He shifted, sinking a couple of inches into the bed. "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do."

  Amanda threw up her hands. "Great! Just freaking great! How am I ever supposed to get rid of you? I can't even threaten to kill you now because you're already dead."

  Charley clutched his heart. "Amanda, you wound me. Here I am, staying around just to help you, and you don't appreciate it."

  "You're staying around because you can't leave." She rose and strode across the room. "At least get out of my bedroom. This may be my last chance to sleep in my own bed for the next twenty-five years to life."

  Charley shrugged, then walked dejectedly into the living room. Actually, his feet remained about six inches above the floor, but the motion of movement vaguely resembled walking.

  Amanda turned away, making a conscious effort to also turn away from all the insanity of the last few days.

  Not surprisingly, sleep was elusive, but finally she felt herself begin to relax. Her dream self was riding her Harley over amazingly smooth brick streets, dodging pop-up Charleys, when someone shouting in the next room brought her to full consciousness.

  Kimball? Come back to kill her?

  She grabbed her kitchen knife and dashed into the living room to find the television blaring with Charley sitting on the sofa, beaming happily. "I turned it on!" he declared.

  Amanda held her hands over her ears. "Turn it off!" She dashed across the room and hit the control button. Silence filled the room.

  "I was bored," Charley said. "I tried to turn on the TV, but my hand just went right through the remote control, and I got so frustrated with this whole situation, I thought I was going to explode. I didn't, but the TV did. Pretty cool, huh?"

  "No, it is not cool." Amanda turned to go back to bed.

  "Hey, come on! At least turn it on low so I can have something to do."

  "No!"

  "I'll turn it on myself," he threatened.

  Amanda grabbed the remote and turned on the television, adjusting the sound to low. Death with Charley wasn't going to be any easier than life had been.

  ***

  An insistent chiming woke Amanda
to bright sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. She had somehow managed to get a few hours of sleep, but now her cell phone was pulling her back to reality.

  She retrieved it from the night stand and checked the name. Her father. She felt a chill of anxiety. "Dad?"

  "Good morning, Mandy."

  "What's up?"

  "I just talked to Brian."

  Amanda's heart clenched. Last night she'd made a smart-mouthed crack about going to prison for twenty-five to life, but suddenly it wasn't funny.

  "What's going on?"

  "I'm sorry, Mandy. The police found evidence that your bike had been tampered with. Your accident was no accident. Somebody almost killed you."

  "I'll call you right back, Dad." She snapped her phone closed. "Charley!"

  Chapter Eight

  "I swear I didn't do it!" Charley came down the stairs behind Amanda, his movement a simulation of walking though producing no sound on the wooden steps.

  Amanda continued her clattering descent from her apartment, on her way to meet with Brian Edwards to talk about this latest development. "I know, I know," she tossed over her shoulder. "It was Kimball. Kimball killed you. Kimball stole my gun. Kimball jacked up my bike. Kimball's responsible for global warming. Does Kimball actually exist? I can't believe you'd really do something to my motorcycle. That's low, even for you, Charley Randolph, lowest of the low!"

  "It was Kimball!"

  "And you know that because you have special knowledge now. It's a ghost thing. Fine. I'm going to Silver Creek to meet this Kimball and confront him and demand to know why he jacked with my bike!"

  "No!"

  The genuine panic in Charley's voice stopped Amanda on the last step. She turned to look at him, a wry smile moving onto her lips. "So I was right. He doesn't exist." She shook her head. "You almost had me believing you last night."

  "Amanda!" The new voice came from behind her. She whirled to see a slim, dark-haired man standing in the open door at the side of her shop. "You're back." Dawson smiled up at her. The sunlight bouncing off the lenses of his glasses added to the impression of benign happiness her assistant exuded.

  You're back? Was he talking about Charley's return?

  Amanda cast a quick glance up the stairs behind her. Charley was nowhere to be seen. Dawson must be referring to her return, not Charley's. His expression should have told her that. Dawson had never been fond of Charley. While he was too polite to say anything derogatory, he was too open to be able to mask his reactions. She'd seen Dawson obviously distressed because a stripe in a motorcycle paint job was one millimeter longer than the same stripe on the other side. Charley's presence had always upset him far more. No, he wouldn't be smiling if he'd seen Charley.

  "Dawson, hi. Yes, yes, I am. Back. Sort of. I'm sorry, I have to meet with my lawyer this morning, but I'll be at work this afternoon. I hate to ask you to keep holding down the fort, but would you mind just one more morning?"

  "It's okay. I don't mind. But—well, can you spare just a few minutes? There's somebody here to see you."

  "Somebody to see me?" Her heart triple-timed. The culpable Kimball? Did he exist after all? Had he come to finish her off, just as Charley warned?

  A short, frumpy woman with a cap of silvery hair stepped out of the shop from behind Dawson. She wore a simple cotton dress of small white polka dots on a dark blue background. The style made her small, slightly-overweight frame look stocky, solid and capable. She clutched a square black purse in both hands, and her expression was even more joyous than Dawson's.

  "You must be Amanda," she said with a wide smile.

  "Let's go, Amanda." Amanda gasped at the sudden sound of Charley's voice in her ear. His tone held an edge of hysteria. "Appointment with your lawyer. Remember?"

  Nobody seemed surprised to see him. Amanda looked from the woman to Dawson to Charley then back to Dawson.

  "Let's go!" Charley urged. "Now!"

  "No!"

  Both Dawson and the woman looked confused.

  "Yes, you are," Dawson said.

  "I'm what?"

  "You're Amanda. Are you all right?" Concern flickered across Dawson's guileless features.

  "They can't see me," Charley said. "Let's go." Cold shivered through Amanda's arm as Charley tried to take it.

  "You can't see…?" Amanda's question drifted off as she motioned vaguely behind her.

  Dawson's concern increased, became more of a surge than a flicker. "Amanda, why don't you come inside and have a Coke? That always makes you feel better."

  The frumpy woman rushed forward and took her hand. "It's all right, dear. Come inside and sit down for a few minutes. You've been through a lot."

  Amanda looked into the woman's plain, kindly face.

  Charley groaned.

  "I'm your mother-in-law," the woman said. "Irene Randolph. Charley's mother." She took Amanda's arm on the opposite side from Charley and guided her toward the shop. Her touch was soft warmness rather than the cold chill Charley's had been. "I heard you were out of the hospital, and I wanted to meet you. I couldn't find your phone number, but I called your shop this morning, and your assistant said I should come on over. I wish we didn't have to meet like this, but it can't be helped."

  Faced with a live mother-in-law on one side and a dead almost-ex-husband on the other, Amanda couldn't find the will to protest. Suddenly sitting down and having a Coke seemed like a really good idea, a sane, normal action.

  "It's going to be okay," the woman said in a soothing voice as if she sensed Amanda's tension. "You lost your husband and you were in a terrible accident. You need some time to recover." The woman sensed the tension but didn't have a clue as to the cause of it.

  Amanda let her mother-in-law lead her through the shop toward the small office at the back. Motorcycles and parts spread around the room were in a surprising semblance of order. In her absence, under Dawson's care, order had gained ground on disorder.

  A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Dawson's unrelenting determination to create structure everywhere was reassuring. His obsessive nature balanced Amanda's tendency toward chaos.

  In the small, windowless office, Amanda sank onto one of the folding chairs. A clean camshaft lay at her feet.

  She jumped at the sound of a pop-hiss.

  "Uh, Coke. Sorry." Dawson handed her a red can.

  "Thanks." Amanda lifted the can and took a long swallow of the cold, fizzy liquid.

  Charley's mother appeared on the other side, proffering a rectangular plastic container filled with cookies.

  Amanda blinked. "Cookies?" In the midst of Charley's murder, the appearance of his ghost, the sabotage of her motorcycle and her near death, this woman, her newly-discovered mother-in-law, was pushing cookies.

  "They're delicious," Dawson assured her.

  "They have nuts," the woman said, apparently misinterpreting Amanda's hesitation. "Are you allergic to nuts? Oh, dear, I hope you're not allergic to nuts." Her face wrinkled with concern.

  "No. No, I love nuts." Amanda picked up a cookie. The whole world had gone insane. She might as well eat cookies. She took a bite. It was moist, chewy, rich, full of smooth chocolate chips and chunky nuts. "This is good!" she exclaimed. "Really good!"

  The woman smiled. "I didn't know what kind of cookies you liked, but chocolate chip was Charley's favorite, so I thought you might like the same kind."

  Amanda took a second bite. "You made these cookies for me?"

  "Of course. I'm glad you like them."

  "I love them." Suddenly Amanda found her throat oddly choked. To her surprise and consternation, she felt tears brimming in her eyes.

  Mrs. Randolph fell to her knees beside Amanda and wrapped both arms around her, patting her gently. "It's okay to cry. I've cried an ocean over him. We both loved him, and now he's gone."

  Amanda decided it wouldn't be a good idea to tell a grieving mother that she was crying because someone had made cookies for her, not because she'd loved the son in que
stion who wasn't really gone anyway. "I didn't kill him." It was the only consoling thing she could think of to say.

  Mrs. Randolph drew back. "Why, of course, you didn't! Why would you even say such a thing?"

  Amanda wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and shrugged. "The cops. They've been questioning me."

  Charley's mother patted her hand. "They questioned me, too. Don't you worry. They'll catch whoever did this horrible thing." She straightened. "Bad enough you lose your husband. Those police shouldn't be making things worse." She squeezed Amanda's hand. "You've been through a lot here lately, and Herbert and I want you to come to Silver Creek and stay with us for a while, give yourself some time to heal and get to know your new family."