I do know that Quinn finally took my arm and escorted me back to the chair I’d gotten out of just a short while before. He handed me a glass of wine. I drank it. I held out the glass, he refilled it, and I drank half of that, too, before I found my voice and squeaked. “The ghosts? You know about the ghosts?”
“Well, we didn’t. Not for certain. Not until right now.” Mom’s laugh was merry. She scooted forward in her seat. “But of course, we suspected. The look on your face is priceless, honey, it confirms everything!”
Remember what I said about Quinn not getting surprised often? I take it back. For the second time since he walked into the apartment, he looked as if someone had landed a solid sucker punch to the stomach. There wasn’t another chair for him, so he dropped onto the arm of the one I was sitting in.
For all her flightiness, Mom is not without a conscience. Her mouth pinched and her cheeks went pale. “I hate to admit it, Gil, but I think you were right all those years ago when you said we should have had the talk with our little girl. Then maybe she wouldn’t be sitting there looking like she’d just sucked on a lemon.”
“I do not—” There was no use protesting. I had no doubt that’s exactly how I looked. “Somebody better explain,” I said instead. “And fast.”
“Sure. Of course.” Dad sat back. For exactly three seconds. That’s when there was another knock on my door. “The pizza!” he said.
Call me paranoid. I made Quinn go to the door and since he had way more money than the ex-con, my mom, or me, I let him pay for the pizza, too. He came back carrying two boxes, double pepperoni and the works. That gave me a chance to duck into the kitchen for dishes and napkins and while I was at it, I tried to process everything that had just happened. Too bad it didn’t do anything to help settle the sudden thumping in my chest. I returned to the living room, passed around the plates, and made sure my voice was no-nonsense when I said, “Explain. Now.”
My mom had just bitten into a slice of double pepperoni and she had a string of cheese on her chin. With one finger, my dad flicked it away.
“It’s like this, honey,” Mom said, providing the explanation so Dad could wolf down a slice of the works. Something told me quality pizza wasn’t one of the amenities offered in federal prison. “It’s a family thing. You know, the Gift.”
I had yet to reach for a piece of pizza. Good thing. I’m pretty sure I would have choked on it. “You’re telling me you—”
“Oh no! I’m not nearly that lucky.” Mom had taken another bite of pizza and she washed it down with a sip of wine. “But your aunt Charlotte, and Grandma Martin, of course. Grandma Martin was always chatting it up with ghosts.”
Dad nodded. “As kids, we always just accepted it. It was what Mom did.”
“But—”
“Well, we didn’t want to say anything when you were young.” Finished with her pizza, Mom sat back and eyed the box, deciding if she wanted another piece. “You know, in case you didn’t get the Gift. We didn’t want you to be disappointed.”
“But—”
“But when Ella started telling us about all the strange things you were involved with, well, it just made sense.” My dad offered a piece of the works to Quinn, but since he was sitting on the arm of the chair looking just as stunned as I felt, he passed. Dad ate the pizza instead. “Mom and I compared notes, and that’s when we figured out what was happening,” he said between bites. “You see them. You talk to them. Just like my mother used to do.”
“But—”
“Oh, I know what you’re going to say!” Mom grinned. “You’re going to tell us that you thought it started when you hit your head on that mausoleum a couple years back. No doubt, that’s exactly how it feels. But think about it, honey. Don’t you remember, when you were a little kid, you had invisible friends.”
I did. I just never thought—
I swear, my entire Little Italy neighborhood heard me gulp.
“And even when you got a little older…well, you did sometimes tell me that you’d had strange dreams. About people you didn’t know.”
It was true. I just never imagined—
I didn’t realize I was trembling until I felt Quinn’s hand on my shoulder trying to keep me still.
“Drink some more wine,” he advised, pouring.
He didn’t have to tell me twice.
“So, like I was saying…” When the pizza had arrived, Mom set down that business card on the couch cushion next to her. Now, she picked it up again and handed it across the coffee table to me. “What do you think?” she asked.
The card was tasteful yet eye-catching.
Black, with one bold graphic, a sort of silvery smudge that suggested something mysterious.
The lettering was simple. GBP Investigations, it said. Along with my cell number.
Mom was so excited, she could barely sit still. “Don’t you just love it?”
“It’s…” My voice wasn’t working. But then, that hardly mattered. My heart was pounding so hard, I was pretty sure nobody would hear me, anyway. I handed the card over to Quinn.
“GBP…” Quinn was a good judge of people. It was part of his job description. Knowing he was more likely to get a straight answer from him, he looked at my dad.
“Gil, Barb, Pepper.” My dad swallowed the pizza he was chewing and grinned.
“Investigations?” Yes, this was me. Who else’s voice would come out so squeaky?
“Isn’t it just perfect?” Mom was too jazzed to keep still. She jumped to her feet. “Your dad learned a lot of things in prison.”
“Some of them good, some of them not so good,” Dad chimed in.
“He’s only going to use the good things,” Mom added quickly for Quinn’s benefit. “But he really can be a great deal of help when it comes to following people and ferreting out information. And me, well, I know I wouldn’t be very good at undercover work or anything, but I could answer the phones and keep the files in order. And I could help in the field, too, if I had to. You know, once in a while.”
“Help?” Was this a question, or my cry for assistance? Even I couldn’t answer that one. “What are you going to help with?” I asked my mother.
“Why, with your private investigation business, of course.” She answered so matter-of-factly anyone just walking in on the conversation would take it for normal rather than for the madness it really was. “Your dad and I…well, we decided it would be perfect. He needs a job and no doubt, you could use a little help, what with your day job and investigating for ghosts. We’ve lost so much time. Family time. But this will give us a chance to reconnect. It’s a win-win situation. For all of us. We’re all going into business together!”
“Well, this is perfect.”
I knew Quinn didn’t mean that. He couldn’t. The pizza and the wine were gone, and I’d made coffee and now, he was seated at my dining room table with me, my mom, and my dad. Perfect? This was nobody’s idea of perfect, especially since I didn’t know what other big family secrets my parents might blurt out, or how they might start grilling Quinn about things I would rather they didn’t discuss even more than the family propensity for chatting it up with ghosts.
Like me and Quinn.
And what was happening between us.
And where our relationship was headed.
Hey, why should Mom and Dad get answers? I’d known the guy for years and I still had no idea.
“I brought some stuff over for Pepper to look at and as long as you’re all going to be working together…”
Oh yeah, I nearly slapped that smug smile right off his face.
Since I am not a violent person (at least not unless it’s absolutely necessary), I pasted on a sweet smile of my own.
“No one said we were going to be working together,” I said from between gritted teeth. “If you’ve got something to tell me about the case—”
“Oh, did you hear that, Gil?” My mom bounced up and down in her chair. Not a good idea considering that the chairs, along with th
e table, had come from the nearest Salvation Army store and there was no telling what kind of abuse they were able to withstand. “We just opened our doors for business and we’ve already got a case.”
“I have a case,” I reminded them.
“Which makes it our case, too,” my dad pointed out.
Quinn’s lips twitched.
Since he was sitting next to me, it was easy for me to lean to my right and whisper, “Why are you doing this? Why are you encouraging them?”
Quinn had brought a legal pad to the table and he scrawled cute on it.
I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about me.
Quinn moved his cup out of the way so he could put his elbows on the table and lean forward, the better to pin Mom and Dad with one of his bad-cop/bad-cop looks. “Let’s get something straight. There are a couple things I want to discuss with Pepper and since you’re here, I’m more than willing for you to listen and give me your opinions. But this is my case.” He glanced at me when he said this. Message received loud and clear.
Which didn’t mean I had to listen to it.
“I’m not asking you to get involved,” Quinn continued. “And there’s no way I want to put you in danger. Gil, you’ve got keep your nose clean; you can’t get mixed up with anything that can jeopardize your release. Barb, it’s great to read about mysteries and watch them on TV, but that’s not how things work in real life. Pepper…”
He didn’t bother to finish.
Just as well; I’d already scooted my chair forward so that I could take a closer look at the evidence bags he pulled out of his pocket.
“The postcards from Jack.” When Quinn didn’t object, I lifted each bag and the postcards in them. Four postcards, four bags. To bring my parents up to snuff, I explained how the cards had apparently come from Jack Haggarty except that we knew Jack Haggarty was dead.
“And you know this because you’ve seen his ghost, right? You’ve talked to this Jack fellow.” Mom sat up tall. No easy thing for a woman who barely scraped five feet. “You’re using your Gift. Honey, we’re so proud.”
“I’ve seen him,” I said. “We haven’t exactly talked.” I debated about whether to get into the gory details, then decided that if they were going to play detective for this one evening, they might as well know the whole truth and nothing but. I described how Jack looked, how he’d been bound and tied and, apparently, drowned. I told them how difficult it was to communicate with Jack.
Then I figured I might as well go for broke. Well, go partway to broke, anyway.
“We don’t seem to be getting anywhere as far as figuring out what happened to Jack or who he wants us to save,” I said. “But we’ve apparently touched a nerve.” Along with this information, I gave Quinn a telling look.
He gave me back a blank stare.
“Touched. A. Nerve,” I said again. How much clearer could a girl be?
“We really haven’t.” He shook his head. “There’s not much we’ve found out and—”
Good thing I was sitting next to him. It gave me a perfect opportunity to give him a kick.
“Ow.” Quinn winced. “What’s that—”
“I think what she’s telling you…” Across the table, my dad’s expression was thunderous. It took him a moment to gather his composure and switch his gaze to me. “Has someone threatened you, sweetheart? Because if they did—”
“Threatened?” Quinn sat back, his arms crossed over his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wasn’t exactly—”
I might have finished my half-baked explanation if my mother actually waited to hear it. She was as pale as a sheet and she clutched one hand to her neck. “Someone tried to kill you! Oh my goodness, Gil.” With her free hand, she grabbed my dad’s arm in a death grip. “We need to do something about this. Now.”
“Nobody needs to do anything!” I was already on my feet before I was even aware that I’d jumped up. “I’m fine. Look. Fine.”
“But…”
That from Quinn, of course.
I plunked back down in my chair. “But someone tried to kill me,” I groaned.
The new uproar is best left undescribed. Mostly because it was just like the last one. Only longer. And louder. Suffice it to say that when it was finally over, Mom fell back in her chair, Dad was so red in the face, I thought his head was going to pop off, and Quinn was really quiet.
I knew what that meant, and I braced for the lecture.
“Why didn’t you—”
I defended myself instantly. “I tried to call. Obviously, you were busy.”
“Yeah, if you call talking to Vincent Bagaletti busy.” Quickly, Quinn told my folks about the crazy security guard at the hotel and his delusions about the morgue. “You’re more important than that looney.” It would have been a nice compliment if Quinn didn’t growl at the end of it.
I was glad to hear it, but that didn’t change a thing.
“I’m fine. Obviously. Jack, the ghost,” I added for my parents benefit in case they were so focused on the Pepper-as-dead-person scenario they’d forgotten. “Jack showed me how to save myself and I—”
A thought hit out of the blue and I sucked in a breath.
“Do you think that’s it?” I was so excited, I grabbed Quinn’s sleeve. “Jack said the only way to redeem himself was to save somebody. Do you think…maybe that somebody was me! Maybe we’ve taken care of his unfinished business and he can rest in peace now.” Another thought occurred and I looked across the table at my parents. “That means the case is closed. Thanks for your help.”
“Except…”
Quinn’s objection rumbled through the room.
I grumbled right back at it.
“We still don’t know the truth about Dingo,” Quinn reminded me. “Or what happened to Jack.”
“Because Jack got murdered, too.” Thinking this over, Dad shook his head. “We need to review the clues.”
“There aren’t any,” I started to say, then thought about the guy I’d seen jump off the backhoe. “The guy who tried to kill me had dark shaggy hair,” I said, turning in my seat to Quinn. “Curly. I swear I’ve seen him before.”
“The comic book shop.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the pieces fell into place. I would have slapped my forehead, but since I was trying to convince my parents I was the consummate professional PI, it didn’t seem like the best move. “He was at Dick’s with that other guy.”
“Five-ten, two-sixty, earring in his left year.” Quinn didn’t give me a chance to tell him his powers of observation were as awesome as his abs. “I’ll go over there tomorrow and talk to Dick again. Maybe he knows who those two guys are.”
“So we do have a clue.” Yeah, it cost me nearly getting killed, but Mom was right, and this was good news.
Not just one clue. Quinn tapped his finger against those evidence bags as a way of saying so. “Somebody’s been sending postcards and signing Jack’s name,” he told my parents.
“To make you think Jack was still alive.” My mother had watched her share of old Murder, She Wrote episodes and obviously, she’d learned a thing or two. “So the postcards—”
“Must have come from the killer,” Dad said.
“Or someone who the killer asked to send the cards for him, and that person—the sender, I mean—might not know why he’s sending the cards. He’s just doing a friend a favor. Or he’s getting paid to do what he’s doing.” This, too, from my mom, who was on a roll.
“So the killer…” Dad drummed his fingers against the tabletop. “He wanted you to think Jack was still alive. Why?”
“Well, for one thing,” Quinn said, “so we didn’t go looking for him.”
“And find his body. Bound and gagged! Oh, and Penelope, honey, you could have been next!” Mom waved a hand in front of her suddenly pale-as-ashes face.
“For another,” Quinn continued, “there are some people in the department who think Jack might have been involved in
the murder of a guy named Dingo. Maybe our bad guys are the real culprits and they figured that as long as we were looking for Jack in connection with the murder, they didn’t have to worry that we might stumble onto them.”
“You’re not one of those people who think he’s guilty.” Dad always was good at reading people. But then, that’s how he was able to tap into their cosmetic surgery fantasies. A couple minutes with a patient, and Dad could always put a finger on their body image (figuratively speaking, of course). It looked like a few years behind bars hadn’t done anything to blunt that talent.
Rather than answering, Quinn took a drink of coffee and while he was doing that, I took a gander at the postcards.
“Las Vegas, Seattle, Chicago, New York.”
Dad reached across the table and slipped the postcards in front of him. “The first thing we should do,” he said, “is look at the postmarks and arrange the cards in the order in which they were mailed.”
Hey, he wasn’t a Harvard graduate for nothing.
“Seattle first.” My dad laid that card (still in its bag, of course) out on the table. “Then Las Vegas. Makes sense.”
“Because whoever sent them,” Mom chimed in, “was in that part of the country.”
Dad nodded. “Then Chicago.” He set out that card, too. “And finally, New York.”
“So what does it tell us?”
Mom was looking at Quinn when she asked the question, and for all I knew, he was trying to come up with the answer. I hardly noticed. Something about the litany of cities struck a chord.
“Seattle, Las Vegas, Chicago, New York.” I mumbled the mantra. “Why does that list of cities sound so familiar?”
“We’ve vacationed in all of them,” Mom put in. “Remember that time you jumped in the pool in Vegas, Penelope, and your swimsuit top came off and floated to the surface? Good thing I was right there to help you put it back on again!”
I refused to look at Quinn. I was doing a pretty good job of imagining his smile without seeing it.
“It’s more than that,” I said, some memory tap-tap-tapping on my brain. “Something recent. I saw the names listed and—”
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