Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  “What?”

  “Just trust me on this one,” Mary replied.

  “This is what I get for asking a ghostbuster for help,” Mary could hear Rosie muttering. “How the hell is plugging in a lamp going to fix my computer?”

  Mary grinned and sat back in her chair.

  “Oh no!” she heard Rosie cry out. “Now my lamp isn’t working!”

  Mary could hear Rosie pick up the phone.

  “Did you hear that?” Rosie cried. “Now my lamp isn’t working either! What’s going on?”

  “Rosie, I want you to take a deep breath,” Mary said.

  She could hear Rosie forcing herself to calm and breathe slowly.

  “Now, go to your switchbox and fix the blown fuse.”

  “My fuse?” Rosie asked, confused for a moment.

  Then, a soft giggle. “Well, damn, of course, my fuse—how silly. Thanks, Mary.”

  “No problem, Rosie,” Mary replied. “Have a great day.”

  Mary hung up the phone with a smile on her face. “Gotta love small towns.”

  The blinking light on her answering machine now demanded its turn. She sat on the edge of the desk, grabbed a memo pad and pen and pressed the button.

  “Hello, Miss…er…O’Reilly… Um, this is…this is Susan Ryerson. I would like you to call me as soon as possible. My cell number is 815-555-8989. Please call me back today—during the day, or tomorrow, anytime. And please keep this call strictly confidential. Thank you.”

  Well, this ought to be interesting, Mary thought, the State Senator’s wife calling me for help. Perhaps the skeletons in his closet aren’t staying nice and quiet for him.

  She picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang once and the voice that left the message anxiously answered.

  “Hello, this is Mary O’Reilly, you left a message?”

  “Yes, yes,” Susan Ryerson replied hurriedly. “Can we meet?”

  “Sure, when and where?”

  Susan named a small cafe in a nearby town and explained that she could be there in a few minutes.

  “Okay, it’ll take me about an hour before I can meet you,” Mary answered. “Do you want to give me any information before we meet?”

  “No, no,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

  Mary hung up the phone and tapped the pencil thoughtfully against her chin. Well, this probably would be a job that actually paid. That would be a nice change.

  She slipped around the desk, into the chair, clicked on her computer and waited for it to boot up. Once the computer was online, she retrieved her e-mail, deleted all the obvious spam and saved the messages she wanted to read. Except for one. She hesitated for a moment, rereading the sender information—Hamilton County Genealogical Society. Taking a deep breath, she clicked on the message. It opened on the screen.

  “The information you requested on Lt. Earl Belvidere is as follows:

  Birth Certificate—available

  Record of Military Service—available

  Notice of Death—available

  Place of Burial—unavailable

  Note: Only relatives of the deceased may view these records. If you are a relative, submit your name, mailing information and relationship to the deceased in a self-addressed stamped envelope. Please include $3.00 for each record you wish to have copied.”

  The remainder of the message listed the address of the society.

  Mary pulled out a piece of stationary and started to write—after all, he was living in her basement, surely that warranted some kind of legal relationship.

  She began the letter.

  To whom it may concern,

  My dear departed great, great uncle Earl Belvidere…

  A few minutes later with the completed letter in hand, she packed up her briefcase with a new yellow legal pad, a working pen and her cell phone. She glanced in the mirror, quickly applied some lipstick and headed out the door.

  As she walked to the car, she was greeted by her next door neighbor, Stanley Wagner, who was seated on his favorite bench. Stanley had the appearance of a seventy year old, the mind of a thirty year old and the sense of humor of a teenager. He wore his round spectacles low on his nose and his eyebrows high on his forehead.

  Stanley was the fifth generation owner of Wagner’s Office Supplies, affectionately referred to as Stanley’s by everyone in town. His store carried everything from bottles of ink for replenishing stamp pads to rubber thimbles for flipping through piles of paper. He carried every weight of stationery you could imagine and envelopes to match. He knew his customers by name, the kind of stationery and pens they favored, the width and length of tapes their office machines needed and the names of all of their spouses and children. But rather than reward this unique kind of old-fashioned service, most of Stanley’s customers had taken their business to the new office supply superstore that had just been built on the south side of town.

  In spite of that, Stanley’s still opened every morning at seven. And even though the sixth generation of Wagners now ran the store, Stanley was outside every morning greeting the day.

  “Morning, Mary,” Stanley said, looking up from the newspaper.

  “Morning, Stanley,” she replied moving toward the car. “What’s the good news?”

  “The new police chief has got some more ideas about our parking spaces in the downtown area,” Stanley answered, his eyes twinkling with glee.

  Although Mary had never met the new police chief, she could just picture him: size forty-eight waist with a six-inch muffin-top, receding hairline, large red nose, small squinty eyes and an intelligence quotient that topped at double digits.

  “So, what is Barney Fife up to now?” she asked.

  Stanley chuckled. “Well, he’s thinking that parking meters would work well to bring more income to the city.”

  Mary rolled her eyes.

  “Has he even visited downtown on a weekday?”

  She looked down the nearly vacant street.

  “Who does he think is going to be feeding all of the meters?”

  “Well,” Stanley said thoughtfully, “there’d be me and you and Rosie.”

  Mary chuckled. “You’re right Stanley—that’d be about it.”

  She turned, shaking her head.

  “I’ve got to go—I’ve got an appointment. But if you notice Barney Fife hanging around here trying to plant some parking meters, you can tell him where I think he ought to stuff…”

  Stanley lifted his hand to stop her.

  “I’d best just refer him to you, if I don’t want to spend some time in the hoosegow,” he chuckled.

  Mary laughed. “Yes, I suppose that would be best.”

  THREE

  Mary pressed the accelerator pedal of her black 1965 MGB Roadster and shifted into fifth as she left the town of Stockton behind her. She loved the drive from Freeport to the small town of Galena. It was as if a bit of New England had been transplanted into the Midwest, complete with rolling hills and limestone bluffs. The highway twisted and turned through farmland and small towns, providing breathtaking vistas from the tops of the closest thing Illinois could claim as a mountain.

  Red, gold and orange foliage seem to cover every spot that wasn’t a road or a building. The air blowing through the vents smelled of leaves burning and crisp air. This was Mary’s favorite time of year.

  She drove through Tapley Woods, a lovely forested area on the outskirts of Galena, and then shifted down to fourth gear as she entered the city limits. Originally, Galena had been a mining town, but was now a trendy vacation spot for Chicagoans who wanted a retreat in the country. The streets were narrow, red brick-lined and hilly. The historic brick stores were now upscale and unique.

  “Come on,” Mary growled, as she passed yet another car whose driver had decided to take a parking spot and a half at the crowded curb, “who taught you how to parallel park?”

  Once she found a parking spot a block from the small café, she grabbed her briefcase, loc
ked her car and casually strolled down the street. The large showcase shop windows gave her ample opportunity to study herself coming and, if the angle was right, going. She hated to admit it, but she was slightly intimidated by women like Susan Ryerson. Perfect political partner. Sophisticated and highly educated. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

  Glancing at herself in one of the store windows, she tucked a loose strand of hair back in place and checked her lipstick. She was glad she had decided on wool tailored slacks, silk blouse and tweed jacket that morning.

  She smiled. Not only am I making a fashion statement, I’m not freezing my butt off.

  The café was quaint and inviting, with a small blazing fireplace in one corner, solid wooden tables and chairs, and vintage tin signs on the walls. She inhaled the warm flavors that greeted her as she entered: freshly roasted coffee, cinnamon pastries and—she paused for a moment—pumpkin. A quick glance to the Specials board advertising Pumpkin Bisque confirmed her conclusion.

  Even if she hadn’t seen Susan on television a number of times, she would have been able to pick her new client out from the primarily blue jean clad clientele. Mary took a moment to study her. She had chosen a table in the far corner of the café, where she assumed they would have some privacy.

  Susan was impeccably dressed in a wool boucle suit with black pumps. Her silver-blonde hair was cut in a sleek cap over her head. She looked like the picture of cool sophistication, something out of a magazine.

  Then Mary looked at Susan’s hands sliding up and down over the outside of her oversized latte mug. She was not as calm as she tried to project. Not as cool and calm as she looks, Mary thought with a smile. Why does that make me feel better?

  She stopped at the bar and ordered an herb tea before strolling over and introducing herself to her next client.

  “Hi,” she said, extending her hand as she slipped into the chair across from Susan, “I’m Mary O’Reilly. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Susan Ryerson shook the offered hand and pasted a strained smile on her face.

  “Susan Ryerson. Thank you for coming.”

  Mary paused for a moment as her tea was delivered to the table and then pulled the yellow legal pad out of her briefcase.

  “Do you mind if I take notes?” she asked the senator’s wife.

  Susan shook her head. “No, not at all. I would prefer if I don’t have to repeat anything.”

  Mary nodded and tapped her pen on her hand. “Why don’t you begin by telling me why you called me today?”

  Susan shook her head. “Before I do that, can you tell me a little bit about your company and what it is you do?”

  Mary smiled and nodded.

  “My background is in criminal justice. Police work is part of my DNA. My grandfather, my dad, my older brothers and I were all Chicago cops. It was the only career I ever considered.

  “I went to University of Illinois, got a degree and started as a rookie on the force. I did pretty well. Moved up quickly. I was in line to become a detective. I figure if I had put in another six months, I would have been promoted.”

  “What happened?”

  Mary sighed and unconsciously rubbed her hand just below her left shoulder. “A stake-out gone bad,” she said, shrugging. “I ended up in the middle of a gang war. Not a place you want to be.”

  “You were shot?” Susan asked, stunned.

  “Not only shot, I died,” Mary replied.

  Susan’s eyes widened.

  “Yeah, I did that whole ‘walk to the light’ thing,” Mary said flippantly. Then she took a deep breath and met Susan’s eyes, her face now somber.

  “I still remember looking down on my body. My whole family was there in the hospital room,” she said softly. “I saw my mother sobbing, and my dad, he just looked so old all of the sudden. I knew that I—my death—had caused it.

  “Then I got a choice,” she continued. “I heard a voice—called me by name. He gave me a choice to go back, if I wanted. But told me if I chose to return, things wouldn’t quite be the same.”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “I figured, you know, that I’d walk with a limp or something. Oh, no, nothing as simple as that. When I came back I was able to see people who had died. People who hadn’t gone to the light, who needed to resolve some issues in order to get there. So here I am—doing investigations to help move people on.”

  “So, do many people have ghosts that they need you to help move on?” Susan asked.

  Mary laughed, thinking of her night-time visitor. “No, most of my customers are the ghosts themselves. It makes giving out references a bitch, but, hey, it’s a living.”

  Mary leaned back in her chair. “So, now that you know my story, why don’t you tell me yours?”

  Susan took a deep breath, leaned forward in her chair and whispered, “First, I need to be assured that everything I say is held in the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course.”

  Susan studied Mary’s eyes for a moment, then continued, “I believe my husband and I are being haunted. And I believe the ghost is a young woman who died at our home many years ago.”

  Mary sipped her tea. After a moment she asked, “Why would someone, this young woman, haunt you?”

  Susan’s eyes glanced away for a moment and then met Mary’s straight on.

  “Because she might not have just died as we assumed. I think she might have been murdered.”

  FOUR

  That evening Mary found herself once again navigating the winding roads that twisted through the northwest landscape of Illinois. It was tricky driving on them during the day, but on a cold, drizzly fall evening, the roads could be considered close to treacherous. Not only did Mary have to worry about meeting white-tailed deer on the road, she also had to keep her temper when non-local drivers sped past her like they were on an interstate, rather than a two-lane highway.

  “If you crash and end up a ghost, don’t come to me begging for help,” she muttered as a sporty Mercedes whizzed past her at a tricky overpass. Mary tightened her grip on the steering wheel and shook her head, “Idiots!”

  She entered the Tapley Woods Conservation Area and slowed down. If there was any place on this road for a run-in with a white-tail, this would be it. A movement and a glimmer of white in the woods drew her attention, but disappeared before she could get a good look at it.

  Exiting Tapley Woods, she turned right on a road leading to a ridge overlooking the town of Galena. The homes in this area were an eclectic combination of estates and week-end hunting retreats. She found the address Susan Ryerson had given her and pulled into the drive. This was no week-end hunting retreat. The stately mansion stood about a half mile back from the road and looked imposing sitting on the slight rise before her.

  She put the car into first gear and continued slowly up the drive, glancing carefully at the tall trees that stood on either side. The vegetation made it nearly impossible for her to see the grounds beyond the drive. But the familiar chill running down her spine told her the house was indeed hiding a secret.

  She parked in the circular drive and climbed the marble steps to the oversized oak door. She only waited a few moments after pressing the doorbell before she could hear the sharp clicking of high heels against ceramic tile. Susan opened the door and invited Mary inside.

  “I’m grateful that you could come tonight,” Susan said. “Joseph, the senator, is in Chicago and I really didn’t want him to be here when you came.”

  “Have you talked to him about the ghost?” Mary asked.

  Susan shook her head. “No. But I’ve seen him looking at the same area I’ve seen her. Because he doesn’t speak about it, I thought perhaps it was too painful.”

  “Have you considered that this is something he would rather not have investigated?” she asked.

  Susan’s eyes widened for a moment. “Why wouldn’t he…?” she paused. “Are you saying that you think my husband might have been involved with her murder?”

 
; Mary shrugged.

  “I’m not drawing any assumptions yet—I haven’t even seen the ghost. But if I find out that there was a murder and he was involved, I can’t leave it there. I’ll have to investigate,” she replied firmly.

  “Is that some kind of private investigator’s rule?” Susan asked.

  Mary shook her head.

  “No, it’s my rule. I’m all about getting these ghosts to the other side. And they won’t go until things are settled.

  “So, do you want me to continue?” Mary asked.

  Susan paused a moment and linked her hands together at her waist. “Well, I guess it comes down to trust,” she said, almost to herself. She looked up and nodded.

  “Yes, I trust Joseph. I don’t think he had anything to do with her murder,” she said firmly. “Yes, I want you to continue.”

  Mary hoped Susan’s trust was well placed.

  “Great, then let’s get going,” she said. “Where do you see the ghost?”

  Susan led Mary across the hall and opened a large door.

  “This is the ballroom,” she said, as they entered the room. “The kids actually used it for roller skating when they were young. Now, it mostly sits empty.”

  She walked over to a grouping of switches and flicked on a few, casting the room into dim light.

  The room was about the size of the gymnasium at the local high school.

  “Wow,” Mary said, “nice.”

  The room had soaring ceilings with crystal chandeliers, a parquet wood floor, a wall of leaded glass windows and French doors that led to a stone-covered terrace.

  In one corner sat a gleaming black grand piano that looked like it was well used. There were chairs pushed back against the wall and a rolled up rug against another.

  “The first time I saw her, I was searching for some sheet music,” Susan said, walking across the room to the grand piano. “I keep music in the bench.”

  They reached the piano and Susan pointed across the room near the terrace doors.

  “She appeared there,” she said. “Then she walked out through the French doors.”