Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  Mary nodded and reached into her pocket for her penlight.

  “Are you prepared to follow her tonight?” she asked.

  Susan looked startled for a moment. “Do you need me?” she asked.

  Mary hid a smile. She had almost forgotten that the general population would rather not have to know that ghosts exist, much less follow them around.

  “If you want to come, I’d welcome your input,” Mary said, “but you have to decide what makes you feel comfortable.”

  Susan bit her lower lip nervously.

  “Why don’t we wait and see what happens,” she suggested.

  Mary nodded, slipped her penlight back into her pocket and pulled a notebook out of her purse. “Why don’t I ask you a couple of questions to help me in my research,” she said.

  Susan sat on the bench and Mary leaned against the piano, her pen posed on the paper.

  “About what time of day did you see her?” she asked.

  “It was about eight-thirty at night,” Susan replied.

  Mary watched Susan’s eyes flick nervously across the room.

  “And the other times, when you came back at the same time, did she reappear?”

  Susan’s startled eyes flew back to Mary. “How do, how did…?” she stammered.

  “You’re a curious and intelligent woman,” Mary shrugged. “Of course you’d come back here to make sure it wasn’t your imagination or a passing car light reflected in the windows. So, how many times?”

  Susan shrugged. “I’ve seen her four additional times since the first night,” she admitted, “always at the same time, always in the same place.”

  Mary nodded and noted it. She watched Susan fidget and wondered what else the woman was not telling her. She only had a few minutes before the ghost was scheduled to appear, so she’d have to trust her gut.

  “Can I have a copy of the information you’ve found on the woman who died?” she asked in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Once again, Susan looked flustered, and then shook her head.

  “You are very good at this, aren’t you?”

  Mary smiled. “I’m the best.”

  Susan looked up and her eyes caught across the room. Mary followed her gaze. In the far corner, a soft haze appeared close to the French doors. The haze began to take shape and in a moment they were staring at a dark-haired young woman, dressed in a short dress.

  “I’ll have the files waiting for you, when you get back,” Susan whispered, her voice shaky.

  Mary nodded, her attention on the movements of the ghost across the room. She watched as the ghost looked around the room and smiled, motioning with her eyes and with subtle movements to someone unseen. Then, with a last secretive smile, she slid out of the room through the French doors.

  Mary called back to Susan as she jogged across the room, “I’ll try to find out what she wants.”

  Mary pushed open the French doors, scanning the terrace with her flashlight. At the far corner, she saw the ghost slowly gliding down the stairs toward the garden. Mary followed.

  The evening sky was dark—clouds covered the nearly full moon and the stars—but thankfully the rain had stopped. Mary pulled her jacket tighter and followed the translucent glow across the lawn, trying to avoid slipping on the wet leaves that carpeted the grass. Beyond the manicured lawn, the informal garden was overgrown with trees and vegetation. Mary pushed through the wet, dead limbs to find the path that the ghost slid through effortlessly.

  “Someone needs to fire the gardener,” Mary muttered, when a particularly lethal-looking branch just missed her face. “Or shoot him.”

  Once through the barrier of the garden, Mary felt the landscape begin to slope downward. The grass was knee-high, but she had a clearer view of the ghost.

  She stumbled forward, her foot catching on a hidden root, and ended up on her hands and knees on the muddy path. “Crap!” Looking up quickly to be sure she didn’t lose the direction of the ghost, she was rewarded with a splash of cold water that dripped onto her head, down her forehead and into her eyes. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she scurried to her feet and half jogged down the trail to catch up. She saw her about fifteen feet further up the path when the ghost drifted behind a tall dense wall of privet hedges and disappeared from view.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Mary panted and broke into a run. She pushed through the hedge and found herself in an old maze. The walls reached above her head and a narrow aisle of about three feet separated them. Her flashlight beam bounced off the ragged edges of the brush and created eerie shadow figures that seemed to be reaching out skeletal hands, ready to pull her into their grasp. She paused and took a deep breath.

  “Get a grip, O’Reilly. You chase ghosts for a living for heaven’s sakes,” she muttered and continued her jog up the aisle.

  She flashed her light ahead and was greeted with three path choices. None looked particularly welcoming.

  “Choose the right,” she sang softly, repeating the words from a childhood Sunday school song. But just as she moved toward the right, the glimpse of a white, translucent leg disappearing at the end of the one on the left had Mary jogging down that narrow passageway. “Sure hope it’s the same ghost.”

  She turned at the end of the row and was greeted by a dead end. “I know I saw her come this way.”

  Mary turned and flashed her light around the small enclosure, carefully studying the growth in front of her. A shape incongruent with nature caught her attention and she reached forward through the hedge and clasped cold metal. She pushed the brush aside and found a wrought iron fence. Jiggling the latch several times to loosen the rusted mechanism, she forced it open and strained against the plant covered gate. Finally it started to move and Mary put her weight against it. The gate inched slowly forward and Mary squeezed through.

  “Crap, this rust is going to stain,” she muttered as the gate caught at her clothing.

  But her concern about the damage to her wardrobe was instantly erased when she slipped past the gate and stepped into a different world.

  “Whoa.”

  The temperature was suddenly warm. Downright balmy, like summer, she thought. I have now entered “The Twilight Zone.”

  The garden was manicured and little lights were placed strategically along the paved walkway. She could hear water flowing ahead, beyond a privacy wall. She followed the path and skirted the wall.

  The water was turquoise blue, reflecting the color of the swimming pool. Patio furniture surrounded the pool, waiting for a party. Moving forward she saw the ghost sitting on the edge of the pool, her feet slapping against the surface of the water. She heard her laugh—an echo of a laugh from a long time ago.

  Mary moved forward to see if the ghost would speak with her, but before she could move, the story started to unfold before her eyes. The ghost laughed and leaned back, her voice was too low for Mary to hear. But she could see her whispering, an intimate conversation like she was talking to a lover. The ghost slid into the water, floating for a moment.

  That’s strange, Mary thought, she’s not dressed for swimming.

  Slowly the translucent woman drifted under the water, her eyes open, her smile dreamy. Mary watched, transfixed, as she drifted in the pool of blue. Then her eyes widened and her smile turned to fear. Bubbles rushed to the surface of the pool as the ghost struggled against the unseen force that held her under.

  Mary moved to help, but stopped, remembering she was seeing a vision of the past. Finally, after a few of the longest minutes in Mary’s life, the bubbles stopped and the body drifted to the bottom of the pool.

  Instantly, the scene changed. Mary was staring at an abandoned pool, cracks in the sides, weeds growing up from the dirt collected on the bottom.

  Gone was the furniture, patio lights and neatly manicured gardens. In their place was darkness, neglect and the frigid sensation of death. A cold spot. Mary shivered before the cold wind reminded her she was back in the present.

  She flashed her light beam aro
und the area and then down into the pool where the body had drifted moments before. Only cracked concrete was visible.

  Mary took a deep shuddering breath. This had not been an accidental drowning. Someone had indeed murdered this woman.

  She turned and found herself face to face with the phantom. Wet hair was plastered against her ice-blue face. Her clothing dripped with water, her eyes intense. Mary gasped and stepped back, her heart thudding against her chest.

  She took a quick calming breath. “How, how can I help you?”

  Mary could feel the grief emanating from the ghost in front of her. Tears filled the ghost’s eyes. Instinctively, Mary reached out—only to find her hand moving through the ethereal body.

  “Let me help you,” she repeated.

  The ghost shook her head slowly. “Why did he kill me? Why did he kill my baby?” she whispered and faded into the dark night.

  A formal tea was laid out in the parlor when Mary returned. Susan Ryerson sat stiffly on the edge of a small loveseat, her hands clasped in her lap. Although her body language screamed that she was tense, her smile was welcoming and warm.

  A perfect political wife, Mary thought as she walked across the room and sat directly across from Susan. But would she kill for her husband?

  “Were you able to follow her?” Susan asked, biting her lower lip.

  Mary nodded, helped herself to a cup of tea and sipped slowly. She watched Susan over the rim of her cup. Her granddad had taught her that sometimes you learn more by keeping quiet than by questioning a suspect. As far as she was concerned, Susan Ryerson was still on the list.

  Susan twisted her hands in her lap.

  “Did she say anything?” she asked.

  Mary took her time replacing her cup in the saucer and then met Susan’s eyes. She needed to do some investigation before she mentioned everything she had learned from the ghost—especially the part about the baby.

  “She was murdered.” she stated baldly. “Someone held her under the water until she drowned.”

  Susan tried to cover her gasp and schooled her features into calm. But when she reached for her own cup of tea, her hand was shaking too much to lift the cup. Mary reached across the small table and placed her hand over Susan’s. Susan lifted her head and looked into Mary’s eyes.

  “Do you, does she know…?” Susan stumbled.

  “She doesn’t know who killed her and neither do I,” Mary answered. “And I’m not going to draw any conclusions until I get more information.”

  Susan reached for a large manila envelope and handed it to Mary.

  “I pulled the local newspaper archives about her death. At the time everyone thought it was an accidental drowning,” she said. “I never questioned it, until…”

  “Until you saw the ghost for yourself?” Mary added.

  Susan nodded.

  “I also pulled her old personnel record from my husband’s campaign files,” she said. “She was his assistant.”

  Mary nodded, opened the file and glanced through the information.

  “Renee Peterson,” she said, reading from the employment application. “She was born in 1960—so she would have been about twenty-four years old when she died.”

  Susan nodded.

  “We all thought it was a shame that such a bright young girl had died,” Susan said.

  Mary watched her start to say something else and then stop.

  “Did you know her very well?” Mary asked.

  Susan shook her head.

  “No. Although I was an active campaign wife, I was also a mother of small children,” she explained. “So my husband spent most of the time on the campaign—I made whatever trips I could.”

  “And, as his assistant, did she travel with him?”

  Susan took a deep breath.

  “Are you asking me if my husband was involved in an affair with her?” she asked.

  Mary nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  Susan pressed her lips into a firm line.

  “Yes, I believe he was having an affair with her,” she said, “and quite frankly, I think he was seriously considering leaving me for her. Of course, if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny it.”

  Mary nodded.

  “Our marriage was not going well in those days,” she admitted. “I was deeply involved with our children, trying to be mother and father. Joseph was involved in his career. We didn’t always see eye to eye on things.”

  “So, had he mentioned divorce to you?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I could tell there was something going on. And then when they found her body, he was completely devastated. I could tell how deeply he must have loved her.”

  “Didn’t that make you angry?”

  Susan sighed.

  “I was hurt, betrayed, and yes, angry. But I also knew my place had to be at Joseph’s side. It was right after he had won the senate seat,” she explained. “We both had to put on appropriate faces for the public.”

  She picked up her cup and stopped before she sipped.

  “I really hated it,” she said, placing her cup down with enough force that the saucer rattled on the table. “Hated smiling when inside I was dying. I hated the man that stood next to me. I hated that he thought he could replace me for a younger model.”

  “So, what happened? Why are you still with him?”

  “Renee’s death changed Joseph,” she said. “He started taking the time to be with the children and me. He started to turn back into the man I fell in love with. It took a long time, but we were both able to put some things behind us and move on.”

  Mary nodded. Was the murder of a young woman one of those things? she wondered.

  “I’ll need a list of all the people who were at your house that night, including the names of any staff,” she said.

  “It’s already in the folder.” Susan almost smiled at Mary’s look of surprise. “I was a devoted fan of detective novels; I understand that you need a list of possible suspects.”

  “That’s helpful, thanks,” Mary said and slipped the envelope under her arm. “I’ll begin working on this right away and give you regular reports.”

  Susan stood. “And if you should find…”

  “If I find that your husband is involved with the murder, I’ll notify the police,” Mary said, “and then I’ll call you.”

  Susan nodded. “He’s not, you know…he’s not involved. I would have known.”

  Mary thought about all of the other women who had said that to her during her time on the police force. She shook Susan’s hand and smiled.

  “I can see myself out.”

  FIVE

  Mary decided to forgo her early morning run and headed to the office first thing the next morning. She liked driving through the town when most of its occupants were still sleeping. The streetlights shone dimly in the hazy morning sky. Paper carriers were still walking down the oak-lined streets, tossing the Freeport Republic onto the front steps of residences. A couple of early morning runners jogged down one of the side streets. And one slightly disgruntled terry-robed gentleman stood on his lawn, urging his little dog to finish its business and get back into the house. The dog, on the other hand, seemed quite content to enjoy its early morning constitution.

  With Harry Connick, Jr. crooning at her from her radio, Mary was in a fairly mellow mood when she pulled her car up in front of her office. She grabbed her purse, briefcase and a bag containing her lunch and got out of the car.

  She stepped up on the curb and recoiled quickly, peripherally seeing a figure lurking behind the light pole out of the corner of her eye. “Crap,” she reminded herself, “those damn scarecrows.”

  The plywood scarecrow attached to the light pole, one of many that decorated the downtown in the fall, had done a darn good job of scaring her once again. When would she ever remember they were there?

  She unlocked her door, flipped on the light and put her bags on her desk. The light on her answering machine was not blinking, so she knew t
here were no urgent matters to attend to and she could concentrate on the Ryerson case.

  About an hour later she had confirmed her initial feelings: there would be no easy Internet search in her investigation into the murder of Renee Peterson. She stretched her blue jeans clad legs and glanced over at the vintage schoolhouse clock on the wall—it was nearly seven. She was sure someone would be at the offices of the Freeport Republic. Although Susan Ryerson had copied the article, Mary wanted to see if there was any more information about the drowning victim.

  She walked the two blocks over to the newspaper office and tried the front door. Locked. Mary shrugged and went around the back to the loading dock. She greeted the crew from the circulation department as she hoisted herself up on the dock.

  “Hi guys, anyone inside yet?”

  Dutch, the forty-year veteran of the crew, smiled and nodded toward the door. “Yeah, I already heard Wiley screaming about something this morning.”

  “Hmmm, well, maybe I ought to wait until later,” Mary mused. “I needed to ask him a favor.”

  “Hey, one look at you and he’ll forget what he was grumbling about,” Dutch said with a wink.

  Mary grinned. “So, when are you going to run away with me?”

  “Soon as the wife says I can go,” he replied.

  Mary sighed loudly. “Well, she knows she’s got a good thing. I don’t see her letting you go anytime soon.”

  “You’re young, you’ll get over it.”

  Mary laughed.

  “So, you think I’m fickle. That hurts, Dutch, that really hurts.”

  She pushed through the “Employees Only” door into the newspaper.

  The smell of ink and the deep rumbling of machinery radiated from the labyrinth of large presses and rollers, inhabiting the press room. The bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling cast shadows over the hulking monsters as huge rolls of paper were consumed, stamped, cut and collated into newsprint, advertising and special sections.

  She circumvented the massive printing presses to reach the door leading into the newsroom. She pushed it open and entered yet another dimly lit room. Because the Republic was a morning paper, most of the staff worked late into the evening to offer the residents the latest breaking news. So at seven-fifteen a.m. the newsroom was usually deserted.