I’d hidden the ability from everyone, especially Striker. I hadn’t wanted him to think I was weird. Then, by an odd twist of fate, I discovered that Striker could also see ghosts. We couldn’t always see the same ghosts, but knowing he had the same, umm… gift was comforting.
Usually I was pestered by ghosts of the recently deceased who wanted me to solve their murders, but Jack hadn’t come around with that request yet. Then again, he was newly dead, and it often took ghosts a while to figure out how to communicate. The other thing was that ghosts didn’t manifest on command, especially not new ones. New apparitions were more apt to be confused, particularly those like Jack, who had died abruptly.
“Jack might appear in due time, though,” Striker suggested.
“But do we have time to wait?” I asked, feeling more discouraged than ever.
“Don’t worry, Willa,” he said, leaning over to kiss the top of my head. “We’ll get ’em. We always do.” He straightened and headed for the door. “Got to get back to Dixford Pass. Want to have dinner again tonight?”
I nodded, still preoccupied with the murder.
“Good. I’ll see you after work, then.” Striker winked at me then left.
He sounded far more optimistic about all this than I felt, but talking to Jack was a good idea, so I locked the shop up and tried to conjure Jack’s ghost but only ended up frustrated. From her bed by the front windows, Pandora watched me. I could’ve sworn she looked amused by my antics.
“It’s not that easy, you know,” I said to her, grabbing a handful of treats out of the locked filing cabinet. That perked her up. She jumped from her spot on the wide window ledge and landed with a soft meow. I flipped her a few treats then opened up the shop again. “No sense in missing a paying customer.”
I had a sinking feeling. Not all ghosts came forward. Some headed straight to the afterlife. I hoped Jack’s ghost would at least stick around long enough to tell us what he knew, though with a violent and sudden murder, they often didn’t remember much. At least there was one way to know if he was lingering. I could ask my resident ghosts, Franklin Pierce and Robert Frost.
“Franklin? Robert? Are you around?” I called out to the empty shop.
No answer came unless I considered Pandora’s snarky meow an answer. She trotted over to the bookshelves, and that gave me an idea. I headed to the history section and knocked one of Pierce’s biographies off the shelf to get his attention. At last, an icy cold tingle ran up my arm, signaling Franklin’s displeasure. He swirled into existence a moment later.
“How dare you?” he chastised me. “You need to treat literature about me more respectfully.”
Robert Frost gave a superior snort. “You’d never see someone knock a book of my poems off the shelf that way.”
I did just that to spite him.
“Hey!” Robert’s apparition glowered at me. “Careful!”
“Have either of you sensed any new ghosts in Mystic Notch?” I asked. I didn’t have time to beat around the bush.
“Of course,” both ghosts answered.
“I’d like to talk to him, please,” I said, picking up the fallen books and dusting them off. “The sooner the better.”
“Really?” Franklin gave her an inquisitive stare. “That’s a change. Usually you try to avoid ghosts as much as possible.”
“True.” I stuck the books back on the shelf. “But I have questions I need answered from this one, and your kind don’t appear on demand. Plus, I think he might be a bit confused.”
“Indeed he is,” Robert said. “He may be taking the road less traveled.”
Franklin rolled his eyes. “Stop with the poem references. The ghost you are seeking has met a violent death, correct?”
“Yep,” I said.
Robert and Franklin looked at each other and nodded. At least they knew who I was talking about, but the looks on their faces were not encouraging.
“I’m afraid he is a bit shell-shocked,” Robert said.
“He doesn’t seem very communicative,” Franklin added.
Robert leaned close enough to cause a cold mist on my arm. “Close-lipped.”
“We’ll see what we can do to get him to contact you,” Franklin said, his image already fading. “But don’t hold your breath.”
Great, that was just what I needed: a ghost who didn’t want to talk. With that and a sheriff who didn’t want to investigate, how in the world would this murder ever get solved?
7
While Willa talked to her ghosts, Pandora lazed in her bed on the wide ledge of the large shop window, trying to catch up on her catnap. She’d known something was drastically wrong earlier and had tried to warn the humans, but as usual, they’d buried their noses in their coffees and ignored her. Oh well, they knew now. And if her suspicions were true, she’d better take advantage of this quiet time to catch a few Z’s.
She’d just about drifted off when a loud thunk jolted her awake. She jerked her head up from the bed to see Fluff leering at her through the glass. His human, Felicity, was nowhere to be found. Pandora hissed at him, and he returned the sentiment.
“Your days are numbered, kitty,” Fluff said to Pandora through the glass. “My human is compiling the ingredients to reverse the pleasantry charm, and soon Mystic Notch will be a whole different town.”
Despite the concern churning inside her, Pandora proceeded to groom her paws as if Fluff were nothing more than an annoying gnat. “Whatever. Where’s Felicity? Does she know you’re off-leash?”
Fluff puffed out his chest even farther. “Of course, she knows. My human’s not tied to me. She trusts me. Even sent me off to investigate on my own. Not that you’d understand it. Our communication’s much more developed than your pathetic attempts to control your human.”
Pandora gave him a wilting glare. “My human can beat yours hands down. We aren’t worried about you and your schemes. And I think you’re bluffing about the ingredients. No one knows where they are, least of all Felicity.”
Teeth bared, Fluff let out a menacing growl, and Pandora suppressed a smile of satisfaction.
Bingo! Baiting her nemesis had been easier than she’d anticipated. Judging by Fluff’s response to her taunt, she’d been right. Felicity had no idea where the ingredients were. A bit of her tension eased.
“For your information,” Fluff hissed, “my human has an ace up her sleeve, and you’ll never guess what it is.”
“Murder?” Pandora asked, blinking at him slyly.
“What? No.” Fluff scowled. “What are you talking about?”
Pandora jerked her head toward Jack’s Cards, down the street.
Her nemesis glanced over, looking confused. “That’s not true. You’re just trying to change the subject.”
“Go see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“Fine. I will.” Fluff started off down the sidewalk, his fluffy tail high in the air, then stopped and looked back at Pandora, saying, “You and your little gang of kitties are going down!”
Pandora wasn’t worried. Well, not overly worried. She knew the cats of Mystic Notch could overpower Fluff. They’d done it before. But the fact that she now had evidence straight from the horse’s mouth that Felicity was trying to get all the ingredients worried her. And nagging at her subconscious was Fluff’s reaction to Jack’s death. It was obvious that Fluff had been surprised, which meant that either Felicity wasn’t involved in that, or she’d left Fluff at home when she’d done the deed. Felicity was still her main suspect for the break-ins, so that raised the question, why would she leave Fluff at home when she went to Jack’s?
8
Striker came over that night, as promised, bringing Chinese food this time. Pandora lurked around the coffee table in the living room while we ate. She looked like she was listening to our conversation, but I was pretty sure she just wanted some pork fried rice.
“Any luck talking to you-know-who today?” Striker asked me around a mouthful of shrimp lo mien.
“Jack, you mean?” At his nod, I shook my head. “You know how persnickety they can be, especially the new ones. But I did have an interesting chat with Robert and Franklin. They said Jack’s ghost has been hovering around, so at least there’s that.”
“Cool.” Striker set aside his plate to pull out the notebook he carried around with him at work. “I took notes earlier when I talked to Gus about the investigation, and I was able to dig up a bit of new information myself this afternoon.”
He set the handwritten notes along with a few other papers on the coffee table then grabbed his plate again. Not to be left out, Pandora jumped up and laid atop the papers, knocking the extra napkins on the floor. I shooed her away so we could see the notes again.
“First off,” Striker said, “Jack was killed with his own gun. The one he kept at the store. Gertie said the time of death was around ten p.m.”
“Huh.” I nibbled on an eggroll without really tasting it. “That is interesting. Go on.”
“Mew!” Pandora jumped up again, batting at the notebook.
“Yes, we know you want to hear the details,” Striker said to her as he gently lifted her off the table and placed her on the floor. She scowled at him, giving her tail a little flick, as if shaking off the indignity of being picked up and placed somewhere by a human.
“We also discovered the payroll was missing.” Striker wiped his mouth then flipped a page in the notebook. “His wife said he brings it to the bank on Thursday mornings and usually has it all set in one of those big pleather bank deposit bags the night before.”
“So, something was stolen this time.” I set my plate aside. “That’s the first time anything has gone missing with one of these break-ins.”
“Yep.” Striker finished his food then sat back against the cushions. “What we need to figure out is how the killer got Jack’s gun. From what Gus said, there didn’t appear to be a struggle at all. He was sitting down when he was shot.”
“Merow!” Pandora jumped up again. At least this time she took care not to mess up the notes. She sat on the table, looking down at them as if she could read them.
“What about evidence from the previous break-ins? Anything to connect them?” I asked.
“Not much. All the locks were picked, so that’s the same.” He spread the papers out and pointed to one that had copies of pictures on it. “Here’re some of the things in the evidence bags.”
It wasn’t much. A few pictures of scrapes on the metal and chips on the wood near the locks. Some snapshots of notes scribbled on the back of a coffee receipt in Gus’s hand that were hard to decipher. A picture of a partial footprint from the curio store break-in, lots of photos of fingerprints, a bag with a few short whiteish-bleach-blond hairs from the lamp shop break-in, a picture of a shirt collar with something red smeared on it. I looked closer at that one. “What’s this? Doesn’t look like blood.”
Striker nodded. “That’s Jack’s collar, and it looks like lipstick to me.”
I gave him a raised brow look. “Hmmm… I wonder if it’s Brenda’s color.”
“Me too,” Striker said. He pointed to the crumpled notes on the back of the receipt. “At least Gus is investigating, though I can’t make sense of her notes.”
“I’m sure she is.” I sank back into the couch. I did think Gus was investigating, just not with her usual zeal. Which meant I might need to lend a hand. After all, I had investigator instincts from my former job, and even though Gus and I did argue a lot, I didn’t want to see her fail. Not to mention, a killer was running loose, and we needed to stop whoever it was before there was another victim.
The lipstick seemed the biggest clue. The footprint was too small of a section to narrow it down. The fingerprints wouldn’t help, either, since half the population of Mystic Notch and tons of tourists were in the shops these days. “I still don’t understand why our burglar suddenly resorted to murder.”
“Me either.” Striker yawned and stretched, giving me a nice view of his muscled torso. “Maybe Jack surprised him, and the crook got nervous and shot him. There was no evidence that the burglar wrestled the gun away from Jack, so we still aren’t sure exactly how it happened.”
“Man, this would be so much easier if we could talk to Jack’s ghost,” I said, snuggling into Striker’s side as he put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.
Pandora was back on the coffee table, sniffing the notes along with our empty plates and batting at the paperweight. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was trying to tell me something. Last night when I’d looked into the paperweight, I hadn’t seen anything, but maybe I should look again now. After all, the previous evening, I hadn’t really had a specific focus, and now I did. Jack. I sat up and grabbed the heavy glass object and held it in my palm to stare into its crystal depths.
An image glimmered there, and I peered close, my pulse racing.
Was this the answer we’d been seeking?
Was it Jack trying to communicate with us from beyond the grave?
Squinting, I leaned close enough that my nose bumped against the cold glass, but all I saw inside was a martini glass with an olive and lipstick on the rim. Not helpful at all. Unless the spirits were trying to tell me to drink more.
Actually, a drink sounded pretty darned good right about then.
“I’m going to make a martini,” I said, pushing to my feet. “Want one?”
“Huh?” Striker raised a dark brow at me then shrugged. “Sure, why not? I’m off duty.”
We went to the kitchen and mixed up a batch. I had a few jars of olives, so we added some juice to make dirty martinis then took our glasses and the shaker back to the living room to sip. I was just pouring our second round when Jack’s ghost appeared in the center of the room. I nearly dropped the shaker but managed to save it at the last second. I’d have to remember the alcohol trick the next time I needed to speak to the dead.
Jack seemed confused, as I’d expected. Striker looked from the ghost to me then nodded.
I approached the apparition slowly, not wanting to spook him. “Jack? Did you see who shot you?”
Jack looked around the kitchen, his ethereal gaze finally settling on me. “Shot? Is that what happened?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” I stopped a few feet away from him. “You didn’t know?”
“No.” Jack looked perplexed. “The last thing I remember is closing my eyes.”
“Someone broke into your store, Jack,” Striker said, moving to stand beside me. “Didn’t that wake you up?”
The ghost shook his head. “I guess I was really tired.”
He didn’t seem particularly keen to have them find his killer, which was odd. Most ghosts I’d dealt with had that as their number-one priority. Not Jack, though. He seemed more interested in looking around my kitchen, then he moved into the living room, staring at all my grandmother’s furniture and antiques.
“This looks like a place that would have some old baseball cards,” Jack said. “Have you looked, Willa? Sometimes they’re hidden in drawers or books.” He tried to take a book off the bookshelf, but his hand passed right through it.
Striker exhaled slowly, his expression frustrated. “So, you never saw who came into your shop?”
“Nope.” Jack was still fixated on my books. “Like I said, I was sitting at the back of the store. I guess the burglar didn’t know I was in the shop.”
“Do you usually sleep with your gun?” Striker asked.
That got Jack’s attention. He turned back toward us, his gaze narrowed. “Did I have it with me? I usually keep it in the drawer near the register.”
“You don’t remember that either?” I asked, doing my best to quell my irritation.
“No, not really,” he said.
“How about we go over the timeline and see if that helps your memory?” I was desperate to get some kind of useful information out of this. “You said you were in your store like usual, and then you closed up for the night. But instead of leaving, you decided to sle
ep in the back?”
“Yes, that’s right. I wanted to keep an eye on the store. Lots of valuable cards, and I didn’t want the thief to get them.”
Striker and I exchanged a glance. He asked, “When did you get in that day? Did any customers come in?”
Jack was now perusing the items on my desk. “I was there all day. There were lots of customers off and on.”
“And you worked alone all day and were alone that night?” Striker asked.
“Does that matter?” Jack fired back, his tone a bit cagey. “Obviously I wasn’t alone, because someone killed me.” He tried to open a couple of the drawers but had no luck, being a ghost and all. “Listen, Willa. If you don’t have any sports cards, I’m outta here.”
“Yes, but don’t you want—”
Jack didn’t let me finish the sentence. He simply vanished, leaving me and Striker to stare at each other.
“Well, that wasn’t helpful at all,” I said, throwing my hands up in exasperation.
“No, it wasn’t.” Striker sat back down in his chair at the table and frowned into his empty martini glass. “Maybe he needs some time to get his memory back. It sounded like he didn’t even know he’d been shot, and we kind of surprised him with that news. Hopefully, he’ll remember more after he thinks about it.”
“I hope you’re right, because his memory of the events could be very helpful. He’s the only one who knows what happened.”
Striker’s expression turned grim. “That’s not entirely true. There is one other person who knows. The killer.”
9
The next morning, I hurried from the town parking lot to the bookstore, resisting the urge to stop in front of Jack’s Cards and study the crime scene. The yellow tape was still up, but of course the police had cleared everything. There was nothing left to see.
Wrong Side of the Claw Page 4