Other Worldly Ways (Anthology 1)

by Connie Suttle

  "You should probably be thankful that Decatur isn't far from here," I grumped. Just as I figured, I wouldn't get any work done on the book.

  "I have the tree decorators coming this afternoon," Shane mumbled. He always put up a nice tree for Christmas, but Eric's death had forced him to put it off this year. It was less than a week before Christmas, so he was cutting it close.

  I hadn't bothered with a tree since Stevie moved out of the house. I usually went to Shane's house and soaked up any Christmas spirit I might find there—my husband sure wouldn't have any.

  "You realize that after seven years," I began. Ron held up a hand. "We know that, Conner. We're grasping at straws here, and the Governor is getting impatient. He wants this done before the end of the year and time is running short."

  "Well, as Conner is an unpaid volunteer for the Atlanta PD, you'd think the Governor might be a little more patient," Shane snapped. He wanted me to come over and watch the tree go up. At any other time, I would have.

  "Shane, honey, I hope we can make this a short trip," I rubbed his back to calm him down. "I'll be over as quick as I can."

  "What about your husband?" Agent Ricks asked. I was beginning to wonder where he went to Agent School.

  "Steven Francis can go to hell," Shane and I chorused.

  * * *

  "This is a nice house," I said as we wandered through it to reach the kitchen. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms and four thousand square feet of luxury in a good neighborhood. No wonder the family was squabbling over it.

  "It is," Ron agreed. "We should be grateful they're still fighting over it, or somebody would be living here already. Anything?"

  "Oh, yeah," I nodded. "She's been following us since we walked in."

  "Then what's the holdup?" Ricks demanded.

  "You know, I don't know how cozy you are with the Governor, or whether your job is on the line. You need to understand this, though—spirits, just like people, can be mighty suspicious. If we scare her away, it'll be your fault."

  Ricks shut it faster than Shane could order a martini at his favorite bar. In fact, I heard the Agent's teeth click together when he clammed up. "Do we need to leave?" Ron whispered.

  "I hope not." I said. "Cherie, honey, I can see you," I turned to speak with the victim. "I can hear you, too. Can you tell me who hurt you?"

  * * *

  "Her boyfriend killed her?" Shane stared at me. Cherie Moselle had dated Carter Michaels for three months before her death. Her spirit named him immediately as the one who'd pulled the trigger.

  "Except nobody knew they were together," I said. "She was twenty-two; he was twenty. Her parents were wealthy and wouldn't approve of him—he'd spent some time in jail for petty crimes and dealing drugs."

  "That's why he stole from her, then," Shane nodded. "But he didn't steal from these three."

  "Shane, I hate to tell you this," I patted his hand as we sat on his sofa and watched the star lowered onto the top of his sixteen-foot tree, "but Carter Michaels wasn't in the state when these last three murders were committed."

  "So somebody else had the gun," Shane muttered angrily. "So much for solving this case, huh?"

  "Yeah. We're back to the beginning, looks like."

  "You think he tossed it? The gun, I mean, and somebody else found it?" Shane turned to me, missing the vision of the lights blinking on and twinkling on the tree.

  "Shane, I don't know what happened. I hope Ron, Ray and Ricks can get that part sorted out. I'm kinda tired."

  "You need a martini," Shane declared and rose to slouch toward his kitchen. He'd had three already, and two of those were before I arrived.

  "You gonna help me wrap gifts for the kids at the hospital?" Shane was back, shoving a French martini into my hand.

  "I do that every year, Shane Patrick," I pointed out. "How many this time?"

  "Seventy-three. I bought a few extras, just in case. There are sixty-nine kids there right now."

  That was Shane's charity—providing funds for needy children when they were sick. The charity found places to stay for out of town families, or bought food or other necessities when the child was sent home to recuperate. In a few desperate cases, he'd spent money out of pocket to provide housing for up to a year.

  Shane was a sucker for kids, and if he'd ever found a permanent partner, they'd have tried to adopt. When Stevie was growing up, he always got better gifts from Shane for Christmas than he ever got from his dad. Stevie still called him Uncle Shane and we always went out to dinner whenever Stevie came home on leave.

  "I guess we'll be wrapping gifts tomorrow, then," I sighed and sipped my French martini.

  * * *

  I always gave Shane a check for his charity at Christmas, and helped him cook dinner for his friends. Steven went to spend the day with his family. That was fine; I didn't want to see him or any of his grasping horde. He was generous with my money, though, when it came to their Christmas gifts.

  Shane's kitchen was crowded when he pulled the turkey from the oven, and at least two rounds of drinks had been served when we herded all of them to the table. We never told them that the stuffing was vegetarian, because I love stuffing. I'd spent years adapting recipes to a vegetarian version. And I made peach cobbler and pumpkin pie for dessert.

  We'd all been seated at the table when my cell phone rang. "Sorry," I apologized and motioned for everybody else to eat while I walked out of the formal dining room. "Detective Glass? Merry Christmas," I said.

  "We have another body," he announced, his voice sounding weary.

  "I'm walking out the door, now," I said. "Give me the address."

  * * *

  "Conner, you look beautiful," Agent Ricks said. He was working on Christmas Day, just like Detective Ron Glass.

  "Thank you. Shane always insists that we dress for the occasion," I said, flipping my hair over a shoulder. The wind was blowing again and gray clouds were moving in. We'd likely get rain before the day was over.

  "This one was killed when he opened the door, just like the others, but I think there was a mistake," Ron said as we walked up the drive toward a two-story townhome in Druid Hills.

  "Why is that?" I almost stopped to stare at Ron. He hadn't told me when he phoned who the victim was.

  "Because this one was eleven years old."

  If I'd eaten anything at Shane's Christmas gathering, I might have lost it then. The truth was, Shane and I both had soft spots for kids. That's why I always wrote him a hundred thousand dollar check for his charity at Christmas. This—there was no excuse for this.

  "Let's get this over with," Ricks muttered. Hugging myself, I followed him to the front door where the murder had taken place before dawn that morning.

  Shane replaced the warm cloth on my forehead while I lay flat on my back on his sofa. Children didn't often stay behind to speak with anybody. I figured it was because they were so young—they still remembered clearly the way to the other side.

  This one—an eleven-year-old boy who would have gotten a nice game system for Christmas, never got to open his gifts. He'd died at his front door on Christmas morning.

  "Did dinner go all right?" I asked as warmth bathed my eyelids. I'd seen too much that afternoon. A blood-soaked child's body, covered by a sheet while forensics collected evidence still seared my vision.

  "Dinner was fine, Conner. I know you haven't eaten anything," he added. "If I thought it wouldn't make you sick, I'd bring you soup."

  "Maybe later," I mumbled as my stomach roiled at the thought of food.

  "Eleven. Fuck." I could picture Shane shaking his head as he said the words—I knew him too well. "Did they match the bullets?"

  "Working on it, but it's the same caliber," I said. "Police are telling everybody to check first before answering their door. This poor kid thought it was relatives arriving and just opened the door."

  "What if the killer got the wrong person, then?" Shane asked. "Did he live with both parents?"

  "And an older sister," I
confirmed. "She's sixteen. Ron moved them out of the house, in case any one of them might be targeted again."

  "This is really fucked up," Shane said. He didn't often use that word, so I knew he was truly upset. "I hope the killer doesn't find them again, if he missed the intended target the first time."

  "Yeah. I don't want to know where he sent them," I shivered. Shane covered me with the expensive throw he kept folded on the back of his sofa. "I love you, Shane Patrick," I blindly held out a hand. He took it.

  "I love you, too. It's too bad we both prefer men." He laughed bitterly.

  * * *

  The news—print and television—was filled with the serial killer and his victims over the holiday. The police had even released information about the gun, how it had been used in the previously unsolved Decatur murder, and that the murderer responsible in that crime was locked up and awaiting extradition from Tennessee when the last murder had taken place.

  My cell phone rang on December thirtieth while I was baking peach turnovers. "Detective Glass?" I was almost afraid of what he might tell me.

  "Conner, I called to tell you that they're holding that child's funeral tomorrow afternoon," he said. "The Coroner released the body two days ago."

  "On New Year's Eve?" I sputtered.

  "It's Tuesday. For the family, this has turned into any other Tuesday, without their son and brother."

  "This is so awful," I sighed.

  "I'm going. I want you to come with me. Shane, too, if he'd like to attend. It looks pretty sparse otherwise, since we're still worried that the family might be targeted again."

  "Then we'll come," I said. "Would you like a peach turnover? I'm about to pull some out of the oven."

  "That sounds wonderful. I'll grab Agent Ricks and we'll be there in thirty."

  * * *

  "Shane, what in heaven's name are you doing?" He was clicking away on his cell phone as he walked through my back door. Ron and Ricks were scheduled to arrive any minute and here Shane was, playing with his phone.

  "Responding to one of those stupid chain e-mails," he grumped, tapping send. I heard the tiny whoosh as the message was sent.

  "Shane, you know better than that," I shook a finger at him. "Those things are garbage and they just seem to go viral every time somebody sends one out."

  "What do you do with them?" Shane lifted his eyes off the phone for a moment and studied me.

  "Delete them," I snapped. "They're all stupid, and the one who starts them is looking for gullible suckers. What did it say, anyway?" I moved to his side to look at his e-mail.

  "It says if I send it on, then I'll gain all kinds of good fortune. If I don't, terrible things will happen."

  "You're kidding?" I stared at him. "Besides, you already have a fortune."

  "But I don't need more terrible things," he pointed out. "I've had enough, already. I hope the New Year is better than this one." He pocketed his phone with a sigh. The doorbell rang after that, so we went to let Agent Ricks, Detective Glass and Detective Neale into the house.

  * * *

  "We found nothing when we went through Nina's e-mail," Agent Ricks spoke around a mouthful of peach turnover. "Just the usual. E-mails from clients. E-mails to clients. Messages from friends and family, that sort of thing, plus the usual spam and stuff that comes to anybody with an e-mail account."

  "Nothing, huh?" Shane shook his head. "Conner said we could go to the boy's funeral. I want to go. Does the family need any financial assistance?"

  "No, everything is taken care of," Ron said. "Grandparents have money, looks like. Terrible tragedy."

  "Do you believe this?" Shane's phone pinged again and he showed it to me. "I got the same stupid chain e-mail again from somebody else."

  "Shane, just let it go," I pulled the phone from his fingers and stuck it in a drawer at my kitchen island. "It's over. Don't sucker more people in with that crap." Yeah, I usually don't say crap in front of company, but these were seasoned detectives and I assumed Agent Ricks had heard worse over the course of his career.

  "Somebody in your husband's office is handling Nina's estate," Detective Glass said in an effort to keep Shane from glaring at me.

  "Who is that?" I turned to Ron, choosing to ignore Shane.

  "Know Vince Gregg?" Ron asked.

  "Yes. He just lost his daughter in a terrible accident," I said. "Shane and I went to her funeral three weeks ago."

  "He's handling Nina's will," Ron reached for another turnover. "These are wonderful, Conner."

  * * *

  Shane and I were cleaning the kitchen after our three guests left when Steven chose to make an appearance. Walking through the back door from the garage, he and Shane exchanged mutual glares before Steven turned to me.

  "What were those detectives doing at the house?" he snarled.

  "I've been helping them with that serial murderer," I said, daring him to escalate his anger. He knew the detectives would turn their car right around and drive back if I called. I figured they'd arrest Steven immediately if anything ever happened to me other than natural causes.

  "I can't imagine you'd be much help with that," Steven muttered.

  "I'll have you know, Conner helped solve that seven-year-old murder in Decatur," Shane snapped at Steven. "The same gun was used, but it's not the same killer."

  "Hmmph." Steven hunched his shoulders, lifted a peach turnover off the plate on the kitchen island and stalked toward his suite.

  "I'd rather have him out with a floozie," Shane muttered at Steven's retreating back. I didn't say it, but I felt the same.

  * * *

  "Shane Patrick Taylor, I'm gonna smack you," I growled at my cell phone. There I was, trying to stuff my feet into black heels while Shane sent that idiotic chain e-mail out to everybody he knew on New Year's Eve.

  "We have to go to a funeral," I reminded the phone, as if that would make any difference to Shane. Determined to delete the message later, I stuffed the phone in my purse and headed for the stairs. We'd be late if we didn't haul our posteriors out of the house five minutes ago.

  * * *

  "I'm glad you're both here," Detective Glass said as Shane and I hurried toward the chapel. The service was private, so Detective Glass would have to get us inside. The officers guarding the door would let him in for sure, since he was investigating the case.

  "Phone on vibrate?" Shane whispered as we were led to a pew toward the back.

  "Did that before I left the house," I whispered back. "After I found out you sent me that stupid e-mail."

  Shane huffed softly and refused to look at me. As if on cue, I felt the phone vibrate inside my purse.

  "Conner," Shane attempted to grab the phone as I pulled it from my purse.

  "The funeral hasn't started yet," I elbowed his ribs to get my point across.

  "It's from Steven," Shane leaned in to read the e-mail message. "What does he want?" he murmured.

  Shane and I read the message in silence.

  Stop working on that case, Steven's e-mail commanded. There might be a conflict of interest. Vince Gregg was Carter Michaels' attorney back in the day. I'm handling Carter's murder charge now, since Vince isn't up for it at the moment.

  "What the?" Shane lifted his eyes to stare at me. Carter Michaels was the suspect in the Decatur murder.

  "Shane, I have a bad feeling," I muttered, scrolling through e-mail until I reached the one he'd sent me. "Damn. No recipient list," I said.

  "I got rid of all that," Shane said. "Why?"

  "Get out your phone, Shane Patrick, or I'll strangle you where you sit," I snapped.

  "Please, put your phone away out of respect for the family," an usher frowned at us from the end of the pew. Shane and I looked up, guilt heating my face. Shane nodded—he never embarrassed easily—and shoved the phone inside my purse.

  Things probably would have been all right and I could have explained my theory to Detective Glass after the funeral, but there wasn't time, as it turned out.

 
; Why does tragedy seem to happen in slow motion, while your feet seem stuck in quicksand and your voice is too thick and labored to shout a warning? Shane's arm wrapped around my waist as Vince Gregg walked into the chapel, pulled a gun from his suit coat pocket and fired. I heard muted screams as he emptied his gun, shooting at the grieving family sitting near a small, gray coffin at the front.

  Before Detectives Glass and Neale could bring Vince Gregg down, he'd shot all three family members. Ron Glass shouted into a radio for an ambulance and assistance while I struggled in Shane's grasp.

  "Shane, let me go," I hissed.

  "Conner, no," Shane reached for me as I broke away from him.

  "There's still time," I said, coming out of my heels and running toward the front.

  "They're not breathing," a woman wept as she knelt beside three lifeless bodies.

  "Let me," I knelt beside her. "I only have a minute or two," I whispered and reached out with both hands.

  * * *

  "Who are you?" she blinked at me. Sixteen is so young. So very young.

  "My name is Conner," I reached out to her. We stood in a beautiful meadow, where wildflowers grew and bloomed about us. I only had seconds, now. Seconds to keep her from following her brother and her parents. "Lynn, I have to ask you a question," I said.

  "How do you know my name?"

  "Honey, when I stand on this ground, I know all sorts of things," I replied. "I have a question for you. Do you want to stay, or do you want to go with your mom and dad?"

  "Stay where?" She had no idea her spirit was fading. In a few blinks, it would pass beyond my grasp.

  "Here on Earth," I said. "The choice is yours. If you stay, you won't see your parents or your brother again for a long time. If you go, you leave your friends, school and everything else behind. Honey, the choice is yours to make, but you have to make it soon."

  "What about Kyle?"

  "Kyle?"

  "My boyfriend."

  "Well, honey, if you stay, you'll see Kyle again. If you go with your parents, you and Kyle will be separated."

  "It'll hurt, won't it, no matter what I choose?"