"How about Alex and Eve?" Tatyana asked. "We need to call them. Let them know where to meet us."
"Yes," he said, "we should absolutely do that."
"Oh no. You didn't already—"
"I'm afraid I did."
"You lost the new cell phone we gave you?"
"Lost is such a strong word."
"Garrison!"
"I prefer to think that it found a new home not in my possession."
"You know, you really are incredible."
"Ma'am," he said, "I will take that as the compliment I'm sure you intended it to be."
About the Author
SCOTT WILLIAM CARTER's first novel, The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys, was hailed by Publishers Weekly as a “touching and impressive debut” and won an Oregon Book Award. Since then, he has published a dozen novels and over fifty short stories, his fiction spanning a wide variety of genres and styles. His most recent book for younger readers, Wooden Bones, chronicles the untold story of Pinocchio and was singled out for praise by the Junior Library Guild. He lives in Oregon with his wife and children. Visit him online at www.ScottWilliamCarter.com.
If you want to get an automatic email when Scott's next book is released, sign up at www.scottwilliamcarter.com/news.Your email address will never be shared, and you can unsubscribe at any time.
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Books by
Scott William Carter
Garrison Gage Mysteries
The Gray and Guilty Sea
A Desperate Place for Dying
The Lovely Wicked Rain
A Shroud of Tattered Sails
Myron Vale Investigations
Ghost Detective
The Ghost Who Said Goodbye
Other Novels
The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys
President Jock, Vice President Geek
The Care and Feeding of Rubber Chickens
Drawing a Dark Way
A Tale of Two Giants
Wooden Bones
Short Story Collections
The Dinosaur Diaries
A Web of Black Widows
The Man Who Made No Mistakes
Visit www.scottwilliamcarter.com/books
for more information.
While you're waiting for the next Garrison Gage novel,
you may want to check out the first in Scott William Carter's
other mystery series, GHOST DETECTIVE.
A brief preview follows.
About Ghost Detective
After narrowly surviving a near-fatal shooting, Portland detective Myron Vale wakes with a bullet still lodged in his brain, a headache to end all headaches, and a terrible side effect that radically transforms his world for the worse: He sees ghosts. Lots of them.
By some estimates, a hundred billion people have lived and died before anyone alive today was even born. For Myron, they're all still here. That's not even his biggest problem. No matter how hard he tries, he can't tell the living from the dead.
Despite this, Myron manages to piece together something of a life as a private investigator specializing in helping people on both sides of the great divide — until a stunning blonde beauty walks into his office needing help finding her husband. Myron wants no part of the case until he sees the man's picture . . . and instantly his carefully reconstructed life begins to unravel.
Ghost Detective
A Myron Vale Investigation
Scott William Carter
GHOST DETECTIVE. Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, July 2013.
Copyright © 2013 by Scott William Carter.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For more about Flying Raven Press, please visit our web site at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.
Chapter 1
The first time I met Karen Thorne, I'd just clicked yes on two tickets to Honolulu for the holidays. Nonrefundable, of course.
In the throes of one of her periodic funks, Billie had stepped out for a walk—the rain always made her extra restless—and I was alone in the musty closet my landlord had advertised as office space so he could charge me office rates. As the dreary Portland afternoon slipped into a dreary Portland night, I'd forgotten to turn on the desk lamp, so the pale glow of my monitor was the only thing warding off the growing darkness.
When she opened the door, the glare of the exposed bulb in the hall made me squint. She was visible only as a silhouette—and a hell of a silhouette it was. I caught a hint of blond in the shadowy curls of her hair.
"Are you Myron Vale?" she said. A husky voice. Right. Why wouldn't it be? The voice had to go with the bombshell figure.
Faintly, from down the hall, came the off-key singing of people without any musical ability whatsoever attempting to belt out hymns. Their door was probably open again, but it wouldn't have mattered even if shut; our worthless doors were no better than cardboard. I just kept hoping the Higher Plane Church of Spiritual Transcendence would finally gather up enough gullible sheep that they'd be able to upgrade to a different location.
Either that or they'd give up all their nonsense and accept the truth that I knew better than anyone: Dead or alive, none of us were going anywhere.
"Whatever you want, I can't help you," I said.
"You're Myron Vale?"
"I'm leaving on vacation."
"Myron Vale, the ghost detective?"
"Please don't call me that."
"I want to hire you," she said. "My name is Karen Thorne. It's very important."
"It's Hawaii," I added.
"I can pay you."
"Did I mention it's Hawaii?"
"I can pay you a lot. I'm—I'm very rich, Mr. Vale. I wouldn't even be here, but they tell me—they tell me you're the person to come to for . . . for my situation."
So much for the husky confidence. She'd started to come off like a little girl who'd lost her lollipop.
The rain, picking up its pace, pinged like marbles on the metal roof. The red neon glow from the bar across the street pulsed on my cracked window, rivulets of water dribbling down the glass like red wine. Inside my office it was quite dark, but outside, the sky contained the last gasps of dusk, lavender clouds over a gray horizon. I took one last longing look at my monitor—a happy couple holding hands on the beach, bodies tan and glistening, two margaritas on the bamboo table—then rose with a sigh from my swivel chair.
A little too fast, as usual. There was the familiar wooziness as the blood rushed to my head—and then, faintly, that dull throbbing at the front of my skull, white and bleak, a discomfort on the edge of nausea, in that sacred place where the .38 was lodged in my brain. I'd never had dizzy spells until the shooting. Of course, lots of things changed after the shooting. Everything, really.
"Are you all right?" the woman asked.
"I'm fine," I lied, steadying myself with a hand on my desk. The world was still tilting, but I wobbled through the darkness toward her anyway. Male pride could motivate a man to do many things.
On my way, I flicked on my desk lamp.
The woman in my doorway more than fulfilled the details my imagination had furnished to her silhouette. She was tall, taller than Billie—at least in her white heels—and she had the kind of curvy, womanly figure that was once the ideal before the runway popsicle sticks got plastered all over the fashion magazines. Her skin was slightly on the pale side, which made her sultry red lips look all the brighter. There was a pair of oversiz
ed white sunglasses in her hair, a lacy white shawl over her shoulders, and white pearls around her neck. Her dress was a sleeveless lavender number that matched the handbag she was clutching against her ample bosom. Her very ample bosom.
Sexuality oozed out of her every pore. When she blinked at me, her eyes a liquid green, I could almost feel her long eyelashes brushing against my face. Easy, Myron. You're a married man.
"You're—you're not what I imagined," she said.
"You were expecting someone taller?" I replied.
She flicked her hair over her shoulders, so much hair, so golden and curly, a single subconscious act probably capable of bringing armies of single men to their knees. "No … Just, I don't know, more Yoda-like, I guess. Wizard of Oz. Something like that. You've got quite a reputation." She smiled weakly and fidgeted with her handbag. "Mr. Vale, I've—I've come a long way. I need you to find someone. I'll pay whatever you want. Double your rates. Triple even. This man, he's—"
Before she could finish, I put my hand on her chest.
Her face reacted in the predictable way—a flinch, eyes flaring wide, those big red lips forming an even bigger O. Her chest, however, didn't react to my touch at all. In fact, my hand passed right through her, feeling only the slightest tingling chill as it disappeared into her body and came back out again.
"Now we can talk," I said.
A blush spread up her chest and neck to her cheeks, a bright pink wildfire raging across all that pale skin. She touched her chest, her own hand solid to herself, of course, and took a few quick breaths. I thought she might pass out, but she only wobbled a little, swallowing hard, glaring at me. Outside, an eighteen-wheeler rumbled by on Burnside, splashing through the puddles.
"Are you always this forward when you meet a woman for the first time?" she asked.
"Only the dead ones," I said. When her face crinkled—most ghosts, especially the recently deceased, hated to be reminded that they were no longer among the living—I quickly added: "Sorry. I just had to be sure. You did open the door, you know, rather than walk through it. Not many ghosts can do that."
"Oh," she said, her face softening, more sympathy there now than shock. "I just thought, you know, opening the door would make you more comfortable. Since you're, well, you know … You mean you can't tell by looking?"
I shook my head.
"Oh. That must be—um, hard. In your line of work."
"And what line of work would that be?"
"You know. For a ghost detective."
"Again, I'd rather you not call me that. I'm just a detective. A licensed private investigator, actually."
"But you do work for ghosts?"
"I work for all kinds of unsavory types." When she stared blankly, I sighed. It was no use. "Yes, I sometimes work for ghosts. It pays the bills. And yeah, not being able to tell the difference makes it challenging. Now what can I do for you, Mrs. Thorne?"
She still hadn't quite recovered from my otherworldly feel-up, biting down on her lower lip, kneading the beads on her handbag, whatever was left of her confidence having evaporated when I'd confirmed her non-corporeal status. I felt bad that I'd done it, but it wasn't like I had a choice. When Billie wasn't around, I had to take matters into my own hands. Literally. It was either that or lose everything.
"Do you want to sit down?" I asked.
"Um, all right."
I directed her to one of the two padded office chairs across from my desk. Rather than return to my desk chair, a more imposing position, I took the seat next to her. She perched with her legs pressed close together, handbag in her lap, our knees nearly touching. I was still just humoring her. I had no intention of taking up the case, but she probably deserved more than a casual brush-off.
"You said you wanted me to find someone?" I prodded.
She cleared her throat. "Yes. As I said, Mr. Vale—can I call you Myron?"
"It's either that or Vincent, I guess."
"Vincent."
"It's my middle name."
"Oh, well, if you would prefer I call you Vincent—"
"I wouldn't. Not unless you're my mother back from a pretty incredible face-lift, because I have to say, you don't look anything like her."
"Oh."
"And I only let her do that because she used to call me Vinnie," I said. "Drove me bonkers, but I never said anything about it until she passed. Always figured she wouldn't live forever, so why make waves, right? She'd always wanted my first name to be Vincent just so she could call me Vinnie, who knows why, but Dad had insisted on Myron after some friend of his who died in 'Nam. Of course, then things changed for me—and when I realized that she was going to go on calling me Vinnie for eternity, well, I put my foot down. Told her to call me Myron like everyone else." I knew I was rambling, but it seemed to be putting her at ease.
"But you said she still calls you Vincent?"
"Right. That was a compromise. There's only so much my mother will listen to reason, especially now that she's dead."
She laughed, and it was a good one. Genuine. She wasn't putting on airs, which was the sense I got from her the rest of the time. She laughed with her whole body, head thrown back—a bone-rattling kind of laugh that would have woken up the dead if there was anybody left to wake.
"You're a funny man, Myron," she said.
"Tell that to my mother. All right, out with it. Who's this guy you're looking for?"
That sobered her in a hurry. The little banker's lamp on my desk cast a warm yellow glow in my otherwise sterile office, but it was a weak light, weak enough that I could still detect hints of neon red on her cheeks from the bar sign. Another truck rumbled past in search of more potholes, and when it passed, shifting the light and the shadows in the room for just a moment, no more than a split second, surely, the color of her hair changed. It was still blond, a vibrant yellow, no more transparent than it was before, really, but there was a different tint to it, a certain quality that set it apart, that gave it a more ghostly shade of gold.
Every now and then, if the light was just so, if the mood was right, if the stars aligned, whatever it was, I could tell. I could see, just for a second, the difference between the living and the dead. It gave me hope that one day all this madness would end.
"His name is Anthony Neuman," she said. "Or Tony. I always called him Tony." She looked like she was going to tear up.
"Husband?" I said.
She nodded.
"Living or dead?" I asked.
"Living," she said. "At least I think so."
"You think? When was the last time you saw him?"
"Three months ago," she said, and then she did tear up. The blurring line of her mascara strained to hold back the waterworks, and I thought, Oh no, it's all over but the crying, but then she battened down the hatches and shot me an angry look as if I'd insulted her somehow. "Actually it was three months, six days, and four hours ago, to be exact. I saw him ten minutes before I was murdered."
That got me to sit up a little straighter. While it wasn't the first time a client had uttered the word murder in my office, it was still rare. Of course, Vale Investigations had only been open for three years, but still. Finding a murderer was a hell of a lot more interesting than finding someone's estranged son or a dead Army buddy who had fallen out of contact.
Still, I wasn't planning on taking the case. Blue skies and warm sand still beckoned.
"Murder, you say?"
"That's right," she said.
"Do you know who killed you?"
She hesitated. "I think it was Tony, but I don't know for sure. That's why I want you to find him."
"Really? And you want to find him for, what, revenge?"
"I said I don't know if it was him. I'm hoping it wasn't. That's why I want you to find him."
"Why would he want to kill you?"
She swallowed. "For money, I guess. He didn't get any." When I raised an eyebrow to this, she went on: "I started to suspect, you know, that he might try something. I had this funny
feeling. We'd only been married a few months, and he was acting strange."
"Strange? How?"
"Moodier. Edgy. I don't know, it was just a feeling. It was so vague that I didn't even tell anyone, but I—well, I changed my will. Made sure all the money went to my sisters instead of him. My plan was to tell him I'd done this, really for my own peace of mind. I figured if he knew, and if he stayed, well, then he really loved me." She choked on the words, swallowed, and pressed on. "I really thought he loved me, Myron. In fact, I still do. I think he must have been in trouble. I don't know. Maybe somebody else killed me as revenge for something he did and he's in hiding."
A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4) Page 27