The First Ghost

by Nicole Dennis

  “That’s the detective guy? What did he say? Joby, I mean. Did he admit anything?”

  “Joby claims you called him from California and that he sent you your stuff.”

  Starla is creative when it comes to swearing. I never would have thought to put the words kangaroo and dick together like that. Not wanting to waste time, I moisturized while I waited for her to finish. Then I pulled out my stand-up mirror from the cabinet and sat down at the table to put on makeup. The light in my bathroom is cruddy, so I always get ready in the kitchen.

  By the time she finally wore down, I had on base and blush and was working on my eyes.

  “Don’t worry. Fierro isn’t a fool. He knows Joby is lying, but it’s not enough for the warrant. We’re still working on it. I need information. First of all--” I paused to make the dopey, openmouthed face necessary for putting on mascara. “Where have you been for the last several days?”

  “I’ve learned a new trick.”

  I was almost afraid to ask. “A trick?”

  “Watch.” She swiped her hand through my coffee mug. “Shoot.” She did it again. “Dammit! This should work.” She slapped the mug for a third time and it crashed to the floor, splattering the last teaspoon of liquid left over.

  “There,” she said smugly. “I’m a poltergeist now.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Nice. But you’re not a poltergeist.”

  “I am so. I’m haunting them.”

  “You’re just an angry ghost. I take it you’ve been haunting Joby?”

  “And his little whore. Joby’s so twitchy he’s called in sick to work and Wanda’s gone to visit her mama.”

  I recalled seeing Lincoln swat the cup at the police station. “How do you do that anyway?” I puckered up to put on lip gloss.

  “I don’t know. I concentrate real hard and think ‘solid.’ I have a talent for it.”

  “You shouldn’t waste time playing spook. This is serious.”

  “Yeah, my murderer is getting away.”

  “I mean it, Starla. If you see the shadows move, run.”

  She pursed her lips. “You’re creeping me out.”

  “Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean bad things can’t happen to you. You aren’t safe until you cross over. Got it?”

  “I’m getting my revenge where I can.”

  I put down my mirror and turned to face her. “Fierro has questions.”

  She drifted closer. “Like what?”

  “Like when exactly did you die? And where?”

  “I told you. I was in a car. And it was a Saturday. I died the Saturday before Corinne did.” She sighed. “Joby was so sweet when we started dating. I never had a man so nice. It was two whole months of heaven. Then we got hitched.

  “I noticed he was working a lot but didn’t have spit to show for it. Then I noticed my money was missing. I started digging and there it was. Receipts for places we never gone to and for stuff I never got. So I waited and followed him after work. He went right to her place. I watched him go in and I just sat there, getting madder and madder.

  “I went up, but I didn’t knock on the door. I had a key. See, me and Wanda used to be roommates. We used to be friends. Hell, I helped her get a job at the bar even though she ain’t got any real skills other than a tight little ass and big floppy tits. They didn’t even have the decency to do it in the bedroom. He was banging her right there on the kitchen table. I started screaming and yelling and I think I scratched Wanda and maybe Joby too.”

  “That’s when he strangled you?” It was starting to sound a little like self-defense.

  “Naw, I just broke some stuff and left. Joby chased me out to the car and hollered at me to stop. Like a fool I let him in the car. He was all honey, baby, sugar, I’m so sorry. He was crying and I started feeling sorry for him. He said, Let’s go somewhere and talk, darlin’, and I was so stupid.” She looked around like she wanted something else to break.

  “Fresh out of coffee mugs,” I said. “What happened next?”

  “I let him drive me someplace. It was dark. I don’t know where we was. Someplace up by the industrial park where the overall factory is. He started kissing me, and I kissed him back and I couldn’t breathe. I fought him, but...” She looked away. Her lower lip trembled. “He put me in the trunk and you know the rest.”

  I stood up. “I’ll call Fierro tonight. I’ve got to go to work now.”

  She gave me a nasty little smile. “Me too. Joby ought to be good and hung over after last night.”

  * * * *

  I borrowed the older black hearse after work. Mother couldn’t spare one of the vans because they were busy with bodies. This gave me a little time without Harry breathing down my neck about the condo.

  I parked the hearse outside the police station, and the looks I got almost tempted me to leave it unlocked. Even the wild-eyed man carrying on an animated conversation with himself crossed the street to get away from the death car.

  I sat there for a minute, formulating a plan of attack, when I realized I had a visitor.

  “Good evening there, Miz Portia. Did you come to visit little, old me?”

  “Hello, Lincoln. I guess I did. I’m going in to see Detective Fierro. But I’m looking for a little inside information.”

  “Are you now? What can old Lincoln help you with?”

  “I heard that Fierro was supposed to be a skeptic and nonbeliever, but the first thing I know, he’s beating down my door, telling me he knows I’m clairvoyant and wanting to work with me. I can’t figure that.”

  “So Fierro came to you? He ain’t said a word of it ’round here.”

  “Really? Not to anybody?”

  “Not even his partner, who is Vic Tessler. Ain’t that just like a man? He’s keeping any credit, that’s for sure.”

  “Lincoln, have you heard the name Starla Mueller?”

  “Now that you mention it, Fierro’s been yammering about her and how he’s all suspicious of the husband. Tessler thinks he’s nuts. Did that come from you?”

  “It did. And I asked him not to tell anyone about me. I don’t want to make a name for myself.”

  “Gotcha. Life on the QT.”

  “Exactly. So you think Fierro’s on the up-and-up?”

  “Seems that way. I’ve never known him not to be.”

  “Thanks, Lincoln. That’s good to know.”

  “There he is now.”

  Fierro exited the building from the side, striding for the street. I opened the door and stepped a foot out. “Detective, could I have a word?”

  He turned to me, his face weary. Then a small smile as recognition dawned. He looked both ways before trotting over, surprisingly agile for a man his size. I don’t mean to imply that Fierro is fat; he’s big in a solid, NFL kind of way. Today’s suit was marginally better than the upholstery I last saw him wearing. It was a decent fabric, but it still didn’t fit. A man with shoulders like that needed a good tailor.

  Fierro slipped in the passenger side and slammed the door, stretching his legs appreciatively. “Lotta room in this old thing. They don’t make cars like this anymore.”

  “I finally talked to Starla.”

  “What did she have?”

  I gave him a rundown of our conversation, minus the sarcastic cracks. He took dutiful notes. Then it was my turn to question him.

  “Tell me about Corinne Simpson. Have you got anything on her case?”

  He hesitated. “I’m still not completely convinced it was murder and not some kind of accident.”

  “I’m convinced, and so is she. Listen, her roommate is living really well. She’s wearing expensive new clothes and such since Corinne died. And she’s being totally uncooperative with Corinne’s Aunt Susie. She practically threw me out of the apartment. And she had a fit when she saw me at...um...at the office.” I hadn’t meant to let the last part slip. Fierro’s expression didn’t change, but he had gone still.

  “Tell me you haven’t been playing Nancy Drew.”

&nbs
p; “I didn’t mean to. It just sort of happened.”

  “You’d better tell me everything you’ve done. And let’s drive for a while in case people start staring.”

  I looked out the window. “It’s a little late for that.”

  “Just drive,” he said.

  As I drove, I told him about rescuing Billy from the pound and demons and Reclaimers and taking the job at Woll Ag. And my search for the owner of the burritos.

  To his credit, he listened thoughtfully.

  “So you’re thinking what? That the roommate is selling her stuff?”

  I shook my head and turned left near Chatterly Park. Kids swarmed the swings and slide in spite of the cold. They reminded me of the Michelin man with their big puffy jackets. “I don’t think Corinne had much worth selling. I’m telling you, Ruth freaked when I mentioned burritos. She’s involved in this.”

  “It might not be related to the girl’s death. Could be a sugar daddy.”

  “Could be.” I parked and killed the engine, staring at the shrieking children, pink cheeks, glowing eyes.

  “But you don’t think so.”

  Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I almost never cry and the idea of crying in front of Fierro made me angry. I hate to look weak.

  “Portia.” He touched my shoulder. “I don’t have any right to tell you not to do this, but you need to understand what you’re playing for. This is dangerous. If someone killed Corinne, you could be putting yourself at risk.”

  I swallowed hard. “I have to do this. I made a promise.”

  He leaned back in his seat. “So how does this work? Do you get premonitions or what?”

  “No, I’m not like Ellie. I don’t see visions or pick up info from objects. I’m not precognitive or telepathic. I just see dead people.”

  “Is that all?” he said dryly.

  “Pretty much.” He was smiling. “It’s not funny.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “It’s damned inconvenient.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “The dead have no respect for anyone trying to have a life.”

  “Which is understandable.”

  “They eavesdrop and peep on you and show up at the worst times and try to talk in your ear. Some of them aren’t very nice.”

  “So these Reclaimers. Where do they take the souls they collect?”

  I shivered. “I don’t know. I understand they’re like mercenaries. It depends on who they work for.”

  “Do you believe all that church stuff about heaven and hell?”

  I was quiet for a long time. It was snowing lightly now, little flakes that faded away as they hit the ground. “I think I do. My mother believes, and she’s been doing this a lot longer than I have. She’s at Mass every Sunday.”

  “Maybe I should give church another try.”

  “Funny. I’ve been thinking the same thing.” I felt cold and started the engine again.

  “So your mother is psychic too?”

  “Clairvoyant. All the women in my family are and have been for centuries. It’s sort of the family curse.”

  “Sounds like a gift to me.”

  “They call it the ‘family gift.’ But we’re not all like Ellie. Mother says she’s proud of her gift, but it’s a big secret with her. She’d freak if she knew I was discussing it with you.”

  “She can’t like what your cousin does. You couldn’t be much more public about it than she is.”

  “No kidding. Mother hasn’t even told Walter she’s clairvoyant. Walter is my stepfather. They’ve been married since Harry and I were little.”

  “Harry is your brother?”

  “My twin brother.”

  “So is he gifted too?”

  “No, just the women, although Harry does have this uncanny ability with women. It makes me wonder sometimes.”

  “And your father?”

  “Dead,” I said more abruptly than I had intended.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried. Occupational hazard for me.”

  “It’s okay. He died before I was born.” According to my mother, but something about the way her eyes slid away when she said it always gave me pause. Maybe Dad was just a rolling stone gathering honey but no moss. “Walter’s been a father to me. So have you discussed me with anyone?”

  “I haven’t told a soul. Didn’t want to sound crazy. I haven’t even told Tessler. That’s my partner.”

  “I’d rather it stay that way.” The light was fading and the kids gradually thinned away. “What made you believe I was clairvoyant?” I turned to face him. “I thought you were supposed to be the skeptical one.”

  “I was. I am.”

  “So why, then?”

  “I don’t know. I just did.” That wasn’t an answer. Fierro asked a lot of questions, but didn’t answer many. “I think I’m going to Mass tomorrow.”

  “Me too,” I said. We locked eyes and something sparked for maybe a second. Then it was gone.

  It was dark by the time I deposited Fierro back at the PD. I’d intended to call Ethan and see if he wanted to meet for drinks, but the weather gave me the perfect excuse. Now all I wanted was a hot bubble bath and an evening without ghosts.

  I got my wish.

  Chapter 13

  On Sunday I planned to meet my mother for Mass and then stay for the meal as promised. I had a brilliant idea for the next week, but needed Corinne to make an appearance. I wanted her to stake out the fridge at work and watch to see who helped himself to a burrito.

  But on this Sunday, there was no Starla and no Corinne and I didn’t go to Mass. I thought about saying a prayer, but I wasn’t sure how to begin, so I decided that God would understand. I was doing something important by solving murders so the victims could cross over. Surely that was what he wanted me to do.

  Starla had given me a pretty good description of the bar where she worked. A quick cruise by the Peppermill revealed it was not only open on Sunday, but would actually open at nine. Who goes to a bar on a frosty Sunday morning?

  I circled the block and finally parked around the corner. I wasn’t sure exactly why I had come, but I wondered if Starla had any friends at the bar and if they knew anything helpful. I was lost in thought when someone knocked on the passenger side window. I started and then sheepishly unlocked the door. Fierro climbed in.

  “This is police work,” he said. “Not psychic work.”

  “Good thing I’m not a psychic.”

  “Clairvoyant. Whatever. You might want to drive something other than a hearse if you want to stake out a place.”

  “This isn’t a stakeout,” I said. “I was just thinking.”

  He shifted in his seat and turned toward me. “I thought you were meeting your mother for Mass.”

  “I was. I thought you were going to church too.”

  “I was. In one hour we can both go in and see who wants to talk about Starla.”

  “I get to go too? I thought you had a partner.”

  “He doesn’t share my enthusiasm for the Starla Mueller case. In fact, he doesn’t think there is a case and officially there isn’t a homicide. What about you? I thought you had a boyfriend. What’s he going to think about you hanging out in bars on Sunday morning?”

  I stared. “How did you know I had a boyfriend?”

  He turned to face ahead. “You must have mentioned it.”

  “I did nothing of the kind. You’ve been checking up on me.” I wagged an accusatory finger.

  Fierro unbuttoned his jacket. “I had to make sure you weren’t some type of nut, that you didn’t have ties to the case.”

  “You said you believed me.”

  “I did. I do. But I checked you out first.”

  “That’s not fair. You know more about me than I do about you.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Pull out and turn left.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because there’s a good Spanish bakery around the corner. Esperanza’s. Coffee and a pastry
, my treat. Plus you can grill me. Deal?”

  “Fine.” I put the hearse in gear. “But I don’t know where you get off thinking a boyfriend gets any say about where I go when. And he’s not my boyfriend. We just started dating.”

  “So what does that make the good doctor?”

  I cut my eyes over. “It makes him none of your damn business.”

  “Does he know you see dead people? Right there. Pull in.”

  “It says no parking.”

  “I can handle that. One of the perks. So does he?”

  I parked and glared. “No, he doesn’t know. I don’t want him to think I’m weird.”

  Fierro thought for a moment. “Good choice.”

  We sat by one of the windows with coffee and pastries. He was right. My pastry was a pink shortbread with icing. Amazingly good.

  “All right,” he said. “Shoot.” I raised an eyebrow. “Not literally of course. I’d haunt you.”

  “Is there a Missus Detective Fierro?”

  “There was.”

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  He took a long drag of coffee before answering. “I’m not. Gracie died. Cancer.” He put up a hand to stop any embarrassment. “She’s been gone for four years. I’m okay with talking about it.”

  “I still feel like a heel.”

  “Ask me more questions.”

  “Now I’m afraid to.”

  “I’ll fill in the blanks. No kids. No pets. I’ve been a detective for six years and a cop longer than that. I joined the force when I was twenty-one. And yes, I played college football until I blew out a knee. How’s that?”

  “It’ll do.”

  At nine o’clock the doors to the Peppermill were unlocked. The interior was dark and smoky. There were no windows, and for all I could tell, it might have been nine at night except for the lack of people. That’s not to say that the bar was empty. There were two people sitting there drinking. One of them was the bartender. A woman stood off to the side polishing glasses with a dingy towel. Her smudged eyes and tousled hair gave rise to the suspicion that she didn’t sleep in her own bed the night before. She eyed us with a lack of interest.

  “Help you?” she asked in a throaty, smoker’s voice.

  Fierro flashed a badge. “Looking for Lurlene Hooper.”