He got in his vehicle and drove away, feeling like he was filled with helium. He came back later that night, with a shovel, and he buried her by moonlight.
Then he went home to his wife, who was suspicious as always, and he went to bed.
The next morning, the sun rose as usual. He carried on.
He waited for someone to come, for someone to ask about Darlene, but nobody did.
Two months passed.
THREE DAYS AGO
Clive Kingfisher had almost forgotten about his act of desperation, almost been able to move on. He'd even started trying to fix the finances for the art business.
Then that girl Katie, the one who looked so much like Darlene, had arrived.
On Sunday night, he'd started seeing things. There was a ghost who appeared after the sun set, standing in corners, watching him.
And there was the look in Tilda's eyes. She knew. How could she know? The ghost must have been visiting her, telling her everything. He took her to bed, but he couldn't get a confession. As they slept together in his bed, he dreamed of Darlene walking up the trail, leading a group of people to her shallow grave. She'd come here for justice, as she saw it. She'd come for retribution, using the roommate, Katie.
On Monday, Clive realized he had to check on the body again, just to be careful. The burial site was so close to the trail, so easy to find. Had he dug the hole deep enough to discourage the local coyotes?
On the last night of his life Clive Kingfisher made a plan to visit his victim's bones and then erase all evidence of their involvement. If Tilda refused to delete the photos, he'd take care of them himself. And he'd burn down the studio, just for good measure.
Marco would be of service as well. Just in case things went terribly wrong, Clive could direct suspicion at the boy.
When all the details came together for Clive, he smiled at his ingenuity. It was a shame no one would ever know the details of his most devious achievement.
Marco was asleep on the couch when Clive entered his private quarters, planted the necklace he'd kept as a souvenir, and borrowed Marco's boots. He would be careful about removing the remains, but if he did happen to leave boot tracks, they would be Marco's.
His plan was perfect.
Or at least it would have been, if someone hadn't followed him up the trail to the red ridge.
Chapter 31
Clive Kingfisher kept hearing the sound of loose pebbles being crunched out of time with his own footsteps. Had someone followed him from the house?
He kept looking over his shoulder. Despite the brightness of the close-to-full moon, he couldn't see anyone or anything.
Just a curious coyote, he told himself.
It wasn't until he'd started digging that he became certain the creature following him was no coyote. Coyotes didn't cough like humans.
Clive whipped around and shone the flashlight behind him. His beam of light caught a woman. She tried to seek cover, but the terrain up here near the top was flat, with nothing more substantial to hide behind than shrubs.
The woman froze in his light.
In the light, her hair didn't look red, and at first he mistook her shape. He thought it was Holly, the brainless housekeeper.
He leaped at her, caught her easily, and threw her to the ground. It was only when he was looking down at her, pinned beneath him, that he realized it was Tilda.
The red-haired woman's upper lip pulled back in terror.
He growled, “Damn it, Tilda, why couldn't you be Holly?”
She was panting, hyperventilating. “What are you doing up here? Clive? What have you done?”
“I'm protecting you,” he said, thinking quickly. “I'm covering up your son's mistake.”
“What?”
“He killed a girl,” Clive said. “It was one of those girls who was here for a retreat during the summer. She came back in the fall. Said she was pregnant. Wanted money. Marco took her up here, just to talk, and I guess things got out of control. He killed her, Tilda. Your son killed a girl.”
“No.” She was distraught, her eyes twitching randomly in all directions. “No, no, no.”
“Yes,” Clive growled. “And your son came to me. He asked me to help him. So that's why I'm up here to help him by checking on the bones.”
She managed to pull herself together enough to whisper, “The bones?”
“Yes. We have to protect Marco. Will you help me?”
The fear left her face and she became calm. She stopped struggling underneath him. At last, there was the Tilda he knew and admired. Brave. Courageous. Willing to do what it took.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.”
“I only have one shovel,” he said. “But you can help. You can keep watch while I dig down to make sure this is the place, and that the body is still safely down there.”
She agreed with a nod.
He got up, released her, and returned to his digging, using the small camping shovel he'd brought with him. He'd carried the shovel tucked under his yellow jacket. The exertion of digging made him warm, so he took the jacket off. Tilda stood shivering, so he offered her the waterproof coat. As usual, she didn't even thank him for his thoughtful, chivalrous gesture.
He returned to his work, and one part of his mind believed his own lie. A part of him believed he truly was checking on the body of a girl Marco Onassis had killed. Maybe that was what happened after all, he mused. It could have happened.
Clive smiled as the shovel hit bone. He had everything under control now. Or so he thought. He should have known better than to turn his back on her. Tilda was ungrateful, sure, but she was also brave and courageous. And the one thing she loved more than anything else in the world was her son, Marco.
Something shimmered at the edge of his vision. He looked up to see her. Darlene Silva. Standing next to her own grave, looking the same as the day she'd died. And she was smiling at him, as though she knew of some wonderful secret he was about to discover.
And then the ghost moved, darting out of the edge of his field of view.
He felt a chill in the air, but only behind him. He paused to enjoy the silence. He heard Tilda grunt with effort. He couldn't see her, but he knew she was raising a boulder. He noted the grunt of effort she made with curiosity, as though perceiving the events from a great distance. On some level, he knew what was coming next. He wanted the relief of what came next.
And then Tilda brought the boulder down on the back of Clive's skull. He fell forward, onto the grave he'd dug. Everything went black.
He regained consciousness briefly, as he was being dragged, and then a few minutes later. Just long enough to feel the cold water filling his lungs. Just long enough to regret everything he'd done.
But not long enough to pray for forgiveness.
NOW
When Tilda had finished telling her version of events from Monday night, she looked at her son.
“I'm shhhhhorry, Marco,” she slurred. “You see, I was only trying to protect you.” She was wavering from side to side on the wooden stool, about to crumple to the floor.
Holly knelt before Tilda and put her hands on either side of the artist's face. “Tilda, he lied to you. The filthy beast.” She made a spitting sound. “It wasn't your son who did evil.” Holly looked at Katie. “Tell her.”
“It was Clive Kingfisher,” Katie said. “Clive was the person who told Holly that only one person was coming to this week's retreat. He knew Darlene Silva was dead. Because he killed her.”
Holly nodded in agreement.
Tilda forced her eyes to stay open with an apparent struggle. The drugs in her system would render her unconscious shortly.
Marco made a sound Katie hadn't heard from him before. It was a low, keening sound, full of sorrow.
“Clive was setting me up,” Marco said.
Katie turned to Marco and put her hand on his shoulder. “That's why he was wearing your boots, Marco. In case he left some evidence behind, he wanted the boot trac
ks around the shallow grave to be yours.”
Marco went to his mother and knelt before her, next to Holly. “Mom, I never touched that girl,” Marco said. “Why would you even think that? Why would you believe Clive?”
She gasped, “Forgive me,” and she closed her eyes.
Katie reached into her pocket for her phone. They had to get an ambulance there for Tilda before it was too late.
Lee, who'd been standing at the door to the kitchen unnoticed, said, “The police are already on their way.”
Katie whirled to face him. Lee had his phone in his hand.
“Are you recording this?”
“No,” Lee said. “Do you think I should?”
Katie bit her lower lip and looked at Tilda, and then back at Lee. “No,” she said. “It wasn't Tilda who lifted the rock on the ridge. You heard what she said. Something took hold of her. It was Darlene's spirit. Darlene took her revenge.”
Lee gave her a sidelong look. “I don't think a jury is going to buy that.”
“Then it was self-defense,” Katie said. “Tilda's not a killer. She saw Clive digging up human remains and figured she was next. She did what she had to do.”
Holly interjected, “Yes. Self-defense. Tilda would never hurt anyone.”
Lee looked down at his phone. “Luckily, it's not up to me to decide. But if I don't call for a paramedic right now, it won't matter.”
“Call then,” Katie said.
“Tell them to hurry,” Marco said. “We need to make sure she keeps breathing, or she's going to die. Her pulse is already so weak.”
Lee spoke on the phone for a moment before reporting back, “Paramedics are on the way.”
Tilda slumped forward and began to shake. “Darlene was there on the ridge,” she said. “Darlene was next to me, and then the rock was in my hands.”
“Shush,” Holly said. “The man was going to kill you next and bury you with the other body. It was self-defense, Tilda. You did what any one of us would have done.”
Everyone in the room was quiet. Katie couldn't read their minds, but she imagined they were thinking about what Holly had said. How far would each of them go to protect someone they loved?
Chapter 32
3 MONTHS LATER
The memorial service was busy.
Half of Darlene's hometown had showed up.
Katie took a moment for herself in the washroom at the funeral home. She'd tried to make herself look less like Darlene. Her hair was now cut short, and dyed red. But people had still commented on how much she looked like the dead girl.
The dead girl.
Her bones weren't in the coffin. They were with the police, with the forensics department. Darlene Silva's bones wouldn't be buried for a while yet.
Katie watched herself in the mirror as she applied a loose powder to her shiny forehead.
The bones weren't at rest yet, but the ghost had taken leave for the most part. Katie saw her sometimes, when the moon was full, dancing under the stars.
Katie tucked her compact back into her purse and pulled out the bottle of pills. These were new ones. She'd been taken off the powerful anti-psychotics. Her doctor didn't like the theory that she'd stopped seeing the ghost of Darlene Silva because her murder had been solved. The doctor preferred to say that her psychological situation had changed once she'd gotten “closure.”
Either way, the result of changing medications had been life-altering.
She could paint again. And not just enough to get by in her art classes with passing grades.
Painting had become joyful again. When she wasn't working, her hands sometimes moved on their own in sweeping, painterly gestures, in delicious anticipation of future painting.
As soon as the day's memorial service was over, she would return to the hotel room with her mother and two brothers who'd accompanied her to Darlene's hometown, and she'd sketch in the room.
Katie's teachers were thrilled with the change in her. They came up with many words to describe her inspired new work, but one word that came up time and time again was dancing. The light was always dancing across her subjects. A figure could be seen dancing on mountaintops under the moonlight. When Katie was alone in the studio, she'd turn up the music and paint and dance.
* * *
“I was hoping you'd be here,” said the young man.
Katie gave him a shy smile. “Same,” she said.
Marco Onassis began to chuckle, and it was music to her ears. He hadn't cut his wavy red hair since Christmas, and the front was now long enough to tuck behind his ears. He looked more angular now, more like his mother. He'd lost a few pounds, but he looked healthy—eyes bright.
They stepped out of the line for the buffet of snacks being served after the memorial service. Katie led the way over to the tall silver cylinders of coffee.
“How's your mother?”
Marco turned and looked at Katie's mother. “Exactly the opposite of yours,” he said.
Katie giggled. Her own mother wore a dark-gray suit that made her look like a metal filing cabinet. At that moment, Mrs. Mills was being introduced to Ms. Onassis. Marco's mother wore a dark-burgundy dress, but she couldn't extinguish the flame that was her bright-red hair, nor her elegant sharp features and crisp, sweeping arm gestures.
“My mom's more of a traditional mom,” Katie said.
“I can't even imagine what that was like, growing up with someone who had cookies and milk waiting when you got home from school.”
Katie smiled. He was right about the cookies and milk, and the traditional upbringing. “What was coming home from school like for you?”
He smirked as he watched their mothers conversing. “I still remember this one time, I'd gotten in a fight and came home with a black eye. She poured me a scotch—neat, no ice—and started teaching me how to throw a punch.”
“No way. How old were you?”
He shrugged. “Twelve? Thirteen? My point is, she nearly blacked out my other eye.” He grinned. “We might have finished the bottle that night. The next day, I was the coolest kid in school. Nobody else there had ever been hungover.”
Katie shook her head.
“It wasn't always like that,” Marco said. “The next week, she joined the parents' group at the school, and was a model mother for the next few years. We didn't drink together again until I was twenty-one.”
“She's a remarkable woman,” Katie said.
He nodded, and his expression turned serious. He whispered, “She was willing to cover up a murder to protect me. I'm so glad she didn't die thinking it was me who did what Clive did.” He chuckled softly. “I mean, I'm glad she didn't die, period. We've got a lot of things left to do.”
“Big plans?”
He frowned. “I'm sorry. We're at your friend's memorial. I'm so sorry for your loss. This is about Darlene, not about me.”
“It's about all of us,” Katie said. She winced, hearing her own words. “I mean, it's about Darlene. Maybe we can meet somewhere after this and catch up?”
He looked over at Mrs. Mills and Ms. Onassis, who were chatting away like new best friends.
“They'd probably love that,” he said.
The two mothers abruptly stopped talking and looked over at the pair, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Katie whispered out of the side of her mouth, “What's that all about?”
“They're probably planning our nuptials.” Marco's chuckling started up again.
She elbowed him. “Are you high?”
“Surprisingly, no. I've been clean since Christmas. Well, since New Year's Day.” His face scrunched up. “Well, since January fifth, more or less. It's a process.”
“How's the sculpture work going?”
“Amazing. So good. I can't wait to show you my new piece.”
She remembered his commercial work, designing adult toys in silicone. Her cheeks flushed hot. “You want to show me a...” She couldn't say the word.
His eyes widened. “No! I mean, I would, if you
wanted me to.”
She made a vocal fry sound, speechless.
“My new series is called Dance,” Marco said. “It's art. Not for the, uh, mass production.”
“Dance?”
“It's all intertwining figures. It's about the interconnectedness of all things. Minds. Hearts. Spirits.”
Katie started to tell him that it sounded like her own work, the paintings inspired by Darlene, but she didn't say a word. In the last few months, she'd come out of her shell and started talking more. But she was still that shy girl who knew when to be quiet, when to let the magic be all around her in the world, not captured in paint or art or words.
Sometimes the most beautiful thing to say was nothing.
The Cat Who Went Bump in the Night
Eli Carter & The Ghost Hackers Book #1
Angela Pepper
Chapter One
Before Eli Carter became a hero who battled ancient gods bent on destruction, he was just a delivery driver.
Like many people, he didn't choose his career. Given his odd nature, though, delivering packages throughout the decaying city seemed like his best option. Then one day, dispatch sent him to a business named Ghost Hackers.
That fateful day was today.
Eli stepped through the storefront door and found himself in geek heaven. The dim shop held rows of mismatched shelves packed tightly with old video game consoles, bulky computers, and yellowing keyboards. They were mixed in with household appliances, from electric mixing bowls to juicers.
He spotted a gaming console he’d asked to get for Christmas, nearly two decades ago. Suddenly Eli Carter was nine again. He enjoyed a brief fantasy of purchasing the system right then and there. It was a fantasy his live-in girlfriend would not approve of. Not at all.
Looking around for more treasure, he found two signs. The first was taped to an ancient-looking cash register:
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 49