The Ex Who Wouldn't Die (Charley's Ghost)

by Sally Berneathy

  "He told you he was committing a crime, blackmail, and you didn't report it?"

  "He only told me the morning he was killed. He was worried. After he tried it a second time, Kimball threatened him." Oh, what a tangled web we weave…

  "Good job, Amanda," Charley encouraged.

  "He called you that morning?" Daggett asked.

  "Yes."

  "And we'll find that call on your phone records?"

  Amanda could feel sweat forming on her brow. This lying business wasn't easy. "I meant he called on me. Came over to talk to me. Personal conversation." She could only hope they wouldn't have records of Charley's comings and goings on that morning.

  "I see. And then he called you on the phone after Kimball came to his apartment?"

  "Yes." Damned man wasn't taking notes. He didn't believe a word she was saying. Or maybe he just relied on his memory. That seemed to work pretty well.

  "Asked you to bring a gun which he planned to substitute for the murder weapon he didn't have, had never had."

  "That's right."

  "How did you know Kimball was there when Charley called you? Surely he didn't dare tell you what was really going on if this man was threatening his life."

  A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her face. She wanted to swipe it away, but that would call attention to it. "Charley used special code words we'd worked out that morning in case he needed to let me know he was in danger from Kimball."

  "So why didn't you take the gun to his apartment, do what you could to save your husband's life?"

  "I didn't believe him."

  "Amanda," Charley said, "if you keep letting that cop have control of the conversation, you're going to be totally screwed. It's time to go on the offensive. Attack him. Ask him if he's going to help you or let you get killed."

  Amanda drew in a deep breath and sat straighter in the chair. Much as she hated to admit it, Charley was right. She was floundering more badly with each successive lie. "Are you going to check up on this man or let him kill me? I've already risked my life by going out to his house to try to get evidence on him. When I told him I had the gun he used to kill Dianne Carter, he threatened me. If he kills me, my death is on your hands."

  "What did he threaten to do?"

  "Kill me."

  "He said those words, I'm going to kill you?"

  Amanda shifted on the uncomfortable wooden chair. "Not exactly. He said it wasn't a good idea for me to threaten someone who had as much power as he does."

  "You threatened him?"

  "No! I just told him he was going to pay for jacking with my bike."

  "I see."

  "And then I told him if he didn't give me back the gun he stole from my apartment so I could prove I didn't kill Charley, that I was going to take the gun he used to kill Dianne Carter to the cops, and that's when he said I needed to be careful."

  "He threatened you by telling you to be careful?"

  "You had to be there. Trust me, it was a threat. The next day, he left yellow chalk marks on my motorcycle tires and wrote the letter K in the dust on my bike." That sounded really lame. "He was sending a message to let me know he can get to me anytime he wants. And then last night when I came home from talking to Sandy, I saw somebody outside, watching me."

  "Was it Kimball?"

  "I don't know. It was dark."

  "I see."

  "You're losing," Charley admonished her. "Do the guilt thing again about your death being on his hands. That was good."

  "So—you can check on unsolved homicides in Austin on the date when Kimball and Dianne broke up, her birthday their junior year, and then you'll have him."

  That eyebrow shot up again. "What will I have?"

  "Well, proof that he killed somebody in Austin, and Dianne was going to confess, so he killed her."

  Daggett nodded. "Is that all?"

  "Yes." Against her will, she slumped slightly in the chair. "That's the whole story. Are you going to do something about Kimball?"

  "I can't discuss an ongoing investigation."

  "Not even with someone whose life depends on that investigation?" Maybe her story had a few flaws, but she'd given him some solid information.

  He stood. "Thank you for providing us with this information. If there's nothing else—?"

  "No, there's nothing else. I just wanted to let you know who killed Charley and who's going to kill me so when I turn up dead, you'll be able to do a better job of investigating my murder than you've done with investigating Charley's. That's all. Nothing else."

  She rose, picked up her helmet and stalked out of the room.

  "Total waste of time," she said when she was outside the station. "He doesn't believe me. So much for the cops. So much for protect and serve. We're on our own."

  Charley smiled. "Don't worry. We can handle it. I'm glad to see you're finally including me in your plans."

  Amanda groaned, realizing what she'd said. "It looks like I'm stuck with you for the time being. Thanks to you, nobody else believes me."

  "Not a problem. We'll show them. Tonight we'll go buy a gun from one of my friends, and then we'll use it to trap Kimball."

  Amanda bit back a protest. She wasn't sure about the trap part, but she would feel safer if she had some sort of protection. This situation recalled the old joke, I carry a gun because a cop's too heavy. The cop she knew wasn't going to provide any protection for her.

  "Fine," she said. "We'll buy an illegal weapon. Just for the record, this is not my idea of a good time, but at this point, I'll do anything to save my life and to get you on your way, and I'm not sure which is more important."

  Chapter Eighteen

  "It's Friday night. All my friends will be in bars. Won't be any trouble to find one of them," Charley had assured Amanda.

  That was three bars ago. They were running out of bars in Silver Creek, and Amanda was running out of patience. Okay, to be honest, she'd run out of patience when Daggett had dismissed her admittedly-crazy story.

  In any event, she waited impatiently outside the Shade Tree Inn. Sitting astride her bike, sweating in her leather jacket, tapping her motorcycle boot on the dirt, her irritation grew. Charley had been inside the bar for what seemed like an hour, though it was probably only a few minutes. That time distortion thing again. But how long did it take to determine if any of his low-life "friends" were inside? Charley was probably trying to figure out a way to drink a beer.

  Surrounding her, older model trucks, cars and motorcycles were parked erratically on the packed dirt lot. A couple sat in one car, making out. On one side of the dilapidated wooden building with peeling paint, a man leaned over, retching. It really wasn't the kind of place where Amanda wanted to hang out.

  The door opened, spilling raucous laughter and country music into the night, and a large man wearing a sleeveless denim vest exposing thick arms covered with tattoos stumbled out. Amanda straightened and pushed her gloved fingers around the edges of her helmet, hoping to tuck any stray hairs out of sight so the man wouldn't realize she was only a biker chick instead of a macho biker dude he didn't want to mess with.

  "Nice bike," the man growled as he passed her.

  "Thanks," Amanda said, lowering her voice several octaves.

  "Amanda!" Charley. Finally. "My friend, Dub is in there," he said, floating just outside the bar, motioning her to come in. "He'll be able to help us."

  Amanda yanked off her gloves, then her helmet, and climbed off the bike.

  "Hey! You're a chick!" The voice came from behind her.

  Crap. She'd forgotten about tattoo man. She strode toward the bar, ignoring him.

  "Pretty lady like you don't want to drink alone." He appeared at her elbow. "I wouldn't mind a couple more beers."

  Oh, good grief. "Actually, yes, I do want to drink alone." She kept walking.

  He took her arm, and she whirled on him, her irritation finding a target. "Back off, buddy, or I'll beat your brains out."

  The man released her arm and
stepped back. "Sorry," he mumbled.

  "Way to go, Amanda!" Charley applauded.

  "I'd beat your brains out if you had anything but air in your head."

  "Hey!" the drunk behind her protested. "No call for talking like that. You got a mouth on you, lady!"

  Amanda started to protest, but tattoo guy glared at her and revved his motorcycle engine. She shook her head and followed Charley into the bar, except he went straight in, and she had to go through the mundane process of opening the door. She made a note to talk to him about that. He could try to act a little more like a flesh and blood person. She still wasn't really comfortable with seeing him do ghost things like going through walls or floating a few feet above the ground.

  The scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke greeted her, so strong it caused her to hesitate on the threshold. An old country song played on the juke box. The dozen or so men and a few women sitting at the bar and scattered around the tables all turned to see who the newcomer was then went back to their drinks and conversation when they didn't recognize her.

  "You always did hang out in the best places," she said through gritted teeth. "Where's your friend? Let's get this over with."

  "Over there. That's Dub." Charley pointed to the far end of the bar where a small, sharp-featured man sat hunched over an almost empty beer. Greasy brown hair straggled just past the neckline of his Budweiser tee-shirt.

  Amanda sucked in a deep breath and moved across the room, settling on the bar stool next to Dub and placing her helmet and gloves on the bar. "Hi," she said. "I'm Charley's widow. Amanda."

  Dub lifted his gaze to her face. His bored, unenthusiastic expression didn't change. "Hi."

  The buxom blonde bartender appeared in front of her. "What can I get you?"

  "A Coke, and another beer for this gentleman."

  "A Coke?" Charley questioned, sitting on the bar between Amanda and Dub.

  "A Coke?" Dub echoed. "You came in here for a Coke?"

  "I'm riding," she said, lifting her motorcycle key. "And I didn't come in here for a drink. I came in here to talk to you."

  Suspicion clenched Dub's features. "Me? Why?"

  The bartender chose that moment to return with their drinks. Amanda pulled bills from her pocket and paid, then waited for the woman to leave before continuing her conversation.

  "Charley said you could sell me a gun," she whispered.

  Dub reached for the package of cigarettes lying in front of him on the counter, shook one out, flicked a disposable lighter and drew in the smoke, then blew it out, straight through Charley. Finally he turned back to Amanda. "Say what?"

  "A gun. Charley said you could get me a gun. A Smith and Wesson .38."

  "Lady, I thank you for the beer, but I don't know any Charley, I don't know you, and I don't know what you're talking about."

  Amanda glared at Charley and lifted a questioning eyebrow. Was this all one of his scams? Did he not know this man?

  "How would you feel if a stranger came up to you at a bar and asked to buy a gun? You gotta convince him you know me. Ask him if he remembers the time we broke into our sixty year old, overweight tenth grade math teacher's house and stole her red thong, then flew it from the school flagpole."

  Amanda drew in a deep breath. If Charley was lying…no, Charley couldn't lie.

  Unless that assertion was a lie.

  "Charley told me about something you two did in high school that involved your math teacher's red thong and the school flagpole."

  A wide grin spread over Dub's thin face. "That was pretty funny when everybody put their hands over their hearts and started to pledge allegiance to Miss Dunigan's panties." He chuckled and turned his stool to face Amanda. "Those were good times. So you were married to Charley."

  "Yes, for two years."

  "Funny. I never pictured crazy Charley settling down with a wife and family. You have any kids? His obit didn't mention any."

  "No."

  Dub drew on his cigarette and considerately blew the smoke away from Amanda. "I got two boys, but I don't get to see them much. Ex got married again and moved to Corpus."

  "I'm sorry."

  Dub shrugged and ground his cigarette out in an already full ashtray. "Too bad about Charley. Somebody shot him, huh?"

  "Yes. And I really need that gun because now somebody wants to shoot me."

  Dub's eyes widened. "No shit?"

  "No shit."

  "Who?"

  "Tell him," Charley encouraged. "You can trust him."

  "I don't have any evidence, so I'd rather not say," Amanda replied cautiously.

  "That's cool. About that gun, you know how to shoot?"

  Amanda sipped her Coke and smiled. "I'm from Texas, aren't I?"

  Dub laughed. "I reckon you are."

  "I've got a Right to Carry permit. My dad taught me to shoot when I was a little girl, and Charley took me to some classes when he gave me a gun."

  "Charley gave you a gun? Why do you need another one?"

  "Kimball—somebody stole it." Damn! She was so obsessed with the man, his name had slipped out.

  A knowing expression settled on Dub's face. "Kimball. That the SOB that shot Charley?"

  She shook her head, then changed the motion to affirmative. "I can't prove it, but I know he did. I confronted him, and he didn't deny it. He just threatened me if I told anybody."

  Dub picked up his beer and took a long swig from it, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "He's slime. My brother went to school with him. Said he was sneaky. Me and Charley, we did a lot of stuff we probably shouldn't have, but we if we got caught, we took the blame. Or nobody ever knew we'd done it, like Miss Dunigan's thong. Roland Kimball, he'd always manage to put the blame on somebody else. When he did get caught, like after he started dating Dianne Carter and he slashed Jerry Stewart's tires…that's her old boyfriend. Everybody knew he did it, but his old man slipped Jerry's family some money, and—" Dub waved a hand— "everything went away."

  "So he didn't really clean up his act when he started dating Dianne."

  "Nah. He just got sneakier. Dianne was a classy lady. She deserved better than him." Suddenly he sat straighter. "You think he killed her, too?"

  Amanda lifted both hands, palms out. "I can't say."

  Dub's eyes narrowed. "He did, didn't he? That sorry son of a bitch. Why'd he do it? Why would anybody kill Dianne? I can see why he might have had reason to kill Charley—"

  "Hey!" Charley protested.

  "—but Dianne," Dub continued, unaware of his friend's protest, "she never hurt nobody. Never did anything bad."

  Amazing how easily this man accepted that the town mayor was a killer. At Charley's funeral, Irene had said Kimball gave her the creeps. Greg Carter hadn't been surprised that she at the idea that Kimball had been involved in his wife's death. Apparently those who knew the man well knew his evil nature. "Yes, Charley did something to Kimball that caused him to want Charley dead. I don't know why he killed Dianne, but I'm certain he did."

  Dub lit another cigarette and puffed quietly for a couple of minutes. Charley waved irritably but ineffectually at the smoke as it floated lazily through him. "That's a bad habit you've got there, Dub," he said. "It's going to kill you if you don't quit, and this death thing isn't all it's cracked up to be."

  "That tight-ass wife of his," Dub said, ignoring Charley's admonition, tapping his ash into the overflowing ashtray.

  "What?"

  "Probably made him do it because she was jealous."

  Amanda thought of the meek-looking blonde woman she'd seen at Kimball's house. "Catherine? Short blonde? That wife?"

  "You know her?"

  "I've seen her once. She seemed pretty subdued, even a little subservient to her husband."

  Dub snorted. "You bought into that Miss Priss act? She's a cold one, that woman. Her daddy's got more money than Bill Gates. Him and old man Kimball set up that marriage so they could keep Roland under control. He's a loose cannon. Gets in too much trouble
on his own. You be careful. Between his daddy and his wife, Roland Kimball's got a lot of money on his side, and money is power."

  "I know. So you can see why I need that gun. Will you get it for me?"