Dying on Second

by E. C. Bell

  Oh.

  “You won’t disappear,” I said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Karen said. Her light flickered even darker, and for a moment, I was afraid that I’d pushed her too far. “I’ve never been able to move. Not like the others.”

  “But you can,” I said. “Honestly. It’ll be like everybody else on your team. Most of them have been buried by their families, but they still show up here every season because they want to play ball. It’ll be the same for you. If that’s what you really want.”

  “Can you guarantee that?” she asked. “One hundred percent?”

  “Yes, I can,” I said. “One hundred percent.”

  Her light came up a lumen, and I could almost see her face. “You better,” she said. “Because you’re right. My body is there.” She pointed at second base. “Now tell the cops, so they can tell my family. But you better be here when they dig me up, ’cause I gotta be able to stay here, even with my body gone.”

  “I will be here,” I said. “I promise. Now, tell me how Andy’s involved.”

  “That I will not do,” she said. She turned and walked away from me before I could respond. Stood at second base and went back to staring at Andy—at nothing—so I left.

  I’d tell Sylvia that I’d located Karen’s burial site, and then it was up to her and the cops to finally do the right thing. They could dig her up and CSI her body and figure out who killed her, if they could. I’d make Sylvia promise to call me when they were ready to dig up Karen’s body, so I could help her stay where she wanted.

  I suspected that Andy had had something to do with her death, but for whatever reason, she would not tell me. Didn’t matter though. The evidence would out.

  And we’d both be able to play ball.

  JAMES HAD ORDERED a pizza for us to pick up on the way home, so we ate it as we watched another episode of the strange cable show he’d found. And I felt great.

  I’d hit Miriam Kendel’s rise ball, and I’d figured out where Karen’s body was buried. I was batting a thousand. I really was.

  Karen:

  I Need More Time

  WHAT HAD I done? What had I done, what had I done?

  Marie had guessed everything. She’d guessed where my body was buried, and she’d guessed who killed me. And I’d confirmed it all. Well, almost all. She was going to tell the police where my body was, and I had to trust her to be here when I was exhumed so that I could stay.

  Maybe she was right. The other girls could do it. Maybe I could, too. If I wanted it bad enough. And I did want it bad enough, and not just because of the ball games. I desperately wanted revenge.

  We dead were all learning how to manipulate things in the living world from Rita, but I wasn’t certain that we could hurt Andrew Westwood the way he needed to be hurt yet.

  Marie was right. It was time for Andrew to pay. Out in the real world, where he lived. Eventually, I would tell her he was the one who killed me. But before that happened, I wanted to have my chance to hurt him. Hurt him, just like he hurt me.

  I wanted to hurt him to death.

  Marie:

  Contacting Sylvia, Who I Hate

  I PHONED SYLVIA Worth when I got to the office, first thing the next morning.

  I didn’t want to talk to her, because she’d really pissed me off with all her, “You can make a real difference in people’s lives” talk. Plus her telling Calgary Henry all about me and my ghost interacting abilities, when I’d told her to keep her mouth shut. All right, so I told her after I moved Rory on, but still. She should have known better.

  To make things even worse, not only did I have to talk to Sylvia Worth—who I hate—the timing was terrible. Provincials started tomorrow and I didn’t want to have to miss them.

  The provincal tournament was the biggest of the year. It was being held in Camrose, and teams from all over the province were going to be there, trying to win the tournament so they could represent the province at Nationals. Camrose was just far enough away for me to convince James we could turn it into a weekend getaway. And I’d convinced Jasmine and her kids to come, too.

  We were all going. Even Millie.

  But Karen’s family deserved to know what had happened. Our weekend away wasn’t more important than that.

  So, I called Sylvia Worth.

  She was in bed. Apparently she was still working nights and didn’t appreciate me waking her up at that ungodly hour. I glanced at the clock on the wall, saw it was nine a.m., not really too ungodly, but didn’t correct her.

  “I have some news,” I said. “About Karen Dubinsky.”

  “Who is Karen Dubinsky?” she asked. “And why can’t this wait until a more decent hour?”

  “Karen Dubinsky is an old missing persons case,” I said. “She disappeared over forty years ago. She’s dead, and I know where her body is.”

  “You what?”

  It took me a few more tries to beat the information about Karen into Sylvia’s sleep deprived brain. Then she put me on speakerphone, and I had to listen to her get dressed and do everything else that was involved with her morning ablutions.

  To be honest, her brushing her teeth while trying to continue the conversation was the worst part of the whole ordeal. But not by much. And then she was in her car and on her way to her office in the main police station in downtown Edmonton.

  As she drove I told her where Karen was buried.

  “Diamond Two?” she said. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Right behind second base. I’m absolutely certain.”

  “Well, that’s going to screw with the rest of ball season,” she muttered. I almost laughed, then didn’t. I hadn’t actually thought about that. If—when—the police dug up the diamond, we wouldn’t be able to play there, probably for the rest of the season.

  Sylvia moved on from the inconvenience of ball season quickly. “You’re in contact with the deceased,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. I couldn’t think of a good reason not to tell her that bit of truth.

  “And did she tell you who killed her?” Sylvia asked.

  “She won’t tell me.”

  “Why the hell not?” she snapped.

  “I don’t know. She won’t talk about it. But I have an idea. There’s a guy who hangs around the ball diamond. Andy Westwood.”

  “You asked me about him before,” she said. “What about him?”

  “When we were checking out where Karen used to work—the Coffee Factory, do you know it?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” she said.

  “Well, Karen used to work there. And Andy used to be a customer. At the same time. He still is. Or his wife is, anyhow. I couldn’t tell when he stopped going. Their records aren’t that good.” I grimaced, thinking of the old index cards, in alphabetical order. “But I’d be willing to bet that it was shortly after Karen disappeared.”

  There was a small bit of silence as Sylvia mulled over what I’d just said.

  “I imagine lots of people were the Coffee Factory’s customers over the years,” she finally said. “So what?”

  “He’s the only connection we found,” I said. “Between Karen’s life and—death.”

  Sylvia clicked her tongue. “It’s pretty thin,” she said.

  “Maybe,” I replied. Caustically, because she was really starting to piss me off. I’d found the body. What did she want me to do, wrap it up in a big pink bow? “But here’s the thing. Karen was killed forty years ago, and no one—I mean no one— in the police department seems to have ever given one happy crap about that fact.”

  “If there was no body, there was nothing to move the case forward,” Sylvia said, coolly.

  “Well boo-hoo for the police,” I said. “They’ve got a body now.”

  “You know, forty years is a long time,” Sylvia said. Her voice sounded suddenly gentle, like she was prepping me for bad news.

  “So?”

  “There might not be much
left. Of her.”

  That caught me off guard. What if Sylvia—and Karen—were right? What if they dug up her body, and there wasn’t enough of her left to determine how she died and who killed her?

  “Are you trying to tell me that you might not be able to identify her?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. ”We should be able to do that. But prove who murdered her? That might be impossible.” She paused. “I just wanted to prepare you for that possibility. You know?”

  “I don’t care,” I said. “You have to do something. Apply pressure.”

  “To whom?”

  “To Andy!” I snapped. “You guys can make people say anything once you get them in the box. So do that.”

  More silence as Sylvia thought. “What show have you been watching?” she finally asked.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been watching a TV show.” She sighed. “It’s always a TV show. Remember when CSI came out? Everyone thought that’s the way we did things.” She snorted unamused laughter. “As if.”

  “I have not been watching a TV show,” I said. I realized my voice was starting to get loud. “I have had firsthand experience being interrogated by the police.”

  “Oh.”

  Another bit of silence as we both thought about what that meant.

  “All right,” she said. “This is what I can do. I’m at the station now, so I’ll get the ball rolling concerning the remains. You bring over everything you’ve found out about the victim—”

  “Karen,” I said. “Her name is Karen.”

  “—About Karen,” she continued, “and we’ll examine it. And then, if we feel it’s warranted, we will apply the appropriate pressure to Andy Westwood. All right?”

  “All right,” I said.

  “But you have to promise me one thing,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You have to promise me you’ll stay away from him. No going and trying any of your Sherlock Holmes tricks on him to get him to confess, or anything. Leave him to us, now.”

  “Sherlock Holmes?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll stay away from him.”

  “Promise,” she said.

  Good grief.

  “I promise. All right?”

  “All right. Now I gotta go. But keep in mind this could take a few days to set up. Maybe longer.”

  “Really?” I said. A faint glow of hope touched my soul. Maybe doing the right thing wasn’t going to mess up my weekend plans.

  “We’ll have to confirm that the body is actually there,” she said. “They’ll use ground penetrating radar or something, to confirm, before they dig up that diamond. My guess is that they won’t do the exhumation until Monday.”

  “I have to be there,” I said. “When Karen’s body is dug up. I promised her. ”

  “I’ll give you a call, but like I said, it will be a few days,” Sylvia said.

  “I’m going to Provincials,” I said. “With the family. We’re leaving tonight. Should I cancel? Stay here, just in case?”

  “No,” she said. “It will definitely take longer than that. Heck, my team’s playing too. I don’t want to miss, either.”

  Oh.

  “So, go,” she continued. “Have fun. I’ll keep you apprised, and if things move more quickly, I can give you a ride back to town. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good,” I said, even though Camrose was sixty-six kilometres from Edmonton, and the thought of riding back with Sylvia Worth seemed like a truly horrible idea. She had given me a way to get back into town if Karen’s body was exhumed, though, so that meant I could go to the tournament.

  I walked into James’s office. “Well, it’s done,” I said.

  “You don’t look happy,” James said. “Why don’t you look happy? Will I have to go to Provincials alone?”

  “No,” I said. “Sylvia said to go. She said she’d keep me apprised. She also said she’d be willing to give me a ride back if the timeline moved up. But that would mean that you could end up there, by yourself, with Jasmine and the kids. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “Don’t sweat it. We’ll be fine. Besides, if she says it will happen next week, I’d tend to believe her. So don’t worry. It will all work out.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I replied. “She wasn’t convinced that Andy is involved. She says they need evidence. Crap like that. And there might not be any when they dig up her body.”

  “Oh?” His face remained carefully neutral.

  “Yes,” I said. “So, I think we better get some evidence.”

  He frowned. “How would we do that?”

  “By going for coffee with Andy, this afternoon, if possible, and pumping him for information.”

  James stared at me. “That doesn’t sound like anything Sylvia would want us to do,” he finally said. “We’d be stepping into their investigation. Because it is their investigation now, you know.”

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  “We’ll get into trouble,” he said.

  “No, we won’t.” Then, I grinned at him. “Only you will. I can’t go, so you’d have to do it alone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I promised Sylvia I’d stay away from Andy. But you didn’t.”

  James sighed. “No, I didn’t, did I?”

  “So you’ll do it?” I asked. “You’ll have coffee with Andy Westwood, and pump him for information about Karen Dubinsky’s death? Today? Before we go?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I can’t believe what I let you talk me into.”

  I laughed. “Sometimes, neither can I.”

  HE SET UP the coffee with Andy for six o’clock that evening.

  “I thought you were going to meet him in the afternoon,” I said. “We have to leave tonight, you know.”

  “I know,” the ever-patient James said. “But he works. That means you’ll have to take Millie and look after her until I come to get you all. Since you have me working, I might not get to Jasmine’s until quite late.” He grinned. “You’re going to have to puppy-sit.”

  JASMINE’S HOUSE WAS happy chaos when Millie and I finally arrived. The boys loved Millie, even if she wasn’t enamoured of them, but soon Ella whisked her up and took the dog to her room, and I joined Jasmine in the kitchen.

  She stood in the middle of the welter of suitcases. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she said. “I even took a day off work and pulled the kids from school, for heaven’s sake. I don’t do that.”

  “I know you don’t,” I said. “You’re the perfect mother.”

  “You better remember that,” she replied. “When I’m beating my two boys to squishy little pulps for disturbing my sleep this weekend. Man, I should have made you get me two hotel rooms for all of us, not just one.”

  “The boys will be hanging around with James most of the time,” I said, hoping I was telling her the truth. “And besides, we’re at a hotel with a pool. Just send them there when you need a little quiet time.”

  “That’s right,” she said. She stared at the suitcases and frowned. “Did I pack their swim trunks?”

  “Probably,” I said. “Looks like you’ve packed enough for a month.”

  “Wait ’til you have kids,” she said. “Then we can talk.”

  Luckily, I didn’t have to respond to that comment, because Ella came out of her room, Millie in tow. “I painted our nails,” she said. “In your team colours. For the tournament.”

  I looked at her hands and her carefully painted nails, alternating red and white. Then I looked down at the dog’s nails, which were painted the same colours.

  “How did you convince her to sit still for that?” I asked. I couldn’t get her to sit long enough to put her collar on most of the time. Ella, uncharacteristically, giggled.

  “She was a good girl,” she said, looking down at the little dog. “Weren’t you, Millie?”

  Millie looked up at her adoringly, and I
felt a little envious. That dog never looked at me that way. However, I’d never tried painting her nails. Maybe that was the secret.

  “Have you finished packing, Ella?” Jasmine asked.

  “Not yet,” Ella said.

  “Well, get to it.”

  “Will do.” Ella twinkled a smile and ran back to her room, Millie on her heels.

  “She’s in a good mood,” I said.

  “She’s practically delirious,” Jasmine replied. “It’s been a while since we’ve gone on a trip.”

  “Even if it is just to Camrose for a ball tournament.”

  “A trip is a trip,” Jasmine said, and smiled. “Thanks for inviting us all.”

  “Thanks for saying yes,” I said. “It’ll be good having fans in the stands.”

  “If I can get those two out of the pool, that is.” Then she frowned. “Did I pack their trunks?”

  “You already asked me that,” I said. “And I have no idea. Want me to check?”

  “Don’t touch.” She knelt and opened the suitcase closest to her. “I have a system, and I don’t want you screwing with it.”

  The boys’ trunks were there, of course, and Jasmine closed the suitcase with a satisfied sigh. Then, she looked at me and I saw that a worry line had formed between her eyes. The boys usually ran when they saw that, and for a second, I knew how they felt.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “Did you forget your swim suit?”

  “No,” Jasmine said. “Dr. Parkerson called.”

  Crap. I’d forgotten to fire my shrink and she’d called my emergency contact. Jasmine.

  “She wanted to know if everything was all right. She said she felt concerned, since you missed your appointment without calling her.” The line deepened. “Why did you miss that appointment? You’re not giving up on therapy, are you?”

  “No, I’m not giving up on therapy,” I said. “I just think I could do better than Dr. Parkerson. She keeps pushing drugs, Jasmine. She’s driving me crazy with the drugs.” I tittered nervous laughter, since Jasmine had been the one to help me find Dr. Parkerson in the first place.