Anger coursed through my energy. Laura! Someone had killed my niece. Revenge echoed through my spirit. I felt the tearing pain in my soul, a brief warning of where that emotion would lead me. A reminder that hell was still an option.
"It wasn't her time." She touched my marker and looked up again. "Callous, you have to help."
"I'll help, duckling," I said, my voice a gruff whisper.
Jenny pushed herself up as quickly as her old arms allowed. She wiped at her eyes and peered in my direction. Her mouth opened and let out a small noise of hope and relief. She reached toward my form, inches away from her.
Her small, bony fingers trailed through my left arm. "You still haven't changed."
"Thirty-five forever."
She stood and tried to hug me. Her arms wound around her own shoulders, but she squeezed anyway. I knew she couldn't hold me, but I didn't want to move. It felt good to know she wanted, needed my presence.
"We should go to a bench. I don't want to have to scare someone because they think you need to be put away." I pointed to an unoccupied, ornate iron seat a few feet away.
"I think anyone would understand." Jenny shuffled across the damp grass to the bench bolted to a small patch of concrete. People stole anything. No honor among thieves, anymore.
I sat on the bench beside her. Her fingers drifted into her pocket and pulled out a wooden rosary. She entangled her fingers in the beads. I wasn't sure if she wanted to pray or yank them apart. Maybe at this stage in her life it didn't matter either way.
"What's happened, duckling?"
"Abigail's been murdered."
My niece's baby. Again, the anger sprouted into my soul, but this time I allowed some of the roots to take hold. I felt the warning pain squeeze, gentle in the middle, but tight on the borders.
"Abigail." The name rumbled from my lips. Jenny shuddered, but a triumphant look flashed across her face. She wanted revenge. My sweet, loving baby sister wanted someone to suffer. Yearned for it.
"Who did it?" I moved away from Jenny, fearing the hateful energy churning in my form would corrupt her, encourage her to take a path of retaliation on which the living should never venture.
I would right this wrong.
"We don't know." Jenny took in a deep, shaky breath. "The police say it was a robbery gone wrong."
I could hear the tears building up in her throat. Was there anything I could do to prevent them, to make them stop? I rested my hand on top of hers, even though I knew she couldn't feel it. I looked into her eyes and saw pain and unending sadness. My poor Jenny had lost so many in life: her beloved Joe, Abigail, Mom and Dad—and me. I wanted with all my soul to be able to squeeze her hand, to offer her some form of physical comfort. But I couldn't. It wasn't for me to do anymore.
"You should go to Laura," I said. "You both need each other."
Jenny nodded, her eyes fixed on the image of my hand covering hers. With the index finger of her other hand, Jenny traced around what should have been flesh, but was now only spirit.
"Laura and Paul don't know where to start. The police aren't looking very hard. Paul heard them refer to the case as stone cold. No leads, no witnesses, no real evidence. Instead of looking harder, they just give up!" Her anger evaporated the tears in her blue eyes.
"It's called prioritizing, duckling. Solve the ones you can first, and get your workload down. Each detective probably has about ten other sets of parents, if not more, that feel the same as you."
"They need to find out who killed my grandbaby!" Jenny screeched.
Her wail echoed around me, soaked in by the trees, and then released again to fill the cemetery. In the distance, I heard muttering, then footsteps hustling across the grass. My time there was about to end. I didn't know if others fled from Jenny or rushed toward her… people who might or might not be aware of my presence. I had no intention of allowing my presence to frighten away anyone wanting to help Jenny.
"Calamar." Jenny was, and still is, the only one I would let get away with calling me that. "This family can't withstand having another unsolved murder." She looked pointedly at me.
"I'll find out who killed Abigail."
"You'll check up on Abigail, make sure she's all right?"
"Of course." In my mind, I was hoping, praying I wouldn't see Abby. I hoped my grandniece was safely and blissfully in heaven with no unanswered questions keeping her chained to the living world. I wanted her at peace.
But having been murdered myself, and having helped many souls during my half a century between life and full death, I knew where Abigail resided—Limbo. The first day at the between destination was the toughest, the confusion overwhelming.
Some, like Ms. Willow Flannery, came to terms with their new existence quickly and with authority. Others took longer and discovered more than they would ever have wished to know. They hung around their family and friends and heard the stories, including the ones everyone swore they would never tell—those pacts went out with death. A person overheard the true feelings some "loved ones" had for them, and sometimes it wasn't good.
It was hard to overcome hurt and betrayal—even when you were dead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"A soul in turmoil wasn't one to shake up."
How does one contact a recently deceased grandniece?
I returned to my office to think the matter through. It was the place where emotional pulls didn't interfere with decisions. I based choices on facts, not anger, not love—the way I worked best.
Did Abigail know she was dead? Was she wandering in Limbo, wondering why things looked the same but weren't? Why her home was there, but not the people she loved? No Grandma, no Mom, no Dad. Why they had vanished from the face of the earth? Was Abby's spirit still clinging to Earth? That was like being in Hell. But how did one explain to someone that they were dead?
My mind refused to quiet. I couldn't explain the new world until she accepted the fact that she was dead. A soul in turmoil wasn't one to shake up. Too many things could go wrong. If Abby fought against the truth, more harm than good would result. I drummed my fingers on my desk. My motto was coming back to taunt me. Why had I come up with that policy, wait for the dead to come to me? If they didn't know they were dead, they certainly needed someone to help bring them into their new world.
How could the newly dead come to me for help when they didn't know who I was? There wasn't someone waiting around the outskirts of Limbo, handing out phonebooks to the recently deceased. They couldn't flip through the yellow pages to find a detective.
If I had made it a part of my business to help ease the newly dead into the realm of the between, I'd have been better suited to handle this situation.
Willow inserted herself into my mind. I promised to help that dame. This was a new quandary for me. I worked in a twenty-four-hour diner fashion. First come, first served. How would I balance this… a dead grandniece who hadn't come to me for help, and a dead woman who was relying on me to help her get to her final resting place?
The reality of my situation was that I had to pick one dame over the other—never a good situation to get into. It didn't have as many hazards as when alive, but it still wasn't a situation I wanted. Of course, Abigail had a lot more women on her side. Jenny wouldn't be happy, and neither would Laura, if I placed someone over little Abby. Actually, what kind of hardhearted, callous spirit even thought about placing someone over family?
One with a job to do. That was the kind of Callous I was. I made a commitment to Willow. Yes, I made one to Jenny, but I made the one to Willow first. Kind of like baseball—you didn't play the World Series before the regular season. You did everything in order. New situations didn't give permission to rewrite the rules.
I had to help Willow, and then Abigail. I wouldn't ignore my niece or allow her to be alone and confused. Ann would keep an eye on her. As a matter of fact, that was probably the best course of action. Abby didn't know Ann, had never seen photographs of her. A long dead great-uncle showing up wasn't subtl
e.
"Ann." I bellowed. Or tried. Her name sounded more like the wavering cry of a man about to say, "I do."
Ann rushed into the room, a worried expression replacing her usual cynical smile. "Something wrong, Callous?"
"I desperately need some information."
She smiled slightly, apparently not decided if that would be an appropriate display for the conversation. "You name it."
"Abigail Harris. I need to know if she's here."
"No." Concern darkened her baby blues."She's still on Earth. I'm trying to help ease her here."
My little Abby was dead among the living.
"I tried talking to her," Ann added.
The news that Abby was wandering Earth didn't sit well with me. "Does she know what happened to her? How is she? Does she know where she is?" The questions tumbled out of me.
Ann shooed me over to my chair and pushed me into the seat. "She doesn't know."
I turned my seat around to face the wall and nodded my understanding. The image of little Abby standing in the spot where she had died filled me with pain and rage, rage I had to control. It could destroy her fragile soul. It could lead me to Hell. I fisted my hands and pushed them against the arms of the chair, restraining myself from throwing a punch. Destroying the office only fed the violence creeping into my soul.
"Callous, what's wrong?"
"She's my grandniece."
A sound like a whistle echoed behind me. I spun around and stared at her.
The concern leaked from her eyes, replaced by a hot fury. "That explains it."
"Explains what?" I willed my fingers open, and then clamped them around the chair.
"Denver's following her."
"There was a pact." I jumped up, flinging the chair. It veered left, scraping against the marred, dirty beige wall, and then smacked into the end of the bookcase. The heavy oak case shuddered, the books teetering and tottering toward my head. I whisked myself away from the threat of the tumbling mass of leather and hard covers.
Death wasn't a possible outcome in Limbo, but pain still existed. And a load of books smashing onto my head would hurt. As would an eternity-class beating. I cracked my knuckles. For a little over a decade in the nothing, I had withheld physical justice from Denver. Now, nothing would hold me back. I accepted and worked around the fact that the jerk had murdered me.
Denver had walked out of the courtroom looking smug and satisfied. The jury had bought his self-defense plea. I would never understand how twelve men could overlook the fact that I had been shot in the back. Twice.
As Ann liked to say, "It ain't your peers the court is picking, it's his."
That pretty much explained all. Of course, his bosses were as loyal to him as he had been to me. On his drive home from the trial, he crashed through the rail of a bridge.
"He better stay away from her."
I could do the tit-for-tat routine, but I know there was no one Denver gave a damn about. He never wanted my help to get out of Limbo. I did offer it. Okay, after five years of him being there, but he had killed me. Denver knew he was in Limbo because of an unanswered question tormenting his soul, but he didn't want the answer. After all, Limbo was preferable to Hell.
"Who hired you? Who sent you to kill me?" I had asked him.
Denver had sneered and shrugged, his blue eyes maintaining their sunken quality. Death had not improved his temperament. He still had a chip on his shoulder, one I never understood. I had tried to befriend the kid but, in the end, it cost me my life.
He had been twenty-two years old and full of fight and attitude when I hired him. A good apprentice, I thought. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and just shy of six feet, he wouldn't have been considered a threat, and it would be easy to get the women to sway to our side. As the saying went, "Behind every guy is a dame." And dames got guys to brag. And guys could get dames to hand over the goods quicker than a pickpocket's fingers.
But loyalty didn't run deep in Denver, a fact I learned a little too late. Now dead, his lips were sealed, an alliance still held dear.
"I should go pay Denver a visit."
"No," Ann said. "It wouldn't do any good. If you push him, he'll just go after her stronger. It's best to leave it alone for now."
"I'll talk to Abigail."
Ann gave me her vicious stare, the one hollowing out the last remaining shreds of her soul and turned her eyes a dull, opaque shade. The one that always spoke the truth of our world; a wrong step took the unliving into the wrong realm. I was still there by choice, but some remained because they lost all faith. All goodness. Those vacant eyes belonged to the troubled ones who wandered the earth, forever residing in the homes of their past lives, haunting those places with no knowledge of what they were doing. No hope of ever resting.
"There are no words of comfort or wisdom you can offer her now that would help her situation. You know that, Callous. You could lose her for good."
"But Denver—"
"Has nothing to lose." Ann's eyes returned to their vibrant blue, and sympathy echoed deep in the color. "I'll watch her."
"When she's ready…?" I didn't have to finish the question.
"I'll let you know." She gave me a soft smile and ran a finger lightly down my cheek. "I'll be the detective in charge of this case. I'll update you when necessary."
The biggest mistakes were always made in the rush of a breath, the fickleness of thoughts, and the beat of a hurting heart. What I did could change me forever; the thought slammed into me as hard as Denver's car into the rocky cliff side.
Take a note: The problem with changing is that a person doesn't know if it will be for the better or for the worse—until there's no turning back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Why wouldn't you believe the one you loved?"
The problem with investigating was that adults were mobile.
I floated around Willow's mansion, desperate to solve her dilemma in order to work on Abby's. As much as I agreed with Ann that the news was best coming from her, I didn't feel right leaving my grandniece and Ann to face Denver. The man went after Abby for a reason, and I wanted—needed—to put a damper on his plan.
Oh where, oh where, could the boys have gone? I floated around from room to room for twenty minutes and couldn't find the missing duo. I didn't hear any water running. I always stayed out of bathrooms, or feet thumping in the attic, too clichéd for conducting a slight haunting. I finally concluded that the grieving widower and butler weren't in the house. I was a damn good detective.
Where Braswell was, I'd find Gannon. The last thing a person wanted was a murderer behind their back.
Sports. When men had a problem or emotions to work out, hitting an object helped clear the mind, especially when the object was a ball. What sport would those guys be playing?
I considered their meals of choice while I pondered their sports activity. Ann would accuse me of stereotyping, but I believed there was a valid reason for assumptions. Occasionally, they came back and bit real hard, but most of the time they led to the truth. That was how detectives usually caught their men and dames—slipping on those nouns again—women. I guessed for safety's sake I should use the new millennium's politically correct noun—profiling.
That worked. It sounded better already.
My profiling of the people in question led me to believe that, if they were playing a sport, it would have to be either golf or tennis, if you could call those sports.
I placed my feet on the ground and walked out of the house through the front door. It would have taken me less time if I had floated or transported, but sometimes that made me too relaxed.
I heard the dull thud of fabric-covered balls being smacked and bounced on asphalt. Tennis. I should have known. Willow had a lot of money, but not enough to pay for miles of land to randomly place eighteen holes for a bunch of people to try and hit a small white ball into them.
Gannon sat on a cushioned metal chair on the sidelines, his face showing way too much admiration for his male boss
. That gave me some answers. Braswell exploited his young friend's feelings—take the rap for the one you admire. Willow had probably heard her hubby saying, "The butler did it."
Why wouldn't you believe the one you loved?
A small machine spit the balls at Braswell. I stared at it for a moment. An interesting theory developed in my mind. I couldn't stop the thought from brewing and growing as it definitely had possibilities. It was time to stir things up a bit. Morning had come, and it was time for the alarm to ring and for me to get to work.
I ran through Braswell, causing him to drop his racket. He shivered and untied the sweater sleeves knotted and draped around his neck. He pulled it over his head. I went around behind the machine and focused my energy on the metal contraption.
Braswell leaned over and grabbed his racket. He started to stand up, and I lowered the aim of the machine. The ball thudded against his head. He squealed like a little pig being made into bacon.
"Brass!" Gannon jumped from the chair and ran with his arms open toward his employer slash friend.
The racket fell again from hubby's hand, and he rubbed the top of his head. I tilted the machine up, and a ball zoomed over their heads.
"What the hell?" Braswell watched the ball kiss the sky and then plummet back down to Earth.
"The wind," Gannon said decisively, but I heard the tremor in his voice.
I flipped the timing switch so the balls would come one after the other. I grabbed the tube and yanked it back and forth, up and down. The balls became spinning orbs of pain and fright.
"Help me!" Gannon dropped to the ground as if he was in a stop, drop, and roll movie clip for the fire department.
Braswell ran toward the sidelines. I twisted the metal container to make the balls follow him. I saw his muscles tense, and his hands went up to protect his head as the tennis balls pummeled his back. He turned back to look at me, or where he thought a person should have been. From the shocked look on his face, I knew he couldn't see me, couldn't make out my form—not that I tried to form my image.
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