"We know that isn't going to happen," another one said.
"It would be easier if we could go to the funeral."
"I know. I mean, I can't believe he's gonna cremate her. Willow wouldn't have wanted that."
Pauline crumbled up a used napkin and dropped it onto the tray. "She didn't want a burial."
"You mean, he doesn't want to spend her money on a funeral."
Another woman glared at the chatterer. "He loved her. They've been best friends since grade school."
Pauline stood and gripped the edges of the tray. "It means that Willow didn't want a funeral. Plain and simple."
Chatterer pushed the issue. "What about everyone else? What about what we need?"
"I'll talk with him about doing a short memorial service." With that, Pauline left.
"You idiot!" a dark-haired woman screamed. "How could you say that with her here?"
"I didn't mean anything." The chatterer twirled her fingers through a beaded necklace that reached her navel. "I didn't think. It just slipped out."
"She might've been Willow's closest friend, but she's still Braswell's sister."
"Their introduction," a voice piped in.
Ah, now the good stuff, I thought, floating over the table.
A short, curvy woman joined the conversation. "Considering she knew he was seeing Janey, it was kind of slimy."
The chatterer snorted and stopped twisting the beads. "The only one that believed Braswell was interested in Janey—was Janey."
"Marie…"
"Marie is a dimwit."
The others at the table nodded and hummed in agreement.
"Come on, who doesn't know that Braswell is gay?" Chatterer asked.
Short and curvaceous adjusted her plunging neckline. "Pauline and Willow. She encouraged Braswell to date Willow."
A leggy blonde filed her nails into a point. "Honey, they didn't date. They got married."
Interesting.
"For decades, they'd been best friends only, and then all of a sudden they run off to Vegas to get married." The blonde pointed the nail file at each woman at the table. "There was something up with that."
"A lot of women fall in love with their best friends," Curvy said.
"Even when they're gay?" The blonde dropped the file into her ample bosom.
"Maybe Willow didn't know."
The blonde laughed. "Willow knew."
If true, why the charade of a marriage? Braswell received money. Willow received—what? What could a wealthy woman want that she was unable to buy and need a man—any man—for?
"God, you'd think she would allow us a mourning period."
I turned to stare at the "she." A beautifully coifed red-haired woman walked into the cafeteria with an air of importance. She stopped at a few tables along the way and spoke to the women, patting a hand here, giving a hug there.
"Considering Diane just found out Braswell is the one in charge of the place, I'm surprised she didn't come in here with an automatic."
I flipped through my mental rolodex trying to place the name with a suspect. No match. How did this lovely lady fit into my investigation? And why didn't my client mention her to me? From the pieces of gossip I snatched, I figure she's a key player in Willow Resources, thereby someone worth mentioning. Dames. Who could figure them out?
One of the other woman shuddered. "Please, don't even joke about that."
"You put in thirty-five percent of the start-up, half your life and after your partner's death, you're left with nothing."
I grasped the reason the lovely and, now I know, conniving Willow forgot to bring up Diane. A person, even dead, didn't like to announce their flaws. Much better to pretend one never committed a vice of their own.
"I can't believe Willow would diss her like that."
"Willow wasn't Willow since Braswell."
Diane whatever-her-last-name made a very good suspect. She could have killed Willow thinking she would get the business, thereby learning she made a big boo-boo, or else she killed Willow because she wasn't going to get the business.
Life was funny that way. Kill if you do, kill if you don't.
"I think she's going to fight it. I hear the lawyer is here, and she has a meeting scheduled with him after lunch."
I had another appointment. How hard could it be to find a lawyer in a whorehouse?
The easiest way was to follow the one left out of the will—the aggrieved one. Though being fond of the one recently murdered made it hard to have empathy for the one left out of a will. It fell into the 'Look at your lawn, at least the grass is alive' category.
I waited for Diane to finish her piece of lettuce, little tomatoes, and a few thin cucumber slices, her version of a lunch. I didn't have to wait long as a few stabs of the fork equaled finished.
She dabbed at her peach-colored mouth with a linen napkin. After placing the napkin on the table, she dug around in her purse. She brought out a mirror and examined her face. She reapplied some peach, then dropped the mirror back inside her purse.
I watched as she stood and walked out of the cafeteria, nodding curtly at the people who stopped her to express their sympathy. Given the circumstances, I couldn't blame her. All her hard work and money meant zilch in the end. Willow had overlooked her.
It hit me like a dame slapping me after a not-to-careful noun choice. What if Willow was stuck in the between because of something she had done? I'd have to sit on that thought for a few days. Unfinished business from the physical world might also put a spirit in the corner until the wrong was turned right. Something like leaving someone out of a will qualified in that scenario.
I floated down the hall and passed through two men standing in the middle, glancing appreciatively at Diane. She didn't notice. One guy kept talking, oblivious of me, the other man's face screwed up in confusion, and he looked up.
"We must be standing under the vent."
"What?" his buddy responded in mid-sentence.
"That cold blast. Didn't you feel it?"
"That happens when you stop drinking."
They both started down the hall in the opposite direction. I still couldn't figure out which living person would feel me and which wouldn't. I wasn't trying to jolt either of them, but one had felt my presence. I wondered if it had anything to do with a clear or guilty conscience.
Frankly, I didn't buy the whole 'guilty conscience makes them more receptive' theory. I believed the reverse. Someone with no worries about having a secret uncovered would be freer to feel a spirit. See a ghost. They weren't spending their life fighting their souls and hiding from the world.
Diane passed up the elevator for the stairs, a health-conscious woman. I leaned back into the nothingness and drifted up, like floating on my back in a pool. She stopped on the landing of the fourth floor.
A medium-height young man in a three-piece suit stood waiting for her. His jacket was tossed in a casual style over his shoulders, but his face had a "mommy-I-don't-wanna-shot" expression.
Was this the kid's first time using a temp and the weird location now left him flat to the idea? Or was this little liaison not one of a sexual nature?
"What about the will, Tim?" Diane asked. "What did your boss say?"
"He says the one Willow gave to you to hold is dated before the one Braswell produced."
"By two days!"
"Two days still makes that will invalidated by the new one."
"But doesn't that prove Willow wasn't in a sane state of mind?" Diane slithered closer to the young man.
"No. Willow always liked to mess around with her will. She is... was my dad's best client. Easy billing for the firm."
"I deserve to run this place. Braswell knows nothing about it."
"Talk to him. I'm sure Braswell has much better things to do than work in an office setting with women all day. I bet he would hire you as C.E.O."
She flipped the end of his tie. "I don't want to be the hired C.E.O. I want to be the C.E.O. because I own the business.
"
"It's not going to happen, Diane. There are no grounds for you to fight this."
"I'm going to hire my own attorney. We'll win."
"The law firms will win, Diane. Not you, not the company. Hell, the company will close down. Do you really want the court system looking into this place, diving into the finances, seeing how the real money is made?" He straightened his tie. "You won't be very popular."
"I'm not, anyway." Diane raised one foot and took off the high heel.
"The girls will lose their jobs, their homes."
Diane rotated the naked foot. "Not my problem."
"Most of them won't be able to make this kind of money outside of here."
I floated down to get a better look at their facial expressions. Words were deceiving most of the time, but most of the population wasn't good at acting. That was why the same ten to twenty people were in all the movies—our lack of ability.
Tim paled and grabbed Diane's arm. "My God, look!"
Diane spun around, and her eyes narrowed in the direction Tim pointed. Where I stood, or rather, floated.
"What?" Her lilting voice now annoyed.
Tim's terror-filled eyes remained glued in my general vicinity. "There's a ghost!"
Diane punched his arm. "If you want to change the subject, or leave me high and dry, fine. Leave. Don't start some ghost craziness. Why would this building be haunted?"
Tim saw me. Interesting. I filtered myself away for a few minutes while they finished their talk. Then, I'd reappear and have a little fun with Tim.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Abby
Dead. The word drifted into my mind, into my soul. I tried to push it away, but words didn't have concrete forms. It stayed. It lurked. It explained so much. Fear seeped into my being. I took deep breaths, but it didn't help. I wasn't breathing hard. I wasn't breathing at all. I was dead.
I sat… dropped… rested—whatever I did now—on the floor. He killed me. The man with the mask. That was why the pain hurt more than anything I had ever experienced. When I was six, another kid had grabbed the chain of the swing I was swinging on, and I fell backward and cracked my head on the ground. I had cried from the pain. The blood scared me, made me sick. But after I had awakened from being attacked in my home, I hadn't felt any pain. I hadn't even gotten sick from the blood. All I had wanted was to find out who and get revenge.
Is that what death did?
So, this was death. My fear started to ease. This wasn't the dying that kept me awake at night, praying to never die. It wasn't the nothingness I thought death would be, the world going on and on and me just vanishing, never knowing anything ever again. Not being.
This was Earth. This was life. I saw everything. Heard everything. But no one saw me. The reality of death: I was nothing, but I saw everything. I existed, but I didn't matter in the grand scheme of things anymore. Was that better than the death I had feared?
I stared at the spot where the man had appeared a moment before. Or had it been a longer length of time? How long had I contemplated being dead?
The front lock turned. I rushed off to hide.
Rich entered with his parents. Sunlight streamed in behind them. How dare the world remain sunny and cheerful? Anger rose in me that another day had arrived for everyone but me. It didn't seem fair.
Sorrow consumed Rich's features. His eyes were dull, his steps heavy on the carpeted floors. His father dropped the load of boxes he held and patted Rich's back. His mother hugged him and glanced around the townhouse.
"We'll get you out of here. The landlord can get this place ready for a new tenant," his mom said, her face portraying sadness and relief.
Rich didn't say anything. Rich didn't do anything. He stood just inside the doorway and stared into the house. Our house. Now only his house. I went over to him and reached out to touch his cheek. I wanted to comfort him, help him. But I didn't even know how to help myself, how to figure out where I was—here, yet not here.
My fingers trailed through his cheeks and neck. He shuddered, and I withdrew my hand.
Anger flooded his eyes. I smiled, and then frowned. I hoped it wasn't anger at me for dying, for leaving him. I had never wanted Rich angry with me when I was alive, and I didn't want it now, either.
"I can't…" Rich choked out. "I can't."
"It doesn't have to be today." His dad rubbed his shoulder.
"No, sweetie. We can do it another day." His mother turned over a picture of me that took up space on the entertainment center.
"Come home with us. Your mother and I can come back and get your stuff. I can send someone."
"No!" Rich ran to the spot where I had died. He sat on the carpet and touched the place where I had taken my last breath.
I knelt behind him and wrapped my arms around him. He trembled and stood. He lumbered back and forth from the carpet to the front door and back again.
"Oh, God, what do I do now? Where do I go? How can I?" Rich raked his fingers through his hair. "Why wasn't I here? I should've come home. Been here with Abby."
"It's not your fault, son." His concerned father watched Rich wander around the room. "It hurts so much now, but it'll be easier each day."
"Yes," his mother said. "And then you'll find someone new to love."
"Nobody can replace Abigail! No one! Not now, not ever!"
His father glared at his wife. "You're right, son. Nobody will. But eventually, when you're ready, there will be someone to fill the hole in your heart."
She took Rich's hand. "I spoke with Kim this morning, and she offered her condolences. She wants to help in any way she can."
What was his mother doing? I had just died. Why couldn't she wait? I deserved some respect, some mourning.
Rich pulled a small box out of his pocket and tossed it onto the floor. "I don't want anyone else. I won't." He looked into his mom's eyes. "Ever."
She picked up the box and opened it. A large diamond solitaire sparkled. "What?"
"I wanted to marry Abigail," Rich covered his face with his hands and sobbed.
This wasn't fair! It wasn't right! Why was I dead? Why was I here? Why did I have to know all this, see all this, and not be able to do anything?
I glared at Rich's mom, who took my high school cheerleading trophy off the mantle and wrapped it in newspaper. She threw a nervous glance over her shoulder as her fingers brushed the picture of Rich and me at our tree. She snagged a section of the newspaper and enclosed the framed picture inside words reviewing the latest movies.
I knocked the dining room chairs over. I yanked photographs of happier places, happier times, of holidays off the wall and threw them at his mother.
Replace me, will you? No mourning, just go get Kim. Forget I was ever here. That I ever existed!
She screeched and crumpled to the floor, protecting her head from the flying objects. His father gathered his wife to his chest and tried to get her to stand.
He looked at Rich. "Get out!"
Rich looked confused. I could see he wanted to leave, but for some reason didn't. Did he sense me?
"It'll be okay. It'll be okay," a soft crackling voice said. "Hush now, darling."
Grandma? She was here? How could mom let her come to the place where her granddaughter was murdered? "Grandma?" I whispered.
Grandma took Rich's hand in hers and squeezed. "Don't worry, honey. Nobody is trying to hurt you. She won't hurt anyone."
"The chairs, the pictures…" His dad and mom retreated toward the door.
"It's haunted." The words squeezed out of his mother's throat. "This house."
"No," Grandma said matter-of-factly. "Abby is just here for a little while, and she's confused. But she'll be fine now. Grandma is here. Isn't that right, darling?" Grandma sat down on the couch.
I floated over and sat beside her.
"That's right, darling, just relax." Grandma looked at Rich and his parents. "We aren't the only ones who have to come to terms with Abby's death. So does she."
Grandma turned her head and looked right at the spot where my eyes were, or would have been if I were alive. I let out a choked sob, and I saw tears form in Grandma's eyes.
She closed her eyes, and I watched her mouth move. She whispered something. A word. A name. A prayer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Silence made the tongue rattle."
Talk, talk, talk, but nothing useful.
Diane spun webs a black widow would have been proud to claim as her own. That was the problem with making up half the truth. Sooner or later, someone else came along with the other half.
The lawyer held back some information. I read it in the set of his features and the sweat that bubbled up on his forehead. Tim kept adjusting his position on the stairs, moving up one, down one. If he planned to make it in the profession, he had better start believing in the verbs and nouns he spewed. If not, some acting lessons might be helpful.
They passed words and phrases between them as if they were playing tetherball, neither one quite letting go of full control of the conversation. I was impressed. I had never met two people who could talk on top, around, and through another's words as harmoniously as they.
Too bad I wasn't a talent scout. I would've just found one heck of a duet.
"I'm leaving," Diane said.
Tim stammered that they weren't done, but it was obvious his words didn't mean much. Diane turned and started down the stairs. "I need some more information from you."
"Call my attorney."
"I am your attorney." Exasperation filled the lawyer's voice, and he leaned against the wall.
"That means you have everything because I don't have anything else."
"The police are going to look into this. The top two suspects are you and Braswell." He paused, apparently for effect, because he stared hard at her back. If this were a circus, there would be a drum roll, and then some guy or dame would be shot from a cannon. "If you can't give me the truth, I can't be here for you."
She eyed him like a rabid dog does the mailman. "Typical male. Bail out when we're anything but perfect."
"This isn't about perfection. It's about criminal activity."
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