Trip eyed the computer as if he intended to settle the matter later, and backtracked his way out the door. I followed, concerned about his ability to find Abigail's killer. The death of a pretty college coed should require the assignment of a competent, hardnosed police detective, not a young, inept one.
"Anything from the medical examiner yet?" He shouted at a girl I assumed was the secretary.
The young woman shook her head.
"Anyone say when they would?"
She shrugged again. Either she was part deaf or used to his tirades.
Trip grumbled under his breath and made his way back to his desk. He smacked the folder down on his desk and glared around the squad room. He started to bang his fist on the desk in an impatient rhythm.
"Knock it off before I shoot you!" A voice bellowed from the vast array of desks around the room.
Trip pounded his head onto the headrest of the well-worn leather office chair. "Why can't anyone return calls around here?"
"Not giving you the answer you want doesn't mean the calls weren't returned."
With a sigh, he pulled the folder toward him. "How the hell do they expect justice to be done when I can't get more concrete evidence than inconclusive findings on the fingerprints?" He opened the folder and gazed down at a photograph of Abby's motionless, dead body.
I turned away and willed him to turn the page, close the folder. I didn't want to see her that way.
"How can I keep telling her parents that we have nothing? No witnesses, no clues, no motives. Crimes don't come from nothing." He stood up and reached into his desk drawer to remove his gun and place it in his holster. "I'm going to examine the crime scene."
"Again?" the detective sitting across from him asked. "The place has already been cleaned up, and the boyfriend is back occupying the house. You ain't gonna find anything."
He picked up a framed photograph from his desk and shoved it into view of the other detective. "She deserves something. And to me, that doesn't mean a time frame for when I'll give up."
I was going to like Trip.
* * *
Trip canvassed the front of the house, peering under each bush, scanning the branches of the trees. I knew the other detective was right. There wasn't any physical evidence to find. Whatever had been there was in the evidence room or long gone by either the cleaning crew hired by the parents, or the killer returning and collecting it. But I admired his persistence.
"Are you going to come here every day?" Rich asked.
I ensured that I remained invisible. It wasn't the time to have Rich announce and try to explain my presence.
"If that's what it takes." Trip looked Rich in the eyes. The man was suspicious of the boyfriend. Of course, there wasn't anything a living loved one could do that wouldn't be suspicious. If you stayed in the house, there wasn't something right with it; if you left the house, there was something not right.
"My parents said this could be construed as harassment."
"Is that so? I'm sure the Commonwealth of Virginia would look at it as a detective trying to uncover the grisly murder of a beautiful young woman in her own home."
Tears sprang into Rich's eyes, and I heard him choke on them. Trip grimaced, either over the unpleasantness of the sound or the voice of his conscience reprimanding him for the harshness toward a grieving young man.
"Have you remembered anything unusual about that day?" Trip asked, his voice softer.
Rich shook his head. "I've been trying to. Nothing is coming to mind. It all still seems so unreal."
"I know this difficult for you. But we need to help Abby have justice."
"I agree. That's why I told them I would help."
Trip got the sixth-sense detective awareness look on his face. "Who are you going to help?"
"The detective."
"What detective? Did Abby's parents hire someone to work on this case?" He yanked out a leather-encased notebook and flipped it open. "A private investigator?"
"No. Abby's grandmother is getting her brother to help."
That wasn't good. I needed to stop this conversation before it went downhill for Rich.
"Her brother?"
"Yes, I believe he was a detective."
I materialized and tried to get Rich's attention. He remained fixated on the detective. Great, of all the times for him not to see me.
"How did you find out about this?"
"He was here the other night when Abby was angry."
"Abigail had been angry at you before she died?"
I searched the ground—nothing to throw at Rich. Why couldn't he have invited Trip inside?
"No, about two nights after."
"Is that so?" Detective Trip asked in the voice one reserved for small children or homicidal maniacs.
"Yeah. The detective showed up that night in the living room and told me it wouldn't be good for me to help. I did want to."
This conversation was about to get worse. Why couldn't being a ghost come with some powers, like shooting lightning bolts or being able to slap invisible duct tape over a person's mouth.
"I'm sure you did. Look, I need to go now. If you can give me the detective's name, I'll check in with him. And if there are any new developments, or you remember anything, call me immediately."
"Sure. His name is Callous. I don't know his last name."
That did it. Rich just moved himself into the prime suspect spot when Trip searched my name. Well, at least he'd have the insanity defense to fall back on.
"I appreciate it." Trip smiled and headed back to his unmarked police car. He scrambled inside, picked up the radio, and called in to dispatch.
"This is Trip. I need a run on a detective named Callous. Probably retired. He's poking into the Abigail Harris murder. Relative of the grandmother."
"Grandmother's name?"
"Genevieve Smith. Don't know her maiden name but it's probably on some type of record."
"Checking now."
Trip drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for an answer that I knew was going to make this case more complicated.
"Got a guy that fits the bill, except there's a problem."
"What's that? The guy in prison for illegal activities?"
"No, he's been dead since 1955."
Time to move on. I needed to check on the dynamic duo working Willow's case to see if they had figured out if Willow's accident had been an accident.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"It looked like my dance card was filled for the night."
A.k.a. Gertrude and Aaron.
I thought they'd prefer the nicknames, Legs and Brains. Obviously, Mom and Pops hadn't known the looker little Gertrude would become.
They sat at matching metal desks that faced each other. Both wore looks of skepticism on their faces as they went over Willow's accident report.
"Something just ain't right," Aaron said.
"I know what you mean," Gertrude leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs. Nice tanned and toned legs.
"Those brakes were deliberately cut. I don't care what the accident experts say." Aaron strangled a soda can, then dropped it into the trashcan.
"They have the experience." Gertrude twirled a pen between her fingers. "Homicide says it's an accident."
"I know they say it's a jagged cut, and there are wood splinter fragments on the cable, but who the hell four-wheels in a BMW?"
"She could have spun out and landed in a ditch, or drove on the grass median on the highway."
"Yeah, a lot of trees lying around there."
Gertrude stood and stretched. "What they're discounting is that someone with the knowledge of the law and police investigations could've rigged the cut to appear accidental."
"That's what I'm thinking. Cut the line crooked and shove a stick into the cut to leave some evidence," Aaron said.
"Or they used a sharp wooden stick to do the damage in the first place."
"So we should find us some believers in vampires who have a large supply of stakes and
plenty of time on their hands." He smiled.
Cops shouldn't try to be humorous. They have the same comedic talent to make a person laugh as a rattler sinking its fangs into a body part.
"So you want to tell the lieutenant that the accident guys are wrong, and this is a murder?" he asked.
"That's a great plan. He argues with us about our proof, and then comes the lecture that there are enough real unsolved crimes without us trying to turn this accident into a homicide."
"We need to get some proof, or convince the accident unit this isn't as cut and dry as it seems. Considering how much money she made, they might."
"What does your off-duty schedule look like?" Gertrude asked.
Aaron looked at her with undisguised suspicion. "Why?"
"I think we should investigate it further. Find out what really happened."
"It's not our job."
"And it never will be if we don't prove ourselves."
"I don't know. The wife ain't gonna be happy about me ditching her with the kids during the off hours."
"Give me a break." Gertrude rolled her beautiful browns. "You get home and plop yourself down in your recliner, scanning through your seven hundred channels of digital programming."
Aaron opened his mouth to speak, but shut it before any sound leaked out.
"Tell her if we discover the truth, you'll get a promotion."
"That would make her happy." He appeared to be swaying his time in her direction.
"It would. Do you want to be a beat cop forever?"
"No."
"How else will we change it?"
"Seems to be the perfect case…"
"It is. Come on, Aaron, I'm tired of being the low person on the totem pole. I'm sick of passing over the really challenging cases to homicide, narcotics, or the accident unit."
"So am I. But it does mean more work, more time. While my wife would love the money, she would hate the additional time I'm away."
"You'll never get to sergeant, lieutenant, or captain…" Gertrude paused after the verbal promotion. "If you don't get off the local traffic beat."
"You're right." Aaron stood taller with a defiant glow in his eyes. "Let's do it."
"We can start tonight."
"Sure. Just promise me one thing."
She grinned. "Of course."
"Start spouting off about all the promotions to my wife tonight."
"No problem. I think the first order of business should be the background of one Mr. Braswell Nighton. Let's see who he actually is, and what he did before he became the husband of Willow Flannery."
It looked like my dance card was filled for the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Abby
I sat in the chair behind Uncle Callous's desk, waiting to conduct my first client interview. I picked up one of the pencils and drummed it on the wooden desk, as I checked the setup I had arranged in front of me. A pad of paper for notes. Check. Sharpened pencils. Check. Smooth down my clothes and hair. Check. Sit up straight, shoulders back, and give an air of confidence and professionalism. Still working on that last item.
A benefit of Limbo danced into my head. She wouldn't automatically assume I was an amateur because of my age. I could've been here for decades, for all she knew. The nerves vanished.
Dead wasn't the preferred way of "living" but, at least here, I wasn't assumed to have no experience. In Limbo, it was hard to know who had actually racked up more experience in the world, as appearances were deceiving.
I laid the pencil on the desk and stood. Maybe I shouldn't sit at the desk. If we both sat on the couch, it would make our meeting friendlier, less businesslike. But what if Ms. Flannery was the kind of woman who preferred business over pleasure? She could think I was disrespectful.
Boy, I never thought preparing to interview a client was so difficult. In class and on television, it looked simple. The client picked a name from their internet search, made an appointment, showed up at the scheduled time, and the questions and answers started flying. The whole start of the meeting determined if the client stayed or left. Of course, Limbo might not have a choice of investigators.
A knock sounded on the door. I looked over and saw the outline of a woman's head through the small glass window near the top of the door. I didn't know why Uncle Callous wanted a glass door inside his building. I understood outside, but inside? A little weird.
I walked over and opened the door. "Ms. Flannery." I held out my hand.
She shook it. "And you are?"
"Abigail Harris. I… um... work with Unc—I mean, Callous."
She walked in and took a seat as if she were a member of the firm. She smiled sympathetically. "You're new here."
Her words were a statement, not a question. What made it so obvious? "Why would you think that? Because I look young?"
"So does she." She tilted her head back toward the door where Ann sat on the other side at the receptionist desk. "You're hesitant, not much confidence. It's obvious you're the age you appear to be."
Not good. I'd work on that but, for now, I had to get some answers for Uncle Callous or else I wouldn't have any work to do for him in the future. "Who do you think killed you?"
"Gannon, our butler." She examined her nails.
"Anyone else?"
She sighed. "Just him. I explained all this to Callous."
"I know, ma'am," I fibbed.
"Willow," she corrected with a smile.
"The basis of this existence is that we are here because of an unanswered question. Who killed us."
"Can't there be any others?"
"Sure." Why not? "But it would have to be a huge question to get you stuck in this place."
"You're positive on that?"
"That's how Callous explained it to me." I gestured toward all the books on the wall.
Uncle Callous left nothing to chance. He researched this existence and the factors that determined why a person got stuck halfway between Heaven and Hell. To me, over fifty years of existing qualified him as an expert. Willow was confident in her belief of who killed her. Who would know better who wanted to or did kill a person than the person who got killed?
No one knew a life better than the one who had lived it.
I backed into my next question. "Could it be that your mind, your soul, has some suspicion that someone made Gannon do it?"
Tears formed in Willow's eyes and, for a brief moment, she bowed her head. Even if she said no at this point, I had discovered the truth. Gannon physically committed the murder, but someone else planned it.
"I don't think so." Willow dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips.
"You don't think it, but you also don't know if someone didn't."
"I'd agree with that."
"Then that's the answer we have to find. Did Gannon do it on his own?"
"Callous doesn't believe that Gannon did it. He thinks it was someone else."
"He could be right, but since Callous is covering that question, it seems the smart way to work this, the quicker way to work this, is for me to cover the other question."
Willow grinned. "And men think they're the smarter sex."
I grinned back. "It's just easier for us to let them believe that."
"Ah, you two have uncovered the best way to deal with Callous."
We looked toward the door.
Ann stood in the doorway, smiling. "Just wanted to check to see if you needed anything."
"No." Willow stood up. "Abigail here has everything under control. I must say I have more confidence now that my situation will be resolved. You'll get in touch with me?"
"Soon," I promised.
Willow shook my hand, then glided out of the room. I sat at Uncle Callous's desk and began making a list of my next steps. First, I needed to find some information on Gannon. How had he come to be in Willow's employ? Who were his friends? What could he possibly gain or receive for killing Willow?
"I should have asked her some of these," I muttered.
&
nbsp; "You'll remember all the questions next time," Ann said. "The client left happy, so I'd say you did a good job."
I looked at Ann. "Thanks."
"Since you threw out the word why, I'm wondering if you could answer it?"
"Me?"
Ann sat down and leaned across the desk so we were almost nose-to-nose. "Yes, Abby, you. Why would someone want to kill you?"
I choked back a sob. "I don't—"
Ann cut me off. "Yes, you do."
I took a deep breath and revealed the truth I didn't want to voice, but would have to for me to leave Limbo. "Rich's parents, more accurately, his mother, felt I was beneath him and had nothing to offer him. She said I ruined Rich's life because I took him away from what she wanted for him."
"Which was?"
"Kim."
I saw the distaste start to form on Ann's face. I didn't want my only potential friend in this place to write me off already. "He wasn't married. They were dating."
"That makes it better?"
"Kim and I became friends a few months after she started dating Rich. She brought him along whenever we did anything. Kim was more wrapped up in her sorority activities than studying, so when Rich needed someone to help him with English, she volunteered me."
Ann nodded for me to continue.
"The more time we spent together, the more Rich and I found we enjoyed each other's company and had things in common. We liked each other, respected each other, and held the same opinions. We clicked."
"And he and Kim didn't."
"I guess sometimes you don't know someone is wrong for you until you meet someone who is absolutely right. I knew there was a connection between us, and so did Rich. But he also knew there would be no opportunity to see where it would lead if he was with Kim."
"So he broke it off with her."
"Yes."
"Had they talked about getting engaged?"
"No, but his mother and Kim believed it was heading in that direction. They think a marriage would've taken place this summer if I had told Rich there could never be an us."
"But you didn't."
"At that time, I didn't see a reason not to try. He didn't feel they were right for each other. Why should I turn down the chance of being with the man I truly felt I could fall in love with?"
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