"And now?"
"I've heard all the songs, heard people say they would die for the one they loved. I love Rich." I let out a deep puff of air. "But I don't want to be dead."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"Even innocent acts were suspicious."
You could learn more truth by spying than by making announced visits.
From the looks of the house, Rich had heaped everything from the closets, cupboards, and drawers into the middle of the floor in each room. I floated into the living room and watched as Rich tipped over the couch.
Abby might not suspect Rich, but I'd learned an investigation needed to start close to home. Rich had stuck around after Abby's death and continued to live in their home, but even innocent acts were suspicious when a murder had been committed.
He muttered curses and a few other phrases under his breath. "Why that?" He dropped to the floor and looked around the house.
I was certain whatever he had lost, he wouldn't find in the house.
"Of all things for her to ask."
Someone had left an item behind, an incriminating piece of evidence. Anger churned in my soul at the knowledge that I was right. For once, I had wanted to be wrong. "Her who?" I hovered over Rich.
Rich scooted away from me on the power of his butt.
"Who left something behind?" The question shook out from me. The fury twined in each word, wisps of air contained a chill of whiteness and swirled around me.
"Abigail," Rich choked out her name.
The vapors faded as confusion mixed with the anger. "What about Abigail?"
"That damned project of hers."
Were both women I wanted to help holding back key information? I understood Willow, but Abby? "What project?"
"The one she was working on for her criminal justice class. Abigail came to see me and asked if I knew where it was. It wasn't about me. Still about that project." Tears rushed into his eyes, and he scrubbed away the wetness.
I nodded, hoping to keep his tirade going.
"I would think being dead meant you didn't have to worry about that stuff. I wouldn't." Rich picked at loose fibers on the carpet.
"It's easy to say that until you're dead." I lowered myself closer to Rich, resting my form a few inches from the floor. "Sometimes it's easier to focus on the small, inconsequential things rather than the whys of your new existence."
"I guess that make sense." Rich lumbered to his feet and staggered over to the couch. "I want Abby to be happy and at peace. I don't think she is."
"Of course not." I moved over to the couch. "Someone killed her. Once that's answered, she'll rest in peace. Can you tell me more about this project?"
"Earlier today, Abby stopped by and wanted to know what had happened to her notes."
"What was the project on?"
Rich's eyes left my face, and a trembling took over his voice. "I don't know. She was obsessed about it, but wouldn't tell me what it was about."
"And you never took a peek?"
He shook his head. I wanted to call him on the lie, but a quick peek at the window showed that night had pushed out day. I had to meet up with Legs and Brains. I meant, Gertrude and Aaron.
Playing games with Rich needed to wait for another day. First, I'd have a talk with Abby about her visit with Rich and the project that the love of her life couldn't name. What had obsessed her so much that it continued into her death?
I concentrated and focused on an image of Gertrude. I had a better memory of her. Their surveillance would take them away from the police station, so to go there would be a waste of time. My memory was on target. I had no mishaps in finding the whereabouts of Gertrude. And Aaron.
I watched to learn how the two not-on-duty cops planned to get into the not-too-small, not-too-large, brick rambler surrounded by the bushes they knelt behind. Of course, if they knew I was on their team, it would be easier, but I wasn't sure how receptive they were to a ghost.
"You're sure she's not here?" Aaron whispered.
"I saw her leave." Gertrude turned her lovely neck in order to glare at her partner in crime. "And you did, too, you idiot."
"Just wanted to make sure you also saw her. Maybe it was a roommate or just another woman."
Gertrude shook her head. "I'm positive it was Pauline."
It was always easier to locate clues when the detective knew the target of the investigation. I admired Brains and Legs for their first choice of suspect—Braswell's baby sister, Pauline. Families were either the keepers or the screamers of secrets. If you needed to uncover the worst about a person, you talked to the siblings.
I floated into the house to do some basic evidence locating, while Gertrude and Aaron tried to find a way into the house not classified as breaking and entering. It would help them, and me, if I entered first and then directed them to the useful information.
I made my way to Pauline's bedroom, the lair where the hidden goods were usually kept, at least the written details. Valuables, like jewels and money, were stashed in such places as refrigerators, freezers, bathrooms, ceiling fans, and locked metal boxes.
Take a note: Criminals' minds are always one step ahead of the law abiding.
That was what kept them in business and out of jail cells. Of course, like all humans, they made errors, and those screw-ups were what private investigators and police looked for. Perfection could never be achieved, which was a good thing, as evil got caught and punished. Eventually.
I stared at the top dresser drawer until it drifted open. I peered at an assortment of things which, at first, seemed to be unimportant because of their tossed-in quality, but could hold some valuable clues. Hair bobs. A hodge-podge of photographs. Maybe some wedding shots or candid photos of the recently married or of the groom and butler.
A broken necklace. Was it simply a link broken from use, or did someone tug it off? Was it worth some money, or was it just a grown-up version of play jewelry?
A phone number scribbled on paper. Whose or what? Whose handwriting? How long ago was it placed in the drawer? Was that slip of paper in there because of the phone number or something written on the back?
I concentrated enough on the drawer so that it slid back a few inches but didn't close all the way. I wanted them to look in there, but I didn't want to leave a clue so obvious that they considered any evidence found as planted. I was confident the remaining five drawers contained Pauline's clothes. I needed to locate the unmentionables, the drawer where ladies kept the secrets of their lives.
Beside her bed was a small table draped with a piece of red and gold silk fabric. I fluttered the fabric. There were drawers in the table. I wanted to open them but, at that moment, I heard the stage whispers of Gertrude and Aaron nearing the bedroom. I allowed the fabric to drop back down. I had to think of a way to get Gertrude to want to see what was behind the curtain on the table.
Knocking over the lamp wouldn't work, as there wasn't a pet to blame. My luck wasn't running that high. I should have brought Snowball with me. Hmm… that was an idea to get Braswell to start talking, make Snowball float around the house. I pulled out my notebook and jotted down the thought. It was a desperate plan, but sometimes desperation worked.
The small alarm clock held potential. I read the buttons on top: snooze, time, fast, slow, set, radio—music, that shouldn't be too jarring. The button met the plastic of the clock.
A mix between a country twang and a rock 'n' roll yell filled the small room. Pauline liked it loud.
"Shit." Gertrude leapt across the bed and slammed her hand down on the radio. She pushed random buttons.
"Turn it off!" Aaron's loud whispered words were harsh.
"What do you think I'm trying to do?" She answered in the same tone.
I wanted to slam the drawer on Aaron's fingers. It wasn't her fault. I let the button pop back up. I wanted her attention, not to get her in trouble or put her in danger.
They let out a joined sigh of relief. The plan worked. Gertrude fiddled with the fabric an
d lifted it up. She opened one of the drawers. The top layer was lace and straps of all different colors and fabrics; underneath the silk and cotton was a book, some paper, and photos.
Gertrude smiled. "Hello there, clues."
"Found something?"
"Yep. How about you?"
Aaron held up the pictures from the first drawer I had checked. "Wedding photos of the happy couple. Don't see the butler in any of them."
Gertrude pulled out a leather book with a red silk ribbon tied around it. Gently, she pulled one of the ends, The slip of silk unraveled and dangled in her hand. She placed the ribbon on top of the side table and opened the book. "I found her diary."
"Anything interesting?"
Gertrude read a few passages in the book, soft lips mouthing the words. She grinned over at him and returned her attention to the book.
"Just my luck," Aaron mumbled.
I decided I should quit watching Legs's lips and get a good look at the words in that book. I rose above Gertrude and looked down at the journal. The open page was devoted to romantic feelings about a fellow. I didn't get to find out who because Gertrude flipped the page. Interesting information, but not useful, and we didn't have time for the useless.
Aaron pulled out a notebook and jotted something down in it. His actions piqued his partner's curiosity.
She stood and walked over to him, the diary still in her hand. "What did you find?"
"A number. Maybe nothing, but…"
"Anything else in there?"
Aaron nodded. "Whole shit load of stuff, but nothing we can really dig into unless we take it."
"Can't do that."
Aaron pointed to the diary. "Any secrets revealed in there that could help us?"
Gertrude let out a sigh. "Nothing that would give us a definite suspect. The only thing that really stands out is that she didn't agree with Willow hiring Gannon as the butler, considering her brother's and Gannon's prior relationship. She mentioned that Willow was deliberately playing with fire."
Aaron sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the diary. His gaze fell on the clock, and he eyeballed it. "Gerry, who sets their clock when they're going to be gone?"
She shrugged. "Probably forgot it was on."
"She has a day job. Why would it be set for nine in the evening?"
Both heads turned to the clock, then back to face each other. Aaron's shaking hand reached for it. He pressed a button and pulled his hand back quicker than if he had stuck it in a fireplace.
"It's set for five in the morning." His voice shook.
"How did it…?"
I left them to figure it out. I had a haunting to conduct.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"Calling it a lie doesn't make it not the truth."
There were benefits to being a ghost.
For most occupations, becoming a wandering spirit wouldn't develop or enhance the skills necessary to perform the job. What was the benefit of being a ghost fireman or a ghost bank teller? There were no fires in limbo and no need for money. Some refused to work and stayed far away from the Successful Dead Employment Agency.
Maybe I should send Abigail there to find a job better suited to a young woman still tied by emotions to her boyfriend. Investigating murders offered an excuse for Abby to visit Rich, a situation destined to turn bad. Constant returning by the dead left the living pining for the departed soul and led to a life of hurt.
Unannounced visits like Abby's were dangerous. Souls found out things never meant for them to know, things they were better off not knowing. My motto was, 'Come only when loved ones called.'
But I couldn't think about Abigail right now. I had to focus on Willow.
I whisked by a grandfather clock in the grand foyer as it bonged ten times, a nice eerie sound that echoed through the empty hall that passed for a room in the mansion Willow had bought for a home. I hovered at the foot of the elaborate winding staircase. Why did a person feel the need for hundreds of rooms when only three people lived in the house? There was the cat, but it didn't take up much space. Was it to avoid each other, or did the status symbol mean everything to them?
I floated upstairs to find Braswell. Usually at this hour, people were going to sleep or getting ready to hit the town. Either way, they would be in a bedroom.
Gannon's room was probably on the first floor, if it wasn't in the basement, assuming mansions had basements.
I stuck my head through three doors before I found Braswell. And Gannon. I forgot a scenario… Gannon sharing the master suite with the master. Luck was on my side; I didn't enter at a time they were entertaining each other.
Braswell sat on the edge of one side of the bed. Gannon perched on the other edge with a feminine pout on his lips.
"She's not here," Gannon huffed. "And it's not like she's gonna waltz in here, either."
Braswell patted the side of the bed. Snowball stalked over and, using every muscle in its four legs, pounced with cat dignity and grace onto the ruffled, pink-flowered comforter.
"It was never Willow's decision. It was mine."
"What?" Gannon paled, fisting the bedspread in his hands.
"Willow didn't forbid me from spending the night with you. She just said to be out of there by morning and not to leave anything that a social worker would find. I chose not to."
"Why not?" The look on Gannon's face made it difficult to tell if the man was fuming, confused, or on the verge of tears. It could have been a mixture of all three.
"I committed myself to Willow." Braswell wandered over to the window and, plucking back the sheer fabric, peered into the night. "I made a promise in front of family and friends."
"You didn't love her!" Gannon jumped up from the bed, his clenched fists jammed against his thighs. "Not like me."
"I have loved her since we were in grade school." Braswell allowed the soft fabric to flutter from his fingertips. A bitter laugh escaped. "It was always Willow and me. Our moms always thought we'd get married. My mom never realized that we got along so well because we had similar interests. Fashion. Children. Men. Best friends to the end."
"And you were." Gannon rested his head on Braswell's shoulder. "You gave up everything for her. I love you. I know you still love me."
Contempt filled Braswell's eyes, and he jerked away from Gannon. "Love doesn't hold a relationship together. I know that, and you know that."
Gannon stepped back, balling up his hands and pressing them to his side. "This whole time, I thought Willow kept you from me. She wanted me here in order for you to prove over and over that you loved her more than me."
"Then why did you stay?" Braswell picked up the cat and stroked the pinkish-colored fur. The dim light from outside trapped a light image of Braswell in the window. "Allow her to use you like that? Become a test of my commitment for her?"
"Because I loved you. I was willing to give up everything for you." Gannon plucked at Snowball's tail as it swished by Braswell's thigh.
Braswell's jaw tightened. He adjusted Snowball in his arms, draping the cat over his shoulder, and walked away from the windows.
"Was the money worth it?" Gannon kept his gaze trained on Braswell. "Big house. Start-up funds for your design business."
"It had nothing to do with money."
"That's a lie." Gannon walked to the closet and threw open the doors.
"Calling it a lie doesn't mean it's not the truth. I wanted a child." Braswell rocked the cat. "So did Willow. We needed each other for that to happen."
Gannon grabbed a handful of shirts, hangers and all, and flung them onto the bed. "Willow didn't need anyone. She could've adopted a child without your help."
"The business scared her. She was afraid that would get her turned down."
Pants landed on top of the shirts. Gannon turned and held up a pair of slacks. With a shake of his head, he tossed the pair to the ground. "And marrying a gay man would help her in the adoption process?"
"Willow thought having a husband gave her better odd
s." Braswell stroked Snowball's head. "And I know having a wife gave me better odds."
"We could've adopted together." Gannon knelt by the closet, separating shoe boxes into different stacks.
Braswell laughed. Gannon shot him a fierce look.
"Gannon, you're more of a child at times than a child would be." Braswell placed Snowball onto the bed. The cat curled into a tight ball and snuggled down.
"Then, why am I still here? I thought you still loved me." A single tear snaked down Gannon's cheek.
An emotion I couldn't name snaked inside my gut. Was I feeling bad for Gannon? Empathy? Hard to imagine I'd ever have sympathy for a murderer.
"So the police will know where to find you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Abby
I needed to investigate my own death, as my family and Rich had no idea what I had researched before dying. Maybe the missing notes had nothing to do with it, but why did my killer take them with him? That was the only answer that made sense. Uneasiness crept into my soul. Uncle Callous investigated his own murder and still resided in Limbo.
I glanced out the window of Uncle Callous's office and watched other spirits walk around, some talking and laughing, others muttering to themselves. How many were here because of murder?
Ann said my Uncle didn't want to dig into his past. It was done and gone. It seemed like a huge contradiction that a man who based his life and death on a profession that made others share wasn't willing to do it himself. What facts of his death had he kept secret? What made him prefer questions to answers about his own death?
If my death tied into his, then I needed answers. But how did I get answers from a man determined not to give them without giving away what I wanted to keep from him? I didn't want my choice to investigate his long-ago murder to keep him tied to Limbo if that decision had caused my murder. I had a feeling Uncle Callous would never find peace with or within himself if that was the truth.
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