"The first thing is to narrow down the suspects." I sat on the edge of Callous's desk.
"That's a good start," Ann said from the doorway.
I jumped up, knocking over a coffee mug and a container of pens.
A look of concern flashed across Ann's face as she walked into the room. Leaning over, she gathered up the pens. "But, if you pick the wrong motive, the suspects are going to be wrong."
"The wrong motive?" I tried to keep my expression neutral as I looked at Ann. I had told her about Kim and Rich's mom. What reason did she have to think there might be another reason? Did she think I had a habit of stealing boyfriends? "I didn't go around making enemies or causing problems for people. I wasn't involved in anything illegal." Okay, I had snitched private documents from my grandmother's house, but I didn't think she'd kill me over that boundary crossing.
"Your suspects are Rich's mom and his ex-girlfriend because they didn't want you with Rich."
"Yeah." I walked over to the bookcase. I fingered the bindings, finding it easier to discuss my murder when I wasn't facing anyone.
"But what if that isn't the reason? Are Kim and your boyfriend's mom really the killing type? I know from personal experience that the one you love can kill you. But it takes a certain type of person, a certain personality, to actually do it. Think hard, not could they, but would they?"
There was a difference between what someone could do and what someone would do. Which category did Rich's mom and Kim fall into—the would or the could? I could kill someone. But I couldn't—wouldn't—kill someone to get a man. There were enough roaming around to choose from, so no sense in killing for one. But what if the man were already mine?
No. Not worth giving up my freedom for a man that didn't want me. Kim wouldn't either. Rich meant the world to her, but killing to win him back wasn't her style. Waiting for him to come to his senses, yes. Waiting on me to find another guy and move on, yes. Even recruit his mom to speak badly of me to get him to change his mind, yes. But not murder.
Rich's mom was too proper for murder. It wasn't ladylike and took away from the class she esteemed for her family. I turned to face Ann. "No, they wouldn't."
"Then, we have to think of another motive while we're checking into the two of them."
"But what about what you said? The would and could factor?"
"One thing your uncle taught me is that you can never know the whole truth about another person. There might have been something new that developed in their life that changed the letter C to a W before you sensed it."
I massaged my temples, trying to work the words into some semblance of meaning. It wasn't the contradiction of Ann's words and instructions that confused or scared me, but what I had to do to rest my soul. I needed to discover why someone had killed me. What had I done in my life that caused someone to hate me that much? What did I know? Or was it just a random act?
I hoped there was a good reason. I didn't want my end to have been caused by randomness. I wanted a reason. I wanted to know it was because of me, not just attributed to the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Can you think of anything else?"
I shook my head. Maybe later I'd confide the whole truth to Ann, but not now.
She wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "Let's see if we can brainstorm and come up with another theory."
"I'd rather not."
She smiled softly. "I understand, Abby, I really do. This isn't an easy process, but one that has to be done. Were you a witness to a crime?"
"Besides my murder, no."
Ann's eyes widened. "You saw who killed you?"
"Sort of. He was six feet, dark eyes, broad-shouldered. A little extra weight in the stomach area. I don't know his hair color because he was wearing a ski mask."
"Had you ever seen him around before?"
"Hard to say with his features covered. I mean, it's possible that he could have been in one of my classes, a neighbor, or just someone off the street."
"Positive it was a he?"
"Yes." I paced back and forth. "Maybe he wasn't doing it for a personal reason, but for money."
"Usually works that way," Ann agreed, following my movements with the twisting of her neck, blond hair bouncing against her shoulders. "Was anything missing?"
"Television, stereo, computer. The usual."
"Anything unusual gone?"
"My notes," I mumbled.
"What?" Ann leaned closer.
I waved my comment away. Why had that slipped out? "Nothing. Just something I was working on for school. Rich probably got rid of it."
Ann appeared interested. "What were you working on? You said you were majoring in criminal justice."
I took in a deep breath and picked my words carefully. "Everyone in my criminal justice class had to take an unsolved murder case and show where mistakes had been made, what better alternatives could have been used, and what wasn't asked, then come up with our own conclusions."
"That sounds intriguing. Whose case did you pick?"
"A man who was murdered many years ago." I examined my nails, still painted the soft peach I had chosen two mornings ago, or however long it had been.
"The man's name."
"Just someone from the area where I lived."
Ann squinted at me, suspicion twisting her mouth into an angry frown. "Abby. Holding back details isn't good."
"It doesn't matter." The sentence whined out of me. Great. That would convince her.
Ann stared me down. "Callous Demar. Am I correct?"
I took great interest in my shoes. The same ones I had worn the day I died. Actually, everything I wore was the same as on that day. I fingered my earlobes. I wore the oval sterling silver thread earrings Rich always said resembled handcuffs. "The jury acquitted the man accused, but the prosecution allowed jury stacking to ensure that Denver McKay got off. I just don't know why."
Ann locked her gaze onto mine for a moment, and then cast a glare out of the window of Uncle Callous's office. "Ever seen a picture of that man?"
"The man who killed Callous?"
Now, Ann refused to look at me. "Yes."
"One photo, but it was unfocused and not sharp. It seemed strange that none of the newspapers took a good photo of the man, considering he was an accused killer. I've read some of the transcripts, and I wondered why they even bothered with a trial. It seemed to me it was only a formality. Nothing of substance was going to happen."
"What makes you say that?"
I could only shrug. At the time of my death, I still hadn't found that once piece of concrete evidence to explain the feeling in my gut. Common sense alone made the statements of the witnesses glaring lies but, for some reason, neither the judge nor the prosecutors had picked up on it. Or else they didn't care.
The fact that ten witnesses had been around an office building in the seedy part of town at three in the morning should've raised some flags. Also, if Mr. McKay was in such grave danger from my uncle, why hadn't any of them stepped in to help?
Uncle Callous did seem to have the temperament to kill but, from what I was learning about him, he was the type of man to only use lethal force in self defense. What did Uncle Callous know that had made it necessary to kill him?
And was it something that, even half a century later, someone wanted kept quiet?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"Ignorance is simpler."
Night delivered the best special effects.
The hauntee living in a mansion with tons of windows to let in the moonlight contributed to the perfect environment for a ghost. Sighing in glee, I examined the rooms, pleased to note that each had high ceilings, which make for great acoustics, and a vast array of items to fly around the room.
The phenomena planned for the evening left little to interpretation besides a good old-fashioned haunting. Million-dollar homes didn't make settling noises. The top-notch security system remaining silent left two choices for the intruder—James Bond or a ghost. And since James Bond was a f
ictional character, that left one option—a ghost.
During the day, ghosts were easier to explain away as mirages, optical illusions, or the figments of deranged individuals. It was easier to laugh off. Daytime was also when people felt safe.
When night arrived, the playing field opened up for spirits and those intending to cause harm. Fear rose when darkness enveloped the world. People turned more cautious and paranoid in the ending hours of the day.
Lighting—perfection. Sound quality—echoing and ominous. All I needed was the audience, a.k.a. Braswell. Thirty minutes ago, Braswell had chased the departing Gannon down the hall. Threats. Demands. Promises. Tears. Tossed suitcases. Slamming doors. Tires squealing. Melodrama at its best. Throw a hoop skirt on Gannon, and it could've passed for a scene in Gone with the Wind.
At that point, I hadn't wanted to confront them both. Dividing and conquering yielded the best results, and mutiny had already started brewing between them. The hardest part of this job would be determining if the revelations were truth or the good old American pastime of 'pass the blame.'
The doorknob turned, and the master bedroom door opened. A disheveled Braswell entered the room, eyes searching the area. He dropped to his hands and knees. Was he praying? Did someone weave a secret message into the flower and leaf design of the carpet?
He crawled over to the bed and lifted up a corner of the comforter. "You under there, baby?"
It's a cat! I wanted to shout at him. Calling the feline a baby strummed my last nerve. But I kept quiet and patient. People liked to confess to their pets, hard for an animal to rat out their owners.
"Baby?" Braswell called again. No meow or pitter-patter of little padded feet. Looked like daddy misplaced baby.
The earlier spying made it obvious that Gannon wasn't feeling any loss at the death of Willow. Then again, if what he said about Willow was true, she hadn't tried to make a friend out of Gannon. Why had she kept the man around? Was it a test for Braswell? Or did Willow need the daily reminder that someone offered her place number one in their heart?
Why did Braswell play the game? If he cared about Gannon, why did he allow Willow to toy with the young man? Why did he do it himself? A thought popped into my brain. Braswell wanted to have someone to blame for Willow's death. The butler did it. He expected Gannon to take the fall for him, and that was why he had kept the young man here, tried to convince him to stay just one more night.
It was obvious Gannon loved Braswell and wouldn't turn the man in even if he did a little song and dance number titled, "I Killed My Wife."
The case pointed more and more toward Gannon killing her, but with Braswell orchestrating the deed, maybe with a few well-timed "if my wife were dead" references. Willow was onto something when she accused the butler. Our subconscious knew more about what happened in our lives than our brains allowed to filter in.
Take a note: Ignorance isn't bliss. Ignorance is simpler.
I needed to uncover how Braswell had gotten the murder rolling. Was it an actual murder for hire, or was it pillow talk that gave Gannon the impression that if Willow died, he received the grand prize of Braswell.
It would be easier to scare a confession out of Braswell with Willow here, but the truth would break her heart. There was nothing to gain in Willow hearing the truth straight from Braswell's mouth.
"Baby!" Braswell yanked open the closet door and rummaged through it.
Why did he keep calling it a baby? Didn't the ball of fur have a name? Wait, the cat's name was Baby. This kept getting better.
"Where are you?" Braswell's voice rose into a frantic tone. Shoes and garments flew out of the closet and puddled on the carpet. He ran out of the closet and stood in the middle of the master bedroom, wiping at the tears building up in the corner of his eyes. "If he did anything to you—"
Unfortunately, I didn't get to hear the rest of the threat because a mewing at the bedroom door had Braswell running toward it like a dame whose sailor just got back from sea duty.
He threw open the door and scooped the cat into his arms. "I thought he took you. Hurt you." Braswell nuzzled the cat.
Showtime. "Who did you hurt?" I let the W in who vibrate in my cheeks to give it a nice echo.
Braswell's muscles tightened, squeezing the breath out of the cat. Baby twisted in his arms and hissed. The new claw marks on his arm started to bleed, but Braswell held onto the cat. "Gannon?"
Braswell turned toward the window near the bed, where my voice originated. I materialized. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes. I didn't try to read his expression. I was afraid it might say something I didn't really want to know.
He glanced back toward the door and then at me. "How… how did you get in here?"
I pointed to the closed window that was three stories off the ground. I wanted him to digest the information for a little bit. Let him guess. Like at the movies, it was always best to let everyone figure it out for themselves. Nobody liked a spoiler.
He inched toward the door. "The police will be on their way. I have an alarm system."
"Do you hear it?" I crossed one leg over my knee and sat in the air.
"Oh, my God!" Braswell turned to run, but his legs refused to move. His knees buckled, and he fell to the floor in a heap, pressing Snowball into the floor. A few hisses and pathetic meows escaped as Braswell pushed himself off the cat.
"Nope. Not God," I said.
Snowball jumped onto the bed, hissed at me once, and then proceeded to lick his paws like a toddler trying to get chocolate off its fingers.
Braswell's mouth opened and a squeak popped out.
"Why did you hurt her?"
"Who? Hurt? Hurt who?" Braswell pressed his hands to his throat.
"You allowed it. It's the same as doing it."
He looked at me with eyes showing a mixture of fear and confusion. He draped his left arm over his right arm and pinched himself.
"You're not asleep. This isn't a dream."
"Who are you?"
I decided to humor him. Maybe if I gave a little info he would give a little back.
"Callous."
"Callous." My name became a shudder in his voice.
"That's me."
"Why are you here?"
"For answers."
"I don't know you or anything about you."
"Who said I was here about me?" I drifted down to the floor and floated to him.
He scrambled to his feet and wobbled toward the door.
I kept complete sentences and explanations to a minimum during my apparition repertoire. It heightened the scare factor.
Braswell leaned against the door, gasping for breath. His skin color faded, complexion almost matching the white on the walls. "You have the wrong man."
"They all say that."
"But it's the truth."
"Ditto."
Braswell peered at me like a politician at a voter, wondering exactly what could he say or promise to sway me to his side. Unlike voters, there was nothing the man could offer that I would need or could use—except the truth.
Take a note: The truth is hard to come by.
"I loved her."
I glanced up at the ceiling and shook my head in disgust. I'd have rolled my eyes toward him, but I knew I wouldn't get my information that way. He wasn't strong enough to handle that tactic. But it had worked wonders in the past.
His fright turned into indignation. "You don't believe me."
I shrugged.
He sat on the floor, his butt making a thumping sound on the carpet. Snowball leapt from the bed and landed in his lap. Absently, he petted the cat. "Willow told you I didn't love her. I don't love her." Tears formed in his eyes.
A good time to take my leave, let him ponder on that thought while he tried to sleep. I sneered then shrugged, while fading into nothingness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Abby
"I'm going to ask Rich." I closed my eyes and started to think about my home, or rather, my prior home.
/>
"No." Ann grabbed my arm and broke my concentration, bringing my mind and me back to the reception area of Callous's office.
"He'll know what happened to the files."
"If they were in the house, the police have them. That's where we should go."
"Rich will know. We need to talk to him."
"Listen to me." Ann's voice was harsh, her eyes tiny opaque slits in her face.
A shiver worked its way through me. Did my eyes do that? When I was angry, was that what Rich saw? A heartless, soulless ghost—a vast empty vessel.
"You can't visit Rich." Ann's voice was softer, reminding me of the comforting warmth of my mother's voice.
Didn't Ann understand that I still needed Rich? Just because I was nothing to the physical world, didn't make Rich nothing to me. I had loved him. I still loved him. Being in Limbo made it possible for me to see him, visit him, luxuriate in the love he still had for me.
"It's not good for you." Ann looked directly into my eyes. "It isn't good for him."
I turned away from her gaze.
"Your continual presence only brings more pain to Rich. He needs time to grieve for you. To accept the loss."
"He hasn't lost me!"
Ann's mouth drew down in a deep frown. Sadness welled from the depths of her being and showed itself in her blue eyes. "Honey, he has." She drew me into her arms and smoothed my hair.
I wanted to sob. But what good would it do? There was nothing to cleanse. My sorrow would continue. There was no option of hope for me anymore. I was gone. My life was over. All that was left was to watch. Tears flowed. "I don't want to be alone. Be nothing."
"You have me. You have Callous. Here, you're concrete. You'll meet other people."
"Not someone I'll love."
Ann pulled back and wiped the tears from my face. "Not the same as you are used to. But there is love in Limbo. I also believe it's purer here."
"You're just trying to make this better."
She shook her head. "Words alone can never bring solace. Only believing. We are nothing but soul. You're closer to yourself now than you ever were."
I couldn't respond. A fear rooted around inside of me, trying to gain control. I tried to push it down, ignore it. The fear won, and the thought crashed around me. Would being closer to myself bring joy or despair?
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