"We're not playing hide and seek," I said, taking shape. Abby materialized beside me, and Tim broke out in a happy smile.
Take a note: A man will do anything for a pretty dame, no matter what her form of existence.
"Hi," Abby said shyly.
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I believed that would be a little too much for Tim. Plus, I wanted him to help us, not commit himself to a mental ward.
"What can I do for you, Callous?" His eyes remained on Abby.
"This is my grandniece, Abigail. We need to see if you could help us relay some information to Detective Trip and answer some questions Abby needs to ask regarding Willow." I threw in that last part when a genius moment struck me.
I really didn't want Abby running around trying to help solve her own death, too dangerous for a soul off the beaten track and looking for the way home. She had promised to help Willow, and Abby was a promise-keeping kind of gal.
"Ask away." Tim hurried over to the couch and patted the seat beside him.
I remained floating to allow Abby to accept the offered spot. "Have you found out anything about Abby's death?"
"Not much. It seems Detective Trip likes to keep his information away from the public as much as possible. He wasn't willing to talk to me, even with me saying I was a reporter." Tim fixed his gaze on Abby, who remained by my side. "Sorry."
She frowned. At me. It wasn't my fault. I thought the lawyer was competent. Then again, maybe it was my fault.
"He gave you nothing?" I pressed.
"Just that they were looking into some solid leads, but didn't have anything concrete. I asked him about the boyfriend, and he said that he hadn't been ruled out, yet. Someone else in the squad room made a crack about the boyfriend losing some screws in the last few days."
"What does that mean?" Abby jammed her hands into her hips.
Tim shrugged and apologized.
"I can answer that," I said. "Rich mentioned to the detective about talking to us after you died. That doesn't give the police much confidence in a person."
"We have to find out who killed me soon." Abby's misty form wavered. "I don't want them to think Rich did it, or that he's gone crazy. I can't let that happen."
"Don't worry, Abby, we'll get this solved. Tim said he would help. Right?"
"Not a problem." Tim smiled, willing to slay the dragon for the fair damsel. "Just let me know what I can do for you."
"It could be dangerous," Abby warned.
"Dangerous?" His voice wobbled.
"Uncle Callous and I died because of what we were trying to find out."
Tim swallowed hard. "It won't come to that, will it?"
"Nah," I said reassuringly. "Plus, one of us will be around to keep an eye on you and run interference. All we really need you to do is relay some information to Detective Trip."
The smile returned to Tim's face. "That's not a problem."
"We believe the motive for Abby's murder was the paper she was writing for her criminal justice project. She was investigating my death, which also brought back to light some wrongdoings at the college fifty years ago."
"Like?" Tim grabbed a pen and notebook from his desk, then started jotting down the information.
"A coed named Stephanie Johan went missing. And around the same time, a quarter of a million dollars was misplaced."
"Interesting." He scribbled like mad.
"If you can just pass that information to Trip, this ball will get rolling a lot faster."
"But how do I explain how I came across this information?"
"You can tell him you went to talk to Rich, and he mentioned the notes from my report were missing. That seemed an odd thing for a burglar to take," Abby replied, offering a good excuse.
"That should work." Tim stopped writing and focused on Abby. "But, what happens if he asks Rich, and he says he hasn't spoken to me?"
"You're a lawyer," I said. "Lie."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Abby
A vein in Tim's jaw jumped. Standing, he pressed his hands onto his desk. I figured he fought against feeling offended by Uncle Callous's last statement. My great-uncle wasn't familiar with the concept of tact. I decided to switch the subject and gain his attention.
"Tim…" I almost sung his name and swayed my body left and right. Tim's head shifted in my direction, and a small smile turned up the corners of his lips. "There are a few questions I need to have answered regarding Willow. It would really be a big help if you wouldn't mind answering them for me."
"Not a problem." Tim hurried back to the couch and patted the spot beside him.
Uncle Callous fired off a wink, then faded into the air, a move not unwelcomed by Tim. I made a mental note to have a talk with Callous about his abruptness and complete truthfulness toward the people he recruited to help. It was easier to get cooperation when you weren't insulting the ones you intended to ask for a favor.
I remained floating near the couch, and disappointment laced Tim's features. I decided humoring Tim was the best course of action, and it lessened the creep factor. No need to push the fact that I was a ghost and not a living, breathing woman. I lowered myself to sit beside him, turning my upper body to face him and have a more natural conversation.
"Do you know how Gannon came into Willow's employment?" I asked.
"Yes. Gannon and Braswell were friends. Willow met Gannon at some type of art show, and she hired him a few days after the wedding."
"Did she need a butler? Did she have one before?"
"No. My father told her it was a bad idea considering…" His sentence trailed off.
"Considering what?"
Tim cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with his answer. "That they were partners."
"Partners?"
"Lovers."
I held in my shock. "Willow and Gannon?"
Tim coughed to cover up a laugh. "No. Gannon and Braswell."
"Oh." There was really no other response. "Did she know that?"
"I suspected she did, but don't know for sure. Willow claimed she needed help for the regular household duty stuff, as she and Braswell were swamped with getting the house ready for the baby."
My heart ached. "Willow was expecting a baby?"
Tim straightened. "No. Well, sort of. They were adopting a baby girl from China. It would normally take years but, with Willow's money, her application went through the process a little faster."
"With help from your father?"
Tim reddened. "Yeah. Willow wanted to go through the same channels and didn't want to hear about any extraordinary means taken on her behalf."
"Was Gannon going to be the nanny?"
"No." Tim slashed his hands through the air.
I pulled back so he didn't motion through me.
"Braswell was going to be a stay-at-home dad, and Willow planned to cut back on her hours. She had already started to get the part of the business that—" He stopped abruptly.
"Part of the business that what?"
He sighed and dropped his head into his hands for a moment before looking back at me. "Wasn't quite legal. You didn't hear that from me."
I frowned. "No one else knows?"
"A few people."
Crossing my legs, I centered a spill-it look onto Tim.
"Willow, of course. Braswell. My dad. Me. Pauline." He blushed and started fiddling with his tie. "Diane."
"Who's Diane?"
"She works with Willow."
"For her?"
He grimaced. "Not exactly. She helped finance the start of the business, but was never a partner."
"Willow told her about the change of the business model?"
Tim turned a horrible shade of green. "No. I did."
Willow wanted to keep the change a secret. Why? "Did you tell Willow?"
"I couldn't." Tim jerked to his feet and wandered to the window. "I should've. I think Diane was using me to get information. She sensed something was going on."
"Using you?" I floated over
to him.
He refused to look at me. "I thought she loved me. Wanted me. All Diane wanted was privileged information."
"And once the business changed its direction, profits went down. So, she killed Willow before that happened. Right?"
"Diane doesn't own the business now. Braswell and his sister Pauline do. My father talked to them this morning, and they intend to honor Willow's desires."
"So, Diane killed Willow to gain—"
Tim rested his forehead against the glass. "I told Diane about the changes to the will. If anything happened to Willow, she'd be at the mercy of Braswell and Pauline."
"She lost everything. The person who gained the most was Pauline," I said.
"Wrong. The person who gained the most is Gannon. He gets Braswell all to himself."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
"She left the same way she had entered."
Nobody vanished from the face of the Earth.
I tapped my pen on my notebook and gazed out my office window. If someone wasn't living out in the open, they were either hiding or being hidden. I had to figure out the way it was for Stephanie Johan. Hide or hidden?
"Ann," I yelled at my closed door. Two minutes floated by and no Ann. "Ann," I called again. I heard a loud off-key song coming from the reception area. She was ignoring me. Again. "Use your feet and walk," she always said.
A better idea popped into my brain. I grinned. "Hey, Doll Face!"
Ann shoved open the door, making sure it banged against the wall and left another mark for me to patch up and paint. "You know how I feel about that name."
"Yep." I flashed my debonair smile her way.
"One of these days, you're going to finally reach the conclusion that I'm in charge here." Swishing her hips, she walked to my desk and rested one of those lovely curves on it. "Whatcha need?"
"Information."
She rolled her eyes. "Can the I'm-a-private-dick routine. It doesn't impress me, and we sure ain't going to be hired for an acting troupe."
I didn't know why not. The members we currently had in Limbo were worse than us non-professionals. "I need you to check and see if a Stephanie Johan had a couple nights' stay in Limbo."
Ann stared at me as if I had announced we could once again be alive. "Do you know—"
"Yes, it will take a long time and involve a lot of records, though I'm sure you can rustle up some men to help you."
Ann grinned at those words. "I know, but I always thought my powers should only be used for good."
"This is good. You're helping me uncover Abby's murderer and get her out of here before Denver finds a way to hurt her."
"I can do that. But..." I motioned for Ann to continue. Ann was well known for her 'buts.' "Next case, I get to do some legwork."
I grinned and eyed her hungrily. "We can do some legwork right now."
She tilted her head, contemplated it for a second and then, with a shrug of her shoulders, apparently decided against it. Disappointment flickered through me.
"I want you to check the name Steph or Annie. She might've entered Limbo using a name other than the one on her birth certificate or the one her parents called her by."
"Only if you promise me I get to go along haunting." She hid behind the half-open door, her head the only part visible, and batted her pale eyelashes.
"I do not haunt. I investigate."
"But you do get the opportunity to scare people." She stuck one long, luscious leg out and imitated a Rockette.
"It just happens."
"Let me be in the position where I can just happen to make someone scream in terror." She added eyelash-batting to the leg kicks.
The coy dame routine worked on me. My one weakness. "All right. As long as it's not too dangerous."
She placed her hands on her delightful hips. "Then I can come now."
I shook my finger at her. "The deal was next time. Got to have a new crime first."
"I'll commit a crime," Ann muttered, slamming the door behind her. She never entered or exited a room quietly.
I picked my hat up off the floor and placed it on my head. I ran my finger around the brim. The last known whereabouts of Stephanie was a small diner ninety miles away from the college, and a hundred and twenty miles from her mom and dad's house. The owner said that she had entered into his establishment at approximately a quarter past ten in the morning and ordered a turkey sandwich on white with chips, a pickle, and water. She left the same way she had entered, alone and through the front door. He did say the only odd thing was that she almost wore a path in the diner floor from her multiple trips from the table to the restroom.
I wondered if her parents had stopped searching when I died, or if they hired a new detective. My brain churned the thoughts and possibilities until I crashed into a solid thought. Mr. and Mrs. Johan were dead and buried by now. They had to have died knowing their daughter was alive. No parent could have a rested soul with a child missing.
"She’s alive," I pronounced to my office. Now, all I had to do was find her. Fortunately being dead made it easier to find a missing person. All I had to do was focus on an image of her, but her image had faded in my mind. It had long ago taken residence in a far corner away from daily thoughts. The thought of her had been crossed out like a name on a Christmas card list when the receiver hadn’t reciprocated in three years.
I squeezed my eyes shut and rummaged through my brain, going through pictures of people in my head, never stopping long enough to get a good grasp on any image. I didn’t want to make any unscheduled visits. You never knew what a ghostly appearance would do to someone, especially the old.
The bread and potatoes for my business had centered on cheating spouse cases, so there wasn’t a long line of vanished from the Earth cases that plagued my memory bank. There were a few missing girl reports, but most of those came from the police’s policy of not prying into the lives of recent adults. Parents had trouble letting go. Worried mommies and daddies weren’t up for waiting for their kids to share details--they wanted answers before the kids even had a question.
I stopped on an image. Tall, blonde with an athletic build. Wide green eyes framed by long lashes. A thin face appearing longer by wearing long, dark blonde tresses pulled away from her face, giving her a melancholy appearance even though the picture showed her with a wide grin. Beige skirt down to her calves, white blouse and a college sweatshirt tied around her waist. Stephanie. No mistake about it.
The sensation of lightness filled my body. I was on my way to meet Stephanie Johan and discover why she had taken a sabbatical away from her life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
"Sometimes a lie is easier to live with."
Sometimes the lost were found.
Years and many states away, and not in the same condition as people remembered them, but they were found, looking different, sounding different, because life had thrown an unexpected curve. In my case, it was because I had died. Other times, it was because their new life, the one they believed would increase their happiness, had worn them down.
Take a note: A better life isn't always around or on the corner.
The shaking hands, wrinkled skin, and despondent expression on Stephanie's face told me creating a new life didn't agree with her. Stephanie had been twenty when I went looking for her. When I found her, she was in her seventies and looked ninety, already forced to live the remainder of her days in a nursing home in what I believed was the state of Florida.
One, because that was where it seemed adult children herded all aging parents to. Two, the attire of shorts and t-shirts in early April let me deduce it was hot. And three, the sign in the hallway reminded the residents they lived happily in the Paradise of Florida retirement home. I was good at putting all the clues together.
I focused my attention on Stephanie. She sat in a chair, staring out the screened window into the vast yard. Palm trees and benches lined the walking path. Colorful flowers bloomed all around, and the vague sound of a waterfall filtered throug
h the open window.
"Nice place," I said, hoping to draw her attention.
She shrugged her thin shoulders. "I'd rather be home," she replied, with a sad sigh.
"Where's home?"
She turned to look at me, her face a mixture of confusion and brief recognition. "I know you." Her pale green eyes narrowed as she tried to place my face.
I hovered over for her to take a better look.
Her eyes widened, and she lifted a trembling hand to her mouth to stop the gasp attempting to escape. She seemed more dumbfounded than scared. That was good. I would hate to bring on a heart attack in an old dame.
"You're that detective. The one looking for me." She roved her gaze over my form. "You're dead. They killed you."
I sat down in a nice, comfortable rocking chair across from her. "Yeah, they did."
"You look good." A wistful sigh breathed past her lips. "It would have been nice to have been found by you."
I grinned. "I'd have liked to have found you back then."
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled from her lips, and she gazed down at the ground. Shame spread redness across her cheeks. Her gaze drifted to a small heart-shaped photo of two men and then returned to me.
"For what?"
"For you dying. Being murdered."
"Now, doll face, you weren't the one that shot me in the back."
"Of course I didn't do that." She sat up straight. Her dignity was a nice complement to her old age and fading beauty.
"Then there isn't anything for you to be sorry for." I remained still so the rocker stayed motionless.
"You were looking for me. That's what caused your death."
"Nah, the cause was a few slugs going through my back, ricocheting around my ribs and exiting through my heart." I ended with a broad wink and a charming grin.
She let out a fluttering laugh. "Fine, you win. I had no part in it. But if that's the case, why are you here?"
"Well, doll face, there are still some loose ends in my mind I need to tie up. And one was to know what happened to you."
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