Take a note: An eye for an eye wasn't meant to be dealt by man.
Not only that, but being on the right train and getting off on the wrong stop wasn't going to get her home any quicker, just lost. Added to that worry was trying to figure out why Denver had decided to become a guardian angel of my grandniece. I didn't trust the man. I ended up dead because I had. I refused to give it to him again when Abby's soul was at stake.
I transported Abby and Denver to the front yard of the school, a grassy patch away from the auditorium but near the building that housed the dean's office. I turned Abby around as the police started to lead Rich to a waiting ambulance. The dean engaged in an in-depth conversation with the security guards and Detective Trip. It was a good thing for Rich he had well-to-do parents. He should get out of this little problem with a wag of a judge's finger and a stinging slap on the wrist.
I pulled Abby in for a hug. She sniffled and looked up at me with her huge eyes, batting those eyelashes in such a sweet, innocent, helpless-fair-maiden way. My gut churned. The little dame was up to no good.
"What?" I asked.
She looked perplexed at my question.
"What?" I repeated. Maybe hearing the word a second time would help her remember the meaning.
Her lips trembled.
Not going to work. I could spot a conniving dame a mile away. "I'll finish up here."
"But me and Denver—" Her voice held a slight pause when she said his name. Obviously, she wasn't quite as smitten or trusting of him as she appeared.
"You've done some fine investigating, and we're down to the wire here." I chucked her under the chin, but then settled my face into an expression of total seriousness. "But, from this incident we know your closeness is hurting Rich. He can't help but want to protect you, avenge you. As long as he thinks you're still suffering over your murder, he's going to be ready to leap off a bridge and take a lot of people with him."
"Callous is right," Denver said.
I glared at him. I didn't need his backup or approval. Had the man forgotten he had killed me? Maybe I should try to get it over just a little bit, as it had been over fifty years. And he had received comeuppance.
Take a note: Forgiving doesn't mean to stop looking over your shoulder.
"The dean knows something," Abby said.
"It's more than something," I agreed. I knew that face, just wasn't sure yet from where. Was it an old memory from my living days resurfacing or a recent one?
"What do you mean?"
"Quite simply, duckie, it means it's time for Uncle Callous to get philosophical with the old dean."
"Philosophical?" She seemed skeptical about that approach.
Denver leaned over and whispered rather loudly. "He's going to scare some time out of him."
Abby's eyes opened wide, and her mouth gaped.
I punched Denver satisfyingly hard in the arm. "It isn't something you want to see. Or be around for."
"I could scare him just as easily." She crossed her arms and gave me her best snotty look. She wasn't returning to Limbo without a fight.
"A young coed isn't going to shake up a probable murderer the way the private detective he had killed fifty years ago can. By now, he truly believes that I'm dead, buried, and gone. My resurfacing will be a shock to his system."
"You better hope it isn't too much of a shock, Uncle Callous. The dean sure is old enough to keel over from a heart attack at the sight of you."
I laughed and waved off her concerns. The truth was, I was willing to take that chance, but I didn't want Abby to know it. "Go on back to the office. I'll fill you in on the outcome."
"Isn't there something I can do?" She twisted her fingers together, anxious for something to do, some purpose for her stage of life after death.
"Have a nice girl talk with Willow. I've never had a client who believes in the truth of her murderer the way she does. And if her heart is set on that truth, then finding her killer isn't what's tying her to Limbo."
She smiled, ready and willing to take on the challenge. Denver raised his left eyebrow slightly. For whatever reason, he was acting like I was still his boss. I nodded for him to keep tabs on Abby, which meant that I needed Ann to keep tabs on him.
They both left. It was show time.
The security guards left the dean and returned to their posts. As I moved toward the dean and Abby's professor, I noticed an argument brewing. From the gestures toward the ambulance, I gathered the kid planned to tag along and offer moral support to his deranged student. Uncle disagreed.
Professor Harding made one last point, probably about the financial standing of the student who had wanted to kill him because, with a grand gesture of defeat, the dean turned away, and his nephew ran off toward the parking lot. The one thing that never changed with the passing of time was that money bought loyalty and forgiveness from those wronged.
I followed the dean, an easy task when a soul blended into the air.
"I don't want to be disturbed!" Dean Harding growled at his secretary as he passed. She appeared to want to ask him if everything had turned out okay, but seemed she knew better.
He slammed the door as I started to enter the room. I didn't let his actions or mood deter me. I sauntered right in and waited patiently to learn what I could from his rants before making my presence known.
"Who the hell was in here?" he screamed at the door.
I figured he meant the question for his secretary, as inanimate objects tended to remain silent.
"Look at this mess." He rubbed his hands over his bald head and took in all the damage I presumed Abby and Denver had done to his room.
With a frustrated sigh, the dean headed toward his desk, picking up scattered papers off the floor as he made his way to a file cabinet. He mumbled unrecognizable curses, scanning each piece of paper before discarding it as something he shouldn't be worried about someone having seen. Of course, if he realized that two ghosts had pillaged his office, he'd be a bit concerned. Or scared.
Ah, there's nothing like fear to start the chips falling.
"Who would do this? What were they looking for?" He sucked in his breath, and his hands reached for a report. "Oh, my God." His knees buckled, and he sat down on the edge of his desk, typed sheets of paper gripped in his hands. "Oh, no."
He opened up his fist, and the pages flittered to the floor. He buried his face in his hands, taking deep shaky breaths.
I kept myself invisible and went over to the report. It was lying face down so I couldn't make out what had upset him about this stack of paper. I flipped it over and allowed my curse to reach his ears. "Damn you!"
The Cover-Up of the 1955 Murder of Callous Demar, Private Detective, researched by Abigail Harris.
He removed his face from his hands and scanned the room, seeking where the words had come from, whether from another person or the depths of his soul. It was time for him to learn.
I materialized in front of him. His complexion faded to a chalky white, and he scrambled off the desk and rushed to hide behind it. Somehow he thought a heavy desk would keep me away from him. Foolish man.
"You won't get away with it." I allowed all of my anger, pain, and vengeance to come through in my eyes and voice. I knew my eyes had taken on the pale opaqueness of those nearing damnation.
He pointed at me and tried to speak. His mouth opened, but his vocal cords froze. His shaking hand went to his chest, and he covered his heart. I didn't think he was really close to a heart attack as his face had more of the look of an anxiety attack—the hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look—except the cookie jar he'd been sticking his hand in would cost him life in prison. Or the death penalty.
"Who are you?" he finally choked out.
I drifted off of the floor. "You know." I made the words echo.
"No." The word fumbled out of his mouth. "No, it can't be. You're not here. There is no such entity as a ghost."
I floated down and picked up the sheet of paper that proved his involvement in Abby'
s death. I drifted the page over and dropped it onto his desk. "Either it moved by itself, or I moved it."
"I'm dreaming. This isn't happening." He clutched the back of the chair. "I came into my office and fell asleep at my desk."
"Is that so?" I picked up the large circular photo frame from his desk and threw it at the window. The glass shattered. I picked up the remnants of the hunk of silver and pictures and aimed it at his head.
Covering his head, he sank to the ground.
A picture of two men standing on a pier in Florida grabbed my attention. I allowed the object to crash to the ground. "Still believe you're asleep?"
He shook his head.
I gave him a smile that was a cross between nice and evil, my most mastered expression. "You can no longer hide from justice. The truth is going to be announced. Today."
He nodded slowly.
"You had to have known you would be found out. That's the problem with the ego. Once it knows it got away with one murder, it truly believes another one can be accomplished just as easily with no repercussions. Everyone faces the punishment for their deeds at some time."
"I didn't—"
"Don't." I whisked across the room and hovered over him. "Don't insult me. Don't tell me you didn't have me murdered."
"I didn't kill you. Your partner did." His words didn't hold the confidence of the wrongly accused. They held the smugness of someone who had dirtied the hands of others to accomplish their task.
"He did it for somebody else." I narrowed my eyes on him. I wanted him to see that I knew the truth. "He did it for you."
Dean Harding crawled into his chair. "You can't prove that."
"And you had him killed."
"I did not!" he screamed, jumping up, looking for something… probably to bash against my head. I motioned for him to bring it on. He realized in that moment that it was a fruitless endeavor. I was dead. I was a ghost.
"I didn't kill him. You can't pin that on me." His hand snaked toward the phone.
I yanked out the cord. "Let's try and figure this out. I can't prove your involvement in my murder. Yet, you say you didn't kill him. Interesting choice of words, I must say."
He swallowed hard and shrugged. "What is there to argue with you about? What can you do with your findings anyway."
"I have someone who will take this information to the authorities."
"So? I made sure a man I wanted dead became dead fifty years ago." He shoved his chair back and glared at me, his fear ebbing away. "With all the crime now, do you really think the prosecution or the police have time to waste on that?"
"There's no statute of limitations on murder. The police want to find the murderer of the pretty young coed who was bludgeoned to death in her own home."
"I did not kill Abigail Harris."
"I'm sure you didn't. You're more of the delegating kind."
"I didn't—"
"You're a liar." I shot toward the ceiling and then arced across the room, yanking books from shelves as I flew past. "Your lies will cost you. They'll cost you your son."
All the color drained from the dean's face. Bingo. I uncovered the piece that set this all in motion.
I stopped my rampage. "Rich believes your nephew—correction your son—killed Abby. After Rich's father bails him out of jail, I'll tell him the professor didn't personally have anything to do with it, but there was a nice sum of money withdrawn from his checking account." I allowed the threat to remain unsaid, but let the thought take root in his mind.
"Peter had nothing to do with it. He doesn't know. He doesn't realize—"
"That you convinced Stephanie Johan, your girlfriend, to sell the baby you both created to your brother and his wife. And your brother embezzled money from the college to make the payment. Or should I say payments because Stephanie changed her mind and wanted to reveal the truth to her son."
Dean Harding slid down the wall to sit on the floor. "Peter doesn't need to know. His parents are both deceased. Don't ruin his memory of them."
"Peter had nothing to do with Abby's murder. He had had no way of knowing that her investigation into her Great-Uncle Callous's case would tie into a dark family secret and a murder committed over fifty years ago."
"I swear to you, I did not kill Abigail!" He squeezed his head and started to rock back and forth. "I didn't do it. You can check my bank account. Every penny I've spent will be accounted for. I did not pay anyone to kill her."
"I don't figure you'd use your money. I believe you did what you did the last time, pay a hit man with the college's money. You like to keep your hands clean."
"No!" He collapsed to the floor, hiding his face in his arms as sobs racked his body.
The secretary burst through the door, followed by security guards and Detective Trip. The detective arrived to do what he had promised, arrest a murderer.
"Conscience get to you so soon?" Detective Trip asked, his voice hard and his gaze even harder.
The murderer of Abigail Harris would not escape from his grasp. I decided to stay and watch Abby's murderer be brought to justice.
Dean Harding looked up at the detective. "I didn't."
Trip grabbed the man's arms and sat him up.
Harding tried to block Trip from forcing him to stand. "I know what you're thinking. You think I did it, that I killed that girl. But I didn't. I know when she died, and I was at a meeting. I have an alibi."
"You're more the hiring out kind." Trip tapped some papers against his palm.
Dean Harding used the wall to brace himself as he stood. "I didn't pay anyone to kill her. Check my bank account."
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Detective Trip's face. It wasn't one of triumph or glee. It was one of knowing that he would see justice enforced for a grieving mother and father. "I have. And some interesting transfers were made. A man has to be sleazy in order to divert funds to his nephew and wife as a cover-up to pay for a hired killer."
"I didn't..."
Detective Trip shoved the papers in front of the Dean's nose, and then tossed them onto the desk. "I talked with your nephew. He said he didn't know about that money. And according to the bank records, that money was taken out as quickly as it was put in. Who did you hire? I'll start checking into every student's record, see who was having financial difficulties and now is not. I'll put the word out that someone, probably a student, was paid to kill Abigail Harris. Someone will talk."
"But… but, I don't understand." Dean Harding picked up the papers and looked at them with confusion. He sat on the edge of the desk, studying and restudying the bank records Detective Trip had retrieved.
"Better call your attorney and tell him to meet you at the police station."
Dean Harding let out a loud wail. "Please, no! She couldn't have. She didn't." He lifted his tear-stained face toward me. "She forgave me for the affair. Understood that it was best to give the baby to my brother to raise rather than us. Because of the police and that detective poking around about Stephanie, we appeared everywhere together. Everyone knew my wife wasn't expecting."
Detective Trip removed a set of handcuffs attached to his belt. "Dean Harding, I'm advising you of your right to remain silent."
"And about a week ago, she wanted a large sum of money, no questions asked. How could I deny her anything after what I did to her?" Harding tucked his chin against his chest and shook his head. "What have I done?"
"Help a young woman get murdered," I replied.
Detective Trip finished reading the man his rights. He nodded at the security guards, a code that came with an understanding that he would use them as witnesses in a court of law. The looks on their faces and their solid nods told me they would cooperate fully.
"I didn't know the money would pay for Abigail Harris's killer. I didn't know."
The security guards' expressions of concern turned to distaste.
Trip cleared his throat. "Dean Harding, do you understand the rights I've just read to you?"
The only one
the dean was listening to was me. I gave him the warning and a chance for redemption. "The police are here. They've heard what you've been telling me."
Harding held out his wrists toward Trip. The detective snapped the handcuffs around the old man's wrists.
"He's advised you to remain silent."
"I've already done that and look where I'm at now." The metal clanked around his wrists. "Fifty-five years ago, I set a plan in motion to kill Callous Demar to cover up my indiscretions and my brother's embezzlement. Two nights before Abigail Harris was killed, Peter told my wife and me that one of his students was investigating her great-uncle's death. My wife was livid because everyone would find out about Peter's true parentage, find out my history of having relationships with students, and that the college's money was used to pay for a baby and silence. She was done with me shaming her."
I had learned the truth. It was time for Abby to go home.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Abby
I paced around Uncle Callous's office, waiting for Denver to bring Willow there. I had wanted to get her, but no one trusted me not to take a side trip to check on Rich. There might be some truth to their concern as, even now, my mind wandered to Rich, and I had to redirect my thoughts.
I hated waiting. It had always been my biggest vice. I had refused to wait to live with Rich until we were married. I had refused to wait for the police when I thought I had been assaulted and robbed. I had to uncover the answers immediately, even if it meant going alone and venturing into a situation I knew nothing about.
"Maybe," I said to myself, "Limbo is the place where I'm supposed to learn patience."
"Or maybe you just need to quit asking so many questions," Denver said, opening the door.
"Ever hear of knocking?"
"Sure have, but I don't think you have, as you don't keep quiet enough to hear much." He leaned sexily against the doorframe and grinned at me.
I glowered at him.
His grin deepened.
Apparently, my act of displeasure didn't faze him in the least. It was infuriating. Why couldn't I make him mad, or at least a little worried?
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