Dead People (5 page)

“All of it?”

“All of it.” She got to her feet.

“You’re serious about the murder?”

“I don’t joke about death.”

Shit. He was from southern California. This wasn’t the way it was done. She was supposed to be bluffing. He was supposed to back down and talk her into staying. And if he didn’t, she was supposed to refuse to give him back any money.

“Sit down,” he said.

She remained standing.
 

“Sit down.” His voice deepened. He stared at her, compelling her to sit. “Tell me more about it and I’ll decide.” When she didn’t move, he continued, “Look, I don’t blindly believe what anyone tells me.”

Her eyes flickered first, then her shoulders relaxed and her breath shushed out. Finally, she sat. She held out her hands, palms up. “Every dead person I’ve talked to has been killed before his or her time.”

“What if she was killed accidentally?”

“Was she?” She dropped her hands and sat back. “You told me she died from a heart attack. What else do you know about it?”

“I didn’t ask for details.” His suspicions about Cassie and her profession rose again. His manager’s wife had told him Cassie was one of the two top ghost hunters and the real thing—but he didn’t believe in ghost hunters, busters, whisperers. Whatever they called themselves.

A conundrum, because before he came to Wisconsin he didn’t believe in ghosts either. Once you were gone, you were gone. Dust and bugs or ashes and charred bones. No second chances, no next life.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong.

“Tricia would know the details,” Cassie said.

“I’ll get her.” He stood, glad for something to do instead of asking questions.

When he stepped outside the library, he saw Tricia turning into the hall, coming from the direction of the sunroom. She clutched a gray feather duster as though it were a weapon.

He lifted a hand, and she hurried toward him, her expression eager. Not holding anything back, especially her attraction to him.

“Tricia, would you join us in the library,” he said, not a question.

Her step quickened to a lope, her eyes shining, her mouth slightly open. He’d seen that same rapture on a thousand faces when he stepped off a stage, all the girls eager to be with a guitar player, especially guitar players who wrote Grammy-winning songs.

No wonder he preferred the
fuck you
look Cassie gave him. At least she saw him as a man.

He turned into the room, not waiting for Tricia. Cassie was giving him her “I don’t like you” look again. He snorted a laugh.

Tricia’s step sounded behind him as he sat again. Stopping at the end of the table, Tricia beamed at Cassie before gazing at him with her star-struck eyes.

“How did Mrs. Shay die?” he asked.

The shine in Tricia’s eyes dimmed, two lines indenting between her eyebrows. “Heart attack. I thought you knew that.”

“Could you give us the details?” Cassie asked.

“It wasn’t unexpected. She was in the family room, watching TV.”

“She was an older woman?” Cassie asked.

Tricia nodded vigorously. “The obituary said she was sixty-four.”

“Ah.” Cassie didn’t look at him and smile, but Luke sensed she wanted to.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Now he was imagining things.

He drummed his fingers, wanting this over with. Wanting to go to his studio and make music. A tune was forming in his brain, words simmering, ready to boil over.

“Did she have heart problems before her attack?” he asked.

“I guess. She was seeing the cardiologist at the clinic where my mom works now.”

“But it could’ve been an accident, right? She could’ve tripped over the rug or something like that?”

The two lines between Tricia’s eyebrows deepened. “She died in her favorite easy chair.”

He looked at Cassie, who lifted one shoulder. From the jut of her chin, he knew her mind wasn’t changed. She was one of those people who would insist white was black.

“Is something wrong?” Tricia looked at Cassie. “Did Isabel tell you anything?”

“I haven’t seen her yet.”

“Then why are you asking these questions?”

“Yes, why are we asking?” Luke raised his eyebrows at Cassie.

She looked back at him, all expression wiped from her face. “You asked, not me. I don’t have any questions or doubts.” She leaned over the table. “Did anyone tell you that you need to work on your hostility?”

“Did anyone tell you not to insult your clients?”

“I just insult the special ones.”

Aware of Tricia in his peripheral, her gaze darting from him to Cassie and back to him, like a TV camera at a tennis game, he choked back a laugh. “You haven’t even talked to the ghost yet. If you don’t think you can, walk away before you waste your time and my money.”

“I can talk to her.” She gave him a defiant look.

Good. A glaring ghost whisperer was less temptation than a gooey-eyed one. If Cassie looked at him the way Tricia did...

He stood. “When you talk to Isabel, let me know what she has to say. I need to work on a song.”

Not giving her a chance to say anything more, he strode out of the room. As he passed Tricia, she sighed. A moment later, he hit the staircase, then took the steps two at a time, the tune thrumming in his mind along with a dozen thoughts.

If someone killed Isabel Shay, it was nothing to do with him or Erin. Just in case, he’d check the locks every night. He couldn’t take a chance that Erin might be in danger, as crazy as that idea sounded.

So this was what parenting was about. Worry and anxiety.
 

Why did so many people crave this gig?

He snorted. One thing he wasn’t going to do was look for Isabel’s supposed murderer. He was a songwriter, not a detective. The only place he’d catch a murderer was on YouTube, killing one of his songs.

Chapter Seven

No one murdered her! That was impossible! How dare she say such a thing?

Isabel hovered in the hall, a few feet off the floor. Luke barreled into the hall and strode past her, not looking her way. If he had, he'd have seen her ectoplasm flicker off and on, like a clap-on lamp.

This flickering had never happened before and it terrified her.

She tried to calm down, but why did the ghost whisperer say that about her? The idea was ridiculous. She’d never done anything to deserve being killed. The only people she hurt were ones who deserved it, who thought they were better than her.

Luke bounded up the stairway. Darleen's skinny daughter hurried into the hall to catch a glimpse of his back, her mouth open. Not even noticing Isabel.

The so-called ghost whisperer was wrong. Horribly wrong. Horribly, horribly, horridly.

The flickers grew stronger, more violent, faster and faster, in and out, visible and not visible.

Darleen's daughter started to turn toward Isabel. Another second and she'd see Isabel.

Isabel flew straight up through the ceiling and landed on her knees on the front guest bedroom. Other people had seen her already, and that she could handle. But not falling apart like this.

She glanced around. The door to the guest bedroom was open. What if Darleen's daughter came up to dust and saw her?

Still flickering, Isabel stepped into the closet, welcoming the darkness that settled around her like a favorite blanket. In a few seconds, the flickers eased, slower and with less violence.

A sound came out of her that was as close to a sob as she could utter. She couldn't let it happen to her again. She couldn't get this upset. She had to do something to stop the ghost whisperer.

The ghost whisperer wanted to get rid of her…but what if she got rid of the ghost whisperer instead?

In that instant, Isabel felt a shift inside her not-all-here-but-not-yet-gone body. The flickers stopped and at the same time she knew how to make the intruder go away and never, ever come back.

***

Cassie trudged up the stairs, not eager to complete her mission of confronting Luke. The thought made a trip to a dentist sound pleasant.

So far her attempts at businesslike discussions had turned electric-edged, veering into confrontations.

She passed the second floor landing and tramped toward the tower. Why was she letting her real feelings show? Usually she put on a mask of politeness Superman’s X-ray vision couldn’t penetrate.

The tower door was closed. Solid mahogany and old like everything else about the house. As she raised her fist to knock, a string of guitar chords flowed out through the cracks above and below the door, a bluesy mix, the tune catchy. She paused for a second, and then knocked decisively, two times. The guitar playing stopped and she felt a twinge of regret.

Dropping her fist, she took a deep breath. When he opened the door, she had her game face on, the one that said “Talking to ghosts is a respectable profession, and if you don’t like it, you can bite me.”

“What?” he asked.

Who had taught him his manners? Oscar the Grouch? “You left before I finished.”

He stood on his side of the door, the guitar draped across his chest, one long-fingered hand holding it lovingly.

His brows raised and she realized her pause was too long.

“It’s about the house,” she said, her words whooshing out too quickly now, but screw it. If she wanted to talk fast, she’d talk fast. “What do you know about it?”

“It’s over five thousand square feet and has too many rooms.” He shrugged. “I saw it on the Internet, liked the location and the property. Liked the look of the house. Solid. So I bought it.”

“Just like that?” She snapped her fingers.

“I make up my mind quickly.” His tone changed, low, seductive.

Cassie raised her chin. He was doing it on purpose, playing a game to amuse himself and rattle her. “When was it built?”

“Long, long ago and far, far away.”

“Not funny. My guess is close to a hundred and fifty years. Look at the plaster.” She gestured at the ten-foot ceilings. The curlicues with the tiny gryphon face must have been made by a master plasterer. The creator had probably been dead for over a century, but his art remained. “The etched glass in the doors, the painted ceilings in the main rooms downstairs.”

He shrugged. “In southern California a lot of people have this stuff.”

“They have streets of gold too?”

His laughter rasped like sandpaper. “Fool’s gold, maybe.”

“You must have the information somewhere.”

“My papers are in my safe deposit box—in California. Why does it matter? What does it have to do with Isabel?”

“I don’t know if it does.” She didn’t want to tell him about the niggle in her mind. It had poked at her brain since she first saw the gingerbread front, the two turrets, the lightning behind the house, trying to tell her something. She just wished it would tell her louder and in words.

“Ask the ghost,” he said.

“Dead people aren’t like live ones.” Thank God. “But I’ll ask her.”

If
she saw Isabel. Ghosts were like cats. They came out when they wanted, not when she wanted.

Sometimes the best way to get them to emerge was to ignore them.

When he didn’t reply, she opened her mouth to talk…and realized he wasn’t looking at her face.

She followed his gaze about a foot down. Straight at her breasts.

Thank God her nipples weren’t hard.

With that thought, they pebbled.

She cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows. “Are you finished looking at my breasts?”

He grinned. “Never,” he said, then stepped back and closed the door.

She knew she looked like a fish with her jaw dropped and her mouth wide open.

Through the door, she heard the guitar thrum, then Luke’s voice drifted out.

“
Round woman, round woman, I want a woman who’s round.

I want a woman who isn’t afraid of a few extra pounds.”

She clamped her mouth shut, wheeled around and then stomped down the stairs.

He was mocking her weight. Although the way he’d looked at her...

Could it be possible he meant it?

The thought made her pause halfway to the second floor landing. She shivered and then headed down the steps again. No matter what he meant, his hands weren’t traveling up or down any of her round curves.

They were a No Trespassing Zone.

If he crossed that line... Well, she’d do something.

Chapter Eight

The instant Cassie entered the family room, energy fluttered at her like a thousand invisible butterfly wings. She stopped, every brain cell fired up, every nerve on alert.

“Isabel?”

No one answered. No one appeared.

The fluttering stopped, but she sensed the presence of another soul, the air swirling around her, taking her measure.