Other Worldly Ways (Anthology 1) (12 page)

"Colin told me," I shrugged.

"Tell her I love her. I never said it. Not that I can remember," Colin said.

"He says to tell you he loves you. He's sorry he never said it before," I said.

"He's really here?"

"He's really here." Detective Glass handed a fistful of tissues to Evie Hart as she wept.

"Tell her not to cry." Colin sounded miserable. "Tell her that we'll be together again. I think I know that, now."

"He says you'll be together again, and not to cry," I said.

"Will you tell him," Evie began.

"He's right here and can hear you just fine. Say what you want to say, before he crosses over," I said.

"Honey, I love you so much. You'll always be my baby."

"I know that, Mom," Colin sounded embarrassed and shuffled ghostly feet without a sound on the tiled, kitchen floor.

"He knows," I patted Evie's hand. She didn't pull away this time.

* * *

"Shane, I have a headache," I said when he sat beside me on the sofa. I'd chosen the sitting room upstairs to have my meltdown after the events in Tucker. Detectives Ron and Ray convinced the DeKalb County police that they didn't need to lend credence to what happened in Evie Hart's kitchen, and I hoped I wouldn't get calls from them in the future.

"Want ibuprofen?" Shane asked. He still sounded depressed.

"Yeah."

Shane shuffled toward my bathroom, where I kept a large bottle of ibuprofen. Usually the cause of my headaches was Steven Francis. Today, it had been a dead twenty-two-year-old and his mother in Tucker, not to mention the DeKalb County PD.

"Did the kid cross over?" Shane asked after handing two ibuprofen and a glass of water to me.

"Yeah. Just before we left, thank goodness. I'm not in any shape to escort somebody right now."

"We're both in sad shape," Shane sat beside me again and pulled my head onto his shoulder.

"You could say that," I agreed and swallowed my pills.

My cell rang three days later as I sketched out descriptions of new characters while sitting at my desktop.

"Detective Glass, how are you?" I pretended to be happy to hear from him.

"I'm good," he replied automatically. "We got a lead on the gun."

"Really?" That was a surprise.

"Yeah. Ballistics matched it to a murder in Decatur seven years ago."

"Really?"

"Yep." Ron Glass sounded proud of himself. "Murderer was never caught. Obviously, the gun wasn't found, either."

"What about that murder?" I asked. "What do we know about it?"

"I have a folder on my desk if you want to come down. Agent Ricks is here and he wants to discuss this over lunch."

"Of course he does." I saved the information on my computer and minimized it. Who knew if I'd get back to it before tomorrow?

Twenty minutes later, Shane and I were on our way to see Detective Glass and Special Agent Matthew Ricks at the Maple Drive station.

"Let's go to Marie's Cafe," Ron Glass suggested, lifting a jacket from the back of his chair when Shane and I walked into his office. Matt Ricks lounged on one of two guest chairs that Detective Glass had in front of his desk. Rising quickly, Ricks nodded politely to Shane and me.

"Sounds good," Shane mumbled civilly. I knew what he was thinking—we could have met these two at the restaurant and saved all of us some time. Forcing myself not to roll my eyes—the restaurant was halfway between my house and the station—I patted Shane's shoulder and followed Ricks and Glass to Ricks' vehicle.

* * *

"The murder in Decatur is nothing like these." I studied the case folder in front of me while sipping sweet iced tea. Sweet iced tea is a staple and appears on just about every menu in the Southern U.S. Shane ordered a Coke, whose headquarters were in Atlanta. We had the local drink bases covered, looked like.

"I know," Ron nodded. He'd sat across from me while Shane had taken the seat next to mine. Agent Ricks still studied his menu, making up his mind. "It looks like the victim knew the murderer in that case," he added. "This one was in the kitchen, and some things were taken from the house. The murders here are all at a front or back door and the victims—at least two out of three, anyway, didn't recognize their assailant."

"Are you questioning Eric's family?" Shane asked. "They wouldn't speak to him because he was gay, and they stand to inherit."

"We've questioned all of them," Ron replied with a shrug. "Alibis check out. They weren't in the area when the murder happened."

"You think robbery was the motive in the Decatur murder?" Shane asked, toying with the obligatory fork on a paper napkin.

"That's what Decatur PD thinks. Two expensive rings, a bracelet and the victim's purse were missing."

"So they only took women's jewelry and a purse?" I asked. "No computer or TV?"

"We figured they wanted to snatch what was easy to carry. Stuff never showed up at pawn shops, though. Not that I know of."

"I think Nina had plenty of jewelry," Shane pointed out. "They could have made off with a haul before the body was discovered. She opened the door—the alarm was already off."

"We've considered that," Agent Ricks huffed. "The Department is going through her e-mail and phone records, but there's nothing threatening in any of it."

"Is the Department going through Colin and Eric's e-mail and phone records?" I asked.

"Conner, Atlanta PD is behind on a lot of stuff," Ron muttered.

"So they're not," Shane said. I could tell he was about to get his snit on.

"Not yet," Ron held up a hand. "We're doing this as fast as we can, but we have a backlog of investigations. It seems to me, too, that if any of them had received threatening messages, that at least one of them would have contacted us about it. We got nothing."

I wanted to point out that Nina, who was the Governor's cousin, was getting top priority while the others were shuffled to the side. Sighing, I kept my mouth shut. After all, if we solved Nina's case, the others would likely be solved as well.

"You, ah, wouldn't be willing to drive to Decatur with us, would you? The house where that murder took place is tied up in probate. The relatives are still fighting over the property."

"You should probably be thankful that Decatur isn't far from here," I grumped. Just as I figured, I wouldn't get any work done on the book.

"I have the tree decorators coming this afternoon," Shane mumbled. He always put up a nice tree for Christmas, but Eric's death had forced him to put it off this year. It was less than a week before Christmas, so he was cutting it close.

I hadn't bothered with a tree since Stevie moved out of the house. I usually went to Shane's house and soaked up any Christmas spirit I might find there—my husband sure wouldn't have any.

"You realize that after seven years," I began. Ron held up a hand. "We know that, Conner. We're grasping at straws here, and the Governor is getting impatient. He wants this done before the end of the year and time is running short."

"Well, as Conner is an unpaid volunteer for the Atlanta PD, you'd think the Governor might be a little more patient," Shane snapped. He wanted me to come over and watch the tree go up. At any other time, I would have.

"Shane, honey, I hope we can make this a short trip," I rubbed his back to calm him down. "I'll be over as quick as I can."

"What about your husband?" Agent Ricks asked. I was beginning to wonder where he went to Agent School.

"Steven Francis can go to hell," Shane and I chorused.

* * *

"This is a nice house," I said as we wandered through it to reach the kitchen. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms and four thousand square feet of luxury in a good neighborhood. No wonder the family was squabbling over it.

"It is," Ron agreed. "We should be grateful they're still fighting over it, or somebody would be living here already. Anything?"

"Oh, yeah," I nodded. "She's been following us since we walked in."

"Then what's the holdup?" Ricks demanded.

"You know, I don't know how cozy you are with the Governor, or whether your job is on the line. You need to understand this, though—spirits, just like people, can be mighty suspicious. If we scare her away, it'll be your fault."

Ricks shut it faster than Shane could order a martini at his favorite bar. In fact, I heard the Agent's teeth click together when he clammed up. "Do we need to leave?" Ron whispered.

"I hope not." I said. "Cherie, honey, I can see you," I turned to speak with the victim. "I can hear you, too. Can you tell me who hurt you?"

* * *

"Her boyfriend killed her?" Shane stared at me. Cherie Moselle had dated Carter Michaels for three months before her death. Her spirit named him immediately as the one who'd pulled the trigger.

"Except nobody knew they were together," I said. "She was twenty-two; he was twenty. Her parents were wealthy and wouldn't approve of him—he'd spent some time in jail for petty crimes and dealing drugs."

"That's why he stole from her, then," Shane nodded. "But he didn't steal from these three."

"Shane, I hate to tell you this," I patted his hand as we sat on his sofa and watched the star lowered onto the top of his sixteen-foot tree, "but Carter Michaels wasn't in the state when these last three murders were committed."

"So somebody else had the gun," Shane muttered angrily. "So much for solving this case, huh?"

"Yeah. We're back to the beginning, looks like."

"You think he tossed it? The gun, I mean, and somebody else found it?" Shane turned to me, missing the vision of the lights blinking on and twinkling on the tree.

"Shane, I don't know what happened. I hope Ron, Ray and Ricks can get that part sorted out. I'm kinda tired."

"You need a martini," Shane declared and rose to slouch toward his kitchen. He'd had three already, and two of those were before I arrived.

"You gonna help me wrap gifts for the kids at the hospital?" Shane was back, shoving a French martini into my hand.

"I do that every year, Shane Patrick," I pointed out. "How many this time?"

"Seventy-three. I bought a few extras, just in case. There are sixty-nine kids there right now."

That was Shane's charity—providing funds for needy children when they were sick. The charity found places to stay for out of town families, or bought food or other necessities when the child was sent home to recuperate. In a few desperate cases, he'd spent money out of pocket to provide housing for up to a year.

Shane was a sucker for kids, and if he'd ever found a permanent partner, they'd have tried to adopt. When Stevie was growing up, he always got better gifts from Shane for Christmas than he ever got from his dad. Stevie still called him Uncle Shane and we always went out to dinner whenever Stevie came home on leave.

"I guess we'll be wrapping gifts tomorrow, then," I sighed and sipped my French martini.

* * *

I always gave Shane a check for his charity at Christmas, and helped him cook dinner for his friends. Steven went to spend the day with his family. That was fine; I didn't want to see him or any of his grasping horde. He was generous with my money, though, when it came to their Christmas gifts.

Shane's kitchen was crowded when he pulled the turkey from the oven, and at least two rounds of drinks had been served when we herded all of them to the table. We never told them that the stuffing was vegetarian, because I love stuffing. I'd spent years adapting recipes to a vegetarian version. And I made peach cobbler and pumpkin pie for dessert.

We'd all been seated at the table when my cell phone rang. "Sorry," I apologized and motioned for everybody else to eat while I walked out of the formal dining room. "Detective Glass? Merry Christmas," I said.

"We have another body," he announced, his voice sounding weary.

"I'm walking out the door, now," I said. "Give me the address."

* * *

"Conner, you look beautiful," Agent Ricks said. He was working on Christmas Day, just like Detective Ron Glass.

"Thank you. Shane always insists that we dress for the occasion," I said, flipping my hair over a shoulder. The wind was blowing again and gray clouds were moving in. We'd likely get rain before the day was over.

"This one was killed when he opened the door, just like the others, but I think there was a mistake," Ron said as we walked up the drive toward a two-story townhome in Druid Hills.

"Why is that?" I almost stopped to stare at Ron. He hadn't told me when he phoned who the victim was.

"Because this one was eleven years old."

If I'd eaten anything at Shane's Christmas gathering, I might have lost it then. The truth was, Shane and I both had soft spots for kids. That's why I always wrote him a hundred thousand dollar check for his charity at Christmas. This—there was no excuse for this.

"Let's get this over with," Ricks muttered. Hugging myself, I followed him to the front door where the murder had taken place before dawn that morning.