Seeing the Light (A Marie Jenner Mystery Book 1) (4 page)

I decided to be up front with Farley about this, because, honestly, I couldn’t even figure out how to fake it.

“I’m not sure how to do that.”

“Oh.” His features tightened. “So, I’m stuck in here.”

“I guess so.”

I desperately tried to remember what else Mom had told me, hoping for something that would calm him down. Nothing came. What was I going to do?

“Okay, so you can’t get me out,” Farley said. “Good enough. Can you help me figure out who killed me, then?” His eyes brightened and he leaned forward. “You could do that, right?”

Oh. My answer to this particular question wasn’t going to calm him down. Probably the exact opposite.

“I don’t think anyone killed you, Farley.” I reached into my purse and pulled out the newspaper article I’d found. “It says here the police think your death was an accident.”

“I know,” he barked. “I told you that. I also told you they’re wrong!” He shoved at the paper on the desk, growling when his hand skidded through it without moving one sheet. “That would have meant me screwing up somehow, and I didn’t screw up . . . at least I don’t think I did. I really don’t remember too much about the actual event. But I was always careful—”

“You can’t remember your death?” I felt my heart drop into my shoes. Literally. I could feel it, beating away, in my stupid shoes. This was so much worse than him being trapped in the building.

He shook his head and snuffled, still perched on the edge of my desk. “All I get is dead air when I try to remember the accident, and two whole days before. There’s something—I’m sure there is—but I can’t for the life of me remember what.”

He had to remember what happened to him. Mom had been very clear on that.

“It’s up to us to help them work through the fog to the light,” she’d said. “To the light and through.”

Memory loss meant Farley was stuck in the fog. It explained why he hadn’t yet moved on. It also meant I was going to spend a bunch more time dealing with him, doing this.

“Do you think I can’t remember because I was electrocuted?” he asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I felt like crying. He was stuck. And I was stuck with him.

“Well, what about me being dead? Does that screw with memory?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Not usually.”

“Well, there has to be a reason I can’t remember. Right?”

Right. Probably something traumatic. Something he really didn’t want to remember.

“You said someone killed you.” My voice sounded desperate, but I couldn’t stop it. “Why did you say that if you can’t remember your death?”

“Because the cops did a really crappy job investigating,” he said. “That I do remember.” His voice sounded hollow. “Carruthers pushed them so he could get the crime scene tape down quicker. Told them I was depressed. A drunk. That it was probably my fault . . . And they bought it.”

Carruthers. The name of the man Mr. Latterson had been talking to. “Who is that?”

“Owner of the building,” Farley said shortly. He looked at me. “Did you know this place is nearly 100 years old?”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but decided to let him rattle on while I tried to figure out what to do. Electrocution was fairly traumatic. Maybe Farley was right. Maybe the electricity had knocked out his memories.

“Before I—died—Carruthers was getting me to do some work around here,” Farley continued. “Painting and buffing and adding greenery to the main foyer. Crap like that. He said he was trying to get renters back.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“No. The old girl is falling apart. The roof is ready to go, and that furnace.” He shuddered and shook his head. “I tried talking to him about the furnace after I shut it down this spring. That’s when the yelling started. ‘Just make everything look okay on the outside, and shut your mouth,’ he says. So I did. Invisible became my middle name.

“It bothered me though, you know? Not doing the job right. And then, after, the cops deciding I had been an accident. That bothered me too. I even tried to figure out what the cops missed. I didn’t find anything. Just the black spot on the cement where my body landed. Talk about depressing.”

Not half as depressing as being told that the ghost I had promised to help was stuck in the building where he worked, and couldn’t remember his death.

“I imagine,” I said, trying for an upbeat tone and managing to sound hysterical. “I need to do a little research to figure out why you’re being held here. So how about if you go wander around. Try to remember as much as you can, or something. I’ll find you when I have information for you.”

Farley looked hurt. “I just told you, I can’t remember.”

“Well, keep trying. It’s important for the process.”

“Are you talking about that moving me on thing?” He scowled. “I told you, I’m not doing that.”

That’s when I hit the wall.

“If you don’t want to move on, then why are you even here, bothering me?” I snapped.

Farley stared at me as though I’d slapped him across the face. Hard.

“Because I can talk to you!” he finally cried. “I’m lonely, for Christ’s sake.”

He stormed to the entrance of the office, and didn’t turn around when I said I was sorry. Just oozed through the door and out of my space.

I felt like dirt.

I should have realized he was lonely. Good grief, I’d be lonely if I was trapped in a building and had no-one to talk to for a week. All I’d done was think about myself. That was not fair. Not fair at all.

I needed to help him, that much was certain. Since I had no idea what I should be doing, I needed to call my mom for advice, fight or no fight.

I glanced at the clock on the wall above the door, and decided I’d call her over lunch. However, I had a couple of hours to kill before that.

The mail came, and I flipped through the envelopes. I’d been instructed not to open them, but decided that organizing them wasn’t against the rules.

I put the bills in one pile, and the bank statements in another. One of them, from a bank I’d never heard of, had the name Rochelle Martin on it. I was about to write “Return to Sender” across the front, but stopped, deciding not to make any assumptions on my first day. Maybe Mr. Latterson was letting this Rochelle Martin woman use his address or something. I put it in a separate pile. That left three letters from a lawyer’s office.

Letters from lawyers were always a bad thing when I lived at home with Mom. I hoped they were better news at an import export office, and put them in their own separate pile.

And then, my work was done.

“Good grief,” I muttered, glancing at the time. It was only ten o’clock. Was it too early to go for lunch? How long was lunch, anyhow? “This is ridiculous.”

I straightened my desk, even though it didn’t need it, and then grabbed my purse. Almost pulled out my cell phone, then didn’t. No cheating. I could wait until noon, which I assumed was the time I could go for lunch. Mr. Latterson hadn’t told me much of anything before he left, but I didn’t want him to return and find me away from my post. Or whatever.

I would wait.

I tried using the computer, but Mr. Latterson had it password protected. Now, I was willing to bet that he had the password written on a sticky note on his desk—he looked the type—but he’d told me not to go into his office. Verboten, I believe he said. If he came back while I was using a password protected computer—well, I couldn’t see that going well at all. So I sat and suffered in silence, until noon.

Then, I left.

I found a park bench located between some trees at the front of the Palais, and sat down. The sun shone through the leaves of the willow arching over the bench, and a tiny breeze brushed my hair from my forehead, cooling me as I unpacked my ham and cheese sandwich. I was starving and grabbed half the sandwich, ramming it into my mouth and taking a huge bite.

“That looks good.”

I turned, my cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s. James Lavall, the good looking guy from the lobby the afternoon before, had appeared beside one of the evergreen trees next to the building. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a white wife beater undershirt and looked all sweaty. That actually wasn’t bad, because he had great muscles. Also, he was nicely tanned. I hadn’t noticed either the tan or the muscles the day before. He looked great.

He put down the rake he held and took off his gloves. God, even his hands looked good. Well formed, with long, strong, fingers. They looked like he’d always touch me gently with them. At the thought, my cheeks grew hot.

“Hmm?” I mumbled.

“The sandwich,” he said. “It looks delicious.”

I couldn’t say anything, because my mouth was still chock-full of the sandwich he was admiring. However, I could smile, so I did, keeping my lips locked tight, so he wouldn’t be able to see any ham or cheese caught in my teeth.

“I’m glad I found you,” he said, and looked down at his beat up work boots. “I owe you an apology.”

An apology? For what? I still couldn’t talk, but chewed as fast as I could. Swallowed, chewed some more, finally managing to say, “Why?” around the wad of bread and meat that was left.

“For giving you the third degree yesterday.” He smiled apologetically. “I used to work for a private investigator, back in the day. It looks like I haven’t dropped the ‘act like a cop’ attitude.”

“That’s all right,” I said. And then I surprised myself by saying, “To be honest, I was thinking about turning down the job.”

“Oh,” he said. His face was blank as he thought. “Why?”

“Cold feet,” I said shortly. That was close enough to the truth. “It didn’t help me when you got that look when I mentioned Mr. Latterson’s name.”

“Sorry about that,” he replied. “My uncle told me to watch out for him.”

“Your uncle?”

“The P.I.”

“Oh. Why?” I asked. My mood darkened. Now it wasn’t just a ghost. Now there was something not right about my new boss.

“I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell me,” he replied. “He just said watch myself around him.” He shrugged. “He might be wrong. Latterson could be perfectly fine.”

“Is your uncle the P.I. wrong a lot?” I asked, hopefully.

“No.” He shook his head. “Hardly ever.”

“Heh,” I said, though I didn’t feel like laughing. “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the job.”

My appetite was absolutely gone, so I impulsively held out the other half of my sandwich to James. “Want this?”

“I can’t take your lunch,” he said.

“Please. I’m full.”

He shrugged, took the sandwich, and sat next to me. Suddenly, the park bench didn’t feel large enough for both of us. I squished closer to the left armrest.

He took a bite—smaller than the one I took, I noticed—and chewed. Swallowed.

“This is great,” he gushed.

“It’s just ham and cheese.”

“Well, you definitely have a way with ham and cheese,” he said. Sucker that I am, I blushed again.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

He ate his half of my sandwich and then pulled a chocolate bar from a pocket, and offered to share it with me. It was a Coffee Crisp, my personal favourite, so I accepted, gladly.

While we enjoyed the Coffee Crispy goodness, we talked. I told him about my old job and Gerald “The Tyrant” Turner, my boss from hell. He told me about his uncle, the private investigator. How he’d worked with him every summer while he was in high school and full time after, and how his uncle had talked about James taking over the business when he retired.

“So how come you’re working here?” I asked. “It sounds like you had a good set up with your uncle.”

“I know it sounds like that,” he said. “But sometimes the paycheques were few and far between. I needed more stability. You know—”

“A living wage and benefits. I understand.”

Our eyes locked. I mean, literally. I couldn’t have looked away if my life depended on it. I felt like I was drowning, but in that good way. Which meant I had to look away. I couldn’t.

“Exactly,” he whispered. Then he looked down at his hands, and when our eyelock broke, I felt as though I’d been given a reprieve I didn’t really want. “I really hurt him, the day I told him I wasn’t going to go into the business with him. I feel bad about that.”

I wondered if it had been as bad as it had been for me with my mom.

Oh God. My mom. I was supposed to call her about Farley.

I pulled my cell phone from my bag and looked at the time. I only had a few more minutes before my lunch hour was over.

“Expecting a phone call?” James asked.

“No. Actually, I need to make one.”

He leaped up. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“I wish you could stay,” I said, then felt my face heat. Good grief, I was acting like a lovesick teenager. “It’s just—”

“You have to make a phone call.” He smiled. “Boyfriend?”

I laughed. “No. My mother.”

“Oh,” he said, and his eyebrows rose. “Your mother?”

“Yep,” I replied. “My mother.”

He hovered, and I knew he wanted to know why I was calling my mom in the middle of the day, but sharing time was definitely over.