him.
“Do what?”
“Show up unexpectedly like that.” It was a losing argument, and I knew it, but it had to be played out.
“You called me. Wouldn’t you expect me to answer?” See what I mean?
“Whatever. Listen, have you heard anything from Arlice Crosby yet?”
He gave me an odd look. “Not even a postcard. Why?”
“I’m not sure that what happened last night was a heart attack. And I thought if she had shown up—you know, like you—maybe you could contact her on the Ghosternet.”
Paul’s face had gotten serious when I’d mentioned my suspicions, and now he nodded. “I’ll give it a try later. But I’m pretty sure it took some time for Maxie and me to become like we are. A few days, at least, by my judgment.”
“Okay. Listen. I have a detective question for you.”
Paul brightened visibly; he loved to be consulted on investigative business. “How can I help?” he asked as earnestly as possible.
I quickly explained the stories I’d gotten from Melissa and Jim about Arlice’s sudden death. Paul listened well; he put his fingers together in a pyramid and watched my face as I spoke. He nodded a few times but never betrayed any surprise, even when I mentioned the dueling observations and how neither of them explained Arlice’s death, but that both pointed to something other than a naturally induced heart attack.
When I was finished with my epic tale, I waited for Paul to digest the information. He didn’t say anything, so I finally asked, “What do you think I should do?”
“That’s simple enough,” Paul answered. “You tell Detective McElone what you just told me. Then she investigates. Your responsibility in this affair is completed; you have no client to serve.”
“But it happened in my house, under my roof, to a guest I invited,” I argued. Later, I’d have time to note that it was usually Paul trying to talk me into investigating something, and not the other way around. But at the moment, I was simply puzzled and irritated that Paul wasn’t picking up on my sense of outrage.
He started to answer, “There’s no reason for you . . .”
Suddenly the door we were standing in front of opened, and Dolores Santiago walked out. She’d let her hair down, and it fell almost to her waist, gray and thick. And she was wearing what I could only describe as a gown, but not one for a formal affair. She looked, for all intents and purposes, like she’d been summoned to the graveyard by her lover, Count Dracula.
“Are you talking to one of the spirits?” she intoned.
What the hell. “Yes, Dolores. I am. But he’s gone now,” I lied. “May I help you with something?”
“You were talking about Arlice Crosby’s death last night, weren’t you?” she asked, as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Yes. It’s such an awful thing.”
Dolores nodded. “Yes. A terrible loss. And so unnecessary.”
“I agree. It was . . . what?”
“Unnecessary. She didn’t have to be here last night at all, and then the whole thing probably could have been avoided, I would say.”
“What whole thing? Are you saying Mrs. Crosby wouldn’t have had a heart attack if she hadn’t come here last night?” The faraway look in Dolores’s eyes was having an effect on me—it was making me regret having eaten breakfast.
“Arlice didn’t have a heart attack,” Dolores said. “She was murdered by a spirit wearing a red bandana.”
Ten
Dolores’s reasoning, of course, bordered on the incomprehensible. But from the babble, I managed to glean the following: Dolores had been monitoring a “level of spectral activity” in the room with the gizmo she’d had in her hand, and it showed the presence of two spirits (because that’s how many I’d told the crowd were there). I’m guessing she picked up this particular box of flashing lights at the dollar store, because it didn’t seem to serve any function other than to fuel Dolores’s fantasies.
Okay, so there really were ghosts in the room, but call
“Do what?”
“Show up unexpectedly like that.” It was a losing argument, and I knew it, but it had to be played out.
“You called me. Wouldn’t you expect me to answer?” See what I mean?
“Whatever. Listen, have you heard anything from Arlice Crosby yet?”
He gave me an odd look. “Not even a postcard. Why?”
“I’m not sure that what happened last night was a heart attack. And I thought if she had shown up—you know, like you—maybe you could contact her on the Ghosternet.”
Paul’s face had gotten serious when I’d mentioned my suspicions, and now he nodded. “I’ll give it a try later. But I’m pretty sure it took some time for Maxie and me to become like we are. A few days, at least, by my judgment.”
“Okay. Listen. I have a detective question for you.”
Paul brightened visibly; he loved to be consulted on investigative business. “How can I help?” he asked as earnestly as possible.
I quickly explained the stories I’d gotten from Melissa and Jim about Arlice’s sudden death. Paul listened well; he put his fingers together in a pyramid and watched my face as I spoke. He nodded a few times but never betrayed any surprise, even when I mentioned the dueling observations and how neither of them explained Arlice’s death, but that both pointed to something other than a naturally induced heart attack.
When I was finished with my epic tale, I waited for Paul to digest the information. He didn’t say anything, so I finally asked, “What do you think I should do?”
“That’s simple enough,” Paul answered. “You tell Detective McElone what you just told me. Then she investigates. Your responsibility in this affair is completed; you have no client to serve.”
“But it happened in my house, under my roof, to a guest I invited,” I argued. Later, I’d have time to note that it was usually Paul trying to talk me into investigating something, and not the other way around. But at the moment, I was simply puzzled and irritated that Paul wasn’t picking up on my sense of outrage.
He started to answer, “There’s no reason for you . . .”
Suddenly the door we were standing in front of opened, and Dolores Santiago walked out. She’d let her hair down, and it fell almost to her waist, gray and thick. And she was wearing what I could only describe as a gown, but not one for a formal affair. She looked, for all intents and purposes, like she’d been summoned to the graveyard by her lover, Count Dracula.
“Are you talking to one of the spirits?” she intoned.
What the hell. “Yes, Dolores. I am. But he’s gone now,” I lied. “May I help you with something?”
“You were talking about Arlice Crosby’s death last night, weren’t you?” she asked, as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Yes. It’s such an awful thing.”
Dolores nodded. “Yes. A terrible loss. And so unnecessary.”
“I agree. It was . . . what?”
“Unnecessary. She didn’t have to be here last night at all, and then the whole thing probably could have been avoided, I would say.”
“What whole thing? Are you saying Mrs. Crosby wouldn’t have had a heart attack if she hadn’t come here last night?” The faraway look in Dolores’s eyes was having an effect on me—it was making me regret having eaten breakfast.
“Arlice didn’t have a heart attack,” Dolores said. “She was murdered by a spirit wearing a red bandana.”
Ten
Dolores’s reasoning, of course, bordered on the incomprehensible. But from the babble, I managed to glean the following: Dolores had been monitoring a “level of spectral activity” in the room with the gizmo she’d had in her hand, and it showed the presence of two spirits (because that’s how many I’d told the crowd were there). I’m guessing she picked up this particular box of flashing lights at the dollar store, because it didn’t seem to serve any function other than to fuel Dolores’s fantasies.
Okay, so there really were ghosts in the room, but call
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