into the lawn.
"Where are we going?" I asked sweetly.
"Buckhead," Detective Glass replied, emptying his coffee cup. "A real estate agent was killed last night. No motives. No enemies. No evidence. No reason for her to die."
Why did I get the feeling she was connected, somehow?
"She's the Governor's cousin," Special Agent Ricks supplied before the thought barely had time to form. "That's why I'm tagging along with Detective Glass, here."
"Well, it had to be complicated, didn't it?" Shane growled.
"Shane, your house is that way," I pointed through my wide kitchen window. "Go there. Now."
"Nope. I'm coming, too. Detective Glass said I could."
"Oh, for cripe's sake," I tossed up a hand in frustration. "Detective, how much blood is at the scene?"
"A lot." He grinned. The last time Shane had gone with the Detective and me, he'd gotten nauseated at the amount of blood and spent half an hour puking.
"See, this is what you get for causing arguments," I hissed at Shane.
"Come on," Detective Glass stood. Maybe he was looking forward to seeing Shane cough up his toenails. I wasn't.
* * *
"Must have done well at real estate," Shane said beside me as we climbed out of his car. The house had to be at least eight thousand square feet, with terraces across the back. We'd parked behind the house to get off the street, right outside four spacious garages lined up on one side. All the garage doors were open and four shiny cars gleamed in the afternoon light.
"All the wealthy clientele came to her." Glass and Ricks arrived just ahead of us, and they'd waited for Shane and me to get there before going inside the house. Glass backed up a little after his statement—he was talking to some of Atlanta's wealthy. Only one Atlanta resident was wealthier than Shane.
Detective Glass went pink as Shane and I remained silent, then cleared his throat uncomfortably. "The, uh, body is in the foyer, toward the front. Follow me and don't touch anything," he cautioned as Shane, Special Agent Ricks and I fell in behind him. Several police officers guarded the back entrance, but they stepped aside to allow the Detective and the rest of us inside the massive house.
"Anything yet?" Glass whispered as we walked through the back entry, past the kitchen and down a lengthy hall toward the front door.
"Nothing, unless you mean the dead woman who's been following us ever since we stepped inside the house," I replied dryly.
* * *
Nina Shelton blinked as I turned toward her. She looked younger now than when she'd died—but they all did. She'd been trying to get someone's attention from the moment her body was discovered, but nobody could see her. Except me.
"Who did it?" I asked, point blank. Most of the spirits I met couldn't spill the beans fast enough, as soon as they knew I could see and hear them.
"I don't know," ghostly tears poured down her face. "He wore a mask and ran away before everything went dark."
"She doesn't know," I sighed to Detective Glass, who waited, holding his breath. If he thought I'd be able to hand him a name and another promotion, then he was disappointed. Really disappointed.
"Ask her to describe the assailant," Special Agent Ricks demanded. Well, somebody was taking charge. I wasn't sure whether I liked it or not.
"He was six feet tall, I think," Nina sniffled. She'd been dressed for bed in a silk robe over pajamas, so her assailant had arrived late.
"Six feet, maybe," I relayed the information. "Wearing a mask. What time?" I asked Nina's spirit.
"After nine. I always go to bed around that time, so I can get to the gym at five."
"After nine," I told Ricks.
"Matches the coroner's estimate," Ricks nodded.
"Which hand held the gun?" I asked.
"Let's see, uh, right hand," Nina said. I repeated her words to Ricks. He nodded and pulled a small notebook from a jacket pocket. Shane stood on tiptoe to get a look at what Agent Ricks scribbled on a small page.
"She was forty-eight?" Shane asked as Agent Ricks wrote. "I heard
"Where are we going?" I asked sweetly.
"Buckhead," Detective Glass replied, emptying his coffee cup. "A real estate agent was killed last night. No motives. No enemies. No evidence. No reason for her to die."
Why did I get the feeling she was connected, somehow?
"She's the Governor's cousin," Special Agent Ricks supplied before the thought barely had time to form. "That's why I'm tagging along with Detective Glass, here."
"Well, it had to be complicated, didn't it?" Shane growled.
"Shane, your house is that way," I pointed through my wide kitchen window. "Go there. Now."
"Nope. I'm coming, too. Detective Glass said I could."
"Oh, for cripe's sake," I tossed up a hand in frustration. "Detective, how much blood is at the scene?"
"A lot." He grinned. The last time Shane had gone with the Detective and me, he'd gotten nauseated at the amount of blood and spent half an hour puking.
"See, this is what you get for causing arguments," I hissed at Shane.
"Come on," Detective Glass stood. Maybe he was looking forward to seeing Shane cough up his toenails. I wasn't.
* * *
"Must have done well at real estate," Shane said beside me as we climbed out of his car. The house had to be at least eight thousand square feet, with terraces across the back. We'd parked behind the house to get off the street, right outside four spacious garages lined up on one side. All the garage doors were open and four shiny cars gleamed in the afternoon light.
"All the wealthy clientele came to her." Glass and Ricks arrived just ahead of us, and they'd waited for Shane and me to get there before going inside the house. Glass backed up a little after his statement—he was talking to some of Atlanta's wealthy. Only one Atlanta resident was wealthier than Shane.
Detective Glass went pink as Shane and I remained silent, then cleared his throat uncomfortably. "The, uh, body is in the foyer, toward the front. Follow me and don't touch anything," he cautioned as Shane, Special Agent Ricks and I fell in behind him. Several police officers guarded the back entrance, but they stepped aside to allow the Detective and the rest of us inside the massive house.
"Anything yet?" Glass whispered as we walked through the back entry, past the kitchen and down a lengthy hall toward the front door.
"Nothing, unless you mean the dead woman who's been following us ever since we stepped inside the house," I replied dryly.
* * *
Nina Shelton blinked as I turned toward her. She looked younger now than when she'd died—but they all did. She'd been trying to get someone's attention from the moment her body was discovered, but nobody could see her. Except me.
"Who did it?" I asked, point blank. Most of the spirits I met couldn't spill the beans fast enough, as soon as they knew I could see and hear them.
"I don't know," ghostly tears poured down her face. "He wore a mask and ran away before everything went dark."
"She doesn't know," I sighed to Detective Glass, who waited, holding his breath. If he thought I'd be able to hand him a name and another promotion, then he was disappointed. Really disappointed.
"Ask her to describe the assailant," Special Agent Ricks demanded. Well, somebody was taking charge. I wasn't sure whether I liked it or not.
"He was six feet tall, I think," Nina sniffled. She'd been dressed for bed in a silk robe over pajamas, so her assailant had arrived late.
"Six feet, maybe," I relayed the information. "Wearing a mask. What time?" I asked Nina's spirit.
"After nine. I always go to bed around that time, so I can get to the gym at five."
"After nine," I told Ricks.
"Matches the coroner's estimate," Ricks nodded.
"Which hand held the gun?" I asked.
"Let's see, uh, right hand," Nina said. I repeated her words to Ricks. He nodded and pulled a small notebook from a jacket pocket. Shane stood on tiptoe to get a look at what Agent Ricks scribbled on a small page.
"She was forty-eight?" Shane asked as Agent Ricks wrote. "I heard
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