The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary by Sue Ann Jaffarian Page B

pulled out his phone and snapped a photo.
    â€œIs it her?” Granny asked.
    â€œI don’t know, Granny, but it’s some poor woman.” He trained his light once again on the corpse, looking for the telltale tattoo, but couldn’t see the woman’s chest in her death coil. He closed the dryer, and then opened the only other closed one, but it was empty.
    He hit a speed-dial number on his phone. Emma Whitecastle answered. “Emma, Granny was right. She did find the body.” He started working his way toward the back door.
    â€œNow what?” she asked.
    â€œI’m going to call Aaron Espinoza. I’ll figure out something to tell him besides a ghost showed me where it was.”
    â€œSure you don’t need us?” she asked.
    â€œPositive. The cops can take it from here. I don’t know for sure if this is Mary, but if it is, maybe now that her body has been found she’ll leave Bucket alone.”
    Outside again, Jeremiah pointed his head upward toward the sky as he took big gulps of fresh air, but the fine hairs inside his nose were determined to cling to the scent of death with sticky fingers. “My clothes probably stink, too,” he said to Granny, who’d floated out with him.
    â€œYou gonna call the cops now?” she asked.
    In answer, he held his cell phone up and started to call Aaron Espinoza. It hadn’t even rung yet when Granny shouted, “Look out, Jeremiah!”
    He never saw or heard the bullet that hit him, but he felt the hot sear as it tore through his leather jacket and grazed his left shoulder. He’d just turned to see what Granny was yelling about. Had he not, the bullet might have hit him in the back.
    He dove behind the Dumpster, wedging himself between it and the building, just as a second bullet whizzed by. He drew his gun, but saw nothing. He also didn’t hear any retreating footsteps, so wasn’t sure if the shooter was still there or not. Then he remembered his secret weapon. “Hey, Granny,” he called in a whisper, “do you see them?”
    When he received no answer, he thought maybe Granny had taken off. “Granny,” he called again, working hard to keep his voice low while his heart pounded like a jackhammer. His shoulder stung but that was nothing to a vet and former copwho’d been shot worse. He poked his head out to take a look and was rewarded with another bullet. This one hit the wall of the building behind him, sending splinters of concrete into the air. The shooter was using a silencer.
    â€œRight here,” came a disembodied voice. “I went to check out the fool who’s shooting at us. It’s some guy just on the other side of that Dumpster.”
    Jeremiah remembered seeing a man sleeping when he’d first come down the alley, but the homeless usually didn’t tote guns, especially with silencers. “Was it a homeless-looking guy?” he asked anyway.
    Granny shook her head. “No, just some guy in a bulky jacket, army jacket from the looks of it. I couldn’t see much because he was wearing a knit cap pulled down close to his face, almost over his eyes.”
    â€œShort or tall?”
    Granny pinched her face in thought. “Neither. About average, I’d say.”
    Another bullet came their way, this one passing through Granny to join its friend in the wall.
    â€œBoy, I hate that,” groused the ghost, and disappeared.
    This time Jeremiah returned fire, aiming for the Dumpster he’d passed earlier. The other shooter volleyed back. He might have had a silencer but Jeremiah didn’t. Someone had to be hearing the shots, but the last thing Jeremiah needed was some curious bystander checking out the noise. He held his fire and looked for his phone, which he’d dropped after the first bullet hit him. It was on the ground by one of the front wheels of the Dumpster. Stretching a leg out, he snagged it with his foot. Another bullet came