feet. At least this outfit wasn’t pink, and there wasn’t a ruffle in sight.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. Wild hair somewhat tamed after a reviving shower, she didn’t look too bad. The goose egg on her forehead had diminished to nothing but a small purple knot now. It could have been much worse, and her headache was completely gone. No more nausea or dizziness either. All in all, she’d recovered very quickly.
Now all she had to do was avoid the damned foyer.
She bit her lower lip and swallowed the lump in her throat as she finished tucking in the blouse. Of course, it wouldn’t stay tucked with such a short tail.
“Okay, Beth, so ask yourself the question you’ve been avoiding,” she whispered as she retrieved some lip balm from her backpack. She uncapped the tube and smeared it on, then leaned her hip against the edge of the cherrywood dressing table.
Is the ghost in the foyer the long-absent Lorilee?
Beth sure as hell hoped not. How ironic was that? She might be able to shorten her investigation by weeks simply by engaging the spirit and solving the cause of death.
A sigh squeezed through her convulsing throat at the prospect.
But if Lorilee had died a violent death in her own home, and there was no body…
“Don’t go there, Dearborn.” She shoved away from the dressing table. Wait for Sam. Wait for Sam. Wait for Sam.
She dropped the lip balm into her backpack and noticed her Glock. With kids in the house she had to put that someplace where curious fingers wouldn’t come across it. The Malone gang had already proven their moxie during their morning visit to her room. No telling what trouble they might find if she wasn’t around.
She had a shoulder holster, but that seemed like overkill in Brubaker. Another grin tugged at her lips. She could just imagine Pearl’s reaction, and the Glock didn’t exactly go with her outfit.
Well, that settled it. “Where I go, you go,” she muttered as she slung the backpack strap over her shoulder and headed into the hallway.
She made her way down the stairs toward the parlor, reacquainting herself with the floor plan as she went. Two sets of stairs—one going to the parlor at the front of the house, and one to the kitchen and the rear. No reason for her to ever venture into the foyer again until after Sam arrived.
Three weeks. She could do this.
But what if that spirit really was Lorilee? The fact that she was trying to contact Beth meant she’d died violently.
This is a hundred-and-something-year-old house.
She paused on the landing and stared out the window, drawing several deep breaths. The spirit in the foyer could have been there for a century, waiting for someone with Beth’s empathic gift to cross the threshold. No reason to believe it was Lorilee.
Except for the fact that Lorilee was missing and no body had ever been found.
Knock it off, Dearborn.
“Three frigging weeks. That’s all,” she whispered. Several cars were parked in front of the house, and the sound of kids’ laughter drifted up the stairs.
Mark was gradually recovering—so Pearl claimed—from the disappointment that only neighboring children who lived on this side of the washed-out bridge would be able to attend his party.
This would be a first—Beth Dearborn at a twelve-year-old’s birthday party. Hell, she’d never even had a birthday party of her own. Sam was the only kid who’d ever had anything to do with “weird Beth.” She chuckled and rolled her shoulders. Of course, Sam was every bit as strange as his cousin.
Beth reached the bottom step and froze. Balloons, pretzels, confetti, and God knew what else flewaround the formerly immaculate parlor. She ran a quick head count and came up with five boys in addition to Mark. Grace sat quietly at a table draped with bright yellow paper.
And Beth thought life as a homicide detective had been dangerous.
“They’ve got to be kidding,” she muttered. But this party was her opportunity to meet some of the
She glanced at herself in the mirror. Wild hair somewhat tamed after a reviving shower, she didn’t look too bad. The goose egg on her forehead had diminished to nothing but a small purple knot now. It could have been much worse, and her headache was completely gone. No more nausea or dizziness either. All in all, she’d recovered very quickly.
Now all she had to do was avoid the damned foyer.
She bit her lower lip and swallowed the lump in her throat as she finished tucking in the blouse. Of course, it wouldn’t stay tucked with such a short tail.
“Okay, Beth, so ask yourself the question you’ve been avoiding,” she whispered as she retrieved some lip balm from her backpack. She uncapped the tube and smeared it on, then leaned her hip against the edge of the cherrywood dressing table.
Is the ghost in the foyer the long-absent Lorilee?
Beth sure as hell hoped not. How ironic was that? She might be able to shorten her investigation by weeks simply by engaging the spirit and solving the cause of death.
A sigh squeezed through her convulsing throat at the prospect.
But if Lorilee had died a violent death in her own home, and there was no body…
“Don’t go there, Dearborn.” She shoved away from the dressing table. Wait for Sam. Wait for Sam. Wait for Sam.
She dropped the lip balm into her backpack and noticed her Glock. With kids in the house she had to put that someplace where curious fingers wouldn’t come across it. The Malone gang had already proven their moxie during their morning visit to her room. No telling what trouble they might find if she wasn’t around.
She had a shoulder holster, but that seemed like overkill in Brubaker. Another grin tugged at her lips. She could just imagine Pearl’s reaction, and the Glock didn’t exactly go with her outfit.
Well, that settled it. “Where I go, you go,” she muttered as she slung the backpack strap over her shoulder and headed into the hallway.
She made her way down the stairs toward the parlor, reacquainting herself with the floor plan as she went. Two sets of stairs—one going to the parlor at the front of the house, and one to the kitchen and the rear. No reason for her to ever venture into the foyer again until after Sam arrived.
Three weeks. She could do this.
But what if that spirit really was Lorilee? The fact that she was trying to contact Beth meant she’d died violently.
This is a hundred-and-something-year-old house.
She paused on the landing and stared out the window, drawing several deep breaths. The spirit in the foyer could have been there for a century, waiting for someone with Beth’s empathic gift to cross the threshold. No reason to believe it was Lorilee.
Except for the fact that Lorilee was missing and no body had ever been found.
Knock it off, Dearborn.
“Three frigging weeks. That’s all,” she whispered. Several cars were parked in front of the house, and the sound of kids’ laughter drifted up the stairs.
Mark was gradually recovering—so Pearl claimed—from the disappointment that only neighboring children who lived on this side of the washed-out bridge would be able to attend his party.
This would be a first—Beth Dearborn at a twelve-year-old’s birthday party. Hell, she’d never even had a birthday party of her own. Sam was the only kid who’d ever had anything to do with “weird Beth.” She chuckled and rolled her shoulders. Of course, Sam was every bit as strange as his cousin.
Beth reached the bottom step and froze. Balloons, pretzels, confetti, and God knew what else flewaround the formerly immaculate parlor. She ran a quick head count and came up with five boys in addition to Mark. Grace sat quietly at a table draped with bright yellow paper.
And Beth thought life as a homicide detective had been dangerous.
“They’ve got to be kidding,” she muttered. But this party was her opportunity to meet some of the
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