Mourning Moon (A Guinan Jones Paranormal Mystery #2) (8 page)

Embry kept his eyes on Sinder, his jaw tightening.

"And what happened?"

"Sully ducked," Luke said. "Drake didn't know it was loaded. He was extremely sorry. He was
n't trying to kill Sully."

"You were there?" I asked him.

He nodded.

"Desmond was extremely sorry," Sinder said. "He talked to me about.
Even after all this time, he felt really bad."

I looked at Luke.
"Did he get in trouble?"

Luke glanced at Embry. "We didn't tell his father. We kept it between us. Embry didn't get hurt. That was the end of it."

Was it? I looked at Embry. "You told me he picked on you until your sophomore year. So Desmond almost shot you when you were thirteen, says he's sorry, yet continues to bully you, knowing you could make trouble for him?"

I thought Embry was looking at me, but he was looking over my head at Luke, as if waiting for him to respond.

"Drake had some issues," Luke said.

"Embry," I said, bracing myself for his reaction, "you have to tell the police about
this."

His eyes grew wide. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Motive," Luke said. "That's what she's thinking. Right, Jones? Embry bided his time, suppressed his rage, then snuffed Drake out with peanuts."

My cheeks grew hot. Even Sinder, who s
tarted this, stared at me. "No," I said, "but the police..." I faltered. How could I say it out loud? Motive was exactly what I was thinking.

"We ne
ed to get to the cemetery," Luke said. "Jones, you coming?"

"Of course," I said, walking toward him.

"Desmond was in love with her," Sinder blurted out again.

Luke swore.

"Everybody knew it," Sinder called from down the hall.

I looked back. Ione had emerged from the room. Some color had
returned to her face.

"
Desmond wasn't in love with me."

"
Before he died," Sinder said, her gaze fixed on me, "Desmond told me he was going to clean up the mess he'd made and take back what was his." She swept by us and disappeared into the sanctuary.

Embry sighed heavily and leaned against the wall.
"I'm going to take Ione home. If that's okay with you, Luke?"

Luke poked me in the ribs. "Ask them."

I gave him a quizzical look, then remembered the dead flower and the note.
Really
bad timing to bring up a sick prank. Part of me didn't want to know either way. I ignored my racing heart, wiped my hands on my skirt, and asked the question.

Ione
folded her arms tightly around her chest. Embry said, "I'm not going to dignify that with an answer. I mean, really, Guinan. You think one of us would taunt you like that?"

"Thanks for dignifying
that with an answer, Sully. Hamilton?"

Ione bristled and
turned to leave. Embry followed.

"Let's just go," I said.
We walked in silence to his car. The tone of Embry's remarks to Luke triggered something in my brain. I'd been under the impression since I arrived at Thomas Grier that they were good friends. Embry even offered to pick up Luke and his girlfriend to go out, now their exchanges were tense and sarcastic. Had the friendship been an act, and if so, for whose benefit?

I'd settled ba
ck in the seat and I spotted what I suspected was an unmarked police car a short distance away. The person in the driver's seat moved slightly. As we passed the car, a woman with a round face and dark hair styled in a chin-length bob tipped her head at me.

I didn't see
the woman at the funeral. Now that the police suspected Desmond's death was a homicide, she likely was a homicide detective. Sometimes the police attended victims' funerals to show respect for the family or to scope out possible suspects.

The next morning before first period, I checked the
Morning Malcontent
blog. After reading the first paragraph, I spit out the water I was sipping.

Crucible Heats Up 

Now that we know the death of Desmond Drake was no accident, expect the crucible to boil over. The five people sitting at his table that day—Embry Sullivan '15, Miss Ione Hamilton '14, Sinder Gillespie '15, Guinan Jones '15, and Luke Chapman '15—are no doubt the prime suspects. Which one of these seemingly normal students offed Mr. Drake?

If you believe in psychics, and that sort of thing, we have a few clues, thanks to Miss Jones:

"I don't want to leave you."

What did Mr. Drake mean? Was he referring to Miss Hamilton, with whom he had a brief fling? Or was it the besotted Miss Gillespie, who we all know carried a torch for him? In his final moments before death, had Mr. Drake perhaps expressed regret over not acting on his feelings for Miss Gillespie?

Did Mr. Sullivan remove a rival for the affections of girlfriend? And Mr. Chapman—what motive could he have? And what of Miss Jones? She didn't know Mr. Drake very well. That doesn't preclude a motive, of course. She also "heard" him say he wanted to make up for something, for someone to know him. The signs seem to point to regret, loss, waste, and love.

Be vigilant, Grierdons, and most of all, be careful. There walks among us a murderer.

When it was time for lunch, I headed outside and tossed my food in the garbage. I hitched my book bag onto my shoulder and started walking away from the school. Fifteen minutes later, I hailed a cab to take me home. An hour later, I was in bed feigning illness.

There walks among us a murderer.

I buried my head under the covers. So the blogger had named each of us as suspects. I didn't care about that. I cared that there was
reason
to label somebody a suspect.

Murderer.

I watched TV and ate the soup Granddad brought me. He came in with a chessboard, and we played for a while. He didn't ask any questions, but I sensed he was on the verge. I liked that he didn't push. He'd called my mother and told her I'd left school early. I was dozing when he knocked on my door. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My stomach sank at his expression.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he said, although his face read otherwise. "There's a Detective Jane Czarnecki downstairs. Homicide. She says has a few questions."

Now my stomach flipped
. I changed out of my pajamas, put on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and raked a hand through my hair. I pretended it was normal to have a homicide detective in my house ready to question me.

"I told her your parents weren't home," Granddad whispered as we headed downstairs. "
I mentioned that I'm a cop, and the detective insists this is investigative questioning only."

"I don't think Mom will see the distinction
."

He grunted. "If she can't trust her father, a law enforcemen
t officer, for crying out loud...but I called her just in case. She's finishing an interview with one of her ghostwriting clients."

Detective Czarnecki stood
near the fireplace in the living room looking at pictures on the mantle. She turned to face us, a pleasant smile on her make-up-free face. She was the same woman I'd seen at the church. She looked about twenty-five but had to be older.

"Thank you so much for accommodating me, Mr. Jepson, Miss Jones. Lovely house."

"Would you like something to drink?" Granddad said. "Coffee? Tea? Milk?"

"No,
thank you," she said, sitting down in the chair across from couch. "This won't take long."

Granddad and
I sat side by side on the couch, our knees touching. I thought of the connection as a lifeline. My heart pounded, and my throat was dry.

"
As you've probably read, we're treating the incident as a homicide."

"Do you have a suspect?"
I said, thinking about the blog post.

Detective Czarnecki flipped open a sma
ll notebook I'd just noticed in her hand. She pulled a pen from inside her jacket. "I've spoke with Officer Ray Moore and gone over his notes. As best you can, I want you to account for your movements on Monday, November 25, through Wednesday, November 27."

Not
ing that she hadn't answered my question, I frowned in concentration. Monday—two days before Desmond's death. I recounted where I'd been that day. I was about to move on to Tuesday when the detective held up her hand.

"Did you enter the kitchen or go anywhere near
it on Monday?"

"No.
I've never entered the kitchen. I mean...I went in there on Wednesday, after Desmond died."

She cocked an eyebrow
and wrote in the notebook. I glanced at Granddad, who didn't react.

"Officer
s Rogers and Moore told me," she said. "What was the purpose?"

"Luke has
this idea that the cook might have accidentally put peanuts into the food. He wanted to see if there was any food in the pantry with peanuts in it."

She nodded
. "Do you think the cook poisoned the brownies?" I shook my head. "Continue with your movements on Tuesday and Wednesday."

I told her where I was
.

"Between Monday and Wednesday," the detective said, "did you see Miss Hamilton, Miss Gillespie, Mr. Sullivan, or Mr. Chapman enter or linger anywhere near the kitchen?"

So the investigation was focusing on the five of us. Detective Czarnecki's dark eyes bore holes into me. I shifted uncomfortably. "No."

"Can you think of anyone who wanted to harm Mr. Drake?"

Prepared to say no, I recalled the accidental gun shot Sinder brought up at the funeral.

"Miss Jones?"

Granddad stiffened. "Detective, don't you think you're fishing?"

She
looked at him, her eyes widening in what could have been surprise or annoyance. "As a fellow cop, I expect you've asked similar questions?"

He cleared his throat. "You're asking my granddaughter to speculate and possibly implicate potentially innocent people, among whom are her friends."

"Sir, I'm conducting a wide investigation, and I like to be thorough."

"There's thorough, and there'
s fishing. Police up here might go about things differently, but—"

"I don't know of anyone who'd want to
kill Desmond," I said. Granddad took a breath as if he were going to speak again, but apparently changed his mind.

Det
ective Czarnecki put her notebook and pen in her jacket pocket. "One more thing. Do you get the sense that anyone is lying or holding back?"

I wondered in what sense she used
sense
. "Are you asking me that as a friend of Desmond's or as a clairvoyant?"

She
seemed impressed that was quick on the uptake. "Both, actually."

Granddad spoke first. "You mean you believe my granddaughter has a sixth sense?"

"I don't know yet," the detective said.

"I can't read minds, so I don't know what people are thinking.
And I didn't dream about Desmond's death. I don't know anything, unfortunately."

Detective Czarnecki
didn't look satisfied. "Oh, I doubt that. But thank you so much for your time. If I have more questions, I'll be in touch."

I remained on the couch while Granddad walked her to the door. When he returned, he was frowning and rubbing his chin.

"So," I said, relaxing for the first time, "where do you think she's going with this?"

He sank onto
the vacated chair. "Trying to pinpoint when the oil was tainted, I expect."

"That makes sense."

He narrowed his eyes. "You know you shouldn't have gone into that pantry."

"I tried to tell them," I said quickly. It sounded lame.

"Right," he said. "It'd be helpful if that school kitchen had cameras."

"How do you know they don't?"

"Maybe they do, but obviously not in a place that would provide answers, or she wouldn't be asking. For example, they should be at every entrance of the kitchen and inside the pantry.  Surveillance in place to monitor delivery people coming and going, that sort of thing."

I raised my eyebrows. "Or people tampering with food." I chewed on a fingernail.
"Desmond and I both had a slice of Mrs. Brennan's chocolate cake on Monday. Cake is made with oil, isn't it?"

"That's how your grandmother made it.
Could be important."

I
went upstairs and called the detective. She thanked me for the information and offered no other comments. I heard the front door open and close. Had she and my mother passed each other? I headed downstairs. As I rounded the corner to the kitchen, I heard my grandfather's raised voice.

"Nobody would guess you grew up with a cop for a father. Or spent your childhood hanging around a police station."

I stood just outside the room.

"You might have t
he ability to be objective," my mother said. "But I don't."

"Believe me, I'm not objective." He told her about accusing
Detective Czarnecki of fishing.

"Well," she said, "you're the
cop. I trust your judgment." My grandfather mumbled something I couldn't hear. "No, really. I do."

"I know you have issues with the way I've raised her, but we both want her to be safe and happy."

My mother sighed. "She's going to be dealing with death for the rest of her life, isn't she?" Granddad didn't answer. "Just like Mama, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"It's not the same," he said.

"Of course it is. Mama dreamed about her own death!"

A surge of adrenaline shot through my limbs. She knew about those dreams and didn't tell me? Then again, why would she share something so bleak?

"And you think the same will happen to Guinan?" Granddad said. "I can't say if it will or won't, but it is what it is. This is her gift, and she's got to figure out how to deal with it."

After a few seconds of silence, I
entered the kitchen as if I'd just come downstairs. "Hey, Mom." I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

Her expression was tight, h
er voice pinched. "You okay?"

"Sure."

She glanced at my grandfather, who was leaning against a counter with his arms folded. "Well, I wish I could make things easier for you. All this death." Her voice shook.

"It's not your fault," I said,
swallowing the lump in my throat.

"But murder," she said, running a hand through her hair. "It's just not fair to you."

Granddad stood up straight. "It's not about fairness, Saundra. This child can help people. It has burdens and responsibilities."

"But this so-called gift seems to draw her to death. Why is that?"

I thought about my grandmother's journals and almost said something before I remembered Granddad didn't know about them.

"This is happening
for a reason," he said. "We need to help her along, as a family."

"Or I can get her professional help
. I've been looking into this program for people dealing with severe nightmares."

Program
sounded ominous.

Granddad gaped at her. "
Does this program involve drugs?"

Her lips twitched.
"Some levels do, but it's not like—"

"I've never...I think it's outrageous
," Granddad sputtered. "You want to drug this child?"

My mother threw up her arms. "You say it like it's a horrible thing. Drug therapy is..."

They went on like this for several minutes, while my head swiveled back and forth. They were talking about me, but I felt strangely detached. Unlike Granddad, I wasn't outraged. In fact, I'd been thinking about it. Did such a drug exist that would suppress my empathic abilities or prevent me from remembering death dreams? I suppose the downside was I wouldn't remember
any
dreams.
When you die, no one will hear your thoughts.

How could I have forgotten to tell the
detective about the petals and the note? I considered calling her again but decided it could wait.