Other Worldly Ways (Anthology 1) (11 page)

Charlie Dillon, an old friend of Shane's, was always impeccably dressed. He was also so deep in the closet he'd probably seen Narnia. And he was the best (and fairest) Councilman we had, so I wasn't about to out him. He was a kind, generous man, and didn't deserve what some Atlanta citizens would say about him if they learned he was gay.

"Charlie is nice, I liked him. It wasn't him," Nina weighed in on the conversation. "The man at my door was too tall."

"See, even Nina says this guy wasn't Charlie—he was taller than Charlie," I offered. "Two people eliminated already."

"Two?" Detective Glass spoke up.

"Well, three, if you include yourself," I said. "Agent Ricks is taller than six feet, Charlie Dillon is shorter than six feet, and I can only assume you have an alibi. That leaves the six-foot male population of Atlanta, Detective. Nina," I turned to her spirit, "is there anything else you can remember about the gunman?"

"No." She was back to weeping ghostly tears. "Why would anybody shoot me? I was nice to everybody."

"Honey, I don't know," I answered truthfully. "Some people are just crazy, and terrible things happen all the time." It wasn't the first time I'd had to answer that question.

* * *

"Steven says he's working late," I said, stuffing my cell phone in my purse. "Before you say anything," I held up a hand to keep Shane from pointing out the obvious, "I got tired of paying that investigator six months ago. All the reports were the same; only the women he was out with changed."

"He's a pig," Shane muttered his favorite insult for Steven Francis. Steven and I'd been married thirty-two years. The only good thing to come of that marriage was our son, Steven Francis Jr.

Stevie was so disgusted with his father, he joined the military before the ink dried on his college diploma. Now he was in special ops and seldom told me where he was or what he was doing. At least he let me know regularly that he thought about me and loved me.

Steven, on the other hand, hadn't slept in the same bed for the past sixteen years. Not since his mother died, anyway. Yes, I can see the dead. I can also talk to the dead, plus a few other talents, if you can call them that. The moment I told Steven that his dead mother wanted him to change his ways, he started screaming that I was lying.

The break had come shortly after, and the only reason we hadn't divorced is that Steven could ruin me—and likely have me stuck in a mental hospital for the rest of my life because of my unusual talents. Face it—what judge would believe that sort of crap?

The money isn't Steven's, either—that's the biggest part of our problem. It's mine. He wanted it, and probably considered ways to get it and get rid of me every day. Shane helped in that respect—he'd told Steven repeatedly that if anything happened to me, he'd have Steven investigated first. As Atlanta's second richest citizen, Shane had the clout to back up his threat.

The work I did with the Atlanta PD helped, too—Steven backed off whenever the detectives showed up at the house. He was a lawyer, but nowadays he let his assistants and the junior partners do most of the work while he spent time with any woman who'd have him. The way he waved my money around, that turned out to be a lot.

"Let's go to the Buckhead Diner for dinner," Shane suggested as we drove away from Nina's house, leaving Detective Glass and Agent Ricks behind.

"That sounds good," I agreed. "I haven't been there in ages."

* * *

"Getting deviled eggs?" Shane asked as he opened his menu later.

"Always do," I said. "Want half?"

"Sure. What else are you getting?"

"The grilled cheese and tomato sandwich," I said, not bothering to open my menu. "And a glass of wine. It's been a long day."

"I'm getting the salmon BLT," Shane said and shut his menu. "Was Nina upset when we left?" he asked.

"I think so, but I didn't want to stay any longer. You were turning green."

"I don't know why you weren't sick, too—her blood was everywhere," Shane grumped. "For a vegetarian, you have a strong stomach for that stuff."

"Seen it too many times," I shrugged.

* * *

One glass of wine the evening before had turned into three and I woke the following morning with a headache. Steven's Mercedes wasn't in the garage when I shambled downstairs, so he'd either been out all night or had come in and then left again without waking me. It didn't matter—my bedroom was upstairs, next to my office, while he had the master downstairs. At times, we went for days without seeing or speaking with each other.

Two ibuprofen and a cup of tea later, I was contemplating what to write on my next mystery novel when my cell phone rang. Detective Glass was calling. I wanted to tell him he'd gotten as much information from me the day before as he was likely to get, but I settled for politeness instead.

"Detective Glass, how nice to hear from you," I said.

"We had another murder last night." He didn't bother with pleasantries like I did, and I'd bet money he wasn't nursing a hangover.

"Oh, Lord," I muttered.

"Can you come?" He rattled off an address, then had to give it to me again when I finally located a pen and scrap of paper.

"I'll be there in an hour," I promised. The location wasn't far away, actually, and if I hurried, I could shower and dress before I went.

Shane ended up coming, so I was fifteen minutes late.

* * *

"Oh, my lord," Shane muttered as we pulled into the driveway. "This is Eric Griffin's house."

"Who's that?" I turned to him in alarm. I hadn't recognized the address. Neither had Shane, and he'd driven us. He knew the house, though, that was plain to see. His face pale and his hands trembling, Shane stepped out of the car and shut the door.

"Shane, honey, are you okay?" I went to him and put my arm around his shoulders.

"Old lover," Shane whispered.

"Oh, honey," I pulled his head to my shoulder and rubbed his back. "Are you sure? Maybe it was somebody else in the house."

"He lived alone," Shane said.

"Maybe you ought to go home," I leaned away and studied his face—he was still pale and shaking.

"No. I need—what you can do if he's in there," Shane said. "Please. Please, Eric, be in there," Shane begged. I realized then he was no longer speaking to me.

"Come on, hon," I gripped Shane's fingers in mine and walked toward the front door where Detective Glass waited with his APD partner, Ray Neale.

"We know," I brushed off Ray's description of the victim as we walked past. Shane and I went through the house toward the back door—that's where this murder happened.

Shane almost fell when I spoke Eric's name to empty air—he wasn't on the back porch with the crumpled, bloody body.

Most times, the spirit doesn't stay. The opportunity comes to walk through the curtain separating the corporeal from those who are no longer so, and they run toward that opening. At times, they see those waiting for them and it draws them like the strongest magnet.

"Shane, honey, he's not here," I said. I'd seldom seen Shane cry. He held onto me now and wept shamelessly.

* * *

Three days later, I heard from Detective Glass again while I was writing my way through lunch. "Same gun used," he said. "I figured Shane would want to know."

"Yes, thank you," I said. "Have they released the body yet?"

"Probably tomorrow. His family wants to plan the funeral after that."

"Yeah." Shane told me that Eric's family had deserted him long ago because he was gay and in their eyes, an embarrassment to them. Eric died without a will, though, and that meant his family would inherit everything he'd worked for after they dumped him. Sometimes, there just wasn't much justice in the world.

"There's another murder in Tucker that I could use some help with," Detective Glass brought me away from my thoughts.

"Is it connected to these two?" I asked.

"Doubtful, but we're checking every lead we have," he replied.

"I'll come," I sighed. I wanted this case solved—it might give Shane closure and bring him out of the funk he'd fallen into after Eric's death. I had no idea Shane had ever felt that strongly about any of his lovers, but Eric had certainly made an impression.

"I'll pick you up—I'm headed that way. The locals there asked for help, since this one was gunned down at the door, just like our two."

"All right," I agreed.

"Be there in twenty," he said and hung up.

* * *

"Conner," Ray nodded as he stepped out of his city-issued, unmarked vehicle.

"Ray," I nodded as I slid onto the back seat while he held my door. Today, Ray was driving while Jon rode shotgun.

"Here's the information we have so far," Jon handed a folder over the back seat. "Shane still upset?"

"Yeah. Really upset," I nodded as I flipped the file open. This victim was younger than the others; I noticed that immediately.

"College student," Jon said as I studied the photograph. "Went to Emory. Some kind of brain, looks like. Had a full scholarship."

"This is so weird," I said. Colin Hart didn't look as if he'd be on anyone's radar. He majored in biology, but unless he'd uncovered a cure for cancer or developed a virus to take over the world, I saw no reason for his murder.

"Nothing missing, so robbery wasn't a motive, just like the others," Ray broke in.

"Like I said, weird," I repeated, closing the folder. Colin had just celebrated his twenty-second birthday. He wouldn't see twenty-three.

"Lived at the college. Went home to celebrate his birthday. Planned to go back to class this morning. Obviously, he didn't make it," Ron said.

Tucker is a suburb of Atlanta. A few times, Shane and I had wandered in and eaten at Matthews Cafeteria because they cooked in the old, Southern style and didn't put meat in their green beans. Sometimes, I wanted to hug them just because of that.

"They've removed the body already," Ray said as we parked and stepped out of the car. A December breeze swept through while dead, brown leaves clicked and scraped across the narrow, concrete driveway. We made our way toward the small frame house surrounded by a neat lawn and a tall pecan tree. It didn't matter that Colin's body was gone—Colin's spirit was on the front porch, waiting for me.

"Colin, what happened?" I asked as we approached. Glass and Neale stopped short—it always made them uncomfortable when I didn't tell them where the spirit was. Honestly—who'd want to walk through a ghost?

"I don't know," Colin shook his head while Ray and Jon stared at me. "I went to answer the door—I thought it might be my brother. He was supposed to drive in from Athens last night. It wasn't him. I didn't even realize I was shot until the guy ran away."

"Honey, can you give us a description?" I asked.

"I can't believe you can see me. I'm dead, right?"

"Yeah. But we can talk about that in a minute. Tell me what you can about the shooter."

"I can't tell you much. He had a ski mask over his face. I think I remember that he wore brown dress shoes with blue jeans. Most people around here wear athletic shoes with their jeans."

"Have they looked for shoe imprints in the yard?" I asked, turning to Ray and Jon.

"No idea," Ray said. "I'll go inside and ask."

"What are the local police doing inside?" I muttered to Jon as Ray walked toward the front door.

"Questioning the mother," Jon muttered.

"Mom didn't have anything to do with this; she was already in bed," Colin said.

"He says his mother was already in bed," I repeated Colin's words.

"Come on, honey," I motioned for Colin to come with me. "I'll give a message to your mom if you want me to."

* * *

Evie Hart was a widow, and now her youngest child was dead. I wanted to yell at the DeKalb County police—they'd been treating her like a suspect when there was no evidence leading to her.

With her face scrubbed red from drying too many tears with cheap tissues, she blinked at me when I sat across from her at a small, kitchen table. "Mrs. Hart," I held out my hands to her. Without thinking, she gripped my fingers. Hers were shaking. I attempted to keep mine as steady as I could.

"Who are you?" Evie asked, stifling a sob.

"I'm Conner Francis. I'm here to pass a message to you from Colin."

Her hands were jerked away from mine so fast I barely saw it. "Get out," she muttered angrily. "Don't taunt me with made-up shit."

"Mom only cusses when she's really upset," Colin said beside me.

"Colin says you only cuss when you're really upset," I repeated. Evie Hart stared me down. I figured she was searching for something else to say when Colin spoke again.

"She let Jinky and me have it when we broke Dad's pocket watch," Colin said. "Called us both dickheads."

"Colin says that you let Jinky and him have it when they broke their father's pocket watch. He says you called both of them dickheads," I repeated.

Evie drew a breath and then forgot to breathe for seconds. I watched as most of the color drained from her face as well. "How did you know that?" Her whisper was broken as fresh tears came.