The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary (9 page)

Jeremiah was bone tired when he pulled his motorcycle into his garage next to his SUV. He lived in a two-bedroom sage-green bungalow on a quiet street in Culver City. He and his wife had bought it shortly after they were married and he'd gone to work for the LAPD. It wasn't fancy, but it was well-maintained and paid for, and had plenty of room for him since he was on his own. They'd never had children. The house was worth much more now than when they'd bought it, even with the depressed real estate market.

He entered the kitchen through the attached garage and threw his keys down in a small wooden bowl he kept on the counter for that purpose. After snapping on a few lights, he went into the living room and fell into his leather recliner. He'd been downtown for nearly twelve hours today and thought he should go back to talk to Lizzie, if he could find her. He knew the cops would be crawling all over the area around the laundromat for hours. He also wanted to make sure Bucket was okay. Before leaving Skid Row, Jeremiah had driven around hoping to see him, but he didn't catch sight of the man and his sad little dog at the park or on any of the streets. He hoped the police had picked him up for questioning, thinking he might have seen something the night Mary was killed.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he called Rose Carson. “Hey, baby,” he said in a tired voice when she answered.

“Were you involved in that shooting in downtown this afternoon?” she demanded in a gush. “Breaking news is all over TV about it, but they haven't released any details.”

“Yeah, Rose, I was,” he answered honestly, even though he knew she'd hate the answer. “But I'm okay. That little favor for Red turned out to be something pretty serious.”

“He wanted you to find that nasty Mistletoe Mary, didn't he?” She wasn't letting up in her displeasure.

“Yeah. He wanted to prove to Bucket that she was alive and not haunting him.”

“And?”

“And,” he began as he held the phone between his good shoulder and his chin and slipped out of his jacket. The movement sent a small shock of pain through his injured shoulder. He caught his breath for a few seconds and hoped Rose didn't hear it. “She was dead. I found her stuffed into a dryer in an old laundromat near where Bucket hangs out.”

“That poor soul,” she said in a soft voice. Jeremiah smiled slightly at Rose's U-turn, calling Mary Dowling nasty one minute to poor soul the next. She paused, before asking, “So what was the gunfire all about?”

“Seems someone didn't like that I found her body and tried to take me out.”

“What?” Rose snapped into the phone. “Oh, dear God, are you okay?”

“I'm fine, baby.” Jeremiah smiled into the phone picturing Rose's oval face with its fine age lines. He knew her brows would be knit together in worry and he wanted to kiss them to smooth them out. “A shoulder got winged by a bullet but the EMTs fixed me up.”

“I'm coming over there, Jeremiah,” she said with concern, “so I can take care of you.”

“No need, Rose,” he assured her. “I'm fine. I just got home from downtown and I need to take a shower and head back.”

A long silence, followed by, “But you found Mary, Jeremiah. Let the police take care of the rest of it.”

“I should,” he said in a voice thick with exhaustion.

“But you won't, will you?”

“No, Rose, I won't. I want to know who shot at me. And I think another woman and Bucket might both be in danger now.”

“Jeremiah Jones, don't you dare go back down there. You did the favor for Red. He wouldn't expect anything more from you and you know it.”

He picked up the remote from the table next to the recliner and aimed it across the room at his large flat-panel TV. It was much bigger than he needed, but he loved it, especially for watching sports. He changed channels until he found a local news program. At the moment they were giving the weather report, but he wanted to see if they said anything more about the shootout. He muted the sound until something came up.

“I know,” he said into the phone, “but this is something I need to see to the end. Please understand that.”

“Well, I know that's who you are, but I don't understand it one bit. The police are very capable of handling this.”

“I'm sorry, Rose. I'll call you in the morning. Okay?”

“No, it's not okay, Jeremiah.” He knew from her voice that her lower lip would be pushed out in an angry pout.

“I have to go, baby. You have a good night. I'll call you in the morning, I promise.”

“Huh! A lot of good a promise will do if your ass is dead!” She hung up.

Jeremiah dialed Red Watkins and filled him in. He also implored Jeremiah not to return to downtown, but unlike Rose, he didn't get angry when Jeremiah insisted on seeing the situation to its end. When Jeremiah asked him about women he knew who might wear field jackets, Red gave Jeremiah the same answer as Sloan had: Beth and Keisha.

“I'm sure there are more, but those are the two I know personally because I gave the jackets to them,” Red reported.

“The person who shot at me was wearing one and might have been a woman. I was too far away to get a good look.”

“I can't vouch for Beth, but it couldn't have been Keisha. I happen to know that she left yesterday for a week-long women's retreat sponsored by one of the downtown churches. Angels paid for it out of the scholarship fund.”

Beth being the shooter was becoming a real possibility to Jeremiah. Hadn't she said today that she had a new part-time job and it wasn't one Red had provided? Beth had been trained in the military to use weapons, although Jeremiah couldn't remember what exactly she'd done while in the service.

Before hanging up from Red, Jeremiah asked, “What do you know about Jeffrey Sloan? Is he mixed up in any of the street crime?”

“Jeff Sloan? Why no. I'm sure he's not,” Red told him. “He used to run with a wild crowd, but he cut himself off from them quite a while ago, ever since deciding to pull his life together. Why?”

“Just asking. I had him keep watch on my bike today.” Jeremiah was careful not to let Red know he'd used Sloan to do some snooping.

“Yeah, I saw that when I left the office. Did something happen to it?”

“No, not at all. I'm just curious about him.”

“I've known Jeff for almost two years now,” Red told him, “and I've never known him to be dishonest or malicious, not even when he was drinking. We have high hopes for him.”

“That's good to know.”

After ending his call with Red, Jeremiah called Emma and caught her up on everything. Phil had already gone back to San Diego, but she said she'd' fill him in.

“Have you seen Granny?” he asked Emma.

“She's not with you?”

“I sent her off to follow the shooter and haven't seen her since,” he told her. “I hope she's okay.”

Emma softly laughed. “She's dead, Jeremiah, no harm can come to her. But time means nothing to spirits. If you told Granny to stay close to whoever shot at you, that's exactly what she's doing, and will do it until she thinks it's time to report back.”

Jeremiah gave up a tired chuckle. “Like a spy drone.”

“Exactly.”

“Tell me, Emma, now that her body's been found, providing that corpse was Mary Dowling, will her spirit rest and stop bothering Bucket?”

There was a short pause while Emma considered the question. “Hard to say. She might cross over to the other side now, or she might stick around to see how it plays out. You know, until her killer is found. I've seen spirits do both.”

“I'm dying to know who and why someone was pretending to be Mary's daughter.”

“That is interesting,” Emma agreed. “And whoever it was knew Mary's brain was addled enough that she could sell the charade to the poor woman. She either didn't remember that her daughter died young or was in denial about it.”

“You're right.” He sat up straighter in the chair. “Whoever it was had to know something about Mary's background in order to set it all up, no matter what the ultimate motive. I got the feeling she only had one friend and that was Lizzie, another working girl.”

“How about her pimp?” suggested Emma.

“Yeah, I'm heading down there in a bit to talk to both of them.”

“You sound exhausted, Jeremiah. Are you sure you should go?”

He closed his eyes and smiled. It felt good, as comforting as a slice of warm apple pie, to have Emma and Rose so worried about him. Most of the people downtown didn't have that in their lives. It made him all the more determined to see it through to the end and get Mary the justice she deserved.

“Those people are night crawlers,” he told her. “About the only time I can get to them is after dark.”

Emma wouldn't let Jeremiah go until extracting from him a promise that he'd call her if he needed anything, and a promise that he was okay physically.

After the call, he hoisted himself out of his recliner with grunts and groans and headed for his kitchen. He plugged his phone into a charger. The battery was half spent but he wanted to make sure it was fully charged before going back. He also put on a small pot of coffee. As soon as the coffee was dripping, he went to the fridge, pulled out a loaf of whole wheat bread, sliced deli ham, cheese, and mustard. Lunch with Aaron seemed like a lifetime ago. Before slapping the sandwich together, he pulled Audra's card from his pocket, propped the phone up, put it on speaker, and dialed her number.

“Audra Wilcox,” she answered as he pulled two slices of bread from its package.

“Audra, it's Jeremiah. Quick question, have you picked up Bucket? His real name is Dwayne Burkett. He's the old guy who claims Mary's ghost told him she was dead.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I had a car pick him up and bring him in.”

“Good,” Jeremiah said with relief, as he squirted brown mustard on the bread and spread it around with a knife. “I was worried for his safety. Whoever killed Mary might think he knows something and go after him. Who knows, maybe he did see something.”

“I had the same thought, but I'm not sure how much help he's going to be. When we found him,” Audra said, pausing briefly before continuing, “he was cradling his little dog. The poor animal was dead.”

Jeremiah was holding a couple slices of ham when he heard what she said about Lola. He laid the meat on the mustard-covered bread and closed his eyes tight, unable to continue with his meal. “That animal meant the world to Bucket. How's he doing?”

“Not good,” Audra said with a sigh. “We had a hard time getting him to give up the dead dog. He screamed at the officers that it was only sleeping.”

“Where's Bucket now?”

“On his way to County Hospital,” she said, her words heavy with sadness. One of the things Jeremiah always liked about Audra Wilcox was her empathy for others. A lot of cops became hard and jaded over the years to cope with the misery and violence they encountered on a daily basis. Others cared too much and burned out quickly. Audra seemed to have found the right balance. She was kind and understanding, but not so much to get in the way of doing her job. “We tried to question him but he was too far gone and became combative. He had to be sedated. All this just went down.”

“Was Bucket saying anything specific?”

“He kept saying ‘get away,' over and over. He couldn't stand being confined and was striking out at the hospital staff.”

“ ‘Get away'?”

“Yes, or something like it. Bud thought it might be ‘getting away.' Either way, Bucket kept screeching something like that until the meds kicked in. Mean anything to you?”

Jeremiah wondered if Mary was still trying to speak through Bucket. Maybe she was trying to say that her killer was getting away.

“Not really,” he told her. “Did anyone call Red Watkins? Angels looked after Bucket as much as he allowed them to. If you haven't, I'll give him a quick call.”

“Thanks, Jeremiah, it would be very helpful if you'd call Red. We really didn't know who to contact about the old guy and maybe seeing a friendly face when he wakes up will help.”

“What about Mary's friend Lizzie?” he asked.

“We haven't been able to locate her yet,” Audra said, her voice switching back to its professional tone. “She'll be out on the streets soon working and we'll pick her up then.”

After the call with Audra, Jeremiah called Red and gave him the news about Bucket.

“So sorry about Lola,” Red said with genuine concern, “but maybe now we can get Bucket into a full-time care facility. I'll call County and see what's going on. Thanks for calling me, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah looked down at his half-made sandwich, but he'd lost his appetite. Instead, he poured himself a cup of coffee. After several long draws from the mug, he refilled it and carried it into the bathroom, where he stripped and stepped into a hot shower. He showered quickly, careful of his bandaged shoulder, yet determined to wash the stink of Skid Row from his body before heading back down again for a fresh assault. With his hands flat against the front of the shower, he leaned forward and stuck his head under the spray. He let it linger there, thinking of poor Bucket and his now dead dog. Lola's death was inevitable considering the shape she'd been in earlier that day, but caring for the wretched animal had kept Bucket lucid longer and in bigger stretches than he might have been without her. Jeremiah pulled his head back out of the water and shook it back and forth, trying to clear his head of both his exhaustion and encroaching melancholy. Turning off the water, he grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower.

“You're phone is ringing like crazy,” Granny snapped. “You gonna answer it?”

“Dammit, Granny,” Jeremiah snapped back as he quickly wrapped the towel around his naked body. “Ever hear of knocking?”