Death Warmed Over

by Kate Flora

  I couldn't go without asking about the photograph in the bathroom. I wanted to forget Ginger, but that picture haunted me.

  "There's a photo on the wall in the ladies' room... a girl running. She has red hair and a big smile and she looks so vibrant and alive. Is she a current student?"

  He shook his head. "That's a great picture, isn't it? We just recently put them up, but those pictures were taken years ago, at least fifteen. One of our alums, Jasper Cope, who's a pretty famous photographer now, took those when he was a student here. Recently, he rediscovered them and made us those prints. They've been a big hit."

  "Do you know who they're photos of?"

  "Not a clue. For most of them, anyway. There are a couple of tennis stars who went on to the professional circuit. I know their names. Otherwise?" He shrugged. "I'm afraid not. Jasper probably does."

  "Could you give me his contact information? I'd like to ask him about that girl."

  Reeve looked doubtful.

  "It's just that she looks so familiar. I'd love to know if it's the same woman I met recently when I was house hunting."

  No way was I telling him any more than that.

  "I really shouldn't give out his information," he said. "People are always hounding him, he says, and..."

  Hounding him? Reeve thought I'd be hounding the man? What my mother calls my 'famous little temper' got away from me. I'd just spent the whole day pulling his ass and everyone else's out of a bunch of fires. And now he treats me like some generic groupie who wanted to bother a famous and important man? I really get tired of people I work hard for treating me like I'm insignificant. Or making assumptions about me when all the evidence is to the contrary.

  I turned on him. "Excuse me? You seriously think I'm going to hound the man, Reeve? I just want to ask him a question."

  I must not have used dulcet tones because Reeve took a few steps back, looking shocked. "Sorry," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

  "Sorry," I said back. "It's been a very long day and frankly, from the way he was behaving, I was afraid Joel was going to blow the whole thing. I'm relieved that things turned out so well. Look. About the picture. Just send me Cope's e-mail address. E-mail is safe. If he doesn't want to be bothered, he can just ignore it."

  Reeve shook his head. "I'll send you all his contact info. I know you can be trusted. I don't know what I was thinking." He ducked his head apologetically. "I don't know how we would have done this without you."

  If we were done. The folks at Stafford had better hold firm. No backtracking on what the board had agreed. No underhanded deals with Alyce's parents that stabbed Johnny Gordon in the back. I was hopeful, but wary. I didn't want to have to drive back again and set them all straight. Things had a way of unraveling no matter how careful we were, and Joel had been pretty hot-headed about the board's decision.

  "Call me if you need me."

  His soft "I will," echoed my own uncertainty.

  I stumbled out in the chilly darkness, praying it was too warm for black ice, fired up the Jeep, and headed north toward home.

  Chapter 15

  Ah, modern conveniences. It used to be that a car was a car, a home was a home, and an office was an office. Now the car was an office. Home was an office. Everywhere was an office. I liked that my office had a big engine, heated leather seats, and a nice sound system. I liked far less the fact that I couldn't enjoy my sound system, because it was busy helping me communicate via Bluetooth with the many people who still wanted or needed a piece of my time.

  The only part of that bluetoothing I enjoyed was the conversation with my husband. He wanted to know if I was coming home, and when I said yes, he said that he was, too, and he going to stop on the way and pick up a piece of swordfish and some potatoes to bake. Did I want him to grab a chocolate cake? Is it any wonder he's the man of my dreams? Yeah. By the time I got there, the potatoes would be in the oven, the grill would be heating up, and there might even be a bottle of good wine breathing quietly on the counter.

  Swordfish was a good call. Normally, he would have gotten steak. I didn't know when steak would reappear on my personal menu. Certainly not until long after I got the scent of Ginger's death out of my nose and lungs.

  Still, the bright prospects on my horizon made the rest of the drive go better. I fielded questions and shot troubles like a pro, and in a lull between business chats, I tried to reach Jasper Cope at the first number Reeve had texted. No answer. I left a message and made a few more calls. Then I tried Cope's second number. This time, I got an answering machine, and a canned message that said he was away on a trip and would return on the weekend. If I needed assistance before his return, I could contact his assistant. He gave a number, which I couldn't write down. I left my message and said I'd try his assistant in the morning. Then I turned off the phone and pulled up a delicious music mix to carry me home.

  My good mood lasted until I pulled into the driveway. It was empty. The apartment was dark and empty. There was no enticing smell of baking potatoes. No heating grill. No wine or chocolate cake. And no Andre. If that wasn't bad enough, when I took off my coat, I found the place was freezing, and when I turned up the thermostat, there was no answering rumble from the furnace. I went downstairs and knocked on the landlady's door. Her car was there, but her apartment was dark, too.

  I checked the phone to see if Andre had left a message. He had: Possible sighting of Ginger's ex. I'm following up. Sorry about the cake. I'll call you.

  I felt like the kid whose balloon has popped.

  I went back upstairs to get a flashlight before investigating the dark, cobwebby basement. Stalling, because spiders are among my least favorite creatures and the place was full of them, I stood in the cold kitchen, smacking the flashlight into my palm and enjoying its heft. This was no ordinary household flashlight. This was a police-approved piece of equipment. It had grooves that gave good grip and a heft that could leave its mark on a bad guy. It had two different controls—UIs or user interfaces in police speak—one on the butt and one on the side, depending on how it needed to be used. It had three different light intensities, or lumens, according my gear-loving spouse. It was good for peering through dark tinted glass during traffic stops, though that wasn't something I usually needed to do here in the house.

  I kept stalling, remembering Andre the gear fanatic's lecture on its many features. The low light feature for checking a license or reading paperwork. Sure, hon, I did that all the time. A medium setting for clearing rooms. Not bad. I might actually have to do that, scare the dickens out of those spiders, make that reluctant furnace snap to attention. And then there was the brightest setting for ruining my opponent's night vision. Not to mention the ability to focus a narrow beam or send out a whole wall of light. And the strobe feature. Of course it also had something especially useful for the housewife whose furnace wasn't working—silent switches so the bad guy, or furnace, couldn't hear me coming. Oh, and one-handed operation. I'd never had a chance to use any of them and would be just as glad if tonight wasn't the night that changed.

  But things weren't going to be improved by standing here feeling sorry for myself. Wishing would not make it warmer. I headed down the two flights of stairs to the basement to see whether, with my limited home repair knowledge, I could locate the problem. I was armed with my flashlight, a good weapon if one was needed, and my pepper spray. Since my life has led to entanglements with some pretty unsavory characters, I go nowhere without my pepper spray. Those spiders had better stay out of my way.

  Usually, the basement was warm. Tonight it was cold, and smelled of damp and must and a hundred years of dust. When I snapped on the light switch, nothing happened. Odd. Our landlady might be indifferent to dust or spiders, but she was a fanatic about light bulbs. The driveway was well lit. The front steps and the staircases, too. She had a deep-seated fear of falling and this was a shared basement.

  I clicked on the flashlight and crept carefully down the second flight of stairs. Thi
ngs didn't feel right. I couldn't remember the last time Mrs. Ames had gone out without taking her car. Her social life, aside from bingo and church, appeared to consist mainly of watching people through her window. The twitch of her curtain as she observed our comings and goings was a regular part of our days. Even in my disappointment at Andre's absence, I'd noticed that no curtain had twitched. Maybe she'd come down here to check on the furnace and fallen?

  Stopping halfway down the stairs, I slowly panned the light around the room—medium setting for clearing rooms—the dusty cobwebs bursts of startling white against the dark gray walls. Everywhere the piles of household goods or old coats on hangers made spooky shadows and dark shapes that looked like lurking bad guys. No sign of Mrs. Ames.

  I called her name. Called it again. Listening hard, I thought I could hear something. A moan? I held my breath. I was almost sure I could hear someone breathing, but it was hard to hear over the whooshing of my heart.

  I wanted to turn around and race back upstairs. I wanted to dive into bed and huddle under the covers until Andre got home. He wasn't afraid of spiders and dark basements and what might be faint moans in the dark. The last time I'd responded to what sounded like someone in distress I'd found Ginger. Just the idea made me break out in a cold sweat. I didn't want to find someone else in distress, injured, or dead. I just wanted some heat.

  Down another step, flashing the light around again. The skin on my arms was rising into goose bumps. My chest felt tight. Was I just being foolish, letting myself be spooked by a dark basement? Wait. What was that? I moved the light beam back a few feet. There was a dark, wet-looking patch on the floor between a stack of boxes and some plastic storage bins. It was near the oil tank. Oil leak? Was that why the furnace wasn't working?

  I sniffed. I didn't smell fuel oil.

  I stepped off the bottom stair onto the cement floor and headed toward the stain. Humans have an inbred sense of impending danger, a primitive instinct left from our cave person days. As I crossed the floor toward the stain, my primitive instincts said run away. Go back upstairs. Do it now. But what if Mrs. Ames was down here and injured?

  By the time I was halfway across the room, my sense that something was gravely wrong was overwhelming. The closer I got, the more that pool looked like blood and not an oil leak. Or maybe it was just water looking dark against the dirty floor. Maybe I was deep into wishful thinking. Like wishing I was the type of person who'd never seen a pool of blood.

  I stopped. This was stupid. I didn't need to be down here. I could call the oil company and get someone to come and check out the furnace. I could go back upstairs, take a warm bath, crawl into my heaviest flannel nightgown, and get under the covers. Gradually the bed would warm up, and eventually Andre would come home. Then he could handle this.

  But what if it was blood and Mrs. Ames was injured and I went back upstairs instead of helping her because I was a scaredy cat? I was already second guessing myself about whether I could have helped Ginger. I didn't need a second person I hadn't helped in time.

  I turned in a slow circle, using the flashlight to once again scan the room. I took my time with anything suspicious. A lurking dress form. An ominous hanging raincoat. A laundry basket piled high with clothing. A pair of. Oh God. No. A pair of shoes. A pair of legs. A man. Moving toward me, arms outstretched. A shadowed face under a baseball cap.

  He lunged at me.

  I swung my flashlight.

  His hand grabbed my shoulder as the flashlight connected with the side of his head, knocking the ball cap off. Connected hard. We owned this particular flashlight because it made an excellent weapon.

  He dropped his hands, staggering back, one hand going to the side of his head and coming away bloody.

  "You've got something that belongs to me, and I want it back," he said. "Just give it to me, and no one gets hurt."

  I had no idea what he was talking about. No idea who he was or what he was doing here or even if he was in the right basement threatening the right person. I didn't care, either.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I said, backing away from him as I fumbled in my pocket for my pepper spray.

  "Sure you do. Ginger gave the stuff to you. I know she did. She said she'd sent it to someone as insurance. And that someone has to be you. You're the only person she knows who's a detective."

  What the hell was he talking about? Ginger hadn't sent me anything.

  He took a step forward. He had four inches and a hundred pounds on me. If this was the ex-boyfriend, he and Ginger must have been an incongruous couple. Despite the dark and his words, he didn't look so much menacing as thuggish. But I've tangled with thugs before and they can be plenty dangerous.

  I backed up. The stupid pepper spray was stuck in my pocket and I couldn't get it out. I played for time. "Ginger?" I said. "I have no idea what you're talking about. She never gave me anything. She was just my realtor. And anyway, I'm not a detective. I'm a consultant to private schools."

  I wondered how he'd gotten in here. Mrs. Ames was as careful about locks as she was about light bulbs. There was a bulkhead door leading down here, but it was always locked and it was located within sight of Mrs. Ames's favorite perch—the window from which she watched the driveway and the street.

  This wasn't the moment to ask about that. This was the moment to get that damned spray out and put this guy out of commission. The moment when cargo pants, instead of tailored pants with small, tight pockets, would have been a good fashion choice.

  "It's not in her apartment. Or at her office. And she said it was her insurance policy."

  Insurance policy against what? Against what had happened to her?

  I backed up another step and twisted sideways, trying to wiggle the canister out as I evaded his grasp. "Just give it to me, dammit! I'm not playing games here." He lunged for me, treating me to a wave of nervous body odor and the saturated scent of someone who's been drinking so long and hard it was coming out his pores. Drinking because he'd killed Ginger?

  I shivered as I swerved aside.

  His momentum carried him past me.

  The spray came free.

  As he whirled and swung his fist, I raised the pepper spray and blasted him in the face. He landed a solid blow to my shoulder and the spray went flying. He screamed, pawing at his face as I flailed at him with the flashlight. I felt the metal connect with something solid, heard an ugly crack, and he buried his face in his hands.

  I turned the light out.

  As his curses and bellows filled the room, I tried to remember where the stairs were. I thought they were right behind me. Cautiously, I backed up. Three steps and the back of my leg hit something. I bent and touched it. A stair riser.

  Turning, I felt for the railing, grabbed it, and rushed up the stairs. I slammed the door, bolted it, and hurried up the next flight to the apartment. I locked that door, too, and called 911. My shoulder was throbbing. The pounding of my heart was so loud I could barely hear the dispatcher on the other end as she went through her litany of questions and I forced out the essential information. I asked for the police and an ambulance, just in case Mrs. Ames was hurt.

  If Mrs. Ames was down there with that animal, as I feared, someone with a badge and gun was going to have to find her.

  Chapter 16

  I called Andre. When he answered, I let it all out. No preliminaries. Not even hello. "Ginger's boyfriend is here. In the basement. I'm afraid he's done something to Mrs. Ames. And he hit me, and I hit him and used the pepper spray and I need you to come home right now."

  When I paused for breath, he said, "Are you okay?"

  A cop question, not a husband question. He should be able to tell I wasn't okay. "Not really. Where are you?"

  "Did you call 911?"

  "Where are you?"

  I wasn't a moron. Just a hysterical woman who'd just found a thug lurking among the spiders.

  "Did you call 911?" More insistent now. And immediately began again, in the slow, loud tones
you use with someone who's lost focus. "Did... you... call—"

  "Yes, of course I called 911," I interrupted. "I asked for police and an ambulance. But I want you. Right here. Right now. Not some local cop who won't even understand what this is about. If that guy, Randy, if he's still down there, you can catch him. What if he's still down there?"

  Ginger's ex was a big man, and capable of getting into locked places. I was expecting any moment that the door would be battered in and I'd be doing another fist and flashlight dance. What was the point of being married to a cop if I was the one who had to deal with the bad guys? I was having the irrational wifely thought that I should not have to explain this to my husband when I felt a creeping sensation on the back of the hand that wasn't holding the phone.

  Looking down, I saw a spider the size of a half dollar crawling up my arm. I screamed as I tried to shake it off. I dropped the phone, dashed it off with my hand, and stomped on it. The spider, not the phone. That I picked up again, hearing Andre's voice, now slightly hysterical himself, saying, "Thea! Thea, what's going on? Are you okay?"

  "Spider crawling up my arm. Big spider."

  I heard a crash from outside and ran to the window.

  "Hold on."

  The crash must have been the metal bulkhead door, because someone big and male, so I assumed it was Randy, was running across the lawn toward the road. When he reached the road, he turned right and disappeared behind some trees.

  "He's leaving, Andre. He's out on the road. Wait." A dark pickup emerged from the trees and headed off down the road. "He's in a dark truck. Heading toward the highway."

  "What color? Make? Double cab?"

  I had no idea. What was wrong with truck? Couldn't the police work with that?