by Jane Hinchey
"Please." I held up a hand. "Let me explain."
"Please do." He paused, hand on the phone, the threat implied that if he didn't like what I had to say he'd be having my ass hauled out of here.
Drawing in a deep breath, I spoke in my most professional voice. "I'm sorry to inform you that Ben...has died." A lump the size of a golf ball lodged in my throat. This was harder than I'd anticipated. The look of shock on Phillip's face was almost my undoing. I cleared my throat. "I've taken over Ben's caseload and am visiting his clients personally to inform them of the situation and assure you that it is business as usual."
There. I got it out without bawling like a baby. Phillip slumped back in his chair, shaking his head. "I don't know what to say," he muttered, clearly shocked at the news. "What happened?"
"I can't say much, as it’s an ongoing investigation, but I can tell you that Ben was murdered." I remembered a second too late that Ben had told me not to mention that little detail.
He blinked, his pale grey eyes devoid of emotion.
"He's in shock," Ben whispered in my ear. I jerked in surprise. He'd promised he'd stay out of my line of vision and keep his trap shut. Now I was twitching like a rabid squirrel, and that was not the impression I wanted to give my new client. Look at me, all professional and everything. But Ben was right, Phillip had that dazed look about him.
"I'm sorry. I know that's a lot to take on board." I nodded sympathetically. "My time is limited and I'm sure you're a very busy man, but I was hoping we could go over the details of the case Ben was working on for you."
Phillip cleared his throat and straightened his tie, visibly pulling himself together. "He'd actually finished."
"Oh? His records don't indicate that. And your final invoice has not been issued or paid," I replied. "I know Ben was conducting a background check on your daughter Sophie's boyfriend?" I prompted.
"Ssh," Ben murmured from behind me. "Let him tell you, remember?"
"Oh right," I muttered.
"What?" Phillip frowned.
"What?" I frowned back.
"I thought you said something?" he said.
I shook my head. "Nope. Go ahead." I nodded, had my phone ready to type in notes...if only I could see my screen clearly through the cracks. I wondered where Ben's phone was. I could use that. I supposed the police had it in evidence. I wondered if I asked Detective Galloway about it I could get it back. Once they'd downloaded all the data from it, surely they didn't need the actual phone?
"Audrey, pay attention!" Ben snapped. I jumped again and realized Phillip was talking. I tuned in mid-sentence. "...it's been Soph and I for so long, and she's always been such a good girl, but I think she's fallen in with the wrong crowd, you know?" He continued on without waiting for an answer. "She's been sneaking out, telling lies, stealing money. All since she's been seeing this new boy, Logan Crane. But you know teenagers, always so dramatic. Every time I asked her about him she'd storm off, refusing to speak to me. So I hired Ben to check him out. Ben told me last week that Logan has a criminal record—theft. And he's a drug user. Not the type of person I want my daughter associating with."
"And Ben provided evidence of this?"
"Ummm." Phillip hesitated and I glanced up from the phone where I'd been jotting down what he'd told me. So far it had been identical to what had been in his file.
"No?" Curious. I didn't dare look at Ben for confirmation, especially since he was hovering somewhere behind me and I'd look like a tool for suddenly spinning around to eyeball the wall.
"He may have? I just can't recall..."
My eyebrows shot into my hairline. Phillip Drake struck me as a very organized, very meticulous man. Possibly OCD by the way he kept his desk. If Ben had provided the evidence that Logan was a criminal and a druggie, Phillip would be able to lay his hands on it immediately. Which led me to believe Ben hadn't provided that evidence. Was it because he didn't have it? But why report to Phillip that he did?
"Was this a verbal report?" I asked.
Phillip snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "Yes! That's it! I knew he'd told me, but I couldn't remember if it was in an email or phone call. Now I remember. A phone call."
I nodded my head, made a note to check Ben's phone records. "Do you remember what day that was?" I asked.
"Errrr. Tuesday? Maybe. I can't really remember."
"Would it be on your phone? The last call you took from Ben?"
Phillip's head whipped around to the mobile phone positioned neatly at the edge of his desk calendar. "Why, yes, I guess it would be." He made a move to pick up the mobile, then stopped, hand hovering inches above it. "Actually, I think he called me on my landline." He pointed to the handset to his right. The one his hand had been resting on when he'd threatened to call security. "Is it important? Knowing what day he called?"
"No, no," I smiled politely. "It helps me with the timeline of where Ben was up to with things, that's all."
"Are you a relative of Ben's?" he asked.
I shook my head. "No."
"Oh. I thought you must be related, although you don't look anything alike, now that I think about it."
I frowned, puzzled. "Why would you think I was related to Ben?"
"Well, because you're here, taking over his case. I thought perhaps you were family."
"He's trying to distract you and it’s working," Ben whispered in my ear, sending yet another ghostly chill down my spine.
"Not family," I assured him. "Now if we could get back to your case if you don't mind..."
"Actually I'm going to have to cut this short." Phillip stood, and I blinked in surprise. "I've just remembered a prior appointment." He came around the desk and held out a hand. Slowly rising to my feet, I shook it and let him usher me toward the door.
"Look, I'm very sorry to hear about Ben. That is terrible news, but considering the circumstances, I think it best we sever this relationship." His voice had taken on a professional polish I recognized. I'd used it myself dozens of times. My internal bullshit alarm went off.
"Ben had verbally confirmed what I suspected about Logan. I have all I need. But please, do send me the invoice, I will pay in full, of course."
"You don't want me to send over any evidence?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Please don't trouble yourself. That won't be necessary."
"Well...okay. Thanks for taking the time to meet with me today, Mr. Drake. Good luck with your daughter." As I walked away, I lifted my phone and put it to my ear. "Hi!" I fake answered.
"That was...strange," Ben said from beside me.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I nodded. "It sure was."
"He's watching you." I really wish Ben hadn't told me that, because now I felt self-conscious, and whenever I felt self-conscious...sure enough, I tripped over a non-existent snag in the carpet, stumbled, and banged into the wall before finally righting myself. Way professional, Audrey. Ben barely noticed—it's not as if he hadn't seen me bumbling and stumbling around a million times before—he was busy watching Drake. "He's on his phone."
"His phone was on his desk," I pointed out.
"Well, he's picked it up to use it." Ben's sarcasm was not lost on me.
I shot him a look. "Okay, Hotshot," I drawled, "you said he's watching me. Is he still?" Ben nodded. "So that means he returned to his desk to retrieve the phone and is now standing in his doorway, I assume, talking on his phone and watching me."
Ben's grin was back. "You are so good at this. You should've joined the force with me, Audrey. I keep telling you, you're a natural."
"Wash your mouth out," I grumbled, affronted that he'd say such a thing.
"When are you going to get over this?" He sighed dramatically.
"When they issue a public apology. In print. Preferably on the front page of the Firefly Bay Times," I shot back.
"That'll never happen."
"Exactly." We eventually reached the end of the longest hallway in the world and turned the corner, out of sight of
Phillip Drake. "I wonder who he was calling?"
"And why?" Ben added.
"Do you think he's involved in your death?" We'd both gone over Ben's notes. It seemed like a pretty simple case. Find the dirt on Sophie Drake's boyfriend. It hadn't been difficult, yet Ben hadn't closed the case—and apparently hadn't forwarded the written report to Drake either. The question was, why? Drake had said Ben reported to him verbally the findings on Logan.
"Would you normally do that?" I asked.
"Do what?"
"Call in your report?"
"Sure, I'd give regular updates to my clients—they're the ones paying me after all. But at the end, I'd wrap it up with a written summary at the bare minimum."
I waved goodbye to Barbie as we crossed the foyer. "Where to next?" Ben asked.
I rummaged in my bag for the names I'd scribbled on the back of an envelope. "Tonya Armstrong."
"Ah. The cheating spouse case."
"Whose husband, the cheater, is working for one Phillip Drake." My spidey senses were tingling. The two cases had to be connected—they just had to be. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.
"Lead the way." Ben materialized himself into the passenger seat of my car while I took the more conventional route of unlocking the door before sliding in.
Tonya Armstrong lived with her husband at two seventy-eight Oakridge Circle. A nice, mid-level part of town. "I wonder if I should have spoken with her husband, Steven, while I was at the hotel," I said, barely paying attention to the traffic on the road.
"Speak with the client first," Ben gritted, hands gripping his seat, knuckles white.
"What? You already said it—you can't die again," I teased him, weaving in and out as I maneuvered my way through the busiest road in town before finally exiting onto Lexington. He visibly relaxed and I laughed.
"Your driving always did give me heart palpitations, and apparently it's no different now I'm a ghost," he said drolly.
"Ha ha."
Within minutes I was pulling up in front of a perfectly ordinary house on a perfectly suburban street. I parked on the street, sparing the Armstrong’s from my oil stains on their neatly paved driveway. A curtain twitched as I walked up the front path.
"Someone's definitely home," Ben said. "I'm going to duck ahead and check things out." I watched as he shot ahead and passed straight through the front door. I swear to God I will never get used to that. Tugging on the lapels of my jacket I continued on, rapping on the door. It swung open almost immediately.
"Yes?" A woman who looked about mid-thirties answered the door dressed in yoga pants and a wrinkled T-shirt.
"Tonya Armstrong?" I asked. She nodded. I launched into my spiel while she gripped the door and listened.
"I suppose you'd better come in," she said, turning away and leaving the door open for me to follow. I did. The house was immaculate inside, the furniture a little worn and outdated.
"Can I offer you a coffee?" Tonya asked, leading the way into the kitchen. "I'm having one," she added. Just in case I needed an incentive.
"That would be lovely, thank you." Ben hadn't reappeared and I could only guess that he was searching the house. For what I had no idea, but it was easier to talk to Tonya without him hovering over my shoulder.
"I'm sorry to hear about Ben," she said, busying herself with the coffee machine on the counter. "He seemed like a nice guy."
"He was." I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. I cleared my throat. "Would you mind quickly going through your case with me?" I asked. "Just so I can get everything squared away."
She puffed out a breath and tugged at the hem of her T-shirt. "Sure. So you probably read in my file that I hired him to follow my husband."
"Steven Armstrong," I read from the notes on my screen.
"Yes. I think he's having an affair." Her voice cracked, she swallowed, then continued, "I think he's been having an affair so I hired Ben to find out, one way or another."
"And did he?"
Tonya shot me a look I couldn't read. "He showed me some photos of Steven kissing another woman."
"So that's a yes." I nodded. I already knew this, of course. "So...case closed?" I prompted, knowing full well that it wasn't.
"I wanted more proof." She threw her hands up, tears filling her eyes as she blinked rapidly to dispel them. "I mean, what sort of fool am I, wanting even more proof that my husband is cheating on me?" she cried, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I mean it was there, in the photos. It was definitely Steven, he was cupping this woman's face in his hands—he used to hold my face that way, a long time ago—and from the angle of the shot it was undeniable it was him. And there were more shots. Lots of them. Kissing. Intimately." A sob escaped, followed by another, then she was burying her face in her hands and howling. I had no idea what to do. Awkwardly I placed an arm around her shoulders, desperate for Ben to come back and give me some guidance. Of course, he didn't. He'd probably heard her crying and deliberately stayed away.
"I'm sorry about your husband," I said weakly.
She pulled away and gave me a watery smile. "Oh gosh, I'm so sorry, being all stupid and emotional," she apologized, grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter and blew her nose.
"It's not stupid at all," I assured her. "Having your worst fears confirmed is the perfect time to be emotional."
"You're right." Tossing the tissue into the bin she straightened her shoulders and continued making the coffee. "I'm still not sure what I'm going to do," she said, back to me. "Steven doesn't know that I know. I assume he's still seeing her. Each time he's late home I know he's with her; each time he leaves the house on some errand I assume he's going to see her."
I grimaced, not knowing what to say. If it were me I'd dump his sorry ass. But it wasn't me. I wasn't married and I had no skin in this game.
"How long have you been married?" I asked instead, taking a seat at the kitchen table.
"Seven years." Then she snorted. "I guess the seven-year itch is a real thing, huh?"
"Umm. Ben said in his notes that you didn't believe him? When he told you Steven was, in fact, having an affair." I was reading the notes on my phone, almost jumped out of my skin when she placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. I hadn't heard her approach.
"Oh God. I was so awful to him." She sat down opposite me, cradling her own cup. "I'm afraid I got a little hysterical. Accused him of making it all up." The blush of red in her cheeks showed her embarrassment was real.
"He didn't mention that here." I waggled my phone, trying to reassure her that he hadn't written down she was a hormonal overreactor.
"I thought the photos were staged, that he'd told Steven what he was doing and they pulled this prank on me, as revenge for me hiring a private investigator."
"Ben would never have been okay with anything like that," I assured her.
She had the grace to look ashamed. "I know. I'm afraid it was very much a case of shooting the messenger. I'd asked him to follow my husband—whom I suspected of having an affair—and if he was, to provide evidence of it. He did exactly that and I attacked him for it."
I took a sip of coffee, not knowing what to say. Tonya filled in the silence. "I'm a nurse, you see. I work a lot of night shifts. Sometimes we can go for a full week without physically crossing paths. I guess he got a little tired of that, of me not being here when he needed me."
I wanted to argue that none of this was her fault, but kept my mouth shut. I wasn't here as her friend. I was here as an investigator, and despite her distress, I couldn't rule out that she was involved in Ben's death. What if she'd taken things further? What if she really blamed Ben for all of this, for shoving her husband’s affair under her nose? Was it enough to tip her over the edge and kill him? Possibly.
12
"Witches are real," Brett Baxter told me. I sucked my lips, releasing them with a popping noise.
"Fair enough. You are entitled to believe whatever you want to believe." I nodded. I was in Brett's apartment.
We'd finished up at Tonya Armstrong's. I'd bolted down my coffee and promised her an invoice would be hitting her inbox in the next day or so, making it very clear that as far as Delaney Investigations was concerned, her case was closed. She'd nodded, nose red, and thanked me for the visit. Then it was on to our third and final case. Brett had hired Ben to prove witches existed.
"You don't believe me," Brett huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
I shook my head. "Not at all. It's just rather a broad statement and for a private investigator to actually investigate...you'd need something a little more specific than a generalized statement. What was it, exactly, that you wanted Delaney Investigations to do?"
Ben's notes had been maddeningly empty. Ben had written one word. Witch-hunt. I didn't know what that meant, and apparently neither did the ghost version of Ben. I was surprised that Ben had even agreed to take Brett on as a client. I figured it had to be the connection between the Armstrong case and the Phillips case, since Brett was the event planner for the Firefly Bay Hotel.
"Witches are real and they need to be wiped from this earth." Brett's voice was high with passion. My eyes swept his apartment, the decor in particular. Crosses hung on the walls, a huge painting of Jesus Christ hung on the wall above his television. Ben had disappeared like he had in Tonya's house—to see what I couldn't beyond the walls where I was currently standing. Having a ghost on my side was certainly coming in handy.
"And what makes you say that?" I asked, keeping my voice professional. It didn't matter what I believed. Only what he'd hired Ben to investigate—and if that was what led to Ben's death.
"Listen." Brett leaned in as if about to reveal a big secret. "I'm the event planner at the Firefly Bay Hotel." I nodded. Tell me something I don't know, Brett. Thankfully he did. "So I hear things. A lot of things." He tapped the side of his nose.
"Like what?" I pressed.
