by Sheryl Lynn
“Where are you going?” he asked, when he saw Desi walk away.
She nodded toward the office. “To find out where Arturio Carpetti is buried. That’s why we’re here, right?”
He spotted Mary Hollyhock. He could see her clearly from head to toe. She wore tan slacks and a fitted blazer. Her rhinestones sparkled. She beckoned. Buck took Desi’s hand. “This way.”
Mary led them south, cutting a straight path through the cemetery. The ground grew hillier, the trees taller, the brush thicker. Dates on headstones slipped back in time.
Desi hopped off a rock wall and slid on the grass. “Should have worn hiking boots,” she said.
“Uh-huh,” Buck said. He removed his sunglasses to better see Mary. He squinted against the sun. It was around forty degrees, and the sky was unbroken by clouds. The pleasant weather was temporary. A warm day or two always preceded late winter storms.
Desi said, “I bet you see a lot of ghosts right now.”
“I rarely see spirits in cemeteries.” He searched for Mary. Instead of walking or floating, she flitted, her image appearing and disappearing, always moving south.
“You don’t?”
“Only if they’re hanging around somebody alive. The spirits I see are attached to people or structures. I don’t think they’re interested in their bodies.”
“Gwen will be deeply disappointed to hear that.” Amusement softened her face. “She loves ghost hunting in cemeteries. Her dream vacation would be Paris so she could explore the catacombs.” She slipped again. This part of the cemetery was a slalom course of small hills and hummocks and stone-retaining walls.
Buck took her hand to help her up a hill. “Are you going to clue her in?”
“I honestly don’t know. It doesn’t matter what kind of proof I show her, she still believes the world is swarming with ghosts. She’s wrecked her life because of it.”
“She seems happy to me.”
“She’s a financial mess.”
“Maybe money doesn’t matter to her. She’s looking for something bigger, something with meaning.”
“Not falling for every charlatan who comes along would be meaningful.”
He sensed in her a deep-seated fear. Maybe it wasn’t concern about her sister that drove her to explore the paranormal. Maybe her own belief that people were nothing more than meat sacks doomed to a short life and then nothingness terrified her. As much as she resisted the idea of an afterlife, she actually wanted it to be true. Coming face-to-face with a ghost had to be short-circuiting her entire belief system.
“Have you ever considered that educating her would help? You don’t want me talking to her, but why—” He stopped when he saw Mary appear behind a monument. She rested both hands atop the granite.
Skillihorn.
The name was carved into polished granite on a chest-high block of stone. In a Classical style to look as if Greek columns supported a portico, the monument was larger and more ornate than the nearby headstones and monuments. To the right was Veronica Skillihorn’s headstone.
Desi read, “Veronica Eugenia Skillihorn, Beloved Wife, Angel on Earth, Angel Now. Born 1874, died 1898.” She sighed. “She was only twenty-four. Is this what Grandma wants us to see? Where’s the gardener?”
Buck crouched on the left side of the monument and eased back winter-dead grass. The grave marker was a simple rectangle of rough, gray stone engraved with Charles Skillihorn’s name and the dates of his birth and death. He’d outlived his young wife by one year.
“That’s bizarre,” Desi said, looking between Veronica’s headstone and Charles’s marker. “He was a wealthy man. Why the cheap stone?”
Buck rose and stepped back so he could take in both graves and the monument.
Grandma materialized over Skillihorn’s grave. A brief appearance and one he’d miss if he’d blinked. He saw enough.
“What? Why are you smiling?”
“You asked if seeing spirits helped in police work. Actually mothers, or mother figures, help. They don’t like it when their kids misbehave. If I run into a group of juveniles and know one of them is guilty, all I have to do is look for a pissed-off female ratting him out.”
“So why is that funny now?”
“Mary ratted out Skillihorn. He murdered his wife.”
“But they convicted the gardener. They hanged him.”
Prejudice against immigrants and Skillihorn’s standing in the community probably made Carpetti an easy target. “Skillihorn framed him.”
“What does Grandma want us to do?”
Buck drew a blank. The murder had happened in 1898. Anyone connected to the crime was dead. Anyone who even cared was dead.
Desi crossed her arms and looked up at him. “You’re the cop. How do we investigate this and clear the gardener?”
Buck laughed. He really wanted to kiss her. She was so fierce, so sexy. “I’m a patrol officer, not a detective.”
“What’s the difference?”
He’d never felt the allure of making detective. He liked the hands-on aspect of his job. He liked helping people, being in the middle of action and preventing crime. It seemed to him that detectives were always playing catch-up. “Training,” he said, though it was more than that. “I know a detective who’s into cold cases. I can talk to him. But I can tell you right now that as interesting as this is from an historical perspective, no way is it a police matter.”
“But…Oh. I guess it would be a waste of time. Can’t arrest a ghost. So what do we do?”
He looked around for Mary. He wished she could talk. It was frustrating as hell playing charades with spirits. But she was gone. Apparently she’d used up her energy bringing them here.
He put his arm around Desi’s shoulders. He liked the way she fit so perfectly against his side. He stilled, listening with his inner ear. They were alone among the dead. He kissed the top of her head, drinking in the sunshine smell on her hair. She leaned against him.
He studied Skillihorn’s ugly gray marker. “That has to mean something. He spent a lot of money on the monument and Veronica’s headstone. He must have cancelled a headstone as fancy as Veronica’s. Why would he do that?”
“Maybe his heirs saved some money and went cheap on the stone.”
Buck gave her a dry look. “I don’t think so. A wealthy man like him would have had a marker as fancy as his wife’s. Uh-uh, looks like guilt to me.”
She made a skeptical sound. “Yeah. Guilty. So he shows remorse by strangling me?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“We better do it fast.” She showed him her game face. “I’m not losing my house to a ghost. I have a business to run and people who depend on me.”
Buck couldn’t believe he once thought the ideal woman was soft and sweet, needing a big, strong man to kill spiders and shield her from the harsh realities of the world. Desi Hollyhock drove home why such women bored him. With her feisty independence and hardheadedness, Desi wouldn’t tolerate being treated as a child or taken for granted. She squished her own spiders and met life head-on.
She was sexy as hell, but not easy. Desi would never be easy—for man or ghost.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
He touched her cheek with a knuckle. “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
Her mouth softened and the corners curled. “Is Grandma watching?”
“Could be, but I don’t see her. Why? I think she likes me.”
Desi walked her fingers over his jacket and smoothed the lapel. “Of course she does. You’re a man. She was worse than Gwen when it came to setting me up. Queen of the blind dates.” Her eyelids lowered and the faint smile disappeared. “She died in her sleep. No warning at all. It was a brain aneurysm. I’d just bought my house and I was busy fixing it up. She wanted to help decorate, but I kept making excuses. She loved stuff. The bigger and gaudier it was, the more she liked it.” She sighed. “I should have let her help me. I could have changed it lat
er. It would have made her happy.”
“I’m sorry you lost her, honey.” He cupped her face with a hand and she closed her eyes, leaning into it. “So I’m just a man, huh?”
She smiled, her eyes still closed, and made a musing noise.
Tough cookie.
He touched her lips with the lightest of kisses. As alluring as she might be, necking in public was not his style. When he removed his arm her brief expression of disappointment pleased him.
“Investigating the murder is probably a waste of time,” he said. He pointed at the weathered grave marker. “We should look at what happened afterward. He’s got unfinished business, so let’s figure out what he was doing before he died.”
“And finish whatever he started? Sounds like a plan, I guess.” She sighed heavily. “First I have to go home.”
“You can’t do that, honey.”
“I don’t have a choice. I have to take Spike to Gwen’s. It’s not fair to leave him alone that long. Besides, he’ll get mad and eat my furniture. And I need my laptop and files. I have clients. I don’t think they’ll be sympathetic about a ghost. I’m not going to stay, but I do have to take care of things.”
An offer to accompany her lodged in his throat. He was the catalyst for Charles Skillihorn’s insane jealousy. Accompanying her might lead to anther encounter. “I don’t want you going alone.”
“No worries there. I’ll call Pippin and see if she can go with me.”
He couldn’t bear it. He swept aside his inhibitions, pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her until desire threatened to overtake him and he had to let her go.
DESI PUT THE KEY in the lock with a trembling had. “I really appreciate this, Pip,” she said. “It’s ridiculous, and I’m sorry—”
“If you apologize one more time,” Pippin interrupted, “I will smack you. We’re friends. It’s an honor to help you out.”
Desi turned the key and the deadbolt clacked. Her belly churned and her throat tightened with phantom pain. No fear, she warned herself. She pushed the door open and strode inside.
Spike meowed, sounding annoyed. He nearly tripped her while curling around her legs. She scooped him up and hugged him. He meowed and grunted, and rubbed his head against her chin.
Pippin petted the cat and cooed over what over a pretty boy he was. Spike began to purr. When Desi set him down, he stuck so closely that every step was a challenge. She turned on lights as she went, and tensed for bulbs to blow. She turned on the computer.
“What do you need me to do?” Pippin asked.
“Um, I need some things from the basement.” With everything working and the cat acting normally, Desi relaxed a little. She led Pippin downstairs and pulled out a suitcase, portable file box and cat carrier.
Pippin picked up the suitcase. “So tell me about you and Buck. Other than the ghost thing, how—”
Desi whirled on her friend. “Shh! Don’t say his name. Don’t even think about him!” She held her breath, waiting for a black mass to loom in her face or for the washing machine to blow up.
“Sorry,” Pippin said. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I hate seeing you like this.”
“I hate it, too. My chest hurts and my stomach is upset. I’m having trouble sleeping. This is driving me crazy. All I want to do right now is run screaming out the door.”
“Then let’s get out of here. Come on.”
Upstairs, Desi put Spike in the carrier right away, before he remembered now much he hated the carrier. He rattled the mesh door. Next she transferred data from the computer to a thumb drive. Anger rose in her as she thought that now she’d have to work at her clients’ businesses instead of her home. The damn ghost had invaded her house, forced changes in her work habits…It took a mighty effort to not start screaming at it. Instead, she loaded the paperwork she would need into the portable file box and made certain the power supply for the laptop was in the carrying case. Then they went upstairs.
Desi packed underwear and toiletries. Drawing a deep breath, her knees shaky, she opened the closet door. The sight of naked hangers and all her clothes on the floor charged her nervousness once again. She took excellent care of her belongings. Even as a child she’d been tidy and careful. For that damned ghost to fling her stuff around made her clench her teeth.
She found the clothing she wanted to take, then began hanging sweaters, blouses and skirts where they belonged.
“Desi? Desi, come look at this.” Pippin said. “That is creepy,”
Desi stepped out of the closet.
Squarely in the middle of her bed was a long, narrow depression in the shape of a person stretched out on the comforter. It was as if a man were taking an afternoon nap.
Rage exploded within her and she rushed the bed. She snatched up a pillow and beat the mattress, pounding the man shape. “Get out! Get off my bed! It’s mine! Get out! Get out!”
“Desi!” Pippin grabbed her arm and hauled her away from the bed. “Desi.”
Desi dropped the pillow. She’d pounded the comforter askew and knocked several pillows onto the floor. There was no sign of the depression now.
“You’re all packed,” Pippin said. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go.”
A light bulb blew with a pop.
“Now.” Pippin dragged Desi toward the door.
Chapter Ten
Desi lugged the cat carrier up the stairs and into Gwen’s apartment. Her sister met her with a raised chin and disapproving eyes.
“I’m mad at you,” Gwen said.
“What did I do?” Desi put Spike on the floor, but hesitated about letting him out of the carrier just yet. Her nape prickled. Her sister was angry. For all her theatrics Gwen wasn’t given to yelling, screaming or heated arguments. When she got angry, she got quiet.
“First you show up at my place in the middle of the night, looking like you were mugged. Now you need me to watch Spike. But you don’t tell me anything?”
Desi looked down.
Gwen continued. “You snuck out before we could talk. If you think for one second I don’t know you’re avoiding me, you’re out of your mind.” She spoke in a low, calm tone. She was really mad.
“I’m sorry, Gwen. There’s…I’m having…I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. If you don’t want to watch Spike, I’ll take him to a kennel.”
“It gets old,” Gwen said. “You treating me like an idiot.” She crouched and opened the cat carrier door. The big yellow cat stalked out, past Gwen and into the middle of the living room. He looked around as if wondering if he liked the place, or perhaps he considered redecorating. Every surface was covered in antique linens, glassware, Asian ceramics and vintage metal toys. There were plenty of things for him to move around.
“I’m sorry you feel like that,” Desi said. “That’s not my intention.”
Gwen held up a hand. “Don’t you dare say you’re protecting me.” She turned around and headed into the kitchen. “Come on, Spike. I’ll get you some milk.”
Desi perched on the edge of a Georgian settee. Its tufted velvet upholstery and ornately carved camelback made her think Spike might be better off at a kennel after all. Even if he refrained from using his claws, the velvet would act as a magnet for his hair. Gwen’s apartment had ten-foot ceilings, carved and fluted woodwork, and there was barely an inch of wall space showing between paintings in antique frames, tapestries, hand-painted china plates and other artwork. It was an angry cat’s paradise.
The apartment made Desi feel claustrophobic. Gwen’s anger made the feeling worse.
“I forgot his accessories,” Desi called. “I’ll run to the store and get him food and stuff. Unless you want me to take him someplace else.”
Gwen stepped out of the kitchen. “I’m mad at you, not Spike. He’s more than welcome.”
Desi winced. She supposed she deserved that. “Things are complicated right now, Gwen. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“You’re right. I have my life, you have yours. We’re
not joined at the hip or anything. If you don’t want to talk to me, no law says you have to.”
Desi closed her eyes, struggling with her own anger. The last thing she needed was a fight with her sister. Her conscience urged her to tell Gwen about Grandma. Spill everything about the ghost and Buck and how very frightened she was. But she didn’t want to drag Gwen into it. Didn’t want Gwen to worry or get involved or insist on probing Buck’s psychic brain cells.
As she rose, her gaze fell on a photograph of their grandmother. It was a fanciful head shot with Grandma wearing her biggest rhinestone earrings and a diamond-like collar. Grandma had taken her and Gwen to a glamour portrait store in the mall. They’d spent a ridiculous, laugh-filled afternoon getting made up and their hair teased. Grandma and Gwen had convinced Desi to pose with a feather boa. Her throat tightened at the memory.
Gwen broke into her thoughts, “I’ve been dreaming about Grandma.”
Desi gave a start. She picked up a Venetian glass bird and turned it in her hands, pretending to look at it.
“For the last three nights I dreamed about her. She’s so real, I can almost smell her perfume. I can almost touch her.”
“What happens in the dreams?”
Gwen canted her head and narrowed her eyes. For a moment she looked just like Grandma with an intelligence even brighter than her beauty. “She’s telling me to take care of you. It’s weird, isn’t it? You always take care of me. She says you’re in trouble and I need to help. Are you in trouble, Desi?”
“Dreams are just neurons discharging in your brain,” Desi said. Her throat hurt with the weight of the lie. “It doesn’t mean anything.” Under Gwen’s scrutiny Desi wanted to squirm. She tossed her sister a bone. “I need to go. I have a date with Buck.”
Gwen brightened. “Really? Is he the problem?”
“Sort of.” Desi set the bird down and pretended to examine other knickknacks on the table.
“So what’s wrong with him? He doesn’t floss regularly? His socks don’t match? He talks about old girlfriends?”
“Am I that bad?”
Gwen nodded. “You’re horrible. I’d say if you don’t want him, I’ll take him, but I hate leftovers.” She smiled. “So what is his deadly flaw?”
