Final Call - A Mary O'Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book 4)

by Terri Reid

  “No! No! No! No!” Hezekiah yelled. “I am not dead. This is just a mistake. I’m here, right next to you! Tell me you can hear me.”

  Rachael, his ten year-old daughter, looked around the room. “Momma, I thought I heard Daddy’s voice,” she said in a whisper. “Could Daddy be a ghost?”

  “Daddy said there’s no such thing as ghosts,” Alvin countered. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Alvin, be nice to your sister,” Lucinda reprimanded gently. “I think we’re all a little overwhelmed right now.”

  Dr. Polley, who’d been standing at the back of the room, came forward. “He died quickly,” he said. “I don’t know if that makes you feel any better. He didn’t suffer.”

  Hezekiah turned on the doctor. “How do you know whether or not I’m suffering?” he asked. “How do you know what I feel?”

  Lucinda nodded and patted the doctor’s arm. “Thank you, Doctor, that does make it a little easier to deal with.”

  Dr. Polley placed his hand on hers. “If there is anything I can do…”

  Lucinda smiled at him. “You’ve been very helpful, thank you.”

  “Tell him to bring me back,” Hezekiah yelled. “Tell him to take those damn defibrillators off the wall and bring me back to life.”

  He realized he was swearing, but at that point, he really didn’t care. “I’m not dead! I can’t be dead! I’ve got too much to do!”

  “I’ll have the nurse call Walker’s Funeral Home,” he said. “They’ll pick up Hezekiah’s body and then you can meet with them about the funeral.”

  “Oh, no, don’t let them take my body,” Hezekiah pleaded. “Don’t let them bury me. I’m still here! I’m still alive.”

  “Mommy, we can’t let them bury Daddy,” Rachael cried, “We can’t put Daddy in the ground.”

  Lucinda hugged the little girl, tears glistening in her own eyes as she took a ragged breath. “Oh, darling, Daddy’s up in Heaven now,” she said. “He’s looking down on us from his reward in the sky. His body is just what’s left once his spirit has gone on. Just like the butterfly that leaves its cocoon. Daddy has moved on and is bright and wonderful in his glory.”

  Hezekiah leaned back against the wall of the hospital room, tears streaming down his face. “I’m dead,” he cried. “Oh, dear Lord, I’m dead.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mary saw the ghost stagger out of the hospital, a lost and dazed look on his face. She jumped out of her car and hurried to meet him. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He turned to her and she could see the dark tracks of tears on his cheek. “I’m dead,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m dead and I didn’t make it to heaven.”

  “Well, that doesn’t mean you won’t,” Mary explained. “It usually just means you’ve got some unfinished business and God is letting you tie up loose ends before you leave.”

  “Who are you?” he asked. “And why are you following me?”

  “My name is Mary, Mary O’Reilly. I have a special gift; I can communicate with people who have died.”

  “You one of those so-called psychics?” he sneered. “Nothing but the devil’s work in things like that.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t tell the future and I can’t read your mind,” she said. “What I do is help people who are caught between this life and the next. I help them so they can move on and go to heaven.”

  He shook his head. “Seems to me you are talking to the wrong person. I know more about heaven and getting to heaven than you could even imagine. I am third generation minister and I know my place and my calling. There has just been a mistake, that’s all. God is going to be calling me home directly. See if he don’t.”

  Mary didn’t think God made mistakes, but she realized this gentleman was not in the right frame of mind for that kind of message.

  “Well, perhaps you’re right,” she said, “I wish you well on your journey, then. But, if you do find you need to talk to someone, I’ll be happy to visit with you.”

  She could almost feel the wall he was building between the two of them.

  “I thank you kindly, but I can tell you, you won’t be needed. Now, I’ve got to get back to the church because I know that’s where God is searching for me.”

  “Best of luck,” she said, wishing there was something else she could do for him.

  “Young lady, I don’t need luck. I’ve got the Lord,” he replied, turning away from her.

  He walked a few steps and turned. “I’m a little new at this business,” he admitted sheepishly. “But I’ve got to believe I don’t have to walk everywhere I want to go.”

  Mary smiled. “From what I’ve been told, if you can just picture a place in your mind, you can go there.”

  He nodded. “Once again, thank you kindly.”

  He closed his eyes, sighed with satisfaction and then faded away.

  Mary shook her head. “I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.”

  Within ten minutes she had driven to Rosie’s home. Both Stanley’s car and Bradley’s cruiser were in the driveway, so Mary opted to leave her car at the curb.

  She looked up and down the quiet residential block. Most of the Christmas lights that usually had been removed by fastidious home owners by this time of year were still blinking under several feet of snow. Between record high snowfalls and record low temperatures, most people hadn’t minded extending the holiday season a little longer.

  Mary carefully walked to the front door, avoiding patches of ice, and knocked once before she let herself in.

  Rosie’s home looked and smelled like a cozy country cottage. The scent of cinnamon and cloves assailed your nose the moment you walked through the threshold. Cheery overstuffed loveseats and chairs in bright floral prints, Thomas Kincaid prints, rag rugs on polished wood floors and glazed pots in primary colors with bright dried flower bouquets decorated the great room. Flames from a gas fireplace put the finishing touch on the scene. As you walked from room to room, you could see the love and care that was put into each accessory and piece of furniture. It was like something out of a Country Beautiful magazine.

  Mary loved Rosie’s home because not only did Rosie decorate with hearth and heart in mind, she also understood comfort. Mary hung her coat of the rack near the door and slipped off her boots. Rosie, Stanley and Bradley were sitting in a cozy corner of the room near the fireplace.

  “Mary, dear,” Rosie called. “What happened? What took you so long?”

  Mary joined them, picking an ottoman closest to the fireplace to let the warmth seep through her cold body. “I met a fairly confused ghost outside the theater,” she explained. “I didn’t feel I should leave him alone, so I followed him back to the hospital.”

  “A confused ghost?” Stanley asked. “What’s there to be confused about? When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true. But sometimes when you die, you don’t quite realize you’re dead,” she said. “And when you don’t go walking down that long passageway toward the light, like you’ve been expecting… Well, you can get confused.”

  Bradley turned to her, his face unreadable for a moment. “Long passageway to the light?” he said, shaking his head slightly. “That reminds me of the dream I had about Jeannine.”

  Well, crap! Mary thought. He wasn’t supposed to realize it wasn’t a dream. Good thing I’m not with the State Department. Government secrets anyone?

  “That’s right, you did mention that,” she said, then turned quickly to Rosie before Bradley could respond. “So, Rosie, tell me about what happened tonight.”

  “Oh, Mary, it was awful,” Rosie responded. “You know, I could feel something was wrong the minute I walked into the theater.”

  “Funny, you didn’t mention that to me,” Stanley interjected.

  Rosie turned and scowled at him. “I didn’t want to frighten you, unnecessarily.”

  “Humph,” was his reply.

  “Anyway, Mary,” Rosie continued in a soft voice, leaning toward Ma
ry. “We entered the theater, with the threat of the unknown before us. I went first, being familiar with the theater and the mysteries of the unknown and the frightening.”

  “That’s true,” Stanley interrupted. “She did own a beauty shop for quite a few years.”

  “Stanley, that’s quite enough,” Rosie chided, biting back her own smile. “You’re ruining the story.”

  Stanley stood up. “Well, why I don’t just get Mary something to drink while you finish up the story?”

  Rosie smiled at him. “That would be lovely, thank you. Mary, Stanley made some wonderful hot cocoa, would you care for some?”

  Mary turned raised eyebrows to Stanley. “You made…”

  “I opened an envelope and added hot water,” he interrupted. “A trained monkey could do it.”

  “But he also put whipped cream on the top,” Rosie said to Mary and turning to Stanley added, “I don’t think a monkey could have gotten the top off the whipped cream, it’s quite tricky. Besides, it probably wouldn’t have even thought of it.”

  “She’s right, Stanley,” Bradley added. “Bananas maybe, but whipped cream, never.”

  Stanley stared at Rosie and shook his head. “I meant…”

  “I’d love some hot cocoa, Stanley,” Mary said, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice. “With whipped cream, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fine,” Stanley grumbled and stormed out of the room.

  Rosie watched him leave and turned back to Mary and Bradley with confusion written on her face. “I don’t understand why he’s so upset,” she said. “He volunteered to do it in the first place.”

  Mary grinned. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked for whipped cream.”

  Bradley chuckled. “Yes, I’m sure it was the whipped cream that did it.”

  Shaking her head, Rosie sat back in her chair. “Why, isn’t that just the strangest thing? I suppose I will never understand men.”

  “So, Rosie, you were telling me about your experience,” Mary prompted.

  “Well, actually,” she admitted candidly. “I never did see too much of anything. Once we realized that Faye was hanging from the rafters, Stanley ushered me out of there and into the seats. I suppose he was trying to protect me.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill Faye?” Mary asked.

  “Why wouldn’t they is more the question,” Stanley replied, placing a big mug of hot cocoa and a plate of chocolate chip cookies next to Mary. “She was a piece of work, that one.”

  Mary took a quick bite of cookie and then asked, “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Well, from what I heard at the store today, last night’s rehearsal was a real doozy. She threatened to have Donald Saxer fired from his job, told Carl White that she was going to tell his wife he was having an affair with one of the gals in the cast and, just before that, tore into the entire cast like a bear into a beehive.”

  “Not a very pleasant woman, was she?” Mary said. “So, do you think any of those people could kill her?”

  Bradley sat forward and snatched one of her cookies. “Given the right motivation, anyone can kill.”

  Chapter Eight

  Bradley ran his hand through his hair and sighed. All of these people had the right motivation to kill, he thought. Faye McMullen was not a nice lady, and that was putting it mildly.

  He looked down at the long sheet of suspects that had been called into the station that night. Mostly cast and crew from the play, but there were also a number of employees and friends. Bradley wanted to question them before word got out on the street about her death and people started sharing their stories. Once that happened you were never sure what was real and what was hearsay.

  Most of the names had a red line through them, they had been interviewed. There was only one name still waiting, Carl White, the director.

  Glancing at the clock, he saw it was already after midnight. He closed his eyes for a moment, and rubbed his temples, trying to ease away a tension headache. He would be very happy when this night was over.

  He lifted his phone to have Dorothy bring Carl in, when the door burst open and a young man in round horned-rimmed glasses, a tweed suit, white shirt, argyle vest, and bow tie strode into his office. Bradley thought he looked like a cross between a grown-up Harry Potter and the BBC’s version of Sherlock Holmes. Dorothy was following close behind, trying to catch the intruder.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “I just received a call that my aunt has been murdered and you ask me if you can help me,” he raged. “Do you know who I am?”

  Bradley looked past him to Dorothy. “I’ll take this one and I’ll buzz you when I’m ready for the next one.”

  “Thanks, Chief,” she said.

  Bradley calmly sat back in his chair, looked at the young man and pressed his hands together. “Actually, I don’t know who you are,” he said. “Perhaps you can take a seat and tell me.”

  He motioned to the chair in front of his desk.

  “Don’t tell me to take a seat,” the young man said, absently sitting in the chair. “I won’t be told what to do. I’m in charge now.”

  Bradley bit back a grin. “Well, why don’t you tell me just what you’re in charge of now, Mr...?”

  “Rodney, Rodney McMullen and I’m in charge of McMullen Industries, of course” he said. “I am the heir.”

  “Of course, the heir,” Bradley repeated thoughtfully, “And as such, you had the most to gain with your aunt’s death. Making you the number one suspect, don’t you think?”

  Rodney blanched. “What? No! Of course not,” he stammered. “I need my lawyer.”

  Bradley nodded, “Yes, I think you might,” he said. “Do you want to wait in the outside office while your lawyer gets here, or would you like to continue our conversation without legal counsel?”

  “I didn’t kill my aunt,” he said. “I loved my aunt.”

  Bradley sent him a look of stark disbelief.

  Rodney shrugged. “Okay, I didn’t love her,” he admitted. “But I didn’t hate her.”

  “Are we continuing the interview?” Bradley asked.

  Rodney shook his head. “No, no, I’ll wait,” he said, getting out of the chair and walking to the door. “But it’s late and my attorney is not going to be happy about this.”

  “Please give your attorney my sincerest apology for waking him in the middle of the night,” Bradley said.

  “I don’t have to apologize to him,” he said. “I’m in charge now.”

  Bradley nodded. “I’ll make a note of that.”

  The door closed and Bradley dropped his head in his hands. He prayed the attorney got there quickly. He took a deep breath and pressed the intercom button. “Dorothy, send in Carl White please.”

  Almost immediately, Carl came through the door. His face was flushed and he had beads of perspiration on his forehead and above his lip. His glance went nervously around the room, before fleetingly meeting Bradley’s eyes and moving on.

  Bradley stood and extended his hand. “Hello, Mr. White,” he said, once Carl had clasped his hand. “I’m Bradley Alden, Chief of Police; it’s nice to meet you.”

  Carl’s hand was cold and clammy, just what Bradley expected. If physical signs of guilt were all it took to convict someone, they could clap the chains on Carl and haul him off to jail immediately.

  “Have a seat,” Bradley offered, motioning to the chair in front of his desk.

  Carl shuffled forward and sat down at the edge of the chair.

  Bradley took a good look at Carl. He was in his mid to late thirties and of average height, a couple of inches under six feet. He wasn’t a large man, but his skin was flaccid and seemed to hang around his face, as if he had lost a lot of weight recently. His complexion was pasty and his eyes seemed over bright. Was Mr. White addicted to drugs?

  “So tell me about your relationship with Faye,” Bradley said, clicking on the recorder in front of him.

  “Am I a suspect?” Carl whispered.<
br />
  Bradley leaned forward and looked directly into his eyes. “Do you think you ought to be?”

  Carl shook his head. “No, no, I didn’t kill Faye,” he said. “But...can I be honest with you?”

  Bradley nodded, “Actually, I was hoping that would be the case.”

  Carl’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean,” he said. “I mean, damn, I can’t do this.”

  He closed his eyes and covered them with his hands. “I don’t know what I should do.”

  “Why don’t you let me ask you a few questions,” Bradley suggested. “And then we can go from there, okay?”

  He sat back in the chair and grabbed on to either arm of the chair. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “Carl, you can relax, I just want to ask you some questions,” Bradley said, observing the white knuckled hold Carl had on the chair.

  Carl smiled tightly. “I’m fine, really,” he lied. “Go ahead with the questions.”

  “What happened after the practice on Saturday night?”

  “Well, Faye called everyone together and read us all the riot act,” he said. “No one was doing a good enough job for her.”

  “Is it common for Faye to act this way?”

  “Yeah,” Carl said, nodding. “She likes to think she’s the only one in town with any talent.”

  “I heard she threatened both you and...,” he looked at his notes, “Donald Saxer. Is that true?”

  Taking a deep breath, Carl sat forward in the chair, “There’s no way Donald killed her. Yeah, she threatened his job, but there’s no way he would have done it.”

  “She threatened his job?”

  “She told him she was going in to his employer and get him canned,” he confessed. “She would have done it too, nasty bitch.”

  “Did she often do this kind of thing?”

  Carl sat back again, his hands loosened their grip. “Yeah, she was always throwing her weight around,” he said. “She liked to keep people dangling on strings, pulling on them to watch them dance for her.”

  “Why Donald?”

  “Because he laughed at her and her majesty would not allow anyone to make fun of her.”