"I'm good, thanks."
"If you ever need someone to talk to, consider me there. Any time, any day. Don't hesitate. I'm a really good listener." She gazed at him.
"Sure," he said.
I couldn't help chuckling. Claire ignored me and sauntered off.
Luke broke out into smile. "She's Meyerson's best friend, and she's coming on to me. Women."
Heat radiated from my neck to the top of my head. "Isn't it curious that Claire hasn't written about the cheating," I said, remembering that she wanted to interview me about the Ridge Grove murders. "That would make a great investigative story."
"This is high school, Jones. If she starts ratting people out—"
"She might be murdered?" I said, eyebrows raised.
He stared at me. "Not what I was going to say. If she rats people out, she'll be ostracized. Everybody would get paranoid about what she'd expose next."
Who cared about ostracism when a murder had taken place? We ate in silence for a minute. I looked at the wall clock. Lunch period was almost over.
"I saw Embry this morning," I said. "Ione's out with the flu, and Sinder's not here."
Luke stuffed his trash into this bag. "I didn't see Sinder in biology."
"Maybe she's home sick. Or cutting class."
"Or maybe she's in jail."
Either Luke Chapman had special insight as well, or just good timing. At the final bell, I checked my phone. Granddad had asked me to call him as soon as I heard his message. I called him back, not knowing what to expect.
"According to the news," he said, "the police will announce an arrest in about an hour."
I knew the police sometimes waited to name suspects at news conferences. "Why won't they just name the person now?"
"I don't know, hon. I wanted to give you a heads-up."
"Thanks," I said. "See you in a bit."
I raced to the school parking lot and headed straight to where Embry parked. He screeched to a halt when he saw me waving both arms like a crazy person.
"Where's Ione?" I said, out of breath when I reached the car. She usually rode to and from school with him. She was nowhere in sight.
He gaped at me. "Is that why you flagged me down?"
"I just heard there's going to an arrest in the case."
Embry's momentary panic seized me. However, his demeanor was calm. "They're not arresting her, if that's what you think."
"Why weren't you at lunch?"
He shrugged. "It's a nice day. I ate outside."
"Do you know anything about students buying term papers?" I blurted out.
He grinned and shifted the gear into drive. "That was random. I've got to go."
Before I could say another word, he pulled away. I spotted Luke walking across the parking lot. Maybe I could bounce a few ideas off him. I was about to shout his name when I saw Gabby doing some bouncing of her own. When she reached him, they kissed fully on the lips. I stopped in my tracks. He opened his car door for her, and she slid onto the seat.
***
A news anchor with bottle-blonde, helmet hair informed the world that sixteen-year-old Sinder Gillespie had been charged with involuntary manslaughter in the death of fellow Thomas Grier student, Desmond Drake.
I was too numb to do more than stare. While my parents and grandfather talked about the arrest at dinner that evening, I shifted food around on my plate.
"A love-sick girl," my mother said, shaking her head.
Though the news story left out the details, I was pretty sure the police believed Sinder accidentally poisoned Desmond with a spell involving peanuts.
"No doubt the school's reputation will suffer," my father said.
"Guinan told me the girl calls herself a witch," my mother said. "And she had a crush on the boy."
My father frowned. "Whatever she did, she had to have known peanuts would kill him."
"Or perhaps she wanted to play the hero," my mother said. "Get him his medication in the nick of time."
If it wer
e a case of Sinder playing the hero, she would have made sure she had quick access to Desmond's live-saving medication.
"They weren't there," I said. My family looked at me as if I'd just arrived. "Desmond's EpiPens. Luke searched Desmond, and Sinder searched his bag and locker."
Granddad watched me thoughtfully. I ran the scenario in my head like a film.
Sinder goes to the kitchen pantry and puts peanut oil or fragments (peanut dust?) into the oil bottle knowing, Mrs. Brennan would use it to make brownies. Or she uses oil from the altar. She steals his EpiPens so she can be the one who saves him, but her plan goes awry when she can't find them.
What happened to the medication? Was someone in on it with her and didn't arrive in time with them? Surely Sinder would have told the police about another person, especially now that she was charged in Desmond's death.
After dinner, Granddad and I retreated to the den. I told him he'd been right about the detective wanting my help with the term paper thing.
"What does she expect you to do?"
"I get the feeling she thinks I can read minds."
He rubbed his chin. "She obviously believes it's connected with the boy's death. Maybe Desmond was going to expose the cheating."
"I considered that," I said. I told him about Sinder's belief that he wanted to get back together with Ione. "That would bring Embry into in."
"And Ione," Granddad said. "Desmond might have threatened to tell Embry something she'd keep secret from him."
"And kill him over it?"
He rubbed his eyes. "If the detective believes that cheating has something to do with it, why hasn't she focused on it?"
Then it hit me. She probably didn't just hear rumors. Sinder must have said something.
"At any rate," he said, stretching, "the police consider it over. I think you should, too."
After Granddad went up to bed, I remained on the couch staring at the TV screen. I tried to remember all the Agatha Christie novels I'd read. In one novel, the killer injected a woman with a drug, but made the victim and everyone else believe she'd been stung by a bee. Could someone have injected Desmond without his knowing? I didn't remember him reacting to a sting.
I played scenarios over and over until the thoughts began to blend together. I closed my eyes to keep the dizziness at bay and let my mind drift toward the darkness.
Zeke and I stand across from each other in the police station. I smile, but he doesn't return it. I drift toward him, anticipating the sensation of his hand on my face, his warmth breath on my lips. I shift my eyes to the left and see Tessa in a jail cell, her hands wrapped around the bars. She's staring. Blue eyes fixed on me, her gaze feels sharp. I open my mouth to speak to her, and the scene changes.
I'm in a place I don't recognize, gasping for air. My throat constricts, then closes. I hear a terrible whistling sound, a futile effort to get oxygen into my brain. Sweat beads across my face. I scrabble at my neck and feel my flesh peel away and embed into my fingernails as I try to slacken the object around my neck. It feels like a sash from a robe. No brain power to think why. Why? Only to breathe. Breathe. Breathe! Pressure builds in my lips, my cheeks, my eyes. My arms won't work anymore. My vision clouds, and anger replaces fear. Not like this. Not like this. Chest burning, eyes throbbing. Is this what dying is really like? I am dying. I don't want to give up, but my arms are frozen. I will cease to exist. He will live.
Then...nothing. I sat up and gasped for air. I stumbled to my feet, and my knees buckled.
"Guinan, what is it? Are you all right?"
My mother's feet thudded against the carpet. Her terrycloth robe brushed across my arm as she knelt in front of me. I recoiled, but she held on to my arm with a cold, trembling hand that made me think of a dark winter night. She called out to my father. Two sets of footsteps pound down the stairs.
"Must have been another of those dream. Nothing actually happened to her. She's not injured."
The voice loomed at
the edge of consciousness. Zeke?
"She was shouting, Isaac."
Was I?
"And she's gasping."
"We need to get her some help," my father said, his voice strained.
"I told you she's not—"
"I'm talking about mental help, Isaac."
Nobody spoke after that.
Chapter Sixteen
I dreamed of someone's death after Sinder was arrested. There was no doubt that the two things were connected. That night, my mother calmed down only after I'd promised that the person in the dream wasn't me. After hours of discussions over the weekend, I'd agreed to talk to a professional.
"But I'd like to see the school psychologist first. I'll try to catch him on Monday.
Fine with us, they said.
Now, sitting at the table watching their expectant faces and Granddad's unreadable one, I asked myself the question: why hadn't I dreamed of Desmond's death as I'd dreamed of this one? Was this person me? Flesh peel away and embed into my fingernails...
I looked at my hands. The nails were short, and the right index finger was chewed down to a nub. The person in the dream had long fingernails. A woman. Or a teenage girl.
"I'll try to see Mr. Howard today," I said, hoping they couldn't hear the quaver in my voice.
My father kissed me on the cheek. "Your mother and I want to help you, sweetheart. I'll drop you off at school today."
I looked at Granddad and tried to read his expression. He kept it neutral. He was probably thinking the same thing I was. When I dreamed of my death, Tessa tried to kill me roughly two weeks afterward. This fact didn't make me feel better, but it gave me some leeway to figure out the who, what, where, when, and why of this future death.
Restless in math class, I was anxious to catch Mr. Howard in his office. Teachers had a hard time settling their classes as students were eager to talk about Sinder's arrest. Some expressed shock, while others said her desperate actions confirmed the worst about her. When I made eye contact with some of them, I knew they longed to ask questions. My impatient expression must have done the job of deflecting them.
Mr. Howard wasn't in his office when I stopped by before my next class. I chewed on a nail and caught Embry's eye. I smiled. He didn't return it. When the next class was over, I rushed to Mr. Howard's office. I skidded to a stop when I saw him unlocking the door.
"Mr. Howard," I said, louder than I'd intended.
He seemed to brace himself in case I collided with him. "Miss Jones. Everything all right?"
"Yes. I mean...no. I'd like to make an appointment with you. Do you have anything open today?"
"I'll check," he said. I gazed into the gray eyes and put up the red-brick wall. "Come on in."
I waited at the door of his office while he searched his schedule on his computer. The room contained dark-wood paneling. Mahogany and blue dominated the color scheme. I glanced at a photo on the bookcase behind him. A pretty blonde woman and three, small, tow-headed children smiled up from a large picture frame.
"Hmm...looks like a light day. Do you have time now? I have some paperwork to complete, but I can spare perhaps thirty minutes."
Now that I'd accomplished this task, the nervousness returned. I sank into the chair across from his desk and cleared my throat. "My parents think I should talk to someone about my..." I faltered and licked my lips. "I'm sure you've read or heard that I'm clairvoyant."
To his credit, Mr. Howard kept a straight face. He picked up a pen and opened a notebook.
"I've never seen a professional about it before," I said. "I mean, what do I say without sounding crazy? Psychic powers? It's unreal, right?"
He smiled and put down his pen. "I don't use the word 'crazy' to describe someone with mental or physiological issues. Even when a person is irrational, for example, there's usually an underlying logic for it. Once that can be determined, I can work with the client and help him or her learn how to cope with the world as it is."
"That's interesting. So you're saying you don't believe in psychics?"
"Let me put it this way," he said, clasping his hands in front of him. "I believe that everyone has different levels of intuition. Not supernatural intuition, but a kind of knowledge or insight shaped by relationships and events. I don't believe that people see or know things before they happen or move objects with their minds."
I realized I still had my book bag on my shoulder. I eased it to the floor. "What if..." I paused and shook my head. "Forget the hypothetical. I have real-life examples." I told him that I'd dreamed of my murder at Jepson's Point, that Kate Mansfield was murdered afterward, and that I was almost murdered in the same place.
He scratched his cheek. "My theory is the dream was about her. Perhaps you sensed some tension between the girl and her murderer. Your own perceptions, based on your interactions with the girl, prompted your unconscious to act out a scenario in which she was punished for what you suspected she might have done."
I blinked. I actually understood what he just said. I also figured it was pointless to tell him about the differences between the vision of my death and Kate's murder.
He paused for me to respond. When I didn't, he continued. "All I'm saying is there's a rational explanation for why you might be more sensitive to underlying tension than other people."
"In other words, it's all in my head."
He smiled. "Is there anything specific you wanted to discuss with me? Is someone at school giving you a hard time or—"
"Nothing like that." How far should I take this? "I had a dream recently. It was disturbing."
Mr. Howard rested his elbows on the desk. "Go on."
"I dreamed that someone, a female most likely, was being strangled."
He nodded but didn't speak.
"I know what you're probably thinking. It was only a dream."
"You think you dreamed of someone being murdered?"
I didn't want him to write me off as mentally disturbed. I pulled back. "Well, as you said, maybe my unconscious acted out a scenario, or I'm sensing that someone might be in danger." My gaze shifted to the floor. "Someone like Sinder Gillespie, for example."
I looked up in time to see Mr. Howard's mouth form an O. He sat back. "If I understand you correctly, you think someone, a female student at this school, is in danger, and that danger is related to Desmond Drake's death?"
I nodded. "I know she's been to see you, and that you can't discuss what you talked about."
"You're correct," he said. "I think you should talk to the police about your concerns."
"Have they questioned you?"
He waited several seconds before speaking. "I provided them with information relevant to their investigation. Miss Gillespie didn't confess a desire to kill anyone nor give me any indication she was capable of such a thing."
"What about Desmond? You saw him as well. He told me, by the way."
"Again, I can't—"
"I only ask because I'm wondering if he feared for his life, if he suspected Sinder or someone else might..." A flash of irritation on his face stopped me short
"Miss Jones, I'm sure the police investigation will be thorough. This isn't Ridge Grove."
I couldn't hold back my defensiveness. "My grandfather's department was thorough."
Mr. Howard raised an eyebrow. "As I recall from the news, the police arrested the wrong person, and the murderer almost killed you."
Unrighteous indignation flared in my chest. "Well, Tessa Hicks was clever and unassuming."
"Look," he said, closing his notebook. "I don't mean to be insensitive. It's just that I don't see what you can do that the police can't. They obviously believe they have a solid case against Miss Gillespie."
I studied the floor.
"Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Yes," I said rising and gathering up my book bag. "Do you know anything about students buying term papers?" I held his gaze, and his nervousness flitted across my brain.
He set his jaw, got to
his feet, and walked around the desk. "When you're ready to speak to me about your issues, let me know."
***
So Mr. Howard knew about the term paper-buying scheme. He probably counseled students who'd bought papers. Claire Capwell said she knew someone who'd bought one. I searched for her, and she turned out to be a difficult person to catch up with. I stalked her locker, but she never seemed to go there. I hadn't seen her at lunch, either. I staked out her locker at the final bell. I spotted her coming toward it. Her eyes grew wide when she saw me.
"What a coincidence," she said. "I was looking for you."
I eyed her warily.
She glanced over her shoulder and spoke in a low voice. "I want to do a big spread about Desmond's death. You're friends with Sinder, right?"
"Claire, I don't want to—"
"An interview with you, that anonymous blogger, and anybody else I can think of who might have the inside scoop."
I took a step back. "And you think I have it?"
She rolled her eyes and edged me away from her locker so she could open it. Her hands spun the combination. I looked at her nails. Short and neat.
"Grier doesn't want us to write about it, but, hello? The First Amendment? Now that we know it wasn't an accident, I mean, he'll have to relent, right? The public deserves to know what happened here. If I could get a series of stories up, submit the whole package in the state competition, and win, think how it would bolster my college applications."
Claire said all of this very fast. My mind reeled. I'd planned to ambush her, and she'd turned the tables. Set to refuse the interview, I remembered I wanted something from her.
"I'll agree to give you some insight if you tell me who bought a term paper online."
She slammed the locker shut. "What? No freaking way!"
"This person is probably a friend of yours," I said, narrowing my eyes. "That's why you haven't investigated the rumor."
She shook her head and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
I mimicked her earlier glance over the shoulder, moved closer to her, and whispered. "I'm not interested in getting anybody in trouble." I paused for effect. "I might be in the market for a paper myself, and I want to make sure everything's secure."
Mourning Moon (A Guinan Jones Paranormal Mystery #2) Page 10
