by Jane Hinchey
“As in girlfriends?” Jackson asked, then answered without waiting for an answer. “Both unattached. The three of them have been friends since junior high.”
“So they’re tight. They’d lie for each other if they thought one of them was in trouble?” Jenna pushed.
“That’s true. Ethan totally lied for Jacob when I busted them with the beer.”
Monica sniggered. “So what you’re saying here is that we have a bunch of suspects, all of them teenagers and all of them liars.”
“Actually,” Gran cut in, “I think Ryan is sweet on Hannah.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know she’s a fire bug yet. That might change,” I pointed out.
“We assume he doesn’t know,” Gran shot back. “Maybe he does.”
“Okay, I know we’re only speculating so let’s just assume they’re all lying. What do we know?” I stood in front of the board, sharpie and Post-its in hand.
“Emily was twelve weeks pregnant,” Jackson supplied, “yet Jacob says they’ve only been together eight weeks.” He nodded toward the board. “Query baby’s father.” I wrote it on a Post-it and stuck it to the board.
“The pregnancy… could that be the motive for murder? I mean, there are options for unwanted pregnancies.” Jenna crossed her arms. As alarming as it was to consider someone had killed Emily because she was carrying a baby, we couldn’t discount it.
“What about the phone?” I’d heard it ring from inside the locked beach hut.
“Waiting on the records from her provider, but definitely Emily’s phone. It was under a bed. No signs of forced entry or a struggle so Emily must have had a key to let herself in.”
“Or,” Monica drawled, “the killer had a key and dragged her in there to kill her uninterrupted.”
“We’re dusting for prints. A lot depends on forensics.”
“Is it possible that Emily and Jacob used to meet in the hut? That they used it for…” I paused and Monica filled in the silence, “For sex, you mean?”
“He told me they weren’t sleeping together,” I muttered.
“That girl was pregnant—she’d been sleeping with someone,” Monica drawled. And once more we’d circled back to lying teenagers.
“Can we make them take a lie detector test?” I asked hopefully.
Jackson grinned. “It would be nice, but no.” He ran a weary hand through his hair, then glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. I suggest we wrap this up for now.”
“Hold on.” Whitney had been remarkably silent throughout our discussions. “You can see ghosts. Why not talk to Emily? Just ask her who killed her.”
“I’m a necromancer, yes, but that doesn’t mean I see or hear every dead person. If their spirit has crossed, I can’t communicate with them. And don’t think I haven’t been keeping my eye out for her.”
Whitney wrinkled her nose. “Can’t I do it? I’m a ghost. It’s only fair I should be able to see other ghosts.”
“Have you tried?” he asked. “Maybe leave the store, go on an adventure.”
“I can’t leave the store,” she huffed.
“Why not?”
“Because I died here. I’m stuck here.”
He was shaking his head. “You’re a ghost. A free spirit. You’re only tied to the store because you think you are. Have you even tried to leave?”
What was he doing? It was bad enough that she was here, haunting my store, I didn’t need to be bumping into her anywhere else. Although, maybe she’d go move in with Wendy and Bruce and bother them.
“But you and I control Whitney’s presence,” I pointed out. “She only appears when we’re together.”
“That’s a phenomenon I’ve never encountered before.” Jackson leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “And I have a theory.”
“Oh?” Whitney hovered in front of him, eagerly waiting.
“I think it’s all in your head,” he said bluntly, eyeballing the ghost. “You were obsessed with Harper when you were alive, and your spirit has clung to that obsession, manifesting into this untrue belief you can only be present when she is here. It really has nothing to do with me per se.”
Whitney’s image shimmered and started to darken, something I’d never seen before. The lights overhead flickered.
“Uh-oh,” Gran muttered. “Good one, Jackson, you’ve made her angry.”
The whole room began to shake, books fell from the shelves and the lights continued to flicker.
“Enough!” Jackson said sternly, straightening and stepping forward until he was face-to-face with Whitney.
I swallowed. This was why I didn’t like ghosts. They were scary. And Whitney right now was terrifying. Before she’d been pale, almost white, a semi-transparent being, but now she was dark, almost black, and looked exactly how I imagined the grim reaper to look, minus the scythe.
Even her voice was different, deep and low and it thundered around the room when she spoke. “That doesn’t explain your role in this,” she boomed.
“Calm. Down.” Jackson ground out through a clenched jaw. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her? Is that what you want? Was that your plan all along? Haunt Harper for the rest of her life?”
Whitney spun to look at me and I cringed, unable to stop the involuntary movement. Jackson was spot on, she was terrifying and any second now I’d pee my pants. I clamped my knees together just in case.
“Oh,” Whitney said. And just like that, everything was back to normal. “I’m so sorry, Harper,” she said, making a move toward me, but when I leaned away, she stopped and I slowly released the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
She turned her attention back to Jackson. “You must have a theory,” she said calmly and sweetly, “as to why I appear when you’re both here. You think I’m fixated on Harper, and fair call, maybe subconsciously I was. At the time of death, since I was handling the sale of The Dusty Attic, and I died here.” She pointed to a spot on the floor and visions of the day I’d found her flitted through my mind.
I’d arranged to meet her here for the final handover of the keys after signing the contract earlier that day. She’d been flustered because she’d misplaced the keys so I’d agreed to meet her at the store. Whitney and I had never had much of a friendship when she was alive. She’d been my high school nemesis and when I’d returned to Whitefall Cove and purchased the store, dealing with her was a necessity, nothing more. Alive, Whitney had been a bully and a terror, steamrolling everyone to get what she wanted, only looking out for herself. In death? The exact opposite. It took some getting used to.
“I think I know.” Monica was watching the drama unfold before her, her eyes darting from me, to Jackson, to Whitney before settling back on Jackson. “Jackson makes Harper feel safe. Hence, you, Whitney, only appear when he’s with her so she isn’t scared of you. Because that isn’t your intent. If you wanted to scare her, you’d be here all the time, and you wouldn’t limit yourself to the bookstore.”
You could have heard a pin drop. Until Gran punctuated the silence with a fart. Jenna clapped her hand over her mouth, but a giggle escaped. Followed by another and soon she was bending forward, waves of laughter escaping her. Monica joined her and Jackson was trying to keep a straight face. I grinned. Trust Gran to break the ice by farting.
“That better not be a stink bomb,” warned Monica with mock sternness. “My nose is far more sensitive than anyone else’s here.”
“Yeah, but you don’t need to breathe, so just hold it,” Gran shot back, unrepentant.
Jackson's phone vibrated, and he glanced at the screen before swiping to answer. “Ward.” I watched as he listened intently to whoever was on the other end of the line. His eyes met mine. Something had happened. Something bad. His next words confirmed it. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up, then addressed the group.
“Sarah McClain is in the hospital. Attempted suicide.”
Chapter Eleven
The following morning I was surprised wh
en Jordan showed up for work.
“Shouldn’t you be at rehearsals?”
She shrugged, tossing her backpack beneath the desk, looking cool and casual in denim shorts and T-shirt. “Your Gran is over at the town hall arguing with Jacob’s uncle about the booking.”
I rolled my eyes. Gran was never one to back down from a confrontation, but what exactly were they arguing about? “The booking? For using the town hall you mean?”
She nodded. “Mr. Griffin says he has it booked for a fundraiser tonight and he needs early access to decorate. Gran isn’t budging, saying she has it booked until five o’clock and he can go—”
I cut her off. “Got it.” The talent competition was tomorrow night, Gran needed all the rehearsal time she could get, although now she was another witch down I wondered if their performance would go ahead at all. “Have you heard how Sarah is?”
Jordan frowned, her face puzzled. “That was the weirdest thing, you know? Sarah is the last person I’d have thought would try to kill herself.”
I had to agree. From what I’d seen and heard, Sarah was a confident young woman who didn’t appear to have self-esteem issues. Goes to show you didn’t really know what was going on in a person’s life.
“But they say she’s getting out of the hospital today.” Jordan continued, “That she didn’t take enough pills to actually die.”
“Where did she get the pills from?” I’d waited up last night, hoping to hear from Jackson, but by midnight I’d given in and gone to bed. No word from him this morning, either, so I had no new information, and it was killing me not being in the loop. And okay, I was bummed he hadn’t called or texted, not necessarily about the case, but just to say goodnight. Or good morning.
Jordan shrugged her shoulders. “Her mom, I think? Not that her mom gave them to her,” she hastily added, “but that Sarah stole them from her mom’s medicine cabinet.”
Gran came bursting through the door, face flushed. She pointed at Jordan. “To the town hall. We’ve only got this morning to prepare, every minute counts.”
Dropping a kiss on Gran’s cheek in greeting, I asked, “Reach a compromise with the councilman, did you?”
“Pft, darn politics,” she grumbled, watching as Jordan collected her things. “Little upstart thinks he actually has a shot at being mayor.”
“What about Sarah? You’re another player down.”
Gran grabbed my arm and leaned in close. “I heard she took her mom’s Diazepam! But not enough to do any lasting damage. Pumped her stomach last night and discharging her this morning. She texted Hannah to say she’s okay and will be fine for tomorrow night.”
“Oh well, that’s good. I’m glad she’s okay.”
Jordan hurried past us, breezily waving a hand in the air. “I’ll see you in rehearsal, Mrs. B.”
“Full dress rehearsal,” Gran called after her, “the last one before the competition. We only have until lunchtime, but if you feel you need more time to memorize the routine, you and I can practice this afternoon.”
Gran turned to me. “Councilman Griffin and I came to an agreement. He agreed to pay me a hundie to finish up by one o’clock.”
“A hundie? As in… a hundred dollars?”
“Mmmhmmm.” She winked. “He’s desperate for his fundraiser to be a success. Shoulda held out for more. I could probably have squeezed him up to two.”
“I thought this was about the kids?” I teased.
She laughed. “That’s the exact line I used!” Then she blew me a kiss and bustled out of the store. I watched her departing back, admiring her lack of inhibition when it came to her clothing choices. Today she was in hot pink fishnet tights, an orange tutu, and a WHAM T-shirt, knotted at the hem. On her wrists a multitude of neon bracelets. The tutu swished back and forth as she hurried down the sidewalk.
Flipping the sign from closed to open, I turned to put the coffee pot on and squealed when I nearly ran into Whitney. “Eeek!” Hand on my thumping heart I eyeballed the ghost who was hovering a foot away, a look of triumph on her face.
“I did it.” She nodded in satisfaction.
“You sure did,” I muttered darkly, not at all happy with this turn of events. “Have you tried leaving the bookstore? That might be a good idea.”
“I did it,” she said again, blinking at me.
“I heard you the first time.”
“I did it.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
She moved toward me and I backed away. “Whitney, take it down a notch, would you?” But the ghost of Whitney Sims kept coming at me, repeating the words I did it like some sort of mantra.
I darted around her, moved behind the desk, but she just drifted right through the solid structure. Darn ghosts. Each time I moved away she followed, whatever I put in her path she moved right through, and I was on the verge of panicking when Jackson’s voice rang out.
“Whitney!”
Both of us swiveled to see Jackson stagger out of the storeroom at the rear of the store. Had he been here the whole time?
“Oh.” Whitney sighed in disappointment. She hadn’t done it at all. She hadn’t materialized without Jackson being present. I closed my eyes on a silent prayer of thanks. I wasn’t sure I could cope with her ghost in my store twenty-four seven.
Then I noticed Jackson holding a hand to the back of his head.
“Are you okay?”
He pulled his hand away, and I saw blood. “Oh my God, you’re hurt!” Rushing to his side I slung an arm around his waist to support him as he slumped. “What happened? How did you get in my store? How long have you been here?”
“I wish I could answer all those questions.” He groaned, leaning heavily against me. “But I’ve got no idea. Last thing I remember is swinging by here last night to see if you were still here.”
“Last night? You’ve been here all that time?” I eased him into the chair behind the desk and pried his hand away from the wound on the back of his head. “Let me see.”
I could see diddly squat except for blood matting his hair. “Wait here.” Hurrying back into the storeroom, I retrieved the first aid kit, frowning at the small pool of blood on the floor. Someone had attacked him and left him for dead. In my store. None of it made sense.
Swiveling the chair so he was facing me, I pressed a gauze pad against the wound with one hand, and touched his cheek with the other. He had a lovely gray pallor going on.
“I think I should call an ambulance,” I said. He shook his head, then winced at the movement.
“No. Call the station.” He patted his pockets, searching for his phone. “Darn.” He cursed.
“Whoever did this took your phone?” I guessed. He nodded, then groaned.
“Stop moving your head. Here, hold this, and stop moving. You’ve probably got a concussion.” Once he had a grip on the gauze, I grabbed my phone and dialed, delighted when the dulcet tones of Officer Liliana Miles answered.
“Whitefall Cove Police.”
“This is Harper Jones. I’m at The Dusty Attic with Detective Ward. He’s injured.”
“Injured? How?”
“I don’t know. I found him like this. A head injury, a blow to the back of the head by the looks of things.”
“Oh, so you’re a detective now?” Her voice dripped sarcasm and I could picture her in my mind, complete with eye roll.
Jackson overheard and took the phone from me. “Liliana,” he snapped, “either send someone else or come yourself. I don’t care which, but I want this place dusted for prints. Someone jumped me out front last night and dragged me in here.”
“Hadn’t you better get checked out then?” she shot back.
“I will. As soon as a squad gets here Harper’s taking me to the hospital.” He looked at me and I nodded. Fine with me. I crossed to the front door and flicked the sign back to closed. Jackson finished the call and closed his eyes, the phone sliding from his fingers to the desk with a soft thud.
“Jackson?” Rushing to his si
de, I was relieved when his eyes opened and he gave me a grin.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I’ve got the mother of all headaches.”
“You said someone jumped you. Out front?”
“Yeah. Probably around eleven thirty. I only stopped because it was on the way home from the hospital and despite it being an extreme long shot I figured, what the hell, you might still have been here working on the murder board. Plus, I wanted to see you.”
My heart warmed. I’d wanted to see him too.
“I couldn’t see any lights, but I got out and checked the door, more out of habit to check it was secure than anything else.”
“And someone hit you?”
“I heard a sound behind me, and before I could turn, it was boom, lights out.”
The screech of tires outside heralded a patrol car and my shoulders slumped when Liliana herself banged on the door. Opening the door I stepped aside as she strode inside. Setting a forensic case at her feet, she studied Jackson for a moment before turning her attention to me.
“You’d better get him to the hospital. He’s not looking so hot.”
I nodded, slung my bag over my shoulder, and slid my arm around Jackson’s waist to help him out of the chair.
“If you leave before I get back, will you lock the door? Please,” I asked as we shuffled past her.
“Affirmative.” She’d turned her attention to the task at hand, snapping on latex gloves.
“I’ll see you back at the station,” Jackson told her.
She paused, frowning. “It would be faster if someone came to the hospital and got your statement. They will hold you for observation at the very least.”
A silent battle went on between them, his green eyes locked on her hazel one’s, neither blinking. It went on for so long I wondered if they were communicating telepathically, if that was even possible between a necromancer and a fae, when Jackson suddenly blinked.
“Whatever.” He straightened up, and keeping the gauze pressed to his skull, led the way outside. I followed silently.
The drive to the hospital was equally silent. Jackson’s color hadn’t improved, and he staggered when he climbed out of the car.
