I froze.
Oh my God. Had I got it wrong?
Maybe it hadn't been Red Beaumont at all who'd killed Mrs. Fiske. Maybe it had been Marcus. The other Mr. Beaumont.
Did Mr. Beaumont kill you? That's what I'd asked Mrs. Fiske. And she'd said yes. But Mr. Beaumont to her might have been Marcus, not poor, vampire-wannabe Red Beaumont.
No, wait. Tad's father had told me straight out that he felt sorry for having killed all those people. That had been his motivation for inviting me over all along: he'd been hoping I'd help him communicate with his victims.
But Tad's father was clearly a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal. I don't think he could have killed a cockroach, let alone another human being.
No, whoever had killed Mrs. Fiske and those other people had been smart enough to cover his tracks . . . and Tad's dad was no Daniel Boone, let me tell you.
His brother, on the other hand …
"I'm getting a really bad feeling about all this," Cee Cee was saying. "I mean, I know we can't prove anything – and despite what Adam thinks, it's highly unlikely anything my aunt Pru would have to contribute would be permissible in court – but I think we have a moral obligation – "
The call-waiting went off again. Father D. I'd forgotten all about Father D. He'd hung up in a rage and was calling back.
"Look, Cee Cee," I said, still feeling sort of numb. "We'll talk about it tomorrow at school, okay?"
"Okay," Cee Cee said. "But I'm just letting you know, Suze, I think we've stumbled onto something big here."
Big? Try gargantuan.
But it wasn't Father Dominic on the other line, I found out, after I pressed down on the receiver:
It was Tad.
"Sue?" he said. He still sounded a little groggy.
And he still seemed to have only a slight clue what my name was.
"Um, hi, Tad," I said.
"Sue, I am so sorry," he said. Grogginess aside, he sounded as if he meant it. "I don't know what happened. I guess I was more tired than I thought. You know, at practice they run us pretty hard, and some nights I just conk out sooner than others...."
Yeah, I said to myself. I bet.
"Don't worry about it," I said. Tad had way bigger things to concern himself with than falling asleep during a date.
"But I want to make it up to you," Tad insisted. "Please let me. What are you doing Saturday night?"
Saturday night? I forgot all about how this kid was related to a possible serial killer. What did that matter? He was asking me out. On a date. A real date. On Saturday night. Visions of candlelight and French kissing danced in my head. I could hardly speak, I was so flattered.
"I have a game," Tad went on, "but I figured you could come watch me play, and then afterward we could maybe get a pizza with the rest of the guys or something."
My excitement died a rapid little death.
Was he kidding? He wanted me to come watch him play basketball? Then go out with him and the rest of the team? For pizza? I wasn't even burger material? I mean, at this point, I'd settle for Sizzler, for crying out loud.
"Sue," Tad said when I didn't say anything right away. "You aren't mad at me, are you? I mean, I really didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
What was I thinking, anyway? It would never work out between the two of us. I mean, I'm a mediator. His dad's a vampire. His uncle's a killer. What if we got married? Think how our kids would turn out....
Confused. Way confused.
Kind of like Tad.
"It wasn't that you were boring me, or anything," he went on. "Really. Well, I mean, that thing you were talking about was kind of boring – the thing about that statue with the head that needed gluing back on. That story, I mean. But not you. You're not boring, Susan. That's not why I fell asleep, I swear it."
"Tad," I said, annoyed by how many times he'd felt it necessary to assure me I hadn't been boring him – a sure sign I'd been boring him senseless – and of course by the fact that he could not seem to remember my name. "Grow up."
He said, "Whadduya mean?"
"I mean you didn't fall asleep, okay? You passed out because your dad slipped some Seconal or something into your coffee."
Okay, maybe that wasn't the most diplomatic way to tell the guy his father needed to up his meds. But hey, nobody's going to go around accusing me of being boring. Nobody.
Besides, don't you think he had a right to know?
"Sue," he said, after a moment's pause. Pain throbbed in his voice. "Why would you say something like that? I mean, how could you even think something like that?"
I guess I couldn't blame the poor guy. It was pretty hard to believe. Unless you'd seen it up close and personal the way I had.
"Tad," I said. "I mean it. Your old man . . . his phaser seems set on permanent stun, if you get my drift."
"No," Tad said, a little sullenly, I thought. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Tad," I said. "Come on. The guy thinks he's a vampire."
"He does not!" Tad, I realized, was up to his armpits in some major denial. "You're full of it!"
I decided to show Tad just how full of it I was.
"No offense, buddy," I said, "but next time you're purring on one of those gold chains of yours, you might ask yourself where the money to pay for it came from. Or better yet, why don't you ask your uncle Marcus?"
"Maybe I will," Tad said.
"Maybe you should," I said.
"I will, then," Tad said.
"Fine, then do it."
I slammed down the phone. Then I sat there staring down at it.
What on earth had I just done?
C H A P T E R
16
In spite of the fact that I'd nearly killed a man that night, I didn't have too many problems falling asleep.
Seriously.
Okay, so I was tired, all right? I mean, let's face it: I'd had a trying day.
And it wasn't like those phone calls I'd gotten just before I'd gone to bed had helped. Father Dominic was totally mad at me for not having told him sooner about Jesse, and Tad seemed to pretty much hate me now, too.
Oh, and his uncle Marcus? Yeah, possible serial killer. Almost forgot that part.
But seriously, what was I supposed to do? I mean, I'd known perfectly well Father D wasn't going to be thrilled about Jess. And as for Tad, well, if my dad had ever drugged me stupid, I would totally want to know.
I'd done the right thing telling Tad.
Except I did sort of wonder what was going to happen if Tad really did go ask his uncle Marcus what I'd meant about where his money came from. Marcus would probably think it was some obscure reference to Tad's father's mental illness.
I hoped.
Because if he figured out that I suspected the truth – you know, that whole thing about his killing anyone who stood in the way of Beaumont Industries gobbling up as much of the available property in northern California that it possibly could – I had a feeling he wasn't going to take too kindly to it.
But how scared would a big-time player like Marcus Beaumont be of a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl? I mean, really. He had no idea about the whole mediator thing, how I'd actually spoken to one of his victims and confirmed the whole thing.
Well, more or less.
Still, in spite of all that, I did finally get to sleep. I was dreaming that Kelly Prescott had heard about Tad and me being at the Coffee Clutch together, and that she was threatening to veto the decision not to have a spring dance in revenge when a soft thud woke me. I raised my head and squinted in the direction of the window seat.
Spike was back. And he had company.
Jesse, I saw, was sitting next to Spike. To my utter amazement the cat was letting him pet him. That stupid cat who had tried to bite me every time I'd come near him was letting a ghost – his natural enemy – pet him.
And what's more, Spike seemed to like it. He was purring so loud I could hear him all the way across the room.
"Whoa," I said, lean
ing up on my elbows. "That is one for Ripley's Believe It or Not."
Jesse grinned at me. "I think he likes me," he said.
"Don't get too attached. He can't stay here, you know."
I could have sworn Jesse looked crestfallen. "Why not?"
"Because Dopey's allergic, for one thing," I said. "And because I didn't even ask anyone if it was okay for me to have a cat"
"It is your house now, as well as your brothers'," Jesse said with a shrug.
"Stepbrothers," I corrected him. I thought about what he said, then added, "And I guess I still feel like more of a guest here than an actual occupant."
"Give yourself a century or so." He grinned some more. "And you'll get over it."
"Very funny," I said. "Besides, that cat hates me."
"I'm sure he doesn't hate you," Jesse said.
"Yes, he does. Every time I come near him, he tries to bite me."
"He just doesn't know you," Jesse said. "I will introduce you." He picked up the cat and pointed him in my direction. "Cat," he said. "This is Susannah. Susannah, meet the cat."
"Spike," I said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Spike. That cat's name is Spike."
Jesse put the cat down and looked at him in horror. "That is a terrible name for a cat."
"Yeah," I said. Then I added – strictly conversationally, if you know what I mean – "So I hear you met Father Dominic."
Jesse raised his gaze and let it rest expressionlessly on me. "Why didn't you tell him about me, Susannah?"
I swallowed. What do they do, teach guys that reproachful look at birth, or something? I mean, they all seem to have it down so pat. Except Dopey, that is.
"Look," I said. "I wanted to. Only I knew he was going to freak out. I mean, he's a priest. I didn't figure he'd be too thrilled to hear that I've got a guy – even a dead guy – living in my bedroom." I tried to sound as concerned as I felt. "So, um, I take it you two didn't hit it off?"
"Between your father and the priest," Jesse said, wryly, "I would take your father any time."
"Well," I said. "Don't worry about it. Tomorrow I'll just tell Father Dom about all the times you saved my life, and then he'll just have to deal."
He clearly didn't believe it was going to be that simple if the scowl that appeared on his face was any indication. The sad thing was, he was right. Father D wasn't going to be mollified that easily, and we both knew it.
"Look." I threw back the covers and got up out of bed, padding over to the window seat in my boxers and T-shirt. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Jesse. I should have told him sooner and introduced the two of you properly. It's my fault."
"It isn't your fault," Jesse said.
"Yes, it is." I sat down next to him, making sure Jesse was between myself and the cat. "I mean, you may be dead, but I haven't got any right to treat you as if you were. That's just plain rude. Maybe what we can do is, you and me and Father Dom can all sit down and have lunch together or something, and then he can see what a nice guy you really are."
Jesse looked at me like I was a mental case. "Susannah," he said. "I don't eat, remember?"
"Oh, yeah. I forgot."
Spike butted Jesse in the arm, and he lifted his hand and began scratching the cat's ears. I felt so bad for Jesse – I mean, think about it: he had been hanging around in that house for a hundred and fifty years before I'd gotten there, with no one to talk to, no one at all – that I suddenly blurted out, "Jesse, if there was any way I could make you not dead, I'd do it."
He smiled, but at the cat, not at me. "Would you?"
"In a minute," I said, and then went on, with complete recklessness, "Except that if you weren't dead, you probably wouldn't want to hang out with me."
That made him look at me. He said, "Of course I would."
"No," I said, examining one of my bare knees in the moonlight. "You wouldn't. If you weren't dead, you'd be in college or something, and you'd want to hang around with college girls, and not boring high school girls like me."
Jesse said, "You aren't boring."
"Oh, yes, I am," I assured him. "You've just been dead so long, you don't know it."
"Susannah," he said. "I know it, all right?"
I shrugged. "You don't have to try to make me feel better. It's okay. I've come to accept it. There are some things you just can't change."
"Like being dead," Jesse said, quietly.
Well, that certainly put a damper on things. I was feeling kind of depressed about everything – the fact that Jesse was dead, and that in spite of this, Spike still liked him better than me, and stuff like that – when all of a sudden Jesse reached out and took hold of my chin – almost exactly the way Tad had that night in his car – between his index finger and thumb and turned my face toward his.
And things suddenly started looking up.
Instead of collapsing in shock – my first instinct – I lifted my gaze to his face. The moonlight that had been filtering into my room through the bay windows was reflected in Jesse's soft dark eyes, and I could feel the heat from his fingers coursing through me.
That's when I realized that in spite of how hard I'd been trying to not to fall in love with Jesse, I wasn't doing a very good job. I could tell this by the way my heart started thudding very hard against my T-shirt when he touched me. It hadn't done that when Tad had touched me in the exact same way.
And I could also tell by the way I instantly started worrying about the fact that he had chosen this particular moment to kiss me, the middle of the night, when it had been hours since I'd brushed my teeth and I was sure I probably had morning breath. How appetizing was that?
But I never discovered whether or not Jesse would have been grossed out by my morning breath – or even if he'd really been going to kiss me at all – because at that moment, that crazy woman who kept insisting Red hadn't killed her suddenly showed up again, shrieking her head off.
I swear I nearly jumped a foot. She was the last person I'd been expecting to see.
"Oh, my God," I cried, slapping my hands over my ears as she let loose like some kind of smoke detector. "What's the matter?"
The woman had been wearing the hood of her gray sweatshirt. Now she pushed it back, and in the moonlight, I could see the tears that had made tracks down her thin, pale cheeks. I couldn't believe I had mistaken her for Mrs. Fiske. This woman was years and years younger, and a heck of a lot prettier.
"You didn't tell him," she said, between sobbing wails.
I blinked. "Yes, I did."
"You didn't!"
"No, I did, I really did." I was shocked by this unfair accusation. "I told him a couple of days ago. Jesse, tell her."
"She told him," Jesse assured the dead woman.
You would think one ghost would take the word of another. But she wasn't having any of it. She cried, "You didn't! And you've got to tell him. You've just got to. It's tearing him up inside."
"Wait a minute," I said. "Red Beaumont is the Red you're talking about, right? Isn't he the one who killed you?"
She shook her head so hard, her hair smacked her cheeks and then stuck there, glued to her skin by her tears. "No," she said. "No! I told you Red didn't do it."
"Marcus, I mean," I amended, quickly. "I know Red didn't do it. He just blames himself for it, right? That's what you want me to tell him. That it wasn't his fault. It was his brother, Marcus Beaumont, who killed you, wasn't it?"
"No!" She looked at me like I was a moron. And I was starting to feel like one. "Not Red Beaumont. Red. Red! You know him."
I know him? I know someone named Red? Not in this life.
"Look," I said. "I need a little more info than that. Why don't we start with introductions. I'm Susannah Simon, okay? And you are … ?"
The look she gave me would have broken the heart of even the coldest mediator.
"You know," she said, with an expression so wounded, I had to look away. "You know...."
And then, when I risked another glance in her directio
n, she was gone again.
"Um," I said, uncomfortably, to Jesse. "I guess I got the wrong Red."
C H A P T E R
17
Okay, I admit it: I wasn't happy.
I mean, seriously. I had invested all that time and effort in Red Beaumont, and he hadn't even been the right guy.
Okay, yeah, so he – or his brother; my money was on his brother – had apparently killed a bunch of people, but I'd stumbled over this fact completely by accident. The ghost who'd originally come to me for help didn't have anything to do with Red Beaumont or even with his brother, Marcus. Her message remained undelivered because I couldn't figure out who she was, even though, apparently, I knew her.
And meanwhile, Mrs. Fiske's killer was still walking around free.
And as if all of that weren't enough, my midnight caller showing up the way she did had completely killed the mood between Jesse and me. He so totally did not kiss me after that. In fact, he acted like he'd never intended to kiss me in the first place, which, considering my luck, is probably the truth. Instead, he asked how my poison oak was progressing.
My poison oak! Yeah, thanks, it's great.
God, I am such a loser.
But you know, I pretended like I didn't care. I got up the next morning and acted like nothing had happened. I put on my best butt-kicking outfit – my black Betsey Johnson miniskirt with black ribbed tights, side-zip Batgirl boots, and purple Armani sweater set – and strutted around my room like all I was thinking about was how I was going to bring Marcus Beaumont to justice. The last thing on my mind, I pretended, was Jesse.
Not like he noticed. He wasn't even around.
But all my strutting around had made me late, and Sleepy was standing at the bottom of the stairs bellowing my name, so even if he'd wanted to, it wouldn't have been such a good thing for Jesse to materialize just then, anyway.
I grabbed my leather jacket and came pounding down the stairs to where Andy was standing shelling out lunch money to each of us as we came by.
"My goodness, Suze," he said when he saw me.
The Mediator #2: Ninth Key Page 12
