World Tree Girl

by Kerry Schafer

  He follows me into the room, setting down the briefcase he’s carrying on the table, where he pauses to take note of my gutted phone and the snooper device.

  His eyebrows go up like an elevator, but he takes the hint and doesn’t say anything, just goes to the other end of the sofa and helps me turn it upside down. My leg has had about enough of all this exercise, and the muscles spasm when I kneel. An involuntary hiss of pain escapes me.

  “Let me do that.” Jake takes the knife from me without making any fuss or offering assistance. Which is wise. Even when you’ve brought coffee, never offer sympathy to an angry woman with a naked blade in her hand.

  He slices the fabric along the bottom of the sofa in one neat incision. I hand him a small flashlight and he peers into all of the corners and shakes his head, before rocking back onto his heels and shaking his head. “Nothing. What triggered all this?”

  “Spring house cleaning. What are you doing here?”

  “Brought you something.”

  “Besides coffee?”

  Crossing to the table, he opens the briefcase and pulls out a laptop.

  Not just any laptop. The blood spatter on the cover looks like an asymmetrical Rorschach test. I see a Cthulhu if I squint up my eyes. The whole thing is sealed into an extra-large plastic bag and is labeled and tagged. Last time I saw this computer, it was in the middle of a crime scene.

  “For me?” I beam up at him and clasp my hands like one of the soppy girls in a diamond commercial.

  “It will be weeks before any CSI person will really look at it. And even then, they’ll give it a cursory once-over and that will be it. They’re pretty convinced this was a suicide and there’s no reason to think otherwise.”

  The laptop is evidence of several varieties: blood spatter, whatever is on the drive, fingerprints. This bending-the-rules business is hard on Jake, poor man. The strain is evident in his voice.

  I pull on a pair of cotton gloves before lifting the cover and turning on the power. Jake pulls up a chair and sits down across the table, resting his chin in both hands.

  I sit and stare at the screen, not touching any keys.

  “What?” Jake asks.

  “For starters—no password.”

  “Most people don’t bother. Trust me. I deal with stolen computers more than you’d think. People are stupid.”

  “This kid was stupid enough to take photos in the city morgue. Of evidence. But he got away with it for at least a year before he got caught, so he’s not a complete idiot. Plus, look at the background.”

  Jake pushes himself up from the table and comes around to stand behind me, so close I can feel the warmth of him on my skin. He smells clean, soap and a hint of aftershave and leather. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that—he was an artistic sort.”

  “It’s generic, comes with the OS for Macs. You think a kid who decorates his room with personal posters of dead bodies is going to put a generic Monet as his background?”

  Carefully, I tap a few buttons and bring up the screen saver. “Same thing, see? Generic.”

  “That’s all I’ve got on my computer.”

  “You’re not a millennial, thank God. Let’s see what he’s got for files.”

  What I find is a whole bunch of nothing. No photograph files, no documents, no music. Not so much as Photoshop or an equivalent program. It’s not that he’s stored them in the Cloud, or Dropbox, either, unless he’s done it from another computer. This one’s so clean it squeaks.

  “Could it be brand-new and recently set up?” Jake echoes my thoughts.

  “Possible. If so, that’s a strike against the suicide theory. Think about it. Millennial kid springs for a brand-new laptop, sets it up, then shoots himself in the head before doing anything with it? I don’t think he did this. There’s not even anything left in the cache.”

  “He could have wiped it himself,” Jake says.

  “Could have. But why? If he was going to be dead anyway, why bother? Protecting his mother from his infamy?”

  Wiping computers was my job when I worked for the Unit. I was good at it. Still am. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this was my work, all the way down to the choice of background and screen saver. Not the first one on the list. Not the last. Somewhere in the middle.

  “I don’t suppose there were any fingerprints.”

  Jake shakes his head. “Not a thing.”

  “So, rather than leaving a goodbye message, or recording his death on the camera, he deletes the hard drive. Erases and reinstalls all the files. And then wipes the whole thing carefully for fingerprints—not easy with a laptop. All those key edges, the spaces in between. And when he’s done, he closes it up, pulls out a gun, and shoots himself in the head.”

  Jake sighs. He’s bent over my shoulder, hands resting on the back of my chair, his warm breath brushing my cheek.

  My heart is beating faster than it ought to, and I keep my eyes on the blank screen instead of turning around to look at him.

  “Why are you so all-fired fixated on making this out to be a suicide?”

  “Because of what it means if it’s not.”

  The words lie heavy between us. He knows, and I know, that if the Unit is trying to hush this up in an effort to clean up their own mess and keep the public at large in a state of ignorance, then we are playing a game with lethal stakes.

  He’s been open with me. He’s brought me the laptop despite the fact that this is breaking the evidence chain. I should tell him about the message on my phone. Instead, I ask, “How’s the crime scene processing coming along?”

  “Slow. Mac’s calling for an inquest. Spokane has three high-level homicides to investigate right now, and they’ll be hogging the resources. It will be months before we get anything back beyond the basics.”

  “Gun powder residue on his fingers?”

  “Yes. But that’s easy enough for a murderer to plant. Mac says the lividity is consistent with the position Dason was found in. Most likely the body wasn’t moved after death. Mac also grabbed a blood sample and got someone at the hospital lab to run a tox screen. No drugs or common poisons on board.”

  His radio crackles and dispatch comes on.

  “Domestic disturbance, 1211 Nightingale. RP is locked in the bedroom, says her husband is drunk and hit her.”

  Jake looks at the laptop, then at me. “Well, hell.”

  “Go, save the world,” I tell him. “This will keep. I promise to take very good care of it.”

  His brow creases into deep furrows as he turns to survey the demolished couch. “You still didn’t tell me what happened.”

  “Bugs,” I say. “Or bombs. Searching for. Didn’t find any.”

  He shakes his head. “You are a fascinating woman, Maureen Keslyn. Insane, but fascinating.”

  I lock the door behind him with every single one of the deadbolts before I sit down and search through the laptop’s programming, seeking traces of anything left behind. Again, I come up empty.

  My stomach is also empty. It growls, and I look at the clock. Damn. If I want to catch the official breakfast, I have just enough time to run a comb through my hair and slip into clean clothes. Of course, there are perks to running the Manor. Well, one perk anyway. Matt will feed me breakfast even if I’m late. But I do like to keep an eye on things, and the best way to do that is to eat with the rest of the herd.

  If I stop and take Jill with me, it won’t matter if I leave the laptop unattended. But just as I start to strip off my gloves, a chat window pops up with an invitation. Maybe it’s one of Dason’s friends, somebody who hasn’t heard the news that he’s dead.

  A lot can be learned from a person’s friends.

  A glance at the clock. One sad thought for breakfast, and I sit back down and click Accept.

  The chat balloon pops up:

  Hi Jinx.

  I freeze.

  Who the hell is this? I type.

  Incorrect response. Try again.

  I’ve never known a
ghost to type electronic messages. Which means somebody knows I have Dason’s laptop. Somebody knows not only Phil’s old signal to me, but that there was a counter code. I’m not falling for it.

  Nobody here named Jinx.

  Incorrect response. Try again.

  I take a slow deep breath, my brain racing. Anything is possible. I flex my fingers, then type in the familiar code reply:

  The rational response to an irrational situation.

  The world is not rational, my dear.

  And there it is, the entire code sequence Phil and I used to use. Nobody else knew. I certainly never told anybody, and Phil wasn’t one for blabbing secrets.

  Anubis hisses, tail puffed up, ears back.

  I’m not afraid of ghosts, at least I never have been. I’m not afraid of Phil. And if it isn’t him, it won’t hurt for whoever is playing games to believe I think it’s him. I’ll play.

  Damn it, Phil, what did you go and get yourself killed for?

  I missed you too.

  What’s with the fun and games?

  Easier than wall tapping. Quieter.

  I think about this one for a minute.

  I want to hear some tapping.

  That sort of thing is exhausting.

  Indulge me.

  Not an impostor.

  Tap.

  I can almost hear the theatrical sigh. All is quiet. The cursor blinks on the screen.

  A cold chill chases itself up and down my spine.

  And then the closet door slams. Three times loudly. Then three times softly.

  Anubis streaks across the room and hides under the sofa.

  Three more loud slams.

  Silence again.

  The windows are closed. There’s no draft. And I know that closet door was closed; I keep it that way. Anubis pokes his head out, ears laid back. He hisses once, and retreats.

  I look at the laptop. Waiting. It’s a full sixty seconds by my count before the next message.

  Too tired now. Later. Watch…

  I’m so focused I jump when an entirely different kind of knock comes at my door.

  “Maureen? Everything okay in there?”

  Damn. I close the screen, slide the laptop into its plastic bag, and tuck it under my mattress. The last thing I need is for Jill to catch a glimpse of this conversation.

  I crack the door, ready to drop and roll if a gun materializes from her handbag. “Fine. Fine.”

  She’s wearing a different skirt and jacket this morning, rumpled and creased from long hours in a suitcase. There’s also a run in her nylons and her slip is showing, two details I don’t bother to mention.

  She squints past me into the room. “I heard banging.”

  “All quiet in here. You’re imagining things.”

  “No. I heard it. Sounded like an SOS. Very loud.” She presses a shaking hand against her head and slumps against the wall for support. “I feel terrible.”

  “You drank an entire bottle of scotch. What do you expect?”

  She reeks of stale alcohol and sweat. Old mascara smears her bleary eyes.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Now? Oh, no. I was just on my way to breakfast. You might as well come with me.” I edge out the door, forcing her back, and lock it behind me, checking my pocket for the vibration that signals my alarm has been set. Maybe, with luck, somebody will trigger it during breakfast. I’m tired of chasing shadows. I want an enemy I can fight.

  Chapter Ten

  Breakfast at the Manor is an event. Matt serves it up in style—white tablecloths, real china, fabulous coffee. Sunday mornings everybody gets mimosas. Most of the residents dress up for the occasion, fully coiffed and with diamonds on display.

  By the time I arrive with Jill in tow, the plates are already half empty, and the gossip is in full swing.

  All eyes focus on us when we reach the door. Hands stop on the way to mouths. Stories stop short of spilling the good stuff. Jill looks like a half-drunk Kardashian, and I can see the questions spinning in the residents’ heads. Is she a movie star on a bender or just an ordinary crazy person? Either way, what is she doing at the Manor and how long will she be staying?

  Since they are all staring anyway, and the room has gone quiet, I raise my voice to a decibel calculated to reach the hard of hearing. “Hey everybody, this is Jillian, Phil Evers’ daughter. She wanted to see the Manor.”

  A low murmur wells up in the wake of my words.

  Jill winces at the volume of my voice, and I can see the “new kid in the cafeteria” awkwardness take hold of her, weakened as she is by a hangover and lack of sleep. Probably, she expected a room full of the drooling demented, rather than this group of intelligent and wealthy oldsters.

  I walk over to my table, where there are the only two empty seats in the room, Jill trailing behind.

  “Jill, meet Chuck, Ginny, Julia, and Val.”

  Jill stands like a statue, eyes invisible behind the dark glasses. Chuck lumbers up onto his feet and pulls out her chair. “Have a seat, beautiful lady. Welcome to the Manor.”

  She sits, a little hard, probably because he shoves the chair into the back of her knees before she’s quite ready. One hand flies to her head, and she inhales sharply.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Ginny pats her crimson lips with a napkin, her sharp eyes not missing one detail of Jill’s appearance. Not so much as a red smudge mars the napkin. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Bit of a headache,” Jill manages. “Thank you.”

  Ginny shifts her attention to me and shakes her head. “Maureen, have you even combed your hair? You look pale. It would take only a few seconds to at least put on a little blush.”

  As usual, her own elegant face is perfectly painted. She’s wearing something soft and drapey and obviously expensive.

  “It was not a good night. Where’s Matt? I need coffee.”

  “He’s around here, somewhere. Jill, that handbag is gorgeous. Gucci, no?” Julia goes easy on the makeup because of her hand tremors, compensating heavily with designer clothes and extravagant diamonds.

  Jill attempts a smile that just makes her look more like she’s about to puke. “Yes, actually. I bought it in Paris.”

  Julia clasps her hands. “Oh, you’ve come from Paris? I haven’t been in years. I do adore that city. Can I see?”

  Jill passes the handbag over and both Julia and Ginny ooh and aah over it. To me, it looks awkward and about as useful as carrying around a Kleenex box, but the ways of these women escape me.

  Val just watches everything. She’s a thin, wiry woman with skin that is nearly ebony and shrewd brown eyes that miss nothing. Seventy-four, with a face that could pass for fifty. Hair like white cotton. She was a high-powered criminal attorney until a stroke attacked her language centers. What speech she retains is limited to fragments of song and poetry quoted from memory, making communication with her complex and time consuming. Her children, as soon as they had guardianship, packed her up and sent her here. Now, her eyes travel to the purse and the women gaping over it. Then her gaze meets mine, and in one electric moment of connection I see laughter and disdain as her lips quirk up on one side and she shakes her head slightly. God help her, she’s fully alive in there.

  Jill, misguided but more perceptive than I would have given her credit for, says, “Val, did you want to see?”

  The mean girl mentality doesn’t end with high school. Ginny hands the purse back to Jill. “I hardly think she’d be interested, dear.”

  Julia snickers, cruelly. “She’s probably more the Walmart type, don’t you think?”

  Matt arrives just in time to prevent me from bloodshed. He’s got two mugs of coffee, setting them down carefully in front of us.

  “I see you have a guest,” he says. “What can I get you?”

  Despite the dark glasses and the hangover, I can tell Jill is not immune to either his looks or his charm. Before she can say a word, I answer for both of us. “Lots of coffee. And yes, breakfast.”


  A long swallow of coffee sends caffeine rushing into all the little cells of my body, and I feel better immediately.

  “So sad about your father,” Chuck says. “Murdered. I can’t imagine how you feel about that.”

  “Because you’re not capable of feeling,” Julia retorts.

  “I can’t believe that trampy little coroner got away with it,” Ginny chimes in. “Who would expect the coroner to go around murdering people? They say she grew up here and everything.”

  “Were you close?” Chuck loads up a fork and shovels it in, oblivious to the bits of egg that fall on his shirt front.

  “What sort of question is that?” Ginny objects. “He was her father.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Julia says. “I wouldn’t exactly be devastated if something happened to mine.”

  Val says nothing. She eats neatly, one precise bite at a time, her dark eyes not missing a thing.

  Matt comes back with two plates of food and a tall glass of what looks like tomato juice. Jill looks at it dubiously, but he leans down and whispers, “Good for what ails you. Drink up.”

  She sniffs, then sips. “Bless you. Tu es un ange.”

  “Hair of the dog, eh?” Chuck says. “Poor child. I understand about finding comfort in the bottle.”

  Jill tries to smile and nearly succeeds, aided by the drink. “I’m afraid I did drink too much last night. It’s been difficult.”

  “I’m well acquainted with morning afters.” Chuck pats her shoulder. His hand lingers and slides down onto her back.

  I kick him in the shins, accidentally of course, in the act of stretching a kink out of my leg. He drops his cane with a loud clatter. Jill winces visibly, both hands going to her head. I have no sympathy. That was my good scotch she drank, my sleep she disturbed. A little pain won’t kill her.

  “You’ve barely tasted your eggs, Jillian,” I tell her. “Eat up.”

  “Have you taken any aspirin, honey?” Ginny asks. “That always helps.”

  “I’m sure I’ve got something.” Chuck roots around in his pocket and comes out with a bottle. “Here, dear. Take a couple of these.”

  He pauses in the act of shaking pills into his hand, staring toward the door. “More company?”