Spirited 1

by Mary Behre

  “I do,” Jones answered. “He’s at the Tidewater Country Club.”

  That gave Seth pause and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “Fifteen minutes ago, we didn’t know Hart was involved at all. How is it you know where he is right now?”

  Jones’s expression turned sheepish. “Our mothers were sorority sisters. They kept in touch. The Harts have eaten breakfast at the club every morning for as long as I can remember.”

  “Your family dines regularly at country clubs?”

  Jones swallowed but shook his head. A crimson stain darkened his cheeks. “No, my-my mother’s maiden name was McKinnon. It’s why I keep an eye on the society section. It’s the only way I can keep up with my childhood friends.”

  Seth’s eyes widened. The McKinnons were Tidewater’s version of the Kennedys, old money and political power. And it explained much about Jones’s taciturn ways. The kid could have thrown his family name around to get what he wanted. He didn’t. Instead, he appeared rather embarrassed to admit it at all.

  And it gave Seth a newfound respect for his partner. “Okay. Then let’s see if we can’t get over to the country club before he leaves.”

  Captain Peterson appeared in his office doorway. A frown dug a deep wrinkle in his forehead. “English. Jones. Would the two of you like to join me for the morning briefing?”

  “Sir, we’ve just received a tip on the case,” Seth said, gathering up his supplies. “We need to go uptown and interview a potential suspect.”

  “Who?”

  “Mason Hart.”

  The captain rolled his eyes and a tic worked in his jaw. “I know you didn’t just tell me the two of you plan to interrogate the son of the wealthiest businessman in the city.”

  “Captain, Hart might possess knowledge pertinent to our case,” Seth explained.

  “Might isn’t good enough.” The captain shook his head. “The last time someone started asking that family questions, we got our asses handed to us. You’d better have something substantially stronger than might.”

  “Sir, his mother and mine are old friends,” Jones said.

  “Do you think he’ll talk to you?” The captain asked, clearly not surprised by the information. It made Seth wonder how many secrets his current partner kept from him.

  “Although I haven’t seen the Harts in years, I bet Mason would be receptive to me.” Jones met Seth’s gaze levelly, then added, “I can go over there and ask him one or two questions without raising his suspicions. I doubt he even knows I’m on the force.”

  Seth’s stomach shrank. Jones was asking to go alone?

  The captain ran a hand over his sweaty bald head, sneezed, then said, “English, we need to discuss what happened with Iris Masters. I need you here. Jones, go conduct the interview but be discreet and get your ass back here pronto.”

  Captain Peterson disappeared back inside his office. This was exactly how it had happened before. His rookie partner was sent to do the actual investigative work, while Seth played office politics.

  And the sergeant’s exam seemed to slip a little further out of reach.

  Still, someone needed to check out Hart as soon as possible. If the rich prick was sniffing around Jules, he might assume she knew more about the murder than she did. Seth couldn’t risk her getting hurt.

  Turning to Jones, he said, “Make sure you get his alibi for the murder, not just the jewelry heists.”

  “Of course.” Jones stared at him, another enigmatic look on his face.

  “Call me the moment you have something.” Seth watched the door to the captain’s office swing open again and Peterson appeared, his arms crossed over his chest. “If Hart’s the killer, we need to know now.”

  Because if he was, Jules could be in danger.

  • • •

  A RAY OF sunshine cut a warm swath across her cheek and Jules sat up. Rubbing her head, she glanced around the living room. For a moment, she struggled to remember how she got there, then the memory of the vision slammed into her.

  She leapt to her feet. Ooh, stood up too fast. She swayed, threw out her arms to steady herself, then walked toward the kitchen and glanced up at the clock. Only twenty minutes had passed since she’d first heard the banging on the door.

  Thank heavens. She still had time to recover before going to the shop.

  Only slightly queasy from the side effects of the vision, she walked across the room and to the bathroom.

  She showered, dried her hair, and dressed, all the time wondering what that glittering P in the vision could have stood for and coming up empty.

  At least this time she’d learned something new. The ghost was named Aimee-Lynn. What Jules didn’t understand was why Aimee-Lynn, who’d now been haunting her for three days, still could do little better than cheap parlor tricks when it came to communicating.

  Jules headed down the hall and into the kitchen for a glass of milk. Before opening the door, her gaze fell on the business card she’d received yesterday.

  Tidewater Security Specialists. When others can’t, we will.

  She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t allow anything to distract her from finding her sisters. No time like the present.

  Plucking the card from beneath the magnet, she carried it to the counter, picked up the cordless phone, and dialed the number on the card.

  She expected to hear a recording, so was surprised when a deep, masculine voice said, “Tidewater Security Specialists. When others can’t, we will. This is Ian.”

  “Hi. My name is Juliana Scott. Abigail Harris recommended I call you.”

  “Mrs. Harris, huh? How’s she doing?” Ian asked.

  “She seemed good.” Jules tapped her fingers on the counter as she spoke. “I don’t really know her very well. She’s an old friend of my family’s. But she suggested I call you and mention her name.”

  He laughed. “Sounds like Mrs. H. is calling in a favor, then. So what can I do for you?”

  Jules hesitated. “I’m trying to locate two women. My younger sisters. We were placed in the foster care system about fourteen years ago. The social workers couldn’t keep us together. Mrs. Harris was able to track one of my sisters, Shelley. Well, until her adoptive parents died five years ago. Hannah is a different story. She had a private adoption. Mrs. Harris doesn’t know much more than that.”

  Ian drew in a breath between his teeth. “You’re hiring us to locate two women who were adopted by different families fourteen years ago? And you don’t know the names of the family who adopted one of them?”

  Her heart sank. “It’s impossible, isn’t it?”

  “No, ma’am.” Ian paused. Scratching noises floated through the phone as if he were jotting down notes. “Impossible is not a word in the TSS vocabulary. It’ll take time and money, but if Mrs. H. sent you to us, we can work out a deal.”

  “You’re going to help me?” Hope swelled inside her.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Now, tell me everything you know about Shelley and Hannah, starting with their full names and birth dates.”

  They spent the next fifteen minutes discussing her sisters, his plans for locating them, and the fees. After she’d given him everything he requested, he hit her with a question she didn’t have the answer to. “Do you have their social security numbers? That would be the fastest way to locate them.”

  “No, I don’t. We were children when we were separated. I know Shelley had one, but Hannah was only three. I’m not sure she had one before she was adopted.”

  “No worries,” he replied. “I’ll bet she did. I’ll contact Mrs. H. to see if I can get my hands on it.” More note scribbling sounded through the phone. “I think I have enough to get started. Ms. Scott, go through your old scrapbooks, if you have any, and write down what you remember about your sisters and their foster families. Next, gather up any old pictures you have of them. I’ll have one of our team members contact you in a day or two.”

  “You won’t be meeting with me?”

  “No, so
rry.” He gave a slight chuckle. “I’m headed out on an assignment to Seattle this morning. But we have several highly trained members at TSS. Any one of them will do an excellent job for you.”

  When she didn’t do more than murmur a noncommittal response, he added, “We mean what we say. When others can’t, we will.”

  Buoyed by his words, Jules thanked him and hung up.

  Returning the card to the refrigerator, she then opened the door and pulled out the milk jug.

  She poured herself a half glass, all that was left in the container, when she remembered she was supposed to call Mason. His number wasn’t on the fridge. She’d left it in her purse. Hurrying back to her bedroom, she grabbed the fake Prada then returned to the kitchen. She dug through it, pulled out the gold-foiled card, and dialed his number.

  Listening to it ring, she rinsed out the milk jug, then dropped it in the recycling bin behind the trash can beneath the counter.

  “Hello?” Mason answered.

  “Hi, Mason, it’s Jules. How are you?”

  “Hi, um . . . I-I really can’t talk right now,” he said, his voice muffled.

  Great! He probably forgot that he asked me to call. “Oh, okay. I was just keeping my promise to call.”

  “I really appreciate that,” he said quickly. “I’m going to be tied up most of today. How about we meet tomorrow morning at the Tidewater Country Club for breakfast?”

  “Um . . . that’s very generous, but we can just eat at The Jewish Mother.” The country club was a little out of her comfort zone.

  “It’s no problem. You’ll like it at the club. Nine o’clock?” he persisted, as if he hadn’t heard her counteroffer. There was something in his tone that worried her. An anxious sound, maybe?

  “S-sure, the club. That’s fine,” Jules replied. “Mason, is everything okay?”

  “Definitely,” he said. “See you then.”

  The dial tone buzzed in her ear. Jules glanced at the phone briefly then hung up.

  Now what?

  She’d made the phone calls she’d promised herself she’d make. The shop didn’t open for another three hours, and Aimee-Lynn-the-ghost appeared to be gone.

  “Aimee-Lynn?” she called out, just to be certain the ghost really wasn’t there. She wasn’t.

  Jules wished she had someone to talk to. Not just anyone but someone who might be able to shed some light on how to make Aimee-Lynn go away. Normally she would have asked April and Big Jim, but they were in Florida. Not that they knew how to handle the situation, just that they were the only people she’d met in the past fourteen years who wouldn’t think she was insane-o girl for talking to spirits.

  Who could she ask? She opened the fridge to grab a pear for breakfast. She really needed to go to the grocery store today. The only thing left in the fridge was the leftover lasagna from last night’s dinner. Unless she wanted to eat only pasta for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it would go bad before she could finish it. “What am I going to do with this lasagna?”

  And in a flash of inspiration, she thought of who to ask for help.

  CHAPTER 12

  “SHE WAS PREGNANT?” Seth shifted his weight on the squeaky leather chair and leaned forward. Why were they just receiving this information now? “Her mother didn’t tell me that.”

  The captain nodded and held a hand in the air as the ME’s voice filled the room through the speakerphone. “No doubt about it. She was about five months along when she was murdered. The fetus appeared to be healthy at the time of its mother’s demise.”

  “Thank you, Clark,” the captain said. “Anything else you can tell us?”

  “Yes, the victim had a rare disorder called antiphospholipid syndrome, sometimes called sticky blood syndrome. If left untreated, it can produce blood clots. It’s especially of a concern when the patient is pregnant, as ours was.

  “When the body was stripped, my assistant discovered a syringe in her pocket. Tests confirmed it contained heparin, a common treatment for someone with this syndrome. The injection would have needed to have occurred once daily, but why she chose to do it at three in the morning made little sense to me. Most pregnant women require rest. Shouldn’t she have been sleeping around that time?” Clark continued to talk about the victim’s exact illness, but Seth tuned him out.

  Except our victim was also a jewel thief who spent most of her nights awake.

  Seth scrubbed a hand down his face and glanced at his captain. What a waste of two lives. Damn, when he’d thought the victim had been killed for her role in the burglaries he’d felt little pity. No honor among thieves, no matter what people claimed. But what kind of sick bastard kills a pregnant woman?

  Seth rose, crossed to the coffeepot Peterson kept full in his office, and poured himself a cup. The captain raised his empty mug in the air. Bringing the coffeepot to him, Seth filled his boss’s mug then returned the pot to its stand.

  “Thanks, Clark.” The captain ended the call and disconnected the line. After taking a sip from his mug, he turned a steely gaze to Seth. “This case has changed. The dead woman wasn’t some random vic. Do you know who her mother is?”

  “Iris Masters,” O’Dell said, straightening his tie. “The Tidewater Parker Foundation’s biggest contributor.”

  O’Dell and Reynolds had been so quiet, Seth had almost forgotten they were there, lurking. Waiting for a chance to snake his case away from him.

  “I’m not surprised you remember her, O’Dell. She’s the woman you told to wait before filing a missing person’s case on her daughter Saturday morning,” Peterson said, jabbing a finger in O’Dell’s direction.

  “In my defense, Captain . . .” O’Dell’s normal smirk was replaced with a look of genuine concern. “It’s standard procedure.”

  “Not the point.” Peterson growled the words.

  Seth shouldn’t be relieved to learn that O’Dell had failed to help the victim’s mother. And in truth, he wasn’t. He was disgusted, but it did alleviate some of his concern about his ex-partners stealing his case.

  “I don’t get it,” Reynolds said. “This chick was from a wealthy, influential family. Why would she turn jewel thief?”

  “Good question,” O’Dell said. “Why would she?”

  “No. The real question is, how am I supposed to tell her mother—a personal friend of the mayor’s, I might add—that not only was her pregnant daughter murdered, but she may have had a hand in stealing Mrs. Master’s $350,000 red diamond ring?”

  “The victim was part of the robbery,” Seth said. “There’s no doubt about it. She may have had a change of heart though. I told you my informant didn’t show on Saturday. Well, her name was Aimee-Lynn too. I’m willing to bet my salary my informant is our victim.”

  “There’s something else I don’t get. Why did she wait to steal the diamond when it was on display?” O’Dell asked. “Why not take it when it was still in her home?”

  All three men turned inquisitive stares toward Seth. But he couldn’t answer those questions himself. He had a few theories, but none he was willing to share with the two men drooling like Pavlov’s dogs over a chance to take the lead on his case.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have much of a choice about revealing one tidbit when the captain asked, “Why were you and Jones so eager to interview Mason Hart about this case?”

  “The heir to Hart Industries?” Reynolds’s jaw went slack.

  “Yeah.” Seth nodded, then explained about Jones stumbling across the newspaper clipping.

  Peterson nodded, then said, “Fine. Now, what about the witness who jumped into the Dumpster?”

  “Jules?” Seth asked, surprised the conversation had come back around to her.

  “Jules?” the captain repeated. “That a first name or a last?”

  “Nickname,” Seth answered, then quickly added, “Juliana Scott, but she’s clean. She’s got nothing to do with this case.”

  “You’re sure?” Peterson frowned.

  “Positive.” Although Seth did wo
nder why Hart—Jules’s old friend—suddenly popped up to see Jules the day after his ex-fiancée was murdered. Yeah, he wondered, all right. And worried.

  • • •

  JULES BALANCED THE sealed container of warmed lasagna on one hand and a tray holding two hot coffees in the other. Clutching her purse tightly beneath her right arm, she made her way outside through the front door of her building and around to the back alley.

  Sunshine washed between the buildings, illuminating everything but the deepest corners of the alley. And there, in the far right corner, nestled next to a huge green garbage bin, lay Samuel.

  Approaching him cautiously, Jules held out the plate of food, hoping to entice him to come toward her. He didn’t. He appeared to be sleeping soundly. Setting the container and one of the coffees down beside him, Jules straightened.

  Moira shimmered into being beside her.

  Jules turned and faced the spirit. Moira’s aura pulsed white as she glanced from Jules to Samuel and back again.

  “Thank you,” Moira said. “He went to sleep hungry.”

  “Why? I gave him money last night.” Jules projected her thoughts to the ghost. “Did someone steal it?”

  Moira smiled. “No. He used it to buy bread for the shelter. He only accepted a single sandwich as payment.”

  Jules glanced down at Samuel’s sleeping form. In repose, beneath the mountain of clothes, he looked angelic despite the thick smudges of dirt on his cheeks.

  “Thank you again for taking care of him,” Moira said, then shimmered out of existence.

  “Wait!” Jules called out before remembering she needn’t have spoken.

  Moira returned. “Yes?”

  “Do you know a spirit named Aimee-Lynn?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know her.” Moira shook her head. “Is she a friend of yours?”

  “No, she’s not.” Jules shifted the purse under her arm, then sighed. “But she’s someone who needs my help. At least, I think she does. I’ve seen her several times and she keeps sending me visions. But I don’t know what she wants. When I try to ask she gets really angry and starts shrieking. Most of the time when she comes around, I end up curled into a ball, trying to keep her from ripping my skull apart from the inside out.”