by Ron Goulart
“Good.” He glanced at his watch, but time no longer pertained to us. Old habits die hard. “I want to wrap this up quickly. I’m sure there are many people waiting for me in the next world.”
I nodded. Undoubtedly waiting with pitchforks.
“Who should we visit first?” I asked.
He laughed. “The police have them all at the house. No need to choose.”
“Really?” That wasn’t a by-the-book move for the police. Why rustle all the suspects into one house and question them? That gave them time to get their stories straight and clean up any remaining evidence.
“Yes, everyone returned to my house once they learned of my demise. They’re consoling each other.”
* * * *
Tracey and I arrived to find a roaring party underway. The champagne flowed. Laughter bounced off the walls. A wide variety of expensive-looking foods covered tables in the main room. I saw a young police officer sitting at the end of one table enjoying not only a leisurely meal but also the attentions of a lovely, young, and flirtatious woman. She batted her eyelashes with a hint of innocence in her gaze.
Was this young lady—by my calculations too young to have been a proper choice for Tracey Rackham—romantically interested in the man in uniform, or trying to distract him from investigating a murder?
“That’s Madeline,” Tracey said, pointing at the flirtatious blonde. He sounded confused and shocked that she was making eyes at the young officer so soon after his death. “I’m going to show myself to her.”
His anger told me that he was starting to doubt the trust he’d placed in Madeline’s innocence.
“Keep quiet,” I said in a low voice. “Women can be delicate and emotionally unstable. You do not want to create a situation resulting in her death.”
“I don’t see that as a reason to not show myself.”
“It’s your eternity.” I gestured toward the floor. “If you want a direct road to Hell, by all means go.”
“Oh, all right,” Tracey said with resignation.
“Follow me. And don’t brush against anyone. Unexpected chills put people on edge and got their defenses up.”
“Why do we have to be questioned here?” Madeleine was asking innocently. She started slowly moving her hips to and fro. An untrained eye would believe this an ingrained habit but I could see it for what it is—a way to distract, tempt, and coerce information out of the officer.
He smiled, his eyes traveling from the hypnotic movement her hips to her face. He shrugged. “The Sergeant heard about the wake and decided it saved manpower and time to conduct questioning here.”
“Does he think someone here did it?” She batted her pale lashes.
The officer, who was apparently better at his job than I gave him credit for, responded with undisguised sarcasm. “Of course not ma’am. There is no reason to think anyone here would want to fill Mr. Rackham’s glass of scotch with sleeping powder, then lead him outside so he could fall down a well, and then drop bricks on his head to make sure he wouldn’t climb out. Not a reason in the world.” He gave her an appreciative grin.
She tossed her pale locks over her shoulder and stomped away on her delicate heels. The officer shrugged and returned his attention to his plate of food.
“It appears either they don’t know Madeline led you outside, or the officer doesn’t want Madeline to know he knows.”
“So they are trying to trip her up by not revealing what they know. Their plan is to wait around and see if their presence cracks her.” Tracey rubbed his hands together.
“Or they want to see if she accidentally slips up in a conversation and puts herself at the well at the time of your death. It’s hard to accuse someone of trying to frame you when the words come from your own mouth.”
“Should we follow her?”
“No. Since she is trying to weasel information out of people, we know she is trying to cover something up. What we need to know is how your drink got poisoned.”
“And the way to discover that is to check on the bar.”
“Exactly.”
We headed into the living room. More people, more food, and a makeshift bar at the far end. A young male bartender in a red vest kept the booze flowing.
I suspected Madeline had the same mission we did. She was now trying to flirt her way into one bartender’s good graces.
“What do you have behind there?” She asked, leaning over the wooden counter. Her movements allowed the bartender a nice look at the round, firm, lush mounds that her blouse should have done a better job of concealing.
“Liquor.” He poured a drink and tried to get a better look at the treasures offered for his view.
She stood up and looked him in the eyes. She leaned closer to him and whispered into his ear. “You aren’t seeing anyone are you? I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea. I noticed that Kelly seemed awfully interested in you.”
He set down the drink he just poured and the bottle. Apparently, interest in his job just left his brain. I couldn’t blame him.
“No, I’m available.” He leaned one elbow on the counter. “Kelly is my cousin.”
“Really!” She smiled and batted her lashes, then trailed her finger from his wrist to his elbow. “I’m sure glad you told me that. Maybe I could catch a ride back to my house with you.”
“Sure.” He grinned.
“But I may have to leave soon.” She pouted her pretty lips and massaged her forehead.
“Sorry. I’m stuck here until this shindig winds down.”
“Well,” she drew out the word, “you don’t have an aspirin or something like that back there.” She leaned over more to get a better view, putting her head closer to his nether regions.
With a look around the room, then a traveling glance over her rounded tush, he cleared his throat to get her attention. Instead of pushing herself back into a standing position, she tilted her head so she could look up at him.
“Um, ma’am, you’re going to get hurt, and if you have a headache you might want to ask the host if he has any headache remedies. All I have back here is alcohol.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, straightening but not bothering to readjust her skirt or her blouse.
“Yes.”
“I’m sure Randall told me he kept some back there. Can I just get a little peek?”
“No.” The bartender’s attitude shifted from interest to annoyance. The dame wasn’t winning the fellow or any information.
She flashed him a smile and widened her blue eyes. “I’ll tell Randy he was mistaken.” She walked away, swiveling her hips enticingly.
The bartender wasn’t enticed. His face showed suspicion.
“What did she want, Paul?” a lovely brunette asked, as she joined him. She had an I’m-familiar-with-you-but-not-a-come-hither way look.
“She said aspirin, but I’m not buying it. She was just too…”
“Single-minded?”
“Yeah. Too single-minded. I’m worried, Kelly. She’s up to something.”
Kelly crossed her arms. “I saw her coming on to a cop earlier. I just got done telling the sergeant that she left the party with Tracey.”
The bartender stared hard at Madeline’s back. “You think she knows the police know that?”
“Without a doubt.”
“We could be in a lot of trouble,” Paul said. “Someone pushed Tracey into the well and pelted him with bricks. And that person knows he or she didn’t drug Tracey.”
“Madeleine is trying to find someone else she can finger for the killing.”
“But we weren’t trying to kill him,” Paul whispered.
“Who’s going to believe we only doped him so we could blackmail him into marrying me?”
Tracey let out a gasp of outrage. Kelly looked over her shoulder quickly. Her gaze moved back and forth, but of course she couldn’t see us.
“We have to get out of here,” she said.
“Won’t that look suspicious?” Paul dried his hands on a to
wel. “I have to stay. I’m working.”
“You can take a break. We’ll follow Madeline. If anyone gets set up, I want it to be her.”
I couldn’t help but smile. The story behind Tracey’s demise was getting more interesting, and so were the antics of the parties involved. I’d need more than two hands to unravel all this yarn. My best bet was to trail Paul and Kelly. More than anyone, they needed to uncover the pusher and thrower. Otherwise, the people most likely to be suspected of pushing Tracey Rackham and throwing bricks on him would be the ones who did the drugging.
Paul and Kelly hurried into the garden. We followed right on their heels. Kelly drew up short, then pulled Paul being a tree.
“There she is!” She pointed out toward where Madeline was crawling on the ground beside the well. “What did I tell you?”
“We should stop her from planting evidence,” Paul said.
“I’ll watch her. You get one of the officers inside.”
Paul dashed back toward the house. Then, apparently, Kelly decided it was show time. She stalked forward toward Madeleine.
“Hold it right there,” she said.
Madeline glanced up, then returned her gaze to the ground. She was feeling around the perimeter of the well, her hands making squishing sounds in the damp earth.
“The answer to Tracey’s death is around her somewhere.”
“I know what you are doing, and I won’t stand here and watch you do it.”
“Then maybe your friend will help.” She motioned with a crook of a little index finger for someone to come and do her bidding. “Come on and help me look.”
“Paul, I thought you went…” Kelly’s voice stopped dead.
I looked behind me to and there was no Paul. Who was Madeline talking about?
“Paul isn’t here.”
Madeline sighed. “Hopefully he’ll come back with the officer soon, but I meant the guy with the fedora.”
She meant me. Some people can see ghosts even when we are incognito, and others can see us when we consciously give ourselves forms. Some never see us at all. Madeleine, apparently, fell into the first category. She had seen Tracey and me the whole time.
I decided to help her and gave myself a misty physical form. Kelly went pale.
“Oh my God! Tracey.” Kelly’s knees buckled and she fell onto the ground in a sitting position.
“He is Tracey, but I’m not God. Callous is the name.”
“They’re ghosts,” Madeline said. Her eyes locked onto mine. “Charming.”
Tracey said, “I can’t believe you would kill me, Madeline. And I was going to marry you…”
Madeline grimaced.
Kelly gasped and jumped up. “You were going to marry her! Why, she is… She is…young.” Kelly finally decided to finish her sentence with that word then turned her wrath on Madeline. “And you’re trying to set me and Paul up as the murders. How dare you!”
“I didn’t kill Tracey.”
“But he just said you did!” Kelly glanced at Tracey. “And if anyone ought to know…”
“Kelly does have a point,” I said.
“But why would I kill him? I hoped he wouldn’t choose me.” She smiled at Tracey.
“You took him out the the well—”
Madeline sighed. “Here’s the truth. I did lead Tracy out here to the garden, but not to kill him. He was drunk. I thought if I took him away from the party, I could claim he took advantage of me. It would be the word of an innocent girl against a drunk, middle-aged old man.”
Tracey flinched at the word middle-aged. “Why?” he cried. “I liked you!”
“My parents pushed me into it. My dad’s business is nearing bankruptcy, and marrying you could save it.”
“So you were trying to put Tracey in a comprising situation so you didn’t have to marry him?” I asked.
She nodded. “You see, regardless of how it would help my dad, my mother wouldn’t have me marry that kind of man. She wouldn’t want a groper in our family tree. When I heard Tracey was drugged, I realized I had to find whoever added sleeping pills to his drink. Since only the bartenders touched the alcohol…”
“It would be our fault.” Kelly glared at her and took a fighting step forward. “You were trying to shift the blame to Paul.”
I moved between them. “If you didn’t kill him,” I pointed at Madeline, “and you and Paul didn’t,” I pointed at Kelly, “That means there is a third party involved.”
“How was I to know that you didn’t murder him?” Madeline asked, with sincerity. “I wasn’t trying to shift the blame. I was trying to find the killer…or killers.”
The only real sincerity I had seen all night.
I said, “We need to find out who shoved Tracey down the well. The only people who cared if Tracey got married were Randall and Claudia.”
“The police would suspect them first,” Kelly said.
“Except that you and Madeline gave them two other suspects,” I said. “Or at least you did the dirty work for them. They didn’t drug Tracey. They didn’t lead him outside hoping he’d fall in the well.”
Kelly snapped her fingers. “What if Tracey fell into the well all by himself and broke his neck, then Randall and Claudia came along and tossed the bricks on top of him? That wouldn’t make them guilty of murder. All they did was give him a cheap burial.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” I pointed out. “What would they gain if Tracey went missing? If he died by accident in a drunken fall, they’d get all the money with no worries about police investigations. The coroner could figure out that Tracey died from a broken neck.”
“But what if I didn’t die?” Tracey asked. “What if I was only injured?”
“We need to find out who took the bricks,” Kelly said.
“You don’t need to find out anything.” Another voice entered the conversation. The young police officer Madeline had flirted with was leading a confused, handcuffed Paul toward us. Five more officers brought up the rear, with Randall and Claudia, also in handcuffs.
Kelly and Madeline’s mouths fell open. The officer pointed to the two women. “Cuff them.”
They both started to argue, but the officer cut off their words. “You see, police do this weird thing called fingerprinting. We found Randall’s and Claudia’s prints on the bricks. And besides Tracey’s prints, the only other set on the poisoned glass was Paul’s. He was kind enough to confess to drugging…with his sister’s help.”
Paul stared at the ground.
Kelly gaped at him. “Paul!”
The officer grinned. “Being the great guy he is, Paul filled us in on the rest of the plot. Of course, Paul says he and Kelly only drugged Tracey. Brother and sister said Madeline led Tracey outside so he’d fall in the well. So, when they found Tracey had somehow gotten himself stuck at the bottom of a well, they tried to ease their dying brother’s suffering by dropping bricks on him.”
“So you’re going to charge us all with murder?” one of the quintet demanded.
The young officer shrugged. “Hey, I’m just booking you all. I’ll let the District Attorney sort it out. I’m glad I decided not to go to law school. I sure the heck wouldn’t want to try this mess.”
* * * *
A rather fitting end for this case.
Take a note: Sometimes you are damned if you do and damned if you try.
BODYGUARD, by James C. Glass
Marvin Polack checked three books out of the library and waited patiently while Susan stamped the due date in each volume. He watched her work, studied the finely chiseled features of her face and the auburn hair that framed it. His hands trembled a little as she handed the books to him, her fingers coming close to his, and he forced a slight smile. “Thank you,” he said softly.
“Thank you, Mister Polack. You must have read every mystery novel in the library by now.”
“Not quite,” he said, and looked down at the books to avoid her eyes. “I’ll be back for more in a few days.”
“Well let me know if I can help you find anything.”
“I will,” said Marvin, still looking at the books, and then he turned away, seemingly lost in thought, and left the library and Susan Kensor behind. Susan watched him go, wondering what he found wrong with her, why she was unable to start up a meaningful conversation with him. The man intrigued her, a studious, soft-spoken person with startling blue eyes that made her skin tingle the few times he’d looked at her directly. He just didn’t seem to notice her, and she wondered why.
When her work was finished for the day she walked the nine blocks back to her apartment along lonely side streets past yawning maws of dark alleys that always frightened her. She walked quickly, hands thrust into coat pockets, her face set in a mask of grim determination to reach home safely. If only she wasn’t too cheap to take a cab, she thought. Eyes fixed straight ahead, she didn’t notice Marvin Polack following a block behind her, or the slender man leafing through magazines and watching her through the dirty window of a bookstore across the street.
* * * *
It was dark when Marvin stumbled up the wooden stairs to his apartment and opened the door. He was shaking so badly he needed both hands to guide his key into the lock, and then he was inside and it was very quiet. His mother hadn’t come home from work, so she wouldn’t have to ask him why he was trembling all over or why his face and forehead glistened with sweat. He went to his room, locked the door behind him and lay down on his bed in darkness, breathing deeply and forcing his mind back to reality. The murder of Susan Kensor had seemed so real, so horrible, yet a part of his mind fought to retain the image of her staring eyes. She had not died, he told himself. He had followed her home, as he’d been doing for several days now, watching her striding ahead of him in the growing darkness. In his imagination, he’d crept up behind her, clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her backwards into an alley. When she saw who he was, she seemed to relax, and when he began to choke her she didn’t struggle, only stared at him, eyes open wide with surprise. And he squeezed harder and harder…
