Caught Red-Handed

by Jan Burke

  I noticed her, as I did two other women, Lucy Osborne and Annette Mayes, who lingered longer than most of the others. Both were at least fifteen years younger than I, and gorgeous. Lucy was a brunette, Annette a redhead. I wondered if David had stayed with my type or looked for something different when he chose a lover. Something in the way Annette looked at me made me decide he had tried something different. Oddly, I didn’t feel the animosity I thought I would feel towards her. I really didn’t care. David had come back to me. Fifteen weeks was not twenty-one years.

  I sat next to the open grave longer than my sister, Lisa, thought I should, but I refused to be steered away. My father told her to let me be and then gave me a hug and said they’d be waiting for me at the car, to take my time.

  “I guess this is goodbye, David,” I said aloud, and was startled to feel a warm hand on my shoulder. I looked up into the eyes of the ghost.

  This time, I was angry. This was my private moment with David, and I didn’t want the living or dead intruding on it. At the time, the man seemed to be among the living. I couldn’t see through him and his hand was warm. “Can’t a person have a moment’s peace?” I said, trying to remove his hand, but only touching my own shoulder. That frightened me.

  He shook his head sadly and removed his hand.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  “Are you David?” I asked, thinking maybe I was seeing him transformed somehow.

  But the ghost shook his head.

  “Could I please have a little time to say goodbye to my husband? Would that be too much to ask?”

  He gave a little bow and vanished.

  I was shaking. “David,” I said, when I had calmed down, “Why isn’t it you? If I’m going to go crazy and see ghosts, why isn’t it your ghost? Show up, David. Materialize, or whatever it is you do. I want you back.”

  I waited. Nothing.

  “Goodbye, David,” I said, giving up. “I’ll miss you. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. Be very sad for a very long time, I suppose.”

  I looked up and saw a man walking toward me. I knew this one was among the living. There was nothing extraordinary about Detective Russo’s appearance. He was a plain-faced man, neither handsome nor ugly. He was of medium height, had mouse-brown hair that was cut short. His eyes, his voice, and his face usually reflected very little of what he was thinking or feeling. If you talked to him for a while, there was no mistaking his intelligence, but he didn’t walk around with his IQ embroidered on his sleeve. An ocean of calm, he seemed to me. I could use it.

  “Hello, Detective Russo,” I said as he approached.

  “Hello, Dr. Blackburn,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you. Just wanted to make sure you were all right. I’ll leave—”

  “No,” I said, standing up. “Don’t worry about it. I need to walk to the car; I’m keeping everyone waiting.”

  He surprised me by offering me his arm, but I took it and we walked in silence toward the limo. When we reached it, I invited him to join us at the house, but he politely declined.

  “Were you watching me the whole time I sat there?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I was,” he said, not seeming in the least embarrassed about it.

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “While you sat there?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t. Why?”

  “Nothing, really. Nothing at all. I don’t suppose you’ve learned anything more about what happened?”

  “No, I’m sorry, Dr. Blackburn. But we’re still working on it.”

  “It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I got into the car and let Lisa’s chatter roll over me as my father held my hand.

  Back at the house, the ghost became rather nervy. I would see him standing among groups of people, watching me. Everyone excused my vacant stares as widow’s grief, which was fine with me. I wasn’t in the mood to be entertaining.

  The gathering thinned out quickly. Lisa left only after I reassured her for the fifty-third time that I wanted to be by myself. Only I knew I wasn’t going to be able to be by myself. The ghost was growing as eager as I was to have her leave.

  “Okay,” I said, after I saw her drive off. “Let’s talk.”

  He looked even sadder than before.

  “What? Did I say something?”

  He didn’t reply.

  I decided that even if he was a figment of my imagination, I needed to play this out. Avoiding him obviously wouldn’t work. “Let’s sit down,” I said.

  He followed me into the living room, and we sat on opposite ends of the couch.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  No answer, just gestures that I couldn’t make anything out of.

  “Can’t you talk?”

  He shook his head, pointing at his mouth.

  “If I gave you a pen and paper could you write a note?”

  He shook his head again.

  “I thought ghosts were supposed to be cold. When you touched me today you were warm.”

  He shrugged.

  “Perhaps you haven’t been dead long?”

  He nodded, and held up four fingers.

  “Four days?”

  He nodded again.

  “Most people would be cold.”

  He waited.

  “Why me?” I asked.

  He walked over to the mantel over the fireplace and pointed to a photograph.

  “Because of David?”

  He nodded.

  “Is something wrong with him?” It immediately seemed like a stupid question. The man was dead. Things don’t go too much more wrong, unless—” He’s not in some sort of eternal torment is he? I don’t believe it. That can’t be true.”

  The ghost made a frantic gesture to get me to stop talking, then looked up.

  “Are you looking in the direction David traveled?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you,” I said. I found myself crying. I had felt in my heart that David, for all his weaknesses, was a good man, but it was nice to have confirmation. I suddenly felt a sense of relief. I decided I owed the ghost a favor.

  “What can I do for you?”

  He got up and paced, tried to gesture, couldn’t get through to me.

  “Wait, settle down.”

  He sat down again.

  “You know David, right?”

  He nodded.

  “You are a ghost?”

  Yes again.

  I thought about everything I had heard about ghosts. “Are you trying to haunt me? Did I do something wrong to David?”

  No.

  “Are you trying to right some wrong done to you?”

  Yes.

  I figured he probably couldn’t explain the details just yet, so I tried to question my way to it. “Did you know David before you became a ghost?”

  Another yes.

  “But I never met you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did you know him a long time ago?”

  No.

  “You knew him recently?”

  Yes.

  There weren’t many possibilities. “You knew him from work?”

  Yes again. He seemed anxious, as if this would give me the answer.

  “You’re one of the workers who died when the tank ruptured!”

  He looked stricken, but shook his head. He held up the four fingers again.

  “Oh, that’s right. That was five days ago. You said you died four days ago. But the only person who died four days ago was the . . .”

  He could see the understanding dawning on me.

  “You’re the plant manager.”

 
He nodded sadly.

  “Mr. Devereaux?”

  Yes, he nodded.

  “You killed yourself.”

  He stood up, shaking his head side to side, mouthing the word ‘No!’

  “You didn’t kill yourself?”

  Again, just as firmly, no.

  “Someone killed you?”

  Yes.

  “Who?”

  He pointed to his ring finger on his left hand. There was no wedding band, but I could guess.

  “Your wife?”

  Yes.

  “Your wife killed you?”

  I tried to remember the stories. I couldn’t. Everything had been blurred by the events of three days ago. I went over to a stack of newspapers that I had been meaning to take out to the recycling bin. I put the two unopened ones—which I knew had stories of David’s murder in them—aside, and reached for the one from the day David was killed. That was the day after Devereaux’s suicide. The suicide was front page news.

  “Will it bother you if I read this to you?”

  No.

  “‘Mr. Chance Devereaux . . .’ Chance? Your first name is Chance?”

  He nodded.

  “‘Mr. Chance Devereaux, plant manager of Emery & Walden, died of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound yesterday evening. His wife, Louise, who is also employed at Emery & Walden, discovered her husband’s body when she returned home late from work. She said her husband had grown despondent following the deaths of three workers Tuesday in an industrial accident caused by a ruptured acid tank. Mr. Devereaux had received complaints from the workers about the tank, but failed to repair it . . .’”

  I looked up to see him angrily indicating his disagreement.

  “We’ll get to your side of the story in a moment,” I said. “Where was I? Oh yes, ‘ . . . failed to repair it in time to prevent the deaths.’” I read on in silence. The rest of the article was simply a rehash of the previous reports on the accident.

  “My name is Anna. May I call you Chance?”

  Yes.

  “Is your wife Emery’s secretary?”

  Yes.

  “And you didn’t kill yourself?”

  No. He pointed to the ring finger again.

  “Your wife killed you.”

  Yes.

  “How?”

  He pointed to his mouth again, only this time I saw what I had missed before: he wasn’t pointing, he was imitating the firing of a gun into his mouth.

  “She shot you in the mouth?”

  He nodded.

  I shuddered. “How did she manage that? I’ve seen your wife. She’s not a very large woman.”

  He pantomimed holding a glass, pouring something into the glass, then adding something to it. Then he pantomimed sleep.

  “She drugged your drink?”

  He nodded.

  “That should come out in the autopsy.”

  He made a helpless gesture.

  “It didn’t?”

  He shrugged.

  “You don’t know if it did or it didn’t, but they declared it a suicide?”

  He nodded again.

  “Have you . . .” I tried, but couldn’t think of a more polite way to phrase it. “Have you been buried?”

  He nodded, looking very unhappy.

  “You don’t like where you’re buried?”

  He looked into my face and made the Sign of the Cross.

  “You’re Catholic.”

  Yes.

  “And you aren’t buried in consecrated ground?”

  No.

  “Is that why you’re haunting me?”

  He gave me a look that said he was disgusted with me and disappeared.

  The moment he was gone, the house felt very empty. “Come back,” I said.

  Nothing.

  “Chance, please come back. I apologize. This is a very difficult time for me. I didn’t mean to offend you by calling it ‘haunting.’ If you come back, I’ll try to help you.”

  He reappeared.

  “How do you do that?”

  He shrugged.

  “Let me know if you figure out more about this ghost business.”

  He nodded.

  “What does this have to do with David?”

  He studied me for a moment, then pointed to David’s picture and then his head.

  “David shot you, too?” I said in disbelief.

  No! He might as well have been able to shout it.

  “Wait, wait. I’m beginning to understand. David told me he didn’t believe the things that were said about you. Is that what you mean?”

  Yes. He kept gesturing to his head.

  “David didn’t just believe, he knew they weren’t true.”

  Emphatic nod.

  “He had proof?”

  Yes.

  We continued to piece a conversation together with questions, nods, and pantomime. From what I could make out from Chance’s gestures, David had proof that Chance had tried to act on replacing the acid tank long ago, but Emery refused, citing costs. David had told him where he hid the papers that would show Chance was not to blame.

  “Was David killed because of this?” I asked.

  He nodded slowly. He placed a hand over his chest, eyes downcast, as if to say, “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” I said, but I was lost for a while. When I had managed to regain my composure, I said, “I’ve got to contact Detective Russo.”

  Chance wasn’t happy with this idea, but I ignored his gestures until he got frustrated and vanished. This time, I didn’t mind so much. I needed some time to absorb what he had told me.

  I dialed police headquarters and asked for Russo. He wasn’t in, but the man who took my call said he would page him. I was grateful he wasn’t there; it occurred to me that it would be difficult to tell him that I had been talking to Chance Devereaux’s ghost. Only about fifteen minutes had passed when he called me back, but I was better prepared.

  “Anything wrong, Dr. Blackburn?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “In fact, I think I may have some more information for you about my husband’s case, and perhaps another case as well. But first I need to ask you a few questions.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Detective Russo?”

  “I’m here, Dr. Blackburn. Just what is this all about?”

  “Maybe this would be easier to explain if we spoke face-to-face.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  * * *

  When he arrived, I could tell he wasn’t exactly pleased with me. I was surprised to see him betraying any emotion, and found it a nice change; somehow it made his face more interesting. He politely declined my offer of coffee and we went into the living room.

  “You said you had some questions for me?” he asked when we were seated on the couch, just as Chance and I had been seated earlier.

  “Yes. I was wondering if you were familiar with the case of Chance Devereaux?”

  He didn’t answer at once, and while I waited for him to reply, Chance reappeared. I tried not to look at him, but Detective Russo caught me glancing away. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Just now, something upset you.”

  “I’m generally upset right now. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the Devereaux case.”

  “Do you believe he killed himself?”

  Chance was gesturing to me to follow him. I wondered if he could use telepathy. I kept looking at Detective Russo, trying to tell Chance with my mind that he needed to be patient. It didn’t work. Chance walked over to the bookcase, and began pacing.

  “I don’t believe I should discuss that with anyone outside th
e department,” Detective Russo said curtly.

  “All right, if you can’t discuss it, you can’t. I’ll just tell you that I don’t believe he did.”

  At that moment a book fell from the case with a thump that made me jump half out of my skin.

  “You seem very nervous, Dr. Blackburn. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  I got up and picked up the book. Irving Stone’s Men to Match My Mountains. I looked up at Chance as I replaced it on the shelf. I finally understood what he was trying to say.

  “I remembered that David had been very concerned about the allegations that were being made. He told me he had proof that Chance Devereaux had wanted to replace the acid tank, but that Mr. Emery refused.”

  He didn’t seem to believe me. “That’s a very serious allegation. Mr. Emery could be subject to criminal prosecution if what your husband told you is true.”

  “I’m almost certain of it.”

  “And you think your husband was killed to keep him silent?”

  “Yes.”

  He eyed me skeptically. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “As you’ve noticed, Detective Russo, I’ve been very upset. David’s death was a horrible shock.” I didn’t have to fake my response there. Just thinking about it made the color drain from my face.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Blackburn,” he said.

  “No, please. And please call me Anna—only my students call me Dr. Blackburn. All I’m asking is that you help me search the place where I believe David hid the papers.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “Our mountain cabin,” I said, daring to peek over at Chance, who was nodding and urging me to get going.

  “Is that why your husband took off work on Wednesday afternoon?”

  “What?”

  He pulled out a notebook and flipped through it. Finding the page he was looking for, he said, “Your husband left work at about eleven o’clock Wednesday morning. He didn’t return all day. Said he wasn’t feeling well. A woman in the office—an Annette Mayes?—said she thought he left because he was so disturbed by the deaths of the three workers the day before.”

  I had nothing to say. Chance distracted me, making motions that seemed to mean, “Stand up, let’s go!”

  “Look, Detective Russo, could we talk about this on the way to the cabin?”

  “Lady, before we take off on a two-hour drive, why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”