Nearly Departed (Spring Cleaning Mysteries)

by J. B. Lynn

  "Carla?" I prompted, staring pointedly at where the creep's fingers curled around her arm.

  He loosened his grip.

  "Everything okay?" I raised my gaze to her face.

  She looked away. "Everything's fine."

  "So go away," the guy growled.

  My stomach flip-flopped nervously. "Let her go," I said with a hell of a lot more bravado than I was feeling.

  "Good for you!" the ghost cheered.

  "What will you do if I don't?" the guy taunted. "Scream?"

  I reached into my purse and pulled out my cell phone, brandishing it like it was a weapon. "I'll call the police."

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  A chill snaked down my spine, and my legs felt rubbery, but I forced myself to straighten my shoulders and to look the creep in the eye.

  Realizing I wasn't going to back down any time soon, he released Carla.

  "This isn't over," he said, spinning around and stalking away.

  I watched the ghost follow him.

  Once they were out of sight, I turned to Carla. "You okay?"

  "Coffee?" she replied, making it clear she wasn't going to talk about what had just happened.

  I could understand that need. "And a blueberry muffin, if there are any left."

  Side-by-side we walked into the diner.

  * * *

  I was still a bit shaky from the diner encounter when I pulled to a stop in front of Mr. Ribisi's rental property. Smoke sat on the hood of a black Jeep parked in front of the house, reading the newspaper, not the sports section either, the actual news.

  Folding up the paper, he stood as soon as he saw me and was waiting at the van's back door by the time I got there. "'Morning."

  "You're here." I couldn't believe it.

  He raised his eyebrows. "It would appear so."

  "You're early." Even to my ears it sounded like a masked accusation.

  "So are you."

  "I'm always early," I told him. "My mother says it's a lifelong condition. I was born a month before my due date. What's your excuse?"

  "I have a highly developed sense of responsibility…that and I'm a bit of an insomniac." He responded with a breezy easiness, but I sensed the truth in his words.

  Despite my best efforts, I identified with those particular traits. Maybe that's why Mike had wanted me to hire Smoke. Because he knew we had a similar work ethic. I wondered what caused his insomnia but didn't ask. Instead I said, "Do you want to take a quick look around inside and decide our plan of attack?"

  "Sounds good."

  I took the ozone box out of the van, and we both pulled on protective gear and respirators before stepping inside the house. Once again the coppery-tang of spilled blood assaulted me the moment the front door swung open. I led the way to the living room, indicating that Smoke should set up the air purifier he'd carried in by the overturned sofa.

  Surveying the carnage, Smoke let out a low whistle. "Somebody was pissed."

  I didn't respond because I was too busy surreptitiously looking for the half-headless ghost. I didn't see him.

  "It's freezing in here."

  I nodded.

  As Smoke followed me up the stairs to examine the rest of the destruction, he said, "Strange case. From all accounts these were good kids. No record of trouble. Not even a noise complaint from the neighbors."

  I decided not to point out that one of the boys had gone on a homicidal rampage, so probably wasn't such a "good kid."

  "The media has labeled this 'The Frat House Murders,' but none of them even belonged to a fraternity," Smoke continued.

  I frowned. How had I managed to hire a talker? One of the only things I liked about this job was the quiet. Reaching the top of the staircase, I came to an abrupt halt. Smoke bumped into me, but that wasn't what caused a chill to skitter between my shoulder blades.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I left all the doors open yesterday," I whispered.

  Now they were all closed.

  "Wait for me outside." He sidled past me on the stairs. "I'll check it out."

  Rooted to the spot, I watched him approach the bathroom door first. Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he mouthed, "Go."

  I shook my head.

  He scowled and then threw the door open. It bounced on its hinges, the sound echoing in the preternatural silence. Peering inside, he shook his head and moved onto the next door.

  I held my breath.

  There was no one inside that room or the other two either.

  "Not another soul here," he reported finally.

  Technically he was incorrect, but I didn't argue the point. "Maybe there's a draft that blew them shut."

  "That would explain why it's so cold in here." He didn't look convinced. "I'm going to check the thermostat again."

  He ran back down the stairs.

  A flash of light from Donald, the golfer's, bedroom caught my eye. I stepped inside to see what it was. Sunlight glinted off a silver shard of metal on the floor. Curious, I bent down to figure out what it was that lay beneath a pile of Golf Digest magazines.

  It was a DVD. I swallowed hard when I saw that the date scribbled on it was the day before the murders-suicide had occurred. I wondered if it held clues as to what happened here.

  I looked around for a DVD player, imagining Mom's lifelong admonition, "curiosity killed the cat, Vicky."

  Finding one, I plugged the DVD player into the television that was on the floor. When I tried to put the disc in, I realized there was another already loaded. I chuckled as I realized it was The Princess Bride. I put in the one I'd found and pressed PLAY.

  Buck, the would-be scientist, sat on the couch I'd seen overturned downstairs, along with another kid. The camera wobbled for a moment, and then a third young man joined them.

  "So," the third student said, "Martin here. I'm working on a piece for the Debate Club about whether a person's dreams and aspirations change as they get older, or if they just give up on them."

  "And I," Buck interrupted, "asked how he was going to test his theory."

  "You have to introduce yourself," Martin prompted.

  "Buck Hopkins. It was my idea to record this…even though I'm sure that this technology will be obsolete when we watch it in five-year-intervals for the rest of our lives."

  I sucked in a sharp breath. They'd thought they had their whole lives in front of them.

  "But I predict Martin will have some sort of camera device implanted in his brain, since he loves taking pictures so much," the third boy joked.

  Buck laughed and nodded.

  "You have to introduce yourself," Martin said.

  The third boy shrugged. "Donny."

  So he was the golfer.

  "My prediction," Martin said, taking control of the conversation, "is that in twenty years Buck will still be chasing an elusive formula that will change the world."

  "And I predict that Martin will still need to be right about everything," Donny said. "And collecting photographic evidence to prove it."

  "And I," Buck said, "predict that Donny will still be pining over the girl he never got to date."

  Donny's face darkened. He jumped up and stalked out of the shot.

  Martin frowned at Buck. "Asshole."

  He got up and turned off the camera.

  The recording ended.

  "And you were worried about me snooping in cabinets?" Smoke mocked from the doorway.

  Startled, I spun around. "I…I was thinking maybe it had something on it that would help the police."

  "So justified snooping?"

  Shrugging, I turned away. I removed the DVD and turned off the television. "It's sad. They were planning for their future."

  I looked back at him and found him studying me. An odd expression flickered over his features, but he turned away before I could identify it.

  Unsettled, I said, "Let's get started." I practically ran down the stairs and out of the house, almost mowing down a person who had been ab
out to knock on the front door.

  Fortunately, Detective Alan Reed had finely tuned reflexes, and jumped like a cat off an electrified scat mat, out of the way. "Everything okay, Vic?"

  Startled, I sputtered, "Just eager to get started."

  He took a long moment to look me over. "You're looking good."

  "Thanks, Detective." We'd seen each other at a number of crime scenes over the previous three years, but I was pretty sure this was the first time I was encased in protective gear from head to toe and drenched in sweat from said impermeable suit.

  "Al," he corrected with a smile that belonged in a toothpaste commercial. He was tall and blonde, with freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose. There weren't many people who flustered me, but he was at the top of the list.

  We stood there for a long, awkward moment, grinning at each other like fools.

  Finally I said, "What brings you here, Al?"

  "I wanted to let you know that the brother of one of the deceased might be stopping by to get some of his brother's things."

  I frowned. "Maybe you could just ask him what he wants? It's a pretty rough scene in there."

  "I suggested that, but he was adamant about doing it himself."

  I frowned. Having a family member at a clean-up scene was never easy. It was bad enough that there was a physical mess to clean up and a ghost to help move on, but a grieving relative could only complicate things further. A crime scene clean up worker had to be emotionally detached from the work itself but have a sympathetic nature to offer some comfort to those left behind. I was pretty sure I sucked at both.

  "We should go for coffee or something sometime," Al said.

  I blinked at him. Sometimes the protective suit distorts speech.

  "Did you hear me? I said we should get coffee."

  I'd heard him. I'd just thought the suit had dehydrated me, and I was hallucinating. "I'd like that."

  "I'll call you."

  "I'll give you my number."

  "I've already got it."

  "You do?" I was horrified. Had he done a criminal background check on me?

  Chuckling, he pointed at the Spring Cleaning van which had the business number painted across the entire side panel. "The whole force has it." His smile froze for a second before a guarded expression took its place as he stared over my left shoulder.

  Instinctively I turned around. I hadn't heard Smoke come up behind me.

  His gaze was locked on Al's. The sudden tension reverberating through the air between them made my stomach flip. I had the distinct impression that both men were unaware of my presence.

  "What are you doing here, Barclay?" Al asked. There was no mistaking the strain in his tone.

  Smoke had clamped his mouth shut. I was surprised I couldn't hear his teeth cracking. He didn't answer the detective, just stared at him with a powerful emotion I couldn't identify. Whatever it was, it wasn't good.

  "You two know each other?" I asked my newest employee.

  Smoke tore his gaze away from the other man and nodded at me.

  "How?"

  Smoke's clenched jaw muscle jumped, but he remained silent.

  "What? You didn't tell her, Barclay?" Al mocked.

  "Tell me what?" I had to ask even though I was fairly certain I wouldn't be pleased with the answer.

  "Tell her, Barclay, or I will," Al taunted, something angry twisting his tone.

  I felt a stab of sympathy for Smoke as he shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet my eyes. It was obvious that Al Reed had the upper hand and was pressing his advantage.

  "Smoke, see if you can find the controls for the furnace," I said quietly, offering him a way to make a dignified retreat.

  Smoke blinked.

  "Go inside," I pushed at his shoulder to make my point. "Get us some heat."

  With one last glance in Al's direction, Smoke disappeared back into the house.

  "Thanks for the heads up about the brother!" I called to the detective before following my employee, and his secret, and locking us inside.

  * * *

  Smoke didn't tell me his secret.

  At least not right away. Instead, he found the furnace, cranked up the heat, and got to work. He tackled the living room while I toiled in the bathroom. To his credit, he'd offered to clean the smallest room in the place, but he was a good six inches taller than me, so I figured he'd have even more difficulty maneuvering in the tight space.

  We each worked steadily in separate areas of the house for a few hours, until it was time to break for lunch. By that point I was wondering how on earth anyone could ever think that a combination of teal and orange tile could be considered attractive, even in a bathroom. I'd also discovered that the college boys, when they hadn't been fighting with each other, had been fighting acne, hair loss, eczema, and halitosis.

  I'd spent the last couple of hours imagining what kind of dirt Detective Reed had on Smoke. Nothing I'd come up with painted him in a positive light. Still, I'd decided not to ask him about it. I'd spent too much of my own life on the receiving end of questions I'd rather not answer.

  Once we got outside, we took off our respirators and space suits. The air, clean and cool, felt good on my face. My clothes were damp with perspiration and felt soggy.

  Smoke had fared no better in the unforgiving, unbreathing material. He was just as sweat-soaked as I was. I offered him a bottle of Gatorade, to replace the fluid, salt, and electrolytes he'd lost.

  He chugged the entire bottle without coming up for air . "There's a Chinese place, a pizzeria, and a burger joint all within two blocks of here," Smoke said. "Basically any kind of take-out a college kid could hope for."

  "Brought my lunch." Just because I wasn't going to give him the third degree didn't mean I was willing to break bread with him.

  "Leftover pizza?"

  I nodded, wondering if I'd made a giant mistake hiring him.

  "Can I bring anything back for you?"

  I shook my head, remembering that he was a friend of Mike. He couldn't be all bad.

  "I won't be long."

  "Take your time. It's not like the mess is going anywhere."

  He walked away, and I settled into the driver's seat of the Spring Cleaning van, the spot where I partook in most of my midday meals. I'd just taken the first bite of chilled pizza when the passenger door suddenly swung open.

  "Why'd you do that before…with Reed? Why'd you give me an out?" Smoke demanded, climbing inside and shutting the door behind him. "Is it because Mike already told you about me?"

  My mother always admonished me about talking while my mouth was full, so I took my time chewing and swallowing the spicy, cold cheese and dough.

  "Mike didn't tell me anything about you, and Al…Detective Reed was being…a bully. I'm not fond of bullies."

  "And you're not going to ask me about it?" Smoke's tone wavered between incredulity and relief.

  I put down my pizza and looked him in the eye. "Is whatever it is going to affect your job performance?"

  "Is it…? No."

  "Then I'm not going to ask."

  He sat back in his seat and fell silent. I'd given him something weighty to mull over. After a minute he said, "So does this mean you won't be having coffee with him?"

  I sighed. "Probably not."

  "You can do better than the likes of Al Reed."

  "Really? 'Cause most of the guys I meet are either dead, grieving, or landlords interested in cash flow."

  He turned so that he was facing me. "So why do it? Why do this job?"

  I looked straight ahead, staring at the dried globs of bird poop stuck to the windshield. They looked a lot like blood spatter. Resentment churned in my gut, but I was careful to keep my voice neutral. "Somebody's got to do it."

  Thankfully my phone began to ring, effectively ending the conversation.

  "I'll be back," he said, slipping out of the van and closing the door.

  I took a deep breath before answering. "Hi, Mom."

  "You a
nswered your phone!" She sounded surprised.

  I slammed the back of my skull into the headrest of my seat. Great, just what I needed, a maternal lecture.

  "Vicky?"

  "I'm here."

  "Oh good. For a second there I thought I'd imagined you answering."

  "I'm taking my lunch break." I didn't bother to explain why I didn't answer my phone while I was working. I'd already gone over it a dozen times with her, but she persisted in thinking I was screening her calls. She wasn't all wrong. "Did you need something?"

  "I need you to eat the lasagna left over from Jerry's party."

  "Thanks, Mom, but—"

  "There are two trays of it. I have to get it out of the house before Dad eats it. It's loaded with full fat cheese. It's not part of his heart healthy diet."

  "Why don't you just freeze it?"

  "You know your father, he'll sneak in and chip away at it, like a squirrel raiding his supply of winter nuts!" My mother has had a deep and abiding hatred of squirrels ever since she swerved to miss one while driving, crashed her car, and broke her nose. Being compared to what she called "furry-tailed rats" was one of the greatest insults she could deliver.

  "I'm sure—"

  "You don't want him to have another heart attack do you? And that's what this is: a heart attack in a tray."

  "Heart attack on a plate," I corrected automatically. "And that's what they call Fettuccine Alfredo, not lasagna."

  "It's loaded with fat and cholesterol and not part of his heart healthy diet."

  "Then why have it in the house?"

  "Because it's Jerry's favorite."

  "But he wasn't even there." The moment the words escaped my mouth I desperately wished I could take them back. But it was too late. I'd said the horrible truth aloud.

  My mother's sharp intake of breath whistled through the phone like a blade through the air. It hit me square in the chest.

  A long, painful silence stretched between us, and I wondered if she'd hung up on me, but then she cleared her throat.

  "We'll bring the lasagna by this evening. If you're not home, we'll leave it in the freezer."

  "Mom?" I said quickly, before she could disconnect. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."