by Derek Murphy
Laying Ghosts
a sequel to Dolly Games
© 2012 by Derek A. Murphy
All rights reserved, published by Derek A. Murphy.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person,
living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover Art by Shauna Wooten Summers
* * *
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
* * *
Chapter One
*
*
Reeling into the library, she tripped on the tattered, trailing hem of her nightgown, now almost useless because of the many rips, and crawled the last few feet to the wall-safe. Grasping the arm of the divan that sat beside the picture that concealed the safe, she pulled herself up, not noticing the bloody stains her fingers left on the leather. Her rapists had first beaten her unconscious, then inflicted the most horrendous things on her body. She wasn’t sure how she could live with herself from now on; not because of the rape, but because of what the rapists had threatened to do in the future.
Her hand shook as she twisted the knurled, central knob of the combination safe, forcing her to work the combination three times in order to get the safe open. Reaching inside, she pushed the neat pile of legal documents aside until her fingers encountered the butt of the Smith & Wesson. Pulling it from the safe, she stumbled to the center of the room and stood on the expensive, silk and wool, Oriental rug she had picked out for the house on their honeymoon trip.
Managing to stand upright in the middle of the rug, she lifted the pistol to lay the muzzle against the side of her head. Gasping and crying, she sobbed and turned, still barely able to stand, until she faced the portrait made from one of their wedding photos. The tears streamed down her face and she stiffened for just a moment, recovering a shred of the dignity that had once been hers. Her finger tightened on the trigger and the quiet solitude of the library was shattered by the sound of the shot that killed her.
* * *
The barrel of the pistol was cold against his temple and Martin Webster shuddered as he thought of what the bullet must have felt like as it crashed through Sophie’s brain. There would have been a sudden, excruciating pain that would have disappeared instantly if she was lucky enough to kill herself outright. If not, then the pain would probably have seemed to go on and on; an eternity for her since she might not have been able to move, speak or in any way affect the outcome. I mean, a bullet to the brain was pretty irrevocable, wasn’t it? Oh, sure, there were miracle cases where the bullet missed some important area and instead damaged areas without which a person could live. Sometimes. If they got immediate care and treatment for the wound.
Sophie got no such care. She was right here in the house, by herself when he was away on business. At least she thought he was on a business trip. Instead, he was enjoying his annual trip to the fleshpots of Vegas. While she was busy killing herself. For something that was not her fault.
Martin knew the rape she had suffered while he was gone had been brutal. The things the man had done to her had been far and away much worse than anything she could ever have experienced. He had paid enough under the table to that guy in the M.E.’s office to get copies of the report to know that. The impersonal, clinical language had turned him cold inside when he read it. First cold then nauseated. He had thrown up before he was halfway through it.
He could imagine how Sophie had felt about it. She didn’t even call the police after the guy had left; just gone to the safe and gotten the pistol to blow her brains out. Then the housekeeping staff had found her in the morning; far too late to do anything to help her. All while he had been dallying with a couple of hookers in Vegas. The guilt he felt was beyond anything he had ever felt before and he was half-tempted to pull the trigger of the gun himself.
Looking across the floor of the library, his eyes went to the spot where she had done it. The people who specialized in cleaning up crime scenes had done a good job. There was nothing on the floor or the furniture to show that a person’s life had ended here. The expensive, silk and wool rug had been taken away as evidence and he had replaced it with another almost as expensive. He didn’t mind that. He didn’t mind any of it except the loss of his wife. Twenty years younger than he, most people thought she was just a trophy for him but that wasn’t true. Martin had loved Sophie. More than anything. Well, not as much as his annual week in Vegas. That was the problem he was wrestling with now. The reason he had gone to Vegas every year since they married was because he didn’t want to inflict his sexual tastes on her; he respected and loved her too much.
The guilt. It ate at him day in and day out. He knew he should go to see a shrink but knew that if the Board got any inkling that he was losing it, they would move to replace him. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, give up his position as CEO of Nelson Aerospace. That was too much for anyone to expect from him. Sophie was gone. Sophie was dead. Why then did he feel as though she was watching him?
Just then, the fireplace lighter clicked twice and flame shot up under the firewood that he had placed there just an hour before. He looked at the button on the side of the mantel, knowing there was no way it could have been pressed. Hell! There was no one here but him!
Rising, he walked to the mantel and looked at the controls more closely. The automatic settings had not been changed; the starter should not have gone off for another thirty minutes. He put his hand up to his forehead, bending his neck and closing his eyes in misery. The pistol clunked against his skull and he frowned in consternation at having forgotten he had it in his hand. Martin guessed that was what you got for draining a bottle of single-malt in an afternoon.
He looked up at the painting Sophie had commissioned of their wedding picture and started back in terror. A spot of blood had appeared at the side of her head in the image and was running down the canvas!
Stumbling back, he tripped once getting to his desk and dropped the pistol on it as he reached for the telephone. His drunken mind swam as he thought of what he needed to do. Who could he call? The police? No, they would think he was crazy. His priest? No, if this was Sophie, reaching out to him from the grave, he wanted to know what she had to say. The priest would bless the house and try to exorcise her spirit. Were there any of those people who investigated paranormal activities in town? Hell! Even he knew they were 99% hokum! Besides, he didn’t believe in ghosts. Or, did he?
As a man who had taken a third-rate aerospace company and built it into a global power in the industry in ten years, he believed in science and facts. Besides, hiring one of those outfits would be as bad for his position as going to a shrink.
Again, he was faced with the question; who could he call? The thought came to him that he needed those people who had solved the Dolly Dagger case. From the accounts he had read in the papers, she had been bat-shit crazy. She had certainly led the police a merry chase until these detectives had cornered her. He opened the drawer of his desk and removed the phone book, flipping through the business section until he found them. His hand shook as he dialed the number and he hoped they hadn’t knocked off for the day. It was just after five; surely someone would be staying late.
There was a click on the line and he heard a sweet, young voice say, “STD Detective Agency. This is Julie speaking, how can we help you?”
* * *
Tiredly, Carl closed the office door behind him, expecting to find the o
ffice dark and empty at the end of the day, but jerked his head up in surprise as he was greeted with a chorus of tinny party horns.
Slapping him on the back, Ike cried, “Welcome back, Big Stick! We missed you!”
The slim form that was once DeeDee was gone now and a walking, human balloon with her face waddled forward, her pregnant condition impossible to ignore. In order to hug her, Carl had to lean far forward and he patted her on the back as they hugged. Her skin seemed to glow with an inner light; he guessed that’s what they always used to talk about concerning pregnant women, and she looked happy, if tired and drawn. He counted the weeks and months in his head and came up with eight and a half. Judging from the size of her belly, he could be wrong. He didn’t think so, but he could be. At any rate, she looked ready to pop.
Going up on her toes, Julie perched a party hat on his head and slid the elastic band under his chin, the back of her hand scraping over the stubble on his face. Despite what most people thought, American Indians still needed to shave. She stepped back and pulled the string on a party cracker, shooting a small cloud of confetti into the air above them all. Stepping forward again, she brushed his cheek with her lips and hugged him just as DeeDee stepped back.
Looking sternly at him, DeeDee said, “It’s a good thing you’re back! We were about to send the Marines after your ass! We thought Marta’s family might have stuck you in a cell and forgot about you.”
He took the coffee cup Ike pressed into his hand and sniffed of it, noting the distinct scent of alcohol of some kind in it. Refraining from drinking it just now, he sighed and moved to the nearest chair to sit.
“They didn’t waste any time in putting her money to good use; I was hit with injunctions and restraining orders as soon as I stepped off the plane.” His eyes found Ike’s as he said, “Your friend, Buckley-Craven, was a big help.”
“Yeah, I thought he might be. What did you find out?”
Carl looked at the cup for a moment and decided a little wouldn’t hurt him. He sipped and placed the cup on the desk.
“Jan got to one of the attendants in the hospital and she brings him reports of Marta’s progress. She still sits by herself, looking out the window every day. Sometimes they can get her to engage, but most times, she just stares out the window or plays with a doll her grandmother gave her. There isn’t any indication that she is getting any of herself back.”
Julie asked, “So what’s your plan, Carl? Are you going to give up and get on with your life? Or, are you going to do something about it?”
He took a longer drink of the spiked coffee and sighed as he put the cup down again.
“Keeping Jan on the assignment is costing me enough already. I can’t afford to get her the kind of care she needs if I got her out.” He shrugged. “I’ll keep Jan on it and if the attendant brings him a report that she is getting her mind back, then I’ll do something.”
The others were quiet for a moment, then DeeDee brought a small cake out from behind the desk and placed it on the top.
“You probably haven’t eaten since you left Johannesburg. You’re skin and bones! And, if I know you, there’s nothing in your fridge to eat when you get home. You’re going to eat some of this cake and then we’re taking you to The Hungry Sailor for a steak!”
Carl remembered the place. It had opened up just before he left for South Africa three months earlier and a friend had taken him there for lunch one day. The prices were pretty enormous, though the fare was simple.
He asked, “Are you sure we can afford it? I mean, I haven’t been here to help work cases. I haven’t been pulling my weight.”
Ike waved a hand negligently. “Don’t worry about that, buddy! We’ve been doing okay! DeeDee’s been managing the business while Julie and I work the cases. We’re thinking about moving the office to one of those toney buildings further downtown; get more room. Julie’s getting tired of sharing office space with me. She says I grind my teeth when I take a nap after working all night!”
Julie said, “Ike! That’s not true! I can put up with the tooth-grinding; it’s the farting in your sleep that’s driving me out of the office!”
Puzzled but grinning at the picture Julie’s words had painted, Carl asked, “Why don’t you just sleep at home, Ike?”
DeeDee’s hand went up. “My fault, Carl. The Doc says I could go into labor at any time and Ike wants to be close so he can take me to the hospital. Since I’ve been managing the place, it only made sense for him to sleep in his office.”
Julie’s eyebrows nearly met in the middle as she frowned and said, “He better warn me when he eats pastrami before taking his nap. That way I’ll know to work out here in the outer office.”
As DeeDee cut the cake, Carl asked, “So, what are we working on now?”
Ike took the first piece of cake and slid the paper plate with a plastic fork in front of Carl, saying, “Oh, the usual cheating spouse cases. We’re putting all of those on the backburner though for a while. Martin Webster over at Nelson Aerospace called yesterday afternoon and came in this morning about his wife.”
Carl looked blankly at Ike for a moment. “Webster’s wife is dead. It happened just before I left. The police decided it was a suicide. Even if the police never caught her attackers, there shouldn’t be anything there for us.”
As Ike handed the next piece of cake to Julie and had his hand slapped for trying to dip a finger into the icing, he smiled back at his partner.
“You wouldn’t think so, but Webster claims his wife is haunting him. Since he doesn’t believe in ghosts, he wants us to find out who is behind it and how they’re doing it.”
Nodding, Carl said, “I guess you plan on sweeping the property for anomalous electronic signatures. You think someone has snuck some fancy special effects into the house to bedevil him?”
“Julie and I are going out there tomorrow morning. Sweeps all around is the order of the day!”
Carl twitched as DeeDee smacked the back of his hand with her plastic fork as a reminder that he should be eating the cake and not let it get dry.
He dutifully scooped up a bit of cake and popped it into his mouth, chewing as he asked, “If you and Julie are going out to Webster’s place, then what am I supposed to do? I can’t just sit here. I need something to do.”
Ike nodded. “I figured it might take you a little while to get back into the swing of things. You can go over our pending cases and see if anything jumps out at you. Even rusty, you have the best instincts I’ve ever seen in an investigator.”
Carl felt his face grow warm at the unexpected praise and continued eating his cake. When he had finished, DeeDee wrapped plastic over the remainder of the cake and kissed Ike on the cheek.
“You three go eat and drink till you’re puffed up like a three-days-dead-cow. I’m going home and getting off my feet.”
She slapped Ike on the chest with her little hand as he began to remonstrate with her.
“Don’t give me that dutiful husband crap, Ike Decker! I can take care of myself. I did it through college and three years of working for the police department. Just because I’m pregnant, that doesn’t mean I’m any less me! I know how to pick up a phone to call 911.”
As he grinned at her, turning away, she smacked him on the behind.
“I know what you were thinking, Ike! I may be big and slow, but I can still catch you when I want you!”
Stopping at the door, Ike turned and gave Carl a look filled with mock fear as he said, “We better get while the getting is good, Partner!”
Carl rose, self-consciously pushing the half-finished bit of cake to the middle of the desk and gave DeeDee a look of gratitude.
“Thanks, Dee. I was just going to hole up here in the office, but I think I really need to get out among people and take my mind off what’s been bothering me.”
As DeeDee nodded silently, Julie stepped to his side and put an arm around his waist.
“Come on, Boss. Let’s go get you snockered! Maybe if you’re dru
nk, I’ll be able to get into your pants!”
Carl knew that though her words were meant to sound like a joke, Julie had not forgotten offering him her body two years earlier and being turned down. It was entirely possible that she still wanted to make that lone conquest in order to reject him later as a way of reprisal.
As he walked to the door, he resolved not to drink too much tonight. Even if Julie was successful at getting him into bed, he didn’t think his heart would be in it; his heart was still in South Africa with Marta.
* * *
Martin avoided the library as he went about the house, checking all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. Satisfied that the house was locked up as tight as he could make it, he went to the kitchen and removed one of the microwave dishes from the refrigerator that his cook had prepared for him earlier in the week. There was quite a selection and he opted for one of the French dishes. He ordinarily didn’t care for the fat and sauces that were part and parcel with eating French food, but tonight, he felt that he wanted something somewhat heavy.
As he waited for the microwave to heat his food, he looked over the next week’s menu offering and frowned as he saw all the German food that Cook planned to prepare. He made a mental note to tell her in the morning to get back to plain old American fare.
The microwave dinged and he went to remove the dish from it, forgetting to get an oven mitt. He snatched his hand back as he felt the heat and walked to the drawer beside the oven for a mitt. With his hand properly protected, he picked up the dish and walked toward the small kitchen table; he didn’t think he could stand the idea of using the dining room. Not with Sophie gone.
Before the dish was safely on the table, the crashing sound of a gunshot echoed through the house, startling him enough to drop his meal on the floor. White-faced, he stared toward the door leading to the library for a moment before he stepped around the food that spattered the floor and broke into a run. Rounding the corner, he pushed the pocket doors aside and stood in the door of the library, his mouth agape.
