Since I had actually texted Stanley twice and gotten short responses that had indicated to me he was no longer interested in being friendly, I didn’t bother to text him. I just wanted to confirm he was at the Ritz.
Lo and behold, he was not. In fact, he’d never been there. They had no clue who Stanley Robertson was. Maybe they just weren’t allowed to tell me, but my gut told me they were being forthcoming. Stanley had never been there. I would have chalked it up to his father being confused except that I was positive Stanley had told me that’s where he was staying. Unless he meant that theoretically. Like “life is hard at the Ritz” but not that he was literally at the Ritz.
That seemed like a stretch. Most likely, he was pretending to be wealthier than he was. Or more impressive, anyway.
No one thought my life was impressive. That was one advantage to having perpetually frizzy hair and a propensity to get injured.
“Hey, Grandma,” I said, heading into the living room. “How does a spa day sound? Here at home, I mean. I have one of those foot baths you can use while I paint my nails.”
“Can we order pizza?”
“Absolutely.”
My life may not be the Ritz Carlton, but I thought it was a pretty awesome way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
Eleven
I stuck to my plan to look at Vera’s will on Monday and start picking through the names. I was sitting upstairs at home in my office with my fuzzy slippers on. I had on yoga pants and a sweater that covered me from ear to knee. No sign of temperatures increasing at all and the thermostat outside was hovering around six degrees, actual temperature. None of this wind chill stuff to make it sound worse. Just legit, straight-up it’s absolutely-freezing-cold six degrees.
Sipping tea in an attempt to be healthy (antioxidants, right?) I entered the first five names into my computer one by one, trying to find something that would indicate they had the potential to be a killer. Which seemed futile. Did sneaky killers make it obvious online they were killers? Doubtful, hence the descriptor “sneaky.” Nothing suspicious was jumping out at me until I got to the sixth name on the list.
Devin Whittaker.
Why did that name sound so familiar?
I tapped my pen I’d been using to make notes next to names on my lower lip. Devin Whittaker.
Then it hit me and I sat straight up.
Tight Sweater Guy. I was almost positive.
I called Jake, who was at work.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said.
“Can you talk for a minute?”
“Yep. Just looking at autopsy photos on a suspected gang shooting.”
Yuck. I’m not good with blood. Thus explaining why I was the world’s worst evidence tech at the police department during my short tenure. “Does it look like an easy case?” I asked.
“Maybe. No one’s talking but there are surveillance cameras at the intersection. Just waiting for access to them.”
“That’s good.”
“What’s up, baby? Are you calling to say you love me?”
We never did that so the very thought of it made me smile. “Someday I just might, you never know. But that day is not today. I’m actually calling because I pulled Vera’s will to see who else is inheriting five grand and guess whose name is on it?” I felt excited just thinking about it.
Marner sighed. “I don’t know. Me?”
“What? No. Why would Vera give you money? Devin Whittaker, the guy who was in the parking garage at Metro. Isn’t that crazy?”
There was a pause. “So why is he following you?”
“I don’t know. It just proves that I’m not nuts and that he was at Vera’s funeral, like I said all along.” I hadn’t actually thought through the implications of any of it.
“That’s weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“This guy.”
“So what do we do?”
“You don’t do anything. You stay at home with the doors locked.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Do you think I’m in danger?”
“Bailey. Someone broke your nose. Possibly him. Yes, I think you could be in danger.”
I glanced over at the mirror hanging on my wall. My nose still didn’t look right. It was a little swollen and just a tinge crooked. “Do you think I’m ugly? I don’t think my nose is healing right.”
“Oh my God. How did you go from me being worried about your safety to thinking your nose is ugly?”
“Because I don’t think it’s healing as fast as it should. It looks crooked.” I made a face at myself in the mirror, completely losing focus on the matter at hand.
“It looks like a nose that was just broken. It will be totally normal in a month.”
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent. Now can we talk about this guy who seems to be following you?”
Right. That guy. “Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe he just lives in the neighborhood.” Though that seemed far-fetched. But I didn’t really want to think he was following me because, if he was, he had to be the killer. Or connected to the killer.
“It’s possible, but I don’t like it. If he’s going to follow you, I’m going to follow him. Let’s see how he likes a tail on his ass.”
That would work. “That’s a good idea.”
His voice lowered. “I have a lot of good ideas.”
“Most of them involving what to cook for dinner,” I said cheerfully. “Speaking of, what are we having tonight?”
“I know what I’m having.”
“That’s not on the menu. Grandma will be around, remember?”
He groaned. “Is it April yet? At least when we’re living together we have the excuse of going to bed every night.”
“It’s the middle of January. The cold, dark, domain of Old Man Winter. April is a dream that I can’t even contemplate right now or I’ll lose my mind entirely.”
“Okay, then. Guess no sex for me.” There was a shuffling sound, like he had his phone on his shoulder. “Hey, by the way, my vacation request was approved. We can book our flights to Florida soon.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
We ended the call and I went back to staring at Devin Whittaker’s name. Then I did an online search to see what I could find. He didn’t appear to have any social media presence which seemed odd for a forty-year-old. All I could manage to find was his name in an article about a local theater. He had been in Fiddler on the Roof. Maybe that’s how Vera knew him. She was big into theater, and supporting the arts in general.
When I was about to give up, I found an address for him in Lakewood. It was a high-rise building on the lake and it was actually listed for sale. I called the agent. “Yes, I would love to see the condo you have listed at Winton Place. My mother is in the market.”
“I’d be happy to show you the unit. It’s fully remodeled.”
I could see that as I scrolled through the images online. “Are you available Monday evening?”
“How does seven sound?”
“Perfect.” I hoped Mom didn’t have any other plans, because she was my cover. I could pretend to be shopping for a condo on my own, but my mother was much more believable because she actually was looking to buy.
It didn’t look like Devin Whittaker had moved out of his condo. There were clothes in the shot of the master closet.
What I was expecting to find, I had no idea, but what I was learning about investigation was you had to turn over every stone. It was a lot of drudgery filled with dead ends.
I called my mother. “I found a condo I think you’d like to see. Are you free on Monday?”
“If I’m going to see one, I might as well see a bunch. Let my call my agent and stack a dozen or so.”
I tensed immediately. A dozen? That was going to challenge my patience and optimism.
But what choice did I have, really?
“Sounds good. This one is at seven, so maybe we can start around four?”
“Let
’s start at three. I don’t want to be rushed.”
I did. “Great!”
Hopefully there would be time in there for dinner because I was going to need a glass of wine.
The ghosts were driving me absolutely nuts. Everywhere I turned I saw someone new. At the bar, at my parents’ house, in my own living room. Most of them didn’t speak and they didn’t stick around. Or if they did speak, it was like the priest—stuck on repeat.
“I totally jacked this up,” I told Alyssa. “I should have read the whole book you gave me before I started meditating and telling dead people what to do. These people are everywhere. And no one showed up for the office hours I instituted. That was basically the only time things were quiet. It’s like somehow I reversed it.”
We were spending Saturday morning at the West Side Market, a huge venue of local food stalls. Alyssa had it in her head she was going to start cooking and she was currently standing in front of a fish stall checking out stone crabs. “You jumped into it like I would, not like you normally do. You’re usually the study-and-plan-ahead, girl.”
“I wanted results,” I said, shrugging, and unwrapping my thick scarf from around my neck. It was hot in the market with heaters blowing and bodies crammed in. The market has a unique smell of meat and pasties and floor cleaners. The earthy scent of fresh produce ushered you into the building, then it gave way to the acrid odor of raw seafood and beef.
As a kid, my father had acted like it was a treat for me to go to the market with him. Sure, the crepes were delicious and time with him was always something I had craved, but rows and rows of animal eyeballs staring back at you on ice was not the stuff of seven-year-olds’ dreams.
Now I could appreciate the sheer variety and enjoy buying some of the ready-made food, but I was no foodie and I hated to cook, so I was more there with Alyssa for moral support.
“What do you think, Chilean sea bass?” she asked.
“Are you sure you want to start with seafood?” I asked, looking suspiciously at the variety of fish lying there.
“Um, yes, because I can’t give myself food poisoning if I undercook it. I could kill myself if I try chicken.”
Yikes. “Good point. This is why I let Jake do all the cooking.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have a cute cop boyfriend who likes to braise things. I have to fend for myself and you have to start somewhere with meat.” She raised her eyebrows when the fish guy coughed. “That was truly an accident, not an innuendo,” she said. “I swear.”
He looked amused. “I bet. For the record, I can braise things. And I know when meat is done.”
“Oh, really?” Interest creeped into her voice and she looked him up and down.
I sipped my coffee and waited until this played out. Men flirted with Alyssa everywhere we went. This guy was muscular, arms covered in tattoos, chin hidden behind a full beard. “Really. You have to touch meat to know when it’s done. You can’t just eyeball it.”
Alyssa gave him a look that said I know where this is going, son. But she didn’t totally shut him down. “So what do you suggest I buy?”
“King crab legs. We’ll boil them together.” He gave her a confident grin.
But Alyssa wasn’t usually an easy sell. “I’ll take the sea bass,” she said dryly. “Whatever you think is an appropriate portion for one woman who likes to eat like a normal person, not a supermodel. And write your number or Snapchat on it.”
She rolled her eyes at me but I could tell she thought he was cute.
He hustled to get her fish and wrapped it. With a marker he wrote his number and his name on it. After she paid and they enjoyed a few more flirty words we walked away and turned the corner. “Damn it,” she said, glancing at her fish wrapper. “His name is Sebastian. That is so not fair.”
“Why?” I spied French macarons and got excited. “What’s wrong with the name Sebastian?”
“Nothing. It’s both somehow adorable and sexy all at once. It’s nerdy yet rocker. It’s cruel to be introduced to a man with a name like that because it’s highly doubtful I can resist going out with him. Why would his mother do that to me?”
“I strongly suspect that’s not what his parents were plotting when they named him.”
“You never know. Now what vegetable goes with Sebastian’s sea bass?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. Ask Google.” I found myself drawn to the macarons like a strong sugar current. “I need to buy these.”
“Get a salted caramel one for me. I’m going in pursuit of greens.”
“Meet me back here.”
She gave me a wave and pressed through the throng of shoppers. I was staring at the mesmerizing rows of colorful little treats when I felt the warm inside air shift with a cool breeze. Not thinking anything of it I just instinctively glanced to my right. Then standing up straight, heart racing.
It was the woman from bingo, who had been so friendly to me when I was buying snacks. The one who was dead.
It occurred to me I didn’t even know if her grandparents were dead or not. I had just assumed they were since she’d said they were with her. But were they really or was that just what was going down when she had died?
“Hi,” she said, with another friendly smile. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Can I help you?” I asked, holding my phone up to my ear in my usual don’t-look-like-a-psycho move.
“I’ve never met someone like you,” she said, again smiling. “I’m just so happy to see you.”
She was older than I had thought originally, probably in her mid-thirties. “I’m very new to this,” I told her. “My skill set isn’t amazing.”
“I just need someone to find my body.”
Oh, here we go. The body hunt. The last time I’d gone off in search of a body I had gotten myself in all kinds of scrapes. “Do you know where it is?” That might be wishful thinking but it was a good starting point.
To my shock, she nodded. “It’s in my backyard. My ex-husband killed me and buried me in the yard, then poured a patio over top.”
I gasped. “What a bastard.”
“I know, right? I should have listened to my parents and married a man like my father. He told everyone I cheated on him and that’s why we split, and that I left with another man. I would never, ever have left my son. He was only three years old at the time.”
“Oh, geez, I’m so sorry. What’s your address?”
A big guy carrying a toddler walked straight through the woman. The little boy started wailing instantly.
Poor kid. He instinctively knew a ghost was present. I wondered how old her son would be now but it seemed rude to ask when she had died.
She gave me her address and I pulled my phone down so I could type it into my notes. It was in Fairview Park, an area of primarily bungalows. I wondered how anyone could bury a body with no one noticing. “And I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“It’s Margaret Henley.”
I felt an affinity for her. “My middle name is Margaret.”
“I know, I heard the women at bingo saying your name.” She gave me another sincere smile. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me. I don’t want my son to think that his mother left him.”
I nodded, a lump in my throat. “And your ex’s name?”
“Michael.”
I realized there was a woman staring at me behind Margaret. I had forgotten my ruse of talking on the phone once I had started taking notes. Whoops. “I’ll get back to you,” I said.
Then, heart thumping, though I wasn’t exactly sure why, I turned back to the case of macarons. “Can I get a dozen?” I said when the girl behind the counter asked if she could help me. They were small and Grandma had a sweet tooth.
By the time I was done selecting my flavors, Alyssa was back and Margaret was gone.
“I choked and got asparagus,” she said, holding up a bag.
“I think that goes totally fine with sea bass.”
“I wanted to get crazy
and experiment but I guess next time. What kind of wine?”
“White goes with fish.”
“Great. If you’re done we can head out and hit the store for some wine.”
“I’m done.” I took my bag from the clerk and handed her my debit card. “Hey, do you think if I tell the cops that I think there might be a body buried in the backyard of a person who I have no connection to whatsoever, they’ll take me serious?”
Alyssa paused in the process of pointing out which macaron she wanted to the clerk. “No. They’ll think you’re a nutjob.”
“That’s what I thought.” I was going to have to see if anyone had ever even filed a missing persons report on Margaret. Damn it. I should have asked her for a date. This was going to be harder without that information.
“Did you just see a ghost?”
“Yep. She said her ex buried her in the backyard.”
“What a dick.”
“I think that would be accurate.” The market was crowded in this corner and the cashier young and female. She wasn’t listening to us at all.
She handed me my card back with a smile and turned to Alyssa. “Did you decide?”
“I want the champagne macaron. Just one.” She eyed my large bag pointedly.
“What? They’re for Grandma.”
“Liar.”
“I mean, I’m going to have some. Two, tops. Plus one for Jake.”
“Your grandmother is going to eat nine macarons?”
“She has a hollow leg, I swear.”
“Whatever you say. Can we get back to bodies in the backyard? Promise me you will not go tromping around on private property looking for ‘clues’ like you’re Velma.”
“I don’t think I’m Velma. She’s too smart. I’m more of a Daphne, not looks-wise or anything, but just sort of walking around hoping the answer will reveal itself. I’m working on that though.”
“Just don’t be stupid, seriously.”
“Who, me?”
Later that day I was thinking it might have been wise to listen to Alyssa as I drove up in front of a disheveled house on a dead-end street. It looked like the house of a man who had no craps to give.
It's a Ghost's Life Page 13
