He begrudgingly joined me at the window and took a look for himself. There was an audible click as his jaw dropped open.
Bentley composed himself to say, “Magic?”
“They prefer high tech down here over magic, but maybe.” I sniffed the air. The morgue had smelled of disinfectant when we entered, but over here by the window, the air was as sweet as a summer meadow.
Bentley said, “I swear I feel a breeze.”
“And I swear I can smell those flowers.” Over on the alpine meadow, the cow’s ears pricked up, as though she’d heard me. She lifted her tail and let out a pile of road apples. A different scent hit my nostrils. I turned to Bentley with wide eyes.
“Yup,” he said. “I smell it, too.”
“I can understand the flowers, but why would they program in cow plops?”
Bentley glanced over at the stainless steel tables. “Morgues do have certain odors,” he said.
“Ah,” I said, catching on. “If you’re working on a body and you catch a whiff of something, you’d rather believe it’s coming from the adorable cow outside your window than from a human corpse.”
Bentley made a fist and reached up to rap on the glass. His knuckles passed through the plane and kept going. When his fist had been submerged to the wrist, he finally struck a solid surface. There was a dull thump that matched the movement of his arm.
The cow, who’d been watching us, twitched an ear as though irritated. She stared at us a moment, then went back to cropping a mouthful of yellow wildflowers.
Dr. Jerry Lund, who must have entered the room on tiptoe, spoke behind us. “I see Bessy has been keeping you entertained in my absence.”
We both whirled around to face the short doctor.
“Is she real?” I asked.
“There is a Bessy,” Lund said enigmatically.
I took another look at the view over my shoulder, and then checked the time. “Switzerland is nine hours ahead of us. Sunrise would be around six-thirty this time of year. Judging by the angle of the sun, I’d say this is a live view.”
Lund chuckled. “Close. Daybreak is shortly after six o’clock this time of year.”
Bentley, who still had his hand submerged in the view, said nothing.
Lund clapped his hands. “I understand you’ve brought me a possible murder weapon?”
Bentley pulled his hand from the view and slowly turned away from Bessy on her mountain meadow. He put his suitcase on a rolling steel table, opened it again, and cautiously withdrew the weapon.
The medical examiner got to work. He unwrapped the knife with gloved hands, and set it under a trio of tools similar to magnifying glasses. Next, he placed it in a steel compartment, closed a hatch, pressed some buttons, and watched a monitor.
After a moment he said, “No blood. If this was used to slice of Ishmael Greyson’s head, it was impeccably cleaned.” The monitor flashed. The medical examiner wheeled around to face me. “But there is residue from a magical powder on the blade.”
“That’s my fault,” I said sheepishly. I explained how I’d used my aunt’s powder to determine the materials in the blade, only to turn up no answers. “The powder is supposed to disappear completely after the test runs.”
The doctor bounced his eyebrows. “Things that are supposed to disappear completely rarely do.” His bullfrog lips formed a wide, knowing smile.
I apologized for sullying the potential evidence.
He waved it off with one gloved hand. “No harm done, Zara. I’m just giving you a hard time.” He clasped his hands together. “Now, we get to do the fun part.”
The fun part?
He excused himself, went through a door, and returned a moment later. He was wheeling a cart, on which was a life-sized human bust made from what appeared to be Jell-O. It was green and jiggled.
“You’ll see why this is the fun part,” the doctor explained.
He grasped the handle of the karambit with both hands, checked to see that nothing was behind him, then wound up and sliced the blade through the air with surprising speed. He chopped off the green Jell-O head.
Beside me, Bentley made a low, guttural sound. The bust wasn’t Jell-O through and through. The interior contained both bones and meat, anatomically similar to that of a human.
“Cool,” I said.
“Uhh,” Bentley said, grimacing. “That’s a new one.”
I took a closer look without touching the material. “It’s like those jellied salads people made in the fifties,” I said. “Aspic. Or head cheese.”
“Very much so,” Lund said, grinning. He set down the karambit, then picked up the severed head with the enthusiasm of a kid grabbing his new toy on Christmas morning. “I’ve got to run the next test in the lab next door,” he said breathlessly. “But based on a quick visual of the striation pattern, I’d say we have our murder weapon.”
Bentley and I exchanged a look.
We had our murder weapon?
“But what about the blood?” I asked. “You said it was clean.”
The doctor blinked at me. “I said it must have been thoroughly cleaned. But the striation pattern tells a story, and that story is that this karambit, or one like it, was used to chop off the victim’s head. I’ll be able to prepare a thorough report after I run some more tests.”
Bentley asked, “How long will these tests take?”
“A few hours,” Lund said. “You can wait here, if you’d like.” He glanced around. “I’ve misplaced the remote control for the window view, but if you can find it, you can switch Bessy’s channel to something more entertaining.”
There was a distinctively cow-like snort that came over the speakers. I turned to see Bessy standing a mere three feet from the window, chewing her cud and seemingly staring directly at us.
Bentley asked in a whisper, “Can she see us?”
“Not exactly,” Lund said. “I’d love to stay and chat, but time’s ticking.” He waved the severed jelly head emphatically.
“See you in a few hours,” I said.
“No,” Bentley said to me. To Lund, he said, “We’ll show ourselves out. You have my number. You can call me with the test results.”
“Will do, Detective.” Lund used his hip to push a big red button next to a door. The door opened, and he passed through with the green severed head in his hands. “Oh,” he said, and he came back into the room again. “If you’re looking for the victim, he’s around here somewhere.”
He was? Bentley and I must have had the same thought, because we both looked over at the wall of drawers.
Lund chuckled. “Yes, his body’s in there. We put the head back on and we’re waiting to see if he comes back to life. Nothing yet.”
“Good?” Bentley said, half statement and half question.
“What I meant was his ghost is around,” Lund clarified. “There have been some sightings around Greyson’s former desk. We have a few members on staff who are sensitive to such things. Not witches, exactly, but similarly afflicted.”
“Ishmael’s spirit is here?” I asked. “Down here, underground?”
“You’re the witch,” Lund said. “Go check his office, and then you tell me!”
Chapter 23
After stopping a few different DWM employees to ask for directions, we finally reached Greyson’s office.
We opened the door. The ghost was there, sitting on a chair, probably looking the same as he had when alive.
The office itself was tiny, but private. The workspace was a nondescript L-shaped desk that wasn’t huge yet was still too big for the room. In addition to the desk and chair, there was also one chair for visitors, and a brass coat rack. A navy-blue windbreaker hung on the coat rack, its limp fabric making a bat-like shape.
I didn’t have to imagine how Ishmael Greyson had looked in his office environment, since he was there now, albeit slightly translucent. He glanced over at the two of us standing in his doorway, then went back to work, flexing his ghostly fingers over his computer keyboa
rd.
Bentley was first to enter the office. “It smells sweet and rotten,” he said. “Do ghosts have a smell?”
I hadn’t told him about the ghost sitting on the chair. I probably should have, but I was curious to see if the detective could sense the spirit in other ways.
Bentley had detected one thing, for sure. The office did have an odor. “Check the garbage bin under the desk,” I said.
Bentley stooped down and did so. “Banana peels,” he reported. “That explains the smell.” He sighed and took a seat on the chair.
Ishmael, who’d been sitting on the chair, jumped backward, through the chair. He stood behind it, indignantly waving his arms and frowning at the man in the gray suit who now occupied his chair.
“Brrr,” Bentley said, rubbing his arms. “Did you do something to the air conditioning?”
“Nope,” I said, still watching him closely. “Do you sense something?”
Bentley ran his hands over the surface of the desk, then abruptly wheeled the chair around to face me. “We’re not alone,” he said, eyes wide.
“We are not,” I confirmed.
Bentley’s eyes narrowed to their regular steeliness. He rotated his head, slowly surveying the office. “He’s standing right here,” Bentley said, gesturing to an area next to where Ishmael stood.
“Close. You’re about two feet to the left of him.”
Bentley snorted. “But not bad for a regular guy.”
“Your guesses are limited by the fact that it’s a pretty small office. You couldn’t swing a cat in here.” The expression made me think of Boa, so I quickly added, “Not that I’d swing a cat. What a horrible saying.”
Bentley stared through the ghost, squinting. “What’s he doing now? Is he still there?”
“He’s just standing there, probably trying to figure out why two strangers are inside his office.”
“He doesn’t know what happened to him, does he?” Bentley shook his head. “Poor bastard.” More head shaking. “He had a rough morning, and he didn’t even get to take the day off. He’s down here at this sad little office of his, working away in this glorified hamster cage. That’s not very fair, is it? He should be moving on to some better place.”
“They do move on after their...” Don’t talk about homicide in front of the ghost who doesn’t know he’s dead! “After their earthly business is done. Once we find out who chopped off his, uh, cabbage, he can...” I was going to say take early retirement, but Ishmael had turned his attention to me. Judging by the changes in his facial expression, it seemed he could understand some of what I was saying.
“Something’s happening.” Bentley got to his feet and edged along the interior of the L-shaped desk to come stand next to me. He murmured in my ear, “You take the lead, ghost whisperer. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Ishmael, still staring into my eyes, took three steps toward me. He stopped right in front of me, inches away. The air he occupied was chilly. Being this close to an honest-to-goodness spirit would send most people running to the hills, but most people aren’t witches. I wasn’t frightened. Even so, a couple of my wimpier hair follicles were frightened, judging by the goose bumps. Ishmael took a mini step closer. His chin was practically overlapping the tip of my nose.
Bentley demanded, “What’s happening? I can’t see him, Zara. You have to tell me what you see. Be my eyes.”
I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, “Ishmael Greyson is now standing directly in front of me. His face is right in my face.”
There was a snap, a click, and movement at my side. Bentley had his revolver drawn. He pointed the muzzle at Ishmael’s temple.
Ishmael noticed the gun. His bulging eyes protruded even more than seemed possible. Could a ghost’s eyes pop right out? I hoped not. He didn’t move, except for his bugged-out eyes, which flicked between Bentley’s face and mine.
“Put the gun away,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. “What good do you think it will do shooting a you-know-what? It’s all concrete down here. You’ll probably kill one of us with the ricochet.”
“A gun does plenty of good, even if you don’t fire it,” Bentley replied defensively. “Follow my logic: If he doesn’t know he’s a you-know-what, then he’ll respect the threat.” Bentley shook the gun and continued in a commanding voice. “Talk to us, Ishmael. Give us the names of anyone who might want to hurt you.”
To my surprise, Ishmael seemed to comprehend the question. He mouthed something. Who’d want to hurt me? I’m nobody.
I relayed my interpretation of Ishmael’s lip movements to the detective.
Bentley slowly lowered the gun and put it away resignedly. “So much for getting a helpful answer.” He waved his now-empty hand. “Do your witch thing. Get him to possess your body. I can at least try to interview him once he’s inside you.”
“Do my witch thing?”
“Any time,” Bentley said impatiently.
I would have given him some more sass, but he had a point. I was there for a reason, and that reason was the channel the ghost. No point bickering about what I’d already agreed to do.
“Hold your horses,” I said. “I’m trying.” I tilted my head back and sniffed.
Bentley gave me a raised eyebrow. “Are you planning to sneeze him into talking?”
“They travel in on the breath,” I explained. I sniffed again. My sinuses tickled from the influx of chilly ghost air.
“Is it working yet? You don’t look any different.” Bentley was many things, but being patient about Spirit Charming wasn’t one of them.
I sniffed again, then reported, “It doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Ah.” Bentley nodded knowingly. “A watched pot doesn’t boil. I’ll turn away.” He rotated so he was facing the corner with the coat rack and the bat-like hanging windbreaker.
I sniffed yet again, harder than ever. Ishmael didn’t turn to smoke and travel up my nostrils on my breath. Instead, he took a step backward and regarded me with suspicion. His buggy eyes narrowed to the point where they looked nearly as steely as the detective’s. I sniffed, and huffed, and puffed, and wheezed, and even sneezed.
Nothing.
I felt like the big bad wolf, trying to blow down three straw houses to eat the little piggies. I sounded like him, too.
Still nothing but wary looks from Ishmael.
Spirit Charmed though I might be, this spirit didn’t find me charming at all.
The rezoning spell.
My recent experiment with transforming myself had to be the reason this ghost was behaving so different from the other ghosts I’d encountered. If only there was some way I could know for sure. If only...
The room tone in the small office changed, and a female voice came through hidden speakers. “I am Codex. I am at your service. Do you require assistance?”
Bentley jumped at the sound of the voice and took a fighter’s stance, not that it would do much good against a computer.
He frowned at me and asked, “You heard that too, right?”
I nodded. “I may have accidentally summoned her. I think I pressed a psychic call button.”
“You what?”
“I was just thinking about how I wished I could run some diagnostics.”
“I see,” he said. “That’s actually a good idea.”
“Why, thank you, Detective.”
He titled his face up toward the ceiling, to where the speakers seemed to be situated. “Hello again, Codex,” he said. “We were wondering if you could help us with something.”
“Please state your request, Detective.”
Bentley waved for me to ask. I waved for him to go ahead.
Bentley said, “Can you confirm for us who is inside this office?”
“Scanning now.” The bright overhead lights abruptly blinked off. A wave of green light in a grid pattern washed over the room. The lights flickered on again almost immediately.
Bentley muttered, “Witches and ghosts, and now we’ve
got the holo deck from Star Trek.”
Codex replied matter-of-factly, “The holo deck is on a different floor, Detective Bentley.”
“Just tell us who’s in this office,” I said.
Codex responded in her robotic yet sultry voice. “Detective Theodore Bentley, on a visitor’s pass with restricted access. Registered Witch Zara Riddle, also on a visitor’s pass with restricted access. And Junior Agent Ishmael Greyson.” There was a very human-like pause. “That’s odd.” Another pause. “Ishmael Greyson’s vital signs indicate that he is clinically dead. His body is located in the morgue, in the care of Dr. Jerry Lund. Therefore, because Junior Agent Ishmael Greyson is deceased, the presence within his office must be of spectral origin. Shall I scan again?”
“No need,” Bentley said curtly. I detected a note of claustrophobic panic in his voice, but I didn’t check his face because my attention was now focused on Ishmael Greyson.
Ishmael, who had just been informed of his clinical deadness by an artificial intelligence, was taking the news poorly. He flickered, bright and dim, like a light bulb with a loose connection. His lips trembled as they moved. He mouthed the word deceased.
I reached a hand out to steady the young man, but my hand passed right through his shoulder. He looked at my hand and grimaced horribly. My attempt at comforting him had upset him nearly as much as the announcement by Codex.
The air changed. The zone near him lost its chill. The air neutralized, and then rapidly heated. It was getting hot in the tiny office.
Ishmael’s mouth opened in a silent howl. He turned white hot, then orange, as though being consumed by flames. And then, just when I was going to warn Bentley to take cover, the ghost was gone. The temperature was comfortable, and the office was quiet.
I turned to find Bentley reaching for his gun again.
“No need,” I said gently, laying my hand on his shoulder. “Greyson has left the room.” I flicked my eyes up at the ceiling. “I guess he was upset when someone broke the news about his death the way she did.”
Through gritted teeth, Bentley said, “You mean something, not someone.”
Codex spoke again, a hint of amusement in her computerized voice. “Junior Agent Ishmael Greyson is no longer on the premises.”
Wardens of Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 1) Page 17
