“Of course I am. I’ve been thinking about it all night and during the drive from Seattle.”
Gwen turned her back on the ghost in the mirror and focused on the crisp voice of the 911 operator.
“What is the nature of your emergency?” the woman asked.
“I just found the body of an old friend,” Gwen said. “Dr. Evelyn Ballinger.”
“Ballinger? The crazy old lady who lives out on Miller Road?”
“I’m sure your professionalism would be an inspiration to 911 operators everywhere,” Gwen said.
She rattled off the stark facts and verified the address.
“I’ve got cars on the way,” the operator said. “Your name, ma’am?”
“Gwendolyn Frazier.”
“Please stay at the scene, ma’am.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Gwen ended the call and wondered if Harold Oxley, the Wilby chief of police, would be among the first responders. Probably. It was a small town, after all.
When she turned back to the mirror, the psychic vision made a tut-tutting sound.
“No one except you and the killer will know that I was murdered, let alone that I was killed by paranormal means. The perp will never be brought to justice, not unless you do something about this.”
Just like last time, Gwen thought.
“There’s nothing I can do,” she said. “I’m not a cop and I’m not a private investigator.”
“No, but you owe me, don’t you? When you were locked up at the Summerlight Academy, I taught you how to handle your talent. And I’m the one who got you the job writing those scripts for Dead of Night. We were friends. And this time it’s different, isn’t it? Two years ago, you didn’t know any psychic investigators. But now you are aware of a certain security consulting firm that specializes in the paranormal, aren’t you?”
The annoying thing about talking to ghosts was that it was a lot like talking to yourself, Gwen thought, which was pretty much exactly what was going on.
She closed the phone and dropped it back into her tote. For the first time, she noticed that there was an empty space on top of the desk. A film of dust traced the outline of the place where a laptop had once sat.
“He took your computer,” she said. She thought about that glaring fact. “Maybe this was a home-invasion robbery.”
“In that case, I probably would have been killed in a more traditional fashion, don’t you think?” the ghost asked. “Perhaps with a gun or knife or a blow to the head.”
“Something violent happened here, I can sense that much, but there’s no sign of a struggle, and you would have fought back.”
“Not if I was caught unawares,” the ghost pointed out.
“There was violence done here, but it’s possible that your death was due to a heart attack or a stroke brought on by the shock of the robbery.”
The ghost smiled. “But the only thing missing is my laptop. You know as well as I do that it was not a particularly valuable, high-end machine. There’s my old backpack sitting on the chair. Why don’t you see if the thief took my money and credit cards?”
Gwen crossed to the chair and picked up the small, well-worn backpack. The crystal wind chimes shivered again, unleashing another string of spectral notes. Max crouched in the doorway, flattened his ears and meowed again.
There was fifty dollars and two credit cards inside Evelyn’s wallet. Gwen set the pack back down. So much for the home-invasion theory.
“As for other motives, you know me,” the ghost continued. “I wasn’t dealing drugs out the kitchen door. I didn’t cultivate a marijuana plantation in the woods behind the house. I was very fond of my crystal jewelry, but none of it was expensive.”
“You also had a cell phone.” Gwen turned on her heel to survey the room. “But I don’t see it.”
“Gone, like my computer.”
“Phones are small. It could be anywhere. Maybe it’s in the kitchen or your bedroom.”
Sirens howled in the distance. It sounded as if the 911 operator had sent the community’s entire fleet of emergency vehicles. Gwen realized she did not have a lot of time to search for the missing cell phone.
She whipped through the study, opening and closing drawers as quickly as possible. There was no sign of the phone.
The sirens were closer now. Gwen slammed the last drawer shut and raced past Max, out into the hall. The cat hurried after her.
She paused at the entrance to the kitchen and did a quick survey. The old-fashioned tiled countertops were bare except for a row of pottery canisters and an ancient coffeemaker.
Turning, she dashed upstairs, Max at her heels, and did a swift foray through the two small bedrooms. She was on her way downstairs when the first patrol car roared into the drive.
She rushed back into the office. The chimes clattered restlessly, as though impatient with her lack of progress.
“My death is going to be the biggest news in town by noon,” the ghost observed. “There hasn’t been this much excitement around here since Mary, Ben and Zander died two years ago.”
“There can’t possibly be any connection between your death and what happened two years ago,” Gwen said.
“Are you certain of that?”
“It’s been two years.”
“But you’re still dreaming about what happened, especially at this time of year, aren’t you? You’ve known all along that some piece of the puzzle was missing.”
Gwen pulled one of the curtains aside. Her heart sank when she saw Harold Oxley extricate his big, heavily padded frame out from behind the wheel of one of the patrol cars. Dark glasses shielded his eyes, but she could see that two years had taken a toll on the man. The mild exertion of heaving himself out of the vehicle was enough to turn his broad, jowly face an unhealthy shade of red. His uniform shirt was stretched tight across his rounded belly. He moved stiffly, like a man who was plagued with multiple joint issues. But the gun on his hip was as large as ever, and there was nothing to indicate that he would be any more open to the possibility that there were paranormal aspects involved in a death than he had been two years ago.
Gwen let the curtain drop back into place and turned around. She stopped at the sight of the photograph on the floor. It had not simply fallen off the corkboard, she thought. It looked as if Evelyn had ripped it off in her dying moments and clutched it as she went down.
“It’s important, dear,” the ghost said. “Why else would it be there right next to my hand?”