When Good Ghosts Get the Blues Page 8

  “Oh, like the job you offered me?”

  “Exactly. Although between you and me, I don’t think it’s going to work.”

  I frowned, wondering why she’d been so excited to offer the segment to me a few months back if she had a hunch it would flop. Maybe it was the person rather than the concept she had not faith in.

  The man in question became more animated as we watched. He flailed his arms and raised his voice loud enough that it carried across the yard. “I am a medium!” Gilbert boomed, his voice bordering on fanatic. “I can help you!”

  The cop held firm. “We don’t need your help. We need you to leave the premises and let us do our job. The detectives have your statement. If they want anything else, they’ll call you, all right?”

  Brooklyn pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Gilbert glared at the officer for a heated moment, then abruptly spun on his heel and stalked down the steps. “The nerve!” he shouted, his arms flapping about him like wings. “To be treated like such a pariah when I’m only trying to help!”

  He glanced at the excited crowd, and for a glimmer, a smile crossed his lips. He’d found his audience. “After all,” he said, his voice carrying, “it’s not unheard of for a psychic to work with the police on such a case. What do you all think?”

  The crowd cheered.

  “See?” he called, throwing his head to look back at the officer. “They think I could be of some assistance!”

  The cop shook his head and crossed his arms. He clearly wasn’t getting paid enough to join the production Gilbert was attempting to put on. Not dismayed, Gilbert continued as a one-man show. “I had a vision, y’all. I know who killed that poor man!”

  The crowd rumbled with excitement.

  Brooklyn swore. Loudly.

  “Scarlet, I really am sorry, but I have to—”

  I waved her off. “It’s fine. I get it.”

  She gave me a pained look but it faded quickly as she stalked across the driveway toward Gilbert. With the way her fists balled at her sides, I was almost worried she’d break into a run and tackle him right there in the grass, pencil skirt and all.

  Now that would go viral for sure.

  Flapjack snorted with amusement as Brooklyn confronted Gilbert and all but dragged him to the trailer we’d just vacated. “A real three-ring circus here, eh, Scar?”

  I nodded. Under other circumstances, I might have found the humor in watching it all go by like an out of control parade. As it was, the only thing I could think about was Lucas and picturing him sitting in some dank cell, with an ex-lumberjack cell-mate that refused to bathe.

  “Guess we should find Gwen and His Royal Uppityness and scram,” he said. “You wanna wait on the sidewalk? I doubt that cop’s gonna let you into the house.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “I’ll call for a ride.”

  Though, I had no idea where I would ask the driver to take me.

  Flapjack wandered off and slipped through the wall of the house, mere inches from where the cop stood guard. After he was gone, I used the app on my phone to order a ride service to come and get me. I figured going back to the hotel was my best bet. I could shower and force myself to eat something while I figured out my next move. I paced a few yards away as I waited for the car to arrive, my mind whirling at a hundred miles an hour. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling a chill.

  “I didn’t expect to see you back here.”

  I jolted at the voice and blinked just as Gayle Appleton shimmered into view. I glanced around, making sure no one was paying attention to me before answering. “Hello, Gayle. I was just leaving, actually.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity. It’s been lonely around here the last couple of days. All the extra activity has scared off the few spirits who used to stop by.”

  “I’m sure they’ll come back when things settle down,” I told her, glancing up at the house. “Actually, did you happen to see any spirits just now? My friends are wandering around here somewhere. A hippy chick and a man in a top hat?”

  Gayle shook her head. “No. Although, I do think a cat just wandered by. That was a new one, even for me!”

  I smiled slightly. “I get that a lot. The cat’s name is Flapjack. He’s with me.”

  “Oh?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You are far more interesting than I thought.”

  “Um, thanks? I guess.”

  “I only mean that among those with the sight, you seem different. For instance, I’ve never met a human who keeps a spirit around as a companion, and yet, it sounds as though you have three.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t seem to have much choice in the matter. In fact, they weren’t even supposed to be on this trip.” A dry laugh slipped from my lips. “This was supposed to be a romantic, ghost-free vacation with my boyfriend. Now, he’s been arrested and they’re here instead.”

  “Oh dear. Arrested?”

  An idea struck me and I kicked myself for not thinking it sooner. “Gayle, do you know what happened here? Do you know who killed Bart?”

  Her expression shifted, somehow looking almost … guilty.

  “The cops think my boyfriend killed him, but it isn’t true. I need to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible, so I can get his name cleared and get him out of jail.”

  Gayle’s shoulders sagged. “As much as it shames me to admit this, I was not here when the murder occurred.”

  “Oh.” The hope in my chest snuffed out with a painful wave of fresh despair.

  “It’s my understanding the killer struck in the early hours of the morning. I tend to wander through the neighborhood right before sunrise. It’s the most peaceful time, and I use it to gather my thoughts and center myself.”

  A meditating ghost? Just when I thought I’d heard it all.

  “Wait, the murder happened in the morning?” I asked.

  “That’s my understanding of it,” Gayle replied.

  “But Lucas was with me that morning. Sleeping, at our hotel.”

  Gayle opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Flapjack popped into sight at my side, his expression nonplussed. “No luck, Scar. I think they might have gone off for a walk or something. You know how Hayward gets when he knows he’s stepped in it.” He paused and looked up at Gayle. “Who are you?”

  “Gayle Appleton,” she replied, puffing her chest out slightly. “I’m the guardian of this estate.”

  “And doing a bang up job, aren’t you?” Flapjack drawled.

  “Flapjack!” I hissed.

  “What?” he asked, feigning innocence, his large, feline eyes wide.

  “Your friend is right, Scarlet. I’m afraid too many terrible things have happened on my watch. Sometimes I wonder if I should leave it all behind.”

  “Where would you go?” I asked.

  “To live with my great-grandson, I suppose. At least then I’d have the joy of watching my great-great-great—” She paused and tallied her finger through the air. “That was one too many, I think.”

  “We get the point,” Flapjack said. “You’re old.”

  I rolled my eyes. He was lucky I couldn’t drop kick his fuzzy little butt.

  “Maybe I can help you, though,” Gayle said, seeming to ignore Flapjack’s barbs. “Before I left, the crew was just starting to arrive. I don’t know who killed that man, but I do know who was here at the time.”

  I blinked. “Well that’s a start. Sure.”

  She glanced around and then pointed. “He was here!”

  I followed her extended finger and frowned. “Gilbert?”

  “You know him?” Gayle asked.

  “Not really. I just know he’s some kind of quasi-famous medium. He was supposed to be shooting a segment for the show on the spirits who live here.”

  Flapjack flashed a fuzzy smirk. “Just think, lady, you could have been famous!”

  “Hardly!” Gayle blew a raspberry. “He’s a hack. I could dance the conga stark naked right in front of him and he wouldn’t bat an eye.”<
br />
  Flapjack scowled. “Well, there’s a mental image I’d like to forget.”

  Gilbert had apparently finished his meeting with Brooklyn and was back to holding court with the onlookers. Though it appeared he’d moved on from lunatic ramblings about visions and moved into the autograph signing portion of the act.

  “You’re sure he’s a fake?” I asked Gayle.

  She nodded. “He’s been here a few times and has never given me a second glance.”

  “Who else was here?” I asked. “Gilbert, the producer, anyone else?”

  “The one with the leather jacket. Let’s see … Sam?”

  I stiffened. “Sam is Lucas’s second-in-command.”

  “He was here, checking cameras and things. I like the smell of his cologne.” A twinge of darker silver flashed over her cheeks.

  I narrowed my eyes, the wheels in my head kicking back into gear. “Sam would have had access to the security cameras, the same as Lucas. That was the big thing those detectives kept harping on. Did they even ask Sam about them?”

  “And the boots?” Flapjack asked.

  I deflated slightly. “I—I don’t know. Maybe they wear the same size. I mean, it’s not crazy to think they get their gear from the same shop or website or whatever. Is it?”

  “But why would Sam kill Bart?” Flapjack countered.

  “Who knows! Why would Lucas?”

  “Easy, Scar. I’m not trying to argue with you, just trying to see it from their view.”

  I exhaled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “It’s all right. Just remember, we’re all on the same side here, okay?”

  I met his eyes and he inclined his head. “Might be worth finding out where Sam is now,” he continued. “Wasn’t he supposed to be finding a detective for us to talk to?”

  “That’s right!” After the conversation with Brooklyn, I’d completely forgotten. I scanned the front yard and the porch of the house. There wasn’t a sign of a detective or Sam. Weird.

  Gayle cleared her throat. “The only other person I saw before I left for my walk was … well, it was your boyfriend.”

  I snapped back around to stare at her. “What did you say?”

  She frowned, her silhouette shimmering as she swayed. “He was the one with you the day we met outside the library, right?”

  My heart slammed against my chest. “Yes.”

  “He was here that morning,” Gayle said. “Right before the murder.”

  The world went black.

  Chapter 10

  If someone asked how I got back to my hotel room that morning, I really wouldn’t know what to tell them. My memory seemed to have a gap between speaking with Gayle on the front yard of the Saint Charles property and then coming to on a couch in the suite. Flapjack stood guard, taking on his worried nursemaid role that he busted out once a year or so.

  “What happened?” I asked him as technicolor dripped back into my world.

  “You snapped, Scar.”

  I scowled. “More specifically?”

  “Gayle told you she saw Lucas at the house before the murder and you just … you went blank. That’s the only way I can describe it. Weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, and we both know I’ve seen some freaky crap.”

  “Did I say anything?”

  “Nope. You turned away and walked to the sidewalk. A car pulled up, the driver asked for you, you nodded and got in the backseat. They seemed to know where to take you and brought you right here, and you zombied it up here to the room. I tried to shake you out of it, even walked through your legs, which I know you hate, but it didn’t even faze you.”

  “The ride share knew where to bring me,” I said, the pieces starting to click together. “I’d already used the app to put in the directions and request before Gayle found me.”

  “It’s a good thing too,” Flapjack said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d started wandering the streets. What was I going to do if you’d walked yourself in front of a bus or something?”

  A dazed smile crawled across my lips at Flapjack’s irritation. “Aww. See? You do love me.”

  He bristled. “Was that ever a question?”

  I laughed softly and reached out, stopping short of petting him, though once again, I wished I could. “I wasn’t exactly at my most lovable before I left home.”

  “That’s for sure,” he replied.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t sweat it, Scar.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced around the room. “Are Gwen and Hayward back?”

  “No clue.”

  I chewed on my lower lip. “Should we go look for them?”

  Flapjack shook his head. “I’d say we have more important things to worry about. Gwen and Hayward can take care of themselves.”

  Part of me wanted to argue, but it didn’t take long for it to dawn on me that I only wanted to go chasing after them because it would give me something to do. You know things have really gone sideways when tracking rogue ghosts through an unfamiliar city sounds like the more fun option.

  “Well, I’m not sure what we can really do sitting around here,” I told Flapjack, my tone tense. “I have a little money saved aside, but it’s nowhere near what we would need to get a half-decent lawyer on retainer. Considering Lucas hasn’t called, I’m going to assume he used his one phone call to make arrangements for himself. Maybe his parents are able to help.”

  Flapjack looked to be nodding along as he licked casually at his front paw. “Seems to me, the only thing we can do is track down the real killer.”

  I snorted. “Sure, we’ll just go back down there and start asking questions. Maybe we can snap a few photos of the crime scene while we’re at it.”

  Flapjack lowered his paw to the couch and gave me a stern look. “You’ve already got a handful of leads, Scar. Insider info the cops don’t even have!”

  I sagged back against the couch and dropped my head to rest on the back. “Fine. Let’s play pretend detectives for five minutes. Gayle said Gilbert, Sam, Lucas, and Bart were the only ones there. However, for all we know, there were other people in the house. It’s massive. She couldn’t see it all at once and on a show like that, there are a lot of moving pieces. On top of that, we don’t know when the murder happened. New people could have shown up while she was off on her nature walk. Or, maybe it was an intruder. Someone hiding, waiting to strike.”

  With a patience that was completely out of character, Flapjack took a measured tone, “Let’s start at the top. What do we know about this psychic guy?”

  I kicked off my heels on my way to the bedroom.

  “You better not be planning on a nap!” Flapjack called after me.

  I returned half a second later, my laptop in hand. “You want to know who Gilbert Jenkins is? Well, according to Brooklyn he’s a YouTube star.” Flapjack gave an approving nod as I sat back down beside him and started typing. It didn’t take long to find his online presence. Pages and pages of videos popped up in the search results, each preview a close-up glamour shot of Gilbert’s shiny face.

  “Man alive,” Flapjack muttered. “Is he bathing in self-tanner, or does he have a serious carrot addiction?”

  “I’m kind of afraid to click on one of these,” I said, hovering the cursor over the first video.

  “You and me both, kid.”

  I clicked the video and we both braced ourselves as Gilbert’s too-white smile appeared on the screen.

  “Greetings, family. I am so grateful you’ve joined me for this journey into the past and present, and, if we’re patient, we might catch a glimpse of the future!”

  Flapjack groaned.

  “My name is Gilbert Jenkins, and I am humbled to be your host for the next hour. Today, we’re in the heart of Chicago, looking to speak with a woman who believes the spirit of her daughter is living an afterlife of unrest in the family’s attic.”

  “An afterlife of unrest?” Flapjack mimicked. “What’s the alternative? Is there so
me kind of ghost spa I’ve been missing out on?”

  I grinned at him. “You have to admit, it’s catchy.”

  “No. It’s creepy.” Flapjack’s feather-duster tail flicked back and forth, reminiscent of those Felix the Cat clocks.

  “All right, all right.”

  Gilbert rambled on for another ten minutes, using the same story-corner-at-the-library voice while he spoke with the family of the departed. None of it was authentic. The family’s home had clearly been staged to within an inch of its life. Gilbert prompted the family members to share their story, but somehow the camera always remained squeezed in on him, as if his reaction to them speaking was more important than their message. The entire thing grated on my nerves.

  “For the love of cheese, does he ever get to the ghost bit?” Flapjack burst out somewhere around the twelve-minute mark.

  I scanned ahead in thirty-second increments but it appeared to be more of the same. If there was a ghost, she wasn’t ready for her close up. We examined a few more segments, mostly poking fun at Gilbert’s forced expressions. By the end of the third one, Flapjack and I were cackling together as we each tried to out-Gilbert the other.

  Just as the next video was about to start, I pressed pause long enough to wipe away the tears in my eyes and catch my breath. A new video popped up at the top of the feed and the smile tumbled from my lips.

  “I think he had a bad experience with an eyebrow waxer in that last one,” Flapjack howled, still cracking up. After a moment, he realized my laughter wasn’t joining in and he sobered. “Scar? What is it?”

  “Look,” I said, gesturing at the screen. “It says live from Saint Charles Avenue. He’s streaming from the crime scene!”

  Flapjack scoffed. “He’s still there?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Turn it on,” he prompted.

  I clicked the icon and the video started. It was fuzzier than his professionally edited reality web series. It actually looked like he was speaking directly into his phone’s video camera.

  “Turn it up,” Flapjack said, scooting closer.

  “—at the Carters’ most recent location where I was scheduled to be a consultant on the estate’s history and see if any lingering spirits remain. In a tragic turn of events, a murder has taken place. The production is in limbo until the heralded New Orleans Police Department completes their investigation. Since I’m unable to tour the home for you, I’ve decided to host a one-night special before I have to leave town. I’m inviting all of you to join me at the Le Petit Theater for a night of healing, synergy, and most of all, love.”