Ghost of a Chance

  "Susan Mitchell isn't a spirit guide. Spirit guides come to you with advice, not with a bunch of problems. If there's one thing you find out damn quick when you work with the other side, it's that ghosts can and do lie, as much as the living. There's no rule book saying they have to play fair."

  I started to pour tea for him, but Andrew covered his cup, so I rilled my own and let it go at that. He must have seen my disappointment because he said, "Thank you anyway—it smells wonderful, but I'm not much of a tea drinker. So, if ghosts don't have to tell the truth, then what's to say that Susan isn't lying?"

  "Nothing, I guess. If Susan was carrying a grudge against Walter it wouldn't be out of the question for her to try to orchestrate a nasty surprise from beyond the grave. Of course, she could haunt him if she wanted to scare him. Seems much more effective to me. I know I'd pick that route if I was her."

  Andrew flashed me an incredulous look.

  "What?" I swallowed my tea too fast and blistered my tongue and the inside of my lip. Sputtering, I fished an ice cube out of the freezer and popped it my mouth until the pain receded to a dull ache.

  Andrew leaned against the back of his chair, tipping his head so he was staring at the ceiling. "Emerald, I have to tell you this is one of the strangest evenings I've spent. You're the most peculiar woman I've ever met, and I've met plenty of quirky folks. Our discussion has to take the cake. And it's a good cake, I might add." He dipped his finger in the frosting and licked it. "Betty Crocker?"

  I smacked him over the head with a dishtowel. "No. QFC Bakery. Quick. Easy. Sweet. What more can I say? You want homemade, you bring the cake next time."

  "I might do that. Okay, I'll take the plunge. Give me some of that tea." He pulled out a notebook as I filled his cup. "Let's get serious. The fact is that accidents do happen. I know enough about diabetes to know that when Susan had low-blood-sugar attacks, she got confused. Low enough, and she might very well have taken more insulin, forgetting that she had already given herself her shot. That could lead to seizures and a coma. Or, if she gave herself a shot but forgot to eat, same end. And when diabetics go into comas with no one there to help, they can die. Add alcohol and sedatives to the mixture and you've got a disaster waiting to happen."

  "How long was Susan diabetic? Isn't there an oral medication she could have taken?"

  He shook his head. "Nope. She was a type 1 diabetic—she had the disease from an early age. I think she told me she first developed it when she was thirteen. Type 1's don't produce any insulin, so they're dependent on their shots to live. Type 2 diabetics can get by with oral meds—like my aunt. Her body still makes insulin, but not enough. The oral medication helps her utilize what she makes."

  So if Susan didn't get her insulin, she would have died. If she got too much, same fate. "Not much room for error, is there? You'd think she would have been meticulous about her diet and shots."

  He jotted down a couple of notes and looked at me with a sad smile. "Susan was careless, Em. She was in denial. She hated the shots, hated having the disease. She tried to pretend that everything was okay, that she could eat anything she wanted. However, I also know that she had a lot to live for and that she was working with a therapist about the problem. I think she was making progress—she didn't talk about it much, even to me. But over the past few months, at least during our writing group, she monitored her sugars constantly."

  I rested my elbows on the table and gave him a piercing look. "So, bring it down to the wire. Do you believe that she committed suicide?"

  Andrew sighed and stared at his notes. "Honestly? I don't know, but no, I can't believe it. Maybe it's denial on my part. If the cops found signs of a struggle, they wouldn't have closed the case, and the death certificate wouldn't read 'accident.' And as you said, Walter has an alibi."

  "Yeah, he was in transit. Has anybody ever used insulin to kill?" The thought of someone taking what was essentially a lifesaving medication and using it as a weapon creeped me out.

  "Good question. Maybe we can find a few answers. Can we use your computer?"

  I led him into the living room and plugged in the password, then let him take the chair. "Too bad I can't tell Miranda about this—she's a computer whiz. That girl knows every trick in the book."

  Andrew laughed, a full belly laugh. "I'll bet you ten bucks that my younger brother knows a few more than she does. The kid is fifteen and has been offered a summer internship at Microsoft next year. If he does well, he'll go back every summer until he graduates, at which time he'll apply for a permanent position. Here we go…" He opened up a browser and typed in a URL. His fingers flew—he knew his way around the keyboard, that was for sure. Within seconds the search engine was spewing out web page after web page.

  I read over his shoulder as he clicked through the different sites. It seemed that insulin had been the weapon of choice for a number of murderers. As we searched through article after article, I felt a knot grow in my stomach. "My God, people are cruel."

  "Yes, they are. Well, this woman certainly didn't want to be burdened, did she?" A wife in England had killed her wheelchairbound husband and tried to make it look like a natural death.

  "This is even more scary—look, a nurse in Illinois murdered twelve patients before the cops caught on and figured out that she was their serial killer. What makes someone do things like that?" I felt dazed; I knew bad things happen—they'd happened to me and to others I loved, but each time, it never failed to amaze me that there could be so many angry people out there aching to hurt someone else.

  "I don't know, Em, but I've read enough true crime stories that I don't always sleep well at night. Some of the things I've learned in the research for my books has been horrifying. Oh, look—do you remember Claus von Bulow? He was acquitted on appeal, but there will always be speculation about the case."

  I thought back. Von Bulow was the wealthy man whose wife died of what they conjectured to be an overdose of insulin. "I forgot about that case. So, this has happened before, but since a lot of the victims were already ill, or diabetic, there were no red flags waving to alert the investigators. But Susan was healthy and supposedly alone. Of course they are going to think she either had an accident or committed suicide." I thought about what Andrew had told me. "What do you think would happen if we told them that Walter had a history of beating his wife?"

  "I think it's highly unlikely that they would break down his door and haul him off in handcuffs. For one thing, we haven't got any proof. I never actually saw him do it. Susan told me he did, but never showed me any bruises. Now, if Walter was the one who was dead, then Susan had motive to kill him, but what possible motive could he have since he was the one having the affairs?"

  I speculated. "My sources tell me he wasn't fighting the divorce."

  "We have to be careful." He clicked the browser closed and shoved himself back from the desk. "I'm not up for a promotion to the head of Walter's shit list. Who gave a huge donation to the policemen's ball last year? Walter. Who funded the initial start-up costs for the Big Brother program here? Walter. His shoes are so squeaky clean that he could stomp across your best tablecloth and leave it white as virgin snow."

  I didn't know Walter had so much money. I had gotten the impression that Susan was the wealthy one in the family. "Are you sure the money for those donations came from Walter and not Susan?"

  "He inherited money, trust me. First from his own father and then from his stepfather when the old geezer kicked off. Remember Bernard Addison? You might not—the old man died a couple of years back, probably right about the time you moved here. He was a prominent lawyer, well known for fixing cases with his wallet. Walter inherited both his own share of Bernard's money as well as his stepbrother Joshua's share."

  Bernard had left blue-blood money to his stepson rather than his own son? "That sounds odd. I bet that didn't go over very well."

  Andrew shrugged. "I don't really know. Joshua didn't stick around very long after Bernard's funeral, and he kept to him
self a lot."

  "Odd. Okay, back to the matter at hand. Harlow should be here any minute, and we'll have to go through the whole story again. She knows a little about what happened but not much. She also knows more about Walter than either you or I do." Come to think of it, Harlow had the dish on the entire town. I wanted her on my team.

  He grinned. I took it as a sign of submission. "Okay, but don't you think she might get spooked?"

  I snorted. "She's used to me and my 'witchy' ways." Andrew came around behind me and planted a light kiss on the top of my head. I leaned back against his chest. I could get way too used to this.

  While we waited, he shuffled through my CD collection. He raised an eyebrow as he held up a couple of the disks. "Everlast? Nirvana? Beck? Dead Can Dance? The Beastie Boys? What are you, thirty going on eighteen? Are you sure these belong to you and not to Miranda?"

  "Very funny. I'm thirty-six, thank you, and Miranda thinks about as much of my musical tastes as you seem to. I happen to like alternative music, and I refuse to let myself get stuck in the past like so many people I know." I slipped a disk into the stereo and turned up the bass, swaying to the heady beat.

  The doorbell rang, and a moment later Harlow blew in, a flurry of snow behind her. She took one look at the two of us and grinned. "A party? I thought so. What did I tell you?"

  I shushed her as she stripped off her coat and boots. I turned off the stereo and pointed toward the kitchen. "March your butt in there, woman. You'd better get your 'that's freaky' speech ready for me."

  "Oh, goody! I could use a dose of freaky. Life's been too quiet lately." She gave Andrew a quick hug and an air kiss in that way that only beautiful people can get away with. "James sends his love. Well, he would have if he'd come out of that darkroom." I pushed the teapot over to her. She shook her head at the cake. "So, tell me everything. Did you really see Susan's ghost in your bedroom?" I nodded. She leaned forward. "What did she want? Spill it."

  I sighed. "There's no good way to start, so I'll dive in. She says she was murdered. By Walter, no less."

  Harl's eyes grew wide. "Oh, boy," she said. "I can tell this is going to be a doozy."

  * * * *

  I quickly brought Harlow up to speed, cautioning her not to mention the murder part when the kids were around. By the look on her face, I knew that she believed me, though all she said was, "Uh-huh." Andrew added in his own story, and her eyes grew even wider.

  Miranda trailed in a short while later and waved hello, then headed upstairs to her bedroom. I called her back. "Honey, get Kip from his room, and both of you come down here."

  Kip and Miranda trundled down the stairs. Randa proceeded to lecture us all about her dinner meeting. "The debate was okay, even though they're just like all adults, they never want to listen to anybody under twenty. And they had clam linguine tonight, even after I told them two months ago that I couldn't eat shellfish. They ignored me and took my three dollars anyway. I ate a little salad and the Jell-O."

  About what I'd expect; the nerd patrol always ignored Miranda's shellfish allergy; it seemed like they had something with seafood in it every time. "Want me to make you a sandwich, honey?" I pulled the bread and ham and cheese out of the fridge, slapped together a thick sandwich, and grilled it in the toaster oven. Miranda poured herself a glass of juice and scooted in next to Harlow. I hoped Randa would behave tonight. Sometimes she treated Harl like an idiot, and I knew it was because Harl had been a model.

  "Andrew and Harlow know about Susan, kids. We're going to try to help her." They reacted in unison, Miranda groaning and rolling her eyes while Kip perked up.

  "I'm so sick of all this ghost business!" Miranda's voice took on her signature whine, kind of like a droning mosquito. "It's not fair. I'm trying to study for something that really matters, and you let Kip get his way with all this stupid stuff."

  "Knock it off." I tapped her arm. "I told you I'll do everything I can to keep you out of it, so you'd better change your tone pretty darned quick."

  "She doesn't even care. Mrs. Mitchell could be in trouble and Randa wouldn't lift a finger to help." Kip threw a snide look at his sister.

  I tapped him, on the head. "My temper's reaching flash point." They were well acquainted with my warning, and suddenly both got very busy—Miranda with her sandwich, while Kip examined his nails.

  I sat down beside Randa and turned her by the shoulders to face me. "Honey, listen to me. I made a promise to keep you out of this as much as I can. Now, you are welcome to stay and listen if you keep quiet. Otherwise, maybe you should take your sandwich and go on up to your room?"

  She hesitated. As much as she wanted to be left untouched by this ghost business, I knew she still wanted to be kept in the loop. Miranda was learning the hard facts about compromise. With a little huff, she stuffed an apple in her pocket, grabbed her plate, and stomped off to her room.

  "Will she be okay?" Harlow watched her go.

  "Welcome to Teen-Angstville. Check your manners at the door. She'll be fine. She's so focused on that scholarship test that she's been rude to everyone the past few weeks." I turned to Kip. "As for you, Officer Obnoxious—yes, I know what Susan wants. No, I am not going to tell you right now. No arguments. You can help, though. Would you like that?"

  He eagerly agreed. I wondered how excited he'd be after I told him what I wanted him to do. "You need to help me clean house so that I can ward it against whatever that other spirit is trying to do. Can you get up an hour early and clean up your room? And I mean really clean—not this 'shove it in the closet' dodge you pull on me."

  "Will do, Mom." If he was disappointed, he didn't show it. He plastered a quick kiss on my cheek, and I hugged him back.

  "Okay. Scoot. You've got fifteen minutes left before bed, and I don't want to hear you firing up that Nintendo."

  I had no doubt that an hour after he jumped out of bed in the morning, his room would be in better shape than it had been in months. He always left his regular chores until the last minute, but if I couched them as magical necessities, they became number-one top priority.

  I turned back to Harl and Andrew, both of whom looked lost. There was so much to explain, and I had no idea how much either one of them wanted to hear. I could see that a snap course of Witchcraft & Folklore 101 was in order, but I didn't feel like playing teacher. Instead, I tossed the research that we had printed out onto the table.

  "Any ideas? Harl, you haven't said much."

  "It's freaky." She grinned.

  "Yeah, freaky, all right. To be honest, I'd rather not deal with freaky this time."

  Andrew stood up, looking exhausted. It had taken a lot of courage to come to me, I thought, especially after everything he'd divulged. He stretched, popping his back. "I never expected to get caught up into all of this when I asked you out to soup. But I'm willing to give it a shot."

  Harl nodded thoughtfully. "Me too. We have to be careful, though. If Walter finds out what we're up to, we're in trouble. He could have us tossed in jail for slander so fast that we'd be singing Christmas carols from there." I had the sinking feeling that Harl might see this as the perfect outlet for revenge against his unwelcome advances.

  Another pause and Andrew voiced the questions we were all thinking: "So, what's our next step? How do we try to investigate this?"

  I'd been thinking about that. "Harl, what about the daughter? Maybe she knows something. Could you try to dig up whatever info you can?"

  "I don't know if she'll help us," Andrew interrupted. "Susan had only recently reunited with Diana. She had also told me that the relationship was tenuous at best. Walter won't give the girl the time of day, I guess." His voice was so low that I barely caught his words. "They've been estranged for years, and Susan had once told me that he won't even allow her name to be spoken in the house."

  "Sounds serious. Do you know where she is? I wonder if Walter even let her know her mother died. Maybe I can ask Murray whether the cops notified Diana."

  Andrew shook his h
ead. "I think she lives in Seattle, but I don't know exactly where. So, what should I do?"

  I thought for a moment. "See if you can find out more about Walter and Susan's marriage. She was very rich. Even if he has money on his own, that's a powerful incentive. Also, you said Susan mentioned she had somebody who wanted her, 'even if you didn't.' Do you know who that was?"

  He frowned, thinking it over. "I assumed she was lying, but I'll see if I can find out anything."

  "What are you going to do?" Harl snapped her gum. She had the whitest teeth of anyone I knew. They practically glowed in the dark.

  "I'm going to clean house and ward it—before you ask, that means I'm going to psychically protect it. Then we're going to have ourselves an old-fashioned seance and ask Susan to manifest. I think it's time we had a long talk with the first client of our little Spooks-R-Us agency."

  Silence flooded the room. Andrew gave me a gentle kiss as he left. I leaned against the sill and waved, wondering what the hell was going to happen next. Murray said I was ready for change, and it looked like change had come calling whether or not I wanted to open the door.

  Chapter Eight

  Before I went to sleep, I pulled a thick album out of my nightstand and crawled under the handstitched quilt that Nanna had made me so many years ago. The black construction paper pages were frayed at the edges, but inside, the photos were carefully preserved in little plastic holders. I thumbed through the pictures of my childhood until I found what I was looking for. There she was—Nanna, in a tidy dress with a big apron tied over her abundant tummy.

  "I sure wish you were here, Nanna," I whispered to her image. "You'd know how to deal with this." It had been Nanna who taught me how to clear out ghosts and tangle up trouble with a thread bottle. When I was seven, she taught me to charm gingerbread men for good luck at Christmas. By fourteen I could call home a wayward family member using a candle and a handful of dirt. I sniffed back a few tears. "I miss you." Could she hear me?