Old Friends and Fedoras

A HUMOROUS TWISTY PARANORMAL GHOST MYSTERY

AFTERLIFE ISSUES

BOOK THREE

A.W. HARTOIN

Old Friends and Fedoras

Afterlife Issues Book Three

Copyright © A.W. Hartoin, 2023

Cover designed by MiblArt

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Also by A.W. Hartoin

Jess and Libby Paranormal Cozy Mysteries

Dead Companions (Afterlife Issues Book One)

A Trunk, a Canoe, and all the Barbecue (Afterlife Issues Book Two)

Old Friends and Fedoras (Afterlife Issues Book Three)

The Trouble with Tinsel (Afterlife Issues Book Four)

Fun Ivy (Afterlife Issues Book Five) Coming soon

Mercy Watts Mysteries

A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book One)

Diver Down (A Mercy Watts Mystery Book Two)

Double Black Diamond (Mercy Watts Mysteries BookThree)

Drop Dead Red (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Four)

In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Five)

The Wife of Riley (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Six)

My Bad Grandad (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Seven)

Brain Trust (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Eight)

Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Nine)

Small Time Crime (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Ten)

Bottle Blonde (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Eleven)

Mean Evergreen (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Twelve)

Silver Bells at Hotel Hell (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Thirteen)

So Long Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Fourteen)

Black Bandana (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Fifteen) Coming soon

Mercy Watts Short Mysteries

Coke with a Twist (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book One)

Touch and Go My Book (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book Two)

Nowhere Fast (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book Three)

Dry Spell (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book Four)

A Sin and a Shame (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book Five)

Stella Bled WWII Historical Thrillers

The Paris Package (Stella Bled Book One)

Strangers in Venice (Stella Bled Book Two)

One Child in Berlin (Stella Bled Book Three)

Dark Victory (Stella Bled Book Four)

A Quiet Little Place on Rue de Lille (Stella Bled Book Five)

Her London Season (Stella Bled Book Six)

YA Paranormal

It Started with a Whisper (Son of a Witch Book One)

Angels and Insects (Son of a Witch Book Two)

Young Adult fantasy

Flare-up (Away From Whipplethorn Short)

A Fairy's Guide To Disaster (Away From Whipplethorn Book One)

Fierce Creatures (Away From Whipplethorn Book Two)

A Monster’s Paradise (Away From Whipplethorn Book Three)

A Wicked Chill (Away From Whipplethorn Book Four)

To the Eternal (Away From Whipplethorn Book Five)

For Connor

My Cornell connection

Chapter One

Don’t let anyone tell you that investigating afterlife issues is easy or warm. You never know what you’re going to get. Like the living, no two ghosts are the same. Sometimes they’re not even the same species. I wish I’d known that before Jess and I started our side hustle, but I wouldn’t have changed anything. I’d just have worn warmer clothes and had a plan.

“You hear that, right?” Jess asked.

“I hear it,” I said.

The woman next to us cocked her head to the side. “Hear what?”

“Chickens.”

Our latest client frowned and glanced at the corner of her large yard. Jadalyn Jacobs’ chickens were huddled together as far as they could get from us and their new coop, despite the icy wind ruffling their feathers. They weren’t making a peep.

“Well…” she said.

Jess and I looked at each other, not sure what to say. Jadalyn and her husband Rob hired us, so they knew we could see ghosts, but in our experience, knowing and seeing us in action were two very different things.

“What have you tried?” Jess asked as she pulled her hat lower so that it covered her eyebrows completely.

“We put their feed inside the new coop,” said Jadalyn. “But they wouldn’t go in to eat or to sleep. Rob had to get their old coop out of the trash and set it up again. It’s a wreck. That’s why we bought the new one.”

“But it’s not exactly new, is it?” I asked.

“No. We bought it from the Addymans when they moved to Florida,” said Jadalyn.

“What happened to their chickens?” Jess asked.

“They died a while ago, but they didn’t get more since they knew they were moving.” Jadalyn smiled. “Mr. Addyman said they were the most spoiled chickens ever.”

“I can see that.” I looked back at the Addyman coop. Adorable was the only word for it. Someone had put considerable effort into building it to look like a miniature barn, red with white beaming and a row of custom nesting boxes on the side. Jadalyn had the heat lamp on, hoping to lure her birds inside, but the warm glow had no effect on them. They’d obviously rather freeze to death than deal with whatever was in there.

“Did you try putting one in?” Jess asked.

Jadalyn wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “I did. I feel so bad about that.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I put Mabel in. She’s my sweetest girl. So calm and easygoing. I thought she’d be okay.”

“She wasn’t?” Jess asked.

“No.”

Jadalyn had pushed her bird inside the coop, and all hell broke loose. Mabel went crazy, squawking and running around. Jadalyn ran to the back of the coop to open the big access door, but by the time she did, Mabel had gone silent. She found her favorite passed out on the floor. The vet said she was in shock. Mabel survived, but she wasn’t the same bird.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” said Jadalyn. “Rob said they were just being fussy. He thought we should just make them and they’d get used to it.”

“I see the logic,” I said.

“So did I,” said Jadalyn. “But I should’ve listened to my instincts. There’s something wrong. I just don’t know what it is.”

“This is a waste of time,” barked a man beside me, and I did my best not to flinch. Jess jumped and Jadalyn saw it.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes. Fine. It’s just super cold today,” said Jess with a quick glance over at Vic Delaney, who stood next to me.

Jadalyn couldn’t see the dead detective’s ghost in his favorite age and outfit of a double-breasted blue jacket, light blue pants, and brown oxfords. He’d tipped his fedora low over one irritated eye and glared at me before taking a long drag on his cigarette.

“Tell her nix to the birds. You gotta case,” said Vic.

“Shush,” I hissed, and he flicked his cigarette at my head. An icy chill went through my brain as it sailed through, but I didn’t react. He was disappointed.

“What did you say?” Jadalyn asked.

We could’ve told her we weren’t alone, but even though Jadalyn and her husband Rob lived in Whiskey Ridge very close to our haunted hamlet of St. Sebastian, we knew she wasn’t ready to have a ghost in her neat suburban yard.

“Nothing,” I said. “So cold. Let’s take a look inside the coop.”

“Sure, but there’s nothing in there,” said Jadalyn.

“We’ll see,” said Jess, and she led the way across the yard with her boots crunching over the frozen grass.

Once they were well away, I turned to Vic. “Knock it off.”

“Get back on my case,” he said, lighting another cigarette because he knew it annoyed me.

“You don’t have a case.”

“I hired you dames,” he said.

“We don’t have a contract.”

“Because I can’t sign one. I had your word,” Vic said. “What about your word?”

“Give us the rest of the case file,” I said.

“I can’t.”

I rolled my eyes and stomped across the yard. Vic Delaney had run into us during our investigation of the ghost of an old lady who was haunting a pair of children. The Blazevic house happened to be built next to where Vic’s only unsolved case happened, the suspicious death of John K. Tunny III. Vic kept a close eye on me and Jess as we discovered who the old lady was and the cause of her distress, the murder of a college student, whose body had been stored in her trunk. Once we’d solved it and the murderer was arrested, Vic hired us to investigate his case. We were not his first choice, but we could see him and just about every other ghost who’d let us, making us unusual, and he was willing to overlook the undeniable fact that we were (gasp) women.

“Check it out, Libby,” said Jess from the back of the coop.

I came around the side to where the entire back of the coop was open and looked inside. There were three thick wooden rods across the width of the coop. The top one was just under the heat lamp, and five black-and-white chickens were perched on it, huddled together under the glowing warmth.

“Well, that’ll do it,” I said.

Jadalyn frowned. “What’ll do what?”

“You already have chickens,” said Jess.

“Are you saying… What are you saying?”

“There are chickens in there.”

“Where?” she asked.

I pointed at the birds, who clucked and rustled their shiny feathers. “There. How many birds did the Addymans have?”

“Not very many,” said Jadalyn. “Mr. Addyman said the coop was way too big. You think their chickens are in my coop?”

“We don’t think,” said Jess. “They’re in there. Five, to be exact.”

“I have ghost chickens?”

“You have ghost chickens,” I said.

“But that’s not even a thing,” said Jadalyn.

“They think it is, and that’s the only thing that counts.”

“What are they doing? Are they all gross?”

Jess and I smiled at each other. That was a common misconception about the dead, that they’d be rotting or something equally horrifying, but that wasn’t how it was. Ghosts have the power to appear at any age and state that they were during their lifetime, including the moment of death, but not after. They could, however, put off smells of after, which was nearly as bad. We hadn’t figured out all the rules yet, but those seemed to be the basics.

“They’re very plump and happy,” said Jess.

“I think they’re cooing,” I said. “Do chickens coo?”

“Mine do,” said Jadalyn. “When things are normal, they make the most pleasant little clucks. It’s very soothing.”

“Well, that’s what they’re doing.” I reached out and a ghost hen craned out her neck to peck at my glove.

“Wrap it up,” said Vic as he appeared at my side and swiped a hand through the birds. The hens panicked and flew off the rod through us. Jadalyn gasped, and I held onto the coop until the icy feeling of having a dead bird fly through me passed.

“Bastard,” I whispered.

“Time to read and write,” he said.

What in the world does that mean?

“Are you okay, Jadalyn?” I asked.

“What happened? It felt like an icicle went through me.”

Jess shivered and said, “They flew out of the coop.”

“Through us?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh my God,” she said.

“It’s fine.” I eyed Vic. “You get used to it.”

“I don’t think I can. Where are they now?”

The hens were hunting and pecking around our feet, looking like nothing had happened. No short-term memory is a good thing.

“Just walking around,” said Jess.

Jadalyn went around the coop to look at her flock. They’d gone up the steps to the backdoor and huddled together so tightly that they looked like one solid block of bird.

“They’re terrified,” she said. “I don’t get it. If they’re just chickens, what’s the problem?”

“You’ve heard about our ghost, Leo Pereyra?”

“I have.”

“Our cat, Poptart, was terrified of Leo. He wouldn’t be in the same room.”

“How did you cure that?” Jadalyn asked.

“My mother did.” I told her about how my mom had the idea of getting a ghost cat to get Tarty used to the idea of ghosts and wound up getting a live cat raised with ghost dogs. Pesto had no fear of ghosts, and he was getting Tarty used to Leo and ghosts in general.

“How do we find chickens raised with ghosts?”

“That’s a tough one,” I said.

“But you can do something?” Jadalyn asked. “I don’t want to get rid of the coop. It’s so nice.”

“We’ll come up with a plan.”

“No, you won’t,” said Vic, and my right eye twitched. That man was getting on my last nerve.

“We will,” said Jess, a little more forcefully than necessary.

Jadalyn wrapped her arms around her waist and said, “Okay.”

“Sorry. Sometimes I’m loud when I don’t mean to be.”

Our new client smiled. “It’s fine. So you’ll do it? You’ll get rid of them?”

“We will do our best,” I said. “If we don’t, we’ll give your deposit back.”

She held out her mittened hand, and we shook on it.

“Weak sisters,” muttered Vic.

Jess reached over and closed the back of the coop.

“Wait,” said Jadalyn. “They need to get back in.”

“They’ll fly through the wall,” I said. “Or go in the door. They know it. It’s their home. That’s why they’re here.”

“Oh, right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking about normal life,” Jess said.

“So much for that,” said Jadalyn.

“Ready for the contract?” I said.

“Yes, please.”

We had to shoo the live birds off the stoop before we went into Jadalyn’s warm kitchen to discuss terms of ghost-chicken removal, leaving a fuming Vic in the icy yard, glaring at the clucking birds trying to attack his shoelaces.

We got in Jess’ Volvo and cranked the heat and the seat warmers. Seat warmers are my favorite thing ever.

“So,” said Jess, rubbing her hands together. “Any ideas?”

“Zero,” I said.

“Same.”

“I say we regroup at home.”

“And defrost.” Jess drove out of the suburbs and we discussed chickens. It was a quick conversation. We knew very little about yard birds and even less about dead ones. We could ask Leo, but he’d never mentioned chickens, other than the best ways to cook them.

“Do you think it’s right that we charge the same for chickens as we do for humans?” I asked.

“I think we should charge more, to be honest,” said Jess. “We can’t talk to birds.”

“We couldn’t talk to Elsie, and we still got the job done.”

Elsie Boyd, the Blazevics’ ghost, had a fondness for children and would only allow herself to be seen by the young. Our big break came when my boys saw her with Marko Blazevic. Max and Henri were young in spirit, and they could talk to her for us.

“We’re not going to find some chicken whisperer,” said Jess.

“You never know,” I said.

She drove into St. Sebastian and smiled. “In this town, it is possible.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Vic, and we both screeched. Jess jerked the wheel, and we briefly crossed the center line, causing a flurry of honking.

“Don’t do that!” I yelled.

“Don’t make me do that,” said Vic.

“Nobody’s making you do anything. Get out.”

“You got a job to do, and it doesn’t involve no damn chickens.”

“The chickens pay. You don’t,” said Jess.

Vic sat back and pushed his fedora to the back of his head. “I will.”

“How? You won’t even give us your information,” I said.

“I gave you what I had,” he said.

I turned around and eyed Vic. “You had nothing.”

He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned that all he’d been able to show us was the contents of a manila folder. It had his contract with Tunny’s wife and his initial information, the basic facts. Vic knew he had done a lot more, but couldn’t remember where that information was. Since he didn’t remember, he couldn’t produce it for us to see.

“How are we supposed to solve a crime that happened in 1941 without your investigation?” said Jess. “You don’t remember the details.”

“You can’t expect me to remember everything. I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?” I asked.

“Being dead,” he said. “I ain’t seen my files in forty years.”

“Then we’re nowhere. I doubt the cops have anything, and Chief Stratton wouldn’t give it to us if she did,” said Jess.

Vic lit a cigarette, filling the Volvo with the stink. “You solve it the same way you solved the spic’s murder and that kid’s.”

I turned in my seat again and yelled, “If you say that word again, you can forget it.”

Vic held up his hands. “Temper. Temper. I meant nothin’ by it.”

“Then why say it?” Jess asked, with her cheeks tinged with pink and her knuckles white.

“It’s what we used to call ‘em in my time,” said Vic.

“How would you like it if they called you names?” I asked.

“They did. Dirty mick, paddy. I lived in the time of No Irish need apply.”

“Your time sucked,” said Jess.

Vic lit a second cigarette, just to annoy me. “Like it’s all sweetness and light now.”

“Well, don’t say any of that stuff or we’re out.”

“Dames. So sensitive.”

“Stop!” said Jess.

“You’re dames. What’s wrong with that?”

“You make me tired,” I said.

“I get that a lot from dam—the ladies,” Vic said with a roguish smile, and I almost wanted to forgive him.

“Times have changed.”

“I haven’t.”

“If you want us to do anything for you, I’d work on that,” I said.

Vic muttered something. Dames was in there, but I let it go. It was looking to be a long day.

“We need to get a look at the rest of your files,” said Jess.

“It won’t help,” said Vic.

“You must’ve stuck your notes somewhere,” I said.

“Just go after it like you would any murder.”

“You’re not even sure it was a crime. Tunny had a heart attack. He was obese and drunk at the time. Heart attacks happen.”

Vic sighed. “I suppose he called his own house and lured himself to the Third Street property, died, and then stole his own car?”

“Someone might’ve found his body, saw their chance, and took it,” I said.

“No,” said Vic.

“Why not?”

“Because you got almost no crime in this two-bit burg now. Then it was zero, zilch, nada.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I said.

“There was stuff goin’ on before it happened,” said Vic.

“What stuff?”

Vic didn’t answer.

“That’s why we need access,” said Jess. “We can’t interview the wife and his employees. They’re dead.”

“Like that’s a problem for you,” he said.

“We went to the wife’s grave, their house, and the office building. Nobody was hanging around.”

“You didn’t go to the family.”

“And say what?” I asked. “A dead detective wants us to look into whether your great-grandpa was murdered.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because it’s crazy. They aren’t St. Sebastian people.”

“Explain it to ‘em.”

I gazed out at the frozen trees and said, “No one normal would believe us. They’ll think we’re liars.”

“People believe liars all the time. Look at politicians.”

“We’re not politicians,” said Jess. “Just go ask your son for the files.”

“Break it up.” Vic blew out a huge smoke ring that hovered in the air between Jess and me.

I glanced at Jess, and she shrugged.

“You said your son might be able to see. Just go talk to him,” I said. “Ask him if he has your files.”

“He doesn’t,” said Vic.

“Did you check?”

“I don’t need to check. Nobody’s keeping a gumshoe’s files for fifty years.”

“So you don’t know,” said Jess.

“I know.”

I looked at Jess. “He doesn’t know.”

She laughed and said, “Ya think?”

“Look, you two. Don’t be bothering my kid.”

“Why not? You probably bother him plenty.”

“Leave him alone.”

“He’ll like us,” I said. “Everybody likes us. It’s very helpful.”

“He’s not gonna to like you ‘cause he’s never going to meet you.”

“How are we supposed to get paid if we don’t meet him?” I asked.

“You can send the husband.”

Jess gasped. “Hal? You’ve seen Hal?”

“Who’s Hal?” Vic asked.

“My husband.”

“Is he the shyster?”

I put a hand on Jess’ shaking shoulder. Hal’s death was still close to the surface, and since we started seeing ghosts, Jess had been waiting for Hal to turn up. She both hoped for and dreaded it. If he was a ghost, Hal wasn’t at rest. She wanted to see her beloved again, but she wanted him at peace more.

“That’s my soon-to-be ex-husband,” I said. “He’s got nothing to do with anything.”

“If he’s anything like you and your kids, he’s got a way with people,” said Vic. “He can get the money out of my kid. That’s what shysters do.”

“Why in the world would we involve him?” Jess asked in a shaky voice. “This is our case.”

“He’s a man.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” I said, gritting my teeth. “If we solve the crime, we’ll talk to your son.”

“I’m not having a couple of dames singing to my son,” said Vic.

“Enough with the dames,” said Jess.

“That’s what you are, and you’re not gabbing to my kid.”

“Why not? You trust us to do the job. What’s the problem?” I asked.

Vic leaned forward, blowing out smoke and bringing with him the smell of Aqua Velva aftershave. Even after all the contact I’d had with ghosts, it always surprised me at how real they seemed. Vic was solid with a faint five o’clock shadow. I could see the individual hairs and smell his breath, smoky with a hint of bourbon.

“I have a rep,” he said, tipping his fedora down over one eye to emphasize the point.

“With who?” Jess asked.

“My kid.”

“How old is your kid?” I asked. “Eighty?”

“That don’t matter. I’m not having my kid think his old man couldn’t handle business and had to hire a couple of skirts to finish the job,” he said with a throaty bluster.

“That’s ridiculous. Get with the times,” said Jess, pulling into the driveway of Number Eight, the grand Victorian, formerly Leo’s mortuary. It was the house that started it all and it glowed brightly, warming me to the soul. The local florist, Kip, and our new friend Bear were on the wide front porch, putting up Thanksgiving decorations. They smiled and waved. So nice to be home.

“I can’t get with the times,” said Vic. “This ain’t my time.”

“If you can hire us in the first place, that shows you can change and grow,” I said.

“Leave my kid out of it.”

“He might help with the files.”

“He won’t be interested. The kid’s got a life, and it’s nothing to do with my business.”

“He’ll want the money,” I said. “We can tell him about the money.”

“The kid don’t care about money,” said Vic.

“This makes no sense,” said Jess. “And we’re not sending Derek. Your son will have to know you hired us.”

“He’s not knowing anything,” said Vic. “I gotta blow. Hot date with a dead broad. Guess who?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Go ask your son about the files.”

“He doesn’t have ‘em.”

“You don’t know that,” said Jess as she cut the engine.

“I know.”

“Here we go again,” I said. “You get those files or forget it.”

“Forget it,” said Vic, and pop, he was gone.

Jess unclipped her seatbelt and said, “Something’s going on with him.”

“He doesn’t want us to meet his son,” I said. “And it’s not about us being women.”

“That makes me want to meet him,” said Jess.

I grinned at her. “I love it when we’re on the same page.”

Chapter Two

Jess and I ran up the front steps of Number Eight, past pots of fall flowers and expertly carved pumpkins made to look like turkeys, cornucopias, and sheaths of wheat. We ducked under a thick rope of garland made of fall leaves, gourds, and mums.

“Sorry.” Kip smiled at us from atop a ladder. The florist was so bundled up, he looked twice as big. He and Bear were wearing Carhartt jackets and what were probably bib overalls underneath them.

“No problem,” I said. “Are you sure this is good for the shop? Seems like a lot of work.”

“Number Eight is going to be in the paper,” said Bear as he handed Kip a hammer.

“I assumed that.”

“Not just the Sentinel,” said Kip. “Kelly’s been working overtime on publicity. We’re getting features in several St. Louis publications and profiled in some decorating blogs.”

Bear smiled at us shyly. “I’m on TikTok.”

Is that good?

“Really?” I asked.

He nodded. “Kelly TikToked Kip teaching me how to make the garland.”

Kip laughed. “We’ve got a lot of followers. Not as much as your boys, but a lot.”

I groaned. Max and Henri, The Eggs, had been sending their sunny-side-up message out to the world and were predictably popular with their videos of their half-time shows and the coming Christmas pageant.

Kip laughed. “It’s good. We’re getting more tourists since the videos of the boys went viral, not to mention Steve Olsen’s freakout and you two being all over the news solving the murders. Since we’ve been posting our plan for Number Eight, orders are up twelve percent.”

“We’re famous,” said Bear.

“You are, and rightfully so,” said Jess.

Bear smiled and ducked his head, ever shy about our praise, but it wasn’t going to stop. Bear had saved Jess and me when Steve Olsen threatened to shoot us right after we found Christine Anglin’s body behind his father’s house.

“Do you want to come in and warm up?” I asked. “It’s frigid today.”

“I’m fine,” said Kip. “Bear?”

The young man shook his head.

“How’s the new case?” Kip asked. “Solve it already?”

“Not even close,” said Jess. “Do you know anything about chickens?”

“Chickens?”

“Yeah.”

“They taste good.”

We laughed, and then I frowned. “Hold on. Where are the boys? Aren’t they supposed to be helping you?”

“They had rehearsal,” said Kip. “We don’t really need them.”

I crossed my arms. “They got in the way and wouldn’t stop talking?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

I sighed, and Jess took drink orders. Hot chocolate for Bear and black coffee for Kip.

“I’ll be back in just a few,” said Jess.

“Just another hour or so and we’ll be done.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It looks amazing.”

“We’ve been taking calls, asking if you do weddings,” said Kip.

Jess froze with her hand on the doorknob. “Weddings?”

“Yep.”

“People want to do their wedding at an old mortuary?” I asked.

“It’s cool,” he said. “You made it cool.”

“What did you say?” Jess asked.

“Not at this time.”

“Good answer.”

We ducked inside and peeled off our layers. Jess had a funny look on her face, and it didn’t help when she pulled off her stocking cap and her long blond hair frizzed out with static.

“Are you okay?” I asked as I tugged off my boots.

“I’m fine. I was just thinking,” she said.

“About what Vic said?”

“What Vic said?”

“When you thought he’d seen Hal,” I said.

She smoothed her hair and pulled it back into its usual ponytail. “No. That was fine. Just a shock for a moment.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She turned to look through the windows beside the front doors. “I was thinking that people pay a lot of money for weddings.”

Please, no.

“You want to host weddings?” I asked.

“It’s a thought.” Jess looked up at the grand staircase. “You have to admit it’s made for bridal photos and, we can use the money.”

“We’re doing fine.”

“We’re almost doing fine.” Jess kicked off her booties and headed for the kitchen. Almost was right, but I’d take it. Hal’s life insurance would come in soon, and my divorce settlement couldn’t take forever. I had more than a month left working for Leo’s son, Eric, in his insurance company. It was good money. With our afterlife investigations and Jess’s art classes at the Horny Hotel, things were looking up.

I dashed after Jess into the kitchen, where it was super warm and filled with amazing smells. My mother stood at the island with Leo, who, even though he was dead, had a keen interest in food and Thanksgiving. It was his favorite holiday, and he hadn’t celebrated it since his stepson Patrick killed him.

“Chutney is better,” said Leo, pointing at a thick binder. “I swear by it.”

“Who wants chunky cranberry sauce?” Mom asked. “It should be pureed smooth.”

Leo shuddered and tied his apron tighter around his slim middle. The apron had Kiss the Cook printed on it, a gift from his late wife Carol shortly after they were married, and it was stained with all manner of cooking mishaps.

“Chutney has texture,” he said.

“And nobody wants texture on Thanksgiving,” said Mom. “Next you’ll be saying we have to have a salad.”

“Of course you have to have a salad.”

“Nobody wants lettuce on a holiday.”

“Lettuce? Who said anything about lettuce?” asked Leo.

“That’s what a salad is.”

I waved. “Hello.”

Mom and Leo looked up, and their eyes sparkled.

“You’re back,” said Mom. “Did they hire you?”

“Of course,” said Jess.

“I hope it’s an easy one. We have a lot to do for Thursday.”

I glanced at Jess, who bit her lip.

“Not easy, then,” said Leo.

We told them about the chickens while we got the drinks for Kip and Bear. Jess took them out to our expert decorators and Mom crossed her arms.

“This is not a good time for dead chickens,” she said.

“Is there a good time for dead chickens?” I asked.

“Any time not during the holidays.”

“We don’t get to choose, and they’re happy to pay us to get rid of them, so we’re going to get rid of them.”

“Do you know anything about chickens?” Leo asked with one of his warmest smiles.

“I was hoping maybe one of you two did.”

Mom and Leo shook their heads.

“I’m afraid not,” said Leo. “Chickens didn’t come up in the funeral business, unless it was fried.”

“I always wanted chickens, but your father thought they were messy,” said Mom.

“You want some now?” I asked. “I bet we could lure them over here.”

“And do what with them? We can’t feed them or anything. What’s the point of chickens if you can’t have the eggs?”

“Where would we put them?” asked a voice behind me.

I jumped and turned around to find a disaster area in the breakfast nook. Mariah, Jess’ daughter, and her best friends, Samantha and Keely, were sitting at the table that was covered in plastic molding things out of strips of newspaper.

“I didn’t see you there,” I said. “You’re so quiet.”

Keely laughed. “There’s a first time for everything. What do you think?”

“It depends on what you’re doing.”

The girls rolled their eyes in perfect sync.

“It’s the octopus,” said Mariah.

“And the lobster,” said Sam as shyly as Bear.

Max and Henri were boys of grand ideas. They’d talked their school into letting them, a pair of goofballs, direct the Christmas pageant with the elementary school kids. They’d designed an insanely charming program that ended with the Christmas pageant scene from Love Actually, sea creatures and all.

“How did you three get roped into making the costumes?” I asked.

Mariah pointed at a pair of misshapen lumps on the floor. “Max and Henri made those. They couldn’t stop talking about Digweed.”

“What’s a Digweed?”

“This guy that got struck by lightning in his driveway,” said Sam. “They think it’s like out of that old show The X-files or something.”

They explained the situation, and Edward J. Digweed’s mysterious death during a five-minute storm was the stuff of paranormal plots.

“They wouldn’t shut up about it,” said Mariah.

“We told them they were Les Incompétents,” said Keely.

“Like in Home Alone,” said Sam.

“Agreed,” I said. “But what’s that got to do with you doing it?”

“We can’t let their incompetence ruin the kids’ pageant,” said Mariah. “So we had to take over.”

“You wanted to take over,” called out my mother.

“Not true,” protested Keely.

“It’s kinda true,” said Sam.

“A little,” said Mariah.

Keely smiled. “They can’t get all the glory.”

“Ever consider that they were incompetent on purpose?” Leo asked.

The girls tilted their heads to the side, thought it over, and then dismissed the idea as preposterous. The boys were clearly and naturally incompetent.

“Alright then.” I went to get some coffee and Leo whispered, “They are very excited to do it.”

“I figured.”

“Now let’s make some chutney,” said Leo.

“We are not making chutney,” said Mom.

“Just give in, Beverly. You know I’m right.”

“You are not right.”

“I was right during Scrabble,” said Leo.

“Zorilla shouldn’t count.”

“It counts.”

They started squabbling about words, slang, and different languages until Mom said, “I’m getting the dictionary.”

She stalked out, tossing her long, grey hair over her shoulder.

“Why do you work her up?” I asked Leo.

“It’s an excellent distraction,” he said.

“Oh.”

This was our second Thanksgiving without my dad, and Mom was struggling a bit. Leo was an expert in grief, and if he said Scrabble and chutney were good, then that was good enough for me.

“Are you okay?” Leo asked me.

“I think so. Coming home to Number Eight makes everything better.”

“I knew I picked the right people for my house.”

I smiled as Jess came back in. “Let’s look up chickens and…not at the table. What a mess.”

“We’re doing the sea creatures,” said Mariah.

“Thank goodness. The boys can’t.”

“See,” the girls crowed.

I laughed. “I believe you.”

“I think the boys are geniuses,” whispered Leo.

“You’re not wrong.”

“I heard that,” said Mariah.

“No, you didn’t,” said Leo. “Mind your business.”

Jess came to the island and opened her laptop. “Chickens. What do chickens like?”

Mom came back in. “Where’s your dictionary?”

“We don’t have one,” I said.

“How can a household not have a dictionary?”

“Because this household has the internet,” said Jess. “Why’d you think we were using our phones to look up disputed words?”

“I thought you were too lazy to get your dictionary,” said Mom.

“That is reasonable,” I said. “Still don’t have one.”

Mom looked at Jess’ computer. “What are you doing?”

“Learning about chickens.”

“How will that help?” she asked. “They’re dead.”

“They’re still chickens,” said Leo. “They still do chicken things.”

“Do you think ghost chickens lay ghost eggs?” Keely asked.

“I’d put money on it,” said Leo. “Who owned them? You should call them.”

I held up my phone. “I was just about to do that.”

While Leo got Mom thinking about pineapple in cranberry sauce, much to her disgust, I called the Addymans. Mrs. Addyman knew exactly who I was, since she had plenty of friends and family still in St. Seb, but she was at a loss as to why I was calling. I explained, and after she stopped laughing, she got misty. That lady sure did love her birds, dead or alive. Mrs. Addyman told us that her girls were used to comfort, so if we got them out of their custom coop, it would have to be some place cozy with good sticks to roost on and places to peck. She said they were big fans of oatmeal and yogurt in life, but their greatest thrill was sneaking into the house and stealing the cat’s food. Science Diet meow chow was their favorite thing ever.

I thanked her and hung up. “So we can lure them somewhere, but where do we take them? They’d have to have care and attention.”

“Won’t they just go back?” Mom asked.

“Not if they get oatmeal and meow chow.”

“Doesn’t it have to be…ghost oatmeal and cat food?”

“That is a good point,” said Jess. “They can’t eat actual food. Why would they come away if they can’t eat?”

I rubbed my eyes. “It can’t be easy.”

“Nothing can,” said Mom. “Nothing worthwhile, anyway.”

“That’s why chutney is better,” said Leo with a grin. “More effort.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Mom put her back to our ghost and said, “So, girls, have you gotten a lead in the Tunny case yet?”

I love that my mom still calls us girls, but the actual girls are very confused by it.

“We don’t,” said Jess. “Vic will not give up his other files or introduce us to his son, who might have them.”

“Do you need an introduction?” Leo asked.

“We don’t even have a name,” I said. “He’s been careful not to say it, always referring to his son as the kid.”

“That is interesting.”

“He doesn’t want you to talk to his son?” Mom asked. “Why not?”

“We don’t know,” said Jess.

“But you’re going to find out,” said Leo.

Jess smiled. “Absolutely, but first we need a name.”

I brought Jess some coffee and got my computer to look for the son of Vic Delaney.

“You could ask Tank to help,” said Samantha.

“He’s doing the family Thanksgiving in Ohio with his sister’s family,” I said.

“Taylor’s in Florida visiting his grandpa,” said Mariah.

“We can do it without them,” I said. “We’ll just have to work a little harder.”

“But it’s Thanksgiving,” said Mom.

“We’ll still do all the stuff, Bev,” said Jess. “We promise.”

Mom smiled and said, “I know you’re working very hard. I don’t mean to complain.”

“I know, Mom,” I said. “It’ll be fine, a perfect Thanksgiving with all the trimmings.”

“Speaking of trimmings.”

Why am I nervous?

“Yeah?”

“Derek called,” said Mom. “He’s going to make his mile-high biscuits.”

Mariah cheered. “I love those. Derek makes the best biscuits.”

The girls discussed biscuits versus rolls, and I tried to breathe normally. I’d been thinking that Derek wouldn’t actually show up.

“He said you didn’t answer his texts about it,” said Mom in a gentle tone.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I didn’t know he’d been texting you,” said Jess.

I shrugged and got some more coffee. “Not a lot.”

“He made it sound like a lot,” said Mom. “Why the face, Libby?”

Breathe.

“He hasn’t made those biscuits in years,” I said.

“I know, but he promised.”

Promised? Please.

Mom came over to me and gave me a hug. “He’s making an effort, sweetheart. Can you try to be gracious? For the boys?”

I have to get out of here.

“Of course. For the boys,” I said in a raspy voice that didn’t sound like me at all.

“I don’t understand why you look like that,” said Mom. “Marriages hit rough spots. It happens and couples recover. You can recover.”

“Hey, Bev,” said Jess quickly. “Are you doing both stuffings this year?”

Mom looked over. “Um…yes, of course.”

“Cornbread and sausage?” Leo asked, while trying to get the worried look out of his dark eyes. He knew everything about Derek’s affair. My mother didn’t.

“We finally agree on something,” said Mom. “That’s one stuffing.”

“I have a recipe.”

“Of course you do.”

“That sounds close to a criticism, Bev,” said Leo.

“It’s not. Let’s compare recipes.” Mom gave me another squeeze and returned to Leo’s holiday binder.

“So,” said Jess. “How do we find Vic’s kid without the Sentinel?”

“There are still people running the paper,” said Mariah.

“Who’s in charge?” Keely asked. “Tim or Karen?”

“I think they’re sharing it,” said Sam. “My mom called about our pie advertising and that’s what they said.”

I sipped my coffee and thought about it. We couldn’t always count on the paper’s resources. “We don’t really know either of them, and it’s Thanksgiving. Nobody wants extra work. I think we can do it on our own.”

“Sounds good,” said Jess, typing madly. “I’ve been looking at the stuff that Tank gave us on Vic, but there’s nothing about a kid. He was in that wedding, but I got the impression that he wasn’t married himself.”

“Me too.” I started searching through the files as well, and Jess was right. No mention of a wife or son. “We’ve got Tank’s access code for the newspaper archive.”

“Look for Vic’s obituary,” said Leo. “They usually mention surviving family.”

I grinned at him. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“That’s what you keep me around for.”

“That and chutney,” said Jess with a wink.

Mom slapped a hand on the table. “Not you too.”

We laughed and worked on the obituary. It didn’t take long. Vic was a popular guy and well known in the law-enforcement community. His funeral took place at St. James the Greater in Dogtown, and his wake was at The Pat Connolly Tavern, also in Dogtown.

“I’ve been there,” said Jess. “Their fried chicken sandwich is amazing. Hal…”

“You okay?” I asked.

Jess swallowed and her eyes filled, but didn’t overflow. “Hal would have the corned beef. He loved it.”

Mom went to her and wrapped her arms around my friend’s shoulders, not saying a word. I knew when no words were necessary and went back to the obituary. Vic Delaney was survived by his son, Victor Delaney Jr. I read it four times in case I missed anything, namely a wife or any other relatives, but there was just the kid.

“You saw the kid’s name?” Jess asked.

I nodded. “Should’ve been obvious. Vic’s the kind of guy who would name his kid after himself.”

“That was normal back then,” said Mom. “Still is.”

“Not so much,” said Jess, wiping her eyes.

“In any case,” I said, “there can’t be that many Victor Delaney Juniors running around.”

Jess went back to typing and Mom returned to the binder with an impatient Leo, ready to do battle over sausage or whatever.

“Are you on Facebook?” Jess asked.

“I was,” I said. “I didn’t see anyone even close to fitting the bill.”

“Me either, but he’s old, so he might not do Facebook.”

“Hey,” said Mom. “I do Facebook.”

I grinned at my feisty mother. “It took you five years to get on board. ‘Oh, but people are sharing private things, Libby.’”

“It was so strange to see people putting up things about their lives,” said Mom. “It took some getting used to, but I did get used to it.”

“You did, but it doesn’t look like Vic Jr. did,” I said. “I tried Twitter and YouTube.”

“That’s a stretch if he’s not on Facebook,” said Jess.

“I had to try.”

“I’m not even bothering with TikTok, but he’s not on Instagram as far as I can tell.”

Mom waved at us. “There might be an obvious reason for that.”

We stopped typing and waited.

“He might be dead.”

Jess nodded. “I thought about that, but Vic wouldn’t be trying to keep us from going to talk to him if he were dead.”

“Well, you can see dead people,” said Keely as she slapped another sopping-wet strip of newspaper on what I presumed was an octopus head.

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “Even if his son is dead, there’s no guarantee he’d be a ghost.”

“Or that you could find him,” said Keely. “Sometimes we can’t find Grandpa, and he lives with us.”

Grandpa Fischer was a ghost that was hard to miss, but if a ghost didn’t want to be seen and you didn’t know where to look, forget it.

“I think he’s alive,” I said. “Vic wouldn’t be worried if he wasn’t.”

“Agreed,” said Jess. “I’ll spring for a background check. That’s easy enough.”

Jess paid a snoop site to get the kid’s private info for forty bucks. I dug through Google results, thinking I might’ve missed something, but Vic’s kid simply wasn’t there.

“Got it,” said Jess with a frown creasing her forehead.

“Don’t say he’s dead,” I said. “I’d like to be right for once.”

“You’re right all the time,” said Mom.

“She is,” said Leo.

“You two have rose-colored glasses,” I said.

“The best kind to have with children,” said Mom. “So, Jess, is he dead?”

“He isn’t,” she said, “that I can tell.”

“What does the mean?” I went over and looked at her screen. To my surprise, the last record of Victor Delaney Jr. was the same year as his father’s death. His last address was Webster Groves. He was twenty-two in 1982 and renting an apartment near Webster University. He had a phone, a credit card, and a bank account. No medical records were in the file, but he was pretty young at the time. After 1982, there was nothing.

“He dropped off the face of the Earth,” said Jess after she read it out to us.

“Then he could be dead,” said Mom. “That’s so sad. He was young.”

“Gross,” said Mariah.

“Yeah, double ew,” said Keely.

I turned around, and the girls were all making faces. “What?”

“He was twenty-two in 1982,” said Mariah.

“Yeah. So?” Jess asked.

“You said his dad was like some detective from the thirties,” said Keely.

Jess and I nodded.

“He was,” I said. “Vic talks like he stepped out of The Big Sleep.”

“Then he was a super old dad,” said Sam.

“Who wants to have a kid with a super old guy?” asked Keely. “It’s not like he was famous or something.”

“That is an excellent point,” I said. “Vic would’ve been…”

“Sixty-five when his kid was born,” said Mom. “I don’t want to be ageist, but the girls are right. That’s unusual, to say the least.”

“I agree,” said Leo. “It happens, but it’s very rare among normal people. Vic Jr. was born in 1960?”

Jess scrolled up and nodded. “1960.”

“Who’s his mother?”

She clicked on the birth certificate and said, “Mary Smith.”

“Mary Smith?” Keely asked. “How generic is that?”

“Pretty generic,” said Leo. “What else does it say?”

We looked up at him and Mom. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Mom asked. “What about age, address, or occupation?”

“Nope.”

“Talk about a dead end,” said Mom.

I stood up and closed my computer. “I’m getting the feeling that we really need to talk to Vic’s kid.”

“How do we do that?” Jess asked. “He’s a ghost, so to speak.”

“Let’s try the bar.”

Leo laughed. “Great idea. I wish I could come, but I have to help with the chutney.”

“We are not making chutney,” said Mom.

“What bar?” Mariah asked.

“I meant the tavern where they had Vic’s wake,” I said.

Mom’s face went blank. “No one will still be there from 1982.”

“Are you sure about that?”

She smiled. “No, I’m not. Are you going now?”

I glanced at a silent Jess. “I am. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Jess, can you call around about chickens? Someone in St. Seb has got to have had this ghost chicken problem before.”

She stood up and straightened. “I’m going with you.”

“There’s no need. I can do it alone.”

“It’s time I face my fears.”

“What fears are those?” Mom asked.

Jess struggled for a moment but didn’t speak.

“Going where the memories are,” said Leo.

“Is that a good idea this week of all weeks?” I asked, regretting that I didn’t just lie and say I was going to The Grind or something.

The mortician raised his palms. “It is if Jess thinks it is.”

“It is. I want to.” She turned and looked at Mariah, who shook her head and turned away. She wasn’t there yet.

“Okay,” I said. “Off we go. Wish us luck.”

“Wish me luck with the chutney,” said Leo.

“Stop saying chutney,” said Mom, and we walked out on their bickering and the girls’ laughter, including Mariah’s, I’m happy to say.

Chapter Three

The tavern wasn’t the most scenic of lunch spots, being on a busy corner in the kind of plain, square building that was so common in old St. Louis. The original painted sign had been redone on the red brick and advertised a beer that had recently reappeared on the brewery scene, Griesedieck Bros., and I appreciated the nod to history.

Jess parked on a side street and we arrived just after the lunch rush, but there were quite a few tables that were full. I had an unexpected pang when I saw the updated interior, filled with gleaming wood and the original bar. My dad would’ve loved it.

“You okay?” Jess asked.

“I should ask you that,” I said.

She smoothed her ponytail and said, “I will be.”

“Good enough, I guess.”

“Has to be.”

A server came over and said, “Seat yourself. Plenty of space.”

We thanked him and scanned the area for patrons that weren’t exactly current.

“The corner,” whispered Jess.

“I see them.”

We walked over to a table next to a window and sat down without getting a glance from the three men and one woman sitting at the corner table. They were playing cards and drinking beer, not saying a word, but we could tell they weren’t among the living. Jess and I were getting a nose for ghosts, but in that case, we didn’t need it.

The men were all wearing white shirts and dark ties with the sleeves rolled up. I know that sounds like men in any recent era, but they also wore hats pushed to the backs of their heads and were smoking. The woman wore a flowered dress with a lightly stained apron. She wasn’t smoking, but she had a full ash tray at her elbow. She had auburn hair that was cut short so that it looked a bit like a helmet, and although she wasn’t older than forty, she had deep lines around her mouth from being pursed on a cigarette. The group reeked of cigarettes, beer, and some kind of flowery perfume that the woman must’ve sprayed on liberally to cover the smoke.

Jess and I took off our coats and sat down, careful not to look too obvious with our curiosity. Luckily, the room was full enough with chatty people that we didn’t stand out.

Jess leaned forward. “How do we start?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

Although we’d had lots of contact with ghosts, this was the first time we were intruding on a private gathering. Most ghosts noticed us and made the first move, but those four just continued to play, saying little, and certainly nothing directed at us.

The server came over and asked, “Do you need more time, ladies?”

“What do you recommend?” I asked.

“Everything.” He laughed. “Seriously. It’s all good, but we’re known for our fried chicken.”

Jess ordered the sandwich, and I got a BLT. It just sounded so good. The server went off, and I leaned forward. “He didn’t look at them.”

“I know, but maybe he’s used to them,” said Jess.

“Maybe.”

“Do you want to do it, or should I?”

The server came back with utensils and napkins, giving me a chance to think. When he’d gone, I said, “I’ll do it.”

She crossed her fingers, and I shifted in my seat. “Excuse me,” I said. “Are any of you having the Griesedieck Bros. lager?”

“Nice,” whispered Jess.

The entire table froze, and their heads slowly swiveled toward me, and I held my breath. The last time a ghost reacted that way to me, they freaked out. It was Patrick the murderer, but still, you never know.

They all four stared at me with blank expressions and said nothing.

“I ordered the Griesedieck Bros. lager,” I said as friendly as possible. “I was wondering how you like it. If you’ve had it, that is.”

The woman swallowed hard and said, “Are you talking to us?”

“I am.”

“You’re talking to us?” she asked in a whisky voice that men must’ve loved during her living years.

I nodded. “I sure am. All four of you.”

She stared at me and then glanced around at the table. The men started straightening their ties and clearing their throats, but they said nothing.

“I’m Libby and this is Jess,” I said. “We’re from St. Sebastian. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

She shook her head.

This isn’t going as well as I hoped.

“We were hoping to ask you some questions if you’re not too busy.”

“Busy?” one man with a tremendous pot belly and a yellowed mustache asked.

“Right,” said Jess. “We don’t want to intrude.”

“Intrude?” Another man, younger with rippling biceps, looked at the woman. “You heard that, Frankie?”

“I heard it,” she said.

They went silent, and I was at a loss. Usually, ghosts were more animated and interactive.

“So, do you have time to answer some questions about Vic Delaney?” I asked.

Those were the magic words.

“Vic?” Frankie asked. “You know Vic?”

“Good ole Vic,” said the potbellied man.

“I haven’t seen Vic since…” trailed off the young one.

“1982,” said the third man. He appeared as elderly, possibly in his nineties, which I thought was an odd choice when he could be any age. “When he died,” the old man said pointedly.

I grinned at them. “Well, we see him all the time.”

“When did you die?” Frankie asked.

“We haven’t,” said Jess as the server came over with our food and drinks, causing the ghosts to gasp and stare.

Once the server had gone, the fat man said, “You’re alive?”

“Last we checked,” I said, taking a sip of my lager. “Very good.”

“You’re alive?” Frankie repeated.

Jess nodded and said very clearly, “We are alive.”

That kicked off a flurry of excitement. Unlike the other ghosts we’d had contact with, these four had never been seen before. They introduced themselves as John, John, John, and Frankie. That’s right, three Johns. It was a very popular name. Like the trappers out at the Horny Hotel, they couldn’t wait to tell us how they died. John, the youngest, got hit by a trolley on the Loop. John the potbellied choked on a banana, and John, the oldest, sadly told us he died in his sleep.

“Not very interesting,” he said.

“Most people would like to not be interesting,” Jess said.

“It’s not a good story.”

“That’s true.” I looked at Frankie, who looked rather pale. “Is yours boring?”

“Frankie was never boring,” said John the oldest, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Frankie was—” started John the youngest, but John the potbellied cut him off. “Don’t.”

“Never mind,” I said. “We don’t need to know. We just want to know about Vic and how well you knew him.”

The men looked at Frankie, who picked up the stub of a cigarette and lit it. “We all knew him,” she said. “Good guy.”

“The best,” said John the oldest.

“How do you know him?” John the youngest asked.

“He hired us to finish a case for him,” said Jess, eliciting gales of laughter from the men and a frown from Frankie.

“Why is that funny?” she asked. “You think gals can’t do anything but make your dinner and wash your clothes?”

The men muttered their apologies, but it was clear that was exactly what they thought, and I was starting to understand why Vic didn’t want us revealed, not that that was going to stop us.

After they calmed down and I finished half my BLT, I said, “What do you expect Vic to do, not have the case solved?”

“What do you mean?” John the potbellied asked. “Why does he care? He’s dead.”

“He wants to move on,” said Jess.

They all perked up, and John the youngest asked, “And that’ll do it?”

“We have no idea,” I said. “That’s what he thinks.”

“So you don’t know why people stay?” John the oldest asked.

“Not a clue.”

He slumped in his chair and took a long drink of beer. “Figures.”

“What’s the case?” John the youngest asked.

Jess outlined the Tunny case while I polished off my fries. So good. When she’d finished, Frankie whispered, “It’s my fault Vic’s not at rest.”

“Toots, it’s not your doing,” said John the oldest. “How could it be?”

“It’s my fault,” she said. “He told me about that case.”

I struggled to not jump up and down. “What did he say? We don’t have his complete file. We’re at a loss.”

“Nothin’ but what you said already,” said Frankie.

“So what’s it got to do with you?” Jess asked.

“I…was murdered while he was on the case.”

The men bowed their heads and John the oldest said, “You don’t have to talk about it, Frankie.”

“I don’t mind,” she said. “Vic was a good friend. He dropped the Tunny case to solve mine.”

“He told you that?” I asked.

“No. He couldn’t see me, but I watched him investigate after he finished my case. Vic wasn’t himself. Very scattered. He kept losing things. But it didn’t matter. The trail was cold.”

That fits with the nearly empty file.

“He got your guy?”

She nodded. “They gave him the hot shot.”

If they electrocuted her murderer, it had to be a pretty bad case, not involuntary manslaughter or something less heinous.

“I’m sorry, Frankie,” I said. “We’re not trying to dredge anything up. We’re just trying to solve this case.”

“Can I say it?” she asked.

“What?” Jess asked.

“What happened? I haven’t talked about it.”

We nodded and listened. Frankie had a stalker, although it wasn’t called that in 1941. She was a barmaid at another place, a pub she called rough, and one night he was waiting for her after work and strangled her in an alley. She gave us all the details. I think she needed to say it out loud. The men were so uncomfortable, I thought they’d leave, but they didn’t. What happened to her was horrific, but when she finished, she had an odd smile on her face.

“You know it all now,” she said. “Somebody knows.”

“Didn’t the police know, or Vic?” I asked.

She shook her head. “It wasn’t like it is now with all the science. They thought he just murdered me and that was all.”

Just.

“Frankie,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Is there anyone you want us to tell? Your family?”

“I don’t want them burdened, and none of the family that’s alive now knew me,” she said. “I do want to help you, though.”

“Do you know anything about Vic’s files? He doesn’t know where they are.”

None of the ghosts knew anything about the files, but they’d all been at Vic’s funeral in one form or another. They said it was a hell of a party. People loved Vic, cops, clients, and even other detectives. His wake was a blowout.

“Did you see his kid there?” Jess asked.

John the oldest threw up his hands. “The kid!”

“Don’t be unkind,” said Frankie. “Vic loved him.”

“The kid should’ve loved him back,” said John the potbellied.

She lit a fresh cigarette. “He did.”

“He didn’t show it. Little bastard.”

“What happened?” Jess asked, and then went silent as the server brought her another Coke.

“Another beer?” he asked me.

“No, thanks. I’d love a piece of gooey butter cake, though.”

Jess asked for one as well, to my surprise. She was eating like a normal person. Maybe it was so we wouldn’t look weird while we talked to ghosts, but whatever the reason, I was happy to see it.

Once the server had gone, John the potbellied said, “He was a little bastard. His own father’s wake and he was here ten minutes.”

“Don’t say that,” said Frankie. “You know how Vic would feel about calling his son that.”

“Bastard?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said John the oldest. “In our day, that meant somethin’ different than just asshole.”

“We know,” said Jess. “And we know Vic was never married. How come?”

The men and Frankie chuckled.

“Vic liked women,” said John the oldest.

“A real lady-killer,” said John the youngest. “But I don’t mean in a bad way.”

“He always had a lady on his arm. They’d fall all over him with that smile, and he was a snazzy dresser.”

“But he always had a lot of respect,” said Frankie.

“He calls us dames and skirts,” I said.

That got a hardy laugh, and I glanced around even though I knew no one but us could hear them. Sometimes you can’t help but react.

“That was his way,” said John the potbellied. “And you are.”

“Excuse him, ladies,” said John the eldest. “He didn’t live long enough to see times change.”

“Vic was good with the ladies,” said John the youngest. “He just didn’t want to be tied down.”

John the eldest nodded. “He was in my wedding and he didn’t envy me. Pretty soon, I had to come home, take out the trash, and hand over my paycheck. That wasn’t for Vic, and he knew it.”

“But he did get tied down,” said Jess. “Where’d the kid come from?”

“Beats me,” said John the potbellied. “Frankie?”

“After my time,” she said, “and I didn’t go nosing around, but he took good care of his son.”

“Who was the mother?” Jess asked.

The group looked around at each other and shrugged. It turned out Vic Delaney wasn’t much for being tied down or explaining himself. One day, he turned up with a kid. Vic Jr. was about two years old at the time, and Vic acted like it shouldn’t have been a surprise. He never breathed a word about where the kid came from.

“Are you sure it was his kid?” I asked.

“He was the spitting image of Vic,” said John the oldest. “Same eyes, smile, the works. Besides, Vic wasn’t the type to take in somebody else’s kid. No, that was his son.”

“We found Vic Junior’s birth certificate. Vic and Mary Smith are on it,” Jess said. “Did any of you know a Mary Smith?”

They all shook their heads and John the youngest said, “Sounds fake.”

“We thought so too,” I said. “But there are probably Mary Smiths, as bland as it sounds.”

“In my time, you couldn’t shake a stick without hitting a Mary,” said John the potbellied.

“Or a John,” I said with a chuckle.

The men enjoyed that, and Frankie asked, “Why do you want to know about the kid? He wasn’t around when Tunny got killed.”

“We’re hoping he might have Vic’s files, but Vic says he doesn’t.”

“Then why are you bothering about it?” John the potbellied asked.

I sat back as the server brought our gooey butter cake and the heavenly scent of sugar and vanilla filled the air.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

We asked for coffee, and he went off to brew a fresh pot. I took a bite and closed my eyes.

I needed that.

“Why are you bothering about the kid if Vic don’t want you to?” John the potbellied asked with a testy tone.

I opened my eyes to see Jess looking a tad nervous.

“We need the files if we’re going to work the case,” she said. “Vic doesn’t remember enough details to be helpful, and he can’t summon them up.”

John the eldest eyed us with suspicion. “What’s really up your sleeves?”

“We think something weird is going on with Vic and his kid,” I said.

“You can say that again,” said John the youngest.

The server brought our coffee and our bill. When he was gone, I said, “Why was the kid only at Vic’s wake for ten minutes?”

“‘Cause he’s a bastard,” said John the potbellied.

“Stop,” said Frankie. “They had a falling-out.”

“My pop beat me black and blue every other day when I was a kid, and I stayed at his wake until they closed the place.”

Jess and I looked at each other. What in the world do you say to that?

“It wasn’t like that with Vic and his kid,” said Frankie.

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” said John the potbellied. “Vic was good to him. Sent the bastard to college and all.”

“Which one?” I asked.

They waved in the general direction of Webster University, and John the oldest thought that was it.

“They weren’t talking by that time, and he still paid for it,” said John the youngest. “I was dead, but I heard Vic talking about footin’ the bills for those Nancy art classes.”

“Vic Jr. is an artist?” Jess asked with intense interest.

“Guess so,” said John the oldest. “Vic died before we heard anything about him graduating, and the kid wasn’t here long enough for me to ask him anything. I was still alive, unlike everyone else.”

“I wasn’t alive, but I know Vic didn’t want him to be no artist,” said John the potbellied.

“He wanted him to be a shyster,” said John the youngest. “Even though he hated shysters. Go figure.”

“There’s money in crime,” said John the potbellied. “Shysters make the most out of it. Vic was going to send him to a fancy school back east, but then that damn kid stopped talking to him.”

“When exactly did that happen?” I asked.

The ghosts looked around at each other.

“Time slips for us,” said Frankie. “I watched Vic coming in here with his kid, but I don’t remember when it stopped or what year it was.”

I nodded. “Time is difficult for most ghosts.”

“Is it?”

“It is. Which of you was alive when Vic had the kid?” I asked.

Frankie and John the youngest were long dead. John the potbellied died when Vic Jr. was twenty, and John the oldest died ten years after Vic. We worked through what Vic Jr. looked like when they remembered seeing him. They knew the falling-out happened before college because Vic mentioned paying for school for a kid who wouldn’t talk to him and John the potbellied remembered something about Vic Jr. learning to drive, but nothing after that.

“Between sixteen to eighteen,” said Jess. “Someone else must know what happened.”

“That Judas would know,” said John the potbellied.

“Mary was no Judas,” said Frankie. “She raised the kid. Vic loved her. He left her money in his will.”

“Mary?” Jess said with her eyes lighting up.

“Don’t get excited,” said John the oldest. “Not that Mary.”

“She was a dried-up old stick when the kid was born,” said John the potbellied.

Frankie rolled her eyes. “Mary was forty-five when the kid was born.”

Jess and I looked at each other, just a pair of dried-up old sticks.

“Who was Mary? The nanny?” I asked.

“Mary Newberry was the maid,” said John the potbellied. “She stole Vic’s kid. It was probably her fault that the kid stopped talkin’ to Vic.”

“Oh, it was not,” said John the oldest. “Vic had no hard feelings for Mary.”

John the potbellied scratched his stomach and belched. “Maybe Vic didn’t know she was a traitor.”

“We’re talking about Vic,” said Frankie. “The detective. If Mary did something, he’d have known.”

The men nodded, however reluctantly, but John the potbellied said, “I still say a boy never turns on his father no matter what.”

“Vic was already gone when he did it,” said Frankie.

“Did what?” I asked.

“Changed his name.”

I sucked in a breath and Jess asked, “He changed his name?”

“Can you believe that?” John the potbellied asked. “After Vic raised him, and I’d put my money on that he didn’t have to. That kid could’ve wound up in an orphanage, and how does he honor his father? How?”

“What did he change it to?” I asked, but I had a good idea.

“He named himself after the goddamn maid.”

Bingo.

“So something Newberry?”

“Conor Newberry,” said John the oldest.

Jess almost dropped her coffee. “Conor Newberry. Vic Delaney Jr. is Conor Newberry?”

“You’ve heard of him?” I asked.

“Have I heard of him?”

“Er…yeah.”

“Conor Newberry, Libby. Conor Newberry.”

I looked at Jess’ flushed face. “I feel like no matter what I say, you’re going to keep repeating that name.”

“Conor Newberry,” she said.

“And you are.”

“Is she having a stroke?” John the eldest asked. “My son had a stroke. He looked a lot like that when it happened. He died. You should call the hospital.”

“She’s not having a stroke,” I said.

“Conor Newberry,” said Jess.

“Or maybe she is.”

“I’m not having a stroke, Libby. But it’s Conor Newberry.”

I looked at the ghosts. “Does anyone know why this is exciting?”

“It’s exciting that I want to kick the kid in the balls,” said John the potbellied. “Who changed their name to the maid’s? Vic loved that kid. Loved ‘em.”

“There’s more to the story,” said Frankie.

“Like he’s a bastard.”

“Stop saying that.”

I reached over and touched Jess’ hand. I’d known her forever, but I couldn’t tell if Conor Newberry was a good thing or a bad thing. “Are you okay?”

“He’s on the wall,” said Jess.

I looked at the wall. Grey. No photos.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“At home. He’s on the wall.”

“Conor Newberry is on our wall?”

John the youngest got excited and said, “You two have men on your walls? Are you…ya know?”

“No, John, we aren’t,” I said. “And be quiet. Jess, what are you talking about?”

Jess was vibrating. “My wedding present from Felicity.”

I gasped. “Really?”

She nodded.

“That’s him?”

She nodded again.

“Could there be another Conor Newberry?” I asked.

“That was born in 1960 and grew up in St. Louis?”

I smiled. “I guess not.”

Conor Newberry was a world-famous artist and Jess’ absolute favorite. He worked in multiple mediums, and the mural or collage or whatever you want to call it on our living room wall was worth more than my car, Jess’ car, both cars together easily, times two.

She held up her phone at me, angling it slightly toward the ghosts. “Is this Vic Jr.?”

They nodded.

“That’s the bastard alright,” said John the potbellied.

“Are you saying you know him?” Frankie asked.

Jess told them who Conor Newberry was. Only Frankie knew the details of Conor’s life, and the others were shocked. Art wasn’t their thing, and that someone could make money at it was almost as shocking as Conor being an artist to begin with.

“You know a lot about the kid,” said John the oldest.

“She’s an artist too,” I said.

“Mighta known,” said John the potbellied. “You got a soft spot for the bastard.”

“I do,” said Jess. “But the thing is, I never heard anything about a name change. It seems like that would’ve come out.”

“You said he’s very private,” I said.

“He must’ve loved Mary a lot,” said Jess.

Frankie nodded. “He adored her. They both did.”

The men muttered about traitors and loyalty.

“Was Mary around when you were alive?” I asked.

“She was always hanging around,” said John the youngest.

Frankie snubbed out her cigarette. “She was Vic’s maid. How’s she gonna clean if she’s not around?” She looked at us. “Mary was more than a maid. She did his cooking and filled in at his office when his secretary went on vacation.”

“She was probably in love with him,” said John the potbellied with scorn.

“Who wasn’t?” Frankie looked at them with defiance. “I loved him. Every girl I knew loved him. That’s not a bad thing. He was good with women, unlike some people I know.”

John the potbellied jerked a thumb at us. “He ain’t good with them.”

“We don’t count,” I said.

“Hey,” said Jess.

“I just mean that we’re not contemporaries. Women have different reactions to the dames and skirts thing now. Back then, it was probably charming.”

“He was so charming,” said Frankie. “I’d have done anything for him. I still would.”

That could be helpful.

“Do you know if Conor is still in St. Louis?” I asked Jess.

“I’m not sure. He spends time in Paris, London, and lots of other places,” she said.

“But St. Louis is still his home,” said Frankie.

The men scowled and John the potbellied said, “Are you associating with that little bastard?”

“He can’t see me, but I check on him. Vic would want me to,” said Frankie.

Jess’ face went red again. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Downtown on Washington Avenue.”

“That’s so close,” Jess whispered.

“Is it in one of those old factories they converted into lofts?” I asked.

Frankie didn’t know what a loft was, but from her description of Conor’s building, that’s what it sounded like.

“Do you have the exact address?”

Frankie bit her lip.

“We don’t want to upset him, but we need those files,” I said.

“I don’t know.”

I took a breath and made the one pitch I thought might work. “It will help them.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Vic and Conor are estranged. We can help them get over it,” I said.

Frankie shook her head. “It’s too late.”

“It’s not,” said Jess, and she told them about Leo and how we solved his murder.

“That don’t sound so good,” said John the oldest. “Now he knows his own damn kid killed him.”

“But he’s come out of hiding and it’s helped his other sons heal. Not knowing was hurting them. It was hurting a lot of people.”

Frankie’s eyes filled, and she pulled out an embroidered handkerchief to blow her nose. “I don’t know what Vic would want. You should ask him.”

John the youngest said, “He’d want his kid to talk to him.”

“You think?”

“I know,” said John the oldest. “If they can fix it, you should help them.”

She sniffed and said, “What do you need?”

“Can you see if he has Vic’s files?” I asked.

“Well…isn’t that disrespectful?”

The men chuckled.

“You been lurking around the kid since Vic died,” said John the potbellied. “What’s the difference?”

“I wasn’t trying to intrude on him.”

“I’ll do it,” said John the potbellied. “I ain’t got no respect for the kid.”

“No, no,” said Frankie. “I’ll do it.”

“Get on it, girl,” said all the Johns together, and Frankie popped out.

Jess and I finished dessert while asking the men about their lives. John the oldest talked about the Great Depression and having nothing to eat but what grew on their apple trees, and John the youngest served in Korea. John the potbellied was a bookie for various mob operations and pretty proud of it. I was about to ask why when Frankie popped back in.

“He has them,” she said.

“Where?” Jess asked.

“In his apartment. There’s a backroom with all Vic’s file cabinets and a lot of art stuff. It’s painted green. Conor loves green.”

Jess took a breath and asked, “What kind of art stuff?”

“Old canvases and paints. There are stacks of magazines and mannequins. The parts are all over. Mary wouldn’t be happy,” said Frankie.

“Why?” I asked.

“It wasn’t well-organized. Mary ran a tight ship, although Vic wouldn’t let her touch the filing.”

“Is he home?” Jess squeaked out.

Frankie nodded. “Please don’t upset him.”

“We’re not going to if we can help it,” I said. “That he has the files is a good sign.”

“Is it?”

Jess nodded. “If he didn’t care, he’d have dumped them.”

“Maybe he’s lazy,” said John the potbellied.

John the youngest shook his head. “I’d never move those files from house to house. I’d dump ‘em.”

“Take it from a lazy man,” said John the oldest.

“Hey.”

“You know you’re lazy.”

“You don’t have to tell the ladies,” said John the youngest.

“They’re detectives. They detect it.”

Frankie blew her nose again and said, “They’re right. Conor still loves Vic.”

“If there’s something unsaid, we can help them say it,” I said.

Jess stood up. “I’m going to pay the bill.”

“You don’t have⁠—”

She took off to the bar and Frankie asked, “What did I say?”

“Nothing. Her husband just passed away a couple of months ago.”

“Is he like us?” John the youngest asked.

“Nobody’s like you,” I said with a smile that got smiles in return. “But no, he’s not around as far as we can tell.”

“Lucky.”

Jess came back. “All good.”

“You okay?” I asked.

“I just needed a moment. Ready?”

We said goodbye to the ghosts and promised to come back when we had something to report. They went back to their cards, and we went into the blustery November cold to jump in the car.

“What do you think it is?” I asked.

“The problem between Vic and Conor?”

“Yeah.”

She pulled out and said, “My money’s on the art. Vic’s old school. I doubt he’d be supportive.”

I nodded and turned on my seat heater. “At some point, we’ll ask him.”

“At some point,” said Jess.

Chapter Four

The area where Conor Newberry lived had changed a lot since Jess and I were in college. It used to be a run-down, scary area filled with abandoned factories and not much else. Now it had high-end lofts and coffee bars, not to mention The City Museum. It wasn’t really a museum in the normal sense. The idea was to turn St. Louis’s architectural history into a kind of wonderland of fun and exploration. The Eggs loved it more than Six Flags and Disneyland combined. Mariah would never say so, but she did too.

“You want to go to The City Museum, don’t you?” Jess asked as we drove by and I rubbernecked to see the plane, bus, and climbing apparatus that covered the outside of the old factory that The City Museum inhabited.

“I might.”

“You’re still a kid.”

“Like you aren’t,” I said.

Jess smiled, but she seemed worn out after our discussion with the tavern ghosts.

“Do you want me to go in by myself?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? I’m not missing a chance to talk to Conor Newberry,” said Jess, perking up a bit.

“Just thought I’d ask.”

We got lucky and there was street parking right in front of Conor’s building, a former factory with enormous windows and a lot of charm just blocks from The City Museum.

“Do you think he has anything to do with The City Museum?” I asked as we went up to the front doors.

“That’s the rumor, but no one has confirmed it,” said Jess. “Should we just buzz him?”

I looked around. Nobody was coming or going, so there was no chance of slipping in. “I guess we’ll have to.”

“What do we say?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me. You’re the Conor Newberry expert.”

Jess stepped back. “You should do the talking.”

“Me? What do I know about him?”

“I might pee, Lib. Seriously.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re not going to pee.”

“I peed when Prince said hello to us that one time,” said Jess.

“We were twenty. We’re mature women now.”

“Are you kidding? We pee more.”

I sighed. “It was Prince.”

“This is Conor Newberry,” said Jess.

I looked her over, and she did have the I’m-gonna-pee look. In her defense, she didn’t pee a lot during the Prince situation. I wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t told me. Jess isn’t great under certain pressures, namely celebrity pressures, which is surprising if you know her mom. Joanne, aka Felicity Woodward, the romance writer, knew just about everyone in Hollywood and beyond. She’d dragged Jess around the world and into the orbit of plenty of celebrities, but Jess never liked it.

“Why is it only some celebrities?” I asked.

“I only care about some,” she said.

“What do I say, then?”

“Um…”

“You are zero help,” I said.

“I can’t think,” said Jess. “My mind is all buzzy.”

This is going to work out well.

I pushed the button with only the vaguest idea of what I was going to say, but no one answered. I tried again. Nothing. I was about to give up when Jess stuck out a shaky hand and pushed the button a third time.

The speaker crackled and a deep male voice said, “Sorry about that. I was in the shower.”

Jess and I looked at each other and I mouthed, “Him?”

She nodded and clamped her hands over her mouth. You’d never know that Jess had been a wild child. She ran away to Morocco once and lived there for a month before Felicity found her. Jess was fifteen. In comparison, I was late for curfew by five minutes once and my mom cried. She was so worried. Felicity just wrote Jess’ adventure into a book, and that was that.

“Uh, hi,” I said. “Is this Conor Newberry?”

“That’s me. Got all your stuff?”

Stuff?

“Well, sir, I’m Libby F⁠—”

“Never mind. It’s fine. If you need something, you can go back for it.”

The door buzzed, and we stared at it for a moment.

“Come on in, girls. I’m ready for you,” he said. “It’s the penthouse.”

I grabbed the door handle and Jess looked like she was going to do worse than pee. She’d gone super pale and was swaying.

“Get it together,” I said. “Let’s go.”

There was laughter out of the speaker, and I pushed Jess inside the industrial-style lobby to a set of stainless steel elevators.

“He let us in,” Jess whispered.

“He’s expecting someone else, obviously.”

“What if he’s mad?”

“Since when do you care about making people mad?” I asked.

“It’s Conor Newberry.”

“You smacked Johnny Depp, for crying out loud.”

“He grabbed my butt.”

The elevator doors opened, and I said, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t have smacked him. I’m just saying you did smack him, and he didn’t care for it.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Please, Jess,” I said. “You have to be normal or something resembling it. We need the files, and Frankie wants us to help Vic get back together with his son. Peeing won’t help.”

She took a deep breath and said, “I’m okay. I can do it.”

Jess didn’t look like she could do it, and to be honest, I was pretty nervous too. I don’t care about celebrity, but cold-calling people isn’t fun.

We got off the elevator and found Conor Newberry’s front door, gleaming wood with old metal accents. Before I could ring the bell, the door opened to reveal a man wearing nothing but a pair of workout shorts. He was about five nine, completely bald, with grey chest hair, and toenails painted pink. None of that surprised me as much as his eyes and smile. Conor Newberry was Vic Delaney’s son. No doubt about it. I didn’t know I was doubting it until that moment.

“Hi,” I said. “Um…”

His smile faded a tad. “You don’t look anything like the portfolios your agent sent.”

Jess made a choking noise, and I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you were expecting, but I’m⁠—”

“You know what,” he said, “I think it’s fine. Good. Yes. I like it. Your eyes. Love the eyes. Both of you. Good.” He stepped back and held out his arm. “Let’s get started.”

“Sir,” I said.

“There’s been a mistake,” said Jess in a high voice.

“You can’t work today?” he asked. “Why did you come?”

“I’m Libby Forest and this is Jess Cleary. We’re detectives working on a cold case,” I said, and his smile left completely.

“You’re not models?”

“No. Can we ask you⁠—”

“How did you find me?” he asked with an expression so much like Vic that it was unsettling.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said.

“Try me.”

“I really can’t explain it. We working on an old murder.”

Conor Newberry started to close the door. “I don’t know anything about a crime.”

I nodded like crazy. “I know. We know. But we think you might have some information.”

“I assure you that I don’t.”

He moved to close the door, and I burst out with “John K. Tunny III. He died in 1941.”

Conor Newberry froze with his blue eyes glinting with anger. “I can’t help you.”

He knows the name. He knows it.

Jess took a breath and said, “I’m a huge fan, Mr. Newberry.”

His expression softened slightly. “Thank you.” He started with the door again.

“I have Wood Mist,” said Jess.

“What?”

“I… I…”

I’m pretty sure that’s when the pee happened, but I can’t prove it.

“Jess has your piece called Wood Mist. It was a wedding present,” I said. “It’s only second to her daughter when it comes to love.”

“That was one of my favorites,” he said. “I’m glad it’s with someone who appreciates it.”

“I know this is out of the blue, but can we please ask you some questions about the Tunny case?” I asked.

“I don’t know anything about it. I’m an artist, not a cop.”

“But your father was a detective. Tunny was his case.”

Conor Newberry had the Johnny Depp just got smacked look. “What did you say?”

“Vic Delaney was your father,” I said.

The instant I said Vic’s name, a girl appeared behind Mr. Newberry. She was about ten, with blond hair in braids and wearing a flowered dress with a Peter Pan collar. Jess gasped, and I stared. Mr. Newberry looked back at where we were looking, frowned, and turned back to us. “How much do you want?”

“Huh?”

“How much?” Mr. Newberry had a grip on the door that had turned his fingers white, and his cheeks were as red as Jess’.

“Um…we were hoping you would let us see your father’s case files,” I said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“We don’t want to take the files. Just look for his notes.”

“What will it take to have you two go away and forget everything you know about me?” Mr. Newberry asked.

The girl was wringing her hands, and tears filled her eyes.

“Nothing,” I said. “We’re only interested in the files.”

Jess stepped forward and said, “We would never tell anyone anything about you or Vic. Never. We only want to help.”

“This isn’t helpful,” he said.

“It could be,” I said with a glance at the girl. “We have skills. Unusual skills.”

The girl looked horrified and vanished.

“I don’t need your skills,” said Conor. “I need models and privacy. That’s it.”

“We know that something estranged you from Vic,” said Jess, sounding more like herself.

“Why do you keep calling him that?”

Jess and I exchanged a glance.

“That’s his name,” I said.

“You say it like you know him.”

“Well, that’s the thing. We kind of do.”

“You don’t know anything about me or him.”

“We do,” said Jess. “If you’d just talk to us, we can help with whatever happened between you two.”

“You couldn’t possibly know anything.”

He swung the door to close it and I said, “We know where the files are right now.”

He stopped with the door open an inch. “Where?”

“In your back room.”

“Anyone could guess that,” he said.

“Your favorite color is green,” said Jess. “The backroom is green.”

Mr. Newberry said nothing, but his breathing got heavier.

“All Vic’s files are in there, and you have stacks of magazines and mannequins. Lots of parts of mannequins,” I said.

“How?” he whispered.

“We can explain,” said Jess. “Please let us.”

“You broke in.”

“No,” I said. “We would never do that. We couldn’t.”

“We just need to look at the files,” said Jess.

“And we’d like to help you and⁠—”

“You broke in. That’s the only way. No one sees back there. No one.” Mr. Newberry slammed the door and Jess put her head in her hands.

I knocked on the door and called out, “We’re so sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you.” I slipped our card under his door and then said, “Please call us if you change your mind. It’s all confidential. Everything.”

Jess took my arm. “It’s over. He’s not going to talk to us.”

We walked down to the elevator and stood waiting, feeling more upset than I would’ve thought. I didn’t want to upset him. It never occurred to me he’d think we’d out his real name or blackmail him.

“Maybe she’ll talk to us,” said Jess.

“The girl?”

“She reacted to Vic’s name.”

“Yes, she did,” I said. “Did you get a good look?”

Jess squeezed my arm. “Good enough. Can you drive?”

“Sure.”

We rode the elevator down and went out to the car. Jess got her sketchbook and supplies before sitting in the passenger seat to start work on the girl.

“Back to the tavern to see Frankie?” I asked.

“You need to see me?”

Jess and I screamed, and I nearly rammed a Honda that happened to be passing.

“Don’t do that!” I yelled, slamming on the brake, although the automatic system had already saved us.

“I’m sorry. I was waiting to see what happened and heard my name.” Frankie sat in the middle of the backseat without her apron and in a fancier dress and a hat with netting.

I put my hand on my chest and closed my eyes for a second. “You’ve got to be more careful.”

“I will,” she said. “What did he say?”

“Why didn’t you come with us?” Jess asked. “You would’ve been helpful.”

“Was he angry?”

“He wasn’t happy.” I pulled out, and Jess told Frankie what happened.

“Oh my goodness. Poor Conor,” she said. “I should never have done it. You can’t help.”

“Don’t give up so easily,” said Jess. “He’s got a guest.”

“His daughter?”

“Conor Newberry has a daughter?”

“Two, and three grandchildren, all boys.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Jess.

“No one does,” said Frankie. “He’s very private.”

“Is he married?”

“No, he’s very much like Vic that way.”

Jess finished a rough sketch and held it up. “Have you ever seen her before?”

Frankie looked hard, but said, “No. Who is she?”

“We don’t know, but she was in the loft with Mr. Newberry,” I said.

“He can see her?”

“It didn’t look like it, but she got upset when we mentioned Vic’s name.”

Frankie sat back and asked for more details about the girl while Jess added color. Honestly, there wasn’t much to add. She was a girl like a thousand other girls. Average.

“I suppose she could be Mary,” said Frankie. “If anyone was going to stay with Conor, it would be Mary.”

“You’ve never seen her there when you visited?” Jess asked.

“We can’t always see each other. Did you know that?”

Jess and I nodded.

“We also know that Mr. Newberry needs to come to terms with Vic,” I said. “In more ways than one.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been hiding since he was twenty-two. He was terrified we’d reveal him. That’s no way to live.”

“You can’t change that,” said Frankie. “He decided to hide Vic.”

“Then he can undecide,” said Jess.

“Why would he?”

“We’ll know when we find out what separated them in the first place,” I said.

“And you think you can?”

Jess and I smiled.

“We have the girl,” said Jess. “That’s going to help.”

“I want to help,” said Frankie. “But I can’t.”

“You already have,” I said.

“It’s not enough.”

“We’ll see.”

“Promise me you’ll help them and not make it worse,” said Frankie.

We promised, and Frankie popped out. Then I turned onto the highway, heading for home.

“You really think we can find out what happened with Vic and Conor?” Jess asked.

“I think we started something, and Conor Newberry isn’t going to find us as easy to bury as his name.”

Chapter Five

Iwoke the next morning with the sound of purring filling my bedroom. Poptart and Pesto were at the end of my bed, tucked up in little loafs on either side of my hot water bottle and purring like they’d never purred before.

“What are you two doing in here?”

Purr.

I sat up to find my laptop open and a pile of Eric’s files next to me. I’d been working so late, I didn’t even bother to put everything away. I just fell over like a lumberjack felled me. It certainly felt that way. I stretched, and my shoulders hurt from hunching over the laptop, working on three things at once: chicken research, Mary Newberry, and Eric’s claims. I got nowhere with the chickens. No one in St. Seb had seen ghost chickens. There were various farm animals, though. Jordan Clump had a flock of sheep that hung out in his pasture with his live cows, but the cows didn’t seem to notice them. Sara Shipton had pigeons, and Jim Clover had a duck in his living room. They weren’t causing any issues, and everyone seemed to think having a ghost duck in your living room was part of the charm of living in St. Seb. Jim bought the house because of the duck. Shelly Kaplan, our realtor and everyone else’s, advertised the duck as part of the amenities. No one thought that was weird at all.

As for Mary Newberry, if I didn’t know she existed, I would’ve struggled to believe it. Vic Delaney’s maid came up exactly nowhere until I put her into Ancestry, and I had to work for an hour to find her in some distant relative’s tree. As far as I could tell, she was an only child, never married, and had no children, unless you counted Conor. There were no pictures associated with her, but once I found her, I was able to locate her in the census. She lived in only two apartments in her entire adult life. The second was a surprisingly nice address in the Central West End. I assumed that was Vic’s place.

Eric’s paperwork was the easiest thing I did, but it took the longest. Paperwork shouldn’t be a thing, but I had plenty of it. I gathered the files, put them in order, and closed the laptop.

I managed to take a quick shower and get dressed before someone knocked on my door.

“Mom,” called out Max.

“Come in.”

Max came in, dressed with his hair combed. I eyed him as I slipped on a pair of furry Birkenstock boots Mom got me. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing yet,” my son said with a twinkle in his eye, and he held out my phone. “Mika wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks.” I took the phone, but Max stood there waiting. “Okay. What is it?”

“Are you going out?” he asked.

“Pretty soon.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” He turned around and dashed out the door, yelling, “She’s up!”

That’s an ill wind.

“Hi, Mika,” I said. “How are you?”

“Did Max wake you up?”

“Not at all. I’ve showered and everything.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” said Mika.

“Did something happen with Elsie?”

“Not exactly.”

Mika’s ghost was our first big paid case. Elsie Boyd was a former nanny who came with the trunk Mika and his wife Sandra bought their little girl. We’d just solved it a few days ago, but Elsie had been thrilled when we did. Now she was too happy, apparently. She’d started moving furniture and trying to get Sandra to clean more by tipping over glasses and the trash can. The kids were the only ones who could see her, and they said she was bored. I suppose worrying about Christine Anglin in her trunk had taken up a lot of her energy and now she had time to spare.

“Can you come talk to her?” Mika asked.

I laughed. “I can bring one of the boys to talk to her.”

“How do you keep a ghost busy?”

“Depends on the ghost. Leo’s working on Thanksgiving and driving my mother up a wall over cranberry sauce.”

“If Sandra and I could see her, it would be so much easier,” said Mika. “We’d include her in life if we could. She’s obviously not leaving.”

“Not while she’s your nanny,” I said.

“The kids do love her.”

“We’ll figure something out. Can we come over tonight?”

“That’s perfect. Thanks, Libby.”

I said goodbye and followed the cats down to the kitchen, where I found Jess drinking coffee and staring at the island that was completely covered in recipes.

“They’ve gone crazy. There are now five recipes for cranberry sauce.”

“Chutney,” I said.

“Excuse me. Chutney and sauce and relish. Isn’t that the same thing?” Jess asked.

“Don’t ask. They might tell you.”

“I wanted to make a bagel, but where would I eat it? The table’s covered with sea creatures, and they must’ve been doing some kind of pan inventory. Look at this. They’re all out.”

All the pots and pans were out and piled on the counter. I didn’t know what to say. When I went upstairs last night, Mom and Leo were talking to our less-than-alive neighbors, Peg and Vern, about their best Thanksgivings. How that turned into a kitchen tornado was a mystery.

“Sink?” I suggested.

Jess sighed. “Sink it is. You want a bagel?”

“Sure. Is there butter, or did the boys eat it?”

“They ate the real butter. We’ve still got the vegan stuff.”

“Thank goodness for vegan.”

“And them hating it on principle,” said Jess.

“Wait till they realize it tastes fine,” I said.

“I hope they never do.”

I got some coffee after I found the machine behind a pile of Crock-Pots. I shouldn’t have so many Crock-Pots, but there were always potlucks at Derek’s firm. We were forever hosting something for someone.

“When’s your first class?” I asked.

“I pushed them both to this afternoon so we can get over to the Tunnys’ place,” said Jess.

“When will you be ready?”

“After bagels.”

On cue, the bagels popped up in the toaster and I dug out the vegan butter.

“What do you have?” she asked.

“Claim stuff to drop off and an inspection. We could see if Shelly knows anything about chickens.”

Jess made a face. “She hates us.”

“Hate is too strong a word.”

“Okay. She dreads us.”

“That works.”

“What else do you have?” Jess asked, but before I could answer, The Eggs walked in, sporting huge smiles and folders.

“Good,” said Max. “You’re not busy.”

“I’m busy,” I said, opening my laptop on top of one of Leo’s binders to look up Shelly’s holiday hours.

“Are we wheelchair friendly?” Henri asked.

“We?” Jess asked.

“Us,” said Max.

I looked up. “Jess, did you already find the Tunnys?”

“It took a while, but I did. John K. Tunny VI is a professor of mathematics at Truman. He was very friendly, and he knows who we are.”

“Really?”

“He has cousins in town, and we’re kind of notorious in a good way,” said Jess. “They’re home all day and he has ancestor’s stuff.”

“Mom,” said Henri.

“Hold on,” I said. “So he’s open to us investigating?”

“Mom,” said Max.

“Hold on.”

“I’d say he’s excited.”

I spread my bagel with an obscene amount of fake butter. “Really?”

“Really,” said Jess. “The family still thinks it was murder.”

I looked at the map for Kirksville. “Do they have land?”

“Mom,” said Max. “We have to talk to you.”

“Just a minute,” I said.

Jess nodded. “A small farm.”

“Chickens?”

“Maybe.”

“Mom!” the boys yelled together, and I about jumped out of my skin.

“What is it?” I asked with my hand on my heart.

The boys stood up straight and Max asked, “Are we wheelchair friendly?”

I need more coffee.

“I’m perfectly friendly to wheelchairs,” I said, and Jess snorted.

“Mom, you are not funny,” said Henri.

“This conversation is,” I said. “Did you mean is Number Eight wheelchair friendly?”

The Eggs sighed with exasperation. “Yes.”

“Does it look like Number Eight is wheelchair friendly?” Jess asked.

“Could it be wheelchair friendly?” Henri asked with a sly smile.

I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t want to.

“Can we talk about this, whatever this is, later?” I asked.

“No,” said Max.

I looked at the ceiling and said, “Have you seen the stairs? We’re chock full of stairs.”

“We could build a ramp,” said Henri.

“For what?” Jess asked.

The boys looked at her like she’d gone senile.

“A wheelchair,” said Max. “Come on.”

“Why do we need a ramp?” I asked. “Did you do something? What did you do?”

The boys smiled and Henri said, “We didn’t do anything this time.”

This time.

“Just tell me quick because we’re busy,” I said.

The boys didn’t just tell me. They had a plan. I hate plans. Plans are hard to fight, and this one would prove impossible. When the boys were holding the Christmas pageant rehearsal yesterday, a mom came up and asked if we would be open to hosting birthday parties like the camp-overs the boys had had a couple of times in our ballroom. Say party and my boys are instantly interested. Mention getting paid and they’re even more so. Mrs. Denka, mother of two elementary school students in the pageant, needed a birthday party, and fast.

“She didn’t mean to forget,” said Henri. “She was busy. You know how busy moms are.”

Laying on thick.

“Yes, I do. I’m busy right now,” I said. “What’s the deal? What do you want to do?”

“Host a nineties theme party for Isabelle,” said Max. “Ten is a big deal. She can’t think her mom forgot because of Gus.”

“Who’s Gus?” Jess asked.

“Gus,” the boys said together. “He’s singing in the pageant.”

“I think bringing the kids to rehearsal pushed Mrs. Denka over the edge, Mom. She was freaking out.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What’s this got to do with a ramp?”

“Gus needs a ramp. He has cerebral palsy,” said Henri.

“I thought it was Isabelle’s party.”

“Gus is her brother. He wants to come,” said Max, spreading out the plan on top of the recipes. There was a stage, lighting, and a set list. They included everything Gus needed. I didn’t know what to say.

“When?” Jess asked.

“Friday.”

“Friday? This Friday?” I asked.

“That’s Isabelle’s birthday. We have to do it then or it will look bad.”

Henri nodded. “They forget Isabelle because Gus has stuff going on. Lots of stuff. She didn’t mean to forget. She really didn’t.”

I didn’t think I could get more tired. I was wrong.

“But we don’t know how to take care of someone with cerebral palsy,” I said.

“We got it covered. Do you remember Miss Wu?” Henri asked.

“The art teacher?”

“Yeah,” said Max. “Miss Wu’s sister is in nursing school. She’s going to come and supervise. She knows what to do, and the Denkas are only three blocks away on Mina Street.”

“We don’t have a ramp,” said Jess.

“We’ll build one. How hard can it be?” Henri asked.

When anyone asks that, the answer is always super hard.

“Look at her face,” said Max. “She can’t say no.”

“I know. We got her,” said Henri. “Dad’s going to help. It’s going to be great.”

“Your dad?” Jess asked.

“Yeah. He said he would.”

Breathe.

“When did you talk to him?” I asked, and took a huge bite of bagel to fill my mouth so I wouldn’t yell.

“Yesterday after rehearsal,” said a glowing Henri. “You were working.”

“Dad said he’ll help us figure out the ramp,” said Max. “Angles and stuff.”

Because lawyers are so good at that kind of thing.

I chewed and nodded. Jess watched me and wrapped her bagel in plastic wrap. “It’s… nice of Derek to offer to help,” she said.

“It’s great,” said Henri. “I think he should come early and stay all weekend.”

I gagged, and Jess quickly said, “We’ll see.”

“I’m going to call him,” said Max.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “I haven’t agreed to the party.”

“Yeah, right,” said Henri.

My beautiful boys smiled at me, vibrating with excitement.

“The money is great,” said Max.

“Great enough to build a ramp and a stage?”

Henri held up the stage sketch. “We’re borrowing it from the community center. They have to move it out to do the painting, anyway.”

“How are we going to move a stage in three days?”

Jess got our travel mugs. “One of those days is also Thanksgiving.”

“It’s designed to be moveable,” said Henri. “We can just take it apart like a puzzle.”

“What about food?” I asked.

“Mrs. Denka is doing all the food, snacks, and drinks. The cake is from The Grind. Isabelle likes the carrot cake,” said Max. “Come on, Mom. This’ll be great for our college funds. Camp-overs at Number Eight, hosted by Max and Henri.”

“Henri and Max,” said Henri. “That sounds better.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does.”

Jess looked at me and shrugged. I nodded. We had to do it, obviously. Derek was the complication. He’d promised, but he wouldn’t deliver. Then what?

“So, can I call Dad?” Max turned to me.

“I don’t think that’s⁠—”

Before I could finish my sentence, Poptart puffed up and rose into an extreme arch, spitting and hissing. Pesto, who’d been raised with ghost hounds, just watched, unperturbed.

“Leo?” Henri asked.

Nothing happened, except Tarty got louder with a low growl.

“He’s serious,” said Jess, looking around.

“Has he done that since Pesto got here?” Max asked.

“Not that I’ve seen. He’s pretty normal around Leo,” I said, looking at Jess as a feeling of dread filled my chest and the hairs on the back of my neck rose up.

“I don’t like this,” she said.

“I feel weird,” said Henri.

“Me too,” said Max. “Leo! Hey, Leo! Cut it out!”

The boys called out to Leo and Tarty got louder and louder until Pesto got up and puffed up too. That was a first.

“Leo!” I yelled. “We need you!”

And pop he was there, wearing his apron and a rumpled chef’s hat. “What happened? I was baking with Samantha.”

The feeling vanished the second Leo appeared, and I took a breath while gripping the edge of the island.

“Were you here?” Max asked.

Leo frowned and said, “No. I just told—” He stopped and sniffed. “Where were you?”

“We were here and Poptart popped,” said Henri. “Then it felt all weird.”

“No one comes in here,” said Leo with an edge to his voice.

“I think someone did,” I said. “And it’s not the first time.”

We reminded him of the times that Tarty reacted when Leo wasn’t there. Leo walked around us and said, “I don’t smell anyone on you. Did you get cold?”

“More like sick, I guess,” said Jess.

“Was it familiar?” Leo asked.

“Familiar?”

“Have you felt it before?”

We hadn’t. I was the closest with my run-in with the shoe factory ghosts, but it really wasn’t all that similar.

“It’s alright now?” Leo asked.

The boys nodded.

“We have to go,” I said. “The drive out to the Tunnys’ house is going to take some time.”

“I’ll stay for a while. Where’s Bev?”

“Sleeping,” said Jess. “So is Mariah.”

“Should we go?” I asked.

“We have a job to do.”

Leo promised to look after the boys until Mom got up, but once I got calmed down, I started to think whatever it was wasn’t after the kids. Jess and I were the troublemakers in the ghostly realm.

We filled our travel mugs and put on plenty of layers before going out to the car, but we didn’t make it inside.

“What did you do?” Vic Delaney appeared in our path, red-faced and furious.

Jess smiled sweetly at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

“What did you do?” he bellowed.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” I said. “We do a lot of stuff. Ask anyone.”

“You got to my kid.”

I leaned on the Volvo. “How often do you visit?”

Vic put his hand inside his jacket to finger the weapon he carried in a shoulder holster. “You’re fired.”

Jess looked at me. I smiled, and she said, “Nope.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s too late,” I said. “We promised.”

“Break it up!”

“What in the world does that mean?” Jess asked.

“Quit your nonsense,” said Vic. “I’d like to plug you two.”

I took a sip of coffee and said, “Too bad you can’t. Ready, Jess?”

“Ready.” She went around to the driver’s side.

“Look, you dizzy broads,” said Vic as he ran a hand through the hood in an attempt to bang on it. “You’re fired. I get the say here.”

“You did,” said Jess, “and now you don’t. We’re going to help you and Conor.”

“His name is Vic Jr.”

“He gets to choose,” I said.

“What world are you livin’ in? I choose. I’m the father!” Vic yelled.

“We all get to choose to comply or not. If I want to be named Jelly-bottom Butter Napkin, I can.”

Jess grinned. “I like it. Let’s go, Jelly-bottom.”

“Where are you going?” Vic yelled. “You’re off the case.”

“We’re going to help you,” said Jess.

“I don’t need help.”

I opened my door and said, “You need your son. What made him cut you off?”

Vic pulled his weapon and held it by his side. I don’t know if he thought that was scary, but it wasn’t. We’d recently been threatened with a real, live weapon, so his had little effect. “That’s between me and him.”

I put my mug inside and said, “You know what? I think it’s between you and you.”

“Huh?”

“Me too,” said Jess. “I’m a huge fan of your son. I’ve studied his work and him as much as I could. He’s a happy person, a good person. He’s done all sorts of things for charity, donated his work to worthy causes and all sorts of stuff. I’ve never heard a bad word about Conor Newberry.”

Vic’s expression grew more angry rather than less. “What’d you think? I raised a monster?”

“No. You raised a kind man, so if he cut you out, he had a good reason,” said Jess.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“You’re accusing me of… After everything I’ve done for you,” said Vic in a low, threatening tone.

“What’d you do? Scare the crap out of us and the boys?” Jess asked.

Vic scowled.

“Yeah, we know it was you in there,” I said. “If you call that a favor, no thanks.”

“It was you before, wasn’t it?” Jess asked.

“I ain’t talkin’ about that.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I’d really like to know. What have you done for us? Hire us and withhold files? Accost us while we’re trying to go interview people on the case you couldn’t solve?”

“I shook up that boob,” said Vic with a wicked smile.

“What boob?” Jess asked.

Vic pointed at me. “He wasn’t cooperating, and I don’t like men who ignore questions.”

“Steve? At the Dutzow barbecue? That was you.”

“I made that daisy dance,” he said. “For you.”

I was at a loss, but Jess said, “Well, don’t help us again. We’re all good. We’ll solve the Tunny case and help you and Conor, whether you like it or not.”

“You’re just a couple of dingbat dames that got lucky,” said Vic, his expression turning smug.

Jess grinned at him. “We’re lucky a lot.”

He snorted.

“It took us a day to find out who your kid is,” I said.

“You’re out. Leave it alone!” Vic yelled.

“We promised to help you and Conor,” said Jess. “And that’s what we’re going to do.”

“You didn’t promise me,” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. “We didn’t promise you.”

Vic went stock still. “Who did you promise?”

“Frankie.”

The ghost wavered, and I thought he would vanish, but he didn’t. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” said Jess. “We can tell.”

“No,” he said.

“Murdered barmaid,” I said. “You solved the crime.”

Vic relaxed, and his usual swagger returned. “You looked me up in the papers. That’s how you know.”

“We talked to Frankie,” said Jess. “She cares about you and Conor. A lot.”

The swagger faded a bit. “You’re lying.”

“She thinks she owes you for dropping your investigation of the Tunny case to solve her murder because you were good friends,” I said. “Was that in the papers?”

Vic blanched, and pop, he was gone.

I waited a second and then asked, “You think he’ll come back?”

Jess shook her head. “Not any time soon. To Kirksville?”

“To Kirksville.”

We drove out of town by the quickest route to Kirksville, where Truman State was located. It was a mistake. The kind of mistake you make when you’re talking, eating a bagel, and not thinking about the bridge you have to drive over.

I got a weird feeling a second before it happened. “Jess.” That’s all I got out before a man in a dark suit appeared not on the bridge’s railing, where we’d seen him before, but smack dab in the center of the road.

Jess screamed. I screamed, and she hit the brakes. The tires locked up, but we skidded right through him. It seemed to happen in slow motion. I watched him go through the hood, windshield, into the cabin, and then pass between our seats. That’s when the car behind us hit their brakes, but hit us anyway, not hard thankfully.

I might still have been screaming when a man ran up to Jess’ window and pounded on it. I expected him to yell about what the hell did we think we were doing or something to that effect. He was yelling, but he said, “Did you see that?”

Jess gasped, “What?”

“That man! He came out of your car. Through your car. Then he was in my car!”

I took a breath and asked, “You saw him?”

“Yeah, I saw him. I about pooped my pants!”

“We’re so sorry,” said Jess.

“I hit you!”

The poor man’s hair was standing on end, and I had the distinct impression that he couldn’t stop yelling. I turned to look back through the rear window.

“He’s gone!”

“Traffic’s backing up,” I said. “We have to get off the bridge.”

“Okay!” he yelled. “I’ll meet you on the other side!”

Jess drove with shaking hands off the bridge and pulled onto a dirt pull off on the other side. The yelling guy parked behind us and we all got out.

“I’m so sorry,” said Jess.

“You’re sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I never thought we’d meet this way.”

Jess and I shook his hand, but I was at a loss. He wasn’t familiar.

“Jim Clover,” he said. “I’ve got the duck. We connected on Facebook.”

“Oh, right,” said Jess. “That’s why you can see him.”

“That wasn’t the first time?” Jim asked.

We told him about our other encounters with the jumper, and it intrigued him.

“But not every time you’re on the bridge?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “And he’s always on the railing, or he was, that is.”

“That’s fascinating. I’m writing a book about St. Seb’s ghosts,” said Jim. “Can I interview you?”

“Now?” Jess asked.

He laughed. “Goodness, no. I’ve got to clean out my shorts and meet my wife at Dutzow Barbecue.”

“We better look at the damage,” I said with my mind on claims, but the damage to both vehicles was minor and we agreed to take care of it ourselves.

To our surprise, Jim thanked us for the experience, and we said goodbye.

“St. Seb people are unusual,” I said as we got back on the road.

“Everything about St. Seb is unusual,” said Jess.

“Did you see he was crying? The jumper, I mean.”

“I did. What do you think that means?”

I had no idea.

Chapter Six

John K. Tunny VI lived on a small farm outside the town of Kirksville, complete with a red barn that looked exactly like Jadalyn Jacobs’ chicken coop. Jess parked in front of the house and Mr. Tunny came out to stand on the house’s wide front porch with a welcoming smile on his face.

“You made it,” he called out.

“We made it,” said Jess. “Easy drive.”

“But a long one. Come in,” he said. “It’s freezing.”

We hurried up the stairs and into a warm living room with a fire crackling in the fireplace.

“Thanks for making time for us,” I said. “I’m Libby, and you know Jess.”

“I do. Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’d have come to you, but I’ve got a pile of tests to grade even though we’re on break. What can I get you? Coffee?”

We were both all about coffee, and he told us to have a seat before he went off to get it.

“Check it out,” I said, pointing to the wall beside the fireplace. They covered it with family photos, and John K. Tunny III was there in several, his round face creased with smile lines. He certainly didn’t look like the kind of guy who would end up murdered.

“I see you found Pawpaw.” The professor brought in a tray with an insulated coffee pot, mugs, sugar, creamer, and an enormous pile of cookies.

“Is that what you call him?” Jess asked.

“Yeah. From what I’ve heard, he was a cuddly guy. It started as Pa and turned into Pawpaw. I never knew him, of course, but my grandpa talked about him all the time.”

“Mr. Tunny,” I said. “Can I take the photos down?”

“Please call me Jack,” he said. “Everyone does. Be my guest.”

I took down the photos, and we got a better look at Pawpaw. The pictures Tank found in the old copies of the Sentinel were faded and blurry. It was nice to really see who we were working for.

“So how did you get interested in his case?” Jack asked. “Nobody talks about it anymore.”

“You know who we are and what we do?” Jess asked.

“You’re the talk of the town. St. Seb, that is. My cousins called me when you opened up for business. We thought about hiring you. We were planning on discussing it on Thursday, but here you are.”

“So you know we see…things?” I asked.

“That’s the word on the street.” He paused and then paled. “Did you see him? Pawpaw?”

“No,” I said quickly. “We saw the detective that investigated the case.”

“The cop?”

“Vic Delaney,” said Jess.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Let me get the stuff. Help yourself.”

Jess and I got some coffee, and Jack came back with a pile of accordion files and ledgers. “This is everything I have. It’s a lot. I hope you have a little time.”

We had plenty of time, and that was good because Tunny’s wife and children were very careful to collect everything, including a copy of Vic’s final report. It wasn’t very helpful, but it did say that he thought the entire case hinged on Pawpaw’s stolen Packard. Find the car. Find the murderer. Vic didn’t believe it was an accident that Tunny came out to the lot on Third and just happened to die.

“It says that he was upset in the weeks before he died, nervous and short-tempered,” said Jess. “We didn’t see that in the newspaper report.”

“People were saying he was a drunk that had a heart attack. My great-grandma thought saying he was upset would make that worse, like he was unstable or something.”

“He was upset, though?” I said.

“He was. My grandpa said so a million times, but he didn’t know what was going on. There were a lot of phone calls, and Grandpa remembers his dad slamming down the phone.”

“How was the business going?” Jess asked.

“See for yourself.” Jack opened a ledger to almost the last page that was written on. “He was very successful. He got offers to sell, but he wasn’t interested. Grandpa said he loved the business like it was his child.”

I looked over the figures. If they were accurate, it certainly seemed like Tunny was a good businessman. I went back through several years, and there weren’t any weird influxes of cash or strange payments. Jack gave me the family’s personal books, and they were the same. His great-grandmother kept those books, and she was fastidious about her accounting right down to the pennies she gave the kids for candy.

“What did your great-grandmother think? Did she have a suspect in mind?”

Jack shook his head. “No, but she always thought he was murdered, and it was something to do with the phone calls. Grandpa too.”

“What happened to the business after he died?” I asked.

“She sold it. My grandpa and his brothers were too young to take over, and I got the impression they wanted to be rid of it. Bad memories. A reminder, I guess.”

Here we go.

“Who bought it?” I asked.

Jack got out one of the accordion files and dug out a deed of sale for the storefront and the entire business. “Paul Castiglione.”

We looked at the date.

“That was fast,” said Jess.

“Two weeks after, and I know what you’re thinking. Paul Castiglione didn’t do it. He was Pawpaw’s friend. They grew up together in St. Louis.” That sounded convincing, but people murdered their wives over money, and Paul Castiglione ended up with a lucrative business with no effort.

“No one suspected him?” Jess asked.

“Not a single person. Look at what he paid for the business. Grandpa said his mom asked something less and Paul paid way more to help her out. He didn’t get a bargain. He made sure of it.”

Could that mean something?

“What happened to the business? Is it still around?” I asked.

“Not in its original form. The war happened and Paul died.”

Jess and I froze.

“When did he die?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know the date, but it wasn’t long after the war started,” said Jack. “My grandpa said his mom was hysterical for days after. She thought someone had killed Paul too.”

My palms tingled, and my chest got tight. “Was he murdered?”

“No. It was suicide.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Are you alright?” Jack asked. “You two look kinda funny. What did I say?”

“How did he do it?” Jess asked.

“He jumped off a bridge.”

I grabbed Jess’ arm, and she nodded.

“Do you have any pictures of Paul Castiglione?” I asked.

“Um…sure,” he said, puzzled. “Let me find the album.”

Jack went and pulled out an ancient photo album. “Here they are together at Pawpaw’s wedding. Paul was his best man.”

He handed us the album, and we looked down at the wedding photo. One man had a very familiar face. In fact, we’d just seen it. On the bridge.

I pointed. “That’s Paul?”

“What’s going on?” Jack asked. “You look like…like you know him.”

I nodded. “We do.”

“We’ve seen him a few times,” said Jess.

“Seen seen?”

We told him about the bridge and what had just happened.

Jack shook his head. “But it didn’t happen in St. Seb. It was in St. Louis.”

“How do they know it was suicide?” I asked.

“People saw him jump.”

“But your great-grandmother still thought someone killed him?” Jess asked.

He came and sat next to me to look down at the photo of a happy wedding party. The women sat holding small bouquets, and the men sported white carnations. They were perfect, but it wouldn’t be long before it all went wrong.

“She did, but it was just because it happened so soon after Pawpaw. Everyone knew why he did it.”

I bet they didn’t.

“Why?” I asked.

“His son died, and he didn’t handle it well,” said Jack.

“How did it happen?” Please say the war. “Was it the war?”

Jack flipped through to the end of the album to show us a picture of a handsome young man that looked a lot like our jumper next to a plane, some kind of bomber. “In a way. It was a training accident. I looked into it. That’s a B-24. They called it the flying coffin.”

“It couldn’t have been anything else?” Jess asked.

“I don’t see how. Grandpa knew Paul Jr. They were friends. He said the whole crew died when they crashed during landing.”

“Well, something’s going on,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“Paul Castiglione isn’t haunting us for no reason. He wants something, and he turned up right after the first time we saw Vic.”

“For a minute, I envied you for seeing ghosts.”

“Over that?” Jess asked with a smile.

“Definitely. What else do you need? I don’t really know anything else about Paul or his son. Oh, except for one thing.” Jack flipped the pages back to the front of the album to a photo of a group of young boys dressed as altar boys.

He pointed at the smiling boy in the center. “Paul was a devoted catholic. Pawpaw was too. That’s him on Paul’s left.”

“Suicide’s a sin,” said Jess. “A huge one.”

“Maybe his son’s death was enough to push him over the edge,” I said.

“You don’t sound convinced,” said Jack.

I looked him in the eyes. “Are you?”

He grimaced and then admitted, “No, not really.”

“What happened to the business when Paul died?”

“I have no idea. Grandpa never mentioned it,” said Jack. “Is there anything else I can help with? I don’t know if I know anything else that’s relevant.”

“What do you have on the Packard?” I asked. “Vic’s report doesn’t give any details.”

Jack dug around through a couple of folders and finally came up with a faded handwritten bill of sale and the insurance claim after the car disappeared. John K. Tunny had good taste. The Packard was a brand-new, two-toned convertible. He’d had it just two weeks before he died.

I leaned over and squinted. “Does that say special order?”

“I think so,” said Jess. “What was special about it?”

She handed the bill of sale to Jack, and he frowned. “I don’t know. Grandpa never said anything about that. There are some letters here, but I don’t know what they mean. Is it important?”

“It might be,” I said. “If the car was unusual, it might’ve been the target, and the phone calls had nothing to do with it.”

“Do you have a picture?” Jess asked.

He flipped through the album and found a picture of John K. Tunny III and his wife, smiling next to a beautiful car. The photo was in black and white, but its style and class was apparent even without color.

“I can’t tell what color it was,” I said. “But they’re similar in tone.”

“What a sweet ride,” said Jack. “What I wouldn’t do to have it.”

“They never had a hint of where the car went? No trace?” Jess asked.

“Not one. It just vanished.”

We drank our coffee and had plenty of cookies while we went through the rest of Jack’s documents. Nothing interesting turned up. I hoped Vic came back so we could ask him why he thought the car was key. They probably sold a lot of Packards before the war. It didn’t seem like a car would be worth killing over. The business was more likely, in my opinion.

When we were done, we thanked Jack and got back on the road.

“I guess we follow the car,” said Jess. “That’s what Vic thought.”

“How are we going to do that?” I asked.

“We’ve got the VIN number. Let’s check out vintage car sales.”

“I wish we knew the color or colors.”

Jess turned on the highway and asked, “How do you feel about doing the bridge? We could cross somewhere else.”

“I say we do it. I’d like to know why Paul Castiglione is trying to scare us when he could just tell us what he wants.”

“I agree. It’s starting to piss me off,” said Jess, looking about as fierce as she gets.

At least she’s not thinking about Hal. Thanks, Paul.

“And now you have damage to deal with,” I said.

“It’s fine. I don’t care.”

Hal would’ve cared. He would’ve cared a lot, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I picked my phone that had buzzed and stared down at it.

“Who is it?” Jess asked.

“McCloud.”

“The McCloud?”

“I only know one,” I said.

The phone stopped buzzing and then it dinged when a text came in.

“Is it him?” Jess asked.

“Probably.”

“What does he say, Libby? Come on. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

I bit my lip and looked out the window. I didn’t want to know.

“It’s not going to be bad,” said Jess. “He always liked you.”

“He’s Derek’s friend first.”

“I doubt that.”

I didn’t. Angus McCloud went to Cornell Law with Derek and in a way with me. I was there for every bit of it. We weren’t married yet, but I went to New York with Derek against my parents’ and Jess’ wishes because I had to be with him. I couldn’t stand the idea of a separation. So we got an apartment, I worked my first job in insurance, and he did law fourteen hours a day. It doesn’t sound like fun, but it actually was. Derek made friends easily, and after the first day of orientation, we had a group. It was me and a bunch of stressed-out wannabe lawyers freaking out on a daily basis. They were hilarious. I became friends with their significant others and we got to moan about them, having a great time doing that. Derek would sneak me into the Red Barn for dollar beers on Fridays. I wasn’t technically allowed in the grad school watering hole, but I don’t think anyone cared. A couple of times Derek had to sweet talk a bartender, but he excelled at that. After the Red Barn closed, we’d wander around campus if it wasn’t too cold. It was usually me and whoever McCloud was dating. It didn’t matter. They were all great. Sometimes we’d end up drinking in the mock trial room or we’d wander into a Mexican restaurant and start singing. It was the best. No regrets about Cornell.

“It’s buzzing again,” said Jess.

I grimaced, wondering if McCloud knew about what had happened and what he would say. He wasn’t known for his fidelity.

“Libby.”

“Okay. Okay.” I looked and then smiled.

The text was simple. Answer the phone, Libby.

The phone buzzed again, and I answered, “Hey, Scooter. What’s up?”

McCloud laughed. “You will never let me live that down.”

“I won’t.”

“You know that made the official list of all the things you should do at Cornell,” said McCloud.

“That did not make the list,” I said.

“It did. I sent it to you. It’s pretty close to my list of all the things to do at Cornell.”

“Sled down Libe Slope during a snowstorm isn’t the same as scoot down Libe Slope on your butt at midnight and throw up.”

“Yeah, mine’s better,” he said.

“You got a minor case of frostbite on your butt.”

“And I dated the ER nurse for five weeks. It was worth it.”

My face hurt from smiling. McCloud had that effect on me and most people. He was a lot like Derek used to be and how The Eggs still were.

“So…” he said.

“So…” I said.

“What’s ya doin’ Thursday?”

“It’s Thanksgiving.”

“And…”

“Um…having Thanksgiving,” I said.

Jess mouthed, “What’s going on?”

“Beats me,” I said.

“What was that?” McCloud asked.

“Jess wants to know what you’re up to.”

“Hi, Jess!” he yelled, searing my eardrum.

“Hi, McCloud!” Jess yelled back.

“Tell Libby to ask me to Thanksgiving! She can’t take a hint!”

Jess glanced over. “Isn’t he in New York?”

I put the phone on speaker. “Aren’t you in New York?”

“I’m at Lambert, getting hammered in American’s lounge,” said McCloud, not sounding hammered at all, but then again, he never did.

“What are you doing there?” Jess asked.

“They diverted my flight to St. Louis for a medical emergency, so I’m working up the energy to go to a hotel.”

“Aren’t you catching a flight later?” I asked.

“Nope. All flights are full. I’m screwed, and happy to be so. I didn’t want to go to that meeting, anyway. So, can I come to Thanksgiving or what?”

“Um…sure,” I said, because what could I say? “Did you talk to Derek?”

“I’d rather talk to you. You’re the food person.”

“What about Alexis?” I asked.

“Alexis?” McCloud asked.

“Your wife.”

“Oh, yeah. We’re getting divorced. I annoyed her. Or maybe she annoyed me. I can’t remember, but it’s amicable.”

“How many is that?” I asked.

“What?”

“Divorces.”

“Two? Three?” McCloud started laughing and ordered a double scotch on the rocks.

“It might be four,” I said.

“Could be,” he said. “You know me.”

“I do know you, and you’re welcome to come to dinner.”

“What’s your address?” McCloud asked.

“Do you want to come tonight?”

“Hell, no. I’m going out. Hitting the clubs to find the perfect Mrs. Angus McCloud.”

“Please don’t. You’ll find herpes first.”

“Already done.”

Jess started laughing, and I said, “Too much information, Scooter.”

“Address, Liberty Sunshine.”

I steeled myself for his reaction, but I needn’t have bothered. It was McCloud. Captain Go with the Flow. When I said St. Sebastian and that it was about an hour out of St. Louis, he just said cool.

“When are you coming?” I asked.

“Tomorrow good?”

“Sure.”

“Kiss Derek and tell him to put on his big-boy pants. We got some drinking to do.”

“Have you talked to Derek lately?” I asked.

“I talk to my boy all the time. Gotta go. Hot chick at six o’clock, or is it two o’clock? See ya, Lib.” McCloud hung up, and I stared at the phone in my hand.

“He doesn’t know,” said Jess.

“No, he doesn’t,” I said.

“This is going to be fun.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Chapter Seven

We were all ready for a fresh horror on the bridge, but it didn’t happen. Paul Castiglione wasn’t there, and we drove across without incident.

“I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved,” said Jess.

“Same,” I said. “But we know who he is now. Maybe that was the point.”

“I’m thinking the whole afterlife thing is more complicated than Leo led us to believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“He says that they don’t stay where they died because who would want to, but Christine stayed in that trunk and Paul kept jumping off a bridge,” said Jess with a slight shiver.

“Everybody’s different,” I said.

“Even in death, it seems.”

“I wish it wasn’t so complicated.”

Jess smiled. “Said everyone.”

We swung by Eric’s office and dropped off my paperwork, and then Jess took me back to Number Eight before she went to the Horny Hotel for her classes.

Inside, I found Mom and the kids in the now well-organized kitchen with an array of fresh pies cooling on the granite.

“That is a lot of pies,” I said.

“We have to have enough for pie breakfast the day after,” said Max. “Dad’ll eat a whole pie by himself, and Ethan’s coming for it.”

“Ethan’s coming for pie breakfast?” I asked.

“And Sam,” said Henri with a slight tinge of pink to his cheeks. He and Sam were kind of a thing.

“Is that okay?” Mom asked. “I thought it would be fine.”

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with the birthday party. That is on you two. I can’t be handling it,” I said.

The Eggs pumped their fists and started showing me the schedule of events. There was what they called an opening ceremony where the birthday girl would be presented and then it went into a karaoke contest.

“Where are you getting a karaoke machine?” I asked.

“Mrs. Johns has one. She said we could borrow it,” said Henri. “See, it’s all under control.”

“Who’s doing the dishes?”

“Mariah,” exclaimed the boys.

“Hey!” Mariah put her hands on her hips. “It’s not my turn.”

“You aren’t going to the community center to get the stage, so you have time,” said Max.

“And if I go to the community center to help?” Mariah asked.

The boys talked it over and decided that they’d do the dishes if she helped and got Keely to come. Sam was already on board, as was Ethan.

“Fine,” she said, and the boys started on the dishes.

I went over to her and whispered, “You were going to do it anyway, weren’t you?”

She smiled.

“You’re learning,” I said, and I went over to my laptop to search for the VIN number and registration of the Tunny Packard. I found several websites that traced by registration numbers, but I couldn’t find it, not that I expected to. It was stolen, after all. The VIN number search sites weren’t any better. I went through a few Facebook groups dedicated to Packards, but it was no use. I didn’t have the colors.

Mom took out the last two pies and then came over to see what I was doing. “Oh, Packards. My dad had one. He loved that car.”

I told her what I was doing, and she said, “You could try the Packard Palace.”

“Huh?”

“The Packard Palace. I remember driving by as a kid. Beautiful building.”

I typed in Packard Palace and there it was, still in existence in downtown St. Louis.

“Let’s go,” said Mom.

“Where?”

“To the Packard Palace.”

“It’s not a dealership anymore, it’s lofts now,” I said.

“Gone but not forgotten. Car guys never get over it,” said Mom.

I looked at the building on the screen. “I guess someone could be hanging around.”

Mom got her purse while I used Google maps to look around for a business that we could go into. There wasn’t one. Purely lofts.

“So Grandpa bought his car there?” I asked.

“Oh, no. He had a friend at another place, so he went there and got a deal.”

“Where was that?”

“Let me think. I remember going with him to get repairs twice, but it wasn’t a Packard dealership anymore,” said Mom. “I think it was around Shrewsbury.”

I typed in car dealerships and Shrewsbury.

“BMW?”

Mom put on her glasses and peered at the screen. “Can you show the streets?”

I got the street view up, and Mom nodded. “I think so. We had hamburgers at a joint on that corner there.”

“I guess it’s worth a try,” I said, glancing at the boys slap fighting at the sink. “Do you really want to go?”

Mom leaned over to me. “I love them, but I need a break.”

“And you don’t want to help with the stage.”

“Cars are better than carpentry any day,” said Mom. “Plus, I want to order a trunk cover thing. My car doesn’t have one.”

I told the kids not to destroy anything while getting the stage into the ballroom and we were out the door in ten minutes. Mom was asleep in twelve.

I pulled into the parking lot, passing a lot of super-expensive coupes, and felt out of place in my Camry.

Mom woke up and stretched. “Well, that was a lovely nap.”

“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Fall asleep in the car,” I said.

She smiled. “It’s a gift. Look at all those cars. How much do you think they are?”

“Going by Derek’s beast, I’d say a lot.” I found a spot next to the showroom door and reminded myself cars didn’t make the man or the woman, in my case, but I still felt like a country cousin.

We didn’t get five steps into the showroom before a sales associate, oozing friendliness, was at our side.

“What can I help you with today?” he asked.

Mom flipped her long hair over her shoulder and straightened her multicolored poncho before saying that she needed a part for her X1.

“I’d be happy to help you with that.” He led us to a desk, and they discussed the trunk cover, ordering, and whatnot. I left and wandered around the shiny showroom, fending off other salespeople (all living) and peeking in cars that were frankly fabulous.

Mom was giving Number Eight’s address when I circled back around.

“Is that all I can do for you?” he asked.

“Actually,” I said. “I’m a bit of an amateur sleuth, and my mom says that her dad bought a car at this location in, what was it, Mom. 1948?”

“It wasn’t a BMW then,” he said with a smile.

“A Packard,” said Mom. “Do you know anything about the Packard dealership that was here?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“We’re trying to trace a car, a Packard,” I said.

“The one from 1948?”

“No, 1941. It was owned by a friend’s great-grandfather and it went missing. We’re trying to help him locate it. My mother said you were once a Packard dealership, so we thought we’d come by.”

“Sorry. I’m not a vintage-car guy, but my manager is. Would you like me to get her?” he asked.

“Would you? That would be great,” said Mom.

“Help yourself to some drinks. I’ll find her.”

I got Mom a chai tea, and I got green. It took a while, but the associate came back with Elayne, a woman about my age with an incredible tan and lots of blond hair done up in a complicated braid thing.

“Tom tells me you’re interested in a 1941 Packard?” Elayne sat down and Tom dashed over to catch a pair of men in suits coming in.

“We are. Do you know anything about the codes they used for special orders?” I asked.

She smiled. “I am a Packard enthusiast. That’s how I ended up working here. I came in to ask if they had any records and ended up getting a job.”

“Do they have records?” Mom asked.

“Unfortunately, no, but I can probably help you. I have a 1945 myself and I get around to all the big shows. Do you have the codes?”

I showed her the picture of Tunny’s car, and she cooed with appreciation. “That’s a beauty. I think the colors are unusual. Am I right?” she asked, looking up at me.

“You’ll have to tell us. We know it was a special order, but the family doesn’t remember the colors.” I showed her sales slip.

“Oh, wow. These are not familiar. She was two-toned, but these codes must’ve been unique to the salesman, a kind of shorthand.”

I sagged in the seat. “What were the normal colors for two-toned?”

Elayne pulled up a site on the computer with a bunch of Packards. “Tan and red. Tan and Blue. Silver and Blue. I’ve seen a black and red.”

“But these colors are very similar,” said Mom.

“That is unusual, probably why it was a special order. If I knew the colors, I could ask around, but without that, I just don’t know what I can tell you.”

Mom looked at the screen. “I would love to have a Packard. Look at those lines.”

“They were beautiful cars,” said Elayne.

“Buy one, Mom, and you can keep it at our house.”

Mom and Elayne laughed and started looking at the Packards for sale, oohing and ahhing over the curves and upholstery. That’s when I saw him, coming around an emerald-green coupe with a swagger I’d rarely seen in a man. He reminded me instantly of Vic, even though he was about twenty, blond, and wearing a double-breasted suit with a plaid tie and matching pocket square.

Salesman. Has to be.

When he cleared the BMW, a Packard appeared on the showroom floor, two-toned, blue with a silver top. He leaned on it, made a clicking noise with his tongue, and saluted me.

Mom grabbed my leg and squeezed as she stared at the car. Elayne looked back and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Mom. “That green is stunning.”

Elayne switched on a dime to selling my hippie mother a ninety-thousand-dollar BMW with a custom paint job.

“I’m going to take a look.” I got up and walked toward the Packard.

“I heard you’re in love with Packards,” the man said. “You’ve come to the right place.”

“About seventy years too late,” I said under my breath.

“It’s never too late to order one of these beauties.”

I glanced over at him. “Uh, you don’t say.”

“I do say.” He smiled at me and said, “Would you like to take her for a spin? Can you drive?”

“Can I drive?” I asked as I walked past him to get out of sight of the other shoppers.

“Ladies don’t always drive. Cars are a man’s purview.”

“Oh, really?”

He joined me at the back of an X5, and the Packard appeared again between the X5 and a convertible.

“But I can see that you are an…unusual lady.” He looked me up and down with no attempt at being sly about it, and what he saw didn’t thrill him. Jeans and a sweater under a ski jacket weren’t up his alley, I suppose.

“What year is it?” I asked.

“This, my dear, is a 1946 Packard Clipper Coupe. Look at those details. You’ll make a splash when you go to the market or visit your mother.”

He’s trying to sell me this car.

“I definitely would,” I said.

“Let’s sit down and talk numbers. When can your husband get here?”

I couldn’t resist. “What if I want to buy it myself?”

“Yourself?”

“Yeah. Me. Just me.”

A slight frown appeared on his smooth features, but he didn’t miss a beat. “It can be your car, but he will have to apply for the loan.”

“I can’t get a loan?”

“You would have to have a bank account,” he said. “Tell your husband. You need this car. Those baby blues ought to do the trick. Maybe put on a nice dress and cook him his favorite dinner.”

I can’t even.

“I have a bank account,” I said.

He laughed. “Aren’t you the kidder? Now seriously. This car won’t stick around. What do you say we call that husband of yours?”

“He’s busy,” I said. “Actually, I wanted to ask you a question about special orders.”

The salesman straightened up. If he’d been a cartoon, he’d have had dollar signs in his eyes. “Yes, we do take special orders. What do you have in mind?”

“I want the same colors my friend ordered, but he can’t tell me what the colors are exactly.”

“We offer many pleasant shades for gentlemen of distinction.”

“I’m sure.” I pulled out my phone and looked to see how he’d react. The salesman just kept smiling. “So I have a picture of the sales receipt.”

“The receipt would be helpful,” said the salesman.

“It’s on my phone.”

“You’re ready to call your husband? Fabulous.”

“Do you know what year it is?” I asked.

The salesman frowned. “I think…it’s…” He looked at the Packard and then said happily, “1946.”

Oh, jeez.

“So this is a cellphone.” I held it up.

He looked puzzled and then nodded. “Lovely. Let’s make that call.”

“I will definitely talk to my husband, but I want to show you that receipt.” Please don’t freak out. “Here it is.”

“I’ve seen one of those before,” he said.

“A receipt. I certainly hope so,” I said.

“No. That.” He pointed at my phone. “People walk around staring at them.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty weird. Can you look at these codes for me, please?”

The salesman looked at the codes and then smiled. “Your friend has good taste and a generous bank account. Am I right?”

“He did. I mean, he does,” I said. “Do you know what he ordered?”

“Certainly,” he said with a touch of slyness.

Oh, I get it.

“I would like to talk about ordering the same thing.”

“Excellent. And we’ll call your husband.”

“Sure.”

“Right now?” he asked.

Give me patience. He’s dead. He can’t help it.

“We will totally discuss buying a car, and I will recommend you to my friends.”

He looked me over again. “You have good friends?”

“Friends with money? Yes.”

“I’m happy to help.” He pulled out a slim wallet and got out a card. “Don Stone.” He tried to give me the card and failed to notice that it vanished the second it went into my hand.

“I will tell everyone,” I said.

“You’ll need more cards.”

“Sure.”

He gave me ten vanishing cards, and I held up the phone. “First, tell me what this car is, so I can tell my husband that I want to buy the same colors.”

“Well, that’s a custom order of Barbola blue with French blue. The top is camel, and the interior is red with air conditioning. That’s a nice feature for those hot St. Louis days. You’ll want the top-mounted antenna and the Borg Warner Aero-drive.” He continued with every other feature, and I quickly made a note of them in my phone.

“Sure. I’d love that.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. When do you think your husband will be able to come in?”

“Soon. How many blue on blue-on-blue two-tones have you sold?” I asked.

“None,” he said. “Joe Johnson sold this one. It was probably the only one. You’ll be getting a truly unique vehicle.”

“Is Joe around?”

His face fell, and I quickly said, “Just wanted to say hello for my friend, you know.”

“I wish you could, but we lost Joe at Anzio.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“No reason you should.”

Mom came walking over and said, “How are we doing, Libby?”

Don looked Mom over with growing confusion. She was dressed unusually, even for our time, with her flowered dress, poncho, and Birkenstocks with thick woolly socks.

“Ma’am,” he said after a second.

“Look, Mom, it’s 1946.” I gestured to the car.

Mom eyed me and then said, “Is that your car, young man?”

Don looked more confused. “I think we’re on the sales floor, but it looks like my car.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “I have your card.”

“You do?” Mom asked.

“Ten of them for my friends.” I zipped up my coat and said, “We’re going to talk to my husband to see if he’ll get a loan, since I don’t have a bank account.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” said Mom.

“That’s going around,” I said. “I need to get her home. Thanks, Don.”

We left Don looking at his car in puzzlement and rushed off before he decided I needed more cards or to call my husband that instant.

“Wait,” said Mom. “Did you find out what the colors are?”

“I did. Don was very helpful. Let’s get out of here before he comes after me and starts selling again.”

“He was trying to sell you something?”

“The Packard. His Packard. He’s confused.”

“Maybe we should tell him he’s dead.”

“I really don’t want to do that, and he doesn’t want to hear it,” I said as I hustled her outside.

“Well, we have to tell Elayne about the colors. She knows all kinds of car people.”

“And have to explain how I got the information fifteen minutes after I said I didn’t have it?”

“I see what you mean.”

We got in my car and Mom asked, “Was talking to that salesman as weird as I think it was?”

“Weirder. Did you know I couldn’t get a car loan on my own in 1946?”

Mom scowled. “Yes, I did. My mother couldn’t get her own bank account until the sixties. It made her so mad.”

I’m starting to understand Vic a little better.

Chapter Eight

Mom fell asleep on the way home as soon as I finished telling her about my conversation with Don, the salesman. She was right. Car guys do not get over it, especially car sales guys.

When we walked into Number Eight, I was pleasantly surprised. The boys and their crew had gotten the entire stage into the ballroom and were fitting the pieces together while eating Mom’s cowboy cookies. She’d made multiple batches, but the kids ran through them as fast as she could get them done. They weren’t my favorite, too crispy.

“Hey. Max. Henri,” I said. “I need some help at Mika’s. Who can come?”

“We’re busy, Mom,” said Max. “Can’t you just do it?”

“You know I can’t.”

Sam stood up and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Go help Marko and Jelena, Henri. We can do it.”

Henri couldn’t say no to Sam, so he reluctantly left with me while Mom promised hot chocolate and more cookies.

“Why do we have to go now?” Henri complained when we got in the car.

“Because it’s all part of our afterlife aftercare,” I said.

“Is that a thing?”

“It is now.”

He groaned, but we were at Mika’s in a flash. We parked, and the big man came out of the front door on crutches.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

He closed the door and said, “Elsie’s been moving stuff. She doesn’t like that we leave shoes all over.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“She puts them on the stairs so we’ll take them up,” said Mika.

“Did you trip on them or something?” Henri asked.

“I got up for a midnight snack and broke my ankle last night.”

I elbowed Henri. “It’s a good thing we’re here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Henri with a grin.

“Did I miss something?” Mika asked.

“Nope. Is Elsie home?”

“The kids say she is.”

We went into their snug living room where Sandra was reading to Jelena, and Marko was drawing a giant bat on the pad Jess had given him.

“Hi, guys,” I said.

“Henri!” Marko jumped up. “Look at what I made.”

“That’s cool, bud.” Henri went over and started looking at Marko’s artwork.

“Is Elsie here, Jelena?” I asked.

The little girl smiled. “She’s in her rocker.”

“Where’s the rocker?”

She pointed at the corner where the TV was. I guess rocking inside something physical did not bother Elsie.

“Henri, can you help me with Elsie?” I asked.

“Sure, Mom.” He looked over and frowned. “She’s pretty upset that Mika broke his ankle. She didn’t mean to do that. She wants to help.”

Sandra nodded. “We know, Elsie. We just have to find something you can help with.”

“She’s bored,” said Henri. “Sorry. Sorry. She’s not bored. She says she’s not bored, but she was a busy person all her life and she wants more to do.”

Mika looked at me. “Didn’t you see other children on the playground? She could help look after them too.”

“No. She’s Marko and Jelena’s nanny,” said Henri.

“Yeah,” said Jelena. “Elsie’s ours.”

“You can share,” said Sandra.

Jelena made a face and Marko said, “Then she’d be too busy to ride the bus with me.”

Sandra explained that starting that week, Marko could ride the bus because Elsie would go with him and Sandra wouldn’t have to worry about bullies.

“I’m sure she could still do that,” I said.

“Elsie,” said Sandra. “Could you see those children?”

“She could see them,” said Marko. “But she likes us best.”

We all smiled, and I’m sure Elsie was smiling too. That must’ve been music to a nanny’s ears.

“But it would be nice for her to talk to other ghosts,” said Sandra.

Other ghosts.

“Do you see a lot of other ghosts, Elsie?” I asked.

Henri nodded. “A few.”

“If you let us see you, Elsie,” said Mika, “that would help. We could talk.”

“She tried,” said Henri, “but she couldn’t.”

Sandra slumped back on the sofa. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” I said. “Maybe. Elsie, do you know anything about chickens?”

Henri listened for a few minutes. “She had chickens in Scotland.”

“Why are you asking about chickens?” Mika asked.

“Bear with me. Elsie, do you like chickens?”

“She loved having chickens,” said Henri. “Hold on. Hold on. Okay. Okay.”

“What’s going on?” Sandra asked.

“She raised chickens by hand. If you sing to them, they make more eggs.”

“That sounds…unusual,” said Mika.

“Do you like chickens?” I asked Mika and Sandra.

Sandra shook her head. “We can’t have chickens. We don’t have the time.”

“Not live chickens.”

“What other kind is there?” Mika asked.

I told him humans weren’t the only ghosts around St. Seb and about Jadalyn Jacobs’ chicken coop.

“What are you saying?” Sandra asked. “We don’t want that coop.”

“Jadalyn wants the coop, just not the chickens in it. Would you take them?”

Henri held up a hand. “Elsie’s really excited. She wants them. She says she’ll take care of them and you won’t have to do anything.”

“Well, you’ll need a place for them to roost,” I said. “They are still chickens.”

Mika came up with a plan to put some rods in their garden shed. There was room.

“I don’t think you’ll have to get rods,” I said. “They can have what was theirs in life.”

“It might work better if they have real rods,” said Mika, clearly desperate to occupy Elsie. “Would Jadalyn give hers?”

“This is madness,” said Sandra. “But if you want those chickens, Elsie, I say we try it.”

I called Jadalyn and told her about the plan. She was happy to give up the original rods if it would get her live birds in their cozy new coop. We made a plan to go over the next morning to Jadalyn’s house, Elsie and me, to lure the hens into my car and take them to the Blazevics’.

“We’re getting chickens?” Jelena asked.

“That’s the plan,” I said.

“Can we name them?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Jelena clapped her hands. “Mine is going to be called Mildred.”

“Mildred?” Sandra exclaimed.

“That was Elsie’s sister’s name. She was really nice, like my chicken,” said Jelena.

Mika put his cast up on the coffee table and smiled. “Mildred it is.”

Chapter Nine

The next morning I was working on quotes for fixing the Volvo’s back-end damage when the boys came into the office, eating biscuits and spraying crumbles on the hardwood.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Get plates.”

“Don’t need ‘em,” said Max. “There’s a weird guy here for you.”

I glanced at the cat bed I had on my desk. Poptart and Pesto were curled up together, purring. “He’s outside?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he alive?”

The boys looked at each other and shrugged, completely unconcerned about the possibility of a new ghost.

“What’s he look like?” I asked.

“He’s wearing a suit,” offered Henri as he wandered off.

I instantly thought of Don. If he followed us home and I had to deal with that, along with moving ghost chickens and tracing the Packard, I would bust.

“And he smells,” said Max.

Not Don, then.

I stood up and asked, “How is he weird? Besides the smell.”

“He looks hungover.”

McCloud.

“Thanks. Don’t you have rehearsal?”

“We were just going,” said Max, and the boys took off with me on their heels. They went toward the kitchen and I went to the front, where I found Angus McCloud lying on the bench of our hall tree with a bouquet of flowers and a briefcase on his chest.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

One blue eye opened. “Sleepin’.”

“Get up and hug me.”

McCloud sat up and his briefcase slid onto the bench, none too gently. “Wow. This is quite a place.”

“You have no idea,” I said.

He stood, a little wobbly, and gave me a fierce hug. He did smell. Very little had changed from law school.

“Did you sleep in that suit?”

“Does it look like I slept in this suit?” he asked, giving me his best roguish grin.

“Yes.”

“Then I probably did.” He gave me the flowers and said, “I don’t think your boys recognized me.”

“It’s been a while, and you didn’t have a beard last time.”

McCloud stroked the impressive beard that was more red than blond, like his thick, wavy hair that reached to his shoulders. McCloud was one of the few men that I knew that could pull off long hair. It was especially unusual in the world of corporate law.

“You like it?”

“I do,” I said. “Take off your coat. Let’s get you something to eat.”

“I never say no to your food.”

“It’s my mother’s food, actually.”

He grinned. “Even better.”

We went back into the kitchen and, to my relief, Leo wasn’t there. He was pretty angry when we told him Vic had been the one to come into the house uninvited.

“Don’t take all of them,” I said to the boys, who were at the island, packing up cookies for rehearsal.

“We won’t,” said Henri.

They left five.

“Guys,” I said. “This is Dad’s friend.”

“And yours,” said McCloud.

“And mine. Angus McCloud, better known as Scooter.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Max. “Rockin’ beard.”

Henri looked him over. “Are you still a lawyer?”

“Don’t I look like a lawyer?”

“No, but you never really did.”

McCloud grabbed him and gave him a horse bite. Henri screamed in laughter and Max joined in, giving him a noogie. They went round and round in the kitchen until all three collapsed onto stools.

I made McCloud some coffee and reminded the boys about rehearsal. For once, they were reluctant to go, but the kids were waiting to sing Madonna’s “Holiday” and practice their dance steps. Mrs. Johns and her sister claimed it was going well, and I prayed it was.

The boys took off, leaving me alone with McCloud, and he might’ve been hungover, but I wasn’t fool enough to think that would dull his incredible mind. McCloud made it through Cornell law in the top ten percent, and he was drunk or high half the time. Derek said he was a special kind of law genius, and that’s saying something, considering Derek was no slouch himself.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked over the rim of his mug, his bleary eyes trained on me.

“There is nothing I want to tell you.”

“Libby!” Mom called out.

“In the kitchen!”

McCloud said nothing, but his eyes roamed over the recipe binders on the island and the photos on the fridge. Derek wasn’t on there. He’d have seen that immediately.

Mom walked in, saying, “Elayne thinks she found the car on some antique car site. Oh, I didn’t know we had company.”

McCloud turned around. “Mrs. Moss, a pleasure to see you again.”

Mom threw up her hands. “Scooter!”

“Why, Libby, why?” he asked.

“‘Cause it’s funny.”

“But I’m a big, bad, important guy now.”

Mom pulled him in for a hug. “I don’t believe it. I haven’t seen you in ages, but you still smell the same. Haven’t you grown up yet?”

“I’m getting divorced. That’s grown up,” said McCloud.

“How many times is that?” Mom asked.

“I’m thinking four.”

“Four?” Mom smacked his arm. “Stop that.”

He rubbed his arm and gave her puppy dog eyes. “I can’t help it if I fall in love.”

“You fall in bed,” Mom said. “Let me get you some food. Are you staying with us over the holiday?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Of course we’ll have you. This house is enormous. There’s plenty of space. I have a breakfast casserole. Would you like that?”

“Libby, your mom is the best,” said McCloud. He took off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. “Is that an octopus?”

“It is,” I said, checking the time.

“And a…lobster?”

“Correct.”

“I can see we have a lot of catching up to do,” he said.

Mom and I exchanged a glance. I didn’t know where McCloud was on the matter of ghosts, and if he found out, would he tell Derek?

He watched us and then asked, “Did I hear something about a classic car?”

Mom got him some of her fab casserole and said, “Yes. It’s a Packard. Libby was trying to find it for a friend.”

“What kind of friend?” McCloud asked with a glint in his eye.

“A paying friend,” I said. “I’m doing some investigating on the side.”

“On the side of what?”

“I’m temping at an insurance agency in town.”

Mom looked nervous and said, “Anyway, Elayne told me the car was sold at auction two years ago in original condition. There was no VIN, but based on the colors, she thinks that’s it.”

“Do you have the auction site?” I asked.

“She texted it to me.”

“Hold on.” I went and got my laptop. When I came back, McCloud had settled in at the island, eating Mom’s breakfast casserole and flipping through Leo’s dinner recipe binder.

“These are old school,” he said.

“Some of them,” I said, sitting next to him and opening my laptop.

“1993, 1989, 1973.” He looked at Mom and asked, “Who’s Leo?”

Mom swallowed. “A friend. He collects recipes.”

McCloud took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Interesting.”

“Can you send me the site, Mom?” I asked.

Mom sent over an antique car auction site that looked to be a pretty big deal. They did good business in classic cars but also hosted car shows and sold parts. I found the Packard easily and compared the listing with what was on the sales slip and what Don had told me. It matched, and according to the listing, the car was a one of a kind with custom colors that had never been seen before. The condition wasn’t great. The convertible top had been partially eaten away, the tires were flat, and the fenders had rusted, but considering the age, it wasn’t really all that bad.

McCloud quietly ate his breakfast while looking at my screen and saying nothing, but I know he was thinking. He was always thinking.

“Is that it?” Mom asked.

“That has to be,” I said. “This is so weird. It says it has almost no miles on it. Five hundred.”

“Looks like a barn find,” said McCloud.

“What’s that?” Mom asked.

He explained that people were always finding vintage cars in barns or storage units where people stuck them and forgot they existed until they sold the property or some intrepid car guy sniffed it out and got them to sell it.

“That’s right,” I said. “Perry at Rolla Storage Solutions found a mint-condition 1969 Mustang in one unit.”

“Amazing,” said Mom. “But the Packard couldn’t have been in a storage unit. It was so dirty.”

“That’s why I said barn,” said McCloud. “Why are you surprised by the miles, Lib?”

I guess I have to. He won’t give up.

“Someone stole the Packard in 1941,” I said. “Why steal a car and then not drive it?”

“You already answered your own question,” he said. “It was stolen. They didn’t want it found.”

“That kind of makes the stealing it pointless,” said Mom.

McCloud laughed. “We’re talking criminals here. Somebody didn’t think it through. Let me guess. There was something else, not just a stolen car.”

I closed the laptop. “What makes you say that?”

“Because people forget about stolen cars.”

Mom and I looked at each other.

“Come on, Lib,” said McCloud. “I already know. Just confirm.”

“How could you possibly know?” I asked.

“How many judges did I intern for?”

“No idea.” I checked the clock and picked up my phone to text Mika.

“There was some other crime that wasn’t forgotten. A murder, perhaps.”

For crying out loud.

“Fine. Yes. There was a murder,” I said.

“They shot the owner and stole the car,” he said with a wide grin.

I laughed and texted Mika to see if he was ready for the chickens. “Wrong, Smarty Pants.”

McCloud, predictably, didn’t deflate. Derek always said that in school, McCloud was the only one who turn a cold-call failure into a triumph. He was that good at turning things around. “Killed him and then stole the car.”

“The owner could’ve been a woman,” said Mom.

“Possible, but I doubt it.” He eyed me and I sighed.

“It was a man, and they didn’t consider it a murder. He had a heart attack.”

Mom poured McCloud some more coffee and asked, “Can you find out who bought it?”

“I don’t care who bought it. I need to know where it came from, and the site doesn’t say,” I said.

“Call the auctioneer,” said McCloud. “They’ll have all the relevant information on the origin and the seller, although I doubt it’s whoever had it in the barn. It’s probably some third party that they sold it to.”

“Since when are you so interested in classic cars?” I asked.

“I watch car shows to unwind. You’d be amazed at what people unearth.”

Mika answered and said he had their shed all ready for the Addymans’ chickens. I asked him to tell Elsie the address, and he said he’d have Jelena talk to her. The ghost was outside, getting ready. What that entailed, he didn’t say.

Mom crossed her arms. “I still think it’s strange that they just hid the car. Surely they could’ve sold it after the interest died down, and we were in a war right after it happened. Who was giving a care about a car when Pearl Harbor was being bombed?”

“I have to agree,” I said. “It is weird.”

“It could’ve been a bunch of reasons,” said McCloud. “It broke down and they were afraid to take it to a shop, for instance. Maybe they tried to repair it themselves and messed it up. My dad has his old Austin Healey in our garage. He took apart the engine when I was in high school and it’s still in pieces.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” said Mom, “that’s ridiculous.”

“You and my mother are in complete agreement. About every five years, she threatens to sell it and he bribes her to leave it alone. She has a large collection of jewelry, thanks to the Healey.”

Mika texted that Jelena had talked to Elsie, and she was going to Jadalyn Jacobs’ house. He asked how I would know she was there, and I sent a shrug emoji in response. The boys had rehearsal with Mika’s son Marko, and I wasn’t going to drag little Jelena over to Jadalyn’s house. She still wasn’t great at understanding Elsie’s accent, and she was too little, anyway.

“Is that about the car?” McCloud asked.

“No, it’s another matter,” I said. “I have to go, Mom. You’ll hold down the fort?”

“Of course.”

McCloud stood up. “How about I help you, Lib?”

“How about you take a shower?” I asked. “Third floor. First door on the left.”

“I could help.”

“You don’t know what I’m doing?” I said.

“I’m useful, despite all evidence to the contrary,” he said with the smile that I knew so well.

“In your condition?”

“I’ve made winning arguments in court in this condition,” he said. “Worse, actually.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you should shower and then help Mom with the turkey,” I said.

“Great idea.” Mariah walked in, wearing her fuzzy bathrobe and yawning. “I hate touching raw turkey. Hey, McCloud. Nice beard.”

I had the pleasure of seeing McCloud astonished for the first time.

“Mariah, you’re here,” he said.

She went around the island to get her tea and said, “Where else would I be? Where’s Mom?”

“Teaching a class,” I said.

“So you’re both here for the holiday?” McCloud asked. “I take it your house still isn’t finished. I can sue that builder for you.”

Mariah eyed him and said, “Why do you always want to sue people?”

He chuckled. “Hello. Lawyer.”

She turned to me and said, “Remind me never to date a lawyer.”

“Done,” I said.

“Incompetent builders aside,” said McCloud. “How are you and your mom doing?”

Mariah’s expression changed, like she’d suddenly remembered her father was dead. I don’t mean that she forgot exactly, just that it was in the back of her mind, and McCloud brought it to the front. “Okay. Better.” She turned to me and Mom. “I’m going to Sam’s to make the chutney with Leo.”

“Again with the chutney,” said Mom.

“He’s intense about it, and Eric loves it.” Mariah grabbed a granola bar and hurried up the back stairs.

“That’s it for me,” I said. “I’ll be back in a while, Mom. Text me if you need anything from the store.”

“Libby, where’s Derek?” McCloud asked.

My chest got tight, and I had the urge to run. I didn’t want to talk about it. I’d rather have had one of the factory ghosts come at me with a wrench again.

“Libby?”

“Ask him,” I said. “Now shower and stop stinking up our house.”

There must’ve been something in the way I said it, because McCloud did what he never did. He obeyed. Once his footsteps faded away, Mom peeked through the archway and said, “You’ll have to tell him.”

“Sounds like a job for Derek.” I went down the hall with Mom on my heels. I grabbed my ski coat, hat, and gloves.

“What do I say?” Mom asked.

“Nothing.”

“It’s Angus McCloud. There’s no way to say nothing.”

I gave her a hug. “He was obviously up all night. He’ll probably go to sleep to avoid helping with the turkey if for no other reason.”

“You’re probably right. Scooter isn’t the domestic sort.”

“He’s completely useless and lazy in that regard.”

Mom opened the door for me. “Good luck.”

“I hope I don’t need it, for once,” I said.

Mom had nothing to say to that, and I hurried out to go herd some dead chickens.

Chapter Ten

The wind was kicking up something fierce in Jadalyn’s backyard, and her poor chickens were huddled in the corner again, completely terrified, despite the fact that the Addyman chickens were ignoring them. They waddled around the yard, hunting and pecking, oblivious to the live birds. If they noticed they weren’t finding any feed or treats, it didn’t show, and they appeared to enjoy the hunt.

“So they’re out in the yard?” Jadalyn asked.

“Yes, they are.”

“What are they doing?”

“Being chickens,” I said.

“I feel like I might be crazy.”

I laughed. “You’re fine.”

“We’re not even in St. Seb,” said Jadalyn. “This kinda thing is a St. Seb thing.”

“Ghosts are everywhere. There’s just a concentration in St. Seb,” I said, and then I texted Mika, asking if Jelena could see Elsie. He answered that the nanny was gone. “All right. Let’s do this thing.”

“What do we do?”

I glanced around. “Elsie, are you ready?”

Nothing.

“What did she say?” Jadalyn asked.

I explained that I couldn’t actually hear or see Elsie, which made my client panic a little.

“But what do we do? If you can’t see her. They can’t see her. I’m never getting rid of these birds. If they’re here. Are they here?”

“They’re here,” I said. “Only children can see Elsie. It’s fine. We’ll do it.”

“How?”

I looked around. “Elsie, you’re going to have to give me a sign.”

Nothing.

“Throw out some feed or something. Let me see that.”

The instant that got out of my mouth, bread crumbs flew out and the chickens ran over, squawking with joy.

It worked. I can’t believe it.

“Perfect,” I said, imagining I oozed McCloud’s confidence.

“What happened?” Jadalyn asked.

“Elsie gave them some bread.”

“And?”

“They’re eating it.”

She stared at me. “How?”

“I have no idea if they really are or if they think they are, but I don’t think it matters.” I looked at where Elsie would have to be and said, “Can you lure them to the gate?”

Another spray of crumbs went out, and the chickens followed, working their way to the gate. I got the coop’s ramp and carried it out to Jess’s Volvo. Elsie sprinkled crumbs up the ramp and inside the cargo area. The hens waddled their way up the ramp and clucked happily as they snatched up the crumbs.

I put the ramp inside and closed the back. Jadalyn got the roosts and put them in the backseat for me.

“Are they really in there?” Jadalyn asked.

I peeked through the back window. “They sure are. Elsie, can you get in and keep giving them treats?”

“That’s it?” Jadalyn asked.

“Hopefully,” I said. “Mika will bring back the ramp later.”

“Don’t worry about it. Rob made a new one last night.” She turned back to the house and exclaimed, “Look at that!”

Jadalyn’s chickens were waddling out the gate, looking for a snack.

“They haven’t done that since I bought the new coop,” she said.

“Definitely a good sign,” I said. “I better go.”

She thanked me and I jumped in the car to hurry back to St. Seb. I kept the radio off so I could hear the birds. One flew up to roost on the back seat, and I got to see her being picked up and put back in the cargo area. At least, that’s what it looked like. It should’ve been creepy, but I was getting pretty immune to creepy.

Mika and Jelena came out on the front porch when I drove into their driveway. Jelena was all smiles and jumping around, flapping her arms. Mika laughed and waved as he hobbled down the steps to open my door for me.

“So you’ve got them?” he asked.

“They’re in the back.”

“Elsie! Elsie! Where’s Mildred?” Jelena asked.

“Which one’s Mildred?” Mika asked.

“The nice one,” his little girl said.

I opened the cargo area and the hens barely noticed with all the treats Elsie had given them.

“Daddy! There she is. There’s Mildred.” Jelena pointed at a particularly fat bird.

Mika stood stock still and didn’t answer.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“There are…I can see them.”

I laughed. “Your first time seeing a ghost?”

“No. I’ve seen the Confederates at the hospital,” he said. “I just didn’t think I would see the chickens.”

“You never know what you’ll see in St. Seb. Jim Clover has a duck.”

“I heard that. What does he do with it?”

“Nothing. It just quacks around the living room.”

“Does it poop?”

I laughed. “I didn’t ask.”

Jelena darted past me and reached into the cargo area, trying to grab Mildred.

“Don’t,” said Mika, but it was too late.

Mildred panicked and flew over Jelena’s head. The other four started running around, squawking. Jelena went after Mildred down the driveway. Mika managed to be fast enough on his cast to snatch her up a second before she ran in front of a passing car.

“Elsie! Treats!” I yelled as the other birds flew out of the Volvo, going every which way. Chickens are fast. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

“Mildred!” cried out Jelena as her bird raced up the street.

I ran down the drive and went after her with no clue what to do if I caught up. We made it past the neighbor’s house and then the hen ran straight for a parked car with me just behind her. She darted underneath, and I squatted down to look with my hand on the bumper. The hen had stopped and was eyeing an array of pebbles like they might be edible.

“Elsie!” I yelled back at Mika and Jelena. “Come get Mildred!”

Then I stood up and found myself looking at McCloud sitting behind the wheel of the car.

Nooooo.

I’d never seen anyone look so astonished. He sat there with his hands at ten and two with his mouth open. I couldn’t think of what to do. He would tell Derek. How could he not?

A spray of crumbs landed on the sidewalk and Mildred waddled out. Then her wings were pressed in and she went up to about waist height before being carried down the street and up Mika’s driveway, where Jelena was straining to be free of her father’s grasp.

I looked at McCloud, now slack-jawed, and then took off after her. Elsie carried Mildred into the backyard and then I tried my hand at herding the remaining four by walking behind them and getting in the way when they went in the wrong direction, acutely aware of McCloud watching the dance I was doing. There was no plausible explanation other than insanity. Mika and Jelena were there doing the same thing, but somehow I didn’t think that would make a difference.

After about ten minutes, we got all of them in the backyard and Jelena excitedly showed them their new home in the shed. Mika had made a nice space for them, with hay and brackets on the wall for the roosts. He quickly installed the thick poles, and the birds went in to look around and then tried out the roosts, flapping from pole to pole.

“They look happy,” said Mika.

“They are happy,” said Jelena. “We have chickens!”

“Jelena, what does Elsie say?” I asked.

The little girl looked beside me and said, “She’s crying.”

“Crying?” Mika looked horrified. Elsie crying meant dead people in trunks.

“Happy crying,” said Jelena. “She loves them.”

“Do you think they’ll stay?” Mika asked the space beside me.

Jelena nodded. “She said a lot of words, but I think she means yes.”

Mika turned to me. “What do I owe you?”

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “You took a bunch of dead chickens off my hands.”

He laughed. “Five birds. One stone.”

“Something like that.”

We shook hands, and I left them in the yard, naming hens. Mika suggested Leo, which got a huge protest. “She’s a girl.”

“Stanley?”

“Daddy!”

I walked to the Volvo, got in, and sat for a second. McCloud was still there. I knew he would not leave, but I’d still hoped for a miracle. That day, St. Seb held out on me.

I walked in the front door of Number Eight with McCloud right on my heels. He’d said nothing so far, probably forming his opening statement.

Mom came walking out from the kitchen when I’d hung up my coat. She was smiling until she saw McCloud standing behind me.

“You’re not sleeping,” she said.

“I’m not,” he said.

“What… How did it go?” Mom asked.

“Fine,” I said.

“All…taken care of?”

“Two problems solved.” I walked past Mom, heading as fast as I could for the kitchen like there was an escape route. What had I been thinking? I couldn’t hide things from McCloud. Derek, sure, but McCloud was very observant. We’d had a family meeting about Derek coming. Secrecy was imperative with the divorce pending. The boys didn’t believe for a minute that their father would use Leo and St. Seb against me. Mostly because they still didn’t think we would really get a divorce, but they agreed to keep our ghost situation quiet. That went for their friends as well. Sylvia and Eric certainly wouldn’t say anything, and it was only for a day.

McCloud was a twist I didn’t expect, and he showed up early before I could really impress upon the kids that he was the same as Derek. Honestly, I hadn’t really been worried about that. The kids knew who to tell and who not to tell. I never thought he’d follow me.

“Libby?” McCloud came into the kitchen and stood by the island while I fussed around my coffee, my mind racing.

“It’s not what you think,” said Mom, coming in and straightening up the recipe binders that were already perfectly straight.

“What do I think?” he asked.

I turned to him and said, “Did you call Derek?”

McCloud stroked his beard and said, “I did.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I was here, and I noticed he wasn’t,” he said.

I put a steadying hand on the island. “What did you tell him?”

“Did he?” Mom asked. “Did you?”

McCloud looked at Mom, his eyes completely clear. “See something weird?”

“Um…”

“Did you tell Derek about what you saw?” I asked.

McCloud pushed up his sleeves. “Do I strike you as the impulsive type?”

“Yes,” I said. “Every day I’ve known you.”

He smiled. “Okay. I deserve that, but I’m not impulsive about work or friends. And you are my friend Libby.”

“What did you see?” Mom asked.

McCloud told Mom that he’d slipped out to follow me to Jadalyn’s house. Since she had a long driveway and it was private property, he didn’t get close enough to see anything. Then he followed me to Mika’s, where he saw plenty, or rather part of plenty. He wasn’t sure what was in the cargo area, but he got an eyeful of me chasing nothing down the street.

“That’s unfortunate,” said Mom.

“What was it?” McCloud asked.

I looked at Mom. Should I say it or deny everything?

“Chickens,” said Mom.

Decision made.

“Five,” I said. “They needed a new home.”

“At that bodybuilder’s house?” McCloud asked.

“He’s a physical therapist, but yes, at his house.”

He started pacing back and forth down the length of the island. “He saw them and the little girl?”

“Did they?” Mom asked.

I nodded.

“That’s good. I wonder if Sandra will see them too.”

I couldn’t think about that. “Are you going to tell Derek?”

“Tell him what?” McCloud asked. “I would sound crazy if I said that you see ghosts. He already thinks I’m crazy.”

He’s not the only one.

“So you won’t?” I asked.

“I have to ask again. You were moving…?”

“Ghost chickens.”

He sat on a stool. “Normally, I’d ask for a drink, but for once, I don’t want one.”

“Coffee?” Mom asked.

“Sure.”

She gave him a fresh mug, and I sat down beside him. “It’s my side hustle.”

“What? Moving dead chickens? There can’t be much call for that,” he said.

I pulled out our card and slid it across the granite.

“Afterlife Issues,” McCloud read. “Are you serious?”

“It’s a living,” I said with a smile. “There’s more need than you’d imagine.”

“You and Jess?”

“It’s what we do, and it’s good money.”

“How do you pay her?” he asked.

Mom handed me a mug, and I said, “We’re in it together. Partners.”

“So you don’t pay her. I mean, how could you? How would that be possible?”

I looked at Mom, and she was giving McCloud a worried stare.

“Well, I don’t pay Jess. We have a joint account that we put the money in,” I said.

“Not her. Her.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The old lady. You couldn’t have gotten the chickens without her,” he said.

It was my turn to have my mouth fall open.

“You saw Elsie?” Mom asked.

“Is that her name?” McCloud described Elsie, and I got out Jess’s best sketch of her.

“You saw her?” I asked.

He nodded. “In your car and then at the house. She was feeding them.”

“I should’ve seen that coming,” said Mom, coming over to give McCloud a hug. “You have a young spirit. You’re a new soul.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

We told him about Elsie and how only kids could see her.

“So you’re saying I’m essentially a kid?”

“You don’t think so?” I asked. “You can’t remember how many divorces you’ve had, and you party like you did in high school.”

“More like middle school.”

“I rest my case,” I said.

“Maybe I’m crazy,” he said.

“We already knew that.”

“Learn something every day.” McCloud set down his coffee. “Ask me again.”

“Are you going to tell Derek?” I asked.

“Tell him I saw you and the ghost of a Scottish lady running around the street after invisible chickens? No. I don’t think so. I have a rep for being crazy, not insane, and I’d like to keep it that way.” McCloud looked at the multitudes of photos on the Sub Zero. “So you live here with Jess and Mariah? What did he do?”

“What makes you think it was him and not me?” I asked with a smile.

McCloud glanced at Mom. Her lips were in a thin line and her hands were in fists. “Because you’re you and because I called him three days ago. It was nine at night and I wanted to say hi to you. He told me you’d gone to Florida to see your mom for Thanksgiving. He was flying down later.”

Mom relaxed. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Libby wouldn’t leave Jess and Mariah alone for Thanksgiving. Hal just died,” said McCloud.

My eyes filled with tears. There are no friends like old friends. “Your flight wasn’t diverted.”

“Let’s say I diverted it. What did he do, Libby?”

I opened my laptop. “Ask Derek.”

“You won’t tell me?” he asked.

Not in front of my mom.

“I can’t. I don’t really know. I’m no longer the expert on Derek,” I said as I searched around the auction website, looking for contact information.

“He’s coming for Thanksgiving?” McCloud asked.

“Yes, he is,” said Mom.

“Hoping to reconcile?”

“The boys are,” I said, not looking up.

McCloud put an arm around me. “I’m sorry, Lib.”

“I think he’s come to his senses,” said Mom. “He called me and asked what he could bring. He told the boys he’d help with that birthday party they’re throwing.”

“I doubt he’ll show up, Mom,” I said.

“He won’t let the boys down.”

Just me.

“We’ll see,” I said, and McCloud closed my laptop. “Hey.”

“You don’t need it,” he said.

I turned to him. “Derek cut me off, and he’s dragging out the divorce. I had what was in my own accounts, which wasn’t much because I didn’t think my husband would dump me a month after he watched Jess’ husband die on the golf course. I need to make money. It’s my temp job and this.” I tried to open it, but he left his hand on the lid.

“I meant you don’t need their number,” said McCloud with his rogue’s smile. “Because I called for you.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I was curious, and I’ve been known to get the job done.” He yawned.

“Isn’t that information confidential?”

“Like doctor-patient?”

Mom laughed and starting munching on a cookie while McCloud told us how he called the auction site. Name-dropped his firm like crazy, and then said he’d seen the Packard and wanted one just like it. They tried to sell him a few other cars, but eventually gave the name of the seller Dennis Classics out of Columbia.

“I don’t suppose you called them?” I asked.

“Sorry. I didn’t have time. I was about to when all chickens broke loose,” said McCloud.

I pushed his hand off my laptop and googled Dennis Classics. It wasn’t a big operation, and what they termed classics ranged from a 1982 Mercedes to a 1971 Chevy Blazer. Nothing like Tunny’s Packard. They did a lot of hot rod work and customization.

McCloud yawned again. “Check out the archive.”

I clicked the tab and there she was under sold. Tunny’s 1941 Packard Super Eight 160 convertible sedan, two-toned, blue on blue with factory-installed air conditioning.

“It was a barn find,” I said.

Mom came around behind me to look. “Does it say which barn?”

“No, but there are some associated YouTube videos.” I clicked on the first one and it was a portly guy yammering on about how he heard from a guy who heard there was a Packard in a barn or shed somewhere. He was not short-winded, and when he started in on the history of Packard, Mom poked McCloud in the shoulder.

“Time to talk turkey,” she said.

He hung his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

McCloud wrestled the enormous turkey out of the fridge, asking, “How many people are coming to dinner?”

“You never know,” said Mom.

“Don’t you?”

“We didn’t know you were coming until yesterday.”

“Good point,” he said. “Where am I taking this beast?”

“Sink.”

They started stripping off the plastic and pulling out the guts, with McCloud complaining and Mom lecturing about working for his supper. They were having a grand time, and I kept watching Mr. Dennis yak about Packards until the end of the video. No help at all, so I went on to the next, which proved more useful. He was driving with another guy to where he thought the Packard was. Maybe car guys think it’s all about the journey. I was about destination, and I fast-forwarded to the good part. They ended up on a farm out in the middle of nowhere. The owners were an elderly couple who were truly astonished that someone knew about what was in one of their dilapidated barns. Mr. Dennis talked his way in and was soon prying open the doors to what amounted to a large shed rather than a barn to my eye. Whoever stuck the car in there covered it with several heavy tarps, and it was up on jack stands. There were no license plates, and the glove box was empty. Mr. and Mrs. Murray bought the farm in 1968. The car was there when they bought it. Mr. Murray had intended to restore the car, but life and kids got in the way.

After some negotiations, the couple sold Mr. Dennis the Packard. He promised to find out the origin of the Packard, but that obviously didn’t happen. The rest of the videos were about getting it out of the barn, cleaning it, and getting it ready for auction. They got it running, and that was pretty cool.

“What did you find?” McCloud asked as he carried in a cooler and Mom opened a brining bag.

“Mr. and Mrs. Murray sold the Packard,” I said. “I’m looking for their location now.”

“She’s good at this,” he told Mom.

“Are you surprised?” she asked.

“Not in the slightest.”

I went back and watched the road trip again for signs and mile markers. Finding the location was easier than I would’ve thought. It just took a good eye and time. The Murray farm was outside of Hermann. With that and their names, I got their exact address. What I couldn’t find was who they bought it from in 1968. Hermann wasn’t far. I grabbed my purse and said, “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” Mom asked as she attempted to lift the turkey into the brining bag McCloud was holding.

“The Murrays’ farm.”

“Take Leo.”

“Who’s Leo?” McCloud asked.

“I imagine you’re about to find out.”

“Is that bad?”

I smiled at him. “It’s good, but he has bees. Don’t worry. You’re invited.”

“What?”

I left laughing and rushed out to the Volvo to find the last person I wanted to see in the passenger seat.

Vic Delaney.

Chapter Eleven

Idrove out of St. Seb under a barrage of accusations, curses, and the occasional insult. Well, the insults weren’t so occasional. I just chose not to hear them as much as Vic liked to say them.

“Listen here, you dizzy broad. I fired you. You are fired.”

“I’m self-employed,” I said.

“I’m not payin’ you.”

“We’ll see.”

Vic took off his fedora and hit his leg with it. “We won’t see. You ain’t gettin’ a dime, sister.”

“Fine,” I said with a smile. I’m sure an angry Vic was intimidating in life. In death, not so much.

“Fine?” he asked. “Your bum of a husband left you high and dry. You need the cabbage.”

“I’ll get the cabbage.”

“Not from me or my kid.”

“We’ll see.”

Vic cursed at me, got in my face, the whole deal, but I just kept driving. When he took a breath, I said, “Times have changed, buddy. I have options. Look at me driving. I have credit cards and a home loan.”

He muttered something about banks being insane and women drivers.

“Look. You hired me and Jess to solve this crime. We’re going to solve it.”

“I never should’ve hired a couple of dingbat broads without the sense God gave a turnip,” he said.

“Well, this turnip has gotten closer to solving the Tunny case than you ever did,” I said.

“You’re just bumping gums,” said Vic. “You’re fired. That’s the end.”

He popped out, and I said, “Like you’re gone. I don’t buy that for a minute. You’ve been watching us.”

Nothing.

“Fine. Don’t come with me. I’m just going to the farm where Tunny’s car spent the last eighty years or so. I obviously don’t need your help,” I said.

Vic popped back. “Farm?”

“I knew you’d be back.”

“I’m not back.”

“You seem back,” I said. “Let’s talk about Conor. Frankie wants⁠—”

“New deal. I rehire you and the other broad if you leave the kid alone.”

I turned onto the highway and passed a dump truck, going faster than I should’ve, but the farm was calling. We were so close. “No, thanks.”

“You need the money,” said Vic.

“Conor Newberry won’t have anything to do with your money, and he certainly isn’t going to pay us anything out of his own pocket. Unless…”

Vic smacked his leg with his fedora again. “Don’t say it.”

“Unless we solve his mystery.”

“There ain’t no mystery.”

I eyed the detective that was exuding the rank smell of nervous sweat. “So why did your kid cut you off?”

Vic said nothing and looked out the window at the passing scenery.

“You love him. I don’t think that you did something terrible to him.”

“If you know that, leave it alone.”

“I can’t, because Frankie wants to help you, and maybe even more importantly, Conor loves you.”

“You don’t know nothin’.”

“I know he kept your records.”

I waited to see if Vic would pop out again, but he stayed, and I didn’t push it. Instead, I found the 1940s station on Jess’ satellite radio. Vic put his hat back on and there was a flicker of a smile, although he banished it pretty quick.

Forty minutes later, I pulled into the gravel drive leading to the Murrays’ farm behind a Chevy truck and a Prius.

“I wonder if they’re doing Thanksgiving early,” I said.

Vic didn’t answer, but he was alert and on edge as I pulled around a small lake and saw the farmhouse from the videos. Unlike in Mr. Dennis’ videos, visitors packed the Murray farm. Cars filled the circular drive, and quite a few were parked on the grass. I stopped counting at twenty.

I pulled up next to the truck and watched as a couple got out. The woman carried a pie in a clear plastic container and they hurried toward the wide front steps of the house, joining several other people, also carrying dishes.

“I don’t know about this,” I said.

“Giving up that easy? Dames.” He popped out, and I watched him follow a family to the house. He could do things if he really wanted to. The question was, would Vic want to?

Please don’t let this be what I think it is.

I got out and headed for the house with my stomach in a knot and shivering with nerves.

At the door, a woman with a questionable amount of blond hair smiled at me and pushed open the glass storm door. “Hurry. Come in. You must be freezing.”

“I’m sorry to intrude,” I said.

“It’s not an intrusion. We’re so glad you could come.”

She looks alive, but don’t they all?

“Um…you see, I’m Libby⁠—”

“Hi, Libby,” she said, gently easing me out of the way so she could let some more people in. “Harriet! Get Libby something to drink. The girl is frozen to the core.”

The next thing I knew, an elderly woman with red hair, presumably Harriet, put a mug of coffee in my hands and led me by the elbow deep into the house. People filled every space and were so loud, I couldn’t get Harriet to hear me. I could only catch snippets of conversations as we passed.

“At least he didn’t suffer,” said one woman.

“A good man,” said another.

Nooooo. I have to get out of here.

I couldn’t escape Harriet’s firm grip, and she put me in the dining room where a huge buffet of covered dishes was arranged with loads of what had to be funeral flowers. Mr. Murray was dead, and I crashed his funeral.

“Help yourself,” she said. “There’s so much. Betty and the kids will never be able to eat it all.” Harriet rushed off, and I looked for a spot to set down my coffee.

“Don’t look like that,” said a voice in my ear, and I jumped as Vic appeared next to me.

I grabbed a napkin and wiped the coffee off my fingers. “I have to get out of here.”

“The hard part is over,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t think so. This is a funeral,” I whispered.

“I’m wise to it.”

I scanned the room for an empty space. Why did people have to bring so much stuff that smelled so good? “I have to leave.”

“You say you’re a detective,” said Vic. “Get to detecting.”

“It’s disrespectful.”

“You bothered my kid after I fired you. Nuts to your respect.”

“That was different.”

“No, it ain’t.”

I looked down at the mug that was warming my hands. It’d be a shame to waste it.

“Drink that cup o’ Joe and get going,” he said.

I drank half the coffee and said, “I’ll come back.”

“Women,” he said. “They want to be men, but they can’t make the rate.”

“I don’t want to⁠—”

Vic popped out, but a woman wearing a navy dress and hat that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a British royal wedding turned to me. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I said, looking for an escape route.

“How did you know Walter?” she asked.

What do I say? What do I say?

“I…uh…didn’t know him.”

She frowned, but then brightened up. “Oh, so you know Betty.”

“Uh…”

“From the senior center?”

I stuttered and then it just came out. “I don’t know her either.”

The woman’s expression went hard.

Say something, Libby. Something smart.

“I’m a detective,” I said.

Not that!

“This was a mistake.”

She crossed her arms and leaned forward. “What are you doing here?”

“I…am on a case, and I wanted to interview the Murrays about a car.” I backed away, trying to meld into the crowd, but she followed.

“That is the height of rudeness. This is a wake for a very dear man.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” I pushed the mug into her hands and squeezed between two portly men wearing John Deere hats.

“Hey, Miss. What’s your hurry?”

I didn’t answer. The door. Where was the door? I glanced back. She wasn’t behind me. Thank goodness. I worked my way through what was a really large house and got to the door.

The blonde woman grabbed my arm. “Leaving so soon? Did you get to see Betty?”

“No, I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“Did you get something to eat? Betty wouldn’t want you to go away hungry.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” I pried her hand off my arm and hurried down the steps as fast as I could.

I’d almost made it to the Volvo when a man yelled behind me. “Hey!”

Please don’t be talking to me.

I reached for the door handle and he yelled, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

Vic popped in beside me. “He’s talkin’ to you, scaredy cat.”

Snotty bastard.

I turned around, ready to take my medicine. I deserved it. I crashed a funeral.

A man with grey hair cut like he was a marine ran up to me and put his hand on the hood, breathing heavily. “For a second, I thought you weren’t going to stop.”

For a second, I wasn’t.

“I’m sorry. This was totally inappropriate,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Frances said you’re a detective,” he said, still breathing hard.

“Yes, but I didn’t know what was going on, or I would never have come.”

“You came about the car?”

“Oh…uh.”

Vic went behind the man and said, “Start talkin’, Toots.”

I’d like to smack you so hard.

I nodded. “I did, but it can wait. Really. I’m so sorry.”

The man stuck out his hand. “Ron Murray, and you are?”

It took me a second, but I shook his hand. “Libby Forest. I really don’t want to interrupt. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Ron surprised me by smiling. “Please interrupt. We had two days of visitation and now the wake. I can’t think of another thing to say that I haven’t said a million times before.”

“Oh, well, I’m trying to get information about a Packard Mr. and Mrs. Murray sold a couple of years ago.”

Ron got tense, but he kept smiling. “You’re investigating the Packard?”

“In a manner of speaking. It’s related to a case I’m working on.”

“Do you know where it came from? The Packard, I mean.”

“Originally?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I do.”

Ron grabbed my arm. “Come back in and tell my mother. She and my dad always wanted to know about that car.”

“But today⁠—”

“Today is the perfect day. Please come back in.”

Vic glared at me and said, “Don’t even think about sayin’ no.”

“I’d be happy to,” I said, and Ron hustled me back to the house where Francis was talking to the blonde with a scowl on her face.

“Ronny, what in the world?” Francis asked.

“She knows about the Packard. Where’s my mom?”

Francis’ eyes grew wide. “The Packard? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Where is she?”

“In her room, I think.”

Ron took me through the house and up a back staircase to the second floor that was nearly as full as the first. Eventually, we got to a back room that was filled with old ladies and reproduction Victorian furniture. I recognized Mrs. Murray from the video. She sat on a fainting couch with a heavy shawl draped over her shoulders.

“Mom,” said Ron, pushing his way into the room.

“Yes, honey,” she said.

“You’ll never guess who this is.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“This is.” Ron looked at me, and I said, “Libby Forest.”

Mrs. Murray didn’t react.

“She’s a detective, Mom. She’s investigating the Packard.”

Mrs. Murray slowly looked up and asked, “What did you say?”

“She knows about the Packard,” said Ron.

I apologized for coming and she brushed my words off, smiling through tears.

“He was fascinated with that car,” she said. “Walter, my husband was.”

“I can see why,” I said. “It’s an amazing car.”

“Do you really know about it?”

“I do.”

“Walter would be so happy,” she said. “He wanted to know ever since we found it in that shed. He called it a barn, but it was really a shed.”

Ron got me a chair, and I sat down. “I’m sorry I’m too late to tell him.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “You’re not too late. Walter couldn’t find out when he was alive. But he’s found out now, and he’s brought you here. I know it. Walter brought you.”

I glanced around and saw no sign of Walter, but I wasn’t going to say that. “Well, it’s certainly a coincidence.”

“There are no coincidences,” she said, and the ladies all nodded. “Tell me where that car came from.”

I took a breath and hoped what I did know wouldn’t be a disappointment. “I can’t tell you how the car ended up on your farm, but I can say with certainty that the original owner was John K. Tunny III. He purchased it in 1941. Would you like to see a picture?”

“Very much.”

I showed her the photo of Tunny and his wife in front of the Packard. Then I showed her the sales slip and told her how I tracked the car to her farm.

“That’s remarkable. That car man that bought it promised he’d find out where it came from, but he never even tried. Walter was so disappointed, but here you are. It’s a miracle.”

“It’s Dad,” said Ron, and everyone agreed.

I stood up and asked, “Could I come back another day and ask some questions?”

“I can’t tell you anything,” said Mrs. Murray. “Walter never found out anything about the Packard.”

“I just wanted to know who you bought the farm from. Stuff like that. It’s not pressing,” I said.

Mrs. Murray swung her feet off the fainting couch and said, “We can do that now.”

“Betty,” said one lady.

“Walter wouldn’t want me to send this girl away.” She stood up. “Not after he took the trouble to send her here.”

“Where are we going, Mom?” Ron asked.

“To Daddy’s office.”

We made way for the tiny widow, and she went down the hall to another room decorated the complete opposite of hers. It had dark seventies paneling with mounted deer heads and book shelves stuffed with mysteries and books on American history, mostly the Civil War.

Mrs. Murray sat down at the desk and said, “Mrs. Forest, did you have something to eat? You look hungry.”

“I’m alright, Mrs. Murray,” I said.

“Margaret, be a dear and get Mrs. Forest a plate.”

I was going to protest, but Ron said, “Don’t fight it. She’s going to feed you. It’s what she does.”

I smiled. “My mom too.”

“And coffee,” said Mrs. Murray. “Ronny, make sure Margaret gets coffee. We all could use some.”

Ron told Margaret and came back in to lean on the desk. “When did you buy the farm, Mom? 1968?”

“The summer of love,” she said with a laugh. “We were hippies, or we thought we were. Walter and I were going to raise all our own food and be off the grid, as they call it these days.”

“Something tells me it didn’t go to plan,” I said.

“Nothing does. Farming was harder than we expected. We were city kids and totally naïve.”

“Did you know the Packard was in the shed when you bought the farm?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. It wasn’t on the inventory. Walter didn’t find that car for two years. There are so many outbuildings, and they were all full of junk. He was so happy when he found it. Like a treasure right on our own property. He wanted to fix it up, but we didn’t have any money. There were the kids and the farm. No time, and he never got around to it.”

“Did you ask the previous owners about it?”

“Well, that was a trial all in itself. What was their name? Ronny, get in that cabinet and find the papers, will you please?”

Ron dug around through the depths of Walter’s questionable filing system while his wife told me about how they found the farm just by driving around and seeing a For Sale by Owner sign. Fate, she called it. They’d been on the edge of giving up on finding a property, and there it was.

“Got it, Mom.” Ron handed her the file, and Mrs. Murray opened it to sift through the pile of papers.

“Here we go.” She ran her fingers over the paper and smiled. “The start of a wonderful adventure.”

“Who sold it to you?” Ron asked.

“This brings it all back.” Mrs. Murray looked up at me with a new sharpness. “Raymond Schmidt. Ray. He told us to call him Ray. His wife was Edna. She hardly spoke a word, but he was very friendly.”

“Can I take a picture of that?” I asked.

“Of course.”

She handled me the file, and I took pictures of the paperwork. Raymond J. Schmidt sold the farm. Edna’s name wasn’t anywhere to be found.

“Did you ask them about the car, Mom?” Ron asked.

Margaret came in with a tray laden with every kind of casserole you could imagine and a large carafe of coffee. Mrs. Murray insisted I have a full plate, but I didn’t fight it very hard. It all smelled delicious.

She waited until I’d had a few bites before continuing. The lady knew how to string out a moment. Ron was about to jump out of his skin when she finally said, after drinking a whole cup of coffee and eating a smidgen of chicken and rice, “Walter did ask Ray. It took some effort, I can tell you. It wasn’t like now with the internet. Mind you, we didn’t know about the car for two years, and the Schmidts were long gone. We had to call around and ask people where they went. Nobody knew. They kept to themselves. Almost no one really knew them.”

I smiled. “Not like you at all, then.”

Mrs. Murray reached out and patted my hand. “Walter and I love people. The house was always full, wasn’t it, Ronny?”

“It was, Mom. Still is.”

“Sorry to get off track,” she said, wiping away a tear. “So it took a while. Walter found Ron’s daughter living over in Wentzville. He got ahold of her and she was really funny when Walter asked her about the car.”

“Funny how?” I asked.

She looked down into her cup. “I can’t, for the life of me, remember what she said, but I know she wouldn’t tell Walter anything about the Packard. And she wouldn’t tell him her father’s phone number either.”

“Do you think she knew something?” Ron asked.

“Your father certainly thought she knew, and was he mad? He just had to know about that car. Do you know what he did?”

“What?” I asked.

“He started getting phone books. Do you remember phone books?”

I laughed and said I did. Walter Murray went around asking people for their phone books. People tended to keep them even after they moved, for some reason, and eventually he found Raymond J. Schmidt listed in a phone book for Warrenton.

“Do you know where Warrenton is?” she asked me.

“I do,” I said. “Did he try calling information?”

“You had to know where the person lived, and calling information cost money. Phone books were free,” she said with a smile.

“Smart man.”

“He was.”

“Did he call Ray?” Ron asked.

She nodded. “I haven’t thought about that in I don’t know when.”

“What happened?” I asked, literally on the edge of my seat.

“He yelled at Walter. That nice little old man yelled at him.”

I sat back. “What did he say?”

“I can’t remember exactly,” said Mrs. Murray. “Something about a curse and…”

“What, Mom?” Ron asked.

“That’s it. He said he should’ve burned it.”

“Burned the Packard? Why?”

“I don’t know, but he threatened your father and hung up,” said Mrs. Murray. “Your father wasn’t a small man, and he didn’t get rattled easily, but that rattled him.”

“But he still tried to find out about it, though?” I asked.

“He did, but Packard was out of business by then. He tried the daughter, but she heard his voice and hung up.” She looked at me with intensity. “Do you believe in curses, Mrs. Forest?”

Vic popped in. He stood next to Mrs. Murray and touched the tip of his fedora with a rakish smile.

“I don’t rule anything out anymore,” I said.

“Do you think there’s a curse on that car?”

The way she said it made me hesitate. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you didn’t say that Mr. John K. Tunny sold the car.”

Ron laughed. “Sharp as ever, Mom. I didn’t notice that.”

I took a bite and drew out my own moment under her gaze. “That’s my case. It seems Mr. Tunny may have been murdered.”

“I knew it,” she said with satisfaction.

“But what’s that got to do with the car?” Ron asked.

His mother eyed me and said, “The murderer obviously stole it.”

“Mrs. Murray, you are sharp as a tack.”

“Is she right?” Ron asked.

I nodded and told them what I had on Tunny’s death. “I have the report from the detective that the family hired. He couldn’t get anywhere, but he thought the Packard was the key to solving the case.”

“So you’re following the Packard,” said Ron.

“That’s right. I had no idea that Mr. Murray had passed away, or I would never have come today.”

“Walter made sure you did. You’ve cheered me up,” she said.

“I’m glad, but I’m not sure why.”

“Walter never fixed that car, and now I know it’s a good thing.”

“You think it’s cursed, then?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to take any chances, but I suspect you’re going to find out why Ray Schmidt said that.”

“I will do my best,” I said. “I don’t suppose you remember the name of Schmidt’s daughter?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t.”

Mrs. Murray and Ron went through the papers looking for her name, but they didn’t find it.

“Were there any other children?”

“Not that I recall,” said Mrs. Murray. “But it was so long ago. When we arrived here the very first time, only Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt were living here.”

I couldn’t think of any more questions, so the conversation turned to Walter and his life. His loving wife wanted to tell me all about him, and I enjoyed hearing it. A long marriage and a happy one. It was good to remember that existed.

Chapter Twelve

Ipulled onto our street nearly two hours later after picking up everything Mom forgot we needed, including, but not limited to, her special sweet gherkins, stoneground cornmeal, bread with poppyseeds, and organic celery.

“Are you finally getting back to work?” Vic asked.

“I’ve been working. Shopping is work, especially when poppyseeds are involved,” I said.

“If you think you’ve solved the case, you’re wrong.”

“Huh?”

“Raymond J. Schmidt didn’t do it,” Vic said.

“I never thought that,” I said.

Vic pushed his fedora to the back of his head and asked, “Why not?”

“Because it’s stupid. Some random farmer didn’t make threatening phone calls to a businessman in St. Seb., come to town and kill him to steal his car, only to hide it in his shed.”

Vic turned in his seat with something like respect on his face. “I didn’t think you’d get that.”

“I’m liking you less and less,” I said. “Go away. I’m fired.”

“You’re unfired.”

“Fabulous. Go away.”

“No.”

I stopped before turning into the driveway, since there was a news crew filming the house. Kip gave me a thumbs-up and turned to a reporter, who was poised to do an interview.

“What is that malarky?” Vic asked.

“Publicity.” I turned around and went around the block to the garage where Leo kept his hearses. The house didn’t bother me, but for some reason, that long garage did, so I parked outside and opened the back of the Volvo to get the bags.

“How long is this going to take?” Vic asked, tapping his foot and lighting a cigarette.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“We’re going to Wentzville.”

“Maybe you are. I’m not.”

Vic stepped in front of me. “The trail is hot. We can’t lose it.”

“The trail was hot in 1970,” I said.

“We’ll pick it up.”

“Go ahead.” I tried to walk around him, but he kept appearing in front of me. “Knock it off.”

“I’ve been waiting for this since 1941,” he said.

“Then a couple more days won’t matter.”

“A couple days? Break it up.”

I walked around him again. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

The ghost snorted. “A gumshoe that don’t work holidays ain’t no gumshoe at all.”

“Don’t throw me in the briar patch,” I said.

Jess came out of the back door. “What’s going on?”

“Is Leo in the house?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell him we’ve got a trespasser.”

Vic put a finger in my face. “I’m not waiting two days.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“I hate it when you say that.”

“Leo!”

And pop, Vic was gone, and Leo appeared. He sniffed. “Who was it?”

“Vic Delaney,” I said. “He’s getting antsy.”

“If he comes in the house again without an invite, he will pay for it,” said Leo with a darkness I’d only seen when he found out about Patrick.

“What can you do?” Jess asked.

“He’ll find out.”

Ominous.

“Alright, then,” I said, hoisting a bag onto my shoulder. “Good luck to Vic.”

“I wish I could carry those bags for you,” said Leo, his anger vanishing.

I laughed. “I wish you could too.”

Jess ran across the yard and grabbed a bag. “Lucky for you, I can.”

“Thanks.” I glanced over at Jess, and her eyes were swollen. “You okay?”

“McCloud’s here,” she said.

“Did he do something?” I opened the back door, and she went in.

“No. We were looking at the albums,” she said.

Not the albums. I will kick McCloud.

“I’m sorry, Jess. That’s the last thing you needed.”

Jess put her bag on the island and disappeared up the back stairs. I looked at Leo and he sighed. “It was always going to be bad.”

“The albums make it worse,” I said.

“I’ll go talk to her,” said Leo.

“I’m going to hide those albums.”

Leo smiled and popped out.

“What albums?” McCloud walked in wearing jeans, a white tee, and a tool belt. I was so surprised, I just stood there and stared.

“You like the look,” he said. “I can tell.”

“What in the world?”

“I’m helping.”

“With what?” I put my bags on the island.

“We’re building the stage in your ballroom, Libby,” said McCloud. “And I’m making dinner.”

“What can you make?” I asked.

“Takeout,” he said.

The boys ran in and said, “Great. Food. We’re starving.”

They attacked the bags, pulling out the orange juice and drinking right out of the container.

“Gross,” I said. “Stop that.”

“We’re almost done with the setup. Scooter helped,” said Max.

McCloud cuffed him on the head. “That’s Mr. McCloud to you.”

That just made them laugh.

“When you scoot down a hill and give yourself buttbite, you’re Scooter,” said Henri as he tried to make off with Mom’s mini gherkins.

“I had frostbite,” said McCloud.

“When you get it on your butt, it’s buttbite,” said Max.

“That’s not a thing.”

“Sure it is.” Henri tried for the gherkins again. I blocked him and he went for the poppyseed bread.

“Stop it,” I said. “Here, have granola bars.”

The boys groaned but accepted the granola bars.

“Where’s the big ladder?” Max asked.

“We have a big ladder?” I asked.

“The one Kip used for the Thanksgiving decorations.”

I looked at the ceiling for a second and then said, “That was probably Kip’s.”

The boys raced out with me yelling after them, “Don’t ruin the shot!”

“Too late,” said McCloud as the front door slammed.

I started unloading the bags and asked, “Where’s my mom?”

“Taking a long bath. You might want to check on her,” he said. “She took a bottle of Tanqueray with her.”

I got myself a glass of wine and, to my surprise, McCloud refused a glass of his own. “Were the boys that bad?”

“They are definitely high speed, low drag.”

“Is the stage really put together?” I asked.

“It is.” He slipped a hammer out of his belt. “It turns out that I have untold talents.”

“Who did you pay?”

“Young guy named Bear.”

“At least it was done right,” I said.

The boys ran back in. “We got the ladder.”

“Did you ruin the shot?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Why do you need a ladder?” I asked.

“Mrs. Denka dropped off a bunch of decorations,” said Henri. “We’ve got a disco ball.”

“We’re gonna hang it from one of the chandeliers,” said Max.

“Is it heavy?”

They shrugged.

“Where’s Mariah?” Henri asked. “We need her. There’s a bunch of girl stuff, and we don’t know what to do with it.”

“Girl stuff?” I asked.

“Streamers and flowers and stuff.”

“She’s probably still at Sam’s.”

The boys started texting, bumping into the archway on their way out. I put away groceries, feeling McCloud’s eyes on me.

“What?” I asked.

“I called Derek.”

“And?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

I turned around. “Are you serious?”

“He claimed he was in a meeting.” McCloud sat down at the island.

“Unbelievable,” I said. “Is he coming tomorrow?”

“You think there’s a chance he won’t?”

“There’s a good chance he’ll have a meeting.”

He ran his fingers through his long hair and said, “I’ll go get him if it comes to that.”

“You can’t force it,” I said.

“Wanna bet?”

I finished putting away the groceries and turned to my old friend. “I wouldn’t ever dare to bet against you, McCloud.”

“I know about her,” he said.

“I thought he didn’t tell you anything.”

“He didn’t have to.” McCloud was always resourceful. He simply went into the firm’s website and looked at the staff. There were three likely candidates, and he was right on his first guess.

“How’d you know it was her?” I asked, my stomach twisting.

“She looked the stupidest,” he said. “Her TikTok confirmed it.”

I lowered my voice. “The affair?”

“Her idiocy.”

Laughter bubbled up from somewhere and overflowed. Soon, we were both clutching our stomachs and wiping our eyes.

Mom walked down the stairs, wearing her robe and slippers. “What did I miss?”

Gasping, I said, “Nothing. I’m slap happy.”

“You got my gherkins?”

“I got the gherkins.”

“It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without them,” she said. “So how did it go? Did you find that farm?”

I blew my nose and poured some more wine. “I did.”

“Did that couple know anything about the Packard?” McCloud asked.

“I got some answers and some new questions.” I told them about waltzing into Walter Murray’s wake and everything that happened after.

“Your life is getting more interesting by the minute,” said McCloud.

“I could use less interesting,” I said.

Mom put the kettle on and said, “A curse? I don’t like the sound of that.”

“There isn’t a real curse, Mom.”

“How do you know?”

I looked at McCloud and he said, “I looked into your haunted hamlet, and I have to say anything is possible here.”

“See,” said Mom.

I sipped my wine and said, “I think the real question is, why did Ray Schmidt think that?”

“That’s the Lib I know and love,” said McCloud.

“What?” I asked.

“You sound just like you did when you were quizzing us on case law back in the day.”

“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes.

“I didn’t know you did that,” said Mom.

“She was great at it. She’d find a tiny little detail and nail us with it,” he said, grinning at me. “It was awesome.”

“I don’t remember anyone thinking it was so awesome at the time.”

“Hindsight.”

“Always twenty-twenty,” said Mom. “Now about that curse.”

“There’s no curse,” I said.

McCloud pulled out his briefcase and got his laptop. “Let’s see about that.”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking up the buyer of the cursed car in question.”

“You got the name?” Mom asked.

He started typing. “I thought Lib might want it. Jonas Winnick, how ya doin’, bud?”

Mom made tea for herself and McCloud while we waited. I want to say it only took a couple minutes, but it felt like longer, and I had a strange feeling grow in my chest.

“Don’t say it,” I said.

“What?” Mom asked.

McCloud looked up and said, “Dead.”

“Tell me Jonas Winnick was super old. Ninety-five or a hundred,” I said.

“I wish I could, but I can’t.” He turned his screen for us to see, and there was the obituary of a young man. Jonas Winnick couldn’t have been over thirty.

“What happened?” Mom asked as the steam from her mug coated her glasses.

“Hit by a taxi on Wall Street. He worked at a hedge fund.”

“When?” I asked.

He glanced back at the screen and thought a second. “Six weeks after buying the car.”

Mom winced. “Where’s the car now?”

“I’m sure we can find out. He’s survived by his parents and three sisters.”

I don’t think I want to know.

“That was an accident,” I said. “People have accidents.”

McCloud spooned a copious amount of sugar into his tea. “It probably wasn’t the first one.”

“What do you mean?” I asked the question, but I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to know the answer.

“You said it yourself, Lib. Ray Schmidt thought that car was cursed. Why?”

“He knew about Tunny,” said Mom.

“There you go,” I said.

“That’s not enough, and you know it.”

“Do we?” Mom asked.

I plopped down on a stool and opened my laptop. “We do. Ray took that car. His farm was large and successful as far as I can tell, but that was a top-of-the-line Packard. A farmer couldn’t afford that.”

“He got a deal,” said Mom. “So…”

“He knew where it came from and it didn’t bother him,” I said. “Something else must’ve happened.”

“Why else leave it in the shed?” McCloud asked.

“Maybe Ray stole it,” said Mom.

I shook my head. “Mrs. Murray liked him. They both did. She called him friendly and a nice old man.”

“Except for the yelling,” said McCloud.

“Criminals can be nice and friendly,” said Mom. “Libby knows that better than anyone.”

“Since when do you mix with the criminal element?” McCloud watched me with that way of his, seeing absolutely everything, even what a person might wish to hide. I pitied his legal opponents.

“I have had a few entanglements,” I said.

“Living entanglements?”

“Well…”

Mom told the story. She was itching to, and she told it well. Patrick was the epitome of popular, and the Rolla professor never had a complaint.

“This town gets more interesting all the time,” said McCloud.

“Wait until you hear about the factory,” said Mom.

“Let’s leave that for another time. I don’t think Ray had anything to do with Tunny’s death or the car being stolen. I just don’t see it. Too random.” I opened my laptop and started searching for Raymond J. Schmidt.

“I tend to agree, but he did end up with that car,” said McCloud. “He knew where it came from, so he most likely knew about Tunny.”

Mom went to the fridge and looked. “I don’t know about that, but we need to get dinner going before the boys get hungry again.”

“They’re never not hungry,” I said.

“I ordered barbecue,” said McCloud. “I found a great place.”

“Where?”

He looked at his phone. “Dutzow Barbecue. When I gave them the address they gave me free delivery. I was going to pick it up.”

Mom laughed. “We never have to pick it up from there.”

“Did you do something for them?” he asked.

“Sort of.”

McCloud shook his head and said, “Let’s find that cursed geezer. Maybe you’ll get more free deliveries.”

“You never know,” I said, and we worked side by side searching through the newspaper site and then in Ancestry while Mom called her sister and bragged about the boys and their new party business.

“Got him,” said McCloud. “Buried in Wentzville.”

“Died 1979,” I said.

“Damn. I thought I beat you.”

I laughed, and we compared notes. Between the newspaper site and Ancestry, we found out most of what I needed to get to the next step.

“Was Ray cursed?” Mom asked.

“Not particularly,” I said. “He lived a reasonably long life, and so did his wife, Edna. His daughter died in 2002.”

“Too bad,” said Mom. “She knew what was up. Were there no other children?”

“One boy. Raymond Jr. died in WWII,” I said. “Susan had three kids. She’s buried in Wentzville, too, so maybe the kids are still there.”

“What about a husband?”

“He’s gone. They divorced early on,” said McCloud.

“But is he alive?”

“Nope.”

“Darn the luck,” said Mom. “You’ll have to find the kids, but they won’t know anything.”

“They might,” I said.

“Are you kidding? The way Mrs. Murray says their mother reacted when Walter asked about the car, there’s no way she told her kids a thing.” Mom came over to me and looked at the family tree I had up on my screen. She pointed at Ray Jr. “That’s it.”

“What?” McCloud asked, leaning over to look.

“The curse,” she said. “Ray got the Packard and his son died.”

“During the war,” I said.

“He still died.”

“It was two years later,” said McCloud. “Winnick took six weeks.”

“But it did happen,” said Mom. “Trust me. That’s it.”

I looked at Ray’s name on the screen. “How did he get that car?”

“When you find that out, you’ll solve Tunny’s murder,” said McCloud.

The doorbell rang, and the boys yelled, “We’ll get it!”

“Hold on.” I grabbed my purse. “Tip!”

“I took care of it,” said McCloud.

A minute later, they came running in with a huge number of bags.

“Dude, this is outstanding,” said Max. “I’m starving.”

Mariah came in the back door, carrying a container wrapped in a dishtowel. “When aren’t you?”

“What’s that?” Henri asked. “Is it for me?”

Mariah smiled. “Maybe. Sam made her grandma’s mac and cheese.”

“It is for me.” Henri took the container and opened it. “Awesome.”

Jess came down the back stairs, looking rumpled and unsteady. McCloud was at her side instantly to take her arm.

“I’m okay,” she said. “Just tired.”

“And I’m rarely useful. Let me pretend you need me,” he said.

Jess smiled and let him take her to the island. “This smells delicious.”

She said that, but I could tell she wouldn’t eat by the way she’d knotted her hair up on the top of her head and the swollen bags under her eyes. Leo couldn’t always work his magic, it seemed.

We all gathered around the island, opening containers and passing out plates. The boys were in rare form, and Mariah seemed okay.

“Okay, everybody,” said McCloud, holding up his phone. “Say barbecue.”

“Barbecue!”

He took the shot and sent it.

“Who’s that for?” Mariah asked.

“Someone who deserves to know what he’s missing,” said McCloud.

“Let me see.” Mariah looked and grinned. “A family thirst trap.”

“What in the world is a thirst trap?” Mom asked.

McCloud pulled up a photo on Instagram. “This is my soon-to-be ex-wife.”

The photo wasn’t explicit, but it got the message across. She’d tagged McCloud, and it wasn’t the first time.

“Wow,” said Max. “She wants you to be really thirsty for her.”

“Is it working?” I asked.

“Not a chance. I’m thirsty, but not for her.”

“You’ve replaced her already,” said Mom.

McCloud laughed and looked around at us. “No, I haven’t. I know. Shocking. It seems I might be thirsty for something else.”

“Beer?” Max asked.

“No.”

“Wine?” Henri asked.

“No.”

“Tequila?”

The queries went through every liquid the boys could think of, and the laughter went on well beyond that.

Chapter Thirteen

The smell of turkey filled the house, every nook and cranny. I’d gotten up early and made two versions of stuffing. One went in the bird per Mom’s instructions. She was old school. Turkeys had to be stuffed. The other version went in a casserole dish to be baked later by me.

I got the bird in the oven on time, made coffee, and crawled into bed with Jess to watch the Macy’s parade. We’d done that every year since the kids were born. Hal would’ve been the one putting the turkey in the oven if we were at Jess’ house. We’d been there for Hal’s last Thanksgiving. Jess and I did all the prep work, giving my mom a break from it since it was the first Thanksgiving without my dad. As a reward for doing what he called the heavy lifting, Hal made us Pillsbury orange rolls and gallons of coffee, bringing them to us in their bed where we lounged until the last minute when it was time to get dressed and force the boys to set the table.

It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. Leo advised me not to try to replicate something that couldn’t be replicated, so I went down to The Grind where Sylvia was working until noon, providing the non-bakers of St. Seb with pies, rolls, and biscuits. I got us chocolate croissants and an assortment of Danishes, which the kids destroyed the second I got them on the island. Jess’ croissant remained largely untouched on the tray at the foot of her bed.

“I just want to sleep and have it all be over,” she said.

“I’m right there with you,” I said, wishing I’d bought more croissants. You can never have too many croissants when your philandering husband is coming for Thanksgiving.

“Do you think Derek will really come?”

“McCloud says he will.”

“My money’s on McCloud,” Jess said.

“Never bet against McCloud.” I slid out of bed. “We need more coffee.”

Jess snuggled down and pulled her comforter up to her chin, dislodging the cats who were curled up on either side of her hips, purring like mad.

“I’ll stay here,” she said.

The whole day?

“Okay. Be right back.” I turned to leave and Mariah walked in, fully dressed with her hair done. I have to say I was very surprised, and so was Jess, if I went by the stunned look on her face.

“I’m making Dad’s potatoes. Where’s the recipe?” she asked.

Jess just sat there, and I said, “I love Hal’s potatoes. I think they have cream cheese.”

Jess nodded.

“Mom?” Mariah asked.

“I’m thinking.”

“We have to have Dad’s tatoes. Everybody loves them.”

“I can help,” I said.

A quake went through Jess like she’d been shaken. “No,” she said. “I’m coming.”

I picked up Poptart, and she got out of bed slowly like she had before we’d moved to Number Eight. She was hurting again, mentally, physically, the whole rotten deal.

Mariah went over and hugged her. “We can do it.”

They stood there wrapped up together, and I said, “I’ll go make some more coffee.”

Neither of them moved, and I closed the door behind me.

“Hey,” said McCloud, coming down from the third floor. “Everything okay?”

“Okay as it gets right now,” I said.

He nodded, and we went down the grand staircase to find the boys laying the table in the dining room without being forced.

“We did it,” said Max.

“We rock,” said Henri.

“Your boys might have a problem with self-esteem,” said McCloud.

I crossed my arms. “They do have issues with confidence.”

“We have all the confidence,” said Max.

“And the coolness,” said Henri with a grin.

“How did this happen?” McCloud asked.

“Derek,” I said.

“And a dash of you.”

We left them to it and went into the kitchen, where Mom was talking to Leo. She stopped the instant she saw us, but it was too late.

“Good morning, Bev and person I can’t see,” said McCloud.

Leo smiled. “He still doesn’t believe.”

“How is that possible?” I asked. “He saw Elsie.”

“He doesn’t believe he saw Elsie.”

“Hello,” said McCloud. “What’s happening?”

“We’re talking about you.”

“I got that.”

Mom explained Leo’s theory while I made coffee. The boys came in and declared that they’d set the best table in the history of table setting.

“Silverware?” I asked.

They looked at each other and Max said, “But do we really need it?”

“Let’s go medieval,” said Henri. “We’ll use our hands. Argh.”

“So now we’re pirates.”

“Pirates works.”

Jess and Mariah walked in, each carrying a cat.

“Why isn’t there silverware on the table?” Jess asked with an amused gleam in her eye.

“We’re pirates,” said Max.

“Pirates didn’t have my dad’s mashed potatoes,” said Mariah.

“We may want to rethink our stance,” said Henri.

“And admit we forgot something? Never,” said Max.

Mom pointed at the kitchen table next to the octopus. “Aren’t those the centerpieces?”

“Argh!” the boys cried out. “We don’t need centerpieces.”

Mariah tossed them potatoes. “We need potatoes. Get to peeling.”

“Bossy,” said Max.

“Lazy,” said Mariah.

The laughter started and so did the peeling. Jess got Hal’s recipe and McCloud decided that since the dining room had a fireplace, we should use it. He went out to get wood and Leo said, “He’s growing on me.”

“He does that,” I said.

“I hated him at first,” said Jess.

“Did you?” Mom asked. “Me too.”

“Don’t tell him that,” I said.

“I already did years ago. He didn’t care. He’s Angus McCloud.”

“I told him when he was walking me down the aisle at your wedding,” said Jess.

“Is that why you were laughing?” I asked.

“That’s why.”

“For crying out loud.”

Max handed Mariah a peeled potato for dicing and asked, “When’s dinner? I’m starving.”

That’s when the air went out of the room because my husband walked in and said, “Two o’clock.”

“Dad!” Max and Henri dropped their peelers and ran for him, getting their hair ruffled and bear hugs.

McCloud walked in the back door with a load of wood in a sling and said, “Look what the cat dragged in.”

He said it with the tone of joy, but his face didn’t match his voice. Derek saw it and he hesitated, standing there tall and handsome as ever with his deep-set bedroom eyes, dark hair brushed back neatly, and the beginnings of a beard growing under his high cheekbones.

“Good to see you,” Derek said, and he crossed the kitchen.

He and McCloud hugged, but it was stiff.

Derek looked around. “Look at this place. The kitchen of your dreams, eh, Lib?”

I nodded, and he came to me to kiss my cheek.

Just breathe. It’s fine. He walked in your house without knocking, but it’s fine.

“It is,” I said.

“Hi, Bev,” Derek said to Mom, and she glowed, coming over to give him a huge hug.

“So glad you’re here.”

“Me too. It’s been too long.”

Max turned to me. “Dad’s growing a beard, Mom.”

“I see that,” I said.

“When did you start growing a beard, Dad?” Henri asked, feeling the sparse hairs on his own chin.

“It hasn’t been long,” he said. “Hi, Jess. Mariah. How are you?”

Mariah hugged him and asked if he was making his biscuits.

“Of course. It’s my job,” said Derek. “Who wants to show me the supplies?”

The boys clambered to help him, and McCloud walked out without a word. To say that was unusual would be the understatement of the year. Scooter always had something to say.

Leo stood off to the side, watching the cooking commence. After a couple of minutes, he turned to me and said, “No.”

Then he popped out, leaving the strong smell of cigarettes in his wake. Jess glanced over with worried eyes and I shared her trepidation. Leo liked everyone. If he didn’t like Derek, we had a problem. I mean I knew I had a problem with Derek, but if Leo did, it was going to be a whole thing.

I got a couple of cups of coffee and followed McCloud into the dining room, where he was making a fire. It didn’t seem like something he’d be good at, but during law school the guys used to go camping a lot when there was a break, and he was the designated firestarter, mostly because he couldn’t chop wood without harming himself or others.

“Hey,” I said, setting his coffee next to him.

He stacked the wood in the log cabin way and said, “When did you move in?”

Of course he noticed.

“October.”

“He’s never been here before. I was here before him.”

I pulled out a dining room chair and sat down. “Yes, you were.”

“Aren’t you mad?” McCloud asked.

“Not particularly.”

He lit the fire starter and said, “It’s way worse than I thought.”

“Not sure how that’s possible,” I said. “You know about her.”

He grabbed his coffee and stood up, leaning on the ornate mantel. “He grew a beard, and the boys hadn’t seen it.”

“I know.”

“What happened to him?” McCloud asked. “Derek isn’t that guy. He was never that guy.”

“Ask him and tell me, because I really don’t know. He became a workaholic, but mostly we were fine. Hal died, and he flipped.”

“It can’t be Hal. Who grieves a friend by blowing up their life?”

Derek was the only answer I could come up with, but I didn’t have a chance to answer. The boys came in with silverware and centerpieces.

“Dad says we need utensils,” said Max.

“He loves the house,” said Henri. “And St. Seb.”

I smiled. “Of course he does. It couldn’t be more charming.”

“Do you want to give him the tour?” Max asked hopefully.

“I think you should do that. I’ll never give as much detail as you.”

The boys agreed that I was stingy on stories.

“Remember what we agreed,” I said.

They zipped their lips and dashed up, yelling, “When will you be done with biscuits?”

“I’ll find out, Libby,” said McCloud.

I said nothing. The thing that I felt the most was silent.

Thanksgiving dinner went well, better than well. It went great. Derek was like his old self before Hal, before opening his own firm. I knew him again, and he made me smile. I missed him making me smile. Plus, McCloud was in rare form, telling tales of New York where there might not be ghosts, but the crazy ran deep. Jess ate a little more than I expected, and Mariah did an admirable job with Hal’s “tatoes”, as she called them.

The kids washed the dishes and McCloud built another fire in the living room after they finished the stage. Derek put up the disco ball in the ballroom and Mariah directed the decorating for the birthday party.

“When’s it time for pie?” Max asked.

“It’s time,” said Henri.

“We need some more wood,” said Derek, getting up and stretching.

“I’ll help,” said McCloud.

They left, and I said I was going to put on some sweats. The velvet pants I’d worn were digging into my waist, and the clasp could not withstand pie.

I started for the stairs, but took a left to the kitchen to get all the pies out of the pantry. I brought out the two apples and then went back in for the cherries when I heard the back door open.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Derek.

“Too bad,” said McCloud. “What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“I know what you did.”

Derek snorted. “Libby didn’t tell you anything.”

“That’s right. I figured it out.”

“I don’t know what⁠—”

I heard the sound of wood being put down none too gently and McCloud said, “I went on your firm’s site, found the biggest nitwit, and oh, look who’s on her Instagram.”

“She’s not a nitwit,” said Derek, and a pain erupted in my gut. Defending her. Wonderful.

“Dude, she wears a tail and meows,” said McCloud.

“It’s a hobby.”

McCloud started laughing. “Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m not listening to any lectures from you, McCloud. How many marriages is it?”

“Three. I checked.”

“So we’re even. Both idiots.”

“No, we’re not even. I’m McCloud. You’re not. You don’t cheat.”

A cork popped, and wine poured.

“Derek, you had undergrads flashing you in the library,” said McCloud.

“That was annoying,” said Derek.

“And only you would say that.”

“Remember when we took that ski trip to Bristol?”

Derek chuckled. “Hard to forget.”

“We were in the hot tub and Sarah Gibbs and Layla what’s-her-name got in and took off their tops.”

I knew there was a reason I hated Sarah Gibbs on sight.

“What did you do?” McCloud asked.

“I got out. What’s your point?”

“You were Jesse, and you knew it.”

“What are you talking about?”

I smiled because I knew. McCloud always called me Jesse’s girl.

“You know, like the song.” McCloud sang a couple of lines from Rick Springfield’s hit.

“You’re out of your mind,” said Derek.

“Everyone knows that, but you’re not. Everyone envied you. You had Libby. Those eyes. The food. Not to mention the smarts. Jesus, man, were you thinking?”

“You got flashed more than me.”

“Maybe, but I liked it. Is this all because of Hal? Because that guy would hate this,” said McCloud.

“He died right in front of me,” said Derek, his voice lowering so that I could barely hear him, and I needed to hear him. Derek never talked to me about Hal. He refused.

“I know, but why did you go crazy?”

“McCloud, I never thought about things,” said Derek. “Then suddenly Hal was quivering on the ground. He died. I could die.”

“Okay,” said McCloud.

“I have to live. He can’t. All I do is work at work. Work at home. Work. Work. Work.”

“But you had everything.”

“I’ve been with Libby since I was nineteen. She was always there.”

“I thought you were lucky. Lib was so…everything. Jess is too. Those two are scary. We should put them on the national debt crisis. They’d have it under control in a week.”

“She never stops,” said Derek.

“Stops what?” McCloud asked.

“Doing. Hal died, and I don’t think she sat down for a week. She called everyone. She arranged for a top-notch doctor to do the autopsy, so there’d be no unanswered questions. That’s what she said. No unanswered questions for Jess and Mariah to worry about.”

“Isn’t that good?”

“You don’t understand what it was like. First, Libby went to Hal’s office and told them in person. She brought muffins. She made the muffins. Then she went to our firm, told the staff, rearranged my court calendar, and handed over the stuff that couldn’t wait to the junior partners.”

“Well, Libby is very capable,” said McCloud.

“She called the kids’ schools and arranged for a counselor to come to the house. She picked up Jess’s parents at the airport at the same time, taking care of the boys, Jess, and Mariah.”

“What did you want her to do?” McCloud asked.

“Be human. Fall apart like everyone else.”

“I saw her at the funeral, Derek. She wasn’t together.”

“Libby cried. I’m not saying she didn’t,” said Derek.

“Did you want her to fail?”

Someone poured more wine, and I heard Derek sigh. “Libby doesn’t know how to fail.”

“You should talk,” said McCloud with a chuckle. “When’s the last time you failed?”

“On that golf course and every day since.”

“That’s pretty harsh. Give yourself a break.”

“Libby knew exactly what to do, and she did it. She didn’t even tell me she was moving out,” said Derek with his voice growing husky.

“How long before you noticed?” McCloud asked.

“Shut up. That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point, man? I’m struggling here.”

“Libby moved out, bought a mansion, got a job, and, this is my favorite part, solved two murders in a month,” said Derek.

“I heard that.”

“She doesn’t stop. I broke the washer and blew up the coffeemaker at work. She moves here and solves murders.”

How in the world do you blow up a coffeemaker?

“It’s their new business, Derek,” said McCloud. “She needed the money. Thanks to you.”

“She could’ve asked me,” said Derek.

“About how not to break the washer?”

“For the money.”

“I don’t see that happening with you running around with Miss Whiskers,” said McCloud.

“She didn’t even ask me about that,” Derek said. “She found out and never said a thing.”

“So you told her you wanted a divorce and left her practically penniless?”

A hand slapped down on what I assumed was the island. “I wanted her to need me. I thought if I tied up the money, she would need me.”

“Well, that didn’t work out,” said McCloud.

“She never needed me, but I always needed her.”

“What about the boys?”

“This is all so screwed up, and it’s me. I screwed it up. Hal dies and I lose everything.”

“Why aren’t you trying to get everything back?” McCloud asked. “You’ve obviously never been here before, and the beard was new to the boys. You aren’t seeing them.”

“I don’t know how to face them,” said Derek.

“Do they know?”

“No, Lib wouldn’t allow that to happen.”

“You have to do something. Do something,” said McCloud.

“What?” asked Derek. “I don’t fix things. I just break them. Libby’s the one who fixes things.”

“There’s one thing I can think of.”

“I already did it. She’s gone,” said Derek, and to my surprise, a weight left my chest. I didn’t even know it was there.

“Did you tell Libby?”

“Every time I try, she asks me about the divorce. I stopped answering her calls so it wouldn’t progress,” he said.

“That is a terrible plan,” said McCloud.

“I told you I can’t fix things.”

“Hey, Dad,” called out Max from somewhere distant.

“In the kitchen!”

The boys ran past the pantry door and said they’d take the pies into the living room. They wanted to eat in there and start watching White Christmas like we did every Thanksgiving night.

Derek agreed, and everyone left. I slipped out of the pantry and up the back stairs with Derek’s words ringing in my ears.

We ate pie in front of the movie and McCloud’s roaring fire. I had to keep myself from looking at Derek the whole time. He felt like a failure. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Derek was magic. He could pull anything off, and frequently did. I watched the boys imitating Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye singing “Sisters” just like Derek and our friend García had during second year at Cornell on the quad for tips. They were so much like him. I would never have done that without a gun to my head, and maybe not even then. Derek and García did an encore or five because they enjoyed it so much.

When the movie ended, the boys said it was time for second dinner.

“You are bottomless pits,” said Mariah. “It’s almost gross.”

“Almost,” said Max with a huge grin. “Want some, Dad?”

“I have to go,” said Derek. I thought I heard a hint of sadness in his voice, but it might’ve been wishful thinking.

“I thought you were going to help with the party,” said Mom, ready to do battle.

“Is there anything left to do?”

The boys shrugged and Henri said, “You should stay. We can go to The Grind tomorrow. Sam’s mom owns it.”

“Sam’s his girlfriend,” said Max, and Henri elbowed him. “Shut up.”

“I’d like to, but since you don’t need me, I think I’d better go.”

There was that word again. Need.

“You don’t have to go,” said Mom. “Right, Libby?”

“That’s right,” I said. “You don’t.”

“What about the ramp?” Mariah asked. “Don’t you have to build that?”

Max and Henri glanced around, clearly torn.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“We borrowed one,” said Henri. “But Dad should still stay.”

“How did you borrow a ramp?” Mariah asked.

“Mrs. Collins at the senior center has one for her mom, so they can roll her into their big van,” said Max.

“Don’t they need it?” Mom asked.

“Her mom has a cold. She’s not going out right now,” said Henri. “We’ll need help to set it up, though, and getting it here.”

“Yeah, it’s kinda huge,” said Henri.

“Sounds like you’ve got it all covered, and I have a meeting tomorrow early.” Derek got up and gathered his stuff. Then he said goodbye to Jess and Mariah, who were curled up with the cats on the sofa. They were friendly but didn’t say he was needed. How could they? He wasn’t.

“Come on, Mom.” Max dragged me out of my chair, and we walked him to the door with Mom.

“Drive safe, Derek.” Mom hugged him and kissed his cheek. Then he hugged the boys and promised to come down to help with the pageant.

“Bye, Libby,” he said.

“Bye,” I said, with the weight coming back.

He went out the door and the boys raced back to the kitchen, talking about double-decker turkey sandwiches on the poppyseed bread. Mom kissed my cheek and said, “You made it through with flying colors.”

She went back into the living room and I slipped out the front door to watch Derek walk down the steps to head for his car in the driveway.

“Derek!” I called out.

He turned. The streetlights backlit him, casting his face in shadow.

“I always needed you,” I said.

He didn’t reply, and I left him there alone, going back inside to the boys, Jess, Mariah, and Mom.

I waited a second and then peeked out through the stained glass. He stood there for a minute, then got in his car and drove away. Maybe he was thinking about coming back. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he had, but it doesn’t matter because he didn’t and now I’ll never know.

Chapter Fourteen

Jess came in and stood beside me at my desk. She’d recovered from Thanksgiving in fine form. Her hair was combed, and she’d eaten breakfast. Not a lot, but she ate.

“What’s up?” I asked as I put in some data on my last file for Eric.

“Done?” She reached over and scratched the cats, who’d curled up together in one bed, their limbs every which way and purring as they gave each other the occasional lick.

“Pretty much.”

Jess turned around. “Okay. She’s done. It’s my turn to watch her.”

Behind me, Leo said, “I don’t mind.”

I spun around in my chair. “Nobody has to watch me.”

Leo sat in his wingback chair with a heavy volume of history on his lap. He wore his grandpa sweater and held an unlit cigarette in his hand. “You’re upset.”

“News to me.”

“I can tell,” he said. “Are you going to tell us what happened with Derek yesterday?”

“Nothing happened.” I hadn’t told anyone about what I heard. I still felt silent on the subject. It was a brand-new sensation to me, and I wasn’t sure what to do with it yet.

Jess sat on the edge of my desk. “Something definitely happened. Did he beg for forgiveness?”

I smiled. “We weren’t alone for a single minute the entire time. He didn’t do anything.”

“But you’re upset. Look at your face.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

Leo closed his book. “Your face is beautiful as always, but there’s sadness.”

“See,” said Jess. “Upset.”

I closed my laptop and said, “I will be upset if we don’t find Ray Schmidt’s grandkids today.”

“How hard can it be?” Leo asked.

“You sound like The Eggs.”

He rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “They were right. The ramp was easy.”

“You call that easy?” I asked.

“Well, it wasn’t disastrous,” said Leo.

“It could’ve been.”

The boys had gotten up early and gone over to pick up the ramp, only to find that it didn’t fit in Mom’s X1. Then they tried the Volvo. No luck. Since my boys never admit defeat, they borrowed some skateboards, bungee corded the ramps to them, and dragged the ramps across town hanging out of the back of the Volvo. Chief Stratton caught them and she gave them a warning, but not an actual ticket.

“Those two have amazing luck,” said Jess.

McCloud walked in, carrying a tall glass with a stalk of celery sticking out of it. “So do you two.”

“What in the world are you drinking?” Jess asked.

“Bloody Mary. It’s a day-after-Thanksgiving tradition.”

“Since when?” I asked.

“Since my aunt Elva started getting tanked on Thanksgiving and sleeping on our couch. Next morning, Bloody Marys.”

“You’re starting to make sense,” said Jess.

“Delicious. You should try it. Turns out this goes great with apple pie,” said McCloud.

I made a face. “If you say so.”

“I do. When should I tell you about your luck?”

Jess and I crossed our arms. With McCloud, it could be anything. I feared the worst, but he pulled out his phone and read off an address.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Raymond J. Schmidt’s granddaughter.”

After the rest of us went to bed last night, McCloud stayed up looking over some case files. He’d stayed surprisingly sober the whole day and had plenty of energy. Once his files were done, he took a lesson from Walter Murray and started looking at the online white pages for Wentzville, and there she was, Darlene Cutler.

“I wonder if she’d see us today,” said Jess.

“A lot of people are off today,” said Leo.

“When do we leave?” asked McCloud.

Before I could answer, Poptart started growling, and Pesto scrambled out of the bed.

Leo shot to his feet. His book tumbled to the floor and vanished.

McCloud froze. “Is something wrong? What’s up with the cat?”

“Get out!” Leo bellowed, and pop, he was gone.

The house started shaking, and for a second we could smell smoke and hear the crackling.

McCloud set down his glass and grabbed me. “We have to get out of here.”

“It’s fine.”

“The kids. We have to get the kids,” he said, looking around frantically.

Then it stopped as suddenly as it began. The smoke smell cleared instantly, but the scent of cigarettes filled my office. Poptart curled back up in his bed, and Pesto joined him.

“He’s gone,” said Jess.

Stunned, McCloud stared at us. “What in the hell just happened?”

“Hard to say,” I said.

“Try.”

We explained about Vic and how he had been known to invade Number Eight to snoop around invisible, and Leo was not having it.

“Why does it smell like cigarettes?” McCloud asked.

“Leo was mad,” said Jess.

“I’m not even going to ask.”

“That’s for the best,” I said.

He picked up his drink and chugged it. “So that dead detective is why you’re investigating the Packard?”

“He is.”

“What’s he like?”

“Cool and also kind of an ass,” said Jess.

“Like me,” said McCloud.

“Nothing like you,” I said. “Can I have Darlene’s number?”

McCloud texted it to me and I called her without a single thought about what I’d say. It drove Jess crazy, and that made both McCloud and I smile. Darlene’s husband answered. I explained who I was and what I was doing. It took him a moment to take it in, but he said to come on over. Darlene was in the shower, but he’d explain it to her.

I stood up and put on my sweater.

“When do we leave?” McCloud asked.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” I said. “You’re half drunk.”

“I can perform fully drunk and you know it.”

Jess took his arm and pulled him into the hall. “We need you to perform watching the boys until we get back.”

“You want me to supervise kids?” he asked. “Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”

“Mom is wiped out from yesterday. She’ll probably stay in bed most of the day, and the boys are going to need live help.”

“What do you mean by live help?”

“Leo will be back, but he can’t actually do the heavy lifting,” said Jess.

“How come I can’t see him?” McCloud asked.

“You don’t believe in ghosts,” I said as I put on my coat and wound a scarf around my neck.

“I’m pretty sure I do. I saw the old lady.”

I shrugged. “But not the chickens.”

“Is that important?” McCloud asked.

“Looks like it.”

That stumped him, and we got out while the gettin’ was good. We were fast, but not fast enough. Jess drove away from Number Eight and the smell of rank sweat and blood filled the Volvo.

“Don’t tell me.” Jess winced.

I turned in my seat and there was Vic in the backseat, looking like he’d been in a bar fight.

That can’t have been Leo.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

Vic took out a large handkerchief and mopped up the blood streaming down his face. “Guy punched me right in the beezer.”

“Nose?” I asked.

“That’s what I just said.”

“You really didn’t.”

“Stop lookin’ at me,” said Vic.

I would’ve, but I couldn’t. He’d been beaten up pretty good. Besides the nose, he had a rapidly swelling eye and a fat lip. His right hand looked like it had a couple of broken fingers, and his suit, usually neat as a pin, was rumpled and stained.

“Did Leo do that?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Broads.”

“Did he?”

“Ya can’t beat up a dead man,” said Vic.

“Then what happened?” Jess asked. “We smelled fire, and the house shook.”

“Your guy has skills. He looks like a daisy, but he’s got skills.”

Jess turned a corner and looked in the rearview. “How’d Leo do that?”

“I wish I knew,” said Vic. “I’d do it to him.”

“But you said he couldn’t beat you up,” I said. “How’d this happen?”

Vic took off his battered fedora, reshaped it, and stuck it back on his head. “It happened in 1935. Your guy put me back in it.”

“This happened for real?”

He held up his hand with its mangled fingers. “It happened. I was investigating a Ponzi scheme. You dames know what that is?”

“Sure,” said Jess.

“You know that, but you don’t know beezer. What’s the world comin’ to?”

“Finish the story,” I said.

“Ain’t much of a story. A couple of goons jumped me. The O’Learys never had any smart muscle. They were supposed to talk to me. Instead, I’m in the hospital and they got demoted.”

“Demoted?”

“Lower down the ladder,” said Vic. “They got theirs alright. Glad I lived to see it. Only time anyone ever got the jump on me.”

“And Leo put you in it? That’s so weird,” I said.

“It ain’t fun. I’d like to know how he did it. It’s not like I advertised this.” He coughed up some blood into his handkerchief.

“I’m guessing you won’t come into the house again,” said Jess.

He hacked up something gross and said, “Don’t count it out. Was that guy ever beat up?”

“Leo?”

“No, the mailman.”

“Leo was a mortician,” I said. “He liked to cook and take care of people.”

“He still is,” said Jess.

“Just my luck. A Goody Two-shoes,” said Vic. “Where are we goin’?”

“Wentzville,” I said.

“Finally. Taking days off in the middle of a case. You two got no work ethic.”

I looked over at Jess. “We have to cross the bridge.”

“I know,” she said.

“What’s this about a bridge?” Vic asked.

Jess told him about Castiglione, and I asked, “Did you come across that guy when you were on the case?”

Vic straightened his tie and tucked his bloody handkerchief in his pocket. “He bought the company?”

“Yeah. Paul Castiglione bought it from the widow,” said Jess.

“A wop,” he said thoughtfully.

“Stop that!” I yelled.

“What now?”

“You can’t say that.”

“What? W⁠—”

“No,” said Jess.

Vic rolled his eyes. “An Italian. Is that better?”

“Yes.”

“You’re exhausting,” I said.

“You ain’t no picnic. Look at me,” said Vic. “So the Italian bought the company. Strange.”

“Why? They grew up together.”

“That’s the strange part. We didn’t mix.”

“We?” Jess asked.

“Us and the Italians.”

Jess turned on the bridge and her knuckles went white. He was there, up ahead on the right, but he wasn’t on the railing or in the middle road. Paul Castiglione stood on the side of the road, not moving or doing anything.

“I never heard you broads so quiet,” said Vic.

“Hush,” I hissed.

Jess kept her speed steady, but she was shaking.

“Almost there,” I whispered.

Then we passed him. I turned and our eyes met. A chill went through me. His face was no longer blank and frightening. His expression was familiar. The faint smile. I’d seen it.

“He was different,” whispered Jess.

“He smiled at me,” I said.

“Did he? Is that good?”

“Was his suit different?” I asked.

“It was.” Jess drove off the bridge and said, “He had a white carnation. He didn’t have that before.”

I’ve got it.

“The wedding picture. That was Paul in the wedding,” I said. “It’s good. It has to be good.”

“Can I talk now?” Vic asked. “Or are you gonna get snippy?”

“You didn’t see him?” Jess asked.

“No, I didn’t see no suicidal ghost on that bridge.”

“Are you sure you don’t know anything about him?” I asked. “Have you tried to find your notes? Was he in the file?”

“I told you I don’t know where anything is, and I don’t remember.”

“It’s odd that you don’t remember.”

“No, it’s not,” said Jess, still white-knuckling the steering wheel.

I shifted in my seat to look at her. “It’s not?”

“Frankie died right after he got the case. Remember how I was after Hal?”

“You did fine,” I said.

She gave me a grim smile. “You found the butter in the microwave and a frozen burrito I was supposed to have made for Mariah in a cupboard. I got lost all the time and wore mismatched shoes.”

“Your husband just died.”

“That’s my point. Frankie died. Horribly, as it turns out, and Vic handled the case,” said Jess. “He wasn’t himself. Frankie said so. It’s no wonder he doesn’t remember the details. He was in a fog.”

“What are you two gabbing about?” Vic asked.

“Grief made you lose all the stuff from the Tunny case,” I said.

“You’re wacky. I solved her case just fine.”

“It must not have involved paperwork,” said Jess.

Vic coughed something up again and said, “It involved holding a gun to his head until the cops showed up to search his apartment.”

“What did they find?” I asked.

“Everything,” he said grimly.

“You knew who it was, right? You knew she had a problem with that guy?”

“There were a couple of guys.” Vic’s voice deepened. “She was a friendly broad, and men liked her.”

Like the one in our backseat.

“So it wasn’t a difficult investigation?” I asked.

“What are you implying?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Jess quickly.

“Describe that…Italian to me,” said Vic.

I described him from the Tunny albums and from the bridge. I can’t say that my descriptions were very interesting. Castiglione was a run-of-the-mill man. There wasn’t much to say. Nothing stood out.

“That name,” said Vic. “If I had my notes…”

“Hold on,” I said. “I forgot.”

I found the wedding photo on my phone and showed it to Vic, but he shook his head. “It’s not the face. It’s the name. I’m sure I heard of him.”

“I didn’t get the impression that he was famous,” said Jess.

“What else did that Tunny say about him? The professor.”

I told him about the suicide and that it was because of Paul’s son.

“Paul Castiglione Jr.?”

“Um… I think so.”

Vic snapped his fingers on his good hand, and a paper appeared in his lap. It was the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, and the front page had a photo of a crash site. “That’s how I know the name. I remember now. I interviewed that…Italian. He wasn’t half bad.”

High praise indeed.

“Were you suspicious of him?” I asked.

The paper vanished, and Vic shook his head. “I don’t remember thinking nothing like that. But he was connected. I think I remember something about that.”

“Connected to what?” Jess asked.

Vic laughed. “What do you think? He was Italian.”

“Paul Castiglione was in the mafia?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that. He was connected somehow. I don’t remember.”

“Can you be sort of in the mafia?”

Vic drummed his good fingers on his knee. “He wasn’t a soldier. Connected. Think of it like family. I just don’t remember. Mary wanted to organize my files. Damn it. I should’ve let her.”

“What family was it?” Jess asked.

“The only one that counts,” said Vic. “The Fibonaccis.”

Jess and I looked at each other and shrugged. The name wasn’t familiar, but it wasn’t like I had an interest in the mafia in St. Louis or elsewhere.

“Do you think they could’ve killed Tunny?” I asked. “They would’ve known about him through Castiglione.”

“That’s not how it works. They wouldn’t have gone after a friend of a friend. Besides, Tunny would’ve been penny ante to them.”

“We’re getting closer, though,” said Jess.

“Yeah, we are,” said Vic, and then he went quiet for the rest of the trip to Darlene Cutler’s house. The silence made me nervous. Vic wasn’t the silent type.

Chapter Fifteen

Alarge man with a friendly smile opened the front door of the suburban house with Thanksgiving decorations that rivaled Kip’s.

“Libby Forest?” he asked.

“And Jess Cleary,” I said. “Thanks for taking the time.”

“Joe Cutler. Are you kidding?” He stepped back and held open the door for us. “It’s not every day I get a call from a pair of private detectives.”

We went into the formal living room that smelled heavily of air freshener and cigars. A small blonde woman came forward to shake our hands. Vic walked past her and started pacing like a big cat in the zoo.

“I’m Darlene,” she said. “I can’t believe you want to talk to me. Please sit down.”

“I’ll get the coffee, hon,” said Joe, and he hurried off.

We sat down on a shiny sofa that didn’t get a lot of use and thanked her for seeing us.

“I’m so excited,” she said. “You’re investigating something with my grandparents’ farm?”

“Something on the farm,” I said.

“They sold that back in the sixties. I barely remember it,” said Darlene.

“Have you ever heard anything about a Packard that was in one of the sheds?” Jess asked.

Joes came back in with coffee and tea.

“Honey, they’re asking about a Packard.”

“A Packard?” He served us some strong coffee, and I got very awake quick.

We told them about the trail we’d followed and showed them the video of Mr. Dennis digging it out of the shed.

“If you hadn’t shown that to me,” said Darlene, “I wouldn’t have believed you, but that is the farm. I remember the house.”

“Your mom never said anything about a car?” Jess asked.

“She never talked about the farm. She was very upset that they sold it, though.”

“Why did they sell?”

“My uncle was supposed to take over, but he was killed in the war. My dad was a pharmacist. He wasn’t interested. I think my mom tried to talk him into it. That farm was in our family for over a hundred years. Sad to see it go, but I guess it had to happen.”

Joe had been quiet, but then he said, “Packards are big cars?”

I showed him a picture of the Packard from the auction. I wasn’t ready to show him Tunny’s photo yet. They might get upset and give us the boot.

“There was a car,” said Joe.

“Don’t be silly,” said Darlene. “Nobody in my family drove that car. Like I said, they were farmers. I think they were good at it, but Mom said that there was never much money lying around. You never know when the weather’s going to turn on you.”

“You’ve seen that car,” said Joe.

Darlene crossed her heart. “I swear nobody had a fancy Packard. I’d remember Grandpa driving that, but he had an old pickup, and Grandma never drove at all.”

“Not driving it.” Joe got up and went to a cabinet. “It’s in an album.”

“Since when are you looking through my family’s albums?”

“I wasn’t. Caroline was.”

Darlene smiled at us. “Caroline is our granddaughter. What was she looking for, Hon?”

“She was writing that paper on the family history, remember?”

“Oh, right. I remember that,” said Darlene with color rising in her cheeks.

Joe brought over the album, an old-fashioned one with black pages and the photos held in by little paper triangles. “Let me see. Caroline loved that picture. She took it to Walgreens to have it scanned. I hope she brought it back.”

Please, Caroline.

“Who was in the picture?” I asked.

“Darlene’s uncle. The one that died in the war.” He turned the page and then smiled at us. “There is it. Caroline’s a sweet girl. Of course she put it back.”

Darlene leaned over and looked. “Oh, I remember that picture. You think that’s the car?”

“It looks like the one they found in the shed,” said Joe.

“Do you mind?” Jess asked.

“Of course.” He handed over the album, and we looked with our hearts pounding. It was Tunny’s Packard. No doubt about it.

“Do you mind if I take a picture of it?” I asked.

“Help yourself,” said Joe.

I took several pictures and then looked long and hard at the young man in the photo. He couldn’t have been over eighteen, and was smiling like he was about to burst. He held up a set of keys, and behind the car was the corner of the farmhouse. It was easy to recognize. It couldn’t be anywhere else.

“This looks like a present,” I said.

“That’s not possible,” said Darlene. “Grandpa couldn’t have bought a car like that in a million years. It must be a friend’s.”

“When was his birthday?” Jess asked.

“Oh, gosh. I don’t remember.”

“Do you have an Ancestry account?”

“Sure.”

“His birthday would be on there,” said Jess.

“I guess it must be.” Darlene went and got her laptop.

I didn’t say anything, not wanting to reveal that I’d seen their tree.

“Here it is,” she said. “November 7, 1922.”

“Do you mind if I take the photo out so I can look at the back?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I eased the photo out of the delicate little holders and turned it over.

“Ray Jr. November 7, 1941,” I said.

“It was a present,” said Joe.

“But how in the world could they afford it?” Darlene asked. “My mom lived through the Depression. They barely held onto the farm.”

“We think they didn’t get it the normal way,” said Jess.

“What does that mean?”

Joe leaned back and chuckled. “She means it was a hot car.”

“What?”

“It was stolen, Darlene.”

She puffed up and said, “No. Don’t be silly. Grandpa was no car thief. He was a farmer. A good man.”

“We don’t think he stole it,” I said. “He got it from someone else who did.”

“Then he didn’t know it was stolen,” she said in triumph.

I drank some more coffee and Jess dove right in. “He knew. Have you ever heard anything about a curse?”

The couple started laughing.

“You think our family has a curse?” Darlene asked. “Look around. Do we really look cursed to you?”

“We don’t think you’re cursed. It was the car, and your grandfather was the one that said it.”

Jess told them about Walter and Betty Murray and their search to find the origins of the Packard.

“My mother was rude?” Darlene asked. “I find that hard to believe.”

“They knew about that car, both of them,” I said. “And we think they knew where it came from.”

Darlene started wringing her hands, and Joe put one of his big ones over hers. “It’s fine, Hon. You did nothing wrong.”

“Certainly not,” I said.

“Where did it come from?” Darlene asked.

We told her, and the poor woman looked like she might pass out. It was a lot to take in. Her family changed in just a few seconds.

“But how would they know those kinds of people?” she asked. “Murderers. We’re good, honest people. My mother never had so much as a late library book. Grandpa wasn’t a criminal. We were all farmers.”

“Everybody?” Jess asked.

“Yes. The Schmidts were all farmers.”

“What about those cousins?” Joe asked.

Darlene shushed him, and I knew we had something. Vic did too. He stopped pacing and pointed a finger gun at me.

“Hon, it’s fine,” said Joe. “They don’t care.”

“I care. We don’t talk about them.”

“Maybe we should. The man who owned the car was possibly murdered.”

“They weren’t murderers,” said Darlene. “They were just…”

“Hoodlums?” he suggested.

Darlene snorted and then looked at us. “They had a few run-ins with the law. It was forever ago.”

Joe sat down and crossed his arms with a sly smile on his face. “It was during the war. That’s the right time.”

“1941 was before the war,” said Darlene.

“Not for Europe.”

“You just like to bother me.”

He reached over and gave his glaring wife a kiss. “Guilty, and so were they.”

“They weren’t murderers,” she said.

“Well, someone murdered them,” said Joe.

We’re in business.

She threw her hands up. “Did you have to say that? Mom never wanted anyone to know.”

“It’s not like it’s a stain on the house of Schmidt. They weren’t Schmidts.”

Darlene looked at me. “I don’t even know their names.”

“Yes, you do,” said Joe, and Darlene’s right eye twitched.

Joe got up and went back to the cabinet. “We have pictures.”

“I can’t believe you would do this to my mother.”

He turned back and said, “Your mother never liked me.” He looked at us. “I wasn’t good enough for the Schmidts, you see.”

Darlene’s tone softened. “You were plenty good enough.”

“She called me a hoosier.”

“Well…”

“At our wedding,” said Joe.

“She didn’t mean it,” said Darlene.

Joe found another album and brought it back to the sofa, where Darlene was looking alternately furious and nervous.

“She tried to get Sharon at the Ye Olde Cake Shoppe to write ‘Darlene and the Hoosier’ on our tenth-anniversary cake,” said Joe.

Jess tentatively raised her hand. “I don’t suppose you’re from Indiana?”

“No. She meant it in the St. Louis way, a hick or white trash,” said Joe.

“Joe isn’t a hoosier,” said Darlene with her face turning red.

“And your grandmother’s cousins weren’t hoodlums.” He flipped through some pages and then put the album on the coffee table for us to see. “Look at them. Is hoodlum the perfect word or what?”

Joe pointed at a photo of two young teenagers standing in front of a truck, and I have to admit, my first thought was that they were going to rob it. They were skinny, wore suits that looked like they might’ve been stolen off a dead man, and were smoking cigarettes while eyeing the camera with disdain, daring the photographer to take the picture.

“How old were they there?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know,” said Darlene. “They were distant cousins.”

He pulled the photo out and flipped it over. “Shamus and Sean.1925.”

“How are you related?” I asked.

“Distantly,” said Darlene.

“They were your grandmother’s cousins,” said Joe. “Look at them. They couldn’t have been more than fifteen.”

“Edna’s cousins?” Jess asked.

“That’s right. Susan, my hoosier-hating mother-in-law’s second cousins.” Joe flipped through some more pages and showed us another photo of Shamus and Sean. They were full-on men, and if anything, they were more disreputable with their shirt sleeves rolled up, flat caps pulled low, and stubby cigars clamped between their teeth. The way they looked at the camera made me think someone should arrest them. You just knew they were up to no good.

Vic came over and took a look. I expected him to light up in recognition, but he shook his head.

“What was Edna’s maiden name?” I asked.

“Malone,” said Joe.

“Joe, please.”

“People know, Darlene. Caroline wrote her paper about them.” He looked at us. “She got an A.”

“Of course she got an A,” said Darlene. “She made them sound like they were gangsters.”

“Well, they weren’t choirboys.” Joe told us that Shamus and Sean were in and out of jail, even as kids. Mostly, it was petty theft and stickups. They were the kind of criminals that should’ve figured out they weren’t good at it, since they didn’t seem to get away with anything.

“And they were murdered?” Jess asked.

Darlene groaned, and Joe said, “Someone shot them while they were getting shaves in 1942.”

“Why?” I asked, glancing over at Vic, who’d gotten very still.

“It was some kind of turf war between the Irish and the Italians,” said Joe. “It was front-page news. Caroline found all the coverage. It was a big deal.”

“Did they find out who did it?” Jess asked.

“The Fibonaccis,” said Vic.

“I can’t remember,” said Joe. “I think Caroline said no one went to jail. They got away with it.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” said Darlene. “My mother hated that part of our family history. We’re not the sort of people that get excited because they think they might be related to Jesse James. My grandmother wouldn’t even speak to them. Mom said they weren’t allowed at the farm.”

“Who didn’t allow it?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Edna or Ray?”

“I assume both.”

I looked back at the photo of Ray Jr. with Tunny’s car. “I think that’s a bad assumption.”

“You heard what Joe said. They were never more than petty criminals,” said Darlene. “You said someone called that man. Something was going on.”

“That’s what the original detective thought,” said Jess. “It was to do with the business.”

“Well, that clears Shamus and Sean,” said Darlene.

“How do you figure?” Joe asked. “They were the family hoods, and a stolen car ended up on their cousin’s farm. Who else is gonna give that car to Ray?”

Darlene screwed up her courage to say the thing she was loath to admit. “They couldn’t have done that because they were too stupid. They got caught at everything. You know what their first crime was?”

“I can’t wait to hear this,” said Joe.

“They got jobs as paperboys. You know, selling papers on the corner. They stole the money on their first day. So, of course, they were caught, but the boss gave them a break and didn’t have them arrested. Then they went to another paper and did the same thing.”

“So not the brightest bulbs,” said Jess.

“My grandmother hated them. Hated them. Their mother couldn’t handle them, so they came to live with Grandma’s family. They were there a week when they stole all the money Grandma had been saving up for a new dress. My great-grandpa tracked them down, and they spent her money on a—” Darlene made a squeaky noise.

“What, Hon? Drugs?” Joe asked.

She shook her head and whispered, “A prostitute.”

“How old were they?” I asked.

“Eleven and thirteen.”

We all sat back and let that sink in. I looked over at Vic, who was the only one not astonished. “It was a different time, Toots.”

“Why didn’t you tell all that to Caroline?” Joe asked.

“I couldn’t tell her that.” She looked at us. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

“We’re not journalists. There’s no call to make it public,” said Jess.

“So you see, they couldn’t have killed that man. Doing something with his business? They weren’t smart enough to pull that off. The way Mom talked, they would never have thought of it.”

Joe picked up the first album. “I don’t know. You’d have to be an idiot to steal that car.”

“They’re idiots because they didn’t paint it,” said Vic.

“Where was it for all the months in between when Tunny died and when Ray Jr. got it?” I asked.

“They weren’t driving it,” said Vic.

“Why not?” Jess asked.

Joe and Darlene looked at her funny and she quickly said, “I meant, why not sell it or give it to Ray right away?”

“I don’t know,” said Joe. “Could they have been driving it? That would be stupid, since it was distinct, but we know they were dumb.”

“They’d have been caught,” said Darlene. “They always got caught.”

“Five hundred miles,” said Vic. “Nobody drove that car, lady.”

Right. I forgot about that.

“Darlene, do you know when Ray Jr. joined up?” I asked.

“Why?”

“I just want to know how long he was driving the car.”

She picked up her cup and looked down into it. “My grandmother never got over him dying like he did. She would cry when she talked about it.”

“Do you know when he joined?” Joe asked.

Darlene flipped a couple of pages past the page with the Packard. “The next day after Pearl Harbor. He didn’t tell anyone he was doing it. He just went and joined the navy. Mom said that Grandma cried for days, and when he died, she was never the same.”

She showed us a photo of Ray Jr. in his uniform, getting on a train. That was the last photo. They never saw him again. His ship was sunk in the Pacific and his body wasn’t recovered. It must’ve felt like a curse. Someone or something had to take the blame. But that didn’t explain Jonas Winnick.

Someone has that car now. God help them.

We drove away from the Cutlers’ house in silence until Vic popped into the back, slapping his hands together and making us jump.

“Hot damn. We’re on the trail now. I knew you skirts were the right move.”

“You fired us multiple times,” I said.

“Break it up,” he said. “I wasn’t serious. Dames can’t take a joke.”

I turned around and said, “And gumshoes like to change history. Hey. You’re normal.”

Vic looked down at his completely healed hands and said, “What do you know?”

“Excellent question,” said Jess. “What do you know?”

He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “I know those two cantaloupes were with the O’Learys.”

“The O’Learys that beat you up?”

“That’s them. Michael O’Leary headed the outfit. He was a tough little cuss, a red-headed firecracker straight off the boat from Dublin.”

“And we know they were O’Learys because?” I asked.

“If those dimwits were wiped like they said they were in 1942, they were working for the O’Learys,” said Vic with so much joy, I was a little uncomfortable. We were talking about murders.

“Sounds like you know a lot about it,” I said.

“Don’t be getting any ideas in your pretty little head. I know because I had a horse in that race.”

Vic had two horses in that race. The one time he got beat down was by a couple of O’Leary men, and they were two of the casualties. Seven men died altogether, including the boss, Michael O’Leary, and the gang ceased to exist. The newspapers said it was a turf war, but Vic never saw it that way. The O’Learys never had much turf to speak of. They lived on the edges of the big boys, running dice games, a couple of bordellos, and doing the occasional stickup. The Ponzi scheme was their one big plan, and Vic ruined that for them. O’Leary was always angling to do better, but he couldn’t get a toehold without throwing in with the big players, and they wouldn’t have him. O’Leary got in bar fights on a weekly basis, and his men were downright dumb.

“So O’Leary tried to muscle in on the Fibonaccis?” Jess asked.

Vic laughed. “Now you’re talkin’ like a gumshoe. Yeah, that was the word on the street. Malarky.”

“Why?” I asked. “Don’t gangs do that kind of thing, especially back then?”

“Sure. Michael O’Leary was a fighter, but not stupid like his men. Nobody messes with the Fibonaccis. He knew that.”

“Why don’t you mess with them?” Jess asked.

“Because they win.”

“Well, they did kill the O’Learys,” I said. “Or do you think it could’ve been someone else?”

“No, it was the Fibonaccis.”

“Could Tunny have been part of their operation?” Jess asked.

“Naw. They didn’t mess with small towns. Strictly a city operation. Still are.”

“They’re still around?”

“Sure. You can’t rub out the Fibonaccis. It ain’t possible,” said Vic.

“You didn’t recognize Shamus and Sean?” I asked.

“Those two looked like half the mugs I dealt with.”

I turned to look at him. “They were Irish.”

“I ain’t proud of it,” said Vic. “But yeah, they were.”

“Did they come to the tavern?”

He laughed. “Connolly’s?”

“It’s an Irish place, isn’t it?”

The Pat Connolly Tavern was basically an Irish pub, but according to Vic, it was lace curtain. I didn’t really get that, but he explained that lowlifes like the Malone brothers and Michael O’Leary weren’t welcome. Cops liked the pub, and that was enough to keep that element away.

“John the potbellied was a bookie,” I said. “He was hanging out there.”

“Who?”

We described the ghost and Vic said, “John don’t count as criminal. He was a pal.”

Clearly, there were degrees of criminal, and I didn’t much care to learn them.

“What about Frankie’s place?” Jess asked.

Vic’s voice got gruff. “What do you mean?”

“She said it was rougher.”

“Yeah, it was,” he said.

“So she might’ve known Shamus and Sean,” said Jess.

Vic didn’t respond, and Jess gave me the side eye.

“Um…” I said. “How about you go ask her?”

Silence.

“Vic?” I turned around, and he was gone.

“What is going on?” Jess asked.

“Beats me, but are you hungry?” I asked.

She smiled. “I could eat.”

Chapter Sixteen

The tavern was just as lively as the last time we were there. Smiling faces and the smell of excellent food filled the place, and my mouth watered. So much for not needing to eat for three days after Thanksgiving.

“You’re back,” said the server.

“We couldn’t stay away,” said Jess.

“Seat yourself,” he said. “Something to drink?”

We asked for coffee and water and then went back to our table, that was conveniently empty, despite the afternoon rush. I had a feeling it always was because the three Johns and Frankie were at their table in the corner, playing cards and probably giving the locals the heebie-jeebies. Jess and I didn’t have that problem. If anything, the table felt like home.

“So you’re back,” said John the potbellied. “You straighten the kid out?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But we made progress.”

Jess had brought her sketch pad and showed them the picture of the girl in Conor’s apartment. None of the men knew her. Frankie looked discouraged, but we assured her we weren’t done.

“How about these two?” I asked, showing the photo of Shamus and Sean.

“Where’d you dig that up?” John the oldest asked.

“Family album. Do you know them?”

“Sure,” said John the potbellied. “They got themselves dead pretty spectacularly.”

“Because the Fibonaccis wiped out the O’Learys?” Jess asked.

“You gals do get around,” said John the youngest. “Yeah, they stepped on the wrong toes.”

The server came with our drinks and took our orders. “You two are the only ones to sit at either of these tables.”

“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “How come?”

“I don’t know. I put people here and they move.”

The ghosts laughed, even the glum Frankie.

“Weird,” I said. “Great table.”

“Do you feel a draft?” the server asked.

We were perfectly warm, and he shook his head before leaving to put in our order.

“You’re bad,” I said to the ghosts.

“Look,” said John the oldest. “We got a right to our favorite table.”

“It doesn’t matter if you do or not,” said Jess. “You’ve got it.”

They laughed and congratulated themselves on keeping their table clear of the living.

“So tell us about Shamus and Sean Malone,” said Jess.

“Idiots,” said John the potbellied.

“A couple of real cantaloupes,” said John the oldest.

“You aren’t the first to say so,” I said.

“Vic tell you that?”

“He did, but he didn’t know them personally.”

John the potbellied looked at John the oldest and said, “You arrested ‘em. What were they like?”

“You were a cop?” Jess asked.

John the oldest popped into uniform as a young man, bright-eyed and strong jawed. “I was and am, I suppose.”

“We think they killed Tunny and stole the car,” I said.

The ghosts laughed and shook their heads.

“Why not?”

“Because Michael O’Leary wouldn’t send those two,” said John the oldest. “They’d screw it up.”

“It did get screwed up,” said Jess. “I don’t think Tunny was supposed to die.”

We told them what we’d found out, and they believed us, but still had a hard time thinking that Michael O’Leary would make that big a mistake.

“He must’ve been trying to branch out,” said John the potbellied. “Use the Tunny business to launder money.”

“Out in the sticks?” John the youngest asked.

John the oldest smiled. “You’re thinking of it wrong. That two-bit town was out of the St. Louis family’s territory.”

“When did that Tunny bite it?”

“March 1941,” I said.

“O’Learys didn’t have much time left,” said John the potbellied, and a newspaper appeared in his hands. It had a grisly photo of two bodies under sheets in a barber shop. Even in black and white, the blood spatter and brain matter were easy to make out on the walls and floor.

“Did they know it was coming, Frankie?” John the youngest asked.

She looked up and said, “Why ask me?”

“They hung out at your joint.”

Frankie blushed, and the men quickly said that the pub’s disrepute had nothing to do with her.

“We should’ve got you outta there,” said John the oldest. “Vic regretted that for the rest of his life.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” she said.

The men looked away, hinting that maybe it was.

“So they went to your pub,” I said. “How well did you know them?”

A mug of beer appeared on the table, and Frankie took a drink. “Better than I wanted to.”

“What were they like?” Jess asked, and she confirmed everything Vic said about the O’Leary gang, except that she didn’t remember Shamus and Sean being around much during the summer. She’d thought they moved on to another city, but they turned up again right before the war.

“How right before?” I asked.

“I couldn’t tell you the date, but they were worse than ever, bragging and pinching all the girls. I was dead already and Vic was on my case. I was paying more attention to that.”

“What did those two have to be so happy about?” John the potbellied asked.

“I don’t know, but they were throwing money around, acting like they owned the place,” said Frankie.

“Ray probably paid them for the car,” I said. “Maybe they thought they got away with it.”

“I don’t know,” said Frankie. “The boss wasn’t looking at them like he loved ‘em.”

“Michael O’Leary?” Jess asked.

“That’s him. He was mean to the girls and everyone, really. Always on the make, but I could’ve told him he was going nowhere fast.”

“And he did,” John the potbellied said.

“Why’d you stay in that joint?” John the oldest asked. “Even us cops didn’t want to go in there. Nasty.”

“I liked the girls,” she said. “I missed them.”

We all went quiet, and the server came with our food. We chatted for a moment before he hurried off.

“Do you have any idea why the Fibonaccis got rid of the O’Learys?” I asked.

The ghosts continued to play cards and discussed it while we ate. The consensus was that Michael O’Leary got too big for his britches.

“Isn’t that a bit of an overreaction?” Jess asked. “They killed them all.”

“We thought it was odd at the time,” said John the oldest. “But the O’Learys were trouble, and we weren’t bothered much about it.”

“The Fibonaccis didn’t bother you?”

“Nobody was gonna mess with them then or now,” he said. “It surprised me that Michael O’Leary would’ve stepped into their arena. I didn’t take him for a fool. Frankie?”

She laid down a card and said, “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

“Did you ever hear the name Paul Castiglione?” I showed them the picture I had of Tunny’s friend.

Frankie said she didn’t know him, and neither did the men.

“Was he in the game?” John the oldest asked.

“Not that we know of,” said Jess, and she explained the connection. The men hooted and Frankie said, “That’s something.”

“Is it?”

“Any connections to the Fibonaccis is a bad thing,” said John the potbellied. “You better find out what happened to that guy.”

We told them about the suicide and seeing him on the bridge.

“You want some advice from an old cop?” John the oldest asked.

“Love some,” I said.

“Find Castiglione’s family. I’d want to know why he really jumped off that bridge.”

“Losing his son couldn’t have been enough?” Jess asked.

“Men have topped themselves for less,” said John the youngest.

“Heartbreaking,” said Frankie with tears in her eyes.

John the oldest nodded. “Yeah, but it was war. Our boys were dying every day.”

“It was still a terrible tragedy for that family,” said Frankie.

“I’m not sayin’ it wasn’t, but these ladies are saying we got a trail straight from that Tunny fellow to Castiglione to Fibonaccis, and the Fibonaccis killed the O’Learys. I believe in coincidences, but not that much.”

I looked at Jess, and she grimaced. I think we already knew that Paul Castiglione wanted us to look at him, but I, for one, wasn’t keen on asking questions about such a painful subject.

“Are you still going to help Vic?” Frankie asked. “Conor has been very upset since you visited him.”

“What’s he been doing?” Jess asked, getting very focused fast.

“Nothing much. Just standing in that storeroom.”

“Looking for the Tunny file?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Just looking.”

Interesting.

“We’ll work on Vic,” I said. “He unfired us, so if we solve the case, he might tell us something useful.”

“Won’t he move on?” she asked. “Isn’t that why he’s doing this? To move on.”

“Yes, but you never know.” I tried to be cheerful, but I wasn’t feeling it.

“I don’t know about any of that,” said John the youngest. “I want to know about that car.”

I smiled and asked, “Are you saying you believe in curses?”

He grinned at me. “I believe in ghosts, so why not?”

Why not indeed?

Chapter Seventeen

We saw the crowd before we saw the house. There were quite a few people standing in the street, taking pictures and chatting. Number Eight got that kind of attention pretty regularly. Lots of people came by to see Kip’s decorations after we were on the news. Number Eight was just one of those houses, and when it was decorated, forget about privacy. Not happening.

“I hope this is good,” said Jess.

“It’s good,” I said, but I was crossing my fingers and toes. The boys had sent seven messages asking when we were coming home. They said everything was fine, but with them, you never knew what to expect.

“That’s new,” said Jess. “When did we get lasers?”

“I’m guessing today.”

We had to wait for people to move, so I got a good look. The boys had really gussied up Number Eight, and that’s saying something, considering. All Kip’s Thanksgiving decor was gone and replaced by purple bunting and bows. A laser light show was going across the front of the grand old Victorian, wishing Isabella happy birthday and going through a series of dancers vogueing and doing the typewriter. Madonna was up there and NSYNC. The Backstreet Boys and EnVogue.

Mariah, Sam, and Keely were hanging up the last of the bows on the porch railing, and the boys were putting the ramps on the steps with the help of a couple who looked like they knew what they were doing. McCloud stood on the front lawn next to the Number Eight sign that proclaimed today to be Isabella’s Camp-over. He had a laptop and watched the laser display intently with a couple of kids that I recognized from the audio-visual club at school. They were doing the lighting for the Christmas pageant and now apparently ten-year-olds’ birthday parties.

“You know there will be more parties after this,” said Jess. “Their own cottage industry.”

“Are you tired?” I asked. “I’m tired.”

We finally got into the driveway and walked up the steps after giving McCloud and his cadre of kids a thumbs-up.

“I never thought you’d get back,” said Mariah, hustling into the house with us. She picked a carton of eggs up off the stairs. “Some lady brought these for you. She said you fixed it.”

I took the carton that Jadalyn had written her thanks on and asked, “What else happened?”

“What didn’t happen?” Keely asked. “The guy catering this thing burned down his kitchen.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Dad says you can do the assessment tomorrow,” said Sam. “Sorry.”

I couldn’t speak, but Jess was on it.

“Do we have food?” she asked.

“Mom’s doing it with the pizza guys,” said Sam. “And Mrs. Denka’s bringing a bunch of snacks. She was kinda freaking out, but McCloud calmed her down.”

“McCloud calmed her down?” I asked. “Our McCloud?”

“He’s kinda pretty, and she liked him,” said Keely.

“Isn’t she married?”

“Divorced.”

That’ll do it.

“What else?” Jess asked.

The boys ran in the front door, yelling, “Did you see it? Did you see it?”

“What?” I asked, just to bother them.

“The lasers,” said Max. “We are killing this birthday party.”

Henri raised a fist. “All other birthday parties will admit defeat and die of embarrassment for being so sucky.”

“It looks good,” I said. “And how are we paying for the lasers?”

“We got the equipment from Mrs. Gallo. She stole it from her husband. He’s pissed, but she doesn’t care. He goes overboard every year for Christmas and she’s trying to stop him,” said Max.

“Breathe.”

“And Scooter was an engineer before he went to law school. Did you know that? He said he could program, and we got the nerds from school to help, and it’s almost done.”

“When do the kids start getting here?” Jess asked.

“Have you ever heard of Boyz II Men? They’re pretty good. Mrs. Denka loves them. We’re adding them to the music. Scooter’s trying to sync now. Did you hear it? It’s on a certain station. And there was a guy here. I think he was mad, but then he wasn’t. I think he liked us or you. I need something to eat. I’m starving.”

The boys ran to the kitchen, leaving us processing.

“Do we know when the kids are getting here?” I asked.

Mariah shook her head. “Idiots. It’s starting in an hour. Our stuff is done. Can Sam and Keely sleep over?”

“Why not?” Jess said.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

The girls went upstairs before the boys could rope them into doing anything else, and we went in search of my mom. We found her curled up with Peg and Vern, watching Marcus Welby M.D. and sipping tea.

“I hope we’re not intruding,” said Peg. “I know it’s not Saturday, but we had to come by and see what all the hullabaloo was about.”

“You’re never intruding,” I said. “You okay, Mom?”

“Just tired,” she said. “I don’t recover from things the way I used to. Do you need some help?”

“It looks like it’s under control.”

“Scooter was an angel. He’s been working the whole day and having a ball.”

“Will wonders never cease?” Jess said.

“He has a good heart, especially when he’s not drinking,” said Mom.

Mom looked hungry, so I said I’d make her a sandwich, and on the way out something popped up in my brain. “Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie,” Mom said with a yawn.

“The boys said something about a man coming by,” I said. “Do you know who that was?”

She shook her head. “I think I might’ve been asleep.”

“We saw him when we were coming over earlier,” said Vern. “I was concerned, but he seemed to calm down as the boys talked to him, and then he left.”

A ghost? An angry ghost?

“What did he look like?” Jess asked, looking as nervous as I felt.

“Oh, I don’t know. Kinda funny,” said Vern.

We looked at each other and I asked, “How?”

“He had on a jean jacket, but it wasn’t very nice. He was too old to wear that, and he had these ripped-up jeans.” Peg wrinkled her nose. “A grown man should take better care of himself.”

“He might not be able to, dear,” said Vern. “He might be a bum.”

A bum?

“He looked homeless?” I asked.

“Very odd,” said Peg, very prim in her double-knit pantsuit. “But he wasn’t poor. He had a big, fancy car.”

Their attention turned back to Marcus Welby’s latest case, and we headed for the kitchen just when Sylvia came in, carrying containers and bags of buns.

“The Grind to the rescue,” I said.

“Henry is devastated,” she said. “It was his first catering job on his own.”

I took a container off her hands. “You’re kidding. Henry was doing the catering?”

“It was all him.” Sylvia described her favorite barista’s calamity. He’d been using his mother’s old deep fryer. The thing shorted out, setting the grease and then the kitchen curtains on fire.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

She smiled at me. “He’s got good insurance. You and Eric will hook him up.”

“You know it.”

We got all the food in the kitchen and organized. The boys stopped stuffing themselves with stuffing and pie to help until the doorbell rang.

“It’s Mrs. Denka,” said Max. “I’ll get it.”

Henri started to go with him, but I snagged his arm. “Who was the man that came today?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Some old guy. He wanted to talk to you and Jess. I think he might want to hire you, but he didn’t say it was a ghost thing.”

“He was mad?” Jess asked.

Henri taste-tested one of Sylvia’s crab rangoons and declared it delicious before saying, “Kinda, I don’t know, tense. But we were talking to him about how you were on a case and super busy trying to help people with their stuff, and then he got nicer.”

“What did he look like?”

“Old. Bald. Kinda short.”

Jess sucked in a breath and pulled up a picture on her phone. “Is this him?”

“Yeah. That’s the guy. He was kinda cool. He had this old jean jacket from like the sixties with all these old buttons and stuff. Who is he?”

“Conor Newberry.”

“No,” said Sylvia. “You know him?”

“Who is he?” Henri asked.

“A famous artist,” said Jess. “My favorite.”

“Mine too,” said Sylvia. “How do you know him?”

We didn’t get a chance to answer. Max brought a frazzled Mrs. Denka in. She had trays of veggies and fruit. I didn’t think the kids would eat it, but moms got to try.

“Thanks so much for letting the boys do this for Isabelle. She misses out on so much with her brother’s condition. I wanted to make it about her, but then I was overwhelmed and I forgot.”

Jess and I tried to soothe her, but she was so stressed that it took McCloud coming in with his smooth smile to get her settled down. Then, before I knew it, the kids were arriving. Isabelle’s dad was delivering her and Gus after the other kids got there. The whole thing was supposed to be a surprise, but given the amount of parents and bystanders hanging around watching the light show and listening to the synced music, I doubted it would be, but when Mr. Denka’s van rolled up, Isabelle could be seen freaking out in the front seat.

We went out on the porch with all the kids and cheered her and Gus as they unloaded. The little girl cried, and so did her brother, but they were happy tears. They were the sweetest duo, and the ramp worked great.

“That was amazing,” said Leo behind me.

“I was wondering where you were,” I said.

“Hanging out with Eric and trying to let the boys do this on their own,” he said.

“Did they need that?”

“I think so.”

“You know they didn’t do it on their own,” I said. “No one could.”

“I suppose not.”

There were still some people watching the light show and cars slowing to a crawl to get a good look. We’d changed the neighborhood in a good way, and I started singing “Our House” by Madness under my breath. They could’ve written that song just for us.

“Libby?” Jess whispered.

“What?”

“He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Conor Newberry.”

I looked at where she was staring, and there he was as the ghosts and Henri described him. The artist leaned on a Mercedes SUV and was chatting with Jadalyn and our neighbors Lydia and Kendall, who were out with their new baby in a stroller.

“What should we say?” Jess asked. “I’m so excited. I think I peed again.”

“For crying out loud,” I said. “It’s fine. He’s happy and they all like us, especially Jadalyn. That’s good.”

“Let’s go now. I’m going. Let’s go.”

“No,” said Leo. “Leave him be.”

“He came here to see us,” said Jess.

“But he stayed for another reason.”

“What reason?”

“To see who you are,” said Leo. “Let him see and come to you when he’s ready.”

“What if he doesn’t?” asked Jess, vibrating with excitement.

Leo smiled at her, his eyes warm and comforting. “Then it wouldn’t work out if you went to him, would it?”

“Why do you have to be so knowing stuff?”

“I’m a mortician,” he said. “I know people in grief, and that is a man in grief.”

We looked across the street and Conor was looking at us, his expression cheerful at whatever Jadalyn was saying.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“I could always tell,” he said. “Come on inside.”

We waved, and Conor nodded in response. Then we did as Leo wanted and went inside. Conor Newberry did not come to us. Not then.

Chapter Eighteen

Iclimbed Number Eight’s front steps as multiple kids and their parents came out the front door carrying sleeping bags and smiling.

“Wonderful party.”

“Epic.”

“Thanks so much.”

I told them it was all Max and Henri, getting a little disbelief but mostly nods. My boys were becoming legends with the help of social media. They, of course, wanted to post videos from the party, and with the help of McCloud got signed releases from all the parents, so Isabelle Denka’s party was trending on multiple platforms with the kids doing nineties karaoke battles that were adorable. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen ten-year-olds vogue or performing “No Strings Attached” with strings that Max and Henri held from ladders on the stage.

But the best videos were definitely the Gus races. Gus was wheelchair bound but eager to take part, so, of course, my boys did something no one else would think of. Races. Kids would volunteer to race down the length of the ballroom against Gus. The catch was that Gus got to pick how they raced. Hop on one foot, slither like a snake, or the favorite inch-worm.

Gus always won, but that didn’t stop the kids from wanting to race him. Miss Wu’s sister, May, had her hands full, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t sleep a wink. The kids didn’t settle down until four in the morning and she was giving Mrs. Denka hourly updates, since she was so nervous about leaving Gus.

Isabelle and Gus were the last ones out the door, and Mrs. Denka hugged me while Gus carefully rolled down the ramp as Max and Henri held it in place.

“It was amazing,” she said tearfully. “And we’ll have the videos forever. I wasn’t sure about allowing that, but the whole family got to see the kids, and it was wonderful.”

She hugged me again and got Gus loaded into their van. He waved happily and blew kisses. Such a sweet little guy. Isabelle was dancing on the lawn and jumped into Max’s arms, kissing him on the cheek. She couldn’t wait until the next pageant practice and promised that she and Gus would practice all weekend, despite Mrs. Denka saying sleep was in order.

They drove away, and I walked in with the boys.

“Did that party slay or what?” Henri asked.

“Are we saying slayed now?” I asked.

“Slayed is in,” said Max.

“Is it?”

“We say it is.”

They hugged me and promised to clean later after sleeping. I wasn’t sure I believed them, but I was too tired to argue. I’d slept little and had gotten out early to survey the damage at Henry the barista’s house. It wasn’t too bad, considering, but he met his deductible easily.

As the boys trudged up the stairs, I took off my coat and listened to the silence. It wasn’t a sound that I heard often anymore, and it didn’t last.

Leo popped in, wearing pajamas and a plaid flannel robe, and said, “What are you doing? Are you okay?”

“Listening to the sound of silence,” I said.

He laughed. “That was a loud night. The loudest ever, I suspect.”

“I thought we were going to have the cops here.”

“They wouldn’t dare. Everyone knew about the party for Isabelle and Gus.”

“One of these days, we’re going to push it too far.”

“But not today,” he said. “Jess made coffee. I bet you need it.”

“Actually, Sylvia hooked me up,” I said. “Is there any birthday cake left?”

“For breakfast?”

I sashayed toward the kitchen. “I’ve earned it.”

Leo followed, being a dad and questioning whether anyone could really earn cake for breakfast. We went back and forth on the matter until we walked into the kitchen and found Jess asleep with her head down on the island.

I put my backpack on the island and went around to the remnants of the cake, and Jess said, “I’m awake.”

“Are you sure about that?” Leo asked.

“No.”

“You don’t need to be,” I said. “Go back to bed.”

“Can’t. Must work on case.”

I got myself a generous slice and microwaved some of the icing to drizzle over it. “I can do it.”

“Why are you awake?” she asked.

“I had to check out Henry’s kitchen, and Sylvia gave me all the caffeine.”

Jess didn’t lift her head or open her eyes, but held out her hand. “Coffee.”

I gave her a mug, but she didn’t drink it. She just held onto it, unable to lift her head. “So much to do. So tired.”

“What can I do?” Leo asked, and he popped into a jogging outfit, bouncing around and punching the air.

“What is up with you?” I asked.

“The kids were great. They made me feel alive,” he said with a wide grin. “You have to do it again.”

“I’m sure we will whether we want to or not.”

Jess raised a hand. “Somebody lift up my head and get me a straw.”

“Go to bed,” I said.

“Not fair. You were up all night too.”

“I catnapped. You didn’t.”

Jess didn’t say anything, but made a little snort that might’ve been a snore.

“So?” Leo asked, still punching.

I pulled out my laptop and said, “We need to find the Castigliones, but I don’t see how⁠—”

“I can do it.” Leo’s wingback chair appeared. He sat down and a stack of phone books appeared in his lap.” He held one up. “St. Louis 1980.”

“How could that be your phone book?” I asked.

“Carol’s mother kept phone books just in case,” he said.

“Just in case of what?”

“Who knows? But Carol and I inherited them, so they are mine.”

I forked up a huge bite and said, “Awesome. Get cracking.”

He started leafing through the top one. “Castiglione. Castiglione.”

I started on my paperwork and called Eric while eating and cleaning at the same time. Mom skills. We can do it all.

“Got it,” said Leo.

I hung up with Eric and said, “What year?”

“All of them. I checked. The name isn’t very common, but we’ve got a Pauline Castiglione living on The Hill at least until 1989.”

“Why 1989?” Jess asked, still with closed eyes.

“That’s the last phone book we have from St. Louis,” said Leo.

“Pauline,” I said. “Could be Paul’s daughter.”

“I’ve got others, but you should start with her.”

I got to work and Jess lifted her own head to sip coffee, slowly coming to life. It didn’t take long to find Pauline’s obituary. She was Paul’s daughter, never married, and worked in the family business, C and T Construction, all her life. Through a list of surviving relatives and a quick search of C and T, I found the current owner of the company, Joe Castiglione, Paul’s great-grandson.

“That was fun,” said Leo. “What’s next?”

“Call him,” said Jess as she finger-combed her hair.

Just as she said that, the cats came down the back stairs and headed for their baskets. Poptart didn’t make it. He puffed up, and Leo bellowed, “No!”

Then he was gone with a pop, leaving the scent of cigarette smoke in his wake. That woke Jess up, and she said, “Vic doesn’t learn.”

“Seems that way,” I said. “Are you ready to call?”

“Sure.” She sucked down some coffee and said, “I’m so glad we’re not zooming. This can’t look good.”

“You look fine.”

“Liar.”

I smiled and dialed the company number, expecting to get voice mail, but a secretary named Jeanette answered and was surprisingly cooperative when I told her who we were. She gave us Joe Castiglione’s private number, and I called immediately, putting it on speaker.

His voice was deeply suspicious when he answered. I told him who we were, and he muttered something about Jeanette. It was not flattering, and Jeanette might be in some trouble. I quickly told him about the Tunny case before he could hang up, and I could sense the intrigue, even over the phone. Something about the way he got quiet.

“What’s this got to do with me?” Joe asked.

“Nothing directly, but we think Tunny’s death is related to your great-grandfather’s death,” I said.

He went silent and Jess rallied to say, “We don’t think that those two deaths happening so close together was a coincidence, and neither did Tunny’s wife. She was convinced that something was going on.”

“Then you don’t know that my great-grandfather committed suicide,” said Joe in a tone like he was breaking it to us gently.

“We did know that,” I said. “The question is why and what happened. It has something to do with Tunny’s death.”

“I hate to have to tell you this because you clearly care, but he killed himself because his oldest son died in the war and his business was failing. He was overwhelmed. We don’t judge him for it.”

“Neither do we,” said Jess.

I thought of Paul on the bridge. If it was as simple as what Joe said, he wouldn’t be reaching out to us.

“What happened to the business?” I asked.

Joe’s voice changed to being firm and self-assured. “It’s still going. Very profitable.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he said, irritation creeping in to his voice. “I own it.”

I grimaced at my mistake. “Sorry. I meant, are you sure it was failing in 1942?”

“Oh.” It took a moment for him to regroup. “That’s the story, and he killed himself over it. Well, I mean that and his son, of course.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Jess. “The business was good when Tunny died. How could it go so bad in such a short amount of time? From what we can tell, Paul was a great businessman.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but it sounded good.

“I never thought about that,” said Joe, “but I see what you’re saying.”

“Did your family talk about what happened with the business?” I asked. “How did they save it?”

“My great-grandmother Sofia saved it. That’s the story anyway.” He sounded doubtful for the first time.

“She was a businesswoman?” Jess asked.

“A housewife until her husband died. She and Great-Aunt Pauline ran it during the war, and when my grandpa came back, he took over. Then my dad and then me.”

“It looks like you don’t do residential anymore,” I said.

“We never did,” he said.

“That was the business that Paul bought. He was a homebuilder.”

“Really?”

“Honest to God.”

“Hmm. Tunny was his name, you said?”

“John K. Tunny. He and Paul grew up together. Altar boys,” said Jesse. “They were in each other’s weddings.”

Joe was quiet.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Well, we’re C and T Construction. We shortened it from Castiglione and something else a long time ago. I wonder if it was Tunny.”

“It was Tunny Construction when he bought it.”

He paused and then said to someone else in the background, “I know it’s Saturday, Baby. Sorry.” Then he said to us, “I’m not supposed to be working.”

“No problem,” I said. “This is out of the blue.”

“You’ve got that right,” he said. “How do I know any of this is true?”

“Would the wedding pictures help?” Jess asked.

Joe said they would, and I forwarded the wedding and the altar boy photos from Jack’s album. He whistled and said, “That’s amazing. I’ve never seen this one of him as an altar boy. He was a cute little guy, and which boy was Tunny?”

“On the right,” I said.

“Now I see the resemblance.”

We waited while he showed the photos to his wife and then I said, “Since the business is still alive and kicking, I don’t suppose you still have the books from back in the day.”

Joe laughed, and I was sure he’d say no because that was forever ago, but he said, “I have it all. We’re still in the original building, and the Castigliones don’t throw anything away, as my wife would very unhappily tell you.”

“Is there any way we could get a look at those books?” Jess asked.

“What do you suspect?”

“That the O’Leary gang was going after your great-grandfather the way they did Mr. Tunny.”

“Who in the heck are the O’Learys?” Joe asked.

We told him, and he still didn’t buy it.

I hope this is a good idea.

“Do you know who the Fibonaccis are?” I asked.

He snorted. “Who doesn’t?”

“We didn’t until recently,” said Jess.

“What have they got to do with anything? We might be Italian, but this isn’t the movies. We do not have mob connections.” His voice had gone tight, and we had to tread carefully.

“We don’t think that you do, but the O’Leary gang killed Tunny. Paul bought the business they were trying to get involved in, Paul dies, and then the Fibonaccis wiped the O’Learys out two days later,” I said. “Can we please see those books?”

“I’ll meet you in an hour.” Joe gave us the company’s address down on The Hill and we were in business.

Chapter Nineteen

The Hill is a traditionally Italian section of St. Louis with fabulous restaurants, one of which I got engaged in. Derek proposed over spumoni ice cream and I said yes. I drove by that very restaurant both happy and sad at the memory. Derek was teary-eyed when I said yes, like there was a remote possibility that I’d say no, and it made me teary-eyed too.

“I don’t regret it,” I said.

“What?” Jess asked.

“Anything.”

Jess went quiet and looked out the window as we passed adorable little brick bungalows and craftsman houses with neat yards and the occasional green awnings over the windows. C and T Construction was in a shotgun house that didn’t look big enough to house a hair salon, much less a company with projects all over the city.

I parked in front, and a man wearing khakis and a red sweater opened the front door, holding a cup of coffee. My first thought was that it couldn’t be Joe. He was strawberry blond and had pale green eyes. I’d expected some version of Paul, but there was no resemblance.

“Jess and Libby?” he asked.

“That’s us,” I said.

“Come on in.” He opened the door wide for us and we went into a small reception room where a woman about the age of my mom sat behind a desk, typing.

“Hi, I’m Jeanette,” she said without pausing her blistering pace. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Joe, and he led us into the back to a small, tidy office. There was a stack of old ledgers on the desk, and he went over to a Keurig machine.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

We asked for tea and he got them brewing. We told him what we knew, including the possibility of a Fibonacci connection with his ancestor, which both excited him and made him nervous. “So I got these out of the basement. They’re kind of moldy, but they’re still readable.”

“Do you mind?” Jess asked.

He handed her a ledger, and she leafed through it. The dates were from 1943, and the business appeared to be in the black.

“Do you have anything older?”

Joe had ledgers dating back to the early thirties. “My family already had a small construction business, but we were never in home construction.”

I looked through the ledgers. They all matched except for one. They were all green, but one had a faded gold stripe on the binding.

“That’s it,” said Jess.

“What’s it?” Joe asked.

“The one that doesn’t match.”

I pulled it out and smiled at Joe. “This is Tunny’s last ledger. 1941.”

Joe came around and bent over the ledger with us to squint at the spidery handwriting. The entries were in that same handwriting until April 1941, and then it changed to a stronger hand that wrote firmly and made indents into the paper.

“Can I see 1942?” I asked.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Joe, and he got the ledger.

We examined the handwriting, and it matched up until the time of Paul’s death.

“That must be my great-grandpa’s writing,” said Joe. “I’m no accountant. I hire people for that, but everything looks good. They’re in the black.”

He got another coffee, and his phone rang. While Joe tried to put off his wife, we looked closely at Paul’s handwriting. It varied in the last couple months of his life, starting at the time of his son’s death. It was no wonder, but something seemed off about it. I ran my finger over the writing, and the indentions were gone.

Joe hung up and said, “I’m going to have to go. She is not happy with me.”

“Does this look weird to you?’ Jess asked.

He looked and said, “Weird how?”

“His writing is different, and the numbers are written so faintly,” I said.

“He had to be depressed.”

“No doubt,” said Jess. “Could we take these and examine them?”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t know about that.”

Jess started to try and convince him when my phone rang. I didn’t know the number, so I stepped out in the hall to take it, expecting some obnoxious sales call that would make me feel bad for hanging up.

“Hello?”

“Is this Libby Forest?”

My heart about stopped, and I darted back in the office and mouthed to Jess, “It’s Conor Newberry.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked.

“This is me, Mr. Newberry,” I said, bobbing up and down on the balls of my feet.

“Did she say Conor Newberry?” Joe asked. “The artist.”

Jess said yes, and I went back into the hall.

“I went to your house,” said Conor.

“We saw you,” I said.

“You didn’t come out to talk to me.”

“We were advised not to.”

He was quiet for a moment and then said, “By who?”

“A friend. You don’t know him,” I said.

“Why did he tell you not to?” Conor asked.

“He said you were in grief and would come to us when you were ready.”

“In grief for what?”

Jess came to the door with Joe, and they watched me.

“I couldn’t say,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Did you want to ask me something?”

“Where are you?” Conor asked.

“On The Hill.”

“We should meet.”

“That’d be great. We can come to you,” I said, and Jess clasped her hands to her chest, her eyes glowing.

“No. I don’t want you here. Let’s meet at the art museum.” He told me to meet him in one room of the European collection in front of a Matisse Bathers with a Turtle and hung up.

“He wants to meet?” Jess asked, breathless.

I nodded, a little stunned myself. “So, can we borrow those ledgers?” I asked Joe.

“You know Conor Newberry?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t say know. We’ve met.”

“Why are you meeting him? Does he have something to do with this case?”

What do I say? What do I say?

“He might have some information that can help us,” said Jess. “Did he say he had it, Libby?”

“He didn’t say much,” I said. “Just that he wants to meet.”

“You’re going to meet Conor Newberry right now?” Joe asked. “Can I go?”

For some reason, that struck me as hilarious. It was probably the exhaustion and nerves, but I laughed and couldn’t stop. Joe didn’t take kindly to my hysteria. Who would?

“Ignore her,” said Jess. “We were up all night doing a kid’s party. It was kinda a huge thing.”

He crossed his arms, and I could tell we weren’t getting those ledgers, but I couldn’t stop laughing like some kind of maniac. Conor Newberry called me. Joe wanted to go.

“Sure. Whatever,” he said.

“No, really.” Jess showed him the boys’ TikToks of Gus racing a little boy named Roscoe, who was being a snake.

“My kids were watching those this morning. That house is yours?” Joe asked.

I nodded, almost getting myself under control. “Losing it. So tired.”

He and Jess chatted about the party for a few minutes, and then Joe said, “Okay. It might’ve been out of line to ask to go meet Conor Newberry. He’s just such a legend, and I’ve never seen him before. He’s sort of a hermit. How did you get in contact with him?”

Can’t tell you that.

“Luck,” I said, wheezing and doubled over.

“That’s pretty amazing,” said Joe. “And he’s to do with this case of yours?”

Jess went into persuasion mode again, but she didn’t need to. Joe handed over the ledgers and extracted a promise to get Conor’s autograph for him, if at all possible.

We promised and lugged the ledgers out past a curious Jeanette, who never stopped typing the whole time.

I got it together with some serious effort, but Jess had to drive. We got to the art museum in the heart of Forest Park barely fifteen minutes later and snagged a coveted spot in the closest parking lot. The museum was built for the 1904 World’s Fair and sat atop Art Hill, where Derek and I went sledding about a million times in college. He was a lot of fun. I kept forgetting how much fun he was.

I walked so fast toward the museum, Jess was the one jogging for once.

“Are you okay?” Jess asked. “This was kind of your spot.”

“Totally fine.” I turned left instead of right and went past the statue of King Louis IX to lean on the wall and gaze at the lovely view where we were once so happy.

“Derek doesn’t think I needed him,” I said.

“He said that?” Jess asked.

“He did.”

“When?”

“Thanksgiving.”

Jess turned around and looked up at the museum. “To be fair, you didn’t.”

“What are you talking about? Of course I needed him. I loved him.”

“Well, that’s not the same thing, is it?”

I turned and watched a young couple hurry up the stairs to get out of the wind. “I needed a lot of things from him. I was never fearless like you two. I would’ve never done half the things I did without him.”

“Tell him that, then,” she said.

“Maybe.”

Jess put her arm through mine. “You’re wrong about the fearless thing.”

“How do you figure?” I asked.

“I’m scared to death to go in there and face Conor Newberry. You’re totally fine with it.”

Vic popped up beside me, leaning heavily on a wooden chair. “It’s not fine. Get out of here.”

Jess and I shrank back from him. I’d never seen anyone look or smell worse. Even the trappers didn’t compare. Vic smelled like a clogged toilet and rotting vegetation combined. He was younger than we’d ever seen him and wore part of a uniform that was sopping wet. A makeshift, dirty bandage covered half his head, and blood soaked his shirt. I couldn’t even look at his feet. He’d healed. He must’ve, but I couldn’t see how they were so horribly swollen and peeling.

“Vic, what happened?” Jess whispered so the people close to us wouldn’t hear.

He dragged the chair closer. “What do you think happened? That mortician got me.”

“We figured that, but what is this?” I asked. “The war?”

“It don’t matter. Stay away from my kid.”

“Did you ever tell him about this?” Jess asked.

“Only a dame would ask that,” he said. “No, I didn’t tell my kid about this. Now, get outta here.”

“We promised Frankie, and you need your son. He needs you,” I said.

“He won’t thank you for it,” Vic said, doubling over with pain.

“You’re wrong.”

“I know. You don’t.”

“We will.”

Vic's eyes begged me, although he appeared unable to speak.

“Trust us,” I said. “And don’t come into the house anymore.”

We walked away, and he tried to chase us, dragging the chair. Hearing that sound hurt, a knife in my heart. He was so desperate.

“Is this right?” I whispered.

Jess wiped a tear off her cheek. “I hope so.”

We walked up the stairs and into the main gallery. Jess knew exactly where to go. Outside was my spot. Inside was hers. She led me to the right through the main European gallery and into a side room straight to the correct painting where the elusive Conor Newberry stood gazing at it, wearing a beat-up Cardinals baseball cap, a Blues jersey, jeans, and hiking boots. He might’ve been able to look less like a world-renowned artist, but I’m not sure how.

“That was fast,” he said without looking at us as we joined him.

“Jess knows this place inside and out,” I said, still shaken by seeing Vic and very afraid he’d appear in the gallery.

He smiled. “Of course she does.” Conor glanced at Jess and said, “You do beautiful portraits.”

She stuttered and squeaked out, “Thank you.”

His eyes went back to the nude bathers with their turtle. “You didn’t tell anyone about me.”

“Of course not,” I said.

“That’s what you said, but I fully expected to wake to have my real name on the news or worse, reporters on my girls’ doorsteps.”

“We would never reveal anything you wanted hidden,” said Jess.

“That’s what I heard when I was in your little town,” he said.

“What did you hear?” I asked.

“That you have curious connections.” As he said that, an elderly man in a black coat with a red neckerchief and large black hat walked by. His face was incredibly weathered, and he carried a bow and two arrows. He looked at me and nodded without pausing.

“Did you hear me?” Conor asked.

“I… Uh, sorry,” I said. “I had a moment.”

“Me too,” said Jess.

The artist looked around and then watched us closely for a minute before saying, “I said that I heard your town and, specifically, your house, is haunted.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “People do say that.”

“How did you find out about me? Don’t say I won’t believe you,” he said.

Jess and I looked at each other. What did we have to lose?

“A friend gave us a tip,” said Jess.

Conor stepped back like we’d come at him suddenly. “Someone I know?”

“No,” I said. “Not even a little.”

He blew out a breath and swallowed. “Who was it?”

“Just someone that would like to heal the rift between you and Vic,” I said.

“There it is again,” he said.

“What?” Jess asked.

“You two sound like you know him personally.”

A security guard walked through and eyed us like we might lunge at the painting, but Conor raised the bill of his hat and the guard nodded before walking off.

“That’s his name,” I said. “Vic.”

“It’s the way you say it,” said Conor. “You can tell a lot by the way people say things.”

“Your father was an interesting man,” said Jess. “We find him fascinating.”

“That’s not it. You call me Mr. Newberry. You call him Vic. With warmth, like his friends did. Who told you how to find me, ladies?”

I glanced back to see if anyone had come in, but the room remained empty. “Her name is Frankie, but it’s not really important.”

Conor’s blue eyes sparkled with interest, but he asked, “Do you still want those files?”

“Yes,” said Jess. “Do you have them?”

He pointed at a portfolio bag propped up against the wall. “It took some digging, but I think I have what you want. Tell me how you knew what was in my backroom.”

Jess crossed her arms. “We didn’t break in.”

“I know. You’re not on my security footage or the footage for the building. I don’t think you’ve ever been there before, and no one broke in. My family hasn’t ever heard of you, so how did you know? Tell me and I’ll let you see his notes.”

I looked over at the portfolio. I wasn’t sure we needed Vic’s work anymore. We were way ahead of him, but there was Frankie to consider, not to mention Vic.

“You might think we’re crazy,” I said.

“A woman told me yesterday that you got rid of the chickens that were haunting her coop, so you won’t be the craziest person I’ve met lately,” said Conor.

“That’s the thing,” said Jess.

“You said that before at my place, right before you said you kinda did know Vic.”

I took off my coat to give me something to do, and the old man walked by again. He said in a gruff voice, “Tell him.”

“Frankie told us,” I said. “She knew Vic.”

“How did she know him?” Conor became tense, and he flexed and unflexed his fingers.

“She didn’t really say,” said Jess. “She was a barmaid, but that place wasn’t his bar. Libby?”

I shrugged, and said, “I assumed she came into Pat Connolly’s and that’s how they knew each other.”

“What does she look like?” Conor asked.

We described Frankie, but the description only irritated him. “Red hair? Are you sure?”

We were sure, but he asked us three more times.

“How close were they?”

“Friends,” I said.

“Just friends?” Conor Newberry came in close so that I could smell paint thinner on him, mixed with coffee and a touch of cologne.

“That’s the impression I got. Jess?”

“I don’t think it was anything more.”

Conor pointed at me. “You said her bar wasn’t my dad’s bar.”

I nodded, and he said, “She was in my loft? This Frankie person.”

Jess put a hand on my arm to steady herself. It wasn’t going to do her much good. I wasn’t feeling so steady myself.

“Yes,” I said, fearing his reaction, but he didn’t say anything, seemingly frozen in thought.

“You can ask us,” said Jess.

“Do you see… Have you seen my…” He trailed off, unable to ask the crazy question, so I answered.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“And Frankie died in 1941, if that helps any,” I said.

Conor Newberry spun around and grabbed his portfolio. I thought he might throw it at us, but he said, “I have to sit down. Let’s go to Panorama.”

“They’re not open yet,” said Jess.

He ignored that, and we chased after him as he raced through the museum to the restaurant that didn’t open until eleven. Conor dashed past the empty hostess podium and went into the empty dining room, going directly to the first table on the right. He tossed his portfolio on the room-length padded seat on the wall and then turned to look at us through the glass with the name Panorama over his head.

“Are you coming?” he yelled.

“What do we do?” I asked Jess.

“It’s Conor Newberry.”

“That doesn’t help me.”

Jess didn’t answer. She went around the glass panel and sat down on a chair Conor pulled out for her. I followed, deeply uncomfortable. Maybe my middle-class roots were showing. You didn’t go into closed restaurants and plop down like you belonged. I expected to have cops come and arrest me. Jess and Conor clearly did not.

“They’re closed,” I said, staring at the chair he pulled out for me.

“They’ll make an exception,” said Conor, and a man came out from the back with a red, irritated face.

“Excuse me. We are not open. You will have to leave,” he said.

Conor took off his cap, and the man stopped on a dime. “I’m sorry, Mr. Newberry. I didn’t know it was you.”

“It’s no trouble, Tyler. My friends and I won’t trouble you. I just needed to sit down.”

“What can I get you?” Tyler asked. “We’re always open for you, Mr. Newberry.”

We ordered lattes, and he went off to make them practically at a run.

I smiled at Conor and said, “It’s good to be the king.”

He surprised me by laughing. “Sometimes. Here particularly.”

“You don’t mind them knowing you,” said Jess.

“This is my world. Here they understand my need for privacy.”

I sat down and waited for him to start, but he said nothing until Tyler came back with our coffee and told him that the roasted tomato bisque was ready if he’d like some.

“Maybe a little later. Thank you,” said Conor, and when the young man had gone, he turned to us and asked, “Do you see her now?”

“Frankie?” Jess asked.

“Yes.”

“No. We’re alone.”

He looked so disappointed that I felt terrible.

“Do you want her here?” I asked.

“I’d like to ask her a question,” he said. “She’s…been around all this time?”

We told her what we knew about Frankie, which was more limited than I realized. We didn’t know her full name or if she was married or anything. It was kind of pathetic for afterlife detectives.

“What did she say about me?” Conor asked.

“That you’re Vic’s son and you’re estranged,” I said. “She really wants to fix that. She likes you.”

“But what did she tell you?”

I was at a loss, so I ended up telling him about the conversation with Frankie and the three Johns. I thought he’d be offended when I mentioned the disloyal-son stuff, but he didn’t seem to care.

“They don’t know why we stopped talking?” Conor slumped back in his chair and slapped his cap back on his head.

“Why would you ask that?” Jess asked. “You know, don’t you?”

“Of course I know,” he said. “What has he said?”

“He?”

“You’ve seen Vic. He must’ve put you on the Tunny case. No one else would care about that now.”

We went ahead and told him everything, and Conor Newberry became so dejected, he seemed ready to sink into the floor.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Even in death, he’s trying to keep her from me.”

“Who?”

“My mother.”

We stayed at Panorama until they opened and then ordered lunch. The bisque was excellent, especially because we got to hear Conor’s story. We were the only people he’d ever told other than the woman he considered a second mother, Mary Newberry.

Conor didn’t really remember his real mother. He had images of a woman, young and blond. She sang to him. He was sure about that, and he could remember being in a wooden crib, but that was it.

Vic came to get him when he was two. He didn’t remember that happening, but Mary had told him that one day she was cleaning Vic’s apartment and he walked in carrying a little boy. He told her that the boy was his son and his name was Victor Delaney Jr. Mary never doubted the truth of that. She always said they were peas in a pod. Vic offered her his back bedroom and to pay her double what she was making cleaning for her other clients if she’d move in and take care of the boy.

Mary fell in love with Conor, and from that moment on, they were practically inseparable. She was a wonderful and loving caretaker. So loving that for the longest time Conor believed she was his mother, even when she and Vic corrected him.

“So you had a happy childhood?” Jess asked.

Conor smiled, his eyes crinkling. “I’d have to say it was near to perfect because of Mary.”

“But Vic wasn’t so great?” I asked.

“He was pretty great for an old man. He was sixty-five when I was born. We couldn’t play sports, but I wanted for nothing. Vic worked constantly, but we had fun. He taught me to play cards and took me to the tavern. I remember that John you were talking about. Sweet man. He used to find quarters behind my ear.”

“What happened?” Jess asked.

“I was…a busy kid. Always moving. Always creating. Even when I was little. Mary encouraged me.” Conor looked away, his blue eyes moist. “She gave me my first paints, pencils, everything, really.”

“Vic was against your art?” Jess asked.

“He didn’t mind it, but I think he considered it kid stuff and I’d grow out of it.”

“Boy, was he wrong,” I said.

“The point is that I wasn’t much of a thinker,” said Conor. “All I wanted was to create. I accepted my life. I didn’t have a mother, but I had Mary. She was a lot better than my friends’ mothers, I can tell you that. So I never asked about my birth mother more than a couple of times. Vic evaded the questions, and Mary genuinely didn’t know.”

“You weren’t curious?” Jess asked.

“I was curious about everything but that. How does this color change the entire feeling of a painting? How can I paint concrete and make you think that it has texture when it doesn’t? How do the bones of the hand form the topography of the skin? Does age change that?”

“Just the average kid, then?” I asked with a laugh.

“I thought I was. I bet your boys think they’re average too.”

“They do not suffer from that delusion.”

Conor sipped his coffee. “I could tell they don’t think they’re better than anyone else.”

“They do not think that, thank goodness,” I said. “If you grew up not questioning where you came from, how did that change?”

“I got a driver’s license.”

Who knew something so mundane as a driver’s license could change a life and a relationship forever? Back when Conor got his license in 1976, it was a simple procedure. No driving logs or classes. He needed one thing: his birth certificate. Vic gave it to him. Conor didn’t even look at the names on the certificate. He took it down to the DMV and got in line to take his written test. The woman behind the counter sneered at him and asked why his parents weren’t married. Conor didn’t have an answer. He didn’t even know that they weren’t. The woman read out his mother’s name. Mary Smith. The way she said it made it sound like she thought it was fake. Then she filled out his paperwork, muttering about not coming up with anything better and people these days, no morals.

When she gave him his test, she said, “You should find out why you’re a bastard.”

He was so stunned, he left without taking the test and went straight home to Mary, who did her best to comfort him. Conor wanted to ask Vic, but he was traveling on a case. He never stopped working until the day he died. Mary took Conor back to the DMV and yelled at that woman. He took both his tests and passed.

“And he wouldn’t tell you who she was?” I asked.

“No. He wouldn’t tell me anything. He was offended, like it meant that he hadn’t taken care of me properly. It wasn’t that, but once I started thinking about her, my mother, I had to know.” Conor looked a bit chagrinned. “I can get fixated on things. I drew hundreds of hands until I was satisfied. I had blisters, but I couldn’t stop. I was like that with my mother. I kept after Vic. He knew where she was, and I could tell the name was fake just by the way he acted about it. Eventually, he stopped speaking to me.”

“He stopped speaking to you?” Jess asked. “I had the impression that you stopped speaking to him.”

“I may as well have. I wouldn’t talk about anything but my mother, and he wouldn’t speak about her at all, so there was nothing to say.”

“In a way, he cut you off,” I said.

Conor looked at me with relief. “Yes, that’s what it felt like. He’d rather not have me in his life than tell me what I wanted to know. I thought I had a right to know my own mother’s name. It didn’t seem like an extraordinary thing to ask.”

“It wasn’t.”

“And that’s how I became Conor Newberry. I went to Webster and studied art. He paid for it, but I don’t think he spoke two words to me during the entire four years. I had shows and won awards. He never came to anything, including my graduation.”

“Did he know about them?” Jess asked.

“He knew. Mary came to every single thing I ever had. She said he wouldn’t discuss the situation with her, but she kept him updated on everything. She said he was proud, but I knew he didn’t want me to be an artist. I was supposed to be a shyster,” he said with a laugh. “Me, a lawyer, can you imagine?”

“Parents get ideas,” said Jess. “My mother thinks I’m a writer like her. I’m not, but she’ll never stop thinking that.”

“What about you?” Conor asked me.

“I only ever wanted to be a mother. My parents thought that was grand.”

Jess elbowed me. “You might as well know. Libby had the perfect parents. Two Marys.”

“Some people have all the luck.” He paused for a moment and said, “I was lucky. Having Mary raise me was the best anyone could hope for, and Vic wasn’t a bad man. He did love me. It all got out of hand. When he didn’t show up for my graduation, hearing his name when I crossed the stage infuriated me. I never wanted to hear it again. I knew I’d be a successful artist. I had no doubts about that, and I wasn’t giving that to him, so I changed my name after he died.”

“Why Conor?” Jess asked.

“Mary had once told me that if she ever had a son, she would’ve named him Conor. I was her son. I was Conor.”

We finished our lunch, and Tyler came to offer us dessert. Conor insisted we try the bread pudding, so we all three ordered it. When he was gone, I asked, “Have you tried having a DNA test done?”

“I did. Dead end.”

“How?”

Conor had hired an expert to trace his DNA, but despite what we’d seen on PBS, it wasn’t as easy as it seemed. The closest relative was a fifth cousin, and with no other DNA for comparison, there were literally dozens of women who could be Conor’s mother. The expert went out and tried to get a couple of samples of DNA from possible relatives, but no one was interested in giving up their DNA without a TV show involved.

“I have no history,” he said. “No family. Vic was an only child, and he had me late, so I never knew my grandparents. When Mary died, I was alone.”

“You have your girls,” Jess said. “Frankie said you have grandchildren.”

He smiled and said, “The future is bright. It’s the past that’s dark. Frankie has no idea why he wouldn’t tell me?”

“We can ask, but she doesn’t know why you’re estranged, so I don’t think she or the Johns would have any clue. Vic just turned up one day with a kid. That’s what they know.”

“Do you have any sense of why he wouldn’t tell me?” he asked.

Jess talked about Vic’s efforts to keep us from him, but all I could think about was my boys. The Eggs always sunny-side up. I would take the secret of Derek's affair to the grave. Knowing would change them, how they felt about their father, me, and, most importantly, themselves. I couldn’t risk that. I wouldn’t. Never.

“It would hurt you,” I said.

Jess and Conor looked at me.

“What?” she asked.

I told them about the conversation we’d had outside, and Conor asked, “I won’t thank you for getting the truth?”

“That’s how I’m interpreting it,” I said.

Tyler brought our bread puddings and more coffees. We ate for a few minutes in silence before Conor asked, “Do you think he hurt her?”

The thought had occurred to me. Conor had a mother. Where was she? Mothers would typically walk through fire for their kids. Had something happened that Vic was ashamed of?

“No,” said Jess. “Vic was a ladies’ man.”

“You got that right,” said Conor. “So many ladies. Even as an old man, he could reel them in. It was astonishing. But that doesn’t mean that he’s a saint. People do things in anger.”

“Vic didn’t kill your mother,” Jess whispered.

“How do you know?”

“He’s not that kind of man.”

Conor looked at me, and I couldn’t say anything. No one thought Professor Schramm would kill anyone, but he did.

“You don’t know, do you, Libby?” Conor asked.

“Libby!” Jess exclaimed. “Just because he called us dames and skirts, that’s no reason to suspect the worst.”

“That’s not why, Jess,” I said. “Conor is right. How bad does the secret have to be to lose your only child over it? Pretty dang bad, I’d say.”

“Then he’ll never tell you, and I’ll never know,” he said, his eyes on his remaining pudding.

“I didn’t say that. Jess, show him your drawing of the girl.”

Conor looked up. “What girl?”

We explained that we’d seen a girl in his apartment, and Jess pulled her sketchbook out of her bag and showed him.

“The level of detail is extraordinary,” he said. “You only saw her for a couple of minutes?”

“That’s all it takes,” I said. “Jess is extraordinary that way.”

His eyes roamed over the page. “I don’t know her.”

“It’s not Mary?” Jess asked. “Frankie thought if anyone was with you, it would be her.”

“Reasonable, but no,” he said. “I have pictures of Mary. Some are from when she was a child. It’s not her.”

“You said you remembered a blonde woman,” I said.

“Yes. That’s why I was disappointed when you said Frankie had red hair. I thought it might be her,” he said, his eyes filling. “This could be her. This could be my mother.”

“Don’t get too excited,” said Jess, and she told him about Elsie. “People get attached to places and things. That girl could’ve worked at the factory or owned an antique in your house.”

“No,” I said. “She reacted to Vic’s name. Remember?”

“I forgot. She did. She really did.”

“This is my mother,” he said breathlessly. “Come home with me. Ask her. Talk to her for me.”

“We can’t force it,” said Jess. “When we mentioned we had skills, she didn’t like it. She disappeared.”

“Then you have to get Vic to tell me her name.”

“He won’t,” I said. “He’s willing to endure pain to get us to leave you alone.”

“What do you mean?”

I described Vic’s condition outside and earlier, when he’d tried to get past Leo.

“I had no idea he went through that,” said Conor.

“He didn’t want to tell you. He thought it would upset you,” I said. “And that’s my point. He will endure anything not to hurt you.”

Conor looked at the ceiling. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” said Jess.

We looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Solve the case.”

“The Tunny case?” I asked. “How will that help?”

She pointed at me. “It won’t.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Remember why Vic came to us in the first place?” Jess asked.

“Sure. He wants to move on.”

Conor leaned forward. “What are you saying? He wants to go to heaven?”

“I presume so,” I said. “Tunny was his only unsolved case. He thinks it’s holding him here.”

“Then you can’t solve it,” said Conor. “He’ll be gone forever and the truth with him.”

Jess shook her head. “He’s wrong. It’s not the case. It’s you.”

“How do you know?”

Jess and Leo had spent a lot of time talking about Hal, moving on, and those that stay. He thought love was the most common reason. It certainly wasn’t pride, and that’s all that the Tunny case was. A point of pride.

“But it would be unfinished business,” said Conor.

“What else would you call your situation?” Jess asked.

Conor grabbed his portfolio and opened it. “Let’s take a look at his notes, but prepare yourself. They aren’t organized.”

That was an understatement. It had taken Conor and his girls hours to sift through Vic’s files. At first, he’d thought it would be easy. He’d kept everything just as it was. He thought that maybe his mother’s name was in there somewhere, and he’d gone through them several times over the years. The Tunny case was unusual in that there was almost nothing in the actual file. One of Conor’s daughters decided to look at the files on either side. She found a gas receipt to be billed to the Tunny family. That got them started. It looked like Vic was well-organized at first, but then everything went to hell when Frankie was murdered and never got organized again. Receipts and notes were all over the place.

“I’m sorry there isn’t more,” said Conor.

“This is a lot,” I said.

“But is it helpful?”

That was hard to say. Conor and his girls only came up with the stack of notes and bills based on dates. The one thing Vic did was date absolutely everything, so they pulled everything dated around the time he started working the case. Vic had every kind of note you could imagine. There was a little black notebook with tons of his scribbles in it, notes on restaurant bills, and hotel receipts, and typewritten notes.

“Usually, he got everything organized later,” said Conor. “His other files are neat and tidy. I got the feeling he did that when he was done or nearing the end of the investigation, but that never happened with Tunny.”

“Maybe he did it to organize his thoughts,” I said. “My husband does that when working a case. Information everywhere and then he brings it together when he gets serious. I don’t know why that works, but it seems to for him.”

We went through Vic’s notes several times, organizing and reorganizing. The O’Learys weren’t there, but the name Fibonacci was in his notebook and on several scraps of paper, along with a few other names that Google told us were crime families from back in the day. Vic had written all those families once and then scratched them out. Fibonacci appeared three times, but he scratched them out too. The other families had little notes like “In Chicago” or “Wrong trade.” The Fibonaccis didn’t have a note.

“Why are you excited about that?” Conor asked.

“Because they killed the O’Learys. The ones that actually did it,” said Jess.

“And Vic never suspected them?”

“He didn’t. There are so many names,” Jess said. “He’s got neighbors, a grocer, and the guy that sold Tunny the Packard.”

“Let’s put them aside,” I said. “They’re irrelevant. Just the Fibonaccis.”

We pulled the three notes with their name and then put them in order by date. The first mention was just the name and nothing else. The second had several locations under the Fibonacci name, like The Hill and Des Peres. Vic had written the third on a diner receipt for two people. They had breakfast. The name at the top was Father Giovannini, and next to it, Fibonacci, with a kind of laundry list of crimes: gambling, protection rackets, and the like. St. Seb didn’t appear with Fibonacci anywhere, and Vic had scratched the name out on the breakfast receipt.

“He didn’t think they did it,” said Jess.

“But why?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s important.”

I sat back and crossed my arms. “It must be. They killed the O’Learys.”

“Can I see it?” Conor asked, and Jess gave him the receipt.

“It looks like he ran out of space. This is pretty crowded.”

“They were busy criminals,” I said.

“What’s this at the bottom?” Conor asked. “Wedding?”

He gave it back, and we saw it. Vic had written “wedding” at the bottom and circled it, but it wasn’t near anything about the Fibonaccis. He’d scribbled it under the name of the waitress, who’d written a pretty ballsy come-on and her phone number. The man did have a way about him.

“What wedding?” Jess asked.

“Could this have something to do with a wedding?” Conor asked.

“Well, we found out that Tunny and Paul Castiglione were tight from Tunny’s family. They had a wedding photo,” I said.

“And a picture of them as altar boys,” said Jess.

“Do you have them?” he asked.

I showed him the photos, and he flipped back and forth between them multiple times.

“What are you seeing?” Jess asked.

Conor Newberry looked exactly the way his dad did when we weren’t driving him up a wall. Then he handed my phone to Jess. “You have the eye for faces. Look, and you tell me.”

Jess did, blowing up the photo and flipping back and forth. Then she and her hero were both smiling at me.

“Someone want to let me in on it?” I asked.

They pointed at a man in the wedding photo that I hadn’t paid attention to before. He was handsome, but not as handsome as Paul Castiglione, with a larger nose and a low hairline.

“Now look at the altar boys,” said Conor.

I looked and shrugged. “Boys wearing white smocks over robes. So what?”

“Look at Paul. Tunny’s on his left, and who’s on his right?” Jess asked.

I yawned. “I give up.”

“The guy in the wedding,” said Conor. “Look.”

I looked and said, “Okay. I see the resemblance, but what are you thinking? This is a Fibonacci?”

“Why not? I’m sure they’re Catholic,” said Conor.

Was this the wedding Vic was referring to? We could ask, but I wasn’t sure he’d ever show up for us again.

“We didn’t look at the back,” I said.

“The back of what?” Conor asked.

“The photos,” said Jess. “We didn’t need to. Jack knew who they were.”

We told Conor who Jack Tunny was, and then I called him. Lucky for us, he answered, and even luckier, he was home, because he had no clue about the other man in the photo. He couldn’t remember anyone ever mentioning him.

“Can you look at the back and see if it names the people?”

“Sure. Hold on.” Jack went and got the album. I could hear him carefully taking the photo out. “Well, you’re kind of in luck.”

“How so?” I asked.

“It just says Dominick. Spelled with a K if that helps.”

“Can you look at the back of the altar boys photo?”

“Let me put this one back,” said Jack. “What exactly are you thinking?”

“That Dominick is a Fibonacci,” I said.

“And that’s good?”

I thought about it and said, “I think so. Have you got it?”

“What do you know? Dominick again. How did you know?” Jack asked.

“A friend looked at the photos and thought they were the same person.”

“Good eye.”

I smiled at Conor. “The best eye.”

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Jack asked.

“Very. I’ll let you know when we wrap it up.”

Jess looked down at her sketch, so amazing with its detail. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

“You weren’t looking for commonalities,” said Conor. “I do that. Another thing I obsess over.”

I started dialing my phone again, and Jess said, “Who are you calling?”

“Joe. If Tunny was in Paul’s wedding, I bet Dominick was too.”

Joe Castiglione didn’t answer quite as quickly, and when he did, there was a woman in the background that wasn’t happy about it.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said.

“Hold on. I’m going outside,” said Joe.

“Don’t you go outside,” said the woman. “We are finishing this.”

“This will only take a minute.”

“That’s what you always say.”

There was the sound of a door closing and then Joe said, “Did you get my autograph?”

He was loud enough that Conor raised his brows, and Jess said, “He’s a fan.”

“Not yet,” I said. “But we’re working on it.”

Conor scowled at me, but in a way that said he’d give us the autograph.

“What can I do for you?” Joe asked.

“Was there a Fibonacci in Paul’s wedding?”

Joe gasped, “Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“I vaguely remember some talk when I was a kid about us knowing them a long time ago. I thought it was cool, like we knew people like The Godfather or something. Whenever I asked about it, I got shushed. Is this the connection you were looking for?”

“The Fibonaccis wiped out the O’Learys for a reason. If Paul and Tunny were tight with the Fibonaccis, it makes sense,” I said.

“Do you have a name?”

“Dominick. We’re assuming Fibonacci is his last name from a lead we have.”

“I can ask everyone, but I wouldn’t count on them knowing,” said Joe.

“If someone has Paul’s wedding photo, look at the back,” I said. “That’s how we got Dominick. It’s on Tunny’s and on the altar boy photo.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

I was about to hang up when Jess said, “Ask about the church.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“Where did Paul get married?”

Of course. I should’ve thought of that.

I asked Joe, and he had no clue. His family hadn’t lived on The Hill in decades, but he’d ask about that too.

“I don’t think we should hold our breath,” I said after I hung up.

“No need,” said Jess, and she held up her phone, showing a black-and-white photo of a plain church with white clapboard siding. “It’s St. Ambrose on The Hill.”

“Are you sure about that?” I asked. “It looks like it belongs on the prairie.”

“It burned down in 1921,” she said, changing the photo. “Then they built this one.”

That church was familiar, brick with impressive arches and Romanesque in style. We’d driven by it earlier.

“Look at your photo of the altar boys,” said Conor.

His eye was good, and that artist missed nothing. The boys were standing in front of that plain white church.

“You want to go to church?” I asked him.

“That I will pass on.” Conor paid the bill, and we walked back through the museum. The guards nodded to him, and I didn’t see the old man again, or Vic, for that matter.

Conor stopped at the main entrance and said, “What will you say when you see him again?”

“You’re assuming he’ll come back,” I said. “He was very upset that we were meeting you.”

“No question. Vic Delaney wasn’t one to give up on a case.”

The words just his son hung in the air, unsaid by any of us, but I’m sure we were all thinking it.

“He’ll be back,” said Jess with confidence. “When he doesn’t move on, he’ll be back.”

I shivered in the wind that always seemed to be blowing on top of Art Hill, and the platform around the king held only the living. No WWI soldiers in terrible pain or 1930s detectives, cool and well-dressed. Vic Delaney had been many things. A man who loved his son enough to lose him was just one.

“We’ll see,” I said.

“Hold on.” Conor pulled a small sketchbook out of his portfolio and quickly doodled something. He signed it and handed it to me.

Jess gasped. “It’s amazing. He’ll be so happy.”

Joe Castiglione would be the owner of not only Conor Newberry’s autograph but of an abstract sketch of Paul Castiglione in front of St. Ambrose.

“Let me know,” said Conor, and he walked back inside.

“To the church?” I asked.

“Do you really think they’ll know anything after all this time?” Jess asked.

“I do. If nothing else, there’ll be records.”

She took my arm. “To the church.”

Chapter Twenty

We drove back to The Hill at what looked like the height of Saturday shopping, and it was hard to find a parking spot near the church. We ended up parking at the parish school, a mid-century modern building that had some cool vibes to it. The church itself couldn’t have been more different from its original version. The community went all out with the decorative brickwork and columns, making sure it didn’t burn again.

Memorial plaques covered the sidewalk to front of the church, and it felt like sacrilege to walk on them, so we dodged them as best we could before dashing up the stairs and through the center door.

Out of the wind, it was suddenly peaceful and quiet. St. Ambrose wasn’t ornate the way I expected it to be. It had decoration, but elegant and not overdone, with buttery-yellow walls and understated marble pillars holding up the many arches down to the altar.

Jess spun around. “Where do we go?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

The soft sound of footsteps behind us made us turn to find a smiling priest standing behind us. I didn’t know where he came from. The door hadn’t opened. I had the urge to poke him, but I restrained myself.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Is he alive? I can’t tell.

“I hope so,” I said. “We’re looking for information about a parishioner.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t give out information about our parishioners.”

“It’s not a current member of your church,” said Jess. “We’re investigating a crime that took place in 1941.”

“That is a long time ago. I’m not sure how I can help.”

“We have pictures, and we’re trying to identify someone in the photos,” I said.

The priest smiled. “I can try.”

I showed him all the photos, and he said, “Where did you get these? They’re wonderful. We don’t have much from that period. Our first building burned down in 1921.”

We told him about Jack Tunny and pointed out John K. Tunny III and Paul Castiglione in the photos.

“We’re looking for the identity of this man standing next to them,” I said.

The priest kept looking and asked, “Are you sure about Mr. Tunny?”

“Absolutely,” said Jess.

“This was the church that the Italian community built. I doubt there would’ve been many Irish coming to mass here.”

“They weren’t allowed?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “But the Irish and Italians had their own separate enclaves back then. I’d expect the Tunny family to go to St. James, for instance.”

“It’s definitely Tunny,” I said. “He grew up with Paul Castiglione. They were best friends. We think the other man was named Dominick. His name is on the back, but there’s no last name.”

“I wish I could tell you, but like I said, the church burned down.”

“We think he’s a Fibonacci,” said Jess with her most charming and innocent smile.

The priest stepped back. “They don’t attend St. Ambrose anymore.”

“Where did they go?” I asked.

“The cathedral.”

“Do you happen to have any connections with that family?”

The priest reached out and took my hand. “Ladies, you’d do well to steer clear of that family.”

I patted his hand and said, “The Tunny family needs to know what happened to John, and Paul killed himself. Those two events are related.”

“What could the Fibonaccis have to do with that?”

“Revenge,” said Jess. “We think they took revenge for Paul’s death, but we need to know why.”

The priest took my phone and looked at the wedding photo again. “The Castigliones aren’t here anymore. Do you think there’s a chance that Paul didn’t kill himself?”

“Possibly,” I said. “Or he was driven to it.”

He handed back my phone. “I can’t help you, but perhaps Wally can. He’s one of our oldest parishioners, nearly eighty-eight.” The priest smiled. “Wally’s an old gossip. He’d love a couple of pretty ladies to listen to his stories. If anyone would know, it would be Wally Morello.”

“Where can we find him?” Jess asked.

I expected him to say some retirement home in the burbs, but the priest smiled again. “You’re in luck. Wally spends almost every afternoon at Shaw’s having his espresso and biscotti. His daughter-in-law takes him to get his biscotti and then drops him off. I think she needs a break, and the staff likes him.”

“Shaw’s Garden?” I asked.

“No. The coffee shop. They roast their own beans. You’re in for a treat. Take a right on Marconi, and it’s maybe a four-minute walk. Tell Wally Father Joseph sent you, not that you’ll need a reference,” he said. “Your faces will be enough to get him talking.”

We followed Father Joseph’s directions and hurried through the welcoming neighborhood decorated with the Italian flag’s colors, green, white, and red, wherever it could possibly be painted or displayed, from banners on streetlamps to fire hydrants. We crossed the street, walking over the equally colorful crosswalk to Shaw’s on the corner of Marconi and Shaw. It had cheerful yellow awnings over large windows in a vintage building with original fittings.

The smell of roasting coffee greeted us before we went inside.

“I’ve had so much caffeine today,” said Jess.

“Like that ever stopped us,” I said, pulling open the door to find a charming shop with wood accents, the original tin ceiling painted silver, and lots of potted plants to make it cozy. The building must’ve been a bank at one time. There was an enormous safety deposit vault built into the wall with seating inside. The place was empty, except for an elderly man sitting on a love seat, looking out the front window at the passing traffic and munching on biscotti. He looked very snug with a lap blanket and an espresso on the table in front of him.

“What can I get you?” said a barista from behind a wooden bar decorated with cool old posters.

“What do you recommend?” Jess asked.

He laughed. “Everything.”

I ordered a Shaw’s steamer with hazelnut, and Jess got a macchiato. The barista said he’d get right on it and told us to take a seat, any seat. It was the afternoon lull, which was perhaps why they didn’t mind Wally taking up space.

We walked around the love seat, and Wally looked up with pleasure. “Ladies?”

“Wally Morello?” Jess asked.

“The one and only.”

“Father Joseph sent us,” I said. “He said you were a font of information and might be able to help us.”

“A font, eh? Gossip, more like.” Wally chuckled and asked us to sit down. “What can I help you with?”

“We’re investigating a murder,” said Jess. “And we’re hoping you can help identify someone.”

“A murder? Don’t that beat all.” The old man set down his biscotti on a napkin and leaned forward. “A murder at St. Ambrose? We’ve only had one of them.”

“I’m surprised you’ve had that many,” I said.

“It wasn’t at the church.” He crossed himself. “Thank the Lord. Technically, she wasn’t one of our parishioners, but she attended mass sometimes, so we counted her as one of our own. You’re looking into that? It was a very long time ago. She was my mother’s friend, but she wasn’t Italian, which might surprise you given our neighborhood, but my mother made friends with everyone.”

“This was in 1941,” said Jess.

“So it is that poor woman,” he said. “I don’t know why you’re looking into that. They caught the man and sent him to the electric chair. Served him right. Frankie Mahan was a sweet woman.”

At the sound of her name, Frankie appeared beside Wally, wearing what had to be her Sunday best: a silky dress, gloves, and a hat with flowers and netting.

“Wally,” she said. “Such a sweet child.”

“Not that murder, Mr. Morello,” said Jess.

“Call me Wally. Everyone does.”

I leaned over the coffee table and held out my phone. “This is John K. Tunny’s wedding at St. Ambrose. That’s Paul Castiglione on the right of him. Do you know who’s on the left? His first name was Dominick.”

Wally got out a pair of reading glasses and looked. “How old do you think I am?”

“Almost eighty-eight.”

He tapped the phone. “I’m not that old, and Tunny isn’t an Italian name. The Irish didn’t marry at our church back then.”

“But you said Frankie came to mass,” said Jess.

“That was because of my mother. They had fun together. I was little, but I remember,” said Wally.

I glanced up at Frankie and she nodded.

I showed him the altar boy photo. “That’s him. He was an altar boy at St. Ambrose.”

He picked up his espresso with tremulous hands and asked, “What was that name?”

“Tunny. John K. Tunny,” said Jess.

“Was his mother Italian?”

“She could’ve been. We don’t know.”

Wally remembered a family where an Italian girl married an Irish boy. He called it a scandal, but the Irishman died and the girl came back with her children to St. Ambrose.

“That could be them,” I said. “Do you know anything about the Castigliones?”

“They own a big company. Good family. They don’t attend mass at St. Ambrose anymore,” he said, “but they had a scandal too.”

Wally went on to tell us all about Paul’s suicide and the shock that went through the community. He remembered it clearly. His mother kept shooing him out of the room, but he learned the details from his little friends, who were adept at listening at keyholes.

“We had so many lessons on the sin of suicide and damnation after that. I remember the family sitting all alone at Sunday mass. It was a terrible thing back in those days.”

“The parishioners shunned them?” Jess asked in horror.

“No, not exactly, but there were rumors of business issues and maybe he was going to be arrested. No one wanted to get too close for fear of being associated. You think he was murdered?”

“No,” I said, and I told him the connections we’d found. When I said Vic’s name, he appeared, partially healed and dry but still using his chair to stand. I must’ve been obvious with my looking, because Frankie asked, “Is Vic here?”

I gave a little nod, and she asked, “Why can’t I see him?”

Jess and I both shrugged as Wally talked about the Castiglione family and the Fibonaccis. He knew quite a bit of gossip, but nothing to do with crime.

“Have you ever heard of the O’Learys before?” Jess asked.

“Can’t say that I have,” said Wally. “You say the Fibonaccis killed them? When was that?”

I’d already told him, but said, “1942. Two days after Paul Castiglione died.”

“I don’t remember that, but the Fibonaccis were off-limits when I was young.” He smiled, turning his face into a collection of creases. “So, naturally, I had to make friends with them.”

“You know the Fibonaccis?” I asked.

“I bet Father Joseph told you to stay away from them.”

“He did.”

The old man polished off his espresso and raised a hand.

The barista came over with our coffees and said, “Another one, Wally?”

“I don’t mind if I do.”

“Coming right up.”

The barista left, and Wally gave us a sly smile. “Ignore Father Joseph. He’s a worrywart. The Fibonaccis are nothing to worry about if you stay on the right side of them.”

“What’s the right side?” Jess asked.

“The side that has nothing to do with their business.”

“The O’Learys didn’t stay on the right side,” I said.

He picked up his biscotti and took a little nibble. “Hurting a friend would do it. What was that name again?”

“Dominick,” I said.

“You know who we should ask?” Wally held up his biscotti. “Tuna.”

Jess and I were confused, but Vic nodded vigorously, so I said, “Sure. Let’s ask…Tuna.”

“He’s a mortician,” said Wally. “They know all the secrets.”

“Tuna is a mortician?” Jess asked.

“And a friend to the Fibonaccis,” he said with triumph. “In their world, a good mortician is essential.”

“Where does he work?” I asked.

“He’s mostly retired.” Wally pulled out his phone and peered at it. “I’ve got his number in this thing somewhere.” He looked up. “You’re sure you’re not after anything nowadays?”

“1942. That’s all we care about,” I said.

“That should be the right side.” Wally handed me his phone. “Tuna Licata. The Licatas go way back with the Fibonaccis.”

I found Tuna under the Ts, not the Ls, and Wally had me text a request for a meeting. On his instructions, I didn’t mention me and Jess. Tuna replied that he’d be right over, giving me a queasy stomach. If the Licatas went way back, they might’ve been the ones to get rid of the O’Learys.

“We’ll give him a jolt,” said Wally.

“Is that a good idea?” Jess asked.

The old man grinned. “Let’s find out. Now tell me about yourselves. Lady detectives. I thought that only happened on the boob tube.”

Wally insisted we give him our life stories, and he gave us his. Vic would’ve been pacing, but he still wasn’t able to walk all that well. Frankie was quiet, but asked several times what this had to do with Conor and Vic. We couldn’t answer without looking nuts.

When Wally was wrapping up his stint in the Navy, an enormous man walked in Shaw’s. I knew instantly that he was Tuna. He had to be. He wore a black suit with a black tie and white shirt. Nothing said mortician like that.

The man turned to us, his girth brushing against the nearest potted plant, and he raised his eyebrows that were so black, they had to be dyed.

“Wally, what are you up to?” Tuna asked with a belly laugh, and then called out to the barista, “Double espresso.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tuna came over, surprisingly light on his feet considering his tremendous bulk, and he squeezed himself into a captain’s chair that creaked with the strain.

He ran his hands—he had two pinkie rings and a wedding band—over his thick, coal-black hair. I’d have guessed he was anywhere from sixty to seventy-five.

“Always with the ladies, Wally,” he said, reaching out and taking my hand. “Giovanni Licata. My friends call me Tuna.”

I shook his hand, and then Jess did. Neither of us knew what to say. Tuna had piercing eyes and a sharp awareness that clammed us up.

“These two are detectives, Tuna,” said Wally. “They’ve got some questions.”

Tuna didn’t react. I had the impression that he had plenty of experience with being questioned by far more intimidating people than us.

“Curiosity,” he said. “I’ve always liked that in the ladies.”

“They are investigating a case from 1942.”

Tuna looked at us with his own curiosity. “And you think I’d know something about it?”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Tuna,” said Wally. “You know everything about the family. You’re their unofficial historian.”

Tuna preened with the compliment and smoothed his tie. “I might be. What are you ladies after?”

“Paul Castiglione’s death and the O’Learys?” I asked.

The big man leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Well, isn’t that interesting?”

“Is it?” Jess asked.

“There’s been talk about Paul Castiglione lately.”

“But that’s ancient history, Tuna,” said Wally.

“Apparently not. Someone was nosing around asking questions.”

Wally looked at us. “Who have you been talking to?”

I smiled and sipped my drink. “Everyone we can think of. Most recently, Joe Castiglione.”

Wally shook his head. “Jeanette. She’s got a big mouth.”

“You should talk,” said Tuna, turning to us. “You got Joe to give you the books from way back when? What are you looking for?”

“Something to show that the O’Learys were after Paul Castiglione like they were his friend John Tunny,” I said. “Paul bought John’s business, and we think he inherited a problem with the O’Learys.”

The barista brought Tuna’s double espresso. He sipped it, keeping his piercing eyes on us.

I swallowed hard and said, “The Tunny family thinks someone murdered John. Tunny’s wife thought they killed Paul too. We’re just trying to find out what happened.”

“And you think the family knows?” Tuna asked.

Vic finally spoke. “The Fibonaccis don’t go off half-cocked. They knew everything if they rubbed out the O’Learys.”

“I’ve heard the family doesn’t go off half-cocked,” I said.

“No, they don’t,” muttered Wally, and Tuna nodded.

“So if they did something, they knew everything,” said Jess, growing paler as she spoke.

“He knows,” said Vic. “I can smell it on him. He knows.”

“Is Vic talking?” Frankie asked. “Can’t you tell him I’m here?”

Tuna sipped his espresso and his expression grew more intense. If Jess didn’t pee a little, I’d be surprised.

“What do you plan to do with this information?” Tuna asked.

I forced myself to relax on the bench. “Not much. Tell the Tunnys and the Castigliones what happened. Joe thought Paul was bad at business before we showed up.”

“You know he wasn’t?”

“He’d have to work pretty hard to ruin the business he bought from Tunny in such a short amount of time.”

Tuna turned to the barista. “Hey! Anyone in the vault?”

“No, sir. We’re slow right now.”

The big man got himself out of his chair. “Have you seen the vault?”

I’m so nervous.

“No,” I said.

“Let’s take a look,” said Tuna.

I looked at Jess, but she was up and going. No fear. Maybe she wasn’t peeing.

“Are you coming, Wally?” I asked the old man.

“I know my place,” he said, and went back to looking out the window.

I didn’t think I could get more nervous, but then Tuna said to the barista, “Head off anyone coming to the vault. I’m taking it.”

“Yes, Mr. Licata.”

I followed Jess and Tuna into the vault like some kind of lemming. I didn’t decide to go in there, but I went. Jess sat down on one chair and Tuna moved another so that it was facing the door and then wedged himself into it.

Frankie came in and stood at the back, looking as nervous as I felt, and Vic stayed in the doorway with his chair.

“Tell me what you know,” Tuna said, folding his hands over his belly.

I couldn’t find my voice, so Jess told the story, leaving out the ghosts, of course, and Tuna nodded as she spoke with pleasure on his face.

“You two didn’t do half bad,” he said. “You hardly need me.”

“We need him,” said Vic. “Get that bastard talkin’.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Frankie. “Use the books. You have the books. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

I’m pretty sure I do, and it’s anything.

“We can put two and two together, but we’ll never really know,” I said.

“I’m impressed you found the car,” said Tuna. “We never found it, and we looked hard.”

“It was probably on the Schmidts’ farm the whole time,” said Jess.

“Who cares about the damn car?” Vic exploded and banged his chair on the floor. “What happened?”

Tuna nodded. “They had to stash it immediately, or we would’ve found it. The word was out.”

“Because?” I asked.

The big man chuckled. “Because Paul Castiglione asked for help.”

“And he was the kind of guy you help?”

“He wasn’t with us, but he had a connection through Dominick Fibonacci,” he said. “Let me see those pictures.”

I handed over my phone, and Tuna looked at them while Vic banged his chair and yelled at us to get a move on. He’d been waiting since 1941, and he wasn’t waiting anymore.

“The family would like copies,” said Tuna.

“Not a problem,” I said, hoping Jack wouldn’t mind.

Tuna handed back my phone and got comfortable to tell us what he knew, which was everything, as it turned out.

Paul Castiglione brought the Fibonaccis in when Tunny’s car didn’t turn up and the cops got nowhere. He, Tunny, and Dominick were as close as brothers, so it wasn’t even considered a favor. But even with the Fibonacci resources, the trail was ice cold. Then the war started and interest shifted. There was lots of money to be made during peacetime, but even more during war. They kept an ear to the ground while moving on. After Pearl Harbor, men in the family were volunteering to fight, and some were being drafted. Paul Castiglione Jr. volunteered, along with Jack’s grandpa and Lorenzo Fibonacci, Dominick’s oldest.

Paul Jr. died mere months into training, but that wasn’t rare. Training accidents were common. Lorenzo was on a B-24 as a radioman, and his father wasn’t happy about it. He wanted his kid out of that plane, and he wasn’t a man who took no for an answer. So Dominick went with his crew to where Lorenzo was training in South Carolina to make his feelings known.

“That’s where it went south,” said Tuna.

“What did?” Jess asked.

“He didn’t know what was going on here. He was out of touch. The world was topsy-turvy. We were in another world war. The Pacific was hot. Our men were scrambling.”

“What are you getting at?” I asked.

“Paul reached out, and no one heard him.”

There was such sadness in that statement. Paul was alone.

Tuna’s face sank into his chest. “Never would’ve happened in peacetime.”

“How do you know no one heard him?” Jess asked.

Tuna settled further into the chair and told us. They knew because Paul found out where Dominick was and telegrammed him, but Dominick had left before the message arrived. He was on a train back to St. Louis. Travel was a mess with troop movements, and it took him nearly two weeks to get back. Paul jumped a day before he made it, probably thinking Dominick wasn’t going to help because he didn’t answer.

“Wasn’t there someone else he could’ve spoken to?” I asked.

“He came to the house. He left messages and a letter, but no one passed them on. There were consequences for that negligence.”

The word consequences had an evil ring to it, and I didn’t want to know what happened to whoever dropped the ball. Tuna didn’t expand on that topic, but he told us what the letter said. Paul told his friend that the O’Learys were muscling in on Castiglione and Tunny Construction. They wanted it for money laundering, and they were threatening his family. Paul was the independent sort and tried to handle it on his own. He held them off successfully until Paul Jr. died. They saw that as an opportunity. Paul had one son left. He didn’t want to lose that boy, too, did he? He paid them bribes while trying to get in touch with Dominick, but they were coming to the house, threatening his wife. They said if he told the cops, they would kill all his remaining children. The O’Learys weren’t the brightest, but they couldn’t have known who Tunny and Castiglione were to the Fibonaccis, or they wouldn’t have tried it.

“Why wouldn’t he just tell the O’Learys about his connection?” Jess asked.

“He probably thought it was safer to reach out and have Dominick handle them,” said Tuna. “He couldn’t have known our operation was, shall we say, disorganized when he came calling. It was the first and only time.”

“It was an impossible situation,” I said.

“He was a good man, but he broke,” said Tuna. “He couldn’t take it.”

“But didn’t that leave his wife at the O’Learys’ mercy?” Jess asked.

“I don’t know what he was thinking. With him gone, that Sofia would sell and be safe like Tunny’s wife? Who can say what goes through a grieving father’s mind?”

“So Dominick came back, and then what?” I asked.

“I’m told he picked up that little weasel Michael O’Leary, and they had a conversation,” said Tuna with a grim smile. “He confessed.”

“This is just horrible,” said Frankie.

Vic thrust away his chair and walked in. As he did, he became the Vic Jess and I knew so well with his smile, twinkling blue eyes, and fedora all in place. “Tell them,” he said with his hand out, ready to swipe it through Tuna’s head.

No. No. We can’t have that.

“Did he say he killed Tunny?” I asked.

“He confessed to everything but that.”

Michael O’Leary, under what must’ve been considerable duress, claimed he didn’t kill Tunny. He’d been harassing him, softening him up for what was going to happen, but he didn’t know who was behind it. The night Tunny died, he sent two of his mechanics to explain how the world works, but before they said a thing, he had a heart attack and died.

“It would’ve been fine,” I said.

“Fine?” Jess said. “They probably scared him to death and then stole his car.”

“I meant that if Tunny had had the chance, he could’ve explained how the world worked to them and they’d have gone away.”

“His bum ticker did him in,” said Vic, and he walked out of the safe.

“One more question, if you don’t mind,” said Jess.

Tuna pried himself out of his chair and said, “Certainly. This is all ancient history, or it better be.”

“As far as we’re concerned, it is. Was Dominick sure Paul killed himself?”

“Trust me, ladies,” said Tuna. “If the O’Learys did it, we’d have known. Now you ladies should take yourselves over to Volpi and get some mortadella and bresaola for those kids of yours. They do good things. We approve.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, standing up. “I don’t know if the families will be happy or not, but at least they’ll know.”

Tuna shook my hand and then kissed it, and the same for Jess. “Leo Pereyra was a good man.”

“Oh.” That’s all I could come up with.

Tuna winked at me. “Tell him hello for me.”

With that, Tuna Licata left the safe and greeted the barista by handing him what looked like a fifty. Frankie dashed out after him and then spun around.

“Is he gone?” she asked.

“Vic?” Jess asked.

“Of course.”

Jess looked and said, “Yes, it looks like it.”

“How did he go?”

“He walked out,” I said.

“And vanished?” Frankie asked.

“It’s not unusual,” said Jess.

“But you solved it. He knows the answer.”

I got uneasy, but I said, “It’s okay.”

“You haven’t helped him and Conor.” Frankie began crying. “Now you never will.”

“He didn’t move on,” said Jess.

“Call him,” she said. “Make him come back.”

We tried, and Vic Delaney didn’t come back. Then Frankie was gone, leaving the echo of her sobs behind.

“Do you think we screwed up?” I asked. “Maybe we were wrong.”

Jess crossed her arms. “We’re not wrong. Vic hasn’t gone anywhere.”

“Should we just go home?”

“Sure.”

But we didn’t go straight home. We went to Volpi. We were afraid not to.

Chapter Twenty-One

Angus McCloud was a man of many talents, and one of them was painting papier-mâché sea creatures. We found the high-profile corporate lawyer in the kitchen, painting the girls’ octopus to perfection. Every shade was right.

“What do you think?” McCloud asked.

“Can I hire you for the lobster too?” I asked.

“I’ll consider it. Painting is therapeutic.”

“Do you need therapy?” Jess asked as she accepted a cup of tea from Mom, who was looking herself again.

“My soon-to-be ex-wife has hired Raul Pepper to represent her,” he said.

“And that’s bad?”

“It’s bad. But considering I have Juliette, master of the prenup, Callahan for mine, I think I’ll be fine.” McCloud turned around with a paintbrush in his hand. “Oh. What happened?”

“We solved it,” I said.

“What are those, then?” He pointed at the stack of Joe Castiglione’s ledgers I’d put on the island.

“I felt weird about leaving them in the car,” I said. “The boys will probably take it out tonight.”

“That doesn’t tell me what they are.”

We explained, and Mom gave us hugs. “I’m so proud of you. What did Vic say? Was he amazed? Did he say you dames are alright?”

“He didn’t say anything,” said Jess. “He left, and we haven’t seen him since. Frankie wasn’t happy.”

“Well, he hasn’t moved on, if that’s what you’re worried about,” said Mom. “He’ll be back.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“He hasn’t paid you.”

We laughed, and Mom put her hands on her hips. “I’m serious. Do you really think he gets to move on for you solving his case when he didn’t even pay you?”

Leo popped in wearing hiking gear and an orange vest. “He’s not moving on because he has to make peace with his son.”

“That’s what I said,” said Jess.

McCloud looked around. “Is Leo here? Come on, man. Let me see you.”

“It’s not me,” said Leo. “He’s welcome to see me anytime.”

I looked at McCloud. “It’s your fault.”

“Yeah, that’s what my wives always say.” He put his brush in a water glass and sat down at the island. “So, what about the kid?”

Jess got to tell them all about Conor Newberry and his history after swearing them to secrecy.

“How are you going to find his mother?” Mom asked.

“We’re not,” I said. “It’s impossible unless Vic tells us.”

“You could try the girl,” said McCloud.

“We will, but I don’t get a good feeling about it. Vic was willing to lose his son rather than tell him. I’m guessing if that’s her, she’ll feel the same way.”

“What could be that bad?” Mom asked.

“Vic murdered her,” suggested McCloud.

We discussed the merits of the various options, but it was all just guessing. Mom discovered the bag of Volpi meats and said, “Why did you buy this? We still have leftovers.”

“You don’t say no to a man named Tuna,” I said.

Leo came over. “Tuna Licata?”

“Is there another Tuna?”

“I hope not. The world couldn’t handle it. Great mortician. Interesting…skills,” said Leo.

“Like what?” Mom asked.

“How do you think he got the name Tuna?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

“Does the line ‘sleeps with the fishes’ ring a bell?” Leo asked.

We all knew The Godfather, of course, but we didn’t know that making people sleep with the fishes took a special skill set, one Tuna was rumored to have in abundance.

“Do you think it’s true?” Jess asked.

“You met him. What do you think?”

Jess and I grimaced.

Leo smiled, and said, “Aside from that, he’s a great guy. We shared many a bottle of wine.”

“He says hi,” Jess said.

“Tell him I say hi back when you see him again.”

“We’re hoping we won’t,” I said.

“Tuna has a way of turning up, and he obviously liked you. He wouldn’t have told you anything if he didn’t.”

“That feels ominous.”

“It’s not. He’s good fun.” Leo’s eyes twinkled. “Think of all the dead people he must know.”

“I’d rather not,” I said. “I don’t think they’re the kind of⁠—”

Poptart made a low growl, and Leo spun around. “He doesn’t learn.”

“No!” Jess and I yelled.

McCloud yelped and fell off his stool. “What is wrong with you?”

“He’s not invited,” said Leo, his handsome face dark and easily as threatening as Tuna had been. “He came into this house uninvited and spied on you. I will not have it.”

“Let him come,” said Jess as she hauled McCloud off the floor.

“Who?” McCloud asked.

“He’s invited,” I said. “We’re inviting him.”

Leo paced around, muttering about men who treated women with disrespect.

“Are you stopping him?” I asked.

“Who?” McCloud asked.

Mom gave him an ice pack. “Vic. He sneaks in and Leo punishes him.”

“I’d pay to see this.”

“He’s not going to be seeing it,” said Leo.

“Leo!” I exclaimed. “Let him come.”

“I am, and he’s not.”

“Why?” Jess asked.

“Some men always have to swim upstream,” said Leo.

I popped some mortadella in my mouth and thought about it. “Make him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Make him come.”

“I can’t make another ghost do something,” said Leo.

Jess rolled her eyes. “You made him go back to WWI trench warfare.”

“Hardcore,” said McCloud.

“That’s different,” said Leo.

“Is it?” I asked. “Have you ever tried to… I don’t know, conjure someone?”

“I haven’t,” said Leo.

“Give it a shot. You’ve got special skills. You always did.”

Leo blew out a breath and held it. An instant later, Vic Delaney was standing in the kitchen. “God dammit!”

McCloud squawked and fell off his stool again.

“Scooter,” Mom said, and pointed at Vic. “No yelling in the house.”

McCloud looked up at Vic in amazement. “Wow. He looks like he’s right out of a Raymond Chandler novel.”

“You can see me?” Vic asked.

Mom helped McCloud to his feet. “Of course he can.”

“Can everyone see me?”

Before we had a chance to respond, Max and Henri walked in.

“What’s going on?” Max asked.

“Oh, cool, you’re here,” said Henri. “Dude, that ’fit is fire.”

Vic looked at me, and I said, “He likes your outfit.”

The boys walked around an astonished Vic. “We’re going to Ethan’s to hang out,” said Max.

“It’s a party,” said Leo.

“Oh, come on,” said Henri. “How are we supposed to rebel and get crunk with you watching us all the time?”

I crossed my arms. “Your life is hard.”

The boys muttered about interfering ghosts and started rummaging around in the fridge, coming up with the Volpi bag.

“This is full of meat,” said Max.

“Someone told me to buy it for you,” I said.

“Thanks, Vic,” said the boys before stuffing their faces with prosciutto.

“I didn’t tell her to buy you anything,” said Vic. “I’d sooner punch you in the beezer.”

Max and Henri looked at me, and I said, “We presume that means nose.”

They started laughing.

“Beezer.”

“I’m totally using that.”

They grabbed my keys, the entire bag of meat, and went out the back door, still laughing.

“I love those kids,” said McCloud.

“You would, ya shyster,” said Vic, and he popped out.

Leo concentrated, and a second later, he was back. “God dammit!”

Mom shook a finger at him. “What did I say about yelling?”

“How are you doing that?” Vic asked at a level just below yelling.

Leo’s wing chair appeared behind him and he sat down. “I don’t know, but I am enjoying it. Go to it, ladies.”

My mind was blank, and from Jess’ silence, I guess hers was too.

“I’ve got questions,” said McCloud, holding the ice pack on his hip.

“I’m not talking to you. Get a haircut.”

McCloud grinned. “Ah. That reminds me of my old man.”

“Shut up and get to work, ya hippie,” said Vic.

“I gotta call my dad.”

“You’re not callin’ anybody. Open those books.”

We looked at Joe Castiglione’s books, but none of us moved.

“What’s he supposed to do?” I asked.

Vic took off his fedora and slapped it against his leg. “I’m still here.”

Jess put on the teakettle and said, “Yeah, we’re so surprised.”

“You…you…”

“Watch it,” said Leo.

“Dizzy broads. Tuna lied to you. The case isn’t over,” said Vic, so angry that a sheen of sweat shone on his forehead.

“I always found Tuna to be honest,” said Leo.

“What do you know? You’re a mortician.”

“Leo has skills,” said Mom. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Vic wanted to yell, but he somehow held himself back. “He lied. They lie. It’s what they do.”

“Why bother?” Jess asked. “Everyone involved is long dead.”

“Because you could’ve been recording it,” said Vic. “That’s right. I know about those spy gadgets.”

I got a mug and pulled out our Thanksgiving leftovers. “So we could prove what? The Fibonaccis are a crime family?”

“He admitted it.”

Jess looked at McCloud. “What could you do with that?”

“Murders from 1942? Nothing, but I’d like to know how prevalent kickbacks were back in your day.”

“Shut up and get to the books,” said Vic.

“What for?” I asked.

Mom put her hands on her hips. “And why Scooter? Because he’s a man?”

“That’s right. I’m not trusting a couple of dames who believe a man named Tuna with math.” Vic glared at McCloud, who shrugged.

“I’m terrible at math,” he said. “Libby’s good.”

“You were an engineer,” I said. “That’s all math.”

“I’ve done my best to forget it,” said McCloud. “My brain has only so much space. You do it, Lib.”

“I taught math,” said Mom. “I’ll do it.”

“I’m not trusting any dames,” said Vic.

Mom came around the island and went toe to toe with the furious ghost. “It’s not about the books. It’s about your son.”

“You’re batty!”

“Yelling.”

Vic popped out and was back a second later. “God dammit!”

“Do you want to go to the Western Front again?” Leo asked. “Because I’m losing patience with you.”

Vic gritted his teeth. “I want an expert to look at them books.”

“That I can do,” said McCloud.

Scooter had a powerful firm, which had forensic accountants at the ready. He made a call, and despite it being Saturday night, she got right on it. We scanned the pages from the end of Tunny’s ownership and then the last months of Paul’s.

Vic paced and fumed about someone named Sunny doing the work while we had sandwiches and stuffing. After an hour, Sunny was done. Everything Tuna had said was correct. Paul had been taking money out of the business in the last weeks of his life and tried to hide it, not very well as it turned out, but more importantly, the business was solid—excellent, in fact. The O’Learys chose both wisely and unwisely at the same time.

“Told you,” said Leo when Sunny finished.

“It can’t be,” said Vic. “It can’t. This was it.”

Mom faced him again. “Heal the rift with your son. Tell him the truth.”

“No.” Vic vanished, leaving the stink of sweat and fear behind.

I sighed. “Bring him back.”

“It’s too late,” said Leo.

“For what?” Jess asked.

“Have you forgotten? It’s Saturday night. Peg and Vern will be here any minute.”

Mom dashed to the back door and picked her enormous purse off a hook. “I got new shows.”

Please no.

“What did you get?” I asked, trying not to wince.

“They like medical shows,” Mom said, pulling out a DVD of Julia. “So I got this one. So good and groundbreaking.”

Thank goodness.

“Good pick, Mom,” I said.

“And this was on sale.”

Nooooo. Not on sale.

She held up a Hee-Haw DVD.

“Hee-Haw?” McCloud asked. “I’m definitely calling my dad tonight.”

Mariah walked in, wearing baggy sweats and her hair knotted on top of her head. “What’s all the noise about?”

“A case,” said Jess. “I take it you’re staying in.”

“Sam and Keely have family stuff. What are we doing?”

“Bev bought Hee-Haw.”

Mom held up the DVD and Mariah did an about-face, walking right back out through the archway.

“That’ll be a no to Hee-Haw, then,” said Jess, laughing.

Peg and Vern walked in through the stove, smiling and carrying a casserole.

“Did someone say Hee-Haw?” Vern asked.

Did someone say go to bed early?

Chapter Twenty-Two

Islept so long, I was groggy the next morning, and Jess had to drag me out of bed. She was a good host and sampled some sixties TV before abandoning Mom and our ghostly guests. McCloud, on the other hand, stayed up, talking to his dad and having a grand time. Peg and Vern were thrilled. Their son was a lawyer, and now that McCloud could see them and all ghosts, apparently they had lots to talk about.

“Come on, you lazy woman.” Jess dragged me to the edge of my bed by a foot after I got back in after getting dressed.

“It can wait,” I said. “We’ve been working for days.”

“We have an appointment.”

“With who?”

“Conor Newberry.”

“Why?”

“Because I called him,” she said.

“All by yourself?”

“Ha, ha. Yes. We have to go. He’s waiting.”

I sat up. “For what? We don’t have anything.”

“We have a plan,” said Jess.

“Who’s we?”

“Me and Leo.”

I couldn’t fight that, and I allowed myself to be propelled down the stairs and out of the house. Jess did provide me with coffee and a sad little granola bar that the boys wouldn’t eat. I may have grumbled about a need for donuts, but it got me nowhere but to Conor Newberry’s loft bright and early.

Conor whipped open the door and said, “Did you get anything else?”

“He hasn’t turned up today,” said Jess as she pushed me into the loft.

“What’s wrong with Libby?”

“Nothing. She’s tired from sleeping.”

Jess put me on Conor’s sofa, giving me a chance to look around while they discussed Vic’s issues with denial. The loft was gorgeous with the original brick, hardwood floors, and a soaring twisted staircase in wrought iron and wood. Art covered most of the wall space, and I thought Jess would give herself whiplash. She was looking at it all so fast, her neck had to hurt.

“So everyone got what they wanted, except me,” said Conor.

Jess had called Jack Tunny and Joe Castiglione that morning and had given them the solve. Joe was sad for Paul, but he certainly didn’t blame him. The pressure was clearly unbearable. As for Jack, he still wanted to find the car, and McCloud was working on that before he had to get on a plane that afternoon.

“Not quite everything,” I said.

“Pretty close.”

“That’s fair.”

“I don’t understand what this plan of yours is,” said Conor. “If he won’t accept that our relationship is why he isn’t moving on, what can we do?”

“We can make him,” said Jess.

The girl appeared behind Conor, wringing her hands and shaking her head.

“He needs to know,” I said to her, and Conor spun around. “Who is it?”

“The girl.”

He looked at where she was, not seeing her. “My mother.”

“It looks like it.”

“Talk to us,” said Jess. “Tell us what happened.”

She didn’t respond and simply vanished.

“She’s gone,” I said.

Conor came over and sat down next to me, putting his head in his hands. “Why?”

“She’s just as desperate for you not to know as Vic.”

He looked up at me with his eyes pleading. “There’s nothing I can’t forgive.”

I hope that’s true.

“Let’s do it, then,” I said.

“Leo?” Jess asked, and Leo popped in wearing his mortician’s getup. He looked at Conor and then said, “He can’t see me.”

“Yeah, we expected that,” I said.

“Can you bring the girl?” Jess asked. “She was just here.”

Leo thought about it and said, “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“I don’t…have anything for her.”

“What does that mean?”

Leo explained he had no proper feelings about the girl, no connection. He was angry with Vic. He smelled him in Number Eight, invading our privacy, and his feelings about that allowed him to summon the detective. The girl was another story.

“What’s going on?” Connor asked.

We explained, and he said, “Bring Vic.”

“He won’t be happy,” said Leo.

“That man hasn’t been happy since Conor was sixteen,” I said. “If you can bring him, go ahead and do it.”

Conor grabbed the arm of the sofa and braced himself. Leo concentrated, and while it took longer than before, Vic appeared with a pop, mid-rant. “God dammit.” He continued on about Nancy morticians having powers over people they never could’ve gotten the drop on in life and more. He went on and on until Conor said, “Dad?”

Vic spun around, and for a second, I thought he might pass out. “Junior.”

Conor winced at the name, but said, “It doesn’t matter what you did. I can forgive you.”

“Me?” Vic asked, and his chair appeared. He used it to hold himself steady. “What have you dames been telling my kid?”

“Nothing, Dad,” Conor said, still gripping the sofa arm.

“He thinks you might’ve killed her,” said Jess.

Vic swayed and then sat down. “I can’t believe you could think that.”

“What else could be so bad?” Conor asked. “Did you kidnap me? What happened? I have to know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Vic, and he vanished along with his chair.

Leo brought him back a second later, and for once, Vic didn’t curse.

“I can do this all day and then some,” said Leo. “Talk to your son.”

“Dad,” said Conor, his eyes wet. “I’ve been missing this piece of myself my whole life. Only you can fill it in.”

Vic didn’t reply. He took off his fedora and slapped it against his leg. He’d been a man of confidence and power all his life. Being trapped must’ve been a foreign concept to him.

“My girls want to know,” said Conor. “I need her name.”

“It’s not her name that I’m worried about,” said Vic, and he looked at Leo, judging how serious the mortician was, I imagine.

“I’m good at this,” said Leo. “It wouldn’t be as bad as you think. He’s not a child, and you’d be surprised how healing the truth is, even when it’s hard.”

“Dad, I’m not going to judge you,” said Conor.

“Everybody judges, kid. That’s people,” said Vic.

“I’m not people, and neither are they. Please.”

“I promised her.”

Conor sat back. “You promised my mother not to tell me who she was.”

Vic’s chair appeared again, and he sat down. “That’s the skinny.”

“Why did you agree?” Jess asked.

“Because she was right.” Vic looked around. “Look at where he is and what he became. She didn’t want to ruin that.”

“How in the world could she ruin it?” I asked.

“If he knew about her, he’d think things about himself,” said Vic. “Don’t tell me it don’t matter. It matters. She wanted his mind clean so she couldn’t be in there.”

“Clean?” Conor asked.

Vic hung his head. “I guess there’s no way out.”

There wasn’t, so he told Conor the truth. His mother’s name was Lurene Baker, but Vic didn’t know her by that name. He knew her as Ruby Sand. Vic met her while he was in Chicago working on a parental kidnapping. She was young and pretty, about twenty-five and working at a bar as a cocktail waitress. Vic was an old man, but it didn’t bother her, so it didn’t bother him. They had a casual thing going on, but Ruby got pushy, and he started missing some dough. He couldn’t prove it was her, but Vic never liked pushy broads, so he finished his case and never gave her another thought until she sent him a letter saying she was in trouble and needed help.

Vic had to go up to Chicago to appear before a grand jury on the kidnapping, so he figured what could it hurt, he’d drop by the bar. His timing was impeccable. Ruby wasn’t there, but one of her customers was. She was a prostitute that had ruined the man’s life after blackmailing him with the help of the bartender, who happened to be her pimp.

He left Ruby a note saying if she ever contacted him again, he’d have her arrested. That was that until two years later when he got a call from a Chicago hospital saying Lurene Baker had him marked as her next of kin. Vic wasn’t paying her bills, so he hung up, but the hospital persisted until he agreed to come up and see her.

Vic arrived in the nick of time. Lurene had hepatitis and was in liver failure. She claimed to have had Vic’s son after their brief affair. Vic didn’t believe her for a minute until she begged him to take the boy and never tell him who she was. She knew the knowledge would taint him. Who would want to associate with a whore’s son? How would he feel about himself? It would ruin him. Vic still wasn’t sure until a nurse brought the boy in, and he knew the kid had to be his. Vic promised for Lurene and himself. He could’ve helped her, but it never occurred to him. She was a whore and beneath his contempt.

After she died, Vic went to her room at a pathetic boarding house, got the kid’s belongings that included his original birth certificate with Lurene’s name. Vic burned it and bribed a clerk to dummy up a new one with Mary Smith. He brought Vic Jr. home and never told a soul what happened.

“I should’ve helped her,” said Vic. “But do you see why I couldn’t tell you? Do you see?”

Conor couldn’t speak. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he nodded.

“See what you dames done,” said Vic. “You broke my kid.”

“They didn’t break him.”

We turned, and Frankie stood there in her Sunday best, smiling with a kind of glow I’d never seen before.

“Frankie,” gasped Vic.

“Some promises are good to keep.” She looked at me and Jess. “Thank you.”

We nodded and Vic said, “I let you down.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said. “Nothing could’ve changed it.”

“But—”

“Tell him more,” she said. “Tell him everything about her. Free yourself and her.”

“Frankie.”

She looked over her shoulder, smiled once more, and she was gone. The kind of gone that you know is permanent.

“It’s time for us to go,” said Leo.

“You don’t have to,” said Conor.

“We do. You have much to discuss.”

I stood up and walked toward the door as Conor asked, “What color was her hair?”

“Blonde,” said Vic. “She had blonde hair.”

Jess opened the door, and I heard Conor say, “Mom?”

We turned, and the girl was there. First as a girl and then as a woman wearing a cheap dress and lots of lipstick.

“I didn’t want to do it,” she said in a Southern drawl.

Conor nodded. “I know.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Will you two stop crying?” Leo said from the backseat as we drove in to St. Sebastian.

Jess blew her nose and said, “We’re not crying.”

He groaned. “That was a good outcome. Conor got his parents. They got him. Why are you crying?”

I wiped a stray tear off my cheek. “Haven’t you ever heard of happy tears?”

“Is that what that was?” Leo asked. “You were howling.”

“We needed a good howl. Who deserves a good howl more than us?” asked Jess.

“So you weren’t howling about the case?”

I turned around to look at our distressed mortician. “Yes, and no. Didn’t Carol ever cry for multiple reasons or for no particular reason at all?”

Leo squirmed. “She did, but I thought that was just her.”

“It’s not just her,” said Jess. “Mariah does it too.”

“Not the boys?”

“I don’t think so, but everything they do surprises me,” I said.

“You two are pretty surprising yourselves,” said Leo. “You cried in public.”

“This isn’t public,” said Jess.

“You cried in Panera Bread.”

“Hey, you’re the one who insisted we get something to eat.”

Leo crossed his arms. “I thought it would calm you.”

“We were calm,” I said.

“So calm, the manager came over with hot chocolate and condolences.”

“He was very sweet.”

“And we told the truth,” said Jess.

Leo threw up his hands. “And then he brought you brownies.”

I turned back around. “Brownies do make me feel better.”

“But why do you feel bad?”

“We don’t,” said Jess. “We feel better.”

“I give up.” Leo popped out, and we laughed while still crying a little. It felt wonderful. Maybe Derek was right. I never stopped to really grieve Hal or him. There was too much to do, and for once, there wasn’t. We were okay.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Jess.

“What?” I asked, but then I saw it and didn’t need an answer.

Parked in front of Number Eight was an incredible car, more than an incredible car. Tunny’s 1941 Packard sat in our driveway, gleaming with its original paint and a brand-new camel convertible top.

McCloud walked out of the front door with his suitcase, wearing his suit and looking almost professional. For him, that is. He waved and tossed the suitcase in the back of his rental as we got out and walked across the lawn.

“Surprised?” he asked.

“More like horrified,” I said. “Where did this come from?”

“Look at this girl. Perfect. Everything original except for the top and tires, of course.”

“What’s it doing here?” Jess asked.

I don’t know about her, but I was picturing the Wall Street whiz kid smooshed under a taxi.

“I found it yesterday, but I wanted to surprise you,” said McCloud.

“I’m surprised you want to kill us,” I said.

He laughed. “This car isn’t going to kill you.”

“Don’t we think it’s cursed?” Jess asked.

“Oh, yeah. It’s cursed.”

“So…”

McCloud opened the Packard’s passenger door and said, “Check the paperwork. This beauty doesn’t belong to you.”

“Why is it here, then?” Jess asked.

“It was a loose end. I hate loose ends.”

“Whose is it, Scooter?” I asked.

“Jack Tunny’s,” he said. “I got him a banging deal too.”

“Then you want to kill Jack Tunny?”

“This car isn’t going to kill him.”

I got the registration out of the glove box and checked the paperwork. Jack’s name was on it, and he got a banging deal. “How did you do this?”

“I informed the auction house of its dubious history,” said McCloud.

Jess rolled her eyes and said, “Come on. They’re businesspeople. Why would they ever believe that wasn’t an accident?”

“You’re right. They didn’t care about Winnick, but they did care about Edward J. Digweed.”

I turned to Jess, and she frowned at me. “That sounds familiar.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait,” I said. “Is that the guy that got struck by lightning in his driveway?”

McCloud nodded. “During the world’s shortest storm, and he got the only lightning strike from that storm. It’s being called an unexplained phenomenon.”

“How long was the storm?” asked Jess.

“Five minutes. His son was only too happy to unload the Packard after the auction house got the history.”

“How did they not know?” I asked.

“The son used a shell company to get it in the auction so the provenance wouldn’t get out,” said McCloud. “They weren’t happy about the deception, and car guys talk. He’d have had a heck of a time selling it to anyone but Jack.”

I walked around Tunny’s Packard, missing since 1941 and the object of Vic’s investigation. I wished he could see it.

“Jack shouldn’t have this car,” I said. “No one should.”

“Tunny’s death was natural causes. None of the other ones were,” said McCloud.

“When you say other ones?” Jess asked.

McCloud ran his hand lovingly down the hood. “Like I said, Tunny doesn’t count, so we start with Ray Jr. in the war. After his ship went down, sharks ate some of his shipmates. Can you imagine that?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

Jess grimaced. “Then?”

“Fast-forward to Winnick and the taxi. His family sold it to one Steve Dutton, who bought it for his wife Kelli-Anne for her fiftieth birthday.”

“Did she get six weeks?”

“She didn’t get six hours,” said McCloud. “Three hours after Steve gave his wife the car at her party, they had an argument and he cracked her in the head with a champagne bottle.”

I closed my eyes. “Is there more?”

“Of course.”

Dutton’s son agreed to cover up his father’s crime, and he took the car as a kind of payment. The cops caught on and arrested father and son. While Luke Dutton waited in holding for his arrangement on accessory after the fact, a carjacker shanked him for his tie. Luke’s best friend took the car, and he found himself on some train tracks when his Chevy Silverado died. The warning lights and rails just failed, and he was obliterated.

“Which brings us to Digweed,” said McCloud.

I looked at the Packard. “You’re a killer car.”

McCloud patted the gleaming hood. “She just wants to go home.”

“You don’t think she killed Tunny?” Jess asked.

“No, and neither does Jack. John Tunny’s heart was a ticking time bomb, and the O’Learys left him dying in the dirt to steal his car. She’s going back to where she always belonged.”

Jess went over and gave McCloud a hug. “I’d say great job, but I’m going to wait a while.”

“Understood,” said McCloud. “But Jack came up with the idea. I just concurred.”

He thanked Jess for having him over and she left us alone next to the Packard that had been a part of so many stories, it was mind-boggling.

“Thanks, Scooter,” I said.

“Derek called me,” he said. “He thinks I told you about a certain conversation we had.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You’re going to straighten that out, right?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Did Leo tell you?” McCloud asked.

“I was in the pantry.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled. “I had a feeling you might be in there.”

“Why didn’t you check it?”

“I don’t know. I figured if Derek didn’t tell me what was going on, he probably hadn’t told you either.”

I hugged him, holding on tight. “Very perceptive for a goofball.”

“Lib, he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” said McCloud.

“I know what he’s done.”

He gently pushed me back and tucked the hair behind my ears. “I’m not excusing it, but you need a way forward. This stalemate isn’t good for you or the boys, and it’s even worse for Derek.”

“You think I should care?” I asked.

“I think you do care.” He kissed my forehead, promised to be back to bother us, and peeled off, racing to the airport with almost no time to spare. Classic McCloud.

I watched where his car had disappeared until there was a jingle behind me. I turned and saw Mom on the porch, holding up a set of keys. “Ready to take a drive?”

“Are you kidding?”

She was not kidding. My mother swept down the steps in her long skirt and poncho to hop in the driver’s seat. I leaned in the passenger side and said, “You know she kills people.”

“Not these people. She likes us,” said Mom, and she fired up the engine. It rumbled and then purred the way only a car of that vintage could. “See?”

I got in and said, “This is crazy.”

“This is cool,” said Mom. “Let’s go to the senior center. They’ll go nuts.”

They did. They really did.

A week later, I stood on Number Eight’s lawn with Kip, surrounded by Christmas decorations from various generations of my family, Jess’s stuff that Hal bought, and Leo’s Christmas collection. The man had good taste, which was more than I could say for my family, myself included. I loved a Target after-Christmas sale.

“You don’t have to use it all,” I said.

“There’s a lot, and Bev is attached,” said Kip.

“You’ll have to use Leo’s stuff for the town, but you’re a brilliant designer,” I said. “I’m sure you can do…something.”

Kip looked at his carefully sketched-out plan. Thanksgiving had gone so well that he’d volunteered to decorate Number Eight for the historical society Christmas tour. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

“I’ll start over.” He crumbled up his plan and tossed it next to Mom’s Santa and reindeer that looked like she’d stolen them off the set of Christmas Vacation.

“People love those,” I said.

“They do have a certain kitsch to them,” said Kip.

“I think we’re missing an opportunity.”

“To fail? Because this collection looks like failure.”

I walked around the boxes of fraying bunting, wreathes, and lawn ornaments. “Everybody has a version of this collection.”

“Maybe,” said Kip.

“And they don’t want to throw this stuff away,” I said. “You should do a plan that combines old and new. Do videos on vintage crap like this and how to use it. I’d watch that. Heck, I need that, and I’m not the only one.”

Kip looked up at Number Eight. “I could do that, but it’s a lot of stuff.”

“We have a lot of roofs.”

He went and got his design and smoothed it out. “It could work.”

I picked up a flat Rudolph that looked like it was made by melting plastic morsels together and then grabbed one of Kip’s tasteful glass containers filled with beautiful bulbs and bows. I took them up on the porch.

“Look. It’s weird, but they kinda go together,” I said.

“Farther away is better.”

“Definitely.”

Jess came out, carrying a Frosty in the same melted plastic stuff. “Max had this under his bed.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t remember.”

“I don’t know why I asked,” I said.

“Neither do I,” Jess said with a laugh.

“I’ve got some bulbs that will go with that.” Kip ran over to his van and started rummaging around.

“You managed to turn that around,” said Jess.

“Barely. I still think we should pay him.”

“You should,” said a voice behind us.

We spun around to find Vic Delaney on the end of the porch, full of swagger and looking exactly the way he did when we first laid eyes on him, silver aces tie pin and all.

I put my hands on my hips. “You’re one to talk about paying people.”

“You’re looking for cabbage after what you pulled?” Vic sounded angry, but his blue eyes were twinkling very much like his son’s did when he talked about art.

“We earned it,” said Jess.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I’m still here.”

“You stayed because you wanted to. Conor told us you’re happy,” I said.

“What does the kid know?”

“Everything thanks to us,” said Jess.

“Not what I bargained for,” said Vic. “Your brief had nothing about my kid.”

I leaned on the railing and eyed the ghost. “You got what you haven’t paid for. The Packard is home where she belongs. Tunny’s solved and, as a bonus, Castiglione and the O’Leary massacre thrown in.”

He lit a cigarette and watched us from under the brim of his fedora. “Nobody asked for that. I ain’t payin’ for the extras.”

“What are you paying for?” Jess asked.

“Don’t get all feisty. I told the kid about my nest egg. You’ll get your money,” he said. “You don’t follow orders like every broad I ever knew, but for a couple of dames, you didn’t do half bad.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not happy about the way it turned out,” said Jess. “You should be thanking us if for Frankie alone.”

Vic took a long drag and then knocked the ashes onto our railing, where they disappeared without a trace. “Maybe.”

“There’s no maybe about it,” I said. “We solved problems you didn’t know you had.”

“Putting your pretty little noses where they didn’t belong.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Always pushing it,” he said.

“It’s what we do,” said Jess.

“Yeah, it is, and I appreciate it.”

We smiled at him, and I said, “Thanks. We appreciate that.”

“And that’s why I’m not goin’ anywhere, and I will be seein’ ya.” Vic Delaney winked at us and then vanished.

I turned to Jess, who looked a little startled. “I think he meant that.”

“Me too,” she said.

“But Tunny was his only unsolved.”

“And Vic Delaney wouldn’t lie.”

“That makes me tired just thinking about it,” I said.

Jess propped Frosty against the railing and said, “We don’t have time to be tired.”

“No?”

“Jim Clover just called me a minute ago.”

“He’s ready to interview us?” I asked.

“Not quite. He’s got two more ducks in his living room,” said Jess. “And they are not getting along. He can’t sleep for all the quacking.”

“Where’d they come from?”

“That’s what he wants us to find out.” Jess went inside and grabbed our coats. “Let’s go.”

“How are we supposed to find out where random dead ducks came from?”

Jess slipped on her coat and pulled my hat down over my ears. “I don’t know, but how hard can it be?”

I put on my coat as I went down the stairs. “You just had to say that.”

“I couldn’t resist,” she said.

“You’ve doomed us.”

We got in the Volvo and Jess said, “Oh, I have not.”

“Your phone is buzzing,” I said as I buckled up.

Jess took a look and then started the car.

“What is it?”

“Not much,” she said.

“Tell me.”

“There might be a turkey.”

I covered my eyes. “Tell me there’s only one turkey in Jim Clover’s living room.”

“There’s only one turkey in Jim Clover’s living room,” said Jess with laughter in her voice.

“Are you lying?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Doomed.

The End

Preview

THE TROUBLE WITH TINSEL (AFTERLIFE ISSUES BOOK FOUR)

If you’re looking for yuletide cheer, come to St. Sebastian. No really, I’m serious. The world’s most haunted hamlet knows how to do Christmas right and everyone but me already knew it.

Elizabeth Street was packed with slow-moving cars, getting an eyeful of the fabulous decorations every house offered. Each one had a theme, including ours. Number Eight garnered plenty of attention, but it wasn’t because she had a turret and was three stories of wow. It was because our friend Kip, the florist, did the decor, and he calls our theme upscale yard sale. He’d done a series of YouTube videos on decorating Number Eight, showing how to use your grandma’s kitschy, plastic stuff from the 1960s by mixing it up with some 80s and 90s tat. Then he threw in some elegant accents and voilà. We were totally unique and causing a traffic jam.

That’s why I was sitting down the street, hemmed in by a church group on a hayride pulled by a tractor and a minivan, gritting my teeth. Just when I was about to text my wayward son, Henri appeared. He darted in between cars and held up a plastic bag with a huge grin on his face, oblivious to people whipping out their phones to take his picture. My boys, known as The Eggs because they were always sunny-side-up, had cooked up a Christmas pageant for the elementary school students. The kids in the pageant decided Max and Henri had to have costumes too, and the boys let them vote on what they’d wear. When tallied up, my boys were dressing like elves from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Mariah was horrified.

“You’re not really going to wear elf costumes?” she asked. “High school. Think about it. You can’t be elves.”

The boys shrugged.

“It’s so weird.”

That only made them grin.

“More people should be weird,” said Max.

“Because everybody’s weird,” said Henri.

“That makes no sense,” said Mariah and she lost the argument, if it could really be called an argument. My mom made the costumes, and the boys reveled in doing what others wouldn’t.

I sighed in relief as he jumped in, saying, “Got it.”

“All the colors?” I asked. “Just in case.”

“Every single one. We’ve got all the duct tape.”

“What about Peg and Vern?”

Henri gave my shoulder a gentle punch. “Don’t be such a worrywart, Mom. I put in a new disk and they’re watching Hee Haw. Super happy.”

I blew out a breath. Our less-than-alive neighbors, Peg and Vern, were in the habit of watching videos at our house every Saturday night. My best friend Jess and I lived such scintillating lives, we were pretty much guaranteed to be home. That weekend was the rare exception because the Christmas pageant was such a hit. We had to add more shows, getting us out on a Saturday night for the first time. The show was a strange mishmash of songs the boys adapted to Christmas and the ending of Love Actually, which was why we were doing a duct tape run. Gus Denka had the plum role as the number one octopus. He was so excited after arriving for the evening performance, he started spinning his wheelchair. That would have been fine, but some of the kids weren’t paying attention, got too close, and all the legs on his costume got snapped off save one. You can’t have a one-legged octopus, so we ran back to the house and got trapped in the Christmas crush.

I craned my neck out the window. “What is going on? This is worse than ever.”

“The scary singers are back,” said Henri.

I groaned.

“Come on, Mom. It’s the coolest thing ever.”

I grimaced and refused to agree, although I did, in principle. St. Sebastian, in an attempt to lure in more tourists, had hired several musical theater groups to carol in the town. Carolers aren’t usually so exciting, but since we were in St. Seb, someone had the bright idea to have the carolers dress as ghosts. To say the idea was popular would be the understatement of the year. Every restaurant was packed. Kip sold out of all his Christmas decor, and Sylvia had to get heat lamps and set up tables outside of her coffee shop, The Grind, and it still had a line for tables every night.

“Tell me it’s not the Victorian ones,” I said.

Henri grinned. “It’s not the Victorian ones.”

“They’re the worst ones.” I put my head on the steering wheel.

“They’re the best ones. All Dickens and stuff.”

“We’ll never make it back in time to fix Gus’s legs,” I said.

“We can do it,” said Henri with a fist pump. “We have to.”

Just then, someone knocked on my window. I looked up to find our neighbor Lefty smiling at me. His shaggy white hair was especially unruly, and he wore his usual woolly grey cardigan, despite the cold and snowflakes coming down.

I rolled down. “Hey, Lefty. What can I do for you?”

“It’s what I can do for you,” he said, with blue eyes twinkling. “You need to get to that pageant, don’t you?”

“I do, but I’m stuck.”

“No problem.” Lefty stepped back and gestured to his lawn. “Drive through to Second Street. You can fit well enough between the sidewalk and cars until you clear this mess.”

“I can’t do that to your lawn,” I said.

Lefty laughed. “Haven’t you seen my lawn? Bad is our brand.”

I looked up at the Miss Elizabeth Bed and Breakfast and saw his point. Lefty and his wife Irene’s house was way more haunted than we were at Number Eight, and they leaned into it with torn curtains, peeling paint, and a sign, hanging off its hinges. They were a haunted destination and made the most of it.

“What will Miss Elizabeth say?” I asked. Their ghost wasn’t nearly so genial as our Leo, who was once the town’s beloved mortician.

“Nothing, if you do it fast,” said Lefty, grinning wider.

“Challenge accepted,” said Henri. “Do it, Mom.”

“Go on, Libby. It’s fine.”

I thanked him, took a deep breath, and cranked the wheel to the right. “Here we go.”

I hit the gas and we jolted over the sidewalk and barreled over Lefty’s lawn to turn onto Second Street with three-fourths of the Volvo on the sidewalk and the rest on the road. People might’ve started screaming when they saw us coming, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. The show must go on as my boys were fond of saying.

“Awesome, Mom,” said Henri. “We’re totally going to make it.”

My son spoke too soon. I made the mistake of heading for Fifth Street. No carolers were allowed on the main thoroughfare, so I thought it was safe. It wasn’t. We got stopped before we got to the main intersection at Fifth and Fitzwilliam.

Henri’s phone dinged, and he said, “Gus’ last leg fell off. We gotta hurry.”

“I’m trying.” I looked to my right. Maybe we could get between the bridal shop and the telephone pole. Maybe.

Henri rolled down his window and leaned out. “Sgt. Thompson’s there.”

My head went back to the steering wheel. “It’s over.”

Henri slid back in. “Yeah, somebody’s jackknifed in the middle of the intersection.”

“An accident?”

“I can’t tell,” said Henri. “Your phone’s ringing.”

I didn’t want to answer it, but it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. “Hello.”

“Libby?” Chief Stratton never called me, and I took it as a bad sign. I wouldn’t say she was against our afterlife investigations side hustle. It was more like she didn’t know what to do with it.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I said.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything will be fine,” I said, because it would one way or another. Gus might have to go on with just a head, but there were worse things that could happen to a show. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to think about that. I was just asking for it, and in St. Seb, karma always delivered.

“All right. That’s ominous, but I need to ask a favor. Are you at the pageant?” Chief Stratton asked.

“I wish. What’s up?”

“There’s a problem on Fifth. Everyone I’ve got is on vacation or out on patrol. I’m the only one here, and I couldn’t do anything, anyway.”

“What are you asking me to do?” I asked.

“Can you please get Sgt. Thompson off the street?” she asked with a bit of desperation in her voice. “I know you can see him. He’s causing problems.”

“You can’t see him?” I asked, surprised. Sgt. Thomas B. Thompson was the one St. Sebastian ghost that almost every resident had seen at one time or another. He liked to direct traffic, and no one minded if it made him happy. Everyone was used to it. He’d been around since he was killed in an accident in 1936.

“Oh, I see him, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. He talks to you, doesn’t he?”

“Not so far, but he waves,” I said.

“Close enough. Can you please get him out of there?” she asked.

“I can try.” I hung up and told Henri to stay put, eliciting a complaint. “I’ll be right back.”

I jumped out of the car and got blasted by dozens of horns going off. People were shouting and getting out of their cars. Not good. I ran down the middle of the street with my phone pinging in my pocket. Probably Jess and a thousand parents asking where I was. I ignored it and slid into the intersection, where I found Sgt. Thompson in his neatly pressed uniform with his cap cocked slightly over one serious brown eye.

“Ma’am, you have to listen to me,” he said to the driver, who definitely wasn’t going to listen. She was too busy screaming and so were her three companions.

“Sgt. Thompson,” I said, putting a hand on the hood and making the women scream louder.

He didn’t look at me. “Ladies, you must clear the intersection. I will have to give you a ticket.”

For crying out loud.

“Sgt. Thompson!” I yelled over the din of honking.

The ladies stared at me in horror and let out more screams.

I knocked on the driver’s window. “I’m alive!”

She stopped screaming, but her passengers didn’t, so I turned to Sgt. Thompson. “Please, sir. The chief sent me to talk to you. I have to fix this.”

Sgt. Thompson snapped to attention. “The chief sent you?”

“Yes. She wants me to get the traffic moving.”

“She?”

Oh, no.

“Um… the current chief is a woman,” I said. “Do you know what year it is?”

He drew up to his full height of five nine and said, “I certainly do. I only forgot that we now employ ladies to do…many jobs.”

“Great. I need you to leave so I can get them out of here.”

“Ma’am, I am a professional,” said Sgt. Thompson.

“I know, but these women are freaking out. Professional isn’t going to stop it. An amateur that’s alive can. Please. I’m begging you. I have to get to the Christmas pageant. The kids are waiting.”

“The Christmas pageant at the school?”

“Yes. My son’s in the car. We have to get there.”

The policeman looked around at the surrounding cars, most of which had the tourists staring at me like I was nuts. Talking to thin air will do that.

Then Sgt. Thompson snapped his heels together and said, “I will assist you.”

“No,” I said, but to my surprise, he vanished in a pop, leaving me alone. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

I knocked on the window again, and the woman wiped tears from her eyes. She rolled down the window and tried to speak but was unable to catch her breath.

“Okay. I can see you’ve had a shock, but I have got to get you out of this intersection,” I said.

“He… I… not there.”

“I get it. Believe me. I really do, but I need you to take the wheel and drive through this intersection.”

“I saw a… something,” she said.

“Well, that’s why you came, isn’t it?” I asked with a smile. “This is St. Sebastian.”

“I didn’t really think…”

A couple of red-faced men started walking around the car. “Hey, lady you need to⁠—”

I held up my hand and said, “Sir, it’s handled.”

“Doesn’t look handled.”

“Give me a minute.”

“It’s been over ten. We’ll move this car,” said the largest of the three.

I don’t have time for this.

“Johnny? Wheeler? Hello,” I said. “Can I get a little help here?”

One of the men nudged the big one. “I told you she was nuts.”

I smiled. “Wait for it.”

The fur trappers appeared next to the ladies’ car, looking as dirty as possible and smelling worse than the dead possum Jedidiah was holding up by the tail.

“What’s you want?” Johnny asked, smoothing his leather fringe and eyeing my thick coat and fat scarf wrapped around my neck five times. He liked his ladies with considerably less clothing and often told me so.

The women started screaming again, and I pointed at the red-faced men. “They’re bothering me. Please move them.”

“What’s in it for us?” Wheeler asked, slapping his coonskin cap against his leg. Always with the angle that one.

“You can come to the pageant if you promise not to stink.”

“Aw…”

“That’s the deal,” I said as the men came forward, all puffed up and ready to take charge of something they didn’t understand.

“Woman, we’ll take it⁠—”

That’s as far as the big one got. He gasped and waved a hand in front of his face. “What in the…”

The trappers started advancing on the men.

“I don’t like the look of that fat one,” said Boy. “A man like that there kicked me once.”

“They look like kickers,” said Wheeler.

“Let’s teach ‘em to mess with our Libby,” said Johnny.

The smell that filled the street was unlike anything they’d created before. The men stumbled backward, and I leaned down to put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “Look, they’re friends of mine. You’re fine. Just move this car and go get a drink. You deserve it.”

The woman sniffed, and her body quivered. “Every place is full.”

“If I get you in at The Grind, will you move?”

She nodded, and I called Sylvia at The Grind. She agreed to find a spot for four terrified tourists, and I got them out of the intersection before running back to our car.

“That took forever,” Henri said.

I smiled at him, being an egg myself. “But we’re moving.”

He laughed. “I’ll text Jess and everyone.”

We drove through the intersection past the men who were jumping into their car pursued by the trappers and sped off toward the high school.

“You’re over the speed limit, ma’am.”

Henri and I screamed, and I nearly side-swiped a Honda.

“Get control of your vehicle, ma’am,” said Sgt. Thompson from our backseat. “I don’t want to write you a ticket. You did some good work back there.”

I put a hand on my chest. “Don’t do that.”

“Dude,” said Henri. “I think I peed.”

“I apologize,” said Sgt. Thompson. “I thought you were expecting me.”

“Why would I expect you to pop into our backseat?” I asked.

“I told you I would assist you.”

“In giving me a heart attack?”

“At the pageant,” he said. “Events always need extra personnel. Crowd control. Unruly patrons.”

“It’s a children’s concert,” I said.

“Be that as it may,” he said, looking around. “I will assist you.”

The more the merrier. I hope.

“If you insist.”

“I do. I am a professional,” he said, leaning forward between the seats and lowering his voice. “Ma’am, are you aware that you have turkeys in your backseat?”

“I’m painfully aware,” I said.

“May I inquire how this happened?”

Henri turned toward the ghost, his face lit up with joy. “Can I tell him?”

“Be my guest.”

Henri happily explained our infestation. It didn’t take as long as you might think. Jess and I had been hired to get rid of a flock of ducks and some turkeys that took up residence in Jim Clover’s living room. Ghost livestock was rare in St. Seb, but it did happen. Jim bought the house specifically because it had a duck haunting it, and they got along quite well until the other birds showed up. After some trial and error, we got the Blazevics’ ghost, Elsie, to lure the bonus birds out with chicken feed. She got them into the Volvo, and we drove them to the pond on the edge of town. The ducks got out just fine and settled into the pond, which they were happily haunting at that very moment. The turkeys did not. For whatever reason, they decided that the Volvo was their new home, and we’d been unable to lure or force them out. Leo managed to get them out for a short while, but they just chased him across the lawn after he threatened to roast them, and then they got right back in.

“That,” said Sgt. Thompson, “is a ridiculous story.”

“I agree,” I said.

His voice went up. “You can’t keep livestock in a vehicle. It’s illegal.”

“To be fair,” said Henri. “They aren’t actually live stock.”

“You must remove them.”

“Shush,” I said. “Don’t wake them up.”

Sgt. Thompson sniffed. “Are you suggesting that I modify my tone to suit turkeys?”

“To suit us. Please,” I said. “You don’t know⁠—”

That’s when the gobbling started. There were two tom turkeys in the backseat, one on either side of Sgt. Thompson, and three more perched on the seatback. They all rose up and went into their full glory, tail feathers spread and feathers puffed.

“Pull over,” Sgt. Thompson said. “I will get them out.”

“Don’t move,” whispered Henri.

“You need them out.”

“Shush.”

“I will not shush for turkeys,” he said. “Pull over.”

“We don’t have time, and you can’t do it,” I whispered. “Just get out.”

“Don’t be silly, ma’am,” he said. “I can handle this.”

Sgt. Thompson took off his hat, and Henri whispered, “Don’t do it.”

He did it. He waved his hat at the birds, and said loudly, “Shoo. Shoo.”

That’s when it broke loose, as it had many times before. Turkeys, at least dead ones, are cantankerous creatures and easily offended. They started flapping, hissing, and jumping around. I don’t know if live turkeys hiss and I don’t want to find out. The dead ones are nightmare enough. Next time I roasted a turkey, I was really going to enjoy it.

The hens in the back woke up, and they got into the act. It was so loud. I could barely think. Sgt. Thompson waved his hat around and then yelled, “Hey, he bit me!”

“Yeah, they do that,” I said.

“How?”

“Beats me.”

“Ouch. He did it again.”

“Just leave. Go,” I yelled.

“Are you suggesting that a member of law enforcement and a veteran of the Great War retreat from turkeys?” Sgt. Thompson asked.

Henri and I yelled, “Yes!”

“I will never—ouch! Biting! Biting!”

“Retreat!” we yelled.

“I will not!” He fumbled with his holster.

“No, no. Don’t do that!” Henri yelled. “They don’t like it.”

“You know what they’re really not going to like? When I shoot them and stuff them in the⁠—”

Nothing triggers dead turkeys like a gun. Not that you can blame them. I mean, they are turkeys after all. Sgt. Thompson was screaming as the turkeys went after him like he was made of birdseed. I got multiple wings through the head and the icy chill made me run off the road and up onto someone’s lawn, stopping just short of their flagpole.

“Get out!” I yelled.

“I will not be bullied by birds,” yelled Sgt. Thompson.

“We have to get to the pageant!” I yelled. “I can’t drive like this. I’ll have an accident.”

“The kids are waiting!” yelled Henri from the footwell, where he’d balled up to avoid getting attacked.

“Fine! For the kids!” And pop he was gone.

The turkeys continued to run around, flapping and hissing. Henri climbed out of the footwell and said, “Turn on their music.”

Jess had discovered that they liked calming yoga music, and I quickly turned it on. I hated driving with it because it made me drowsy, but I was going to have to deal with it.

Henri looked into the backseat and said, “Alright, you turkeys. That’s enough. He’s gone. Go to sleep.”

I cranked the yoga music, and they settled down, making discontented gobbles.

“We’re good, Mom,” said Henri. “Let’s hurry.”

I got back on the road and said, “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“’Tis the season.”

“For dead cops and insane turkeys?”

“That’s St. Seb for you,” said my son.

I looked over at his joyful face and started laughing. That was St. Seb. Even a trip to get duct tape can turn into an adventure. I only hoped that we were full up on adventure for the night. But it was St. Seb so…

Read the rest

The Trouble with Tinsel (Afterlife Issues Book Four)

Also by A.W. Hartoin

Jess and Libby Paranormal Cozy Mysteries

Dead Companions (Afterlife Issues Book One)

A Trunk, a Canoe, and all the Barbecue (Afterlife Issues Book Two)

Old Friends and Fedoras (Afterlife Issues Book Three)

The Trouble with Tinsel (Afterlife Issues Book Four)

Fun Ivy (Afterlife Issues Book Five) Coming soon

Mercy Watts Mysteries

A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book One)

Diver Down (A Mercy Watts Mystery Book Two)

Double Black Diamond (Mercy Watts Mysteries BookThree)

Drop Dead Red (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Four)

In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Five)

The Wife of Riley (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Six)

My Bad Grandad (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Seven)

Brain Trust (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Eight)

Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Nine)

Small Time Crime (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Ten)

Bottle Blonde (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Eleven)

Mean Evergreen (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Twelve)

Silver Bells at Hotel Hell (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Thirteen)

So Long Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Fourteen)

Black Bandana (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Fifteen) Coming soon

Mercy Watts Short Mysteries

Coke with a Twist (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book One)

Touch and Go My Book (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book Two)

Nowhere Fast (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book Three)

Dry Spell (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book Four)

A Sin and a Shame (Mercy Watts Short Mysteries Book Five)

Stella Bled WWII Historical Thrillers

The Paris Package (Stella Bled Book One)

Strangers in Venice (Stella Bled Book Two)

One Child in Berlin (Stella Bled Book Three)

Dark Victory (Stella Bled Book Four)

A Quiet Little Place on Rue de Lille (Stella Bled Book Five)

Her London Season (Stella Bled Book Six)

YA Paranormal

It Started with a Whisper (Son of a Witch Book One)

Angels and Insects (Son of a Witch Book Two)

Young Adult fantasy

Flare-up (Away From Whipplethorn Short)

A Fairy's Guide To Disaster (Away From Whipplethorn Book One)

Fierce Creatures (Away From Whipplethorn Book Two)

A Monster’s Paradise (Away From Whipplethorn Book Three)

A Wicked Chill (Away From Whipplethorn Book Four)

To the Eternal (Away From Whipplethorn Book Five)

About the Author

USA Today bestselling author A.W. Hartoin grew up in rural Missouri, but her grandmother lived in the Central West End area of St. Louis. The CWE fascinated her with its enormous houses, every one unique. She was sure there was a story behind each ornate door. Going to Grandma’s house was a treat and an adventure. As the only grandchild around for many years, A.W. spent her visits exploring the many rooms with their many secrets. That’s how Mercy Watts and the fairies of Whipplethorn came to be.

As an adult, A.W. Hartoin decided she needed a whole lot more life experience if she was going to write good characters so she joined the Air Force. It was the best education she could’ve hoped for. She met her husband and traveled the world, living in Alaska, Italy, and Germany before settling in Colorado for nearly eleven years. Now A.W. has returned to Germany and lives in picturesque Waldenbuch with her family and two spoiled cats, who absolutely believe they should be allowed to escape and roam the village freely.