Unbinding Love: An Angela Panther Mystery Novella (The Angela Panther Mystery Series) (2 page)

“So what did you do between getting that email and calling the police?” Mel asked.

Tiny beads of sweat formed on Emma’s forehead. “I…I…I figured everything was fine and he’d be home on the bus. I didn’t think nothing was wrong.”

“She was drinking,” Bill said. “You see what’s happened? It’s because of you, Emma.”

The bottle of scotch slid across the table and crashed onto the floor, but Emma didn’t flinch. She just left the broken bottles pieces where scattered on the floor.

“I know where the other ones are hiding too and I’ll smash them all,” Bill said. “If you weren’t a drunk, our son wouldn’t be out there, probably dead, for all we know.”

“Bill, calm down,” I said.

He flung his hands in the air and then disappeared, but I wasn’t worried. If I needed him, I’d find him later.

“How long has your ex-husband been deceased?” I asked.

“Four years.”

“What happened?” 

She made eye contact, her eyes stone cold. “He was a piece of crap husband who didn’t deserve me or his son. I didn’t lose nothin’.”

Not exactly an explanation of how he died but I didn’t push it. I checked Mel’s face, wondering if that’s how she felt about her ex, Nick. I hoped not, for her kids’ sake.

My heart ached for Justin Marx. “Did you call his friends and their parents?”

“Why are you asking me the same questions that detective did? Can’t you get the report or something? I’m tired and my ex has been here gettin’ on my last nerve, throwing my stuff around, and making sure I know he’s pissed.” She dragged herself from the table. “I’m tired and I have a headache. I need to rest.”

Definitely wouldn’t win any mother of the year awards.

“Hold up,” Mel said, jumping out of her chair. “Your son is missing and you’re more interested in getting drunk and passing out than you are in finding him? What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

Oh boy
. I stepped back to let Mel have her say. When my best friend’s Asian temper flared, I knew better than to get in her way. Besides, I agreed with her. Emma Marx deserved a verbal butt kicking.

“He’s not in danger,” Emma said, rubbing her arm. “He’s a kid. He probably went to school and then one of his friends convinced him to ditch, and they’re just out having a good time. Kids do that all the time.”

He’d been gone two days. Emma Marx was fooling herself. We already knew Justin Marx hadn’t got on the bus that morning. He was a straight A student who hung out with the geek crowd. They weren’t the kind to skip school and be gone for days at a time, and she knew it. Emma Marx was just too drunk to care.

Mel shook her head and sighed. “Keep swimmin’ in denial, woman. That’ll help your kid.”

“I think we’ve got enough,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Marx.”

She jiggled the ice in her cup and sipped the few drops left. “Tell that ex-husband of mine to get lost and not come back. I’m tired of him making my life hell.”

I nodded. “I hope you find your son.”

Mel had already stuffed the notebook and pen back into her bag. “You need help,” she told Emma, and with her
NIKE
tennis shoe, stepped right in the scotch and shards of glass covering the floor, making little crunching sounds from the pressure.

“Stepping in the scotch on the floor? Point made,” I said when we got into my car.

Mel’s jaw dropped and then slowly formed into a smile. “What point? It was in my way.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, seriously. I get that she’s got a problem, but it’s her son. How does a mother act like that when her son is missing?”

I wondered the same thing. “I don’t know.” I pulled out of Emma Marx’s driveway and headed toward the coffee shop, picturing my son, Josh, and the psychotic state of panic I’d be in if something ever happened to him. I’d kill someone with my bare hands if they tried to hurt my son or my daughter Emily, even though she often drove me to the brink of punting her through our front door.

“So her ex was pretty scary, huh? Throwing all that stuff around the house like that,” Mel said.

“He’s worried about his son. I can empathize, but it definitely won’t help find the boy.”

“You gonna ask me to help or what?” The voice bellowing from the back seat belonged to my mother, Fran Richter. She had a knack for popping in unannounced. “I’ve got some free time, ya know.” She hovered close to Mel’s head and then blew in her ear.

Mel swatted the air away and Ma giggled. She blew again, and added an earlobe tug for effect.

Mel batted both hands at the sides of her head, tilting and shaking her ear. “What the heck?”

I tried not to laugh, but in doing so, sucked in a snort.

She whipped her head toward the backseat, her jaw clenched shut. “She’s here, isn’t she?” Her head shifted back and forth, searching for something she’d never see. Mel didn’t have the gift, and no matter how badly she wanted to, she couldn’t see ghosts. “Fran, stop messin’ with me. You’ll give me nightmares.”

“Not if ya got that sexy detective in the sack with you,” my dead and completely inappropriate mother said.

I cringed. “Good grief, could you not go there, please?”

“What’d she say?” Mel asked.

“She made reference to you being in bed with my boss.”

“He’s not really your boss since you don’t get paid.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Just sayin’,” Mel said.

“Subject change,” I said. “Ma, about helping us, you sure  you got the time?”

“If I said I got the time, then I got the time. And why wouldn’t I? I’m a celestial super sleuth, remember? It’s what I do, investigate crime during my free time.” She laughed. “Look at that. I’m a poet and didn’t know it. I rhyme all the time.” She dragged out the -
ime
in time.

Lord, help me.
“I thought you might be too busy bowling or hanging out with dead celebrities.” Since her death, my mother had made a few celebrity friends in the afterlife. Johnny Cash and his wife June were her current besties.

She flicked her hand in the air. “Yah, I do that too, but I got priorities.”

That was Ma code for
I’m bored
.

“Okay, then yes, I could definitely use your help. How about you celestial super sleuth it to wherever Justin Marx is and let me know where to find him? ‘K. Thanks. Bye.” I wiggled my nose like Samantha on the original
BeWitched
.

Mel and my mother both laughed.

I shrugged. “I knew it was a long shot but I had to try.”

“The universe don’t work that way, Ang. You know that. You gotta do the work. It’s kinda like that diet you’re always on. If you don’t work for it, you’ll pack on those pounds. ‘Specially with all them cupcakes and fru-fru drinks you get at Starbucks. Whatever happened to a good old cup of Folgers? Madone, what I’d give for a cup a that stuff.”

I’d call her rude if she wasn’t so right.

“She’s talking, isn’t she?” Mel asked. “What’s she saying? Is it about me and Aaron?”

I rolled my eyes. “Not everything is about you, ya know.”

“I know. And why is that? It sure as heck should be.” She smirked.

I filled her in on my mother’s mini-speech.

“Poor Fran. I can’t imagine not being able to have coffee. “How can Heaven not include coffee?”

“Oh, it’s in Heaven,” Ma said. “They got all kinds of coffee up there, the hoity-toity stuff, that is. They just don’t got the good stuff, like Folgers.”

That was news to me. She’d been complaining about the lack of coffee in the afterlife since she’d kicked the bucket on earth. “Since when?”

“Beats me,” she said. “We don’t deal with time up there, but I’d say a few days ago if I had to put it in your kind’s language.”

My kind?

“They have coffee,” I told Mel. “Got it a few days ago, based on our theory of time, that is. Just not Folgers.”

“Well, thank God for that.” Mel held her nose. “My mother used to drink that stuff. It smelled like cat pee.”

A paperback flew out of the backseat and whopped Mel on the head.

She leaned forward. “Holy son of a b—“

I stopped her. “Now you know how it feels.”

“You only got whacked with a puny granola bar, and that was months ago. I got hit with…” She grabbed the book. “
The Theory of Everything
by Stephen Hawking?” She held the book up for me to see. “Lemme guess. This belongs to Josh.”

I nodded. “Last summer’s reading project.” My son was an old soul. He played lacrosse and gamed, but also had a need to know a lot about everything, and fulfilled that need with cable TV channels like
The History Channel
, books, and the Internet.

“I knew it. The question is, why’s it still in your car?”

“Because he never took it out and I’m refusing to do it and I’m not going to discuss it further or my OCD will kick in and I’ll have to bring it inside.”

Thinking about my kid brought me back to Justin Marx. “So what can you do, Ma?” 

“Lemme see what I can dig up,” she said, but before she shimmered away, she added, “Well, lookie who’s come to hang out.”

I couldn’t turn and see, and since apparitions didn’t have reflections, I couldn’t check the mirror either. “Who?”

“Am I dead?” the ghost asked.

I recognized that voice and slammed my right foot onto the brake. The car jerked to a stop. I whipped my head back and couldn’t believe my eyes. “Oh crap.”

***

There have been days that, halfway through, I realized I should have never gotten out of bed. I should have just buried myself under the covers and waited for the day to pass, praying the whole time for the next day to be better. 

As I cut off two cars to switch lanes, I knew I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed that morning. I dropped the F-bomb and Mel’s eyes popped open.

“Rut-roh,” she said. “It’s never good when you say the f-word. What’s up?” 

I made a u-turn at the next light and pulled into a strip mall parking lot. “Mel, call Aaron and tell him to send someone to the Marx house ASAP.”

“Is it Justin?” she asked.

I shook my head. “His mother.”

“Crap.”

“Yup.”

“I don’t understand,” Emma Marx said. “How did I get here?”

“She look funny to you?” Ma asked. “She’s not sparkly like me.”

“Emma, do you know who I am?” I asked.

“You’re that woman the detective sent over.” She scanned the car.  “What going on?”

“You kicked the bucket, lady. That’s what’s goin’ on.”

My mother never minced words.

Emma Marx screamed—a high-pitched, ear-piercing scream.

“Stop screaming,” I screamed back, knowing that was counterproductive.

“I…I gotta go home. I gotta get my…”

“No, Emma, wait,” I said, but it was too late. She’d already disappeared. “Great. Just great.”

***

Three squad cars and Aaron’s unmarked cruiser were parked in front of the Marx house. An ambulance with its doors open sat in the short driveway. I pulled up next to Aaron’s car and kept my motor running.

“Let’s go,” Mel said, already halfway out the door. 

I grabbed her shoulder and squeezed. “Hold on. Let’s give him a few minutes.”

Mel grimaced. “Ouch. You need to dial back on the weight training, woman. Your grip’s harsh.”

I snorted. “You’re just uber fragile.”

“Like a French leg lamp, baby.”

I got caught her reference to the movie
A Christmas Story
and was impressed. “Good one.”

A woman in a pair of blue very short shorts and a matching tank top jogged by. She smiled at me and I smiled back. I watched as she jogged away and noticed her feet weren’t touching the ground. I liked when spirit acknowledged me but didn’t ask for anything, though I couldn’t help but wonder why.

An officer appeared and tapped on my window. “Ma’am. You need to move along please.”

Mel leaned over my lap, her low-cut tank top dropping open to reveal her B-cups jiggling inside a zebra print push-up bra. I wanted to barf but held it in.

She hit the window button. “Oh, hi officer…” She pulled her sunglasses low on her nose and read his tag. “Miller. It’s okay. “Detective Banner is waiting for us.”

Officer Miller’s eyes darted to Mel’s pumped up cleavage. A slight smile took shape, hinting at a sense of humor under the authoritarian attitude, but he caught it and it flipped into a scowl, directed right at me. “Your name?”

“Angela Panther.”

The officer spoke into the mic on his left shoulder and gave Aaron the 411.

Aaron’s voice squawked out of the speaker. “Is she alone?”

“No, sir,” the officer said, giving Mel’s perky boobs another onceover. 

“Send Ms. Panther, but tell the other one she’ll need to wait in the car,” Aaron responded.