Audrey Claire - Libby Grace 01 - How to be a Ghost (10 page)

“I gave the excuse that you’re sick, Libby, and that’s why you hadn’t called Ms. Campbell back,” Monica said, knowing I was present in the car. I’d asked her to talk to the principal, my boss, when she dropped off Jake, but something in Monica’s expression told me there was more. She twirled a lock around her finger and stared into the rearview mirror, her gaze darting back and forth as if she sought to catch sight of me. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

“What?”

“She said she heard you were being investigated for the murder.”

I squeaked. “I am not being investigated!”

“You and I know that.” Monica’s expression turned dark. “How much do you want to bet it was Sadie who told her? Anyway, I set her straight, but it didn’t matter. Everybody knows by now you were there at some point, and the police did question you. She said, until this whole thing is cleared up, she prefers you to take some time off.”

“She can’t do that to me! I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Right.” Monica nodded. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I…”

“Can’t call the school board, can you?” She hooked a thumb toward the building. “Or march in there and give her a piece of your mind?”

I pressed my lips together.

“I promise, Libby. We’re going to fix this—you and me.”

“I thought I have a week?”

She winked. “We’re just getting started. They better look out!”

Chapter Six

Clark pulled into the parking lot of the Memorial Street Apartment complex and stepped out of his squad car. I floated out after him, glad to be free from the chattering radio. Ken passed on the news that a concert would take place in Charlotte next weekend and wanted to know if one of the other staff members cared to attend with him. Then he and Bart got into a debate as to whether some rock star’s music, a man whose name she hadn’t caught, was any good. Clark had snatched up the receiver and demanded they clear off the channel, as it was for police related issues only. A repetitive “sorry, chief” was the response, and Clark gritted his teeth.

I had taken to following Clark to learn more about the case and what details he learned that might help me find my body. In the midst of my investigation, I had learned my stubborn friend had called Clark to tell him about Miles, and now Clark had arrived at Miles’s apartment, ostensibly to question him.

On the third ring of Miles’s doorbell, the young man answered, and for the first time I got to see Miles’s inner sanctum. Just as I had known, the apartment was one of the smaller ones. Years ago, before I married Mason, I had lived in these apartments, on the first floor. I knew the layout of each in this particular building was all the same, so that meant Miles’s place held one bedroom.

“Chief, what are you doing here?” Miles’s voice cracked on the last word, and he coughed. Clark gave no reaction, but after following him around for a while, I knew he was sharp. He had picked up on Miles’s nervousness and probably made note of it. I was of the opinion that having the police visit your house would make anyone quake and reserved my opinion of Miles’s guilt or innocence.

Although small, Miles’s apartment looked like a cyclone had hit it. Clothes had been strewn on every surface. Pads of a paper and books were piled in corners. Landscapes, portraits, and still lifes cluttered most of the cream-colored walls. On tables that appeared to have been picked up secondhand with no mind for coordination were tin cans squeezed tight with lead and colored pencils. Magazines were flung open on the couch and loveseat, their pages cut to ribbons. Half eaten slices of pizza and abandoned cola cans occupied any spot not taken up by the aforementioned items. A sudden urge to grab a trash bag and do a major purge came over me, but I resisted making my presence known.

“I have a few questions to ask you about George Walsh’s murder, Mr. Lucas, if you don’t mind. May I come in?”

I peered at Clark and realized I had already let myself in. Miles seemed to think it over and then stepped back. He turned and strode to the couch. With a wide sweep of his arm, he sent magazines flying. A can of pencils overturned, and he moved like lightning to right them. I realized the pads of paper were all for drawing. I eyed the two men and saw that they weren’t looking my way and solidified my fingertips. A quick brush sent the cover of one pad fluttering open, and I smiled, proud of myself. The next instant, the charcoal creation on the page caught my attention and my awe. Miles was an artist—a gifted one. I didn’t think anyone in town knew it. Otherwise the secret would be common knowledge.

“You draw?” Clark asked, walking through me to pick up the pad. He shivered and squinted toward the sliding glass door leading to the balcony.

Miles closed the space between them in two strides to snatch the pad away. He slapped it closed, frowning. “You have a warrant to search my apartment, chief?”

Clark eyed him as if he read the young man’s mind. “Do you have something to hide, Mr. Lucas?”

Miles’s mouth worked like a fish’s, and his eyes bugged, making him unattractive in my opinion. Then he heaved his shoulders and settled down some, but his fingers plucked at the legs of his jeans. I saw Clark take in these movements with sharp assessment.

Miles spun his back on the officer. “I know why you’re here.”

Clark flipped open a notebook he tugged from his shirt pocket and readied a pencil. “Why is that, Mr. Lucas?”

A hand on his hip, Miles whipped around to face Clark and huffed. “It’s Miles, okay? Jeez.” He did a good imitation of Monica rolling his eyes.

“Tell me why I’m here, Mr. Lucas,” Clark repeated.

I smiled despite myself. Clark knew how to get under a person’s skin. He asked simple questions with so little emotion yet evoked so much more in others. I wanted to help Miles, but was glad Clark’s technique wasn’t turned on me at the moment. Then I remembered our interview. The chief hadn’t been nearly as hard on me. Not at all, really.

Years ago, when we were still in high school, I remember Mason complaining that every time he looked Clark’s way, Clark’s gaze was locked on me. He’d threatened to punch Clark, but I had told him to leave him alone if he wanted to keep dating me. I did not like bullies, and as far as I could tell, Clark wasn’t hurting anyone. When Mason turned his back, I remembered I had glanced over at Clark through my lashes and found his claim true. Over the next few days, every time I came across Clark Givens, he was already staring at me. I had been flattered because I had never thought of myself as a girl boys would go gaga over. Even though Clark didn’t approach Mason in looks back then, it still made me feel good knowing of his interest. Now, I had to wonder if his feelings held, but I dismissed it as fast as the thoughts arose. Clark must have plenty of women to choose from, even in Summit’s Edge.

“I didn’t kill George,” Miles blurted, and Clark laid his pencil flat on his notebook. I expected him to ask why Miles would say such a thing, but he stood quiet, waiting. Miles fidgeted a few moments, and then spoke again, his face red, eyes bright but more in frustration than hurt. Why did I get the feeling Miles wasn’t heartbroken at the loss of his lover? “I had a note from him. I don’t know where it is.”

“That’s convenient,” Clark said.

Miles’s color deepened. “I think the mayor took it to try to pin this on me. She hated that we were together. It embarrassed her. She might pretend she’s tolerant of all kinds of people, but she’s not.”

I itched to ask a few questions of my own, but I tried my best to trust Clark to think of everything that crossed my mind.

“Are you implying the mayor had something to do with her husband’s murder?”

“Of course!”

“What proof do you have?”

“She knew about us.”

Clark picked up his pencil again. “How long?”

Miles stuttered. If he said the mayor had known a long time, than it made no sense to kill George now. If she had just found out, then that was different. Miles not answering right away would seem as if he lied, especially if he claimed the mayor had just learned about the two of them.

“I…I don’t know,” Miles said. “George told me a couple days before he died that she knows.”

“Ask him what her reaction to finding out was,” I said, and then slapped a hand over my mouth. Clark glanced around, and my stomach hurt thinking he had heard me. He waved a hand as if swatting at an insect.

“Mr. Lucas, you mentioned a note.”

Miles’s Adam’s apple bobbed a few times.

“What did this note say?”

“I don’t remember.”

Clark’s gaze met the younger man’s, and moisture broke out on Miles’s upper lip. He scrubbed a hand across it and glanced away. “Just…maybe…I want to see you, I guess. Like that.”

“Uh-huh.” The little pencil scratched over the page. “And do you have any other notes from George Walsh?”

Miles drew himself up taller. “I don’t see why I have to show you any letters. They’re private. Besides, you haven’t shown me a warrant.”

“You’re right, Mr. Lucas. I just thought in the interest of catching your friend’s killer…”

“Well, nobody likes to show that kind of stuff.” Miles rubbed a hand over his neck. “If I’m not a suspect, it’s not important anyway.”

“If you aren’t? I assure you, Mr. Lucas, you are.”

Miles’s knees almost gave out. He dipped low and grappled for the arm of the couch. When he laid a hand on it, he used it as support to sit down. Clark continued as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on the poor man.

“So is the mayor, and so are a few others. I have to question everyone who might have had contact with George Walsh before he died. That’s procedure. I’m sorry you don’t like it, but I
will
do my job. And I
will
…find my man—or
wo
man. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Lucas?”

 Miles nodded. He licked his lips and pushed a tuft of blond hair from his forehead. “I don’t have any letters from George. I destroyed them all.”

My mouth fell open.

“Why would you do that?”

And why would you admit it?
I thought.

Miles glared at Clark, drawing his fingers into fists. “Because I refuse to be blamed for this. After I couldn’t find that note in the place I know I put it, I got scared. I knew someone was trying to pin this on me. No way am I taking the fall. No way! Not for
him
.”

I was right about no love lost there.

“I was with George a few times,” Miles said. “It was a fling, nothing more. But now I don’t have anything to prove it. I realize it was stupid to destroy the notes.”

“Yes, it was,” Clark agreed. “What about emails?”

Miles laughed, a humorless sound. “That guy? George wasn’t the computer type. He has a website for his hardware store, but he hired a man to do it for him. I bet he hasn’t ever gone to look at it and doesn’t know if he even has a contact email for work.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to share about George Walsh?”

Miles thought about it and shrugged. “He was a nice guy. A little pushy but nothing I couldn’t handle. I can’t imagine anyone hating him enough to kill him except—”

“Could Mr. Walsh have been seeing anyone other than you or his wife?”

At the question, Miles appeared insulted. “No.”

That will be all, Mr. Lucas. Thank you for your time.” Clark dug in a pocket and pulled out a wrinkled business card. “If you write down my number, and call me if you think of anything else, I would appreciate it.”

Miles snatched the card and stuffed it into a jean pocket. I grinned at the annoyance in Clark’s expression. He apparently did not have a big enough budget for business cards to go to waste and had wanted the card back. I almost patted his shoulder and wondered at his own knowledge of the internet and all he could find at reasonable prices. Maybe if I ever appeared to him again, I would inform him.

I followed Clark outside, and we returned to the station. Just as Clark stepped out of the car and I floated from it, his sister Isabelle stopped in front of us balancing a basket over her arm. When she glared straight at me, I froze, unable to react or move. The world seemed to stand still, and time passed. Then her gaze shifted to her brother, and I realized my fears were unfounded.

“Clark, I’ve been waiting here all morning for you,” she complained.

“I’m sorry, sis. I had suspects to question.”

“Never mind that.” I got the impression Isabelle usually brushed aside whatever Clark said. “What did you eat for breakfast?”

“I—”

“Cookies, I bet. When I have offered to make you breakfast every morning. You can’t live off cookies, Clark. It’s not healthy.”

The chief ran a hand over his belly and sucked it in. I for one thought he was handsome no matter what.

“I brought you a nice lunch. Roast beef on fresh bread,” Isabelle chirped.

Clark’s gaze lit up. “Cheese?”

“Dairy doesn’t agree with you.”

He grumbled. “You should know.”

“What was that, Clark Givens? I didn’t know I was such a burden to my big brother.” She lowered her gaze over eyes identical to Clark’s. “If you would rather I get my own place, please tell me, and I will be out of your hair.”

I drifted a car length away as they argued walking into the station. The sister and brother were close, and for me to stick around would be an invasion of their privacy if they intended to eat together in his office. I watched my only way of having my questions answered disappearing into the building. At the last second, as Clark seemed about to turn around, Isabelle linked an arm through his and tugged him inside. The door closed with a decidedly firm click as if to say no ghosts allowed, and I considered what to do next.

* * * *

Tired of having to wait for Clark and have him ask all the questions and miss some I would have asked, I decided to take the investigation into my own ghostly hands. I knew the risk of being exposed, and trust me Ian’s warnings replayed in my mind like a mantra. However, standing around waiting for others was not my style.

I sat in the mayor’s office watching her talk on the phone and judged how long I could hold my present form. If she didn’t end the call soon, I would need to excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Not that I didn’t feel well. I had spent a couple hours in the park where a few residents enjoyed lunch breaks, making it possible for me to absorb energy from them. The problem I encountered was concentration. My mind kept wandering to whether the mayor had killed her husband. Even as cold as she was, I couldn’t imagine her doing the deed. I couldn’t imagine anyone in Summit’s Edge being that violent. If I did, I suppose I would live in fear.