Page 6 of A Midsummer Night’s Ghost (Murder By Design #8)

SIX

“There’s the lovebirds,” Detective Cox said with a grin as I followed Jake into the room at the station stuffed with working cubicles. “Have a nice weekend?” He raised his eyebrows up and down.

“We were unpacking,” I told him, smoothing down the front of my taupe skirt and pretending to ignore his innuendo.

“Moving is hell,” Jake said, walking behind me.

“Hell is this case I’m working on,” Detective Debby Smith said, leaning back so far in her office chair it creaked and threatened to give way. She put her hands behind her head and stared at her computer screen. “Is the WiFi off? Why is my computer frozen?”

“Mine’s working,” Detective Cox said. “Maybe restart it.”

“Why is it everyone says that like I’m some kind of idiot? Just restart it .” She rolled her eyes.

“Because nine times out of ten, that fixes it. Did you restart it?”

“No.” Smith grumbled but powered off her desktop computer.

I hovered, determined to let the detectives take the lead with me. Neither of them were all that fond of me to begin with —Detective Cox because I called him out on his inappropriate flirting, Detective Smith because she thought I was a helpless female—and I had anticipated some resistance to me being there.

I wasn’t wrong to call out Cox. But Smith might not be wrong about me either. I get squeamish. But I had come a long way in the last year.

Jake gave me an encouraging smile, lifting his suit jacket off of the back of his cubicle chair and slipping it on. He’d met me downstairs at the security check-in and now that I was in the belly of the homicide unit, I remembered two things—he belonged here and I did not.

There was always something about the rows upon rows of cubicles in the center of the room, flanked by a perimeter of glass offices, that had given me claustrophobia. It was a practical workspace, humming with computers and detectives on phone calls, and swearing and shouts to co-workers. Clicking office doors and the endless clacking of fingers on keyboards. Nothing too grim, save the crime scene photos scattered around, and yet not designed for anything other than function.

It was why I had always felt so out of place there. I wasn’t practical. Not really. I owned too many dresses and expensive shoes for a woman with a modest income and I didn’t always dress for the weather. I ordered takeout more often than I should and I bought the pre-cut vegetables at the “fancy” grocery store because if I didn’t I would never bother to eat them because chopping is an extra step. I paid for a gym membership I never used and I was a streaming services dream customer. I signed up and paid in perpetuity for apps and channels I no longer even remembered I had.

I also valued pretty things. Delicate things. Like flowers and friendships and the sanctity of human life.

Jake belonged at the station. He was the epitome of practical. Keep it simple, stupid. The solution is usually the most obvious one. He was pragmatic, efficient, capable of compartmentalization. He was also empathetic, but never driven by his emotions. Not there, anyway. There he was Marner, not Jake. In his personal life, he was still practical, but also caring, romantic, and compassionate.

I liked both sides of him, or maybe I should say I loved the whole that made him who he was. A great man, and a great detective.

He also rocked a suit like nobody’s business. Like a detective on a TV drama, not real life.

While I was admiring his biceps and abs in his well-fitted suit, Cox was smiling at me. “So how do we do this? You need a ouija board or something? Crime scene photos?”

He shoved a glossy picture into my hand.

At first, I didn’t even understand what I was looking at. There was just blood everywhere. But then I realized that beneath all the blood, or in it, was a lumpy shape that was a body. There was mud and brown grass surrounding it. On the head was a crumpled up blue plastic bag with a grocery store name emblazoned on it beneath some patches of dirt.

I almost dropped the photo but I didn’t want to show that level of weakness in front of Jake’s colleagues. I tried to force myself to stare at it and not make horrified gagging sounds.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jake demanded of Cox.

He snatched the photo from my hand and turned it down so I couldn’t see it anymore.

“Seriously,” Smith said. “This is an active investigation and you just showed her evidence.”

I almost rolled my eyes. Because what, I was going to run to the press and blast what I had seen? And I wasn’t helpless. Just different from her. Maybe that’s what it was. Sometimes you meet someone and they just don’t like you and there is no real reason why. That was me with Detective Debby Smith. She had just decided to dislike me the second she clapped eyes on me.

“Come on,” Cox said, doing the eye rolling at Smith for me. “She doesn’t even know what’s relevant, now is she going to compromise our investigation?”

That wasn’t exactly complimentary either.

“I do know what is relevant,” I said. “But I’m not here to sabotage your investigation. I’m supposed to be helping, remember?”

It was a dubious concept and I understood their reluctance to have a spiritual medium offering opinions of a brutal homicide case, but still, no need to be insulting.

“You can’t help us,” Smith says. “Unless you’re secretly a forensic anthropologist.”

I gave Jake a look. I tried to tell him no one would take me seriously here. They hadn’t when I was an evidence tech for a very short time five years earlier so they certainly weren’t going to now.

“Just give it a shot,” Jake told them. “We’ve got nothing to go on and it’s been six months.”

Yanking the photo back from Jake, I decided to take charge of this disaster. “Let’s go into one of the conference rooms. I want to sit down.”

With that, I held my head up high, tossing my red (ish) hair back over my shoulder and started walking in my heels toward what I thought might be an open room.

I ruined it though by glancing back over my shoulder. Smith wasn’t getting out of her chair. She wasn’t even looking over in my direction, but at a pile of papers on her desk. Cox was staring at my butt. Jake was grinning at me like he was proud of me or amused. Maybe both.

“Detective Smith, are you coming?” I said loudly.

Several detectives looked up from their desks, curious.

Debby Smith sighed and rose to her feet, grabbing her phone. “Because I have nothing to do at all today so sure, let’s waste my time.”

Cox stood up too, but he seemed more enthusiastic. He grabbed his phone and a file folder. “Just give me a name,” he said. “Just somewhere to start. I believe in you, Bailey. Our little station psychic.”

“That’s me.” I yanked the door open and was faced with the sight of a detective interviewing a crying woman. “Whoops. Sorry.”

I let the door float closed and turned to Jake. “What now, Detective Marner?”

Jake gave me a grin.

Oh, boy. I knew that look and it was not office friendly. I shot him a “behave” look back.

He went two doors down and pulled it open. “After you.”

Once we were all seated around a small round table in a room mostly filled with file cabinets, I asked, “Tell me what you can about the case.”

“Deceased female found behind a trap house. COD asphyxiation. Identified as Patricia Jackson, age forty-seven,” Cox said. “This one got under my skin because she’s got five kids and twelve grandkids and by all accounts was just working and taking care of her family. She was a home health aide and did food delivery as a side gig.” He pulled a map out of his folder and slapped it down. “She lived here.” He put his thumb on the map. Was last seen here. She dropped off McDonald’s at this house.” He pointed again. “According to the data from the app. She sent a picture of the food on the porch to the customer via the app and they confirmed to us that they saw her drop it off and drive away heading west. At that point, she took another order request but never picked up the food at the restaurant.”

“Rally’s,” Smith said. “So between here and here she disappeared and was suffocated with a plastic bag.”

I cleared my throat. “Okay. I’m going to do something weird and please don’t look at me and be all judgmental. I’m going to call Patricia forward and see if she’s still with us.”

“Is this like a seance?” Cox said, leaning back so far in his chair it made a screeching noise on the floor. “I’m a God-fearing man. I don’t know about this.”

“What the hell did you think it was?” Smith demanded. “You’re the one who called her our little psychic.”

“Yeah, but I thought psychics just look at a picture and images appear in their head. I don’t know about calling on dead people.” He nervously straightened his tie.

“It’s not a seance. It’s like…talking to a deceased relative when you’re at their grave. It’s conversational.”

Cox pulled a cross on a necklace out from beneath his lavender dress shirt. He fingered it, clearly nervous. “Okay, go for it.”

Smith gave him an amused look. “You are a paradox, dude.”

“Don’t “dude” me.” Cox rolled his eyes.

Jake was scrolling on his phone like he’d lost interest. Or maybe he was trying to prevent me from feeling nervous with three sets of eyes on me.

Clearly, we were getting nowhere.

I turned my chair opposite the three of them. Then I cleared my throat, feeling massively self-conscious. It was worse than speech class in high school, which we had been required to take, which was cruel and unusual punishment. Who forces awkward teens to stand up and give speeches in order to get a high school diploma?

“Patricia Jackson?” I said. “Hi, I’m Bailey. If you’re with us, I’d like to speak to you.”

“If I hear a voice right now, I’m going to piss my pants,” Cox murmured.

“God, I hope that happens,” Smith quipped right back.

“Shh!” I commanded. Not because I needed to but because it felt good to reprimanded those two yahoos.

With power comes great responsibility and I was inclined to use it for petty revenge.

To my complete amazement they both went totally silent.

“Patricia, I’d love to speak to you,” I said in what I hoped was a gentle voice. “These nice detectives are doing their best to figure out what happened to you but they could use your help. Can you tell me who hurt you?”

Given that my only training was one book I’d ordered online on fostering your talents as a medium, I was winging it.

“Thomas did it.”

I jumped when I heard an unknown woman’s voice behind me. I turned and standing right between Cox and Smith and to the left of Jake was a woman wearing muddy jeans, a sweatshirt emblazoned with “Grandma” on it in plaid embroidery, and a blue plastic bag over her head.

That was unexpected.

I swallowed hard and tried not to look terrified.

But this was uncharted territory. Not only could I conjure up a spirit, she had a plastic bag over her head.

“What are you looking at?” Cox said, sitting straight up and glancing over each of us shoulders.

“Hi, Patricia,” I said, digging my fingernails into my thighs under the table to prevent myself from passing out or running screaming. “Who is Thomas?”

Smith frowned and glanced at Jake. “The ex?” she murmured. “He had an alibi. The girlfriend.”

“My ex-husband,” Patricia said. “He followed me, cornered me in the alley, then threw me behind that drug house.”

Still reeling from a disembodied voice coming out from beneath a grocery bag, I nodded rapidly. “So his girlfriend lied about his alibi?”

“She sure did. Because she’s afraid of him. Because of this.” She pointed to the bag.

“That’s understandable.”

“Where is she?” Cox whispered, his brown eyes wide.

“Right next to you.”

“Tell that fool—” Patricia started to say, but was cut off by Cox leaping out of his chair.

“Oh, shit!” Cox walked right into Patricia.

“Stop—” I tried to tell him but now he was waving his arms and his shoulders shook. Patricia instantly vanished.

“A cold breeze just went through me,” he said.

“You just walked into Patricia.”

“Oh, hell, no!” Cox made all kinds of noises and flapped his arms and brushed off his pants.

Smith started cackling. “Tough guy murder cop freaking out over an alleged ghost. That was gold.”

He swore at her.

Jake wasn’t reacting at all. He was flipping through the folder Cox had brought. “We need to bring the girlfriend in again. See if we can get her to talk.”

“Patricia said the girlfriend is afraid of Thomas. Because, you know, he puts bags over women’s heads and suffocates them,” I said.

“It’s been six months,” Smith said to Jake. “Maybe he has a warrant or he’s in jail right now on unrelated charges. If we’re lucky.”

“You’re idea of luck and mine and two completely different things,” I said. “For the record.”

Debby Smith cracked a grin at me. “Oh, I’m sure. And I don’t believe you see ghosts. For the record.”

“I do,” Cox said. He shoved his arm at her. “I still have goosebumps. Look at my arm hair.” He rolled up his shirtsleeve.

“I’m not looking at your arm hair, Jesus.”

I shrugged at Smith as I stood up. “I don’t actually care if you believe me or not. For the record.”

She had tried to intimidate me every single time we’d encountered each other and I was done. Let’s see how she would react to having a conversation with a corpse. She might not be so impressed with herself then.

Okay, so not technically a corpse.

But the ghost as the person appeared at the time of their death, so close enough.

We stared each other down, waiting for the other to either shoot first with another barb or back down.

She broke eye contact and reached for her phone.

Haha! I felt an unholy triumph over my minor victory.

Jake walked out with me and we got on the elevator. “Nice work, Trouble.”

And here I thought the nickname he’d given me a while back had disappeared for good. Lucky me, it was back. “Thanks.” The elevator started moving. “Patricia had the bag on her head when she was talking to me.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? Babe. That’s…disturbing.”

I nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is. Being a spiritual medium is in fact disturbing.”

He reached out and pulled me up against his chest and smoothed back my hair. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to do that again if you don’t want to.”

“I want to help though,” I said, words muffled by his tie. “It’s just not always easy.”

“Okay, well, we’ll just take it one case at a time.” He kissed the top of my head. “I won’t ever let anything hurt you, I swear to you.”

I knew he wouldn’t if he could at all prevent it. “I know.” I lifted my head up for a kiss.

Unfortunately, the elevator door popped open right then and two detectives eyed us.

Ruining all the chutzpah I had just gained by winning my silent showdown with Detective Debby Smith, I leaped away from Jake like a middle school girl caught by her mother playing spin the bottle in a closet.

Jake started laughing. “What was that ?”

I rushed off the elevator, a little embarrassed. Okay, a lot embarrassed. We were barely touching and I had jumped three feet in the air. “I have no idea,” I admitted. “I’m just emotionally tapped out. I’m not sure if I was helpful or not and Detective Smith clearly doesn’t like me.”

Jake took my hand and pulled me to a stop in the lobby. “She’s just a skeptic. You were very helpful.” He leaned in close to me and murmured in my ear. “I have something for you.”

I shivered. “Oh, that sounds promising. What time are you coming home?”

“I have it for you now.” He brushed a kiss over my ear then pulled back and held up his phone. “Autopsy report. I sent it to your email.”

Well. Not what I was thinking. “You say the most romantic things.”

“I try.”