Dark Demon Rising: Whisperings Paranormal Mystery book seven (8 page)

Maggie’s
hands, clamped on the newspaper’s edges, trembled. She glanced behind her quickly
and said beneath her breath, “Don’t tell me, they fell off the edge.”

“No.
I think Jamie might have gotten away with manslaughter were it the case. Nope,
our Jamie had a mean streak. He tapped the gas and
knocked
them over.
Then he drove away.” After I talked to Joy and Gary, Mike soon broke Jamie’s
friends. They testified against him, said they screamed at him to stop. Jamie is
destined for the penitentiary. His pals were convicted as accessories with
remitted sentences and went free, except Ethan Magnusen who the others said urged
Jamie on. Ethan went back to jail.

I
saw it through their eyes. Jamie’s face red with drunken, crazed glee. He
wanted to hurt them and knew he’d get away with it. His friends would never
turn him in. He felt invulnerable. Ethan, thumping Jamie’s shoulder, egging him
on. Gary and Joy split at the last minute but too late. The car hood smacked
Joy hard enough to bend her double before she rebounded. The right-side light
clipped Gary, spun him, so he faced the two-hundred-foot drop as he flew through
the air.

“Ethan
got two years. Did he die in there? He may have gotten an early release or got
out on parole.”

“But
what does it have to do with you now?” Jack asked.

I
palmed my forehead again. “No idea, but he
must
be who Mike meant.”

Something
itched at my brain but I couldn’t bring it into focus. Did my memories already
fade? It takes decades for some shades, months for others. Jack’s and Mel’s
memory retention is unusual.

But
you’re
not
a shade.
I absolutely refused to believe
it.

“So
what do we do?” Jack asked.

I
closed my eyes to block the distractions a coffee shop provided, and tried to
think.

“When
is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow,”
Maggie muttered, lifting the paper and peering at it. “Look, I have to get back
to work.”

“Okay,”
I agreed. “But when you’re through, please walk toward the front so we can
catch you.”

She
nodded, stood and walked to the rear, taking the newspaper with her.

“Are
we going to the funeral?” Mel asked.

What
did Royal and I do when we needed information we couldn’t find elsewhere? We
went to the source. I groaned and opened my eyes. I hated stakeouts. Then I
wanted to slap sense into myself. Not a stakeout, no sitting in a car for hours
on end, we could listen to the mourners and nobody any the wiser.

Maggie
eventually came from the rear wearing her hoodie and a kid-sized vinyl backpack
with Jabba the Hutt on it. She crept through the café with an intense look of
concentration, carefully placing one foot before the other as if she walked a
tightrope.

“You
sure you’re okay?” her coworker called, causing the few customers still
lingering over their brews to look at Maggie.

Maggie
blushed and hastened to the door. I barely managed to hook her aura.

Outside,
in what I figured must be crisp air, the sky had lightened. Maggie paused on
the sidewalk and asked in a whisper, “Are you here?”

We
three reassured her.

“I
took tomorrow off work, in case you need me.”

I
gusted out a grateful breath. “Thanks, Maggie. You’re a peach. We can’t do
anything till tomorrow and we will need you then.”

She
grinned. “Fine. I can pick you up tomorrow, tell me where and when. Where can I
drop you?”

“I
want to go home.” I’d be content to watch Royal and Mac. But was going home
wise? “But we can’t. If Royal’s there when you come for us, how can you explain
yourself?”

“Can
we come home with you?” Jack wheedled in a little boy voice. “Pretty please?”

Maggie
sounded reluctant. “Oh, all right.”

Perhaps
the novelty of ghosts literally hanging on to her had worn off. I prayed she would
not tell us to get lost. Maggie was my link to the world, I needed her
desperately.

We
went along the alley and got in the Mini. The drive to her house took awhile;
she steered cautiously on the treacherous streets, decelerating before she reached
the lights in case they changed suddenly and she needed to apply the brake.

Maggie
put the Mini in the garage and hauled down the door. In the house, she made
sure we detached before shrugging out of her jacket and hanging it on a hook.
Upstairs, we waited in the living room while she changed into comfortable sleep
pants and a sweater.

She
flopped on the couch and eyed Jack and Mel who stood together near a window. “Why
don’t you tell me about yourself?”

They
looked my way. I shook my head. Telling Maggie their history was not a good
idea and they knew it.

“Nah,”
said Mel. “Long story, water under the bridge and all that.”

“Oh.”
Maggie’s mouth twisted with disappointment but she didn’t press. “Well, do you want
to watch a movie, listen to music? Or what?”

Maggie,
Jack and Mel spent the evening discussing television shows. They were deep into
“The Walking Dead” when I decided to roam the house. Their voices faded as I
left the room.

Roaming
does not take long in a small house. Maggie’s kitchen and bathroom failed Royal’s
opinion of proper hygiene but she kept the rest of the house neat and fairly
clean. I read the spine of every book on her shelves and two pages of a
magazine lying open on a table. I read a recipe card for pumpkin chocolate chip
cookies, twice. I snooped through Madam Magenta’s room with its velvet curtains
and dusty plants.

Many
more nights like this and I’d go crazy from boredom.

When
I went upstairs, Maggie had turned in for the night but left the television on
for Jack and Mel. I joined them on the couch and the night began. I might learn
to appreciate television before this was over.

Entering
Saint Mark’s Cemetery by the east gate turned out to be the wrong decision.

The
sun shone on the snow and ornamental shrubbery coated with hoarfrost, making
the cemetery sparkle, a crystalline scene from a Christmas card. Maggie’s boots
crunched through the thin frozen surface layer, her breath streamed smokily in
the crisp air.

I
decided Maggie should avoid the south or west gates which give access to narrow
paved roads, and sneak in through the small east gate. She could cut through
the cemetery to the church and use the big old yews as cover. Mike had an
interest in this lad’s death so a detective or two might be at the funeral and
I didn’t want them or anyone else to notice Maggie. I asked her to pull up her
hood to be sure; her teal-colored hair made her stand out.

I
forgot Misty lingers in the cemetery.

Misty
wears a long white dress, the hem trailing torn dirty lace. Faded petals dot
the crown of her long blond hair, her blue eyes are awash with tears and
mascara streaks her cheeks. Soil is ground into the skin of her bare arms and
naked feet.

She
was a flower child in the late-sixties, a hippie, who like the song wore
flowers in her hair, but most of them fell out when she was attacked. Her
friends last saw her at midnight as she danced through the cemetery under a
full moon. They were all a little high. I don’t know what led up to her murder,
but I saw her killer through her eyes as she died, and from the marks on his
face she put up one hell of a fight.

I
came to Saint Marks for the first time a year ago, and met Misty fifty years
too late. I could have gone to Clarion PD and sat with a police sketch artist,
who would use age progression software to create a likeness. But Misty’s killer
looked in his mid-forties, which put him in his mid-nineties now. Would law
enforcement want to put money and resources into tracking down, prosecuting and
incarcerating a man who didn’t have much longer on this Earth anyway? All on
the word of a psychic investigator? I didn’t see it happening. Misty and I
talked it through, because she deserved justice and I’d pursue it to the best
of my ability if she wanted me to. But she said where he died—prison or
elsewhere—made no difference. She didn’t have to wait much longer.

Misty
came dancing over the grass, arms away from her body, knee lifted, toe pointed,
one step, one step, pirouette. She saw us a second after I spotted her and too
late to avoid. She stopped, stared, and sped to us.

“Tiff
Banks? Is that you? You’re dead?” she said in a shrill voice.

Before
I could reply, her head swung at Jack and Mel. “And you, who are you, how did
you get here?”

“Misty,”
I began, but the incredulity chasing over her face took my voice away. Seeing
shades with expressive features was still a novelty.

She
backed away. “What are you doing hanging on the girl? You walked in with her?
How?”

“We’re
in a hurry, Misty, but I’ll come back later.”

She
frowned and her chin puckered; her voice rose and hardened. “You have some
nerve, all of you,
walking
into my cemetery.”

“Tiff?”
Maggie said nervously.

“You
hear her?”

Maggie
gulped. “Oh, yeah.”

“Calm
down, you,” Mel said. “We can explain.”

“Get
out!” Misty had worked herself into a tantrum. “You’re freaks, all of you!”

“Now
just one minute, lady,” Jack began.

“Forget
it, Jack,” I hissed. “Maggie, let’s go.”

Maggie
didn’t need urging. She took off at a fast clip, heading straight across the
cemetery, weaving between gravestones. Misty followed yelling curses until we crossed
a parallel path. She stopped as if she hit a brick wall. We soon left her
behind.

“She
can’t cross the path,” Jack observed.

“She’s
confined to the cemetery’s east quadrant.”

“How
peculiar,” from Mel. She sagged on Maggie’s shoulder. “Now I know what Carrie
meant when she said shades were so angry she could move when they couldn’t,
they refused to listen to her.”

With
me along, their interaction with other shades had been a smooth operation so
far. I knew the shades and they listened to me, when the sudden appearance of
Mel and Jack would have startled and maybe angered them. They couldn’t deny the
proof I presented when my roommates attached and moved with me.

Saint
Mark’s steeple and high clerestory windows rose above the yews. Maggie stopped.
“Do I take you inside?”

People
already straggled from the church. About to say we would hitch a ride with one
of them if Maggie took us nearer, I noticed Detective Bob Knudsen. My gaze
panned the cemetery until it landed on Detective Dylan Voskins loitering west
of the church door.

“Wait
for a while.”

I
assessed the risk. Maggie might be a young woman out for a stroll and the
detectives had no reason to think otherwise. My hesitation came from knowing
we’d probably use Maggie again, and the police would notice her if she showed
up in several places. Cops are good at remembering folk who are seen more than
once in areas of interest to them. But I needed to get close to the Magnusen
family.

Anne
Magnusen came through the door. I remembered Anne’s face but this woman was a
shadow of her; pale, drained and hollow-eyed, her limp blond hair straggled
over the shoulders of her black wool coat. She hugged her daughter’s shoulder, perhaps
as much to keep herself upright as to comfort Ethan’s younger sister. More
aware than her mother of the people watching them, young Susan Magnusen’s chin
quivered and she bit her lip. Avery Magnusen must still be in the church.

Again,
the feeling I missed something vital. “Avery Magnusen. The name rings a bell.”

“Of
course it does, dummy,” from Mel.

“Something
else, nothing to do with Ethan’s case.”

I
pushed the notion away; if I stopped reaching for it, it would come to me.

“Maggie,
you only see us when we’re nearby, right?”

“Up
to about ten feet away,” Maggie said with a chin nod. “I still have to
concentrate. Reminds me of a Magic Eye picture, they don’t make sense until you
hold your focus on them and an actual picture becomes visible.”

“I
thought so. Here’s what we’ll do. I want to stick with the Magnusens. I expect they’ll
have a post-funeral gathering either nearby or in their home. I want to hear
what they and the other mourners say, and go with them to their house so we can
search it. Can you get on the path and walk past Mrs. Magnusen close enough so
Mel and I can grab her? She’s the blonde with her arm around her daughter.”

“Should
be able to.”

Should
I warn her about the cops? No. Not right now, anyway, it might make her
self-conscious. “Stroll along as if you’re out for a walk, but keep your head down.”

“So
I’m anonymous. Right.”

“What
about me?” Jack piped up.

“Stay
with Maggie. Whether the family initially go to their home or someplace else,
they’ll eventually end up at their house and we’ll need her to pick up me and
Mel when we come out, so she follows in her car till we get there. I don’t
think she should park right outside, so maybe up the road a ways, and as she
can’t see us from a distance but you can, you need to tell her when to come get
us.”

“Got
it.”

“Maggie,
I reckon we’ll be in there at least a couple of hours. Unless someone is
conveniently walking in your direction, you’re going to have to drive past the
house and think of a reason to stop the car next to us and get out so we can
grab you.”

She
toothed her lower lip before saying, “I can do it.”

She
pulled her hood down over her forehead and took us across the cemetery
diagonally until we reached the path cutting in front of the church. She went
at a swift pace, shoulders hunched, neck bent, as if braced against the cold
air. Right past the church without hesitation.

Mel
and I watched her and Jack exit the cemetery and walk east, until they went out
of sight. It seemed Maggie didn’t want to walk through the grounds and meet
Misty again so was going around instead.

I
looked closer at the woman whose aura I clutched as we went onward to the
burial site. She seemed drained, subdued, operating on an automatic level. The
other mourners were quiet. The priest said a few words to send Ethan on his way
and a phantom pain ached in my chest when Anne took a small plastic Buzz
Lightyear action figure from her coat pocket and laid it on the casket. A keepsake,
saved all these years because Ethan loved it as a boy.

Anne,
her daughter and a middle-aged man stayed after everyone else left. The guy must
be related; he and Anne shared the same blue eyes and square chin, the blunt
nose and fair hair. They watched the casket lower into the ground. The man’s
fingers wrapped Anne’s upper arm and he led her away. Susan followed with her
eyes on the gravel path.

The
mourners waited in the parking lot and drove in a procession behind Anne’s car.

“I’m
so tired, Gordon,” Anne murmured.

Gordon
Shepherd, Anne’s brother.

“I
know, sweetheart. You can rest soon.”

Where
was Avery and why didn’t anyone comment on his absence?

Ivy
Grove Estate surrounds the Snake River Golf Course in South Clarion. It’s a
ritzy neighborhood where every home stands on half an acre. Houses are in a
variety of styles from Pueblo to European chalet to Tudor and a dozen more, and
all are huge with manicured grounds, swimming pools and tennis courts.

“No!”
I moaned as I spotted a white van parked at the curb on the boundary of two
properties. I focused my gaze as we passed it and turned along the drive belonging
to a big white Greek Revival style house. Were I not mistaken, a cop or two watched
the Magnusen home from the van. I anxiously watched for Maggie’s car as we
parked in front of the house.

She
drove past and kept going when the road curved at the crest of the hill. As Anne
got out of the car, Mel and I with her, the Mini’s hood poked into view facing
us as Maggie parked. I sagged on Anne with relief. The way the road angled,
Maggie and Jack could see the Magnusen house but the cops couldn’t see Maggie.
I doubted Maggie knew the police watched the house from the white van, parking
in the right spot was a coincidence.

The
Magnusen home looked impressive, with pedimented gable, heavy cornice,
decorative pilasters and an entry porch with columns. Cars lined the circular
driveway, and a couple in the street, but it was a small group for an after-funeral
gathering, perhaps fifteen people.

Mel
looked up as we entered the foyer. “Oh, I like this.”

With
burnished maple floors, carved moldings and big fireplaces in the east and west
reception rooms either side of the foyer, the interior exuded rich, homey
warmth. Anne and her daughter stood at the open door as everyone else trooped
inside. The daughter took control of outerwear, piling it in two high-backed
chairs either side of the front door. Anne removed her coat and hung it in a
closet. She didn’t speak to the guests, only smiled weakly and nodded when they
said a few words.

 “Okay,
Mel, time to mingle. If we can mingle.”

“Off
we go.” Mel released Anne’s aura and took a hesitant step. And another.

We
were okay. I let go of Anne and moved away. When Anne went left of the
staircase in the foyer and through the reception room, I followed her to a
dining-room adjacent to a big kitchen. The guests headed for dishes of finger
foods and hot casseroles on the dining table while Anne brought jugs of fruit
juice from the fridge and started a coffee maker.

“Where’s
Jasper?” a teen girl asked Susan.

Susan’s
eyes flooded with tears and her lower lip quivered. “He ran off.”

“No!”
from her friend. “Did you call animal services and put an ad in the paper?”

Susan
wiped her eyes with her fingers. She kept her gaze on her knees. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, I can’t stay here.”

She
fled the room. Her girlfriend shrugged and crossed the room to join another
teenage girl.

Poor
Susan. She lost a pet.

Though
I kept my ears open, I didn’t hear anything interesting. Indeed, the guests
said hardly a word. They proffered their condolences to Anne and nibbled the
food. Three left after ten minutes.

Either
everyone was
incredibly
depressed or something made them hesitate to
talk.

I
did catch Avery’s name said in a low voice but didn’t zero in on who spoke.

I
decided to look through the home and found four bedrooms and two bathrooms
upstairs. Susan lay on her belly on the bed with earbuds plugged in, listening
to an MP3 player, her expression blank. Her laptop sat open on the bed. I lingered
for a few minutes, hoping she’d check her Facebook page or whichever social
network kids her age inhabited, thinking I might learn something from their
chatter. But she was deep into her music, or her thoughts.