The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary (10 page)

In answer, Granny floated over to the doorjamb and pounded on it with her fist. No sound. Instead, her curled-up hand went through the solid wood of the doorframe. “That answer your question?” the snarky ghost answered. She crossed her arms in front of her and stared at him.

“I'm naked, Granny. How about a little privacy?”

“Oh please,” answered the ghost. “It's not like you got something I haven't seen before. You'd be surprised what us ghosts get a gander at.”

Jeremiah didn't even want to think about that last comment. He was about to say something else, when he heard his phone ringing in the kitchen.

“There it goes again,” Granny said as Jeremiah scooted past her to answer it.

“Jeremiah,” he said simply after stabbing the answer button.

There was silence, but Jeremiah could hear someone breathing heavily on the other end, like they were out of breath. Then he heard a thick, wet sound and realized the caller was crying.

“Who is it?” Granny asked.

In response, Jeremiah shrugged, then said into the phone, keeping his voice low and soothing, “Who's there?”

“Mr. Jones,” the caller finally squeaked out in a barely audible whisper. “It's Elizabeth Thompson.” When Jeremiah didn't respond, she added, “Lizzie.”

“Are you okay?” Jeremiah asked with concern.

“I'm scared, Mr. Jones. Real scared. They found Mary's body.” Her terror came through the phone line and grabbed him by the throat, telling him it was real. “I don't want to be next.” Sopping wet sobs followed.

“Why do you think you'd be next?” he asked, all his senses on alert.

“I,” she began, then lowered her voice until he could barely hear it. “I think I know who killed her.”

“Where are you?”

“Pay phone on Los Angeles Street.”

“You need to get to the police station. They're looking for you for questioning,” he told her calmly. “Go there. You'll be safe.”

“No way am I going to the cops,” she said, pressing some force into her words. “I already have a record.”

“They aren't going to arrest you, just question you. Tell them you want to see Detective Audra Wilcox. Tell them I sent you.”

“No!” she said through her tears. “I thought you would help me, not take me to the cops.”

“I will help you, Lizzie.” Jeremiah ran alternative solutions around in his brain. “I can be there in about twenty minutes or so. Are you somewhere you can wait for me?”

“Not really. If one of Ace's people sees me here, I'll be in trouble. It's not my usual spot.”

Jeremiah ran a hand roughly over his face as he tried to think of something else. “Do you know where the City of Angels Veterans Outreach office is?” he asked, grabbing at his next idea in desperation.

“Yeah,” she said. “It's on Wall, isn't it?”

“Yes, Wall near 5th,” he told her. “Look around the immediate area for a guy named Jeffrey Sloan. He's a black dude in his thirties with a pronounced limp. He should be wearing an army-type jacket, probably over a gray hoodie. Tell him I need him to hide you until I get there. Make sure you tell him I sent you.” He paused. “Did you get all that?”

“Yeah,” she said in a whisper. “But what if he won't help me?”

“He will,” Jeremiah said, hoping it was true and hoping Sloan was still hanging out on the street. “But don't tell him anything, just tell him to take care of you until I get there. And if you can't find him, stay in that area but out of sight as best you can until you see me. I'll be in a black SUV. I'll pull up in front of Angels.”

“Okay,” she said quickly.

“And Lizzie, who do you think killed Mary?”

But Lizzie had already hung up.

Jeremiah ran down the hallway to his bedroom, losing his towel along the way. Once there, he started pulling clothes from drawers and quickly dressed.

“Now who doesn't care about modesty?” asked Granny.

Jeremiah nearly stumbled as he stepped into a clean pair of jeans. “Dammit, Granny. I'd forgotten all about you.”

“Yeah, most people do,” said the ghost with a grin. “That's why I'm such a good PI.”

As he zipped his jeans, he said, “That was Lizzie. She thinks she knows who killed Mary, but she's too afraid to go to the cops.”

“Did she tell you who it was?”

He shook his head right before it disappeared into the bowels of a long-sleeved black T-shirt. “I told her to find Sloan by the Angels office and wait for me there,” he said as soon as his head popped out of the neckline. He slipped his arms through the sleeves, forgetting about his shoulder until a sharp pain reminded him. He ignored it and yanked the shirt down in place over this torso.

Granny floated around the room, scanning photos and books stacked on a small bookcase. “Maybe it was the same person who took those shots at you, or don't you care about that anymore?”

Jeremiah had taken a seat on a small upholstered chair by the closet. He had one sock on and the other in his hand as he stared at the ghost. “Of course I do. I'd just forgotten about it when Lizzie called.”

Granny nodded, “Yep, senility. You might want to get yourself checked by a doc when this case is over.”

“I am not senile, you old crone,” Jeremiah snapped. He put on his other sock and looked around the room as if lost.

“Your boots are in the living room,” Granny told him. “By your chair.” She fixed him with a sly look. “So watch who you're calling old or a crone, you old goat. Remember, technically, I'm younger that you are. A lot younger.”

Jeremiah let out a low growl of frustration. “Tell me what you found out while I finish dressing.” He trotted back down the hallway to the living room. The boots were exactly where Granny said they'd be.

He dropped into the chair and started pulling them on. “Was the shooter a woman?” he asked Granny, who was floating in front of him.

“Sure was,” Granny said. “How did you know that?”

“I remembered hearing the grunts when she tried to move the Dumpster. Sounded more like a woman than a man to me.” He yanked the last boot on, stomped both feet on the floor, and stood up. “Do you know who it was?”

“Never saw her before, but I could recognize her in a lineup,” Granny announced with excitement.

Jeremiah gave her a sly glance. “I can just see the police conducting that lineup now.” He went out to the kitchen, grabbed his car keys, and looked around. “Now, where did I put my jacket?”

“In here,” Granny called to him from the living room. He backtracked and saw Granny pointing down at his recliner. His jacket was there, discarded where he'd sloughed it off earlier. “You were sitting on it.”

He picked up his jacket and slipped into it, his jaw set with annoyance.

Granny looked around the room. “You really should spruce this place up with some Christmas decorations. Give it some color. A tree would be nice in that corner.” She pointed to an empty spot by the sofa. It was the place where Jeremiah's late wife had always placed their tree. Jeremiah hadn't put up one since her death. “Emma already has her tree up. It's a big one, but I don't think one that size would fit in here.”

On the way back out to the kitchen, he stuck a finger in Granny's smug, hazy face, “Not another word about anything but this case. Got that?”

Granny went through an elaborate motion of zipping her lip as she followed him back to the bedroom. Jeremiah removed a framed print of two black musicians from the wall next to the bed. Behind it was a safe. From the safe he extracted a gun, which he slipped into his pocket. After shutting the safe and replacing the painting, he went back into the kitchen where he unplugged his phone and pocketed it. As an afterthought, he quickly slapped his unfinished sandwich together and poured the remaining brewed coffee into a thermos.

Once they were on the road, Jeremiah turned to Granny, who was riding shotgun, “Got any more to tell me?” He took a big bite of the ham sandwich clutched in his left hand while he steered the vehicle with his right.

She made another pantomime, this time of unzipping her mouth, then said, “Sure, and it's pretty interesting. After leaving the alley, the gunman walked down the street at a steady pace, sticking to the shadows, head bent down. Probably so not to draw attention to herself. On TV, people always notice the criminals who run. Ever notice that? The runners always get caught. I'll bet this woman watches a lot of crime dramas.” Jeremiah shot her a scowl.

“Anyway,” Granny continued, taking notice of the scowl and getting back on topic, “she turned and then turned again down another street a few blocks down. Finally, she went up another alley and disappeared into the back of a building. I didn't know yet it was a woman though. I thought it was just a skinny man.”

“Could you tell which building she ducked into?” he asked.

“Not at first, but I followed her in. Funny thing, it seemed so familiar to me even though I didn't recognize it. We were in a supply room of some sort and then she went into another smaller room and started taking off a whole lot of stuff, like her hat and gloves and jacket. That's when I realized it was a woman.”

“Great job, Granny. Was she a white woman with short brown hair?” he asked, describing Beth Jenkins.

“Nope,” Granny said. “She was white but she had long brown hair tied back at the nape of her neck. She'd had it all tucked up inside that cap.”

Her answer surprised Jeremiah. Beth had very short hair and while a person with long hair could cut it off in seconds, someone with short hair couldn't grow it out in hours. He didn't know much about women and wigs, but he doubted a gunman would wear a long-haired wig, especially under a knit cap. In part, he was relieved. He really didn't want to think about
someone like Beth turning into an assassin. She'd seen enough of that in the war.

“What did she do after she changed? Where did she go?” Jeremiah asked as he sped down the 10 freeway toward downtown.

Granny scratched her head and for a brief moment Jeremiah wondered if ghosts could actually feel itching. “Let me see,” Granny said. “A lot of strange stuff happened. I gotta piece it together.”

Jeremiah was going to mention that maybe
she
was going senile, but held his tongue by finishing off his sandwich. He needed Granny and knew from working with her that she might disappear if she became annoyed or got her feelings hurt. He also knew from Emma that ghosts often didn't remember things clearly or in order. As difficult as it was, he exercised his patience.

“Okay, here's what happened,” Granny finally said with purpose. “She changed out of the jacket and hat and put on another jacket and a wig.”

“A wig?” Jeremiah asked, glancing over at her. “Are you sure?”

They were making the transition from the 10 freeway to the 110. It was usually a tricky freeway interchange. This Sunday night it was a breeze. During rush hour or when something was going on at the Staples Center, it could be deadly and bogged down.

“Yes, I'm sure,” Granny said with a sniff of annoyance at being questioned. “She put on a wig and a different jacket and a pair of sunglasses.”

“Sunglasses?” he asked with even more surprise.

“You want me to take a lie detector test on that?” snarled the ghost.

“No, Granny,” Jeremiah assured her as he took the 6th Street off-ramp, which dumped them into downtown. “I believe you. I'm just surprised.”

“Didn't Lizzie say that the woman posing as Mary's daughter wore sunglasses?”

“Yes, she did,” Jeremiah confirmed. “The wig, do you remember what it looked like?”

Granny scrunched her face up as she tried to recall details. “Dark. Darker than her real hair but not black. Cut short but not too short.” Granny motioned with her hands somewhere just below her chin. “And she had bangs. The kind that came down below her brows.”

Jeremiah nodded. “That fit what Lizzie said about the hair on the woman posing as Mary's daughter. Good chance she was wearing a wig, too.”

“So the fake daughter and the person who shot you are the same person?” asked Granny.

“Could be. Where did the woman go after putting on her disguise?”

“She went out the way she came, but instead of heading back toward the scene of the crime, she walked in the opposite direction and got into a truck parked at the curb on another street.” Granny paused to give it more thought. “Then she did something weird again.”

Jeremiah had turned onto Wall Street and was getting close to where he hoped Lizzie and Sloan were waiting for him. “Weird? How?”

“Once she was on her way, she took off the glasses and the wig.”

Jeremiah gave her a quick glance. “Were you able to see which direction she went?”

“I didn't just see,” Granny said, pleased with herself. “I went with her. Right along in the truck. That's what took me so long to get back to you. It was a long way, or it seemed like a long way.”

Jeremiah pulled up to the curb across from the Angels office. “Could you tell where you were when she stopped?” he asked as he looked out the window hoping Sloan and Lizzie had spotted the SUV and would come out from wherever they were.

“It was out in the country somewhere,” Granny reported. “Looked like a farm to me.”

Jeremiah's head snapped around to the ghost. “A farm?”

“Yep.”

He started putting pieces together—truck, long brown hair, farm—and didn't like the picture they presented. He shook his head, not wanting to believe the possibility. It was even more preposterous than Beth being the shooter. “And what color was the truck?”

“Black and pretty fancy,” Granny said, and Jeremiah's heart dropped a little more.

“Did you see any writing on the side, like a sign or something?”

“Not that I can remember,” answered Granny, “but then I was pretty focused on hopping along for the ride.” She paused, then held out an index finger, lightly shaking it at the windshield as if scolding it. “There was another odd thing.”

When she didn't say anything more, Jeremiah coaxed, “And that was?”

“Well, there was a party going on at the farm.” Granny turned to face Jeremiah. “When she got out of the truck, the woman joined this party, as pretty as you please. She was smiling and kissing and hugging folks left and right. Who does that after trying to kill someone?”

“A cold-blooded killer, Granny, that's who.”

Not seeing either Lizzie or Jeff Sloan, Jeremiah got out of his SUV and started across the street. He'd just reached the curb when Sloan waved to him from the opposite corner where he was hanging with some guys. He crossed the street with his usual limp and approached Jeremiah. “Back again?” he asked.

“Where's Lizzie?” Jeremiah asked Sloan. Granny had tagged along and was circling Sloan, checking him over.

Sloan looked genuinely confused by the question. “Lizzie who?”

“The red-haired girl who used to hang around Mistletoe Mary,” Jeremiah told him. “She called me all upset about thirty minutes ago. I told her to find you and have you keep her safe until I got here.”

“Never saw her,” Sloan said.

“I think he's telling the truth,” said Granny.

Still, Jeremiah eyed Sloan with suspicion. “You're sure you didn't see a woman come to the Angels office and look around?”

He shook his head. “No, but I just got back here. I left to grab some food at a cheap taco truck a few blocks over. What's going on?”

“Not sure,” Jeremiah said. “But can you stay here in case she shows up?”

“Sure. I'm usually here. I hang out with a few other vets in the program until it's time to go back to the group home.”

“Call me if she shows up,” Jeremiah called as he crossed the street back to his vehicle. Granny followed him.

Once they were back in the SUV, Granny asked, “Now what?”

“Now I drive up and down these streets looking for her.” He put the SUV in gear and pulled away from the curb. “She doesn't live far from here. Or she might go back to the diner and check in with Ace. We'll start there.”

“That her pimp?” Granny asked.

“Yes. He might protect her or he might not, especially if he's involved. If he is involved, she wouldn't go back there or to her apartment.”

“Or maybe we'll find another body of a poor lost woman,” Granny said, her mouth turned down.

“That, too,” Jeremiah said as he turned the vehicle right on 4th Street and headed for Crocker and the diner.