A Breath of Dead Air (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 8) (9 page)

“
Y
ou sound like a Backstreet Boy
,” Rick growled. He’d never liked the Backstreet Boys, even before they were back. Nor did he appreciate levity at a time like this. The senator was dead, which was no reason for joy in his opinion. He liked the guy, and now he was gone. He was going to change the face of American politics, and now all that work would never see the light of day. The bill that carried his name would follow its author to the graveyard of history, where all great men were laid to rest with the fruits of their labor.

“We need to get back to Happy Bays,” Fee said. “Mom will wonder why I closed up the shop.”

“You closed up the bakery?” Alice asked.

“Yeah, with Bancroft and Busby in LA, Aunt Bettina still laid up with that flu and Mom at Rita’s having her hair done, I had no other choice.”

“What we need to do is talk to Senator Vickar,” Rick said determinedly.

“But how? There’re a hundred cops in there, and they won’t like it when we tell them we just want to say hi to the resident ghost,” Fee pointed out.

“We could tell them we’re related,” Reece suggested. “People have always told me I look senatorial.” He turned to present his profile and tilted up his chin. “See? The noble brow, the steely gaze, the patrician nose… all there.”

“You look like a hot movie star, babe,” Alice said with a chuckle. “And definitely not like a politician. At all. Which is a good thing,” she hastened to say, for Reece’s ‘senatorial profile’ had started to display a distinct pout.

“I could be senatorial material,” Reece argued. “I’m a versatile actor whose talents know no bounds. I can play anything or anyone at any time.”

Reece sounded like he’d been reading too much Louise Hay, Rick thought. “Let’s all just focus for a moment, shall we? Figure this out?”

“Maybe we could simply wait here until Job returns?” Fee suggested. “Sooner or later he’s going to want to talk to us. You know he will. All ghosts eventually end up talking to us. We’re the Wraith Wranglers, after all.”

That was true enough. For some reason the four of them easily attracted ghosts. Wherever they went, if there was a ghost in the house, they were bound to run into them at some point. Ghosts were pretty big on talking to those willing to listen, seeing as they led pretty lonely lives, apparently.

“I don’t want to wait that long,” Rick muttered and grabbed his phone. When all other options failed, there was only one solution. “Dad?” he barked when the call connected. “You’ve got to come meet me. Job Vickar just died.”

In a few brief words, he explained what had happened, adding that the ghost of Vickar had already been seen wandering about. His father, always one for quick and decisive action, instantly barked back he was on his way.

Ever since Rick and Dad and the others had been holed up in Castle Windermere in England, his father had been inducted into the club of ghost believers. Skeptical at first, he’d been forced to admit that there was indeed life after death, more so since he was now the proud owner of the old pile, and cashing in big on its ghostly reputation. Especially since more than a few of those ghosts made sure the paying customers got their money’s worth in thrills and chills and nocturnal scares.

It didn’t take Chazz more than ten minutes to get from Grover Calypso’s place to Riverdale, and when he did, he succeeded where they’d failed, for he soon opened the glass sliding door on the patio and waved them over.

“Hey, how did Chazz manage to get inside?” Reece wanted to know.

“Dad has his ways,” Rick said with a shrug. “That and he knows the mayor. And the chief of police. And pretty much everyone who’s someone.”

Which put him in a better position than him, who knew no one who was anyone. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true. As a reporter, Rick knew his way around town, but Chazz definitely had more reach. Which was only natural, since he probably owned half of Manhattan. Once upon a time Rick had detested his dad, but these days he’d made peace with the old scoundrel.

They jogged across the lawn and joined Chazz on the patio.

“Waddaya know, son?” were Chazz’s opening words.

“Not much, so far. Just that it’s obvious this wasn’t a suicide. Bo Vickar—the senator’s daughter—had just talked to her dad on the phone, and she didn’t get the impression he was suicidal. Quite the contrary.”

“Well, you never know,” Chazz said moodily. “He could have been a closet depressive.”

Only now did Rick notice that his old man was more subdued than usual. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

Chazz shrugged. “Nuthin’.”

Rick studied the tubby billionaire. His best guess was that Chazz had been outbid by a competing real estate tycoon to put up some new high-rise.

“We just saw the ghost of Senator Vickar,” Reece announced happily. “He was smoking a pipe.”

Chazz gave the actor a moody frown. “That a fact?”

“Yup. We couldn’t get him to talk, though. Too soon, I guess.”

Chazz’s frown deepened. “Pity Vickar’s gone. I was gonna ask him to be my running mate.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Fee said. “You’re running for president, aren’t you?”

Chazz’s face cleared up a bit. He was very fond of Fee and had once even proposed marriage to her. But then Chazz, in spite of his claim never to marry again, was a serial proposer. When he was wining and dining a prospective wife he habitually snuck in a proposal before the first course arrived, another at the halfway point and another one before dessert. He didn’t believe in wasting time. “Yeah, I need a new hobby,” he now said. “So I figured I might run for president. Give me something to do in my old age.”

“Oh, but you’re not old, Mr. Falcone,” Alice told him.

“You think so?” he asked hopefully. “Cause I feel mighty old right now.”

“You’re in the best shape of your life, Dad,” Rick agreed with the others.

“Yeah, you look great, Mr. F.,” Reece added. “Been working out?”

“I’ve been putting in some cardio,” Chazz rasped, flexing his bicep. “Hitting the gym pretty hard, actually. This presidential race is like a marathon. Whole thing takes months. Ya gotta be in great shape, son.”

“Well, you’re definitely in great shape for a man your age,” Reece said warmly. “You don’t look a day over sixty, Mr. F. Not a day.”

Chazz’s face fell. “Sixty? Waddaya mean, sixty? I’m fifty-eight!”

“Why don’t we go inside?” Rick suggested, smoothly steering his father through the sliding doors. “What did you find out, Dad?”

“Nuthin’. I just got here,” Chazz snapped, darting vicious looks at Reece.

As they stepped inside, Rick recognized the room. It was here that Vickar had shown him the video of Pronto being snatched from his backyard. He couldn’t believe the man was gone now. And when he looked up he saw that he wasn’t. For he was seated in his favorite chair, a glazed look in his eyes.

“Hey there, Senator,” Chazz grated out when he caught sight of him.

The senator looked up and blinked when he saw five people staring back at him. “Oh, hi, Chazz. How are you?”

“Never been better! How are you?” Then he slashed the air with his hand. “Scratch that. I can see how you are. Pretty darned dead, huh?”

The old man nodded. “Well, I’m starting to see that now.” He shook his head sadly. “I really am dead, aren’t I? How the heck did this happen?”

It was obvious the question was rhetorical, but Rick still felt compelled to reply, “That’s what we want to know, Senator. Do you have any idea who did this to you?”

Senator Vickar stared at him for a beat. “Oh, hi again, Rick. Didn’t see you there for a moment. Did you find my Pronto yet?”

“Not yet, Senator, though I did find your daughter.”

He blinked again. “Was she missing?”

Rick suppressed a groan. “You told me to give her a call, remember? Please focus, Senator, this is important. Who killed you? Can you tell us?”

“Yeah, talk to us, dude,” Reece added. “Save us a lot of trouble.”

The senator shook his head sadly. “I don’t know! One moment I was sipping my Scotch, puffing a pipe and enjoying a nice conversation with a very nice young man, and next thing I was wandering in the backyard!”

Rick shared a look with the others. “They must have spiked the Scotch.”

“The police will be all over it,” Fee assured him. “Isn’t that right, Alice?”

“Sure thing. Standard police procedure.”

“Who were you having this nice conversation with, Job?” Chazz asked.

“Yes, try to remember, Senator,” Rick insisted. “This is very important. Who was this nice young man? Ten to one he’s the one who killed you.”

The senator’s eyes widened, then he smiled a benign smile. “Why, it was you, of course, Rick. Don’t you remember? We were talking about my bill.”

T
he startling revelation
frankly shocked and surprised Reece. So Ricky had been the last person to see the senator alive, huh? But what did that mean? In his mind, the reels were already churning. He’d seen plenty of detective shows and was an avid fan of CSI: Hot Springs, CSI: Scottsdale and even CSI: Roseville. What would the brave actors serving on those shows conclude?

Probably that Rick now took star billing on their list of suspects. The last one to see the dead man alive. Rick couldn’t be the killer, of course. For one thing, Ricky was a standup guy, who usually didn’t go around killing people. At least not as far as Reece knew. He’d known the guy for a couple of months now, even shared a house with him, and had come to respect him as a hardened reporter, always ready to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.

And he was just wondering what would happen next when the door to the study burst open, and a burly copper strode in. At least, Reece thought he was a copper. He wasn’t wearing the prerequisite copper’s uniform, but he was wearing the prerequisite mustache, pasty complexion, substantial paunch, and nasty glower. There were even donut crumbs stuck to his mustache.

“Hey! What’s all this?!” the copper thundered. “This is a crime scene, not a social function!” Then he seemed to recognize Chazz, for he amended, “Mr. Falcone, sir. Didn’t see you there for a moment.” Then the glower returned. “The rest of you, clear out! Now! This is a crime scene, not a— Oh, hi, Mr. Hudson. Love your movies. Chuck MacLachlan, huh? Hot potato!”

“Hot potato,” Reece responded automatically.

The detective’s smile quickly evaporated when he caught sight of the others. “As for the rest of you, get lost! This is a crime scene, not a— Oh, hi, Mr. Dawson. Love your writing, sir. Read your byline every single day. In fact, I subscribe to the New York Chronicle just so I can read your articles.”

“Thanks, that’s very flattering, Officer, um…”

“Detective Garfield. Detective Jerry Garfield.” But his smile was soon wiped away as if with a squeegee when he addressed Alice and Fee. “As for the two of you, clear out! This is a crime scene if you hadn’t noticed!”

“They’re with me,” Rick and Reece simultaneously called out. “Yeah, they’re with us, Detective Garfield,” Rick added. “Our fiancées, in fact.”

The detective’s pleasant smile returned, like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Oh, well, that’s all right then, isn’t it? Congratulations and all that.” He tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and rocked back on his heels. “So what are you all doing here, if I may be so bold?”

“I’m a personal friend,” Chazz grunted. “The senator was supposed to be my running mate for the presidential election.”

“I’m afraid his running days are over, Mr. Falcone.” He clucked his tongue. “Nasty business. Very nasty.” Just then, something heavy thumped against the ceiling, and the detective jerked up his thumb. “That’ll be the senator now. Being released from the umbilical cord, so to speak.”

Reece shuddered. “Poor guy,” he muttered.

“Well, not poor. Not that I think. But dead, sir. Very dead indeed.”

“So, what do you think happened here, Detective Garfield?” Fee asked.

The detective’s lips puckered. “Open and shut case, Miss. Suicide by hanging is the term us professionals like to use.”

Still seated, the senator was keenly following the conversation, and as the detective painted an evocative word picture of his final hours, the ghost’s face fell more and more. It’s never pleasant when people are talking behind your back, but even worse when they think you’re not in the room.

“So you don’t think foul play was involved, Detective?” Rick asked.

“Foul play?” Detective Garfield emitted a curt laugh. “No way, Mr. Dawson, sir. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but the senator was no lightweight. If he didn’t get up there under his own steam, it would have taken half a dozen guys to do so, and that bathroom is squeaky clean.”

“No traces of any kind?” Fee asked. “No fingerprints?”

“Not a one, and believe you me, we looked. Oh boy, did we look. US senator kicking the bucket? We brought in the big guns, little lady. Course, we still have to process the DNA samples we took, but I’m sure it’ll be just the senator and his cleaning lady.” Just then, his radio crackled, and he put it to his ear. “Wouldn’t you know it? They just put out an APB on some important witness.” He opened his notebook to scribble down the name. “Some guy called Rick Dawson.” Then, all of a sudden, he stopped writing and looked up. “Say, you’re Rick Dawson,” he told Rick Dawson.

“The one and only,” Reece supplied when Rick suddenly proved speechless. “Hey, and did you know Rick was actually the last person to see the senator alive? Imagine the things he could tell you.”

“I’m imagining.” The detective crooked his finger. “Dawson? A word?”

And as Rick followed the detective out of the room, he directed a pretty nasty look at Reece, though for the life of him the actor couldn’t see why.

“Good thing they think it’s a suicide,” he remarked when Rick had left the room. “Otherwise Rick would be in very hot water right now.” Then he noticed how the others were also directing critical looks at him, much the same as Rick. “What?” he asked innocently. Then he realized what was going on. “You guys? Do I have a pimple on my nose? A big, fat pimple?”

“No, but I can give you a big, fat punch!” Chazz cried, approaching menacingly.

Luckily Alice and Fee held the crazed billionaire back, and rerouted him toward the sliding door, ushering him out into the open for some fresh air.