Drowning in Amber (A Marie Jenner Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

I picked up the sketches with shaking fingers and rolled them into a tube. “I’m going to go and check this place out,” I said. “Maybe there’s someone there who can tell me something.”

“This is the definition of a wild goose chase, you know,” he said.

“I don’t care what you think,” I said. “I told her we’d help, and we’re going to help. At least, I am.”

I whirled and headed for the door. His voice stopped me.

“So you really think we can figure this out?”

I shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. But I have to try.”

“Want me to come with?”

The last thing in the world I needed was James watching me interact with a ghost. “Why don’t you just rest? It won’t take me long.”

He looked relieved. “But you’ll get back in time for our next meeting with our client, right?”

I looked at my watch. “Just about,” I said. “If the buses are running on time.”

“Do you want to take the car?”

“What?”

I was surprised. That Volvo—which his dead Uncle Jimmy had left him in his will—was his pride and joy.

“I asked if you wanted to use the car.”

“Well, yeah.” Then I frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Will it get you back here quicker than the bus?”

I grinned in spite of myself. “Absolutely.”

“Then yes, I’m sure.”

He smiled crookedly, looking all cute and vulnerable, with the white bandages wrapped around his head and his blue eyes looking deeply into mine—and I realized that if I didn’t move immediately, I wasn’t going to move at all. And that would not pay the bills.

Getting information about Dead Eddie would. Maybe.

I pulled the keychain from his fingers without touching him.

“Thanks,” I whispered, and headed for the door.

I decided to ignore his nervous voice yelling, “Hey! You know how to drive a standard, don’t you? Jeepers, do you even have a driver’s licence?” and let the door slam shut behind me.

No reason for him to get too comfortable, no matter how nice he was being.

I SHOULD HAVE
realized something wasn’t right with me, because the plastic on my mom’s couch didn’t make a sound as I twisted and turned, trying to stay asleep. I didn’t want to open my eyes, even though my dreams had been more of the nightmare variety—something about ducks, which was weird, because I’ve never been afraid of ducks before—until the doorbell chimed.

That brought me to attention, even though this wasn’t my place. All right, so my place doesn’t have a doorbell, but anybody knocking on the door was usually somebody wanting money I owed them, or somebody wanting to arrest me.

“Don’t answer it,” I said, before I was really, truly awake.

My mother, who I could hear shuffling toward the door, ignored me as usual. Before I could even move, she threw open the door.

Two police officers stood on the step, looking shocked stupid. They blinked, glanced at each other, and blinked again. Finally, one of them spoke.

“Are you Mrs. Naomi Hansen?”

“Yes,” Mom said. “What do you want?”

“Edward Nathaniel Hansen is your son?”

That brought me to attention. I scrabbled off the couch and up to her, looking past her at the two uniformed cops on the doorstep.

“Don’t let them in, Mom,” I said. “They cannot find what’s in my top drawer.” Crack pipe, well used. “Seriously. Tell them to leave.”

Her manufactured smile did not hold, and her face went paper white. Her long-fingered hand clutched the door jamb as though she would collapse if she didn’t.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “Why?”

The cops looked at each other, just a quick glance, but that told me everything. It was bad news. Bad bad news.

“Don’t listen to them, Mom,” I said. “Whatever they’re gonna tell you about me, it’s all lies.”

“I’m afraid I have some news for you, ma’am,” the tall cop said. “May we come in?”

“I only have a minute,” Mom said, her tight white lips barely moving. “My book club—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the smaller of the two said, and stepped up into the house. “We need to speak to you, now.”

Mom stepped back, and the larger cop stepped into the front foyer, pushing all the light and air out with his bulk.

“Don’t listen to them,” I whispered.

But she did. Oh God, she did.

And so did I.

NOT MUCH WENT
through my mind after the cops left my mom’s place other than, “Oh my God, I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m fucking dead.”

I realized I was screaming it and tried to stop. No go. Still screaming, and then I was crying. And all through it, my mother cleaned her house.

I could’t believe it. She’d just been told her son—her only son—was dead, but after the cops left, all she could do was wash the walls, and the windows, and vacuum the rug.

She didn’t call anyone. She didn’t throw herself to the floor and cry. She didn’t even scream, past the one time when the cop told her the news. Just the one. Then she hustled them out of the house and kicked cleaning into high gear.

I dropped back onto the couch, on my back, with one arm over my eyes. I felt as though I’d just run a marathon or some shit. I didn’t want to listen to my mother, and I didn’t want to hear my occasional moans. I just wanted everything to go back exactly the way it was before the cops showed up at my mother’s door.

Nobody could hear me or see me. I was dead, and nobody could see me.

I heard a noise and looked over at my mother.

She was vacuuming the floor. And she was singing. Happy as a clam, doing what she loved.

TO BE HONEST
, I was feeling a little bit nervous about the whole driving thing. I hadn’t driven in three years. Ever since my cute little 1980 Honda Civic, which I’d paid for with my own hard-earned cash, had an unfortunate meeting with a deer.

That happened when I was still living up in Fort Mac, and I was almost over the horror, but still felt a teeny bit uneasy as I started the motor of James’s Volvo and listened to it gently purr.

“The good thing is, there aren’t many deer running across the streets of Edmonton,” I muttered to myself as I checked my seatbelt twice, and then shoulder-checked about ten times before getting the guts up to actually pull into traffic.

All things considered, the drive went smoothly. I only had to stop once due to hysteria. And it only took me twenty minutes to drive all the way out to the north end of town, to a nice little suburb that looked about as normal as anything you’d ever see.

Hard to believe somebody named Brown Eddie lived here. But, you can’t often tell what goes on inside a house by looking at the outside. I’d lived in a pretty nice house up in Fort Mac before Mom and Dad split up—and next to Mom, I was one of the weirdest people I knew.

I pulled the parking brake, wiped the sweat from my palms on the thighs of my black jeans, and took a quick look in the mirror. I’d forgotten to brush my hair. It looked like a fuzzy rat’s nest piled on top of my head.

I tried to do some reconstructive surgery right there, but my ’do didn’t look much better by the time I dragged myself out of the car and up the walk of the house.

I rang the doorbell and then had an attack of the jitters. Whoever lived here might not want to talk to me. Jeepers, maybe it was that woman with the candle at the church. She would definitely not want to talk to me. I’d alienated the crap out of her.

No answer, no matter who lived here. Which meant there was no one home, and I needed to break in to see if Eddie was actually in the house. If I could.

I pulled a dead credit card from my wallet and attempted to unlock the door with it. Stupid idea, I know, but it was all I had. It wouldn’t run between the door and the jamb, and I grunted as I tried to push it a little further up in the jamb—and nearly crapped my drawers when I heard a man’s voice.

“Why are you trying to break into my mom’s house?”

The voice wafted around me, through me. I was hearing Eddie, the dead guy. I was sure of it. I whirled, but could not see him anywhere.

“Where are you?” I whispered.

“You can hear me?” he asked. He sounded less snippy, and more nervous.

“Yes, I can,” I repeated. “Where are you?”

“Living room window,” he replied. I glanced at the picture window to my left. Dead Eddie was standing there, staring at me, and I weakly waved. “Now, tell me why you’re trying to break into my mom’s house?”

“I was looking for you,” I said. “Come out and talk to me. Please.”

He materialized in front of me before I’d finished speaking.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Marie,” I said. “Marie Jenner.” I glanced around, hoping no one was walking by the house. I didn’t need anyone seeing me carrying on a conversation with thin air. Coast was clear, but I didn’t know how long it would last. I needed to get into that house.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“Nope. But we need to talk.”

He nodded and absently scratched his scalp with one of his horribly mangled hands. “I’m dead. You know that?”

I nodded.

“So how—”

“Long story.” I cut him off before he started with all the usual “why can you talk to ghosts” questions. “We need to talk, Eddie. Inside, if possible.”

“About what?” he asked, and I blinked. Really? He finally found someone to talk to and he didn’t want to talk about his murder? This was a first for me.

“About who killed you.” I pointed at the front door. “Do—did you live here?”

“Used to,” he said. “Like I said, it’s my mom’s.”

Questions boiled up in my brain, not the least of which was, “How did you get here?” but I pushed them all aside. I needed to get inside so he and I could have a decent conversation, face to dead face. “I take it she’s not home. Any way for me to get inside so we can talk?”

“Oh, she’s home.”

“But she didn’t answer the doorbell.” Then I had a horrible thought. The cops had just been here, told her her son was dead. She hadn’t done anything to herself, had she? “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. Happy as a clam, since her book club showed up. That might be why she didn’t answer the door,” he said. “Did I tell you I think I know who killed me?”

That pulled me off the “Why didn’t Mom answer the door” jag. He knew who killed him. Maybe I could finish this business without getting into the house.

“And I want you to help me get revenge.”

Revenge? Not so good . . . But wait—what did he mean by “I
think
I know?”

“Who did it?” I asked.

“My mother’s fucking book club,” Eddie said, hooking his thumb at the front door of his mother’s house. “They’re in there right now, talking shit about me, just like they always do—”

“Your mother’s what?” I asked. “Did you say—”

“Book club,” Eddie repeated. “Those bitches always had it in for me.”

Any of the good I was feeling oozed out of me. “Book club?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Eddie frowned. “You deaf or something?”

“No.” I closed my eyes briefly, in a futile attempt to compose myself. “So, those are the people you saw—when you died?”

“No.” Eddie shook his head, frustrated. “No, I just saw ducks. But—”

“Ducks?” Jesus, how messed up was this guy’s head?

“They were wearing duck masks,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure that it was my mother’s fucking book club.”

I bit my lips, to keep from screaming. “So, you’re not absolutely certain who did this to you?”

Eddie’s face took on a petulant sneer. “I told you,” he said. “It’s the book club.”

“In duck masks.”

“Yep.”

“You’re serious.”

Right at that moment, the front door clicked open, and I jumped just about a mile straight into the air. As I tried desperately to pull myself together, Dead Eddie glared at the older, heavyset woman who had opened the door.

“Naomi’s not taking visitors,” she said.

“That’s the ringleader. Bea Winterburn,” Eddie said. “Make a citizen’s arrest or something. Bitch killed me.”

I ignored Eddie and concentrated on Bea, smiling like there was no tomorrow. “When will she be taking visitors?” I asked. Now, I didn’t care what the answer was. I needed Bea to close the door, so I could continue talking to Eddie before he disappeared. “I have a couple of questions for her, when she has the time.”

Eddie decided at that moment to start chanting, “Citizen’s arrest,” over and over, while dancing on his butchered feet. I took a step closer to the door and put a hand on the knob.

“Just tell me a better time,” I said, trying to keep my voice low, even though it felt like I had to yell over Eddie’s increasingly panicky chant.