The Ghost and Mrs. McClure (14 page)

Funny thing, the computer, thought Jack. Before Penelope, he hadn’t given the boxy typewriter two looks. For one thing, it appeared a cold, remote medium, like his old office’s Underwood. Every now and again, Jack would notice the screen above the keyboard reading “Inventory” or “Account Orders,” and Sadie typing away with a glassy-eyed look that reminded him of his old gum-chewing secretary.

(Not a bad-looking dame, his secretary, but not his type—that is, not much upstairs, which was actually why Jack had hired her. She had no interest in getting wise to his clients’ secrets or Jack’s. Just typed, filed, and answered phones, which was what he needed. In the end, the private dick business came with enough female distractions on the job as it was. Why compound that interest?)

Anyhow, in old Aunt Sadie’s hands, the computer seemed like little more than a typewriter. But not in Penelope’s. With that sharp cookie at the wheel, that plastic box had come alive, racing down alleyways he’d never even known existed.

Take that gab-room thing. Ten people all over the world spilling guts and squaring beefs, one after the other, faster than a bookie giving odds at post time. (Even though some of them did remind Jack of those uptown hustlers, full of gin and big words.)

And those information searches the doll was doing right now. Answers to all sorts of questions with the stroke of a few keys. People, places, events. It spun Jack like a top.

If he had a nickel for all the shoe leather he’d worn out tracking down information for just one case, he’d have died a rich man.

In fact, it seemed to Jack this new century had enough ready gadgets to make it possible for your average housewife to become a private dick—which reminded Jack of why he needed to talk to Penelope tonight in the first place: Brennan’s murder. And that syringe Josh had swiped.

“Depression . . .” murmured Penelope, staring at the “Psych Subjects” screen for a long moment. She clicked on the glowing blue D-word and the green screen dissolved into a white page with large black type at the top: CLINICAL DEPRESSION SCREENING TEST.

Because Penelope was nearsighted, she’d removed the black rectangular frames when she’d first sat down to read the computer screen, giving Jack a rare glimpse of her naked face.

The light from the computer screen reflected in her eyes, burnishing the copper irises with tiny flecks of buried gold and making her pale skin appear smooth as cream. With her lips slightly swollen from her nervous gnawing, and her reddish-brown hair mussed, Jack thought she looked as though she’d just risen from a night of lovemaking.

What he wouldn’t give to occupy a body again for just a few hours. He’d pull her up, out of that chair, into his arms. What he wouldn’t give to feel his hardness against her softness . . .

“This is a self-assessment test presented by mental-health. com,” Penelope murmured. “Please click the boxes that apply to you: Feelings of sadness and/or irritability. Check. Loss of interest or pleasure in activities once enjoyed. Check. Difficulty getting out of bed. Check. Inability to concentrate, work, or make decisions. Definitely a check—”

Waste of time, doll,
Jack interrupted.
You’re not depressed.

Penelope’s fingers stilled over the keyboard. Her body stiffened the way it always did when he penetrated her mind.

Well?
Jack asked.
Didn’t your chat room friend . . . RUNE . . . didn’t RUNE advise you to “dialogue” with me?

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to take psychological advice from a person who professes to believe in ghosts.”

Aw, shucks, doll,
said Jack.
You don’t believe in me? You want me to provide you a mental projection again, like I did last night?

“Is that what I saw?” Penelope whispered. “A mental projection?”

Don’t know what else to call it,
said Jack.

“How about a hallucination?”

What a pill, Jack thought to himself. Okay, baby. Time to play hardball.

Turn off the lights again,
he told her with the equivalent of a low rasp in her ear. He swirled himself silently around her, taking pleasure in the way goose bumps formed on the surface of her skin, and her ample breasts rose and fell with quickening breaths.
I dare you . . .

“No!” Penelope said, even as shivers ran through her, giving her the startling revelation that he could manifest signs of his physical presence. “I can’t feel you. I can’t.”

You can. It’s me.
He breezed by her again, and again she shivered, shutting her pretty copper eyes, the dark lashes brushing her pale cheeks in a way that made Jack even more restless.

“You go away now,” she said.

Jack laughed.

“I mean it.”

He laughed again.

Penelope stood up, her small hands balling into fists. She released a breath, then opened her eyes and grabbed up her clunky black glasses, shoving them on her face like armor.

“Get out of my head!” she cried. “Get out of my store!”

Jack backed away, letting the air around her warm again. Penelope took a deep breath. “You’re trying to
protect
me? And my family?”

“Fine,” she said, sinking slowly back into her chair. “Proceed.”

“What do you know about me?”

“Okay, I’ll bite. How do I feel?”

“How dare you—”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer.”

“Oh, WE both know, do we?”

Penelope sat very still.

He stopped sleeping with you, too,
Jack continued.
And no matter what you did, what you said to try to help him, or get him help, the sap refused to make the least bit of effort to find a way out of the well. That is, until he took the coward’s way out. Or should I say down. All the way to the bottom and six feet under. That about cover it?

After a long pause, Penelope whispered, “It’s all true. Yes.”

“No.”

“I should have done it when it mattered. For a solid month he told me he was looking for a better therapist, that his old one was a quack. He kept telling me he was taking his medicine.”

“That’s right. And he was—”

“Weak. Calvin was weak, which meant he could also be mean. He never struck me, but when he didn’t get his way, he could be abusive . . . verbally abusive.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it. What I did was give up on him . . . and the truth is I was close to leaving him.”

“Yes.”

“Of course I blame myself. I was his wife.”

“What do I think? Of what?”

“It wasn’t the wife’s fault.”

“No. My situation was not the same as hers. Calvin was sick. He was depressed. I know back in your time, society didn’t recognize depression as a disease—alcoholism, either, for that matter. But these things are sicknesses. People can’t kick them on their own. They need help.”

“I could have committed him.”

“Probably not. They didn’t see Calvin the way I did. He showed them a different face, and he’d never said anything about suicide—not to me, anyway. He’d even rallied the week before. Started organizing things, seemed more upbeat.”

“No, of course not. Although sometimes the way his family looks at me—I think they wonder if I did.”

There was a long pause. “You were there this morning? With us? In Spencer’s room? You heard me say that?”

“Oh, no you don’t. I want you to answer my question. Were you spying on us? On me? Upstairs in our private rooms?”

“Well, I forbid you to go up there again.”

“I can so! I can ask you to promise not to haunt the second floor, on your honor as a . . . as a spirit.”

“You know you’re being unreasonable, Jack.”

Another long pause ensued.

“Jack?”

Penelope bit her lip. “Sorry.”

No, no, it’s all right by me.
Jack breezed close again.
I liked hearing you say it.

Penelope gave a little shiver. “Let’s get back to that business of Josh,” she said. “What would he want with a hidden syringe?”

“Yes, they did. But why do you keep saying ‘her’ and ‘she’? How can you be sure the killer was a woman?”

“I’m with you. Go on.”

“Or she might have paid someone to retrieve it for her. Someone like Josh.”

“Well, if Josh wasn’t hired to find the syringe, then why was he looking for it in the first place?”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Didn’t you read his thoughts?”

“But you’ve been reading mine.”

“All right. I get it. So what should I do now?”

“Deirdre?”

“I’m sure that’s what Lieutenant Marsh will conclude.”

“Her husband, Kenneth Franken?”

“Deirdre said Brennan was about to divorce his third wife. Maybe she tried something.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. They would have.”

“What about Shelby Cabot? Josh reports to her. So it makes sense he’d do a favor for her like retrieve the syringe. But what motive could she have? Unless she was hired by Brennan’s wife.”