the iron fence separated the cemetery from a neighborhood pocked with boarded factories and tiny houses.
“So what do you think?”
Jim’s question snapped me out of my thoughts. Since he was looking at me, I was afraid he was talking to me, too.
“I think…” I grinned in what I hoped was an embarrassed sort of way and pointed toward the Porta potti that was all Monroe Street had to offer in the way of amenities. As if I wouldn’t let myself burst first before I ever set foot in it. “If you’d all excuse me for just a moment…” I sidled toward where I’d seen the ghost vanish into the undergrowth. “I’ll be right back.”
I knew what I was about to do was a big ol’ mistake. Believe me. At this point in my investigating-for-the-dead career, I knew I was better off leaving well enough alone.
Which means I should have simply ignored the guy.
But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t. Not when I saw how lost and lonely he looked.
I hate it when ghosts do that to me, but facts were facts and this was one fact I couldn’t ignore. I had to find out what was up with this guy. I did the only thing I could think to do, the one thing I’d never done before in my years of ghostly investigations-I went after him.
2
As soon as I was sure no one was watching, I ducked into the undergrowth. It was tough getting through the tangle of bushes and tall grass, but it wasn’t hard to keep tabs on my newest ghostly nuisance. I followed the pinstripes.
While he floated easily over it all, I sidestepped a yawning hole in the ground, hopped over a fallen headstone, and maneuvered past a creepy mausoleum with an open, leaning door and a roof that was half caved in. By the time he stopped, we were hemmed in by overgrown lilac bushes. The pastoral mood was ruined by the sound of booming hip hop music coming from a house across the street.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
He must have known I was following him. That’s why he wasn’t surprised by me or by my questions. He stood stock still, his shoulders back and his arms tight against his side.
I stepped closer. “You must want something or you wouldn’t be hanging around.”
He scraped a hand over his firm, square chin.
I poked my thumb over my shoulder, back toward the way I came. “I’ve got work to do. If you’re just going to stand there-”
“I need your help.”
His teeth were gritted and his jaw was so tight when he said this that if ghosts had bones, I would have heard his grinding together.
I waited for more.
He motioned toward the gravestone nearest to where he stood. “My name-”
“Jefferson Lamar.” I tipped my head to read the carving on the stone. “It says you died in 1985.”
“That’s right.” He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and for the first time, his eyes met mine. His were as brown as the dirt at our feet where once upon a time grass had flourished. They were troubled, too.
And I knew better than to get myself mixed up in ghostly troubles, right? In fact, I had a scar on my left side to prove it. Which didn’t explain why I took another step closer. “You know who I am?”
He’d looked away, but now his eyes snapped back to mine. “They say you have the Gift.”
“Well, duh!” I was going for funny, but he didn’t laugh. He was obviously the no-nonsense type, so in a no- nonsense way, I explained. “I’m standing here talking to you, right? Obviously I have the Gift. I wouldn’t be able to see you if I didn’t.”
“Of course.” He smoothed a hand over his tie. It was plain, and black, and boring.
Pretty much like this conversation.
I didn’t even try to control my impatient sigh. “I can only stall that bunch so long,” I said, referring to Jim, Ella, and the rest of them. Not to mention Bianca. I didn’t want to just disappear and have her think I was a flake. “If there’s something you want to talk about…”
“I do.” He hauled in a breath. “And they tell me you’re the only one who can help.”
“But you don’t believe it because… what? Because I’m a girl? Because I’m too young? Because I’ve got fashion sense and you think that means I don’t have a brain? If you’ve heard I have the Gift, you also know-”
“You’re good at what you do. In spite of your age. Yes, Gus told me that.”
I was surprised to hear Lamar mention my first client, and naturally, I thought about my encounter with Gus, a mob boss who’d died back in the seventies. Solving Gus’s murder had almost gotten me killed, sure, but it also made me realize that I was a darned good detective. I found out, too, that me and Gus, we were a pretty good team.
Automatically, I found myself smiling. “How is Gus? It’s been a long time.”
“That’s what he said.” Jefferson Lamar shook his head. The gesture was all about wonder. And disgust. “Imagine me spending my time with a criminal like Scarpetti!”
“Sure he was a mob don and all, but deep down inside, Gus is a good guy.”
“Do you think so?” Lamar twitched away the thought as inconsequential. “I’ve learned not to trust the criminal element, and I didn’t want to listen to him. But I didn’t know where else to turn, and Gus, he said you know your stuff.”
I kept right on grinning. “Told you he was a good guy.”
“So you could help? I mean, if I wanted it? If I needed it?”
I was used to ghosts begging me to use my detective skills to help them. This beating-around-the-bush bullshit was getting on my nerves. “Look…” I held my temper, but just barely. It’s not for nothing that my parents started calling me Pepper when I was a kid. It was way better than Penelope, my given name. “If you need me to solve your murder so you can cross over-”
“No, no. It isn’t that.” He dismissed the idea instantly. “I wasn’t murdered. I had a heart attack. I died of natural causes, completely natural causes.”
“So it’s the whole cherry pie, missing necklace, runaway boyfriend routine again?” I made a face. “Like I told all those other ghosts, I can’t be bothered. I’ve got a Gift, remember. It’s not something I can just toss around like-”
“But there was a murder. Right here in Cleveland. And I…” Lamar fished a huge white hanky from his pocket. He took off his glasses and wiped them clean. He put the glasses back on, then refolded the hanky neatly and put it away. “They said I did it.” His voice was nearly lost beneath the booming bass of the hip hop. “I went to prison.”
“Not prison again!” I’d already groaned when I realized Lamar didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.
Or maybe he did. He nodded. “Gus Scarpetti told me about that, too. About your father. He said that when I told you about my prison connection, you’d be less than pleased.”
I laughed. “Gus Scarpetti is not the kind of guy who says somebody will be
“I’m sorry. About your father, I mean. But really, Miss Martin, if you’d consider it logically, you’d realize that prison is the best place for him. A well-run prison, that is. With the right structure, consistent discipline, and the proper support, he just might be able to turn his life around. That is the whole point, isn’t it? We should be working toward rehabilitation, not retribution. If we can find a way to change prisoners from the inside-if we can educate them and help them overcome problems with low self-esteem and teach them respect for others-then they’ll be open to learning useful skills, and once we send them outside prison walls, they’ll become productive members of society.”
