When I handed it to her, she was frowning at me. Or, rather, my chest.
“What?” I looked down at my undershirt. “It’s fine. I’ll chuck it in the wash when I get home.”
“Hm. My dad used to wear T-shirts like that under his work shirts.”
I kept trying to get past World War II-era fashion, but it looked like I was still failing. “Excellent. And how old is he?”
“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant.” She shook her head. “Not at all. Bobby never wore them, but— Ohmygosh, Bobby! Is he still here?” She pressed the back of her hand to her cheek. “Maybe I’ve had a bit too much wine.”
I pulled out a chair for her, and she sank down into it with a sigh.
I took a few steps to my right and looked out her kitchen window to the backyard. “Understandable.” The damp, charred remains of her shed cast a pall over the cheery, flower-filled yard surrounding it. “I’ll just . . .” I lifted my shirt, and she nodded then gestured to the kitchen sink.
After giving the wine stain a rinse, I left the shirt to drip in the sink and poured myself a half glass of wine. After I joined Sylvie at the kitchen table, I asked, “What did the firemen tell you?”
She’d crossed her arms on the table, making a pillow for her cheek. She didn’t lift her head when she replied, “They said it was a very small explosion. They didn’t even suspect anything unusual until I told them what was stored out there.”
“I’m sorry, what significance does the contents of the shed have?”
“No gas, no paint. The shed’s not even wired for electricity. I used a flashlight when I occasionally went out there.”
“I see. No source for a spark and no accelerant. What is stored there? Sorry, was stored there?”
“Old paperwork, some clothes, a few pieces of furniture I couldn’t use but didn’t want to get rid of. My gran's.” Her face looked pinched when she mentioned her grandmother, and that made me feel panicky. Like I should make it all better for her.
As I watched, her lids grew heavier. Before she fell asleep, I asked, “What kind of paperwork?”
“Mmmm.” She blinked. “I used to do some bookkeeping before I started cutting hair, when I was still married to Bobby.”
My trouble-o-meter dinged—not off the charts, but there was a flutter. “Were all of your records in the shed?”
The soft shush of her breathing was the only answer.
“Sylvie,” I called softly. When she didn’t respond, I stood up and moved into the living room. “Bobby?” I whispered.
Here!
Clutching my head, I lowered my voice even more. “Whoa, keep it down.”
Here.
“Thanks. So, Bobby, do you know who’s responsible for destroying the shed?”
Bad people.
Right. Dealing with ghosts who’d left a good part of their cognitive function with their physical bodies wasn’t something I’d missed since retiring. Just my luck, Bobby fell in that category. It could be worse. At least he was verbal.
Simple and direct was the key. I tried again. “Did you see anyone near the shed before it blew up?”
Noooo.
His ghostly voice faded off to a moan. Too bad if he wasn’t a witness. Whatever he might have done in his life, whoever he’d been when he was alive, he had cared for Sylvie. Enough that his ghostly self was compelled to help her, and he’d be willing to share what he saw. Some ghosts weren’t so accommodating.
“Were you here, in the house, when the explosion happened?”
Boom!
My left eye started to twitch. I rubbed it and said, “Quiet, remember?”
Shhhhh.
“So you were here when the explosion happened. How long before the explosion did you come back to Sylvie’s house?”
A moan was the only response. Which made sense. Even ghosts with sharp mental acuity could have difficulty with time.
“Where were you when the shed exploded?”
House. No Sylvie. Just Bobby.
And not a single moan. Now, if I could just keep that going . . . “Where were you before the shed exploded?”
Away.
Probably recharging. So not a witness, and if I grilled him anymore on the time line, I was likely to stress him out or confuse him. It looked like his past was the next stop.
“You worked with some bad people.”
Very bad. Nasty.
“You think those people murdered you?”
Yes?
A little more certainty would be nice. “Why do you think that?”
Bad people.
Ask a stupid question of a death-fugued, swiss-cheese-brained ghost . . . “Okay, and your ex-wife, you think these ‘bad people’ want to hurt Sylvie?”
A quiet sob followed by silence was all I got. And after repeated attempts to get his attention failed, I gave up. Either he wasn’t talking to me anymore, or he’d gone to that mysterious place ghosts went to gather up the energy necessary to manifest on this plane.
I’d learned nothing useful from Bobby, but I had to give Clarence credit. He had a greater talent for communication than I’d credited him with. That he’d managed to get any specific information out of Bobby was just shy of a miracle.
Looked like it was time to do some research on Bobby’s past. I hated research. No, not research, just computers.
A soft snuffling noise coming from the kitchen caught my attention. Sylvie wasn’t quite snoring, but her breathing was deep and heavy, not unlike a person who’d had a bit too much wine.
If I left her propped on the kitchen table like that, her neck and back would be in terrible shape when she woke.
Except I wasn’t entirely sure that my back was up to the task of toting women around.
Her breath hitched and then she sighed.
I couldn’t leave her there. Looked like I was about to find out how out of shape my newly reacquired body was in.
9
Monday evening
“Hurry it up, Clarence.” Watching him tap on the keyboard with his claws was like watching ice melt. Or water boil. Whichever, it was slow, and the
