“Watch out, Harold!” I yelled at the phone, causing the librarian at the desk to glare at me. I clapped a hand over my face and then mimed I’m sorry. I had forgotten where I was.
Tinkie scribbled down a number, and signaled me to come outside with her. We stood on the brown winter lawn of the library as she made a call to chancery clerk Deeter Odom in Oxford. Not ten minutes later we had the man with all the answers about Johnny Bresland’s last will and testament.
Tinkie listened for a moment before she turned to me. “Clarissa might have a very big reason to want Johnny Bresland dead,” she said.
“Who inherited his money?” I asked.
Tinkie put the question to the clerk, who was still on the line. I watched her eyebrows rise almost to her hairline. “Thanks,” she said before she hung up.
“What?”
“Johnny Bresland’s wife, Aurora, died a month before Bresland was shot in the back. Clarissa was the only heir. There was an outright financial gift of three million dollars to her, and Clarissa was the real estate agent in charge of selling the Bresland property, which was extensive, and which means she got huge fat commissions from that.”
We returned to the library and continued to search. The wildlife preserve where Bresland had died was in another county and we couldn’t find anything. We could find no details on the death of Aurora Bresland or what she had so conveniently died of. It was time to move on to our other leads.
After we left the library, I wanted to run by the Supporting Arms Care Center to check on health inspection records and how involved Bricey Presley was in the business. I knew Bricey provided home health care services for shut-ins, the elderly, and those in hospice care, but I wasn’t certain if she was a stakeholder in the nursing home itself. But Tinkie had other plans. I was about to call an Uber when Tinkie linked her arm through mine and propelled me down the sidewalk.
“Let’s walk,” she said.
The day was overcast, but it wasn’t bitter cold and the wind had calmed. Walking was a good idea. My pants said so, too. In fact, I’d had a few long conversations with my pants and they were giving me the dickens about a lot of my recent bad habits.
Downtown Columbus was a beehive of shopping as Christmas approached. While we were near the bank, I deposited Clarissa’s check and called the tack shop to order Coleman’s new saddle. It would be delivered Christmas Eve. I’d done most of the rest of my shopping. Since it was only Coleman and my friends, I had an easier time buying gifts than a lot of people did.
We walked slowly and enjoyed the window displays and downtown decorations. A children’s toy store had worked The Nutcracker theme into the presentation, and I had a moment of nostalgia for last Christmas and Jitty’s spectacular rendition of that wonderful ballet—even though I had almost frozen to death in the process of witnessing it.
Before I could stop her, Tinkie darted into the toy store. I knew her credit card would be smoking hot when she came out. Toys would be bought for the forthcoming child—lots of toys.
A boutique window across the street featuring mannequins dressed for the outdoors caught my eye. I admired the display—a snowy scene complete with fir trees and even a fake reindeer wearing a knit cap and leg warmers. But it was the human clothing that caught my eye. The denim leggings, lace-up knee boots, and oversize embroidered sweater with a snowman scene were exactly the kinds of clothes I loved. With time to kill, I crossed the street to check out the display. Tinkie would likely spend an hour shopping for toys, and I’d have plenty of time to try on some outfits if I found something I just had to have.
Up close, my eyes were drawn to the mannequin’s features. With her upswept red hair, she bore a strange resemblance to Bette Midler, one of my favorite actresses. I loved her in so many films, but The Rose, based loosely on the life of Janis Joplin, had struck a chord with me. Bette Midler had a great set of pipes and amazing comedic timing.
For a long time I stared at the mannequin, remembering that bittersweet movie. But when I turned to go into the shop, I saw one of the mannequin’s hands move. Just a tad. I turned back to study the plastic figure. She stood perfectly still again. Perfectly. I had to laugh at myself. Then as I stepped away, the mannequin winked at me—an impossibility, since it didn’t have any eyelids.
Back to the window I went. I almost pressed my face against the glass to get a closer view. But the mannequin was just that—a molded plastic figure with a few hinged joints. Creepy as hell. I pulled up the hood on my jacket and wrapped my scarf more tightly to ward off the chill that had suddenly seeped into my bones. This was ridiculous. I was being played for a fool by a storefront dummy.
I started toward the front door one more time, but I couldn’t stop myself from glancing back. With a jolt, I saw Bette pressed against the glass of the window, eyeing me. She waved. I thought my heart would stop until I caught on to the wickedness at work. Yes, it was a haunted mannequin—haunted by my personal haint. It was Jitty. And I was going to kill her.
I motioned her out of the window, and she simply faded through the glass to land on the sidewalk beside me. When I looked back in the window, the display showed two ladies in evening attire in a ballroom setting. No snow. No reindeer. Nada. Jitty still wore the