She took a seat in front of my desk and crossed her legs primly. “How the hell do we get her out of this bullshit mess?”
“So has she been released on bail yet?” I asked.
She nodded. “I bailed them out this morning. Now, how do we stop this ridiculous shit show of legal charges?”
“Well,” I said. “Right now, she’s been charged with manslaughter, and he’s been charged with aiding and abetting.”
“Oh, god,” she fanned her face with her hands as if hearing the charges gave her vapors. I half wondered where I would find sniffing salts. “What do we do now?”
“They’ll have an arraignment here in a couple of weeks,” I said, “and they’ve indicated they want to both plead not guilty.”
“Damn right, they’re not guilty!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know what kinda kool aid the people in this town are drinking that they think a five foot three former cheerleader that volunteered at the animal shelter is a cold-blooded killer.”
I didn’t bring up the point that working at an animal shelter required a fair amount of cold blooded killing in itself.
“In the meantime,” I began, “we’ll work on finding Beowulf’s real killer.”
“I know who it was,” she said.
“Who?” I was curious, but not convinced.
“It was that ex-wife from Manhattan,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Was she in town that night?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, she hired a hitman,” she explained.
“And how do you know this?” I replied.
“I had my psychic do a reading,” she stated.
“Your psychic?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Would you go into a murder case without one?”
“So the psychic said the ex-wife hired a hitman?” I asked.
“I met the ex-wife once,” she continued, “the psychic described her and said that there was an exchange of goods for his demise. Her name is Evelyn Dubois.”
She pulled a sticky pad out of her purse and scrawled down a number from her phone. She handed me the sticky, in the shape of a glittery pink ‘Z.” Of course, what other kind of sticky would Zondra Spencer-Redding own?
“This is her name and number,” she said. “Don’t ask me how I got it, but I had a nice long chat with her about Beowulf, and I got her address to send her a gift basket. Charming woman. Too bad she’ll go to jail.”
I stared at the sticky. “And what motive would Evelyn DuBois have for killing her ex-husband?”
“Oh,” she said, “it’s on account of the app.”
“The app?” I asked.
“They created it when they were married. It’s a ghost locator.”
“A ghost locator?” I asked.
“Yeah,” her tone was matter-of-fact. “It lets you know when there are ghosts around.”
“I guess that’s what a ghost locator app would do,” I said. “And how did said business venture contribute to Beowulf’s demise?”
“The ghost in her house kept stealing her stuff.” She shook her head and sighed, “And the app told her it was him. He was haunting her. So she called him up and told him to stop haunting her.”
“As she well should,” I said.
“But, he wouldn’t stop,” she shook her head with disappointment. “And I guess she just one day decided she had had enough.”
“So she killed him because he haunted her?” I asked. “I thought you were going to say it had to do with money.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “She killed him because he was ghosting her.”
“That’s not what that phrase means,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Nevermind,” I said. “How do you know this?”
“I told you already.” Her tone had become frustrated. “I called her after my psychic told me she had hired a hitman.”
“Did the psychic tell you who the hitman is?” I asked.
“No, silly,” she laughed. “Psychics don’t do that.”
“No,” I agreed. “That would be preposterous.”
“Now,” she said, “I’ve solved the murder. All you have to do is reel it in. See how easy I made it for you?”
“I see that,” I said.
She winked and headed out the door. After she left, I sat down in my chair, and the three of us laughed.
“Ghost hunting,” I said. “Sometimes I love this job.”
“Twenty bucks says we’ll end up ghost hunting by the end of the year,” Vicki said.
I shot her a look. “No bet.”
I shoved the ex-wife’s name into a drawer. Something told me I would need it. Maybe it was the ghosts.
Not long after Zondra the psychic ghost lady left, AJ announced she found the cheetah lady on Facebook.
“Her name is Judith Klein,” she said. “She runs the local chapter of Ms. Avengers.”
“Ms. Avengers?” Vicki said. “Could they have come up with a dumber name?”
“You haven’t even seen the best part,” she said. “See?”
She flashed Vicki and I her phone screen.
“They’re all dressed up like the Avengers,” AJ said.
There they were, in superhero outfits and hardcore expressions. One lady even had a Thor hammer.
“Well,” I said, “That’s how to get the world to take you seriously.”
“What do you mean?” Vicki laughed. “Nothing says ‘don’t mess with me’ like Thor.”
“I can’t argue that,” I said.
“I’ve got a call in to Judith Klein, we’ll set an interview this week,” she said.
I nodded. “Where are we on the immigration case with Elena?”
“It’s going to be a tough one,” Vicki said. “You’re supposed to file for asylum within one year of entering the country, and she did, but her application was rejected because she said there was some problem with her mail, and she didn’t get the notice to attend an appointment. And she didn’t really understand how to appeal on her own, and she couldn’t afford a lawyer. So, the whole thing is a mess.”
“Right,” I said, “Can we overturn it?”
“We’re going to have to prove that we qualify for
