“Well, the nice thing is the Duncan-Moons don’t really live in the world of normal standards. Now, are you going to help me set up this murder wall, or do I have to solve all the mysteries myself?”
As I wander over to the rolling board, Grams zooms through me and sends me into a fit of giggles. Since I’ve always been able to see her, I’ve never gotten the ghost-chills when she enters the room or comes near me. There’s something wonderful about our connection and I will forever be indebted to the curmudgeonly Silas Willoughby.
“You write out the cards. I’ll tack ’em up and tie the string. The green string, because red gives you the frights.”
“Copy that,” she replies. Grams’ ghostly snicker at her appropriation of my phrase warms my heart.
I roll the corkboard into the middle of the room, careful not to bump into any of the precious Italian plaster walls that Twiggy is so eager to protect, and start calling out the names. “Let’s get a card for every member of the Barnes family and, of course, for Vassili. You’ve been in the same social circles as Liliané. Can you think of any enemies she had?”
Grams floats over and hands me the cards for the three children. “We don’t have enough 3 x 5 cards, dear. That woman was cruel, devious, and wealthy. The trifecta in the rich b—”
“Grams! Language.”
“Sorry. It’s just . . . She was always outbidding me at charity auctions, always trying to make slightly larger donations. She even insisted on having the longest list of ex-husbands. I’m sure she would’ve really sunk her claws into your Grandpa Cal, if his eye hadn’t wandered to a younger model.” She flickers like an old silent movie.
“So we get the last laugh where Liliané’s concerned though, right?”
Her hesitation is about to concern me, but, at last, she returns from memory lane. Grams giggles into her festooned fingers like a schoolgirl playing dress-up with her mom’s jewels. “We do.”
“You better make cards for Leticia Whitecloud and her goons. The fact that she was tucked safely below deck when I found her, doesn’t mean she didn’t give the word. There were a few other shifty characters at the private poker game, but they all seemed genuinely shocked to hear about Vassili’s death.”
“But was it genuine?” Grams arches an eyebrow.
“Oh, right. I keep forgetting I’m a psychic! Give me a minute.” I close my eyes and replay the scene as I walked through the poker game the second time and announced the tragedy. “Yep, genuine shock. The guy who was losing big is actually excited to hear the news, but I think that was simply because he was looking for any excuse to end the game.”
Isadora crosses her arms and floats up to the ceiling in quiet contemplation.
“I should probably—” At that exact moment my phone pings with a text. “It’s from Erick.”
Ghost-ma ignores me.
I read the text aloud anyway. He says, “Breakfast at Myrtle’s? Can you manage 9:00 a.m.?”
I mumble as I type my reply. “Manage 9:00 a.m.! Who does he think he’s dealing with?”
She finally responds. “I remember a young lady who couldn’t get up before noon when she first arrived on—what did you call it?—Dante’s Inferno bus.”
That old Mitzy seems like a different person. Every time I think back to my miserable hamster wheel of an existence, I feel more and more gratitude for the one-way ticket that got me straight out of it.
“New Mitzy can manage 9:00 a.m. And, for your information, there are some things I miss about Arizona.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that horrible guy you occasionally hooked up with. What was his name again? You used to mumble it in your sleep all the time . . . Ben!”
“Oh boy. I forgot all about Shady Ben. I definitely don’t miss him. But I do miss the monsoon season. There’s something incredible about a thunderstorm in the desert. Massive cracks of lightning and a deluge of water dumping down on parched earth. It’s pretty spectacular, even from a tiny window with security bars on the outside. Plus, there’s a sweet smell in the air afterward that reminds me of damp railroad tracks—but uplifting.”
“That sounds lovely, dear.” Grams sinks down to eye level and studies the murder wall. “You don’t have a connection between Leticia and Liliané.”
I turn toward her. “And?”
“It’s just that, back when Leticia was running things at the Hawk Island Casino, Liliané and her third husband spent four nights a week out there. I know she was a high roller, so Leticia had to be aware of her. She seems to keep anyone with money on her radar.”
“Speaking from experience, Grams?”
“You know full well that it’s a very bad idea for a recovering alcoholic to substitute another vice for alcohol. So, no, I didn’t make a habit of it. Again, I may have ventured out once or twice, but it was purely recreational. I didn’t have a gambling problem.”
“Clearly. You had a husband problem. And an unspecified number of special friends problem.”
Her apparition ripples with shock. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with sharing meaningful relationships with interesting men.”
“Of course not. As long as there’s no overlapping of those relationships.” I wink at Grams. She chooses to ignore my innuendo and leave my notion unconfirmed. However, I’m astutely observant, and I’ve seen and heard enough subtle hints since I landed in almost-Canada to confirm my own suspicions. I inherited my inner skank straight from the trunk of the family tree.
“Well, I never!”
“We don’t have time to debate that, Grams.”
Pyewacket appears from the closet, in all his sleek tan glory. Either he’s been taking an extremely long nap or yet another secret passage exists within my hidden apartment. He saunters out and drops something at my feet.
“Is that a toy? Do you want to play fetch?”
“Ree-ow.” Soft but condescending. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think he meant “stupid human.”
“Well, excuse me, Pye. What is this thing?” I reach down, pick up the object, and mindlessly shake it back and forth as I struggle to determine its identity.
Grams zips over and scrunches up her ethereal nose. “Is that a baby rattle? Why do you have a baby rattle?”
“I don’t know? It’s not mine. Pye brought it to me.” I gesture defensively toward the spoiled feline. “Aren’t cats supposedly rumored to suck the souls out of babies? Maybe he was making his rounds and took a souvenir.”
“Mizithra!” Her phantom limb swings toward my backside with surprising force.
I jump forward and barely escape her retribution. “Hey! You’re getting a little bit dangerous.” I shake the rattle back and forth and toss it on the coffee table. “Consider it officially logged into evidence, Pyewacket.”
He leaps onto my four-poster bed, spins in a circle three times, and settles into my eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. It would appear his black-tufted ears are in urgent need of cleaning, and he has no time to discuss any further information regarding my case.