The annoying thing about talking to ghosts was that it was a lot like talking to yourself, Gwen thought, which was pretty much exactly what was going on.
She closed the phone and dropped it back into her tote. For the first time, she noticed that there was an empty space on top of the desk. A film of dust traced the outline of the place where a laptop had once sat.
“He took your computer,” she said. She thought about that glaring fact. “Maybe this was a home-invasion robbery.”
“In that case, I probably would have been killed in a more traditional fashion, don’t you think?” the ghost asked. “Perhaps with a gun or knife or a blow to the head.”
“Something violent happened here, I can sense that much, but there’s no sign of a struggle, and you would have fought back.”
“Not if I was caught unawares,” the ghost pointed out.
“There was violence done here, but it’s possible that your death was due to a heart attack or a stroke brought on by the shock of the robbery.”
The ghost smiled. “But the only thing missing is my laptop. You know as well as I do that it was not a particularly valuable, high-end machine. There’s my old backpack sitting on the chair. Why don’t you see if the thief took my money and credit cards?”
Gwen crossed to the chair and picked up the small, well-worn backpack. The crystal wind chimes shivered again, unleashing another string of spectral notes. Max crouched in the doorway, flattened his ears and meowed again.
There was fifty dollars and two credit cards inside Evelyn’s wallet. Gwen set the pack back down. So much for the home-invasion theory.
“As for other motives, you know me,” the ghost continued. “I wasn’t dealing drugs out the kitchen door. I didn’t cultivate a marijuana plantation in the woods behind the house. I was very fond of my crystal jewelry, but none of it was expensive.”
“You also had a cell phone.” Gwen turned on her heel to survey the room. “But I don’t see it.”
“Gone, like my computer.”
“Phones are small. It could be anywhere. Maybe it’s in the kitchen or your bedroom.”
Sirens howled in the distance. It sounded as if the 911 operator had sent the community’s entire fleet of emergency vehicles. Gwen realized she did not have a lot of time to search for the missing cell phone.
She whipped through the study, opening and closing drawers as quickly as possible. There was no sign of the phone.
The sirens were closer now. Gwen slammed the last drawer shut and raced past Max, out into the hall. The cat hurried after her.
She paused at the entrance to the kitchen and did a quick survey. The old-fashioned tiled countertops were bare except for a row of pottery canisters and an ancient coffeemaker.
Turning, she dashed upstairs, Max at her heels, and did a swift foray through the two small bedrooms. She was on her way downstairs when the first patrol car roared into the drive.
She rushed back into the office. The chimes clattered restlessly, as though impatient with her lack of progress.
“My death is going to be the biggest news in town by noon,” the ghost observed. “There hasn’t been this much excitement around here since Mary, Ben and Zander died two years ago.”
“There can’t possibly be any connection between your death and what happened two years ago,” Gwen said.
“Are you certain of that?”
“It’s been two years.”
“But you’re still dreaming about what happened, especially at this time of year, aren’t you? You’ve known all along that some piece of the puzzle was missing.”
Gwen pulled one of the curtains aside. Her heart sank when she saw Harold Oxley extricate his big, heavily padded frame out from behind the wheel of one of the patrol cars. Dark glasses shielded his eyes, but she could see that two years had taken a toll on the man. The mild exertion of heaving himself out of the vehicle was enough to turn his broad, jowly face an unhealthy shade of red. His uniform shirt was stretched tight across his rounded belly. He moved stiffly, like a man who was plagued with multiple joint issues. But the gun on his hip was as large as ever, and there was nothing to indicate that he would be any more open to the possibility that there were paranormal aspects involved in a death than he had been two years ago.
Gwen let the curtain drop back into place and turned around. She stopped at the sight of the photograph on the floor. It had not simply fallen off the corkboard, she thought. It looked as if Evelyn had ripped it off in her dying moments and clutched it as she went down.
“It’s important, dear,” the ghost said. “Why else would it be there right next to my hand?”
Gwen picked up the photo and looked at the seven people in the group shot. She was the third person from the end in the bottom row. The picture had been taken two years ago, shortly before the murders had begun. Mary Henderson and Ben Schwartz were in the picture. So was Zander Taylor. They were all smiling for the camera.
“You kept this photo tacked to your bulletin board,” she said. “Why is it on the floor?”
“An intriguing question,” the ghost said.
A heavy fist rapped authoritatively on the front door. Gwen dropped the photo into her tote and went down the hall. Max padded after her.
She opened the door.
“Chief Oxley,” she said politely.
Harold Oxley yanked off his sunglasses and looked at her with an expression that made it clear he was no more thrilled by their reunion than she was.
“Cindy said the 911 call came in from a Gwendolyn Frazier,” Oxley said. There was grim resignation in his growly voice. “I hoped it was just a coincidence.”
“Evelyn was a friend of mine,” Gwen said. She was careful to keep her own voice cool, calm and as innocent-sounding as possible. “We stayed in touch.”
“Two years ago, you and I met over three dead bodies. You leave town and there are no unexplained deaths for the whole time you’re gone. You come back to town and we have ourselves another dead body. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Two years ago, you concluded that all three of those people died of natural causes,” she said. She struggled to keep her temper under control, but she knew she probably sounded as if she was speaking through set teeth. So much for the innocent act.
“Not Taylor.” Oxley narrowed suspicious brown eyes. “He went over the falls and drowned.”
“You called his death a suicide.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll want a statement from you today.”
“Of course.”
A young officer and two medics arrived at the door behind Oxley. The medics carried emergency equipment and a stretcher.
Oxley peered into the hallway. “Where is she?”
“In her office.” Gwen moved out of the way and opened the door wider. “It’s to the right.”
Oxley, the young officer and the medics tromped past her and Max and disappeared around the corner.
Gwen stood in the doorway and watched the light summer rain fall steadily in the trees that surrounded the house. She listened to the commotion and the muffled voices that emanated from the far end of the hall.
Max pressed his heavy frame against her leg. She reached down to scratch him behind the ears.
“I know you’re going to miss her,” she said gently. “I will, too.”
After a while, she remembered the photograph she had found on the floor. She opened her tote and took out the picture. Once again she examined each face in the image. It was impossible not to do the math. Three of the people she was looking at had died two years ago, and now the photographer, Evelyn, was also dead.
Gwen turned the photo over and saw two words scrawled on the reverse side. Mirror, mirror.