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Home for the Haunting(39)



“Okay . . . ,” I said, wondering where this was heading. If Linda had seen ghosts at her old home, had she turned to pills for solace, misjudged the amount she was taking, and overdosed? Why did it seem Annette thought there was something more to it?

“The thing is, there are indications that the body was moved, postmortem.”

I sipped my drink. “Moving corpses around would be unusual behavior in a ghost.”

Annette gave me a scathing, don’t-even-think-of-messing-with-me look, and I shut up.

“I’m not suggesting a ghost moved the body, Ms. Turner. But if Hugh Lawrence believes there are ghosts in that house, and Linda did as well . . . I want to know how he reacts if we go in there and—I don’t know—talk to them. To the ghosts.”

Something in the inspector’s manner struck me as odd, and I decided to go for it. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

“I may have . . . that is, I thought . . . Well, there are some strange things going on at that house.”

“Strange how?”

“I’m not sure how to characterize it,” the inspector said, dodging my question. “Tell me: Have you seen anything?”

“Enough that I’d like to take a closer look. Listen, Hugh Lawrence asked me to walk through the house with him and his wife. He wants to hire Turner Construction to redo the place, but here’s the interesting thing: He doesn’t want to renovate the house. He wants it restored, exactly as it was when the murders occurred.”

“As if to recapture a moment in time?”

“Exactly.”

The inspector frowned. “So Hugh Lawrence learns his sister is dead and her body was found in the shed behind their family home—and the first thing he does is hire a construction crew to make the house look exactly as it did on the worst night of his life?”

“I know it sounds odd, and you would know better than I if Hugh has something to hide. But I have to say, I didn’t take it that way. You’ve met him. He’s a bit . . . I don’t know. A little . . . off.”

She widened her eyes as if to say, You can say that again.

“Also, he seems to believe that the house is the key to helping him overcome the trauma of the crime.”

“Yes, that’s what he says about Linda. That’s what they were doing on Friday—just walking around and helping her re-create that night in her head. Poor woman. I don’t think anyone meant any harm, and I’m not a psychotherapist, but it seems to me that sort of thing should be done under the direction of a mental health professional.”

She looked out through the front window of the café, shaking her head, and when she spoke, her sadness and frustration were palpable.

“I’ll never understand this sort of thing. Beautiful family, lovely home, the whole enchilada . . . and then, the kind of craziness that makes someone destroy it all. What is it with some people? You want to kill yourself? Fine—slink off into the woods and shoot yourself. Have done with it. Why take your family with you?”

This was easily the most personal thing I’d ever heard Inspector Crawford say. The last thing I expected was to be this hardened cop’s confidante. Then I reminded myself: She was dealing with the possibility of ghosts. That pushed people out of their comfort zone and often resulted in saying and doing things you thought you’d never do. I should know.

A peal of girlish laughter indicated that Cookie found something hilarious. No doubt in response to one of the males in her orbit.

“Friend of yours?” asked Annette, checking out Cookie.

“My sister.”

“No kidding? You don’t look much alike.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“She’s a piece of work, huh?”

I blew out a sigh. Happily, Crawford wasn’t expecting a response to her query.

“You said there is something strange at the house,” I said. “Have you . . . seen something?”

The pause was too long not to be eloquent.

“You have, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been a homicide inspector for a long time, Ms. Turner. And before that, I was a beat cop. Suffice it to say, in all those years I’ve seen a lot that I couldn’t make sense of. I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions and not to make assumptions. And when I see evidence of something . . . no matter how crazy it might seem, I follow it up.”

“That’s very commendable,” I said, meaning it. Those whose jobs decide the fate of others should be especially conscientious.

“I know—but I’m telling you all this for a reason. I want you to go into that house with me.” I hadn’t expected that. My feelings must have registered on my face because the inspector smiled. “Surprised?”