Dying for the Past Read online

  A city bus approached.

  My legs were free and movement restored. I ran across Independence and made the bus just as the door closed. The thin woman was aboard, sitting one seat behind the rear side door. I made it three seats down the aisle before the invisible hand seized me and trapped me in the aisle—I could get no closer to her.

  Several blocks later, somewhere in Northwest DC, the woman left the bus and walked a circuitous route several blocks north to a small family restaurant—Quixote’s Windmill. At the front door, I peered inside the window to see what became of the mysterious woman and her newspaper.

  She was gone—nowhere inside. In fact, the restaurant was empty and closed.

  A tornado of darkness whirled around me, scooped me up, and returned me, not to Kansas, but to the here and now of Winchester in 2014. The sidewalk vanished and the basement floor returned beneath me again. The dark, empty basement surrounded me.

  When the swirling stopped, I looked around. The dark-skinned man, his newspaper, and the curious thin woman were gone. And with them, 1935 was back in history.

  _____

  Bear stood at the foot of the basement steps, looking up.

  I said, “Bear, this isn’t gonna make sense, but Grecco’s killing is connected to 1935.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “No, really.”

  Bear called up the stairs to a deputy in the kitchen. “Ski, recheck the house and search the other houses on the property—everything. Something’s going on here; I can feel it. And it’s not going to make sense.”

  Didn’t I just say that?

  five

  “Partners?” Bear said to the petite, dark-haired woman giving orders at the crime scene team scurrying around. “You want me to partner with Spence? No way.”

  “Save it, Bear.” Captain Helen Sutter’s laser eyes made her order clear. “Clemens will be out for a few weeks. You haven’t had a partner since Tuck was killed, and Spence needs one, too. Enough. What did the ME give us?”

  Bear leered at Spence standing opposite Grecco’s body from him. He snorted and gave his report. “Clemens and Grecco were hit with a .22 caliber slug—more after the autopsy. Grecco’s shot came from a down angle based on the entry and exit wounds. We think the shooter was on the second floor in one of the rooms at the top of the stairs. He shot over the balcony railing and through the open ballroom doors.”

  Captain Sutter cocked her head. “Is it possible ?”

  “I went upstairs and checked it out,” Bear said. “The ballroom entrance is two stories tall and wide enough. There’s enough visual from the second floor above the main hall to see into the ballroom where the dancing was. I stood just inside the doorway of both bedrooms—out of sight of anyone below—and I could take a shot into the ballroom. A little patience and skill and boom.”

  “What a mess.” Captain Sutter stood below the grand archway between the ballroom and hall and peered up to the second floor railing. “Find anything in the rooms?”

  “Not yet. Now, Cap, about Spence—”

  “No.” Captain Sutter held up her hand. “Spence, finish in here and double-check the neighborhood canvass. Bear, make sure the guests are interviewed before they go. And play nice, boys, or else.”

  “I always play nice, Cap,” Spence said. “Bear has the attitude.”

  “You tried to frame me for Tuck’s murder.”

  “No I didn’t.” Spence held up his hands. “I was trying to—”

  “Enough!” Captain Sutter yelled. “Will you two get over it already? Tuck’s was a rough case—for all of us. Let him go.”

  Both men fell silent.

  Looking around the ballroom, the donation table was still on the far wall with the crystal punchbowl on it. “Bear, what about all the charity donations? Whose got those?”

  He looked over at the punchbowl. “Cap, whose got the foundation’s money?”

  “I’m sure Angela Tucker does. Check with her.”

  “Okay, soon as—”

  “Holy crap, Cap.” Spence stood up. “This guy’s loaded. He has ten g’s in cash in his wallet.”

  Bear forced a laugh. “Bull, Spence. Ten grand won’t fit in a wallet. What are you talking about?”

  Spence pulled several bills from Grecco’s black leather wallet and fanned them out.

  “Holy twenty-second president,” I said.

  Spence held ten bills—each a U.S. Treasury, Uncle-Sam approved, Gold Certificate, one-thousand-dollar bill. The bills were in immaculate condition and except for a little fading on Grover Cleveland’s mug, they looked like they’d just rolled off the Treasury press.

  “Are they real?” Bear slipped on a plastic crime-scene glove and took one of the bills. “Can’t be.”

  “I don’t know,” Spence said. “I’ve never seen one before. I didn’t know they were still around.”

  “Neither did I.” Captain Sutter already had gloves on and took the bills from Spence. “They look and feel real. We’ll have to get the Secret Service to examine them. They’re evidence one way or the other.”

  “Cap,” Bear said, looking at the guests in the lounge across the hall. “Who carries this much old currency? Or this kind of currency? Angel told me Grecco stroked her foundation a check for one hundred thousand. Why all the cash? And why—”

  “Thousand-dollar notes?” Captain Sutter pointed her chin toward the hall. “Spence, seize the donations right away. We don’t want anyone undonating. And I want a list of all donations tonight.”

  “Sure, Cap.”

  “Bear,” she said, “make sure we check everyone’s personal effects for any more dead presidents when we interview them. I want to know if anyone has any more Clevelands.”

  “Right.” He started for the lounge but stopped and turned around. “Cap, about Spence and me partnering—”

  “Zip it, Braddock.” Captain Sutter walked over to him and drove

  a .50-caliber finger into his chest. She did, of course, have to get on her tiptoes to aim. “The friggin’ sheriff and county supervisor are sitting in one of these rooms—right now, right here—waiting for answers. I gotta tell them Winchester’s newest resident and biggest philanthropist got capped and we got diddly shit. I don’t have time for this with you two. Got it?”

  He nodded and walked off.

  While I was alive, Captain Sutter and I got along just great—as long as I jumped when she yelled and didn’t confuse her femininity with her rank. She was a fire-breathing dragon at work. None of us knew her off-duty. Rumor had it she had a calm, soft side hidden somewhere.

  Rumors can be wrong.

  “Go easy on Bear, Cap,” I said as he walked away. “He’s still in mourning for me.”

  She laughed and turned to Spence behind her. “Clever, Spence.”

  “Huh, Cap? I didn’t say anything.”

  I started after Bear when the lights flickered off and on a few times—just as they had seconds before Stephanos Grecco’s murder. When I looked up at the crystal chandelier, the raspy sound of Louie Armstrong croaked out Ain’t Misbehavin.’ In the hall, Louie’s gravelly baritone introduced his old friend to me.

  “Oh, no. Here we go again.”

  Standing in the hall was the stout, striking mobster in his shiny wingtips and fedora. He beckoned me to follow him into the lounge with a big smile and a wave.

  I did.

  My host had a drink in one hand and a big Cuban in the other. Bear, Spence, and Captain Sutter were gone. Instead, the bar was set up with bottles of expensive booze and the room smelled of good tobacco and dank night air. Even Angel’s party and all her guests were gone—vanished to somewhere else—somewhere not here and not now.

  Now wasn’t 2014.

  The mob boss lifted his drink in salute as I walked in. His broad smile consumed his puffy, dark face as he downed his drink. “Come in, Oliver. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Oliver? The only two people who ever called me Oliver were dead. One of them turned out to be my guard
ian angel, Doc, and the other was Ernie Stuart. This gangster was neither.

  He walked around behind the bar and took down a dark bottle from the top shelf. He put a second glass beside his on the bar and filled them both—one he slid over to me when I stepped closer.

  “Hope you like bourbon, Oliver.” He lifted his glass with a wink. “You look like a bourbon fella to me. Bottoms up.”

  I lifted the glass. “You know me but I don’t know you.”

  “Ah, let me introduce myself.” The mobster waved a hand in the air and started making sense of things. “I’m Vincent Calaprese of the New Jersey Calaprese families. You can call me Vincent—and this is my home.”

  six

  The bourbon burned all the way down but it tasted like heaven. Among the many downsides of being dead were food and drink. They were not only unnecessary, they were disappointing. You see, the dead cannot enjoy a double-bacon cheeseburger with extra fries and a beer. If I’d known that before my death, I would have asked for a mistrial. But then again, nobody can punch me in the nose or stick a sharp stick in my eye either. Still, I miss rare, sizzling steak, cold Saturday morning pizza, and Angel’s cherry pie. There was a lot I missed. Not just her cherry pie.

  I sipped the oaky bourbon again and let the fire soothe my aroused taste buds. I could get used to this again. But how was this possible? If the dead run the still, do the rules change?

  “Damn, that was good.” I set my glass on the bar and Vincent Calaprese refilled it. “Now, Mr.—”

  “Vincent, please.”

  “Okay, Vincent. I guess you know what I am going to ask you next.”

  He refilled his glass and raised it. “To your health.”

  Not wanting to be rude, I followed suit. Both glasses were emptied and set up for another round.

  When you’re dead and meeting new friends, manners are important.

  “Vincent?” A silky, low voice said from behind me. “Who’s the new fella? He’s a cutie.”

  I turned as a sultry, red-headed siren slinked into the room. She was curvy and voluptuous and belonged pinned to someone’s wall for nighttime ogling. Her face was soft and young and her eyes were lit with the fire of youth—fire dancing right at me.

  Being dead might have some perks.

  Vincent waved at her. “Sassy, go back upstairs. We got business.” When she didn’t retreat, he added, “You heard me—scram. This ain’t no place for a dame right now.”

  Sassy sauntered over in time to Wayne King’s Dream a Little Dream. She eyed me and smiled a faint, almost invisible smile more intoxicating than the bourbon in my glass. Her hair was short—the style of the more vivacious ladies of the thirties—and her saucy, floor-length red satin dress sizzled with each step. Regret at having missed my great-grandfather’s era began tickling my … spine. The satin struggled to conceal her bosom and lost all control over her curves gliding through the room. She stopped at the bar. Then she reached out, took my drink, and emptied it in one long swallow, watching me above the glass as the bourbon warmed her lips and dried mine at the same time.

  She licked her lips and giggled, handing me the empty glass. “Hi ya, Tuckie. Thanks for the sauce.”

  I swallowed a bowling ball.

  “Sassy!” Vincent snapped. “Out, damn you. We got business.”

  She winked and giggled again, then left as she arrived—slow and swishy—knowing I was watching her taillights leave the room. As she went, the tantalizing, unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5 lingered longer than the mist into which she evaporated.

  I turned to Vincent. “I’m beginning to like it here.”

  “Don’t like it too much, Oliver.” He tapped a finger on the bar. “You’ll be welcome so long as you mind your manners. Got it? And so you know, Sassy ain’t one for no dick.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He smiled. “You know, dicks—coppers, detectives, gumshoes. You, right? I mean, you’re a dick?”

  Oh, yeah. I’m a dick. “Vincent, how about telling me what this is about?”

  “I been watching you, Oliver.” The gangster leaned on the bar. “Ever since the old guy drilled you.”

  I assume the old guy was Ernie Stuart. “Yeah? If you see him, tell him I said—”

  “No, no.” Vincent held up both hands in surrender. “Champ, trust me, he’s one bruno you don’t want to run into. He gives me the heebie-jeebies. Too bad you couldn’t have repaid the favor on him.”

  I felt the same way. “What do you want, Vincent? This is twice you came to see me tonight.”

  “It’s real simple.” Vincent’s face faded and the bottle of bourbon on the bar faded with him. “You bring me Benjamin. If you do, then you and me are square.”

  “Who’s Benjamin? I don’t know anyone named Benjamin. But I’ll trade you. You tell me what you know about a restaurant named Quixote’s Windmill and I’ll find you Benjamin. Deal?”

  Vincent was just a shadow but his voice was unmistakable. “Don’t play with me, Oliver. This is a game you cannot win. Just bring Benjamin.”

  “So you heard of the place? Catchy name, don’t you think?”

  The music was gone and so were the bottles of booze and Vincent Calaprese. The sounds of Angel’s guests rumbled in the next room and feet paraded up and down the stairs. There was no sign of my host or his sexy companion. The smoky taste of bourbon was gone from my lips and no Chanel No. 5 lingered.

  As I turned to leave the lounge, Vincent’s voice reached me again.

  “Don’t hustle me, Oliver. Bring me Benjamin. Bring him soon. Tell him I want my book. No double-crosses, Oliver. If you can taste my bourbon, you can taste my anger, too.”

  seven

  “Who is Benjamin? Sassy, come back—do you know Benjamin?” No one answered. “Oh, come on. A little help?”

  “Tuck?” Angel asked from the doorway. “Is that you?” She walked into the lounge, glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone followed, and closed the doors. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Angel, everything okay?” What a stupid question. One of her biggest philanthropists was dead in the ballroom. “I mean, other than—”

  “I know what you mean. What are you doing in here? Who’s Benjamin?”

  Angel and I have a very unusual relationship—yeah, a lot of marriages do. But no one could top ours. Ever since we bridged the chasm of life and death after my murder, she can hear and see me. In rare moments, she can feel my touch. Other times, when emotions are intense—fear mostly—others can see me, too. Moving things takes a little more out of me. Often, I need a jolt of electricity for a jump start. Electricity to the dead is like speed—the drug, not a car. And, as interesting as it is, it doesn’t last long.

  “Tuck? Who were you talking to?”

  I explained about Vincent. Common sense caused amnesia about Sassy. “This is Vincent’s house. I don’t know if he’s haunting it or me, or if he’s here for something more important.”

  “Like Benjamin? Do you know who he means?”

  “No.”

  “A guest maybe? I don’t remember anyone named Benjamin.” Angel sat at the bar. “Could it be like last time, Tuck—like Carolyn and Amy? Could he need your help?”

  Yes, it might be that simple. Carolyn and Amy were two young wraiths who came to me after my murder. They popped in and out for days, begging for my help—though what they needed wasn’t clear until it was over. When I realized my killer was their killer, it all made sense. His demise was the key to it all.

  I was the conduit—the link between the living and the dead—able to shake things up, work with the living, and help Bear and Angel unravel a serial killer. In the process, it unraveled Amy and Caroline and freed them, too. So, I’m sort of a private detective—or private dick, as Vincent called me—for the dead. A dead detective, spirit sleuth, a ghostly … you get it. I just don’t charge for my services. What would they pay me in, dead presidents?

  I said, “With gangsters, there’s no telling what happened back in their
day or what they want now.”

  “Gangsters? Like violin cases and fedoras?”

  “Exactly. Hey, we got any fedoras in the attic at home? I’d look great in one. And you used to play the violin, right?”

  “I played the piano.”

  “Too hard to carry. How about a fedora?”

  “No.” Angel turned on her stool to keep an eye on the door, making sure no one walked in on our conversation and branded her crazy. She got serious. “Tuck, do you sense anything? Anything at all on Stephanos Grecco? Bear thinks the killer escaped.”

  “Maybe.” I moved onto a bar stool beside her. “Just before Grecco was shot, Vincent popped in for some champagne and caviar. He left a second before Grecco was killed. I have no idea who killed Grecco or how they got away—if they did. This place was locked up tight.”

  “There’s more.” Angel lowered her voice. “The lights went out when Stephanos was shot and someone stole the donations. They’re gone.”

  “Spence and Clemens were guarding them. Cap said you had the money.”

  “No, Bear asked me, too. When Stephanos went down, everyone ran to him. Spence and Clemens, too. Someone took advantage of the chaos and grabbed the money from the punchbowl.”

  Terrific. “How much was taken?”

  “I’m not sure. Most of it—about a quarter million dollars—was in checks. A few patrons put some cash in for show. The cash can’t be more than a few thousand.”

  I thought about that. “Okay, so either someone took advantage of the murder or we have one really stupid crook.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Checks, Angel. They can be cancelled and reissued. Only the cash is gone, and there wasn’t much.”

  She brightened. “You’re right. I’ll contact everyone about their donations. Everyone signed the donation book so I’ll know the details. I can speak with each of them tomorrow.” She looked down. “Tuck, the money isn’t important. This is so horrible.”

  Murder is horrible.

  “Yes, it is, but look at it this way—I got a couple good bourbons out, of it.” She didn’t laugh so I touched her hand. She smiled and I said, “Check with Bear, Angel. There is some benefit to keeping this quiet for a few days. Let’s see who gets curious about the money.”