Read Online In the Air Tonight by Lori Handeland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lori Handeland
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time there’d been more than Stafford on the ghost-o-meter.
I also couldn’t remember anyone named Genevieve in New Bergin, and I hadn’t heard about an accident on the interstate lately. So why was she here?
Genevieve probably wouldn’t know. It often took ghosts a few days—months, years—to catch up. Nevertheless …
“Where are you from, honey?”
“Don’t,” Stafford ordered, though I wasn’t sure if he was telling me not to ask or telling her not to answer.
I never got a chance to find out. He took her hand, and they went poof. My gaze drifted over the playground. If Stafford thought he could get a rousing game of run around in circles until you puke—one of his favorites—started, I’d put a stop to it and quiz Genevieve again. However, my kids, and everyone else’s, were behaving the way kids do. Some playing nice, some not playing at all, and some not playing nicely.
“Drop it!” I pointed at the third-grade boy who had just picked up a worm and hauled back to toss it at a second-grade girl. I was in no mood for the high-pitched screaming that would ensue whether the thing landed in her hair or not.
He dropped it—whew!—and I headed for the door just as the bell rang. I took one final gander at the playground but caught no sign of Stafford or his friend.
He would be back. My luck was not that good. If Genevieve was with him, I’d try again. Maybe, by then, I’d know why she was here, and I could help her not to be.
Over my lunch period, I went to my computer. Google was no damn help at all. According to the search engine, the only death in New Bergin all week was that of a sister of a U.S. Marshal. The woman’s photo revealed her to be the poor one-armed lady on First Street, Anne McKenna.
Anne’s being the sister of a U.S. Marshal was interesting on several levels. Her brother had been assigned to the western district and stationed in Madison. She’d lived there too. Why was she in New Bergin in the first place?
Who would want to kill her? Obviously her brother had enemies, but she’d been a hospice worker. Because of my mother’s illness, I’d dealt with them plenty. No one was calmer or friendlier; those people were saints. And there were far too few of them to throw away.
Last, but certainly far from least, what did a detective from New Orleans have to do with any of it?
All good questions, none of which I would find the answers to on the Internet, nor the reason I’d come to it in the first place.
Genevieve.
I’d need to discover her last name before I could do a more advanced search.
* * *
Bobby walked into the police station at 7:01. He was pretty proud of himself.
Chief Johnson wasn’t. He scowled at the clock, but at least he didn’t comment.
“Follow me.”
Bobby cast a longing glance at the coffeepot. He doubted what was in there would do much beyond eat his stomach lining, but there were days he thought such eating was what kept him awake and functional. Right now he was barely either one. However, he’d been raised in the South where manners reigned and one did not take anything that wasn’t offered. Even bad coffee.
He followed the chief down a corridor and through a door at the back of the station. It appeared he and Johnson were the only people in the place beyond the ancient dispatcher. Bobby couldn’t tell if the officer was male or female—short gray hair, glasses, dumpy—the nameplate read Jan Knutson . Not helpful.
The door opened into a long, white corridor exactly the same as the first. But this one spilled into a funeral home, with an equally androgynous secretary. At least the nameplate read Marion . Then the person spoke—in a baritone—and Bobby remembered that John Wayne’s real name had been the same.
“Morning.” Marion pointed to yet another door, nodded to Bobby, then went back to his computer.
The smells beyond door number two identified the place even before they’d descended the stairs into the basement
I also couldn’t remember anyone named Genevieve in New Bergin, and I hadn’t heard about an accident on the interstate lately. So why was she here?
Genevieve probably wouldn’t know. It often took ghosts a few days—months, years—to catch up. Nevertheless …
“Where are you from, honey?”
“Don’t,” Stafford ordered, though I wasn’t sure if he was telling me not to ask or telling her not to answer.
I never got a chance to find out. He took her hand, and they went poof. My gaze drifted over the playground. If Stafford thought he could get a rousing game of run around in circles until you puke—one of his favorites—started, I’d put a stop to it and quiz Genevieve again. However, my kids, and everyone else’s, were behaving the way kids do. Some playing nice, some not playing at all, and some not playing nicely.
“Drop it!” I pointed at the third-grade boy who had just picked up a worm and hauled back to toss it at a second-grade girl. I was in no mood for the high-pitched screaming that would ensue whether the thing landed in her hair or not.
He dropped it—whew!—and I headed for the door just as the bell rang. I took one final gander at the playground but caught no sign of Stafford or his friend.
He would be back. My luck was not that good. If Genevieve was with him, I’d try again. Maybe, by then, I’d know why she was here, and I could help her not to be.
Over my lunch period, I went to my computer. Google was no damn help at all. According to the search engine, the only death in New Bergin all week was that of a sister of a U.S. Marshal. The woman’s photo revealed her to be the poor one-armed lady on First Street, Anne McKenna.
Anne’s being the sister of a U.S. Marshal was interesting on several levels. Her brother had been assigned to the western district and stationed in Madison. She’d lived there too. Why was she in New Bergin in the first place?
Who would want to kill her? Obviously her brother had enemies, but she’d been a hospice worker. Because of my mother’s illness, I’d dealt with them plenty. No one was calmer or friendlier; those people were saints. And there were far too few of them to throw away.
Last, but certainly far from least, what did a detective from New Orleans have to do with any of it?
All good questions, none of which I would find the answers to on the Internet, nor the reason I’d come to it in the first place.
Genevieve.
I’d need to discover her last name before I could do a more advanced search.
* * *
Bobby walked into the police station at 7:01. He was pretty proud of himself.
Chief Johnson wasn’t. He scowled at the clock, but at least he didn’t comment.
“Follow me.”
Bobby cast a longing glance at the coffeepot. He doubted what was in there would do much beyond eat his stomach lining, but there were days he thought such eating was what kept him awake and functional. Right now he was barely either one. However, he’d been raised in the South where manners reigned and one did not take anything that wasn’t offered. Even bad coffee.
He followed the chief down a corridor and through a door at the back of the station. It appeared he and Johnson were the only people in the place beyond the ancient dispatcher. Bobby couldn’t tell if the officer was male or female—short gray hair, glasses, dumpy—the nameplate read Jan Knutson . Not helpful.
The door opened into a long, white corridor exactly the same as the first. But this one spilled into a funeral home, with an equally androgynous secretary. At least the nameplate read Marion . Then the person spoke—in a baritone—and Bobby remembered that John Wayne’s real name had been the same.
“Morning.” Marion pointed to yet another door, nodded to Bobby, then went back to his computer.
The smells beyond door number two identified the place even before they’d descended the stairs into the basement
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