The Ghost and the Dead Deb

EPILOGUE

I have a secret passion for mercy . . . but justice is what keeps happening to people.

—Ross McDonald

“I HAVE A surprise for you, Jack.”

A surprise for a ghost? Don’t that beat all.

It was late Monday evening, chilly for early October, and I was alone in my bedroom, getting ready to turn in. I pulled the combination alarm clock/CD player out of the shopping bag and began struggling to free it from its foam prison.

“It’ll just take a few minutes to put together,” I promised.

Baby, in case you haven’t noticed, time is all I got.

Today, I had finally found the time to drive to All Things Bed & Beautiful. Besides the alarm clock/CD player for myself, I’d gotten Aunt Sadie a new comforter and Spencer a set of Spider-Man sheets. He was sleeping on them now. But Sadie wasn’t under her new comforter. She and Bud Napp were, once again, out on the town—which for Quindicott meant pizza at Franzetti’s and a drink at Donovan’s Pub.

For weeks, Jack had insisted that Sadie and Bud’s nights out were “dates.” I had disagreed, thinking a man of Jack’s time just couldn’t grasp how a man and woman could be platonic friends. But then last week, I caught Bud kissing my aunt by the door, and I finally had to admit that maybe Jack Shepard knew a thing or two more than me about human nature.

Any news yet on the McConnell kid’s fate? asked Jack.

“Yes, as a matter of fact . . .”

After discovery by both sides and much haggling by Hal’s legal team, the district attorney’s office had agreed to let Hal plead guilty to manslaughter. There would be no trial. And the sentencing had just come down earlier this very afternoon—which was probably also why I felt the need to take a drive.

“The judge gave him seven years in a minimum security facility,” I informed Jack, “and he’ll be eligible for parole in four.”

Sounds like a cakewalk.

“Not for somebody who’s used to the freedom wealth brings. Of course, I hear he’ll be doing an independent graduate studies program out of Brown University while he’s in prison. Egyptology, I think—”

You don’t say? Guess that makes sense. I never saw a cell that didn’t have some sort of hieroglyphics scratched into it.

“Don’t make fun, Jack. I feel bad enough as it is.”

Why, for Pete’s sake?

“You know why. Hal McConnell wasn’t really a murderer. He was just trying to protect Victoria that night, and—”

Don’t say Angel drove him to it, doll. Murder is murder. A life was taken and can never be given back.

“But Angel was a murderer herself, two times over.”

That’s what the law is for, baby, to mete out justice. You did what you set out to do, didn’t you? You got your Johnny-boy off.

“I know . . . and Bud is grateful beyond words. So am I, Jack. To you.”

Can the sweet sap, doll. Pour it over your pancakes.

I laughed, then went back to trying to set the right time on the digital display of my new alarm.

“Really, Jack, I mean it. If you hadn’t suggested faking that security camera on the pole that night, I don’t know if I’d have figured out how to get Hal to . . . you know, uh, give up the ghost, so to speak . . . no offense.”

Funny, I never thought I’d see an ice chest get so much mileage in the P.I. game.

“Seymour Tarnish’s ice cream truck came in handy on that score . . . and Milner Logan was great in actually climbing the ladder and getting it up there. Not bad for a bunch of—what did you call them?—cracker-barrel yahoos.”

Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, baby. So what’s happened to that Johnny kid now, anyway? I haven’t seen him around in weeks.

“Oh! That’s right, I never told you. He went to culinary school. Bud’s helping him with some of the tuition, and Fiona is lending him the rest. She said once he graduates, he can work off the loan at her new restaurant—assisting the head chef, which she hasn’t exactly found yet. But I’m sure she will before the Finch Inn restaurant opens for business this Christmas.”

I wouldn’t make book on that, sweetheart.

“On what?”

On some hoity-toity chef leaving the bright lights of his big city restaurant job for this little podunk burg.

“Quindicott is a charming and quaint little town, Jack Shepard. Repeat after me. Quaint is good.”

Baby, the only good thing about this town is you.

I was unwrapping a new CD when the words sunk in. I completely froze, unable to believe my ears. “Jack? Did you just go sappy on me?”

Yeah, honey. Savor it while you can.

“You know, Jack, seriously . . . I never asked you: What did you think of my work . . . as a P.I.?”

Not bad. For a dame.

I smiled. “Thanks.”

But you’ve got a helluva long road to travel, sister, so don’t let it go to your head.

“I won’t. But I’ll tell you what, I’m pretty sure this will.”

I pulled a bottle of chilled champagne out of my tote bag. A minute later, I was popping and pouring the bubbly into a shallow glass—okay so it was a cheap plastic party glass and not fluted crystal, but the champagne was real.

Finally learning how to let your troubles make a getaway, I see.

I smiled and hit the play button on the new CD player. “And here’s a little something for you.”

What’s that?

He didn’t have to ask twice. The CD of Glenn Miller’s greatest hits immediately began to fill the room with 1940s’ big band classics, starting with that haunting standard, “Moonlight Serenade.”

Hey, that’s the tune somebody played the night we braced Joey Lubrano.

“Aw, Jack, you remembered. How romantic.”

He laughed and so did I. Then I leaned back on my bed, closed my eyes, and sipped champagne. After two hours, I had (mostly) forgotten how bad I felt about Angel Stark and Victoria Banks and today’s sentencing of Hal McConnell. I had finally learned how to relax with my ghost. I was so relaxed, in fact, I began drifting off and almost didn’t hear Jack talk to me one last time.

I’ll see you in your dreams, baby, he whispered. Then I felt the cool kiss of his presence temporarily recede, back into the fieldstone walls that had become his tomb.