Inside the Executive's Pocket Read online

  Sylvia gulped. “But why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sylvia pushed open the side door and walked out into the crisp evening air.

  We purposely let our clogs scrape lazily along the sidewalk as we made our way to the front of the house, listening to the laughter droning on around us coming from the garage. I listened to the thoughts floating around Sylvia’s head at the time. Thoughts of betrayal, of possibly not having a best friend or a boyfriend anymore. How on Earth am I going to tell Rebecca I went into her locker?

  Out of the corner of Sylvia’s eye, I saw a faded, old-looking sedan idling outside the driveway with a dark figure in the driver’s seat.

  Sylvia didn’t notice it.

  Whoever it was seemed to be watching the house as thick exhaust billowed out from the back of their car.

  The side door to the garage opened, and Mr. Peters and Priscilla sprang out like two love birds, holding hands and laughing. The car revved, inching away, and I finally got a look at the driver as it passed. The window was down. Pale face, long blonde hair that wasn’t in dreadlocks yet, but I still knew who it was. Rosalie. She wiped her eye with the sleeve of her sweater.

  “Not again,” Priscilla said. “You need to tell her you met someone else.”

  He stared at her car a second as it drove away then let go of Priscilla’s hand. “She called, but I didn’t know what to say. She was the one who broke up with me. So why does it matter if I tell her or not?”

  “It matters,” Priscilla said.

  He turned to Sylvia. “What do you think?”

  Sylvia didn’t answer. I could tell she had her own break-up to worry about. She looked at her watch. It was almost 8:00.

  Chapter 18

  Rustic

  When I bolted awake from the channeling, Jackson was waiting for me, legs crossed on the settee. It was more like he was studying me, watching as I popped up from the couch.

  It was comforting and disturbing all at the same time.

  “Your channelings are very long now,” he said, leaning forward, fingers entwined, his dad voice set to extra annoying. “You’re not the least bit worried?”

  I knew where he was going with this. “I think I’m getting the hang of things,” I said, wiping the drool from my cheek. I went to the credenza at the back of the dining room to get my notepad out. “Which is a good thing. I haven’t had a hallucination in a long time, as far as I know. My eyesight hasn’t even flickered. No blackouts. Not since I realized I was the one in control of things.”

  “You’re welcome for that,” he said because he’d been the one who told me about taking control of the channelings last month with the cheating ghost at the speakeasy.

  “Thank you,” I added.

  “Aww, you acknowledged my worth.” He patted his chest, where his heart would have been if he ever had one. “I would say it’s about time, but I don’t want to ruin the moment.” He turned toward the window. “And what did you learn this time?”

  I checked the time on my cell phone. It was already past midnight. My eyes stung and I really only wanted to go to bed.

  Still, I sat down at the dining table, my notebook already opened to the sections about the incident. “I learned I have a lot of suspects,” I said. I scribbled in everything from the channeling, including my ever-growing list of names in my book. Rebecca, Bruce, Myrna, and Paul and the other drifters, Danny and Michael. I circled Michael, adding a note that he was Curtis’s brother.

  I filled Jackson in as I wrote.

  “Sylvia’s brother was the one who put all that incriminating evidence in her locker. The stuff that came out in trial. The tapes, the toys…”

  “Disappointing. So porn stars don’t actually keep toys around in case something interesting breaks out in life?” He shook his head. “It’s like finding out the Easter Bunny doesn’t really carry eggs.”

  I ignored him. “And Sylvia knew about it. There were also love notes, typewritten ones from Jay to Rebecca, or supposedly from Jay.”

  “So there had been more than one? One came out in trial, I remember. The love-triangle theory.”

  “There were two,” I said. “Sylvia had one note with her. She confronted Jay about it.”

  “I wonder where that note ended up,” he said.

  “Good point. If the police had found it that night, we would have heard about it.”

  Jackson hovered in front of me, his ghostly body blending in with the wallpaper of the dining room.

  I looked over at my kitchen, debating about getting coffee. I yawned. “And when I talked to Sylvia’s mother, she seemed evasive about a lot of things. I think there’s something there she’s hiding too. Maybe about the outfit. Or about her son. Maybe she knew he staged the locker that night.” I told him about the jumpsuit, money, pot, and addresses and about how Mrs. Darcy kept checking her watch the whole time I was at her house.

  I brought up the photo of the outfit and the items in its pocket.

  “She didn’t want me to take any photos, so I was lucky to get this one.”

  “My, my. They don’t make them like that anymore,” Jackson said when he saw the patriotic-colored, halter terrycloth jumpsuit.

  “They maybe should never have started.” I pulled open my laptop, zooming in on the list of addresses.

  “Sylvia told me she was giving Myrna the list of addresses so Myrna’s boyfriend could invite guests to a party he was throwing for Jay, after Jay won his election for city clerk.”

  “Is that really cause for celebrating? I can see how it’s cause for drinking oneself into a regretful stupor. But celebrating?”

  The notebook page had a list of about ten addresses. Many had the last name Hunt. I looked at the ones that didn’t. An address for the Landover Country Club, Attn: Stuart Fromm, director. The Men’s Hunting Club of Wisconsin. The Mayor.

  “A very impressive guest list,” Jackson said.

  I typed in one of the unknown addresses. A million-dollar mansion on the lake came up.

  “The Hunts did seem to have money,” I said. “Did you know them?”

  “We’re a lot like people from Delaware,” Jackson mansplained. “Where not everyone knows each other. Plus, ‘having money’ is a relative term, mostly used by those who do not have it. There are varying degrees…”

  “Forget I asked. You didn’t know the guy. Moving on.”

  “Perhaps, Myrna would be a good place to start looking,” he suggested.

  I told him about her suicide.

  “Sounds like there are a lot of secrets to uncover this time.”

  “Thank you for always reminding me I could probably do this on my own,” I said, poring over my notes some more. “Good thing I don’t pay you for your services.”

  I would never admit it to the large-headed man hovering by my side, but I actually liked having him here to kick around ideas with.

  “But you’re right. There are a lot of secrets. That’s why I’m planning to go to Rebecca’s on Monday to uncover as many as I can.”

  “I’ll come too. It’ll be a date.”

  “Having a date is a relative term, mostly used by those who do not have one and never will,” I said. I flipped over to my page about the first channeling I’d done with Sylvia. “Rebecca is very suspicious. That’s for sure. She had a torn, bloody shirt in her locker. Sylvia said she sometimes showed up with bruises like Curtis was hurting her. She may have snapped and killed him.”

  “And accidentally killed three other people? This seems like a calculated attack. Not a ‘whoopsy, didn’t mean to murder these other people here’ one.”

  “She could have had grudges on them too. Sylvia for sure. Jay for spilling the beans. Danny because he got in the way.”

  “True,” Jackson said. “All the more reason I should go with you. This could get dangerous.”

  “I’m going alone, mostly because if I take one ghost, all the ghosts will want to come, and I don’t want Sylvia there. She already
thinks Rebecca’s guilty. Who knows what her frenemy rage is capable of? She’s been holding in a lot. I can tell.”

  He shook his head like he still didn’t believe this too much. “We both know why you’re going on a Monday, though.”

  I smiled. He was right. I always looked for excuses to leave on cleaning days, Thursdays and Mondays. Mrs. Harpton was our housekeeper, more in control of the house than anyone cared to admit, and she didn’t like people hanging around, “getting in the way of her cleaning.”

  But I also knew I was barely getting a passing grade on the way I maintained Gate House, which came with a whole book of detailed instructions on how to do it. But since a “C” was still passing, there was no sense in getting better at it. Still, I tried to avoid my housekeeper’s judgmental looks whenever possible.

  I turned to the page with the list of names. My eyes stung and I knew I needed to go to bed, but I had so much to do.

  I got up to get some coffee then sat back down again. I only had about a half an hour of research and notes to do here, and if I could push through it, I could go to sleep. But if I got caffeine right now, all bets were off on the sleep part.

  I pointed at my notebook. “Are you sure you didn’t know any of these people. You were only a little younger. You lived in the same town. And I know you’ve been to at least a few parties with them.”

  “I’ve gone to a lot of parties, Carly Doll,” he said.

  “Yeah, I saw your Abe Lincoln phase in Mrs. Darcy’s scrapbook. It’s how I know you’ve been to at least one party with these people.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, hovering closer to my notes, scanning the list of names. He was very lifelike today. I almost expected to smell the pipe smoke coming off of him, mixed in with that million-dollar cologne he thought everyone loved. Expecting the smell made me miss it a little. I had actually liked it.

  And just like that, I flashed back to when we were dating, sitting on the veranda at Gate House, eating Chinese takeout, Jackson with his chopsticks, me with my fork.

  Jackson had a cook back then, but he knew takeout was my favorite. He also liked to tease me because I couldn’t use chopsticks, even though he’d shown me a million times. Why did people want to frustrate themselves by trying to eat with sticks, anyway? It was like golf. If life is such a walk in the park for you that you have to add your own frustrating obstacles into the mix to make it challenging, you have it too damn easy.

  I looked up at my ghostly privileged ex. Not everything had been terrible about our marriage.

  He was still staring at the photo. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. I may have been of a similar age, growing up in the same town, but I’ve always been a lot — how should I say this so no one’s offended— less rustic than most people here.”

  “You nailed it. Nobody’s offended.” And just as quickly, I was back to reality.

  He went on. “And by rustic, of course, I mean if the Donner party suddenly threw a barbecue.”

  “So you’re saying you didn’t know them. Got it.” I didn’t have time for my ex’s “jokes.” I was tired and ready to head to bed. I typed Michael Sumner’s name into an image search on Google, scrolling through pictures of pinkish-looking men of varying ages, shapes, and sizes. I stopped on one. An article about armed burglary had a photo attached. And the guy had a snake tattoo on his thick-as-a-leg neck.

  “That’s him.” The man in the photo was bald but I recognized the tattoo. His eyes were narrow and squinty, and he was smirking.

  “I stand corrected on my rustic comment,” Jackson said.

  I clicked on the article. It was from 1996. I scanned it, prepared to have a number-one suspect. But Mr. Neck Tattoo was being hailed a hero for tackling the suspect and holding him down until police arrived.

  “I guess it’s true. You can’t judge a crook by his neck tattoo,” Jackson said.

  “Still a suspect in my book,” I said. “He was getting kicked out of Jay’s house. He had a motive. I, at least, need to try to talk to him.” I looked at his tattoo again, his bald head, his angry eyes. “Maybe.”

  Seeing the neck tattoo made me remember him introducing Jay at the club, after thanking Paul for his poem. Paul Gelling. I’m not sure why I hadn’t remembered Paul’s last name earlier, but I looked him up too.

  There were three possible Pauls: a bartender, a retired bouncer, and a pastor of a church in Minnesota, who oddly, was the likeliest Paul of the three.

  I didn’t send any of them a message yet. I needed to wait until after I confronted Rebecca. I had a feeling I’d have a lot more to talk to them about then.

  Chapter 19

  The usual

  After work the next day, Justin and I headed to Chez Louie. I had a lot to confront the owner about from my recent channeling. A part of me was saying to let it go, but I rarely listened to that part of me in life. I had barely been able to look at Rosalie all day at work for fear she’d ask me how my channeling went.

  The restaurant was dimly lit and beautifully decorated, soft golden yellow walls with wine bottles all along the back.

  But the best part was when the hostess looked at Justin and me like she knew us. “You guys want your usual table?” she asked, and I think I may have squealed.

  I always wanted to have a “usual table” at a nice restaurant. But, growing up, my practical mother saw restaurants as an unnecessary expense. We were able-bodied people who could cook and clean for ourselves, so we should do that, and be thankful for the ability.

  Looking back on it as an adult, I see now that my refusal to learn how to cook was probably just me rebelling against my mother. If God had intended us to make our own food from scratch, then why did he make restaurants and frozen pizzas so convenient?

  But now, Justin and I had come here enough to achieve “usual table-status.” I held my head up high as we walked through the darkened restaurant, throwing the other patrons what was probably a creepy smile. “Yes, it’s us again. You again, too?” I thought, but didn’t say out loud.

  I knew I was being weird, but I couldn’t help it. I finally had something to check off my bucket list.

  “That is a very sad bucket list,” Justin said when I told him about it while we sat at our usual table by the window, that I was now noticing had a great view of the parking lot.

  When the waiter came around, I tried to order my usual, but he stared at me like I was crazy.

  “You must be new.” I laughed like having a usual table made me the queen or something. I scanned the man’s name tag. “Hi John. I don’t think you’re our usual waiter.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Justin shrinking in his seat when I explained to John that my “usual order” was garlic shrimp, so he’d know for next time. “And could you please have the owner come by our table when you see him? We’d love to say hi. A close and personal friend.”

  “I think your bucket list must include a lot of spit in your food,” Justin said when the waiter left. I ignored him.

  While we waited, I decided it was time to confront Justin about some things this evening, too. “I’d like to see the books your mom sent you, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  He turned his head to the side. “What? Of course I mind. Why?”

  “Because I think I can read them.”

  He laughed like I was joking. I noticed he also looked around the restaurant, suddenly very interested in who else was there.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” he mumbled, which I knew meant never. That was his M.O. He says we’ll talk about something later because he’s hoping I’ll forget about it. It was straight out of my mother’s playbook too.

  Mr. Peters practically rushed over to our table, hugging us and yelling over to John that our bill was half off. There were a lot of perks to ridding a restaurant of its basement-demon problems.

  He went on about how the speakeasy renovations were coming along, but I was only thinking about the Executives Club and Priscilla, a
nd Rosalie… and the way Mr. Peters treated her.

  It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. “I have a new ghost client,” I said, interrupting him. “And she knows you.”

  “Another one… so soon. A g… ghost client, you say,” he said. His bald head looked extra shiny under the soft lighting of the restaurant. His lip spasmed as he grabbed the rag from his pocket and dabbed nervously along his forehead. And it dawned on me that he might’ve been expecting me to say my new client was his late wife.

  “It’s Sylvia Darling,” I explained before he got too emotional. “She was a member of the Young Executives Club too. She died in 1978, along with two others during the incident in the Dead Forest.”

  “Oh,” he said, in a way that made me realize he still only half-believed any of my ghost stuff. You would think a man who lived through the gates of hell opening up in his basement would have a little more respect for the afterlife, but whatever.

  Justin chugged the rest of his wine and got up. “Excuse me. I have to make a phone call,” he said, taking out his phone like that made it believable. I knew he just wasn’t comfortable talking about the Dead Forest, or ghost clients, or the books in his closet. Honestly, the man had a lot of hangups.

  Mr. Peters sat in Justin’s seat. “I do remember Sylvia. She was very nice, very smart. It was shocking what happened. But, it’s not something too many of us like to talk about.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but I need your help. It’s hard to investigate a crime from 40 years ago, especially when you don’t have access to the files.”

  “That might be a good thing,” he said. “I didn’t trust the police back then. I mean, Justin’s great. But back then…”

  “They were a bunch of Sheriff Caleb Bowmans?” I asked.

  He laughed nervously.

  “Tell me what happened after the incident, with the club and everything. Did you all continue on? How did it end?”

  He shook his head. “It didn’t end. Not officially. We all went our separate ways. I’d just started dating Priscilla at the time. So I had other things on my mind. We helped each other cope with the loss of so many friends at once. Soon after, we found out she was pregnant, so we got married.”