She didn’t answer. Trembling, she shook her head, pulled free and fled.
Some P.I. I was. I had a real way with people.
Disconsolately, I finished Greer’s lasagna and what was left of the tamale pie. I’d barely touched my wine, so I poured it down the drain and went back to the bedroom to get dressed.
Five minutes later, sporting jeans, a tank top and a lightweight denim jacket, I fired up the Volvo and headed out to look for Gillian. It was after nine o’clock by then, and nearly dark.
I headed for the cemetery in north Scottsdale, where I knew Gillian had been buried. The place was fenced, but the gates stood open, so I drove in, considered the layout and parked. There were a few other people around—a couple of groundskeepers, a young man sitting cross-legged beside a tombstone and an old woman in a green polyester pantsuit and sensible shoes, arranging and rearranging flowers in an urn.
I didn’t have to ask directions. I spotted Gillian right away, standing next to a new grave mounded with raw dirt.
I got out of the car, shoved my hands into the hip pockets of my jeans and approached.
Gillian couldn’t have heard me, but she must have sensed that I was there, because she looked up and watched solemnly as I drew near.
I added another title to the growing list of Damn Fool’s Guides I needed to acquire—one on sign language. I thought of how I’d asked Gillian about her killer, and she’d answered. Maybe she could read my mind—she’d responded at the funeral, when I’d mentally asked her to come back to where I was sitting—but it was more likely that she’d simply read my lips.
Duh. Mojo Sheepshanks, supersleuth. Not much gets by me.
Aware that she didn’t want to be touched, and not too keen on being seen reaching out to empty air, should anyone happen to glance in our direction, I kept my hands in my pockets instead of cupping her face in them, as I wanted so much to do.
A single tear slid down her smudged cheek.
Because she’d lowered her head, maybe hoping to hide the fact that she was crying, I crouched on the other side of the mound so I could look up into her eyes. I steeled myself to see marks on her neck, left by the wire someone had used to strangle her, according to Tucker, but her flesh was unmarked.
“Hey,” I said gently.
“Hey,” Gillian mouthed silently.
It was a forlorn greeting, but at least she’d acknowledged my presence.
“Time to go home,” I told her, forming the words very slowly and carefully. “You can stay at my place.”
She stared at me, looking almost defiant. Her little hands were clenched into fists, and her stance told me she wasn’t going anywhere, and I couldn’t make her. True enough. She’d simply vanish if I made any sudden moves.
How do you bribe a ghost-child? Do you offer to buzz through the drive-in at McDonald’s for a happy meal?
“You could watch TV,” I said, after searching my brain for any scrap of kid lore. “I have a big one that comes down out of the ceiling when you push a button.”
She signed something, but I didn’t know what it was.
“She wants you to buy her a dog,” a voice said.
I almost fell over, I was so jolted. I got to my feet and turned to see the young guy I’d glimpsed earlier, meditating beside a grave.
Duh, again. He was dead. The old lady with the flowers probably was, too. I made a mental note to pay more attention to my surroundings and not assume everybody I saw was alive.
He smiled.
I hoped he wasn’t planning to follow me home. I had my hands full with one ghost—I didn’t need two.
I swallowed. Stood up straight. “You’re—”
“Dead,” he said cheerfully.
“And you understand sign language.”
He nodded. “I took a couple of special classes at the community college,” he said. “I needed a service project to make Eagle Scout.” He signed something to Gillian, and she eagerly signed back.
“Ask if she knows who killed her,” I said.
“Whoa,” he said, round eyed.
“Just do it, okay? It’s important.”
“I don’t think we covered that in class,” the boy replied. “But I’ll try.”
His hands moved.
Gillian’s hands moved.
“She doesn’t know,” he said. “It happened really fast.”
“Damn,” I muttered. Then I took a closer look at him. He was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt, and he was even younger than I’d first thought. He probably hadn’t even made it through high school before he passed away. “What’s your name and when did you die?” I asked.
“I’m not sure when I croaked,” he said. “I only figured it out the other day. Up till then, I just thought I was having a bad dream.”
I threw back my head, looked up at heaven. Why did God just allow these people to wander around, not knowing they were dead? Wasn’t there some kind of intake system? Where were the angels? Where were the loving relatives, come to lead the newly deceased into the Light?
“But my name is Justin Braydaven,” Justin went on. “I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you that much if I hadn’t read it off my headstone.” He shook his head. “I’ve really been spaced lately.”
“You didn’t remember your name—but you can still communicate in sign language?”
Justin shrugged. “Maybe it’s like riding a bike,” he said. “You never forget how to do it, even when you’re—” he stopped, swallowed “—dead.”
I felt sorry for him, for obvious reasons. There was so much he was never going to experience. “I guess your date of death is probably on that headstone, too. Under your name.”
“I was so glad to know who I was, I forgot to look for that.”
“Justin, do you see a big light? If you do, you should go into it.”
“No big lights,” Justin said, sounding good-naturedly resigned.
Gillian began to sign again.
“She’s back to the dog,” Justin told me. “It’s a big thing to her. Maybe there’s one at the pound.”
I thought about Vince Erland, promising his stepdaughter a pet and then reneging. It would be easy to judge him for that, but the fact is, dogs and cats need a lot of things—shots, food, spaying or neutering, sometimes ongoing veterinary care. Those things aren’t cheap.
The three of us started walking down a paved, sloping drive, in the general direction of my car. I was musing, Justin and Gillian were signing.
“Hey, lady!” one of the groundskeepers called to me, loading tools into the back of a battered pickup truck. “We’re closing up for the night!”
I nodded. “On my way,” I called back.
We passed the old lady, fussing happily with her bouquet. She didn’t seem to notice us.
“She’s been in a good mood since the flowers came,” Justin informed me.
I drew up at the headstone where I’d first seen him, peered at the lettering.
He’d