Gumshoe Ghost Mystery: Dying for the Past Part 15

"You are amazing," she whispered, and rolled out of bed. "I want some champagne. Can we order?"

Order wine? From where?

Somewhere in my head, thoughts struggled for control. I was me-Oliver Tucker, ghost-detective extraordinaire. And I was him, wild, pa.s.sionate lover. And whoever he was, he was good-amazing, even. Oh, not to say I'm not-wasn't-or whatever. But since my death, this was my first time at bat and, well ... d.a.m.n.

"Sure, hon, I'll order some room service while you grab a shower. Anything special?"

She slipped on a bulky cotton robe-one of those plush, expensive ones the finer hotels put in your room for just such a need. When she turned to face me, the robe was open and the light from the window bathed her. Stephanos Grecco had been a happy man, albeit a tired one. Of course, if he knew about me-er, him-he wouldn't be too happy at all.

"Strawberries and chocolate. Lots of both. And champagne."

"Strawberries, chocolate, and champagne. On the way."

"Now I know why we meet in expensive Washington hotels. It's all about room service."

She giggled and flashed her robe open. "Of course. But you know, I don't want anyone thinking I'm some bimbo after your money and prestige. And-"

"And you don't want me to look like an old fart chasing girls half my age. I get it."

"Half? Hmmm ... not even." She raised her arm and admired her expensive watch. "And I just love my gift. Thank you again, it's wonderful."

"I'm so glad you like it." I strode to the window and gazed out at the Potomac. "I guess hotels are best for now. My Georgetown neighbors would have us both on the gossip pages in no time. Besides, I don't have a maid who brings champagne and strawberries."

"Can you hire one?" Her voice was lost when the shower started.

I went to the bathroom and stood in the doorway. This body was a little stiffer and creakier than mine; which might have been the marathon I'd just run before and after my arrival. "So, have you decided?"

"Decided?" She stuck her head out of the shower. "Decided what?"

"About the gala next week. You know, the charity in Winchester?"

Bonnie stepped out of the shower dripping wet-pressing her s.e.xy, hard body against me and running her lips lightly across mine. "I think I've already been rather charitable, don't you?"

Wow, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that at home. "Yes, you have. But they could use the extra support. So, how about it, for me?"

"Ah, isn't the check I gave you enough?" She nibbled my neck-er, our neck. "Do I have to drive all the way out there for moonshine and pigs feet or whatever those hillbillies eat?" She tickled my chin with her lips. "Do I?"

I kissed her and touched my finger to her nose. "They are not hillbillies, Bonnie. There are some wonderful people out there. You know the Vincent House is an important project and the charity needs capital. Look, come on out and bring a date if you're embarra.s.sed to be with me."

"A date?" Bonnie ran her fingers across my back and down. Her lips closed on my ear and she whispered, "Well, okay, but we should talk about it after the champagne, okay? I've got a secret to share." She returned to the shower.

Oh, lord, what a life I was missing. At the sink, I splashed some cool water in my face. "What's the secret, babe? Should I order two bottles of champagne?"

I don't know which was worse-when Bonnie said, "I need to tell you about my husband," or when I looked into the bathroom mirror and watched the color drain from the face of Andre Cartier.

Lightning.

thirty.

"Andre lied to you, Bear," I said when the sparks subsided and I got my bearings back in Bonnie Grecco's living room. "He and Bonnie are having an affair."

Bear stood across the room watching Spence sort through a pile of books and bric-a-brac lying on the floor. He glanced over at Bonnie who was still sipping coffee. He caught Spence's eye, and nodded toward Bonnie.

Spence readied his pen and notepad.

"You said you don't know Professor Cartier, right?" Bear asked. "You want to think about your answer real careful, okay?"

"Enough." Bonnie's lips pursed and she pointed a finger at him. "I've had it. I'm calling my lawyer."

She stood and headed for the phone across the room.

"Bear," I said. "Tell her you know about the donations to Angel's charity she gave to Andre at the hotel in DC last week. And ask her if she liked her strawberries and champagne-and her new watch."

He didn't even pretend it was his idea. "I'll have the check by this afternoon, Bonnie. And Cartier won't stay locked up alone for long. You two were playing footsie in DC last week and checks and room service leave a trail. He gave you the watch, didn't he? Cut the b.s. and talk to me."

"Wonderful. Just great." She didn't turn around but replaced the phone on the end table. Then she went to the bar and pulled down an undamaged bottle of gin, poured a hefty three-fingers, and downed it in three long gulps. She refilled it again. "How'd you know? Did he tell you?"

"No." Bear righted a bar stool lying on the floor. He slid it around to her and found another nearby for himself. "But he will. I have a source who told me about your affair. Let's hear it, Bonnie. The truth this time."

Spence scribbled notes. "Ah, Bear. Can you fill me in a little? Seems like I missed something-a lot of somethings."

"Later. Just write."

Bonnie took another long tug of her drink. "It started a few months ago. I met Andre in DC at a party. He was so great. Nothing like Steph. Steph was fun at first, but he just wanted a trophy-you know-who looked like me. Otherwise, he had no use for me."

"And Andre?"

"Andre?" She smiled and raised her gla.s.s. "He didn't want anything. We had fun. Dinner, dancing. Drinks. You know, fun. I wanted him more than he wanted me. Least I thought so, anyway."

Bear exchanged looks with Spence. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Detective. You know. He's an old guy-not too old-but old. He doesn't need anything except some company now and then. He's got money and friends and everything. He wasn't looking for marriage or anything close. At least, I thought so until he found out I was married."

"And?" I asked as Bear's lips moved.

"He flipped. What did he think, I went home to my mom at night?" She chugged the drink. "But, it was Steph who scared me."

"Did he find out?" Bear asked. "Was he abusive?"

"Well, not at first. I told you, we just met on a cruise. But he wanted to live out in this tiny little place-"

"You mean Winchester?" Spence said. "It isn't so tiny."

She forced a laugh. "It isn't Manhattan or DC, now is it?"

Spence shrugged.

"Anyway, he started staying out all night and got angry all the time. He was seeing someone-I know he was-he got calls and would take them outside. I might not be old but I'm not stupid. And he spent money way faster than anyone I've ever seen."

Bear waited for Spence to catch up with his notes. "You don't know anything about his business affairs?"

"No." She shook her head. "He's a deal-maker. That's what he told me. He makes all kinds of deals-business mergers, sales, real estate-for a percentage."

"And now it's all yours." Spence looked up as though he hadn't planned on moving his lips. "Right?"

"Maybe. I never signed a pre-nup. You're asking about it, right? But like I said earlier, I couldn't shoot him from behind on the dance floor, right? I'm flexible, Detectives, but not that flexible."

Boy, was she ever. "Bear, ask her about the thousand-dollar notes in his wallet."

He did.

"Steph liked to flash money around. At least he did until last week."

"What happened last week?" Bear asked, leaning forward to pour another three fingers into her gla.s.s. "What changed?"

"He went out and met his lady friend. I know because I followed him. I couldn't see who it was but they went to a hotel. Afterward, he told me we couldn't spend any more money for a while and we were moving-fast. I asked why but he just got mad, he hit me a couple times, and ran off for the night. Probably back to her."

I asked, "How much money are we talking about here, Bear?"

Bear got halfway through the question when the front door burst open and four men in suits strode in. "What the h.e.l.l?"

"FBI," one of them said.

"Detective, have your men stand down." An average height, thin man in an expensive suit strode in behind the other four. He had heavy eyebrows and a swarthy complexion. "I'm Special Agent Jim Dobron, Chief of the Organized Crime Task Force, WFO."

"WFO?" Bear asked.

To many, "WFO" meant "What the Frig Over," or you can use your imagination. In this case, it stood for "Washington Field Office" of the FBI-Fed central in these here parts. But often, especially to us local cops, the two definitions are synonymous.

"Now, just hold it a minute." Bear held up a hand to stop the four men moving toward him from the doorway. "I'm Detective-"

"Theodore Braddock, Frederick County Sheriff's Office, Chief of nothing. Yeah, I know," Agent Dobron said. "Thanks for babysitting-I'll put in a good word with your captain. We'll take over now." He waved two of his agents toward Bonnie.

She tried to pull away when they latched on. "Detective, what's going on? I don't understand."

"Neither do I."

Dobron held up a hand at Bear to silence him as he walked up to Bonnie. "Bonnie Grecco-or shall I call you Bonnie Long, Wiseman, or DeFleur? You're under protective custody as a material witness in a Department of Justice RICO Probe."

No, RICO does not stand for "Really Innocent, Cooperative Old-guys," it meant "Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations-mobsters, gangsters, organized crime families, thugs, thieves, murderers, et cetera, et cetera.

Bear looked at Bonnie. "What haven't you told me, Bonnie?"

There must be a few things Bonnie held out on us. Although she didn't hold out much on Andre, or me, earlier.

"I'm not saying anything more. Help me, Detective. Help me and I'll help you."

As Dobron's men whisked her from the room, I couldn't help but wonder what else she was hiding from us. I also couldn't help but think about the few moments I'd been Andre.

Is it cheating if you have a girl like her while you're possessing another guy's body?

Nah, can't be.

thirty-one.

Chevy Chevez-the former Jorge the waiter-snapped three photographs of the luxury sedan pulling out of Nicholas Bartalotta's estate. Chevy sat on his motorcycle parked down the street, secreted behind some trees, watching. The distance to the gate wasn't a problem for his telephoto lens but, just in case, he snapped four more as the Lexus pa.s.sed him heading toward Winchester.

The driver didn't notice him. So far so good, considering Bartalotta's men had a reputation for disliking cameras. So, Chevy waited until the car was well ahead before pulling out and following.

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the three-story Victorian sitting on a side street a few blocks from Old Town Winchester. The driver knew the streets well and negotiated an alley a block north of the house in order to avoid construction and arrive with the pa.s.senger's door along the sidewalk at the gate.

Chevy made it to the top of the hill overlooking the house and snapped three more photographs as the thirty-something history professor climbed out of the sedan, thanked the driver, and headed inside. He watched her check her mail on the front porch and snapped two more shots while she searched for her keys, keeping his eye on the viewfinder a little longer than he needed, admiring her auburn hair and s.e.xy figure. During his time on campus, she turned as many college-boy heads as any campus coed.

"Oh, my, Angela, you're sure fine. And no husband either. I might have to take some of your cla.s.ses."

Chevy moved his motorcycle around the corner a block from the Victorian. He dismounted and changed the telephoto lens for another, more compact one from his backpack. Then he made his way back along the sidewalk to the rear of the Victorian. There, he slipped behind a tall oak, swung up on a limb, and easily negotiated the four-foot wrought-iron fence. He dropped into the side yard among overgrown, bushy evergreens and shrubs which provided him ample cover to penetrate the property un.o.bserved.

Chevy knelt, readying his camera at the side of the Victorian's rear sun porch where the shrubs concealed him from the street. He checked the rear and side yards, confident no one could see him unless they pulled into the small driveway at the rear of the house. He would hear anyone turn into the drive and he could retreat before being seen. If surprised, he was ready with a cover story-business cards and desktop published literature for "Good Neighbor-Scapes Landscaping." A pleasant smile and ready handouts fooled 90 percent of wary observers.

So far, so good.

He tried the sun porch door. It was locked. His pocket knife and practice got him through in seconds. Inside, he went to the inner windows. One gave him a view down the Victorian's long hallway bisecting the first floor; one window viewed into the kitchen; and another the dining room. From where he was, he could get some good photographs.

Dr. Angela Hill-Tucker was nowhere to be seen.

He knelt down and adjusted his camera for a few low-light shots. He took a chance and stood, lifted his camera, and froze.

Staring back at him through the window was a large, black, furry face the size of a concrete block. The huge beast was eye-to-eye with him, standing on his rear legs with front legs braced against the window frame. The animal watched him-unblinking, dark eyes-rigid and powerful. His mouth opened and a low, rumbling sound started rattling the window gla.s.s.

"Madre de Dios." Chevy remembered the photograph on the professor's office shelf. The big Lab was 115 pounds or more. He was a powerful animal whose breed reputation as playful and loving was lost somewhere behind bared teeth and target-locked eyes.

"Madre de Dios."

The Lab's tail snapped straight out. His powerful jaws opened to bare shiny, white, large teeth. When he barked, the sun porch windows reverberated and the alarm was unmistakable. A powerful paw hammered against the window frame as the wooden blind fell from its hanger and crashed onto the floor inside.

Chevy fell backward and dropped his camera.