“How did you get in here, anyway?”
I fished the keys out of my pocket. “I stole them from her purse.”
“Nice.”
“Okay, I’m going to do some research, check with my connections, and I’ll get back with you the minute I know something.”
I drove back to the café. Reyes was gone, but he’d left the posole unattended. Crazy man.
I scooped up a bowl and went to kick Dixie off her computer.
“I’m playing online strip poker,” she said, pretending to be annoyed.
Knowing better, I scooted her out of her chair with my butt.
“Fine. I have to get home anyway.”
“I know.”
“Oh, yeah? How?”
“That special ringtone you use anytime you get a text from your secret lover? It dinged three minutes ago.”
She gawked at me for the better part of a minute, then gave in and let excitement shimmy through her.
“Oh, by the way, your ex-father-in-law is taking pictures of me in my underwear.”
“Really? He’s good. You should get some nudes while you’re at it, too.”
“Will do. Have fun.” I waved her off and brought up Google.
Before I went into the whole poltergeist thing, I decided to check up on the name Headless Henry gave me: Tamala Dreyer.
The search garnered dozens of hits about a girl who died under suspicious circumstances. Her death was eventually ruled a suicide, but her friends and family disagreed and openly accused her high school sweetheart, who they claimed was stalking her after a messy breakup, of killing her. One article showed a picture of the grieving family. In the background was Henry.
The article listed him as a second cousin. He protested the loudest, swearing she was killed by the stalker. And then he named him. Called him out. Challenged him.
“I have nothing to hide, and I will not be quieted by an incompetent police force.”
Ouch. That couldn’t have helped their cause.
“Tamala was killed by Ian Jeffries.”
Wow. The guy had balls. I wondered what he could have done with his life if it hadn’t ended so young. I soon found myself searching every inch of the Internet for information on Mr. Ian Jeffries. A couple of years later, there was another suspicious suicide of a woman he’d claimed to be dating. When Henry heard Ian was a person of interest but nothing ever came of it, he protested again, and the proverbial shit hit the fan.
I read further. A close friend of the deceased says the woman never said yes to Officer Jeffries’s proposal. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Ian was claiming to be the fiancé of the woman, but her family denied that vehemently.
And the million-dollar question? Was Henry’s death really just a freak accident?
And the ten-million-dollar question? Was Ian planning a similar fate for me?
I looked at all the facts. Ian had been a person of interest in the suicide deaths of two women. I was a woman. He had access to my house. He knew my routine and the fact that I had no phone. No way to call for help. Time to change the locks and get a stupid phone once and for all. I just hadn’t really needed one since I knew no one on the planet when I woke up.
I called my landlord immediately, told him someone was breaking into my house, and asked for a complete lock change. He grumbled a little but said he could get to it in a couple of days. So as long as I didn’t become suicidal over the next two days, all should be right with the world. I could borrow Mable’s car tomorrow and see about getting a phone. Hopefully tips would rock.
I remembered the hundred-dollar bill. No way was I spending that. Surely I’d earn enough for a cheap TracFone, if nothing else.
That settled, I opened a new Google and searched poltergeists, to no avail. Actually, to too much avail. There were hundreds of thousands of hits, and the more I read, the more convinced I became that I was crazy. I was just seeing things.
But wait! There’s more!
Billy saw her, too.
Okay. I felt better. From what I gathered, poltergeists were the entities believed to be responsible for physical disturbances, like moved objects and loud noises. But I couldn’t find anything about a poltergeist that actually killed people. Nothing legitimate. There was tons of fiction, but I needed real answers.
Then I found another interesting tidbit. One researcher believed they could definitely attach themselves to people or objects and become obsessed with them. I knew that, but it was nice to have it confirmed.
Erin had gotten off work some time ago, so I hated to do it, but I had to call Billy. He’d given me his number before I left so I could let him know what I’d found out.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said, whispering. Not sure why.
“Oh, hey, Tommy,” he said. Then he yelled, presumably to Erin, “It’s Tommy. From work.”
“I am well aware of where you know Tommy from, hon.” She laughed, but it was the baby sounds in the background that brought on the attack.
The edges of my vision blurred, and a sadness took hold, the force of it seizing my lungs. I had to sit down. To catch my breath. To try to fill the emptiness that was drowning me.
“You there?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, I’m here.” I closed my eyes. Focused.
“So, I got more of the story from Erin. About her great-aunt.”
Alarmed, I asked, “You didn’t tell her, did you?”
“About us? No, baby, we’re good.” His voice was full of humor, and the situation struck me as ironical as well. If there were a list of reasons for a guy to sneak around, to exorcise a poltergeist would not have been at the top. “So, what are you wearing?”
His teasing helped. I filled my lungs, confounded by the panic attacks I’d been having. Just another day in the life, I supposed. “What did you find out, Romeo?”
“Prepare to be blown away.”
I bounced around and lolled my head from side to side like a prizefighter. “Okay, totally prepared.”
“Erin’s great-aunt killed her own daughter, then spent the rest of her life in an insane asylum, telling everyone who would listen that the doll was her deceased kid. How’s that for creepy?”
“I’d give it a solid 9.8.” The thought of a mother killing her own child disturbed me way more than I let on. I knew it happened. I just liked to be kept in the dark about it. “Okay, does Erin have anything of Novalee’s? Perhaps a piece of jewelry or a blanket? Anything?”
“Besides those pictures, I’m not sure. Wait. Now that she’s told me the story, I wonder if that doll in the attic was hers.”
“What doll?”
“There’s this really creepy doll in the attic. Come to think of it, it does look like the one from the picture.”
“There wasn’t one in the picture.”
“Not in the drawing, but there is in the picture Erin used to draw it.”
I perked up. “And Erin has it? What does it look like?”
“You know, one of those old dolls that looks dead. Its face is cracked, and its eyes are solid white.”
“Billy, can you get to it?”
“I guess. I think it’s still in the attic. Why?”
“I need you to get it out of your house.”
“And do what with it?”