A Body to Spare (The Odelia Grey Mysteries) (9 page)

I looked at the clock in the lower right-hand side of my computer. It was just past two thirty, and Studio City might as well be on the moon considering it was about forty-five to fifty miles away and I’d have to go straight through the heart of Los Angeles to get there. Traffic heading that way and back would be horrendous on a weekday. Maybe Greg and I could check her out early tomorrow morning when the drive would be easier. He had worked at the shop last weekend, so this weekend someone else would cover it. Not to mention, I liked having my hubs by my side when I snooped. He’s the muscle and often the brains of our partnership.

I put Jean’s report aside and looked at Alec Finch’s again. It was the size of a phone book for a small rural village, which was no surprise. Deciding to print it out and read it thoroughly later, I opened the other reports I’d requested, starting with Christopher Cook.

After high school, Chris Cook had gone to college in Colorado, then returned home to marry a local girl and quickly crank out two little girls who, by the birthdates in the report, would be barely out of diapers. Chris then went into his father’s insurance business, and that’s where he was today and probably would be for the rest of his working life. There was a photo attached, and it showed a man in his mid-twenties. He was nice looking, with a slightly crooked smile, a square chin, and thinning blond hair. Even though still young, he already looked settled and stodgy; in a few years he would probably have a paunch, be bald, and serve as president of the local Rotary Club.

Next up was Ben Myers. It was a short report and a sad one. The year after Zach had disappeared, Ben had been killed in a snowboarding accident when he hit a tree and sustained a fatal concussion. The report claimed his blood alcohol level had been quite high when he made that last run down the mountain.

The last of Zach’s pals was Nathan Glick. He’d also gone on to college, but where he went after piqued my interest. After college he had gone to work for one of the companies owned by Alec Finch. His education had been funded by a scholarship provided by the same company. The company was called Aztec Investments. It was headquartered in Chicago, and it looked like he was still there. That didn’t necessarily mean anything foul was afoot. Alec might have recognized special qualities in Nathan and given him the opportunities he’d wanted to give his son. According to the report, Nathan lived in Chicago and was single.

But something about Aztec nagged at me; I’d seen that name before. Going back to Jean’s report, I checked it over again. Sure enough, there it was: when Jean had lived in Chicago, she’d worked for Aztec Investments.

Quickly I did a search for the corporate entity of Aztec Investments. It was a publicly held company domiciled in Delaware with its home office in Chicago. According to its website, which was very professional but contained only the barest bones of information, Aztec invested mostly in overseas construction projects. Further digging showed it going public less than two years before Zach’s disappearance. I didn’t know if that made any difference or not to my timeline, but I noted that information just before the date Zach went missing. I also made little hash marks along the line for his sister’s move to Chicago and her move to California and name change. I did the same for Nathan Glick’s employment with Aztec.

I studied the photo attached to Nathan’s report. Unlike his pal Chris, who was already showing signs of going to seed, Nathan looked fit and confident in what was probably a professional shot for his job. His hair was very dark, wavy, and well styled, as was his suit. He had a cherub face that made him look younger than he was, but his eyes didn’t sparkle with youth. They were brown and hard. He looked directly at the lens, almost challenging anyone who dared to look at him. I couldn’t make up my mind if his gaze displayed offense or defense.

I’d also requested a report for Zachery Finch. Like Ben’s, it was very short, stopping the day he had gone missing. It included his birth, family, schooling, and sports involvement until that time, and, of course, the fact that he had been kidnapped. There were no subsequent employment records, marriages, or name changes. Wherever Zach had been since, he’d been totally off the grid.

eleven

The sound of my
cell phone ringing woke me.

After reading all the reports except for Alec Finch’s, I’d collected his from my printer and settled back into the recliner to read it. Muffin had wedged herself onto my lap between me and the report and promptly fell asleep. A few pages into the report, I followed her lead.

After taking a few seconds to orient myself, I grabbed my cell from the table next to the recliner. It was a blocked number. I almost declined the call, but at the last minute the fog of sleep fell from my eyes as I realized it might be Elaine Powers calling.

“Is this Odelia Grey?” a woman asked after I said my hurried hello. It wasn’t Elaine.

I answered with a fair amount of caution, just in case Elaine was using a go-between. “Yes. And you are—?”

“My name is Emma Whitecastle. Grace Littlejohn—I believe that’s your mother—asked me to call you.”

My heart nearly stopped. I sat up straight, dislodging Muffin. “Is Mom okay?”

“I sure hope so,” the woman answered. “But don’t you know?”

“She’s out of town right now,” I responded. “I thought maybe you were calling with an emergency.”

“I’m so sorry to have alarmed you,” she said with sincerity. “I actually called because she emailed me a couple of days ago and asked if I’d speak with you.” There was a short pause, then she added, “I don’t usually call when fans write.” The woman named Emma Whitecastle laughed. “But frankly, her email was so interesting and entertaining, how could I not?”

Fans?

“I’m sorry,” I said after taking several quick deep breaths to calm my nerves, “but I’m stumped. Who are you again?” I put the phone on speaker to talk easier while I got up and made my way to the kitchen table and my computer. After turning up the volume, I put the phone down and quickly pecked out her name in a search engine. A ton of stuff popped up, including some photos. I went to her Wikipedia page and quickly scanned the information.

“My name is Emma Whitecastle,” the woman explained. Her voice was on the husky side but patient and pleasant. The deepness of her voice didn’t quite match the photos before me of a gorgeous middle-aged blond with short cropped hair. “I have a cable TV show on the paranormal,” she explained.

Her name sounded vaguely familiar, and what she said coincided with the information on my computer screen, but I didn’t keep up with things that go bump in the night—and I didn’t realize that my mother did.

“And my mother wrote to you to call me?” I asked, even more surprised. “Whatever for? I’m not into ghosts or stuff like that at all.”

“Obviously, she didn’t tell you,” Emma said. “I’m so sorry I sprang this on you.”

“That’s okay. I’m just sorry she wasted your time. Do you know why she wanted you to call me?” I asked again, sinking fast into a quagmire of confusion. “My mother often does peculiar things without telling me.”

“I looked up her blog. She sent me the link in the email. It doesn’t sound like she’s having trouble with her mental capacity.”

“Not my mother,” I said with emphasis. “She’s in her seventies and sharp as a tack. Odd, yes. Senile, no way.”

“My mother too,” Emma commented with another small laugh. “Except for the odd part. I should be so clear-minded now, never mind when I’m her age.”

“I hear ya,” I replied with my own chuckle. I was kind of liking this lady, even if it was sort of like a blind date set up by my mother. “My mother’s problem is that she sometimes oversteps boundaries. It’s exactly like her to write to you about calling without giving me a heads-up. She likes the element of surprise, especially when it involves blindsiding either me or my brother.”

“Hang on a minute,” Emma said. “I have her email right here. It’s quite amusing. Grace definitely has a way with words.”

“Yeah,” I quipped, “she’s a regular Stephen King.”

My comment evoked another laugh. “That’s quite funny,” Emma said, “considering it’s about a dead body in the trunk of your car.”

Oh. My. God.
Mom may not have blabbed on her blog, but she’d written about Zach in an email to someone with a TV show. Greg just might lock her up after all, if I didn’t kill her first.

“Yes, unless there are other bodies being stashed in trunks all over the state,” I joked. “When did she send that email?”

“Let’s see,” Emma began. “It looks like she sent it late Wednesday night, but I didn’t see it until early this morning because I only go through this account and answer the emails once or twice a week. It’s the contact email account for fans of my show.”

“And my mother is a fan?”

“That’s how she starts off,” Emma said. “She says she’s a big fan and never misses it, not even the reruns. Then she says that I have a lot in common with her daughter Odelia. That’s you, yes?”

I shook my head in continued confusion. What did I have in common with a beautiful, blond TV personality who chases ghosts? “How so?” I asked.

“Grace goes on to explain that both of us get mixed up with and solve murders, and that she thinks I could be of help with this latest body you’ve discovered.” Emma paused. “She said you found it Wednesday and she doesn’t want you to go to jail, so she wants my help.”

“So you’re a corpse magnet, too?” I asked as I started to piece together Mom’s logic behind the email.

“A what?” Emma asked, taking her turn at confusion.

“A corpse magnet. It’s what my friends call me,” I explained. “I seem to have a gift for finding dead bodies on a somewhat regular basis.” Grabbing the phone and my cocoa mug, I went into the kitchen, where I rinsed the mug, then refilled it with clean water. I took a long drink before continuing. “The body in the trunk is my latest hidden treasure.”

“I see.” She wasn’t laughing now. “I don’t find dead bodies, Odelia,” Emma clarified. “Mostly I stumble upon spirits of people who have been murdered or who are trying to warn the living of mortal danger.”

“But you’ve solved murder cases?” I asked.

“I’ve been involved with resolving some, yes.”

Now it was crystal clear where my mother was going with this. “Knowing my mother,” I said, “I’m thinking she wanted you to help figure out how the body got into the trunk of my car.”

“You’re right,” Emma confirmed. “In the email, Grace asked me to meet with you and see if we could contact the spirit of the man who died and question him.”

“Can you do that?” I put my mug down and leaned against the kitchen sink. If it was this easy to question the dead, why hadn’t I gone this route before?

“Do you believe in spirits, Odelia?”

“You’re answering a question with a question,” I pointed out.

“Yes, I am, but it’s important. I can’t help you if you’re going to mock my work.”

“Can’t help or won’t help?” I asked.

“I like your directness, Odelia, but even if I do contact the spirit of this poor man, what good will it do you if you don’t believe me?”

“Excellent point,” I admitted. I moved from the kitchen and went to stand in front of the patio slider. It was still raining but not as heavy as earlier. I stared past the patio and yard and peered through the decorative privacy slats of the fence separating the yard from the carport. That was likely where someone had stashed Zach into my trunk. I really did need to get to the bottom of this, and as soon as possible. As with using Marigold, the end might justify the means.

I turned away from the window and took my seat again at the kitchen table. “What if I just keep an open mind about all this? My mother obviously believes in your skills. Maybe she’ll have to do the heavy lifting in the belief area for both of us.”

“So you do want my help?” Emma asked, looking for confirmation.

I again scanned her Wikipedia page, then loudly inhaled and exhaled before answering. “Frankly, Emma, I am a bit concerned about your agenda. I mean, you’re famous and have a TV talk show. And you were once married to Grant Whitecastle, the king of sleazy talk shows. Maybe you’re thinking this corpse magnetism of mine would be a creepy topic for one of your episodes.”

“I thought you didn’t know who I was.”

“Wikipedia,” I answered. “I’m a quick study, with quicker keyboard fingers. I may not have known about your show, but I do remember now seeing footage on TMZ of the public knock-down-drag-out brawl you had with Grant Whitecastle. Trust me, Emma, rich people behaving badly is
not
my thing.”

“That wasn’t a public brawl,” she snapped, the pleasant tone replaced by defensiveness. “It was a disagreement that took place in the driveway of my parents’ home.”

“Whatever.”

“Argh,” she grunted. “My daughter says that to me all the time. I hate it.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“Seriously, Odelia,” Emma said, returning to an even tone. “I’m not interested in putting you on my show. You’re a corpse magnet and I’m a ghost magnet. As Grace pointed out, we both get embroiled in death and crime. Don’t you find that a big responsibility? One that you never asked to have?”

I took another deep breath before answering simply, “Yes.”

“For some reason,” she continued, “we’ve both been chosen by fate, God, or some other unseen force to help the deceased and their loved ones get to the bottom of things.”

“Or maybe it’s some big cosmic joke and we’re just pawns of the universe?”

“Maybe, but I enjoy helping people who can’t help themselves. Unlike you, I’ve never been a suspect in a murder. From my research, you’ve been involved a lot more directly with the crimes than I ever have been.”

I went on alert. “How do you know what I’ve been involved with?”

“My fiancé is a lawyer,” she answered. “He researched you before I called. Anyone with a lick of sense would.”

I looked down at my laptop and wondered if her fiancé had used the usual legal search engines or knew about Marigold. “Fair enough. Did my mother tell you anything about the body in the trunk?”

“No, just that you found one. Is this the story on the news the other night—the one about the car wash in Long Beach? They haven’t released the victim’s name yet, have they?”

At least my mother had kept mum about Zach’s identity. “Yes, it’s the same one, and no, they haven’t. It’s a very complicated situation.” I hesitated, then said, “So you think you can contact the ghost of the guy in my trunk?”

“I don’t know, but I can try.” There was silence except for Emma’s breathing. “Besides Grace’s way with words, something in my gut told me to reach out to you. I do think a spirit is trying to reach you, Odelia. I don’t know if it’s the dead man or someone else, but I have a very strong sense that I need to connect the two of you.”

The hair on my arms stood as straight as mini flagpoles. I relied on my gut instincts all the time, but never had they told me I had a voice mail from the other side. I made a quick decision, even though I knew I should talk it over with Greg first. “Let’s meet.”