Mourning Moon (A Guinan Jones Paranormal Mystery #2) (11 page)

"Granddad, I can't eat anything."

"Nonsense. You need something on your stomach."

I stared at the eggs he'd slid onto my plate and the bowl of fruit he'd taken from the fridge. My stomach ached at the sight of them.

"Why in the world are you nervous?" he said. "We went over this last
night."

I picked
up a fork and cautiously speared a chunk of cantaloupe. I put the whole thing in my mouth. Its cold juice settled my stomach. My grandfather tried to convince me last night that Detective Czarnecki wanted my insight into the case.

"Granddad, the way you said it sounded cool. I don't think that's what's going to happen."

"She can't admit she wants your consultation," he said, refilling his coffee mug. "But the police sometimes work with psychics." He eased himself onto the chair across from me. "And since I'm here, maybe I could help them with—"

"You're
way out of your jurisdiction, Dad." My mother swept into the kitchen and went straight to the coffee pot. "I've been thinking about what you said the other day, about us helping Guinan as a family." She filled a mug and leaned against the counter, facing us. "I don't know if three deaths in four months is a coincidence or a pattern. Either way, I can't pretend it isn't happening. Reggie and I need to help her deal with it."

"Wait," I said, my mouth full of p
ineapple, "that death following me around stuff was just talk. It's not true." I looked at my grandfather. "Right?"

He avoided my gaze. My mother glanced at her
watch. "Fifteen minutes."

The
fruit suddenly looked slimy. I pushed away the bowl.

***

Detective Czarnecki's request had been annoyingly vague. Obviously it had to do with the case, but I wondered what more I could tell her. Part of the morning's nervousness was the anticipation of entering a crowded police station. But contrary to what I'd imagined, the place was practically deserted. At least the lobby was. My mother and I flipped through old magazines for half an hour. I kept checking my cell.

"Try to relax," my mother said. "
Look at me. I'm relaxed."

We'd
traded personalities. While I itched to bite my nails, my mother claimed to be as cool as a breeze. As I prepared to give her a snarky answer, Detective Czarnecki rounded the corner.

"Mrs. Jones, Miss Jones, thank you for coming."

My mother rose before I did and shook the detective's hand.

"Would you follow me, please?"

I stood on shaky legs, and my mother put an arm around my shoulder. The rest of the building was bustling. I avoided looking into offices as we made our way down the hall. Voices, laughter, printers, slammed drawers, and ringing telephones filled the air. We turned a corner and walked down another long hallway. The detective stopped at a conference room and gestured us inside.

"Coffee?"

"None for me, thank you," my mother said.

The room had a carpeted floor and a long table in the center. Several chairs sat
haphazardly around it. A table in the corner held a coffee machine, Styrofoam cups, and packets of cream and sugar.

"Guinan?"

I blinked and looked at my mother.

"Are you okay?"

I gave a half-shrug and brushed my hair off my face. My mother and I sat beside each other.

"Well now," the detective
said, plopping into a chair opposite us and opening a file folder. "I called you here to clear up a few things before the...before I can move on to the next phase of the investigation."

"I want to help in any way I can."

She raised her eyebrows. "Good. You visited Sinder Gillespie the Saturday after Desmond's death?"

I nodded.

"Did you visit her before that day? Enter her room?"

"No."

She looked at a paper in the file. "You saw the contents of her closet. Her witch's altar?"

I glanced at my mother, who kept a straight face.
"Yes."

"
Describe what you saw."

I did so.

"And did you, at any time, touch those bottles? Handle them?"

"No."

"We've collected those and other items from Miss Gillespie's closet," she said. "Our lab has determined that the contents of one of the bottles contained peanut oil."

I gaped. For a brief moment, I'd allowed myself to consider the possibility
of Sinder poisoning Desmond.

The detective seemed to be studying my face. "
You maintain that you didn't touch or handle any of the items on the altar?"

My mother shifted in her seat. "Are you implying that my daughter
put peanut oil in the bottle?"

Detective Czarnecki's penetrating gaze slid to my mother. "I'm just trying to determine the facts. There are serious charges pending, and we don't want to—"

"I can't have been the only person with access to that altar," I said.

"No," she conceded. "But according to Miss Gillespie, you were the most recent."

I sat straighter, my nervousness receding. "Did she accuse me of messing with her stuff? I was never out of her sight."

Something seemed off about this interview. The police could easily determine whether I handled anything in Sinder's closet.
They hadn't requested my fingerprints, which led me to believe they didn't need them. Or maybe they assumed I wore gloves.
But what's my motive?

The detective sat back and
folded her arms. "Has anything happened in recent days you think might be relevant?"

I hesitated
, noticing she hadn't answered my question. "The other day, someone left a note and marigold petals in my locker." I glanced at my mother. "I think it was a joke."

My mother shifted in her seat
, her expression neutral. "What did the note say?"

"'
When you die, no one will hear your thoughts.'"

Her expression faltered slightly, but she kept her composure.

"The flowers," Detective Czarnecki said, narrowing her eyes.

"Tessa Hicks planted marigolds in her garden," I said. "She also planted them in the woods over a box that contained a baby's nightgown."

My mother sighed heavily. "Blogs picked up on that detail. It's not just a sick joke. It's cruel."

"From now on, Miss Jones," the detective said, leaning her elbows on
the table, "I want to know about anything unusual, no matter how trivial it might seem to you. Did you keep the note?"

I nodded. "It's in my bag in the car. I didn't bother using gloves. Whoever left it probably wore gloves when he or she handled it."

"I agree," she said, pushing her chair back. "I'll walk out with you and take a look at it. One more thing before we conclude." She bit her lip and glanced at my mother. "I've read about the Ridge Grove case, about your, uh, special insight."

Granddad's voice echoed in my mind.
She can't admit she wants your consultation.

"
If you have any insight into this case, I'd like to hear it."

My mother stirred and
put her hand on top of mine.

I cleared my throat. "Do you believe in psychic phenomenon, detective?"

She smiled. "I believe in anything that will help me determine who killed that boy."

"I don't know how insightful it is, but I did listen to Desmond's final thoughts."

I averted my gaze so as not to see cynicism on her face and waited for the skeptical reply. But all she said was, "Go on."

I told her.
It felt so strange talking to someone outside family or close friends about my clairvoyance. But I couldn't stop now. When I was done, I looked up to see her gaping at me.

"That's...interesting
. You say you
hear
their thoughts?"

"It's a combination of seeing and hearing. I see the words, and then I h
ear them." I shook my head. "I don't know if that makes sense."

"It doe
s, in a way." The detective pursed her lips.

"
What I heard could mean anything," I said. "I figured Desmond was talking about a girlfriend."

"Or an ex-girlfriend," she
said, flipping through the papers in the folder. "Ione Hamilton told me she and Desmond dated briefly."

"At the
funeral, Sinder Gillespie said that he wanted to get back together with her."

She raised her eyebrows. "Is that so?"

"But she didn't know that for a fact," I said quickly. "She was upset, obviously, and I think she was just speculating about—"

"Was she angry?" The detective wrote something in her notebook.

Was I getting Sinder in more trouble?
Be honest.
"I think it was more grief than anger. But I'm speculating."

The detective rose from the chair and straightened her jacket. "You've been helpful, Miss Jones. Again, if I have further questions, I'll be in touch."

Relieved it was over, I got up and drew in a deep breath. Walking down the same halls on the way out was a much different experience.

It's done. It's over. And I didn't throw up.

Detective Czarnecki followed us to the car to retrieve the note and the envelope. She took them with a gloved hand. "I'll have them dusted, although I don't expect to find prints." She placed both in a small plastic bag.

"
Do you consider it a threat?" my mother said.

"It's hard to say at this point." In contrast to my mother's
tone, the detective's was clinical. "It could become important. That's why I want your daughter to contact me if anything similar happens. Worst case scenario, I'll have more information than I need."

Lucky her. I didn't want to think about what such a scenario would be for me.

"One more thing," she said. The detective seemed to consider whether to continue. "It might not have anything to do with Desmond's death. Our investigation has turned up a rumor about students buying term papers and reports online. We haven't fully developed that angle, but if you could keep your eyes and ears open, we'd appreciate it."

"Detective Czarnecki," my mother said, "are you asking my daughter to do your job?"

The detective and I both stared at her.

"Of course, not. But y
ou'd agree that your daughter has special insight. I'm giving her a piece of information that might be relevant." She turned to me. "But the information won't be made public. It's just a rumor I've filed away in the back of my mind."

She stared at me so intently, I realized what she wanted from me.

"Ladies, have a good day."

Granddad was right. Detective Czarnecki had so much as verified that she wanted my help. A consulta
nt? My mind teemed with possibilities both dangerous and benign.

I wasn't in schoo
l ten minutes before someone told me to check the anonymous blog.

Love Spell Gone Wrong?

The Malcontent speculates that our own Sinder Gillespie '15, who's not at school today, either, might have unintentionally killed Desmond Drake after performing a "spell" that went horribly wrong. Here's what could have happened: she laced the dearly departed's food with some kind of potion. Then BAM! Lights out. More later.

I impatiently waited for the lunch period to discuss the situation with Luke, Embry, and Ione. When I arrived at the table, Luke was already there.

He stared at his
cell screen in concentration. He looked up when I approached. "Have you seen the blog?"

I nodded and took the chair beside him.
"Something weird is going on."

He raised his eyebrows. "Jones, you're the Mistress of Understatement."

I rolled my eyes. "What I mean is yesterday, when Embry and I went to Ione's house, we talked about Sinder and spells and potions."

"And?"

"The next day, this blogger writes about the same thing."

He put his phone back in his pocket and opened a bottle of water. "So?"

I pressed my back against the chair and glanced at the door. "I think one of them might be the anonymous blogger."

Luke spit out some water and coug
hed. I couldn't tell whether he was being sarcastic or actually choking.

"
I don't see what's so funny. Why not one of them? In fact, it could be you."

He grinned and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Could be anybody."

"No, it can't. It couldn't be me. Embry said it turned up a year ago. I didn't know any of you then."
Eyes and ears open.
I shifted in the chair and posed the question. "Luke, remember when Ione mentioned that guy, Casey-somebody, who bought a term paper?"

Luke's expression was hard to read. He slowly bit into his sandwich and took his time
chewing and swallowing before answering. "Casey Markham. What about him?"

"Do you know anyone else
who's bought one?"

"And if I did," he said, putting his sandwich down, "I wouldn't tell you. You think I'd rat someone out?"

I considered my next words. The detective mentioned the cheating for a reason. "It
is
an honor code violation. Do you think Desmond might have bought a paper?"

He snorted
. "If he did, he didn't tell me. And screw the honor code."

His attitude didn't surprise me. "You're irreverent," I said.

He frowned. "Jones, you don't really believe a term paper writer would kill somebody to cover it up, do you? Seems kind of extreme, doesn't it? Then again, the extreme always makes an impression."

I repeated the phrase in my head. I held up a finger. "Hang on. I think I—"

"I know someone who bought a paper." Claire Capwell had sidled up beside Luke, unheard by either of us. "But I'd never tell. How are you holding up, Luke? I'm so sorry about Desmond. I don't remember when he was a jerk. He was always nice to me."

"I'm good, thanks."

"If you ever need someone to talk to, consider me there. Any time, any day. Don't hesitate. I'm a really good listener." She gazed at him.

"Sure," he said.

I couldn't help chuckling. Claire ignored me and sauntered off.

Luke broke out into smile. "She's
Meyerson's best friend, and she's coming on to me. Women."

Heat
radiated from my neck to the top of my head. "Isn't it curious that Claire hasn't written about the cheating," I said, remembering that she wanted to interview me about the Ridge Grove murders. "That would make a great investigative story."

"This is high school, Jones. If she starts ratting people out—"

"She might be murdered?" I said, eyebrows raised.

He
stared at me. "Not what I was going to say. If she rats people out, she'll be ostracized. Everybody would get paranoid about what she'd expose next."

Who cared about ostracism when a murder had taken place?
We ate in silence for a minute. I looked at the wall clock. Lunch period was almost over.

"I saw Embry this morning," I said. "
Ione's out with the flu, and Sinder's not here."

Luke
stuffed his trash into this bag. "I didn't see Sinder in biology."

"Maybe she's home sick. Or cutting class.
"

"Or maybe sh
e's in jail."

Either Luke Chapman had special insight as well, or just good timing. At the final
bell, I checked my phone. Granddad had asked me to call him as soon as I heard his message. I called him back, not knowing what to expect.

"
According to the news," he said, "the police will announce an arrest in about an hour."

I knew the police sometimes waited to name suspects at news conferences. "
Why won't they just name the person now?"

"I don't know, hon. I wanted to give you a heads-up."

"Thanks," I said. "See you in a bit."

I raced to the school parking lot and headed straight to where Embry parked. He screeched to a halt when he saw me waving both arms like a crazy person.

"Where's Ione?" I said, out of breath when I reached the car. She usually rode to and from school with him. She was nowhere in sight.

He gaped at me. "Is that why you flagged me down?"

"I just heard there's going to an arrest in the case."

Embry's
momentary panic seized me. However, his demeanor was calm. "They're not arresting her, if that's what you think."

"Why weren't
you at lunch?"

H
e shrugged. "It's a nice day. I ate outside."

"Do you know anything about students buying term papers?"
I blurted out.

He gri
nned and shifted the gear into drive. "That was random. I've got to go."

Before I could say another word, he pulled away. I spotted Luke walking across the parking lot. Maybe I could bounce a few ideas of
f him. I was about to shout his name when I saw Gabby doing some bouncing of her own. When she reached him, they kissed fully on the lips. I stopped in my tracks. He opened his car door for her, and she slid onto the seat.

***

A news anchor with bottle-blonde, helmet hair informed the world that sixteen-year-old Sinder Gillespie had been charged with involuntary manslaughter in the death of fellow Thomas Grier student, Desmond Drake.

I was too numb to do more than stare.
While my parents and grandfather talked about the arrest at dinner that evening, I shifted food around on my plate.

"A love-sick girl," my mother said, shaking her head.

Though the news story left out the details, I was pretty sure the police believed Sinder accidentally poisoned Desmond with a spell involving peanuts.

"No doubt the school's reputation will suffer," my father said.

"Guinan told me the girl calls herself a witch," my mother said. "And she had a crush on the boy."

My father
frowned. "Whatever she did, she had to have known peanuts would kill him."

"
Or perhaps she wanted to play the hero," my mother said. "Get him his medication in the nick of time."

If it wer

e a case of Sinder playing the hero, she would have made sure she had quick access to Desmond's live-saving medication.

"
They weren't there," I said. My family looked at me as if I'd just arrived. "Desmond's EpiPens. Luke searched Desmond, and Sinder searched his bag and locker."

Granddad watched me thoughtfully.
I ran the scenario in my head like a film.

Sinder goes to the kitchen pantry and puts peanut oil or fragments (peanut dus
t?) into the oil bottle knowing, Mrs. Brennan would use it to make brownies. Or she uses oil from the altar. She steals his EpiPens so she can be the one who saves him, but her plan goes awry when she can't find them.

What happened to the medic
ation? Was someone in on it with her and didn't arrive in time with them?
Surely Sinder would have told the police about another person, especially now that she was charged in Desmond's death.

After dinner, Granddad and I retreated to the den. I
told him he'd been right about the detective wanting my help with the term paper thing.

"What does she expect you to do?"

"I get the feeling she thinks I can read minds."

He rubbed his chin. "She obviously believes it's connected with the boy's death. Maybe Desmond was going to expose the cheating."

"I considered that," I said. I told him about Sinder's belief that he wanted to get back together with Ione. "That would bring Embry into in."

"And
Ione," Granddad said. "Desmond might have threatened to tell Embry something she'd keep secret from him."

"
And kill him over it?"

He rubbed
his eyes. "If the detective believes that cheating has something to do with it, why hasn't she focused on it?"

Then it hit me. She probably didn't just hear rumors. Sinder must have said something.

"At any rate," he said, stretching, "the police consider it over. I think you should, too."

After Granddad went up to bed, I
remained on the couch staring at the TV screen. I tried to remember all the Agatha Christie novels I'd read. In one novel, the killer injected a woman with a drug, but made the victim and everyone else believe she'd been stung by a bee. Could someone have injected Desmond without his knowing? I didn't remember him reacting to a sting.

I played scenarios over and over until the thoughts began to blend together.
I closed my eyes to keep the dizziness at bay and let my mind drift toward the darkness.

Zeke and I
stand across from each other in the police station. I smile, but he doesn't return it. I drift toward him, anticipating the sensation of his hand on my face, his warmth breath on my lips. I shift my eyes to the left and see Tessa in a jail cell, her hands wrapped around the bars. She's staring. Blue eyes fixed on me, her gaze feels sharp. I open my mouth to speak to her, and the scene changes.

I'm in a place I don't recognize, gasping for
air. My throat constricts, then closes. I hear a terrible whistling sound, a futile effort to get oxygen into my brain. Sweat beads across my face. I scrabble at my neck and feel my flesh peel away and embed into my fingernails as I try to slacken the object around my neck. It feels like a sash from a robe. No brain power to think why. Why? Only to breathe. Breathe. Breathe! Pressure builds in my lips, my cheeks, my eyes. My arms won't work anymore. My vision clouds, and anger replaces fear. Not like this. Not like this. Chest burning, eyes throbbing. Is this what dying is really like? I am dying. I don't want to give up, but my arms are frozen. I will cease to exist. He will live
.

Then...nothing.
I sat up and gasped for air. I stumbled to my feet, and my knees buckled.

"Guinan, what is it? Are you all right?"

My mother's feet thudded against the carpet. Her terrycloth robe brushed across my arm as she knelt in front of me. I recoiled, but she held on to my arm with a cold, trembling hand that made me think of a dark winter night. She called out to my father. Two sets of footsteps pound down the stairs.

"Must have been another of those dream.
Nothing actually happened to her. She's not injured."

The voice loomed at the edge of consciousness.
Zeke?

"She was shouting, Isaac."

Was I?

"
And she's gasping."

"We need to get her so
me help," my father said, his voice strained.

"I told you she
's not—"

"I'm talking about mental help, Isaac."

Nobody spoke after that.