Ghost Mortem (Ghost Detective #1) - Jane Hinchey Page 0,31

Then she snorted. "I guess the seven-year itch is a real thing, huh?"

"Umm. Ben said in his notes that you didn't believe him? When he told you Steven was, in fact, having an affair." I was reading the notes on my phone, almost jumped out of my skin when she placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. I hadn't heard her approach.

"Oh God. I was so awful to him." She sat down opposite me, cradling her own cup. "I'm afraid I got a little hysterical. Accused him of making it all up." The blush of red in her cheeks showed her embarrassment was real.

"He didn't mention that here." I waggled my phone, trying to reassure her that he hadn't written down she was a hormonal overreactor.

"I thought the photos were staged, that he'd told Steven what he was doing and they pulled this prank on me, as revenge for me hiring a private investigator."

"Ben would never have been okay with anything like that," I assured her.

She had the grace to look ashamed. "I know. I'm afraid it was very much a case of shooting the messenger. I'd asked him to follow my husband—whom I suspected of having an affair—and if he was, to provide evidence of it. He did exactly that and I attacked him for it."

I took a sip of coffee, not knowing what to say. Tonya filled in the silence. "I'm a nurse, you see. I work a lot of night shifts. Sometimes we can go for a full week without physically crossing paths. I guess he got a little tired of that, of me not being here when he needed me."

I wanted to argue that none of this was her fault, but kept my mouth shut. I wasn't here as her friend. I was here as an investigator, and despite her distress, I couldn't rule out that she was involved in Ben's death. What if she'd taken things further? What if she really blamed Ben for all of this, for shoving her husband’s affair under her nose? Was it enough to tip her over the edge and kill him? Possibly.

12

"Witches are real," Brett Baxter told me. I sucked my lips, releasing them with a popping noise.

"Fair enough. You are entitled to believe whatever you want to believe." I nodded. I was in Brett's apartment. We'd finished up at Tonya Armstrong's. I'd bolted down my coffee and promised her an invoice would be hitting her inbox in the next day or so, making it very clear that as far as Delaney Investigations was concerned, her case was closed. She'd nodded, nose red, and thanked me for the visit. Then it was on to our third and final case. Brett had hired Ben to prove witches existed.

"You don't believe me," Brett huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

I shook my head. "Not at all. It's just rather a broad statement and for a private investigator to actually investigate...you'd need something a little more specific than a generalized statement. What was it, exactly, that you wanted Delaney Investigations to do?"

Ben's notes had been maddeningly empty. Ben had written one word. Witch-hunt. I didn't know what that meant, and apparently neither did the ghost version of Ben. I was surprised that Ben had even agreed to take Brett on as a client. I figured it had to be the connection between the Armstrong case and the Phillips case, since Brett was the event planner for the Firefly Bay Hotel.

"Witches are real and they need to be wiped from this earth." Brett's voice was high with passion. My eyes swept his apartment, the decor in particular. Crosses hung on the walls, a huge painting of Jesus Christ hung on the wall above his television. Ben had disappeared like he had in Tonya's house—to see what I couldn't beyond the walls where I was currently standing. Having a ghost on my side was certainly coming in handy.

"And what makes you say that?" I asked, keeping my voice professional. It didn't matter what I believed. Only what he'd hired Ben to investigate—and if that was what led to Ben's death.

"Listen." Brett leaned in as if about to reveal a big secret. "I'm the event planner at the Firefly Bay Hotel." I nodded. Tell me something I don't know, Brett. Thankfully he did. "So I hear things. A lot of things." He tapped the side of his nose.

"Like what?" I pressed.

"Secrets," he whispered. You know, he presented as a completely sane person.