Sitting stiffly at my desk—these days I’m usually stiff, no matter what I do; the aftereffects of rigor mortis are a bitch—I pondered the loose threads of investigations under way, figuring out how the evidence tied together. I like the bustle and little distracting noises around the office: the ringing phone, the slam of file-cabinet drawers, the clacking of a keyboard as Sheyenne’s ghost types up reports.
She floated into the office carrying two manila case files. “Caught you daydreaming again, Beaux.” Sheyenne dropped the files on my desktop. “Did you solve my murder yet?”
“I’m working on it, Spooky,” I said, and it was the truth. “Aren’t you the one who tells me to focus on paying cases first?”
“Somebody has to—Robin sure doesn’t.” She shook her head. “You need to have a talk with her. She might as well walk around with the words Ask me about pro-bono work tattooed on her forehead.”
“It’s refreshing to work with someone who still has a heart.”
I’m seven years older than Robin, and throughout our friendship I’ve thought of my partner as a sweet kid sister. Sheyenne, on the other hand, is much more than that. My girlfriend, or former girlfriend—but former in the sense that she’s no longer alive, not former in the sense that I don’t care for her anymore—was the same age as Robin, but I definitely didn’t think of Sheyenne as a kid sister.
I look pretty good for a dead guy, or so I’ve been told: well-trimmed dark hair, striking eyes accentuated by bold eyebrows, just the right amount of “rugged.” I used to wonder how I would deal with turning forty, but now it isn’t an issue. Since I was killed a couple of months shy of my fortieth birthday, I can claim to be thirty-nine for the rest of my existence and not even have to lie about it.
Sheyenne sighed, a conscious gesture since she hadn’t drawn a living breath in almost two months. She was semitransparent as she hovered in front of me, her face a little emaciated, her eyes hollow from her lingering death, but she was still gorgeous with those big blue eyes, great figure (though too ethereal now), full lips, and an easy smile that gave the impression she was just cheesecake—a part she had played well as a cocktail waitress and nightclub singer. But I saw right through that, and I knew she was smarter than me and my imagination put together.
After working ten years at various jobs in the business world, Sheyenne had gone back to college and was in her second year of medical school, working part-time at a nightclub to pay the tuition, when I met her . . . not long before somebody killed her with toadstool poison. Horrible stuff.
As a ghost of the poltergeist variety, Sheyenne can touch inanimate objects when she focuses her attention, so she does just fine as our receptionist, office manager, and paralegal. General office work doesn’t strain her brain too much. So Robin and I let her write her own job description—Sheyenne shows up for work on time and has no intention of moving on.
The biggest drawback is that, although she can touch most physical objects, the screwy supernatural rules prevent her from touching humans. Apparently that definition includes me, a former human. Something about auras that surrounded living, or once-living, beings.
So although Sheyenne and I can see and talk to each other, we can’t have any physical contact. The best we can do is sit around and reminisce about what might have been, remembering the one night we had together while we were both still alive—a hot and steamy lovemaking session that gets better and better with each retelling, and with each week of missing it. Talk about unresolved sexual tension!
I slid the files she had delivered next to the other stacks of paper, including my own autopsy report. Sheyenne still hovered there. “I’ve been combing through your cases just to get myself up to speed.” She tapped a ghostly fingernail on top of the stack. “The answer’s in there somewhere. You pissed somebody off enough to make them kill you.”
“I piss a lot of people off. One of my many talents.” I shrugged. “Half of these cases aren’t even wrapped up yet.” I picked up the files. Revisiting the numerous cases would mean burning the midnight oil, but these days I had all the time in the world.
“You want me to get you some coffee? I just brewed