Page 20 of Little Merry Murder

We were going in circles.

“Did Owen murder you?” I asked.

She tipped her head back and laughed. “Heavens, no. He’s never laid a hand on me.”

The laughing continued, escalating like she couldn’t bring herself to stop.

“Oh, man,” she said. “It’s good to laugh. Seems like I haven’t laughed in ages.”

“If Owen didn’t murder you, do you know who did?”

She turned, staring at the tree. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Whatdo youwant to talk about?”

“They all tried so hard to help me, you know, but I … I just couldn’t be helped. I’m broken. Have been since my mom died. It’s hard, sharing a burden, letting someone in. It’s like your pain becomes their pain, and you feel bad for involving someone else in your mess.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to your mother, and to you.”

“Yeah, well, nothing can change the past. What’s done is done. I thought I would see her, though. I thought since we’re both dead, we’d be reunited. I figured that’s how it worked in the afterlife. I’ve been trying to find her, to leave this place, but when I call out to her, she doesn’t come.”

“Maybe you can’t leave yet, not until … you know …”

“My murder is solved. Is that why you’re here—to solve it?”

“I believe so, yes.”

She lifted a finger. “It cannot be done too soon.”

“What do you mean?”

“What is right. People find ways to justify their actions sometimes. They’re not to be trusted.”

“Are you saying you believe the person who murdered you felt justified in doing it?”

“It’s hard to make people understand why we do the things we do.”

“Tellme, make me understand.”

She reached out, looking me in the eye as she grabbed my hands. “Promise me you’ll do what you need to do so I can get away from this tortuous place. Please. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“I promise.”

She released my hands and began to fade, her solid form dissipating until I could see right through her.

“Don’t go yet,” I said. “Stay, tell me who did this to?—”

Before I could finish, she was gone.

CHAPTER 13

I was standing in front of a Spanish-style home, thinking about the dream I’d had the night before, when a woman opened the door. She was hunched over, like she wasn’t capable of standing up straight, and her gray hair was filled with pink foam rollers.

“You caught me right before I was about to hop in the shower,” she said. “Who are ya, and why are you here?”

“I’m Georgiana Germaine, and I’m investigating your neighbor’s murder.”

She went quiet a moment, processing what I’d just said. Then she swished a hand through the air, gesturing for me to come in. I followed her to the front room, which had a single theme—purple. Purple floral wallpaper, purple couch, purple throw pillows, purple rug.

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