Page 33 of Ghostridden
“Exactly. But as his advanced directive and cultural/religious customs prohibited autopsy, since it was clear doing so wouldn’t provide any service to the living, I was only able to conduct non-invasive examinations. These confirmed what I’d suspected, but gave no additional information, and since there was no evidence of a crime—Avi himself had never mentioned hitting his head,although Ricky said he’d seen him taking ibuprofen for some kind of pain—there was no reason to countermand his wishes.”
“Do you think it was an accident?”
“It’s a possibility.”
I tilted my head, lifting an eyebrow. “Do you think there are other possibilities?”
He met my gaze. “The back of his head obviously came into contact with a heavy object, applied with some force, at some point before the party. In hindsight, I sincerely doubt that level of impact could have occurred accidentally.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning”—Jerry’s expression hardened—“someassholebashed him on the head.”
I frowned, rubbing the back of my head at a twinge of sympathetic pain. “Wouldn’t he have, you know,noticedsomething like that?”
“Not necessarily.” Jerry closed the folio. “If it knocked him out, which I judge a blow of that severity would do, he might not recall what had happened when he awoke. That kind of contextual amnesia is common with sudden traumatic events, such as car crashes, or, as I understand, childbirth.” He chuckled again. “I can’t tell you how many of my female patients declare during labor with their second, third, or even fourth child that if they’d remembered how much it hurt, they would have never let their husbands near them again.”
“Do you think—” My cell phone beeped in my pocket and I winced. “Sorry. I should have silenced it when we came inside.”
He gestured expansively. “Do you see any other patrons whom you’re disturbing? Please. Go ahead and take your call.” He pushed the folio across the desk to me. “Feel free to look overthese articles afterward. I have some puttering to do for our next book club meeting.”
He left the Reference desk and disappeared into the stacks as I wrestled my phone out of my pocket. The number was unfamiliar.
“Hello?” I said, keeping my voice low because even though nobody else was here, it was still a freakinglibrary.
“Is this Maz Armani?”
“MazAmani. Yes.”
“Oh. Right.” The man on the line chortled. “I made that mistake before, didn’t I?”
“Carson?”
“You remembered! Yes, Carson Clemenson. I just wanted to see how you were settling in and if you were ready to escape to someplace a little more civilized yet.”
I frowned. “I’m not exactly in the middle of the Gobi desert.”
“No, no. Of course not. It’s only that Ghost has, shall we say, limited entertainment choices? I promised you a coffee date. Would now be convenient?”
“Now?” Jeez, nothing like giving a guy some advance notice.
“Just coffee. It’s the middle of the morning, so a good time for a break, don’t you think? There’s a Starbucks in Richdale, if you’d like to meet me there in twenty minutes or so.”
I was about to refuse, but then I realized Carson, as Avi’s cousin, might have insight into his life and relationships that mere friends like Saul and Jerry, or casual workers like Ricky, wouldn’t have. I couldn’t tell you why I was suddenly so obsessed with Avi’s death—okay, yes, I could, and it was the fact that Avi was still living in my house even though he was, well,notliving in my house—but I was determined to find out everything I could about him. If I understood him better, even if I couldn’t get him to, I don’t know, move toward the light or whatever, I could at least negotiate a peaceful cohabitation.
“Actually, Carson, I’d love to meet up, but I’ve started a new job today and I don’t have the time to drive into Richdale. What about Isaksen’s here in Ghost?” I’d noticed as I’d passed last night that they had a dozen or so small tables inside. “Do they serve coffee?”
“Yeeesss,” Carson drawled. “ButStarbucks—”
“If you could meet me at Isaksen’s in twenty minutes, I’ll have about half an hour to spare.”
I could hear his huff of exasperation over the phone. “All right. But only for you.” His voice held a flirty edge. “It’s not every day an attractive new man comes to town.”
Don’t pour it on too thick, Carson. I’d seen his clothes. His shoes. His car. And he’d seen mine. We were definitely not on the same style or wealth wavelength. But then I gave myself a mental bitch-slap for making assumptions based on appearances. Maybe Carson was interested in theinnerme. Maybe he sawbeyonddownscale vehicles and low-end fashion choices. I needed to give him a chance, because even if I didn’t want to date him, I really wanted to pick his brain.
Not allowing him an opportunity to change his mind, I blurted, “Thanks! I’ll see you then!” in far too hearty a tone, and disconnected the call.
I spent the next fifteen minutes reading over the articles in the scrapbook. To tell the truth, they kind of broke my heart. The reporter had interviewed Avi before the party, and he’d been so upbeat and cheerful, excited to show everyone what he and Oren had accomplished, thrilled that Oren was ready to make Ghost his permanent home. He’d interviewed other people too—the couple who owned the B & B that Oren had helped renovate, the brother and sister who ran the bakery. Not Carson, I noted, although he was quoted in the article following Avi’s death.
