Excerpt

© Copyright 2012 – Maggie Toussaint

Gradually my surroundings took on corporeal form. The solid seat beneath me. The mechanical whir of the Jeep’s engine. The zebra-striped slices of sunlight across the lawn of Sparrow’s Point.

Sparrow’s Point.

I was at Morgan Gilroy’s house. The banker had called for help, said he’d been stabbed. Urgency filled me, burning like acid indigestion, and propelled me out of the Jeep.

I had to see Morgan.

It couldn’t wait another minute.

I gained the porch, then the front door, which the sheriff had left open. My eyes strained to see in the dark corridor. The hallway spun. I gasped in a breath, and gravity reasserted itself.

So did reason.

Was the intruder still here?

I needed to find the sheriff fast.

I squinted into the gloomy corridor and took stock. Plastered walls. Wide planked wooden floors. An antique marble-topped buffet with a seashell display was to my left. A large conch shell caught my eye. I palmed it, liking the pointy edges and the smooth texture. If I stumbled upon a bad guy, I could whomp him with the seashell.

Every fine hair on my body stood on end. Energy arced from one raw ending to the next, urging me to fight or run far away. Dread mounted with each step.

I heard the sheriff’s voice down the hall. He murmured something in a reassuring tone. I followed the sound, my eyes darting from the blue and gold carpet runner to the shadowed rooms I passed. My fingers tightened around the shell.

Almost there.

I gained the doorway to what appeared to be a library. My gaze swept the paneled bookshelves lining two plaster walls, the carved desk and empty chair across the room, and the dark stain on the Oriental carpet. Morgan lay face up in the center of the stain. A gasp slipped from my lips.

“I told you to stay outside.” Wayne kneeled beside the banker. “I haven’t cleared the house.”

I lifted my eyes to the sheriff’s familiar rough-hewn features. Below his receding hairline were a handsome face and a trim, athletic body. If I kept looking at Wayne, I wouldn’t see the knife planted in Morgan’s chest or the bloody shirt. I edged toward a bookshelf, putting distance between me and the threshold. “I had to come.”

“This is a crime scene. You can’t be in here.” His dark gaze narrowed. “What’s that in your hand?”

“A conch shell.”

He swore. “Put it down. Don’t touch anything.”

I clung to the shell and nodded toward the banker. “Is he dead?”

“Not quite.”

No wonder I couldn’t find him in the spirit world. He was still here.

The banker wasn’t a close friend, but he had a teenaged daughter. She’d be devastated at losing him, just as my daughter had been when her father was officially declared dead.

What else did I know about Morgan? Twenty years ago he’d swooped into town, flashing cash and buying property. Last year he’d sniffed after my fixer-upper. I needed money something fierce, but I wouldn’t part with my inheritance for pennies on the dollar. I’d told him where to shove his lowball offer.

Stop that, I told myself.

Be respectful.

You’re in Morgan’s home.

He’s dying.

Morgan made a gurgling noise in his throat, rasping in a breath. This was the moment of death I hated most, the liminal moment when spirits slipped through the veil. I steeled myself for Morgan’s passing, not wanting to watch, yet unable to tear my gaze away.

The breath wheezed out of him. Impossibly, his dulled eyes sought mine. I edged closer, my hand fisting over the pointy edges of the seashell. Slashes in his white shirt oozed thick crimson.

Blood.

I shuddered and breathed around the metallic smell.

Another inhalation from the dying man. Morgan’s chin wobbled. A raspy whisper slipped out on his final exhale. “Bubba done it.”