Free Caught Red-Handed by Jan Burke

his weaknesses, was a good man, but it was nice to have confirmation. I suddenly felt a sense of relief. I decided I owed the ghost a favor.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?”
    He got up and paced, tried to gesture, couldn’t get through to me.
    â€œWait, settle down.”
    He sat down again.
    â€œYou know David, right?”
    He nodded.
    â€œYou are a ghost?”
    Yes again.
    I thought about everything I had heard about ghosts. “Are you trying to haunt me? Did I do something wrong to David?”
    No.
    â€œAre you trying to right some wrong done to you?”
    Yes.
    I figured he probably couldn’t explain the details just yet, so I tried to question my way to it. “Did you know David before you became a ghost?”
    Another yes.
    â€œBut I never met you?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œDid you know him a long time ago?”
    No.
    â€œYou knew him recently?”
    Yes.
    There weren’t many possibilities. “You knew him from work?”
    Yes again. He seemed anxious, as if this would give me the answer.
    â€œYou’re one of the workers who died when the tank ruptured!”
    He looked stricken, but shook his head. He held up the four fingers again.
    â€œOh, that’s right. That was five days ago. You said you died four days ago. But the only person who died four days ago was the . . .”
    He could see the understanding dawning on me.
    â€œYou’re the plant manager.”
    He nodded sadly.
    â€œMr. Devereaux?”
    Yes, he nodded.
    â€œYou killed yourself.”
    He stood up, shaking his head side to side, mouthing the word ‘No!’
    â€œYou didn’t kill yourself?”
    Again, just as firmly, no.
    â€œSomeone killed you?”
    Yes.
    â€œWho?”
    He pointed to his ring finger on his left hand. There was no wedding band, but I could guess.
    â€œYour wife?”
    Yes.
    â€œYour wife killed you?”
    I tried to remember the stories. I couldn’t. Everything had been blurred by the events of three days ago. I went over to a stack of newspapers that I had been meaning to take out to the recycling bin. I put the two unopened ones—which I knew had stories of David’s murder in them—aside, and reached for the one from the day David was killed. That was the day after Devereaux’s suicide. The suicide was front page news.
    â€œWill it bother you if I read this to you?”
    No.
    â€œâ€˜Mr. Chance Devereaux . . .’ Chance? Your first name is Chance?”
    He nodded.
    â€œâ€˜Mr. Chance Devereaux, plant manager of Emery & Walden, died of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound yesterday evening. His wife, Louise, who is also employed at Emery & Walden, discovered her husband’s body when she returned home late from work. She said her husband had grown despondent following the deaths of three workers Tuesday in an industrial accident caused by a ruptured acid tank. Mr. Devereaux had received complaints from the workers about the tank, but failed to repair it . . .’”
    I looked up to see him angrily indicating his disagreement.
    â€œWe’ll get to your side of the story in a moment,” I said. “Where was I? Oh yes, ‘ . . . failed to repair it in time to prevent the deaths.’” I read on in silence. The rest of the article was simply a rehash of the previous reports on the accident.
    â€œMy name is Anna. May I call you Chance?”
    Yes.
    â€œIs your wife Emery’s secretary?”
    Yes.
    â€œAnd you didn’t kill yourself?”
    No. He pointed to the ring finger again.
    â€œYour wife killed you.”
    Yes.
    â€œHow?”
    He pointed to his mouth again, only this time I saw what I had missed before: he wasn’t pointing, he was imitating the firing of a gun into his mouth.
    â€œShe shot you in the mouth?”
    He nodded.
    I shuddered. “How did she manage that? I’ve seen your wife. She’s not a very