Free The Gallery of the Dead (Tropical Breeze Cozy Mystery Book 3) by Mary Bowers

the front door. Say it’s Cassandra’s blood, that can’t be scrubbed away. Write that down.”
    “No. So she fell in front of the door. I see.” As usual, Teddy had been wrong. “Do you know how tall Cassandra was?”
    “How tall? Who cares? I don’t know. Her daddy was tall. Yes, I do know. I seen a picture of her over at the Historical Society. Go look, if you want to. You’re that ghost-hunter guy, right? The one everybody says is such a pain in the ass? You’re always looking things up. Surprised you didn’t go over to the Historical Society in the first place. Her daddy was a six-footer, and she was only a couple inches shorter. Mama was short. Hetty, they called her. Only had the one child. She was a pretty thing, that Cassie.”
    His remark about the Historical Society had stung. That had been a glaring omission, quite unlike me, and I can only plead the Teddy defense: anybody who spends too much time around Teddy Force gets confused.
    “So,” I said, “with the railing being low, and Cassandra being tall, it could’ve been an accident, correct?”
    “There she goes.”
    “What?”
    “The sun. She’s down now. Yellow’s all gone, and all that’s left is the purples and the blues and here comes the dark. Cassie Whitby jumped, it weren’t no accident . . . Sleep my pretty, and listen for the lark, Sleep like an angel, unafraid of the dark. Stars shine upon you and also the moon, and if you should need me I’ll be with you soon.”
    His voice had suddenly become eerily beautiful, nothing like the reedy screech of a few minutes ago. Though still thin and high and worn-out, his voice had become tender, as if the falling darkness had broken the spell on this tricksy little elf and changed him to a sad old man. I listened, enchanted.
    When he finished we were silent for a while. Then I said, “That was lovely.”
    “I know. It always is. Anything else you want to know?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Well, here’s something you should know, whether you want to or not.” His face was indistinct in the dark, and the traffic which had been fairly steady, had dried up, so there were no headlights to shine on him.
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    “All your life you’ve been wrapping yourself up in things that don’t matter, covering yourself in chains and blinding your own eyes. Stop and look around yourself sometimes. It’s a pretty world, and we don’t get to stay in it for long.”
    I started to tell him that I’d devoted myself to things that mattered very much: life and death. But I stopped myself. That wasn’t what he was talking about.
    “See there? Look to the ocean,” he said. It was a dark night, and the uneasy sound of the breaking waves suggested a breathing beast, heaving and restless beyond the bluish dune.
    “Smell that?” He inhaled deeply, and so did I. Tangy and salty and dirty and clean all at the same time.
    He strummed a few chords, gently and softly.
    “I think I know what you mean,” I said at last. “But I’m not sure I can change.”
    I heard a phlegmy chuckle. “You cain’t. But just think about it sometimes. Just think about it. Give yourself a moment, sometimes.”
    “I’ll try.”
    “And write down that stuff I just said. Can you write in the dark?”
    “Yes. I have to do that a lot in my line of work. But I’ll remember it. I don’t need to write it down.”
    “I don’t care if you remember it or not. Write it down and give it to me. I’m not that deep, usually. It’ll make a good song.”
    I couldn’t help but smile. He had almost been nice – even fatherly – but he’d caught himself in time.
    I gave him the paper on which I’d made his notes.
    “I want to thank you for your time, Jasper. You’ve been very helpful.”
    “No I haven’t. And I’ve always got the time. You didn’t interrupt the sunset. Nobody can.”
    “Well, at least you confirmed something for me that I’ve suspected all along. The Whitby House is not