If anyone had told me
that I'd accept a ghost as a client, I wouldn't have
believed them. Ghosts to me are part of childhood--scary
tales to be put away along with our jump ropes and
jacks. Besides, believing in ghosts takes me in a
direction I don't want to go.
So the night Rosemary
talked to me is a night I'll never forget. I was
seated on my couch in my two-bedroom Chicago
apartment north of Loyola University.
"Restore my honor,"
Rosemary said.
As chief of security at
Callifonte Inc., I'd been working long hours and
sleeping irregularly, so I thought I'd possibly said
it myself.
Rosemary, however,
quickly repeated her request. This time I knew my
mouth hadn't moved--although the hairs on the back of
my neck had snapped to attention.
"You're a
detective. You live in my rooms. Clear my name."
I took a deep breath,
then looked behind me. From where I sat I could see
into my darkened kitchen. In the doorway to the
pantry was what looked like a soft, white glow.
"Is someone there?"
I whispered suddenly wishing I were Catholic and
entitled to cross myself. But I was barely Protestant
and a long way from devout.
"I'm Rosemary
Sheaf, and I pleaded guilty to a murder I didn't
commit. Tell my daughter."
That said, she
vanished, leaving me, a twice-divorced female, alone
in a darkened apartment.
*******
Click here to read A Mystery Sampler.
© 2001 M.
E. Fuller. All rights reserved.