“Tea would be great, thanks. Milk with one, please.” She nods and reaches for two cups on the mug tree, setting them on the counter. “How are you doing, Larry?” I ask as she flips the switch on the kettle.
“Honestly,” she sighs, “tired, a little sad… confused.” She looks over at me as I lean back against the counter.
“That’s understandable.”
“Have you heard anything yet?” She drops a tea bag into each of the cups.
“Nothing definitive. They’ve put a rush on all the results, but it may be another day or so yet.”
“And you still think she was deliberately poisoned?” She retrieves the milk from the fridge.
“Nothing is certain. Danny and his partner Maddie are still investigating,” I reply carefully. “All I can tell you is it’s likely she died from fatal arsenic poisoning and that the poisoning probably occurred over a matter of weeks. If it was accidental exposure more people at the home would be showing symptoms.”
I am not about to share with her what I discovered during the post-mortem. Although I’m still waiting on the results of the blood, urine, and tissue samples, the condition of her lungs and kidneys, not to mention the discolouration of her skin and nails, was enough to confirm my suspicions. Well, that and the fact Mrs Abernathy’s ghost is currently sitting at the kitchen table with her handbag resting on her knees, looking as if she’s waiting patiently for the number 7 bus.
“I still can’t believe this is happening.” Larry hands me a cup and indicates for me to follow her.
“I know it’s a lot to take in, but we’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise.” I follow her through to the small sitting room and take a seat on a worn armchair. “Did you hear back from your mum?”
“Yes, eventually.” She takes a sip of her tea and lets out another sigh. “She’s not coming home. I don’t know why I expected any different. She said number 32 spent too much money on the cruise for her to cut it short, plus it would cost extra to fly home. She said to just do whatever I think is best and if she’s back in time, she’ll go to the funeral. I guess it depends when they release Aunt Delores’ body.”
“Oh my god!” Dusty squeals loudly, which thankfully Larry can’t hear. “Have you seen this vinyl collection! Oh sweet baby Jesus, are these originals?”
I surreptitiously glance over to where she’s standing beside a highly polished old-fashioned record player and several storage boxes of records. “That’s an interesting collection of records.” I take a sip of my tea. “Are you a fan of vinyl? I hear they’re coming back in.”
Larry looks over toward the neatly organised collection and a small nostalgic smile tugs at her lips. “I love records. I guess it’s a carry-over from my childhood.” She turns back to me. “That whole collection and the record player belonged to Auntie Delores. Mum used to just drop me off at her house whenever she was off with a new fella. Auntie and I would sit for hours listening to her collection.”
“That sounds like a lovely memory.”
“When Auntie had to go into the care home, Mum cleared her house, and all I managed to save was an old box of photos and personal effects, the record player, and the vinyl collection. It’s just as well Mum had no idea what it was really worth, or she probably would’ve sold that too.”
Christ, her mother sounds charming. I glance at Mrs Abernathy as she hovers determinedly over her record collection. I jolt in alarm as she reaches out and I see a specific record slide upwards out of the pack.
“Oh no, Delores, honey,” Dusty admonishes her with a tut, tucking the record back in before Larry notices. “We don’t move things in front of the normies unless we want to scare the shit out of them.”
Mrs Abernathy frowns and reaches for the record again, and I have the uncomfortable feeling she’s not going to take no for an answer.
“Did she have a favourite record?” I ask quickly.
“She did,” Larry nods with a smile, setting her cup down on the coffee table. “Do you want to hear it?”
“I’d love to,” I reply fervently, hoping it’s enough to placate the dead woman, who, I’m certain, is about to throw a spectral temper tantrum.
Larry crosses the small space and flicks through one of the sections while Mrs Abernathy stands beside her, smiling widely when her niece selects, presumably, the correct one.
A framed black and white photograph sitting on the shelf above the record player catches my eye. Setting my cup down on the coffee table, I cross the room as Larry carefully slides a record from its sleeve, blows on it to remove any dust, and tilts it into the light so she can scrutinise it for non-existent scratches. Seemingly satisfied, she reverently places the record on the turntable and sets the needle down.
After a brief crackle, the unmistakable dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald fill the air. Mrs Abernathy smiles serenely and sways on the spot, humming to herself, and I realise that this is the song she’s been humming ever since she died and appeared at my side.
“Bow,” she says happily and resumes her swaying.
“What is this song?” I ask Larry.
“It’s Ella Fitzgerald’sEvery Time We Say Goodbye,” she says with a sad smile. “I’m going to have them play it at her funeral, along with Glenn Miller'sMoonlight Serenade. They were both her favourites.”
“Was this your aunt when she was young?” I point to the framed photo. I’m pretty certain it’s Mrs Abernathy, but it must have been taken a long time ago. The young woman in the picture is soft and pretty and can’t be more than twenty. She’s wearing some kind of military uniform and a cap with the lettersH.M.S.on it.
“Yes.” Larry reaches up and takes the picture down, tracing her fingers across the glass affectionately. “Auntie was a Wren during the war.”
