“Claudette, what do you think happened to Lavender?”
She presses her lips tight enough to crack walnuts and possibly small stones. “I don’t know, but I’d be hard-pressed to believe Lavender succumbed to some bodily malfunction. She had a way of making enemies the way some people collect vintage stamps—methodically, enthusiastically, and with impressive dedication to the hobby.” She shakes her head. “But if anyone would know why someone wanted her dead, it would be Jazz—Dr. Jasmine Stone. She sort of filled the friendship gap for Lavender once we parted ways. More like enabled her descent into relationship hell, if you ask me.”
The wind picks up, sending tourists reaching for their hats andmaking the ancient stones seem even more imposing against the gray sky that looks about as cheerful as an undertaker.
“Anyway,” Claudette continues, “I’d better go find my husband. We’re supposed to be bonding, not playing hide-and-seek around prehistoric monuments.” She manages a weak smile. “Though given his forehead situation, he’s not exactly hard to spot in a crowd.”
I’ll say. The man is basically a walking advertisement for marital transparency.
She hurries off toward the visitor center, leaving me alone with Richard, who’s been unusually quiet during the latter part of our conversation and now looks determined in a way that probably means trouble for someone.
“She paints a pretty picture,” he says finally. “But there are a few crucial details she left out. Details that might change your entire perspective on this case.”
I turn to face him fully, noting how the ancient stones seem to amplify his ghostly presence somehow, making him appear more solid and definitely more serious. “Such as?”
Richard shakes his head, his kind eyes now sharp with purpose. “Now are you ready to hear the truth about Lavender—and about me?”
The question hangs in the air like fog over the Salisbury Plain, and I realize that whatever Richard is about to tell me is going to change everything I think I know about this case.
When ghosts start telling the truth, the living usually don’t like what they hear, and somebody is about to discover that even death doesn’t stop some people from seeking justice.
CHAPTER 10
The ancient monoliths of Stonehenge loom against the pewter English sky like prehistoric security detail who have been standing guard so long they’ve forgotten what they’re protecting.
Rolling emerald hills stretch beyond the monument, dotted with sheep that look like fluffy white clouds someone scattered across a vast green canvas. The scent of damp earth mingles with diesel fumes from tour buses and whatever industrial-strength cologne the German tourists next to me apparently bathed in this morning. Chatter in twelve different languages competes with the wind whistling through the trilithons, creating a soundtrack that’s part ancient mystery, part modern chaos, and entirely too loud for my caffeine-deprived brain.
Not thirty feet away, I can see that Nettie has somehow convinced a security guard to let her pose for photos while leaning against one of the outer stones, despite the clearly posted signs prohibiting any contact with the monument.
Oh, good grief. She’s managed to wedge herself between two smaller sarsen stones and is now giving an impromptu lecture to a group of fascinated tourists about “ancient energy vortexes” while waving her hands dramatically and nearly knocking over a rope barrier in the process.
The poor security guard keeps reaching for his radio, thenstopping, clearly torn between following protocol and being charmed by an eighty-year-old woman who’s treating a UNESCO World Heritage Site as her personal photo studio. It’s not the first time.
“Well, well.” Richard materializes beside me with that cozy sweater charm intact, his kind eyes twinkling with all things naughty. “Nettie sure is entertaining. I haven’t seen anyone create that much chaos since Lavender tried to make homemade pasta and ended up with dough on the ceiling.”
I can’t help but grin at his ghostly commentary. “I believe you offered to tell me the truth?”
His expression shifts, the humor fading faster than my willpower around a chocolate fountain. Too soon, I know.
“Right. The truth.” He gazes at the towering stones as if they might offer some ancient wisdom about modern marriage disasters and possibly relationship advice from the afterlife. “Things started off well with Lavender. Really well. But her work swallowed us whole—consumed everything we had until there was nothing left but theories about conscious uncoupling and seminars on alternative relationship structures.”
“Let me guess,” I say, watching a tour guide gesture dramatically at the heel stone with the enthusiasm of someone selling timeshares to druids, “you weren’t exactly signing up to be a case study?”
“The deeper she got into that world, the more on the skids we went. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t a willing participant.” His voice carries as if he’s had plenty of time to think about what went wrong. “But I loved her, so I stayed.”
There’s something heartbreaking about the way he says it—as if love was both his salvation and his doom, with a side order of regret and a garnish of hindsight.
“That must have been difficult,” I offer, meaning it.
“Difficult is an understatement.” Richard’s laugh has no humor in it and possibly no hope either. “Lavender changed almost overnight. Gone was the woman I knew, replaced with a she-devil the likes of which I’d never met before. It was as if someone had performed personality surgery while I was sleeping and forgot touse anesthesia.”
The transformation he’s describing sounds less like personal growth and more like demonic possession. “But you stayed anyway?”
“I loved her, though. I loved her through the thick and thin. Till death do us part and all that.” His voice cracks on the last words, and I’m about to respond when a blood-curdling shriek pierces the ancient air with the subtlety of a cruise ship horn at three A.M.
“NETTIE!” Bess’s voice carries across the monument like a battle cry—or someone addressing a natural disaster in progress.
I whip around to see my octogenarian friend weaving between the massive stones as if she’s running an obstacle course designed by drunk druids with serious grudges against tourists. Security guards in bright yellow vests pursue her with the determination of men whose job descriptions definitely didn’t include chasing elderly Americans through UNESCO World Heritage Sites.
