“Don’t thank God. Thank me.”
He pursed his lips. “Hmm. Don’t we think highly of ourselves? Now, get that pen and paper. I’ll dictate. And please try to keep up. I loathe repeating myself.”
For the first time Natalie wished her ghost abilities included wrapping her hands around this man’s neck and squeezing until his judgmental eyes popped out of his head.
What would be the word for homicide when the victim was a ghost? She’d have to ask Harper to look into it, because if any ghost deserved to be strangled it was Professor Lionel Graves.
Chapter Ten
Lionel Graves, author and professor emeritus of Yale University, was found dead in his New Haven apartment Monday. He was 80. A memorial service will be held at 2 p.m. Saturday at Battell Chapel.
Natalie glanced up after reading the announcement aloud from the screen of her computer. “That’s it. That’s all it says.”
Lionel huffed. “Shoddy reporting. What rag of a paper is this?”
“The Yale Daily News,” Natalie answered, hoping that response would knock some of the wind out of his sails.
She was rewarded as Lionel paused.
“Well, they are students. Still learning their craft, aren’t they? Where else? Find more press,” he demanded.
She let out a sigh and continued to scroll. “There’s a follow-up from after the memorial service. But it’s from the Yale Daily News again, so you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Not necessarily. I’d like to hear it.”
A memorial service for Professor Emeritus Lionel Graves was held at Battell Chapel on Saturday.
“No mention of the number of attendees? Or whom was in attendance?” he asked.
“Nope.”
He scowled. “Keep looking.”
Natalie found a mention in the Yale alumni newsletter, and an obituary in a local New Haven newspaper, but both contained the same information. The bare minimum.
Finally, she leaned back from the computer. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else.”
Besides, she had other things to do besides search for printed praise to feed Lionel’s bruised ego. Things like ordering stock and paying bills. Things that kept her business operating in the black and a roof over her head.
Lionel shook his head. “I mourn for the future of journalism, Miss Chase.”
“You know, you can call me Natalie.”
“Yes, I know. I could. I choose not to.”
All righty.
Flipping the lid closed on her laptop, she stood from the stool behind the shop counter.
“Where are you going?” He frowned, something he seemed to do more and more.
“I have work.”
“Work? What work? And what about the work you’re doing for me?”
Was she really going to have to explain to this self-proclaimed genius with his advanced degrees the concept of working to make money to live?
“Sorry. I’m clocked out for the day, boss.” She spun on her heel and was about to make a dramatic exit. Or at least move into the meeting room where she had to set up for the book club meeting, when he said one word that stopped her.
