THREE
Ruth jumped out of the bushes. “Ha ha! I saw her! I saw the banshee.”
I pointed to Cora. “So did she. At least, I think.”
Then everything happened at once. About a thousand old people, minus the walkers and hearing aids, slid from the trees.
“You may have seen the banshee, but you didn’t see her first,” Birda snapped. “Cora did. She radioed me.” Birda lifted her walkie-talkie.
“Well, Cora may have seen her, but she isn’t talking.” I pointed to her body.
Birda took one look and wailed. The other women from the ghost hunting chickens club, or whatever it was called, descended on Cora.
Meanwhile I decided to search for her spirit. If I could find it before she departed into the afterlife, maybe Cora would tell me who strangled her.
“I’ll be back,” I said to Roan. I released his hand and strode toward the bridge. I felt like an idiot but had no choice but to whisper, “Cora! Cora, are you here?”
No answer. I wandered past the end of the bridge and onto the road, searching for a glowing ghost.
Yes, I know it sounded stupid, but I lived my life sounding stupid, it seemed. I’m the only person I knew who would be out traipsing around in the middle of the night looking for a spirit—unless you counted banshee hunters.
After about ten minutes of searching I returned to the cavalcade of old women and one young Devlin Monk. Flashlights and head lanterns filled the small area, making it glow like day.
Apparently I’d really missed an important few minutes because I walked in on Birda holding a ripped piece of fabric.
“This is yours, Ruth Biggs. This piece of orange came off your hunting jacket.”
Ruth wagged her finger at Birda. “And how do you know that?”
“Turn around,” Birda commanded.
Ruth lifted her chin and sniffed. “I will not. I will not entertain this insane idea you have.”
Birda wiggled her man-sized unibrow. “How do you know it’s insane?”
“Because I do,” Ruth said snottily.
Birda flashed the group a smile. “Well, if you don’t have anything to hide, you won’t mind turning, now will you?” Spittle glinted on her teeth. “Unless of course you do have something to hide.” She shrugged, her voice taking on an innocent pitch. “But if you don’t, as you say, you won’t mind letting us have a glance at your derriere.”
“This derriere is staying right where it is.”
Birda sucked her teeth. “Just wait till that redheaded sheriff arrives. I’ll be the first to show her this.” She waved the orange wedge of fabric in the air.
Ruth sighed and rubbed her head. “Fine. Whatever you want. I’ll turn around if it’ll prove that I had nothing to do with what happened to Cora.”
Ruth fisted her hands to her hips and slowly pivoted. Her orange hunter’s jacket hung just below her hips. At the very bottom of it, a wedge of fabric had been cut loose.
The crowd gasped.
“What?” Ruth righted herself. “I hope that proves I had nothing to do with Cora.”
Birda shoved her finger in Ruth’s face. “It proves the fabric’s missing from your jacket, and I found it clutched in Cora’s hand.”
Ruth’s eyes widened. She looked genuinely startled. My friend opened her mouth to speak right as Kency Blount, sheriff of Haunted Hollow, arrived.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t say one word.” She flashed a spotlight into the crowd. “You can tell us everything down at the station.”
Kency questionedeveryone and did take Ruth to the station. In my opinion that was thanks to Birda’s insistence that Ruth had murdered her friend.
