The Cranes are both on their feet. “How dare you?” Jacob says. “Get out of my house this instant!” He comes storming over to me as if he’s going to physically remove me from his property, but Mitchell is having none of that.
“If you so much as touch her, I will have you in cuffs before you can scream for your lawyer.”
Dad takes me by my arm and leads me to the front door. As we step outside, he says, “Don’t you think you should have held on to that particular theory until it was just Mitchell, you, and me?”
Quite possibly, but I was too angry to think clearly. I get into the passenger seat of Mitchell’s patrol car. One way Dad and I differ is that he’s great at controlling his emotions. It’s not easy for me, though. Not when I see horrific things in visions.
Mitchell gets in the car and immediately starts the engine. I’m getting the feeling he wants to get away from the Cranes before he does something foolish, too. “If they really did hire O’Neil…”
“They got one of Jacob’s colleagues to diagnose her with some illness and write her a prescription. That’s how they stole her money while she was living with them. I’m guessing when she turned eighteen and moved out, she started spending that money and they didn’t like it. They wanted the inheritance.”
“By the look of their house and clothing, they got it.” Mitchell breaks just about every traffic law on the way to my parents’ house. He’s fuming by the time we arrive.
Mom greets us at the door and holds up her wrist. Tapping her watch, she says, “You’re cutting it close.” She looks around us. “Where’s your father?”
“Probably doing the speed limit. He should be here any minute,” I say, stepping inside where Jezebel is sitting, her tail dusting the hardwood floor.
“Hi, my sweet girl,” I tell her.
Max takes one look at Jez and then sits.
“Wow,” I say. I bend down and pat his head. “Good boy, Max.” His tail swishes across the floor, too.
“Go sit and get started before the food gets cold,” Mom says. “I’ll wait to let your father in.”
Mitchell and I head for the dining room, and his eyes light up at the sight of the turkey in the center of the table. Mom didn’t carve it yet, so Mitchell grabs the knife and gets to work. By the time he has enough carved to serve everyone, Mom and Dad both join us with the dogs in tow.
Dad’s stern expression clues me in to the fact that he’s still upset with me. Since I want to eat in peace, I dig right in, scooping stuffed mushrooms onto my plate and then Mitchell’s.
“Thanks,” Mitchell says, placing three slices of turkey on my plate in return. Our eyes meet, and then he says, “You know, I’m not sure I would have been able to stay so calm if I’d seen what you did. I mean, what kind of monster tries to steal his niece’s inheritance right after she lost both parents?”
“What’s all this about?” Mom asks, and I’m a little surprised she’s showing interest in the case at the moment since she usually tries to ban work talk at the dinner table.
Mitchell dives into a recount of our interaction with the Cranes. I’m thankful he’s trying to help smooth things over with Dad, but what really helps is when Mom throws in her two cents.
“So they only took her in to get the inheritance. It makes sense they’d panic when she moved out and took the money with her. I think you’re on to something here, Piper.”
“Even so,” Dad says, “blurting it out that way couldn’t have been more counterproductive. I mean, did you really think they’d confess to hiring a hitman?”
No. “I reacted. I know I shouldn’t have, but you’ve seen what visions can do to me. I take on the emotions of the people I see. They’re greedy.”
“Which made you want answers right then and there, right?” Mitchell asks.
“Apparently.”
Mom reaches for my hand and pats it. “I’m sure it’s not easy controlling the emotions like that.” Her compassion stems from the fact that her own mother was an empath. Grandma Maywood wound up unable to be around people because experiencing their emotions became too much for her to handle. I’m pretty sure Mom worries more every day that I’ll turn out like her mother. It’s why she hates that I have so few friends and I never date. It’s also the reason why she tries to push Mitchell onto me.
“I’ll be fine, Mom. I promise. I’m just sorry I screwed up things for this case. I doubt the Cranes will ever talk to me again.” My eyes meet Dad’s, and his expression softens.
“I’m sorry, pumpkin. I overreacted back there.”
“No, you were right. I should have kept that information to myself until we got here tonight to discuss our next move.”
Mitchell looks back and forth between Dad and me, trying to figure out what to say. He doesn’t talk to his own father, and while he was close to his brother growing up, they don’t speak much now other than obligatory calls on the holidays. He hangs out with us every Tuesday for Ashwell family dinner night because he likes being around family, but it’s still not second nature for him to know how to react in certain situations. “Dinner is delicious, Mrs. Ashwell,” he finally says.
“Well, thank you, Mitchell. I know it’s nowhere near Thanksgiving, but I was feeling thankful for all the good things in my life and thought a nice turkey dinner would be the perfect thing. I even bought an apple pie for dessert.”
“The only thing that could make that any better is if you say you have vanilla ice cream to go on top of the pie.”
Mom smiles. “Then I’m about to make your night.”
“No way.” Mitchell grins like a little kid, and Mom nods.
Dad and I exchange a look. “Did you sense that the Cranes hired a hitman, or were you assuming if they’d fake an illness to steal her money while she lived with them, they’d find a way to get the rest once she’d moved out?”
In truth, I jumped to the conclusion. I don’t really want to admit that, though, so I say, “I’m not sure. I’d really like to talk to O’Neil again and get his reaction to my theory.”
Mitchell shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go back to the prison and talk to O’Neil.”
“We don’t know how to track down Amelia’s things. The Cranes certainly aren’t going to talk to us anymore.” I stab a piece of turkey with my fork.
“Someone else might know,” Dad says.
I meet his gaze and realize he’s right. “Wonderful.”
“What?” Mitchell asks.
“Think about it. Who else knows this case?” I say.
Realization washes over his features. “Andrews.”
“Like I said, I’d really prefer working with the convicted felon.”
Wednesday morning, Dad, Mitchell, and I show up at the station—a united front against Andrews and the insults I’m sure he’s going to sling my way. We’re seated at his desk, or rather Mitchell and I are. Dad is standing behind us, arms crossed and looking like the picture of calm.
Officer Gilbert walks in, his eyes zeroing in on Dad, his hero. I suppress a smirk when Officer Andrews walks in behind him and sees the three of us.
“Well, this is not how I want to start my day.” He turns to Officer Gilbert. “Get me coffee while I deal with these three.”
Officer Gilbert heads toward the conference room, but his gaze remains on Dad, which almost causes him to walk into a wall.
“Damn rookies,” Officer Andrews mutters. He still hasn’t taken a seat at his desk, and I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to have to look up at Dad or if he doesn’t want to corner himself in. “What do you three want?”
“We need to find out which charity Amelia Crane’s belongings were donated to after she died,” I say.
“Ask her family.”
“We did.”
Officer Andrews laughs. “Let me guess. They didn’t want to work with the psychic P.I.” He makes air quotes when he says “psychic.”
“It was more that they didn’t want to talk to me when I discovered they were stealing the inheritance money right out from under Amelia.” I bet Officer Andrews never figured that out.
“You have no proof of that.” He crosses his arms.
“How much did you look into them?” I ask. “Or did you simply close this case because O’Neil confessed?”
“Let me explain police procedure to you. When someone confesses, you can stop wasting your time searching for the guilty party.”
“Unless they’re lying.”
Officer Andrew’s scoffs so loudly he draws the attention of everyone nearby. “You can’t possibly think O’Neil didn’t kill her.”
“I don’t think he did. I think he played his part, but someone else killed Amelia.” I sit forward in the seat and stare up at Officer Andrews. “Face it. You let a guilty man go free because you were too lazy to look into the case.”
Officer Andrews storms off in the direction of the chief’s office. The shades are drawn, so I can’t even be sure the chief is in.
“I’ll talk to Chief Johansen when Andrews comes out,” Dad says. “I’ll get him to order Andrews to surrender any information he has on the case.”
“No. I don’t want Officer Andrews’s help. We can figure this out on our own.” And it’s not like we’re on a timeline here. Amelia’s been dead for years. But the fact that a killer remains free does make me want to find out the truth as soon as possible.
“Let’s go.” I stand up and walk out, waving to Officer Wallace, whom I pass on his way into the station.
We’re in Mitchell’s patrol car, about to pull out, when Officer Gilbert runs up to the car and knocks on my window. He looks over his shoulder at the station as I lower the window.
“I know the name of the charity. I worked on the Crane case. Or I studied it. Andrews had me study all his old cases. He said I should learn from the best.” Officer Gilbert rolls his eyes, and I swear I like him even more in that moment.
“Anything you could tell us would be great.” I look at the doors to see Officer Andrews emerge from the station. “Come by my office later today. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your partner. Just tell him Dad left his phone and you ran out here to return it.”
Officer Gilbert taps the open window. “Later today,” he says before turning and walking away.
“You do realize having him on our side would render Andrews completely useless against us,” Mitchell says.
I turn and smile at Dad in the back seat. “I do. And having Officer Gilbert’s idol working with me will ensure we always have his cooperation.”
We stop at a diner for an actual breakfast since we typically eat a pastry from Marcia’s Nook and drink some coffee. All three of us are feeling like feasting this morning. Who knew sticking it to Officer Andrews could muster such an appetite? Mitchell and I both order the breakfast sampler, which has eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and a waffle. Dad opts for a western omelet and shakes his head at Mitchell and me while we do our best to clean our plates. Being able to eat my weight in food is a special talent of mine, and I love to see the looks on people’s faces when I do it. No one expects someone as thin as I am to be able to pack away as much food as I can eat in a sitting.
When the waitress comes to take our plates, she looks at Dad and Mitchell as if trying to figure out who helped me eat my food. We all laugh, which makes her uncomfortable. Dad grabs the check for us, and Mitchell leaves the tip. Now that we’re all completely stuffed, we head to my office to find out as much as we can about Amelia’s parents and how much money they left her. I’m curious to know the price tag for murder. Exactly how much money made Jacob and Rebecca Crane want to hire a hitman to kill their niece?
Carlton and Melissa Crane definitely did well for themselves, considering they were both anesthesiologists.
“Their salaries were huge,” Mitchell says. “And they had two of them to live off of.”
“Yeah, but there was a catch to Amelia’s inheritance,” Dad interrupts. “Amelia was only permitted to spend so much on food, clothing, and living arrangements until she turned twenty-five. Then she was free to do whatever she wanted with the money.”
“That explains why she lived in a tiny apartment,” I say.
Mitchell is standing next to me, reading the laptop screen. “I’m assuming her aunt and uncle had access to the money in order to pay for her living expenses while she was under their roof.”
“You got it,” Dad says.
“Amelia stood to collect three million dollars on her twenty-fifth birthday,” I say. “But it wound up going to her aunt and uncle instead.”
“I’d say that gave them plenty of motive to kill her,” Mitchell says.
Motive is great and all, but it doesn’t solve cases on its own. “Sure, but how do we prove it?”
Dad sighs and turns his chair to face me. “Pumpkin, I’m afraid you’re going to have to do as O’Neil said and find Amelia’s body.”
I hate when cases come down to me reading dead bodies. I’m about to groan when Officer Gilbert walks into my office, and the smile on his face tells me he’s about to help this case in a very big way.