Savannah Knight is a retired mortician with great plans to become a paranormal author. On her first day of retirement, she heads to the local library to start her new career as an aspiring author. But shortly after her first research session, everyo...
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"I'm sorry to bother you so late, Ms. Knight," the older man said once I opened the door, "but I'm afraid it's rather urgent." Charlie Hanson stood about 6'5", and his poor posture aged him a bit beyond his sixty-five years. He showed his private investigator's license and said, "I understand you've been looking into the death of Maggie Carpenter, and I'd like a few minutes of your time." Oh, shit, not this again.
He seemed okay enough, so I invited him into my living room and offered to make a fresh pot of coffee. After we both sat down with a cup of coffee in our hands, I said, "I apologize, Mr. Hanson, I was just trying to make sense of everything—for my own peace of mind. I didn't mean to—"
"Oh, no, no," he interrupted as he set his cup of coffee down on the table, "you've misunderstood. You're not in any kind of trouble." He paused and looked like he was trying to compose his next words carefully.
"Then what is it? What's the matter?" I asked.
"Can we keep what I'm about to say between us? Can I trust you'll be discreet in this matter?"
"Of course." He had my full attention now, and I realized my world was probably about to shift into something much more different.
"That body you prepared for burial ... well, we have reason to believe that wasn't really Maggie Carpenter. We think the family is hiding something, and I've been hired by the estate lawyer to investigate the matter. Unofficially, of course. Officially? I was never here, if you don't mind keeping a secret."
"Not at all. I imagine I'd be in a lot more trouble than you if my superiors ever found out I still had an interest in Maggie Carpenter."
"Can I ask what piqued your interest about her death?" he asked as he picked up his coffee again.
"Well, from the moment I laid eyes on her dead body, I knew immediately something wasn't quite right. Something was off about her. And then, to back up my gut instinct, I noticed her injuries didn't match her medical records, not even in the slightest way."
"That is interesting! Can you elaborate?"
"I can do better than that. That is, if you can also appreciate how discrete I need to be in this matter? You understand?" I stood up while we talked to unlock my filing cabinet in the corner of the room.
"I think we can both appreciate the way in which we never met each other tonight—or ever."
While I hadn't expected this particular moment to come up, at least I'd anticipated I'd want to keep a copy of her records when I first noticed the inconsistencies in her case. "I copied these records and notes when she first arrived. Take a look and see if anything grabs your attention."
Charlie put his reading glasses on and flipped through the pages, grunting and sighing as he ran his fingers across the words. "Interesting," he'd muse every few minutes. I watched him carefully, but I still wasn't sure what he saw that caught his eye. "Are these injuries pretty accurate—to the best of your knowledge?"
"Absolutely. I wrote those notes before I touched a hair on her head. I'm confident if we dug her up right now, you'd still see those injuries on her body." But as soon as I said that, I saw the look of surprise on his face. "What? What's wrong?"
"That's exactly why your records are so critical to this case, Ms. Knight. Maggie Carpenter—or whoever they buried in the ground—well, her body is missing. The casket is empty. Not even a trace of dirt is left in there."
At that point, I was sure that if we sat here talking, I'd also discover that Maggie Carpenter's doppelganger might also be responsible for killing John F. Kennedy as well. The sooner our visit ended, the calmer I would feel.
Charlie stood up and held the file in his hands. "Do you mind if I take this with me? I'm not sure how long we'll need it, but it could be very helpful to our investigation."
"As long as we still both understand the importance of discretion here. I could lose my job if certain people found out I gave those notes to you."
"No, of course. Total discretion. I wasn't here. Remember?" And without another word, he tucked the case file into his briefcase and walked out my front door.
After I locked the door and was convinced the man had left, I wanted to call my supervisor and rub it into her ugly face that my intuition was spot on. But I couldn't do that, could I? At that time, I still had five to ten years to go before I could retire, and I couldn't do anything to screw that timeline up. I figured I had to call someone, though, but there really wasn't anyone to call. Mom would never understand my need to stay on top of this situation. I'd save that conversation for when I knew much more than I learned that night. Trust me—there's much more to come.
