I emerge from my yellow cocoon to peek into the hotel's full-length mirror. The last of the green gunk flakes off my sweater dress, disappearing before it touches the carpet. Just as Derek promised, my puncture wounds are gone, as though they decided to cross over shortly after Carlita.
The television is set to a local news show, some moms engaged in a lively debate about vaccinations. The hostess, a lovely reporter named Liz, interrupts their argument with a breaking news update: Margaret Bertwinkle, socialite and daughter of entrepreneur Harold Bertwinkle, has been found dead in her Harbor Island apartment. The moms give their condolences to the Bertwinkle family and resume their discussion as ticker tape with the news of the murder scrolls across the bottom of the television screen.
Lanie exits the bathroom, her hair sleek and makeup fully applied. She's wearing a green turtleneck sweater with trouser jeans. Her black Jimmy Choo ankle booties are in her hands, one of them sporting a fresh water spot. She passes the television and freezes when the reporter mentions Margaret's murder.
Her breath catches as Liz shares that police have a suspect and plan to make an arrest later in the day. A glimpse at her cell phone reveals no missed calls or texts. With a sigh, she stuffs the phone into her Fendi and her feet into the booties, removes her keys, and slings the purse over her shoulder, before turning off the television and giving the room a once-over for valuables.
The ride to International Mall is punctuated with blaring horns, curse words, and stop-and-go traffic. After a couple laps around the parking lot, Lanie finally pulls into a spot halfway to Ybor City.
"Should've worn tennis shoes," she mutters as she steps out of the car.
I hide in her Fendi until we are safe inside the mall. Navigating the thick crowd, Lanie heads straight for the Hermes store. She passes racks of scarves with tigers, horses, and various paisley-like prints on them.
"Merry Christmas, Ms. Hayes. Is there anything specific you are purchasing today?" The saleswoman is about the same age as us. She's decked out in a red shift dress and has a Christmas-y scarf wrapped in a rosette around her neck.
Lanie jumps several inches. With her hand over her heart, she says, "You scared me, Brittany! I'm hoping you still have some of the flamingo scarves you had over the summer. I have a friend who's crazy about them and this might be the perfect gift for her."
Which friend of hers is worth a four-hundred-dollar Christmas gift? With Margaret and me out of the picture, that list is virtually non-existent. I shake my head at her idiocy. What the hell is she up to?
"I helped your fiancé purchase one for you last summer. So you must have really liked it? He came up with such a beautiful color scheme. Artistic, loving, and handsome, what a catch."
Lanie frowns. "I loved it, but we broke up shortly after he gave it to me. I gave it back to him."
"Ah." Brittany starts walking toward the back of the store. "So, is the friend you're buying for really you?"
"Oh, no." She follows Brittany. "She's a friend from college, who really needs a pick-me-up. I thought this would be the perfect gift for her."
Lanie combs through the scarves, rejecting each as she lifts it from the rack, but eyeing one that is closest to the robin's egg backdrop of her original scarf. This one is more of a turquoise.
As she lifts the turquoise scarf from the rack, Brittany says, "She must have really liked that scarf of yours."
Lanie tenses then returns the scarf to the rack. "She actually never saw the scarf, but you're probably right. It's too similar to mine. Perhaps one of the tiger designs will be just as nice."
She settles on a gray backdrop with an anthracite, navy, and azure color scheme. Brittany asks if there is anything else Lanie would like to purchase. Lanie's attention turns to the flamingo scarf. When she declines, Brittany carries the scarf to the register, rings it up, and carefully folds the scarf.
"Did you hear Margaret Bertwinkle was murdered last night?" Another saleslady says to Brittany. "Such a shame. Her mother was in here last week, getting ready to go on a cruise. She must be devastated."
"It's awful. So close to Christmas." She hands the bag to Lanie and reminds her that the silk fabric should be professionally cleaned.
I follow Lanie to Dillard's, where she winds through the throngs of men gathered near the jewelry section. Tony is at the counter, pointing to a two-chain necklace with four lavender amethysts attached to each chain. While he is paying, the sales associate places the necklace inside a jewelry box and gives him a man-eating smile. He smiles back and wishes her a merry Christmas before she can carry on with her flirtation. A wistful look crosses her face as he walks away.
He seems so focused on getting away from the sales associate, that he bumps into Lanie. A box drops from her hand onto the floor, and they both bend down to retrieve it.
"Hey, Lanie." He hands the box to her. Inside is a crystal butterfly pin. It's cute, something Lanie would wear often.
"Hey!" She gives him a peck on the cheek. Tony seems to have that effect on all the ladies. "I've got a Christmas party at work, but I'll catch you later?"
The cashier gives Lanie the stink-eye as she approaches the register. She rings up the pin and interrupts their conversation with the price. After Tony says goodbye, Lanie inserts her credit card into the machine and asks the cashier if gift-wrapping is available.
"Guest Services at the back of the store. Or there's a kiosk about halfway between here and Neiman Marcus that does it for charity. Next." She hands the bag to Lanie, without a "Merry Christmas" or "Thanks for shopping."
As Lanie walks toward Neiman Marcus, her cell phone rings. Yolanda, from work. "I'm running a few minutes late, but I should make it by eleven," she says into the phone.
"That's good news." The happiness and surprise is evident in Yolanda's voice. "We didn't think you were going to make it."
"Neither did I, but maybe it's what I need to take my mind off of things."
They say their goodbyes and Lanie picks up her pace. Fortunately, the line in front of the gift-wrapping booth is short and the attendants are plenty. Lanie waits for about a minute before she is called to the table. There are many wrapping papers to choose from. Lanie selects a snowman pattern and has the attendant curl red ribbon around it. With a sincere thank you, Lanie hands the girl a twenty-dollar bill and insists that she donate the rest to their cause, a women's shelter in northern Tampa.
She rushes away, but I do not follow her. Christmas parties are a luxury to a ghost with my predicament. Instead, I close my eyes and will myself to Margaret's.
I expect to find Margaret standing in front of her mirror or ogling any remaining cops in her apartment, but she is not there. Her body is gone, her spirit form is gone, and all is quiet in her apartment. I peer into the hall. Yellow police tape is stretched across Margaret's door. Clive is standing right outside, dark circles ringing his eyes.
He checks for witnesses in the hall then removes a pair of disposable gloves from his pocket. Once they are on, he grabs a key, unlocks the door, and contorts himself through the police tape.
His first move is to the refrigerator. He searches all around it and inside and frowns when whatever he is looking for does not turn up. I can only assume his search is for the missing check.
I know it's fifty thousand dollars, but why is it significant to him? Why risk a charge of interfering with an investigation or tampering with evidence?
"Probably in her purse." He wears disgruntlement on his face as he laps the apartment several times looking for her purses.
Her closet holds several purses worth thousands, but nothing that she has used since my death. He rummages through her drawers and curses when they come up empty. It isn't long before he is slinking out of the apartment and down the hallway.
Deciding that he needs further investigation, I follow him. But where should I hide once we step into the sunlight? It's not like I can hitchhike in his ear. His hair is too short and the sun is too powerful today. I gulp at my only option.
Shrinking myself to the size of a pebble, I circle to his front. He pushes the down button for the elevator and I prepare to climb into his pocket.
"Cheline!" Margaret screams. "I told you she was guilty! The cops have arrested Lanie."
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Author's Note: Thank you for still being here! I can't believe it, but the story is starting to wind down (or ramp up, depending on how you look at it). Who do you think killed Cheline? What about Margaret? Are the murders connected?