Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet by Darynda Jones

relief at the new goal in life, I put Misery into drive.
     I could worry about being a roosting hen later. I had a sofa to name.
    With renewed energy, I pulled back onto Academy—after hitting a drive-through for
     a mocha latte—and had just started for home when my phone rang.
    “Yes?” I said, illegally talking on the phone while driving within the city limits.
     Scoping for cops, I waited for Uncle Bob to stop talking to whomever he was talking
     to and get back to me.
    My uncle Bob, or Ubie as I most often referred to him, was a detective for APD, and
     I helped him on cases from time to time. He knew I could see the departed and used
     that to his advantage. Not that I could blame him.
    “Get that to her, then call the ME ay-sap.”
    “Okay,” I said, “but I’m not sure what calling the medical examiner ay-sap is going
     to accomplish. I’m pretty sure his name is George.”
    “Oh, hey, Charley.”
    “Hey, Uncle Bob. What’s up?”
    “Are you driving?”
    “No.”
    “Have you heard anything?”
    Our conversations often went like this. Uncle Bob with his random questions. Me with
     my trying to come up with answers just as random. Not that I had to try very hard.
     “I heard that Tiffany Gorham, a girl I knew in grade school, still stuffs her bra.
     But that’s just a rumor.”
    “About the case,” he said through clenched teeth. I could tell his teeth were clenched
     because his words were suddenly forced. That meant he was frustrated. Too bad I had
     no idea what he was talking about.
    “I wasn’t aware that we had a case.”
    “Oh, didn’t Cookie call you?”
    “She called me a doody-head once.”
    “About the case.” His teeth were totally clenched again.
    “We have a case?”
    But I’d lost him. He was talking to another officer. Or a detective. Or a hooker,
     depending on his location and accessibility to cash. Though I doubted he would tell
     a hooker to check the status of the DOA’s autopsy report. Unless he was way kinkier
     than I’d ever given him credit for.
    I found his calling me only to talk to other people very challenging.
    “I’ll call you right back,” he said. No idea to whom.
    The call disconnected as I sat at a light, wondering what guacamole would look like
     if avocados were orange.
    I finally shifted my attention to the kid in my backseat. He had shoulder-length blond
     hair and bright blue eyes and looked somewhere between fifteen and seventeen.
    “You come here often?” I asked him, but my phone rang before he could say anything.
     That was okay. He had a vacant stare, so I doubted he would have answered me anyway.
    “Sorry about that,” Uncle Bob said. “Do you want to discuss the case?”
    “We have a case?” I said again, perking up.
    “How are you?”
    He asked me that every time he called now. “Peachy. Am I the case? If so, I can solve
     this puppy in about three seconds. I’m heading down San Mateo toward Central in a
     cherry red Jeep Wrangler with a questionable exhaust system.”
    “Charley.”
    “Hurry, before I get away!”
    He gave up. “So, the arsonist just got serious.”
    Sadly, I had no idea what he was talking about. Uncle Bob was a homicide detective
     and rarely worked anything but murders and the like. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you
     trying to find an arsonist? And why is he just now getting serious? Was he only kidding
     before?”
    “Three questions, one answer.” He mumbled something to another officer, then came
     back to me. “And that answer is because our arsonist is now a murderer. The building
     he torched last night had a homeless woman in it. She died.”
    “Crap. That would explain why you’re on an arson case.”
    “Yeah. Have you heard anything?”
    “Besides the Tiffany Gorham thing, no.”
    “Can you put out some feelers? This guy is getting sloppy.”
    “Wait. Is this the one who makes sure the buildings are empty before starting the
     fires?”
    “The one and only. We’ve linked him to four