Who Killed the Ghost in the Library: A Ghost writer Mystery by Teresa Watson

hit the ground with a thud. I heard someone screaming, and realized it was me just as his gray fedora landed at my feet.

Chapter 9
    It took the police three hours to investigate the scene, what there was of it to look at. No one saw which direction the Cadillac had gone after it had hit Cliff, because everyone was looking at his body flying through the air and flinching as he hit the ground.
    I was sitting in the coffeehouse, his gray fedora on the table in front of me. I had picked it up after it had landed in front of me, and for some reason, I hadn’t let it go.
    “We’re going to need that, you know,” a male voice said next to me. I looked up to see a man in a black uniform standing there. “It’s part of the investigation.”
    “His hat didn’t kill him, Mike,” I replied. “A car did.”
    Chief of Police Mike Penhall sat down across from me. I had known him since high school. Dark brown hair, light blue eyes and dimples – I had a thing for guys with dimples. We never dated in high school, although he, Randy and I hung out a lot until they had a falling out. After that, it was never all three of us doing things together. They’ve never told me what the problem was, despite my repeated attempts to find out. Mike joined the Navy after high school, and we didn’t see much of him until five years ago, when he was hired to be the deputy police chief. After Dave Harding retired three years ago, Mike was promoted to chief. We still got together occasionally to do things, but half of the time, we were interrupted by some emergency at the police station. “I know, Cam.” He pushed the hat to his left. “I used to give him a hard time about wearing that thing whenever he came to the station for a visit. It made him look like he was part of the Rat Pack.”
    I smiled slightly as my father approached the table. He gave Mike a mug of coffee and put a Dr Pepper in front of me. “Good to see you again, Mike,” he said, shaking the chief’s hand. “I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances.”
    “I agree, Jim. I just need to talk to Cam for a few minutes, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
    “Take your time. Let me know if there is anything you need.” Dad gave me a quick hug and walked away.
    “First of all, are you alright?” Mike said.
    “I’ve certainly had better days.” I took a drink. “I’ve never seen anyone killed before.”
    “I’ve seen too much of it. It’s definitely not something I would wish on anyone. I talked to Randy. He said you were meeting with Cliff before the accident. Why?”
    I wondered how much I could tell him. It wasn’t a good idea to go around announcing that you’ve been talking to a ghost. That’s a sure ticket to the funny farm. “I was asking him about an old case of his.”
    “Which one?”
    “Not one you would know anything about.”
    “Try me.”
    “Stanley Ashton III.”
    “Suicide in the mid- 50s.”
    “How did you know that?”
    “I come from a long line of cops. And Walt Penhall is my grandfather. Why were you asking Cliff about that case?”
    I took another drink of my Dr Pepper. “Someone doesn’t believe that Mr. Ashtons death was a suicide.”
    Mike looked surprised. “Who would care about that after all these years?”
    “Someone who was close to the family.”
    “Are you going to give me a name?”
    “Do I have to?”
    “Is there a reason why you don’t want to?” Mike asked.
    “A writer has to protect their sources,” I said.
    Mike rolled his eyes. “You aren’t going to pull that freedom of the press crap on me, are you?”
    I wasn’t sure I was covered under that particular amendment. “Agatha Foley.”
    “Crazy Aggie?” Mike said. “Cliff was killed because that crazy old lady said that her boss didn’t kill himself?!”
    “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions?” I countered. “Cliff’s death could have been an accident.”
    Mike stood up, grabbed Cliff’s hat and motioned toward the door. “Let’s