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

go.”
    “Where are we going?” I said, remaining firmly in my seat. Images of me being thrown in jail flashed in my mind briefly.
    He reached over, grabbed my arm, pulled me out of my chair and led me to the door. I heard Dad calling my name. “She’s fine, Jim,” Mike told him. “I’m just going to show her something. We’ll be right back.”
    He escorted me out the door. I jerked my arm out of his hand. “I am perfectly capable of walking on my own.”
    “You are a stubborn woman.”
    “What’s your point?”
    He didn’t answer me. We walked in silence for a block and a half before he stopped. “Look right there,” he said, pointing at a parallel parking space. “What do you see?”
    I looked down and spotted tire tracks from a burn out. “Are these from the Caddy?”
    “Tell me what you saw and heard.”
    “We walked out of the coffeehouse and said goodbye. He started to walk across the street when I heard someone peel out…” I looked down at the tire tracks again, my throat suddenly dry.
    “Then what happened?”
    “The…the car hit Cliff. He bounced up onto the hood, over the roof and rolled off the trunk,” I said, glancing back up the street.
    “And the car?”
    “What about it?”
    “Did the driver stop or keep going?”
    “Kept going, I think.”
    “Did you hear the driver hit the brakes?” I shook my head. “Does that sound like an accident to you?”
    “No. However, you’re still jumping to conclusions,” I said, wiping away a stray tear as it slid down my right cheek.
    “And how do you figure that?”
    “There were only four people who knew I was meeting with Cliff Scott, and two of them weren’t sure when or even if I was for sure.”
    “And those four people are?” Mike said, handing me the fedora before pulling out a pen and notepad from his breast pocket.
    “Me, Randy, who called Cliff to arrange the meeting, my grandmother…”
    “Your grandmother? How does she know him?”
    “I don’t know if she does or not. But she knows someone who does, and that’s how we got the number.”
    “And just who is this someone?”
    “Your grandfather. Does that make him a suspect? And I think he’s sweet on my grandmother. Just what are his intentions?”
    “What about Crazy Aggie?” Mike said, ignoring my last comment.
    “Why do you call her that?”
    “Because every time a new police chief takes office, she comes in, trying to get us to take another look at the case.”
    “Have you seen the case file?”
    “No,” he said, shaking his head, “not the official one. But each outgoing chief leaves a note in the middle of their desk for the next guy coming in, warning them about Aggie.”
    “Ever talk to your grandfather about it?”
    “Never had a reason to. He shot himself, end of story.”
    “Interesting,” I said, walking toward the coffeehouse.
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because Cliff Scot t was sure it wasn’t suicide, and even your grandfather had his doubts.”
    Mike put a hand on my arm to stop me. “Whoa, wait a minute. Just what did they say to you?”
    “Let’s go back to the coffeehouse and I’ll tell you. Otherwise, my father is going to come looking for me.”
    He agreed. Ten minutes later, with fresh drinks and some warm chocolate chip cookies, I told him about my conversation with Walt and Cliff. “I don’t think that you can say Cliff’s death has anything to do with his meeting with me. Considering how long he was a cop, I’m sure there’s a long list of people who held a grudge against him.”
    “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Cam,” he said.
    “I’ m not!” I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince him, or myself.
    “Keep it that way,” he replied, putting his notepad in his pocket. “I do have one piece of advice for you, though.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Stay away from Aggie Foley. Stanley Ashton committed suicide.”
    “You still believe that after what I just told you?”
    “You don’t have any proof, just the