Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

“I thought dead people were supposed to be peaceful,” the dark-haired kid said.

He was paler than he’d been before. His blond sidekick appeared more green than white.

“First one?” I asked.

“We’ve been on calls before, Sheriff,” the Cherokee boy said.

“I’m sure you have, but no one’s been dead, have they?”

Both shook their heads so frantically their moppy haircuts flew over their eyes. Why did every kid want to look like a greasy, grimy rock star? I didn’t see the appeal. But I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old girl any longer. Thank God.

“What’s the procedure for a death?”

“We need to have a doctor pronounce her.”

“Here?”

“No. We take her to the hospital. Then she’ll be DOA.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to have someone pronounce her at the scene?”

“We’d have to call a doctor and wait for one to show. That’s not a good idea, especially when a lot of times the families are watching and wailing.”

“Speaking of—” I glanced around the empty house. “Who called you?”

The blond kid found his voice. “Neighbor. Said she heard shrieking last night but thought it was the wind from the storm. This morning Ms. Garsdale didn’t show for coffee like she usually does, and when the neighbor knocked, no one answered, so she used her key and—” He spread his hands.

“The neighbor said she heard shrieking?”

Blondie nodded.

I stared at Ms. G. She’d never been the shrieking type, and if she’d died while reclining on her couch, what was there to shriek about?

“Which neighbor? North or south?”

“North,” the two said as one.

“Don’t move her. In fact, don’t touch anything. Go back to your ambulance and play games on your cell phones until I tell you to do otherwise.”

Their eyes widened, but they did as I ordered.

I recognized the woman next door immediately. “Ms. Champion,” I greeted. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Without a word, she opened the door wider and stepped back.

Ms. Champion and Ms. Garsdale had been friends forever. They’d met at Berkeley and taken jobs in Lake Bluff the same year. Ms. C. had taught music. Since they’d never married and they’d bought houses right next to each other, a lot of gossips whispered the L word.

I suspected if neither Claire nor I had married, the same would have been whispered about us in a few years. Such was the way of things in small towns. I wouldn’t have cared, and I never noticed that Ms. C. or Ms. G. did, either.

Ms. Champion motioned me to a seat on her couch. She took a chair on the other side of the coffee table. She still wore her robe and slippers. Her hair was as short as Ms. G.’s was long and as black as Ms. G.’s was white.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Ms. C. seemed shaken, and I couldn’t blame her. The average Josephine didn’t often see dead people.

“She never came over this morning. I figured she’d overslept, so I went to her.”

“Did she often oversleep?”