Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Twenty-three

I stand here, my mind racing, wondering how this happened, who possibly could have killed her. Maybe our deaths are unconnected, but the possibility of them being perpetrated by the same person sends chills up my spine. Two murders on the same floor, less than a week apart? Methinks it is no coincidence.

 Adam just left the premises and Clive certainly had the opportunity. They were in the vicinity on both nights. And Lanie! I hope she had nothing to do with this, but even if she is sleeping at the hotel, she is too close to the crime. Not knowing her whereabouts has me in knots. Hopefully she has an airtight alibi.

"This is one messed up nightmare," Margaret says from the floor. 

She rolls over to stand up. As she rises, she catches a glimpse of me. Her expression goes from confused to annoyed. With her thumb and index finger, she pinches herself repeatedly, saying, "Time to wake up."

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Either way, I don't want to deal with Margaret. 

Why should I spoil the surprise and tell her she has died? Why should I give her the low-down on being a ghost when she quite possibly had everything to do with my becoming one? As far as I'm concerned, she can walk into the sunlight and wake up in a thousand years. Hmmm... the possibilities for ridding myself of her once and for all are endless.

You're better than this, Cheline. The woman has likely just been murdered and here you are contemplating finishing her off. Not nice, hun. Really not nice. My conscience, spoken in my mother's voice, gets the better of me and I change my course of thought.

"You're not here, you're not here." Margaret closes her eyes and inhales deeply. "Just need to get the dress and go."

She floats over to the closet and reaches into the back of it. Clearly she isn't aware of her predicament.

I let out a guffaw.

She jumps, floating to the ceiling, and screams as her head goes through it.

"Good luck with that," I say. "At least we don't have to worry about you taking anything else from here."

Satisfied my conscience is still intact, I leave the apartment as Margaret mutters, "You're not here. You're just a figment of my imagination."

Outside Margaret's, the door is now wide open. A lamp on the end table in her living room casts dim light over most of the living area. I enter the apartment, scanning for anything out of place and being apprehensive for what I might see. An oversized fleece blanket is piled on the floor by the couch, but there aren't enough lumps under it to cover her corpse. Chances are the throw was discarded during Clive and Margaret's romp. Margaret's sweater and jeans are heaped beside the couch.

I ease into the hallway as a scream comes from the bedroom. Surely it's Margaret and she's discovered her own body.

Dear God help me.

I leap through the wall, but it is not Margaret who is screaming; it's Lanie.

She is positioned over the corpse, her back to me, and saying, "Oh my god." She stands up and spins around. Mascara trails down her cheeks, strands of hair have fallen out of her bun, and the round neck of her jumpsuit is now triangular. Upon closer inspection, a red mark—possibly from a fingernail—streaks for about an inch on her chest, right above where the tear in her fabric begins.

I gulp, knowing that this doesn't bode well for her and fearing she is the murderer. The flashback of the knife in the pillow sends me reeling. She is not stable. I take a deep breath to steady myself before I glimpse Margaret's corpse.