I Was Murdered Last Night (Olivia Brown Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  I Was Murdered Last Night

  Olivia Brown Mysteries Book 1

  A.J. Gallant

  Copyright (C) 2016 A.J. Gallant

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2017 by Creativia

  Published 2017 by Creativia

  Cover art by

  http://www.thecovercollection.com/

  Edited by Janet Michelson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  To view other novels by A. J. Gallant visit his author page

  http://albertttt.wix.com/fantasy-books

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other books by the Author

  “There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

  W. Somerset Maugham

  On Earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it.

  Jules Renard

  Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.

  Mark Twain

  Hence the saying: If you know the enemy and you know yourself, your victory will not stand in doubt; if you know Heaven and you know Earth, you may make your victory complete.

  Sun Tzu

  A new beginning arrives when

  we take our last breath

  Prologue

  A half hour before midnight in Central Park.

  “It was raining fish?”

  “That's what I said.”

  “You can't make me believe that. Are you serious?” Henry asked.

  John's smile was imperceptible. “I'm serious. Well, I suppose, technically, it wasn't raining fish; I mean the fish weren't coming out of a cloud. But it was raining fish.”

  Henry blinked several times. “What the hell does that mean?”

  John was getting satisfaction from knowing something Henry didn't. “See, when a tornado goes over water, I guess they call it a waterspout. Anyway, it sucks fish out of the water and then when the air goes over land, gravity takes over and the fish fall out of the sky.”

  Henry envisioned it. “Imagine getting hit in the head with a fish.”

  “Quiet, here she comes. Give me the knife.”

  Chapter One

  HER HANDS WERE TREMBLING as she saw her corpse. Anita was dead and yet here she was, examining the scene where she had taken her last breath. It doesn't get more surreal than this. How can I be shaking if I'm dead?

  Several chickadees flew over Central Park as night's darkness gave way to morning's light. The foliage of the trees moved to and fro with the moderate wind, flowers commencing to reach for the morning's rays. Chemicals from the flowers evaporated into the air, producing their distinctive scents, telling the insects that pollen was indeed available. The floral display beautified the atmosphere, calling to the bees in the area. However, one section was avoided by the birds this morning as a body was supine on the ground, facing skyward.

  A translucent Anita sat on a nearby bench. She frowned at her corpse, not knowing what to think. She hadn't believed in ghosts, but now she was one. Life's end was not the end. If a ghost couldn't die, then that meant? Eternity? She gave her head a shake.

  It was a lot different being dead than she expected, even though Anita hadn't given it much thought. After all, she had been young and full of life; a twenty-one-year-old had no reason to consider death. Death was for feeble senior citizens covered with wrinkles. Or people who weren't careful crossing the street. Or drug addicts with needles sticking out of their arms. Death should have been sixty years in the future, not now. But life was full of surprises and not all of them pleasant.

  Her desire to be a school teacher was as dead as she was. Her mind couldn't comprehend it, wanting it to be a nightmare that she could wake from but, unfortunately, that wasn't the case. Her thoughts were jumbled and random.

  The sound seemed diminished.

  It was Sunday morning and she was sitting on one of the oval benches in Central Park, which was supposed to have been a lot safer than it used to be but, regrettably, it hadn't worked out that way for her. If she'd had a guardian angel, he or she must have been on a break, although she did have a bad feeling about an hour before it happened. Anita thought that those feelings needed to be much more vigorous, otherwise why even bother. Obviously, it hadn't been good enough just to give her a dreadful feeling; they should have given her a good shaking. Don't go out tonight! You'll be moidered, I tells ya! Too many classic movies perhaps?

  How did guardian angels fit in with free will? Could they make you feel as if something untoward might happen, but they couldn't say what? That wasn't much help. Anita guessed that people just didn't listen to those feelings because she certainly didn't, a much too busy world to pay attention to that stuff. Or was it nearly an impossible thing to make one understand something from the other side? Life and death were much more complicated than she ever realized.

  Anita tried to push her glasses up onto her nose, but there was no longer any need for that, her vision now perfection. The habit would correct itself soon enough. Ghosts don't wear glasses, she thought. Dead men don't talk? Well, yes they do. But whether anyone alive is listening is another matter.

  The benches encircling the grassy area had crude little red flowers painted on them, and inside the space were two trees at opposite ends of one another, and three lampposts. Anita remembered the lights from last night when she was alive. Then she had thought it a lovely atmosphere, but not so great now. Illumination cou
ld indeed make an area appear safer than it was, she supposed. It was strange, but Anita couldn't remember coming to the park, as if someone had wiped away the memory like chalk on a chalkboard. There were remnants of memories that Anita couldn't yet access. Perhaps she was in shock? Understanding the state she was in would be difficult for anyone.

  Anita noticed a plane flying high overhead, leaving a trail behind. Thirty thousand feet or maybe even higher. Where were they headed? They would never consider that they were being watched by a ghost. In life, how many times had spirits observed her? If the jet crashed nearby, would they be all popping up here? Her father used to tell her to think outside the box. Anita was thinking outside of the box now because there was no box, no body either. He must be taking this hard.

  Welcome to the afterlife, she imagined someone saying. I'll be your guide. But no one had yet volunteered and perhaps never would.

  If Anita's fiancé, Curt, was just receiving the news, it was going to be a terrible day for both him and the rest of her family, especially her identical twin sister, Alana, and two younger sisters, Eva and Courtney. Or maybe the police officer hadn't knocked on their door yet? Would it be possible to console them? Even if she could appear to them, she would scare them to death. She needed to think other thoughts, at least for now.

  The universe was a stranger place than she could have ever imagined. How many spirits were wandering out there? There was likely more dead than living, she thought, and that meant a lot of ghosts. Where did the bad ones go? Was there a hell?

  Was that an ant crawling on her forehead? It appeared that she'd been stabbed in the chest, but the knife was gone. Why would someone do that to her? Why were there so many people willing to kill, for that matter? Life was short enough without killing each other.

  And again she thought, so this is what it's like to be dead.

  Anita smelled the strong black coffee that one of the officers was holding, and it didn't grab her as much as it usually did. Strong Java was one scent she appreciated in the morning. A big cup of coffee, three sugars, and cream. The police had the area cordoned off as detectives had come to see the body, take in the crime scene, and search the area before she was put into a body bag and taken away. But that could take hours. They were searching for the knife but there was no sign of it, and not much else–no evidence–at least not yet. A Gold Flake cigarette was found and placed in a plastic bag, but no way to know if it was linked to the case or not because so many people passed this area. The voices of the police sounded flat to Anita as if the noise on television had been turned down; she would need to pay close attention if she wanted to hear what they were saying.

  No words for staring down at one's own lifeless body–just didn't seem real–not as much blood as she would have expected, most likely because the knife had stopped her heart. Anita realized that her family might not even be notified yet. Her mind was a jumble of confusion. She was thinking some of the same things over and over. Her engagement ring still on her left hand. Her diamond teardrop necklace remained around her neck, and all her money and credit cards not touched in her black purse. She hadn't been robbed, not that it mattered. A suitcase full of money was useless now. A new spin on the reality of things. Anita tried to recall the events that led to her death; she couldn't. Was she not supposed to remember?

  What happened to heaven and all the angels?

  Anita had been a hair under five feet eight inches, blond hair, blue eyes, and as lovely as they come. The cadaver was already beginning to smell. Bugs are gonna be eating me, and soon I'll be six feet under. We never know how much time we have left amongst the living. This is crazy!

  “I was murdered last night,” Anita William said to the other spirit sitting on the other end of the bench. She never thought that she'd be saying those words but they were true–her life had ended about an hour before midnight. Never in a million years would she have imagined that a spirit could be in shock. Too much to process in such a short period. Although Anita was dead, her consciousness and her soul remained.

  It was now seven in the morning and mild. The scent of a nearby rose garden was pleasing, even to the recently departed, and a bumble bee flying through her on the way to the roses was as weird as it gets. Then one chickadee pursuing another went through her as well. Most people were enjoying the heat as July had just taken over from June. A pleasant morning if one weren't dead.

  What am I supposed to do now? Just wander around forever?

  Anita thought one of the young officers was looking at her but realized that he saw a cigarette butt on the bench; he was looking through her. A Marlboro this time. A handsome cop who looked so young it could be his first day on the job. Sexy, though, especially in that uniform. Memories were coming in bits and pieces but they faded quickly, not able to grab and hold on to any, and it was troubling. Anita wasn't even sure why she had been in Central Park at that hour. Had she been waiting for someone? She hoped she wouldn't be in the dark forever, wondering what had happened. Now forever could be, well, forever.

  Why would someone do such a thing? Of course, the world had plenty of psychopaths running around these days. The wrong place at the wrong time, as they say. Anita was thinking the same thing again. Why didn't he rob her? Had there been a fight and she got in the middle? She could guess at anything but had no facts to back it up.

  Was reincarnation real?

  “Make sure you bag that cigarette.”

  “Yes Ma'am, I mean Detective.”

  When her spirit left her body, she remembered looking down at her corpse–surely one memory that she would never forget. Her dress was bloodied where the knife had gone into her heart, though she couldn't recall the knife. Stabbed in the heart. Anita put her hand to her chest–odd not having a heartbeat.

  Being dead was so different.

  She had always thought that heaven was one of those made-up things, but now knew it wasn't. Maybe she needed to find the portal? Anita watched as the wind blew a bubble gum wrapper through her foot. “Did you hear me saying that I was killed last night?”

  “Yes, I did.” Michael said it affably and was genuinely sorry that it had happened, but there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing anyone could do. She might eventually end up reincarnated as another person, but her current body was forever lost. It would rot and eventually turn to dust unless cremated, but it made no difference. Her vehicle, so to speak, had been destroyed and there was no going back now. That engine would never turn over again, that heart beyond mending. The knife had been thrust directly into the pulmonary trunk and aorta, almost as if it had been personal. She was doomed before she hit the ground.

  Anita was wearing a beautiful white dress, although now it was translucent, and there was a dark area where the knife had been pushed in by some maniac wearing a ski mask. She thought there might have been two of them as she had fallen. Perhaps Anita had caught a glimpse of the assailants before her eyes closed for that last time, not that it mattered now, but she would like to know the why of it. She remembered the mask. Oh yes, a black mask. Perhaps all the details would return eventually? It was emotionally painful when she attempted to remember.

  That had to have been an awfully sharp pain when the knife thrust into her, at least she thought so. Maybe I was killed by a homeless man but, no, he would have taken my money.

  A lot of the spirits had shaken their heads at the beauty that now lay still, giving her condolences as they walked by, much like friends would do to family members as they passed the coffin in a funeral home. Sorry for your loss. Sorry for your death. The manner in which one woman had shaken her head as she passed was almost as if she blamed Anita for her death, but she never said a word. People continued to judge, even here.

  Time already felt atypical, as if nonexistent. She still couldn't quite grasp some feelings. I don't know if I'll ever get used to this. Anita wouldn't be able to describe it to someone who was alive even if she wanted to do so. She suddenly had a strange thought–if writers wrote book
s in heaven they would be fascinating, especially the ones based on what it's like here. What was Mark Twain writing these days? Or had he been reincarnated?

  A civil war soldier nodded to her. He was wearing a blue Union uniform and whispered that he was sorry. Why he was in this area, she didn't know. Much too soon for her to know much about being dead; this was a new existence now. Those poor bastards who didn't believe in anything were in for a shock, going through life thinking that that was the whole kit and caboodle. Her father liked to say kit and caboodle a lot. Poor Dad is liable to drop dead from the shock. Why would someone want to kill me? I've never hurt anyone, not intentionally anyway.

  Anita wondered what happened to murderers when they passed. Terrorists? The thought of it made her shake her head. Maybe this was just a way station, and someone would come and get her?

  She attempted to pick up the cigarette butt, but couldn't. And that simple act frustrated her–talk about feeling inconsequential. Death had taken her, but Anita wasn't ready to be here. She sighed and even that felt different.

  Anita noticed her lightness of being, no body to lug around, not that she had been overweight. There was no heft to a spirit. Perhaps she was now pure energy? Anita remained herself–sure didn't know all the answers to all the questions as some people claimed after they had a near-death experience.

  The thought that the soul was eternal was indeed mind blowing.

  A male ghost who appeared to be sixteen or seventeen stood beside the female, Detective Olivia Brown, sticking his tongue out and making faces at her. He then looked down at Anita's body appreciatively, thinking what a shame it had been. He thought she looked like she should have been on the cover of some glamour magazine. Perhaps the best-looking woman he had ever seen. Gorgeous, he thought.

  “Yes, I heard,” interrupted Michael, a middle-aged gentleman who had been reading a Dean Koontz novel. “Murdered last night.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but life had always been unappreciated by some, taking it as easy as swatting a mosquito. He thought perhaps a thousand years from now people would learn not to kill one another, but he doubted it. That would be like expecting a lion not to kill a zebra, he supposed. Deep inside there remained that instinct to kill. It is fortunate most didn't act upon it, or every argument might end up with a body on the ground. There are too many corrupt people in the world–liars, and pretenders. Everyone wanted something they didn't need or deserve. Some of the rich were some of the worst: destroy the air and the water for a million or two, and after their life ends the destruction remains. Incredible how one person can initiate so much destruction. Quite the rotten stew, he thought.