CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jenna’s office felt too small to her this morning, the walls too close, her desk too cluttered with unanswered questions. She took a long sip of coffee from her mug, the bitter warmth doing little to soothe a lingering unease that had followed her since waking this morning.
Across from her, Jake sat with his own mug of coffee, his eyes meeting hers with the quiet understanding that had become the foundation of their partnership.
“You look like you barely slept,” he commented.
“That obvious, huh?”
“Just to people who know you.”
Jenna didn’t feel at all ready for the morning’s agenda—a 10:00 a.m. meeting at Calloway House, to be attended by the nine people who still resided there, the mayor, and the six-member city council. Boyd Calloway planned it—apparently to reassure everyone about the safety of Calloway House.
Jenna set her mug down and straightened a stack of papers on her desk. Then, needing to move, she stood, crossed to the window, and adjusted the blinds, letting in more light.
“I had a dream,” she said, still facing the window. “Another lucid one. Dad was there. He said he’d found Piper.”
Jake stood too, coming around to her side of the desk. Not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.
“That’s good news, isn’t it?” he asked.
“I thought so. But he couldn’t explain how or where he’d found her. And then everything changed. The space went dark, and someone else was there.”
“Who?”
“Pete Shannon.”
“The coal baron? From the 1800s?”
“That’s the one. He actually built Calloway House—back when it was still Shannon House. He told me not to believe in ghosts.”
“Hm,” Jake said. “That’s odd advice, coming from a ghost.”
“That’s what I told him. He said he was talking about ‘ghosts’ that are solid enough to touch.”
Jake was quiet for a moment, processing. “What do you think that means?”
“I don’t know what it means. I didn’t understand what Dad was trying to tell me, and I didn’t understand what Pete Shannon was saying either.” She shook her head and added, “Sometimes my dreams are too frustrating to do much good.”
Jenna turned and put her hand on his arm, resisting the urge to drop her head onto his shoulder. Then she moved away and back to her desk chair. Jake took his usual seat on the other side of that desk.
“I just wish I understood what Shannon was trying to tell me,” Jenna said a bit bitterly. “Why show up at all, if only to talk in riddles??”
“Maybe he’s trying to help,” Jake suggested. “In his own, cryptic way.”
Jenna smiled despite herself. “Cryptic is typical of many of those who appear in my dreams, but I have to wonder if this one might have been intentionally devious.”
“Either way, my guess would be that Pete Shannon’s appearance last night is just one more sign that Donna Marsh’s death was not an accident.”
"You're probably right," she acknowledged. "And we have a meeting to get to about that very issue." She was gathering her things—notebook, pen, the file on Donna Marsh's death- when her phone rang. The display showed Mayor Claire Simmons' name.
Jenna exchanged a look with Jake before answering. “Sheriff Graves,” she said, putting the call on speaker.
“Jenna,” the mayor’s voice came through, clipped and efficient. “I need you and Deputy Hawkins to stop by my office before heading to Calloway House.”
“What’s going on?” Jenna asked, though she had a sinking feeling she already knew.
“Better if I talk with you in person. Five minutes?” Without waiting for a response, the mayor hung up.
Jenna slipped the phone into her pocket and grabbed her keys from the desk. “Guess we’re making a detour.”
Jake was already moving toward the door. “Any idea what that’s about?”
Jenna thought of the dream, of Pete Shannon’s warning. “My guess is, she wants to make sure I’m not going to stir up any trouble at the meeting by saying there’s been a murder.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Probably say there’s been a murder.”
As they left the office, the dream, the upcoming meeting, the mayor’s cryptic call—all of it churned in Jenna’s mind as they walked down the hallway. She glanced sideways at Jake. He caught it and gave her a brief nod, and something in her settled.
*
Mayor Claire Simmons’ office was as immaculate as the woman herself—not a paper out of place, not a speck of dust visible on the polished mahogany desk. She sat with perfect posture, her manicured nails tapping an impatient rhythm on her leather chair as Jenna and Jake entered.
The morning sun caught the edges of her silver-streaked dark hair, giving her an almost regal appearance despite the tension evident in the tight line of her mouth.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” the mayor said, gesturing to the chairs across from her. “I wanted to talk to you before the meeting. There’s been a development—a good one for us.”
Jenna took a seat; Jake took another beside her. “What is it?” she asked.
“I heard from Hugh Bickel this morning.” The mayor’s voice was carefully controlled. “He’s finished his examination of the laundry room where Donna Marsh died.”
Jenna felt a flash of annoyance. Bickel was the private detective Boyd Calloway had hired—pushing aside the official investigation. “And?”
“He’s confident it was an accident.” The mayor reported with a proud smile. “His report is quite thorough. The angle of fall, the position of the body, the lack of defensive wounds—all consistent with someone losing their balance on the stepladder and striking their head.”
Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake. They’d both seen the scene and the report.
Something had felt off about it from the beginning.
But they didn’t have anything concrete to disagree with what sounded like an easy solution.
It was really the visitations she’d gotten from Pete Shannon and Donna Marsh herself that had convinced her that Donna’s death was no accident.
But she couldn’t explain all that to the mayor.
Before Jenna could decide what to reply, her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, seeing Dr. Melissa Stark’s name on the screen.
“I need to take this,” she said. “It’s Dr. Stark about the autopsy.”
The mayor nodded her permission, and Jenna answered.
“Hello Dr. Stark,” she said. “You’re on speaker in the mayor’s office.”
“Jenna,” Dr. Stark’s voice came through, professional but with an undercurrent of tension. “I’m at the morgue. I just got back into Trentville last night. I started Donna Marsh’s autopsy about two hours ago, as you requested.”
“What did you find?”
“There’s no easy way to say this.” A pause, the sound of papers rustling. “The wound to the back of Ms. Marsh’s head is not consistent with a fall from a stepladder.”
The mayor’s eyes widened and Jenna felt Jake tense beside her.
“What are you saying, Doctor?”
“I’m saying she was attacked.” Dr. Stark ‘s voice remained clinical. “The wound shows clear evidence of a hard, sharp object striking from behind with significant force. Based on the contusion pattern and tissue damage, I’d say something like the claw end of a framing hammer.”
A heavy silence fell over the office.
Then Jenna asked, “Are you certain?”
“I’ve sent photos to your email for verification, but yes. The angle is all wrong for a fall—this was a deliberate blow.” Another pause. “I’m still waiting on toxicology, but the apparent cause of death is a traumatic brain injury resulting from that strike.”
The mayor had gone pale, one hand gripping the edge of her desk. “This is—” she started, then stopped, apparently at a loss for words.
“Thank you, Dr. Stark,” Jenna said. “Please email your full report as soon as it’s ready.”
“I will. And Jenna?” The coroner’s voice softened slightly. “Be careful. Whoever did this didn’t want it to look like murder.”
The call ended, leaving the three of them in stunned silence. Jenna slipped the phone back into her pocket.
“Well,” the mayor finally said, her voice uncharacteristically small. “I guess … I mean this seems to change everything.”
“It does,” Jenna agreed quickly. “As you know that Dr. Stark is excellent, one of the top minds available to us.”
“We’ll need to secure the scene again,” Jake added. “Although our chances of finding anything useful have been diminished. And we’ve got to make sure we talk to every resident at Calloway House.”
“Including Boyd Calloway,” Jenna added. She turned to the mayor. “We should still go to the meeting. But the purpose has changed.”
The mayor was already recovering her composure. “Yes, I don’t question her judgement. But we need to proceed carefully. If there’s a killer at Calloway House— “
“Then they might even be at this meeting,” Jake finished.
They all fell silent for a moment. A suspected accident had just become an official murder investigation.
They could be about to walk into a meeting that probably included the killer and reveal what they knew about that very murder.
They’d have to answer questions about their investigation and explain how they planned to prevent another. It was going to be a difficult scene.
“I’ll drive separately,” the mayor said, standing and straightening her suit jacket. “You two go first—as sheriff, you have official business there regardless.”
Jenna agreed, already mentally preparing for what lay ahead. “We’ll see you there.”
As they left the mayor’s office, Jenna felt the familiar surge of focus that came when an investigation took a dramatic turn.
They walked in silence to the parking lot, where Jenna’s patrol car waited. The morning had warmed, the autumn sun bright against the clear blue sky—a stark contrast to the darkness of what they’d just learned.
Jake paused beside the passenger door. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Jenna met his eyes over the roof of the car. “That Boyd Calloway hired Bickel to find exactly what he wanted to hear. And I’m going to have to tell everybody otherwise.”
“And the real killer could be sitting in that meeting, acting just as concerned as everyone else.”
They got in the car and Jenna started the engine, her mind already mapping out the approach to Calloway House, the questions she would ask, the observations she would make.
As they pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward the old mansion with its dark history and darker present, Jenna thought again of her dream—of Pete Shannon’s warning about trusting ghosts.
Whatever happened in the next few hours, one thing was certain: nothing at the luxurious Calloway House was what it seemed.