hadn't seen each other for some time. She hesitated to intrude on their joyful reunion and retreated.
"Better," the ghost said when they were out of earshot. "But you could have pushed a little harder for an identification of Jeff."
"Maybe later. Are you sure you don't see him?" Trace asked.
The ghost shrugged. "Probably looked straight at him several times, but didn't recognize him. How much time have we got?"
"Twenty minutes. More or less."
"Shoot. Better tackle someone else. Right there. Him."
Trace sighed. The thirty-something in the blatantly sexy native American costume, which left most of his gym-honed chest on display, was the type most likely to tie her tongue in knots. "I can't."
"You can."
"I don't have a clue what to say."
The ghost sighed this time. "I'll try to help."
"Just keep it discreet," Trace begged. She approached the half-naked savage and said, "Hi."
"Hello." His tone dripped cool curiosity and interest. "Having a good time tonight?"
She shrugged. "Not yet. Maybe when I find the person I'm looking for."
"Oh? Got someone special in mind or are you taking applications?"
"Er..."
The ghost whispered in her ear. "Had someone in mind, but I'm open to all possibilities. We might be talking multiple slots available here."
She repeated, "Had someone in mind, but I'm open to all possibilities. We might be talking multiple slots available here."
His curiosity devolved into a near-leer. "So. What are your requirements?"
"Um..."
"Test," the ghost prompted.
"You've got to pass the test. Answer a couple of questions."
"Should be do-able. Run them by me."
"For starters, do you know Jeff Stanton?"
Surprised chased both curiosity and interest off his face. "Stanton? What do you want with him? He's slime."
"No he's not!" the ghost protested.
She ignored the ghost's outrage. "He is?"
"Are you new to the area, or did you just get out of the convent? He killed his partner a couple of years ago. In cold blood."
"I thought the jury acquitted him."
"Technicalities. All technicalities. He was guilty."
"How do you know?"
"Listened to the news. Read the papers. Did the math," the psuedo-Indian said.
"Failed the test," the ghost whispered.
Trace decided that line wasn't meant to be repeated. "Have you seen him here tonight?"
"Sure. A friend of mine talked to him just a little while ago."
"Can you point him out to me?"
"Is this part of the test? What do I get for passing?"
"Advance to another level, maybe." She tried to make it sound flirtatious and inviting.
"In that case... You see the guy over there in the Star Wars costume?"
Trace followed the line made by his finger. "I see a Luke Skywalker, an Obi Wan Kenobi and a very unconvincing Darth Vader."
"To the right of Darth Vader. The bounty hunter, I can't remember his name."
"Boba Fett. That's him?"
"That's him."
"I'll be darned," she muttered, almost under her breath. "Thanks."
She glanced at her watch. Five minutes to midnight. She turned and headed toward the figure in the odd helmet, presuming the ghost would follow.
"Jeff Stanton?" she asked when she was almost beside him.
The helmet limited his peripheral vision. His head swung around toward her. "Yes." The voice was muffled but still had the distinctive tone the ghost had mentioned—a brittle, gritty undercast. "Why?"
"I have a message for you. From a friend."
He hesitated for the length of several heartbeats. "Who?"
"David Bellwood."
He stiffened and bent his head toward her. She couldn't see anything of his face, not even the eyes, but there was no mistaking the menace in his stance. "If this is a joke, I hope you were an innocent dupe and not party to it," he said. "I don't have much patience left."
"Not a joke. I'm not kidding. Not crazy, either, though you may wonder when you hear what I've got to say. For a while I wasn't sure about my own sanity. It's his ghost—"
The music stopped suddenly and a bell clanged. "Midnight, everyone," a platinum-blond matriarch proclaimed from the microphone on the band dais.
Laughs and cheers erupted as people removed masks. Trace threw back the hood of her robe and removed the black mask over her face. She finger-combed her brown hair back into place.
After a few minutes' hesitation, Stanton took off the helmet, revealing a youngish, careworn face topped by short-clipped blond hair. "I wasn't planning to be here for this," he said. "No one wants to see my face."
"Actually, I don't mind it," Trace said. "It's not bad."
"Oh, dear, there goes that tact thing again," the ghost whispered from behind her.
"Shut up," Trace told him, then had to hastily apologize to Stanton. "Not you. Your friend's ghost. He's being a pain in the neck."
"That sounds like David, all right. But, if he's here, why won't he show himself to me?"
"Can't," the ghost answered. "Not a case of 'showing oneself.' A person sees and hears me or he doesn't. You can," he said to Trace. "Most can't. Pass it on to him. Remind him he still owes me a fiver for the bet on the Super Bowl two years ago."
Trace relayed his words to Stanton. When she got to the part about the bet his eyes narrowed. "How did you know about that? No one else..."
"He told me."
Stanton shook his head, but he was wrestling with it. "What was the message?" he asked after a few minutes of silent debate.
"Actually he wanted to ask a question first."
The man's eyebrows rose but he shrugged and said, "Go ahead."
"About a week before David's death, someone came to you and told you that he was shaky on some of David's investments. Who was it?"
Suspicion flashed across Stanton's face again. "What is it you want, lady? Who put you up to this?"
"Remind him that he thought Manning couldn't pull it off," the ghost said.
Trace reminded him. Stanton sighed and said, "Okay. Let me think a minute."
The ghost shook his head. "Tell him to think quick. People will be leaving soon."
She didn't have to, though. Stanton came up with the answer.
"Marshall. Sam Marshall. I wasn't sure what had gotten into him, so I ignored it."
"So, it was Marshall," the ghost muttered. "Tell him about the file," he urged Trace.
"He said to tell you to look in the file marked 'rejects.' You'll find a good reason for Marshall to want to kill him."
Stanton's brown eyes almost burned a hole through her, but he wasn't really seeing her. "Do you know what it is?"
"Proof," the ghost said. "Marshall was gambling with money that wasn't his."
"I hope you're right about that," Stanton said after Trace relayed the information. "It would explain a few things."
"Look, he's leaving." The ghost pointed to a group of people heading for the door.
"So?" Trace asked. "Who's leaving?"
"Marshall. Tell Jeff to try to have a word with him."
"Why?" Stanton asked her.
"I don't know, that's just what he said," Trace answered.
"What do I say?" Stanton asked.
"Ask Marshall whether he's straightened out the O'Connor estate," the ghost suggested.
Stanton looked a bit dazed once she'd relayed the request, but he didn't argue it. With Trace and the ghost right behind him, he pushed his way through the crowd heading for the door, until he was close enough to call out, "Sam? Sam Marshall?" and have the man stop and turn to face him.
Trace recognized the first man she'd talked to that evening, the attractive middle-aged Robin Hood who was there with his wife. She didn't see any wifely-looking types nearby.
"You knew," she said to the ghost. "
You pushed me toward him, when you knew he was probably the man who'd killed you."
"So? He wasn't likely to do anything to a young woman he'd never met before in front of two hundred-plus witnesses."
"Still, you might have warned me."
The ghost managed a crooked grin. "You fumbled that whole thing badly enough, love. Think what you'd have done if you'd known about him."
"Not a good excuse," she told him.
"All in the cause of justice," the ghost responded.
Meanwhile, Jeff Stanton had apparently passed the ghost's words on to Marshall. Trace turned back toward them in time to see Marshall go deathly pale. "What do you know about the O'Connor estate?" he asked Stanton.
"All I need to."
Marshall's next word was barely a whisper, and he struggled to get it out. "How?"
"Found some things in my late partner's files."
"But he said—" Marshall stopped abruptly and his eyes widened in surprise. He clutched at his chest. "He couldn't have. I made sure—" The man collapsed suddenly, folding up like an abandoned puppet.
A number of people noticed as he fell and several knelt to help while others stood around and gawked. Stanton backed away, taking Trace's arm to pull her gently along with him.
"What happened?" she asked. "Did he—?"
"Looked like a heart attack to me," Stanton answered. "Did your ghost know that would happen?"
"Can't predict the future," the ghost answered. "Can't say I'm mourning for him, either."
Stanton's brown eyes showed more mixed emotions. "I don't know how I feel about it yet. I think I'm in shock, too." He looked at Trace. "I don't even know your name."
"Trace Handley. Theresa Handley to be precise, but I like Trace better."
"Trace," he acknowledged. "Why did you do this? What do you get out of it?"
"I just bought your late partner's townhouse from his estate. I don't like sharing it with him. He said if I'd come here and deliver this message, he'd be able to move on and leave me in peace."
Stanton's eyebrows rose and a smile broke across his