Dead Investigations: An Afterlife Adventures Novel, #8

By Jordaina Sydney Robinson

Bridget Sway has been dead for seven years. She and her best friend, Sabrina, are running a wildly successful private detective agency. She gets to wear what she wants, eat what she wants, she's even made peace with her communal living situation. Everything is … perfect.

 

And yet, once again, Bridget is drowning in dissatisfaction. The problem? No one is murdering anyone. Their days are filled with infidelity cases and not much else. So when a client's potentially cheating husband goes missing, Bridget and Sabrina jump at the chance to do something different. And that's when Bridget's dream of finding a dead body comes true. 

 

But it's been several years since their last murder case and they're a little out of practice. Add in the shadowy forces of IA sabotaging them, Detective Johnson pursuing his undying vendetta against them and Bridget's ex-fiancé getting in the way, and suddenly investigating a murder is a lot more dangerous that Bridget remembered. 

 

Afterlife Adventures Series:

#1 Beyond Dead
#2 Dead and Buried
#3 A Little More Dead
#4 Still Dead
#5 Utterly Dead
#6 Dead Completely
#7 Unexpectedly Dead
#8 Dead Investigations

 

In the same universe:

An Aurora North Exposé:

#1 The Theatre Production Murders
#2 The Murder Mystery Murders
#3 The Scorned Lover Murders
#4 The Museum Exhibit Murders

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shark Week Deadly Publishing
• Release date: Jun 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215799864

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

"You know, when I started the detective agency, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind." I shifted around on the stone bench to find a position that was both comfortable and unobtrusive. A position that would unnumbify my poor bum and yet appear casual if our quarry looked my way. If our quarry ever got here, that was.

And that’s another thing, I said. "I don’t see why we had to get here twenty minutes early. The wife said eight. Why couldn’t we have gotten here just before that?"

"We did get here just before eight because you spent those twenty minutes arranging your hair under that hat. Sabrina’s voice hissed through my earphones. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve missed them."

"It has to look right, I said. Anyone can wear a hat, but pulling it off is an art. And we haven’t missed them."

How do you know?

"First. We got here before eight. Second. If we had missed them that would mean we could call it a night and I’m just not that lucky." I looked over my shoulder and admired the dark beach behind me. The way the lights from the shoreline twinkled in the rippling water.

You’re looking in the wrong direction. You’re supposed to be waiting for someone.

I turned back and scanned the south cliffs to try to identify which shrub Sabrina was sitting in.

"And that’s another thing, if I had arranged to meet someone and they hadn’t shown up by now, I’d have left."

You’ve not even been waiting five minutes.

Tardiness is unacceptable.

Well, let’s pretend you’re playing a character who is happy to wait.

No one is happy to wait, I muttered and scanned the cliffs again. Which shrub is you?

I’m not going to tell you because you have no poker face. She sounded pleased with herself. I assumed that was because I couldn’t pick out her shrub.

I scanned the cliffs a third time, this time going shrub by shrub. I really couldn’t see her. It made me wonder if she’d changed her hiding place for somewhere more comfortable and hadn’t told me.

She was supposed to be sitting high up on the south cliffs of Scarborough so she could see into the beautiful Spa Ballroom from above, while I was sitting across the road on the wildly uncomfortable stone bench of the seawall that ran all the way around the outside.

They were called the south cliffs, but it was more like a grassy slope, with a couple of narrow roads cut into it and very little in the way of shrubbery to hide in. And it was called the Spa Ballroom, but it was actually an outdoor space in the shape of a half circle. The outer edge was ringed with pillars and a bandstand stood at the apex of the half circle. The floor was tiled in the type of white and black check pattern that made you dizzy if you looked at it while walking across it.

I sighed again and reached up to adjust my fringe, but stopped short. It had taken several attempts to get it neatly tucked under my hat in a way I was happy with. I’d borrowed it from my housemate Pam who had a variety of wide-brimmed straw summer hats. Sabrina had pooh-poohed it at first because it was such a dramatic statement hat, but I had fire engine red hair, so my argument was that the hat was actually better camouflage. She’d relented. And when she hadn’t been looking I’d added a pair of oversized sunglasses.

What time is he supposed to be here? I asked.

"The wife said the note she found said 8pm. Which I know you know because not only were you there when she said that, but you literally just said we were twenty minutes early. Which we weren’t."

Do you think I have time to tunnel home and get a cushion?

Tunnelling was the ghost version of transport. You simply thought about where you wanted to go and then you appeared there. At least, that was how it worked after several years of practice. Most of the time. When you were learning, it felt like you were being dragged backward through the never-ending drum of a washing machine. Like those spinning tubes you ran through at fun houses. But the un-fun version.

Once you managed to get the hang of it, it was a lot smoother. Mostly. I was seven years dead and, honestly, there were times I still had the washing machine experience. Not quite as often as I used to, but still more often than I’d have liked.

She growled in my ear. I swear. If you move …

I’ll be two seconds.

Yeah, and what happens when our hubby arrives and you’re sitting there, staring into the ballroom in that decidedly not-casual manner, on a cushion?

He won’t notice.

"Of course he’ll notice. If he’s cheating, he’s going to be suspicious of everyone."

"I’m uncomfortable."

"Yeah? Well, I've had a branch poking me in the boob for the past fifteen minutes, but I’m not complaining, am I?"

You’ve been sitting there for fifteen minutes with a branch poking you in the boob? I asked. That can’t be healthy. I know we’re dead, but still. You should move. Who knows what the consequences of that might be? You might develop a permanently dinted boob.

Yeah. Because that’s a thing.

"How do you know? Have you been dead before? No. You have no idea what the consequences could be."

The consequences of being dead?

"No. Of the branch to the boob. I frowned at a distant shrub that might or might not have contained Sabrina. Are you being purposely obtuse?"

You’re frowning at the wrong shrub.

Says you, I muttered. "And that’s another thing about cheaters. If you’re worried and suspicious of everyone while you’re cheating, why cheat? Why not just break it off with the current victim you’re dating and be free to destroy your mistress’s life? I mean, it’s not—is that him? I asked as a middle-aged man appeared in the centre of the ballroom. I think that’s him."

Yeah. It is. Sabrina sounded distracted. I assumed she was making a note of his arrival time. She documented everything on these stakeouts. It was equally impressive and throughly dull.

"You know, that’s another thing I don’t understand about this rendezvous. Why would you arrange to meet out here? In this very wide open and exposed place? I said. Surely if you wanted to cheat on your wife, you’d be a little furtive about it. Just out of respect. You’d try to be a little discreet."

Maybe this was the woman’s idea. Sabrina suggested. Her voice was muffled, so I assumed she was watching with the binoculars. Maybe she wanted to meet out here.

"Sure. And next you’ll be saying maybe she doesn’t know he’s married."

Sabrina sighed. Bridge. Come on.

Come on, what?

"Please. Please, not again."

Not again what?

"And can you at least try to hide the fact you’re talking to someone?"

I gestured to him with an open palm. "The man’s back is to me and I clearly have earphones in."

And how many dead people do you know have earphones?

Maybe he’ll think I’m a livie. He has no way to tell. I watched the potentially cheating hubby wait patiently in the same spot. He didn’t look around him like you would if you were waiting for someone. He shuffled on the spot, facing the cliffs and waited. Does something about this strike you as off?

About a man cheating on his wife? Sadly, no.

"No. About this. About this whole thing." I angled my head as if that would give me a different perspective on the situation.

Our cheating husband was in his late forties, standing in the middle of the ballroom floor, checking his watch, shuffling from foot to foot. A car backfired a little way down the promenade and he turned to look.

I caught a glimpse of his profile. He wasn’t bad looking for a middle-aged man. His trim physique filled his crease-free grey jumpsuit adequately and the colour suited his tanned face. Grey peppered his neatly trimmed beard and neatly cut dark hair. Neat. That was a good descriptor for him. I mean, his jumpsuit wasn’t creased even after a full day’s work. Everything about him was neat. Tidy. In order. Except for the shuffling. And the cheating.

"About what whole thing?" Sabrina asked.

What? I’d been too busy cataloging his features to remember what we were talking about.

"You said something was off about this whole thing. What whole thing?"

Oh. I gestured to him now his back was to me again. "This whole thing."

Stop pointing to him, Sabrina hissed. Honestly. It’s like you’ve never been on a stakeout before. You gesture at him again. I’m going to come down there and cut your arms off.

"Right, because that would draw less attention than me gesturing."

I’d do it quietly.

Yes, I’m sure you’re a very efficient maimer. But to get back on topic, look at him. The longer I watched him, the more I thought there was something repetitive and rhythmic about his movement. That’s not how you stand and wait for your bit on the side.

Sabrina sighed. Bridge, if this is going to turn into another rant about Michael-the-cheating-scumbag and—

"It could and I would be well within my rights to rant about that, but stop being annoyed at me for a moment and actually look at him." I was about to gesture to him again, but pulled my hand short and adjusted my hat instead. I was pretty sure Sabrina hadn’t been serious about maiming me, but I figured it was best not to push it.

Is he— Sabrina paused. Is that—

What?

"It is. Front-side-front. Back-side-back. It’s the rumba. It’s the basic rumba steps."

So, what? He and his trollop are going to dance around the ballroom? Like, randomly? I said. "I don’t know why, but that strikes me as worse than them just sleeping together."

"You have to stop referring to all these women as trollops. Just because—is that her?" Sabrina asked as a woman in her early twenties appeared.

The girl’s mousy brown hair had been secured in a French braid and she wore pastel pink leggings and an oversized grey jumper. I’d have thought she was dressed for a night in front of the TV except for her footwear. Black leather three-inch heels with a t-bar strap.

She nodded to our cheating husband, but made no move to approach him. He nodded back with extreme politeness and made no move to approach her either.

I guess not. Sabrina said. I’m taking a photo of her, anyway.

I don’t think it’s her. She’s almost half his age and look at the way she’s dressed.

Not all of us can be fashion icons.

"I don’t appreciate the sarcasm because I think I’m totally pulling this hat off, I snipped, but that’s not what I meant. He’s doing the rumba shuffle. She’s teamed that outfit with those shoes. They have that awkward familiarity of someone you see regularly, but don’t really know. And they’re both hanging around. I think they’re waiting for a dance class. I think this is a dance class."

I love how you just plucked that from the air. Wouldn’t that be nice? He’s not cheating, he’s learning to dance.

"Or this is where he meets his trollop."

Really?

What? I picked a shrub on the cliffs at random and shrugged at it.

"You know, my favourite thing about you is your positive outlook on life."

You know we’re dead, right?

Are you about to launch into another diatribe about how Michael-the-cheating-scumbag killed you with his infidelity?

A diatribe? I repeated. "That’s a little harsh. And his infidelity did kill me."

No, the bus killed you.

But—

We’re in the middle of a job. Can we keep the existential crisis until later?

Existential crisis?

"Yeah. When you talk about how utterly pointless our lives—afterlives are."

You don’t think our afterlives are a little bit pointless? I asked.

I think our afterlives are the same as our lives. But longer. You get out what you put in.

"Well, all we’re putting in right now is catching cheaters. It’s been seven years. Seven. Sev. Ven. And all we’re doing are infidelity cases? We’re still doing infidelity cases? This is what we’re doing with our eternal afterlife? Spying on scumbag cheaters? This is the sum of our experience as afterlife private investigators? This is all we’re worthy of? This groundhog day of infidelity?"

Sabrina sighed. "I say this with love and a little bit of annoyance. You really need to find peace with the fact your fiancé cheated on you. Yes, he’s a bad person. Yes, she’s a bad person. Yes, I wish them all the worst possible torments ever conceived. But it’s been seven years. Seven. Sev. Ven. That has nothing to do with this."

"But he killed me. His infidelity—"

Please, Sabrina begged, Please, not this again.

But—

"No. Just no. To everything you’re about to say. No, he didn’t kill you. The bus that hit you killed you. And the bus hit you because you didn’t look both ways when crossing the road. Your fault."

"Yeah, but only after I found him cheating with The Trollop. His fault."

Okay. I’m making a command decision. No more infidelity cases for you. For the sake of your sanity and mine.

Great. I guess I'll just sit around the office and watch the seconds of my afterlife tick by instead. I rested the back of my head against the wall, staring up at the stars. "Which is the most futile thing ever since the afterlife is eternal. It’s not even like I can watch the seconds tick by to my eventual demise. They’ll just tick on in an endless loop. I drew a circle in the air above me. On and on and on and on and on in an endless loop of cheating spouses."

"If you don’t stop acting like such a drama queen, I’ll happily end that loop for you."

I stared at the cliffs. Aren’t you tired of this?

"Your complaining? Yes. Very much."

No. The inconsequential cases. The nothing cases. The cheating spouses. The never-ending parade of cheating spouses. I sighed and readjusted my fringe tucked beneath the sunhat even though I knew I shouldn’t. Do you know I can’t remember the last time I found a dead body?

"Is that what this is about?" Sabrina asked.

"I’m just bored of this stuff. I groaned and waved a hand in the direction of the bandstand. I’m bored of sitting in shrubbery, or car parks, or alleyways trying to catch cheaters. News flash: if you’re so sure that your spouse is cheating that you want to hire a private investigator to catch them, then they probably are cheating and you should call a solicitor instead. And if they’re not cheating, then you have much bigger problems in your relationship than their potential infidelity."

So—

"And, yes. Admittedly, all the infidelity cases do bring back the fact that Michael-the-cheating-scumbag cheated on me and caused my death—"

He didn’t cause your death.

But honestly, I’ve moved past that—

Clearly.

"No, I have. I had. I was. Until I started spending all my time trying to catch cheaters. At first, it was great. Like, an indirect revenge on Michael-the-cheating-scumbag in a way. But now? Seven years in? Doing the same things. Taking the same cases over and over. I blew out a breath and reached to adjust my fringe again. I didn’t like that the hat was covering it. It was my security blanket. I dropped my hand and slouched. I feel like I’m stuck at the place—I’m stuck where my life ended. Every day we deal with cheaters and every day it’s a reminder that my life ended because I found Michael-the-cheating-scumbag cheating on me. I had my hand up in the general direction of the cliffs to stop her argument before she could say anything. I know. You’re going to remind me I walked in front of a bus, but I was only not paying attention because of Michael-the-cheating-scumbag. And I know that doesn’t technically mean he killed me. And honestly, I really was okay with that whole thing. We were moving forward. Starting a whole new and exciting business. I was starting to feel like I’d found my place. But now, every day we do this. Every day we’re out here trying to catch cheaters and I feel like I’m anchored to that day. Like I’m stuck in this time loop and I can’t move forward."

Sabrina’s voice was soft in my ear. Why didn’t you say this before?

I did.

"No, you complained about everything else."

It was between the lines.

"Feeling like you’re stuck in a time loop of the day you died is not what’s written between the lines of complaining about the lack of good quality tea and that you don’t like sitting in shrubbery."

Are you sure? I asked. "Because I feel like that’s exactly what’s written on those lines."

It’s not. Look, how about we catch this cheating scumbag then sneak into a late showing of some excessively violent action film? We’ll get popcorn and chocolate and cheesy nachos and whatever other junk food we can find and carry and—

And then tomorrow get back to catching cheaters?

"It’s a big part of the job. There’s no getting around that. Admittedly, I didn’t expect it to be such a big part of the job in the afterlife, but I guess people are people, whether they’re dead or alive. And since there are no missing people or those types of things, this is all there is."

"There has to be more than this. There has to be. This can’t be the only ‘crime’ available to us. Maybe we should branch out and include different services."

Like what?

I don’t know. I was thinking about making the rounds again. Visiting some more GA meetings. Maybe venturing a little further out than Scarborough. Letting people know we’re here. Maybe ask them what they need.

That’s a great idea, Sabrina agreed, but I could tell she was humouring me. And, if I were going to be honest with myself, she was right.

All the induction leaders told the newly transitioned about our private investigations business thanks to my contacts in the Afterlife Arrivals department. I’d sat in on one of the inductions. And while I didn’t think it was the smartest move to explain who we were sandwiched between the explanation of who the Ghosting Busters were, the über police of the afterlife, and what to expect from their Ghostly Acclimatisation, or GA, meetings, at least they were telling people about us.

You’re not about to up and change jobs again, right? Sabrina asked.

And go back to working for The Man? Er, no thank you.

I could understand her worry, though. In the first few months of my afterlife, I’d sampled a whole slew of different jobs until, with the help of Officer Leonard, a very friendly GB, and my parole officer, I’d been able to set up a new business. It was practically unheard of in the afterlife. But once again, the sluggish sensation of dissatisfaction was creeping over me.

At least this time it had taken seven years instead of the usual seven days. So, that was progress.

Sure?

Yeah. I sighed. What would I do, anyway? Open a bakery?

Sabrina scoffed. "Not with your customer service skills."

"There’s nothing wrong with my customer service skills."

The day you died, the day you went home early and caught Michael-the-cheating-scumbag, didn’t you get fired for slapping the mother-of-the-bride?

Okay. Now, wait a minute because she had it coming.

I don’t doubt that, Sabrina agreed easily. "Just probably not from the wedding planner."

"Rehashing my very, very few mistakes in life is not going to help our current situation."

What will? What will make you feel better?

I sighed. I just want more people to kill each other, so we have something fun to investigate. Is that too much to ask? Is that so wrong?

I mean … kinda, yeah. How about—if this guy turns out to be a cheater—I let you tell our client that her husband’s cheating? Sabrina asked. If you phrase it just right, you might be able to incite her to murder.

What good would that do me? I sighed. If he turns up dead, we already know who did it?

Fair point, Sabrina conceded. And there’s probably a sort of ethical violation with that, anyway.

More dance students. I nodded to the ballroom as if she couldn’t see from her perch. Did you know anything about dance lessons?

"Did I know there was such a thing as dance lessons?"

"No. Did you know there were dance lessons in the afterlife? I clarified. I didn’t know there were dance lessons. I only knew there was work and therapy. With wildly unqualified therapists."

Is Oz still making you go?

Not on the occasions I can get out of it.

In addition to the hubby and the French Braid Girl, there was now a blond guy, athletically built and in his late twenties, chatting to the potentially cheating hubby. There were standing side by side while facing the open ballroom and their backs to me. From what I could see, their body language implied they were more acquaintances than friendly, so he wasn’t the trollop.

A redhead in her mid-thirties, clad in a head-to-toe black leotard, accessorised with a push-up bra, black spiked stilettos and a blood red wraparound skirt, was doing exaggerated ballet moves a little away from the group just in case she didn’t already have everyone’s attention.

A blonde girl watched the redhead from the far side of the ballroom, cataloging her moves and moving along with her, albeit with very minimal movement, as if she were learning from the other girl. She occasionally checked what the others were doing, maybe because she thought they might have different moves, but mostly focused on the redhead.

Looks like you were right, Sabrina said.

What? What was that? I didn’t hear you. I tapped my earphones. Could you say it again?

Shut up.

You shut up, I mumbled and shuffled slightly to the side to get a good look at the newest arrival.

A bald guy in his late sixties in grey jogging pants a white T-shirt, who grinned and waved happily at the others before approaching the redhead. I thought she was going to be mean to him, but instead she pirouetted into his arms and they waltzed around the ballroom, smiling and laughing while the others watched.

Old guy’s got some moves. Sabrina sounded