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did he kill me? Why did he kill my baby?” she whispered and faded into the dark night.
    §
    A formal tea was laid out in the parlor when Mary returned. Susan Ryerson sat stiffly on the edge of a small loveseat, her hands clasped in her lap. Although her body language screamed that she was tense, her smile was welcoming and warm.
    A perfect political wife , Mary thought as she walked across the room and sat directly across from Susan. But would she kill for her husband?
    “Were you able to follow her?” Susan asked, biting her lower lip.
    Mary nodded, helped herself to a cup of tea and sipped slowly. She watched Susan over the rim of her cup. Her granddad had taught her that sometimes you learn more by keeping quiet than by questioning a suspect. As far as she was concerned, Susan Ryerson was still on the list.
    Susan twisted her hands in her lap.
    “Did she say anything?” she asked.
    Mary took her time replacing her cup in the saucer and then met Susan’s eyes. She needed to do some investigation before she mentioned everything she had learned from the ghost – especially the part about the baby.
    “She was murdered,” she stated baldly. “Someone held her under the water until she drowned.”
    Susan tried to cover her gasp and schooled her features into calm. But when she reached for her own cup of tea, her hand was shaking too much to lift the cup. Mary reached across the small table and placed her hand over Susan’s. Susan lifted her head and looked into Mary’s eyes.
    “Do you, does she know…” Susan stumbled.
    “She doesn’t know who killed her and neither do I,” Mary answered. “And I’m not going to draw any conclusions until I get more information.”
    Susan reached for a large manila envelope and handed it to Mary.
    “I pulled the local newspaper archives about her death. At the time everyone thought it was an accidental drowning,” she said, “I never questioned it, until…”
    “Until you saw the ghost for yourself?” Mary added.
    Susan nodded.
    “I also pulled her old personnel record from my husband’s campaign files,” she said, “She was his assistant.”
    Mary nodded, opened the file and glanced through the information.
    “Renee Peterson,” she said, reading from the employment application. “She was born in 1960 – so she would have been about 24 years old when she died.”
    Susan nodded.
    “We all thought it was a shame that such a bright young girl had died,” Susan said.
    Mary watched her start to say something else and then stop.
    “Did you know her very well?” Mary asked.
    Susan shook her head.
    “No. Although I was an active campaign wife, I was also a mother of small children,” she explained. “So, my husband spent most of the time on the campaign – I made whatever trips I could.”
    “And, as his assistant, did she travel with him?”
    Susan took a deep breath.
    “Are you asking me if my husband was involved in an affair with her?” she asked.
    Mary nodded. “Yes, I am.”
    Susan pressed her lips into a firm line.
    “Yes, I believe he was having an affair with her,” she said, “And, quite frankly, I think he was seriously considering leaving me for her. Of course, if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny it.”
    Mary nodded.
    “Our marriage was not going well in those days,” she admitted. “I was deeply involved with our children, trying to be mother and father. Joseph was involved in his career. We didn’t always see eye to eye on things.”
    “So, had he mentioned divorce to you?”
    “No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I could tell there was something going on. And then when they found her body, he was completely devastated. I could tell how deeply he must have loved her.”
    “Didn’t that make you angry?”
    Susan sighed.
    “I was hurt, betrayed, and yes, angry. But I also knew my place had to be at Joseph’s side. It was right after he had won the senate seat,” she explained. “We both had to put on appropriate faces