Ghost Flower

by Michele Jaffe

  There was a longer than natural silence. I could tell Bridgette was composing and discarding comment after comment. “Did the ghost appear?” she asked finally.

  “No, there was no sign of a ghost.” I wobbled from the slope toward the bottom end of the trail, which I remembered was mercifully flat all the way to the parking lot. What had been wind on top was a faint, soft breeze down here, barely enough to take the edge off the hot sun.

  “Where are you going next and when will you be home?” Bridgette asked.

  I felt like a marionette controlled by a jittery child—gangly knees and jerky elbows as I tried to pull off my jacket and walk upright while talking on the phone. In front of me I saw the sign that marked the entrance between the path and the still empty parking lot. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. I think—”

  I forgot whatever I was going to say, and the phone dropped from my hand. On the back of the sign someone had written in six-inch-high dusty red letters, “BE CAREFUL, RORO.”

  I heard Bridgette’s voice from the phone on the ground, but it seemed a long way away and unimportant. All I could focus on was the message. Like a scientist encountering a new species and wanting to make sure it was real, I reached out to touch the first R of Ro-ro. It brushed right off beneath my fingers, and disappeared into dust.

  I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

  If it was that delicate, the message couldn’t have been there long, I thought. It wouldn’t have lasted. Which meant someone had been there while we were at Three Lovers Point. Someone (but no one knew we were going there) had come and written this (we didn’t hear any car pull up), and there was a reasonable explanation (Huck had come down and not seen it). It had to be a prank, a joke—

  Right there, before my eyes, the R began to rewrite itself.

  No, I thought. This can’t be happening. I stared, mesmerized as centimeter by centimeter, the R that I’d brushed away rematerialized from nothing.

  “Liza,” I whispered. “Are you here?”

  A breeze caressed my cheek, and I heard a low whimper, followed by an earsplitting scream.

  CHAPTER 32

  At first I thought I was the one who had screamed, but it was actually Coralee. I’d been so enthralled by the sign that I hadn’t realized that she and her crew had joined me.

  “Did you see that?” she asked them urgently. “Did you get that, the letter being written by an invisible hand?”

  Grant shook his head. “We were too far away and it was too—”

  “Do it again. We have to do it again,” she said, frantic. She looked at me. “Make it happen again.”

  “I don’t know—”

  Not waiting for me to finish, Coralee reached out and erased the B with her hand, then stepped back.

  Nothing happened. It stayed erased.

  Then, as we watched, each of the letters began to disintegrate in turn, as though being brushed off by someone we couldn’t see, until there was no sign of the message left.

  “She must be gone. She was here, and now she’s gone,” Coralee said, her voice high-pitched and confused. She rounded on me and pointed a finger at my chest. “She did this for you.” Her tone was half-accusation, half-disbelief. She was clearly upset.

  “Maybe that was all she had time for,” I said to soothe her. “Maybe she only has limited power.”

  “That’s right,” Coralee said, more to herself than anyone else. “That must be right. And the important thing is, now we have proof. Proof that this ghost exists.” She stopped like she’d just realized what she’d said. “We did it. We have proof.”

  The sound of sirens approaching brightened her up even more. “This is the part where the authorities try to explain it away. Grant, make sure you get every word.”

  “I’m going to leave,” I said.

  “O-M-Good one,” Coralee said, sounding like her old self. “You can’t go anywhere. You’re a prime witness. You were the first one down here to see it.”

  Coralee was right—there was no way I could get around it. At least a warning like this should make the police stop suspecting Aurora of having killed Liza.

  Or so I thought.

  Detective Ainslie, accompanied by N. Martinez, arrived on the scene first. They questioned Grant, Coralee, and Huck but not me. “I’ll be questioning Aurora with her lawyer and the rest of the Silvertons at her home,” Detective Ainslie explained. The look N. Martinez shot her made me think that there was more going on than simply asking me what I’d seen.

  I stood by the burgundy unmarked Ford sedan and observed the forensics team swarming over the sign and the surrounding area. I knew it was hot because everyone was in short sleeves, but I was freezing. I kept replaying what I’d seen in my mind, first the letter R writing itself, then the way all the letters had vanished, leaving no trace, only moments later.

  BE CAREFUL, RORO. Of what? I wanted to know. Of whom?

  I watched Detective Ainslie talk to Huck while N. Martinez inter-viewed Coralee. I found myself wondering if he thought Coralee was pretty, if she was his type. She kept surreptitiously urging Grant to film, and N. Martinez kept openly telling him to turn the camera off. But he seemed more amused than annoyed, and at one point, when I saw him swallow an involuntary laugh, I felt a pang of pure, potent jealousy.

  Idiot, I told myself.

  I was trying to gauge his reaction to Coralee’s resting a finger on his knee when I looked up and saw Grant approaching. “It’s nice to know some things don’t change,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was never a dull moment around you before, and there isn’t one now. Of course, this is the first ghost.”

  “I like to keep things—”

  Before I could finish what I was saying, he did the most remarkable thing. He reached for me and pulled me to him, and his mouth came over mine, soft, sweet, and warm.

  I sighed.

  He cupped the back of my head in his hand and tilted it back, kissing the corners of my lips, then gently slid his tongue between them. The tip of my tongue found his, and as he brought his mouth down harder on mine I nipped at his lower lip with my teeth.

  He gave a low, throaty groan that made me shiver and gathered me to his chest, so my head was cradled under his chin, and said, “Man, I should have done that last night.”

  My cheek rested against a firm, round shoulder. “I thought you didn’t want to. Because you thought I was—”

  “Because I thought you were wonderful,” he interrupted, tilting his neck to bring his lips to my ear. “I always have. And I’ve always been intimidated.” He pulled away slightly, so he was looking into my eyes. “But I lost you once. I don’t want to lose you again.”

  For a moment I wrapped myself in his eyes, his kiss, his words. Then I realized I wasn’t the girl he was talking to, and I felt a sharp stab of guilt. It wasn’t me he felt this way about; I wasn’t really the one he thought was wonderful. Was it fair for me to let him think I was?

  Especially since when he’d been kissing me, when I closed my eyes, he wasn’t the person I’d been imagining kissing either.

  “Your heart is racing,” he said.

  “Yeah. It’s—it’s been a long time since I’ve been kissed.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Detective Ainslie approaching. Which meant N. Martinez was probably close by as well.

  I pulled out of Grant’s arms. “I think my ride is coming,” I said, tipping my chin toward the police.

  “Yeah, I should get back to the boss.” He kept his eyes on mine. “I’ll call you later.”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  He gave me a little salute and turned and pivoted, and I turned and was looking right up at N. Martinez.

  He didn’t say a word, just opened the door of the car for me. I felt like I owed him an explanation for something, but I had no idea what. Or why. God, he was annoying.

  “Thank you,” I said, getting into the car.

  “Since we’re not suppos
ed to talk to you without your lawyer present, it would be best if you didn’t speak,” he said.

  “Sure, okay. It’s just—”

  He looked at me curiously as though wondering how I could fail to grasp simple rules. Gritting my teeth, I nodded and shut the car door.

  When we arrived at Silverton House, we found the entire Family waiting for us in the dining room. Uncle Thom was at one end, with three empty seats beside him. Detective Ainslie and I took seats, but N. Martinez assumed a station behind me, beside the wall, where I couldn’t see him.

  The questions began sensibly. “What were you doing up at Three Lovers Point?”

  “After the séance, Coralee became convinced that the ghost was real, and she wanted to see if we could make it come out.”

  “Did you believe the ghost was real?”

  “I didn’t then,” I said.

  Detective Ainslie cocked her head to one side. “And now?”

  I spoke without thinking, being more honest than I’d meant to be. “I don’t know what to think. I saw the message on the sign. There was no one around, and no one could have written it. And when I erased part of it, it came right back. Like—” I swallowed. “Like someone invisible was writing it. How could that happen?”

  “Our lab will figure it out, of course, but it could be faster if you just told us what you did.”

  I stared at her silently, trying to make sense of what she’d said. Fortunately Uncle Thom stepped in, demanding, “What are you suggesting?”

  “That your niece wrote the message herself, and then encouraged Coralee Gold to destroy it,” Detective Ainslie said matter-of-factly.

  “But I didn’t write it,” I protested, half-rising from my seat. “How could I have? When could I have?” I felt Uncle Thom’s hand on my wrist, urging me back down. “And I definitely didn’t encourage Coralee to destroy any evidence.”

  Detective Ainslie said, “On the video it shows her asking you to do it, and you shaking your head.”

  “I wasn’t refusing; I was more—stunned. It happened so fast.” I made a plaintive gesture with my hands. “And I never thought that what she was doing was destroying anything. When I rubbed the letter off the first time, it came back.”

  “The time when you were there by yourself,” Detective Ainslie wanted to confirm.

  I nodded. “Yes, but Coralee and Grant and Huck all saw it.”

  Detective Ainslie pressed her lips together. “They think they did. They aren’t sure. It was far away.” She consulted her notes. “How far ahead of the others would you say you were as you went down?”

  I thought about it. “I was on the phone, so I’m not sure. Maybe two minutes.”

  “According to the footage shot by Mr. Villa, you were almost five minutes ahead of them.”

  “Okay,” I shrugged. “Five minutes then.”

  “That would have been plenty of time for you to write that on the sign. As the first one down.”

  “I guess but—I still don’t understand. Why would I do that? Warn myself?”

  “To make it appear you’re in danger.”

  “Maybe I really am in danger,” I said, my voice sounding tight and high-pitched in my ears as the reality of it sank in for the first time.

  Detective Ainslie smiled. “Of course, that’s the other option. And that is why I’d like to offer you round-the-clock police protection.”

  The thought filled me with an immense sense of security. If I had round-the-clock protection, there would be no more fingers clawing at the door, no more pretend ghosts, no more—

  I heard Bridgette’s sharp intake of breath and realized it was impossible. Next to her, Althea barked with laughter. “Nonsense. She doesn’t need police protection. That will only encourage this prankster. The Family will take care of her.”

  Detective Ainslie gave a tight smile and a nod of her head, but I had a feeling this reaction didn’t surprise her. In fact, it seemed more to solidify something for her. “Of course. The Family always takes care of its own, doesn’t it?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bridger growled. “Are you—” he began, but subsided at a look from Margie.

  “I was simply saying that the Silvertons are a model of self-sufficiency and teamwork,” Ainslie told him.

  “I have to say I think you’re making a mistake,” Aunt Claire said. “If there is a madman out there targeting Aurora and we don’t ask the police to protect her—” her voice trailed off slightly. I was surprised that it was Aunt Claire of all people who was advocating for my safety, until she added, “I mean, people might think the Family was quite cold.”

  Uncle Thom smiled at her. “I don’t think we need to worry, dear,” he said, then turned his attention to Detective Ainslie. “I’m sure if we stop poking around in all this old history, the ‘ghost’ will disappear.”

  Detective Ainslie gave him a sad smile. “That’s why I wanted you together, actually. Three years ago I told you I didn’t believe Elizabeth Lawson committed suicide, and I have not changed my mind. I wanted you all here, so I could tell you that I won’t rest until I find the truth and bring her murderer to justice. No matter who it is, or how well they are protected. I won’t tolerate obstructions or games.” When she said “games,” she looked at me. There was something in her expression that made me feel guilty even though I’d done nothing wrong.

  “Naturally we could hardly expect you to set aside a high-profile case that will get your name in the papers,” Althea sniped. She gave an exaggerated fake yawn. “It’s time for my nap. I believe we’re done here. Mrs. March, please show the police out.”

  As they left, N. Martinez moved into my line of sight. He gave me a swift, questioning glance that seemed to ask if this was really all right with me, but I pretended not to see it. Bridgette was staring at me; it was the only thing I could do.

  I wondered if Althea was correct, if it was the police investigation that inspired the fake ghost.

  But how did that explain the hands clawing my door the night before?

  Althea dismissed the rest of the family after the police left, reminding them that we had dinner at the golf club that night, and went to her room for a nap. I went to mine to try to think about anything but ghosts.

  CHAPTER 33

  I’d expected Althea to suggest cards again on the ride to the club, but instead she looked at the landscape and hummed quietly to herself. At one point she turned to me and said, “Why don’t you ever wear the emerald bracelet I bought you?”

  “I’m not sure,” I answered. There hadn’t been any classes about emerald bracelets at Aurora Academy.

  Arthur cleared his throat. “The emerald bracelet was for Sadie,” he said.

  “I know that,” Althea told him. “Of course I know that. And this is Aurora. Her daughter. I’m not crazy. I knew that. I thought perhaps Sadie had left it to her.”

  “My mistake,” Arthur said.

  “Yes. Stop putting your nose in,” Althea snipped, very stern. But she looked slightly frightened, and she reached out and took my hand and held it as we rode the rest of the way in silence.

  By the time we reached the golf club, Althea seemed completely in control again. The club house was a low-slung red stone building with a putting range on one side and a rolling green course behind it that stretched to the edge of the canyon. It was built into the hills, Tucson twinkling in the basin below us and rocks sloping up behind us.

  It was modern on the outside but old-fashioned on the inside with dark green carpet flecked with peach paisleys and wood paneling. Althea immediately commandeered a large chair and a large Scotch and motioned me to stand beside her.

  Cocktail hour could have been a study in different varieties of insincere greeting, I thought. There was the one-arm hug, the pat on the back, the too-tight squeeze, the double kiss, the polite fingertip shake, the “You seem to be doing a great job fitting back in,” and the more reserved, “Your family must be so delighted to have you back, dear.” I got a pat o
n the head from the attorney general, polite nods from a judge and the chief of police, and the governor’s warmest greetings, conveyed by his secretary. People seemed unsure of whether to treat me like a returning pilgrim with an air of sanctity or as something soiled and slightly suspicious and dirty. I had the impression that none of these people had liked Aurora very much before she went away, and their interest in her return was more prurient than pure.

  A tall beanpole of a guy in a white linen suit, madras button-down shirt, cream-colored loafers that looked Italian, and classic RayBans sauntered in. Even if he hadn’t been the best dressed and only nonwhite person in the room, Roscoe Kim would have stood out for the sheer popularity with which he was greeted. But when he spotted me, he broke away from the gaggle of apparently genuine hearty-pat-on-the-back friends, whipped off his glasses, said, “Kitten!” and rushed across the room to fold me in a long limbed hug.

  Bridgette’s flash card description of Roscoe Kim was so short—[20, two years ahead of Aurora at school, gay, $18,000,000 (or more)]—I’d assumed they weren’t friends, but I realized now there was simply no way to put Roscoe on a card.

  He draped a long arm over my shoulders, said, “Go on without us,” to the bar at large, and guided me out the door onto the back patio of the golf course. The setting sun tinted everything slightly gold and made butter-colored puddles between the long bluish shadows cast by the hills. He had me stand three feet away and spin around so he could take me in. He took a breath like he was getting ready to deliver a good line, opened his mouth—

  And started to cry.

  “I had so many good remarks prepared, but all I want to do is say, ‘Fuck you, Aurora’ for leaving that way, and then hug you and tell you how much we missed you.”

  “Both fair,” I said.

  He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit and wiped his eyes on it, then held it toward me. “This was supposed to be decorative,” he said before jamming it back into his pocket. “I’m sending you the dry-cleaning bill.”