A Question of Ghosts

by Cate Culpepper

  “All right, you guys can stop talking about me behind my back now.” Becca shouldered open the door from the kitchen and brought in a plate of lavishly frosted brownies. “Were you telling Rach about me throwing up in your lap after I saw that mannequin, Jo? That was my favorite part of the day.”

  “I was telling Dr. Perry that we may have to be patient moving forward, Becca.” Jo fiddled with the ridged circular dial of the radio. “These voices can be subtle and quite elusive, and it might be a long time before we hear—ˮ

  An ear-splitting crack of static erupted from the globe in her hand, and Jo almost dropped it. An equally piercing shriek followed.

  “BECCA, RUN!”

  Becca dropped the plate and it shattered, brownies scattering across the floor. Her face drained of color and her eyes were enormous. She bolted, racing for the entry and through it, and slammed out the front door.

  The radio went silent in Jo’s shaking hands, not even whispering the dead air space that lay between stations.

  “What are you waiting for?” Rachel said sharply, her hand pressed to her heart. “I can hardly run after her. Go!”

  Jo went.

  And so it was that Joanne Call chased madly after a fleeing Becca Healy for the second time in one week, she thought grimly as she ran down the steep driveway. She skittered to a halt, spying the briefest flash of Becca’s blue blouse in the distance. Across the street. Becca had run directly into Lake View Cemetery.

  Jo followed her through the ornate wrought iron gates, hoping for sparse attendance among the day’s visitors. There were several people wending their way over the sunny paths or lingering by gravestones, so she relied on speed over yelling Becca’s name. She ran hard past the stately memorial to AIDs victims and beyond the red rock scattering of stones honoring Civil War dead. She slid around a corner and stopped abruptly on the graveled path. Becca was leaning against the Lady of the Rock.

  Jo walked to her slowly, fearing she’d find the same eerie trance that took Becca when she was triggered by the mannequin. She was bent at the waist, one hand on the base of the statue, one braced on her knee, her drifting blond hair obscuring her face. She was panting, pulling hard for air.

  “Hello?” Jo tapped her thighs. She had no earthly idea what to do at this point, except try to catch Becca if she fainted again. Her brain was exploding with the ramifications of that extraordinary transmission back at the house, the shriek that still rang in her ears, and she had to work hard to focus on Becca. “Are you all right?”

  Becca lifted one hand in reassurance, put it back on her knee, and went on panting. Jo moved closer cautiously.

  “Well.” Becca’s voice was muffled. “At least we learned one thing from this. I’m an obedient daughter. Sheesh.”

  Becca straightened, and her face was blotched with red where it wasn’t cheesy pale, but her eyes were clear and sharp. Jo huffed out a breath of relief.

  “If she’d screamed ‘Becca, cook,’ I’d have a four-course dinner on the table right now.” Becca slid bonelessly into the grass at the base of the statue and sat leaning against it. “Good Lord, Jo. Have you ever heard anything like that?”

  “Actually, I have, yes. Warnings are a fairly common theme in transmissions.” Jo wondered if a scholarly approach would be more helpful to Becca now or a nurturing one, and hoped for the former. “I admit I’m astonished by the volume and clarity of the message. That small radio should be utterly incapable of producing such a blast.”

  “Yeah, it was impressive.” It was taking Becca too long to catch her breath after a relatively short sprint, and Jo realized how shaken she was. “Is Rachel all right?”

  “She was fine enough to pitch me out the door after you. Are you…yourself again?”

  “I’m getting there.” Becca squinted up at her and shaded her eyes. “Would you please sit down before my neck goes into spasm?”

  Jo would have sat on the ground where she was, but Becca patted the grass next to her. She glanced up at the Lady’s implacable face as if asking for guidance, then lowered herself carefully beside Becca. “You did take that command rather literally. It was your mother’s voice?”

  Becca shrugged. “It was a shriek. It’s hard to hear a voice in a shriek, especially a voice you hardly remember.” She hesitated. “But yes, it was her.”

  Jo nodded. “Your mother is proving to be remarkably reticent. ‘Not true.’ ‘Becca, run.’ It seems we can’t count on her for more than two words at a time.”

  “I sure didn’t inherit that tendency.” Becca sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “I’m sorry, Jo. Normally, I’m not a big fan of drama, but I seem to keep drawing you into some very theatrical scenes.”

  “Well.” Jo sat back on her hands and crossed her legs in the grass. “What’s listening for the voices of the dead if not high drama? A chase scene or two probably goes with the territory. But I’m a little surprised that you ran here.”

  “The cemetery?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you say this place scared you?”

  “When I was a kid, sure.” She nodded at the serene statue above them. “But my mom brought me here sometimes, to visit the Lady. I was never scared when she was with me.”

  “Really? Are you referring to some kind of psychic summons?”

  Becca laughed. “No, I mean she brought me here when I was little, for picnics. It’s green and quiet and peaceful here, like a park. It’s one of the few clear memories I have of my mom—sitting under the Lady, eating peanut butter sandwiches.” She glanced up at the cloaked woman. “I’ve always loved her, Jo. She’s one of the few lifelike images that doesn’t trigger me now. I’m not sure why. Maybe because she was familiar to me before the…trauma happened. She’s obviously a mother, the way she comforts the girl kneeling beside her. I’ve always felt safe here.”

  “The Lady means a lot to me, too,” Jo found herself saying. “This is my favorite spot in the cemetery, maybe in all of Seattle.”

  “You’re kidding.” Becca sounded both surprised and pleased. “I love that you and the Lady are friends. It’s a good character reference. For you.” She leaned so her shoulder bumped Jo’s lightly. “I’m glad she’s able to bring both of us a little peace.”

  Jo felt a warm pulsing on her shoulder where Becca touched her. She realized how very little space separated them. Jo was swept with a distinct, tactile memory of the feel of Becca in her arms days ago, holding her after she’d fainted, looking down into her face. She thought fast. “Are you concerned about the content of your mother’s message?”

  Becca sobered and leaned back against the Lady. She still looked wan, and her expression reminded Jo of the young girl above them, resting her head in the Lady’s lap. “Well, I wish she could have been more specific. She could have mentioned a destination I should run to, or at least a direction I should run in.”

  “Becca, you need to take this seriously now.” Jo was surprised by a flare of impatience that felt strangely protective. “I’ve told you that messages received through EVP are rarely factually false. We need to be aware that your mother perceives some danger to you. She’s warned you to run.”

  “But from what?” Becca’s brow furrowed. “Gaining two pounds from Rachel’s brownies? That’s the only threat I know of.”

  “If your mother didn’t pull the trigger that night, someone else did.” Surely Jo was pointing out the obvious; Becca must have considered this. “Forensics indicates it wasn’t your father. So it’s possible there’s still a murderer out there who the police didn’t have the wit to consider.”

  “Oh. There’s a cheerful idea.” Becca closed her eyes. “My mother is warning me to run from a murderer who is still out there. Okay. You and Rachel were the only ones in the room when she yelled. One of you did it.”

  “I was eight years old in nineteen seventy-eight.”

  “Joanne. I was kidding. Rachel?” Becca leaned away from her. “You’re more likely to have shot my parents than Rachel Perry, eight years old
or not. You have no idea what that woman’s been through, but she’s one of the strongest and most loving people I know. ”

  “I’m not implying Dr. Perry shot your parents.” Jo felt the slight physical distance between them and was unsettled by a sense of loss. “I’m just saying your mother’s warning should be taken seriously, is all. You might be in some kind of danger.”

  A bleakness passed over Becca’s expressive features that aged her in seconds. “I’m tired of this,” she said quietly. “All these questions, not an answer in sight. I’ve been asking these questions since I was sixteen, Jo.”

  Becca’s gaze became uncertain, and Jo felt the air between them prickle oddly. Becca shifted closer to her, and lowered her head until it rested on Jo’s shoulder. A long breath escaped them both. Becca settled against her, her body relaxing in stages. Her cold fingers sought Jo’s in the thick grass and entwined in them.

  Jo stared pop-eyed into the distance, her jaw clenched. Words ran through her head in rapid succession, punctuated by exclamation points. Words that rarely occurred to her, like “right” and “need.”

  Becca’s touch was purely platonic. Jo had witnessed this phenomenon the other night, her easy physical affection with her friends. Becca was tired and afraid and she needed comfort. She apparently found something comforting in resting her head on Jo’s shoulder and holding her hand. Jo felt the firm swell of Becca’s breast against her arm, smelled the light vanilla scent of her hair, soft against her throat. Becca lifted her head and looked into Jo’s eyes, and her lips parted. They stared at each other in silence beneath the Lady’s kind gaze.

  “I set up a Spiricom in the living room,” Jo said quickly. “It was active when the radio’s transmission came through.”

  Becca sat up and blinked at her. “A spiri-what, now?”

  “All signs look very promising for a repeat sending, Becca. You’ll need to take some time off work, and Dr. Perry needs to be informed not to show the house for several days.”

  “Jo, what are you talking about?”

  Jo braced herself. “In order to create the most favorable conditions for an additional message, you’re going to have to be physically present at the site of the last two transmissions. Namely, the house.”

  Becca was looking at her with dawning horror, so Jo got the worst of it over with fast.

  “I have to be there, too, to catch the transmission. You and I are going to move into your childhood home, and we’ll have to stay there until we hear from your mother again.”

  Chapter Five

  “You and Dr. Call are moving into the house tonight,” Becca’s Uncle Mitchell said slowly, “and you plan to stay there until your mother does what again?”

  “Until she speaks to us again from beyond the grave.” Becca helped herself to another sauce-drenched manicotti shell. “And hopefully, tells us something relevant for once, such as ‘Here’s how I really died.’ You want more of this, Jo?”

  Jo shook her head, not bothering to lift her baleful gaze from her plate. Apparently, if Becca’s new BFF didn’t like what was served, she didn’t eat. Well, she had briefed Jo about the menu at this dinner and warned her thoroughly about her uncle’s capacity to infuriate. Jo still insisted on coming, and Becca had only the foggiest notion of why. Given her love of socializing, this family dinner should have held all the appeal for Jo as dawn for a vampire. But Becca figured she was a big girl, she could deal.

  “Rebecca, you’re serious?” Patricia looked to her husband for guidance. “For one thing, the house on Fifteenth isn’t really available, is it?”

  Becca grimaced with the old mixture of irritation and fondness for her aunt. Trust Patricia to zero in on the crux of the matter. “It’s vacant right now, and Rachel sees no problem holding off on renting it for a while.” She nudged Rachel’s ankle gently with her shoe.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Rachel patted her lips with a linen napkin. “The market’s abysmal anyway, Mitch. We’ll have a better shot at finding good tenants in the fall, when the universities are back in—”

  “Becca, I don’t understand the purpose of all this.” Mitchell Healy had a mellifluous voice that served him well in charming white-collar juries in a courtroom. Around his own cherry wood dining room table, his tone tended toward the prosecutorial. “Since when did someone with your intellect suddenly start believing in séances and ghost stories?”

  “Since my dead mother started yelling at me out of a radio.” Becca bit deeply into her third slice of garlic bread and tried to bank her impatience. It was expecting a lot, asking these two to take all this seriously. She still struggled with it herself, and she was less hide-bound than her aunt and uncle. She spoke with her mouth full largely because she knew it drove Mitchell crazy. “We’re trying to find out if Mom really committed suicide.”

  “Becca, Maddie’s death—and my brother’s—were tragedies.” Mitchell’s patrician features grew less stern. He nodded to his wife, who refilled his coffee cup. “And no one can blame you for wanting a different ending to that grim story. But honestly. Electronic Voice Phenomenon? No offense intended, Dr. Call.”

  “As I said, I heard that voice yesterday myself, Mitch,” Rachel said. “It was truly astonishing.”

  Becca appreciated Rachel’s support, but Jo was frowning at her uncle with open dislike. Becca hoped she would never be the target of those spooky eyes when they lasered anger. She nudged Jo’s foot with her own. If the evening continued like this, Becca would be tap-dancing beneath the table, stepping on Jo and Rachel by turn. Jo ignored her, in any case.

  “Sometimes tragedies can be explained by unconventional means, Mitch.” Jo had been introduced to Becca’s uncle as Mitchell. He was Mitch to no one but his wife and Rachel. “But only if we’re open to asking the right questions.”

  “‘The question of ghosts,’ to quote Derrida.” Mitchell’s tone was polite. “I’m afraid I can’t follow you there, Joanne. Nothing in my philosophy or my life experience has ever given me reason to invest in the supernatural.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but my work is quite well funded.” Jo was stone-faced.

  “Patricia, you’ve outdone yourself, as usual,” Rachel said, and Becca slumped in relief. “I don’t see how you put in full days running that shelter and still manage to turn out such delectable din—”

  “I’d like to know more about the scientific basis of your work, Joanne.” Mitchell steepled his fingers on the table. “In the research, has anyone ever actually produced empirical evidence of an afterlife?”

  “All the research has produced empirical evidence,” Jo said blandly. “‘Empiricalʼ simply means information gathered by ob-serv-ation and experiment, Mitch. If you intended to say proof, it depends on what standard you’re referencing. But yes, EVP has provided ample proof of some form of afterlife existence to meet my professional standards.”

  Becca stirred cream into her coffee hard, her spoon ringing inside the stoneware cup. She caught Patricia’s eye and saw her weary smile. Affection for her won over irritation, at least for now. She could remember a hundred times during her adolescence in this house when Patricia’s apologetic looks tried to ease Mitchell’s interrogations.

  “I’d say the question of standards is a relevant one.” Mitchell sipped his coffee with a light slurp. “You have a PhD in transpersonal psychology, Doctor?”

  “That’s one of my doctorates.”

  “Wait, pull up.” Becca set her cup down with a clatter. “Mitchell, how did you know what degree Jo has? I didn’t say anything about her degree on the phone this morning. I just told you her name.”

  Mitchell shrugged, an almost boyish gesture of modesty. “Pardon me, Becca, but that’s why God invented search engines. I think you can understand why Pat and I would be curious about the mysterious dinner guest you invited to join us tonight. Apparently, this isn’t a romantic relationship?”

  “No.” Becca tried to control her voice. “And curiosity doesn’t give you the right to
treat—”

  Mitchell cut in again. “I’m just pointing out that it seems a rather idiosyncratic doctorate for a scientist who—”

  “Mitch, dear.” Rachel’s tone was mild, but Mitchell quieted at once. “You know I’m your oldest friend. That’s why I can get away with asking you to please stop interrupting your guests. You’ve done it three times tonight, twice to me, heaven forefend, and we haven’t even made it to dessert yet.”

  “Devil’s food cake.” Patricia sighed. “Ironically, as it turns out.”

  Becca had to smile at her.

  Mitchell stared at Rachel for a long moment, one thin eyebrow arched, and that rare flicker passed over his face that made Becca remember, reluctantly, that a decent enough man resided beneath his often grating exterior. He smiled at Rachel, not a courtroom smile but a genuine one, and offered an amused nod of contrition. Mitchell and Rachel had known each other since elementary school, and they shared a bond of real affection. Not even Patricia could coax out his humanity as reliably as Rachel.

  “I do apologize if I was rude, Dr. Perry. To both doctors. You too, Joanne.”

  Becca was the one he had interrupted, but she could be gracious about this if it meant restoring peace. Jo looked less mollified than bored, but at least she took a crunching bite of her garlic bread.

  “I guess reminders of Scott tend to bring out my confrontational side.” Mitchell dropped his napkin on the table. “Not pleasant memories for any of us.”

  “Well, remembering his death is certainly painful.” Patricia rested her manicured hand on Mitchell’s forearm. “But we both have good memories of Scottie too, dear. You didn’t always get along, but what brothers do? The two of you were a lot alike, I always thought. I was very fond of him, and Maddie as well. She was a fine artist, and such a lovely woman, Becca.”