CnC 1 Ghost of a Chance

by Yasmine Galenorn

  Andrew stood up and began to pace. “You went to the jail to visit a man accused of murdering his daughter, who you also think murdered his wife, and all of a sudden you believe him? What happened to ‘Susan needs me’? Is it his money? His suave sophistication? Did he promise to fund your shop if you switch sides?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” I’d expected a protest, but he was totally off base, so much so that I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “He obviously got to you. You waiting for him to get out now?”

  “You think that I’m interested in Walter? You really think that?” I stared at him, aghast. How could he believe that I’d get involved with someone like that?

  “I can’t believe that you’re standing up for a scumball who beat his wife and molested his daughter.” He turned to me, eyes blazing.

  “You’re jealous.” I could see it in his look, his stance. “You think that I want Walter? Thanks a lot for your confidence in me—I truly don’t think he did it. We had an interesting talk, but I dunk I’ll keep that to myself, since you’re being such an ass.”

  “Well, you certainly haven’t been giving me much attention lately. What do you expect me to a think?”

  “I expect you to think with the head on top of your neck. As to giving you attention, don’t you remember that I told you that once the kids were home, we were going to have to adjust our relationship?”

  “I know!” His eyes flashed, then he leaned back and said more softly, “I know. I’m just… how long do you think it will take? How can I prove that I’m worthy so you’ll let me stand up and tell the world you’re my lover, my girlfriend?”

  I shook my head. How could I make him understand? I had to be sure, had to know that this was more than a dalliance, more than a simple liaison. Ten days or so of ghost-hunting together wasn’t enough to prove anything. The excitement alone was enough to make some guys hang around to see what came next.

  “Can’t you understand? It’s not a matter of you proving that you’re worthy. I wouldn’t be with you if I thought you were a jerk. All I’m asking is that we go slow for a while. I have to keep the kids from getting their hopes up too high. If you sleep in my bed, they’re going to think that you’ve become a permanent addition to the family. What happens if you change your mind in a month? They’re the ones who get hurt, because right now they cling to any adult who shows them the affection their father withholds. I’m sorry if this stings your ego. If I could change it, I would.”

  “So where does that leave us? Holding hands like schoolkids?”

  I didn’t like the sneer in his voice. “If that’s what it takes, yes. If casual dating isn’t enough, then maybe I’m not the right woman for you. I’m not saying that we have to be celibate, but you can’t sleep in my bed when the kids are here. Not yet.”

  I could tell he was angry, but there was no way he could argue—he knew I was right about this. “Damn it, I need to think. I’m going home.”

  “Should I tell the kids good-bye for you?”

  “That’s not fair!”

  Tired of the argument, I lost my temper. “No, it isn’t fair. And it wouldn’t be fair for them to think you’re going to be a part of the family and then have you walk away because you decide you aren’t ready for the commitment this family requires. They come first, until they walk out that door to lead their own lives. Got it?”

  As he slipped his coat on, the kids came trudging in. They were helping Murray carry a huge blue spruce. As soon as they set it in the corner, Kip ran over to Andrew. “You’re leaving already? Aww… we just got back with the tree and were going to have hot cocoa!”

  To his credit, Andrew gave Kip a smile. “Yeah, got to, kiddo, I’ve got work to do tonight.”

  Kip threw his arm around Andrew’s waist. “Bye! Don’t forget, you promised to challenge me to a Mario Brothers marathon.” I wanted to call my son back, tell him to leave Andrew alone, but that would have triggered off too many questions. Instead, I waited to see what Andrew had to say.

  “I won’t forget. Tell you what: Maybe this weekend, before I have to leave for Christmas, we can get together and have that game?”

  “Yeah!” Kip jumped up and down. He missed Sly, I could tell that already, and was trying to fill the gap any way he could.

  Tentatively, I gave Andrew a smile and mouthed the word “Thanks” to him. He stared back at me, then shrugged and ducked out into the snowstorm. If I’d been alone, I might have called him up, ranted about how he was being a butthead, but it wouldn’t do any good. Andrew was as stubborn as I was.

  I backtracked to the kitchen. Kip wandered in and pulled out the cat food. He was being good about remembering his chores. “Mom, what’s Randa gonna do? She’s really upset.”

  I gave him a long look. “I don’t know just yet. I’ll think of something.”

  He nodded, head down. “You can take my Christmas presents back and use the money to send Miranda to camp—I don’t mind. It means a lot to her, and I messed up things bad by using Nanna’s book.” Through his mumbling, I could sense his fear that I might take him up on it, but still, he had made the offer.

  I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I settled for ruffling his hair. “Don’t you worry about it, hon. Listen, that was a very noble offer and I’ll remember you made it. Don’t fret. I’ll figure something out.”

  After he fed the cats and returned to the living room, I settled down at the counter, thinking. Kip had made a gesture directly from his heart. He had been willing to give up something of his own to ensure the happiness of his sister. Even if I’d been heartless enough to take him up on it, his presents wouldn’t have covered more than the cost of a couple of days’ tuition. There had to be something I could do… and then, then I knew. I knew what I could do to raise the money for the tuition.

  I dug out my phone book and thumbed through the “‘T’s.” Bette Thompson had asked me to sell her a piece from my private collection last year—the Waterford globe. I’d said no at the time, but now, maybe it was time to let go.

  I punched in a number and waited. “Bette? This is Emerald O’Brien. Are you still interested in my Waterford globe that you asked me about last year? I’ve decided that I’m willing to sell. My asking price is a firm $1,500, half the retail cost. You are? Why don’t I drop over tomorrow morning, then? It will be early, though… No, everything is fine… I just realized that holding on to old memories isn’t always as important as creating new ones.”

  The Waterford globe was the one really gorgeous gift Roy had given me. I knew without a doubt it had come from his heart, out of love. I’d carried the treasure as a beacon through both rough times and good. He’d brought it home to me the day after I told him I was pregnant with Randa, and I’d kept it as a tribute to the existence of love. Now it would fund her dreams. It seemed so ironic, and so perfectly right.

  * * * *

  Early next morning, I woke up the kids and told them I had errands to run. “I want both of you to meet me at the store after school. Have cereal for breakfast and don’t forget to feed the cats.”

  On my way out, I unlocked the étagère in the living room and retrieved the crystal globe. I turned it over in my hands, feeling the familiar weight that had journeyed with me through the maze of anger and worry and pain. Time to let go, time to say good-bye to the past. Resolutely, I slipped it into a box and packed it carefully so it wouldn’t break on the ride across town. Twenty minutes later, Bette Thompson wrote me a check for $1,500.

  I gave her a quick hug. “Thanks, Bette. This will go to good use.”

  “Is your shop having problems?” Her eyes darted quickly, and I knew if I didn’t squash the rumor, by tomorrow it would be all over town that I was destitute.

  “Nope, business is brisk. I just want to make Christmas extra special for my kids this year.” She nodded, smiling. I could tell she was thinking I spoiled them. But what did I care? I had the money, she had the globe, and Miranda was going to
Space Camp.

  Still a good hour before I had to be at the shop. Time to talk to Joshua. Walter had warned me that Josh was dangerous, so I hunted around the back of the car and found the hatchet I kept in the back. It wouldn’t fit in my purse, but it was small enough to slip through my belt. I set it in the front seat next to me. Probably an overreaction, but hey, I’d rather look like an idiot than make a deadly mistake. The address Harl had given me for the old Addison house said it was on Plum Street. I knew where the street was, but little more about that area of town. The neighborhood was old and run down; few people lived there anymore. I slipped the key in the ignition. Time to rumble, as Murray would say.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As I turned onto Plum, a flash of sunlight broke through the clouds and glistened on the mounds of snow that covered everything in sight. Finally, a break in the gloom. I rounded the bend and parked behind a row of hydrangea bushes.

  I sat in the car for a moment, staring up at the old Addison house.

  “Mausoleum” would have been a better word—or “monstrosity.” The house was set up on a hill. Retro Norman Bates or The Munsters; 1313 Mockingbird Lane had found a final resting place in Chiqetaw. Three stories high, the Addison house was a tribute to a designer’s nightmare. The weathered paint peeled off in gray flakes, and broken windows let both rain and sunlight in. No wonder Walter’s mother had vamoosed as soon as the old man died. Sprawled across the acre lot, it nestled behind a double row of oak trees. They were sparse, black, and bare against the backdrop of winter.

  After slipping the hatchet through my belt, I cautiously ascended the steep stone steps that led to the path. As I caught a glimpse of someone standing by the front door, I stopped, cold in my tracks. Joshua? Squinting, I tried to make out who it was. Susan! Susan Mitchell was standing near the front door. Another flash of light beamed down from the unusually bright day, and in the glare, I saw her waving frantically. Yep—I was on the right track, all right. As I hurried to the bottom of the steps leading up to the house itself, she disappeared.

  The snow had been trampled in several areas. Someone had been here recently, someone corporeal. I took hold of the railing and, cautiously watching for rotten boards, made my way up to the front porch. A squeak made me jump, but it was just the screen door, twisted half off the hinges and blowing in the wind. I gingerly opened it, wincing at the muffled creaks.

  The front door seemed to be intact. I steeled myself and knocked… once, twice, a third time. Nobody answered. I tried the knob. Unlocked. Maybe Joshua wasn’t home. If he was staying here, then he must not be too worried about burglars. Should I go in?

  Trespassing wasn’t high on my list of to-do-before-I-die activities, but if I didn’t stay long, didn’t touch anything…

  I kept telling myself that Nancy Drew would have charged in without fear, but then again, Nancy had been a teenager who probably thought she was invulnerable, and more important—she wasn’t real. I wasn’t a teenager anymore and I knew I could get hurt. I weighed my options and then grabbed the knob. I had come this far, I might as well go a little farther. More importantly, Susan had given me the go-ahead. Maybe the secrets hidden within these walls would help her spirit find peace. With no cars on the street, no neighbors peeking out their windows whom I could see, I poked my head through the front door into the musty hallway.

  The hallway was old, with faded pictures still hanging on the walls. There were none of Walter or his mother, but there were pictures of an older man, probably Bernard. In one photograph he was standing with Joshua. I could see the resemblance between the two, but there was a queer glint behind Joshua’s gaze that was missing from Bernard’s stern, ice-blue eyes.

  A cabbage rose paper ran the length of the hall, under which paneling took hold—scratched and chipped in a number of places. A series of doors lined either side, broken by an archway leading into what I assumed would be the main living room. I took a deep breath and decided to start there. I quietly slid along the wall, then inched my head around the archway to peek in.

  The room was grand, or had been at one time. Huge, lovely, filled with dusty antiques. Why had Walter’s mother left all this to rot? Even at this distance, I could tell the furnishings were worth a great deal. So far the weather hadn’t found its way into this room, but it was only a matter of time before the cracks in the windows let in the rain and snow. Other than a handful of icky-looking spiders, the only signs of life were a couple of take-out boxes from Teriyaki’s Take-Home, and an empty pizza box. The dust on one sofa had been disturbed, but nothing else seemed out of place.

  Back in the hall, I listened for a long time at the next door before I gathered the courage to push it open. The hinges protested with a tiny squeak but then swung open, and I found myself in the formal dining room. A thin layer of mold covered everything. A broken window had let the outdoors creep through; dormant ivy vines were trailing around the edges of the ceiling along with the rot and mildew.

  The table could seat at least sixteen, if not more. The more I poked around, the more perplexed I became. When Walter’s mother left, she hadn’t taken anything. Not the silver, not the china, not even the knickknacks. Why would she leave such expensive items here? Why wouldn’t she renovate the house and at least rent it out, if she didn’t want to stay here herself? Thousands of dollars of antiques sat there, bounty for any thief who had the mind to come get them. So far, Walter’s mother had been lucky, but her luck couldn’t hold forever.

  With a nervous glance behind me, I pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. As ancient and clunky as the rest of the house, the room was a mess, but at least it told me somebody had made himself at home.

  Dirty plates filled the sink. The garbage bin was packed with take-out boxes and half-empty booze bottles. A pile of soot-covered rags sat on the counter next to the stove, a big old gas model.

  A quick search led to a utility room and a back porch. I leaned over the railing but pulled back sharply as the rail began to teeter. As I brushed the snow away, I saw that the wood was rotten all the way through. That nixed any idea I had of taking a walk down into the backyard. The snow on the steps hadn’t been disturbed, and I was reasonably sure that Joshua came and went through the front door, unless there was some side entrance I didn’t know about.

  I cautiously peeked back over the edge, holding myself away from the railing. Directly below the balcony, a rusted iron gate—one of those old-fashioned ones with spiked railings that looked like minarets—opened into a series of gardens. The snow covering the lawn was undisturbed as well.

  Back in the hall, I was left with one door I hadn’t examined. The “room” was actually a small, windowless alcove with two sets of stairs—one leading up, one leading down. I dug my flashlight out of my bag. If I had to leave in a hurry, going down would be faster than going up. I looked up the uninviting passage. Was all this worth it? And then I remembered the image of Diana, cut down so young, and Susan—possibly murdered as well. Nope, I didn’t have a choice. I had to find out whatever I could to help both of them. I began my ascent, turning at the landing with apprehension, but there was no one there.

  Once safely in the second-story hallway, I chose a room at random. Bingo! Someone—my guess was Joshua—had nested here. The bed had been stripped of old covers and a sleeping bag was spread across it, along with a couple of new pillows. Two suitcases rested atop one dresser, both open, and a kerosene lamp sat on another. The curtains had been opened as far as they would go. I closed the door behind me and examined the open luggage. The tag on the handle had two initials: J. A. Joshua Addison. It had to be.

  Should I look? I valued privacy. I’d never once thought of reading Miranda’s diary, even though I knew exactly where she hid it. But considering the circumstances, considering that both Diana and Susan were now keeping time with the worms, I decided to make an exception. I took a deep breath and began a quick search of the first suitcase. Men’s clothing, a razor kit, a couple of porn mags, a
nd a carton of cigarettes. The second, though, was filled to the brim with files, papers, and notebooks.

  I bit my lip, then decided to go for broke. With trembling hands, I opened the first folder. A marriage license. Was Joshua married? Nobody had ever said anything about that. I adjusted the flashlight so I could read.

  Joshua Reed Addison and Susan Virginia Walker.

  Susan! Good God, he’d been married to Susan! I calculated the dates in my head. They had gotten married in Seattle when Susan was barely seventeen. It must have been shortly after Joshua ran off. A sudden chill raced down my back. “I was murdered by my husband but nobody knows.…” Could Joshua be the husband Susan’s spirit was talking about? I worked quickly; the feeling that I was in danger loomed heavily, and I knew that I’d better be done and out of there before he showed up. I shuffled through the rest of the bag.

  A sheaf of papers from Western State Hospital caught my eye, and I flipped through them. Photocopies of psychiatric records, including a commitment order for Joshua signed by Susan and Bernard. A release order… dated a decade later. Violent behavior, psychosis… lovely. There was a note attached to one of the papers—a copy of an official decree granting Susan Addison a legal annulment, along with a notarized document certifying her name change back to Walker. They had been married less than a year.

  And then I found it: an authorization signed by Joshua at the same time he’d been committed, releasing any parental rights he might have to the child Susan was carrying. Susan had been pregnant when she returned to marry Walter, but it hadn’t been his child. Diana was Joshua’s daughter.

  Flabbergasted, I sat down on the bed. The hatchet poked into my side, so I slid it out of my belt and set it on the nightstand next to me. All this time, everyone assumed Diana was Walter’s daughter, but all along, she’d belonged to his stepbrother. Joshua knew, Susan knew, Bernard had to know, Walter knew. And nobody said a word. And if Joshua was so off-kilter, maybe that’s why Diana was so unstable. Maybe it was in her genes.