Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Oliver asked as Amanda pulled up to the entrance of a large brick building. A smartly dressed man scurried down the steps and handed her a valet ticket. Oliver stood open mouthed while their car was driven carefully away.

  ‘Come on,’ Amanda prompted him from the top step.

  Inside the foyer was modern, with leather sofas dotted across the floor. A reception area sat to one side. Amanda approached the desk and exchanged a greeting with the woman behind the counter. From their tone and expressions, it seemed this wasn’t her first visit. She signed a book, picked up a visitor’s pass and handed another one to Oliver. By the time he’d fumblingly attached it to his T-shirt Amanda was waiting outside the lift. As the doors silently slid open Oliver hurried to her side and they stepped in together. He noticed there were no buttons inside the car.

  ‘She knows where we’re going,’ Amanda gestured to the receptionist.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Discreet,’ was all she would say.

  They exited into a short hallway with two doors. Amanda knocked three times on the left door, waited, then pushed it open. Oliver followed her through into an apartment that would have rivalled the finest hotel. Everything was modern, and clean, and screamed money.

  ‘Seriously, what is this place?’ Oliver said in a whisper, as if a normal voice would offend the opulence.

  ‘The highest end of retirement living. A place where rich people who can no longer function in their own house can come and pretend they’re still independent.’

  It wasn’t Amanda who had answered. Instead the voice came from the kitchen area, separated from the lounge by a central benchtop.

  The speaker appeared to be in her early nineties, short and thin, with immaculately styled grey hair. She held up a kettle.

  ‘Tea?’

  Amanda strode forward to kiss the woman on the cheek. ‘I’ll make it Nan.’

  Oliver’s jaw almost dislocated. Nan?

  The old woman patted Amanda on the arm and came out of the kitchen to greet Oliver. She held out her hand.

  ‘You must be Oliver. Pleased to meet you I’m –’

  ( Alice!)

  ‘Alice?’ Oliver repeated.

  The woman frowned. Her hand dropped and a hard look consumed her face.

  ‘Now how the hell did you know that?’

  Thirty three

  Alice glared at Amanda. ‘Girl, what the hell have you been saying?’

  ‘Nothing Nan – he didn’t even know you existed until thirty seconds ago.’ Amanda was just as rattled as her grandmother. She came around to stand next to Alice.

  ‘What do you know?’ Alice demanded, poking a manicured nail into Oliver’s chest.

  (Oh, my God – Alice. I can’t believe it.)

  A flood of emotion cascaded through Oliver’s body. His knees threatened to buckle and send him tumbling to the floor. His hands shook and moisture touched the edges of his eyes.

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘He said he knew I wasn’t Violet Tumbleton. He claims he knows someone who knew the real Violet.’

  ‘Impossible,’ snapped Alice. ‘Everyone who knew Violet is long dead.’

  ‘Except for you,’ Oliver croaked through dry lips.

  ‘Sit down, Oliver – you look like you’re about to throw up,’ Amanda told him. She steered him to the couch and he gratefully collapsed. All the strength had migrated north to his stomach, where butterflies and pterodactyls fought for supremacy.

  (All these years.)

  ‘Do you want to tell us how you know my grandmother?’ Amanda sat next to him, her voice gentle but with a hint of steel.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then how do you know my name?’ Alice demanded. She sat on the edge of the single chair opposite, her back stiff and eyes blazing.

  Oliver’s thoughts raced. How much to tell them and still have it believable?

  (Alice, Alice, Alice), Violet repeated over and over. There was a joy in her voice that Oliver had never heard before.

  ‘Like I told Amanda, I know someone who was acquainted with the real Violet Tumbleton.’

  Alice snorted. ‘Impossible. Her family is long dead, and Violet took her own life almost seventy years ago. There’s no one else alive who remembers her. Just me.’

  (Tell her! Tell her I’m here, Oliver. Please!)

  Oliver hesitated. Even with Violet pleading in his head, he knew how crazy it would sound. But staring at the twin steel faces staring at him, he shrugged and decided to tell them everything. Even as the words spilled out he could see the scepticism and amusement grow on their faces.

  ‘You have to realise how that sounds Oliver,’ Amanda said.

  Oliver listened to Violet’s instructions, then told Alice, ‘Your name is Alice Smith. You were born on the 16th of January 1924. You have a burn scar on the inside of your left arm where your mother left you alone at aged four and you spilled a hot cup of tea on yourself. It was you who persuaded Violet to take up escorting during the war. Then one day you just left. She woke up and you were gone, just a single word “Sorry” as the only explanation.’

  ‘Still…,’ Amanda began.

  ‘When you were thirteen years old, you and Violet swore an oath. Nobody watches us…’

  ‘But us,’ Alice completed.

  ‘It meant you’d look out for each other,’ Oliver finished.

  Alice’s face paled, like she’d seen a ghost, rather than hearing from one. She clutched at her chest and Amanda leapt to her feet.

  Suddenly Alice let out a loud belch, and her whole body relaxed.

  ‘That’s better. My doctor tells me to lay off the garlic, but I just love it.’ Her face softened. ‘I felt bad about leaving.’

  ‘Nan, you can’t possibly believe this rubbish.’

  Alice waved her hand dismissively. ‘Girl, I’m ninety-three years old. I don’t have the time left for disbelief. Besides, it’s comforting to know that death might be more than rotting in the ground.’

  ‘I thought we were cremating you,’ Amanda replied.

  ‘Don’t debate semantics with me.’ She turned to Oliver. ‘I suppose “How is she?” is a stupid question. But is she still pissed that I left?’

  Oliver tried to ignore the image of his own grandmother using language like that. Instead he focussed on Violet’s response.

  ‘She’s not angry. She just wants to know why.’

  Alice sighed and relaxed back into her chair, her eyes drifting to the window. ‘Violet and I had some great times. It was a terrible time to be alive, with shortages in everything, except war and famine and death. But we made the best of it. I was the one who persuaded her to join me in the oldest game in the world. Although she didn’t need much persuading. I think she enjoyed it more than I did.’

  ‘So why did you leave?’ Oliver asked. He glanced sideways at Amanda and could see this was new information for her too.

  Alice shifted uncomfortably. ‘Because of her –’ she gestured to Amanda, ‘ – or more accurately her mother. I got knocked up. Bad form back then, so I left.’

  (She should have stayed. She should have trusted me to help her through it.)

  ‘She thinks you should have stayed.’

  ‘Probably, but I was young and scared and so I did what young and scared people do. I ran. I’m so sorry, Violet. I thought about coming back after the baby was born, but I was too ashamed.’

  ‘Who was the father? A soldier?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘No, it was John Strong. We loved each other, but he was a poor artist and I couldn’t raise a baby like that. I needed more stability.’ She stared at Oliver defiantly. ‘You know that, Violet. We talked about it all the time – having financial independence from men. Making our own choices. You would have done the same.’

  (I would have stayed.)

  Oliver didn’t relay that. Instead he said to Amanda, ‘So that’s why this is personal to you.’

  She nodded. ‘Although there’
s more.’

  Alice said, ‘Ten years ago someone came across personal letters and papers from John. They put them up for auction and I bought them. One of the letters was addressed to me. In it John said that he knew I’d had his baby, and that he’d tried to find me but couldn’t. So he left me Sunset over the Island. He figured I could sell it and use the money to raise the child. Only he didn’t know where to send the letter, and then he died. That painting is mine. I don’t need the money but I want the painting.’

  ‘So why not just ask Matthew Darcy for it?’

  The women laughed without humour and Alice said, ‘It took a while, but my granddaughter finally tracked down who owned it. I wrote to him once and he ignored me. I went to his office and his security threw me out. Bottom line is he wasn’t going to give up the painting.’

  ‘I decided to resolve the issue’ Amanda said.

  ‘Does he know about the connection between you two?’

  Amanda shook her head.

  ‘But he must have suspected Alice had something to do with its disappearance,’ Oliver pointed out.

  ‘Possibly.’ Alice shrugged. ‘But he doesn’t know where to find me, I’m not here under my real name. Besides, it’s been five years since I confronted him. He’s forgotten all about it, the arrogant prick.’

  They lapsed into silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Even Violet was quiet.

  Finally Amanda squirmed in her seat and faced Oliver.

  ‘Man this is weird. Violet, if you’re really in there, I’m sorry I took your name. Nan told me all about you when I was growing up, and you sounded like an amazing person, and I thought it was appropriate that you help her get what she’s deserved. I didn’t mean to offend.’

  ‘She accepts your apology. To be fair she didn’t know this was going to happen either – I mean her coming back – so I guess it’s just one of those things.’

  ‘Okay, now all the touchy feel rubbish is done with, where are you at with getting the painting?’ Alice said with a flap of her hand.

  (Now that’s the Alice I remember.)

  ‘Wait, there’s one thing I don’t understand. If you stole the painting to give it to your grandmother, why did you take it to Peter Yarrow to sell?’

  ‘It was all part of the plan. Unfortunately, it getting stolen from him wasn’t.’

  ‘What was the plan?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it – if we get the painting back. Nan, are you done?’

  Alice nodded, then gestured towards a door off the lounge. Amanda disappeared through it leaving Oliver with an old lady and her dead friend for company.

  ‘There’s something I need to know Violet,’ Alice said. Did you kill yourself? Because that doesn’t sound like you, and it’s been eating at me all these years. I keep wondering whether maybe you would have lived if I hadn’t run off.’

  ‘She won’t tell me,’ Oliver replied. ‘It kind of implies she did.’

  (I didn’t!)

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Huh?’ Alice replied with a confused look.

  Oliver gestured to his head.

  (Why does it matter? Fine, yes I did. Happy? I was drunk, and lonely and my best friend had left me, and I jumped. Tell her that. Tell her it was her fault.)

  Alice was waiting expectantly.

  ‘She said it was an accident. She was drunk and slipped and fell into the river.’

  (You wanted the truth Oliver. Tell her!)

  Shut up.

  Tears slipped from the edges of Alice’s eyes, and tracked down the lines and creases of her face. Oliver turned away.

  (God, that was a horrible thing to think. I’m sorry Alice. I would give anything to hold her, to let her know how much I miss her.)

  I’m not comfortable hugging a woman I just met.

  (She’s my best friend.)

  She might break!

  The argument was interrupted by Amanda coming back. She was holding a large leather case, like the sort artists used to transport their work.

  ‘It looks good, Nan. All going well we should have the painting back in the next twenty four hours.’

  A shrill bell pierced the air. Amanda answered her phone and did a lot of listening, punctuated by the occasional word.

  ‘Who was that?’ Alice asked when she hung up.

  ‘Surprise, surprise, Jean knows someone who knows someone who has the painting. We’re going to meet her in an hour.’

  Oliver checked his watch. ‘I need to pick the kids up from school soon.’

  ‘I don’t have time to drop you home, and I need you when I meet with Jean.’

  (Don’t flake on me now Oliver.)

  He was torn between parental duty and his growing excitement that the finishing line was in sight. ‘Okay, I’ll sort something out.’

  The women seemed satisfied by his response. As he got up and walked to the window, they continued a murmured conversation behind him. He called the school and arranged for the kids to go to the after-school care programme. He was sure they wouldn’t mind, they were always on at him to let them stay and play with their friends.

  When he turned around there was one question foremost in his mind. ‘Where are you going to get five thousand dollars?’

  Alice and her granddaughter exchanged amused looks, and then Amanda said, ‘Like I told you, Oliver, I’m not paying to get back what I rightfully stole.’

  He opened his mouth to ask the natural follow-up question, then thought better of it. She was playing her cards close and it seemed like he was just along for the ride. Instead he shrugged to feign indifference.

  Amanda leaned down and kissed her grandmother on the cheek. ‘See you soon, Nan.’

  Alice struggled to her feet, and patted Amanda on the arm. ‘Don’t come back without the painting.’ She came over to Oliver. ‘I don’t know if you’re sincere or a nut job, but thank you for letting me say good bye to Violet.

  (Hug her, Oliver, please.)

  The last word was a plead, and Oliver bent down and enveloped Alice in his arms, careful not to squeeze too tight. Beneath his hands was jutting bone enclosed in fabric.

  ‘Get away,’ Alice said, but she held on for a fraction longer before letting go.

  (Bye Alice.)

  They were quiet on the ride back to the ground floor, and while they waited for the valet to bring the car. When it arrived Amanda carefully laid the case she’d been carrying flat in the boot.

  ‘Where are we meeting her?’ Oliver asked as they wound their way down the driveway and onto the road.

  ‘The Botanical Gardens,’ Amanda replied, concentrating on the narrow roads.

  Oliver winced as they came around a corner to see a bus coming straight for them. They barely squeaked past.

  Amanda asked, ‘So has she been in your head all this time?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What’s that like?’

  ‘It’s like picking up a hitchhiker that refuses to get out of the car.’

  (I’m happy to go now. I’ve seen Alice again, I don’t need anything else.)

  Are you leaving? He realised he wasn’t as excited by the thought as he would have been a few days previous. ‘You realise we could be going to meet a murderer,’ he pointed out to Amanda.

  ‘It had crossed my mind.’

  ‘So?’

  (I guess so. Only nothing seems to be happening.)

  ‘So don’t turn your back on her.’

  While it was sound advice, it did nothing to quell the nerves rattling around his stomach.

  Thirty four

  The meeting spot was in the rose gardens, a popular place for tourists and runners. Amanda illegally parked at one end of the square, right behind a bus.

  ‘Getting a ticket is the least of our problems,’ she said in response to his raised eyebrow.

  When they got out they saw Jean waiting next to the fountain in the middle of the square shaped garden. Gravel paths led outwards like spokes on a wheel, offering lots of entrances an
d exits. She wore the same clothes as when she had meet with Oliver earlier, and tucked between her legs, resting on the ground, was a large case, similar to the one Amanda had in the car.

  Older couples wandered through the rainbow of colours, occasionally stopping to study a particular rose. They mostly had cameras hanging around their necks, and wore hats that proudly proclaimed their city of residence. On the far side of the garden was a busy café, and the faint sound of conversation carried to where they were standing.

  Stones crunched under their feet as Amanda and Oliver approached Jean. The standard defiant expression was on the girl’s face, and Oliver wondered if it was tiring, trying to pretend you were so tough all the time.

  ‘I don’t see a bag with the money in it,’ Jean said.

  ‘That’s not the way it works. First we see the painting and I verify it’s the right one, then I transfer the money into your bank account.’

  ‘You said cash,’ Jean protested.

  ‘It was a figure of speech. I’m not carrying that kind of money around.’ She dug into her pants pocket and pulled out a gold coin. ‘Here, consider this a down payment,’ she flicked the coin to Jean who caught it deftly in her left hand and shoved it into her own pocket.

  ‘Show me the money then,’ Jean demanded.

  Amanda drew out her phone and tapped on the screen several times. She held it up and Jean stepped closer. Shock registered briefly before she recovered by nodding curtly and reaching down to unzip the carry case.

  ‘Wait. You’re carrying a stolen painting that’s part of a murder investigation. I’d prefer not to do this in the open.’ She handed her phone to Oliver. ‘He stays here while I check the painting out. That way if I run you get to keep Oliver, and your money.’

  Jean wet her lips, and Oliver glanced down at the phone screen. The balance showed three hundred thousand dollars. Greed radiated off the girl in waves.