A Ghost of a Chance

by Cherie Claire

  After a long tirade, I stand, glance at myself in the mirror and start wiping off the trails of grief and pain; I need to be downstairs in ten minutes. I place the phone on the pedestal sink while she complains incessantly and try to tame my unruly hair that’s a mess because I insisted on making love to my ex-husband the night before. I then attempt a spit bath in the sink because I haven’t the time for a full shower and I’m aggravated because I could use that delicious stream of hot water pouring over my body right now. All the while, my mother never stops talking.

  “Viola, are you listening to me?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, begins telling me about an apartment her friend from Tulane has for rent, some efficiency in Metairie I could have if I must leave my poor, heartbroken husband and live on my own.

  That particular guilt hits hard and I’ve had enough. I pick up the phone and interrupt her. “What do you want, Mom.”

  I think she gets it, or is heading to that serious guilt place and will start admonishing me for talking to her with that tone. Thankfully she gets it, but adds on the guilt anyway. “Am I bothering you?”

  “Yes, Mom, as a matter of fact, I have to be somewhere. You could have asked me that in the beginning.”

  “I’m sorry, are you late for your spa treatment?”

  How does she know this? Then I remember, she’s been bugging TB all week. I don’t care. I don’t need to explain my job one more time. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Now if you will excuse me….”

  She’s not giving up that easily. “Will I see you when you get back? The family’s getting together Friday night at the house. You know, the one with the tree in the roof.”

  My mother’s house had a pine tree snap in two and fall through the game room. She had to replace the roof, the game room floor and its walls of damp sheetrock that experienced water damage from the rain pouring through a very small hole. The repairs happened all within a month after Katrina because my poor mom was “devastated” by the experience and bugged the shit out of her insurance agent. Meanwhile, everyone I knew with water to their ceilings — including me and TB — were still waiting for the Allstate man with his good hands to arrive.

  “Fine,” is all I can manage. “I’ll see you there.”

  I’m about to hit the end button when she cries out “Wait. Have you seen your Aunt Mimi?”

  This stops me cold and I pick up the phone. “What about Aunt Mimi?”

  “She lives up there. Where you are right now. If you’d have called me back, you would have known this.”

  I had heard Aunt Mimi was in an assisted living facility in Branson, but I never put the two together. Was Branson that close by?

  My mother answers that question. “She’s about an hour away in that horrid town, Disney World for middle America. How anyone would want to visit, let alone live in Branson is beyond me. But I know she’d love to see you.”

  I’d love to see her too, but I’m on a press trip, not a vacation, and having to explain that one more time is about to send me over the edge. I’m now five minutes from breakfast so I take a deep breath and assure my mother I will look her up, write down the number and make a hasty goodbye. Of course it takes longer than I realize because my mother has to update me on her job situation — she’s working as an adjunct professor in Baton Rouge until the universities in New Orleans get on their feet and the hour drive is about to kill her — and I’m late so I grab my purse, my camera and run for the elevator, realizing I have no earrings on and my socks don’t match. Could this morning get any worse?

  Why did I have to ask that, I think, as Richard enters the elevator in his running shorts and starts telling me how he just exercised for an hour and the trouble with Americans today is they’re lazy and eat too much and expect the rest of the world to pay their healthcare bills. “La, la, la” I sing inside my head to drone his diatribe away.

  When the doors of this pitifully slow elevator finally open I make a dash to the dining room. I’m almost there when I catch a handsome man to my left — yes, I’m easily distracted by good-looking men — and I find Madman casually leaning against the concierge desk laughing with Kelly as if they’re old friends. I don’t know why I’m jealous since I’ve written this self-centered man off my list, but he’s talking to this stranger with more animation than he ever offered me and we worked together for years, not that he remembers.

  I walk up gingerly and the two keep laughing but now Kelly notices me. “Vi,” she says, touching my arm and laughing again. “Your socks don’t match.”

  The two enjoy the mistake, although it’s more of the laughing with you kinda chuckle and not the high school you’re-so-stupid laugh, but it bites just the same. I look down and smile, shrug, assure them it’s all in fun. I wink. “Yeah, well, had a romantic night and it was rough getting up this morning.”

  This takes the winds out of their sails and I wonder if we’re really not still in high school. Kelly decides to say her goodbyes and heads off to breakfast. Madman sobers and becomes the man I know him to be, all business. “Have a minute?” he asks.

  We head to the fireplace couch that’s beginning to get on my last nerve and sit, while he pulls out that stupid black book. He doesn’t waste time. “I called that librarian this morning and she said the Diocese did send three orphan girls to the college but they never heard from them again. In the words of the guy she spoke to in Little Rock, it was like they disappeared.”

  I should feel happy that I’ve been vindicated but I’m tired and aggravated so all I do is nod.

  “So it looks like someone may have been preying on these girls.”

  Ya think? So glad you came up with that.

  “Might be the same person who killed Blair Marcus.”

  Wow, aren’t you the smart one. I need coffee, I think. I stand, ready to head over and fulfill my caffeine quota. “So we’re done?”

  Maddox looks up surprised. He wasn’t expecting me to write him off so quickly. “I thought you’d be pleased with this information.”

  I smile sarcastically. “Already knew it. Remember?”

  He rises and we stand eye to eye. “Oh yeah, ghosts.”

  The way he says it, you know he doesn’t believe. “All this information you just uncovered,” I say using quote marks with my fingers for “uncovered.” “I told you yesterday so forgive me if I’m not impressed that you validated what I already knew.” I can’t believe I talked to him that way but I’m done with letting people push me around.

  I turn to walk to the dining room but he catches my elbow. “Any ideas who it might be?”

  Are you kidding me? I look at him as if he’s sprouting three heads. I’m about to give him a choice piece of my mind when I hear Henry calling from behind me that we’re ready for breakfast and a local chef from town will be discussing the town’s culinary scene.

  “The college’s groundskeeper,” I tell Maddox against my better judgment. “I think he’s your man.”

  Maddox nods. “Where are you going to be later?”

  I don’t want to see this man ever again, although curiosity will make me check up on the case to see what they turn up. I’m about to say that we’re leaving today to return home, when Henry pipes up behind me, “We’ll be at the tea house for lunch, then hopefully heading out to Bentonville and flights home, if the rain doesn’t stop us.”

  I’m disappointed that my last meal on my once beloved virgin press trip has to be tainted by this man yet again, but how much information can police uncover in a morning? I turn towards breakfast and pass them both without looking up, heading for that cup of coffee that may make this morning more bearable.

  When I enter the dining room, the chef has already launched into her culinary talk and Winnie motions for me to join her at her table. I grab a cup of coffee from the buffet bar and sit down, slurping down the java like a five-year-old.

  “Where’s TB?” Winnie whispers.

  After a significant amount of caffeine enters my bloodstream I answer. “He wen
t home.”

  Winnie gasps. “In this weather?”

  I gaze out the windows that overlook the hotel’s gardens and the mountain slope that dips toward town. Trees, plants and even shrubs blow frantically as if the hand of Katrina sweeps through. I can’t see more than one hundred feet ahead for the low-lying clouds and rain and the wind exhales so hard the windowpanes rattle, as if demanding entrance into our warm, dry oasis.

  “Shit” is all I can manage to say.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After several tries through breakfast, I finally reach TB on the third call while waiting for my spa treatment in the basement of the Crescent Hotel.

  “Jesus, Vi, you’re as bad as your mother.”

  Not what I want to hear this horrid morning but I ignore him. “Where are you and why are you driving in this weather?”

  “Actually, I’m sitting in a Waffle House having eggs.”

  “Where are you?”

  He sighs and I hear the rustling of newspaper in the background. Give that man one thing, he’s among the American minority who still read newspapers, bless his heart. “I’m in some place called Fort Smith. And it’s not raining that hard right now.”

  “They’re talking about cancelling our flights tonight, so the weather is too bad to be driving in.”

  “What did you have in mind, me sleeping at the Waffle House?”

  “Come back.” I say this to ease my guilt as much as for his safety.

  He sighs again. “Vi, I’m two hours away.”

  I’m on the verge of tears, can’t believe being so immune to crying all these years I’m suddenly wearing my emotions on my sleeve. “But coming back to Eureka Springs has to be safer than driving to New Orleans.”

  I hear what sounds like TB telling the waitress to keep the change and yes, another cup. “I’m fine. I’ll wait here for a little while until it clears up some more, heard the truckers say the weather’s better further south.”

  The spa lady holding a clipboard waves to me; it’s my turn. I want to end this conversation, pretend the last few days never happened and disappear into spa heaven, but my heart drops between my knees. “I’m sorry,” I tell TB and I mean that on so many levels.

  There’s a pause and I wonder if he’s heard me. “It’s okay,” he answers quietly. “I’ll be fine, Vi. You’ll be fine. We’ll get through this. We’ve weathered worse storms before.”

  I know I want out but there are many times I doubt my feelings toward my husband. Sometimes, he can be so spot on, so understanding. Right now, I wish him here so I can hold him close and pretend all our problems never existed.

  The lady with the clipboard looks annoyed — she gave me grief for having to change from a couples massage to a single because TB had split — so I say my goodbyes and TB assures me he will be careful on the road. Swallowing the emotions still choking me, I follow Ms. Clipboard down the long hallway that leads to the creepy morgue. Just before I fully digest what lies at the end of the corridor, we turn right into the massage rooms where soft lute music and lavender scents greet me at the door and a painting of a sublime owl above a waterfall hangs at the rear. A mousy woman with oversized eyes and braided hair awaits, instructing me to disrobe and slip on to the massage table underneath sheets that have been warmed for my arrival.

  After she leaves, I take a deep breath and try to inhale the peaceful surroundings, shaking out the stress from my shoulders and neck, trying desperately to forget — or at least put aside for one hour — the weird happenings of the last few days. I do as I’m told and undress, then lie face down on the table, my arms dangling at my sides. When the mouse returns, she places my arms on the table, palms up, and rearranges the sheets for easy access to my body feeling as tight as the moment I heard the levees pop. Breathe, I tell myself, but instead realize I’m holding my breath because I can’t stop thinking of TB driving through the storm, my mom and her irritating ways, knowing that I must sit through her lectures and demands Friday night and Lori remaining in my room, hoping I will solve her mystery and set her free.

  “Relax.” I feel Mouse kneading my shoulder. “You’re wound tight.”

  “Sorry,” I murmur through the headrest.

  She keeps plugging away and I keep attempting to breathe and relax but it’s not happening; I’m so incredibly tired but too exhausted to release. I attempt one long breath and exhale, feeling some semblance of tension remove when suddenly, that familiar buzz arrives. I ask my masseuse, since she’s so close to the morgue down the hall, if the massage rooms have ghosts. Mouse laughs and says she’s heard doors closing on their own but that could have been the wind. One therapist felt a cold spot, saw a shadow, but no, nothing out of the ordinary.

  I wonder how cold spots and shadows are ordinary as the buzzing continues, only louder this time, and I sense a child’s voice whispering, “Listen.” I’m now so intent on focusing on whether Lillye is coming through that I ignore Mouse instructing me to “breathe and relax,” her petite hands working overtime. My poor masseuse continually struggles with my taunt muscles but I’m not going to worry about her. Instead, like a child chasing a dog down a long hallway, I follow the ethereal source to whatever it hopes to tell me.

  We’re still in the basement, in a tiny office filled with gardening tools and building materials. That creepy man I spotted in my dream where James and Blair organized their sexual assassination plot in the hotel lobby now sits behind a desk, his face darkened by the shadow of a cap and his hands folded across his dirty calico shirt and overalls. I was right, I realize, this man is involved in the upkeep or landscaping of the college.

  James rests his back against the doorframe, one foot inside the office as if he’s too scared to venture forth or he’s hoping to spring a fast getaway.

  “I know what you did.” James’ whisper elicits no response from the gardener, except a small, sly smile that causes me to shiver. Violently, if only for a moment. I hear Mouse on the other side of the world ask if I’m cold but I ignore her, wouldn’t know how to respond anyway.

  “And I know what you’re not.” The gardener looks up at James and I can make out smoke-colored, beedy eyes that chill me to the core.

  “I don’t care anymore,” James answers.

  “Really?” The gardener leans back in his chair, that psycho smile still playing his lips. “Mr. Caballero from nowhere Ohio, son of an Italian immigrant, who never went to college, doesn’t have a degree.”

  James closes his eyes and his hands draw up in fists. His words are filled with pain. “You killed those girls. You killed Blair.”

  At this, the gardener rises, places his hands on his desk and leans forward. “And you made love to an underage student, you ignorant wop imposter.”

  James runs his fingers through his hair nervously. He’s cornered and he knows it. If he rats on this man, his secret will be unveiled, his career ended and he’ll be hauled off to jail. If he doesn’t, more girls will die.

  “Why?” he whispers. “Why Blair?”

  The gardener laughs and again I shiver. “So only some rich spoiled brat from Dallas matters?”

  “That’s not it and you know it.”

  “You knew what I was doing.”

  James steps backwards, stopped by the door’s threshold. “I only assumed about the orphans….”

  The gardener moves from his place behind the desk and steps within inches of James, his face so close to his that James holds his breath to draw back as far as he can, his head touching the wood behind him. “You saw me with those two, and you knew what was going on. The only reason you never said anything and won’t now is because I know what and who you are.”

  The two men stand facing each other for only seconds but it feels like minutes and I watch a tear drop down James’ face.

  “I couldn’t afford college, I told you that.”

  “Oh poor professor. My heart bleeds. I’m cleaning rich girl shit from toilets and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “
But why Blair?”

  The gardener leans so close to James their noses almost collide. “Because she was a spoiled brat and a tease and thought she owned the world. You people and all your education, what the hell do you know when someone throws a hammer on your skull? What’s your education going to do you then, huh? She deserved everything she got. Everything.”

  James is now crying. He closes his eyes to escape the gardener’s stare and angry words so the creep finally backs up, returns to his desk and sits down.

  “Tell you what,” the gardener says in that icy voice that makes my heart stop beating. “I’ll leave this place, tell the president my mother is dying and go far away. You won’t tell anyone about what happened to those orphans and little Miss Dallas Socialite and I’ll take your secrets to the grave, Mr. Leatherwood.”

  Naturally, James is torn and I sense he wants to do the right thing. But I’m also doubtful that any teacher who has had sex with a student will make the right choice here. I’m correct for James nods, covers his mouth with a handkerchief and leaves the dark office. He practically runs down the hall.

  I wonder why I’m watching only James in action here, consider that he may be haunting me as well, when I notice a shadow emerging from a corner of the basement, the same place where the spa lobby now exists, where I stood only minutes before talking to TB eating eggs in a Waffle House. Of course, it’s Lori, following her beloved teacher around, but how much has she heard?

  Lori ascends the staircase, following James to his office and as soon as she’s inside, shuts the door behind her, which makes James literally jump in reaction. “Jesus, Lori, you scared me to death.” In that moment with his guard down, I detect an Italian accent lurking behind that false educated veneer.

  Lori says nothing, doesn’t mention the meeting between him and the gardener or the fact that four girls have been murdered in their midst and James was party to letting it all happen. She silently walks toward her English teacher in their tight space of an office, slips a hand around his cheek and wipes the tears still lingering on his face, then kisses him soundly.