by GA VanDruff
I creased a mental sheet of paper and made two columns. PLAUSIBLE and GET OUT OF DODGE.
Ten minutes later, the only item under PLAUSIBLE was a man in a suit dead on the beach. The suit was unusual but I’m sure business men enjoyed a stroll along the shifting sands like anybody else. He must be dead because he had made no attempt to shoo the seagulls off his face.
The ghost had assumed that responsibility.
Acknowledging the activities of a ghost, checked the first box in the DODGE column. If I am watching ghost activity, there must be a ghost. And the ghost reminded me of Jeep McBain.
Box number two. Check.
The way he danced around flapping at the gulls—Jeep made those moves at the clubs in LA. But considering that for the past year, everything reminded me of my best friend and roommate did not make that a startling comparison.
The night Jeep won the Oscar for best screenplay—he had taken me as his Plus One—he vanished without a word. I’d not stopped searching for him at every turn. Around every glacial rock.
The last six weeks spent sailing to Puerto Rico had given me other things to think about—pirates, sharks, sinking—but Jeep was always at the periphery. Like a ghost.
Like this ghost.
The water pulsed off the rock and kept kicking us seaward so I set the oars and pulled long, silent strokes toward the beach until the gentle surf carried us to shore. I fanned myself with my straw hat, wiped the sweat from my eyes, grabbed the bow line and stepped off into the cool Caribbean up to my knees.
Like they say, the first step to recovery is admitting there was a problem. And Jeep McBain was a big problem. If I was hallucinating, I’d call the Hot Line in the morning. If this ghost was Jeep, who would I call about that? Jeep would say Ghostbusters and roll around on the sand laughing.
I turned to wrestle the dinghy further up on the beach. My ninety-pound dog acting as ballast did not make the job any easier. “Doofus, out!” He jumped overboard and headed out to sea.
“Hey! Get back here!” Men. At least this one came back when I called.
I dug my heels into the sand and hauled the dinghy far enough out of the water to stay put without the outboard’s prop getting banged out of shape. I looped the bow line twice around a piece of driftwood. In the event I had not hallucinated a dead body and a ghost, I for sure did not want my only means of escape floating toward the equator.
I slipped my shirt on over my bikini top. A lump in the pocket shifted. José, my gecko, getting situated. The little fella signed on at the dock back home in Maryland as my eco-friendly bug zapper. Puerto Rican bugs the size of pup tents ate my food and hid my stuff so José’s long-term employment status was secure.
I lifted my sunhat, fluffed my sensibly short hair, replaced the hat, scrunched the brim, smoothed the creases of my shorts and inhaled an exhilarating breath of sea air. No worries. None of what I had just seen was real. No corpse bobbing along the shoreline in a five-thousand dollar Bianchi suit, no Hitchcock seagulls, and because ghosts do not exist, no ghost. Simply too much sun, too little screen. When I turn around it will all be sand and surf, palm trees. Nothing more.
When that didn’t work out, I debated waving at the ghost. I hadn’t waved at anyone since I stepped off the bus in Los Angeles three years back. Waving at strangers in LA is sign language for please run at me with a knife and steal my purse. Ghosts? I didn’t know a thing about ghost protocol. Who knew what a wave might signify in the netherworld? A firm handshake seemed improbable. But it might attract his attention and I could get a better look at his face.
Mr. Ghost thrashed around in the receding tide chasing the gulls off his companion and didn’t wave back. I made a grab for Doofus, but my slippery dog trotted into the thick of the fracas. These Caribbean gulls were pros, not easily put off a free lunch by some lummox of a yellow dog. However, they did scuttle away a yard or two, swearing at my Lab, but then waddled back for seconds.
José bolted out of my pocket, climbed to my collar and clutched on with his knobby gray toes for a better view. He puffed out the red flap of skin under his chin and waved it around as a warning, pretending to be brave. It’s a gecko thing.
Apparently, no body meant no body odor because Doofus paid no attention to the ghost. The other guy, though, was ripe. Doofus snarfled the dead man’s armpits, and nibbled at the sand crabs scrabbling across the mostly bald head. It occurred to me to call my stupid dog, but the sight of a semi-dead guy playing scarecrow over a totally dead guy deactivated whichever lobe in my brain controlled speech.
Not to worry. The ghost stepped up to the plate. “Jaqie Shanahan. Is that you? Get over here and give me a hand before I lose Dan to the currents.”
At the sound of my name, I sputtered and said something like mcphorpherwhat. I recognized that voice.
I chalked up the Joe Cocker quality of it to his being dead. He did resemble Jeep but the sun cut in and out of the clouds, casting shadows, distorting the image. Before I could make a positive ID, José skydived down to my foot, and I lost the connection. The clutch of tiny gecko toes on mine snapped me out of my metaphysical daze. It was time to snatch my dog, my lizard and leave this version of reality behind.
“Come here, boy.” I clapped and whistled. The ghost looked around at me, confused. “Not you,” I said. “The dog. Come here, Doofus.” They both decided to come. Doofus tore across the beach, but the ghost took his good old time, stepping carefully around shells and driftwood, maybe afraid of stubbing a toe. I didn’t think stubbing things an issue for the undead, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it.
Doofus skidded to a stop and nosed the lizard off my foot. José was out of his element. His was a simple life—eat bugs, play with dog. The lizard shinnied up Doofus’s leg and hid most of himself under the dog’s left ear.
The hobgoblin, phantom, whatever, stepped into my comfort zone and planted himself directly in front of me, shimmering like heat off blacktop. “Jaqie Shanahan, my favorite dark-haired, Irish girl. Still cute as a button, I see. Great hat. Wassup?”
“Not much.” I hedged a step back. “How about you?”
My diaphanous friend smiled a beige smile. All of him was beige, French vanilla, old parchment. He was a tea stain against the horizon.
“You don’t recognize me?” He swiveled and gave me a profile shot.
“Maybe ...”
He thumped his chest. To no avail. “Jeep! Your roommate!”
End of Chapter One
ESCAPE CLAUSE
Want to find out what happens next? Please visit Amazon.com to read more of Escape Clause by GA VanDruff.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Authors sit in a room, in a closet, next to the washing machine. Maybe a booth at the coffee shop. It appears we are alone.
We are not.
So many people push, pull, pray, prop us up that as I compile my Thank You list, I realize it only scratches the surface.
Charlene Raddon: Author, Cover/Graphic Designer, Editor, Beta Reader. Most importantly, Best Friend. silversagebookcovers.com
Betty Mason: Always there, chock full of wisdom and kindness.
Donna Foster and Louisa Marshall: The best part of my inheritance.
Douglass Seaver: Author, Classmate, Boating Advisor. Never-failing Friend.
Dan Recer: Taught me about hard work and honor and honesty in every endeavor.
Dan Cook: Echo Echo Romeo. The only sailor a girl ever needed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GA VanDruff started writing at twelve. First published at thirty-two. Life does get in the way. What happens is—experiences creep up behind you and you get to put them in books.
She sailed the Chesapeake Bay, crewed in the Caribbean, loved her Lab, Dexter, and never once met a ghost. The gecko in her life? They shared many a sunset on the deck in St. Augustine.
Two more books in this series will release in October, 2016 and February, 2017. You are invited to sign up for a twice-yearly newsletter at www.gavandruff.com
READER APPRECIATION
I love the time I spend with Jaqie and Doofus and José! I hope you do, too. The chapter with Jimmy in the ER was a tear-jerker for me to write, and I was glad when it was over!
I know you’re all so busy, but a review from you helps other people find and enjoy the story. Thank you for taking the time out of your schedule to spread the word.
Happy reading and the best for you and yours.