by Ghost Walk
“Julian,” he repeated.
“So are you coming in?”
He didn’t reply.
She was both exasperated and a little offended. “You can check out the place for the undead as well as the living criminal element.”
God, she loved his smile. Loved the way it softened the hard contours of his features. The light in his eyes, the slightly wicked curve of his lips…she loved it all. Too fast. She didn’t know him.
She realized she was holding her breath. Because she was willing to take her chances. Right when the world was the most dangerous she’d ever known it to be. Right when she shouldn’t.
“Please, I’d appreciate it if you would come in. I know there are living criminals in this city, but at this particular moment, it’s those who aren’t living who frighten me the most.”
“Miss DuMonde, I would be delighted to come in,” he informed her.
She turned away quickly, alarmed to realize that she was trembling.
She fitted the key in the lock, and he followed her in, surveying the downstairs.
“Living area downstairs, bedrooms up?” he inquired.
She arched a brow. “You didn’t know that?” she asked.
He shook his head, smiling. “I’m not a psychic.”
“No,” she said. “You just talk to ghosts.”
He didn’t reply, as he made note of the art she had on the walls. Most of it was local. Scenes of the streets, the river, the people. She liked to buy from the local artists. A few pieces were of scenes from around the country, and she had a set of watercolors of Florence.
There was one oil of St. Louis Number 1 that he especially liked. It had captured both the beauty of the architecture and the decay. A young woman, head bent, was touching a tomb with a winged angel. The painting seemed to evoke the line between life and death, and it held a sense of mystery and possibility, as well.
“You know the artist?” he asked, coming closer to it.
“No,” she said. “I think she was a grad student at Tulane. I bought it near Jackson Square.”
“Nice,” he said.
“Thanks. I love it. She captured something… It sounds strange to say it, but there’s an aura about that picture. Maybe that’s not so strange to say to you. I didn’t mean that offensively,” she added. Lord, this was strange. She couldn’t speak normally or casually. When had things changed between them? There had been something about him from the beginning, but she had probably been smarter when she had been angry, and when she had wanted him to stay as far away from her as possible.
He laughed. “There is an aura to that painting,” he assured her. “Whether you see ghosts or not. That’s what creates art, don’t you think? Not so much the perfect reproduction of a face or an object, but infusing the subject with emotion or warmth or something special.”
“Yes…I guess you’re right. But then again, we all see different things, don’t we?”
“Absolutely. I have one friend who has a huge painting of dogs in a bar. He thinks it’s one of the most underrated masterpieces in the world. So, yeah, we all see different things.”
She felt flushed. “Yeah, like dead people walking around.” She winced. “I’ll, uh, make tea. Do you like tea?”
He arched a brow. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t like tea?”
“No.” She winced again. “I…I guess I never knew what India—Native Americans drank.” Oh, God, she was sounding worse and worse.
“You mean, besides firewater?” he queried.
“I—” She broke off, realizing that he was teasing her.
“I think there’s actually more Irish in me than Lakota,” he told her dryly, “so on the ethnic side, tea is cool. But for future reference, some of the Lakota I know love tea, some hate it. Matter of taste.”
She forced a smile and a nod. She lived in one of the most mixed-race cities in the world. Her friends were white and black and every shade in between, gay and straight, Catholic, Jewish, voodoo and Wiccan. She’d never fumbled around like this before.
He was staring at her, smiling. She was staring at him, feeling like an idiot who couldn’t keep her foot out of her mouth.
She waved a hand toward the kitchen. “I’ll go boil water.”
“Thanks.”
In the kitchen, she felt the first sense of unease. Everything was as she had left it. Counters neat, wiped down, coffeepot…
Just a little different. Out farther, closer to the edge of the counter than she usually left it.
Or was she just…searching for something to wonder about, to see differently?
She began opening cabinets and drawers. The silver set was exactly where and how it should be, in the farthest left drawer. Through the glass panes of the cabinets, she could see her good china, none of it moved in the least. She gave herself a shake. No one broke into an apartment to move a coffeepot out a few inches. The kettle was on the stove, just as she’d left it.
She set the water on to boil and kept looking around. Nothing was out of order.
When she returned to the living room, Brent was still looking around at the art, yet not really seeming to focus on anything.
“She’s definitely not here right now, is she?” he asked.
Nikki had carried in a tray with cups, the teapot, milk, sugar and lemon, not knowing how he drank his tea.
It began to rattle in her hands.
“She?” she said, but she knew exactly who he was talking about.
“Andy.”
He took the tray from her, setting it on the coffee table between the sofa and the love seat, and sitting down himself on the latter.
Nikki shook her head solemnly. “No.”
She sat, as well, and reached for the teapot, ready to do the whole hostess thing, but he said simply, “I’ll pour, okay?”
She nodded, too inexplicably nervous to speak.
“She doesn’t come every night, does she?” he asked, his words casual as he poured. Nikki added milk and a scoop of sugar to her cup.
He drank his plain, she noted.
“Nikki?” he persisted. “She doesn’t come every night, does she?”
“No, she doesn’t come every night.” She hesitated, taking a long sip of tea. “I’d probably be locked up by now if she did. Maybe she knows that.”
“Maybe she does. I’m sure she’s not trying to hurt you. In fact, I’m certain she’s trying to help you.”
Nikki shivered. His knee was brushing hers. Their faces were close. Here she was. She’d met the most attractive man she’d so much as seen in…forever. He was in her apartment. They were touching. Their faces were so close that she could see the flecks of darker emerald in his eyes. Almost feel the texture of his skin. His warmth seemed to reach out and embrace her.
And they were talking about ghosts. Matter-of-factly.
“If she’s trying to help,” she heard herself say too sharply, “why doesn’t she just appear to Massey or Joulette and tell them who killed her?”
“She probably doesn’t know.”
“How could she not know?”
“She might have been attacked in the dark or when she was sleeping, so she never saw anything. But she knows, or senses, that you might be in danger, as well,” he told her. “I need to speak with her. She isn’t going to acknowledge me or let me get close to her unless she realizes that I’m trying to help, as well.”
Goose bumps broke out on her arms. “Okay, so what about the FBI agent?” she asked. “I never knew him. Why am I seeing him?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s something else I need to find out.”
Nikki cleared her throat. “Please tell me that…”
“That what?”
“That I’m not going to start seeing dead people wherever I go,” she whispered.
“Trust in this, Nikki,” he told her softly. “You’re seeing them for a good reason, and they want to help you.”
She sipped her tea again. “A good reason. My best f
riend is making me see a shrink. All my friends are tiptoeing around me as if I’ve got a disease. And it’s going to get worse. Julian thought he could shock me out of it, so he announced to Madame that I’m seeing ghosts. So now she’s worried, too. As for Massey and Joulette, they think I’m off-the-charts nuts.”
“They think I’m pretty far gone, too,” he assured her.
“Does that bother you?”
“Only if it hinders what I’m doing. Luckily, I don’t seem to be as big a pain in the butt as their main FBI liaison. Quite frankly, he does seem to be a pompous ass. But that’s working in my favor right now.”
Nikki realized that she was still covered in goose bumps.
And she was afraid. Afraid as she had never been before.
She didn’t know what she was up to herself when she then said, “Andy shows up in the middle of the night sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
“I fall asleep with the TV on. She always liked television.”
“She’s watching over you.”
The words tumbled out of her mouth then in a rush. “I have a guest room. If you really want a chance to meet Andy, you can stay in it, and if she appears…I can call you. I can tell her about you, and you can meet her right there and then.” Oh, God! Her words sounded really and truly insane.
“I told you, I don’t want to push things with you,” he said very gently. “I want you to know me and trust me.”
“Dammit,” she said, standing. “You want me to know you and trust you. Well, so far, you’ve managed to scare me half out of my wits. What do you want, an engraved invitation? There’s a guest room upstairs. Since I’m now afraid of my own shadow, I would deeply appreciate it if you would sleep there.”
She watched his slow smile appear, that smile that changed his face from hard as rock to something that was entirely beguiling.
“Well, all right. If you put it that way…”
She turned away, shaking, afraid of saying even more. The next thing, she would be begging him to stay in her room, to sleep with her…to hold her.
“Are ghosts mischievous?” she asked him.
“How do you mean?”
“Do they play tricks? Move things?”
He shrugged, hesitating. Then he asked, “You mean…like poltergeists?”
“I guess.”
“Why?”
“I’m just curious.”
Again he hesitated, then said, “I don’t have all the answers. Have I seen ghosts move things? Yes. There’s one old guy in St. Louis Number 1 who likes to throw pebbles and things at vandals who sneak over the walls. He’s very protective. But…okay, there are young ghosts and old ghosts. And moving things takes trial and error and experience. Even materializing when they want to can be difficult, especially at first. When they’re frightened, it’s almost impossible for them.”
“How can a ghost be frightened?” she demanded.
“Okay, let’s forget that most people think you’re insane if you see ghosts. Now think of what a ghost would be. Made up of heart and soul and personality. If the person that they were could be frightened, so can their ghost. Especially a young ghost. Anything the person could feel, their ghost can feel.”
She knew she was looking at him as if he were completely insane.
She lowered her head. “Could Andy have moved my coffeepot?” she asked him.
His brows shot up. Then he looked downward, playing with his teacup, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Your coffeepot moved? You’re certain?”
“Well, no. Not certain.”
He looked straight at her then. “Perhaps you want to look around your house. Find out if anything is missing. Is everything as it should be…here?”
She looked around the living room. “Seems to be.”
“Want to check out the upstairs?”
She nodded.
He followed her.
He hovered in her bedroom doorway as she looked into her jewelry cases, drawers and closet.
“Anything?”
She shook her head. “I really am losing my mind,” she said.
“No you’re not,” he promised gently.
“The guest room is next,” she said.
But there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary there, either. She let out a soft sigh. “I guess I just left the pot out farther than usual,” she told him with a shrug.
“It’s always safer to check things out,” he told her simply.
“Well, then, I’ll secure the balcony doors in my room, if you wouldn’t mind checking out the rest of the place…?”
“Not at all.”
Back in her room, she made sure that the balcony doors were locked and secure. They hadn’t been left open, she noted.
“All locked up,” Brent called to her from the hallway.
“Thanks.”
“You’re all right?”
“Absolutely. Um…you should be comfortable, I hope. Good night.”
“Good night. And don’t worry. I’m here. Just call out if anything frightens you in any way. Any way at all.”
“Right. Thanks again. Good night.”
She closed her own door but didn’t lock it. Then she went through her bedtime ritual—brushing her teeth, washing her face, changing clothes—by rote.
In the bathroom, she hesitated again. In the cabinet above the sink, it seemed that one of the large bottles of her favorite perfume—a Christmas gift from Patricia—had been moved just slightly, too. It was a wee bit too close to the edge of the shelf.
It was ridiculous, she told herself. She could be too organized—she knew that. But, especially now, there was no reason to believe she was putting things back exactly as they had been. She had used the perfume that morning. Just as she had used the coffeepot that morning. She just hadn’t been as precise as usual when she put them back.
Still…
It disturbed her.
Everything was disturbing her, she thought; she was undoubtedly making mountains out of molehills. She would start to see something evil in every face on the street soon if she didn’t get a handle on her emotions.
With that she determined she was going to bed.
She lay down, certain she would never get to sleep.
Her things had been moved.
That was ridiculous. No one broke into an apartment to shift around a coffeepot and a perfume bottle.
Maybe it had been Andy. Whether she was a young ghost or not.
And maybe she was really nuts right now.
Sleep. She needed sleep.
No, she would never be able to sleep.
And yet…
Her eyes were closing, and she was definitely in a comfortable drowsy state. She’d invited a near stranger to stay in her house. But because he was there, she felt safe. Safe and secure as she hadn’t since…
Since Andy.
She closed her eyes.
And the next thing she knew, it was morning.
10
Patricia woke early and was annoyed with herself. She hated it when she awoke before her alarm rang. Their nights could run late, and she treasured her sleep in the morning.
The room was still dark. There was nothing to have awakened her.
At her side, Nathan still slept soundly. She was glad of him being there.
Things had been perfect, in her job and her life, until…
Until Andy had died.
She felt a little shiver of fear, and a rush of empathy for Andy swept through her. She hadn’t known her that well, but that didn’t really matter—she had known her, and what had happened to her had been terrible. No, terrible wasn’t nearly adequate to describe the fact that a gorgeous, vivacious young woman with everything in the world to live for was gone.
By her own hand? Or, as Nikki seemed to believe, with the help of another?
Had Andy fallen back into her old ways?
Or had she really been a victim?
Had she known her fate? Had she been terrified? Had she fo
ught, then lost her fight?
Patricia swallowed, glancing to her side again. Nathan’s dark hair was just discernible against the pillow in the pale light that filtered into the room. She heard his even breathing.
With Nikki being so insistent, the police had been forced to give Andy’s case serious thought. But they had nothing. Detective Massey had been honest with them about that.
If Andy had been attacked, no one had heard anything. But then again, who had been around to hear? Just poor old deaf Mrs. Montobello?
Patricia wished suddenly and desperately that they’d never met Andy Ciello. Whatever happened to her must have happened because of her past.
Maybe not. Maybe she had been the random victim of a psychopath.
One who didn’t leave behind a fingerprint, a fiber or a hair.
No, psychopaths didn’t run around making it appear that someone had died from a drug overdose.
“Hey there.”
She nearly hit the ceiling, the sound of Nathan’s voice was so startling.
“Oh, jeez!” she gasped out.
“Patricia, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded, slipping an arm around her. “You’re cold as ice and shaking like a leaf.”
“You startled me.”
“How could I startle you? I’ve been here all night.”
Been here all night.
Nathan. She had fallen into lust with him first—he’d walked her home after one of their tours, and somehow they’d looked at each other and started stripping themselves and each other—and only later had she discovered just how head over heels she was with him.
She was grateful that they’d discovered their passion for one another. She wasn’t alone now.
Wasn’t alone.
But that night…
The night Andy had died…
They’d all been out together, drinking. Too much. She and Nathan had gone home together. And in the middle of the night, she’d gotten up for aspirin. Staggered into the bathroom and back, falling down onto the sheets. And there had been something, something not quite right….
The bed had been…
Empty.
Or had it?
She didn’t really know. She’d had too much to drink, and she’d been exhausted. She’d gone back to bed, thinking something was ever so slightly wrong, nothing warm touching her, but she’d crashed out again, and when she had awakened, he’d been next to her, just as if he had been there all night, and she figured she had just imagined in her silly drunken stupor that she had been alone.