Giving Up the Ghost

by Marilyn Levinson

  GIVING UP THE GHOST

  By

  Marilyn Levinson

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2012

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-134-9

  ISBN 10: 1-60174-134-0

  Giving Up the Ghost

  Copyright © 2012 by Marilyn Levinson

  Cover design

  Copyright © 2012 by Judith B. Glad

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gabbie stepped out of her car and regarded the place she was to call home for the rest of the school year. In the gloom of early nightfall, the weatherbeaten cottage held as much charm as the House of Usher.

  Her shivers came from the raw January wind as well as from her sense of isolation. Woods on either side separated her from her nearest neighbors--both summer people, according to the real estate agent--and the overgrown bushes hid the cottage from anyone driving down this godforsaken road. Why, a gang of ruffians could commandeer the place and no one would hear her screams.

  She let out a humorless bark of laughter as she realized the pièce de résistance--the spectacular view of the Long Island Sound that had driven her to haggle with Mary Hanley until she lowered the rent to one Gabbie could afford--camouflaged a potential danger as well. Beyond the straggly row of scrub oaks bordering the back lawn, the land fell away. A thirty foot drop to the beach.

  Where was her common sense? Her grasp on reality? By taking this teaching job, she'd allowed herself to follow another rash impulse like the one that had led her to marry Paul Montebello. And that had proven to be the most egregious mistake of her life.

  "Enough," she scolded aloud, refusing to fall prey to the pattern of negative thinking that always left her spent and depressed. She had to put distance between herself and everything connected to Paul. Get away from Westchester County, Paul's sphere of influence, even though currently he resided in prison. She'd been lucky to find a district in need of an English teacher in the middle of the school year, one whose administrators were willing to hire her though she hadn't taught in years. As for this cottage, it was a better choice than her only alternative, a hole-in-the-wall apartment above a dry cleaning establishment in a neighboring town.

  If only it wasn't so dark. Grabbing a suitcase in each hand, Gabbie inched cautiously along the snow-covered path to the front door. Once inside, she switched on the light in the small hall and wrinkled her nose at the dank smell.

  Mary had claimed the odor would disappear once the place was aired out. "It had better," Gabbie muttered as she turned up the thermostat. The heating system came to life, followed by a blast of warm air from a nearby vent. At least she wouldn't freeze.

  The living room was crowded with musty old furniture. It's only till the end of June, she reminded herself, and focused on the fact that her drive to school was seven minutes flat.

  She'd retrieved the rest of her things from the Volvo and was about to carry them upstairs when a shudder ran up her spine. She wasn't alone.

  Someone was watching.

  Gabbie spun around to peer into the darkened den across the hall. "Who's there?"

  Silence.

  You're doing a great job of scaring yourself. Get a grip or you'll be a total wreck in no time. Everything feels weird because it's a strange house and new surroundings. She grabbed all she could carry and went upstairs, as fast as she could climb.

  In the larger of the two bedrooms, she made up the queen-sized bed and put her clothes in the closet and bureau. She was setting her toiletries on the bathroom counter when she heard someone whistling. Freezing in place, Gabbie took two deep breaths, grabbed the only weapon she could think of--hair spray--and went to the head of the stairs.

  "Who's there?" she repeated, fear turning her voice harsh. Had Paul hired someone to follow her and kill her? He considered disloyalty a sin, and her turning him in to the authorities had to strike him as the most grievous sin of all.

  A bantam-sized man in his late sixties came into view. He wore workman's boots, a plaid flannel shirt and a deerstalker hat that left his face in shadow.

  "Hello, there." Was he smiling or leering? "Didn't mean to frighten you, but I knocked and knocked and nobody answered. I'm Reese Walters, by the way. I own Walters' Floor and Appliances, half a mile east of town."

  Gabbie descended two steps. "How'd you get in?"

  "With a key." He held it up. "Mary Hanley said to come look over the kitchen and see what needs doing. It's in pretty bad shape."

  Relief and irritation vied for dominance. Irritation won. "She had no business giving you the key after I signed the lease."

  Reese Walters held out both palms in a conciliatory gesture. "Now don't go blaming Mary when all she wants is to see you comfortable. Besides, Roland Leeds gave me the key. He asked me to keep an eye on things after... Well, after."

  "After what?"

  He waved away her question. "Here's what I'll do," he said as if he was trying to convince her he was cutting her a special deal. "Tomorrow I'll have my men replace the microwave and oven and measure for new kitchen flooring. I should've taken care of it months ago, only I didn't expect anyone would be renting so soon. Not since--" He cleared his throat. "I should say, not till the spring."

  Gabbie eyed him warily. "Is something wrong with the cottage? Something I should know, like the roof leaks?"

  "No, ma'am, the place is sound enough. Roland's grandfather built it with his own two hands. The thing is, not many folks come here in the dead of winter."

  She descended to the hall and offered her hand. "I'm Gabbie Meyerson." she said, pleased to be using her maiden name again. "I've come to teach English at the high school."

  Reese's grip was firm. "Pleased to meet you, Gabbie. Mary mentioned you'll be taking over for Lydia Ketchem while she recuperates from her operation."

  Gabbie pursed her lips. Had the agent repeated every single word of their conversation?

  "Welcome to Chrissom Harbor. They're sure lucky to have found you."

  "Why do you say that?"

  He gulped, before saying rapidly, "Because half the school year's over, isn't it? Hard to get replacements. Anyway, your kitchen and living room lights are all working. No burned-out light bulbs. Want me to take a look upstairs?"

  "No, it's fine." A thought occurred to her. "But I noticed there's a TV in the den. Would you mind making sure it's connected?"

  Reese darted a glance at the den, and then peered quickly at his watch. "Is that really the time? I best be going. My wife expected me home half an hour ago." He edged toward the door.

  "Tell you what," he continued, before she could squeeze in a word. "I'll have my men look at the TV tomorrow to make sure it's in working order."

  "Well, all right."

  He tilted back his hat and looked at her from narrowed gray eyes. "Make sure you keep yo
ur doors locked. People around here are decent and hard-working, but times are different now, if you get what I mean."

  "Of course."

  Not certain if he meant the warning as a general caution or that a rapist roamed the woods, Gabbie heeded his advice and double-locked the door behind him. My first visitor, she mocked as she climbed the stairs to finish the business of settling in. Still, now that she'd been promised a working kitchen, she found herself more kindly disposed toward the cottage. And Reese had been friendly enough, though his insinuations of danger and problems left her a bit uneasy.

  He's probably one of those gossipy people who likes to come across as mysterious and knowing. She set a pile of her favorite novels on the night stand and put him out of her mind.

  A crash sent her flying down the stairs. Nothing seemed to be out of place in the kitchen or the dining room. She stood in the entranceway to the den and looked about. A large ashtray lay at her feet. Gabbie gasped. It hadn't been there before. It must have fallen, but how?

  Reese Walters probably brushed against it when he was here. It's the only logical explanation. But how to explain the scent of male cologne? Leave question mark.

  Gabbie told herself to stop imagining things, and went upstairs to finish putting away her clothes.

  Half an hour later, her possessions in place, Gabbie realized her stomach was growling. For good reason. Her last bit of nourishment had been a muffin and a cup of coffee before noon. She went to the kitchen and began opening cupboards. Plenty of cooking and eating utensils but nothing to eat. Of course there wasn't any food. Why would she expect to find food in an empty house?

  She considered driving into town, but felt too exhausted to make the effort. Instead, she finished off the crackers and package of cheddar cheese she'd brought, and boiled water for tea. Tomorrow she'd stock up at the supermarket.

  A wave of exhaustion nearly knocked her off her feet as she cleared the table. It had been a long and arduous day of transition, but eight-thirty was too early to crawl into bed.

  The den was the perfect place to veg out. In the warm glow of lamp light, the room had an inviting appearance. Still, a tingle at the nape of her neck made her pause before entering the room.

  Silly. There's nothing to be afraid of.

  A cold draft, strong enough to ruffle her hair, sent her to the sliding glass door to make certain it was locked. It was, but as an added precaution Gabbie closed the vertical blinds and shut out the night. Even so, a chilly current seemed to stir the air. To offset her uneasiness, she scrutinized the room.

  The den was apparently a recent addition to the cottage. It had been furnished for masculine comfort, judging by the brown leather couch and recliner. A bronze Roman soldier stood on a shelf of the wall unit, guarding the TV, DVD player, and stereo.

  Built-in bookcases on either side of the entertainment unit were half-filled with books. A few suspense novels were among the many dealing with finance and the economy.

  This was her home for the next few months, she reminded herself. She placed her most cherished possession--the snow scene paperweight Aunt Matilda had given her when she'd gone off to college--on the oversized desk in the far corner. The simple act seemed to dissipate the tension in the room.

  She sank into the recliner and clicked her way through channels without finding anything of interest. Not surprising, since she couldn't remember the last television program she'd seen. But it was nice to know the TV worked. Which meant the DVD probably did as well. And the telephone would be connected in a day or two.

  She turned off the set, closed her eyes, and burrowed deeper into the oversized chair. Mmmm, comfy. The leather, buttery-soft and well-padded, lulled her into languid relaxation. Considering all she'd recently accomplished, Gabbie allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation. She'd found a temporary job and was on her way to putting her past behind her.

  Half asleep, she murmured. "This place isn't so bad."

  An amused male voice intruded on her satisfaction. "Think so? I wouldn't bet money on that, honey."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gabbie shot up from the chair, a hand pressed against her thumping heart. "Who's that? Who's there?"

  She glanced about the room, peering sharply into the corners, but saw no one.

  "The police. I'll call the police!" As she reached for the phone, she remembered the line wasn't connected. No doubt she was the only person in America who didn't own a cell phone. In her efforts to pare down expenses, she'd given hers up.

  Even if she reached the police, what would she say? That she was drifting off to sleep in her new rental and heard someone--some invisible male--make a wise-crack comment? She had a pretty good idea the officer would suggest she was dreaming or letting her imagination run wild.

  A man's voice coming from her bedroom sent her scurrying toward the stairs. Then she heard music. Relieved, Gabbie turned off her clock radio. "That's what I heard. It has to be."

  Reason told her she'd misunderstood what the voice had said, that it couldn't have been speaking to her. Which didn't keep her from tossing and turning most of the night. She finally slept and was awakened by the shrill sound of the old-fashioned alarm.

  She showered and dressed quickly, eager to leave the cottage.

  Chrissom Harbor High School was an old three-storied brick building, surrounded on three sides by parking lots, playing fields and courts. A considerable distance beyond were woods, farms, and what appeared to be a new housing development.

  Gabbie parked in a visitor's spot and headed for the Main Office. Lydia Ketchem was waiting for her. The English chairperson was a sturdy, no-nonsense woman in her mid-fifties, with short iron-gray hair and a warm smile. Gabbie was grateful to have the job, but sorry Lydia had to undergo surgery on both rotator cuffs, followed by months of rehabilitation.

  "Let's go to the classroom and I'll explain what I've been doing. They're good kids, most of them. You'll know who the troublemakers are before the first day's over."

  The narrow, locker-lined corridor was made more dismal by flickering florescent lights. Gabbie winced. It seemed like the middle of the night, though outside the sun was shining.

  Lydia noticed her wince and laughed. "Dreary, I know. From the looks of things, you'd think this place dates back to the Puritans. The Board's talking about finally building a new middle-high school. They'll put it to a vote in May, but I'm afraid most of the old-timers and summer people will come out and nix it. They don't want their taxes going up."

  "Are those new houses beyond the playing fields?" Gabbie said.

  "Oh, yes. They're sprouting up all over the place. And new houses mean more kids. So we'll get a new building one of these years, most likely after I retire." Lydia rubbed her shoulder. No doubt the torn rotator cuff was causing her pain.

  They turned left and continued along another corridor. Gabbie heard raucous laughter before two boys came into sight. Each wore black pants and a black sweat shirt under a black trench coat. Their hair, dyed shoe-leather black, hung down their backs in skinny pony tails.

  Lydia stepped in their path, her nostrils bristling with fury. "Todd! Barrett! You both were suspended, which means you're to spend the day in Dr. Jordan's office. And you know the rules. No black trench coats. Put them in your lockers."

  The boys glanced at each other in mock amazement, and brayed with laughter. The taller boy said, "We told Dr. Jordan we were cold, and he let us get our jackets."

  Lydia glared at them. Gabbie felt the intensity of her anger and the effort it cost her to speak civilly. "Jackets, yes, not trench coats. Or would you like me to extend your suspension?"

  The shorter boy shrugged. "So? We don't mind hanging out in the office. Mrs. Green lets us collate papers."

  "Go to your lockers, and don't let me see those trench coats ever again."

  They both laughed. The tall one said, his voice soft, almost caressing,"We'll try to remember not to wear them in school, Ms. Ketchem, but we might when we're riding around.
Say, down Rostoff's Lane, to check out the animals." They shrugged out of their trench coats, tossed them over their shoulders, and walked on.

  Gabbie was glad to see them go. They were an obnoxious, insolent pair. She turned to ask Lydia a question then stopped when she saw her face was still livid with fury--and fear.

  "Bastards," she muttered. "How dare they threaten me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I live on Rostoff's Lane with my cats, Tiger and Fluffy. Good thing I've got protection against the likes of them."

  Gabbie shivered. "You mean a gun?"

  "That's exactly what I mean."

  "Isn't that a bit...drastic?"

  Lydia shook her head decisively, and winced in pain. "Talk to Darren Rollins, our local lawman. He's pretty sure they caught and shaved a poor little Yorkie he found wandering on the beach last winter." She grimaced. "Not to mention the kids they torment, kids who attend school under our jurisdiction and protection."

  As they resumed walking, Gabbie said, "Please tell me I don't have either of them in class."

  "Barrett Connelly's in your English Twelve. He's ice cold through and through."

  I only have to get through till June. Still, having a student like Barrett Connelly was unnerving. She suddenly remembered Reese Walters' comment last night, about the school being lucky to get her. Which brought back in full force his inferences about the cottage and her unsettling experience in the den. "Lydia, I'd like to ask you something."

  "Certainly. That's why I arranged for us to get together this morning."

  "I've plenty of questions about the curriculum and the kids, but this is about the cottage I rented. It belongs to someone named Roland Leeds." She drew a deep breath. "Is there something I should know that no one's telling me?"

  Lydia eyed her speculatively before nodding. "Roland's brother, Cameron, lived in the cottage. Last May he fell to the beach and broke his neck."

  "Oh, how awful!" Gabbie shuddered. As she'd feared, the drop from the bluff was dangerous.