Giving Up the Ghost

by Marilyn Levinson

  Cam stretched out on the couch and narrowed his eyes. His expression turned forbidding, giving Gabbie an idea of what a tough businessman he must have been. "Believe me, he's more toxic than the bland, boring persona he assumes."

  Gabbie raised an eyebrow. "Quite the psychiatrist, aren't you?"

  "You have to know how people think if you're going to outwit them."

  For a ghost, his mind was keen, his conversation stimulating, but Gabbie hadn't the time nor the inclination for bantering. "Jill finds it hard to believe your death was an accident."

  "I'm glad," he said, not much above a whisper.

  She sensed the effort it took Cam not to ask what else Jill had said about him. Instead, he said, "Now to get Darren to see it that way. If we could find one shred of evidence that pointed to murder, he'd reopen the investigation in a flash."

  "One shred of evidence," she echoed. "The trouble is, this room was never treated as a crime scene. Everything's been trampled on and handled."

  "And Mary Hanley had some pretty thorough cleaners in here. I wasn't exactly the best housekeeper in town."

  Gabbie forced herself to bring up the next subject she wanted to ask him about. "Jill told me Sonia Russell was raped when she was in high school."

  He sat up to stare at her in obvious surprise. "How did that happen to come up in the conversation?"

  Gabbie sat down at the desk. She shook the snow scene paperweight and watched the snow settle before going on. "Sonia was at the circulation desk. She gave Jill a hard time."

  "That's Sonia, all right. She has her ways. Does it to make herself feel important."

  "I was just wondering. You didn't have anything to do with...that business."

  Cam put his hand to his heart. "Dammit, Gabbie, what do you take me for? I never forced a girl or woman for as much as a kiss. In fact--" He stopped, as though deep in thought.

  "In fact, what?"

  "Darren and I found Sonia that night on the beach, a couple of miles from here. It was early April, and cold as a witch's--er--nose. Must have been spring recess or something, because I was home from college."

  "Anyway, Sonia was dressed in a frilly party dress. Some cheap shiny material with ruffles. Nothing the girls we dated would be seen dead in. It was dirty and torn. She must have heard us call to her, but she just sat there, hunched up on the sand, hugging herself and moaning.

  "We got her into the car and Darren was all for going to the police. That's when Sonia suddenly found her voice. She started screaming and cursing, telling us to take her home. She said her father was out drinking, and he'd kill her if he found out she'd left the house against his orders, even if it meant the boys who hurt her didn't get punished."

  "That's when you knew she'd been raped?"

  Cam was growing transparent. Their conversation would be ending soon.

  "She denied it at first. Then the story came tumbling out. She'd met two guys outside the candy store in town, and was flattered when they flirted with her. They invited her to a party. Said they'd come and pick her up. Sure they did, only the party turned out to be four of them and poor Sonia in a van. Real scuzzes from two towns over. We made her promise to go to the doctor."

  "But she didn't, did she? And the scum got away with it." Gabbie snorted. "How typical."

  "As far as the police were concerned." Cam grinned. "But let's see... By the time June rolled around, two of them had smashed noses, one a broken arm, and the other ended up in the nut house after we scared him half to death." He chuckled. "We snuck into his house one night. Got up as ghosts, actually."

  Gabbie pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. "Did Sonia find out?"

  "Darren and I let her know we took care of the bad guys, but she never said one word. Not 'good job' or 'thanks, fellas.' After that night she was weirder than ever. At least nobody bothered her again. If you don't count the beatings her father gave her till he died a year or two later. A nighttime hit-and-run got him when he was staggering home drunk. No one mourned him, not Sonia or any of his three sons."

  Gabbie shuddered. "Poor Sonia."

  "Just another sad CH story. There are plenty of 'em."

  Gabbie looked at her watch. "I hate to chase you, Cam, but I've still some work to do."

  "Just one more thing." Cam gnawed at his lower lip. "If you're going to keep on playing Sherlock Holmes, I'd better tell you about the money."

  "What money?"

  "The half million dollars arranged in neat piles, that filled the bottom drawer of the desk you're sitting at. My traveling money, you might call it."

  She stared at him. "My God, Cam! Did you usually keep sums that large in the cottage?"

  "Of course not. I'm a great believer in making your money work for you. This was cash from a deal that suddenly came my way. When I--er came back, it was gone." He chuckled. "Not that it matters. Like they say, you can't take it with you."

  "Did you come back here immediately?"

  "Time passed. About a week, I'd say."

  "Then how do you know Darren didn't find the money and hand it over to your brother?"

  "I was completely disoriented the afternoon it happened, don't ask me why. I couldn't have drunk that much, but I remember hearing someone--the murderer--rifling through the drawerful of money. Next thing I knew he was finishing me off."

  Gabbie stared at his fading figure. "Damn you, Cameron Leeds, you might have told me this up front! Whoever killed you, did it for the money. It's as simple as that."

  "Now that's precisely why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd jump to that erroneous conclusion, right off the bat. Most likely, someone came after me for an entirely different reason."

  "No doubt for being the most infuriating, maddening creature that ever lived!"

  She grabbed up her books and papers and flew out of the room. "I won't be back for days," she shouted from the hall. "Maybe a week. And I'm beginning to think that whoever killed you did the world a favor!"

  CHAPTER NINE

  Gabbie spread her schoolbooks and papers on the kitchen table. She was so engrossed in what she was doing that the ring of the doorbell had her leaping from her seat.

  "Who's there?" she demanded through the wooden door.

  "It's Chief Rollins. Darren. May I come in?"

  Her heart fluttered as her fingers fumbled with the lock. "Hi. Anything wrong?"

  "Nope." He brought in the scent of cold night air and a trace of tangy aftershave. "I was doing my nightly surveillance, and decided I needed a break. Was hoping for a friendly cup of coffee and a pit stop."

  "Sure. Go on." She gestured upstairs. "I'll put on the kettle."

  He came thundering down five minutes later and joined her in the kitchen. He glanced at her school books on the table. "Hope I'm not interrupting."

  "You're not, since you're only staying till you finish your coffee."

  "I see you're a woman who sets boundaries." His tone was admiring rather than offended.

  "I have to." She hoped he wouldn't ask why. She set the steaming mug in front of him. "I've milk and sugar, but no cake."

  "I take it black with three teaspoons of sugar."

  "I'll remember that," she said, and sipped her tea.

  She liked the way he drank, neatly, without slurping or making weird noises. He cupped his hands around the mug, as though grateful for the warmth it gave off. She realized he was studying her.

  "The place feels cozy with you here," he said.

  "It's the new appliances. I haven't done a thing but buy some supplies and move in."

  "I know this cottage as well as the house I grew up in. Cam and his little brother, Roland, used to stay with their grandfather summers and holidays. He used to say it was like staying with Santa Claus."

  "Why? Were his parents poor?"

  "One parent--his mother--if you can call her that. His father took off after Roland was born. And she was poor, all right. Drank and gambled what little money she earned as a waitress."

  "No wonde
r," Gabbie mused.

  "No wonder what?" He sent her a questioning glance.

  Gabbie flushed. "I've heard a few stories about Cam, how he was always making business deals. I suppose he wanted to make sure he never was poor again."

  "That's a reason, not an excuse," Darren said.

  Gabbie was pleased he didn't share Cam's easy morality.

  "Anyway," Darren continued, "when Cam was about twelve, his grandfather died. He left the cottage to the boys, to be turned over to them when Cam turned twenty-one. Cam's mother moved them into the cottage full-time, along with her second husband.

  "A few years later she wanted to sell it. The boys said no, so she fought them for possession in court. Said her father must have been touched in the head to leave his cottage to kids instead of his own daughter, but the judge held firm. She and her third husband moved to Arizona a few years after that." Darren grimaced. "Not that it mattered. After their grandfather died, Cam and Roland brought themselves up. Joyce Leeds wasn't meant to be a mother."

  Gabbie found it interesting to learn about Cam's childhood, but she needed to focus on more recent events. "You must miss him a lot."

  "Miss him?" Darren snorted. "Not a day goes by when I don't curse him roundly for depriving me of his company. We were soul brothers, Gabbie. I'll never have a friend like that again."

  Gabbie propped her elbows on the old wooden table. "Did you ever consider the possibility that his death wasn't an accident?"

  "You mean, do I think someone pushed him over?" His eyes narrowed, but he smiled. "You never saw Cam. He stood six foot four, and was strong as the proverbial ox." His smile disappeared. "There were no signs of a fight or a struggle anywhere on the body."

  She was treading dangerous territory, challenging his professional expertise, but she owed it to Cam to find out everything she could. "What did the medical examiner find?"

  "Old Doc Bradley, our coroner, examined the body. He determined all wounds and contusions resulted from the fall."

  "Old Doc Bradley? What is he, a veterinarian?"

  "A GP who cares about people. The kind of doctor you'd want taking care of you, whether you caught pneumonia or were hit by a car." Darren got to his feet and stood, legs apart, glaring at her.

  Shooting stance, she thought, shivering. If he had a gun in his hand, which of course he doesn't.

  "Doc Bradley was a medic in the Korean War. He's seen more bodies, dead and alive, than any two MEs anywhere."

  Gabbie pretended to accept Darren's defense of the old doctor. But Darren was wrong. Someone had killed Cam, and the doctor had overlooked the cause of his injuries. Now the question was: did Darren truly believe Cam had fallen drunk to his death?

  Or--the horrible possibility sprang up like a jack-in-the-box--did Darren deserve an Oscar for his performance of outraged innocence because he'd murdered Cam?

  She closed her eyes, intent on making the preposterous thought disappear. Darren was a cop. An honest cop. How do you know? a small voice threw back at her. Because he made you think so? When she opened her eyes, he was setting his mug in the sink.

  "It's time I got going." He headed for the door.

  She hurried after him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push your buttons. It's just--"

  "I know." He touched her shoulder, sending tingles through her body. "When civilians find out about accidents like this, they often assume it was murder. At any rate, I shouldn't have gotten so uptight about your questions."

  "He was your best friend," she murmured.

  "That he was."

  She drew in breath, relieved he was no longer angry at her. When he lowered his head, for one crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her.

  Instead, he winked. "Good-night, Gabbie. Thanks for the coffee."

  * * * *

  The next morning, Gabbie leaped out of bed, eager to leave the cottage. She didn't mind the icy wind that stung her face as she cleared the windshield or the slippery drive to school. It was a relief to get away from a nagging ghost and prurient thoughts of a sexy cop who just might have murdered his best friend.

  A few of her students waved as she passed them in the hallway. She returned greetings from the staff. She stopped at the guidance office, but Barrett's counselor wasn't there. I'll try later.

  Her first two classes went smoothly. She had students read their homework assignments aloud, and used them as springboards for a lively discussion about how the various characters had influenced the story's plot so far. Then she read to them from Chapter Four until the bell rang.

  "Finish reading the chapter for homework and write a summary two to four pages long," she told them. "Keep it in the present tense. Check it over twice. I might count it as a grade."

  There were groans, but quite a few students said, "Bye, Ms. Meyerson" or "See you tomorrow."

  She was disappointed that neither Theo nor Charlie were among those warming up to her. When she left the room, they were waiting for her in the hall.

  "Is the Photography Club meeting Friday afternoon?" Theo said. "There wasn't a notice in this week's announcements."

  Gabbie swallowed. She'd agreed to be the advisor of the Photography Club as part of her job. It had all but slipped her mind. "Well, I hadn't planned on holding a meeting yet."

  "But we always meet the second Friday of the month." For once Theo sounded upset rather than angry.

  "Sometimes the last Friday, too," Charlie added. He was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, clearly a nervous tic.

  "I suppose we could meet this Friday. I've been so busy with schoolwork, I haven't given it much thought. It's kind of late to put a notice in this week's announcements."

  "Don't bother," Theo said. "Just a few kids besides us come anymore."

  "Lots of other kids used to come," Charlie explained. "Until Barrett--"

  "Charlie!" Theo elbowed him.

  Gabbie felt a prickling between her shoulder blades. "What happened?"

  "Nothing happened," Theo said. "Let's go, Charlie; we'll be late to class."

  "Let the other kids know we're meeting this Friday," Gabbie called after them. "And don't forget to bring your cameras."

  Charlie spun around. "That's great, Ms. Meyerson. Will we meet in our English room like always?"

  "You got it."

  "Thank you." Theo's words came out strangled. Sullen though she was, her mother's lessons in manners were clearly something she couldn't ignore.

  "See you tomorrow," Gabbie called after them, more cheerfully than she felt. She knew zip about photography. It looked like she'd be spending another afternoon in the library, this time learning the ABCs of photography.

  Once in the teachers' lounge, Gabbie reached for the cup she'd brought in the day before, and filled it with coffee from the half-full carafe.

  "Coffee klatch is five dollars a month," said a tall, skinny Ichabod Crane-type.

  "Do I pay you?" Gabbie reached into her pocketbook.

  "If you like. Give me two dollars, seeing half the month is gone."

  "I'm Gabbie Meyerson." She handed him two singles and watched him jot down her contribution in a tiny note pad. When pad and pen were back in the breast pocket of his tweed blazer, he stuck out his hand.

  "Oscar Tweeney, Science. Welcome aboard."

  Gabbie sat on one of the two worn couches and sipped her coffee. Two women teachers came in and smiled at her, and resumed their conversation. Gabbie joined their discussion about New Mexico, an area she'd visited with Paul a few years ago. Later, when she entered her classroom for her next class, she realized she'd forgotten to speak to anyone about Barrett.

  Her seniors straggled in after the bell, some with coffee, others with soda and snacks. Entitlements of the graduating class. Well, she'd see about that! When they were seated, she told them they could bring in food if they liked. They could even sit in a circle. But coming in after the bell would count against them.

  "How, Ms. Meyerson?" April said.

  "I suppose a minut
e a point would be too harsh."

  "How about you start counting five minutes after the bell?"

  Gabbie met the dark liquid eyes of a tall, broad-shouldered black boy with riveting good looks. Byron Stokes. Football quarterback, center forward, and quite the ladies' man with black and white girls, or so she'd heard.

  "All right, Byron. A five minute starter and not one second more or it counts against you. But be warned, I start class when the period begins, so don't come whining to me if you've missed the homework assignment or a test announcement because you decided to dawdle in the halls with your friends or sweetie of the moment."

  She busied herself with her grade book, pretending not to hear their reactions, until too many curse words sullied her ears.

  "One more thing," she said conversationally. "No curse words, and I mean none, beginning with damn and hell."

  "How will that count against us, Ms. Meyerson?" Heather said.

  "You'll find yourself writing all sorts of papers."

  "But curse words are part of our language, Ms. Meyerson," Barrett said.

  Utter silence as all eyes turned to the doorway that framed him like a picture. Evil in ebony, Gabbie decided, eying his black clothes and black hair.

  She forced her lips to turn up in a smile. "Of course they are, Barrett. Everyone knows that. Just as everyone knows it's not acceptable to use them in the classroom. Please sit down. Your tardiness has been noted and will be reflected in your quarterly grade."

  "Five minutes after the bell," Lynne pointed out.

  "Lance," Gabbie said to the plump, unhappy boy in the second row. "We're ready to hear your essay."

  She deliberately turned her head away from Barrett. When she looked at him a minute later, he sat sprawled in the last seat in the row beside the windows, his eyes glued to a distant spot outside.

  Lance mumbled his essay as though it were one long, strung-out sentence. The subject was movies he considered to be classics and why he liked to watch them again and again. An interesting subject, but his comments were so vague and repetitive, Gabbie had to cover her mouth to hide a yawn.