Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “You’re kidding.” said Ned. “I’ve worked a solid fifteen years at this paper. If I haven’t earned the right to cover this story . . .” He stopped. His annoyance mirrored his co-workers. “Damn it, Malcolm. You’re just going to let corporate take over your newspaper?”

  “I’m doing what’s necessary to safeguard our existence—which is not a given. In the past two years MediaMatters has shut down a half dozen presses. Cooperation is critical, even if that means letting corporate in on our story.” Grumbling faded to conciliatory murmurs. “It’s why I called this meeting early. I wanted to give you all the courtesy of a heads-up before the latest addition to our team arrives.” He glanced at the wall clock, then at his watch, as if timing his speech. “Rumor has it that punctuality is your new colleague’s hallmark.” He motioned toward the closed door. Curious looks passed from one person to the next as Malcolm’s reporters collectively turned toward the entrance. “I also know you’ll do your best to work together. Remember, the story is what’s important here.”

  As the wall clock ticked to precisely eight, the door burst open and Levi St John ploughed through, a large coffee cup balanced on a sizeable stack of folders.

  “How did we not see this coming?” Ned slumped, his pen thudding against his notepad. Bebe’s thin frame pulled pole-straight, her face a mix of pleasure and surprise. Gwen Trumble, who ran special features, traded glances with Dan Coulter. Aubrey grabbed up her Harper Street listing sheet and hid behind it. Heated pages crinkled in her hands. She felt renewed gratitude for her singular position of home portrait writer and editor. Other than bumping into Levi in the break room, her job guaranteed zero interaction. The last time he’d descended onto Surrey City Press territory she hadn’t been as fortunate.

  Malcolm’s health had necessitated a three-month leave of absence a year ago August. Having been the product of a cigarette-smoking generation of reporters, he’d suffered a heart attack right in the middle of the newsroom floor. It was followed by an emergency triple bypass. In his absence, Levi had been MediaMatters’ interim choice for editor in chief. Compared to Malcolm, anyone would have been a shock. As it was, corporate saw fit to send a locomotive through their placid newsroom.

  Levi worked at MediaMatters’ most enduring publication, the Hartford Standard Speaker, where he was the city desk editor. Being as the Surrey City Press was currently without theirs—Erin Barkley having gone out on maternity leave only last week—it surely added a layer of appeal to his resume. On paper, it was the perfect storm of corporate logic: Levi was a tough reporter with imposing skills. He also had experience with the inner workings of the Surrey City Press. What MediaMatters had overlooked was disposition.

  Levi folded his tall frame into a chair at the opposite end of the conference room table. The choice would be perceived in one of two ways: It was the seat closest to the door. It was a presumptuous place of authority. Aubrey sensed that her co-workers had settled on the latter. Levi appeared oblivious. He was busy separating his early edition of the New York Times from the folders, which he arranged like a flow chart in front of him.

  “Good morning, Levi. Glad to see traffic wasn’t an issue. Carl Toppan personally called to let me know you’d be available to the Surrey City Press. It certainly speaks volumes when MediaMatters CEO rings up an editor in chief to relay news.”

  “Thanks . . . right. Malcolm, good to see you.” Levi pushed silver-rimmed glasses high on a well-defined nose and extracted three pens from his inner jacket pocket, placing them on the table. Without looking up, he produced a legal pad from the bottom of the stack and flipped past a dozen ink-filled pages. At the other end of the table, Aubrey could make out mentions of Missy Flannigan’s name, orderly lists, and paragraphs of notes. It did occur to her that no one present had done such comprehensive homework. Finally, after settling on a blank page, Levi acknowledged a room full of stares. “I assume everyone remembers me.” He nodded at the table of reporters. “Ned . . . Bebe . . . Gwen . . . uh . . .”

  “Kim.”

  “Kim,” he said, pointing a pen at her. “Still using that better byline?”

  She dove into a flurry of pseudo note-taking while answering, “I am.”

  A wave of unease traveled the room. Everyone recalled Levi’s memorable introduction to the Surrey City Press. Kim had been a new hire, only on the job a few days. At Levi’s first staff meeting, he’d loudly noted that her byline—Kimmy Jones—made it sound as if she were writing for the school newspaper, which she had been only months before. Adding insult to injury, Levi had handed Kim back a redlined piece she’d done on the 140th anniversary of Benjamin Franklin Savings Bank. From there he’d remarked, “If you rewrite the lead, find a quote worth using, and back off the superlatives, it might not sound like a college student wrote it.” And that was the beginning of Levi St John—expert at handling a newspaper agenda, disturbingly dense in the area of personal communication.

  He moved on from Kim, wagging a finger in Aubrey’s direction. “Ellis.” Positive it would be their only exchange, she forced a pleasant, “Hello, Levi.” The remaining salutations were polite but not warm. Levi’s dark eyes gazed around the table and Aubrey wondered if he noticed the chill.

  “I was about to get into the particulars of our breaking news,” Malcolm said. “Since Friday’s bombshell, I want to make certain everyone is up to speed. Unless you have a suggestion as to how you’d like to pursue things . . .”

  Levi held up his hand. “Not at all, Malcolm. It’s your newsroom. I’m just here to do the job I was assigned.”

  Their editor in chief opened his own folder. “Good. In that case, my gut says to start at the beginning.”

  “Absolutely,” said Ned, determined to stake his territory. “We’ll need detailed police reports from Friday, when all hell broke loose at the Byrd house. It’s not every day a skeleton comes tumbling out from behind a wall.”

  “Excuse me . . . but actually,” Levi said, pushing the glasses up again, “I take ‘the beginning’ as the original investigation. The one that took place twenty years ago.”

  Ned dug in. “Sure. We’ll need to look at the history of the case. But Surrey readers want to know the current state of things.”

  “But the current state of things is going to greatly affect the past and future. Particularly when it comes to Frank Delacort.” Levi reached for the folder that sat due north. “Not only do you have a brand-new suspect in a homicide this town declared solved twenty years ago, you have the compelling story of an all-but-demonized military veteran.” His hand moved twenty degrees east, opening a thick folder. “If Delacort’s adamant cry of innocence has suddenly turned into fact, it’s going to rattle a lot of cages . . . politically, socially, ethically.”

  “And I suspect it’s going to get his cage opened,” said Gwen.

  “Most likely.” Levi thumbed through his notes. “I don’t doubt that Delacort’s lawyer has already filed a motion to have his conviction overturned. That alone is something we’ll need to follow.”

  “True,” Bebe said. “But isn’t the headline here Missy Flannigan’s killer, which now screams Dustin Byrd?”

  Levi thrummed his fingers on a thinner folder set in a westerly direction. He took a breath that seemed languishing, like this was slowing him down. “Look, this story isn’t one note or one headline. It’s certainly not going to be told in one week.” He motioned at the folders. “It’s multidimensional, and we’re at the tip of the investigation. It’s critical that we deconstruct the history of the Missy Flannigan story before plunging headlong—”

  “Levi,” Malcolm said, raising his hand from his end of the table.

  He returned the gesture. “I didn’t mean to take over.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” he said. “The need to approach this systematically is evident.”

  “And that’s fine,” Ned said, standing his ground, “but we still have a n
ewspaper to put out tomorrow and it’s going to need a headline.”

  “There will be a paper tomorrow.” Malcolm paused, sighing at that morning’s edition. “But Levi is right. We can’t go at this from last Friday forward.” Levi’s gaze dropped, returning to his notes. “This is why I’ve already created a detailed assignment list—for all of you,” Malcolm said. Their editor in chief waited, his cloudy blue stare cutting down the table until Levi looked up again. From there Malcolm went on to run his newsroom, doling out assignments—everything from new interviews to retracing the first investigation. Aubrey felt a swell of pride for her boss’s steady control.

  As she listened, the Harper Street listing sheet grew warmer under her palm. Malcolm conducted his Missy Flannigan business and Aubrey proceeded to go about hers. She exchanged text messages with the Harper Street realtor, Alana Powell. The realtor was quick to respond, thrilled for Aubrey to tour the house that morning. The home portrait feature, which showcased for-sale properties, didn’t carry the weight of hard news, but it was popular with readers, even more so with realtors. And on occasion, Aubrey’s job, her presence, was also vital to the specters living inside the houses.

  Despite Surrey’s shocking headlines and the intrusion of Levi St John, Aubrey’s day would resume. She was thankful for the luxury of routine activity—such as it was. Gathering her things, she anticipated Malcolm’s dismissal.

  “So if everyone is clear . . . unless, of course, you have something to add, Levi.”

  With a succinct click, Levi retracted the point of his pen. “Sounds fine, Malcolm.”

  “I’ll bet,” Ned said, nudging Aubrey. “He left the meatiest part of the story for Joe Pulitzer, here.” Aubrey smiled but was more focused on a fuzzy photo of the Harper Street split-level.

  “My one concern is Surrey itself.” Levi reached for the most southern set folder, which was anemic compared to the rest. “I did a thorough overview, but I could only grasp so much of Surrey. Knowing the lay of the land, the people, is what maintains our advantage over national media outlets. I don’t want to be the reason that’s jeopardized.”

  “I appreciate your candidness,” Malcolm said. “And I raised the same point when I spoke with Carl.”

  “Did you?” The bodies around the table collectively leaned in. “Glad to hear my potential stumbling blocks were part of the conversation.”

  “The smallest part. But yes. However, I did come up with a solution that Carl was on board with. I hope you’ll be amenable.”

  “I’m listening,” Levi said, surely prepared to hear about the app that would bring him up to speed on the nuances of Surrey. “I’m open to ideas.”

  “Good to hear. My idea,” he said, smiling, “is Aubrey.”

  “Ellis?” he said, pointing.

  “Me? Wait. What are you talking about, Malcolm? Home portrait features are my job. And it has nothing to do with Missy Flannigan—or him,” Aubrey said, pointing back.

  “The home portrait section is flexible enough, Aubrey. We’ll work it out.” He glanced around his table of reporters. “You all can get moving. We’ll finish up here.” Ned bumped her arm, chuckling under his breath. Bebe, openly bemused, shook her head as she and the others exited.

  “Malcolm, seriously. Ellis just isn’t . . . I don’t see how bringing her—”

  “On the contrary, Aubrey is a perfect fit. Her daily interaction with Surrey gives her a unique perspective. She has all sorts of contacts and knows this town inside and out. The two of you can work the assignment details however you like. Consider it a partnership,” he said, turning to Aubrey, “with Levi in the lead.”

  “Malcolm,” Levi said, channeling a monotone protest. “I appreciate the thought, and I’m sure Ellis knows all the best shopping and schools, no doubt the best neighborhoods, but this is serious journalism.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Aubrey fired back.

  “No offense, Ellis. I’ve read your stuff. It’s actually quite readable—if I were in the market for a three-bedroom colonial with a view. But your job, your skill set, has nothing to do with investigating or reporting hard news.”

  “Another thing, Levi,” Malcolm interjected, “Aubrey is well liked. She’s popular with the community and readers, not to mention this newsroom. To be perfectly frank, it was my assertion that her skill set might enhance yours.”

  “Okay . . . fine,” he said. “But shouldn’t the bigger picture be the point? Ellis writes advertorial pieces, she’s the Sunday sweetener. She doesn’t know the first thing about pursuing a story of this magnitude. I don’t agree. Suggesting that—”

  “But the point is I have suggested it. Rest assured; I’ve watched Aubrey work for some time. She’s up to this. I wouldn’t propose it on a whim.”

  “And if I respectfully decline?”

  “I imagine you can respectfully do whatever you like, Levi. Your presence here wasn’t offered as an option. I have to trust that the folks in charge know what they’re doing in assigning you to the Surrey City Press and this story. Perhaps you could offer me the same courtesy.”

  Levi, who’d made it all the way to his feet to make his argument, succumbed. He sank back into his chair, producing the most irritated smile Aubrey had ever seen. It revealed a deep dimple that surely he hated. Aubrey shared his dislike for Malcolm’s idea but she couldn’t verbalize it. She was too blindsided by the disturbing directive of her beloved editor in chief. The one who’d unknowingly assigned Aubrey her worst nightmare—a fast-pass, all-inclusive ticket to a murdered girl’s past.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Aubrey had followed Malcolm out of the conference room and into his office where she continued her argument. But her objection to working on the Missy Flannigan story was thin. She was unable to articulate a reason beyond “It’s not what I do.” Apparently, starting today, it was. Malcolm had been puzzled, remarking how excited he was for Aubrey to have the opportunity to work on the story. It caught her off guard. Aubrey wasn’t aware that she was looking for a better career path. It had taken years to find the home portrait feature, which Aubrey also saw as a gift. The job had allowed her to write for a newspaper while, occasionally, intervening on behalf of the dead. But Malcolm had persisted, reiterating the universal benefits of her involvement. “Just give it a try, Aubrey . . . I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  Having lost the battle, Aubrey packed up her house-touring gear and drove to the property on Harper Street. Hurriedly exiting the Mass Pike, she pulled up to a house marked with Alana Powell’s for-sale sign. The morning sun backlit the exterior, keeping Aubrey from getting a good look. Her phone rang, Alana’s number popping up on the screen. “Hi, Alana. I’m at the house. Where are you?” Aubrey glanced around the working-class street. “Sorry I’m late. Seems my day just took a hard left.”

  “I’m calling to apologize. My home inspection was bumped up an hour. I can’t meet you until after lunch.”

  Aubrey shielded her eyes, still dodging the sun to get a better look at the house. “That’s too bad. This may be the only free minute I have for the foreseeable future.”

  “Believe me, there’s no way I’m losing this spot. An Aubrey Ellis feature draws too many potential buyers. How about this? You’re already there and so is the lockbox. If you don’t mind, why don’t you head inside and take the tour without me?”

  Aubrey smiled. “If you don’t mind, I think I will.”

  “Wonderful! My seller is over the moon about the feature. It’s the homeowner’s daughter—Kitty Stallworth. She moved her parents into assisted living about a year ago. Jerry Stallworth, the dad, he died last spring, lifelong smoker. Anyway, you know Sunset Gardens, beautiful but pricey. With Kitty’s mom still there she’s desperate for the cash, plus she could use a break. Maybe you didn’t hear, but Kitty’s husband left her for a twenty-something college intern.”

  Second to endorsing comm
ission checks, realtors liked gossiping. “No, I hadn’t heard. I don’t even know Kit—” Cloud cover floated in, shading the sun, and Aubrey got her first good look at the Stallworth house. “Alana, how much did you say the house is listing for?”

  “A firm 375K. But just wait until you see the whole thing. It’s perfect for first-time buyers, close to major routes, cute-as-a-button—cozy!”

  “Uh-huh,” Aubrey said, cutting off the engine. “Don’t you think the asking—”

  “I have got to run, honey. My buyers will hang me high if I’m not sewn to this inspector’s shadow. Thanks again for featuring it. It’s such a darling property.”

  After Alana gave Aubrey her lockbox code, she grabbed her satchel and headed up a cracked concrete walk. Along the way, Aubrey translated realtor code for “darling property.” Cracker box that needs work, from which you can hear the Mass Pike. Upon closer inspection, the house revealed a passé shade of red, trimmed with white aluminum awnings veined in rust. There was a mediocre attempt at landscaping: fresh mulch, parched fall mums, and a new welcome mat. Okay, not every house sparkled with curb appeal. She’d focus on potential, maybe a unique interior element. Aubrey rang the doorbell out of courtesy. When no one answered, she punched Alana’s code into the lockbox. The key popped out and Aubrey inserted it, forcing a sticky deadbolt over.

  In the tiny entry, aromas circled like wagons—the bitter scent of cigars colliding with minty Aqua Velva. It was pungent, though probably not as striking to everyday visitors. Smells were a roadmap for Aubrey. She inhaled deeply, quickly ruling out the rancid stench of wickedness. Aubrey always made that determination while near an exit. She’d encountered the odor rarely, and not once since taking this job. But the lingering prospect was enough. That kind of smell was worse than rot; it was a state of being one tick past dead. Mercifully, today, her home portrait streak of luck continued. While there was death, there was no evil in the house on Harper Street. “Hello? Anybody home?” There was no reply.