Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  At the morgue? Forget six degrees . . . . How about a direct line? Aubrey couldn’t begin to fathom the connections. It wasn’t so much the current bodies they might encounter. The freshly dead weren’t well-versed in connecting. In fact, they were quite poor at it. But a building filled with lingering souls . . . That was an unknown. “Uh, Malcolm’s right,” she hesitantly admitted. “One of my realtors—her daughter is an administrative assistant to the chief medical examiner.”

  “That’s a start. And it’s more than we had five minutes ago.” He brushed by and into the newsroom. “I assume you know her well enough to initiate a conversation?”

  While lying seemed sensible, she answered with the truth. “I went to her baby shower last week.”

  “That’ll work.” Levi moved toward the exit.

  “Wait,” she said. “You want me to use a friend . . . or the daughter of a friend to facilitate your investigation?”

  “Appalling, I know.” He did an abrupt about-face, arms and folders flapping through the air. “You’ll adjust, Ellis. And starting now, it’s our investigation.” Levi held up his hand. “Hold on. She’s still there, right? I mean, she didn’t have the kid yet, didn’t go out on . . .”

  “Maternity leave?”

  “Right . . . that.”

  “No, you’re safe. Priscilla has a month or two to go.”

  “All right then.”

  “Why? What is it you hope to learn?”

  “Right now we have a skeleton presumed to be Missy Flannigan—which the world knows. But if a manner of death were evident, that would tell us something nobody else has. And I like being in that position.” Reluctantly, Aubrey followed him through the newsroom. Levi glanced over his shoulder. “Any chance you want to drive? As noted, I’m not familiar with Surrey terrain.”

  Aubrey barely heard him. The dead were part of Aubrey’s life, but purposely seeking out a murdered girl crossed every boundary she’d managed to construct. Her pulse thrummed in her ears and the inside of her mouth turned to sand.

  When she didn’t reply, Levi pivoted again. “Is there a problem, Ellis? Don’t tell me you have an aversion to the dead.”

  “No, not so much an aversion. More like it’s a subject that gets under my skin.”

  “Well, it’s not as if Missy’s going to give you an exclusive.”

  Shows what you know . . . Aubrey’s stomach rolled on a punch of trepidation as she followed him to the exit.

  By the time they made it to the highway, she guessed Levi had added poor driver to his list of Aubrey’s debatable qualifications. She’d nearly hit a dumpster while backing out of the parking lot, so preoccupied with the thought of visiting the morgue. Levi flipped through his notes, which gave Aubrey time to further mull over their destination. Short of feigning illness, there was nothing to do but trust in her practiced technique. The silence grew palpable. With the exception of her index finger, she couldn’t ease a ten-and-two grip on the steering wheel. She was curious if the bead of sweat on her upper lip was noticeable. She sensed Levi glancing in her direction. There wasn’t even the speed of highway traffic to distract them, as a road-maintenance crew slowed them down considerably. Conversation might have lessened the knot in her belly. But Aubrey couldn’t think of a starting point—not with him. As she reached for the radio, Levi’s voice cut through the quiet. “What happened to your finger?”

  She tapped the swollen digit against the steering wheel. “Part of the delay at my property. I ran into a wet bar with serious dry rot. Not to mention a stubborn homeowner. An older gentleman, Jerry Stallworth. Nice man, but he . . . he didn’t want to . . . go,” she said, skirting along the truth.

  “I hear that. Old geezers are tough. My father is one of this hemisphere’s most belligerent.”

  Guess that apple didn’t fall far from the tree . . .

  “Looks like it hurts,” he said.

  “It’s a nasty sliver of wood. I didn’t have time to get it out. You were in such a hurry.”

  “Was I? Still, you should have tended to it before we left.”

  She tapped her finger again. “It’s not going anywhere. I’ll take care of it when we get back.”

  “It’s, um . . . it’s a habit of mine.”

  “Habit?”

  “Going about things full force. Particularly things like the Missy Flannigan story. You should bring it to my attention if I do that. I mean, especially if you’re, uh . . . wounded.”

  Her head ticked toward his. “I’m not wounded,” she said, bristling at his placating tone. “Look, Levi, I realize our situation isn’t your first choice. And it’s certainly not mine . . .”

  “Because?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why is that? Back in the conference room it was unclear if your objection was covering the Missy Flannigan story in general—which makes no sense at all—or covering it with me.”

  “So if my objection was you, that would make sense?” His arms rose in a vague gesture. Aubrey felt empathy, but not that much. “A good dose of both.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, nodding. “Though, from what I recall, I thought we got on fine when I filled in for Malcolm.”

  “Sure, it was fine. Right up until you openly referred to my home portrait features as ‘house porn.’”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Did I say that?”

  “More than once.”

  “You have to admit, Ellis, your features are a sure thing. All written with a positive slant. It’s not exactly objective reporting.”

  “So now you’re defending what you said?”

  “Logically, not every house you walk into can be all that great. And yet, to hear you tell it . . .”

  She rolled her eyes, thinking about ploughing onto the median to access their destination. It might get her arrested, but at least she could get away from him. “The positive slant is there for a reason, Levi. Realtors who spend big bucks on advertising, which is more critical than ever to newspapers, might not be so inclined if I trashed their listings.”

  “Fine . . . fine, I get it,” he said. “It’s a necessary . . . aspect of newspapers today.”

  “Evil,” she said, turning toward him. “You were going to say, necessary evil.”

  He met her full-on gaze. “I said aspect.” She snorted a laugh. He couldn’t even hide his tone, which distinctly said evil. “And yes, I make no apology for being old-school when it comes to journalism. I believe in factual reporting backed by irrefutable proof. Gut instinct is a cliché and soft reporting does not serve the reader. Is there any reason you’d object to that?” Aubrey’s mouth opened and closed. “However, for what it’s worth, house porn was not a great choice of words.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself with an apology.”

  He wasn’t going to; road crew jackhammers were the only sounds in or out of the car. “So that’s my take on this story, or any. What’s yours?” Her silence baited the reporter. “Like I said, I’ve read your stuff. Slant aside, you’re a good writer, Ellis. Why the reluctance to abandon the home portrait feature for real news?”

  Aubrey tilted her neck against the headrest. In the dead-stopped traffic she closed her eyes. The question and his astuteness were equally annoying. A career as an investigative journalist had been her goal. But like everything else, Aubrey had tailored life to fit her own special needs. “I . . . it’s complicated.”

  “How complicated could it be? Why don’t you want to work on this story?”

  Blurting out her objection was tempting. It might be worth the look on his face. Of course, it would be all he needed to take back to Malcolm. “You do realize Ellis is delusional . . . That she thinks she speaks to the dead . . .” She couldn’t imagine anyone less inclined to accept her gift than Levi. “Is it necessary that everyone in journalism possess a desire to cover hard news?”

  “Yes.
Otherwise, where does the passion come from?” The word passion hit her ears just as maternity leave had hit his, an awkward topic that she didn’t want to discuss on any level—not with him. He offered a reprieve. “Are you from Surrey? If you are, it should broaden your scope of contacts.”

  “No, I’m from . . .” There was no single answer. “I moved around a lot as a kid.”

  “Did you? Curious. I thought for sure you were at least fifth generation.”

  “Hardly. This past year is the longest I’ve lived anywhere—except for college, if a dorm room counts.”

  “Army brat?”

  “Definitely not.” She hesitated. “My grandmother, Charley, raised me.” Aubrey stopped there. Levi waited. “My parents . . . they died.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It was a long time ago. I was five.” Being the object of his laser-like focus wasn’t appealing. But the clip of conversation eased Aubrey’s current worries. The bead of sweat had stopped and she kept going. “My grandmother was in the carnival business. We traveled most of the year. It’s seasonal work.”

  “Seriously? The carnival business?”

  “Seriously. In fact, she owned the carnival. Charley inherited both halves from her ex-husbands, Oscar Bodette and Truman Heinz.” She caught his sideways glance. “Apparently, the divorces were as amicable as the marriages.”

  “Odd. The amicable part, anyway.” At least he’d moved on from passion to cynicism. “Carnival life. Sounds like feature story material, not something you hear every day.”

  “No, I guess you don’t. It’s different. People don’t get it. A good carnival troupe is like family.” Aubrey felt her nerves ease. “There’s comfort in a nonconformist world. Nobody has to worry about blending. We wintered in warm spots, covered the East Coast circuit in the summer . . .” she said, rambling. “Although we avoided Florida. It’s tough for traveling acts to compete with the big black ears.”

  “The black ears?”

  “Mickey Mouse . . . Disney World . . . ears . . .” Aubrey tucked a length of crow-colored hair behind her ear. She tugged on the lobe, showing off four little studs that ran in a traffic-jam pattern on the outer edge.

  Levi tipped his head, examining more closely. This was easy to read. She’d be willing to bet anything other than classic pearl studs fell outside his lines. “Disney, right, I get it.” But his gaze continued to say odd, gliding down her bright pink blouse and gauzy turquoise skirt. Surely, to him it was a disconnected blurb of color. For Aubrey it was a critical tool. And like an artist, over time, she’d mastered the technique of color. Bright hues were a conduit. Of course, today she’d dressed in anticipation of a specter in a for-sale house. Not the group setting of a morgue. Either way, her clothes were a complete contrast to his conservative navy suit. The two of them most likely differed on everything from politics to books to dietary choices. Levi persisted, now in full interview mode. “How did you attend school?”

  “Carnie life can be erratic. I can’t argue that. But like I said, they’re family. I was home schooled. Our master of ceremonies also had a master’s degree in education. Before joining us, Carmine headed a disturbingly tough high school in Detroit. One day he reached burnout point and—”

  “And he what?” Levi’s dimple was full and evident. “Ran away and joined the circus?”

  “It happens.” She didn’t smile back. “And it’s a carnival, not a circus. There’s a huge difference. It wasn’t any Water for Elephants. We don’t believe in animals as acts. It’s mostly theme rides, games of chance, a few Ripley’s-type attractions . . . contortionists, magic acts, the usual. We did have a petting zoo for a couple of years, but the goats kept escaping.”

  “The goats.” He nodded deeply. “That’s almost unbelievable, Ellis.”

  “I can hook you up with a good sword swallower if you need irrefutable proof. But I get it. I’m sure it’s worlds away from your Norman Rockwell upbringing. Let me guess,” she said, recalling Levi’s penchant for proper dining—he’d once asked if La Petite Maison, a place with unpronounceable entrees and a genuine French chef, was seriously the best restaurant in Surrey—“your childhood was anchored to widely attended family holidays, Mom with three kinds of pie, and the most prestigious private schools.”

  There was silence from Levi’s side of the car, the kind that said she was so off the mark it was unanswerable. “One out of three,” he finally said. “And the private school wasn’t that prestigious. Certainly, my father would have preferred military prep.” Levi shuffled his folders, checking his watch. Sunlight glinted off the metal rim, the effect so intense that Aubrey had to turn away. “Ellis?” She blinked fiercely, seeing Levi point to a gap in the traffic, which had started to move. “It wasn’t my impression that you’d lived such a colorful existence. Last time I was here you struck me as . . . withdrawn.”

  “I, uh . . . It was a difficult time. My husband and I were having problems.”

  “Huh. You never . . . I didn’t know you were married.” Levi’s focus stayed on the steamrollers paving the highway. Aubrey stared too, considering the one that had rolled over her marriage. “Are you . . . Is that . . . resolved?”

  Aubrey tapped the bare ring finger of her left hand against the steering wheel. It felt more pronounced than the one with the splinter. “If you’re concerned that personal drama will interfere with Missy Flannigan business, it won’t. We couldn’t work it out. The divorce is nearly final.” Aubrey eased the car onto the exit ramp, making the quick left that led to the coroner’s office. Levi was busy writing as she parked the car. He had oddly elegant handwriting for a lefty, Aubrey thought. Her gaze trailed farther right, dead-ending on his watch. In her outlying glance, a few raindrops hit the windshield. There hadn’t been any sun, no rays to make metal glint. Levi gathered his folders and got out of the car. Aubrey inhaled deeply.

  “Coming?” he said. Reluctantly, she followed. Between Levi’s watch and whatever awaited her in that building, it was shaping up to be the kind of day where Aubrey wished she’d stayed with the carnival.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Aubrey and Levi were about to enter the coroner’s office when her phone rang. “Charley, hi. Hang on a second.” Aubrey pointed her phone toward the glass doors. “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.” Levi went inside, leaving her behind. She was grateful for the delay, though it only lasted long enough for her grandmother to say that a repairman had come and gone, having adjusted the automatic stair lift. When Aubrey and Owen formally separated, Charley had moved into the house, her arthritis having progressed to a point where she required assistance. Aubrey had been grateful for the company. “Okay, glad it’s fixed. I’ll see you tonight . . . My day? Let’s just say we’ll have plenty to chat about at dinner.”

  Aubrey considered waiting there for her new partner, safe on the sidewalk. Why not? She’d only be a cog in the Levi St John wheel of investigation. Or interrogation . . . Leery, Aubrey peered through the glass entry, looking for things only she might see. She felt like a tightrope walker without a net. Conscience won out. It would be unkind to subject a pregnant Priscilla Snow to Levi without a buffer. Aubrey moved forward and busied her brain with Levi adjectives—aggressive, inflexible, bullheaded—picturing him beside the dictionary definitions for each one. Her assumptions were soon validated, seeing him firing questions at a fidgety Priscilla.

  “Aubrey!” Priscilla came toward her—a darting waddle. Aubrey tried to relax, form a smile. But her senses were on high alert, waiting for a smell or sound, the taste of Missy Flannigan. Maybe it would come in the form of peppermint gum or the smack of a mixed drink—the potent kind a girl of twenty-one might favor. There was nothing immediate, only the faintest hint of chai tea, which Aubrey had drunk that morning. Sounds were equally pedestrian: ringing phones and piped-in instrumental music. Aubrey’s brow knitted, and she listened for ethereal noise. “How are you, Priscilla? Yo
u look absolutely . . .”

  “Fat?” She giggled and glanced toward feet she surely could not see.

  “I was going to say . . . glowing.” But the fill-in word was a struggle, Aubrey’s mind not on their conversation. “You’re just glowing. Isn’t she glowing, Levi?” He didn’t encroach on their exchange and poked at his phone instead. Aubrey’s eyes flicked around the office space. Ordinary visitors wouldn’t suspect any signs of the dead—oddly, neither did she. “You’ve met Levi.”

  “I did.” Priscilla leaned in, whispering, “I thought maybe he was new. He’s intense . . . hot, in a branding iron sort of way.” She giggled again. “Hormones!”

  Aubrey caught Levi’s uncomfortable shift. He stayed put, still poking at his phone. “Levi and I are working the Missy Flannigan story together. Normally, he’s the city desk editor at the Standard Speaker in Hartford.”

  “Oh . . . anyway, like I told him, I don’t know much more than you guys, except they did move Missy’s remains to the coroner’s office in Sandwich yesterday.” Aubrey closed her eyes. Missy Flannigan wasn’t even in the building. The relief was overwhelming and she pressed her fingertips hard onto the edge of Priscilla’s desk.

  “Ellis, you okay?” Levi asked. She nodded, swallowing down saliva that offered no unusual taste. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

  A baseless cliché, Levi, but never mind that . . . “I’m fine. Moved her. Why . . . why did they do that?”

  “I have no idea. But they had me fill out a TRF yesterday, which to be honest I didn’t really appreciate, being as it was a Sunday and all.”

  “A TRF?”

  “Transport Remains Form,” Levi and Priscilla said simultaneously.

  “I assumed it was because of all the inquiries,” Priscilla said. “Can you believe Fox News called and the people from the Nancy Grace show showed up here—with cameras? I think the powers that be wanted the remains somewhere with more security. Can’t say I was sorry to see her go. I mean, poor girl and all, but it was just too much for me, especially at the moment.” She rubbed her round belly and smiled at her visitors. “It’s pretty quiet around here. Our usual crowd, they aren’t big talkers, you know? As it was, Missy was our only . . . guest.”