Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “Uh-huh,” he said, looking queerly at her. “Anyway, that’s why I didn’t mention anything about Tom Flannigan. Too arbitrary.”

  “It doesn’t fit into a folder.”

  “Right. Not yet anyway.”

  “So you keep digging.”

  “We keep digging.” The waiter came by and left the check with two fortune cookies. Levi was quick to pick up the bill.

  “We’ll split it.”

  “Not necessary.” Before she could object, he reached for his wallet and held cash out to the waiter. “Along with accommodations, MediaMatters has been good enough to supply a modest expense account. I think this qualifies as a business dinner.” Levi tucked away his wallet as he stood. “So shall we go? I assume you still have somewhere to be? . . . Ellis?”

  Aubrey didn’t respond. She was too distracted by a feeling that anyone else might describe as intense déjà vu. On her mind were frothy surf and seagulls, another jab of conversation: “Stop ignoring your instincts . . .”

  The voice was so crisp it was a wonder Levi didn’t hear it. She suspected he’d recognize it. “Sorry. I blanked for a second.” But her out-of-place recollections and Levi’s watch were enough to draw Aubrey into further conversation. She spied the fortune cookies the waiter had left. Aubrey nudged one toward him. “Wait, we’re not finished.” He hesitated. Undoubtedly, fortune cookies were a waste of his focus. Surprisingly, Levi sat and cracked one open.

  “It says, ‘Something bright and shiny from the past will give you insight to the future.’” His wide shoulders shrugged. “That’s what I like, a non-specific fortune. Lots of room for possibility.”

  “Don’t mock. And don’t cancel out the universe,” she said. “Maybe it means you’re going to find yourself at a bigger . . . shinier press than the Standard Speaker.”

  “I like that. Ambitious fortune telling,” he said. “But, more likely, my old desk lamp will arrive from Hartford tomorrow—shiny chrome. I had them send it.”

  “Oh, did you really?”

  “I did,” he said, then crunched down on the cookie.

  Aubrey stopped and started twice before boldly sticking a toe in the water. “So you don’t believe in anything intuitive? Anything beyond hard facts, something more . . . spiritual?”

  “What? Like religion?”

  “Not exactly. Maybe more of a spiritual energy. Something more concrete than a fortune cookie,” she said, pointing at the one on the table. “Less confining than organized religion.”

  “Not in my experience. I don’t believe in fate. Life isn’t subject to any more influence than random chance—win the lottery, get hit by a bus.” Levi paused, draining the beer. “Walk away from a tragedy or die in one.”

  On his words salt water receded and the smell of burning wood curled in, like smoke from under a door. “That’s kind of specific.”

  “Your turn.” Levi shoved the cookie toward her.

  As he did, the scents abated.

  Aubrey picked up the cookie, breaking it in two. “Interesting,” she said. “‘You have remarkable equipment for success. Use it properly.’” Not even a fortune cookie wanted to give her a break.

  “I’ll translate that one. You should be covering more than the real estate beat. Even your fortune cookie agrees.” Levi picked up his pen and tapped it against the legal pad. “Do you think you will, Ellis—expand your professional horizons?”

  She wanted to say yes, but common sense answered. “It’s tempting. But ambition isn’t my only consideration.”

  “Are we back to the old husband?”

  “It’s not that. Owen would be thrilled if they made me editor in chief. I—it’s, um, it’s hard to explain.” Aubrey stood, pulling on her coat.

  “Then what? I can’t imagine why someone with real talent wouldn’t pursue their professional goals.”

  Aubrey thanked him for the compliment, but avoided a reply by heading out the door and into the parking lot. From behind her, Levi’s hand grasped her shoulder. “Hey, Ellis . . .” She turned. Levi was tight on her heels, his height surpassing her five-foot-ten frame. His hand lowered and Levi widened the personal space. “Tom Flannigan, he was a laborer of some sort.”

  “A machinist for a tooling company. Why?”

  “And Barbara Flannigan, Missy’s mother. She was a substitute schoolteacher until she was diagnosed with MS. She hasn’t worked in years.”

  “That’s right. Barely middle-class backgrounds, nothing riveting. They live in a high ranch off of Beech Street.”

  “What do houses in that neighborhood go for?”

  A contemplative hum rang from Aubrey’s throat. “No more than 225K, max.”

  “When I was in the Flannigan’s garage, their other car, it was an older subcompact model. Missy’s car, it’s not an Aston Martin, but it is fancy for a family of their means. Don’t you think?”

  “I’d agree, except the police asked that question years ago. Tom Flannigan said Missy inherited the car from her uncle.”

  “Damn. I guess the police would have documented that.” Levi’s supposition faded and they kept moving toward his car. From the driver’s side, he called across, “We have that, right? Somewhere in that vacuum of court records and old interviews we have confirmation of an inheritance?”

  Aubrey hurried around to where he stood. “Now that you say it, I’ve never seen confirmation of an inheritance. Not one piece of paper other than Tom Flannigan’s word. But surely, otherwise . . .”

  Levi turned hard toward her. “Otherwise, where do you suppose Missy got a car like that?”

  “Who bought it for her and why?” Their stares clung to one another and the idea. Aubrey moved back around to the passenger side as contemplation followed. They settled in, their seatbelts clicking in the quiet. Levi started the engine.

  “Hey, Ellis,”

  “Yeah,” she said, turning toward him.

  “If this pans out, I’ll have to put more faith in fortune cookies.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Missy’s car. Something bright and shiny from the past giving me insight to the future.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Surrey, Massachusetts

  Twenty Years Earlier

  Frank Delacort decided there wasn’t a tick to the town of Surrey that Missy didn’t have figured out. This was after her most recent angel-of-mercy act, informing Frank he was relocating to a small flat above the Plastic Fork. After his first night at the Snack Shack, Missy had come back the next morning. In her hands were a bacon and egg sandwich, a steaming cup of coffee, and a lifeline that, maybe, he should have seen as attached to a string. She’d handed him the breakfast while comparing him to a stray dog: “I wanted to know if you hung around or followed the scent right out of town.”

  He’d been called worse than a dog, and she was right to wonder. If the skies hadn’t burst open he would have been gone. But thunderstorms kept him there while nightmares catapulted him from a restless sleep. His first night on the Snack Shack floor, Frank dreamed he was in a bunker on the fringe of the Kuwaiti desert. He was caught in a rapid fire exchange, one of many. Shrapnel-filled bodies lay bloodied at his feet. He looked down. Instead of seeing soldiers, Frank saw his wife, Laurel. In the dream he felt horror, the searing pain of seeing his wife’s lifeless body. But as he bent to cradle her in his arms, Frank saw himself press his Ruger pistol to Laurel’s head. He needed to make damn certain she was dead. He’d lurched upright from the dream, scrambling to a corner of the Snack Shack. Awake or asleep, he couldn’t change any of it.

  Hours later, when the weather and images had passed, Frank peeked out the Snack Shack cupboard doors. His breath rode the cool May morning air. In the distance Dustin Byrd patrolled the perimeter. He’d been fooling with the sprinklers he’d claimed to have fixed. “Bet it’s not the only hose you play with,” Frank snorted, du
cking back inside.

  Not long into his Snack Shack sabbatical, Frank realized his only real mission was avoiding Surrey’s czar of parks and recreation. It was a simple assignment. Otherwise, field visitors were scarce. A few stray kids came by to play basketball and a man and his dog jogged through at sunrise each morning. At first Missy’s visits were sporadic. But soon there was a pattern and Frank was able to track her visits by the sun’s movement. She’d even provided a sleeping bag, pillow, and a small radio, bringing creature comforts to the makeshift accommodations. Twenty yards from the Snack Shack was a public restroom that Dustin cleaned and stocked with toilet paper. Frank had rigged the lock to open in off-hours. He liked the idea of the puff chested, walkie-talkie-toting field grunt cleaning a piss-stained toilet courtesy of him. Even from a distance, he could see who Dustin Byrd was—a guy who craved glory and respect, but never did a real thing to earn it. Frank had plenty of time to make the study, sleeping in between, filling himself with Cheetos and Cokes while waiting for Missy. Compared to what he’d known it wasn’t bad. But when the Surrey Phantoms’ away games ran out, he and Missy agreed that something had to give. Frank talked about catching that freight train. Missy had countered with a different idea, a place downtown called the Plastic Fork.

  On moving day, Missy led him up an exterior rear staircase, which Frank was glad about—he wouldn’t have to come or go via the fancy deli shop below. It was private. Frank surveyed a room that was sunny and furnished, right down to cable TV and a VCR. But touching the soft knit blanket that covered the edge of the bed, Frank grew more wary. There had to be a catch. His leeriness intensified as new personal effects tumbled onto the bed. This was also thanks to Missy, who’d picked him up from the Snack Shack in an almost-new car. “Like it?” she’d asked, as they slid into the shiny convertible. Frank wondered what her old man did for a living, wondered if he was the kind of guy who’d given his daughter lots of stuff and little else. Maybe that explained her need to be needed. As they drove, Frank sank into the warm leather interior. But before leaving the public parking lot Missy had raised the top. It was a smart move. Her survival instincts would have been a plus in enemy territory.

  Missy stood at the side of the bed, surveying the new clothes. “You couldn’t move in with nothing but an army jacket and dirty jeans.” She looked into his pondering face. “Mick, the owner, he would have been suspicious. I told him you were my mother’s cousin.” Frank’s brow creased at the lie. It slipped out of her mouth as smoothly as the ones she’d told Dustin Byrd. “Oh, come on, it’s nothing to get in a knot over. Just a few basics from Old Navy. I guessed at the sizes, thirty-three waist, thirty-four pant leg.”

  “Damn close.” Frank said, touching the items, which included underwear. “Missy, I don’t . . .”

  “It’s a couple of pairs of pants and some underwear. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” She folded the pants and eyed the underwear. “I guessed briefs. You didn’t seem like a boxers kind of guy. I’m pretty good at that.”

  His gaze rose from the underwear to her. “And where’d you acquire that skill set?”

  She tucked the pants tight to her chest. Frank saw a breath that rose and fell like a wave. “Nowhere in particular, just girl talk. The college version of Truth or Dare.”

  “Okay,” he said, “we’ll let that one go. Instead, explain how some guy with a vague history and no references gets the owner to rent him a room? How does that work?” While the space was bigger than the Snack Shack, its walls seemed tighter and Frank’s survival instincts told him to pay attention. It was followed by a stroke of paranoia, Frank picturing a news crew and cops showing up, nabbing him for . . . well, for what?

  “I needed a favor from Mick. He wasn’t in a position to decline.”

  “But I haven’t got a dime. What’d you use for rent money?”

  She shrugged. “First two months’ rent is on him.”

  “Must owe you a hell of a favor.”

  She turned her blond head and tight ass toward the tidy kitchenette, which was also stocked. Watching her stir ice into a pitcher of lemonade, Frank thought she ought to be wearing an apron, maybe a strand of pearls. Even her words matched the scene. “Silence is golden,” she said, putting the pitcher in the refrigerator. “Mine’s worth its weight and then some. I know Mick’s schedule by heart. He works late afternoons and evenings, some weekends. When Mick’s here, he has help—Curtis, who happens to be deaf. Mick’s wife, Irene, and a small crew open in the mornings. No one will bother you. Irene doesn’t question anything Mick does.” Facing Frank, she tucked her hands behind her back. Missy looked as innocent as fresh snow, and he guessed she knew this. “As for money, you have an interview with Emmett Holliston at Holliston’s Hardware & Feed tomorrow morning. It’s just a quick walk from here.”

  “What kind of favor does he owe you?’

  “None,” she said, perplexed. “There was a sign in the window. I stopped and asked.” She held up her hand to his incoming objection. “I told him you were a veteran. That’s the truth, right?”

  It seemed futile to argue. “Yeah, that’s the truth.”

  “By the way, are you handy? I mean in a fix-it sort of way.”

  “I can use power tools. I’ve laid some brick. Why?”

  “I think that’s part of the job, local repairs and whatnot.”

  “Missy, why are you . . .”

  “Mr. Holliston was appreciative of your military service. He was anxious to help. All you have to do is show up and speak loudly. Remind him that I sent you. He’s hard of hearing and kind of forgetful.”

  In Frank’s hands were a package of socks, a couple of T-shirts, and the underwear. She was right. They were the kind he liked. He tossed them onto the bed. “I give the fuck up. Where’s the catch? I get the hot dog. I could even see the food the next morning. I started to wonder when you kept me dry and fed. Why? I have nothing . . . I am nothing. What’s in this for you?”

  Missy opened the refrigerator again, this time coming up with a bottle of Rolling Rock. His mouth watered—Missy had that way about her, making you feel like a man who’d wandered in from the desert. If she produced a carton of Marlboro Lights, he was out of there.

  Instead, she popped the beer top on the counter edge with smooth authority. Missy crossed the worn linoleum floor. She stopped near the bed, near him. “You want this, Frank.” He couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement—or even if she was talking about the beer. “I’d bet there are a lot of things you haven’t enjoyed in a while.” Her thumb rolled over bottle sweat, and Frank felt as if his pants would burst wide open. “You don’t want to say. That’s okay. I get it. Let me ask you a question. How long have you been in Surrey?”

  He shook his head. Time wasn’t Frank’s strong suit.

  She answered, “Thirteen days, two weeks tomorrow.” Missy put a knee on the bed.

  Frank backed up a step.

  “We’ve talked a lot in that time, haven’t we?”

  The inside of his mouth felt like sand. He wanted to do something with his hands. He wanted a fucking cigarette. He nodded.

  “You gave me your last dime when I took Ed Maginty’s money. You know that too, right?” Missy sipped the beer.

  He watched the cold brew slide down her throat as a lump flushed through his. He nodded again, wondering if the AC worked. The place felt hotter than the whole Middle East, maybe Hell . . . probably both. “You never asked me about Ed’s money. You never said a word. I thought that was pretty fucking nice, Frank.” He drew a short breath. “I’d done nothing for you, and you did that for me. So, actually, you were the one to do something baffling first. Tell me why you did it?”

  “I, um . . . I’m don’t—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Frank,” she said, her lacy voice growing an edge. She took another mouthful of the beer. “Was it because you thought it might be the fast track to getting
in my panties?”

  His cheeks ballooned and he blew out the breath. He’d tried not to fantasize about Missy. In turn, she’d never hinted at a physical interest in him. Mostly—no, completely—the relationship was conversational. Missy had wanted to know things like the places he’d been, everywhere from Afghanistan to Altoona. For her part, she spoke about her college classes at Surrey State and how this small Massachusetts town was not her destination. Aside from her mother’s struggles with MS, and how bad it made her feel, Missy didn’t talk about her family. She never mentioned her father. But she did dart from the Snack Shack more than once, saying she needed to get to church.

  “I think,” Missy had said one afternoon, “I’d make a good nun. I can dedicate myself to a cause. I like to help people—if they deserve it. That kind of life, there’s lots of things you have to do. But there’s some you don’t. A person would be someone else if they became a nun.” Kiddingly, Frank had asked if she understood the vow of chastity. Did this appeal to her as well? Her angelic face grew troubled as she replied. “Like I said, it would be one way to change your life.”

  What life did this beautiful girl of twenty have to change?

  Her answer had made Frank uneasy, and he found himself avoiding talk about Missy and men, women and him. He’d barely mentioned Laurel, only to say that he had been married and his wife was dead—kind of like he’d once owned a nice suit until moths ate through it. So, no. Other than a reflexive male response, Frank had played priest to Missy’s dream job. He had no plan to seduce her. Of course, looking at her now, a knee sunk into the sheets, smelling good enough to make his dick ache, she seemed to have suggested the idea. He attempted an evenhanded reply. “It would be a lie if I told you that I never thought about your panties.” Frank’s hands caressed empty air. “But it didn’t seem to be where it was going. You know?”