In the quiet of the space Aubrey shivered, expecting to see the breath she pushed out. Something was definitely brewing, something different filled the air. The cataloged fragments of a life interrupted, perhaps. But whether they were fragments belonging to Missy Flannigan or herself, nobody currently seemed present who could answer the question.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Before heading to Levi’s office, Aubrey cleared her Owen-filled mind by tending to cubicle housekeeping. She picked through the fading flowers on her desk, discarding dead blossoms—the wilted lilies and shriveled violet-colored alyssum. Aubrey paused on the spent flowers. Flowers of a similar color seeped into her head. She heard the crank of carnival music. She saw games of chance and a man with a dazzling smile. There was the whirl of noise that went with summers past and the vague flash of a girl who didn’t speak. Aubrey shut it down and sat. Just as fast, she stood again. She reached for the bouquet and dropped the vase into the trash, abandoning the dead flowers and carnival memories.
She busied herself with menial tasks, organizing real estate listing sheets that had accumulated. Pile A depicted average homes, properties that Aubrey or any staffer could paint in a positive, thousand-word light. Pile B represented outright rejections. Aubrey might not have honed hard-news reporter skills working the real estate beat, but she’d learned a thing or two about sales people. For one, realtors would break into a smile but never a sweat selling you on the charm of their listing. She’d wised up to that after realtor Carol Vickers convinced Aubrey to cover a “darling listing” on Stimple Street. “You might want to keep that umbrella open,” Carol had said, ramming her shoulder into a front door that wouldn’t budge. The home’s leaky roof was the least of it; the smell of smoked meat permeated the house. “Such a fascinating hobby,” she’d said, holding a handkerchief to her nose. “The current owner cures all his own pork—indoors!”
That left pile C, the smallest batch of listing sheets. They conveyed something more than county tax records and approximate living space, an innate vibe lost on anyone else in the Surrey City Press newsroom, maybe the East Coast. Sometimes the thing that drew Aubrey to a house was the proverbial X marks the spot. Sometimes it took time to ripen. But always, when one of those sheets landed on her desk, Aubrey knew she’d be walking into something more than a house for sale.
Having tidied her work area, Aubrey checked her messages. There were a dozen calls from realtors wanting to know when her usual feature would return. For weeks, Aubrey’s home portraits had been replaced by syndicated real estate stories and a sampling of DIY projects. The voicemails were interchangeable, except for one. It was from Marian Sloane. She worked for one of the less prestigious agencies, Happy Home Realty. Their listings often included properties that the more successful agencies had passed on for one reason or another.
While Marian’s message was similar, prattling on about a high-end reproduction that Aubrey “just had to see . . .” there was an underlying urgency. A communication Marian Sloane had no idea she was conveying. Aubrey replayed the voicemail, sensing that this property’s story had less to do with a prime location than it did a resident spirit. Still listening, Aubrey glanced at Levi’s office. The voice of a young man interrupted her focus, competing with the tasks at hand. It drifted into her ears like a memory. It was the same voice she’d heard in the Chinese restaurant. It challenged Marian’s message. Aubrey couldn’t decipher the words, but she did know the voice was connected to Levi.
Aubrey stood ramrod straight. The spirit’s audacity was unprecedented, invading space that, otherwise, was devoid of random apparitions. Her height gave Aubrey a clear view of Levi. Experience insisted she disregard the random voice and whatever message it brought. She stared. Levi was absorbed, but his focus didn’t represent his usual tight buzz of energy with a phone pressed to his ear or his fingers moving like fire across a keyboard. Yet his concentration was intense, visible—his mind linked to the voice in Aubrey’s head. It surpassed the energy that penetrated Marian Sloane’s call.
The phone message came to an end and so did Marian’s pitch, which included custom fireplaces, a marble foyer, and motivated sellers. Aubrey’s inexplicable ability channeled through her; then it divided. There was far more to Marian Sloane’s message and her listing. That needed to be Aubrey’s priority. That was her obligation. That was the deal with the dead. But as Aubrey reached to replay Marian’s message, her attention was stuck on Levi. Absently, she hit erase. “Damn it,” she said, glancing between Levi and the phone. “Get out and leave me alone!” she hissed. “If you know Levi, then you know he’d never be open to hearing you.”
Gathering her own folders of Missy Flannigan research, Aubrey headed for Levi’s office. She was determined to be the entity in charge. But she lingered near the door, marginally recanting. Unlike most human beings, Levi’s presence carried the weight of an iron anchor. Casual observers saw it as bombastic tenacity, his dogged professional nature. In truth, it went beyond that—or so Aubrey was learning. She waited, hoping Levi’s brooding mood would lift and he would abandon the memory on his mind. The one that had delivered a specter to the forefront of hers.
Aubrey reined in her composure and pushed a pep talk through her head. Inside Levi’s office, they would stay on topic, she thought, clinging tight to the Missy Flannigan materials. They’d concentrate on relevant business. The two of them would speak about Dustin Byrd—the procedural time line, if Delacort were cleared and Byrd indicted. Did the newspaper’s legal liaison have a direct answer to that? And Violet Byrd—did Levi happen to catch her interview with Nancy Grace? Perhaps it was a mother defending her son or maybe a preemptive move arranged by Byrd’s attorney. Or maybe it was just show business. Apparently, Nancy Grace was on a mission, adamant that Frank Delacort was still the guilty party. A shaken, elderly Mrs. Byrd had been encouraged to canonize her son, talking at length about her non-violent, gun-toting offspring. Taking a cleansing breath, Aubrey chose to start there.
She stepped into Levi’s office. “I can’t imagine what will become of Violet Byrd when her son is arrested for murder. It’s a dotted line away from the main story. But maybe it’s a good human interest piece for Gwen—especially since Violet just appeared on Nancy Grace.”
Levi looked up. In his hand was a small leather-bound photo album. “Nancy Grace . . . ? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
Not a good sign. When wasn’t Levi listening? Aubrey waded farther in. Seawater came crashing toward her, but Aubrey refused to budge. “I thought Dustin’s mother might make a good filler piece. The Byrds have lived in Surrey all their lives. Violet volunteers at the Purr-fect Cat shelter and oversees the membership committee at Our Lady of the Redeemer. She runs that little ceramics business out of her house. Tons of people have been there. I think it’s an angle worth exploring.” Levi hummed a vague reply and removed his silver-rimmed glasses. It revealed a younger man’s face.
The voice was clearer now. “Stop ignoring your instincts . . .”
“Shut up,” she murmured. Levi’s expression turned curious, the way it did after Aubrey had announced the smell of seawater in the Chinese restaurant. She smiled as if she’d said nothing, continuing on. “Violet Byrd can’t even go home—not that she’d want to, not after what they found in her basement.”
Levi put the photo album in a drawer. The room and waves quieted. He eased back in his chair, producing a cloth handkerchief and polishing his eyeglass lenses. “Uh, sure. It might be worth a look. See if Violet Byrd wants to talk to you.”
“I said Gwen. It might be a good story for Gwen.” There was internal hemming and hawing. Empathy bubbled as Aubrey saw the lost look on Levi’s face. She’d give him one chance. “Levi, is something bothering you—something other than Missy Flannigan?”
On the suggestion, his moodiness didn’t just shift, it vanished. He sat upright and shuffled the papers on his desk. “You’re right. Doing a piece on Byrd’s mother
is a good idea.” Eyes on her, he said, “I’m fine.”
“You seem distracted.” He forced the smile that, in turn, forced the dimple. Regardless of his lack of reply, she’d cracked open the portal by asking the question. The smoky scent of burning wood penetrated the space. It was intense, probing, and Aubrey half expected the fire alarm to sound. It didn’t. There was only Levi, floundering to find his footing.
“It’s nothing. Let it go, Ellis.”
She couldn’t. The taste of whiskey burned at the back of her throat. She coughed. Alcohol mixed with an herby taste . . . No, it was a smell. Pot. Marijuana.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, teary-eyed, pointing to her throat. “Just a tickle.” Levi’s cell rang; he answered. The smells and tastes retreated, vapor swallowed by space.
“Yes, Beth . . . No, sure, I saw your text.” Levi stood and tapped the phone’s screen, huffing. “Absolutely,” he said, never missing a beat. “I’m already on my way.”
“Late?” she asked as he ended the call.
He tossed the phone aside and unrolled a shirtsleeve, expertly corralling a cufflink. “I missed Bethany’s text about taking an earlier train.” Finished with the other sleeve, he tugged on his suit jacket, brushing at the lapels. “Date night. Not what I do best. I should have brought a fresh shirt.”
“That depends,” she said, tucking her stack of Missy Flannigan paraphernalia tight to her chest. “Is it a first date or someone who’s comfortable with a slightly rumpled you?”
He adjusted the jacket. “Intimately acquainted with deep wrinkles. Bethany knows me . . .”
He hit the brakes at the edge of his personal life. It was fine. Aubrey didn’t need to hear a litany of what Bethany—apparently the longtime girlfriend—knew. As she turned to leave, Gwen showed up at the door.
“Here you are,” she said to Aubrey, a stack of papers crooked in her arm. She separated a few pages and held them out. “Your listing sheets got mixed up with my fax. Sorry, I guess I’ve had it for a couple of days. It’s from a Marian Sloane. Fancy house. Looks like a fun tour.” Aubrey extended her arm halfway before Levi’s voice gave her an excuse to retract it.
“Gwen, since you’re here, Ellis had an idea about a story on Violet Byrd. Maybe get with her later and work out the angle.”
The features editor came farther into the office, still holding out the listing sheet. As she did, Aubrey’s nose filled with different smells, something coarser than burnt wood, more pungent than pot. Then it was gone. “Fine, Levi,” Gwen said. “First thing tomorrow. I do have a family.”
He retrieved keys from his desk and turned off his computer. “Right. I meant tomorrow.”
Hesitantly, Aubrey reached for the listing sheet. The paper hit her fingertips like the business end of a branding iron. She let go, a hissing gasp sucking through her teeth. “Paper cut!” She winced. Aubrey balled her hand tight as Gwen retrieved the wafting pages. “Would, um, would you mind dropping them on my desk?” she asked. “I’m trying not to get real estate info mixed up with Flannigan business.”
“Sure,” Gwen said, turning for the door.
Aubrey unfurled her hand and glanced fast. No paper-cut was present, but tiny blisters had formed on her fingertips. And that, Aubrey understood, was what you got for ignoring the job to which you were obligated. She clenched her fist tight, trying to cut off circulation. Aubrey dropped the Missy Flannigan folders onto Levi’s desk, steadying herself with her other hand.
“Ellis, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting odder than usual since you came in here.” Aubrey struggled to come up with a reason why tears stung at her eyes. He came around the desk, drawing nearer. “Ellis?” he said again. “Geez, was it a paper-cut or a knife wound?”
Neither, but thanks for the concern . . . Aubrey’s watery gaze moved around his office, landing on the wall clock. She grasped at believable subterfuge. “Oh, gosh, look at the time! Didn’t you say you were late for Bethany’s train?”
“Uh, right,” he said, glancing at his watch. “She gets in at . . . Are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine.” Aubrey folded her arms with the pinch of a vice. “Low blood sugar. Remember, no lunch.”
“Right, no lunch.” Levi looked between her and the clock. “Maybe you should—”
“Seriously. I’m fine. Like I said, my dinner plans were up in the air. There’s a chance Owen will get back to town tonight.”
“Right . . . your husband.” He retreated several steps. The desk phone rang and Levi kept moving, answering it. “Yes, she’s right here. Hang on.” He held the receiver out. “Receptionist’s desk. It’s Kitty Stallworth.”
Aubrey took the receiver in her uninjured hand. She listened as a chatty Kitty Stallworth seized the conversation. Aubrey replied with a few uh-huhs and an “I see” as Levi looked on. “Thank you, Kitty. That is unexpected . . . really intriguing. Yes . . . You’re welcome again.” Aubrey nodded as the woman rambled. “Yes, the flowers were beautiful. Not necessary, but thank you again . . . It was just good timing, maybe a reporter’s eye. That’s all. I’m positive too. Your father is looking down, so relieved . . .” she said, repeating the woman’s words. “No doubt he’s resting in peace. Uh, Kitty, I don’t mean to cut you off, but . . . Right. Thanks again for the information . . .”
“Well?” Levi said before she had the receiver in the cradle. “Was she able to trace the VIN number? Do we have a connection between Dustin and Missy?”
“Not exactly.” Aubrey ran her fingers through her hair, the other hand still balled tight. “We have a brand new puzzle piece.”
“How so?”
“Kitty, in her great enthusiasm to assist, managed to trace Missy’s car back to the original bill of sale and the lot where it was bought in Portsmouth, New Hampshire—way before easy-access computer records. Portsmouth is seriously north of here. The snazzy Mustang has a history of two owners. The first was the dealership where the car was used as a demo for a year. After that it was sold one time for $15,500.”
“And the buyer?”
“Missy Flannigan. She bought the car herself, Levi. Even better, according to the bill of sale, she paid with a cashier’s check.” Aubrey sighed. “So where does that leave us?”
“Facts,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I’d have to stick with solid, irrefutable facts. We’ve proven Missy didn’t inherit the car from an uncle. It also tells us that her father lied about it.”
“Believable theory,” Aubrey countered. “It’s possible that Dustin Byrd gave her the money. Maybe her father was clueless and he just wanted to protect his daughter. Surely Dustin had disposable income, living at home . . . never marrying.”
“Plausible,” Levi said, narrowing his eyes. “But not as likely. If you’re going to buy someone a car, you don’t give them the cash. You give them the car.”
“Point taken,” Aubrey said. “So where did a college girl, from a less-than-middle-income family, get that kind of cash?”
Levi sat on the edge of his desk and sighed. “Honestly, Ellis, that information makes me ask even bigger questions. What secrets, besides the cash source for a fancy muscle machine, was Missy Flannigan keeping?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Surrey, Massachusetts
Twenty Years Earlier
Missy was late. The weather was awful and she’d almost turned the car around twice. Rain thumped like fat tears on the convertible’s roof as she pulled into the deserted parking lot of Watts Lumber. Along with a torrential downpour, she’d managed to hit every red light between Surrey and Leominster, several towns over. Dustin was waiting. She saw his full moon face peering down from the truck’s oversize cab. It was his most practiced gaze, a look that went with his ever-growing concern. Missy took a breath and then the plunge, opening her door. The passenger side of the truck swung open. His body stretched the spa
n, reaching to yank her inside.
“Damn, I was about to give up!” he said. “You should have met me in Surrey.”
“Surrey? That’s risky, don’t you think?”
“Leominster isn’t much better. Would you believe I ran into Randy Combs twenty minutes ago, right here in the parking lot. Scared the shit out of me, rapping on my window like the do-gooder he is.”
“Randy Combs?”
“Yeah, he works for the town too, child welfare services. One of those cushy jobs, the kind where you don’t have to account for your time half the day.”
“I know who he is. What did he want?”
“Nothing much. Just wanted to know if I was having truck trouble, parked here like this.”
“What did you tell him?”
A grin pushed into Dustin’s round cheeks. “I told him I was waitin’ on my girl—that I hadn’t seen her all week.” He leaned over and kissed Missy. “I said we were heading straight to the Red Maple Motel to have the hottest sex west of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“You didn’t?” she said, wide-eyed, her hand pushing on his chest.
“Of course I didn’t,” he said, laughing. “I told him AAA was on its way. But in just a few months I’ll be telling him, and the rest of Surrey, that I plan on doing just that, with my wife, every night of the week.” Dustin pulled her closer. “Anyway, why are you so late?”
“Traffic. The rain.”
“Okay, but after we’re married, I won’t be any less concerned when it comes to your whereabouts. I hope you know that.” Missy brushed the last drops of rain from her arms and smiled at him. “Truth be told, I like to think of that as the other way around.” Dustin’s hand trailed along the cool skin of her arm. “You waitin’ on me to come home—me looking forward to a little dinner. What do you think about that, Miss Missy?”
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