Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “Am I?” he said. “I brought an extra coffee in case . . .”

  “How very thoughtful. Aubrey didn’t mention that.”

  Aubrey flashed a terse smile at Charley. “Levi’s work ethic tends to overshadow his social graces,” she said, taking the cardboard tray. “But thanks. This was . . . thoughtful.”

  “Oh, right,” he said, staring at the cups. “You don’t drink coffee.”

  “It won’t go to waste. Charley’s good for several cups.” That was where the conversation dead ended, and Aubrey watched as Levi took a short turn around the living room.

  “So, this is home.” He looked at Charley. “I was having a little trouble picturing it.”

  “Owen has a loft in Boston,” Aubrey said. “We lived there before buying this. We never sold it before he . . .” Aubrey shut up. “I’ve lived here for a while now.”

  Charley made a difficult rise from the table, grasping her walker and placing one of the cups in an attached holder. Shuffling across the hardwoods, she stopped. She reached out, touching Levi’s arm. “I could see where you’d have trouble picturing the house. That’s the thing about my granddaughter. She doesn’t fit into a set mold. You’d do well to keep that in mind.” She patted his arm as if they were old friends, then shifted her grip onto Aubrey. “Are you sure, dear?”

  “I don’t see another way.”

  “Well, good luck to both of you. Yvette phoned. Said she’d like to come for a visit. I believe I’ll call her, set a date. It was lovely seeing you again, Levi.”

  “Again?” he said to Aubrey, as Charley exited via her chair lift.

  “Uh, the arthritis. She gets confused now and again.”

  “What does arth—Never mind.” He busied himself with the coffee and Aubrey searched vainly for a foothold. “Ellis, is something wrong? You look tired . . . paler than usual.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t sleep much. What I have to say, it kind of kept me up.” His tall frame loomed, the angles of Levi’s face growing more perplexed. “Did you have a nice evening?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Your date . . . with Bethany. Your longtime girlfriend, right? That’s what you said . . . what I’d heard around the office. Not that I was prying, just gossip, you know?”

  “Actually, it wasn’t all that great. It’s, uh . . . it’s become more of an on again, off again thing.”

  “On again, off again? In what way?”

  He sighed; she waited. “We met a few years ago when I was on assignment in New York. Last winter Bethany took a job abroad with her publishing house. She . . . we ended things—something about me not making our relationship a priority. Except for returning a Brooks Brothers sweater, things seemed . . . over. Then she came back, literally showed up at my door in Hartford while I was packing to come here. Beth said she wanted to try . . .” A breath huffed in and out of him. “Ellis, is my personal life the reason you summoned me, because—”

  “I was just making conversation.”

  “I thought that’s why I was here, because there was a point to a conversation.”

  “There is. I’m getting to it,” she said, glancing at the mantel clock. “It’s not that simple.”

  He also looked at the fireplace. “Your parents?” he said, pointing at the double frame photos.

  “Yes, Peter and Ena Ellis, a few years before they died.”

  “Except for the eyes, you favor your mother—the bone structure,” he said, pressing his glasses tighter to his face.

  “Bet you don’t favor yours at all,” she said, recalling Brody’s description. At four a.m. the contrast between Levi and his mother hadn’t registered. Now, the Playboy Bunny thing did seem like a wildly curious talking point.

  “Not even a remote resemblance.” Levi checked his watch—Brody’s watch—against the clock on the mantel. “Runs slow sometimes.”

  It was a good opening for a leading question. But the eerie absence of Brody St John stopped her and Aubrey stuck to her house plan. “We have an appointment shortly . . . at a house, one of my home portrait properties.”

  “Ellis, I don’t really have time for house hunting. If we could, I’d rather get to the reason you asked me here.”

  She patted at the air between them. “Levi, if you could just give me some leeway.”

  He nodded, but she knew it was under duress. “I heard that Delacort’s lawyer is pushing for his conviction to be overturned. If the DA wants to move forward with a case against Byrd, something like that will have to happen first. I was watching the wires all night. That’s the trend.”

  “Funny, huh? How wire translates into Twitter nowadays.”

  “I meant wire—well, Internet. AP got a leak out of the DA’s office—that’s what I was reading when I saw your text this morning.” She nodded at the information. “I’m also hopeful a military connection that my father has comes through.”

  “Comes through?” Aubrey said, hearing vernacular that fit more comfortably in her world.

  “Yes, he’s made plenty of contacts over the years, high ranking in most instances. If it pans out, we may shed some light on Delacort’s classified service record.”

  “I see,” she said, hands wringing.

  “With all that in play, it’s going to be a busy day.” Levi set his coffee on the table. “So come on, Ellis. What’s going on? You’re acting quirkier than usual. You’re not ill, are you?” She shook her head. “Is it something more . . . personal?”

  Aubrey’s mouth opened and closed. The conversation was going in every direction but the intended one. “Levi, come for a ride with me. Either this will all make sense, or by lunchtime you’ll be insisting Malcolm replace me with Bebe.” Aubrey grabbed her satchel and headed for the door.

  “Doubtful. Not even you could drive me to—”

  As Aubrey opened the door she shuffled backward, shuffling right onto Levi’s feet. “Owen! What in the world . . .” She glanced over her shoulder. A single page of the Surrey City Press wouldn’t fit between herself and Levi. “Sorry.” She said, inching forward and focusing on Owen.

  The last time she’d seen her almost ex-husband, he’d been wearing his go-to-court clothes, which were vastly different from his everyday look: jeans and a leather jacket, fists punched into the pockets. Rock musician, biker, undercover cop, guy chased by undercover cop—at a glance, anything seemed more plausible than computer genius. She blinked at his everyday appearance, the one to which she’d been so drawn. “You told me you were stuck in New York for a few more days.”

  “I was . . . I am,” Owen said. He pulled sunglasses from his face, revealing pale-blue irises. He smiled. “Maybe Steve Jobs would have been less of a jolt.”

  “Today, of all days . . . maybe. But I’m just surprised. That’s all.”

  “There’s a systems glitch with a Boston client. It requires an onsite fix. Nicole couldn’t handle it.” Owen’s curious look shifted to Levi. “Of course, I didn’t think I’d be the one in for a surprise—particularly pre-breakfast.”

  “What?” Aubrey glanced over her shoulder at Levi, who remained inside the house, holding the screen door open. “No. This isn’t what it looks . . . You don’t understand.” Aubrey stepped out onto the porch.

  “Ellis,” Levi said, “if you need to catch up here, I can always head to the office.”

  Her gaze jerked between the two men. “Uh, no. That won’t work. It’s fine. Owen, this is Levi St John. I’ve mentioned him. We’re working together on the Missy Flannigan story. He just got here . . . we were just leaving.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Levi said, extending his hand.

  Owen’s lanky frame stood stiffly, fists still punched in his pockets. “Kind of early for newspaper business, isn’t it?”

  Levi withdrew the greeting and Aubrey felt his tenacity dig in. “Guess you’re
unaware. News never sleeps.”

  “Guess I’ll have to keep that in mind when I move back into my house.” Owen gestured toward the living room. “Anyway, Aubrey, the tech support staff I’m meeting isn’t in for a few hours. I was hoping we could grab breakfast, talk. I have to go back to New York tonight.” His gaze moved to Levi. “But I shouldn’t be more than another day or two.”

  Aubrey held tighter to her satchel; inside was a folder, the heat of the Acorn Circle listing sheet seeping through. “I would love to . . . really. But I have more than a few”—she glanced fast at Levi—“urgent matters to take care of this morning.”

  Owen glanced over Aubrey’s long red sweater. He stepped back. “Is it, um . . . Sorry. I should have called. Old husband habit,” he said to Levi. “You know how that goes.”

  “Not so much.”

  “Whatever. I know you’re busy with the Missy Flannigan story. I just thought we could . . . We have a lot to talk about.”

  “We do,” Aubrey said, smiling. She pointed over her shoulder. “Did you want to wait here until your meeting?”

  Owen leaned, peering inside. “Charley still bunking here?”

  “Of course . . . yes. You know she moved in after—”

  “Thanks, I’m cool—especially if you’re not here. I have to swing by the loft quick anyway. I’ll call you later.” He ducked in fast, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m meeting with a realtor, putting it on the market.”

  “Are you?”

  “Again, Ellis,” Levi said, interrupting, “I can just catch you—”

  “No, it’s fine,” she said, her smile floating to Levi. “I’m coming.”

  They parted ways on the porch, Levi and Aubrey a few steps ahead. As Owen turned for his car, Levi bumped her shoulder. “Sounds like Owen doesn’t relish the idea of spending time in his living room alone with your grandmother.”

  “Different tastes in furniture,” she said, stepping in front of him. “Get the car, Levi. I’ll drive.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A PowerPoint would have been the efficient way to go, a bulleted, diagramed presentation of the remarkable life of Aubrey Ellis. Levi could take notes, ask questions. Ideally, there would be an analytical intellectual discussion phase. He could start a file. In lieu of that option, and since they were short on time, Aubrey went with the next best thing. She began by asking Levi to hang on to the folder that held Marian Sloane’s listing sheet. Then she treaded carefully, prefacing what, besides high-end amenities, the house on Acorn Circle might offer. “Levi,” she said as they drove. “Do you remember me asking you if you believed in anything spiritual, something other than organized religion, more than wishful thinking?”

  “At the Chinese restaurant.”

  “That’s right. You said you don’t believe in faith or fate; that the world runs on random chance.”

  In her peripheral glance, she saw Levi look toward her. “When you say it like that it does make me sound . . . unyielding.”

  “A perfect example. Overall, unyielding might not be the best word choice, right? Not the most accurate portrayal of you,” she said, navigating the curve in the road and the conversation.

  “Depends on the topic, I suppose.”

  “Okay. But it could be shortsighted, like describing my home portrait features as ‘house porn.’”

  Levi looked out the window, watching suburbia dwindle, replaced by acreage and custom homes. He turned toward her. “Ellis, is this payback for trash talking your home portrait pieces? Because I thought I’d apologized . . . that we’d gotten past it. To be honest, I thought we were . . .”

  “We’re what?”

  He hesitated. “That we’re working well together, making a solid team . . . reporting team.”

  “I’d have to agree,” she said, surprised by her own conclusion. “And no, that’s not what this is about. I was just asking if you really do see life as random, nothing but cause and effect.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re driving at. Do you want to know if I think life is influenced by more than what we can see?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking. Is there any circumstance where you might consider the idea?” Aubrey turned onto Acorn Circle then followed a circular drive until it met with an opulent house. She thrust the car into park and twisted toward him. “Would it sway you if there were some level of proof?”

  His fingers thrummed the folder. “Ellis, I’m not really up for a philosophical debate.” Levi tipped his head toward the sun and house, an overdone colonial, flanked by huge columns and a rotunda entrance. “I certainly have no idea what I’m doing here—at Tara,” he said, hoisting his hand toward the property. “But if there’s breaking Delacort news, or any other significant event, and I miss it because—”

  “Levi,” she said, loud enough to shut him up. “The timing here is not perfect. I also realize what I’m about to say is going to sound . . . out there, to you in particular. So I need to know what I’m up against. If there’s anything inside you that’s open to the idea of more . . . more than just us,” she said, her hand circling the confines of the car.

  “Like aliens?” he said, his expression going straight to annoyed.

  Aubrey took a deep breath. “I was thinking more about spirits, apparitions . . . specters.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Yes,” she said, cutting the engine. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  He jerked back in his seat. “You’re asking if I—”

  “Yes, I’m asking if you think it’s possible. After we die, can a part of the soul remain here? Or is it unequivocally ashes to ashes, dust to dust? Lights out, game over.”

  His fingers slid up under the frame of his glasses, rubbing hard. “Figures. The moment I admit to an amicable working relationship . . .” He addressed Aubrey, using the same spark of conviction with which she’d spoken to him. “No, Ellis. I don’t believe in ghosts . . . or spirits . . . or karma . . . or the need to have my chakras cleansed. It’s absurd—all of it.”

  “Believe me, your chakras are another mess entirely,” she said, clenching the steering wheel. “So I suppose asking you to consider the idea that I can communicate with those who have passed would be totally off your radar.”

  His voice was quiet and dull. “Or any rational person’s radar.”

  “St John one, Ellis zero.” Staring at her bandaged fingers, Aubrey tried a different approach. “Levi, remember yesterday, in your office, when Gwen handed me some papers? It happened to be the listing sheet to this house,” she said, pointing toward the front door. “I dropped it, right? I said it was a paper cut. But my reaction didn’t fit a paper cut, did it?” He didn’t reply, reaching for his cell phone, instead. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling a cab.”

  Aubrey sucked in a breath as he asked to be connected to the closest taxi service. She was committed now. “You were concerned . . . surprised. You even asked if it was a paper cut or a knife wound. Do you remember that?”

  “Yeah, hi. I need a cab at . . .” He made brief eye contact. “Where the fuck are we? Never mind.” He opened the folder, plucking out the listing sheet. “Uh, 312 Acorn Circle . . .”

  “Levi, look at my fingers.” Aubrey peeled off the Band-Aids, thrusting an upturned palm under his nose. But the redness had dulled, the blisters not as prominent as yesterday.

  “Yes, it’s in Surrey . . . I think.”

  “This is what happened when I took the listing sheet from Gwen. I’ve been ignoring my usual job for weeks. The need to visit this house has clearly become urgent. The properties I visit, Levi, they’re not always run-of-the-mill colonials with ordinary histories. Sometimes it’s more than the people who currently live there. Sometimes there are circum—”

  “Right, I’m still here.” His angry glare flicked between Aubrey’s hand and her face. “No, I did
n’t realize the address is beyond your service zone. I’ll pay an upcharge. Can you just send somebody—now!” He clicked off his phone and she folded her hand into a ball. “I don’t know what you’re selling, what you’re smoking, or what you’re into, Ellis. But I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Levi, if you would just lis—”

  “No,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “I’ll wait outside for the cab.”

  Frustration surged and Aubrey smacked her palm against the steering wheel. “I swear, you are the most infuriating man I have ever met!”

  “At least it’s a rational fact. Here,” he said, shoving the listing sheet at her.

  Reflex forced Aubrey to take it. She yelled as the sensation of grabbing a boiling pot rushed through her. “Goddamn it!” she said, smacking the paper back at him. Halfway out of the car, Levi turned back. Aubrey shoved two bloody blisters in his face, her palm bright red. He blinked wide and his jaw slacked. “Your next line of defense will be that this is carnie sleight of hand. I get it, Levi! You think I’m crazy or a con, probably both. All I’m asking you to do is walk through this house with me. It will take at least that long for your cab to get here.” He didn’t speak, his head shaking. “In the past few weeks I thought we’d established that much camaraderie and respect.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  She didn’t have an answer—not a quick one. Levi was still so far from listening. Marian Sloane saved her from a round of doomed persuasion. The realtor pulled up behind them, her horn honking.

  “This is ludicrous. You know that?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered it.”

  Levi opened the door again.

  “Do this much and hang on to the listing sheet . . . please.” Begrudgingly, he complied, picking the paper up off the car floor. He exited the vehicle, examining the sheet front and back, perhaps looking for the secret panel.

  “Hello . . . hello!” Marian said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No problem. Marian, this is Levi St John. He works with me at the newspaper. He’s riding along this morning.”