Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “An accident?”

  “It’s the most logical answer.”

  “But nothing about this is logical.” She was quiet, forcing Levi to draw the conclusion. “You think something . . . or someone besides bad weather caused the accident.”

  “Conceivably. But according to the police report my mother was driving.”

  “Do you think it was intentional?” He dragged in a long breath. “You believe your mother drove the car off a cliff?”

  “I don’t know, Levi. An accident is the most rational explanation. But I’ve heard Charley talk. I appreciate how desperate my mother was to help him.” Aubrey’s bandaged fingers ran along the scar on her chin. “I know the place my father couldn’t escape. I stood on the edge of it today. I can’t imagine it being my daily destination. The cause of their demise doesn’t matter. It’s more about accepting that their physical existence here has come to an end.”

  “That . . . that’s an incredible story, Ellis.”

  “But from what point of view?” As she spoke, the wind kicked up in a rousing swirl. “I’ve missed my calling and should be writing novels, or insanity is inherent and that’s all you need to know.”

  His stare was probing. He silently got into the car and Aubrey did the same. Levi started the engine. “Despite what I believe or don’t believe, I’m sorry . . . very sorry about the way your parents died.”

  Aubrey smoothed the fabric of the red sweater, which lay in her lap. Tightness swelled in her throat. It was the renascent pain that went with talk about people who you’d loved and lost. Sometimes Aubrey forgot that, having been so young, so distanced from her own loss. “Thank you. I’ve had plenty of time to be angry about it, question it. I certainly can’t change it.” A sideways glance darted toward him. “That said, there’s only one conclusion I can draw. They must be at peace.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’ve never heard from either one of them.” Their gazes tangled. Levi hesitated, as if he couldn’t mentally retrieve how to shift the car into drive. “In the right circumstance, it’s an incredible gift to be offered, Levi. Enviable, really. The opportunity to communicate with someone you loved. Someone you never thought you’d have a chance to speak with again. I’m only suggesting—”

  “No . . . just no.” He found reverse and backed recklessly out of the space. “Absolutely not, Ellis.” Shifting into drive, Levi made solid eye contact before hitting the gas. “Do not bring it up to me again—ever.”

  “Why? Because you don’t believe me?”

  “Partly.”

  “And the rest of it?”

  “Because I’m the reason my brother is dead.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Aubrey wasn’t sure if Levi’s reaction was about shutting her down or an innate ability to compartmentalize. After a silent ride back to the newsroom, he disappeared into his office with Gwen. Aubrey openly eavesdropped. Their discussion focused on Gwen’s Violet Byrd feature. Apparently, the woman had been willing to talk about her son, though Gwen was concerned about the toll any feature would take on his elderly mother. In turn, Levi was steady and pragmatic, helping Gwen fine-tune the angle she’d chosen for the piece. Listening, you’d never guess that Levi’s last conversation was about an offer to broker a visit with his dead brother. Aubrey walked toward her cubicle, running into Malcolm along the way. “There you are, Aubrey. I got a call from my source at the DA’s office. Delacort’s conviction has been overturned. They’re not saying when exactly, but he’ll likely be a free man by dinnertime.”

  “Seriously? Levi said he thought it would go that way, but I really didn’t think . . . Have they issued an arrest warrant for Dustin Byrd?”

  “There’s hubbub, but no official word,” he said with a spark Aubrey liked to see. “Legal says a judge wouldn’t cut Delacort loose without compelling evidence against Byrd. You know, I’ve been acquainted with Byrd for twenty years. Something about him always rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “So you never believed Delacort was guilty?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But, twenty years removed, and I’d say my reaction to Delacort’s conviction was like the rest of Surrey—glad a killer was off our streets. Glad it wasn’t one of us.”

  Aubrey looked long down the corridor. “Does Levi know about Delacort’s exoneration?”

  “No, I was on my way to tell him. Unless, of course, you want to. It is your story.”

  “Uh, that’s okay. I’ll let you deliver the news.”

  “Because?” Malcolm said.

  “We had a bit of a blow up earlier. I don’t think Levi is interested in sharing breathing space with me at the moment.”

  “I had the impression you were getting along better than expected.”

  “We are . . . we were,” she said, fidgeting. Details would be difficult to convey.

  “Is there something I should know? If he’s being overbearing or difficult . . . I won’t have Levi bully you. I don’t care if he is Carl Toppan’s . . . make that Carl Bernstein’s personal protégé.”

  “It’s not that,” she said. “Things got off track. Levi and I, we ended up in a . . . situation I never anticipated.”

  “Then I will speak with him—”

  “No, don’t, Malcolm.” Aubrey lightly touched his arm. “It was my fault,” she said, realizing it was. “I . . . Things were said that were way outside Levi’s comfort zone. I have no complaints about the way he’s doing his job.”

  “That much is good to hear, if not a tad unexpected.”

  “Believe me. A lot of things about Levi are unexpected.”

  It was hard to detect a furrow in the wrinkles of Malcolm’s brow, but that’s what she saw. “Would, uh . . . I don’t mean to pry, but would this conversation . . . this situation be something of a more personal nature—not newspaper or Missy Flannigan related?”

  Aubrey’s gaze, which had dropped to her wringing hands, shot back up. “Yes.”

  Her editor in chief nodded gently. “I see. That is surprising.” Her own brow knotted in reply. “Clearly that wasn’t my intention when teaming the two of you up. But I know firsthand that sometimes these things just happen.”

  “What things happen?”

  His hand brushed Aubrey’s arm in what felt like a fatherly gesture. “Even an old geezer like me knows chemistry when he sees it. I’m sure it will work itself out. In the meantime, I’ll inform Levi about Delacort, maybe offer him some sage man-to-man advice.”

  “Chemistry . . . sage advice . . . ? Whoa, Malcolm, that’s not what . . .” Aubrey spun around but it was too late; her boss had already turned the corner. “Oh, for the love of . . .” Aubrey thudded a palm to her forehead.

  Continuing down the corridor, she smoothed out the notion by reminding herself that Malcolm was old school—married to Norma, a secretary he’d met forty years ago at the Surrey City Press. And while he might not plot an office romance, surely he could envision one. The story went that during the heyday of newspapers and stenography, cub reporter Malcolm had asked “Will you marry me?” in Pitman shorthand. Then he asked Norma to transcribe it. She did, having the print room mock up a Surrey City Press headline that said: Yes!

  Malcolm’s romantic ideals didn’t fade from Aubrey’s mind, but followed her all the way to her desk. Tucked into the private space was a fresh bouquet of red roses. For the briefest second, Aubrey perceived the flowers as a peace offering from Levi. She shook her head at the ridiculousness. How absurd. Besides, Levi would never send red roses . . . She touched the velvety petals. If Levi sent flowers, he’d send daisies . . . Damn, he’d told her as much. Aubrey plucked the card from the bouquet’s center. The fact that he’d be correct, that she happened to love daisies, was completely irrelevant. She cleared her throat, tearing open the flap, reading: “Just a token to show you how much I want us to work. Love, Owen.” Aubrey
smiled at the flowers, snatched her cell from her satchel, and dialed. “Hey, thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I got your flowers. That was sweet. You didn’t—”

  “I wanted to,” Owen said. “I was sorry this morning didn’t work out. I wanted a more romantic statement than ‘I’m selling the loft.’”

  “Selling the loft is romantic . . . It puts you back in our bed.”

  “It does. Okay . . . so along those lines, how about dinner tomorrow night, someplace . . .”

  “Romantic?” she said, laughing.

  “Definitely. Maybe La Petite Maison?”

  “You don’t usually like anything so fancy. We don’t have to—”

  “Nope. It’s perfect. Meet me there at seven? That’s about as quick as I can make it back from New York.”

  “Seven sounds great.”

  “And Aubrey, I have a surprise for you. Something I think you’re really going to love.”

  “A surprise? In addition to fine dining, studio for sale signs, and roses? I’m intrigued.”

  “Good. Stay that way until tomorrow.”

  “I will. And Owen, I . . .” Aubrey’s call waiting beeped in. She glanced at the phone. The name Priscilla Snow lit up the screen. Friendly, yes, but the secretary to the medical examiner didn’t make a habit of calling Aubrey. “Owen, there’s a call I need to take, can we . . .”

  “Right, sure. I’ve got to get back. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you then.” She switched to the incoming call. “Priscilla. Hello, how are you?”

  “Overly pregnant and on complete bed rest until the baby comes. Funny, by now I thought I’d burst from excitement!”

  Aubrey laughed. “I bet there’s nothing like it . . . motherhood.” She sat on the edge of her desk, touching the red roses again. Perhaps, before long, she and Owen would be having the same conversation. Children had been another topic that didn’t fit into his on-the-go life. Aubrey breathed in the scent of flowers and the future. “What can I do for you, Priscilla?”

  “I think it’s what I can do for you. I’m doing paperwork from home—a person can only binge-watch so many episodes of Sex and the City and Grey’s Anatomy, you know?”

  “I imagine bed rest would get tedious.”

  “So I was actually thrilled when the boss sent over some work. I called because I came across something interesting. Are you and . . . oh, I forget his name. The intense, stone-chiseled reporter guy . . .”

  “Levi.” Aubrey turned her back to the bouquet.

  “Right, him. Anyway, I told you I’d let you know if there was anything new on the Flannigan case. And, well, there is.”

  Aubrey whirled like a top off the desk and landed in her chair, notebook open. “Absolutely, Priscilla. Anything you’ve got.”

  “It’s a big enough deal that my boss asked me to add the info to our closed file. I’m sure I shouldn’t be sharing. But what the heck, being a bit stir crazy will make you gab, right?”

  “I suppose. What, um . . . what did you learn?”

  “They called in some firearms expert . . . a, uh, Clayton Hadley. He was able to match the bullet lodged in the skeletal remains to a specific type of gun. It’s a . . . Oh, hang on.” Aubrey heard papers rustling. “A Ruger handgun. Now, generally speaking, Ruger is a fairly common name in weapons—you can probably pick one up at any gun show. But here’s what differed. The bullet taken from Missy is linked to a Ruger Super Redhawk, much rarer. According to Hadley, the ammo and weapons were limited military issue. So that’s interesting, right? But here’s the part that will make your headline.”

  “What’s that?” Aubrey said, the pencil poised on her note pad.

  “Because they’re so rare, the Ruger Super Redhawk’s real claim to fame is with collectors. I guess it’s like having the Pink & Pretty Barbie from the eighties. Gun enthusiasts pay top dollar for one. You’ll never guess who had a Super Redhawk in his collection?”

  “Dustin Byrd.” Aubrey said, the tip of her pencil snapping off.

  “Dustin Byrd,” Priscilla confirmed. “Paperwork in our file includes the list of weapons confiscated from Byrd—among his firearms was a Ruger Super Redhawk.”

  “Talk about a smoking gun.”

  “That’s what I said! I think it would make such a cool headline, don’t you?”

  “Pretty close. No wonder they exonerated Delacort.”

  “There you go! I knew it was a big deal. And now you know before the rest of the world does.”

  “Absolutely, Priscilla! Thank you so much.”

  “Hey, no problem. My mom said she owed you. Your real estate stories have helped her move more than one property.”

  “Glad she feels that way. But I’m the one who owes you. Listen, I’ve really got to run with this.”

  “I hear you. Hope it helps with your newspaper stuff.”

  “It may turn out to be Surrey’s scoop of the century.” Aubrey glanced down, seeing the scrawl from the blunt tip of her pencil. She hadn’t realized her hand was moving. “Sophia . . .” she said, the name almost forced from her lips.

  “Sophia? How did you know . . .”

  “Know what?”

  “That we’re naming the baby Sophia. Nobody even knows it’s a girl.”

  “Oh, uh . . . you must have mentioned it when I saw you at the ME’s office.”

  “Gosh, I don’t think so. We want to surprise everybody. My mom will be thrilled—that was her mother’s name. And that’s the only sad part. My grandma died about a year ago. We were very close.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Priscilla. But something tells me your grandmother is very excited . . . even if she’s not here.” Aubrey’s hand continued to move without conscious effort. “Un regalo dal cielo,” she said, reading the unfamiliar words.

  “You speak Italian?”

  “I guess. A little . . . on occasion. Why?”

  “That’s exactly what my grandma used to say to me. It means a gift from heaven.”

  “And she will be.”

  Aubrey moved like a bullet but stopped dead at the edge of Levi’s office. Misfiring would be easy under the circumstance. He was on the phone and taking notes. Levi glanced up, inhaling deep and averting eye contact. “Yep, incredible info, Major . . . No, I appreciate your effort—absolute confidentiality. You have my word.” He hung up and scanned the top of his desk, finally forced to meet her gaze.

  “You heard about Delacort’s exoneration?” Aubrey said.

  “I heard.” Levi didn’t say anything else. Left up to him, Aubrey was sure that she’d no longer be part of his circle of privileged information. She ignored the sting. There was still a job to do. She’d be damned if Levi was going to stop her. “I just got off the phone too,” she said, sticking tight to newspaper business. “Priscilla Snow called. She had the reason they exonerated Delacort.”

  “Really? And what was that?” Resigned to her presence, he pointed to a chair. Aubrey closed the door and sat.

  “Priscilla called to tell me the gun used to kill Missy was a Ruger, a rare Super Redhawk,” she said, glancing at her notes. “The bullet lodged in the skeleton set it apart. Clayton Hadley, the ballistics expert, concluded that the ammunition was a match to that particular gun. Most importantly, the gun was found in Dustin Byrd’s collection.” Levi’s stare flicked between his notes and Aubrey. When he didn’t interject she continued. “So . . . I’m assuming that makes it a slam dunk for the DA, hence Delacort’s release. You’ve got the uncommon murder weapon, the bullet, and the owner—all under the same roof where the victim’s remains fell out of his basement wall. It looks like Surrey did rush to justice.” She waited, inching forward in the chair. Levi’s face remained puzzled, never nearing the look of eureka she’d anticipated. “Levi, don’t you see this as significant? Don’t you think we have our headline?”

  H
e leaned back in the chair. “We’ve got a hell of a lot more than that.”

  “Meaning what?”

  There was a contemplative rock to the chair as Levi looked at his notes. She could almost see the gears grind in his head. “I just got off the phone with Major Floyd Henderson in D.C. He’s a high-ranking officer with the DOD. He has access to just about any sealed record you’d want.”

  “The friend of your father.”

  “Uh, yes . . . my father. It took some finessing. Due to the volatile nature of high-value targets, the records I wanted to know about were classified—highly classified twenty years ago. But being as the file was old and the information no longer germane to national security, the major was willing to shed some light on facts that weren’t in play. Not until a few minutes ago.” Levi pointed to the note pad, his finger tapping against it.

  “What kind of facts?”

  “Specific details regarding Frank Delacort’s service record. Before being booted from the army, Frank achieved the rank of sergeant.”

  “Right. We already knew that.”

  “We did. What we didn’t know was his precise role in the military. Delacort was a sniper, an expert marksman, Ellis.” Levi picked up the piece of paper he’d been writing on and held it up for Aubrey to read. “Here’s a list of weapons with which Delacort is intimately familiar. Just to note, marksmen are generally proficient in rifles. Delacort’s expertise varied. It included other weapons. Take a hard look at the last one.”

  Aubrey focused on the listed items. Most were large weapons—machine guns, high-powered sharp-shooter rifles. The list dwindled to less impressive firearms, a marksman insignia Beretta and other handguns. Some Aubrey had heard of; others she hadn’t. At the bottom of the list an asterisk marked the last weapon cited. “Oh my God. What . . . what does the asterisk mean?”