Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “I didn’t realize . . .” He wanted to ask how she’d managed to save that kind of money. But then Frank thought better of it. He needed her to listen to reason. “Still, if we took our time. What’s the rush? Surrey’s a sweet little spot—hey, I even hear the carnival’s coming to town this weekend. I thought we could go and—”

  “A carnival. Your mind is on a carnival?”

  “Uh, no. I guess not. There were some flyers at Holliston’s. I just brought one home,” he said, touching the glossy paper that sat on the bedside table. “That’s all. The point is I don’t mind Surrey, and I have a perfectly respectable job.”

  “But I don’t—” and her blue eyes began dripping tears. “I don’t want to stay here, Frank! You have no idea how much.”

  “Why? If you think Dustin’s going to cause a problem . . . Missy, he’s the one who needs to worry—a thirty-three-year-old guy screwing around with a sixteen-year-old girl.”

  “He was thirty-two at the time,” she corrected. “And it’s not Dustin.”

  “Then what? If he opens his mouth, he’ll be looking at statutory rape charges. Byrd will need every dime of his fat house down payment for a lawyer.” Missy had confided this too, Dustin’s safe full of cash. From the sound of things, the asshole had all but promised to have her barefoot and pregnant before her twenty-second birthday. Frank sucked hard on the cigarette, thinking about payback. Byrd had something coming other than a promotion—another piece of information he’d overheard at Holliston’s. “If we stayed in Surrey, went public, it would get old Dustin right in the nuts.” Frank narrowed his eyes, taking another drag. It wasn’t enough. In the past, he’d taken out better men for less reason. Frank smiled as his fantasy progressed, imagining the terrified look on Byrd’s face. Oddly, it seemed to match the one on Missy’s.

  “Listen to me,” she said, her fingers squeezing into the muscle of his forearm. Frank tried drawing the cigarette to his mouth, but her grip was too firm. “I am not . . . I cannot stay in Surrey. Not another week—barely another day. I don’t want a log-cabin house, tennis lessons, or a side trip to the carnival. There’s enough circus in my life. I want out of here. If money is all that’s stopping us then I’ll come up with the cash. But if your plan is to stay in Surrey, it won’t be with me. Please, Frank . . .”

  The cigarette smoldered between his two fingers, and her nails nearly scored his flesh. He eyed the burning butt. She let go and he snuffed the cigarette out. “I don’t get it. What the hell’s here that’s got you so spooked?”

  Missy ran her hands up his sinewy arms. She scooted her bare ass along the sheet and burrowed tight to him. A wild thump from her chest pounded into his. “Frank,” she said, her voice gritty and tense. “I need you to listen to me. I need . . . I need to tell you something about my father.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Present Day

  “I appreciate the desire to put Surrey behind you, Mr. Delacort. But talking to us might give you closure.” Sitting at Malcolm’s desk, Aubrey switched the phone to her other ear, as if this might make her more persuasive. “The Surrey City Press would really like an opportunity to hear your side of . . .” She picked up a pen, following the urge to doodle on a note pad. “Yes, I completely understand how you feel . . .” Absently, she watched the pen move, swirling strokes of blue ink on the yellow paper. “Um, no, I’ve never been incarcerated for twenty years unjustly, but . . . Right. I’m sure all sorts of media outlets want to talk to you.” Aubrey began to shade in the object she’d drawn. She listened, reaching for plausible reasoning. “Personally, Mr. Delacort, I think there’s serious poetic justice in talking to us first.” Aubrey’s gaze moved from the drawing to the five pairs of eyes opposite her. She hoped Frank Delacort couldn’t hear the collective breathing. “Yes, I can see how the idea of being whisked from state prison to the set of Good Morning America is tempting . . . I agree. Room service is pretty sweet too.” Aubrey forced the pen down and picked up the note pad, swiveling away from Ned, Kim, Gwen, Bebe, and Malcolm’s anxious stares.

  Levi had made initial contact the day before, talking to Delacort’s attorney. But when today’s phone call came in, her news junkie colleague was nowhere to be found. Aubrey took the call, surprised to find a freshly released Frank on the other end of the line. He’d been contentious at first, saying he only wanted a chance to tell the Surrey City Press to go fuck itself—the newspaper that had all but cheered on his guilty verdict. Yet Frank had softened as Aubrey spoke. It left her unsure about his motivation for continuing the conversation. Was his willingness to talk based on her persuasive arguing, the fact that she was a woman, or perhaps, she thought, glancing at the note pad, something else? “Aubrey Ellis, that’s correct. Your attorney has all the relevant numbers. Just give it some thought before deciding.” Aubrey turned the chair around and picked up the pen. “I understand that coming back to Surrey isn’t appealing. Again, we’d be glad to come to you. Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Delacort. I hope to hear from you.” The phone hit the cradle, Aubrey exhaling the breath she’d been holding. “We’ll see.”

  “Aubrey, that was stunning,” said Gwen. “It sounded like you really connected with him.”

  “Mmm, connected. Good choice of words,” she said, looking at the drawing. It was a sketch of tiny leaves in a wreath-like pattern. But how it connected to Frank Delacort she had no idea.

  “Personally, I don’t get it,” Bebe said. “Why would he even consider speaking with you . . . us, instead of one of the larger media outlets?”

  “He hasn’t yet,” she said. “And, admittedly, I’m surprised too.”

  Ned peered out the windowed office and into the newsroom. “I shouldn’t say it, but if Delacort agrees to this, I wouldn’t mind seeing Aubrey get the credit instead of . . .” He wrenched his neck a little farther. “Has anybody even seen St John today?”

  “He’s working from home. Speaking of which,” Malcolm said, “don’t you all have assignments? If there’s more to know about Delacort, I’ll keep you informed.” They dispersed, leaving Aubrey alone with Malcolm.

  “Gwen’s right. That was good work. And I don’t mind mentioning, you don’t look half bad in that editor in chief chair.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Aubrey relinquished the seat, taking the page from the note pad with her.

  “Well, I can’t go on here forever. Anyway, keep me up to speed,” he said, taking her place. “After what you and Levi uncovered with Delacort’s claims and the info on Byrd’s guns—damn, the headline could be epic. Anything from: Byrd Found with Smoking Gun to: State Exonerates Killer.”

  “I agree. It does feel like it could go either way. But the next move is up to Delacort.” She examined the paper filled with a circle of leaves, curious how it connected to Frank—concerned that it might link to Missy Flannigan. Aubrey thought about her more recent episode with Eli Serino. The idea of encountering Missy remained a disconcerting prospect. Aubrey breathed deep and tried to will away the dark thought. “About Levi, is he really working from home?”

  “Actually, I haven’t heard from him. I just didn’t need them to know that. I thought perhaps you . . .”

  “No, I haven’t seen him since yesterday. He disappeared not long after we spoke about Byrd and Delacort in his office.”

  Malcolm looked as if he was on the verge of handing down an ultimatum about Levi. Aubrey cut him off. “I’ll handle it. I’ll find Levi and we’ll get this story right. You don’t have to worry, Malcolm, about anything but newspaper business.”

  “I hope not, Aubrey. I’m counting on you both.”

  Before leaving the Surrey City Press, Aubrey stopped by human resources. On a different note pad, she scribbled an address. Ten minutes later, she was circling the parking lot of Green Hills at Surrey. She spotted Levi’s car and parked, making her way up a mum-lined front walk. Green Hills was an affable condo complex—g
olf course, club house, year-round exterior maintenance. Aubrey had covered more than one for-sale unit there. They were pedestrian home portrait visits, the condos containing nothing but mirror-image floor plans and anxious sellers. Apparently, MediaMatters leased one annually. It accommodated out-of-town corporate types, and currently provided housing to a reporter on loan.

  She rang the bell, boldly peering in the sidelights. On the second buzz she heard footsteps. The door opened and Aubrey stepped back. Levi without a tie. To her, it seemed as revealing as Levi without pants. Her impression didn’t ease as her gaze traveled downward, from his open dress shirt, undershirt beneath, past his very-there pants, and onto his bare feet. She pulled her gaze back up and squinted into his bloodshot eyes. “Not a great moment to decide to take a Jimmy Buffett vacation day, you know?”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do I want? Uh, Levi, we’re kind of in the middle of a major unfolding story—the pieces of which nobody has but us—and you choose not to show up?” He walked away from the door. Aubrey was marginally surprised it didn’t slam in her face. “Will you stop and talk to me?” she said, following. “Malcolm has no idea where you are, and if you don’t think that the entire newsroom is wondering why ace-reporter, Levi St—”

  “I’ll call Malcolm.” He turned from the middle of the living room. “As for the rest of them, I could give a . . . Never mind. You fill in the blanks.”

  Aubrey saw a silk scarf hanging over a chair and on the table was a cosmetics bag. “Is, uh . . . is Bethany still here?”

  “She is and she isn’t.” He picked up a coffee cup, though Aubrey spied a bar nearby. She guessed the open bottle of scotch and half-empty glass explained his evening. “She went to visit an old college roommate in Salem. You have any contacts there?” She tipped her head, offering an unamused stare. “I told her I had some things on my mind. That I was running late this morning.”

  “And she just left? Even though you’re clearly upset.”

  “I’m not . . .” He sucked in a breath. “I’m working through it.”

  “Looks like the only thing you’re working through is a bottle of scotch.”

  He walked to the bar and screwed the cap on. “I had a few drinks last night. Is that a problem?”

  “We both know that’s not the problem. Did you talk to Bethany about the Serino house or anything we spoke about yesterday?”

  He turned toward the bar again, as if vacillating between the coffee cup and scotch. He chose the coffee, gulping it. “No. I didn’t go out of my way to share my day with Bethany.”

  “Of course not,” she said, taking a turn around the room. “Why share your feelings, especially when filing things away comes so naturally,”

  “That’s another thing. I really wish you’d stay the fuck away from my feelings.”

  “Tempting. Perhaps you can tell me your secret for so deftly ignoring them.” An even trade of glares passed between them. Aubrey backed off. “You were . . . you are upset. I just thought someone to talk to might not be an awful idea.” She placed her satchel on the table and her hand on her hip.

  “Ellis, I hate to be rude . . . No I don’t. If I wanted to talk, you wouldn’t be my second . . . or even last choice.”

  “Yeah. I got that, Levi.” She felt remarkably alone in the room, thinking now might be a great time for Brody to show. She stalled, opting for the other reason she’d turned up on his doorstep. “I thought you might be interested in a Frank Dela—”

  “I’m handling Delacort from here.” He picked his cell up, glancing at the screen. “I’m waiting for his attorney to call.”

  “Catch up, Levi. I spoke with Delacort.”

  “You spoke with . . .”

  “Frank Delacort. Correction, freshly exonerated Frank Delacort who’s busy being courted by countless media outlets.”

  “According to his attorney, the Surrey City Press was pretty much Delacort’s last choice. In fact, I think that message was the only reason he returned my call. So what happened to spur that communication?”

  “I, um . . .” Aubrey slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt, touching the paper from Malcolm’s desk. A ghostly vibe via Frank would be the last thing Levi needed to hear. “Why Delacort chose to call, I can’t really say. But I did have a fairly decent dialogue with him. He’s considering giving us an interview.”

  “You’re kidding.” Levi narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “You know, Ellis, maybe that’s for the best. I should just head back to Hartford. Sounds like you and the rest of the Surrey team can take it from here.”

  “Malcolm doesn’t want the rest of the team. He wants you on this story, Levi. He wants us to handle it.”

  “You have the scoop on Delacort. You’ll figure it out. If he agrees to talk,” he said, finishing the coffee and blowing by her, “you and Ned can handle it. He’s been champing at the bit from the start.”

  “Levi, wait!” Aubrey braved his gust of anger and followed, not really thinking about where they were going. “I’m not comfortable handling this with Ned. Don’t let what I said about your bro—” Her discomfort struck a new high. Inside his bedroom were an unmade bed and a tangle of sheets. Aubrey’s gaze jerked from the furniture to the ceiling fan, unable to avoid seeing a puddle of silky black nightgown that lay on the carpet. “You know,” she said, ignoring the scenery, “between your last trip to Surrey and this one, I’ve thought a lot of things about you. Not all of them pleasant.”

  “Great,” he said, punching a pillow onto the bed. “So in addition to unearthing my past—which is none of your business—you want to give me a personality assessment?” He moved on to the closet, hauling out a suitcase. “Thanks, but I’m aware of areas that need work from my annual review.”

  “What I was going to say is that it takes a while to get to know Levi St John. A person may even have to want it. So I’ve thought a lot of things—some off-putting and some pretty damn amazing. Either way, in all of that, I never thought you were a coward.”

  Levi took a step toward Aubrey, his hand wrapping so tight around the spindle of the four-poster bed she swore the wood cracked. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I know more than you think.”

  “Don’t start, Ellis. I repeat, I have no idea why my past has become your present-day trivial pursuit, but I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you sully what good I have left. Disrupt the peace I’ve made with it.”

  “Bull, Levi. You haven’t made peace with any of it. You couldn’t even tell your longtime girlfriend about something that had you so upset you dropped a bombshell story and ran from a job that—from what I can gather—is the only thing keeping you alive.”

  He opened a dresser drawer, thrusting boxers and T-shirts into the suitcase. “Hey, why don’t you give Suzanne Serino a call? According to Aubrey Ellis lore, it sounds like she deserves a little torture from beyond the grave!”

  “Eli Serino wasn’t interested in communicating anything positive. But your brother, Brody, he—”

  Levi froze, fists clutching underwear and T-shirts. “What did you say?”

  “Brody.”

  “I never told you . . . I never said his . . .”

  “No, you’ve never told me his name. I know a few things about your brother. He was a lifeguard, a place called Rocky Neck. It’s on the south shore of Connect—”

  “I know where the hell it is.” Levi dismissed the revelation and returned to the task of packing.

  Aubrey stepped farther into the bedroom. “I also know your brother attended Valley Forge Military Prep. He was supposed to go to West Point. But he didn’t want to, did he, Levi?”

  He abandoned the suitcase, striding toward her. “Absolutely correct. But it’s still information any good reporter could uncover. There was a nice piece in the local paper about the scholarship the town gives ou
t in his name. Of course, there’s also Brody’s obituary. Current circumstance makes me choke on it, but your big reveal only proves one thing: you are a damn thorough reporter.”

  “Thanks. But I really didn’t come here fishing for a compliment.”

  “Good, because I really didn’t mean to offer one.” He slammed the suitcase shut. “Although, I didn’t think dogged aggressiveness was in your wheelhouse. I stand corrected.”

  “I have a job to do, Levi. We have critical information on the Flannigan story that could blow this whole thing wide open—whether it’s Byrd’s connection to Missy or information about Delacort that was totally missed the first time around. But without your input, the story will only be half as good.” Aubrey was determined to stand her ground, and her height aided the effort, so she nearly met him eye-to-eye. “And so we’re clear, to my dismay, that was a compliment.”

  Levi backed up, and ran a hand through his hair. The gesture seemed like a reluctant admission. Walking away from the Missy Flannigan story was not in him.

  “However, we also have something more personal, just as important, to settle first.”

  “I told you, I’m not interested in discussing my brother.”

  “Great. That makes two of us—if it were up to me. But it’s not. Seems I’m the one without a choice.” Aubrey paused as the briny smell of sea washed ashore, the cutting taste of whiskey burning at the back of her throat. She was relieved. Brody wouldn’t stand her up. He was there. Even more forceful than taste or smell was a wallop of incoming emotion, a rare occurrence in Aubrey’s experience. She’d felt it in Jim Thorpe, between the ginger-haired mother on the bench and her son. She’d recognized it as similar to the connection she shared with Charley. But this bond, it belonged solely to Levi and his brother. “Brody’s waited a long time for this chance, Levi. So much so that he’s visited me before. Do you have any idea how improbable that is?”