Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  The statement seemed like too much of a challenge, even for an articulate Levi. His chin cocked toward the parking lot and her husband, whose car idled at the curb. “Just . . . just whatever you do—or don’t do—consider all the angles. That’s all I’m saying. Would you do that for me . . . Aubrey?”

  Her gaze flicked to his, the sound of her first name sounding intimately subliminal. The honk of a horn intruded, but it did nothing to disrupt Levi’s focus. He reached out. With a steady hand, he took the fallen edge of her wrap, and gently draped the fabric across the low-cut front of Aubrey’s dress. He didn’t touch her physically, not even grazing her skin. The subtle gesture made Aubrey’s breath shake, a flutter rising from deep inside, something complicated and sweet. “I guess, right now,” he said, “we both have obligations, other places to be.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Most people perceived speaking to the dead as a mind-rattling, soul-shaking experience. Driving west into a waning sun, Aubrey thought the description mirrored her feelings about speaking to Frank Delacort. “Honestly, given a choice,” she said to Levi, whose focus was steady on traffic, “I think I’d rather go back to the Serino house.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “No. I don’t.” Aubrey bit down on a thumbnail and returned to her notes. After she’d arrived at work that morning, neither had spoken about last night. There wasn’t time or space with Malcolm on hand, the three of them strategizing the Delacort interview. They’d spent the drive role-playing, rehearsing the carefully crafted questions. It was a litany that read like an olive branch—offering subtlety that budded with leading questions that would, hopefully, get Frank to talk. But foremost on Aubrey’s mind was the fact that she’d have to go it alone: no other reporters, no photographer. “I’ll talk to the lady reporter. That’s it. I’m not even sure why . . . But I’ll fucking do it.” That had been the message from Frank to Levi. Aubrey had an idea about the why, shifting her notes aside and running her thumb over the tiny ring of leaves she’d drawn on the note pad. Their meaning was still an unknown.

  If Aubrey had doubts about a successful interview, she assumed Levi did too. It was understandable. It was a stretch: storybook home portrait reviewer to hardcore investigative reporter. That morning, her first glance at Levi hadn’t helped. Anyone would have thought he’d spent the night in his office. The trash can overflowed with empty coffee cups and his face was unshaven, his permanent-press looks decidedly wrinkled. His disheveled appearance added to her angst. But Levi remedied that before they left the office, disappearing and returning clean-shaven, wearing a fresh dress shirt. It was marginally comforting. Her partner looked prepared, on his game, and Aubrey was compelled to do the same.

  “The main thing is to keep an exchange going. Do not allow Delacort an opportunity to hijack the conversation.” Levi checked the time. They were on pace to arrive a half hour early. Nothing would be left to chance, including Mass Pike traffic. Frank had requested they meet at an obscure diner a good distance from Surrey. “Don’t rush,” Levi said. “Think about how you phrase things and watch for any weaknesses on his part. That’s your opening. Finesse your way into his military history. Double jeopardy, the fact that he can’t be tried for the same crime twice, may lower his guard and lure him into revealing a secret he’s kept for twenty years.”

  “And if I do all those things right, we’ll get what we’re after?”

  There was a sideways glance from him. “Okay, honesty time. This is one part skill, one part luck, and two parts crapshoot. The odds aren’t really calculable—but don’t tell anybody I said that.”

  She smiled at his candidness. “We had a decent dialogue when we spoke on the phone. A friendly tone might be the best way to unearth information.”

  “I agree. There’s no harm in leading Delacort to believe that we’re on his side. If he didn’t kill Missy, then he should be as anxious as the DA to prove Dustin Byrd did. But I also think . . .”

  “You also think there’s a chance he did do it.”

  Levi rapped his knuckles against the steering wheel. “That’s one reason I’ll be sitting, discreetly, as close as possible.”

  “Is the other because you don’t think I can do this?”

  “What?” Levi looked surprised, his glance weaving between her and the traffic. “Why would you even say that?

  “I don’t know about you. But it’s occurred to me that I might not be the best candidate to pull this off—even in a crapshoot.”

  “On the contrary, I think someone less jaded has a better shot. Imagine Delacort’s guard if I were the one asking questions. Besides, I have confidence in your skills. You should feel the same way.” They drove in silence for another mile.

  “There is one thing I am concerned about. When you talk to Delacort . . .” He paused. “Since I now know . . . everything, we are talking about a murdered girl here. There’s a chance you could be sitting down with her killer. With anybody else, that would be the sole apprehension. With you . . .”

  She nodded deeply. “You’re starting to think about the dead in a whole new light.”

  “Much to my amazement—and concern. That’s the reason you didn’t want to work on this story in the first place, isn’t it?”

  “My true objection might have thrown Malcolm just a bit.” Aubrey smoothed the pages she held on her lap. “Initially, my impression was a dead girl who surely had a whole lot of anger to convey. Maybe a score to settle.” She looked from the papers to Levi. “To be honest, when Malcolm suggested I work on this story, it scared the hell out of me.”

  “And so far . . . ?”

  “Are you asking if Missy’s shown up, rattled a chain?”

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I’m asking. I want . . . I need to be prepared.”

  “And so you will.” Aubrey cleared her throat. “Here’s what I can tell you: A public setting makes any connection more difficult—there’s lots of interference. It’s also my practice not to let it in. We have that on our side. Most important, so far, I haven’t had one thing indicate Missy’s presence.” She laughed softly. “Not even a trace of Midnight Fire.”

  “Midnight Fire?”

  “Missy’s perfume. It was mentioned somewhere in all those files. About a week ago, I went by a boutique downtown where they still sell it.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Nothing other than it smelled like the kind of stuff a twenty-year-old would wear, cotton-candy sweet, sexy around the edge.”

  “So you’ve been concerned, curious about how and when Missy Flannigan will turn up in all this?”

  “How could I not be?” Aubrey gripped harder to her notes. “Levi, we are in uncharted territory. Never have I gone looking to channel someone who’s passed—not like this. We’re talking about a girl who had her life snuffed out, her body sealed behind a basement wall. Clearly, it was an unpleasant death.”

  Levi followed the curve of the exit ramp, and Aubrey saw him take a deep breath. “And if you were to encounter Missy, it could be the same, or worse than the anger you felt in the house on Acorn Circle . . . from Eli Serino?”

  “That’s been my assumption. My apprehension. But a part of me wants to know why . . .” Aubrey stopped, shaking her head at the taboo thought.

  “A part of you wonders why Missy hasn’t come looking for you.”

  “Makes me some sort of masochist, doesn’t it?” The GPS answered, announcing that they’d arrived at their destination. In front of them sat the dingy Exit 43 Diner, framed by a tired asphalt parking lot.

  “I think,” Levi said, backing into a spot away from the main entrance, “it makes you a solid investigative reporter.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” Aubrey thrummed her fingers on the stack of questions and notes. “But to answer your question, Missy is never far from my mind. You saw firsthand how evil plays into this. But being i
n a house with Eli Serino, it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever encountered. I know there’s more.”

  He cut the engine, twisting in her direction. “How much more?” Levi grasped her hand and abruptly pushed up the sleeve of her pale blue sweater—a color that tended to be neither here nor there. “Tell me about the marks on your arm. Your chin. Is this more, Aubrey? Is that how this happened?” With her free hand, Aubrey traced the half-moon scar. From anyone else the question would have been intrusive, like someone asking, “So how’d you get that fake leg?” From Levi it felt more like concern, maybe serious fact-finding. “I need to know before we go in there. I have to understand the potential.”

  She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. With her hand in his, Aubrey focused on the exterior of the Exit 43 Diner. Its dull silvery façade looked as though it had its own traveling secrets.

  “When I was seventeen . . .” She stopped, breathing deep, squinting at the view. “When I was seventeen, the Heinz-Bodette Troupe was forced into an unexpected travel delay—hurricane weather headed up the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Charley suggested we check into a motel and ride it out. Her arthritis had progressed to a point where she welcomed a break. On top of that, she’d had some awful nightmares in the days leading up to that night. She said the dreams weren’t vivid, just the vague face of a young African-American male. Even so, the dreams really seemed to upset her, which, in hindsight, maybe I should have noticed.” In the midst of the bitter tale, Aubrey gave a small smile. “I thought the motel was a great idea. When we stayed in places like that, aside from a full tub, one of the best perks were separate rooms—adjoining but separate. When you’ve lived your life in a motor home, space and privacy is a splurge.

  “We checked into the Delmarva Inn. It was nice for a mom and pop place. Everything seemed new, the bathrooms, the carpet. The mattress. It was thick, comfortable. The wind was howling, the rain pummeling, but the building was cement block. I felt incredibly . . . safe. And for a few hours, I was. We were pleasantly tucked away in rooms 112 and 114. Then, in the middle of the night, I woke up.” Aubrey’s hand rose, touching her neck. “There was a hand around my throat. You know how a motel room is, pitch black?” Levi nodded, his expression growing more wary. “I couldn’t see anything, but I could smell it. It was rot, worse than the stench that came with Eli Serino, an anger that made his seem . . . well, now that I think about it, just spooky. I thought my heart was going to explode—or be ripped—from my chest. The sounds were inhuman, screeching . . . wailing that I knew no one but me could hear. I tried to get out of the bed. I couldn’t move. It was holding me down, tearing at my nightgown. I couldn’t scream; I couldn’t breathe. Something raked across my stomach—I felt the dampness of blood. Then the groping sensation moved lower. I fought back and it dug into my arm, pinned it down . . . I realized it wasn’t fingernails.” Aubrey turned her palm upward, yielding the best view of the odd pitted marks. “It was teeth. It bit me, over and over. For every encounter I’d had with the dead, I’d never experienced anything so violent . . . so physical.”

  “That’s . . .” A shaky sigh pulsed out of Levi, sinking into her. “Was its intention to . . .”

  “Its intention was pure evil. Beyond that, I don’t know. Thankfully, the damage was all . . . external.”

  “You managed to get away.”

  “Somehow, I did,” she said, lightly touching the scar on her chin.

  “Did it . . . did it do that too?”

  “No,” she said, looking at him. “This was all me. As I broke free, I collided, chin first, with the nightstand. The whole incident couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds—but when it’s something that horrific, unknown, thirty seconds feels like a lifetime. It took just that long for Charley to make it through the connecting door. She flipped on a light. The energy was still there but not nearly as strong. I ran into Charley’s room. It didn’t follow. Very much like Eli Serino, it seemed stuck in that space. I was, um . . . I was a bloody mess, a flap of skin hanging from my chin. My stomach and thighs, they looked as if I’d tangled with a bed full of rabid cats. It, uh . . . it gave me new appreciation for the familiar confines of a motor home.”

  “I don’t . . . It’s almost inconceivable.”

  “That it could happen?”

  “That you’d survive it. Surpass it. That you’d have to live the rest of your life knowing it’s a possibility.”

  Aubrey watched his fingers move lithely over her pockmarked skin. Her brow crinkled. It was the same gentleness he’d applied to a splintered finger. Last time it was an anomaly, this time she felt something else. Aubrey retracted her arm, looking away from him and out the car window. “I’ve never spoken about it before. Not to anyone.”

  “Your . . . He’s never asked?”

  “Of course Owen’s asked,” she said, turning toward him. “But by then I’d put us in a position where the truth . . . Let’s just say a scene straight out of Rosemary’s Baby wasn’t where I wanted to start the conversation.”

  Levi nodded, backpedaling. “So what happened after that, after you left the motel?”

  “I begged Charley not to tell the other troupe members. I’d rather them think me clumsy and Charley eccentric. To this day, I’m sure Carmine, Yvette, the rest of them wonder why the Heinz-Bodette Troupe fled the Delmarva Inn like thieves in the night.”

  “And you have no idea who or what attacked you?”

  Aubrey self-comforted, running her hand over the scars on her arm. “No, I definitely needed to understand what happened. Charley and I did some research.” Aubrey took a deep breath, thinking back to a period of time she’d never forget. “The Delmarva Inn reopened the week before we stayed there. It’d been closed for two years. Most recently due to a complete renovation. More memorably because of an incident that occurred there. A convicted felon—a David Ray Tomlin—escaped an Eastern Shore prison. He robbed a convenience store, shot one clerk to death, and took the other hostage at the motel—a young African-American male. There he tortured and sodomized his victim.”

  “He was the boy Charley dreamed about.”

  “She does that, dreams of people connected to the dead—she even dreamed about you.” She pursed her lips flat. “At the time, her dream about David Ray Tomlin’s victim was too abstract. No one could have predicted how it might affect me so directly. According to old newspaper reports, it was a volatile hostage situation. It went on for two days . . . gunfire, threats . . . demands. Then it all abruptly ended when Tomlin took his own life in room 114, my room.”

  Aubrey could feel Levi’s shuddering breath. She saw the angst on his face. Then she heard him take control. “Look at me.” She did. “As awful as that was to hear, I’m glad you told me. The house on Acorn Circle is one thing, but what you just said . . . I don’t want you to do this, Aubrey. I don’t want you to meet with Delacort.”

  Thinking about the curious ring of leaves she’d drawn, Aubrey wanted to agree. Then she considered the Surrey City Press and what she’d promised Malcolm. “And that would leave you where? The paper would lose the biggest story connected to Missy Flannigan’s murder.”

  “It’s secondary. I’ll talk to Delacort myself. You can write the story, take the byline. Your safety comes first. I thought I was tagging along because there’s a possibility you’d be sitting down with a murderer. There’s no way I’m taking the chance of you sitting down with his victim.”

  “Trust is everything with somebody like Delacort. You can’t do that, Levi. Pull a last minute switch like that and he’ll be the one bolting. You know that.”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Your safety,” he said, “isn’t. Just let me go in there, talk to Delacort. I’ll get around your absence.”

  “How? It’s the one thing he stipulated.”

  “I’ll tell him you have the flu.” She cocked her head. “Okay, I’ll say you were in a car accident. Not a bad
one, but enough to keep you from coming. It doesn’t matter. I’ll think of something. Hell, I’ll tell him that you decided to reinvent your life and move to Seattle—whatever it takes. Nothing,” he said, breathing deep, “can happen to you.”

  And there it was, like a spotlight. They’d managed to circumvent circumstance, neatly avoiding a single word about last night. Aubrey looked into his brooding eyes: co-worker, friend, confidant . . . Whatever the label, Levi’s solemn expression said how much he meant it. He’d help her pack if it kept her safe. Aubrey shook her head gently. She reached out, making feathery contact with Levi’s clean-shaven cheek. “Talk about mysteries. You and I . . . I have absolutely no idea how we got to here.” Beneath her touch, Aubrey felt an awakening. On the surface, there was the hard-to-see, but always there, considerate side of Levi—concern for things like personal safety and deep splinters. He would do it for anybody. It was a piece of Levi that you might not see at first glance—and truly a huge part of who he was. But this . . . this felt as if it exceeded those boundaries. His hand rose and covered hers. Aubrey watched a hard swallow melt through his frozen pose. “Levi, I’m grateful for your willingness to intervene. I really am. But I can’t live my life like that. I can’t stay locked in motor homes or cars. And I won’t run away. Not from Frank Delacort. I want to do my job.”

  “It’s an impossible situation that you shouldn’t be anywhere near.”