Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “A gunshot wound?”

  “Point-blank range.”

  Frank was quiet, not reaching for the pack of cigarettes, not sipping his coffee, oddly not avoiding Aubrey’s gaze. “Since I haven’t heard a question, I’m guessing there’s more.”

  “A ballistics expert matched the bullet lodged in Missy’s skeleton to a rare military-issue weapon—a Ruger Super Redhawk.”

  He smiled again. Aubrey breathed deep, not at Frank’s cool response, but at another pang of déjà vu. There was the crank of carnival music, a shooting game of chance. Then it was gone.

  “My military record is sealed.”

  “We managed to unseal it.”

  “Aren’t you gutsy and shrewd.”

  “We have a good team at the Surrey City Press.”

  “I get it. You’re liking me for this murder all over again because my history tells you as much.”

  “I’m offering the information I have. But I would imagine you’re awfully glad that military record didn’t come to light during your trial, certainly not before they exonerated you.”

  “That’s what this is about?” he said, his tone growing sharper. “I do twenty years for a murder I didn’t commit, and now you want to crucify me all over again? You’re going to tell the world I was no better than a mercenary? That Frank Delacort and the United States Army inadvertently killed women and children.”

  “Excuse me? I’m not sure what you’re—” She traded a fast look with Levi, who seemed equally perplexed.

  “Sometimes, Miss Ellis, things are classified for the sake of safety. Sometimes it’s because the truth is so ugly nobody wants you to hear it.”

  Aubrey shook her head. “That’s what you’d be concerned about? That’s what you’d worry about me reporting?”

  “My unit carried out orders. Anybody who thinks you can do that without collateral damage is a fool. Good as we were, missions like ours, innocent people died. Someday, I expect to be held accountable—but it won’t be on this earth, by a jury of your peers.”

  Fast as she could, Aubrey recalculated Frank Delacort’s sins—which by his admission were mounting. It was a startling confession, but it wasn’t the one for which she’d come. “Frank. My reason . . . the reason I wanted this interview was to talk about Missy Flannigan. I wasn’t aware . . . I don’t have those kinds of details about your military history. Just your familiarity with the gun that killed Missy.”

  “Just . . .”

  “Just the gun, Frank. That’s all I wanted to discuss.”

  His line of vision crept from his ice water to Aubrey. He nodded, understanding that she wasn’t going to demand an accounting of military injustices. “To answer the question you came to ask, the no-brainer one—yes, I was well trained with that particular Ruger. But I didn’t shoot Missy. You said point-blank range?”

  “Yes. That’s what the coroner concluded.”

  “Had I wanted Missy dead, it wouldn’t have been with anything as sloppy as a handgun—not unless I wanted to rip a hole in her the size of Oklahoma. That particular Ruger is a vicious firearm. If shot by one, the victim would have just enough time to glance at the mess in their lap before it was lights-out. My hit, it would have been from three hundred meters out with a high-end optical sight, assuming there was no breeze. She would have never seen me coming. Trust me. That’s how you kill someone, Miss Ellis.”

  Aubrey didn’t let the calculated conclusion rattle her. “Even so, you have to admit it’s a compelling piece of information.”

  “I can’t change facts. What you learned might be true. But I wanted to protect Missy . . . I loved her. I didn’t want her dead. So who did? Maybe the guy she dumped hard for me? That wannabe commando. Byrd shouldn’t have been licensed to own a water pistol. But he was that type, the kind who thought a stockpile of weapons made him somebody . . .” Frank’s weathered face looked more contemplative. “And here I sit, a free man. Why is that?”

  She was quiet, forgetting Levi’s advice not to give Frank an opening. He was quick to pounce.

  “Byrd owns a Ruger. That exact Ruger, the Super Redhawk. Doesn’t he?” Frank leaned back. “That’s why the DA and judge cut me loose—not even a retrial. They think it’s a done deal. A body in Byrd’s wall and a weapon in his hand. And now a motive, which I just gave you.”

  “Despite your military history, Dustin Byrd does appear the more likely perpetrator.”

  “Particularly when you factor in the location of the body. I mean, good luck placing me at the scene.”

  “It’s a valid point. You have no connection to the Byrd house.”

  “Which brings me back around to why I agreed to this. I’ve had plenty of time to consider my own ideas about . . .”

  “Wait,” she said, holding up her hand. “Back up a step. None of this explains how Missy’s blood ended up your room. Do you want to circle back around to that?” Aubrey flipped through her notes. “You said Missy was ‘banged up but alive,’ the last time you saw her. Your words. Did Dustin assault her? Did she come to you afterward?”

  “Confirming that would seal that fucker’s fate, wouldn’t it? A jury might buy it, even if it came out of my mouth.”

  “But that wouldn’t be the truth.”

  “I said up front, if I’m telling this story, I’m telling the whole story. Maybe Byrd committed a crime of passion, maybe it was a hair-trigger accident—who knows. But Dustin Byrd wasn’t responsible for Missy being . . . banged up.” The crow’s-feet around Frank’s eyes narrowed “I was.”

  “You?” Aubrey said. The empathy she’d built up fell like a house of cards.

  “Me,” he said, as if he’d been waiting twenty years to admit as much.

  “I’m sorry, Frank, but that does change my opinion about what you’ve said so far. How can it not?”

  “Yeah, on my way here, I realized the truth might. Twenty years ago, honesty wouldn’t have done me much good. It won’t help me now. I’d just hoped . . . I thought, maybe, despite my shortcomings, you might be interested in the bottom line.”

  “You’re asking for an awful lot of faith, Frank. Based on what you’ve admitted, based on what we’ve learned. Surely you can see how it doesn’t ease my skepticism.”

  He picked up the pack of cigarettes and pulled a couple of crumpled bills from his pocket. “Yeah, I get it. People wanted this story to be black and white—you want this story to be that way. One good guy, one bad guy. It isn’t. And now you know why I never used the truth as my defense. Tell you what. Go back to your paper and print that. Print it all if you want. My life’s been nothing but a fucking mistake—from Laurel, to the army, to sweet Missy Flannigan—today’s just one more. Coffee’s on me.” He stood and headed for the exit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Frank Delacort moved and so did Levi, rapidly blocking his path. “Wait. I want to hear the rest of what you came to say. I need to hear it. I’m sure Miss Ellis does too.”

  Frank spun toward Aubrey. “A cop? You brought a cop with you?”

  “No, she didn’t. I’m Levi St John.” He extended his hand to Frank. “You said you’ve seen my name on the byline with Aubrey’s. And yes, I’ve been sitting here the entire time.”

  “Like I said, this was a fucking bad idea.” Frank glanced at Levi’s hand and brushed past it.

  The reporter in Levi couldn’t relent, so he spoke to the back of Frank’s head with one-on-one zeal. “Most of what you said, Frank, it did sound like you wanted to protect Missy.” Frank stopped, a few diners tuning into the exchange. “I was only doing the same thing for Aubrey. I apologize for the cloak-and-dagger setup, but I couldn’t let her come here alone.”

  Frank did an about-face, but he didn’t move forward. Aubrey sensed someone buzzing, panicking at the back of her brain. He . . . she . . . didn’t want Frank to leave. “Miss Ellis seems like a capable perso
n. Like she’d tell me to fuck off if need be.”

  “You’re right. Aubrey can handle herself—in situations more precarious than the one you represent. Still . . .”

  Frank nodded vaguely. “I get that, wanting to make sure Miss Ellis was okay.”

  Aubrey leaned into the table, the restaurant and people feeling detached from where she stood.

  “Aubrey?” Levi said, having turned toward her.

  “I’m all right.” But she sat as she said it, sliding into Levi’s booth.

  Moments later, Frank agreed to sit too. Levi sat beside her. Staying engaged was increasingly difficult. An entity churned around her and Aubrey didn’t object as Levi took the reins. “You’re right about the truth, Frank. People will react emotionally to what you admitted. But my role isn’t to judge. It’s to gather facts. It doesn’t make the rest of your story false or irrelevant.” Levi picked up the pad and pen, which Aubrey had abandoned. “Start with why you assaulted Missy. Was it an argument?”

  “It was a fight, a nasty one. Money was our only issue in leaving Surrey. Missy drained her bank account buying that car. I didn’t have a bank account.”

  “You were fighting over money.”

  “Not exactly. We were fighting over the eighty grand she’d showed up with that day.”

  “Come again?” Levi said, now diligently taking notes.

  “Byrd had saved pretty much every penny he ever made. He was going to build a house for him and the new missus. Missy decided, all on her own, that his nest egg was going to be ours.”

  “She stole it?” Levi said.

  “She figured I’d take it as a prayer answered. She thought I’d be relieved . . . grateful. Missy was right about one thing, I was blown away. From nowhere, she unzips her backpack and dumps eighty grand—cash—onto the bed, like it was poker chips.”

  “But you didn’t see it that way.”

  “Fuck no. The last thing I wanted was to start a new life with Missy by stealing her ex-lover’s money. We both disappear and that puffed-up commando’s safe gets sucked dry. Who do you think’s gonna get blamed for masterminding that? Of course, joke was on me. Instead of doing time for grand larceny, I end up doing time for murder.”

  “That started the argument,” Levi said.

  “Started it, yes. But it’s not what set me off. Not really. Some time had passed since Missy ended things with Byrd. Thinking about that made me wonder how she managed to get her hands on his cash. According to Missy, Byrd kept the money in a safe in his bedroom. To get it, she would have had to go there. One sentence led to another, and . . . well, she didn’t deny it. In fact, I think she was proud of her coup. For a couple of sweet fucking hours, I’m sure Dustin Byrd thought Missy wanted him back. He got into her panties and Missy got into his safe. Apparently, a wet dick was all it took to blindside him.” Frank’s glance veered to Aubrey. “I, uh . . . I didn’t mean to be so graphic.”

  She held her hand up, dragging her attention along with it. “That’s how she got to the money, by sleeping with Dustin. That’s what angered you.”

  “Nothing was going to stop Missy from getting that money. Remember what I said about snow?” Levi and Aubrey nodded. “A lot of things came clear that day. Until then, I saw myself as the more damaged one of us. But it was the way Missy took the money, her tough-luck attitude toward Byrd—and you know I’m no fan of his. But it was all okay with her, the way she thought things through—or didn’t. Using sex as a means to her end. It made me realize just how messed up she was.”

  “And that pushed all your buttons.”

  “Wrong as it was . . . yes, it did. I lost it. I couldn’t make her understand what was so bad about sleeping with Byrd. Not if it got her that money. Missy said to call it payment for services rendered. Had she charged Byrd for sex all those years . . . well, according to Missy, that eighty grand was interest.” Frank’s jaw tightened. “Like I told you, this story’s not black and white. Neither is anybody in it. Missy had very solid ideas about the kind of money men would pay for sex, right down to à la carte services. It tore me up good to think of her like that, what Missy was willing to trade for cash.” He sucked in rank diner air and swallowed hard, like maybe he was going to be sick.

  While Frank and Levi heard silence, Aubrey combatted a soft but determined voice. It throbbed in her head. Levi’s in-charge tone kept her clinging to the moment. “It wasn’t the first time Missy did something like that . . . sold herself for money,” Levi said.

  “Once you get your hands on all the puzzle pieces, you can see it’s a very different picture. Through no fault of her own, Missy Flannigan had no moral compass.”

  “How . . . how badly did you beat her?” Levi’s question sounded matter-of-fact. Body language said otherwise, his leg stiffening against Aubrey’s.

  “Does it matter? If I hit her once, is it less excusable?”

  “As a reporter, my opinion isn’t the point. If you’re asking me personally . . . no, it isn’t. Still, I’d like to know Missy’s condition when she left your room at the Plastic Fork.”

  “A busted lip, a bruise on her cheek.” Frank stiffened, focusing on his folded hands. “Things escalated fast. I couldn’t get my mind around it—Missy sleeping with Byrd so she could take his money. My wife, Laurel, she’d cheated on me while I was in Kuwait. She was killed by a drunk driver on the way home from her lover’s apartment. That’s how I found out. The cheating part, it seemed like history was repeating, even if Missy wasn’t Laurel, you know?”

  “I didn’t know about your wife,” Aubrey said.

  “That she’d cheated on me or that she was dead?”

  “Both. I’m sorry she died.” Beneath the table, she gripped Levi’s thigh. He glanced curiously at her.

  Frank moved on, not elaborating or accepting the condolences. “I struck Missy once. But it, um . . . it was more than a slap. She bled on the sheet, on the bathroom towel. And there,” he said, “is your blood evidence. I can’t defend it. But I don’t think I deserved twenty years in prison for it. After Missy got herself together, I packed up the money and told her to find a way to put it back. That she’d better put it back if she still wanted . . . us. Missy left the Plastic Fork and I never saw her again. It seems clear enough. Byrd caught her in the act, they had it out, and she lost.”

  Levi tapped the pen against the edge of the notebook. “The fifty-dollar bill. The one you used at the Plastic Fork. The one with ‘Happy 21st Birthday, Missy’ written on the edge.”

  “An innocent act that sealed my fate. Missy used to cash my paychecks for me—no bank account, remember? Aside from bringing me the eighty grand she stole that day, Missy also just happened to include the birthday fifty in my cashed paycheck from Holliston’s Hardware & Feed.”

  “It was your money,” Aubrey said.

  “The fifty was mine. But I had no way of explaining it. I couldn’t deny an envelope with a postmark from the twenty-eighth of September. I broke the fifty at the Plastic Fork the next afternoon. Reports of Missy’s disappearance surfaced that evening. After finding her blood and hair in my room, how hard was it to believe that not only did I kill Missy, I robbed her too?”

  Levi set the pen aside. “It’s all very gripping, Frank. But here’s the problem.”

  “I can’t prove it, not a word. You won’t do a story based on what I’ve said.”

  Levi shook his head, closing the notebook. “Your story won’t make tomorrow’s headline, that’s for sure. But that’s not to say we won’t pursue leads based on your version of things. In fact, I’d encourage you to tell the police everything you told us.”

  Laughter sputtered from Frank. “You’ve never done time; have you, Mr. St John? There’s no way I’m sitting down with any cops. As much as I want to see Missy get justice, I’m not the guy to do it.”

  “What you’ve told us is huge. The implications are vast,”
Levi said, picking up the pen again. “It’s strong evidence against Dustin Byrd. But without hard proof, anything we’d print—especially your claims about Missy’s father—it would read like slander. Give us time to work on it.”

  Frank sighed; it was all disappointment and resignation. “I admit, I was expecting a lot from the truth. It’s the only thing I never tried.” Aubrey focused on his face, her mind trying to erase the years covering it. Something subliminal seeped through, something in his smile, but she couldn’t place it. “I guess my luck’s only destined to change so much.”

  “Maybe more than you think,” she said.

  “I doubt that. But I hope Dustin Byrd pays for what he did. Missy’s life went from bad to worse to over before she had a chance to live it. I thought if I could bury him—worse than the way he buried Missy, it would be worth telling. I’d also sleep better knowing Tom Flannigan’s part in this was exposed. A sealed-up basement tomb is better than that bastard deserves.” Frank rose from the booth. As he did, the earthbound conversation Aubrey heard became secondary.

  “What will you do now?” Levi asked.

  “My sister, Marie, she wanted me to come stay with her all those years ago. For now, that’s where I’m headed, to New Jersey.”

  Aubrey fidgeted and raked her hand through her hair. She cleared her throat hard and Levi pushed his water glass in front of her.

  “We should go . . . now,” he said, half rising from his seat.

  She sipped the water, trying to clear her palate. “It’s okay, really.” Levi sat again and even Frank hesitated at the table’s edge. Her watery gaze volleyed between the men. “Sugar rush.” Aubrey smiled. “Sorry. I sensed an incredible scent of fresh pastries, overwhelming really. It was like I could taste them.”

  “I know that smell,” Frank said, looking queerly at her. “So much fucking flour and sugar it about knocks you over. Laurel was a pastry chef.” He shrugged. “But the only thing I smell is coffee, maybe the special. Whatever that’s supposed to be.” With nothing else to offer, Frank nodded at the two of them. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m glad I’m not the only person walking around who knows the truth.”