Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  Violet turned the gun a bit, as if focusing her aim. Aubrey’s phone rang. “That’s my partner,” she said, hoping it was. “There’re too many people who know where I went, Violet. You can’t pull it off again, get rid of me as tidily as you did Missy.” The phone droned on. “He’s a hell of a reporter, and an even better man. I made tactical errors today. I promise you, he won’t do the same. He’ll haunt you. He’ll figure it out.”

  “Answer it,” she said, pointing the gun at Aubrey’s pocket. “Put it on speaker. Tell him you’re fine.”

  Aubrey dropped her notepad on the floor and reached for her phone. “Levi . . . hi,” Aubrey said breathlessly.

  “I saw Charley,” he said. “She explained . . . everything. I got your text. Are you okay?”

  “Uh, fine. I’m fine. Where are you?”

  “Not far . . .”

  “What does that mean?”

  With Levi’s voice on speaker an echo was muffled. It surprised both Aubrey and Violet when the studio door creaked open and he appeared in the entryway. Violet turned in the direction of the new intruder. Aubrey lunged left, toward the room that had been Missy Flannigan’s tomb. She grabbed the first thing she found—a giant ceramic cat. When she turned back, she saw Violet aiming the weapon at Levi, who stood frozen in the face of a gun being pointed at him. Aubrey propelled forward, swinging for the armed elderly woman. She made hard contact with the side of Violet’s head, but it was a second too late. Not quick enough to keep her from firing the gun. The bullet struck its target.

  Levi fell hard to the floor and so did Violet. The pieces of the ceramic cat lay scattered between two prone bodies. Aubrey dropped to her knees beside Levi. She heard herself cry “No!” but it sounded small and useless in the aftermath of gunfire. None of it seemed real, not until Levi spoke, a trickle of blood seeping from his mouth.

  “Ellis . . .”

  “I’m right here.” Aubrey scrambled for her cell with one hand, trying to apply pressure with the other. But she fumbled, frantic and scared, unable to pinpoint the wound. His injury became evident as a sticky dampness met with the palm of her hand and Levi’s dress shirt transformed, turning from white to red.

  “I deplore weakness . . .” Blood continued to dribble over his lip, following the raspy whisper of his words. “But I gotta tell you, it hurts like a son of a bitch. ”

  “Levi, stop . . . You’re going to be okay.” But Aubrey’s confidence began to wane. She started to panic as his breathing shallowed. She did gather the wherewithal to glance behind her and see an unconscious Violet lying on the basement floor. “Listen to me, Levi . . . Don’t . . . don’t you dare die on me! You’re staying right here,” Aubrey insisted. “I don’t want to finish any arguments from the other side!”

  She hit the speaker button on her phone and connected to 911. Aubrey demanded what she needed. She and Levi traded unsure looks. His color had turned white, ghostly white—and Aubrey realized how it was that everyday people drew the conclusion. “Levi, please,” she said, her voice more pleading than in the moments before. She looked up, considering places that she didn’t really think about in terms of earthly needs. Please . . . please don’t take him from me . . . She looked at Levi, whose eyes rolled back, eyelids fluttering.

  “See that . . . you didn’t think . . .”

  “Didn’t think what?” she said, pinching back tears.

  He smiled, but it was weak, too weak to force the dimple. “That I’d see Brody again so soon . . .”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Three Months Later

  “For the record, state your names, addresses, and occupations. And so you are aware, we are recording this investigatory inquiry in addition to the court reporter. Also present is Jennifer Hayes for the town of Surrey, assistant district attorney.” Detective Espinosa inched the recording device toward the two women who sat opposite him.

  “Aubrey Ellis, 54 Homestead Road, Surrey, Massachusetts. I’m a reporter with the Surrey City Press.”

  The petite Asian woman cleared her throat. Aubrey could hear her breath, light and steady. “Ginger Imai, apartment 8C, Highgrove Terrace, Surrey, Massachusetts. I recently retired as the assistant manager of Benjamin Franklin Savings Bank.”

  In the sterile conference room of the DA’s office, where they’d been summoned, Aubrey glanced at Ginger. She seemed calm, even composed. Ginger had come alone. An older man who smelled of breath mints over cigarettes, an attorney from MediaMatters, sat to Aubrey’s left. On the table, in between the two sides, was a safety deposit box. “The purpose of this interview,” the assistant DA said, “is to determine if any criminal act was committed regarding a safety deposit box that belonged to Missy Flannigan. The box was delivered from Miss Imai to Aubrey Ellis and the Surrey City Press. This occurred after Violet Byrd’s recorded confession, obtained by Miss Ellis, was turned over to authorities. Mrs. Byrd was immediately taken into custody and charged with the crime of murder, which she did not deny during further questioning. Miss Imai, would you please tell us how you came into possession of the box?”

  “Missy Flannigan was a customer at my bank. Back then . . .”

  “Could you please be specific about the dates in question?” the detective asked.

  “When she was alive, approximately twenty years ago. Missy often came into the bank. She made a lot of deposits. Two years before her disappearance, she took out this safety deposit box. You see the original documentation for the rental of the box, Missy’s signature.”

  “Yes, the evidence was entered into the record prior to this interview,” Detective Espinosa said.

  “Miss Imai, were you aware of the box’s contents?” asked the district attorney.

  “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the privacy inherent to a safety deposit box, Miss Hayes. The contents were not my business. But Missy did tell me that the box contained pearls that belonged to her grandmother. I cannot confirm or deny this. I’ve never opened the box.”

  Aubrey listened to the exchange, recalling her surprise when she and Malcolm did open the box, the stunning secrets that had tumbled out. If Ginger Imai hadn’t come forward much of Missy’s story would have remained, not a mystery, but simply untold. Aubrey sighed, thinking it still wasn’t enough.

  “You’re right about that . . .”

  Aubrey sat up taller as the assistant DA continued on, vetting the elderly woman without apology. “Did you have a relationship with Miss Flannigan, beyond bank teller and client?” she asked.

  “No, not really.” Ginger Imai hesitated and her hands clasped in front of her. “Although I did believe Missy Flannigan was a troubled girl.”

  “Did you have conversations alluding to that?”

  “Not a single one. In that regard, I cannot help you. What I can tell you is that I too escaped a difficult life in Japan. Perhaps conversation is not necessary to recognize this kind of confusion and pain in another person.”

  “And after Missy disappeared,” Detective Espinosa said, “you deliberately chose to keep the box private?”

  “I did. Naturally, it occurred to me that I should turn the box over to her family. I struggled with this greatly.” A swallow rolled through Ginger’s crepe-paper throat. She pointed to the box. “But,” she said, her head tilting slightly, “I watched Missy’s father come and go from that bank for as long as I worked there. There was something in his demeanor that I found . . . disturbing. I have good instincts about people and I trust them. From what we now know about Mr. Flannigan, I believe I was correct.” The elderly woman frowned, looking at the box, looking as if it were all that was left of Missy Flannigan.

  Aubrey swore a whisper wove through the room.

  “It’s not enough . . .”

  “Back then,” Ginger Imai said, “what I sensed about Mr. Flannigan prevented me from turning the box over to him. If I am held responsible for this, I accept it. But
I would not have done anything differently.”

  Detective Espinosa leaned forward, his gaze steady on the former bank employee. “And it didn’t, at any point, occur to you that turning the box over to the authorities would be the prudent and rightful decision?”

  “When the authorities so swiftly caught Missy’s killer and brought him to justice twenty years ago, I did nothing. I thought it respectful to keep the contents of the box private. I thought it was what Missy would have wanted. She secured the box for a reason. It was my perception that whatever was inside should perhaps die with her.”

  “I thought so once too . . . but not anymore . . .”

  Aubrey cleared her throat and shook her head. She glanced around the room, seeing nothing but celery-green walls and office-grade furniture.

  Detective Espinosa never missed a beat, pouring a glass of water and placing it in front of Aubrey while asking Ginger, “And when Missy’s remains fell out of the Byrds’ basement wall, you didn’t feel any different?”

  “Detective Espinosa, a man spent two decades in prison for a crime he did not commit. When a plumber discovered Missy Flannigan’s remains, it did not enhance my confidence in the authorities. Since that time, another man was falsely accused of her murder. Missy’s true killer was finally apprehended when Miss Ellis obtained a confession. I hope, finally, she’ll pay for her crime.”

  “Count on that, Miss Imai,” said the assistant DA. “Whatever life Violet Byrd has left will be spent behind bars.”

  “Good,” she said, nodding.

  But Aubrey heard two voices say “good” simultaneously.

  “As for why I chose to give the box to Miss Ellis—she earned my confidence. With my retirement at hand and Missy’s murder solved beyond question, the time had come. I felt the box would be safest in Miss Ellis’s care.” Her tiny shoulders shifted. “If the box contained nothing more than a strand of pearls, so be it. If not, I believed Miss Ellis was the person most capable of deciding what to do with its contents.”

  “Me too . . .”

  Aubrey heard a curt “Miss Ellis, are you listening?” and looked at the detective. He must have said her name more than once. “What do you have to say for your part in this?”

  Aubrey blinked at him. “To say it’s been a tumultuous few months would be an understatement.”

  “Miss Ellis, if you could speak up just a bit,” he said, pushing the recorder closer.

  Aubrey tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, curious if she appeared as weary and vague as she felt. “I was stunned when I opened the box.”

  “And when you saw what was inside,” the assistant DA said, interrupting, “you didn’t feel a duty to turn all its contents over to the authorities?”

  The attorney who accompanied Aubrey held up his hand. “My client was not under any legal obligation to surrender the contents of the box. We all know that while damning and inflammatory, the contents had no bearing on who murdered Missy Flannigan. However, as it was, Miss Ellis did turn over Missy’s diaries. The state has made full use of this information in regards to the very disturbing crimes committed by Tom Flannigan. Perhaps instead of questioning Miss Ellis, you should be thanking her.”

  “Mr. Siegel, the state is aware of Miss Ellis’s contribution in the matter of Tom Flannigan. The diaries proved most useful in obtaining a long-overdue confession. The state and a judge will see that Tom Flannigan is prosecuted to the full extent of the law,” Miss Hayes said. “However, there’s still the matter of the other items in the box. The items that Miss Ellis and the Surrey City Press used to produce a rather stunning exposé.”

  The MediaMatters attorney began to object again. This time Aubrey interrupted. “Miss Hayes, after carefully examining the contents of the box my editor, Malcolm Reed, and I determined what we wanted to present to our readers, and what we felt was best left in the hands of the authorities. We did nothing without serious deliberation, fact checking, and advice from our own legal counsel.”

  “I assume you’re referring to the various men who solicited Miss Flannigan for sex rather than her diaries and their contents,” Detective Espinosa said.

  “Isn’t that what you’re referring to? The diaries supported Frank Delacort’s claims about her father. I know you’ve spoken with Frank,” Aubrey said, having told him about the diaries herself. Confirmation of Missy’s suffering wouldn’t change what twenty years in prison had done to his life. But Frank seemed to find peace in knowing that the story had been corroborated. “The diaries provided excruciating details about the abuse perpetrated by Missy’s father. But everything else we found—the motel receipts, signed thank-you notes from Missy’s clients, even some fairly shocking photos—that was fair game. And as for those men—”

  “Those men? Please be specific,” said Miss Hayes.

  “People like Randy Combs, Mick O’Brien, Ed Maginty, a few other adults who took advantage of Missy. We knew that the statute of limitations regarding solicitation had long run out. It seemed to us that an above-the-fold headline exposing their part in Missy Flannigan’s story was the only sentence they’d be served.”

  “You could do more . . .”

  Aubrey slapped her hand against the table. Everyone looked in her direction. In turn, her gaze jerked around the room. She sat back in the chair, absorbing what was now no more than a distant whisper.

  “You felt it was the right of the Surrey City Press to serve up justice,” Detective Espinosa said.

  “If you think a local two-part series exposing how adult men—trusted members of a community—took advantage of an already traumatized young girl, not to mention Dustin Byrd’s part in this, is in any way justice—”

  Jennifer Hayes interrupted. “As unfortunate and unsatisfying as it is, the police and my office are bound by the confines of the law. I can’t speak for Detective Espinosa, but I understand what you tried to do, Miss Ellis. However, it’s also our job to assess if a current crime has been committed.”

  “If you consider it necessary to press charges for my decision, have at it,” Aubrey said, teary eyed, overwrought by the endless aftereffects of a girl gone twenty years. “And you’re right. The law doesn’t serve justice in Missy’s case. Sadly, neither do the stories I wrote for the Surrey City Press.”

  “You can do more . . .”

  Twenty-four hours later, Aubrey was in the ladies’ room of the Surrey City Press when the call came. She was relieved to hear that the DA and Surrey police had decided not to press charges. But she was having a hard time conveying much joy. As it was, she’d just exited a stall and was pressing a damp paper towel to her face. Aubrey was perplexed by a wave of nausea, curious that it didn’t connect to an inbound entity—at least not the kind with which she was most familiar.

  Later that day, still reeling from the cause and effect of Missy Flannigan, Aubrey drove out to the cemetery. She didn’t relish the idea of walking among the dead, but she needed to pay her respects. Passing by dozens of headstones, she was surprised by her level of comfort. She’d had a lifetime with her gift, but Aubrey felt sure she’d come the furthest, gained the most confidence, in the past few months. Standing in front of a newer burial plot, she spoke to the stone marker, shiny granite carved with angels. She swiped at a runaway tear and hugged herself tightly. “I see your mother’s been here. I’m glad about that.” Fresh daffodils sat against the headstone, a charm on a ribbon that said “daughter.”

  Placed next to the spring flowers was a more permanent plant in a pot—a plastic red geranium that looked wildly out of place. She picked it up and moved it to the side of the grave. Aubrey felt sure Dustin had brought it by. After his mother’s confession, he’d been released from jail and unceremoniously fired from Surrey Parks and Recreation. Aubrey had read Ned’s piece that morning about how Surrey revoked Dustin’s pension. She shook her head at the plastic plant. “It’s not enough. Money, that’s all this wi
ll cost you, Dustin. You should be made to understand the part you played. As it is, you’ll probably try to turn your infamy into heroism.” Aubrey knelt, refocusing on the headstone. “Maybe we can get a graveside restraining order.”

  She pondered the receding edges of winter, the way wet snow bled into loose dirt. Aubrey reached past the grave, glad for her long arms, scraping a layer of snow across the slushy mess. It looked too much like the life Frank Delacort had so poignantly described. Then she stood, reflecting on the white snow that covered Missy Flannigan’s new grave. Branches rustled in the wake of a spring breeze and on a cutting wind Aubrey heard a last adamant echo: “You can do more . . .”

  EPILOGUE

  Three years later

  “Charley, I’m not arguing. You’re putting on this sunscreen and that’s the end of it!” Aubrey’s watchful eye moved between a glistening Connecticut shoreline and her grandmother’s back.

  “Fine . . . Just do it,” she said, allowing Aubrey to smear a handful of sunscreen between her shoulder blades. “In my day, sunshine was the best thing a person could hope for. Now the sun’s the enemy. When did that happen?”

  “No credit to modern medical science, huh?”

  “No credit for taking the fun out of a day at the bench . . . or a carnival.” Charley pointed toward the water where Yvette stood with a toddler jumping by her side. “I tell you, my dear, that son of yours is half fish. Look at him splash in those waves—no fear!”