by Неизвестный
“I'm familiar with the concept,” she said, smiling. She'd been to a locked-room event once, covering it for the blog. She'd been disappointed to find it was just a series of logic puzzles done under a time constraint. She'd expected it to be as much fun as a murder mystery dinner party, but how could it be, without any costumes or funny characters?
“Yeah, well, they're profit machines,” he said. “Thirty bucks a person, ten people at a time, that's three hundred bucks. And the costs are very low.”
She laughed. “Plus you get to lock people in a dungeon. Who doesn't love that?”
He turned his attention from the road to give her a pained look. “But they want you to lock them up,” he said. “They're asking for it.”
She held her hands up. “It was just a joke,” she said.
He abruptly hit the brakes and cranked the wheel to the right. She squealed and reached for a handhold.
“Gas station,” he said. “It's always a few cents cheaper here than in the Bend.” He pulled up to the pumps. “I'm going into the store for some water. Do you want anything?”
She shook her head, no. What she wanted was to stay in the truck and get a look inside the metal box, which she would do as soon as Finn was out of sight.
Chapter 8
As soon as Finn Bruno was inside the gas station's store, Samantha reached over and opened the metal box he'd been keeping away from her.
She didn't know what she'd expected to find, but it wasn't a bunch of plastic G.I. Joe men. She took a handful of the little guys out and gave them a closer look. They weren't army men, but knights and elves and goblins. Some were cast metal and others were plastic. Most were painted. Mixed in with the figures were multisided dice, pens and pencils, what appeared to be graph paper, and two coiled measuring tapes. She stuffed the figures back in and closed the lid.
A minute later, Finn emerged from the store in his glowing orange shirt, and climbed into the truck. He looked at the metal box on the bench seat between them, raised an eyebrow, and started the truck. “Okay, so I'm a giant nerd,” he said. “I know you saw my gaming kit.”
She gave him a tight smile. “I may have snuck a peek.”
“I don't play Dungeons and Dragons anymore. I was using that stuff to map out my own designs for escape rooms.”
“That's actually really smart,” she said, and she meant it. The graph paper and figures could be used for planning all sorts of scenarios.
“Thanks,” he said, smiling. “You're a good listener, Samantha. Did you ever work as a bartender?”
“Funny you should ask. When I was little and my friends wanted to play house, I always wanted to play bartender.”
“That's adorable,” he said, steering the truck back onto the main road, heading back to Owl Bend.
“Before you get any ideas, you should know I grew up in a dry house,” she said. “The only drinks I served my friends were Tang and milk, usually mixed together.”
He pretended to gag.
For the rest of the drive into town, they talked about the best and worst things they'd ever had to drink. Finn's worst was the same as the best—a mix he'd make of the leftover booze from his parents' parties. “I swear, most times it was better than sangria. Add a little grape juice, some ice, and you're in business.” He grimaced and stuck out his tongue. “The only downside was the occasional cigarette butt.”
Samantha groaned as a long-forgotten memory bubbled up. She'd also sipped ashes by accident, though it was in college.
They got back to town, where she pointed out her little rental car and he pulled up right behind it. He got out and helped her with her groceries, even though it was only two small bags. Three trucks in a row drove past, prompting Finn to say, “Rush hour in Owl Bend.”
They faced off awkwardly, and she wondered if he was going to try to kiss her. She didn't want him to. He was nice enough, and seeing his nerdy elf warrior figures hadn't actually been a turnoff, but her gaze kept darting up the street, toward a certain deputy sheriff's office. Finn Bruno was fun, but she found Robichaud much more interesting.
“Thanks for showing me around,” Samantha said brightly, offering her hand to shake.
Finn's face showed a flash of desperation, and then he pulled himself together and shook her hand warmly.
They said goodbye, and Samantha pretended to be preoccupied with her phone. Once Finn had driven away in his truck, she returned to the store for the liquor and another box of ice cream bars.
* * *
That night, Samantha dreamed of Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud again. He was sweating and dressed like a barbarian in a movie, with a thick rope over one shoulder as he pulled a railcar up a mountain. She sat inside the car with the entire town of Owl Bend, and all of them were speaking a language she couldn't understand. As the train climbed higher and higher, the temperature rose when it should have been cooling. The sedimentary rock landscape grew more and more red, until everything was on fire.
She awoke at four in the morning, checked all the doors and windows, and tried to get back to sleep. The bed had turned uncomfortable, so she walked out to the living room and curled up on the sofa, under scratchy wool blankets, with the television tuned to the local community channel. She fell asleep immediately.
* * *
For the weeks following her day trip to Manitou Springs, Samantha kept a low profile, sticking close to the lake and her cabin. She didn't want to see Finn Bruno and have to politely fend off his advances, and she wasn't sure if Daniel Robichaud had forgiven her yet for being insensitive after his story about guardian angels.
Life inside the cabin was perfect, anyway. By day she wrote blog posts about salad dressings, place settings, and refurbishing flea-market antiques. After sunset, her handsome boyfriend came around and kept her company, always listening, never complaining or making "helpful" suggestions.
Her waking hours transitioned more and more to the internet, to a life that was virtual and free of the past. She created brand-new social media profiles under the alias SamGirl99, and joined message boards and communities focused on ghosts and the people who see them. She got brave enough to post some details about her current situation—albeit with all identifying details removed. After a few days of politely commenting on various threads on the public forum, she was invited into a private conversation loop headed by an individual calling themselves, hilariously enough, Scooby75.
Scooby75 wasn't like the others on the public forum. Instead of demanding Samantha try to get proof, Scooby75 simply accepted that Warren was a genuine ghost. It helped Samantha sleep easier at night, knowing that at least one person believed her.
From what she'd learned online, Warren wasn't a residual specter. A residual haunting was more like a recording, a static, repeating event. He fit the profile of a so-called intelligent haunting, because he could interact with her. According to the expert psychics within the community, the limitations to Warren's communication skills were typical for such ghosts. The fact that he wouldn't play charades, and that he disappeared whenever she tried to use the Ouija board, were all in line with other people's experiences. Some of them even reported their own ghosts appearing in formal wear. But why a tuxedo? More like why not, some posters suggested. Who doesn't want to look their best, even when dead?
After several evenings of intense private chatting with Scooby75, the discussion turned even more personal. Scooby75 revealed that she was a woman, also living in the southwest, and she was concerned that the ghost of Warren was lingering for a reason. What reason? Murder.
The word seemed to jump off the screen and send icy shivers through Samantha's gut.
Samantha typed a response: He wants to murder someone?
Scooby75 replied: I didn't phrase that right. I mean *he* was murdered, and he wants you to find the killer.
Samantha: I don't think so. Wouldn't he just find a way to tell me who it was? He was there, after all.
Scooby75: Sometimes the extreme violence and shock wipe
s the transition event from their memory. Or, more likely, you need to find the clues and the evidence, so the killer can be convicted. You have to look around.
Samantha: This is ridiculous. He should be haunting a cop or something.
Scooby75: But he chose you for a reason. It's got to be you.
Samantha typed an angry response and deleted it, then another, also deleted. This Scooby person was trying to make a fool out of her. It was probably an internet troll who worked as a bank manager by day and trolled fools like her on the internet at night.
She closed her laptop and put it in a closet, as though that would create a moat of safety between her and internet trolls, as well as the disturbing notion that a murderer was prowling around Owl Bend.
And so what if there was a killer on the loose? She had no ties to the town. She could leave any time, once she got the urge. Most days she didn't question why she was renting a cabin in the Middle of Nowhere, Colorado. On the days she did wonder, she found only hazy memories and lingering intentions. She'd come there to get away from something, or to find something. What it was, she couldn't remember, or didn't want to remember. It had happened to someone else, someone who wasn't the same Samantha Torres as this one, who saw ghosts and selfishly spewed her private details and problems to strangers on the internet.
After a few minutes, she retrieved the laptop from the closet with a sigh. She logged in and picked up the conversation with Scooby75.
Samantha: What should I do now? The police think it was an accident. How do I convince them it was something else?
There was almost no delay, and then a long message, as though Scooby75 had written her answer long before Samantha had asked the question. She painstakingly explained how Samantha had to embed herself in Warren's life, walk in his shoes, talk with his friends, take his photos, and sleep in his bed. All of that sounded reasonable enough, except for the suggestion she begin sleeping in Warren's bed.
Samantha jokingly asked: What about sleeping in my own bed, with him? He told me once that Colorado nights were made for cuddling, and he's a good cuddler.
A moment later, Scooby75 replied: If this is some big joke you're playing on me, very funny. You can find someone else's head to mess with. I'm out.
Samantha apologized, tried to smooth things over, but the other woman was gone, her green light changed to red.
The next day, there was no sign of the woman online, and Samantha began to worry that Scooby75 hated her.
Over the next few days of silence, Samantha's worries grew larger. She wondered if Scooby75 was an expert on murderers due to having one in her own life, stalking her. Or maybe she knew about killers because she was one. Samantha's imagination ran away, down dark forest trails with lightning striking trees ablaze left and right. It took several drinks and the blasting of loud rock music to make the visions go away.
The days piled up, and the cabin grew smaller, claustrophobic.
She watched the community channel regularly, so she knew the retrospective art show celebrating Warren Jameson's life and photography was coming up on June fifth.
With nobody interesting to talk to online, and her awkward encounters with local bachelors Finn Bruno and Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud fading in her memory, going into town for a social event became more appealing.
Samantha decided that going out for a change was better than drinking herself into oblivion—barely.
Chapter 9
Samantha got dressed for the 7:00 p.m. art show, accidentally pulling on the same orange sundress she'd been wearing on the day of Warren's death. She was driving and halfway into town when she realized her mistake, and slammed on the brakes. After a few minutes of internal debate, she pulled back onto the road and continued driving into town. Nobody but Deputy Sheriff Robichaud knew what she'd been wearing the day of Warren's death. Even if he was at tonight's art show, so what if he saw her? He was a man, after all. A dress was probably just a dress to him.
She pulled up in front of the venue and parked. Another great thing about Owl Bend was the ample parking, and no paid meters.
The art show was being held inside the town's original fire hall. It had been turned into an art gallery and community center twenty years earlier, when the new, modern fire hall went up. Warren Jameson had served as a volunteer firefighter, and was well known to the local first responders.
Inside the old fire hall, the mood was surprisingly festive. The laughter and conversation of over a hundred people bounced around the building's lofted walls.
Samantha ducked her head down upon arrival. She headed toward the guest book without making eye contact with anyone. Something orange flashed nearby. It was the bartender, Finn, but he hadn't noticed her yet.
As she was finishing signing her name, she was greeted by an approaching woman. “You're Samantha Torres?”
Samantha looked up to find a woman she immediately recognized as Warren's aunt. They'd never met, but the woman had been in several of the photos in Warren's online portfolio. He'd even used his aunt as a model a few times. She didn't have the youth or figure for stepping out of a lake in a dripping bikini, but she was a great model for wearing polar fleece and setting up a tent for camping. Wendy Jameson was fifty-five, with the same brown eyes as Warren, white-streaked hair, and a build that could be described as “sturdy.”
Samantha gave the stout woman a sidelong look. “Have we met before?” She knew they hadn't, but it was what she said in such situations.
“My nephew mentioned your name once or twice.” The woman reached out a mannish hand. “Wendy Jameson. I'm Warren's aunt. He was back in town and living over my garage, right up until the accident.” She shook her head. “Poor thing. Such a waste.”
They shook hands. The older woman's palm was cool and moist. “Sorry for your loss,” Samantha said. “He seemed like a wonderful man.”
Wendy gave her a tight smile and fidgeted with her black and white hair, which was frizzy at the tips, like a grown-out perm. “My nephew never mentioned how beautiful you were,” Wendy said. “You weren't at the service, were you? It was so busy in there, and I was running around like a madwoman, but I'm sure I would have remembered you.”
“Sorry, I didn't go,” Samantha said. “To be honest, I didn't know your nephew that well. I didn't even know he had a girlfriend. Is she here?”
Wendy sucked in air, making a hissing sound. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “He had many friends who were girls—always did—but no girlfriend. Not for a few years. He liked someone for a while, but she wasn't worthy of someone as good as my nephew.”
Samantha wondered if that someone was Toni. “Was this person living here, in Owl Bend?” she asked.
Wendy scowled. “Unfortunately. She should have gone off to the big city when she had her chance. She could have left this town and been a big star.” Her eyes glazed over, and briefly, she had the expression of a baby—simultaneously frightened of and fascinated by the world.
Samantha took a step back and rubbed her bare forearms. Wendy had the same eyes, but none of the warmth or charm of her nephew.
“Nice to meet you,” Samantha lied.
“And you, of course.” Wendy sucked in air again as her attention darted around the lofted space. “When Warren told me about you, Samantha, I had such high hopes. You are the Samantha Torres who's here doing stories about Colorado for a magazine, aren't you?”
“It's a blog.” When the word “blog” drew only a confused look, she explained, “A blog is sort of a magazine on the internet.”
“Oh, I know what a blog is,” Wendy said with a small snort. “You and I really should get to know each other better. It's too noisy in here, and I've got about a million people to talk to, so I have to run off, but we should get together, maybe for a girls' night out.” She looked Samantha up and down before walking away, folding into the crowd, saying what sounded like, “So pretty. Oh, Warren. She's just so pretty.”
Samantha waited until the odd woman was long gon
e before she took a normal breath. Warren had mentioned being able to buy his own house, but choosing to stay with his aunt to help her through a difficult time. The memory came back in a rush, and she saw Warren's forlorn expression as he explained how his aunt was always coming up with crazy stories. A few times, she'd come to believe a local woman was her long-lost daughter, given up for adoption years before. But she was delusional. Wendy Jameson had never been pregnant, let alone given birth. She'd been born without internal reproductive organs. The fantasy of a long-lost child reared its head from time to time, usually during times of stress. It was a coping mechanism, a distraction.
“Champagne?” A very short man with bulging eyes was offering Samantha a flute of bubbly champagne. “We're here to celebrate a man's work, after all.”
Samantha accepted the glass of champagne and took a calming breath before sipping. She didn't want to appear eager, though she was dying for a drink.
She looked down at the short man and introduced herself.
“Charles DeWitt,” he said, shaking her hand. “My mother had de good looks and my father had de wit.”
She couldn't help but smile. “Nice to meet you, Charles. I wish I had a pun prepared. I don't know what to say about Torres except that it's a common surname, and it means towers.”
“A common name for an uncommon beauty,” he said. On a man taller than five feet, it might have come across as smarmy, but Charles DeWitt was almost cute. “Are you a friend of Wendy's?”
“We just met, actually.”
His eyes widened, making him look more like a pug than ever. “Consider yourself lucky,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “That woman is, as the kids today say, cray cray.” He nodded solemnly and whispered, “Crazy.”