by Jessa Archer
Caroline faded away like a vapor.
“That’s really annoying, you know,” I said softly, although I suspected it was even more annoying for her. I would, however, have to remember that the clock was ticking in future conversations with Caroline and get straight to the point.
I sat there for a moment, digesting the fact that I was planning how to handle future conversations with my mother’s ghost. And since that really wasn’t the sort of thing that I felt like contemplating while insufficiently caffeinated, I headed to the kitchen for that second cup.
But at least now I had a clue as to the whisper-thin, almost-invisible thread of evidence Alicia was following. If the dean had told Caroline she was considering contacting me about taking Amundsen’s position, then it was entirely possible she’d made the same statement to someone else. And while no one had informed me that I was under consideration, I really didn’t have a way to prove that.
During my time in Hollywood, I encountered a few actors who might have been cold-blooded enough to knock off a competitor for a leading role in a major film. I am definitely not one of them, however, and an assistant professor position at a tiny college was a long, long way from a lead role. No one in his or her right mind could possibly think that I—or really, anyone—would kill for a teaching position.
I doubted that Alicia believed it, either. It was merely an easy way to make me miserable. And that meant Alicia would happily continue to milk the story for as long as her editor allowed—which could be months, given how slow the Caratoke local news cycle was outside of tourist season.
Once I drained the last of my coffee, I gave Attila a final scratch and headed for the door. The cat seemed more interested in something outside the window than my goodbye scratches, however. As soon as I opened the door I saw why.
“Go back to your yard, Leo.”
The little yapper was on my sidewalk, probably planning his next surprise delivery. He backed up a few inches and gave me a high-pitched growl.
“Back! I mean it. No crapping in my yard. Otherwise I’m going to let Attila out and he will kick your furry little—”
“How dare you threaten my Leo!”
I hadn’t realized that Mrs. Whitley’s garage door was open. The woman, who was dressed in a crisp white linen suit and holding a brown paper lunch bag, hurried across the lawn toward her precious. Her son, whose name I couldn’t remember, followed behind her, a weary look on his face.
“I’m going to be late for class, Mother.”
“Did you hear? That awful woman threatened our Leo.”
This wasn’t exactly the way I’d hoped to meet my neighbor, but who was I kidding? I was never going to be friends with this woman.
“There was no threat involved,” I said. “I was simply telling Leo that if he poops on my sidewalk again, I’m going to let my cat out so that they can get acquainted. This is Attila’s yard. Not Leo’s.”
“Leo has never done his business on your lawn. I keep a very close eye on my little boy when he’s outside.”
“I have a pair of shoes airing out in the garage that would beg to differ. And he’s constantly upsetting my cat.”
Attila illustrated this point with a throaty growl that was audible even through the window where he was perched, his back arched and fur standing on end. Leo responded by hiking his tiny leg to water the bottom inch or so of the azalea bushes.
“You have a fence,” I said, nodding toward the backyard where the woman could easily let her precious little Leo roam, without risk that he might wander onto someone else’s property or even the street. “He’s going to get hit if you’re not careful.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Mrs. Whitley scooped up her furry rascal and clutched him to her chest.
“I meant by a car.”
She squeezed the dog even tighter, eyes widening. “Did you hear that, Andrew? She threatened Leo.”
“No, she didn’t.” Andrew Whitley’s face was expressionless. “She simply stated a fact. Even on a cul-de-sac it’s not safe to just let him wander. Can we please go now?”
The son seemed reasonable, and I really hadn’t wanted to start a feud. Instead, I ventured a peace offering. “I’m headed to campus myself. I could give you a ride.”
“Absolutely not! Do you think I’d trust you with my child when you just threatened our little Leo? I have half a mind to call the police.”
I glanced at Andrew Whitley—nearly six feet tall and twenty years old, give or take a year. Handsome in a slightly preppy way, and while his face remained impassive I thought I detected a slight narrowing of his eyes at the word child.
“Just trying to be neighborly,” I replied through gritted teeth.
“Well, you spoiled any chance of that when you threatened our Leo. Isn’t that right, Andrew?”
“Yes, of course, Mother.” Andrew waited until his mom returned to the garage and then gave me the tiniest of eyerolls. “Tell Paige I said hello.”
“Sure.” I made a mental note to ask Paige exactly how well she knew the good-looking, wealthy, much-too-old-for-her guy next door, who would probably need several decades of therapy to undo the damage wrought by his overprotective mother. And, yes, there was a bit of irony in that, but worrying about your fifteen-year-old daughter isn’t really the same as packing your adult son’s lunch and driving him to campus every day…right?
The high point of my morning was the discovery that Bethany Tartt had officially dropped both of her theater classes, which meant I wouldn’t have to deal with her sneer six hours a week. Both classes went well, aside from a few snide comments from the peanut gallery, and those were probably unavoidable since I was still sort of feeling my way through this whole teaching thing. I hadn’t quite resorted to searching on YouTube for “how to teach a theater class” videos, but the thought had crossed my mind.
At lunch, I grabbed a salad from the cafeteria and headed to one of the outdoor tables. It was a little chilly, but the sun felt nice after being inside. I was only a few forkfuls in, however, when my phone rang. It was the Caratoke Police Department. My first thought was that Travis was contacting me with a time for our planned dinner on Friday, but that seemed like the kind of call he’d make from his personal number, rather than the department phone.
“You got a minute?” It was clear from his tone that this was business.
I was disappointed, if not entirely surprised. “Sure. As long as you don’t mind talking while I eat.”
“Not a problem. I need to ask a few follow-up questions about…um…about the night of the twenty-seventh.”
“I did not have dinner at the Blue Lagoon with Jerald Amundsen.” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. “As far as I recall, I grabbed a sandwich and took it back to my room at the Hilton. I really don’t remember for certain. It had been kind of a rough day, packing up my mom’s things and trying to get the house on the market. Does that cover what you wanted to know?”
“Pretty much. You must have read the paper this morning.”
“It seemed like a good idea,” I said, “given that Alicia is using The Clarion to stir up new trouble for me every day, although I’m really not sure why. Hinting that I might have killed someone seems to require a lot more animosity than I could easily attribute to a feud from over twenty years ago—even for Alicia. But I think I’ve figured it out. You two have been dating.”
The pause on the other end of the line was long enough for me to be certain that I was at least partially right. Travis covered by clearing his throat and then said in a lower voice, “No. Alicia and I are not dating. And you know I don’t believe you’d kill anyone, period, let alone over something this minor. But we don’t really have any leads, and Alicia’s best friend is on the town council. I have to at least make a show of following up, even if her theories are downright nuts. But I can…I mean, if you’d prefer, I can have one of my deputies do it.”
I sighed. “No. I’m sorry. You have a job and I’m not trying to make it more diffi
cult. But like you said, her theory is stupid. It’s not like I was desperate for this position. Paige and I weren’t on the streets. My dad has plenty of room for us, and I could have gotten work out there that paid better than this—”
“Why did you make the move, then? I mean, if it wasn’t because of the job. With your mom gone and everything, it’s just kind of odd that you’d come back now. After so long.”
I didn’t answer for a moment, trying to figure out whether this was an official question—on the record—or just Travis’s curiosity. But in the end, it didn’t really matter. I wasn’t going to give him the nitty-gritty details either way. Maybe I would tell him about Dominic eventually, but I definitely wasn’t doing it here, sitting outside the cafeteria, with people milling about.
“I wanted a change of scenery,” I said. “I’d just inherited a house here, along with a cat who wasn’t happy in LA. Paige had spent so much time here during the summers that it wouldn’t be entirely strange for her, and suddenly there’s a job opening that I’m more or less qualified for. Why wouldn’t I make the move?”
Now it was Travis’s turn to fall silent. I was about to ask him if that was all he needed to know when he added, “This bit wasn’t in the article, but Alicia sent me a text. Says she has two sources who claim the dean was planning to fire Amundsen back in the summer and offer you the position. Why would she tell them that if she hadn’t even spoken to you about the job?”
“I don’t know,” I said evenly. “The first time I heard about any of this was when she called me on January second to say that Amundsen had tendered his resignation. But I’ve got this really great idea if you want an answer to that question. Why don’t you…wait for it…ask Dean Prendergast?”
Travis chuckled. “Fine. I’ll take your advice and give her a call. You mad at me? Because you kind of sound like you’re mad at me.”
Despite the fact that I was a bit annoyed at him, the words made me smile. They also made me want to track Travis down and kick him for bringing back a tidal wave of memories. The two of us had seldom argued when we were together, face-to-face. Disagreements tended to melt away when we were in the same room. But we had some hellacious phone arguments. And Travis asked me that question dozens upon dozens of times, trying to cajole me into a better mood.
“I might be,” I said. “Kind of. I was sitting here trying to eat my salad and this cop calls me out of nowhere and starts asking really stupid questions. And they are stupid questions, Travis Lamm.”
“I know, and I already apologized.”
“If you’re interested in some actual information that might be relevant, however, I might have something. Ben—my student assistant—and I were out at the Playhouse yesterday, and the office laptop is missing. He said it wasn’t Amundsen’s property. It belongs to Coastal Players, and therefore, to the university. So, if you happen to find something like that at Amundsen’s place…we could use it back. It’s not just the cost of replacing it. Ben seemed to think that most of the financial records were on there, too, along with a whole lot of other stuff I’m going to need to run the place. And that syncs up with what Dr. Peele told me in one of his orientation emails.”
“They don’t have backups?” he asked.
“Not that Ben knows of, but he was just the stage manager. He didn’t have anything to do with the bookkeeping or the business side of things. Ben said he saw Amundsen entering receipts and stuff into the computer, but he didn’t know much beyond that. I emailed Dean Prendergast and Dr. Peele this morning to tell them the computer was missing. I haven’t heard back from them yet, so you may get another call if one of them decides to report the thing stolen. Even if they have a backup or print copies somewhere, I’d think it would be a good idea to find the computer, since it might contain an actual clue as to why someone might have wanted to murder my predecessor. A guy I never met, never had dinner with, and most certainly never killed.”
“I know,” Travis said. “And I will look into it. We’re still on for Friday, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I can make up for ruining your lunch.”
“You’d better.” That déjà vu feeling hit me again, even stronger. It was strange how quickly we slipped into our old banter even after twenty years. The only difference was that I wasn’t talking into a Motorola StarTAC.
And you’re not eighteen, I thought. You’re two decades older, and presumably wiser.
After lunch, I hiked up the hill to Muncey Auditorium. I needed to find some tools for my set-design class to use at the Coastal Playhouse the next afternoon and also grab the new picture frame from the desk so I could mount the still-unframed cast photo from the previous season.
The double doors at the main entrance were propped open, as were the doors leading down into the auditorium. As I entered, I saw four industrial-sized fans aimed down at the middle of the stage, apparently trying to air out the trap room. And though I wasn’t exactly keen on going back there, given that my last time on this stage had ended with the discovery of Jerald Amundsen’s very dead body, I had to do it at some point. The air was fairly clear now, even backstage. Might as well get it over with.
Most of Ben’s brief tour of the place was eclipsed in my mind by finding Amundsen’s body, but I eventually located the tool closet at the back of the prop room. I piled a collection of hammers, nails, and work gloves into an empty box. As I closed the door behind me, however, I heard a shuffling sound. My first instinct was to call out and ask who was there, but I halted instead to see if I could pick up the noise again.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear much over the roar of the fans and my stupid heartbeat pounding in my ears. I began to inch forward. After a few steps I caught sight of a shadow moving along the tiny section of stage that was visible from my vantage point. The shadow was long and narrow. It looked strange, almost inhuman.
I reached inside the box and closed my hand around one of the hammers. Propping the box against my hip with my left arm, I raised the hammer with my right and began moving sideways toward the door. A weapon might not do much good if the noise wasn’t coming from the living, but it was better than nothing.
The possibility that I might be dealing with something supernatural would not even have occurred to me until recently. On Private Eye High, well over half of the cases we’d investigated had seemed attributable to paranormal causes at first, but the final act would always reveal an entirely human villain. Well, except for that last season when the writers totally jumped the shark and had a vampire join the faculty. But before that, my character had always been the voice of reason, telling the others that dead people stay dead, there are no ghosts, no werewolves, no zombies. Those views had very much echoed my own.
All of my comfortable assumptions about life, death, and the hereafter had been called into serious question, however, after the past several days of conversing with my mother’s ghost. Caroline’s ghost was the friendly variety, and even if it was strange having her around, it wasn’t exactly scary. Amundsen might be a different story, though. Based on everything I had heard over the past few days, I wouldn’t have liked Jerald Amundsen when he was alive. He was decidedly unpleasant as a newly discovered corpse as well, so I doubted that I’d much care for him as a ghost. I really hoped his spirit had moved on to whatever waited beyond, or at the very least, had found someplace to haunt outside of this theater.
On the other hand, I was more than a little curious about how he died. Unlike my mother, Amundsen had quite possibly been murdered. From the brief glimpse I’d gotten of his body, it was clear that he’d taken at least one serious blow to the front of his head. That meant he probably saw his attacker.
With that thought, my imagination kicked into high gear. If this really was Amundsen’s ghost, would I have the nerve to ask if he knew who killed him?
As I drew closer, the “ghost” making the shadow came into clear view. An industrial-sized fan that the clean-up crew had pointed down into the trap room below the st
age had shifted slightly. The resulting breeze had set one of the long, narrow curtains the stage crew referred to as “legs” into motion.
I laughed shakily. “Well, hello, Professor Amundsen’s ghost. Care to tell me who killed you?”
“I’m quite interested in that as well.”
I screamed, dropping the box of tools, as soon as I heard the voice. The new arrival caught the box, but it was tilted sideways, and one of the hammers tumbled out, landing squarely on his foot.
His definitely solid foot, attached to a solid body.
“Oh, bloody hell!” The man hopped around a few times, then gave me a worried look. He had light hair like Amundsen’s photo, but lacked the aging-surfer vibe of the late theater professor.
“Would you mind terribly putting that thing down?” His voice had a fairly strong British accent. “I’d rather avoid another go.”
I followed his gaze to my right arm, where the hammer was still raised, and slowly lowered it.
“I take it you’re Antigone Alden? Amundsen’s replacement?”
“I am,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “Who are you?”
“Samuel Davies. Chemistry department.” He extended a hand, and a somewhat pained smile. “We spoke briefly at your mother’s service. I’m very sorry if I frightened you.”
“I didn’t actually think you were a ghost.” I stashed the hammer back inside the box and shook his hand, annoyed at the blush I felt rising to my face.
“Of course you didn’t, Professor Alden.” He scooped the errant hammer from the ground and placed it in the box with the others. “I mean, everyone knows ghosts aren’t real.”
There was a slight twinkle in his blue eyes. I had the distinct feeling he was teasing me.
Fine. Two could play that game.
“Perhaps that’s what they teach you in the sciences, Professor Davies. But every respectable theater has its ghost. In most cases, it’s a friendly haunting. Just enough to keep things interesting. But I’ve heard a few tales of malevolent spirits lurking in the wings.”