Murder In the Past Tense (A Giorgio Salvatori Mystery Book 2)
Page 30
He stopped and looked over at his brother.
“I’m sorry, Rocky. I didn’t mean…”
Rocky waved him away, a pained look on his face.
“It’s okay. I get it. Even though Rebecca was training to be a cop, there were things I didn’t tell her, either.” He took a deep breath. “By the way, I’m…I’m thinking of going to see that psychic.”
“Flame?”
“Yeah.” He paused again and then took a deep sigh. “I’ve seen Rebecca, Joe. Since she was murdered. I’ve seen her several times, in fact. It’s one reason I started drinking.”
Rocky looked at his brother with a haunted expression, and Giorgio knew immediately that he wasn’t joking.
“I’m sorry, Rocky. I had no idea.”
“I saw her again last night. Her image,” he corrected himself. “And it was everything I could do not to reach for a beer.”
“Do you have alcohol in the house?” Giorgio exclaimed.
“No. You know what I mean. I just wanted one. I’ve never said anything before because…”
“Because you were afraid people would think you were crazy,” Giorgio said, finishing his thought.
“Yeah. Do you? Think I’m nuts, I mean?”
Giorgio contemplated his answer, thinking back to when he’d first see Christian Maynard and thinking the same thing.
“Are you kidding? After what we saw at the sanitarium? No. I may be dull, as you put it. But I’ve learned recently to be a lot more open-minded about things like this. I think Flame is the real deal. I think ghosts probably are, too. Maybe Rebecca is trying to communicate with you somehow.”
He approached the subject slowly. He didn’t want to freak out his brother at a time when he was clearly so vulnerable.
“I thought maybe Flame could help me,” Rocky said shyly. “Maybe she could find out why Rebecca keeps appearing to me. What do you think?”
The air in the room felt suddenly heavy as Giorgio contemplated what it took for his brother to admit all of this.
“I don’t know, Rocky. I don’t profess to know how any of this stuff works. Maybe it will help. Maybe it won’t. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
The door opened and Mia Santana walked in with a bouquet of flowers. Rocky saw her and quickly stood up.
“Listen, I’ll see you after the show,” Rocky said, ending their conversation.
He passed the young woman with a brief smile and slipped out the door. She moved over next to Giorgio.
“How are you?” he said.
She tried to smile, but came up short. “I’m okay. Not 100%, but okay.”
He turned to her. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the bench.
She sat down and handed him the flowers. “I brought you these…for opening night.”
He smiled and took them from her. “Thanks. I didn’t know you covered the theater, too.”
“I don’t. But I wanted to see you…before I leave.”
“You’re leaving?”
She glanced down to her hands, which still carried the scars from where Fritz Martinelli had sliced each finger open.
“I’m moving back to San Diego – to live with my parents for a while. I’m going to go back to school. To become a teacher.”
“No more reporting?”
A tear glistened in the corner of her eye. “No. I think I’m done with that.”
He regarded her for a moment. This woman, who had at one time been so full of confidence and raw energy, was now cowed and timid. It made him sad.
“You’re very good at what you do, you know,” he said.
Her brown eyes lit up at that. “You mean that?”
“I do. You were a pain in the ass, but you were a good journalist. I admired you.”
A wave of relief seemed to wash over her. “Thanks. I appreciate that. You’re good at what you do, too.” Now more tears glistened. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t…I…” she said, and then stopped.
He reached out and placed his hand over hers.
“We each did what our jobs demanded. What we were trained to do. Listen, Mia. If you’re half as good a teacher as you were a reporter, your students will be very lucky.”
“Thank you,” she said.
She smiled, leaned forward and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek, and then she was gone.
He sat for a moment, gazing at the flowers and thinking of his daughter, Marie. In a few years, Marie would look a lot like Mia. She might even be as stubborn. He chuckled at the thought, and then a dark cloud passed before his eyes.
What he hadn’t told Rocky was that he’d followed Marie’s bus home from school twice in the last few weeks – scanning each and every person who dropped their kids off or picked them up. He knew he couldn’t protect his children from everything, but he wanted to, because the world was actually a pretty ugly place. And Fritz Martinelli had reminded him of that.
“Curtain in five,” the stage manager announced over the intercom.
Giorgio rose and quickly got into costume. He adjusted the fake monocle in one eye that would help make him look like Teddy Roosevelt and studied his image in the mirror, running his fingers through the empty pockets of his wool vest.
He was alone now in the dressing room, and the period costume made him think of the boy.
Giorgio had to admit that young Christian Maynard had done them all a great service. He’d given closure to so many people. But Giorgio’s heart fluttered at the thought that the boy – dressed in his knickers and starched white shirt – might remain a permanent part of his life. What other ghastly things would he have to look forward to?
Just then, he felt a tug at the pocket of his vest.
Giorgio jerked around, but he was alone.
Curious, he looked down and reached into the vest pocket with two fingers again, expecting to find it empty. Instead, he drew out a folded piece of paper, and his heart jumped. He opened the paper and took a deep breath.
It was a torn flyer, depicting the twisted face of a vampire, blood dripping from his fangs, and a snarling dog in the background. Splashed across the top were the words, “Fangtasia – March 18th.”
“Shit,” he murmured, a queasy feeling in his stomach. Where the hell had this come from?
He glanced up and stuffed the flyer back into his pocket.
He couldn’t deal with this now. He had a play to do.
÷
A few minutes later, Giorgio stood backstage, ready to go on stage. Through discipline, he forced thoughts of Christian Maynard from his mind. He had only thoughts of Arsenic and Old Lace – the story of two spinster aunts who poisoned lonely old men and then had their crazy brother bury them in the basement.
While Arsenic & Old Lace made for great fun and laughter in the theater, Giorgio couldn’t help but think about the real bodies buried at the Pinney House. So many young lives cut short.
Laughter bubbled up from the audience, and he glanced out on stage.
Tonight, the antics would only be make-believe – just make-believe, he reminded himself. The characters would talk about bodies buried in the basement, but there would be no tortured souls lain to rest.
Unless, of course, someone dropped a line. Then all bets were off.
The End
AUTHOR’S NOTES
The idea to set the story at the Pinney House came from my high school friend, Cindy Warden, whose family used to own it. Cindy and I graduated together from Pasadena High School in 1967, just like the characters in the book. So I decided to not only set the story at the local landmark, but during the time when we grew up there.
THE PINNEY HOUSE
The Pinney House is currently owned by Greg and Judy Asbury, who describe it on their website this way:
Welcome to The Pinney House! Built in 1887 as one of the original railroad hotels, the house features eight suites, up to three of which are available for short-term rental (the rest are rented out on a yearly basis).
I’m sure the Asburys w
ould appreciate your business. Please visit their website at www.pinneyhouse.com. They have my sincere appreciation, not only because they gave me permission to use their home in the book, but they offered up the cover photo and the tale about its current resident ghost.
THE POTTINGER SANITARIUM
The Pottinger Sanitarium (I found it spelled both Pottinger and Pottinger) was built in 1903 by Dr. Frances Marion Pottinger, after his wife contracted tuberculosis. The hospital, called Pottinger Sanatorium for Diseases of the Lungs and Throat, closed in 1955, when Dr. Pottinger retired at 88-years old. But Dr. Pottinger and his ground-breaking treatments were world-famous by that time, for treating diseases of the lung. While the building no longer exists, you can see pictures of it online.
DETECTIVE ABRAMS
For those of you who have read, Inn Keeping With Murder, you will recognize an earlier version of the handsome Detective Abrams. I created his character in a short story called A Palette for Murder, which appears in my book of short stories, Your Worst Nightmare.
Thank you so very much for reading Murder In The Past Tense. If you enjoyed this book, I would be honored if you would go back to Amazon.com and leave an honest review. I do read them. We “indie” authors thrive on reviews and word-of-mouth advertising. This will help position the book so that more people might also enjoy it. Thank you so much!
About the Author
Ms. Bohart holds a master’s degree in theater, has published in Woman’s World, and has a story in Dead on Demand, an anthology of ghost stories that remained on the Library Journal’s best seller list for six months. As a thirty-year nonprofit professional, she has spent a lifetime writing brochures, newsletters, business letters, website copy, and more. She did a short stint writing for Patch.com, teaches writing through the Continuing Education Program at Green River Community College, and writes a monthly column for the Renton Reporter. Murder In The Past Tense is her fourth full-length novel and the sequel to Mass Murder. She is already hard at work on the third Girogio Salvatori book.
Follow Ms. Bohart
Website: www.bohartink.com
Twitter: @lbohart
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