“You!”
He released me, ghosting back a step with fluid grace, his body dissolving. He disappeared into the dark; his see-through shape a living shadow, cutting through the float of dust motes.
“Are you insane?” I asked, plunging my hand back into the box. I felt around, muttering in Smith’s direction. “I drew the line at creepy, and you crossed it, so I’m buying you a bell, I’m perfectly serious, and you’re going to wear it, at least around the house. Or when you’re stalking me.” I pulled my hand out of the box, having finished up my inventory. “I can’t find the tape. It’s not here.”
I peered through the dark, head spinning back and forth, but Smith might as well have been invisible, or maybe he’d just left the attic.
“I’m going downstairs,” I called out loudly. “Meet me there or I swear, I’ll burn some sage and smoke you out.” The threat was getting old. I’d surfed the internet at work a while back, reading up on ghosts. I didn’t have a clue if that little nugget was legit, but I often brought it up, swearing to banish him whenever it suited my needs.
After climbing down the ladder I forced the stiff wood to fold over and close up. It snapped into the ceiling with a satisfying thunk. My dip into the fiberglass had left my fingers feeling itchy. So I washed my hands, waiting for Smith to appear.
When it came to the details of his death, he could be cagey, often nipping off before I could squeeze him for answers. But up in the attic his emotions had been blunt, almost silent. He hadn’t been surprised or angry to find me poking around the house, which I took for a good sign.
I dried off my hands, calling his name as I walked through the house. He was in the living room, staring at pictures, much the same way as I had a few minutes before.
“I talked to Amy, and if you can believe it, she hates me slightly less than before I spoke to her. I know, it’s totally a first. But I didn’t find the tape.”
He turned around, his blinking fade tapering off as he willed himself solid. I followed him through the house as he led me into the master bedroom, then Amy’s bathroom.
“I already checked here, there’s nothing.”
He cocked a hip, one leg planted firmly on the ground, the other swinging out. His boot would have struck along the molding, but instead it swept through, making not a sound.
I knelt down, inspecting the baseboard. The wood had been painted white a few times, but not recently as the last coat had turned slightly yellow. I knocked here and there, searching for a hollow section like they do on TV, listening for a difference in tone. Tap. Tap. Tap. Nothing. And I felt stupid for trying, especially with Smith standing over me. I sat back, tempted to blame him for my failure, but then I noticed something. The entire strip of molding was loose, nails not pressed flush. I wedged my finger into the tiny gap, pulling it away from the wall. It slipped free easily, exposing four inches of plasterboard. Bingo. There was a very small section along the floor that had been punched away; jagged pieces of crumbling white, the mouth of a tiny cave. I pressed my face to the floor, curiosity spurring me on. No bugs, just dust and the glint of something metallic wedged in tight.
I pried it free, an old device of some sort. It fit in my palm, the silver plastic surprisingly heavy. I saw buttons along the top, mistaking it for a radio. But when I pressed play, hearing men’s voices, I realized it was a recording device, an old one, from when Smith was still alive.
I would have listened to it then, on the floor of Amy’s bathroom. I was that curious. But Smith abruptly twisted, turning to face the front door.
I swore, fully grasping his action. Shoving the tape recorder into my purse, I hurried to press the baseboard back in place, making sure it hugged the wall. Then I followed Smith out of the bedroom and down the hall, but it was too late.Stephen was walking through the door, frowning down at the knob, no doubt from finding it unlocked. I brushed my bangs into place and stepped out to meet him, brash as ever.
“Stephen, I’m glad you’re finally home. I wasn’t going to wait much longer. I need that penny and your mom couldn’t find it.”
“Adelaide?” He was incredulous at first, then suspicious. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Get over yourself, I’m not here to rob you,” I said, hitching my purse over one shoulder. “I would have avoided your mother if that was the case.”
“You met my mother?” Now he was worried.
“A lovely woman,” I lied. “Now I need that penny. Francesca has been asking after it. She specifically sent me to pick it up.”
“The penny?” It was information overload, he could barely keep up.
“Just bring it to work with you,” I said, brushing past him on my way to the door. I didn’t hurry to my car, knowing full well that Stephen would be gaping through the window. I took my time, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Smith didn’t follow, but then, he always preferred to stay near Stephen. I didn’t blame him. I would have picked Stephen too, unfortunately I couldn’t escape myself.
* * *
All I wanted to do was listen to the tape. All I got to listen to was Team. He used the office as his stage while I took part, an unwilling audience, hostage to his performance. It was Friday and people streamed into Sterling’s, booking up rooms for the entire weekend. Most stopped to compliment Tim’s music, so I could hardly tell him to leave.
It was getting harder to be mean to him. At one point in the night a pair of guys walked in. They were barely old enough to rent a room, and although they said it was just the two of them, I could feel a few more chums waiting outside, impatient and bored. I knew they would leave the room a mess. The shower curtain would be missing, pee splashed behind the toilet, vomit puddles on the carpet (the sink if we were lucky) and always they left empty beer cans, but despite their grand ambitions, never a used condom. I’d seen it all before, and Stephen had cleaned it.
We kept a small box of flyers in the office, and throughout the night these guys came in, one by one, pretending to leaf through the advertisements, searching the local attractions, before they tried their luck, strolling over to hit on me. Tim would jump in, casually putting them off, but eventually he got tired of their persistence and claimed to be my boyfriend Lucas. How he’d learned Luke’s name, I didn’t know. But he was relentless in my defense (as if I needed the help) and sent them on their way. I wanted to send him on his way. But like I said, being mean was getting harder. Tim was entirely agreeable, his white teeth chiming, an audible smile, glinting out loud. I might have been softening, but I still wanted him gone. I just needed five minutes of quiet so I could hear what was on that damn tape.
But of course the second he was gone Francesca called. She roped me into a double date, though I hadn’t put up much of a resistance. With Conner starting to look semi-permanent, I figured I should get to know him. So I agreed. It was on for the next day, a Saturday afternoon. All I had to do was get Stephen to cover for me again. He was always a team player, except for on days that I broke into his house.
I tracked him down, gloved up and scrubbing toilets. Smith was there, hovering in the shower. I spared the ghost a glance before venturing, “Cover for me tomorrow?”
He looked up, eyes narrow and thin. I didn’t think it was a show of attitude, the cleaning chemicals were just potent. “What for?”
“Francesca wants to do a double. She’s seriously considering Conner, marriage and all that.”
“Really?” I thought he’d be miffed, but he was only uncertain. “You think she’ll go through with it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think they’re a match made in heaven, but that won’t stop her. Will you do it?”
He looked down, focusing on his work. “What were you doing in my house?”
“Are you really going there?”
He looked back up, almost in accusation. “You’ve been weird. About me. I deserve to know how I figure into your...”
“My what?”
I won. He shrugged, defeat in the gesture. �
�Fine,” he sighed. “What time?”
* * *
I sped home after work, racing to finish the mystery. I expected answers, illumination. The full story behind Smith’s death.
Blasting through the door, I tossed my keys, kicked off my shoes, and ran to the kitchen. I pulled out the tape recorder, set it on my kitchen table, took a seat and pushed play. Voices wobbled forth, two men talking. I pulled the recorder close, turning up the volume as I pressed my ear to the speaker.
“—saying nothing until I see the money,” said one.
“It’s been deposited into an account,” came the second man, his voice more refined and quiet, barely audible. “The access information is all yours, provided you can keep your end of the deal.”
“Here,” said the first man gruffly.
The sound of crinkling paper, then a pause.
“You’re certain?” asked the quiet man. Repeating, “You’re certain this is the land SL&S is interested in?”
“It’s under contract just like I told you,” the first replied defensively. “Southeastern’s got lawyers and agents all over it. Don’t know how you plan to steal it away, what with it being a done deal and all.”
“I’ll worry about that,” was the gentle reply, confident and sure. “Here.”
Another crinkle, followed by a satisfied grunt.
“If you learn anything else, contact me. And you know,” said the soft voice, coming in clear as he stepped toward the recorder. “There’s always a job waiting for you at Petersons.”
“Too far,” the first man grumbled.
And that was it. I rewound the tape, listening before and after the conversation. There was a gentle rocking, rhythmic almost, and I figured it for driving.
So the guy, Marks maybe, made a deal, selling privileged information about his logging company, the same one Smith used to work for, SL&S, to another company. Petersons.
“Smith!” I barked, hoping to find him lurking nearby.
He came from the hall, misting into the kitchen, an agitated blur of white. He was submissive, accepting the fact that I was going to drill him with questions, but equally apprehensive.
As long as I posed only questions with a yes or no answer then I wouldn’t need the Ouija board, which incidentally, I never brought home from Sterling’s.
“Was that Marks?” I asked first, pulling out another kitchen chair. He didn’t want to sit, but I didn’t like him looming over me. Smith was tall.
Wisping onto the seat, he firmed up a bit, nodding reluctantly, as if not wanting to encourage another question.
“It makes sense,” I observed, testing out my theory. “He was your friend, you found out what he was up to. He killed you to protect himself.”
He was upset, sad and aggressive as he shook his head no.
“No?” I asked. “What do you mean no.”
Smith’s body shifted in the chair, coming in solid. Then he shook his head again, firmly, so as not to be misinterpreted.
“You mean he didn’t kill you?”
Smith pointed at me, nodding.
“So these are the facts: According to Amy, you and Marks argued. According to you, Marks was the one selling information on the tape. A tape which you stole to protect... I don’t know who. But despite all that, you claim Marks didn’t kill you,” I said, slumping into my chair. “It doesn’t make sense. And neither does the fact that Marks taped himself at all.”
I was interrupted by a knock at the backdoor. Smith escaped, disappearing before I could call, “Come in.”
It was Lucas. He looked at the chair already pulled out, angled to face me. “Did you have someone over? I heard you talking.”
I wanted a phone for just these moments.
“Must have been thinking out loud,” I said, and hurried to change the subject. “Want to have sex?”
Chapter 20
“You wore jeans to the Sleeping Oaks Country Club?” Francesca observed. She sounded exasperated, but was secretly amused.
I was wearing jeans, yes, and my pair of Chuck Taylors, but had made a concession, donning a very preppy sweater that had buttons down the front. Even Lucas had made a bit of effort, wearing clothes with neither stain nor tear. But we appeared rough around the edges when compared with Francesca and Conner, who stood hand and hand, smiling together.
Lucas was bored. I mean, I didn’t feel it or anything, but his eyes were restless, shifting around before they’d settle back on me, as if he had to continually remind himself of why he couldn’t leave. I could relate.
Conner had wanted lunch at the club for our date. Despite the fact that he didn’t live on the island, he was the only one among us with a membership, so we were his guests for the afternoon.
The club was a blot of white against the lush green grass, Roman with its pillars and dome. Inside everything was shinning marble or rich wood, with delicate chandeliers that seemed to drip glass. Here Sir Prosperous rubbed shoulders with Mister Wealthy, which was why Francesca was addicted to the place. She used it as her hunting ground, lining up potential partners in her string of never-ending men, of which Conner was just the latest.
“I love that he’s so considerate,” Francesca gushed, whispering in my ear as we waited in the restaurant’s foyer. “Conner’s been so gracious about bringing us.”
After insisting we eat here, he’d better be.
But I didn’t share my mutinous thoughts as I was trying to get along with her maybe-future husband. “Finally,” I muttered instead, as the hostess led us to our seats. I wasn’t sure why fancy restaurants preferred stiff tables to comfy booths, but it always bothered me. But again, wishing to appear pleasant for Francesca’s sake, I refused to be petty and complain, even though complaining sometimes felt nice.
We ordered drinks casually enough, but things got dicey as we tried to settle on a topic of conversation. Finally I said, “So Conner, did you ever tell a lie?”
“Adelaide,” Francesca said, warning intoned in her voice.
“What? It’s a good get to know you question,” I replied. “Here, I’ll go first. I once told my sister that she’d become dehydrated if she peed more than three times a day, so she went around holding it.” I looked at Conner, daring him to do better.
“Um, well,” he said, shifting in his chair. “Once I broke a kitchen window, and when my father asked, I tried to blame it on the dog.”
I wasn’t impressed, but Francesca laughed, chafing his arm. “I’ll go,” she chimed, feeling giddy as she sucked down her breakfast beverage. “I tell people I weigh 120, but really it’s... 115!”
I didn’t approve of the gesture as a rule, but just then, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “How about that time you told that guy—”
Feeling slightly panicked, Francesca rushed to interrupt me. “It’s your turn, Lucas, go on and say something.”
He shrugged. “It’s been too long. I can’t remember.”
With the spotlight shinning another way, Conner’s good mood was restored. “Oh come on,” he wheedled. “At some point every teenager lies to their parents.”
Luke thought about it. “I told my parents that I got my girlfriend pregnant once for April Fools’ Day.”
Conner’s eyes bugged wide while Francesca coughed, some Bloody Mary spewing out between her fingers. It was never good to hear your boyfriend talk about his ex, or impregnating her, but I was deeply fascinated, unable to picture the solid, silent Lucas doing something so outrageous. I thought then, for the first time, that maybe it was love.
If only things could have continued that way, upbeat and entertaining, but instead our date became, well, something of a cockup. It started gradually, at the table next to ours. There sat a couple, the wife with smooth hair and tennis bracelet, the husband having an overbite and chunky gut. They began to argue in earnest, but not loud, just sincere-like. I felt it building and it wasn’t the mild misunderstanding that can sometimes turn ugly, but raw hate. They were flinging it at each other, words biting l
ike knives.
Conner was talking, saying something about his dad. I tried to focus, to just sit there and relax. But my jaw clicked shut, teeth clenched together and hands fisted on the table. Conner’s words seemed to spiral out, echoing like a long forgotten thought.
The woman’s bracelet glittered as she hissed, and my own arm shot out in time, an involuntary jerk to match her poisonous words. My wrist hit Luke’s glass of water, and it didn’t just tip, but went flying off the table. Flying and breaking, shards blasting out on impact, skittering with the ice across the floor. The crack of broken glass diverted the couple’s attention, their argument and anger dissipating as they watched the servers scurry to clean up my mess.
Conner tried to smooth things over, assuring me not to worry. But the emotions wouldn’t empty out, and feeling unbridled and wild, I stood up. “I, uh, need to pee.”
I hurried down the wide, curling staircase, repudiating the elevator in my current state. The rubber of my shoes squeaked ugly as I hurried past the ballrooms. From my visits with Reed I knew where there was a bathroom tucked away, for staff mostly, quiet and empty.
I closed myself inside, using a large metallic trashcan to block the door by pushing it in place. The limestone counters were dry and gleaming so I hitched myself up, slumping back against the mirrors. Finally, I could relax.
I thought my control had improved, that I was getting a handle on my ‘gift.’ But it only took one argument to prove otherwise. It didn’t seem fair that the woman who’d been feeling so hateful and raw kept it all together, expertly aiming her anger, while I built up a storm inside, having spasms like a lunatic. But that was the way of it. She knew why she was pissed, while for me those feelings had no foundation, no channel. So sometimes I struggled with the burden, even more so than the emotion’s originator.
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