That voice returns, reminding me that Jack Greene was definitely murdered. For a moment, I swear it’s a woman speaking but I hear a small child whispering, “Listen Mommy.” Shivers return in a rush when I think of my baby girl on the other side, wondering for the millionth time where she is.
And if she’s reaching out to me.
“Are you cold?” TB asks.
I shake my head and pull my sweater tighter. I move my attention to Clayton. “Focus,” the voice says again.
“No murder weapon,” I reiterate.
Clayton leans in closer. “But we did find his blood in Maribelle’s bathroom.”
The voices rise from the group of women, one among them rather upset, but in my little circle I swear I hear my heart beating.
“They had a huge fight the night he died,” Clayton continues. “Two people staying at the motel reported them yelling and Jack storming off toward the lake.”
I shake my head because I don’t want to believe it. I can’t imagine Maribelle, an out-of-the-broom-closet witch who’s supposed to believe in the sanctity of life, capable of murdering her husband. Not to mention that Jack keeps sending me back to her.
“She can’t be implicated.”
Clayton inhales and exhales. Loudly. Then, he straightens, looking like a Southern pine in the apex of summer and yes, I don’t care if that’s another simile!
“I don’t want to think she did it, but I can’t rule it out either. I’m telling you this because you seem to be friends with her now and I want you to be careful, regardless of whether you believe her or not. Just in case.”
“Are there other suspects?” TB asks.
Clayton shakes his head. “And you have to ask yourself, who would want to kill Jack Greene? Who had a motive? He kept to himself, never talked much to anyone. His parents were gone and he didn’t have a job. He might have been something to Maribelle but he was nothing to anyone else.”
“As far as you know.” I can’t help myself, I’ve seen too many English detective series. On TV, it’s almost always someone you don’t expect.
Clayton sends me a paternal smile. “Most of the time, it’s someone they know. Well.”
Several FBI agents emerge carrying bags and Clayton moves off to talk to them.
“It can’t be Maribelle, can it?” I ask TB. “Jack could have nicked himself shaving in her bathroom.”
But Jack keeps sending me back to her.
“Ask MB!”
Ask her if she killed him?
“She does have a temper,” TB mutters.
That last thought hangs in the air between us like a worm dangling on a fisherman’s line. Similes! Argh.
* * *
Once Clayton announces we are free to go, TB, Sebastian, and I gladly head to the Toyota. Maribelle waves us on, hangs back with the Foundation group still engaged in a heated discussion. No one speaks until we’re inside the houseboat and crash exhausted on the couch.
“Well, that was a weird day,” Sebastian says.
My heart sinks because for the first time since Katrina blew through my hometown I was hopeful my twin and I might reconnect and have a future together. The idea of Sebastian opening a restaurant here, plus my twins and a new life with TB had given me confidence in my future, even one with Dwayne lurking in the shadows.
Especially with Dwayne lurking out there. The more family and friends I have around me, the better, I reason. As much as I spin a good tale about being brave and not willing to stay cloistered in my houseboat for safety, deep down I’m pretty damn frightened. In fact, I’m ready to give up travel writing for a while, find some freelance work that allows me to stay home until the babies arrive. And maybe then some.
I mentally create a list: contact local newspapers and see if they need contract editors or writers, start scouring online journalism boards for freelance work that can be done remotely. Maybe create a website and do public relations for a new Emma’s Cove business.
I look at my twin, deep in thought. “I guess the crazy idea of turning that building into a restaurant is out of the question.”
To my surprise, Sebastian laughs. “No way. I love a crazy town and this one’s off the charts.”
TB and I look up in surprise, which makes Sebastian laugh again.
“Seriously, who wants to start a business in some boring place?”
Now, that I think about it, Sebastian said his passion lay in creating something magical for special people. If working at the most celebrated restaurant in New Orleans couldn’t satisfy him, then tiny Emma’s Cove might do the trick.
“Besides,” he continues, “these women could use something lovely in their lives. And tourists will bring in extra money.”
“You’ve been talking to Maribelle,” I say.
He blushes. My semi-famous chef of a twin blushes.
“I think it could work.” He grins like a schoolboy. “Maybe my carpenter brother-in-law could help with the renovation. And my journalist sister could do some public relations.”
“I’ve already got the website planned,” I say, returning the stupid smile.
“Happy to help.” TB extends a hand.
The men shake and I place my hand on top.
“It’s not a done deal,” Sebastian insists, our hands still entwined. “I have to work things out with Maribelle, release some money I have tied up.”
I think of the possibilities: motel occupancy will improve, residents will have a place to dine after hours since the diner closes after lunch, the town’s tax base will improve. Maybe Maribelle can finally have her tea shop. And if I’m right about the chemistry between Sebastian and Maribelle, their lives may be changed forever.
“We could build a park for the children where that brown patch is.”
I have no idea where that thought came from, but it slips from my lips without much thought.
“O-kay,” Sebastian says, looking at me funny.
I shrug. “Just a thought.”
“And maybe we can expand the library,” TB says.
“Yes!” I exclaim. “Give my husband a job.”
We’re still holding hands, but now we’re laughing, just like old times when we would hang together and watch Freaks and Geeks on TV after Lillye went to sleep. Hope renewed, life may turn normal after all.
Sebastian releases his hands and ours fall away. He turns his chin up toward the side of the house. “Speaking of….”
Maribelle’s at the door peeking in and I wave. I stand and open the door, moving back so she can enter and join in the fun, but she hangs back.
“Sebastian’s making dinner,” I encourage her.
“Can we talk first?”
She crawfishes toward the boat railing, allowing me space to emerge outside. I give the boys a look and follow her on to the deck, closing the door behind me.
“I think I know why my husband and Caroline want me to talk to you.”
That warm fuzzy feeling I was bathing in only minutes before quickly drains away. “Why?”
She leans on the deck’s railing, the one I’ve been meaning to repaint on a warmer winter’s day.
“I think they want me to instruct you in the ways of the Craft.”
The frissons run from my toes to the tip of my head, what people in Cajun Country call the shivers or a weird sensation. I would say I’m surprised at the idea but the truth is, it came to me as well. Can’t explain it, wasn’t like a message from the heavens or anything, just a feeling that resonated deep in my soul.
Which means it’s divinely sent, right? And I should jump at the chance. It could be God speaking, for all I know.
And yet….
I can’t shake that happy feeling from moments before. I won’t let it go. It’s been three years since Katrina and I need something normal and wonderful in my life.
“Not a good idea?” Maribelle asks, examining my countenance.
I let out a huge sigh. “Actually, it is. But to tell you the truth, Maribelle, I’m thinking of g
iving up mediumship and all that woo-woo for a while.”
This is not what she’s expecting. I hadn’t noticed it when she arrived, but I now get the feeling Maribelle was itching for the friendship along with her instruction, to have someone to talk woo-woo to.
“Can I ask why?”
I place a hand on my belly. “I need to think of these guys, to keep them safe. And if I’m not transitioning ghosts, I won’t have to worry about Dwayne.”
Not to mention I won’t worry if you killed your husband or not, because I’d rather not know.
“But what I can teach you, it will keep you safe.”
“Maybe.” I’m not convinced.
Her eyes narrow when she smiles. “That’s fear talking. And that’s exactly what I can offer. How to build your confidence, find your feminine power.”
I think about how Dwayne nearly killed me, how he deceived us all while following me on the train, living among us. How could my feminine power save me from such a force? And how did Maribelle’s feminine power save her from the FBI naming her the number one suspect in her husband’s death and Dr. Touché stripping her of her license?
“I need to back away from this for a while,” I tell her. “I need to let this go for now.”
A silence falls between us and I hear frogs below our deck announcing more rain, their calls rhythmic, then out of sync, then together again. Finally, Maribelle lovingly touches my arm.
“He’s out there, Vi. The dreams won’t go away just because you want them to.”
“How did you know about my…?”
“Fear is a monster, like a bulldozer rolling over everything in its path. You have to learn ways to combat it.”
I think back on my reaction traveling back from Wisconsin, when the angel in uniform saved me from disintegrating on the terminal carpet. If you’d have asked me how I would have reacted to seeing Dwayne again, I never would have said peeing on myself and crying in the middle of the Atlanta airport. And now I have two lives to protect. Do I turn my back on the three souls closest to home?
“You need to learn how to work with the gifts you have,” Maribelle says softly. “Maybe that’s why Jack and Caroline sent you to me.”
She’s right about me facing my fears, know it deep into my soul. I close my eyes because that fleeting feeling of turning away from my gifts had felt so freeing, so peaceful.
On the other hand, maybe Maribelle can help me contact my precious angel. The thought takes hold of my heart and grips it like a fist. Yes, maybe the universe is finally allowing me contact with Lillye.
“Fine,” I mutter, then open the door where the warmth of our wood stove and two male smiles greet us. I let Maribelle go in first, then turn to follow. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement in the woods.
It’s Gorton.
Chapter 10
“Two macchiatos, a latte and a regular coffee with extra sugar,” announces Brett Abernackie, handing out cups of Lightning Bug Latte’s best. The high school intern turns to me with a scowl, placing the cup on my desk and backing away. “And one decaf.”
I rise from the copy desk of the Lightning Bug Chronicle to remind him of my girth, a middle growing enormous and rock hard solid. I pat the bowling ball that’s now my constant companion, hoping little feet start kicking so I resemble a victim from the Alien movies. Brett’s heading into his senior year at Thomas Jefferson High School and an only child so my pregnancy freaks him out. He thinks I don’t notice him walking aisles away to avoid passing me in the hall or that he’s popped his head inside the lunchroom, caught me inside and done an immediate about-face. It might be because he touched my belly once and I let out a yelp, or that I swallowed a whole jar of olives, juice and all, gulping it down like a dog; I have weird cravings.
But today, the joke’s on me. The belly kids refuse to move and I shudder recalling those horror films, ones Sebastian thought would be funny to show me now that I’m well into my third trimester. I’ve had nightmares ever since.
Not to mention the other dreams.
I push that thought aside, thanking Brett for the coffee to his retreating back and inviting him to my gender reveal that includes vivid copies of my ultrasounds. Carol Winn to my right starts laughing.
“I fear for the time he gets a girlfriend and she mentions tampons for the first time,” Carol says.
“In all fairness,” I reply. “I am the size of a small RV.”
I’ve missed the newsroom, a sacred space considering the U.S. Constitution, but full of dark souls making fun of just about everything. It’s how we cope after witnessing dead bodies, environmental disasters, and kids storming schools with guns. Even the food editor, usually so prim in her bright yellow suits, has her moments. Yesterday, we heard the long stream of expletives before we smelled the smoke emerging from the practice kitchen.
These people are my clan, my tribe, wordsmiths who know a little about a lot of things, and use sarcasm and humor as a shield. I once had a friend comment that my colleagues were badly dressed, uncouth frustrated novelists with weird senses of humor. Looking around the Chronicle newsroom, and excluding the food editor who’s always well dressed, I see her point. Considering I’m clothed in what resembles a potato sack — maternity pants from the Target sales bin and a stretchable top I nabbed at Goodwill — my friend’s probably right.
I’m grounded from travel writing because my blood pressure continues to hover threateningly above normal. The part-time, copy editing gig’s enough to pay bills and allow me time to do travel puff pieces on the side, the kind I can develop through phone calls, keeping my hand in the game. But, I miss the road. And because TB’s so freaked out about my health, he’s anxious about me driving to someplace close like Gatlinburg or Atlanta for a weekend. I managed to convince him I’d be safe accompanying Maribelle to Chattanooga to purchase supplies for her herb shop and we leave this afternoon as soon as I finish my shift laying out the weekend features section.
“Page eight out the door,” I tell Carol, sending the final page to the press.
As if Maribelle reads my mind, wherever she is, my phone lights up. “I have to go,” I add, grabbing my purse.
“Have fun,” Carol says without looking up. “And I love that new shirt.”
Like I said, my tribe.
Suddenly, the pop culture editor prairie dogs above the cubicles, his eyes enlarged and his mouth hanging open.
“On my God, Michael Jackson’s dead.”
The newsroom turns into a mosh pit, news reporters asking questions and Carol scouring the Internet while Brett appears about to cry, and even though I long to know the details, I escape the chaos and head out; Maribelle’s waiting for me downstairs. I waddle to her car and climb in, hear Billy Jean on the radio.
“Michael Jackson died.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“Weird.”
“Weird how?”
She shrugs and turns off the radio. “Who knows?”
That’s Maribelle in a nutshell. For the past few months Maribelle has been teaching me lessons in the Craft and I, in turn, have been peering into her psyche, trying to establish how this plant witch operates. Whereas my brother seems to be making strides delving into her tough exterior, I’m still chipping away, like a child with a plastic knife trying to make a dent in a brick wall.
“You sleeping okay?”
And that’s another thing, how does she know about the dreams? I’ve never told her about Dwayne’s nighttime invasions. Clayton insisted the horrid man left the area months ago and the dreams have lessened since the winter, but last night’s was a doozy.
“What’s the lesson for today?” I ask instead.
“Have you noticed anything different about Emma’s Cove?”
“That’s our lesson?”
Maribelle pauses checking both lanes and pulls out of the parking lot. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m being paranoid.”
I want to laugh because that’s the town’s MO for sure. Naturally, I can’t
blame them for being cautious considering what the women have been through, but most still don’t talk to me, still angry over what happened at the Foundation house. Emma’s Cove residents warmed up to Sebastian and TB as the temperatures rose in the spring, but their unfriendly behavior has returned of late.
“What I want to know is when does the interrogation stop? TB and I have lived here for months now and they still treat us as if we carry the plague. And Sebastian? He’s renovating two derelict buildings and is about to open a restaurant that will bring money into the town, not to mention that you’ll finally have your herb shop.”
I’d say it took some convincing for Sebastian to remain in Emma’s Cove — I spent a good week working on him while he argued against me, mostly to convince himself since the town’s population hovers around fifty-six. But one night with Maribelle and he was sold. The two have been inseparable ever since, constantly working on opening “The Hearth,” Sebastian’s new restaurant in Maribelle’s building with that ancient brick fireplace as its centerpiece. The objective, according to my brother, is for his restaurant to deliver signature dishes that change daily depending on local produce and fish from the lake, all served at candlelit tables.
“It’ll be like the old days, like in the beginning of Emma’s Cove when people would travel by horse or stage and arrive tired and hungry,” Sebastian told me. “The Hearth will be a place to find solace near a wood fire, enjoy a great meal with fresh ingredients.”
Sebastian made friends with Mountains Spirits located near Lightning Bug and will carry its alcoholic products, along with fine wines from the Georgia mountains. Another friend from Alabama who’s big on getting back to the basics in food production agreed to take over the mill, will be producing fresh-ground grits and corn meal. Sally will use the grits in the diner, Sebastian will serve both in the restaurant, and Maribelle will sell bags of the stuff in her tea shop next door, in addition to the tea collections she’s amassing.
“Maribelle’s Herbs” is on schedule to open the same time as Sebastian’s restaurant with her apartment moved to the upstairs’ space, although I’ve heard the two of them secretly discussing moving in together above the restaurant and turning the herb shop apartment into a home for TB, me and the kids. Sebastian and Maribelle are worried about our children’s safety growing up on a houseboat but TB and I have that under control. We love our new home and have no desire to move anywhere.
Give Up the Ghost Page 14