Foretold (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 2)

by Laura Spinella

  “Uh, computer’s fine.” This time Aubrey tugged on his pants pocket. “No. Wait. I want to pick them.”

  “Whatever, man.” The clerk raised his arms in stick-up fashion. “It ain’t no Powerball win, but I guess two million is a decent jackpot.” He turned back to his stool.

  Levi withdrew the notepaper from his pocket, and moments later they placed their bet. The clerk continued with an unsure glance and completed the transaction. “You bust in here five minutes before the drawing to play one set of numbers? Lame.” He shook his head, laughing.

  “It was just a whim,” Levi offered.

  “Welp, might as well hang around. They’ll pop the winning number up on that screen in about two minutes.” He turned the volume up on a television that hung from a crowded piece of wall and sat again.

  Aubrey and Levi staked out a rack of the day’s remaining Hostess products. The thought of food made her stomach roil, and she said to Levi, “I don’t see how this is going to get us any closer to Pete—whether we win or lose.”

  “Maybe there’s more to it. If we win . . . I don’t know. Maybe it leads us—”

  “Zeke.”

  “Zeke?”

  “Not necessarily Zeke, but something he told me about Jude Serino. Actually, it’s something he confessed.”

  “What was that, and when did you talk to him?”

  “In the backyard, earlier tonight. He came outside after . . .” Aubrey pressed her fingertips to her forehead, trying to steady a swirl of thoughts. “Levi, you were right. At least in part, about Zeke and my father’s ghost gifts. Apparently, he’s been stealing from the box for years. According to Zeke, Jude’s been blackmailing him into providing him with winning predictions. A while back, he told Jude about me, my gift. He also confessed to how he’d been coming up with all the winning predictions. The whole conversation was kind of stilted . . . weird,” she said, given an hour to process it. “At first, the way Zeke told the story, it was like a confession. Then it became a warning.”

  “What sort of warning?”

  “Jude Serino believed I could predict wins like this.” She poked at the lottery ticket Levi held. “Zeke said when he couldn’t come up with any more wins, Jude threatened me. And . . . well, right before you shouted out the back door, telling me Pete had called . . . I think . . .”

  “You think what?”

  “I think Zeke was going to confess to killing Jude.”

  Levi clutched Aubrey’s arm and guided her farther from the clerk, who continued to glance toward their whispery but animated conversation. “When did this happen? When did you see Zeke? I swear, if he had anything to do with Pete’s disappearance—”

  “Numbers are up.” The clerk pointed at the screen. “Did your big hunch pay off? Store that sells the winning ticket gets about twenty grand.” He held up the magazine, the cover showing off a sporty silver car. “Be a fat down payment on this baby.”

  Aubrey grabbed Levi’s hand, and they pinned themselves to the counter’s edge. He held out the ticket so all three could see the numbers. Expectation dribbled into a gush of disappointment. The clerk spoke first. “Damn. Not a single number. That sucks. Thought for sure you guys had somethin’ goin’ on, the way you charged in here.” He laughed. “Next time, invest more than a buck. You might end up with something besides a loser lottery ticket.”

  Racked with frustration, Levi and Aubrey dragged themselves outside Idlewild’s convenience store. Levi leaned against the car and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I totally do not get it. I couldn’t really fathom a lottery-ticket connection to finding Pete, but I thought a winning ticket might be a clue. Your father’s ghost gifts were all winning tickets except for this one.” He ripped his arms through the cool night air and tore the ticket in half. “Why not this one?”

  The lights to the convenience store shut off, and the clerk exited, locking the door. Getting into his car, a beat-up economy model, he looked in Levi and Aubrey’s direction. “Man, don’t sweat it. They’ll play another set of numbers tomorrow. There’s always hope.”

  Levi never looked up. Aubrey watched as the clerk’s car sped off. She followed it through a light mist and the dark parking lot, all the way to the sidewalk. “What are you doing?” Levi called after her. Diagonally across the street was the glow of replica gas lampposts, aged elms dotting the perimeter of a stately Victorian. A man stood on the porch, sweeping.

  “Oh my God, Levi. The lottery ticket got us to here. But I think there,” she said, pointing toward the house. “Hennessy’s Funeral Home. That’s where we’re supposed to go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  They stepped off the curb, and Levi’s hand locked around Aubrey’s. Only together did she feel the tremor in hers stop. “Wait on the sidewalk,” Levi said. “For a lot of reasons, I understand you not wanting to go in there.”

  “I don’t think it’s a choice.” Aubrey held tighter to his hand, picking up her pace and her courage.

  An older man wearing a dark suit made for an odd sight, the late hour and curious task of sweeping, though he was well lit by porch lights. Spying Levi and Aubrey, he stopped. “You folks lost?”

  “Uh, no. Not exactly.” Levi glanced around the wide porch. It lacked a rocker or potted plant, maybe any significant signs of life. “Could I ask, was there a viewing tonight?”

  “Here? Not the kind anyone comes to. More of a humanitarian gesture. Either way, viewing would have been over hours ago. But maybe you’re looking for O’Casey’s Funeral Home.”

  “O’Casey?” Levi said.

  “Yeah. They’re on the other side of town. Held a big wake tonight. Evelyn Craig. Woman had a ton of family, dedicated her life to Surrey philanthropy.” He pointed to the library, which sat diagonally across the street. “Left most of her money to causes, places like the library. She was a good soul, larger-than-life personality—relative of Colin O’Casey, which is why they got the call. Maybe you knew Evelyn?”

  “Did we, Aubrey? Know Evelyn?”

  “Uh, no. I don’t think so.” Their curious standoff continued; Aubrey jerked her gaze around the mist-filled setting.

  “I had to hang around tonight. Like I said, my place was host to an empty viewing—loneliest kind.” He arched his shoulders, broom in hand. “Had some cleanup I’d been putting off, and now seemed like a good time. People come outside, smoke . . . toss cigarette butts, gum wrappers.”

  “Right,” Levi said. “And just to be clear, the other viewing . . .”

  Levi’s words faded as a dominant female voice filtered into Aubrey’s head. “You’re in the right place, honey. Go in . . .” Aubrey glanced around—no visible specter was evident. “Tell Jimmy I’m grateful for the kind words and understanding.” Confident laughter, the kind she associated with Charley, filled the air. “But a body can only be in so many places . . . well, until now, anyway.” Then it was gone.

  Conversation continued between Levi and Jim Hennessy; Aubrey interrupted. “Mr. Hennessy, you indicated a viewing here tonight. Is that right?”

  He thumbed over his shoulder. “Yeah. John Doe. Medical examiner released him two days ago. Police gathered everything they needed from the body. In cases like this, the commonwealth mandates funeral homes rotate services.” He squinted toward the inky sky. “Bet it’s been fifteen, maybe twenty years since I handled one. Sad. Wakes like this don’t draw a crowd. Sometimes if it’s a child. But that’s an even rarer circumstance.”

  “And is it?” Levi’s voice pinched.

  “Tonight’s viewing?” Mr. Hennessy said. Aubrey knew Levi was holding his breath as tightly as she held hers. “Gosh, no. Some fellow they found up in Maine a while back.”

  “In Maine?” Levi said.

  “Yeah. Guess the Feds were handling it. Never identified him. Poor guy ended up at the ME office in Boston; I ended up with the body. We’ll bury him tomorrow, Surrey’s common area at Our Lady of the Redeemer.” He made one short stroke with his broom and stopped. “Why do you ask?�
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  Aubrey’s reply came in a question. “I know it’s late, Mr. Hennessy, past hours, but would you mind if I visited with, um . . . him?” She pointed toward the Victorian’s ornate carved door, heavy brass knocker. “Someone probably should.”

  “Don’t see why not. Seems like the Christian thing to do.” He motioned toward the door with the broom handle.

  Levi tugged Aubrey’s arm, guiding her just out of earshot from the proprietor. “What are you doing?”

  “Let’s just say the recently deceased Mrs. Craig is still full of goodwill. She suggested I go in. Maybe this is how we prove the body found in Maine belongs to Jude Serino. It seems logical enough—for me.”

  “And that puts us closer to finding Pete how?”

  She opened her mouth, which dead-ended into an O of vagueness. “Do you have a better idea?” She tried to move toward the entrance, but Levi had her firmly by the arm.

  “Think before you go in there, Aubrey. What if the message you’re about to receive is that Zeke is responsible for Jude’s death?”

  Aubrey ran her fingers through her crow-colored hair and focused on the steady sweep of Mr. Hennessy’s broom. Then she looked at Levi. “If that’s what this is all about . . . then Zeke Dublin will turn out to be somebody I never knew at all.” She moved forward, and Levi was right by her side. She stopped at the door. “Levi, I know you don’t like the situation. Believe me, neither do I. But can you give me a little room, maybe a head start?” She saw the objection in his face. “Distracting energy will only make this more difficult.”

  “So you want to go in alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not sure about anything—except that our son is missing, and my father may have handed us a clue he jotted down years ago. My gut says to go in there alone.”

  From his section of porch, the undertaker interrupted. “There’s a waiting room outside the viewing room. You just head through there if you’re going in. I’d like to get home before sunup.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hennessy.” Levi turned back to Aubrey, whispering in a nonnegotiable tone, “I’m agreeable to the waiting room. Take it or leave it.”

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  In the foyer, the beauty of the old Victorian stayed true to character, with Oriental rugs over dark hardwoods and a regal carved staircase. The lights were dim and the air filled with the innocuous scent of no-one-really-lives-here. Aubrey was wholly preoccupied with Pete, creating an instant guard against the dead. She sensed hundreds of specters hitting a wall of emotion. Motherly instinct wouldn’t allow them to pass. She was quick to calm Levi. “About that onslaught of unknown apparitions, I’ll be fine.”

  He offered an unsure glance.

  “I’ll explain later. Let’s just do this.”

  To the left was the sitting room. A stiff-looking period reproduction sofa and several chairs cluttered the space, multiple boxes of tissues, and a podium that, she supposed, usually held a guest book.

  Levi took in the same inventory. “Not my taste, but it wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for—”

  “Its everyday use.”

  “Something like that.”

  Dividing the room was a sturdy set of double doors. She puffed her cheeks and blew out a breath. “I’ll, um, be . . .” She pointed.

  “And I’ll be right here.”

  She moved toward the doors.

  “Aubrey, wait.” He didn’t say anything, though Levi pulled her into the kind of hold that spoke volumes. “We’re going to get through this. No matter what happens in there, I still believe Pete is okay.”

  “I’m hanging on to that, Levi. I’m hanging on to it.” She dug her fingers into his sports jacket and squeezed her eyes shut. Like the frame of a film, another image of her father eclipsed every thought. But this wasn’t a vision; it was a memory. They were in the house in Greece—Aubrey and her father. For such a tall man, Peter Ellis was awkwardly seated, knees tucked tight at a childsize table. Aubrey, maybe four or five, sat across from him. She was smiling, chattering like a monkey. The table was filled with scraps of paper and paste, children’s scissors, crayons. It was a ritual, something father and daughter did together. But this time, the letter box was also there. Then the image was gone. She pushed back from Levi. “That was incredibly weird . . . and telling.”

  “What?”

  “A totally random memory of my father and me, sitting at a little red table. His letter box was there too. I recall him sitting with me. But I don’t remember the letter box ever being present.” She shook her head, the imagery so detached from the moment. “I haven’t thought of it in years. He’d do that, sit and draw with me sometimes.” She shrugged. “I’m sure it explains how a few of his ghost gifts ended up written in crayon, on construction paper.”

  Levi knotted his brow. “Or maybe . . .”

  “What?”

  He only smiled at her. “You know, we’ve got enough to wade through this second. Let’s circle back to that.”

  Aubrey glanced toward the viewing room. “I agree. Outside distractions won’t help right now. Between Pete and what’s on the other side of that door . . .” She held on to Levi’s hand until only their fingertips touched. She glanced back. “Levi, don’t, um . . . don’t hesitate if . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.” Tentatively, he let go, Aubrey taking one backward glance at Levi’s serious expression and his tall frame edging toward the floral-patterned sofa.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  If the light was dim in the common room, shadowy described the viewing room. A few wall sconces glowed on a low setting while two candelabra held wax candles. Their flames flickered on either side of a simple wooden casket, which was closed. She recalled Levi’s grisly description of the remains. She’d seen the photos. Clearly, closed was the only choice. For a moment, Aubrey felt like her gift was more of a parlor trick as she simply waited—a sound or smell, the less-likely vision. She glanced down at her clothing—a black skirt and silvery cotton shirt, not a strong fashion statement for ghost hunting. But given the circumstances, it didn’t seem like wardrobe should play a part in this encounter. Aubrey touched her fingertip to her lips, searching for the sense that was second to smell—taste. But the taste of what, assuming Jude Serino was taking up space in the casket? She wriggled her nose, imagining the bitter hint of an Arturo Fuente cigar. Nothing like that came.

  Yet she felt certain there should be a validating sign. This was not the newly dead—not like Evelyn Craig, who in spite of her recent transfer had managed a verbal prodding. No, this person had passed some time ago. And who knew for how long the body had resided in its swampy resting place? After more moments of nothing, Aubrey’s senses eased, and she sat in the end chair, first row. She saw no point in cozying up to the casket. Zeke’s story wound through her head—his confession about wanting Jude dead. The telling statement sent a shiver up her back, and Aubrey ran her hand over her pockmarked forearm. She looked at her watch. Her son was missing, and this was beginning to feel like a wild-goose chase. It could be that desperation had led to misinterpretation. Maybe a physical direction wasn’t the sign her father meant to deliver.

  She sat a little longer. Then Aubrey decided it was enough. No spirit she wished to connect with was present; no odors or tastes invaded. Before leaving, she dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. In a grand moment of nothingness, Levi’s earthbound fact-finding skills dominated. She sighed. “Okay. I’m running from the obvious.” She glanced at the casket. “What am I waiting for? Jude Serino to show up and confirm that Zeke shot him with a gun he admitted to owning?”

  No. It was time for Zeke to man up, fill blanks, and answer hard questions. Aubrey scrolled to the bottom of her contacts, connecting with Zeke’s number. It rang; he didn’t answer. Texts. Come to think of it, since calling from California, Zeke had communicated via text message. But before typing a new one, Aubrey scrolled through old messages—the ones starting
with Zeke’s Boston arrival.

  I’m here. Meet me in the morning, Prudential Tower. Waterfall wall.

  His next text, later that day, after the explosion: Searched through the crowds for hours. Couldn’t find you anywhere.

  Exhausted by her own harrowing ordeal, Aubrey had texted back: Looked for you too. It was chaos. Finally took the train home. Can we catch up this week? If you’re in town, maybe Euro on Thursday, say ten? Cute Surrey hub.

  Another text had followed. If you want to see me, I’ll be there. Euro.

  Aubrey straightened her posture and scrunched her brow as she scrolled past her calls. Unanswered calls. The few times she’d dialed Zeke’s number, his voice mail had answered. Replies came by text message. She looked around the maudlin space. Her heart began to flutter as an evocative scent seeped into the room. It was like a rolling mist, carrying a trail of carnival smells—summer air and straw, popcorn and sticky-sweet funnel cake. The crank of carnival music filled Aubrey’s head, and so did yesteryear.

  With her phone in hand, she stood, taking deliberate steps toward the coffin. She glanced to her left, and the candle blew out. The mawkish shroud of death lifted, and a sense of familiarity resonated. It no longer felt like she was in a funeral home. In fact, if Aubrey closed her eyes, she’d swear she was standing on firm carnival grounds.

  The vivid impressions nearly caused a panic, but Aubrey was nothing if not practiced at remaining centered. She looked at her phone again and, with trembling fingers, tapped her messages. But she wasn’t looking for the ones from Zeke. She reread the text message from Eli Serino—poignant, accessible, perhaps a modern form of communication from the dead. Hell, if they can write on a mirror . . . On that thought, Aubrey looked, again, at the casket. “Oh my God!”

  Her sight lines filled with a simple wooden coffin, and flashes of recent memories exploded in her head. Short, fearful breaths shuddered in and out as Zeke’s visits mentally rewound. Euro, where he’d never touched the coffee. A place where they sat alone in the dark curve of a secluded booth. The swing on her front porch, a day when Aubrey had felt so utterly alone and lost—her once lover, her oldest friend arriving on cue. Just Aubrey, alone with Zeke.