Echo Moon (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 3)

by Laura Spinella

  Pete scanned the pieces of Ellis family history with a sober stare.

  “Listen to me when I tell you it won’t stop, Pete. The dead haven’t anything better to do. They’ll only come at you harder. You can’t run forever. All I’m suggesting is—”

  “I get it.” He backed up several steps. “I hear you. And if it weren’t for a sweet assignment that includes a hot springs sauna waiting for me at the end of this Reykjavík trip, I might consider it. As it is, my immediate calendar is full.” He dropped the papers he held onto the bed. “Sorry, Mom. Even an ethereal shove from Esme isn’t enough. It won’t make me chase that ghost.”

  This was where her ability to grasp Pete’s point of view dead-ended, and she could only speculate. If you believed you’d killed the love of your life, would you want to face that ghost?

  Yet Pete’s gaze stayed with the clues and keepsakes on the bed, and he offered dryly, “I can’t poke a stick into that cage. I’m not that brave.”

  “No. Of course not.” Aubrey looked toward the window that overlooked the nature preserve. “Not when it’s so much handier to keep running into war zones. That’s a great cover, Pete. Sorry if I don’t see the everyday dangers you face as a fair trade.”

  “Okay, we’re not having this discussion again.”

  Sometimes he sounded so much like Levi, Aubrey could only narrow her eyes at the most rigid aspects of her husband reproduced in another human being.

  “It’s a moot point for a thousand reasons. No matter how you’re interpreting this . . . stuff—” Pete’s phone rang and he looked at it. “It’s Flagler. I have to take this.” He answered. “Hang on a sec, Austin.” Pete hit “Silent” on his phone. “My future had been foretold, okay? It’s set for Iceland, not Long Island. It’s my choice.” He clicked back to the call.

  Aubrey turned away, stumped by the dangerous, endless path her son continued to cycle through. Hearing Pete’s tone, she listened harder.

  “A what? A volcano?” He glanced at Aubrey. “You’re not serious.”

  Motherly instinct leaped, but Aubrey bit her tongue—almost literally. He was a grown man, even if his life involved many unknowns. Instead, she merely continued to eavesdrop.

  “They anticipate a closed airport for how long? All right. But what about that piece we were considering in the Congo? There’s always action . . . yeah. Leslie Winger, she’s a great photographer and a good writer. I can see how you wouldn’t want two correspondents in such a hazardous region. Why don’t we look into . . .” Pete continued to listen to his PressCorp editor, who doled out assignments. “Say that again.” He nodded deeply. “One Direction.” He paused, his jaw slacking. “No . . . yeah. I’ve heard of them. It’s more about what I do, Austin. Or more to the point, what I don’t do.”

  Aubrey could hear Austin Flagler’s wooing tone offering information that was clearly irritating her son.

  “Right. I’m sure a surprise reunion album debuting in Times Square will rock the world. At the very least cause serious gridlock.” He held the phone at arm’s length, hissing at his mother. “Do you believe this?” Pete rolled his eyes and pressed the phone back to his ear. “You’re serious? That’s what you want me to cover?” The aggravated look on Pete’s face deepened. “Did I do something to piss you off?” He laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. “Yep. I’m sure plenty of photogs from the pool would be rabid for the chance. It’s just not my kind of assignment, and . . .” An audible rebuttal cut him off. “Yeah. I’ll think about it. But if you don’t hear from me, feel free to scalp my press pass.” He ended the call, tossed his phone onto the bed, and thrust his hands to his waist. “You heard.”

  “Kind of hard not to. Why did Flagler want you?”

  “He thought someone unfazed by fame would do a better job of capturing the human side of the event. Plus, I’m already here. Stateside.”

  “Seems reasonable.”

  “Are you kidding? I covered Middle East conflict, radical Islam, oppressed nations, and erratic dictators. The occasional natural disaster. I don’t photograph boy bands.”

  “Oh my. Someone inherited his father’s unyielding attit . . . ethic.”

  “Is there something wrong with choosing serious work over frivolous assignments?”

  “Or maybe it’s about a lull in your life compared to the distraction and adrenaline you count on in a war zone.”

  “That’s your interpretation.”

  “I’m entitled to my opinion.” Then Aubrey backed down. “So. You’re not flying into a volcano?” Pete moved his head tersely. “Do you mind if I consider that good news?”

  “Reykjanes erupted last night. According to Flagler, it continues to blow. That will produce some great images, but the smoke and ash have halted Icelandic flights. Otherwise, the greater universe is a little sedate at the moment.”

  “If you ask me and the universe, Pete, there’s one more prod. Obviously, you have no intention of taking the boy band assignment.” She picked up the paper from the attorney. “But I’m also guessing that hanging around this house for any length of time is not on your greatest desires short list.”

  “No offense.” He attempted to flex his bandaged hand. “I tend to fare better in actual war zones.”

  “Then either way, your schedule is oddly free, making you all but homeless and available to check out a property on the east end of Long Island. If nothing else, it would help me out.” In what she might describe as incensed silence, Pete gathered his courage. She was also sure this mind-set was far different from the one that allowed her son to descend on war-torn regions. Interesting, Aubrey thought: at the heart of bravery was the thing that scared a person most.

  Pete’s breath shuddered, his bandaged hand scraping across his forehead. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll go to Long Island. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  Aubrey shrugged, but she also clasped her left forearm with her right hand, feeling the deep divots—bite marks left by an enraged specter. Evil’s calling card. Instant buyer’s remorse took hold. She almost said, “Stop . . . wait. Let’s rethink this.” He’d resisted for so long, and Pete’s sudden agreement caught her off guard.

  “Pete.” She looked at her son—an adult who’d navigated danger that most people observed from the safety of the nightly news. No. If he was going to have a life in the present that didn’t include war zones, maybe doing this would unearth a path. “Just be careful,” she said. “Be very careful.”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  In the middle of the Long Island Sound, pearly haze gave way to glistening seas. For now, it was clear sailing. Pete and Grace had started out that morning after he spent the night on the Hathaways’ living room sofa. Once Grace accepted his apology and agreed to the trip, she’d said, “It’s late. You’re exhausted. You’ll sleep better here than . . .”

  “In the same house as my mother?”

  Grace hadn’t replied, but Pete came back from brushing his teeth to find the sofa made up like a bed in a four-star hotel.

  The two sat on the ferry’s upper deck, where the open sea breeze tangled Grace’s hair. “Sun is bright.” She captured and recaptured locks that were generally never out of place, tucking them behind her ears. “I’d forgotten how windy the ferry is.”

  “We can go inside,” Pete said. She shook her head, saying it was fine. “Grace, if I didn’t say thanks for . . .”

  “You did. When I agreed to come along. Then on the drive down 95. Again, when you bought me a drink and yourself a second.”

  “And I’d forgotten they had bars on the ferries. Just the same . . .”

  “Pete, listen. I’m not reading into your invitation to tag along. If nothing else, I came for Aubrey’s sake.” Grace crossed her legs, swinging one in an agitated thrust.

  At times, Pete had trouble reading people, their emotions tripping him up. But he didn’t think he’d said or done anything to irritate Grace. Not today, anyway. In fact, it was the Grace-ism he’d reli
ed on most—her ability not to be put off by his occasional obtuse nature.

  “If you want the truth”—she shimmied ice around a plastic cup—“your invitation was perfect timing. My mother and I had a good tiff yesterday.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Seems she wasn’t thrilled about informing eighty-nine friends and relatives that they could cancel their plans for the second weekend in September.” Grace concentrated on the circling gulls who’d hitched a ride.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize . . .”

  “The wedding had been so close?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Grace downed more of her drink. “Personally, I thought the phone calls were less humiliating than her daughter being literally left at the altar. As it is, I still haven’t canceled the honeymoon.” She smirked at him. “Italy, curiously enough.”

  And now Pete guessed they were recalling the same shower scene. He puffed his cheeks and blew out neutral advice. “Did you buy the trip insurance? Or maybe you could go with a friend . . . a girlfriend?” The second he clarified, Pete knew it was a mistake.

  “Seriously. No worries. I didn’t pencil you in.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I was trying to offer realistic advice, be a good listener.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re only listening by default. If your mother hadn’t texted . . . well, it’s not like you planned on calling while you were in town.” He didn’t reply; she prodded. “Well? Am I right?”

  And this was also Grace—a crapshoot as to which response was the right one. Pete chose silence. She sipped her drink, and the two sat that way for a time.

  “Think what you want,” he finally said, “but I am sorry about your engagement. I’m also offering. Do you want to talk about what happened with Andy?” He was grateful to recall her ex-fiancé’s name. “Your life?”

  She turned her head sharply. “No. Not really.”

  Crapshoot.

  Grace finished her drink and crunched down so hard on an ice cube, Pete felt sorry for it. “Unless,” she said, “you have a solid opinion on the bottom-line offer I should accept for a never-worn Vera Wang trunk show original, pearl bodice, Italian tulle fit-and-flare wedding gown.” She glanced at her phone, which had been gripped in her other hand since they’d boarded. “A woman from Haverhill messaged. She offered me $100 for the damn thing.”

  Pete trod carefully with additional guidance. “Well, what did you pay for it?”

  “Five grand.”

  “Do you want me to get you another drink?”

  An hour later they were on the outskirts of East Marion. Before leaving Surrey, Pete had taken the Wikipedia tour. His mother’s map wasn’t enough. He needed to know what they were driving into. East Marion’s history was as old as the island’s, though towns to the west and Orient, where the ferry was located, appeared to have higher real estate appeal. He supposed the sale of his great-grandmother’s house was an indication that the area had caught up with the times.

  The immediate scenery remained understated—no fancy shops or restaurants within miles. His phone’s GPS guided him, Grace, and his mother’s Audi Q5 down roads that turned rural. With each passing mile, the pattern—newer million-dollar properties next door to old farmhouses and 1960s ranches—also faded. When the GPS instructed him to “Turn left onto Rabbit Lane,” Pete glanced at Grace. “Rabbit Lane . . . rabbit hole . . .”

  “Stop,” Grace said. “Back up.”

  He hit the brakes. “What?”

  She twisted in her seat. “There’s a mailbox.” Pete threw the car into reverse and backed up about a hundred feet. Tangled in briars was a rusted, fallen mailbox. Even less noticeable were the remnants of a dirt driveway.

  Pete snatched the attorney letter from the visor. “One eighty-three.” He squinted at a gapped one and three, still visible on the mailbox. He smiled at Grace. “We’re home, dear.” Pete turned down the driveway, the luxury vehicle absorbing bumps and deep divots.

  Before Pete and Grace left Surrey, Aubrey had contacted the New Mexico attorney. Supposedly, that lawyer had arranged for her New York counterpart, who represented the buyers, to meet them there. The SUV rolled to a halt, and Pete gave closer inspection to a dark brown, cedar-sided structure. Ivy trailed over it, foundation to rooftop, and Pete thought maybe the vine was the only thing holding the house together. “How much did my mother say the house went for at auction?”

  “Close to $400,000.”

  “For that?” He pointed. “Is there buried treasure under it? I can’t even imagine the land being worth . . .” He didn’t finish the thought as another vehicle pulled up, a swirl of dust encircling them.

  Car doors opened and closed, and a middle-aged man, dressed in a suit, hurriedly met Pete halfway. He extended a hand. Pete shook it, and the man identified himself as the real estate advocate, emphasizing “on the New York end.” “I believe you’ve been in touch with your New Mexico counsel.”

  “Well, my mother’s lawyer person. I don’t know that you’d call her ‘counsel.’ She was really my great-grandmother’s estate attorney, and—”

  “Gotcha. I know how these things go. The sudden boon of an unknown inheritance. And Long Island real estate being what it is, I appreciate your mother’s interest. Savvy.” He spoke as quickly as he walked, fishing a key from his pocket. “Let me state up front, my clients thought this was a done deal at auction. They won’t be bullied.” Pete furrowed his brow at the man’s twenty-first-century demeanor, so at odds with the skeleton key in his hand.

  “Hey, listen. My mother—”

  Grace lightly slapped Pete’s arm. “I believe, for the most part, Miss Ellis—Pete’s mom—is more interested in the contents of the house than the house itself.”

  “Amicable. That’s where they all start.” He jiggled the key into a rusted hole.

  The lock didn’t turn easily, and Pete muttered, “Maybe if you huff and you puff enough, you could blow . . .” Grace shot him a warning glance.

  But the lock turned and the door opened. “After you,” the lawyer said. He followed Grace and Pete, yammering the entire way. Pete took in the musty room and sun-dappled surroundings. Stuff. There was stuff everywhere, too much for the eye to tally. The pent-up heat was oppressive, a lasso around its new occupants. Pete dragged a hand around his damp neck. A slight wave of nausea pushed in between his lungs and stomach. Things shifted in his brain, and the buzz of the lawyer merged with a thunderstorm of incoming spirits. Pete tried to focus on the grounded world in front of him.

  “So to be perfectly clear,” the lawyer went on, “while my clients understand the unanticipated complexities of having located the technical rightful owner—”

  Pete swung around, unable to negotiate the unearthly noises colliding with the live lecture. “Could you please shut the fuck up?”

  Grace, who’d already staked a path to a wall of bookcases, offered a disapproving glance.

  “What?” Pete shrugged at her. “I said ‘please.’”

  “I see I’ve made my point.” The lawyer headed for the door. “I have calls to return. I’ll be outside. As documented, the execution of the sale is entirely your mother’s call. But I see how this will go. As it is, additional gold seekers are already en route.”

  “What does that mean?” Pete said.

  “On the drive out, my assistant called. Seems a relative of one of the owners of this . . . stuff was informed of its existence. Naturally, they want to lay claim.” He looked around the hodgepodge room. “My guess is the whole matter will end up in a lengthy court battle—P.T. Barnum versus the Ripley brothers.” The door squeaked as if in protest to the deluge of traffic, and he exited.

  Pete swiped at a bead of sweat on his upper lip. “What a jerk. I should tell my mother to keep the damn shack just to piss him off.”

  Grace moved past the bookcases to a window at the rear of the house and tugged on it. It opened with a creaky grind, humid summer and imprisoned air mixing. “True.”
She brushed dust from her hands. “But I don’t know if he was that far off. This place is . . . weird.”

  Between an anxious spirit populace, the mouthy lawyer, and his queasy gut, Pete hadn’t defined anything beyond random clutter. He concentrated harder. Clutter? It looked more like an episode of Hoarders. Although, as he took a turn around, there was a theme. Carnival—circa twentieth century. Getting a breath in or out was suddenly a challenge.

  Grace was right there, plucking a bottle of water from her shoulder tote. “Here. You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He took the water from her. “Thanks.” After a few sips, Pete mentally inventoried the room. He guessed the space could double as a warehouse for props and product. An entire corner was dedicated to carnie magic—black hats and a coatrack where silk scarves, fake rabbits, and springs dangled. Mirrored boxes in assorted shapes filled the space. A large table was the showstopper. Pete examined the blood-covered saw jutting from its middle and the waist down portion of a woman’s figure supine on top. Grace turned in the same direction and gasped. In spite of his malaise, Pete laughed.

  The entire room was a combo house of horrors slash funhouse. Junk. Mostly it looked like junk—the stuff of a bygone era. Circuses were all but extinct, and traveling carnivals had dwindled since his mother’s heyday.

  A lone carousel horse stood out, propped against a bearskin rug tacked to the wall. Pete approached the horse cautiously, the way he’d move through an alley in Peshawar. He felt off balance, but maybe that was the missing weight of his backpack, camera gear. A spear of light sliced through the rear window and his thoughts.

  Visually, the sunlight connected to the gold metal rod impaling the horse. Through the rays, dust swirled, the feel of a whole merry-go-round moving with him. He reached to balance himself, a tremble to his fingers as he touched the horse. It was a startling creature with the wide-eyed look of fear that rode with every carousel beast. As a boy, Pete had imagined horses like this were angry fairytale creatures, just wanting to be freed. This particular steed sneered, its painted teeth and mane marred with deep chips—as if it’d been to battle. Ghostly voices quieted, replaced by a distant crank of carousel music. In his mind, the horse, maybe the whole room, wavered. The scent of gardenias filled his nose. “If Paris is France . . .” He stumbled back.