Echo Moon (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 3)

by Laura Spinella

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Home, of course. It’s fine now. We know it’s safe. It’s a good idea.” Though her words aimed at encouraging, Esme’s shaking fingers traveled her wet cheek and dabbed at her eyes. He thought to reach into his coat and produced a handkerchief. “Won’t do us a bit of good if the corpse is crying.”

  She took the handkerchief, and he heard feigned bravery as she blotted her face. “You’d better go.” But she’d clamped her small hands onto his lapels, and Pete’s gaze caught on the wool of a military coat he recognized. She managed to pull him forward. He knew the kiss, so similar to the ones he shared hours before with Em. “Like you said, we’ll get through this—all of it.”

  “Esme, wait. Tell me where home—”

  A man shouted from a distance. Oscar leaned his head in the truck and hissed, “You’re going to ruin it, boy.” Pete didn’t have a second to think, barely to move. He jumped from the back of the truck. “Run!” Oscar instructed. “I’ve staged a murder scene or two, but I can’t say I ever needed one to stick after the curtain came down. Now get movin’!”

  Pete took off, but he didn’t go as far as Oscar and Esme intended—especially since he had no idea where to go. Instead, he hunched down behind a horse trough outside a shoemaker’s shop and listened.

  “You there! Mr. Bodette! I’ve just witnessed the most horrific thing. We need to summon the police at once!” Benjamin Hupp moved along, wearing a coat over pajamas, slippers on his feet. Pete’s jaw slacked as he spied the man from the Tribune photo, the same one from the alleyway window.

  “I know what you saw, Mr. Hupp.” Oscar’s voice was practiced, steady. “I also know what you’ve been up to, keeping Esmerelda Moon a prisoner these past months.”

  Hupp stopped cold on the icy street. “A prison—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you? Phin Seaborn came back from the war. He found Esmerelda locked in your hotel. Then he came and found me. It was our plan to break her out of here tonight. It was Seaborn’s plan to put a bullet in you.”

  Hupp startled, like a bullet might be inbound.

  “But the war . . .” Oscar jerked his chin at the truck’s open rear, about twenty feet away. “It’s turned him into a rabid dog. Clearly he needs a head doctor, because when he went in for Esmerelda, he brought back her dead body.” Oscar stepped aside, revealing a supine Esme, her shoes hanging over the edge, the white of the dress puddled around her ankles. “Seaborn couldn’t live with what you did to her. But he was too much of a coward to take his own life, so he took hers.” Oscar hesitated—a dramatic pause. “When it came to Esmerelda, seems the two of you shared a similar obsession.”

  “I’ll not waste time arguing any of that, but I do know he shot her! I witnessed it!” He pushed against the frigid air, pacing toward the truck. “We need to alert the authorities!”

  Oscar met him halfway. “Listen to me, Benjamin. You and I, we do a fair amount of business together. Despite the girl . . .” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’d like to keep it that way. Part of the reason I came with Seaborn tonight was to make certain he didn’t kill you. But what the boy did end up doing, it shouldn’t be ignored. All I’m sayin’ is think your method through. You’ll have questions to answer. You’ll have to explain that room up there and what you did to that girl.”

  “I didn’t do anything to her, and you can’t prove a thing.”

  “That part I might not be too sure about. Seaborn got his hands on a camera. When he came to me with his plan, he showed me these.” Oscar produced a strip of photos. The moon and streetlight were enough to illuminate photos of a battered Esme. Benjamin ran his fingers over his mouth, as if seeing something shocking for the first time. “The police will want to know how she ended up that way—your hotel, your lock. Your boarded up building.”

  He stared at the images, then confidence rode his voice. “And what’s more believable, that I did that to Esmerelda Moon, or Seaborn did?”

  “It’d be my story, if I were tellin’ it,” Oscar said. “And it’s likely folks will give you the benefit of the doubt. But there’ll be suspicion nonetheless. For what?” Oscar glanced back at the idling truck. “To tell a story about a girl you considered a possession, nothing but your personal uptown whore? Benjamin Hupp and kept women. Do you also want the authorities wondering about a German lass, one who I’d be willing to wager shows no record of passage home?”

  Oscar ran a convincing con. It was all Pete could do to stay stationary. He also wanted his revenge against Hupp. Maybe this was what his other life had been about—unfulfilled revenge.

  “Let me handle it.” Oscar placed a steadying hand on Hupp’s shoulder. “The boy dropped Esmerelda’s body the second he came out of the alley. I’m lucky he didn’t shoot me too. He’s that daft.” Even from the distance, Pete could see Hupp’s reaction: surprise, maybe fear. “I’ll catch up with Seaborn,” Oscar said. “If I don’t . . . well, gentlemen have a way of settling matters like this. A cushy cell. Is it really what you want for the man who killed Esmerelda Moon?”

  Pete’s eyes went wide at the threat. It surely sounded as if Oscar was prepared to throw him to Hupp’s wolves.

  Oscar’s hand stayed gripped to Benjamin’s shoulder, the young heir easing back and forth as if weighing the options. Bolt for Esme’s body, run from the brewing scandal. He stepped back. “Perhaps I should consider the matter until morning. You may have a point, Mr. Bodette. There might not be a need for police interference. Lots of questions. I’m capable of dealing with Seaborn.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Oscar patted his shoulder, releasing it. “In fact, can I take solace in the fact that you won’t let this go? Not as long as there’s breath in your body—or Seaborn’s?”

  Under a spot of light, Benjamin Hupp smiled, deep dimples beaming. “Count on it, Mr. Bodette. For so many reasons, Seaborn’s demise will be my mission.” He looked once more at the truck. “I . . . I can’t tell you what she meant to me. I should see her. Sit with her.”

  “No. You don’t want to see her like that,” Oscar said smoothly. “It’s quite the mess. I’ll arrange a nice little service for her. I know an undertaker that’ll fix her up pretty. Maybe we can lay her out right in the supper club lobby.”

  Benjamin curled his fingers to a fist, drawing it to his mouth. “Oh, I do think that would be lovely. Yes . . . very fitting.”

  “I’ll keep you apprised of the particulars.”

  Pete shook his head. How would Oscar deliver that not-so-minor detail?

  “Would you?” Benjamin began to retreat. “I’ll arrange for the flowers. Lots of flowers.”

  “I’m sure she’d like that.” Oscar looked around an otherwise vacant street, tugging the fur collar to his chin. “Sun will be up soon. It wouldn’t do for you to be seen in your nightclothes and bedroom shoes wandering the Upper East Side. The truck, it had best be gone come daylight.”

  “You’re right.” He turned and Oscar didn’t move an inch. Benjamin pivoted back around. “Thank you, Mr. Bodette. For your wise counsel . . . and your discretion.”

  “My pleasure.” Oscar nodded at him. “I look forward to resuming business when the spring circuit picks up.”

  His gaze bumped from the truck to Oscar. “Yes. I’m sure we will.” Benjamin’s sigh was visible, the pained look on his face more fierce than January air. He turned up the avenue, stepping heavily toward home.

  Pete rose from behind the horse trough, ready to challenge the cryptic exchange. But he froze as Oscar made a sudden movement. Bells chimed loudly. Loud enough to mask gunfire as Oscar Bodette shot Benjamin Hupp in the back before calmly retucking a snub-nose revolver into the pocket of his raccoon coat.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  New York City

  Present Day

  There was no terrifying spiral back to Em’s bedroom. Pete left his other life and all the violence behind. He woke, not with an outburst that would have put Em at
risk, but more the unsettled sensation of a complex dream. The way most people did, he guessed. Slightly disoriented, flustered over what he witnessed, but not consumed by the guilt of having taken the life of the woman he loved. In fact, blinking into the dim light of Em’s bedroom, the thing most apparent to Pete was that he no longer felt like a vessel.

  The emotion of the romantic and tragic love he’d endured for more than half his life was absent. His gaze drifted back onto Em. There was only the light of the clock, but he could see it—the small tattoo on her back, the cross of hope indelibly etched where Esme bore a burn mark. He lay still for a time but grew restless, eventually slipping from the bed and room. Pete paused in the kitchen and scribbled a note before exiting the apartment. A half hour later, sitting on the building’s steps, he heard the door open.

  A set of toes appeared beside him—shocking pink, a shade that both complemented and contrasted with Em. “I saw your note. Just needed some air, huh?” She sat beside him, handing him a cup of coffee.

  “I did. Thanks,” he said. “For everything.”

  “It’s only coffee.”

  She looked sleepy, her thick hair askew. She wore a T-shirt, a revival of On a Clear Day You Can See Forever stamped across the front, and striped pajama bottoms.

  “Uh, you’re not thanking me for . . .” She thumbed over her shoulder, toward the building, her bedroom.

  Pete wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “No. Not that—though what you said, what we did, it might have tipped the scales. You’re not going to believe where I went last night.”

  For the next hour, Pete recounted events. How he’d fallen asleep with his arm around Em, trusting in her promise that the night would be a peaceful one. How that alone was a fascinating and welcome thing. He went on to explain that tranquil sleep had given way to a different view of his past life, revealing the details of how he—or Phineas Seaborn—had not killed Esmerelda Moon but saved her life.

  Pete repeated the last part for a second time; he needed to hear it again. “I’m not sure how to describe it, other than a phenomenon born out of shifts in psychic patterns, the present-day breakthroughs we made. You,” he said, tugging her closer.

  “That’s incredible.” Her hands gripped tighter around her mug. “I didn’t want to believe you—Phin—would hurt Esmerelda Moon, no matter the circumstance.”

  “But you also didn’t have any proof.”

  She leaned closer. “I think gut instinct was all I really needed.”

  They were quiet as this century’s Manhattan came to life. The sidewalk grew crowded, people hurrying toward their day, oblivious to a man who felt as if an anchor had been lifted from around his neck. Beside him a redheaded beauty who’d cared for and carried a lifetime of dreams. Both of them absorbing how it had taken their combined burdens to reach a singular revelation.

  “So what do you think happened after that?” she said.

  Pete honestly hadn’t gotten past the moment, the reprieve of being found innocent while waiting on death row. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “What do you think Oscar meant by Esme going home? To where? We know Phin married someone else, the French farm girl. That he lived his life in Walberswick, England. So why didn’t they end up together?”

  He looked hard at Em, only able to interpret so much—it wasn’t as if a ghost whispered the story’s end in his ear. “Good question. But I do know, from what I witnessed last night, the things Esme experienced at the hands of Benjamin Hupp were horrible.” He sipped the coffee. “Phin . . .” Pete still wasn’t used to applying any name but his own to Esme’s other half. “For sure he suffered PTSD. Not something anyone would recognize back then. Not in a way he could be medically treated. It’s a sad realization, especially—”

  “Especially after everything you’ve gone through.”

  “I was going to say everything they went through. But I can’t disagree. Maybe the damage was too great. Maybe they couldn’t get past it, the things that happened to both of them.”

  “No way.” Em shook her head in a feverish stroke. “I don’t believe that. What you felt for her, what Phin felt for her, do you really think they gave up after all that, went their separate ways?”

  “In your dreams, there’s no hint, not a piece of Esme’s past that goes beyond New York, her life here?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “I’ve never dreamt beyond that, or I don’t think I have. The dreams are all vague snippets. Nothing is ever in any kind of order.” Em tapped the knuckles of her hand against his knee. “It’s so curious. To know what happened to Phin and not know what became of Esmerelda.”

  “It’s like half an end—”

  Their conversation was interrupted, Caroline’s voice rising from behind. “Emerald, I need an answer. My dad’s secretary is holding two seats on a red-eye. What do you want to do?”

  Pete squinted up at Caroline, who stood with one hand on her hip, the other clenching a cell phone.

  “You’re crazy if you pass it up. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “Can we . . .” Em looked anxiously between Pete and Caroline. “Could we talk about this inside? I haven’t decided yet.”

  Caroline heaved a stage-worthy sigh. “Well, pardon me for attempting to shock life into your career. Do let me know when you’ve reached a conclusion. I can’t believe you’d hesitate—not because of some one-night stand!”

  Pete aimed at a retort, but Caroline was barking into her phone as she went back inside. He smiled at Em, who didn’t smile back. Of course, it could be that was her impression of last night. Well, maybe not a one-night stand, but a singular night meant for the one-time purpose of healing his long-suffering life. He went with a safer question. “What was that all about?” Traffic from the building grew heavier, and the two of them moved to the side of the awning.

  “Passive-aggressive Caroline strikes again. A sitcom director in LA is looking for a fresh-faced redhead to play the ingenue. Caroline went ahead and sent along my bio, head shots, a few YouTube videos. Seems I’m on the short list for the part.” She’d been holding his hand and let go, regripping the cup with both. “If I want it.”

  “So that’s great.” Pete stabbed at appropriate enthusiasm. “You should be excited. I mean, aside from an audition facilitated by Caroline, it’s all good, right?”

  She hesitated. “Yeah. Sure.” Em stared toward the pavement, and then finally looked at him. “Of course. It’s, um . . . it’s great,” she said, her voice hitting an uptick.

  “An audition like that, it’s got to be a big deal.”

  “A sitcom with a major network. Yes. Definitely, a huge deal. Like lucky-lottery-ticket huge.” Yet her smile collapsed. “Caroline caught me off guard. She told me before I came out here. Before we . . . talked.”

  Pete continued to force a grin onto news he didn’t particularly want to hear.

  “It’s very unexpected,” she said. “That’s all.”

  “But it’s what you want, right? To make it in show business, here . . .” He hesitated. “On the opposite coast.”

  “Yes, it’s what I want.” She touched her fingertips to her forehead. “Absolutely. I got caught up in the craziness of the past few days. Distracted. That makes sense, right?”

  Pete was determined not to interfere with forward motion—no matter what he was feeling. “It makes complete sense. Before the disruption of me and my madness, what is it you wanted most?”

  She took a deep breath and pointed in the direction Caroline had gone. “This, of course. An acting career.”

  “So that can’t change in a few days because of one night. That’s not possible.”

  “Pete, you’re seriously not the best person to advocate for things that aren’t possible.” She smiled, and he realized it was her attempt to make a joke. “Anyway . . .” Em took a step back. “I’m being ridiculous, and any prognostication has been stamped null and void. Your past won’t affect my future in any way. You and Caroline are right. I did
n’t see a lot of things coming, most of all a red-eye to LA tonight.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  Pete pulled into the driveway on Homestead Road. He’d left New York abruptly, but not as abruptly as Em, who’d dashed out to one of her four jobs. Inside the apartment, she’d moved as fast as she spoke—a hummingbird of flurry—changing her clothes almost with one hand as she shoved his camera gear at him with the other.

  “I don’t suppose a part-time job matters, not if I’m heading to California on a red-eye. Finding another out-of-work actress to write your name on a Starbucks cup, that’s a no-brainer, right? No one will ever notice I was here.”

  Pete had nodded at what sounded like nonsensical thoughts.

  “But I guess that’s just me,” she’d gone on. “I feel responsible. I take things too seriously. I get attached.” Em had pulled a sweater on, inside out, over a summer dress and sprinted from the apartment before he could add a thought.

  The door closed and he said, “Bye. I guess.” He felt Caroline’s gaze, perched behind him like a stalking cat. He turned, debating saying “Have a nice life” or exiting without a word.

  She’d been sitting on the white leather sofa, painting her toenails while talking on the phone. “Oh, I’m definitely ready for the LA scene.” She eyeballed Pete, her wide ears poking out through strands of fine hair. “For sure, Em and I are out of here.”

  And that had been his parting New York memory.

  Pete continued to sit in the rental car and mentally organize the past forty-eight hours. They were going to be tough to explain to his parents. He looked at the house. “Maybe even harder to get them to listen.” Would his mother even give him the chance? He felt his odds were better with Levi, but he saw that his father’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Before heading to the front door, Pete flipped open his camera bag. Inside were the ruined postcard and the photos on his camera—the ones he’d taken at Hupp’s hotel. There were also the photos of Esmerelda Moon from the Rabbit Lane bungalow. He picked them up—all cool to his touch—running his fingertips over her face, the beautiful and the battered.