by Edie Ramer
Joe.
She was alone.
She lay like that for moments, staring at the ceiling, feeling the hollowness scraped out of her chest, leaving her empty inside. So silly to feel this way about any man, least of all one that was dead.
Moments later as she leaned over the sink brushing her teeth, the bathroom door open, Joe appeared in her peripheral. She spat out toothpaste.
“New Jersey again?” she asked, pleased at hitting the casual note.
“Miss me?” He grinned.
“Always.” She scooped water in her hand and rinsed out her mouth, spitting the residue out. Sometimes being with Joe was like being with a brother. One she liked a lot more than her real half-brother, a mama’s boy who made Harry Potter’s cousin Dudley look courageous.
“What’s on the agenda today?” Joe asked.
“It’s time to get out of Dodge.” She patted her mouth with a washcloth and picked up a phone. She was wearing her T-shirt and bikini underwear. Even though Joe wasn’t alive, something about him seemed alive, making her grateful the gray T-shirt came to the bottom of her hipbone. “Isabel isn’t cooperating. Sitting around the house every night isn’t working. I need to check out a different angle.”
He floated inside, hovering a few inches above the tan linoleum. “I knew that two weeks ago. What took you so long to figure it out? You got a crush on the songwriter?”
”Of course,” she said, glad he couldn’t see her heart hammering inside her chest. “He’s almost as pretty as you.”
“The word is handsome.” He winked, and she felt waves of sexuality emitting from him—which was crazy. Dead people didn’t emit waves of anything.
What was wrong with her lately? First Luke and now her pal Joe. Joe, the dead guy. If her thoughts were rated, there would be a giant red X stamped on her forehead.
“So what now?” Joe floated after her into the bedroom.
She grabbed clothes. “Follow in my wake. You’ll see.”
“The girl’s got moves. About time.”
About time, she echoed silently. About damn time.
***
The air in the county hall’s building permit office smelled oppressive, stale. Standing in front of a wood-framed window, Cassie waited for the brunette with gray roots to cross out Wednesday on her flip-over calendar.
Cassie glanced at the utilitarian clock on the wall. 11:10. Just another county worker who loved her job.
The clerk glanced up finally.
“I’m looking for the records of a house—”
The clerk slid a clipboard with a form across the wooden counter. “Fill this out, sign and date it.”
Cassie sat on a vinyl-covered chair with metal legs and started scribbling. When she brought the form back, the clerk squinted at the address line, tiny lines raying out from her pursed lips.
“We don’t have records for this house. It must’ve been built before 1870. That’s when the old courthouse burned.”
“How do you know?”
“Not because I was living then,” the clerk snapped. She took off her sweater, her face glowing.
Oh-oh. Someone woke up this morning on the wrong side of a hot flash. “You answered so quickly. Were you born in Bliss?”
“Nope. New York City and proud of it. Someone requested the same information last week.” The clerk tapped the side of her head. “The short-term memory’s still oiled and running.”
Cassie leaned forward, trying not to show her eagerness. “Do you remember who asked for the information?”
“Yeah, I do.” The clerk smirked and peered at another form on her side of the counter, obviously enjoying her game of making Cassie ask for information.
“Was it the owner? Luke Rivers? Thirtyish with dark hair?”
The clerk glanced up. “If that was a man, he’s the best looking cross-dresser I’ve seen. A cheerleading cross-dresser.”
“Tricia Windmeyer.” Not a question, an answer.
“If she’s too blonde, too pretty and too young, it must be her.”
Cassie stepped back, already turning away. “Thanks for your help.”
“Helping people is what I’m here for.”
Cassie hurried into the hall. Two deputies, one female and one male, led a handcuffed prisoner down the hall, three pairs of shoes tapping on the marble floor.
“Brings back memories,” Joe said behind her. “Not good ones.”
Cassie squeaked. “Do you have to sneak up on me?”
A woman striding past carrying a file gave her a puzzled glance. Cassie averted her eyes and headed toward the exit sign.
“I’m a ghost,” Joe said. “Sneaking is what I do. You’re not usually so jumpy. And what’s with the house questions? You always said it’s the person that matters, alive or dead, not the house.”
A young deputy held open the door leading to the parking lot, giving her a respectful smile that made her feel middle-aged. Then his gaze slid to her chest. She stood taller and swept outside, swaying her hips a little more than necessary.
This job was corrupting her, waking her sleeping hormones.
“The person does matter, it’s just that...” Though the sun shone down on her, she shivered. “Something about the house bothers me. It’s…wrong. I picked up on it two weeks ago, but then I dropped it.”
She frowned, asking herself why she dropped it. Usually she followed her gut. Being around Luke had fogged up her visions, but now she was back. Full force.
“I sense a mystery,” she said
Joe’s groan sounded like the wind. “Tell me you’re not getting weird on me.”
“I talk to dead people. How much weirder can I get?”
Two men with briefcases and medium-priced suits strode toward her and Joe. Lawyers. She clamped her lips together.
“That doesn’t fly with me, doll-face,” Joe said as they reached the parking lot. “Talking to dead people isn’t strange at all.”
Cassie swerved toward her car in the next row. Too bad the rest of the world didn’t think like Joe. In the meantime, she’d try to keep her mouth shut and her eyes open.
The last time she had a “something wrong” feeling was when her ex-fiancé proposed to her. She’d ignored it, wanting so badly to believe someone cared for her and thought her worthy.
This time she was listening to her inner trouble detector.
This time she knew her own worth.
“So what now?” Joe asked.
“Great question.” She hunched her shoulders. “I just need to find a great answer.” Or a Fairy Godmother. But Cassie had the feeling Cinderella used up the last one, staying out too late and losing the glass slipper. The bitch.
***
Cassie knocked on the door of the last motel room, just before the alley. Tricia had told Cassie one of the perks of working for a motel was the free motel room. Looking around, Cassie wrinkled her nose. A breeze wafted the stench of rotting garbage toward her from the black dumpster. Twangy guitar music oozed through the door.
She knocked again. Maybe Tricia was asleep with the stereo on. After all, she worked two jobs. She probably catnapped when—
The door opened, the music louder. Tricia stuck her head out. Her pink lipstick was partially worn off, her hair wild, her white terrycloth robe barely reaching the middle of her thighs.
Through the half-inch space between the door and Tricia’s hip, Cassie glimpsed the foot of Tricia’s bed, topped with a pair of hairy ankles and bare feet. She tried not to stare, but it was like trying not to look at a pimple on a teenager’s nose.
“Is this a bad time?” Cassie asked.
“I was, uh, napping.”
Cassie backed up. “I just came for...something not important. Sorry for waking you. I’ll talk to you another time.”
She turned and the door closed behind her, muting the music. Her gaze swung to the dozen or so cars in the motel parking lot.
“I wonder what Luke Rivers drives.” Joe appeared next to her.
&n
bsp; Cassie swallowed her squeak of surprise. She shrugged, hoping he didn’t notice the throbbing pulse in her throat. No need to tell him she wondered the same thing.
“Where to now?” he asked.
“Back to the house. Let’s see if Isabel will talk to me today. I’m hoping she’s decided I’m trustworthy.”
“I hope you duped her too.” He gave her a grin too full of life for a dead man. “Want to see if the guitar player’s with blondie? Give me the word, and I’ll float in and see.”
“No!” Cassie strode away from Tricia’s hotel room before she gave into the devil inside her mind that screamed, Do it!
In all the time Cassie had been in the house, she hadn’t seen any sign that Luke was attracted to Tricia. But she’d never seen her ex-fiancé act attracted to a student before she walked into his tiny office and caught him giving one hands-on guidance. And Tricia’s “I think you’re a rock god” glances would be hard for any man to ignore. It must be like having a lobster boil itself and plop onto the plate in front of him, saying, “Come and eat me.”
Sliding behind the driver’s seat, Cassie glanced to the passenger side...and Joe wasn’t there.
She set her lips. Of course he wasn’t there. He’d ignored her firm “No” and slipped inside Tricia’s hotel room.
Before she could turn away, he sat in the passenger seat, grinning like he was posing for a ghostly toothpaste ad. “Want to guess what I saw?”
“Does it matter? I know you’re going to tell me.”
He faced forward and inclined his head on the headrest. “I can keep my yap shut.”
She glared. Now he probably would, just to be stubborn. “Okay, spill.”
“Say please.”
“Go to hell.” She turned the key, the engine humming to life. Right now she wasn’t in a mood to say please to any man, whether he ran on blood or ectoplasm.
She’d drive to Luke’s house. If he wasn’t there... Well, it was none of her business what he was doing with Tricia or any other woman. After all, it was a universal truth that sex and rockers went together like refried beans and flatulence.
Chapter Twenty
Luke stared at the Sender names on the emails on Erin’s computer: Vantastic, Vantastic, Vantastic, Vantastic, Vantastic...
Gritting his teeth so hard his jawbones hurt, he opened one at random, dated three days after they’d settled in here.
Baby, I miss you so much it’s like my heart is ripped in two. They put me in this place, and I’m going insane. Why did you turn me in? I would have lived. I always do.
I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. I don’t know if I’ll live.
Promise me you’ll never love him, your father. If you do, I’ll want to die.
Love, love, love,
Always and Forever,
Mom
He vaguely heard the doorbell ring as he read Erin’s response.
Mom, I promise I’ll never love him. I’m sorry I called 911, but I was afraid you were going to die.
The front door opened downstairs, the sound carrying up the stairway and down the hall.
Cassie. She’d used the key he’d given her, just like he’d used a key to get the laptop out of Erin’s desk. It had taken him five tries to guess the password.
He felt like he’d opened Pandora’s box.
I’m sorry they made you stay in that place. Get better soon and come and get me.
Love,
Erin
A new song thrummed on the edge of his consciousness, a bluesy guitar, a wailing sax, a voice rough with unshed tears—but for once he ignored it, opening another email, more recent.
I couldn’t stay at the place. Sometimes I can’t breathe without you. I’d rather be dead than separated from you. Sometimes I miss you so much I want to die.
I don’t know if I can get to you soon. Lately I’ve been sick.
Can you come to me?
Love,
Vantastic
Sick? A raging storm boiled up inside Luke. He’d been in the music business too long and knew what sick meant. It meant getting another prescription, another drug added to a list of drugs. The patient getting sick, the doctor getting rich, the children playing the role of parent.
What the fuck was he going to do?
A noise came from downstairs, footsteps in the library below Erin’s room. The next second they left, Cassie stepping in and out, looking for something or someone. Him?
He glanced away from the computer, toward the hall, then back to the screen.
Erin. He had to think about Erin. Otherwise he was as bad as Vanessa. At least Vanessa could blame the drugs. He couldn’t blame a damn thing except himself. He was attracted to Cassie, but he didn’t have to act on it.
Even if he were free to get involved with someone right now, it wouldn’t be someone like her. Erin already had bizarre. She needed normal. Cassie was the only person Erin had warmed up to since she’d moved in with him, but that just showed how warped her upbringing was.
Tricia was the one most girls Erin’s age would want to befriend. Tall, slim, blonde, cheery, beautiful. The idol of every small girl.
Except Erin.
Footsteps marched down the hallway. Stopping a short way down. She must be going into the family room. Isabel’s favorite place to haunt. Cassie was looking for Isabel, not him. He didn’t know why he’d thought otherwise.
He rose to his feet. Headed for the hall. Cassie could give him advice on Erin. She seemed to understand Erin in a way he never would. His first instinct was to run over the laptop with his SUV, but that might doom any chance of a relationship with Erin.
Sometimes lately he suspected she hated him a degree or two less than in the beginning. Sometimes it felt that she worked to keep up the high level of hostility.
Other times it seemed to come to her as easy as breathing.
***
Standing in the hall, Cassie glanced into the family room, empty of ghost or man. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, toward his studio in the tower. Instead of turning to the staircase, she remained standing where she was.
What if he weren’t upstairs? If his hairy legs were the ones on Tricia’s bed?
A rush of emotion slammed into her, coming from nowhere, bending her forward and curving her spine. She crossed her hands over her stomach, her womb, feeling like a grieving woman when there was nothing to grieve.
She sucked in a deep breath, and blew it out. What was wrong with her? She didn’t have delusions about Luke or any man. If his hairy legs were in Tricia’s bed, that was his choice. Nothing to do with her.
The emotion—hormone driven, no doubt—receded, leaving numbness behind. She straightened and returned to the family room, her footsteps heavy, and sank onto the couch. She was here to do a job and it was time she did it.
She closed her eyes, inhaled...and a sound came, footsteps. Opening her eyes, she saw a leg coming into the room, clad in black denim, a black sneaker on the beige carpet. Another black sneaker swept past it, walking into the room. Toward her.
Luke.
A smile grew inside her chest and diaphragm, like a flower blooming.
This was terrible. She needed to stop this. Her insides were happy, but there was no happily ever after. Certainly not with this man.
“Something wrong with my shoes?”
She raised her eyes and hoped they weren’t shining. Everything was right with his shoes. They were on his feet, which meant his feet weren’t on Tricia’s bed.
That was the problem. She didn’t want to be happy about it. She didn’t want to give a damn.
“I’m the expert on ghosts, not footwear.” She stuck out her foot encased in a black slip-on that she’d bought over a year ago because they were as comfortable as flip-flops.
He didn’t glance down. If he’d been a hero in one of the romances she liked to read, he’d gaze down at her delicate ankle and his eyes would glow with desire. That wasn’t happening, maybe because he didn’t desire he
r. Maybe because her ankles weren’t delicate. The only delicate thing about her was her will power—for anything with chocolate.
And apparently her will power for this man.
“I need advice.” He slumped into the burgundy chair across from her, his legs apart, his elbows hanging over the chair arms.
“About Isabel?”
He slouched lower. “Erin. You probably know the court determined her mother wasn’t a fit parent and gave me custody.” He glowered. “The whole fucking world knows.”
“I heard about it.” She made her voice neutral.
“On advice from Erin’s court-appointed therapist, who believes Vanessa’s dependence on Erin is toxic for both of them, I won’t let them contact each other. I even keep track of Erin’s phone calls to make sure they don’t talk on the phone. I should’ve checked her computer too.”
She tensed, guessing what was coming. He didn’t look at her, his gaze on the carpet.
“My laptop was funky this morning, so I used Erin’s. I saw she had a boatload of email messages. They’re all from Vanessa.” He gave a harsh laugh. “I couldn’t get in at first. Her computer is password protected. Then I tried my ex’s favorite nickname for herself. Vantastic. The baby laptop took me in like a dream.”
Pity rose up in her for him and for Erin. She steeled herself to hear more. She could see from the darkness in his face, the way his fingers clenched and unclenched, that it wasn’t going to get better.
“She had hundreds of older messages. I read some.” His cheekbones tensed. “She shovels on the guilt, blaming Erin for her stint in rehab and their separation. She says she’s the only one who will ever love Erin, and without Erin she has nothing. She makes Erin promise to never love me.”
“I’m sorry.” Cassie took in a deep breath. “She—”
He raised his gaze, his tortured eyes stopping her words. “I need advice, not sympathy. Vanessa keeps saying she’ll come for Erin, but she hates flying. She can’t get on an airplane without drugs. She can’t get through a damn day without drugs. She’s not allowed to leave the state without notifying her probation officer.”