“Really?” Declan Mulvaney said. “Do tell.”
“A dog jumped on my bed in the middle of the night while I was staying in Dane’s room,” Koda said. “But the dog had been dead for, like, fifteen years—and I watched him run through a solid wall. So that counts, right?”
Declan took a sip of his Crown Royal. “Yes, I would say that counts, especially with the wall thing. But wouldn’t this be your second ghost?”
Koda looked puzzled.
“The girl in the mirror?” Declan prompted.
“Well, yeah, but…”
“But nothing,” Declan said. “You think a girl who lives in a mirror is alive?”
“No, I guess not,” Koda said, opening his menu.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Declan said. “Why don’t you hire a private investigator?”
“Hire a PI? For what?”
“To figure out who the girl is,” Declan said. “You’ve got enough to get someone started.”
“Really? I don’t have jack,” Koda said.
“Bullshit,” Declan said. “Think about it. You know she’s a girl—check that, a teenage girl—and you know she was wearing a prom dress. And you know where you saw her…”
“At the Forsyth Park Hotel,” Koda said, realizing where his grandfather was going.
“And this girl, she played the piano,” Declan continued.
“Well, that’s a stretch,” Koda said. “Just because—”
“Come on, Koda. You see a girl in a mirror, and then a ghost starts playing the piano in the same bar? This may shock you, but I know what YouTube is. I even watched some of the videos people took. Of course the mirror and the piano are connected.”
Maybe his grandfather was right, Koda thought. Maybe there was enough for a good private eye to get started. “How would I go about hiring a good private eye?” Koda asked.
“I’ve used a lot of investigators over the years,” Declan said. “I’m sure I could find someone discrete who would be willing to help. Now, where in the hell is your father?”
“He’ll be down in a bit,” Koda said. “He had a few more calls to make.”
“That’s what I used to say,” Declan said. “Just a few more calls, a few more calls, and then—shit, I looked in the mirror, and I was an old man.”
“You know what they say, Grandpa. Eighty is the new fifty.”
“What does that make you, a newborn?” Declan asked.
The waiter took Koda’s drink order for a Tito’s with a splash of tonic and left.
“I thought you drank Belvedere?” Declan said.
“I go back and forth,” Koda said. “Tito’s has better advertising.”
“Aren’t they all pretty much the same?” Declan said.
“Yeah, well, all whiskies are probably the same, too, but I’ve never seen you with anything but a Crown Royal in your hand,” Koda said.
“Touché,” Declan said, raising his glass and taking another sip.
“Ah, speaking of my father,” Koda said as Bruce Mulvaney came through the front door of the restaurant, walked straight to the bar and shook a man’s hand.
“Who’s that?” Declan asked.
“Newland and Newland,” Koda said. “Law firm, around the corner at Orange and Central.”
“The guys who run all the TV ads?” Declan asked.
Koda nodded.
“There was a time when it was illegal for lawyers to run ads,” Declan said. “A better time if you ask me.”
“Yeah, probably was,” Koda said.
“Money means nothing, but you mean everything,” Declan said. “Seriously, how can they run those with a straight face?”
Koda shrugged.
Declan nodded. “There used to be a time I knew everyone in Orlando. Now I only know the people with the biggest lies.”
Bruce Mulvaney slid into the booth next to Declan and loosened his tie. “That’s John New—”
“Newland,” Declan said. “Got his offices over on Orange Street.”
Bruce leaned back and said, “Wow, I’m impressed, Dad.”
Declan winked at Koda, who did his best to suppress a smile. “So, Koda and I have decided what to get you for your birthday,” Declan said. “We’re thinking about a tombstone engraved with: Here Lies Bruce Mulvaney—Just A Few More Calls and He Can Rest in Peace.”
“Yeah, well it’s a good thing someone is making calls, or we wouldn’t be eating at DJ’s, we’d be eating at Denny’s,” Bruce said. “So, what’s up?”
“What do you mean, what’s up?” Declan said.
“Why the dinner invitation?”
“Does something need to be up to have dinner with my son and grandson?” Declan asked.
“Yes,” Bruce said. “Just spill it so I can eat without having to wonder about it.”
“Well, if you must know…”
Declan stopped speaking as Robyn—who usually worked behind the bar—walked up with the wine list. “Hello, Mr. Mulvaney,” she said to Declan before looking over to the rest of the party. “Hello, Bruce, Koda.” Robyn set the wine list down on the table in front of Bruce.
“I’m sorry about your loss, sweetheart,” Declan said. “Koda told me you and Dane had been dating and had gotten quite close. Dane was a fine young man, and his death was a great loss to us all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mulvaney,” Robyn said. “Koda, would you stop by the bar before you go?”
“Yeah, sure,” Koda said. “Maybe I’ll hang out, and we can have a drink when you get off.”
Robyn nodded and walked away.
“Please tell me you’re not making a play for her,” Bruce said. “I mean, Dane’s been dead for what, two weeks?”
“Jesus, Dad. Between you and Mika…”
“You have a reputation, that’s all I’m going to say,” Bruce said, turning his attention back to Declan. “So, Dad, you were saying…?”
“I wanted to tell you about the groundbreaking ceremony for the twentieth Mulvaney House,” Declan said, “and I want both of you to be there.”
“Christ, Dad,” Bruce said. “You know I hate those things.”
“I’ll go,” Koda said. “Where is it?”
“It’s in a small town called DeSoto, just outside St. Louis,” Declan said. “The place used to be called The Open Arms. It’s where I grew up.”
When Declan retired, he’d come up with the idea to buy old orphanages, tear them down, and start over from scratch.
Declan had tried to wrestle control of The Open Arms Orphanage for years, first from the Catholic Church, and then from the state of Missouri. After years of arm-twisting and check-writing, Declan had finally made it happen.
Bruce immediately realized his mistake. “Of course, I’ll be there.”
“Good. I’ll send invitations to you both,” Declan said. “So, did Koda tell you he had another ghost encounter?”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” Koda said. “That’s the last time I tell you anything.”
“Don’t encourage him, Dad,” Bruce said. “Koda’s finally on the right track and has put most of this ghost business behind him.”
“What, Koda can’t have a hobby?” Declan asked. “I’ve believed in ghosts all my life and I did okay.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have the media following you around twenty-four seven, and there was no Internet to deal with,” Bruce said. “Today, everything’s different. A celebrity so much as bakes a cake, and it’s all over the Internet. And with the paparazzi? If Koda wants to be taken seriously and run MPI someday, he can’t go around looking like Shirley MacLaine.”
After Koda finished dinner at DJ’s Chophouse with his father and grandfather, he climbed onto an empty barstool and ordered a Diet Coke.
“Diet Coke?” Robyn asked.
“Yeah, I’ve got an early morning,” Koda said. “So, what’s up?”
Robyn glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Does the number eight mean anything to you?”
“Eight? No, n
ot really,” Koda said. “Why?”
Robyn hesitated, wondering if she should even continue. But if she couldn’t trust Koda, then who could she trust?
“A couple days after we got back from Lily Dale, I had a late night here at work. When I got home, I decided to take a quick shower. When I got out, the entire bathroom was filled with steam, and…”
“And what?”
“And someone had written the number eight on the mirror.”
“Written it? How, like with their finger?”
Robyn nodded.
“That’s creepy,” Koda said.
“Tell me about it,” Robyn said. “It had me so freaked out I didn’t take a shower for the next three days.”
“I thought I smelled something,” Koda said.
“You’re an ass,” Robyn said.
It wasn’t until an hour later, when Koda crawled into bed, that he realized the significance of the number eight.
Eight was the number on Dane’s lacrosse jersey.
And—when written as a symbol—it also meant forever.
Chapter Eighteen
Crimson Cove, Oregon
Christmas Day, 1937
Ulrich woke early on Christmas morning to find the lighthouse quiet and still. Under normal circumstances, Onyx would have been up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, opening the shades and dragging him out of bed with anticipation. But this year, things were anything but normal.
Ulrich had not bothered with a tree. He had not bothered buying gifts. On this Christmas morning, the best gift in the world would be going to wake her and finding she was dead.
Ulrich made his way to the kitchen and rummaged around for something to eat, but the cupboards were bare except for dried oatmeal he’d been lacing with poison and feeding to Onyx the past ten days.
Ulrich filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove and thought about how unfair everything was. It was Christmas! He should be having Bratwurst and Weiner schnitzel—or a roasted carp or suckling pig, perhaps—with potato salad and red cabbage and Brussel sprouts and maybe some marzipan cake for dessert.
Claudia had offered to cook, insisting Ulrich be with her and Phil for their first Christmas together as a family. Even the thought of it made him exhausted.
The kettle whistle began to sing, and he poured some of the near-boiling water into the bowl and stirred the oatmeal until it appeared to be the right consistency.
He took one bite and spit it back in the bowl.
How in the hell could Onyx eat this gruel? Ulrich wondered. Perhaps the poison made it better?
Ulrich stumbled back to the spare bedroom and climbed under the covers. In a few hours he’d get up and check on his wife, hopefully for the last time.
Ulrich woke in complete darkness, having slept the entire day away.
He got dressed and crept down the hall in his bare feet, wondering why he was trying so hard to be quiet. If Onyx was dead, it wouldn’t matter.
Ulrich opened the door to Onyx’s room. It was dark. The candle Ulrich left burning earlier was now a dry pool of wax. He opened the door further, allowing slivers of light to enter from the hallway behind him.
“Onyx?” Ulrich said quietly.
No response.
He approached the edge of the bed and could see Onyx was on her side, covers pulled up to her neck, her dark hair visible on the white pillowcase.
“Onyx, darling?” Ulrich said. Still no response.
Ulrich reached out, placed his hand on Onyx’s shoulder and shook her slightly. Nothing.
A slight smile formed on Ulrich’s lips, and he let out a sigh of relief. It had finally happened, Onyx was gone.
Ulrich looked up and noticed the canvas on the easel was now totally covered with paint. The irony hit him: Onyx had finished her final work of art, and Ulrich had finished Onyx.
As his eyes finally adjusted to the dark, Ulrich could see the painting was not an abstract; it was a painting of him in the kitchen with a package in his hand.
Ulrich squinted, trying to make out what was on the box. What was it? Then it became obvious: It was a skull and crossbones. Beneath it, Onyx had written a single word.
Gift.
Gift was the German word for poison. My God, Ulrich thought, Onyx knew. Perhaps she’s known all along.
“Merry Christmas, Ulrich,” Onyx said.
Ulrich started to turn, but before he could Onyx slammed a metal oil can into the back of his head.
Ulrich staggered forward and turned around just in time to see the second blow coming his way. He tried to lift his arms but wasn’t fast enough—the can catching him on the left side of his face.
Ulrich fell backward onto the bed, next to the pillows Onyx had positioned beneath the sheets to make it appear as if she were asleep. Onyx had used this trick before, Ulrich knew, when she’d snuck out of her father’s houseboat to run away with him.
Now she’d used the trick on him.
Ulrich lifted himself into an upright position and reached a hand toward her in a state of bewilderment, his eyes filled with a look of hope and sadness. But for Ulrich there was no hope. Onyx had already swung the can toward him for a third and final time.
The sharp bottom edge of the can caught Ulrich on the temple, just above his left eye, knocking him back with such force that it ripped a portion of the German’s face from his skull.
Onyx waited for Ulrich to get up again.
He didn’t.
Ulrich was still.
Ulrich was silent.
Ulrich was dead.
Chapter Nineteen
Chicago, Illinois
February 4, 1964
Two weeks after delivering her second child—another boy, who she named Bruce—Mary Ann found herself looking for work. Again. The money Declan had left for her was long gone, and now with another mouth to feed…
Mary Ann called Declan’s mob friend, Tommy Bilazzo—whom she tracked down using the number she found on an old phone bill—and arranged to meet him and find out what she could about Declan’s whereabouts.
“You haven’t heard from Declan yet?” Tommy asked.
“No. It’s been almost seven months, Tommy,” Mary Ann said. Seven months was a long time, considering everything that was happening, though something told her the person who’d been calling her and then hanging up was probably him. At least, that’s what she wanted to believe. “Do you know where he is? Is he in some kind of trouble? What am I supposed to think?”
“I got no idea, Mary Ann,” Tommy said, which wasn’t entirely true. He did have an idea. He was pretty sure Declan was in Orlando, though not exactly where.
“Is there a number I can call him at? Maybe I could write him a letter and give it to you, and you could mail it if—”
“Mary Ann, I got no address or phone number to give you, really,” Tommy said, which was totally true. If Declan was in Orlando, as Tommy suspected, he did not know how to reach him.
“Is he—?”
“I can’t say nothin’ else, Mary Ann,” Tommy said, cutting her off. “You okay on money?”
“I’m fine,” Mary Ann said, her sense of pride keeping her from admitting how dire her financial situation had become. Nor did she tell him about the baby.
Tommy gave Mary Ann three hundred dollars anyway. “You come see me if you need more, okay?” But she never could bring herself to go back and ask for more.
There were a few times Mary Ann considered calling her parents but could never bring herself to do that either. Not after what she’d done—getting pregnant out of wedlock again—and running away in the middle of the night, having left a note saying she was going off to New York to pursue her dream of being a professional dancer.
Another lie.
Mary Ann’s parents were German-born, religious fundamentalist zealots, whose first act each morning was to read the bible—a book they believed to be the unbending word of God. Anyone who did not follow the word of God was going directly to hell. Accor
ding to her most recent count, Mary Ann had committed at least half a dozen sins worthy of spending eternity in a very fiery place.
How could she begin to explain having gotten pregnant out of wedlock? Not once, but twice! It was something Mary Ann was struggling with herself.
This time was different, though. Mary Ann had not been in love with Milwaukee Phil Spilatro. In fact, the morning after, she couldn’t even remember what the creep looked like.
But Declan Mulvaney was different. She loved Declan, she knew that for sure. And the last time she’d spoken to the man she loved, he’d asked her to trust him.
And to wait for him no matter what.
So she would wait.
The job Mary Ann needed so badly turned out to be in the most unlikely of places.
Aside from feeding chickens and milking the occasional cow back on the farm, the only type of work Mary Ann had ever done was waiting tables. So when she first saw the sign saying “Dancers Wanted, Big $$$” in the window of a building on West Belmont, she ignored it.
When Mary Ann walked by a week later, the sign was still up, and she still had two hungry kids to feed. So she went in.
It was a little past eleven in the morning, and the place was so dark and dreary she wasn’t sure if it was even open.
“Hello?” Mary Ann said.
“I see you, sugar bear,” a voice came from the darkness.
It took a few more seconds, but when Mary Ann’s eyes finally adjusted to the darkness she could see the man sitting on a stool at the bar, doing paperwork.
The man was black, rail-thin, and tall—even seated she could tell the man was at least six foot two—and for some reason he was wearing a tuxedo.
“I’m here about the sign in the window,” Mary Ann said. “The dancing job?”
“Oh, so you’re a dancer?” the man asked. If the girl standing in front of him was a dancer, she wasn’t like any dancer he’d ever seen. “Where have you danced before?”
Onyx Webb: Book Three Page 8