Her waking hours transitioned more and more to the internet, to a life that was virtual and free of the past. She created brand-new social media profiles under the alias SamGirl99, and joined message boards and communities focused on ghosts and the people who see them. She got brave enough to post some details about her current situation—albeit with all identifying details removed. After a few days of politely commenting on various threads on the public forum, she was invited into a private conversation loop headed by an individual calling themselves, hilariously enough, Scooby75.
Scooby75 wasn't like the others on the public forum. Instead of demanding Samantha try to get proof, Scooby75 simply accepted that Warren was a genuine ghost. It helped Samantha sleep easier at night, knowing that at least one person believed her.
From what she'd learned online, Warren wasn't a residual specter. A residual haunting was more like a recording, a static, repeating event. He fit the profile of a so-called intelligent haunting, because he could interact with her. According to the expert psychics within the community, the limitations to Warren's communication skills were typical for such ghosts. The fact that he wouldn't play charades, and that he disappeared whenever she tried to use the Ouija board, were all in line with other people's experiences. Some of them even reported their own ghosts appearing in formal wear. But why a tuxedo? More like why not, some posters suggested. Who doesn't want to look their best, even when dead?
After several evenings of intense private chatting with Scooby75, the discussion turned even more personal. Scooby75 revealed that she was a woman, also living in the southwest, and she was concerned that the ghost of Warren was lingering for a reason. What reason? Murder.
The word seemed to jump off the screen and send icy shivers through Samantha's gut.
Samantha typed a response: He wants to murder someone?
Scooby75 replied: I didn't phrase that right. I mean *he* was murdered, and he wants you to find the killer.
Samantha: I don't think so. Wouldn't he just find a way to tell me who it was? He was there, after all.
Scooby75: Sometimes the extreme violence and shock wipes the transition event from their memory. Or, more likely, you need to find the clues and the evidence, so the killer can be convicted. You have to look around.
Samantha: This is ridiculous. He should be haunting a cop or something.
Scooby75: But he chose you for a reason. It's got to be you.
Samantha typed an angry response and deleted it, then another, also deleted. This Scooby person was trying to make a fool out of her. It was probably an internet troll who worked as a bank manager by day and trolled fools like her on the internet at night.
She closed her laptop and put it in a closet, as though that would create a moat of safety between her and internet trolls, as well as the disturbing notion that a murderer was prowling around Owl Bend.
And so what if there was a killer on the loose? She had no ties to the town. She could leave any time, once she got the urge. Most days she didn't question why she was renting a cabin in the Middle of Nowhere, Colorado. On the days she did wonder, she found only hazy memories and lingering intentions. She'd come there to get away from something, or to find something. What it was, she couldn't remember, or didn't want to remember. It had happened to someone else, someone who wasn't the same Samantha Torres as this one, who saw ghosts and selfishly spewed her private details and problems to strangers on the internet.
After a few minutes, she retrieved the laptop from the closet with a sigh. She logged in and picked up the conversation with Scooby75.
Samantha: What should I do now? The police think it was an accident. How do I convince them it was something else?
There was almost no delay, and then a long message, as though Scooby75 had written her answer long before Samantha had asked the question. She painstakingly explained how Samantha had to embed herself in Warren's life, walk in his shoes, talk with his friends, take his photos, and sleep in his bed. All of that sounded reasonable enough, except for the suggestion she begin sleeping in Warren's bed.
Samantha jokingly asked: What about sleeping in my own bed, with him? He told me once that Colorado nights were made for cuddling, and he's a good cuddler.
A moment later, Scooby75 replied: If this is some big joke you're playing on me, very funny. You can find someone else's head to mess with. I'm out.
Samantha apologized, tried to smooth things over, but the other woman was gone, her green light changed to red.
The next day, there was no sign of the woman online, and Samantha began to worry that Scooby75 hated her.
Over the next few days of silence, Samantha's worries grew larger. She wondered if Scooby75 was an expert on murderers due to having one in her own life, stalking her. Or maybe she knew about killers because she was one. Samantha's imagination ran away, down dark forest trails with lightning striking trees ablaze left and right. It took several drinks and the blasting of loud rock music to make the visions go away.
The days piled up, and the cabin grew smaller, claustrophobic.
She watched the community channel regularly, so she knew the retrospective art show celebrating Warren Jameson's life and photography was coming up on June fifth.
With nobody interesting to talk to online, and her awkward encounters with local bachelors Finn Bruno and Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud fading in her memory, going into town for a social event became more appealing.
Samantha decided that going out for a change was better than drinking herself into oblivion—barely.
Chapter 9
Samantha got dressed for the 7:00 p.m. art show, accidentally pulling on the same orange sundress she'd been wearing on the day of Warren's death. She was driving and halfway into town when she realized her mistake, and slammed on the brakes. After a few minutes of internal debate, she pulled back onto the road and continued driving into town. Nobody but Deputy Sheriff Robichaud knew what she'd been wearing the day of Warren's death. Even if he was at tonight's art show, so what if he saw her? He was a man, after all. A dress was probably just a dress to him.
She pulled up in front of the venue and parked. Another great thing about Owl Bend was the ample parking, and no paid meters.
The art show was being held inside the town's original fire hall. It had been turned into an art gallery and community center twenty years earlier, when the new, modern fire hall went up. Warren Jameson had served as a volunteer firefighter, and was well known to the local first responders.
Inside the old fire hall, the mood was surprisingly festive. The laughter and conversation of over a hundred people bounced around the building's lofted walls.
Samantha ducked her head down upon arrival. She headed toward the guest book without making eye contact with anyone. Something orange flashed nearby. It was the bartender, Finn, but he hadn't noticed her yet.
As she was finishing signing her name, she was greeted by an approaching woman. “You're Samantha Torres?”
Samantha looked up to find a woman she immediately recognized as Warren's aunt. They'd never met, but the woman had been in several of the photos in Warren's online portfolio. He'd even used his aunt as a model a few times. She didn't have the youth or figure for stepping out of a lake in a dripping bikini, but she was a great model for wearing polar fleece and setting up a tent for camping. Wendy Jameson was fifty-five, with the same brown eyes as Warren, white-streaked hair, and a build that could be described as “sturdy.”
Samantha gave the stout woman a sidelong look. “Have we met before?” She knew they hadn't, but it was what she said in such situations.
“My nephew mentioned your name once or twice.” The woman reached out a mannish hand. “Wendy Jameson. I'm Warren's aunt. He was back in town and living over my garage, right up until the accident.” She shook her head. “Poor thing. Such a waste.”
They shook hands. The older woman's palm was cool and moist. “Sorry for your loss,” Samantha said. “He seemed like a wonderful man.”
“Sorry, I didn't go,” Samantha said. “To be honest, I didn't know your nephew that well. I didn't even know he had a girlfriend. Is she here?”
Wendy sucked in air, making a hissing sound. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “He had many friends who were girls—always did—but no girlfriend. Not for a few years. He liked someone for a while, but she wasn't worthy of someone as good as my nephew.”
Samantha wondered if that someone was Toni. “Was this person living here, in Owl Bend?” she asked.
Wendy scowled. “Unfortunately. She should have gone off to the big city when she had her chance. She could have left this town and been a big star.” Her eyes glazed over, and briefly, she had the expression of a baby—simultaneously frightened of and fascinated by the world.
Samantha took a step back and rubbed her bare forearms. Wendy had the same eyes, but none of the warmth or charm of her nephew.
“Nice to meet you,” Samantha lied.
“And you, of course.” Wendy sucked in air again as her attention darted around the lofted space. “When Warren told me about you, Samantha, I had such high hopes. You are the Samantha Torres who's here doing stories about Colorado for a magazine, aren't you?”
“It's a blog.” When the word “blog” drew only a confused look, she explained, “A blog is sort of a magazine on the internet.”
“Oh, I know what a blog is,” Wendy said with a small snort. “You and I really should get to know each other better. It's too noisy in here, and I've got about a million people to talk to, so I have to run off, but we should get together, maybe for a girls' night out.” She looked Samantha up and down before walking away, folding into the crowd, saying what sounded like, “So pretty. Oh, Warren. She's just so pretty.”
Samantha waited until the odd woman was long gone before she took a normal breath. Warren had mentioned being able to buy his own house, but choosing to stay with his aunt to help her through a difficult time. The memory came back in a rush, and she saw Warren's forlorn expression as he explained how his aunt was always coming up with crazy stories. A few times, she'd come to believe a local woman was her long-lost daughter, given up for adoption years before. But she was delusional. Wendy Jameson had never been pregnant, let alone given birth. She'd been born without internal reproductive organs. The fantasy of a long-lost child reared its head from time to time, usually during times of stress. It was a coping mechanism, a distraction.
“Champagne?” A very short man with bulging eyes was offering Samantha a flute of bubbly champagne. “We're here to celebrate a man's work, after all.”
Samantha accepted the glass of champagne and took a calming breath before sipping. She didn't want to appear eager, though she was dying for a drink.
She looked down at the short man and introduced herself.
“Charles DeWitt,” he said, shaking her hand. “My mother had de good looks and my father had de wit.”
She couldn't help but smile. “Nice to meet you, Charles. I wish I had a pun prepared. I don't know what to say about Torres except that it's a common surname, and it means towers.”
“A common name for an uncommon beauty,” he said. On a man taller than five feet, it might have come across as smarmy, but Charles DeWitt was almost cute. “Are you a friend of Wendy's?”
“We just met, actually.”
His eyes widened, making him look more like a pug than ever. “Consider yourself lucky,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “That woman is, as the kids today say, cray cray.” He nodded solemnly and whispered, “Crazy.”
To her surprise, Samantha felt protective of the woman. Perhaps because she'd been spending her evenings with the ghost of the man being honored at the party. If anyone deserved the mantle of cray cray, it was her.
“Wendy Jameson has been through a difficult time,” she said in the woman's defense.
“Sure,” he snorted. “Maybe she shouldn't have pushed her nephew so hard.”
She gave him a sidelong look. Her imagination finished his sentence in her head. Off that cliff! Maybe Wendy shouldn't have pushed her nephew so hard off that cliff! Was Charles implying something?
“Did you know Warren personally?” Charles asked, his eyes wandering down to focus not so discreetly on her midsection.
“We worked together on some photos,” she lied.
“Work, work, work.” He tore his eyes off her body and glanced around at the nature and landscape photos on every wall. “It's good to work. It gives one purpose.”
She glanced around, looking for an escape. Across the room, an orange-shirted Finn Bruno made eye contact with her and raised an eyebrow. She quickly looked down at her shoes and wished she hadn't left the comfort of the cabin.
Charles was still talking, carrying on the conversation. “I work with Caitlyn Winters, you know. We're really good friends. Practically BFFs. She's going to stop by here later tonight if she has time.” Charles kept staring at Samantha's dress, as though he could see through the orange fabric to her navel. He licked his lips and continued, “Caitlyn's a very busy girl. Busy, busy, busy. But she really should take the time to come and show respect for the work of a great man.” He finally dragged his gaze back up to Samantha's face, and his expression turned innocent. “Have you talked to Caitlyn? Did she say she would be coming?”
“I'm afraid I don't know about Caitlyn's plans.” Samantha reached into her purse and pulled out the pearl-dotted barrette that the blonde had dropped at the cabin. “Except I do have this, which I'd like to return to her.”
Charles snatched the barrette from her hand greedily. His fingertips were moist, like those of a child who'd been sucking them. Samantha recoiled and stepped back so quickly she spilled some champagne from the flute onto her hand.
“I'll take care of this,” Charles said. “I'll give this to Caitlyn when I see her. If not tonight, then tomorrow at work.” He clutched the barrette as though it were a talisman.
“Thank you,” Samantha said through a clenched smile. “See you around.” She ducked her head and turned, offering no further explanation. She guessed that any specific excuses would be twisted into a reason for Charles to continue the interaction, running to fetch her a napkin or another drink or a plate of food.
She walked away from him quickly, made a visual on the front door, and excused herself through the packed crowd until she got outside.
In the darkness, a few feet away, someone struck a match and lit a cigarette. She turned to see two boys in their late teens, smoking at the edge of the brick building. They saw her looking their way, and offered her a cigarette. She hadn't smoked in years, not since she'd quit to break the habit of drinking and smoking. She heard a voice in her head: Sammy, if you must smoke, at least do it somewhere I can't see you. Who'd said that?
Something flickered at the edge of her vision. Warren? No, he wasn't there. It wasn't night yet. The sun was still above the roof line of the town's buildings.
She turned back to the boys and told them she'd love a cigarette. The two teens laughed with their mid-puberty deep voices and fought playfully over who would be the one to light the pretty lady's smoke.
As she took her first full drag, she heard someone calling her name.
Chapter 10
Caitlyn Winters, the young blonde who worked as a community reporter, was walking up the sidewalk toward the fire hall building.
“Samantha, that is you!”
“Hi, Caitlyn.” Samantha turned, keeping her hand with the cigarette behind her back. “It's pretty crowded in there. I'm just heading home again now, but it was nice to see you.”
“You can't leave yet,” Caitlyn pleaded. “If I'd known somebody fun
was here, I would have been here right at seven.”
Samantha grinned at the compliment. She was somebody fun in Caitlyn's eyes. It was the nicest thing she'd heard in weeks, due to being holed up in a remote cabin with a mute ghost.
“There are other fun people inside,” Samantha said. “I'm sure you know half the people in there.”
“More like three quarters,” Caitlyn said with an eye roll.
“Hey, you dropped a barrette at my cabin last month, when the three of us were doing our best impression of Sex and the City. I gave it to your BFF, Charles.” She giggled, even though it wasn't terribly funny. “He seems very loyal.”
Caitlyn wrinkled her nose. “Loyal. Sure. Charles DeWitt is loyal like a bad infection.”
Samantha dropped the cigarette she'd been holding behind her back and discreetly crushed it out with her heel. “We should get together sometime for drinks,” Samantha said. “You can tell me all about your exciting work at the community station. Maybe with Toni? She's your cousin, right?”
Caitlyn's nose wrinkled again. A group of people approached the door of the former fire hall, so the two women separated and stepped out of the doorway to let them in. The teenage boys had finished their cigarettes and also went inside.
Once they were alone again, Caitlyn asked, “How about just the two of us? Do you have plans for Wednesday night? I've got the whole day off, so I'm going to clear out some closets. You should come over in the evening. We can have dinner, and you can stop me from going online and shopping my credit card into oblivion.”
“I've got two bottles of wine I can bring,” Samantha said. “Unless you prefer tequila?”
“Just bring your fabulous self.” Caitlyn pulled a card from her pocket and wrote her address and driving instructions on the back. They agreed on seven o'clock Wednesday, which was in three days, and that Samantha could bring wine, but just one bottle.
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 25