“Wow,” Ryan said.
“Yeah,” Catherine responded as she nodded and the tears started to flow. Ryan stood up and headed for the bathroom, returning with a few tissues, which he handed to her. Ever the Southern gentleman…
She accepted them as she smiled up at him in thanks. “You know, everything started to make sense the more I thought about it,” she continued, dabbing her eyes. “The last movie he could remember seeing in theaters was Poltergeist and his favorite song was ‘Thriller’ by Michael Jackson.”
As an eerie tale of disappointed love, it was certainly bizarre. Remembering what she told me over the phone the night before, I said, “You mentioned that something happened last night, but it sounds like you realized the truth about Clarence quite a while ago?”
Catherine nodded, but her attention was once again captured by Lizzie. She rubbed her eyes with the tissue but continued to stare at the doll.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
She looked over at me slowly. “The doll just turned its head,” she said, surprisingly calm.
“What do you mean?” I asked as I turned to look at Lizzie. Sure enough, the doll’s head was now facing the right of Catherine, whereas before it was staring straight ahead.
“She was looking right at me,” Catherine said. “But now she’s looking over there,” she finished, pointing in that direction.
“Don’t let her bother you,” I said as I dismissed the doll with a wave of my hand. “Now getting back to your story, I’m confused by your timeline. It seemed like the situation with Clarence happened a while ago?”
While she gathered her thoughts, I stole a look at the clock on my phone; we needed to leave in about twenty minutes, and probably wouldn’t have time to eat anything on the way. Dammit.
“Yes, it was a while ago,” Catherine admitted. “But there’s more to the story.”
“You’ve got another twenty minutes,” I said with as warm a smile as I could muster. “And then I have to leave for an appointment.”
She nodded. “After Clarence, I didn’t date for a while. A couple months passed, and my sister said she was sick of seeing me moping around the house, so one night a couple months back, I returned to the bar. That was where I met Grover.”
“Oh, brother,” Ryan grumbled as he shook his head.
As with Clarence, Catherine found in Grover a kindred spirit. Sitting in a corner of the bar, keeping to himself, he was reading a book on physics just to pass the time. He could speak seven languages and once volunteered as a translator at a local hospital for refugees. He shared Catherine’s passion for mid-century mystery novels and the first season of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Some nights, after sunset, they used to drive out to St. Francisville and sit under the water tower to stargaze and argue about the existence of alien life.
“He was very eloquent,” said Catherine, “and he used to tell me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, in this world or any other.”
“Didn’t that remark set off any alarm bells in your head?” Ryan asked.
“Not until last night.” Catherine stared vacantly, with the look of a person reliving a fresh trauma. “I asked him if I could meet the rest of his family and he said they all passed away. He was the only one left behind, and that was because he wasn’t yet willing to let go of this world. I scolded him for being ‘emo’ and ‘melodramatic,’ but as it turns out, he was being strictly literal: his entire family—including himself—died in a bus accident in 1964 on a summer road trip through Georgia.”
“Well… shit,” I said quietly, wondering what better words to say.
“He was outraged that I didn’t already know,” said Catherine, fighting back more tears, “and I think that was the worst part. He kept telling me he had no body; but I thought he was saying he had nobody. I’m so stupid; I thought he was just lonely.”
“And this happened last night?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “That’s why I called you.”
“What did you expect me to do for you?”
“I thought maybe I was some sort of… I don’t know… ghost magnet or something?” she asked as her eyes went wide and teary again. “I’m worried I’m attracting these ghost men into my life and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Catherine,” Ryan started as he eyed her narrowly. “What’s the name of the bar where you met Clarence and Grover?”
“The Old Absinthe House,” she answered.
I couldn’t help but smile. The Old Absinthe House was rumored to have more deadly patrons than living ones. “I think it would behoove you to avoid any bars that are rumored to be haunted,” I said. “Clearly, you’re a sensitive.”
“I am?” she asked.
I nodded. “Absolutely. You can contact the spirits in a way that most people can’t. You’re able to see, hear and interact with them. Most people are oblivious to the spirit world. So, if you want to avoid meeting spirits, you need to avoid hanging out in haunted places.”
“But, there are spirits everywhere,” Catherine started.
“Yes,” I said with a nod. “So next time you meet a guy you like, the first thing to do is introduce him to a friend. And if your friend can see him, then you’re okay. If not, try again.”
Catherine sniffed ruefully. “I just wish I’d come to you the first time this happened,” she said. “We could have figured this out months ago, and I wouldn’t have fallen head over heels for Grover.”
“Well, now you know,” I said with a smile as I slapped my hands together and faced Ryan. “And, on that note, we have to get going!”
Catherine nodded and stood up, reaching inside of her purse before she faced me. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” I said with a shrug. “Just take care of yourself and stop dating dead guys, okay?”
Catherine laughed and nodded, but she still appeared sad. “That might be easier said than done.”
Chapter Five
“Ah, we’re going to be late!” Ryan said as we merged into the congested mid-morning traffic. “We should have left earlier and we’d be there by now!”
I didn’t say anything at first. It was one of those early spring mornings where honeyed light filtered through the boughs of the pecans and elms, dappling carriages and cafe awnings in a hazy glow. On a normal day, I’d be on my way to one of the local bakeries, where I’d spend the morning answering emails from my laptop, and guzzling copious amounts of coffee.
“I wasn’t the only one who lost track of the time,” I said finally. “You were just as caught up in Catherine’s story as I was.”
Ryan had no rejoinder to this, because there wasn’t one. Neither of us were paying attention. Instead, he sighed. “I’m sorry I barked at you,” he said after a short pause.
“No problem,” I replied, feeling slightly mollified as I smiled up at him. “You know how easily I get distracted. I’m not trying to make excuses for being late but, in general, you’re the one who keeps us focused.”
He frowned at me. “I can’t always be the responsible one.”
I shrugged and offered him a smile of apology. “That’s just how our relationship works, babe.” Then I laughed as he shook his head.
“Peyton, Peyton, Peyton,” he said.
“You’ve always been the pragmatic one, while I’m the one who gets lost in my thoughts,” I said with a shrug.
“It’s your ADHD,” he answered.
“Probably,” I said. I’ve never been tested for ADHD but I imagine I probably have it. Not that I care too much. I like me the way I am.
We pulled into the parking lot of a suburban strip center hedged with philodendrons and haphazardly strewn with stray shopping carts. “Hmm, a strip mall?” I asked as I glanced around. Not exactly the location I expected to find a lawyer’s office.
“Yeah, weird.”
“Maybe it’s a good sign?” I asked.
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Luke Montague could presumably affor
d a pricey lawyer, but it doesn’t look like he bothered with one?”
“Well, maybe it’s a nice strip mall?”
I glanced over at Ryan in disbelief and he smiled at me. Our relationship was a curious thing when I thought about it. On the surface, Ryan and I seemed to have little in common, but we managed to work well in spite of that, or maybe because of it?
“Are you one hundred percent positive this is the right place?” asked Ryan, surveying the potholes, pawn shops and used furniture outlets that surrounded us. Overhead, a large American flag rustled in the morning breeze. The flattened remains of a cottonmouth moccasin lay under the bumper of an over-sized truck with skeleton-emblazoned mud flaps.
I checked the address I wrote down on a scrap of paper. “Yep, this is it.”
“Well, to your point, I think Luke Montague could have done better.”
I clicked on my phone and checked the email one more time, just to be sure I’d written the address down correctly. “Crap! It’s Auburn Place, not Auburn Street.”
Ryan let out a low groan.
“I mean, come on! Anyone could have made that mistake,” I started. “Why name two different streets essentially the same name? I mean, hello! There’s not like a shortage of words in the English language!” Ryan grumbled something indistinguishable but I held my ground. “This is totally not my fault.”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “How far away is it?”
I frowned and smiled sheepishly. “All the way across town.”
“Send them an email and let them know we’ll be a few minutes late.”
###
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of a stately building with a neo-Romanesque design. The building was painted white, which contrasted nicely with the verdant, green lawn that was shaded with oaks.
Inside, the building smelled old—that musty smell of bygone eras. On the first floor stood an atrium with a circle of busts and a grand, sloping staircase; near the foot of the stairs, in a glass display, hung an antique sword from the pre-Civil War days. The place looked like a museum—not an office building.
We strolled up to the front desk of the lobby and I noticed the smell of talcum powder and liquid floor cleaner. A man in an ill-fitting suit, stood at the front desk, methodically picking all the green Jolly Ranchers out of a glass bowl.
Not seeing a receptionist, I addressed him.
“Hi. We’re here to meet with Mr. Reginald Ewing?” I started as I looked around myself doubtfully. “But I’m not sure we’re in the right place.”
“You’re looking at him,” said the shabbily dressed man, seizing a licorice stick that somehow made its way into the bowl. He stuffed it into his suit pocket. I stared at him in unmasked surprise. He didn’t project the air of formality I associated with the more expensive breed of lawyer, although he spoke in a posh trans-Atlantic accent. “We’re running a bit late or we would have been here half an hour ago,” I said sheepishly.
“And you must be—”
“Peyton Clark,” I answered.
“Ah!” he said as he reached inside one of his pants pockets and produced a candy that he immediately popped into his mouth. “The ostensible owner of the house whose ownership has recently come under question,” he said.
“Yeah,” I answered.
“And who might this upright, astute young man be?” he asked as he faced Ryan and I tried to hide my smile. Upright and astute?
“This is Ryan.”
“Pleasure,” said Ryan, reaching over and shaking Reginald’s hand firmly. Because we’d been in such a hurry to leave this morning, Ryan was still wearing his clothes from the night before: a long flannel shirt and blue jeans. He looked like the owner of a hipster coffee shop.
I worried that we were both under-dressed, but Reginald didn’t seem bothered by it; I got the feeling he only dressed decently because he was forced to. He offered us both a Jolly Rancher (notably not the green ones) from the bowl, which we declined.
“I apologize for asking you to meet me here, at the museum,” Reginald said as he arched his incredibly furry eyebrows at us. “My office is being renovated and because I docent here at the museum on weekends, they allow me to use their conference room.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” I said, not really sure what else to say.
Reginald led us upstairs, into a conference room, with large, undressed windows and a long, oval table carved from walnut. I could see my own reflection in its polished surface. I sat down in a chair near the end of the table, my heart already beginning to race. Ryan placed a reassuring hand on my knee, and I could see, from the creases in his forehead, that he too was worried.
Maybe I should have actually gotten a lawyer, myself? I wanted to, but Ryan insisted it was a waste of money and that anything a lawyer could do, we could manage ourselves. Not to mention that money was a little scant lately. I really needed a new client soon…
There were three bowls placed on the table at intervals, each one containing a different type of candy. Clearly, Reginald had a sweet tooth.
“Before we begin,” said Reginald, “would anyone like a snack?”
“I’m good,” I said.
“Let’s just get this over with,” said Ryan with a game smile.
Reginald opened a tan leather briefcase. “My client is willing to offer you quite a large sum for your house, in order to keep this matter out of the courts.”
At first I thought maybe I misheard him, but the expression on Ryan’s face suggested I didn’t.
“He wants Peyton to sell the house to him now?” Ryan asked.
“He is willing to work with you if you are willing to work with him,” he finished as he looked at me pointedly.
“I’m not willing to work with him if it means losing my house,” I answered, shaking my head.
“Ms. Clark, might I remind you that your house is not the only historical building in this city?” Reginald asked me patronizingly.
“I’m aware of that but it doesn’t change anything and I’m going to fight tooth and nail to keep it.”
“Very well, I shall inform my client,” Reginald said as he closed his briefcase and gave us both a quick nod. “We shall be in touch.”
He rose and escorted us out of the conference room as I wondered how in the world Luke Montague found this bizarre man in the first place.
Ryan and I were in the process of descending the grand staircase when I heard it: a loud keening wail, as if from a woman in mourning. The noise was slightly muffled and seemed so out of place in this immense, pristinely polished building that at first, I thought it only existed inside my head.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Ryan.
Ryan paused on the landing to listen and I could see from the perplexed look on his face that he heard it, too.
“You hear it, don’t you?”
He nodded. Slowly. “You think it’s paranormal?”
“Why can’t you just say the word ghost?” I asked, frowning.
“Isn’t paranormal the same thing?”
I shrugged. “I guess so.” I was going to say more, but the crying rose in pitch and with a weird feeling of excitement, I began running back upstairs in the direction of the noise. I paused at the top of the stairs to catch my breath and listened for the sound again. Ryan was right beside me. It was eerily quiet. “I don’t think it’s a ghost,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because you can hear it too.”
Ryan nodded like I had a good point. And I did. Despite my living with a ghost for the better part of a year now, Ryan had yet to see or hear Drake.
Another sharp cry interrupted the otherwise still air. Whoever it was appeared to be inconsolable. As we searched the hall together, popping our heads in and out of the rooms we passed, I tried to imagine the kind of misfortune that would elicit such a vocal and unembarrassed outpouring of grief. Ryan pressed one ear to the wall, as if he suspected the noise was coming from inside the room opposite.
I pause
d in front of an empty water cooler, listening intently. “We seem to be getting further away from the noise.”
“We have to pick up Maggie from the airport in about an hour,” Ryan said.
“We’ve got time,” I said.
Ryan nodded and I turned my attention to our surroundings again.
“It’s bizarre that we’re the only two people in this building who seem to have heard anything.”
“I think, aside from Reginald, we’re the only two people in the building… period,” Ryan said.
There weren’t any of the usual sounds you’d expect to hear from a busy building—the hum of voices, the echoes of footsteps, the sounds of human beings. Just then, a pair of businessmen in matching suits walked past us but gave no indication that they heard anything unusual. Meanwhile, the crying persisted in the background.
“How could they not hear that?” I asked.
Ryan shook his head. “You’re sure it’s not a para… a ghost?”
“No, I’m not sure,” I answered with a sigh.
By this time, we returned to the landing and were headed up to the third floor. “We’re going to feel like idiots in a few minutes,” said Ryan, “when it turns out the wailing is just a recording from a documentary about pirates or something.”
That wouldn’t have bothered me at all; it was unsettling to hear anyone crying so intently. “If that were the case,” I started, “why would the person in question continue to cry nonstop for the past ten minutes? That would make for a pretty long scene, don’t you think?” I took a breath. “And why would you think it was a documentary about pirates?”
“I dunno. I’m just along for the ride.”
“Somehow, I don’t think it’s a movie,” I said.
The sobs grew louder as we scanned the third-floor hallway. My heart was practically jackhammering, and my breathing was fast.
“It’s coming from that room,” whispered Ryan, nudging me in the arm gently and pointing toward a pair of open doors.
My trepidation increased as we approached the room. The fear that I’d gotten it all wrong—that someone was just extremely upset and if we walked in on them, they’d be mortified, crossed my mind more than once. Something I wanted no part of.
If You've Got It, Haunt It: A ghost romance (The Peyton Clark Series Book 4) Page 5