Dancing with a Ghost

by Angela Pepper

  Lee nodded stiffly. His eagerness to speak was overridden by his desire to be Teacher's Pet.

  Katie smiled to herself. No talking for two hours was fine by her. It wasn't unusual for her to go a whole day without speaking anyway. Lee, on the other hand, might implode.

  “Many great artists have painted outdoors,” Tilda said, her speech taking on an instructional tone. “Before reference photos, it was necessary. The Impressionists embraced plein-air painting with the greatest enthusiasm. Why? That's for you to discover.”

  She cranked out the telescoping legs of her easel and gestured for them to do the same.

  “We come here for the light,” she said. “But don't forget about the smell, the sound, the breeze on your skin, the bug bites on your ankles. You are here, in the moment, in three dimensions. This is how to engage your emotion, so that your painting becomes personal. The secret—”

  She broke off, staring in horror at Lee. The young man had taken his phone from his pocket and was taking pictures of the vista.

  “Put that away before I throw it into the creek,” she barked.

  Lee ducked his head and put the phone away sheepishly.

  “And that's another reason to paint outdoors,” she said. “After all the effort you make to hike somewhere and get everything set up, you're not going to waste your time posting on your social media.”

  Lee said, “But I was just—”

  Tilda lunged forward, grabbed Lee by his rubbery arm, and began dragging him toward the edge of the cliff.

  He shrieked like a captured rodent. While she dragged him, he swore he wouldn't speak another word, much less argue with her. She abruptly released him, dusted off her hands, and returned to her easel as though nothing had happened.

  “The secret is to paint what you see,” she said, resuming where she'd left off. “And to paint what you see, you must first see what you see. Not what you think is there or expect to see. Yes?”

  Katie nodded. Yes. She'd read those words in one of Tilda's biographies. Lee nodded as well. The scuffle with Tilda had ripped his pants at the knee. Blood was seeping to the surface of his skin where he'd scraped it. Katie tasted a metallic tang. She saw the blood surface and mix with the clear ooze, becoming brighter. Like mixing pigment with medium.

  Tilda was already mixing paints. She'd brought a small canvas that she'd evidently started painting during a previous visit to the same location. Even unfinished, it was better than anything Katie hoped to paint that day, or maybe ever.

  Katie started mixing her colors anyway.

  “One last thing,” Tilda said. “This is the most important point I have to teach you.” She paused dramatically. “When the wind blows grains of sand onto your canvas, and it will, don't touch it. Wait until the oils are dry, and the sand will fall off on its own.”

  * * *

  They stayed at the location all day, straight through lunch. Around midday, as the shadows were at their shortest, Holly rode up on an old bicycle. She served them a picnic-style meal from the bicycle's basket, which she'd filled with sandwiches and cold tea.

  The air turned chilly, stiffening their paints and their fingers, but they continued to work on their landscapes.

  Katie's arms ached and her head throbbed. Her observation of light and shadows was no better than it had been the first time she'd picked up a paintbrush. Her canvas was covered in paint but it was in all the wrong places.

  Here they were, in front of a stunning vista that inspired rivers of students who'd come before her, who'd raved about the retreats, and she felt nothing.

  Inspiration eluded her. There was no desire, no passion. Had she ever felt it? She worried that whatever had once driven her was gone forever. She'd taken a psychology class and learned about how human brains were still growing and changing up until the age of twenty-four. That age was when risk-taking behavior abated. She was only twenty-two, but she feared she had already transitioned into a place of safety. That she had outgrown creativity.

  She stabbed the canvas with color anyway.

  At four o'clock, Tilda declared that she was done for the day.

  “Which means you're done, too,” she said, packing up her supplies with a practiced ease. “Frankly, I'm surprised you've been able to keep up with me. You are two of the finest students I've had.” She gave them a suggestive eyebrow waggle. “And I've had a number of fine students.”

  Katie turned to her own supplies and kept her eyes on them as her cheeks reddened. Had Tilda been propositioning her? Or Lee? Or both of them, together?

  They finished packing up, and Tilda led the way down the trail.

  “We could go the long way,” she said, pointing to a spot where the trail branched off. “It's further, but not as steep. What do you think? How are your legs?”

  “Good,” Katie said.

  Lee only shrugged.

  “Then we shall take the short, steep way,” Tilda said. “It's just as well. There's a documentary crew by the other trail.” She spat on the dirt beside her. “Filthy little filmmakers.”

  Katie didn't know what to say, so she stayed quiet.

  As she walked, the only sound she made coming from her shoes on the path, she worried.

  She worried that a day would come where something would need to be said and she wouldn't be able to find any words at all, let alone the right ones. She had already failed people.

  She should have talked to Darlene more, asked her roommate what was bothering her. When Katie found the box for the home pregnancy test in their shared bathroom, she should have said something. But she'd said nothing. She'd drawn in her sketchbook. She'd read articles on the internet. She'd worried about her homework.

  She was the last person to have seen Darlene before she went missing, the last soul to notice the troubled girl was walking out the door with a backpack on her shoulder, and she hadn't even said goodbye, much less asked the girl what she'd been crying about.

  She could see her so clearly in her mind, one streak of mascara down her left cheek.

  If Darlene was dead now, it was because of Katie's silence. And now Katie would bear the guilt the only way she could. In silence.

  Chapter 6

  With heavy steps, Katie entered the main ranch house and went straight to her room. The day's session had been exhilarating, but now the adrenaline was wearing off. She fell upon the scratchy blankets and slept for two hours.

  When she awoke from her nap, feeling stiff from the crumpled position she'd fallen in, her ears pricked. Something was going on outside her bedroom door.

  People were talking, whispering. She heard her own name being spoken in hushed, conspiratorial tones. They were discussing her?

  She clapped her hands over her ears, too horrified at the prospect of hearing what was being spoken about her to listen in. Overheard talk about oneself brought nothing but pain. At college, the other students only discussed Katie to ask each other what was wrong with her. She'd heard one girl ask another, “Why doesn't Katie have any discernible personality?” The other girl had laughed, and said shyness was a cover for being dull. Katie died a little inside, because she agreed. It had happened a year ago, but the memory was razor-sharp.

  The murmuring in the hallway continued.

  Katie stepped off the bed with a groan, coughed loudly as she reached her door, and squeaked it open. Whoever had been standing there shuffled away before she saw them. Katie crossed over to the washroom, banging the door behind her. When she came out again, the hallway was quiet.

  Tilda called out, “Katie, dear? Would you come and join us for a minute in the social room?”

  “Okay.”

  What did the artist want? Katie's mind raced to a terrible conclusion. Tilda had seen the pathetic scribbles on her canvas and was going to make her leave. She wasn't even good enough to be a student. She'd bring down the reputation of the place.

  Timidly, she entered the space they called the social room. The large, L-shaped room had a table for casual meals as
well as several couches for lounging.

  Everyone else was already there. Lee sat in Teacher's Pet position, right next to Tilda on one sofa. Clive, looking almost grandfatherly next to Lee's youthful face, occupied a vintage Eames lounger. Holly perched on the edge of a wooden chair, poised to take flight at any moment, a spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner in one hand. Marco crouched in front of the fireplace, lighting kindling.

  All of them stared at Katie as though she'd done something heinous. Was this an intervention? Judging by the seriousness of their expressions, this was about more than her awful amateur painting.

  Clive spoke first. “Katie, when were you going to tell us about Darlene Silva?”

  Katie's legs buckled. She fell into the corner of an unoccupied couch. “I'm sorry,” she said.

  The others exchanged glances.

  Marco looked over his shoulder, the side of his face lit by the orange flicker of the crackling fire. There was no sign of amusement in his eyes, no promise of his good-natured chuckling. “You could have told me,” he said.

  “Sorry,” she repeated.

  Marco poked more kindling into the fireplace. “If you thought you were going to bum us out, I can understand, but finding out this way is actually more of a bummer. We all knew Darlene. All of us.”

  “Not me,” Lee said. “My previous visit here only overlapped with hers by a day, and we barely met.”

  Clive growled at Lee, “This isn't about you, kid.” The words shut up were strongly implied.

  “Darlene's not here,” Holly said dreamily, rocking on the edge of her chair. “She was here, but then she went home again, and she didn't come back. Didn't come back. You can look everywhere. Everywhere. She's not here. There's no girl here.”

  Clive shot Holly a deadly look. “Holly, shut up. The adults are talking.”

  Holly jumped up and ran from the room, muttering under her breath.

  Lee was quiet now, his hands folded in his lap. He looked like a little boy watching a movie. All that was missing was the bucket of popcorn for his lap.

  Tilda glanced to the doorway where the housekeeper had left before turning to her longtime business manager and lolling her head to one side.

  She said tiredly, “Clive, must you be so cruel? Holly was only trying to be helpful.”

  “Helpful? I can't believe you even pay her a salary,” he spat. “She's the opposite of an asset to the business. She's a liability.”

  “Say what you will about Holly, but she surprises us sometimes. She's the one who did the internet search for Darlene Silva.” Tilda looked at Katie. “That's how we found out about your friend,” she explained.

  Marco asked, “Why would Holly even do a search on that name?”

  “A ghost,” Lee said.

  Everyone jerked their heads in his direction, including Katie.

  “I went into the kitchen early this morning to get coffee,” Lee explained. “She nearly jumped out of her skin. She said she'd been seeing a ghost wandering through the halls. A girl who looked like Katie but wasn't Katie.”

  Everyone turned to look at Katie. She cleared her throat. “We don't look that much alike, really.”

  “Ghosts,” Clive snorted. “Holly and her superstitions. That woman's been crazy since before her accident.”

  “You do have a point,” Tilda said. “I've always heard stories that the Bagley women have psychic abilities, but I never appreciated it until now. Somehow, she knew. Holly knew about Darlene.” Tilda turned her attention to Katie. The redheaded artist's expression was cold, her skin pale and her eyes like two turquoise stones dropped in snow. “Why didn't you tell us, dear? We had to find out through the internet that one of our former guests has been missing for months now. Was it simply too painful for you to share?”

  “Yes,” Katie said, jumping on the explanation. Tears welled up in her eyes. “It's too painful.” That part was true.

  Clive said slowly and carefully, “We are all very sorry for what you're going through, Katie.”

  She sniffed.

  “I didn't get to know your friend that well,” Clive said. “We barely said hello and goodbye to each other. But from what I do recall, she was a dynamic girl. I'm sure her family misses her very much.”

  Katie sniffed again and swallowed hard. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you the whole story when I arrived.”

  “It's okay to have some secrets,” Marco said. “I won't hold it against you.”

  “Yes,” Tilda said. “For every secret, there's a perfectly good reason for keeping it that way.”

  Clive said, “Sometimes it's best to let a few secrets stay buried.” He waved one hand through the air. “Not that my dear, sweet wife is a believer. No, she always has to go digging for trouble.”

  Tilda sighed. “Oh, Clive. What have you done now?”

  “Nothing,” he barked gruffly. “And we weren't talking about me. We were talking about our little Katie. Kitty, kitty, kitty cat, Katie. What kind of a name is Katie? No one buys art from a Katie. Katie's work will be worth nothing, even after she's dead. Katies are actresses and pop singers. Waitresses. When they seat you at a restaurant, someone says, 'Katie will be right with you.' Isn't that right, Marco?”

  Marco began to chuckle. “I gotta hand it to you, Clive. You sure know how to keep the rest of us on our toes. I never can tell if you're joking or not. You're like a parody of yourself. Are you joking?”

  A wide smile stretched across Clive's face, bunching up the tanned skin around his eyes unnaturally. His rectangular forehead remained eerily smooth.

  “Joking,” Clive said, his voice a menacing growl despite the grin. “Shy little doesn't-say-crap Katie can be whatever she wants to be. She can be a famous artist someday.” His sarcasm dripped like poisoned syrup.

  Lee had his phone out and was staring at the screen. “It says here that Darlene Silva's roommate was the last person to see her alive. Her roommate named Katie Mills.” He flicked his gaze up to Katie's face. “Is that true?”

  “I never lied,” Katie said, twisting her damp hands on her lap. “Darlene was upset about something when she left, but she wouldn't say.” Because I didn't ask. “She packed a bag and left, but she didn't say where she was going.” Because I didn't ask.

  “I'm sorry,” Lee said. “I'm sorry that you didn't feel comfortable sharing this with me.”

  With him? Katie looked away from Lee, focusing instead on the fire Marco was building.

  Everyone was quiet. A few minutes passed, and the only noise was Holly banging pots in the kitchen.

  Finally, Tilda turned to her son. “Good call on building us a nice, big fire. I can taste snow in the air.”

  “I think you're right,” Clive said, easily switching into an agreeable tone. “Plus the weather app on my phone is forecasting snow tonight.”

  Lee said, “Snow?”

  Katie was also surprised—by the prospect of snow in the mountains, as well as the sudden turn of conversation.

  “There's nothing quite like snow in New Mexico,” Marco said, loading more wood into the crackling fire. “Even at this elevation it doesn't last for long, but you'll be in for a treat, Katie.” He glanced back at her, smiling now. “It might even take your mind off your missing friend.”

  Clive clapped his hands. “Christmas! I know it's not for a few weeks yet, but let's celebrate Christmas early.”

  Tilda narrowed her eyes at Clive. “But you hate Christmas. What are you up to, Mr. Fish?”

  His right eye twitched, but he didn't comment on being called Mr. Fish. “Holly can make biscochitos,” he said. “I'll get fresh lard from the pig butcher.”

  “I'll string up the lights,” Marco said. “We need more candles and paper bags. I'll run into town.”

  The three of them started talking animatedly, discussing the location of holiday decorations and supplies.

  Lee silently left his seat next to Tilda and came over to sit beside Katie.

  “I'm sorry to hear about your friend,” he
said. The sympathy in his eyes looked genuine.

  “She's not dead,” Katie said, though she didn't believe it.

  “But she's been missing for months,” he said. “Was she suicidal? I had a girlfriend who killed herself. In high school.” His eyes got a faraway look. “I'm not saying that to get sympathy. I'm just telling you that I understand. And you can talk to me. It's a hard thing to go through, losing someone like that.”

  “Thanks for being here, Lee,” she said, and was surprised by how much she meant it.

  The others continued making preparations for an early Christmas celebration. There was a forced cheerfulness to it, a self-awareness, as though they were performing. They kept angling their bodies and faces as though putting on a stage play for the benefit of Katie and Lee.

  Holly darted in briefly, gave Katie a wide-eyed look, and then disappeared immediately.

  Katie wondered, had the housekeeper truly seen a ghost? Had the spirit found Katie there already?

  They're hiding something, Katie thought. They'd been so eager to confront her and then so quick to change the focus to something else.

  What are they hiding?

  Chapter 7

  CLIVE KINGFISHER

  Clive Kingfisher took his usual seat at the head of the table for Monday night's dinner.

  He didn't know if he'd be able to keep down his meal. Ever since he'd gotten Holly's phone call that she'd forgotten to send the refunds, and that two students had shown up there for a painting retreat, his insides had felt like sandpaper. Holly had been wrong about some of the details, of course. But the new visitors were still trouble. One of them was a kiss-up who'd stop at nothing to further his career, and the other was a girl in a denim dress that curved around her nubile form.

  So, who the hell was Katie Mills?

  Nobody at all, Clive tried to reassure himself. And if she was a threat, he'd deal with her, and he'd be careful. He'd do it somewhere else, far from New Mexico, and far from Spirit Ranch. The place had more than enough ghosts already.

  Holly brought in the food and passed it around. For a refreshing change, she didn't stick her dirty thumb into it. Clive thanked her through gritted teeth. She'd probably been licking all the spoons in the kitchen all day. He would have insisted Tilda fire the woman years ago, if he didn't feel so guilty about what happened to her. That day Holly had her accident and was trampled by the horses was still a blur to the brain-injured woman. She didn't remember what happened, but he did. He'd scared the pair of skittish mares on purpose. He wanted to get the attention of the arrogant young woman leading the tour. It hadn't worked, and Holly had paid the price.