Blood Sisters

by Jim O'Shea

  A low limestone wall surrounded one of the oldest parts of the cemetery, a section that included the Meeker family’s private burial plot. Two of the four tombstones in the small plot were stained dark with age—those belonging to Nicholas Albert Meeker I and Pearl Eagle Meeker...aka, Grandpa and Grandma. Although the other two were unstained, all four bore names carved much deeper in Libby’s soul than the actual granite itself.

  Libby stood alone next to her mother’s freshly dug grave as people gathered from every direction. There were a few nods and whispers exchanged, but no conversations. Everyone was waiting on Pastor Nicholas Meeker, who stood alone under a large persimmon tree with his lips moving silently.

  Several foggy minutes later, Libby stood by her father as he wobbled next to a gaping hole in the ground. Men typically preceded their wives and children in death, but her father wasn’t so blessed, and seemed ill-equipped to deal with that reality once again. Although the popular pastor had given countless heartfelt eulogies over the years, on this dreary day Nicholas Meeker sounded more like a mannequin reading from a teleprompter.

  Libby sighed out loud, yearning to be anywhere than where she was…perhaps diving deep into the stack of work at her office. How nice it would be if life were as simple as designing a building—to be able to simply remove parts of her life with the click of a mouse, leaving on the finished blueprint only what she wanted it to be. Such was not the case.

  Her father teetered, so Libby wrapped her arm around his waist.

  Aisha slid up next to him on the opposite side and did the same, grasping Libby by the elbow, mahogany cheeks stained dark with tears.

  Through her own glassy eyes, Libby’s attention was inexplicably drawn to a lone soul in the distance. Her skin prickled at the sight of a figure wearing an overcoat and fedora, leaning against a large monument and staring in her direction. The man could have been seen as part of the inanimate object, a silent stone guardian to anyone who happened by, had it not been for warm breaths pluming in the cold, dry air. And in Libby’s case, an uneasy sense of familiarity.

  Libby dabbed the corner of both eyes with a tissue and checked on her father. He was leaning again, so she propped him back up with Aisha’s help. When she looked back out across the foggy cemetery the mysterious figure was gone like a wisp of smoke, as if never there.

  Most of the large gathering made its way back to the Meeker home after the service, and the weather cleared enough to allow a majority to spill out into the backyard.

  Aisha took ownership of the kitchen.

  After far too many murmured condolences and perfumed hugs, Libby sat alone in her father’s office gazing out on groups of ladies clad in drab coats and men in dark suits.

  Her father stood rigid amongst the mourners with a pair of reading glasses atop his head, apparently long forgotten. He wore the exhausted smile of a man forced to deal with the good intentioned, none able to provide the comfort Libby knew he craved.

  Faith would be his safe harbor once again, and ministering to his congregation the panacea for his pain—but Libby would not be so blessed. She would once again suffer a series of aftershocks over the next few weeks as she did ten months ago, and over that time, pieces of her would crumble and fall away. By the time she reassembled herself months from now, there wouldn’t be as much of her left.

  A shaft of light fell on her when the sun suddenly broke through thick clouds, and it felt as if her mother’s hand was caressing her cheek, if she believed in such a thing. It provided the perfect angle to be able to see her own reflection in the window or just as easily look past it to the crowd outside, depending on where she made the lens of her eyes focus.

  She stared at her familiar face framed by one of the window’s mullions like so many photos scattered around her parents’ house. In some ways, she was still the little, red-haired girl who had grown up as one half of a pair of freckled bookends. In most ways, however, her face appeared worn by life and time.

  Libby relaxed the muscles in her eyes, allowing their pliable crystalline lenses to settle into their natural state. Her reflection disappeared, and the shadow of The Crossing’s church steeple appeared through the window lying flat and in sharp focus across the backyard.

  It was at that precise moment that her breath became lodged in her throat.

  Deep in the steeple’s shade, the lone soul from the cemetery emerged as if from a shimmering mirage—still wrapped in the tan overcoat, warm breath once again pluming out from underneath a black fedora.

  9

  With scant warning from the local weather forecasters, a winter storm had swept in from the west overnight and was in the process of putting the finishing touches on downtown Salt Lake City, gradually softening its edges.

  Libby was at work early, looking down from the top floor of her office building at traffic slowed to a crawl.

  7:06 AM.

  Ryan Florich touched the top of her hand lightly. “You still OK?”

  She jerked her hand into her lap. “It’s been over a week since the funeral, Ryan. Thank you, but I’m fine.” She turned her attention back out the office window.

  “You’re a strong woman, Libby Meeker,” Ryan said smiling.

  The Long+McCauley architectural firm conducted business in a three-story office building on West 100th Street. Partner Bradley K. McCauley IV’s third floor office faced east, providing a panoramic view of the Utah State Capitol, and the Oquirrh mountain range in the distance. But Brad McCauley was not in his office.

  7:08 AM.

  The door swung open abruptly and the McCauley half of Long+McCauley strode in without making eye contact, tan accordion file folder tucked under his arm, and a thick set of architectural drawings in his right hand. Brad McCauley was shorter than Florich, but had a much thicker build and carried himself more like a Supreme Court justice than a partner in one of Utah’s largest architectural firms. He tossed the file folder and drawings on his desk, plopped down in his chair, and spun toward the wall of windows, leaving his back to them.

  Libby found herself counting the ticks coming from an antique mantel clock on McCauley’s credenza until he finally swung his chair around and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. She waited with her hands clenched in her lap until he finally spoke.

  When he did, his words were slow and deliberate. “Is it safe to assume you both understand how important the convention center project is to the firm?” he asked.

  Libby looked at her boss for a signal to speak, but Florich kept his gaze trained on McCauley. He cleared his throat and scooted out to the edge of the chair. “It’s been the top priority project for our team since day one,” Florich said, his words as slow and measured as McCauley’s. “Ms. Meeker can provide a more current update, but we hope to have the final drawings ready for review in the next day or two.”

  “Tomorrow, Mr. McCauley,” Libby said. “My group plans to—”

  “Your team plans to what, Ms. Meeker?” McCauley glared at her. “Request a do-over? Ask the city planner if we can have our drawings back so we can make them not look like a monkey created them?”

  Libby let her breath out slowly as a deep tremor rolled through her. She traded a confused glance with Ryan.

  “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Mr. McCauley,” she said. “If you’d like to provide additional input before we—”

  “Before we what?” McCauley slammed his fist on the desk with enough force that it seemed to reverberate through Libby. “I’m not sure what to think right now, Ms. Meeker. Kathy Long and I entrusted this project to your team and we both had total confidence in your ability to make the city’s dreams a reality. When I received Marcia’s call late last night, I was shocked. Overwhelmed might be a better word.”

  “Marcia Olds?” Florich flashed a quick glance at Libby.

  “The one and only,” McCauley said. “City planner, owner of the convention center project budget, and one of our greatest allies—until yesterday. Until she told me, in no uncer
tain terms, that our plans not only failed to meet virtually every single design criteria but also looked like they’d been done by a five-year-old.”

  “I have to admit I’m a little lost, Brad,” Florich said, his face now a bright shade of red. “Not only are our plans outstanding in my opinion, but they aren’t scheduled to be delivered to the City until Friday.”

  Libby wiped the palms of both hands on her skirt and swallowed a lump in her throat.

  “I intended to have the drawings ready for the committee’s final review later today, or worst case tomorrow, Ryan,” she said. “I’m not sure what—”

  McCauley held the palm of his hand up and leaned forward, focusing on Florich first before grabbing Libby’s gaze with his own. “I don’t know if it’s you, McCauley, or you.” He pointed at Libby and then redirected his fingertip to Ryan. “But somebody owes me an explanation.”

  “Mr. McCauley…” Libby’s voice cracked. “I’m very confused, sir.”

  “I’ll make you a deal, Ms. Meeker.” McCauley exhaled through clenched teeth. “You explain to me why you delivered this nonsense to the City without my authority over the weekend, and I’ll try to think of a reason not to fire you right here, right now.”

  “What?” Libby struggled to keep her lips from trembling. “Mr. McCauley, the drawings are locked down on the computer. I believe I’m the only person in the company with a hard copy at this point. I’ve been tweaking the receiving dock layout based on some last-minute changes we received in our last meeting, so I don’t understand what—”

  “Ms. Meeker,” McCauley said, “Marcia Olds left my office less than an hour ago, which means she got up very early to come in, as did I. A red-haired woman, whom she said looked a lot like you through her upstairs window, rang the doorbell a little before six last night. By the time she was able to answer the door, the mystery woman was gone but a complete set of drawings was on her porch. She considered it quite a surprise, but the biggest surprise came when she opened them.” McCauley leaned back, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled. “Marcia was nice enough to discreetly return these to me this morning instead of showing them to the committee.”

  “But sir, I—”

  “Humor me.” McCauley pointed at Libby’s name and digital signature in the bottom right corner of the top drawing. “Is this you? Is this our convention center?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then please explain to me how an entire set of my company’s plans got in Marcia’s hands if it wasn’t you who delivered them.”

  Libby slouched back in her chair, wishing the bizarre tangle of facts would somehow arrange themselves into an order that she could make sense of. The word bewildered didn’t approach what she was feeling, but was as close as she would get with mere words. “I…I…”

  “There must be some mistake, Brad.” Florich stood over the drawings and propped both arms on McCauley’s desk. “Libby would not have delivered any of this prior to our review.”

  “Marcia would have no reason to lie to me,” McCauley said. “There’s no mistake, Ryan.”

  Libby stood next to Florich and examined several of the blueprints. They appeared to be based on her team’s original designs, but incorporated modifications that were as inappropriate as they were unauthorized. When she looked up, Florich had an odd mix of confusion and anger splashed across his face.

  “Libby?”

  “These aren’t my drawings.” Libby slumped back into the chair. Her gaze turned away from the confusing blueprints to snowflakes blowing past the office window, to a peaceful scene in direct contrast with the tension inside the office. Like so much of her life over the past few days, nothing made sense. “I was home all night last night, Mr. McCauley.” Libby stood and faced her boss’s boss. “I didn’t deliver these.”

  McCauley glared at her. “Can you verify that?”

  Libby shook her head slowly. She’d been home alone all night as usual, but had no way to prove it. She resisted the urge to run, and instead took several steps toward the office door. “Printed copies of the current master plans are in my office, Mr. McCauley,” she said. “Let me get them.”

  Brad McCauley waved his hand. “I’ll expect you back here in five minutes.” He pointed at Florich and added, “You stay here, Ryan.”

  Libby ran down the hall to a bank of elevators. She stabbed the elevator button twice before opting for the stairs and when she emerged on the first floor, she was out of breath but only a few feet from her small office.

  “Hey, Libby!” Colleen Bones stuck her head out from a cubicle as if she had anticipated her arrival. “Again in the office? What gives?”

  “No time, Colleen.” Libby slammed her office door and opened the blinds on her window to bring more natural light into the dim space. She pulled a key out from underneath a small potted plant on her desk and used it to unlock the center door of her credenza. Instead of finding a stack of blueprints, the space was empty.

  Almost empty.

  For a few seconds Libby couldn’t—or wouldn’t—identify the small object that sat on the credenza where the drawings should have been. When she did, she stumbled backward into her chair and her arms shimmied when she tried to push herself up. She slid out of the chair and onto her knees, reached into the credenza, and picked up the piece of curved wood as if it were radioactive. Her hand felt numb as she dropped the jigsaw puzzle piece into the pocket of her sweater.

  As the bizarre riddle tumbled wildly around in Libby’s brain, another assaulted her from the white landscape outside. She could have written off the person wearing a tan overcoat as nothing more than a strange coincidence, had it not been for the familiar red hair poking out from underneath a black fedora.

  ~*~

  Libby pulled slowly into her driveway hours later, still licking her wounds from the series of emergency meetings she’d attended all morning. Somehow she still had a job, at least for now, and an action plan had been put in place to try and recover the project. Libby was asked, ordered, might be a better word, to take the rest of the day off.

  She threw her purse on the kitchen table and trudged up the stairs. A hot bath was needed, so she started filling the tub, and dropped in a dose of her favorite bath beads. She remembered the puzzle piece in her sweater pocket as she was passing the spare bedroom, turned and opened the door. She let out a gasp when she clicked the light on.

  The jigsaw puzzle pieces were no longer heaped in the basket under the nightstand as she’d left them. Once again, the puzzle was partially assembled on its surface. Shock only lasted a few seconds…before the fear set in.

  10

  “I’m not even sure why I’m here,” Libby said. “I never said I saw a ghost.”

  Dr. Brenda Lambert clasped her hands in her lap and crossed her legs. “I didn’t say you did.”

  Libby turned away from the good doctor’s gaze and tried to focus on the surroundings. The pale green walls in her psychiatrist’s office were accented with cream-colored wainscoting, and tan draperies covered windows on opposite sides of her desk. If Libby could pick one word to describe the woman’s office, it would be safe. She turned back toward Lambert and met her steady but soft gaze. Deep hazel eyes had lost none of their intensity over the past twenty years, despite being surrounded by a few more wrinkles than in the past. “I don’t buy into all the supernatural nonsense. The only spirits I believe in are the ones that come in bottles.”

  Lambert tucked a long strand of gray hair behind her right ear and leaned forward in the chair. “Then how do you explain seeing your dead sister at the cemetery and at your dad’s house the day of the funeral? Not to mention outside your office building yesterday morning?”

  Libby stiffened. “I’m not sure what I actually saw.”

  Lambert stared at her for a few beats. “No one else saw this person. You admitted that.”

  “Somebody could have. I didn’t ask around.”

  “Let’s say there was someone outside your office,” Lambert said after
a brief pause. “Perhaps your subconscious longed to see Melissa so bad, you superimposed her face on that person?” She gently placed her hands on Libby’s, which were clenched tightly to her knees.

  “You’ve been a rock for me since Melissa passed, Dr. Lambert,” Libby said, as tears stung the corners of her eyes.

  “And now your mother. With all the emotional turmoil, it’s no wonder your work situation is deteriorating.”

  Libby’s face fell into the frown she’d been struggling to hold back. The story of her life—chapter one, page one. “There’s more,” she said quietly.

  Lambert leaned forward.

  “Please don’t make a bigger deal out of this than it should be, but…” Libby paused. “The morning after the City debacle, I found something in my credenza where the blueprints should have been.”

  Lambert tilted her head slightly to one side.

  “I need to back up.” Libby rubbed her hands together. “The night of my surprise birthday party, I found a partially assembled jigsaw puzzle on the nightstand in my spare bedroom.”

  Lambert tilted her head to the other side. “OK.”

  “Only the outside edges of the puzzle were complete and most of the pieces were missing the night of the party. Aisha seemed to think it was meant to be a surprise gift and somebody got sidetracked or maybe interrupted before they finished it.”

  The elderly doctor did a slow inhale, followed by a quick release. “Good possibility.”

  “I took it apart the next day and put the pieces in a basket under the same nightstand. I had dismissed the whole thing, but my dad was a little worried when he heard about it.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Lambert said. “The gift theory makes sense, but it’s a bit strange when you consider it was found in a part of your home that would be generally considered off limits to visitors.”

  Libby swallowed a dry lump in her throat. “I found the puzzle reassembled on the nightstand when I came home from work yesterday.”