Ghost Trippin'

by Cherie Claire

  “Hide? Why?”

  “They were after me.”

  I can’t help it, ripples of goose bumps skitter across my skin. “Who?”

  He doesn’t answer, stands there frozen, his face wrinkled in pain, thinking of some past horrible event.

  “Was it Elena?” I ask.

  Her name brings him back. “It wasn’t her fault.”

  “What wasn’t her fault?”

  There’s a faint beeping in the background and Dad starts fading like a bad television connection.

  “What was?” I say louder. “Dad!”

  “Ask Wanda,” is all he says as he fades from view.

  Chapter Eight

  It takes me ten minutes, tops, to shower, change, and head out the door to Wanda’s hotel room. I knock loudly and she opens the door on the second rap. She’s still dressed in her uniform, gun belt on her hips, cell phone in her hand.

  “What on earth?”

  “You knew Elena and my dad,” I practically shout. “More than you’re letting on.”

  Wanda pauses at the threshold, then grabs my arm and pulls me inside. She looks guilty but guarded. “What’s happening?”

  I start pacing because really, I haven’t a clue what’s going on. One thing’s for certain, Wanda’s involved. I just know it.

  “I saw my dad. He said he was hiding from something or someone. Said to ask you about Elena.”

  I stop at this point and stare, waiting for an explanation, hoping it’s not what I fear, that Wanda’s involved in this drug deal gone bad and I’m facing a woman who might kill me as easily as she’s killed others. I really should have thought about that before pushing my way into her hotel room.

  When she deflates and sits on the edge of her bed, I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. “Elena was my colleague.”

  “She was a cop with you?”

  I suspected as much but the news floors me for two reasons. First, that I’ve been left in the dark about this woman and there may be much more to learn, and second, that she’s been spewing Spanish to me all this time when she could have explained everything in English.

  I pull out the desk chair and sit down, facing Wanda. “What happened?”

  “No one knows.” She smiles sadly and I wonder how tight their relationship was. “She sold drugs to your dad, arrested him, then took him into the station. That’s how they first met. I don’t know why he and Elena had that conversation in the park. She had mentioned going there, said she had gotten a tip and wanted to check it out. We never heard from her again.”

  “He was there for the birds.”

  Wanda ponders this, nods, but neither one of us really knows.

  “Do you have the video?”

  Wanda rubs a hand under her nose and reaches for her laptop. Were those tears? She powers up the computer and clicks on the video clip, then leaves the bed and pours herself a glass of water before dumping in one of those tiny Jack Daniels bottles you get on airplanes. I reach over without thinking and catch her wrist. When our eyes meet, Wanda amazingly backs down, sighs, grabs the glass and I hear her flushing the drink down the toilet. When she returns to the room, she mutters a soft “Thanks.”

  I return my attention to the video I watch Elena walking through the park, meeting my father and both pausing to talk. It’s a brief conversation, nothing like what I saw in my vision. No smiles, no hand on the forearm, no passing of information.

  “Weird,” I whisper.

  “What?” Wanda asks.

  I explain my vision at the beach, how they appeared to be friends and the small item she placed in his hands. Wanda frowns and plays the video again and we study their every move. Nothing.

  “I don’t get it. I know I saw her give my father something.”

  Wanda leans back and sighs. “Maybe you’re seeing something that happens later.”

  “But, why…?”

  I look at Wanda and her eyes are glistening gazing at Elena. Before I can inquire further without being intrusive, there’s a knock on her door. Wanda shakes her head, rises, and opens the door to find TB.

  “I was worried,” he says, looking at me. “You ran in and ran out without a word.”

  Wanda grimaces and opens the door wider. “It’s almost time to meet the rest of the group, anyway. Why don’t we go to that restaurant and text them where we are?”

  I rise from my place on the bed and close her laptop. “Great idea.”

  Just before we all head out the door, I pause. “Elena said something to me today. In Spanish. Which is pretty rude, if you ask me, considering I don’t speak the language.” I gaze at both of them quizzically. “Why on earth wouldn’t she speak English? You’d think ghosts would give the rest of us a break.”

  “What did she say?” Wanda asks, clearly exasperated with my rambling.

  “I’m not sure if I’m repeating this correctly but it sounded like fifteen palm court. And a name. Something Ruiz.”

  “Manuel Ruiz?” Wanda asks.

  “I think so.”

  Wanda pauses, one hand on the hotel door.

  “Do you know him?” TB asks.

  She nods. “He’s the sidekick of one of the biggest drug dealers this side of the border.”

  “Could that be who killed Elena and my father?”

  Wanda shakes her head. “I don’t know. He disappeared a few weeks ago. He and the man he worked for.”

  Something about the way she says this makes me shutter. “How?”

  Wanda keeps shaking her head. “No idea. Stumping us all. We had been following their drug activity for months and were about to make an arrest, then everything stopped. It’s like they both vanished from the earth.”

  TB’s heading for the elevator and Wanda’s waiting for me to cross the threshold, but I’m still thinking about that Jack Daniels. Something my dad once said, that half the battle was fighting the temptation to enjoy items sitting in the cupboard. He was referring to the bag of Zapp’s potato chips we both craved while we watched a Saints game. It was the beginning of the New Year and we both vowed to eat healthier and those damn Voodoo chips were always our undoing. But now I wonder if he meant something else.

  “There was only one bottle,” Wanda says, looking down at her feet.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude….”

  She meets my eyes and a softening has taken place. “Actually, I appreciate it. Things get hairy when old pains resurface and my sponsor’s on vacation in the Bahamas.”

  We head over to the Tex Mex place called Viva La Taco and find a six-top in the back while I text Portia and Mimi where to find us. My first inclination is to order a margarita but I’m not about to imbibe in front of Wanda.

  “Do you have Diet Dr. Pepper?” I ask the waitress, hoping that since this is Texas, birthplace of my favorite soda, they will carry it.

  She shakes her head. “Just Coke products.”

  I scrunch up my face like a child and order a Diet Coke, which makes TB glance up from his laptop. He knows how much I love tequila and salt so no doubt he’s wondering what gives. I send him a look and he orders an unsweetened iced tea. Before my logical mind insists otherwise, I imagine he received my unspoken message. For good measure, I text Mimi and Portia and tell them to avoid alcohol in front of Wanda.

  “What are you doing?” Wanda asks.

  I jump and the phone goes flying across the table. I grab it before anyone has a chance to read my texts.

  “What do you mean?”

  Wanda looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “I meant your husband.”

  TB’s cool, doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “Trying to see what fifteen palm court might mean.”

  “An address?” I ask.

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Wanda shakes her head. “I looked for her everywhere on this island.”

  TB’s fingers pause over the keyboard and he gazes at me over the top of the laptop. Now I’m reading his unspoken words. Wanda knew my father was here long before
her mother read the coffee grinds. Today, she strolled into the rehab office with Portia and possibly received information only privy to family. I’m starting to seriously wonder how she’s involved, nervous I may have misread this woman from the start.

  When our drinks are placed in front of us, I move to enjoy my Diet Coke bubbling in a margarita glass. As I reach for the stem, however, I feel TB’s fingers on mine. I look over and see he hasn’t touched his yet.

  Just then, Portia and Mimi arrive, one still in a sophisticated outfit more apropos to a courtroom and the other looking like she waltzed in from Woodstock, jingling to the table from all the bracelets and necklaces. TB waves them over.

  “Can’t wait for the chips and salsa,” Mimi exclaims. “I’m starving and ready for a cold drink.”

  TB slides his tea over. “All yours, haven’t taken a sip yet. Vi and I need to get some air.”

  All gazes rest on me, including Wanda’s, whose eyes have narrowed with suspicion.

  TB grabs my drink and slides it in front of Portia. “We’ll be right back. I need the keys to the car.”

  Everyone’s still staring at us questionably but Portia digs the keys out of her bag and hands them to TB.

  “What’s up?” Wanda asks. Was that a curt tone in her voice?

  “Nothing,” I say with a smile. “TB has digestive issues and I forgot, we’re supposed to get some probiotics from the drugstore before dinner. We’ll be right back.”

  “You both don’t have to go,” Portia says. “We need to talk.”

  Without TB there? I suddenly realize my family’s been like this for years, keeping my husband on the outside, as if he wasn’t a member of the exclusive Valentine Shakespeare society. Everyone in my immediate clan scores high on intelligence tests and TB, well, it’s best he not take one. I feel the injustice acutely now and wonder why I’ve never noticed this before.

  “We won’t be long,” I say, a little too harsh, sounding like Wanda. “Pig out on the chips and we’ll be back in no time.”

  Portia notices my tone and frowns but I don’t care. TB and I hurry out the door before anyone asks more questions.

  “I get the message but what are we doing?” I ask him on the way to the van.

  “Fifteen Palm Court is an address on the island.” He jumps in the driver’s seat and I join him on my side. “Only it’s not what you think.”

  “I take it you didn’t want Wanda to know.”

  TB glances at me as if he wants to explain but thinks better of it. He shrugs. “Intuition.”

  “Uh, huh. Are we talking about some angel thing?”

  He lets out a big sigh. “Honestly Vi, I don’t know. I just go with the flow.”

  I turn in my seat so I can look him straight on. There’s a force flowing through us, I get that. For most people, they call it God. For Aunt Mimi, it’s nature along with God, and for me, it’s the afterlife, but even that, too, could be considered God. I’m supposing TB feels it too — that angelic thing and all — but in a protective way. One force, different ways to get there? I’m as confused as ever.

  “What?” TB asks when he feels me staring.

  “I’m trying to figure out how this works.”

  “What works?”

  “Everything. You getting messages. Mimi communing with nature. My weird new visions.”

  “Wait, what?” TB looks my way when we hit a red light. “What visions?”

  I explain the video-like scene I witnessed at the beach, then Dad coming through when I set my mind to it.

  “They both were strange, actually. Not like the usual ghost visits I get where they show up like a haze and tell me information or show me something. The one with Elena felt more like a film made just for me, completely different from the real thing. The others are so dark, like Dad’s in a purgatory of sorts.”

  I’d say I’m evolving my talents but that’s not something TB wants to hear. He’s worried I’m obsessed with reaching Lillye, and he’s likely right. He’s made peace with her passing and talks to her regularly so I get it. But I want more than a feeling and if my talent’s changing, I can’t help thinking I may be moving toward seeing my precious angel.

  “Maybe Elena is showing you something in a way that makes sense,” he says. “And your Dad, he must be in that in-between place. Maybe it looks that way right after they die and they haven’t transitioned.”

  Transition. I like that word. So much nicer than death, a final outcome.

  “I think we come from love, and we return to love,” TB says so silently I almost don’t hear him. “We spend our lives trying to get back there while fighting death. We don’t realize that it’s one and the same.”

  I ponder this thought, such a wise idea coming from my simple-minded husband. I reach over and take his hand and he squeezes mine.

  “As for the angel thing, I can’t explain it. It feels like love. On days when I’m trying to focus on framing a house or fixing a roof I don’t feel it at all. Other times, it’s like a river running through me and all I have to do is jump in.”

  “And then what happens?”

  TB smiles and shrugs like he’s five and he’s not sure he should tell his friends something uncool. “I feel the love.”

  I think back to the visions I’ve had, whether the usual ghost visits or the ones I’ve experienced during the last few days. Did I feel love? Hardly. But there was that moment when my toes sunk into the sand, the waves lapped at my calves, and the sun warmed my face. I felt as if I was part of the world, as if I was a child of nature, one with the universe, and not a journalist demanding facts in a hurried world.

  In essence, it felt good to let go.

  Twilight’s approaching and the Gulf water twinkles with the oranges and reds of the setting sun. We’re close to Mustang State Park, according to TB, so businesses disappear and nature takes over. Just before we enter the park, we pull up to a plant nursery with a variety of palm trees out front. It’s approaching closing time and there’s a man out front about to pull the gate closed. TB waves to him and the portly man walks to the driver’s side while TB rolls down the window. I look around for clues as to why TB brought me here but find none.

  “We’re about to close but if you need something in particular I might be able to help,” the man with a nice smile says.

  “Actually, we’re hoping you can solve a mystery for us.”

  The man laughs, as he leans an elbow on the window. “Okay.”

  “Did you know a woman by the name of Elena Gomez?”

  The man’s smile disappears and he turns pale. He backs away from our van and I fear he’s about to flee, so I jump out, come around the van, and put up two palms. The human kind.

  “It’s about my dad,” I say quickly. “He was murdered and we’re trying to piece together what happened.”

  The man’s still staring at us as if we’re the Gestapo come to take him away, so TB shuts off the engine and leaves the van, approaches and places a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. I expected him to bolt but TB’s touch does its magic and the man’s shoulders drop in relief.

  “We’re not the police,” I say.

  “We’re not the bad guys either,” TB adds which sounds so funny I giggle. The two men look my way and I sober up. “Sorry.”

  “What do you want?” the man asks, this time with force. That scared look has long disappeared and he’s not happy.

  I inhale deeply and let it out, trying to find that place of love TB talked about, some calm place without emotion where I might be able to explain this crazy trip we’re on.

  “My father was murdered in Alabama. He had disappeared a few years before but we knew he was down here because of credit card purchases and some phone calls he made to us.” I swallow because here comes the scary part and who knows what side this man lives on. “He got into trouble in McAllen with a plain clothes cop named Elena Gomez. Once the police let him go, that’s when he disappeared, although we think he was at a rehab place up the island.”<
br />
  The man crosses his arms about his chest. “Why do you think either one of them was here.”

  We never said we thought they were. Now I’m convinced we’re in the right place.

  “We found a piece of evidence that said something about palm court,” TB explains. “On a lark, I thought we’d try you.”

  I still don’t get the connection but for all I know TB’s picking up some message from the angel world. The man remains firmly planted where he stands, gazing at us like he’s not sure who to trust. Finally, he sighs and relaxes his arms, nods toward the nursery office and heads in that direction, TB and I following behind.

  It’s then I see the sign. “Palm Court Nursery.”

  I lean toward TB. “Where does the fifteen come in?”

  This time, TB nods to the left and I spot an old auto court on the side of the property, the kind that were popular in the thirties and forties, little cottages linked together with carports in between, a place where travelers could spend the night for very little money. Now how did my husband know they were there?

  We enter the office and the man motions for us to take a seat in front of his desk, while offering us coffee, water, or a soft drink. I decline but TB lights up when he mentions Mountain Dew.

  “That’s my favorite,” he gushes. “You can’t find it like you used to. Although I guess it’s a Southern thing.”

  Amazingly enough, the man smiles at my husband’s ramblings. “I have Dr. Pepper, too.”

  Now you’re talking. “Diet Dr. Pepper?” I ask.

  The man nods and heads off and TB and I look at each other and grin like school kids. As silly as I feel doing this, I’m warmed by the chance to enjoy life instead of worrying about dead people. Even if it’s just for a moment.

  But then I think about Dad and the joy fades.

  “Why would she be here?” I ask TB.

  He shakes his head. “No idea.”

  The man returns and introduces himself as Jack McDonald, the owner of the establishment. His hands are covered in thick gloves which he doesn’t remove and he hands us our drinks. We gratefully accept the icy bottles while Jack relaxes in an oversized chair behind the desk. It’s then I notice the plaque above his head. Mr. McDonald’s a veteran Texas Ranger.