Ghost Trippin'

by Cherie Claire

  “Holy cow,” I mutter without thinking, only I don’t say cow.

  Jack follows my line of sight. “Forty years.”

  TB sits up. “Oh wow, a Texas Ranger, like in Lonesome Dove?”

  “Well, I’m not that old, son,” Jack says with a grin. “But yeah.”

  I’m totally impressed as well, honestly didn’t know they still existed, but I’m ready to get down to business. After hiding a discreet Dr. Pepper burp behind my hand like a good Southern woman, I ask, “You knew her, didn’t you?”

  Jack hesitates. Law man or not, he’s not about to wade into shark-infested waters.

  “We’re not the bad guys,” TB repeats. “I’m a construction worker and Vi’s a travel writer. We just want to find out what happened to John Valentine.”

  Jack continues staring without saying a word, that old cop thing they do.

  I sigh. “My father was hit on the back of his head and thrown into a pond in Alabama. We had to identify him at the coroner’s office. All we’re looking for here is why. Can’t you help us get closure?”

  Finally, Jack leans forward, placing both elbows on the desk. “Can I see your driver’s licenses?”

  “What?” TB asks.

  But I get it. Cops, especially someone as high up as this guy, still have access to records. I reach into my purse and pull out my wallet. “He wants to check us out, TB.”

  TB shrugs and does the same. We have nothing to hide, unless this allows Jack to keep track on us and send the drug dealers our way. I look at TB to see if he’s picking up any kind of negative energy but he’s sitting there all happy like, drinking his beloved Mountain Dew. After a few minutes of Jack studying his computer, he hands our licenses back.

  “Now that you know we’re not running from the law, can you tell us if Elena or my father was here?”

  Jack says nothing and my heart drops.

  “You’re not going to help us?” TB asks.

  Jack smacks his lips and leans back across the desk. “Go home. This is not something you need to concern yourself with.”

  “But…,” I retort.

  “I’m sorry about your father but if this was a drug deal gone bad, it’s best you stay out of it.”

  Funny, I don’t remember saying anything about drug deals either. I’m ready to put up a fight because I know Elena has been here, if not Dad as well. I feel TB’s hand on my forearm and when I glance at him he’s already standing. “Let’s go,” he says.

  I’m mad as hell at this man, Texas Ranger or not, but I’m so frustrated I’m about to cry and I don’t want him to see my tears. I grab the Diet Dr. Pepper and follow TB out the door. Jack watches us from the office threshold as we make our way to the van, staring until we exit the driveway and head back toward the hotel.

  At that point, I unleash the tears. TB reaches over and pats my head. “Don’t worry, Vi. We’ll figure this out.”

  How? We don’t know if Wanda’s a friend or foe, this man who’s high up in law enforcement won’t talk to us, and Elena and my father are determined to make my life miserable with their coded way of sharing information. And then there’s Lillye. Why is it when you get upset at something all the sad things in your life float to the surface.

  “I miss her.”

  I don’t know why I blurt that out, especially to TB. It’ll only make him sad too. But I can’t help it and it feels good to say it to the one person who really understands.

  “I know sweetheart,” he whispers.

  I lay my head on his shoulder and cry all the way back to the hotel, grateful for his touch petting my hair. I straighten when we pull into the restaurant and I wipe my eyes. I don’t look at my husband, exit the car, wait for him to reach my side and we walk in together, silently. The six-top we left contains empty plates, desolate baskets where no doubt tortilla chips were once located, and four drained glasses. Wanda’s nowhere to be found.

  “That was a long trip to the drug store,” Portia says. Unfortunately, the meal hasn’t smoothed out her mood.

  Mimi, on the other hand, takes my hand and asks if I’m okay.

  “Why wouldn’t she be?” Portia pulls out her credit card and pays the tab. “If y’all want dinner, it’s on you.”

  With that, my well-dressed sister walks off in a huff.

  “What flew up her butt?” I ask.

  Mimi runs a hand through her hair. “She has her reasons.”

  “Like what?” I should be sympathetic but when it comes to my sister, she made her bed. I can count on five fingers the time she’s been nice to me.

  I’m about to say as much when TB sits down and changes the subject. “What happened at the rehab place?”

  Mimi motions for me to sit and TB waves over the waitress. Suddenly, I’m really hungry and that Diet Dr. Pepper feels like anti-freeze in my stomach. “More chips and salsa,” I add, after TB orders margaritas for the three of us and two chimichanga plates. Oh man, I love those things. Once we get settled and start slurping down tequila, Mimi explains what happened at Primrose.

  “They won’t give out information on patients. It’s a privacy thing.”

  “But Dad’s transitioned.” I smile, so glad that TB gave me that word.

  Mimi doesn’t even notice. “We have to prove next of kin. Portia was named executor of the estate by your dad before he died and now that he’s gone, she will be able to get the information. But the estate’s in probate.”

  “So, we can’t get it now?” TB asks.

  Mimi smiles. “You know Portia. She has friends everywhere. A judge is faxing over confirmation as we speak. We should be able to get answers in the morning.”

  I relax and bite into my fried trip to heaven, topped with guacamole and accented by some of the best beans and rice I’ve had in a long time. “Great.”

  Mimi’s holding back. She looks down at her margarita, then slurps the last few drops.

  “What?” I ask.

  Mimi looks around the restaurant, spots Wanda off in the corner on her cell phone, and leans toward us. TB and I lean in too.

  “Wanda picked up some brochures while she was there and asked for a price sheet.”

  I don’t see how this applies to anything secretive, not to mention Wanda might be considering the place for herself, but I nod. “Okay.”

  Mimi looks over at Wanda again and I wonder if she suspects our cop friend. The moment sends goose bumps racing across my skin. I look over at TB, who can read auras, and he’s studying Mimi too, like something’s amiss.

  “The charges your dad made to his credit card,” Mimi practically whispers. “They were double what they should have been.”

  I try to remember how long Dad stayed at Primrose. “Maybe he was there twice as long as he should have been.”

  Mimi shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “What else could it be?” TB asks.

  Mimi leans in even closer. “He paid for two people?”

  I lean back and study the possibilities. Did my father escape some bad situation in McAllen and come here to hide? Rehab’s the perfect place, but what happened after his time was up? Where did he go? And if Elena was involved somehow, did he help her? Did he pay for her to hide out in rehab too? Can people do that? Or did Elena follow him here, trying to find his whereabouts and arrest him for something he did at the bird park?

  I’m so confused and the questions are about to blow my brain apart. But the margarita beats me to it; when I gulp down the frozen goodness I get a brain freeze. I groan from the pain just as Wanda walks up to the table.

  “Something wrong?” Her tone is anything but pleasant.

  “Too much tequila, too fast.”

  She stares at me like Jack did and I’m getting real tired of this cop interrogation technique. “What?” I ask a bit too harshly.

  “Something you want to tell me,” she bites back.

  I place my fork down on my plate and it makes a louder noise than I was anticipating. This gets Wanda’s attention. She looks
at me as if I’m not the one to be upset, which makes me even madder.

  “My father’s dead,” I begin. “Murdered in a pond behind my tiara-wearing cousin’s house.”

  Oh crap, I need to call Tabitha back, I think. I told you I’m ADHD.

  “And now I’m on the coast of southern Texas being treated like a criminal by cops. One in particular is following us around and I’m not sure she’s on my side.”

  Wanda smiles grimly, crosses her arms about her chest, and leans back in her chair. “I could say the same about you.”

  “Oh yeah?” I announce a bit too loudly. “How do you figure?”

  I feel TB’s hand on my arm but I ignore it. I’m frustrated by the ghost visions, I lack the knowledge to understand what’s happening to me, and I’m sad because I lost the sweetest child and now my father, the latter of which is hovering in some dark in-between world.

  Wanda uncrosses her arms and leans forward, placing both elbows on the table and stares me down. “I just got off the phone with a certain Texas Ranger.”

  My bravado deflates.

  “He says you all came by poking into business you should leave to law enforcement.”

  “You know this guy?” TB asks.

  Wanda offers that smug grin again. “I worked with him on the Manuel Ruiz case.”

  Maybe it’s the tequila kicking in or my stomach sending something akin to valium into my brain but I feel it. I’m in that zone Mimi talks about and I know, although I can’t explain it, that Manuel Ruiz is responsible for my father’s disappearance.

  But where does Jack McDonald fit in?

  Mimi senses something happening with me and she takes my right hand. “Go with it,” she says.

  My brain’s about to play interference and insert facts where woo-woo has taken hold but I refuse it entry. I close my eyes and I see Palm Court Nursery. It feels like I’m on a dolly filming a scene, panning across the lot of palm trees and moving to the left where the old auto court remains. The camera takes me to the far cottage at the rear, a dilapidated building with plywood boarding up the windows, an alley in the back. She’s there, I hear the universe telling me, although not inside Cottage No. 15. I open my eyes and wonder about the validity of what I’ve just seen. It was my own voice speaking so I’m not sure.

  “Do you trust him?” I ask Wanda, who’s staring at me intently.

  “Where did you go?”

  Now, it’s my turn to lean across the table. “Do you trust Jack McDonald?”

  There’s several seconds of silence until Wanda finally exhales in a burst. “No.”

  I nod, although I dread what I’m about to say next.

  “I think she’s buried behind the auto court.”

  Chapter Nine

  It all happened so fast. One minute I’m enjoying a chimichanga from the Gods and the next I’m being hauled out the door. Wanda grabs the keys from my hands.

  “Pack immediately and meet me at the van,” Wanda instructs us as we all head for the elevator. “The van will be parked at the back of the hotel.”

  When we reach her floor, Wanda places a hand on the elevator door and turns to us. “Don’t check out. And make no noise.”

  Mimi appears flustered; she’s not used to gathering her things this fast and certainly never been in a situation where her life may be at stake. TB takes her elbow. “I’ll help you get ready, Mimi.”

  “But what about y’all?”

  I laugh as we hit the third floor. “I can pack in five minutes flat.”

  She sends me a worried look as she and TB exit to the left. I head right to Portia’s room, but before I think and let fear rear its ugly head, I send my sweet husband a smile and blurt out, “Love you.”

  TB doesn’t answer, keeps walking down the hallway, but I swear for a millisecond I see his aura. Or maybe he’s doing that angel light thing again.

  I hear CNN on the TV behind Portia’s door so I knock loudly. She doesn’t answer right away, so I knock again. This time, she swings the door open and I nearly fall inside.

  “What?” she asks curtly, holding something in her hand that looks like a pregnancy test.

  I push my way inside. “Something’s happened. Wanda thinks we may in danger. We need to pack and get out of here as quickly as possible.”

  While Portia frowns, arms folded, that piece of plastic tucked inside her elbow, I explain what went down at Palm Court and Wanda’s reaction. “She wants us to leave now,” I finish. “The van’s out back.”

  At first, Portia doesn’t move, stands there gazing at me as if I’m the “scum” she sometimes defends in court. I avoid her eyes and look around the room, find everything neat and orderly. Figures.

  “You had to go and screw this up, didn’t you, Vi?”

  I sigh. “What are you talking about?”

  “You and TB playing detective, which is now getting us killed.”

  I shut her laptop on the bed and slip it into its bag, gather up papers neatly arranged on the desk and start adding them. “We’re not getting killed and TB and I found something important. But if you want to look at it that way….”

  She releases all that pent-up energy stored in that crossed-arm stance and her voice rises. “How else shall we look at it? No matter what happens, you’re always doing something to demand attention.”

  I stop gathering folders and look Portia straight in the eyes. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “No matter what happens,” she says with so much scorn it feels like lightning striking at the top of my head and skittering all the way to my toes, “Vi always gets the attention.”

  I’m seriously hurt. Not so much by her words but from the tone of her voice. “That’s not true.”

  She grabs her suitcase and throws it on the bed, places what little she has out into the bag. “Daddy’s little girl. You and him always going on bird watching trips and camping.”

  “You and he.” I wince because it’s the wrong thing to say. I really need to stop being the Nazi Grammar Police, but my ADHD makes me blurt things out without thinking. Of course, Portia responds by glaring at me. “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “I’m the one who used to put him to bed after he drank all night,” Portia continues, throwing — and I mean throwing — items into her suitcase. “I’m the one who watched mom and dad fight all the time. I got to be the go-between when they divorced. And then he disappears, Katrina hits, and you and Sebastian just go your own way….” At this point, she’s waving her underwear in the air to make a point. “And yet I’m the one who keeps in touch and tries to help him.”

  “What do you mean, go between?”

  Portia stops and laughs sarcastically. “I was their lawyer.”

  I shake my head to make sense of this. “What?”

  “Yeah, you didn’t know that either. Where were you, Vi? Nowhere, that’s where.”

  She heads to the bathroom to retrieve her toiletries and I’m so stunned she would say what she did that I sit down on the bed and stare at the news about pirates hijacking an oil tanker in God-knows-where. I hear Portia place whatever she has in her hands into the luggage and zip it close, then sigh heavily and sit down next to me.

  “I was a little busy,” I whisper.

  She’s done this before, made comments about me wallowing in grief, not moving forward, as if she’s weary of me suffering through the loss of my child. Since Lillye died, I’ve lost my home, spent two days on a roof after the hurricane flooded us out, left my husband, moved to Lafayette, and started a new career. In the last few months TB and I have been making amends, but there’s those ghosts I keep seeing, and only last week I nearly lost my life.

  “I’ll never understand you,” I say, still watching the action on CNN. “You have a great husband who makes a lot of money, a good job, and two beautiful, healthy kids.” With those last few words, I swallow hard. “Why are you so angry?” I finally look her way. “And why are you so angry at me? Do you really think my life is so much easier than yours
?”

  She looks away. “I never said it was easier.”

  “Then what, Portia? You’ve been ugly to me my whole life.”

  She doesn’t answer, continues staring at the wall. Finally, she places that piece of plastic in her lap and wipes her eyes. It’s then I get a good look at what she’s been holding. “You’re pregnant?”

  She swipes her eyes with her free hand, rises and walks to the credenza, throws the pregnancy test into the trash can so hard it makes a loud ting against the metal. “No, I’m not pregnant.”

  “I didn’t know y’all were trying.”

  “I’m trying.”

  I’m about to get clarification on this statement, plus all the other hurt she threw at me, when there’s a knock on the door. My breath stops for a moment and I look at my big sister, the scary lawyer who’s afraid of nothing, as to what we should do. She pauses for a moment, that old steel returning to her spine, then heads to the peephole and looks outside. Her shoulders droop and she opens the door. “It’s your husband.”

  TB waltzes in with Stinky in his arms. “Y’all ready? Mimi and Wanda are in the van.”

  Portia says nothing, pulls the laptop bag over a shoulder, grabs her massive piece of luggage, and heads out the door. TB looks at me with concern but I shake my head. I have no idea what went down in here and we don’t have time to discuss it.

  “Our stuff?”

  TB holds the door open for me. “In the van, too.”

  The man’s amazing, such a help. Maybe I should let him come on more press trips with me. I could sneak him into my hotel room like Stinky.

  We quietly exit the elevator, check the hallways, and slip out the back. Wanda’s there with the van, Mimi in the passenger seat. We open the back and squeeze Portia’s suitcase in, and while Wanda’s talking to TB, Portia leans toward my left ear.

  “Can we trust her?”

  I look over and Stinky’s on the ground, making love to Wanda’s ankles. Without stopping in her conversation with TB, Wanda leans down and rubs Stinky behind the ears.