by Lyla Payne
“Okay.”
I watch him, trying not to make him uncomfortable but more than curious about this whole summoning process. If my father and my half-brother can do it, why can’t I?
Then again, the Carlottas both acted as if their talents were more akin to mine—random appearances and pleas for help, not the other way around. Maybe the gifts started to change over the years, and the later women will give me insights or clues into the talents Frank and Travis seem to share, at least in some ways.
My half-brother looks a bit like Daria when she’s grounding herself before a ghostly excursion. His eyes are closed, his breathing is deep—the way she taught me—and his lips form silent words. It’s impossible to tell whether he’s talking to his invisible spirit guide, the way Daria encourages, or directly to Lucy, but when he opens his eyes five minutes later, nothing has happened.
“Nothing. I’m sorry, Graciela. I thought maybe she would come if you were here.”
I guess Lucy and the spirit guides are busy elsewhere. Disappointment twists my guts, but there’s no reason to give up hope. Mallory is headed to Pakistan, and I can at least pass along what I saw—that the room she was in is underground. It’s not much, but there’s no telling what might help.
I give Travis a resigned smile. “It’s okay. I hoped she would, too, but if I’ve learned anything about ghosts over the past six months, it’s that they seem to be on their own schedule.”
“That’s the truth, although it’s rare for them not to show themselves to me after I offer to help.” Travis seems frustrated and impatient.
It’s time for me to go, and once my feet are under me, they head straight for the front door. The list of Frank’s associates is in my pocket. My heart is heavy over not learning more about Lucy, but it feels good to have Travis on my side.
“Thanks for helping, Travis.”
“I wish I could have done more.”
“Let me know if she ever shows up.”
“Of course.” He rubs his forehead, frowning at the sound of his phone buzzing where he left it on the kitchen table. It’s late for a phone call, but it occurs to me again that he might have met a woman. I’m not quite comfortable enough with him to ask. “Goodnight, Graciela.”
“Goodnight,” I reply, wondering if it would be more or less awkward if I gave him a hug.
He watches me until I climb into my car and start the rattling engine. Despite how strangely things began between us, it’s nice to have someone else looking out for me. I even find myself hoping that, in the end, Travis will find the answers he’s looking for.
Chapter Twenty
I’m feeling more than a little bit groggy the following morning—downright hung over, which is sad, considering I didn’t get to do the fun part of the process. The first thing I do is call Shana, who doesn’t answer. I expected that and leave her a message that’s purposefully vague—hopefully enough so to intrigue her. She’s always loved mystery and drama. There were times growing up when I wondered whether she was my mother, not Felicia.
During the twenty minutes I lie in bed to check my email and social media accounts, I also start looking for the second person on my list of two. It’s a man named Virgil Telling, and the files listed him as a cohort of Frank’s who was arrested several years ago. Since he’s on parole, he’s not hard to find, and I copy his number down with plans to call him later.
The best way to get on someone’s good side is not to ring them out of the blue before eight in the morning. That’s a fact. Shana doesn’t have a good side, which is why I had no trouble calling her first. That, and I knew she wouldn’t answer.
I swing my legs out of bed and head for the shower, slightly sad that Henry’s not here this morning. It’s nice to have a chat while I get ready. Sort of like college, though my conversations with ghosts are ever so slightly more one-sided.
Lucy makes me nervous, so even though I’m eager to help Mallory find her, I’m not sad that she’s not around. Although perhaps I could have tried talking her into dropping by Travis’s house to give him more information.
Amelia and I get ourselves to work, fueled by pastries and caffeine, with five minutes to spare, which is more than anyone can ask for on a Monday. After re-shelving books for an hour, I find a good morning text from Beau waiting for me, and that’s not all—there’s also an email from the Journal of American History editor, who loved my revisions to article number one. He also confirmed they’re still very interested in article two based on the outline and primary source material I’ve sent along.
My heart squeezes with happiness. At least one thing in my life is going right. I can’t wait to get home and tell Henry the good news. I’ll read him the article, then tell him what the editor said about publication, potential interview requests, and follow-up discussions. It might be enough to help him cross over, which makes me realize that I’m going to miss the old codger a bit. More than a bit. Henry saved Amelia’s life. Helped me with both Frank and Mama Lottie. He’s been around since almost the beginning of this whole Grace-sees-ghosts thing.
It seems to me that my life will be a little less safe and a good deal less interesting when he decides he’s had enough of the mortal world and it’s time to explore whatever comes next. I have no doubt he’ll go—he’s an explorer at heart. An adventurer. I can’t imagine that he would choose to remain here one second longer than he deems necessary to complete his business before turning to face the next challenge head-on.
I get to test my theory sooner than expected. Amelia’s hiding out in the children’s area, probably taking a nap during the silent-as-a-tomb afternoon hours, and I’m up front putting in some orders on the computer when I suddenly sense a chilly, earthy presence over my shoulder.
“Henry,” I sigh out. “I told you not to lurk.”
He’s peering at the computer screen the way he’s taken to doing, looking for mentions of himself, no doubt. The guy’s a quick study, and even though he lived in a time when computers weren’t even a blink of a possibility in Alan Turing’s magnificent brain, he’s deciphered plenty as far as their usefulness.
“It’s not about you,” I inform him in my normal voice, no longer worried that Mr. Freedman will come out and bust me. He probably wouldn’t say anything even if he did. People have gotten pretty used to my strangeness, even if they don’t always understand it.
“I do have some news, though,” I continue, closing the library ordering window and pulling up the revised article that I sent in for approval a week or so ago. “Sit down and listen.”
Henry’s spirit does as I request, propping himself up against the wall, his legs stretched out along the floor and crossed at the ankle. He prefers the floor to furniture. Always has, but what do I know? Maybe he can’t even feel anything he’s sitting on, anyway.
It takes me the better part of an hour to read the whole article to him, but Amelia stays away. Either she’s having a really good nap, or she senses this is important. Henry closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, a small, satisfied smile on his face as he listens to an article that presents, in broad strokes, the accomplishments and details of his rather extraordinary life.
My throat is dry and scratchy by the time I’m done, but there’s more to tell him. I explain that more research will be done to verify my claims. That academics will be talking about Henry Woodward for years to come, and his name will never be forgotten. He opens his eyes when I stop, and they’re brimming with bright, shining tears. Gratitude beams from his face and he gives me a nod that can only be a silent thank you.
My own eyes prick with tears. “You’re welcome. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me, too.”
We sit there in silence for a long time. I try to memorize his face, wondering when he’s going to leave, and if this will be the last time I see him. This thing I can do…helping these ghosts. For today, at least, it feels a little bit like a gift after all.
In that awkward space bet
ween work and dinner, the one that begs for a hot bath, a nap on the couch, or both, I call Virgil Telling. Amelia is out for a walk with Brick, which gives me the house all to myself, and as luck would have it—I finally have some—the man picks up on the second ring.
It catches me by surprise. I mean, who answers calls from unknown numbers anymore? Does he have a landline, too?
“Hello?”
“Um, Mr. Telling?”
“Yes. Who’s this?” His voice is old and reedy, full of suspicion.
“My name is Graciela Harper. Frank Fournier was my father.”
For a while, the only sound on the other end of the line is his raspy breathing. In. Out. In.
“Was?”
“Oh. He’s…I’m sorry. He’s dead.” Why haven’t I gotten any better at telling people this sort of awful news? I really need to practice in front of a mirror or something, since it appears I’ll be doing it on a regular basis as long as dead people keep visiting me.
“Why you sorry for me? He was your daddy.” The voice has turned gruff.
“I don’t know. Were the two of you friends?”
He snorts. “People like Frank and me don’t have friends, darlin’. But we were longtime associates. That counts for something, I suppose. I’m not glad to hear he’s gone, that’s for sure. What happened?”
This just gets worse. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered?” That truly does seem to take him by surprise. “By who?”
“I was hoping you might be able to help me figure that out, actually.”
“I don’t see how, but I’m willing to entertain your questions. Ask away.”
“Well…” I’m only now realizing that maybe I should have written down a list of things to ask. But he’s not going to sit and wait forever, so I need to start somewhere. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Frank?” I ask, sticking to the most obvious question.
“Not really. He didn’t make a lot of friends along the way, but Frank mostly worked alone. So he didn’t make all that many enemies, either.”
“But you worked with him,” I point out, fishing. Leading him in an attempt to get him to say something—anything—that can lead me to more questions.
“Yep, a few times. But I had a nose for jobs. Frank never wanted help executing them, only leads, and he’d split the profits with me.” He grunts. “Worked out better for me, anyway. Low risk, and Frank always followed through.”
Of course, the real reason Frank never wanted help was because a partner would ask uncomfortable questions about how he managed to acquire stolen goods without doing any actual breaking and entering. Do any of my father’s acquaintances know about his ghosts?
It’s weird to think that both Travis and Frank kept their ghosts a secret, especially since the first thing I did was blab about mine all over town. I mean, sure, Travis’s adoptive parents thought he was insane.
Maybe I should just count myself lucky that I was an adult when it first happened, surrounded by people who believed me. Otherwise, there’s a good chance I’d be in the nuthouse right now.
“Did you set him up with a drug heist in South Carolina? Prescription stuff, from a hospital?”
“Me? No. That’s small time, darlin’. How much pay could he have possibly gotten?”
I obviously have no idea, though I suspect the things he took would probably get an eager welcome from the bored, rich housewives down in Charleston.
“I thought Frank was out of the game, to be honest,” Virgil continued. “I’ve been away, but I asked after Frank when I got out about six weeks ago. People said he’s been incommunicado for three months or thereabouts.”
“What do you mean?”
There’s a rustle of fabric, like he’s shrugging. “Dunno. Just that he ain’t been around, and no one’s heard of any jobs he’s pulled or anything like that.”
There’s a pause, a funny one that seems to suggest there’s something more coming. Instead of asking, I bite my tongue, take a deep breath, and wait for it.
“Last time I talked to Frank, before I went up the river, he said he was afraid his past was catching up with him—and there was something he needed to do before it did. Someone he needed to talk to.” He pauses again, and the same rustling noise crackles over the line. “Don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”
“He came here to talk to me, I guess,” I admit. “Maybe the stolen drugs were just because he was here, and he needed something to do.”
That makes him chuckle. “Sounds about right. Ol’ Frank didn’t like to sit idle.”
Didn’t like to, or couldn’t? There’s so much I’ll never know now about my father’s abilities. About his relationship with the spirits.
“What do you think he meant, his past was catching up to him? Was it a job that had gone bad? Were the feds closing in?”
“Can’t rightly say, but like I said up front, I don’t think Frank had too many troubles with other cons along the way. Possible he thought the fuzz was on his tail. Always possible.” There’s a noise in the background, like a knock or a stomp. “I’ve gotta run, darlin’. I hope I helped ya, and I’m sorry about your daddy. He wasn’t a bad guy, as criminals went.”
Virgil hangs up before I can come up with a response, and I’m surprised that, for the second time in as many days, my throat feels swollen and throbby. Barring the possibility that I’m coming down with something, it seems that Frank’s death is affecting me in unexpected ways.
But maybe there’s no way to really anticipate how a death will hit you. I felt strangely peaceful after my mother’s death, then angry. Gramps’s death made me at once sad and wistful—and happy that his suffering was over. My ghosts don’t seem to have feelings about their own deaths beyond how the people they left behind are affected.
I’m sitting on the sofa, wondering how Frank’s ghost would feel about the way he left Travis and me, when my phone rings a second time and scares the bejesus out of me.
My fingers are still shaking as I answer the phone call from Beau, wondering why he’s not using FaceTime. “Hello?”
“Hey, sweetheart. I’m on a dinner break and sitting outside, so I didn’t want you to have to watch me eat.”
“Oh, so I just get to listen to it, huh?”
He laughs at our inside joke about how he hates the sound of people chewing, and a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. My heart lifts…and then trembles a little at the knowledge that there are no secrets between us. Nothing big and bad that needs to be shared, just conversation.
“How was your day?”
I tell him about the note in Frank’s pocket, my evening with Travis, and the call with Virgil, half-expecting him to be upset that I’m looking into the whole thing on the side, but he just makes listening noises.
“It definitely sounds like something was catching up with Frank,” he muses when I’m done. “I’m inclined to think he wasn’t imagining it, since he wound up dead and all.”
“True.” I bite my lip. “Well, hopefully one of the other people on our list will have more details. I still haven’t heard back from Shana.”
“Make sure to share all of this with my brother or sister. The firm’s investigator will want to make a note of Frank’s associates’ names and what they told you.”
“I will.” It occurs to me that the investigator either hasn’t found anything, or they haven’t informed me of what he has found, and make a mental note to ask Brick about it the next time we talk.
Beau and I spend the next fifteen minutes just catching up, him telling me stories that make me laugh or groan and me relaying the latest between Brick and Amelia, which amuses him just as much as it does me. I can tell by the way the conversation winds down that he’s going to have to get off the phone soon, and my stomach sinks at the thought. It stinks that he’s so far away. I miss seeing him, touching him, and even simple things like sitting beside him on the couch. It’s almost as if I d
idn’t realize what a steady presence Beau had become in my life until he went away.
“I miss you, Gracie Anne. Come and visit me.”
My heart jolts at the request, sudden and unexpected. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I miss you, too. How about next weekend?”
“Perfect. I don’t know how much time I’ll have, but it’ll be worth it even if I just get you for an hour. I’ll have my assistant book you a ticket for Saturday after you get off work, okay?”
I love that I don’t have to tell him my schedule. That he assumes, correctly, I wouldn’t want to leave Amelia alone to cover the library, not this late in her pregnancy and not with everything else that’s going on.
“Sounds good.”
“I can’t wait. But I have to get back to work now. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I tell him before we hang up, and when Amelia and Brick get home a few minutes later, they find me grinning on the couch like a moron.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mel meets me for lunch two days later, on my day off. We’re going to take Grant and Marcella to story time later. Story time is a two-person job, so I tried convincing Mr. Freedman that both Amelia and I should be on duty, but he’d already made the schedule for this week. At least this way, we’ll still be there to support Millie while she deals with the wildebeests.
For now, it’s the two of us at Westies, nestled at a two-top table in the corner. It’s by the glass windows and door that lead out onto the patio, which means it’s a tad chilly, though Mel doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, I’m pretty sure she picked the spot for just that reason.
Once we’re settled, Mel stares longingly at my chicken salad on a croissant. I’m afraid to pick it up at first, but then she sighs, resigned, and stabs a radish at the top of her salad.
“So, Daria said you came by the other day.”
“She did?” I hear the surprise in my own voice. I guess I kind of thought Daria forgot about me each time I left her place, only to be reminded the next time I showed up at her door. “I was curious about Lucy’s ghost. Why she doesn’t seem to realize she’s dead.”
