Trace of a Ghost

by Cherie Claire

  Carmine’s been a travel writer for more than twenty years; I started the winter after Katrina so two years now. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do following journalism school but I never could get Southern Living or those other magazines with travel sections to hire me. I ended up covering cops and school board meetings in St. Bernard Parish for the New Orleans Post, the smaller city newspaper to the notable Times-Picayune, the latter of which won a Pulitzer for its Katrina coverage while we ceased publication.

  I despised hard news reporting, wrote travel articles on the side, but when Katrina washed away my job — literally — it was time to follow my dream. I moved into a mother-in-law apartment in Lafayette, two hours west of New Orleans where we evacuated, and started over. I had lost everything in the storm and severed ties with the rest, TB included, so life was a clean slate. I hit the ground running and loved every minute of my new career — even the ghosts I found along the way. The recent recession grounded me for several months, time I spent reviewing hotels and solving ghost mysteries back home. I’m back in the saddle now and that makes me smile even more, although I must stop using all these metaphors and clichés!

  This press trip is one of my favorites, a slower stroll down one of America’s most historic highways. Usually, public relations companies or tourism boards invite us to visit a destination and fill our days with activities from early morning to late at night. It’s fun stuff, mostly, and all of it comped, but it’s still work. We meet and interview notables, visit attractions, take lots of photos, perform social media, and type up notes before bed. On the outside — mostly what my friends imagine I’m doing — I’m having a blast in a cool destination, living the life of luxury. The reality is I’m having a blast but it’s still work.

  When I received the invite to this trip, however, it was remarked on three separate occasions that we would enjoy the Natchez Trace slowly, as travelers had in years past. There would be time for hiking, picnics with scholars on ancient Native American mounds, and relaxing historic accommodations. After the summer I had, this was just what I needed. Having an autumnal nip in the air is lagniappe, as we say in Louisiana, a little something extra.

  Shelby Constantine of the Zelda Walker Agency waves to us as we enter the baggage claim area. She’s impeccably dressed like most PR professionals and carrying a sign that spells out our names. She recognizes Carmine instantly. Everyone knows Carmine.

  “Hey, Babe,” Carmine says as he plants a kiss on Shelby’s cheek.

  “Hey, yourself.” Shelby holds out her hand and I shake it. “You must be Viola.”

  Behind her line of sight, Carmine cringes at her pronunciation. It’s Vie-o-la, not Vee-o-la, like the instrument. I smile. I’m used to it.

  “Y’all wait here and I’ll bring the van around. But here are y’all’s packets.” Shelby hands us our press kits. “And wait until you see what’s in store for you.”

  Shelby hurries off in her high heels that I would never wear on a press trip, considering the amount of walking we do, but then I’m not the most girly girl on the planet. I never leave home without my Converse, if that tells you anything. I glance down at the packet with a re-enactor on the cover, a man who looks like he stumbled out of bed in 1840s Kentucky, but the pause allows me to focus back on Carmine.

  “You want to talk now?”

  “We’re staying at a Marriott tonight?” Carmine’s busy looking at the itinerary.

  “It’s just for tonight. The Natchez Trace starts when we enter Mississippi.”

  Carmine shuts the folder and sighs. “I realize that but even if we’re in Alabama, I was hoping for something more historic.”

  “You’re avoiding the subject.”

  “What subject?”

  I sigh and he grins, slips the folder into the outside pocket of his carry-on. “Okay, I was a bit annoyed this morning.”

  “A bit?”

  Carmine gives me that sly smile with a tilt of his head. “Maybe slightly more than a bit?”

  I hug the press kit to my chest. “What the hell was going on?”

  “Who were you talking to at the airport?”

  Now, it’s my turn to smile slyly. “A woman who said you had all the answers. And you’re still avoiding the question.”

  Carmine turns solemn and begins picking lint off his jacket. “The SCANC convention is a complicated thing.”

  “I thought it was just an excuse to party.”

  The grin emerges but he’s still staring at imaginary jacket dirt. “That too.”

  A pause ensues, what my Aunt Mimi would call an angel passing over. Heavenly host or not, I’m getting frustrated as hell.

  “Carmine!”

  Finally, he sighs and looks up at me. “There are people there I don’t trust.”

  “Obviously. You nearly killed Dwayne Garrett earlier with your stare.”

  The air between us sparkles, like electricity before a lightning strike. It reminds me of when Dwayne shook my hand and remarked that I had power behind my handshake. But he was smiling. Carmine’s gazing at me like I’m the devil incarnate, clouds seemingly floating in those big brown eyes. It’s a side I’ve never seen of Carmine before, a dark foreboding nature that’s giving me the creeps big time. I back up, still gripping the press kit tightly against my chest.

  Carmine takes a deep breath and his countenance shifts. He smiles and we’re back to being buds, but I can’t forget the darkness that emerged just now, or the feeling that he’s keeping something from me, something scary.

  “I’m sorry, Vi.” He touches my arm and it’s like nothing happened. “There’s certain people in the world that rub me wrong.”

  I act like nothing’s happened but that uneasiness remains. Something’s way off here.

  “How about a drink later?” Carmine offers. “There’s a great bar at the top of the hotel, has a beautiful view of the river. Or we could go to the one off the lobby. That’s actually my favorite.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  Carmine laughs and starts relaying all the times he’s visited Florence and Muscle Shoals, a couple of times for music pieces on the legends of rock ’n’ roll who recorded hit after hit in this small Alabama town, another on the birthplace of two legends, W.C. Handy, who arguably fathered the blues, and Helen Keller, water pump included. The clouds have lifted and we’re back to old times, me laughing at his stories and Carmine relating them in his typical dramatic fashion.

  Before I know it, he takes my press kit and places it on my bag, then pulls me into a bear hug.

  “I’m sorry, Vi.”

  All disagreements long forgotten, I hug him back.

  He pulls away and looks at me like the big brother he imagines himself to be; he’s twelve years older and the touch of gray at his temples gives that away. “Drinks later. I promise I’ll explain.”

  I rise on my toes and kiss him on the cheek. “You better.”

  We hear a horn and see Shelby waving from the front of a blue rental van. We head out, and while I open the side door Carmine grabs my suitcase and heads to the rear. I jump into the van and land on the far seat, waiting for Carmine to take the one closest to the van’s sliding door, when I realize there’s someone in the front passenger seat. As soon as I rearrange my oversized purse with a host of travel gear, not to mention the press kit, and make myself comfortable in the seat, I look up to see who my traveling companion might be.

  My breath stills and my chin drops against my better judgement. Shelby jumps into the front and pulls her seatbelt on, rattling on about getting us checked into our rooms in time for dinner, then Carmine does the same, pulling the side door closed. In a heartbeat, we’re off. I’m still too stunned to utter a sound.

  Carmine notices right away. “What is it?”

  It’s then that Dwayne Garrett leans around his seat and gives Carmine one of his dazzling, blue-eyed smiles. “Hey buddy. Small world.”

  Shelby begins telling us about the trip ahead, how we’ll spend the day i
n Florence and Muscle Shoals, then make our way to the Mississippi border where we’ll learn about the old road at the Natchez Trace Parkway Visitors Center in Tupelo. Dwayne pipes in enthusiastically, gushing about how excited he is to finally be visiting a bucket list item. He asks Shelby about the firm, where she’s from (a little town outside Athens, Georgia), and if she’s married, has kids, that sort of thing. Shelby responds like any woman in his presence, smiling like a schoolgirl and giggling like I did at the convention.

  I glance over at Carmine and give him a questioning look, one that says, “Did you know he would be on this trip?” But the darkness has once again invaded Carmine’s soul and he turns away, staring out the window as we drive across the Tennessee River into Florence.

  Dwayne glances back at me, gives me a wink, but I feel like a child torn between divorced parents, not sure who to please. I take the opportunity to look out my own window into the peaceful waters below, and in that moment of aloofness, I swear I hear a woman singing.

  We pull up to the Marriott, an imposing hotel on the banks of the river with a tower off to one side.

  “Here we are,” Shelby says and that sugary sweet Southern accent wakes me after festering in the darkness of the back seat with Carmine. The woman’s singing has stopped, too, which makes me wonder if the radio had been on all this time.

  I exit the left side of the van and head to the back to retrieve my luggage. When I come around, Carmine and Dwayne are deep in conversation, and it’s anything but friendly. When they notice me, however, they act like nothing’s wrong, Carmine heading into the hotel.

  “We’re old friends,” Dwayne tells me with that million-dollar smile.

  “Sure sounds like it.” I’m journalism cynical, the kind who considers sarcasm a vital part of the English language.

  Dwayne leans forward and there’s this delicious whiff of after-shave that makes me weak in the knees. What is it about this man?

  “Carmine and I have some history but we’ll work it out. How about a drink later and I’ll explain.”

  How about the two of you own up to whatever tiff you have going on here and leave the drinking for happier times, I want to say, but I smile. “Perhaps.”

  “They have a great bar off the lobby,” Dwayne says as we walk into the hotel.

  I can’t help but laugh. “So, I’ve heard.”

  Before I can take in the magnificent ceiling that stretches up two floors or the enormous aquarium at the center of the lobby, one full of interesting fish, I hear a shriek and find my old travel writing friend Winnie Calder sitting in what is most likely the famous bar. She’s holding a drink in her hand but that doesn’t stop her from rushing over and hugging me tightly, drink held high with nary a drop spilled.

  “It’s about time you two bums got here.”

  I hug her back, so happy to see my crazy friend. Winnie owns a farm outside Oxford — Mississippi, not England — full of goats and weird plants she sells at the farmer’s market. Travel writing is one of her many jobs; she helps her husband run the city planetarium, fills in for friends at their businesses, and has two boys and a girl. How she does it all is a mystery, but I do love hearing about it.

  Winnie is also one of two — Carmine being the other — friends who know of my SCANCy abilities.

  “Carmine,” Winnie yells when she lets me go, but Carmine’s busy being angry with Dwayne at the front desk.

  Shelby looks at the two men and approaches us nervously. One thing PR professionals fear on a press trip is discord among the journalists. That and rain.

  “Are they okay?” she asks.

  Winnie, too, looks over concerned, but before I’m able to calm everyone’s nerves, Carmine grabs his room key and heads off to the elevators. Dwayne delivers a brilliant smile and Shelby’s fears are relieved instantly.

  “Sorry about that, Shelby.” He touches her arm and she giggles. Honestly, she giggles like a schoolgirl. “Carmine and I have some history but we’ll work it out, no worries.”

  Now’s my chance to find out what this motivational speaking SCANC is doing on our press trip. “Dwayne, this is Winnie Calder. She’ll be on our trip.”

  Dwayne grabs her free hand and delivers a kiss upon her knuckles. Blue eyes and charm notwithstanding, I want to groan at this ridiculous display. Maybe that’s what pisses Carmine off so much. He hates fake people.

  Winnie, thank goodness, does too. She gives him a mom look she probably bestows on her children when they claim they really did their homework and the teacher’s lying. Dwayne realizes instantly he’s getting nowhere with his charm but he continues to smile seductively, shrugging in the process.

  Forgetting my manners but now hoping to get more information, I add, “Winnie, this is Dwayne Garrett. He’s from….”

  Dwayne sends me a gaze that sends shivers up my back.

  “You cold?” Shelby asks.

  This gives me a chance to escape.

  “Yes, my sweater’s in my bag.” I turn to Winnie who’s studying Dwayne intently. “Want to come up to the room with me?”

  Winnie nods but she’s still giving Dwayne the mother examination; nothing gets past this woman. Shelby hands me my room key and we make our goodbyes. Before we reach the elevator, I turn and Dwayne’s studying me. The shivers start again. As soon as the elevator doors close, Winnie turns, hands on her hips.

  “What the hell was that about?”

  I decide to act cool since I want to know Winnie’s first impression. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something weird about that guy.”

  I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Yeah, we need to talk.”

  Once we get inside my room, which has a lovely view of the Tennessee River, Winnie falls on to the bed and once again fails to spill her drink. The woman is next to goddess status, Mississippi accent and mannerisms included.

  “And what the hell is going on with Carmine? He didn’t even say hello, the brat.”

  I relay everything that had gone on that day, from the SCANC convention to his aloofness at the airport to Dwayne showing up.

  “Who the hell is this guy?”

  “I don’t know.” I pull out my laptop. “Let’s find out.”

  We do a Google search but nothing comes up but a couple of recent articles he wrote for Traveling Times magazine, which is pretty impressive since their circulation reaches half a million. I check Facebook, LinkedIn and search through Yahoo as well. Nothing.

  “Weird.”

  “Yeah.” I close my laptop. “Maybe we take Carmine down to that favorite bar of his and make him spill.”

  “I’ll hold his nose and you inflict the bourbon.”

  “Seriously, Winnie, I need to know.”

  Winnie downs her drink, including sucking the ice cube. “I know, Sweet Pea, just having some fun.”

  I sit down and sigh, realizing I’m tightly wound and need my own supply of Jack Daniel’s.

  Winnie looks at her watch and rises. “It’s time for dinner. Get your sweater on and let’s go.”

  I pull out my sweater, which unfortunately doesn’t match my outfit. I give Winnie a questioning look. She shrugs and says, “Who cares?”

  I do. I look in the mirror at my plaid blue shirt and jeans now covered by my LSU purple sweater. “Two minutes to change the shirt?” I plead to Winnie.

  She grabs my sleeve and hauls us toward the door. “We’re late as it is and I'm so hungry I could eat the north end of a south-bound goat.”

  I told you she was from Mississippi.

  By the time we hit the elevator, Shelby is there on her cell phone. “I was just about to call y’all.”

  “Sorry,” Winnie offers. “We had a hard time digging that LSU nonsense out of her bag.”

  I’m about to defend my alma mater but for once I wish I had Ole Miss colors. Red would match this outfit so much better. Still, I can’t let Winnie have the last word. I lean close to her ear and utter, “Piss on Ole Miss.”

 
She bristles but there’s a smile there too. She changes the subject as she turns to Shelby. “So, who is this Dwayne Garrett.”

  Shelby is busy refreshing her lipstick, so she replies when we leave the elevator and start down a long hallway to the tower.

  “He’s freelance. Lives in Dallas. At least that’s where his flight originated from.”

  Winnie gives me a look. That’s where Carmine lives — or some tony suburb nearby.

  “I think he’s new to the business, only seen a couple of his articles.”

  Another look from Winnie. Explains the lack of Internet presence.

  “But he’s quite good.”

  I don’t know if it’s the way she says it but this time Winnie and I give each other a sly smile. We’re not thinking about travel writing and it’s everything we can do to stifle a laugh.

  We hit what appears to be the tower and take another elevator up to the 360 Grille restaurant, sharing small talk and SEC banter along the way. Winnie, as usual, makes wise cracks but only I’m laughing. Guess only blue-eyed, charming men can make Shelby giggle.

  The restaurant at the top of this tower is circular and apparently rotates so when we make our way to the table, our view is of the parking lot and the entrance to the hotel.

  “No worries. You’ll have a gorgeous view of the Tennessee River in good time.”

  I turn to find Mona Tillerson, director of the area Convention and Visitor’s Bureau extending her hand — it’s on her lanyard — and I accept it. She has a firm handshake and a nice smile, so I like her right away. She turns to introduce herself to Winnie, but Miss Ole Miss is busy checking out the seating arrangement. I look at the table and get her meaning instantly. How do we seat near Dwayne to find out more about the guy without ticking off Carmine?

  Winnie sends me a look as if to say she’s figured it out. She grabs a seat across from Dwayne and I ask Mona if I could sit near her and find out more about this enchanting region. It works out great because I’m now between Mona and Carmine, the latter of which I whisper to, “We have to talk. After dinner. Lobby bar.”

  Carmine says nothing, but he sends a worry glance toward Winnie, who’s laughing at something Dwayne said. Winnie looks briefly back at us and winks, and Carmine’s shoulders drop an inch while he lets out a breath.