Date With a Ghost in Colorado
Ghost Mysteries of the Southwest - Book #1
Angela Pepper
| FIRST EDITION |
Chapter 1
May 5th
10:20 p.m.
The Watering Hole, Owl Bend, Colorado
Samantha Torres scanned the crowd inside the bar for her date. It was the fifth of May, and it seemed the entire town of Owl Bend, Colorado, was packed into the southwest-themed tavern for the Cinco de Mayo celebrations. Above Samantha's head, bright-colored paper sunbursts hung from the rafters. Dozens of sombreros floated throughout the bar, as though crowd surfing on heads.
A grinning redhead of about forty was approaching Samantha. The redhead wore a peasant-style shirt, pushed down to expose soft, cream-colored shoulders and an ample chest tanned with freckles.
The redhead held up a black felt-tipped pen between them. “Mustache?” she offered.
“No, thank you,” Samantha said, holding up her hand.
The redhead clutched Samantha by the wrist with a surprisingly strong grip, and drew a swirling black line along the edge of her pointer finger. Now if Samantha wanted to sport her own fake mustache, she could hold her finger under her nose.
“Perfect,” Samantha said with a pained smile. “I'll treasure it forever.”
The curvy redhead blew her a kiss and shifted away, slipping back into the crowd.
Samantha turned to the bartender, who had seen the interaction and was giving her a sympathetic look. He had a narrow, top-heavy face, and the muscular build of someone who worked out every day. His name was something Irish, or Italian. Did it start with an F? He'd introduced himself at least twice, but the drinks he provided so efficiently kept erasing his name from Samantha's memory—not that it was difficult for things to slip out of her mind lately. It felt like her memory was splitting into segments, like the floor of an office building filled with cubicle dividers.
The bartender was pouring her a drink. “On the house,” he said, his deep voice loud enough to resonate over the crowd easily. “Sorry about Toni, with the mustache thing. She can be... enthusiastic, and it's hard to say no to those girls.” He nodded at the glass. “That's an artisanal mezcal from Oaxaca. They roast the pina in a pit lined with volcanic rock, and then crush it with a donkey.”
Samantha had already taken a sip of the mezcal. She wrinkled her nose despite the smooth flavor. “They let the donkey walk all over it?” She realized how stupid she sounded as soon as the words left her lips. Of course the donkey wouldn't walk on the roasted agave. It would be in a harness, pulling a stone wheel.
The bartender had already walked away to tend orders.
She took another sip and welcomed the spreading warmth. It was her first drink in hours, and better than the cheap gin she'd been drinking lately. She'd lost track of how many bottles she'd gone through, as well as how long she'd been staying there. The two best things about Owl Bend were the solitude, and the weather, which was the embodiment of mercurial. Earlier that afternoon, storm clouds had rolled in, followed by thunder and lightning, the bolts of energy crisscrossing between heaven and hell.
Between heaven and hell. That was where she lived.
Just as the darkness of her thoughts threatened to consume everything, her date appeared, across the crowded bar.
Warren. Her heart skipped and tripped to catch up. He was tall and masculine in a clean-cut way, like a doctor on a soap opera. Only he wasn't a doctor. Warren was a nature and wildlife photographer. When he'd first told her about his line of work, Samantha had snorted, thinking it was a euphemism for being unemployed—just like her own so-called career as a “lifestyle blogger.” But he genuinely was a photographer, with pictures in legitimate art galleries, glossy magazines, and even those coffee table books she assumed were an endangered species. But people still bought coffee table books, he'd assured her, and he had the royalty checks to prove it. “Color me enlightened,” she'd said, and they'd flirted their way to a second date. Tonight would be their third.
Now he moved through the crowd like a trickle of milk, the white of his shirt glowing pristinely amidst the tropical flower–printed shirts and Navajo stripes. Was he wearing a suit? Yes, he was. And not just a suit but a tuxedo, complete with a black bow tie. Samantha felt underdressed in her spaghetti-strapped orange sundress.
He reached her near the bar, and as she leaned in for a kiss, he missed it, because he was looking over her shoulder. He gave the bartender a puzzled look and then a friendly nod. Samantha pulled back quickly and busied herself with finishing her drink.
“Nice tux,” she said. “You must really love Cinco de Mayo.” She was practically shouting to be heard over the music, which was mariachi, from an album. The Watering Hole wasn't exactly a live-band sort of venue, not unless you counted the old cowboy who abused a ratty guitar until someone paid him to stop.
Warren gave her an eyebrow raise and an enigmatic smile.
“What's with the tuxedo?” she asked over the music. “Are we going to the opera after this? Or what passes for theater in Owl Bend?” She wondered if he'd been late because he'd been setting up something romantic for her.
Again, he gave her only an eyebrow raise and a sly smile. He wasn't very chatty tonight.
Something near Samantha's hip vibrated. It was her phone, in her purse. As she reached for it, Warren began patting the pockets of his black tuxedo jacket as though he was also receiving a call.
She pulled out the phone and frowned at the Caller ID, which read Warren Jameson.
“Can't find your phone?” she asked Warren. “It's because whoever's got your phone is calling me.”
He gestured for her to go ahead and answer the call.
She turned toward the bar, plugged her left ear with a finger, and shouted, “Hello?”
The muscular bartender came toward her, eyebrows raised in earnest. She politely waved him away and rolled her eyes at her phone.
Someone spoke on the other end of the call, but she didn't catch the words.
“Hello?” she said into the phone again. “This is Samantha Torres. Are you looking for Warren? You'll have to talk louder. I'm in a noisy place.”
The voice was male, deep and professional. “Ms. Torres? This is Deputy Sheriff Robichaud. I need to speak with you about Warren Jameson.”
She looked up and caught the eye of the bartender. He was busy shaking a martini, but gave her a concerned look, his small, brown eyes full of pity. She blinked and gave him a small head shake. I'm fine, she thought. Everyone, stop looking at me like that. Save your pity for someone who needs it, because I'm fine.
“Warren Jameson?” she repeated. “Do you want to talk to him? He's standing right behind me.”
The caller was slow to answer. His voice pitched up higher than before, incredulous. “Did you say Warren is there with you?”
“Yes. We're at the Watering Hole, as you might have guessed from the mariachi music. Did you say you're a cop? Hang on.” She turned around to hand Warren the phone. He could talk to this guy and give him whatever ransom he wanted to return the phone, or not. Either way, it wasn't her business.
Warren was gone. He should have been easy to spot in the crowd, with his bright-white shirt and bow tie. But he wasn't there.
She gripped the phone tightly and demanded, “What's going on?”
“Ma'am, did you say you're at the Watering Hole? I can be there in five minutes.”
“What's going on?”
She was already pushing her way through the crowd toward the exit. “It's too loud in here. I need to get out.” A sombrero struck her in the face at eye level. She blinked before the worst of it, but now her eyes were watering.
Robichaud said, “Do you know where the sheriff's office is? It's right across the street. I can meet you there.”
“Sure.” She reached the door and stepped outside. The air was much cooler than it had been an hour ago. What had Warren said when they'd first met? Colorado nights are made for cuddling. His dark eyes had twinkled with the promise of fun. Something black and white flashed at the edge of her vision. She whipped her head fast enough to startle a trio of twenty-something girls approaching the bar. They giggled nervously.
The man on the phone asked, “Ma'am, do you see it? The door will be locked, but I'll be there in two minutes.”
“I'm crossing the street,” she said. “And stop calling me ma'am. It's Samantha.”
There was a pause, and she thought she could hear him swallow. His voice was thick, and sweet with surprising tenderness. “Samantha, I can stay on the line with you, if you'd like.”
She reached the gray building, the sheriff's office that she'd seen before but never had any need to visit. Her right eye was still watering from the sombrero. As the muted noise from the bar receded behind her, she heard the sound of her own breath, and how it caught in her throat between exhale and inhale. Each gasp sounded more desperate than the last, and her head hurt terribly, like the partitions around the office cubicles in her mind were being rearranged.
The voice was in her ear again. “Samantha?”
“I'm here,” she said. “I'm just going to sit on this bench until you get here.”
“I shouldn't be on the phone while I'm driving,” he said.
She let out a tiny snort. “I won't tell anyone.”
“I'm turning onto the street,” he said. “I see you now. You're wearing a red dress.”
“Orange. Close enough.” She stood and waved at the approaching vehicle. Its police lights were flashing, but the siren was off.
Something else caught her eye. She stopped breathing. Across the street, Warren stood still, the white of his tuxedo gleaming in the streetlight. He saw her, but he didn't move toward her.
The police vehicle pulled up in front of the sheriff's office. The door opened, and she heard the rustle of someone coming toward her, but she didn't take her eyes off the figure across the street. She waved for Warren to come over and join them.
Someone touched her elbow and shifted in front of her to block her view.
“Ms. Torres? Who are you waving to?”
There was nobody across the street. Down at the end of the block, the old cowboy with the ratty guitar rounded the corner, the drunken weave of his stride making him take irregular steps.
She turned to look into the eyes of Deputy Sheriff Robichaud. “Is he in trouble?” she asked. “He's so late.” She felt like she'd been asking the same question forever.
“Ms. Torres,” Robichaud said gently. “Warren Jameson is dead. There was an accident. I took his phone, and I'm notifying his next of kin. You are his girlfriend, right?”
She blinked.
“There was an accident,” he said. He kept peering into her eyes, looking for something. “Why don't you come inside for a cup of coffee?”
She leaned to the side and looked once more across the street, at the last place she'd seen Warren. Robichaud mirrored her movements, shifting his body to keep his face in front of hers, as though he might blot out the darkness across the street.
Her voice came out in a croak. She didn't ask how, or where, or why, but only, “Did he suffer?”
Robichaud's lips flattened for a second. “I don't think so,” he answered. “Let's go inside.”
She nodded mutely and followed him into the sheriff's office. He flicked on the lights. The brightness stung her eyes.
Chapter 2
After her interview with the cop, Samantha Torres returned at midnight to the place she'd been staying. She'd been at the log-framed rental long enough to feel settled, yet not long enough to think of it as home. Calling a place home when it wasn't didn't seem right.
And calling someone her boyfriend when he wasn't didn't seem right either, but Samantha hadn't corrected Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud. He'd referred to Warren as her boyfriend repeatedly. “Your boyfriend must have climbed along the ridge to get a better angle for his photos,” he'd said. And, “Your boyfriend might have slipped on some loose gravel.”
She hadn't corrected him and said that the man she'd met once at the park and had one coffee shop date with wasn't her boyfriend.
It had been surreal to hear the cop say, “Your boyfriend fell to his death during the thunderstorm, at approximately three o'clock this afternoon.”
At three o'clock that day, nine hours earlier, Samantha had been lying in the cabin's bathtub with a cloth on her forehead, debating her two choices: never drink again, or crack the cap off the new bottle and splash the headache away. She'd come up with a third option: sleep it off and celebrate with tequila later, under the socially acceptable cover of Cinco de Mayo.
The holiday celebrated an unexpected victory, of an 1862 battle in which the Mexican army won a fight with the French despite being smaller and ill equipped. That was how Samantha felt. Smaller and ill equipped compared to whatever life threw at her. According to the cop's assessment, Warren's skull had lost a battle with some rocks at the base of a cliff. Funeral services would be held... she had no idea when. He lived with his aunt, who was probably, at that very minute, explaining to a confused Robichaud that Warren didn't have a girlfriend.
Samantha's hand shook as she filled the kettle with water. Tea. It was midnight, but she had to make tea. People in shock needed tea, and blankets. The rustic cabin had plenty of blankets—most of them scratchy and woolen—and she just needed tea. And a single shot of gin to stop her hands from shaking. And another one to keep it company. She poured the liquid down and then quickly washed the glass and her hands, as though hot, soapy water was the cure for sin.
While she waited for the tea to brew, she walked through the one-bedroom cabin and drew the curtains closed.
Owl Bend was in the banana belt of Colorado, a patch in the southeast corner of the state, at the eastern edge of the Rocky Mountains. The area enjoyed less snow than the rest and more than 250 days of sunshine per year.
Tomorrow would be sunny. The sparkling lake awaited, as did the hiking trails through the national parks, and the horses that the near-sighted resort manager promised were friendly. Everything awaited. She got her tea, grabbed a blanket, and huddled into a corner of the couch.
Something flickered at the edge of her vision.
She turned her head slowly.
Warren was back. He stood in the cabin, just inside the door, as though he'd simply walked in through it. He began loosening his tie as he walked toward her. His shiny black shoes made no sound on the wood floor.
“You shouldn't be here,” she said. The anger in her voice surprised her. “Sorry,” she added softly. “I guess you can be wherever you want to be.”
He gave her a sad look and pointed to the couch. She drew her knees up and her feet toward herself, tucked the blanket in around her legs, and gestured for him to take a seat.
Warren—or his ghost, anyway—sat next to her and continued loosening his bow tie until it was undone. He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his tuxedo shirt and relaxed.
She asked him, “Do you know what happened to you?”
He winced and used one fist to mime being struck. His eyelids fluttered and then closed.
The ghost didn't speak, so she asked, “Was it an accident? What were you doing?”
He shrugged and gave her an enigmatic smile. Then he shifted his position on the couch—a movement Samantha could have sworn she
felt—and gazed into her eyes. He had a facial expression that was both curious and satisfied, as though he was dying to know everything about her, yet confident they had all the time in the world.
She leaned forward, picked up her tea, and immediately dropped it on the rustic pine coffee table, spilling tea everywhere. She hadn't dropped the mug. The handle had simply sheared off, and the thin piece of ceramic was as light as Styrofoam in her hand. The mug, which was chipped and scratched from what appeared to be decades of use, had chosen that particular moment in time to come apart. She fitted the two pieces together, marveling at how something could be whole one moment and broken the next.
She turned to Warren, who had an amused look on his face. He pointed to his skull as if to say he and the mug had something in common. Both were now broken. But the mug could be glued back together, and he could not. Not even with all of Humpty Dumpty's men.
“Now what?” she asked.
He stretched his arm out along the back of the couch and nodded, inviting her to rest her head on his shoulder.
She wanted nothing more, so she closed her eyes, and leaned in. With her eyes closed, she felt a warmth that couldn't be real, and a hand, stroking her long, black hair. She fell asleep that way, drifting off while the tea finished draining from the coffee table to the wood floor with its rhythmic drip-drop.
* * *
Days passed, and the ghost stuck around.
Samantha asked Warren if he had unfinished business, and he only shrugged, as if to say her guess was as good as his.
He died on the fifth, and they buried him on the eleventh of May. Did he want to attend the funeral? A head shake, no. Should she go, maybe meet his aunt and friends? Another head shake. Should she call a psychiatrist, or maybe an exorcist? He wrinkled his nose. No, she wasn't crazy. Not at all. She just had a ghost in a tuxedo who came and went after dark.
On the fifteenth, she was picking up groceries in town when something in a thrift store window caught her eye. It was a Ouija board. The copyright notice on the instructions was over twenty years old and claimed the spirit board was for “entertainment purposes only.” She bought it, making prolonged eye contact with the woman who rang up the purchase, daring her to say something about it. The woman bagged the game with no comment.
Date with a Ghost in Colorado (Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Ghost Mysteries of the Southwest Book 1) Page 1
