I’m as shocked as James, who pulls away and stares at his student bewilderedly.
“Don’t you like that?”
James holds Lori at arms’ length, gazing at her like the stern teacher he needed to be. “Go back to your room, Lori.”
“I can give you what she gave you.” Funny, for such an innocent, homely girl Lori stands before him confident and sensual, more powerful than anything Blair could have concocted. I gasp at this transformation and for a moment am convinced they have heard me.
They haven’t, of course, but James feels this new empowerment emanating from her too. This time, however, his commands lack enforcement. “Please, go back to your room.”
Lori moves in close and kisses him again. Hard. He doesn’t resist but his hands remain at his sides. She leans back slightly and whispers, “Kiss me like you kissed her.”
James grabs her shoulders to keep her from doing it again but he’s unable to move her. “Don’t do this.”
Lori slips her hands up the front of his shirt and then tightens them around his neck. She tilts her head and opens her lips, letting out a warm breath that becomes James’ undoing. He meets her lips and devours them, pulling her close to him and sliding his hands up and down her back until they finally pause at her bottom. When he pulls her into him and together they tumble backwards on to the desk, I want out of there. I stumble backwards myself and knock over a lamp.
Just as I’m about to wonder how I managed to physically be part of this scene, I’m now in Lori’s room, watching her pick up the lamp from the floor, her eyes red from crying. She’s packing to leave, stumbling about the room in distress. Time has passed because the trees outside the window have no leaves, or was I imaging fall weather during the previous dreams and visions? “It’s important” comes that quiet little voice and I try to cry out “Lillye?” but no words emerge. “Look at her,” the voice urges me, and I study Lori one last time before the vision fades away. Lori’s face appears swollen from her crying but there’s something else causing her cheeks to plump up and her belly to swell. Lori’s pregnant.
Gasping like I emerged from deep underwater, I hear another girl crying — but it’s not Lori. This one’s standing over me in braids.
“I can’t do this,” she mutters through sobs and runs from the room, leaving the door open so that Miss Clipboard can peer inside with wonderment.
“What happened?” the spa Nazi asks me.
I grab the sheet to my chest and try to rise gracefully, which of course I fail to do. I look around the room for clues and find none. “I have no idea.”
Still holding that damn clipboard to her chest with an aggravated look on her face, the woman heads down the hall in the same direction Mouse had fled, failing, of course, to close the damn door. I manage to get my feet on the ground still clinging to all those warmed-up sheets and stumble to the door to close it, then turn to locate where I put my clothes. I head to the chair on the other side of the room and let some of the sheet drop when a man opens the door and looks inside, getting a nice glimpse of my bare rear end.
“Hey.” I grab the sheet that had fallen on the floor but all that does is release the rest of the cloth covering my body.
“Sorry,” the man says and looks away, and I struggle to gather material to save my dignity. “I was told you needed a masseuse.”
I’m finally covered although I must look like a cream puff so I turn and face the man. He’s young and cute with muscles that could do me justice, but something tells me this day has been cursed from the moment I opened my eyes and nothing will make it better. “I don’t know what happened but my last masseuse ran crying from the room. Are you sure you want to be here?”
“She’s new.”
“And I’m wound tight, or so she said.”
The new guy steps backwards over the threshold and I figured that’s it but he motions for me to follow him. “You need a new massage table since you took all the sheets with you so how about you follow me to my room and we’ll start over.”
I grab my clothes and follow this man with a lovely Irish accent out the door, then realize we are heading deeper into the bowels of the hotel, closer to the morgue. At this point, I really am done, am ready to call it a day, say goodbye to Lori and catch my plane, if there is one, but the man starts talking and his deep, Celtic voice entices me to enter the new room and follow his instructions: disrobe when he steps out of the room, get back on the table beneath warm sheets, place arms at my side and stick my face in that hole in the table.
Once again I do as I’m told and this time, when my masseuse returns, I engage him in conversation. Usually I don’t like talking during a massage, prefer to thoroughly relax in quiet, but I don’t want a haunting repeat and I’d love to listen to that delicious accent. He senses this — in addition to mentioning how tight my muscles are, gee thanks — and we get a nice back and forth going. Finally, when I have the nerve, I ask him about seeing ghosts so close to the morgue. Unlike Mouse, Irish man has stories to tell.
“It’s pretty creepy down here sometimes. The hotel’s definitely haunted. Although, it’s what you believe, really. I’m from Ireland where we’re more open to believing in ghosts.”
I don’t know why but I blurt out, “I’ve seen a ghost in my room. Pretty sure it’s the girl who jumped the balcony.”
That ethereal voice returns, insisting that I have it all wrong, but I ignore her. I’m waiting to see what Mr. Muscles thinks.
“Yeah, think I’ve seen her too.”
I want to turn and face this guy but his oversized thumb is on the base of my neck, working on a knot no doubt. “What did she look like?” I mumble from my head-rest.
He doesn’t say anything, rotating that thumb down a muscle into my shoulder blade that releases the tension like a door spring. He’s not massaging me like most masseuses, something more rough and tumble like a family member would do but I don’t care, it’s working. I start to repeat the question but the feeling of his hands on my shoulder’s so incredible delicious I let it go. Maybe the universe is finally allowing me a few moments of pleasure on this press trip from hell.
Unfortunately, Celtic Man finally pipes up. “I don’t think she jumped.”
“Me neither,” I say through the head-rest which comes out sounding like something in a drive-through intercom.
Muscle Man gets quiet, now fully concentrating on my rock-solid shoulders, again kneading me like bread dough in a half-hazard way but it feels good so I don’t mind. I wonder what he knows about Lori and how he knows it but on the other hand I want to relax and enjoy this. I breathe deep and exhale and feel better for the first time this morning. After he’s finished with my back and legs, I turn over face up as instructed.
My masseuse has nice eyes, I realize, and a kind demeanor. “What’s your name?” I ask as I adjust myself on the table.
He guides my head back down on the head-rest. “Michael.”
I take the plunge. “Why do you think that ghost’s still here, Michael?”
He starts on my arms, working his magic down to my fingers which feels so incredibly good. I realize I’m missing my writing, will look forward to getting back home to my words.
“I think she went to school here but I don’t think she was attending school when it happened,” Michael says. “I think she came back for a reason, possibly to let someone know something, which might have been why she died.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because the timing’s wrong. The year she died she wasn’t enrolled.”
“You looked that up?” I ask because I want that proof so I can show Madman, if it comes to that.
“I think she’s also trying to connect with someone.”
“Who?”
I attempt to rise on my elbows but Michael pushes me back down on the table. “You really need to relax.”
I let out a deep sigh and try. “I haven’t slept well the whole time I’ve been here. I keep dreaming about her.”
>
He nods but says nothing, moves back to my shoulders and kneads deeply. My eyelids flutter. “Take a nap,” he whispers above my head, and it’s the last thing I remember before feeling a sharp poke in my upper arm.
I open my eyes to find Miss Clipboard standing over me. “Are you going to sleep here all day?”
I’m so confused I rise to a sitting position and the sheets go tumbling everywhere. I grab cloth to cover my chest and realize those sheets are mussed and tangled over my body. “What happened?”
“What happened is I have another client who needs this room.”
I glance around to see that I’m back in my original room, my clothes lying across the far chair as I had left them when I disrobed for Mouse. That creepy owl still stares at me from its perch above the water. “Where’s Michael?”
“Who?”
“My masseuse.”
Spa Nazi glares at me. “You scared her and she left. She was distraught so we had to give her the day off. Now, will you please get dressed and free up this room?”
“Okay.” I want to explain myself and ask about the Irish guy but this woman unnerves me to no end. She gives me one last scornful look, then heads out the door and closes it this time, so I jump off the table, this time letting the sheets fall where they may, and get dressed in record time. When I return to the spa waiting area, Clipboard Queen is nowhere in sight but Stephanie greets me, her spa hair flying in all directions. “Wasn’t that delightful?” she asks me, but I smile weakly and head up the stairs, can’t get to my room fast enough.
I open the door to find a note on the floor.
“Hope you enjoyed your spa visit,” the note reads. “It looks like the Bentonville Airport will be closing this afternoon but we’ll discuss new flight times at lunch. Meet us down in the lobby by 11:30 a.m. for a great meal at Miss Mary’s Tea House! — Alicia”
Always so happy, those PR folks, even when telling us we’re screwed.
I think I have time to change, but when I glance at the clock I realize it’s 11:15. Where did the time go? I must have fallen asleep while the Irish Man worked his magic and I do feel more rested, but something’s not right. Who was that guy and why didn’t the spa manager know what I was talking about. On a lark, I call down to the spa and ask for the male masseuse.
“The who?” the woman says on the other end.
I realize it’s the Clipboard Lady so I disguise my voice so she won’t guess it’s me. I avoid saying his name so I don’t give myself away. “The young man who works there, the one with the Irish accent.”
“You have the wrong number,” she says a lot nicer than the tone she offered me earlier. “We don’t have male masseuses here and definitely not one from Ireland.”
Chapter Eighteen
Winnie’s got the mommy look going, staring at me across a table full of teapots, scones, miniature cucumber sandwiches and a chicken salad laced with pecans I would normally devour. I’m starving, having missed breakfast, but I’m too tired and confused to consider raising a fork to my lips.
“What is it?” Winnie asks.
There were so many times on this trip where I doubted my sanity, figured Lillye’s death and Katrina’s wrath had finally tossed me over the edge, but Carmine’s revelations and TB’s research that backed my ghost sightings had given me hope that I wasn’t stark raving mad. Now, I’m back to the beginning.
“Did you have a nice spa visit?” Winnie places two sandwiches on my plate, then attempts to plop another scoop of chicken salad to the one I haven’t touched.
I hold a hand over my plate. One thing I can’t stand is wasting food. “No, the spa visit didn’t go so well.”
Winnie leans in close. “Did you see another dead body?”
I start laughing because I haven’t a clue what I just saw. Was Michael a ghost? Was he an imposter like James had been at the college, imitating a masseuse because he couldn’t afford college? Or maybe the Spa Nazi recognized my voice on the phone and decided to mess with my head. “I don’t know, Winnie. I don’t know anything anymore. I can’t believe I’m actually looking forward to going back to war-torn South Louisiana.”
Winnie touches my hand and it feels good to have a friend. I send her a sad smile and she squeezes my fingers. “I’d usually say something uplifting right about now,” Winnie says, “but guess who just walked in the door?”
I’ve completely forgotten about Madman, which makes me laugh even more. “You know things have gotten really bad when the last person I want to see is my sexual fantasy of the last few years.”
Winnie frowns, not knowing what I’m talking about. I don’t feel like explaining so I rise and head toward the front door. There, in all his cop glory, hat upon his head, gun belt cockeyed off his waist like John Wayne, stands Maddox, smiling as if he’s happy to see me. I stop cold, washing in that congenial greeting, imaging that maybe this day isn’t so bad after all. Maddox waves and grins seductively like there’s some carnal secret between us. Although this sets afire a few firecrackers in my female places, I can’t help but wonder why the transformation.
The closer I get, however, the more I realize those eyes are not quite meeting mine, just a hair off to the side. I turn and look back toward the group. Sure enough Kelly, our Southern Belle from Georgia, is waving at him from across the room. I want to say this day could not get any worse but I’m afraid to jinx it because after you watch the levees break in a town where they insisted they would hold forever, you know it can always get worse.
As I approach Maddox he turns his gaze to me and his smile fades. “Miss Valentine.”
Business as usual. “Mr. Bertrand.”
“We need to talk.”
We look around for an empty table but Miss Mary’s Tea House is packed with our large group and the regular lunch crowd; the rains seem to be attracting people not able to get outside. There’s a cute little gift shop in front that offers more privacy so I head off in that direction, not even bothering to ask. When I reach the front door, I turn abruptly, my arms solid across my chest. I want to get this nightmare over with and go home.
Maddox must have sensed my aggravated energy for he takes a step back. “Uh, I wanted to let you know what we found out.”
“Okay.”
“You were right, there was a groundskeeper at the college who left after the murders. If they were indeed murdered, but we’re treating them as homicides.”
I say nothing, just stare, which unnerves him. I desperately want to say, “Tell me something I don’t know, you cocky son-of-a-bitch.”
“Uh.” He pulls out that stupid black book from his back pocket and low and behold he has written something in it. “It was a man named Gene Tanner, originally from St. Louis. Worked at the college the same years as those girls were killed.”
I exhale but my arms stay locked and Maddox keeps watching me as if I might grow horns. “Did he leave right after Blair was killed?”
“Yeah.”
I nod. “Did you find anything else about him? Priors? Arrests in other states?”
“Yeah.”
I tilt my head and cock my jaw. “Are you going to tell me?” I’m treading on sensitive ground with a cop and I know it but I can’t help myself and he’s taking it so I keep going.
Maddox looks at his notes. “He was arrested in Washington state a couple of years later, convicted of sexual assault and the killing of two young girls.”
This takes the wind out of my sails. James let this monster loose to save his career and keep himself out of jail and two young lives were lost in the balance. I drop my arms and exhale. “What happened to him?”
Maddox glances back at his notes. “He was sentenced to hang right after the trial.”
I drop my head and study the knots in the wooden floor, remembering the faces of those girls this monster killed and secretly buried. “Good riddance.”
“There’s something else.”
I look up and realize Maddox is talking to me like a colleague and
not a stranger, a prying journalist or a person of interest. The change in the atmosphere between us is almost palpable. No matter what occurred over the past few days nor his dalliance with Miss Georgia, I decide to drop my defiance. “Hopefully, you found out he’s burning in hell.
Maddox shakes his head. “Hell’s right here,” and for a moment I recognize that all-too-familiar pain, realize we share an experience witnessing the same horrors, only our dead bodies floated in floodwaters. Before he wallows into those depths, however, Maddox gets back on dry ground, returning to his stern cop demeanor, and I chide myself on using too many metaphors.
“Right before the hanging, they asked Tanner if he had any final words.”
“Did he?”
Maddox flips a page of his notebook and reads, “‘You might have gotten me on these crimes, fellas, but you’ll never find the girls of Arkansas.’”
A laughing couple enters the restaurant and the cold wind rushes through the gift shop, sending a violent shiver up my back. Maddox flips the book closed and slips it into his back pocket.
“Why didn’t they ever put the two together?” I ask.
Maddox sighs and looks out the window where the wind is forcing the rain to dance against the parking lot in horizontal sheets. “Maybe the Washington guys told the police here what he said, maybe they didn’t. My guess is that if they did, city officials didn’t want anyone to know that a murderer was living at the school because then who would want to come to Eureka Springs. The Blair girl alone really did a number on their enrollment. If her body had been found murdered and sexually abused, that would have closed the school for sure.”
“In the meantime, Mr. Tanner kills two girls in Washington.”
Maddox watches a man struggling with an umbrella run from the neighboring antique store to his car, getting soaked in the process. “Welcome to my world.”
I still don’t like the guy, and I don’t believe we’ve graduated to friends, but I think I understand him better. It’s a good way to part company so I place a hand on his forearm and squeeze, much like Winnie had done only minutes before, and head back to my table.
A Ghost of a Chance Page 20
