The Ex Who Wouldn't Die (Charley's Ghost Book 1)

by Sally Berneathy

  But something had gone wrong with the bike even before her accident. The horrifying details washed over her in a rush—the loss of control, the sensation of sliding on a slick surface that hadn’t been slick, falling over the side of the mountain then abandoning the bike to save her life.

  Had Charley tampered with it? She’d left it outside when she went into his third floor apartment for the latest in a series of confrontations that had, as usual, ended with her storming out, jumping on the bike and riding hard and fast to get away from everything.

  No, that wasn’t possible. Not that she thought him incapable of it, but he’d been inside with her the entire time she was away from the bike, arguing with her, shouting at her.

  Still, it was a huge coincidence that he’d suddenly appeared right after she crashed. She’d been riding fast for a couple of hours. The only way he could have been there was if he’d followed close behind her for the entire trip.

  Damn him! She was going to get her bike back, fix it, and then she was going to kill Charley.

  “Where’s a nurse? Jenny, get me a nurse. Please,” she added before Jenny could upbraid her for her lack of courtesy.

  “Oh, dear! Are you in pain? Do you need more medication?”

  “Yes, I’m in pain. No, I don’t need more medication. I need my clothes. I need to get out of here. I’ve got things to do.” Kill Charley.

  Jenny fluttered, one hand touching her cheek then drifting to her hair. “I don’t think you can do that.”

  Amanda had a few doubts of her own what with her left leg swathed in bandages and that IV stuck in her arm, but she was going to give it her best shot. “Jenny, please, get me a nurse or, better yet, get me Dad’s friend, the doctor.” She rolled to the side of the bed, putting her good foot on the floor. The process was painfully reminiscent of her climb up that blasted mountain.

  “I have to call Daddy,” Jenny said. “I told him I’d call him as soon as you woke up.”

  The old I’m going to tell on you! Jenny had always been good at that one. She was the obedient daughter. She did whatever their parents told her to do. She graduated college with a 2.5 GPA in education then promptly married a young lawyer and took her place in Highland Park society. David Carter, Esq.

  Jenny, and only Jenny, called him “Davey.” Well, Amanda called him that sometimes to annoy him. To the rest of the world he was “David” or “Mr. Carter.” He was as boring as day-old white bread. He was the perfect son-in-law. Jenny was the perfect daughter.

  Amanda loved her little sister, had since her unexpected birth when Amanda was seven and their parents were already in their early forties. But her life would have been a lot easier without Jenny’s staunch alliance with their parents. As she listened to Jenny on the phone to their father, Amanda thought it would have been nice to have a rebel sister, someone who would have “forgotten” to call their father until she’d made her escape.

  But no one got to choose their relatives. If they did, Amanda would likely be the one not chosen for inclusion in this family.

  Jenny ended the call.

  “Is Mom coming with Dad?” Amanda asked.

  “No, she had to speak at a charity luncheon, and you know how much everybody depends on her. She’s been very worried about you, but I told her I’d take good care of you.” Jenny smiled and patted Amanda’s arm.

  “I understand. She would have hated being here when I was unconscious and couldn’t hear her criticisms. On the other hand, I couldn’t have argued with her, either. She may have just missed her big chance.”

  “Oh, Amanda! You know how much Mother loves you. We all do. But we don’t understand you, especially about—oh, dear! Daddy said we couldn’t talk about him!”

  “We can’t talk about Dad?” Amanda asked, the misinterpretation deliberate.

  “No! We can’t talk about—” she lowered her voice to a whisper— “Charley!”

  “Like we’d want to.”

  “Amanda, I’m so glad you’re awake.” The deep, resonant voice announced Emerson Caulfield’s entrance. Her father was an average-size man, but he always loomed as large as his voice. His full head of steel-gray hair, his penetrating brown gaze and immaculate dark suit completed his imposing courtroom presence no matter where he was, even in a hospital room.

  Brian Edwards, an associate from her father’s old law firm, came in behind him. He was handling her divorce, but they weren’t buddies. He wasn’t on her birthday party list or her hospital room visitors list. Why was he there?

  Brian stood quietly, deferentially. Though he seemed as imperturbable as always, something wasn’t right. His erect posture bordered on rigid. He clutched his briefcase with a white-knuckled hand.

  Had Charley filed a new motion of some sort, something so bizarre her father felt the need to bring her attorney to her even as she lay in bed tethered to an IV?

  “Jenny,” Emerson said, “would you please stand outside your sister’s room and make sure no one disturbs us?”

  “Of course.” She gave Amanda a perky smile then left the room and closed the door behind her.

  Amanda groaned. “Is this about Charley?”

  The two men exchanged glances. “Yes,” Emerson replied, his dark gaze softening. In spite of her status as black sheep of the family, Amanda knew her father loved her and would always be there for her no matter how much he might disapprove of her actions. Sometimes she wondered if he might even envy her freedom, just a little bit, once in a while. “Mandy, whatever happened, we’ll fix it.”

  Amanda frowned. “Fix it? Don’t you think we’re a little past fixing every little problem for Charley? Have you ever heard of the concept of actions have consequences?”

  Her father looked uncomfortable, not a normal state for him. “Of course they do, but sometimes there’s a question as to what those consequences should be. When you feel up to it, I’ll go with you to the police station, but if anything should come of this—and I’m quite certain it won’t—we need to have Brian involved from the beginning.”

  “So Charley’s in jail. Did he do something to my bike? I can’t believe he would want to hurt me. Physically, I mean.”

  Again the men exchanged worried glances.

  Emerson moved forward and took his daughter’s hand in his. “Mandy, sweetheart, Charley’s not in jail. He’s dead.”

  “What?!” Amanda half rose from the bed then fell back with a grimace of pain. Charley couldn’t be dead. He was a lot of things, most of them bad, but everything about him was alive and vibrant. She couldn’t imagine him any other way. “Dead?” she repeated. Well, that would explain why he hadn’t come to stalk her in the hospital. “Are you sure? What happened? I didn’t even know he was sick. Did he overdose on something?”

  Her father looked down and drew in a deep breath. “Somebody entered the apartment—apparently somebody he knew since there was no sign of a break-in—and shot him.”

  “Omigawd! Was it a robbery?” Not that Charley had anything to steal after so many visits to the pawn shop. More likely a jealous husband.

  Emerson shook his head. “They don’t think so. Nothing seemed to be missing.”

  “The gun,” Amanda whispered, guilt washing over her.

  “What gun?”

  “Charley called and asked me to bring him that gun he bought me. Said he’d sign the divorce papers if I would. I went to his apartment, but I didn’t take the gun. I thought he wanted to sell it or hold up a liquor store or something awful. But maybe he wanted it to defend himself.”

  She looked at her father, hoping he’d say something to relieve her feelings of guilt.

  “You didn’t take the gun with you?” he asked. “Where is it?”

  “Home in a box in the back of my closet where it’s been since he gave it to me.” Amanda’s eyes fill with unexpected tears. “I wanted him out of my life, but I didn’t want him dead.” Okay, maybe she’d thought of making him dead a few times, had fantasized about things like stripping him naked, tying
his hands and feet, pouring honey on him and leaving him on a fire ant hill in west Texas in the middle of August or beating him with a black jack wrapped in barbed wire then squirting acid on him at thirty-second intervals for a few hours. But those were just pleasant fantasies, on a level with dreaming about winning the lottery. “He saved my life,” she said quietly.

  Her father’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean, he saved your life?”

  “The accident. I passed out somewhere down the side of the mountain. Charley found me and wouldn’t let me go back to sleep. He forced me to crawl up that mountain to the highway so somebody could find me.” It was the truth—refined and honed, omitting the ugly part about his refusing to actually help her. He had, nevertheless, forced her to help herself.

  Her eyes overflowed, and a tear trickled down each cheek. She felt benevolent at being able to remember Charley in a good light. “No matter what he did in the past, I’ll have that as my last memory of him.”

  “Amanda, that’s not possible. Charley’s body was found at nine o’clock Sunday evening with time of death approximately three hours earlier. You were picked up just after eight o’clock Sunday evening in Oklahoma. The motorist said he saw you stagger onto the highway and fall…alone.”

  Amanda stared at him for a long moment, trying to comprehend and make sense of her father’s words. “What are you saying? Charley died two hours before my accident? That’s not possible. I saw him after the accident. He was rude and mean, but he made me crawl up that mountain. He taunted me until I did it. If he hadn’t been there, I would have lain down, gone to sleep and died. When I reached the highway, he was with me.”

  Her father shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mandy. It was just a dream. Sometimes when people are involved in traumatic accidents, they have strange dreams.”

  “You mean hallucinations. Great. Other people see bright lights or angels. I could have died, and all I saw was my ex-husband.”

  You almost died. He tried to kill you. He’ll try again. You’re in danger.

  She struggled to sit up as the memory of Charley’s last words hit her. “He said somebody tried to kill me.”

  Her father’s brow creased with concern. He took her hand. “Sweetheart, it was a dream. Charley wasn’t there. He was already dead.”

  Of course he wasn’t there. He hadn’t saved her life. He hadn’t warned her she was in danger. Just a dream. The last time she saw him was their violent argument at his apartment. She hadn’t brought him the gun that might have saved his life, and he’d been angry. She’d shouted that she hated him, and he’d told her to go away. That was her last memory of Charley.

  She lay back on the pillow and turned her face to the side. “I guess,” she agreed, suddenly too depressed to argue about it.

  Her father, still holding her hand, took another deep breath. “Someone saw you race away from Charley’s place on your motorcycle around 5:30 Sunday afternoon. The police want to question you.”

  “Question me? I can’t tell them anything. I don’t know anything.” She wished everyone would go away and let her deal with Charley’s death. “I didn’t see anything.”

  Brian cleared his throat. “Mrs. Randolph, the police want to talk to you about your husband’s murder because you’re the prime suspect.”

  Chapter Three

  For two days Amanda lay in the uncomfortable hospital bed, eating the dubious food served in ugly dishes on cold stainless steel trays and wondering if this was similar to prison except they probably wouldn’t give her pain meds in prison.

  The police thought she killed Charley.

  Okay, she had motive. And she’d threatened him a few times. A lot of times, to be precise. But how could anyone think she’d murder him? At one time she’d loved him.

  Even now she had errant thoughts of how Charley, if he were still alive, would have come to visit her in the hospital, would have joked about her injuries and made her laugh. He’d have smuggled in pizza for her, brought her pastries from the little German bakery across town.

  But when he wasn’t bringing her treats, Charley would have been out drinking, gambling, chasing sleazy women and participating in any other activity, legal or illegal, that caught his fancy. She felt a little irreverent thinking those things about someone who was dead, but Charley’s death hadn’t turned him into a saint.

  When she was finally released from the hospital, she didn’t protest her father’s suggestion that she stay at her parents’ house for a few days. She still had a limp and ached all over, not quite ready to tackle motorcycle repairs. Dawson could handle the place on his own a few more days. Besides, the food would be excellent, much better than either the dismal hospital fare or the frozen dinners and peanut butter sandwiches she typically ate at home. Her mother employed housekeepers who were good cooks.

  As they drove across Dallas, Amanda leaned back in the leather seat of her father’s Mercedes and watched the familiar scenery slide past. She’d spent her entire life in this area…born, lived and attended school in Highland Park then college at SMU until she’d dropped out her junior year to ride a motorcycle cross country. She knew the best restaurants and the worst, went to the Texas State Fair every year, strolled the restored brick streets of Uptown. This was home. But now things seemed to have shifted ever so slightly, become strange and unknown.

  Charley was dead. Her husband—still legally her husband, thanks to his stubborn refusal to become an “ex”—was dead. She was, technically, a widow.

  Her lips curved into a faint smile at the thought of such a respectable term being applied to her. The Widow Randolph.

  “Good to see you smile,” her father said. “You’ll be surprised at how fast you’ll get through all this, put it in the past, and move on with your life.”

  “I want to change my name back to Caulfield,” she said. Erase all traces of Charley.

  “Easily done. Your mother will insist we wait a proper amount of time, of course, then we’ll file a Request for Name Change, and you’ll be Amanda Caulfield within the week.”

  “If I ever decide to get married again, I’m keeping my birth name.” She considered that for a moment then amended, “If I ever decide to get married again, I’m going to have myself committed to a mental institution.”

  Her father laughed, a robust, hearty sound, and she found herself joining him. Charley was gone. Death, if not divorce, had parted them. She was free. It felt good.

  

  That evening at dinner her father sat at the head of the family dining room table with her mother at the other end, Jenny and “Davey” on one side, and Amanda on the other.

  The oak table with seating for eight was her mother’s idea of a cozy family table—as opposed to the rosewood version in the formal dining room that seated sixteen before the addition of leaves. Amanda had lived in this house all her life and had never found anything “cozy” in any of the fourteen—or maybe it was fifteen—rooms. Today was certainly no exception.

  “Lucinda.”

  A young dark-haired girl in a uniform appeared immediately from the kitchen.

  “My quiche is lukewarm. Could you please heat it for me?” Beverly Caulfield’s gestures were slow and graceful, the silk fabric of her light green blouse flowing with her movements. She was slim and small-boned, her hair still brown, though Amanda suspected her hairdresser had a hand in that.

  “Mine needs to be warmed too.” Jenny leaned back so Lucinda could reach her plate. “Just a little bit. I don’t like it so hot it burns my mouth, but just a little hotter would be good.” She held thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “Just this much.” She giggled and fluttered.

  Her pale blue summer dress set off her delicate features perfectly. In appearance, she was a younger version of their mother, though Amanda couldn’t imagine that their mother had ever fluttered or giggled.

  Lucinda took Jenny’s plate then looked at Emerson Caulfield whose quiche was already half-consumed. “I’m fine.” He waved his fork.
/>   “I’m good,” Davey added.

  “Me too.” After the cardboard hospital food, Amanda relished every bite of her lukewarm quiche, savoring the rich cheese and egg flavors.

  In stark contrast to the well-dressed members of her family, Amanda wore the faded jeans and T-shirt in which she’d tumbled down the mountain in Oklahoma. Her mother had sent a sedate, blatantly expensive dress of blue silk with matching heels to the hospital. Amanda refused to wear it.

  Had the doctor given her mother the wrong baby? The only thing that kept that from being a certainty was the knowledge that her mother, had she had any doubts, would surely have returned her in the same way she returned clothes, shoes and purses upon finding any minute flaw—and Amanda’s flaws were much larger than minute.

  Lucinda returned with the quiches and set them in front of Beverly and Jenny.

  “I’ve spoken to the funeral home and made arrangements for Charley’s funeral just as soon as they release the body,” Beverly said. “I suppose we can use one of the family plots for him. He’s still family.” She gave a faint shudder, visible in the rippling silk of her sleeves, then took a bite of her quiche. “This is much better, Lucinda.” Thus she disposed of Charley’s body and the warmed quiche, events of equal importance, in one fell swoop.

  “I don’t know what you’ve got planned,” Amanda said, “but Charley would have hated an elaborate event with flowers and organ music and his body crammed into some suit he’d never have worn in life.”

  Silence. Her comments often had that effect at family gatherings.

  “The civilities must be observed,” her mother stated in a tone that allowed no argument.

  That tone never stopped Amanda. She toyed with her salad, flipping a slice of cucumber to the side of the plate. “Charley wanted to be cremated.” He’d never actually said that, but he might have if he’d ever considered the possibility of dying. “He wanted to be cremated then have his ashes tossed into...” A bar? A sleazy motel room? “Into the air. From a plane. So he can fly.”