Forgotten Spirits

by Barbara Deese

  They got into the car and Vinnie headed in the direction of the motel.

  Thinking about some of the people in her old neighborhood made her sad. In the house directly across from hers lived the boy whose family hastily moved away after the boy and a couple of non-church friends were discovered sleeping under the altar one morning, stinking drunk.

  She remembered bringing Sierra here for Christmas all those years ago, and the memory made her heart ache. Lying together on her old double bed in her old bedroom, she’d told Sierra all about that boy and his family.

  She also talked about the occupants of the house next to his and directly across the street from Foxy’s, where the pastor and his family lived. Their house was a little larger than the Tripp house, and had a beautiful old-fashioned garden. Many nights, their son Peter, the same one who liked to look up girls’ skirts at the picnics, could be seen sitting by the open window with the lights out, smoking a cigarette. He wasn’t even a teenager yet when he began slipping out at night by climbing onto a place where the roof dipped down. From there he’d jump a couple of feet to the sturdy branch of an oak tree, and climb down. Usually he didn’t come home for hours.

  Peter was a handful. That’s what everyone said. There had been plenty of pressure on him, and he’d returned the favor by putting his parents through the wringer, proving the maxim about preachers’ kids. Still freckle-faced and with an overbite, he’d begun acting out in school and church, walking a very fine line between normal, youthful rebellion and criminal behavior. It had surprised everyone when he’d followed his father’s footsteps into the ministry.

  One of the times Sierra came to visit, Peter was home from seminary, and together they watched him standing by the window in his room to take off his shirt. Foxy didn’t agree with Sierra that he knew they were watching. They’d commented on his muscular body and giggled like a couple of teenagers. The next day, Foxy looked out the window to see Sierra outside with Peter, flipping her dark mane of hair in her seductive way as she talked. Sierra had been a handful too.

  There was almost nothing left of the town she’d been so desperate to leave. When Pastor Niemi and his wife moved away from Pine Glen, his little congregation scattered. Foxy’s parents moved to an apartment.

  It turned out to be a good move for Pastor Paul Niemi. Moving to the Twin Cities, he led a flock that had tripled in size during his time there. Then, as senior pastor of a big, successful church, he’d been offered an administrative job in the synod, and his son Peter stepped right into the pulpit he’d vacated.

  Looking at the sorry little motel, the only building on the block where she grew up, Foxy felt as desperate to leave Pine Glen as she had when she was a teenager. She said to Vinnie, “I don’t want to stay here. Let’s get back on the freeway and head north.”

  “Or we could backtrack. There’s a big hotel in Hinckley.”

  She avoided looking at him. “No. There’ll be something on the way to Cloquet.” Of all the places to take a recovering gambler, she would never choose the hotel attached to the Grand Casino in Hinckley. That kind of backtracking was not an option.

  Chapter 14

  Slogging through the crowds at the Mall of America, Cate wondered what had possessed her to come here with her mother. Herds of teens walked four and five abreast, making it nearly impossible for people to pass them. They talked loudly and with broad arm movements. Bawling babies, darting toddlers, and scolding mothers added to the mayhem. Once Cate tuned into the din, she couldn’t tune it out again.

  Oblivious, her mother chattered happily, pointing out things in kiosks and wondering out loud what to get for Cate’s brother and sister-in-law, Ricky and Bunny, who were going to stay at Cate’s, along with her nephew, his wife and their son. And if that weren’t enough, Erik’s parents were coming too. She was suddenly overwhelmed at the commitment she’d made to have them all there, not just for a meal, but as houseguests. She hoped they’d all had “plays well with others” marked on their report cards.

  Her mother was talking now about her friends at her senior apartment building, and Cate was truly interested in them. She and Robin had gotten to know so many of them when they’d been drawn into a missing persons case last year. The residents of Meadowpoint Manor had become very dear to the whole book club. She strained to hear over the crushing noise.

  Wanda waved one hand in the air as she talked. “After the sing-along, Daisy invited us back to her apartment to see her snow globe collection. They were all lined up on her bookshelves. Some were from her travels, and some . . .”

  Her mother’s voice faded, crowded out by Cate’s thoughts. Glass, snow, being trapped, red hair, spinning . . . she tried all the connections she could think of. What was she missing about the snow globe dream? She hated the way messages came to her sometimes. She’d get just enough information to worry, but not enough to act on.

  Her mother tugged on her coat sleeve, bringing her along as she ducked through the foot traffic. “Let’s look in here,” she said.

  Cate wondered what had caught her mother’s eye. Wanda sometimes dressed younger than her years would indicate, and often had no regard for the weather conditions in Minnesota. She’d lived down south long enough to consider herself a Floridian, and Cate had been working to purge her mother’s closet of strappy sandals and tank tops ever since she’d returned to Minnesota. Glancing around the racks of sweatshirts and sweaters, Cate was surprised her mom had chosen this, of all the stores in the mall, to do her shopping.

  “Do you know Ricky’s size?” her mother asked, holding up a sweater.

  Cate stood back, trying not to show her reaction on her face. “Large, probably, but extra-long,” she answered, wondering how to break it to her mother that she could not, in a million years, picture her nearly sixty-year-old brother in a sweater depicting gingerbread men standing on a diving board above a pool of milk.

  “Oh, look, I could get them for the whole family!” She held up two sweaters, identical to the first except for the size.

  “Um, Mom,” Cate began haltingly.

  Her mother threw back her head and cackled. “Just seeing if you’re paying attention.”

  Cate pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache. She pictured the bunch of them sitting around in identically silly sweaters. “Good grief!” she said, and started laughing. But in a few minutes, she was back to chasing butterflies of worry about Foxy. “Mom, I think we need to quit,” she said.

  Wanda gave her a questioning look.

  “I feel a need to go to Foxy’s apartment.”

  Soon they were wandering through the parking lot, trying to figure out where Cate had left her vehicle. When they found it, Cate got in and checked her cell phone for messages. “I hope Brad and Foxy are okay,” she said to her mother.

  “You mean Brad and Robin, don’t you?” Wanda said, shaking her head. “Honestly, I worry about my memory sometimes, but at least I know Brad is married to Robin.”

  Cate chuckled. “And that’s how rumors start.” She explained that Robin’s husband, Brad, and Foxy were both on the road today, but separately. Brad was heading to Colorado to pick up their daughter who was stranded in Denver, and Foxy—what exactly was Foxy up to? She decided to give Foxy’s last official destination, saying she was visiting her brother in Ely.

  Driving down the ramp at the Mall of America, Cate had to make a choice whether to go east or west on 494. “Do you mind if I drop by Foxy’s house and check on the pets before I take you home?” she asked. “We can stop at my house, too. I have a bunch of cookies for you to take home with you.”

  “I don’t need a lot of cookies.”

  “Then you can share them. I’ve seen those ladies fall on a plate of cookies like a pack of hyenas.”

  “What a lovely image,” her mother said, “and very apt.”

  Traffic was
heavy all the way into St. Paul. Cate found a place to park across the street from Foxy’s apartment. Her mother opted to stay in the car, so she left the engine running. Mounting the stairs, she could feel the arthritis in her knees after a morning of walking the mall. Using the spare key, she let herself in. The cats were happy to see her, as always, and quickly gobbled down their canned turkey.

  Everything looked to be in order. No weird animal energy, no signs of anything out of place, and yet Cate felt uneasy. She wandered through the apartment. Everything was nice and tidy the way Foxy always kept it. “Ha!” she exclaimed when she saw two, slightly damp bath towels hanging in the bathroom. “I knew Bill was here.”

  Foxy had adapted the small corner room for her massage therapy business. She’d been attentive to each detail, the silk scarves on the walls, hanging and standing plants, a rice paper screen and soft colors. Besides the massage table and stool, she had a long tray-topped bench that held her lotions, oils and candles, all nestled on a jumble of polished river rocks. It was Cate’s favorite room in the apartment.

  If she hadn’t left her mother in the car, she might be tempted to cue up some mood music, stretch out on the table and escape from all thought of entertaining a house full of relatives. Regretfully, she shut off the light and closed the door to this little piece of serenity.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to leave, not yet. Wandering through the rooms again, she settled on the loveseat. She closed her eyes. The only image that came to her was of their book club luncheon at Robin’s only two days ago, when they’d all raised their glasses and toasted to the spirit of Christmas yet to come. But even as they’d talked about the future, Cate remembered, she’d swirled her wine in her glass and stared into the red liquid. A phrase had popped into her mind that day. Don’t forget the spirits past.

  Now as she thought about that phrase, she took the time to brainstorm its meaning. Not spirit but spirits. Whose spirits? There were plenty that came to mind. At the top of the list was the spirit of Sierra, only recently passed on. And what about the man murdered on the streets of Las Vegas? Was Foxy being haunted by his spirit? Foxy had said the six witnesses to the murder had gone their own separate ways after that. Had they all forgotten the spirit of friendship? Or, what about the way Foxy just walked away from her past? What haunted her to the extent she never talked about her marriage? What or who else was she trying to forget?

  A persistent sound made her open her eyes. She searched until she saw the source. Elvis pawed at a box tucked into the corner by the bookshelf. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now it demanded her attention. It was a standard wine box. Foxy didn’t usually have boxes lying around, and certainly not wine boxes. Of course people packed a lot of things in boxes from the liquor store. Cate walked into the kitchen and saw the wine rack with enough empty spaces to hold twelve more bottles of wine.

  Elvis purred loudly and nudged her hand as she knelt on the floor to get a closer look. She was even more perplexed and intrigued when she saw the handwritten note taped to the side of the box. “Please make sure you give this to Frances Tripp,” it said, and below that was Foxy’s phone number and address.

  The box had been opened and reclosed but not resealed. Cate wondered if it would violate Foxy’s privacy if she had one little peek inside.

  * * *

  “How long does it take to feed a couple of cats, for crying out loud?” Wanda said to herself, wishing she’d used the restroom at the mall. Her daughter was certainly taking her time. She leaned over and turned off the engine, pocketing the key.

  Cate had parked close to the snowbank, and Wanda had to brace herself against the Land Rover to keep from slipping on the snow and ice. The car was filthy with dried road salt, and as she came around the back of Cate’s vehicle, she paused to brush the white powder off her black coat. When she looked up, a man was getting out of a vehicle on the opposite side of the street. He was tall and wore a black dress coat and muffler. When he appeared to be heading to the same house as she was, she figured he must be Foxy’s landlord. She found herself walking about twenty paces behind him, up a short stretch of sidewalk and then trailing him up the walk. It was a bit awkward.

  He didn’t acknowledge her until he reached the bottom step, and then turned around. “Are you following me?” he asked with a grin. He was attractive, with brown hair and a smattering of freckles.

  Wanda laughed. “I guess I am. But no, I’m just checking on my daughter,” she said. “She went up a while ago, and I got tired of ­waiting.”

  He seemed surprised. “Is your daughter, by any chance, Frances Tripp? I have an appointment with her.”

  For just a brief moment, she was uncomfortable talking to him, and wondered if that was how Cate got her premonitions about people. But then she relaxed. In her haste, Foxy must have missed canceling one of her appointments. “Oh, no, she’s not here. That’s why my daughter came over—”

  “Does your daughter have a habit of visiting people when they’re not home?” His grin was disarming.

  Wanda enjoyed the banter. “Doesn’t everybody? One learns so much about people that way.” She laughed to let him know she was kidding. “My daughter is here to feed her pets, actually. Foxy had to leave suddenly. I’m sorry you didn’t get her message,” she told him.

  “Ah, I see,” he said in a reasonable tone. His brow furrowed and he said, “I hope she’s all right. I don’t suppose you know where Miss Tripp went, do you?”

  She was taken aback by the question and decided to deflect it by using her flirtatious tone. “Sir, we just met! Surely you don’t expect me to give out any such information so early in our relationship.”

  He looked sheepish. “Oh, dear, that was inappropriate. I only meant . . . They say the roads are getting bad, not so much here, but to the north and west and I was just concerned . . .” His voice trailed off.

  She decided to let him off the hook. “I know, we’re concerned, too. She’s on her way to her brother’s resort and it’s way the heck up by the Canadian border.”

  He whistled. “The weather forecaster was saying—”

  She held up her hand to stop him. “My friend Vivian calls them ‘weather terrorists,’ scaring us half to death with their dire predictions.” She and the stranger shared a chuckle. By now she’d remembered why she’d come up to the house, and waiting any longer to find a bathroom would cause them both great embarrassment. “But, really, I do need to see what’s keeping my daughter.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your help.” He stepped aside and let her pass.

  Chapter 15

  She looked at the box, trying to divine its contents. Hidden treasure, compromising photos, jewelry. The conversation she’d had with Robin popped into her mind. “Guess what, I’ve found the head of Jimmy Hoffa!” she said out loud, grinning as she imagined telling that to Robin.

  By the time her curiosity compelled her to peel back the flaps, the last thing she expected to find in the wine box was wine. Twelve stupid bottles, nothing more.

  She sat back on her heels, defeated. She’d been so sure.

  The bell rang downstairs. She hung onto the bookcase to stand up. Making sure Elvis didn’t shoot out the open door, she rushed down the stairs, slipping and almost falling on the last step. When she peeked through the fish eye, she saw her mother leering at her from the other side, her nose and one eye magnified as she tried to peer in.

  “Bathroom!” Wanda said with some urgency as soon as Cate opened the door. She pushed past her.

  “Careful, the stairs are steep.”

  Wanda was on a mission and didn’t pause. Cate followed more slowly.

  Back in the apartment, Cate felt a letdown. There was something tantalizing about that box, and in the couple of minutes it took to let her mother in, she’d convinced herself that Elvis, by pawing it, was telling her to open it. “I’ve read too m
any mysteries,” she said to the cat, who walked up, circled the box, and sat in front of it.

  Kneeling once more to close the box, she thought about a book the No Ordinary Women had considered reading when it first came out. She got a vivid image of the cover, picturing a sailboat on the rocky seas, and the title, Message in a Bottle. As soon as she’d pulled out the first two bottles, she knew she was onto something.

  Her mother stepped out of the bathroom, took one look at her daughter and said, “What on earth are you doing?”

  Four of the bottles were already standing in a line on the pass-through, and Cate was carrying two more to set beside them. The wine was an assortment from a California winery. Only last summer, Cate had discovered Big House wines when she was getting ready to host the book club at her house. That month, they’d been reading a book about Alcatraz, and she’d been elated to find the perfect wine to accompany it. The pinot noir was labeled Pinot Evil, and the chardonnay, The Great Escape. “I know there’s a message on these bottles, Mom. Help me.”

  Wanda took the two from her hands and set them with the other four. “What am I looking for?” she asked, bending to peer intently at the labels.

  Cate stopped. “I have no idea.

  “But you’re sure she chose this way to leave you a message? It seems a little obscure. Why not say it directly?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I haven’t a clue what we’re looking for. Maybe someone wrote on the label or maybe when we line all the bottles all up in a certain order, they’ll spell out a clue.”

  “Catherine,” she said, using her given name, “what are you getting us into? I get the feeling you’re leading us down that primrose path again.”

  “What?” Cate bent down, picked up the half-empty box.