“So the jury had proof of a window of opportunity. Add to that a suspect prone to violent outbursts, women being a documented target. The same guy who ended up with Missy’s birthday money in his pocket, also has her blood and hair in his bedroom.” Aubrey chewed on a thumbnail, thinking. “A preponderance of evidence. Geez, based on that . . .”
“You might have voted guilty?”
She nodded.
“It added up. Collectively, it all sounds damning, particularly the time-stamped money linked directly to Missy.”
“But then, twenty years later, out of nowhere . . .” Aubrey flexed her fingers and reached toward the folders.
“Out of nowhere,” Levi said, scooping up the one marked Byrd, “Missy’s remains fall out of the wall in Dustin Byrd’s basement.”
“Making a man completely unrelated to the case the new prime suspect.”
“Making Byrd the prime suspect and turning a convicted murderer into a martyr.”
“Assuming you can make it all fit neatly into a folder.”
“Assuming . . .” Levi tossed the Byrd folder onto the desk. “So are you game, Ellis? You were intrigued enough to notice a random sign-in sheet back at the coroner’s office. You’re curious about Frank Delacort. Does getting to the bottom of this suddenly make the home portrait beat look a little . . . uninspired?”
Aubrey stared at the Byrd folder, her emotions equally mixed. Aubrey didn’t want any part of this story. Yet she was wildly tempted by the idea of telling it. She snatched up the Byrd folder. Aubrey opened it, her fingertips flying over the gun story as if it were braille. Pressing the pages hard between her hand and lap, she braced for the sensation of heat. There was nothing, only a smudge of newsprint on her thumb. The newsroom had settled into normal sounds and smells, stale coffee and the buzz of co-workers behind them. She closed the folder. “Huh . . . that’s almost unbelievable.”
“What’s unbelievable? You didn’t even read it.”
“Levi, what do you know about Missy Flannigan?”
Employing a tad more tolerance, he offered the facts. “According to her parents, Tom and Barbara Flannigan, Missy was a typical college junior—quite attractive, for whatever that’s worth. She lived in Surrey her whole life.”
He opened Missy’s folder. On top was a color photo of a blue-eyed blonde, upturned nose, and a sweet smile—most definitely homecoming-queen material. But even from Aubrey’s upside-down angle, a wallop of recognition pulsed through her. She’d seen this girl before. Aubrey shook her head, trying to jar a memory that wouldn’t come. Levi moved the color photo aside and the sense of recognition faded into common déjà vu. Underneath it were facsimiles, black and white versions of the same photo seen in the Surrey City Press and on NBC Nightly News. Any conscious being would feel a connection to Missy’s photo.
“To the best of our knowledge,” Levi said, “Missy’s life was unremarkable. The most outstanding thing was her disappearance.”
“At twenty-one most people haven’t lived lives that make headlines. Disappearing probably was the biggest thing that happened to her.”
“Possibly,” he said. “Still, the stories about Missy weren’t terribly in-depth. More like an homage to the victim. They might as well have read, ‘In addition to being a Surrey doer of good deeds’—apparently, she liked to volunteer—‘Missy Flannigan loved puppies and poetry . . . sunsets and campfire sing-alongs . . .’ There has to be more.”
Aubrey read the bylines. “Malcolm wrote those stories.”
“Yes . . . he did. It wasn’t a criticism.”
“Yes it was.”
Levi removed his glasses, tapping the rims against the information in front of him. “It was.” The movement ceased and he laid his hands flat on the desktop. “Listen, I’ve spent days separating facts from Surrey folklore. It was a tragic story when Missy vanished at the hands of a rogue drifter—the bad-things-that-happen-to-good-girls stuff that you warn your kids about. But now . . .” he said, putting the glasses back on. “Now it all seems more questionable than ever.”
Aubrey wrapped her arms tight around herself, crossing the sleeves of her bright pink shirt. Her hand rose to her chin and she felt the half-moon groove. It was a symbol, a tattoo, courtesy of evil. Self-preservation and instinct said to stay away from the things on Levi’s desk. At the same time, his desire to uncover the truth drew her in. “Now you think there’s more to the story.”
“I think,” Levi said, looking over the collection of questionable facts and new evidence, “we haven’t scratched the surface of the unremarkable life of Missy Flannigan.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Surrey, Massachusetts
Twenty Years Earlier
Church bells rang. Missy sat in a pew, spellbound by the chime of a hymn she could not name. Eyes closed, she felt the solidness of the pew beneath her bottom and the airier promises that surrounded her. Incense dusted the sanctuary and a wide wood ceiling protectively spanned the space. It made Missy feel at peace. The church, she thought, was a place where forgiveness could be granted by showing up.
As the chiming came to an end, so did the window for Missy’s quiet thoughts. She’d given up on calling it prayer years ago. Prayers were meant to be answered. So far, Missy’s had not been. But her eyes remained shut as her mind absorbed the fading tendrils of solitude. She heard the heavy creak of the vestibule doors and felt sunlight spread across her back. It penetrated, refreshing her like baptism. A smile curved around her lips. Missy favored the idea of being born again. She heard Father Frederick, the dedicated priest who oversaw the sinners at Our Lady of the Redeemer. With him were two members, Mick O’Brien and Ed Maginty. Missy slid into the shadow of the pew. She recognized each man’s voice best with her eyes closed.
Moments later Missy slipped out a side door, hurrying from the church to Surrey’s ball fields, a few blocks away. Spring was a busy time and she arrived ready to volunteer at the Surrey Boosters’ Snack Shack. Inside the wooden structure, she wriggled her nose at a vat of steaming hot dogs and inventoried rows of packaged snacks. There was a cashbox left in her care with a few small bills, enough to make change. According to the town’s volunteer call list, Heather Dixon was supposed to be there too. Missy’s hands settled onto her slim hips, guessing the even slimmer girl wouldn’t show. Heather excelled at sports and academics, but in addition to those notable qualities the girl was also bulimic—one of many Surrey secrets Missy kept. No, the food would be too much for Heather. She wouldn’t show.
Missy was on her own as the Surrey Phantoms baseball team prepared to take on the King Phillip Knights. It was fine. Along with being a solid keeper of secrets, Missy was a hard worker, someone who powered through off-putting tasks. She pulled her long blond hair into a ponytail, ready to get to work. The Snack Shack didn’t present much of a challenge. That was good. It would make it easier to multitask. Volunteering had led to other opportunities, like babysitting, which had springboarded into even better paying positions. Over time, those jobs became steady employment, providing a reliable income. Missy had managed to save most of her money. She considered her earnings as her gaze panned Surrey’s wider boundaries. The town’s spring fields glowed green, meeting with a dome of blue sky. On one edge, painting a foul line, was Dustin Byrd. While the distance was too far for eye contact, Missy knew he was looking at her. She stared back, though it was the dome’s horizon that had her attention.
“Missy . . . did you get my order or not?” Missy’s gaze snapped back to Ed Maginty’s bald head, a disturbingly familiar point of view. “I said it twice. Come on, would you? Little Ed’s going to miss the first pitch.”
She looked at Little Ed, who wasn’t so little anymore. She hadn’t seen the boy since she last babysat for the Magintys, a year ago. He’d grown to mirror his father’s large-headed look. It made Missy despise the child on sight. “Mr. Maginty. I didn’t see you there.”
“How could you not see me? I’m standing right in front of you.” A sigh heaved from his gut. Missy knew the sound, which could represent both satisfaction and annoyance. “For the third time, we’ll have two hot dogs . . . please.”
“Coming right up.” Missy did as she was asked because . . . well, because that’s what you did for paying customers. She cradled two steaming tubes of beef in buns, placing them in cardboard carriers. Missy took Ed Maginty’s money. She hovered near the cashbox with his crisp bill in hand. She glanced back at Ed and Little Ed. They were absorbed in the first pitch. Smiling, she said, “Here’s your change.” The batter popped up, leading to a rousing cheer from the crowd, the Magintys included. He didn’t hear her and Missy spoke louder, “Mr. Maginty . . . your money.” He turned, snatching up the cash. “Can I help you?” she said to the next customer in line.
Ed Maginty turned back. “Hey! I gave you twenty. This is change for a ten!”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No. I gave you a twenty.” He dropped the change onto the counter. There was unlikely eye-contact as Ed Maginty lowered his voice. “I see what you’re doing, Missy. But I know the bill I used to pay for two dollar-fifty hot dogs. I want my seventeen dollars.”
“You gave me a ten. I don’t even have a twenty.” She showed him the cashbox and its smaller bills. Ed Maginty peered inside. The man behind him looked too, peeking around Ed’s fat bald head. A glance passed between the man and Missy, who smiled as if they shared a secret.
“See here, Missy, I had a five and a twenty. Here’s the five. I wanted to break the twenty, so I gave it to you!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Maginty, but you gave me a ten. I’m certain of it.”
“I could take my complaint to the booster committee. Doug Dixon, the president, is a friend. I’ve been doing his taxes for years. You don’t want that kind of trouble. Doug would see things—”
“Hey, maybe it was two tens. Is this yours?” The man behind Ed bent down and came up with a ten-dollar bill. “You must have dropped it.”
A flustered Ed blinked. Missy blinked wider. “Uh, thanks. But I just came from the bank. My teller knows what kind of bills I like—crisp twenties, not crumpled tens.” His voice bore down on Missy. “As a CPA, I’m aware of what kind of bill I gave you.”
“Dad, we’re missing the game,” whined Little Ed.
“Kid’s missing the game.” The man gave the boy’s hair a tussle. “Why don’t you give Missy here a break? You got your money.” Pinched between two dirty fingers, the man held out the worn but usable ten dollar bill. Ed Maginty grabbed the cash and plodded toward the field with his son.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Welcome . . . Missy. Is that short for something?”
“No. Just Missy.”
“So, Missy, this seems like a pain-in-the-ass job for one person.”
“Ed Maginty’s the pain in the ass.” Her glare softened, ticking back to the man. She couldn’t place him, not in Surrey. “I used to babysit for him and stuff. He gypped me more than once.”
“Gypped you, huh?” He looked from the hot dogs to her.
“He’ll tell you it was a miscalculation. But I know what I get an hour.” Looking him over, Missy tallied thoughts about the stranger. “Anyway . . . that was nice of you, to give him the money.”
“It had to be his ten, right? Besides, the guy seemed like a prick. Like he was bothering you.”
“I can take care of myself.” Missy wondered if the same thing could be said about the stranger. The air was chilly, and he’d come to the game wearing a thin army jacket. He was thirty or so, thin in the face, his cheekbones jutting at a sharp angle. His tightly shorn hair was dark and his face stubbly. His unshaven look didn’t strike Missy as intentional, more like the result of circumstance. The crowds had drifted and the line dwindled. In the quiet Missy swore she heard his stomach growl. “Did you want to get a hot dog?”
“I, um . . .” He patted his pockets. “I don’t seem to have . . .”
Missy plopped a hot dog in a bun and held it out. “On the house. Their accounting system sucks. They count the cash, not the inventory.” The grin pushed into the hollows of his cheeks—average looking, she thought, but with a dazzling smile. He accepted the hot dog, gobbling it down with the grace of a hungry animal. “Want a Coke to go with that, maybe a bag of chips?” He nodded, half the hot dog already history. Missy turned for the cooler, discreetly shifting a crisp bill from her back pocket to her front.
Hours later, Missy didn’t recall asking the man to stay. But she also hadn’t objected when he hung around, telling her that his name was Frank Delacort and saying that he wasn’t from around there. Eventually, army-jacket Frank worked his way inside the Snack Shack. He proved useful, doling out snacks and restocking the cooler. In turn, Missy looked the other way as he scarfed down four more hot dogs. They worked side by side until the spectators waned, trickling down to one chunky girl who bought three homemade Rice Krispies treats and a package of Red Vines. On her last pass, after she asked for a bag of Cheetos, Missy informed the girl that they were closed. She shooed her away, telling her she’d end up as fat as a house if she didn’t change her diet.
“Are you always so direct?” Frank asked, putting unused buns back into the bag.
“I guess I am. There’s less confusion if you say what’s on your mind.”
“Yeah, I been told I could benefit from that—sayin’ what’s on my mind.” He went back to work, throwing leftover sauerkraut into the trash can. “It’s just not my way. Sometimes I react first, think later.”
After that short exchange Frank didn’t say much else. With a score of twelve to one, the Surrey Phantoms prevailing, Missy locked the cashbox and scooped up the leftover donated treats. She tossed them into a trash can and watched Frank’s eyes follow the target. “Hey, um . . . would you mind taking this to the dumpster?” she asked.
“The dumpster?”
“It’s on the other side of the parking lot. It’s kind of dusky that way.”
“Uh, sure. Did . . . did you want to toss the leftover hot dogs too?”
“No. Leave them for now. That trash bag looks like it’s going to burst.”
He nodded, dragging the full can out the rear door of the Snack Shack. Missy stared until a voice drew her attention.
“It warms my heart to see how you’re so invested in Surrey. It speaks well of you, Missy.” She turned. On the counter, in Missy’s face, was a giant ceramic cat. For a split second, she thought it had done the talking. Her confusion eased as Violet Byrd’s round face and gray mop of curls peeked from behind. “Most college-age folks forget about town activities by now. It’s lovely to see you volunteering like this.”
“Hi there, Mrs. Byrd. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I came by to deliver the goodies from last week’s Paint and Party. I tell you, honey,” she said, hugging the cat, “your idea to switch to ceramics, call it a wine party, was brilliant. Stay-at-home moms jump at a night out. Why, I’m so booked, I had to cut back on my own volunteer hours at the Purr-fect cat shelter, plus give up my gym membership.”
“Oh my, that is busy!”
“The cat shelter I feel bad about, but I can keep up with my workouts at home. Anyway, I wanted to thank you again.”
“I’m glad it helped. And the Paint and Party idea wasn’t so brilliant, it was more about figuring out what people want.”
“I can’t say I wanted a ceramics business, but I was never going to make a living with real sculpture, even pottery. Who knew so few people would be interested. But all that bric-a-brac . . . Now, there’s a hobby people sign up for. Toss in some wine, and voilà,” she said, stroking the cat. “Thanks to you, I’m in the black!”
Missy beamed at sweet-faced Violet Byrd. Maybe next time she’d suggest a trip to a day spa, or maybe just a box
of hair-color from Walmart. Violet didn’t go for fancy. “What’s with the fur ball?” Missy said, tilting the Cheshire-like cat. “Pink . . . isn’t it?”
Violet laughed. “Pearl finish in bubble-gum pink, thank you very much. Wendy Abbott painted it for her daughter, but she’s not here. Irene O’Brien said her younger two, the twins, have a stomach bug.” Violet continued to pet the cat as if it might purr. “Good thing I like pink—and cats. I’ll probably be stuck with it!”
“Why’s that?” Missy said, stroking the cat too.
“Moms love to socialize. Paint and Party, right? They don’t care too much about collecting their projects after the kilning process.” She shrugged, picking up the cat. “That’s why I started making deliveries. Dustin lets me know when there’s a game or other town gatherings. Otherwise, my basement would be filled with everything from trivets to an army of giant pink pussies.”
Missy bit down on her lip, trying not to laugh. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“Definitely not. Dustin mentioned the game today, so here I am.” With the cat in one arm, Violet reached out with her other and gave Missy’s hand a squeeze. “Have you seen him this evening? I know he was looking forward to seeing you.”
“Uh, no. Not yet. It wouldn’t have been a smart idea. It was a big crowd.”
“It was,” Violet said, looking toward the emptying field. “And you’re right. Good thing one of you is a smart thinker. Maybe after everyone clears out.”
“For sure.” Surrey’s ceramics matriarch went on her way, passing by Frank.
“All set,” he said, standing in Violet’s place.
“Thanks. I can take care of the rest myself.”
“You sure?” he said, his breath catching on cooler air. Frank’s attempt to shove his hands in his jacket pockets was futile, the fabric bulging with discarded Rice Krispies treats. “I don’t mind helping.”
Ghost Gifts Page 7
