“Right. I remember. Finer restaurants only,” she said slipping on her coat. “Can I get a rain check? I’m Missy Flanniganed–out for the day.”
“Not a problem. But I do have a conference call with the Standard Speaker first thing Monday. Seems my temporary replacement can’t get the gist of the day-to-day layout. After that I managed to finagle a one-on-one with Detective Espinosa, see if he has anything new. Malcolm’s asked for a meeting at three, but maybe after that.” Levi tapped the papers he held against the edge of her cubicle. “I meant to ask, how’s the injury?”
Having collected her belongings, Aubrey stopped and flexed her index finger at him. “It’s, um . . . it’s all better.”
“Good. By the way, that’s some flower arrangement.”
Aubrey looked from the massive bouquet to Levi’s lingering stare. “I take it you’re more a tickets-to-the-opera kind of guy.”
“Depends.” He shrugged. “However, my tastes would be irrelevant in any floral selection.” Aubrey proceeded to button her coat, simpering at her spot-on inference. “Flower choice would strictly depend on the recipient’s preferences. That’s the point, correct? To please the person for whom they’re intended.”
Aubrey looked up, startled by the seriousness Levi applied to something as frivolous as flowers. “Uh, you’ve got me there. But you can’t always know what the other person likes, not in every instance.”
“I disagree. It’s only a matter of taking an interest in personal details. For example, I’ve noticed that you wear bright colors now and again. That’s curious, because on the whole, I’d say ostentatiousness doesn’t suit you—like those flowers,” he said, pointing to the arrangement. “Based on observation, I’d suspect you’re more the understated, under-arranged daisy type.” Levi paused at the next cubicle. “As for myself and fine dining, true enough. But I also like a good cheeseburger on occasion. In that instance, I wouldn’t be looking for a Zagat-rated establishment. Just a detail.”
“I see,” she said, blinking at the thoughtful bullet of Levi insight.
“So a Flannigan rain check then. I’ll see you Monday.”
“See you . . .” On the breath meant to repeat his words came unlikely spontaneity. “So if you want to look over my notes, and you are truly starving, Inez never minds staying late.”
“Inez?” he said, looking around the newsroom for the worker bee he’d clearly missed.
“Inez, she’s Charley’s in-home help. I could ask if she’d mind staying late.”
“If it works with your schedule. Just let me know. Otherwise, I’ll be in my office with my non-Zagat-rated folder of takeout menus.”
CHAPTER NINE
Aubrey was positive that Tang’s Orient Express did not meet the baseline for a Zagat rating. But Levi didn’t raise an objection as they talked and ate. He was analytical and inquisitive, pressing but never crossing the boundaries of reasonable Missy Flannigan theories. Levi mentioned his own update, but said that he wanted to hear Aubrey’s first. She obliged, offering the tidbits she’d unearthed. “The only thing that stuck out was an observation Esther Warren, the guidance counselor, made about Dustin.”
“I thought you said Warren was Missy’s guidance counselor.”
“Turns out, Dustin’s too. Esther was quick to note her twenty-five years of service.” Aubrey put down her fork and relayed the woman’s in-passing thought. “When I said that Detective Espinosa anticipates finding all sorts hidden deviant behavior from Dustin Byrd—a computer full of porn, maybe a graveyard of dismembered cats in his yard—she thoroughly disagreed.”
“How so?”
“Esther suggested that people . . . men who perpetrate this sort of crime are, along with twisted, usually clever and rather intelligent. According to her, those aren’t terms she’d use to describe Dustin Byrd. If anything she recalled an underdog, the kind of kid who craved prestige but didn’t have the goods to get there.”
Levi’s chopsticks deftly captured the rice on his plate. “The guidance counselor has a valid point. But,” he said, pinching a bite of moo shu pork, “that sort of personality also supports other conclusions—a hair trigger detonated by years of frustration. Think about it. In today’s society the kid Warren described, if that disturbed, is often the one who inflicts violent crimes on entire student bodies. What if Dustin Byrd always felt he should have a girl like Missy and one day—”
“One day he just grabbed what he couldn’t have.” Aubrey picked up her fork. “Plausible. Or maybe a different scenario that includes Byrd.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been thinking. And, mind you, I have no proof, not a shred of evidence.”
“Just a theory?”
“Just an idea.”
“I’ll entertain it,” Levi said, fluidly working his chopsticks.
“Big of you. What if there was something reciprocal going on between Dustin and Missy?”
“Like an affair?” The chopsticks halted. “I don’t want to stereotype, Ellis, but have you seen their photos? Byrd was sixteen years older than Missy. It’s like Charlize Theron dating Woody Allen, less the creative genius.” Levi drew a thinking breath, a habit she’d observed. “Scratch that. Make it Grace Kelly with Martin Balsam. He was a charac—”
“He was a character actor from the 1940s, more or less the image of Byrd.” She tilted her head. “How do you know that?”
“My mother. We watched our share of old movies when I visited.” Levi busied himself with the chopsticks before looking up. “And you?”
“The Golden Age of Hollywood. One of a few staples in my traveling childhood.” Aubrey concentrated on her white rice and noted her own Levi details. “So along with an occasional cheeseburger, you like Grace Kelly movies, and blondes—apparently,” she said, hiding a smirk behind her water glass.
Levi bristled. “Back to Missy and Byrd,” he said over the buzz of nearby diners, “we have no indication of a relationship between the two. A man’s marital status, or lack thereof, doesn’t prove a covert relationship.” Aubrey’s cell, which sat on the table, vibrated toward her. Owen’s name lit up the screen. It was the second time he’d called since they’d arrived. “Speaking of relationships,” he said, pointing at her phone, “old husband or new boyfriend?”
She dropped the phone onto the seat beside her. “I wanted to be available in case Charley called. Inez could only stay until eight. And, um . . . the first.” He swallowed a mouthful of Kipling pale ale. Add British beer, she thought, to a fondness for old movies, cheeseburgers, and blondes.
“You said that was resolved.”
“It is, except for signing on the dotted line. I know I said it wouldn’t interfere—”
“It’s not that,” he said, putting down the beer. “I just thought if somebody calls twice in an hour, maybe it’s important. Maybe you should answer.”
Levi’s personality provided a nice barrier for incoming emotion. It allowed Aubrey the courage to pick up her phone. She imagined she could hear anything Owen had to say and not flinch in front of him. “If you’re sure you don’t mind?” There was a gesture of indifference and Aubrey connected to her messages. Her eyes drew wide as she listened to Owen’s earliest voicemail; she gripped tighter to the phone. The rather personal message ended and Aubrey listened to empty air for another thirty seconds. Putting down the phone, she looked at Levi and realized her error. Body language required an explanation. Aubrey scrambled to come up with one: Owen was hit by a bus . . . He’s moving to Peru . . . He’s demanding I return his collection of U2 albums . . . Too flummoxed, she went with the truth. “He . . . Owen,” she said, pointing to her silent cell. “He says we’re making a mistake. He wants to talk, work things out.”
Levi nodded, his mouth curving downward, as if in deep assessment. “That’s good, I guess. And probably not so surprising considering the flowers.”
“The flowers?” Aubrey’s stare flicked between the phone and Levi. “Oh, the flowers. They weren’t from . . . Trust me when I say reconciliation wasn’t in the cards.”
“But it’s what you want, right—to reconcile?”
“Yes . . . of course,” she said, awed by her reversal of fortune. “I never wanted a divorce in the first place. I only wanted what Owen had prom—” She didn’t finish the personal thought.
“So do you want to go . . . see him, or whatever? Far be it from me to get in the way of a Beyond Tomorrow kind of ending.”
“See him. Absolutely . . .” she said, smiling. “He just caught me off guard. But that’s Owen. Always spontaneous. I can grab a cab.” She stood but didn’t move. “Aubrey Smith.” She sat again. “He starred in Beyond Tomorrow. Hardly anybody knows him . . . or that movie.”
“If I recall, the plot had something to do with ghosts who visit the living in hopes of reuniting two young lovers.”
“That’s right. Charley and I watched that movie over and over because . . .” Aubrey stopped short. “It’s just kind of incredible that you’d know the movie.”
“I don’t know about incredible. Smith was English, maybe that’s why it sticks. A curious coincidence, the name and all.”
“More than you know. Anyway . . .” Aubrey said, shaking off his ghostly note. “We weren’t done discussing Missy Flannigan.”
“Missy and I will be here on Monday. And I suspect your attention won’t be one hundred percent right now. I get having a life, Ellis.”
“Do you? I mean, of course, I’m sure you do.”
Levi leaned forward and skimmed his legal pad. “Just . . . if you don’t mind me asking, did you say you didn’t want the divorce?”
In her stunned moment, Aubrey supposed she’d confessed as much. “True. It was just . . . circumstance. A year ago, divorce seemed like the only realistic solution.” Levi nodded and returned to his notes. “Why do you ask?”
“Human behavior. That’s all.” On Aubrey’s slide out of the booth Levi added, “It strikes me as curious. What moves someone to the brink of ending a committed relationship, and then turn up with an eleventh-hour desire to repair it? Of course, I’m not speaking about your situation specifically. I don’t know anything about it. But overall, I see that sort of flip-flopping behavior as the epitome of uncommitted.”
His word choice hit too close to home. “You can’t make that kind of across-the-board assumption about relationships. No matter what’s happened, Owen’s not flip-flop—” Aubrey’s jaw locked. He could be so incredibly irritating. “You’re right, Levi. You don’t know anything about it. It was extremely . . . complicated, things between Owen and me that you couldn’t possibly grasp.”
“Really?” he said. There was a visual standoff. He smiled. “My philosophy professor at Brown might disagree. She was delighted when I chose to double major, writing my thesis on the fallacies of Cartesian dualism. And then there’s MediaMatters. I don’t think I’d be sitting here if I didn’t exhibit some aptitude for getting my head around a story.”
Aubrey continued to stare, eyes narrowing. She was tempted, again, by the idea of blurting out her gift for the sole purpose of rocking his neatly filed world. She glanced away. It wasn’t the point. “It was never a matter of . . . Owen has a lot of integrity. If you must know, I kept something from him that I shouldn’t have. It’s what pushed the marriage to the brink.”
“You lied to him.”
“I wasn’t honest.”
“Is there a difference?”
“I like to think so. And you’re over-simplifying. Suffice it to say my choices aggravated the problems we already had.”
“So this was a happy marriage from the start.”
“It was . . . for a while. It will be again,” she said more defiantly.
“You seem determined. I wish you luck.”
“Thanks so much.” But instead of leaving, Aubrey slid back, intent on making a point. “Ultimately, the time apart will prove beneficial. The bottom line is Owen and I wanted the same things—clearly, we still do.” Aubrey held out her phone as if it were proof.
“Those things being?”
She shrugged. “Nothing so out of the ordinary. A regular, normal happy marriage.”
“Now who’s over-simplifying,” he said, continuing with his work.
“Don’t be so cynical. Just because you can’t see it or don’t want it.”
“I never said that.”
“Regardless . . . Obviously there are going to be bumps in any relationship, but if two people are united—one address, one unified life grounded in routine—I don’t see why they shouldn’t be able to work it out.”
He nodded, as if considering her take on the matter. “So at what point did Owen decide a routine life wasn’t what he wanted?”
And irritating hit a new high. “Owen’s job requires a lot of travel—abroad, the West Coast. It’s very volatile, demanding. Some of it is even classified.”
“He’s a spy?”
Aubrey made a face. “He’s a network security architect, meaning he designs secure data centers for Fortune 100 companies and select government projects.”
“Computer tech expert.”
“To say the least. His expertise is almost one of a kind. He couldn’t very well up and abandon his responsibilities,” she said, using Owen’s own argument.
“Impressive. I think I get it. Owen didn’t want to give up his high-octane life for a nine-to-five State Street job—even at the risk of his marriage.”
“How very succinct,” she said, hearing Levi file a year’s worth of passionate arguments into one neat summation. “You know, on second thought, it isn’t complicated. Owen’s always been committed to ‘us.’ Maybe it’s as simple as him needing time to come full circle. You know, finish living life one way before starting another—outgrow it.”
Levi didn’t reply and Aubrey rose. But as she exited the booth, she heard him mutter, “Here’s hoping he grew into the man you were hoping for.” She spun around, eyeballing Levi. “Sorry,” he said, glancing up. “I shouldn’t have said that. But a lot can change in a year—that’s something I know a thing or two about.”
“I’m amazed.”
“That I can recognize change?”
“No, that somebody managed to tolerate you for that long.” Levi retreated to his legal pad; it made Aubrey feel as if she was the one who’d overstepped. “Just know Owen and I will be fine.”
“Noted,” he said, staying focused on his work.
She was about to offer a conciliatory “See you Monday” when her phone vibrated. It was a text from Owen. Just left a VM. Firewall fubar. Stuck in New York. Can we get together as soon as I get back? Love you. Aubrey pocketed her phone. She supposed there wouldn’t be any reconciliation that night—well, not between her and Owen. “Before I go,” she said, fully prepared to leave, “so that I’m up to speed, exactly what is your Missy Flannigan update?”
“Missy Flannigan? We’ll talk about that Monday.”
“No. By Monday you’ll be accusing me of being out of the loop, slacking. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish our discussion.”
“If you insist,” he said, placing the legal pad on the table. She dropped her coat and satchel back onto the booth and slid back in. Levi produced a new folder and Aubrey sighed. This one was marked: Flannigan, Tom & Barbara. “Yesterday, I caught the Flannigans with their garage door open. I spoke to them—briefly.”
“You spoke to Tom and Barbara Flannigan? And you’re just telling me now?”
“I needed to mull it over. I’m not sure what it meant, or if it meant anything. Tom Flannigan, he was sitting in Missy’s convertible—sharp little muscle machine—which they’ve kept like a shrine. Her father was sobbing uncontrollably, like he couldn’t get a hold of himself.”
; “Assuming the remains are Missy’s, it is the confirmation they’ve been dreading for twenty years. Doesn’t that make sense?”
Levi was quiet, sipping his pale ale. “It should. Grief can be insurmountable. But this seemed . . . off.”
“Off?”
“That’s why I didn’t mention it. I have no proof, just . . . a feeling.”
“I see. Something less than concrete facts.”
“Tom Flannigan’s reaction. It was outside the parameters of what I’d consider normal.” Levi’s thumb brushed over the face of his watch. “I’ve seen what that does to a person, a parent especially. Losing a child in some horrible senseless way.” He looked at Aubrey and she saw emotion invade his usually staid expression. “I shouldn’t judge.”
The topic of Missy Flannigan slipped from Aubrey’s focus. It was replaced by a pulling sensation, an urge to wrap her hand around Levi’s watch. The need to reach was overwhelming, like fighting a sneeze. Better still, Levi, if you could take the damn thing off and hand it to me . . . Aubrey forced her folded hands into her lap. As she tried to quell the impulse, a sound pierced through the atmosphere. It wasn’t the fast clip of Mandarin or clinking of dishes. It wasn’t the conversation of other diners. It was a young man’s voice—faint but reminiscent. A conversation Aubrey had heard before. No. A conversation I’ve had before. Aubrey saw blond buzzed hair, eyes the color of tropical water, a whistle around a neck. Fast as a heartbeat it was gone, another sense invading. Her lungs filled. Aubrey’s head snapped toward Levi’s. “Do you smell that?”
“What? Fried rice and spare ribs?”
“Salt air. I smelled it the other day too, outside your office.”
“I’m pretty sure all you can smell for three blocks is Chinese food.” His brow furrowed. “Ellis, are you all right?”
“No,” she said, dragging the cloth napkin across her mouth. The heady mist of ocean receded, and on her palate came the sharp taste of whiskey. It was enough to get drunk and then some. “Levi, who—” She balled the napkin into her fist. If Levi was skeptical of his own feelings, conveying the prospect of a presence was absurd—probably suicidal. “I mean, yes . . . of course. Sorry. My sense of smell, sometimes it comes right off the rails.”
Ghost Gifts Page 9
