Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “It means that in addition to all the weapons on that sheet of paper, Frank Delacort was a certified marksman with one handgun—a Ruger Super Redhawk. A perfect match to the gun that killed Missy Flannigan.” The note pad dropped onto the desk. “So what do you think our headline is now? Because I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance the state just let a murderer walk free.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Surrey, Massachusetts

  Twenty Years Earlier

  Missy hadn’t seen Dustin since breaking things off. Everyone in Surrey banked at Benjamin Franklin Savings Bank, except for him, so she was sure she wouldn’t run into Dustin there. The fact put Missy at ease as she glided across the bank’s marble floor in her tennis whites. Missy was doubly glad to see Ginger Imai working the end teller booth. It was closest to the safety deposit box room. Missy liked Ginger Imai, finding the forty-something Japanese woman helpful and discreet. When they did talk, Missy’s intuitive nature assured her that Ginger’s was genuine. She also appreciated the woman’s self-sufficiency. The unmarried Japanese immigrant made a living by using her head for numbers. Missy liked to think she did the same thing—except for the Japanese part, and the physical services rendered to secure those numbers. But that no longer mattered. Missy had closed up shop the moment Frank latched on to her idea about the two of them leaving Surrey together. Finally, a prayer had been answered, and soon Surrey would be her past.

  “Missy. Good morning. How can I help you?” There was a slight bow from Ginger. The cultural nuance made Missy think their stories had something in common. Perhaps Ginger had been a geisha. Maybe she fled Japan to escape the same life Missy prepared to abandon. She smiled at the unspoken camaraderie, explaining to Ginger that she wanted to visit her safety deposit box. “Do you have a tennis match?” she asked, leading the way.

  “No, just a lesson. Last one.” Missy shrugged. “I paid for them earlier in the summer—my plans were different then. But I guess I just want my money’s worth, like everyone else.”

  Missy had come to the bank for two reasons that morning. The first was to make a pragmatic assessment of what was inside the rectangular metal box. Ginger delivered it to her, leaving Missy alone with her possessions and thoughts. She wanted to peruse the random bits of paper and photos that she’d had the forethought to save. Their potential worth was intriguing. Money was the only thing holding up her plans with Frank, Missy having spent the bulk of hers. Theoretically, the items in the box were like insurance policies and the idea of cashing them in was tempting. Missy chewed on her lip, thinking. Not everyone would fold like Mick O’Brien.

  A few months back, when she confronted the proprietor of the Plastic Fork with unsavory photos, Mick had nearly shit his pants. The married father of three had a proclivity for acting out, posing with his accessories, wearing his mail-order Dom gear. At the time, he’d been carried away by the kinky fun, uninhibited because of the joint they’d smoked, not caring how many pictures Missy took. Now, if the photos were to go public, Mick’s marriage, his business, and his life would be ruined. Who in Surrey would frequent the Plastic Fork after learning about the lurid acts going on over their head while they ordered a tuna salad sandwich? So Missy saw it as reasonable when she informed Mick that her continued discretion would only cost him accommodations for a homeless veteran. After Mick’s panicked reaction, Missy began to reevaluate her safety deposit box. But sitting in the quiet room, having unlocked the box, Missy realized its contents were also volatile, the possible fallout an unknown. Missy didn’t like unknowns. She let the idea go for a moment and switched gears.

  She retrieved two leather-bound diaries from her tote bag. It was the second reason she’d come to Ben Franklin Savings that day. Missy tucked them underneath the other items in the box, wanting to bury the diaries in the same dark place as her past. When Frank agreed to leave town, her intention was to burn them. Maybe she still would. There was time to decide, money to be secured. For now, life had changed so much that Missy wanted the damn diaries out of her sight. She closed the lid and locked it. “I’m all set,” she said, opening the door.

  Ginger returned, bowing again as she took the box from Missy. “You certainly like to admire those pearls and whatnot. Don’t you ever wish to wear them?”

  “I’m not much for trinkets and baubles. I’d rather have the cash any day.” Missy stood, smoothing her tennis whites, brushing a hand over her Neutrogena appearance. Then she looked into Ginger’s puzzled face. “But my grandma sure did love them. It makes me feel close to her to come and sit with them now and again.” While her reminiscent smile was not attached to a real memory, she did like the imagery she had produced. Perhaps, one day, she and Frank would have grandchildren. Perhaps her life could be something other than what she had expected.

  “That is sweet. I had a grandma too—she lived in Hokkaido, an island off Japan. I did not see her for many years at a time. How special yours left you something so meaningful.”

  Missy hummed along. Her agreement was appropriate acting, but really aimed at her absentmindedness. Ginger had commented before on the supposed jewelry, and Missy meant to sneak in a few costume pieces. It would make sense to show off pearls if, indeed, that’s what was in the box. But Missy had trouble with small-scale lies, regular girl thoughts. She did not blame herself for this, guessing she hadn’t processed a normal thought in years. Not since an October night, the day after her ninth birthday. That night Missy woke with a start, finding her father’s hand in her underwear and her point of view forever altered.

  Missy stared at the box, tucked safely in Ginger’s arms. But it was as if she could see right through the metal. Missy heard the dairies’ heinous captured words about Tom Flannigan. From that first night forward, normal thoughts had bled into darker ones, Missy negotiating one strange circumstance after another—like the motivation for getting the safety deposit box in the first place.

  That came two years ago, after catching her mother trying to flip the mattress in her bedroom. Mercifully, her illness made it an unachievable task. The hiding place for Missy’s clients’ keepsakes was the perfect irony, a spring-coiled homage to the common tool of her trade. Now Missy shuddered at the memory. Not only would the flip of a mattress have killed a healthy income, it might have killed Barbara Flannigan. Although, not as painfully or swiftly as the truth about her husband. Missy was determined to keep this much from her mother. Physically, with her MS, the woman had suffered enough. It was that and the idea that exposing Tom Flannigan would only lead to unsavory opinions about Missy. How could it not?

  Until Frank, men wanted her for this—only this. Not one ever wanted to help or asked how sweet Missy Flannigan ended up the best little trick in Surrey. Even Randy Combs, who worked for child protective services and had a flexible schedule, never questioned it. He just acted as if fucking Missy were an off-site seminar with hands-on research. They all wanted what they’d paid for and to get on with their lives—whether it was going home to their frigid wives or taking their kid to a ball game. Missy had earned a solid five digits meeting their needs. The key, the payoff, had been turning their advantage into hers.

  On the way out of the safety deposit room, Ginger stopped to talk to a co-worker. While Missy waited her mind vacillated over the box’s contents. Her clients were everyday men who would pay to keep Missy’s mouth shut. Hell, they’d paid enough for her to open it. They were the type of men who probably couldn’t believe what they were doing, though that hadn’t stopped them either. In the heat of their twisted passions some had foolishly allowed their pictures to be taken in poses that would turn their wives rabid. Others had hastily tucked motel receipts in their pants pockets, only to have Missy confiscate them the moment their backs were turned. Dumbest of all were the forget-me-not thank you notes that read like signed testimonials. Yes, when it came to the simple offering of a physical act in exchange for cash, men could be completely stupid. Among their most grievous err
ors, however, was underestimating sweet accommodating Missy Flannigan. She glanced pensively at the box, considering the payoff and the risk. It would be messy, it would take time. There was no guarantee. It could backfire. Both Frank and Dustin might find out that neither of them was Missy’s best kept secret. She needed to think harder.

  Missy thanked Ginger Imai. She was one step away from the revolving door when Dustin came spinning toward her. Wearing camouflage shorts, work boots, and a safari style hat, he looked more prepared to tame the jungle than Surrey’s public grounds. Missy shuffled to a stop, her tennis shoes squeaking as she broke from the door’s path. She hadn’t seen Dustin since leaving him teary-eyed near the defunct rubber-processing plant. She’d barely gotten the image out of her head. He’d had the most dazed expression on his round face—like his world had ended. As Missy’s message finally sank in, his mustache quivered and his head shook uncontrollably. There was nothing she could do. And whether it was because of Frank Delacort or the unavoidable passage of time, it didn’t matter. It had to be done.

  Distracted by the memory, Missy wasn’t thinking. She definitely wasn’t moving fast enough as Dustin spied her, a startled gasp heaving through his thick chest. “Missy.”

  “Dustin.” She was glad for the bank’s Main Street location, a setting where they excelled at being acquaintances. “What . . . what are you doing here, inside the bank?”

  Over his heart, he patted the pocket of his cotton shirt. “Mom asked me to deposit some checks for her.”

  “Oh. How . . . how is Violet?”

  “Violet?” he said, as if he couldn’t place the proper noun. “Uh, fine. She’s fine. She’s going to the carnival this weekend. She goes every year.”

  “Right. Me too. And, um, you?” she asked, hopeful that he was taking a date.

  “Me? I’m not . . .” His gaze skimmed over her all-white attire. “I’m going fishing.” She nodded, waiting for Dustin to proceed with their scripted, around-town dialogue: “Missy Flannigan . . . I haven’t seen you in ages . . . remind me again where you’re going to school . . . ?” They’d had a code for everything. “I haven’t seen you in ages,” equaled “Call me as soon as you can,” and so on. But Dustin didn’t say any of that. Instead he said, “I miss you.”

  It wasn’t expected and it gutted her response. Missy nearly panicked at his wavering words. He didn’t look well. There was no mischievous twinkle to his dusty-brown eyes, just circles underneath. His slight second chin was gone, like he hadn’t eaten in a week. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling like maybe she was.

  He took a step closer, closer than he’d ever come under Surrey’s watchful eye. “You look . . . amazing.”

  “I have a tennis lesson.”

  “I miss you,” he said again, as if what she’d done had rendered him a babbling idiot.

  “I have to go, Dustin.”

  “Did . . . did you hear? I got the promotion, Miss. I’m going to be the director of Surrey Parks and Recreation.”

  “That’s, um . . . that’s wonderful,” she said, backing away. “But I have to go.”

  “Wait!” He grabbed her arm; Missy’s gaze ripped around the bank’s cold stone interior. “Can I . . . could we please just talk?”

  “Dustin, what are you doing?” she said in a hissing whisper. “People will see.”

  “Do you think I care about that? Missy, how can you do this now? I got the promotion—we’re there, baby. Maybe you think waiting like we did meant I was ashamed to tell people. But that’s not it at all. I was protecting you.”

  “Do you think you’re protecting me now?” He let go, and Missy rubbed her arm. The grip was unlike Dustin, angry as it was desperate. “Talking won’t change it. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just me . . . and what I want . . . and this town . . . and . . . and things you couldn’t possibly understand!” She felt an unlikely rush of emotion. “I have to go.” Missy heard him call her name as she dashed out of the bank, rushing around the corner. She ran headlong into Frank who by instinct, if not collision, wrapped his arms around her.

  “Hey, fancy meeting you here. I thought you had a tennis lesson.”

  “Frank . . .” Missy welcomed the embrace before realizing the public setting. She broke from his hold.

  “What’s wrong?” His hand grazed her shoulder, like he wanted to hug her again. “Missy?”

  She couldn’t tell him the cause of her upset. Frank wouldn’t get that, nor would he want to hear it. So she went with what he would like to hear. “I ran into Dustin. It was horrible. He was just awful to me.”

  “Seriously?” he said, looking down the street. “Maybe now’s a good time for that little weasel prick and I to have a talk.”

  Her hands boldly bumped his chest. “What? No! You can’t confront Dustin.”

  “Why not? If you think I’m leaving this town without calling out that cradle-robbing asshole . . .” Frank’s dark eyes were wildly intense. “Missy, you dumping him isn’t the only consequence he should have to face. He’s a predator. He works around young girls all the time. Do you know Randy Combs? He comes into Holliston’s now and again. He works for Surrey’s family services and I’ve got half a mind to tell him—”

  “What?” His depth of local knowledge was wholly unexpected. “You can’t do that!” She sucked in a panicky breath. It felt like the entire town was under a dome, air quickly dissipating. They needed to get off that sidewalk. They needed to get out of Surrey. She was one wrong conversation away from an avalanche of fateful discoveries. “Where are you headed?”

  “To the post office,” Frank said, a few letters poking from his breast pocket. “If old man Holliston doesn’t pay the bills right away, he forgets. He’s fuzzy like that. I have to remind him to write me a check on Fridays.”

  “After the post office?”

  “I’m repointing bricks over at a house on Sherman Street. My sharp-shooter skills aren’t much use to Holliston, but my handyman services are making him a buck.” Frank’s agitation faded. “’Course, now that I think about it, Holliston won’t realize if I’m gone for an hour or all afternoon.”

  Frank rolled away from Missy’s naked body, heavy breaths heaving out of him. God, but she knew her way around a bed full of sheets . . . or in a shower . . . or bent over a chair . . . or . . . Damn, he’d yet to suggest anything that Missy wasn’t willing to do. Relationships weren’t his strong suit, but that part of this one seemed to be on autopilot. The sex was astounding. Although he did notice that Missy rarely made eye contact, and afterward, her disposition drifted to unsure. The first few times they were together, she’d slipped from the bed and dressed before he could get rid of the spent condom. While Missy wasn’t innocent to the act, she did seem confounded by other things. The after things that, in Frank’s experience, women liked better than sex. Laurel certainly had. His desire to spend time with Missy perplexed her as much as his initial hands-off behavior. His stomach wrenched imagining that Missy’s behavior was the effect of a long and inappropriate relationship with Dustin Byrd.

  “Where are you going?”

  Frank heard a touch of fearfulness in her voice. He turned back. “Just getting something to drink. Do you want anything?” he asked, stopping by the bathroom. She said no and he got a glass of water. On his way back, Frank turned the air conditioner down a notch. “I don’t think this thing works too good.”

  “Soon you won’t have to worry about it,” she said, only covering her feet with the sheet. Missy didn’t have much modesty.

  Frank put the glass on the nightstand and straddled her, his teeth nipping her soft pouty lips. Jesus, she had the greatest fucking mouth. Literally . . . He fought a sly smile and addressed the simple subject. “Probably not. I guess fall gets here before you know it.”

  Her hands pushed hard on his shoulders. “What do you mean fall?”

  “The season after summer. Blon
d moment?” he teased, easily leveraging his weight to kiss her again. “September will be history and I won’t need the AC. It’s not worth complaining to O’Brien. Of course, with as hot as things get around . . .” He stopped, abandoning his straddled position. “What?”

  “We have a plan, Frank. We’re leaving Surrey, the two of us.”

  “Sure. In time.”

  “What do you mean, ‘in time’? We said the beginning of the month, right after my birthday. You promised, Frank. We planned it. You said we could go to your sister’s in New Jersey. That we could stay with her until you find a job. Then I’ll write my mother, tell her about us, and . . . Frank?”

  “Uh, yeah, we can probably do that.” He picked up his cigarettes and lit one. True enough, Marie had asked Frank to come and stay with her after the psych hospital released him. It wasn’t a lie. But he wasn’t too sure about showing up with a girlfriend, both of them unemployed. “Missy, I’ve been thinking, maybe we’d be better off saving some cash before heading out of here.”

  “Absolutely not!” She sat up like a spike. “We can’t do that! If cash is the problem, I have a solution that comes with a healthy payoff. I was just thinking through the details this morning.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?” he said, taking a deep drag.

  “I, uh . . . we can sell my car.”

  He laughed. “Then what? Hitchhike? That’s crazy.” He flicked ashes into a soda can. “Besides, I, uh . . . I figured the car was a gift. I’m not sure whose name it’s in—yours or his. I didn’t think it was my business. But I guess now it is.”

  Missy folded her arms stiffly across her chest. “I bought the car, Frank. And not only did I buy it, but I paid cash. So let that go to show that I can pull my weight.” She relaxed, touching his arm. “Together, the two of us, we could make it.”