Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “Give me the key,” he said, holding out his free hand.

  Maybe this was his plan. Without a key, she’d truly be subject to breaking and entering. But Levi had stopped to retrieve a flashlight from the trunk of his car. It indicated that he was on board. For a moment, the burden was all Aubrey’s. A flashlight . . . It was his singular act of preparedness. What if they did encounter Missy Flannigan, a girl who’d died a death more violent than Eli Serino’s? Aubrey could barely fathom the outcome. Could he? She held tight to the key, nearly changing her mind. Surprisingly, the faith she had in Levi dominated, and Aubrey placed the key in his palm. “Go ahead.”

  The modest Cape interior was filled with clutter, although impersonal in nature. Inside were the generic remnants of people who’d lived there for decades—stacks of Field & Stream magazines, an electric organ, a cabinet of mismatched mugs, and a brown refrigerator, the front covered by magnets from every state. Levi was momentarily sidetracked, insisting that South Dakota was missing. Aubrey pointed to the plain square magnet, which blended into the refrigerator’s color. “Come on, let’s keep going.” She took long calming breaths as they toured the first floor, which included Dustin’s bedroom. Her nose filled with the musty smells of a sealed house, maybe a permanent trace of coffee. Just to make certain her perceptions were obvious, Aubrey asked Levi what he smelled.

  “Nothing but your perfume.” He turned away, then abruptly turned back. “That is your perfume?”

  It didn’t register at first. Then Aubrey recalled Missy’s Midnight Fire. “Blue Linen—it’s new. And yes, it’s mine.” There was dated furniture and a plethora of bric-a-brac. Among the items was a half-naked nymph whose wand was the spout for a watering can. “An eclectic array, isn’t it?”

  “Looks like a flea market waiting to happen.” In the dining room, near the buffet, Levi stopped, examining a group of ceramic hula dancers, the largest one providing the base for a lamp. He held it up. “Seriously?”

  “Don’t judge,” she said. “Not everybody likes an Ikea look.”

  He put it back. “I’m sorry. But that’s just plain ugly.”

  They continued on, noting other items, including a corduroy-covered recliner. It came with an imprint of Dustin Byrd’s body. At least that was Aubrey’s assumption. “Interesting,” she said. “It’s just a chair, but it seems like the most personal thing we’ve seen.”

  “I agree. The police stripped this place bare, everything from DNA samples to personal property,” he said, pointing.

  Wires hung haphazardly from a modular desk. The only items left were a coffee-stained mouse pad and a container of paper clips. In the den, painted in a dated shade of forest green, was Dustin’s empty gun cabinet. Aubrey counted space for more than a dozen firearms. Except for one photograph, the den walls were empty too, nothing but naked nails left behind. “I’m surprised they left this picture,” Levi said. It was a framed photo of Dustin at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new baseball fields the town had opened last spring. The fifty-seven-year-old director of parks and recreation stood beside the two-term town council president, Randy Combs, controller Ed Maginty, and Mick O’Brien, the project’s resident volunteer.

  “Curious photo,” Aubrey said.

  “How so? It looks like any one of a dozen ribbon-cutting ceremonies.”

  “The men. There’s something about them.” She touched the glass, which was room temperature. “Something in common. And I don’t mean their dedication to civic duty.” She arched her shoulders. “It makes my brain rapid fire—and not in a good way.”

  “Could you please not talk in cryptic phrases? I’d rather not have to overcome a learning curve right now.”

  “Sorry. It’s nothing specific.”

  “Come on. Let’s keep going,” he said, repeating Aubrey’s words. As they continued, Levi took hold of her hand, and Aubrey could not say she minded. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, near the front door. “Up or down?”

  Aubrey glanced toward the second story. “What I need to see isn’t up there.”

  “Okay,” he said, breathing deep, “the basement it is.”

  Levi went first, using the flashlight but quickly locating a light switch. He still didn’t let go of her hand as they descended the creaky steps. Spotty egress daylight filtered in, barely enhanced by low-wattage bulbs. “You’d think they could have at least sprung for a few sixty-watters.”

  There were basement smells, mildewy and dank. Aubrey tasted nothing on her palate but that morning’s tea and a blueberry muffin. Her gut instinct was even emptier, idling between disappointment and lingering terror. The Byrd basement was large and partially finished. The front portion held a messy workbench, laundry area, and a forgotten coffee cup. Wedged in a vise was a sprinkler head. “I guess Dustin was going about his business until Missy’s remains turned up.”

  “Seems like it,” Levi said, perusing the items. “The behavior of a cool killer or somebody oblivious to reality?”

  She didn’t answer, looking over an area filled with weights. “Seems like Dustin Byrd’s man cave, in the most virile sense of the word.” The basement smells were stale but real, making Aubrey’s nose wriggle. “Over there,” she said, pointing to a line of discoloration on the basement wall. “You can see how high the water came when it flooded. No wonder it’s so dank down here.”

  “I don’t think that’s flood water you smell. It’s a lifelong buildup of testosterone.”

  “Gross,” she said, not realizing Levi was turning right while she veered left. Their hands parted. “It splits.” On her side was a dark hallway. Directly in front of Levi was a closed door.

  “The door first,” he said. “Let me check it out. Just stay there.” Levi tried the knob. “It’s locked.”

  “Look above the door.” He did, coming up with a key.

  “Good guess.”

  “Homeowners and about a hundred locked doors. People can be weird when they put their house up for sale.” She cocked her chin at him. “Do it.”

  He hesitated. “Anything?” She shook her head. Levi cracked open the door and found a light switch. He stepped inside and Aubrey waited, her gaze drifting around a space that was all cement and brick. He returned a few moments later. “It connects to the studio, just an interior hallway. Definitely not where they found Missy.”

  But Aubrey had turned away, distracted by a handyman’s project. “This is interesting. The brick around this window doesn’t match the rest of the basement.” Levi shut the door and joined her. The flashlight highlighted unpainted window trim and brick. It stood out from the rest of the basement, about a dozen rusty orange bricks contrasting the vintage red.

  “You’re right. And this window’s different from the others. Newer.” Levi tipped the flashlight, the light shining on Aubrey, who brushed her hand over the orange brick. “What are you thinking?”

  She zoned in on the cement seam, dragging her fingers through the groove. “I . . . I don’t know. This brick, the window, they’re just building materials, but they seem different from everything else down here.”

  “Different how?”

  Aubrey’s gaze moved across raw ceiling beams and dropped to the cold cement floor. Heavy damp air filled her lungs. It evened everything out and she shook her head. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

  “I guess that leaves the hall.” Admittedly, she didn’t mind letting Levi take the lead. Any natural light faded, eclipsing as they entered the dark vestibule. Levi came to a jerky halt only a few steps from the door at the end of the hall, Aubrey all but crashing into him. “Damn it!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Levi turned the flashlight toward the floor. “There’s a bunch of junk here. I walked into . . . something.” He squatted, coming up with a large object. “It’s a cat.” The flashlight shined on a giant, brightly painted ceramic cat. “Jesus . . .”

>   “What?”

  “It’s uglier than the hula dancers.”

  “Levi, could we finish the art critique later?”

  He put the cat down and reached for the doorknob. “Damn,” he said again.

  “Now what?”

  “It’s not locked. I was kind of hoping . . .”

  “Yeah, I get it.” She shuffled back a few inches. “Just open it.” The creak of the heavy door completed the horror-movie vibe. The windowless room gave new meaning to the term pitch black and Aubrey sniffed at the air like a bloodhound. She stopped, realizing her anxiousness. Scents connected to the dead came from the inside out, not the other way around. The only prevalent smell was the thick odor of heating oil, maybe a dirty cat box. “There must be a light.”

  “I’m looking.” The flashlight lit parts of a room, shining on free-standing metal shelving, clearly meant for storage. “What the hell was that?”

  “What was what?” Aubrey grasped for his hand. He tilted the flashlight up. They both sighed at an overhead light, its delicate metal chain dancing along Levi’s neck. “God, don’t do that.” Aubrey’s free hand flew over her pounding heart. Levi passed the flashlight to her and yanked on the metal chain. But relief was short-lived as the room brightened for only a split second, the blub crackling as it popped. Darkness washed over them. Aubrey pressed flat against the wall, dropping Levi’s hand and the flashlight.

  “To hell with whatever’s here,” he said. “You’re not doing this.” The floor seemed to pitch downward as the flashlight rolled away. It left the two of them in eerie blackness. He managed to find Aubrey, pulling her tight to him. “Let ordinary people figure out who killed Missy. We’re going.” She didn’t argue. But to retrieve the flashlight Levi had to let go of Aubrey.

  “Don’t!” The need for human comfort—his comfort—was strong and Aubrey reached for Levi to keep him where he was. Logic insisted he follow the rolling path of light, which dead-ended in a distant corner. As Levi came up with the flashlight, his head met with a sloped ceiling. In a cramped corner of the room, the flashlight illuminated an igloo-size hole. The broken brick outlined the opening to Missy Flannigan’s tomb. Beyond the busted wall, markers remained where the police had noted crime scene elements. Toward the back of the cove was the repaired water pipe. Had the clay pipe never cracked, it could have flowed on for another twenty years or more. Nobody would have ever found Missy—not in that dark miserable hollow. “How horrifically awful . . .” Aubrey whispered.

  “You wouldn’t bury a pet in there,” Levi said, focusing the light on the space, filled with pipes and mounds of soft, sandy earth. Aubrey inched forward, but his arm kept her from coming too close. “Aubrey?” His voice was steady, calmer than moments ago. The flashlight crept up, lighting their faces. She stared at the makeshift grave, feeling all the things any person would: fear, heartache, clenched nerves, and sorrow for the way a bright but battered young woman had died. Through the light and dark, she looked back and forth from Levi to the empty tomb. “There’s nobody here but you and me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  By the time Aubrey and Levi emerged from the Byrd house the November sun had given up on them. It made it feel later than it was. Without much discussion, they drove away. The car traveled from the highway to side streets, though Aubrey paid no attention to the route. “How’s that for irony?” she finally said. “The first time I go looking for a spiritual connection and I come up empty.”

  “If you’re waiting for me to say I’m disappointed, it’s not going to happen. Particularly after what the average eye could see back there.”

  Aubrey concentrated on the sleeve of her yellow sweater, which looked blue in the dashboard lights. She ran her hand over the fabric, feeling the divots beneath. “Thank you for coming with me.”

  “Going alone wasn’t an option—no matter how politely I might have phrased it. I hope you realize that.”

  Aubrey remained focused on her sweater sleeve. “Who would have imagined diplomacy being such an integral part of Levi St John?”

  “Not me, that’s for damn sure,” he said. “I’ll add it to my list of memorable moments from Surrey.”

  “Right. Like a keepsake after you’ve left.” Aubrey thought about that, imagining Levi gone from the place she called home. “I’m glad you found more than a headline while you were here.”

  Aubrey saw Levi glance between the road, Brody’s watch, and her. “What about you? When I arrived in Surrey, the only thing you wanted was to get as far from this story as possible. And now . . . If what you did today, facing Missy Flannigan like that, isn’t owning your ability, I don’t know what is. Seems like you have this story to thank for bringing you and your gift full circle.”

  “Levi, if I have anyone to thank for that . . . well, it’s not Missy Flannigan.”

  His breath and nod were equally deep. “So what do you make of it, the fact that Missy was a no-show?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it.” The car turned, but Aubrey didn’t look for a landmark, busy plucking at the sweater sleeve. “Seems like it’s one of two things. Wherever Missy is, it’s better than the life she lived here. Maybe she’s at peace. Maybe it’s only us who are so disturbed and driven by what happened to her.”

  “Something like your parents?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And option B?”

  Option B left Aubrey a bit more confounded. “In the basement, near the brick and window, it was the only place in that house where Missy felt like something more than a story we were chasing. Even then, it was vague. More like a long-ago memory than anything ethereal.”

  “Whose memory?”

  Aubrey’s head ticked toward Levi. “Mine,” she said, not realizing it until Levi suggested as much. “The brick and mortar. It had the oddest sense of déjà vu attached to it. Like I’d seen it before, like I’ve overlooked something.” Aubrey shook her head. “Maybe I’m just making excuses.”

  “I doubt that.” Levi stopped the car and put it in park. “Tell me something else, less a meeting with Missy, where does this leave you with Frank?”

  She gave up on the sweater and focused on Levi. “You really believe it? That Frank confessed all his transgressions at the Exit 43 Diner.”

  “The ones that matter to us. Delacort is flawed and troubled, but I don’t believe he’s Missy’s killer. And yes, I realize that’s a lot of gut instinct from a man who’s never relied on it before.”

  Aubrey was about to say how much faith she had in Levi’s gut instinct, but their location stopped her. “Oh, we’re home.” She sighed, unsettled, the non-connection with Missy leaving Aubrey feeling out of sorts. “Guess we were both distracted. My car’s at the newspaper. You didn’t have to drive me home.”

  “I know,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you got here. We’ll get it tomorrow.” Levi picked up his phone. He scrolled through his messages, playing one from Gwen out loud. She didn’t offer details, only saying that Holliston’s new owners were open to her and Kim exploring the old building and its contents. “She left that message two hours ago, none since.”

  “Gwen’s efficient. She’ll get back to you if they find something.” Aubrey looked at the dark house and back at him. Each stepped on the other’s thought, saying their names simultaneously.

  “Sorry . . . go ahead,” he said.

  “I was going to say, I don’t feel like being alone—and I’m starving. Do you want to come in, have something to eat? It’s barely dinner time, but . . .”

  “You cook?”

  She shook her head. “Not so much. Why? Can you?” There was a weighty pause. “Never mind,” she said, waving him off.

  “Right, it’s probably not a great idea. I don’t think Owen was keen on finding me in your living room last time.”

  “No, I just meant the cooking part.” Aubrey continued to stare at
the house. “Owen’s not coming back.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Ever.” She turned to Levi. “I told him I didn’t want to go with him to Seattle. I don’t want to reconcile.” Levi’s always serious face looked even more solemn. “If I’d answered your calls this weekend, that’s what I would have told you. I’m sorry I didn’t,” she said. “I, uh . . . I couldn’t muster the courage.”

  “Why would you need courage? Personally, I think it was a damn smart choice.”

  Aubrey started to explain. Then she closed her mouth. Perhaps it was better just to leave it at that. “I really don’t want to talk about Owen.”

  “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  “Scrambled eggs.”

  “Scrambled eggs make you comfortable?”

  “Uh, no. But they might be edible. I make decent scrambled eggs. If you want . . .” The car idled and he didn’t reach for the ignition. Aubrey brushed her fingertips across her forehead. “Of course. You probably need to get back to the condo. I wasn’t thinking. Bethany must still be—”

  “Bethany took the train back to New York—the same night we were at La Petite Maison.”

  “Oh. I see. I hear publishing is a crazy, high-demand business. I’m sure she needed to get back. Did, uh . . . did the two of you talk any more about you moving to New York?”

  “Not so much. After you left, the conversation got sidetracked.”

  “Sidetracked,” she said, the interior of the car feeling extraordinarily tight.

  “Yes . . . severely. She and I talked about how she’s tired of being labeled ‘the longtime girlfriend.’ Beth said she was thinking about getting a tattoo to that effect.”