“Physically and spiritually,” Yvette said.
“Put it in context, Aubrey,” Charley suggested. “If you can place Frank in a specific span of time, what is it you recall? Did he make a remark about Missy?”
She shook her head, touching each keepsake with renewed fervor. “No, nothing. I just remember his fingernails being covered in cement . . . and I remember his smile.”
Among the accumulated ghost gifts were a dented teething ring and foreign coins, matchbooks and the package of Skittles. Aubrey scooped up the marbles that had rolled around her apron pocket and the bag of sand she’d felt compelled to collect. Of course, she knew now how it connected to Levi’s brother. It gave her hope. If a ghost gift that abstract could have meaning years later, there had to be something connected to Frank Delacort. Aubrey fished through the remaining contents, including a vintage postcard from Bayport, New York. The card bore no written message, but its aura remained intense, heated to Aubrey’s touch. Completing the collection was a modern black and white photo. Two giant hearts intertwined, drawn in a dusting of snow. Aubrey had the most powerful sensation of love and loss when she held it. “Miscellaneous, disjointed . . . stuff. That’s what it looks like,” she said, tossing the last item on top.
“What’s in there?” Yvette asked.
“The envelope? Just some dried flowers. But I saw Frank in Surrey. The flowers are from eighty miles away, in Holyoke.”
Yvette picked up the envelope, dumping the contents into the palm of her hand. “No, they’re not.”
“Sure they are,” Aubrey said, chewing on the thumbnail. “I remember. We were in Holyoke.”
“You’re confused, honey. But I get that. It was a rough patch . . . George Everett was in Holyoke—all that nasty business. It upset you so—you’d practically barricaded yourself inside the Winnie. I might not remember everyday events, but I do know where these flowers came from.” Yvette tipped the brittle blossoms into the palm of her hand, their fine white tails still tied with the grosgrain ribbon. “These flowers, they grow like crazy around here. In my mind, they’re like Plymouth Rock or California redwoods, a landmark—when I saw them, I always knew we were in Surrey.”
Aubrey gasped. “Oh dear God, the flowers, they are from Surrey!” Her eyes went wide, her hand folding around the dead stems. “You’re right.”
“The flowers, Frank left them behind?” Yvette said.
Aubrey pressed her free hand to her forehead, as if willing the memory to surface. “No. Not Frank. Missy—they were her ghost gift. It was Frank’s bond with Missy that enabled her energy to come through at all. I’d be willing to bet she wasn’t dead more than a few hours. Tenacious in life and death, apparently. Her connection to the man she loved, it allowed Missy a window to tell me who killed her—and it wasn’t Frank. Yvette,” she said, testing her own recollections. “What color . . . what kind of flowers were they?”
“They were violets, baby. Pretty purple violets.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The victim had answered the decades-old question: Who killed Missy Flannigan? But it was Marian Sloane’s listing that provided a serendipitous opportunity. Aubrey’s heart thundered as the revelation sank solidly into her. She drove Yvette’s rental car to the house on Wickersham Lane. Once there, Aubrey sat out front and focused on real reporter expertise. While her gift had played a role, it was only newsroom skill that now mattered. A gray Honda Civic sat in the driveway. It was the kind of car a woman of seventy-five might drive.
When Aubrey left her house, Charley and Yvette believed she was going to find Levi. And she might have, if he’d answered his damn phone. Staring pensively at the Byrd house, she tried calling him once more. Voicemail. She felt alone without him, even though she was well-versed in navigating big moments solo. But Aubrey also felt an urgent need to get the truth out of Violet Byrd—Missy, a man who’d served twenty years in prison, and all of Surrey had waited long enough.
As Aubrey stared, she worked to wrap her mind around the idea: the elderly widow Byrd, a cold-blooded killer. Of course, twenty years ago, she wasn’t the fragile old woman the police, Gwen, and even Nancy Grace had interviewed. On the drive over, Aubrey had speculated at length—perhaps Missy’s murder had been payback, Violet purposely killing the girl who’d broken her son’s heart. Or maybe it had more to do with the eighty thousand dollars that Missy had taken from Dustin’s safe. Whatever the scenario, Aubrey knew her first order of business would be to gain Violet’s trust.
Going to the police had crossed Aubrey’s mind, but after a quasi-conversation, she passed on the idea. “Detective Espinosa, would you believe I’ve known for twenty years who murdered Missy Flannigan! Seriously, it was just a matter of some orderly recollection . . . honing those real reporter skills . . . How do I know? Um . . .” Aubrey imagined the bemused look on the detective’s face. No, what she needed was proof. The kind Levi relied on, direct and hardcore. With that in mind, Aubrey hit record on her phone and headed for the front door of the Byrd house. She rang the bell like she’d done at hundreds of houses before. It would not be out of place for the Surrey City Press home portrait reporter to turn up on the doorstep of a for-sale property.
Violet Byrd seemed surprised, but she was also quick to accept the marketing boost Aubrey’s presence offered. The unassuming woman welcomed her inside. Violet appeared grandmotherly, with a head of tight curly gray hair. It seemed that osteoporosis had set in, and her body looked frail, unthreatening. “It’s all so surreal.” Violet clasped her pruned hands together as she conveyed her wear and worries. “I knew we’d sell one day. But who could have predicted such sordid circumstance. It’s all so dreadful.”
“I can imagine, Mrs. Byrd.”
“Call me Violet . . . please.”
“Violet.”
“Marian said you’d be by—but later. I thought I’d be gone by then.”
“Oh, so you’re not staying?”
In the small entrance between the kitchen and living room, Violet turned. “Surely you understand?” she said, touching Aubrey’s arm. “At my age, with all that’s happened, I’m simply not comfortable in my own home.”
“Since you mention it, I’m so very sorry about everything. It must be difficult.”
“To say the least. One never expects to find a body buried in their basement, do they?”
“I was referring to your son’s situation.”
“Of course, my son. I’ve spent most of my life hoping Dustin’s life wouldn’t turn out like this.”
“Like this?”
“His father never made much of himself before passing away. It hasn’t been easy for me. I had higher hopes for Dustin.” She shrugged. “Of course, I only pray he gets himself out of this mess. I’m hopeful that the sale of the house will help with his legal aid.”
“That’s generous of you, selling your home to pay for Dustin’s legal expenses.”
“What mother wouldn’t do as much for her son?”
“Then let me get started. Is it all right just to walk through?” Aubrey said, taking out her notepad.
“It’s a fairly basic floor plan. You know how Capes are—two bedrooms up, one down.”
“I’ve seen my share.”
“I’ll be packing up my art. Marian suggested I pare down the personal items. I’ve collected so many.” Light laughter pulsed from her wrinkly throat as a cat circled her legs. “Rodin is glad to be home. His brother, Bernini, is around somewhere . . .”
“Unusual cat names.”
“Sculptors, dear. They’re named after renowned sculptors. You know, ceramics wasn’t my passion. Just the thing that paid the bills.” Violet stroked the mother of a duckling family that dotted the stairs. “Even so, one gets attached to the work. See here, the brushstroke I used combined with the glaze technique gave their feathers real dimension. Of course, I may have to leave a few items behind. My nymph-fashioned wate
ring can, she’ll pack up easy. She was one of my bestsellers back in the day.” She burrowed her fingers into her hair. “There are just so many!”
“I see that,” Aubrey said, glancing at the living room bric-a-brac. “You may need an entire box just to get the hula dancer clan and lamp inside.”
Violet paused. She picked up the cat and smiled. “You’re right. I might want them as well.”
“The ceramics studio, it’s in the rear?” Aubrey said, pointing.
“It is. I’m not sure what the next owner will do with it. Sadly, ceramics is somewhat passé. In its heyday,” she said, a reminiscent look brightening her face, “my place was the hottest ticket in Surrey. Moms loved it, an excuse to get out, have a few glasses of wine. Express themselves without any annoying rug rats hanging on. I didn’t even need a liquor license, not in my own home. I have to hand it to Missy—it was brilliant, her Paint and Party idea.”
Aubrey turned. “I didn’t realize you knew Missy.”
Violet’s enthusiasm stumbled. “Lots of people knew Missy,” she said. “She was active, volunteering with the town and whatnot.”
“Sounds like you knew her well, well enough to have a conversation about your business.”
“As I mentioned, ceramics was popular. Missy may have taken a class or two—almost everyone in town did. We chatted, like I did with most of the female population of Surrey back then.”
Aubrey moved through the kitchen, pretending to take notes. “Do you think that’s how they met, Dustin and Missy?”
“I’m not sure what you mean?”
“Your ceramics business. Do you think that’s where Dustin and Missy met? I’m sure you’re aware that the police are speculating about their relationship. You just said she took a class or two . . . so I’m just wondering.”
The small woman filled with a deep breath. “Marian Sloane assured me that your purpose here was to take a tour, write a story—about the house.”
It was Aubrey’s turn to stumble. “My apologies, Mrs. Byrd. I didn’t mean to get off track. Of course I’m here to see your property, write a wonderful piece that, hopefully, will help it sell.”
“Hopefully. Dustin will need the cash. Look around all you like. You won’t find anything but a house on a hill, an attached art studio. If you don’t mind, I’ll go about my packing.”
“No, I don’t mind. The appliances,” Aubrey said pointing to the refrigerator. “Do you plan on leaving them?”
“Absolutely. I don’t need a thirty-year-old refrigerator.”
“So your new place, it comes with appliances?”
“Actually, I’m undecided about my plans. But I don’t want the fridge. Aside from my art, the cats, I don’t want anything from here. Washer and dryer are in the basement, much newer models than the fridge. You might want to take a look.”
“I’ll do that,” Aubrey said. Violet left the kitchen, just missing Aubrey’s shuddering exhale. In comparison, getting the dead to talk was a cakewalk. She’d inched forward with information, but it wasn’t enough. Aubrey’s best move would be to regroup and reapproach.
She went about her business. The bedrooms, up and down, showed what Violet had promised—nothing to note but two unmade beds. It made sense. No one had slept in the house since the night before Violet and Dustin had gone to Foxwoods and the pipe burst in their basement. Standing near the front door, Aubrey called to Violet, who was in the dining room. She asked if she’d mind making the beds before she took photos.
“Not a problem, dear. I’ll take care of Dustin’s then go up and do mine.”
“Thank you,” Aubrey said. “In the meantime, I’ll check out the washer and dryer, take a look at the art studio while I’m down there.”
“The art studio. Yes, that’s a good idea. Help yourself.”
On her way to the basement, Aubrey checked her phone again. Nothing from Levi. She texted a quick message: Lots you need to know. I’m at the Byrd house. Call me . . . Following the creaky steps down, Aubrey stood in the dank dark space. At least this visit came with zero trepidation about running into Missy Flannigan. She saw the washer and dryer, a matched pair located away from the workbench, closer to the newer brick. It was also diagonally across from the door that led to Violet’s ceramics studio. Aubrey approached, looking lackadaisically at the front-loading, newer LG models. She jotted down the brands, mumbling, “Might be the only amenities worth mentioning . . .”
“I see you found them.”
Aubrey didn’t turn, but her head jerked up. “Uh, yes . . . just taking a few notes.”
“Of course you don’t want to miss my art studio. That’s why I came down here. The basement entrance is unexpected—topography of the lot. You’d never know it was accessible from down here. But then it occurred to me, you knew that. You’ve been in my basement before, haven’t you, Miss Ellis?”
Aubrey squeezed her eyes shut, guessing she’d been caught red-handed. She turned, finding Violet Byrd standing halfway between Aubrey and the door to her art studio. In her hand was a revolver. “What . . . what are you doing?”
“I think the question is, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Aubrey said, stalling, scrambling for the best way out of the situation. “Marian Sloane asked if I’d come take a tour of your house, do a piece for the paper.”
“Come on, honey. I’ve handled cleverer kittens than you. Exactly what do you know?”
“I don’t know anything. The art studio entrance was an assumption. I didn’t see a door that connected from the upstairs.”
“I’m not buying that. Not when you add in your mysterious knowledge of my hula dancers. Be careful, Miss Ellis, with what information you offer, especially if you want to play that game with me.”
“Your hula dancers? You were the one who went on about your ceramic collections. Look, could you just put the gun down? This is ridiculous.”
“Is it? You mentioned the hula dancers first. Eye-catching, aren’t they? But not something you can see from my front entry. They’re more like something you’d remember. Explain how and why you were here. Unless, of course, you prefer I just go ahead and protect my property.”
“Mrs. Byrd,” Aubrey said, pressing her hands to the air, “I don’t think pointing a gun on someone is the way to go.”
“Why not?” she asked. “I believe in my Second-Amendment rights, Miss Ellis. Who do you think took Dustin to his first shooting range? I’m capable with a firearm. Right now, I’m defending my property after finding what I thought was an intruder in my basement. After everything that went on in this house . . . I think the delicate, jittery state of an old woman would be explainable . . . excused. Five in-depth interviews with the police so far. I can survive one more. My credibility with authority is stellar, ask Nancy Grace. I’m the helpless, demure Widow Byrd with a tragic life, everything from a dead husband to a disappointing son.”
“To the girl who left him.”
“Ah, some truth.” The gun aimed higher. “Dustin couldn’t manage to hang on to the one thing that might have made him something. If it comes out, his failure will only enhance my sympathetic appeal. Keep talking, Miss Ellis. It’s currently keeping you alive.” She aimed the gun slightly left and fired into the brick. The noise was deafening. Aubrey twitched involuntarily, turning her head in the direction of the bullet, but otherwise she didn’t move. “Who else have you told?”
A fear of death ran like blood through most people. Aubrey braced for a rush of adrenaline, the feel of weak knees, an urge to beg for her life. None of it came to fruition. Surely Violet assumed otherwise, perceiving Aubrey’s wobbly exhale as terror. It wasn’t that. It was the realization that her gift, despite all else, had left her fearless. Imminent death did not frighten Aubrey. It didn’t yield the state of mind Violet Byrd was counting on. Instead it empowered her. Aubrey stopped stalling and embraced
the truth. “I know you killed Missy Flannigan. It wasn’t Frank Delacort. It wasn’t your own son. It was you.”
“How could you possibly know any such thing?”
“I know because Missy told me.”
“She . . . ?”
“Yes, years ago. She turned up dead by the duck-shooting booth at the Heinz-Bodette carnival. Maybe you remember it? We came to town every September—my grandmother owned the carnival. Odd as it may sound”—mesmerizing as this conversation suddenly is—“. . . I have an incredible gift, the ability to communicate with the dead. Missy’s spirit conveyed to me that you’re the person responsible for her death. It was you, Mrs. Byrd, who murdered her.”
“What a stunning claim!” Violet nodded deeply and waved the gun at its target. “Any chance you’re going to get her to testify to that?”
“Any chance I’m wrong?”
“That beautiful girl would have been something on my Dustin’s arm. I was actually fond of her. The way we viewed life—Missy and I had things in common. I have no earthly idea what drew her to Dustin, but Missy would have elevated him a step or two in this town. If only he could have gotten her to go through with it, followed my plan. It was a good plan,” she said, taking steadier aim. “But in the end, not only did Missy break his heart, the little bitch stole his money.”
“And you caught her.”
“In the middle of Dustin’s bedroom with his money—half in her backpack and half still in the safe.” Violet shook head. “As Missy pleaded for her life, she tried to insist she was returning the money. Missy had played Dustin for a fool. She wasn’t about to do the same with me. My son never even noticed the area rug was gone. She bled all over it. Really, it was quick. Missy was dead almost before she knew what hit her. Then, with a bit of effort, I put sweet Missy Flannigan in a wheelbarrow. I rolled her out back and into my studio. From there we came right through that handy basement entrance.” Violet smiled, nudging a shoulder at the door behind her. “The back storage room was perfect—no one ever went in there but me. The foundation, thanks to the slope and art studio addition, created the perfect tomb. The dirt in there is like play sand—easy enough to dig a hole. I covered Missy with lime—promotes the decaying process—and bundled her up in plastic. Some handyman had been here earlier that day. Naturally, Dustin over-ordered supplies.” She shrugged. “Opportune, really. There was plenty of brick and mortar to work with—sealed her right in, no problem. Those materials weren’t foreign to me. As for Dustin . . . Twenty years ago, I had high hopes for my son. I believed in possibility. Had Missy Flannigan played nice, not left him, not gotten greedy, things would have been different.”
Ghost Gifts Page 36
