The Laura Cardinal Novels

by J. Carson Black

  “Dani? It's me, Steve.”

  “Steve! Are you in town?”

  “No.”

  “I've got to be at Mrs. Mitchell's in fifteen minutes. Can I call you back?”

  “Yes. But it's important.”

  “Fifteen minutes. Make that twenty-five. I don't like talking on the cell phone when the kids are in the car. Twenty-five minutes.”

  She hung up. Steve thought Mrs. Mitchell must be the kids' swimming instructor. Either that or their karate coach.

  Next he called Karen.

  Karen's kids were older, and Karen herself was not as chaotically inclined as Dani.

  “I have something to ask you,” he told her. “Just keep an open mind, and please be honest.”

  “Uh . . . okay.” Her voice wary.

  Steve glanced at Jake. Jake's eyebrows wrinkled as he looked up. “I know this sounds funny, but—“

  “Spit it out, Steve, all right?”

  Good old Karen. No-nonsense and down-to-earth.

  “All those times we were with grandpa,” Steve said. “Did he—were you ever uncomfortable around him?”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Karen? I need to know.”

  “You're wondering if he molested us? Me? No way.”

  Steve opened his mouth to apologize, but she cut him off.

  “No damn way.”

  “I had to ask—“

  “Why?”

  He told her about Jenny Carmichael's bones being found on the property. He didn't mention Jenny's ghost, though. He didn't mention hearing Jenny talking to the phantom puppy. He didn't mention the collar hanging in the shed.

  There was another pause, and then she said, “That's really weak, Steve. Just because somebody buried her near your cabin, doesn't mean grandpa had anything to do with it. I mean, the man was in his eighties.”

  “I know.”

  “You knew him. What do you think? You really think he would molest a little girl? Don't you know him any better than that?”

  “I do know him better than that.”

  “Then why'd you call?”

  “I'm just compiling the evidence to make sure the police don't suspect him.”

  He didn't mention that they were probably more interested in him.

  “You think they're going to call me?”

  “They could.”

  “Well then, I'll tell them the same thing I told you. Only I didn't think I'd have to say it to you.”

  After talking to Danielle—it went a little better because Danielle was so harried, she hardly heard a word he said—Steve decided that he'd been right all along: There was no way his grandfather would have molested an eight-year-old girl and then killed her.

  Where was his faith, though? Why had he even considered it? What kind of person did that make him?

  And what would he do now? Jenny's ghost was obviously trying to tell him something. Clearly, she had been down here, not at Rose Canyon Lake with the other campers. All along, the searchers had been looking in the wrong area.

  Which meant that someone, somehow, had overlooked the fact that she was not at the picnic.

  Was that important in the scheme of things? Obviously, the investigators knew that Jenny had been killed near the camp and would be centering their investigation not around Rose Canyon Lake, but here. And he guessed they were already checking out his story with the U.S. Geological Survey.

  Which was fine with him, because he was sure he had not even come to Tucson that summer. And he was damn sure he had not molested and then killed a little girl.

  As he had grown older, Steve had become more cynical, but he was not yet at the point where he believed an innocent man could be convicted of a crime he did not commit.

  Make that this innocent man. He was well aware of the many innocent men and women who languished away in prison for years—some of them even put to death—for crimes they did not commit. The governor of one state, he couldn't remember if it was Indiana or Illinois, had placed a moratorium on executions for just that reason. People were actually being proven innocent all over the country, thanks to the DNA Project. So, yes, theoretically, it was true that he, Steve Lawson, could be railroaded for Jenny Carmichael's murder.

  But in his heart, he didn't believe it.

  Maybe that was a mistake. He knew that he was a suspect. He thought, though, that he was a mild suspect, that he was only being considered a “person of interest” because of his proximity to the burial site and because they didn't have anyone else.

  Steve thought about the two detectives: the sheriff's detective and the investigator with the Department of Public Safety office.

  They seemed sensible. He liked them both. He knew that the one—Molina—was more suspicious of him than the other one.

  He liked them both, but he liked Laura Cardinal better.

  He thought she was not only sensible, but capable. She had a no-frills way of doing things that he admired. She went about her job in a professional manner. He had felt, too, that she really cared about the little girl buried near the stream bed. That it was important to her to find who killed Jenny, not just because it was her job, but because it was the right thing.

  He had sensed a passion underneath her business-like exterior. He knew about passion, because he had it for his own work.

  He thought of Laura Cardinal's cool eyes. The strength he perceived behind him. Pictured what she'd think of him if he told her he saw ghosts.

  It would never happen.

  Detectives Cardinal and Molina were big girls and boys. They knew where to look for answers: Here, near the stream bed, not down at the lake. What did it matter if Jenny Carmichael had a puppy? What did it matter that on one of his grandfather's walks, he had found an old red collar?

  Steve was sure now that this was what had happened. His grandfather had gone for a walk and found the collar, picked it up, and hung it in the shed. He'd grown up during the Depression. He had never thrown anything away. Everything had perceived value, even a ratty old collar. So he’d kept it.

  A crunch of tires on rock outside—he looked out the window and saw Julie's SUV pull in off the road.

  The rain had gone, Steve realized, and had been replaced by puddles that shone under a mostly blue sky. Julie's door opened and light glanced off the window and into his eyes.

  Just what he needed, his ex-wife.

  And yet when he saw her getting out with two bags of groceries, kicking the door shut, he felt an odd twinge of hope.

  He realized suddenly how lonely he had been.

  Realized as well that time had again seemed to slip by. When had the storm clouds gone and the sun taken over? When had the shadows grown longer? He glanced at the clock above the kitchen sink. Almost five p.m. The slanting light causing the maple cupboards to glow bright gold.

  With a whuffle, Jake got up and went to the front door. Woofed once.

  Steve met her on the porch and took one of the bags.

  “Don't drop it. There's wine in there.”

  He looked at her.

  “It's for me,” she said.

  “What's the occasion?”

  “I was just sorry I missed you the other day. And I saw you on the news.”

  The three-second sound bite. He'd almost forgotten that. The news crew up here on the mountain at four in the morning, the 750-watt lights still on, the generator going. Crime scene tape strung behind him.

  How did you feel when you made the grisly discovery?

  How do you think I felt?

  A loud clunk as Julie put one of the bags on the table. “Remember the pasta dish we used to make, spaghetti con vongole?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “That's right, you can't.” She pinched his cheek in a parody of her mother. “Abbondanza”

  When should he tell her that he didn't want them to be lovers anymore? Chopping garlic and shallots for the sauce didn't seem to be the right time. Or at dinner. After dinner, he thought. And before bed.
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  It needed to be before they started kissing or that would seal their fate for another night.

  “These are the only glasses you have?” she asked, pulling down jelly glasses.

  “’Fraid so. Grandpa left all his nice stuff at the house in Laguna.”

  She poured two glasses, set one down next to his plate. Saw his look, and said, “Come on, you drink occasionally. I think finding a bunch of bones in your backyard is worthy of getting a little bit tipsy.”

  He didn't protest. It might be good to have a glass of wine.

  Liquid courage.

  The spaghetti was good and reminded him of times early in their relationship when they used to cook together. Julie was curious about the whole string of events over the last couple of days, and he was happy to unburden himself. The wine hit him like a Mack truck, and he realized he was more than tipsy, despite having only two glasses of wine. To clear his head, he suggested she go with him when he let Jake out.

  By then the sky was deep indigo and the stars were out, so close he could touch them between the black cut-outs of the pines. The air smelling freshly-washed, bracingly clean. He wanted to stay outside, because he knew when they got back to the cabin things could degenerate quickly.

  Out here in the dark, it might be easier. He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him.

  “I didn't know Grandpa Luce had a Ouija Board.”

  He knew what she was referring to—the pile of junk he had put in the back porch area, slated for Goodwill.

  “He collected a lot of things over the years.”

  “I think we should use it.”

  He stopped walking. A memory popping up like a jack-in-the-box: an I Love Lucy episode, a dapper, somewhat creepy little man asking Lucy, “Do you . . . Wee-gee?

  “What do you think?” Julie prompted. “Should we give it a try?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe we could find out something about that little girl,” Julie was saying. “She died near here. Her spirit might be close by.”

  He wanted to say “that's bullshit.” But he didn't.

  She took his hand. “We could try, couldn't we?”

  Chapter 25

  The box sat on top of a stack of board games and puzzles set into a deep cardboard box that acted as a bin. The games were true cabin fare, part of the collective lore of cabins and beach houses everywhere: the plates were Melmac, there was a tin of cocoa and a bag of marshmallows in the kitchen cupboard, and mosquito repellent on the toilet tank in the bathroom. And board games for those long nights without television.

  Steve remembered that there had always been a jigsaw puzzle up on a card table in the little living room when he and his sisters used to stay here. Now they were all in the big box. He had stacked the games there some time in the last few days, although he couldn't remember exactly when. Sheer coincidence that the Ouija board was up top.

  Do you . . . Wee-gee?

  The surfaces of the boxes the games came in wore a layer of dust. The boxes were old but looked new because they were so rarely opened. For a moment, as Steve lifted the Ouija board box out of the bin, it seemed heavier than it should be—it felt as if there were a gravitational pull. He wondered at that moment if this was a bad idea.

  But even as this thought flitted through his mind, the box suddenly came up easily in his hands, as if it had been released by a reluctant giver. He walked it to the desk and cleared a space, and the two of them pulled up chairs.

  Steve and his sisters had played with their grandfather's “talking board” a few times, then, as children do, lost interest. Steve didn't realize until he pulled the board out of the box that it was very, very old. The box was newer, but the board itself was ancient, with a maple finish that had darkened to tobacco brown. The picture on the box didn't match the board itself.

  “Ouija knows the answers,” Julie read out loud from a piece of paper that had come with the board. Steve barely heard her as she intoned the message from William Fuld, inviting the American people to enter the “strange, twilight world of Ouija, the Wonderful Talking Board.” Some of the words caught in the net of his hearing: “weird,” “mysterious,” “mind-reading,” “Hindu magic.”

  At the top of the board were a sun on the left and a half moon on the right. To the inside of the sun and moon, a “Yes” on the left, a “No” on the right. The letters of the alphabet spelled two arcs across the center, numbers up to ten (although the “ten” was a “zero”) beneath that. At the bottom, were the words “Goodbye.”

  The board was patented in 1920.

  “I think this is an original Fuld,” Julie said. “This could be worth a lot of money.”

  Steve spoke without thinking. “You can have it.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I was going to throw it out anyway. Take it with you when we're done.”

  She looked as if she wanted to kiss him, but they weren't close enough. She scooted her chair closer. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat went dry.

  “To do this right,” Julie said, “We need to face each other and put the board on our laps.”

  They did so. Steve was aware of their knees touching. He didn't like it. Didn't want this to end up like the other night. He didn't want sex to bind them together anymore.

  He cleared his throat. “What do we do now?”

  “You know how. Put your fingers on the planchette.”

  He rested his fingers lightly on the planchette, opposite Julie's fingers.

  Just then Jake stood up and padded over to them. He put his nose on the board, looking first at Steve and then at Julie. Made a noise high in his throat.

  At that moment, Steve wondered if fooling around with the Ouija board could take them in a bad direction. He'd read something about Ouija boards, unsettling stuff about how it summoned evil spirits. That if you screwed around too much and didn't take it seriously, you could get in over your head. He'd also read that it was all fakery, that the only force moving the planchette was inside the people whose fingers were on it. There was a name for it—the ideomotor effect. He wasn't sure what the truth was.

  He might be tempting fate.

  But something inside made him want to continue.

  Jake pushed his nose under the board and the planchette toppled to the floor. As if he were saying, “Better forget about this, pal.”

  Julie picked up the planchette and put it back on the board. Steve hesitated.

  “Steve?”

  He put his fingertips back on the planchette.

  “I'll ask a question,” Julie said.

  “Fine with me.”

  “Oh great and willing spirit, I respectfully ask you to answer our questions. Are you present to answer any questions we may have?”

  Steve supposed there was a mating dance to any relationship, even one as ridiculous as two people to a Ouija board.

  They waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Chapter 26

  Steve could hear the clock ticking into the silence. It must have been at least five minutes. “Jules, this thing isn't going to—“

  That was when the planchette moved. Tentatively, at first, trembling under their fingertips. Picking up speed and smoothness, though, as it spelled out the letters. H - E - L -

  Hello.

  Profound.

  “Good,” said Julie. “We've contacted a spirit. Willing spirit, will you tell us what we want to know?”

  The planchette was more than willing now—it quickly skewed over to the word “Yes.”

  Julie paused, her fingers lightly touching the planchette, looking like a concert pianist about to start a concerto. “What should we ask?” she whispered to him.

  Steve shrugged.

  “How about I ask who killed the girl?”

  No time like the present. He nodded.

  Julie intoned the words, asking for the spirit to grant the answer.

  The planchette stayed where it was. After a certain period of time, it wa
s clear the planchette wasn't going to move at all.

  “What does that mean?” Steve asked.

  Julie frowned. “I don't know. Maybe it just doesn't want to answer the question.” She added, “Spirit, do you want to answer the question?”

  The planchette jerked, then hurtled over to the word, “No.”

  “Why don't you want to answer the question?”

  The planchette spelled the words out slowly. “There is no reason.”

  “There is no reason? What kind of jerkwater reply is that?” Steve asked.

  “Are you sure? There isn't a reason or there is a reason?” Julie asked.

  This time the planchette cruised over to “Yes.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Steve said.

  “Is it yes or is it no?” Julie asked.

  “Should I stay or should I go?” Steve sang.

  The planchette shuddered, then started moving, looping from letter to letter:

  YOU MUST STAY AWAY.

  They looked at each other. It seemed to Steve that the room had grown colder. He realized that the lights were dimmer, too, that the shadows in the corners seemed darker. There seemed to be a mass to them, the darkness seething with things he couldn't see.

  It felt as if a door had opened, and a cold wind he sensed but could not feel had come through the corridor. He knew it; it was the presence of evil.

  Or, he thought quickly, it's just my imagination.

  “Why must we stay away?” asked Julie.

  IT WILL BE BAD.

  Julie bit her lip and looked at Steve. “I'm getting a not-so-good feeling about this,” she said.

  I'm getting a not-so-good feeling about this. Julie spoke these words out loud, and she meant them. Why had she suggested this? The Ouija board had never really been her thing; she had known people who had become consumed by it. Whether or not it was a dangerous force from outside, or something they projected themselves, she had heard some wild stories.

  One group of friends she knew had fooled around with the board, not taking it seriously, until an evil spirit had told them that one of them would die in a car accident. It had not happened . . . yet.