by Angie Fox
He rose up through the ceiling while I took the long way out, through the stacks, up the narrow staircase and back from behind the circulation desk. I moved fast, worried that I'd lose track of him. That the ghost would be chased away, or lose power, or simply leave before I could find him upstairs.
I hadn't even asked his name. We'd have to remedy that. For now, at least I knew he was a Jackson. Although if I called out "Jackson!" in the library, I'd be willing to bet about a dozen guys would come running. It wasn't exactly a small family.
Just as I feared, there was no sign of the ghost when I entered the main library reading room. I saw the hospital, the men playing poker, Frankie glaring at me from a spot near the soul traces, but not Darla Grace's great-great-uncle.
"How you holding up?" I asked, searching behind him for the ghost of the Yankee.
"It's a picnic when you suck out my energy to go look for another fella," he remarked. "Let me save you some time. He's in there." Frankie gestured to the storage space I'd used as a hiding spot earlier.
"Thanks," I said, hurrying toward it. On the way, I checked the clock on my cell phone. We had about ten minutes left before Marshall came back, if Ellis could even hold him that long.
I'd better not end up hiding in the closet off the lobby again.
I slipped inside. This time, an unearthly gray light permeated the space. I saw a ghostly operating theater. Rays that mimicked sunshine streamed in through high windows, illuminating a pair of wooden tables streaked with gray blood and gore. A perfectly clean set of surgeon's instruments rested on a nearby table, and I couldn't help but stare at the ragged blade of the bone saw.
"We'll have to be quick," Jackson said, poking his head through the door that I just closed. "Dr. Hays is coming back, and he doesn't like me."
I knew the feeling. "Pete Marshall is coming, and he doesn't like me, either."
Jackson frowned. "Someone has taken the secretary I told you about," he said, leading me to an empty place near the wall. "This is where it stood."
"So I'm sunk." The murderer had covered his or her tracks. I wasn't going to be of any help to Ellis, or Darla, or anybody.
Jackson knit his brow. "I can show you what I remember," he offered.
I stared at him for a moment. "What are you saying exactly?"
He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. "I can create things as I remember them. It's a common enough ability here on the other side." He drew his hand down. "That's why the ghosts here see a field hospital."
Wow. "Okay. How much do you remember?"
He thought about that for a moment. "I can call back the paper she touched, the one I saw. She didn't take out a Bible while I was with her, so I can't help you there."
"So you can only show me things you directly experienced." I'd take what I could get.
I watched him as he narrowed his eyes and began to focus. I held my breath as a ghostly secretary shimmered into view along the wall. It resembled the top half of a writing desk, and was made to be portable, I assumed. A mother-of-pearl dove decorated the latch.
"You can touch it," he offered.
"I'm good for now," I said, still getting used to the idea.
He nodded, understanding, and opened it. The top folded down into a writing surface, with cubbies above for stationery and other correspondence. "She opened it like this, then drew out a piece of paper. She became quite agitated and even made phone calls."
Interesting. For some people, yakking on the phone wasn't a big event. But Darla getting worked up about a find right before she died, that was something.
"Whom did she call?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I don't know."
"And you won't be able to show me what you didn't see," I finished for him.
From the fuzzy, faded letters cramming the slots, and the barely visible packages stuffed toward the back of the writing surface, I could tell she hadn't worked all the way through it.
"It's generous of you to show me this," I said, moving toward the ghostly vision. "I appreciate your spending so much energy to help me."
Trouble was, the top paper lay facedown. I gathered the courage to pick it up myself. I'd been able to hold one ethereal object before, a locket. It had become part of my world for a brief time before it disappeared. I wondered if the same would happen with the paper.
Physical contact with actual spirits had made for a few experiences I'd rather forget.
I fought my hesitation. I didn't have time to dillydally. I snaked a hand out to touch the document. With a sigh of relief, I realized I could.
The paper felt chilly in my hand, yet it had no weight, no texture. In fact, it felt like nothing at all. I turned it over and read the letterhead: Leland Herworth Wydell, Importer/Exporter. I straightened. This had to be the first of the Leland Herworth Wydells, whose collection Virginia had hastily lent to the library yesterday.
I scanned the paper, finding it difficult at times to make out the fading type. I read aloud the subject line at the top. "Declaration of Parentage."
That struck me as exceedingly odd. Everyone around here counted on family Bibles and good old-fashioned gossip to know who belonged to whom. Unless… "Somebody was hiding…another somebody."
The single-spaced, typewritten document was addressed to a woman named Rosa, dated September 6, 1951.
My dearest Rosa,
I was wrong. And I fear in my age and current state of health that any correction I attempt to make to the situation at hand will only cause you and my family pain. So I now declare it to the world that Madeline Angelica Learner, born June 12, 1933, is my oldest child, a Wydell, and the heiress to my estate. Leland Herworth Wydell II, my first and only son, born October 3, 1935, will do well enough on his own. He has had my support in life, as dear Maddie shall have it in death.
Do with this as you will. You always did know best.
Leland H. Wydell
"I don't believe it." The document shook in my unsteady hands. "It didn't happen this way. Leland Herworth Wydell II, Ellis's grandfather, was the heir. He got everything."
Jackson cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "Yet it seems there was another." He shifted from one foot to the other. "It happens from time to time, even in the best families."
Of course it did. Perhaps even more often in the rich families.
I gasped as the document dissolved in my hands as if it had never existed. Only now I knew the truth.
Was Madeline Angelica Learner/Wydell aware of her heritage? I'd never heard of her. She might not even be in Sugarland anymore, if she was still alive.
I froze. Maybe she was. Perhaps Darla knew exactly who that person was and was killed because of it. With the letter gone, the secret would be safe. Safe from everyone except ghosts like Jackson. And me.
The entire fortune was tied up in the Wydell Heritage Trust Fund, which was now under the control of Ellis's parents and the source of their entire fortune: the mansion on the hill, acres of land, millions in assets, and the film production company.
"In my time, Wydell family wills were drawn so that the first child inherits everything," Jackson said.
Mine, too. I remembered my grandmother talking about that. "Leland Wydell II kept it all, leaving his two younger sisters practically destitute." Those two sisters were gone now, as was Leland Wydell II. "But this woman, if she's still alive, should have inherited the entire Wydell fortune."
The ghost nodded. "Her heirs would as well."
If we had this document, the real one, it could change a lot of things around here. Leland Herworth Wydell III, who managed his law firm from his beach house in Malta, would have to come back to the real world. His wife, Virginia Wydell, who'd tried to take everything from me, who had never held a job in her life, who ruled every society board and bake sale from her castle-like home on the hill, the woman who now considered herself a star maker and a dream crusher, would be forced to get a job like the real people.
"This Madeline Angelica would be mor
e than eighty now." Clearly no one in the Wydell family had checked the contents before donating the piece.
Darla had. And she'd been murdered for it.
A chill slid down my spine. My almost-mother-in-law would have a darned good reason to wield a bayonet. So would Ellis's brother Leland IV, the most ruthless judge in three counties. Come to think of it, I wouldn't put it past Beau, either.
How was I going to tell Ellis? I was sure this wasn't what he had in mind when he asked me to search for the truth.
I stood. We needed more. "We need to find someone who saw."
"Bully," Jackson said, rubbing his hands together. He dropped them when he saw me watching. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but I haven't had much to be excited about in the last several decades."
I headed out into the lobby with the ghost on my heels. "What about her?" I asked, pointing at the ghost of the nurse in long skirts. She bent over the same bed as before, whispering to the outline of Private Baker.
"That's Millicent," he said. "She's more of a memory now. I doubt she saw anything." He scanned the room. "The poker players from the 12th Infantry might have. Or the surgeon."
The poker players were a dead end; they couldn't even remember where they'd been last night. "Where's the surgeon?" I asked.
Jackson stiffened. "In the ether for now."
"Gotcha." Frankie had told me about the ether. Near as I could tell, it was an in-between plane where spirits could recharge their batteries and get away from daily life on Earth. "I'll just have to come back."
The union officer lit up at that. "Later tonight, perhaps? I have a fascinating theory on how the child vampire, Claudia, in her heart of hearts did not truly want to grow up."
I was more interested in learning about the ghosts in the library. "That woman, Millicent," I said, watching her glide past the cots in the reading room. "She wanted me to write a letter."
He glanced at me. "Yes. For the dead private. She asks everyone. She's been asking it since the war, only nobody can do it." He turned back to her as she glided among the patients. "She's mostly gone now. It happens. Some ghosts run out of steam. The spirit fades and you're left talking to a memory."
"Is Private Baker still aware?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
I'd find out. Soon. When I had more time.
"Jackson," a grating voice bellowed, "what are you doing bothering that fine woman? Gregson glided our way, one eye hidden beneath the bandages on his head. He raised his hand to deliver a mock blow.
Jackson shimmered and disappeared.
"Aw," Gregson said, looking to me for support. "See? Used to be when you did that, he'd rage at you and give it a good fight."
"Leave him alone," I told the bloodied officer. "He's a good person."
The private opened his mouth to say something I was sure I wouldn't like when the lock on the front door clicked.
Marshall.
"Damn it, Ellis. You spilled coffee on me."
I made a beeline for the back, Frankie's urn clanking loudly against the keys in my bag. I'd just passed into the rear hallway of the library when I heard the front door creak open.
Faster.
I didn't know if they'd seen me, or if I'd closed the door behind me all the way, but suddenly it struck me through my panic that I was heading straight for that sinister-feeling ghost I'd detected earlier tonight.
There was nothing to do about it. I raced down the hall, down the back stairs, and flipped the lock on the door before I dashed outside.
Chapter Seven
"VERITY, WATCH OUT!" Frankie hollered.
I didn't even see it coming. Could barely hear over the pounding of my blood in my ears as I rammed straight into frigid wall of air. I gasped, my breath leaving me as I fell into the darkness. Needles of ice stung my face and hands. I hit hard pavement with a bone-rattling crunch. My mind swam, screamed. Energy engulfed me and I heard Frankie curse and gurgle.
"I can't snap you loose. You gotta push through it!" His voice rose in pitch. He sounded far away.
Halos of light glowed in the darkness. I could make out the outline of the parking lot and felt the burn of asphalt on my bloodied palms. It was as if I crouched behind a pane of dimpled glass.
"Go!"
I lurched to my feet and willed my legs to move, setting off on a dead run that turned out to be more like a stumble.
Pain shot through my stomach. I kept moving, and wheezed as I broke out of the freezing, draining, soul-sucking space.
The chilly night air felt warm compared to where I'd been. I kept moving, putting more distance between me and…it. My vision cleared and I could see the parking lot, the lights, and the trees beyond.
Frankie reappeared inside my car. I ran for him as fast as I could, bent over, fumbling for my keys.
I threw open my door and tossed my bag onto the floor of the passenger side. He looked like death warmed over. "You okay?" I asked. He didn't respond. He just clutched his abdomen. "It still hurts?" I pressed. I'd gone from a screaming pain in my stomach to a dull throb the moment I'd broken out of that haze. His legs were missing and his entire torso flickered like a bad electrical connection.
He grimaced, his fingers digging into his stomach. "You trying to kill me?" he demanded. "Again?"
I shoved my car into gear. "Didn't think that was possible." I whipped the steering wheel around and pulled the car out. "At least we're alive and in one piece." Oh wait. He wasn't either of those things. "What just happened back there?"
He lay back against the seat, catching his breath. "You ran straight through a powerful ghost and dragged me along for the ride. The poor sucker died slow, shot through the stomach."
"That spirit energy was everywhere." I hit the gas. "There was no way to avoid it."
"Yeah, there was," he groused. "Slow down," Frankie cried out. I thought he was overreacting until a tingling surge whipped down my body. I slammed on the brakes, flinging the contents of my bag out onto the floor and planting Frankie firmly into the passenger-side dash.
"Now look what you did," he said, his head wedged up against the windshield, his shoulder sticking out of the vent. "If I could actually feel physical objects, I'd be in a lot of pain," he griped, melodramatic as usual.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes, seeing as he'd only injured his pride. Sure enough, the gangster faded and reappeared in the seat next to me.
"I wasn't expecting that tingle when your power left me." I touched a foot to the gas once more, lightly this time, if only to appear less conspicuous as we traveled up the side driveway of the church.
Frankie yanked his hat out of my glove box and shoved it back onto his head. "Take it easy next time. It's not like you never borrowed my power before."
"I had a lot on my mind," I said, pulling out as casually as I could for a person driving an avocado-green Cadillac.
Ellis's cruiser sat out in front of the library, with Marshall's car behind it.
At least the streetlight was out right there. Darkness blanketed this portion of the square.
Frankie gave his stomach one last rub. "And don't run through any more powerful spirits while you're connected to me." He shuddered. "That one hurt. Makes me squirmy, too, like I'm wearing somebody else's undershorts."
Yes, well, it had been even worse for me. "I felt like I was freezing to death. My mind didn't work right." I'd gotten a mild, icky, watery feeling the one time I'd accidentally touched Frankie. This had been a thousand times worse.
I waited to flip on my headlights until we'd made the turn onto Main Street, glad to see it mostly deserted. Frankie rested an elbow on the window frame and stared out at the shops we passed.
"So how do I avoid run-ins like that?" I asked, exiting past the first row of shops, taking the back way through the residential neighborhoods as we wound our way home.
This particular street dated to the 1940s. Frankie continued to stare out the window for a minute before he turned to me.
"You
ever just get a bad feeling about a spot?"
"Sometimes," I said, "even before I met you."
He nodded. "Everybody does." He removed his hat and slicked his hair back with his fingers. "Take tonight. When we were headed in, you didn't have my power yet and you still didn't like the parking lot by the back door." He replaced his hat, adjusting the brim low. "Even if you don't know why, a haunted death spot just doesn't feel right. Everyone has the ability to pick up on that. If you trust yourself, you know when something's off."
I thought back on the times I'd heeded my instincts, and the times I hadn't. One thing still puzzled me, though. "Tonight, when I was tuned in to your powers, I didn't see a ghost in that spot."
Frankie chewed at his lip. "I didn't, either." I could tell it bothered him. "Whoever it is, that's one powerful bastard."
"We'll avoid him from now on," I said as he settled back into his seat.
He aimed a pointed look my way. "We can sure as hell try."
My phone began to ring, and so I pulled out my hands-free headset.
It was Melody. I told her everything that had happened since I saw her last, although I did leave off the part about avoiding Beau. He wasn't important, and besides, I had him handled.
Mostly.
I adjusted my hands-free earpiece and fought with the wire because, well, it was an out-of-date, off-brand garage-sale purchase that was probably going to electrocute me the next time it rained. "I need you to see if you can find anything on a Madeline Angelica Learner, born June 12, 1933. Also anything on Leland Wydell I or a woman named Rosa."
"I'll work on it while I'm home tomorrow." She gave a small sigh. "The library will be closed again. Montgomery is going crazy, although he'll be plenty busy advising that movie director."
I understood my sister. She wasn't sad about the library or Montgomery. She was trying to make sense of what had happened to Darla Grace. We all were.
I was about to tell her that when I noticed Frankie staring at me.
"What?" I prodded.
He straightened in his seat. "What do you want to know about Shifty?"
"Who?" I asked.
