Ghost of a Chance

by Yasmine Galenorn

  "Best friend? What makes you think Liam is my best friend?"

  I shrugged. "He's been hanging around a lot the past few weeks. I think that you might be seeing too much of him."

  She leaned up on her toes and gave me a peck on the cheek. "Don't worry, Mom. Liam's a jerk, like all boys. I only hang around him because he's good in English and I need help. When I've gotten past the hard part of the class, I'll dump him and you won't have anything to worry about."

  Oh boy, so I wasn't dealing with Little-Miss-Wanna-Date and they weren't doing anything I had to worry about. I was facing the Men-Are-Scum Monster. I wasn't sure which one was worse. "You know, honey, boys are human beings, too. They do have feelings," I cautioned her. "Some are going to be jerks and some are going to be nice."

  "Whatever. Hey, I gotta go. See you later." She headed for the door. I sighed. She would have to learn the hard way that using people the way she did would only buy loneliness. In some ways, Randa was very much her father's daughter. The thought scared me.

  "Come ten o'clock, you'd better be walking through the front door. Now get out of here and have a good time."

  She disappeared down the sidewalk into the blustery evening. A light dusting of snow had started to fall, and I breathed a prayer of gratitude that I lived here in Chiqetaw instead of frantic, dollar-driven Seattle. Ghosts or not, our house felt like a haven against the assaults of the world, and watching my daughter walk off into the gloom, I realized I was much more relaxed as a parent now than I had been in the city. Even though the suspicion of a murder here in Chiqetaw now hovered in my thoughts, it still offered a safe place to bring up my chicks.

  Kip bounced in about ten minutes later and headed straight for the refrigerator.

  "Whoa, buster. Too near dinner. What shall we have tonight? It's Miranda's astronomy club night. Do you want Greek? Moroccan? Maybe Japanese?"

  He cocked his head, thought for a moment, and gave me a sheepish grin. "Can we eat American and have macaroni and cheese with hotdogs? And chocolate cake?"

  Yep, he'd been over at Sly's. Every time he saw what they were having for dinner, he always asked to have the same thing. Sly's mother was the only one I knew who still cooked boxed mac 'n' cheese casseroles with sliced wieners. I shuddered; the one shop I really missed in this town was Trader Joe's. Finding decent frankfurters was going to be a chore, and the butcher was closed. "Okay, kiddo, but we're using kielbasa instead of hotdogs, and real cheddar instead of Velveeta." I grabbed my keys and purse and shooed him out to the car.

  The trip to QFC didn't take long—ten minutes to locate the Polish sausage and pick out a chocolate cake that caught Kip's fancy. I tossed a brick of sharp cheddar into the cart and added a bottle of Talking Rain.

  On the ride home, Kip turned off his handheld video game. "Mom, have you decided what to do about Mrs. Mitchell?"

  "Yes, I think so. I'll talk to you and your sister about it later." Apparently satisfied, he went back to playing with his Game Boy.

  We got home in time to hear the phone ringing. By the time I unlocked the door and grabbed the receiver, whoever it was had hung up. After I put the groceries away, I dialed voice messaging. To my surprise, Andrew's voice spilled into my ear.

  "I need to talk to you. Can I come over? I'm sorry I left so abruptly last night. I'd like a chance to apologize. Please call, it's important." I wrote down his number. What had happened? Once again, I had the feeling of being inexorably drawn into a spider's web. He must have been sitting on the phone, because it barely managed one ring before he yanked up the receiver. Another apology tumbled out. I invited him for dinner, and he said he'd be over in fifteen minutes.

  Kip's eyes lit up when he found out Andrew was joining us. Kip pitched in, carefully setting the table and filling the water goblets with milk. I had to restrain my laughter when I saw him dig out the candlesticks and ceremoniously place them on the table. So Kip wasn't above playing matchmaker.

  As the kielbasa sizzled in the pan, I tossed in a scant handful of diced shallots and minced garlic, along with some paprika and parsley. A pungent cloud of steam roiled up in my eyes; as I wiped away the stinging tears, an earthy smell filled the kitchen, and my mouth began to water. Kip's idea hadn't been a bad one, at that. Elbow noodles bubbled along cheerfully while I grated the cheese in the food processor, then stirred the sausage and cheese into the macaroni. The doorbell rang. Kip raced to get it.

  Andrew was carrying a bouquet of red carnations. He peeked around the corner. "These are yet another way of saying I'm sorry." He handed me the flowers, and I took a deep breath of the faint but spicy scent. "Something smells good," he added, lifting the lid off the noodles.

  I slapped his hand away. "No tasting before dinner. Go wash up, both of you. Kip will show you where."

  They ducked out of the kitchen while I poured the mac 'n' cheese into one serving dish and the broccoli into another. I slid the cake onto a crystal stand and set it on the end of the table, then removed the candles and tucked them back in the sideboard. The carnations brightened up a copper milk jug, cheering up the kitchen. By the time they returned, dinner was ready.

  After eating, Kip disappeared up the stairs to finish his homework, taking another slice of cake with him. Andrew handed me the dishes while I rinsed and stacked. As the dishwasher churned, I made espresso and asked Andrew to grate some bittersweet chocolate. I'd already had way too much caffeine, but who was counting?

  He rested his elbows on the table. "I feel like I was very rude last night. I'd like a chance to explain. You really spooked me when you said you saw Susan's ghost."

  I cleaned the table and took my seat opposite his. "Don't apologize. I shouldn't have sprung all that on you like I did. Was it just the fact that she was your friend or something else that bothered you?"

  He hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then finally blurted out, "The truth is… I saw her, too. I tried to tell myself it was just a dream, but after what you told me, I had to admit to myself that it was real. Thursday night I went to bed early. Right after I started to drift off, I had the feeling there was something in the room with me. I looked up, and there she was. I didn't handle it as well as you did."

  "What did you do?" That Susan had shown up at his place before coming to me for help told me that there must be a strong connection between them. She had only approached me after her attempt to communicate with Andrew failed.

  He turned a little green. "Remember—these things don't usually happen to me. I was startled and… well, I threw the alarm clock at her and hid my head under the covers. When I looked out again, she was gone."

  Threw the alarm clock? Hid under the covers? Really brave reactions for such a strong man. I stifled a snort. "Let me get this straight: The ghost of one of your best friends shows up, and you throw a clock at her and then duck under the covers?"

  He shrugged. "I said I didn't cope with it very well. Anyway, she vanished, and that was it. I didn't know she was dead at that time, and I wrote it off as being just a weird dream until Friday morning, when I found out what happened."

  The look on his face stopped me from laughing. Some people simply weren't cut out to answer the door when the paranormal came knocking. I leaned back in my chair, thinking about the situation. Andrew seemed serious about what he was saying. "Why are you telling me this now?"

  He inhaled deeply and let it out with a slow whistle. "I've been thinking a lot about it since last night. Now I believe that she was there, trying to tell me something, and I was too afraid to listen. So she found you. She must trust you if she came to you for help. I want to know what's going on, and if I can, I want to help, too. Susan was a good friend; I don't want to let her down."

  "You'll have to be honest with me. You'll have to tell me about your friendship with her. If you want me to help, I need to know everything that was going on. And… I'll have to tell you everything she said to me. Some of it may be hard for you to believe." I tried to feel out his energy, but he was hard to read.
"Just a sec." I held up my hand before he answered and told him I'd be right back.

  I slipped into the living room and pulled out a deck of tarot cards from the desk. After a quick shuffle, I concentrated on whether he was trustworthy and drew a card. The three of wands. Virtue. Honesty. Truthfulness. I could trust what he told me. I just hoped he could fill in some of the missing pieces.

  When I returned to the kitchen, I gave him the go-ahead and instructed him to tell me everything. He got himself a glass of water and, with a haunted look, began to talk. "The truth is that Susan was in love with me. That was our biggest problem. We had a fight the night before she died—the last time we ever spoke. She died thinking I was angry with her."

  I had thought there was some sort of romantic attachment involved, though I had been thinking more along the lines of an affair. I could still be right; he might still be holding back. "Go on," I said in what I hoped was a reassuring voice.

  He continued. "Walter had been having affairs since they first got married, she told me. She finally hired a PI this year, and he got pictures. Once she had the proof in hand, something snapped. She freaked. Maybe this has something to do with why she can't rest."

  I leaned across the table and gently touched his arm. I could hear the question in his voice. He was looking for answers to whether Susan killed herself, like the police had first suggested. "You said that she was in love with you? Were you in love with her? Did you… did you have an affair with Susan Mitchell?"

  "No." He shook his head. "I swear, I never even kissed her. I loved her as a friend, but she grew really attached. She tried to get me to have an affair, and I told her no, I didn't sleep with married women. We laughed it off, to save the friendship, but the shadow was always there. I couldn't understand why she stayed with Walter, since she didn't love him. Especially when I found out he'd been hitting her."

  Whoa! Walter had beat up Susan? "Wait a minute. You knew that he hit her and didn't ever bother to call the police?" What kind of man was Andrew?

  "Yes, I knew," he said in a strangled voice. "I've known for months. I tried to talk her into leaving but she always brushed me off; she said she wasn't leaving Walter unless she had someone waiting in the wings. Well, it wasn't going to be me. When I threatened to call the cops on Walter, she said she'd deny everything; she was afraid that it would tarnish her image if her readers found out she was in an abusive marriage for so long. I told her they'd just buy her books faster—that they'd understand because some of them had probably already been in similar circumstances."

  I began to see his quandary, and I understood Susan's reluctance. I knew from experience the shame of being in an abusive relationship; even though that shame wasn't warranted, it still controlled your life. I nodded for him to continue.

  "Wednesday night, we had our writers meeting at her house, and after everyone left, she got nasty. She got into the booze and I begged her to stop, to think of her health. We fought. She grew hysterical and told me that if I didn't run off with her, she knew someone who would. I figured it was best to leave, but when I got to my car, I realized that I had forgotten my briefcase. I ran back into the house without knocking—I didn't want to start another round—hoping that she would be out of the living room."

  "Go on."

  Andrew thrust his hands into his pockets and began to pace by the sink, his voice shaking as he finished his story. "Walter must have come in through the back door while we were fighting and heard us. They were in the kitchen and couldn't see me. He was screaming at her, obscenities I would never use on a woman… or anyone, for that matter. I heard a thud and headed for the kitchen door when Susan came bursting out, crying. She said Walter had stormed out to the club."

  I closed my eyes, feeling the energy swirl around him as he talked. Walter had been furious, and Andrew knew about it. Had he told the cops about this? Would it make any difference, since Walter had an alibi?

  "Once again, Susan begged me to run away with her. I don't break up marriages. She said I wasn't man enough to help her, that she'd deal with Walter in her own way. So I left. What else could I do?" He buried his face in his hands.

  His revelation would take some thinking through. The fact that Walter beat up his wife on a regular basis put a new spin on the matter as far as I was concerned. If he could beat her, why couldn't he take it a step farther and kill her?

  Folding his hands, Andrew slumped back down in his chair and stared at the floor. "Last night I had a dream after I left you and went home. I was sitting by Susan's grave. The snowdrifts were piling up. Susan walked up and led me over to a car, and you were in it. When I got in the passenger's side, you turned to me and held out your hand. I reached out, but at the last minute I panicked and pulled away. You got out of the car and walked off into the storm. I knew I couldn't let you go. I shouted, but you didn't hear me. You just kept walking."

  The air in the room felt charged. I didn't know what to say. I leaned across the table and lifted his chin so that we were staring eye to eye. "Andrew, I believe in things that, if I were very poor and very loud, would get me locked up faster than you can say 'crazy woman.' Can you handle that I not only talk about these things, but that I totally, absolutely believe they are real?"

  My words seemed to hang in the air forever. He searched my face, looking for something he might never find there. Then, slowly, he reached over to press his lips against mine. I melted into his kiss, tasting the lingering flavor of chocolate. He quizzed me with his touch, asking questions to which I didn't know the answer. After a moment, I pulled away. He reached for my hand. I hesitated before resting my fingertips on his palm.

  It was time to reveal what Susan had said. "I've got something to tell you. Are you ready to hear what Susan had to say to me?" I paused but he didn't say anything, and I realized that he was waiting for me to continue. "Susan showed up at the foot of my bed Friday night. According to her, she was murdered. She said that Walter did it."

  He tensed. I told him everything. Kip. The shadow. Susan and the automatic writing—the whole works. I couldn't look at him as I spilled out the story, couldn't chance seeing disbelief in his eyes. But he had to know, had to be able to handle my world if he wanted to be part of my life in any way.

  Did I dare ask if he believed me? I didn't have the courage. He answered, though, without being prodded. "Last week I would have laughed you off." He wiped his chin where his five-o'clock stubble from the day before had deepened into a light beard. "Now you tell me that her spirit says she was murdered by that bastard. If he did kill her, I'll always feel that I had a part in it. Maybe I could have stopped him."

  I asked the question to which I wasn't sure I wanted an answer. "Are you sure you weren't in love with her? Even a little bit?"

  He settled back down in his chair. When he spoke, resignation filled his voice. "I don't know. I don't know much of anything. If she was murdered, I'll always feel guilty that I didn't stop Walter. And if Susan killed herself, I'll always believe my rejection drove her to it. Either way, I'm doomed."

  Doomed.

  He tugged on my hand. "Em?" There was a plea in his voice.

  I felt as if I were teetering on a high wire. He reached up to trace the length of my chin and I closed my eyes, feeling the blood rush through my body on an all-points bulletin. I let him pull me onto his lap, where he pressed me to his chest, kissing me lightly. How could I get involved? How could I let myself trust? But it had been so long. As his lips nuzzled my hair, I gave in and melted into the heat of the kiss.

  Chapter Seven

  I glanced at the clock and disentangled myself from Andrew's embrace. Harlow should be on her way over. With Kip upstairs and Miranda due home soon, I didn't want them to come racing into the room to find me sitting on Andrew's lap. "I need something to drink."

  He winked. "Whatever the lady wants. Scotch? Rum? What do you have?"

  "I was thinking more along the lines of tea." I fished through the drawer in the sideboard and pulled out a bo
x of black currant. The act of heating the water, of waiting till right before it boiled, then pouring it over the bags in a thin stream, always calmed me down. I filled the teakettle and set it on the burner, then selected a Woodland Spode pot from my collection. Andrew watched me in silence as I chose teacups and saucers and set the creamer and sugar bowl on the table. As I sliced a lemon and arranged the segments on a plate, I found myself hoping that he had been joking. I couldn't afford to be with someone who liked to booze it up. Most people I knew drank socially, but I had stopped hanging out with the ones who couldn't handle their liquor.

  I carved a thin wedge of the fudge cake and handed it to him before I cut my own piece. The steam from the kettle billowed up, whistling a cheerful tune. I let the water stream into the teapot as I inhaled the gentle peppery scent and then set the pot on the table to steep.

  "It's a ritual for you, isn't it? The act of tea, the selection of the china… what I would call pretension in others is part of your nature, and so it becomes an unrehearsed and totally natural performance. I like that." He mashed cake crumbs with his fork, then lifted his fork in salute to me.

  Not knowing quite what to say, I gave him a smile and bit into the creamy fudge. QFC had it right—sugar. Lots of sugar. Chocolate frosting melted in my mouth, and I closed my eyes as the butter cream trickled down my throat. I prayed that no one would ever ask me to relinquish my sweet tooth. As I licked the back of the fork, it occurred to me that Susan couldn't have eaten this piece of cake, but I didn't really understand why.

  "I don't know much about diabetes. Could Susan's death really have been an accident? The police think so. The hospital thinks so. Walter has an alibi."

  "I'm not exactly a medical encyclopedia, but I can tell you that food like this is off-limits unless the patient is having a low-blood-sugar attack." Andrew dug into his cake. "My aunt has diabetes. She's never been in the hospital since the original diagnosis, but it has affected her in a number of smaller ways. She has some neurological problems due to the condition." He laid down his fork. "But why would a ghost lie? Aren't we supposed to know everything once we die? I got the impression that—what do you call them—spirit guides? That spirit guides are here for our best interests."