GHOST OF A CHANCE, a paranormal short story

by Caridad Piñeiro

  GHOST OF A CHANCE

  a paranormal novella

  Caridad Piñeiro

  NY Times & USA Today Bestseller

  2012 RITA® Finalist Paranormal Romance

  True crime writer Tracy Gomez is unsure of what to make of the unusual invitation from New York City attorney Peter Angelo: A one million dollar prize to anyone who can solve the mystery of three deaths which had occurred nearly eighty years earlier. Tracy desperately needs the money to fix up the old inn she’s just inherited and solving the crime will also provide welcome publicity to help her sagging writing career. But accepting the invitation brings unexpected challenges, like spectral help during a séance and Tracy’s attraction to the sexy attorney monitoring the contest. Does Tracy only have a ghost of a chance to discover the secrets of the past or can she win a prize far better than a million dollars?

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Copyright Notice

  About the Author

  Additional Books by the Author

  Chapter 1

  Tracy Gomez had heard her share of contest prizes that were too good to be true, but it was hard to ignore this one.

  From the personal delivery of the invitation via bonded courier to the name of the very reputable New York law firm on the return address, everything about this contest seemed genuine: A one million dollar prize to anyone who could solve the mystery of the Ryan deaths which had occurred nearly eighty years earlier. An infamous case involving a politician, his actress wife, and newborn daughter. It was a winner take all challenge set to take place at the former Ryan mansion, now a historic site in Sea Girt, New Jersey.

  As a local true crime writer, Tracy had some familiarity with the basics of the case. Francis “Skippy” Ryan had been an up-and-coming State Senator. His wife, Anna Dolan, had made a name for herself in an assortment of small roles on Broadway and attracted the eye of the handsome Senator.

  Romance ensued and soon the two were an item, making the rounds of the nightclubs and local hangouts. Surprising everyone with their unlikely marriage and the child that followed barely nine months after. Although tongues were wagging about the precipitous birth, the marriage itself seemed blissful.

  Until one morning when Skippy Ryan had been found hanging from the parlor room chandelier in his mansion. His wife and daughter were nowhere to be found and judging from the blood and trashed state of the room, it was assumed Skippy had done them in and disposed of his wife and child in the waters near the oceanfront mansion. Their bodies had never been recovered and with no other motive available, it had led to the commonly held belief that it had been a simple case of murder-suicide. It had also spawned a host of legends about the former Ryan mansion being haunted.

  But clearly someone thought otherwise given the prize, Tracy thought as she turned the expensive invitation over and over again, debating the merits of participating in the competition.

  As she stood there, wondering who else had gotten an invite, an icy draft shivered along the floor, creating a reciprocal shudder in her body.

  Reason one to participate: Money to fix the run down inn she had inherited from her grandmother. It had been in the family for nearly four generations and Tracy didn’t want to sell it, but repairing and maintaining the building required major bucks.

  Reason number two: A boost to her flagging writing career. The numbers on her last book had been middling hence the lack of bucks to fix the inn. If she were able to solve the mystery and win the contest, it would help drive sales for a new book.

  If she could win, which made Tracy wonder again who else would be participating?

  Dialing her cell phone, she called the Manhattan lawyer who had sent her the invitation. His assistant answered, but as soon as she identified herself, Tracy was transferred to the attorney.

  “Peter Angelo,” he said when he picked up, his voice a deep sonorous baritone that rumbled across the phone line and made her imagine what he looked like.

  “Mr. Angelo, this is Tracy Gomez. I’m calling about—“

  “The invitation. I hope this means that you’re accepting.”

  She tamped down the flare of irritation at his interruption. “Actually, I had a few questions. I hope you have the time to answer.”

  “Of course, Ms. Gomez. I apologize for being presumptuous. It’s just that I hoped you’d be onboard.”

  His apology mollified her somewhat, but made her question why her attendance mattered. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mr. Angelo.”

  “Peter, please. Your reputation precedes you. That book you did on the Sylvester serial killer case was quite well-done.”

  And had been her biggest bestseller, Tracy thought. “May I ask who else has been invited?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. In fact, anyone who participates will be asked to sign a confidentiality agreement,” the attorney replied and a chill note filtered into his voice.

  Tracy thought of all the research time she would need to prepare for the contest. So much work with the possibility of zero reward if someone else beat her to solving the case, since a confidentiality agreement would preclude her from using any of the work for a new book. “I’ll have to give this some thought, Mr. Angelo. I’m not sure it would be the right kind of project for me.”

  A surprised silence came across the line before the attorney said, “I hope you reconsider, Ms. Gomez. A million dollars is a lot of money.”

  Tracy had no doubt about that. A million dollars would take care of fixing the inn and set her up quite nicely while she worked on her next book. But she was cautious by nature and wasn’t about to change her spots for this case, even with the huge prize. Before she considered it further, there was one other thing she had to know.

  “You seem to be quite determined about this contest. May I ask why?”

  An amused chuckle was followed by, “I guess it’s hard to deny that I’d like you to participate.”

  Annoyance flared up at that he hadn’t really answered her question, so she repeated it. “Why is that so important to you, Mr. Angelo?”

  Silence came once more, followed by a heartfelt sigh before the attorney said, “My father believes he is Skippy Ryan’s grandson. He also thinks you’re the only one who can prove it.”

  Chapter 2

  The black and white photograph on his law firm website didn’t do justice to Peter Angelo, she thought as he stood at the front of the room.

  He was strikingly attractive with black Irish looks that might make many a woman’s head turn. Dark, nearly black hair which might have been wavy if it wasn’t ruthlessly styled into place framed a face that was all chiseled lines. Piercing blue eyes were keen with intelligence and didn’t miss a beat as they traveled over the half a dozen people gathered around the dining room table in the supposedly haunted Ryan mansion.

  “Please sit,” he said, although it was more command than invitation.

  Tracy hadn’t even taken a step when someone elbowed past her, eager to take a place near the head of the table where Mr. Angelo would presumably take a spot.

  Nancy Fitch, Tracy thought, the name of the flamboyant psychic popping into her head as the redhead plopped her curvaceous ass into the chair, crossed her legs, and assumed a pose obviously intended to show off her more than ample assets.

  From beside Tracy came a solicitous, “After you.”

  She glanced at the man, recognizing yet another familiar face: Hank
Jenkins, a television personality with a show on all things Jersey Shore on one of the local cable channels.

  “Thanks.” She sat and shot a quick glance to the opposite side of the table and the three other contestants. She didn’t recognize any of them, but assumed Mr. Angelo would soon remedy that situation.

  As for their host, he continued to stand at the head of the table, his hands resting on the ornately carved wood of a dining room chair until everyone was seated. Then he motioned to a young man who briskly closed the door, picked up a stack of packets, and efficiently laid out one folder in front of each of them before resuming his post by the door.

  Peter Angelo gestured to the packets with an elegant swipe of his finger. “You have all signed confidentiality agreements prior to coming here. Any and all documents in these portfolios and any information that you learn over this weekend is considered confidential and governed by those agreements.”

  “Can we skip all the legalese and get to the point of this,” said one of the men seated across from her. He had a thick New York accent and a liberally-salted buzz cut. His dark suit was shiny from age and rather ill-fitting. Judging from the bulge beneath one armpit, he was armed and hopefully on the right side of the law.

  “Just getting there, Detective Daly,” Angelo replied with the kind of indulgent tone that said he was used to dealing with law enforcement types.

  “Inside the packets is basic information about the mansion and nearby grounds. Also some details from the original police investigation, as well as material that no one else has seen before.”

  With an almost theatrical flourish, Angelo flipped open his packet and removed a sheath of papers from one side.

  Tracy opened her folder and did the same, fascinated by what appeared to be a decades old journal.

  Peter Angelo skimmed his gaze over the various individuals he had assembled at the behest of his father. Each one was arguably a specialist, if not an expert in their particular field, but the one person that kept on drawing his attention was Tracy Gomez.

  She looked younger than the photo on her book jacket, but then again, he supposed that was the purpose of those professional headshots. Make the author look suitably studious and authoritative.

  Tracy was much more eye-catching than her photo, with an expressive heart-shaped face that was currently registering surprise as she read over the contents of the pages he had provided. Her eyes widened as she set the papers down and met his stare. Almond-shaped eyes in a rich shade of chocolate narrowed as she considered him. They were filled with questions. She raised her hand and after he had acknowledged her, asked, “Are you sure about the provenance of these pages?”

  “The journal was found in a trunk which supposedly belonged to my great-grandmother. Unfortunately it was water damaged by leaks in the attic.”

  She nodded, but resumed reviewing the pages as he continued. “To win the prize you must determine if then Senator Ryan did in fact murder his wife and son, and if it is possible for my father to be his grandson. You have access to this mansion for the weekend. If you require any other assistance you may ask me or my assistant, Mr. Parker,” he said and motioned to the young man by the door.

  “What about my séance?” blurted Nancy Finch, the psychic who had been busier eyeing him than the papers she had been given.

  “Ah, yes. The séance. Ms. Finch has requested the assistance of all of us—”

  “Except the cop. I can feel his negative vibes all the way from here,” she said with a practiced wrinkle of her nose and flip of her hand in the detective’s direction.

  “Damn straight, lady. I don’t buy into cheap movie tricks,” Detective Daly replied with a growly snarl.

  And this was getting to be just like one of those low budget horror flicks, Peter thought. Put six people together in an old and supposedly haunted mansion, make them want to kill each other with a prize they can’t refuse and let the mayhem begin. If his father wasn’t gravely ill, he would never have agreed to this whole fiasco. But this crazy quest was the one thing that his father had requested and that seemed to be keeping him alive.

  “Ms. Finch wishes to channel the spirits in this home. We will be holding a séance tonight after dinner for anyone who wishes to participate,” Peter said and eyeballed everyone around the table.

  “And what if she claims to hear ol’ Skippy and gets his confession? Is this entire gig done?” asked the detective.

  Peter shook his head. “I want definitive proof. If Ms. Finch somehow communicates with the departed Senator Ryan or his wife Anna, Ms. Finch will have to elicit from them some other detail which can be corroborated and that was previously unknown.”

  “Something which is in this journal, I presume?” said the older gentleman sitting beside the detective.

  By process of elimination, since the young star of a ghost hunting show was at the far end of the table, Peter assumed this was none other than John Marcovic, the bestselling mystery author. The man had to be at least eighty which meant that the headshot on his book jackets was nearly thirty years old.

  “Yes, Mr. Marcovic. There are pages in the journal that contain a surprising bit of information. We’ve withheld it for the obvious reasons.”

  At the mention of the author’s name, Tracy’s eyes widened as she considered him, obviously as surprised as Peter about the author’s age.

  Hank Jenkins jumped into the discussion. “What about an exhumation and DNA test? Wouldn’t that accomplish what you want?”

  Tracy nodded and her expressive face conveyed not only her obvious agreement with the local reporter, but her skepticism about the proceedings. He had clearly sensed that reticence during his telephone conversation with her and yet here she was, ready to participate. It made him think that spending the weekend with Tracy Gomez might prove to be quite interesting--they seemed to be of a like mind about some things. He, too, was skeptical about these proceedings.

  “We lack the proof necessary for an exhumation. In addition, my father does not wish to disturb the grave. Besides, that won’t solve the mystery of whether Senator Ryan murdered his wife and infant son.”

  “Can I bring my crew to the séance?” asked Tommy Smith, the young ghost hunter.

  Peter inclined his head in the direction of Ms. Finch, who immediately said, “I’m not a fake. I welcome anything that will confirm and document my abilities.”

  “Wicked,” said Tommy gleefully and rubbed his hands together.

  “Wonderful. We’ll reconvene here for dinner at eight,” Peter said and watched the crew of characters his father had requested file out the door. He had to give his dad credit. He had really put together a fascinating group, but Peter was doubtful they could accomplish his father’s goal.

  Except for maybe the captivating Tracy Gomez, he thought as she sauntered out, her keen-eyed gaze flitting over the portraits on the wall before shooting him a curious glance.

  He smiled at her, but she quickly averted her gaze and continued on her way.

  Interesting, he thought again, but had little time to linger. His father was comfortably settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms and awaiting his report.

  Peter hoped that by the time the weekend was done, his father might have the answers that would give him peace in what could possibly be his final days.

  Chapter 3

  The nice-sized room was well-appointed, with views of the manicured lawns and gardens from French doors along one wall. The bright new green of early spring grass offset the darker mulch the park service gardeners had laid down around freshly-planted flower beds.

  The early afternoon sun blazed through the glass, but did nothing to dispel the chill in Tracy’s body. She rubbed at her arms before opening her suitcase to unpack, though it did little to quell a classic case of the willies. Since stepping into the room she had felt as if she was not alone.

  Not that she gave much credence to the various tales that the mansion was haunted by the spirits of the deceased Ryan family. In doing her pre
p work for this weekend’s contest, she had come across more than one mention of witnesses who saw seeing spirits wandering the mansion and nearby grounds. There were even a few visitors who had claimed to hear either a baby or woman crying late at night.

  No way, she thought. It was just a case of people’s imaginations running away with them since the case was unsolved and the bodies of Anna and her baby Francesca had never been found.

  That one aspect had been troubling her during the course of her investigations. If Skippy Ryan had tossed his family’s bodies into the ocean, they should have turned up given the currents in the area, even if he had weighted them down somehow. And in light of the supposed chronology of events related by witnesses who had overheard a fight on the night of the murders and said they had seen him out on a boat, Ryan would not have had time for prepping the bodies with weights. They should have therefore washed ashore fairly quickly.

  Which meant that it was possible that Anna and baby Francesca might have not died that night. And if they had survived, it was conceivable that Peter Angelo’s father might be Skippy’s grandson.

  Another chill skittered across her body, and for a moment, it almost seemed to wrap itself around her in an embrace. She shuddered, tossing off her apprehension and thought, Craziness.

  She walked to the French doors and threw them open, allowing the warm spring breeze into the room. It was just a case of a drafty old house, much like her family’s inn. She lingered by the doors, lifting her face up to the bright sunshine until the chill in her body had disappeared. Then she returned to her suitcase and unpacked her notes and assorted research materials. She took them to the simple mahogany desk at one side of the room and laid them out. As she did so, she quickly reviewed the notes. She remained convinced that she was on the right trail to prove what had actually happened that night.

  She hoped that over the weekend she’d find the last little bits of information she needed to realize the truth about Francis Ryan, determine if Peter’s dad could be his descendant, and, of course, win the prize.