by Trisha Telep
Peter calmed then, dropped his hand and covered her belly once more, a final gesture she realized. “I could not risk it. I left you a note. In our secret place,” he said and motioned to a spot on the wall.
Tracy tracked the line of his arm and could see what looked like an oval frame hung there, only in reality it wasn’t there. Only in the dream state that had overtaken them.
“Forgive me, love,” he said, cupping her cheek and bending to brush a kiss across her lips.
“I forgive you,” she whispered before returning his kiss. As their lips touched, something broke free, releasing them.
Peter stumbled back from her, looking around the room and seeing none of the blood and upturned furniture that had been there a moment before. The room was lit from the dull light of an emergency exit sign and Peter reached over to snap on the chandelier, which was swinging wildly.
Tracy squinted at the bright light, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Are you OK?”
Looking down at his body, he realized he was physically fine, but mentally . . . “What happened? What was that?”
Tracy walked toward him. She laid a hand on his chest, to prove to herself that he was real. “They were here. Francis and Anna. But now they’re gone.”
She did a slow turn around the room, as if searching for them, but he knew that she was right. Whatever he had been feeling before was gone, although scattered memories and emotions remained in his mind.
“He sacrificed himself to protect them,” Peter said.
Tracy nodded and walked toward the spot where she had earlier seen the oval frame. “She was pregnant when she left with baby Francesca. That was the condition she mentioned in the journal, but your father didn’t mention any aunts or uncles so . . .”
Pain washed over her, so powerfully she had to put her hand to her chest to press against the spot to ease the heartache. “She lost the baby.”
“That’s what the journal said. You couldn’t have known that from any of the research that you did.”
No, she knew it from Anna. From the pain her spirit had been carrying for so long. Looking toward the wall, she said, “Something is missing here. A picture frame.”
Peter laid his hand on her shoulder and offered a reassuring squeeze. “Maybe it was moved to another room?”
She nodded. “Maybe. Can we look for it?”
He dipped his head in agreement and slipped his arm around her waist. As they walked out of the parlor, a bleary-eyed Tommy came down the stairs, dressed in sweats. A moment later his crew of techs followed.
“Thought I heard some noise. I was worried about the equipment.”
Peter and Tracy shared a glance before Peter inclined his head in the direction of the parlor. “Equipment is fine, but if you’ve got anything motion activated, you may want to check it out.”
Tommy and his crew scrambled down the hall, their animated voices carrying up the stairs, awakening most of the other inhabitants of the mansion. They came out of their rooms and hurried down the stairs, except for Hank.
“I can feel them around you,” Nancy said, raising her hands and circling them before Peter and Tracy.
“Cut the theatrics, Nancy,” the detective said gruffly, but Nancy only winked at him, dragging a blush to his features.
“Do you care to explain what happened?” asked Marcovic, his nose upturned in a superior kind of way.
Tracy was in no mood for the man’s diffidence. “We’re looking for another clue.” The final clue, she wanted to say, but bit that back. No sense having him hounding them.
Peter motioned toward the parlor. “Tommy and his gang are in there. I think his cameras might have caught something.”
With that, Marcovic headed in their direction, but Nancy and the detective hung tight with Peter and Tracy.
The quartet walked along the halls, Tracy scouring each inch for something resembling the oval frame she had seen. At one point the detective asked, “Mind telling me what we’re looking for?”
“A frame,” she said, worried that with all the years that the mansion had been first uninhabited and then in the state’s care, the object she sought might have disappeared.
She was losing hope when she rounded the corner and entered what had once been a large larder off the kitchen. A goodly number of the shelves that had once held food items for the mansion had been removed to create an exhibition area. Two long rows of glass-encased displays took up the space.
Tracy headed to the first exhibit case. Inside were various books and journals that had belonged to the Ryan family. “They probably put the more delicate items in these cases to preserve them.”
Peter followed beside her as they looked over the first row and then the second. Dead center in the display was an oval frame and, as Tracy peered at it, she felt an immediate pull toward the object.
“That’s it,” she said.
Peter raised the glass on the display case. Gently, he lifted out the frame and held it for Tracy’s examination. Nancy and Detective Daly stood behind her, also reviewing the object.
“He said there was a note in their secret place,” Peter pointed out, trying to see how that was possible.
The detective spoke up. “The frame is kind of thick. Almost like it should open up.” He mimicked the action with his hands.
Tracy flipped the frame to the side and, sure enough, there was a small space obscured by the fine filigree of the mahogany frame. With gentle pressure she pulled at it and the frame opened like an old-fashioned locket. Inside was a folded piece of paper, slightly yellowed, but well preserved by the almost airtight space between the two halves of the frame.
Peter took the note in his hands and carefully unfolded it, since it was a bit brittle. He read it and shook his head, sucked in a deep breath. “It’s Skippy’s suicide note. He killed Izzy’s messenger and dumped his body out in the ocean.”
“That explains the blood on the skiff,” Tracy said.
“And the witnesses who heard a fight and saw Ryan rowing out to sea,” Daly added.
Nancy held her hands out and Tracy gingerly handed over the frame. Bringing the frame close to her heart, Nancy closed her eyes and swayed for a moment before saying, “There’s great emotion here. A connection to both of them. A physical connection.”
She brought the frame back out where all could see it and traced what looked like an embroidered floral design in the frame. “The Victorians used to create ornate pictures and jewelry using human hair.”
She handed the photo back to Tracy who scrutinized it more carefully. “There are red and black motifs here. Like Anna’s and Skippy’s hair.”
“Which would give you the DNA proof you need. Right, Angelo?” the detective asked Peter.
“Right. I’ll need to get permission from the State to take some samples, but I’m hoping they’ll be cooperative considering the situation,” he said and glanced at all of them. “I guess we have to determine who is the winner of the contest.”
Tracy waved her hands. “Winners. I had the theory and found the frame, but we wouldn’t have totally solved the mystery without Nancy’s seance or the detective finding the hiding place.”
Relief flooded through Peter at her words. As a lawyer, he was used to dealing with the bad side of human nature. It was nice to witness someone actually behaving like a human being. Looking to the psychic and the detective, he realized they were all in agreement.
“I guess that settles it. I’ll advise the others and my father. Contact the State about getting samples of the hairs in that artwork.”
Nancy and the detective immediately headed off, leaving Peter and Tracy alone in the room.
“So is that it?” she asked, but he knew she was referring to so much more than the contest.
He stepped close to her and slipped his arm around her waist. His body reacted immediately to her nearness, but it wasn’t any lingering emotions from Skippy or Anna. It was him responding.
“What do you think?”
&n
bsp; Tracy smiled knowingly and raised her hand, ran her fingers through the thick strands of his hair. “I think there’s still a lot we need to learn about each other, but I’m game if you are.”
“I’m game,” he said with a grin before he swooped down and sealed the promise with a kiss that curled her toes.
When they pulled away with breathless anticipation, she took his hand in hers and said, “Then let’s get started.”
Eight
Tracy sat beside Peter as the closing credits ran on the documentary Tommy and his crew had produced with the help of all of the contestants except Hank, who, to their surprise, had been so freaked out by the ghosts that he had left the mansion. As had John Marcovic. Apparently, the project had been too lowbrow for the mystery writer’s participation, even though it was tasteful enough for the cable television station that had chosen to buy the rights. In the end, Tommy and his crew had become winners as well when Peter’s father had agreed to lift the confidentiality ban so Skippy’s true story could be told. It had been icing on the cake when Tracy sold a novel about the ghostly encounter and the real story behind the Ryan family.
Peter squeezed Tracy’s hand and rose. He grabbed a bottle of champagne that they had been keeping on ice to celebrate with everyone gathered in the inn, which he and Tracy had been lovingly restoring over the past several months.
His father sat in a wheelchair next to the sofa, his color and energy much improved since the night Peter had come to relay the information that the mystery had been solved. After that night, and the day weeks later when the DNA testing had proved that he was Skippy Ryan’s grandson, his health had taken a decided turn for the better.
Nancy and Detective Daly sat side by side on a love seat, clearly taken with one another. Peter supposed the police officer had that worn and weathered look some women might find attractive.
Tommy’s crew was in motion, as it always seemed to be, moving from in front of the large-screen television to the cameras off to the side for a short behind-the-scenes piece they planned on doing.
With Tracy assisting, Peter poured glasses of champagne for each of their guests and offered up a toast. “To Anna and Francis Ryan and their everlasting love.”
Everyone around them chimed in with their wishes and Peter took a sip of his champagne, but noticed that Tracy wasn’t having any of hers.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
She smiled, took hold of his free hand and brought it to rest on her belly. “Better than OK.”
“I’m getting my babies,” his father said joyously and, a second later, the lights in the room flashed on and off.
“I think Anna and Skippy approve,” said Nancy, and the detective raised his glass in agreement.
Embracing his newly wed wife, Peter grinned. “I guess we’re going to be expanding more than the master suite in this old place.”
Tracy smiled and inched up on tiptoe to brush a kiss across his lips. “You know Francis can be either a boy or girl’s name.”
“Seems right to me,” he said and once again the lights dimmed off and on, but neither Peter nor Tracy paid it much mind.
The tragedy of an unlikely pair of ghosts had brought them together. It seemed only fair that they hung around for the good times to come.
In His Hands
Sara Reinke
Can someone haunt you if they’re not even dead?
Jack woke up naked and face down in his bed, the sheets kicked back in a rumpled heap at the foot of the king-sized mattress. He opened his eyes slowly, groggily, and, after a moment’s disorientation, realized the sun was rising, a pale glow spilling through the panoramic windows that faced the eastern banks of Fallen Leaf Lake, just south of Lake Tahoe.
He groaned, closing his eyes, groped blindly for a pillow, which he then crammed over his head. After a moment spent in this cool, comfortable darkness, he remembered the night before and sat up abruptly, shoving the pillow aside.
“Hello?” His voice was a croak scraping loose from the back of his throat.
“Tell me your name,” he’d pleaded with the woman, sweat-soaked and exhausted in the aftermath of lovemaking, lying beneath her as she straddled his hips and gazed down at him. Her blonde hair fell in a lazy tumble of loose waves down past her shoulders, mermaid-like as it draped over her breasts. They’d been at it for hours, non-stop, nearly relentless, as if she’d tapped into some hidden and heretofore unknown reservoir of stamina within him, some kind of primal lust that her touch, her kiss had unleashed.
“Please,” he’d whispered, caressing her hips, tracing the long, lean contours of her thighs with his hands. “Tell me who you are.”
But she’d only smiled and leaned over, her hair spilling around his face as she kissed him softly, her lips lighting across his.
He hadn’t had more than a casual dinner date in the last year and a half, and he could count on two fingers the number of one-night stands he’d had in his entire life.
What the hell possessed me last night? he thought, although he knew.
The dress.
The bar had been crowded, standing room only, patrons shoulder to shoulder and flanking the pool tables. But even from a distance, across the smoke-filled breadth that had hung between them, he’d caught sight of her. It was the dead of winter, yet she’d worn a sleeveless dress, little more than a scrap of red silk and sequins suspended from her shoulders. He’d been dumbstruck, a cue stick in one hand and a half-empty glass in the other.
“Hello? You still here?” he called out in his bedroom, stumbling to his feet, squinting against the glare.
He hadn’t had a condom on him, but somehow that hadn’t even mattered. He remembered the young woman leading him toward the restroom at the back corner of the bar, slipping her fingers through his own and guiding him wordlessly, willingly in tow. He’d closed the door behind them and turned the lock home. They immediately fell together in a tangle of arms and legs, kissing fervently, furiously. Her hands fumbled between them, unzipping his fly, pushing his jeans down from his hips. Her lips were soft and velveteen, her tongue warm and sweet.
When he’d plunged into her, her fingernails dug into the meat of his shoulders. Again and again, he’d shoved her back against the bathroom wall, making the window above them rattle in its pane with every stroke. She’d cried out as she climaxed, tightening around him, and he’d shuddered with his own sudden, powerful release.
He’d just had sex with a complete stranger, a woman he’d met less than fifteen minutes earlier and, by all rights, his mind should have been racing, panicking as the trained physician in him rattled off a litany of risks he’d just foolishly, impulsively subjected himself to . . .
HIV . . . syphilis . . . herpes . . . hepatitis B . . .
By all rights, he should have been kicking himself, but instead, all he’d found himself doing was thinking about her, about how he’d probably just experienced the most incredible sex of his entire life, and how he was ready to do it again, hardening at just the thought.
“I live on the east shore,” he’d whispered. “I’ve got a house up by Fallen Leaf Lake. We could—”
She’d nodded, cutting him off, her eyes hungry as they locked with his own. “Take me there,” she’d breathed – the only words she’d said to him all night.
He called for her again as he padded down the stairs from the loft bedroom. “Hey! Are you still here?”
The rest of the house had an open floor plan; the better to showcase the expansive windows facing the lake, as his landlord had pointed out. There was no such thing as a lousy view in Jack’s house, which was exactly why he’d rented it, and why, as soon as he hit the front foyer, he could see that he was alone.
Where did she go? he thought, bewildered. She couldn’t have walked back to town. It’s at least twenty miles. And it was freezing last night. Even if she hitchhiked, she couldn’t have . . .
His thoughts trailed off and his eyes flew wide with realization. “Son of a bitch,” he gasped, dart
ing back to the foyer. Here, on a small entry table, as a rule, he’d toss his keys upon entering the house. That morning, the table was bare.
“Fuck,” Jack said, rushing back up to his bedroom. Let me have forgotten, he thought. I was drunk last night. I must have forgotten, left them in my pocket, on the nightstand or my bureau . . .
But he hadn’t and he knew it and he didn’t need to make a frantic, frenzied search of the loft to prove it.
I drove her here last night. She saw where I put my car keys. Son of a bitch – she stole my car!
He nearly fell down the steps as he raced down again, recklessly taking them three at a time. The house was ringed by a wraparound deck; he pushed the patio door open and ran outside.
It was shockingly cold. Frost had crusted on the ground and his breath immediately fogged in the air, framing his face in a hazy halo.
“Hey!” he shouted, as if he had half a hope she would still be within earshot somehow, still sitting in the driveway behind the wheel of his Jeep Wrangler.
He rounded the corner of his deck and realized two things simultaneously – first, his Jeep was right where it was supposed to be, present and accounted for. Second, his next-door neighbor, a heavy-set, grey-haired blackjack dealer named Joann Limon was just getting home from her late shift on the Nevada side of the lake. As she climbed out of her car, she heard his shout and turned, her expression curious.
That was about the same time Jack remembered he was naked and froze like a deer pinned by oncoming high beams. Even though there was more than twenty feet between them, along with at least ten pine trees and a pair of wispy aspens, he saw Joann plainly through the low-hanging boughs. She saw him, too; her eyes were wide and surprised as she glanced down the length of him, taking into account his state of undress.
“Oh, uh . . .” Jack clapped his hands over his crotch and sidestepped clumsily. “Hey, Joann.”
“Jack,” she replied mildly, as if this was no more than an everyday occurrence, something to which she was completely and comfortably accustomed. “Everything all right?”
