Live Ringer

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  Her mind buzzed, as she drove back across the causeway. Her aunt with a boyfriend? She wasn’t certain why the idea shocked her. Louise Smith was no doddering old woman. Doddering—the word Rupert Cornelius used to describe himself, and she knew—and she’d bet he knew—that he was a long way from doddering. He couldn’t be older than fifty-five, and his physique was that of a much younger man. No. White hair aside, Rupert Cornelius was no doddering old codger. She didn’t know what he was. Pond scum, according to Sheryl, but then, so were most men. Still, Sheryl might know something. Or she could ask her part-time ghost if she could get her to come back.

  Chapter 7

  According to the woman answering the phone, Sheryl was off that afternoon, and she’d never have gotten that information if Allie hadn’t identified herself as Louise Smith’s niece. Allie didn’t have Sheryl’s home or cell numbers and even name-dropping hadn’t helped there. Her visit to the Brevard Sun left her feeling uneasy. She puttered around the house for a while, going over and over her visit with Rupert Cornelius, not only the part about her aunt, although that bothered her more than she liked. She tried to remember when his attitude changed from barely concealed suspicion to open friendliness when she mentioned her friendship with Joe and Sheryl, which would mean he liked them. That seemed strange because Sheryl had called him pond scum. Maybe Cornelius didn’t know what Sheryl thought of him. Even more interesting were the dynamics between Cornelius and his receptionist. What was that about?

  The ghost paid Allie no visits for the rest of the day, even though she did her best to tempt her. She spent an hour half-heartedly sorting the clothes in her aunt’s closet. In the end, she hung them back in the same place. No apparition appeared in the kitchen, as Allie cleaned the oven and dusted the already dust-free living room.

  Finally, she gave it up and took a nap. Sleep brought some vivid dreams, but they were only dreams. She woke in a state of panic. As she surfaced, she realized Spook huddled against her, his body trembling violently and his hairy face turned toward the bedroom door. She sat up, instantly alert, and Spook shot off the bed.

  It was too early for Feelie, and she’d locked all the doors this time. Still, she tiptoed to the bedroom door and looked down the hall. No one. Summoning her courage, she crossed to the living room. No face leered at her through the back door. The kitchen was empty, as were the guestroom and bathroom. OK, the dog was nuts. Or maybe he’d heard a neighbor coming home or a cat crossing the yard.

  As she headed back toward the bedroom, she heard a car engine start up. She turned and sprinted to the front window. As she flung back the curtain, she saw a light-colored car round the corner and accelerate away. Was it the same car she’d seen the day she found the body?

  She still felt groggy and out of sorts as she started getting ready for the evening, and the absurdity of her earlier behavior boggled her mind. Was she really trying to contact a ghost?

  Sheryl wanted to meet at five at Lester’s, so Allie suspected dinner would again consist of celery and chicken wings. Chicken wings were one of the many foods she gave up in her quest to fit into a size four. Technically, they might be chicken, but only in name. They were layered with fat. Drop them into boiling grease and coat them with buttery hot sauce, and they were lethal to a dieter. Of course, she no longer had to diet. The thought pleased her.

  She fed Spook an early dinner because she didn’t know when she’d be getting home. A quick peek before she let herself and Spook outside for his potty break assured her that no stalker lurked in the bushes, but she still kept a sharp eye out. She stuck to the front yard, reasoning that an attacker would be less likely to come after her there.

  She spent very little time on her makeup and hair. She was uncertain why being at the beach made appearances seem unimportant, but the farther south she ventured, the less makeup and the fewer clothes she wore. Maybe she shouldn’t visit Miami until she got a handle on the phenomenon. In the end, she wore jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt and sneakers. She brushed her hair back from her face and called herself ready.

  She drove to Lester’s slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone who might be following her, but she didn’t spot anyone. The parking lot was full, so she parked in front of a store a few doors down. Happy hour was going full throttle in Lester’s. A wave of sound hit her as she walked in the door, along with the smell of spilled beer and wet wood. People at the bar stood three deep, and the booths along the wall and most of the tables were full.

  Allie watched, impressed, as a cocktail waitress wove her way through the crowd, a tray of empty glasses above her head. The jukebox played something country—what was it about bars and country music?—to the accompaniment of loud conversation and the occasional bark of laughter. A quick glance around assured her that her stalker wasn’t among the crowd.

  Sheryl sat at the far end of the bar with three empty stools between her and the nearest patron. Every man in the bar had at least one eye on her, but something in her demeanor held him at bay. She wore white Capris and a peasant blouse that showed a lot of golden skin. Allie got a few admiring glances of her own, and she wondered if Lester’s was the best place for them to do their catching up. Uneasy with the attention, she kept her eyes fixed on Sheryl, as she made her way down the length of the room and slid on to the barstool next to her.

  Judging by the bright, if somewhat unfocused, smile Sheryl turned on her, her friend had been there a while. She probably wasn’t three sheets to the wind yet, but she was obviously closing in on number two. “Allie!” she cried out. Then, she turned to the bartender. “Give my friend here anything she wants,” she said, only slightly slurring her words. Then, she laughed. “It’s on her.”

  Allie smiled at the startled bartender. “I’d like a white wine, please.” She turned back to Sheryl. “What time did you get here?”

  “Four. No. Almost four. Something like that. Hell, who knows?”

  “Have you eaten anything?”

  “You mean today?” When Allie nodded, she tilted her head, thinking hard. “I ate a bagel. Or was that yesterday?”

  The bartender stood looking from Sheryl to Allie.

  “Why don’t you bring us a double order of chicken wings?” Allie requested.

  “Good, I’m starved.” Sheryl leaned toward Allie, peering over her shoulder. “Those men down there are staring at you.”

  “They’re staring at you,” Allie said with a laugh. “I happen to be in their line of sight.”

  The bartender placed a stemmed glass of wine in front of her, and she took a sip. Slightly reminiscent of white vinegar, but it would do. She turned back to Sheryl. “Why didn’t you call me? I could have met you earlier.”

  “I meant to. I can’t remember why I didn’t.”

  Allie let it pass. “Well, what did you find out?”

  “About what?” Sheryl asked, looking confused.

  “About Marcus Frederick.”

  Sheryl’s brow cleared. “Oh, your stalker. I didn’t have time to run him. Rough day.”

  Allie felt a little spurt of indignation. You’d think her friend, her friend the cop, would be a little more concerned about her safety. “What happened?” she asked, already prepared to be uninterested.

  “Accident on 528. Blood and guts everywhere.” She grimaced. “High school kids were racing on the bridge. We had to cut them out of their cars. It took three hours. Two fatalities on the scene. Looks like two others won’t make it, either. If they do ….” She shrugged.

  Allie felt instantly ashamed. She looked more closely at Sheryl. Her eyes looked strained, and her hands trembled slightly. The drinks made more sense now. “I’m so sorry, Sheryl. I don’t know how you face things like that every day.”

  Sheryl shrugged again, and her blouse slipped off her shoulder. Allie heard some indrawn breaths behind her before Sheryl pushed it back up. “It’s not every day. Every day is speeders. Drunks. Domestics. The occasional bar fight.” She pointed over Allie’s shoulder at the men clus
tered next to the TV. “See those assholes down there? Bar fight waiting to happen. Alcohol is a curse.”

  Allie thought it best not to mention that Sheryl had consumed a boatload of it. She took another sip of wine and suppressed a shudder. Sheryl stared at the floor, lost in thoughts that Allie selfishly wanted no part of. “How long have you been working with the sheriff’s office?” she asked when the silence drew out.

  Sheryl looked up. “Two years. About two years. After Ernie and I split up, I went back to school. Crammed four years of study into three.”

  “Why police work?” The Sheryl she’d ridden bikes with on the beach wasn’t the type to think ahead to a career. Her goal was to be married to Ernie. Period.

  Sheryl shrugged. This time, the blouse stayed on. Allie could imagine the disappointment at the other end of the bar. “I wanted to do something that mattered,” Sheryl said, glancing up at Allie. “And it does, sometimes. Not all the time, like it didn’t help those kids, but….” She shrugged again.

  Their chicken wings appeared in front of them, and Allie breathed a sigh of relief. She figured Sheryl needed them even more than she did. Sheryl ate two and licked the grease off her fingers. She might be drunk, but Allie noticed that she glanced around the room every few minutes—looking for potential trouble, she assumed. Every inch the cop.

  After a minute, Sheryl continued. “I knew Joe worked for the sheriff’s office, so I thought I might give it a try. Two of the musketeers back together, anyway.”

  Her aunt’s words about Sheryl being in love with Joe came back full force, and she felt the eggshells crackling under her feet. “Is Joe still as nice a guy as he used to be?”

  Sheryl ate another wing. “He’s pretty cool,” she said, dropping the bones on the corner of the plate. “Good cop. Wrapped up with his folks.”

  “Pretty cool” was a clear step up from “OK,” but she still didn’t sound like a woman in the throes of unrequited love. “They’re sick, aren’t they? His folks?”

  “How’d you know that? Joe keeps it a deep dark secret.”

  “Aunt Lou must have mentioned it,” she said and bit her lip to keep from smiling.

  There were shouts at the other end of the bar. It took Allie a minute to realize they were aimed at the television. Another cheer went up, and then groans. Sheryl ignored it. She picked up another wing and motioned to the other plate. “You’re not eating.”

  Allie picked up a wing between two fingers and nibbled the end, still not certain if Sheryl was as casual about Joe as she made out. “So, are you seeing anyone?”

  Sheryl’s chewing slowed, and she looked over at Allie. “Not right now. Why?”

  “No reason,” she said casually. “Just curious.”

  “You?”

  “Me? Seeing anyone?”

  Sheryl nodded.

  “The ink is barely dry on my divorce decree,” Allie said with a laugh. “I don’t think I’m ready for romance yet.”

  “Smart. That stuff about getting right back up on a horse is bullshit. Quickest way I know to fall off again.”

  The bartender put another Bloody Mary in front of Sheryl and a glass of wine in front of Allie’s barely touched one. “From that guy down there,” he said, motioning with his head.

  One guy with the TV crowd stood up and started toward them. Sheryl narrowed her eyes and put on her cop face, and he sat back down. “Pond scum,” she said, picking up another wing. “So, will you sell the house or what?” she asked, studying the chicken bone in her hand.

  Allie’s mouth fell open. “Sell the house? Are you crazy? Of course, I won’t sell.” She felt a little niggling doubt, as she remembered her neighbor’s words about condos, but she squelched it. They couldn’t make her sell. No one could make her sell.

  Sheryl dropped the bone on the plate and licked her fingers, grinning. “Good thing, because I’d hate your guts.” She sighed and swiped at her mouth with a napkin. Then, she finished half her drink in a gulp. “Your aunt was the greatest, an institution at the sheriff’s office. That’s probably why Joe told her about his folks. Everyone loved her. She used to get flowers all the time.”

  That got Allie’s attention. “Flowers? You mean when she was in the hospital?”

  Sheryl finished her drink and started on the new one. “Sure, but other times too. She’d get flowers every couple of weeks. I figured she had a boyfriend.” Allie sat back against her stool. “What? What’s the big deal?”

  Allie took a gulp of her wine and almost choked. “Are you sure?”

  “About the boyfriend?” When Allie nodded, she said, “No, I’m not sure. I mean, she never came out and told me or anything. Only the flowers, and sometimes, she’d be smiley for no reason. You know?”

  Allie bit her lip. She did not know. She felt like someone had told her that her aunt had three feet, and she’d never noticed. “She never said a word.”

  Sheryl shrugged again. “Maybe it was no big deal. A little flirtation or something.”

  Her aunt wasn’t the type for a “little flirtation.” Or maybe she was. Allie wasn’t sure anymore. “Any idea who it was?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Allie finished her glass of wine, which had started to taste marginally better. “Do you think it might have been Rupert Cornelius?”

  This time, Sheryl choked. “Jesus!” She banged her glass on the bar. “I hope not. What a slimeball. Lou had better taste than that.”

  Allie turned on her stool so that she faced her. “What exactly makes him a slimeball?”

  Sheryl mulled that over for a minute. “Aside from his chasing everything in skirts? He’s—weird—somehow. I don’t know. Just a feeling I get. You know?”

  She did know. She felt the same way when she thought he was coming on to her, and if he chased everything in skirts—metaphorically speaking—maybe that’s all it was. A come on. But maybe he did sincerely want to talk to her about her aunt. She would have to give it some thought. “He seems to like you.”

  “You’re nuts. I barely know the creep. I must be the only woman in Brevard County he hasn’t tried to hit on. Anyway, how would you know what he thinks of me?”

  Allie realized her mistake. She’d gone to the one place Sheryl warned her against and asked for a job. If she wanted to rekindle her friendship with Sheryl—and she did—owning up to her visit to the Sun might not be a good way to move it forward. “It must have been something Lou said.” She had a thought. “Are he and Joe friends?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. We don’t exactly share confidences.”

  And that ended that. They talked of other—safer—things for a while, like Sheryl’s parents, who were horrified that she worked as a cop. They assumed she was going through a phase or something. “I couldn’t tell them what happened with Ernie. At least they still have some hope that they might have grandkids.” She looked over at Allie from beneath foot-long eyelashes. “I’m counting on Bobby coming through for them.” Bobby was her brother, a change-of-life baby who must be fifteen or sixteen by now. “I guess you think I’m a chicken, huh? I mean, not telling them about Ernie?”

  “No,” Allie said. “I think you’re kind.”

  “Geez. Don’t let that get around. I’d never live it down with the guys.” She gulped her drink. “I am chicken, about some things, anyway.”

  They emptied their drinks, which miraculously got full again. Allie was on her third or fourth wine when Sheryl slithered off her stool, holding on to the bar for support. “I gotta pee.”

  “Ever the lady,” Allie said, giggling.

  “Screw that. When you gotta pee, you gotta pee,” she said.

  Sheryl spun around and stumbled into Joe Odum’s chest.

  “Uh-oh,” she said, grabbing a fistful of shirt to keep from falling down.

  Allie almost laughed. Then, she caught sight of Joe’s face, and the laughter died.

  Chapter 8

  Joe wore his uniform and an expression like storm clouds over the Atlantic. “What
the hell do you two think you’re doing?” he demanded, his voice low.

  “We think we’re getting drunk,” Sheryl said, grinning and holding on to him for support. “You wanna join us?”

  Joe pried her hands from his shirt. “I think you’re already there, and no, Levine, I don’t want to join you.”

  “What are you doing here?” Allie asked, carefully enunciating her words.

  “I saw your car outside,” he said, his eyes still on Sheryl. “I didn’t know you were here with birdbrain.”

  “We were catching up,” Allie said coolly.

  He took in the bar, littered with empty glasses and shook his head. “I think you’re way past caught up and moving into overdrive.”

  Then, he rounded on Sheryl. Her blouse had slipped off her shoulder, but she hadn’t noticed. Everyone in the room would be admiring her if she were not in a standoff with an armed law officer. “What in the hell were you thinking?” he demanded.

  Sheryl stood straighter. She noticed her blouse hanging off her shoulder and pulled it back up with exaggerated dignity. “I was thinking that my friend and I could have a drink together without some hard-ass cop coming in and throwing his weight around. You got a problem with that?”

  “Yeah, I got a problem with that,” Joe growled. “You’re drunk as a skunk, and you got her drunk too. You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” he added, as she stumbled a bit.

  Sheryl turned, but not before Allie saw the hurt on her face. The bartender edged down their way. “Everything OK here, folks?” Joe pinned him with a look. This was a whole new Joe, one Allie had never seen before. Aggressive. A little frightening. Maybe a little sexy. “The ladies are leaving,” he said. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a credit card, tossing it on the bar. “Cash them out.”

  “Hey, wait,” Allie said, fumbling for her wallet. “I’m paying for this.” The bartender looked from Allie to Joe before he took Joe’s credit card and left.