Echo Moon (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 3)

by Laura Spinella

  “Interesting. It’s the first thing you’ve said that I totally disagree with.”

  She didn’t smile at him but at the brick steps beneath her sandals.

  “And there are other things we agree on, like the doll, the note, you . . . me. It all connects.”

  So did their gazes. Em was the serene object in an ever-moving city, maybe his ever-moving mind.

  “‘E.M.’ The initials on the postcard. You realize that part too. Obviously, you realized it before me.”

  She clasped her fingers, looking as uncomfortable as he felt. “Lots of things in life aren’t explainable.”

  “Like Stonehenge, the pyramids . . . why nine out of ten people are right-handed—”

  “Let me guess, you not being one of them.”

  He only raised a brow.

  “So we also might agree that there are greater phenomena than you in the universe.”

  “Maybe I’m even at the low end of the scale. We can keep going if you want. If that conversation would keep you from telling me what it is you’re guarding like the whereabouts of D.B. Cooper.” Pete was in full Levi mode now, the reporter determined to get his story. He thrust his hands into his pockets and squinted at a starry sky. “We can discuss the placebo effect or how migrating birds appear to have built-in GPS. Better yet”—he wagged a finger at her—“monarch butterflies. Did you know they winter in Mexico but their lifespan is only six months? So it’s their offspring that return to North America. How do they know where to go? I’m sure I could come up with a dozen other examples. But none of that will alter this mysterious . . . circumstance. So if you know something . . .”

  She came down two steps. “After Mary and the note . . . I don’t want to be the person who causes you more burden. Clearly my existence, what I’ve shared, only complicates things that already . . .”

  “Drive me a little mad?”

  She looked back at her sandals.

  “The facts aren’t your fault, Em. If anything, I should apologize to you. I know what it’s like to walk around with cryptic questions. I’m sorry you’re tangled in this mess. But if you do know something else, have more to share . . .”

  She crossed and uncrossed her arms. “Just understand, I don’t have a wealth of life experiences. My insights, they’re not on par with the Dalai Lama, probably not even a good life coach.”

  “Yet you seem to have a sharp focus on me, my life. What are you holding out on?”

  “Nothing.” But she spoke so fast it sounded like defensiveness. “Let me, um . . . let me back this up a step. My senior year at NYU, we did a thesis project in the prison system—hard-core stuff. I interviewed a dozen convicted murderers.”

  It was admittedly fascinating, the unexpected edges of Emerald Montague.

  “I know. Why a thesis project on convicted killers and not child psychology?” She said this while wrapping her hands around her arms, hugging herself. “I guess when you have one uncle doing time for killing another, curiosity about that sort of mind is inbred.”

  “Still waiting to hear how I tie to your findings—a study of known killers.”

  “Every single one of those men insisted they didn’t do it. I’ve met a charming sociopath or two. Several were so psychotic they couldn’t tell right from wrong. All were determined to convince me they weren’t such bad guys. Not one inmate said, ‘Hey, I deserve this life sentence.’”

  “Could be the reality of a long prison sentence skews their need to show remorse.”

  “Possibly. But my point isn’t them, Pete. My point is you. In a short time, I’ve seen the burden you live with. I appreciate how responsible you feel for Esme’s death, if only because it’s what I didn’t see from men convicted of similar crimes. Your guilt is so real. Your remorse remarkably evident—genuine.”

  It took his breath away, someone who didn’t just believe him, but someone who acknowledged the pain, comprehended his culpability. It wasn’t something Aubrey or Levi could ever quite grasp. It went beyond Grace’s ability to cope or even a Jesuit priest’s sage advice.

  “We also know,” she said, “that somehow I’m the keeper of pieces of your other life. So maybe that makes me the person who helps figure it all out. But what if just the opposite happens?” She was on the sidewalk now, looking up at him. “What if I only end up making this life worse?”

  And burden tipped the opposite way. “I never thought about it. To be honest, before you, I never considered the possibility—another person who might be able to help me figure this whole thing out.”

  “Well, know that I am thinking about it. Regardless of what any note might mean for me. It’s been on my mind since you walked into the bungalow.”

  Burden. It was something Pete understood. He had respect for hers. “Just let me say this: whatever the outcome, I’m ready to take the chance. I’m out of alternatives. I can’t run anymore. Do you want to know . . .” He hesitated, but maybe full disclosure was the right move. “Do you know what I considered before I came to the city today? What I’d be doing right now if I hadn’t come here to find you?”

  She shook her head in the tiniest stroke.

  “I’d be bloated and floating in the Long Island Sound.”

  “You were considering . . . you’re not serious.”

  “Deadly. I don’t want to live like this anymore. The exhaustion of my life is winning out.” He shifted his stance. “I’m racing against that feeling, Em. I’m doing my damnedest to find a resolution. And you’re right—I wasn’t anticipating the complication of you. It changes things. So again, if you know something more, something that—”

  Touch took the place of words. She reached up, her fingertips flitting over the scruff on Pete’s jawline. He held perfectly still. Withdrawing her hand, she balled it into a small fist. “‘Solve his troubles . . .’ Don’t let go of the first part of that prediction. Maybe if I help resolve your past, I alter my future—at least according to one reliable source.”

  Pete guessed she was done communicating for the night. Whatever weighed on her mind, as much as he wanted to know, he didn’t want to push for more. Turning fast, he walked away. As he neared the corner, Pete wasn’t sure if it was a ghostly whisper or Emerald Montague’s voice, but he did hear the words, “God, I hope that much is right.”

  Restlessness was an understatement. Pete never even made it under the covers at the Hyatt hotel, lying atop the luxury linens, catching a few hours of sleep in fits and starts. He tried to put Em aside, which only brought him back around to the address that had mysteriously turned up on the postcard. He googled “Hupp’s Supper Club, Manhattan, 1918,” like he did with the name Esmerelda Moon. The search yielded nothing. He almost went to the address in the middle of the night, but Pete couldn’t dismiss gut instinct that said he and Em needed to pursue the clue together.

  By seven that morning, he’d showered, dressed, and recharged his camera equipment. Before leaving, he took another look at the postcard, tucked safe in his camera bag. He wanted to make certain the newly emerged return address was there. He ran his finger over cursive identical to the handwriting on the front. The card emanated considerable heat. Mindful of the power of a ghost gift, Pete put the card back in the bag’s mesh pouch. Minutes later he was on city sidewalks, which had not yet turned sultry.

  He walked the blocks to Em’s apartment, if only to clear his head. At the entrance, Pete pressed the intercom buzzer. A voice that wasn’t Em’s croaked in reply: “Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?”

  He looked at the leather-banded watch. Not good. He squinted at the box and the surly voice coming from it. “Sorry, uh, Caroline. It’s Pete St John. Is, um . . . is Em awake yet?” He looked at his watch again. Maybe “get an early start” meant closer to ten. He felt completely stupid, his social cues more offline than usual.

  Clearly, Caroline’s finger remained on the button; Pete could hear every word.

  “Sorry. I was changing.” It was Em’s voice, from the background, addi
ng more softly, “Could you just buzz him in, tell him to come up?”

  “Seriously, Em? Guests at the crack of dawn?”

  “You have a bedroom with a door. Use it.”

  He was glad to hear Em stick up for herself, but at the same time Pete wanted to interrupt, say he’d come back in an hour or two. He found himself a voyeur in their roommate squabble.

  “You look weirdly nice,” Caroline said. “Not one coffee stain. Amazing.” Pete knitted his brow at the remark, weaving it tighter as Caroline went on. “Geez, if he was that great of a date, why isn’t he waking up here?”

  “It wasn’t a date,” Em said. “And it’s complicated.”

  “Already? A little advice, roomie. Don’t be too much of a tease. From the looks of him, I doubt attracting women is an issue.”

  Pete cleared his throat. An awkward pause filled the air, intercom to apartment. Em’s voice darted in, perturbed, obviously closer to the device. “Really, Caroline? You’ve had your finger on the button the entire time? Oh, for—would you just let him in?”

  A few minutes later, Pete tapped lightly on the apartment door. Em inched it open, though the chain was on. She shut it and detached the chain before swinging the door wide. Neither said anything as Pete came inside, and awkward glances filled in for verbal greetings. She did look nice, wearing a brightly colored long skirt and a pink blouse that was an eclectic complement to her red hair. He’d been around the world enough. Only somebody with an innate sense of self could pull off the bold look. But on a breakfast bar stool, he saw a Starbucks apron, her macramé bag, and a cup of coffee with a pink lipstick smear. Caroline was also sitting in the living room, clearly on hand to eavesdrop.

  “I’ll be ready in a second. I got out as quick as I could.”

  He pointed to the apron. “You work at Starbucks?”

  She was rummaging through the bag. “Guess you thought I was kidding about those four fab jobs, huh?” She rested her hands on the apron. “The four a.m. open shift sucks, but it’s an extra two bucks an hour. Told the boss I had a dentist appointment this morning.”

  “You left early because of me? Why didn’t you say something last night?”

  She tapped her fingers on the macramé bag. “How much sleep did you get?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “Me either. So don’t worry about it. I was changing. Caroline grabbed the buzzer and . . .” She pointed in the direction of her roommate.

  “Sorry I woke you,” Pete offered.

  “Caroline accepts your apology,” she said in third person, slinking by the two of them. She plucked a bag of coffee off the counter. “Anyway, I’m up now.” She held the coffee out to Em. “Did you want to put your barista skills to work?”

  Em rolled her eyes. “You’ll have to manage. We’re leaving.”

  Moments later they were on the sidewalk, weaving through city blocks. Em chatted away, but it seemed she was trying to stay off topic. He knew that feeling, and Pete obliged, keeping conversation nondescript, asking what sort of professional work she’d done in New York. He recalled the script sitting on the steamer trunk.

  “It’s an off-off-Broadway new musical,” she explained. “The audition is late this afternoon.”

  He asked if she shouldn’t be rehearsing. Em insisted any more rehearsal would be excessive. Pete didn’t know if he should believe her, but he couldn’t think of any recourse and went along with it as they made their way down the avenues.

  Cloud cover had thickened, and a block from their destination, heavy July air collapsed into a thunderstorm. They ran the remaining distance; soaked and panting, they stopped on the sidewalk. In front of them a narrow alleyway separated two buildings. Em pulled his hand, and the two ducked under the overhang of the building on the left. Rain continued—less intense, fatter drops. Em bumped her hand into Pete’s. She pointed to a metal plate, not visible unless you happened to be standing under the overhang, looking low. It read: Hupp 1918. Pete sucked in a deep enough breath and nearly choked on the rain he inhaled. But their attention was diverted. A heavyset man with a key climbed the steps of the building next door. As he opened the door, Pete grabbed Em’s hand and followed. There was a sign overhead: Samsara.

  Pete and Em were tight on his heels; the man was surprised to find anyone behind him. “Sorry,” he said. “We don’t open for another three hours. Lunch crowd.” He pointed to a dark room filled with even darker wood tables and panel-trimmed walls, the dim weather casting little light. But instead of throwing them curbside, like a New Yorker might, the man said, “’Course, if you just want to wait out the rain, I suppose that’s fine.”

  In the silent room, Pete heard an instant distant clattering of dishes and clinking of glasses—voices, indiscernible but present. His gaze darted from corner to corner. Pete didn’t anticipate vacant space but a bustle of people. His eyes assured him it was just the ghosts—perhaps none particularly associated to him.

  It was Em who stepped forward. “The building next door, is it 1025?”

  “No. This one is,” Pete said before the man could answer.

  “That’s right,” the barkeep said.

  “Oh.” Em looked at Pete and back at the man. “Could we ask you a few questions about it? Do you happen to know its history?”

  The man had gone behind the bar and went about the business of moving glasses from a tray to a shelf. “Why do you want to know its history?”

  Pete’s mouth gaped; Em answered. “A thesis project on turn-of-the-century Manhattan architecture. This building, the one next door. They showed up on our research. We go to NYU.” She retrieved an NYU student ID from her bag, waving it at him. “We’re doing the project together.” The man squinted at them and Em’s ID. Fortunately, he didn’t make an effort to look closely. If he had, he would have seen Em’s expired NYU ID. He did look harder at Pete’s camera bag. “My partner,” Em said, “he’s an amateur photographer, and—”

  “What?” Pete said, not quite on board with her ruse.

  “Since we’re students,” she said loudly, “he likes to photograph the architecture when we find what we’re looking for.”

  “Right. Just a hobby.” Pete patted the camera bag.

  “So long as you’re not from the city inspector’s office. They’re always coming up with a new fire code, some kind of plumbing that doesn’t meet specs from the twenty-first century.”

  “We’re not from the twenty-first century,” Pete said.

  Em elbowed him. “Inspector’s office. He means we’re not from the inspector’s office. So do you know anything about the building, its history?”

  “A little. I’ve worked here for almost twenty years. The trim work . . .” He pointed around the room. “It’s solid mahogany. That and this bar.” He slapped a hand against it. “They’re the only original features left on the first floor. I believe Hupp was the last name of the original owners. This building belonged to them, and the one next door.”

  “Hupp?” Pete said.

  “Yeah. Not Astor or Morgan name recognition. But the Hupp family owned a slice of New York real estate. Hotel business, upscale entertainment. They had money, influence until . . .” He squinted at a coffered ceiling. “Oh, probably around the Great Depression. Not really sure. This place used to be what they called a supper club—trendy in its time. That’d be pre–World War I, roaring twenties.” He cocked his chins at a darker space, set to the rear. “There used to be a stage over that way. Tore it out years ago. Nowadays, we have open mic night.” His thick finger moved toward a row of windows that faced the alley. “That’s the kind of entertainment folks expect.”

  As he spoke, Pete was haunted by the impression of having been on this tour before.

  “Don’t know much more than that.” He polished another glass and placed it on the bar wall. “Hey, if you two are doing a project on early-twentieth-century architecture, shouldn’t you know the building’s history?”

  “We did,” Em said quickly. “It’s just helpful
to hear someone else’s take. In fact, we know that the floors above this one were once hotel rooms.”

  “Very sharp,” Pete murmured, Em shooting him a glance.

  “Can you tell us what became of them?”

  “Are you sure you’re not from the inspector’s office?”

  “Positive,” Em said. “Why do you ask . . . again?”

  “The building owner has been after a permit to reconfigure the old hotel rooms into condos. For decades, they’ve rented them out as supplement dorm space—medical students, a few law schools—but condos would be way more lucrative. From what I heard, the housing board has denied it twice.”

  “So the hotel rooms,” Pete said. “They’re still there? In their original state?”

  “More or less. It’s why it worked for dorms. I think the bathrooms were done over in the fifties. New students don’t come in for a few weeks. Makes for nothing but a ghost town up there right now.”

  They traded a glance, and Em recovered first. “Would you mind if we took a look, maybe a photo or two? It’s difficult to find architecture in its original condition. We’d love to get a feel for the elements. You know, the natural bow of the floors as time settled in, period woodwork, maybe a fireplace or two. There might even be copper plumbing!”

  Pete’s head ticked toward Em and the zeal with which she spoke—she had him believing that was their mission.

  “Help yourselves,” the manager said. “Nothing up there but stuffy old hotel rooms.” With a bar rag in his hand, he pointed to a side staircase that appeared to rise and vanish into blackness.

  ACT VI NEW YORK CITY FALL 1918

  It seemed unlikely that being raped by your brother-in-law would become an insignificant memory. But that was Esmerelda’s sharpest thought on a morning when rain pelted hard against the hotel. She’d forgotten the day, was unsure about the month. Thunder rumbled and she could feel the dampness in her bones. Her stomach growled. It’d been three, maybe four days since she’d eaten. Licorice was better fed with a steady supply of mice. Esmerelda could no longer calculate how long it’d been since her hotel room had become a prison cell, the window boarded up. Her brain was foggy, and with the sliver of sky gone, ordered thoughts had become an impossible task. She tried to stand but slumped back onto the chair, gathering Marigold in her lap. So much had changed and so much had gone wrong. But sitting there, Esmerelda was mindful of Oscar’s warning. The chancy rolling of dice had proved to be snake eyes and then some.