Dancing with a Ghost

by Angela Pepper

  He whistled inwardly. “Oh, no, you didn't,” he said, and he began chasing after her.

  They squealed and tossed dripping snowballs at each other, temporarily forgetting about their mission.

  Neither one noticed a face in the window of the main house. A face watching them from within a darkened room.

  Chapter 21

  Thursday morning, Katie and Lee sat in the dining room for their morning meal, unsure of their plans for the day.

  In the sobering light of day, their snooping the night before in search of the photographs Clive and Tilda had been arguing over felt very foolish. And yet, the curiosity remained.

  Katie whispered to Lee, “You should ask Tilda about touring her studio.”

  He whispered back, “I found a kitchen drawer full of keys. We can let ourselves in tonight, if we can figure out which key it is.”

  “How many keys?” If the key drawer at Spirit Ranch was anything like the junk drawer in a typical home, there could be hundreds.

  “Lots,” he said, grinning. “At ten seconds per key, it should only take two hours to try them all.”

  “Seven hundred and twenty keys?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Maybe not quite that many.”

  “Good. Because that would be over eleven pounds of keys.”

  He widened his eyes in surprise. “If you say so, math genius.”

  She winked at Lee. She considered mentioning the fact that her father was a locksmith, and she'd grown up helping him cut keys and unload the blanks from their heavy shipping boxes, but it was more fun to keep those details to herself. He'd given her quite the shock last night when he'd joked around about killing Clive Kingfisher, so this made them almost even.

  “What are you two whispering about?” Marco had just entered the dining room, carrying mugs in one fist and a pot of steaming coffee in the other.

  “Katie's a math genius,” Lee said.

  Marco gave her an appreciative look. “Figured as much. She's a bright woman of many talents.” He took a seat. “What's the square root of three thousand seven hundred twenty-one?”

  She looked down while she hummed the Jeopardy theme song. After a few seconds, she answered, “Sixty-one.”

  The two young men in the dining room gasped.

  She considered showing them her phone, which she had on her lap, the calculator app showing the number on the screen, but it was more fun not to.

  “You really are a genius,” Marco said. “Should I be worried about that sharp intellect of yours?”

  She tucked her phone away discreetly and shrugged. “Not if you're innocent.”

  Marco laughed self-consciously. Beads of sweat popped out along his hairline, and the musky scent of his body wafted across the wooden table.

  Still chuckling, he poured the coffee into their mugs and asked, “Exactly how innocent are we talking about here?”

  Lee raised his eyebrows at the other young man. “Got something you're trying to hide, Marco?”

  Marco stopped chuckling and eyed him right back. “I don't have any skeletons in my closet, if that's what you mean. And how about you, Lee? I happened to look outside last night and I saw some shadowy figures in the yard. That wouldn't have been you, sneaking around after dark, would it?”

  Lee lifted his chin. “You can check my closet for skeletons any time you'd like, Mr. Onassis.”

  “Maybe I will,” the redheaded man answered. “After our sculpture lesson today.”

  “Our what?”

  Marco leaned to the side, pulled a rumpled note from his pocket, and handed it to Katie.

  The note was on Tilda's personal stationery, and it read: My dear art babies, please go into the studio and work on sculpture from 9am to 12pm. I will assess your work later. Marco is your teacher today. Please pay him the same respect as you would me. Love, T.

  Katie looked across the dining table at Marco. “You're teaching us sculpture?” She was as intrigued as she was surprised. She hadn't sculpted at all in college. The extent of her experience was a ceramics class in high school.

  “That's the plan.” Marco used one wide hand to push back his red curls and then used a napkin to dab his forehead. He was sweating, even though the dining room wasn't that warm.

  Lee said, “But just this morning, right?”

  “Yes, and I know what you're thinking,” Marco said. “Three hours isn't much time to learn anything, but you'd be surprised. I used to teach workshops for kids, so I know how to streamline the process so you have something to show for the session.” He fidgeted with the sugar bowl between them, scooping sugar and then pouring it back into the bowl in a steady stream. “You'll be sculpting a lizard,” he said.

  Lee rubbed his chin. “Ambitious.”

  Marco scooped another spoonful of sugar and poured it back into the bowl. “Hey, Lee. Would you run into the kitchen and get me some Sweet'n Low? I don't take sugar in my coffee.”

  “I wouldn't know where to find it,” Lee said.

  “Be a good boy and go have a look around. You probably saw it this morning when you were going through all the cupboards looking for whatever it was you were looking for.” He shot Lee a challenging stare.

  Lee pushed his chair back and stood with a nonchalant toss of his head. “Whatever.” He left the dining room without looking at either of them.

  Once Marco was alone with Katie, he reached across the scarred wooden table and held out his hand, palm up.

  “Let's have a look at something,” Marco said. “Show me your hand.”

  She shook her head. “Your side business is fortune telling?”

  “Good one,” he said with a chuckle. “Maybe I just want to hold your hand.” He raised his red eyebrows suggestively.

  “Not unless you tell me my fortune.” She smiled.

  He wiggled his fingers. “Come on and humor me. It's for today's sculpture lesson. I need to assess your tools.” He forced a serious expression. “Official teacher request.”

  “Oh, well since it's official, that's not weird at all.” She gingerly brought her hands up from her lap and extended the right one to Marco.

  He picked up her hand as though it were just a thing she'd brought with her, not even attached to her body. His touch was soft and sensitive.

  “If only I could sculpt something half as divine as a pretty girl's hand,” he said.

  She flinched her hand back but he held on.

  “Too far,” Marco said, chuckling. “I swear this is professional, Katie.”

  “Sure.”

  “Your hands are good.” The chuckling had stopped, and his voice was deep and growling. Combined with his touch, it sent a shock of electricity through Katie's body.

  “Show me strength,” he said huskily.

  She clenched her hand in a fist.

  “Perfect,” he said. “These little hands of yours are as perfect as your brilliant mind. My own fingers are too big. I need to use an armory of wooden tools to get the details I need for my work, but you could do so much with these perfect hands.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Have you given any thought to your career path once you're done school?”

  “Are you offering me a job?”

  He cupped his other hand over hers, making hers the meat in a hand sandwich. “I could use someone to assist me in my operation. But they would need to have the utmost discretion and professionalism.”

  “I'm not even done school yet,” she said. “And I don't know the first thing about sculpture.”

  “What's there to know? I'm a pretty good teacher.”

  “I guess I'll find out today.”

  “Huh?” He looked genuinely confused. “Oh, right. Because I'm teaching you and whats-his-name.”

  She looked down at the hand sandwich. She liked the feel of his hand around hers. Lee's hands were similar to her own, and they didn't send any chills down her spine. But Marco's hands were massive and masculine. In another life, they would be the calloused hands of a rugg
ed man who worked outdoors.

  Marco lifted his upper hand and laid it open on the table.

  “Your hands are boxy,” she said.

  “I'll take that as a compliment.”

  “They're like two square canvases.” She adjusted them to be side by side. “See? Now they're a diptych. Or they would be, if you had a hinge down the middle.”

  “If my hands were hinged together, it might make sculpting more of a challenge.”

  “Uh-huh.” She ran her fingertip along the center line of his palm. “This looks like a river,” she said.

  “Maybe it is a river.”

  She could feel his gaze on her. A river. Her skin was numb. The river where Clive died.

  “I have a river on my hand,” he said throatily.

  She looked up and locked eyes with him. Everything else in the room disappeared, and there was only Marco and his eyes. She felt naked, exposed. The sculptor was drinking her in.

  “What?” She giggled nervously. “You have a river on your hand?”

  “A river of energy,” he said. “Can't you feel it? Flowing from me to you, and back again.”

  Someone cleared their throat.

  It was Lee Elliot, standing in the doorway. He held an open box of Sweet'n Low.

  Katie yanked her hands away from Marco's and clenched them together on her lap.

  “This stuff's made with saccharin,” Lee said, shaking the box of Sweet'n Low. “Don't you want to take better care of your body?”

  “It's sweet and has zero calories,” Marco replied.

  “Sure, but this fake stuff will kill you.” Lee kept his gaze on Marco with laser focus.

  Marco chuckled. “Not unless you filled those pink packets with poison.”

  Lee forced a tight smile. “Poisoning's not really my style.”

  “I'll keep that in mind.”

  “Good morning, Katie,” Lee said. “Did you sleep well last night?” He smirked, because he knew she had not—not when she was in his room, anyway.

  She answered with a croaky, “Fine, thanks.” She reached for her mug of coffee and used it to steady her hand. “We should have lots of fun sculpting with Marco today.”

  Lee took a seat again, one chair away from her. “Should be a good lesson,” he said to Marco. “Not as good as your mom, but better than nothing.”

  Marco licked his lips. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something but didn't.

  A woman in a chef uniform arrived with a steaming pan full of a cheese-topped meal—frittata, by the smell of it.

  “Hello there,” Lee said to the woman as he did a double take. “Oh! It's you, Holly.”

  Holly set down the platter of steaming breakfast and smiled demurely. She'd changed dramatically since the day before. Her dark-blond hair was bound in a tight bun, not a strand loose or out of place. She wore thick, dark eyeliner and bright-red lipstick. The heavy makeup worked to bring her features into alignment. The scar was still visible on her forehead, and her hairline was still jagged, but her face no longer appeared shattered.

  “Just a bit of makeup,” Holly said sweetly.

  Marco said, “Mom always says you clean up good, Holly.” He chuckled and explained to the group, “That's a joke. Because she cleans the house, and she cleans up good when she dresses up.”

  “Actually, it's technically not a joke,” Lee said coolly. “It's a pun. A play on words.”

  Marco stopped laughing. “Thank you for correcting me, Mr. Elliot,” he said stiffly.

  Katie felt the urge to speak up. “Breakfast looks delicious,” she said to Holly. “I can't wait to dig in.”

  “Eat up now before the frittata gets cold,” Holly said. “I'll bring a plate to Tilda in her suite. Do you need anything before I go? More chile?” She pointed to a bowl full of the green condiment.

  Lee looked directly at Katie as he answered, “I have everything I need.”

  Chapter 22

  After they'd eaten breakfast, Holly returned to the kitchen to find Katie washing dishes.

  “You don't have to wash dishes every day,” Holly said. “You're a guest. You've already helped me so much.”

  “I've got to do something,” Katie said, checking the time on the clock on the stove. “I've still got half an hour free before my sculpting lesson begins. Lee is already in the studio with Marco, and I want to give those two some time to...” She trailed off and shook her head. “I don't know.”

  “I get it,” Holly said, smiling with her dark-stained lips. “They're like two young bucks, locking antlers. I've seen it countless times. You should have seen the fuss all the boys made over your friend, Darlene.”

  Katie kept her eyes on the dishes in the sink, the baked cheese stuck to the pan. It was a dish from the previous night's dinner, which had been delicious burritos smothered in baked cheese.

  “Sorry,” Holly said. “I shouldn't have mentioned your friend's name. I didn't mean to upset you.”

  “It's okay,” Katie said. “I heard that you've seen a ghost around here.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Lee did. On Monday, he said he scared you when he went into the kitchen to get coffee. You told him you'd been seeing a ghost wandering through the halls. A girl who looked like me but wasn't me.” Katie looked down at her feet for a second. “So, is it true?”

  When Katie looked up again, the smile had fallen off Holly's dark lips. Her face seemed to shear, to cleave apart. She stared past Katie, at empty air.

  In a very soft voice, Holly said, “What do you know about ghosts?”

  “Just that I might have brought one with me.” Katie clamped her mouth shut. She'd surprised herself with the confession.

  “You sure did,” Holly said, nodding sagely. “This place is full of old ghosts. That's why we call it Spirit Ranch. But I never saw this particular one before you showed up.”

  “Did you get a good look at her?” Katie watched the housekeeper's tidied-up face carefully. “Are you sure it was a ghost who looks like me, and not me?”

  “Yes. And I knew it was that girl, Darlene. I remembered her from her last visit.” Her eyes closed, and she shuddered visibly. “Then I saw her pictures on the internet. You must have brought her with you.”

  “But ghosts aren't real, Holly.”

  She made a sign of the cross. “You're cursed.”

  Katie laughed it off. “No, but sometimes it feels that way.”

  Holly looked past her, at the dishes in the sink. The water was running.

  Katie shut off the tap and lifted the rinsed dish from the sink. She turned, saw something dark at the edge of her vision, and her body tensed. She dropped the dish from her hand. It seemed to take a full breath before it struck the tiled floor. The ceramic dish sheared upon impact, scattering shards across Katie's feet and spraying her ankles.

  “Cursed,” Holly repeated.

  Katie's jaw ached, and her eyes hurt. The room was blurry. “But it's not fair,” she said.

  “Cursing doesn't happen for no reason,” Holly said.

  “I didn't do anything wrong. I was a good roommate.” The words burbled out of her like bubbles from a too-hot soup pot. “I was good, I was. I kept my side of the room clean and tidy. Darlene threw her stuff all over the place. She didn't care about me. She never asked me how I was feeling, or if I minded her inviting guys over. I had to lie there in the dark, hearing every single thing, and pretend I was sleeping while she did all those things, with different guys. She was horrible. She was a dirty slut, and whatever happened to her, she probably deserved it! She deser—” Katie managed to stop the flow of confession.

  Holly tilted her head back and lowered her eyelids in an expression so calm, it was disconcerting.

  “And there it is,” Holly said. “Guilt.”

  Katie clamped her hands over her mouth. “I-I-I didn't mean it,” she stammered.

  “Of course you did,” Holly said. “And her spirit knows how you feel, and that's why you're cursed.”

 
Katie took a step away from the sink, accidentally stepping on a shard of broken ceramic. It pierced through her sock and into her flesh, breaking the skin, but she barely felt it.

  “It's my fault,” Katie said softly. “Darlene was in trouble, and she didn't talk to me because she knew I'd judge her.”

  “And now she follows you,” Holly said.

  The room blurred again. Katie rubbed her eyes. “It's not fair,” she mumbled.

  She felt the housekeeper's arms around her, felt herself being coaxed away from the broken pottery.

  “Life isn't fair,” the housekeeper said, still holding her tight. “It's not fair to any of us.”

  Chapter 23

  Katie jogged down the hallway to join the sculpting lesson late, a half hour past nine o'clock.

  She'd been a mess after her breakdown in front of Holly. If she'd had a car at the ranch, she would have climbed in and started driving away. But she was stuck there, stuck having to face Holly, who knew of her shame. The housekeeper had sworn she wouldn't tell anyone about how Katie felt, about her guilt over not being a better friend to Darlene, and about being responsible for whatever had happened to her. But would the older woman keep it to herself? She would tell her best friend Tilda, at the very least. Then Tilda would tell her son. And everyone would know, except for Lee. Unless they staged yet another intervention.

  She couldn't think about that now. She'd just managed to stop her crying and splash cold water on her face to take away her bloodshot eyes. If she allowed herself to get emotional now, she'd lose control and the waterworks would start all over again.

  Whatever happened to this supposed numbness her medicine was supposed to cause as a side effect? She certainly didn't feel numb today. She felt as raw as a pair of scraped knees. And she knew a thing about scraped knees, having suffered them countless times as a child, chasing after her big brothers.

  She reached the door that was clearly signed as the Student Art Room and pulled open the door.

  As she was one of only two students, it was impossible to sneak in unnoticed, but she tried anyway.