Rocks & Gravel (Peri Jean Mace Ghost Thrillers Book 3) Page 10

For all the stuff strewn about Eddie’s office, Eddie’s ghost was nowhere to be found. He could have already moved on. I’d seen ghosts pass out of this existence and into another, and I never saw them again. What if Eddie was gone for good? I couldn’t believe he’d left without trying to let me know what his research turned up or at least to say goodbye.

  I gently grasped the black opal pendant in one hand. It was time to bring out the heavy weaponry. Closing my eyes, I pulled up an image of Eddie the way he’d been in life. The husk of Eddie, the one on the living room floor, tried to creep into my mind, but I closed it out. I thought of Eddie’s special smell of Old Spice aftershave and cigarettes. The cadence of his voice, the way he’d let his words paint him as an ignorant redneck, played in my mind. A thump came from the hallway. I turned, searching for the noise, and noticed the mirror for the first time.

  Behind the old, black-spotted glass stood Eddie, his hands splayed on either side of his face. I ran to the mirror, letting go of the black opal in my hurry. Eddie vanished. Nerves jangling, I grabbed for the stone, fumbled it, and finally grasped it in one sweaty hand.

  “Eddie.” I focused my concentration again, tension building in my neck and shoulders, sweat popping out all over my body. “Come back, please.”

  A faded image of Eddie came into focus behind the glass. Tears stung my eyes, and I put my hand on the glass over his.

  “Oh, Eddie, I’m so sorry. I should have agreed to help sooner.”

  He shook his head, and his lips moved. I’d never been able to read peoples’ lips when they mouthed words at me. This time was no exception.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t…”

  Eddie mouthed the word again. I frowned, thinking hard about the way his lips moved. Eddie glanced upward and leaned over, examining the edges of the glass. The realization he was looking for a way out hit me. I nodded so hard it rocked my whole body.

  “Yes,” I said. “Come out here. I think I can understand you better.”

  Eddie ran his transparent fingers around the edge of the glass and shook his head. Bracing himself with both hands, he pushed at the glass. A frown grew on his face, and he slapped the glass, his anger radiating from the mirror. He shook his head. It was no use. He was trapped. He mouthed the words again. This time I caught one.

  Paul.

  “My daddy?”

  Eddie nodded and mouthed the whole sentence for the fifth or sixth time, saying each word slowly. I still had no idea what he meant.

  “My daddy what?” I asked again.

  A shriek came from Eddie’s side of the mirror. Eyes widening, he turned toward the source of the noise. The world behind him, the reflected image of the trailer’s shabby walls and the open office behind me, shook. A rumbling, grinding sound issued from the mirror. Eddie tried to run from whatever he saw coming and simply disappeared. The mirror went solid black, the kind of black too dark to reflect, and cracked down the middle. A bolt of force came from it and threw me backward into Eddie’s office. I came down wrong on an old injury and screamed in pain, holding my lower back. The front door opened.

  “Peri Jean?” Hooty’s deep voice came from the living room. “You all right, girl? What happened?”

  “Back here.”

  Heavy footsteps shook the flimsy walls as he ran toward me. I rolled onto my knees and tried to push myself to a standing position, but the old injury spasmed. I sucked in air, unwilling to let Hooty hear me call out in pain again. He rushed toward me and grabbed my arm, pulling me upright. I kept my hand on my back as the old injury wailed.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I saw Eddie in the mirror. He tried to tell me something, but I can’t read lips. The only word I got was ‘Paul.’” I stopped talking and leaned over with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Bolts of agony still flared in my lower back.

  “Dr. Longstreet’s still here. Let’s get you out there so he can look at you.”

  “No,” I said. “This happened a year ago, back when Rae was murdered. He’s looked at it before and wants me to go to a bigger city, see a specialist.”

  “And you don’t want to.” He narrowed his eyes at me.

  “It can wait until later.” I forced myself to stand straight. “Look. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. Figuring who did this to Eddie is what’s important.” I stood with my hands on my hips, making a show of surveying the mess. Something felt off about the room. I didn’t come back here often and didn’t know what should be back here.

  My gaze fell on the empty spot near the window. The trunk, Eddie’s crown jewel of treasure research, usually sat there. It contained a few actual artifacts but also old newspaper clippings and some handwritten diaries.

  “Trunk’s gone,” I pointed to the spot where it usually sat. “When Eddie called me he said ‘It’s here, and I can’t stop it.’ I think the ghost who stole from the museum also stole his trunk.”

  Hooty sagged into the rolling desk chair. “Somebody sent the ghost to get Eddie’s treasure notes. They won’t stop until they find what they want, will they?”

  I shook my head.

  Hooty picked up the book Eddie had laying open and scanned the page. I glanced at the words over his shoulder. Nothing I recognized. I glanced at the other items on the desk and saw the yellow legal pad with words scrawled in Eddie’s nearly illegible handwriting. I reached over Hooty and picked up the pad. I frowned. Eddie, not the most verbose of men, wrote even more terse notes.

  Mahoney…see Julie. I handed the notepad to Hooty. He read the note and returned his gaze to my face.

  “Eddie said the name Mahoney to me right before he st-stopped breathing.” I brushed away a tear. “I’ll go see her tomorrow, once her shop opens.”

  “Fine,” Hooty said. “Tell Hannah and Rainey what-all happened in here. Get them brainstorming about what the thief thought they’d find. Especially Hannah. This was her and Eddie’s favorite topic.” He stood and ushered me out of the room. “I have a job to do, and I don’t want you seeing me do it. Understand?” He kept a firm hold on my arm as he towed me through the living room, keeping his body between me and any view I might have had of Eddie. Hooty opened the front door and gestured for me to go ahead of him. I did but turned back to him and leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

  “Maybe the murderer is looking for the same thing we are—the box I saw in the vision.”

  Hooty nodded, his face still and impassive, giving away no information to anybody who might have been watching.

  “You all right?” Dean grabbed my arm and pulled me away from Hooty. “I heard you yell, but Hooty said he could help you.” He glanced down at where I had my hand pressed against my back. “That place where Veronica Spinelli kicked you hurting again? You have to be more careful. You’re not taking good enough care of yourself.”

  In too much pain to argue, I nodded and let him convince me to get a ride home with Rainey and stinky Ugly.

  7

  Rainey turned into Memaw’s driveway, and I saw right away the house was dark.

  “Let me out here. Memaw’s already gone to bed.” I had more reasons for wanting out of Rainey’s car than not wanting to disturb Memaw. Ugly had the whole car smelling like sewer. I hoped Rainey didn’t want to hire me to clean her car. Getting the smell out would be a bitch.

  Rainey, bless her, didn’t argue or bargain. She slammed on the brakes long enough for me to get out. She said, “Call me tomorrow,” and left without waiting for my answer.

  I took careful steps on the gravel drive, hurting inside and out. Part of me wanted to talk to Memaw, to seek comfort in her strength, while the other part knew I had to learn how to find my own strength. I stopped at the front gate, staring at a newly familiar shadow standing at the window.

  Memaw lost her husband, George Mace, before I was born, but I recognized the ghost of the middle-aged man from family photos when he first showed up a month or so ago. I guessed he came to escort Memaw into the afterlife. My time with Memaw was coming t
o an end. Each time I saw him, I wondered if today was the day and how it would go down.

  I opened the front gate, mindful not to let the metal latch make too much noise, and walked up the brick path, breathing deeply the scent of the gardenias. Shadows of bugs circling the porch light skated over a small area of sun-scalded St. Augustine grass and the concrete steps leading onto the wood floored porch. I held onto the metal rail to mount the steps, my back screaming with every movement, and stood facing the window where the ghost stared out. We exchanged wary nods. He disappeared into the house, probably to hang out near Memaw’s bedroom, which was where I usually saw him.

  I sat down on the front porch, my back to the house, and lit a cigarette, unable to even think about bed and sleep. Before I knew it, I’d smoked most of a pack. A pile of dead butts littered the concrete steps, and my mouth tasted like dirty feet. Dean’s Smokey and the Bandit era Trans Am came up the drive and parked by the carport. He got out and walked toward me, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. I stood and met him at the bottom of the porch steps. He held open his arms, and I went to him, laying my head on his shoulder, throat burning with tears. I was too tired to cry anymore.

  “I can’t believe Eddie’s dead.” His chest vibrated with his voice.

  “I wasn’t ready.” I sniffed hard. “I didn’t even know to expect it.”

  Dean’s arms tightened around my waist. “I’m sorry you lost him. I know he meant the world to you.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Dean broke our embrace and brushed at his arms, probably knocking away mosquitoes. Blasted things followed him like a fan club.

  “Can we go inside to talk?” He asked in a soft voice.

  I put one finger to my lips, and he nodded his understanding. Inside, Memaw’s snores drifted out of her room. We tiptoed through the living room and into my bedroom. I shut the door.

  “What happened tonight can’t happen again.” Dean kept his voice pitched so low it was barely a whisper. “At least not until after the election.”

  I puzzled over his words, thinking at first he meant Eddie dying. I shook my head at him. “Huh?”

  “You announcing you were going in Eddie’s trailer to talk to his ghost. Stuff like that.” He waited to see understanding on my face and then continued. “Deputy Fitzgerald lit up like a Christmas tree. You know he’s good friends with Scott and Felicia Holze. I’m sure he went straight over there and told them.”

  I stared at him, too stunned to think of anything to say. He had to know I would never do anything to intentionally damage his chances of winning the sheriff’s election. I knew how important it was to him and wanted him to win.

  “I wasn’t thinking,” I managed to choke out. The dismay at losing Eddie so suddenly had let my mouth get ahead of my brain.

  “I know, but you saw Myrtle Gaudet and Loretta Brent tonight.”

  I moved away from Dean, relieved to escape his disappointed pout, and bent to straighten the bedspread. I pulled it tight and smoothed my hands over it. The activity did nothing to comfort my spiking nerves, but it slowed things down enough for me to think. Something new occurred to me. “Myrtle wouldn’t have known about the black opal necklace if Felicia hadn’t posted it on Facebook. How did she know? I sure didn’t tell anybody.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it all night.” Dean’s cheeks darkened, and the tips of his ears reddened. “Lisette could have given her the information.”

  “How would Felicia know your ex-wife?” Sharp edged fury jabbed at me and hit all the tender spots.

  Dean shifted from foot to foot. “I-I-I don’t know how they met, but they’re friends on social media.” He held his hands out to me. “We’re skirting the real point here.”

  “All right. Tell me the real point.” I had to fight to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  “They planned the whole little scene with the necklace to do exactly what it did. Make people think I’m hiding something.”

  Oh, for all the cat poop in the world. “Dean, everybody in this rinky-dink town knows what I am. There’s no hiding from it.”

  “You don’t have to be so obvious about it. You can use discretion.” Dean came to stand right behind me, so close I could hear him breathing.

  “How dare you—” I caught myself as my voice raised and stopped speaking. I had to calm down to keep from waking Memaw, if for no other reason. “Do you honestly think I don’t know about discretion? What do you think I’ve spent my whole life doing?” I expected Dean to back down, to apologize, but he just shrugged.

  Fuming, I turned my back on him, got out my cigarettes, lit one, and sat down at my desk, running my hands over the slick wood and trying to calm down. I bought the desk at a garage sale for twenty-five dollars. Dean spent a weekend helping me refinish it. This was the side of him I loved, the one who’d roll up his sleeves and work right alongside me, the one who rubbed the kinks out of my shoulders at the end of the day, the one who had sage advice when I asked. I had to try to see things from Dean’s perspective. Part of a grownup relationship is working things out, not stomping off in a rage.

  I tapped my ashes into a plastic ashtray and twisted in my seat to face Dean, to tell him I’d do my best. But when I saw what he was up to, the words shriveled in my mouth. Dread pulsed into my bloodstream with every thud of my heart. The argument about me flaunting what made me different was one thing. What I saw Dean doing was a whole other monkey dance.

  He had removed one of the pictures stuck into my mirror’s wood frame and had it pinched between his thumb and forefinger. From the expression on his face, he could have been unclogging a toilet.

  “I thought we worked past this.” He held out the picture so I could see which one he had. I didn’t need to see it because I could see the empty space right near the middle of the mirror’s frame, but I looked anyway. The picture showed me with Chase Fischer standing in front of a tall face of sheared off white stones, both of us wearing cutoff jeans, him shirtless and me wearing a bikini top.

  The Guadalupe River three years ago. Benny Longstreet hired Chase and me to clean up a vacation property he owned out in the Texas Hill Country after some so-called friends shit it up. We stayed a month and vacationed about as much as we worked. The lazy day we spent floating down the Guadalupe remained one of my fondest memories of Chase.

  “Worked past what?” My fingers itched with the urge to snatch the picture away. Those days with Chase had no bearing on Dean and me. He had no right to confront me with it.

  “Your unhealthy relationship with Chase Fischer.” His voice took on a didactic cadence I’d gotten real familiar with lately. “Chase was an addict and…well, I hate to say it, but he was a loser.” Dean raised his eyebrows at me. I wanted to knock the know-it-all look off his face. “I thought we agreed he was no good for you and your decision to maintain the friendship was low self-esteem. It was self-destructive behavior. I don’t like to see you selling yourself short.”

  “I remember you saying a bunch of stuff you thought sounded good. Was that us working through it?” I stood from the desk, strode over to Dean, and calmly took the picture from him. I stuck it in back in the mirror’s frame and turned to stand face to face with the man I loved. We didn’t have a lot in common. We didn’t even think the same way. Most times, I thought we complimented each other well enough. This was not one of those times.

  “You admitted he wasn’t good for you. If you believe that, why do you have this picture of him on your mirror like some teenage girl with a crush?”

  Teenage girl with a crush? You’ve got to be kidding me. I wrestled with my anger, holding back the venom I wanted to spew at him, and counted to ten. When I spoke, my voice barely shook. “I knew Chase a long time. He was—”

  “The great romance of your life, the one you can’t leave behind.” Dean finished.

  Indignation flared in me, righteous and hot. Dean knew more than he should about my long history with Chase. My choice to enable my old friend one las
t time got him killed. Dean held me together while I grieved. He let me express my guilt over Chase’s murder, holding me while I cried myself into a stupor, telling me Chase bought a one-way ticket to his fate long ago and nothing I said or did could have changed it. He asked sensitive questions, and I took comfort in his insight, thinking we were bonding over similar life experiences since Dean’s bad judgment cost a life once upon a time.

  This conversation shed new light on all those talks. I saw something different. Dean thought those talks meant I put Chase out of my mind permanently, deleting both the good and the bad memories, like tapping the “cut” button on my smartphone. How could he think I’d be shallow enough to simply forget the longest running friendship I ever had? How dare he reduce me to a hormonal teenager, sad over a silly broken romance, because I wouldn’t delete my relationship with Chase like an unwanted email? The insult hurt, and the hurt pissed me off.

  If we’d been anywhere other than in Memaw’s house, with her a couple of rooms away, I’d have chewed Dean up one end and down the other, but I had enough snap to know this was neither the time nor the place. Maybe it wasn’t even the right argument to have.

  “I will not apologize for or justify having a picture of a man I knew and loved from when I was six-years-old until he died when I was thirty. Do we understand each other?”

  Dean stuck out his jaw, his blue eyes chilling with anger.

  “I will do the best I can not to embarrass you with the election so close, but I can’t make any promises.” I paused to get a firmer hold on my temper. “I am what I am. Just like Chase was what he was.”

  Dean shook his, head, shrugged, and rolled his eyes all at the same time. I wanted to kick him in the gnards.

  “Whatever,” he said.

  “No.” I bristled. “Don’t say whatever to me. Make some indication you understand what I’m telling you.” I knew he wouldn’t. Once he labeled something or somebody, the subject was closed tighter than a dick’s hatband. Dean stuck to whatever he’d said as though reconsidering made him somehow unfit to walk the earth. His snap judgment of me burned. I put my arms over my chest to keep my fist from striking out on its own. I did not want to shit up our relationship further by adding physical violence to it. We stood glaring at each other, both of us breathing hard.