A Ghost of a Chance Read online

  “Less than twenty-four hours after you found a body in Sycamore Cave?”

  I shrug and offer a sheepish smile. “Coincidence?”

  “Seriously?”

  The waiter passes and I grab his shirt, which almost causes him to drop his tray of margaritas. “Oh sorry, just wanted another drink.” To Maddox, I say, “Anything for you?”

  He shakes his head at the waiter, and sends me a stern look.

  “Oh,” I manage with a slight slur, feeling the gin taking hold of my brain. “Of course, you’re on duty.”

  He starts writing something in his little black book and I wonder if he’s noting my alcohol usage. “I need a statement. You need to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

  I empty the contents of my drink — who cares what he thinks? — and place it on the table a bit too hard. The noise of glass upon glass elicits looks from my neighbors. “I haven’t a clue what’s going on, ossifer.” I smile coquettishly at the mispronunciation. “I was minding my own business, first in a cave and then on a historic walking tour of Eureka Springs and the next thing I know, it’s a crime scene. What is the world coming to?”

  “A pretty significant crime scene.”

  This makes my journalistic haunches rise. I stop smiling. “Oh yeah, how come?”

  “There was more than one body at that lake.”

  Goosebumps skitter across my body and I shiver. Hard. “How many?”

  “Because you were also babbling about that hole in the wall, we looked inside and found another victim.” Maddox crosses his arms. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

  As if I know. “Like I said, I have no idea. I’m here to write about why people need to visit the Ozarks.”

  “The mayor has a few ideas and it’s nothing to do with tourism.”

  Now I’m leaning forward. “The mayor can kiss my ass.”

  I’m so close to Maddox I smell the delicious after-shave he always wears, something manly and provocative that stirs my primal emotions. I inhale deeply but I know he’s not remaining close because he wants to smell my perfume.

  “This is some crazy shit you’re stirring up,” he tells me. “If you’re trying to push your tree-hugging agenda with murders that are a century old, I’m going to be royally pissed and I will haul your ass to jail. So, I need to know what’s going on, I need it to make sense and I need you to stay out of the mayor’s business, you understand Miss Valentine?”

  Maybe it’s the gin, maybe it’s the freakin’ ghosts following me around or maybe I’m tired of being pushed, but I lean in closer and stare him down. “As soon as it makes sense to me, Mr. Maddox, you’ll be the first to know. But I assure you, it has nothing to do with that bitch of a mayor.”

  We’re locked in a stare contest until the waiter shows up. “You need something?” he asks, which makes Maddox stand and slip his notebook back into his pocket.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, and I want a cohesive statement out of you.”

  With that, my once sexual fantasy walks out of the bar, like a line in a bad joke.

  What did I just do? “No thank you,” I tell the waiter because TB was right, I have had enough. Besides, if the sun’s going down, that means it’s close to dinnertime and I need to meet the group in the dining room at seven, followed by an eight-thirty ghost tour. Goody, goody.

  I stand and try to appear sober and head toward the room. I need to change and come up with — as Maddox so expertly put it — something that makes sense. If only I knew what that was.

  When I return to the room, TB is dressed in a pale blue button-down shirt topping his jeans, something I’ve never seen before.

  “Where did you get that shirt?”

  “At the gift shop downstairs,” is all he offers, avoiding my eyes.

  I pause, knowing he doesn’t have money for Polo shirts, so I stare at his back until he finally turns and spills the beans. “Okay, the manager said I could pick out whatever I wanted and I needed a nice shirt for dinner, so I did.”

  I rub my forehead, wondering how such a pleasant trip to the Ozarks has turned into this nightmare. “I thought I told you this wasn’t a vacation and that these people are paying for me….”

  “I know, Vi. He offered.”

  “You didn’t have to accept.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t have to accept playing golf with Henry and Carmine this afternoon either, but there you have it.”

  My blood pressure kicks up a notch. “What?”

  He pulls up close to me and I can smell his aftershave which, I must admit, rivals Madman’s. It has been way too long since I had sex.

  “I’m not like you and your mom,” TB says with a touch of vinegar. “When people are kind to me, I accept it and say thanks.”

  “I am not like my mother!” I’m almost shouting now. “Seriously? How can you possibly compare me to her?”

  He throws up his arms in surrender. “You’re in denial, Vi. You shut up tight like a mason jar. No one can help you. No one can get inside.”

  I’ve heard this argument from him so many times, especially after Lillye died, but I’m not like my mother, who’s a control freak and whines about everything, anything to draw attention to herself. If anything, I’m the antithesis of the woman who brought me into this world.

  I stumble over to the closet and throw on my black ensemble topped by a new outer layer, grab my purse and keys. “Let’s go,” is all I say and TB follows me out the door.

  We walk to the elevator in silence, an empty void that I created so many times before. Maybe TB’s right, maybe I shut people out too much. But the truth is, I don’t want to be like my mother or most of the people I know, pouring forth my troubles like water.

  “I’m leaving in the morning,” TB finally says. “I won’t be a bother to you any longer.”

  This is not what I wanted to happen, surprising myself that I really don’t want my crazy ex-husband to leave. I start to say as much but the elevator arrives. We’re about to walk inside when Carmine hurries over, apparently imbibing at the bar before dinner for he still has what looks like an old fashion in his hand.

  “Hey Virgin,” he says as he gets onboard.

  You know how water can slowly drop into an unstable container and the drips silently fill up the space until one moment the whole thing comes toppling over? All it takes is that one small drop. Tonight, Carmine is the drip.

  I take a huge breath and get in his face. “Ass wipe, I haven’t slept well in several days, all of a sudden I’m seeing ghosts everywhere including a bunch that have been murdered and my head is about to split open for the second time this trip, so if you call me Virgin one more time I’m going to smack you upside your pretty little self-absorbed head.”

  The elevator doors open to the lobby but no one moves. TB gazes at me as if I’ve lost my mind. I turn to him and say, “Have I opened up enough for you now?”

  I move to exit the elevator but Carmine grabs my elbow and leads me into the lobby by his side. “We have to talk.”

  We turn the corner into a seating area by the ancient fireplace, a quiet spot that’s cozy and private, far away from the lobby entrance. Carmine plants me into an oversized chair and TB follows like an obedient puppy, sitting on the couch to my left. Carmine faces us both, placing his drink on the coffee table before us and acting as if he’s called a meeting to order.

  “Let me guess. These ghost sightings of yours started right after Katrina?”

  I’m totally confused following this line of conversation or why Carmine is discussing ghosts but I nod.

  “And you probably had some sort of psychic ability when you were young but you repressed it, right?”

  “Exactly,” TB inserts and I send him the evil eye.

  Carmine smirks proudly, leaning back in his chair. “You’re a skank.”

  “I’m a what?”

  Carmine leans forward again, waving his hands defensively. “It’s not what you think.”

  I stand ready to go,
have had enough of his teasing. “I really don’t have time for this. I’ve had a day from hell after an afternoon and night from hell so you know where you can go.”

  Carmine takes my hand softly and looks up at me. Gone is the flippant attitude, replaced by something akin to empathy. “Please sit down.”

  I don’t know why but I do as I’m told and TB starts mouthing off about my past psychic experiences and how I saw three dead girls today. Carmine listens but his eyes never leave mine and I feel like an eighth grader caught throwing my American history book out the window only to have a counselor explain that my ADHD made me do it. Wait, that really happened. But come on, five chapters of our nation’s history and not one woman represented?

  Realizing my mind has wandered while TB was talking — big surprise — I interrupt and ask Carmine, “What has this got to do with you?”

  Carmine leans in close. “It’s called SCANC and it means specific communication with apparitions, non-entities and the comatose.” When I give him a “you’ve got to be kidding” stare, he adds, “I didn’t come up with that stupid acronym.”

  “SCANC?” I ask again.

  “The theory is that when someone has psychic or channeling tendencies that they repress, these gifts lie dormant within that person. Sometimes people will go their whole lives and never have another psychic event.”

  “Man, that’s a bummer,” TB says. “I would so love to see ghosts.”

  “On the other hand,” Carmine continues, “a traumatic event can release this blockage and suddenly a person sees ghosts everywhere. Or they have visions, can communicate with people in comas, or something like that. It all depends on the trauma.”

  This all makes sense, but I’m not totally convinced. “And you know this how?”

  Carmine picks up his drink and drains the glass. Obviously, this is not something he wishes to revisit. “As you probably have guessed, I bat for the other team. When I was in high school, I was bullied fairly regularly by the more manly specimens of my gender. My dear father said I needed to stand up to these assholes so one day I did.”

  Carmine takes another drink even though there’s nothing left in the glass. “What happened?” TB asks.

  “They beat me within an inch of my life. I was in the hospital for five weeks.”

  “That’s awful,” I say, feeling how those two words sound so inadequate.

  Carmine shakes it off and resumes his haughty appearance. “It’s fine, but now I see ghosts. And I’m a member of the SCANC tribe.”

  “So you’re saying Vi should join this group?”

  Bless his heart, despite his stupid remarks Carmine doesn’t patronize TB. Like I said, only I’m allowed to do that. “No, although she certainly can if she wants,” Carmine says sweetly. “What I’m saying is that not only has this psychic door opened to Vi for some reason — I’m thinking Katrina did it – but Vi will also be having experiences related to that hurricane.”

  I shake my head trying to process all this through a martini haze. “What?”

  Carmine leans in closer and glances around to make sure no one is listening. “I only see ghosts who are gay.”

  “That’s weird,” TB says like an astonished child.

  “Not always,” Carmine retorts with a grin. “I got to meet Oscar Wilde in Paris. That was pretty cool.”

  At this point I know he’s pulling my leg. I smile, shake my head at the absurdity of it all and rise once more. “You’re an asshole.”

  Carmine doesn’t grab my hand this time, leans back in his chair with a gaze as dark as the night of Katrina. “I think ‘ass wipe’ was the word.”

  I’m feeling that buzz again, like a pesky fly that won’t leave you alone, and my head throbs. Right now the only person making a lick of sense is a Texan with great hair who sees the gay dead. Whether it’s that fact or that my head will blow if I remain standing, but I sit back down. I’m still skeptical and I’m certain Carmine reads that in my gaze.

  “Maybe you need to explain that,” TB offers.

  “What happened in Katrina?” Carmine asks. “Exactly?”

  I’m not going there but TB explains it all, from the levees breaking to the two days on the roof surrounded by floodwaters, snakes and who knows what. He skips the information he offered the night before but details our nights on the roof and our evacuation to Lafayette once we were picked up by some benevolent Cajuns in a skiff.

  “I’m going to assume this has something to do with water,” Carmine concludes. “You’re probably seeing ghosts who have died by water.”

  The buzzing stops and my head clears and suddenly I remember the opera singer at the New Orleans airport. “That woman singing You Are My Sunshine back in New Orleans. You saw her too.”

  Carmine nods. “I heard her.”

  “She was soaking wet.”

  Carmine nods again and offers a weak smile. “Then that’s probably it.”

  My brain pours over the possibilities; this all makes sense. “The woman in the cave, the three girls by Lake Eureka, they all drowned.”

  “What girl in the cave?” TB asks and I ignore him. I’m finally vindicated and I’m not going insane so life suddenly seems brighter.

  Except for one thing. “How do I explain this to the police?”

  Just then Alicia walks over and informs us that we’re now meeting for dinner in the hotel ballroom.

  “We’ll be right there,” Carmine answers.

  We all stand but Carmine draws closer and we huddle like football players, waiting for the quarterback to tell us what to do.

  “Your best bet is to find out all the information you can on these women. Information is power. That way at least you have something to offer the police. It might not be enough — they’re not keen on psychics — but it’s better than nothing.”

  “How do I do that?” I ask.

  “Maybe Opie here can dig around for you while we’re out on the tour?”

  It’s a great idea but “Opie” frowns and digs his hands deep inside his jeans pockets. “I’m leaving for New Orleans in the morning.”

  That old malaise returns, threatening to swallow me whole. I wonder if the self-inflicting darkness I have lived with all these years could have been averted if only I had shared my pain with my husband, who looks so lost and hurt right now. Besides, if I can communicate with ghosts, could I finally be able to see our little girl again? The thought of speaking with Lillye floods my heart with so much hope, I have trouble speaking.

  “You don’t have to leave,” I softly say to TB. “I don’t want you to.”

  Such simple words, but they make a world of difference. TB looks up hopeful and I smile.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It all begins with the cherry tobacco outside Room 212, which no one smells but me and Carmine; he’s grimacing to my right.

  “This was Dr. John Freemont Ellis’s office, the hotel’s Southern physician during the Victorian era who was a heavy pipe smoker,” our ghost tour guide tells us as we make our way through the Crescent Hotel. “People have reported smelling tobacco here although we’re a non-smoking hotel.”

  “I don’t smell anything,” Richard announces proudly as if that settles the case.

  Carmine glances my way and rolls his eyes.

  TB, meanwhile, is watching Carmine and me for a clue. “Did you smell it?” he whispers but neither of us replies.

  We move on to the most famous room of the hotel, that of 218 where Michael the Irish stonemason reportedly hangs out because it was here that he fell to his death years before. “He’s a rascal and a bit of tease,” the tour guide says. “He sits on the bed, flirts with women. One visitor said she heard an Irish voice.”

  “I’m okay with a cute Irish man waking me up,” Holly says in that way too adorable Southern accent, and all the men laugh.

  “Moi aussi,” Carmine whispers to my right.

  Other ghosts, we learn throughout our hour-long tour, include a young girl who also fell to her death, this
time on the staircase near our room, and Theodora across the hall who despises discord and will tidy up a mess.

  “That’s the one I told you about,” TB tells me.

  “Tidy up my ass.” Richard crosses his arms defiantly. “I’m in that room and I’m the only one in that room.”

  Winnie leans close to me and whispers, “I’ll bet she tidies him up tonight,” and we giggle.

  We head down one flight to the third floor on the north side where people have seen or heard a nurse pushing a gurney late at night and as we descend further to the “morgue” our guide tells us about the college coed who threw herself off a balcony. Her “mist” is occasionally seen around ten-thirty at night, he claims. “You can go to the police station and they will tell you that people have reported a girl jumping off the balcony here.”

  That now familiar buzzing returns. “Who was she?” I ask.

  “No one knows, but they believe she was attending college here back in the 1920s. Some have called her Annabelle.”

  That electrical feeling intensifies and I vaguely make out the sound of an emphatic “No!” As soon as the guide starts discussing the morgue, the buzzing stops.

  Just before we head to this infamous morgue, the guide hands us a variety of photos snapped by past visitors. Some contain “orbs,” small round balls of white that float within the photos, images that have been credited to both paranormal activity and dust mites and mosquitoes. In other photos, wispy mists and streaks of white appear and these can’t be explained away. The last photos to get passed around contain actual ghost sightings, at least that’s what the guide claims. I have to look really hard to make out what he claims to be a man in a top hat, but the outline of a woman in a room mirror is pretty clear.

  “It’s a reflection,” Richard says over my shoulder. “Or Photoshop.”

  The basement of this behemoth hotel contains the spa, which is closed up for now. Its bright and airy retail shop is the only redeeming aspect of this underground crypt, the rest dark and rustic like most basements although I wouldn’t know, I live below sea level where basements are unheard of. We walk down a long, narrow hallway with a low ceiling and ductwork exposed, arriving at a room Baker used to dispose of cancer patients who — amazingly enough — weren’t cured by his magical tonic. The creep factor soars through the roof in this tight, dark space, and we also learn that Baker might have experimented on folks here as well.