A Ghost of a Chance Read online

  The tour guide expounds on the Baker cancer hospital and all its horrors — they believe Baker burned his patient’s bodies in the incinerator rather than have proof that his cancer cure was a fake. There’s mention of accomplices, some who followed Baker to jail when he was finally convicted of mail fraud (the only thing the feds could nail him on, apparently). And we get to check out the locker where TV’s Ghost Hunters captured a full-body apparition on their infrared camera.

  We’re all feeling light-hearted about the whole thing, listening to the stories, looking around and taking pictures. But after a few minutes everyone stops talking and a lull settles over the group. The tour guide keeps offering ghost stories, however, now sharing what other people on the tours have experienced, including some weird light anomalies in the morgue, but it appears no one’s listening.

  Finally, the tour guide gets the hint. “Y’all ready to go back upstairs?”

  Several of us agree and there’s almost a mad dash out the door. Something spooked us, and we all felt it.

  No one says a word until we reach the stairs. I feel a light touch on my elbow and I jump.

  “It’s just me,” Winnie says from behind, laughing. I wait until she catches up and we climb to the lobby together.

  “Are you avoiding me?” she asks.

  “Not at all.” I have been, not wanting to explain all that has happened since our cave escapade the day before.

  “I tried sitting with you at dinner but you moved too fast and ended up at Carmine’s table.”

  “Oh, really? Sorry.” I hope I sound sincere.

  “Henry said you weren’t feeling good this afternoon so I was worried about you.”

  I sneak a glance over at Joe who winks. God bless that man for not spreading the news. Good thing Richard hadn’t been at the lake with us when I spotted those girls.

  “I’m fine.” Another lie. “My head’s much better but I didn’t sleep well last night so Henry thought it best I get some rest.”

  “Good for Henry.” We reach the top of the stairs from the basement to the lobby and Winnie has perked up since the morgue visit. “Want to go have a drink at the Baker Bar and catch up, now that we heard all about his dead patients? Or we can nab a drink in the lobby and sit on the back porch and wait for Annabelle to fly by.”

  I know she’s just being funny and normally I’d be laughing at the joke, but it hits a nerve considering Annabelle’s now my roommate.

  “It’s been a long day.” I pause at the elevator. “I think I’m going to head up to bed.”

  Winnie seems disappointed and I so wish I was in better spirits to join her, no pun intended. But I really am beat and I’m hoping I will rest eight hours sans ghosts tonight.

  “But you rested all afternoon,” Winnie insists. “Come on, one drink.”

  I’ve had my limit of alcohol after too much drama, never got that nap and my brain is shutting down. Winnie senses my refusal before I speak it. “See you in the morning, then.” She heads off to where Stephanie and Joe are ordering a nightcap.

  I push the elevator button, expecting TB to be following but he and Carmine have a tête-a-tête going. In fact, everyone in the group is heading toward the lobby bar, not ready to call it a night, except for Richard who naturally announces he’s going to bed and bounds up the stairs.

  Part of me hates that I’m not joining this party, a gathering of colleagues I have waited my entire career to be a part of, but becoming a SCANC has sucked the wind from my sails. With a heavy heart I get in the tiny elevator.

  Just before the doors close, a hand appears and I quickly push the door open button and move aside for the newly arrived person. “Thanks,” she says, and suddenly I’m standing next to Merrill. When Merrill notices it’s me she exclaims, “Just the person I’m looking for.”

  The doors close so I’m trapped. “I don’t think so, Cousin. You’re bad news.”

  She gazes at me in that New Age, Mother Earthy way and appears sincere but I’m still pissed from the incident at the lake. “I can explain. Please let me buy you a drink or something.”

  “Is the mayor coming too?”

  “I can explain that as well.”

  We reach the fourth floor, the doors open and I sigh. I can’t help it, I want to know what’s up with this woman and how the hell she’s related to Lori, aka Annabelle the flying mist.

  “One drink.”

  Because it’s a weekday the Baker Bar is sparsely occupied and we nab a quiet table right away. Merrill orders a bourbon and like a good girl I request a Diet Coke.

  “Okay Cassiopeia or whatever your name is, what the hell happened at that lake today?”

  Merrill smiles, turning her napkin emblazoned with Dr. Baker’s creepy face on it around and around. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  I lean back in my chair and study her. There’s something about her face that’s so familiar, the tilt of her chin when she smiles, the glint in her eyes, but for the life of me I can’t place it. Sitting here in a gauzy top and jeans with about a half dozen bracelets that range from hemp to meditation beads, she’s nothing like her cousin, that’s for sure.

  “How are you related to Lori?”

  “Who?”

  “Lauralei Thorne?”

  “Oh Annabelle?”

  That buzzing starts but I shake it off. “I don’t think that’s her name.”

  Merrill leans in close and studies me. “How do you know all this?”

  Because I’m a SCANC I want to say, which makes me laugh and Merrill stares harder. Instead, I sober. “Annabelle or Lori is haunting my room.”

  This juicy piece of information — and that of the other girls and their deaths — is not something I’m eager to share with anyone for I’m certain of their disbelieving reaction. Merrill, on the other hand, appears thrilled at such news. She leans forward and grabs my hand, which jolts my senses.

  “How do you know this?”

  I’m not a touchy-feely girl, although I don’t condone it either, so I slip my hands free and place them in my lap. “I saw her a couple of times in my room and I think she haunts my dreams.”

  “But how do you know it’s her?”

  “There’s a photo in the room across the hall, the one with the English teacher and the class winning a literary award. She’s in it.” Not exactly true; her name came to me in that weird vision the first night. Tying her with the photo works, however, remembering what Carmine told me about providing facts instead of Woo-Woo reports. But now that I think about that photo and the mayor’s reaction when I asked about Lori, I know there’s something very odd about my ghost and these Arkansas cousins.

  Unlike the mayor, though, Merrill appears happy with the connection. “That’s probably her. She went to school here. But still, how do you her name?”

  I don’t know, so I decide to come clean and hope Ms. New Age is as open to these things as I suspect she is. I shrug. “It came to me.”

  Anyone else would dispute such a statement. As a journalist who bases everything on fact, I know I would. But Merrill nods, so happy to have this tidbit of information. “You’re gifted.”

  “More like crazy. So, how is she related to you?”

  The smile fades and she takes a deep breath, letting it out in a rush. “She’s not. It’s about my grandfather.”

  The drinks arrive, Merrill hands the waiter a ten and I let her. We take the opportunity to relax a little, sipping our drinks and sinking deeper into our plush seats. Finally, Merrill drops the bomb.

  “I think my grandfather killed her.”

  This makes me sit up straight. “What?”

  Merrill puts down her bourbon on the rocks and leans forward, forearms on the table with her hands overlapping each other. “He died several years ago and my mother inherited all of his papers and stuff, a endless assortment of things she’s been slowly going through. Letitia only wanted the important stuff. He was mayor of Eureka Springs too, so she pulled out all those papers and donate
d them to the library here.”

  “Letitia?”

  “My cousin, the bitchy mayor.” She smiles as if to make light of this but I know she’s not kidding, wondering what Christmas is like at her house.

  “And your grandfather was mayor, too?”

  “Long time ago, but yes. James Leatherwood.”

  Doesn’t ring a bell but why would it?

  “Anyway, recently my mother found this old letter hidden inside a book that makes us wonder if he was involved in Annabelle’s suicide or murder, we’re not sure which.”

  Now I lean forward. “Why do you and the ghost tour guide call her Annabelle?”

  “I’m not sure where the tour guy got his information — they’ve always called her Annabelle — but it’s what’s in the letter.”

  I’m puzzled because I’m almost positive her name is Lauralei and not Annabelle. If anything, she goes by her nickname, Lori. “What else is in that letter?”

  Merrill exhales deeply. “I should have brought it with me.”

  “Paraphrase.”

  She leans in again, this time her voice very low. “He talks about some girls disappearing at the school and how he’s responsible, but he doesn’t want that happening to her so it’s imperative that she leave for a while until things blow over. He also goes on and on about how sorry he was for the other night, something about a girl named Blair, who’s also gone missing. It’s all very creepy.”

  I’ll say. I shake off a shiver that’s run up my spine. “Merrill, do you think this has anything to do with those bones found at the lake today?”

  She stares deep into my eyes. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  I huff. Like I know. “How about you explaining why you and a bunch of protestors were there this afternoon. Plus, why the mayor thinks I’m in league with you all.”

  Merrill runs a nervous hand through her expansive gray locks. “I don’t know if you know this but Leticia’s about to announce her candidacy for governor.”

  “Okay.”

  “Might not be big news for you but for those of us championing saving the environment, it’s huge.”

  “I take it she’s not a tree hugger.”

  Merrill smiles grimly. “Not even close. She’s brought in numerous construction projects and subdivisions outside of town. It’s taxing on the water system we have worked so hard to clean up.”

  “But we’re just travel writers,” I insist. “Why the big protest for us?”

  She shrugs. “I’m desperate. In a couple of days she’s going to sign a major deal with a corporation that’s a big contributor to her campaign. I can’t let that happen. Besides, your friends from Wisconsin interviewed me for twenty minutes so something good came of it.”

  I start to say that three dead bodies also came of it, which is probably airing on the news as we speak, when my fellow travel writers pass by, all laughing and recalling some funny story. Winnie spots me from the door and I smile and wave until I realize that I turned her down for a drink and here I am sitting in a bar with another friend, if you could call Merrill that. She doesn’t smile back, which makes my heart sink. Somehow, somewhere I must explain what’s going on and clear the air.

  Maybe Carmine’s right. Knowledge is power and hopefully whatever TB pulls up on these dead girls I keep seeing will help my case and make it easier to explain to everyone.

  When I look back at my table companion, she’s standing. “I really need to go, have three dogs at home who will have their hind legs in a knot if I don’t let them out soon.”

  I grab her hand like a lifeline. Now I’m touchy feely. “Is there any way I can see that letter?”

  “What’s your day like tomorrow?”

  I scan my brain trying to recall our itinerary. It’s our last day in Eureka Springs. “Art galleries in the morning, I believe, lunch on the balcony at the Basin Park Hotel and then spa sessions back here in the afternoon.” Just thinking of the day makes my heart swell. Oh please, oh please universe, no dead people tomorrow — unless Lillye shows up and then I’m all ears.

  “I’ll meet you back here in the afternoon,” Merrill says and I give her my spa time so she can plan.

  I walk back to my room and find my husband once again sprawled on the bed watching the Patriots play somebody (forget what team that big horned sheep stands for) remote in hand and fast asleep. Like I have been doing for the past eight years, I turn off the set, cover him up fully clothed and slip inside those heavenly sheets on my side of the bed. Within minutes, I fall fast asleep.

  I say sleep but in truth I have no idea where I am. Lori is standing at the foot of my bed, dressed in her usual schoolgirl attire of a long white pleated skirt and matching sailor-esque top with her muddy red hair tied back with a ribbon. She nods her head in the direction of the door. I don’t want to leave my luxurious bed but I grab my robe and follow her, wondering if the halls of the Crescent Hotel are real and someone alive will spot me soon, or if I’m lingering in an alternate reality.

  We’re back in James Cabellero’s office so it’s not my century. This time, the English teacher is leading a class in the Shakespeare comedies while Lori sits in the front row. There’s an easy, peaceful feeling — as the song goes — in this scene, and again I sense something between teacher and pupil, an attraction bordering on impropriety. She loves English and excels at it, I’m thinking, which makes any English teacher’s heart go pitter-patter. But Lori’s also a bit too enamored with Teach, which undoubtedly stirs other parts of his fresh-out-of-college anatomy. Still, it’s hard for me to imagine Plain Jane doing anything too naughty with the professor.

  The door suddenly opens and who should walk in but my blond girl from the cave. I’m astonished to see her standing before me not only alive and well but stunningly beautiful with her blond hair coifed up with ivory combs and her sweater a size too tight buttoned over her uniform, which emphasizes an over-matured bosom.

  She’s also cocky as hell.

  “This is your new student, Blair Marcus,” a woman about the same age as James informs him. As the other teacher gives James instruction, Blair takes in the room and its occupants, not liking what she sees.

  “So she’s all yours,” the teacher says and leaves the room.

  James rises and knocks over his chair as Blair seductively walks to his desk. Blair sends him a knowing smile and James clears his throat nervously.

  “Welcome to Crescent College,” he says hoarsely, holding out his hand, which makes the girls whisper to one another. I imagine them thinking Mr. Caballero never shakes a girl’s hand and why is he acting so nervous?

  Blair takes the opportunity to not only squeeze his hand, but leans in closer than what’s appropriate for a girl her age. “Nice to meet you, handsome.”

  This impudence throws James off guard so instead of reprimanding Blair he quietly points to an empty chair in the front row next to Lori. The girls titter once more.

  Lori, on the other hand, doesn’t miss a thing. She watches the interaction closely, appalled, her heart sinking. I know, because I can feel her emotions and compare them to my own, sense how she’s realizing that there is no way she can compete with Blair’s sophistication and beauty. Been there, done that.

  I want to lean over and tell her “teen years are a bitch but it gets better down the road” but I suddenly remember there is no future for Lori. The time frame changes, anyway, and we’re now in an expansive room filled with windows, dressed in workout clothes, or whatever they called uniforms for PE back then. Blair sits off to the side, surrounded by a cackle of girls eating up her every word. Lori ignores them, reading Twelfth Night by herself in a corner. Her choice of reading material makes me laugh, but no sound emerges from my throat.

  “Are you going to town with us later?” one of the girls asks Queen Bee. “We want to buy something new for the dance on Saturday night.”

  “What’s the point,” Blair answers. “The clothes in this podunk town are so boring, nothing that’s fashionable ri
ght now. I’m going to wait until I get back to Dallas to buy my new wardrobe.”

  The group’s enthusiasm drops a notch. “We can go to the ice cream parlor instead,” another girl pipes up.

  Blair studies her nails. “I suppose. But then you have to make small talk with Mr. McLaughen. Seriously, this town bores me to tears.”

  “You didn’t seem bored last night,” another one says. “Mamie said you were out past midnight with that cute townie. And you weren’t on school grounds.”

  A secretive smile forms on Blair’s face. “He’s okay. He wasn’t too boring, did what he was supposed to do, if you know what I mean.”

  The girls look at each other innocently. I doubt they do.

  “I came home satisfied,” Blair concludes. “Although I think I lost my panties in the woods behind St. Elizabeth’s.”

  Several of the girls open their mouths in shock when they finally get her meaning, and Lori stops reading to look over in astonishment.

  “What are you looking at homey,” Blair shouts at Lori. “Just because you never had a man touch you doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t. Some of us have looks.”

  “Blair, that’s mean,” a girl whispers.

  “She has to learn somehow,” Blair retorts. “Might as well prepare for spinsterhood now.” To Lori, she adds, “Keep reading bookworm. You’re going to need that education when the men never appear on your doorstep.”

  Once again, my chest hurts from the pain Lori’s feeling. To her credit, she bows her head into her book and ignores Blair. But I can see the tears sliding down her cheeks.

  “Are you going out with Townie again?” the girl with the pink ribbons asks Blair.

  “No, I’m done with him. I’m fishing for bigger trout now.”

  The girls offer a million questions but Blair doesn’t let on. When James walks into the conservatory, however, she lights up, adjusting her hair and sneaking on some hot red lipstick.