Give Up the Ghost Read online

  “Paranoid how?” I ask Maribelle.

  She shrugs. “Just a feeling. It seems like everyone’s on edge.”

  Including you, I think. For the past couple of weeks Maribelle’s been getting odd phone calls, ones she’s not happy to receive. The first call came when I brought sandwiches to the restaurant and found her whispering angrily into her cell.

  “I’m not selling,” she argued to someone on the other end. “Threaten me all you like, it’s not going to happen.”

  Of course, when I asked, she shrugged and changed the subject.

  Another time, I spotted her pacing the patio area of the motel, same tone, same whispered anger. This time I heard a lawyer mentioned.

  “Does this have something to do with Clayton?” I bravely ask as we head toward the highway.

  She straightens and it appears as if every muscle in Maribelle’s body tightens. “What’s that man got to do with anything?”

  He’s curious if you killed your husband. As am I.

  I push that thought away, pray it’s not true, that this plant witch passing on knowledge of love, communing with nature, and tapping into the feminine spirit didn’t hit Jack Greene from behind while in her bathroom, then haul his limp body to the lake to die by drowning. Because no matter what happened to Jack Greene, twin to the Gorton’s fish sticks mascot, he perished in the water, which is why he’s visible to me.

  I’ve thought about this scenario so many times I’m convinced it doesn’t make sense. First, a blow to the back of the head produces a ton of blood, more than the FBI discovered in her bathroom. I realize Maribelle could have cleaned up the mess, but then she’d have to drag a full-grown man’s body through the motel parking lot and down the dock and what trail would that have left?

  She could have had an accomplice, but who would that have been? Clayton said no one wanted Jack Greene dead, nor did they miss him after his death, so who else had a motive besides Maribelle? Maybe Jack was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that’s unlikely in most murders. As Clayton said, it’s usually someone they know. Someone close to them.

  “Where’s your family?” I ask Maribelle.

  “My family?” She looks surprised I would bring up the topic.

  “You know, mother, father, sister, brother.”

  She says nothing, stares toward the back of the pickup in front of us, one loaded down with fishing tackle and coolers.

  “You’ve met my parents and my twin brother,” I say, hoping this might open a door. “My crazy sister Portia will be here next month. They’re what you call family.”

  She swallows — hard — and sends me a weird look, akin to grief but laced with fear as well. “My parents are deceased.”

  “I’m so sorry, Maribelle. How?”

  I was right about Maribelle being close to my age. She’s only thirty-two, looking older because of her gray hair. I’d add grumpy attitude but that’s impolite and she’s been much happier since Sebastian rolled into town. Right now, the subject’s putting years on her face.

  She attempts a smile but it’s feeble. “Are you hungry?”

  “Of course, I’m hungry,” I say, watching the fishing pole in front of me bounce up and down and I suddenly long for a plate of fried catfish. “I’m always hungry.”

  “I was thinking about Public House in Chattanooga….”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  We pause at a traffic light so Maribelle turns my way with surprise. I wait a beat, then look back, giving her ample time for suspense.

  I cross my arms. “We have been having these ‘lessons’ for months now and, although I appreciate everything you’re teaching me, I know absolutely nothing about you.”

  “Since when is that so important?”

  “I’m Southern and down here we value friendship and family. If you can’t open up a tiny bit, then why should I trust you?”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Give me one reason why I should?”

  “I’m dating your brother.”

  I shake my head. “Exactly why I need to know more about you.”

  We hit the open highway and Maribelle sighs. “I’ll never understand the need for people to know a person’s private history.”

  “How else will we Southerners know to bake you a cake on your birthday, anniversary, or other important event?” And yes, I realize my curiosity goes way beyond that.

  Now, it’s Maribelle’s turn to shake her head. “I hate cake.”

  I laugh. “Of course, you do.”

  We ride in silence for several minutes and I’m about to give up learning anything about the woman, but finally, after we reach the countryside and the cityscape turns to farms, Maribelle speaks.

  “My parents lived on a large piece of property in Maine, right on the water. They died after I got married.”

  “What happened?”

  More silence, but this time, shivers run up my arms.

  “They killed themselves. Together.”

  I turn in my seat. “What?”

  She cringes. “The maid came over to clean the house one day and found them in the basement with a generator running, died from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “Wow, Maribelle, how horrible. Did you see that coming?”

  For the second time since I’ve known Maribelle her face transforms into intense pain and grief. She turns away and looks out the driver’s side window, but not before I spot tears in her eyes.

  “I don’t like talking about it, Vi.”

  I reach over and touch her shoulder, give it a nice squeeze. “But you need to talk about these things, mon amie. You shouldn’t keep something this traumatic bottled up inside.”

  As soon as those words emerge, I think what a hypocrite I am. I crawled into a snail shell when Lillye died, refused to face my grief, receive help, even talk about it. Finally, my family convinced me to visit a grief counselor, which helped a great deal, but I’m a slow work in progress. I still expect Lillye to come running down the hall, still reach my hand out expecting to pat a soft head of curls. Sometimes a pain so intense falls on to my heart that I sob uncontrollably. So, I get it.

  “I’m here if you need me.”

  Maribelle smiles grimly and wipes her eyes. She doesn’t say more and I don’t press. Finally, she pulls out a sheet of paper from her purse and asks my opinion about the list’s items. We discuss the décor of the herb shop, what items need to be purchased today, and if I have time to scour antique stores for furniture ideas. I answer and offer my two cents but all I can think about is a couple so despondent that they took their lives, huddled together in a dark basement in Maine.

  And just what made them do it?

  We enjoy lunch with me almost licking the plate clean — twins really demand sustenance — and we’re off hunting shop items. Maribelle starts in a furniture story filled with cutesy doo-dads and country apparel. I’m surprised at her choice but what do I know about selling herbs.

  “If this is your style, Cracker Barrel carries a lot of similar items,” I say.

  Maribelle sighs. “It’s not my style but I think an herb shop in south-central Tennessee should probably feel more country and less witch.”

  “And those in the know will buy theirs under the counter? Or maybe you can have a secret drive-through window in the back.”

  She looks at me with a frown.

  “Selling herbs doesn’t scream witch. I doubt the town’s people will arrive with torches and rakes.”

  “Remember our cove’s history?”

  “This is 2009,” I tell her picking up an oversized tea cup with a giant rabbit in glasses. It brings a smile.

  “I guess you’re right,” Maribelle says. “I should be myself.”

  I spot a corner filled with rustic furniture and items suited for a cabin. “How about something veering more towards woods, loons, and a lake?”

  Maribelle picks up a miniature canoe sitting on the coffee table. It’s being used to hold re
motes which distracts from its rustic appeal.

  “Call me crazy but this would be a great centerpiece,” Maribelle says. “I could fill it with tea.”

  I try to imagine her bare space mirroring the trees and lake surrounding the town, smell the herbs and maybe some tree scents as well. “Works for me.”

  Maribelle grazes the items, checking tags to find those made in the U.S.; she refuses to buy anything made in China in honor of those crafty American women who founded the town. A friend of a friend swore this store sold items made by Tennesseans, which is why we’re here.

  While Maribelle examines a side table crafted from maple, I check for the nearest bathroom.

  “Okay, kiddos, which one of you is playing with mommy’s bladder?” I mumble as I head toward the back of the store, my children in front of me by a foot.

  The store offers different decors every few feet. Whereas the front of the store showcases a country style, followed by the rustic cabin items, now I’m passing a beach display, then a collection of retro furniture. Just before I hit the bathroom, I spot the deer head on the wall surrounded by camouflage jackets and hats and several flannel shirts hanging on a makeshift wardrobe.

  I stop dead at the sight in the middle of the display. It’s a flannel shirt folded neatly on top of khaki pants, topped with a camouflage hat. At the base of the chair on which this collection lies is an angel statue. Only the head is missing.

  I can almost feel my blood pressure rising as my heart rate accelerates and my breathing becomes erratic. I place a hand over my heart as if that might stop the panic rising in my chest, but of course it does nothing. The world begins to spin and I start gasping, afraid if I don’t pull oxygen into my lungs I will faint for sure.

  “Ma’am,” I hear a voice say behind me. “Are you all right?”

  Suddenly Maribelle’s at my side grabbing my elbow and muttering something. I’m too busy focusing on the image in front of me, the exact set of clothes Dwayne wore on the train and were left at the Foundation house. As I gasp for air, all I can do is point. Maribelle turns briefly and looks at the pile Dwayne left me again, then grabs both my elbows and leads me into a nearby chair.

  “Should I call 911?” the voice asks her.

  “I’ve got this,” she answers, forcing me to lean back in the chair, placing a hand on my chest and whispering calming messages into my ear. “Breathe,” she says softly. “In and out. In and out.”

  It takes me a while but I feel the tightness in my chest ease and my heart rate slow down. The voice returns — it’s a man named John Peterson; it’s on his nametag — and he brings me a glass of water, which I down like a desert rat.

  “What happened?” he asks, but Maribelle doesn’t take her eyes off me, bless her heart.

  “She just had a scare,” she says.

  “But she’s pregnant.”

  She finally turns to the nice man. “It’s okay, small panic attack. It happens.”

  John absorbs this explanation but he’s gazing at me with alarm, no doubt worrying I’ll go into labor. Finally, when I’ve regained a normal breath, I smile up at the nice man and say, “I’m fine now, thank you.”

  I’m not, of course. Dwayne’s back in the area and somehow knew I would be coming here today. And he left me a message.

  I look back at the small angel statue lying there cockeyed, its head missing. I pull out my cell and call TB but it goes to voice mail.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Maribelle says.

  The tightness returns and I kick myself for being so complacent. Time passed with no sign of the man and our thoughts turned to baby-proofing the houseboat, renovating Maribelle’s buildings for Sebastian’s new endeavor, enjoying my part-time job back in a newsroom. We were all so blessedly happy.

  “Stupid, stupid,” I say to myself.

  Maribelle finds a chair and pulls it up beside me. “Don’t do that. We had no way of knowing.”

  I shake my head and groan. Loudly. “What did we think? That Dwayne would just waltz away and leave us alone?”

  Maribelle looks at the pile of clothes and the horrible disfigured statue. “How did he know we would be here?” She rubs her forehead as if the movement might bring about the answer. “Who knew we were going to be here today?”

  “Sebastian,” I mutter, no harm there. “TB, but he definitely wouldn’t tell anyone. You know how protective he is.”

  Maribelle stands up suddenly. “The bank.”

  “What?”

  “I was at the bank this morning, before I picked you up. I took out a loan for the herb shop and the lender and I were going over the itemized budget. I might have mentioned that I was coming here. In fact, the lender recommended the place.”

  I don’t know if it’s the aftershock of my panic attack or me putting two and two together, but the thought of Lightning Bug’s citizens learning of Emma Harrington’s wealth and holding it against her runs through my mind. History repeating itself?

  But it’s a different world, isn’t it? Bank lenders don’t share proprietary information.

  “Like I said before, it’s two thousand and nine.”

  “What honey?” Maribelle asks.

  Her reply is just what I need to jolt me from my funk. “Did you say honey? A Yankee turning Southern. What’s next? Y’all?”

  “Never.” She’s still not smiling — neither am I for that matter — but the shock of finding this altar to evil is dissipating.

  Maribelle holds out her hand. I take it and struggle to stand, what with my enormous belly. The man returns and hands us both business cards with something written on one side.

  “Anything in the store, twenty percent off,” he says.

  I smile warmly at the gesture and am about to politely decline but Maribelle beats me to it, accepting the business cards.

  “Thank you, that would be lovely. We’re opening an herb store near Lightning Bug and we could use every penny.”

  The man brightens. “Have you seen the displays in the front of the store? We have some adorable tea cozies.”

  “Actually, you have a gorgeous handmade table made of maple that I have my eye on. And as soon as I get my friend to the ladies room, I’d love to speak with you about it.”

  “Yes, of course,” John agrees.

  We head toward the bathroom but as we pass the corner display, Maribelle checks to see if anyone’s looking, then knocks over Dwayne’s pile with her foot, offering a few choice expletives in the process.

  When we return, Maribelle selects the table, miniature canoe, and a lamp with three trees sculpted from metal and John heads off to ring up the sale, minus twenty percent. I’m sprawled out on an oversized arm chair, cell phone gripped tightly in my hand.

  “Feeling better?” Maribelle asks.

  “I’d feel better if TB would call me back, tell me he’s safe.”

  Maribelle studies me with an expression I’ve come to know well. She scrunches up her mouth and her eyes narrow, like an artist studying an image to paint.

  She gets in my face. “Stand up.”

  “What?”

  Before she can respond, she grabs both elbows and has me on my feet.

  “Pretend I’m attacking you.”

  I back up, feel the arm chair at the back of my knees. “What’s going on?”

  “First of all, you did the right thing. You backed up. The best way to fight evil is to avoid it to begin with.”

  Now that she’s out of my face, I move forward and relax. “My mom used to say the best way to face a dark alley is to not go down it to begin with.”

  “Smart mom. But if danger approaches you and puts you in harm’s way, you have to fight. Show me what you would do.”

  I swipe my hands in front of me in a gesture that says fight with this bowling ball?

  “Come on, Vi. Pretend I’m attaching you. What would you do?”

  I sigh. “Oh, I get it. This is another one of your lessons.”

  I start to sit down, but Maribelle stops
me, her tone more urgent. “What would you do?”

  I ball my hands into fists and pump them in front of me like an old-fashioned boxer, one arm extended farther than the other, one foot in front of the other.

  “Good,” she says. “Feel how balanced you are?”

  “I feel like a fool,” I tell her, but the old boxer stance gives me confidence. Yes, I do feel balanced. Bring it on.

  Maribelle picks up a handmade purse for sale. “Imagine this purse is your fear.” She hangs it over one arm, which throws me off-kilter and I stumble.

  “What’d you do that for?”

  “To show you how fear changes everything.”

  “That’s not fair,” I say, pulling the purse off my arm and trying to regain my balance. “You threw me off.”

  “Exactly. That’s what fear does. It throws you off center.”

  Maribelle picks up a little bird house and hangs it off my other arm, which, of course, forces me to lean in that direction. I lose my footing and almost fall into a display of jewelry.

  “Understand it yet?” she asks.

  I pull the bird house off and place it back on the shelf. “Yes, Obie Wan.”

  “Yoda, if you please.”

  John hands Maribelle her packages and orders an employee to put the table in Maribelle’s trunks. Once we enter the car and John waves us on, she turns to me.

  “Lesson number one: The best way to avoid evil is to avoid it.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know what I mean, like your mom said. Lesson number two is to find your center and remain balanced.”

  “Fine, can we go home now?”

  We head out, driving straight home with me calling TB every five minutes.

  “He’s not answering.” I chew my thumbnail and chew down too hard, breaking the skin.

  “Remember what we learned about fear?”

  “You can’t possibly compare meeting evil head-on with worrying about my husband.”