A Ghost of a Chance Read online

  “You have to show that to the ‘Terminator’,” Winnie says.

  “Who?”

  “That cop. This will prove you’re not crazy.”

  “Thanks.” I turn off the camera and put it back into my bag. “I never thought I actually was.”

  She gives me that mom look again. “You know what I mean.”

  After lunch we all pile into two vans and head for the outskirts of town. I’m feeling better now because one, I have actual evidence to show Maddox, even if he doesn’t believe in ghosts, and two, I’m starting to trust my newfound ability. And if I can communicate with ghosts now, I should be able to talk to my daughter. For the first time in a very long time, I have hope and feel the stirrings of something akin to happiness.

  After a quick trip outside of town, we stop at Thorncrown Chapel, a magnificent structure rising heavenwards in the Ozark woods with four hundred and twenty-five windows and more than six thousand square feet of glass, an impressive, uplifting site that mirrors my mood. As we make our way into this chapel that also contains one hundred tons of native stones and colored flagstone, we all sigh with pleasure. The architecture alone is extraordinary but to be able to worship inside a space that’s surrounded by nature makes it more special.

  An elderly woman who we wish would speak louder tells us the story of how the chapel was built. Ninth-grade teacher Jim Reed purchased the property for his retirement home but found people constantly pausing on his homestead to view the natural beauty of the area. He envisioned a chapel for people to use and enlisted the help of E. Fay Jones, an architecture professor at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville. Halfway through its construction, however, Reed ran out of funds.

  “He was downhearted,” the woman tells us, and we all lean forward to hear. “But he came into his half-finished chapel and prayed for guidance. And somehow the money came.”

  “Is that all it takes?” Winnie whispers to me. “I could use a new roof.”

  “Go for it,” I whisper back. “And get me a new bathroom for my potting shed.”

  Once Jim Reed built it, the people came. The woman claims that more than six million visitors from around the world have come through these doors.

  She’s getting a little preachy at this point and it’s still hard to hear so my mind wanders out the window, enjoying the sunshine filtering through the trees to warm my face, wishing church had been this awesome when I was growing up. If I had attended church services here, I would have spent the whole time gazing out into those peaceful woods. Not exactly what church is for, but nature brings me peace like no other.

  The group begins laughing softly and I look up to find a man dressed in biblical garb walking down the aisle. He’s a shepherd, he tells us, a follower of Jesus. He’s performing with the Great Passion Play at the Christ of the Ozarks, but he tries to stay in character. The production coincides with the massive statue of Jesus on the hill overlooking our hotel.

  The shepherd actor introduces himself as David and explains how a cast of more than one hundred performs in Eureka Springs every summer and that we all need to return to catch this outdoor drama. There’s also the Holy Land next door to the performance space, offering exhibits that have been reproduced historically and archaeologically accurate, David insists.

  Our colleagues start shooting tourism questions such as when does the show begin and end, is it tour bus accessible, would non-Christians enjoy it, etc. Suddenly Winnie pipes up. “Was this something you studied in school, becoming a biblical-era shepherd.”

  Davis laughs. “Actually, ma’am, I studied to be a Roman soldier when I was sixteen and I worked my way up.”

  The crowd laughs appropriately and David beams being in the spotlight.

  “Did it help you win girls?” Winnie asks and our fellow travel writers giggle.

  “Yes ma’am,” David replies proudly, missing the sarcasm. “My wife’s in the production too. She plays Satan.”

  Winnie throws up her hands. “I’m not touching that one.”

  We leave Thorncrown Chapel in a good mood, our van chugging up the mountain over to Lake Leatherwood City Park, a peaceful retreat created by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the early 1940s. The cold spring stream was dammed to form the eighty-five-acre lake covered in lovely lotus blossoms, popular with fishermen. Both the dam and the park are on the National Register of Historic Places and the acreage makes it one of the largest city parks in the country. There are cabins at the lake’s edge, nestled near a manmade beach where a gaggle of Canadian geese have taken over. Because spring has almost arrived, the trees are beginning to burst forth in greens and other colors, dogwoods dotting the landscape in whites and pinks.

  On the way back through town Nanette Wells, our local tourism contact, suggests a stop at Pivot Rock, another park located outside of town that includes an unusual rock formation — basically a rock resembling the inverted pyramid we journalists learn in basic newswriting — and a natural bridge. We hike to both from the parking lot and are considering continuing to a view of Lake Leatherwood until Irene and Richard begin complaining, Irene that she has a bum knee with doctor’s orders to lay off physical activity and Richard that rain is in the forecast, no doubt to cover up the fact that he’s not up for the challenge. After hasty photos, we return from whence we came and head back to town.

  It’s beginning to drizzle so we decide the Crescent is the best course of action. Henry announces that we have two hours until dinner and does anyone want to do the ghost tour at the Basin Park Hotel tonight at nine o’clock. Half the van raises their hands but I’m not one of them. I’ve had enough of ghosts for a while.

  “You’ll be missing the cowboy,” Carmine leans over and whispers to me. “He and his horse kept me up all night.” I give him a questioning look but he only raises that one eyebrow in explanation. “You don’t want to know,” he finally answers.

  Henry pulls the van up to the front door and we all disembark, grateful for a few hours of down time. I’m thinking now’s the perfect chance to grab a nap, hopefully make up for the past few nights of fitful sleep, when I spot Merrill lounging by the lobby fireplace. When she sees me she waves. I slip over to the couch where she’s sitting but I’m hoping Henry doesn’t notice.

  “I really shouldn’t be seen with you,” I whisper when she looks up from reading a copy of the latest Sierra Club magazine.

  To my surprise, Merrill looks heartbroken. “Oh. I was hoping we could talk about Lori.”

  “Four Twenty-two,” I whisper and continue my stroll through the lobby to the elevator, hoping no one noticed. Winnie has that quizzical look on her face and the elevator’s packed, so I take the stairs. It’s a good haul up three flights in the Crescent but I love the hotel’s old staircases with their heavy wooden rails painted black, the Victorian red walls and the colorful carpeting. You can also look straight up to the fourth floor, not to mention peek around the corners of each floor you visit. Not sure what I’m looking for, maybe a nurse pushing a gurney?

  At the top of the stairs I make my way down the hall, past the Baker Bar and around the corner to my room. TB hasn’t arrived yet, so it’s just me and for the first time since I arrived in Eureka Springs I get to enjoy the solitude.

  Of course, it doesn’t last long for Merrill is soon at my door.

  “I brought the letter,” she tells me as she slips inside.

  Something in the air shifts when Merrill enters the room. I don’t experience the buzzing of the past few days but my arm hairs are standing at attention. I gaze around in the hopes of seeing Lori appear but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Look, I’m sorry about showing up at the hotel,” Merrill says. “I don’t want to make things awkward for you.”

  “It’s not that. I don’t want Henry, the guy who put this tour together, to think I’m one of your protestors posing as a travel writer because I suspect that the mayor already planted that seed in his head.”

  Merrill gingerly sits on my bed. “I would
n’t worry about that. Nanette is not a big fan of Leticia and I told Nanette everything that happened.”

  I exhale and fall into the easy chair opposite the bed, trying not to appear too eager. “Can I see the letter?”

  Merrill pulls an envelope out of her purse and hands it to me. “You can keep that. It’s a copy.”

  I open it and read the delicate writing of a different age. There’s no date, but the postmark reads January 22, 1924, Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

  My dearest Annabelle,

  What must you think of me after my actions of the past few weeks? Nothing I can say or do will ever erase the hurt I have caused you or the disgrace I have brought upon us both, even if our secret shall follow us to the grave.

  You have done right in leaving this place. There is nothing but evil about, including deep within my heart for darkness has invaded my soul.

  The search for your colleague continues. No matter what has happened or who will be charged in what I fear w=ill be a crime, I consider myself responsible. I let the evil desire rule my judgment with her, as I did you, and will carry that sin with me until my dying day. I pray you will forgive me.

  There are things that may be said of me in the near future, dear one, but do not listen to these rumors unless you hear the truth from my lips. Do not return, for it is not safe to be here and will remain so until I’m confident things have been made right.

  Please keep up your English studies. You are a gifted writer and I know that fortune will shine upon you and your work.

  Your friend forever,

  James Leatherwood

  That charged feeling in the room ratchets up a notch. Big time. I look up from reading, my head buzzing with the electricity. “Your grandfather was the English teacher?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What English teacher?” Merrill asks.

  I grab her hand and lead her down the hall to the room where the historic photos are kept. I scan the wall until I find the right one. “There,” I announce, pointing to the photo of the English class winning the literary award. “Is that him?”

  She leans in close to the photo, studying it hard, then pales. “What is my grandfather doing in that picture?”

  Now I’m really confused, because the mayor knows about this photo, acted proud when she mentioned the literary award. Surely, being cousins, Merrill would know this as well?

  “He was the English teacher here?” Merrill’s looking at me for more information, but what I got from this photo came in a vision.

  “Obviously.”

  Merrill shakes her head. “I never knew this.”

  “Did you know that his name was James Cabellero?”

  This rings a bell for her eyes grow large. “I’ve seen that name before but I can’t remember where. But my grandfather’s name was James Leatherwood.”

  That name rings a bell with me. “Like the park outside of town?”

  She nods. “But the park wasn’t named for my grandfather.”

  “You think this is really the same man.”

  Merrill takes another long look at the photo. “I’m positive. Besides, it says so under the photo.”

  Now I look closely and sure enough, beneath the photo reads: “James Leatherwood’s English class after receiving the top regional award in creative writing.” There’s a list of the girls in the photos and Lauralei Thorne is one of them.

  I sit down on a nearby couch, feeling vindicated for the second time that day, but it’s not enough and really, I’m as confused as ever. “I’m positive he and Lori — or Annabelle — knew each other. Knew each other well.”

  I explain my visions and how Lori has appeared to me in the room, how she and James had seemed close friends. I leave out the part about her showing me what might have been a baby, no use freaking out Merrill more than necessary and really, I have no idea what that means. But I do ask, “Was there something romantic between them, you think?”

  Merrill pulls her hand through her hair and the locks fall softly about her face. Even with all that natural gray, her sublime countenance presents a younger appearance. “I don’t know. And I don’t think my mom knows either.”

  Here comes the tough question. “Do you think he had anything to do with those girls’ bodies that were found?”

  Merrill looks up and meets my gaze but we say nothing. The answer feels all too real.

  Just then TB passes in the hallway, sees us sitting there and bounds into the room with a huge grin. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had.”

  He’s excited, bursting with some news, so I move over to give him room on the couch. Before he sits down I make introductions and Merrill offers that warm handshake to him (I can tell for TB instantly brightens).

  “Merrill’s grandfather used to teach here,” I tell TB.

  “Wow. That’s awesome. Maybe you can help us with a few questions, then.”

  Merrill sits taller, her eyes glistening. “I hope so.”

  TB’s smile grows until he shows some teeth; he’s super excited and it’s the first time I’ve seen him this happy since LSU won the College World Series. He pats the pile of papers in his lap. “I found lots of great information.”

  “Where have you been?” I ask him.

  “Right down the street is this awesome building. It’s a library of sorts although it’s got a longer name, like after some rich guy or something.”

  “The Carnegie Library,” Merrill says sweetly. Again, I’m thankful she doesn’t treat TB in a patronizing manner like so many others. And yes, that includes me.

  “That’s it,” TB says enthusiastically. “Very cool place. Built right upside the mountain and the inside’s got this cool fireplace and you can go up these stairs to where more books are kept.”

  “So what did you find?” Unfortunately, I’m not as patient.

  “The librarian there was very helpful. I told her what I was looking for and she and I went through all these old records, articles from old newspapers from the 1920s and the college yearbooks.”

  This gets my attention. “College yearbooks?”

  “Yeah!” He pulls a bunch of papers from his stack and hands them to us, half to Merrill and the other half to me. “So this college that was here was pretty well known. At one point the college president was putting ads in newspapers that bragged about the school having students from thirty-nine states. They even had an amazing basketball team that played other schools all over the south, even though it was just girls.”

  For that comment, I pinch TB on the arm.

  He flinches, staring at me. “What?”

  We look at the pages in front of us, copies of old yearbooks with photos of girls in basketball uniforms, a bowling league and various pages of senior portraits.

  “It wasn’t cheap either,” TB continues. “We found an article about the school taking in a couple of scholarship girls, at least that’s what they called them; they were orphans from Little Rock. For the most part, the college was full of smart, accomplished girls who came from money.”

  Flipping through the pages I didn’t see anything I recognized. Until I got to the basketball page and there she was, our blond goddess in a school uniform, if you could call racing around a basketball court in a skirt a uniform. I point to the spoiled blond with a penchant for “townies.” “That’s her.”

  We all lean over and look down on Blair Marcus, but I’m the only one who knows who she is.

  “Her who?” TB asks.

  “She was the girl I saw in the cave two days ago. The one whose bones they found.”

  “You saw this girl in a cave?”

  I start to grind my teeth, that after two days TB remains clueless as to the cave debacle but Merrill stares at me wondering what the hell I’m talking about too.

  “I saw this girl deep inside Sycamore Cave by Beaver Lake,” I tell them both. “She was wearing the school uniform and had blood on her head, appeared like she didn’t know she was dead.”

  “Oh, so it was a ghost,�
�� TB points out.

  “No, sweetheart, she was time traveling from the 1920s.”

  Merrill grimaces and I mentally kick myself. I don’t mean to be sarcastic to my boyish husband, but his simplemindedness gets the best of me sometimes and I’m still smarting from Maddox’s accusations. “Sorry, yes, it was a ghost. And the cops showed up and found old bones there.”

  Merrill reads the inscription, moving her finger across the page to match the name with the position in the lineup. “Blair Marcus.”

  Those damn goosebumps return when I hear her name spoken aloud but TB sits up straight, a big smile again on his face. “I know this girl! She won the basketball scholarship. She was some big deal in Dallas.”

  “Marcus,” Merrill muses. “Wonder if she’s related to that family.” When TB and I gaze at her questionably, she adds, “Neiman-Marcus.”

  “That’s a department store, right?” TB asks.

  Merrill smiles graciously. “A very rich department store.”

  “But that wouldn’t make sense,” I say, considering the consequences. “If the heir to a fortune like that went missing, the whole world would have known.”

  TB proudly pulls out some other pages from his treasure pile. “Maybe not the whole world, but this part of it did.”

  He hands us several articles, mostly from Texas newspapers but a few from Little Rock. Blair’s formal photograph graces most of them, sitting on top articles about a missing girl from Crescent College.

  “Wow,” Merrill says, picking up one of the articles. “I never knew about this.”

  TB leans back cocky on the couch, stretching his arms behind us both. “The librarian said the same thing. One day she was cleaning up a back room and she found these old articles. They were tucked inside an old chest, hidden beneath dusty volumes of government crap. She said if she hadn’t been the overly curious sort, she never would have found them.”

  “But this must have been big news,” Merrill says.