Give Up the Ghost Page 17

  He leans forward and runs a hand through his thick blond hair. “No, not like that. I can’t feel danger coming.” He looks at me to make sure I understand. “It’s like there’s a fog inside my brain.”

  I’m seriously worried but I don’t want it leaking out into my countenance.

  “You’ve been working really hard at school. The whole reason we moved here was for you to do an accelerated program so you could graduate in nine months. That’s hard for anyone and you especially, since you were out of college for all those years we had….”

  I look away, wonder for the ten millionth time when speaking her name won’t cause me such pain. TB leans forward, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

  “That’s just it, Vi. I’m worried sick about you, the babies. What if…?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t go there.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m telling you this fog, this worry has taken over. I can’t sleep at night, I can’t concentrate.”

  “It’s natural, sweetheart. We lost a child. How do we stop worrying about the health of our kids? Don’t you think I’m feeling the same? But the ultrasounds have been normal and the two of them are kicking the hell out of my insides.”

  I send him a warm smile and he absorbs it. Sort of. I still see the confusion brewing behind his eyes.

  And I can’t stop recalling what Maribelle said the day before, that a sense of paranoia has taking over the people of Emma’s Cove.

  We enjoy Sebastian’s breakfast spread that includes farm eggs from a neighbor, homemade biscuits, and strawberry jam Maribelle created the summer before. I’m constantly amazed at how Sebastian produces meals from the freshest ingredients found locally and “Mare’s” genius with plants.

  TB turns sleepy, lies down on the couch and falls into a deep slumber while watching This Old House on PBS. I look at Sebastian who nods toward the door. Without another word, I slip away, take his Toyota into town to the newsroom of the Lightning Bug Chronicle.

  It’s heading toward ten a.m. so the morning budget meeting’s in progress. The section editors, a few reporters, and the managing editor pile into a tight meeting room and discuss what’s brewing in the news and where these stories might be placed in print. They’ll do it again at three, when stories are more developed, and that’s when the front page gets finalized.

  I wait outside until I hear chairs being pushed aside. Finally, the door opens and Olivia Bradley emerges, her arms full of newspapers and the initial story budget.

  “Hey Vi,” the managing editor tells me as she sizes up my large belly. “You must be due any day now.”

  “I wish. Another month.”

  “You’re kidding,” my skinny boss exclaims, which makes me cringe.

  “Yeah.” I place a hand at my lower back which is killing me today. “Can’t arrive fast enough.”

  “Don’t push it. You’ll have twins to take care of. That can’t be much fun.”

  Funny how when you’re pregnant people say the most encouraging things.

  “Pick out names yet?”

  “Not yet.” TB and I have been going round and round trying to whittle down the field.

  “Olivia’s a great name.” Then my editor bursts into laughter.

  I smile and slip behind her and into the meeting room, quickly close the door. The other editors pause in their socializing and look my way.

  “I need all y’all’s help.”

  Carol looks past me to the closed door. “Why the secret?”

  “It’s a favor and it’s not Chronicle business, although it could be a very big story if we discover something.”

  I’m waiting for someone to object, some conscientious person to remind the group they don’t work for me, they answer to Olivia, but the mention of a big story ignites the room. I seize the moment and explain Jack’s unsolved murder, the strange deaths of Maribelle’s parents, and a group of investors looking to place a modern resort at the edge of Emma’s Cove. I also mention Sebastian and Maribelle’s new businesses, so everyone knows I have a personal part to play.

  “And my husband’s truck went off the road yesterday,” I add, trying to keep the catch from my throat. “I don’t think it was an accident.”

  “Why would you say that?” Carol asks.

  I shake my head because I have no evidence to prove foul play but I offer a few theories. I don’t mention Dwayne’s name but I do explain how a man tried to kill me in Natchez and has been on the run ever since, threatened my family earlier this year.

  “The FBI’s looking into that but I’d like to know what’s going on in town, what happened to Jack, who these developers are and what, if any, this has to do with me and my brother’s new business.”

  “What do you need?” Carol asks.

  The room becomes a symphony of suggestions. Nellie Ridley, who covers the cops beat, will call Maribelle’s hometown and see if she can obtain police reports. She will do the same locally about Jack’s murder and TB’s accident from the night before. The business editor, a stout balding man in his fifties named Morgan Culotta, will dig into the group looking to develop Emma’s Cove, do a title search on Maribelle’s properties.

  “I’ll use the newspaper archives to see what I can find on Maribelle’s parents,” I add.

  “Those are at the library,” Carol tells me. “Talk to Camille Smith over there. She can help you.”

  I smile gratefully at my tribe, feeling like the day TB and I were rescued from our roof after Hurricane Katrina. The National Guard pulled us into a helicopter and then landed on the nearby elevated interstate where we were immediately surrounded by first responders, each one offering water, food, medical attention.

  “Thank you,” I tell my friends. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Or belly as it were.”

  The business editor laughs. “Thank you. This might be a great story.”

  The door opens and Olivia sticks her head in. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” Carol says with a big smile. “We’re planning the Fourth of July potluck.”

  Olivia brightens. She might be a hard-nose editor but she adores free food in the newsroom. “Ooh, do bring your deviled eggs.”

  “You bet,” Carol says, and it’s all we can do not to laugh.

  I waddle through Lightning Bug’s streets towards the library but I have another person to contact. My sister Portia answers on the second ring.

  “Is the baby coming?”

  “Four more weeks.”

  “Oh darn. I was hoping to get a vacation.”

  “You can still do that. In fact, I wish you would.”

  I’m trying to be funny in a serious way, but what emerges sound nervous and scared. Portia doesn’t miss a thing.

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  I explain the accident but insist TB’s fine, resting at home with Sebastian.

  “Where are you?”

  “In town. That’s why I’m calling. I need your help.”

  Portia and I have never been close, have butted heads our entire lives, but we’ve reached a truce since taking a long road trip through Texas last fall. In fact, things have improved so much we actually call each other now and catch up. She still doesn’t know the extent of my ghostly and witchy talents, nor that TB’s a descendant. Or that Dwayne tried to kill me in Natchez and is at it again.

  Maybe we still aren’t that close. But, that’s all about to change now.

  “Portia, there’s something I need to tell you,” I begin, pausing in front of the library. “I can do it now or in person. I think being here and sitting down might be preferable.”

  There’s a heavy pause on the other end.

  “It’s a long story and Sebastian’s involved,” I add. “And we need a good lawyer.”

  Finally, I hear her exhale. “I’m on the next plane, but at least give me some information.”

  I take a deep breath and begin. “There’s a man I met on a previous press trip who’s dangerous. He attempted to kill me the
n and may want to try again. The FBI’s involved but it’s possible he could have been the reason TB had the accident. Our neighbor, who Sebastian is in love with, is a suspect in the murder of her husband last year, and we’re not sure she’s innocent but we hope she is. But if she goes down, Sebastian may lose the restaurant. There’s also a weird history in Emma’s Cove and a group of developers may be conspiring to run Maribelle off her land.”

  Another pregnant pause, and yes, I’m using that metaphor again.

  “Is that enough?” I ask. “We can get into details when….”

  Finally, she laughs. “Is that it? Sheesh, Vi, why don’t you call when you have a serious problem?”

  Did my stalwart sister, nicknamed Jackie McCoy by her colleagues in a nod toward Law and Order, just offer sarcasm? I’m so shocked I have nothing to say.

  “I’ll make flight arrangements now.”

  Family. So crazy, so infuriating. And yet, so reliable when you need them the most.

  “Thank you, Portia. I know it sounds insane.”

  “If you’re involved, it’s always insane.”

  True dat. “Sorry.”

  “Just stay safe.”

  “Will do.”

  “Keep the FBI close.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “And don’t tell Mom.”

  And with those final words, my sister hangs up.

  I enter the public library and ask for Camille, find my helpful friend alone in the genealogy room restocking books.

  “More research?” she asks with a smile.

  “Actually, I need to check old newspaper articles.”

  “You know where those are located. Help yourself.”

  “From Maine.”

  Camille stops mid-reach, looks around the room, then discreetly closes the door. “What’s the big deal about Maine?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There were three men in here this week doing the same research.”

  It’s hot in this stuffy back room but I shiver. “What men?”

  Camille shrugs. “Guys in suits.”

  “Did they give their names?”

  Camille thinks for a moment. “Not to me, but to use the library resources without a local library card they would have had to sign in at the reference desk.” She gives me a wary gaze. “What’s going on?”

  I look around the stacks, even though I’m sure we’re alone, then pull Camille toward the back of the room.

  “Some people are trying to get Maribelle Greene’s land, the property next to her hotel. They want to build some fancy resort there.”

  Camille crosses her arms about her chest. “Those gorgeous old-growth woods?”

  I nod.

  “But what’s that got to do with Maine?”

  A family walks by the room, the kids talking animatedly about the story time they enjoyed. I wait for their voices to die away.

  “Maribelle’s parents lived in Maine. They were found dead and ruled a suicide.”

  Camille utters a sentence in Spanish and performs the sign of the cross.

  “I’m wondering if these men are looking for ways to tie Maribelle to the crime, compromise her finances fighting the charges and snatch that land.”

  “Or find a way that proves she doesn’t own it to begin with.”

  I step back in surprise. “What?”

  “You didn’t find that in the folders I gave you on Emma’s Cove? That once Emma Harrington became successful, the timber company tried to lay claim to the land?”

  I think back on that newspaper article about litigation. “I did, but there was nothing else about it so I figured it was thrown out of court.”

  Camille smiles sadly. “Nothing rich corporations do gets thrown out of court that easily. They sue and hope you won’t have the money to fight them and give up. But they underestimated Emma. She had support from her own rich friends in New York City. They took on her case and won.”

  Good for you, Emma.

  “You think that’s what these developers might do to Maribelle?”

  The light that routinely shines in Camille’s eyes fades. “I think that when powerful men want something, they will do anything they can to get it.”

  We’ve never discussed Camille’s background, where she came from, why she moved to Emma’s Cove and then Lightning Bug and changed her name. I’ve always assumed there was a violent husband or boyfriend in her past, possibly someone who took her to court or vice versa. But she doesn’t have to explain for me to feel the pain emanating from those eyes. I touch her arm and she acknowledges me with gratitude.

  “You access the newspaper database through our computers,” Camille explains. “I can show you how to do that on your own computer at home, but discretion is called for.”

  “That would be awesome.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” she states firmly. “Library rules say everyone must do this in-house and I could get in big trouble.”

  I slide a hand across my lips pantomiming a zipper.

  We head toward the reference desk and I wait on the other side while she writes me instructions. She passes me the information, then holds up a finger. While I slip the paper into my purse, Camille examines the sign-in sheet from the past week.

  “Here it is,” she says, then straightens as if a lightning bolt cascaded down her back.

  “What is it?”

  She leans across the desk, silently checking for anyone within earshot.

  “Those three men,” she whispers. “They were from Clark-Everhart.”

  “The timber company?”

  She nods her head. “They’re a major corporation now and have several divisions. One is a hotel chain.”

  I lean back, absorbing this news. “Any names?”

  She glances back at the sheet and frowns. “Three. One is Dr. Patrick Touché.”

  “Shit.” The word emerges before I have time to check myself. “Sorry. But he’s the man who stripped Maribelle of her midwifery license.”

  She shakes her head at the other names. “Gunnar Bronagh.”

  “What a weird name.” Reminds me of a Masterpiece Theatre mystery series. “But it doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Camille tilts her head and her eyes narrow. “I don’t know this one, although it sounds familiar.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Robert Johnson.”

  Chapter 12

  I can’t flee the library fast enough with this information, calling Clayton on the ride home. He doesn’t pick up so I leave a detailed message.

  “Robert Johnson?” Sebastian asks when I enter the houseboat out of breath and relate all that occurred this afternoon. “Why does name that sound familiar?”

  “Mississippi blues singer,” TB mumbles from the couch.

  His lip’s still bruised on one side, making him lopsided like a hound dog. I’m surprised my husband knows who Robert Johnson is considering his seventies infatuation. He shrugs as if he’s reading my mind.

  “I visited Greenwood, Mississippi, with the high school football team. Seen his grave. The man has three, you know?”

  “What?” Sebastian asks.

  TB leans on an elbow and I notice the color blooming in his cheeks. The black eyes still break my heart but my husband’s slowly improving. I wish I was sitting on the couch so I could cover those cheeks with grateful kisses.

  “Robert Johnson died mysteriously outside Greenwood,” TB tells us. “Some say by a jealous husband of a woman he was flirting with, maybe poisoned. Others think syphilis. No one knows for sure where he’s buried and there are three gravestones in cemeteries in the Mississippi Delta that insist it’s the place. I’m going with the one I visited.”

  Sebastian shakes his head trying to make sense of it. “Fascinating.”

  TB perks up. “It was. People visit his grave all the time, leave weird things like harmonicas and bourbon.”

  Sebastian turns to me. “Why would you think someone with a blues singer’s name and three graves is Dway
ne?”

  I cringe remembering meeting Dwayne in the middle of the Natchez Trace, and what I had contemplated at the time.

  “Because Robert Johnson was such an amazing musician people claimed he sold his soul to the devil at the Mississippi crossroads,” I explain. “And I nearly did the same thing.”

  “What?” The color drains from TB’s face. He never knew how close I came to giving in to Dwayne’s insistence that he could help me contact Lillye.

  “I didn’t know what he wanted in return,” I tell him, finding my voice taking on a desperate tone.

  I nearly lost TB on that trip down the Natchez Trace, so desperate I was to reach my sweet girl, and now my husband’s staring at me like I’m a lost cause. And maybe I am. Because I’d still offer my life for one more moment with my precious baby.

  TB swallows. Hard. “Vi…,” he begins.

  I rise from my seat. More like slowly slide out of my chair, belly first, arm on the back for support. “Anyone want something to drink?”

  No one answers as I head toward the kitchen and I swear I can feel TB’s gaze boring into my back. Once inside the kitchen, the men begin to talk quietly and I let out the breath I’ve been holding. My heart’s beating hard again so I set the kettle on the stove and pull out another Maribelle concoction, this one she swore would help with my high blood pressure. What would really help bring my heartbeat down, I’m thinking as a rush of anger creeps up my neck, is for someone to tell me how to contact my child!

  TB’s whispering to Sebastian and I grind my teeth. I’m suffering day and night carrying two of his children, losing sleep and having to pee constantly, not to mention the horrific heartburn I suffer after every meal and my back about to break in two. Here he is, sitting in the other room discussing me to my twin, no doubt expressing my insane determination to see Lillye. And what mother wouldn’t move heaven and earth to see her child? God knows what Sebastian’s telling him back, probably all kinds of nonsense from my youth.

  I’m furious by the time I head to the living room with my tea, my heartbeat so intense I can feel it pulsating in my ears. But instead of discovering a conspiracy, I find the men debating whether Les Miles should coach another season of LSU football.