Ghost Trippin' Page 19

  “Maybe we should call Wanda?” I suggest.

  TB pauses for a moment, thinking, then reaches down and flips the chest latches, pulls the lid open. He bolts backwards, his hand instantly at his mouth, then moves forward and slams it shut.

  “What is it?” I ask, but then the smell hits me.

  It’s the smell of death.

  The marina boats bop in the waves stirred up by the oncoming storm. Wrapped in a police blanket, I sit on the edge of the lake watching a cute little red dingy fighting the waves.

  “Just what we need, more rain,” says a voice from over my head.

  I look up to find a sequoia of a man. He reaches in his breast pocket and pulls out a badge, then the giant tree sits down beside me on the dock steps, his long legs stretched out before him.

  “Wanna tell me what happened?”

  I smirk. “You first.”

  He rests his arms on his knees and tries to relax in this position but his height makes it uncomfortable for him to do so. He reminds me of a giraffe bending down to eat low-hanging fruit.

  “Viola Valentine, I presume?”

  “At your service. Any dead bodies you need finding?”

  I don’t mean to be sarcastic, but discovering what likely is Elena Gomez in a horrible state of decay, not to mention folded up in a moldy old chest, has left me devoid of proper etiquette. Despite my rudeness, sequoia holds out his hand.

  “Clayton Ginsburg, FBI narcotics division.”

  I’m impressed, the case has attracted the big guns. But then I remember that I found all the bodies.

  “Are you arresting me?”

  He sends me a wry smile. “Should I be?”

  “I seem to be in all the wrong places.”

  “More like the right ones.”

  I sigh and look back at my favorite boat. “I’m a medium and this woman Elena Gomez keeps haunting me. I know that sounds crazy but….”

  Clayton looks around to make sure we’re alone. “Wanda caught me up.”

  I look at his face, notice his green eyes and a series of laugh lines surrounding them. Seems nice. Seems trustworthy. “You know Wanda?”

  He rubs his hands along his thighs, out of nervousness or trying to warm up, I’m not sure. “We’ve been working on this case for a while now. You’re the first break we’ve had in a long time.”

  “And this is where you send me away? Either jail or the insane asylum?”

  Clayton smiles. “I have a lot of questions, Ms. Valentine, but I doubt we’ll be locking you up.”

  He takes out a pad and pen and a tape recorder and I suddenly think of Portia. “May I have my sister present?”

  Sequoia agrees and calls a deputy police officer to find Portia. She heads over, introduces herself as my lawyer, and makes herself comfortable. Or as comfortable as Portia would be in dress slacks sitting on a dock.

  Clayton holds out his hand again and introduces himself. “I assure you, there’s no need for a lawyer.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Portia answers.

  I smile and take Portia’s hand. I’m glad my big sister’s here.

  Clayton turns on the recorder and rattles off the twenty questions. More like fifty. After what seems like an hour of me explaining everything, from finding my father in Alabama to discovering pirates in Galveston, he flips his pad shut and stuffs it inside his jacket pocket, then turns off the recorder.

  “Is it my turn yet?” I ask.

  His smile makes me warm inside and I wonder what his demeanor is like apprehending drug criminals.

  “Is it Elena?” Portia asks.

  He sighs. “We think so.”

  I know so. Between the vision, the iPad playing pirate music and Elena appearing to me, I can’t imagine who else would be in that chest. Then there was poor Wanda screaming when they asked her to ID the body. I shiver thinking about Wanda and her cries of anguish.

  “Shall I get you another blanket?” Clayton asks.

  I shake my head. “I just want to get out of here.”

  “It’s been two hours,” Portia says. “And it’s getting dark.”

  Clayton stands and brushes off his pants. “I’ll see about getting you an escort back to the hotel.”

  I stand and stomp my feet; my legs have gone to sleep. “No need. Wanda can take us.”

  “Wanda will be here for a while, I’m afraid.”

  I look over at our favorite police officer who’s standing by the forensics team, a blank look on her face, and my heart breaks. I’ve come to really like this woman and I fear she’s in for a night of hell.

  Not to mention years of grief.

  “Can I at least talk to her?” I ask. “I’ve lost someone dear to me. I might be able to help.”

  “Tomorrow,” Clayton says, and motions us to our van.

  Portia rounds up Mimi and TB, both of whom had been questioned by different officers, and we head to the driveway where TB and I parked the van a million years ago. I pause and look back to Clayton.

  “I only see people who have died by water. I know that must sound weird but it’s true. Something that happened to me after Hurricane Katrina. I don’t think Elena died inside that house.”

  Clayton absorbs this information, once again looking around to see if anyone else is listening. “Thank you, Ms. Valentine.”

  We pile into the van and leave the haunting old mansion behind. As we drive down the coast highway, watching the setting sun casting orange sparkles on the waves, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn expecting to find Mimi offering empathy but it’s Portia.

  “I got your back,” she says and I send her a grateful smile.

  No one says another word all the way to the hotel.

  As the valet gives us back our ticket and TB relinquishes the seat, Mimi pulls our bags of costuming from the back. “What’s this?”

  I had forgotten about the dance-off; it seems like years since we were laughing inside that vintage shop. “It’s for the dance contest, Mimi. A moot point now.”

  She peeks inside and brightens. “Absolutely not. This is just what we need.”

  “I don’t think so, Mimi…,” TB begins.

  “Mimi’s right.” Portia’s the last one I expect to agree to this. “Y’all went to the trouble of getting clothes, and we need a good laugh.”

  Good laugh? I’m starting to rally. “We have a great routine.”

  She smirks. “I’m sure you do. So, go get dressed.”

  TB looks at me uncertain. “What time is it?”

  I don’t wear a watch and Mimi shrugs; she definitely doesn’t. Portia sighs and relays that it’s seven fifteen.

  “When does it start?” Mimi asks.

  My heart’s not into dancing tonight so I shake my head. I glance at TB and know he’s thinking the same thing.

  “Seven-thirty,” Portia announces, grabbing the bag containing my dress with one hand and my elbow with the other. “Let’s go.”

  TB and I continue our protestations in the elevator but Portia ignores us, pulling me off the elevator at the second floor and instructing TB to get dressed in our room and to meet us in the lobby as soon as possible. Mimi heads over to the conference room where the event is being held with instructions to sign us up.

  “Really, Portia, I’m not in the mood,” I say as we rush down the hallway.

  “Then this is just the thing,” she answers, pushing me into her room.

  She retrieves the silky copper polyester dress out of the bag and laughs. I pull it free of her hands, head to the bathroom and change clothes. The dress fits me well, snug at the bosom with ample material at the skirt that will twirl nicely when we’re dancing. I emerge from the bathroom and do a catwalk turn. Portia gives me a smile that says she approves.

  I pull out the shoes and earrings but Portia has other plans. She grabs my hand and leads me back into the bathroom. “You need some proper makeup.”

  I’m not a fan, have never been good at makeup and the finished product always looks wor
se than me in my natural state. But I let Portia work her magic, reveling in my sister and I bonding in a girly way.

  “We need one more thing,” she says and hurries off. She returns with a flask and hands it to me. “That should take the edge off.” I drink and it does, warming my insides and relaxing my muscles.

  Once she finishes with my makeup —and I must admit, it looks pretty awesome — I pull on my shoes and gaze in the mirror. Clumsy travel writer Viola has turned into a disco queen. I can’t help but laugh.

  “Good,” Portia says. “You’re bouncing back.”

  If the sight of me in a disco dress, makeup, and high heels wasn’t enough to startle Mimi, TB in his all-white suit with royal blue shirt and platform heels does the trick. She practically rolls on the floor with merriment.

  We head down to the lobby to a series of meeting rooms and into the main ballroom where the dance-off is taking place. There’s a wooden stage in the center for dancers, a DJ parked at one end and dozens of tables scattered about where people are drinking and having a good time. The overhead lights are low but the stage is well lit. A couple dressed in Latin attire are dancing an awkward tango.

  “If you’re better than those two, we might have a chance,” Portia whispers in my ear.

  For the first time in hours I feel confidence again. I place a hand at Portia’s shoulder and whisper back, “You have no idea how good we are.”

  Portia gives me a snarky look, thinking I’m kidding, and I laugh. If TB and I pull this off, she’s in for a big surprise.

  We make ourselves comfortable at an empty table we found near the right corner of the stage and wait our turn. Since we were the last ones to sign up, we’re the last to perform. Mimi orders a margarita and Portia bourbon neat with water chasers for the rest of us.

  “I don’t want any,” TB says.

  “It helps with the nerves,” I add.

  “I’m not nervous.”

  And he’s not. I think back on that contest at LSU and remember how confident he was then. He had planned this crazy dance routine with a friend majoring in choreography and we had practiced for weeks. The project had lit a fire inside TB and made me wonder then if he wasn’t all party and sports. When I got pregnant and he insisted we marry and bring our little angel into the world, I knew I had been right, that there was more underneath that superficial exterior.

  When Lillye died, however, he retreated to being a zombie couch potato, but now I see it for what it was, a chance to hide inside his grief. I did the same, only I slipped into shadows and refused to deal with her being gone.

  TB looks at me and frowns. “What are you thinking about?”

  I’m remembering another night like this one when we created something amazing. As much as that night caused havoc in our lives, I would do it over again in a heartbeat.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  After watching several couples do their thing, and a few hardy souls dancing solo, they call our names. By this time, Mimi and Portia are a few sheets to the wind and start hooting and hollering. TB rises and offers his hand, which I accept gracefully like the disco queen that I am. While the sounds of piano, trumpet and tambourine flow out from the DJ’s speakers TB and I enter the dance floor, TB standing at its center in a sophisticated pose and me right behind with a hand on his shoulder. KC and the Sunshine Band count out “one, two, three” and I’m Your Boogie Man starts to play. We launch into action.

  We eat up that dance floor, TB spinning me everywhere, lifting me up while we contort ourselves, the two of us in unison as we disco every inch of that stage. Sometimes he twirls me so hard and long the world becomes a blur but I can hear Mimi and Portia squealing with delight.

  The story behind our dance is a man trying to impress a woman with his moves. At first, I resist and play hard to get, but slowly I’m won over by his style and passion. By the end of the song we’ve moved closer together and he’s won me over. Before the dance ends, we’re practically making love out there. As the song fades away, TB lifts me high over his head and I slowly descend into his arms. He dips me backwards while one leg of mine is pointing heavenward and kisses me soundly as he does. The crowd goes crazy.

  We linger too long in that kiss but it’s too delicious to end. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on tight. Finally, I hear the DJ announcing our names to more applause so we break away.

  “Wow,” TB says heatedly, breathing hard from the dance.

  Wow indeed.

  We straighten and take our bows and if applause is any indication, we nailed this contest. Mimi and Portia are standing, jumping up and down with excitement, and it feels so good to be happy for a change. TB and I look at each, smiling as if our faces will crack, and then he spins me around and dips me again, planting a passionate kiss that makes the crowd yell once more. He pulls me up and we do our choreographed bow, then head to our table.

  “Oh, my, God!” Portia yells.

  “Watch your mouth,” Mimi admonishes her — she hates anyone taking the lord’s name in vain, — then grabs us both in a tight embrace.

  We fall into our chairs while our two relatives pour praise upon us and this time TB knocks back the bourbons sitting on the table. The judges are tallying up their scores and a buzz vibrates through the room. Finally, the DJ takes the mic and calls out the third-place winner, a sweet young couple who danced a West Coast Swing number.

  “Okay, okay,” Portia says seriously. “We’re still in this.”

  I laugh because my badass lawyer sister is totally enraptured by this contest.

  “Second place winner,” the DJ announces, “the Spicy Salsa Sisters.”

  Portia leans toward me, “Don’t ever expect me to do that” and I laugh.

  There’s a drum roll and the crowd hushes. TB and I sit on the edge of our seat, holding our breaths.

  “Where this couple got its moves, I can’t say, but I do know they were meant to be together,” the DJ says. I’m not sure he’s talking about us but TB and I grin at each other. “And they sure won over this crowd. First place goes to Tibault and Viola Boudreaux.”

  As Portia and Mimi scream and the crowd echoes their approval, TB and I head to the stage. I’m glad Mimi used my married name, even if it’s not the legal version, and I wonder if TB noticed. He’s beaming to the stars and back and I almost — almost — see that angelic aura Mimi keeps talking about. We turn and bow and the crowd erupts, then the DJ hands us our trophy and a check for five hundred dollars, enough to help pay Portia for this trip and then some.

  Once the ceremony is done, we head back to the table with lots of pats on the back and well wishes from the audience.

  “Five Hundred dollars?” Portia exclaims.

  “It’s all yours,” TB says. “To cover all these expenses.”

  Portia hugs him, and I’m almost sure my mouth dropped open. When she pulls away, TB’s eyes are filled with moisture and — I can’t believe it — Portia’s too.

  “Use it for Tennessee,” she tells us.

  TB and I glance at each other in wonderment.

  Portia gives us an exasperated sigh. “I’m a lawyer. I eavesdrop.”

  Mimi starts talking about celebratory drinks in the lobby but the way she’s slurring her words I’m doubting she will last the hour. Portia looks tired and mentions calling the kids. As for me, I have other plans.

  “Sorry, guys, but I have something I need to do to my husband.”

  And with those finals words I grab TB’s hand and lead him out of the ballroom. We’re not two seconds inside the elevator before we’re passionately embraced in a kiss.

  Chapter Thirteen

  We stumble down the hallway to our room, still clutching each other like teenagers. I manage to pull TB’s jacket off while he fumbles with the key and then we fall into the room, scaring Stinky, who shoots under the bed.

  “Good place for him to be,” TB says, unzipping my dress. “We don’t want the kid to see mommy and daddy doing the dirty.”

  It
’s like old times, the two of us passionate while being careful not to wake Lillye in the next room. I think back on our early married years and relish how wonderful our lives were for a time. Perspective, I guess.

  TB reaches into his suitcase and pulls out a condom. “This is what I’ve been looking for this whole trip. Turned out it was stuck behind the lining.”

  So, it wasn’t Cookie after all. I grab TB’s cheeks and kiss him soundly and he responds by grabbing my waist and pulling us together so tightly it takes my breath away.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers heatedly.

  We throw off our shoes and I slip out of my dress while TB literally yanks the shirt off his back. We laugh at our ability to disrobe so quickly, then fall on to the bed in a furry of kisses. Lovemaking comes quick and steamy, our union so much sweeter now that we found our common ground. After we reach heaven together, we fall apart on the bed, try to catch our breath and laugh at the beauty of it all.

  I lean into his chest and he holds me close.

  “That was nice,” he says.

  “More than nice.”

  He looks down at me with doe eyes. “Am I really good in bed?”

  I start laughing because the man’s exquisite, if not naive. Maybe it’s his angelic DNA or his spicy Cajun heritage but I know I have it out-of-this-world good.

  “What?” he asks when I can’t stop giggling.

  “I do have to ask, though,” I say when I get ahold of myself. “Do you do that light thing when we make love.”

  TB’s flushed cheeks turn even redder. “I don’t know, Vi. Maybe. I don’t think so.”

  “Can you, though?”

  TB swallows and looks away. “I don’t know, Vi. It comes out when it needs to. Maybe.”

  “Hmmm, sounds like some other part of your anatomy.”

  At this point, we both start laughing, then discuss where we might go from here. The New Orleans house must be put on the market and I need to close my apartment in Lafayette. Since I work for myself covering the Deep South, living in Tennessee wouldn’t be an issue. But money will be tight since TB will work part-time while going to school. He still must confront his family about leaving the business, something he’s not sure he wants to do. Salary and benefits are hard to give up. I should know, I have neither.