Give Up the Ghost Page 24

  “Well, that was fun,” breathes the woman to my right, wiping away tears.

  “But what happened?” asks a middle-aged woman whose name is Verity, I learn from the other.

  Maribelle walks over and takes Verity’s hand. “Better not to ask questions but to be grateful that it’s done,” she tells her.

  Verity isn’t moved. “Really, what was that all about?” But she doesn’t receive an answer.

  The circle breaks and we head up the hill, some to return to the diner, some home, me and my tribe to the houseboat. My heart is full thinking of how we stood up to hatred, how love ruled this night. I’ll never doubt Maribelle or my Aunt Mimi again, I vow, taking TB’s elbow and hugging him close.

  “You were amazing,” he whispers to me.

  “That light show was pretty frickin’ awesome, too.”

  “What light show?”

  I don’t have to look up to know he’s smiling.

  “When we get home you’re going to tell me what Clayton was doing.”

  He kisses the top of my head. “Sorry sweetheart, not going to happen.”

  I pull away, trying to meet his eyes in the darkness, despite the moon peeping through the clouds. “TB….”

  But my husband’s focus turns to Stinky, picking up the cat and carrying him on to the deck. He reaches for my hand and I allow him to pull me up — no easy feat considering my current weight — but when I ask again, he shakes his head. Before I can inquire further, Portia, Sebastian and Maribelle arrive, talking non-stop. We all head inside, Sebastian insisting that Maribelle spend the night and Portia none too pleased to be relegated to the couch. TB closes the door behind us and heads to the kitchen with drink orders. Gazing around the room I’m amazed that everyone acts as if nothing weird has taken place, that we didn’t cast out demons from Emma’s Cove with the assistance of a witch, a tree man and an angel.

  Maybe Maribelle’s right, it’s best not to ask question, be grateful we have at least enjoyed one victory tonight.

  As I move to the front door to turn off the outside light, however, I spot Jack in the woods near my home.

  He’s shaking his head, acting as if I’m the greatest fool there is.

  Chapter 16

  We’re all riding high after the evening’s exorcism, then Morgan and Carol show up asking a million questions. Naturally, everyone wants to know about the dark energy, the sudden wind that appeared out of nowhere, and the white light that capped off the scene. I keep glancing at TB but he’s not saying a word. At one point when he catches me staring, he shakes his head. I won’t find out, either.

  I keep thinking about Clayton and the Ents in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, tree-like people who were guardians of the woods who almost turned into trees themselves when the woods became dark and silent. Or the mythical Green Man who appears in ancient cultures. But maybe I need to take TB’s advice and let it go.

  Yeah, I’m a journalist, like that’s going to happen.

  What’s bothering me more than the supernatural events of the night is Jack’s reaction after we cleared the bad juju from town. I can’t get his expression out of my mind, thinking I’m totally missing something.

  “What’s the matter?” Maribelle asks me once she nabs a glass of wine from TB’s hands.

  I grab her sleeve and pull her toward the back bedroom. Once inside, I close the door.

  “I have no idea what Clayton and your husband did,” she says. “My eyes were closed like the rest of you.”

  “It’s not that.” I make sure no one’s in the bedroom or master bath. “It’s about your husband, Jack.”

  “What about him?”

  Sebastian opens the door and pokes his head in. “We never finished my brilliant pasta so we’re thinking of ordering pizza.”

  “Good idea.” I move to close the door.

  He attempts to get his head farther inside the room. “What are y’all doing?”

  “Talking pregnancy,” Maribelle says.

  “Okay then.” Sebastian closes the door.

  I turn the lock so we won’t be bothered again.

  “What about Jack? Did you see something?” Maribelle asks.

  I explain how he appeared a few moments ago, shaking his head.

  “That’s odd.”

  “I know.” I sit on the edge of the bed, rub my swollen ankles. “I’m pretty sure he was letting me know there’s still a mystery to solve.”

  “Clayton suspects my brother.”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  Maribelle sighs and joins me on the bed. “Likely. Although if you knew my brother he would likely find some way to let me know, to gloat about it. He sent me cryptic postcards after mom and dad’s death.”

  “Dang, Maribelle, did you tell the FBI?”

  She smirks. “Of course, I did.”

  I surmise Clayton may have guessed Gunner murdered Jack all along, but kept it quiet because, as he told us in the diner, Maribelle never stopped being a suspect.

  “Was Gunner mad at your parents for kicking him out of the will?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, Vi. He was an enigma. I’ll never understand why my brother did the things he did. He always seemed so normal to the rest of the world.”

  “Most psychopaths do.”

  I stand because the lack of back support causes my nerves to pinch.

  “You need to get off your feet,” Maribelle tells me. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Funny,” I say, stretching my lower back with the palms of my hands. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

  “Gunner’s not going to kill me. I’m the only family he has in the world.”

  I shake my head wondering how someone so courageous, so wise could miss the fact she may be next on her brother’s list.

  “Maribelle.” I pull up a chair we have next to the bed, one with a back and a pillow, thank goodness. “Have you ever thought it might be about the money?”

  “My inheritance? Yes, of course, but why would Gunner kill my husband? Jack had no money.”

  “Yeah, but you did. And you weren’t divorced from Jack yet.”

  “So?”

  “So,” I repeat, “if you died and Jack was still alive, Gunner wouldn’t inherit anything. Jack would. If Jack was out of the picture, wouldn’t everything you own immediately pass on to your brother upon your death? He would be next of kin.”

  She offers up a sad smile. “Unless I have a will.”

  “Do you?”

  Maribelle looks to the ceiling and winces. “No, been meaning to. Kinda got sick of lawyers after the last fight with the law.”

  “Good thing I know a good lawyer. And she happens to be in the living room.”

  Maribelle’s not convinced. “I still don’t think he would kill me. Not for an old motel in the middle of Tennessee. His tastes run more toward living the good life in New York City.”

  Follow the money. That’s what we learned in journalism school when studying Watergate, one of the greatest investigative stories ever conducted. The Washington Post discovered that the break-in of the Democratic headquarters at the Watergate Hotel led all the way to the office of the president and they knew this by following the money trail.

  “I still think Gunner’s after your money. If he owned this land, he could sell it to Tennessee’s Best Resorts.”

  This has Maribelle thinking, but I sense the doubt lingering inside that head. She doesn’t want to imagine her brother, no matter how horrible he might have been growing up, killing her parents or her husband and now on the hunt to take her life.

  I decide to change course. I relate all the things Jack has told me either verbally or through sign language since I met the ghost in Wisconsin last February.

  “He kept telling me to ask MB,” I say. “Then Caroline Montclair said the same thing.”

  “Ask me what?”

  Good question and one I would have easily answered standing on the Village Green only moments before. Over the past
few months Maribelle, or MB, taught me the ways of the Craft, the laws of the universe, the use of protection and purification elements, and how to face my fears. Somehow, that wasn’t enough and I have no idea why.

  I think back on the few times I spotted Jack in the woods. I scour my brain remembering how he was dressed, his mannerisms, anything that might be a clue.

  “He kept pulling on his earring,” I mutter, wondering if that meant something.

  Maribelle straightens. “What?”

  “He had this earring,” I continue. “On one ear. Three fish dangling in a row.”

  The knowledge hits me like a lightning bolt. I know what this means.

  “Touché!” I shout out.

  Maribelle looks confused, no doubt wondering if I’m speaking of the infamous doctor or exclaiming that I made a clever point at her expense.

  “He has this taxidermy on his wall, three fish in a row. Apparently, he’s super proud of it.”

  Maribelle’s face turns numb as if she’s contemplating something horrible.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That was Jack’s favorite. He always wore it in his left ear.”

  “It was found on the dock that night, according to Clayton.”

  The blood drains from her face so fast I worry she might faint.

  “Maribelle?”

  “That earring showed up on the hotel counter one day. I had no idea where it came from, assumed a visitor had left it behind. I asked the maid about it but she swore she hadn’t found it. I kept it for a week or two but Jack took a liking to it so I let him have it.”

  “Do you think it might have been…?”

  She rises and this time grabs my sleeve. “We have a visit to make.”

  We exit the bedroom and slip through the crowded living room smelling of pizza. A small group huddles around Carol reading the newspaper’s website and what I hear is prime. Nellie has reported in her story the connection between Tennessee’s Best Resorts and two men on the lam for possible murder and arson charges. She included their hefty contributions to city council members’ re-election campaigns and a giant sum paid to the mayor that surprises everyone.

  “Holy Moly,” Portia says.

  Maribelle and I silently slip out the front door with no one the wiser, except for Stinky, who gives me a look my mother used to inflict upon me when I came in after curfew.

  “That cat is definitely strange,” Maribelle says as we head down the dock. “But I like him.”

  Clayton’s talking to Sheridan while sitting on the hood of his car. He appears exhausted, as if he carried two hobbits on his shoulders and rallied trees to take over Isengard. I shake that image from The Two Towers out of my head as we approach and he pulls on his jacket. He does it slowly, however, as if he’s just worked out and every muscle aches.

  “Can I help you, Vi, Maribelle?”

  There’s no amiable greeting and I can’t help but wonder if he’s worried we’ll demand to know what he did on the Village Green.

  “Feel like a drive?” I ask him.

  We stand for several moments staring at one another, the two of us confident that we know what we’re after and Clayton slowly realizing that letting us take the lead might get him somewhere.

  “Okay,” he answers without question. “Get in.”

  We pile into the car, me in the front seat and Maribelle in back. But she doesn’t close the door until she insists I help her test the locks.

  “Glad this isn’t one of those police cars where you lock people in the back seat,” she mumbles.

  “I can fix it that way, if you like,” Clayton offers.

  Maribelle sends him the evil eye.

  We take off, drive silently through the darkness toward Lightning Bug, a sprinkle of rain dotting the windshield. After a few moments, Clayton speaks.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on? Or maybe where I’m going?”

  But I know he knows because he’s following the highway taking us straight downtown.

  I explain about the three fish in Touché’s office and how the ghost of Jack Greene kept showing me the earring. Maribelle pipes in about how the earring was found at the hotel, conveniently placed on the counter.

  “Jack loved anything with a fish on it.”

  “And you think that was a sign from your brother?” Clayton asks.

  “It’s something Gunner would have done because he never committed a crime without letting someone know. It would have been like creating a painting and hanging it in a closet. He always had to have an audience. When he killed my cat he left a picture of Garfield on my bed, cut into pieces.”

  I gasp.

  “Couldn’t imagine he would kill Jack. I just never put two and two together.”

  Clayton ponders this information, never asks why we’re going to Touché’s office, making me wonder if Touché has been on his radar all this time. For the final stretch, Maribelle relates horrific tales of Gunner when they were growing up, and how every time he left messages for Maribelle, showing proof of his actions and announcing that she may be next.

  “I should have seen this coming,” she says quietly.

  “We have a hard time believing our loved ones do horrible things,” Clayton says with so much pain in voice I wonder if he’s speaking from experience.

  “Plus, you’ve been distracted,” I tell Maribelle. “You had the Po-Po on your tail. And then you met my handsome brother. Who looks amazingly like his twin, I might add.”

  My comment gives Maribelle a perk but Clayton looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “How can you joke at a time like this?”

  How indeed? An hour ago, I was so frightened of my situation I was contemplating death by in-laws. But, then I kicked some nasty old energy into the ether.

  “Someone taught me to be fearless tonight. And no, Treebeard, it wasn’t you.”

  Clayton shakes his head but I can tell, even in the darkness of the car, that he’s smiling.

  We pull up to Touché’s office in the heart of downtown and the street appears deserted except for a Lexus in front of the office and an old VW across the way.

  “That’s Linsey’s, from the coffee shop,” Maribelle says, nodding in the VW’s direction. “She works late cooking up scones for the morning.”

  Main Street feels so empty and forlorn I’m waiting for a tumbleweed to come rolling by. Likewise, Touché’s office appears vacant, only the under-cabinet lights illuminating the nurse station of the waiting room. I’m beginning to assume that the Lexus belongs to someone else, until a light comes on in a back room.

  “You both stay here,” Clayton says.

  “As if,” I say, opening the door and sliding out, stomach first.

  Clayton is already out of the car and he looks at me over the hood like a forbidding father. “No way.”

  I lean over the car and whisper. “Way. Or maybe the FBI would like to know there’s a ‘supe’ in their midst.”

  His eyes narrow and I’m worried I’ve gone too far, have absolutely no plans to out him. I look around to see if there are trees ready to attack but the small crabapple sapling in front of Touché’s office is hardly threatening. In fact, it’s listing fifteen degrees to the left and my ADHD brain thinks to bring this poor tree to Clayton’s attention once we finish here. Maribelle pulls my attention back to center, emerging from the back seat and reaching Clayton’s side. He exhales in defeat.

  “Both of you stay behind me,” he barks. “And do what I say.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say with a salute.

  “Damn it, Vi. I mean it. Whoever is in there could be dangerous.”

  Clayton pulls his gun and stomps off toward the alley alongside the building, me following behind. Maribelle grabs my elbow, pushes me behind her.

  “Behave,” she says sternly.

  Okay, so maybe I’m taking the fearlessness a bit far.

  There’s a mechanical whining sound coming from inside as we reach the back door. Clayton peers through the window and from my
perch nearby I spot Touché busily shredding papers. Clayton throws a foot against the back door, breaking it open with a bang, then Clayton straddles his feet, gun raised, and shouts at Touché. It all happens in seconds. I’m so startled by the action I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from peeing on myself.

  “Back away from the shredder,” Clayton shouts at the good doctor.

  “It’s not what you think,” Touché answers, looking as if he might wet himself too. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Back away!”

  Maribelle and I watch from the window as Clayton shoves Touché up against the wall with one hand, the other still pointing the gun. He then calls for backup.

  “He made me do it,” Touché says, looking as if he’s about to cry. “I only wanted to see my investment flourish.”

  I can’t stand it anymore, slip inside the door. “Who?”

  “Damn it, Vi,” Clayton says, seriously exasperated with me. “Stay out of this.”

  But, I’m hell bent on knowing. “Who made you do what?”

  Suddenly, a muffled noise comes from the front office, followed by feet shuffling. Clayton keeps a hand on Touché’s chest but his attention has shifted.

  “Stay here,” he commands Touché and slips into the interior of the office.

  The good doctor and I remain, staring at each other across the room.

  “Who made you do what?” I repeat.

  Touché doesn’t recognize me, stares frightened in my direction, his face devoid of blood.

  “I had nothing to do with burning the restaurant. Garrett is your man. I just wanted a piece of the action. I poured a lot of money into that project, practically everything I owned.”

  He shakes his head as if to juggle the gray matter back in place, then heads toward the shredder like a zombie. I reach for a nearby letter opener — with a three-fish design, weird — and step in between.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Maribelle’s patience reaches its conclusion and she slips inside. When Touché spots her, his deferential attitude turns ugly.

  “What are you doing here?” he barks, attempting to move forward but I wave the fish letter opener and he backs up.

  “Watching you go down,” she answers.