A Ghost of a Chance Read online

  My companions tonight sit quietly, transported in time, with that look of stunned disbelief on their faces.

  And as suddenly as I’m whisked back to those nightmare days and nights I want to return to enjoying the elegant Crescent Hotel ballroom, where visitors danced to bands playing graceful waltzes. Anything to get out of those waters.

  “So tell us about the ghosts,” I offer to Nanette, who appears absolutely shocked I would start talking about something so frivolous.

  “How awful for you both,” she says and I realize there are tears in the corners of her eyes.

  What’s awful, I think to myself, is having to experience Katrina’s wrath repeatedly. People told me after Lillye’s death that I needed to talk, to express my grief, to share the pain and it would help me heal. How making others cry will ease my load is beyond me. No matter what I said or who I spoke to, the darkness that took the place of my heart when Lillye died never healed. I’m a functioning human being today — with exception of seeing ghosts — and I no longer feel like I’m carrying a ball and chain around my soul, but the pain is as acute as the day TB and I placed our baby into the family vault. And yes, I’m still angry that God would inflict a sweet three-year-old child with leukemia and ruin her parents’ lives.

  Whatever stitches pulled my broken heart back together, they ripped open in Katrina. How could the Corps of Engineers let eighty percent of our city flood? How could our president move in slow motion to come to our aid and why is recovery happening at a snail’s pace? I’m burying my child all over again.

  Sue me if I don’t want to talk about it.

  “I heard this was a popular place for dances,” I continue, trying to keep the catch out of my voice but it’s there, I can feel it. “It’s a lovely space.”

  The waiter arrives to announce tonight’s dinner and while he explains the choices of soups and entrees, I feel everyone’s eyes upon me, as if waiting for me to spring two heads. I glance over at TB and he offers a sad smile. Amazingly enough, I smile gently back. No matter our differences, why we married in the first place or how we are two different planets in opposite orbits, we shared something special and something horrific, events that will bind us for eternity.

  “I want to know about the ghosts too,” says Carmine, sending me a sly look that no one notices, and for once I love this guy.

  Nanette recovers after a long sip of wine and starts with the Victorian era. “We have so many ghosts in this hotel, we have tours every night.”

  “Awesome,” TB says, and I wonder if he will think our bathroom girl is that terrific when she hovers over him in the middle of the night.

  “The Crescent was built at great expense and using Ozark stone since the town kept having these debilitating fires,” Nanette begins. “The owner brought over stonemasons from Ireland to construct it. One of them was a young man named Michael.”

  I notice Carmine bristle at the news.

  “The story has it Michael fell to his death and now haunts Room 218, although he’s a friendly ghost, nothing too scary. Moves things around, pokes people.”

  “I think Richard’s in Room 218,” Winnie says, and we all laugh.

  “Actually, Richard’s across the hall from me,” I say.

  “Where are you?” Nanette asks.

  “Room 420.”

  “Oh, that’s another ghost and another story.”

  Everyone giggles and murmurs at the table, excited and maybe scared at what Nanette will tell us next. My heart sinks.

  “In this ballroom,” Nanette continues, “people have seen Victorian-dressed visitors dancing. We also had a TV crew doing a ghost segment here and they experienced weird things going on.”

  Joe sits up straighter in his chair. “Wait, didn’t Ghost Hunters do an episode on this hotel, something about a morgue.”

  I get one of those shivers that runs down the back of your spine. My grandmother used to call it a skunk running over your grave. Nanette laughs, which makes me shiver again. Winnie sends me a look she probably gives her children, right before she inflicts a sweater on them.

  “Ghost Hunters did come here to do a taping,” she says. “They caught a full body apparition on their infrared camera. They later called it the ‘Holy Grail’ of evidence.”

  Joe smiles broadly remembering the episode, excited, no doubt, to be in the spot where the famous taping occurred. Stephanie is not as convinced. “Full body apparition?”

  To my surprise, Carmine springs to life. “There’s new technology used to capture ghosts on camera and in recordings and the TAPS guys, the ones who made the show, used an infrared camera that picks up energy we don’t see with our eyes.”

  Joe nods. “They picked up what looked like a man in a uniform with a cap on his head.”

  “Where was this?” Stephanie asks, squirming in her seat while her husband’s eyes widen.

  Nanette then relates the dark history of the hotel, when Dr. Norman Baker purchased the deteriorating building to use as a cancer hospital. Only Baker wasn’t curing cancer.

  The Muscatine, Iowa, native made a fortune in the 1920s broadcasting ads for his mail order products, claiming his natural remedies would cure what ailed people as opposed to what he considered the corrupt American Medical Association. Rural residents hearing his program ate it up. The AMA, however, was none too pleased and began fighting back.

  In 1929, Baker started making claims that aluminum caused cancer. With the help from Dr. Charles Ozias who operated a cancer sanitarium, Baker developed a “cure” made from glycerin, carbolic acid and alcohol mixed with tea brewed from watermelon seed, brown corn silk and clover leaves. He used this non-surgical treatment in his Baker Institute, going so far as to open a skull of an eighty-six-year-old cancer patient in front of a live audience, pouring the concoction over his brain to remove a tumor. The crowd went wild with excitement and Baker grew even more rich.

  The cancer patient later died, however.

  The AMA continued the fight and the Federal Radio Commission revoked his license in 1931. When a warrant was issued against him for practicing medicine without a license, Baker fled to Mexico.

  But that didn’t stop the flim-flam man. He built an even larger radio station and broadcasted his propaganda into America, plus created another cancer hospital. Then he returned to Iowa, faced trial, served a one-day sentence and later ran for the Iowa state senate.

  At this information, we all react.

  “He ran for office?” Joe asks, amazed.

  “Are you sure he wasn’t from Louisiana?” I ask and my table colleagues laugh.

  “He was a bold man,” Nanette continues. “He spent years convincing thousands the government was a hoax and if you have a loved one suffering from cancer, you’ll try anything.”

  “How did he get here?” Stephanie asks.

  Nanette recounts how Baker purchased the hotel that was lingering unused in hard times, renaming it the Baker Hospital and offering the same cure. For two years, he made another fortune until the feds caught him for mail fraud.

  “Apparently, he was having patients sign letters stating they were feeling wonderful and that the cure was working,” Nanette explains. “And he would mail them to their loved ones even if they were actually dying.”

  Stephanie grimaces. “I’m afraid to ask what the morgue reference was.”

  We all stop eating. “It was in the basement, the place where they took patients who passed away,” Nanette answers.

  Suddenly, the table is abuzz with lots of questions but Nanette holds up a hand. “You all are going to be treated to the ghost tour tomorrow night, so you’ll get to visit all these places then.”

  Dessert arrives and a lull settles. We shift to small talk and suddenly it’s time to call it a night. The hour is relatively young but my head is still spinning so I’m more than ready to crawl into some heavenly sheets, even if I must share them with TB. We move into the lush lobby where Nanette gives us a nightcap story of the ghost cat. Apparently, the b
eloved hotel cat passed away and refuses to leave as well. We all laugh as if it’s some great joke, all except Carmine, who keeps staring off to a corner of the lobby. We all share good-nights, then the group splits up. Richard takes the stairs (of course he announces this so we’ll all be impressed with his vigor and stamina), Stephanie and Joe move to the back porch to enjoy the rocking chairs and night air and Winnie follows TB and me to the fourth floor. Carmine and Irene are staying at the Basin Hotel in town, so they take off with Henry. Alicia and Carrie hang back in a huddle, discussing plans for tomorrow, heads intent on their blackberries.

  “That was interesting,” Winnie says to us in the elevator.

  “What was?”

  “The ghosts.”

  A shiver skitters across the hairs of my skin.

  “Are you cold?” she asks, giving me the once-over.

  “No, Mom.”

  Winnie turns to TB who is focused on digging something out of his teeth with a toothpick. “Watch her!”

  TB turns my way and is, as usual, clueless. “Huh?

  Winnie exits the elevator and turns right, not explaining.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing,” I say as we head to the left. “I just fell in a dark, dank cave this afternoon and hit my head, had to have an EMT come and she’s worried about me having a concussion.”

  “You fell?” he asks, and it’s in those two words that explain why I want to divorce this man.

  When we reach our room, Richard is already there, occupying the haunted room across the hall — or is it mine Nanette was referring to?

  “If you’d have taken the stairs, you’d be here by now,” Richard says.

  “We are here by now,” I answer.

  TB fiddles with the old-fashioned key and then huffs in frustration. I take it from him and easily open the door. He says nothing, enters the room and begins pulling off his shoes and socks. He’s unusually quiet, and I’m not sure what’s going on in that head.

  “I’ll leave in the morning,” he says solemnly.

  Now I get it. I sit on the edge of the bed and ponder how to make this work. “You can’t go with me,” I say quietly.

  He drops his shoes and sighs. “Fine, I’ll leave in the morning.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Stay as long as you like, just don’t expect to follow me around or get free food or anything.”

  His composure changes instantly, like a dog reacting from being admonished for raiding the kitty litter to be offering a plush toy. “I won’t get in your way.”

  “There’s a pool but it’s outside. I think there’s a fitness center.”

  “I’m happy to sit in here and watch a decent TV.”

  The old guilt pours over me like concrete on Jimmy Hoffa. I can only nod in agreement, then pull off my own shoes so I have something to do, anything besides look at my ex who’s living in our nasty house in moldy old New Orleans.

  “I’m beat.” TB yawns, which makes me grateful he changed the subject and that he won’t start poking me in the side for sex. That was how he initiated things, stabbing me with his index finger and saying, “Hey, hey.” Not like he would get any anyway, but I don’t want to have that argument tonight.

  I get up to start removing my makeup and get ready for bed when there’s a knock on the door. TB brightens. “You think that’s the chocolate they put on the pillow?”

  I look over and see the maid has already visited, the bed has been turned down and there are two mints gracing each pillow.

  “Uh, don’t think so.”

  It’s more likely Alicia or Carrie about to impart instructions for the next day.

  Standing in my bare feet, I pull the door open wide. Maddox Bertrand, St. Bernard Parish Police Detective and the regular star of my sexual fantasies, fills the doorway with every inch of his gorgeous flesh.

  Chapter Nine

  As usual, I’m flummoxed. Madman Maddox steals all common sense from me every time I meet him.

  “I’m looking for Miss Valentine.”

  For a moment, I think he doesn’t remember me. But how can that be? We worked together for eight years, he on the St. Bernard Parish Police force and me hounding his trail for the New Orleans Post. We are by no means friends — police have little love for the media — but we shared two murders, a child abduction case, numerous breaking and enterings and the notorious Mardi Gras Bead Burgler.

  The latter involved a homeless man named Big Head McGee (have no idea why, his head looked perfectly normal to me, besides the lack of hygiene and possible lice) who followed residents after Carnival parades, stealing their beads so he could resell them to krewes, the people responsible for the parades. It was the ultimate recycling in my opinion — non-profits do it regularly — but the pour soul got three years for his conservation efforts.

  I wrote the story, tongue in cheek, couldn’t help myself. The headline ran, “Bead burgler catches time in jail” and I staged Big Head carrying a sign that said, “Will eat for beads.” You’re not supposed to do things like that — news is to be reported on, not created — and when my editor found out I gave Big Head the idea for the sign, he threw a fit, almost fired me on the spot. One day when I was interviewing Maddox about a robbery at Walmart we got to talking about the case, my story and the faux news sign and we erupted into a fit of laughter. Nervous laughter on my part, I might add, because I was working so hard at being cool. Did I mention he’s handsome: broad shoulders, sculptured features, and that gun belt that sits on his hips so sexy it knocks the breath out of me. Seriously, this man makes my knees weak.

  “I’m Vi,” I say to him with a smile. Again, a little over the top because my heart is beating rapidly. What is he doing here?

  “You the one who fell in the cave?”

  It’s then I notice the uniform. “You work for the Eureka Springs police now?”

  He ignores my comment, pulls out his notebook from a back pocket. “I need a statement from you.”

  Now I realize he’s messing with me. A statement? Really? “Uh huh. You want a statement.” I fold my arms over my chest, feeling cocky. This could be good.

  He’s not smiling, and for a second I think he doesn’t recognize me. But that’s impossible.

  “I need to know what you were doing in that part of the cave.”

  I unfold my arms. He doesn’t remember me and my heart tumbles. “I’m Viola. Viola Valentine.”

  He looks down at his notes. “Yeah. The one who fell in the cave.”

  I try to pull my heart out of my socks. It’s been a long day and my head hurts, did this hunk have to make it worse by reminding me how invisible I am to most men? I sigh. “What do you want to know?”

  Maddox rubs his eyes, no doubt ready to wrap up this incident and go home. “Why you were where you were today.”

  I explain how I was part of the press trip for travel writers, ventured down into that part of the cave where I wasn’t supposed to be in, slipped on the wet rock and hit my head. I conveniently leave out Blondie.

  “That’s it?”

  He gives me a look that makes me think he knows about the ghost, but I’m sticking to my story. “That’s it.”

  Maddox flips close the notebook and returns it to the pocket gracing his oh so cute bottom. In a flash I envision my hands slipping that notebook into place.

  Did I also mention it’s been a long time since I’ve had sex?

  My logical brain, the one not attached to lower body parts, slaps me hard, waking me from my lurid thoughts. “Why is the police concerned about me hitting my head in a cave?”

  “We found a body down there, bones of a young girl we think disappeared in the late 1920s.”

  This news hits me hard. “Was she murdered?”

  Maddox eyes me curiously, which makes me want to laugh. What am I, a suspect? “Why do you say that?”

  “Why else would a young girl be dead in a cave?” I answer, leaving out the part about me seeing her looking alive, hurt and bl
eeding.

  “She had a blow to the head,” he adds, and those pesky goosebumps return in full force.

  I have no rebuttal to this, even though I wish I could offer something witty and interesting, anything to make this husky man with haunting brown eyes attracted to me.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  As he turns to leave, I blurt out, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I was hoping he would send me one of those looks people give when they don’t remember, but are trying to act like they knew you all the time. He stands in the hallway, a blank slate.

  “Viola,” I offer. “I used to cover the police beat for The Daily Post.”

  Lights remain on but no one is answering the door.

  “Viola Valentine. Big Head McGee. The New Orleans Post.”

  Maddox grins like he makes the connection and, like a good puppy dog, I follow along like I believe him. “Hey, how are you?”

  “Good.” I would add, “Now that you are here” but who am I kidding? I’m invisible to this man. “What brings you to Eureka Springs?”

  He shrugs. “I evacuated here. Didn’t have a job back home and they offered me one so I stayed.”

  “Cool.” I’m a woman of so many words when I’m nervous.

  We stand there staring at each other until he manages, “So, you doing okay?”

  I nod and am about to explain that I’m now in Lafayette — in case he wants to get in touch with me — when a tall, slender woman with legs taking up at least half her body turns the corner.

  “Hey,” she says with an adorable tilt of her head. She’s wearing tight jeans, leather boots and a cute top that accentuates her bosom. Her makeup highlights her oversized blue eyes and sensuous lips — think Angelina Jolie — and her hair curls gracefully about her shoulders. I immediately hate her. “Viola?”

  I don’t know this woman so I’m stumped, but unlike Madman I know how to pretend. “Yes, that’s me.”