Ghost of a Chance

  Nelson handed Leary his notes. "Ladies, I'm sorry to detain you, but we need you to come down to the station and give your statements."

  I looked at Harl. We really didn't have a choice. "We'll do whatever we can. What's the address? We can drive there." They put in a call to the station. Within moments another prowl car had shown, up to escort us to the precinct.

  On the drive downtown, Harlow and I got our stories straight. We didn't have anything to hide, but I didn't want the subject of Susan's spirit to come up. We would stick with the fact that we wanted to make certain Diana had been informed of her mother's death, that Susan had given Harlow the phone number for the apartment building.

  The station was crowded, but so were most big-city precincts. We gave our names to the officer on duty and were led into a back hall, where they led me into one room while Harlow was taken to another. The woman taking my statement dutifully recorded everything I told her.

  "Your relationship to the deceased?"

  "She's the daughter of a friend who died last week."

  She jotted that down and said, "Do you know if she has a husband or fiance or children we should notify?"

  "I don't know." I shook my head. "We came down to make sure she knew her mother had died. I've never met the woman before."

  "I see. Can you recall anything that might be useful? A vehicle, a person outside the building?"

  I answered as carefully as possible, sticking to what we had seen, which was nothing. After fifteen minutes, the interview was over and both Harlow and I emerged from our prospective rooms. The police thanked us and said they'd be in touch.

  Harlow grabbed me by the elbow and we headed out of the precinct.

  My stomach rumbled. "As Miranda would say, 'that was fun… NOT.' I suppose we should eat. That good with you?"

  She was a little too pale for my comfort. "I think I could manage a salad. It's hours past lunchtime, and I thought we'd be on our way back by this time."

  We stopped at the Keg. There wasn't one in Seattle proper, so we braved rush-hour traffic and crossed the 520 floating bridge over to Bellevue, where we could find a franchise of the steakhouse. I shook my head as the line of cars grew longer and longer. "God, I'm so glad I don't live here anymore. I think when we reach the restaurant, I'll give Murray a call. See how the kids are."

  The hostess led Harl to a booth while I put through the call. I didn't want the kids to know I was in Seattle or what had happened. Murray said they were fine, having a great time. They were both home from school and Miranda was studying while Kip was helping Murray finish the birdhouse for her mother. As I sketched out the details of the afternoon, I could hear the wheels turning in her head.

  "Well, someone got to her before you did. The questions are: Who? and Why?"

  "I'm thinking that Susan knew Diana was murdered—hence her drastic appearance in my living room this morning. That would put Diana's death at about 5:00 a.m. How's White Deer holding up with the kids?"

  "Fine. She's going to teach them how to weave a pot-holder. Miranda even put down her book when White Deer was talking about life on the reservation."

  "Who says miracles can't happen? Okay, I'll give you a call tomorrow. Kiss them for me, would you?" I made my way back through the crowded restaurant.

  Harlow was munching on breadsticks, looking slightly green around the edges. "I'm queasy—I guess I waited too long to eat. Well, what do we do next?"

  We put in our orders for chowder and salad. After the waitress left, I sipped the raspberry lemonade I'd ordered and thought about her question. "I suppose we might be able to get her neighbors to talk to us. If we do, are the police going to be upset?"

  "Did you want to stay down here for the night?"

  The waitress brought our bowls of steaming soup. My stomach growled. "Nah. I'm going to take a stab at exorcising Mr. B & U tomorrow. Maybe you can call her landlady? Find out a little more?" I buttered a roll, surprised at my appetite, but as the image of Diana's corpse flashed through my mind and I pushed it away, I realized that coping with this was going to be harder than I thought.

  Harl unfurled her napkin and laid it across her lap. "Let's finish dinner and head home. This situation is getting more and more convoluted."

  * * * *

  As soon as I arrived home, I called Andrew and asked him to come over. Harlow didn't hang around; she was too tired and preoccupied with when and how to spring the news that she was pregnant to James.

  By the time Andrew opened the door, I flew into his arms. "Diana's dead."

  "What?"

  "Somebody stabbed her… we found the body. It was awful, Andrew."

  "What? Are you okay? Is Harlow okay?" He braced my shoulders. "Emerald, this is getting too dangerous. You need to back off—I don't want to see you hurt. Do a banishing or exorcism or whatever you need to chase the ghosts out of the house and let it drop. I don't want to see anybody get hurt." His fretting was both comforting and irritating.

  "Andrew, stop." Didn't he realize that I wanted to back off, more than I would ever admit to anyone? I was in over my head, and the waters were rapidly becoming a whirlpool of confusion and danger, but there was no way I could untangle myself, not after everything that had happened. "If I could only wave a wand and say, 'Poof, go away' and make everything that had happened with Susan vanish in a puff of smoke, I would. But life doesn't work like that." I took his hand. "Spirits don't work on a timetable or with laboratory precision. I made a promise to myself that I'd help her. I'm not giving up. And now… with Diana…"

  I stopped, bringing my hand to my lips. In all the confusion, I had managed to push away the brutal image of her murder, of her petite frame sprawled on the floor, but the memory crashed into my mind, trampling my thoughts. I had seen plenty of TV shows and movies, but nothing could have ever prepared me for the real thing.

  "I can't forget the way she looked. The way the blood smelled." I leaned against Andrew's shoulder. "She was so young, she couldn't be much more than twenty years old. I keep thinking how the cops wrote off Susan's death as an accident. What if they're wrong? What if the same person who killed Diana, killed her? Shouldn't we do everything we can to make sure the murderer is brought to justice?"

  He sighed. "When you put it like that, it's hard to debate you, but I don't want to see you get hurt, or Harlow, either. And I don't look forward to any scuffles."

  "Don't worry. We won't do anything stupid." I paced the length of the room.

  "What is it?" Andrew asked.

  "Do you think Walter might have something to do with Diana's death? They didn't get along. Susan was in the process of patching up the mother-daughter relationship. I don't know."

  "You didn't see anyone there, did you? Don't be too quick to jump to conclusions. Coincidences do happen."

  Grumbling, I retreated to the kitchen and spread several slices of French bread with butter and Parmesan and popped it in the toaster oven. While I was waiting, I turned on the kettle and fixed a pot of Winterberry tea. Yes, coincidences did happen, but so did murder conspiracies. Bad guys were real, not pencil-drawn villains in a comic strip. I set everything on a tray for easy carrying and returned to the living room. "Take my mind off of the murder—tell me about your party."

  Andrew brushed my hair back. He poured our tea while I curled up in the rocking chair. "I didn't mean that you should forget what happened, Em. I'm not heartless. Anyway, the memorial will be at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday, in the high school cafeteria. They agreed to let us use it when I explained that it was a benefit for the memory of Susan Mitchell. She had a lot of teen fans—mostly girls. So it's going to be a snarl of people. I ordered a couple of sheet cakes, gallons of punch, and several party trays of olives and cheese and crackers… the usual fare."

  "I guess Diana won't be coming." The thought that the young woman wouldn't be there to attend her mother's funeral memorial made me incredibly sad. "We don't even know if she ever knew her mother was dead."

  Andrew sobered. "
I guess we won't ever get to know."

  With a deep breath, I shook off the mood as much as I could. "Didn't the preparations set you back a bit? Those trays and cakes aren't cheap." I still wasn't sure what Andrew's financial situation was like but didn't want to ask outright.

  "The Chiqetaw Players offered to foot the bill for the food. Sort of their way of saying good-bye to her. The writing group chipped in, and we're funding the centerpieces and the flowers. I'm supposed to make a speech about Susan, that I haven't worked on at all. I'll go over to the school Saturday afternoon and supervise the arrangement of the tables." Andrew put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close.

  "When I think that you might have come in on that murder if you'd been a little bit earlier… my dear Ms. O'Brien… I do not want to lose you now that I've found you. You're crazy as a loon, a contradiction in today's world, and the sexiest woman I've met in years. I'm not going to take a chance on losing you before I truly get to know you." He covered my lips with his own, and I shifted in his arms. "Emerald," he whispered, his lips on my hair. "Emerald, is Harlow coming over tonight?"

  My breath caught in my throat and I sounded throaty, sexy, so unlike my usual self. "No, she wanted to go to bed early."

  His hands slid up under my shirt. "May I? I'll stop whenever you want."

  A knot formed in my stomach, and all the tension from the past few days screamed to be released. "All I could think after you left last night was how much I wanted you in my bed." Two years without sex was two years too long. I tried to think of the kids, tried to think of responsibilities, but when he rubbed a light finger over my nipple and gently bit my lower lip, the battle was over. I capitulated, the willing prisoner. "Oh, God, don't stop."

  Andrew made it easy. He held his fingers to his lips. "Ssshh… let me undress you? Please?" I wondered what he would think of my body. He lowered me onto the sofa and slowly undid the buttons on my blouse, then gently slipped it off my shoulders. I shivered as he hovered over me, taking me in, gazing at me with those dark pools of light before he unhooked my bra and folded it on top of my shirt. His lips took over for his fingers and he began to kiss me from the hollow of my throat, delicate kisses tracing a line down to circle each nipple. I moaned, feeling the fire build.

  I started to pull down my skirt, but he grabbed my wrists and raised them above my head, pinning me with one hand. "Let me." With his free hand, he unzipped the waistband and I lifted up enough so he could slide the skirt over my hips. Ever so slowly, he worked my panties down and dropped them on top of the pile.

  It was all I could do to keep from crying out with hunger and fear as he let go of me and pulled off his sweater and jeans. His chest was matted with dark, curly hair, and his muscles rippled under a sleek layer of skin. I wanted to taste every inch of him.

  Suddenly I was in a hurry—hungry for touch, hungry for contact. It had been so long since I had last been touched by a man's hand. I pulled him down on top of me and he maneuvered his head down between my legs, nosing gently, his tongue flickering with butterfly kisses. As I began to soar, he crept up, looming over me, and I pulled him to my breast. He drove deep, and for the first time in years, I remembered what it was like to be a wanted woman. I pushed out the image of Diana, of Susan's spirit, of everything except this man who wanted so much to make love to me.

  We fell asleep on the sofa, curled in each other's arms, untouched by the whisperings of the spirits that I could feel lingering, just beyond earshot.

  * * * *

  A flurry of wind raged against the window outside, waking me up. I glanced at the clock. Six o'clock… we had slept all night. I slipped out from beneath the afghan that I'd pulled over us during the night and shivered my way into the downstairs shower.

  As I was lathering up, I heard a knock. A rising swell of panic rose up, but Andrew laughed as he opened the door. He was naked, and climbed into the stall with me, lathering me all over with bubbles and scrubbing my backside until I grabbed the loofah away from him.

  "Twit!" I towel-dried and ran upstairs. He joined me in my bedroom while I hunted for something to wear. The room felt odd, and I was struck with a longing to spend the day there, to make my presence known. I almost felt as if I had stumbled into some strange woman's boudoir where I had no right to be.

  I selected a jersey knit dress and slid it over my head. Andrew zipped me up. He sprawled on the bed, winking at me. "Hey, lady, how about a hug?" As I leaned down, he pulled me on top of him and grinned. "On second thought, what about an early-morning snack?"

  "What about it?" I slipped out of his arms and searched my jewelry box for my emerald studs.

  "I'd like my breakfast in bed. C'mon, give me breakfast, woman…" He patted the quilt beside him, flashing me an ungodly leer.

  "You're sneering."

  "No, I'm leering. Big difference."

  "You need a refresher course." I sniffed and turned back to the mirror, but I could see his reflection. He knew I was watching him, and so he began to make suggestive gestures. I started to laugh. "You're crazy, you know that?"

  "Oh, yeah, un lobo loco. Deseo tu cuerpo." The next thing I knew, he was naked and standing by my side. He unzipped me and trailed kisses down my back. "I'm hungry, and I feast on only the finest. Come give me what I want."

  I slipped out of the dress. "Be careful what you ask for," I whispered as he led me to the bed. "You might be surprised by what you get in return."

  Chapter Fifteen

  As soon as Andrew left, I pulled out Nanna's trunk and hauled it into the kitchen. While the water was heating for a pot of tea, I carefully emptied the contents of the trunk onto the table, lifting out Nanna's journal, piles of charms and incense, and other paraphernalia. Once it was empty, I felt around the edges of the black velvet lining. The smell of old wood, polished with scented oils, made me shiver. Here, in my hands, was living history and tradition, but not one that most people would ever read. This was what lineage was all about.

  After hunting for a few minutes, I found the hidden trigger. The velvet-lined bottom gave a little pop and came loose. I lifted out the cushioned insert and set it aside. Nanna had taught me about the false-bottom trick before she died; I was the only one who knew about it, besides the carver of the trunk, who was long dead.

  Hidden inside, within the folds of a thick satin wrap, rested a scabbard, worked of leather blackened with age. Every month, under the light of the new moon long after the kids were asleep, I oiled this scabbard, rubbing the amber-scented unguent into the leather. Now I unwound the peace binding that held the blade firmly within the sheath. As the leather thong dropped away, I withdrew a gleaming blade. It, too, received a thorough cleaning each month. I would take a soft cloth and polish the dagger, as Nanna had taught me, as her teacher had taught her.

  More than five hundred years old, the dagger was known as a seax. Single-edged, the blade stretched out a good twelve inches from the hilt, which was carved of antler, and the patterned welding had left a brilliant weave of darkened knotwork along the steel. Whether the sheath was the original remained a mystery. I didn't know and neither had Nanna, but the dagger was old, and she had given it to me on her deathbed.

  I grasped the hilt. It felt heavy, slightly awkward in my hand. I seldom used it except when things felt out of control, and then the heft of the blade, the feel of tradition, passed through the steel to calm and give me a boost of courage. Magical blades sliced through energy; they also amplified and directed it. Attuned to their owners through years of use, they were sacred objects of tradition, treated with respect and care.

  I set the dagger on the counter and stopped what I was doing long enough to pour the water over the tea bags. While the tea steeped, I replaced the false bottom and shifted everything back into the trunk again. The dagger might help me evict Mr. B & U. Then again, it might not, but either way, it wouldn't hinder my workings.

  After I poured myself a cup of tea, I began a list of everything I could remember about exorcising har
mful spirits. There wasn't much—Nanna had done such a good job of keeping them out in the first place that she hadn't had much call to evict them. Most of what I knew came from recent texts on the subject.

  Unlike the Catholic exorcisms, folk magic tended to use a variety of herbs and charms to evict the unwanted visitors. I jotted down some of the more common elements used in clearing space: sage, cedar, sweetgrass, rosemary, rue, heather, lavender. Most I had on hand, but since I wasn't clear on what had drawn Mr. B & U to our home in the first place, kicking him out was going to be more complicated than lighting a stick of incense and showing him the door.

  I was leafing through Nanna's journal when it occurred to me that since the astral entity had shown up along with Susan's spirit, perhaps he was related to her. Maybe he was some nasty relative waiting on the other side for her? No, a little voice nagged. If this was true, then he would be focused on her, not on my family, I thought, doodling circles on the paper. Why should he care about us if he was really after her? No, Susan had nothing to do with Mr. B & U except that they were both haunting my house at the same time. Susan could stay, but whatever the source of his power, it was time to take care of it. I wanted the kids home. I wanted the cats home.

  I finished my tea and dug around in the box until I found what I was looking for—an old Egyptian ankh that Nanna used to wear underneath her apron. I slipped the symbol of eternal life over my head and poked around in the pantry drawer for a new white taper candle, then took it and the dagger and a stick of frankincense upstairs. It was time to sort out what I was dealing with.

  Since Mr. B & U had first appeared in Kipling's room, that should probably be my base of operations. I wandered into his bedroom. A miracle—it was still clean. Though he had cleaned it only a few days ago, I expected it to be a mess again.

  As I lit the stick of incense and set it in an empty quart jar that I assumed Kip used for catching various bugs, the smoldering tip released a whiff of fragrant scent, rich and as ancient as the hills. Frankincense, used in rituals since the time of the pharaohs. Nanna had used it to purify and cleanse space. As the smoke began to fill the room, I lit the candle. After taking my seat on the end of Kip's bed, I held the dagger in my left hand, took a deep breath, and lowered myself into a trance. Without the kids here to worry about, it would be easier to do what was necessary.