Ghost of a Chance

  I found the elevator and punched the button for the jail. When I approached the counter, the officer behind the desk shuffled a batch of papers and then turned his attention to me.

  "Officer Dowling here. What can I do for you, ma'am?"

  "I'd like to talk to Walter Mitchell."

  He consulted his chart and gave me a dubious look. "You his lawyer?"

  "No, and I'm not family, either. I just… tell him Emerald O'Brien is here to see him." Most likely he'd turn me away, but I'd give it a shot. I wasn't sure what I was after, maybe just a crazy hope that he'd break down and confess to me.

  Dowling was back within five minutes. His look had turned from puzzlement to caution. "He's willing to see you. I need you to leave your purse and coat with me, and empty your pockets." I passed through the metal detector and submitted to a pat-down to make sure I wasn't carrying any concealed weapons. My purse was confiscated at the door, and the cop led me to an empty table in an emptier room. He nodded to another officer, who assumed a post next to the wall, where he could keep watch on us.

  "I'll be back in ten minutes," Dowling said as he left.

  The door on the other side of the room opened and there, in prison blues, stood Walter Mitchell. The glare on his face might once have been enough to melt me into slag, but after what I'd been through the past few days, it barely fazed me. He sauntered over and, with one move, turned the chair and straddled it.

  "So, if it isn't the nosy tea-and-china lady." He rested his elbows on the back of the chair. "Circumstances have changed since we met at my late wife's memorial. Thank you for your little part in orchestrating this event. I value your help more than you can imagine."

  I winced. He was supposed to be the bad guy here, but I couldn't help but feel a little guilty. "Walter, I didn't accuse you of anything; it was your stepbrother, and you know that. I'm sorry about your trouble, but I didn't tell the cops you hurt anybody. I came here because I wanted to talk to you about Joshua."

  He kept his cool, but his eyes flickered, and I realized that he hadn't been expecting that name to crop up. Point one, my favor.

  "You do get around. I suppose you read tea leaves as well as fortunes? So read for me. Tell me what good old Josh has been up to lately. Throwing temper tantrums and beating up girlfriends again? Losing control and ending up in the loony bin again?" He cocked his head and tipped his chair so it rested against the edge of the table. "He made a big mistake by coming back to town. We made it clear years ago that he was persona non grata in our family."

  Irritated by his machismo, but keeping track of everything he said, I shook my head. "Come on, Walter. You won, you know. You inherited his share of your stepfather's money."

  His reaction surprised me. He dropped the tough-guy routine and leaned toward me, expression grim. "What did you say? You think I beat out my stepbrother in some sort of sick family contest? You're as crazy as Josh, then. Let me tell you something: Joshua Addison is certifiably dangerous. He's out to get me any way he can. Susan and I should have moved out of state years ago, but no, we thought everything was under control. Now it's too late. Too late for Susan, and probably too late for me." A faint glimmer of remorse flooded his eyes. "I didn't think he'd try anything, not after all this time."

  "You're saying that you're being framed?"

  Walter let out a sharp breath and rubbed the bridge between his eyebrows. When he looked up, his face was set in an impenetrable expression. "I have no idea how that knife got into my house, nor do I know how a cufflink matching the one found in Diana's apartment got into my bathroom. They found a letter, you know. In it, she accused me of molesting her, but it's not true. I didn't kill Diana, and I didn't do anything to Susan."

  Mesmerized by the sincerity I heard below the bluster, I stared at him. "Walter, if I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?"

  He snorted. "That all depends on what you ask."

  "Did you beat Susan? Did you hit her? I know you cheated on her."

  He snorted. "Beat her? Hit her? So that's what she was telling people. No wonder Diana was prone to lying. Like mother, like daughter." He probed me with his gaze, and I felt a chill rush over me, as if I were naked. "Well, now, we all have our secrets, don't we? Frankly, sweetheart, I don't give a damn whether you or anybody else thinks I beat her up. None of that matters anymore, and maybe it never did. Some mistakes haunt you from the beginning; by the end, you just want out, you just want to get away from the past."

  Cryptic, but what should I have expected? I started to get up, but he pointed to my chair. "Sit. Do yourself a favor and pay attention to me. If you never listen to me again, listen to me now. Be very careful around Joshua; he bites. I'm a cold bastard and proud of it, it's made me a successful businessman, but I'm not nearly as nasty as my dear stepbrother, so watch your step."

  The evidence was damning, but something in his demeanor told me Walter was telling the truth. I digested what he said, reading between the lines. "Are you saying Joshua might have had something to do with Diana's death?"

  He framed his words carefully. "I'm saying that Joshua has a history of violence. He's battled with insanity all his hie and never should have been let loose. From day one, Josh was up to no good. Never turn your back on a wounded animal. They'll rip out your throat."

  As I contemplated his unwavering stare, I realized that I believed Walter. He hadn't killed Diana. Feeling a perverse need to reassure him, I blurted out, "I don't think you murdered her. I believe you."

  He held my gaze for a moment. I didn't look away. Then, slowly, he eased the chair back down on all four legs and pulled back. "If you'll excuse me now, I need to speak to my lawyer. We've got a lot of ground to cover before my arraignment tomorrow." He stood up, indicating the interview was over. As the waiting cop led him to the door, Walter paused and turned back to face me. "Watch your step, Emerald O'Brien. Insanity and strength are a dangerous combination. I would hate to see such a pretty lady as yourself get mixed up in a world built on the love of pain."

  I gratefully accepted my purse and hurried out of the building. On my way back to the shop, I thought over the strange interview. He never should have been let loose. Let loose from what? Jail? The military?

  Walter had inherited the money that would have gone to Joshua. Joshua hated Walter. Just how far would either of them go to get revenge? With these and other questions whirling in my mind, I drove back to the store.

  * * * *

  "Damn, it's cold out there. The sky is so clear that the stars almost blinded me." Andrew shook off the snow as I let him in. Murray had volunteered to take the kids out to get the Christmas tree. I wanted to go along, but I was so tired that all I could do was lean back in the recliner and rest. With the promise that tomorrow night we'd decorate the house, they were more than willing to let Murray lead the expedition. Randa still wasn't speaking to me, and I still hadn't figured out what to do about it.

  I tried to find the words to ease into the subject, but it wasn't easy. Finally I opted for my usual: blunt honesty. "I talked to Walter today."

  Andrew looked at me as if I'd just grown another head. "Excuse me? You went to the jail, alone?" He rubbed his forehead and let out an exasperated sigh. "I can't believe you. Do you like putting yourself in danger?"

  I glared. "I wasn't in danger. There were cops everywhere. Don't exaggerate."

  "And I suppose he told you he didn't do it?"

  Just what I needed to help me think clearer, sarcasm on the half shell. I gave him a stony look. "Of course he did. The damn thing is, I believe him." I flipped on the television. It's a Wonderful Life was on, and I settled back in the chair and sipped at my tea, waiting for the blowup.

  Andrew stood up and began to pace. "You went to the jail to visit a man accused of murdering his daughter, who you also think murdered his wife, and all of a sudden you believe him? What happened to 'Susan needs me'? Is it his money? His suave sophistication? Did he promise to fund your shop if you switch sides?"


  "What? What are you talking about?" I'd expected a protest, but he was totally off base, so much so that I had no idea what he was talking about.

  "He obviously got to you. You waiting for him to get out now?"

  "You think that I'm interested in Walter? You really think that?" I stared at him, aghast. How could he believe that I'd get involved with someone like that?

  "I can't believe that you're standing up for a scumball who beat his wife and molested his daughter." He turned to me, eyes blazing.

  "You're jealous." I could see it in his look, his stance. "You think that I want Walter? Thanks a lot for your confidence in me—I truly don't think he did it. We had an interesting talk, but I dunk I'll keep that to myself, since you're being such an ass."

  "Well, you certainly haven't been giving me much attention lately. What do you expect me to a think?"

  "I expect you to think with the head on top of your neck. As to giving you attention, don't you remember that I told you that once the kids were home, we were going to have to adjust our relationship?"

  "I know!" His eyes flashed, then he leaned back and said more softly, "I know. I'm just… how long do you think it will take? How can I prove that I'm worthy so you'll let me stand up and tell the world you're my lover, my girlfriend?"

  I shook my head. How could I make him understand? I had to be sure, had to know that this was more than a dalliance, more than a simple liaison. Ten days or so of ghost-hunting together wasn't enough to prove anything. The excitement alone was enough to make some guys hang around to see what came next.

  "Can't you understand? It's not a matter of you proving that you're worthy. I wouldn't be with you if I thought you were a jerk. All I'm asking is that we go slow for a while. I have to keep the kids from getting their hopes up too high. If you sleep in my bed, they're going to think that you've become a permanent addition to the family. What happens if you change your mind in a month? They're the ones who get hurt, because right now they cling to any adult who shows them the affection their father withholds. I'm sorry if this stings your ego. If I could change it, I would."

  "So where does that leave us? Holding hands like schoolkids?"

  I didn't like the sneer in his voice. "If that's what it takes, yes. If casual dating isn't enough, then maybe I'm not the right woman for you. I'm not saying that we have to be celibate, but you can't sleep in my bed when the kids are here. Not yet."

  I could tell he was angry, but there was no way he could argue—he knew I was right about this. "Damn it, I need to think. I'm going home."

  "Should I tell the kids good-bye for you?"

  "That's not fair!"

  Tired of the argument, I lost my temper. "No, it isn't fair. And it wouldn't be fair for them to think you're going to be a part of the family and then have you walk away because you decide you aren't ready for the commitment this family requires. They come first, until they walk out that door to lead their own lives. Got it?"

  As he slipped his coat on, the kids came trudging in. They were helping Murray carry a huge blue spruce. As soon as they set it in the corner, Kip ran over to Andrew. "You're leaving already? Aww… we just got back with the tree and were going to have hot cocoa!"

  To his credit, Andrew gave Kip a smile. "Yeah, got to, kiddo, I've got work to do tonight."

  Kip threw his arm around Andrew's waist. "Bye! Don't forget, you promised to challenge me to a Mario Brothers marathon." I wanted to call my son back, tell him to leave Andrew alone, but that would have triggered off too many questions. Instead, I waited to see what Andrew had to say.

  "I won't forget. Tell you what: Maybe this weekend, before I have to leave for Christmas, we can get together and have that game?"

  "Yeah!" Kip jumped up and down. He missed Sly, I could tell that already, and was trying to fill the gap any way he could.

  Tentatively, I gave Andrew a smile and mouthed the word "Thanks" to him. He stared back at me, then shrugged and ducked out into the snowstorm. If I'd been alone, I might have called him up, ranted about how he was being a butthead, but it wouldn't do any good. Andrew was as stubborn as I was.

  I backtracked to the kitchen. Kip wandered in and pulled out the cat food. He was being good about remembering his chores. "Mom, what's Randa gonna do? She's really upset."

  I gave him a long look. "I don't know just yet. I'll think of something."

  He nodded, head down. "You can take my Christmas presents back and use the money to send Miranda to camp—I don't mind. It means a lot to her, and I messed up things bad by using Nanna's book." Through his mumbling, I could sense his fear that I might take him up on it, but still, he had made the offer.

  I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I settled for ruffling his hair. "Don't you worry about it, hon. Listen, that was a very noble offer and I'll remember you made it. Don't fret. I'll figure something out."

  After he fed the cats and returned to the living room, I settled down at the counter, thinking. Kip had made a gesture directly from his heart. He had been willing to give up something of his own to ensure the happiness of his sister. Even if I'd been heartless enough to take him up on it, his presents wouldn't have covered more than the cost of a couple of days' tuition. There had to be something I could do… and then, then I knew. I knew what I could do to raise the money for the tuition.

  I dug out my phone book and thumbed through the "'T's." Bette Thompson had asked me to sell her a piece from my private collection last year—the Waterford globe. I'd said no at the time, but now, maybe it was time to let go.

  I punched in a number and waited. "Bette? This is Emerald O'Brien. Are you still interested in my Waterford globe that you asked me about last year? I've decided that I'm willing to sell. My asking price is a firm $1,500, half the retail cost. You are? Why don't I drop over tomorrow morning, then? It will be early, though… No, everything is fine… I just realized that holding on to old memories isn't always as important as creating new ones."

  The Waterford globe was the one really gorgeous gift Roy had given me. I knew without a doubt it had come from his heart, out of love. I'd carried the treasure as a beacon through both rough times and good. He'd brought it home to me the day after I told him I was pregnant with Randa, and I'd kept it as a tribute to the existence of love. Now it would fund her dreams. It seemed so ironic, and so perfectly right.

  * * * *

  Early next morning, I woke up the kids and told them I had errands to run. "I want both of you to meet me at the store after school. Have cereal for breakfast and don't forget to feed the cats."

  On my way out, I unlocked the étagère in the living room and retrieved the crystal globe. I turned it over in my hands, feeling the familiar weight that had journeyed with me through the maze of anger and worry and pain. Time to let go, time to say good-bye to the past. Resolutely, I slipped it into a box and packed it carefully so it wouldn't break on the ride across town. Twenty minutes later, Bette Thompson wrote me a check for $1,500.

  I gave her a quick hug. "Thanks, Bette. This will go to good use."

  "Is your shop having problems?" Her eyes darted quickly, and I knew if I didn't squash the rumor, by tomorrow it would be all over town that I was destitute.

  "Nope, business is brisk. I just want to make Christmas extra special for my kids this year." She nodded, smiling. I could tell she was thinking I spoiled them. But what did I care? I had the money, she had the globe, and Miranda was going to Space Camp.

  Still a good hour before I had to be at the shop. Time to talk to Joshua. Walter had warned me that Josh was dangerous, so I hunted around the back of the car and found the hatchet I kept in the back. It wouldn't fit in my purse, but it was small enough to slip through my belt. I set it in the front seat next to me. Probably an overreaction, but hey, I'd rather look like an idiot than make a deadly mistake. The address Harl had given me for the old Addison house said it was on Plum Street

  . I knew where the street was, but little more about that area of town. The neighbor
hood was old and run down; few people lived there anymore. I slipped the key in the ignition. Time to rumble, as Murray would say.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As I turned onto Plum, a flash of sunlight broke through the clouds and glistened on the mounds of snow that covered everything in sight. Finally, a break in the gloom. I rounded the bend and parked behind a row of hydrangea bushes.

  I sat in the car for a moment, staring up at the old Addison house.

  "Mausoleum" would have been a better word—or "monstrosity." The house was set up on a hill. Retro Norman Bates or The Munsters; 1313 Mockingbird Lane

  had found a final resting place in Chiqetaw. Three stories high, the Addison house was a tribute to a designer's nightmare. The weathered paint peeled off in gray flakes, and broken windows let both rain and sunlight in. No wonder Walter's mother had vamoosed as soon as the old man died. Sprawled across the acre lot, it nestled behind a double row of oak trees. They were sparse, black, and bare against the backdrop of winter.

  After slipping the hatchet through my belt, I cautiously ascended the steep stone steps that led to the path. As I caught a glimpse of someone standing by the front door, I stopped, cold in my tracks. Joshua? Squinting, I tried to make out who it was. Susan! Susan Mitchell was standing near the front door. Another flash of light beamed down from the unusually bright day, and in the glare, I saw her waving frantically. Yep—I was on the right track, all right. As I hurried to the bottom of the steps leading up to the house itself, she disappeared.

  The snow had been trampled in several areas. Someone had been here recently, someone corporeal. I took hold of the railing and, cautiously watching for rotten boards, made my way up to the front porch. A squeak made me jump, but it was just the screen door, twisted half off the hinges and blowing in the wind. I gingerly opened it, wincing at the muffled creaks.