Ghost Gifts Read online

  Charley had been absent most of this morning, overseeing the setup for their Surrey stop. The town was an idyllic place that all but glowed with traditional family life—something Aubrey usually found fascinating to observe. Today not even Surrey’s quaint town common could tempt her. Aubrey stayed sequestered, uninterested in the general public. It wasn’t that she feared people. But avoiding them seemed like the best way to elude a gift that did not make her feel safe.

  During her self-imposed solitude, Carmine had come by for lessons and yesterday to administer an algebra test. (Before joining the carnival, he’d run one of the toughest, most gang-filled schools in Detroit.) In between schoolwork, Aubrey passed the time by watching black-and-white classics on VHS and reading. Aubrey had fifty-three library cards in her possession, a representative number of the carnival’s annual sixty-eight circuit stops. Of course you were supposed to be a resident of whatever town, but Charley had managed to secure one for Aubrey whenever she asked. Maybe, sometimes, carnie sleight of hand facilitated their lives.

  Aubrey looked up from her book and peeked past the curtain in the Winnebago. She huffed at the daytime buzz. Joe had the motor cover off the Whip—the carnival’s most vomit-inducing ride—while Yvette took a skimpy costume from Maxine, the tattooed lady. At last count, Maxine was her own skin flick, showing off one hundred and twelve separate and unique designs.

  Aubrey dropped the curtain and returned to her book—Watership Down. The novel was an escape, a comfort title that Yvette had brought from the Surrey Public Library. While Aubrey loved to read, what she wanted to do was write. Not novels or poetry, but real life adventures. Perhaps, she thought, hugging the book, it was the longing to tell a story more incredible than her own. Aubrey was in the midst of wondering if such a thing was even possible when Charley lumbered back inside the Winnebago. From the serious look on her grandmother’s face, Aubrey knew her book refuge and solitude were about to end.

  “Is it your plan to spend the rest of your life in the confines of a motor home? Granted, it’s cozy,” Charley said, one rotund arm on the kitchen counter, her other easily reaching to the compact dining table. “But I have to insist on more. Obstacles are going to come your way, Aubrey, and I’d imagine the insult of George Everett won’t be the worst of it.”

  Aubrey closed the book. “I’ve been thinking about it. You recognized him . . . George Everett. You’d seen him before, didn’t you?”

  “I’d like to tell you I spotted George Everett at the municipal office—a mark, just as he accused.” Charley’s jowls shook and her labored breath pulled in. “Luring you into a Dodger-Fagin scam would be an easier life.”

  “You dreamed about him.”

  “In Londonderry, New Hampshire. Two nights before his friend, Roy, showed up.”

  Aubrey nodded. It was the genetics of her gift. On occasion, things worked in tandem. Charley dreamed of a connected earthbound being before Aubrey encountered the spiritual half. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, Aubrey, you know the answer to that. Dreams aren’t a road map. I also dreamed that Oscar’s first wife, Vera, came by the carnival to chat. I haven’t seen the woman in thirty years. You haven’t heard from Oscar, have you?”

  “No, I never see anyone I know.” Frustrated, Aubrey tossed the book aside. She thought a visit from her mother or father might be reasonable compensation for enduring her gift. Nothing like that ever happened. Aubrey’s attention was drawn back to Charley as she reached to her lower back. “It’s bothering you again, isn’t it? I knew Joe putting a board under your mattress wasn’t going to fix anything. You need a doctor.”

  “So he can tell me what I know. That my sciatica is worse, and my lifestyle is a catalyst. Then what? We sell? I don’t know about that, Aubrey. I don’t know at all . . .” She gave her granddaughter serious consideration. “Oliver Twist’s Fagin might not think twice, but I’d miss you when the new owners insist I sweeten the deal by tossing you in.” Aubrey bit down on the humor that bubbled. Her grandmother was even parts wit, understanding, and durability. Both carnival life and living with Aubrey demanded as much. Charley tapped her crimson nails on the counter, her stare examining, and Aubrey knew tough love was on today’s agenda.

  A short time later, the assumption came to fruition. Aubrey stood with Yvette, the two of them manning the duck shooting game. They looked like twin kaleidoscopes, each wearing a neon tie-dyed apron. Aubrey touched the bands of color as she recalled last summer’s carnival smocks. It had been Yvette’s earthy phase, and the aprons had looked more like brown paper sacks. This year Charley requested vibrant colors, and Yvette, who adhered to the literal translation of everything, had delivered.

  Aubrey and Yvette made a good pair. Yvette talked so much about life—the one that she lived and the one that she’d left—that a person hardly had time to reply, much less conjure up the dead. Chances were they’d be too busy to talk anyway. It was a Friday afternoon and Surrey ordinances didn’t allow carnival rides to open until five. Games of chance were the only attractions available.

  Rogue boys on bicycles perused the area, darting like bandits from game to game. A man and his granddaughter stopped by. It made Aubrey smile to hand the small girl a pink pony after her grandfather skillfully took down the midsize row of ducks. His recently deceased wife nudged at Aubrey, but she forced silent the woman’s faint plea. Among the things she had learned was that the newly dead were far easier to dismiss. Aubrey touched the apron again. Last summer, apparitions were fewer in number, weaker in tone. Aubrey thought about the bright hues of the apron’s fabric and the newly dead woman’s ability to be heard at all. There was a connection between the two things. Color, she realized, mattered.

  The spaces in front of the stalls began to fill. She and Yvette went about their work, resetting the game and doling out prizes. Other shooters came and went, a pair of older boys who challenged one another with duel-like antics, neither winning a thing. Close on their heels came a tall man with dark crew-cut hair. His presence commanded Aubrey’s attention. He looked in her direction, though he spoke mostly to Yvette—perhaps because she was an adult and Aubrey was a girl. There was nothing surreal in his demeanor.

  Aubrey did note that his hands weren’t clean, as if he’d just gotten off work—a laborer, like the men who worked for Charley. Caked under his nails and on them were bits of dried cement. She couldn’t peg his age, maybe thirty. He wasn’t overly good-looking, but not bad either. Aubrey thought he was average, until he smiled. She heard the man say that he’d learned good aim in the army—a sharpshooter. None of it really mattered, as no entities seemed inbound, trying to attach themselves to the man via Aubrey. It was mercifully silent. Yet her stare remained fixed and her heart fluttered when the man’s cement-covered fingers grazed against hers as she took his money, almost the buzz of touching a live electrical wire. Aubrey felt it a second time as she handed him a giant stuffed walrus, their grand prize. He claimed his reward, flashing a smile. “I’m going to give it to my girlfriend. She didn’t want to come to the carnival. It’ll make up for our spat.”

  Aubrey wanted to say something back, but her attention was averted. A blond-haired girl—no, a woman—stepped into Aubrey’s line of vision, taking the man’s place. She was pretty, almost too pretty. There was eye contact, though Aubrey tried to look past her. The man was gone, having vanished into the thick of kiosks, rides, and people. She gave up and turned her attention to the young woman. Instead of asking if she wanted to play, Aubrey was compelled to say, “Can I help you?” The young woman didn’t reply, just gave a vague stare as she nodded. “It’ll just be a minute,” Aubrey said.

  In his effort to win, the crew-cut man and his dazzling smile had used sharpshooter aim and a violent approach. Aubrey watched while Yvette finished resetting the ducks. It was a tedious task as he’d succeeded in taking out all but one.

  “Okay, we’re all set,” Yvette said, faci
ng Aubrey. “Hopefully, the next one misses most of them.”

  Aubrey blinked. Her mind wouldn’t let go of the man. An uneasy feeling rumbled. It felt like a volcanic warning that Aubrey needed to escape. She huddled close to her seamstress partner. “Yvette, I . . .” she said quietly, “I have to go to the bathroom. Can you help her?”

  The blue of Yvette’s irises scanned the perimeter of the duck-shooting booth. “Help who?”

  “The girl—” Aubrey turned. The blond woman was gone. Clutching the front of the rainbow-colored apron, Aubrey leaned into the booth’s raw wooden edge. She peered right and left. “Huh. She . . . she must have left. She was odd . . . like she was mute or something.”

  “Are you all right, sweetie? You seem . . . not quite here.”

  Aubrey rubbed her hands over the dizzying pattern of rainbow tie-dye. “I’m fine,” she lied. “I . . . I just need to go. Can you work the booth without me?”

  “Charlotte was clear. She wanted . . .” The lines on Yvette’s face collapsed into layers as she smiled. “Sure, baby, I can do that.” Yvette glanced down. “Hey, where’d these come from? They’re awfully pretty . . . purple, for sure.” From the counter, she scooped up a handful of delicate, violet-colored flowers. “I don’t know what it is about this town, but these flowers grow like crazy around here. With so many stops, it’s how I always know we’re in Surrey.” The fine petals rustled in the late September breeze. A thin grosgrain ribbon bound the stems, the only thing that kept the wind from carrying the flowers away. Aubrey didn’t respond. Purple flowers, flowers of any color, were not on her mind.

  Instead, Aubrey’s head swam with indiscernible babble. Future promises and the crack of a gun, an argument about money—a lot of money. She stifled a gasp. But Yvette diverted her attention, tugging at the elastic edge of Aubrey’s apron pocket. She dropped in the flowers.

  “Go on now. But if you’re going to hide out, put those in a budvase next to your grandmother’s bed. Flowers are a sure way to keep on Charley’s good side.”

  On her way back to the Winnebago, Aubrey purposely took a path that differed from the one the man with the dazzling smile had taken. Bad feelings receded as she walked. The urge to get to the bathroom wasn’t as strong. The only sound that sank in was the crank of carnival music. Nearing the motor home, Aubrey stopped and breathed. She relaxed. Her hand slipped inside the apron pocket as she stretched her neck and shoulders. But the movement ceased when Aubrey withdrew the purple blossoms. In her palm, the flowers had wilted, decayed, and rotted—the heavy burden of death sinking back into Aubrey.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Surrey, Massachusetts

  Present Day

  In a conference room where she normally felt at ease, Aubrey tried to focus on the work in front of her. That or maybe just breathing. As the writer and editor of the Surrey City Press home portrait feature, her presence was not a requirement, only newsroom courtesy. But the noise was disconcerting, infiltrating. The topic, the newly discovered remains of a girl gone twenty years, made her wish she’d called in sick. She didn’t want to be anywhere near the dead, not in this room. Not with that story. Aubrey huddled tighter to the table as her colleagues continued to all speak at once.

  Editor in chief, Malcolm Reed, fed a coffee high while reining in his troops. At least it wasn’t cigarettes. The excitement was unusual and Aubrey did wonder if there was a defibrillator on site. Who knew how much his tired heart could take? She worried about him like that. Malcolm was three parts seasoned newsman and one part sweet old guy—the kind who wore a velvet glove and a twinkle in his eye.

  Aubrey gave up on mental traction and pushed aside photos of a regal Georgian colonial and an unassuming split-level on Harper Street. One of the properties would end up being Sunday’s home portrait piece. It would also prove to be the home Aubrey was destined to visit that day.

  At the moment, it didn’t matter. Common house story or ghostly dwelling—neither thing could compete with current events.

  Malcolm had asked that their Monday meeting convene a half hour earlier than scheduled. Aubrey supposed this was in deference to the story at hand. With the exception of herself and sports editor, Dan Coulter, it would consume the Surrey City Press staff. Bebe Wang and Ned Allegro aggressively vied for the position of lead reporter. Aubrey couldn’t be part of the conference room fervor, but she appreciated the argument. Being named lead reporter in the breaking Missy Flannigan story would be a coup. Particularly in Surrey where news like this came around, well, about once every twenty years.

  Malcolm moderated the debate, although his enthusiasm was weak. Aubrey sensed that he’d already made a decision, surely having spent his weekend assessing the options. He gave a noncommittal nod as Ned pointed out his tenure, followed by a subtle hum when Bebe emphasized her investigative skills. Last year she’d exposed the Surrey councilwoman who’d covered up the dope-selling ring operating out of the local carwash. Apparently, her son had run the hot-wax cycle. Aubrey was drawn back to the sound of polite mentoring when Malcolm allowed Kim Jones an opportunity to make a bid. The newbie reporter didn’t stand a chance, but that didn’t stop her from chiming in with words about her shiny new journalism degree. Not this day, but someday, Kim Jones would have her shot. There was a twinge of envy and Aubrey wrestled it silent. The Surrey City Press home portrait section was her calling, not mainstream news, and she breathed easier knowing that was her place.

  Aubrey shuffled her real estate listing sheets into a neater pile. In doing so, the fine edge of the paper sliced into her index finger. She pinched closed the split in her skin with her teeth and the faint tang of blood transformed into the taste of Thanksgiving dinner. It seized Aubrey’s focus. She abandoned the conference room table talk and stared at the listing sheets. Her gaze alternated between the magnificent colonial located on Surrey’s antique row and the characterless split-level on Harper Street—surely both had been host to numerous Thanksgivings. Intuitively, Aubrey rested her hand on top of the listing sheet detailing the lesser property. Before, the paper had been room temperature. Now it emanated heat. It was a clear sign: that was the property she needed to visit.

  Satisfied, Aubrey placed the paperwork for the regal Georgian colonial in the discard pile and turned back to the conversation. From her spectator’s point of view she listened. The mood had morphed into something more akin to cutthroat reality television: who would Malcolm choose? The Surrey City Press staff was capable, but this story was unlikely and vast. Ordinarily, anyone might describe the midsize Massachusetts town as uneventful—a place like a time capsule. Last Friday it felt as if they’d cracked one open when skeletal remains had spilled out from behind Dustin Byrd’s basement wall.

  Aubrey happened to be in Malcolm’s office when the story broke, hearing details of the ghoulish tale via neighbor Stan Entwhistle, who had been minding the Byrds’ cats. Dustin Byrd had taken his mother to Foxwoods. Violet liked to play the penny slots and her only son had splurged, the two of them celebrating her seventy-fifth birthday. Entwhistle couldn’t locate the felines and decided to look in the basement. What he found was half a foot of rising water. It immediately prompted a phone call to master plumber, Reggie Swanson. But Reggie had trouble locating the leak, and eventually drilled a hole into a sloping section of brick wall. Fishing a camera through, the plumber spied a broken pipe, a backpack, and most disturbing, something that looked like floating bones. It didn’t take long for the police to arrive, busting through a wall from which secrets gushed. Behind the brick, which police theorized was a later addition, were Missy Flannigan’s backpack and skeletal remains, still dressed in a rat-tattered Surrey State T-shirt and shorts. It was the outfit Missy had been wearing the day she vanished.

  A team effort, led by Malcolm, handled immediate coverage of the story. These reportable facts read like a giant billboard, impossible to miss. But now Malcolm had to choose, putting one reporter in charge of investigatin
g and finessing the multifaceted story. Adding to the situation was the onslaught of national media. Twenty years prior, when disappearing girls were more of an anomaly than a sad statistic, national media had descended on Surrey. Over the weekend they’d returned, not only prompted by the grisly discovery of a murdered girl’s remains, but also by the fresh news swirling around army veteran Frank Delacort.

  He was the man who’d pleaded innocent to Missy’s murder but ultimately was convicted of the crime sans body. A Surrey jury of his peers had sentenced him to life in prison. With the discovery of Missy’s remains—in the house of a man who now appeared stunningly suspect—Frank’s conviction did seem disputable. Aubrey tipped her head, leaning toward Malcolm’s edition of the Surrey City Press. The headline read: Did Surrey Rush to Justice? Maybe they had, maybe they hadn’t. Either way, the choice of lead reporter would be critical to how the newspaper covered the story.

  From his end of the table, Malcolm urged the conversation to a close. The others had backed off, conceding that the choice was between Ned and Bebe. “Ned . . . Bebe, suffice it to say I’m thoroughly familiar with your work.” Malcolm folded his hands as the room awaited the call. He didn’t make one, his face nearly as ashen as the day he’d had his heart attack. “You’re all fine reporters,” he said, pointing around the table. “I have no doubt any one of you would give this story your best. But it appears . . .” His suspenders, shirt, and bony shoulders shifted in one defeated motion. “It seems the decision is out of my hands.” The buzz fizzled and Bebe snatched the lead.

  “What does that mean, ‘out of your hands’?” Her tiny eyes narrowed at Malcolm.

  “It means corporate is going to be in on this one. MediaMatters has suggested that someone with . . . It seems they’ve decided to lighten the load for us. At least that’s how it was put to me. Due to the compelling nature of this story, they’re providing assistance from one of the larger papers.” Aubrey sighed. Forty years in newspapers and Malcolm was being undermined by corporate executives. Cumulatively, they couldn’t have half his experience. “Listen up,” he said, reeling in his disgruntled team. “I don’t need to tell you that newspapers are an endangered species. This story is a big-ticket item for MediaMatters. We’ll be influencing national media sources. We’ll be in the spotlight. They want you all involved. But they also want a reporter of their choosing steering things.”