Shattered Spirits Page 6

  DAUGHTER

  ALICE

  1909-1932

  It wasn’t much of a testament to the twenty-three years she’d existed on the planet. She’d been dead far longer.

  “I need a little more to go on. Can you tell me the date you died?”

  Again, she seemed to draw in on herself. “I don’t remember.”

  “Do you remember your birthday?”

  “June fourteenth,” she said without hesitation.

  A shiver rippled through me. “That’s today. Happy birthday, Alice.”

  She looked pleased. “Is today really June fourteenth?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you must be my birthday present. That is, if you’ll help me.”

  I let out an exhausted breath. “I’d like to try.”

  “A girl couldn’t ask for more.” Her eyes were bright—filled with hope. How could a dead woman hope?

  “Where did you live?”

  “With my parents on Humboldt Parkway. It was a beautiful house. I loved my room. It overlooked our big backyard. Honeysuckle grew up a long white trellis outside my window. It smelled like heaven. My papa was lucky in business—he ran several of them. Times were hard, but for some reason we always seemed to have money. Mama and I had beautiful clothes. Do you like this dress? It was one of my favorites. I’m glad they buried me in it.”

  The dress was beige, kind of baggy, and didn’t seem to have a waist, or if it did, it hung low on her narrow hips. I guess that was the style at the time. Maggie had an array of pastel spaghetti-strap sundresses that were far prettier. Maybe I’d ask her to wear one the next time she came to visit—and I hoped that would be soon.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” Alice asked, as though she’d been reading my thoughts.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed. “What’s her name?”

  “Maggie.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “She is to me. Did you have a boyfriend?”

  “I have a beau,” she said wistfully. “His name is Joseph Campbell.”

  “Really? He wasn’t into mythology, was he?” I asked, hoping she didn’t detect the amusement in my voice.

  “What? No, no. He works in a butcher shop.”

  “And your parents’ names?”

  “Hiram and Cora Newcomb.” She indicated another stone embedded in the ground. There was one for her mother, but a stone for her father was conspicuously absent. I noted the years of birth and death on each. That would be the starting point of my—and Richard’s—investigation.

  “Mama went not long after me. I thought we might be reunited, but I never saw her or papa again. Do you think he’s still alive?”

  She didn’t seem to have a clue that she’d died a multitude of decades before.

  I shook my head. “No. But maybe you haven’t been reunited because you’re still earthbound.”

  “Maybe,” Alice agreed. She studied my face. “You don’t look well.”

  Yeah, after taking that tumble, I felt decidedly unwell.

  “You should probably go home to rest. Will the man who dropped you off come back soon?”

  I nodded. “I just have to call him.”

  She giggled. “How can you do that? There’re no drugstores around here.”

  I leaned back, reached into my pocket, and pulled out my smart phone. “All I have to do is press this little icon and I can call him.”

  Alice frowned. “What about the operator?”

  “Nobody calls the operator anymore. And I can take photos with this, too.”

  “Oh! Take mine,” Alice cried excited, and smoothed her short brown bob.

  I moved the phone to eye level to center on her, but when I looked at the viewfinder, there was nothing but the grass, the sky, and a sea of tombstones. “I’m sorry. The camera doesn’t seem to be working today.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged, as though used to being disappointed.

  “I’ll play with it. Maybe it will work the next time I come to visit you.”

  Her eyes lit up. “When? When will you come back?”

  “In a few days. I have to do some research.”

  “Do you think you can find out who killed me that fast?”

  “I’m sorry, but no. How will I find you when I return?”

  Her smile was wistful. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you.” With that, she pressed her fingers to her lips and blew me a kiss, then seemed to dissolve right before my eyes.

  I sat there for long seconds, marveling at what had transpired during the previous ten or fifteen minutes until it registered that I felt cold, no doubt from sitting on the damp ground for so long. I looked down at the phone in my hand and pressed the icon to call Richard. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Jeff?”

  “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  5

  Richard’s Mercedes appeared over the crest of the hill no more than ten seconds after we’d ended the call, but I knew I’d have to call again so he could find me, because I’d used up that day’s allotment of energy during the trek to Alice’s grave and wasn’t up to trying to move under just my own power.

  Richard stopped the car in front of the stone bench and my phone trilled. “Go down the road another ten or so feet. I’m up on the hill to the left.”

  He didn’t reply, but the car crept forward.

  “Stop!”

  The car came to an abrupt halt. “I can’t see you.”

  “But I can see you. I’ll talk you through it.”

  Less than a minute later, Richard stood towering above me. “What the hell happened?”

  “I’ll tell all once we’re in the car, if you’ll please help me up.”

  That was easier said than done. Richard had a good thirty or forty pounds on me, but it was still a struggle for him to pull my dead weight upright, and even with the crutches I had to lean on him far more than I wanted to get back to level ground and the car. By that time, I was sweating yet again, but a cold chill also ran through me.

  “You look a mess,” he said once he’d climbed behind the wheel of the car.

  Yeah, I was grass- and dirt-stained and damp. “I don’t feel great, either. I hurt all over. When am I ever going to feel good again, Dr. Alpert?”

  “My guess is August—maybe September.”

  My stomach did a little flip. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, no.” He started the car and took off slowly, letting me digest that somber piece of news for a minute or so before speaking again. “So, you met the woman?”

  “She showed up only a minute or so after you left. My guess is she’s been pretty lonely. I don’t think ghosts do much socializing.”

  “So what’s she like?” Richard asked, and I wasn’t sure if he was curious or creeped out.

  “Very nice. Pretty. Her name is Alice. She was twenty-three when she died. She thinks she was murdered, but she didn’t give me a lot to go on. Just her birthday—which is today, by the way.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Nope. I guess it was destined that we meet on the anniversary of her birth. She told me my arrival was her birthday present.”

  “That’s just weird.”

  “We need to start keeping paper and pens in our cars to jot down notes. I don’t want to forget what I’ve learned, and once I take that next pain pill—which will be the minute we walk in the door—I’m liable to do just that.”

  “Check the glove box; there might be something in there.”

  There was no way I was going to be able to do that while strapped in the reclined passenger seat. “No can do. Have you got a good memory for names and dates?”

  “Yeah. Tell me.”

  So I did, as well as the address of Alice’s former home.

  “That’s not a lot to go on,” Richard said.

  “If we stop at the cemetery’s Main Office, they might be able to better re
fine those dates. If Alice was murdered, we might find a newspaper account of it and figure out the jurisdiction to see if they’ll allow us to view their files—but we’ve got to know more than just the year of her death before we can do that.”

  “Right.”

  It didn’t take long for us to reach the cemetery’s Main Office once again, and Richard cut the engine. “I won’t be long—I hope.”

  “I got nothin’ but time.”

  I watched him enter the building, then tried to relax. My eyelids felt like they were attached to lead weights and despite the pain in my broken leg—and just about everywhere else—I must have dozed off. The car door slamming jarred me awake. “Sorry.”

  “Did you find out when Alice died?”

  Richard shook his head. “It turns out the cemetery’s website has a search feature. Everyone planted here—more than a hundred and sixty thousand souls—is searchable by name, with any information they acquired on the deceased. As soon as we get home, I’ll have a look. But I did bum a piece of paper and a pencil off the lady behind the reception counter and wrote down the stuff you told me—just in case my memory becomes as faulty as yours,” he said wryly.

  I managed a smile, but even that seemed to tire me out. “Do you mind if I zone out for a while?”

  “Go ahead. I’ve got lots to think about.”

  I’ll bet.

  I shut my eyes and didn’t exactly doze, but wasn’t exactly all there, either. All too soon, Richard nudged my shoulder. I opened my eyes and realized we’d arrived back at his house. Either Brenda was employing her own brand of ESP, or Richard had called to warn her we’d be arriving, because she was waiting to open the car door and fetch me.

  “Jeffy Resnick, what have you done to yourself?” she asked testily, sizing me up.

  “I did a Humpty Dumpty.”

  “I should say you did. I’m going to be doing laundry this afternoon. You may as well add those clothes to the pile.”

  “I need to crash.”

  “Not in those clothes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said contritely.

  Once again, Brenda retrieved my crutches and helped me out of the car. I felt shaky with fatigue after my second venture out since the accident, and was glad when Richard showed up and they both helped me into the house.

  “Do you want to crash on the recliner in the living room or your bed?”

  “The bed’s closer,” I said.

  “Do you need more help?” Richard asked, more to Brenda than to me.

  “We’ve got it,” Brenda said, but I noted her hand bunched around the back of my sweats to keep me upright as I shambled forward.

  Brenda’s craft room wasn’t big, but it seemed like a half mile trek to make it to the bed. Brenda turned me around and tugged at my sweatpants before grabbing my arm to help ease me down on the bed, then we did a repeat of the night before. It was when I stripped off my grubby sweat-stained T-shirt that she gasped.

  “What did you do to yourself?”

  “I kind of fell over a tombstone.”

  “You do that again and you’ll be under a tombstone.” She examined the skin around my ribs. “Oh, hon, you could have broken a rib or two. You might need an x-ray. Does it hurt to breathe?”

  “No. I’m good, I promise,” I lied. “But I would like a pain pill.” I was only about an hour early for one.

  She shook her head, but turned for the dresser where my personal pharmacy had taken up residence, doled out a pill, and got me a glass of water from the bathroom. “Want me to bring you something to eat?”

  “I’ll have something later.”

  “Did you meet the ghost?”

  I nodded. “Can I tell you about her later, too?”

  “Okay.”

  “Why were you in the driveway when we got home?”

  “I was on my way back from feeding your cat.”

  It was past noon. Herschel was used to eating in the morning—with a few snacks mid-day—and again at night.

  “His name is Herschel.”

  “Yes it is,” Brenda agreed.

  “Why won’t Richard let me bring him over here?”

  She sighed. Was I about to get a sanitized version, or would she tell me the truth?

  “Cats appear to be a lot of work.”

  “Is that you talking or Richard?”

  “I’ve got a baby in diapers,” she admitted.

  Was she just parroting what he’d said? “I can take care of him.”

  “Hon, you can’t take care of yourself.”

  A bubble of anger and humiliation rolled through me. I figured they’d get sick of taking care of me yet again; I just didn’t know it would happen this fast.

  I debated refuting her previous statement, but decided discretion was the better part of valor and all that horse shit.

  Brenda handed me a clean T-Shirt and I donned it. It was too soon for the pill to have kicked in, but exhaustion pulled at me. I struggled to pull my legs up onto the bed and Brenda snapped to and gave me a hand.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Holler if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  I wouldn’t.

  “Have a good nap.”

  “Thanks.”

  She gave me a half-hearted smile and pulled the door shut behind her.

  The clock on the wall ticked way too loud. I hated the fucking thing. I hated the cute, pastel pictures on the rosy pink walls. I was so tired I wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep’s oblivion, but I was angry. Too angry to relax. It was an old familiar anger. A stupid anger. But I only had one option open to me. Somehow I had to learn to take care of myself—free of the Alpert influence. It hadn’t worked all that well years before, and probably wouldn’t work at all now, but I had to at least try.

  As I lay there, waiting for sleep to come, I formulated the first step in Plan A.

  Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be a viable Plan B.

  * * *

  Forest Lawn Cemetery’s extensive website held all sorts of fascinating pages and links, and Richard decided that apart from looking into Alice Newcomb’s death, he’d have to spend some time reading through every page. But that could wait, he realized, as he looked up to see that Brenda stood in the doorway of his study. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got tomato soup on low on the stove, and everything ready to make grilled cheese sandwiches. Are you hungry?”

  He pushed his chair away from the computer. “I guess.”

  She didn’t wait and took off for the kitchen. Once there, he took his usual seat. “Is Betsy down for her nap already?”

  Brenda had her back to him, but nodded.

  “Are you okay?”

  Again she nodded.

  “Then what’s up?”

  She shrugged. “Jeffy said he was too tired to tell me what happened at the cemetery, but I assume he was successful.”

  “He told me he met the ghost of a young woman in her twenties. The cemetery has an amazing data base. I’ve already found her and her mother. I printed out the pages for Jeff to read later.”

  Brenda didn’t comment. She checked the soup, then went back to assembling the sandwiches without comment.

  Richard continued. “Although this encounter isn’t likely to enhance our professional portfolio, it should prove that we can navigate the murky waters of solving a cold case.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  Over the years, Richard had learned when it was important to listen hard to what Brenda had to say. He had a feeling this might be one of those times. “What do you mean?”

  “When I was talking to Jeffy not ten minutes ago, I got a shiver of déjà vu. It wasn’t something I understood, but I think you might.”

  “How so?”

  “That’s it. I don’t know. But something in him changed in a heartbeat. It was an old hurt that never healed.”

  Richard didn’t like the sound of that. Was he in for a bout of emotional blackmail? B
ut from whom: Brenda or Jeff? And over what?

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Neither do I. Well, maybe I shouldn’t have said—”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “I’m probably imagining things.” She plopped one of the sandwiches into the hot cast-iron skillet on the stove, then turned to work on the other.

  Three minutes later, they ate their lunch in silence and then Richard went back to his study to try to find out more about Alice Newcomb. Lots of dead ends there.

  Hours passed. He gave up his online searches and played with various words to try to define his vision of the company he and Jeff would run. Alpert-Resnick Insights? Resnick-Alpert Insights? R&A Insights? A&R Insights? J&R Insights? He liked the idea of “insights” in the title. Like a double entendre that paid homage to Richard’s research capabilities and Jeff’s unique psychic abilities. Yes, they’d be equal partners in this little endeavor. Little, because they’d start out small, but once they’d garnered a reputation….

  His thoughts were interrupted when Brenda called him to dinner. How had the day gotten away from him?

  Richard entered the kitchen and headed for the Scotch bottle in the cabinet near the stove, intending to celebrate. Betsy sat in her highchair, a bowl of peas and a cut-up banana before her, happily feeding herself. The table was only set for two. “Where’s Jeff?”

  “I had to wake him. He said he wasn’t hungry and went back to sleep.”

  “He had a rough morning.”

  “So it seems,” Brenda said coolly.

  Richard grabbed a glass and some ice, then poured the Scotch—neat. “Is something wrong?”

  “I hope not.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She shrugged, retrieved two baked potatoes from the microwave and setting them on the plates before putting them on the table before she turned back for the stove, grabbing a bowl of peas and a platter of baked chicken. They both took their seats at the table, and Brenda helped herself to the entrée before pushing the plate toward Richard, who’d suddenly lost his appetite.

  “Something’s not right,” he said.

  Brenda doled out a tiny portion of peas. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels it.”