A Ghost of a Chance - Cherie Claire (best ebook reader under 100 .txt) 📗

I also know Lori died here.

Out in the hall a voice carries and my heart skips thinking it might be Madman returning for more questions and here I’m lying on the floor in my cheap nightgown from Kmart after a bout of time travel. “Explain that one, Valentine,” I tell myself. And yet, for the first time since the Opera Singer back at the New Orleans airport, I’m not that surprised or worried about my ethereal experiences. Maybe I’ve finally embraced insanity.

I gingerly stand so as not to jiggle the headache and make it worse. As usual, TB doesn’t ask why I’m on the floor, simply rolls over and rearranges his pillow.

Heading to the door and the source of the noise, I press one ear to the wood and listen to a man explaining something and, when I gaze out the peephole, see a group standing behind him, listening intently.

“It’s the ghost tour,” TB mumbles. “They have several every night.”

“How do you know?”

“That bitch of a mayor told me.”

There are times when TB absorbs the world, digests its true meanings and appears almost smart. Few times, mind you, but I’m so happy tonight is one of those moments. I reach over and kiss his forehead.

“What?” he asks without opening his eyes.

“The mayor grabbed my arm in the library earlier and accused me of something to do with her cousin.” I pull up my nightgown sleeve and find a nasty bruise in the shape of fingers.

TB opens his eyes and looks my way, spots the odd-shaped bruise and sits up. “Jesus, Vi.”

“I know!” Now that I realize she has left a mark, I’m royally pissed. “What on earth was she thinking?”

The group outside titters — you know, when something spooks them or a piece of information startles their senses and they react. One woman burps up a nervous giggle. TB and I stop talking and try to hear what the man in charge is saying. We can’t make out much, but we hear him recall a cancer patient named Theodora who stayed in the room across the hall during the Baker hospital days and apparently she can’t find her keys and appears at the door to hotel visitors.

After a second or two, TB relaxes back on his pillow. “He’s telling the Ghost Hunters story. The crew from that TV show stayed in that room across the hall and the ghost moved everything around. When they came back to their room one night, they couldn’t get in the door because the ghost had moved their stuff and blocked the entrance from the inside.”

“How do you know this?”

TB shrugs and looks guilty. “There was a tour this afternoon.”

He expects me not to catch on. Worse, he thinks I’ll be mad that he either crashed the tour or accepted a free one without my approval. I lean over and kiss him again, right on top of that thick head of gorgeous blond hair.

“What?” TB asks again, totally confused.

I sit on the bed next to him, grab the remote, turn off the TV and throw the remote on the side table. “Tell me all about it.”

“Henry says you all will go on the tour tomorrow night,” TB begins, still fighting off sleep. “But there are several ghosts in this hotel.”

I take a deep breath, hoping one of them is a plain girl with reddish hair and brown eyes. “I heard about Michael in 218. And the guy with the cap in the morgue. Who else is here?”

“I can’t remember them all.” TB rubs his eyes. “The lady across the hall, a nurse with a gurney I think on one of the floors. Some couple in a suite took a photo of a woman in white in their TV screen.”

My heart drops. “Is that it?”

“That’s not enough?”

How do I bug him without mentioning Plain Jane? “I mean, were there any others?”

TB pushes himself up from the pillows. “Oh yeah, there was the college girl who threw herself off the balcony.”

A hum begins in the room, too quiet to be detected by the human ear but it resonates with my pulse, skittering throughout my body. This buzzing energy is Lori, I think, and might explain the story of the room’s ghost. “What did she look like?”

TB turns to me with a puzzled grin. “How the hell would I know?”

And with that remark, the buzzing immediately stops, TB turns and readjusts his pillows, dropping down with a sigh and quickly falling back to sleep.

I’m disappointed, naturally, but what did I expect from a man who couldn’t remember how to recite vows at our wedding. I’ll get my own tour tomorrow night and I’ll actually listen to the details.

Suddenly, I’m exhausted and I crawl into my side of the bed, drifting off to sleep as I vaguely hear the ghost tour making their way down the hall and out of earshot. One piece drifts through the ether and into my consciousness, however, pausing within the fog enveloping me toward sleep: that of a girl who lived on this floor who fell to her death.

We start the day at a cute coffeehouse in the center of downtown Eureka Springs, if you could call it a downtown. The city hugs the mountain so streets crawl high and low and twist in all directions, one reason why someone dubbed it “the town of up and down.” I hug my coffee cup and literally inhale the caffeinated aroma, hoping it might jolt my brain into action.

Sleep eluded me like the ghosts I have been seeing, so I’m thoroughly exhausted. Through my dreams I witnessed faint images, saw tiny clues that I couldn’t quite grasp, and heard historic people telling me things I failed to decipher. I tossed and turned all night, waking up at the slightest sound, continually gazing the room for Lori who never returned.

Now, clutching my coffee like a lifesaver, I remain in that fog, unable to focus on what our historian is saying.

“Are you okay?” one of the emaciated Wallace girls asks me and for the life of me I cannot remember her name.

“I’m fine,” I say, even though I want to nod off in my chair. “Have you had breakfast yet? You’re so thin.”

I’m being rude and I know it. I had a friend in college who resembled a beanpole, which is exactly what people nicknamed her. None of us thought much about it, until I found her crying in her dorm room and realized that pointing out faults, no matter how much we wished they were our own problems, is as hurtful as calling someone fat.

The Wallace girl isn’t insulted, but maybe she’s being nice because she’s in PR. “Are you sure your head is all right? We just had breakfast.”

I look down and sure enough, there sits my half empty plate. Reminds me of the old Steve Martin stand-up routine where he would pause on stage then say, “Sorry, I went to the Bahamas.”

“I’m not fully functional until I had my coffee,” I lie to skinny whinny, then kick myself for calling her a name, even if it is inside my head. “And I’m sorry for saying you’re thin. It’s the mother in me.”

Admitting that makes me physically wince. Oh, please don’t ask me about Lillye.

“We’ll be doing the walking tour soon,” she tells me and I breathe a sigh of relief. “That will help get you going.”

Indeed. Like I said, I can focus better when I’m holding something, moving around. Sitting here listening to this fine gentleman drone on about the establishment of Eureka Springs is failing to lodge anything within my brain.

Our Wallace Girl seems to receive that same message for she gently interrupts boring — but highly informative, I’m sure — local historian and suggests we continue the history lesson as we make our way around town. Richard mentions a bathroom break and another cup of coffee — the ghost tours outside his door interrupted his sleep — and Stephanie and Joe ask if they can run across the street to the Basin Park, where the original spring exists, to take photos in the perfect morning light that will disappear soon. It’s decided that we break for fifteen minutes and meet in front of the spring to begin the walking tour.

The morning group is me, the Wisconsin duo and Richard for the others are enjoying spa services at the hotel; we have split up the salon time and mine comes tomorrow. Wallace boss lady gives us the go-ahead and we instantly move in all directions, like kids being released for recess. Since I neither have to visit the ladies room or am interested in chasing light, I head outside for fresh air and a chance to clear my head.

Next door is a chocolate shop, another bistro and then one of those typical gift shops you find in cute towns such as Eureka Springs, those offering the same tchotchkes made in China but also upscale souvenirs, local art and what I call “cruisewear” clothes for women, the free-flowing kind. None of this interests me — although I wonder if I will need those clothes if I keep eating like I do — so I walk to the end of the block and notice an alley with a stone stairway down to the next street. Again, the city is an up and down experience.

Alongside the alley, beneath a rainbow flag, there’s a store with crystals in the window. Naturally, Rainbow Waters catches my eye but it’s the enlarged Tarot card on the front door that does the trick, the “Hanged Man” staring at me as if life is some big joke.

Every time I have a Tarot reading, this card appears. It depicts a man in blue with red tights hanging upside down by one foot from a tree, like he got caught on a branch and decided to enjoy the experience. His hands rest casually behind his back and one leg