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

the off-season. On our tour, they said the hotel was having a hard time staying open. Maybe the town didn’t want to see their cash cow going away.”

“Cow?” TB asks.

I pat his knee. “It’s an expression, dear.”

“But why would a cow have cash…?”

“I wonder if the cops know about this?” Merrill thankfully interrupts.

“I may see Maddox tonight,” I tell them. “I can show him these and see what he knows.”

Merrill laughs. “The local cops aren’t too keen on psychics and our visions. They have labeled me crazy on more than one occasion.”

I recall our little tête-a-tête at the Basin Park Hotel elevator. “Yeah, Maddox said he doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

Then I remember the photos. “Wait here,” I tell them as I hurry back to the room and grab my camera. When I return, I flip through the photos until the ones at the lake appear. TB and Merrill are impressed with the mist images although Merrill points out that these could easily be chalked up to a natural mist occurring over the water. I hit the zoom button like Joe did at the restaurant and focus on the individual mists and lo and behold, the faces emerge.

“Holy shit,” Merrill exclaims.

TB says nothing, just stares. Finally, he takes the camera from my hands and studies the photos intensely for what seems like hours. Again, I’m not the patient type.“TB, you can play with this later.”

“I’ve seen these girls.”

“What?” Merrill and I say simultaneously.

TB hands the camera back to me. “The library closes in an hour. Got to go.”

“But what did you see?” I ask his back as he rushes from the room.

He’s already to the door, but he pauses and looks back. “I think those were the scholarship girls.”

And with those words, my ex-husband who’s suddenly become an expert in research — or at least is thrilled with the assignment — disappears out of sight.

“He’s a keeper,” Merrill says and my heart sinks.I want to agree so badly, heard this statement so many times before, but my heart never follows suit.

“He’s an awesome guy.” Despite I don’t want to be married to TB anymore, I mean every word.

Merrill and I look over the pile of papers TB has left behind, discovering more information about our English teacher and Lori. According to the yearbook, James hailed from Illinois but it doesn’t say where and was educated at a small liberal arts college “in the Midwest,” again not specifying, all vague information Merrill has heard over the years.

“We never knew the particulars,” she offers.

Apparently, Lori is quite the gifted writer, a girl after my own heart, and an actress, a member of the Shakespeare Club. At the bottom of the club’s page, however, is a note about Twelfth Night being postponed due to a family tragedy of one of the players.

“I wonder if that was about Blair,” I muse out loud, although I can’t imagine boy-crazy, flippant Blair being interested in Shakespeare. Perhaps if James was directing….

Dinnertime arrives and Merrill takes the pages home to show her mom, see if anything about the college jogs her memory. We agree to reconnect in the morning and Merrill gives me her cell phone number.

I head back to the room to change, Lori’s happy face in those pictures emblazoned in my mind. As I slip on evening clothes, I sense movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn ever so slowly and there she is, my homely sad coed.

“What is it, Lori? What do you want from me?”

She doesn’t speak, stares at me forlorn. Again, I’m sensing the loss of a child but I wonder if it’s not a similar emotion in her, an intense loss that’s triggering the same pain deep within me.

“Is it James?” I ask, hoping that might provoke a reaction. Nothing. “Is it Blair? Did she hurt you in any way? Did James?”

There’s so much pain in those eyes haunting me that even if she were to respond, how would I differentiate between who caused her grief. She’s the victim here, though, of that I am sure.

“Did you jump off that balcony? Or did someone push you?”

Again, nothing, but this time she gazes back toward the bathroom.

“I’m going to help you, Lori.” Even though I’m not sure how, I long to solve this mystery and witness this sweet girl pass on to something akin of heaven. I think of my own angel on the other side, who would be wonderful company. I couldn’t imagine Lillye trapped in some alternate reality like this old Victorian hotel with its ghost-gaping tourists, hoping for a SCANC like me to show up and save her. “I will do everything in my power to see you through this.”

Lori offers a semblance of a smile and it brightens my heart, but she crosses her arms about her chest, as if she’s holding a baby and gazes back at me. Is she offering me solace now?

A loud knock comes at the door and I jump, placing a hand over my heart to still the heavy beating. As if I imagined everything in the past few seconds, Lori has completely disappeared. I swallow the grief that has risen thinking of Lillye and open the door to find Holly, my travel writing neighbor who writes for my favorite magazine. She’s an inch above me now due to her high heels and wears a tight-fitting dress that shows off her attributes. She says “Hey” as she puts on the last earring, tossing her long hair over a shoulder when she’s done. “I couldn’t remember if it was five-thirty we were supposed to be downstairs or six.”

If it was five-thirty we’d be very late, I think to myself, but instead smile and welcome her in. “Six. We have about five minutes.”

“Great.” She strolls in and glances about my room. “Wow, yours is so much bigger. I wonder why I didn’t get the corner room.” She peeks into the bathroom. “Oh my, your bathroom is much bigger too.”

I have no idea why we get the rooms we do but I am a bit insulted that she would feel entitled to get mine over whatever room she has. But like the self-conscious woman I am, I mutter, “Sorry.”

Holly shrugs. “It’s just that I have to have the best for the magazine, you know.”

Don’t we all? Again, I say nothing but “Shall we go downstairs?” and we head for the lobby, Holly talking non-stop about the elaborate private gardens she witnessed that morning.

I’m thrilled to find Winnie by the hotel’s massive fireplace, another ordinary soul like me in comfortable clothes and flat shoes. I don’t know why I consistently compare myself with other women. Maybe because my wild curly hair, large feet and somewhat dumpy shape always put me at odds with modern fashion, or perhaps it was my mother’s voice all those years telling me I wasn’t ladylike enough.

My mother. She’s been calling non-stop ever since New Orleans and apparently been bugging TB as well. Something about a family gathering the day I return, although TB assured me it was nothing urgent. I make a mental note to call her back when I return from dinner. Might as well get it over with.

“You look nice,” Winnie says, and I’m about to discount the complement by telling her the clothes were on sale and the shoes came from Goodwill when the memory of my mother’s words stops me cold.

“Thank you,” I say instead, and mentally pat myself on the back.

We sit together in the van and I bring her up to date on what TB found at the library. I leave out the part about Lori reappearing — or appearing at all since Winnie doesn’t know about my SCANCy abilities — and concentrate instead on hard facts. The journalist in me still can’t wrap my mind around seeing intangible people who have died decades before but my heart tells me to stay on track. I can’t stop imagining my baby girl going through a similar situation and that drives me on.

In every group conversation, there’s an occasional lull that descends. Some people claim that angels are floating overhead interrupting conversation, others call it a pregnant pause. After we’re all through discussing various topics in small groups in the van on the way to DeVito’s, that break in conversation happens. Richard notices and laughs. “Did someone fart?”

It might have been funny if someone else had said it in a different situation, but Henry is driving and there is a certain professionalism to what we’re doing. None of us knows how to respond and this irks Richard to no end. “It’s a joke,” he says a bit too loudly.

Henry smiles but I can tell he’s not happy, although his temperament could be the result of one of his writers finding several crime scenes and maybe participating in a protest against the town’s mayor, the woman who may be writing his check. He can’t be having a good trip, considering.

We arrive at the restaurant and unload, but Richard’s now got a chip on his shoulder. When he spots me entering DeVito’s, I sense I will be the victim of his irritation.

“Must be nice for you being able to come on this trip,” he tells me as I pass him at the door. Is he holding the door open for us women?

“Yes, it is. Been wanting to be a full-time travel writer all my life.”

“Well it’s more than getting free trips, you know?”

This stops me cold and Winnie almost runs into the back of me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Richard drops the door and it almost hits Irene in the face. “It means, sweetheart, that some of us worked to get here and not because anyone felt sorry for us.”

At this point, even Winnie has paused to