Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (53 page)

“Well, when I was doing research for the book, I ran across a blueprint of this house from when it was first built. In the office there was another cubby, like a small door. I’ve been down there many times trying to find it, and there’s nothing… absolutely nothin’, Emerald. I guess it got closed up and painted over, if it even ever existed at all.”

“Did you tap the walls?”

He frowned. “Of course I did.”

“I’m asking because regardless of it being covered, if it was ever there, there has to be a weakness still in the structure.”

“What are you talking about?” He yawned noisily.

“Once you hollow a material out, such as a wall or floor, whether it is for a window, door, or even a closet, there will be a difference that can’t be completely hidden.”

“Of course you can!” He laughed smugly. “Ask any contractor or builder.”

“Wrong. No amount of spackle, wood, or even beams will change that fact. Now listen, it can be made sound, it can be even stronger than the surrounding areas, but rarely would it be completely equal in density, an exact match to the original materials or porosity. It’s almost impossible.”

“And you know this from furniture restoration?”

“No—dentistry. Cavities in particular… Imagine it like a garden, see?” She scooted closer to him. “What if you dug a hole in the soil of that little garden, then refilled it with fresh dirt. Sure, it would be covered. You may even be able to disguise it so well that an untrained eye wouldn’t notice it had been disturbed in the first place, but there are telltale signs—one being that the soil has been recently excavated, that the new soil placed inside of the hole does not match the exact properties of the dirt that was there, say, the previous year, and the insects, weeds, and plant life in general, or lack thereof, would tell you the timeline of when all of this happened, especially if you knew exactly what to look for.”

She sat there staring at him, taking note of his obvious irritation with her being in the know—male pride at its best. She enjoyed every second of it, and the smile on her face wouldn’t be coming off anytime soon.

“Well, hooty hooty hooooo! Look at Ms. Smarty Pants!” He pursed his lips, while she rolled her eyes and widened her grin. “Tell me, horticulturalist St. Claire.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his brows all bunched up, his feathers ruffled, which amused her even more. “How would that help me find the spot though? Because I’ve looked and knocked, and I didn’t see any evidence of it existing. All of this information is fine and dandy, but it does little for truly getting to the bottom of this, because I’m no forensic scientist and you’re not in charge of Habitat for Humanity.”

“Look, don’t get mad at me, Sloan.” She pointed in his face, dared herself to not thump him on the nose. “If anyone should be pissed off, it should be
me
, Moby Dick!”

“…Aaaaand my fiancé calling me Moby Dick is supposed to be an insult,
how
?” He moved his brows up and down like Groucho Marx, annoying the hell out of her.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m talking about you being in here flippin’ and floppin’ in the bed all damn night like some mermaid out of water!”

“I’m a mer
man
, thank you very much!” he snorted, pretending to pop his imaginary collar.

“You’re a hideous sea urchin is what you are. Now if you think you can’t find it and it’s inconsequential, then why is it bothering you? Why can’t you shake this loose if you think it’s a lost cause or a trivial matter?”

“I’m not really sure, baby.” His big shoulders drooped, giving him the appearance of a sad sack, and his eyes seemed to sag, too. “Because it’s like some mystery, I guess. I mean, it could be nothing,” He slapped his upper thighs, then rested his palms upon them. “The original drawings could be wrong but ever since I’ve seen them, this thing has just been worrying me. I just want to be sure.”

Tossing the sheets off her body, she exposed her oversized salmon shirt and old, bleach stained leggings, which she kept at his home for impromptu sleepovers. He hated them so. She hopped out of the bed and slid her bare feet into her flats.

“Come on,” she said, beckoning him with a hooked finger. “Time to do a bit of gardening…”

Two hours later…

A cloud of
dust had settled at her feet. Her dark shoes with the little black band now appeared dusty gray, and her hair dredged in powdered sugar from 1982. Sloan sat across the room in a red and cream folding lawn chair, the one he’d been banished to while she did her work. After a few minutes of power plays and arguments, Emerald had made it abundantly clear she wanted him out of the way, insisting he was only making things more difficult with his smart ass remarks and being constantly underfoot.

She tested out various spots around the office, tapping and pressing on the walls, like some house doctor trying to find a viable heartbeat. He rolled his eyes as she went about her way, certain she’d only destroy his wall and create thousands of dollars in damages. But soon, that tune changed. He sat in that damn chair, in awe of her.

A rectangular hole, about three by four feet large, faced him, a bunch of dust from the debris wafting in the air in front of it. Dark red brick, partially crumbled, lay exposed beneath layers of wood and plaster. Emerald stood beside it, a large sledgehammer cocked over her shoulder as if she were some hired hand. The tiny woman had power; he was duly impressed and planned to tell her so after his shock wore off.

“It looks empty.” She broke into his thoughts with an exasperated sigh, her chest heaving up and down and her shirt was stained with sweat. “I don’t know what it originally was.”

“Me neither.” He sat up and squinted, peering at the empty space from his position.

“It’s too small to be a closet. There is no indication it was a window, either. Matter of fact, I’m sure it wasn’t considering there is the original brick on the other side. Over here, this is a different type altogether.” She pointed to the sides of the thing. “Maybe it was a cubby to display a trophy of some sort… I could imagine that.” He nodded in agreement. “Some homes have these little alcoves created to display fine art, statues, vases, things like that.”

He made his way over, his feet crushing and snapping the scattered junk and bits of wall on the floor. Standing by her side, he reached into the opening, his fingers grazing the rough brick, which was sure to slice his flesh open if he wasn’t careful. Jamming his head inside the enclosure, he looked about.

“Be careful,” Emerald whispered.

“Baby, hand me my phone please.” In a matter of seconds, Sloan felt the iPhone in his palm. Sliding his thumb across the bottom, he activated the flashlight. Slowly scanning the area, he noted nothing of interest. More broken bits of brick, clouds of disturbed dust particles dancing about like ghostly orbs, an old cobweb clinging to one side of the hole like a curtain, and an unmistakable, all too familiar icy chill.

“Well, at least you know it’s here now,” she offered, apparently noticing his disappointment as a frown spread across his face. He strained to see farther inside, his forehead almost hitting the back of the thing. “Be careful, Sloan!” she exclaimed. “It might not be secure.”

“I’m watchin’ out, honey,” he assured her.

His lower stomach hurt as he leaned forward for the jagged opening cut into his robe. In the far right lower corner lay a dark brown, weathered object, mostly shrouded by shadow and dust. Could it be a leather bound booklet that had seen better days? Or something else? It was hard to make out the shape. “Hmmm, what’s that?”

He reached for it, hoping it wasn’t a dead bat that hadn’t fully decayed. It was an old house after all; no telling what was sandwiched between some of those walls. Though he had a strong stomach, he’d prefer not to run across any flying rodents that had met their untimely demise. He groaned, stretching his arm out to reach for it but barely able to touch whatever lay less than three inches out of his reach.

“Shit.” He gritted his teeth in frustration, pushed up on his toes, and tried harder. The object’s bumpy surface grazed his fingertips, teasing him just so. With one more hard lunge, he grabbed hold of it and dragged it up into the light, cutting his wrist in the process. The sting of the broken flesh didn’t deter his excitement, which filled his veins as quickly as the blood left him. “I got it!”

“You’re bleeding.” Emerald dashed out of the room, while he tried to make heads or tails of what he held in his damn hands. Drops of blood from his hand fell into the ash and dirt.

This looks like one of those old leather envelopes, the kind that closes with a flap and ties with a string.
He pulled out his desk chair and sat in it. Taking his time, he carefully slid his finger in the tight loop and gave it a gentle tug. The damn thing was so frayed, it fell apart, affording him immediate access to the contents.

“Here, put your arm up.” Before he could enjoy his treasure, Emerald had him give her his hand to clean with a hand towel dipped in a bowl of warm water, which she’d brought back with her. “Where are your peroxide and bandages?”

“In the upstairs hall bathroom.”

“You need some. I’ll be right back.” She turned to walk out.

“Wait a sec. I’ll get it. Sit down and let’s open this together.”

She looked at him for what felt like a long while, then came to a decision to pull the folding chair to the desk, and take a seat next to him. Leaning forward, she studied the leather envelope. Pushing the flap back, he exposed a stack of stiff, yellowed folded papers. He slid them out, one by one. He checked a few, finding the faded ink of the handwriting still legible.

“I wonder what these are.” He unfolded another one from the stack, and several aged, black and white photographs fell out.

“Oh my God…” Emerald leaned in closer and picked up one from the table. Peter Jones stared back at them. Taken in a massive room with a light colored fedora on his head, the picture showed him sitting in front of an enormous grand piano, and on top of the instrument sat an attractive, elegant Black woman in a 1950’s style dress, her legs crossed, dark-toned high heels on her feet, and a sultry look on her face. Emerald picked up another photo of the same woman, this time alone, sitting on a picnic style checkered blanket, an open wicker basket beside her and a sad smile on her face. “Sloan… I bet this was the woman he was in love with! Oh my goodness…”

On a swallow, he nodded in agreement and sorted the other photos, most of which were of this lovely woman. The one that struck him the most was one of her in an old fashioned nurse’s outfit and hat, and she was standing in what appeared to be a hospital. Some water damage had ruined a part of the photograph, but the other half looked to be in pristine condition.

“Do you want to read the letters?” He picked one up and handed it to her.

“No. I think you should read them, Sloan. Peter identifies with you; you wrote his story, so, I think he’d actually prefer you reading them.”

He hesitated for a fraction before taking the letter back from her.

December 6, 1956

Dear Sadie,

You have refused to respond to me. You ignore my correspondence. My letters are coming back to me, return to sender. Don’t you realize how much I love you? Can’t you see I am doing everything in my power to rectify this situation? I am due to head out of the state on December 12th. I will not return until December 16th. It is imperative that we discuss the situation at hand. I have promised you much, but delivered little. I understand your disbelief and skepticism, but I beg of you, please allow me one additional opportunity to correct my wrongs.

With all of my love,

Peter

Sloan selected another letter and unfolded it, and then another and another. The intensity still tied to the words on the paper seemed to magnify with each communication he read aloud. In most of the letters he pleaded for her return, but one in particular was different…

April 3, 1957

To my Dearest Sadie and Joseph,

I attended your funeral last week. I’m now at the point where I have been able to sit down and write again. I’m not talking about my books or screenplays. Previously I attempted to write this letter to no avail. But, it must be done. The church was filled with beautiful flowers and people I didn’t know, people I should have known since they were individuals who loved you. Before the ceremony began, I placed a single white rose on your casket. I sent the money to ensure all expenses were covered. I had it mailed off to your sister, along with an additional sum of money for any other expenses she hadn’t foreseen. I didn’t sign my name to the register; I didn’t want any acknowledgement though I’m certain she figured it out on her own accord. My life no longer has meaning, Sadie. The day of your burial was the last day that I can recall being myself, and it was no longer just your funeral and our child’s, but mine, too. According to the hospital, you passed away at 2:37 P.M. It seems I can’t get that out of my mind. Perhaps because when we met after my car accident, the newspapers said I’d been admitted at 2:37 P.M., too…