Giving Up the Ghost (3 page)

"I'm good at cleaning up messes. At least that's what my ex-wife claimed."

"That's good to know." She realized she liked both his cleaning abilities and the fact that
he had an ex-wife instead of a wife.

"Not really, since she considered it my only virtue."

Darren rested his hand on the booth behind her. "I can imagine how it must feel, coming
to live in a new town and discovering that the guy who owned the place you're renting apparently
died under mysterious circumstances. But let me put your mind at ease on that score. Cam was
dead drunk when he fell to his death. A totally senseless waste of a good man."

Gabbie had a feeling he'd been reluctant to share this last piece of information.

Darren apparently mistook her silence for worry. "You're safe at the cottage, but to put
your mind at rest, my deputy and I will patrol the area 24/7. Call the station if you see anything
suspicious." He reached into his shirt pocket for a card. "Here are my home and cell numbers. Call
any time."

Gabbie was about to ask if he gave these numbers out to everyone, but he was already
halfway to the cash register.

"Nice package, Chief Rollins," she whispered, "but I'm taking a long sabbatical from
men."

Her teeth chattered in the bone-chilling cold as she hurried to her car a few minutes
later. She drove to the supermarket, where she bought enough groceries to last her a week.

Gabbie regretfully bypassed frozen lobster tails and Belgian chocolate-covered cookies.
There was less than five hundred dollars in her account, which had to last until her first pay check.
She would not put herself in the position of having to borrow from her mother or her sister, each of
whom in her own insidious way would make her feel like a fool.

As she drove slowly back to the cottage, she reviewed everything she'd learned about
Cameron Leeds. My God, you're becoming obsessed! She giggled because of the ludicrous way she
was casting him in the role of a romantic figure. A cross between Antonio Banderas and Robin
Hood. A ploy, no doubt, to keep her anxieties regarding her new job at bay.

Gabbie found a van bearing the logo of Reese Walters's store parked smack in front of
the cottage. Tucking a bag of groceries in each arm, she maneuvered around it, frowning as she
passed through the front door left wide open to the elements, and kicked it closed when she got
inside.

"Sorry about that, ma'am."

A burly man, his Yankees' cap turned backwards, was walking towards her. The young
black man behind him gave her a quick smile.

The large man, clearly the job foreman, said, "We just hooked up your new oven and
microwave. They're in fine working order."

"Thank you." Gabbie followed them into the kitchen, where she inspected the new
appliances. "They look great."

"They're top of the line." He slapped the pile of folders on the counter. "Here are the
brochures explaining everything. Read them when you have a few minutes."

"I will," Gabbie assured him though she doubted she'd have time to do anything of the
kind.

"That's about it, then." He moved toward the door then turned. "Oh, and your phone's
working."

"Thanks again."

"Reese said to tell you he's sorry but he can't put down the new floor till next week. The
installer's out sick, and he's behind schedule. He'll call to tell you when."

Gabbie smiled. "Please tell Reese I appreciate his getting me the appliances so
quickly."

"Sure enough. My pleasure."

Gabbie saw the men out, glad that Reese had proved to be a man of his word about
getting the kitchen in working order. Still, as she double-locked the front door she made a mental
note to ask for his key after the new floor was installed.

She put away the groceries, retrieved the satchel of schoolbooks from the Volvo, and
then changed into old jeans and a sweat shirt. Her plan was to spend the rest of the afternoon--or
longer if necessary--preparing for her first day of school.

Fears swarmed up like locusts as she started down the staircase. What if she'd lost the
knack of teaching after so many years? Would she learn the kids' names quickly? Could she
maintain discipline without coming off as an ogress?

Gabbie took a deep breath and focused on her objective: to improve her students'
reading and writing skills. Her fear and uncertainty dissipated. Excitement welled up as she decided
to turn her students' reading The Great Gatsby into an intriguing adventure. She'd accomplish it by
emphasizing the human condition. After all, every novel was about people. People driven by their
emotions, their desires, their loves, their hates, their ambitions.

She stopped outside the den, reluctant to cross the threshold. The room appeared
innocuous, even inviting, backlit by the afternoon sun. Still, there was no denying the energy she'd
sensed last night, or the mocking voice she'd heard or thought she'd heard.

Maybe she'd felt Cam's presence, as Lydia put it, because he'd died a violent death.
Exasperation forced her to move. "I can't stand here all day," she said aloud. "I have to get to
work."

She entered the room and looked around. Nothing seemed unusual. No sudden drafts or
sense of energy or otherworldly presence. See. It's only a large, pleasant room. Relieved, she sat in
the recliner and continued to read.

CHAPTER FOUR

An hour later, Gabbie's muscles ached from working in a cramped position. She
stretched her arms overhead and decided it was time for a break. In the kitchen, she poured water
into the teapot and set it on her new range to boil. The stove, though a beautiful appliance, was
wasted on her as she had no intention of doing much cooking or baking. She'd stick to preparing
simple fish and chicken dishes, and not even that tonight. Her dinner would be an omelet or a
cheese sandwich.

She returned to the den with a mug of tea, which she placed on the table beside the
telephone. She'd no sooner sat down and opened The Great Gatsby when a man said, "Looks like
you're settling in nice and comfy."

She leaped up. The book went flying.

"Who's there? Where are you?" Her words came out in a croak.

At first she saw nothing, which was terrifying in itself. Then, in the far corner by the
sliding doors, she caught a flutter of movement. She spun around in time to watch the figure of a
man grow more solid until it appeared almost, but not quite, three-dimensional.

"No. Impossible!" She sank into the chair, where she huddled, mouth agape, watching
him slowly cross the room.

"You're not! You can't be Cameron Leeds." The name escaped her lips as if it had a life of
its own.

"That's me, all right. Cameron Franklin Leeds. In the spirit if not the flesh." He leaned
against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed.

Mesmerized, Gabbie stared at the ghost of a man whose striking good looks outstripped
her imagination. Khaki shorts and a short-sleeved rugby shirt showed off his lean, athletic build.
Black hair framed a square face of even features that reminded her of Warren Beatty in his
heyday.

He flashed a grin. "Hey, relax. I'm one of the good guys."

One of the good guys? It was like a macabre joke. She wanted to run from the room, but
she couldn't move. She remained frozen where she sat.

"That's good to know, only I wish you weren't here. You aren't here. You can't be."

She closed her eyes and prayed she was in the middle of a dream and that he'd
disappear. But when she opened her eyes he was still perched against the desk, waiting patiently
for her attention.

Was she losing her mind? No, she was hallucinating. Her mind was creating the image
she thought she could see, because of what she'd been told about the man who had died while living
in this cottage. Except that notion wouldn't fly. Last night, when she'd sensed his presence and
heard his voice, she'd known nothing about Cameron Leeds.

At least he showed no sign of being hostile. "Are you a ghost?" she finally ventured.

"I suppose. Or we might use another term if you prefer: phantom, wraith, apparition,
specter. All euphemisms, wouldn't you agree?"

Now that her terror had abated, Gabbie was astonished at how quickly she was adapting
to the reality of her situation. The ghost of Cameron Leeds haunted, or whatever the appropriate
term was, her cottage. Still, she refused to get caught up in his semi-flirtatious banter. She
remembered what Lydia and Darren had said about his reputation with women, even though she
and could see how any susceptible female might fall victim to his charms.

She was shaken by his ghostly appearance, but totally impervious to his appeal. The
certainty broke the spell that had rooted her. She was free to move.

"I'm going to make myself a cup of tea." She strode from the room.

"You have a cup of tea on the table," he said. "Please come back."

She caught the urgency in his voice. "I need to be by myself."

"I have to talk to you."

Oddly enough, he made no attempt to follow her, but hovered just inside the den. "At
least tell me your name," he shouted.

"It's Gabbie. Gabbie Meyerson."

"Are you coming back? Please come back to the den so we can talk."

And then it dawned on her. Perhaps he couldn't follow her to the kitchen, and could only
manifest inside the den.

Though Cam continued to call to her, she didn't respond. She couldn't. Eventually he fell
silent.

She braced herself against the sink and breathed deeply to regain her equilibrium.
"There's a ghost in the den waiting to talk to me." She spoke aloud to get some sort of grasp on the
situation.

It sounded weird. It was weird.

She'd heard of people who communicated with spirits and with the dead, but she'd
certainly never known one. Yet, beneath the strangeness of it all, she sensed exhilaration. A
thousand questions arose in her mind, questions that demanded answers.

Curious as she was, Gabbie remained in the kitchen. Her life had been in turmoil the
past year and a half, and now she was embarking on a new beginning. She longed for serenity.

But her need to know finally propelled her back to the den. She hoped he'd be gone. She
hoped she'd fallen asleep while preparing for her class and he'd been a part of an unusually vivid
dream.

She hadn't been dreaming. He stood in front of the bookcase. Was it her imagination or
was he more transparent? At any rate, he was eager to see her.

"I'm glad you came back, Gabbie. I need to talk to you."

"Why? You don't even know me."

He waved that away. "I know you now. And I can tell you're intelligent and resourceful,
as well as a stunning, sexy woman."

"No personal remarks, or I'm out of here. Don't tell me I'm the only one you've made
contact with."

Cam sighed. "You are. I wasn't about to scare the women from the cleaning service half
to death."

"But you didn't mind scaring me."

"Only because I desperately need to talk to you." To emphasize his urgency he stepped
closer, crowding her. Again she felt that strange chill in the air.

Gabbie leaped back and upset the table beside the recliner, spilling her tea.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't mean to frighten you."

"It's the cold." She hugged herself.

"I'll try to remember. This is so weird for me."

"That makes two of us. But what did you need to talk about? Why do you come back to
the cottage from wherever you're supposed to be?"

"I come back to find out who murdered me."

Gabbie hugged herself, gripping her upper arms in an attempt to control her
trembling body. Murder was a vicious, life-taking act of deliberation. For months after she'd
testified against her husband, she'd lived in fear that he might try to kill her. Now she shook her
head, denying what Cam just told her.

"Are you sure? Darren said you were drinking heavily and fell to your death. They found
your body on the beach."

Cam gave her a knowing grin. "Darren, eh? Where and when did the two of you have this
informative conversation?"

"In the diner," she said. "When I was having lunch."

"Is that a fact? I see my good buddy lost no time making your acquaintance. I'd beware
of the Loving Lawman, if I were you."

"Let's stick to the subject." Gabbie hoped Cam wouldn't notice her red ears. Though why
she should blush because she'd just met Darren Rollins was too ridiculous for words.

"From what I hear, you're the one with the Don Juan reputation."

"Trust me, Darren was never a slouch in that department. But he used to be smart
enough to separate business from pleasure." Cam's face tightened. "For once our police chief wasn't
as thorough as he should have been."

"What do you mean?" It felt surreal, talking to a ghost about his murder.

Cam pointed toward the beach. "Darren knows better than anyone how many times I
scrambled down that cliff when we were young. Hell, we both did. We had some great contests,
which is how one Saturday night in our senior year I broke my leg and he sprained his wrist. Pissed
off our coach for keeping our basketball team out of the finals.

"And that ancient has-been who examined me afterward missed every sign that I was
struck down, right here in this room."

"Darren said they found you down at the beach."

"Yes, but it happened here. In this room."

Gabbie opened her mouth to argue, until she remembered the den's piercing coldness
the night before when Cam first appeared. Just now, he hadn't followed her into the kitchen because
he couldn't. The den was the only room in the cottage where he could appear.

"I understand," she said, marveling at her use of logic to support what a ghost was
telling her about his death. "What isn't clear is, since you know it happened here in this room, why
don't you know who did it?"

"Because," he said slowly, as though he were speaking to an idiot, "I was struck from
behind."