Black Opal (15 page)

I gathered my belongings off the dresser, rolled up the dirty t-shirt I’d worn the day before, and tossed it all in the bag. As I untangled the cord on my cellphone charger, the overnight bag leapt off the bed, did a somersault, and hit the floor, scattering junk everywhere.
Not this again.

“Shit!” A breath of cold air tickled the back of my neck, and the feeling of someone behind me crawled over my skin. This time I felt more disgusted than frightened. Time for me to tell her I was done. “Shayne? Listen to me. Your brother is important to me and I care for him. That means I care about you, too, but we’ve gotta get back to our lives in Gaslight City. I don’t know what else I can do.”

The bedroom door slammed, shaking the pictures on the wall. The force made my overturned duffel bag jump on the floor. Shayne’s fury, white hot, mingled with my irritation. I couldn’t let her goad me into anger. Taking deep breaths, I slowly let go of the emotion she poured into me. I spoke to the empty room.

“If you can’t show me what I need to solve your murder, let us go. Let your brother be happy.”

Shayne’s fury hit me, knocking me back a few steps. The force of it frightened me. Could she hurt me right now? Kill me?
Probably.
I don’t think she wanted Dean to be unhappy. But she died young and would forever possess the understanding of a sixteen-year-old girl.

“Come on, Shayne. Show me.” I softened my voice, hoping to reason with her.

The bookshelf scooted away from the wall and tipped forward. My heart jumped into my throat.
Mistake. Never encourage a ghost to act out. How would I ever adjust to the new intensity in my connection with the other side?
I breathed a sigh of relief when all the books stayed in place except for one. A slim volume slid to the floor and landed fanned open.

I cautiously approached, expecting it to fly at my face. A yearbook dated 1991, the year Shayne disappeared. I turned over the book and found it open to a full-page picture.

The picture, though only a snapshot, had been blown up to fit the whole page. The caption underneath the picture read “this year’s Panther Yearbook is dedicated to Shayne Turgeau, who disappeared April 25, 1991, the day this picture was taken.”

The picture showed Shayne sitting at a table in the school library, big, old-fashioned headphones on her head, her micro cassette recorder beside her, and a typewriter in front of her. The ring Lisette bought from a pawn shop flashed on her finger, the matching necklace at her throat. I wondered what had happened to the necklace, if it had ended up in a pawn shop, too, but then noticed the stack of micro cassettes next to Shayne.
Bingo.

Shayne wanted me to listen to the cassettes.
Took me long enough to figure out. No wonder she’s pissed off.
I rolled my eyes and caught a flash of Shayne standing in the bedroom’s doorway. With both hands fisted at her hips and one foot cocked out to the side, she looked like a frustrated teenager. A deep sadness took my breath away. She died so young.

She didn’t live long enough to get to the point where she wondered about the part she played in her own misery. She died at a time when she still thought she could take on the world. This last revelation put me no closer to solving her murder, but it forced me to think about my own choices.

I took a deep breath. “Fine. Let’s go listen to those tapes.”

###

Loneliness and the smell of dust clung to Shayne’s hideout. I stood for a silent moment in the dark little alcove, mourning the girl who never got to come back up here, who never got the chances I’d had to make things right. This time, I didn’t snoop around. I just grabbed the plastic makeup case containing the cassettes and beat it out of there. The thought of staying made me feel incredibly sad.

I found Nadine dusting a monstrous antique mirror in the entry hall. As I approached, she acknowledged me in the mirror and said, “No matter how hard I try, this thing always has dust sticking to it. Must be all the in-and-out traffic. The missus won’t hear of doing away with it. Been in the family since the War Between the States.”

“This place is amazing.” I wanted to cut to the chase, just ask Nadine if the Turgeaus owned anything as outdated as a micro cassette player, but this was the first time she’d spoken to me like a human being. “Parts of it are like a time capsule, but the modern stuff mixed in makes it feel alive.”

She tucked her feather duster into the waistband of her maid outfit and looked me over. “Mr. Dean and Mr. Ricky are oversee’n the last of the work outside. Want me to take you to ‘em?”

“No, thank you. Would you happen to know if the Turgeaus keep a micro cassette player? One of those little bitty ones? I know they’re outdated, but…”

“Honey, look around this joint. This bunch don’t throw nothing away.” Nadine threw back her head and laughed. I joined her. When she finished, she said, “Come on. There’s one in the library, and you’re already familiar with that room.”

A few minutes later, Nadine set me up on a soft leather chair with a scratched mini cassette player and a package of batteries.

“Just listen till your heart’s content.” She strode to the door but turned back to give me another long look. To my surprise, she said, “I’m sorry I laughed at you when we first met. It was un-Christian of me. Mr. Dean’s a serious one, but I can tell you make him happy.” Without waiting for my answer, she exited the room, leaving the door half open.
Well. How about that.

I really didn’t have time to ponder Nadine’s change in attitude. Heart pounding, I fumbled through getting the cassette player working and played the first tape. It was nothing more than an interview conducted by Shayne with a person whose speech pattern suggested they had few or no teeth. Between that and the thick accent, I had a hard time following the conversation.

As the minutes ticked by, I played two more tapes and grew more frustrated. Whatever Shayne wanted me to understand evaded me. Noticing the cassette labeled
Traiteur
, I picked it up and re-examined the receipt inside. In the better light, I could tell the middle initial of the scrawl was either a J or an I.
Big help.
The first and last letters still looked like ripples on a pond. Then, I remembered how Shayne had listed the title of each tape on the back of her journal.
Traiteur
was circled.

I pushed the tape into the cassette player and clicked it on, expecting an immediate answer. But this interview was just like the others. It contained nothing out of the ordinary. I set the player on a leather ottoman and paced the room, only halfway listening to the serious young woman who sounded so much like a female Dean asking interview questions and approached the display of Shayne’s pet project.

“Last accomplishment she ever made,” I muttered as I leaned over the display. Opening the glass cabinet’s sliding doors, I grabbed the first book in the series and flipped to the table of contents. Most of the interviews I’d listened to were listed. I set that book down and picked up the second volume. Its table of contents listed interviews I hadn’t seen in Shayne’s tapes. It must have been published after her death. The only book she actually worked on, then, was the first volume. I picked it up and looked at the opening pages.

One thing jumped out at me. The first page read that Colton James Starr conducted all the interviews and processed them. Shayne Turgeau was listed as his assistant. I flipped to the interview section and noted again Colton was listed as the interviewer. Not Shayne.

Odd. From what I could tell, Shayne conducted these interviews alone. Of course, Colton could have supplied the interview questions and sat in on the interview. But it didn’t seem that way. Shayne built on the conversation and asked questions about specific points no set of interview questions could have anticipated. I put the book back in the glass case and walked over to sit on the leather chair again, still barely listening to the interview.

The conversation between Shayne and her interviewee ended, and the woman said she had a gift for Shayne. Iced sugar cookies. In her excitement, Shayne must have forgotten to turn off the recording function. The tape hissed through Shayne saying polite thank yous and walking to her car. The car started. The deep groan of a door opening filled the small space.

“Shit.” Shayne dropped the polite teenager voice and sounded like a real kid for the first time since I started listening. “You scared me.”

“Been waiting on you to get finished.” There was a pause punctuated with the smacks of kisses. “Let’s get out of here before they come out to see what you’re doing.”

I matched the male voice with what I remembered of Trey’s voice. The car’s engine changed pitch as Shayne shifted gears and began driving.

“You been in my room in the barn lately?”

Shane let out a coquettish giggle. “You mean since the last time we were in there?”

“Yeah.” Trey didn’t share Shayne’s flirty tone.

“The last time I was in there was Friday night.” Shayne sounded hesitant, nervous even. I didn’t know her well enough to know if she was lying. “And, as you’ll remember, we were together.”

“Oh, I remember that, all right. You sure you telling the truth?”

“Why don’t you just tell me what this about and let me respond to that.” I didn’t have to know Shayne to identify the fear in her voice. I felt scared for her. This didn’t sound good.

“Pull off up here, in that driveway. Nobody lives there anymore.”

Don’t do it, girl
, I thought.

The car’s engine settled into an even hum as Shayne shifted into Park.

“What’s this about, Trey? You’re acting like I did something wrong, and I didn’t.”

“Somebody stole my daddy’s coin collection.” Trey’s voice carried a reedy, accusing edge. Though I hadn’t known him at all, it tightened my skin into chill bumps. When Shayne spoke, her voice shook.

“You have to know it wasn’t me. I know how important your father’s things are to you. I’ve never touched them other than the times you’ve shown them to me.”

“Think your brothers did it? What about that pretty boy teacher always sniffing around you?”

Colton. He had to mean Colton. I leaned forward as if to coax the words from the piece of technology.

“I can’t imagine my brothers doing it.”

“That leaves your boyfriend, that damn teacher. He’s just a user. I can see it in him.” Trey’s voice dropped to a menacing growl. “He know about them coins?”

“Mr. Starr is not a user. He just loves history.” Shayne’s voice wavered.

It certainly wasn’t a no. In fact, it was almost a yes. My mind fluttered around, trying to fit the information I had together.

“Interested in history, my ass.” Trey huffed a nasty snort. “Those coins are missing, and I know you can tell me where they ended up.”

“I can’t.” Shayne sucked in a shaking breath and let out a half sob. “Mr. Starr would never steal your coins.”

“You’re gonna get those coins back.” Trey’s weight shifted. The vinyl on the car seat squealed. Shayne cried out, and I flinched. He had hurt her somehow.

“Let go of me!” Hysteria filled her demand. My fists clenched as I listened to the struggle and Shayne’s sobs. I heard a thump and the groan of a car door opening. Shayne screamed, “Get the fuck away from me. Don’t ever come near me again or I’ll tell my brothers what you just did. I’ll tell them you fucked me, too. They’ll beat the shit out of you and get my parents to fire you.”

I hoped she’d kicked him in the family jewels. He deserved it. Richly.

Trey, his voice strangled as though he was in pain, said, “You stay the hell away from my room in the barn, you spoiled little tramp. If I ever catch you down there again, I’ll—”

The tape came to its natural end and cut off.

I sat in the leather chair, hands shaking, cheeks burning with hot anger. Something, an answer, hovered at the edge of my mind. Fury that Trey had accused Shayne, the way he had terrorized and brutalized her, kept me from reasoning it out. The library door swung the rest of the way open. I jerked to my feet in surprise and struggled to compose myself as Colton strolled into the room.

He took one look at my face and said, “Am I interrupting something?”

“No. I found these tapes that Shayne made while the two of you worked on the
Disappearing Culture
books. On this one, she forgot to turn it off after the interview, and I heard her and Trey have an argument.” I didn’t mention the questions I had about Colton taking credit for the interviews. The Turgeaus thought a lot of him, and it would only brew hurt feelings.

“Oh?” Colton, hands in his pockets, strolled over to the display and stared at the contents.

“Yeah. He accused her of stealing some coins his father gave him. Got physical when she wouldn’t admit to it.”

Colton, his back to me, made no response. Realization finally slammed into place. The brothel coin found with Shayne’s body, the one the entire Turgeau family claimed belonged to Trey, had been stolen. Unless he lied when he accused Shayne. I thought back to the rage in his voice and dismissed the idea. If Trey’s coins were stolen before Shayne’s murder, then someone else left them with her body. The real killer. Trey thought Colton took them.

My throat tightened as other pieces fell into place. The credits inside the books claimed Colton James Starr conducted the interviews, but he didn’t. He stole them from Shayne. I remembered the telephone conversation Julienne overheard.

Then I remembered the receipt in the cassette case. The initials on the bill of sale for the computers took shape in my mind. That middle initial was a J, not an I. And the first and last initials were C and S. Colton James Starr. Shayne kept that for some reason. Had she spent the last days of her life building a case against Colton?

Colton turned to face me and frowned at the expression on my face.

“You look so serious. You figured it out, didn’t you?”

I sucked in a breath and tensed to run.

“Don’t try to leave.” He took a switchblade from his jeans pocket and hit the silver button. A wicked length of sharpened steel flashed out. He walked from the display to stand in front of the one door leading out of the library.