In the Air Tonight (11 page)

I’d tried to work here as a teen, had to quit. Some people saw the specters; some only felt them. I heard everything they said, and once they knew that they just wouldn’t shut up.

The ghosts of Thore’s Farm were attached to the house—more specifically the second floor—just as they’d been when they were alive. This meant I could have dinner here and be bothered no more than anyone else by the thumps. I caught an occasional, distant whisper. However, if I went upstairs, I got an earful.

Probably best to avoid the place, except Thore’s was a decent restaurant, and it wasn’t as if we had a lot of them.

We finished our meal, ordered dessert. I could never resist their apple kuchen. Bobby had strawberry schaum torte. Too sweet for me, but he seemed to enjoy it.

I tried to pay; he wouldn’t let me. Not even Dutch treat.

“Why is it
Dutch
treat?” he asked as he doled out twenties.

“We each pay our own.”

“I know
what
it is. I just don’t know why they call it that. Considering the area, I thought you might have a clue.”

“I’ve heard it explained that the Dutch built their doors with two equal halves.” I shrugged. “We did a unit on the Dutch in my class. Another explanation is that the term came about because the English and the Dutch fought over the East Indies and the English weren’t doing too well. They took every opportunity to put down the enemy by coining derogatory terms. For instance,
Dutch uncle
is someone who isn’t your uncle but yells at you like one.”

He indicated I should precede him toward the exit. “My uncle never yelled at me.”

“My uncles were gone before I was born.”

“Too bad. Uncles are fun. It’s a shame you never got to meet yours.”

I
had
met them. But not in a way I could share. Uncle Jim showed up now and then. He liked to have a cigarette just outside the open kitchen window. Drove my father bonkers. He couldn’t see Jim, but sometimes he could smell the cigarette. I’d told my dead uncle to knock it off, but he didn’t listen any better now than he had while alive. If he had, he might not have expired at thirty-two from lung cancer.

Uncle Charley was even more fun. He liked to drive the Dodge Charger he’d died in across the field and into the same damn tree. Over and over into eternity.

Men. They never learned.

*   *   *

Bobby slid behind the wheel. The meal had been excellent, but the place had been …

He shifted his shoulders. He’d felt watched the entire time. Probably because he had been. As long as he was here, he probably would be. In New Orleans he did not stand out. He was in no way different. In New Bergin he was in no way the same. But neither was Raye.

After he’d heard those thumps upstairs no one had ever come down. And he’d watched. He had a perfect view from his seat.

He started the car. “What’s upstairs?”

Raye cast him a glance, but he kept his gaze on the windshield. “Storage.”

That explained why someone had been up there, it even explained the thumps. A worker searching for “whatever” had dropped it down the stairs. However, it didn’t explain why the worker had never followed. What it really didn’t explain was why nothing had actually fallen down the stairs in the first place.

Which only meant the house had weird acoustics. Something had fallen elsewhere, but sounded like it was on the other side of the wall. Made more sense than any of the alternatives.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Raye murmured. “Though from the way you’re scowling, they’re worth a lot more.”

“Cold cases,” he blurted, though he wasn’t sure why. “Sometimes I think about them.” Just not right now.

“Is there one that bothers you in particular?”

No one had ever asked him that before, and it was a pretty good question.

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck, which often tingled whenever he thought about this particular case. He figured there was something he was missing, which was why it so often came to mind. “There’s an old hotel in the quarter.”

“French Quarter?”

“Only one there is,
cher
.”

She lifted her brows at the endearment but he could tell she liked it. He’d used the term a thousand times before. In New Orleans
cher
tumbled from nearly everyone’s lips, especially the Creole. Technically it meant dear, though it had the connotation of
sweetie, cutie, honey, baby
. Most folks used it to avoid keeping track of names. In his profession, considering how many names he heard, how few were real, how often he forgot,
cher
was helpful. But right now, here, with her, he actually meant it.

“Aren’t most of the hotels old in the quarter?” she asked.

He reached the main road and turned toward New Bergin.
“Oui,”
he agreed, and became captured for an instant by her smile.

At home he peppered his English with French and Spanish. He always had because his mother had, his father had, nearly everyone did. Except for his Yankee transplant partner, Conner Sullivan.

“This hotel wasn’t too bad,” he continued. “But it wasn’t too good either.”

“Hence the murder.”

“Who said anything about murder?”

“You’re a homicide detective, and we were talking cold case.”

“Right. Have you ever heard of a locked-room mystery?”

“Impossible crime.”

“Not impossible, since the guy was killed. But the body was in a room locked from the inside. Windows painted shut.”

“Suicide?”

“Gunshot wound to the head. No residue on his hands. No damn gun in the room.”

She frowned. “How big of a room?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Just trying to get a picture. Sometimes it helps.”

“One room. Queen bed. Small bath. Old place. Had a locker—”

She tensed. If she weren’t already so pale, he’d think she’d gone paler. But why?

“I suppose lockers are the equivalent of safes in newer hotels?” she asked.

“A locker is a New Orleans term for closet.”

“With a lock?”

“No. It’s just something we say. Not sure why. We call regular old closets a locker.”

She seemed to be thinking overly deep and long about that.

“All places have their quirks,” he continued. “New Orleans has a lot of them.”

“In Milwaukee they call a water fountain a bubbler. No idea why. What about the floor?”

“Wall-to-wall, nailed-down carpet, no holes. We checked the ceiling too. Nothing.”

“What about the closet? Any holes in that floor?”

Bobby tried to remember, couldn’t. He should probably check.

“How close was the body to the closet?”

That he did remember, and the answer was …

Close enough.

*   *   *

After I delivered the ghost man’s message regarding the locker/closet, Bobby became very quiet. I hoped the information was useful. I didn’t see how it couldn’t be. Ghosts didn’t bother to hang about to deliver news that wasn’t.

I’d called earlier and told my father we were going for fish and not to wait up. He had anyway. I would have been surprised if he hadn’t.

“You should have gone to bed.”

“It’s nine o’clock,” he said.

I checked the time. “Huh.” It only felt like it was past midnight.

“I talked to Chief Johnson.”

“What did he tell you?” Bobby asked.

“The man who killed that poor woman tried to kill my daughter.”

“We don’t know that for certain.”

“There’s more than one maniac with a meat cleaver running around?”

At my father’s words, my earlier calm disappeared.

“I doubt it. But until we have confirmation from the…” Bobby paused. “Christiansen. You should be careful.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt Raye?” my father asked.

“That was a question I had for you, sir.”

“Me?”

“Raye said she was adopted.”

My father cast me a curious glance. I didn’t usually share. But, around here, I didn’t have to.

“She was,” he agreed.

“What can you tell me about her birth parents?”

“Nothing.”

“Closed adoption?”

My father let out a long breath and didn’t answer. He knew I didn’t like to talk about the way I’d been discarded like garbage.

“I was dumped,” I said. “Side of the road. No note, no nothing. Newborn.”

“Assholes,” he muttered, and my lips twitched as he echoed my opinion.

“To have survived you must have been found pretty quickly.”

“That was the consensus.”

“No one’s ever come looking for you until now?”

“Wait—” My father stopped, glancing back and forth between the two of us. “You think he was looking for her?”

If the man had been in my apartment once we could call it random. Twice? He’d been looking for me.

“I’m just following routine lines of questioning,” Bobby said. “Everything I eliminate—however far-fetched—is one less question on the list.”

“All ri-i-ght.” My father didn’t sound convinced.

“I’ve gotta go to bed.” I started up the steps.

“Maybe you should sleep down here.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “My room’s up there.”

My father’s eyes flicked to Bobby Doucet then to me.

Ah. So was his.

Even if Detective Doucet was interested, and so far I’d seen no indication of that, I wasn’t going to do him in the room directly above my parents’. The
ew
factor on that was so high I nearly said “Ew!” out loud.

“I’ll be fine.” I climbed the rest of the stairs, shut the door, and flicked the lock. Then I hurried to the heating vent at the front of the room and fell to my knees. Everything that was said in the hall, as well as the living room, drifted upward. As a kid, I’d found out a lot from chatty ghosts; the rest I’d found out right here.

“Is she safe?”

My father sounded really worried, and while that concerned me—did he know something I didn’t about why the maniac had wanted me dead?—it also made me happy to know that he cared. He wasn’t much for hugs or the sharing of feelings. Everything I knew about his opinion of me, I’d heard right here, and I’d never heard any of it said in a voice like that.

“I’ll protect her.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the best one I have, sir. I’ll stay until I’m sure the case is closed. I need to know who this guy was and why he’s killed who he has. Usually murder victims are connected in some way.”

“Unless it’s a moron with an automatic weapon in a movie theater, or worse.”

“Even then the victims are connected by location.”

“But there’s no reason behind it,” my father said.

“There’s always a reason. Though it might not make sense to anyone but the reasoner.”

“You think this man came after Raye for a reason, not just because she was there.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, “I do.”

“Why?”

I waited for him to tell my father that I’d lied, but he didn’t.

“A hunch.”

Silence stretched so long I would have caved, but Bobby was made of sterner stuff, or perhaps, he just didn’t want to please John Larsen as badly as I always had. As badly as I still did.

For the first time in a lifetime of interrogations, my father broke first. “How can you possibly connect Raye to the dead woman? She wasn’t from here. They didn’t know each other. They weren’t even close to the same age.”

“I’ll do my best to find out why this happened in your town.”

“You think it has something to do with the town?”

“No.”

My father sighed. “Too bad.”

I had to agree. Because if it didn’t have anything to do with New Bergin then it had something to do with me. I just didn’t know what.

Murmurs of good night were followed by footsteps retreating toward my parents’ room, then Bobby’s came up the stairs. I returned to the door and quietly opened it. By the time he reached the landing, I stood in the hall and beckoned.

He cast a quick glance at his room, and I shook my head, beckoned again. “Your room is right over his. He’ll hear everything we say.”

And do.

He joined me. “What are we going to say?”

Nothing half as interesting as what I’d like to do.

“You didn’t tell him I lied.”

“I didn’t tell the chief of police, why would I tell your father?”

“I suppose you’ll have to tell Johnson. It’s relevant now.”

“Only if we can figure out ‘why you’ in relation to ‘why her.’”

“Good luck with that,” I said. “No one’s been able to connect me with anyone on the planet so far.”

Might that be why I felt so damn lonely? I had friends—well, Jenn. Parents—well, Father. A job. Students. Stafford and assorted ghosts. But there always seemed to be something missing.

Bobby stepped closer and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. His fingertips trailed across my skin, and that part of me that felt so empty … felt emptier.

“Who’s tried?” he asked.

I blinked, managed, barely, not to gape and say, “Huh?” But he must have seen it on my face because he continued. “Who tried to find your family? How did they do it?”

“Police, social services. I think my father hired a detective.”

“DNA?”

“Over twenty years ago? No.”

“Even now.” He shrugged. “Unless one of your relatives is in the system it isn’t going to help, but … I could see what the protocol is if you’re willing.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“They dumped you. From what you told me, they might have been trying to kill you.”

“That appears to be a new favorite pastime.”

“And why is that? You’re a kindergarten teacher. Who could you piss off?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No doubt,” he agreed. “The other victim was a hospice worker.”

“Guy has a problem with saints.”

Bobby stepped closer still. “Maybe you should sin a little.”

“I wouldn’t know how.”

His eyes shone cool blue, but his gaze had gone as hot as the hand he placed on my hip. “I can help.”

I kissed him. Why not? He wouldn’t stay; I couldn’t go. What could one kiss hurt?

Questions like that were always trouble. Because one taste of his mouth, and I forgot everything. My job. This town. The ghosts. My name.