A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (book series to read .txt) 📖

grab his shirt, which almost causes him to drop his tray of margaritas. “Oh sorry, just wanted another drink.” To Maddox, I say, “Anything for you?”

He shakes his head at the waiter, and sends me a stern look.

“Oh,” I manage with a slight slur, feeling the gin taking hold of my brain. “Of course, you’re on duty.”

He starts writing something in his little black book and I wonder if he’s noting my alcohol usage. “I need a statement. You need to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

I empty the contents of my drink — who cares what he thinks? — and place it on the table a bit too hard. The noise of glass upon glass elicits looks from my neighbors. “I haven’t a clue what’s going on, ossifer.” I smile coquettishly at the mispronunciation. “I was minding my own business, first in a cave and then on a historic walking tour of Eureka Springs and the next thing I know, it’s a crime scene. What is the world coming to?”

“A pretty significant crime scene.”

This makes my journalistic haunches rise. I stop smiling. “Oh yeah, how come?”

“There was more than one body at that lake.”

Goosebumps skitter across my body and I shiver. Hard. “How many?”

“Because you were also babbling about that hole in the wall, we looked inside and found another victim.” Maddox crosses his arms. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

As if I know. “Like I said, I have no idea. I’m here to write about why people need to visit the Ozarks.”

“The mayor has a few ideas and it’s nothing to do with tourism.”

Now I’m leaning forward. “The mayor can kiss my ass.”

I’m so close to Maddox I smell the delicious after-shave he always wears, something manly and provocative that stirs my primal emotions. I inhale deeply but I know he’s not remaining close because he wants to smell my perfume.

“This is some crazy shit you’re stirring up,” he tells me. “If you’re trying to push your tree-hugging agenda with murders that are a century old, I’m going to be royally pissed and I will haul your ass to jail. So, I need to know what’s going on, I need it to make sense and I need you to stay out of the mayor’s business, you understand Miss Valentine?”

Maybe it’s the gin, maybe it’s the freakin’ ghosts following me around or maybe I’m tired of being pushed, but I lean in closer and stare him down. “As soon as it makes sense to me, Mr. Maddox, you’ll be the first to know. But I assure you, it has nothing to do with that bitch of a mayor.”

We’re locked in a stare contest until the waiter shows up. “You need something?” he asks, which makes Maddox stand and slip his notebook back into his pocket.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, and I want a cohesive statement out of you.”

With that, my once sexual fantasy walks out of the bar, like a line in a bad joke.

What did I just do? “No thank you,” I tell the waiter because TB was right, I have had enough. Besides, if the sun’s going down, that means it’s close to dinnertime and I need to meet the group in the dining room at seven, followed by an eight-thirty ghost tour. Goody, goody.

I stand and try to appear sober and head toward the room. I need to change and come up with — as Maddox so expertly put it — something that makes sense. If only I knew what that was.

When I return to the room, TB is dressed in a pale blue button-down shirt topping his jeans, something I’ve never seen before.

“Where did you get that shirt?”

“At the gift shop downstairs,” is all he offers, avoiding my eyes.

I pause, knowing he doesn’t have money for Polo shirts, so I stare at his back until he finally turns and spills the beans. “Okay, the manager said I could pick out whatever I wanted and I needed a nice shirt for dinner, so I did.”

I rub my forehead, wondering how such a pleasant trip to the Ozarks has turned into this nightmare. “I thought I told you this wasn’t a vacation and that these people are paying for me….”

“I know, Vi. He offered.”

“You didn’t have to accept.”

“Yeah, I didn’t have to accept playing golf with Henry and Carmine this afternoon either, but there you have it.”

My blood pressure kicks up a notch. “What?”

He pulls up close to me and I can smell his aftershave which, I must admit, rivals Madman’s. It has been way too long since I had sex.

“I’m not like you and your mom,” TB says with a touch of vinegar. “When people are kind to me, I accept it and say thanks.”

“I am not like my mother!” I’m almost shouting now. “Seriously? How can you possibly compare me to her?”

He throws up his arms in surrender. “You’re in denial, Vi. You shut up tight like a mason jar. No one can help you. No one can get inside.”

I’ve heard this argument from him so many times, especially after Lillye died, but I’m not like my mother, who’s a control freak and whines about everything, anything to draw attention to herself. If anything, I’m the antithesis of the woman who brought me into this world.

I stumble over to the closet and throw on my black ensemble topped by a new outer layer, grab my purse and keys. “Let’s go,” is all I say and TB follows me out the door.

We walk to the elevator in silence, an empty void that I created so many times before. Maybe TB’s right, maybe I shut people out too much. But the truth is, I don’t want to be like my mother or most of the people I know, pouring forth my troubles like water.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” TB finally says. “I won’t be a bother to you any longer.”

This is not what I wanted to happen, surprising myself that I really don’t want my crazy ex-husband to leave. I start to say as much but the elevator arrives. We’re about to walk inside when Carmine hurries over, apparently imbibing at the bar before dinner for he still has what looks like an old fashion in his hand.

“Hey Virgin,” he says as he gets onboard.

You know how water can slowly drop into an unstable container and the drips silently fill up the space until one moment the whole thing comes toppling over? All it takes is that one small drop. Tonight, Carmine is the drip.

I take a huge breath and get in his face. “Ass wipe, I haven’t slept well in several days, all of a sudden I’m seeing ghosts everywhere including a bunch that have been murdered and my head is about to split open for the second time this trip, so if you call me Virgin one more time I’m going to smack you upside your pretty little self-absorbed head.”

The elevator doors open to the lobby but no one moves. TB gazes at me as if I’ve lost my mind. I turn to him and say, “Have I opened up enough for you now?”

I move to exit the elevator but Carmine grabs my elbow and leads me into the lobby by his side. “We have to talk.”

We turn the corner into a seating area by the ancient fireplace, a quiet spot that’s cozy and private, far away from the lobby entrance. Carmine plants me into an oversized chair and TB follows like an obedient puppy, sitting on the couch to my left. Carmine faces us both, placing his drink on the coffee table before us and acting as if he’s called a meeting to order.

“Let me guess. These ghost sightings of yours started right after Katrina?”

I’m totally confused following this line of conversation or why Carmine is discussing ghosts but I nod.

“And you probably had some sort of psychic ability when you were young but you repressed it, right?”

“Exactly,” TB inserts and I send him the evil eye.

Carmine smirks proudly, leaning back in his chair. “You’re a skank.”

“I’m a what?”

Carmine leans forward again, waving his hands defensively. “It’s not what you think.”

I stand ready to go, have had enough of his teasing. “I really don’t have time for this. I’ve had a day from hell after an afternoon and night from hell so you know where you can go.”

Carmine takes my hand softly and looks up at me. Gone is the flippant attitude, replaced by something akin to empathy. “Please sit down.”

I don’t know why but I do as I’m told and TB starts mouthing off about my past psychic experiences and how I saw three dead girls today. Carmine listens but his eyes never leave mine and I feel like an eighth grader caught throwing my American history book out the window only to have a counselor explain that my ADHD made me do it. Wait, that really happened. But come on, five chapters of our nation’s history and not one woman represented?

Realizing my mind has wondered while TB was talking — big surprise — I interrupt and ask Carmine, “What has this got to do with you?”

Carmine leans in close. “It’s called SCANC and it means specific communication with apparitions, non-entities and the comatose.” When I give him a “you’ve got to be kidding” stare, he adds, “I didn’t come up with that stupid acronym.”

“SCANC?” I ask again.

“The theory is that when someone has psychic or channeling tendencies that they repress, these gifts lie dormant within that person. Sometimes people will go their whole lives