Hungry Ghosts (35 page)

70

The train was due to arrive
in forty minutes. Inspector Ramirez couldn't wait to see his wife, his children, to hear all about Edel's games, to see the empty space in Estella's smile where her baby tooth had fallen out.

The station wasn't far from the ocean. He parked the car on a side street, retrieved the package of paper goods, and walked down to the beach. He removed his shoes and picked his way gingerly across the hot sand until he found a quiet spot away from any tourists. He kneeled down and dug a shallow pit with his fingers.

He felt Antifona's presence before he saw her. She stood, facing the ocean, a cigarette held loosely in her fingers. She looked longingly towards Florida, to the future she would never have.

“I'm sorry, Antifona,” Ramirez said. He felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. He stood and brushed the white sand from his pants. “I should never have picked you up that night. I made you a target.”

She held his eyes until he looked away. This ghostly traveller
had come back to the past, not so much to help him with his investigation as to repair a relationship that was more important to her than her own life. The old woman was right: time had no meaning to the dead, only the living. But even for the dead, it seemed that love transcended time.

Ramirez thought about Dr. Yeung's instructions. A long life—yes, of course, he wanted that. But he also wanted to never be in another situation where his visions resulted in someone's death the way they had with Antifona. He thought for a moment about what to wish for. No more apparitions? A return to a happy marriage?

Without his ghosts, his life would go back to normal. He could stop questioning his health. Francesca would worry about him less.

Ramirez squatted on the sand. He held the paper money in both hands, the way the old woman had instructed. He put it down in loose stacks in the hole he'd dug, then the other paper goods. He set aside the tiny paper car he'd purchased for Edel. He wondered what the exchange rate was in heaven, what favours would be owed.

He lit a match and watched the edges of the bills curl and catch fire. He stood up. Flakes of grey ash were captured by the evening breeze as the bits of paper went up in smoke and drifted skyward.

Antifona hiked up her skirt and waded into the ocean. The water lapped against her smooth brown thighs. She raised an eyebrow, inviting Ramirez to join her. He shook his head.

“It wasn't Lorenzo's fault that he didn't show up,” Ramirez said. “The same men that killed you tortured him to death. He tried as hard as he could to protect you. That's all he could think about, despite the pain. He planned to marry you; he even told them so. I think he's out there, somewhere, hoping you'll forgive him, so he can join you on the other side.”

Antifona's shoulders relaxed. She smiled. She backed into the ocean, farther and farther, until the waves swept around her waist.
She blew Ramirez a kiss and tossed her cigarette into the water. Then she turned away from him. He watched her walk into the ocean until her head disappeared from view.

The waves brought the cigarette butt to Ramirez's feet, dragging it up and down the sand. He threw the butt on the embers, where it sizzled.

He stamped out the small pyre. Then he walked back to his car, eager to see his family.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It's not an easy thing to switch publishers mid-series. I owe a huge debt of thanks to Chris Bucci for somehow managing to pull that off, and to Kevin Hanson of Simon & Schuster Canada for taking the bait. Simon & Schuster has been an absolute joy to work with and, while Alison Clarke is no longer with them, she made me feel right at home. I'm deeply grateful.

My father, Roddie Blair, to whom this book is dedicated, died in the fall of 2013, just shy of his ninety-eighth birthday. He always had a book in his hand. He didn't care what the genre was as long as it was well written. I'll never forget arriving at his funeral service in Aurora to find flowers from Simon & Schuster, thanks to Alison. It's that kind of thoughtfulness that characterizes, and continues to characterize, the entire organization. It's extraordinary, in these often dark days for publishers, to find one with such a big heart and boundless optimism. I know exactly how lucky I am.

I had always wanted to write a book about an art heist and that's
how this story originally started; although, as usual, the characters decided to take things in a different direction.

But because of the efforts of some wonderful friends—Ottawa artist Sharon VanStarkenburg; Sharon Louden, senior critic for the New York Academy of Art; and David Thomas—around twenty talented artists have offered to create works of art based on their impressions of
Hungry Ghosts
. We're going to hold an art exhibition as part of the book launch. These artists range from those who work with encaustic to watercolour and from glass art to graffiti. I can't wait to see what they come up with. It's going to be amazing. Thank you all.

I also want to thank my external readers, Debbie Hantusch, Bill Schaper, and Debbie Levy, for pointing out plot gaps and holes in the story without reducing me to a puddle of insecurity. Thanks also to Guillermo Martinez-Zalce, who helped me out whenever I wasn't sure of a Spanish word's meaning or spelling. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Alexandra Sanchez for her guidance in all things Cuban. Thanks also to former CSI and fellow author Tom Adair for helping me research the forensic use of blowflies.

Alex Schultz, my brilliant editor, worked his usual magic. This is our third book together now; I can't imagine doing this with anyone else. I very much appreciate that Simon & Schuster allowed us to carry on that relationship. Any errors left after Alex's rigorous editing are mine and mine alone.

One final note. Shortly after I finished writing
Hungry Ghosts
, in October 2012, there was a story in the Ottawa media about a crow named Walter that was rescued as a baby by an Ottawa family. Walter developed a very special relationship with their young son, who insisted that he and Walter often talked together. Walter often accompanied him to school and kept a watchful eye from the treetops. Sometimes, the boy said when he was sad, he would tell Walter his secrets because he knew Walter wouldn't tell anyone else.

Just sayin'.

ALSO BY PEGGY BLAIR

FICTION

The Beggar's Opera

The Poisoned Pawn

NONFICTION

Lament for a First Nation

Simon & Schuster Canada

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Peggy Blair

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Interior design by Lewelin Polanco

Cover image by iStockphoto/Milos12rovcanin

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ISBN 978-1-4767-5794-0

ISBN 978-1-4767-5795-7 (ebook)