The Ghost of Valentine Past (2 page)

I
t was no longer raining
. Normally, that would make Will Wayne smile, but now it was snowing—if one could call the slush covering his windshield snow. The wipers struggled to keep up, and he was grateful he was almost at his destination. Days like this made him long for Arizona and its reliable sunshine. He enjoyed summers in Portland, Oregon—winter, not so much.

Pulling into the parking lot, he turned off the engine and grabbed the umbrella off the passenger seat. He wasn't too proud to use an umbrella, especially on days like this. He had already traded his cowboy boots in for a pair of reliable rubber soled water-resistant boots. It had only taken one tumble to realize slick bottom cowboy boots and wet asphalt didn't mix. He was too old to be breaking a hip. His cowboy hat remained, but he had no intention of getting it soaked in the rain and snow; hence the umbrella.

Five minutes later, he was being led into the office of Logan Mitcham, private detective. Wayne hadn't expected a thirty-something, ruggedly stocky man of six-feet, with a ruddy complexion and short buzzed strawberry colored hair. Wayne thought
marine
when he saw Mitcham, not PI. To Wayne, a private detective should look like James Garner or Humphry Bogart.

The two men shook hands, exchanged introductions, and Wayne took a seat facing Mitcham, who sat down behind his desk.

Mitcham opened a manila folder, glanced over its contents and then looked up at Will and asked, “You want me to investigate your daughter's death?”

Wayne nodded. “Yes. A friend recommended you. She said you're familiar with Earthbound Spirits.”

The private detective did not respond. Instead, he stared at Will.

“You are familiar with them, aren't you? She said you've investigated them before.”

Mitcham closed the folder. “Earthbound Spirits? The cult? Yes, I'm familiar with them.”

“And you know who Peter Morris is?” Wayne asked.

“Of course. He founded the group.”

“I believe Peter Morris may have been responsible for my daughter's death.”

Mitcham leaned back in his desk chair and studied Wayne for a moment. “I'm sorry about the loss of your daughter. But how exactly do you believe Morris was involved? How did your daughter die?”

“My daughter was Isabella Strickland. They say she died of a brain aneurism.”

Mitcham leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Isabella Strickland, yes, I remember reading about that in the paper. She was your daughter?”

“Yes.” Wayne nodded solemnly.

“I don't remember the paper mentioning she was married.”

Will shook his head. “Married? No, Isabella wasn't married.”

“I just assumed—since she didn't go by Wayne.”

“Her mother and I divorced years ago. Unfortunately, I was never in Isabella's life.”

“Why do you believe Morris had something to do with your daughter's death?”

“The oldest motive in the world, money, of course. She had made a will leaving everything to Earthbound Spirits.”

Mitcham leaned back again. As he did, he picked up an ink pen from the desk and began absently tapping its end against the desktop. “I remember reading about her death—it was quite sensational, considering the uncle hid her body and tried to pass off another woman as her. From what I've read, your daughter left everything to that uncle.”

“True. But there was an earlier will, where she left everything to Earthbound Spirits. They submitted that one to probate. But it was later thrown out when the evidence showed her uncle's will was the more current one.”

“And you think they killed her over the inheritance?”

“I believe it may be possible.”

“Have you gone to the police? I would assume this is a question for the coroner.”

Will fiddled with the rim of his cowboy hat. It teetered on his right knee. Shaking his head he said, “No. From what I've seen so far, no matter what crap Morris falls into, he manages to climb out smelling like he just rolled around in a rose garden.”

“Roses have thorns,” Mitcham reminded.

“I'd like you to be that thorn. Can you help me?”

H
e had just opened
a menu when he heard a woman say, “Will Wayne?” Looking up, he broke into a smile—it was Danielle Boatman. By her drenched braid and wet jacket, it was obvious she hadn't brought an umbrella.

“Danielle! What are you doing in Portland on such a miserable day?” He then motioned to the empty seat across the table from him, silently inviting her to join him.

“I keep asking myself that same question,” she said with a laugh as she hung her purse on the back of the chair and sat down.

“Are you alone?”

“Actually, I just dropped Lily and Ian off at the car dealer. Lily is finally getting a new car.”

“Not the best day to go car shopping.”

“She ordered it last week and was anxious to pick it up. There was no way she was going to be stopped by a little rain.”

“You call this a little rain?”

“It is for Portland.” She laughed.

“I'm surprised she's taken this long to get a car.”

Danielle shrugged. “She really wasn't ready before, and I let her use mine, and she has Ian. But now, I think she wants to get back to her old normal again. So, what brings you to Portland in this weather?”

Before Will had a time to answer, the server came to their table and took their orders. When she finally left, Danielle repeated the question.

“I'll tell you if you promise not to say anything to anyone. I know you've become close to Chief MacDonald. I'd prefer he not know—at least not yet.”

Danielle rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You have my curiosity piqued; what's up?”

“I hired a private detective to investigate Isabella's death.”

Danielle frowned. “I don't understand? We know what happened. And with Stoddard and Darlene both dead, I'm not sure how you could learn anything more about what happened that day.”

“This has nothing to do with Stoddard and Darlene. It's about Peter Morris and Earthbound Spirits.”

“But, they weren't even around when she died. Stoddard found her. And according to the coroner, she died of natural causes.”

“I know that's what they say. But, I've reason to believe Peter Morris had Isabella killed. Stoddard just happen to be the one to find the body.”

“You're thinking they intended to cash in on her old will?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I'm not sure why you don't want to say anything to the chief. I know he's the last person to protect Morris. He'd love to nail the SOB. I'm sure if there was anything suspicious about Isabella's death, he'd be all over it.”

“Coroner reports can be faked. We already know Morris had Isabella's attorney in his pocket. How difficult would it be for him to pay off someone in the coroner's office?”

“It would take more than just someone in the coroner's office. I would assume the coroner would have to be crooked to pull something like that off.”

“We hear about politicians and government officials taking bribes everyday,” Will reminded.

“Yeah but, something like that would make the coroner party to Isabella's death. Can't imagine someone would be willing to take that sort of risk unless a lot of money was involved, and a bribe like that would be something the chief could easily check out.”

Will shook his head. “No, I don't want him blundering around and screwing this up. When I go to the authorities, I intend to take more than my suspicions.”

The server returned with their beverages. They waited until she was gone before resuming their conversation.

“Why do you suddenly suspect foul play in Isabella's death?” Danielle asked.

Will let out a heavy sigh. “I've been getting phone calls.”

“Phone calls?”

“I got the first call on New Year's Eve. It was a woman. She told me they had lied—that Isabella didn't die of a brain aneurism. That Peter Morris had her killed.”

“Do you have any idea who she was?”

Will shook his head. “And then in the paper, a few days later, there was an article about Cleve Monchique's suicide note, and how he confessed to killing Clarence Renton, and how he tried to kill that other guy. After that, she called me again, said that proved they were capable of killing my daughter. She asked if I was just going to let Morris get away with murder.”

“Morris was probably responsible for Cleve's death—but he didn't pull the trigger. There is no doubt Cleve killed himself.”

“She told me she was a member of Earthbound Spirits, that she was frightened for her life, and she couldn't go to the police. She wanted to get away from the group, but she couldn't.”

“Why was she calling you?”

“She hoped I could do something—prove what Morris had done to my daughter, to bring the organization down, weaken it, put Morris behind bars, so she could get out. According to her, she knew for a fact Morris ordered Cleve to kill my daughter, but that Cleve didn't want to; so, Morris had someone else do it.”

“According to the suicide note, Cleve admitted to killing Renton—and I know he tried to kill Richard Winston. I wonder, why he would have balked at killing Isabella? You think because she was a woman? That is assuming Morris had her killed, which honestly, I seriously doubt. Not because I don't believe he's capable, but I'm not quite willing to believe the coroner would do something like that.”

“All I know is that this woman was adamant about Morris ordering Isabella's death. She wouldn't tell me who had done it; she just kept saying follow the money.”

“Follow the money?”

“Danielle, we know Cleve was willing to kill for Earthbound Spirits. Is it so farfetched to imagine there are others in the group willing to do the same thing? From all accounts, Isabella was a young healthy woman, with a sizable estate. Isabella should have easily outlived Peter Morris—and what good would that do him? If he let things take their natural course, he probably would never have seen Isabella's money, even if she left everything to Earthbound Spirits.”

“I don't think they're going to start killing off their younger, affluent members. Wouldn't people start noticing?”

“Yes, they would start noticing, Danielle. That's what this is all about.”

“I never figured their motive for killing Renton was about money. It was to shut him up.”

“Because he knew Earthbound Spirits was trying to cash in on an outdated will,” he reminded.

“But that doesn't mean Earthbound Spirits killed Isabella.”

“What about that other man Monchique tried to kill?” Will asked.

“Richard?”

Will nodded.

Danielle silently considered all that he was telling her. Finally, she said, “Okay, you have a point. Cleve did try to kill Richard for his inheritance. So, I suppose it's within the realm of possibility that they were willing to kill off members to cash out earlier.”

“According to the woman on the phone, the ones they normally go after are those attempting to leave the group. Which would make sense. Isabella had backed away from Earthbound Spirits before her death. They obviously knew the will was fake, but Morris probably figured with what Stoddard had pulled with Lily, no one would believe his will was the authentic one, especially with Renton on their side.”

“And Richard was pulling away from them, after finding his sister,” Danielle murmured.

“Exactly, which is why this woman—whoever she is—is so terrified to go public. She fears for her life.”

“So what are you planning to do about it?”

“Like I said, I hired a private detective, Logan Mitcham.”

D
anielle's
brown eyes fluttered open, greeted by sparkling sunshine. It took her a moment to comprehend her surroundings. She sat in a wooden hammock beach chair, her toes buried in the sand. Strangely, the sand was cold, a contradiction to the bright sunshine overhead. Walt sat next to her, in his own beach chair. If she wasn't mistaken, it was the Hawaiian shore, not Oregon's—or at least that was the effect Walt was going for, given the number of palm trees nearby and the blue and green Hawaiian shirt he wore. Glancing down, she noticed her muumuu was made from the same fabric as his shirt.

She could hear someone playing the ukulele in the distance. Yet, there were no people in sight. The steady rhythm of the breakers pounding along the shore before retreating back into the sea, added a haunting effect to the Hawaiian music.

Reaching up, she touched the ends of her long dark hair and noticed it was free flowing. She then remembered she had removed her braid before going to bed that night.

“Aloha,” Walt greeted with a smile as he leaned back in his chair and studied Danielle. He wore white slacks with his tropical shirt and a straw panama hat. Stretching out, he casually crossed his ankles. White sand covered his bare feet.

“Hawaii?” Danielle asked with a grin.

Walt shrugged. “I was going for a tropical feel. It could be Hawaii, or any Polynesian Island, I suppose.”

“What's the occasion?” Danielle wiggled her toes in the sand and momentarily frowned.
Why is the sand so cold?

“You've been complaining about the rain. I thought you might enjoy a little sunshine.”

“It's been raining non-stop this month.” Danielle let out a sigh and then added, “But you know, tropical islands get a lot of rain too.”

Walt shook his head. “Not here. I won't allow it. Just sunshine.”

“Thank you; I do appreciate the change of scenery.” Danielle leaned back in her chair.

“I also miss talking to you without
him
around. It seems the only time we can be alone these days is if I dream hop.”

“Him? I assume you mean Chris?”

“When did you say he's leaving?”

“As soon as escrow closes on his property. According to Adam, that should be by the first of next week.”

Walt met Danielle's gaze with a frown. “I still don't understand why he had to buy something. I thought he was going to rent. He could've been out by now.”

Danielle stretched out in the chair. “Oh come on Walt, admit it. You like Chris. You enjoy having another man around to talk to.”

Walt let out a grunt. “I was doing just fine before he showed up.”

Danielle smiled. “Well, I know Chris likes you.”

“We know who Chris really likes.”

“You didn't bring me to this lovely beach just to snipe at me, did you?”

“I suppose not. And if I'm being honest, I'd have to say if I had my choice between Chris or Heather leaving first, I'd vote for Heather.”

Danielle chuckled. “You aren't fond of that particular guest, are you?”

“Admit it, she's getting on your nerves too.”

“I know Lily will be relieved when Heather moves back to her own house. But she did save our lives. We could have burned up in Presley House if it wasn't for her.”

“If her great-grandfather hadn't been a murderer and a thief, there would have been no reason for her to rescue you. Maybe when Chris moves out he can take Heather with him.”

Danielle laughed at the idea. “I don't see that happening.”

“One can hope.”

“So, what do you think of our Valentine's Day guests? The lovebirds, David and Arlene?”

Walt brushed his knuckles over the bottom of his chin as he stared out to sea. “I find it fascinating how open unmarried couples are about checking into an inn together.”

“Ahh, you mean shacking up together.” Danielle giggled.

“Shacking up?”

“According to my mother, that's what they called it in her day, when unmarried people lived together. I assumed the term was around when you were alive.”

“I've heard the term, but back then, it didn't have anything to do with cohabitation without the benefit of marriage. Are you saying the behavior wasn't accepted when your parents were young adults? These loose morals are more a product of your generation?”

“Oh please, we've been over this before. Yours was the era of flappers, moonshine, and speakeasies. I suppose my generation is just less hypocritical. As for my mother's, it wasn't as scandalous as it was in your time; but I remember my mother telling me that her father was pretty old fashioned and would have had a fit had she and Dad lived together. Today, well, it's pretty common for people to live together without marriage. Although, there are still those who don't approve. I assume primarily for religious reasons.”

“What about you, Danielle? Did you and Lucas live together before you were married?”

“I thought the topic was our new guests? You never told me what you thought about them, aside from the fact that they're unmarried.”

“I haven't had much of an opportunity to observe them. They seem all right, nothing noteworthy, aside from how openly they flaunt their living situation.”

“It's a different world today.” Danielle wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

Walt sat up in his chair and reached toward Danielle, touching her knee. “Are you all right?”

“It's just so darn cold here.” Danielle looked up to the sun. “Why isn't it warmer? The sun is bright enough.”

“You forget, the sun isn't real. I bet you've kicked your blankets off again.”

“I need to do something about that heater. It gets so cold in the house, especially this time of year. I'm surprised the guests aren't complaining.” Danielle shivered again.

“Try pulling the blankets up over you,” Walt suggested.

Danielle glanced down at her chair and at the beach surrounding her. “And just how am I supposed to do that? I don't have a blanket.”

“I'm not talking about a blanket here, in the dream, back in your bedroom at Marlow House. Close your eyes and tell your hands to reach down and grab hold of your blanket and pull them up over you.”

Danielle closed her eyes and tried what he suggested, but she was still cold. Opening her eyes again, she looked over at Walt. “It didn't work. I guess I'll have to wake myself up before I freeze to death.”

“Don't be silly. It took you two hours to fall asleep; thanks to that extra cup of coffee you had with dinner. If you wake up now, you might be up all night.”

“Maybe, but I'll also be warm!”

“Just hold on a moment, and I'll go cover you up.”

“Really?” Danielle smiled. “I guess that would work.”

“Certainly. I'll be right back. Enjoy the view, and you'll be warm again in no time,” Walt promised.

W
alt stood
over Danielle's bed. Just as he suspected, her blankets had fallen to the floor. Curled up on the center of the mattress, she shivered in her sleep, her arms wrapped around her bent knees. Wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a red T-shirt, her feet were bare, and he suspected, if he could actually touch them, they would be ice cold.

Moonlight flooded through the window, illuminating the bedroom. Walt reached down and grabbed the blankets from the floor. Just as he tossed them over Danielle's sleeping body, movement from the corner of the room caught his eye. At first, he expected to see Max. Yet, it was not the cat, but a man, silently watching him and Danielle.

Walt froze a moment, prepared to do battle with the intruder when the stranger looked up into Walt's eyes and asked, “Who are you?”

“You can see me?” Walt found himself asking.

“What kind of question is that? Of course I can see you,” the man snapped.

“Another one who can see me?” Walt muttered under his breath. He then glared at the stranger, while standing guard over Danielle.

Instead of retreating from Walt, the man gazed down at the bed. “That's Danielle, isn't it?”

“How did you get in here?” Walt demanded.

The man looked up into Walt's eyes. “Who are you?”

“You're the intruder here. Answer my question.” Walt wondered briefly if he should summons Chris. It wasn't that Walt wasn't fully capable of handling the intruder on his own, but Chris could call the police and get the man locked up. The last thing he wanted was for Danielle to suddenly wake up and find a stranger in her bedroom. He would prefer to handle the situation and then explain to her what had happened—after the intruder was apprehended and behind bars.

“I was looking for Danielle. What are you doing in her room? How did you get in here? I didn't see you come in,” the stranger asked.

“This is my house,” Walt explained. “And you are a trespasser. I'm calling the police.”

Walt took a step toward the stranger, and when he did, the man disappeared.

“What the…” Walt looked over to Danielle, who continued to sleep peacefully; yet now, she was contently snuggled beneath a pile of warm blankets.

After glancing around one last time, Walt stepped out of the bedroom and surveyed the hallway. All was quiet. Lily's bedroom door was closed, as was Heather's, and the couple who had checked in that afternoon. A moment later, he heard the faint sound of the downstairs clock chiming three times.
The couple who checked in yesterday
, Walt corrected himself, when he realized it was no longer Thursday, but Friday morning. Friday the 13
^th
. The day before Valentine's Day.

With haste, Walt moved through the rooms on the second floor of Marlow House. Yet all he found were sleeping guests, no spirits. Before making his way to the attic, he checked on Danielle, just in case the intruding ghost had returned to her room. She slept soundly and alone.

In the attic, he found Max, who sat on the windowsill looking outside, his black tail swishing back and forth.

“Max,” Walt greeted when he entered the room.

Max turned toward Walt and gazed at him through golden eyes.

“There's another spirit in the house; have you seen him?”

Max continued to stare at Walt, asking a silent question.

“I've no idea who it is,” Walt replied.

Max leapt down from the windowsill.

“That's probably a good idea. You stay with Danielle, while I check downstairs.”

When the two reached the second floor, Walt let Max into Danielle's bedroom. She was still alone and sleeping. Max jumped onto the bed and curled up beside the sleeping woman.

Moving into the hallway, Walt left the door ajar, which would allow Max to escape the room if he needed to summon Walt.

Making his way down the stairs, Walt noticed movement coming from the direction of the parlor. Just as he stepped onto the first floor landing, a gray haired man rushed in his direction. The moment the man saw Walt, he froze.

“I have to get out of here!” the man shouted at Walt.

“Where did you come from?”
Another one can see me? Surely he's not a spirit too…

Walt had his answer a moment later when the man vanished.

“What in the hell is going on here?” Walt muttered. Shaking his head, he made his way to Chris' room.

Standing over Chris' bed, Walt looked down at the sleeping man and shouted, “Wake up!”

With a startled bolt, Chris sat up in the bed and looked around frantically, his eyes wide. He found Walt standing over him.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Chris glared at Walt. “What is going on?”

“There's a ghost in the house,” Walt explained.

“Yes, I know. And he can be annoying. Why did you wake me up?”

“I'm not talking about me. There's another ghost—actually two other ghosts—I just saw them. The first one was in Danielle's bedroom, and the second one I just saw downstairs.”

“Two? Who are they?” Chris jumped out of bed. All he wore was a pair of boxers. Hastily he grabbed his robe from the end of the bed and slipped it on.

“I've no idea. I was hoping you could help me figure it out.”

“Where's Danielle?”

“She's still sleeping. Max is with her.”

“Don't you think you should wake her up?” Chris paused a moment and studied Walt. “Just what were you doing in her bedroom? Kind of creepy and stalkerish of you watching her sleep, don't you think?”

“I wasn't watching her sleep,” Walt said indignantly. “I was covering her up. She was cold.”

“And how did you know that?”

“She told me.”