Adelaide Confused Page 17

  “I’m not having sex with you here, we’ll get caught.”

  His hand went roaming. “I can think of a better place, a certain sofa, or maybe that desk you enjoyed so much.”

  She broke apart, breathing heavy, both eager and ashamed. “That’s what I don’t want him to find out.”

  “You don’t know how informed he is. I bet he already knows.”

  Everything faded out, the conversation, their abnormal but mutual lust, and even Danielle’s contented bliss. I was left with one purpose, determined to discover why I recognized his voice and where I had heard him say those words before.

  And then it came to me.

  I’d heard him say those words at the company dinner, only then he’d been speaking to Beagban.

  And just like that, with good old fashion eavesdropping, I found Reed’s leak.

  Chapter 30

  “This isn’t really my style,” Reed said as I pulled him into the utility closet.

  I smushed myself in behind him, pulling the door closed. “Quit complaining, we need privacy.”

  “How very clandestine of you,” he said, smiling down at me. I lost my train of thought.

  I started to feel a sort of longing, no, more of a craving really. It quickly grew a sexual edge and I lashed out, hitting Reed across the chest. “Pervert! Stop it,” I hissed.

  He moved away, sidestepping the mop. “My apologies, Adelaide, truly I’m sorry,” he said in the perfect imitation of penance.

  “No, Reed,” I replied, marveling at his acting abilities, “you’re really not.” I sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I came to tell you that I found the leak.”

  “Who?” he demanded sharply.

  It was somewhat frightening to see under the pretense. I tried not to fall for the glamour, but on some level I always would. The charm I could usually recognize, but the ruthless man beneath would continue to surprise me. And that was what he was then, ruthless, implacable. So I told him, I told him everything I’d heard. He was silent for a long time after, taking it in.

  “It makes perfect sense,” I said. “He uses her to get into your office, and she uses him to fulfill her... fantasies.”

  “Fantasies?”

  “He’s the same build as you, same height, same hair color. They do it in your office, on your sofa and desk...” I trailed off. Adding, “A multimillionaire should be able to put two and two together.”

  He refused to acknowledge her obsession, but said, “That reminds me.” He took out his cell phone and made a call. “Mark, yes you too. Listen, I need you to have the furniture in my offices cleaned, everything, even the desk. No, on second thought, just replace it, all of it. If anyone asks, just say I did it on a whim,” he looked at me, “my girlfriend didn’t like the décor. All of them, yes, that one too. Doesn’t matter, just take care of it.” He didn’t say goodbye, just hung up like they did in the movies.

  “Now that that’s taken care of,” he said, moving as if business was finished, heading for the door.

  I stepped in his path. “Um, no, what about this Richey guy?”

  “Richard Addler,” he corrected, “my attorney.”

  “Yes, your attorney,” I mocked. “What are you going to do about him?”

  “Nothing.”

  I stared at him in frustrated disbelief thinking he never did enough, never even reacted. Finally I said, “You know what? I don’t care. You wanted me to find the guy, I found the guy. If and when I find the book I’ll let you know, but otherwise I don’t want to see you ever again.”

  “Adelaide, there’s no reason for you to be angry—”

  “Isn’t there?” I said sharply. “You blackmailed me into all this. Since then I’ve been kidnapped and threatened. Francesca isn’t speaking to me and probably neither will Lucas.” I prodded him in the chest. “You put me in serious danger, ruined my relationships, and still presume to say I have no reason to be angry?”

  I stormed from the closet, unwilling to hear his reply. I never wanted to see the insufferable Reed Wallace ever again. As far as I was concerned, our business was finished. Forever.

  * * *

  Morosely I gazed down at a pair of pale purple underwear. They’d been chewed on. The culprit was nowhere to be seen.

  I’d already been to see Lucas. He wasn’t home. I had tried both doors, even after seeing that his SUV wasn’t in the driveway. Dejected, I’d trudged home only to find my ruined underwear snagged on a chair leg. How the little snot had pulled them from the upstairs closet to the downstairs kitchen was beyond me.

  In retaliation I reburied the ghost dog’s bone. The offending item wasn’t next to the hole where I’d left it. Like the undies, it had been moved. A few minutes of searching and I found it under the hedgerow that grew beneath my living room window. And a little after that it was tucked back inside the earth where it belonged. By the time I was finished I still had a few hours before I needed to be at Sterling’s to cover Missy’s shift, so I took a nap.

  * * *

  “Find a prospective ghost to communicate with,” I read, casting a brief glance across the counter. “Check. Try to make contact through verbal communication.” I paused again, looking at the ghost.

  He was hovering just inside one of the well-worn wingback chairs, a cotton ball of anticipation. He was apprehensive as well, it might have been me, but I thought not. When you wanted something desperately the expectation was boxed in fear, preparing you for disappointment.

  “Verbal communication,” I muttered. “I’m not sure what that means. Are you supposed to be talking back?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I’d just finished compiling a list of information from the internet, scribbling down the finer points. It seemed everyone and their brother knew how to hold a séance, though I got the impression that most, like Eclipsys, were faking. Was it a rare thing to see a ghost? Did you have to be gifted? Oh, and that was another thing, they weren’t often called ghosts either, the preferred term being spirits. Was there a difference? These were things I thought I should learn, and soon.

  “I’ll need some sort of food to perform the séance,” I said to myself. The ghost grew impatient as I shuffled around behind the counter, extracting a can of microwavable ravioli from the cabinet marked ‘Missy’ in bold black ink. “Don’t get fussy,” I said to the ghost as his impatience grew. “It says that spirits will be attracted to the food as they are still seeking physical nourishment.”

  He clearly disagreed, twitching in contemptuous disapproval over my ritualism.

  “I’ve never had a séance before,” I argued. “Apparently it’s a common practice at slumber parties, and since I never got to have one of those either, we’re making up for lost time.” My eyes searched the office. Preoccupied, I said, “Now make yourself useful and help me find the candles.”

  He did, hovering where the flashlights should have been. Ben was old school, or just plain old, and I found only thick cream colored candles. I collected them, along with my Ouija board and the can of ravioli, walking around the counter to the sitting area.

  The office wasn’t much, two small spaces separated by a long desk and tall counter just left of the door. To the right was a sitting area, shabby but comfortable. Two tattered and faded blue chairs framed the window, pointing slightly inward. Between them was a cherry wood coffee table with spindly legs. On top was a white lace doily from Mary’s time, and on top of that, a spread of magazines from mine. In the corner a potted plant grew unchecked, the leaves fringing over the top of one chair.

  I set my things down, making space on the table. “A round table is recommended,” I told the ghost. “It adds symbolism... or something. Whatever, something about a circle, I don’t remember. But I’m sure an oval coffee table will do just as well.”

  The ghost settled back, hovering a few feet away, presumably to watch while I arranged and lit the candles. I then began
to pull the plastic wrap from my Ouija board, frowning down at the list as I did so. “It says no fewer than three people should conduct a séance, but it doesn’t say why.” I pulled the cover off and dug the board out, laying it flat. “Maybe it’s just a protective measure, bad spirits and all that.” I looked at him sharply. “I’ve seen the movie Ghost, you know.”

  He was a bit confused.

  “The part where Sam possesses Oda Mae,” I clarified. “I don’t know if it’s possible, and I don’t even care. But if you ever pull a body snatch, I’ll make you regret the day you died... more than you already do.”

  Undaunted by my threats, he continued to twitch impatiently.

  “Alright, now that we’ve settled that...” I looked to the list, finding my last piece of business. “I’m to dim the lights,” I said frowning. “I was supposed to use the candles because ghosts seek warmth and light, and now I’m supposed to turn off the overhead?”

  The ghost was feeling smug and superior, gloating over the inconsistencies.

  “Oh shut up,” I said while standing. “I’m going to do it anyway.”

  Before I flicked the switch I peeked outside, gazing through the blinds. The parking lot was nearly empty, with only a few guests checked in. The single street light glazed the concrete in watery reflections. It had rained early in the evening, a brief spat that came on unexpectedly. Rainy days could often be lonely, but looking out the window just then it seemed something more, something almost mournful.

  I let the blinds snap back into place, unwilling to freak myself out further. Partially I was feeling unsettled due to the change in shift. Usually I’d be safe in bed by then. But the intended séance wasn’t helping matters, it only added to my unease.

  Persuaded I wouldn’t see another customer all evening, and having waited until three o’clock in the morning, the witching hour, I was out of reasons to stall. So I flicked the switch, plunging the room into a shadowy darkness.

  Chapter 31

  The ghost was not where I had left him. He’d moved, now standing by the coffee table. He’d also changed form, no longer a misty, smoky thing, but a tall and lanky man. Usually when he was transparent his coloring was muted, and he’d blink in and out like a failing hologram. But now he was translucent, harder to see through, and the color of his clothes and skin were perfectly clear, not faint at all. His image didn’t flicker, not once the whole time I stared. And he stared back, the intensity of his penetrating eyes giving him a formidable edge I’d never felt before.

  It was one thing to walk near and talk with a puff of smoke, a harmless cloud. In that form I could almost pretend he was nothing more than the ghost dog, an unresponsive companion. And I had pretended, nearly forgotten that he was cognizant. Impossible to pretend now, not with his eyes boring into me, intelligent eyes with a knowing expression, preposterous to imagine he was anything less than sentient. Some of the websites had said so, that ghosts were nothing but an empty memory stuck on repeat. I knew it for a lie, at least where this ghost was concerned.

  “Alright,” I said, struggling to find my voice, “kneel down.” It no longer felt natural to give him orders in so offhand a manner. But he obeyed, one knee sinking through the table as he moved his long legs into position. He didn’t make a sound, but I noticed the candle flickered in response to the motion.

  I forced myself to approach, dropping to the floor across from him. With the table between us I felt comfortable inspecting him more closely. I could just make out the muddy hazel of his owlish eyes in the trembling candlelight. His hair, which I had always taken for an ordinary brown, was a mess of limp curls touched with faint burgundy highlights that I’d never noticed before. I tried not to crinkle my nose, but couldn’t help from saying, “Gross, you have red hair.”

  For some reason he wasn’t ashamed.

  I took in his blue flannel shirt. It drooped from him as if he was a hanger, long johns peeping out at the collar and sleeves. I was seeing him more clearly than I ever had before. For some reason it brought up the memory from a few hours earlier.

  I’d come into the office, prepared to relieve Stephen of his, or my, shift, only to find him up to his ears in a bawdy historical romance. The book was mine of course. I’d forgotten it long ago in the bottom of a drawer somewhere or other. But what I now recalled was that the ghost had been hovering just over Stephen’s shoulder. Had he been reading along? I hadn’t given it a thought at the time, writing him off as harmless. But staring at him now I couldn’t help but wonder what he knew, especially about me, as he’d been following me around since the phonebook debacle.

  Shrugging off the distressing thought, I focused on the present. Taking up the planchette, I said, “We’ll start with simple yes or no questions. I’ll move this back and forth between the two and when I get to the proper response you let me know. But don’t just think the confirmation, you have to feel it. Any strong emotion is fine, but something positive would be more appropriate, like excitement.”

  He nodded in understanding.

  I cleared my throat and asked, “Are you a ghost?”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “I have to ask a few obvious questions first,” I explained. “You know, like they do when giving a lie detector test, to make sure the machine is working.”

  I cleared my throat again, repeating, “Are you a ghost?” Slowly I slid the heart shaped planchette first to no, and feeling nothing remarkable, moved on. As the point slowly came to rest on yes, we were both thrilled, probably his natural reaction to finally being able to express himself.

  “Are you wearing a yellow shirt?” This time I started with the answer yes, knowing it to be false. I could feel him waiting for my hands to move, anticipating the answer no. It came and he smiled.

  Being a medium wasn’t so hard after all.

  I cleared my throat for the third time, signaling another question. “Do you have unfinished business?” I could feel his positive response, knowing the answer was yes before I even moved the marker. We grew giddier with each question. Next was, “Do you require my assistance in completing said unfinished business?” Again I could feel his answer was yes without the planchette.

  “Is the unfinished business revenge?” He was indecisive, even confused. I moved the marker back and forth, waiting for a response. Finally he looked at me and shrugged. “You don’t know?” He shrugged again, not meeting my eye.

  Unrelenting, I continued, “Is your unfinished business to communicate with a loved one? Do you want me to carry a message for you?” Again he didn’t know, feeling so uncertain I let it drop.

  I returned to simple questions. “Are you from St. Simons?” I didn’t use the planchette because I felt the negative response without it, as if he’d said no aloud. “Were you living on the island when you died?” Positive feelings affirmed yes.

  I picked up the planchette. “I’m going to need something more to go by.” Turning the board to face him, I said, “Let’s work on your name. Spell one letter at a time.”

  He raised his hand over the board, forefinger extended, and I realized with horror that he meant to point them out. “No!” I yelled. “Stop it! Stop it!” He pulled back, surprised at my burst of hysteria.

  “You can’t just show me the answer. What do you think this is for?” I asked, waving the planchette under his nose. “As the ghost, you’re supposed to communicate with me, the medium. I’ll ascertain the answer,” I explained, annoyed that he was set on foiling my fun. “Now,” I asked in exasperation, “shall we continue?”

  I let my hand move over the rows at a steady pace, waiting for his influence to stop me. Instead of feeling excited when the point came across his answer, he felt an urgency. I could easily imagine him calling out ‘Stop!’

  The letters came one by one. S – M – I – T – T – Y. He shifted around after that, as if sitting back on his heels.

  “Is that it?” I aske
d.

  I felt his yes, as well as saw the head nod.

  “Well I’m not calling you that,” I announced with finality. “Maybe I’d call my pet ghost Smitty, but it’s a stupid name even by dog standards.” I tapped my fingers on the tabletop. “Was Smith your last name?”

  He nodded, but the motion broke as he jerked his head to the side, looking toward the door.

  I glanced from the profile of his face to the door and back again. “What?” I whispered.

  He ignored me, staring in frustration at the door as if he could see through it, and I thought maybe he could. He jerked then, suddenly, and I was overcome with alarm.

  My heart lurched, pounding a tattoo so rapid I could feel it pumping away in my chest. I pressed a clumsy hand over my breastbone, rubbing at the ache, only to find my fingers were shaking uncontrollably. It was my body’s reaction to anxiety, or maybe the symptoms of raw fear. There were other emotions too—hatred, helplessness, and an overall tension that made my muscles sing with strain. These feelings belonged to the ghost, his reaction to whatever was on the other side of that door.

  He stood, but this time his knees knocked the table as he got up. It jerked a few inches while the candles on top wobbled, one toppling over. I couldn’t react, not to anything, feeling numb and out of sorts. I watched his very solid body move, hearing the soft swishing of his wool shirt and the dull thud of his nondescript boots as he moved around the table. His long fingers gripped the top of my arm, hauling me up off the floor.

  Up close I could see a light flush on his cheeks. He was no longer that sickly gray in his solid form, though he still looked pallid like a corpse, but much less ghastly.

  He began to pull me, but I resisted, seeing the overturned candle dripping wax on Mary’s doily. Soon it would catch fire. “The candles,” I whispered, trying to get his attention. The grip on my arm didn’t slacken as he pivoted to blow out each flame. The light grew dim until at last, with one simple breath, we were plunged into darkness.