GHOST OF A CHANCE, a paranormal short story (2 page)

By process of elimination, since the young star of a ghost hunting show was at the far end of the table, Peter assumed this was none other than John Marcovic, the bestselling mystery author.  The man had to be at least eighty which meant that the headshot on his book jackets was nearly thirty years old.

“Yes, Mr. Marcovic.  There are pages in the journal that contain a surprising bit of information.  We’ve withheld it for the obvious reasons.”

At the mention of the author’s name, Tracy’s eyes widened as she considered him, obviously as surprised as Peter about the author’s age.

Hank Jenkins jumped into the discussion.  “What about an exhumation and DNA test?  Wouldn’t that accomplish what you want?”

Tracy nodded and her expressive face conveyed not only her obvious agreement with the local reporter, but her skepticism about the proceedings.  He had clearly sensed that reticence during his telephone conversation with her and yet here she was, ready to participate.  It made him think that spending the weekend with Tracy Gomez might prove to be quite interesting--they seemed to be of a like mind about some things.  He, too, was skeptical about these proceedings.

“We lack the proof necessary for an exhumation.  In addition, my father does not wish to disturb the grave.  Besides, that won’t solve the mystery of whether Senator Ryan murdered his wife and infant son.”

“Can I bring my crew to the séance?” asked Tommy Smith, the young ghost hunter.

Peter inclined his head in the direction of Ms. Finch, who immediately said, “I’m not a fake.  I welcome anything that will confirm and document my abilities.”

“Wicked,” said Tommy gleefully and rubbed his hands together.

“Wonderful.  We’ll reconvene here for dinner at eight,” Peter said and watched the crew of characters his father had requested file out the door.  He had to give his dad credit.  He had really put together a fascinating group, but Peter was doubtful they could accomplish his father’s goal.

Except for maybe the captivating Tracy Gomez, he thought as she sauntered out, her keen-eyed gaze flitting over the portraits on the wall before shooting him a curious glance.

He smiled at her, but she quickly averted her gaze and continued on her way.

Interesting, he thought again, but had little time to linger.  His father was comfortably settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms and awaiting his report.

Peter hoped that by the time the weekend was done, his father might have the answers that would give him peace in what could possibly be his final days.

Chapter 3

The nice-sized room was well-appointed, with views of the manicured lawns and gardens from French doors along one wall.  The bright new green of early spring grass offset the darker mulch the park service gardeners had laid down around freshly-planted flower beds.

The early afternoon sun blazed through the glass, but did nothing to dispel the chill in Tracy’s body.  She rubbed at her arms before opening her suitcase to unpack, though it did little to quell a classic case of the willies.  Since stepping into the room she had felt as if she was not alone.

Not that she gave much credence to the various tales that the mansion was haunted by the spirits of the deceased Ryan family.  In doing her prep work for this weekend’s contest, she had come across more than one mention of witnesses who saw seeing spirits wandering the mansion and nearby grounds.  There were even a few visitors who had claimed to hear either a baby or woman crying late at night.

No way, she thought.  It was just a case of people’s imaginations running away with them since the case was unsolved and the bodies of Anna and her baby Francesca had never been found.

That one aspect had been troubling her during the course of her investigations.  If Skippy Ryan had tossed his family’s bodies into the ocean, they should have turned up given the currents in the area, even if he had weighted them down somehow.  And in light of the supposed chronology of events related by witnesses who had overheard a fight on the night of the murders and said they had seen him out on a boat, Ryan would not have had time for prepping the bodies with weights.  They should have therefore washed ashore fairly quickly.

Which meant that it was possible that Anna and baby Francesca might have not died that night. And if they had survived, it was conceivable that Peter Angelo’s father might be Skippy’s grandson.

Another chill skittered across her body, and for a moment, it almost seemed to wrap itself around her in an embrace.  She shuddered, tossing off her apprehension and thought, Craziness.

She walked to the French doors and threw them open, allowing the warm spring breeze into the room.  It was just a case of a drafty old house, much like her family’s inn.  She lingered by the doors, lifting her face up to the bright sunshine until the chill in her body had disappeared.  Then she returned to her suitcase and unpacked her notes and assorted research materials.  She took them to the simple mahogany desk at one side of the room and laid them out.  As she did so, she quickly reviewed the notes. She remained convinced that she was on the right trail to prove what had actually happened that night.

She hoped that over the weekend she’d find the last little bits of information she needed to realize the truth about Francis Ryan, determine if Peter’s dad could be his descendant, and, of course, win the prize.

#

His lawyer son would definitely not approve, but Frank could not resist watching his assorted guests on the laptop in his bedroom.  Although as Nancy Finch began to undress, he quickly flipped away.

Frank Angelo was more a student of human nature than an actual voyeur.  It was why he had decided to assemble such a diverse cast of characters to solve the mystery of the Ryan family.

His family
, he reminded himself as he laid his hand on the old leather journal beside him on the bed. Its cover had the rich patina of having been held often, but was warped from the water that had damaged it.  A goodly portion of the pages were curled and hopelessly stuck together, but those that remained hinted at quite a different story than the one that was publicly known about Skippy Ryan.

In fact, if the writer of the diary was to be believed, Anna Dolan Ryan and baby Francesca had left the mansion alive and well that night and gone into hiding to await a reunion with Skippy.  A reunion that, sadly, had never occurred.

Anna had assumed another name to protect her family and eventually remarried a local Italian laborer who had adopted little Francesca as his own.

Frank had been named after her, his mother Francesca, Peter’s grandmother.  Francesca Angelo was long since gone and if she had known her history, she’d never said a word, but Frank was determined to find out the truth if it was the last thing he did.

Which it might be, he thought as pressure gripped his chest and made breathing difficult.  The congestive heart failure grew worse each day and none of his medicines were working to stem its progress.

The pressure increased, worrying him that he would not last to see the results of the contest. But then a gentle hand passed over his face and down to the center of his chest.  “Rest, my child,” he heard a voice say, and as if by magic, the weight stifling his life lifted slightly.

When the knock came at the door, he was able to muster a “Come in”, but fumbled with clumsy hands to close the laptop.

His son entered and was immediately at his side, concern obvious on his handsome face.  From his initial investigations, Frank had discovered that his son’s features bore a striking resemblance to Skippy Ryan’s.

“Are you okay, Dad?”  Peter grasped his hand.

“Fine.  Excited,” he said, unable to manage more than single words as his breath failed him and his heart drummed rapidly in his chest.  Once again a gentle pass of an invisible hand across his face brought calm and some relief.

Peter smiled indulgently and nodded.  “I know, Dad.  I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“Tracy.  Win,” he said, more convinced than ever that the young writer would be the one to solve the mystery.  Months earlier, he had heard her give a workshop at a local library and had been impressed.  Something about her determination had reminded him of what little he remembered about his grandmother.

The smile on his son’s face brightened and spread up into his eyes at the mention of the young writer.  “Yeah, I think she might have what it takes.”

Frank suspected that comment wasn’t solely about the contest, and inside of him something lightened, releasing the vicious hold illness had on his heart.

“Go.  Visit,” he prompted with a strong squeeze of Peter’s hand.

His son chuckled.  “Playing matchmaker?  Really, Dad?”

“Want babies.”  He wished to see his son happily married and with children before he died.  For some inexplicable reason, Tracy Gomez seemed like the kind of woman who could handle his sometimes obstinate and work-a-holic son.  There had been something about her that Frank had connected with from the moment he had first laid eyes on her.

“Ms. Gomez is pretty, I’ll give you that.”

“Smart,” Frank added.

Peter shrugged and rose from the chair beside Frank’s bed.  “Get some rest, Dad.  And let me have the laptop while you’re at it.  I’d hate for you to get all worked up watching the séance.”

Caught red-handed, he thought, but reached out and feebly passed the computer in his son’s direction.  In reality, he was feeling too tired to imagine staying up for the outcome of the séance anyhow.  Plus, he didn’t think it would accomplish much.

He’d been in the mansion for well on a week now already, thanks to the strings he’d pulled, and in all that time, there had been nothing to support the idea that the mansion was haunted.  Well, nothing except what had happened just moments before.  That alone wasn’t enough to convince him, however.

“No ghosts,” he said, but Peter only shook his head and chuckled once more.

“Finally something we can agree on.”

Chapter 4

Tracy could safely say that she had never seen anything quite like the bedlam that had overwhelmed the gracefully elegant parlor room.

Tommy Smith darted from one piece of equipment to the next to make sure everything was in order to film the big metaphysical event.  Cables and wires slithered along the floor like snakes as his crew connected them to a number of different cameras and monitors.

“This new puppy here is a tri-axial EMF meter to record any disruptions in the electromagnetic forces in the room,” he said as he shot a glance at her over his shoulder.

“I suppose you’ll take baseline readings,” Tracy replied, creating an instant flurry of activity in Tommy who rushed over to one of his three technicians to give a spate of orders, including one for a reference point.

“Cruel,” Peter said from beside her, causing her heartbeat to jump in both surprise and awareness of the non-existent distance between them.

“Just being analytical,” she answered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

He had changed out of the formal suit and tie into a pale blue polo shirt and faded denim.  The color only intensified his eyes and brought out blue-black highlights in his dark hair.  The short sleeves on the shirt exposed wickedly ripped arms that he crossed, shifting her attention to the equally sculpted muscles of his broad chest.  She couldn’t avoid the temptation to look downward past his flat midsection to where the soft fabric of his jeans hugged long, lean legs.

“Done analyzing?” he said with a sinful chuckle and arch of his brow.

She was spared from answering as Nancy Fitch chose that moment to make her entrance, the diaphanous fabric of her low-cut gown floating around her.  Trailing her like little lapdogs were Hank Jenkins, Detective Daly, and John Markovic.

It surprised Tracy that during the course of their earlier dinner the men seemed to have become so taken with the psychic, especially the gruff NYPD Detective.

Peter leaned close and said, “She seems to have them tamed.  It will make her little show that much easier.”

Tracy was slightly taken aback and peered at him.  “So you don’t believe in her abilities?”

He shoved the tips of his fingers in the pockets of his jeans, rocked back on his heels a moment, and then shrugged.  “Let’s just say that in my world I’m used to dealing in facts.  And you?”

“My stock and trade is facts.  Not this.”  She waved her hand in the direction of the circus occurring before her eyes. Tommy and his crew had gathered, with an assortment of equipment, at the far side of the room before what looked like a control panel.  Nancy had assumed a spot at the head of a small table which had been placed in the center of the room.  The three men jockeyed for seats around her and finally settled down, leaving empty spots for Tracy, Peter, and Tommy.

Nancy glanced her way, lifted an artfully waxed brow, and fluttered her hand, beckoning to them with perfectly manicured fingers.  “Come.  It’s time to get started.”

Tommy raced to a seat at the table, but Tracy and Peter proceeded more slowly.  As they took seats beside one another, Nancy glanced toward Peter’s assistant, who stood by the door.  At her nod, he lowered the lights, bathing them in the warm glow of the candles Nancy had insisted be placed at strategic locations around the room.

Tracy had to give it to the psychic.  The lighting created an immediate sense of intimacy given their close proximity around the small table.

“Please reach out to your neighbors and grasp their hand.”

Hold Peter’s hand.  She should have seen it coming, but suddenly found herself scrubbing her wet palm against her jeans before grasping Tommy’s hand and then Peter’s.

Warmth.  Strength.  An unexpected tingle that snared her attention and had her shooting him a half-glance.

His attention was likewise diverted, his gaze on her instead of Nancy. The psychic pressed forward, calling on the spirits in the room to show themselves.  Asking for some sign that they were there.

Nothing happened with the ghosts, but Tracy was definitely getting signs from Peter.  His blue eyes were bright with interest as he examined her face, and that tingle where she was holding his hand grew steadily until…