Ghost Flower (26 page)

The thought filled me with an immense sense of security. If I had round-the-clock protection, there would be no more fingers clawing at the door, no more pretend ghosts, no more—

I heard Bridgette’s sharp intake of breath and realized it was impossible.
Next to her, Althea barked with laughter. “Nonsense. She doesn’t need police protection. That will only encourage this prankster. The Family will take care of her.”

Detective Ainslie gave a tight smile and a nod of her head, but I had a feeling this reaction didn’t surprise her. In fact, it seemed more to solidify something for her. “Of course. The Family always takes care of its own, doesn’t it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bridger growled. “Are you—” he began, but subsided at a look from Margie.

“I was simply saying that the Silvertons are a model of self-sufficiency and teamwork,” Ainslie told him.

“I have to say I think you’re making a mistake,” Aunt Claire said. “If there is a madman out there targeting Aurora and we don’t ask the police to protect her—” her voice trailed off slightly. I was surprised that it was Aunt Claire of all people who was advocating for my safety, until she added, “I mean, people might think the Family was quite cold.”

Uncle Thom smiled at her. “I don’t think we need to worry, dear,” he said, then turned his attention to Detective Ainslie. “I’m sure if we stop poking around in all this old history, the ‘ghost’ will disappear.”

Detective Ainslie gave him a sad smile. “That’s why I wanted you together, actually. Three years ago I told you I didn’t believe Elizabeth Lawson committed suicide, and I have not changed my mind. I wanted you all here, so I could tell you that I won’t rest until I find the truth and bring her murderer to justice. No matter who it is, or how well they are protected. I won’t tolerate obstructions or games.” When she said “games,” she looked at me. There was something in her expression that made me feel guilty even though I’d done nothing wrong.

“Naturally we could hardly expect you to set aside a high-profile case that will get your name in the papers,” Althea sniped. She gave an exaggerated fake yawn. “It’s time for my nap. I believe we’re done here. Mrs. March, please show the police out.”

As they left, N. Martinez moved into my line of sight. He gave me a swift, questioning glance that seemed to ask if this was really all right with me, but I pretended not to see it. Bridgette was staring at me; it was the only thing I could do.

I wondered if Althea was correct, if it was the police investigation that inspired the fake ghost.

But how did that explain the hands clawing my door the night before?

Althea dismissed the rest of the family after the police left, reminding them that we had dinner at the golf club that night, and went to her room for a nap. I went to mine to try to think about anything but ghosts.

I
’d expected Althea to suggest cards again on the ride to the club, but instead she looked at the landscape and hummed quietly to herself. At one point she turned to me and said, “Why don’t you ever wear the emerald bracelet I bought you?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered. There hadn’t been any classes about emerald bracelets at Aurora Academy.

Arthur cleared his throat. “The emerald bracelet was for Sadie,” he said.

“I know that,” Althea told him. “Of course I know that. And this is Aurora. Her daughter. I’m not crazy. I knew that. I thought perhaps Sadie had left it to her.”

“My mistake,” Arthur said.

“Yes. Stop putting your nose in,” Althea snipped, very stern. But she looked slightly frightened, and she reached out and took my hand and held it as we rode the rest of the way in silence.

By the time we reached the golf club, Althea seemed completely in control again. The club house was a low-slung red stone building with a putting range on one side and a rolling green course behind it that
stretched to the edge of the canyon. It was built into the hills, Tucson twinkling in the basin below us and rocks sloping up behind us.

It was modern on the outside but old-fashioned on the inside with dark green carpet flecked with peach paisleys and wood paneling. Althea immediately commandeered a large chair and a large Scotch and motioned me to stand beside her.

Cocktail hour could have been a study in different varieties of insincere greeting, I thought. There was the one-arm hug, the pat on the back, the too-tight squeeze, the double kiss, the polite fingertip shake, the “You seem to be doing a great job fitting back in,” and the more reserved, “Your family must be so delighted to have you back, dear.” I got a pat on the head from the attorney general, polite nods from a judge and the chief of police, and the governor’s warmest greetings, conveyed by his secretary. People seemed unsure of whether to treat me like a returning pilgrim with an air of sanctity or as something soiled and slightly suspicious and dirty. I had the impression that none of these people had liked Aurora very much before she went away, and their interest in her return was more prurient than pure.

A tall beanpole of a guy in a white linen suit, madras button-down shirt, cream-colored loafers that looked Italian, and classic RayBans sauntered in. Even if he hadn’t been the best dressed and only nonwhite person in the room, Roscoe Kim would have stood out for the sheer popularity with which he was greeted. But when he spotted me, he broke away from the gaggle of apparently genuine hearty-pat-on-the-back friends, whipped off his glasses, said, “Kitten!” and rushed across the room to fold me in a long limbed hug.

Bridgette’s flash card description of Roscoe Kim was so short—[20, two years ahead of Aurora at school, gay, $18,000,000 (or more)]—I’d assumed they weren’t friends, but I realized now there was simply no way to put Roscoe on a card.

He draped a long arm over my shoulders, said, “Go on without us,” to the bar at large, and guided me out the door onto the back patio of the golf course. The setting sun tinted everything slightly gold and made butter-colored puddles between the long bluish shadows cast by the hills. He had me stand three feet away and spin around so he could take me in. He took a breath like he was getting ready to deliver a good line, opened his mouth—

And started to cry.

“I had so many good remarks prepared, but all I want to do is say, ‘Fuck you, Aurora’ for leaving that way, and then hug you and tell you how much we missed you.”

“Both fair,” I said.

He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit and wiped his eyes on it, then held it toward me. “This was supposed to be decorative,” he said before jamming it back into his pocket. “I’m sending you the dry-cleaning bill.”

I laughed. “How have you been?”

“Oh, great, you know. Got disinherited by my parents when I came out, but re-inherited by them when my sister got married because they wanted to show the new in-laws our family was capable of breeding boys. The usual. What have you been up to?”

I had the insane urge to confide in him, tell him the truth about everything. I don’t know if it was Roscoe, or the fact that the effort required to keep all my lives, all my lies, straight was getting too massive to bear on my own.

He spared me having to lie by saying, “Don’t answer. I probably don’t want to know.” He leaned close. “Was it raunchy?”

I thought of some of the places I’d slept. “Definitely.”

He wrapped an arm around me again and pulled me toward him, and we stood side by side looking out over the golf course. “Ah, nature,”
he said. He took his arm away to rifle in his pocket and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette. “Smoke?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“You never did get into it.” He lit up, and I realized it was a joint. He was smoking a joint right in the middle of the golf club with half of Tucson society behind us. He took a long hit, held it, then exhaled, waving the smoke away with a practiced gesture.

“Do you remember when we used to ride our bikes over the course at night? God, that was so insane. Pitch-black, and I’m on your handlebars, and you have no idea where you’re going.”

“Terrifying,” I agreed because it sounded like it was.

“But exhilarating too.” He took another hit, exhaled. “And you were a demon. You could ride anything.” He exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Do you remember that crazy mare my parents bought right before you left?”

I shook my head.

“About a hundred hands tall and with a take-no-prisoners attitude toward people. They called her Medusa because she scared the trainers stiff. But when you came over, you walked up to her like it was no big deal, had a little chat, and climbed on. No one else could do that. We had to separate her out from the rest of the stock because she was so wild.”

“I don’t ride anymore.”

He gave me a probing look. “Are you sure you’re Aurora Silverton?”

“No,” I said. Just speaking the word, saying something true, made me giddy.

He looked down at the half-finished joint between his fingers like he was seeing it for the first time, then put it out against his palm. He shook his head. “I guess we all have our own forms of self-destruction.” I smelled burning flesh.

“Are you okay?”

“Me? Of course.”

I saw him slip the rest of the joint into his pocket and caught a glimpse of a hand puckered with burn marks. He said, “So you must miss Liza.”

I hedged. “I still have a hard time believing it.”

“That she’s dead or that she killed herself?” he asked sharply.

“Both, I guess. Why?”

He shook his head and gazed out over the golf course. “I couldn’t decide if it made the most sense in the world or the least sense. Did you have any idea she was going to do it?”

I shook my head. “Did you?”

“No. I would have said it was impossible. Frankly”—he looked at me—“I would have thought you were more likely to be the one. Especially after what I saw that morning.”

“That morning? Why?”

“Do you remember the guy I was dating then, Ox?”

“You did not date someone named Ox.”

“It’s a common name in Slavic countries,” he protested. “Anyway he was Liza’s next-door neighbor, and his room overlooked her backyard. That was one strange family. Well, you must know, you were her best friend.”

“I wish I could remember,” I said. “I just…”

“Liza was definitely the normal one. I didn’t see the oldest sister much because she was away at school, but the little girl was like something from the Addams Family, pale and greasy and always with a book right in front of her face, even when she walked around the house. Her dad seemed harried and like he was in a bad mood all the time. And he always parked in the driveway, never in the garage. Ox and I talked about it a lot, you know, the way you speculate about
your neighbors, coming up with different crazy theories. Especially when we realized that the garage was double-insulated, had its own cooling system, and was protected by a fancy alarm.”

“You figured that out just from watching him out the window?”

He grinned. “We snooped.”

“So what was in there?”

“We considered an S&M dungeon, a harem, a lab for making mutant species, a giant tarantula, the table where he dismembered his lust rage murder victims, wine cellar—all the obvious things. But the truth was way weirder.”

I swallowed down my growing sense of apprehension, and the sound felt strangely loud out on the quiet patio.“What?”

“Records.”

I let out a sharp, involuntary laugh. I’d been expecting something so much worse. “Records?”

“Vinyl. Like maybe ten thousand of them, all in original sleeves covered in plastic.” He paused like he was trying to put together all the parts of the story. “It’s about three
A.M.
, and I am rolling a joint or something. And I hear this noise from next door. I look down, and there is Liza carrying case after case of her father’s records outside from the garage, right?”

I nodded, and he went on. “When she’s got about ten cartons of them in the yard, she takes a record out very carefully, places it on the ground, and smashes it with a hammer. She did it again and again, smashing them one by one. Not just hitting them once but pulverizing them.
Smash, smash, smash
.” He hit the palm of his hand with his fist. “At some point she must have gotten bored because she started going faster, making a less careful job of it.”

He took the half-joint out of his pocket and relit it.

“And here’s what’s weird,” he said, exhaling a cloud of purplish smoke. “Or, weird-
er
, I guess. I swear as she smashed them she was
crying. Like she was sorry to be doing it. But the next morning when her father came out and saw it, her face was completely expressionless. She stood there in a sea of broken records and watched, totally impassive, as he collapsed. Her older sister had to catch him in her arms before he fell to the ground. Then Liza dropped the hammer, right there, and walked off. Curtain. I don’t think she ever went back to her house. That night I saw you and her at the party and then… poof.” A shiver ran down my back, though the air was warm.

“I—I had no idea,” I stammered.

“That’s why I was surprised when we heard what she did. I mean, she seemed so strong. Unflappable. Without even a hint of remorse when she saw how upset her father was. He must have done something really horrible to her to make her act that way.”

“He must have,” I murmured.

“Intense, right?”

I nodded. Cleared my throat. “I know this is weird, but do you remember what I was wearing that night?”

“Of course I do, cutie. A trench coat. I remember it because I asked you if you were having an assignation, and you said you thought you had. But then you got your heart broken, so now it was to become an adventuress. And then I had a smoke, and someone said they saw you with Stuart.”

My mind was reeling with all this new information. Liza’s fight with her father. Aurora’s broken heart. It was like the clues kept coming, but none of them seemed to be adding up.

Uncle Thom poked his head out of the bar then and said, “Dinner, kids.”

Roscoe said, “That’s my cue. I just came to see you. I don’t do dinner theater.” There was a rumble of voices behind us, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Speaking of outrageous acting…”