A Ghost of a Chance, Cherie Claire [a court of thorns and roses ebook free .txt] 📗

from a fourth-floor balcony at approximately ten-thirty September third, nineteen hundred and twenty-four. She was barefoot, no socks or stockings, and dressed in her college uniform, which appeared to be a size too small. In parenthesis, it notes that her skirt was on backwards.

“Odd,” I say, glancing up at my haunting. “Was the skirt tight because you were pregnant?”

She shakes her head and I continue reading. “The subject appears to have died from her head hitting the pavement after the fall.”

I look up again and Lori is still shaking her head.

“This is odd too,” I tell her, reading the last part. “It says your hair was soaking wet. The cop mentions it raining that night but not between the hours of eight and midnight so he wonders if he has the time wrong. The person who called in the accident did so around ten forty-five, so the cop, in his notes, has ‘before eight?’ at the bottom of this report. But, he adds, the basketball team went jogging around eight once the rains stopped and they left the building at this spot and returned one hour later and never saw the subject,” I glance up at Lori and add, “That’s you.”

I read aloud the last sentence that appears to be typed on to the report at a later date; the ink is different: “‘With no other evidence to support differently, the subject committed suicide at ten-thirty p.m.’”

That’s it? Nothing more? Certainly suspicious to me but the report is brief and conclusive. I look at Lori who implores me with her eyes. “Okay, okay.” I pull the other paper out and read the coroner’s report.

“The suspect died from a head injury after falling three floors to her death. There was significant blood pouring from the cranium, which appears to be the cause of death.”

Again, brief and conclusive. I look at Lori and she shakes her head, so I keep reading, “The subject had blood on her genitalia and thighs, the post-partum bleeding of a pregnancy. She likely had a child within the week.”

There’s more but I pause to let this last piece of knowledge sink it. “Where is the baby?”

For the first time since I have set foot in this hotel, Lori’s eyes light up and she appears almost happy. That’s it, I think, she died here after giving birth and she probably wants to know what happened to her child but how the hell am I supposed to figure that one out?

“So you got pregnant by James in the fall of nineteen hundred and twenty-three and came back here in September of twenty-four for what? To tell James about the child?”

She’s fading and I can’t tell if she nodded or not but the light remains in her eyes so I assume I’m on the right track.

“Then someone drowned you in the bathtub, dressed you in someone’s uniform — possibly the girl who lived in this room at the time since it didn’t fit and you weren’t going to school here then — and threw you off the balcony to make it look like a suicide?”

I’m on the right track, I feel it in my bones, but Lori’s starting to look aggravated again, like I’m missing something. Still, I focus on the murder.

“Was it James who killed you?”

She shakes her head but she’s really fading now, imploring me again with those sad grey eyes.

“The girl in this room?”

Now, she looks angry but I haven’t a clue who it might have been, so I’m angry myself. “I don’t know who killed you, Lori. And I have no idea where your baby went.”

She fades instantly, but not before sending me a look defining me as the failure I am.

“It’s not fair,” I yell to the empty space she leaves behind. “I didn’t ask for this.”

There’s a knock on the door behind me and I jump. The only thing that would be the cherry on top of this horrid day would be Henry standing on the other side with two men dressed in white holding a straightjacket. I could take Henry’s arm and say in my finest Southern accent, “I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers.” Alas, there’s no Tennessee Williams for me as I gingerly open the door and peer outside and find Miss Georgia looking at me wide-eyed and cautious.

“Who are you talking to?”

I laugh nervously. “No one. Just the TV. Dr. Phil had some whiner on there and I tend to talk back to losers like that.”

She doesn’t share in my mirth, looks at me like the crazy person I am. And I’m not in the mood. “Something you want?” I ask a little too brusquely.

Kelly looks off down the hall as if she’s doubting her visit to my doorstep, but she responds, “We’re leaving in about twenty minutes, heading back to Bentonville.”

“Yeah, I know. Henry told me.”

Finally, she looks me in the eye. “I don’t know if you remember but I had to drive here the first night, so I have a rental that needs to be returned.”

How does this affect me, Beauty Queen? I want to ask. Instead, I politely say, “Okay.” Such a woman of words I am.

“I can return it to the airport in the morning but I checked Springfield and they have flights going out tonight so I thought I would drive back to Missouri instead.”

“Good for you.” What does she want, a pat on the back?

“I also checked the radar and there’s a lull in the rain for the next two hours, thought maybe you’d like to drive with me to Springfield.”

Hot dog. Now we’re talking. Maybe the universe is finally showing pity on my sorry ass. “Yes,” I answer way too enthusiastically, which makes her step back. “Yes, yes.”

“O-kay,” she says like a true Southerner, using three syllables instead of two. I can see she’s having second thoughts about asking me, probably thinking I’m nuts after all, but my instant eagerness won’t let her change her mind without appearing rude and I’m running with that.

“I really would rather not ride in the van with Richard,” I quickly add with a smile as sane as I can manage. “Know what I mean?”

Finally, Kelly relaxes. “He’s such an asshole.”

I nod and smile, still trying to appear as if I didn’t have a conversation with a ghost only minutes before and hadn’t stabbed a scone to death over lunch. “When do you want to go?”

“Five, ten minutes?”

“Yes, yes.”

Again, I’m way too enthusiastic and I can tell Kelly might be regretting asking me, but she smiles and heads back to her room. “Just knock when you’re ready.”

I throw everything I own into my polka dot suitcase, take one last look at my haunted room — sans ghost — and am at my next-door neighbor’s door in four. Surprisingly enough, Kelly’s ready to go, although she pulls two designer bags behind her to the elevator, enlisting my help with her laptop and giant makeup bag. I struggle balancing my suitcase and laptop plus her stuff but I don’t complain; I’m heading home without having to face Richard or Henry.

Once we get to the car and load up the trunk — the rain has indeed decided to pause — Kelly hands me the keys. “Do you mind driving first? I had an exhausting night last night.”

“Sure.” Whatever. Just let me leave this place in peace.

We head north out of Eureka Springs toward Missouri and even though I’m glad to be away, my heart drops. I loved this town and had such hopes for my new career, so wish things had been different. I strike up a conversation with my co-traveler to escape the pain of thinking of the last few days. “What happened last night? Couldn’t sleep?”

Remember when Scarlet grins thinking of Ashley Wilkes in Gone With the Wind? That’s what Kelly looks like now, her elegant curls falling about her shoulders as she shrugs coquettishly. Seriously, the scene could be something out of a movie.

“That adorable cop you were talking to? Maddox? He kept me up all night, that rascal. I would have sent him home, but he was so good at repeatedly taking away my sleep, if you know what I mean.”

No, darling, I really don’t, I think inside my head as blood pressure builds. Silly me, thought my day was improving.

Thankfully, Kelly slides down low in her seat and rests her head against the window on top of a cashmere sweater and falls fast asleep. I’m grateful for the quiet, although right now I wish I had another fork.

The drive through the rest of Arkansas is uneventful but once we hit Missouri the rains start up again and I clinch the steering wheel so tight gazing out into the pelting rain that I’m afraid Enterprise will have to pry my fingers off when we get to Springfield. It’s like this for miles and I’m exhausted, fighting to keep my eyes open and alert. After an hour of slow moving along the interstate I decide to stop at the next exit and get some coffee. Amazingly enough, the sign announces exits to Branson and I almost start crying. I grab my phone and flip it open, hope to god that I can pull up Aunt Mimi’s number easily and not go flying off the road into water-logged ditches. After thumbing down the list I finally spot her and hit talk. She answers on the first ring.

“Vi?”

Now I am crying. Can’t explain why. “Aunt Mimi, I’m driving outside of Branson and I would really love to see you.”

“Where are you?”

“Interstate 65, just past Highway 76, heading north.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Get off at the Branson Hills Parkway and go left. Once you cross back over the interstate you’ll see the Branson Tourism Center on the left. I’ll meet