Eighteen

Ghost of a Chance

It wasn’t hard for the ghost to awaken me.

It was the second night after David died, and my grief was still so great as to thin my sleep to gossamer. Just about anything would cause me to wake up suddenly, reach for his side of the bed, feel the emptiness there, and then the emptiness within myself; next would come a tightness in my chest, the pressing weight of the sudden loss of my husband.

Some might believe I saw the ghost because I so wanted David to be alive, I imagined he had come back to me. The only problem with that theory is, it wasn’t my husband’s ghost.

I had awakened from my fitful sleep that night because the room felt cold; I opened my eyes to see a man standing at the foot of the bed. Until I was fully awake, I almost thought it was David. Like David, he was about six feet tall, with dark brown hair and big, brown eyes. He was handsome, but I discovered that even handsome men who suddenly show up uninvited at the foot of my bed can scare me. This one did. I opened my mouth to scream, and he vanished.

I was more than a little upset, but I convinced myself that I had dreamed the whole thing, and fell back into a restless slumber, full of dreams of David dying. The next morning I felt grumpy and ill-at-ease. It was the day of David’s funeral, and there wasn’t anything on earth that was going to make me feel good about that day. As I looked in the mirror, I became even more certain of that. I looked like a blouse someone had left to wrinkle in the dryer. My blond hair framed a colorless face and I had dark shadows under my blue eyes.

“You’ll be just fine, Anna,” I said to myself. At forty-two, I wasn’t in bad shape. The lines that had appeared on my face weren’t etched too deeply. Gave it character, my father said. I was getting more character every year, but I’m not the type to fret over it. At least, I hadn’t been until she came along.

I wondered if she would have the nerve to show up at the funeral. I wouldn’t know her if she did. When he made his confession, David never told me her name, and I never asked for it. As far as I was concerned, it was important not to know the name of the woman David had met at the St. George Hotel every Wednesday for fifteen weeks. For fifteen weeks, on the night I taught a class in-of all things-ethics, Ms. X had taught David that he could still lure a woman to bed. I wondered if they had laughed about that. He wasn’t laughing when it ended. “A temporary madness,” he had told me, weeping as he did. “Forgive me,” he pleaded.

To this day, I’m not able to be very precise about why I did forgive him. At the time I was outraged, hurt, angry, humiliated. The pain of betrayal remained; whatever trust was between us had taken a torpedo broadside. But the ship didn’t sink, it just listed.

Maybe the reason I stayed with him wasn’t really so complex. David and I had been together for twenty years; and in that twenty years I had come to love him more than anyone else on earth. He was a habit I couldn’t break. Fate broke it for me.

David had made his confession six months ago, and strove to be the ideal husband in the time since. Together we tried to renew our marriage, and somehow, we were making it. On the morning of the day he died, he told me that he was working on something that would really make me proud of him. I had no idea what it was. “I’m proud of you all the same, David,” I said to the haggard reflection in the mirror. Ten minutes later I was still sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing.

I pulled myself together, hoping I wouldn’t shame myself at his funeral. As I put on a plain black dress that David had always liked, I held on to the anger I felt toward his killer. David had come to the college to pick me up that night. I was on my way to the car when I heard the shots. The college is in a part of town that has become rougher over the years, and I didn’t think much about hearing gunfire. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence, but it wasn’t that rare. When I saw the crumpled form on the steps that lead up from the parking lot, I didn’t know it was David until I was only a few feet from him. He was unconscious, and bleeding to death. Nothing, not even a ghost in my bedroom, will ever terrify me the way those moments did, when I held David as he died.

No one saw the actual shooting, but several witnesses saw a blue Chevy speeding away from the scene. No one knew anything else. No model, no license plate, no description of the driver, no mention of how many people were in the car. No motive, just someone who got their kicks by driving around firing guns at people. There was some speculation that David had been hit by gunfire aimed at someone else, since other bullets were found lodged in a nearby tree, a wall, another car. “Random violence” seemed to be theory of the newspapers.

I was one of the believers in the theory. No one would want to kill David Blackburn. The man had cheated on me, and I didn’t want to kill him. I didn’t know anyone with a stronger motive.

The funeral was well-attended, with or without David’s former lover. The priest didn’t know David, but did the best he could to say generically comforting words. My family tried to brace me up, and succeeded in large degree. David’s parents were long dead, but his sister sent a wreath; she had wanted to come to the funeral but couldn’t manage the airfare from Maine to California, and refused my offer to buy the ticket.

There were neighbors and old friends, and a large contingent from Emery amp; Walden. David was the Vice President of Human Resources for Emery amp; Walden, a local manufacturing firm that employed about twenty-five hundred people. Many of the employees had contact with him, and trusted him as someone who would treat them fairly, as someone who had concern for their well-being. He often acted as a buffer between them and Mr. Winslow Emery III, the self-involved young man who was now at the helm of the company.

Today Winslow Emery looked tired and worn. It was understandable-he had attended a lot of funerals lately. Five days earlier, an acid tank at Emery amp; Walden had ruptured, causing the deaths of three workers. OSHA was investigating. David had been troubled by the deaths, as he was by the suicide of the plant manager, who apparently blamed himself for not responding to worker complaints about the tank.

I thought about David championing that troubled soul. His name, if I recalled, was Devereaux. I watched Emery walk away from David’s grave with the gait of a man twice his age. A good-looking blonde walked next to him. She had introduced herself to me as Mr. Emery’s secretary, Louise. Emery didn’t seem to notice her.

I noticed her, as I did two other women, Lucy Osborne and Annette Mayes, who lingered longer than most of the others. Both were at least fifteen years younger than I, and gorgeous. Lucy was a brunette, Annette a redhead. I wondered if David had stayed with my type or looked for something different when he chose a lover. Something in the way Annette looked at me made me decide he had tried something different. Oddly, I didn’t feel the animosity I thought I would feel towards her. I really didn’t care. David had come back to me. Fifteen weeks was not twenty-one years.

I sat next to the open grave longer than my sister, Lisa, thought I should, but I refused to be steered away. My father told her to let me be and then gave me a hug and said they’d be waiting for me at the car, to take my time.

“I guess this is goodbye, David,” I said aloud, and was startled to feel a warm hand on my shoulder. I looked up into the eyes of the ghost.

This time, I was angry. This was my private moment with David, and I didn’t want living or dead intruding on it. At the time, the man seemed to be among the living. I couldn’t see through him and his hand was warm. “Can’t a person have a moment’s peace?” I said, trying to remove his hand, but only touching my own shoulder. That frightened me.

He shook his head sadly and removed his hand.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said.

He shrugged.

“Are you David?” I asked, thinking maybe I was seeing him transformed somehow.

But the ghost shook his head.

“Could I please have a little time to say goodbye to my husband? Would that be too much to ask?”

He gave a little bow and vanished.

I was shaking. “David,” I said, when I had calmed down, “Why isn’t it you? If I’m going to go crazy and see ghosts, why isn’t it your ghost? Show up, David. Materialize, or whatever it is you do. I want you back.”

I waited. Nothing.

“Goodbye, David,” I said, giving up. “I’ll miss you. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. Be very sad for a very long time, I suppose.”

I looked up and saw a man walking toward me. I knew this one was among the living. There was nothing extraordinary about Detective Russo’s appearance. He was a plain-faced man, neither handsome nor ugly. He was of medium height, had mouse-brown hair that was cut short. His eyes, his voice, and his face usually reflected very little of what he was thinking or feeling. If you talked to him for a while, there was no mistaking his intelligence, but he didn’t walk around with his IQ embroidered on his sleeve. An ocean of calm, he seemed to me. I could use it.

“Hello, Detective Russo,” I said as he approached.

“Hello, Dr. Blackburn,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you. Just wanted to make sure you were all right. I’ll leave-”

“No,” I said, standing up. “Don’t worry about it. I need to walk to the car; I’m keeping everyone waiting.”

He surprised me by offering me his arm, but I took it and we walked in silence toward the limo. When we reached it, I invited him to join us at the house, but he politely declined.

“Were you watching me the whole time I sat there?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I was,” he said, not seeming in the least embarrassed about it.

“Did you see anyone else?”

“While you sat there?”

“Yes.”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t. Why?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing at all. I don’t suppose you’ve learned anything more about what happened?”

“No, I’m sorry, Dr. Blackburn. But we’re still working on it.”

“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I got into the car and let Lisa’s chatter roll over me as my father held my hand.

Back at the house, the ghost became rather nervy. I would see him standing among groups of people, watching me. Everyone excused my vacant stares as widow’s grief, which was fine with me. I wasn’t in the mood to be entertaining.

The gathering thinned out quickly. Lisa left only after I reassured her for the fifty-third time that I wanted to be by myself. Only I knew I wasn’t going to be able to be by myself. The ghost was growing as eager as I was to have her leave.

“Okay,” I said, after I saw her drive off. “Let’s talk.”

He looked even sadder than before.

“What? Did I say something?”

He didn’t reply.

I decided that even if he was a figment of my imagination, I needed to play this out. Avoiding him obviously wouldn’t work. “Let’s sit down,” I said.

He followed me into the living room, and we sat on opposite ends of the couch.

“Who are you?” I asked.

No answer, just gestures that I couldn’t make anything out of.

“Can’t you talk?”

He shook his head, pointing at his mouth.

“If I gave you a pen and paper could you write a note?”

He shook his head again.

“I thought ghosts were supposed to be cold. When you touched me today you were warm.”

He shrugged.

“Perhaps you haven’t been dead long?”

He nodded, and held up four fingers.

“Four days?”

He nodded again.

“Most people would be cold.”

He waited.

“Why me?” I asked.

He walked over to the mantel over the fireplace and pointed to a photograph.

“Because of David?”

He nodded.

“Is something wrong with him?” It immediately seemed like a stupid question. The man was dead. Things don’t go too much more wrong, unless-“He’s not in some sort of eternal torment is he? I don’t believe it. That can’t be true.”

The ghost made a frantic gesture to get me to stop talking, then looked up.

“Are you looking in the direction David traveled?”

He nodded.

“Thank you,” I said. I found myself crying. I had felt in my heart that David, for all his weaknesses, was a good man, but it was nice to have confirmation. I suddenly felt a sense of relief. I decided I owed the ghost a favor.

“What can I do for you?”

He got up and paced, tried to gesture, couldn’t get through to “Wait, settle down.”

He sat down again.

“You know David, right?”

He nodded.

“You are a ghost?”

Yes again.

I thought about everything I had heard about ghosts. “Are you trying to haunt me? Did I do something wrong to David?”

No.

“Are you trying to right some wrong done to you?”

Yes.

I figured he probably couldn’t explain the details just yet, so I tried to question my way to it. “Did you know David before you became a ghost?”

Another yes.

“But I never met you?”

He shook his head.

“Did you know him a long time ago?”

No.

“You knew him recently?”

Yes.

There weren’t many possibilities. “You knew him from work?”

Yes again. He seemed anxious, as if this would give me the answer.

“You’re one of the workers who died when the tank ruptured!”

He looked stricken, but shook his head. He held up the four fingers again.

“Oh, that’s right. That was five days ago. You said you died four days ago. But the only person who died four days ago was the…”

He could see the understanding dawning on me.

“You’re the plant manager.”

He nodded sadly.

“Mr. Devereaux?”

Yes, he nodded.

“You killed yourself.”

He stood up, shaking his head side to side, mouthing the word ‘No!’

“You didn’t kill yourself?”

Again, just as firmly, no.

“Someone killed you?”

Yes.

“Who?”

He pointed to his ring finger on his left hand. There was no wedding band, but I could guess.

“Your wife?”

Yes.

“Your wife killed you?”

I tried to remember the stories. I couldn’t. Everything had been blurred by the events of three days ago. I went over to a stack of newspapers that I had been meaning to take out to the recycling bin. I put the two unopened ones-which I knew had stories of David’s murder in them-aside, and reached for the one from the day David was killed. That was the day after Devereaux suicide. The suicide was front page news.

“Will it bother you if I read this to you?”

No.

“‘Mr. Chance Devereaux…’ Chance? Your first name is Chance?”

He nodded.

“‘Mr. Chance Devereaux, plant manager of Emery amp; Walden, died of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound yesterday evening. His wife, Louise, who is also employed at Emery amp; Walden, discovered her husband’s body when she returned home late from work. She said her husband had grown despondent following the deaths of three workers Tuesday in an industrial accident caused by a ruptured acid tank. Mr. Devereaux had received complaints from the workers about the tank, but failed to repair it…’”

I looked up to see him angrily indicating his disagreement.

“We’ll get to your side of the story in a moment,” I said. “Where was I? Oh yes, ‘…failed to repair it in time to prevent the deaths.’” I read on in silence. The rest of the article was simply a rehash of the previous reports on the accident.

“My name is Anna. May I call you Chance?”

Yes.

“Is your wife Emery’s secretary?”

Yes.

“And you didn’t kill yourself?”

No. He pointed to the ring finger again.

“Your wife killed you.”

Yes.

“How?”

He pointed to his mouth again, only this time I saw what I had missed before: he wasn’t pointing, he was imitating the firing of a gun into his mouth.

“She shot you in the mouth?”

He nodded.

I shuddered. “How did she manage that? I’ve seen your wife. She’s not a very large woman.”

He pantomimed holding a glass, pouring something into the glass, then adding something to it. Then he pantomimed sleep.

“She drugged your drink?”

He nodded.

“That should come out in the autopsy.”

He made a helpless gesture.

“It didn’t?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t know if it did or it didn’t, but they declared it a suicide?”

He nodded again.

“Have you…” I tried, but couldn’t think of a more polite way to phrase it. “Have you been buried?”

He nodded, looking very unhappy.

“You don’t like where you’re buried?”

He looked into my face and made the Sign of the Cross.

“You’re Catholic.”

Yes.

“And you aren’t buried in consecrated ground?”

No.

“Is that why you’re haunting me?”

He gave me a look that said he was disgusted with me and disappeared.

The moment he was gone, the house felt very empty. “Come back,” I said.

Nothing.

“Chance, please come back. I apologize. This is a very difficult time for me. I didn’t mean to offend you by calling it ‘haunting.’ If you come back, I’ll try to help you.”

He reappeared.

“How do you do that?”

He shrugged.

“Let me know if you figure out more about this ghost business.”

He nodded.

“What does this have to do with David?”

He studied me for a moment, then pointed to David’s picture and then his head.

“David shot you, too?” I said in disbelief.

No! He might as well have been able to shout it.

“Wait, wait. I’m beginning to understand. David told me he didn’t believe the things that were said about you. Is that what you mean?”

Yes. He kept gesturing to his head.

“David didn’t just believe, he knew they weren’t true.”

Emphatic nod.

“He had proof?”

Yes.

We continued to piece a conversation together with questions, nods and pantomime. From what I could make out from Chance’s gestures, David had proof that Chance had tried to act on replacing the acid tank long ago, but Emery refused, citing costs. David had told him where he hid the papers that would show Chance was not to blame.

“Was David killed because of this?” I asked.

He nodded slowly. He placed a hand over his chest, eyes downcast, as if to say, “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” I said, but I was lost for a while. When I had managed to regain my composure, I said, “I’ve got to contact Detective Russo.”

Chance wasn’t happy with this idea, but I ignored his gestures until he got frustrated and vanished. This time, I didn’t mind so much. I needed some time to absorb what he had told me.

I dialed police headquarters and asked for Russo. He wasn’t in, but the man who took my call said he would page him. I was grateful he wasn’t there; it occurred to me that it would be difficult to tell him that I had been talking to Chance Devereaux’s ghost. Only about fifteen minutes had passed when he called me back, but I was better prepared.

“Anything wrong, Dr. Blackburn?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “In fact, I think I may have some more information for you about my husband’s case, and perhaps another case as well. But first I need to ask you a few questions.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Detective Russo?”

“I’m here Dr. Blackburn. Just what is this all about?”

“Maybe this would be easier to explain if we spoke face-to-face.”

“I’ll be right over.”

When he arrived, I could tell he wasn’t exactly pleased with me. I was surprised to see him betraying any emotion, and found it a nice change; somehow it made his face more interesting. He politely declined my offer of coffee and we went into the living room.

“You said you had some questions for me?” he asked when we were seated on the couch, just as Chance and I had been seated earlier.

“Yes. I was wondering if you were familiar with the case of Chance Devereaux?”

He didn’t answer at once, and while I waited for him to reply, Chance reappeared. I tried not to look at him, but Detective Russo caught me glancing away. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Just now, something upset you.”

“I’m generally upset right now. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the Devereaux case.”

“Do you believe he killed himself?”

Chance was gesturing to me to follow him. I wondered if he could use telepathy. I kept looking at Detective Russo, trying to tell Chance with my mind that he needed to be patient. It didn’t work. Chance walked over to the bookcase, and began pacing.

“I don’t believe I should discuss that with anyone outside the department,” Detective Russo said curtly.

“All right, if you can’t discuss it, you can’t. I’ll just tell you that I don’t believe he did.”

At that moment a book fell from the case with a thump that made me jump half out of my skin.

“You seem very nervous, Dr. Blackburn. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

I got up and picked up the book. Irving Stone’s Men to Match My Mountains. I looked up at Chance as I replaced it on the shelf. I finally understood what he was trying to say.

“I remembered that David had been very concerned about the allegations that were being made. He told me he had proof that Chance Devereaux had wanted to replace the acid tank, but that Mr. Emery refused.”

He didn’t seem to believe me. “That’s a very serious allegation. Mr. Emery could be subject to criminal prosecution if what your husband told you is true.”

“I’m almost certain of it.”

“And you think your husband was killed to keep him silent?”

“Yes.”

He eyed me skeptically. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“As you’ve noticed, Detective Russo, I’ve been very upset. David’s death was a horrible shock.” I didn’t have to fake my response there. Just thinking about it made the color drain from my face.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Blackburn,” he said.

“No, please. And please call me Anna-only my students call me Dr. Blackburn. All I’m asking is that you help me search the place where I believe David hid the papers.”

“And where would that be?”

“Our mountain cabin,” I said, daring to peek over at Chance, who was nodding and urging me to get going.

“Is that why your husband took off work on Wednesday afternoon?”

“What?”

He pulled out a notebook and flipped through it. Finding the page he was looking for, he said, “Your husband left work at about eleven o’clock Wednesday morning. He didn’t return all day. Said he wasn’t feeling well. A woman in the office-an Annette Mayes?-said she thought he left because he was so disturbed by the deaths of the three workers the day before.”

I had nothing to say. Chance distracted me, making motions that seemed to mean, “Stand up, let’s go!”

“Look, Detective Russo, could we talk about this on the way to the cabin?”

“Lady, before we take off on a two-hour drive, why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”

For three or four seconds, I actually considered doing it. But whatever sense I still had allowed me to remain silent. “I thought I could depend on your help. Obviously, I was wrong. I’m leaving for the cabin and I’m leaving now.”

“All right, all right,” Russo said in a peeved tone. “Let me call in.”

He made the call while I got my coat and keys and purse. Chance disappeared for a while. I looked at Detective Russo, and realized he probably didn’t have more than his suitcoat to keep him warm. I hesitated only for a moment before going into David’s closet. “I know you don’t mind, David,” I said as I took a winter coat out, “but it bothers me.” Chance suddenly appeared next to me, motioning me to hurry. “I am hurrying!” I said.

“Anna? Who are you talking to?” Detective Russo asked. He was standing at the bedroom door.

“Oh…just talking to myself. I was getting one of my husband’s coats for you. I thought you might be cold up in the mountains. There’s snow up there now. He’s a little-he was a little taller than you, so it might be too big. But it will be better than nothing.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking it from me. “Are you sure it won’t bother you to see me wear it?”

I looked away from him and shook my head. “Let’s go.”

Chance vanished. I figured he had his own means of transportation.

Detective Russo and I didn’t say anything to each other for about the first twenty minutes of the trip. Chance suddenly appeared as a reflection in the rearview mirror. I jumped a little, but fortunately, Russo didn’t see my reaction; he was looking out the passenger window.

He turned to me. “It was your husband, wasn’t it?”

“What?” I asked, puzzled.

“When I came into the bedroom, you were talking to your husband, asking him if you could loan me the coat.”

I colored, but didn’t answer.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I talked to my wife after she died.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you had lost your wife.”

“About four years ago now. But at first, I used to talk to her all the time. I learned to be careful-almost got a stress leave imposed on me when my lieutenant overheard me one day.”

“Did your wife ever answer you?”

He looked out the window, and for moment, I didn’t think he was going to reply. When he spoke, his voice was so low I had to strain to hear it. “In her own way, yes, she did,” he said.

He laughed then, suddenly self-conscious. “You probably think the department sent you out with a nutcase.”

“No, not at all. Until recently, if you had told me you talked to the dead, I might have questioned your sanity. But not now, Detective Russo.”

“If you’re generous enough to loan me this coat, I suppose you might be willing to call me John,” he said.

“Okay, John. Anyway, I doubt anything you could tell me about conversing with your wife would surprise me. These last few days…” I stopped, needing to steady myself.

“Do you want me to drive?” he asked.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Chance was nodding.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it,” I said, and pulled off the freeway. “I’m a little shaky.”

“I understand,” he said. “You’ve held up really well so far, all things considered.”

I stopped the car and turned to look at him. “No, I haven’t. I just try not to make a public production out of it. It would seem to-I don’t know, cheapen his memory.”

He didn’t say anything, just traded places with me, and we got back on the freeway. I positioned myself on the seat so that I could look at Chance without being too obvious. “Do you know Mrs. Devereaux?” Russo asked.

“I met her for the first time at David’s funeral,” I said, looking back at Chance, who wore an angry expression.

“At least the two of you will both benefit nicely from Emery amp; Walden’s employee life insurance program.”

“We would have, but not now. I haven’t had a chance to get the details, but David told me that Mr. Emery was changing to a less expensive insurance, one that wouldn’t pay as much. But we’ve been in fairly good financial shape anyway, with no children and two incomes.”

“The insurance hasn’t changed yet,” he said.

“What?”

He glanced over at me. “It doesn’t change until the end of the month.”

“I didn’t know.”

“The interesting thing is, the current insurance not only pays higher than the new one, it also covers death for any reason.”

“You mean, including suicide?”

“Including suicide.”

Chance was clenching his fists.

“It wasn’t suicide,” I said, and both Chance and John Russo looked at me at once.

“What’s your interest in Devereaux?”

“I told you. David was concerned about him. He knew Chance Devereaux didn’t ignore the complaints about the tank. Devereaux felt bad about what happened, but he didn’t blame himself. He was a practicing Catholic. He wouldn’t have committed suicide.”

“How do you know about his being Catholic?”

I looked away. “David and I are Catholics. You know that from being at the funeral today if you didn’t know it before. David must have mentioned that Devereaux was Catholic, too.”

He was silent for a while, and I thought he might not believe me. I was right. But I didn’t know how right until he spoke up again.

“I don’t think you’re being honest with me,” he said. “I kept hoping you’d just tell me. I’m a cop, Dr. Blackburn. I’ve seen all kinds of things. It wouldn’t have surprised me.”

I didn’t understand his harsh tone, nor did I believe for a moment that the police were accustomed to having people say they had received information from ghosts. Not sane people. I gave him directions to the turnoff for the cabin, then asked, “Just exactly what did you mean by that last remark?”

He sighed. “I meant that a woman answering your description was seen keeping a regular weekly appointment with Mr. Devereaux. We got a tip from a clerk at the St. George Hotel. Said you registered as Mr. amp; Mrs. Devereaux, but he had been in the business long enough to know hanky-panky when he saw it. You were having an affair with Chance Devereaux, weren’t you?”

I couldn’t help but look back at Chance. He was shaking his head, pointing to his ring finger again, then at me. “Mr. Devereaux and I were each married,” I said.

Chance shook his head while I heard John Russo say, “To other people, yes. But you wouldn’t be the first married people on earth to look for greener pastures. Every Wednesday. What broke it off, Dr. Blackburn?”

His words, combined with Chance’s gestures, brought it home to me. “Oh my God. My husband and your wife.”

“Leave my wife out of this!” John Russo said angrily.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” I said, a numbness coming over me. I gave a questioning look at Chance, who nodded, then pointed at me and made the signs for ‘See no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil’. His flippancy angered me, but I understood what he meant. I had avoided learning the details of David’s infidelity, shut myself off from it. Now both Chance and I might pay for it.

I looked back at Russo. I took a deep breath. “That wasn’t me and it wasn’t Chance Devereaux, either. That was Louise Devereaux and my husband. Six months ago, David told me he was having an affair. He told me he met the woman every Wednesday night at the St. George Hotel. I taught a class that night. You can check that with the college. I never knew who it was. But Chance Devereaux and my husband look something alike, and Louise Devereaux and I both have blond hair and blue eyes. They must have used her name. I imagine if you look a little further, you’ll find that, like me, Chance Devereaux had some standing appointment on Wednesday nights, some business or other engagement that allowed his wife to meet my husband without causing Mr. Devereaux to be suspicious.”

Chance nodded in painful agreement, and made his ‘sorry’ gesture again, as if feeling guilty for his earlier routine. The discovery of the details of the affair was too much for me. It was as if I were back in time, once again experiencing that moment when David admitted to the affair. The hurt and anger and humiliation started all over again, and now the police were privy to the whole awful business. I started crying again, wishing to God I could have kept my composure.

“I’m sorry,” John said.

“That doesn’t help a damn bit,” I answered, and kept crying.

By then we had reached the cabin. Although it hadn’t snowed since Thursday, there was still plenty of it on the ground and the roof of the cabin. The snow was dirty by then. What must have been a pristine blanket two days before was now sullied and rumpled. The snowplows had been by, building up large drifts along the way. We parked on the roadside; the entrance to the drive was blocked by the snowdrift. Any other weekend, David would have cleared the drive while I went to work putting away groceries and building a fire…who’ll clear the driveway, now, David? I guessed it would be me.

Russo held off getting out of the car. He reached over and took my hand. “I truly am sorry, Anna. I feel like an ass. I should have checked it out. I only got the information from the clerk today, and not ten minutes later, you were calling, asking about Devereaux. I jumped to a conclusion, and I had no right to do that. I did a lousy job of asking you about it anyway. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to scratch my eyes out.”

I couldn’t answer.

“Please forgive me.”

“It seems like men have been asking me to do that a lot lately,” I said.

He let go of my hand and waited.

I managed to pull myself together, somehow. “I’m sorry, John. I’m having a perfectly horrible day and I can’t seem to keep my balance. Just when I feel as if I’m steady on my feet, something knocks them out from under me. You’re not to blame for it.”

“I don’t know about that, but like I said, I’m sorry. Feel up to going inside and looking for those documents?”

“Why not? What more could go wrong today?”

We got out of the car and started up the drive. John donned David’s coat, which was only a little too big for him. As we walked, I was fascinated by the fact that Chance, who walked next to me with a comforting arm around my shoulder, left no footprints. I was musing over the fact that his touch was as warm as any living person’s, when suddenly John stopped me from walking any farther. “Hold it. It snowed up here Thursday, right?”

“Right,” I said. “David and I were looking forward to-never mind, that doesn’t do any good.”

Chance gave my shoulder a little squeeze, as if to help me find my courage. Russo watched me for a moment, then asked, “Had you made any arrangements with anyone to come up here? Any other guests or a caretaker?”

“No, no one.”

I followed his gaze to where two pairs of footprints entered and left the cabin. Whoever had been to the cabin had cut across the woods, as if to avoid being seen.

“Would you mind staying here for a moment?”

I shook my head.

“Why don’t you give me the key to the front door? I’ll just make sure it’s safe.”

He walked to the cabin, careful not to disturb the prints. It gave me an opportunity to talk to Chance.

“You knew someone was here, didn’t you?”

Yes. He made the gesture for his wife.

“Louise and who else?”

He seemed stumped by this question, but then pantomimed filing his nails.

“Emery?”

He actually smiled, the first time I had seen him smile.

“I don’t think Russo believes you killed yourself.”

He patted me on the back.

“No, I think he doubted it before I said anything.”

He patted me again.

“Well, thanks. Did they find what they were looking for when they came here?”

He shook his head, smiling again, then suddenly laid a finger to his lips. I turned to see Russo coming out of the cabin. He was upset.

“Someone has been here and ransacked the place. I called the sheriff; they’ll be out as soon as they can, but it may be a little while. I don’t know if you’ll want to go in there. They did a very thorough job of it, and I doubt they missed anything.”

“I have a feeling they did,” I said. “I’ll be okay. Let’s take a look.”

“Try not to touch anything if you can help it.”

After everything else I had been through that day, seeing the cabin a complete wreck was only mildly unsettling. Russo was right; no piece of furniture was left in place, every drawer had been pulled out and dumped on the floor, pictures had been removed from their frames. I almost reached out and touched one of David and me, but Russo stopped me.

“You’ll be able to fix it after they dust for prints,” he said.

“I know who did this,” I said. “Louise Devereaux and Winslow Emery.”

“How do you know?”

“First, who else has any reason to search this cabin? Secondly, I’ll bet those footprints are those of a man and a woman. I can’t tell you the other reason.”

“Your husband’s ghost tipped you off?”

“Something like that.” I thought of David, having an affair with someone who was vicious enough to place a gun in her husband’s mouth and pull the trigger. It dawned on me then that she might have killed David as well. I shuddered. “Poor David.”

“Maybe you’d trust me more if I told you something.” He paused. “I don’t tell many people about this.” Even Chance seemed curious.

“It’s about my wife, Susan,” Russo said. “I told you she died. I didn’t tell you how.”

I waited. He walked over to the empty fireplace and stared down into its charred hearth. “She was killed. Shot to death, like your husband. Only she was in another man’s arms when it happened. His wife caught on to what was happening before I did. She was waiting for them, I guess. Killed them both, then turned the gun on herself.”

“John-”

“Let me finish. I hated Susan for it at first. But I missed her, too. And I hated missing her. Then I started blaming myself. Homicide detective gets called out in the middle of the night all the time, doesn’t make for much of a home life.

“Anyway, one night, she came back. Her ghost, I suppose. You think I’m crazy?”

“Not at all,” I said.

“Well, I don’t scare easy, but that scared the living hell out me. She asked me to forgive her.”

“She could talk?”

“Yes, can’t your husband talk?”

“It’s not my husband, John.” I turned to Chance. “Can I tell him?”

Chance nodded.

“He’s here, now?” Russo asked, startled.

“Yes, he’s here. It’s Chance Devereaux. He started visiting me the night before the funeral. He wants to be buried in a Catholic cemetery, but as a suicide, they wouldn’t allow it.”

“He told you it wasn’t suicide?”

“Yes. He can’t talk; I think it has something to do with the way he died. But he isn’t so hard to understand once you get used to it. He made it clear that Louise drugged his drink, then shot him while he slept.”

“We’ve suspected something like that,” John said. “He had enough barbiturates in his system to make it seem unlikely that he would have shot himself; but it was right on the borderline, nothing solid enough to convict. Still, I wondered why he would take sleeping pills if he planned on shooting himself that same night. What would the point be? Between that and the insurance, she wasn’t completely in the clear.”

I watched Chance walk over to the fireplace. John followed my gaze.

“He walked over here?” he asked, taking a step back.

“Yes. He wants us to look inside it, under the metal plate in the hearth. The one over the hole where you clean out the ashes.”

Russo got down on all fours and lifted the plate. I wasn’t too surprised when he pulled out a sheaf of papers. Chance touched me on the shoulder, then disappeared.

The papers proved that Chance had warned Emery about the tank eight months before the disaster. One of Emery’s fingerprints had been left at the cabin, on the door to a storage shed. Facing prosecution in the deaths of the workers as well, Emery later broke down and confessed to helping Louise kill David, and told police that Louise had killed Chance. He had been having an affair with Louise Devereaux for the past six months. They met on Wednesdays. They were both convicted of murder.

I saw Chance one other time; when I signed the forms saying I would pay to have his body moved to the Catholic cemetery. He met me near his old grave, and hugged me. He was still warm.

John Russo and I married a year later. When the going gets rough, we tell one another ghost stories.