Heather Graham - Ghost Shadow

“In the water?” Bartholomew mocked.

“She looked sad, as if she was crying-yes, in the water! She wants me to know, even if she can’t tell me who did do it, that he didn’t.”

“That’s ridiculous. She was murdered. If she knows who did do it, she needs to tell you.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know. Her attacker might have struck from the back.”

“Then if she doesn’t know who did do it, how does she know that it wasn’t David Beckett?” Bartholomew demanded.

“She might have known where he was at the time of her death-and if he was nowhere near her, it couldn’t have been him.”

“Well, you do need to stop running about in a trance. He will think that you’re as daft as a loon!”

“I will. I have it under control. Now.”

“I certainly hope so,” he said. He looked at his pocket watch. “Time’s a-wasting, my dear.”

She spun on him and started up the stairs.

David washed down his equipment, rinsed himself off and headed back to the house for a real shower. After that, he went out to find Danny Zigler.

He was serving ice cream. He grinned at David. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Ice cream?”

“You know what, I’ll take a shake. Vanilla.”

“Cool.”

David paid him, adding a handsome tip.

“Hey, thanks, David, you don’t have to go overboard. I’m not a charity case, you know. I keep working.”

“Yeah, I see that. I was so surprised to see you at O’Hara’s last night. I thought you were doing the ghost tours. And, hell, the crowds on weekends are huge. Didn’t think you could take time off like that.”

“Yeah, I miss doing the weekend tours. Thing is, all the companies out there have hired on too many people. Most can work weekends, around their other jobs, you know? I can work weeknights, and to be honest, I don’t like an overcrowded tour. I like to be able to tell the stories good, you know? And when there are too many people, half of ’em don’t hear you, and when you repeat all kinds of stuff, you lose the whole effect,” Danny said.

“I know what you mean. Too many in a group, and you just don’t get the effect,” David agreed. “Well, thanks. See ya, Danny. Oh-you working at O’Hara’s tonight?”

“I start at ten there. I am taking out an eight-o’clock tour tonight.”

“Cool.”

David waved, and headed down the street. He walked toward La Concha Hotel, and around to the stand where ghost-tour tickets were sold. A young girl was selling tickets. He asked her about Danny Zigler. “Oh, yeah, he’s working tonight. Eight o’clock. He’s a good guide.”

“Yeah. It surprises me that you all don’t use him all the time,” David said.

She shrugged. “Hey, I’m not management. But I think that Danny likes his other jobs, too. Strange fellow, but a good storyteller!”

David bought a ticket and moved out of the way for the couple who waited behind him. He glanced at his watch, and headed back home. He had left the police files on his grandfather’s desk. He set an alarm to warn him when it would be nearing eight.

A long, hot shower and shampoo felt wonderful, rinsing away the cakey salt and effects of the sun and the sea. Katie lingered under the flow of water, then emerged regretfully at last, aware that she should be conserving water-and that she was pruning.

She slipped into a terry robe and towel-dried her hair, then studied her reflection in the mirror. Wet, she decided, was really not her look. But too bad-she loved the water too much.

She looked over at the bathroom cabinet, choosing a moisturizer.

When she looked back at the mirror, there was someone behind her.

It wasn’t Tanya. It was a different entity. She had dark hair, too much makeup and her eyes were red and slightly bulging.

A tear slipped down her astral cheek.

“No!” Katie whispered. “Please!”

The girl remained, that tear sliding down her face.

“Please!” Katie whispered again. “I’m not nine-one-one for ghosts. I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know who you are!” she whispered vehemently.

She closed her eyes, praying for the image to go away. She opened her eyes. It did.

Her hands were shaking when she reached for her cosmetic base and looked back to the mirror.

The image was back.

The girl was no longer crying. She was just standing there, staring at Katie, as if she were in shock. Her face was starkly white. Her features seemed to have shriveled. Her eyes were clouded with red dots.

“I wish I could help you!” Katie whispered. “Please…”

The image faded.

Katie collected her makeup and went running down the stairs.

Bartholomew was perched at the kitchen counter. He stared at her, frowning. “What now?”

“Another ghost,” she said.

He looked annoyed. “What is this-spirit central?” he demanded. “This is my house.”

“It’s my house,” she corrected.

He sighed. “Actually, Katie, once upon a time, I lived in the upstairs bedroom. Well, I didn’t live there, I spent a great deal of time there. Eighteen twenty-six, to be exact.”

“But this house-”

“Oh, the house has been rebuilt. It was just a tiny wooden structure at the time. The place was a shantytown, really, except for some of the places built by big money. Simontons and Whiteheads… Anyway, I had a girl for a while. She wasn’t the kind you brought home to mother. But she was one hell of a woman. Never mind, that’s not the point. This is my haunt. You’re my mortal.”

“You’re being selfish,” Katie said, feeling a new strength. “They need help.”

“Everyone needs help.”

“She was murdered,” Katie said suddenly.

“Most ghosts were murdered.”

“No, Hemingway killed himself, and he’s haunting this country, Spain and Cuba, so I understand,” Katie argued.

Bartholomew sighed. “Katie, don’t let them in. I’m afraid for you.”

“Bartholomew, I’m not saying she was murdered this minute. It might have been years ago. Like…Tanya. Maybe it was the same person.”

He swung off the bar stool and came before her, planting his hands on his hips. “Katie, I am very afraid for you.”

“Sean will be here in another day or two and then I won’t be living alone. I’ll be fine. And I know the cops- I know everyone on the street. I’m from here, Bartholomew. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure that’s what Tanya Barnard thought!” he said dourly. “Well, I won’t be leaving you alone for a moment,” he assured her. He looked her up and down in her terry robe, her makeup clustered in her hands. “And you are afraid.”

“I was startled, that’s all.”

“Well, that robe is going to make a lovely outfit when you go to work.”

“I was startled. I’m not afraid.”

“I’ll follow you and guard the hallway, if you’d like to return to your bathroom and further prepare for the evening,” he told her.

She lowered her head, smiling. He could trip people; he could now press the on button to start the coffee brewing. She still wasn’t sure he could actually guard her. But he was quite the gentleman ghost.

“Thanks,” she told him.

But when she returned upstairs, no matter how many times she looked into the mirror and then away from it, no ghosts appeared.

The first ghost, she knew, was Tanya.

But who the hell was the dark-haired woman with the tear glistening on her cheek?

As David had expected, evenly dividing the crowd that night left about forty people in each tour group. He was tall, and he stayed toward the back.

Key West was full of ghosts. Naturally. Since it was a walking ghost-tour, it didn’t take in the cemetery, the Hemingway House, or many other spots reputed to be harboring ghosts. That was all right. There were many haunted places to still go to on the tour. Captain Tony’s was haunted by those who had died at the hanging tree-and those sixteen souls whose remains were found when work was done on the place.