A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (fantasy novels to read .TXT) 📕
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- Author: Cherie Claire
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Winnie exits the elevator and turns right, not explaining.
“What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” I say as we head to the left. “I just fell in a dark, dank cave this afternoon and hit my head, had to have an EMT come and she’s worried about me having a concussion.”
“You fell?” he asks, and it’s in those two words that explain why I want to divorce this man.
When we reach our room, Richard is already there, occupying the haunted room across the hall — or is it mine Nanette was referring to?
“If you’d have taken the stairs, you’d be here by now,” Richard says.
“We are here by now,” I answer.
TB fiddles with the old-fashioned key and then huffs in frustration. I take it from him and easily open the door. He says nothing, enters the room and begins pulling off his shoes and socks. He’s unusually quiet, and I’m not sure what’s going on in that head.
“I’ll leave in the morning,” he says solemnly.
Now I get it. I sit on the edge of the bed and ponder how to make this work. “You can’t go with me,” I say quietly.
He drops his shoes and sighs. “Fine, I’ll leave in the morning.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Stay as long as you like, just don’t expect to follow me around or get free food or anything.”
His composure changes instantly, like a dog reacting from being admonished for raiding the kitty litter to be offering a plush toy. “I won’t get in your way.”
“There’s a pool but it’s outside. I think there’s a fitness center.”
“I’m happy to sit in here and watch a decent TV.”
The old guilt pours over me like concrete on Jimmy Hoffa. I can only nod in agreement, then pull off my own shoes so I have something to do, anything besides look at my ex who’s living in our nasty house in moldy old New Orleans.
“I’m beat.” TB yawns, which makes me grateful he changed the subject and that he won’t start poking me in the side for sex. That was how he initiated things, stabbing me with his index finger and saying, “Hey, hey.” Not like he would get any anyway, but I don’t want to have that argument tonight.
I get up to start removing my makeup and get ready for bed when there’s a knock on the door. TB brightens. “You think that’s the chocolate they put on the pillow?”
I look over and see the maid has already visited, the bed has been turned down and there are two mints gracing each pillow.
“Uh, don’t think so.”
It’s more likely Alicia or Carrie about to impart instructions for the next day.
Standing in my bare feet, I pull the door open wide. Maddox Bertrand, St. Bernard Parish Police Detective and the regular star of my sexual fantasies, fills the doorway with every inch of his gorgeous flesh.
As usual, I’m flummoxed. Madman Maddox steals all common sense from me every time I meet him.
“I’m looking for Miss Valentine.”
For a moment, I think he doesn’t remember me. But how can that be? We worked together for eight years, he on the St. Bernard Parish Police force and me hounding his trail for the New Orleans Post. We are by no means friends — police have little love for the media — but we shared two murders, a child abduction case, numerous breaking and enterings and the notorious Mardi Gras Bead Burgler.
The latter involved a homeless man named Big Head McGee (have no idea why, his head looked perfectly normal to me, besides the lack of hygiene and possible lice) who followed residents after Carnival parades, stealing their beads so he could resell them to krewes, the people responsible for the parades. It was the ultimate recycling in my opinion — non-profits do it regularly — but the pour soul got three years for his conservation efforts.
I wrote the story, tongue in cheek, couldn’t help myself. The headline ran, “Bead burgler catches time in jail” and I staged Big Head carrying a sign that said, “Will eat for beads.” You’re not supposed to do things like that — news is to be reported on, not created — and when my editor found out I gave Big Head the idea for the sign, he threw a fit, almost fired me on the spot. One day when I was interviewing Maddox about a robbery at Walmart we got to talking about the case, my story and the faux news sign and we erupted into a fit of laughter. Nervous laughter on my part, I might add, because I was working so hard at being cool. Did I mention he’s handsome: broad shoulders, sculptured features, and that gun belt that sits on his hips so sexy it knocks the breath out of me. Seriously, this man makes my knees weak.
“I’m Vi,” I say to him with a smile. Again, a little over the top because my heart is beating rapidly. What is he doing here?
“You the one who fell in the cave?”
It’s then I notice the uniform. “You work for the Eureka Springs police now?”
He ignores my comment, pulls out his notebook from a back pocket. “I need a statement from you.”
Now I realize he’s messing with me. A statement? Really? “Uh huh. You want a statement.” I fold my arms over my chest, feeling cocky. This could be good.
He’s not smiling, and for a second I think he doesn’t recognize me. But that’s impossible.
“I need to know what you were doing in that part of the cave.”
I unfold my arms. He doesn’t remember me and my heart tumbles. “I’m Viola. Viola Valentine.”
He looks down at his notes. “Yeah. The one who fell in the cave.”
I try to pull my heart out of my socks. It’s been a long day and my head hurts, did this hunk have to make it worse by reminding me how invisible I am to most men? I sigh. “What do you want to know?”
Maddox rubs his eyes, no doubt ready to wrap up this incident and go home. “Why you were where you were today.”
I explain how I was part of the press trip for travel writers, ventured down into that part of the cave where I wasn’t supposed to be in, slipped on the wet rock and hit my head. I conveniently leave out Blondie.
“That’s it?”
He gives me a look that makes me think he knows about the ghost, but I’m sticking to my story. “That’s it.”
Maddox flips close the notebook and returns it to the pocket gracing his oh so cute bottom. In a flash I envision my hands slipping that notebook into place.
Did I also mention it’s been a long time since I’ve had sex?
My logical brain, the one not attached to lower body parts, slaps me hard, waking me from my lurid thoughts. “Why is the police concerned about me hitting my head in a cave?”
“We found a body down there, bones of a young girl we think disappeared in the late 1920s.”
This news hits me hard. “Was she murdered?”
Maddox eyes me curiously, which makes me want to laugh. What am I, a suspect? “Why do you say that?”
“Why else would a young girl be dead in a cave?” I answer, leaving out the part about me seeing her looking alive, hurt and bleeding.
“She had a blow to the head,” he adds, and those pesky goosebumps return in full force.
I have no rebuttal to this, even though I wish I could offer something witty and interesting, anything to make this husky man with haunting brown eyes attracted to me.
“Thanks for your time.”
As he turns to leave, I blurt out, “You don’t remember me, do you?”
I was hoping he would send me one of those looks people give when they don’t remember, but are trying to act like they knew you all the time. He stands in the hallway, a blank slate.
“Viola,” I offer. “I used to cover the police beat for The Daily Post.”
Lights remain on but no one is answering the door.
“Viola Valentine. Big Head McGee. The New Orleans Post.”
Maddox grins like he makes the connection and, like a good puppy dog, I follow along like I believe him. “Hey, how are you?”
“Good.” I would add, “Now that you are here” but who am I kidding? I’m invisible to this man. “What brings you to Eureka Springs?”
He shrugs. “I evacuated here. Didn’t have a job back home and they offered me one so I stayed.”
“Cool.” I’m a woman of so many words when I’m nervous.
We stand there staring at each other until he manages, “So, you doing okay?”
I nod and am about to explain
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