Ghost House Revenge (27 page)

Melanie yawned and realized exhaustion was muddling her thoughts. She left Kyle’s
room, closing the door quietly behind her. When she turned into the dark hallway,
she bumped into something.

“What—?”

“Shh,” a voice said. “It’s Gary. What’re you doing up?”

Melanie took a deep breath. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” Gary said. They walked to their room together. “You don’t have to watch them
every minute, you know.”

“I think I do,” Melanie protested.

“It’s too late in the night for an argument,” Gary said. “So if it makes you feel
better, it’s all right”

“Of course it’s all right,” Melanie grumbled. “I don’t need your permission to safeguard
my children.”

“You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

“You go ahead and make fun of me,” Melanie said, “but I’ll be the one laughing when
you find out I’m right.”

“You’re wrong,” Gary said. “And I have something to prove it. Melanie, Derek gave
me his notice today.”

“You didn’t tell me that before,” Melanie said.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the children. But Derek told me today he
and Alicen would be moving as soon as he finds other work.”

“That’s strange.”

“No, it isn’t,” Gary said. “Not when you consider that he might be running away from
something. Melanie, Derek is a top-notch therapist. He just isn’t the type to leave
so abruptly.
Unless he knows something we don’t. He knows about Alicen. He knows she’s responsible
for Lad’s death.”

“Gary—”

“Melanie, your mother instinct is blinding you,” Gary said. “Look at the facts, will
you? Why would he be running away if he wasn’t afraid we’d learn the truth about Alicen?”

“The truth about Alicen?” Melanie echoed. “It sounds like a cheap porno flick!”

“Derek told me once he had to leave a job because of his daughter,” Gary said. “So
why not now? Melanie, why would he be leaving so suddenly unless he wants to do so
before I fire him?”

Melanie couldn’t help but see the logic in Gary’s argument. It all fit together, didn’t
it? Alicen was a strange child. But a murderess? That Melanie found hard to swallow.
Still, it was late, and she was tired. It was so much easier to believe in a disturbed
little girl than a ghost.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “But I prefer to keep an eye on my children.”

Bryan Davis hung up his telephone and started to bounce his pencil nervously. He had
just received a call from the county coroner. They had identified the driver; the
body was that of one Nora Browne, an eighteen-year-old girl who had run away from
home. Her parents had positively identified her and had admitted she was heavily into
drugs.

“That’s what I thought,” Bryan said, “considering how she drove that bus. But eighteen?
I can’t believe an eighteen-year-old passed for a bus driver!”

The coroner said, “Captain Davis, there’s just one problem. According to my autopsy,
this can’t possibly be your driver.”

“What do you mean?” Bryan asked, closing his eyes. He wanted to be through with this.

“We checked her body for traces of drugs,” the coroner said, “before we spoke to her
parents, that is. We wanted to have something to report in reference to her behavior
at the time of the accident. Granted, it was difficult, considering the condition
of the deceased. But we found something we weren’t looking for—sand and seaweed. It
was in her teeth, her throat, and a small piece was found in her hair.”

“So?”

“So this woman didn’t die of a fall from a bus,” the coroner said. “She drowned—probably
accidentally.”

Bryan thought a moment.

“Maybe she had been swimming before the accident,” he said. “It’s a long shot, but
I’m willing to go for it. Why don’t you tell me what she was wearing? Then I’ll know
for certain if it’s our driver.”

“Jeans, a white shirt,” the coroner said. “And sandals. That’s about all. Oh, yes—there
was a tortoise-shell comb in her hair.”

“What color hair?”

“Blond,” the coroner said. “I understand your bus driver had blond hair.”

Bryan nodded, as if the coroner could see him. When he hung up a moment later, his
mind started to fill with questions. He bounced his pencil more quickly and tried
to fit the pieces together. The coroner had just described the Jane Doe missing from
the funeral parlor. Was it possible someone had stolen the body, driven it all the
way to the site of the accident, and dumped it there? It was obviously done to get
the police off a trail. But by whom? It was impossible to think the bus driver was
still alive.

Bryan got up and went to the file cabinet near his windows. He found the folder on
the bus accident and scrawled across it:

CASE REOPENED.

Monday night Owen Crewe returned to an empty apartment. His note was still propped
up against the vase on the kitchen table. Owen removed its dead flowers and threw
the murky water into the sink. He remembered how much his sister loved plants. It
was unusual for her to leave them neglected like this. He filled a pitcher and watered
the plants around the apartment.

Water spilled over one of the plantholders in the living room and dripped onto a chrome-and-glass
end table. Owen mopped it up, then straightened a pile of mail Liza had left there.
On the bottom was a greeting card. A giraffe dressed in
a tutu was on the front, and in the blank inside, someone had written:
For my favorite racquet-ball-playing ballerina
.

It was signed “Derek.” Owen wondered why his sister had never mentioned anyone by
that name in her letters. The date on the card made it two weeks old. Owen wished
there was an envelope with it. Maybe this Derek would know where to find his sister.
Of course, he shouldn’t worry so about her. She was twenty-eight, for heaven’s sake.
She didn’t have to answer to him for everything she did. But Owen was one of those
eternal big brothers, and he wouldn’t rest until he was sure his sister was all right.

The next day he resolved to try her dance school. It was housed in an ancient brownstone.
Owen entered a small, dimly lit hallway. There were no elevators, so he had to walk
up three flights. Madame Martin’s Dance Studio was written in gold across a black
door. Hearing piano music, Owen entered without knocking.

“May I help you, sir?” a young woman asked from behind a desk.

“Yes,” Owen said. “I’m looking for my sister. Her name is Liza Crewe—she’s a student
here.”

“Yes, I know Liza,” the woman said. “Please sit down until class is over. Madame Martin
will speak with you.”

“Thank you,” Owen said, finding a seat across the room.

He heard French being spoken in the other room, in a lilting rhythm with the music.
Finally the music stopped, and there was a shuffle of feet as women headed for the
locker room. Madame Martin came out into the lobby for her mail, wiping her neck with
a towel. When the receptionist told her of Owen, she turned to him.

“Mr. Crewe? You’ve come to ask about your sister?”

Owen smiled to hear that she didn’t have the slightest accent. Her manner of speech
was pure New Yorker.

“Yes,” he said, extending his hand. “I came up from Florida for a convention, with
the hopes of also seeing my sister. But I’ve been here since Saturday and haven’t
heard a word from her.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t, either,” Madame Martin said. “Liza has missed three classes
in a row—and it’s so unlike her. She may be one of my older students, but she has
always been as bright-eyed and dedicated as a young girl.”

“You don’t have any idea where she might have gone, do you?”

“None whatsoever. I have been expecting her to call me.”

“But she hasn’t.”

“No,” said Madame Martin. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crewe. Perhaps you’d like to speak with
my other students? Liza had friends in this class.”

Owen said he would appreciate that. But as it turned out, none of the other women
had any answers, either. After a half hour or so of questioning them, Owen said his
thanks and left the building. Now he was determined to find his sister—something was
very wrong. When he arrived home, he made a long-distance call to his hospital in
Fort Lauderdale. His boss wasn’t very happy about his taking a leave of absence so
abruptly. But at the moment, Owen didn’t care what his boss thought. There was only
one more day of the convention, and if Liza didn’t show, it wasn’t enough time to
find her. Still, Owen went to bed that night hoping he would wake to find her home.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when morning came and Liza wasn’t there. This time he
didn’t bother to write her a note. He dressed and ate breakfast, then left for the
Manhattan hotel. Dedicated to his profession, he was able to take notes, look at slides,
and listen to speeches without thinking too often of Liza. But as soon as he could,
Owen hurried home. Even as he sped along the highway, he knew he’d find nothing there.

He entered the apartment, tossed his briefcase on the couch, and left again. In the
foyer downstairs, he knocked on a red door. He could hear an Italian opera playing
and someone speaking the language over the music. Moments later, the door was opened
by a thin, doe-eyed little girl.

“Is your mother home?”

The child, who couldn’t have been more than five, nodded.

“Carmella, who is it?” a woman called.

“Owen from upstairs,” he said.

“Owen from upstairs, momma!”

The landlady appeared with a wooden spoon in her hand. She smiled at Owen.

“Hi,” he said. “I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “Has your sister come home yet? I don’t see her car.”

“No, I’m afraid she hasn’t. That’s what I want to talk about.”

He was led into the apartment and further into the kitchen. Sitting on a barstool,
he breathed in the smell of sauce.

“I’ll bet you cook all day,” he said.

“Company tonight,” was the reply.

“By the way, I didn’t get your name,” Owen said now.

“Mrs. Verdino,” the woman said. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping you could help me find my sister,” Owen said, tugging at his mustache.

“Is there trouble?”

“I don’t know,” Owen answered. “But she hasn’t been home since Saturday, and I’m worried.
If I knew where she was, I could go home. But I can’t leave without being certain
she’s safe.”

“You’re a good brother,” Mrs. Verdini said. “You have a large family?”

“There are only four of us,” Owen said.

“I have three children,” Mrs. Verdini said. “Such angels. But we were talking about
Liza. Let me think.”

She lifted the lid from a pot, stirred her sauce a little, tasted it, and added more
spices before speaking again.

“I know she has a new boyfriend,” she said. “He was here a few times. I didn’t see
him very well, but he looked nice and neat. He drives a Volvo.”

“I think his name is Derek.”

“That’s it,” Mrs. Verdini said. “They played tennis together. I know because I saw
them carrying bags with rackets.”

Owen recalled the card he had found the day before, and corrected her.

“Racquet ball,” he said. “Do you happen to know where they play?”

“Not really,” Mrs. Verdini said. “I don’t go in much for sports. But I do know there’s
a local health club in town. The Hercules Inn. If you want, you can ask my husband
how to get there. He gets home at six.”

“No, thanks,” Owen said, jumping from his stool. “I can look it up in the phone book.
I appreciate this, Mrs. Verdini.”

“Anytime,” she said. “Liza’s a lovely woman. I just hope she’s all right.”

She walked with Owen to the door. “Listen, if she doesn’t come home tonight, don’t
you eat alone. One more person won’t make a difference at my table tonight.”

Owen grinned. The smell of sauce was making him famished. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see
you later.”

The club was easy to find. It was in the heart of town, just around the corner from
the main road.

“I was wondering if you could help me,” he said to the girl behind the horseshoe-shaped
desk.

“Sure,” she answered. She studied his tanned face and sun-bleached hair and smiled.
“Sure, what do you want?”

“I’m looking for two people,” Owen said. “One is named Liza Crewe, the other is Derek.
I don’t know his last name.”

“Why do you want to know?” the girl asked, tilting her head. “You aren’t a cop, are
you? I’m not sure you’re allowed to ask questions like this.”

“Liza’s my sister,” Owen said. “I’ve been looking all over town for her. Has she been
here in the last few days?”

“I don’t know any couple named Liza and Derek.”

“Liza has dark hair,” Owen said. “And eyes like Ava Gardner.”

The girl cut him off. “Who’s Ava Gardner?”

“An actress,” Owen said patiently. “My sister’s a dancer. She plays racquet ball here.”

“Oh, I know who you mean!” the girl cried. “I remembered Liza when you said she was
a dancer—she has those muscular calves, you know.”

“Has she been here recently?”

“I haven’t seen her,” the girl said. “Or her boyfriend.”

“You don’t happen to know where he lives, do you?”

The girl shook her head, smiling. “Sorry. Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

Owen sighed so sadly that she was moved to say, “I’ll relay a message to them for
you if they come in.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Owen said. “You have something I can write on?”

The girl pulled a short, eraserless pencil from a red cup and handed it to Owen with
a pad. After scribbling his message, he pushed it across the counter and thanked her.
He left, feeling no better than he had earlier. He’d found a lead, and it had brought
him nowhere.

Well, he thought, he could always come back to the club. Liza had to show up soon.

All that optimism didn’t take away the burning in his stomach, a sign Dr. Owen Crewe,
psychiatrist, interpreted as fear.

That Tuesday Gary had gone back to work. Derek, only too glad to have a chance to
get away from the house, drove him to the city. So Melanie spent the entire day alone,
keeping very busy with her painting so as not to think about what was happening. Nancy
was now sitting at her little table in Melanie’s studio, coloring. At last the other
children came home from school. Melanie, seeing thick gray clouds in the sky, was
glad to see them. She knew now that they were safe.