A Temporary Ghost (The Georgia Lee Maxwell Series, Series 2) by Michaela Thompson
Authors: Michaela Thompson
Ads: Link
appeared in the doorway. “Ross! Please!” I cried, and he ran to us and put his arms around Vivien.
“Stop, stop,” he murmured, and at his touch she loosed her hold on me. She fell against him, her hair falling across her face.
I was desperate to escape. I said, “I’ll go see. All right?” and bolted from the room.
Outside, I ran through the rain to the edge of the bluff and looked down. The white object was as unidentifiable from here as it had been from the house. The thought tore through me that it was a person. That it was Blanche.
I wiped rain from my face. In the mud at my feet I saw the butt of one of Pedro’s black cigars. I’d have to find a place to climb down where the slope wasn’t so steep. I ran past the shed, away from the house.
Some yards along I found a gully lined with small stones, devilishly slick in the wet. Sliding, grasping the bank with my hands, I scrambled downward. My hair clung to my forehead and water kept dripping in my eyes. Despite the cool rain I was sweating. I thought I heard somebody— Ross maybe— call my name, but I didn’t look up or respond.
I reached the bottom and clambered toward the white mass, which was still partially obscured. Getting to it took a nightmarishly long time, and I stumbled over uneven ground, wiping water from my eyes.
It was Pedro. He lay carelessly sprawled, his neck at a weird angle. His own words about Carey came back to me: Like he’d been picked up and dropped. Blood from a wound in his head had stained his white shirt. Now it flowed again, mixing with rain. His eyes were half-open, and his face had a heavy, blank look.
I felt sick and dizzy. My knees went, and I sat down, hard. I dug my fingers in the stony earth, bent my head against the rain, and held on tight.
AFTERMATH
“He must’ve fallen. Drunk, probably.”
I barely heard Ross. I was looking at the ground right in front of me: stones, mud, tufts of grass. The drenched toes of Ross’s blue running shoes came into my view.
“Did he drink a lot?” I was impressed with myself for forming a rational question. Then I realized I hadn’t actually said it out loud. I cleared my throat and asked it again.
“He’d get blasted now and then.”
Ross’s knees came into my view as he knelt to face me. His freckles swam through the moisture on his face, and his hair was plastered to his forehead in sharp points. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Not great.” His T-shirt was clinging to his body. I reached out and plucked it loose. “1 can’t believe this rain,” I said, knowing as I spoke it was an inappropriate remark.
“Madame!” Marcelle was at the top of the bluff looking down at us, twisting her apron in her hands.
I called, “Pedro is dead! Notify the police!”
She gave a sharp, startled cry and hurried towards the house. “What did you say to her? I caught ‘police,’ ” Ross said.
“I told her to call them.”
“Right. I guess we shouldn’t touch anything.” When he helped me up, black specks danced before my eyes. I swayed and grabbed his arm. I wondered if he ever got tired of ministering to needy females.
Like invalids, weak and wasted, we made our way up the gully. My knees didn’t want to lock. Ross’s breathing sounded hoarse and ragged behind me. When we reached the top, he collapsed on the grass and dropped his head between his knees, panting. I left him there and went on to the house.
Marcelle was talking on the phone at the foot of the stairs, her voice coming in excited bursts. I walked past her down the hall to Pedro’s room.
The door was ajar, and I pushed it open. The small, tidy bedroom was darker than the ones upstairs, but pleasant enough, with a window overlooking the back. The bed was made up, but the pillow had the indentation of a head in it, and the striped coverlet was wrinkled as if Pedro had lain down to rest without going to bed. On a plain pine dresser was a nearly empty bottle of Early Times bourbon and a
“Stop, stop,” he murmured, and at his touch she loosed her hold on me. She fell against him, her hair falling across her face.
I was desperate to escape. I said, “I’ll go see. All right?” and bolted from the room.
Outside, I ran through the rain to the edge of the bluff and looked down. The white object was as unidentifiable from here as it had been from the house. The thought tore through me that it was a person. That it was Blanche.
I wiped rain from my face. In the mud at my feet I saw the butt of one of Pedro’s black cigars. I’d have to find a place to climb down where the slope wasn’t so steep. I ran past the shed, away from the house.
Some yards along I found a gully lined with small stones, devilishly slick in the wet. Sliding, grasping the bank with my hands, I scrambled downward. My hair clung to my forehead and water kept dripping in my eyes. Despite the cool rain I was sweating. I thought I heard somebody— Ross maybe— call my name, but I didn’t look up or respond.
I reached the bottom and clambered toward the white mass, which was still partially obscured. Getting to it took a nightmarishly long time, and I stumbled over uneven ground, wiping water from my eyes.
It was Pedro. He lay carelessly sprawled, his neck at a weird angle. His own words about Carey came back to me: Like he’d been picked up and dropped. Blood from a wound in his head had stained his white shirt. Now it flowed again, mixing with rain. His eyes were half-open, and his face had a heavy, blank look.
I felt sick and dizzy. My knees went, and I sat down, hard. I dug my fingers in the stony earth, bent my head against the rain, and held on tight.
AFTERMATH
“He must’ve fallen. Drunk, probably.”
I barely heard Ross. I was looking at the ground right in front of me: stones, mud, tufts of grass. The drenched toes of Ross’s blue running shoes came into my view.
“Did he drink a lot?” I was impressed with myself for forming a rational question. Then I realized I hadn’t actually said it out loud. I cleared my throat and asked it again.
“He’d get blasted now and then.”
Ross’s knees came into my view as he knelt to face me. His freckles swam through the moisture on his face, and his hair was plastered to his forehead in sharp points. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Not great.” His T-shirt was clinging to his body. I reached out and plucked it loose. “1 can’t believe this rain,” I said, knowing as I spoke it was an inappropriate remark.
“Madame!” Marcelle was at the top of the bluff looking down at us, twisting her apron in her hands.
I called, “Pedro is dead! Notify the police!”
She gave a sharp, startled cry and hurried towards the house. “What did you say to her? I caught ‘police,’ ” Ross said.
“I told her to call them.”
“Right. I guess we shouldn’t touch anything.” When he helped me up, black specks danced before my eyes. I swayed and grabbed his arm. I wondered if he ever got tired of ministering to needy females.
Like invalids, weak and wasted, we made our way up the gully. My knees didn’t want to lock. Ross’s breathing sounded hoarse and ragged behind me. When we reached the top, he collapsed on the grass and dropped his head between his knees, panting. I left him there and went on to the house.
Marcelle was talking on the phone at the foot of the stairs, her voice coming in excited bursts. I walked past her down the hall to Pedro’s room.
The door was ajar, and I pushed it open. The small, tidy bedroom was darker than the ones upstairs, but pleasant enough, with a window overlooking the back. The bed was made up, but the pillow had the indentation of a head in it, and the striped coverlet was wrinkled as if Pedro had lain down to rest without going to bed. On a plain pine dresser was a nearly empty bottle of Early Times bourbon and a
Similar Books
