Ghost Shadow

He stared at her a moment. She realized she was holding her breath. But he let out a soft sigh and she was grateful that he didn’t seem angry, or that he hadn’t taken her words as callous.

“Our relationship was over,” David said. “I was sad, maybe enjoying being a bit heartbroken. I wasn’t angry. I’d been gone a long time—military service had seemed like the right course. I know at the time my grandfather had been worried about finances and he was determined that we get to college, so…I figured that would make it easier on him. I had a partial scholarship and the government to back me up. But I was gone way too long for a young woman with little to do down here but bask in the sun. I wasn’t that surprised that she left me. Tanya was a party girl. We’d parted ways—she had written me before I returned home to tell me that time and distance were too much, she felt that we should break off the engagement. We never even fought. I hadn’t seen her since I’d come home—I’d been avoiding her—though I heard she intended to talk to me that evening, to meet me face-to-face to apologize for what she had done. She didn’t mention the other guy in the letter. I’d heard about that through others, but I was hardly surprised. She was supposed to leave in the next few days to live in Ohio but I’d heard from others that she may have decided to stay. Supposedly, she’d had a change of heart. That night. Or maybe it had been brewing. She was trying to get her courage up to come see me. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. I thought that we were over. I’d helped out at the museum while waiting to head up to school. I loved working in the museum. I’d always loved the Carl Tanzler story—I mean, it’s just too bizarre, even for Key West! I was telling it with relish, I believe. And then, there she was. Tanya—where Elena de Hoyos should have rested.”

“What—what about the fellow from Ohio she fell in love with?” Katie asked. “Did they ever question him?”

“Mike Sanderson. He was in Ohio, or on the road to Ohio,” David said. “He’d left several days earlier. Tanya had actually stayed behind to get herself organized. She also told people that she’d wanted to see me again—without Mike around. She was a party girl, but a very decent human being. As far as I remember. And that’s painful. I remember her dead far better than I remember her alive.”

“So, the new guy was out of state…” Katie murmured.

“It’s easy to see why I appeared to be the perfect suspect,” David said. “Especially because, at times, I was alone in the museum that night. Between tours. We didn’t find her until the following morning, and I thank God for the coroner. He insisted that she had been killed before nine the night before, and there were a number of people who swore that I couldn’t possibly have left the museum with enough time to kill her.”

“Because she wasn’t killed at the museum?”

He nodded. “She had been killed and lain somewhere long enough for lividity to set in—and the way her blood had settled, she’d been on her side for a while after she was killed.” He winced. “You’re thinking that I shouldn’t be able to talk about her this way?”

She looked at him. “No! Actually, I wasn’t thinking that at all,” she said. “I was just wondering how on earth you could begin to go back to find out what did happen.”

He stood. “Well, it’s quite a challenge. I may fail. I have to try.”

She stood, as well. It was obvious that he was leaving.

“What if you find out the truth?” she asked him.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Say you manage to lay all your ghosts to rest. Will you leave again?”

“Probably.”

“Then, if all was solved, you just might feel differently about the museum.”

She shouldn’t have spoken; she saw a spark of anger in his eyes. “I see where your sympathy for my plight lies, Miss O’Hara,” he said, his words pleasant enough.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, actually, yes, you did.”

“If that’s how you wish to feel, fine. There’s little I can do,” she said with a shrug.

He started toward the door but stopped and turned back. “Thank you for the coffee.” He hesitated. “Do you manage to suck everyone in like this—then irritate them beyond measure?”

“I—I, no! I wasn’t sucking you in. I was listening. And I would dearly love to see the murder solved. It was an injustice all the way around. A killer got away with murder. Lives were ruined. I—and surely everyone else—would like to see that rectified. In fact, and seriously, with no side benefit, I’m more than willing to help you in any way. I just can’t begin to see how.”

He walked back to her. He loomed tall, and she felt a slight tremor touch her, but it wasn’t fear. He was simply a charismatic man, whether talking thoughtfully, or staring at her the way he was now.

Even wagging a finger at her.

“Don’t! No, I mean, don’t! Don’t help me, don’t look into this, don’t be involved in any way. Please, and I mean it. Do you understand me—don’t help, don’t ask questions—just don’t!”

“Hey! All right!” Katie flared. “What—do you have this problem with everyone who attempts to be nice to you?”

He let out a breath. His eyes were an intense blue as he stared at her, and yet they seemed to spark with a different emotion, as well.

“No, I just don’t want anyone involved in any way, all right?”

She lifted her hands. “Hey, you’re on your own. I won’t darken your door, I won’t even speak on your behalf!”

He nodded, turned and headed to the door. Once more, he turned back. “Seriously, thanks for the coffee.” He lingered for a moment. She was surprised to see something of a nostalgic smile on his face.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Remembering times…before, I guess.” He looked at her a long moment. “You don’t remember. I came here one day to see your brother and you were mad at him. You opened the door for me, and then slammed it in my face.”

“I did not!”

“You did.”

She flushed. “Hey, he was quite a bit older, and very superior at times.”

“It’s all right. I knocked again, and Sean came down. He threatened to lock you in your dollhouse.”

“I never had a dollhouse.”

“Then he must not have been all that mad.”

He stepped outside, the door closed and he was gone.

“Well,” Bartholomew exclaimed. “Well, well—well. How touching.”

“Don’t be—a jerk,” Katie said.

“Excuse me,” Bartholomew said indignantly. “I wasn’t being a jerk. I meant it. How touching. I think I do like this fellow after all.”

Katie was thoughtful. “If he is able to find out the truth…”

“Stop right there,” Bartholomew said.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you hear him? He doesn’t want you involved. And, hey—it’s never been proved that he was guilty, but it’s never been proved that he was innocent.”

Katie looked solidly at Bartholomew. “I don’t intend to do anything, seriously. I’m going to hope for the best for him. But if he does find out the truth, he may change his mind, and I may get the museum.”

Bartholomew appeared to shudder. “Katie, if he’s right, the situation is dangerous. Oh, yes, there’s so much more that can be discovered these days than when I was walking the shoreline. DNA, RNA, whichever is which and what. Skin cells, even fingerprints, footprints…genetic markers. Whatever. The thing is, the killer was never caught. David Beckett thinks that it wasn’t a random act or the act of a psycho who moved on. If he’s trying to discover the truth and it was someone from around here who still lives here, that person isn’t going to want anyone knowing the truth.”

“What we want isn’t always what we get—it’s time for a murderer to come to justice,” Katie said.

“Right. Great sentiment,” Bartholomew agreed. “But this person killed once, very cleverly, so it seems. If he’s threatened, he’ll certainly kill again. Katie, look at me—this guy will kill again. Like Beckett said, young woman, you stay the hell out of it. You wouldn’t want to wind up being a tableau in the museum yourself now, would you, Miss Katherine O’Hara?”

Chapter Four

Danny Zigler seemed the right place to start. He knew Key West like the back of his hand. He had been here then—and he’d remained to sometimes tell stories about the night, along with other bits and pieces of Key West myth and legend. He had been something of a friend. He was a legend in his own peculiar way.

At the moment, Danny worked part-time for one of the ghost-tour companies and part-time for an ice-cream parlor on Duval. He had always been a nice guy with an easygoing personality—and not a bit of ambition. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, David didn’t know. Sometimes Danny was unemployed, and that would be fine with Danny until he was dead broke, then he’d make the effort to become employed again. He was a fixture in Key West.

It was still early, and not much on or just off Duval Street opened early, except for the chain drugstore, coffee shops and an Internet café. But David knew that the ice-cream shop would be getting ready to open, and it might be the best time to talk to Danny.

When he reached the shop, David could see Danny inside, wiping down one of the milk-shake machines. He rapped on the glass. Danny looked up and over at him, and a broad smile lit up his face. He hurried to the door. David heard the locks being sprung, and then the door opened.

“David Beckett! I heard you were headed back into town. Man, how are you! It’s so damned cool to see you!” Danny declared. His enthusiasm seemed real, and he gave David a hug and stepped back. “Damn, man, and you are looking good!”

Danny was eternally thin. His brown hair, long and worn in a queue at his nape, was now beginning to show threads of gray. His face was pockmarked from a now preventable childhood illness and his features were lean. His eyes, however, were a warm brown, and he did well with people. He excelled at telling stories, and he’d been a wonderful guide years ago, when he had worked at the museum. David wondered if Danny’s life hadn’t been altered by the events at the museum, as well.

“Thanks, Danny,” David said. “So how are you doing?”

Danny shrugged, wiping his hands on the white apron he wore over his jeans and a Metallica tee. “I can’t complain, can’t complain. They’re getting more and more letters on what a great ‘ghost host’ I am for the weekend tours and, hey—I can have all the free ice cream I want. I have a sunset every night, and saltwater and sand between my toes.” He frowned. “Hey, there’s a rumor that you’re refusing to sell the museum to Katie O’Hara. Is that true?”

David nodded. “I’m sorry, Danny.”

“Your museum, your call.”

“It’s not actually my museum. I do have the major interest, but my grandfather left Liam and me in charge of his estate. We have to agree on everything, and I just don’t agree with reopening that place.”

“I understand, man.”

“I’m sorry, Danny. You were the best guide known to man.”

“No skin off my nose, David. Seriously. I just live, and I get by, and that’s what makes me happy,” Danny assured him. “Katie would have done a good job, though. She’s a great little go-getter, good businesswoman. But you know her, right?”

“She was a kid when I left.”

“Hey, we were all kids when you left. So, where have you been? They said you became some kind of a big-shot photographer. A photojournalist.”

“I’m not sure if I’m a big shot. I make a decent living,” David told him.

“I’m sorry you missed Craig’s funeral,” Danny said.

“I saw him when he was alive. He was always the mainstay of my life,” David told him.

“You been to the grave site?”

“Not yet.”

Danny obviously disapproved of that fact, but he didn’t say so. He asked, “So how long do you plan on staying around?”

“I’m not sure yet. I haven’t made any commitments for the near future. We’ll see. Tell me how you’ve been, Danny.”

“Me? I’m fine. I don’t need a lot. Just enough to survive and enjoy myself.”

“Still never married? Is there a special girl?”

Danny laughed. “Well, I know several girls who are special. Girls I like, and girls I see. But they’re not the kind you bring home to Mom, you know what I mean? But, hey, I know the scoop around here. I’m just looking for fun, and they’re just looking for a few bucks. It’s cool, it’s the way I want it.”

“Sure.”

“No commitments, and that’s the way I like it. Don’t be feeling sorry for me, I’m a happy man. Really.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Danny looked at him thoughtfully. “So, what are you up to?”

“Settling affairs.”

“Of course. Hey, I have one of the ghost tours Saturday night. You should come. I’m in rare form, and I really do a good job.”

“Maybe I will.”

Danny hesitated again. He winced. “You know, they usually do mention Tanya now in the tours. They say that she’s a ghost, and that she haunts the museum house.”

“And you tell the story, too, right?” David asked.

“I’m sorry,” Danny said.

“If you’re doing a ghost tour, I’m assuming it makes a good story, and it’s not your fault,” David assured him.

Danny looked around awkwardly for a moment. “Hey, you want some ice cream?”

David shook his head. “No, thanks, Danny. You know, you said that you retell the story on your tours. What do you say?”

Danny looked pale suddenly. “I—I—”

“You say that I was under suspicion, right?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” He was lying; he was lying out of kindness, so it seemed.

“Do you remember what really happened?” David asked.

“What do you mean, what really happened? I wasn’t working either day. You were working for me, don’t you remember?”

“Of course, I remember that. But what do you remember?”

“Not much, man.”

“What did you do the night of her murder with your free time?”

Danny thought a minute. “I had a few drinks at one of the joints on Duval. And I was down at Mallory Square. Then I went home. I woke up the next morning when I heard all the sirens—I was living in an apartment on Elizabeth Street back then. I came outside and saw the cops and the M.E.’s car over at the museum and walked over.”

“Did you see Tanya at all that night?” David asked.

“No…yes! Early. Well, it was late afternoon, I guess. Around five. I saw her down in one of the bars. I talked to her, I think. Yes, I did talk to her. I’d heard she was leaving town, and that things had kind of faded apart between you two. She said she had a few people to see that night, and that she’d be taking a rental up to Miami, and flying out from there the next day.”

“So, five o’clock. Where?”

Danny shook his head. “I think…maybe, yeah! I was toward the south side of Duval. It might even have been Katie’s uncle’s place.”

“Thanks, Danny,” David told him. “Did you tell the cops that at the time?”

“I’m sure that I did,” Danny told him. “Why?”

“Because her killer has never been caught,” David said.

“Right,” Danny said.

“Well, good to see you, and thanks again,” David told him.

“Sure thing. Sure. And I really can’t give you an ice cream?”

“No, but thanks,” David told him.

He waved to Danny and left.

Five o’clock. If Danny was right, Tanya had been at O’Hara’s at five o’clock on the Saturday night she had been murdered.

And Danny hadn’t seen her again.

Important, if it was the truth. If he wasn’t covering up.

For himself.

Or for someone else.

It was Danny’s story then, and it was Danny’s story now. He had seen Tanya at five. Sometime in the next few hours, she’d been murdered, and sometime after that—certainly after midnight, after the museum had closed—she had been laid out in place of Elena de Hoyos.

David had returned for the first tour the following morning.

Had she been laid out just for him to find?

The answer to that question might be the answer to her murder.

“People aren’t really to be found at the cemetery, you know,” Bartholomew said. “Well, most people. The thing is, of course, that most of us move on. And we remain behind only in the memories of those who loved us. Or hated us. Well, usually, people move on. Okay, okay, well, sometimes you can find people wandering around a cemetery, but…Well, that’s because they have to remain because…Wait, why am I remaining? Oh, hmm. I think it may be because of you. But I digress. You will not find Craig Beckett in this cemetery. He was a good man, and his conscience was clean. He’s moved on.”

“I know that he’s not in the cemetery,” Katie said.

“Then…why are we here?” Bartholomew asked.

“You don’t have to be here,” she said.

“No, I don’t have to be here. But you do not behave with the intelligence you were granted at birth. Therefore, I feel it is my cross to bear in life to follow you around,” Bartholomew told her.

“Hey! I am not your cross to bear, and I do behave intelligently,” Katie said, shaking her head and praying for patience. “It’s broad daylight. There are tourists all over the cemetery.”

“But why are we here?”

“Whether the person is here or not—and, of course, I don’t begin to assume that Craig Beckett’s soul would be in his worn and embalmed body in his tomb—I just like to come. It’s beautiful, and it’s a place where I can think. When other people, alive or dead, are not driving me right up the wall.”

“What is it you need to think about?” Bartholomew demanded.

“Craig. I just want to remember him. Could I have a bit of respectful silence?” she asked.

The Key West cemetery was on a high point in the center of the island. In 1846, a massive hurricane had washed up a number of earlier graves and sent bodies down Duval Street in a flood. After that, high ground was chosen. Now, many of the graves were in the ground, but many more were above-ground graves. Tombs, shelves and strange grave sites dotted the cemetery, along with more typical mausoleum-type graves.

It was estimated that there were one-hundred-thousand people interred at the Key West cemetery, in one way or another, triple the actual full-time population of the island.

Katie did love the cemetery. It was just like the island itself, historic and eccentric, full of the old and the new. There were Civil War soldiers buried here, there was a monument to those lost aboard the Maine and there were many graves with curious sentiments, her favorite being, “I told you I was sick!”

Craig Beckett was in a family mausoleum that had been there since the majority of the island’s dead had been moved here. One of the most beautiful angel sculptures in the cemetery stood high atop the roof of the mausoleum, and tourists were frequently near, taking pictures of the sculpture. When the Beckett family had originally purchased their final resting place, the cost had been minimal. Now such a structure, along with the small spit of ground it stood upon, would cost in the mid-to-high hundreds of thousands of dollars.

“There she is!” Bartholomew said suddenly.

“Who? Where?” Katie asked.

“The woman in white,” Bartholomew said. “There, where the oldest graves are.”

Bartholomew was right. She was standing above one of the graves. Her head was lowered, and her hands were folded before her.

“I’m going to talk to her,” Bartholomew said.

“I don’t think she wants to talk,” Katie said. “Bartholomew, you should wait.”

He didn’t want to wait. He left Katie and went striding quickly toward the beautiful ghost figure in long, flowing white. As he neared her, she turned. She saw him.

And then she was gone.

Katie shook her head. Sadly, the world of relationships was always hard. Even for ghosts. Maybe more so for ghosts.

She heard laughter and turned. A group of tourists was coming along; they had just been visiting the area of the monument to the survivors of the Maine; a wrought-iron fence encircled a single bronze sailor who looked out over the markers of his companions.

They were now coming to take pictures of the Beckett tomb with its beautiful, high-rising angel. Katie decided to slip away.

She walked around to an area where graves were stacked mausoleum-style in several rows, and stood where she wouldn’t be seen. The group was a happy one, and she knew that visiting the historic and unusual cemetery was something that people did. Since life was basically a circle and all men died, it seemed a good thing that people enjoyed a walk in the cemetery. But today, for some reason, the laughter irritated her.

Bartholomew remained around the oldest graves. He had gone down on one knee, and she assumed he was trying to read the etching on some of the gravestones.

As she waited and watched, she was surprised to see the woman in white appear again. She was behind Bartholomew. Bartholomew didn’t see her. As Katie watched, the woman started to place a hand on his shoulder.

Again, the group of tourists seemed to issue, in unison, a loud stream of laughter. The woman turned to fog, and she was gone.

But there was someone else there. A girl. She was also in white, but she was wearing a more modern gown, one similar to the famous halter dress in which Marilyn Monroe had been immortalized in dozens of pictures.

She, too, watched Bartholomew.

She looked around, though, and saw Katie. She seemed to panic.

Then she, too, was gone.

Katie frowned; there had been something about that particular ghost—something that seemed to stir inside her. Katie should have recognized her.

But she didn’t. Irritated, Katie dismissed the idea.

Ghosts everywhere! she thought.

Well, she was in a cemetery. But, as Bartholomew had said, ghosts didn’t really linger that often in cemeteries. They haunted the areas where they had been happy, where they had faced trauma or where they searched for something they hadn’t found in life.

“Hiding?”

The very real, solid and almost tangible sound of a deep male voice made her jump. Katie swung around.

David Beckett had come to the cemetery.

“Hiding? No. Just—waiting,” she said.

“I guess it’s a good thing that a cemetery, even an active cemetery, draws the laughter of the living,” David said. He watched as the loud group moved on.

“You came to see your grandfather?” she asked.

“My grandfather isn’t here,” he said.

She smiled. “No. When did you see him last?”

“Right before I headed out to Kenya,” he said, looking toward the mausoleum.

“Oh,” Katie said.

He looked at her with a tight smile. “I didn’t desert my grandfather, Miss O’Hara, though that seems to be the consensus here. I didn’t like my home anymore, and I can’t help it. I like living a life where you don’t stare into faces every day that are speculative—are you or are you not a murderer? I met Craig in Miami often enough, even Key Largo and sometimes Orlando. Imagine. Craig loved theme parks. Here’s the thing of which I am certain—if there is a heaven, Craig is there, and he’s with my grandmother. They had a beautiful love that was quite complete. They will not be misty ghouls running around a graveyard.”

“You know, you sound defensive,” Katie observed.

He shook his head. “Yep. I have a big chip on my shoulder.” He lifted his hands and she saw that he carried a beautiful bouquet of lilacs. “Gram’s favorites,” he said.

The tourists were gone. Katie followed him back to the Beckett mausoleum. He set the bouquet right before the wrought-iron doors.

“Very nice—pretty flowers,” Katie said.

“They seem forlorn,” David said.

She shook her head. “No, that’s forlorn,” she told him, pointing to a family graveyard that was surrounded by an iron fence. Cemetery maintenance was kept up, but no one had been to see the graves in decades. The stones were broken, a stray weed was growing through here and there and all within the site were long forgotten, not even their names remaining legibly upon the stones.