Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 21

"I'm sure you were more to her than that."

"What was between us will always be between them," Destiny said, resigned. "That's my only consolation."

"If the environment in your school had been different, do you think you might not have lost Raja?"

Destiny's eyes glistened. "I might not have lost myself."

"Didn't your parents offer support when you came out?"

"My mother was in a fog, and my father was worse. When I dropped out of everything-debate team, student council, soccer, tennis-he finally noticed something had changed and asked me what was wrong. I told him everything, including how Raja had cheated on me. He had two comments: 'Can you blame her?' and 'Don't tell anyone you're a h.o.m.os.e.xual.' "

My eyes bulged, and I took a deep breath. "Now, I get it."

"I need to put resources in the schools, Kris, right down the hall. When girls and boys feel alone, excluded, confused or ashamed, I want them to have somewhere to turn."

"That would be nice," I said, desperately wishing the solution didn't involve Carolyn O'Keefe. "On a lighter note, or maybe a more serious one, I'm glad you couldn't change your s.e.xuality as easily as Raja could."

"Never," she said, and with the flicker in her eyes, I saw a measure of Destiny's resilience return.

When I left the house at ten the next morning, Destiny was still on the couch, fully clothed, with a pillow over her head. She'd skipped dinner and breakfast and was snoring lightly.

I left her a note and headed to the office, where Fran Green met me with glee.

"Guess who called last night?" she said, rising to dance a jig.

"Ruth."

"Never happen. Still got her call-blocked."

"She's managed to use cell phones and pay phones to get through."

"Not this time. Think hot broad," Fran said giddily.

"Tess."

"Can't deny it, she called, too. She rings me up every night, sometimes every hour," Fran said, her arms flapping. "But that ain't what's got my heart thumping."

"I give up," I said wearily, dropping my sungla.s.ses and keys onto the desk.

"Bert. She called to invite me to a cozy dinner."

My eyebrows jumped as I conjured up surprise. "She asked you out?"

Fran blushed. "She made a query as to whether I would be available for a romantic evening."

"How sweet!"

"The lady has cla.s.s. You wouldn't believe the life she's led. She's traveled all over the world. Won every award legal eagles can invent. I could have listened to her all night. That s.e.xy voice ripping up my insides. As it was, didn't put down the receiver until after midnight."

"She called that late?"

"She rang me up at seven."

My jaw dropped. "You spent five hours on the phone with Roberta Franklin?"

She shrugged. "Seemed like four."

"What did you talk about?"

"What didn't we? Couldn't stop. Didn't want to."

I gave Fran a sharp look. "You didn't b.i.t.c.h about Ruth, did you?"

"Not a word about the smoking or hypochondria. Took your advice and kept my trap shut."

"Did Roberta complain about any ex-lovers?"

"Couldn't. She's never been in a long-term coupling."

"Are you sure she's a lesbian?"

"Ask my loins."

"Fran!"

"She's done her share of dating, met her quota of one-nighters. That dame's all about the women, no worries on that score."

"Aren't you concerned that she hasn't lived with anyone or made a commitment?"

"Bert's made a pledge to her career. Law's her vocation and avocation, she says. Didn't need more. Also, had a serious drinking problem most of her life. Been sober ten years and grateful she didn't drag anyone else through the gutter, is how she explains it."

"What if you fall in love? Won't you want a commitment?"

"Whoa, girl. You've got the cart so far ahead of the horse, the two are in different pastures. I agreed to a date. Rich food, good wine-" Fran reacted to my admonishing frown. "Scratch that. Rich food, tantalizing conversation, finger touches across the table, smooch at the door. My needs are simple."

I shook my head. "That peck might lead to trouble."

"Who said anything about a peck?" Fran said, wrapping up her dance with a flourish and dropping into her chair with a crooked smile.

Fran left at noon to bake brownies and pack for our ghost-hunting expedition, and I made a trip home, where I found Destiny in a lounge chair on the deck.

We ate lunch together, after which I left for an appointment with Patty Ossorio, my new best friend from the Denver Women's Chamber of Commerce. Unfortunately, my time with Patty extended past my initial estimate, which meant I not only missed out on a nap but also had to race back to the house to gather supplies and change clothes before heading to the Fielder mansion.

When I arrived for the ghost hunt, Fran was already there, leaning against her purple Ford Ranger, arms folded across her chest. I could barely make out "Butch It Up," on her T-shirt.

She stirred only enough to wave two fingers.

"I'm not late, am I?"

"Five o'clock. On the b.u.t.ton."

"Where's Ca.s.s?"

Fran inclined her head toward the main house. "Checking out the lay of the land. Went in without equipment. Wants to get a feel for which rooms might be active. Soon as she chooses, you and me get to schlep equipment. We'll haul, she'll position."

"What time did she get here?"

"Thirty minutes ago, same as me."

"I'd better check in with Hazel."

"Done. b.u.mped into her when she came outside to give the flowers a drink."

"What did you tell her about why we're here?"

"The truth. Didn't figure the real deal would alarm her."

"Is she okay with it?"

"Thinks it's hilarious. Wants us to keep a close eye on Flax. Doesn't want him running down the street to Seven-Eleven to buy candy. Other than that, no concerns."

"You told her we'd be here all night?"

"Righto. She said not to worry if we see her light on into the wee hours. Likes to read, falls asleep mid-page. There's our expert," Fran said as Ca.s.sandra Antonopolus came out the front door.

Lost in thought, Ca.s.s wove toward us, her attention directed at the sky. As she walked, one slow step at a time, she muttered to herself.

"What's with the hair?" I whispered to Fran, referring not to the color, a candy apple red, but to the unusual styling. Parted in the middle, the waist-length hair on the left side was curly, but the hair on the right was straight.

"Has naturally frizzy locks. Goes to a salon every month to have one side straightened j.a.panese-style. Takes hours, sets her back two bills, but gives her a look no one else has. Brings attention to the business."

"Doesn't the car do that?"

Witchy Woman's black Cadillac, parked in the circular drive, had silver Goth lettering on the doors, windows, hood and trunk. My favorite tagline: "There are no bad ghosts, only bad ghost behavior. Call today for corrective action."

"She drives the Caddy to gigs. Rest of the time, tools around in a Saturn and parks that baby near a major intersection. No better billboard. Brings in at least one call a day. Not all good ones, but enough. Come here, I'll introduce you."

With that, we crossed the stone driveway and caught up with Ca.s.s.

In her mid-twenties, she was short and slightly plump. Dressed in black, except for gold sequins on her thigh-high boots, she wore a low-cut, form-fitting knit top and cotton miniskirt. She had a large nose that flared at the nostrils, a broad forehead and intense black eyes. Her mouth was turned up in a half-smile, and when she widened her grin, deep dimples formed in her cheeks.

"Thanks for coming," I said, returning her smile and handshake.

"Thanks for the job."

"You're welcome. Fran's said great things about you."

"Enough of the lovefest," Fran broke in gruffly, wrapping her arms around our shoulders. "What's your gut tell you after the reconnaissance?"

"Do you really want to know?" Ca.s.s said, breaking away to survey both of us, pausing to stare at me for a moment too long.

I nodded bleakly, and Fran said tentatively, "Better spill it."

Ca.s.s's eyes blazed, and she smiled brightly. "We're in for a wild night!"

Chapter 19.

Sixty minutes later, no one was smiling.

Fran and I had burned through the hour carting equipment into the house, virtually all the contents of the backseat and trunk of the Cadillac, plus loads from Fran's truck and my car, while Ca.s.s fiddled with the temperamental equipment.

Adhering to Ca.s.s's instructions, we'd unloaded the bulk of the technical gear into two areas: the bedroom suite Hazel's friend Constance had occupied in the turret on the northwest corner of the second floor and the children's playroom in the third-floor attic.

For the moment, Ca.s.s had directed us to leave the camping supplies on the main floor, because she hadn't decided where we'd sleep.

She had a specific plan, however, for the lead-up to slumber.

We'd set up and experiment with the equipment before splitting into two teams to gather data. After four hours of this, we'd spend two additional hours awake and relaxed (easy for her to say). After that, we'd try to sleep for six to eight hours.

On past expeditions, this combination of activity and inactivity had brought optimal results.

Some ghosts liked to show off for the equipment, some preferred to casually join the social circle, and some enjoyed startling mortals out of deep sleeps. With Ca.s.s's proposed itinerary, we'd have all the bases covered.

I couldn't believe I was doing this!

The more I tried to take ghost hunting seriously, the more absurd it seemed, but I didn't vocalize this thought.

Instead, I left to pick up Flax just as Fran lumbered into the house under the weight of three sleeping bags and Ca.s.s tossed a dead battery pack out an upstairs window.

On the drive to Nell Schwartz's house, I couldn't stop thinking about my "marketing" meeting with Patty Ossorio earlier in the afternoon.

I'd spent a good portion of the time praying she wouldn't need another drink.

Patty had chosen our meeting place, a Starbucks on Colfax Avenue, and after settling in, I'd made my first mistake by rising and asking, "Can I get you anything?"

From her comfortable nest in a deep sofa chair, Patty had given me a seven-part drink order. Latte, decaf, single shot, hint of vanilla, light foam, extra hot, grande. Something like that. I repeated it twice, incorrectly, before fleeing for the counter. From there, I caught the girl's attention and had Patty shout her preferences. The barista screwed it up three times before calling it back correctly.