'See, there're things here you don't understand. You've got me pegged now, the bad brother who wants to sell the house out from under his poor sister. Well, believe whatever you care to. But sometimes people don't know what they really want or what they really need. Lila'd be a lot better off leaving the past lie. Getting a new life, not trying to reclaim her old one.'
'Why's that?'
'You are one irritating female, you know that? You won't let go of a goddamned thing! I can't even – '
Cree put a hand on his arm, wanting to defuse the antagonism between them. 'Ron, you may well be right about what's good for Lila. But to really start a new life you have to make some kind of peace with the old, don't you? If there's anything in particular you think she should 'leave lie,' I'd like to know about it. So I can help her put it behind her.'
Ronald brushed away her hand and strode past her to the entrance hall.
Cree followed. 'You said Lila had a hole in her life. What's missing?'
'I'm not a headshrinker. You tell me.' He opened the front door and fished in his pocket. He pulled out a key ring, pointed it at the Jaguar parked sloppily at the curb, and thumbed the door lock button. The car's lights flashed.
'You said she's been this way since she was fifteen – these fits and starts. Are you saying she was different before then? Did something happen to change her?'
Ron just headed out onto the front gallery without looking back.
Cree felt close to something, but she had no idea what it might be. Suddenly she was desperate to keep him there, to know what he might tell her. 'You were very close to her once, weren't you? You loved your sister very much. What changed that?'
That hooked him. Halfway across the gallery, he turned. ''Course I did. And what makes you think anything changed? Where the hell do you get off even asking a question like that?'
'Then why do you hide your best feelings? Why don't you want people to know who you are?'
His eyes rolled in angry disdain, and he turned away again. 'Why don't you go to hell, Ms. Black.'
So many questions to ask. 'Were you also close to Josephine Dupree? As close as Lila was?'
He wheeled on her one more time, his suspicion hardened into dislike now. 'Now what the hell's this about? What've you got cooking now?'
His hostility hurt her, as did the vulnerability that hid just behind it. All she could think of was wanting to end the dissonance between them. Ron, truly, I'm not trying to oppose you. I really have no wish to be your enemy, I'm just – '
He shook his head, done with her, and headed on down the steps. 'I think it's a little late to worry about that,' he tossed over his shoulder.
20
Cree drove toward the Times-Picayune offices, unsettled by the incidents at Beauforte House. A lot to think about but no time. Ronald: so much hidden there, so much to understand. He was obviously motivated to sell the house and self-interested enough to do so in spite of his sister's desires. Could he be a hoaxer, faking a haunting to scare Lila away? The Gaslight scenario – where someone faked supernatural phenomena with the goal of upsetting someone else, making them appear 'crazy' – was a possibility any serious paranormal researcher had to consider. But Cree had already encountered Lila's haunt herself, twice, and the damned thing was for certain no living human. No, Ronald was weak and narcissistic and many things she disliked, but he was not a hoaxer so much as an opportunist. And there was something touching about him, something wounded and compelling, perhaps even a grain of real nobility buried beneath the bullshit. The dynamic of hostility between them was so painful and so unnecessary.
It was her own fault. She hadn't dealt with him well. She'd been off balance, surprised and frightened at hearing someone in the house, and disoriented from pulling so suddenly out of that daydream. No doubt its detail and vividness were the result of doing historical reading in her hotel every night, of absorbing the history-drenched atmosphere of New Orleans.
But its poignancy, and her reluctance to let go of that time and those images – that was a potential problem. It was another indication of just how much the stresses of this case were adding up, how unstable and malleable she was right now.
But she was getting close to the Times-Picayune building. Time to put on the act of being sane and competent, to stuff her sense of urgency into a compartment of her thoughts and keep it there for now, She wound her way around and under a tangle of highway entrance ramps, parked in the visitors' lot, checked herself over in the visor mirror, and did her best to muster a pretense of professionalism.
Delisha Brown emerged from the depths of the building, crossed the modern, marbled lobby to where Cree waited at the reception desk. She was a woman of middle height, with skin a deep chocolate color and hair done in cornrows that ended in dozens of short braids lined with turquoise-blue beads and tipped with wads of tinfoil. Though she had a chunky, big-busted build, she was only in her late twenties and moved with an active woman's forceful stride that made the beads swing and rattle softly. She wore black slacks, a red blouse, striped jogging shoes, and a no-nonsense frown that she panned up and down Cree as they shook hands.
'I'm Brown,' the reporter said, 'and you're Black. Uh-huh. Right.'A grin twitched the corners of Delisha's lips. She turned and beckoned for Cree to follow her. 'Everybody calls me Deelie, you might as well, too.'
'Thank you for returning my call. And thanks for finding time for me on such short notice.'
Deelie's plump shoulders shrugged. She led Cree down a long corridor, through several sets of glass doors, and into the quiet bustle of the great paper's newsroom. It was a huge room containing dozens of cubicles and desks, about half of which were occupied by reporters or writers working in the state of sustained panic required to put out the paper every day. Computer monitors glowed from every littered desk. Along the far wall, a row of glassed-in offices faced the big room; inside, knots of harried-looking editorial staff bent their heads together over big tables. Cree had to jump out of the way of a cart pushed at a run by a young clerk who seemed oblivious to her existence.
Deelie's desk was messier than most, with a rusted automobile muffler encircled by an uneven wall of stacked papers and file folders. She gestured Cree to a plastic chair, took her own seat, and frowned at the muffler. 'Temp Chase murder, huh. What's your interest?'
'I'm writing about the case – maybe an article, maybe a book. I saw your byline on most of the articles I read, and then Detective Guidry said you'd done a lot of research, so – '
'Bobby G. That little midget! Fie give you anything useful?'
'Mainly, your name.'
'Flattering.' Deelie's face split in a wide grin that took Cree by surprise with its warmth and energy. 'Hey, come on, girl. Tell me the truth. You're no freelance writer – nobody writes on spec and doesn't know if it's a book or an article. Internet says you're a Ph. D. in psychology who does research on ghosts.' When she said more than three words in a row, Delisha had a musical rhythm to her voice that charmed Cree.
Cree chuckled. 'I guess I shouldn't be surprised an investigative reporter did some detective work before an interview.'
'No, you should not. So, what, you trying to see if Temp turned into a ghost or something?'
'Maybe. It's a long story, and most of it's confidential.'
'Ooooh, tempt me!' Deelie laughed, but the lines of her face quickly turned businesslike again. 'Tell you what. We trade. I give you something, you give me something. I trade you Temp for some ghost-hunting material I can maybe put together for a feature later on. This town loves ghosts. And anything else good for tourism.'
A young man came to the desk, slipped a file folder onto it with a meaningful raised eyebrow, and left without a word. 'Shit,' Deelie said.
'Doesn't look like you have time for such a trade,' Cree said.
Deelie looked thoughtfully at Cree for a moment, then pondered her watch. 'I got an hour for lunch – that'll give us a start, anyway. And for this, I think let's go out. I got about one good thing to tell you, and unless I'm mistaken it's right up your alley. But it got some context go with it, so we gonna serve the Seattle girl a slice o' life
