Kindred Spirits Read online

  And he hadn’t. Until Marc insisted he and Daisy be married in the house so his dead grandfather, Jonas Van Buren, could attend. Rufus had felt his world tilt, but no ghost could keep him from sharing in the happiest day of his best friend’s life. Even if he thought that best friend was marrying in haste. Besides, someone had to make sure that the priest showed on time and the caterers kept the food and booze coming.

  Speaking of booze, he wondered if he could talk Bookman into stopping at a local pub before hitting the haunted house from hell. He needed a stiff drink before playing intervention with Izzy. It was one thing to fly down to Atlantic City to grease some palms to keep her supernatural shenanigans out of the media. Marc, who’d made a second career out of avoiding scandal, hated publicity. Especially negative publicity about his family, alive or dead. It was another thing to go to Laguna Vista itself to try to talk a ghost into good behavior. And, worse, into the beyond.

  He shivered. He hated this stuff. But Bookman was convinced he had the key to helping Izzy cross over. That was the only reason Rufus had agreed to set foot in that house again. To help make Izzy go away.

  He zipped up his leather bomber jacket, warding off a bone-chilling wind. Though cold, it was a clear, sunny December day. Too bad he’d be spending it inside a creepy old mansion with a stuffy parapsychologist and three dead people who were either too stupid or too stubborn to cross over to wherever. Still, the trip wouldn’t be a total loss. He had a date with Barbie, the helicopter pilot, in five hours. His flight-school honey had promised to take him around the world in eight minutes.

  His grin slipped when he spotted Thaddeus Bookman leaning against a mud-splattered Jeep, waiting to pick him up. The six-foot-four, stubble-faced parapsychologist looked more disheveled than usual. His thick brown hair stood on end. The top three buttons of his wrinkled, white oxford shirt gaped open, revealing the neckband of his undershirt. One suspender drooped off his broad shoulder. Rufus knew without asking that Izzy was to blame for the man’s eyebrow-raising appearance.

  Bookman caught sight of Rufus, and his lips twitched. His eyes twinkled. He looked like an excited kid with a secret. Rufus felt dread. The kinds of things that excited Bookman scared the hell out of him. “It’s thirty-seven degrees, Professor. Where’s your coat?”

  “Isadora tossed it into the fireplace. Amazing how quickly wool burns.”

  “Amazing how Izzy ever landed so many husbands.”

  Bookman grinned, tossed Rufus’s bag into the back of the Jeep, then motioned him to follow.

  Rufus frowned at the man’s awkward gait. “Sure you don’t need crutches?”

  “Positive.” Bookman opened the driver’s door. “You’ll have to climb over.”

  Rufus looked past him to the stick shift separating the worn bucket seats. “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s either that or climb in through the passenger window. The door’s busted.”

  “How about you climb over, and I drive?”

  “Is this one of those testing-your-manhood challenges that Marcus warned me about?”

  “What?”

  “He said for me not to be intimidated by you.” He looked over Rufus in his black jeans and leather jacket. “He said you have a need to take charge.”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  Bookman leaned against the Jeep and scratched his unshaven jaw. “Look, I put my teaching career on hold to devote more time to my paranormal studies. This case is fascinating. I’m itching to discuss the specifics with the institute.”

  Rufus narrowed his eyes.

  “But I won’t. I promised Marcus I’d keep the investigation—”

  “—low profile.” It was one of Marc’s favorite directives.

  “I haven’t made much progress, but operating without anyone breathing down my neck helps.”

  “Don’t worry, Professor. I don’t plan on sticking around.”

  “Still, Izzy might not—”

  Rufus held up a hand. “I need a drink before hearing this.”

  Bookman finagled his big body over the gearshift and into the passenger seat. “You might as well drive. That clutch kills my ankle, and I’m secure in my manhood.”

  “Keep talking like that and you won’t be.” Rufus keyed the ignition and shifted into first. “You don’t like me much, do you, Professor?”

  Bookman looked hard at him through his glasses. “I think there’s more to people than meets the eye. I think I don’t really know you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s a tavern down the street.”

  “Perfect.” Rufus stepped on the gas. Minutes later they sat at a lacquered table in an unremarkable sports bar. He unzipped his jacket, finger-combed his wind-blown hair, and got right down to the reason he was here. “This had better be good.”

  Bookman signaled a waitress, then braced his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

  “Old souls, new bodies?”

  “Close enough.”

  “No. Though I’m sure you do. You’ve made a career out of hobnobbing with ghosts. You probably believe in the Tooth Fairy.” Where in hell was that waitress?

  “You’ve seen a ghost. Isadora.”

  “I’m still in denial about it.”

  “Have you ever done something and felt as if you’d done it before?”

  “We all have, Professor. It’s called déjà vu. No big deal.”

  “What about flying?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did it come easily to you? As if you’d done it before?”

  Rufus rolled his eyes. “Most people have at least one thing they’re naturally good at. You know, an innate talent.”

  Bookman shrugged. “Maybe. So how long have you been interested in airplanes?”

  “Since as long as I can remember.”

  “Interesting.”

  “No, it’s not. Not in the way you’re insinuating. Everyone has hobbies. I like airplanes. Marc likes horses. You like things that go bump in the night.” Rufus leaned forward and frowned. “Speaking of which, what does this have to do with Isadora?”

  “I’m getting to that.” Bookman pulled a scallop-edged photograph from his pants pocket. He slid it across the table. “I found this in a trunk at Laguna Vista.”

  “Excuse me. Are you Ben Affleck?” a woman asked in a husky voice.

  Rufus looked up to find a redhead in a skintight, neon-green dress, boobs pushed up to her chin, standing at their table, a martini in her hand. He winked. “I’m better.”

  She giggled and wiggled.

  “Sinclair . . .” Bookman warned.

  “Yeah?” He kept his eyes on . . . “What’s your name?” he asked the redhead.

  She gave a toothy smile. “Bridget.”

  “Sinclair . . .”

  “Do you like carnival rides?” Rufus asked her.

  “It’s a little cold for carnival rides,” she said, despite her barely-there dress.

  “Hmm. Guess we’ll just have to stay inside.”

  “Sinclair!” Bookman boomed.

  “Sorry, baby, I’m busy right now.”

  The redhead pulled a slip of paper from between her breasts. “For when you want to get busy with me.”

  He looked at the number, the tiny heart with which Bridget had dotted her i, then slipped the paper into his pocket. He watched her undulate back to her friends at the bar.

  Bookman rapped his knuckles on the table. “Can you please pay attention?”

  Rufus grinned. “It’s not my fault women find me irresistible.”

  Bookman narrowed his eyes, scrunching his face as though he were conducting a lab experiment. He tapped the picture. “What about this woman?”

&n
bsp; Rufus picked up the vintage photo and focused on the young woman leaning against the bottom wing of a biplane. Her curly black hair and white scarf were blowing wild in the wind, and giant goggles were pushed up on her forehead. She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t look unhappy. She looked . . . defiant. Her narrowed eyes pierced the camera with the same cocky challenge he’d felt as he landed his plane for the first time today. As if nothing in the world could stop him. Her attitude defied her stature. She appeared short in her men’s pants, cuffed over chunky black boots that had seen better days. The white collar of her button-down shirt poked up from an unzipped leather flight jacket, and suspenders peeked out from inside it. She was unusual looking. Not quite beautiful but oozing something special just the same. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  His fingers tingled. His pulse tripped. Apparently some leftover adrenaline still sparked from his flight. He set down the photo and slid it back toward Bookman. “What about her?” He looked over his shoulder to see a waitress finally hurrying toward them. Thank God.

  “Look familiar?” Bookman asked.

  “Now that you mention it,” Rufus said, checking out the waitress’s long legs, “I think I dated her in Vegas. Rita . . . Chita . . .”

  Bookman sighed. “Not her. The girl in the picture.”

  Rufus swiveled back around. “That’s a Curtiss Jenny biplane. Used to train pilots in World War One. Popular with the barnstormers of the twenties. I’d say that photo was taken between 1919 and 1925.”

  “1923. What about the girl?”

  Rufus grinned despite himself. “She’s a little before my time.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No, she doesn’t look familiar.”

  Bookman slid the photo back across the table. “What about the man?”

  “Hiya, handsome,” purred the waitress.

  “Hiya, gorgeous.” Rufus lazed his gaze up the waitress’s legs to her face. “Have we met before?”

  She winked at Rufus. “In my dreams. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Scotch on the rocks and your phone num—”

  “Vodka and tonic,” Bookman said, cutting in.

  Rufus flashed the waitress a dimpled smile.

  She bent forward so he could see down her body-hugging, low-cut tee. “Anything you want.” Then she backed away until she reached the bar, sticking out her tongue at the red-haired customer in the neon dress.

  Bookman drummed his long fingers on the table. “Your effect on the female species is mind-boggling, Sinclair. Forget what I said about your manhood.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it. I was born this way. It’s a gift.”

  “An innate talent. Hmm. One of these days you’re going to meet your match. Now that’s a phenomenon I’d pay big bucks to witness.”

  Rufus sniffed. “Good luck. Marc said the same thing when we first arrived at Laguna Vista.”

  “Déjà vu,” Bookman said, passing back the picture.

  “Coincidence,” Rufus said, taking a closer look at the photo. At the man standing next to the woman. “He looks a little like me.”

  “He looks a lot like you.”

  “So what? And don’t start with that reincarnation bull. Everybody has a twin. So who’s the girl?”

  “James said she was a friend of Izzy’s. Grace LaRue.”

  “Amazing Grace. Well, well.”

  Bookman perked up. “You do know her.”

  “I know of her.” Rufus abandoned the picture and shrugged out of his jacket. “I know she and Izzy went way back. Grace grew up on a farm outside Atlantic City. The Van Burens spent most of their summers down at the shore. The girls met on the beach. They became fast friends despite the gap in social status. Izzy’s father never approved. Apparently Grace hung out with a criminal element.”

  “A gang?”

  Rufus shook his head. “One guy. In the journals he left, J.B. referred to him as ‘the thug.’ Izzy latched on to Grace and the thug—sort of a third-wheel. The troublesome trio, J.B. called them. Though I don’t know how they could be any more troublesome than his own three children were. Anyway, Izzy, Grace, and the thug spent their summers getting into typical kid trouble. You know, pranks, experimenting with butts and booze, busting curfew.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “A few months back Marc had me skim his great-grandfather’s journals. He hoped I’d find a clue as to what Jonas and his siblings had done to land themselves in spiritual limbo.”

  Bookman’s eyes lit up.

  “Forget it, Professor,” Rufus said. “Those journals are packed with damning information. I doubt he’d entrust them to you. Let’s just say Jonas, Isadora, and James Van Buren didn’t know the meaning of moderation.”

  “I’m surprised they managed to raise eyebrows, considering they lived in the most frivolous decade in American history.”

  “They managed fine,” Rufus said. “Anyway, J.B. considered Grace a bad influence on Izzy.”

  Bookman’s eyes rounded.

  Rufus laughed. “I know. Hard to imagine a woman wilder than Izzy.” He picked up the photo again and studied it more closely. “Though she does have an edge, an almost ornery look about her. A woman barnstormer . . .”

  “Sinclair?”

  “Is that what made you so amazing, Grace?” His fingers tingled . . .

  “Sinclair!”

  Rufus started. He set down the photo. “You said you found this picture in a trunk?”

  “One of three trunks hidden behind a false wall in the west tower. According to James, J.B. ordered his children’s intimate belongings packed up and sealed away the day of their wake. The next day he threw sheets over the furniture, closed the drapes, and declared Laguna Vista and any mention of Jonas, Isadora, and James off limits to the family.” Bookman frowned. “Pretty harsh if you ask me.”

  Rufus shook his head. “He was hurting. J.B. was tough, but he loved his kids—another thing I picked up in his journals.” He paused. “Back up a minute. James discussed the trunks with you?”

  “The trunks and the photo.”

  “James Van Buren. The dead guy. Marcus’s great-uncle.”

  “The same.”

  “Izzy’s brother talks to you? You’re having conversations now?”

  “We have been. I can’t help it if you’ve chosen to keep yourself in the dark about what’s been happening at Laguna Vista.”

  “That’s the way we’ve both liked it. Besides, I’ve had other things on my mind, like minding Marc’s business while he’s away. Be thankful I’m so efficient. If the company wasn’t running smoothly, I wouldn’t have been able to leave it.” Rufus picked through a bowl of mixed nuts. “Since I’m here, you might as well bring me up to date. Minus the gory details.”

  “There are no gory details. Ghosts aren’t dangerous.”

  “Tell that to your wool coat and your ankle.”

  “Spraining my ankle was unrelated.”

  “If you weren’t chasing ghosts, you wouldn’t have been poking around that decrepit tower.” He popped a cashew into his mouth. “Definitely related.”

  Bookman adjusted his glasses. “It occurs to me that I could assuage your misgivings with a briefing on apparitions. We only fear what we do not understand.”

  “Save it for the classroom, Professor.”

  “When a person dies,” he continued, “the physical body ceases to exist.”

  Rufus eyed an almond, then opted for a peanut. “Really.”

  “The outer layer fades away, leaving an electromagnetic field—the inner self. Or, as some refer to it, the soul or psyche. In most cases the inner self crosses over to another plane. In the case of a ghost, a person who either died tragically or suddenly—”

  “—the electromagnetic field
is unable to make the transition. The soul, psyche, whatever, gets stuck in no-man’s land, chained to its earthly emotional baggage.” Rufus tossed up a hand. “Or something like that.”

  Bookman smiled. “You read my book.”

  “Don’t look so flattered. I make it a point to know about the people in Marc’s life. Your having been Marc’s college chum doesn’t mean jack to me.”

  “I’m beginning to see why Marcus puts up with you.”

  Rufus eyed the approaching waitress, suddenly wishing he’d ordered a double. “If that was supposed to be an insult—”

  “It wasn’t.” Bookman stood and intercepted the leggy barmaid. “I’ll take those.”

  She stuck out her lower lip.

  Great lips. Full and pink. Rufus conjured a brief fantasy, then winked at her.

  She smiled, winked back, then slinked back to the bar.

  Bookman shook his head. “Mind-boggling.” He reclaimed his seat and passed Rufus his scotch. “So, you read my book.”

  “Don’t get a swelled head.”

  “And you’re still afraid of ghosts?”

  Rufus lifted his glass. “I was never afraid. Creeped out? Yes. Scared? No.” He tossed back a healthy portion of his scotch, enjoying the slow burn. “Let’s cut to the chase. According to Daisy, Jonas earned his chance to cross over but refused to go without Isadora and James. All for one and one for all.”

  “Their childhood motto,” Bookman said. “James told me that the angel, if you believe in that sort of thing, wasn’t happy about returning a soul short to heaven, if you believe in that sort of place. James worries that the angel, Mr. Newborne—”

  “The angel’s name is Newborne? Cute.”

  “—won’t take no for an answer when he comes back to claim Jonas. That he’ll be whisked away without James and Isadora. So James is determined to find out why he and Izzy are still chained to Laguna Vista. After seeing this picture and Izzy’s reaction, he suspects Izzy’s regret involves Grace.” Bookman wrapped a hand around his glass and grinned. “I suspect you’re somehow connected.”