A Minister's Ghost Read Free Page A

up.”
    â€œI’ve seen worse. We’ve seen worse together.”
    â€œRight,” he agreed after a moment.
    We were both thinking about the decomposed bodies we’d found little more than a year before in the woods close to the town mortuary.
    â€œI still don’t like to think about that,” he said quietly.
    â€œSo you’d understand,” I pressed, “if I just had a look into this for a day or two, completely out of your hair. To appease Lucy. I know it was just an accident.”
    â€œWhat did I just say?” he snapped, irritation growing for some reason. “I don’t want you in this mess. I’m really busy.”
    â€œI know,” I cut him off.
    I didn’t want to hear the litany of troubles I was afraid he might recite. Not because I was uncaring, but because I knew the effect they were having on him—and his home life. His wife, Girlinda, had called me in tears several times over the summer.
    â€œKeep me posted, then,” I said, clipped.

    He knew I’d look into things for Lucinda’s sake, but he was so strained I didn’t want to press it then.
    â€œRight,” he agreed, but clearly didn’t mean it. “‘Hey’ to Lucy.”
    â€œâ€˜Hey’ to Girlinda.”
    We hung up.
    The kitchen door swung open and Lucinda stood sleepy-eyed in the doorway. “That was Skid?” she managed.
    â€œIt was.”
    â€œHow’s he doing?” She yawned.
    â€œHe said ‘hey.’ But he sounded shot. He worries too much.”
    â€œOr something.” Her syllables insinuated what the whole town gossiped: Skid and his secretary, Melissa, were seeing one another.
    â€œI don’t want to have this discussion again about Skidmore,” I said, turning toward the percolator. “He’s my oldest friend, I trust him, and there’s nothing to all the talk about Melissa and him. Plus, you know that if Skidmore was seeing anyone but Girlinda, she would kill him, then call the doctor to revive him just so she could kill him again.”
    Lucinda didn’t seem in the mood for levity.
    â€œWhere there’s smoke, there’s fire,” she said hoarsely, ambling into the kitchen.
    â€œA stitch in time saves nine,” I intoned.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSorry,” I sniffed, “I thought you wanted to talk in clichés.”
    That, of all things, made her smile.
    â€œVery funny. Are you drinking my coffee?” She was content to change the subject. “That’s a warning, a danger sign.”
    â€œI know,” I agreed. “It’s the last days.”
    She shuffled to the table and sat; I poured coffee into her favorite mug. The sun insisted on tidying the room, making it clean of any shadow the night had left behind. Walls were washed in amber morning light, and everything seemed better when I sat beside her, even to drink the awful brew.
    Silence spoke volumes; our eyes didn’t meet. It was the sort of conversation we’d been having, on and off, since we were both fourteen. Some things are understood between two people who know
each other that well and don’t need to be said. Unfortunately, other things that yearn to be said sit silent too and make a palpable wall of longing.
    â€œWill you be all right if I just slip over to Pine City for a few hours now?” I stood and took my cup to the sink.
    â€œOf course,” she said firmly, staring out the window. “I want you to go look into things. I’ll be okay.”
    â€œI know, I was just making sure you were ready for me to leave.
    Her chair scraped a harsh yelp across the floor as she turned to look at me.
    â€œYou know I’m never ready for you to leave, Fever,” she said softly, “not to go to college or off to teach, not even to walk into the next room most of the time. I wouldn’t mind it if we were never much out of sight. But I don’t expect that’s what you