The scent of damp English earth mingles with diesel fumes from our tour bus and whatever industrial-strength perfume the woman next to me apparently applied with a paint roller this morning. I can’t blame her. You really can get some great duty-free deals on luxury scents once Elodie opens up the Queen’s Mall.
Claudette Sterling stands apart from the crowd, her perfectly coiffed brunette hair catching the weak February sunlight as she stares at the monument with the kind of reverent expression usually reserved for chocolate fountains—of the non-lethal variety—and clearance sales at Nordstrom. She’s dressed in a cream wool coat that probably costs more than most people’s annual health insurance premiums, and her leather gloves match her purse—because apparently, even ancient wonders require proper accessories and color coordination.
I sidle up next to her, my boots crunching on the gravel path while a tour guide’s voice drones in the background about Neolithic engineering marvels and astronomical alignments that probably involve aliens if you ask the right people. The wind carries thedistant bleating of sheep and the inevitable sound of a camera clicking every three seconds because heaven forbid we experience anything without photographic documentation. Fine, I’m guilty of sneaking a quick pic of every meal I’ve had onboard theEmerald Queen,but how could I make my ex green with envy if I don’t send them all in the family group chat?
“So, what are your thoughts?” I ask, gesturing toward the stones.
Claudette startles and nearly launches herself into orbit. “Oh! I’m sorry. I nearly jumped out of my skin. You’d think I just saw a ghost.”
A spray of tiny red stars appears next to her, and sure enough, a ghost materializes—the same cozy sweater wearing gentleman from the ship. Richard, I’m betting.
I shoot him a look for being so evasive with me earlier, before nodding back at Claudette. “Well, if you did see one, at least you’re in good company. These stones have probably hosted more spirits than a distillery during Prohibition.”
She laughs, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. Oddly enough, the ghost chuckles, too.
“True enough,” she says. “Though I imagine ancient druids were better conversationalists than most of today’s ghosts would be. Probably more amusing dinner party guests, too.”
“Depends on the ghost,” I say, glancing at Richard, who’s now examining the nearest trilithon with the concentration of a real estate appraiser checking for structural damage. “Some are more helpful than others.”
“I beg your pardon?” Richard says with mock-wounded dignity. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent conversationalist when people actually listen to me instead of treating me like background decoration—a Halloween decoration at that.”
“Sorry,” I mutter under my breath. “Didn’t mean to insult your posthumous social skills.”
Claudette gazes up at the towering stones, seemingly oblivious to my momentary chat with the dead. “It’s humbling, isn’t it? All these centuries, all these people who’ve stood here wondering the same things we are. Makes you realize how fleeting our problems really are.”
“And how permanent some solutions can be,” Richard adds pointedly,although only I can hear him. Or at least I’m ninety-nine percent positive he’s Richard.
“Speaking of problems,” I venture. “I’m sorry about your friend.” I cringe at my own words. “I mean, your acquaintance?” I cringe twice as hard because we both know darn well Lavender was her nemesis.
Claudette gives a mournful laugh that could win awards for Best Performance in a Tragic Comedy. “Friend is generous. We were friends once, back when we both believed in the same things. Before Lavender decided traditional marriage was as outdated as these stones and twice as pointless.”
“She’s always been the peacemaker,” Richard interjects. “Even when Lavender was being absolutely impossible.”
I study Claudette’s face. “What kind of work did you two do together?”
Her expression tightens as if I just asked about her browser history and what she keeps in her nightstand drawer simultaneously. “Relationship counseling. Lavender and I started out sharing the same values—helping couples strengthen their marriages, working through problems together.” She makes air quotes around the wordprogressivewith the enthusiasm of someone handling radioactive material. “But her views became far too progressive for her own good. We started butting heads regularly after that.”
“I tried to warn her,” Richard says sadly, his ghostly form shimmering slightly in the English mist. “The people she was associating with, the ideas she was embracing—it wasn’t the woman I married. It wasn’t even close to the woman I fell in love with.”
So, it is Richard.Knewit. I wink his way before it registers that it was completely inappropriate considering the topic at hand.
“What about her husband?” I ask, feigning casual interest while mentally taking notes and possibly planning my next blog post about dead husbands and their living complications—although that might make Ransom wince. “Was he supportive of her career changes?”
Richard gives me a look that’s half amused, half exasperated, and entirely dead. “Careful there, Nancy Drew. That’s my personal life you’re prying into. Though I suppose it’s all public domain now that I’m deceased and unable to file lawsuits for invasionof privacy.”
I can tell I’m going to like this ghost. He’s got the kind of dry humor that comes with having literally nothing left to lose.
Come to think of it, that’s sort of how Nettie runs her life. And some might say, me.
Claudette’s expression softens like butter left on a warm counter. “Richard was the best man I ever met. So kind, so wonderful.” She’s practically glowing now with fervor while discussing her favorite friend. “He was a corporate lawyer—retired early to support Lavender’s career. He was completely devoted to her, but she—” Her face hardens faster than concrete in summer. “After she embraced that lifestyle, her entire personality underwent a complete personality transplant. She became mean and aggressive. Never said a nice thing about him anymore. I guess you could say her true colors came out, and they weren’t pretty.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Richard mutters, though there’s more sadness than anger in his ghostly voice. “I spent my last months on Earth feeling about as welcome in my own home as a black sheep at a family reunion.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I tell Claudette, meaning it for both of them.
“Not as sorry as Richard,” she sighs heavily, and tears start rolling down her cheeks as if they’ve been waiting for permission. “He took his life early last summer. It was so out of the blue.” She sniffs, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I really do miss that kind man.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, nodding toward Richard as well. The ghost looks stricken, shaking his head with what appears to be frustration rather than grief.
