Ghost Sickness Read online

  Ghost Sickness

  Mae Martin Mysteries, Volume 5

  Amber Foxx

  Published by Amber Foxx, 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  GHOST SICKNESS

  First edition. August 6, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 Amber Foxx.

  ISBN: 978-1536592504

  Written by Amber Foxx.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Author’s Notes and Acknowledgements

  About the Author

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  Also By Amber Foxx

  Chapter One

  What in the world is wrong with Niall? And where is he going?

  Mae Martin had come home from a morning run on the trails above the Rio Grande to find she was out of coffee. Walking through Truth or Consequences’ small, historic, and summer-sleepy downtown on her way to get a cup, she was puzzled to see her father’s pickup truck at the intersection of Foch and Broadway, its bed loaded with flattened cardboard boxes as if someone were moving. Niall Kerrigan, her father’s life partner, was at the wheel. He lingered at the stop sign long after the lone car on Broadway had passed, staring ahead, not seeing her.

  Concerned, Mae walked up and tapped on the window.

  Niall jerked to attention and rolled the window down. “Trying to give me a heart attack?” His Maine accent, indestructible after fifteen years in New Mexico, flattened the r out of heart, making it sound almost like hat.

  “Sorry. You looked kinda distracted. Are you okay?”

  He shook his head and looked away. “Florencia Mirabal went into hospice yesterday. She wants me to clear out her house for her.”

  Mae had only met Florencia, a famous artist, once, but she knew how close Niall was to her. This request had to be overwhelming for him. “I’ve got the day free. Let me help you.” Mae wanted not only to spare him a little of the grief but a lot of the heavy lifting. In addition to smoking over a pack a day, he never exercised outside of the demands of his work. Mae knew she was probably worrying too much, but she couldn’t help thinking the combined exertion and emotional strain could give him a heart attack. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

  “It’s not like she’s exactly a friend of yours.”

  “She’s your friend. And I liked her when I met her.”

  “Did you?” Niall sounded skeptical. “I thought she was rude to you.”

  On being introduced to Mae, Florencia had said mockingly, “Ah. Marty’s daughter. The health nut.” She’d looked her up and down and then up again as if Mae’s height were a marvel and said in her clipped pueblo accent, “Like the proverbial horse.” It had been at an Art Hop, the night the galleries stayed open late while musicians and fire dancers performed on the streets. Florencia Mirabal had been at Rio Bravo Fine Arts, her bald head crowned with an extraordinary beaded hat, her sagging face made up, her frail body clad in a bright red dress. Incurably ill, but still holding court with Truth or Consequences’ other famous artists.

  Mae had felt insulted for a second, but then she’d remembered something one of her health science professors had said. Health is a crown on a well man’s head visible only to the sick. Florencia had lost that crown. “Not that rude. It was okay. I kinda knew where it came from. Let me give you a hand.”

  Niall opened the door and slid over to the passenger seat. “Thanks. I guess you could tell, I can’t even think straight to drive.”

  Mae got in and drove. Niall slumped and took a key from his pocket, clutching it and closing his eyes. Half a block up Foch Street, she pulled the truck over to the curb on the hill in front of the antique shop and patted his thin, ropy arm. “How about some coffee before we tackle the house? I was headed out to get some, and you look like you could use a little boost.”

  He didn’t respond, but that was normal for him. Signs of affection from anyone but Jim Bob “Marty” Martin usually made him either cringe or freeze. Mae took his stillness as a kind of compliment.

  “It’s a hundred degrees out.” He regarded the key in his hand, turning it over restlessly. “Can’t you park any closer?”

  She’d already parked as close to the coffee shop as she could get without driving around the block to face the right way on Main. “Come on. It won’t kill you to walk.” Wrong choice of words.

  Niall put the key in one pocket and removed his cigarettes and lighter from another. “Fine. I’ll have a smoke while we do it. Then you can tell me it will kill me.”

  Mae didn’t say anything. She was sure her father mentioned the issue often enough. They climbed the hill at Niall’s slow pace and turned right on Main Street. Passing the brightly colored storefronts of an artist’s studio, a thrift store, and a space for rent, they reached the red door of Passion Pie Café. Niall started to give Mae money, but she told him it would be her treat and left him on the painted bench outside to finish his cigarette.

  She joined the line for coffee. Misty Chino, the barista, was a young Apache woman barely out of her teens, with a long face, a prominent nose, and a lithe, fit figure. She sparkled and smiled as she took orders, her service a blend of speed and charm, as graceful as her fire dancing on Art Hop nights.

  When Mae reached the counter, Misty held out her hand and displayed a diamond ring. The stone had a pinkish hue and was set in rose gold. Mae caught her breath. “Wow. That’s gorgeous. Congratulations. When am I finally gonna meet him?” Mae’s friendship with Misty was still developing, but the introduction seemed overdue.

  “Good question. He works evenings, I work days, and he’s sure as heck not going running with us. Reno’s idea of a workout is a stroll.”

  That didn’t sound like a newly engaged woman, more like an old married lady putting up with her husband. Mae placed her order and asked, hoping to hear more enthusiasm, “Are you excited?”

  “Relieved is more like it.” Misty filled two cups. “We’ve been together so long it’s about time, you know?”

  The relationship sounded more like a habit than a romance. At a loss what to say, Mae resorted to the sugarcoated diplomacy of her Southern upbringing. “Well, he’s got good taste in women and jewelry.”

  Misty took the compliment with a smile.

  As Mae exited the café, the heat and sun of the desert summer day hit her like a wall of fire. Niall half-straightened from his slouch and mumbled his thanks, taking his coffee. Mae sat beside him, grateful that the cigarette was out.

  “Misty got engaged to Reno Geronimo.”

  “Well, if that’s not stupid, I don’t know what is.”

  “Whoa. That’s a pretty harsh judgment. You know him?”

  �
��Ayeh.” Niall’s Maine affirmative came out as yuh with a trace of effort at the beginning, a sound that always reminded Mae of pulling out dandelions by the roots, though she couldn’t say why. “Know him and his father. Orville’s a successful artist, Reno’s a starving artist. And I mean starving. He’s a waiter who’s never had a show. Not even one painting in a gallery here. I don’t know what he does with his work. I never see it. And those kids are twenty years old. They need to live a little before they get tied down.” He sipped his coffee. “Did you tell her you got married too young?”

  “She knows, but it didn’t seem like the time to remind her. That would have been a downer. She shows me her ring and I say, ‘When I was your age I was planning my first divorce?’ ”

  Niall puffed out a weak laugh. “I guess not. Maybe his father will talk some sense into them. His first marriage didn’t last too long, either. In fact, Florencia is his ex. He married Reno’s mother later and that lasted, but Orville and Flo got married in college when they were twenty. Two artists in Santa Fe. Seemed romantic at the time, I’m sure, even if it was a mistake.”

  “At least they went to college.”

  “You thinking about yourself, or Reno and Misty?”

  “Both, I reckon.” At age twenty-eight, Mae had finished her first year of college in the spring, finally getting started on the education she’d foregone with her marriages. “I’d hate to see Misty stuck where I was for so long.”

  “She’s too bright not to go to school. Orville ought to talk with them about that, too.”

  They returned to the truck and Mae followed Niall’s directions, driving up Foch and turning down a narrow side street to the gravel drive behind Florencia Mirabal’s home.

  “Get as close to the front door as you can,” Niall said. “I don’t have a key for the back.”

  Mae pulled the truck into the weedy patch of dirt that qualified as a side yard, drawing near to the porch’s side steps. The front steps led to a long, winding set of stone stairs set into a steep cliff, giving the little house the feeling of a castle. On their way in, she and Niall paused on the porch, looking down at Main Street and the view of the Rio Grande and Turtleback Mountain beyond the town.

  Mae said, “This is such a perfect place for an artist to live. It must have been hard for her to leave.”

  Niall made a grunting sound, an attempt to stifle his smoker’s cough, and unlocked the door. Mae followed him into a small living room full of bright, overstuffed furniture and crammed book shelves. A collection of paintings filled every space on the walls. One of Niall’s smaller scrap metal sculptures, a plumber made from pipes and wrenches, bent over in the classic posture in a corner, the crack of his pipe-elbow buttocks exposed above the metal sheath of his pants.

  Niall closed the door. “She wants us to get rid of the books, the food, the dishes, the furniture—everything but the art.”

  Mae asked, “Are we sorting it into keep, sell, and give away? How do you want to do it?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. His brown eyes looked large and distorted through his thick glasses as he stared at his own work. “I don’t want to do it at all.”

  “I know.” Mae squeezed his hand quickly, knowing he would only accept the touch for a moment. “It has to make you think about her dying.”

  “No.” Niall’s odd Yankee version of the word came out as a nasal, descending daow that bore little resemblance to anything spelled n-o. “I’ve seen that coming for a long time. It’s the frickin’ work. She had to know I’d hate doing this.”

  “It means she trusted you, though.” Mae sensed he was covering deeper feelings with this complaint. “I’ll do as much as I can. Tell me where to start.”

  He walked over to a chair and gave it a small shove. “Stuff’s not bad. Jamie need anything at his place?”

  “I think he does, but he painted his walls so funny not much goes with ’em. Anyway, it might bother him to get a dying person’s furniture.” Mae’s boyfriend, a singer-songwriter who lived in Santa Fe, had a few issues with death and dying—cultural, personal, and spiritual. “I can help you load the truck for the thrift shop.”

  “Daow. Make ’em come get it. It’s a good donation.”

  Mae looked up at a full-length portrait of a handsome blond cowboy angel in a striped shirt, a Western hat, and suggestively fitted chaps. He stood alone in a desert with distant mountains behind him, his boots planted on the hard red earth while his dusky wings spread in front of clouds that circled him like layers of stormy halos. She felt the artist must have intended the way her eyes were drawn to the cowboy’s dreamy blue eyes and blue-jeaned crotch about equally.

  “He’s not your type,” Niall said, with a hint of a dry laugh.

  “He’s pretty, though. Is it her work?”

  “How long have you lived in T or C?” Niall turned to Mae, his head jutting out, modifying his habitual slouch into a more assertive posture. “Delmas Howe.”

  “The guy that does the flowers?”

  Niall exhaled noisily. “And the men. He’s a New Mexico state living treasure. This pretty cowboy is worth—jeez—thousands. Thousands.” He scuffed into the next room. “And her whole collection—she ought to have it stored somewhere secure. Get it out of the house.”

  Mae lingered with the cowboy. She recognized the local artist’s style now. He rendered a winged, sexy man with the same depth and light that he used in painting petals and pistils. “Any idea what she plans to do with the art?”

  “No idea. That’s between her and her lawyer.”

  Mae joined Niall in the kitchen. The small table near the window was barely adequate to accommodate a single diner. “Where’s her family?”

  “Acoma Pueblo, as far as I know. She doesn’t speak to them.” Niall opened and closed a few cabinets. Mae found something sad about all the cans and jars stocked up as if Florencia had not expected to die but to keep on cooking and eating. Niall closed a cupboard and squeezed the handle. “She said she’s giving instructions at the hospice that if her brother and his family try to visit, they aren’t allowed.”

  “And she never got remarried or had any kids?”

  “No. And no kids.”

  The look of the house—no photographs, no signs of a social life—made Mae think Niall might be Florencia’s only real friend, the only person cranky and stand-offish enough to understand her. “She’s lucky she has you. It would be awful to be dying and not have anyone who cared.”

  Niall ran his hand over the counter and then patted it. Mae sensed he was avoiding her eyes. “You want me to start clearing out in here?” she asked. “I can get the boxes out of the truck.”

  “Thanks.” His voice was husky. “I’ll start in the living room.”

  She went out and collected a stack of nested cardboard boxes from the back of the pickup.

  A slender, brown-skinned young man of medium height strode up the back street and into the yard, staring at the truck. He wore his long black hair in a ponytail, and his face was perfectly proportioned, with brown eyes, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and full lips. He looked familiar, someone Mae had seen around town, but she couldn’t place him. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  If he had smiled, he would have been stunningly attractive, but his expression was sullen and his voice quiet and hard, as if Mae and Niall had intruded on his property.

  “We’re helping Florencia. Packing up her stuff.”

  “What? Who are you? Why would you do that?” His accent suggested he was a speaker of a Native language—Mae guessed Apache. Mescalero, where Misty was from, was the nearest reservation. Was this her boyfriend? “She didn’t die, did she?” He seemed anxious, as if he had urgent business with Florencia.

  “No.” Mae set the boxes down. “She went into hospice.” She reached out to shake hands. His grip was soft. “I’m Mae Martin. My daddy’s partner Niall Kerrigan is a real good friend of Florencia’s.”

  “Reno Geronimo.”

  “M
isty’s fiancé. She’s told me about you. Nice to meet you.” Sort of. Reno didn’t strike Mae as particularly suited to Misty.

  “How long does,” he hesitated, “the woman who lived here have?”

  “I have no idea. I think hospice is for when you have a few months, but Niall would know more.”

  “If her time is short, please don’t say her name. We don’t speak the names of the dead. It calls back the ghost.”

  “Sorry. I’ll be careful. My boyfriend has a taboo like that, too.” Jamie was half Aboriginal Australian, Warlpiri, on his mother’s side. “I didn’t know not to use it already, though.” Mae picked up the boxes again. “You want to come in and talk to Niall?”

  Reno slipped his hands in his pockets and rattled keys and coins, frowning. After a moment, he said, “All right.”

  They went around through the front and found Niall sitting on the floor beside a bookshelf, pulling things off it. Mae placed the boxes beside him and Niall began to assemble one, taping its bottom. Mae was about to explain that Reno had come to see Florencia, but the young man spoke first. “You’re not doing the studio?”

  That was rude. No hello? No sympathy?

  “Nope. It’s locked. And I don’t have a key to it.” Niall placed a book in the box. “She doesn’t want anything taken out of it. Thinks a museum might want it, the whole studio the way she left it. Her brushes. Her easel. Her work in progress. Legacy exhibit.” He looked up at Reno. “She talk to you about that?”

  Reno nodded. “Yes. I just wanted to make sure. I should be going.” He left without further words.

  Niall resumed packing books. Mae looked down at the top of his head, with the gray hairs curling through the black. “Was that a little weird? I could swear he had no idea she’d gone into hospice, but then he started acting like he was the caretaker here.”

  “Something came between them. She won’t say what. He might have come to try to sort it out. Too late. And it’s too bad. He was her student, her friend, the only person besides me that could put up with her.” He opened a book that had a bookmark in it, stroking the page. His voice cracked. “I gave her this for her last birthday.”