The Perfect Ghost Read online

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  For Alison

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to those who have discussed, argued, read, reread, edited, and otherwise contributed to this novel, including Barbara Shapiro, Hallie Ephron, Jan Brogan, Sarah Smith, Hector Gomez, Catherine Cairns, Maxine Aaronson, June McGinnis, Gina Maccoby, Kelley Ragland, Elizabeth Lacks, and always, Richard and Sam.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Part One

  Dennis Port Police Department transcript

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part Two

  UMass Memorial Labs

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Also by Linda Barnes

  About the Author

  Copyright

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I have taken liberties with the geography of Cape Cod. Dennis Port (or Dennisport) is a village bordering Nantucket Sound, a census-designated place within the town of Dennis, Massachusetts. The Dennis Police Department bears no resemblance to the fictional Dennis Port Police Department.

  PART

  one

  Doubt thou the stars are fire;

  Doubt that the sun doth move;

  Doubt truth to be a liar;

  But never doubt I love.

  Hamlet, Act II, scene 2

  William Shakespeare

  Dennis Port Police Department

  One Arrow Point Way

  Dennis Port, MA 02639

  911 TRANSCRIPT, 3/22, IN REGARD TO CASE FILE #11-0897 TRANSCRIBED INTO TYPEWRITTEN FORM BY G. HENRY, 3/24.

  Dispatch:

  Nine-one-one.

  A:

  Yeah, look, um, I heard a noise, like a crash, I thought, but then I figure maybe it’s just thunder or something, but then I’m looking out the window, and I think somebody musta driven off the road.

  Dispatch:

  What’s your address, sir?

  A:

  I’m over on Willow Crest, by the pond.

  Dispatch:

  What number is that, sir?

  A:

  I’m at 8725, but it’s not real near the crash, if that’s what it is. Could be it was thunder, and lightning struck over near the pond, but you know how the road turns right near there, kinda sharp? Heard there was an accident down there two years back, maybe three, fellow ran his car into the pond, so no fire, but I’m thinking this time maybe the guy wasn’t so lucky.

  Dispatch:

  Can I have your name, please?

  A:

  Are you sending somebody out?

  Dispatch:

  Yes, sir, I am.

  A:

  You tell ’em to hurry, okay? I’d go out there myself, but my knees aren’t so good. I fell last fall, wrenched my back, and I don’t want to do that again.

  Dispatch:

  No, sir, please just stay on the line. I’ll have somebody there as soon as possible.

  A:

  Good, because if I go out and fall down again, my daughter will hand me my head in a bucket, but I hate to just sit here thinking maybe somebody could use my help.

  Dispatch:

  You’re helping by calling it in, sir. Can I have your name, please?

  A:

  Thought you’d already have it.

  Dispatch:

  You’re calling from a cell phone, right?

  A:

  Hey, could be it’s nothing at all. I can’t see real good from here, not down that far.

  Dispatch:

  Sir, are you still there? Sir?

  CHAPTER

  one

  Teddy, you would have been proud of me.

  I left home on my own, and not just to pace up and down Bay State Road like a restless feline, either. I made arrangements online, but I physically climbed into a puke-stinking cab, pinched my nose during the ride to South Station, and raced onboard the 9:50 Acela. I almost bailed at New Haven because I was terrified, because my Old Haven no longer existed, because it sounded so damned hopeful: “Five minutes to New Haven, exit on your right.” I squeezed my eyelids shut and resisted the impulse to flee. Instead, I thought about you. I conjured you. I imagined talking to you, telling you about the strangers on the train.

  There was a snooty woman, tall, imperious, cradling a full-length fur, patting her mink absentmindedly, as if it were a friendly dog. Two teen lovers, a Celtic cross tattooed on her neck, a too-big-to-be-a-diamond stud in his right ear, entertained their fellow passengers by crawling into each other’s laps. A bald man with a hawk nose trumpeted his importance into his iPhone.

  Something makes people want to confide in me, no matter how hard I stare at my book. I wish I knew what it was so I could change it. When the businessman abandoned his cell and adjusted the knot in his tie, I had the feeling he was going to start complaining at me, like I was his secretary or his wife, and then just in time I remembered the quiet car. Really, Teddy, it was like you whispered in my ear, Em, go sit in the quiet car. I shot to my feet as though the engineer had electrified my seat, lurched down the aisle, and found a place among the blessed book-readers and stretched-out sleepers where I collapsed and breathed until the pulse stopped throbbing in my ears.

  I considered swallowing a Xanax, but as I stared out the gray-tinted window at the passing shoreline, I got a better idea: I could pretend there were thick glass windows between me and the crowds, a bulletproof tunnel running straight to Henniman’s. I could keep myself mentally separate, isolated and alone. I could figuratively stay on the train and lock everyone else outside, and I wouldn’t open the door for anyone but Jonathan.

  When an elderly woman peered at me over her rimless reading glasses and smiled encouragingly, I let my face go blank, willing her to turn away, to not mistake me for some friend’s college-bound daughter in need of a comforting pat. I must have looked desperate, stricken, agonized in spite of my careful preparation. You can’t imagine how much time I spent modeling outfits in the mirror, changing my mind about this scarf, that pocketbook, t
hese pants, this sweater, before winding up in a sophisticated version of what you called my uniform: ink-black jeans and a wheat-colored edition of my usual V-necked T-shirt. At the last minute I added a black suit jacket because everyone in Manhattan wears one. Simple gold jewelry: a necklace and a ring. All those wasted hours and I still screwed up the shoes. I made a mistake and chose the heels you once jokingly termed my “power shoes.”

  At the time, I figured I’d take a cab from Penn Station to Henniman’s. But I was early. When have I not been early? I roamed the station for eighteen minutes, but they kept making scary announcements over the PA. Watch for suspicious persons, abandoned parcels, don’t leave your luggage unattended. The lights were bright and hot, and the air reeked of rotting pizza with a hint of urine underneath. A seedy-looking man focused hollow eyes on my pocketbook, sizing me up for a mugging, so I made the snap decision to walk. I visualized a dot on a map: me. The dot would slide smoothly from Penn Station to the meeting with Jonathan.

  I erected my imaginary tunnel and under its protective shell sped crosstown to Fifth Avenue, silently reciting sonnets to counter the boom-and-thud construction noise, the screeching traffic. Shakespearean iambs moved my feet, and the map-dot made steady progress until I reached the corner of Fifth. There, despite the simplicity of the directions, I halted, confused. Right or left? Shaken, I almost panicked. My breathing shifted into second gear, but I knew the numbered cross streets would inform me if I erred. I turned right, which proved correct, and then I simply had to scoot down to the Twenties, which would have been fine except for the shoes.

  Never look like you need the money when you go in for a loan. That’s what I thought when I tried them on in front of the mirror. New and expensive, practically unworn, they seemed glamorous and carefree, but how can you look carefree if your toes are getting squeezed in a vise?

  I was hopelessly early. Twenty-two minutes. So I detoured, backtracking up Fifth, bypassing the library because the stairs seemed too steep a challenge, taking refuge in Saks, pushing through the heavy door, thinking I could stand there motionless without attracting notice, flexing my toes and inhaling the overly perfumed cosmetics-counter air. I checked myself in the mirror over the Guerlain counter, and really, I could have been someone else, any one of the young professional women in their late twenties who milled about the store. I looked unruffled, as serene as a Madonna in a painting.

  I didn’t want to be early, Teddy. Early is so desperate. And that couch in the glass reception cage? It would have been like trying to relax on the rack while the hooded torturers elbowed one another and rubbed their sweaty palms together in anticipatory glee. I was picturing their evil grins when a frozen-faced saleslady showed her teeth and asked if she could help me.

  Jesus, Teddy, the days I waited for someone to say that. The years. Can I help you? And when exactly was it that “Can I help you?” started to mean “Can I sell you something?” When was the last time anyone genuinely wanted to help me? Help as in aid, as in succor, as in give sustenance?

  I could have moved into scarves or hats or shoes. Shoes would have been best. I could have sat in a cushy chair, removed those awful blister-makers, and wriggled my achy toes. But I felt forced outside into the cold.

  I joined the downtown parade, marching behind a man in a leather blazer chatting loudly into his cell. Each cross street thundered with traffic, pedestrian and automotive. Plunging into intersections, I felt like a chipmunk darting under the carriage of an eighteen-wheeler. I wondered if the leather blazer–clad man was talking to his wife or his lover, if the woman was telling him she loved him or hated him, if he’d continue the rest of the day in lockstep or if something he learned during that particular conversation would shatter and spin him around, alter his life and change his path. Irrevocably, the way mine had changed.

  I walked right past the Flatiron Building, herded by the press of pedestrians, afraid to stop for fear of getting trampled. Where were all these purposeful souls headed? Were they late, afraid that if they paused and lifted their eyes to the murky sky, they’d stop, paralyzed by fear and uncertainty, dismount their painted carousel horses, collapse on the bare pavement, and howl?

  I worked my way to a corner and turned left onto a calmer cross street. I stepped into an alcove and watched the slow drip of water off an awning. My clothes felt too tight. I needed to pee. I should have used the restroom at Saks. It was time to meet Jonathan. I backtracked and opened the door, signed my name on the list. The guard glanced at my wavering signature with an expressionless face. I added the time in the provided space, and he nodded me toward the elevators.

  I was one of twenty waiting in the lobby. I couldn’t bring myself to squeeze into the first elevator, and the second took its own sweet time. I pressed my lips together and thought, Relax, nobody cares if you’re a little late, but my body didn’t hear me. I looked for the stairs, but I didn’t have time for twelve flights. It would have to be the box.

  The elevator stopped at every floor. Pause for the doors to part, wait for strangers to shuffle in and out. Wait, wait, wait for the doors to close again, then hover, hang, while the mechanism debated whether to rise or drop. During the slow-motion endurance test, I ran through the upcoming scene: You’ll see Jonathan, you’ll shake hands. I wiped a damp palm on the thigh of my pants. You’ll see him, you’ll shake hands.

  The new receptionist looked like a replica of the old receptionist: young, remote, plastic. I gave my name, and she invited me to take a seat on the agony couch. I stood by the bookshelf instead, pretending to read the titles of upcoming releases.

  The latest as-told-to T. E. Blakemore, front and center, was well displayed. The cover credit, long sought, was no more than our hard-won due, and it took an effort to keep my hands from paging to the inside back flap and staring at your photograph. You were such a splendid public face for us. So charming and witty, so quick with a clever remark. I didn’t need to open the book to see you. Remember? Such a bitterly cold day, and I wanted the frozen Charles River in the background? I wanted that glint in your eye, that devil-may-care smile, tousled hair, craggy face. The wind snatched your hat off.

  “Em? Are you okay?”

  Jonathan, starched white shirt, navy suit pants belted too high, tie slightly off center, stood in front of me and I had no idea how long he’d been there. He looked exactly like the editor he was, the indoor pallor, the wire-rimmed glasses, the narrow, stooped shoulders. His right arm was extended as though he’d stuck it out for a handshake and gotten no response.

  “Bring us some water, please,” he ordered the receptionist. “We’ll be in my office.” He placed a hand between my shoulder blades and propelled me down the hallway. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  I told him I was all right.

  “You did faint,” he said accusingly. “Once.”

  I concentrated on the rush of air entering and leaving my nostrils. It started, anyway, the rapid heartbeat, the sudden feeling of suffocation. The mind knows no end of dread, and if it does, the body takes over.

  But, Teddy, I didn’t faint.

  I didn’t handle it perfectly. Jonathan asked if I needed a paper bag to breathe into, so I was far from perfect, but I perched on a chair and composed myself and asked Jonathan how he was doing.

  He admitted he was fine while gazing at me as though I might detonate my bomb-vest. The door burst open, and the receptionist thrust two bottles of Poland Spring into his outstretched hands.

  The water slid down my throat, deliciously icy, while he asked about Marcy, whether she was coming to the meeting. When I told him it would just be me, he said he wasn’t disappointed, au contraire, he was delighted. Trying to be gallant, but I could see how uncomfortable he was. And I thought I could use that to my advantage. You know how good I am at staying quiet. He squirmed, then managed a weak smile and asked what he could do for me.

  I didn’t answer.

  “I hope you’re not worried about the advance. It’s a heart
less business, all right, but nobody’s going to give you any trouble.”

  “Jonathan,” I said, “listen to me. You can’t cancel this book.”

  The words spoken; the battle joined.

  He pushed back his chair, stood, and took three steps to the window, where he fussed with the angle of the blinds. He had a good view; a tiny closet of an office, but a glorious panorama of rooftops.

  “I’ll finish the book,” I said. “I know: Teddy’s not here—but I can do it. You can put it out as a Blakemore, or you can use my name alone—whichever works for you.”

  He kept his focus on the sky, as though waiting for a fireworks display. “I don’t know that we can go along with that.”

  The royal we. The evasive, weaseling we. As if it weren’t Jonathan himself who had stabbed me through the heart. As if he hadn’t cast his vote of no confidence.

  He returned to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. “I’m sure when you think things over, you’ll realize it’s for the best. You must be completely overwhelmed. Distraught.” If I hadn’t frozen him with my eyes, he might have leaned over and patted my hand.

  “Teddy and I were colleagues,” I said. “Colleagues. Not lovers.”

  “I thought—”

  “A lot of people thought.” My throat dried up, and I took a hasty swig of Poland Spring.