Haunting Beauty ...Part 2 ...Seeing a Ghost
to be a more traditional seduction. At least I was still among the living.
— L. K. Hamilton
Do we have a body, or don’t we?
I’ve been asked to find a lost woman who also resembles the girl of my dreams.
All I can say is, as yet, we have a plane crash and a corpse, but at this juncture in the police investigation, no forensic proof it’s Laura.
No wonder I’m conflicted. I’ve fallen in love with a missing woman and being paid by her best friend to prove she’s alive. And to complicate matters further, she just happens to be the girl who haunts my dreams.
My wise mind tells me continuing the search is futile, but my heart tells me to keep on hoping.
There’s little I can do but keep going through the motions while awaiting the coroner’s results.
The next few hours I spend examining Laura’s condo, combing through rooms in search of the tiniest detail, and looking for any hint as to what was going on in Laura’s mind.
For some reason my eye is drawn to an antique grandfather clock. It hasn’t been wound and has stopped working.
I wind it, and as I do, search the interior hoping it might contain some hidden compartment. But all my efforts to find a clue inside are in vain.
The clock turns out to be another false lead.
It’s the weird thing about this case—I keep obsessing about things like the clock, but they yield no more clues than Laura’s apartment.
Maybe my subconscious is simply telling me time has run out for Laura.
And the very thought leaves me desolate.
I wearily sit down on the couch and stare at the city lights milky in the curtains.
I like being here, land I like the feel of her apartment and the view of the Toronto skyline. I sit in the dark, inhaling faint traces of Laura’s perfume and communing with her spirit.
Edith said she could feel Laura’s presence, and I’m beginning to experience that too. It’s an almost mystical experience, being surrounded by these walls, listening to the soft chime of the clock and the steady patter of rain against the windows.
Each moment spent within this apartment, I absorb Laura’s soul—I feel I’ve gone behind the curtain and entered her holy of holies, and I never want to leave.
But gradually, the feeling subsides and my mind returns to the grim reality of Laura’s disappearance.
I can’t keep disassociating like this. I have to remain objective.
I force myself to go home and get a few hour’s sleep, determined that the first person I’ll interview in the morning will be Walter Phillips, Laura’s intrusive and oppressive mentor.
Phillips turns out to be a suave, debonair type, the sort of man I consider, pompous and showy.
He adopts an instant dislike for me. “I don’t see why I have to speak to a reporter after I’ve given my information to the police.”
“Well, as I said, Mr. Phillips, I was retained by Ms. Edith Wilkerson, Laura’s best friend—she’s desperate to know the circumstances of Laura’s mysterious disappearance.”
“Nonsense,” Phillips scoffs, “there’s nothing mysterious about the affair at all. Laura died in a plane wreck and Ms. Wilkerson and you seem to be unable to come to grips with the plain truth.”
“But how can you be so sure the woman on the plane actually is Laura Hunt?”
“It’s common sense—it’d be ludicrous to believe a woman who was Laura’s double had stolen her credentials and credit cards.”
“But the corpse hasn’t been identified. Can you see no other possibility?”
A fire sparks in his eyes. “Aha! I can see you’re taking the offense of that Wilkerson woman—she thinks Laura probably staged some elaborate ruse to get away from me.”
“It is possible,” I remind him.
“You don’t see, do you? You’re as blind as her friend. Laura wasn’t afraid of me—she was obsessed with me and needed me to run her affairs. We planned to marry.”
I laugh. “That’s a delusion you’ve told yourself.”
“Really? If anyone’s delusional here it’s you. You’re some half-crazed romantic that’s fallen in love with a corpse.”
And with those parting words, he retreated into his study, slamming the door on the interview.
That night I feel a strong impulse to go back to Laura’s condo to be with her. Perhaps, Phillips is right, and I am deluded, but if this is some grand illusion, I never want it to end.
It’s raining, and I luxuriate in the ambience of Laura’s condo. I lie back on the couch watching rain trails trill down the windows and try to imagine Laura’s face.
I fall asleep and dream of her. In my sleep fantasy I meet Laura in a train station and somehow we end up back here in her apartment sipping wine and watching the storm.
It’s a sweet dream but in the midst of it, a noise causes me to suddenly awaken.
My heart’s pounding and I sense a presence in the room, near the windows.
I wait, my heart in my throat, peering into the gloom.
Suddenly lightning flares and I see a figure standing near the window staring back at me.
My heart stops.