The Ghosts of Alpine

The house had everything a buyer could want, plus a ghost.

Orly checked her list. “Kitchen faucet fixed, outlet replaced, chimney inspected. Anything else?”

The husband turned the tap.

“Looks good.”

His wife wandered into the dining room. “Isn’t this where Eleanor threw the candlestick?”

“At the previous owner’s brother. He was trying to take down her portrait.”

“Oh, right.” She examined the wall. “We’ll leave that where it is.”

A door slammed upstairs. The wife beamed.

“Was that her?”

“Could be,” Orly said, ticking the final box. “You’re all set for closing. And it’ll be a real treat being here for Halloween.”

“I can’t wait.”

Orly handed over the clipboard.

“Congratulations. I hope you’ll all be happy here.”

“All?”

“Well,” she glanced upstairs, “there are three of you now.”

She left them laughing and headed for her car. A commission check was waiting.

***

Mortimer Bellafonte intercepted her at the title office. Mort wore an old-fashioned suit, a bow tie, and the expression of someone who knew something nobody else did.

“Shane hired me yesterday. Pernicious poltergeist in Englewood. Nearly took a buyer’s head off with a skillet.”

“Hello to you too, Mort.”

“Now, if you want to stay ahead of the competition—”

“I sell haunted houses. I don’t un-haunt them.”

The receptionist handed Orly her check. Sixty thousand dollars. She checked the amount twice.

“Some of those people have unresolved business,” Mort said.

“The buyers?”

“The dead, Orly.”

“You realize most people think you’re a quack? And I’m one of those people.”

“Shane thought so too, until somebody threw a skillet at his client. Now he wants to know whether I can come on a Sunday.”

Orly laughed despite herself. “Probably a sales maneuver for his seller.”

Mort leaned against the counter. “Speaking of difficult clients, I hear you’ve got the Alpine estate.”

“I’m the number one realtor in Bergen County for a reason. I don’t sell the steak. I sell the sizzle. Nothing sizzles like an old mystery with supernatural overtones.”

“Well, you’ve got a doozy. The Rionda family, that poor girl who fell from the tower. I’d like a look around.”

“And I’d like a Lamborghini Revuelto. Which I have more chance of getting than you have of trudging through one of my listings.”

“It really is a juicy one, Orly.”

“If I sell it, perhaps the owners will invite you.”

“I’d rather you invited me.”

“Never gonna happen.”

“A boy can dream, can’t he?”

She was halfway to the door when he called after her.

“Be careful in that tower.”

Something in his voice made her turn.

“Why?”

“Some houses have more to tell us than we may want to hear.”

“You’re wasting your talents, Mort. You should be selling insurance.”

***

Mindy called before Orly reached her car.

“Two months, Orly. The bank’s filed for foreclosure, and now my attorney wants money I haven’t got.”

“We’ve had interest—”

“Shane says he can sell it before Halloween.”

“Shane is big on promises. Results, not so much.”

“But at least he gave me a deadline. Something I can tell the lawyer. This is all my family has. I can’t be the one to lose it… for nothing.”

Orly stopped beside her car.

“And you won’t, Mindy. You hired me because I get top dollar. I close deals. Especially the hard ones. It’s what I do.”

“The last two buyers wouldn’t even go up the tower.”

“Then they weren’t—”

“Please don’t tell me they weren’t the right buyers.”

Orly let her finish.

“I can’t lose this house. There’s nothing else.”

“I know. Give me twenty minutes. We’re going to have this conversation in person.”

“You’re coming now?”

“With Gabby. We need new photographs.”

Mindy sighed. “Fine. But we’re talking about the price.”

“We’ll talk. Then I’ll handle it. I always do.”

***

Mindy wanted a price reduction. Orly persuaded her to give the new photographs a chance.

Outside, Gabby checked the sinking sun.

“We should’ve started an hour ago.”

“Dusk is when it looks best. The golden hour.”

“If you’re selling a haunted house.”

“A twenty-five-million-dollar haunted house. Six hundred thousand in commissions. Get the tower.”

They worked around the grounds toward the converted servants’ quarters. A young woman in a pale dress crossed the lawn.

“Is she supposed to be here?” Gabby asked.

“Who cares? Take the picture.”

He checked his display, frowned, and took another.

“Come look at this.”

In the first photograph, the lawn was empty. In the second, there was just an orange blob where the woman had been.

“She moved,” Orly said.

“She was right there. Both times.”

“Maybe it didn’t focus. I don’t know, Gabby. The thing malfunctioned. You’re the photographer. I can barely get my phone to stop taking pictures of the inside of my bag.”

“Then why is everything around her sharp?”

The woman continued toward the tower. Orly called after her, but she didn’t turn.

They followed. By the time they reached the open tower door, she was gone.

“Hello?” Orly called.

Footsteps sounded overhead.

Gabby remained outside.

“I’ve got enough pictures.”

“Just a few from the top.”

The private elevator had been quite a feature in 1917. Too bad Orly had forgotten the keys.

They climbed the narrow stairs to the former office and stepped onto the terrace.

Near the balustrade, the woman stood arguing. Orly could hear her voice, although the wind carried away the words.

There was nobody beside her.

“Miss? Are you all right?”

The woman raised her hands. Suddenly she stumbled backward, struck the railing, and toppled over.

Her scream brought Gabby running.

They leaned over the stone.

Nothing below. No body, no movement.

“Call someone,” Gabby said.

Orly couldn’t get her phone out. Her fingers kept slipping against the pocket.

“Orly. Call.”

“There’s nobody there.”

“I watched her fall!”

They hurried downstairs and searched beneath the tower, calling into the gathering dark.

Gabby called out once more. Orly checked behind the stonework, although nobody could have crawled there after such a fall. She kept expecting to find a shoe.

Eventually Gabby lowered his camera into its bag.

“I’m going home. And I’m not doing this again.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Don’t call me about pictures.”

Orly drove away with both hands tight on the wheel. By the highway, she’d decided to return.

***

She came back alone after dark.

In the guesthouse, light shone beneath a bedroom door. She heard a woman say, “Paola, look at me.”

Orly pushed the door open.

An oil lamp burned on a wooden table. The modern furniture was gone.

Paola sat beside the fireplace. A curvier young woman with long blonde curls stood over her, holding a cup.

“Drink something. You’ve hardly touched your supper.”

“I’m going to have a baby, Mariana.”

Mariana put the cup down.

“Raphael?”

“He promised we’d go to Havana.”

“Oh, Paola.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Does Señor Rionda know?”

“Raphael will tell him. He’s waiting for the right time.”

Mariana knelt beside her.

“Has he told you when? And don’t say soon. My sister waited two years for soon. Soon was never.”

“He’s not that man.”

Paola smoothed her skirt.

“He has business to finish.”

“They always have something. Business, obligations. You’re the one sitting here sick and afraid.”

“He loves me.”

“Then let him come and say so. In front of somebody.”

Paola looked toward the door. For an instant, Orly thought she saw her.

“He promised,” Paola said quietly.

“They always promise. But when it costs them something...” Mariana took her hand. “You’re not his sweetheart anymore. Now you’re his problem.”

Paola withdrew her hand.

“I’m going to speak to him.”

“Tonight? Wait until morning. I’ll come with you.”

“I can speak for myself. I came all this way without anybody holding my hand.”

Mariana stood. “I know you did. Will you at least take a shawl?”

But Paola was already at the door.

She lifted her chin. Orly stepped aside.

The lamp went out.

She was alone among the guesthouse furniture.

Orly remained by the doorway. Paola had been frightened, but she’d gone anyway.

Outside, a light appeared at the top of the tower.

***

The men were arguing before Orly reached the landing.

“You’ve committed shipments we haven’t secured,” Manuel Rionda said. “What happens if the mills don’t deliver?”

Raphael Valdés stood across a desk covered with papers.

“We’ll cover them. You wanted me to move quickly.”

“With my money! You were ambitious. I wanted to give you an opportunity, not a chance to ruin me.”

“After everything I’ve done for this business—”

“Sit down.”

Raphael went onto the terrace instead.

Orly followed. The night had become evening again. Below, sunlight lingered on the lawn.

Footsteps sounded behind her.

“Raphael?”

He turned.

“Not now, Paola.”

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“Go downstairs. I’ll find you later.”

“You said that yesterday.”

He glanced toward the office.

“Keep your voice down.”

“We were supposed to leave. You said Havana—”

“Here.” He took an envelope from his jacket. “Train fare. To Florida. Someone will meet you.”

She didn’t take it.

“What am I going to do in Florida?”

“There’s a place arranged. I’ll send money.”

“When are you coming?”

“Paola.”

She waited.

“I’m not.”

For a moment, she only stared at him.

“It’s for the best,” he said. “For everyone.”

“I’d sooner die, mi amor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“And our child?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You won’t even look at me.”

He seized her arm and pulled her away from the office doors.

“The child will be provided for, if it lives. But you will not call it mine.”

Paola pulled free.

“Yesterday you had your hand here.” She pressed her palm against her stomach. “You asked if I could feel it.”

“Take the envelope. I won’t ask again.”

She turned toward the office.

“Señor Rionda! Please!”

Raphael caught her by the shoulders.

“Don’t you dare.”

Orly reached for his arm.

Her hand passed through it.

He shoved Paola against the balustrade. She caught at his sleeve, missed, and went over.

Orly heard herself shouting.

Manuel appeared in the doorway.

“She fell,” Raphael said. “We were talking. She—”

“I saw you.”

Manuel looked down, then seized Raphael by the collar.

“You murderous fool!”

“She was going to ruin everything.”

“That girl?”

“She was carrying my child.”

Manuel’s grip loosened. From below came a woman’s cry.

He dragged Raphael into the office by his hair and pushed him into a chair. From a drawer he took heavy consular stationery.

“Write it down.”

Raphael stared at the paper.

“What?”

“That you killed her. That she was pregnant with your child.”

“Manuel, listen to me—”

“In your own hand. All of it. Then sign.”

Raphael reached for the pen.

Manuel leaned over him.

“I will keep this. If you ever give me cause to regret protecting you, it goes to the police. Do you understand?”

The pen scratched across the page.

To Whom It May Concern. My name is Raphael Valdés, and this is my confession...

When he’d finished, Manuel made him sign beneath the last line.

“Now find Mariana. You heard a scream and came running.”

Raphael wiped his mouth.

“And you?”

“You were here with me when we heard the scream. Neither of us saw her fall.”

Manuel wrote their false account on a second sheet, signed it, and folded both papers into an envelope. He placed it beneath the lining of his writing box.

The room disappeared.

Orly stood in the dark, her hand still reaching toward a desk that wasn’t there.

***

Mort listened over breakfast without touching his eggs.

“I tried to stop him,” Orly said.

“I know.”

“No, I had him. His arm was right there.”

She looked down at her hand.

Mort waited until she put it in her lap.

“These are things that have already happened. As you believe what you’re seeing, more of it becomes visible.”

“So I get to watch.”

“For now. Yesterday you couldn’t see the man beside her. Last night you heard him, saw him. She’s getting through to you.”

Orly rubbed her eyes. “I wish she’d picked somebody else.”

“Well, you’re here.”

“You sounded considerably more confident at the title office.” Orly looked toward the window. “Why her? Why is she still there?”

“People still say she killed herself. Something was done to her, and nobody ever put it right.”

Orly pushed her coffee aside.

“Raphael wrote a confession. Manuel made him. He kept it to hold over him.”

“Where?”

“A writing box. Under the lining. But the office is empty now.”

Mort reached for his notebook. “Then let’s find that letter.”

***

An old inventory led them to another Rionda house. Photographs confirmed the writing box had remained with the office collection.

Shane had the listing.

Orly called the owner herself. He refused access; the collection was being packed for shipment overseas that week. Shane, however, offered to discuss it over lunch.

“Mindy called me,” he said before Orly sat down.

“Of course she did.”

“She needs a buyer.”

“I’m aware of that. I need your client to let me examine a writing box.”

“And I need the Alpine listing.”

Orly left her menu closed. “I’m asking to look through old papers, Shane. Your client can stand over me the whole time.”

“I’ve told you what I want.”

She stared at him.

“You’re serious.”

“I’ll get permission to examine the collection. You bring me into Alpine.”

“Six hundred thousand dollars. That’s what you’re asking me to give up?”

“You keep the buyer’s side. We split the commission.”

“And you get the listing credit.”

He spread his hands.

She’d closed ten more sales than Shane. But twenty-five million would put him ahead in volume, enough to win the inaugural 201 Magazine Real Estate Award.

She’d already imagined where she’d hang it.

“I’ll pay for access,” she said.

“I’m not asking for a fee.”

“No. You’re asking for everything I’ve worked toward this year.”

Shane smiled. “Fair is fair.”

She nearly walked out. There might be another way. A letter to the owner. Weeks of persuasion.

Mindy didn’t have weeks.

And Paola had already waited long enough.

“I’ll need Mindy’s agreement,” Orly said.

“Naturally.”

“And nobody moves anything in that room until I’ve seen it.”

Shane reached for his phone.

“Done.”

***

Mindy agreed before Orly finished explaining the commission arrangement.

“If this gets it sold, do it.”

That afternoon, Shane admitted Orly and Mort to the collection.

They found the writing box on a shelf behind several ledgers. Its lining had stiffened and split at the edges.

Orly stopped with her fingers beneath it.

“What if it’s gone?”

Mort moved the lamp closer.

“Let’s look.”

The envelope lay flat against the wood.

Inside, Raphael’s handwriting slanted unevenly across the heavy paper. Orly recognized the opening words. Farther down, he acknowledged Paola’s pregnancy and described pushing her from the tower.

She read it twice. Beneath it lay Manuel’s signed account, placing Raphael in his office when they heard the scream. He’d kept the truth and the lie together.

Mort reached for his glasses.

“May I?”

She passed it to him carefully.

Outside, Shane was taking a call about Alpine.

***

Mort arranged for an archivist to compare both documents with other correspondence. The handwriting and stationery matched. With the owner’s permission, the papers went to the historical society.

When the first newspaper account appeared, Orly bought six copies.

That evening, she and Mort returned to the tower.

Paola stood near the railing.

Orly approached slowly, holding the paper where she could see it.

“They know now.”

She read aloud. Raphael’s confession. The pregnancy. Manuel’s concealment of the crime.

“You didn’t jump,” Orly said. “That’s what they’ll read when they look you up.”

Paola watched her.

Orly lowered the newspaper.

“I’m sorry it took so long.”

Paola glanced toward the office doors. Orly braced herself for footsteps, for Raphael to come out again.

Nothing happened.

Mort stepped forward.

“It took a century, but the truth came out.”

Paola turned toward them. Her lips moved.

“Thank you.”

She walked past Orly toward the stairs. Halfway there, she stopped and looked out across the grounds.

The breeze lifted the hem of her dress.

Then Orly could see the doorway through her.

She waited until even the pale outline had gone before she turned to Mort.

“She’s really gone? She won’t have to do that again tomorrow?”

He nodded.

Orly folded the newspaper with care.

***

Six weeks later, Mindy signed the closing papers. The sale brought twenty-five million dollars.

Shane showed Orly the email announcing his award.

“I know you wanted it,” he said.

“Then don’t make me read it twice.”

He put his phone away.

Outside, Mort waited beside the steps.

“How did it go?”

“Mindy’s keeping what’s left of her money. Shane’s getting his trophy. Everyone’s delighted.”

“And you?”

“I could use that three hundred thousand dollars.”

“I imagine you could.”

Orly stood beside him, watching traffic.

“The historical society changed the account? Not just the newspaper?”

“Yes. Paola was murdered. Raphael killed her. Manuel concealed it. It’s all there.”

She nodded.

“I used to think making a sale was hard. Try righting a wrong.”

Mort smiled. “Well, you’ve had your share of rewards you can put in the bank or hang on the wall. There’s another kind, isn’t there?”

“I still like those first two.”

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”

“But this other kind...” She looked back at the title office. “I suppose it could grow on me.”

“Perhaps you’ll join me again.”

“Don’t start. I’m not ending up in a little office on Main Street in Hackensack.”

“It’s a very nice office.”

“It’s one room.”

She started toward her car, then turned.

“If you hear about another one, call me.”

Mort’s smile widened.

“An interesting one,” she added. “I still have a business to run.”

“I thought you didn’t un-haunt houses.”

“I don’t,” Orly said. “Apparently, I make exceptions.”