by Etta Faire
"So, you don't mind if we have a look around?" Caleb asked, practically drooling over the house he thought should rightfully be his.
"Oh, I mind," I said. "But you have a search warrant, so unfortunately, that doesn't matter. But you may only check where your search warrant is valid for. I noticed right now that's just the woods and property outside Gate House." I shooed him back out the veranda door like I was Mrs. Harpton. Rex growled at him, and I gave my dog an extra loving pat as the sheriff headed outside.
Justin and Brock had been buddies since kindergarten, and I could tell they were speaking some sort of unspoken language to each other. I wondered if Brock was somehow talking to him about dating me, like the way I should be talking to Tina.
"Did you get my note? I left it with Christine,” I said to Justin, interrupting their eyebrow talk.
"I haven't been back to the station yet,” he replied.
“Well, when you do, just know I was trying to turn the bone in." I mostly said that for Brock’s benefit, so he’d know why I wanted my ex-boyfriend to call me.
Justin nodded, staring at me a second longer than I expected before heading out the kitchen door. Even though I’d dated the man for about four months before I dated Jackson, I didn’t really know too much about him. No one did. He was one of those rare creatures in Potter Grove who didn’t get talked about.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I leaned into Brock and lowered my voice. "I wish you wouldn't have shown that picture around last night."
"Sorry. I thought I was helping."
"It's just I know Caleb's looking for ways to get his hands on this house, and I want to be careful."
He had a bag full of cables in his hand. "I was honestly just trying to find out if anyone thought it was the missing girls The whole town's been on edge since the two women turned up murdered last year, with a bag of finger bones next to them. But you're right. This is an old house. That bone probably came from some family graveyard or something. And I should've let you handle it."
I nodded and he left to go install my cable.
I could hear Caleb yelling cuss words to Justin as they struggled with procedure. There weren't a lot of murders in Potter Grove, and they seemed to be googling what to do next.
I headed out onto the veranda when I heard the canine unit pulling up to my driveway. A brunette who looked more like a model than a police officer got out of the car along with a german shepherd. Caleb approached her. "You're Officer Grant?" he said, half-chuckling.
"Yes," she replied, stretching a pair of latex gloves over her fingers.
His face dropped. "I thought they said they were sending out professionals.”
Justin backed away from the two as the woman's face sharpened.
"Excuse me?" she asked. "Sheriff Bowman, didn't this house belong to your cousin?" She mumbled something into her radio. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you sitting in on this investigation.”
The heat felt thicker, and I went back inside to grab a beer and some microwave popcorn. This was about to get good. Brock came in when the smell of butter filled the air.
"Poor Justin," he said, pulling off a disposable work glove so he could dig into the popcorn. "He hates that guy."
"Everybody hates that guy," I replied. I smiled a little to myself when the radioed orders must've included Caleb sitting in his police car while Justin and the woman left with the dog.
"Wait a second." I ran over to the glass cabinet in the dining room where antiques were displayed and grabbed the ridiculously old binoculars.
I could only see small glimpses of the woman and her dog as they left one trail and entered another, Justin following closely behind.
Suddenly, the dog took off down a trail and over into the woods, sniffing wildly, pacing back and forth. Justin and Officer Grant ran after him. I stuffed another huge handful of popcorn in my mouth, not even caring that I was shoveling my face like a starving, grunting animal. That's just the way I ate when I was nervous about something, and I couldn't take my eyes off the woods, praying that the dog had found a squirrel or an old buried pet turtle, or that he hadn't really smelled anything interesting. He was just excited to have so much open space.
I took the binoculars off and shoved them at Brock who was still watching by my side. I could only picture the parents from the article, pleading for the safe return of their daughter, blaming themselves because they couldn't afford to pay for the girl’s education. And my ex-husband who seemed to have changed drastically during the last years of our marriage, along with the fact he sure liked strippers...
"Please let that be a squirrel," I muttered over and over again.
Officer Grant pushed her way through some overgrown bushes, emerging from the woods, and Caleb rushed over to her. She held a small plastic bag out to him that seemed to be glimmering in the sunlight.
"What is it?" I asked Brock.
He put the binoculars up to his eyes. “Ohmygod. It looks like a bag of bones. Maybe. I can’t really tell. But there's a necklace with a large blue pendant in it," he replied.
I coughed on a popcorn kernel.
The police taped off most of my yard, and it didn't take but a couple minutes for more help to arrive. I couldn't watch the process even though it lasted all night long, the carefully bagging and photographing of the remains as uniformed and plain-clothed police officers hauled them into a van, professionals from all over Wisconsin, news crews too.
I hadn't even been able to listen to Brock when he tried to explain how my new remote worked for my TV or about my probably-going-to-be-spotty internet connection. "Look, Carly Mae," he finally said, after my fourteenth Huh, what? "You seem pretty shook up. Are you gonna be okay. I could stay here tonight. You know, on the couch."
Every part of me wanted to scream, "yes," and would have any other night. But, not tonight. I didn't want to see anyone or anything but my dead ex-husband.
Of course, I couldn't tell Brock that. After he left, I paced the floor, trying to figure out how to conjure up a ghost. If I had the ability to talk to ghosts, I needed to know how to summon them. I rubbed my temples and tried to concentrate. "Jackson," I said, whispering. I closed my eyes. "Jackson!" I repeated, a little louder that time into the dim lighting of my living room at dusk.
I blinked them open. A dark figure stood in the kitchen frame, leaning casually on the wall. A silhouette against the lights streaming from the many vehicles still parked out on the dirt lot that was my yard. "Jackson?" I asked just before my eyes adjusted and I realized it wasn't my ex. It was his cousin.
"Don't tell me you're going crazy like your friend, Tina Carmichael," he said. "I wouldn't doubt it, though. I hear trauma can bring out some real nut-job behavior, PTSD and all, and what could be more traumatic than knowing you were married to a murderer? That could've been you out there, half buried, with your fingers off... or did you know about that?”
"Okay, Caleb, did you need something? I'm really shook up, and I just want to go to bed."
"So you thought you'd stand in your living room and call out your dead ex-husband's name?"
"Please knock next time." My voice was weak, defeated almost.
He didn't seem to hear a word I was saying. "If you do talk to Jackson, tell him it looks like he's in a world of trouble."
"He's dead," I snapped. "I'm pretty sure he's received all the trouble he can get."
"Yes, burning in hell is probably pretty troublesome," Caleb's voice was smug and sing-songy. Jackson used to tell me there were two lines of the Bowman name. The church-going side. And the ones who had a shot at getting into heaven. Caleb was definitely the former.
He moved in closer to me. "I just came in to let the homeowner know we'll have people here all night, tomorrow too. Expect the FBI and probably the press as well. Sleep tight," he said. "You look good, Carly Mae." He headed out the door, and I locked and bolted it. Then I headed upstairs to try to summon the alleged murderer again.
Chapter 9
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br /> Playing Favorites
I slammed the door to my room and threw myself onto the bed, listening to the clinks and clanks of the workers outside, cleaning up what used to be life and vitality, reduced now to the regimen of paperwork and cleaning crews. The house agreement sat on the nightstand, a business envelope paper-clipped to it with my name on it. I opened the letter.
Dear Miss Taylor,
This letter serves as a formal written reprimand of your negligence in handling the property known as Gate House and its main living occupant, Rex, as inspected by Mrs. Theona Harpton. After three formal reprimands, appropriate actions can be expected. Please note the following areas of improvement...
There were more than one hundred areas of improvement, from how I was forbidden to change the schedule to how I couldn't leave plates on the drying rack past 10:00 at night.
I grabbed my phone and tried to jump on the internet. I must have rights under this house agreement that Ronald failed to mention. I got nothing but a "cannot connect to internet" page.
I tossed the letter and my phone back on top of the agreement and let my head hit the pillow. I no longer wanted to confront my ex. I no longer cared. My mother's place in Indianapolis was looking better and better, even with her constant reminders that my eggs were on a timer. At least the internet would work and I'd have cell phone coverage. And no possibility of being murdered, at least not by anyone but family.
I could hear my mother’s reaction. “Carly Mae, you have to stop quitting stuff when the going gets tough.”
I turned over then jumped back when I saw Jackson's smug face laying next to me on my pillow. "I heard you call longingly for me downstairs."
"You heard wrong. I only want to know one thing, Jackson. Did you do it?" I could barely get the words out fast enough.
"Do what?"
"You know what. Kill those women the police are busy carrying away from our backyard."
I could hear the van doors slamming shut and the engines starting up, revving into the night. I checked his face for any signs that he'd known, that he was involved. His transparent appearance showed up better in the dim lighting of the one lamp I had in my room. But his expression never changed.
"Is that what all the fuss was about outside? As a new transformation, I only have enough energy to manifest myself in the one place I haunt, not outside of it yet. And it took a full day's rest to build up enough energy to do that. You're worth it, though."
"They think you did it," I said, almost half-whispering to the ghost sitting beside me on the bed. "The Landover stripper murders."
"Sure, blame the dead guy... the only one who can't defend himself."
I looked at him. He was avoiding the question. "Did you do it?"
"No," he said. "I can't believe you need to ask me that. Not that it matters, but no. I didn't kill those women. I adore women. I could never hurt one."
"Physically."
He pushed his lip out in a mock-pouting way. "How many times do I have to apologize for that one?"
"Oh, I don't know. You could try once, but honestly, it doesn't matter," I said. He'd never apologized, for anything. Everything was my fault. Somehow, cheating on me with Destiny was my fault too.
He continued with his lie. ”I hate myself for that. I have always loved you, from the moment I saw you staring intently at me from the front row of my English Lit class, your cute little three-ring binder already open and ready to take notes. You were so serious. I knew you were wise beyond your years..."
"Cut the crap," I said. Like most pretentious jerks, Jackson loved the sound of his own voice.
He got up from the bed and hovered by me, kneeling down a bit so our eyes could meet. He was a pretty tall hoverer. "I'm very sorry I cheated on you, Carly. Yes, I know you want to be called Carly now..."
Great. The one person to pay attention to my name change was dead and obnoxious. I knew he wanted me to thank him. I didn't.
"I treated you terribly while we were married, but it was to spare you..."
He stopped himself, probably because he couldn't think of a lie to go along with that one. What could he possibly have been sparing me from? Humiliation? Newsflash. Having a husband like him was very humiliating.
“Let’s just keep things to the murder case. If you didn't kill the strippers then how did they get in your backyard... my backyard." I corrected myself.
He swooshed over to the lumpy purple accent chair that sat next to the door of our room, the one he always loved but I couldn't stand and apparently couldn't change. "That is a very good question." He paused like he was thinking it over. "Someone must've brought them here to frame me."
My chest tightened. "Listen to yourself. You expect me to believe someone carted dead bodies up Gate Hill to frame you? I guess it has to be that coroner who made up your heart attack... This is pretty delusional, even for you, Jackson."
"I don't know. I'm just trying to help you with your investigation."
"My investigation?"
"The one you promised you'd do for me. Now, I think it's pretty apparent that the investigation should also include clearing my name. The person who framed me is probably the same person who killed me. Probably. I would start with Destiny, and my cousin.”
"I'm going back to Indianapolis tomorrow morning, so I'm sorry, I won't be able to help you solve your heart attack. Caleb can have the house, so ask him for help. I draw the line at missing women being found in the yard, especially since we all know nude dancers were your favorite."
"Now, now. I don't play favorites when it comes to nude women. I love them all, frankly... makes no difference to me whether they're dancers or accountants."
He seemed to know his joke wasn't funny at a time like this. He dropped his smile and went on. "The families of these women deserve to know the truth about what happened, don't you think?"
I hated him for playing on my heart strings. These women deserved justice, at the least. And I did believe him that he hadn't committed the murders.
But that didn't mean I was going to stop Rosalie from coming over here tomorrow morning to get rid of him.
Chapter 10
Curses
Thankfully, when the police came with another search warrant to inspect the inside of my house the next day, there really wasn’t much to inspect. My stuff was still in boxes and Jackson’s personal things had already been removed after his death. Plus, Mrs. Harpton had done a thorough cleaning.
I sat on the couch with Rosalie, next to the box she brought. It had bright yellow crescents painted all over its sides that were probably moons even though my stomach was hoping croissants. Caleb passed us every once in a while to smirk and “apologize for the inconvenience.”
"They think Jackson did it, huh?" Rosalie said. “I was hoping that was a rumor.”
“I talked to him last night. He says he didn’t do it. And he really hasn’t got much to gain by lying right now.“
She chuckled. "Ghosts lie all the time. They're surprisingly worried about their reputation, if you can believe it. Legacies are one of the few things still important to them." Seeing my face, she added. "I'm sure Jackson's telling the truth, though."
Caleb came back down, carrying my laptop.
“Wait a minute. That’s mine,” I said.
“I know,” he replied.
“Oh dear Lord, they think you’re in on it,” Rosalie said, and I shushed her.
I ran a hand down my face. I hadn’t expected to be dragged into this so deeply. “When will I get that back?”
Caleb left without answering me along with the professionals from Landover.
As soon as the door closed, Rosalie took her box to the dining room table and opened it up. Not croissants. I checked. Just weird trinkets, gems, and bundled twigs.
”This house is just as amazing as I thought," she said, obviously trying to cheer me up. She looked around the dining room. “I bet this is the exact way this house looked back when Jackson’s great grandparents owned it.
You’ve got some serious antiques. No wonder Caleb is crazed with jealousy.”
I nodded slowly. I wasn’t really in the mood to give her a tour, even though I knew she was hinting. I’d just had my privacy violated, my laptop confiscated, and my dead ex-husband accused of murder.
She didn’t seem to catch on that now might not be a good time for me. “I sure remember the rumors about this place back when I was a kid,” she said. “Something nobody forgets. The curse, especially.“
She suddenly had my attention. ”What curse? What are you talking about?"
A smile formed across her thick pale cheeks that seemed to say, "All in good time," a look I absolutely despised. My mom used that look a lot whenever I'd ask about my adoption or my biological parents.
"I feel a lot of energy in here," she said, pulling out a handheld meter device from the box.
I sat down in the chair next to Rosalie. Out of my peripheral vision, I noticed Jackson on my other side.
"Oh good," he said sarcastically. "You've called in Rosalie Cooper, the town fruitcake, to help with my case. They have the police, and we have the corny mystic who paints cardboard boxes.”
I looked back at Rosalie. She didn't seem to hear a word the ghost next to us had said. She was going on and on about energy and the little contraption she was holding. "It's called an EMF meter. You've probably seen these on TV in the ghost hunter kind of shows."
Jackson rested his elbows on the table and cupped his chin into his hands like he was pretending to be enthralled. "She's an amazing medium, huh? She knows exactly when there's a ghost afoot. We are witnessing credible science right here."
She set the contraption on the table and Jackson flicked it with a finger. It moved a little.
"Oooooh, did you see that,” she said, her voice rising in enthusiasm. "That movement means there's likely a ghost right here in this room, right now."