Bath Bombs & Beyond

by Violet Patton

  Fanny asked, “Were you a copper? The woman asked how you liked retirement.”

  “You mean a policeman? Heck no! I was a secretary.”

  “Can you find out who murdered me?”

  “Didn’t you see them?” I winced, knowing better than to ask.

  She shook her head. “I was shot from behind. Didn’t see anything. Can you solve murders? There are lots of folks… ghosts who need help.”

  I mulled over the idea of investigating a murder. What would Bubba do with a case this old? I chuckled, knowing Bubba would laugh and run the other way. “Heaven’s no. I never investigated a thing.”

  Fanny sighed heavily. “It’s nice to have someone to talk though. Ghosts are boring, always moaning about the same old things.”

  “You’re disappointed I’m not dead.”

  “Oh, no… I’m not. Dead isn’t exciting. Nothing ever changes. At least it hadn’t, until you bumped your head.”

  Bumping my head had changed things a lot. The most I expected were residual headaches and maybe memory loss; the least and last on anyone’s list was seeing a ghost. If she was a ghost?

  The warm afternoon sun had heated the cool morning air.

  “I’m sweating like a racehorse.” I plucked at my T-shirt, clinging to my back. “I’m about to pass out. I gotta go inside. It’s blazing hot out here.”

  “Okay.” Fanny agreed and faded into a hazy grayscale flickering off to nothing. I stood there gapping at the empty bench, gathering my wits. Everything that just happened was wholly unexplainable. Although, my future psychiatrist would find my case fascinating.

  Inside, Sandy stood behind the counter studying the receipts on our pay system tablet; she looked over the rim of her glasses. Ignoring her stare, I went through the swinging doors, putting away the broom.

  When I came back into the showroom, Sandy’s brows knitted together. “I’m worried about you. The bump might’ve done more damage than we thought. Who were you talking to?” Fidgeting, she rearranged the ink pen on the counter.

  I couldn’t explain talking to myself if I tried, so I changed the subject. “What’d those last girls buy?” Telling Sandy my newfound ghost friend was sewing a bowtie for gangsters she danced with at the Southern Club and showing off her smoking bullet holes was a bad idea.

  “Oh, this and that.” Sandy closed her tablet. “Listen… I think you should go home. You’re acting paranoid.”

  Paranoid sounded over the top, but I couldn’t deny the fact I was talking to myself. “I’m not leaving you alone. It’s too…” I almost said dangerous. “Where’s the ibuprofen?”

  6

  Teddy

  Labor Day weekend Sandy and I labored until we were pooped. My thumbs blistered from tying ribbons. Sandy’s plantar fasciitis flared up and she was hobbling by the end of Monday. I opened late Tuesday afternoon, happy the four-day weekenders had left town. Sandy couldn’t walk and called in sick, which suited me fine. I could hold up her end of the bargain.

  Since I would be alone, I sent Teddy a text. As much as Sandy fussed about him, I needed his support. He could hoist the trash bins into the dumpster without much effort.

  When I parked my car, he was leaning against the wall outside the shop’s back door.

  “Why didn’t you go in?”

  “Waitin’ on you.” Grinning, he swiped off his ball cap and bowed. “After you, M’ lady.” He pulled out his key and unlocked the door.

  Once we were inside, he let the door close with a thud. “Looks like hell. You guys were busy.”

  “I’ll say. Where do I start?”

  We were super busy on Sunday and Monday, and even Sandy gave up trying to keep the lotion bottles perfectly aligned. Pieces of cut ribbons, wadded tissue paper, and shrink wrap I had ruined littered the floor and workbench. The place was a bigger mess than I remembered and my nose throbbed. I grabbed the bridge of my nose. “Anywhere you want.”

  “How’s the head?” He made a pretend magnifying glass with his fingers, peering with exaggerated movements at my head.

  “Nothing to see here. I’m better.” I ducked out of his reach.

  The less I said about my problems the better. I wasn’t lying. Large doses of ibuprofen helped. The goose egg had stopped throbbing, but the skin around it still felt watery and squishy. Off and on, Fanny badgered me all weekend, and I drove Sandy stark raving mad replying to her. I think Sandy delved into her anti-anxiety meds, because after a while she stopped fuming about my sudden inexplicable outbursts so much.

  He grabbed the overflowing trash bin. “Guess I’ll start here. I’m kinda short on time. You know, my other gig?”

  “Oh? Right. I won’t keep you long.” It was too early to drink beer and his mysteriousness made me wonder.

  He noticed my expression. “Yeah. Spying on the side.” He blushed, shrugging heading for the door.

  “James Bond, huh? How titillating!” I grinned, but didn’t ask any more questions.

  “Not quite. Deadbeat dad.”

  I didn’t need to know the rest of the story, so I asked, “Can you put out the easel? I’ve got to restock the soaps.”

  “Sure.” He went out the door backwards.

  I headed to the showroom with a crate of precut soaps. I knew we’d need to cut soap from our bulk supply soon, but I wanted to avoid it. I had screwed up enough soap already, and we couldn’t afford that expensive mistake too often. Besides, I couldn’t cut soap and wait on customers. Myra had pooh-poohed the Black Lily Shea soap, but its cake plate was all but empty.

  Soon, I smelled a fresh pot of coffee brewing. It felt nice having Teddy puttering about.

  The back door thudded closed several times, before Teddy carried two mugs of coffee to the counter. “Where’s my beloved sister this afternoon?”

  “Sandy’s nursing her pinkies. Reordering from home.” I turned my back to pull lotion bottles from the bulk boxes, restocking the shelves behind the counter.

  “Figured.” He pulled the stool out and sat on the other side of the counter. “Sandy complained about you daydreaming and talking to yourself.”

  “Oh really?” I glanced back cringing, but finished stocking the shelf. I wasn’t about to let on how much his statement perturbed me. No wonder he was propped against the back wall when I arrived, he was already on his way. Sandy knew I trusted him, and he didn’t waste any time starting his investigation.

  For all Sandy’s complaints about him, he was her brother before she was my friend. Did she discuss my whacky behavior with him? So, even if I hadn’t texted him, Sandy asked him to pry. She was a consummate nurse, he the consummate detective.

  “Coffee smells great.” I picked up the mug and blew over the top.

  He looked over the rim of his mug. “You’re sorta wounded, aren’t you?”

  I sipped coffee. “It’s only a bump, I’ll live. And anyway, what gave you that idea ‘sorta wounded’?” That idea could’ve only come from one place—Sandy.

  “Well… I wasn’t here, but Sandy said—”

  “Right. I was talking to myself.” My nostrils flared, and I couldn’t stop the escaping huff. No telling what Sandy had said about my reaction to Fanny’s presence. “My bump made me hear buzzing sounds. The lights aren’t working right. They hum and flicker.” Maybe that suggestion will throw him off course.

  He pushed his tongue into his cheek, holding back, waiting to see what I’d say next. Criminals always condemn themselves.

  “Guess you shoulda gotten more rest.”

  “I’ll be fine. I had… a few foggy moments. That’s all.”

  “I’ll check out the lights.”

  “Please do, they’re getting on my nerves.” If I mentioned Fanny—my new imaginary girlfriend who claimed to be a ghost—what would he do? He’d drive me over to the Levi, our local mental hospital. No need for a padded wagon; he’d deliver me. The busted lights weren’t bothering me as much as Fanny; they don’t have full-blown conversations with me.

  Knowing
Sandy sicced Teddy on me cranked my nerves into a full tilt-a-whirl, and I’ve always hated carnival rides. “Did you see the graffiti in your new paint job?”

  He had painted every square inch of the Row’s walls and fixtures and took a lot of pride in his work. He might not be a carpenter or a painter by trade, but his work was exemplary. His brows knitted. “What graffiti? Which paint job?"

  Sandy was a stickler for rules; he was a stickler about paint coverage.

  “In the bathroom. Go see.” Besides trying to throw him off track so he wouldn’t ask too many questions, I wanted his opinion on the scratches.

  He stood before I finished talking. “Graffiti already? In my paint? That didn’t take long. You didn’t let someone use our bathroom, did you?”

  Our?

  I admit, he felt like part of the Row’s team. After all he did and the freebies he donated, like right now helping me with the trash, he earned his place on our team.

  “It isn’t the usual stuff. No spray paint.”

  “I gotta see this.” He had suggested fitting the swinging doors and now, he punched through them just to hear them clack. I followed him into the stockroom, pushing through the doors before they stopped moving.

  Teddy leaned an elbow—in the exact fashion that had caused him to push out the old window—onto the doorframe and blocked my view.

  “You know what? I remember painting it. I thought the paint would cover it. The latex paint is somewhat plastic. It stretched. Cracked. That’s why it’s so prominent now.”

  Was that good or bad news?

  “It isn’t new, then? Nobody carved it recently? You should’ve taken the paint off like I wanted.”

  He looked under his arm at me. “Prolly not.” He wasn’t ever going to let go of our disagreement over the sheet rock and shiplap.

  “I could do it now, sand it down and put on another coat of paint, if it bothers you that much. But it’d make a dusty mess.”

  I crossed my arms. “No dusty mess. It’d get all over our soaps.” Sandy would meltdown over the dust. “Don’t bother. It’s no big deal.”

  His explanation made sense, and knowing he knew about the signature made me feel somewhat better. Whoever carved Fanny Doyle into the shiplap did it a long time ago, and with his opinion, I could chalk my imaginary friend up to association and brain damage.

  “I gotta get busy.” If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get enough accomplished. “Can you check the lights before you go?”

  “Sure.” He bent back over into the bathroom. “There’s something new, though. R.I.P.”

  “You’re kidding? Lemme see.” I pulled on his arm, and he straightened up getting out of the door.

  I bent into the room. It did say R.I.P. That wasn’t there yesterday. Leaning over caused the pain behind my eyes to spike. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Somebody carved that with a dull knife, recently. Maybe Sandy did it.”

  “With scissors, maybe?”

  A shudder traveled my spine as I remembered the stockroom scissors skittering across the floor. That was real, nothing imaginary or paranoid about the scissors falling. Now this! Did Fanny use the scissors to carve R.I.P. beside her name? My imagination certainly hadn’t done it.

  Unless, I sleepwalked through the weekend.

  He shrugged. “Could be.”

  “Yeah? She told me about the graffiti, and said you did it.”

  She was first to mention the signature and to blame him. But, why would she do such a thing? She was the last person who would prank either of us; she was as dry as burnt toast.

  He smirked. “That’s right, sis. I carved a sham woman’s name in the precious shiplap siding. Excuse me!” Teddy adjusted his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his too long hair.

  I stood up straight and the blood rushed from head. “Maybe Sandy’s pranking you? You’re so in love with your paint job.”

  “True. But, I’m fickle. Another paint job will come along soon.”

  Feeling woozy, I chuckled and headed for the loveseat. “Not like this one.”

  He made me laugh even in the face of my abject insanity, even though I could see an image I couldn’t explain away with logic.

  “I’ll put out the easel.” Teddy asked, “What do you want me to write on it?”

  “Help wanted. In all caps.”

  We knew we needed to hire someone, but we thought we could wait. After wearing ourselves out over the weekend, hiring help was paramount to our success and for Sandy’s plantar fasciitis.

  He took the easel outside to write on it.

  When he was out of earshot, Fanny tapped her toe. “R I P means Rest In Peace. You’re daft, ain’t you?”

  The tissue papers on the workbench fluttered. “Stop it, would you?”

  “Anything else before I go?” Teddy stepped into the stockroom in time to witness my outburst.

  “Yeah! Get out of my shop!” Fanny flickered in maddeningly brighter colors.

  “You leaving already?” I swatted at the air. “Dadgum bees. We can’t keep them out.”

  “What bee?” Teddy asked, following my hand.

  “Look! You don’t see that bee? Shoo!” I hopped off the sofa, waving in another direction to divert his attention.

  Fanny flitted by moving the tissue paper edges. I slapped my hand on them. Teddy wiggled uncomfortably, and I’m sure he was mentally preparing his report for Sandy—yes, she was certifiably acting odd.

  He edged toward the door.

  I wasn’t ready for him to leave. “Wait. You ever see that movie with Bruce Willis?”

  Teddy pushed the lever to open the back door, but let it rest on his hip. “What movie? Armageddon? Loved it.”

  “No, the one where the kid sees dead people.”

  “Naw. I don’t do ghosts. Gives me the creeps.” He opened the door wider and the bright sunlight hurt my eyes. Wincing, I covered them with a hand. “Shut the door, would ya?”

  “Go! Get outta here,” Fanny barked.

  “Later, gator.” Teddy let the door slam with a thud.

  7

  Woodland

  Too tired to care if we had customers, I dillydallied refilling the empty cake plates and shelves. But, my heart wasn’t into the job, and soon I found myself on the stool, leaning my elbows on the counter. I was glad Teddy left before he witnessed another of my frequent outbursts.

  It was bad enough Sandy thought me paranoid. I needed Teddy, and not just to carry heavy things, I wanted him to believe in me.

  Fanny’s reappearance and finding her recent R I P graffiti distressed me, but her chattering this morning was rattling my fragile nerves. She flickered back and forth in front of the counter.

  “He’s a galloper, ain’t he?”

  “Who’s a galloper?”

  “That man with the baseball cap. I loved Babe Ruth.”

  If my memory served me, Hot Springs was a favorite baseball training camp in the 1920s. Babe Ruth was almost as famous as Al Capone for making the town a home away from home.

  “I thought you loved Al?”

  “Oh not him. He wasn’t my…”

  “Type?” I’m finishing my imaginations sentences. Lifting my chin off my palm a quarter inch, I added, “Go away. Don’t talk. You’re only brain fog.”

  “I won’t go away. This is my shop.” She flickered before she faded into her moody gray haze.

  “What is a galloper? Is that a racehorse?” I shouldn’t ask questions, encouraging the ruse. No telling what my poor damaged brain might dream up next.

  “A regular bloke. A galloper is nice.”

  So, my imagination believed Teddy was a nice guy. Disturbing. “He’s sort of nice. For a fixer-upper.”

  She glared with her piercing blue eyes. “What’s brain fog?”

  How can a ghost have such beautiful blue eyes?

  “Ah brain fog is...” I couldn’t explain brain fog. Whatever it was, I had a classic case. “Hush. I won’t answer anymore silly questions. You’re not real.
”

  “I am real. When are you going to believe me?” Fanny’s toe tapped. She moaned and faded, which was a good thing. If my brain fog wanted to pout, I wouldn’t interrupt.

  Puttering about, I did my best to dust the cake plates with a feather duster. When the bell tinkled, I was happy to have a customer to distract me from boring household chores.

  Who walked into the Row surprised me so, I nearly whistled.

  She was a gorgeous dame, oozing sophistication. Grace Kelley’s elegance and Audrey Hepburn’s dark beauty twisted into a tight tootsie roll.

  Too bad Teddy wasn’t here. He missed the best thing walking the streets of Hot Springs since… I didn’t mean she was walking the streets… but she was prettier and more elegant than our ordinary touristy customers.

  She wore expensive leggings, not the cheap brand every fat girl between here and Memphis wears, but slim-fitting Neiman Marcus type pants cropped at her bony ankles. Over the tights, her expensive pale blue silk blouse shimmered like rippling water. Her bobbed dark hair waved across her chiseled cheekbones, flowing along her angled chin. She glided toward me across the smooth floor in expensive leather flats.

  Fanny’s toe drummed against the floor. “Gahd! She’s a broad.”

  I laid the feather duster on the counter. “Welcome to the Row.”

  She didn’t smile, but asked, “You’ve only just opened? A friend recommended your shop.”

  Who could’ve recommended us? “Yes, we’ve only just opened this past weekend.”

  She dipped her chin so slightly it’d take a micron microscope to catch the movement. She took off her dark-tinted tortoise shell sunglasses and looked me in the eye. On seeing her weary green irises, a butterfly flinched in my belly.

  She reached for a soap bar, but her hand shook so she couldn’t pick it up and curled her fingers into a fist.

  “Something ain’t right with her. Them gents ain’t nice.” Fanny watched out the display window. “Look out there.”

  I eased closer to Fanny and glanced out the display window.