Giving Up the Ghost

by Magenta Wilde

  “To myself,” I finished.

  “Good thing I showed up, then,” he replied, giving me a flirtatious wink. “I’d be happy to provide a bit of company if you’re feeling lonely.” His gaze dropped down and lingered over my breasts. The musky odor intensified. My gut told me he was a player, hopping from one bed to the next, more than likely.

  I ignored the innuendo. “I just got lost in my work is all.”

  “It sounded like you were speaking to someone. I’ve heard séances are done at this shop. Are you sure that’s not what you were doing?”

  “I do perform those from time to time, but that was no séance. It was bookkeeping, pure and simple. Anyways, I’m Poppy,” I said, holding out my hand to him.

  He looked down and took it, and gave my hand a casual shake, an oily grin on his face. His hands were too hot, and a bit clammy. “I’m Wyatt. You’re Poppy, huh? Your hair is red like the flower.” He punctuated the observation with a wink.

  “I suppose it is.”

  “How have we not met before?” He still hadn’t released my hand, instead placing his left hand over mine and looking into my eyes with what was a practiced and seductive gaze. He was attractive, but I wasn’t attracted to him. I tugged my hand from his grasp and kept my gaze neutral.

  “So, this is your store?”

  “Indeed it is. What can I do for you? Are you looking for a gift, perhaps?”

  “I’m sorry. No. I wanted to visit the shop next door … what’s it called? Thingamabobs?”

  “Thingamajigs.”

  “Right. But it’s closed. Do you know if it’ll be opening soon?”

  It was close to noon, so it should have been, but my mother and Tom tended to keep erratic hours. Plus, the shop occupied the front portion of the house, something akin to a very large, walled porch. Most people who knew them also knew to knock loudly or honk their horns to gain entrance if the store door wasn’t open.

  I walked over to the side where my windows looked out onto their shop. Tom’s truck wasn’t parked out back, so I knew they hadn’t returned.

  I didn’t see Vanessa’s car there either. Besides working in my store, she also covered for them when Tom and Mom were out of town procuring items, or when they needed extra help.

  Usually Tom preferred to talk shop and track down leads on items of interest instead of working the till, and my mother, well, she wasn’t going to stand around and wait for people to come in.

  Vanessa was my mother’s find. She was easygoing and helpful, with a bright, genuine smile that customers were drawn to. But my mother liked to have her sell to men because she had huge blue eyes, long honey blonde hair that belonged in a shampoo commercial and a very ample bosom that topped off an hourglass figure.

  When my mother first hired Vanessa, I really wanted to hate her out of petty jealousy. Now she’s almost like a little sister, because – in addition to all the pleasing visual gifts that her genetic pool had granted her – she genuinely is a nice person. And while a man might barter with Mom or Tom for a deep discount on a necklace or a piece of furniture, not so with Vanessa. When she smiled, tossed her hair over her shoulders, and sighed while resting her manicured fingertips close to her breasts, the male of the species rarely had the heart to try and bargain the smile off her lips. Especially when she’d pout and whimper that it would lower her commission.

  “I don’t think they’re open yet. Tom and Fiona should be back soon, though,” I said.

  “Are those the owners? I think my brother knows Tom.”

  “Yes, they own the store. They’re due in shortly.”

  Suddenly I saw Vanessa’s car pull up next to the building. She exited, and headed in the direction of my shop. Wyatt’s eyebrows shot up in appreciation.

  “Is that Fiona?” he asked, sucking in air through his teeth.

  “No, that’s Vanessa. She works in their shop. And here.”

  “Wow,” he whispered.

  The aura of muskiness intensified. He might have been willing to give me a go, but she’d clearly be the preferred conquest, if he had any say in the matter.

  Vanessa entered the store, greeting me with a big smile and nodding a hello to Wyatt.

  “Hi, Vanessa. Are Tom and Mom delayed?”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here. Your mom gave me a call. Their flight departed a couple hours later than scheduled, but they’ll be back this afternoon. Your mom asked me to watch the shop for a bit so they can grab lunch on the way home. I was just stopping in to let you know. Oh, and to see if the dogs have been let out?”

  “Beanie and Hooper” – my mother’s and Tom’s beagles – “have been walked, watered and fed.”

  “Okay,” she laughed. “I’ll just let them out in the yard for a few minutes so they can do their business. It’s a nice day so they’ll like racing around for a bit.”

  “You’re … Vanessa?” Wyatt asked. He couldn’t pry his eyes off her.

  “Yes. Are you buying something from Poppy?”

  “Well, I actually wanted to visit the shop next door – the one you’re working at, not the fudge shop – but since it wasn’t open, I was in here asking … Poppy … when it would. I’m glad to meet you,” he said, eagerly making his way to her and clasping her hand with both of his. “Very glad to meet you. I’m Wyatt, by the way. Wyatt Montgomery.” He seemed disinclined to release her hand.

  Vanessa gently pulled her hand free and crossed her arms. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard your family’s name around here a lot.”

  “Yes. We own the lumber yard. That big house next to it, that’s where I grew up.”

  I knew the house. It was a huge place, and occupied a lot of land. I also knew he was trying to talk up his family’s fortune to impress Vanessa.

  “Yes, I’ve driven by,” Vanessa said, inching away. “It looks like a lovely house.”

  “I still live there,” Wyatt started, growing excited as he stepped nearer to erase the buffer of space she tried to create. “It’s a big place, so I have one wing to myself. You should stop by. You’d be welcome any time. Seriously, any time. Knock on the door at four in the morning even, and you’d be more than welcome.”

  “How sweet,” she replied. She said it warmly – he hadn’t been rude or crude enough to earn her icy tones – but I could sense the dismissiveness in her voice. Vanessa turned to me. “I’m going to take care of the dogs first and then open the shop.” She knew Wyatt would wait.

  “Can I help?” he asked, leaning in her direction. Like a bee to a flower, I thought to myself.

  “No, don’t be silly,” she said, smiling. “You should look around here. Poppy has some really nice things. I know; I work here, too.”

  Wyatt looked around my shop. “Oh, yes. It is a nice shop. What do you like?”

  “Oh, the jewelry,” she started, waving her hand toward the glass display case full of rings, earrings, necklaces and bracelets, “the candles, soaps and art. Oh, and Poppy does marvelous readings, too.”

  “Readings?” Wyatt turned to me, then back to Vanessa. She nodded.

  “You were doing a séance earlier, weren’t you, when I came in?” His question was pointed.

  Vanessa knew about my abilities, but she also knew I wasn’t one to trumpet how far they extended. She looked at me, a question in her eyes.

  I shook my head. “I was just talking to myself, doing the accounts,” I said.

  “Yes, she does that sometimes. I tend to talk to myself, too, when I’m focused on a task,” Vanessa said. “Excuse me. I’ll open the store in fifteen minutes.” She smiled and flounced out the door.

  Wyatt’s gaze followed her as she walked across the lot and let herself into Thingamajigs.

  When she was out of sight, Wyatt once again turned to me. “So, do you really do readings? Do you really believe you can talk to the dead?”

  “I mostly sell arts, crafts, candles, lotions and the like,” I said. “I do some readings, too, mostly palms, but I’ve done the odd séance. As for w
hat I believe, let’s just say I’m not doing it for the sake of theater.”

  “What do most people want when you do a séance or read palms?”

  “Answers. If you came to me for a reading, what would you want me to try and have answered for you?”

  Wyatt thought for a moment. “Can you tell me if I have a chance with Vanessa?”

  “I think Vanessa is perfectly capable of letting you know if you have a chance with her,” I said. “No hocus-pocus required.”

  He laughed. “That’s a good one.” He paused, then. “If you do readings, can you talk to someone who has been … gone … a long time?”

  “Did you have someone or something in mind?”

  His expression shifted slightly, and the muskiness dissipated like a soap bubble For a moment, I thought he might want to share something besides innuendo, but his expression quickly shifted into neutral again. “I was more-or-less wondering for a friend.”

  I waited to see if he’d continue, but he didn’t.

  “Most people want a bit of guidance – finding the right job, or a well-paying one. Or they want to smooth over some sort of relationship issue, such as with a loved one, usually one who’s passed on,” I said. “Most folks want closure of some sort.”

  “So, you’re no compass leading to hidden treasure or anything? You can’t suggest a winning horse or when to buy a lottery ticket?”

  I smiled, and gestured around me. “No. If I was, I’d be sipping a Mai-Tai on a white sandy beach alongside the ocean all winter long instead of running this shop.” Though maybe not; I love my store.

  Wyatt smiled, and then turned to look across the lot at Thingamajigs. “The ‘Open’ sign is on. I guess I can head over there now.”

  “Indeed it is,” I said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “So do I. Nice to meet you,” he said, as he drifted out the door, picking up speed as he crossed the lot and headed into the shop.

  4

  Later, when Vanessa wandered over for a cup of coffee, I asked, “So, what did Wyatt want from the shop?”

  She stood by the door watching Thingamajigs, in case any customers came along. Not too many tourists were about, so she could comfortably idle for awhile. I liked having the company. And the opportunity for gossip.

  “He didn’t want to buy anything,” she said. “He was looking to sell.”

  “Trying to pick up a bit of cash,” I muttered. “Did he also try and pick you up?”

  “He asked if I was available Friday night. I told him I’m already taken. And even if I weren’t, he’s not really my type.”

  “I got the impression Wyatt basically wants to bed as many women as possible.”

  “I bet he hit on you before he hit on me,” she said. “He does have that reputation. He tends to target the college crowd a lot. He’s a few years older than them – twenty-five or twenty-six, I think – and a good-looking guy who can lay on the charm. I’m sure he can sway young, impressionable females pretty easily.”

  I nodded. “He’d have a steady influx of fresh talent,” I mused. Ten years earlier, I might have been flattered by his attentions.

  “They also don’t know some of his issues,” Vanessa continued. Even if she didn’t know Wyatt personally, she would be rich with local gossip. “In particular, the girls coming in from out of town.”

  “Details, please.”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s broke.”

  “He sure made a point of bringing up that big house he lives in,” I said. “I know I’ve driven past it a million times, and know it’s owned by the Montgomerys, but I don’t know much more than that.”

  “The Montgomerys have a decent amount of money,” Vanessa said. “The dad, Art, owns the lumber yard, and tends to be pretty private. He’s nice, but he’ll never talk your ear off or anything. From all the stories I’ve heard, however, Wyatt has long been in debt. The girl who does my hair, her brother parties with Wyatt now and then. Word is Wyatt just works odd jobs around the mill, and only when he’s so inclined. Rumor also is that Art used to pay him a salary, but now pays him hourly.”

  “And he’s since woefully underemployed?” That detail had me respecting the elder Montgomery. “Daddy’s not bailing him out of his money woes.”

  “Not anymore. I heard he paid off some massive credit card debts and paid for a lawyer a couple times when he got caught driving drunk, but Daddy Montgomery isn’t feeling so generous these days.”

  “What did he try and sell you?”

  “A necklace. It was an opal pendant with diamond accents, really nicely made. The chain was real gold, too. I suspect it is his mom’s. I wasn’t sure if I should buy it and set it aside should his mom come around, just so it doesn’t risk falling out of family hands. But I told him Fiona would be the best judge of its value – and that she’d probably offer more than I would or could – so he said he’ll come back another day.”

  “That’s probably wise.”

  I thought for a moment, wondering where I’d heard the Montgomery name before, aside from it being tied to the lumber yard. Something dawned on me.

  “Is Wyatt the one who had a fancy sports car when he was a teen, and he crashed it on some country road a few months after his dad bought it for him?”

  “Yep. He’s the one,” Vanessa said. “His sister was in the car, too. She died in that accident.”

  “Oh God. I do remember that story.”

  I was in college when that happened. It had been quite the scandal at the time, but the Montgomerys lived on the outskirts of town and I had been focusing on senior year studies, so it had blown past my radar.

  It had taken place down some lonely country road. The car had skidded and slammed into a tree. I remembered seeing photos of the mangled vehicle in the paper. My mother, ever curious, also had driven out to the spot a couple times. I’d tagged along once, and recalled how the tire treads had marred that patch of paved road. It had felt eerie to drive by, knowing someone had died there.

  “Wyatt’s close to your age,” I said. “Did you go to high school with him?”

  Vanessa shook her head. “He’s a couple years older than me, but I went to school in town and he went to County High. But gossip travels in this town. I was the same age as the sister when she died, so I thought that was especially sad and scary.”

  “I bet. Had you ever met her?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe I saw her at a football or hockey game once or twice, but I don’t really remember.”

  “Wasn’t his brother in the car that night, too?” I asked.

  “Roger, yeah. I think he was in the passenger seat, and his sister was in the backseat. He came out of it okay, physically anyways. He was really rattled by it. I think he used to drink pretty heavily, but he never drank and partied like Wyatt does. After a while I think he withdrew. From what I hear, he’s on the quiet side. Nice guy, but he doesn’t come out his shell too often.”

  “That’s too bad. It can’t have been easy to have lost someone that young.”

  “You should know, sort of, though,” Vanessa said. “You lost your dad at a young age.”

  Not entirely, I thought.

  “But then again, you still talk to his ghost,” Vanessa said, as if reading my mind.

  “True, I know loss, but it still seems sadder when someone really young dies. They never get the time to do all the things we look forward to doing, like falling in love, traveling, getting married ….”

  Something suddenly occurred to me. I turned to Vanessa. “Do you remember that lady who was in here last night? The short one who got the reading? Was that Wyatt’s mother?”

  Vanessa nodded. “It was. It slipped my mind that she had been in here last night, but that’s her.”

  So Wyatt was the son Marie had mentioned who didn’t take his sister’s death so hard. It fit with what I had seen of him. Just speaking with him for a few moments, I could see nothing was going to slow him down. I wondered what his brother was like.


  My stomach growled again, causing Vanessa to smirk in my direction.

  “A little old lady was in here earlier, talking about Polish food,” I complained. “It made me hungry, and the coffee isn’t doing it.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Can you watch the shop for a few minutes? I want to run over to Emily’s and get a sandwich and a latte. Want anything? My treat.”

  Five minutes later I was making my way inside Emily’s Eatery, a café and bake shop a few blocks away, closer to the main street.

  The owner, Emily Andersen, is a tall blonde woman with a golden tan from spending as much time as she could outdoors. She had some interesting intuitive gifts. She greeted me as soon as she spotted me.

  I knew her fairly well. I sold a few of her tea and chai blends in my shop, and in exchange she sold a few of my teas in her store.

  Emily’s psychic instincts about people usually manifested itself in her choosing – with uncanny accuracy – what flavors customers preferred that day. If someone was undecided, she knew what they wanted before the individual in question did. She knew my weakness for anything citrus or almond flavored.

  “Hello, Poppy,” she drawled. “What can I fix for you today?”

  “Oh come on,” I waved her off. “You know the game. Also, Vanessa wants something, too, and wants to know if you can get a hole-in-one from afar.”

  She paused for a moment. “You’re facing a bit of a dilemma, so I suggest an orange mocha latte for you. The orange will help guide you to a solution.”

  “Why the mocha?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s chocolate, hon. Can’t go wrong there.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “As for Vanessa, she wants marshmallows, so I suggest a S’Mores latte.”

  I paused. “Marshmallows?”

  “She’s all happy and gooey today. This’ll harmonize nicely with that.”

  While Emily made me two coffee drinks to go, a familiar figure made her way into the café. It was Meg Jacobsen, aka Lady Silvia. The woman was in her mid-forties and had her shoulder-length hair bleached pale blonde, with purple streaks toward the ends. She wore a lot of tribal jewelry and her eyeliner in an exaggerated cat eye.