by Amy Boyles
Homer watched quietly as his father confessed to a thirty-year-old murder. I wondered what must’ve gone through his mind when he discovered it.
“I had to get rid of the body, but I needed help. So I told Homer.”
My jaw dropped. Homer had known all these years. He’d known this entire time what had happened to Susan, but he hadn’t said a word.
I guessed blood was thicker than water.
“Homer,” I said, trying to sound breathless and shocked, which I was, “you let him murder your girlfriend?”
Homer shook his head. “Susan was a tramp. She never would’ve hit on my dad otherwise. He did what he had to in order for us to survive. That woman got what she deserved.”
He sneered. “And if I had to do it all over again, I’d let Daddy kill her same as before.”
The air in the room constricted. It felt heavy, as if someone was pushing a blanket around us, trying to cut off the oxygen. The heaviness shifted, and suddenly the room went frigid.
I felt like I’d been thrown in a freezer with the door locked behind me.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” I told Homer.
“Said what?”
“That thing about Susan. I have the feeling it ticked her off.”
He scoffed. “What’re you talking about?”
I nodded behind him. “That’s what.”
A curling mist floated over the floor. It sucked in, tightening to a ball; then it rose to the ceiling. A shape emerged.
An eight-foot Susan Whitby filled the room. Homer’s gun hand trembled.
“You knew?” The house rumbled as a giant ghostly Susan screamed. “You knew what he’d done?”
Homer trembled so badly I was surprised the gun didn’t fall. “I didn’t know! I swear it!”
Susan floated forward. Anger twisted her face. She brought her fingers to her chest. They looked more like claws than digits. A puddle formed underneath Farris’s feet.
Ugh. Looked like someone had bladder control problems. Well, you can’t live to be eighty and not have those, I suppose.
Susan loomed above Homer. “You knew he killed me! You knew and never said anything. You are a horrible person!”
Homer knelt. He threaded his fingers and brought them under his chin. Homer looked like he was about to pray to the great spirit Susan. I hated to tell him, but I didn’t think whatever he was about to request would be granted.
Call me crazy.
“Please,” Homer shrieked. Tears dripped down his face. “Please don’t hurt me. I know I should’ve turned him in, but he’s my father.”
Susan pointed to Farris. “You assaulted me and then killed me! You deserve to be punished.”
Farris’s false teeth fell from his mouth and clattered across the floor. Seemed an appropriate response.
She glared at Homer. Her pupils burned red. “Say it, say what happened!”
“My father killed you, and I knew about it,” Homer yelled. “I knew it all along, Susan. I should’ve done something about it.”
Farris finally got himself together long enough to talk. “I killed you, Susan. I’m sorry. I’m an old man, and I’m asking for forgiveness.”
The whole time I’m thinking, wow, it would be great if I wasn’t roped to a chair. Even better if I could’ve recorded what the men were saying. It was great that they were confessing to Susan, but as soon as she disappeared, would Ruth and I still be stuck facing off against Psycho and Psycho Junior?
Most likely.
While the two men wailed their confessions, the gun, which Homer had settled on the floor beside him, slowly drifted away from the men.
I was salivating. The gun would reach me within seconds. But I was still roped.
What the heck, Susan? I needed more than a weapon. I needed to be free.
But as I watched, the gun drifted right on past me. The thing headed toward the front door.
Homer cried. Farris cried. Both men’s wails were pathetically loud.
Still the gun moved on. It reached the door right as it swung open.
Roan stood in the threshold. He glanced at the gun in front of him. His gaze flickered to Ruth and me and to the two men.
“I did it. I killed Susan Whitby,” Farris yelled.
Homer yanked his hair. “And I murdered Neal Norton to cover up for Dad. He couldn’t kill him, so I did it. I poisoned him to protect my father.”
Susan flicked a smile toward Roan and disappeared. Without missing a beat, Roan snatched the gun and pointed it at the two men.
“Well, looks like that was quite the tale. Both of you put your hands up.”
The men did as he said. Roan glanced at me and shot me an embarrassed grin. “You were right.”
I shrugged as best I could. “I usually am.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
So Alice was released from custody and Homer was taken in with his father. Susan had been vindicated, and Roan believed that my instincts were right, if not a little misguided.
That’s what he said. I didn’t have the heart to explain he was wrong. My instincts were completely right. There hadn’t been anything misguided about attempting to break into a murderer’s house and look for evidence.
Absolutely nothing.
But still, he’d apologized for giving me such a hard time, which I appreciated.
“So I made a mistake,” Roan said.
“About which part? The part where you said I shouldn’t enter Homer’s house?”
“It did almost get you killed.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“But it worked.” We sat on my porch steps. Moonlight splashed across Roan’s face, making him appear to glow. He was gorgeous. My heart inflated at the sight of him.
“So how’d you end up returning to the house?” I said.
He took my hand and threaded his fingers through. “I don’t know. It was the weirdest thing. I had a feeling that you needed help.”
“I did.”
“So tell me, what made Homer and Farris confess?”
My eyes flared. “You didn’t see?”
“See what?”
“Susan Whitby’s ghost appeared and forced them to confess. That’s what you heard.”
The look of surprise on his face almost made me laugh. It was so innocent. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.” I rose. Stretched. “It’s getting late.”
Roan stood beside me. “So listen…about what I said, that we couldn’t see each other anymore…”
“That’s not true, is it?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “You don’t give a guy a chance to say it first, do you?”
“Well, I had a feeling about what you were going to admit.”
He brought my hand to his lips and traced them over his mouth. A shiver ran down my spine. “I was very wrong. Want to try dinner again? Maybe tomorrow night?”
“Sure. Can I have my hand back before you eat it?”
“Sure thing.”
Roan tugged me to him and kissed me slowly. It was an apologetic kiss, one that said he’d screwed up.
I accepted his apology.
He left and I went inside. I dropped my purse on the floor and headed into my bedroom.
“Here I am.”
Lucky Strike sat on my bed. “Here you are.”
“Well, Blissful Breneaux, are you satisfied with my work? That I’ve done a fair job and fulfilled your expectations?”
“You weren’t laying carpet. You were helping me solve a murder.”
He splayed his hands. “Very similar.”
“Not at all.”
I sighed. This was it. The moment of truth. I’d seen the note my father had left for Anita, laying out the future of the team. Anita needed to find Lucky if the team was going to stay viable.
Here sat Lucky. All the spirit wanted was to cross to the other side. I held that key for him. I held the way to make it happen.
I’d promised.
“Okay, Lucky. If yo
u’re ready, we can get you on your way.”
“You’re not happy.”
I pushed the heels of my hands to my eyes. “It’s not you. It’s all of this. Discovering my father lied to me for years, realizing I was his pawn and still am even though he’s dead—it’s a lot to swallow. But I know every bit of what you told me is true. I was lied to. I accept that. I’ll help you cross.”
His lips wound to a smile. “It’ll be your revenge.”
“I don’t want revenge, Lucky. I only want peace. I want to be happy with the decisions I’ve made. I’m not going back to the Ghost Team. Do you know how much that hurts? That place is my life.”
I slapped my thigh. The whole situation was so frustrating. “What am I qualified to do outside of hunting ghosts for the government? What can I do, Lucky? Seriously? Nothing. That’s the answer.”
He studied me. His eyes darkened, becoming serious. “You want the answers? I don’t know if I can do that, but I can help in other ways. I promised you a ghostly gift, remember?”
“I remember.”
“Give me your hand.”
I extended it. He took my hand in his transparent one and brought it to his forehead. A warm light glowed inside him.
“Blissful Breneaux, I bestow on you the gift of peace. You will find your way here. There will be no doubts, and it will all, as they say, work out.”
I smirked. It was a nice present, if not completely believable. That Lucky could give me clarity was a bit hard to bite off and grind up with my molars.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” He released my hand. “Now, I’m ready if you are.”
I closed my eyes and focused on the afterlife. When I opened them, a beam of light had sliced through the ceiling. Lucky was waving to me as he drifted off and up to the heavens.
“Goodbye, Blissful Breneaux. I’ll never forget you.”
“And I won’t forget you, either.”
Lucky disappeared and I smiled, knowing the spirit was finally at peace.
The next morning, before heading down to Southern Ghost Wranglers to meet with Ruth and Alice, I made an important call.
“Anita Tucker speaking.”
“It’s Blissful.”
I could practically hear Anita shooting out of her seat. “Bliss!”
I hated when she called me that.
“Do you have information about Lucky?”
I gritted my teeth. Did I ever. “I do. I have a lot of information.”
“Well? When are you bringing him in?”
A slow smile spread across my face. “Here’s the thing, Anita. He’s awfully wily. I mean Wile E. Coyote, wily. Hard to capture. Evades me at every turn.”
“What do you need?”
“Equipment.”
Long pause. When I’d been suspended, Anita told me I couldn’t have access to any equipment. I had to wrangle Lucky by myself and haul him in to headquarters. But all that had changed. I’d been gone long enough that I hoped Anita was getting nervous. She needed Lucky to make some chaos so she could keep the team viable, keep the money flowing in from the government.
She sighed. “I’m not supposed to do that.”
“I’ve got to have it, Anita. Otherwise I won’t be able to bring him in.”
“Fine.”
I gave her a long list of supplies. She promised I’d have them by the end of the week.
When I hung up, I smiled to myself. Lucky was right. I felt just fine about what I’d done. After all, I’d been used by Anita. I knew two wrongs didn’t make a right, but I needed some stuff. Correction, Ruth and Alice and I needed equipment if we were going to make a viable living with Southern Ghost Wranglers.
By the time I reached downtown, the sun was high in the sky. It was a chilly day, and a frigid breeze slashed through Haunted Hollow.
It was amazing.
I pulled open the door of Southern Ghost Wranglers to find Alice knitting booties and Ruth on the phone. I gave Alice a big hug.
“Good to have you back.”
She dropped the needles to her desk. “I want things to return to normal. It’s been hard, Blissful. You don’t want to know what jail was like—smelly, mainly.”
“Finally the real killers have been arrested.”
“I’ll say.”
I glanced up to see Susan Whitby chewing ghostly bubble gum.
“Susan!”
“Is she here?” Alice said.
“Right over there.” I pointed to the corner and crossed to her. “So, do you want to cross to the light? Finally have peace?”
She rolled her eyes. “Nah. I’d rather pester you to death.”
I laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”
Ruth finally hung up the phone. “That was a doozy of a call.”
“Ladies, I’ve got news.” I waited until all eyes were on me. “By the end of the week we should have state-of-the-art ghost-catching equipment.”
“Great,” Ruth said, dropping her face in her hands, “because that phone call was a winner. The woman said they’ve got a spirit who’s throwing things. We’ll need to wear pads to investigate.”
I could feel a sparkle fill my eyes. “Great. What d’you say, ladies? Want to go investigate a haunted house?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Alice grabbed her purse. “I’ll drive.”
“We don’t have the equipment yet,” Ruth said.
Alice shooed her. “It doesn’t matter. Blissful’s a pro. She can handle anything.”
As the two women pulled on their jackets, Susan sidled up to me. “You want me to come along? See what I can do?”
I nodded. In fact, I almost swung my arm over her shoulders. Too bad she was transparent. “Absolutely. Let’s go hunt a ghost.”
* * *
<<<<>>>>
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About the Author
Amy Boyles grew up reading Judy Blume and Christopher Pike. Somehow, the combination of coming of age books and teenage murder mysteries made her want to be a writer. After graduating college at DePauw University, she spent some time living in Chicago, Louisville, and New York before settling back in the South. Now, she spends her time chasing two preschoolers while trying to stir up trouble in Silver Springs, Alabama, the fictional town where Dylan Apel and her sisters are trying to master witchcraft, tame their crazy relatives, and juggle their love lives. She loves to hear from readers! You can email her at [email protected].
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