Digging For Trouble

by K. J. Emrick

  I can be a girly girl. When I want to be.

  There’s just the two rooms, this one here and the bathroom through that door. Where the main room is pink, the bathroom is all seashells. Shells on the wallpaper. Different shaped bottles on the shelves and sink top holding tiny shells I’ve picked up along the coastline. The shower curtain is transparent, except for very strategically placed sea shells.

  The mirror above the sink shows me a face that is still younger than my actual age, but the lines around the corners of my eyes are getting deeper every year and maybe there’s one or two strands of gray in my hair. Forty-four looks good on me, I must say. I stuck my tongue out at my reflection, a very mature gesture, then stripped down the rest of the way while I get down a fluffy pink towel from the linen shelf.

  Forty-four looks good on the rest of me too, even if I do say so myself.

  When I turned back to the mirror, it wasn’t just me in the room.

  There’s just a glimpse of someone standing over in the corner, her reflection smiling at me while she does her hair up into a tail. Jess has her ripped jeans and old t-shirt on as usual, the look she adopted after her death. This is the real her that I remember from back in the day. Back before she grew up and things went wrong for her.

  And, just like usual, she’s gone again when I turn around.

  It wasn’t really her at all. It never is. Just her ghost. Although, Jess’s ghost is as real to me as she was. Just in a different way.

  I miss Jess.

  She didn’t have to die. The whole thing had been a stupid mistake. Her killer was in jail awaiting trial, and that would have to be good enough for me.

  It wasn’t, not by a long shot, but I really didn’t have any choice but to accept it as the best I would get.

  I still see her sometimes, hanging around the Inn. A ghostly figure who pops in to say hello and remind me that maybe death isn’t the final stage everyone thinks it is. She even helped save my life, once or twice, but that’s a story for another time.

  The story now, is what happened to Arthur Loren?

  Steamy hot water rolling off my back as I braced my arms against the wall tiles helped relax my muscles. I liked to walk for exercise, but maybe it was time to admit I had to slow down. Time moves on. As I ease into the spray a little more I remember the words Arthur kept saying out there on the trail. Give it back.

  Now, it’s possible he was just bonkers after a rap to his noggin and the heat from the Australian sun. I had to allow that could be all it was, thinking it through. Maybe he wasn’t really looking for anything at all. He could’ve slipped and fell and banged his head, and then gone wandering along the trails with a shovel, not knowing what he was doing.

  It’s also possible, isn’t it, that the old codger actually had something taken from him. Something important enough for him to go searching for it in the middle of nowhere.

  Why had he picked that spot to dig? Now, there was a question. Giving myself a quick soap I turn my attention to my hair. I washed out the sweat and dust with a good shampoo, rinse, and repeat. After, I feel more like a member of the human race and less like a wild dingo.

  Back to the question of Arthur Loren.

  If Arthur had something taken from him, it had to be taken from his house. And, the last person that I could say for certain had been at Arthur’s house was Myles Sinclair.

  Which meant someone had to go talk to Myles.

  “Keep it together, Dell,” I told myself, turning my face up into the water. “No need to be a sticky beak and put your nose into everyone’s business. Kevin’s the police officer in the family. Not you.”

  True enough. Maybe I should just keep out of this one this time.

  Not exactly my nature.

  Of course, that inquisitive nature of mine has almost gotten me killed more than once.

  What was I supposed to do, just sit on my tight little tush and do nothing?

  By the end of my shower, when I snapped off the water and pulled the towel in behind the curtain with me, I still hadn’t decided what to do.

  Wrapping the towel around my more private parts, even though I’m all by myself, I step out of the shower and put my bare feet onto the cold floor.

  And stop.

  Well, maybe I’m not all by myself after all.

  Hanging from the corner of the mirror is my unicorn pendant necklace. The one I left out on my bed.

  You get used to things like this after a while. Jess likes to move things around. It’s her way of telling me stuff from beyond the grave.

  Sounds spooky, doesn’t it?

  In reality, it’s not. Not when you know the ghost behind it all is a friend. It’s hard for spirits to communicate with the living. At least, that’s what a good friend of mine who knows her stuff on the subject told me. It’s not like it is in the movies. Remember that one with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore? Yeah. That’s not the way of it in real life.

  So Jess gives us little hints. I might be the only one who really knows she’s here, but I’m not the only one she’s spoken to like this. Last week, Jess thought Rosie was putting too much paprika in her soup. One second the spices were all in order, the next they were a mess. We never did find where Jess had put the paprika shaker.

  Now she’s left this necklace for me to find just as I’m trying to decide whether to jump into this mystery of Arthur Loren’s with both feet or stay out of it, like a good girl. Jess gave me that necklace, the very intricate shape of the unicorn pendant carved out of dark wood, the leather string that’s just the right length around my neck. Gave it to me back when she was alive. She said it was her way of saying thanks for always being her friend. It’s become a talisman for me now that she’s dead, a sort of good luck charm.

  A comforting reminder of a friend I’ve lost, who died trying to do the right thing.

  So do the right thing now, I can almost hear Jess say.

  Okay. I guess that decides it.

  Taking the necklace off the corner of the mirror, I put it around my neck and bare shoulders, flopping my long, wet hair out of the way of the cord.

  “Thanks, Jess.”

  Rosie can look after the Inn for a little bit longer. I’ve got something to check on.

  ***

  Most people would freak if they knew a ghost was living in their home. Even if that ghost used to be their best friend.

  Me, I figure it’s just another part of living at the end of the world. Tasmania’s got lots of strange sights, weird things that happen and no one really can explain them away. We’re a magical part of God’s green Earth that doesn’t necessarily hold to the same rules the rest of the world lives by.

  So I’ve got a ghost living in my Inn. What’s new with you?

  After popping in to see Rosie and having a quick bowl of oyster bisque—the Pavlova would have to wait—I set out for Arthur Loren’s house. His place is out on Main Street. I think I’ve already mentioned how run down it is. If I haven’t, I should have. The roof hasn’t been shingled in, well, forever maybe. It’s just been patched together with tarpaper and bits of plywood. White-painted plywood, mind you. The siding is more or less nailed into place but I don’t think a single white board is level or square with the others. A garden that had been—once upon a time—full of flowering shrubs was now brown and dry under the summer sun thanks to the complete neglect of the master of this little mansion.

  In black slacks and a purple blouse I walk up the street, right to his house. They were what I’d laid out for me after my shower, planning to go back to work at the Inn. I didn’t see the need to sort through my clothes again to find something else. I’m certainly not trying to impress anyone. Arthur wouldn’t even be home. He’d be over in hospital for a day or two at least, until he recovered from whatever ordeal he’d been put through this morning.

  I’d weighed the different options, and for my money it was becoming very clear that he didn’t go knobbing around in the bush of his own accord this morning.

  L
ots of questions follow from that fact.

  I’m hoping the answers are in here. Might be easier to find them, I figured, if I could look around on my own.

  Only, I’m not alone. In the time it took me to walk here from the Inn, maybe all of ten minutes, Kevin’s rolled up in one of the two patrol cars Lakeshore keeps for its police force. The older one, with the rusted out front fender and the bald tire on back. Its brown color was all faded with age and the letter I has been gone from the word “POLICE” on the driver’s side door for years.

  “I take it Cutter is keeping the good car for himself to use?” I commented as Kevin saw me and stood up from the front steps of Arthur’s house.

  “’Course,” he replied. “He’s got that meeting up in Hobart to go to. Can’t possibly take his own car to that, you know? Gotta look good for anyone might see him.”

  “Hmph.” That’s all I can muster up on the subject. “You got my text message, I take it?”

  With a nod and a sigh he rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. It’s been a long day for him already, I’m sure. “We were going to go through Arthur’s house anyway.”

  “You mean, you were going to do it. I don’t see any other officers out here.”

  “Yeah, well. Cutter left Bruce Kay in charge. Bruce told me to run with this.”

  Sure. “You mean, Bruce is making you do all the work so he can take all the glory when Cutter gets back, or dump the mess in your lap if it goes south.”

  The grin on his face was lopsided. “Isn’t that what I said?”

  My Kevin is the one who should be in charge in Cutter’s absence. He’s been on the force nearly as long as all the others, and he’s got more sense in his pinky finger than the rest of them have combined. Only, those two don’t see eye to eye. Add in the fact that Kevin’s mother—me—has made Cutter look like a fool on more than one occasion, and Kevin should really count himself lucky that Bruce gave him the car to ride here instead of a wallaby.

  Kevin’s applied to the Australian Federal Police. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see them accept him at the next round of hires. They’d be getting a real good one with him. Wouldn’t blame him for leaving this place and its politics behind, either. And I know he’s got to go where he’s appreciated, but part of me doesn’t want to see him leave.

  “So,” he says to me in a long, drawn out syllable. “This bit about Myles Sinclair being here this morning was enough to catch me attention. You sure you can trust Mister Brewster’s say so?”

  “I’ve never known him to lie. Besides, what reason would he have to say that he saw Myles here, if it wasn’t true?”

  “I suppose so.” He looked over his shoulder at the house, then back at me. “You know I’m not supposed to let you in there, right? This is an active crime scene.”

  “No, it’s not. You don’t know anything happened here.” I could see by the look in his eyes that he knew I was right. He just didn’t want to admit it. “Tell you what. First sign that anything’s amiss in there and I’ll be out. Fair enough?”

  Kevin shook his head and gave up trying to argue it with me. “I suppose I couldn’t stop you, anyway.”

  “You could handcuff me to your steering wheel.”

  “Oh, and wouldn’t that make a great headline in tomorrow’s paper.” He smiled when he said it and I know what’s coming next. “How is James Callahan, by the way?”

  I’m sure my cheeks turned a little pink. “He’s fine, thank you. How’s Ellie Burlick?”

  Now it’s his turn to look embarrassed. “She’s, uh, good. Coming down for a visit next week, in fact.”

  Kevin’s relationship with Ellie has been growing more serious. He thinks I don’t know that, but a mother knows these things. Ellie’s the special lady in his life, and he couldn’t have found a better woman to spend his time on.

  On the other hand, the relationship James Callahan and I have isn’t so easy to define. The town’s resident newspaper reporter is charming, to say the least. A few dates last year turned into a lot of late night phone calls and then a special trip for my birthday on a boat where he made me feel sixteen again. It’s been a long time since my husband left me, and James is as close to a real boyfriend as I’ve ever had. I just can’t seem to commit with him all the way. Maybe it’s the uncertainty of what really happened to my Ex. Maybe it’s cold feet.

  Maybe it’s just me being stupid.

  Whatever it is, he and I are still just... friends, I guess. Except, it sure does feel good to be in his arms, on his sofa, with the lights down low and his fingers running through my hair.

  Ahem.

  “Let’s go check out Arthur’s house,” I said, stepping past Kevin, hoping that would end this topic of conversation altogether. “How’s he doing?”

  “Fine enough. Dehydrated from the heat and the sunburn. Turns out there was a bad whack to the back of his head. Micro fractures, is the word they used. Doctors gave him a sedative to calm him down and let him rest. Won’t wake up until tonight. We’ll know more then.”

  Up on the porch, I pushed the front door open. It wasn’t locked. A lot of us here in Lakeshore don’t lock our doors. We figure if anyone needs to steal from us bad enough to break the door in, might as well leave it unlocked and save ourselves the repair bill.

  Inside, a scene of complete chaos met us.

  The first room we walked into was a catchall mudroom and storage area. Boxes full of...stuff had fallen over from their lopsided stacks and spilled out old newspapers and clothes and I’ll be honest with you, I’m not really sure what. A washing machine stood over against one wall with a pile of differently shaped shovels on top of it. I kind of doubt that particular appliance had been used in a very long time.

  “Well,” Kevin remarked. “Not much of a housekeeper, is he? It’s going to be hard to tell if someone’s been rummaging about through here.”

  I had to agree. A few months back I had to poke my head in here to hand over a bit of Arthur’s mail that had been delivered to the inn by mistake. Gary the postmaster does his best to sort it out but he’s only one man and, well, mistakes happen.

  The point is that this room had looked pretty much the same then as it did now. I told Kevin as much. “I think it’s just Arthur being Arthur.”

  “Well,” he mused. “Let’s have a look through anyway. Never know, I guess.”

  The kitchen was worse. Arthur had always been a crazy old recluse, like I’ve said, but I never knew just how much of a hermit he was until I stepped into his world. The sink was full of dirty dishes, food still crusted to them, and I swear to you I saw ants crawling on them. The stove was splotched with spilled sauce and coffee grounds. The table was a slab of wood balanced on top of a wooden barrel. Three ceramic coffee mugs sat on it, each of them a different color and shape, next to a haphazard pile of mail and more newspapers.

  A bedroom was off to the side of the kitchen. I don’t care to describe what we found there. Let’s just say the man needs a maid.

  The bathroom was passably clean, to our surprise. Not much in it, either. Bars of soap. A pile of towels in the middle of the curling linoleum. A shower with no curtain.

  Then, down the hall, there was a closet that had been locked with a hasp and a padlock. The hasp had been pried away from the doorframe and left hanging, the lock still closed through the metal ring.

  “That,” Kevin said to me, “is what we police officers call suspicious.”

  I rolled my eyes at him, but then stepped back as he drew his automatic from its leather holster and stepped to the side of the closet door.

  “Who are you, Dirty Harry?” I asked him.

  “You know that saying about better safe than sorry,” he told me, lowering his voice. “Besides. I always fancied myself more like Paul Hogan. Or Jason Statham.”

  He looks nothing like Jason Statham. Hogan, either. Still. I can see it.

  With the fingertips of his free hand, he caught the edge of the door and flipped it wide open, quickly stepping in
with his gun pointed out and ready.

  The hallway light flooded the inside of the small space. There were more shovels stacked with brooms and an honest-to-God pickaxe. The shelves were lined with mason jars with those screw top lids. In one of the upper corners was a cobweb. A little black spider scuttled away from the light.

  I pointed. “Quick, Kevin, he’s getting away.”

  “Very funny,” he muttered, putting the gun away. He almost seemed disappointed.

  He likes the action, my son does. He’ll do well in the Australian Federal Police if they take him into the next academy.

  “Huh,” I heard him say.

  “What?”

  “These jars. They’re all full of rocks. And...sand.”

  “So Arthur was a hoarder? Are there some with toenails in them, too?”

  “No, I don’t think that’s it. See?” He took two jars down to show me. “Each one is labelled.”

  He was right. A strip of masking tape on each one had a string of numbers I didn’t quite understand. I could tell by Kevin’s expression that he didn’t, either. Taking out his cell phone, he snapped photos of the closet, the jars, a few of the labels. Then, just to get back at me, he took a pic of the spider, too.

  Gets his sense of humor from me, he does.

  Some of the jars had fallen on the floor. One was shattered, the rock inside crumbled to bits. Kevin put the fallen jars back up on the shelf, then put a hand on a spot to represent the broken one.

  “How do you know that’s where they go?” I asked him.

  “I don’t. But look. Put everything back in place, even accounting for the broken one, and there’s two empty spots left over.”

  I scrunched up my eyebrows, thinking about it. “So, Arthur hadn’t found whatever he was looking for yet? He was going to dig up more of...whatever these rocks are, and left room for more?”

  Kevin tilted his head to one side. “More like two jars got taken. Stolen. I’m thinking that some bloke broke into this room, rummaged through the jars until he found two he wanted, then took them.”