by Gwen Gardner
I stopped by the entrance to slip into my coat, hat and scarf, as did Simon and Cappy. Facing the menu board, I read the daily specials as I wrapped my scarf around my neck. Shepherd’s Pie or Spaghetti with garlic bread. Glancing briefly down to pull on my gloves, I looked up again to a blurry board, the letters scrambled into a jumbled mess. I shook my head and looked again. The letters returned to order. I could have sworn it said something about ‘the child’. But no - I must be tired.
Still, it was odd. A tingle slithered along the base of my neck. I turned around. A dark presence hovered in the corner. The Soul Collector in his favorite spot, waiting to steal my soul if he could. I looked back to the board. Could it be trying to tell me something? Was he—it—not content anymore to just follow and wait? Now it wanted to communicate?
What had it said? Something about the child. My stomach sank. It couldn’t mean Bryan - could it? I seriously hoped not. We’d have to keep him safe until we could send him back. I’d have to speak with Franny. She would certainly have connections that could help us.
We waved goodbye to Cappy. Simon and I, accompanied by the bulldog, headed home. I snatched the bobbing tennis ball out of mid-air and tucked it into my coat pocket. No sense in drawing attention to ourselves. I sincerely hoped we could drop the dog off where we found him.
A few turns later, we arrived at the Quixley Street mansion. “Well, here we are. Go on now,” I said to the dog. “You’re home.” I made shooing motions with my hands, but he didn’t go. Instead, he pranced around, getting down on his forepaws with his rear-end in the air, wiggling his nubby tail, before easily evading my waving hands.
“Come on,” I said to Simon. “Maybe he won’t follow us again.” We headed down the sidewalk, but the dog still loped along behind. “Shoo! Go on now!” I turned to Simon. “Maybe if you throw the ball, then while he’s chasing it we can run.”
“Oh right.” Simon’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Even though we can’t outrun a live dog, we’ll be able to outrun a ghost dog because they’re so much slower.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Well, do you have any bright ideas?”
“No, but obviously we can’t take him home. It’s hard enough explaining to my dad about the odd goings-on with Bryan and Franny snapping the telly on and off all day, and toy cars rolling around the floor unattended. And besides, Cleo would not appreciate a dog in the house. At. All.”
I had forgotten about Cleo, our resident ghost cat. “Well then, we’ll just have to tire him out or something. Come on.”
The thing about ghost dogs? They don’t get tired. We tried to tire him out. We threw the ball over and over again, but every time we attempted to leave, he followed.
“Sit.” He complied. “Stay.” Not in his repertoire.
Panting sounds close on our heels told us he had not obeyed. I turned around, hands on hips. “How is this going to work if you don’t do what you’re told?” I said sternly. He cocked his head and smiled happily, drool seeping from the sides of his mouth.
“What do we do?” said Simon. Not that he saw him, but the bouncing ball that kept landing at his feet told him the persistent dog still hung around. That, and the snuffly breathing.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I turned to the dog. “Listen buddy, we gotta go. Do you understand? You can’t come with us.”
He barked an answer.
“Right then. Okay. Good. No offense, but we’re just not set up for guests right now, maybe when…”
“If you’re quite through making polite excuses to a dog,” Simon interrupted, “perhaps we could be on our way?”
With no snappy reply immediately on hand, I stuck my tongue out at him.
He rolled his eyes. “Is that the best you can come up with?”
“Just throw the ball - far - and we’ll make a run for it.”
Simon picked up the perpetually slimy ball, and with a huge grunt, tossed it over the fence into the side yard.
A brief glance up at the house revealed a green light glowing at the upper window.
And in the midst of the glow, a face watched us.
A shiver inched up my spine as we turned and hauled our buns up the street.
Arriving breathless, we let ourselves in the back door.
Drifting through the door from the hall into the kitchen, Cleo stopped, arched her back and hissed like a cobra.
The dog, sneaking in behind us, took the hiss as an invitation to give chase. He darted between Simon’s legs and bolted through the door after Cleo. Simon, red faced and grumbling, lay flat on his back.
Shrieks coming down the hall announced the path of the chase through the living room.
I ignored Simon’s outstretched hand and ran, probably foolishly, toward the chaos. “Don’t just lie there, Simon, we’re about to have a war!”
“What the bloody hell is that infernal noise?” yelled Simon. He scrambled to his feet and dashed after me. His developing psychic skills obviously picked that moment to allow him to hear the chaos, but not see it. But he was certainly used to the physical results by now, evidenced by his sore backside on more than one occasion.
My sudden stop caused Simon to skid into the back of me. I fell forward and landed on my knees.
“Oof!” Simon fell over me and face-planted on the floor. Pushing himself up, he said, “Ever heard of brake lights? We seriously need to get you some. And maybe a siren with a flashing light as well, just to caution people you’re in the area.”
“Oh, shut up,” I responded. “It’s your cat and little brother that’s causing half the problem.”
Meowing, barking, screeching and childish laughter mingled and echoed throughout the room.
“My - Cleo is not my cat. I can’t even see her. She didn’t even show up until you did. Like every other spook in this house. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s…”
Simon, standing in the path of the tornado, landed on his back again. “Maybe I’ll just stay here for a while. I give up. I’m down for the count.”
Cleo darted across the sofa and around the room chased by the ghost dog, two shooting white blurs circling the living room like a paranormal galaxy. Bryan squealed and laughed, chasing after the two of them. Franny jumped up and down on the sofa, flapping her arms, and screeching in mortal fear. Or did I mean immortal fear?
I jumped to my feet. “No! Sit! Stay!” It did no good. Delight and slobber circled the dog’s face. He was having the time of his life, er, non-life.
“Simon! Do something!”
“What?”
“I don’t know - anything!” I joined the chase behind Bryan, and Simon disappeared someplace. Probably escaping through the back door, if he had any sense. “Oh please don’t let Uncle Richard come home right now,” I muttered. “Cleo, come here! Bryan - stop!” I grabbed Bryan by the wing. Rather, I tried to grab him by the wing, but my hand floated right through it.
“Where have you been?” I yelled at Simon as he ran back into the living room.
He held up a raw steak. “Food for the chow-hound. Where is he?”
The trio ran back toward us. The dog skidded to a halt when he caught scent of the steak.
“He’s sitting right in front of you,” I said.
“Good. Where’s Cleo?”
I looked around and didn’t see her. “Hiding.”
“Right then. Come, poochie. Come get our lovely dinner.” He held the steak in the air. “Is he following me?”
“Yep, right at your feet.”
He led the dog down the hall into the kitchen. Throwing a dirty blanket from the laundry into a corner, he laid the steak on it and the dog pounced, settling in for a solo steak-fest with our dinner.
“Well that went well,” said Simon.
“Yeah. NOT.”
I longingly watched it chow down. “I was so looking forward to that.”
Walking back down the hall to the living room, I looked for Franny. “Franny? Are you here?”
She popp
ed back in, glancing nervously around. “Is it gone?”
“No, it’s - he, is in the kitchen eating.”
“What is it doing here?” Her voice grew stronger, more intense. “Beasts like that don’t belong in the house.”
“The dog isn’t dangerous. He’s actually very friendly, but I guess even in death dogs still like to chase cats.”
She harumphed and began hover-pacing. “But what is it doing here?”
“He followed us. It’s only temporary, until I can figure out what he’s doing here and help him to cross over.”
She stopped, wide-eyed. “But that could take an eternity. What if he doesn’t want to go?”
A slight niggling of fear made my heart trip. What if he didn’t want to go? Especially when he could stay and have steak? We’d have perpetual chaos!
“Is he part of this murder case you’re investigating?” Franny asked.
“No, he’s just a dog who took up residence in a haunted house.” I went over and flopped onto the couch, exhausted.
“What house, dear?” She asked in earnest.
That’s right! Franny said she had connections. “On Quixley Street, a house owned - formerly owned - by Sadie Cuttle. Can you find out anything through that ghostly grapevine of yours?”
“I will certainly try, dear.” She faded away.
Her ghostly connections concerned me because I suspected it involved a whole underground spirit community. For the most part, spirits meant trouble. More spirits in the house, I didn’t need, especially ones with ulterior motives or less than stellar reputations. Where light existed, darkness also dwelt. Spirits didn’t cross over for good reasons and some of them dangerous. Evil lurked, even in the light.
“Don’t bring anyone home!” I yelled after Franny.
“What? Who are you talking to?” asked Simon, coming back into the living room.
“Franny. She’s going to check around and see what she can find out about Mrs. Cuttle and the ghost dog on Quixley Street.”
“Oh - good.” He flopped onto the couch next to me. “She can do that?”
“Apparently. I just hope she doesn’t bring anyone else into the house. It’s crowded enough as it is.”
“I’ll say.” He sighed. “The dog’s napping after his meal.”
I raised my eyebrows. Since when could Simon see spirits?
“He’s snoring the house down. I can hear him from here.”
I listened. A steady drone echoed down the hall like a squadron of airplanes through war-torn skies.
“And not only that,” he added, “the smell in there is atrocious. Apparently his gastrointestinal system still works fine.”
Chapter Six
No Police, Please
The Blind Badger bustled with activity, so I waved to Charlie and Claire and proceeded to the snug.
“Hiya,” Cappy said, eyeing the area around me nervously. “Are you alone?”
“If you mean the ghost dog, then yes. I’m alone. He made himself scarce when I left home.” I shed my coat and hung it on a peg. The street lamp from the ginnel highlighted the rain dripping down the windowpane. I closed the blinds and poured a mug of coffee from the carafe on the side table.
“Good,” Cappy returned. “The others will be late. Riley said to ‘elp yerself to sandwiches.” Little did Cappy know that he resembled an apparition himself—his black hoodie steamed from the cold damp against the heat from the fireplace.
“Thanks.” I vaguely noted the half empty plate. No doubt a few already found their way into his pocket, which reminded me... “How’s your grandmother?”
He shrugged and bit into a sandwich. “Better, I think. She’s getting up and about a bit more.”
I nodded. “Good.” I suspected he may have twisted the truth. Or maybe wishful thinking replaced it. I wondered what would happen to him if anything happened to his grandmother. And I wondered, not for the first time, what happened to his parents. He never mentioned them and didn’t seem to want to talk about them. I could relate, though, so I never asked.
Badger came in, followed by Simon, and a few minutes later, Riley. Simon pulled the murder map from the telly behind the bench and rolled it out onto the table. Riley sat next to him on the bench. They reached for the pen at the same time—and jerked back when their hands touched. They didn’t speak or look at each other.
I sighed. I desperately hoped the awkwardness between them would go away so we could concentrate on the case.
“Sorry you had to come out on a night like this,” said Riley to the group. “But since we had to work and were already here…” She shrugged.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ve got nothing else to do.” Ouch! Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned my dateless status on a Friday night. But who was I kidding? Everyone knew I didn’t have a life.
Riley’s eyes shone with excitement. “I’ve been sitting on this all day and nearly busted waiting to share it. Get this—” she laid the report on the table “—the police broke up a brawl at a party in the area that night. Underage drinkers scattered when the police arrived, some on foot, others in cars.”
Simon began to read through the report.
“Also,” added Riley, “The police found a drink driver passed out in his van. They took his keys and put them under the seat and let him sleep it off.” She looked pointedly around the table. “The Land Rover was blue and his name is Scott Durdle.”
I gasped. It sounded like the same truck, er, van, taken into Bodies by Billy the week after the accident.
“Durdle could ‘ave hit Simon’s car either before or after the cops discovered him there,” said Cappy. “Do we know what time they found ‘im?”
“Around 8:30.” Simon read from the report.
“So it fits the timeframe,” I added.
“Yes, it does,” said Badger. “And something else, as well.”
“Scott Durdle couldn’t ‘ave been the only drunk driver in the area,” said Cappy. A very significant fact. With a party of underage drinkers, our suspect list just grew exponentially.
“Right,” said Badger.
“There’s more,” said Riley. “One of the kids fighting at the party took off in a white van. The police found him a half mile from the accident. They arrested him for disturbing the peace and drink driving. They had his van towed.”
“So he could be a witness. He may have seen something,” I said, getting excited.
“As well as other kids at the party,” added Simon. “I wonder how many of them drove blue automobiles?”
“And the breakdown driver,” Badger added. “He was in the area, so he could be a suspect if he drove a blue tow van.”
“And there’s one more,” said Cappy.
Everyone looked over at him, not knowing who he referred to.
“The police,” he said. “The police were in the area as well. They drive blue cars.”
It struck me that if the accident involved police, it could be the reason why the accident report contained so little information. The same realization crossed my friend’s faces.
“So, shall I say it, then?”
Solemn nods all around.
“All right. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but the police report is remarkably non-informative. It may be a cover-up. They may be protecting their own.”
“You think?” said Simon sarcastically. “There isn’t even the name of who filed the report. We’d have a hard time proving it if the police did it.”
“Yes,” I said. “But at least we have one inside source. Robbie O’Boyle.”
At the end of the last investigation we had to trust him with our information. We needed his help and he needed ours. He didn’t let us down. And he already knew my secret.
“So to recap,” said Riley. “We now have three suspects. Number one is Scott Durdle, the drunk guy in the blue Land Rover. Then we have the breakdown driver, and now the police.”
“And our witness is the drunk kid in the white van…” began Simon.
&nb
sp; “Jason Krepp…” Riley put in.
“And possibly the other kids at the party,” Simon finished. He thought for a minute. “Hey, that name sounds familiar.” He looked at Badger. “Don’t we know him?”
“Yeah, he’s that blond, long-haired cocky bloke always in trouble at school last year. He got held back a couple times so he’s a bit older than us. Always smoked fags out behind the football field with his loser mates. I haven’t seen him at secondary school, though.”
“Yeah, I know who you mean,” said Simon. “He lives near us,” he said to me.
It was a lot to take in. All of a sudden we had leads.
“Right. So who’s doing what?” Riley perched her pen over the board to log the assignments. “I have to work.” Riley generally didn’t go out to investigate anyway. Her contribution all came through her cell phone and her mysterious secret source.
Badger looked at me. “I’m off tomorrow and so is Simon. The three of us can go by the police station and talk to Robbie, then swing by and talk to Jason.”
“I’ll check out the grapevine,” said Cappy. “If any rumors exist about that party, I’ll find out.”
Riley noted it all down.
On Saturday afternoon, Simon and I met Badger at the pub and walked the remaining four blocks to the police station. A weak sun filtered through the clouds to lend intermittent rays of warmth. Perhaps a sign of hope in the uncertainty of this investigation. I linked arms and walked happily between my two favorite guys.
Sabrina Shores housed the police department in a nineteenth century gray stucco building in the business area of town. It had high ceilings and walls painted a drab institution green. The temperature inside was tropical and muggy compared to the damp and cold outside. Our footsteps echoed through the lobby as we strode past the front desk, nodding to the bobby on duty. Acting as if we belonged seemed the best course of action. We didn’t want to be questioned too closely.
Winding through a series of halls, we came to an interior waiting area. I remembered seeing D.S. Robbie O’Boyle occupying a cubicle there. As a Detective Sergeant and the bottom rung of the police food chain, hopefully we’d find him working today. Not many people mulled about, and nobody paid us the slightest bit of attention, so I went through the short swing-door to the cubicles beyond. Badger and Simon followed. I sensed their nervousness. They hadn’t enjoyed our last visit when being ‘interviewed’ about Billy Radcliffe’s murder.