Ghost Memory

by Maer Wilson

  I shrugged. It did seem to be a theme with us. Mine had been broken as a child, during a bike accident. I’d skidded across some gravel while racing a friend and landed on my face. I still had a slight bump on the right side.

  Thulu’s broken nose also happened when he was a kid. He’d been trying to teach Karate to his cousins and got clobbered in the face.

  The fact that we both had little bumps on our noses made me feel like we kind of matched.

  Thulu’s brown hair was streaked from the sun with blond. His warm, brown eyes also had gold flecks in them and in certain lights they looked gold. He was tall and slender, but had good muscle tone from his Karate.

  He was the more social one, in spite of being calmer and low-key. That made it weird for me, since I was the one who had total contact with the dead. Not that he was a chatterbox. He was often quiet, but he also had a gift for making friends easily. No question about it, he was quite charming. It made it easier for me that I didn’t have to be a social butterfly. We’d have been in deep trouble if we’d had to rely on my social skills to interact with people. I had a deep fear of regular people finding out about our abilities, so I preferred to keep my distance, except with family. Fortunately the Thulukans were more accepting of my reticence.

  I didn’t know what else to say about the debacle and searched for something else. I remembered our new client. “We have a new case.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “He was waiting outside our door when I got home.”

  He held up a hand. “Wait. Before you tell me, let’s order something to eat. I’m sure neither of us feels like cooking tonight.”

  I realized my stomach had a hollow, empty feeling that wasn’t due to the guilt of the afternoon. I nodded, thankfully.

  Thulu pulled out his cell phone and went into the kitchen where we kept our takeout menus. “Pizza okay?” He called from the kitchen.

  “Yeah, sounds fine to me.”

  He ordered the pizza and while we waited, I filled him in on everything Peter Swanson had told me. It didn’t take very long.

  Thulu nodded appreciatively. “Sounds pretty straightforward. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  While we waited on the pizza to arrive, Thulu called Donovan Quinn and asked if we could see him. He told him we were friends of Peter Swanson’s. Mr. Quinn agreed that we could come by, and we set an appointment for late the next morning, after our classes were done for the day.

  I called Peter Swanson’s name and he popped in immediately. I introduced him to Thulu, and told him the plan for the next day. He thanked us for starting on his case so promptly, before disappearing.

  Once the pizza arrived we camped out on the sofa. Thulu brought me a glass of wine, and I sipped it appreciatively.

  I was supposed to read a chapter for class the next day, but I simply wasn’t in the mood. Instead, Thulu and I watched TV. I was mostly over my anguish of the day and very relieved that it hadn’t damaged my relationship with Thulu. Not that much could damage that, which I knew perfectly well. But even knowing that hadn’t stopped me from having a sick feeling in my stomach.

  Thulu and I had been together since we were kids. We met on my first day at school after my grandmother and I moved to San Francisco. My parents had died that previous spring, and I was even less social afterwards than I am now.

  Thulu had rescued me from my grief and even brought me out of my shell. He told me he had known he needed to find someone very important that day and when he saw me, he said he knew he’d found the right person. Funny thing is, I knew it, too. Even at ten years old, we knew it was special.

  So, yeah, I knew deep down that I didn’t need to worry. But I still had that disconnected feeling that crying and sleeping during the day leaves behind. In spite of the nap, I fell asleep easier than usual, snuggled up with Thulu, safe in the knowledge that he still loved me.

  Early the next morning, Thulu cooked breakfast while I slept in. It was my usual MO. I woke to the smell of coffee - something Thulu drank regularly. He had a thing for exotic blends that smelled awesome. Too bad the taste never seemed to match the smell for me. A fact that always made him shake his head in mock sorrow when he insisted I try whatever new kind he brewed up. I tried to appreciate the difference, but maybe I simply didn’t have a coffee palate. Whatever the reason, they all tasted pretty much the same to me. I preferred my morning Coke.

  I stumbled into the kitchen, where I got a kiss on the top of my head from Thulu. Helping myself to a plate, I drowned my pancakes in syrup. My sweet tooth was always strong, and that morning I needed it more than usual.

  Thulu and I sat at our breakfast bar, not talking much, since it takes me a while to become human in the morning. He read the news on his tablet, now and then sharing a tidbit he knew I’d be interested in, as I slowly came to life.

  I hit the shower and dressed in my usual uniform of jeans and a T shirt. I rarely wore make-up thanks to smooth skin and a good complexion, so I didn’t often need a lot of time to get ready. Unfortunately, that morning my skin was still blotchy from the day before, so I resorted to making myself as presentable as possible and sighed as I applied a light coat of foundation to cover the red marks on my fair skin.

  In spite of my taking extra time, we were early as we headed out for the two classes we had that day. Thulu and I had taken separate courses to maximize the things we needed to know for our detective agency. After taking every class together throughout middle school and high school, it was odd to not be in the same classroom, but I felt it was worth it. Between the two of us, we were pretty sure we had everything covered. At least that we could think of.

  That morning, I had a basic Bookkeeping class and Anthropology. With graduation looming, I had saved some of the easy stuff for last. They weren’t bad classes really, but my professor for the Bookkeeping class tended to drone on, and I had to force myself to pay attention that morning. Anthropology was always enjoyable though, and that class zoomed by.

  Thulu had gotten out of his Psychology class early and waited for me outside my classroom. He took my hand as we headed off to our car and the exodus of students trying to get out of the parking lot.

  We drove across San Francisco to the address we’d been given and found the old Victorian. It wasn’t far from Thulu’s parents’ home and was close to the area where we had grown up and gone to school together as kids. We were able to find a parking spot not too far away. The outside showed a three story home, but I was willing to bet a basement made it four stories. It had been repainted a rich cream, with coral and brick red trim. A swing sat empty on one end of the porch, and a wind chime tinkled merrily in the breeze.

  Mr. Quinn was obviously waiting for us, as he answered our knock quickly. He greeted us with a smile and indicated we could hang our coats on a coat rack in the foyer. The house smelled wonderfully of something that had been freshly baked with cinnamon.

  We were ushered into a small parlor to the left of the entryway. The room was cozy, with tea and cookies already set up on the coffee table. The parlor was furnished tastefully and although the furniture had seen some use, the antiques were comfortable and solid. The walls had been recently painted a pale blue that contrasted with the gleaming woodwork.

  Peter Swanson was also already in the room, sitting comfortably in what was probably “his” chair. An overstuffed armchair that looked very comfortable. I gave him a surreptitious nod, which he returned with a smile.

  Mr. Quinn was dressed casually in a heavy knit sweater and jeans. He moved carefully and deliberately, as someone does who has arthritis and lives alone.

  I’d forgotten to ask Mr. Swanson how long he’d been dead. Since the dead were so notoriously unreliable with time, I usually made sure to get a date. They did much better with those.

  “You said you knew Peter,” said Mr. Quinn.

  “Yes,” said Thulu, “we’ve only seen him twice.”

  “I see. And when was that?” Mr. Quinn asked.

  I
looked over at Mr. Swanson. It was time to decide whether we would tell Mr. Quinn the truth or try to cover it up with a believable story. Mr. Swanson gave me an encouraging nod.

  Turning to Mr. Quinn, I looked straight into his eyes, trying to decipher what he believed. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best.

  “That would be yesterday.” I said evenly. “And today. Right now.”

  Mr. Quinn sat back in his chair, taking a sip of his hot tea. He watched me steadily over the top of his cup, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. My heart sank a bit at the lack of reaction.

  “I see,” he said again. “So, now am I supposed to pay you to tell me whatever it is that Peter wants me to know?”

  While I was disappointed that he didn’t immediately accept my statement as true, I was also very pleased to learn the old man wouldn’t be easy prey for scammers and con artists. I shook my head while Thulu took over.

  “No, sir. Mr. Swanson hired us. We’re here to find the money that Mr. Swanson has been stashing in this house for the last forty years. He left you a will, he left you a letter, and he left you cash. But when he had Alzheimer’s, he was moving everything around for safekeeping. He doesn’t remember all of the hiding places and has asked me to find them for you.”

  Mr. Quinn’s eyebrows moved steadily upward as he took all of that in. “And what exactly do you get out of this?”

  “That will be something we work out with Mr. Swanson.”

  “So, you don’t want a portion of this money that is supposedly here?”

  “No, sir, that would defeat the purpose of the job we’ve been hired to do. That job is to find and give you the things that Mr. Swanson left for you.”

  “So, you expect me to believe that Peter has been in touch with you since his death?” His gaze moved back and forth between me and Thulu.

  I shook my head. “No, sir, we rarely expect anyone to believe anything we do. The fact remains, I’m able to see and speak with the dead. Mr. Swanson is here now and if you have questions that only he can answer, I’ll be happy to translate those answers for you.”

  “So, you claim that Peter is here now?” So quiet, so calm.

  I nodded and looked at the chair where Peter Swanson sat. “He’s sitting right there. His expression is a bit bemused and he’s tugging on his right ear lobe.”

  Mr. Quinn continued to take small sips of his tea as he watched me.

  “Did you have any questions you wanted me to ask him to prove that I can see him?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  My heart sank even further. Mr. Quinn seemed unflappable, and if he wasn’t willing to let me prove I could see Peter Swanson, I had no idea how we were going to complete the job. I looked at Thulu questioningly and he gave me a small shrug.

  “Well, then, I guess we won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you for the tea and cookies,” I said politely, gathering my purse. My grandmother would be proud of me for showing good manners.

  “Aren’t you going to complete the job Peter hired you to do?”

  I was at a loss. “You’ll let us do the job? You believe us?”

  “Of course, I do. Do you honestly think I could live with a man for fifty years and not know when he was in the same room with me? Living or dead, I know when Peter is here. He’s come to visit me many times over the last few weeks.”

  I looked between Mr. Quinn and Mr. Swanson, who was chuckling quietly to himself.

  “I told you he was more open to things than I was,” said Mr. Swanson.

  “I guess so,” I said, looking at Mr. Swanson.

  Mr. Quinn smiled. “I bet he just told you I was the one who believed in a spiritual realm.”

  I nodded. “Something like that.” I repeated what Mr. Swanson had said for Mr. Quinn and for Thulu who hadn’t been watching Mr. Swanson.

  “So, how do you work exactly?” asked Mr. Quinn, with a twinkle in his eye. I breathed a sigh of relief that at least he seemed curious about our abilities.

  Thulu took over, explaining about his abilities, before he stood and indicated the chair where Mr. Swanson sat. “If I may?”

  Mr. Quinn nodded and Mr. Swanson floated out of the chair. Thulu went over to the easy chair and tilted it to the side. A fat manila envelope had been duct taped to the bottom. He motioned for me to remove it, and I handed it to Mr. Quinn. Thulu gently eased the heavy chair back down, with a gentle thump.

  Mr. Quinn held the envelope for a long minute before he pulled the duct tape off the edges. I could see that his name was on the outside. He opened the envelope and withdrew a thick stack of bills. His mouth dropped open and tears sprang to his eyes. Thulu went over to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Just think of it as an Easter egg hunt, sir. That might make it easier.”

  Mr. Quinn and I spent the next two hours trailing Thulu from room to room as he recovered envelope after envelope of cash.

  The kitchen was especially lovely. Completely modern, with new appliances. A built-in booth was set into a bay window, overlooking the back yard. A large island took up the middle of the room and there was lots of cupboard space. It was a cook’s kitchen, and I wished our tiny kitchen was even half the size of this one. I complimented Mr. Quinn on the kitchen design.

  With a smile, he said, “Thank you, my dear. This was our favorite room. Peter was quite the cook and we designed this to be very cook-friendly.”

  “Well, I love it! You did an awesome job on it.” I said sincerely, as I looked around.

  The top two floors hadn’t made it into the cosmetic renovation and made me feel a bit sad. The walls on the top floor had old, torn and stained wallpaper. The paint was chipped and the wood was scarred and scuffed. Boxes were stored neatly here and there in different rooms, but the air of neglect was palpable.

  The second story was in much better shape than the top floor, but still hadn’t seen any renovation in a very long time. Wallpaper with designs from another century covered the walls. Still, it was a house with a lot of potential, and I loved it.

  “We hadn’t gotten this far, when we decided we needed to conserve our money. We took care of updating the things that were necessary, but not the decoration.” Mr. Quinn gave a small sigh of regret.

  “It’s a wonderful old house, Mr. Quinn. I think it’s awesome.” I said with a smile.

  The will turned up in the attic in the bottom of a box, buried beneath other boxes. The letter was taped underneath an old bureau on the second floor.

  Mr. Quinn gave up tagging along after Thulu presented him with the letter. He simply waved us on and made his way slowly downstairs. I asked him if he needed my help, but he smiled sadly and shook his head. I kept an eye on him anyway, until he was back in the parlor.

  Even the basement was neat, with a workshop area that showed no signs of what had been made there, but held some tools on a pegboard attached to the wall.

  Once Thulu was sure he had recovered everything in the house, we made our way back downstairs to Mr. Quinn. Thulu gave him the last of the envelopes.

  “He kept track of everything he set aside,” said Mr. Quinn. “Even at the end, he was recording his ‘little deposits.’ That’s what he called them.” He looked up at us. “Could you please help me count it?”

  He handed us several sheets of paper, spreadsheets carefully documenting all of Mr. Swanson’s deposits over the years. I was impressed that he had kept that up in spite of his Alzheimer’s. Especially since the last entry was made the month before. According to the figures, there should have been a little over a hundred thousand dollars.

  We counted each envelope separately and noted the amount on the outside. I pulled out my phone and accessed the calculator, adding up the totals of each envelope. We went through every envelope twice more, double checking the numbers. Every time we came out to eighty-four thousand dollars and change.

  “That means there’s about sixteen thousand dollars missing,” Thulu said after the third time resulted
in the same numbers.

  “Still, this is more than enough for me to live on the rest of my life,” said Mr. Quinn.

  Thulu sat back, his fingers steepled as he thought. He closed his eyes to concentrate as he did when a job required a little more effort than what he’d expended so far. I felt the familiar energy gather around him. It went out in waves and pulses, with him at the center. No one else ever seemed to notice it, except my grandmother, who was an empath, but it was obvious to me.

  Thulu had tried to explain what it felt like when he was in finder mode, but I think it was one of those “you had to be there” things. Certainly, I never really understood what he meant.

  I looked at Mr. Quinn and smiled encouragingly while we waited. He had refreshed the tea, and I sipped at a lovely spicy blend and nibbled on homemade cinnamon cookies. We stayed silent, so as not to disturb Thulu, who opened his eyes after about five minutes.

  His face bore his familiar grin, as he dimpled at the two of us.

  “Okay, the bad news is that it’s scattered all over the place. Part of it is in several banks. The good news is that there were several stops when it was still together before that.” He stared at me thoughtfully for a moment. “Let’s go home, Fi, so I can do some more research and check these locations.”

  “Before we do, Mr. Quinn, would you like us to go with you to the bank? I really don’t think you should keep that money here.” I said to him gently.

  The old man was staring at the easy chair where Peter Swanson had once more settled. “But it’s been here all this time with no problem,” he protested.

  “That was before someone realized there was money in this house. Who knows when they might decide to come back and look for more? Do you really want to take that chance?” I asked gently.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn, but Fi is right. You should have your money in a bank.” Thulu immediately backed me up.

  Mr. Quinn sighed heavily, “I suppose you’re right. I have a small savings account, but mostly I use my checking account. Peter and I always saved up for whatever we needed and usually paid cash.” He paused thoughtfully. “Won’t the bank want to know where I got this money?”