Kiss Me Hello

by LK Rigel

  The next door down the hall opened to a bedroom used for storage, jammed with crates and boxes. So did the next. A twinge of sadness hit Sara. Her aunt must be lonely in this big house.

  She felt like Goldilocks looking through someone else’s home, especially when the next room was just right: cozy with sweet pink and white rosebud wallpaper, a handmade quilted coverlet on a double brass bed, and a glimpse of the ocean out the window.

  The ocean! How could she have forgotten the widow’s walk?

  She stepped back into the hall. There. At the end of the corridor, across from Aunt Amelia’s bedroom, a narrow stairway built against the wall. It led to a landing, a small platform looking down on the second floor hallway. The treads were unstable and creaked with age, worse than the main stairs. She held onto the railing all the way up to the landing.

  The door on the landing was locked. Crud. The brass handle was ice cold, as was the door’s wood panel against her cheek. Maybe a window inside was open. Or broken. More likely, the attic room wasn’t insulated.

  She’d have to find out later. The house key was down in the kitchen sitting on the counter next to her purse, and the cozy little room with the rosebud quilt called to her. Nap first, widow’s walk later.

  She dreamt of Aunt Amelia. More accurately, she dreamt of Turtledove Hill.

  Sara was standing in the middle of Aunt Amelia’s bedroom when she noticed there was no glass in the windows. She stepped over the casings out onto the deck and warm, sun-drenched air. A seagull shrieked somewhere nearby, and white clouds hung unnaturally low over the vineyards.

  In the clouds sat men dressed in suits and women in floral print dresses, like Dustbowl farmers in their Sunday best. They dangled their legs over the sides and drank lattes in paper cups while laborers on the ground below filled baskets with hand-harvested red grapes.

  Sara floated off the deck, over the courtyard, over a palomino pony in the corral. She intended to join the people in the clouds, but the pony spoke a warning in Mom’s voice. Don’t go to the vineyards. It’s where the ghosts are.

  Instead, she floated over to the eucalyptus grove to see if the pond was still there and if any flowers were in bloom. Her feet touched ground at the edge of the water amid a riot of yellow and white daffodils, pink ladies, and purple bearded irises. A school of fat koi, white, gold, orange, and black, flitted about in the clear pool.

  A man sat on the slate rock that jutted over the water. He looked up, and a shiver of excitement rippled through Sara. It was him, Aunt Amelia’s lover.

  He looked to be in his early thirties. He was dressed as she remembered in the same loose pants, a romantic white poet’s shirt, and suspenders. He had shaggy brown hair and smoldering dark eyes. In her memory he wasn’t this young—but of course it was because she was older now.

  She touched ground amid the snowdrops, and in an instant he was at her side. He took her hand and looked at her with such intensity she trembled. But her hand fit in his perfectly, and she wasn’t afraid. He touched her back and turned her toward the house. His hand felt cold on her neck between her shoulders.

  Then she was in the courtyard, alone, facing the back porch.

  Aunt Amelia threw the door open. It banged against the wall as she raced out of the house and down the stairs. Red-orange cartoon roosters and pigs and geese surrounded her like minions, crowing and snorting and honking at Sara. Aunt Amelia waved an avocado green telephone handset and screamed, “Call the cops! Send her to hell!”

  The back door flew open with another bang, and Bonnie Norquist stood at the top of the porch stairs, hunger flashing in her eyes. “Where is it, Amelia?” she said. She was eight feet tall. Her face was white, painted like an actor in a kabuki play. She had fire engine red lips and wild black cartoon eyebrows. “Where is it?” she repeated.

  Aunt Amelia ignored Bonnie and held both her hands out to Sara. “Take it.”

  Sara couldn’t see what Aunt Amelia meant, her palms flat as if she was holding an open book.

  “Keep it safe,” Aunt Amelia said.

  Bonnie stomped down the porch steps and burst through Aunt Amelia who dissolved and disappeared like a ghost.

  “Ack!” Sara yelled and woke herself up. As if her dream refused to let go, the slam of a door echoed in the air. A chill had come over the room, and though it felt like Sara had barely slept, the day was gone. It was dark outside. What a wild dream.

  She picked up a shawl draped over the chair in the corner and wrapped it around her shoulders. Outside a car engine turned over. It sounded close enough to be on the property, but she couldn’t see much out the window until a pair of headlights came on, cutting through the fog at the end of the driveway. A car turned out onto Turtledove Hill Road and sped off.

  Sara shook her head, still disoriented from her dream. She was imagining things. The driver probably just took a wrong turn in the fog and was trying to get back to the highway. She gripped the shawl for comfort as much as for warmth and went downstairs, careful to step lightly on the bad tread.

  Everything was where she’d left it, her purse and key ring on the kitchen counter, her overnight bag on the floor. The house key was also on the counter, close to the edge away from her purse. She was exhausted before, and she didn’t remember putting the key anywhere in particular, but it just felt wrong.

  She locked the back door and grabbed her stuff, half expecting to see Aunt Amelia’s lover in the hall. The light switch was at the base of the stairs. She chuckled as a flood of light from overhead made everything bright and cheerful.

  Great. Now that she’d had some rest, she wanted to check out the attic. She took the house key with her and dropped off her things in the guest room. The attic stairs were truly unstable, especially the second tread from the top. Tomorrow she’d insist Aunt Amelia let her look into having both sets of stairs fixed.

  The key wouldn’t go into the lock, let alone turn in it. She hadn’t noticed before how unique the hardware was. It must be original to the house. Well, there was nothing to do about it now. She went down and changed into her pajamas and found an extra blanket in the chest at the foot of the bed.

  It must be wonderful here in the summer. The heat at home was worse every year. Hot Heat. The thought of Bram’s book made her want call him, but he was at work now. Besides, she couldn’t get a signal on her cell, and she didn’t want to go down to the kitchen again.

  She plugged in her phone and set the alarm app for seven o’clock in the morning. She had some questions for Aunt Amelia, and she wanted to ask them before Bonnie Norquist got there.

  - 7 -

  Coffee Spot

  THERE WAS NOTHING IN the cupboards but a box of macaroni and cheese, a nearly empty jar of peanut butter, and a can of ground coffee. The Mr. Coffee machine on the counter looked willing enough, but after one whiff of the ancient grounds, Sara decided to take her caffeine craving to Pelican Chase.

  She parked in the lot the nursing facility shared with a few other businesses, including a local mom and pop grocery store. She’d pick up a few things to take to the house after seeing Aunt Amelia, but first she walked up to The Book Beak, hoping for a latte.

  Peekie was inside the store toward the back restocking the bookshelves, but it was only 7:45 and the shop hours on the door sign said 9:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. It was going to have to be The Coffee Spot. Sara crossed Bird Row and took a deep breath, drawing the ocean air deep into her lungs. The fog had almost burned off, and it was going to be a gorgeous day. She’d slept like a log with no more crazy dreams, and now she felt great.

  Right then she made up her mind. Even if Aunt Amelia was better tomorrow, she was taking at least the week off. She hadn’t used a sick day in two years, and she had never used family leave. All the Jane Eyre essays were graded. The only test left was the multiple choice English final, and a sub could easily deal with that.

  She justified taking the time off work so she could care for Aunt Amelia, but the truth was she loved it here, and she cou
ldn’t count on ever being invited again. She and Bram needed the space—yes, she’d use that word. He could get a good start on Hot Heat’s sequel.

  The Coffee Spot was packed. Booths lined the walls and two rows of tables ran through the center, all taken, keeping the waitresses busy. The aroma of sizzling bacon, fried onions, and fresh biscuits made Sara’s stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten since going through a drive-through yesterday on the road.

  The cash drawer slammed shut, and the man at the register handed a customer her change. He noticed Sara at the door and motioned her in. “Eh, hermosa! You’ve come to the right spot. There’s a place here at the counter if you don’t want to wait.”

  He looked to be in his early forties and had a big smile and kind dark eyes. His black hair was cropped short, accenting a muscled neck and shoulders. He picked a menu out of a holder on the counter and handed it to her as she climbed up on a stool.

  “It’s all good,” he said, “but you won’t get better huevos rancheros anywhere.”

  “I love huevos rancheros.”

  “Pinto beans or black?”

  “Black, thanks.”

  “Good girl.” He turned around to the kitchen window and yelled, “Eh, viejo! Order up. Rancheros, black!” then scratched out the order and popped the ticket onto the carousel on the ledge.

  “Got it, mijo,” the cook yelled back.

  Without missing a beat, the guy was back at the register chatting up a customer and back to Sara with a full coffee pot.

  “Coffee?” He set an empty cream-colored ceramic mug in front of her.

  “Sure.” How bad could it be, really? After two creamers, the color didn’t look promising. Sara took a tentative sip. Ack.

  She only got down a few swallows by the time the guy delivered her breakfast, a corn tortilla, black beans, three fried eggs, salsa, sour cream, and black olives. It looked delicious, but with the fried potatoes, onions, and green peppers there was enough to feed four people.

  “Oh.” With the first bite, she moaned her approval. “This is heaven.”

  “I told you.” He grinned and topped off her coffee. “Are you visiting Pelican Chase? I know all the best tourist attractions.”

  “Attractions?” She couldn’t imagine what there was to do in Pelican Chase. “You mean beyond enjoying the gorgeous scenery?”

  “Sure. Are you staying at the Chase Me Inn? They have a bona fide ghost in the restaurant. I know. I’m the local ghost whisperer.”

  “I’m here to see my aunt, Amelia Lyndon.” Sara smiled. She already liked this guy. “She owns Turtledove Hill. She had an accident.”

  “So you’re Sara,” he said. “Peekie told me Amelia’s niece was in town.”

  “Peekie did.”

  “Peekie and I go way back. She’s my nemesis, but she came up with the name for this place.” He offered his hand. “I’m Spot Aguila, mayor of Pelican Chase, and owner of this fine establishment.”

  “I get it. The Coffee Spot.” Sara shook his hand. “Why a ghost whisperer? Doesn’t that clash with being the mayor?”

  “Nah, Pelican Chase is full of spirits. Ghosts are part of our heritage, and the mayor better know about them. The Chase Me Inn has the kitchen ghost,” he said. “And everybody knows Turtledove Hill is haunted.”

  “That’s what my mother used to say.” Sara grinned. She couldn’t imagine Rocklin voting in a ghost whisperer for mayor. “So are you psychic? If that’s not too personal a question. How do you see ghosts?”

  “Of course not, hermosa,” Spot said. “Anybody can sense the spirits if they open their mind. Sometimes it’s a sudden heat or chill in the air or an unexplainable noise. If a ghost harbors a lot of anger or grief over its death, it remains bound to the material plane. In that case, it can concentrate its energy and use it to move objects.”

  “Have you seen that happen?”

  “At the Chase Me Inn, yeah. Its ghost is a little girl who lived there in the 1880s when it was a private home. She got into the kitchen lye and died. She had a favorite doll she used to sit with in a window seat, watching the ocean. The day she was buried, the mother found the doll, and in her sorrow she took it to her room that night. The next day, the doll was back in the window seat. The mother put the doll back in her bedroom, but what do you think?”

  “The doll wound up in the window seat again.”

  “Exactly. The mother even put the doll away in a trunk one time, and still the next day it showed up in the window. The little ghost was taking the doll to sit with her and watch the waves on the rocks outside. She wasn’t ready to let go of life.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad.”

  A new customer took the seat next to Sara, and Spot put a coffee mug down on the counter in front of him. “Eh, jefe. The usual?” Spot called in an order without waiting for the answer.

  The customer was an older man with freckled pale skin, slightly sunburned, and feathery strawberry blond hair gray at the temples. He was dressed in good-quality jeans and a black knit polo shirt with Poole Haven Wines embroidered in silver over the pocket.

  “Jefe, this is Sara Lyndon,” Spot said. “Amelia’s niece.”

  Sara didn’t bother to correct the last name.

  “It’s good to meet you.” The guy extended his hand. “Gracien Poole. We lease Amelia’s grapes. Please, call me Gracien.”

  “But didn’t Spot just call you Heffie?”

  “Our mayor has a habit of giving people nicknames. Jefe means boss.”

  Sara wondered what hermosa meant.

  “Jefe is the biggest boss around,” Spot said. “My biggest contributor, anyway. He donated that sign to my last campaign.” Spot pointed to a banner high over the door: FOR MAYOR, AGUILA HITS THE SPOT.

  “I wondered how Aunt Amelia could run Turtledove Hill all by herself,” Sara said.

  “All she has to do is cash the checks,” Gracien said. “I’ve been trying to buy the fields outright from her for years, but she won’t hear of it. I sure hope she’s going to be okay.”

  “She has a bad infection, but they’re giving her antibiotics. She was sleeping when I got into town yesterday, but I’ll be seeing her soon.”

  “Please give her my regards.”

  “Thank you, Gracien. I will.”

  She couldn’t eat another bite. She fished her wallet out of her bag and left a tip on the counter. Peekie had it right about The Coffee Spot: Good food and too much of it; horrible coffee and too much of it.

  Spot met her at the register with a paper cup with a lid on it. “A cup of Joe to go,” he said. “Tell Amelia we’re all praying for her.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Aguila.”

  “Mr. Aguila is that guy.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the cook. “Call me Spot.”

  On the sidewalk Sara passed a trash can and tossed the liquid acid masquerading as coffee. She’d get a decent cup at the nursing facility. But then Marnie Sims met her in the lobby with such a stricken look that Sara forgot all about caffeine.

  Aunt Amelia was worse. The antibiotics had failed.

  Sara sat down beside her aunt’s bed and took her hand. She was so pale, worse than yesterday. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing sounded raspy and uneven. “Has she had sleeping pills again?”

  “Nothing today,” Sims said defensively.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “Dr. Kasaty has rounds at nine o’clock, three patients. I’ll ask her to step in here first.”

  As soon as Sims left the room, Aunt Amelia opened her eyes. “Sara.”

  “Oh, Aunt Amelia. I should have come to see you sooner.”

  “I would have liked that, dear, but it was impossible. You can’t unring the bell.” She smiled as if she’d told a joke.

  It was too sad. Again Sara regretted all the wasted years, time they could have known each other better. “I looked for your reading glasses, but I couldn’t find them.”

  “My glasses?” Aunt Amelia frowned.

  “Bonnie sai
d you wanted your glasses.”

  “Bonnie! She wasn’t after any glasses. Don’t let her go through his things, touch them. She can’t have it!”

  “Have what? Whose things?”

  Aunt Amelia clenched Sara’s hand. “Promise me,” she said. “Never let them have Turtledove Hill, not until you find them.”

  “What do you mean? Find what?”

  “You’re the only one who can understand. He’s trapped. I owe him, Sara. Everything’s my fault.”

  “Who is trapped, Aunt Amelia? What’s your fault?”

  “Promise me, Sara. He must rest in peace.”

  “Yes, Aunt Amelia, but who is he?” Sara asked. “Who are they?”

  “Eleanor.” With a faint sickening groan, Aunt Amelia’s eyes rolled back in her head.

  “Help!” Sara ran out into the hall and almost crashed into a petite woman in a white doctor’s coat. Her name tag said Lubov Kasaty, MD. “Dr. Kasaty, it’s my aunt,” Sara said. “I think…” She couldn’t go on.

  The doctor pressed Sara’s arm kindly but firmly. She had a hint of a Russian accent. “You can sit there, but don’t get in the way.”

  She checked Aunt Amelia’s pulse and called her name. There was no response. The doctor pushed open her eyelids and shined a light in her eyes.

  “I need a crash cart, stat!” Dr. Kasaty screamed and she started administering CPR.

  It seemed to take forever, but Aunt Amelia finally made a sound, a protesting mm, mm. “I won’t,” she said. She reached up and touched Dr. Kasaty’s face. With a sweet smile she said, “Why did you bring me back from the valley? You know I won’t stay.”

  Her hand fell to the bed like dead weight as two nurse assistants arrived with the cart.

  Sara felt sick to her stomach as the medical people went to work. She closed her eyes and tried to pray while the air filled with the sounds of their efforts. Something changed. She sensed a cruel new emptiness in the room.

  Dr. Kasaty’s voice broke as she pronounced time of death.