by Mona Marple
“You did what you could, and it was more than most of us.” I admit. “It was so awful, seeing her end up like that…”
“I’m glad I wasn’t there.” She says. “I’m sorry, I’m not pleased you were there instead, I just can’t imagine…”
“You weren’t there?” I repeat, returning in my mind to the April Fool’s party. I can’t remember specifically seeing Desiree, but it had been busy.
She shakes her head. “I had a conference in the city.”
“I thought Mariam usually went to those?” I ask. I know this because Mariam moans about the darn things every time they come around; whole days filled with reminders of things teachers never forget when they could do with the time to work on lesson plans and marking.
Desiree begins to pick the skin around her thumb nail. “I can’t talk about that.”
“What?”
“I can’t talk about my staff.” She says, in her principal’s voice. “It’s not appropriate.”
“Okay…” I drawl. “I wasn’t asking how much you pay her. I just, erm, it doesn’t matter.”
Desiree coughs and begins to gather up her things from around her. “I need to get going.”
“Sure.” I say awkwardly. “I hope I haven’t upset you. I didn’t mean…”
“Oh, hush.” Desiree says with a grimace. “It’s been nice to chat to you. I’ve probably just had too much caffeine.”
I force a small laugh. “Take care of yourself.”
“And you!” Desiree calls, and with that she’s gone, taking whatever secrets she has with her.
14
Sage
I like to visit in the evening, when they’ve kicked off their shoes and their responsibilities for the day and are just being themselves. They’re not always together, especially now one of them has found a man. I want to scream at them: don’t put men before each other!
Easy for me to say.
I never liked this place, with it’s small community and the judging eyes I felt surrounded by. Surrounded by housewives who were doing a better job than me at everything. Their whites were whiter, their cutlery was more polished, their doorsteps were swept more often than mine.
I felt their judgement weigh down on me like a pile of rubble, and I wanted to escape.
Then I looked at those two faces, those little faces who looked at me and saw sunshine and rainbows, and I cast aside the neighbours’ opinions and grabbed them for another dance or took them out into the garden with a tub of water and a paintbrush each and let them decorate the back of the house.
This, I can do well, I would say.
And now, as I visit, I know that I did do it well. My whites were a little yellow, my cutlery might have had a smear here and there, and my doorstep was never swept, but my girls were happy. And they’ve grown to be amazing women.
I hover near the door, not wanting to attract any attention to my presence. I don’t want to spook them.
Sandy brings in drinks, even though they’re at Coral’s house, which I could totally have predicted being the way things would work out for these two. Coral curls up on the settee and takes the mug of cocoa from her sister. She looks feline with her bright eyes and long limbs. Feline and tired. I hope she’s been sleeping.
“Want a blanket?” Sandy offers, already pacing back across the room to grab the blanket that lives on the back of the armchair. She spreads it across Coral’s slender legs then takes a seat herself.
“I’m so tired.” Coral says. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them and yawns.
“Go to bed.” Sandy says. “I’ll have my drink and let myself out.”
“No, no, it’s been too long since we just sat and chatted. Talk to me… tell me everything.”
Sandy laughs. “There’s not much to tell.”
“How are things with Tom?”
Sandy grins, as she always does when someone mentions her boyfriend’s name. I don’t blame her, he’s quite a catch. “They’re amazing. I think he’s The One.”
“Well, duh.” Coral replies with an eye roll. “Of course he is. Have you only just figured that out?”
Sandy shivers. “Did you feel that?”
I realise I’ve moved forward, into the room, and as I feared, Sandy has felt my presence. Yes, it’s possible. That cold draught you feel? It could be a spirit. Things being moved? Could be a spirit. That sense that you’re being watched? Could be a spirit. Most living people are too cynical to pick up on those signs. The best people are children and the elderly, and nobody believes them, or people in a high state of emotion. Some people are just naturally more tuned in, like Connie.
“It’s gone a bit cold.” Coral agrees, pulling the blanket around her further. “The heating’s probably turned off.”
“Do you ever wonder if mum’s watching us?” Sandy asks, and I gasp. I’ve never heard them talk about me, which is to be expected. I’ve been dead a long time. They can’t be expected to sit around and remember me every night. But still. A mother can hope.
“Of course she is.” Coral says with a firm nod.
“I like to think so too.” Sandy says. “I mean, I don’t want to see her, that would freak me the heck out. But I hope she knows we’re okay. I hope she’s proud of us.”
I begin to cry. I’m so proud of you, darling girls.
“She is.” Coral says. “Look at us, we’re amazing.”
Sandy laughs.
“But seriously, mum wouldn’t just take dying as the end.”
“Maybe that’s the adventure she always dreamed of.” Sandy says, and I realise she’s right. I wanted an adventure, something bigger than me, and life gave me two perfect girls and mundane chores, but death gave me a grand adventure. A whole new world. And now, a murder investigation.
“If she was here, what would you say to her?” Coral asks.
I hold my breath.
“I’d tell her to be happy. And tell her we’re happy. If I could speak for both of us. I think that’s all that matters really.” Sandy says.
“I’d tell her I love her, and I’d ask her to plait my hair again. Sitting with her, knowing I had all her attention, while she did my hair, that was the best feeling ever.”
“Aww, come here.” Sandy says, and Coral climbs out of her cocoon and sits by her sister’s feet. Sandy takes a clump of her auburn hair. “I’m not very good at this.”
My daughters descend into laughter as Sandy attempts to weave strands of Coral’s hair into something resembling a plait. My fingers tingle with the desire to go across there and do it for her. After ten minutes, Sandy gives up, apologising for the mess she’s made. The evening grows quiet and Sandy sees herself out when she notices that Coral has fallen asleep on the settee.
“Goodbye.” I whisper as she walks out, and she stops for a moment. As if she’s heard the ghost of a sound. She shakes her head, and leaves.
I float across to Coral and take three strands of her hair in my fingers, twisting each in turn. There’s no elastic, the plait will probably have dropped out by morning, but it makes me smile.
“Goodnight.” I whisper, but she has always been a deep sleeper, and my words don’t reach her.
**
“She’s hiding something.” Connie says. “But I don’t think she’s the killer.”
“How can we be sure if we don’t unearth whatever she’s hiding?” Atticus asks. We’re gathered in the attic for our daily meeting and Connie is relaying her meeting with Desiree. I’m still on cloud nine from the visit to my girls last night, feeling a mix of regular post-visit tiredness and a happiness that would seep into my bones if I had any.
“We can’t expect the whole town to share their secrets with us.” I say with alarm. I imagine having to confess that I quite like looking at Patton. How embarrassing would that be?
“She’s the principal of the school!” Atticus cries.
“Let’s move on.” Patton says. He keeps a meeting running smoothly, add that to his list of talents. “Conn
ie, what makes you think she isn’t the killer?”
“She was out of town.”
“Oh.” Atticus says. “Do we know that for sure?”
Connie nods. “She was at an education conference. I’ve checked online and there are photos from the night, she’s clearly there. She was given an award, which she didn’t mention to me, but it explains why she was there not Mariam.”
“Mariam?” Atticus repeats.
“She seems to go to a lot of these conferences instead of Desiree, but obviously she couldn’t go and collect the award.”
“Yes.” Atticus says. “She’s always doing that woman’s job for her. Late nights and early mornings, don’t let anyone tell you teaching is easy.”
“She mentioned some interesting things.” Connie says, ignoring Atticus’ rant. “Lola was wanted in Alabama for grand theft auto, and Desiree thinks she may have had some kind of gang involvement.”
“Which means someone might have tracked her down.” Patton says.
“Exactly.” Connie says.
“Well, what chance do we have of solving this case if it’s a stranger?” I ask.
“We’re not giving up.” Patton says.
“No, of course not.” I say, not wanting to be the hopeless one. “I just mean, Sheriff, in your experience, how do you go about this type of investigation?”
Patton blushes slightly and his chest balloons out with pride. “Well, we continue investigating. Speak to people. Did anyone see a stranger around town, especially on that night? Who was in charge of letting people in at the party?”
Connie shakes her head. “Nobody, really. It was an open house, anyone could come.”
Patton groans. “That makes it harder. But still, someone might remember seeing someone strange.”
“Wouldn’t they have reported it by now?”
“To who?” Atticus asks. “Rydell Grove and Jefferson County have left us out to dry. If they did receive any calls, we wouldn’t know.”
“That’s a good point.” Patton says. “Just because the calls aren’t being dealt with doesn’t mean they haven’t happened. There will be a file, probably in both towns.”
“So, shall I call them?” Connie asks.
“No.” Patton says. “They won’t tell you anything. I’ll go.”
“I’ll come with you.” I say, certain he will refuse the offer.
“That would be good.” He says to my surprise. “Let’s go tomorrow night.”
I pretend to check my imaginary diary, then notice his frown. “Sure, that works for me.”
“Any other business to discuss?” Patton asks.
“I’m still not sure how I feel about my daughter working for a woman who keeps secrets.” Atticus says. He removes his glasses and wipes the inner corners of his eyes.
“That’s not really police business, sir.” Patton says. “We need to stay focused in these meetings.”
“Well, could you at least look into her past a little?” Atticus asks. “Get her police record or something?”
“Absolutely not.” Patton says. “We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, the like of which the world has never seen before. This might be the first time spirits and humans have worked together to catch a killer. We’ll have no suggestion that we’ve abused our powers to satisfy curiosity. Desiree Montag is a good woman.”
Atticus lets out a sigh.
“What is your issue with her, Atticus?” Connie asks from beside me. She’s done some crazy impression of a bun with her hair today and trust me, it is not working. I need to have a chat with her about how to flatter the shape of her face, and it’s not by scraping her hair away to within an inch of it’s life.
“It’s just a feeling.”
“Just a feeling?” Patton asks with an eyebrow raised. I start to tune out of the conversation so I can enjoy looking at him more, but these people are too noisy. Ain’t no place in this town where a spirit can just sit back and admire an impressive ghostly specimen.
“In other news, have you guys had much to do with the supermodel?”
“Devin Summer?” I ask, because here’s an interesting subject finally. “Of course. What do you want to know?”
“Nothing.” Connie says with a laugh. “But as you know, Sage, I crossed paths with her recently, she’s a little intense.”
“She’s an artist.” I say. I’ve already explained this to her.
“She’s a supermodel.”
“That’s her art.” I say. I know I’m right because I’ve read a four-page interview with her. “She’s very passionate about the art of modelling.”
“So she gets paid to be attractive?” Patton asks.
“Hmm, I wouldn’t say she’s…” Connie begins.
“It’s all about expression. She seems to be quite fascinating.” I say. “I went to her house recently, her walk-in wardrobe is insane. I’ve never seen so many designer labels in one place.”
Patton eyes me. “You were in her house?”
I gulp. “Just once, I swear. I’m sorry.”
“You know the rules.” Patton says. “I assume she didn’t invite you in?”
“Well, no… but I did hear her crying. I wouldn’t have gone in otherwise.”
“She was upset when I saw her too.” Connie says. “Was she okay?”
“She was just in bed sobbing. I watched her for a while, but she didn’t seem like she was going to hurt herself, and I didn’t know what I could do, so I left. I may have got lost on the way out and ended up in her wardrobe. For just a moment.”
“I bet her house is amazing.”
“It is.” I admit. “It’s strange, she has all these photos up, of herself. I mean, good for her, but I wouldn’t want my face looking back at me like that.”
15
Sage
It’s the middle of the night and the streets are empty; houses cast in covers of darkness. A lone owl hoots at us from the branches of a sugar maple. Even the spirits, who tend to be more comfortable in the twilight hours, have turned in for the night.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I ask.
Connie turns to me and rolls her eyes. She’s wearing the lycra yoga pants that were on sale that year she decided she should exercise more, and they’re unforgiving on her lumps and bumps. I try to avert my eyes. I must remember to find them later and throw them in the trash.
“Here.” She says, and hands a small hammer to me. I don’t move. “Take it, it’ll be quicker if we both do it.”
I groan and take the hammer and promptly drop it on the sidewalk. It clatters, and that earns me a glare from Connie.
“It’s too heavy.” I object. Spirits can touch things, but we have to practice. When we’re newly crossed over, we float through everything, and we have to train our muscles to touch something, grip it, pick it up. I’ve got decades of practice behind me so I can pick things up without thinking, and float through other things as I need to, but I never had an interest in DIY when I was living, I certainly haven’t developed one since. The hammer is just too heavy.
“Fine, you can hold the paper.” Connie says. She passes me a sheet of paper and gestures to the sugar maple, where the owl watches us with interest. I pin the sheet up at around eye level, and hold it in place while Connie hammers a single nail through it. I’m sure I can feel the tree wince with every knock.
“How far apart are we doing these?” I ask. Connie’s printed a stack of the flyers. I can see a long night ahead of us.
“We’ll start with a few each street, I’d rather cover as much of town as possible than flyer every tree on two streets.” Connie says.
The flyers were her idea, stolen shamelessly from real investigations. Flyers asking for anonymous tips.
The next thing I knew, she was setting up a generic email address and designing these flyers that call for anyone with information about Lola’s death to share what they can, either with their name or anonymously.
“We’ll do this one.” Connie says and I h
old another flyer in place while she hammers a nail through it.
“I went to see the girls.” I say as we move through the streets quickly. Although we don’t say it, neither of us want to be out after dark while a killer remains loose.
“I thought so. You’ve been tired. That’s probably why you couldn’t hold the hammer.”
“You think?” I ask. That hadn’t occurred to me. “I just thought I wasn’t used to something that heavy.”
Connie shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Well?” I prompt.
“Huh?”
“Don’t you want to know how they are?”
Connie rolls her eyes. “Of course I do, give me chance to ask. I’m concentrating on the best spots for these flyers too.”
“Are you okay?” I ask. It’s unlike her to be so snappy, and disinterested. She’s never been a part of the girls’ life, and we both regret that now. I wish she’d go and visit them, see them for herself, but she’s convinced they wouldn’t be interested in her. Or would be angry that she waited so long.
“I’m fine.” Connie snaps. “Go on, tell me how they are.”
I don’t answer. To my surprise, I begin to silently cry.
Immediately, Connie stops and looks at me, and I catch my breath and stop crying.
“You knew I was crying.” I say.
She nods, and I see how tired she looks.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath. “It’s been happening more and more. It’s like I can, like, feel people’s emotions. It’s freaking me the heck out.”
I burst into a grin. “This is so cool!”
“It’s really not, trust me.”
“No, listen to me.” I say. “It’s okay. I can do it too.”
Connie rolls her eyes. “Just for once, can the conversation be about me, Sage?”
“Wow.” I say. “You are so annoying.”
“And you’re so self-centred.”