by Mona Marple
Connie looks less crazy when she sits and talks to spirits now, since everyone in town can see who she’s talking to.
And she - bizarrely - has more time. I have less time and she has more. Go figure.
There’s less call for her medium skills now everyone in town can see the spirits. Although other people can’t tune in and request a special appearance by their favourite ghost, and only people in Mystic Springs can see the spirits, so there’s still enough demand to keep her in the somewhat dull lifestyle she’s grown accustomed to. She just has more time to relax, and more time to spend with me if I can fit her in my busy schedule.
It’s like we’re teenagers again, her trying to pin me down.
Let me tell you, it’s pretty good to remember what it feels like to be popular. These last two decades of isolation have been pretty rough on the former Great Beauty of the Class of… well, I don’t think we need to specify the year, do we?
Oh, and if you’re still wondering how I died. I don’t know! No, I haven’t magically remembered. Stop being so gruesome, okay?
“Sage?” Connie says, which is bad news. She’s sat across from me in the Screamin’ Beans Coffee House and she’s been blabbering on for at last three minutes about a programme she watched last night on the History channel. I’ve been trying to drown her out without her noticing.
“Is that right?” I say. If you ever find yourself in this situation, you’ve been caught, so you’ve got nothing to lose. You might as well give one last attempt at convincing the dull person that you were paying attention.
“You were listening?” Connie asks. Result!
“Of course I was.” I say.
She glances down and now she’s feeling guilty as Hell. I’m really too good at this. “You seemed miles away.”
“I was just thinking.” I say. “It sounds really interesting. Shame I missed it.”
It absolutely was not a shame I missed it. I was out - with Patton Davey. On a real date. Well, a walk around town with no physical touching but a fair amount of flirting on my part. I’m claiming it.
“The second part’s on tonight, let’s watch it together.” Connie suggests.
darn it! I really am too good at this.
“You know, I think I have…” I begin, but it’s like looking at a puppy dog. The woman desperately needs some more Sage in her life. Who am I to say no? “I think I’m free.”
“Really?” She asks, as astounded as I am that I’m agreeing to this.
“Uh huh.” I say. “What’s the second part called? I might look it up online.”
“Oh, it’s just part two. Wonders of the Egyptians.” Connie says with a grin. “It’s about Cleopatra. I’ve always loved her. Do you remember learning about her at school?”
“Vaguely.” I admit. I quite enjoyed learning about the ancient Egyptians at school, although I was too cool to admit that, while Connie made no secret of her own enthusiasm. She sat up front at every class, taking notes and asking questions and turning herself into more of an outcast than she already was. I can handle a programme about this.
“I loved imagining that I was alive in those times.” Connie says, all dreamy.
“Why?” I ask, and I crinkle my nose as I speak. She takes a sip from the huge mug of cocoa in front of her. “Life was so hard back then.”
“Well, yeah, but they were also so advanced. So many of the things we think are our modern inventions, they'd worked out first.”
“Maybe you can channel Cleopatra’s ghost.” I say.
“Spirit.” Connie corrects.
“Cleopatra’s spirit…”
“Ooh!” Connie says, and she giggles. “Wouldn’t that be amazing.”
“It would give Atticus some new PR material.” I say. Atticus, the former mayor, hasn’t allowed a trifling detail like his death to stop his mission to put Mystic Springs firmly on the map.
“What’s Atticus up to now?” Ellie, the coffee house owner, asks as she clears empty cups from the table next to us. She gives me a nervous smile but firmly directs the question to Connie.
“Oh, nothing. We’re just talking about Cleopatra.”
“Who?”
“Cleopatra, you know, from Ancient Egypt.”
“Oh, I’m not really very up on history.” Ellie says. “You need to talk to that guy about it, he’s always banging on about old stuff.”
I look across the room, to a table where a man in a light grey hoodie and a dark grey beret, vintage round glasses with dark frames, and a neat grey goatee sits across from a woman in a fur coat.
“He’s a historian, that’ll be why.” Connie says, following my gaze. I’ve seen the man around town but can’t name him, and now I know why. He must move in different circles to me. You know, the boring ones.
“A what?”
“A historian.” Connie repeats. “You know, he studies the past, collects antiques and things.”
“Oh.” Ellie says, unimpressed. She has a tray full of empty cups and she walks away, back towards the counter, balancing it in her arms.
“She’s not an intellectual, like us.” I joke.
Connie rolls her eyes. “She’s a sweet girl.”
“I never said she wasn’t!” I protest. I actually like Ellie Bean a fair amount, if only because she has the ovaries to own the world’s ugliest cat. Godiva sits on the floor near the counter, eyeing me as if reading my mind. Nasty animal.
“So what are your plans for the day? Until our hot date with Cleopatra, of course.” I ask.
Connie’s dressed in what is basically a tent, so I hope she’s either going emergency clothes shopping or returning home to get changed.
“I’ve got some errands to run.”
“Clothes shop kind of errands?” I ask, hopefully.
“Erm, no.” Connie says. She looks down at the polka dot monstrosity. “Why, what’s wrong with this? I thought these baggy dresses were in fashion.”
“Really, baggy dresses flatter nobody over a size 10. I keep telling you to wear more fitted clothes.”
“Fitted clothes will show off my wobbly bits.” Connie says with a nervous laugh. She’s been unhappy with her body for years, just not unhappy enough to put the biscuits down. Kind of like me every time I get my heart broken, just not quite broken enough to take a vow of abstinence from men.
“We’ve had this talk a million times. They might show off some wobbly bits but they’ll still be more flattering than that tent.”
The colour drains from Connie’s face and I worry that I’ve pushed her too far, but then I realise she’s looking behind me, towards the table where the history buff is sat.
I, of course, spin around to see what’s caught her eye.
The fur coat woman is up off her chair, arms flying, head shaking so fast she’ll make herself dizzy if she isn’t careful.
“Who is that?” I hiss towards Connie.
“Lavinia.” She whispers. “Lavinia Blackbottom.”
“Blackbottom?” I ask with a childish smirk.
“Yes. Don’t let her hear you, she can’t stand people making fun of the family name.”
I try to stifle my laughter and return my attention her way.
“You’re insufferable, Lovey!” She exclaims, her voice loud enough for people - and spirits - at several tables to turn and look at her. I spot Patton a few tables over and give him a little wave.
“Lavinia, please. Sit down.” Lovey, the historian, urges. He pulls on the sleeve of her fur and she yanks away from him, spilling coffee across the table.
“Oh look what you’ve done now! You wretched man! This is all nonsense.”
Lovey looks around and clicks his fingers for a member of staff to clean up the mess. Ellie notices and ignores him. I knew I liked her.
“I’ll discuss price. That was just an offer.”
“It was an insult, not an offer!” Lavinia shouts. “An insult to the very name of Blackbottom!”
I have to look away to stop the giggles. How anyone could be so protecti
ve of such an awful name, I can only imagine. I think I’d have been a child bride to ditch the surname.
Ellie walks across towards their table.
“Ah, finally, the staff are here.” Lovey says. “Y’all need to get this cleared up.”
“I need you both to be quiet, you’re disturbing the customers.” Ellie says, eyes fierce, arms crossed.
“Well, I’ve never been so insulted!” Lavinia says. “I’m only in this… this… diner to lend you the credibility of having a Blackbottom’s custom.”
“We seem to be doing okay on our own, thank you.” Ellie says, and she gestures around the crowded coffee house, where every customer is watching the scene unfold.
“And it’s not a diner!” A voice calls out from a table towards the back.
“There’s nothing wrong with a nice diner.” Another voice calls.
Ellie rolls her eyes and walks back to the counter, leaving Lovey to rifle through his satchel bag to find a tissue and mop up the spilt coffee himself. Lavinia hovers by the table, awaiting an apology that nobody seems about to offer.
“I don’t have to stay here!” She announces, waits a further few seconds for a reaction that doesn’t come, and then storms out of the door.
It’s a gorgeous, sunny day in Mystic Springs, and I expect she’s regretting her wardrobe choice within two seconds of the heat greeting her out there.
“Well, what a character she is.” I say, returning my attention to Connie.
“I can’t believe you don’t know her.”
“Should I?”
“She’s the great-granddaughter of the woman who first discovered Mystic Springs and set up home here. She - the great-grandmother - was the first Mayor here. Lavinia thinks she’s something of a local celebrity.”
“Well, that plan isn’t working out too well for her.” I quip.
Connie shrugs. “She’s pretty irrelevant. It’s hard to see what she does to add any value here, just waltzes around when she’s not travelling and expects people to respect her more than they do.”
“I think she adds a lot.” A voice came from behind me. Atticus. I should have known he’d be around. He doesn’t miss a trick. “It’s good for the town to have a figurehead.”
“I don’t disagree with that.” Connie says. “But I don’t think Lavinia is the figurehead. Her great-grandmother sounds like an amazing woman, but our Lavinia’s nothing more than a rich layabout.”
“How did she get her money?” I ask. I’m always interested in how people get their money, mainly because I never had any when I was alive and I’m curious what I did wrong.
Connie shrugs. “Probably inherited.”
“It doesn't hurt us to have a Blackbottom here. It’s a little like the Royal Family, you Brits love having them!”
“I don’t think you can compare Lavinia Blackbottom to the British Royal Family.” Connie says.
“See what I mean!” Atticus says. “You’re very defensive of them. God Save The Queen and all that. I love it!”
Atticus would love to be British, I think. He likes pomp and ceremony and there just isn’t enough of it in small-town USA.
“You know.” Atticus says, and he moves closer, his spirit face like an unfocused photograph. “I once had a dream that I married the Queen.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Absolutely. It wasn’t all I’d imagined. It turned out she was so used to servants and helpers, she wasn’t really after a husband, just another assistant. I carried her bags for her, made her cups of tea, that kind of thing. It was a hoot living in Buckingham Palace, though. I’d like to have that dream again.”
I glance at Connie, who looks as confused as I do by this confession.
“How, nice?” She says, always better at bemused small talk than me.
“Magnificent, it was. And oh the breakfasts! I can still taste the sausage now.” Atticus says with a hearty laugh. A picture of him, sitting in a grand banquet hall in Buckingham Palace, spearing a sausage with an 18-carat gold fork pops into my head.
I guess there can’t be any secrets in Mystic Springs now.
2
Connie
I’ve started to buy the newspaper.
I never used to, I didn't have the time. Or I’d buy it, but toss it into the trash three days later after accepting that I wouldn’t be able to find the time to read it.
I tried an online subscription once, thinking I’d be more likely to read it in bite-size chunks on my phone, but even that didn’t work. It turns out, I was one of those people who was so busy I didn’t even have those five minute pockets of waiting-around time like lots of people do. I was just flat out busy, all day long.
But now, I have time.
And I’m at that stage in my life where the idea of an hour reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee sounds like heaven, even if the thing is full of bad news. The newspaper, not the coffee.
So my new routine is to walk across town to the news-stand, where the woman, Ling, greets me by name now.
Today, her grin is even bigger than normal.
“Connie! Good news day today!” She cries as I pootle across the road to her. I’ve taken Sage’s advice and am wearing linen slacks and a t-shirt that shows my curves more than I’d like, but the woman nods approvingly at me. “Nice outfit. Suits you.”
“Get out of town.” I say, the sentence tumbling out of my mouth awkwardly, as if I’m impersonating someone else. I feel my cheeks flame. I’ve forgotten the etiquette for compliments. “What’s the good news?”
“Here, see.” Ling says in her broken English, and hands me a copy of the newspaper.
“This isn’t good news.” I say as I do a double take and reread the headline. “Town history unreliable according to journal discovery?”
“Says men set up Mystic Springs, not women.” Ling says with a shrug. She’s still grinning. “Lots of people interested in this! We sell lots of newspapers today.”
“Ah, well, it’s a good day for you and Bill then.” I say. Ling’s husband, who runs the newsstand with her, isn’t around, as normal.
Ling moves closer to me and whispers, “You think it’s true?”
“I don’t know.” I admit.
“I always hear Lavinia Blackbottom discover Mystic Springs.”
“Me too.” I say. “Her and a band of women she was leading across the country. Mystic Springs, home of girl power!”
My Spice Girls reference goes over her head but she’s polite enough to smile anyway. I’m too British for America, sometimes.
“Men need to say everything thanks to them.” Ling says, then flashes me a conspiratorial grin. Unlike her, I have no husband to remain loyal to, but I’ve met plenty of women in my time who like to claim credit they’re not entitled to.
“Where is Bill, anyway?” I ask.
She lets out a hee-haw laugh. “Bill no fan of early mornings.”
I glance at my watch. “It’s ten thirty.”
She shrugs. “Men.”
I smile and hand over the change for my newspaper.
If this article is right, there will be uproar in Mystic Springs.
And I know the best place to go to hear the gossip.
Screamin’ Beans is overflowing with locals, all buzzing with the drama of the newspaper story. I order a hot cocoa and manage to squeeze in to a spare seat on a table of four.
Lovey Lovegoode, the historian, sits across from me, nursing a tiny espresso cup in a large hand that shakes slightly. Next to him sits an out-of-towner, identifiable thanks to the keen business dress she wears and the reporter’s notepad that’s open in front of her. A journalist. Atticus will be beside himself with excitement.
Next to me, thankfully, is a chair holding all of the reporter’s belongings. These tables are too tight for me to squeeze in this close to another person, but I don’t mind pushing the bags over a little so I can fit comfortably.
I fold open my copy of the newspaper and read the article with interest. A historic
journal has been discovered that records the founding of Mystic Springs and names a man, Wilson Bruiser, as the true pioneer who discovered the place. The article goes further, describing the women who up to now were accepted as founding the town, as Bruiser’s followers, women blinded by his charms who were able to serve as staff for him but had no leadership skills.
“It’s pretty wild, huh?” Lovey says, interrupting my reading. I glance up at him.
“Do you believe this?” I ask. Few people will offer a more informed opinion than the local historian. I got lucky finding this free seat, even if he is usually incredibly dull.
“I couldn’t say without seeing the journal.” He says. “As a historian, my work is in facts, not opinions. The newspaper version, almost certainly, will be embellished. But there could be a hint of the truth in it.”
“I deal with facts too.” The reporter says from behind the stiff collar of a bright red blouse. She holds out an arm towards me, and I shake her hand. “Jayne Simpleton.”
“New Yorker?” I ask, detecting the accent.
“Born and raised.” She says, a cheap ballpoint pen poised ready. “And you are?”
“Oh, I don’t want to give a quote or anything.” I say as I shift in my seat. Maybe I didn’t get lucky sitting here.
“That’s okay. We don’t bite, ya know.”
I smile. “It’s Connie. Connie Winters.”
“The psychic?”
“Medium… yes, that’s me. Wait, how do you know my name?”
“It came up.” She says. “I’ve been talking to as many people as I can, get a feel for the place. It helps. So, you see dead people?”
“I see spirits.” I say with a cringe. “All of the local people do.”
She smiles at me in a way that tells me she knows I’m crazy. “How fabulous for you. You didn’t mention that you saw ghosts, Mr Lovegoode. Local historian sees the dead! I didn’t get your first name?”
“Lovey.” He says. “Lovey Lovegoode. So good, my parents named me twice.”
She doesn’t get the reference to New York, too busy jotting details down on her notepad.
“I’m serious.” I say, my voice timid. “I don’t want to be included in any newspaper articles.”