by Mona Marple
“Did you tell her?” Taylor asks, eyes wide. It’s funny to remember that before everyone in Mystic Springs could see the dead, he was a non-believer. The truth is always out there. Some people just need more evidence than others before they’ll believe.
“I had to,” I say. “It’s part of the agreement, that I’ll be honest and pass on whatever the spirit says. There was one thing I didn’t tell the wife, though.”
“What?”
I think back to the consultation, remember how picture perfect the wife was. Sun-kissed blonde hair, tanned skin, she couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five. I could picture her as a cheerleader, because there was no doubt in my mind that she would have been one, and I wondered how cheated she felt that this was how her life had turned out.
“My clients couldn’t see or hear the spirits, remember, so when the husband floated in the room I could see him but she couldn’t.”
Taylor nods.
“Well, he didn’t come alone, put it that way,” I say, gazing out at the snow as the realisation hits Taylor.
“What a pig,” he says.
The husband was no looker and his mistress looked as dowdy as my school librarian. She was as far removed from the wife as possible. Older, too. They stood together in the corner of the room, holding hands, while the wife sobbed as I revealed the truth to her.
I try not to think about my clients after their consultations, because there’s only so much emotion one person can handle, but I looked her up online a few years later. She was remarried to a guy who looked awfully like the dead husband, and in her profile photo she bounced a gorgeous little boy on her knee.
Sometimes we’re blessed with a second chance, I think.
“We should make a move,” Taylor says, rising to his feet. He goes to use the toilet and I go ahead without him, standing in front of the coffee house and enjoying the sensation of the snowflakes falling on me.
“Come on, you,” Taylor says, and we head back to the police station.
**
“Sheriff, we got a list of everyone who entered the town in the 24 hours before the murder,” a young, pimpled police officer says as we return to the station. He looks at me, perplexed by my presence, but doesn’t question it. Instead, he hands the sheet of paper across to Taylor and falls in line with us. “There’s only three people. A Mavis Travers, she has a son in town that she visits every month. Seems to be her scheduled time for a visit. No record. Joy Ho, travelling up to Canada for a new job. Appears to have made a pit-stop here. No record. And then there’s Dave Winkler, he’s a substitute teacher so no record. I checked with the high school and they’ve hired him for the new year. Seems like he’s arrived early to move himself in.”
“Nothing suspicious then?” Taylor asks as we all climb the stairs together.
“Not in my opinion,” the young man says. A spot on his chin looks particularly angry and I can’t seem to look at him without wincing at the sight of it, so I decide to keep my gaze on the floor.
“Ok, well, thanks. Let me know what else you find,” Taylor commands and the boy nods and goes off towards a hub of open plan work desks. Taylor and I continue towards his office.
“Does he know what to do?” I ask as we each take a seat.
Taylor laughs. “He’s a good kid. I know he looks like he’s barely legal, he’s actually got five years’ done.”
“Sorry,” I say, flustered, “I was meaning is there a set list of things that they know need doing when there’s a murder?”
“Oh, I’m with you! Well, every case is different, but there are basics, sure. I mean, you always want to know who came into town right before the crime. That’s a huge source of intel.”
I gulp. “What else?”
“Checking databases is a bigger part of it than the TV shows would ever want you to know. Especially as things progress. We’ll run tests to see if this type of crime looks like it matches the MO of known criminals in the area. Sometimes it’s worth checking if any prisoners have been released. That kind of thing.”
“You really think it’s important to know about people who’ve just shown up?”
“It can be,” Taylor says, then cocks his head to one side. “Something you need to tell me, Connie?”
I take a deep breath and wonder why this feels like a betrayal. “There’s someone else who arrived in town the day before the murder.”
Taylor grabs his notepaper and pen, poised ready to make notes.
“His name’s Bernard Shaw. He’s a spirit. He’s Sage’s husband.”
“Bernard Shaw,” Taylor mutters as he jots the name down on the paper. “What do you know about him? He got any convictions?”
“Not that I know of,” I say. “I don’t know him well. He and Sage, they lived in England and I moved across here.”
“You like him?” Taylor asks, as if my judge of character is something to rely on.
“Not particularly,” I say. “I didn’t dislike him at all, I don’t want to give that impression. He was just wrong for my sister. I couldn’t understand why she was with him, really. I never made an effort to get to know him. And then, when Sage died, I… I never went back to England.”
“Why’s he here now?” Taylor asks.
“I have no idea,” I say.
“Has he only just died?” Taylor asks.
“Oh no. He died years ago. He met up with Sage once, when he died. They agreed they didn’t want to, erm, be together in the afterlife. That was that, they haven’t seen each other since.”
“Until now.”
“Until now,” I repeat.
“So, that’s all we know about him,” Taylor says, returning his pen to lie on the desk where it will no doubt be swallowed by clutter within minutes.
“There is one more thing,” I say, the promise of a headache whispering at my temple.
Taylor looks up at me, serious.
“He’s left handed,” I say.
Taylor is up off his chair in an instant, dashing away down the corridor towards the open plan hub. I hear him giving commands, hear the urgency in his voice.
“I have a person of interest who needs bringing in urgently!” He commands. I close my eyes, head throbbing, as I hear the commotion of the team of police springing into action. Sirens ring out from the parking lot as the first eager pairing of officers scream out onto the street. In search of my brother-in-law.
The phone on Taylor’s desk rings then and I wait for someone elsewhere in the building to pick up the line. After thirty or so rings, I realise that nobody else is going to answer. I find the phone under a cardboard box that smells as if it housed Chinese take out many weeks ago.
“Sheriff Morton’s office, Connie speaking,” I say, remembering my manners from a long-ago summer job as receptionist at an optician’s.
“I need the Sheriff!” the voice on the other end of the line screams. I hold the phone away from my ear a little.
“He’s away from his desk right now, can I take a message?”
“No! Get him now! There’s been another shooting! Santa’s gone real bad!”
“One moment, please,” I manage, and then I drop the receiver and sprint down the corridor. Taylor takes one look at my face and comes running.
9
Sage
Patton suggests we should go for a walk, and I can’t stay in the house in this funk all day so I agree. It’s started to snow again and I’ve always been such a big kid when it comes to snow.
“It really upset you watching the video, huh?” He asks as we head towards the centre of town.
I shrug. I don’t want to keep thinking about it. “It was just hard. I guess you’re used to seeing things like that?”
“Not really,” he admits. “When I was Sheriff, people weren’t recording everything like they do nowadays. The whole idea of emergency response is different now. It’s not the journalists who feed the news to the world, it’s the regular Joe at the scene with a Twitter account or a smart phone.”
>
“But you went to scenes like that one, surely?”
“I dealt with all kinds of things, Sage, but I wasn’t there to see the things happen,” he glances down at the street, which is covered over with snow, “I’ve never seen a person get killed in front of me before.”
“I didn’t…” I say, silently scolding myself for not realising. Sure, he was Sheriff, but he was Sheriff of a relatively small and peaceful town, not someone on the front line in a war zone. In fact, I wonder if he ever dealt with a murder while he was alive. Even if he had, he’d have attended after getting the call telling him what had happened. He’d go in there knowing roughly what to expect. The echo of the gunshot would have long since faded, the blood may have already dried. I’ve been so wrapped up in what I witnessed at the show, I haven’t given a thought for anyone else.
“Where are we headed?” Patton asks in an obvious bid to change the subject. That’s fine by me.
“How about Abe’s? See the lights?” I suggest. I love how over-the-top the department store’s Christmas lights are each year.
“Sounds good,” he says. We’re nearly there anyway, our wanderings leading us towards the lights and music. We may have no appetite for food and no money to buy things, but we’re trained to go towards commercial activity.
“Look at the crowd!” Patton exclaims as we approach. It’s easy to see Abe’s up ahead. Every inch of the building’s façade is covered with lights, which turn on and off in sequence so that the front of Abe’s creates a looping light show. Christmas songs play out and the lights dance in rhythm with them. It’s nothing short of magical.
As we get closer, though, we see that none of the crowd are looking at the lights. The crowd that had appeared to be enjoying the show are all, instead, looking down at the ground. Several people are crying. Others appear to be saying silent prayers. Several are talking in urgent whispers on cell phones.
“Law enforcement coming through,” Patton calls, holding his badge high above his head. With his other hand, he grasps hold of me so we stay together as the crowd parts for us. We reach the focal point of the crowd’s attention and Patton lets out an awful groan. “Oh God. Sage, don’t look.”
Of course, I do what any person does when urged not to look at something. I look straight at it. In this case, the it is a her – and I look straight at her.
At first I can’t make sense of why Tabitha Reed would be lying, eyes wide open, in the snow. And then, when I see the pink stain around her body, I can’t work out what’s caused the discolouration.
“What’s happened here?” Patton asks, directing his question to the crowd generally. Nobody answers.
And then a young man steps forward. Troy. The high school principal’s son.
“She was shot, sir,” he says, his voice steady despite the awful scene. He’s so mature, I think. Other than Connie, he was the only person in town who could see spirits before it became a gift for all. I guess the ability to see dead people makes you grow up fast.
“You saw?” Patton asks. He’s down on the ground beside Tabitha, feeling desperately for a pulse. When he moves his fingers away from her, I shudder with the finality of it. She’s not acting this time.
Troy nods. “It was Santa. He just shot her, like, like… he just did it.”
“Where did he go?” Patton asks.
Troy shrugs. “I didn’t see. I tried to help her, I ran into Abe’s to get some help, and then he was gone.”
I look at the people in the crowd and wonder how many of them saw this happen and how many gathered around after. I wonder why nobody had tried to catch the killer, and then tell myself off. I wouldn’t have tried to stop a man with a gun when I was alive, and I wouldn’t want my daughters or my sister trying to play hero. No, these people had done right, as sad and selfish as that might sound.
Sirens ring out in the distance, and within minutes the ambulance arrives, not that it’s going to do much good. At least they can move Tabitha someplace warm. Cover her body. She deserves that dignity, at least.
The squad cars arrive then, and Connie steps out of Taylor’s. He runs across to the scene and she hangs back. I float across to her.
“What’s happened?” She asks. She’s shaking and I don’t think it’s from the cold.
“Tabitha Reed’s been shot. They say it was Santa again.”
Connie looks past me, to the scene, where the ambulance doors are closing. Tabitha Reed may not have been a friend of the spirits’, but I take no pleasure in her demise.
“How could this happen?” Connie asks, and as I have no answers for her, I wrap my arm around her instead. Her body pulses under my touch as she fights to control the shivering.
“You know, Connie,” I say, feeling as if I have to say these words to her right now, but not understanding why, “you need to stop being scared. Stop living in fear of what you might one day lose. Life’s too short.”
She looks at me, and I feel sure she’s going to nod, going to agree with me. Instead, I see the pinch of anger across her features. “How dare you use this tragedy to try and convince me you’re right?”
**
“So we have a second murder, in a public place, and no witnesses,” Taylor sums up as Connie hands him a large black coffee. He’s clocked off and the four of us have gathered at his. The babies are already asleep and Ethel’s putting together a casserole that smells like old socks. Whenever she’s cooking, I’m glad that spirits can’t eat.
“We have witnesses,” Patton corrects. He looks tired.
“Okay, yeah, we have witnesses. They just saw Santa pull out a gun and shoot.”
“And Troy was adamant it was Nick’s costume, not some copycat killer,” Patton says.
“Copycat killer? Is that a thing?” I ask.
Taylor nods. “Murders often bring some sick people out of the woodwork. They see it as a chance to commit a similar crime.”
“Wow,” I say with a shudder.
Connie’s quiet. She hasn’t really spoken to me since we left the scene and returned here. All I have to do is look at her body language – her stiff posture, the set of her jaw – to know she’s unhappy with me. It’s unlike her to sulk. I must have really hit a nerve.
“I need to speak to your friend, Con,” Taylor says, his tone gentle but firm. “We can’t wait any longer. I need to know what he knows.”
Connie nods. “They won’t let you see him at this time. Why don’t we all just get some rest and an early start on it tomorrow?”
Taylor looks across the room at her, and then the silence is broken by the piercing wail of a baby crying upstairs - Axel. Connie stiffens, but Taylor springs into action without another word. He takes the stairs two at a time, and his soothing voice plays through the monitor as he hushes his child.
“I’m going to bed,” Connie says, her eyes thick with tears. She looks in my direction but not at me, then gives Taylor a smile. “You can stay.”
“No, we’ll go home… to yours,” I stutter. I’m glad she’s staying at Taylor’s, even if it does mean him making a bed of his settee, but there’s no need for Patton and I to invade as well. We’re spirits, after all. Whoever is responsible for the murders, they can’t hurt us. “Come on, let’s go.”
Patton and I let ourselves out and float down the street. The air is rich with the fresh scent of snow. I had a friend years ago who could see every scent as a colour. I thought she was making it up at first, but over time I realised that I could test her on scents and she’d always say the same colour. I was fascinated by her ability when I realised it was genuine. I never developed the gift myself, but whenever I smell that fresh, cold scent that comes with clean snow, I picture it as the lightest shade of blue. So light it’s virtually white, but if you pay attention, there’s a twinkle of blue in it. I’m smelling that colour right now, while knowing that it’s probably something I’ve convinced myself of over the years.
We can convince ourselves anything’s true, if we need to believe it badly
enough.
“What’s wrong with Connie?” Patton asks as we float through the night air.
“You noticed?”
“I’m a cop, it’s my job to know when people are acting strange.”
“Ugh. We had a fall out,” I say. He doesn’t ask for details, and I don’t volunteer them.
“You’ll work it out,” he encourages.
I nod. Of course we’ll work it out.
We always do.
10
Connie
I wake up early to the sound of a baby’s happy gurgling, followed by the soft tread of Taylor walking up the stairs and going across into the nursery. I wedge my eyes closed and pretend to be asleep, in case he comes in here, but he doesn’t.
The first baby wakes the second, and I hear the efficient movement of Taylor changing diapers before he takes the babies into the bathroom and closes the door. The faucet starts as he runs a bath. One, or both, of them must have had a blowout overnight. It would be so easy for me to go in there and help him. I’d do it for a friend, rather than let them struggle with the dynamics of being outnumbered by wet, slippery infants.
Instead, I scramble out of bed and get ready as quick as I can, then tiptoe down the staircase and let myself out of the front door. I speed-walk the short distance down the street to my own house, but I don’t go in. I just get in my car and drive across town.
Nick’s room is empty. I sit down next to the bed for a few minutes, wondering where he could be. If he’s gone for an x-ray, or even surgery, surely he would have been wheeled out in the bed? After a while, I see a nurse walking by. She glances in and notices me, pushes the door open.
“Are you okay in here, sugar?” She asks me, resting her weight against the door. “There’s a quiet room, if you need a minute alone. I can show you?”