by Mona Marple
We’ve got it all planned.
She’ll answer the door, probably still in her pyjamas and half-asleep, because she’s a teenager. We’ll ask if her mum’s in and she’ll say no. Maybe she’ll invite us in to wait. We’ll refuse if she does.
Then I’ll tell her I’m sure I recognise her face but can’t remember her name, and ask if she’s been on TV. Is she famous, I’ll ask? She’ll probably blush, but she’ll have to confirm that yes, she has been on TV, since I’ve done some digging and found out that Tallulah Cross is one of the most prolific child actors out there, mainly starring in commercials. Her output has slowed dramatically over the last few years, and certain corners of the Internet are devoted to debating whether she’s grown up and lost her cute factor, or if she was being forced into the arts all along by a pushy mother.
I’ll play dumb a little and ask if she lives here, and she’ll say she’s just home for the holidays. And I’ll ask when she arrived, and she’ll tell me.
I’ll say again how great it is to have met her, and then Patton and I will slope away with the information we need – whether Antoinette’s alibi is true or not.
That was the plan, anyway. In reality, either Tallulah is a heavier sleeper than we expected or she’s not in, because there’s no answer, and Patton’s unhappiness radiates off him in waves. Finally, he lets out a long sigh and turns away from the house.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper, but we’re interrupted before he can answer.
“Yoohoo, hello! Everything okay?”
I turn towards the noise and see an elderly woman, hair in rollers, leaning out of an upstairs window of the house next door. An unsteady line of red lipstick wobbles across her face.
“Everything okay, Sheriff?” she repeats.
Well, we haven’t planned for this eventuality. Unsure whether to say we’re looking for Antoinette or her daughter, I stay silent. Luckily, Patton’s more able to think on his feet.
“There’s a girl here? A teenager?” he asks.
The elderly woman shakes her head. Her hair doesn’t move, it’s set so firmly in place.
“It’s a woman and her daughter living here, isn’t it?” Patton continues.
“The daughter’s away,” the old woman calls, “at some fancy school.”
“Oh.” Patton says. “I thought she’d come home for the holidays?”
“Well, she was here for a day. The mother sent her straight back on her way.”
“Back to school?” I ask. Who spends Christmas at a boarding school?
“They had such a fight, I can tell you.”
“Could we come in?” Patton asks.
The woman nods and disappears from the window, and we move across to her house. She appears at the front door in a housecoat and slippers, and scoops us into the suffocating warmth.
“This is a beautiful home, Mrs…” Patton says as we enter the lounge. It really is a beautiful home. Old-fashioned, it seems the design consensus is that every surface is improved by dark wood panelling. But the woman must be in her 80s, so that’s hardly a surprise.
“Mrs Jacobs.”
“Thanks for speaking to us.”
“I don’t think your sort can drink, can you? I have to offer though, I’ve got some sweet tea if you do want something.”
“Oh no, no, we can’t drink. Thank you, though. Have you lived here long?” Patton asks.
“Had to give up the big house when my husband died,” she says with a glance towards a large oil painting. The woman is clearly her, but a few decades younger, and the man standing behind her, hands on her shoulders, is handsome in a mousy way. His military uniform is weighted down by numerous medals but the most impressive thing about him has to be his moustache.
“We’re thankful for his service,” Patton says, adopting a suitably stoic look. We don’t do that in England, you know; thank people for their service. It never occurred to me to do such a thing until I came across here and witnessed it being said.
“Indeed,” Mrs Jacobs murmurs, “so, you need information about Tallulah?”
“I can’t tell you why but yes, we do.” Patton says.
Mrs Jacobs straightens her posture and nods decisively. “I’m used to that, Sheriff – only getting half the story, not being able to ask questions. I won’t make this hard for you, don’t worry.”
“That’s very kind,” Patton says.
What a life it must be, I think to myself. Being kept in the dark. Having questions about where your husband is and what he’s doing, and knowing you can’t ask them. Maybe you’re better off not knowing. Is uncertainty only a bad thing until you hear the horror of the truth?
“Tallulah came home a couple of days ago. She was here less than a day! All they did while she was back was argue. The mother was furious with her.”
“For coming home?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”
“Well! I heard a lot about auditions and places. I didn’t eavesdrop, you must understand, but the walls are so thin here. At the old place, I couldn’t even see the neighbours never mind hear them. It’s taken some adjusting, I can tell you. Usually I go out when the neighbours are falling out, so I don’t hear anything at all. But I’ve been a little unwell this week, and there’s such a chill in the air.”
“I don’t think anyone would expect you to go out whenever they argue,” I say with a smile. I’m warming to Mrs Jacobs instantly.
“Perhaps not,” she accepts, “but I do remember what it’s like to be young. So many emotions racing around. People deserve some privacy.”
“Do you know the Cross family well?” Patton asks.
“Not really,” Mrs Jacobs says, “I’ve only been here a year. Last winter, Antoinette had a young boy come and clear the snow and she asked him to clear mine while he was about. I sent a thank you card over after that. She seems pleasant enough. I think she’s under a great deal of pressure.”
“What makes you say that?”
Mrs Jacobs glances at the portrait, as if just seeing her late husband’s face gives her strength. “It isn’t really my place to say.”
“We’re only asking for official reasons, Mrs Jacobs. Your comments will go no further.”
She lets out a little sigh. I have to fight to control the urge to wipe the lipstick from her face and reapply it in a straight line. Age can be a cruel thing.
“Well, okay. I don’t think she’s in the best financial health.”
“She’s told you that?”
“Oh no! She strikes me as quite a private person, actually. But I did end up paying for that lad who cleared the snow that day. And I’m always home, and she’s out a lot. Working, I assume. There’s debt collectors at the house most weeks, Sheriff. I hear them banging on the door. I thought that’s who you were, to be honest.”
“Do you ever speak to them?” I ask.
Mrs Jacobs shakes her head and a wicked smile crosses her face. “One of them came across here, asked me to pass on the message that they’d been. I put on such a good act of being old and decrepit, they’ve never come back.”
I allow myself a small laugh. “You’re quite wicked, aren’t you?”
The twinkle finds her eyes immediately and her face appears years younger. As she grins, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and frowns. “Let me wash this lipstick off. I heard the banging and thought I’d apply it like an old dear, just in case it was the debt collectors again.”
I watch as Mrs Jacobs reaches into her handbag and pulls out a facial wipe. She rubs the lipstick off until only a light staining is left, then returns to the handbag and pulls out an expensive looking lipstick, which she applies perfectly without the aid of a mirror. She kisses her lips together, then winks at me. So much for this particular old dear needing my help.
“That’s much better. Now, you were saying something about me being wicked?”
I let out a laugh and manage to restrain myself from pulling the old woman into a hug. She’s marvellous. I wonder if she’d let me a
dopt her as a grandparent.
“Well, Mrs Jacobs, you’ve been really helpful.” Patton says, bringing the conversation to a close.
“You said you weren’t feeling too well? Can we do anything for you?” I ask, suddenly overcome with the need to extend our visit and be around this woman for longer. I don’t want to leave her alone in this house where she can hear everything the neighbours say and do.
“Oh, hush,” she says, batting away my concern with a raised eyebrow, “I’ll be fine. I need to be fighting fit for the Christmas dinner, they want me to do some talk believe it or not.”
“Well, we’ll see you there.” I say, even though I have no plans to attend the town’s annual Christmas dinner extravaganza and can’t imagine that Patton does either. These events where the focus is a three-course meal hold little appeal when you can’t eat. Especially when the turkeys come out, browned and buttery, ready to be carved at each table.
I’m drooling just thinking about it.
**
“You took a shine to her!” Patton exclaims as we return to the Baker house, the abandoned building where spirits tend to hang out. He drops down on the battered old sofa and closes his eyes.
“Where is everyone?” I ask as I float through the room and peer into the dining room and kitchen. The place is deserted.
Patton side-eyes me and shrugs.
“Okay, what’s going on? Why am I getting the silent treatment?” I ask.
“You’re not. I just said you’d taken a shine to that old woman and you didn’t answer me.” Patton says. Well, he’s got me there.
“I was distracted.” I admit. “Sorry. Yeah, I like her. She’s sassy. Anyway, are you going to tell me what’s going on? You’re clearly in a mood.”
“You know what’s going on, Sage. Your husband’s in town and you don’t seem to think that’s weird.”
“I do think it’s weird.” I admit.
“You know he needs questioning for the murders?”
I shrug. If Patton wants to interview my husband, that’s on him. I can’t get involved. My marriage vows meant something, even if I can’t stomach the thought of spending an eternal afterlife in holy matrimony.
“Look,” Patton says, his tone softer as I sit beside him on the couch, “I know this puts you in a tough position. But I have to investigate. And I don’t want the case to come between us.”
“I didn’t think it was?” I ask, stunned.
“Well…” Patton says, eyes on his lap, “maybe not the case exactly.”
“You’re jealous!” I exclaim.
The rouge across his cheeks answers for him.
“Come on, Patton, there’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s not like I asked him to show up. I’ve not even spoken to Bernard since he died. Apart from that one time we met up and, let me remind you, both agreed to go our separate ways.”
“But he’s here now, Sage,” Patton says, meeting my gaze. He looks like a dog who just had his bone confiscated. “I’m thinking he’s realised what he’s lost.”
My stomach flips and I wrap my arms around him, taking in his reassuring scent: boot polish and gum.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers as we embrace.
Years ago, to my shame, I’d have felt the power his words gave me and I’d have played with him a little. Like a cat teasing a mouse before it goes in for the kill. Don’t ask me why I did it. Sure, it could be because my daddy was never around. It could be a whole host of things if you psychoanalyse me enough. I just think I was immature. And not always too kind. I’m changed now, though. I see how vulnerable Patton is making himself, and instead of that old temptation to sprinkle salt across his bare wounds, I want to get a needle and stitch him right back together. I imagine that my words have that power as I pull him closer and reassure him.
“You’re not going to lose me.”
16
Connie
The three of us sit around my dining table, the air rich with the scent of cinnamon and cloves from the festive candle that burns in the centre.
“This is a serious thing to ask me,” Atticus, the former Mayor, says. He removes his glasses and massages the deep worry-lines etched across his forehead. There’s nobody who cares more about Mystic Springs and even Atticus’ untimely death, in a horse riding accident, hasn’t reduced his involvement in town business. A studious man who takes his civic responsibility seriously, Atticus likes to consider all angles before making a decision.
“I don’t make the request lightly,” Taylor says, his own hands clutching a near-empty mug of coffee.
Atticus sighs. “You feel the evidence is sufficient?”
“I do,” Taylor says as I approach with the coffee pot and pour us each a refill. “We questioned him. He had motive and opportunity.”
I set the coffee pot back on the kitchen counter and then return to my seat. My nerves are on edge and my feet tap rhythmically on the floor.
“Banishing a spirit is a last resort, you understand that?” Atticus says. Taylor nods. “Once it’s done, there’s no going back. You’re sentencing the spirit to an eternal afterlife in limbo.”
“I know that,” Taylor says tightly. “And clearly there’s a process to be followed. If I believed there was enough evidence against a living person, we’d get that person locked up and the system would deal with them. Here, I think we have enough evidence against a spirit, so we need to get him dealt with.”
“Violet will need to be involved,” Atticus says. Violet Warren is potentially the most powerful witch in modern history, not that you’d know by looking at her or even asking her. She keeps her magic close to her chest. And she’s not even in town at the moment.
“She’s not here,” I say.
Atticus raises an eyebrow. “Visiting family?”
I nod. Violet’s family disputes are legendary across town. Descending from such a strong witch lineage doesn’t come without its problems.
“Well, our hands are tied until she returns,” Atticus says with a shrug. “Nobody else possesses the powers to banish a spirit.”
“We need to do something now,” Taylor presses. “Dimitri knows we’re on to him. That makes him dangerous – and unpredictable.”
“He won’t be trouble over Christmas. He hates the season,” Atticus says. “Too many crowds.”
“He mentioned crowds yesterday,” I say. “Do you know the story?”
Atticus nods. “Awful really. The theatre he was performing in went up in flames.”
Bile rises in my throat. “He died in a fire?”
“No,” Atticus says, “he was trampled in the rush to evacuate. It was a tragic accident.”
“Explains why he doesn’t like crowds,” I say. Taylor nods.
“I expect he’ll keep himself to himself until the New Year now. A little thinking time won’t hurt, Sheriff. A decision like banishing someone shouldn’t be made in haste.”
“The town’s in danger while the murderer’s on the loose,” Taylor argues. “This isn’t a one off. We have two people killed.”
“What do you propose?” Atticus asks, his mouth set in a firm line. “Nobody else can banish a spirit. Violet isn’t here. You’ll simply have to deal with this another way, Sheriff.”
Taylor sits a little straighter in his chair and takes a long sip of coffee.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say. Both men look at me and I feel my pulse quicken. “I’m not convinced we have the right guy.”
Taylor glares at me and I try to cling on to my nerve. I should have told him this when we were alone. Now I’m embarrassing him in front of Atticus, who already thinks that he’s not a patch on former Sheriff, Patton Davey. I have to say this, though. I can’t watch a potentially innocent spirit be banished.
“Go on,” Atticus encourages.
Taylor swallows and then gives me a reassuring smile. “Yeah, Connie, tell us what you’re thinking.”
I feel the relief flood over me in waves. Of course Taylor can handle
me having a different opinion. He wants to find the killer, that’s all. He’s not personally invested in his own theory.
“Well, the whole thing feels off to me. It’s like, why would he be present in such a vocal way? Literally protesting against Lionel right before he kills him?”
“Criminals can be stupid, you have to remember that,” Taylor says. “You wouldn’t believe some of the mistakes criminals make.”
“I know, I get that,” I say. I read the newspaper. I’ve heard the stories about daft criminals who get caught because they talk about their crimes on social media, or the cold-blooded killers who can’t help but take photographs of themselves as they commit brutal acts. Some people are dumb. “But it just feels wrong. The bigger thing that’s been bothering me, though, is the outfit.”
“Nick’s Santa outfit?” Taylor asks.
I nod. “He had that handmade, you know. It pretty much cost him a month’s salary. More, actually.”
“It’s a fine costume,” Atticus agrees.
“I don’t follow?” Taylor says.
“It’s heavy,” I explain. “Like, super heavy. I don’t think a spirit could stand the weight.”
Taylor gasps, a sharp intake of breath and coffee, and then chokes a little. I give him a hard slap on the back, right in the middle of his thoracic vertebrae, and that does it. He winces a little but offers me a weak smile.
“You’ve got a point,” he says, “whoever did this had to get from Nick’s to the theatre, either wearing or carrying that darn costume the whole way.”
“I don’t think a spirit could do it,” I explain. I think of Sage, how hard she had to work to build her ability to hold objects without simply passing through them. It’s like a muscle, it takes training for every spirit when they pass over. They start off unable to hold a person’s hand because their ghostly form just passes right through. “Imagine the strength that would take, for a spirit to keep that heavy costume on their whole body. What do you think, Atticus?”