by Etta Faire
Sitting in the library's parking lot, I somehow got myself to call the Spoony River and ask for Mrs. Carmichael. She was more than thrilled to give me Tina's address and phone number, making me feel extra guilty for not asking for it sooner. "Tina is gonna love to hear from you. Love it. Love it. Love it. You are so sweet."
I let her believe that was the reason. I was just sweet ole Carly Mae. I didn't tell her I was about to drop a double bomb on my old, now-unstable friend. Not only was I stealing Brock from her, but I was also hoping she could kindly relive that horrible night for me, the one that marked the beginning of her psychosis and ultimately ended in her and Brock breaking up in the first place.
I punched the address into my GPS and sat there a minute staring at it, listening to the automated voice telling me to head south out of the parking lot. Tina wasn't very far away. Freemont, just a 20-minute drive without traffic. If I left in the next half an hour, I would easily make it there and back before work.
My phone rang. It was my mother. My finger hovered over the "ignore" button. I could always talk to her later. But then, she'd been so worried about me lately.
There were five customers browsing around the Purple Pony when I got there at noon, which was actually good for a Thursday. Even though everyone in town liked to joke about it, Potter Grove really did have a tourist season, but it consisted mostly of a handful of rich people meandering into "that quaint town next door" when they got too bored hanging out at their summer lake houses in Landover. Still, we gossiped about them.
Rosalie waved the one-minute sign to me from behind the cash register to let me know she was finishing up with a customer. The woman looked over at me, and her jaw dropped. She stared for a full ten seconds before finally saying, "You're Carly Mae Bowman, huh?"
“I told you she worked here,” Rosalie said, motioning toward me like she was proudly displaying her freak show.
"Taylor,” I corrected the woman. “I’m Carly Taylor."
"But you used to be a Bowman. I saw your photo on the news. You were married to Jackson Bowman, right?”
"I was. But I was never a Bowman. I didn't take his last name."
"How cute."
"Yes," I said, biting back my annoyance. “Feminism’s adorable."
I was no longer sure I could do this job since it clearly meant interacting with the ladies from the country club, and their multimillion-dollar attitudes. But then, I might just have been in a particularly bad mood. I'd made the mistake of telling my mother about the new job I was heading to at the Purple Pony. She burst into a tirade of insults, mostly about how much my education had cost her.
"Retail?" she said over and over again, her voice rising into that Southern drawl.
"It's a kind of retail job, yes. You know, the hippie shop..."
"Remind me again. How many degrees do you have?"
"I know. I know. It's temporary."
"When I was your age -- and I paid my own way through college, missy, thank you very much -- I was already working at Stellaplex."
And on and on it went.
Rosalie shot me a look from behind the cash register. "Carly Mae. This is Suzie. Suzie recently lost her husband..."
"Last year," Suzie said. Suzie was a thick blonde in her early 70’s with droopy jowls that seemed to be drowning in the blue-and-white striped scarf tied around her neck. "Isaac was always a huge supporter of your good mayor, especially his idea to build the shortcut to Landover."
“Wait. What shortcut?" I asked. The only shortcut I knew of was never a possibility, the one through Gate Hill.
"It doesn't matter now. Your ex-husband wouldn't even hear the proposal, and now I see why. He had some issues he was trying to conceal on his property."
"Yes, dead women can be such an issue.” I was in no mood for snotty people around my mother's age.
Rosalie could barely hold her fake smile, her lip spasmed under its weight. She added a quivered laugh, too, like I'd been joking. "This is Suzie's first summer alone on the lake. I told her about our seances."
Our seances?
"She's very interested in connecting with Isaac, and I told her about your strong mediumship."
"I'm the freak show," I said, holding out my hand. "Nice to meet you." I had my own fake smile now.
"Carly," Rosalie spat through gritted teeth. "There's a box of dresses in the back that needs to go out on the rack by the gem collection. Can you get it?"
"I have a master’s degree. I'll see if I can figure it out.”
"Take your time."
I felt her glare as I stomped into the back to look for the box. I didn't care. I was beginning to feel less like an employee and more like the main attraction at the retail circus. Come see the serial killer's ex-wife who lives in the murder house. She puts dresses away for minimum wage. I bet Destiny was making a killing for the Starlight lounge now, too. And on the dance floor, a nude woman who had sex with the serial killer and didn't end up in his yard.
I came back out carrying the box just in time to hear Suzie confirming the time for our seance this weekend at her lake house. She never looked at me once on her way out.
"You'll get a third of it, don't worry," Rosalie said as soon as the woman left, like maybe that had been the reason I'd been snippy.
It hadn't been, but it was now. "A third?"
"I've got the set up, the shop, and the client connections. That's gotta be worth a little extra."
"Look P.T. Barnum, you're not getting this dog face for nothing." I tore open the box of light brown faux suede business dresses and shoved them into the hangers that were under the rack by my feet.
"Try to smooth out the wrinkles as you go," Rosalie said. She hobbled over to me, picked up one of the dresses from the box, and ran her hands along the fabric to show me the proper way to hang a dress. And I almost cried.
"Is there something wrong?" she asked.
I tried to calm down. I was blowing it, and I needed this job... just until I finished writing that novel I hadn't started yet. I slid my hands over the fabric to smooth out the wrinkles on the Pocahontas-meets-Wall-Street ensemble in front of me, somehow stopping myself from gripping its fabric into my fists and ripping it apart.
Rosalie put her hand on my shoulder. "You okay?"
I couldn't tell her my mother felt like this job was beneath the tens of thousands of dollars she'd paid for my education, or that maybe I felt that way too. So I told her about the channeling I was about to do with Jackson, and how I was a little worried about my ex-husband taking over my body. I looked around the store to make sure the remaining patrons hadn't heard me. I was already the freak show.
I thought Rosalie was going to reassure me there was absolutely nothing to worry about.
She dropped all three dresses in her hand. "Don't do it."
"What? Why?" I laughed, lowering my voice while I looked over at the women in the swimsuit section nearby.
"Human bodies were meant to be controlled by one entity at a time. I've heard it can cause a lot of problems. If the entity's too strong, you might..."
"Become possessed? By Jackson?"
"Maybe," she said, picking up the dresses from off the floor and putting them on the rack. She didn’t even smooth them out.
"Oh wouldn't that be something? That was probably his plan all along,” I said.
"Just don't do it. Or maybe do more research on it before you do it. I hear it's much harder on humans than it is on ghosts. You're just learning to use your powers of mediumship. Let's do another seance, with Suzie this time, and see how it goes. Take it slow."
"I want forty percent."
She stood back and examined the dresses. "They're cute, huh?"
I nodded, even though they were far from my style. "Not as cute as under-the-table extra money for a seance."
"Okay, we'll split it sixty-forty."
She looked at the patrons who were meandering around the gem section then lowered her voice. "Let me just say one more thing. If you do s
tart channeling, only channel with entities you trust, Carly Mae, please. And only for short periods. Keep track of how long you do it and how you feel afterwards."
It was already time for the five-o'clock news by the time I got home. I heated up Rex's dog food, grabbed a beer, then went to the living room to relax and watch it.
Local news stations still covered the stripper murders at every broadcast, but from a different angle. It was now mostly the "aren't we all relieved to have this murderer off our streets" one. Destiny had a mic up to her pouty pink lips as she stood outside the Starlight. The title "Destiny Bowman, Alleged Murderer's Widow" was proudly displayed underneath her.
"Tell us what it was like, being married to Jackson Bowman, suspected serial killer," the reporter said with a tone so serious and sure of himself I could tell, to him and probably the rest of the world, the murderer had already been convicted.
"It's surreal," Destiny said. "It's no secret Jackson left his wife for me. I wonder now if I was intended to be his first victim. He had a thing for dancers, obviously. The whole story will be coming out in my tell-all book."
I scowled and took another gulp of my beer, mocking her voice in my head. It's no secret he left his wife for me...
"Yes, tell us about your book." The newsman beamed. "Rumor has it there's already a bidding war going on between two major publishers..."
I coughed on my beer, choking and gagging, and not just because I hated the taste. I was the one with the murder house, and the degrees in English. First, she stole my husband and now she was stealing my secret dream too?
My mother was going to be very disappointed I hadn't capitalized on my dead ex-husband first.
"And there you have it," the reporter said, gleefully like the news station had received some sort of an exclusive. "What it's like to be married to a murderer..."
"Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?" a voice behind me said. I practically fell off the sofa. I was so happy to hear him. My awful ex-husband who might have murdered the very strippers he liked to cheat on me with.
His voice was clearer tonight, unlike some of the other nights when he sounded like he was talking into a garbage can. And he was almost in perfect color.
"So," he said as if Destiny and the reporter didn't matter anymore. "Are you ready to do a channeling? I feel amazing."
Chapter 19
Charged Up
I couldn't wait to tell Jackson about my research so far. About how creepy Bobby Franklin had been and how he worked at the Starlight, about how I conjured up Eliza at the seance, about Jasmine Truopp and Tina's possible connection there. He kept nodding in that same pretentious way he did when he practically demanded he help me with my master's thesis.
"Great work covering all angles, but I’m worried it’s not enough. Tell me again why you haven't met with Tina yet."
I stood up, mind numb. I stumbled into the kitchen and poured the rest of my beer down the drain. I was seeking his approval again. Just like that stupid school girl with her three-ring notebook full of naiveté. I hadn't changed. He hadn't changed. Nothing had changed in our relationship except the man was no longer breathing. Brock was right. There must've been some sort of weird "daddy issues" here. One thing was sure, I needed to grow up already, take back control, and actually claim my independence. It meant more than a name change.
"Sorry. I can't do the channeling tonight," I said. "I have a date with Brock."
"You drove all the way up the hill to sit around, drink beer, watch the five-o'clock news, and then go back down into town again?"
I nodded.
"Well, cancel your date or whatever. I'm all charged up," he said like I cared about that. "We really should do this when I'm at the peak of charged, don't you think?"
I shrugged. “Then, go charge yourself while I'm gone." I grabbed my cell phone and keys from off the kitchen counter.
As soon as I got down Gate Hill enough for there to be cell phone coverage, I called Brock. "Wanna meet for dinner?"
“Sure,” he said. "I'm just finishing up work. I was gonna head to the Bulldog tonight anyway. Meet me in about an hour?”
The Bulldog? That was a sports bar in Landover. Why would he want to go there? Was this some sort of new-girlfriend test or something? I didn't really want to pretend to be interested in whatever stupid game was on tonight.
I drove by the Starlight on my way over to the restaurant, just to see if I'd see anything interesting. I'd be channeling here later on. Maybe. Plus, I had some time to kill before I needed to be at the Bulldog.
There were quite a few cars in the parking lot for a Thursday evening, or maybe it was just more than I expected. I actually had no idea how many people went to these places on any given day.
I didn't see anything unusual, except Shelby Winehouse's Cadillac, which probably meant Bobby was here. I parked and watched the entrance, growing bored after my five-second stakeout didn't produce anything incriminating.
I crouched down in my seat so no one would see me then drove around to the alley like a little old lady who could barely see over her steering wheel. I almost side-swiped the police car in front of me, parked the opposite way just outside the Starlight's back door. It was Justin, sitting in the exact spot I'd been when Destiny and I were guzzling rum and cokes from my car. His eyes bugged out when he saw me. I might've been the last person he expected. He was talking to Bobby.
"Hey Justin. Hey Bobby," I said as I pulled up, trying to make my voice sound normal and relaxed. "What's Potter Grove's finest doing patrolling Landover?"
He stared at me. "This investigation involves both cities."
"Good to see you haven't given up. I saw Caleb on the news saying it was an open-and-shut case."
"She still thinks her husband didn't do it," Bobby laughed, puffing on his cigarette.
"Ex-husband. And no, Bobby. I don’t,” I answered. “I heard it could’ve been a creepy bouncer, though.”
He shot me a look, and I gulped, surprised I had said that myself.
"What're you doing here?" Justin asked.
I hadn't thought of that one. "Just taking a shortcut through the alley. I'm late for my date with Brock at the Bulldog," I said then drove away. Just taking a shortcut through this dark alley by the strip club, officer. Nothing suspicious here. I really should've thought up a better lie than that. I looked in my rearview mirror. Justin was out of his vehicle now, staring down the alley at me. I hadn't realized until that moment how doubly suspicious it must've been for the ex-wife of the alleged killer to stalk the place where her husband found his victims. Especially since some people were saying she was involved.
I hightailed it over to the Bulldog and tried to forget about it.
The Dog, as most the locals called it, was a typical sports bar. Women in tiny shorts and brown tank tops with bulldog faces on them handed out wings and beer to the many men watching them more than the screens around them.
We sat down in a booth across from each other. I could tell his eyes were more focused on the screen above my head than on me.
"You like baseball?" he asked.
I nodded. "I don't follow it that much, but it's fun to watch." I was lying through my teeth. Watching baseball was as much fun as picking lint off of carpet, except after you were done, you weren’t even rewarded with a lint-free carpet.
A brunette with big boobs, fake eyelashes, and foundation that seemed two shades too dark for her asked for our order. And I kept my eyes on Brock, watching to see how he was going to look at her. Two could play at this "testing the new relationship" game, a game I wasn't even sure we were playing. I would pretend to like baseball but only if he pretended not to notice the gorgeous woman about to serve us beer and wings. He passed the test. He kept his eyes on the menu only.
When the waitress left, he looked at me. "So they think Jackson did it. I still can’t believe you came so close to death.”
"It's okay," I replied. I wanted to tell him about my investigation, abou
t Jackson's ghost and how I was pretty sure he hadn't done it, but this was all new ground for me and I had no idea what the appropriate time was to bring up what could potentially be seen as crazy to your significant other, especially since I knew one of his last girlfriends had schizophrenia.
"I'm going to see Tina soon. I'm going to tell her about us."
He nodded, looking more at the screen than anywhere else. He caught my eye and seemed to realize he should probably be paying attention to me. "I think that's a great... great... holy smokes, did you see that? I cannot believe he dropped that. Crazy."
"Crazy," I repeated, like I'd just been watching that same thing on the screen above his head. "Do you still visit her?"
"Do what?" He was still half-smiling at the screen. He looked at me, and his face took on the reality of the moment, like he was replaying my words in his head and finally cluing in. “You don’t have to do this, Carly. It's hard to see Tina. I know because I used to try. But I haven’t been there in at least a year, and I can’t feel guilty about it anymore. I know that sounds rough.”
I nodded, digging my fingernails into the squishy, slightly sticky table.
He ducked his head down until he caught my eye. “Sometimes, it’s better to remember things the way they used to be.”
The waitress brought our beer. “Here you go, sir,” she said when she put down Brock’s, tilting her head to the side so her hair would fall over her breasts.
He mumbled "thanks" while keeping his eyes on mine, which was nice. Back when I was married to Jackson, he would sneak in looks at the women around us and I would have to pretend I hadn't noticed.
Is that kind of a man really trustworthy enough to do a channeling with?
I could hardly concentrate on the rest of the night with Brock, and he was mostly watching the game anyway. All I could think about was the channeling I should be doing right now. The murders I should be figuring out, more for the women than my ex, because I honestly believed his murder was tied to theirs.
Once again, I'd let my anger control my rational thinking.