The Ghosts of Landover Mystery Series Box Set

by Etta Faire

  “Shelby working today?” I asked.

  Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. “She called out again, if you can believe it. And I tell ya, I’m really startin’ to worry about that girl. I have to take her shift again today or Lenny says he’s gonna fire her.” She took a long inhale of her cigarette and blew the smoke straight over her head. “If you ask me, he’s not firing anyone and he knows it. I’m not the only one ‘round here who wouldn’t go back to Spoony’s if he…”

  Loud bird squawking interrupted her speech, and I instinctively ducked, even though I was in my car. A man’s voice, yelling and cussing, followed. We both turned in the direction of old George’s barbershop, which was right next door to the diner. But I already knew what was causing the commotion.

  The birds were back.

  And they sounded angry, screeching and crying in low, almost human tone. Old George ran from the side of his shop with about ten black birds of varying sizes swooping around his head, pecking at his ears and his skull.

  “Stop it,” he kept saying like the birds could speak English.

  “What in tarnation?” Mrs. Carmichael yelled, stomping her cigarette out and running over to help, coughing and flailing her arms the whole way. “I’m a comin’, George.”

  I got out and ran over too, even though every logical bone in my body said to roll the window back up and maybe just call for help from faraway.

  Grabbing a stick as I ran, I easily passed Mrs. Carmichael who was still coughing across the parking lot to the barbershop.

  Old George had backed himself against his front door, unable to open it because his hands were too busy protecting his head.

  I was surprised to see only a couple of the birds had that telltale, mutant, crusty beak. And they weren’t the ones attacking. They seemed to be the ones directing, which was also strange. But every time they squawked, the smaller crows swooped down from just above George’s head, one after the other. Blood dripped down his cheek and into the folds of his neck.

  I raised my stick and swung, smacking the door right above his head.

  “Oh Lord. Carly Mae, you’re gonna kill him,” Mrs. Carmichael sputtered at the same time George was yelling something that sounded like “I told you. Tomorrow is fine.”

  I shot her a look as she took off her apron and swung it at the birds like she was a professional bullfighter all of the sudden while I tried beating the air around George without getting close to him at all now.

  “Yes, okay,” he said, to the birds. “As soon as I close.”

  And just like that, the two larger birds with the cold, dead eyes and crusted beaks flew off into the clouds. The others quickly followed. And Old George slumped against the door, trying to get his breath.

  I threw down my stick. “What in the hell was that all about?”

  “Are you okay?” Mrs. Carmichael yelled, cupping old George’s chin. She yanked his head this way and that, inspecting the blood. After spitting on the apron still dangling from her hand, she wiped the bloody peck marks from his thin cheek. “We should call Caleb.”

  “Or Justin.” I reached in my back pocket and pulled out my phone.

  “Are you crazy?” George shook his head. “Don’t call anyone. Those birds are back. I knew it. I was pretty young the first time they came ‘round, but my parents talked nonstop about the doomsday they caused. People stopped coming to the lake.”

  “So, you’re saying you don’t want to report this?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ll be fine.” His voice was unusually curt. “We got a diner to think about and the Purple Pony and the barbershop. Ain’t none of us can afford the doomsday days again.”

  I put my phone back and adjusted my pony tail. “I thought I heard you talking to the birds. What were you saying, anyway?”

  Old George ran a hand along his forehead, then inspected his fingers over, probably to see if he was still bleeding. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mrs. Carmichael spit on her apron again, and he waved her off. “Last thing I need is spit,” he said. “Or pity. So both of y’all, just stop it, and go on with your business. You hear?”

  He pulled himself upright and opened the door to the barbershop, slamming it behind him.

  “What do you think is going on with old George?”

  Mrs. Carmichael pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one. She checked her watch and walked off toward the Spoony River’s neon sign. “Break’s ending soon” was all the usually chatty woman said.

  Something told me the doomsday days were coming, no matter if we talked about them or not. Things were changing in Potter Grove.

  And whatever was happening at the barbershop tomorrow after closing, the meeting he just set up with the attacking birds then pretended he had no idea about, I was going to make sure I was there for it too.

  Chapter 7

  Unicorns

  I really wanted Feldman’s story not to check out. But everywhere I turned — the library, the restaurant, I even called Mrs. Winehouse to make sure her father-in-law had a murdered brother named Feldman (a strange conversation, to say the least) — everything seemed like my ghost guest was actually telling the truth.

  “I think I’m going to channel with Feldman soon,” I told Rosalie when we were clipping and twisting wires for her new gemstone ring collection at the checkout counter when I got to work.

  I didn’t mention anything about the bird attack. Old George had been right. Most business owners in Landover County would rather have their eye sockets hollowed out by birds than talk about something that might lose them tourist dollars.

  She motioned with her pliers. “I’ve been reading up on demons,” she said like that was a normal response to anything in life.

  Her face seemed different today. Her cheeks were rosier and I’d never noticed how long her lashes were before. “We should figure out what kind of entity you’re dealing with before you do any sort of channeling. There’s a recipe in some of the books that you can use to determine the type of energy you’re dealing with.”

  “There is a recipe for everything,” I said, still not entirely believing her. “But how soon can we throw that together?”

  She shrugged, tugging mindlessly on one of her dreadlocks, which looked different too. Her hair was pulled back with a cloth headband that matched her pale blue dress.

  “Are you wearing makeup,” I asked.

  “Trying out a new look.”

  “Well, you look good.”

  “And normally I don’t?” She took a smaller inhale than normal; her face scrunched up as she did.

  “Wait a second. Are you wearing Spanx?”

  She ignored my comments and hobbled into the back room, her shapewear adding an odd kind of swing to her walk. She returned with one of her paranormal encyclopedias, a dark green book this time with a gold embossed title, The Dark Recipes: A Grimoire. She swept the rings aside with the back of her arm then plopped the book on the counter in front of me. After opening it to the bookmark, she inhaled oddly again and pointed.

  I looked down at the page:

  The most certain way to determine the type of entity you are dealing with is by using a formula called a sapientia (recipe to follow). Spray the area of suspected energy generously until a green hue presents. Allow mist to dissipate for two minutes, then spray again. The color(s) you see during the second misting determines the entity or entities in the atmosphere and should aid you in their removal, if necessary. Use with adequate lighting whenever possible.

  Green: Neutral. There are no detected entities

  Purple: An apparition of very low energy level

  Blue: A benevolent/harmless apparition of high energy level and strength

  Yellow: A benevolent/harmless apparition from nonhuman origins; a supernatural being such as a shapeshifter, griffon, omni, vampire, etc.

  Orange: An angry apparition of tremendous strength transitioning to a poltergeist, curse, or demon

 
Red: Poltergeist

  Black: Curse

  White: Demon

  A mixture of any of these colors is an indication more than one entity is present.

  I looked at her and snapped my fingers. “We should mix up a batch of this and test it in the basement at Chez Louie.”

  I told her about Mr. Peters and the thing in the speakeasy, but she already knew and cut me off mid-sentence. “Nope. We are not helping that jerk.”

  “What is going on with you two? He told me you hated him.”

  “I do.”

  “You don’t hate anyone… well, except for Paula Henkel and the sheriff, but you don’t hate anyone that normal people don’t hate along with you.”

  “This is my business, Carly. I brought this recipe out to help you with Feldman Winehouse. I’m not special ordering these ingredients for a jerk.”

  I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the recipe and the definition of the various mist colors. “Maybe Mr. Peters will do a seance there at the restaurant, or an exorcism,” I said like I knew what that entailed beyond horror movies. “And we can make some money off of it.” I told her about the weird 3d images in the bricks that flat out told me to die, and how the furniture shot out at me. “And, I used to work with Mr. Peters at the Thriftway. He’s not that bad. Plus, his wife just died. The restaurant is all he has left. We can help him out, can’t we?”

  She turned away. “Not even for double the price. If anyone deserves a demon in his basement, it’s Louis Peters.”

  The Corn Nuts. The hair and makeup. The Spanx. The hatred. It all came to me at once. “You two used to date, huh?”

  “Do you want to try this recipe on Feldman Winehouse or not?”

  “Stop avoiding my question.” I looked at the glittery front entrance of the store. “Is Mr. Peters the unicorn man?”

  She slammed the book closed then stormed away to the back with it.

  A long time ago, Rosalie told me she painted that purple and yellow glitter unicorn just after she and her long-time boyfriend broke up after college. To her, it symbolized new beginnings, strength, and the courage to move on when things didn’t work out the way you thought they should in life, so you could find a different path.

  Apparently, it also symbolized a little bitterness and hatred.

  I scrolled through my phone. “I’m calling Mr. Peters right now. You look so cute I think he should come by and talk about that demon he has growing in his basement…” I tried to make that sound sexual. I’m not sure it worked.

  “Don’t do it,” she said. “I’m not helping him.”

  “Come on. Why else would you suddenly be wearing Spanx? Let’s be honest with one another.”

  Half an hour later, Mr. Peters came through the door of the Purple Pony. He looked very nice in his dress pants and white button down shirt (his manager’s uniform, but it still looked good). He swung a bag of takeout, making the smell of garlic take over the store. My mouth watered even though I’d already eaten the wilted salad I brought myself for break.

  “Maybe, he can pay us in garlic shrimp,” I whispered to Rosalie, elbowing her as he pulled styrofoam containers out of the bag and set them on the table in the back.

  He looked at Rosalie and smiled. “You look great,” he said. His bald head was sweaty again.

  “You look bald,” she replied. “I already told Carly Mae. We can’t help you, Louis, no matter how much food you bring to the table.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, grabbing a stack of paper plates from the bag. I handed everyone one, then when neither of them moved toward the food, I opened all three of the styrofoam boxes. Pasta, bread, shrimp. Yummy smells came from all over. Mr. Peters was probably sick of this kind of food and Rosalie probably couldn’t eat a thing in the tight shapewear she was wearing. I dug in while I had full control of the yumminess, explaining to Mr. Peters all about the sapientia spray we were going to use to determine the entity in his basement.

  “That’s wonderful,” he said. He barely took his eyes off of Rosalie. “Thank you. Will you be able to get rid of it once we determine what it is?”

  I looked at my boss. She threw her hands on her smoothed-out-thanks-to-Spanx hips. “I think he’s asking you a question, Carly.”

  I had just taken a bite of my favorite and was letting it sit in my mouth a second. “Yes, absolutely,” I said, mouth full of shrimp. “We will be able to get rid of anything you want.”

  She glared at me. “I guess you got your answer, Louie. Carly will be helping you out on this one. But don’t think that includes me. My experience doesn’t come for free, unless it’s for someone very special.”

  I nodded and mouthed the words, “She’ll help,” to Mr. Peters, mostly because I knew she would. This was the kind of paranormal project Rosalie lived for.

  After he left, my boss grabbed a plastic fork and dug in. “So much for my diet. I mean, my healthy eating,” she said, moaning while she chewed. “But then, if I wear this shapewear, I don’t need to eat nearly as healthy.”

  She smoothed her hands along her dress. I stared at her a second and she seemed to sense my thoughts. “Just so you know, I didn’t wear makeup because I want him back,” she said, breaking off a chunk of bread and dipping it into the creamy Alfredo sauce. “I just wanted an eat-your-heart-out moment. I deserve that. Someday I’ll tell you about it.”

  I nodded. “Well, you got your moment. He looked back when he left,” I said, because I really had noticed.

  “Good.” She lifted up her dress and peeled off her shapewear, rolling and tugging it along her hips, a white puff of belly popped out as she wiggled the shape wear down. “Oh God that feels better. I can finally enjoy food in the comfort of my old belly.” She tossed the beige lump onto the floor and pulled her dress back into place. “The real demon here is whoever made that God awful thing. But I can say it was worth the look-back moment.”

  I didn’t tell her I noticed she looked back too.

  Chapter 8

  Flying the Coup

  The next day, I checked online to see when George’s barbershop closed before I headed out to the Winehouse’s to do more research on my ghost.

  It says a lot about your life when you have to plan your day around a bird meeting.

  Mrs. Winehouse had reluctantly agreed to let me look through the family’s photo album from the 1920s for the book I was writing, but only after I promised to buy a lipstick from Shelby to cheer her up.

  I stood in front of the Winehouses’ door, with the golden eagle knocker in my hand, mostly worried about seeing Shelby. She was going through quite a depression, and I didn’t know what to say or do to help her out of it.

  Shelby answered in her pajamas, which wasn’t a good sign seeing how it was almost eleven o’clock in the morning.

  “You okay? I heard you’re not back to work yet,” I asked as we both sat on the couch. The photo album was already on the coffee table next to Shelby’s makeup sample basket and some brochures. The baby was playing quietly in the playpen by the fireplace.

  She rubbed her eyes like she wanted to head back to sleep. “I’m fine. I’m going back to work later today. I just needed a little time off to get used to being a single mom again.” When she took her hands away from her eyes, I could see she had really been hiding the tears that were forming.

  I hugged her. “It’s going to be okay. You have your parents and me and Mrs. Carmichael. We’ll help.”

  “I’m just tired of it, that’s all. It’s hard.”

  One of the brochures on the table was from the nursing program at Landover University. I picked it up.

  “My mom wants me to go back,” she said. Dark bags circled her eyes. “She told me I don’t have to worry about rent or food while I’m living here. I just need to work part-time at Spoony’s and get my nursing degree.”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” I said.

  “It is. It’s just not the me I thought I’d be right now in my life.”

  “No one i
s ever that person. Well, I mean I am. I totally planned on being divorced without kids and working minimum wage even though I hold a master’s degree at age 31. And let me tell you, my mother is even more thrilled than I am.”

  The door opened and Shelby’s four-year-old twins rushed in followed by her mom, carrying bags of groceries. “Let me put away these groceries and get these boys some lunch then we can go through that old album,” she said, hugging me hello. “Did you find that new lipstick you were looking for yet?”

  She winked and I dutifully looked through the makeup basket that was full of teeny tiny lipsticks. “I need a new look,” I said.

  “All the latest colors are right there,” Shelby replied, snapping into salesperson mode. “Matte, shimmer… I think you’d look good in a coral.”

  Mrs. Winehouse had been right. Shelby did seem happier just talking about making a sale.

  I put on the orange lipstick she was calling coral. One of Shelby’s twins came up beside me, chuckling. “You look like a clown,” he said.

  “Jacob!” Shelby scolded.

  I quickly checked myself in my phone’s camera app. It was true. I did. I wiped the lipstick onto the back of my hand and tried a red one.

  He shook his head sadly. “Getting worse. You look like that creepy clown from the movie with the red balloon now.”

  “I’ll just take a nude.” I told Shelby.

  “A nude?” This got both the twins laughing. “She wants a naked one.”

  Sometimes when I’m around kids, my uterus cries out that it wants a baby too. This was not one of those times. I flipped open the album and ignored them.

  “Nude it is,” Shelby said, a smile escaping her lips when her kids’ laughter got louder.

  She leaned in to me to see the album better. Her pink pajamas almost matched her hair color, except the brown roots. “I remember this now. Bobby and I looked through this very album when I was pregnant. We were just curious about what the baby was gonna look like…” Her voice trailed off again in a depressed way, letting me know buying naked lipstick hadn’t completely brought her out of her funk.