The Ghosts of Landover Mystery Series Box Set

by Etta Faire

“What’s next?” she asked.

  I took a second to look. “Drop a small chunk of dry ice into the boiling mixture as soon as it comes off the stove.”

  She pointed to the red cooler at the back of her kitchen. I opened it and the vapor from the dry ice drifted around me. “So, what happened next with you and Louis?” I asked as I used the provided tongs to carry a small chunk of the dry ice to the sink.

  “I broke up with him. But we were always breaking up and getting back together again. No big deal. It’s what we did. The whims of youth. But this time, when I called to see if he was ready to get back together again a couple months later, he seemed different. Aloof. I found out through my sister that he’d gotten another girl pregnant and was about to marry her. We’d only been broken up for two months, tops. So, I guessed he didn’t love me like he’d always said he did. I guessed his proposal meant nothing. He was just checking boxes on a to-do list of life. And since I said ’no,’ he moved onto someone else.”

  My eyes watered but when Rosalie looked over, I quickly sniffed back my emotions. “Damn dry ice,” I said, in case she noticed.

  She handed me the box of tissues that was sitting at the edge of the sink. “Yep, that damned dry ice, all right,” she said, chiseling off a piece of it. “I really hated that stuff for a long time until I had the dream about the unicorn and realized everything happens for a reason.” She plunked the small chunk into the mixture and it bubbled over everywhere, spilling out onto the stove and the floor. She jumped back and threw a towel over the spill. “No matter how messy or awful it seems at the time, it was meant to happen. Louis was meant to have his kids, and I was meant to start the Purple Pony… That’s what the unicorn symbolizes. Everything is always happening as it should be.”

  That was the part of the story that never really made sense, how the glittery disco-ball of a unicorn symbolized so much depth. But, like always, I went with it. “That is an awful story, and I see now why you think Mr. Peters deserves a demon in his basement. But maybe, now that you’re both single, the unicorn and the universe are saying you two are meant to be together again,” I said.

  “You’re reading way too much into a unicorn,” she replied.

  “Let’s call him and offer to find out what entity he has in his basement, for free. Just as a test run on the spray.”

  “I am too old for dry ice anymore. If I date someone, it’s gonna be because that someone cherishes me. Cherishes. Not because they’re checking boxes off a damn to-do list in life.”

  “Maybe he’s changed.”

  “And maybe I’ve changed too. Plus, this mixture cost an arm and a leg. You know that, right? Apothecary ingredients don’t come cheap, especially when you have to ship them damn express. Give it to him for free? Honestly.”

  “I’ll talk to Jackson’s lawyer. I’m sure the estate will cover the costs since Jackson clearly doesn’t want me channeling with a dark spirit.”

  That seemed to make her smile a little. I handed her the phone while I shredded a small pile of charcoal, never mentioning the fact I had already channeled with Feldman.

  Chapter 14

  Testing Spirits

  “I was supposed to open the Purple Pony an hour ago,” Rosalie said as I helped her out of her car in the parking lot of Chez Louie. “Plus, I don’t want Louis to think there’s anything more to this than business.”

  “You’re just showing me how to use the spray,” I said. I didn’t tell her I noticed she’d snuck on some mascara and a cuter blouse before we left her house.

  It was a typically chilly day in spring. The ice had long melted, but it still wasn’t warm enough to go without layers that included a jacket yet.

  “All the books mentioned some possible side effects to the sapientia formula,” I said as we made our way over to the restaurant.

  “What kind of side effects?”

  “Stuff like bleeding gums, hair loss, opening gates to the hosts of evil…”

  She shook her head but didn’t stop walking. “I’ve found those things are kind of like the warnings on the Viagra commercials. Nobody really gets a twelve-hour boner.”

  I nodded, even though I was pretty sure some people actually did.

  “But just in case you’re worried, I brought protection,” she patted the flowered cloth bag she was carrying, like I’d know what that meant.

  Mr. Peters was already waiting for us at the basement door.

  “I’m losing business right now, just so you know,” Rosalie snapped when Mr. Peters pushed the creaky door leading to the basement open again. “Purple Pony’s supposed to open at eleven.”

  Mr. Peters looked down at his perfectly shined shoes. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  Rosalie was no longer paying any attention to him. As soon as she peered into the darkened basement, she rummaged through her bag and pulled out the yellow handheld EMF reader. “Oh my,” she said, over and over as we all stepped inside. She pushed past me. “Very interesting.”

  Before I started working at the Purple Pony, Rosalie was the town psychic and medium. She read cards and did seances, but her powers were not nearly as strong as mine, for reasons I still had no idea why.

  She mostly seemed to rely on objects to tell her when ghosts were around, like the EMF reader clicking and sputtering in her hand. It supposedly picked up electrically charged objects that the naked eye couldn’t see. My naked eyes could usually see them, though, but not today. The device was going crazy. And I wasn’t seeing any entities.

  The little doohickey had a scale that went from green to yellow then to red. The dial was flickering almost at the end of the red zone. A small light on the top of the device flashed on and off and an alarm beeped. “Holy crap,” she kept saying, showing the device to me and Mr. Peters, even though we could both hear it beeping away. “I’ve never seen it do that before.”

  “Let’s do this spray and get out,” I said. “Once we figure out what the entity is here, we’ll look up how to get rid of it.”

  Rosalie fumbled through her bag then handed me a pair of yellow gloves and a dust mask.

  Then she handed a set to Mr. Peters, who chuckled and stared at it.

  “Tell your hair and gums they’re welcome,” she said to her ex-boyfriend, in the same tone a distant aunt might use when her ugly Christmas socks didn’t get the reaction she was expecting. She tossed me the spray bottle, and I walked over to the brick area where I’d seen my face before.

  “We need as much lighting as possible,” I reminded her, motioning for Mr. Peters to pull the blinds on the basement window up. He was still fumbling with the gloves, shaking his head like he was grappling with what was happening here. A reality his practical mind had probably never considered before.

  Rosalie yanked the blinds up on the only window, a tiny one near the top of the wall. But even with all the lights on and the blinds up, it wasn’t doing much to light the room. “I hope this is adequate enough.”

  “For what?” Mr. Peters asked. No one answered him.

  Rosalie grabbed her phone and set the timer while I sprayed the area thoroughly, just like the instructions said, until I saw a green mist appear.

  “Two minutes and counting,” she said, starting the timer.

  “W…what are you expecting to happen,” Mr. Peters asked in a tone that seemed a lot like he was holding back laughter under his mask. “The restaurant is already opened for lunch. I should get up there. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for mystic tom foolery.”

  Rosalie shot him a look. Her voice was muffled and mumbly when she talked through her mask. “I’m losing business by being here too, Louis. But at least your business is open. The Purple Pony’s closed now.” She didn’t mention the fact that we maybe saw three customers a day in the off season. “And, this is a service I don’t usually provide for free.”

  “I’m very sorry,” he quickly added. “I am very appreciative.”

  After her phone beeped, I misted again then pulled my phone out of my pocket to
bring up the photo of the color descriptions.

  Mr. Peters read over my shoulder. “So, this is like a mood ring?”

  “In a way…” I said, my eyes fixed on the mist.

  The drops seemed to hold in midair a little longer this time. Slowly, a dark reddish-orange tinge emerged in front of the bricks with black mist floating all around it, circling it.

  I turned my head to the side, mesmerized by the sight. But as soon as I took one step forward into the mist to get a better look, something shoved me hard across the room.

  I whacked against the corner of what could only have been a covered couch, and an instant pain shot through the back of my neck and across my shoulders.

  “You okay?” Rosalie asked, helping me up.

  I moved my arm around a little. Pain was everywhere. “What was that?”

  “Hell if I know. You just shot across the room on your own, but let’s go. We don’t need to wait to find out,” she said as we ran to catch up to Mr. Peters, who was already standing in the doorway, holding the door open.

  “Well?” he said, pulling off his mask after shutting off the lights and locking the basement again. “What did you find out?”

  “Looks like you have an angry ghost transitioning to a poltergeist,” I said, rubbing my arm as we made our way up the stairs. “But I’m actually not sure. It was a little more muddled than I thought it’d be.”

  “So all of that and you’re not even sure what’s in there?” he said. “I thought it’d be gone by now.”

  “All of that?” Rosalie snapped. “You talk like that was a huge inconvenience for you. We spent all morning making the damn spray then we came over here…”

  “Thank you once again,” he said, in an almost angry, resentful tone. He pointed to my arm. “Would you like some ice? I assume you have your own insurance for this… ghost busting.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Peters,” I said. “But that’s all we can do for you. We’re not Ghostbusters. We spent a lot of money making that spray, and we can’t risk getting hurt just to help out an old… friend.” I stumbled over that last part. I was pretty sure Rosalie had been right. There really wasn’t much love here. Mr. Peters was merely using people to check off boxes in his life again. This box happened to read, “Get rid of the demon as cheaply as possible.”

  “I hear burning sage might get rid of ghosts,” he said, a hopeful lilt in his voice.

  “Give it a try,” Rosalie chimed in. “I sell bundles at my shop. Lighters too. No discounts, and I don’t deliver.”

  My arm still stung as Rosalie and I walked out to the parking lot together.

  “At least now you know how to use the spray,” she said.

  “Yeah. And at least now we know what color Mr. Peters is too,” I said. “You were right. I think he was using both of us that time.”

  She turned around and stared at the pharmacy a second, her graying dreadlocks never even moved in the wind. “Sage,” she said, shaking her head. “If he thinks sage is gonna get rid of those things, he’s crazy.”

  “Those things?”

  She looked at me. “You saw that, right?”

  “Saw what?”

  “There were two colors in that mist. One orangish red, the other black. It’s worse than a demon in there. There’s also a curse.”

  I didn’t say it out loud, but I was pretty sure most of Potter Grove would see that curse color if misted.

  Chapter 15

  Power Struggles

  As soon as I got home, I slipped my gloves and mask on. I was actually glad Feldman was probably too weak from our channeling yesterday to be visible for the spraying. I didn’t want him here, trying to talk me out of checking him.

  Jackson appeared by the couch, or tried to. I could barely make out where his head stopped and his neck began. He was a faded version of himself. More so than usual.

  “Sapientia spray? Really?” His voice was also very weak.

  I took my dust mask off so I could talk better. “I need to know what I channeled with the other day, before I channel again.”

  I went to the kitchen to get a rag from under the sink. I wasn’t sure if the spray was going to stain the flooring, but I wasn’t going to take a chance. “I was actually hoping,” I began as I laid the rag along the Dogwood rug in the living room. “That the estate would cover the cost of the spray…”

  “Highly doubtful,” he said. “Sapientia spray is not very accurate, and not worth the side effects. And that’s if it’s prepared correctly. No offense, but your fruitcake boss isn’t the best at following recipes.”

  I put my hands on my hips, my plastic poncho crinkled a little. “I don’t know. She did a pretty good job on that privacy recipe a few months back.”

  And I still had the dirty-diaper-smelling strands hanging along the doorway of my room and bathroom to prove it. The smell was a small price to pay when you lived with ghosts and wanted a little privacy.

  I plugged my cellphone in and set the timer for two minutes. Then I went around and turned on every light on the main floor. Even though it was evening, I had to admit, the lighting was better than the basement of the restaurant. And a lot better than Rosalie’s house.

  “Feldman, you here?”

  He didn’t appear. I put my mask on and sprayed until I saw green then I hit the timer button on my phone.

  Jackson’s words about the side effects not being worth it echoed through my mind as I watched the spray hang in the air. I took a step back and held in my breath just in case infertility really was a side effect, even though I wasn’t ready for kids any time soon (and wasn’t even sure I liked them that much).

  When the timer began its last ten second countdown, the overhead light flickered on and off. “Jackson, stop it. Is that you?” I mumbled through my mask. But I didn’t see him anywhere anymore.

  All the lights went out as the timer beeped.

  I stood in complete darkness, spray in my hand. So much for adequate lighting. I fumbled for my phone and hit the flashlight app.

  Either I’d blown a fuse or something in the house didn’t want me to know what it was. I thought about that last one. Feldman, Mrs. Harpton, Ronald the lawyer, Rex, the bird sounds in the back rooms, the thing in the basement… Yeah, there were probably a lot of things that turned that light off just now.

  “You know, you’re not really stopping me. I’m just going to do this tomorrow in the sunlight,” I yelled into the darkness. I got no response. I yanked off my poncho and mask, set everything on the coffee table, then stomped up to my room like a teenager in a power struggle.

  Upstairs in my room, the light worked perfectly. Of course. I pulled open my laptop, thinking about poor Rosalie. I was the one who talked her into giving Mr. Peters another chance and he’d proven to be just as selfish as she said he was.

  And, by taking time out of my day to spray the speakeasy for my cheapskate client, I hadn’t had time to do my own library research.

  I typed in Richard Mulch’s name into Google first. This was a murder that happened a long time ago, so I knew finding anything was going to be a long shot without a microfilm cabinet and my 80-year-old research expert.

  My heart raced when something came up, mostly because I couldn’t believe who Richie ended up being. I read the short article, dated June 27, 1954, twice to make sure.

  Ex Potter Grove Sheriff’s Remains Found

  Disgraced, retired sheriff Richard Mulch’s mutilated body was discovered by a group of teenagers yesterday in the woods near Landover Lake Country Club. There were no witnesses to the attack, but police believe it could have been drug related.

  “I’ve never seen anything so gruesome in my ten years on the force,” Sheriff Mason Bowman said, referring to the body, which was reportedly found in two halves.

  Mulch, 70, made headlines in 1927 when he and other members of the Potter Grove Police Department were caught taking bribes in a sting operation during prohibition. While serving time in jail, Mulch lost his wife, Drusilla, in a
tragic house fire along with his mother, Maude. Although investigators labeled the fire suspicious, no one was arrested for the crime.

  Later in life, Mulch turned to vagrancy and debauchery and was often seen camping in the woods where his remains were found.

  The bum in the woods who’d been split in half in 1954, the one I’d investigated as part of the boater’s cover-up a few months ago, was popping up again. Richard, the disgraced cop.

  And, just like that, he moved to the top of my suspect list.

  There weren’t any more articles about Richard, so I looked up everyone from the party that I could, anyone who I had both a first and a last name for. But nothing came up for Boyd Ferguson or Michael Chance.

  Flo Donovan, on the other hand, had an entire Wikipedia page.

  Florence Natasha Donovan Ives, born in Landover, Wisconsin in 1901; died in Paris in 1983. There wasn’t much in the article prior to 1927, when she married a French art dealer and moved to Paris to join the other rich expatriate supporters of the arts.

  A photo of her and her husband was captioned with a quote:

  “Art collecting is a lot like gambling. Sometimes when you gamble, you lose.”

  My stomach sank when I read that very familiar quote. But, if Flo had been the one to do Feldman in, what could possibly have been her motive?

  I read on, hoping for some sort of clue or connection.

  According to the article, Flo’s early years were mostly spent with her brother, Marshall, in boarding schools outside of Wisconsin where she learned fencing, horseback riding, and martial arts at a young age. She won a prize for her tactical knife skills, something that didn’t go unnoticed by me.

  The person who killed Feldman must have been quite skilled with a knife. Slicing someone’s throat was not an easy thing to do. She also had money to whimsically spend on a cast iron bank, not that they were expensive in their day.