by Etta Faire
But it was also comforting to know that where I was at also felt very restful. A place where I never needed water again.
Chapter 17
Losing Control
Rosalie was “none too happy” to hear about the channeling the next day when I described everything to her.
“You are playing with fire, young lady. Fire. Dancing between realms and it’s pretty clear you are no longer the one in charge.”
“How do you know?” I asked, almost a little too haughtily for a woman who could barely keep her eyes open. I let them close again and I almost fell off my stool in the process. I quickly blinked them open, straightened myself out like I’d meant to do that, then grabbed the water bottle on the floor by my feet.
“I know because you told me you didn’t hear your alarm, and the spray is missing. You don’t even know how long you were channeling or what you were channeling with.” She was wearing her Spanx again. I could tell by her labored breathing and the weird grimaces she kept shooting me for no reason. “Plus, you’ve got bags under your eyes, and you’re as pale as a piece of paper, like one of those desperate platelet sellers, or a crackhead, or something.”
She had her ring-making instruments out again. Wires and pliers of various sizes lined the counter by the check-out alongside small piles of beads. She twisted her face into another scowl as she maneuvered the strand of wire between her fingers into a perfect infinity-shaped symbol. There were little dark green and black stones already strung along the wire.
“Nice,” I said, pointing to it.
“Yeah? Obsidian, magnetite, and malachite. A good combination for warding off evil spirits.” Sweat dripped along her hairline even though it wasn’t very warm, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand, throwing her dreadlocks into a ponytail with the faded gray scrunchie around her wrist.
“Any particular reason you’re making these?” I said with a sing-song in my voice that ended in a cough. I took another sip of water.
“Not for you,” she said. “We both know you want that evil spirit around you.” She yanked at her rib cage, where the edge of the shape wear ended, pulling the tight elastic out so she could take a bigger breath. “I told Louis about these rings. He seemed interested.”
I threw her a knowing smile.
“Stop grinning at me, crackhead. I just need a good customer, is all.” She fanned her face with her hand. “It’s so hot in here. I swear I’m gonna die.”
“It’s because you have shape-wear layers on.”
She ignored me. “I don’t think you should channel anymore, at least not alone. Where was Jackson anyway?”
“He refused to come out. He’s mad because of the channeling or something. Who knows? He’s a prima donna,” I said. “I never saw him last night.”
“Interesting,” she replied. “You’re saying he was so concerned about you channeling with Feldman that he refused to show up and supervise it?”
The way she said it made me rethink that logic. “What do you think is going on?”
“Not sure. When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Yesterday. Just before I sprayed.”
“What did he look like? Sound like?”
“He looked terrible. Very faded, and I could barely hear him.”
She gulped and set the wire she was holding down on the counter. After staggering her way into the back on her bad hip and uncomfortable shape wear, she quickly came back with the same large book as before, the green one we used for the sapientia formula.
“I read something interesting about demons and poltergeists.” She plopped the book on the counter next to the pile of beads. “Remember when I said ghosts would get angry and start transitioning if they didn’t get to haunt where they thought they ought to haunt?”
I nodded. “It’s why Feldman can’t haunt at the speakeasy.”
“A stronger ghost is keeping him out. And now, a stronger ghost might be driving Jackson out of your house.”
“You’re crazy. Jackson haunts fine at my house.” I stumbled over my own words, my voice squeaking from my throat being incredibly dry. I reached for my water bottle again.
“Let’s look at the signs, shall we?” she said, flipping the pages until she stopped on her bookmark. “Ghosts being rooted out will have pale coloring and whispered tones when in the affected area.”
The wind chimes on the door clanged and Mr. Peters came in. His face was especially pale and he was breathing heavily like a ghost being rooted out of Gate House. “The sage didn’t work,” he said, adding a quick hello to me. “I went down to the basement just like you told me to. I lit three bundles at once. Three. My goodness, it smelled something awful and my eyes stung. But I believed you when you told me it would work. The sage was ripped from my hands and thrown in my face. I almost sustained burns.”
“Almost,” Rosalie said, rolling her eyes. “But you’re fine. And I never told you the sage would work. You were the one who told me it would work.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Peters,” I added, shooting Rosalie a look. “We’re sorry it didn’t work.”
“You have a particularly strong ghost, Louis,” Rosalie said matter-of-factly. She sucked in her stomach and pointed to her book. “It’s rooting in your basement. Rooting is when a strong ghost takes permanent ownership over an area. The longer it’s allowed to be there, the stronger it becomes and the harder it is to get rid of.” She closed her book. “I don’t get anything extra for running research for you, Louis.”
“So what do I do?” he asked.
“You can start by protecting yourself with these rings I made especially for you. Obsidian, magnetite, and malachite. A good combination for warding off evil spirits. Normally, I sell special-order protection rings for ninety-nine, ninety-five, which is a steal because I say an incantation over them…”
I watched the salesperson at work. Rosalie was never one to try to up-sell or swindle anyone, and I’m sure the rings were somewhere near legitimate in their protection properties. But she also seemed to have another agenda at play here, one where she wanted Mr. Peters to pay. And not just in eat-your-heart-out looks anymore.
As Mr. Peters was trying on rings, I opened the book to the bookmarked spot and read more about whatever she was calling “rooting.” I was starting to be more than a little concerned about my ex-husband. If he couldn’t haunt at our house, then where was he?
Signs that an area is being rooted by a strong ghost or demon: Smells of rotting meat, blood, or sulphur. The feeling of needles prickling skin. Extreme thirst.
There was absolutely no way I was channeling with Feldman again. Yet, even as I scanned the pages of Rosalie’s book, gulping down water from my extra-large water bottle, confirming sign after sign and growing more fearful that I’d been conned by a demon, every part of me knew I was lying to myself.
I had to channel again.
On my way home from work, I stopped by the library just before it closed. Mrs. Nebitt stood over the front counter, hands on her hips, like an extra-small, puffy-haired, angry guard. Parker Blueberg, Potter Grove’s single dad, towered over her while his kids ran crazy through the library.
“Parker, you know I think of you as my own grandson, which is why I have no problems telling you you’re full of malarkey.”
Squeals and laughter shot through the weird-smelling paperbacks as Lil Mil, named after her great grandmother Mildred, tagged her toddler brother and ran through the stacks again.
Parker smiled when he saw me walk in, and motioned for me to come over. He was a good-looking man with the kind of twinkle in his green eyes that made even the happiest of monogamous women rethink their relationships.
I tried not to rethink mine too hard as I made my way over.
“Hey Carly. Just trying to get Mrs. Nebitt here to help a dear friend out.”
“Dear friend,” she repeated sarcastically. “This is a sad attempt to sell memberships to that gym you work at, and we both know it.”
“What
’s going on?” I asked.
Mrs. Nebitt handed me a bright blue piece of paper. It was one of those missing-person fliers with a description and a photo of Bobby and his brothers.
Have You Seen Us?
$5,000 Reward for Information Leading to the Whereabouts of Bobby Furgus Franklin
and his brothers, Leon and Harris
- Plus -
Join Landover County’s First Missing-Person Task Force
And receive
Half-off membership at Donovan Gym
Compliments of Donovan Gym
It listed times and places for upcoming “task force meetings.”
“That’s nice,” I said, a little skeptical myself. The Donovans didn’t do much out of the kindness of their hearts. They were the rich and powerful family on this lake, and they liked for everyone to know it. “But sorry, Parker. I have to agree. This does seem a little commercialized for a missing-person flier.”
“I just think you guys don’t know the Donovans like I do. Myles is a sincere man with a great heart,” he said, like he and the 80-year-old rich guy were suddenly besties.
Ben, Parker’s three-year-old, ran past us again, screaming. His big sister easily caught up and grabbed him by the middle, swinging him around.
Mrs. Nebitt snatched the flier from my hand and added it to the stack sitting on the counter. “All right. You win. I’ll put them up, but only because I want to help out Shelby Winehouse, and I think you do too, regardless of what Myles Donovan’s intentions are.”
Parker’s shoulders seemed to soften at this. He kissed the librarian on the cheek and ran after his kids. “Time to go, kids.”
I leaned into her. “Admit it. You only agreed to put out those fliers because you wanted to get rid of the loud kids running crazy through your library right now, huh?”
She shook her head no. “I took it because I sincerely believe we should all be looking for Bobby and his brothers.” She lowered her voice. “But yes, if I could legally get rid of that kids section, I would do it in an eye blink.”
She waited until Parker and his entourage-of-loudness had left before taking me over to the periodicals section. She knew I was here for research.
“What do you need today?”
I pulled out my list. “Richard Mulch. The former sheriff of Landover. I could only find one article on Google for the man. Apparently, his wife died in a suspicious fire while he was serving time for taking bribes and extortion. I’d like to know more about his conviction and the fire. I’d also like to know about the Feldmans.”
“The Feldmans? You’ll have to be more specific. What do you want to know?”
“You know I’m doing research on a ghost, for my book, named Feldman Winehouse. You helped me find the article about his murder a few days ago. But his first name was his mother’s maiden name. I’d like to know more about that family.”
She settled into her research chair and adjusted her glasses so they’d sit just right along her nose. I could tell the woman was in her element, here running research.
After a couple minutes of her staring at the screen, she finally turned to me. “Not much on the fire at Richard Mulch’s house. But there’s quite a few articles that look like they might deal with the sting operation that led to his arrest. And I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find anything on the Feldmans either, except Feldman Winehouse’s birth announcement, which I thought was odd. Birth announcements weren’t common in the 1800s when he was born. Not even the wealthy took them out.”
She waddled over to the microfilm cabinet, brought out a small box, and got everything set up for me like usual.
I thanked her. “Why do you think the Donovans are so interested in finding Bobby all of the sudden?” I asked before she walked away.
She shrugged. “You could go to one of the task force meetings to find out. Task force. Honestly.”
“We could go together,” I said. “You want to go with me?”
She chuckled without answering. Her matching blue polyester outfit made a swishing sound as she strutted away.
I looked at Feldman Winehouse’s birth announcement first. It was obvious why his mother had taken it out. She was sure selling it to her rich parents.
Feldman Theodore Winehouse was born to Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Winehouse at Landover Hospital on May 3, 1882. Mrs. Winehouse is the youngest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. J. Mortimer Feldman III of Feldman Investment Banking and Trust, one of the most prestigious firms in Landover, Wisconsin.
His mother had probably spent money she hadn’t had to take out that birth announcement in the local paper, all to try to gain favor with her family. You gamble. You lose.
“Things could actually have been worse,” I whispered to the ghost I knew wasn’t around. “The name Feldman’s at least better than Mortimer.”
I moved onto the next microfilm reel and the other article Mrs. Nebitt had found for me. This one was from 1925. Two years after Feldman sold his part of the Bear Bird to Doc.
Corruption Hits Landover County
Sheriff Richard Mulch was among the arrested today, charged with conspiracy to sell and transport liquor, as well as attempted extortion and bribery.
Federal Prohibition Officers made the arrests after being tipped by anonymous sources.
“Makes no difference who you are in life. If you do the crime, you will do the time,” Mayor Donovan said.
Jackson appeared by my side as I read, and I was never happier to see my ex before in my life. I reached to hug him, but stopped myself. How was I going to hug a ghost anyway?
“Aww, I always knew you cared.” His voice was weak, so was his coloring. I could barely see him. He was more like a foggy version of himself at best.
“I don’t. I mean, I do care a little, but…” I lowered my voice so Mrs. Nebitt wouldn’t know for sure that I was crazy. “I thought you were being rooted out of our house, or some silly crap like that,” I said. “But you’re not. You’re here. So all is well.”
“Not exactly,” he admitted. His voice seemed strained, like even small words took extra effort. “I’m very weak. Every time I tried to materialize at Gate House, something happened. I was never able to do it, and I got weaker.” He stretched his thin, faded arms out. “I tried a lot. But I was able to leave with you this morning.”
“Rosalie was right,” I yelled, completely prepared for the shushing from my librarian friend. She barely looked over. I smoothed out my skinny jeans and pulled a couple of pieces of fluff from my cardigan in a sad attempt to look normal just in case she looked up.
“I suppose even a fruitcake is right every once in a while,” Jackson replied in his hushed tone. “Does she know what to do about it?”
I shrugged. “I’ll ask the fruitcake. But I think our best bet is to finish the job with Feldman and figure out his murder so he can move on.”
I thought I saw my ex rolling his eyes but he was too faded for me to know any expressions for sure.
“Helping the wannabe demon might be our only chance to rid ourselves of it,” I added, wondering if Jackson could tell I wanted to channel with the demon again.
“How close are you,” he said. His voice was coming out in cut-out bursts of whispers. “What have you got so far?”
“Not much. Pretty interesting, though, in that everyone seems guilty.”
He stared at me sadly. Not what he wanted to hear.
I recapped the case for him. “So, you already know the sheriff was there that night, the night when no one reported Feldman’s murder until they’d had time to clean up and get away. You also know a Donovan was there that night too. Flo Donovan. Then, two years later, our corrupt sheriff is being arrested for conspiracy to sell alcohol, extortion, and bribery. And you’ll never guess who was quoted in the article, being very happy about it too.”
I pointed to the screen.
“A Donovan. So, how is that related to Feldman’s murder?”
“Not sure. But there’s also that cast iron horse bank I need
to somehow figure out. The one the killer sent to Feldman, and tormented him with all night, then slipped a little message into the coin slot just before he was killed.”
“So you saw the bank in the channeling? What did it look like?”
I thought about it. “Dark brown paint for its body. Cold, dead black eyes,” I said. “Oh, it was also wearing a thin blanket-looking thing around its neck made of red circles.”
“Probably supposed to be roses. Sounds like the Kentucky Derby, not that I’m sure it matters.”
“They did mention the last time they went to the races was the Kentucky Derby, so that checks out. Something must’ve happened that day. I’ll try to find out more about it. I saw the postmark. It came from New York.” I thought about that one. “Which brings me to another weird thing. Feldman was absolutely sure the horse bank couldn’t have come from his writer friend in New York, and he seemed oddly defensive about it. Jeremy Somebody. I need to find out more about him. He wasn’t there that night, but I could tell Feldman is still pretty angry with the guy. And where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
Even the way my ex hovered along the library floor seemed off. He was shaky and unstable, jittery almost.
I swallowed hard. This was all my fault. “Sorry about channeling with the ghost you tried to tell me was questionable.”
He didn’t look at me. He stared down, where his feet would’ve been if he had those anymore.
“You were right,” I added.
“Normally, that would be enough to cheer me up,” he said. “I don’t hear that often enough, true as it so often is.” His voice trailed off, depressed.
“We’ll get you back. Hang tight,” I said, unsure why I wanted to get the dramatic ghost back so badly anyway, but I did.
“Just stop forgetting you’re the one in control,” he said as his already wispy form faded into the book stacks around me, leaving me to wonder just what in the hell that meant.