“You bet,” Tori replied. “He’s the catcher, a real natural.”
“Uh-huh,” I said skeptically, “and what if he needs to actually throw the ball?”
Tori shrugged. “Beau assures me Duke can handle it,” she said. “Go with the flow, Jinksy. Prepare to be surprised.”
Her words proved to be prophetic. As we watched, Duke made a flying leap to catch a ball thrown in his direction. The ghost hound gyrated in mid-air, spinning faster and faster until his tail stood straight out like a propeller. When he built up enough momentum, he let fly with the ball, which sailed right on target back to the pitcher.
Now, let’s talk about the pitcher.
I thought he was just another deceased farmer laid to rest in a threadbare suit until he started pelting fastballs at a ghost named Jeff, who, incongruously, was dressed in his Briar Hollow High football uniform.
“Who the heck is the pitcher?” I asked Tori. “I don’t remember seeing him here before.”
“Hiram Folger,” Tori said. “He pitched one season for the Durham Bulls when they were a Class D minor league team in 1913.”
“Why just one season?” I asked.
“His father died,” Tori said, “so Hiram came home to work the family farm. I think he could have made the majors if he’d kept playing.”
Just then, Hiram let loose with a ball that hit Jeff’s glove with such force, it sailed through the foggy remnants of the well-oiled leather, went through Jeff’s chest, and came to rest against a tombstone behind him.
“No kidding,” I said appreciatively. “How are you going to call a play like that?”
“Danged if I know,” Tori said. “I’m pretty much making everything up as I go along. You know, opting for the supplemental rules in light of everyone’s deficits.”
The situation certainly called for flexible officiating since being non-corporeal definitely qualifies as a handicap.
“Is Beau excited?” I asked.
“Try over the moon,” Tori replied with a grin. “He’s been dying to play for months, no pun intended.”
“None taken,” I laughed.
After spending months watching baseball movies with Tori and reading everything he could get his hands on, Beau longed to actually play baseball with the kind of passion known only to the converted.
For a while he made do pitching a ball back and forth in the alley with Chase. Then Tori took him to the public batting cages in a nearby town, but neither of those activities could take the place of the real thing.
Since the only people Beau knows outside of the store are the spirits at the cemetery, he organized the two teams and arranged the game. He was going for a triple. Enrich their afterlife, feed his obsession, and make me smile.
Jeff jumped at the chance to captain the Deceased Dodgers even though he would have preferred the ghosts learn football. But, given the dearth of sporting activities on the other side, he was willing to take what he could get.
After a lengthy planning session, Beau and Jeff agreed on specific tombstones to serve as the bases, selecting a raised grave covered in cement set with sea shells for the pitcher’s mound. The current occupant, a dentist who drilled his last tooth sometime around 1884, agreeably gave his permission.
What’s with the sea shells, you ask? You’ll find graves like that from the Victorian era all over the south, even inland. Since that night, I looked up the meaning behind the tradition. There are a lot of theories, but I like the one that says the shells signify a safe journey to an unknown shore.
I’m not going to give you a play-by-play, but that game was a wild ride. I do want to tell you about Susie Miller, though.
When Tori and I met Susie, she was a nameless Jane Doe ghost. We were lucky enough to solve her murder and help her to find peace in her afterlife. Instead of moving on, however, she has stayed in the cemetery with the spirits she regards as her family.
Susie is now a happy member of their little community, but she’s still just a mere whiff of a ghost. I was surprised Beau coaxed her into playing, and even more surprised when she smacked the ball Hiram sent her way with considerable authority.
As we all watched and cheered, the glowing orb sailed toward left field allowing Susie to reach second base before one of the gingham grannies managed a pretty credible catch.
Susie caught my eye and gave me a thumbs up, which I returned with a grin.
Looking back now, I can tell you that the next nine days in our lives would be about all kinds of seconds — second base, second chances, and yes, even second thoughts.
2
The moon illuminated two sets of amber eyes gazing out from the shadowed woods. Chase and Festus sat together in mountain lion form watching the game. Chase kept his eyes trained on Jinx, while Festus engaged in a running diatribe about baseball.
“I just don’t get it,” Festus said dismissively, turning his head to hock a hairball. “Where’s the reward? You spend all that time and energy knocking a ball around a field for what? Numbers on a scoreboard? At least in Red Dot there are incentives.”
Without glancing at his father, Chase said, “Would it hurt you to kick some dirt over that hairball?”
“Oh, for cat’s sake,” Festus replied, half-heartedly flicking a wad of leaves over the regurgitated fur. “When did you get so squeamish? The least you could do is agree with me about Red Dot. After all, it is the werecat national sport.”
“Red Dot,” Chase said, “is not a sport; it’s a drinking game. The sole purpose is to get sloshed on creamed whiskey, and the only place Red Dot is considered a sport is the Dirty Claw.”
“A bar where you’d be better off drowning your sorrows with the guys than sitting out here mooning over a woman,” Festus retorted.
Chase’s whiskers twitched in irritation. “Whether Jinx is speaking to me or not,” he said, “it’s still my job to protect her. How about you just keep your opinions to yourself and watch the game?”
“Watch the game,” Festus mocked in a sing-song voice. “Fine. I’ll watch the game if you’ll explain to me whose idea it was to let a dead dog catch.”
“Duke likes to catch balls,” Chase replied.
“How very canine of him,” Festus said sarcastically. “Right now at this very moment, I am in serious danger of either dropping dead from boredom or freezing to death. I can’t even tell if they’re keeping score down there.”
“The Deceased Dodgers just gave up two runs in the eighth,” Chase said flatly. “Stop pretending you can’t follow a baseball game. You took me to the 1938 World Series when I was eight years old.”
Festus chuckled ruefully. “So I did,” he admitted. “Damn shame Dizzy’s arm gave out. Gehrig retired the next year. That guy down there on the pitcher’s mound is good, by the way. Too bad he never made it to the show.”
When Chase didn’t answer, Festus went on. “Seriously, boy, why are we out here freezing our fur off? Jinx isn’t in any danger that I can see.”
“I’m not worried about the danger we can see,” Chase snapped. “I’m worried about what we can’t see. If all you’re going to do is sit there and complain, go home.”
In one fluid movement, the older cat pivoted and smacked his son hard across the snout with enough force to rock him backward.
“Hey!” Chase cried, curling his lips in a snarl. “What the heck was that for?”
“That,” Festus said, laying his ears flat and narrowing his eyes, “was to remind you to respect your elders, boy. I’m out here to keep you company. Show a little gratitude or next time I’ll put my claws out.”
Rubbing his whiskers with one paw, Chase muttered grudgingly, “Fine, fine. I’m sorry. Thanks for coming with me.”
Returning his attention to the game, Festus said, “That’s more like it. Can the attitude, boy. What would your mother think? Act like you had some raising.”
They sat silently for a few minutes before Festus tried again. “Look,” he said, “I know this is hard on you. Sooner or lat
er Jinx will start talking to you.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Chase answered glumly, “but will that make things better or worse?”
Festus snorted. “With a woman, son, it’s hard to tell.”
Sounding less hostile and more uncertain, Chase asked, “Did Mom ever stop talking to you?”
“I should have been so lucky,” Festus laughed. “When Jenny had enough of my crap, she told me about it in no uncertain terms.”
Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Chase asked, “But she loved you, right?”
Heaving a weary sigh, Festus said, “Of course she loved me, boy. Jinx not loving you isn’t the problem here. And may I just point out that you are the one who broke up with her?”
“Gee, Dad,” Chase said, bitterness dripping from every word, “thanks so much for reminding me. What else was I supposed to do? Wait for the next bigoted werecat traditionalist to come along and try to kill her again?”
“It’s not just a matter of tradition, and you know it.”
“Says the werecat who is in love with my ex-girlfriend’s mother,” Chase snapped.
Without warning, Festus struck again, cuffing Chase’s head solidly with a one-two combination and coming away with fur in his claws.
In response, Chase hissed and drew his own paw back — only to stop when his father growled deep in his throat and said, “If you think you’re big enough, boy, go right ahead.”
Chase slowly lowered his paw, but his golden eyes blazed with barely suppressed fury.
Festus was not impressed. “Glare at me all you want to,” he said, “but I’ll thank you to shut your ignorant mouth about Kelly Hamilton.”
Hanging his head again, Chase said, “I'm sorry, Dad. I shouldn't have said that.”
This time, Festus reached out and patted his son consolingly. “Don’t worry about it, boy,” he said. “You get your temper from me, but mostly you're like your mama. That’s a good thing, Chase. You can't let this business with Jinx change who you are.”
“It already has,” Chase answered miserably.
“Son,” Festus said, “the bitter truth of it is that I had no more business being interested in Kelly than you had chasing after her daughter. Trust me. I know the appeal of a Ryan woman. They get under your skin. Jinx’s grandmother Kathleen was the same way. They can’t help being who they are any more than we can.”
“It’s just that I thought we could be friends,” Chase said.
“Every man who ever broke up with a woman thinks they can still be friends,” Festus said. “In this instance, you will be friends again in time. The McGregors and the Daughters of Knasgowa share a destiny. But for now, you need to quit acting like a love-struck idiot and get your mind back on business. We do have some things to tend to.”
“Like what?” Chase asked sullenly.
“Oh,” Festus deadpanned, “just inconsequential stuff like Malcolm Ferguson dying with Anton Ionescu’s name on his lips.”
“Don't you think I realize that?” Chase said, frustration rising again in his voice. “I understand the Strigoi are a danger to Jinx, but how am I supposed to convince her of that when she doesn’t know Ferguson said Ionescu’s name before he died, plus she will hardly even look at me.”
“What did you expect?” Festus asked. “The same day you broke up with her, she lost the aos si. The last few months have been hard on the girl. She’s just about reached her limit. Count yourself lucky, boy. The way her powers have been growing, I’m surprised she didn’t fry your butt with a lightning bolt when you broke up with her out of the blue.”
Chase groaned. “That’s exactly what she’ll do when she finds out we’re keeping the information about Ionescu from her.”
“You can blame that on me when the time comes,” Festus said.
“Gladly.”
“But I’m not to blame for how you handled breaking up with her,” the old cat added quickly. “That is totally on you.”
“There wasn’t any other way to do it,” Chase insisted stubbornly. “Breaking up with Jinx hurt so much, I had to just get it over with, like ripping off a bandage.”
“Which worked just fine for you,” Festus said, “and plain damned awful for her. You have no right to be upset with that woman for being mad at you, boy. None. You have to admit your approach lacked finesse.”
“Lacked ‘finesse?’” Chase said incredulously. “If there’s a good way to break up with a woman, by all means let me in on the secret.”
“Truthfully, son, I wouldn’t know,” Festus admitted quietly. “I've only ever loved two women in my life; one I couldn't have and one I buried. Trust me on this; there are worse torments than what you're suffering, boy, so suck it up and get over yourself. You’ll live through breaking up with Jinx. Having to put her in the ground is something else altogether.”
Chase’s eyes wandered back to the figures at the far end of the cemetery. He watched as the gossamer thin ghost named Susie hit the ball and half-ran, half-floated for first base, then second before stopping. The girl looked at Jinx and gave her a thumbs up, which Jinx returned. The exchange energized the lost spirit so much, her form settled into a more solid silver cloud that shimmered in the moonlight.
“Look at her,” Chase whispered. “She can even make a ghost feel happy.”
“She’s special,” Festus agreed. “All the Daughters of Knasgowa are special.”
“What do I do, Dad?” Chase asked softly.
“You go right on loving her even though you can’t have her,” Festus answered. “You make up your mind that you’re privileged to still be in her life, and you do your job. Trust me, boy, it's the only way to keep your sanity in a situation like this .”
“Okay,” Chase answered with a note of resolve. “How do we figure out what Ionescu is planning next?”
Festus reached up with one hind leg and scratched his ear. “Well, he’s already hired a hit man,” he said, “so it’s as plain as the fur on your face that he’s willing to kill to get what he wants.”
“What do you know about the Ionescus?” Chase asked.
“That,” Festus said, “is a long story. Is there the slightest chance I can convince you to go home so I can tell you in front of a warm fire?”
Chase’s eyes tracked back to the figures in the graveyard. The game appeared to be over, and from the looks of things, the Dead Sox won. “Yeah,” he said, standing and stretching, “we can go back to the shop. And I think we can have a glass of single malt to go with that fire.”
“Now you’re talking like a McGregor!” Festus said as he followed his son into the dark woods, limping to favor his lame hip. “There’s nothing you can’t improve with a good Scotch.”
3
That day’s date sticks in my mind because the first thing I did when I came downstairs was tear the old sheet off the wall calendar in the espresso bar. Then Tori and I sat down with lattes and bear claw pastries. It was Friday, October 23, 2015.
The clock above the calendar read six a.m., an unholy hour given how late we’d stayed up at the baseball game. The early start wasn’t our idea, but we couldn’t get out of it. In about an hour, the members of The Briar Hollow Town Square Business and Paranormal Association’s fall festival steering committee would walk through the front door.
Tori and I “donated” the espresso bar as a meeting space after the co-chairs, George and Irma, who run the grocery store on the corner, helpfully pointed out that we have more available seating than anyone on the committee. Technically, that’s not true. Pete, the owner of the Stone Hearth pizzeria, could have handled three times the number of folks we expected, but truthfully, I didn’t want the meeting to be held at his place.
Although I had no proof, I was convinced that Pete had been involved in some way with Malcolm Ferguson, a theory Chase soundly opposed. We’d argued about it before we broke up, and now it wasn’t any of Chase McGregor’s business what I was thinking about anything.
He’d made a few half-hearted attempts to t
alk to me about the ongoing danger of not knowing if Ferguson was working alone or was a claw for hire. Frankly, I had barely been civil during those exchanges. Chase could go on all he wanted to about his “responsibility” to take care of me. For Mr. McGregor’s information, I could take care of myself.
Yeah. When I wasn’t crying my eyes out, I wasn’t exactly in a “constructive” frame of mind. The fact that Chase would be attending the meeting that morning didn’t sit well with me. I resolved, however, to behave in front of witnesses, particularly those of the non-magical variety, which meant pretty much everyone who would be there.
Irma wanted to make sure there were no loose ends before the Saturday night street dance that would officially open the “First Annual Briar Hollow Paranormal Halloween Fall Festival,” or as Tori lovingly called it,“SpookCon1.”
There were already more tourists in town than usual since leaf peeping season had started to wind down. All around the square, store windows sported otherworldly decorations. When we got in last night, we saw a smattering of ghost hunters with cameras trained on the Confederate monument on the courthouse lawn.
“Oh, dear,” Beau said, “I hope I haven’t disappointed them. Do you think I should change into my uniform and make an appearance?”
“No,” I said. “If you show up like an on-demand haunt they’ll start thinking you’re a hoax. I’m already worried someone is going to recognize you.”
Beau feels a real obligation to help our community in any way he can. For weeks he’d been appearing at the foot of the Confederate monument to stimulate the paranormal tourist trade. Obviously, when Beau regained his corporeal form with the Amulet of the Phoenix, we had to come up with a cover story to explain his presence in our lives.
At first, we told people he was my uncle from Tennessee, but then Beau expressed an interest in working on the festival committee, arguing that he had a plan to bring “added value” to the event. We were the only ones who knew what he had in mind — organizing his ghostly friends to materialize at key times during the week, particularly during scheduled tours.
Witch on Second: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 5 (The Jinx Hamilton Novels) Page 2