“As you wish, Mistress,” he said, standing up to his full, minuscule height.
“My name is Jinx,” I said. “Use it.”
The little guy’s eyes lit up like I had just handed him a huge, wrapped package. “Thank you, Mistress Jinx, for allowing me the privilege of speaking your name,” he gushed. “I am deeply honored.”
Beside me I heard Tori snicker. I shot her a murderous side-glance. By this time, I was completely over my etiquette angst.
“Darby,” I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you exactly?”
“My kind are known by many names,” he said.
So not helpful.
I turned to Beau. “Any ideas, Colonel?”
“The native peoples of this region, the Cherokee, had many legends regarding little people who were supposed to live in the deep woods,” he answered. “You did just attempt a work of magic over the grave of a woman of that tribe.”
Give the old dead Confederate dude a prize.
“Darby, did you know Knasgowa Skea?” I asked.
Tears pooled in the little man’s eyes.
“She was my master’s wife,” he said. “Mistress Skea was very kind to me.”
“You . . . uh . . . served, Alexander Skea?” I asked.
Darby attempted to stand up even taller, although that wasn't really possible.
“Like generations of my kind before me,” he said proudly, “I was in service to the House of Skea. Master Alexander brought me with him when he came to the New World.”
Now we were starting to get somewhere.
“If you’ll pardon me for bringing this up, Darby,” I said, “you’re kind of noticeable. What did your master tell people about you? I mean, how did he explain you being so... short?”
I could have added “and old,” but you don't want to hit a guy with too many below-the-belt blows at one time.
Darby’s eyes widened. “You do not know of my people, Mistress Jinx?”
“No,” I said, as patiently as I could manage, because he was being incredibly slow on the uptake. “I don’t know anything about your kind.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Darby was gone.
“What the heck was that?” Tori said. “And where did he go?”
“I am here,” Darby’s voice said out of thin air.
Oh, just freaking great. An invisible minion. This was just getting better by the minute. Not.
“Uh, okay,” I said. “Got it. Now stop doing . . . that.”
At my command, Darby was standing in front of us again.
“You have to admit that’s a pretty neat trick, Jinksy,” Tori said.
“Indeed,” Colonel Longworth agreed. “It would have certainly given my troops a tactical advantage.”
They so were not helping.
“Darby,” I said, “why are you here?”
“When Master Alexander bound his wife to her grave, he bound me as well,” Darby said. “It has been my job these many years to stand guard over her final resting place, but your magic has freed me, and my obligation to Master Alexander has been severed. I now serve you.”
Colonel Longworth cleared his throat.
“If I may?” he asked.
“By all means," I said. "Be my guest.”
Beau got down on one knee to look Darby in the eye. It didn’t work. The Colonel still towered over the tiny creature.
“Darby, in what year did you accompany your master to these shores?” Beau asked.
“The year of our Lord seventeen hundred and eighty six,” Darby answered brightly.
The date on the gravestone was 1853. Darby had been at his post for 162 years.
“Uh, question?” Tori said, holding her hand up like the total geek she can be sometimes.
“Sure," I said, "you might as well get in this game, too.”
“Where’s Alexander?” she asked.
“Huh?” I said.
“This is a single grave,” she said, pointing at the black granite marker. “You told me Alexander Skea lived to be 98. Where’s he buried?”
“Any ideas, Darby?” I asked.
“No, Mistress Jinx,” the little man said. “I have not seen my master since the night of my mistress’ burial.”
Beau, still down on the same level with Darby, asked, “How old was your master when he came to this land?”
“Master Alexander had reached the age of 20 years when he booked passage for the New World,” Darby answered.
I did the mental math. “Alexander died in 1864,” I said.
“During the Late Unpleasantness,” Beau said, getting back to his feet.
For those of you who need it, let me offer a translation. "Late Unpleasantness" is southern for “Civil War.” You’ll also hear it called the “War of Northern Aggression.” My Yankee friends just love that one.
“True,” I said, “but a 98-year-old man was hardly fighting for the southern cause, Beau.”
The old soldier shook his head. “In the closing years of the war, Miss Jinx, the South called upon all her native sons. I had boys as young as 12 years under my command, and a veteran of the War of 1812 who, though well into his dotage, could still shoulder a rifle.”
Before we could talk any more about Alexander Skea, the sound of someone clearing their throat made all of us turn around. There were three ghosts standing behind us, all in their best Sunday suits. The one who was apparently in charge stepped forward.
“My name is Howard McAlpin,” he barked. “I’m the mayor of Briar Hollow and I demand to know what’s going on here.”
Wow. Was he ever getting ready to learn the true meaning of “term limits.”
“Uh, hi,” I said, adding hastily, “Mr. Mayor.”
“Who are you, young woman?” Mayor McAlpin demanded. “Why are we all out here in the cemetery in the middle of the night?”
“Okay, well, yeah,” I hedged. “That's kind of a long story. You see, sir . . .”
My voice trailed off and I looked at Tori, appealing for help.
“Just tell him,” she said. “They’re going to have to know sooner or later.”
Gathering my courage, I turned back to McAlpin, and said, “You’re in the cemetery, sir, because you’re dead.”
To my complete astonishment, the Mayor burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s a good one,” he chuckled. “What is this, some kind of Lodge prank? You just wait until I get a hold of those guys. I hope they paid you well.”
“No, sir. Really,” I said. Trying again, “You’re dead. I can show you your tombstone.”
Out of the corner of my mouth, I whispered desperately in Beau’s direction, “We can do that, right?”
“Of course,” the Colonel said, in the genial tone of a host. “Gentlemen, if you will follow me.”
The three men exchanged bemused glances and fell in behind Beau.
“Great costume there, buddy,” McAlpin said as we walked. “You a Civil War re-enactor or something?”
With great forbearance, Colonel Longworth replied, “I assure you, sir, that my initial experience of the war was quite sufficient. I have no desire to re-enact the conflict.”
McAlpin let out a loud guffaw. “You really stay in character,” he said, trying to clap Beau on the shoulder. When his hand passed straight through the colonel, an odd, uneasy look came over the politician’s face. “How the heck do you do that?” he asked.
“Um, Howard?” I said, swiping my hand through his arm, hoping that visuals would help this guy get a clue.
The mayor stared for a second, and then said, “Wow! You guys are good! You should be doing special effects for the movies.”
Dumb as a sack of hammers or King of the River Denial? Your pick.
Beau stopped by a modest granite marker and pointed. “Your final resting place, Mr. Mayor.”
McAlpin looked down, and scoffed, “Nice try! You think I’m gonna fall for a cheap, gag tombstone made of Styrofoam? Especially one that isn't even big enough for a man o
f my political stature?”
He made a move to kick the marker. His foot passed completely through the stone, and the mayor lost his balance. Under normal circumstances, he would have fallen on his backside. This time, he floated.
His two lackeys, who, as it turns out, were former Briar Hollow City Councilmen, both backed up and exchanged one of those “you tell him, no you do it” looks.
The taller of the two must have drawn the short straw, because he said uneasily, “Howard, I think the dead thing might be a plausible theory.”
McAlpin looked at Beau. "You seem to be the one in charge around here," he growled, "so tell me how the heck I get down from here.”
Smothering a smile, the Colonel said, “Make a motion as if you were rising from a seated position.”
The Russian judge would have given the move low marks, but Howard McAlpin wound up back on his feet. He took a minute to collect itself, and then demanded, “How did this happen?”
“Dude, really?” Tori said. “You croaked. Your heart stopped beating. You took the big dirt nap. Get over it already.”
That's when we found out that we were dealing with a man willing to grasp at any straw that would give him a potential advantage.
“Is that possible?” McAlpin asked eagerly. “Can I get over being dead?”
Okay, that answers the question. Dumber than a sack of hammers.
“I don’t think so, sir,” I said.
“Well . . . well . . . well,” McAlpin stammered, “how did this happen to me?”
Ignoring the fact that in life, he had plainly considered himself to be above ultimately dying like the rest of us, I glanced down at the marker. The mayor died in 1983, three years before I was born.
“I have no idea, sir,” I said truthfully. Then I added, "You know what they say, you can't avoid death and taxes.”
"You most certainly can avoid taxes," he muttered absently. Then, regaining his former bluster, he said in a huff, “I certainly intend to get to the bottom of this.”
Not a problem. Dig down about six feet.
As we watched, Howard McAlpin turned on his spectral heel and marched toward the cemetery gate with his own minions following reluctantly behind.
“Dead men walking,” Tori muttered, as we took off after them.
“Mr. Mayor,” I said, “you really should stay here with Colonel Longworth and the others until I can figure out how to put you back.”
That stopped McAlpin in his tracks. “What do you mean put me back? You mean in the grave?”
Is there any diplomatic way to tell an outraged ghost he really needs to get back in his casket and stay there?
“Yes, sir,” I said, “I didn’t intend to raise any of you.” As I spoke, I gestured to the grounds around us.
We were surrounded by clumps of ghosts who had already formed several sort of afterlife neighborhood associations. The spirits who recognized each other were congregated in tight clumps, while the regulars, with no prompting from Beau, were circulating among them trying to offer the newcomers some comfort.
When I looked at the frightened and confused faces, I felt sick to my stomach. What had I done? And how was I going to fix it?
“I don’t care what your intentions were,” McAlpin said. “All the rest of these people can lie back down in their graves if they want to, but I have a town to run.”
With that, he stomped right through the cemetery gate and started toward town. After a few steps, however, he stopped and called back to Beau, “Hey! Reenactor guy? Do I have to walk?”
“No,” the Colonel replied, “just think about where you want to go.”
“Beau!” I said. “Don’t help!”
But the admonishment came too late. McAlpin and the two councilmen were gone.
6
It was almost dawn, and I was never so glad to see the sun coming up. As the first rays pushed over the horizon, the newly awakened spirits began to fade away. “What’s happening?” I asked Beau.
“They don’t have the strength to appear in daylight,” he said. “If you will take note, many of our regulars are also fading. They will return this evening.”
That meant that even with the complication of absolutely no sleep, we had about 12 hours to come up with a solution for my major screwup.
“What about you, Beau?” I asked. "You're looking pretty solid to me and you're no longer confined to the cemetery. What are you going to do today?”
The old soldier ducked his head and said, almost shyly, “Miss Jinx, if I give you my word of honor that nothing untoward will occur, may I accompany you to your place of business today? I have long wanted to see the wonders of your modern world.”
If any other ghost had asked, I would have given an emphatic “no.” But Colonel Longworth was the last person, living or dead, who was ever going to give me any problems.
“It would be my honor to have you spend the day with us, Beau,” I said.
He really tried to keep his cool, but the Colonel grinned in spite of himself. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve done anything that could be characterized as . . . ” His voice trailed off as he fumbled to find the right word.
“Fun?” Tori suggested mischievously.
“Indeed, Miss Tori,” he said. “An aptly chosen descriptive.”
In the midst of all the postmortem political posturing staged by Howard McAlpin and his cronies, we’d forgotten about Darby, who had been quietly following us around. Now he spoke up. “If I may, Mistress Jinx,” he said, “what will my duties be?”
“Your duties, Darby?” I asked.
“Yes, Mistress,” he replied enthusiastically. “I quite enjoy maintaining order in a household and I am exceptionally efficient at gathering information.”
I saw Tori’s eyes light up at the phrase “order in a household.”
“You’re a house elf?” she asked brightly.
It was a Harry Potter allusion that promptly went wrong.
Darby grimaced. “I am most certainly not an elf,” he said, sounding offended. “Elves are completely lacking in discipline. Always running off to cavort around the forest.”
Tori processed that for a minute, and then said, “Whoa! Hang on here. Elves really exist?”
“Yes, My Lady,” Darby said, “but I implore you to not ask me to deal with them. They are highly unreliable.”
“What about fairies?” she asked.
“Also unreliable,” Darby said, archly, “and somewhat given to launching military offenses.”
Huh. Who would have guessed Tinkerbell was really G.I. Jane?
Tori was on a roll. "So, if you're not an elf and you're not a fairy," she said, "what are you exactly?”
Thank God she asked before I had to.
Squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest, Darby said, “I am a brownie.”
Tori looked at me and grinned. “Guess we should have called him Duncan, huh?” she said.
“If you wish for me to answer to . . . ” Darby started.
“No,” I said hastily, heading off that train before it reached the crossing of Accommodating and Annoying. “That was a private joke.”
When Tori and I get depressed, we mix up multiple batches of brownies. Through the years, we have speculated that we may be single-handedly keeping Duncan Hines in business.
Darby looked confused, but his faithful-minion manners remained perfect. “As you wish, Mistress Jinx,” he said obligingly.
“Jinksy,” Tori whispered, “we can’t take Beau with us and leave the little guy here.”
“I know,” I whispered back, “but have you forgotten that the shop is currently crawling with workers every day?”
“Have you forgotten Darby is the mini Invisible Man?” she shot back.
Actually, I had forgotten.
I turned back to the patiently waiting brownie. “Okay, Darby, we’ll figure out what you can do to help out around the shop later, but for now, all I need you to do is stay invisible when other people are ar
ound. Can you handle that?”
“Of course, Mistress,” Darby said, “but I must have something to do. It is my purpose to serve.”
I couldn’t fault his work ethic. Then an idea occurred to me.
“You say you’re good at getting information?” I asked.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“And how’s your memory?”
“Perfect, Mistress.”
“Then for now, you just watch everything that goes on and remember it all in case I have any questions for you,” I said. “Okay?”
“Of course, Mistress,” Darby said, inclining his head. “I will not fail you.”
We must have made for a ludicrously unlikely quartet leaving the cemetery; two sleepy women, a Confederate Colonel, and a magical little person.
My mind was already on getting an hour or two of sleep before opening the shop, so it didn't occur to me that Colonel Longworth was doing something incredibly epic by walking out the gate.
As soon as his boot crossed the boundary, Beau hesitated.
That's when it dawned on me that something major was taking place.
“Are you okay, Beau?” I asked worriedly. So many things had gone wrong with my misguided attempt to set the cemetery ghosts free, I was scared to death we were in for more.
We were, by the way — in for more — but not right at that moment.
“I am quite unharmed, Miss Jinx,” the Colonel said. “It is only that I have long stared beyond the confines of this graveyard and yearned to freely explore the world again. Thank you for setting me free.”
Okay, maybe not everything had gone wrong with the night’s plans.
Although Beau could have simply gotten to the store on his own power, he chose to ride in the car with us. Darby climbed in the back as well, and without being prompted, instantly went invisible.
The long night was starting to wear on me, and Tori was already half asleep, slumped against the car door. Thankfully it was just a little after six, so hopefully we could get in the store without anyone noticing. If Chase McGregor saw us from the windows of his apartment, I could always concoct some story about going out super early for breakfast. After all, Tori and I were both used to working the morning shift at Tom’s and eating on the run while we carried eggs and bacon out to the customers. Besides, Chase is pretty sweet on me. He wouldn’t question the story.
Witch at Odds: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 2 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries) Page 4