by Debi Matlack
“Maeve, I’m sorry.” Karen got up with me and took my hand, giving it a squeeze. I hugged her, grateful for no more questions.
“Don’t be.” She let me go and unexpectedly Mike gifted me with a long embrace, one he truly felt. Startled, I returned the hug with genuine warmth. “Thanks,” I whispered and he drew back, meeting my eyes with a nod.
“I really do believe you.” A weight lifted from my shoulders. Despite everything he’d said and experienced so far, I still had niggling doubts that he truly believed it. My throat closed and I no longer trusted my voice so I just nodded. He leaned forward, kissed my forehead, another first, and let me go. My brother was becoming an actual human being. Would wonders never cease?
I smiled and went home, full of my thoughts.
It took me a few days to gather enough courage to call Scott Jenkins about Abby Keene. I’d never gotten brave enough to broach the subject of my internet research about the Pinehaven killings; I was reasonably sure that, presented with my curiosity and folder of printouts, he’d nod courteously and roll his eyes when I wasn’t looking. Yet I was now going to drop an even bigger incendiary device directly in his lap. I’d probably get a lot more than an eye-roll out of this little gem of information.
I usually called him once a month or so and asked if there had been any new leads in Poppy’s murder. We’d exchange brief pleasantries, he would politely inform me of any developments, even if it was the same one he’d told me about the month before, he’d ask me if I’d had any more trouble with raccoons getting in my trash, and we’d hang up. This call started out much the same, until I asked him a question, my heart thumping in my throat.
“You were the lead detective on Abigail Keene’s disappearance, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
I was already sitting down on a stool behind the register, portable phone clutched against my shoulder, my foot jigging on a rung in an unconscious attempt to burn off some nerves. My gut lurched with anticipation and I seriously thought about blowing off my inquiry and hanging up, or just hanging up. I sighed; I’d already opened the door. Nut up or shut up.
“If I tell you something that sounds crazy, what would you think?”
There was a brief snort from his end. “I’d say I hear all kinds of crazy stuff and you don’t seem the type.”
“There’s a type?”
“Sure.” I heard him take a sip of something, probably coffee, it was late morning. “There’s people that just say crap to the police because they want to feel important, to get attention. You’re about the least attention-seeking person I’ve ever met.”
“Well, you’ve got that part right. I sure don’t like stuff intruding into my routine, such that it is.” Yeah, if you considered dead people dropping by, and getting random visions from inanimate objects routine.
“Neither do I,” he agreed. “So, what’s this crazy thing you want to tell me and what does it have to do with a missing little girl?”
My belly did another handspring and I took a deep breath. “She disappeared on a Sunday afternoon, right? Had her little red church dress on?” I wasn’t telling him anything that hadn’t been all over the news a million times.
“Yeah.”
Dear God in Heaven, what the hell am I about to do? “I started hearing crying in my shop on Tuesday afternoon.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“What I’m trying to tell you, is ever since Thor tried to rearrange my brains, I’ve been able to see and hear spirits. And I heard Abby Keene crying about three-thirty on Tuesday.”
I could still hear the vague hiss of the open line and the occasional breath so I knew he was still there. After some long moments he simply said, “Okay.” It wasn’t the drawn-out condescension-laden version Mike and I used on each other constantly, Detective Jenkins’ reply was thoughtful. Still, chances were good he was scribbling a note to someone in the office to send the rubber truck my way.
“That’s it? ‘Okay’? You can’t possibly believe me.”
“You’re right. I don’t think it was Abby you heard, but I do believe you heard something. A trick of the buildings, reflecting sound, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard something like that from perfectly rational people that turned out to be something normal. Hearing things doesn’t make a person crazy, Miss Kavanaugh.”
Seeing dead people sure did though. “I saw her on Thursday.”
I winced as the clatter of the phone being dropped on his end rang in my ear. After a few seconds of scrambling, I heard him back on the line. “You okay, Detective Jenkins?”
“Yeah.” A long silence, then “Say that again?”
“I’m not on speakerphone, am I?” My imagination conjured an image of a circle of cops clustered around the phone, waiting to burst into hysterical laughter the second I repeated my claim.
“No, absolutely not. Tell you what, can I meet you somewhere, buy you lunch?”
“You like subs?”
Thirty minutes later we were in the corner booth at the Yellow Submarine. Beatles music played loud enough to mask our conversation and the lunch crowd was building. Our weird conversation would probably fly right under the radar. By unspoken agreement, we ate in near-silence, ending with just our drinks and chips left to toy with. He looked up across the table and nodded. “So, you saw her?”
“Yeah.” It still hurt to talk about the little girl’s ghost, interpreting what happened to her with her limited experience and understanding as the same thing that happened to her grandfather’s cat. In principle it was the same, I guess, and maybe the only way she could understand it. It should have been much, much longer before she had to find out what death meant, especially first-hand. “She was in the store, sitting in the corner. My cat was sitting with her.”
“The cat can see them too?”
“I guess he can. There’ve always been stories of animals seeing spirits, even when we can’t.”
“And how can you be sure she was a spirit?”
“How was I sure it wasn’t Abby, you mean, somehow hiding in my store undetected for days?” Jenkins pressed his lips together and nodded. I reached across the table and patted his forearm. “Because when I tried to do this, my hand went right through her.” His eyes got a little wider and he took a deep breath.
“I am not trying to mock you, Miss Kavanaugh. It’s just that I have no choice but to deal with fact, things I can prove to a court of law.”
“Understood, hence my great reluctance to call you in the first place. I can’t offer one shred of physical evidence to you that fits those criteria.” I was experiencing a vast spectrum of emotions: trepidation, a little self-righteousness and a creeping sensation of relief. Maybe I was a strong candidate for anti-psychotic medications, but I wasn’t keeping the secret all to myself any more. He shrugged and gestured for me to continue.
“She was well-trained, gave me her full name, her mother’s name and phone number. She—” I had to stop and swallow my heart back down, “she asked me to call her mommy, said she’d tried, but the phone was too heavy.”
He tipped his head toward me like an inquisitive dog. “What does that mean?”
“It means she couldn’t pick up the phone.” I gave him a steady look. “Since it seems you’re at least taking my story at face value, let me tell you what little I know. Only old spirits, those of older people or spirits that have been around a long time seem to be able to interact with our world, maybe they’ve got more practice or more…strength of will, I don’t know. The ghost of a three-year-old isn’t going to be able to do much besides make noise. I’m a little surprised I was able to see her.”
“Okay, assuming I do believe you and that you saw her, why are you telling me this? Would you have been able to tell us where she was? What happened to her? Anything of use?” His tone was challenging, bordering on belligerent, and my hackles rose.
“I don’t know!” The same helplessness I felt when Abby was sobbing for her mommy wash
ed over me. “She only told me that she fell and it was wet and cold. I assume that was when she fell into the creek, I didn’t ask her.” My voice had risen just enough for a few patrons and the ever-vigilant Carrie to look our way. I took a deep breath, hoping to dump some of the tension with it. It didn’t help.
“I was more worried about her crying and being upset and I wanted to make her feel better. I knew I sure as hell couldn’t call her mother, or you without implicating myself.” I mimed holding a phone to my ear, my words spiked with volumes of sarcasm. “‘Hi, Mrs. Keene? Just wanted to let you know that, even though Abby’s dead, she went to the Other Side with her Mimi and she’s okay. You lost your baby girl, but I’m here to tell you everything’s all hunky dory.’” I glared at him. “Apparently telling you was a bad idea too. Sorry I called you.” I sat up, fumbling for my bag and he leaned forward, shaking his head.
“No, wait.” I eased back into the seat and he sighed, “Sorry. I just get frustrated about cases like this, little kids going missing, murders I can’t unravel.” He gave me a significant look. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “Considering what I know now about all the hidden things around us, I’m not surprised that Poppy’s case is gone cold.” His brows raised and he gestured for me to elaborate. Maybe he didn’t trust himself to say anything again. My nerves were pretty prickly and it must have shown on my face.
“It’s just that there’s…stuff out there that I’m able to see, since the attack. Some of it is pretty benign, but some of it is scary as shit. If our attacker knew the same stuff I know now, maybe he could have used the information to hide himself.” Maybe the man who attacked us wasn’t a man at all…though I kept that disturbing notion to myself. I met his eyes and held his gaze. “I know it doesn’t make any sense. I can’t make much sense of what I see, it’s all still new.” I shrugged helplessly. “‘See’ isn’t even a good word, more like ‘perceive’.” He was a man of facts and reason, I needed to give him more than my word, this time. With profound reluctance I made my choice. “Maybe I can give you a bit of proof that I’m not a nutbucket.”
His lips curled into a half-smile and I could swear his ears pricked up. “Such as?”
I glanced around at the crowded eatery and shook my head. “Not here.” Nodding in the direction of my store, I raised my brows.
“Why Mrs. Robinson—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I am NOT older than you”
He chuckled quietly under his breath and picked up his drink. “After you.”
I gave Carrie a wave as we left and I could see the questions in her eyes. I really needed to say something to her soon. Did I come out of the weirdo closet for her too or did I make up some bullshit story to dampen her curiosity? Jenkins was married, I sure didn’t want that kind of tale circulating around town. Pondering this fresh, hellish dilemma, I let us into the store and hung up the sign with the little clock face on it, announcing we’d reopen at two pm.
“Nice place,” he commented as I turned on the lowlights. As the ceiling fan stirred the air, the keys began to chime softly and he nodded. “Really nice.” I led him around, showing him where I’d last seen Abby, stopping to rub Ernie under the chin. The wing chairs in the back corner beckoned and I turned on the lamp there. He sat in the chair opposite me and Ernie promptly jumped into his lap.
“Get down, hairball, you’ll shed all over his clothes.”
Jenkins smiled and shook his head. “He’s fine.” Ernie made himself comfortable, kneaded the detective’s knee and purred. If only my life were that simple.
“So, what’s this ‘proof’ you have to offer?” Jenkins was curious and still seemed fairly open-minded. So be it.
“Give me something of yours, something personal, but not personal, if you know what I mean.” I did not need to see someone’s intensely private life paraded before me, brain bleach needed to be invented to erase some of the things I’d seen by touching clothing and household items.
He chuckled and shrugged. “I’m not afraid.” He tugged his wedding band off and placed it on the table between us. I groaned.
“So, what part of ‘not too personal’ is so hard to understand?” Aside from his underwear, it didn’t get any more personal than a wedding ring. So many emotions were tied up in the object, in what it symbolized, with the experiences associated with the ceremony and subsequent marriage; that and constant contact with the owner made for an intense experience.
“I didn’t think a Bic pen would do the trick.”
“Okay.” I steeled myself against the lightning about to strike and reached out to pick up the ring.
Thank God it wasn’t an heirloom piece. I was still pretty green at reading things and my filters, well, frankly, they sucked. If I tried too hard to remove myself from the experience, I missed things. A rush of images flashed through my brain, a beautiful dark-skinned woman in a wedding gown, a dance, a different, more intimate kind of dance, then the emotions hit me like a tsunami. Affection, annoyance, love, exasperation, overwhelming joy tinged with pain, in essence, a perfectly wonderful healthy marriage. I was jealous beyond words.
“How much did it cost to get married in Costa Rica?” The ring chimed on the table as I dropped it then rubbed my face with shaking hands. A quiet gasp assured me he believed me now.
“Not too bad, her parents live there so we used their house.” A hint of doubt crept in. “What else?”
I plucked a memory from the multitude still dancing in my brain. “You didn’t really like that little Westie she had when you first met. You’re more of a cat person.” I gestured to Ernie purring contentedly in his lap. He inclined his head in agreement tinged with wonder. “When Dougal died of bladder cancer, you were secretly relieved.”
“Whoa… okay, I—” he took a deep gasping breath and let it out, eyes steady on me the whole time. “I believe you.” He shook his head with a wry smile. “I’m good, no more. You’re starting to weird me out a little.”
I gave him a long look. “Try being me.”
“Point taken.” His face grew thoughtful. “Although, to be able to do what you do… it could come in handy in my line of work.”
“You don’t want this, trust me.”
He conceded with a rueful chuckle. “I guess you’re right.” He sobered and looked at me again, a searching, penetrating gaze. “There are agencies that work with psychics sometimes.” I raised my brows at his none-too-subtle hint. He smiled and raised his hands in a gesture of self-defense. “Okay, then I have to ask again, why did you tell me?”
I sighed, “My sister-in-law. She told me I should have told someone about Abby since I saw her before her body was recovered. She seemed to think it would have helped her parents, give them closure or something.” I leaned back in the chair, scrubbing my hands through my still-short hair, making it stand on end. “I still think it makes me sound like a nutjob.”
Jenkins gently urged Ernie to hop down and stood, bending to pet him one last time. “No, I don’t think you’re a nutjob. I think you’re just looking for a way to use your ability, so you don’t feel like a nutjob.” A flash of smile softened the statement and I shrugged.
“Maybe.”
Less than a week after telling Jenkins my secret, he called me.
“And what can I do for you, Detective Jenkins?”
“Since we’ve literally been inside each other’s heads, I think we can dispense with the formalities. Call me Scott.”
“Okay, Scott,” I chuckled, “then I never want to hear you call me Miss Kavanaugh again. Deal?”
“It’s a deal.” There was a moment of quiet on the line.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“Well,” he stalled, “I do have an ulterior motive.” I heard him take a deep breath. “I have something I’d like you to take a look at.”
Oh. That. I wanted to help, but… well, I did want to help, didn’t I? Make this curse do some good for someone, even if it kicked
my ass all over the place? Against my better judgment, I heard myself say, “Okay. Where and when?”
A sound that I took for a sigh of relief came over the line. “Let me ask you this, then. Does it always throw you for a loop like that?”
You don’t know the half of it, buddy. “Usually, more or less. I’m still learning.” And would be for the foreseeable future, since I was teaching myself as I went. According to legend, a person was apprenticed to a magician or sorcerer for decades before being considered one themselves. I unquestionably felt the lack of such guidance. I was on the equivalent of a tiny raft in the middle of a vast ocean, with creatures surfacing from the depths to peer at me with their colossal eyes from time to time before vanishing again. Anecdotes gleaned from books and advice from dead people were mere puffs of breeze over my becalmed sea, sending me in different directions in tiny increments, but no closer to land.
“Your call then, wherever you’d feel most comfortable, or…least uncomfortable. It seems to be kind of rough on you. And it’s totally up to you. If you don’t want to, I’ll understand.”
He was giving me an excuse to bow out gracefully, and I was grateful for the consideration. But, I wanted to help, even though I questioned my sanity at the desire to do so. “I close the store about six, unless it’s really quiet and I’m bored.”
“Six it is then, at the store?”
“See you then.”
He called later that afternoon to apologize, he wasn’t going to make it that evening as a pressing case had come up. I felt a little like I’d dodged the proverbial bullet. He promised to come another time, but it might not be right away. Yep, Round One of Russian Roulette under my belt.
Chapter 13
The town’s Art Festival meant that Water Street was blocked to traffic, and there was a row of tents and tables pitched on the curb in front of my shop. To avoid having the entrance to my store blocked by a woman in a blueberry-colored polyester suit selling wall plug-in diffusers that made your house reek like everything from an Alaskan Sunset to a Tropical Rainforest, I purchased the space in front of my door, left it open except for a calligraphy sign that read “Antiques and sundries”, decorated with a Victorian ink-drawn pointing hand, complete with lace cuff. Consequently, I’d been kept busy all morning with the crowd, including a couple of welcome visitors. A voice called from the door, “Ma’am, is it okay if I bring my dog inside?” It was my young friend with his mom and a red and white bulldog on the leash decorated with rockets.