by Mona Marple
Connie nods and jumps up to her feet. “You’re right. I’m going to grab a coffee, fancy coming?”
“Sure.” I say.
We leave the house and stroll across town together to The Promenade, the shopping complex where the coffee house is, each lost in our thoughts. Despite Connie’s reservations, she’ll be great helping me out on the investigation. I’ve already proven myself to be the key member of the team, so really all she will have to do is take a confession from the killer when I find them. I wonder if Patton will make me his deputy. That would be a hoot.
Screamin’ Beans is an adorable coffee house. Of course, it opened long after I passed, so I’ve never got to taste the drinks that everyone raves about, but it has a great vibe. Lots of spirits hang out here, especially towards closing time when it’s getting more empty. We take an old battered leather settee near the window, where we can people watch.
We have company. Ellie’s enormous Persian cat, Godiva, spends all of her time strolling around the coffee house and looking at each visitor in disgust. She can see me, I’m fairly sure, judging by the way she squints her eyes and glares in my direction as normal.
“That cat must be bad for business.” I grumble.
“Oh come on, she’s adorable.” Connie says.
“No way, she’s scary. And what about allergies?”
Connie laughs. “You don’t have allergies.”
“Well no but that’s me all over, fighting for the voiceless, standing up for those in need…”
“You’re funny.” Connie says. “Hey, don’t let this investigation change you. Stay grounded.”
“Oh shut up.” I retort, hearing the sarcasm in her voice.
The people of Mystic Springs know Connie well enough that they don’t give her a second glance when she talks in public to a spirit they can’t see. The believers like to see her doing homework, and the non-believers treat her with the understanding all crazy people deserve.
Violet Warren bursts in the door then in neon pink lycra leggings and a fitted sports tank top. She searches the coffee house, finds Connie, and dashes across.
“Connie!” She calls across the room.
“Oh God.” Connie says, sinking in her side of the settee a little.
“I thought I saw you in the window, I need some help.” She says, dropping down into the leather chair closest to my side of the settee, as if she senses my presence, which she absolutely doesn’t. Violet is entirely focused on the human realm.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I need a meeting.”
“Oh, ok. Sure, we can get something planned.”
“Today.” Violet says.
I roll my eyes. Everyone and their damn dog needs an appointment today.
“I can’t do today.”
“You have to.” Violet says, leaning in close. Her lipstick is hot pink and a little wonky, and the sight makes me feel ridiculously sad for her for some reason.
“You can fit her in.” I whisper, although there’s no need for me to lower my voice. It’s habit. Spirits speak at a pitch that most living people can’t hear. “She might know something about the case.”
Connie glances at me and frowns, then nods.
“Well, if it’s urgent, I could see you later I guess. Give me two hours, okay?”
Violet nods and looks at her watch. “That’s perfect, I’m off to hot yoga now. I’ll be sweaty when I see you next!”
“I can hardly wait.” Connie mutters as Violet leaps up and dashes out of the coffee house, heading for the nearby gym.
8
Sage
Violet’s late, which considering the urgent need for the meeting, is pretty hilarious.
I wouldn’t say that to Connie, though.
She’s given the sitting room that she uses to see clients a good polish and tidy, to clear the energy for any spirits to come through, and is now just pacing. She always gets like this before appointments. I consider telling her to relax but decide against it.
“I was thinking, I should stick around.” I say. I’m in the kitchen, because she bans me from the consultation room before and during appointments in case my energy pollutes the process.
“No way.” Connie says. She pours two glasses of water and carries them in to the room.
“I need to gather as much info as I can.” I say. “And I’m pretty sure you can keep me separate from whoever she wants to see. You know my energy well enough, I’ve been haunting you for twenty years remember.”
Connie rolls her eyes. “Don’t say that word.”
“Wooooooooo!” I say in my best ghost impression.
“Cut it out.” Connie says. “All that silly ghost talk is the reason why my industry is so disrespected.”
“Oh, lighten up.” I whine.
She glares at me and then the doorbell rings. I try one last effort, the old eyelash flutter, and a bit of emotional pressure. “You know, maybe twenty years is long enough. Maybe I’m not wanted here anymore.”
“Oh fine.” Connie snaps as she goes to answer the door. “But sit in the corner and don’t make any noise at all.”
“Yes, boss!” I sing out and float across to the room. It’s a cute room, designed to be reassuring for all of the nervous people who come in here. It’s very light and airy, to get rid of any fear people might have about ghosts being dark and scary, and there are two identical settees facing each other, with a coffee table in between. A decorative box of tissues sits on the table, and Connie has already set out the water for each of them. Other than that, the room is pretty bare. It could be the setting for some high-end therapy. Actually, I guess it kind of is, in a way. You wouldn’t believe some of the problems people bring in with them. It’s never used for anything but meetings, and Connie wants to keep the energy in the room focused, so there are no distractions. No pictures on the walls, no bookcase, definitely no TV.
Violet bursts in and takes a seat. If she has a spirit animal, it’s the Tasmanian devil.
In her hand, she holds a fabric headband covered in a pale pink floral design.
“This was hers.” She says, handing it across to Connie, who refuses to take it.
“Let me explain the process.” Connie says.
Violet rolls her eyes.
“I have to do it.” Connie says. She’s such a role follower. I stifle a giggle as she begins to give the guidelines she knows by memory. “You’re here to ask me to make contact with a spirit. You’ve brought an item that belonged to the person, I’ll take that from you shortly, and that will help me connect with them. I also ask that you keep the person at the front of your thoughts throughout. Please drink plenty of water during this meeting. No tea, coffee, alcohol, etc is allowed. Just water. We keep the energy clean in this room. There is no guarantee that I will be able to contact the person you wish me to. I cannot simply summon a spirit. Spirits choose whether they respond to my attempts to contact them, and there can be many reasons why a spirit would not respond. In particular, spirits who have crossed over recently will still be learning how to move around as a spirit and tune in to my contact. My fee is non-refundable. Does that all make sense?”
Violet nods. “Yes, yes, let’s get on with it.”
She holds the headband across to Connie again, and she takes it this time.
She clasps the material in her hands and closes her eyes. Violet sits on her hands.
“You want to speak to Lola.” Connie says after a few moments, opening her eyes.
“Yes I do.” Violet says.
“Do you have a question for her?”
Violet nods.
“You can ask it out loud. Think of her as you say it.”
“I want to know where my purple shoes are.” Violet says, and I have to float out of the room for a second to compose myself. I force myself to think about the time when I was a teenager and my brand new hairdryer blew up, leaving me stuck with wet and wild hair right before a date. That takes the smile off my face and I float right back in.
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“Lola, if you can hear us, Violet is here and she’d like to connect with you.” Connie says. She’s used to hearing ridiculous things said between the living and the spirits. The things that people think are important enough to need to say to a dead person are insane. Once, she had a widow who came on every anniversary of her husband’s death to remind him she hadn’t forgiven him for dying. The husband turned up every year, still dressed in his chef’s hat, hoping for her to declare her love for him, and then skulked away again. In the end, Connie decided the whole thing was too cruel and stopped answering the woman’s calls. She died herself not that long ago and I can tell you she’s making that poor man’s afterlife Hell.
“Well? Is she coming?” Violet asks.
“It can take time.” Connie says. “Why don’t you share a few memories of Lola, that will help her sense our energy.”
Violet snorts at the suggestion. “I remember her moving my purple shoes and not telling me where she’d put them! And I remember her being late every single day. That’s the problem with the young, you say start at nine and they think that means ten past.”
“What were the things you liked most about her?” Connie asks. It’s amazing how she remains professional.
Violet takes a deep breath and considers the question. She’s either treating it very seriously, or she didn’t like the dead girl much at all.
“She reminded me of myself I guess, when I was younger.” Violet says after an age.
Connie smiles. “How so?”
“Well, she was independent, and I’ve always been alone. No husband or kids. Just me, and I’ve been fine. Lola was like that, wasn’t she, running away and ending up here.”
“What made you hire her?” Connie asks. Lola had been Violet’s carer, although nobody had understood why this woman who flitted from hot yoga to naked swimming in the springs needed a carer.
“She seemed fun and headstrong. And she needed help. She couldn’t rely on that dreadful man for money, I wasn’t going to watch that happen.” Violet says with a shrug. “Is she here yet? I really do need to find my shoes.”
“Lola, we’re talking about the good memories we have of you. If you can hear me, we invite you to come and join us.” Connie says. She closes her eyes when she speaks to a spirit in these meetings, but that’s for effect. Clients have usually been to see a few charlatan mediums, or watched the dramatic mediums on TV, and they can feel underwhelmed with Connie’s work as a professional, ethical medium. There’s no sudden possessions of her body, no speaking in tongues, just a nice, calm meeting. You can tell she’s British.
“Tell her it’s not funny.” Violet says, crossing her arms over her sagging bosom.
“She can hear you.” Connie says. “The spirits have no issue hearing us, it’s just that most people can’t hear or see them. You can just talk and she’ll be able to hear. But like I said, she’s only recently crossed over, she might not know how to respond yet.”
“Well.” Violet says. “If it’s just me talking out loud I could have stayed at home for that.”
“Yes you could.” Connie says. “But you know I can’t ever guarantee a response.”
“Oh, I know.” Violet says. And she’s fine for the money, trust me. She made a fortune doing some crazy type of art, huge pictures as colourful as her wardrobe. She can spend a few dollars on a consultation. “Is it harder? For a person who was murdered?”
I can feel Connie’s discomfort. “Yes. It can be. We don’t talk about how a person died, unless they raise it.”
“Will she be happy now, though? She wasn’t very happy when she was alive.”
“She wasn’t?” Connie asks. My ears prick up with attention.
“She hated everything. She hated work, she hated me. If we had any police, they’d be taking me in for questioning.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Well, I’m the prime suspect.”
“Are you?”
“Of course I am. She was slacking at work, really taking advantage of my good nature.”
“By arriving a bit late?”
“Huh!” Violet exclaimed. “That’s just the start. She’d take lunch breaks that lasted three hours, arrive back to work with a fresh hickey on her neck. Just before she died, we had a screaming row about her attitude. I was pretty hard on her.”
“I didn’t know any of that.” Connie says.
“Well, you wouldn’t. I pushed that girl, I wanted her to realise she could do more than just be a rich man’s plaything. Where’s the motivation to work hard though, when your rent’s being paid, when you can have anything you want from your sugar daddy.”
I take a deep breath inwards. I’d be pretty happy with that deal, I think.
“She’s not coming, is she?” Violet says.
“No.” Connie admits. “I don’t think she is. It might just be too soon, Violet. You could come back in a month if you wanted.”
“Puh, forget it. If I don’t find my shoes this week I’ll have to replace them.”
“Are you just here about the shoes? Nothing else you wanted to say?”
“What else would I say to her?” Violet asks, incredulous. “I’ve already told you, we didn’t particularly like each other.”
“Okay. Well, I’m sorry.” Connie says.
Violet bends down and roots around in her handbag, then hands Connie a handful of notes.
“I’ll see you around.” Violet says. “Thanks for trying.”
Connie walks her to the door and while she does, I close the consultation room door and take a seat back in the kitchen. Connie doesn’t return into the house, though, and after a few minutes I follow her trail and find her on one of the rocking chairs on the veranda.
“You ok?” I ask.
She nods. “I can’t believe the only person who has tried to see Lola did it because of some damn shoes.”
I laugh.
“I’m serious, Sage. You’d hope you’d be more missed than that, surely?”
I ponder the question. “I guess so.”
“Oh come on, imagine if all I’d wanted from you was something like that.”
“I get your point.” I say. “But, the fact is, Lola doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends in this town, and who knows what she was running from before she came here. I don’t know that we should be blaming people for not losing sleep over someone they didn’t like that much.”
Connie sighs. “She was just a kid.”
“Exactly. That makes it even more tragic, but people shouldn’t suddenly pretend she was their favourite person.”
“Ah, you’re right.” Connie says. “This is why I can’t do too many of these appointments, it’s so draining.”
“Listen to your wise sister.” I say. I’ve been telling her for months to put a limit on her meetings.
“I know, I know.” Connie says. She pulls a blanket from the wooden box kept on the veranda solely to store spare cushions and blankets, and wraps herself in it, then closes her eyes.
I know sometimes she wishes she didn’t have this gift. I see the pain and tiredness it causes her sometimes. But I’m so pleased she does have it. Or I wouldn’t be able to have moments like this. Moments of noticing that she’s pulled the blanket across at a bad angle, so one of her feet isn’t tucked in. I reach across and straighten the blanket, covering her foot.
“I love you.” She murmurs as she drifts off to sleep.
Maybe I’m a bad person, but I’ll let her have the tiredness if it buys me more moments like this.
9
Connie
BRITISH GHOST HUNTER TELLS LOCALS TO STICK AROUND… WITH MURDERER!
“Are you kidding me?” I ask as Ellie Bean slides the newspaper across the counter to me while she prepares my cappuccino. “I knew that reporter was bad news. Why has he mentioned I’m British? How is that relevant?”
“You’re an outsider.” Ellie says with a shrug. She must see the horror on my face because her pale face reddens. “Oh no, no
, I didn’t mean it like that. We don’t think of you like that. But you weren’t born here. He’s going for the ‘us and them’ angle, isn’t he?”
“I guess.” I say. I slide the newspaper back across towards her. “I can’t believe that’s the main story, not the murder itself. Or the lack of police help.”
“Don’t let it bother you.” Ellie says as she hands me my drink. “We’re all on your side.”
“I guess. Thanks.” I say. I take a seat by the window of the empty coffee shop and allow my thoughts to wander.
Today is Lola’s funeral and, for some reason I can’t think of, I’m going to attend. I generally don’t attend funerals, my thinking being that I see enough of people after they’ve died as it is. But I’m still feeling shook up by Violet’s visit, and the lack of mourning the town is showing. I guess I’m scared nobody will attend, which I realise I wouldn’t know about if I didn’t attend, but at least by me being there, I can make sure it’s not completely ignored.
I’ve pulled out my oldest clothes from the wardrobe, and I feel completely uncomfortable in my skin. The blazer jacket I’m wearing isn’t fitted, it kind of hangs around me, but it’s black as night. I’ve stayed with a bright dress, at least. It’s been a long time since my clothes choices were based on anything other than which items are good value, look pretty, and feel comfortable. Geeze, that makes me sound old.
“Have you seen this?”
I glance up. Desiree Montag stands in front of me, the newspaper in her hand. I’d hoped that Ellie might discard it instead of adding it to the rack. “Yep.”
“I can’t stand reporters. Did they even speak to you?” Desiree takes a seat opposite me. Dressed in her normal business wear, she has a fitted black blouse and black trousers on. Her hair hangs in shoulder-length dreadlocks. She’s the epitome of professional, and just sitting by her side makes me feel sloppy.
“Someone rang me.” I say. This encounter is strange. Desiree is usually far too busy, or reserved, or shy perhaps, to come and start a conversation. With me, anyway. “Asked me to give him a quote from Lola.”