The Ghosts of Mystic Springs

by Mona Marple

  “Well, that went well.” Sage says, appearing by my side. I should have known she wouldn’t miss the chance to look around Bill’s. “Did you see her trolley?”

  I shake my head. I’d been too busy watching - and feeling - her to notice her shopping.

  “Vegan.” Sage whispers. She flashes me a knowing look but I’m not sure what she’s trying to prove. “I was vegan too.”

  “For like two days.” I mutter under my breath. Vegans are one of my pet hates. Not that I have anything against people who voluntarily give up cheese, apart from thinking they must be mad. But they’re all so damn pious about it. Like veganism is three steps further up the ladder of enlightenment than the rest of us mere mortals, and they just can’t step reminding everyone about it. Ugh.

  “Erm, it was at least a month. And you try being vegan with two little kids who just want to eat cheeseburgers at every meal.”

  I smile. She’d told me by eMail that she had adopted an exciting new lifestyle - VEGANISM!!! (the capitals and the exclamation marks hers, not mine) - and by the time I’d replied to her message, still awkward with a computer and going weeks without even glancing at my eMail account, she’d returned to the dark side. “How are the girls?”

  “Oh, fine.” Sage says. I never mention her daughters unless she does. “I went over last night.”

  “Good.” I say. “Any gossip?”

  She shakes her head. She looks tired.

  Spirits can move around the human world freely in theory, but every journey tires them. Sage visits the girls - well, they’re women now - in England as often as she can, but always returns here tired and a little grumpy. I’ll give her space for a day or two and then she’ll update me, talking at a hundred miles an hour. I love those updates.

  “Devin didn’t look very happy for a supermodel.” I say, changing the subject to safer ground until she’s ready to talk.

  “Supermodels have to be a bit miserable, don’t they? For their art.”

  “Art?” I repeat.

  Sage nods. “They treat it very seriously.”

  I shake my head. “The world’s gone mad when that’s what we think is a serious job.”

  Sage laughs and the sound feels like that first chunk of chocolate: so pure, delicious, and not enough. It’s my favourite sound in the world. She stops though, as we head towards the check outs, where a large clock hangs on the wall.

  “Is that the time?” She asks. “We have to go, Patton will be waiting.”

  11

  Sage

  I cannot believe that Connie has made me late. I thought I was the disorganised one.

  I float into the room, hoping for some kind of miracle that has made Patton run late, and can’t believe it when I see the empty attic and realise my prayers have been answered.

  “We’re very lucky.” I say as Connie follows behind me.

  She takes a seat at the back of the room and I float next to her.

  When Patton arrives, he’s stressed as hell. His cheeks are bright red and he barely glances at us. Atticus floats in behind him and won’t meet our gaze.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Ugh.” Atticus groans. “Spirits can be the worst.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “They’re complaining that Lola hasn’t crossed over to us.”

  “She hasn’t?” Connie asks, interested now.

  Patton shakes his head. “Nobody’s seen her.”

  “Wow.” Connie says. It’s standard procedure that a person crosses over into the spirit realm at the point where they died. It’s actually a pretty flawed system, because if you die on holiday, you can end up stranded in some strange place with spirits you don’t know until you learn how to move around. But that’s the system, and everyone follows it. It can be hacked, of course, everything can. But nobody does it. Except, apparently, Lola.

  “We can’t blame her, really. One of the people here did kill her, after all.” I say. “And she has no family, no real friends, here.”

  “That’s not the point. The rules need to be followed.” Atticus says. “I’ve got spirits out there now scared that this is going to start a trend. It could be mayhem.”

  “That’s a little dramatic.”

  “I know that!” Atticus cries. “But try telling the crowd.”

  I shrug. I’ve got enough responsibility with the murder investigation. I’m not going to volunteer to keep the spirits happy as well.

  “Connie.” I say. “Can you talk to them?”

  “Me?” She asks. “Why me?”

  “They listen to you.”

  She rolls her eyes but doesn’t refuse.

  “Anyway.” Patton says, clearing his throat to get our attention. “We’re here to talk about the investigation, so let’s forget about that other stuff for a while.”

  “Sure.” I say. I sound like the teacher’s pet and I don’t even care. I want to impress Patton. His arm muscles may or may not have anything to do with that.

  “Does anyone have any developments?”

  “Well.” Connie begins. “I’ve found out some interesting things about Lola.”

  “Excellent. Tell us more.”

  “She was blackmailing Desiree Montag.”

  Patton raises his eyebrows. “What a piece of work.”

  “I know. And I think she might have been blackmailing Desmond Frasier as well.”

  I laugh. “She was having an affair with him, he was perfectly willing I’m sure.”

  “Oh, of course.” Connie says with a swat of her hand. “But he was also paying for her rent and everything, even though she was earning good money working for Violet. I think he had to pay her or she’d tell Nettie.”

  I screw up my nose. “I don’t buy that. Nettie knew, surely.”

  “I don’t think so.” Connie says. “Not until just before his death.”

  “The tragic case of falling down the stairs just as your wife discovers your infidelity.” Atticus says. “Such a sad accident.”

  The rumours of the truth being that Nettie had pushed him down the stairs after discovering the affair had done the rounds in the town, of course, but nobody seriously thought Nettie would lower herself to such an action.

  “We should be considering her as a suspect.” I say.

  Atticus looks at me over his narrow glasses. “Nettie? Of course not.”

  “She wasn’t at the funeral.” Connie says.

  “I’m sure she stayed away out of respect.” Atticus says. He always had a soft spot for Nettie, with her classic beauty and immaculate appearance. The worse her life got, the more well-put-together she appeared.

  “I don’t seriously think she killed Desmond, but the fact that her husband and his other woman are both dead is a little suspicious, don’t you think.” I say.

  Patton strokes his chin and nods. “You’re right, Sage. We need to keep an eye on her. If it is her, she’s probably feeling safe because there’s no police around. She might slip up, make mistakes. I’ll take a look at the file around Desmond’s death.”

  Connie gasps. “The police were involved?”

  “Yes, ma’am. There was no evidence it was anything other than an accident, but I’ll be honest, everyone was so sure Nettie was innocent, it wasn’t the most thorough investigation.”

  “Wow.” She says. “I can’t believe we’re talking about people from Mystic Springs this way. I can’t believe there’s a murderer out there.”

  “Or in here.” Patton says, looking across at Connie.

  Her face blanches. “What?”

  “I’m joking.” Patton says with a booming laugh.

  “Not appropriate.” Atticus chastises.

  Patton coughs. “Okay, anything else?”

  None of us reply.

  “Meeting dismissed, same time tomorrow.” Patton says.

  “Erm, Connie, I have a meeting with you shortly. I won’t be late.” Atticus says. Atticus is never late.

  “Ok.” Connie says.

&nbs
p; “Sage, can I talk to you?” Patton asks.

  “Sure.” I say, trying to play it cool. “I have a few minutes.”

  He waits until Atticus and Connie have left; Connie flashing me a curious glance as she leaves. I shrug my shoulders.

  “What is it?” I ask. He’d better not be about to throw me off the investigation team.

  “I just wanted to say how impressed I am with you.” He says. He’s such a fine specimen of a spirit, and even better up close. Hand me a straw and I could drink him up all day. “With your work, I mean. You’re doing a good job.”

  “Better than you expected, hey.” I tease, aware of the flirtation in my voice. I decide to go the whole way and begin to twirl a strand of my dark hair too.

  “It’s been quite the revelation getting to know you better.” He admits and I feel my insides flip, which is pure imagination because I don’t have insides any more.

  “Well, sure.” I say, struggling to remember how to find words and form them.

  “Are you okay?” He asks.

  I nod, but the room is beginning to spin. I know what that means. I’m zoning.

  Luckily, Patton has been a spirit enough himself to recognise the signs, and he calls for Connie, who hears the emergency in his tone and runs up the house and into the attic. She takes one look at me and lets out a low gasp.

  “Is she zoning?”

  Patton nods. He could deal with this, there’s nobody who understands zoning better than another spirit, but I love that he has called for my sister. I try to say that to him but only random nonsensical words leave my mouth.

  “Lie down.” Connie commands.

  I’m already on my way, lowering myself slowly because the whole world is spinning. It feels like a few of my evenings as a teenager, when I experimented with as much as I could fit in before my 9pm curfew and then returned home and pretended I didn’t feel high as a kite or low as an anchor.

  “You’ve done too much.” She chastises as soon as I’m horizontal.

  I know, I think. Returning to Waterfell Tweed to see my daughters is always draining, but so worth it. What I don’t usually do is come home and work on a murder investigation.

  “If she needs to leave the investigation, that’s fine.” Patton says.

  “No!” I manage to cry out.

  “Okay, well then you have to rest. You’re no use to anyone if you’re zoning.”

  I try to nod but I can feel my energy slipping. Zoning might just be the spirit equivalent of fainting, but every time it happens I get scared that I might disappear altogether. Every Halloween the spirits share No-More-Ghost Stories, about the things that have happened to spirits to stop them being spirits. Nobody seems to know if there’s truth in the stories of spirits who got so lost during the crossover from being human that they’re stuck in a strange limbo, or the ones so bad they were banished from being a spirit altogether, but the ones that have always terrified me are the tales of the zoners who zoned so badly they disintegrated completely.

  I try to pull my mind back from those stories because nothing good comes from my focus being there.

  Instead, I picture my girls. Sandy, with hair as dark as mine, and a personality as sweet as the cakes she bakes. And Coral, red hair to match her fieriness. I can still remember their weight in my lap as little girls, always busy, darting from one thing to the next, while I tried to work out how I could balance motherhood with still making sure my life was a grand adventure. They’d spot me sometimes, gazing at nothing when I should have been watching the umpteenth performance of their made-up dance routine and reacting as if I’d just witnessed Swan Lake for the first time.

  I knew I wasn’t the best mum in the world, but I tried to be the best mum I could in the moments when I had the energy for it. Like the time they wanted a disco and I moved the kitchen table out into the garden, in the rain, so we could use the kitchen as a dance floor. We turned the music up loud that summer, dancing to Bob Dylan and John Lennon, the girls each wearing a tie-dye t-shirt of mine that dropped to the floor like a maxi dress, and when we realised the kitchen table was ruined, I grabbed a huge patchwork blanket from my own childhood and declared it the year of picnics.

  The neighbours weren’t impressed with me that summer, between the eyesore of the table in the garden and the loud music, but my house was full of laughter. Maybe this could be a grand adventure, I thought. Maybe this is the grand adventure of my life. To raise these girls. To dance until I feel the music in my bones. To laugh until my stomach muscles hurt.

  “Stay with us.” Connie’s voice calls to me as if through a fog. I open my eyes and try to find her, try to focus in on her curls. Instead I see Patton, his chiseled jaw, those blue blue eyes. I stare at him, conscious enough to hope I’m giving him a sultry stare rather than a murderous glare, and patches of the room start to come into focus again. The spinning slows.

  I laugh.

  “Just stay quiet… and still.” Connie says.

  I blink and find her face. I count her chins and think about how I love each of them. I could even give them nicknames, I ponder.

  Zoning is a little like coming down from a drug trip, so I hear. It makes sense. I feel giddy, but tired.

  “We’ll have to talk about you getting more rest.” Connie is saying, but I don’t want to listen any more.

  I close my eyes and let the tiredness wash over me. Faces flash into my mind as I allow myself to rest.

  “I love you.” I mumble, like a drunk. I don’t know if I’m saying it out loud. Nobody replies but I don’t mind. I feel surrounded by love. And I love myself. That’s the emptiness I was trying to fill with adventure for the longest time.

  Love.

  “It’s all about love.” I murmur, knowing I’m on the brink of discovering the secret to life and happiness and that I won’t be able to tell anyone about it. How can I explain it? It suddenly feels urgent that I open my eyes. I force them open and sit up.

  Connie and Patton stand by me, their faces etched with concern.

  “You’re back.” Connie says, fighting tears away.

  “That was a bad one.” Patton says.

  I grin at them, feeling as happy as I can ever remember, and they glance at each other and then back at me, before we all burst out laughing.

  It’s a crazy, crazy time to be a ghost.

  12

  Connie

  “I’m sure she’s just a few minutes late.” I say as Atticus floats from one side of the room to the other, his arms behind his back. It’s ten past the hour and unlike Mariam to be late. So much of her life is built on routine, predictability and rules she must follow to stay on the right path.

  Finally, there’s a knock at the door and I pad across the house.

  “Hello, come in.” I welcome.

  Mariam rolls her eyes and walks in, pulling her muddy rain boots off and leaving them by the door.

  “Been riding?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Can’t get in the habit of wearing proper shoes.”

  I smile. Horses were Mariam’s life, until Atticus fell from one and died. The equestrian dream was ruined for her then, but she’s never stopped dressing like a rider. She wears dark skinny jeans, a checked shirt and a body warmer. Even her socks have cartoons on of someone showjumping.

  “Your dad’s here already.” I whisper.

  “Of course.” She says.

  I’ve already set out the water on the table and I gesture for her to take a seat.

  Mariam has been so often she doesn’t have to bring an item that belonged to Atticus.

  “Okay.” I say as I lower myself into the settee. It’s starting to sag and I adjust my frame on it as I feel what I imagine to be a spring poking up through the fabric. It will need replacing soon. “Mariam, your father is already here. Do you have any questions to begin?”

  Mariam shakes her head. I start every session this way because once Atticus begins speaking, and grilling her, there won’t be a chance for her to interrupt.r />
  “Atticus?” I ask.

  He’s sitting next to Mariam on the settee, which might freak her out, so I do my usual and close my eyes while I talk to him. People think that part is for dramatic effect, but the truth is, it would be unsettling for my customers to see my eyes wander as I follow the spirit around the room.

  “Ask her if she’s dry.” He says. I groan. I wish there was a way of me talking to him without Mariam hearing.

  I take a deep breath and rephrase. This job’s like being a politician sometimes. “He wants to know how your recovery is going.”

  Mariam cocks her head to one side and ponders the question. “It’s going well.” She admits. “I’m staying plugged into the meetings, and I’m feeling good.”

  “That’s excellent.” I say.

  “I don’t feel like I’m being chased by demons quite as much.” She says with a sad smile. “And then I feel guilty. Why is it fair for me to enjoy life if dad can’t.”

  “Nonsense.” Atticus barks. “Is she riding again?”

  “Your dad says you shouldn’t feel like that.” I say. “He asks if you’re riding again.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t.”

  “She needs to. She’s far too talented to just give up.” Atticus says. He is watching her, his translucent face just inches from hers. She shivers at one point, and he moves back slightly.

  “Your dad says you’re so talented, it’s a shame not to ride.”

  Mariam scoffs. “Remind him I was the one who found him and tried to resuscitate him while the ambulance took its time. I’ve seen what a horse can do to you. My riding days are over.”

  I swallow. It’s so sad. The paint horses they had loved, with their pinto spotting patterns, were transformed from friend to foe in that instant for Mariam.

  “I worry that she needs to keep busy.” Atticus says.

  “Your dad wants you to keep busy.”

  “I am.” She says with a laugh. “I’m here all the time speaking to him.”

  She looks at me then and I see the pain in her eyes. She regrets the words. When her father died, she ran to me instead of the hospital, knowing that he was gone. She sat and sobbed on that very settee while I, foolishly, poured her glass of wine after glass of wine. I’m not suggesting I created her alcohol problem, but I certainly didn’t help. That’s why I created the water only rule.