P.S. I Spook You

by S. E. Harmon

  “I thought those were beach balls and a surfboard,” I said in a choked whisper as I pointed at another painting.

  “Not even close.”

  “Where is my mother?” I demanded, voice a tad higher than necessary. “I swear she saves up a reserve of weirdness for my visits.”

  Danny let me go with a chuckle. “She’s with a student in the store. Said she’d be up in five minutes.”

  The shop downstairs was actually connected to the studio. Why my mother sold holistic items there instead of art supplies would just have to remain a mystery. As the older man began adding hair to his drawing, I hustled Danny to the door. “Let’s just meet her down there.”

  When we entered she appeared to be in a deep discussion with two women about an oil diffuser. The women thanked her and moseyed on farther into the store, and my mother turned to me with a squeal of glee.

  “Rainstorm.” She proceeded to hug the stuffing out of me, and I returned the hug with minimal grumbling and tried not to show how much I enjoyed it.

  “I’ve asked you not to call me that,” I groused when she finally let me go.

  “That’s your name.”

  “And you know I hate it.”

  “I do,” she confirmed cheekily.

  Just one more reason to be annoyed with my free-spirited parents. They had never fully explained to my satisfaction why on God’s green earth they had named me something I would be embarrassed to put on a job application. The only thing that made sense was that the doula and my parents had huddled around a Kush-scented candle and brainstormed hours before my birth. And at some point, one of them must have said, “Dude. You know what would be cool?”

  Whatever happened to traditional names like Charles? Or John. Richard. Yeah, Richard. I would have made a perfectly serviceable Richard.

  “It’s been too long, Danny,” she said and hugged him briefly. “So glad you and Rainstorm worked things out.”

  “Oh. Wow. Ummm….” Danny’s face was red as he scratched his head and continued to stutter out a denial. “We haven’t—”

  I broke in and tried to help. “We’re not exactly—”

  “Really not getting—”

  “Back together,” we finished in a simultaneous huff.

  She broke out into peals of laughter, not bothered at all when we didn’t join in. “Oh, that was fun. You should hear yourselves.”

  I sighed. “Mother, we’re here in an official capacity—”

  “You two wait right here. I have something for you.” She hurried to the back of the store, pale blue skirt swirling around her sandal-clad feet, and disappeared through the gold curtain at the rear of the room.

  Danny sent me an amused look. “Your mom is….”

  “Yes, she is,” I agreed with a sigh.

  We puttered around a bit and waited for her return. Her shop was a beautiful study of light and airiness, cream and sage-green in color. The blond wood floor gleamed and smelled faintly of lemon. A butterfly decal on the wall stretched all the way to the ceiling, which was a mural of the clear blue sky. The overall effect was soothing. Calming.

  Until I considered the inventory, that is. All manner of spiritual cleansers and purifiers lined the beautiful shelves. Oils and stones, lotions and perfumes, bath supplies, herbs and teas, incense and burners… the list was endless. And don’t get me started on the healing and meditation area behind the pale gold curtain.

  “Got it.” She bustled from behind the divider, a cream-and-green-striped shopping bag hanging from her hand. She handed it to Danny with a smile.

  “I thought I might be seeing you, so I prepared a bag of things for your spiritual well-being.” She shot me an accusing look. “I knew he wouldn’t give it to you, so I’m glad you’re here to get it yourself.”

  I shrugged. Probably not. Anything from my mother’s wellness store was guaranteed to be suspicious, and thus, subject to search and seizure.

  Danny pawed through the bag. “Wow, these candles are really nice. And is this….” He held up a baggie filled with dried bits of herbs and sent her an arch look. “This better not be what I think it is.”

  “You wish, Five-O.” She smiled sanguinely. “Like I’d waste good inventory on you. It’s a special blend of dried hyacinth and rosemary.”

  He smelled the baggie suspiciously and dropped it gingerly back in the bag. “The only thing I put rosemary on is potatoes.”

  “Neanderthal,” she muttered with a dignified sniff. “Both herbs have special properties, while protecting your overall spiritual health. The hyacinth can help relieve pain of your spirit and grieving. And both herbs can help banish nightmares.”

  “And what is this? It looks like some sort of essential oil to use during….” Danny’s voice faltered, and his eyes bulged as he read the label. From the position of the silhouettes on the bottle, I knew exactly what that oil was for. Danny stuffed the bottle back in the bag as though it were a kilo of grade A smack. “Th-thank you for thinking of me.”

  His phone went off, and with an expression of barely concealed relief, he excused himself. I watched him head for the car, and a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Really, Mother. You’d better not have a matching bag for me.”

  She winked knowingly. “Now what would be the point of giving you both the oil?”

  I understand that I’m blessed to have a family so accepting of my sexual orientation. Really. My father had been more concerned about me joining the FBI than being gay. For a pacifist glassblower, he’d managed to get pretty… let’s just say vocal about my career. Being gay? Not so much. None of that stopped me from turning all kinds of red.

  “Mother,” I said warningly.

  “I know, I know. Cease and desist and all that.” Green eyes crinkled with amusement as she moved closer. She put her hands on either side of my face and looked into my eyes. I twitched. She was reading my aura. I just knew it.

  I swatted her slender hands away. “No hoodoo.”

  She put them back anyway, cool and delicate against my still heated cheeks. “For the last time, spiritual energy is not hoodoo, Rain.”

  “Lovely greeting, this is,” I complained. “Most people just go with ‘good to see you,’ or something benign like that, but whatever suits you.”

  She patted my cheeks and did some strange motions in the air around my head. “Your HEF is unsettled. Dark and muddled. But it is good to see you.”

  I could probably go my whole life without my mother reading my Human Energy Field again. I decided to get straight to the point. The shop bell tinkled, and a man with long, white-blond curls and a knit cap entered the shop. He smiled at my mother, and then his eyes landed on me. He drew up short, turned on his heel, and walked right back out.

  I looked down at my attire. Whatever “buttoned-up G-man vibe” was, I apparently still gave it off like skunk fumes. “Can we walk and talk?”

  “Sure thing, honey.”

  WE STROLLED down the sidewalk in front of her studio, the heat of the day prickling my back. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’d dress more appropriately for the weather. Jeans and some moisture-wicking shirt would do nicely. It was all fine and good to wear snazzy suits and white palazzo pants on CSI Miami, but in real life, tailored duds didn’t cut it.

  “I have a few questions I’d like to ask about one of your former students. Amy Greene. Do you remember her?”

  “Oh, that poor girl.” My mother’s hands fluttered and then dropped to her sides. “Of course I remember her. Such a sweet girl. It’s hard to believe that someone could have done something to her.”

  “So you don’t think she ran away?”

  “Is that what people are saying?”

  “Seems to be the official consensus.”

  She stared off for a moment, brow creased, and then shook her head. “No, I just don’t believe that. Things weren’t perfect at home, of course, but I just can’t believe it was bad enough for her to take off.”

  “Why do you say things weren’t perfect
at home?”

  “Well, sometimes she’d come extra early and stay late. At first I thought it was just inspiration making for odd hours. Anyone artistic knows when the muse strikes, you have no choice but to comply. But sometimes she’d just stay and help me clean brushes and straighten up the studio. A couple times she offered to run the store while I taught classes upstairs. I just got the feeling that she’d rather not be home if she didn’t have to be.”

  I could imagine. A few minutes in her stepfather’s company had me contemplating where Graycie would send me if I punched Luke Greene right in the tattooed face. Bermuda? Angkor Wat? I would like to see the temples, but it just wasn’t worth the risk.

  But lots of teenagers didn’t like it at home. Some hated the rules, the restrictions, their younger siblings, being a teenager in general… hell, I hadn’t liked it at home as a teenager, and it had nothing to do with abuse. It was more about washing my clothes ankle deep in a river and drying off with hemp towels.

  I pulled out my phone to make a few notes. “Did she seem excited or worried about the prospect of going to college? I hear she was getting an art scholarship.”

  “She had mixed feelings about it. Scholarships are very competitive, and the only place that offered her enough financial aid was Pemberton.”

  “In Arizona?”

  “Exactly. I got the impression there was someone special she didn’t want to leave behind.”

  “Brock Johnson. Her boyfriend?”

  “Oh, I think she and that awful boy were done. He wasn’t exactly a pleasant sort.”

  “Did you have many dealings with him?”

  “When he came to pick her up sometimes. He was all sullen and angry. Now his HEF could use some cleansing,” she said indignantly. “I think she was in a new relationship. I don’t know who the new boy was, but he had to be better than Brock.”

  “Did she mention any names?”

  “No, she was very private about it. But you know, a few years back she bought this necklace from the shop. Usually she wore both pieces. About a year ago, I noticed the other half was missing. I figured she’d given it to someone.” She beamed. “Isn’t that so sweet? It was—”

  “Rose gold?” My eyebrows lifted. “A broken heart?”

  “Yes. How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” I murmured. “It would be helpful if you could write down the names of any people Amy hung out with in class. Someone she would have encountered on a routine basis?”

  She took my phone and pecked out a few names on the notepad. “I have to get back to work,” she said as she handed it back. “But maybe you and Danny can come by for dinner?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I still have some of those necklaces in inventory, you know. In case there was someone you wanted to give—”

  “No.”

  “But you and Danny were just so—”

  “No.” But I softened my words with a kiss on her cheek. She smelled like lemongrass and ginger. “I’ll call you later.”

  As I strode past the shop’s plate glass window, I caught her in the reflection, lithe fingers plucking things from the air around my head. “Stop cleaning my aura,” I said without turning.

  “Not enough bleach in the world,” she called back.

  WE SPENT much of the rest of the day speaking to the people Amy had called friends, trying to ferret out her mystery relationship. The entire day made me feel introspective about the whole business of life. Of course there was sadness when it came to a missing friend, but for the most part, human beings were engineered for self-preservation. Moving on. Even after you were nothing but dust in the air and a faint memory, there was still laughter. Hope. Love.

  I couldn’t decide whether that was inspiring or depressing. Checking in with Amy’s friends who were living their lives, some with families and careers and offspring? Things she might never have? I had to go with depressing.

  By the time we made it back to the station, I was more than ready to call it a day. I plopped in a chair in the briefing room and waited for Danny to finish a phone call. Then I realized I didn’t have to wait, because I’d driven. I sighed and decided to wait anyway. We could walk out together.

  Because you haven’t been together all day? I bit my lip. We could probably grab food on the way home and eat together. Then wake up tomorrow and do it all over again. The only thing missing from that scenario was fucking one another into a sex coma. Jesus. Day fucking one and we were following our old pattern so seamlessly we didn’t even realize we were sewing the same screwed-up dress.

  I knuckled my eyes. I was far too tired to get philosophical about bullshit. Don’t you fall in lust, I warned my dick. Don’t you fall in love, it warned me right back. When I glanced up, Danny was giving me an odd look, eyebrow raised. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” Just getting a few things straight with my body parts, is all. Turns out we don’t like broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and deep blue eyes. Or a strong, square jaw perpetually covered in stubble. Yeah. Not really our kind of thing. “Just thinking about dinner.”

  “You feel like Mexican?”

  I had to grin a little at his hopeful tone. I could take it or leave it, but Mexican food and Danny went together like peanut butter and jelly. “Fine by me.” I shouldered my messenger bag and gathered a few files in my arms. Then I trailed behind Danny as he headed out the door.

  “You think we’ll ever find Amy’s new mystery man?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Depends on how much of a mystery she kept him. Apparently she didn’t share the secret with her mom or best friend.”

  “Because you tell your mom everything about your sex life?”

  No. Absolutely not. Not a damned thing since she’d walked in on me jerking it in the bathroom as a preteen. She left a copy of The Joy of Sex on my nightstand, and I was tempted to suffocate myself with a hemp pillow. I shivered. “He might be the key to all of this. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a new boyfriend wasn’t happy about the old one.”

  “Or the old boyfriend wasn’t happy with the new,” Danny countered.

  “Either way, someone wasn’t happy with Amy.”

  We headed for the elevator bank, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I jabbed the Down button and crossed my arms for the wait. The station wasn’t exactly up-to-date, and the elevators were notoriously slow.

  “I think we should go back to the Greene house,” I said, out of the blue.

  “Why? You suddenly have a hankering for dirty coffee and attitude?”

  “I’d like to see her room,” I said. “I don’t know a teenager on Earth who’s not hiding something in his or her room.”

  “They already did an exhaustive search.”

  “I’d like to take a look for myself. Maybe they missed something.”

  Danny shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  Plus, as a bonus, we would get to talk to Luke and Dinah Greene again. Yippee. I jabbed the elevator button again. Just because.

  Chapter 7

  AMY’S ROOM was a study of bright shades—pink walls, a leopard-print bedspread, and a shaggy turquoise ottoman led the colorful parade. Books lined her shelves, interspersed with knickknacks—little figurines mostly. The walls were adorned, not with posters, but paintings. Most of them looked like they were hand-painted, probably by Amy herself. Butterflies, landscapes, and nature. I leaned in, peered closely at the painting of the monarch butterfly, and noted the tiny scripted A in the corner, which confirmed my suspicions.

  I stood in the middle of the room, loafers sinking into the plush orange shag rug, hands propped on my hips. I would have had a hard time explaining what, exactly, I was looking for. Maybe something… unnatural? Paranormal even?

  I blew out a frustrated breath. Maybe I should rattle some fucking chains or something. Pull out a Ouija board. As usual my sixth sense deserted me when I actually tried to use it. Maybe that was a good thing. If I couldn’t find Amy, maybe that meant she was still alive. Or mayb
e I was just an incompetent at spiritual pursuits. And if those options didn’t float my boat, there was always the whole stone-crazy thing.

  “This is someone else’s room,” a voice murmured to my left, and I whirled.

  “Fuck, Ethan,” I breathed. “Could you not sneak up on me like that? And where the hell have you been?”

  “Someone else’s room,” he said again, full of nervous energy. “You shouldn’t touch anything.”

  “I’m not touching anything,” I snapped.

  I made my way over to the bed, ran my hand over the rumpled comforter, and immediately made a mockery of my words. I checked under the mattress. A couple candy wrappers and a whole lot of dust. Nothing a Roomba couldn’t fix.

  Was it too much to ask to find a diary or something? “Met strange-looking man today. Lives at 123 I-Kill-People Street.” That would be helpful.

  I sighed and looked at the paintings again. Nothing left but broken dreams and unfulfilled promise. I squinted at one of the landscapes of a lighthouse and a water vista. There was no scripted A in the corner, and it didn’t have the same vibe as the rest of her paintings.

  I leaned in a little closer and stared at the print. “This picture look odd to you?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Looks like something you’d find in a doctor’s office. Nothing special.”

  “That’s exactly my point.”

  I lifted the painting to examine the wall behind it. I ran my hand across the surface but only felt smooth wood grain. Hmph. Well, maybe the painting wasn’t a hiding place, but it meant something. I just didn’t know what. I stared at the lighthouse again.

  I propped the painting against the wall and continued to explore. A few bookcases were against the far wall, almost bursting with a random assortment of items—DVDs, a few figurines, art supplies, books.

  I ran my hand across the spine of The Scarlet Letter, sandwiched between Tom Sawyer and The Prince. Mostly required reading, looked like. I pulled out one of the books and flipped through nostalgically, the crisp pages rough against my fingertips. My gaze drifted across the page as I flipped. Required reading was so much better when there was no exam involved. As I flipped, a crisp hundred-dollar bill fluttered from between the pages and fell on the floor. I stared at it for a moment and then knelt to pick it up.