by Angie Fox
"I got a jump on her," Jackson said, excited. He hunkered down next to me. "Knocked her hard from behind." The delight drained from him. "Just like a sneaky, conniving Yankee, right?" he added, a bit self-conscious.
"More like the hero who saved me." Even so, I scooted a few inches away. "Ma was ready to—" I didn't even want to think it.
"Bury you alive," Jackson finished.
"Yes." My body still hadn't stopped shaking. "In fact"—I struggled to stand—"I need to get out of here."
"Sit," he said, reaching for me. "You're in no shape to walk. Besides, the poltergeist isn't coming back anytime soon. I made sure of it." I shrank away and he couldn't quite conceal his wounded expression.
"It hurts me when you touch me," I explained.
"Really?" He withdrew his hand and stared at it as if it would throw off sparks or something. "So that's why you made a fuss when you ran through me behind the library."
"That was you?" I asked, my mind scrambling. Of course it was. I'd felt it the second he touched me tonight.
He glanced away. "I was feeling vulnerable after we talked. Returning to my death spot helps." He forced himself to meet my gaze once more. "Besides, I wanted to make sure you made it home all right."
I didn't know what to think. Poor man. "You died in the parking lot," I said, trying to get a grip, "outside the library."
He gave a small shrug. "It was just an open yard back then, out behind the building. I was too far gone. It wasn't worth taking me to the surgeon."
"I'm sorry." That must have been a frightening, lonely way to die. And now, more than one hundred and fifty years later, he was still alone. "I'm just surprised you didn't feel it when I ran straight through you." I looked him over. His body was relaxed, his expression intent. "Frankie got the heebie-jeebies the one time we accidentally touched, and he won't let me forget it. But you really are fine."
"I'm different," Jackson said, in the understatement of the year. He could touch the living. He could banish the dead. He shrugged, embarrassed. "It's one of the reasons they keep me in the basement."
I wondered if he had any idea how much power he held.
I brought my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. "I have to know, what did you do to scare off a poltergeist? My usual method is panic or fleeing, and frankly I don't recommend either."
He smiled at that. "I've had a lot of practice defending myself. I can knock a ghost like Ma into the ether for a while."
"Nice trick," I said. I didn't know what I would have done without him tonight.
He dropped to a sitting position next to me. "It doesn't make me very popular." He leaned his head against the back of the grave. "I've lost my temper and done it to the Johnny Rebs when they've ticked me off. That was all the time in the early days."
"Not the best way to make friends," I agreed.
He shook his head. "They wouldn't be friends with me anyway." He turned his head toward me. "You're so very nice. I realize we've only known each other a short time, but we have so much in common." He smiled. "I've been wanting to talk again, just the two of us. And perhaps, if you already own it and it's not too much trouble, I was hoping you could lend me Lestat's book. I read the preview chapter, but the library doesn't have it in my stacks."
"I'll find it for you," I said, struggling to stand. I'd buy my copy back from the used bookstore. "But first, I have to get out of this grave."
"Of course," he said, taking a sudden interest in the clumps of dirt at his feet. "I hope I wasn't asking too much. I know I must seem odd to you." I felt a twinge of guilt as he rose up out of the grave. "I'll try to remember my place."
"No," I called to him. "Wait." He lingered at the edge, right where Ma Hatcher had stood. I managed to reach a few sturdy tree roots and haul myself out by a leg thrown over the side, then a roll, and then a clumsy stand. A lady does what she must. "I do want to talk to you," I said, out of breath. "I like you," I added, and was rewarded when his face lit up. Poor guy. "It's just that we're in a haunted forest, and I don't know where my ghost friend, Frankie, is. He's not in good shape. I'll bet he's lost his knees by now, and probably a good portion of his mind."
"Then I shall help you find your friend," he said, offering me his arm.
"Erm…"
"Sorry," he said, dropping it.
"I'm glad for the company," I told him, as I began walking toward Maisie's house, grabbing nearby trees for support. My knees felt weak, but that wasn't going to keep me from moving. "I also appreciate your help with Ma." Hopefully he could keep me safe until we arrived at my car.
"We can talk while we walk," he said, as I stepped over another mushy part of ground. I didn't want to risk falling into another grave. "I have some fascinating theories on whether Louis really knew about Lestat's desire to turn Claudia. Because when you think about it…"
I shrieked and stumbled backward when Josephine appeared right in front of me, with absolutely no warning.
"What are you still doing here?" She wrung her hands. Her long hair streamed out behind her, as if held by an invisible wind. "Ma won't stay gone."
These ghosts were going to give me a heart attack one of these days. "Major Jackson sent your ma to the ether," I told her, "for now at least."
My new ghost friend stared at Josephine, openmouthed. She jumped when she saw him, and immediately began fidgeting with the lace edge of her ghostly white gown. "It was you?" she stammered. "In the woods? You?"
"Major Jackson, this is Miss Josephine Hatcher," I said, making the introduction. "Josephine, this is—"
"Matthew," she gushed. I swear if she'd had blood running through her veins she would have gone pink in the cheeks. "Matthew Jackson. I knew you." She dropped her gaze. "You didn't know me."
"I knew you," he said, stumbling over her words and his. "Prettiest girl in church."
Her image grew stronger, more defined. I could see the wisps of hair at her temple, feel the intensity of her gaze. "I was sorry when you…"
"When I joined the Yankees," he finished for her.
"No," she said, earnestly, "when you died."
They stared at each other for a long moment.
"This is great, you two," I began. I really hated to break up the moment. "But Josephine, you said your ma is coming back. The major saved me once, but I'm not going to push my luck."
"Oh, wow." She tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. "Thank you," she said to him. "Verity is the only friend I have."
His lips pursed. "Not anymore," he said, giving a low bow.
She giggled and disappeared.
"As much as I want to pinch your cheek right now, we have to keep moving," I said, picking up the pace.
He dragged behind, staring at the empty space where Josephine had appeared. Oh, brother.
I'd never been so happy to see Maisie's house. "We made it," I said on a sigh. I dug for the keys in my bag. "Thank you for the escort. I think you saved my life tonight." Quite literally. "I've got to go, but you should stick around here. I think she likes you."
He let out a huff. "You are imagining things."
"Trust me," I said, heading toward the front of the house and my car. "You got her flustered. I've never seen her just disappear on a guy like that." Never mind that I'd never seen her talk to any young man, period.
He fell in next to me. "It's too late for me. I'm a monster. You saw me in the basement of the library. I'm hideous."
"You are not." He'd merely spent too much time alone and angry. A century and a half of bullying would do that to anyone. He needed confidence and the company of a sweet girl like Josephine. "You should court her."
He let out a huff. "That would be highly improper, especially given how I treated her mother when she tried to kill you."
"Josephine knows what her mother is like," I told him. "Besides, you also saved me and I'm her friend. Friendships mean a lot to a girl like Josephine."
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw my car. There didn't appear to
be any damage from the shoot-out tonight. What kind of life did I have when I actually had to worry about that?
The ghost of Frankie illuminated the front passenger seat. Thank goodness. We were getting out of here.
But before I put the key in the lock, I turned back to the major. "Ask her to go for a walk. Tonight, before you chicken out."
He ran a hand through his longish hair. "But—"
"You don't know if you don't take a chance. And wouldn't it be nice to get out of that library and talk to a pretty girl?"
He appeared distinctly uncomfortable. "I think she'd rather have me protect you."
"I'm fine now," I assured him. "You can do this."
He glanced back toward the haunted house on the hill. "I'll consider it," he said, before he disappeared.
It was all I could ask.
I heaved open the door to the land yacht, and found only the top half of the gangster inside. His body had disappeared clear up to his chest. "Frankie, you poor thing. I hope you're okay," I said, sliding into my seat, depositing my bag on the floor of the passenger side.
He barked out a laugh. "Now you worry about me," he said, adding in an eye roll just in case I didn't get the point. "I need a vacation."
Him and me both. "We did good tonight," I said, trying to focus on the positive as I started the car. "We learned where the initial shots came from. Ellis can look there for shell casings. We learned the shooter is a man. I didn't get buried in an unmarked grave in the woods."
Frankie glanced down to the empty space where his lap should be. "Yeah, well, I'm missing some important parts you can't see."
Oh my. I put the car into gear and started down the driveway. "Give it time. Everything will come back." It always had.
The gangster ignored me. "This is a sacrifice no man should have to make."
"Just rest up," I said, preparing myself for the sizzle as we headed down the driveway that led off Maisie's property. Soon, we'd be disconnected and he could recover. I'd make sure of it. And after that? Well, one step at a time.
***
When I returned to the house, I found Maisie's rusted pickup truck parked out back and her sitting on my porch steps, talking to a blonde woman wearing tight-fitting jeans and a peasant top. The yellow light near my door gave off a warm glow.
They were both petting Lucy, who lay in Maisie's lap with her belly up. That critter could charm just about anyone.
The unfamiliar woman stood as I closed my car door. "You must be Verity," she said, closing the distance between us. "I knew you'd be here soon."
"That's 'cause I told you," Maisie said, ruffling the underside of Lucy's neck. The skunk arched her back and stretched out all four legs, overcome with bliss.
"Avery Connor," she said, holding out a hand. "Lauralee told me you need a psychic."
"And you're it?" I asked. As soon as the words came out, I worried they sounded rude. It's just that Avery wasn't what I was expecting. She was young, perky. She looked more like the waitress she was than the psychic she claimed to be.
Frankie straightened a bit and if I wasn't mistaken, he actually sucked in his stomach. "Nice stems," he said, checking her out.
If she noticed the reception she was getting, she ignored it. "I was going to call, but I'm working at the diner the next three days straight. I only had today off because I had a speaking part in the movie."
"You got me a psychic who's also a waitress and an actress?" Frankie asked, gliding backward, clearly impressed with her range of talent.
"Congratulations," I told her.
She shrugged. "The part was small. And Virginia cut me when she found out my third cousin was a Jackson." She held up her fingers and did a mock Virginia impression. "We wouldn't want to make this a star vehicle for the wrong family," she intoned.
A fellow sufferer. "I can relate."
"Show her my urn," Frankie pressed.
"In a minute," I muttered.
Avery's silver earrings gleamed in the moonlight. "Lauralee showed me some of your work, so if you can do a logo for me…" she began.
"That sounds great," I said, relieved I could actually afford her.
Meanwhile, Maisie had come within eavesdropping distance as she stroked my blissed-out skunk.
"Why don't you head on into the house?" I asked the older woman. "Maybe treat Lucy to a banana."
"And miss this?" Maisie huffed. "Not on your life."
Great. Fine. Maybe I could get Maisie some proof and unground Frankie at the same time.
Avery closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then another. "This is going to sound wild, but I think you have a ghost near you right now."
"Hallelujah!" Frankie shouted, loud enough to wake the dead. "She's both pretty and smart."
She gave no reaction. Her eyes remained closed. "It gives off a strong feminine energy."
"Wait. What?" Frankie asked.
"And she's weeping," Avery continued.
"I don't cry," Frankie protested. "Ever."
"Maybe she's talking about someone else," I suggested.
"I'm the only one here," he said, holding out his hands.
"She's trapped here," Avery said, dismayed, "like a weak, fluttering bird."
"Poor birdie," I said, for Frankie's benefit. Then for mine: "Do you know how we can free this weeping, fluttery, girlie presence?" I asked the psychic.
Avery concentrated for a moment. "The sweet little spirit must do this on her own," she murmured.
I grinned at Frankie's expression of horror.
He pointed a finger at me. "Don't even think you're getting out of this."
"All right, sweetheart," I told him.
Frankie looked ready to blow a gasket. "You think this is funny?" he demanded, throwing his arms out to the side.
Fluttering, I daresay?
"How can the spirit do this?" I asked the psychic, as he stared daggers at her and began muttering in German.
She stiffened. "It's not your journey, Verity," she said, opening her eyes. "The ghost has to solve her problem on her own."
"Even if I helped cause it?" I asked. I didn't want the story getting out about this, but if it would help Frankie… "You see, I had this urn which I though was a vase…"
"Doesn't matter how you found your ghost," she stated. "This is a lesson for the spirit to find her way."
"You are rather good at solving mysteries," I said to Frankie.
"Shut up," he grumbled back.
"Is there anything else you can tell me?" I asked Avery.
She paused for a moment. "Yes." She pressed her fingers to her temples. "Patience. You're going to need plenty of patience with this one."
Well, you didn't need to be a psychic to see that.
Chapter Eighteen
"SO WHAT DO we do now?" Frankie demanded.
I stood for a moment, unsure. "She said it's up to you. Do you get any stirrings or ideas?"
The gangster opened his suit jacket and caressed the handle of his revolver. "You don't wanna know what I got an itch to do."
"Well, you're too late. Avery is probably home by now."
"What makes you think I mean her?" Frankie mused.
Very funny.
Maisie had also retreated to the house, convinced I was the colorful one.
"She knew you were standing right here," I told him. "I think she does have some talent, so we should listen to her idea. It can't hurt to try."
He yanked off his hat and drew a hand through his hair. "This is all balled up."
"What's your first instinct?" I prodded. "Tell me what you would do, right now, to fix this."
He thrust his chin back and forward a few times, really thinking. "I'd get my ashes together."
"Good," I said. "How?"
"I'd take everything you dug up, including the dirt, and I'd put it in one spot that could hold all of it. Something I could take inside and keep."
"Okay," I said, going with it. "We can get everything out of the pool and we'll hold on to
it." In fact… I had an idea. "Wait here."
I had a black plastic trash can on the side of the house that I used for yard clippings and sticks. It even had a big caved-in spot at the bottom, kind of like the dent in Frankie's urn, which should make the gangster feel right at home. I ran back and emptied it out on to the ground. "Look at this," I said, hoping Frankie would understand the appeal.
"I'm not garbage," he said, as I dragged the trash can back to our science experiment.
"Don't be so picky." I turned it upright so he could appreciate it. "This is clean and it's big enough to hold everything."
Frankie stared at it for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck as he thought it over. "I don't mind the color…" he mused. "I tell you, it don't feel half bad."
"Okay," I said, starting to feel pretty good about it. "I like this, going with your gut." I grabbed the shovel. "We're going to put all of you in one spot."
"With my urn in there," he said, getting excited. "And that fat rosebush."
I stopped. "That's my favorite rosebush." I backed down at his zealous glare. "Got it. Urn, dirt, trash can, rosebush. It'll look great in my parlor."
"You missed a spot," Frankie corrected as I shoveled dirt.
We kept at it until the trash can was almost too heavy to drag. At that point, I went to recruit Maisie, but she had fallen asleep on my futon. So I dragged the trash can into my kitchen and set it up there, transferring the rest of the dirt by Tupperware container, along with my humongous red rosebush, until we had a shrine to Frankie next to my kitchen island.
"It looks good," he said, as I eased his urn into the dirt at the base of the rosebush. "Don't get any dirt in the urn or we'll screw up the ashes."
True. We didn't have many ashes left. I kept the urn upright and dug it down until about half of it disappeared into the dirt. But the top remained open and you could still see the hideous artwork on the side.
"Do you feel any different?" I asked, dusting off my hands over the pile of dirt.
"Not yet," he said, easing down onto my kitchen island, his attention lingering on the trash can, waiting.
"I'm going to go check on Maisie," I said, forcing my stiff body to move. I felt like I'd been gardening all night.