A Spot of Bother

by Magenta Wilde

  “Just passing through,” Catrina said. “My work takes me places.”

  “What kind of work do you do?” Roger asked.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Well, now I’m intrigued,” Scott replied.

  Just then Amber turned up with a basket of seasoned fries. “Fresh out of the grease,” she smiled. “What’s intriguing you, babe?” she asked Scott.

  “Catrina here,” Scott said, pointing for emphasis, “has some kind of mysterious job.”

  “Mysterious, huh?” Amber said. “Cool hair color, by the way. That’s a tricky one to pull off but it works on you.”

  “Thanks. I like your purple ’do,” she said.

  “Men prefer blondes. That’s a fact.” It was Mom and she’d breezed in with Tom in tow. “What you’re sporting is blonde-adjacent, so I’ll give you points for that, but it’s a bit much.”

  Catrina, more amused than annoyed, looked Mom up and down, taking in her festive attire. “A bit much, hmmm? All I can say about you is that you’re festive. Festive like a glitter factory threw up.”

  “Damn straight,” Mom said. “Amber dear — or Scott — whoever is handling orders, can I get a mug of what our bright-haired friend — I’m assuming it’s beer — is having. She’ll have another, too,” she said, handing a twenty-dollar-bill to Amber.

  “I’d take offense at your hair-color criticism,” Catrina said, “but I’ll forgive the slight since you’re buying me a drink.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” Mom replied.

  “Where are the dogs?” Roger asked. “You didn’t leave them outside, did you?” He craned his neck in the direction of the storefront windows.

  “Don’t worry. We took the spoiled mutts home,” Tom replied, turning toward Catrina. “Now who would you be, making fast friends with my wife and stepdaughter?”

  We quickly introduced everyone.

  “Catrina, huh?” Mom said, taking a hearty sip of her beer. When she saw Catrina down half of hers, she looked perplexed, then annoyed. “I like the name. More so than the hair color. And yet, it does suit you. Most people look like the dead when they attempt a color like that.

  “So,” Mom continued, “what are you doing in town?”

  “It’s difficult to explain, and nature is taking precedence,” Catrina said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to visit the ladies’ room.”

  Amber pointed her in the right direction just as a fresh wave of guests arrived, ratcheting up the volume and the activity in the place.

  I was watching Catrina, thinking she was heading the wrong way, toward the basement, but a loud voice interrupted, shouting out my mother’s and my names. It was Mr. Pratt and his wife. He looked happy to see me, but his eyes practically glittered at the sight of my mother.

  He quickly left his wife a few paces behind and waddled up to Mom, clasping her hand in greeting, refusing to release it. At least not until his wife caught up and gave him a quick warning elbow.

  Roger extended a hand and introduced himself to the duo.

  “Ah, you’re the young gent who’s been visiting Miss Poppy a lot these past few months,” Mrs. Pratt said.

  Mr. Pratt, once he took a break from admiring my mother, began looking around Scott’s place, sampling some of the fries that remained on the table. “Mmmmm,” he said through a mouth full of food. “Good fries. Good fries. I am happy to see something opening back up in this place. This seems like a good fit, especially with the food.”

  Amber brought a tray of more samples and he quickly grabbed a slider and a chicken wing, polishing both off and smacking his lips in approval.

  Several people trickled out and the place grew quieter, so Scott returned with a tray of hot cider.

  “You are the owner, correct?” Mr. Pratt asked.

  Scott nodded.

  “My compliments, then. The place is turning out nicely and the food is marvelous.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Tell me,” Mr. Pratt continued, “are there any of those Prohibition-era tunnels in the basement of your fine establishment? I know many of these older places have them.”

  “Not a tunnel so much, but a bit of a secret room was discovered,” Scott admitted.

  “Was there anything in there?” Mrs. Pratt asked, finally showing some interest.

  “We found some old items, yes, and some old liquor bottles. Things like that,” Scott agreed.

  “Oh!” Mr. Pratt enthused. “I’d love to take a peek.”

  “I’d be happy to show you on a less-busy night,” Scott said.

  Mr. Pratt’s smile slipped. “Oh, my boy, but we’re here now.”

  “You know, since we saw the spot in question,” I offered, “I could take Mr. Pratt downstairs for a quick tour if you like. That way you can watch things up here, and Mr. Pratt gets to see for himself.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Scott agreed.

  “Oh, Miss Poppy, you are too kind,” Mr. Pratt grinned.

  “I’m just repaying a kindness,” I said. “You help clear my walkways all winter long after all. It’s the least I can do.”

  I motioned for him to follow and soon Roger, Mom, Tom and the Pratts were headed downstairs with me.

  I was surprised when I was most of the way down and I heard a female voice. Then three quick sneezes, followed by more talking. I turned and motioned for everyone behind me to pause and be silent, and Roger and I tiptoed the rest of the way down.

  “Where is it?” the voice rasped. “I can’t help you unless I have those items. Or, you’re going to have to talk and give me information so I can cobble something together to help you.”

  More sneezes followed.

  I heard a ghostly hiss and froze when I caught sight of Catrina talking, hands on hips, impatiently to the specter I’d seen the night we found the safe. When it saw me it vanished in a whoosh.

  Confused, Catrina turned around, and looked caught. “What are you doing here?” Her tone was accusatory. Then she sneezed once more.

  “We could ask the same of you,” I replied.

  Suddenly she looked sheepish. “Oh, I was looking for the bathroom, and I thought the purple-haired chick pointed downstairs. But I must have understood wrong.”

  She made a motion to return upstairs but was blocked when Mom, Tom and the Pratts made their way down the steps, making it hard for her to go past.

  Roger put out a hand to stop her.

  Tom ushered the Pratts past to show them the discovered room. Mom, being her nosy self, hung back to see what was happening.

  “Who were you talking to?” I asked Catrina.

  “I was talking to myself. You know, ‘The bathroom’s gotta be around here somewhere,’” she explained by way of example.

  “If you’d only asked where something was, I’d believe it,” I replied, “but you mentioned something about talking and about needing some items.”

  “You must have heard me incorrectly. Probably heard an echo or something,” Catrina continued.

  I shook my head. “You saw that ghost.” My voice carried a bit, so I lowered it. “You were talking to her. Do you know who she is?”

  Catrina gave me an incredulous look. My guess is she didn’t want to risk incriminating herself.

  I went on. “I saw that ghost when we found the room. I tried to get her to speak to me but she wouldn’t say much, except that my hair was a funny color.”

  “It is unusual,” Catrina agreed.

  “That’s beside the point,” I pressed. “There’s something hinky about this place, with weird things happening.” I filled her in on some of the issues Scott had been experiencing as he fixed up the space.

  “Well, it’s an old building. They settle. They make weird sounds. There are weird smells,” Catrina said, her tone sensible. “Could be a dead raccoon or something in the walls or ceiling.”

  Mom grimaced at the suggestion.

  “It’s more than that. We also found a safe, and there were s
ome, well, keepsakes I guess you could call them, inside,” I said.

  Catrina seemed poised to continue arguing but when I mentioned the finds she clamped her mouth shut and squinted her eyes as she gave me an assessing look. “What kinds of items?”

  “Letters. Flowers. A locket. A drawing. Among other things,” I offered.

  “And where would those things be?”

  “At my house. I can see ghosts, and like I said, there’s some odd stuff happening here. I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of it. This location has a history of trouble when businesses start up, and I’m trying to help Scott so his isn’t added to the list.”

  “Seems to be doing alright,” Catrina said, nonchalant. “The beer and grub were plenty good.”

  “That’s great,” I grumbled. “As for the problems, I’ve gotten some of the story but not all of it. I get the feeling you can be of help.”

  Catrina stared daggers into me, and at Roger. I think for a moment she was pondering trying to rush past us and flee up the stairs, but Roger was on alert, ready to stop her.

  She relaxed. “I’m tempted to try and kick him in the nuts and yank your hair or something so I can get away, but I think Miss Smoky here would cause me real trouble.”

  “Miss Smoky?” I said. Then I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. “Mom! You can’t just light up anywhere you want!”

  “What? It’s damp and musty down here. I needed a pick-me-up and it’s too cold to smoke outside.”

  I took the cigarette and stubbed it out on the brick wall, tossing the butt into the trash.

  “So rude, Poppy,” Mom sneered.

  “So is smoking illegally in a bar,” I chastised.

  “I’m in the basement and there are no customers here,” Mom sniffed. “As far as I’m concerned, this is a private area.”

  “Whatever,” I replied. “I don’t think Scott wants you to smoke down here. Or you should at least ask his permission.”

  “I bet he smokes pot down here,” Mom said.

  “Well, that’s probably a given,” I said. “At least ask him first.”

  “Enough with the smoking squabbles,” Roger snapped, catching me by surprise. “Let’s get back to the ghost talk. What do you need those items for?”

  Catrina opened her mouth to talk when Tom and the Pratts returned.

  “This definitely was a place to hide Prohibition hooch,” Mr. Pratt chattered, his eyes bright with excitement. “Did you find anything of Mr. or Mrs. Chapman’s, however?”

  “Mrs. Chapman?” I asked.

  “Is that the name of the ghost?” Catrina asked.

  “Ghost?” Mrs. Pratt exclaimed, looking around like she expected to see something. Even if she had the sight she’d be disappointed. We were specter-free at the moment.

  “I meant owner, not ghost,” Catrina corrected. “But let’s go back to Mrs. Chapman. Who is, or who was she?”

  “Her husband owned the building,” Mr. Pratt said. “It’s the Chapman building, after all.”

  “Do you have any other background,” Catrina asked.

  “When I was younger I used to do yard work for Mrs. Cora Chapman. Some of you may know her granddaughter Zelda,” Mr. Pratt began.

  “Zelda?” Mom asked. “You mean Zelda Malone?”

  Mr. Pratt nodded. “I used to do work for Mrs. Chapman after her husband died, and Zelda was around a lot then, too. Zelda loved hearing her grandmother’s stories, and I’d catch snippets of them. When I showed interest, she’d sit me down with some lemonade and tell me stories about her younger days.

  “She’d apparently been courted by some poor Irish lad. They had planned to elope, but her parents got wind of it and sent her east to live with some other family for a few months, while they tried to deal with the problem.”

  “Deal with it?” Mom asked. “That doesn’t sound happy.”

  “It wasn’t,” Mr. Pratt agreed. “Mrs. Chapman was never sure what her family meant to do, but she assumed they would try to pay him to leave town. She tried to write to him — this was a century back, mind you, so she couldn’t easily call or travel — but the family watched her closely. They also kept Cora’s whereabouts a secret so he couldn’t easily track her down.

  “Then, one day,” Mr. Pratt continued, “they brought her back home. She was eager to reunite with the young man but instead found that he’d died.”

  “Drowning?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

  Mr. Pratt stared, surprise evident on his features, then nodded. “Yes, you may have heard some of the story, then.”

  “Something like that,” I muttered to myself.

  “The young man had died, in the St. Mary’s River no less. Those currents could get rough, and his body was pulled out of the water by Brady Park.”

  “Was it suicide?” Mom asked.

  Mr. Pratt shrugged. “I believe that’s what they suspected. Mrs. Chapman — well, her name was Parker at the time — she wasn’t around for those few months, and Jacob Chapman, who her family wanted her to marry — left town for a few weeks as well. Then word went around that they had wed.”

  I had a sinking feeling in my stomach when Mr. Pratt revealed that particular detail. I cast a glance at Catrina and she had a sad look on her face. I suspected she had the same grim gut feeling I did.

  “When the rumor spread around town that Cora was now Mrs. Chapman,” Mr. Pratt went on, “apparently this young fellow turned up dead. There was no sign of violence by all accounts, but he’d had several heavy stones in his pockets, so the consensus was that he’d killed himself.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a swimming mishap,” Catrina muttered, her voice low.

  “That’s terrible,” Mom hissed.

  “Yes, so sad,” Mrs. Pratt nodded.

  “That poor girl, losing the love of her life, and being forced to obey her asshole parents!” Mom snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “Such bastards.”

  Mrs. Pratt took a cautious step away from my mother at the exhalation.

  I bit back a grin at the commentary. Leave it to Mom to get angry over a woman being ordered around.

  “This Cora still married the guy after her family pulled all that?” Catrina asked.

  “She did,” Mr. Pratt confirmed. “Mrs. Chapman said her husband was a nice man. She wasn’t wild about him the way she was about her Irish fellow, but Jacob was good to her. I think she at least found a bit of relief in getting away from her family after that.”

  “And this was her husband’s building?” Catrina asked.

  “It was,” Mr. Pratt nodded. “He had a shop downstairs, and a couple offices upstairs. Down here it was supposed to be storage.”

  “She didn’t live here, though?” Catrina asked.

  “No. She lived on Maple,” Mr. Pratt said. “Her husband used to walk to work every day, since it was so near.”

  “I wonder why I was led here then,” Catrina muttered. She looked at Mr. Pratt. “Does her family still have the house that she lived at when you worked for her?”

  Mr. Pratt shook his head. “That was sold years ago. Plus Mrs. Chapman went into a nursing home the last couple years of her life.”

  “Could anything of hers still be there?” she asked.

  “Not likely. They sold off some things and the buyers tore the place up and renovated it. I’d say all traces are gone except for the forget-me-nots she planted ages ago.”

  “Forget-me-nots?” Catrina and I said in unison.

  “Does that have meaning to you?” she asked me.

  “Kind of,” I hedged. “They’re growing all over town.”

  “You mean, in the spring,” Catrina corrected.

  “Oh, no, all over town, all year long. Or at least I have seen them,” I explained.

  “So have I,” Mom replied. “I thought it was global warming.”

  “That’s a left-wing conspiracy,” Mrs. Pratt snapped.

  “Then you’re a right-wing idiot,” Mom replied.

 
Mrs. Pratt’s eyes bugged out before she huffed and puffed and began to tug her husband up the stairs.

  “What?” he asked. “We’re not done yet.”

  “Oh yes we are,” Mrs. Pratt grumbled.

  As they clomped out of sight I leveled an angry glare at my mother.

  “What?” she replied. “She’s clearly an idiot.”

  “I’m not disagreeing, but I like that he’s willing to snow-blow my walkways every winter.”

  Roger pulled me in for a half-hug. “Don’t worry. I’ll clear your paths for you.”

  “He won’t stop,” Mom pooh-poohed. “I’ll flutter my eyelashes at the old coot — it’ll be even more fun because it’ll piss the old bag off — and you’ll have the cleanest sidewalk in the city.”

  Catrina chuckled at the comment. “You’re a piece of work there, aren’t you?” She then turned toward me. “So, I think we should talk. Maybe somewhere quiet that isn’t dank and damp, and share what we know. I think you’re working on the same problem I am, from a different angle, but we need to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “But tell me — you already know I can see ghosts, and you haven’t questioned it or laughed at me, so I am pretty certain you can, too — what is it that you do?”

  Catrina sighed and pulled out a business card from her pink puffer coat pocket. “Okay, but it’s probably going to raise more questions than it answers.”

  I accepted the offered card and read it:

  Catrina Shaw

  Proprietress

  The Happily Hereafter

  Matchmaker for the Spiritual Set

  Roger looked over my shoulder. “What the hell?” he asked, plucking the card from my hand. Then Mom, ever curious, took it, and she and Tom did a double-take at Catrina.

  “Is this a joke?” she said.

  Catrina shook her head. “No. It’s what I do.”

  “You help ghosts get it on?” I asked.

  “I help ghosts find their happily ever after,” she said.

  “But there’s no phone number or website on here,” Tom said. “How do they reach you?”

  “You know,” Catrina smiled, “I like that one of the first questions you have for me is that. Not ‘are you nuts?’ Not ‘where are the hidden cameras?’ but how can ghosts reach me. Trust me. They know how to reach me. They know all too well.”