The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Again, Bucket’s eyes darted in his head, the whites, yellow with illness, were stretched wide with brown dull centers. Instead of answering, he pulled another sandwich out of the fast food bag. Jeremiah thought he was going to eat it, but instead he held it out to Jeremiah. “You want it?”

  “No thank you, Bucket. I had my breakfast earlier.” It was a small fib. He’d had only coffee with Red and had left Rose’s place without eating. He’d grab breakfast later. “I brought four, all for you and Lola.”

  Bucket considered this windfall, then hoisted his old body upright with loud grunts. He shuffled out to where Eddie stood, moving with jerks and fits. Jeremiah watched as Bucket partially unwrapped the sandwich and secured it in one of Eddie’s hands. “Here you go, Eddie. We got a real treat this morning.” Eddie didn’t look at the food but his hand automatically brought it to his mouth, where he took a large bite and chewed.

  When Bucket returned to his spot, he said to Jeremiah, “Eddie don’t like going to the mission for breakfast.” Jeremiah studied the old broken man in front of him. Whatever booze and drugs and the war had done to him, he was still a good and thoughtful human being. Something a lot of folks didn’t see when they looked at him.

  Jeremiah decided to ask the question again, this time dividing it to cause Bucket less confusion. “Did Mary tell you how she died?”

  Bucket looked down at the nearly untouched sandwich on the sidewalk. Lola was lying on the sidewalk next to the cart, her head on her paws, asleep.

  “Poor thing is hardly eating these days,” Bucket said more to himself than to Jeremiah. “I think she’s about done in, like poor old Bucket.”

  Bucket carefully picked up the dog’s meal, wrapped it in the sandwich wrapper, and placed it in the bag with the fourth untouched sandwich. He then stashed the bag somewhere inside the lean-to. Finished with cleaning up, he settled back down on the curb with his coffee.

  “Mary,” Jeremiah prodded to get him back on track. “Did she tell you what happened?”

  “She was murdered, is what she told me. I told Red that, but I don’t think he believes me.” Agitation was seeping into his words.

  “I wouldn’t say that, Bucket,” Jeremiah said calmly. “Red sent me to talk to you, didn’t he? You know I’m a private investigator.”

  Bucket considered that for a moment, then nodded. “She told me she was murdered. That’s all.” He stabbed the air with the dirty index finger of his free hand to make his point.

  “Did she say where it happened?” Jeremiah voiced the question slowly, making sure Bucket heard every word.

  The old man reached out and patted the sleeping dog’s head a few times. “Nope, but maybe her daughter knows.”

  Jeremiah’s interest increased. “She has a daughter she’s in touch with?” If this was true, it would be unusual. Most homeless who had family were not in communication with them. Jeremiah had been embarrassed for his family to see him when he was on the street, but sometimes it was the family who severed the ties, either out of tough love over the drugs and booze, or out of lost hope, and often out of disgust.

  “She talked about a daughter,” Bucket added, “before she was murdered.”

  An old woman in a wheelchair was rolling in their direction. She was an overweight Latina with light brown skin and long stringy hair that was dull gray shot through with clumps of its original dark brown. She had one leg, her left, and used it to help propel her outdated chair down the bumpy sidewalk.

  “Hey, Carmen,” Bucket called to her, “didn’t Mistletoe Mary talk about a daughter?”

  When she reached them, Carmen eyed Jeremiah up and down with suspicion. “Who’s asking?” she asked in a surprisingly young voice with a mild Spanish accent.

  “This is Jeremiah,” Bucket told her. “Red Watkins sent him to look into her murder.”

  “Her murder?” Carmen let out a whoop, her lumpy face looking like an amused gargoyle. “You still peddling that story, Bucket? More likely that skanky ho’s crawled off in a hole on a bender from the few dollars she got from some stupid John.”

  Jeremiah turned to Carmen. She wore an old flowered housedress over thin black leggings stretched to their limits over her left leg. The other leg of her pants had been knotted just below the stump on her right. On her one foot was a dingy sock and battered thick shoe with a rubber sole. It was difficult to pinpoint her age, but Jeremiah guessed it around forty. She looked cleaner than most on the street and didn’t have any of the usual signs of alcoholism or drug addiction. Jeremiah thought she might have a regular place to stay nearby. There were some outreach programs downtown that provided semipermanent shelter for the disabled, but like other shelters, they were full and funds too scarce to help everyone. Jeremiah hated seeing people living on the streets, but especially women and children. It broke his heart. It was tough enough on the men, but the women and kids often became prey, especially the newly homeless. Carmen didn’t look like a newbie. She looked like she’d been down on Skid Row a long time and knew the ropes and the people. Depending on her situation, she might not even be considered homeless.

  “Carmen,” Jeremiah said to the woman, “did Mary ever say anything about her daughter to you?” He could see that Carmen had her wits about her and might be more useful than Bucket, provided she had any information.

  “To me?” Carmen asked, amused. “To everyone! For the past few weeks that’s all she talked about. Said her daughter was gonna come get her.” She said the words in a high-pitched mimic. “She was gonna live in her daughter’s big fancy house! Her daughter was gonna get her off the streets and clean her up.”

  “For the past month, you say?” asked Jeremiah. “When was the last time you saw Mary?”

  Carmen looked at Bucket as she dug through her memory. “Around Thanksgiving, I suppose. “Ain’t that right, Bucket?”

  The old man nodded. “I seem to remember her at one of the Thanksgiving meals.” His weepy eyes momentarily lit up. “That’s right, I did. She was bragging how she was gonna be gone from here by Christmas.”

  “Did any others hear that?” Jeremiah asked.

  “I’m sure they did,” Carmen said. “The ho couldn’t keep her mouth shut about it.” She paused, then added, “If she was murdered, could be someone around here cracked her skull open just to shut her up.” Carmen’s tone was flat as cardboard with no sympathy for the possible dead or outrage over a possible murder. “It was all a crock of horse manure if you ask me.”

  “You didn’t believe Mary?” Jeremiah asked as he shifted on his motorcycle. Around them, the street had become busy with people and a few more vehicles.

  Carmen scooted her chair closer to Jeremiah, not paying any mind to Lola, and nearly clipped the poor dog’s tail. Lola barely noticed. “If she and her daughter found each other, then why was her daughter waiting to get her off the streets?”

  “She could have been looking for a rehab place for Mary and that might take time,” suggested Jeremiah.

  “Maybe,” agreed Carmen, “but she kept saying she was going to live with her daughter.” Carmen folded her stubby fingers together over her belly. “Seems to me if your long-lost daughter found you and wanted to take care of you, she’d take you away immediately, not wait. Every day down here is dangerous with disease, drugs, and even hate crimes. If the daughter had money, like Mary claimed, she could have at least put her mother up in a motel for a few days to keep her safe until a place could be found.”

  Jeremiah nodded in agreement at the logic. “Did you ever see Mary with anyone who might have been her daughter?” Jeremiah asked.

  “She’s dead, I tell ya!” Bucket snapped, not at them, but at the people around them.

  Carmen ignored the outburst. “I never saw her with no one except that other skank Lizzie,” Carmen replied.

  “Who’s Lizzie?” Jeremiah asked.

  “She’s another piece
of homeless white trash,” Carmen told him. “During the week she mostly hangs out a few blocks from here, closer to the business district. That’s where the tricks are Monday through Friday. On weekends, you’ll find her and Mary, if she’s alive, hanging out around some of the rougher bars down here looking for business.”

  Carmen edged her chair back and forth with her one foot. “You know, come to think of it, I remember once Mary was talking about her daughter and someone called her a liar. Lizzie came to her defense and said it was true, that she’d seen the daughter herself.” She turned to Bucket. “Isn’t that so, Bucket?”

  Bucket was still sitting on the curb, but now his eyes were closed and he was rocking back and forth. “I’m dead. Tell them, Bucket, I’m dead!”

  Jeremiah immediately looked around for a spirit but saw none. He didn’t know if Bucket was being possessed by Mary or if he was repeating something he thought he’d heard. This was Emma Whitecastle’s territory, not his.

  Just as fast as he’d started, Bucket stopped and opened his eyes. He looked dazed and unfocused.

  “See,” Carmen said to Jeremiah. “That’s how he gets sometimes. Other times he just rants about her being murdered.”

  “Does he ever say anything else when he’s like this, like where Mary is or who might have done it?”

  Carmen shook her head. “Not that I’ve ever heard. Just that she’s been murdered. Bucket’s not all there at the best of times, but this is downright creepy.”

  Silence fell between them as they watched the sick old man and his wretched dog for a few moments. Then Jeremiah turned back to Carmen. “Did Mary and Lizzie have a pimp?” he asked.

  Carmen nodded. “His name’s Ace. Skinny black dude who runs girls of all colors. You’ll find him over on Crocker Avenue. He works out of a crappy burger joint called Hi-Life Diner. The place is owned by his family. He won’t be there now, though. Too early.”

  Jeremiah still wasn’t sure whether to believe Bucket’s story about Mary being murdered, but at least Carmen was giving him someplace to start to see if the woman was still alive. If she was, then Bucket was just hallucinating.

  After buying Bucket’s breakfast, Jeremiah had stuffed a bunch of dollar bills into the zippered breast pocket of his leather jacket. He unzipped it now and pulled out several. He handed a few bucks to Carmen, along with his card. “I appreciate the help. If you do see Mary, try to reach me or go tell Red Watkins at City of Angels. You know the place?”

  “Yeah,” Carmen said, snatching the money and tucking it somewhere down her blouse between her large sagging breasts. “That’s the vet outreach on Wall Street.”

  “Yes.” Jeremiah wanted to give Bucket a few dollars but knew the old guy would just buy booze with it or would be robbed. As if reading his mind, Carmen said, “Give him a couple of bucks too. In his condition, the drink is all that keeps him going. That and the mangy dog.”

  After handing Bucket a couple of bucks, Jeremiah started to put on his helmet, but Carmen moved closer to him. “You find Ace, don’t you tell him I sent you, hear? He’s a mean SOB and I don’t want no trouble. My life ain’t exactly a bouquet of roses, but it’s not bad compared to most down here.”

  Jeremiah studied her a moment, then nodded his understanding. “You used to work for him?” he asked her, taking a guess.

  She nodded. “Long time ago, I was one of his top girls. Then I got stabbed in my leg by a John. It got infected and I lost my leg. Ace threw me away after that. Said no one wanted a one-legged whore.” She gave Jeremiah a small sad smile. “In some ways, the creep that stabbed me saved my life. While my leg healed, I got clean and later a job. I do piecework six days a week for one of the sweatshops down here. It doesn’t pay much, but enough for me to rent a clean room and buy decent food. I don’t need Ace messing that up.”

  “I won’t tell him,” Jeremiah agreed. “One last thing, can you tell me what this Lizzie looks like?”

  “Sure,” Carmen said. “Skinny white girl with hair the color of Ronald McDonald’s. She’s younger than Mary. Barely in her twenties. Almost all used up, though, if you know what I mean.” Jeremiah did. “Ho’s like her and Mary only get what’s left over. The fresh ones get the best tricks. Make the most money.” She paused, then added, “If Mary is dead, it might have been Ace who killed her. She was so strung out, I’m sure she wasn’t of much use to him anymore. Lizzie will be there soon enough.”

  “How about Mary?” he asked. “I understand she’s also white with long stringy blond hair. Anything else you can add?”

  Carmen gave it some thought before answering. “Mary’s got a tattoo,” she told him. “The tattoo is right above her boobs, in the middle of her chest. It’s a flower, I think.”

  Chapter 3

  After leaving Bucket and Carmen, Jeremiah headed up San Pedro and made a right turn on 4th. Almost immediately, he made a left turn onto Crocker. Carmen didn’t give him the exact location of the Hi-Life Diner but he didn’t need it. Central Division of the LAPD was on 6th just a few blocks from where Bucket called home, and Jeremiah had worked out of that division when he was a detective. He knew the area and most of the businesses, especially the older ones with sketchy side activities. The Hi-Life Diner was one of the few, or maybe the only, all-night diners left in the area. It was halfway between 4th and 3rd on the right-hand side. Standing in the large dingy window displaying a B rating from the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health, was a sad fake Christmas tree with multicolored bulbs hanging from its skimpy limbs. Beyond that he could see a couple of men sitting at the counter. He pulled over in front of the place and parked at a meter, which he knew didn’t have to be fed on a Sunday.

  In the past several years, a lot of trendy eateries had cropped up in and around downtown. They catered to the hipsters and artsy types who had bought stylish new lofts in the area. Developers, with the blessing of the city’s government, were trying to reclaim these broken-down streets and buildings, to make it cool to live downtown. The Arts District was just a few blocks away and so far gentrification there appeared to be a success, but it was a constant struggle. Jeremiah had mixed feelings about it. On one hand, it was a better use of valuable real estate and brought new money and cultural activities to downtown. On the other hand, it could push the dirt poor and homeless out of one of the last places they had to work and live.

  Before getting off his bike, he pulled out his cell phone. He had two calls he wanted to make, but decided it was too early to call, even though both recipients were early risers. Instead, he sent two texts. One to Aaron Espinoza, his former partner in Homicide, asking him if he had time for a call later in the day. The second text went to Emma Whitecastle asking the same, but also tacking on a request that she send Granny his way, if she saw her.

  Granny was Granny Apples, the ghost of a pioneer woman from Julian, California, whose real name was Ish Reynolds. Granny loved nothing more than digging around like an old-time private eye. She could eavesdrop and do surveillance without the people being watched knowing and without a wire. That’s how he had first met Emma and Phil. They were on the same stakeout and had sent Granny over to check him out, suspicious that he could see Granny. It was the first and only time he’d admitted to anyone that he could communicate with spirits. He couldn’t very well deny it, seeing that Granny had looked him in the face and unnerved him to the point he had to confess to Emma and Phil or be called out for being a liar. But he had to admit, sharing his secret with them had taken some of the burden off his shoulders and he had made two good friends in the bargain. Three if you counted Granny. Since then, he had learned from Emma and her good friend Milo Ravenscroft, an internationally known medium and Emma’s mentor, more about how to control and manage his gift. He’d used Granny a couple of times since on some of his small cases and she’d proven to be a great asset, although she could be cantankerous much of the time.

  His texts sent, Jeremiah got o
ff his bike, stashed his helmet in the locked storage box on its side, and started for the Hi-Life Diner.

  “Jeremiah Jones, is that you?” said a woman’s voice behind him. He turned and saw a shiny pickup truck parked across from him. At the wheel was Greta Miles.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Jeremiah said with a big grin as he crossed the street to greet her.

  Greta and her family owned a farm by Santa Paula called Milestone Farm. A few times a week she hauled fruits and vegetables from her farm down to Skid Row and distributed them to some of the missions and outreach programs. Sometimes she even handed them out directly to the homeless. The produce was a mixed lot. Most often the boxes in the back of her truck were filled with bruised and blemished items or items not fresh enough to sell at the various farmers’ markets her family attended, but Milestone Farm never gave the homeless rotten goods like some farms. Greta, with her long light brown ponytail and freckled, pale face, had become a familiar sight downtown over the years. She was in her late thirties, but could pass for a teenager if one didn’t look too closely. Only of average height and slim of build, she could wrangle a tractor and carry boxes of produce like any farmhand.

  Jeremiah gave her a big smile through the window of the truck. “Making your rounds?”

  “Yeah, had to get an early start today so I could get back. My sister-in-law is throwing a big barbeque tonight to celebrate her husband’s fortieth birthday.” She looked around. “What brings you down here today?”

  “Red Watkins at Angels called me. He wants me to locate a woman named Mistletoe Mary. Ever hear of her? Real name is Mary Dowling.”

  Greta pursed her lips, then shook her head. “No. Is she a volunteer or a resident?”

  “Resident.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t usually make much contact with the locals except to hand them the occasional apple or orange. Mostly I deal with the organizations. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She’s a working girl, so she’s out and about while you’re fast asleep. You’ve probably never come in contact with her.”