by Etta Faire
Mrs. Nebitt shushed me and took another sip of her coffee. “This is a library, Carly Mae,” she said, like it hadn’t just been a daycare about 20 minutes ago.
In the middle of the article, there was a small grainy photo of the lake, with a couple large boats sitting along the bank and what looked like stretchers loaded with lumpy white sheets being wheeled along the dirt. The caption underneath said: “We didn’t know they were swimming when we pulled anchor and drove off. By the time we realized they were in the lake, we turned around but it was too late to find them. Freddie’s dad jumped in and we called the police.” — Clyde Bowman
I noticed the inconsistencies right away. Did the “witnesses” know their friends had jumped overboard or were they surprised not to see them onboard? And almost none of this went along with Gloria's account.
I printed out the article and wrote down every person’s name I could find in the margins, circling June Thomas, Gloria’s sister. There was very little chance Gloria’s parents were still alive, but maybe her sister was. Finding her might be a challenge, though.
I could only find a couple other articles about the accident. Apparently, the other two victims had drowned. Mrs. Carmichael and old George had both been right. While I was printing out every article I could find, I looked up at the 50’s photo just above the copiers again.
I didn’t care that this happened 60 years ago. Someone from that boating accident was going to talk to me. And I was going to start with the person I didn’t have to look too hard to find. The mayor.
Chapter 4
The Investment Club
Mayor Clyde Bowman was a predictable man who loved three things: money, himself, and food. And Mondays were the day he could celebrate all three. The investment club always met at the Spoony River Cafe because chicken fried steak was on special, and that was an investment most people could agree on, even without an investment club.
After work I went over there. It was warm and loud, and smelled like grease mixed with blood pressure medication.
Mrs. Carmichael rushed over to me, strutting to Runaround Sue playing softly in the background. “There’s a spot open along the counter, hon. Coffee and chicken fried steak?”
“Just coffee,” I said, sitting down at one of the stools close to the investment club. The mayor was right behind me at his usual spot in the large corner booth next to five other men, leaning back into the sticky white vinyl of their seats, laughing, probably at some joke about poor people or taxes, or how they avoided both.
I knew this was a bad idea. There were too many people and it was weird to ask an almost 80-year-old man about a horrific boating accident that happened when he was 18. I gulped, but scooted my barstool over a little so I’d be close enough to overhear them.
Landover’s mayor, Darren Wittle, was among the group, a man who looked more like Pee Wee Herman’s creepy uncle than an authority figure worth voting for. He and Mayor Bowman were talking about how they might be able to take a trip to Florida together soon, on the taxpayer’s dime for business reasons.
Nobody glanced in my direction or smiled, even though they all knew me and saw me there. But then, I was the awful woman who had somehow swindled Gate House out of the Bowmans’ grasps, so I was getting used to being ignored.
Mrs. Carmichael carried a pot of coffee when she came back over. She fixed her pink waitress hat and set a white coffee cup by my place mat.
“When you told me about Accident Loop yesterday…” I began, loudly. I paused to see if the investment club at the large booth was looking over at me like I wanted them to. They weren’t, so I made my voice even louder. “I did a quick library search to see what you were talking about.”
Mrs. Carmichael stopped pouring mid-cup, suddenly interested. “So, tell me. Who was right? Was it a drowning or were those kids mangled by a boat?”
I studied the woman’s face. I had no idea how old anyone was, really. But I guessed Mrs. Carmichael must have been in her late 50s so she probably hadn’t been around when the accident happened. And since not too many people talked about it anymore, she might not have known that two of the people involved were sitting at the booth next to us right now. I was about to fill her in, though.
“You were both right. Two of the victims were hit by a boat, the other two drowned.” She almost looked disappointed not to be fully right.
I pointed over to the booth with the investment club while she filled my cup the rest of the way. “I also found out the mayors of both Landover and Potter Grove were on one of the boats when it happened.”
Mrs. Carmichael turned so fast she almost spilled coffee on them. “These two?” She motioned with her coffee pot at the mayors. “Well, I’ll be,” she said, mouth open. Mrs. Carmichael prided herself on being the town’s biggest gossip, and now I’d scooped her on a story that George had already partially scooped her on.
Mayor Bowman cut her off. “Just a splash more coffee, Patsy,” he said, raising his cup. “And before you even ask, I don’t talk about that night. It was a horrible, tragic accident. One we all want to forget about.”
Mayor Wittle nodded his thin, turkey neck so hard in agreement, I worried for a second I’d hear a twig-snapping sound. “Horrible,” he repeated, voice nasally and shaky.
Mayor Bowman went on. “And it happened a long time ago. There is no reason on God’s green earth to relive it.”
“What if I gave you a reason? I don’t believe the accident happened like it was reported.”
He went back to his food and his friends. “Some people don’t know when to quit. Nobody cares about something that happened that long ago.”
“The dead do,” I said, then after realizing that sounded crazy, added. “I mean their families do, and I care too.”
Dr. Vernon Gleason, the town’s only veterinarian and the youngest one in the investment group at age 60, leaned in my direction. Rosalie called him Dr. Dog, mostly because he hit on every woman at his vet clinic. “She’s just trying to drum up some business over there at the Purple Pony. Charge good people millions of dollars to watch another silly seance. I heard they’re not doing very well over there.” He ran a thick freckled hand through his greasy dyed bangs and winked at me. “You should come on over and work for me, Carly Mae. I’ll keep you busy.”
I was happy my stomach didn’t have anything to possibly throw up.
I grabbed my coffee and took a larger sip than I’d intended, burning my tongue. I hadn’t heard the Purple Pony wasn’t doing well. I mean, I should have guessed. My hours had been cut again, but Rosalie just said that was because it was winter and we didn’t have rich tourists here for the summer yet.
The diner seemed silent, except for the occasional sounds of forks scraping along plates, and a mumble about me and the Purple Pony. I shook myself out of my stupor.
“Stop trying to change the subject. Gloria Thomas did not die by accident. And I’m going to prove it,” I said, loudly, so the whole restaurant could hear me. That got the murmurs really going.
The mayor pointed a shaky finger at me. “We know how you operate, and we’re all tired of it. Aren’t we?” he asked the members of his table. They all nodded like the old man was making sense.
He went on. “You sure like to stir up trouble where there isn’t any. Well, that might have flown with the country club ladies who like to take on ridiculous causes like helping mediums change death certificates on old suffragettes. But this is different. You could hurt people’s reputations. And I, for one, will fight for mine.”
We were both talking for the benefit of the entire restaurant now. Mrs. Carmichael and Shelby were the only ones shuffling about, grabbing empty plates and filling coffee cups, but even they were really looking over, listening.
And the ball was back in my court. “I thought just a couple months ago, you said every life mattered in this city and so did every death. Gloria Thomas was a life. So was her cousin Annette and your friend Frederick. Apparently, life and death only matter when preci
ous reputations aren’t also on the line.”
“The good people of this town have suffered enough with this case,” he said. “You’re right. Freddie was my friend. And he was lost in a tragic accident. I think everyone here will agree with me when I say we’re done reliving it. Certain things should stay in the past.”
He was good, better than I thought. Just like the politician he was trained to be, he knew exactly when to bring the crowd to his side, and how to do it. I could tell he’d just won this round. Everyone went back to their chicken fried steaks and their conversations about what a bad winter this was going to be.
I took another couple sips of coffee, threw down five dollars onto the counter, and hopped off my bar stool. Someone who probably wasn’t on the verge of losing her job should have my spot. Someone who could afford chicken fried steak and not just coffee.
Chapter 5
Tread Cautiously
“Jackson is seriously getting on my nerves,” I told my boss the next day when we were standing by the main storefront window, pulling the stiff arms of a headless mannequin into a cable knit, vintage, 70s sweater for the Purple Pony’s window display. “I have no privacy.”
“And that’s surprising to you how? I’m pretty sure Jackson didn’t have boundaries when he was living either.”
“And the other day, when Justin and I were on the couch…” I stopped myself. It was strange talking about my love life in front of someone I thought of as a mom.
“I get it. You don’t want Jackson popping in. Maybe I can find a recipe to help.”
I nodded like I knew what that meant. One of my curls caught on a random Christmas bulb hanging from the side of the window and I yanked it free, leaving a chunk of blondish brown strands dangling off of it like tinsel.
Even though we were well into January, the Purple Pony still had Christmas lights hanging everywhere because Rosalie “loved that time of year.” What she probably loved best was that it was the last time we had any customers. I didn’t mention the part where Dr. Dog said the Purple Pony was in trouble.
Instead, I told her all about my new client and the run-in I had with the mayor.
Rosalie pulled her dreadlocks into a bun and steadied herself on the stool by her side, resting her bad hip as she straightened out the neckline of the mannequin’s sweater. “If the mayor had that kind of a reaction when you just brought up the boating accident, he’s hiding something.”
“Yep,” I said.
“You could uncover a whole mess of trouble,” she mumbled with a pin in her mouth. She bunched the mannequin’s skirt a little in the back and pinned it so it would fit its curves better. “Tread cautiously.”
That was the second “tread cautiously” I’d heard in the last couple days.
“Were Woodward and Bernstein told to tread cautiously by the Washington Post?” I asked.
“How should I know? They didn’t have to deal with the good-ole-boys club of Landover County. I do know that. Now, go on outside and tell me how this dummy looks from the window.”
“It’s below freezing outside,” I said. “I can already tell you. It looks fine.”
She gave me a look, so I went in the back and grabbed my coat, gloves, and hat. She waited to roll her eyes until I got back to the front. “I asked you to make a two-second assessment. You’re dressed like you’re going camping in the Arctic.”
I smiled behind my scarf and opened the door, blinking into the sunlight that always seemed brighter when it reflected off snowbanks. A cold wind shot through my body, and the many layers of clothes I was wearing weren’t doing much to help.
The sidewalk under my feet hadn’t been salted properly and I slipped a little as I cautiously trudged out to the window in the front. Just like I thought, the mannequin looked fine, although very Christmasy for nowhere near Christmas with all the red and green lights surrounding it.
“Thanks again for the rush delivery,” a familiar voice said as the door to the Bait ’N Breath opened, and Paula Henkel stepped out, carrying a large box. The hippie store couldn’t even get one customer during the off season but the tackle shop next to us in the strip mall had customers galore.
Last time I saw the spiky-haired, bleach-blonde woman, her face was stuck in a bucket of fish as a polar bear. Apparently, there were many shapeshifters here in Potter Grove. So far, I’d only discovered two bears for sure: her and Bobby Foreman, Shelby’s fiancé. I avoided both.
“Going ice fishing?” I asked, pointing toward her box. “Or buying a few snacks?”
Paula glared at me. “How’s business?” she said in such a way I knew she was dying for me to ask her the same question. The winter business season in Potter Grove was even deadlier than winter itself.
“Oh, it’s always slow in January,” I said. “But we’re making do.” I added that last part to try to quell the rumors already circulating.
She waited a second for me to ask her about the bed and breakfast. I didn’t. “Still going strong at the bed and breakfast,” she replied, trudging out to her large white truck. “But then, I know how to cater to the locals. That’s the secret. I’m running a local lovebird special right now if you and Justin are interested.”
“Thanks, but I live in a beautiful Victorian. Every day’s like waking up in a bed and breakfast.” If cursed haunted houses were charming and had privacy. I looked down at my scuffed-up puffer coat, which was the same coat I’d been wearing for five years. Who was I kidding? She knew the truth.
She smiled a little too enthusiastically. “Well then, have a good day.”
I needed to figure out a way for the Purple Pony to cater to the locals, too. I was just about to go back inside when I thought of something. Why not take the investment club’s advice?
I sucked in my pride and yelled to Paula. “I think I have a ghost story the locals will be very interested in if you feel like partnering to do a seance again. I’d do it myself, but you were great with marketing last time.”
She stopped and looked over. “I’m listening.”
“Sixty years ago, four people died on the lake. It was deemed an accident, but I’ve talked to one of the ghosts, and it was no accident.”
“You talked to one of the ghosts?” She chuckled to herself, her cheeks bright red from the cold.
“You’re right. That’s crazy. Enjoy your fish, from your bucket.”
She paused at her opened driver’s side door. “I’m always up for a business proposition,” she said, sliding her box of polar bear food across to the passenger’s seat. “But just so you know, if we work together, I won’t be paying for damages this time around. And windows probably cost double to replace in winter.”
She was referring to the last seance we’d done when my suffragist client was so angry with her lying fiancé that she blew out some windows at the bed and breakfast. It made negotiating the terms of our agreement with Paula pretty sticky.
I tried to make my voice as confident as I could. “We’ll have sage on stand-by this time. Burning sage will keep the ghosts in check.”
She looked at me like I just told her I still believed in Santa. “C’mon, Carly. That’s an old wive’s tale, and ghosts aren’t real.”
“They’re real, and it works. But even if it doesn’t, we’ll pay for any damage caused by ghosts. You paid for it last time.”
Her smile grew to an evil length. “We’ll talk,” she said, getting into her truck.
Snow fell heavily as I walked back toward the Purple Pony, a new-found confidence in my step. All I had to do was convince Rosalie to work with Paula again, and get a ghost or two from the boating accident to show up. I pictured the whole county getting behind me on this one. The truth would prevail.
I looked up at the sad headless mannequin celebrating Christmas from 1976, a hairy bulb behind her neck. Truth was, we couldn’t afford for the truth not to prevail.
Rosalie was just as curious as I thought she’d be when I got back inside. “What were you talking to Satan about?�
�
“Business.”
“My soul’s not for sale.”
“He said he needs ‘em pure, anyway,” I joked. I wanted to say a lot of other things, like how I knew the Purple Pony wasn’t doing well, maybe remind her that we needed to figure out ways to cater to the locals. But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I just nodded like we weren’t about to do business with the dark lord.
At the end of the day, when the window mannequin was sporting her third 70’s Christmas look in January because we were bored, I stood at the mirror by the dressing room, touching up my mascara. Justin and I were hanging out at his place tonight and I was counting down the seconds until I could leave.
The wind chimes on the front door clanged, and Rosalie darted in from the back like she was prepared to pounce on our one-and-only customer. She stopped when she saw it was Justin, and limp-walked back.
“You’re early,” I said to him. “I can officially go in…” I looked at my cellphone clock.
“Just go,” Rosalie said.
Justin didn’t say a word as we walked out to his truck. And, it dawned on me that he hadn’t kissed me hello either. Snow fell all around us, but it wasn’t why I was feeling cold.
“Everything okay?” I finally asked when we reached his truck.
“Fine.”
I nodded and got into his spotless passenger’s seat, turning the vent over toward me and adjusting my temperature to max heat. “I wish everything was fine with me. I think I’m about to get my hours cut again.”
He took a deep breath like he was going to say something then exhaled without saying a word. I hated it when people did that. My mother made that same sound every time she asked how my career was going.
It was the sigh of disappointment. I never thought I’d hear it from my boyfriend, though. I turned the radio up so we wouldn’t have to make conversation then looked out the window because staring at darkness was much more interesting right now.