“Anyway,” Gloom continued., ignoring Eclipse’s challenge. “The local padre declared the dog innocent afterward. He figured if the dog had really been the Devil in dog’s clothing, he wouldn’t have kicked the bucket. And, if that wasn’t enough to put you off pastrami sandwiches, another resident dog in Salem Village was suspected of involvement with the dark arts, and they dispatched that poor pooch tout de suite."
Remy had ceased his dogged pursuit of my kitties and seemed nervously riveted to Gloom’s sinister saga. Gloom, for all her negative naysaying, was thriving under the sudden attention. Even if it was from a dog.
“And, did you know,” Gloom elucidated further, her black, fuzzy tail twitching back and forth over the cushion of the chair, seemingly just to add more tension to the story. “Did you know they even used dogs to find witches?”
Remy shook his furry head in disbelief.
“’Fraid so, my flea-infested friend. Misguided townspeople fed them a special ‘witch cake.' But, trust me, it wasn’t butterscotch flavored. Silly, Unawakened thought it was ‘countermagic,'” Gloom scoffed. "Supposedly, the charmed sniffer dogs ferreted out each wicked witch. The 'special recipe' was supposed to cause great pain to the witch in question. If you ask me, that recipe woulda caused Anthony Bourdain 'great pain', and that man eats anything!"
"Okay, that's enough!" I threw my hands up in exasperation. "No more scary stories! No more fighting! And no more Food Network!"
I directed that last to Gloom who turned a fluffy derrière to my face and plopped unceremoniously on the counter.
Millie swatted at her with one of the apothecary brochures. "Scooch, Gloom, you big pain!"
Gloom scooted. The annoyed cat gave a half-turn. "I was only trying to be helpful." With Gloom, there was always a fine line between 'help' and 'annoy.' Sometimes the best magic trick was trying to figure out which was which!
"You want to be helpful, Gloom? Go see if the old gray blanket has been washed. Remy's going to need a comfortable place to sleep."
"Whoa, Hattie! Slow down! I'm all for peace, love, and shared living space, but come on! That cat's a, well...DOG!" Jet meowed plaintively from the wall shelf he’d jumped to.
"Um, Boss Lady?” Shade slithered into the conversation out of nowhere. Typical.
"What do you need, Shade? I'm a little busy here right now." Remulus squirmed in my grasp, tales of terror already forgotten. He was again more interested in tails of the feline persuasion.
"Have you seen Midnight? I sort of need his advice on something."
I looked up at the Tempus Fugit Westminster ticking placidly on the wall behind Millie.
Tempus Fugit. Time is fleeting. Indeed it was. Just like the time we had left to get to the bottom of Spithilda’s murder.
"Well, it's only eight-thirty. I doubt he's even vertical yet."
"Oh, okay then," Shade mumbled. "Well, let a cat go on record as saying I am totally for letting our new pal, Remulus, cop a squat in our humble abode. Come one, come all, I always say." Shade yammered a little less smoothly than his savoir-faire self. And his tail didn’t swish. Instead it was stiff and erect behind him. He was hiding something.
I narrowed a baleful green eye at him.
"What are you up to, Shade? I’ve already ix-nayed having any more overnight guests of the feminine variety. Old Lady Bristlethwaite called Chief Trew out the last time! And, don't think Midnight's going to help you sneak anybody in," I warned.
Shade gave a downward glance and four-toed the floor, but remained uncharacteristically silent.
Jet couldn't help himself. "Come on! Whatsamatter, Shade? Cat got your tongue?" He howled with uncontrolled abandon. So much so, in fact, he rolled off his shelf perch and into a bowl of Seaside Morning.
Colored bits of potpourri clung to his fur. I stifled a snigger as he stepped, then shook a paw and stepped, then shook a paw, all in a vain attempt to rid himself of the invasively clinging scented bits.
"Mmmm," Gloom sniffed the air as he walked past. "You smell as fresh as an ocean breeze, Jet."
"Oh, go play with the toilet paper, Gloom," came Jet's sharp retort.
I turned my attentions back to Shade who had begun to slink his way back out of the room. I handed Remy off to Millie and hustled after the fleeing feline.
"Oh, no, Sunshine," I fussed, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. "What’s up with you?"
I waggled a warning finger under the sensitive triangle of his nose. "Fess up, or the lady cats in this town won't have a ghost of a chance of ever seeing you again."
Shade laughed nervously and shrugged. "Funny you should mention ghosts. You see, the strangest thing happened to me today when I was skulking around town. You know, just doing my thing. Spreadin’ the love. Anyway, there I was, at Maude's morgue. Thought I'd stop in for a treat. Slide Hector some cauliflower I picked up outside Verdantia’s market, you dig? That woman, man she’s got the face of an angel and the body of a Maine Coon; hot damn! Anyway, after Maude’s, I headed over to the station to swap a joke or two with Officer Spinefeld at the front desk. He's so ‘humerus’ don't ya know..."
"Shade!" I stopped his ramblings cold in an effort to save myself from any more details about both his social life and his love life. "What happened?"
"Here’s the thing. I started feeling like I was being followed, which, for me, is weird because, well, I'm usually the one doing the following. So, when I got home, I guess I wasn't all too surprised when I turned around and she was there."
The cats and I all joined in concert. "Who?!?"
Shade sighed. "Spithilda Roach."
Millie fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.
Remulus let loose a mighty howl.
I slumped into my chair. Well, 'howl' about that?
8
Something Ouija This Way Comes
“Well, w-w-where is she now?” Fraidy stammered, pawing his way backwards as he trembled. “Because wherever she is, I’m positive that’s where I don’t want to be!”
I shook myself from my reverie and stood up. “That’s right, Shade. Where is Spithilda? We need to speak with her right away! Maybe she can tell us exactly who did her in! Millie! Call Chief Trew immediately!”
“You got it, boss!” She scrambled for the phone.
Finally! It seemed as if we were going to catch a break in the case.
“I’ll take you to her,” Shade began. “But, I’m not sure how much talking she’s going to do.”
The motivation behind Shade’s pessimistic response became readily apparent as the cat-about-town led us into the cozy kitchen at the back of the shop.
Cozy at it was, my kitchen could have subbed in for the Julia Child’s Kitchen Exhibition at the Smithsonian. A room to be looked at, but not cooked in. The entire room was paneled in white pegboard, upon which various copper-bottomed pots and pans, various grade graters, and a host of wired straining baskets hung. Patiently waiting. A wooden butcher’s block nested beneath crystal-handled, country blue painted cabinets. An odd assortment of serious kitchen shears stood ready to make quick work of any fresh, whole chicken that might show its pink, pimply skin. Bright and cheery ceramic pots squatted on the cast iron gas stove, anticipating warm, home-cooked meals with an excellent, estate-bottled Chateau Gravée Mastere. But, particularly since Grammy Chimera’s passing, my kitchen stood mostly unused. I really didn’t think microwaveable frozen dinners actually qualified as “cooking.” Truth be told, however, if it was Thursday and Jupiter was in alignment, I had been known whip up a mean banana and vanilla cookie pudding.
It was just that the kitchen was Granny Chimera’s, like the biscuit-colored wall oven that squeaked when you opened it. It reminded me of her voice, squeaking its way into my consciousness as it did every now and again. Like a voice from the other side.
That wasn’t the only thing that was visiting from the other side.
Seated in one of the high-backed wooden kitchen chairs was an ethereal, gauzy green ersatz version of the la
te, not-so-great, Spithilda Bristlebane Roach.
My heart skipped a beat. Though ghosts were not entirely uncommon on Glessie Isle, I had never exactly had one in my own kitchen before. It was more than a little disconcerting. Even Remulus kept a cautious position at my flank at the eerie sight of his former master.
The specter, for her part, sat there, slumped in a translucent hunch, staring blankly, unmoving.
“Spithilda!” I squeaked. I nervously cleared my throat and tried again. “Spithilda. How very nice to see you. You’re looking…well.”
All seven cats and the dog cast incredulous looks in my general direction.
“What?” I shrugged. “I was trying to be polite.”
I turned back to Spithilda.
“So, Spithilda.” I clapped my hands together. “How have you been? I mean, besides being dead and all.”
Onyx wrinkled his little black nose, but before he could rebuke me on breaking thirteen or so laws of afterlife etiquette, Shade jumped in with a note of merit.
“It doesn’t matter, Hattie. It’s not like she really does anything. I’m not even sure she hears you. When I got home, I felt a draft. When I turned around, there she was. Just standing there.” He pointed toward the back door with an ebony paw.
“At least now she’s there.” He pointed to the vapid spirit in the chair. “So, I guess that’s something.”
“She’s not gonna do – me-YAWN – much for a while. New ghosts need a little time to adjust.” The sleepy voice was Midnight, who came padding in an exceptionally early hour for the midnight malkin. “Right now she’s not much more than an essence of ectoplasm.”
Unfortunately, I had to take Midnight at his word. He, by far, had vastly more experience than me with things that go bump in the night.
“Well, that’s not gonna work! I need to talk to her!”
“Heh. Good luck with that,” Midnight mewed wryly.
In contrast to Spithilda’s shimmering form (though I’m pretty certain I saw a dribble of drool,) a very solid Chief Trew came exploding into my back door with a bouquet of daisies in his hand. He tripped over Remulus’ furry bulk and went flying…straight through Spithilda.
“A-w-w-kward,” Jet chuckled. He stifled an impolite giggle as the Chief wiped a sticky string of residual ecto from his face.
“What’s up, Chief? I see you’ve met Spithilda 2.0,” Gloom jibed. Spithilda, for her part, still sat, placid and unmoving.
Chief Trew executed a gauche attempt to stand. His awkwardness was incredibly endearing. He dusted off his crisp, uniform pants.
“Hattie. Cats. Spithilda?” The Chief greeted us each in turn, though he appeared as awkward as I when it came to communicating with Spithilda.
“Whatcha got there, Chief?” Shade eyed the bouquet of flowers suspiciously. If cats had eyebrows, no doubt my feline lothario would have one lifted in inquisitive playfulness.
“What?” David looked down, almost startled, at the now-droopy white starbursts in his hand. Apparently, flowers didn’t respond well to being covered in afterlife residue. He made a clumsy attempt to hide them behind his back. “I, oh, uh…ummm.”
Shade rubbed up against the Chief’s leg. “Smooth, Casanova. R-e-e-a-a-l-l smooth.”
Finally, David gave up on trying to look suave and just held the limp flowers out in front of him. “They were on sale.”
Shade gave himself a face-paw and shook his furry head. I graciously accepted the wilting flora. “Ummm, thank you?”
“Yeah, I, uh, bought some for Amber, to cheer her up, you know, and it was two-for-one, soooo…I figured they would liven the shop up, or something.”
The daisies hung, tired and a little bashed, over the lip of the Mason jar I’d set them in.
“I’m gonna go with ‘something,'” Shade quipped. I shooed him with the broom.
Chief pointed to Spithilda, who apparently held no opinion on the flowers at all. Or anything for that matter. A long string of ecto-drool stretched from her ghostly, wrinkled lip all the way to the floor.
“Blech!” Fraidy managed from his spot atop the cupboard. Safe and far from Remy and our spectral visitor.
“Has she said anything yet?” Chief asked.
I shook my head. “Not a peep. Midnight says new ghosts have a little difficulty communicating. I guess it sort of takes them a bit to learn the ropes. So, she may be this way for a while yet.”
The Chief looked flustered. “But, she may know something we need. We have to find a way to communicate with her.”
Midnight shrugged. “Hey, what can I say? Dead men do tell tales. It just takes some time.”
The clock chimed from downstairs.
Time flies.
Grammy Chimera’s voice whispered in my ear. I suddenly recalled sitting with Grammy at the kitchen table. It had been just after the incident. I shook my head. That wasn’t what the memory was trying to remind me of, was it?
Grammy had been trying to comfort me with a cup of cocoa, the kind with the tiny marshmallows. But, my tears had rendered the sweet chocolate salty. Finally, Grammy left the room. When she came back, she had an ancient spirit board. The Amarfil font letters looked oddly otherworldly on the flat, wooden board, the letters of the alphabet ordered in two arcs above the numbers zero through nine. The pointed words “yes” and “no” nestling in the top corners. The definitive “goodbye” rested directly at the bottom.
“An Ouija board!” I exclaimed suddenly, my mind immediately back in the present. I think I even spied a spark of reaction in Spithilda.
“An Ouija board! Oooooh, Hattie, no!” Fraidy cried. “Those things are dangerous!”
“Boogy, woogy, woogy, Fraidy,” Gloom spooked her cowardly brother.
He leaped vertically for the ceiling.
“An Ouija board?” Chief Trew scratched his chin.
“Good thinking, Hattie,” Midnight meowed his approval. “A spirit board would help ease the spiritual lines of communication. It might just do the trick.”
“So, whaddya think, Chief?”
“What do I think?” He smiled a heart-meltingly brilliant smile, wilted flowers all but forgotten. He cast a hopeful glance to the glowing green ghost that once had been Spithilda Roach.
“I think something Ouija this way comes.”
9
A Ghost of a Chance
In the late 1800s, Pittsburgh newspapers began running ads for a strange and mystical apparatus that could provide a doorway to other realms and help the living connect with the dead. The ads also purported that this device could divine the answers to heretofore unanswered queries and was not limited only to the here and now. No, this $1.50 item, whose validity was supported by its own patent from the venerable Patent Office of the United States, could move freely through the space-time continuum, and answer, with startlingly accurate precision, anything the curious and daring could venture to ask.
The 19th century Mainlanders were a surprisingly enlightened lot. Especially when you considered they were only separated by two hundred odd years from the witch burning heathens of Salem. Indeed, a movement known as “spiritualism” had cropped up all over the world, and was not restricted to the less-educated lower classes. In fact, such esteemed notables like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the Edinburgh-educated doctor of Sherlock Holmes fame, were devout believers in that which could not necessarily be seen by the naked eye.
Truth be told, it was not at all an unusual occurrence for members of high society to conduct séances in the parlors of their monied homes, desperate as some were to connect with loved ones lost to childbirth, unchecked disease, or war. Until the arrival of the Ouija board on the scene, communication with the dead had been limited to channeling through mediums, like the infamous upstate New York Fox sisters, with knocks and sharp raps that translated into letters of the alphabet. The Ouija board brought the power of the medium into the hands of common folk, as the spirits guided spiritually unschooled hands to reveal the mysteries of the beyond.
As I blew the dust off Grammy’s old board, it occurred to me that hers was likely one of the original boards ever produced.
“So, do you think the old gal’s still got enough spark in her to answer a few questions about the case?” Chief Trew asked.
“That depends,” Jet snickered from his position at the amorphous green feet of our supernatural visitor. “You talking about the Ouija board or Spithilda?”
The snarky comment earned his a well-deserved swat of the paw from Gloom, who lounged above him, sprawled on the kitchen table.
“Gloom!” I reprimanded. “Off the table! I don’t want my Oaty O’s to taste like kitty litter.”
Jet stuck a rough, pink tongue out at his sister, giving a nonverbal, but sufficient: “So, there!”
Gloom dragged herself up to four paws and sniffed haughtily. “At least you get Oaty O’s. I’m practically famished it’s been so long since my food bowl was filled.”
With that, Gloom jumped from the table and landed directly on Jet’s head before she started to slink off to a more isolated corner.
“Meeee-YOWL!” Jet howled.
“Omigosh!” I exclaimed. I suddenly realized I had been neglecting my poor pusses, what with the hectic schedule I’d been keeping lately. “I’m so sorry, guys! I don’t know where my mind’s been.”
“Oh, I’d say somewhere between ‘he loves me’ and ‘he loves me not,'” Shade giggled as he nosed Chief’s limp stems. I tried desperately to ignore him.
“Don’t fret, Hattie,” Onyx assured. “Gloom’s just being, well, Gloom. We haven’t been going hungry at all. Millie has been making certain we have all the food we need. She even mixed some delicious greens from Verdantia’s into our kibble yesterday as a special treat. It didn’t seem to sit well with Carbon though. Serves him right for gorging on the second batch before Millie had prepared it properly. Been belching fire and belly aching ever since. Millie gave him a bicarbonate. And, by the way, you may want to replace the parlor curtains when you get a chance. They’re pretty charred. But, the rest of us thoroughly enjoyed our greens. It’s made for bright eyes and shiny coats!” He circled on the spot, showing off his glossy coat, and widening his marbly eyes as he posed.
The Violet Countercharm: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (Hattie Jenkins & The Infiniti Chronicles Book 2) Page 8