by J. B. Lynn
"Hello?"
Actually, once I thought about it, I was surprised that I hadn't encountered three ghosts. Maybe the others were waiting in another area of the house. Careful to avoid stepping in any of the smears or pools of blood, I made my way back to the staircase and slowly climbed the steps.
Once there I saw four doorways. Two of the doors were open, and two closed. Strange, since crime scene investigators tend to leave all the doors of a place open. Not to mention, their tendency to cover every imaginable surface with fingerprint powder.
I started with one of the closed doors. Fighting the urge to knock before entering, I swung it open, fully prepared to face another bloody scene…or half-headless ghost. Instead all I got was one extraordinarily trashed bedroom.
A picture frame, hanging crookedly from the wall, caught my eye. I stepped closer to examine it. It was a newspaper article. I recognized the cleft chin of the headless ghost I'd just encountered. He'd been a geeky looking kid when he'd been alive. I read the caption. "Buck Hopkins wins Pharmaceutical Scholarship." That explained the science equipment.
"Hello, Buck!" I called out.
I got no answer.
The bed was overturned; the contents of upended dresser drawers spilled on the floor, and the closet had been ransacked.
"Either the world's biggest pig lived here," I mused aloud, "or somebody was looking for something."
Receiving no response from the nearly departed, I decided he wasn't in the mood to make conversation, so I moved on to the next room. This door was open. Like the room next door, the place had been trashed.
I picked up one of the remains of a sports trophy and read the inscription. Donald McGrath, 3rd Place Regionals.
"Who knew golfers got trophies?" I muttered, carefully putting it back down.
I didn't see any biohazard clean-up duties in this room either.
Maybe all three had been killed downstairs. It would explain the bloodshed. If that was the case, this job wouldn't be nearly as bad as I thought it might be.
Wishful thinking.
The third bedroom, which also had an open door, was a reproduction of the mess downstairs. Dried blood was everywhere, on the walls, soaked into the carpeting, and in every nook and cranny. It was a nightmare.
I shuddered as I calculated how much encapsulant and germicide spray it was going to take to rehydrate the blood and transform it into a form that could be removed. I'd be lugging cans, not to mention the self-contained vacuum which weighed a ton, up and down the stairs for hours.
Sighing, I turned to the last door and eyed it warily. Having been through the rest of the house, I knew it was the bathroom. I hated, hated cleaning bathrooms. A high percentage of suicides killed themselves in the tub, no doubt thinking that they were making things easier on the person who had to clean up after their mess. It was a nice idea, but in reality, having to clean the cramped quarters of a bathroom was more difficult than cleaning, say, the master bedroom. Also, it was a little known fact that brain matter, for those who thought a self-inflicted head wound was the most efficient way to go, dried to a cement-like consistency that was a bitch to remove.
According to the news, the police now believed one kid, Martin "Art" Nottoway, had killed the other two and then had taken his own life. Surely the guy who'd viciously murdered his roommates wouldn't have shown any kind of "consideration" for whoever would have to clean up his mess. Then again, I couldn't figure out why all the rooms had been trashed. Had he been looking for something…or had he just been that angry?
"Please, please, please," I muttered, offering up a prayer to the porcelain throne god.
I took a deep breath and held it as I pushed open the door.
A blast of ice cold air smacked me in the face. My lungs emptied of their own accord.
It was the bloodiest room of them all.
* * *
"I've never hired anyone without seeing a resume and checking their references before," I told Delia nervously.
Delia, perched on the bumper of the Spring Cleaning van, preferred to examine her split ends rather than discuss my hiring practices.
All day long I'd been second-guessing my decision to hire Smoke Barclay. Now, after spending the day finishing Myron's motel room and inspecting the frat boys' house, I was in my detached two car garage which doubled as the storage warehouse for Spring Cleaning, getting all the equipment ready and fully loaded in for the college students job. Nothing screwed with the momentum of a job like having to leave to get more equipment. Half the battle was walking in the door the first time. I was trying to get everything loaded before the storm clouds hovering above decided to burst.
"What happened with the unsent letter?" Delia asked, tucking her offending hair into the collar of her black turtleneck.
I'd told her about Myron the night before.
"It was kind of sweet actually. Apparently one of his old neighbors had written to him asking whether he had kept in touch with her nephew who he'd been friends with. The nephew had come into an inheritance, but no one could find him. Myron had tracked the guy down and the letter had all of his contact information." I paused for a second to catch my breath after lugging the ozone machine to the edge of the garage. "Luckily his car was still in the lot, so I was able to find the letter and mail it for him."
"And he's…gone?" Delia was always most interested in this part of the process.
"Uh-huh. And no, no bright light, no shimmering, no drifting away through a window. Hell, I didn't even get a thank you for my trouble. One moment he was there, and the next he was gone."
Delia nodded, clearly disappointed.
A driver on a bright yellow motorcycle revved up the driveway.
"Not again," I muttered, striding over to the bike and trying to wave him away. "You need to go to 26 Washington Avenue!" I shouted. "This is Washington Street!"
The driver turned off the engine.
I considered knocking on his helmet with the can of Luminol I held but instead shouted again, "You need to go to Washington Avenue! This is Washington Street!"
The driver removed his helmet, revealing a shaved head, bright blue eyes, and an easy smile. It occurred to me that Smoke Barclay's smile was probably one of the reasons Tom's sister had fallen for him.
"Why would I want to go there?" Smoke asked, eyeing the Luminol as though he knew I'd considered hitting him with it.
Frowning, I glanced at my watch. "You're early." Thirty minutes early to be exact. I was accustomed to Spring Cleaning employees showing up late…if at all.
Swinging himself off the bike, Smoke shrugged. "I wasn't sure how long it would take to get here. So my punishment is to go to another street? "
"I didn't know it was you. The house at 26 Washington Avenue is for sale, but half a dozen buyers have come knocking on my door. Does this house look like it's for sale?"
He took a long, slow look at the overgrown yard, the peeling paint, and the boarded up window. "It looks like a cat lady's house. Mike didn't tell me you're a cat lady."
"I am not a cat lady!" Putting my hands on my hips, I glared at him. "I'll have you know I don't own a single pet."
He raised his hands defensively. "Okay, okay, you're not a cat lady. No need to be touchy about it."
I looked away. I knew the house was an eyesore, but it wasn't my fault. I worked insane hours, and every contractor I hired quit before they finished.
Hearing the distant rumble of thunder, I looked up at threatening sky. For once in my life, I was grateful for the opportunity to steer the conversation to something as banal as the weather. "The weatherman didn't mention a word about rain tonight."
"Tell me about it. I wouldn't have taken my bike out if I'd known it was going to rain."
"One of the few jobs where people actually pay you to be wrong half the time." Geez, was I really going on about the weather?
"Since I'm here anyway, why don't I help you load the van before it starts to pour? We can get the paperwork out of the wa
y once we're done." Without waiting for me to reply, Smoke walked up to the garage and lifted the ozone machine with an ease I envied. "Do you want this anywhere in particular?"
I was going to tell him that I didn't need his help, but a big, fat raindrop hit my nose. "It gets strapped to the back of the passenger's seat," I told him.
It had been a long time since I'd loaded the van with someone else. I'd forgotten how quickly it could be done with two sets of hands sharing the work. Foggers, to vaporize liquid disinfectant which killed whatever lurked behind walls and under floors, deodorizers, bleach, respirators, suits, heavy duty plastic bags, and hard plastic tubs quickly filled the space. Within minutes the job was done.
"Thank you," I said as I went around closing all the vehicle doors. The raindrops were falling faster. "Do you want to leave your bike in the garage while you come inside?"
"Sure." He maneuvered the vehicle into the garage just as the downpour began in earnest.
"This way!" I gestured for him to follow as I led the way across the jungle-like backyard to the kitchen door at the back of the house.
Following me inside, he studied the counter which was covered in cans of soup, vegetables, fruit, and boxes of rice and pasta. "Nice place."
Knowing that it looked like the home of a crazed survivalist, I harrumphed my disbelief. "The office is through here."
He followed me through the dining room to the spare bedroom which housed the offices of Spring Cleaning. The kitchen might have been a mess, but at least this room was neat and orderly. Jerry had set up the system with military precision, and I'd done my best to maintain it.
"This place has good bones." Smoke ran his fingers along the chair rail, admiring the craftsmanship.
I had never been enamored with the charms of the place, and now that I was intimately acquainted with every drafty window and leaky pipe, I was even less inclined to sing its praises. "This place has cheap rent."
If Smoke heard my irritation he didn't let on. "How come? It's a pretty nice neighborhood."
"Some people think it's haunted."
"Is it?"
"Yup. Have a seat." I motioned to the three empty chairs and was surprised when he settled into the old wooden rocker instead of one of the desk chairs. I picked up the folder I'd prepared and sat down.
"Tom sent me your certifications."
"Nice of him. Then again, he's eager to get rid of me."
"So we just need to go over a couple of things. Hours, salary…"
A loud banging noise interrupted me.
Smoke raised his eyebrows. "Your ghost?"
"Thursday." Leaving him to ponder that nonsequiter, I ran toward the front door. The banging intensified. "Keep your pants on, Joe!" I shouted.
Yanking open the front door, I found Joe, the grizzled delivery guy of indeterminate age, holding two pizza boxes. He thrust them at me before I could even say hello and scurried away.
"Talkative fellow," Smoke said, suddenly standing only a few feet behind me.
"Like I said, some people think this place is haunted. It's scarier when it's raining." I kicked the front door shut, balanced the pies against my hip, and threw the deadbolt. "You wouldn't let me buy you breakfast. Can I interest you in dinner?"
"What did 'Thursday' mean?"
I led the way back to the kitchen. "It means I have a standing order for two pies to be delivered every Thursday evening."
"That's pathetic."
"That's efficient," I countered, pulling paper plates and napkins out of a kitchen cabinet. "I've got either plain or pepperoni."
Smoke reached over my shoulder and reopened the cabinet I'd just closed. I froze, trapped between the cabinet and his body. Even though he wasn't touching me, I could feel his body heat. I peeked up at him.
He was staring into the cabinet. "How long have you lived here?"
"Three years."
He tilted his head so that he was looking down at me. "But there are no dishes. Just paper goods."
We stood so close that his breath tickled my cheek as he spoke. My throat went dry. I had to swallow hard before I was able to answer. "This place doesn't have a dishwasher." Desperate to put some space between us, I ducked under his arm and yanked open the fridge. "Sorry, but I'm kinda limited on beverage choices. Would you prefer water or water?"
Smoke started systematically searching through my kitchen cabinets. "There's nothing in any of these. It's like you never moved in."
"Hey, are you always such a snoop? Because I don't tolerate my employees going through other's people stuff."
He turned and looked back at me. "I've never seen anything like this. The place looks abandoned from the outside, and in here it looks like you've never moved in."
Flipping open the lid of one of the pizza boxes, I hid behind it as I mumbled, "It's not my fault." I put a slice of pepperoni on a doubled-up paper plate.
"What's not your fault?"
"The way it looks. I hire people to fix things, but they never finish the job."
"Why not?"
I handed him the plate and a bottle of water. "I told you, people think the place is haunted. My brother, Jerry, loved…loves it though."
"So he lives here too?"
I hesitated. "His name is on the lease."
Smoke cocked his head to the side and stared at me, trying to read on my face everything I wasn't telling him.
"What did Mike tell you about me?" I asked, repeating the very same question he'd asked me in the diner that morning, as we slid onto stools at the kitchen table.
"He said you were the sister of his best friend, that you run Spring Cleaning, and…" he trailed off.
"And?" I prompted.
"And that you were looking to hire."
I had the distinct impression that his answer was a half-truth designed to appease me, but I let it go, unsure I really wanted to hear Mike's frank assessment of me and the situation I'd managed to get myself twisted up in.
"So," I said, deftly changing the subject, "I went to tomorrow's job this afternoon."
Smoke's eyes narrowed. "I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't go to that scene alone."
"The landlord met me there." I neglected to mention that he'd left the moment the key had hit my palm. "It looks like they were killed in three separate rooms, so it's going to be a time-consuming job."
"Listen to me, Victoria. You can't be going there alone. It's not safe." Leaning very close, he invaded my personal space without actually making physical contact. The intensity glittering in his gaze was unnerving.
Instinctively I reared back, almost falling over. I swallowed hard and tried to retake control of the conversation. "First: The only person who calls me Victoria is someone I don't particularly like. Second: I heard that the police think that one boy killed his roomies and then himself, so there's nothing to be afraid of." Except for a frightened, half-headless ghost who falls through walls, I amended silently.
"It still doesn't mean it's safe," Smoke said softly.
Before I could respond, I heard a familiar splat.
"Bastards!" Jumping up, I grabbed two soup cans off the counter and charged out the kitchen door into the storm.
CHAPTER FOUR
I wasn't too confident that Smoke Barclay would show up to help me with the college student bloodbath. He hadn't approved of my method for scaring off the local kids who pelted the neighborhood haunted house with tomatoes, eggs, or anything else that made a satisfying splat against my back door.
He'd muttered, "Mike never mentioned anger management issues," after following me outside and witnessing my inaccurate aim as I chucked chicken noodle and split pea at the rear tires of the escaping dirt bikes.
He'd hesitated when I'd asked him if he still wanted to sign the Spring Cleaning employment contract, but he had ultimately scribbled his John Hancock in all the appropriate spots. Apparently he was less worried about my violent outburst than his lustful stalker. I argued that the little heathens deserved to be tossed into a maxi
mum security prison for breaking my window three months earlier, but Smoke disagreed. I half-expected to never set eyes on the man again.
And I would have been okay with that.
At least that's what I told myself the next morning as I trudged across the rear parking lot of the diner. Per the request of the owners, Sam and George, I always parked in the back so as not to have the Spring Cleaning van scare off potential diners. Just the idea of Crime Scene Clean-Up tends to turn stomachs.
As I passed the garbage dumpster, I realized that Carla, my favorite waitress, was being hassled by someone. She looked upset. Carla handled randy cross-country truck drivers and obnoxious teenagers with practiced indifference. I'd never seen her upset. I slowed, wondering if I should intervene.
The short guy with greasy hair doing the hassling had his back to me, so I couldn't see his face.
Deciding I should try something novel and just mind my own business, I walked past, turned the corner, and headed toward the front door. I'd almost reached the steps leading inside when I heard the scream.
"Murderer!"
So much for trying something new. I took off at a dead run toward the back of the diner.
"Let her go, you son-of-a-bitch!" a female voice shrieked.
Rounding the corner, I skidded to a stop. The greasy-haired man had Carla by the arm and was shaking her. Both turned in my direction. The man's face a mask of rage, Carla's a mask of terror.
It wasn't Carla who was screaming though. It was the ghost in the gold dress I'd seen inside the diner the day before. She'd wedged herself between Carla and the man and was trying to shove him away, but she kept falling through his chest.
"Let her go!" the ghost screamed.
"Everything okay, Carla?" I asked.
"Mind your own business," the guy snarled.
Every muscle in my body tensed, wanting to take flight, but I stood my ground. I'd been bullied by his kind before, and I'd survived…barely. I couldn't in good conscious just walk away.
"Tell him to go to hell," the ghost urged, floating over to my side.
I had a big enough problem dealing with the living people I faced, so I made sure I didn't indicate that I could see and hear the ghost.