by Blair Merrin
CHAPTER 13
Of course I follow her. Who wouldn’t?
By the time I lock the door behind me again, Patricia Walker is already a block and a half ahead of me. I act as casually as can, like I’m just locking my store up for the night and strolling down Main Street. She looks both ways before she ducks into a doorway. She definitely spots me, but doesn’t linger, so I assume my act of subterfuge has worked.
I know exactly where she went into. I hurry down the two blocks and stand just outside of Marla June’s Palmistry and Readings. Weird. Pete’s mom doesn’t immediately strike me as the kind of person that would visit Marla, especially considering that us Bandit Hills residents don’t exactly believe in her brand of fortune-telling.
Marla June is a psychic—self-proclaimed, anyway. There’s no doubt that she’s the best cold-reader in Tennessee, but most of us are well aware that she’s a charlatan in head scarves and silk dresses. I have to admit, though, in the last several months I’ve seen Marla do a few things that seriously lent to the possibility of her having a connection to the spirit world, although I’m not sure what that connection is exactly.
I peer in through the window and I see the small reception area empty, so I open the door as carefully as I can. It creaks a bit as I slip inside, but no one comes to greet me, so I imagine I’m in the clear. I tiptoe across the floor to a doorway covered in a thick beaded curtain, beyond which is Marla’s reading chamber, a dark room lined with cushions and a low table, where she performs her psychic magic.
I don’t move, don’t even dare breathe as I stand on the other side of the curtain, eavesdropping.
“I don’t know what she wants,” I hear Patricia Walker say. She sounds frightened. “She seems so angry. She throws things at me, moves my furniture around, breaks my dishes… It’s getting out of hand.”
I hear Marla June’s deep, sultry stage voice sigh heavily, accompanied by a “hmmm.” Then she says, “What makes you believe that the spirit is that of your deceased daughter-in-law?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know for sure, but her children are staying with me right now while Pete sorts out this nasty business. She doesn’t frighten the children. They say they can smell her perfume sometimes, or feel warmth when she’s around. When I enter the room, she starts hurling things again.”
“That is troubling,” Marla says slowly. “Sometimes spirits will act out because they are trying to send a message. Perhaps she is trying to tell you something about the nature of her death.”
“Why me?” Patricia says, her voice tremulous. “We didn’t exactly get along, Anna and I. Besides, shouldn’t the police handle that? What can I do?”
So Anna’s ghost is haunting Pete’s mother. Interesting. I dare a peek through the beaded curtain. Patricia’s back is to me, and Marla’s eyes are closed, her hands out in front of her.
“Hmm, yes. Her ethereal trail is thick on you.”
“Is she… here?” Patricia asks nervously.
“No. But for her trail to follow you all the way here means her spirit is quite strong. Her anger is projected onto you. She is certainly trying to tell you something.”
“Can’t you do something?” Patricia lowers her voice to almost a whisper. “People talk in this town, you know. They’ve said that you can do things. Like, perform an exorcism, or something.”
“I could,” Marla tells her slowly. “But don’t you want to know what it is she’s trying to convey?”
“I’d prefer she be at peace, and not frightening me. Besides, the children smell her and feel her, and it’s not healthy for them to think she’s still around.”
Marla frowns. “I will come to your home tomorrow evening. I’m afraid I’m booked until then. I will have a look around and attempt to communicate with the spirit—”
“I just want her gone,” Patricia cuts in.
“Tomorrow evening,” Marla repeats. “Seven p.m.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I slide into the booth across from Dash at Tank’s Diner. He’s already stuffing a bacon cheeseburger into his mouth.
“Sorry. You took too long,” he says around a mouthful of meat.
“It’s fine. Listen, I just heard something juicy.” I tell him about my eavesdropping on Patricia and Marla June.
He chews, swallows, and knits his brow. “So?”
“So? So, if Anna is haunting Patricia, then she likely had something to do with her murder, right?”
“Are you forgetting that you’ve been haunted like five times by people you didn’t murder? And they were usually angry, and liked to break stuff in your shop?”
“I…” He’s right. Almost every ghost that’s haunted Miss Miscellanea has broken something, usually by hurling it across the room or dropping it from a shelf. Most spirits can’t speak to the living, so I’m guessing their preferred method of communication via destruction is born out of frustration.
“Besides,” Dash continues, “Patricia Walker was with Pete’s kids at the gas station at the time of the murder. She doesn’t own any guns, and she has no motive.”
“Her and Anna didn’t get along. Patricia caused the rift in her and Pete’s relationship. Anna’s sister confirmed it.”
“Right. But what would murder solve that divorce couldn’t?” Dash takes another big bite of his burger.
I think for a moment as Dash eats. I steal some of his fries for inspiration. Tank’s has awesome fries, beer-battered and crispy, seasoned with black pepper and paprika. After I’ve eaten about half of them, I snap my fingers.
“The kids. Even with the divorce, Patricia would never really be rid of Anna because she’s the mother of her grandkids. They’d always have that connection.”
Dash shrugs. “It’s thin, Cass.”
“Maybe. But Marla June is going to Patricia’s house tomorrow evening to exorcise Anna’s ghost. I think maybe that would be a good time to question her, don’t you?”
CHAPTER 14
Dash and I get to Patricia Walker’s house at six forty-five the following evening. We let Phil know ahead of time what we were up to, and while he didn’t exactly give us his blessing, he’s been privy to stranger things. That’s Bandit Hills for ya.
Pete’s mother lives in a lime-green rambler-style home in the ‘burbs, not far from where the McGees used to live (“used to live” because Mr. McGee is dead, and Mrs. McGee is serving hard time for killing him with a shovel) so I immediately have a sense of foreboding associated with this part of town.
We ring the doorbell and Patricia answers. When she sees us, her smile is replaced suddenly by confusion, since she was expecting Marla.
“What?” she asks curtly.
“Mrs. Walker, we’d like to ask you a few questions,” Dash says very officially.
“Now’s not a good time. I’m expecting company.”
“It’ll just take a few minutes,” Dash assures her.
She sneers. “Right. The not-a-cop and the shopkeeper want to question me. Am I right in assuming you don’t have a warrant?”
“That’s right.”
“Then kindly go away.” She smiles sweetly and starts to close the door in our face when a deep female voice rings out from behind us.
“Cassandra! Dashiell! How lovely to see you here.” Marla June sweeps up the walkway in a flowing purple dress, matching scarves tying back her long hair. “What a great idea, Mrs. Walker, inviting people Anna knew in life. Spirits do tend to be more relaxed in good company.”
“But I didn’t…” Patricia starts to protest, but Marla June is already opening the door and pushing past her. I look at Dash, shrug, and follow Marla inside.
Patricia Walker’s mouth shrinks to a tiny straight line in her face, but she lets it happen. Inside the home, two adorable children watch television from a white sofa nearby. The little girl, probably around seven, is blonde and strikingly similar to Anna, while the boy, slightly older, has brown hair and shares many of Pete’s features.
“
Kids, why don’t you watch TV in your room?” Patricia suggests pleasantly. “Grandma needs to talk with these nice people.” She shoots me and Dash a glare when she says “nice.”
The kids rise from the sofa and retreat down a hall. A moment later, a door closes, and Patricia turns on the three of us.
“Alright, what do we have to do?” Patricia asks Marla.
Marla June wanders around the living room with her hands out in front of her. “My, yes. There is a strong spiritual presence here.” She barely finishes her sentence before a book flies from a shelf and over Patricia’s head. The older woman ducks and the book strikes the wall behind her.
“You see?!” she screeches. “She’s been doing that constantly!”
“Perhaps we should try to find out what she wants,” Marla suggests.
“No! I want her gone!” Patricia shouts back.
“Marla,” I cut in, “maybe you could channel Anna’s spirit, relay a message to us?” I’ve seen Marla do that once before, though it was actually a living witch that Marla channeled, and not a spirit. I’m not entirely certain that it’s something she’s capable of.
Marla frowns. “Cassie, it’s quite rude to offer up someone else’s body to a spirit. However… it could work.”
“No channeling! I want that ghost out of here!” Patricia protests.
“Let’s see what she wants,” I challenge Patricia, staring her down.
“Get out of my house right now!” Patricia shouts at me.
Marla glances quickly between the two of us, unsure of what to do. Another book flies overhead, narrowly missing Patricia’s head. Dash, meanwhile, edges backward with tiny steps until his back is to the front door, in case a quick getaway is needed. Like I said before, he’s not too comfortable with the supernatural stuff.
“Channel her, Marla!”
“Get rid of her!”
Marla puts her hands at her sides, palms out, and opens her mouth wide. There’s a strange sound, like water circling a drain, and we all fall silent watching her. Suddenly Marla’s entire body spasms once, twice, and then she opens her eyes, glancing at each of us in turn as if looking at us for the first time.
She looks at Patricia last, and her eyes narrow angrily.
“You!” she shouts. Her voice is high-pitched and screeching. “You did this to me! It’s all your fault!”
Patricia shrinks back in fear until she hits a wall. “I-I didn’t…”
“You never wanted us together! You would’ve done anything to drive us apart!”
“Go away! Leave me alone!” Patricia wails.
“Grandma?” Anna’s little boy rounds the corner, coming across the strange scene of the tall woman in purple shouting at his grandmother.
Marla’s gaze immediately softens. She smiles at the boy. “Oh, my babies. Mommy loves you, very much.” Then she spasms again, and crumples to a heap on the living room floor. The poor kid’s eyes go wide, and he slowly backs down the hall the way he came.
“That’s enough for me,” Dash mutters. He quickly exits through the front door, taking out his phone at the same time.
I help Marla off the floor. “You okay?”
“Yes, I believe so. Was I helpful?”
“Definitely.”
Marla looks around, puzzled. “She’s gone. The spirit has left.”
Patricia Walker stands rooted to the spot, her eyes wide with terror. “No,” she mutters. “That wasn’t real. You’re a fraud; everyone knows it. No one will believe you.”
I shrug. “Believe it or not, Patricia, stranger things have happened.”
Fifteen minutes later Deputy Sharon arrests Patricia Walker on suspicion of murder. She puts the older woman in the back of the car, and she and Dash wait on the front lawn for Pete to show up to take care of the kids. Marla, somewhat shaken, heads down to the police station to give her side of the story, which leaves me in the living room with two small children.
I don’t really know much about kids, admittedly. Not sure I’ll ever have any of my own. But regardless of whether or not these two are half-Pete, they’re downright adorable.
“I’m Cassie,” I tell the boy. The little girl hides behind her brother. “What’s your name?”
“Peter,” he answers.
“Of course it is. Uh, Peter, can I ask you something?”
He nods a little.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
He nods again.
“Okay. When you were at the gas station with your mommy, to meet your dad and grandma, did your mom… hurt your dad at all? Did she touch him?”
Pete, Jr. frowns and shakes his head, no.
I know, I know; it’s probably wrong. The cops aren’t allowed to question the kids, but nobody said I can’t.
“Okay, Peter. And was your grandma with you the whole time?”
He nods again.
“The whole time?”
“Uh-huh. She stayed with us while Daddy went to the bathroom.”
“Thank you, Peter. That’s very helpful.”
“Where are they taking Grandma?”
“Uh…” I try to come up with a kid-friendly answer, but nothing comes to mind. What do I tell them? You see, kids, that nice hippie-lady channeled Mommy’s ghost, and totally pointed the finger at Grandma…
Luckily I don’t have to say anything, because our conversation is cut off by Pete’s booming, enraged shouts from outside.
“What’s going on here? Get her out of that car! You have no proof! She wasn’t involved at all! Don’t you worry, Ma, I’m gonna get you out! Don’t say a word until the lawyer shows up!”
The front door opens and Dash sticks his head in quick. “Time to go, Cassie.”
CHAPTER 15
Most folks would probably find it strange that someone could be arrested for suspicion based on the screeching wails of an angry ghost. But like I said, stranger things have happened, and this is Bandit Hills.
Dash and I follow Sharon’s cruiser back to the police station, where she escorts Mrs. Walker to a holding cell in the rear of the station. There are only two, and the other is being occupied by Chad Holland, who makes sure to shoot us a sneering glare from the other side of the bars. I also catch a glimpse of Dexter Maximoff, the eccentric rich drunk, sweeping the tiled floor outside of the holding cells in a white collared shirt and slacks, which presents enough of a dichotomy for me to want to turn off my brain for a while.
But of course, Dash won’t let me.
While Sharon fills Phil in on what went down, Dash and I retreat to the front desk of the station and chat in low tones.
“This is no good at all,” he mutters.
“Why’s that? You heard Anna’s ghost. She said, ‘You did this to me.’”
“Right, because that will hold up in court. Far as we know, Patricia was with the kids the whole time during Anna’s murder. Phil’s working on getting a subpoena to question the kids—”
“No need. I sort of… did that already.”
“Cassie!” Dash scolds. “Well? What’d they say?”
“They said Grandma was with them the whole time.”
Dash groans. “Great. So we’ve got an airtight alibi for Patricia and Pete, and zero evidence against Chad—”
“Other than that he’s a big ol’ stealing jerk.”
“Yeah, other than that.”
“How long can Phil hold Patricia?”
“Not for long. She’ll lawyer up, and probably be out of here by tomorrow morning. We’ve got nothing.”
Phil approaches us casually with his thumbs hooked into his impressive cop utility belt. “What is it with you two and ghosts?”
“I don’t know, man. They seem to really like me,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “This won’t hold her for long. But unless you got something else, why don’t you two head home and let us take it from here?”
Bed sounds amazing right about now, so I nod and let Dash drive me home.
; * * *
I have trouble falling asleep that night. My mind swims with thoughts of murder and bullets and gas stations and jealous boyfriends.
Finally I manage to drift off for a while. I wake with a start some time later. My bedside alarm clock tells me it’s five in the morning.
“Oh, my god. How did I not see that before?” I scold myself. I call Dash. He doesn’t answer. I call him a second time. Still no answer.
On the third try, I leave him a somewhat unkind voicemail announcing that I’m on my way over.
* * *
Dash’s apartment is the ground floor of a brick building that used to be an inn of some sort like a hundred years ago. In the eighties it was renovated into four apartments, one on each floor and one in the attic.
I bang briskly on his door for a while. When there’s no answer, I go around to the side, where I know his bedroom is, and rap hard at the window for five minutes straight. Finally, he shoves the curtains aside and slides the window up, looking exhausted and not a little irate.
“Cassie, what on earth are you doing here?”
“Put pants on and come with me.”
He looks down at his checkered boxer shorts and blushes a little. “Why?”
“Because I said so, doofus. Come on!”
He grumbles while he closes the window, something about me being crazy and how no other girlfriends ever woke him up at five a.m. by banging on his window, but two minutes later he comes out through the front door dressed in jeans and a light jacket.
“Okay. Pants are on. Where are we going?”
“In the car. Come on.”
He gets into my SUV, still grumbling, and I start driving. “What do we know about the gas station incident? Patricia was with the kids the whole time. Pete claims that Anna twisted his arm, though there’s no indication that’s true. He went inside, complained a lot to the clerk, got some ice, and then used the bathroom.”