by Eve Langlais
“Yikes.” I located a fork and arranged my meal on the kitchen island. “It sounds like she has more than one ghost,” I said, digging in. “And if the place has been haunted for a while, they might even think the shop is theirs.” Spirits tended to get possessive after decades in the same place.
I took a bite. Yum. Melody had ordered from the diner. I could taste the fresh meat drippings and the hint of rosemary in the gravy.
Melody frowned. “She doesn’t need you to get rid of every ghost. Just the one rooting around in her collectibles case.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, realizing I’d forgotten to pour myself a water. I grabbed a plastic cup and headed for the sink.
“Julie has this antique glass display case toward the back of the store,” Melody said.
“It’s about as tall as a person and it’s full of quirky, unusual things. Lots of dent–able breakables, too, like porcelain figurines, antique snuffboxes, and perfume bottles. She’ll lock up at night, come back in the morning, and the case is still locked, but the valuables inside are scattered. Last night, she lost the arm off a shepherd.”
“That doesn’t sound too tragic,” I said, taking a sip.
“She might be able to fix it, but now it’s a restored piece instead of an original. Julie doesn’t make a lot of money in her store. She can’t afford broken collectibles.” Melody pushed herself off the counter. “If it continues, it could put her out of business.”
“Ouch.” I knew all about a failing business and what it did to a person.
“She knows it’s a ghost. Nobody but Julie can enter the store or open the case. She carries the only set of store keys.” Melody crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s really upset, Verity.” She shook her head. “I know I shouldn’t have told her about you.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I agreed. Melody and Ellis were the only two people who knew my secret.
Melody plowed forward anyway. “But she’s in real trouble. You are too. Let’s face it, you could use some direction, or at least some furniture.”
“I resent that,” I told her. Mostly because it was true.
“She’ll give you a kitchen set if you can get rid of her destructive ghost,” my sister insisted. She glanced at my plate. “Maybe we can ask for dishes, too.”
That was all well and good. “But have you stopped to consider exactly how I’m supposed to know which ghost is causing the trouble?”
“I don’t know,” she said defensively. “You’re the expert.”
I barked out a laugh. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Melody didn’t let that stop her. “Julie promises to keep your secret and never tell a soul.”
“Gah. Fine.” I could see she’d never let this go. And it would feel good to do something constructive.
I ran a hand through my hair. Ellis wouldn’t be happy, but it wasn’t his decision to make. I took a second to think. I didn’t want him to worry. Of course, I wasn’t seeing him until our date tomorrow night.
“I’ll do it,” I said, “on one condition.”
“Name it,” she said, as if this would be simple.
I dropped my hand. “We go this evening.”
That way, everything would be over and good before I had to mention anything to Ellis.
Melody perked up. “She’d love that. I’ll call her right now.”
“All right then,” I said, returning to my pot roast. I’d need the energy. Hopefully, I hadn’t gotten myself into too much trouble.
We’d find out soon enough.
Chapter Two
New for You stood in a row of stone storefronts that had graced Main Street since the early 1900s. I loved this part of town, not only for its tradition, but also for its permanence.
Julie greeted us at the door. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Flame–red hair peeked out from under her colorful headscarf as she flipped the sign to Closed and ushered us inside.
A bright white 1960s modern chair sat on a ‘70s–inspired chocolate shag rug. Antique chandeliers hung from the tin ceiling.
Julie shook my hand, and held it a little longer than I expected. “Thank you, Verity,” she said, not questioning my power or how I’d gotten it. There was no distrust in her eyes, simply gratitude and determination. “I need to get this fixed.”
“I’ll do my best,” I told her. I couldn’t guarantee anything.
I adjusted the hemp bag over my shoulder. It contained a wallet, lip gloss, gum, everything a normal purse would, with the addition of Frankie’s urn. The only way I could bring the ghost with me was to schlep along his final resting place. It clanked against my keys, causing Julie to do a double take.
I merely smiled. “I like your shop.”
A faint blush stained her cheeks. “I do, too. It’s a labor of love.” She glanced from me to Melody. “And sometimes it gets a bit…unusual. Come on, let me show you what I have.”
Her flowing green skirt swooshed around her ankles as she led us back into the store. “This space used to house the oldest bar in town, a real manly place, founded during the McKinley administration,” she said. “They didn’t even let women in the door until 1952.” Faded drawings in wood frames crowded the left wall. I saw ink–drawn portraits and a watercolor of the town hall as it was being built. Julie noticed what had caught my attention. “Those are original to the bar. I left them up because I didn’t want to disturb the beer caps.”
“Beer caps?” I asked, scanning the mishmash of frames. The pictures showed people. Then I saw them. Dozens upon dozens of dust–coated bottle caps placed on top of the frames.
“A lot of boys from Sugarland had their last drink here before heading off to fight World War II. They’d each leave a beer cap on one of the frames behind the bar, and remove it when they got back. Everybody’d buy them a drink. They’d celebrate. The ones left up there are to remember the soldiers who never made it back to collect their cap. We couldn’t disturb that.”
I found myself glad that she hadn’t. I was helping a good person, one who had respect for people, both living and dead. “How long have you had this building?”
She smiled. “My mom bought it in 1974. She’s the one who started New for You. At least ten years after she bought this space, you’d have these old–timers–mostly men–stopping by, thinking they were coming into Doc’s Ale House.”
I lingered near a portrait of a doughboy being toasted in a bar by his friends. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as a flutter of cold air descended over me. Perhaps some long–dead patrons had returned as well.
“Frankie?” I hissed. “Please tell me that’s you.”
“You wish,” he said, directly behind me. “This place is buzzing.”
I hadn’t seen anything yet, and I wouldn’t until Frankie lifted the veil and showed me what others couldn’t see.
Julie watched me carefully. “Do you want to see the haunted display case?”
“Of course,” I said, resisting the urge to point out that every inch of this place was likely haunted.
“What’s happening with you?” Melody asked as we passed a few kitchen tables, a hutch, and a desk. I hardly glanced at any of it. “What are you thinking?” she pressed.
I had no answer for her. I didn’t know what to expect at this point.
Julie stopped in front of a tall display case with intricate brass trimmings. “Here’s where I’ve been having the trouble,” she said, stopping. The four black–velvet–lined shelves held an array of treasures, from estate earrings to antique pipes, perfume bottles, and letter openers.
A shadow lingered behind an old–fashioned porcelain shaving set. “Do you see that?” I asked.
Both Julie and Melody leaned in close.
“What?” my sister whispered.
It could be nothing. I didn’t know. Frankie hadn’t even tuned me in yet and I had already started seeing things.
This place was powerful.
Both of them watched me, as if they expec
ted me to whip out a Ghostbusters proton pack and solve the problem right there.
Julie averted her eyes and cleared her throat. “I can lock you in. You’ll be safe.”
From the living. She couldn’t help me with the dead.
Before she left, I needed to learn a few things. “Melody told me that you’ve mostly had spirits move objects around, or make them rattle.” It took a lot of energy for that to happen, but it didn’t necessarily scare me. I worried more about destructive ghosts. It could mean a poltergeist. “Do you think the objects in the case were purposely damaged?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“I was afraid of that,” I murmured to myself.
Julie’s eyes widened, as if it suddenly occurred to her that I could walk out of here and never look back. Perhaps I should. It would be so, so easy.
“Melody said you needed a kitchen table,” she said quickly. “Tell me what’s happening with my display, or even how to fix it, and you can have your pick.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, as my sister slipped her hand into mine and squeezed.
“Feel free to make yourself at home on any of the furniture while you’re here,” Julie added.
Hmm…that really was a bonus. A comfy–looking purple velvet couch stretched out at the edge of a small forest of mismatched chairs. I hadn’t enjoyed a good sit on a couch since I sold mine a month or two ago.
Julie drew her keys out of her pocket. “Okay, then.” She handed me a slip of paper. “Here’s my cell number. Call me if you need me.”
“Thanks,” I said, accepting it, knowing she couldn’t help me with this.
Melody hung back as her friend prepared to leave. “You’ll be okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” I assured her.
I hoped.
She gave me a hug.
“Now go.” The sooner I began my work, the sooner we’d have our answers. Besides, I didn’t want to be talking to Frankie in front of anyone.
“This is a good thing,” she reminded me.
I sincerely hoped she was right.
Chapter Three
The store felt darker after Melody and Julie left. Empty. Yes, the chandeliers blazed overhead. Display lamps shone on desks and hutches. Julie had even turned the red–shaded one next to her cash register on bright.
But the tone of the place changed. It felt like a large, empty house after dark.
“You okay?” Frankie asked.
“Sure,” I said, slipping my bag off my shoulder. I’d chosen this. I knew what I had to do. I placed my bag, along with Frankie’s urn, on the floor next to the purple couch. “Let me at least sit down and enjoy real furniture for a second before you freak me out.”
The gangster chuckled as I eased myself down onto the soft, supportive velvet cushions. “Wow,” I rumbled, letting myself relax for that one, brief, golden second.
Okay, maybe two. I closed my eyes, reveling in it.
Until a chill swept over me.
Oh, no.
The lamps dimmed. The sound of footsteps on hardwood echoed throughout the room.
I jerked my eyes open and watched the space grow darker. Ominous shadows bled across the ceiling, clouding the lamps, obscuring the reality I knew.
The ghost had begun to show me the other side.
“Aww, Frankie,” I said, scrambling to my feet as ghostly cobwebs drifted over the piece, snagging on the velvet. “I asked you to wait.”
He stood to my left, about a foot above the oak floor. “I did. I let you sit down first.”
Any further argument died on my lips as an old wooden bar shimmered into focus along the picture wall.
The bald man behind it wore round black glasses and a white short–sleeved shirt paired with suspenders. He couldn’t have been more than fifty. And I could see straight through him.
I gave a slight shiver. Yes, I’d taken on this job. One more job. But I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it.
A mix of voices mingled together, talking and laughing. Glasses clinked.
Slowly, a collection of patrons shimmered into view. Each one of them appeared in black and white.
A man in a dark suit and fedora leaned against the counter, nursing a beer while he talked to an honest–to–goodness Civil War soldier, a sergeant with muttonchops and a full dress uniform.
Now that I hadn’t seen before. My chest hurt and I realized I’d forgotten to breathe. “I thought this place opened during the McKinley administration.” Granted I wasn’t great with dates, but I knew McKinley came after Lincoln.
Frankie huffed. “What? So that means it’s closed to a guy who wants a drink?”
I swallowed hard. “Gotcha,” I mused, knowing he wouldn’t get the sarcasm. “How silly of me.”
A crowd of young men in dress pants and short–sleeved buttoned dress shirts stood near the front corner, surrounding one of their own. They laughed and patted him on the back. He wore a vintage army uniform and took a self–conscious slug of beer.
“Hey!” A curly–haired man with a full mustache and beard walked straight through the front door, arms out. He was impossible to miss. The man sported an obnoxious 1970s sports jacket that would have made Rodney Dangerfield proud.
A bunch of the guys called out, “Ringo!”
He high–fived the men near the door, and the fedora hat guy, and the Civil War soldier.
Seems Ringo got around.
His gaze settled on me. “Nice tits,” he said, aiming a wolfish grin in my direction.
God, what a pig. I crossed my arms over my chest and scooted a couple of steps closer to Frankie. “Okay, how do we tell which one of these guys is doing the damage?” I’d like to do the job and get out of here. The shadows, the overload of testosterone, the otherworldliness of this place, creeped me out.
Frankie pasted on a wide grin, refusing to even glance down. “Act casual,” he muttered through his teeth. “Stop looking at me.”
“Why?” I asked. I hoped this place wasn’t dangerous for him. He’d been okay the other times he’d shown me the other side. I gave him a quick once–over. He wore the same gray suit and tie he always did. His complexion? Watery gray. The bullet hole? Still right there in the middle of his forehead. “Are you having a problem? Do you need me to go get your urn?”
“Cripes,” he winced. “Your problem is you talk before you think.”
“What?” Fear skittered up my spine as the bartender whispered something to the fedora hat guy. Both he and the Civil War soldier turned our way.
The sergeant braced his arms on the bar. “You mean she can see us?”
Oh, hell.
Loud sports jacket guy perked up. “Groovy!”
Frankie cursed under his breath. “You said it. Before, you were just another one of the living, walking through their bar, pretending you don’t see nothin’ or nobody.”
“And now I’m a girl,” I said, finishing his thought.
The damage was done. Mr. 1970s strutted straight for me, as though he owned the place. The bartender wadded up his towel and tossed it onto a tray, watching.
The squicky ghost smoothed his mustache while undressing me with his eyes. “Well, hello there,” he said, winking. “Your name must be Lucky Charms because you’re magically delicious.”
I turned to Frankie. “Did he really just say that?”
“You started this,” Frankie said, with no sympathy at all. “I tried to stop you.”
By talking to me. Tactically speaking, that was a horrible way to get me to shut up and pay attention.
Ringo swayed, as if he heard some kind of music. Either that or he was trying to look cool. He unbuttoned his dress shirt to display–ew–a forest of chest hair. “Ever do it with the dead?” He drew a gold medallion out of his shirt and fingered it. “I’ve got a van parked outside.”
“Argh.” I needed a shower now. “What do you think I’m going to say to that?” I demanded. “Take me to your van?”
“Well, all right,�
� he said, completely missing my point.
The Civil War sergeant drew up next to me, crowding out Frankie. “A thousand pardons, miss, for this…brute.”
Ringo scoffed. “You were asking for lessons last week.”
He tossed a withering look at Ringo. Sparks of energy danced over my arms, tingling.
“That is only because I am in need of a wife.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Are these people serious?” I asked Frankie.
The sergeant’s manner softened as he turned to me. “I assure you I know how to treat a lady, even in times like this.” I wasn’t sure what time he meant exactly as he tried to lead me away. His watery cold touch seeped through me, chilling me to the bone. “Now, is your father here?”
Oh, my word. “That’s enough,” I said, edging away from them both.
Yes, it was fun to be thought of as both virgin and whore in the span of a minute, but I didn’t have time for randy ghosts.
I zigzagged around the sergeant and nearly ran straight into the gaggle of 1940s guys. A tall, well–built, Matt Damon–looking one at the front grinned as though I was the best thing he’d seen in a year. “Want to have a drink and a smoke with us?” His friends stood behind him, eager for me to say yes. “You never know,” he continued. “Today might be the last. Better make it count, right?”
Not quite. I felt one coming up behind me. Ghosts tended to shoot off chilly air. If it was Ringo, he’d better not touch me. I didn’t like that wet feeling.
“Okay.” Frankie darted over my left shoulder and pushed in between them and me. “Break it up.” He crowded the small slice of personal space the other ghosts had given me. “I get that she’s a sheba,” he told them, “but she’s under my protection and I’m not going to have you acting like a bunch of drugstore cowboys.”
I didn’t get the slang, but I had a pretty good idea he’d just defended me. “Gee, Frankie. I didn’t know you cared.”
His cheeks darkened as he straightened his tie. “I’m just trying to protect your reputation.”