The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1)

by Brent Kroetch

  “Did you see this, too, Charlie, that same vision?” Ham asked. She answered with a shake of her head, saying nothing beyond that mute denial. “All right, go on,” he instructed Blake.

  “After the dream, she put herself into a trance, which is something she can do, and more details emerged. I’d been murdered, she could see a hole in my heart, but the vision didn’t include a who or a where, either because it’s too remote in time or because she’s too close to the subject, meaning me. And she still hasn’t, by the way, not the who nor the where. That’s not unusual, though, it’s the way these things work, they come and go, you can’t demand answers. You just have to be open to when they come.”

  “Three days is too remote?”

  Blake paused for a sip of coffee and, apparently, a moment of nervous reflection, for his voice was almost a whisper when he continued. “Yeah, it can be, it all depends. Be that as it may, answers did come, at least in part. She saw three separate threats to my life, three attempts that would fail, before the final victorious denouement.” At Ham’s raised eyebrows, Blake tinkled that lilting laugh. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be obscure. Once an artist always an artist. By denouement, of course, I mean the finale, the one that ends it all. Whatever it is, whereever it is, however it’s done.”

  Ham pushed has chair back from the table, grabbed his cup and rose once again, though this time not to stare through the view of those picture windows. It was to pace. Pacing had always been his muse. He couldn’t think if he couldn’t walk and he couldn’t imagine how anybody could. Sitting rigidly perched in a chair creates a rigidity mind, he believed. It was as simple and as complicated as that.

  He recognized his mind had been embarrassingly rigid. Or at least had become so after first deteriorating into the pathetically soft. He’d whipsawed from one to the other as he’d reacted to the inexplicable. And therein lay his problem, the fact that he’d been reactive rather than anticipative. The metaphorical kiss of death for an investigator—and maybe the literal kiss for Blake if his investigator continued down that path.

  Ham took a slug of coffee and refilled his cup from the urn Charlie had provided. Still he did not sit but roamed the now seemingly confined space of the expansive veranda. He raised the mug in emphasis as he explained, “I owe you an apology, both of you. Blake, you first and foremost, because it’s your life we’re talking about here, your life you’re entrusting me with. But also to you, Charlie, for not trusting you enough to know that you’d never play a game like this, not for any reason. I had convinced myself otherwise, but I only convinced a fool.”

  The beauteous dancing waves, the sailboats, the distant surfers seemingly conspired to capture him as he stared off in the distance, ramrod stiff and stock still. After several long drawn out minutes, he sighed, a weary resignation of misery.

  “This has happened before. Once. About ten years ago, maybe twelve, something like that, I got an award, one of those fucking medals cops use to pretend that we’re decorated soldiers, a piece of bronze I promptly trashed. I couldn’t stand what it stood for, a potent reminder that I’d almost let my prejudice get a little girl killed.”

  “Oh, Ham,” Charlie sighed.

  “There was a kidnapping…”

  “Wherein you had a psychic, who felt duty bound to help,” Charlie interrupted, “a psychic who basically solved the case for you. In thanks and appreciation, you had her arrested and charged with murder since as you put it at the time ‘only the kidnapper and I have this much detailed knowledge of the crime scene.’ But it worked out in the end, you found it in yourself to be open enough to check her out, and you ended up saving a little girl’s life. The psychic did you the favor of hanging around her cell long enough for you to do that and, in the end, she came to admire you.”

  “She hung around her cell long enough…” Oh hell, go ahead and react. One more time won’t hurt. “Charlie, how do you know all this? I don’t recall ever mentioning it. And what do you mean that she hung around, I sure never said anything like that.”

  Blake supplied the answer. “That little girl was Martina’s great-granddaughter. That’s how Charlie found out about you in the first place, why you were hired to help her with that hit and run. Martina told her.”

  “And by hanging around,” Charlie added, “she meant of course that she could have disappeared any time she wanted to. She is a ghost, remember.”

  Ham nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, of course, that’s absolute, very clear. You can’t keep a good ghost down, everybody knows that.”

  “There you go again, Ham,” Charlie scolded.

  He was beginning to ache for “Hamster”.

  “You’re probably right, but this is just a touch esoteric for my pedestrian mind, you know? I’m just a guy who tries to do what his conscious dictates, as best he can. I’m not out for me, not like the rest of humanity. I won’t, I can’t, cheat, lie, steal, destroy people to get what I want, to scam money I didn’t earn, like everybody else is in this godforsaken world.”

  “You’ve lived a really sad life, Ham.”

  “No, Charlie, I’ve led a really real life.” Suddenly he laughed with the irony of it all. “Let me correct that. I’ve led a really real life up to now. And you know what? This could be more fun.” He shook his head in affirmation and rubbed his hands with anticipatory glee. “It sure as hell could. So...what say we get started.” Still grinning madly, he picked up the check—the obscene bunch of zeros—and folded it into his wallet. “All right, then, let’s put on those surveillance tapes, Charlie, and see what we got.”

  His wide grin threatened to burst his cheeks when she replied with a sprightly, “You got it, Hamster.”

  Charlie manned the remote as she, Ham and Blake studied the soundless footage. The sharp color imagery indicated a first class system that made identification a breeze, or would have had there been much to see. The morning traffic trickled in and out, with the bulk of the tape occupied by emptiness, save for the steady image of Carson at his desk, his reading interrupted mostly by quick glances at his watch.

  Where frames revealed passersby, Charlie paused and zoomed, and Ham would look at each inquiringly. At their shrugs, she’d resume the parade of dullness, a dullness which glazed strained eyes with ennui. Until both Ham, Blake and Charlie each bolted from their seats with shocked awareness.

  “Drew!” Ham shouted simultaneously with Blake’s and Charlie’s yell of “Russ!” They watched, fascinated, as Russ and Drew ambled over to Carson’s station and had a few unheard words with him before Russ accepted something from Carson’s outstretched hand, something that they could not make out. Russ then escorted Drew to the door, waved a quick goodbye and returned to the elevator, the doors closing behind him. They continued to observe until the elevator indicator marked Russ’ exit at the sixth floor.

  “Who is she?” Blake demanded.

  “Russ?” Ham countered.

  “Don’t you know anything about Truckee River?” Charlie asked him. “Russ Porter, Popster’s songwriting partner, sometimes lead, sometimes rhythm guitar player, also plays sax and piano. One half of the Big Two of the band.”

  “Yeah, that I know, but I sure would’ve never recognized him. He doesn’t look like him, not the him I’m familiar with anyway. That is one old dude.”

  “Who’s Drew?” Blake again demanded.

  Ham explained his long association with Drew, both personal and professional, her co-ownership of her current firm, how she’d surprised him that morning and where, that she was employed by some deep pockets who seemed aware of his involvement with Blake. “So let me ask you,” he summed up, “did you tell Russ about me, about what the psychic said?”

  “He’s my partner. And my best and closest friend for the past fifty years. Why wouldn’t I tell him?”

  “You wanted it kept out of the newspapers,” Ham reminded him. “The more people you tell, the less likely that is to happen. That aside, you didn’t know Russ was here? Does he have a condo there, ove
r in that building?”

  Confusion danced across Blake’s face. “He didn’t tell me he was coming, no. I had no idea. But yes, he owns unit six-o-three.” After a pause, he asked, “Why would he hire a private detective? And, especially, why your friend? How would he even know she’s your friend? It can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

  Ham flashed him a conspiratorial grin. “Nope to the last, and don’t know as to the rest. However, Drew invited me to dinner tonight. What say we all go, and you extend the invitation to Russ, too.”

  Blake grinned back as he flipped open his cell phone. “I’ll make the call.”

  “I’ll make some sandwiches,” Charlie offered.

  “And I’ll sit here confused and ignorant,” Ham sighed. “It’s what I do best.”

  7

  ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER

  Each munched on the egg salad sandwiches that Charlie had prepared, a surprisingly zesty version of which was accompanied by a pitcher of ice cold, handmade lemonade. Either Charlie loved the kitchen, Ham mused, or Blake refused domestic help at his island retreat. Probably both, he decided. From what he’d seen, he felt it unlikely that Blake would burden his adored daughter with chores she preferred not to undertake.

  Ham had wolfed down the first half of his sandwich—he’d been surprised at the hunger that revealed itself at the sight of the feast—and was reaching for the second, still cradling his drink in his left hand, when the thought reoccurred. “What does that mean, by the way, that Carson belongs to Martina?”

  Charlie, about to take another bite, glanced at him over her own sandwich. “He’s a ghost trainee.”

  Ham stared, open jawed—then fell into raucous laughter and was forced to set down his lemonade before he jiggled the contents over the brim. “A ghost trainee?” he gasped. “What in the name of all that is holy is a ghost trainee? You’ve got to train to be a ghost? I would’ve figured a ghost, if there is a ghost, is a ghost by nature. All you got to do is die. What the hell training could there be?”

  “He doesn’t know how to dematerialize at will yet, can’t see too much of future events, that kind of thing.”

  “So Carson’s a ghost, too.”

  “Not officially. Like I said, he’s a trainee.”

  Ham took a bite of the egg salad and nodded sagely. “Yes, I see, I said although I didn’t…Charlie, do you really believe in all…Never mind, of course you do. Blake, do you believe all this?”

  Blake shrugged. “I believe in Martina. She’s always been there for me. I also know she looks the same now as she did 40 years ago. I don’t know how else to explain that.”

  “Have you ever seen her…dematerialize?”

  “No.”

  “You, Charlie?”

  “No.”

  Ham threw up his hands, the right one occupied by sandwich, as he glanced between the two of them. “Then how can you…?” He controlled his frustration, reminding himself that the decision had been made and that it was, in his mind, irrevocable. And in that regard, whether they truly believed that Martina was a ghost or not was entirely irrelevant to the gist of his investigation. Only Martina herself mattered, and he’d investigate her ass up one side and down the proverbial other. If she ever materialized.

  “Never mind,” he declared, “let’s forget it. How’s your sandwich, Blake?”

  “That,” he announced, putting napkin to lip, “was simply outstanding, absolutely beyond compare. Thank you, Charlie, your culinary genius once again rears its aromatic head.”

  Charlie beamed a blush that momentarily shushed her. Ham, on the other hand, surrendered to a chuckle. “Right,” he smiled, “as you said, once an artist, always an artist. Does that mean you can’t use straight talk like the rest of us simpletons?”

  Blake’s eyes shone with amusement. “How would you have put it?”

  “I dunno,” Ham shrugged, “maybe ‘thanks, now moving along’ or something like that. Something straightforward, easy on the ears, not difficult to interpret.”

  Blake nodded once, an exaggerated affirmation of acceptance. “Fine, let’s try it.” He hoisted one of the acoustic guitars set in a stand near the table and pronounced, “The song is about movement, right? Is that what you want?”

  “No,” Ham spluttered, embarrassment coloring his cheeks, “that’s not at all what I meant, not at all. I was only joking around.”

  “Leave him be, Hamster,” Charlie instructed. “He knows that. He’s making a point. One that you might want to remember.”

  “All right, let’s think about it. What’s most important, ‘move’ or ‘thanks’?”

  “I don’t know,” Ham replied, growing increasingly red and confused. “Thanks, I guess, since we’re talking about food.”

  “Wrong,” Blake corrected, “it doesn’t matter what the original thought might be, it’s the image of the phraseology. ‘Move’ inspires much more imagery than ‘thanks,’ you understand? So…move what, move where? Not a meal, nothing to excite there at all. We’re finished here, move on? Closer…move on where, why?” Blake thought for a second before pronouncing, “That might do. Just have to put a twist on it. Let’s give it a try.”

  Ham watched wide eyed, stupefied, as the legend strummed a few chords, pausing now and then to tweak a string into perfect pitch. Even more than the debate about a ghost, even more than the utter bizarreness of the case, this was impossible to grasp. One of the greatest figures in the history of rock and roll, a superstar genius of world-wide renown, was gracing him with an intimate performance, only for him, right here in his own living room—well, all right, it was on Blake’s veranda and Charlie hogged his audience, but no need to quibble—with a never before heard performance of a future hit inspired by his good friend, Ham McCalister.

  Don’t drool!

  More rapidly than Ham’s mind or ears could follow, Blake began a slow tempo riff, attacked with a Spanish influenced solo, then let loose in a voice that clearly hadn’t deteriorated a whit since when he’d first burst upon the scene.

  I’ve heard all those loud whispers before

  Another found secret in your bedroom drawer

  More souvenirs there from your latest score

  What fun, what a bore

  You’re not even subtle with your roaming eye

  You strike up with strangers while you’re by my side

  The same conversation and those same old tries

  I just laugh, I just cry

  Blake abruptly quit, leaned his arms atop the neck and body of the guitar and cocked his head at Ham. “So. What do you think? Is that easy enough to interpret? Straightforward enough for you? Or is it still too flowery?” He watched with amusement as Ham tried to stutter a reply, then waved him off. “Actually, I quite like that. I think I’ll pass it by Russ, see what he thinks. You may have inspired a song here, Ham. How about that?”

  “I don’t know what to say. I mean…I’m really sorry. Or actually, I’m really happy, I’m thrilled, but I didn’t mean to…I mean I didn’t think…I don’t know what to think.”

  “There’s my Hamster,” Charlie jibed. “Ever not knowing what to know.”

  Blake made no attempt to hide his laugher but his tone was gentle when he asked, straight faced, “I’m only following your orders. You did tell me to stick to my songwriting and you’d stick to your guns.”

  “Right,” Ham retorted, “And I will make every attempt to heed my own advice from this day forward. You say anything you want, any way you want to say it. I won’t again make a fool of myself by trying to my put words in your mouth.”

  “Deal,” Blake affirmed. Stretching luxuriously and ostentatiously, he announced, “We’ve got a few hours to kill here. I think I’m going to kill some by going for a swim. Anyone want to join me?”

  “You can’t do that,” Ham teased. “You need to wait an hour after you eat. Or didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”

  “Wait an hour, my ass,” Blake grumbled. “Hell, I’ve paddled out there on my bac
k with a beer balanced on my stomach. A sandwich is hardly going to kill me.”

  “Is that legal here?” Ham asked, surprised. “Alcohol on the beach?”

  “May be not for you,” Charlie answered, “but anything’s legal for Popster. Or are you forgetting who he is?”

  “I didn’t bring my trunks,” Ham complained. “It didn’t occur to me that I’d have time to waste on the beach.”

  “Wear those silly little shorts you bought for your Magnum outfit this morning,” Charlie advised. “They should look sexy clinging all wet and salty to your crotch.”

  Ham’s voice dripped sarcasm as he replied, “Thank you, Charlie. You’re a tremendous help. To my situation and my ego.”

  “Actually, she is,” Blake pointed out. “Who knows? You may get lucky.”

  “Lucky,” Ham laughed, “is the last thing I’m looking for right now. At least in that sense. I could maybe use a little elsewhere.”

  “Go get yourself changed,” Blake ordered. “We’ll do the same.”

  Ham acquiesced, his humor and dignity intact, Charlie aside. After he’d changed, he wandered back to the veranda to await their return, mesmerized, as he assumed Blake must be all the time, with the billion dollar view from his million dollar investment. Try as he might, his limited imagination refused to reveal what it must be like to live this way, to awaken each morning to this sight, to fall asleep each night by its caressing beauty. To live like a titular king, your time your own, spent as you pleased, anyway you pleased. What must that be like, he wondered with awe, to have the total, complete and absolute freedom to tell the world to bite me, I’m going to do it my way and just sod off if you don’t like it because, after all, who needs you anyway?

  It wasn’t just money Blake commanded, Ham realized, but power, a supremacy that elevated him into a class of untouchables. Heads of state swooned over the chance to meet him, offered their country’s honors in an effort to ingratiate, honors that Blake more often than not declined. Or so he’d read, but then who could say, really? To take as gospel the rumored events propagated by those media rags would be an exercise in stupidity so, unless Blake chose to confide the truth, he’d have to content himself with the knowledge of ignorance. Or…maybe he could ask him. Sit around with his good friend, shoot the bull and ask, “By the way, Blake, about those awards you declined, explain all that to me, the how, the when, the why,” and his best buddy would open up, pour out his heart, his soul, and then maybe Ham would advise him, counsel him, and Blake would be so grateful, so awestruck by his innate wisdom that he’d beg Ham to…