Shattered Spirits

by L. L. Bartlett

  She frowned. “Is there a reason you don’t want to live with me?”

  She was determined to pin me to the wall.

  “Maggs, I’m broke.”

  “Still?” Her question sounded like an accusation.

  There was no way I was going to bring up the latest development on my financial horizon.

  “Yeah. By the time I pay my utilities, car insurance, and my rent—I have next to nothing left.”

  “Couldn’t you ask Richard—?”

  I held up a hand to cut off that line of discussion. “Don’t go there.”

  “But—?”

  “I mean it, Maggs—don’t go there.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “So, you don’t want to help me?”

  I heaved a sigh. “I can’t work for at least another six or eight weeks. Tom’s already hired a substitute bartender. What if he doesn’t want me back?”

  “Oh, come on. Bartender jobs are a dime a dozen. You’re better than that.”

  “Yeah, but there are some weeks I can barely cut doing even that.”

  Her lips pursed. I could tell—feel—she wanted to say so much more, but thankfully she opted not to. Unfortunately, she didn’t have to actually say anything out loud for me to know exactly what she felt.

  “Please, Maggs. This isn’t the time to talk about the future simply because….” I didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said, and a wave of arctic cold passed over me. Her heart had just hardened. It was time for me to give her an easy out—or rather, a fast escape.

  “It’s been a really long—painful—day,” I said and rubbed the top of my brace. “I’m going to need to crash pretty soon.”

  She stood. “Sure. I understand.”

  She didn’t.

  Still, she bent down to kiss me, but there was a distinct lack of passion in the gesture. She straightened. “We can talk about this some other time.”

  “Thanks.”

  She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry. This was a lot to spring on you when you’re still recovering from your accident.”

  “Thanks for understanding,” I said, but knew that was far from the truth. She loved me, but she hoped I could rescue her from her financial situation and that just was not in the cards.

  “I can see myself out,” she said rather tartly, turned, and headed out of the living room. It was too much effort for me to turn to watch her go, so I listened to her footfalls fade and the back door slam.

  The clock on the mantel ticked way too loudly, but couldn’t blot the sound of the tires burning the asphalt as she took off.

  “Oh, Maggs,” I lamented in that oh-so-quiet living room. I’d left the gripper in Richard’s study, but I didn’t want to watch TV, so the remote was safe from me. I just sat there, staring out of the leaded, beveled glass windows and tried not to think for a long, long time.

  The sun had set by the time the hall light winked on and Brenda emerged. “Jeffy?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Where’s Maggie?”

  “Long gone.”

  Brenda swooped in and turned on the lamp on the side table to my left. She settled herself on the coffee table. “Did Maggie drop her bombshell?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, wishing I had a nice glass of Maker’s Mark to sip.

  She sighed. “I tried to warn her that this might not be a good time to broach the subject.”

  “I appreciate that. Unfortunately, she’s panicking. She doesn’t want to deal with a tenant, and I can’t say I blame her. But until she can sell the house, it’s really her only option.”

  “What if your accident never happened? Would you have considered moving in with Maggie?”

  I didn’t even have to think it over. “No. I can’t pull my weight, and even if she said she accepted that fact, it would always be a source of contention.” I shrugged. “I’m fucked no matter how I look at it. And it looks like I’m always going to be a burden to you and Richard and I hate it.”

  Brenda reached for my hand. “You are not a burden.”

  Oh, yes I was, and she knew it, too. And now that Herschel had arrived on their doorstep, I would prove to be even more work for Brenda, because now Richard wouldn’t alternate helping me get up in the morning or to help me go to bed at night.

  “I’m sorry, Brenda. I’m really, really sorry to have dumped so much shit on you.” I had to swallow a few times so I wouldn’t cry.

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” she said reasonably. “I like to think of this little interlude as keeping my nursing skills sharp. You’re doing me a favor.”

  “And you’re a liar.”

  She shrugged. “I’m betting after the day you’ve had that you’re more than ready to down a pain pill and hit the sack.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  She reached for my crutches and handed them to me. “Then let’s do it, because I’m just about ready to call it a night, too.”

  “It’s still early. What about Rich?”

  “He won’t admit it, but he’s pretty freaked about a cat being on the premises. I seriously doubt he’s going to get more than thirty seconds of sleep tonight.”

  The shit was piling higher and higher. “Okay then, if you’ll help me capture him, and you don’t mind trucking all his stuff back across the driveway, he can go back to my apartment tonight.”

  “The hell he will,” Brenda said adamantly. “There’s no way I’m going to let Richard teach our girl to be afraid of a cat. The thing is, he doesn’t even know—or remember—why he’s afraid of cats. He’s a grown man. He needs to face and get over this phobia—even if he has to consult a professional to do so.”

  Somehow, I managed a smile. “You wanted to say shrink, didn’t you?”

  Brenda smiled, too. “Yeah, but he wouldn’t like me to use that term.”

  I nodded. “Is there a way we can make this easier on him?”

  “Maybe. I’ll Google it—and if I don’t find what I’m looking for, I know a few doctors I can ask. But if you’re going to spend even more time in my workroom because of Herschel, maybe you’d like us to bring your computer over. What do you think?”

  “God, yes.”

  “We’ll make it happen tomorrow.” She smiled. “Being stuck in that cast and brace only seems like forever because you’re living it hour by hour, but I promise you—you’ll be back on your feet and home before you know it. Come on.”

  Brenda helped me to my feet and we started across the house to my temporary home, stopping in the kitchen to grab a can of cat food. As anticipated, Herschel was waiting behind the door in the darkened room.

  Brenda reached in and turned on the overhead light. I preceded her and plopped down on the bed, then I doled out the cat food in a clean plastic one-use bowl she provided. Brenda put it down in the bathroom near the litter box, then changed the water bowl.

  “Poor cat. Imagine having to eat your food next to your own toilet.”

  I could see that Herschel had already kicked an inordinate amount of litter out of his box. Brenda would have to sweep it up. Yet another chore for her. The woman had already earned her wings; the halo couldn’t be far behind.

  Once again Brenda helped me get ready for bed. It’s amazing how fast you lose your modesty under such circumstances. As her last duty, she doled out a pill and handed me a glass half filled with water. “You’re due for a shower.”

  I dreaded it, but she was right. “Maybe tomorrow…or the next day.”

  “Then start using deodorant a little more liberally,” she suggested, not bothering to hide a smile.

  I would. I let out a weary breath and looked at the little white pill in my palm. God, I hated taking the damn pain meds. They made me feel off-kilter during the day and, though they allowed me to sleep at night, I often woke feeling disoriented. Not taking them wasn’t much better, but I resolved to try making it on over-the-counter stuff—at least during the day. I downed it anyway and set the gl
ass aside.

  “Good night.” She kissed my cheek, turned off the overhead light, and left Herschel and me on our own.

  While my cat enthusiastically chowed down, I turned off the bedside lamp and lay back against the pillow. What a crappy day. The highlights? CP’s giggles and our picnic dinner. The lows? Richard and Maggie and the problems they had to struggle with because of me, and all the extra work Brenda had taken on to care for me.

  I shut my eyes, wishing for sleep to come, knowing tomorrow promised to be yet another shitty day.

  9

  Richard brought my computer over the next morning. Brenda cornered Herschel and shut him in the small bathroom. I watched poor Richard sweat bullets as he set up the system while an indignant Herschel scratched on the bathroom door, howling with displeasure.

  Richard made sure I could get on the Internet, but then escaped, heading for the main library downtown to try to find more information on Alice.

  “We won’t see him until suppertime,” Brenda predicted sourly.

  She left me alone to play on my computer, but needing to keep my leg elevated made for an awkward arrangement. After about an hour, my leg ached so bad that I put the computer to sleep and grabbed my crutches. My recliner was calling me, and since Herschel was curled up in CP’s stroller, it seemed like a good time to make my escape.

  I felt bad always dragging Brenda away from whatever she was doing, but she plunked CP in her little play “yard”—the politically correct name for what used to be called a play pen—settled me with my leg propped up on pillows, leaving the remote, my cell phone, and the gripper at the ready before she left CP and me to do some laundry.

  CP was happily playing with old-fashioned wooden blocks and I was flipping channels when the ringtone on my phone sounded. I glanced at the number and hit the talk icon.

  “Hey, Dave. I was going to give you a call later today.”

  “Saved you the trouble,” he said with a hollow laugh. “How’re things?”

  “Getting better,” I lied.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He did sound relieved.

  “What’s up?”

  “Well, things at the bar aren’t so good.”

  “I guess that depends on your point of view. Richard took me there a couple of nights ago and Tom seemed as happy as a pig in shit that the joint was jammed. But I agree with you; the vibe felt all wrong.”

  “Funny you should put it that way. Tom always used to say that he trusted your vibes. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but that’s sort of what I wanted your opinion on.”

  “I’m not sure I’m up to going back there any time soon,” I hedged.

  “I don’t blame you. But I’d like to talk to you about it more—but not on the phone. Can I come and see you after my shift—around five-thirty?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  He laughed. “I figured as much. See you then?”

  “Sure.”

  The connection broke.

  Dave was like Richard; we didn’t connect on a psychic or emotional level, which was fine with me. But the concern in his voice had raised my hackles. What kind of shit would he lay on me later in the day?

  * * *

  Richard switched off the cranky old microfilm machine and looked over the notes he’d taken. Expansive notes. Later, he’d type them up before he offered to let Jeff read him. He’d been told that he didn’t suffer from the dreaded phenomenon of physician’s penmanship, but he used his own brand of shorthand that no one but he could decipher.

  His search for information would have been faster if the older records had been saved to a data base—but that might not happen for years. There were probably too many other expenses that came first on the library’s list of things to do. Perhaps he’d donate a million or two to make it happen.

  Stacking his yellow pad, torn pages written on both sides, and copies of various decades-old news articles, he shoved them into his briefcase, rewound the roll of crinkled acetate, and got up from his seat. He returned the roll to the reference librarian and bid her a good afternoon.

  As he left the area, he noticed a clock on the wall and winced. It was nearly three-thirty and he’d missed lunch. Funny, until that moment, he hadn’t even noticed the hollow feeling in his gut. Still, if he stopped for something to eat before he went home, it would probably ruin his supper and he didn’t want to disappoint Brenda, who already had more than her share of work to shoulder. And he had one more stop to make before he went back to … well, knowing there was a cat inside the house made it feel like his home had been invaded by a creepy alien.

  The funny thing was, he couldn’t remember ever having had a bad experience with a cat. Somehow, he associated that feeling of dread and revulsion with other not-so pleasant memories of his long-dead grandmother. Could she have drilled a loathing for felines into him at an early age?

  Maybe Brenda was right; perhaps he should consult a psychiatrist or psychologist about his phobia. Still, after Jeff’s horrific experience the year before, he found himself as reluctant to trust in that kind of doctor-patient relationship as Jeff did. Would a self-help book suffice? He doubted it, but he was willing to give it a try. And since he was already at the library, he decided to check out a couple of tomes on the subject. If nothing else, reading them would help pass the time while he hid out in his study.

  The briefcase felt heavy as he made his way back to the ramp garage across the street from the library. He found the Mercedes, drove to the pay station, and headed north toward home. But the house on LeBrun Road was not his current destination.

  Once back on Main Street, he turned east to Bailey Avenue and hung a left and then a right a ways down to Millersport Highway to the Amherst PD. Perhaps he should have called first and made an appointment to see the only cop he was familiar with in that jurisdiction.

  He parked the car and strode into the station, stopping at the reception desk.

  “Can I help you?” asked the woman behind the counter.

  “Yes. Is Detective Wilder in? I’d like to speak to her, if I may.”

  “And you are?”

  “Richard Alpert. Hopefully she’ll remember me.”

  The woman made a call. “She’ll be right out. You can take a seat.” She indicated the chairs across the way.

  “Thank you.” But Richard was too antsy to sit. He wandered across the room to gaze out the window at the park-like lawn and landscaping.

  “Dr. Alpert?”

  Richard turned. Bonnie Wilder didn’t look much different than she had almost two years before when Richard had first met her. Middle-aged, with streaks of silver in her brown hair, she’d been the officer in charge during the investigation into the trouble at the Williamsville Women’s Clinic … at least before the FBI came storming in.

  Wilder reached to shake his hand. “It’s good to see you again. You’re lucky to catch me here on a Saturday—I try to keep halfway decent hours to placate my family. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s not so much what you can do for me, but what my brother and I might do for you—or at least local law enforcement in general.”

  Wilder’s expression was skeptical. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Richard asked, noting the woman at the counter was eavesdropping.

  “Sure.” Detective Wilder led Richard back to a conference room he was already familiar with. They took their seats. “So, what’s on your mind?”

  “I’m sure you remember that my brother, Jeff, has a unique sensitivity.”

  “Oh, yes.” Her expression was more grim than upbeat.

  “We’re in the first stages of starting a business. We’d like to take on cold cases. Really cold cases.”

  “And you want me to supply you with a few?”

  “Not necessarily, although we’d be open to looking at any files you’d care to share.”

  Again, her expression was skeptical.

  “My brother recently encountered a restless spirit.” />
  “A ghost?” Her skepticism reached even greater heights.

  Richard continued. “This spirit indicated she may have been murdered. Sure enough, I spent the day at the library downtown looking into her death. She died of strangulation. From what I gather, no one was ever arrested for the crime.”

  “When was this?”

  “April second, nineteen thirty-two.”

  Wilder had gone from looking skeptical to downright uncomfortable. “Did the crime happen in Amherst?”

  Richard shook his head. “The body was found behind a speakeasy on Asbury Alley in downtown Buffalo.”

  “Then I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “If the victim’s case is indeed still open, we’d like to try to figure out what happened to her.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “She asked my brother for help.”

  “Why didn’t Mr. Resnick come with you to ask for my help?”

  It was Richard’s turn to look uncomfortable. “My brother was involved in a rather nasty traffic accident last Friday. He was on his bike, at a stoplight. A hit and run.”

  “Oh my God. Is he okay?”

  “He’s pretty banged up. Multiple fractures and a nasty case of road rash, but he’s on the mend. We haven’t heard from the Buffalo PD since the day of the accident.”

  “If you’d like me to look into it, I’d be more than happy to do so.”

  “Yes, thank you. It’s going to be a long and painful healing process, and I believe it would be good for Jeff to have something to distract him during that time. And then there’s Alice.”

  “Who?”

  “Alice Newcomb. She’s the restless spirit who reached out to Jeff.”

  Wilder’s gaze seemed fixed on the faux wood surface of the steel-and-Formica table before them. “You know, if I hadn’t seen what your brother came up with when he touched the assassin’s rifle shells, I would not have believed such insight was possible.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  “What happened in Manhattan in March? A Detective Baldwin contacted me asking my opinion on your brother. I told him I thought he was the genuine article.”