Haunting at High Tide

by Agatha Ball

  We headed to Main Street, swung by Bitter Beans for a hot minute to grab some necessary stuff, then Nate and I hopped into his truck and drove over to the police station. It was a square concrete building built in a cheapo version of Brutalism architecture. It was square and cinderblock and had glass doors with aluminum framing left over from the day it was built in the 1950s.

  Fred was sitting in the front office, which I was actually glad of. Stan was so quick on the draw to blame some random, wacky conspiracy theory instead of the information before him. Fred was also nuts, but I could usually talk some sense into him with a little Bitter Beans bribery.

  He saw us at the door and then quickly pretended he was enraptured with whatever spreadsheet he was working on.

  I rapped on the glass and held up a bag of Bitter Beans' baked goods. I knew that the day-old cinnamon rolls wouldn't get us the response we needed, but it takes quite a bit to make a sugar cookie go bad. I reached inside and pulled out the ghost and pumpkin iced cookies and made them dance for Fred.

  I saw his resolve crumble and heard the sound of the door buzz to let us in.

  He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "To be clear, I am not letting you in just because you have delicious holiday cookies."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "I could just tell that if you were stooping to such depths as to bribe an officer of the peace, you must have a real issue."

  "Absolutely," I said, putting the bag on the counter.

  He pulled out the cookies and his face softened. "Aw! They are so cute!" He turned to me with a smile. "Okay. What's the problem?"

  We were just about to fill Fred in when Stan rolled into the room. His brow furrowed and his face soured. "What is this miscreant doing in our lobby?" he snapped, his finger pointed at me. He didn't dare insult Nate.

  "They brought us cookies!" Fred said, reaching in and pulling them out. "See!"

  "I'll take that!" snapped Stan, snatching one out of Fred's hand.

  His lip trembled almost imperceptibly. "But I wanted the ghost."

  "Speaking of ghosts..." Nate interrupted, seeing this conversation was about to head off in a random path where we did not want to go. "We were over at the old canning factory." He then proceeded to fill in the two officers about the falling catwalk.

  "Huh," said Stan. He paused to rub his nose thoughtfully. "So. You're telling me this was an accident?"

  "We think..." said Nate. It hadn't even dawned on us that it could be anything except an accident.

  "Because it sure would drum up a lot of business if that Echo could tell people that ghosts are real and they saved your life."

  Nate held up his hands to slow his roll. "He wouldn't do that. We just thought maybe you could put up some caution tape and help us get word out to any kids who might want to party there this weekend to stay away until we get an expert in."

  "We should check and see if the bolts were cut instead of ripped out from the wall by the weight of the catwalk... Or maybe missing all together..." Fred mused.

  "What?" asked Stan, turning back to his partner like he had forgotten Fred was even there.

  Fred picked at the icing on his cookie. "I know that you are up for a big promotion, and I think any review board would be extremely impressed by your powers of deduction if you cracked this case."

  "It's not a case..." Nate protested.

  But "promotion" was the magic words that caused Stan's eyes to light up. He adjusted his pants by his waistband. "Yeah. I think you are right, Fred. That would be an awfully impressive thing before the review board if we discovered it had been deliberate." He was getting more excited than ever. I shouldn't have been so surprised. It was a conspiracy, and Stan did love a good conspiracy. "Fred! Grab your things! We're heading over there to check it out now!"

  Fred scrambled up, his long, lanky limbs banging on the underside of the desk. "Can I bring my cookie?"

  "Yeah, it'll be good for bringing with us in the car." He looked at me and winked. "Hard to stay focused when your stomach is growling. Now get out. We gotta get locked up."

  Nate took my elbow and steered us out of the police station. "If you could bring the caution tape with you...."

  "That's what we're here for!" Stan called out after us. "To protect and serve!"

  "And thank you for the cookie!" Fred added.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was a busy morning at Bitter Beans as more and more people came to the festival. I, however, was still a little shaken from the incident at the cannery, and was feeling kind of over the whole Halloween vibe. Tends to happen when you find yourself at risk of becoming a ghost yourself.

  But speaking of ghoulish, the door tinkled. I groaned as Madison came stomping in, scrolling on her phone. She was dressed in a tight, leopard print jogging suit, and wore a velvet headband with the outline of cat ears over her tight ponytail.

  "Excuse me?" she said as she continued her march, but held up her phone up like she expected me to read it. "What is this?"

  "Sorry, you're a little far away," I pointed out to her.

  She gave an exasperated huff and then came closer. "As Seaside's social media marketing manager, I can't believe you all didn't immediately tell me about the accident at the cannery so I could do some damage control."

  "It just happened last night," I pointed out, before then pointing at the clock. "And it isn't even 10 AM. Are you ever even awake this early?"

  She flipped her long, blonde, flat-ironed ponytail. "I don't just wake up looking this good."

  "You don't say..." I said, going back to my cleaning. "Yeah, one of the catwalks fell at the old cannery. Stan and Fred are investigating it."

  Madison rolled her eyes. "Oh. That's all. It is ALL over the news. And it appears it was reported by our own little Lottie the Traitor."

  She held up her phone again and I grabbed it. I started scrolling through the story. Sure enough, it was in the Herald and the byline was Lottie's.

  "You tell that reporter friend of yours—" Madison began.

  "Technically? Not actually my friend. She's Nate's ex. And a journalist doing her job."

  "—that she is no longer welcome in Seaside if she is going to pull this sort of dirt bag reporting."

  "How did she even know about this?" I said, completely taken aback as I read. There was so much detail in her recap. "She wasn't even there."

  "Wait. She's reporting on something that she wasn't even present for?" Madison confirmed. I don't think her voice could have sounded more disgusted.

  "I mean, technically, that is the job of a reporter. You know. To disseminate information."

  "She has gone OVER THE LINE," she said.

  I folded my arms, already knowing the true answer to this question. "Are you just hoping for an excuse to ban Lottie from the island? Keep her away from the saloon? And Trevor?"

  Madison huffed and puffed with outrage. The closest thing she could get to a denial was to just say, "No."

  I handed Madison back her phone. "Don't worry. I'll get to the bottom of this."

  Madison dropped the phone into the bottom of her massive shoulder bag. "Good," she said, like I had done exactly what she was hoping for. "Because it is garbage like this that damages us all."

  "I thought that you wanted Johnny's tours to be a failure," I reminded her.

  "Not like this!" she said, as if horrified by what I was suggesting. "Listen, this island may be a backwater dump—"

  "You're the only one who thinks this is a backwater dump."

  "—but it does none of us any good to have the impression it is a dangerous ramshackle dump." She shook her head like we had been such fools not to heed her. Her voice dripped with I-told-you-so. "If Nate had only sold us the cannery to build that cruise ship port, this could have all been avoided. Instead, we have a derelict building falling down around people's ears."

  Suddenly, the bell over the door tinkled again and Stan walked in. He was pleased as punch, grinning with a self-satisfied smi
le.

  "Hey Stan!" I said, kind of surprised to see him. He never came to Bitter Beans. Mainly because I made an executive decision to always charge him while Yvette down the street usually comped him a cup of coffee. I was more than happy to take that loss. The man had wrongly accused everyone I knew and loved of some terrible crime at some point. It's not called Bitter Beans for nothing.

  But he sauntered over the counter and then leaned his elbows across it. His round belly pressed up against the glass. "Thanks again for that tip off," he said with a wink and a smile. "Turns out, there was sabotage!" He stood and rubbed his hands together. "A real crime! This couldn't have happened at a better time!"

  "What?" I asked, confused.

  Madison gaped at him, equally confused. "I'm sorry, what happened?"

  "That catwalk didn't fall naturally," Stan confided. "Someone removed the bolts. And they weren't easy! You can see the rust from where they were. But they were all gone. That catwalk was rigged to collapse!"

  A cold chill washed down my spine. "Do you think it was rigged to collapse specifically for when we were there?"

  "Either that or it was just magic!" he said, wiggling his fingers like it was spooky.

  Personally, I feel like a murder attempt was a little beyond 'spooky.'

  "We would have been killed if Echo hadn't told us to run to him," I remarked, realizing how close it had come.

  Stan suddenly got a curious look on his face. "Echo told you to run to him?"

  "Yeah. He had this... machine... that said 'Run to me' and then he said he had this... feeling. So he told us to run to him." I shook my head. It was all so crazy.

  "Huh. Funny that he got this 'feeling' just as you were about to get crushed..."

  "But why would he ruin his own tour?" I pointed out. "It doesn't do him any good."

  "There's lots of reasons," Stan stated.

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know... Insurance payout?"

  "Except if Nate or I were hurt, that would mean we'd be getting his insurance to pay us. Not the other way around."

  Stan was starting to get flustered by my questions. His cheerful face darkened and he pointed his finger at me. "That doesn't change the fact that by your own admission, Echo knew it was going to collapse. That makes him a suspect."

  I knew better than to argue with Stan at this point. He'd just double down. So, I just kept my mouth shut.

  But by this point, he was on a roll. "It isn't your job to come up with a hypothesis as to why things happened or didn't happen. It is my job to determine the facts and let the lawyers figure out the reasons."

  "I think, technically, a 'motive' is usually required," Madison stated, bored as she scrolled through her phone.

  "Don't go telling me how to do my job!" Stan snapped back. He backed out of Bitter Beans, waving his arms low like an umpire telling someone they were out. "I came here as a courtesy. But that's the exact opposite of what I get from you people. I'm going to crack this case and prove it was Echo and then you'll all be sorry."

  As he stormed out the front door and slammed it behind him, Madison remarked, "Not as sorry as you're gonna be when everyone figures out you're an idiot."

  I looked at Madison and smiled. Even a stopped watch is right twice a day. "Hey, let me buy you a drink," I offered.

  She shrugged her shoulders. "Naw. Trevor has better coffee." And then she flounced out.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I grabbed my phone and dialed Lottie. She picked up on the second ring.

  "Hey, Lottie!" I said.

  "Hey, Paige!" she replied. Her voice was cheerful, but I could tell she was a little surprised. "Great to hear from you!"

  "Um... So, I don't mean to be a jerk, but what's with the article in the Herald today."

  She laughed, but it was a confused laugh. "What are you talking about?"

  "The article about the accident at the cannery...?"

  "What accident at the cannery?" Now she was starting to sound concerned.

  "There was an accident during Johnny's ghost tour last night. A catwalk fell."

  "Oh my— Is he okay?"

  I stopped for a moment, completely taken aback. "Lottie, you wrote the story. You know all this."

  "No, I don't," she said, shocked. I could hear her typing on her computer. "I'm checking it up now. I mean..." There was a pause. "Okay, so I didn't write this story."

  "You didn't?" I confirmed. This was just getting weirder and weirder.

  I could hear her trying to make sense of this situation. "They must have gotten the bylines mixed up," she justified. "Sometimes these typos happen. I'll contact them to make sure they give proper credit to the person who wrote it."

  I paused for a moment, trying to figure out who else could have scooped this story. "Um... could you call me back and let me know what you learn?"

  "Sure!" she said. Now a little anger was creeping into her voice. Not at me, but at this whole situation. "I'd be happy to."

  We hung up, and I puttered around, refilling the pastry case with three-dimensional witch's hats made out of marzipan and pumpkin cream cheese muffins. About ten minutes later, the phone rang again and I picked it up. It was Lottie.

  "Paige? Okay, so this is super creepy. Someone set up an email account that looks almost exactly the same as mine, except it is off by one letter. My boss thought it was from me. But it wasn't. We have no idea who wrote this article."

  Alarms were sounding in my head. "Is there any way to trace it?" I asked.

  She sighed. "They're going to see what they can do, but it is a little local newspaper. They don't have a budget big enough to figure this out." She paused. "Why would someone claim to be me?"

  I rubbed my forehead. "Okay, so there is a lot more to this story, too, but you have got to promise me you won't write about what I'm about to tell you yet. It's part of an investigation that Stan and Fred are just starting."

  "Okay..." she replied, worried and confused.

  I filled her in on exactly what went down at the cannery and how Stan had discovered that it appeared to be sabotage.

  "First the boards in Ralph's shop. Now the cannery. Why?" she asked, horrified.

  I sighed. "I think that is going to be our job to figure out."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I was locking up the door when I noticed that Tango was hobbling toward Bitter Beans.

  "Oh, heck. Are you closed?" he said, groaning. He hung his head and draped himself wearily on his crutches. "I walked all this way."

  I apologized. "Yeah. Usually we close during the afternoon slump, but reopen when the evening ferry comes in." I had to take pity on him, though. I motioned for him to follow me in. "But come on! I'll brew you up something."

  He followed me into the shop and waited as I scrubbed up. "Okay, what can I get you?"

  "Just a small coffee," he said.

  I gave him what I hoped didn't come across as a stiff smile. Like, I had volunteered, but if someone opens their shop up for you, don't order the cheapest thing on the list.

  "Coming right up," I said, as I measured out the grounds for our pour-over filter. No need to waste brewing up a whole pot.

  "So, I heard that Echo had a bit of trouble on his tour," he said, casually.

  I paused as I put the grounds in. It had just been such a weird couple days, I began to wonder if him running into me on the street was as accidental as it seemed. "Mmm hmmm..."

  "There was, like, a whole article in the newspaper," he mentioned.

  "All press is good press," I said as I resumed.

  "Not when you almost get people killed."

  I couldn't even muster the energy to lie between my teeth about that one.

  "So, just wanted to say, if Johnny needs a place to send his tours, I'm available."

  I wondered if that was his game all along. "I think that Echo will be just fine."

  Tango raised his eyebrow. "Oh? You didn't know?"

  "Know what?" I asked.

 
"Stan just arrested him."

  It felt like a gut punch. I turned to Tango, aghast. "He did what?"

  Tango hooked his thumb in the direction of the surf shack. "Yeah. In front of a bunch of people over at Johnny's shop. Made sure to announce it good and loud so that everyone could hear." He leaned across the counter. "That's why I'm mentioning this to you, not Johnny. Just want to help. Not rub salt into the wound."

  I groaned. That seemed completely on brand for Stan's arresting style. "So, now everyone thinks that Johnny's tours are dangerous?"

  Tango gave me a fake, sympathetic smile. I was thinking that he must have started taking classes on pretending empathy from Madison. "Yeah. These things happen. But, again, I know how important these tours are for the health of the island, so hey, feel free to just direct folks over to my tour and I'll give them a 10% discount."

  How generous and self-sacrificing, I thought to myself sarcastically. I got the steaming hot water from the tap and washed it over the grounds. Pour-overs take so long and all I wanted to do was get to Johnny and find out if he was okay. I tried to think of something to say.

  "So Stan and Fred thought that Ralph tried to injure you and now they think that Echo tried to... pull down a building...?"

  Tango's face brightened. "OH! At least there is a happy ending! Ralph is a free man. Said they didn't have enough evidence to hold him, and now that it looks like Echo is the culprit, they dismissed their charges." He perused my bakery case. "Although, I guess he was already at home. Someone bailed him out."

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Ralph was an old guy and those holding cell beds weren't made for people in their eighties. Heck, I spent a night there and almost threw out my back.

  Tango continued. "I’m actually on my way over to see if I can resume the séances in his space."

  I pushed his coffee toward him. "Maybe you should give him a day to cool off..." I cautioned.

  Tango immediately dismissed my wisdom. "I need to get these tours up and running. Especially if Echo is off the job." He shifted nervously. "I mean. For the good of the island. And to help Johnny." He put his change on the counter. "You will tell Johnny about my idea of joining forces, right?"