A Ghost in the Glamour
A Linx & Bogie story
Elizabeth Hunter
Living. With ghosts.
* * *
LINX & BOGIE
Linx Maxwell is on the verge of greatness. She’s finally graduated from street fairs and hopping chain-link to making art that pays the bills. Her family life is… not dull. And it looks like her van might just be able to exist on hope and duct tape.
If only she could get rid of the ghost who’s plagued her since the eighth grade.
Frank Bogle is a detective who lost his life in the line of duty. Everyone on the other side knows that the Maxwell women are the best mediums in the business, but did he have to get attached to the one whose hair had been attacked by a Weedwacker?
Frank doesn’t like his afterlife any more than Linx does. He just doesn’t know how to leave.
Contents
Morning, Cupcake
Ghost Girl
Backseat Driver
A Ghost in the Glamour
1. Bogie Gives Me Reasons to Love My Cell Phone.
2. Risking Arrest with Pretty Nerds
3. One of the Good Boys
4. What Do I know? Not Much, Apparently.
5. Same World. Less Style.
6. Secrets Kill.
7. A Visit to Aunt Mary’s House
8. Life and Other Stunning Revelations
9. The Note
10. I Like the Sunrise.
11. Cigarettes Stink and Bogie Lies.
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Elizabeth Hunter
Morning, Cupcake
2002
It was the smell of cigarette smoke that woke me that morning. I twitched my nose and stretched my legs before I rolled over into the beam of morning sun that came through my window. I could feel the sheets covering my legs ripple in the breeze. The scent of Venice Beach in the morning drifted in. Salt and coffee. A little trash.
And cigarette smoke.
That smell hadn’t been in my nan’s house since my grandfather had died when I was ten. Three years later, it still reminded me of him.
“Morning, cupcake,” a gravelly voice said.
I rolled over with wide eyes.
And I screamed.
I screamed bloody murder.
“Oh for…” The ghost winced. “Will you quiet down, kid? If I weren’t dead, you’d have ruptured my eardrums.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“MO-OOM!” I scrambled to the corner of my bed, my head resting against the giant orange star I’d painted on the wall. “NANA!” I pulled the sheets up to my chin.
I heard frantic steps pounding up the stairs.
“Lins?”
“Lindsay?”
Both my grandmother and mother were shouting my name, but I was frozen, staring at the ghost. I don’t know why I was so shocked. I was thirteen. I’d hit puberty the year before, and to be completely honest, a ghostly visit was overdue. Kind of like my boobs. I was still waiting for those. But the ghost thing… My mom and nan had begun glancing at me with concern when they thought I wasn’t looking.
Surely Lindsay wouldn’t be the first Maxwell woman in four hundred years—
“Who is it?” The door burst open. My mom came right to me, no doubt suspecting the reason for my panic. “Lindsay, baby, calm down.”
I was shaking my head back and forth, my mouth shut and my eyes like saucers.
Nan stood in the doorway. “Well, it’s about time. I’m sorry you’ve had a shock, luv, but there you go. First visit all over, and I’m sure you’ll be able to—”
“He’s still here!” I pointed at the corner where the strangely corporeal spirit was. I knew he was a ghost. How? He had that tiny bit of halo around him. Not the kind of halo you’re thinking of. Trust me, this ghost didn’t look like an angel, but that little glow around the apparition did let me know the creepy old guy sitting in the corner of my room wasn’t human, which meant he couldn’t hurt me.
“Oh?” Nan was surprised. “Well, that’s considerate.”
“Why?” I shouted. “How is that considerate?”
“He could have just flitted in the room and out again,” Nan said.
“Or done the weird peripheral-vision thing,” Mom added.
Nan shuddered. “I hate that. My first spirit played around for weeks. I thought I’d go mad.”
I groaned and hid my face. Why me? Why did I have to be born into a family of freaks?
My mom stroked my hair. “Lins, calm down. We’re Maxwells. We are not afraid of ghosts.”
The old guy was just sitting in the corner, his legs stretched out, his thumb tapping on the edge of the purple-painted armchair he was sitting in. He looked like he belonged in a black-and-white movie, complete with slicked-back hair, suit, and tie. He was even wearing one of those old-fashioned hats. Not a top hat. I think they called it a fedora or something.
The ghost sighed and looked around my room. “Trust me, kid, I’m not any happier about this than you are.”
His clear disapproval of my obviously awesome living quarters made me sneer. It also calmed me down, which was good, I guess.
“Are you okay?” my mom asked.
“Yes.” And kind of annoyed with Judgey, the Not-Friendly Ghost over in the corner.
“Good.” My mom took a deep breath. “Now, have you greeted the spirit?”
I shook my head.
“Lindsay, that’s not acceptable. Just because someone is dead doesn’t mean they don’t deserve the same level of courtesy—”
“Hey!” I pointed at the corner. “He called me cupcake, so why don’t you give him the lecture? Is that polite?”
My mom’s and nan’s eyes swung toward the corner, and even though I knew they couldn’t see the ghost, they narrowed their gazes.
“Besides, Mom, if you woke up with a weird guy in your room—”
“Cut that out, will ya? I’m not some pervert.” The ghost scowled. “You think I got any control over this mess?”
I glared. “Why are you even here?”
“Lindsay Evelyn Maxwell,” my nan said.
“Manners, Lins.”
I ignored them both, which was… not unusual.
“And don’t call me cupcake again.” I pointed my finger. “Do I look like a cupcake?”
He scoffed. “You look like a twelve-year-old boy. Who cut your hair? The lawn mower?”
I scrambled toward him and off my bed with a raised fist, only to collide with the purple chair in the corner. I whirled around, and he was leaning against the door to my bathroom.
“Listen, kid—”
“Shut up! You are a big, giant… jerk! And I want you out of my room. Now!” I crossed my arms over my nonexistent boobs, still self-conscious about being in my pj’s in front of a strange man even if he was a ghost.
To other people, I might have seemed like the quiet, artsy girl who hovered on the edge, but in my family, I knew how to make my voice heard. I had to. Respect for personal space was not a Maxwell Family Value.
Everyone waited, but the spirit made no move to leave or… disappear. Dissolve. Whatever he did. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.
“Is he… still here?” Mom asked.
“Yes.” I glared at him. “I don’t want a creepy old man in my room right now. Or ever.”
“Hey!” He put his hands on his hips. “Don’t call me creepy. And I’m not that old. It’s not like I knew my medium was going to be a pip-squeak kid.”
“I am thirteen, dude, and you are so old. I think my grandpa had a suit like that. Plus you smell lik
e cigarette smoke, which is just gross. I’m not the one with bad manners here. Get out of my room. You don’t have permission to wake me up like that. Ever. If you need to tell me something, find me when I’m in the kitchen or something. Being in my room is so not cool.”
I saw him sneer and mouth the words “so not cool,” but I didn’t budge. I could feel my nan and mom behind me, listening to my one-sided conversation. They didn’t speak, and I was relieved. This might have been my first ghost, but I knew I needed to deal with him.
“I mean it,” I said. “You want me to shut the door on you?”
His eyes narrowed. “You can’t do that.”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “But she can.” I pointed to my mom. “And she can too.” I pointed to my nan. “You want my first lesson of the day to be how to banish a ghost? Because I’m sure they’d be happy to teach me.”
Old Guy just glared at me some more. The scent of tobacco grew stronger, and I knew he was mad.
“I’m a Maxwell,” I said calmly. “I know how this works, and I know I may be the only chance you get. So what’s it going to be, dude?”
Boundaries. If I’d heard the lecture once, I’d heard it a thousand times. You had to have strict boundaries with spirits. Maxwell women were powerful mediums, but give a ghost an inch and they would take a mile. They’d take over your life if you weren’t strong enough. Haunt your days and nights. Never let you have the semblance of a normal life. Even drive you crazy.
There were plenty of stories about that.
Boundaries.
Old Guy and I glared at each other for what felt like ages. He finally let out a frustrated breath and said, “Fine. But please, stop calling me dude. I hate that word.”
“Okay.” Massive relief I tried not to show. “So who are you?”
“The name’s Frank Bogle.” He started to put his hand out, then drew it back and stuck both hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Detective, LAPD.”
I tried to think of any titles I had. Lindsay Maxwell, Art Achievement Award, Mark Twain Middle School?
“Nice to meet you, Frank. I’m Linx.”
“Your mom and grandmother called you Lindsay.”
“Yes, but my friends call me Linx, and I prefer that.”
“Cupcake”—he started to fade away in front of me—“let’s make one thing clear: I may talk to you, but I am not your friend.”
2016
I woke smelling cigarette smoke. It could have been my neighbors, but the new couple living next door were tech people playing at the bohemian, artistic life in newly revitalized Venice Beach, which meant there was usually some weed mixed in with the tobacco when it was my neighbors.
Which could only mean—
“Morning, cupcake.”
I groaned and rolled over, flipping Frank the bird over my shoulder while I tried to hide under the covers.
It didn’t matter. After fourteen years with the stubborn jackass, I knew he wouldn’t go away.
“Let’s go, kid. We got a job.”
Ghost Girl
You can do this, Linx. You can do this.
I was here. It was finally happening. My worst nightmare.
High school.
A giant knot sat in the pit of my stomach, and a ghost hung over my shoulder.
“Why are you even here?” I hissed.
“What else am I supposed to do?” Frank asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Leave me to suffer alone?”
“Why would I do that?”
Tears threatened at the corner of my eyes. I was such a freak. People who thought I could start over were kidding themselves. Venice Beach wasn’t that big a town. The people who called me a freak in middle school were still here, haunting my steps more effectively than Frank. And he was my actual ghost.
You can do this, Linx.
No, you can’t. You’re an idiot, and everyone is going to find out who you are.
Isn’t there something called home study I could be doing right now?
The final six months of eighth grade, the bullying at my last school had gotten so bad my mom pulled me out and let me stay home to finish my classes. I’d aced them. School had never been that hard. Putting up with the taunts of “Ghost Girl” and “freak” were much harder.
But then Nan decided I needed to give high school a try. There were art classes I couldn’t take at home, she said. It was a new place with new people, she said.
Okay, I said.
The hope had lasted until a week before classes started. Then the terror set in.
I could pretend I was leaving “Ghost Girl” behind, but eventually I was going to have to abandon the sidewalk and enter the high school so I could find my first-period class. When I did that, someone was going to recognize me, or see me muttering to Frank, or I’d drop my sketchbook, or something.
It would all be over, and I’d be the freak again.
“Kid, you gotta shake it off,” Frank said. “You’re panicking. Panicking never got anyone anywhere. You’re Lindsay Maxwell—”
“Linx.”
Frank sighed. “What is wrong with Lindsay?”
“Linx is cooler. It sounds like an artist.”
“Okay.”
He was humoring me. I hated that more than anything.
“Frank, of all the days for you to pretend I don’t exist, this would be a good one to pick. Just… go away.”
“Sorry, cupcake. For some reason, I get the feeling I need to stick by you today.”
“Ignore that feeling!” I readjusted my backpack and prepared to walk up the path. “And leave me alone. Just… leave me alone. Just for today, okay? Just for today, let me pretend that I’m normal. That I’m just an ordinary girl.”
“God’s sake, kid. Just relax, will ya? Why do you want to be normal anyway? Normal people are boring as hell. Pardon my language, but it’s true.”
I didn’t tell Frank, but it gave me a little thrill anytime he cursed in front of me. My mom and my nan would be appalled, but then they were pretty appalled that the ghost of a grown man was stuck to their fourteen-year-old daughter and granddaughter. Their horror at the situation was the only thing that made it bearable most days.
Because most days I wanted to murder Bogie.
Shame he was already dead.
“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Here I go.”
“You’re gonna be great, kid.”
“Shut up, Frank.”
Two boys pushed past me, looked over their shoulders, and smiled.
“Who’s she talking to?” one asked.
“A ghost, I guess.”
They burst into laughter. I wanted to sink into the ground.
Then I saw Bogie on the path ahead, walking back and forth through the boys who’d teased me, his presence making them so uncomfortable they looked like they were about to puke.
Okay, maybe having Frank here wouldn’t be all bad.
“Thanks,” I said quietly when I felt him return to my side.
“No problem.”
“Lindsay Maxwell?” the teacher called.
“Linx,” I answered. “Just Linx.” For the fourth time that day.
She was young and seemed cool. She made a note on the clipboard in her hand and continued with the roll call. So far, I’d been able to escape any kind of attention. I didn’t care about making friends. It probably sounded lame, but I didn’t need friends. I had my mom and my nan. I had Bogie. I just didn’t want to become a target again.
I was in fourth period, a French class I was pretty excited about, and I’d been assigned my favorite seat. Back of the class in the corner. Bogie was leaning against the back wall, checking out my teacher with a little smile on his face. I shot him a dirty look over my shoulder and heard a muffled laugh from my left.
I turned and saw a boy. A beautiful boy. He had skin the color of raw umber, hazel-green eyes, and the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. His lips looked like a supermodel’s, and I could feel mysel
f blushing bright red. I quickly looked down at my desk and pretended to ignore him.
A note hit my shoulder. I unfolded it and read: What did the cabinets do to you?
I looked over at him. He’d seen me glaring at Bogie. I just shook my head and went back to doodling on the edge of my notebook.
Another note hit my shoulder. I looked up with wide eyes.
Beautiful boys didn’t pay attention to me. I was skinny and I wore black all the time so if I got paint on my clothes, they wouldn’t stain. Beautiful boys paid attention to girls with boobs, which I didn’t have. Was this guy messing with me? Why? What had I done to him?
He didn’t look mean though. His eyes were kind when he nodded at the note he’d tossed me.
I like your name, it said.
I angled my notebook toward him. Thanks.
He angled his notebook toward me. I’m Raul. You were staring at your thumb when she called my name.
I remembered his name, I just hadn’t been paying attention to his face. Or to anyone’s faces.
Your last name is French, I wrote. Are you French?
Haitian. But I speak French.
So why are you in this class?
Easy A.
I smiled. If I could get an A in Supernatural Communication, I’d take it. Maybe you can check my homework. I suck at everything but art. It wasn’t precisely true, but it felt like it most days.
I’ve never seen doodling that good. He nodded at my notebook. That’s amazing.
No other compliment could have made me like him more. Thanks.
We had to pay attention after that. Our teacher, Mademoiselle Gerard, was passing out textbooks and explaining the syllabus. The hour flew by, and by the time we were packing up, French had gone to the top of my preferred classes, right under art. If nothing else, I could take mental pictures of Raul to sketch later when he couldn’t see.
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