Cold Cases and Haunted Places

by Trixie Silvertale

  Listening to the voices sparks a clairaudient memory. The woman’s voice, Sid, is the same I’d heard earlier, coming from the second floor. The new voice is the man she was talking to at the time, and it’s definitely not Billy.

  Peeking through the doorway, I see a third apparition has joined them. This guy looks like trouble. His dark-grey and white-chalk-striped suit, white spats, and huge cigar, scream mob boss.

  Looks like Mitzy Moon is on the case.

  2

  “Grams! Grams! You’re not gonna believe what happened at the party.”

  No response.

  Stumbling through the darkened bookshop, I catch myself on the wrought-iron railing of the spiral staircase leading up to the Rare Books Loft. I wisely unhook the “No Admittance” chain, to avoid attempting a hop-over that will certainly end badly.

  Hurrying up the stairs, I stutter to a halt when the soft glow of a green-glass lampshade greets me from the back row of oak reading desks.

  My heart thumps in my chest and rapid shallow breathing threatens to cause hyperventilation.

  “Ah, Mizithra. I hope you don’t mind my taking advantage of your absence to catch up on some light reading.”

  Fear-induced sweat trickles down my back as I struggle to take deep breaths. Apparently, while the rest of Pin Cherry Harbor is out bobbing for apples and collecting pillowcases full of candy, my mentor is entertaining himself by reading two-hundred-year-old arcane texts, most assuredly in Latin.

  “You didn’t think to let me know you were up here when you heard me come in and screech for Isadora.”

  “Perhaps. However, I deduced you were in search of your grandmother, and did not feel it was my place to interfere.”

  Good old Silas. Always calm and rational. He makes Xanax look like cocaine. “Speaking of Grams, have you seen her?”

  He steeples his fingers and bounces his jowly chin on the fingertips of his pointers. As he harrumphs into his bushy grey mustache, it’s obvious I’ve made an error. “You are the only human who possesses the visual perception to locate your grandmother’s ghost. As you are further aware, I used a transmutation on a pair of spectacles, which allow me to see her when I wear them. However, I would think it quite obvious that I am not currently wearing the aforementioned lenses.”

  “Touché.” My raven and I make an awkward bow while flourishing my right hand in defeat. “I should’ve been more observant. I’ll check the apartment.”

  Silas chuckles.

  On the wall beside the shelf holding my treasured copy of Saducismus Triumphatus, I reach for the candle sconce and pull it down. The candle handle activates a sliding bookcase door, revealing my swanky flat.

  Before I step inside, Silas calls out. “What is your costume?”

  Oh, bother. “I’m Edgar Allan Pooh.”

  To my utter shock, Silas guffaws until his round cheeks glow like cherries in the lamplight, and tears leak from the corners of his eyes. “Magnificent.”

  Turning, I see Ghost-ma zipping out of the closet and rocketing toward me in excitement.

  “Mitzy! You’re back early? Is everything okay, dear?”

  “Come out to the mezzanine so I can tell you both what happened.”

  “Reeeee-ow.” A warning. Pye’s black-tufted ears twitch impatiently and his lithe muscles ripple under his tan fur. He never let’s me forget that he is a wild and brilliant lifeform that simply allows me the privilege of serving him.

  “Please forgive me, your Royal Furriness. I meant to say all three of you.”

  Pyewacket flicks his short tail. “Re-ow.” Thank you.

  In addition to a fascinating bookstore and an immense estate, I also inherited this spoiled caracal. Grams indulged his every whim during her lifetime, and now meeting each of his demands falls on my shoulders. It took some time to understand his carefully pitched inflections, but now I’m nearly a pro.

  “Actually, give me five minutes. I’ve got to get out of this contraption.”

  On my way, I tap the raven’s claw. “Nevermore. Caw. Caw.”

  Another round of belly laughs bursts from the normally sedate alchemist, and he places a hand on his paunch to assist in regaining his decorum.

  I dash into my closet, peel off the layers of my costume as quickly as possible, and slip on shorts and an oversized sleeping tee picturing a bird snuggled into its nest below the saying, “Who needs worms? Wake me for brunch.” I rejoin the trio in the Rare Books Loft and spin my tale.

  Silas leans forward. “Three ghosts? You’re certain?”

  “I mean, I’m not an expert. I’ve only been seeing ghosts for about a year, and I’m absolutely sure they weren’t patients of the asylum.”

  He nods solemnly. “I would concur. I trust you didn’t imbibe or ingest anything untoward?”

  “Of course not. I told you I didn’t take the pills.”

  “Indeed. I felt it was prudent to rule out hallucination.”

  Grams swirls toward the tin-plated ceiling and the moonlight shining through the large 6 x 6 windows at the front of the bookshop filters through her ethereal form like candlelight through fog.

  “Grams, can you come down here? You’re kind of creeping me out.”

  She uncharacteristically ignores me and continues to drift toward the silvery moonlight.

  “Silas, do something. Put on your special glasses and do something.”

  He reaches to an inner pocket in his tattered tweed jacket, takes out the simple wire-rimmed spectacles with rose-tinted lenses, and hooks the curved arms behind his preternaturally large ears. Scanning the bookshop, he locates Ghost-ma. “Isadora? Isadora, is everything all right?”

  Her image flickers, and she makes no effort to heed our calls.

  “What’s wrong with her? She’s never acted like this before. I don’t know what to do.”

  He exhales a flustered sigh. “It is an arduous night for spirits trapped on this side of the veil. The membrane that separates dimensions is barely more than a diaphanous curtain fluttering in the breeze. And now, at the witching hour, it is most fragile. While humans use this opportunity to beg messages from the other side, I fear your grandmother hears the calls of the spirits she longs to join. It is her first All Hallows’ Eve in this situation. Last year she could barely comprehend her death, let alone an otherworldly existence.”

  “She won’t— She’s not going to— Silas, I can’t lose her.”

  “I do not believe it is within her power to leave. I simply fear the pull is stronger now than it has ever been. Perhaps it is best if we leave her to her ennui and return to your investigation on the morrow.”

  My heart hurts, and hot tears burn my eyes. “Promise me she’ll be here in the morning. Please?”

  Silas removes his bespelled eyewear. “Your grandmother loves you. She spent the last years of her life forcing me to find a means to keep her here. She does not seek to sever the tie that binds her to this place. But none of our futures are certain, and that is what ultimately makes life so worth living. Some things are out of your control, Mizithra.” He carefully replaces the alchemically enhanced object in his coat of many secrets. “Place a glass of water at your bedside, sprinkle salt in the four corners of your room, and sleep on the left side of your bed.”

  And with that mystical riddle, Mr. Willoughby takes his leave.

  Returning to the apartment with a heavy weight on my shoulders and a saltshaker in my hand, I obey the cryptic instructions Silas provided, and place an uneasy head on my pillow.

  The antique four-poster seems enormous and empty. I’m grateful when Pyewacket makes his soft landing.

  He’s concerned to find me sleeping on the opposite side of the bed and paces from head to foot three times before circling into his new location.

  Once he settles, my gaze drifts over the shapes in the apartment. There’s something familiar, some niggling thought struggling to find its way into my consciousness.

  The best thing to do is to think about anything else, and, e
ventually, the secret thought will unexpectedly pop to the forefront.

  It takes three and a half seconds to find something to occupy my vivid imagination.

  Sheriff Erick Harper, dressed as Thor. Now, there is the perfect seed for a blossoming dream.

  * * *

  The shorter days and longer nights suit me fine. I prefer to sleep with my automatic blackout shades open and enjoy the moonlight, as well as the stars flickering above the massive body of water glistening in the harbor. When morning breaks, I’m eager to get out of bed. A novel feeling, to be sure.

  However, my fruitful dreams erased all memory of sleeping on the wrong side of the bed. When I roll over to perform my morning ritual of scratching between Pyewacket’s tufted ears, I’m instead wadded up in eight-hundred-thread-count sheets, tumbling onto the floor.

  “What the—”

  A very UN-feline-ish sound comes from the bed. If I didn’t know better, I’d say my fur baby is laughing at me.

  Pushing to a seated position, I untangle my legs from the sheet and rub the sleep from my eyes. And then it hits me.

  My mood ring burns like fire on my left hand and reveals the flickering image of a saxophone.

  Pyewacket arches his back, stretches into a position we refer to as downward ‘D-word,’ and leaps off the bed. Rather than stalking insistently toward the secret door and commanding his human servant provide his breakfast, he approaches the display on the west side of my apartment and makes to sharpen his claws on the wooden pedestal.

  “Grams! Grams, I don’t care if you’re suffering from otherworldly angst! Get in here this instant!”

  To my immense surprise, Ghost-ma bursts through the wall in somewhat of a panic. “What’s wrong? Are you in danger?”

  I point to the mannequin inside the glass case. “What’s the story behind this decadent hand-beaded gown? You said there was a notorious flapper in my history. Did she wear that vintage dress? Or is it some designer gown you bought at fashion week in New York?”

  Grams nods. “It’s the real thing. My mother passed it down and told me it belonged to one of the bravest ladies ever to spring from our family tree.”

  “What was her name?”

  She anxiously swirls and looks everywhere except at me. “It’s so hard to remember names. It was ages and ages ago. You know how details of my human life get foggy.”

  “What I know is that details only seem to get foggy when it’s convenient for you, and/or when you’re hiding something.”

  “Not hiding, dear. I’m not sure it’s important.”

  “How about you tell me, and I decide if it’s important? Who’s the dame?”

  “Well . . . it was my mother’s side of the family, so the surname would’ve been Jensen.”

  “And her first name?” I tilt my head and narrow my gaze.

  “Ooooh, it’s on the tip of my tongue . . .” Grams taps a manicured finger on her perfect, coral lips.

  “Does Sid ring a bell?”

  She claps her ethereal hands together. “Yes! Sidney. Sidney Mae Jensen. And I do remember her being called Sid.”

  “And she played the saxophone?”

  “Yes. It’s all coming back to me now. She chose that nickname because people assumed it was a man’s name, and it got her more auditions. She was the first female jazz saxophone player in the country. Maybe the world. I’m not entirely sure, but she was incredibly famous.”

  “And how did she die?”

  Grams’ translucent eyes cloud with shadow, and she flickers in and out.

  “It’s her ghost I saw at the asylum. Why didn’t you say anything last night?”

  “I wasn’t myself last night. I was disconnected. For the first time since I passed away and Silas tethered my spirit to this bookshop, I felt as though I could leave.”

  My chest constricts, and I can’t get air into my lungs. “But you wouldn’t. Right? You wouldn’t leave me, would you, Grams?”

  She swirls down to eye level, and her glimmering arms reach toward me. After a year of practice, when she circles her glowing limbs around me, it feels almost like a genuine hug. “Never, dear. It only felt as though I could.”

  We both cry a little and dab at our tears.

  “So, if the ghost I saw last night was Sid Jensen, a jazz saxophone player who died in the 1920s, that hardly sounds like the type of apparition that would hang out in an asylum built in the 1950s. I don’t get it.”

  “Well, Silas did say something about the veil being thinnest during Halloween. Maybe you were seeing something different. Maybe the ghost worlds were swirling together.”

  “Maybe— Ooh, Grams, I gotta go.”

  Hurrying into the bathroom, I splash chilly water on my face, poke uselessly at my haystack of snow-white hair, and change. Choosing skinny jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweater, I want to be prepared for the warning chill of winter that hangs in the air on the first of November.

  “RE-ow.” Feed me.

  “Follow me, Mr. Cuddlekins. I’ll see that you get your fix of Fruity Puffs before I hit the road.”

  After feeding the beast, I steal a couple handfuls of cereal for myself. Luckily, Pye is too busy gobbling up his breakfast to offer a scornful glare.

  The drive out to the decrepit asylum gives me an opportunity to run through a variety of terrible plans. Each time I’m closing in on the perfect scheme, the liquid acrobatics of the great lake steal my attention.

  The winds are fierce, and colossal waves crash against the rocky shore, sending spray impossibly far into the air. I nearly miss my turn, but one of my extra senses kicks in at the last minute and pulls my attention back.

  Approaching the party-turned-crime-scene, it’s obvious that none of my plans will work. Hoping for a stroke of genius, I carefully park and avoid damaging any pumpkin sculptures.

  As I walk toward the yellow “police line do not cross” tape, my shoulders sag. Just my luck. Little Bo Peep is back in uniform, and none too happy to see me.

  “What are you doing out here, Moon? This is a crime scene. Official police personnel only. We don’t need any amateurs poking around.”

  And, like lightning, it comes to me: when in doubt, lie it out. “Oh, I’m not here on official business, Paulsen. Obviously, you have that well in hand. I’m here on more of a girlfriend thing. I’m sure Erick’s busy, but it’s important.”

  Paulsen waddles over with her hand firmly on the grip of her pistol. “Look, Moon, the sheriff’s running a crime scene. He doesn’t have time to entertain your personal problems during a murder investigation.”

  “So it definitely was a murder? Last night everyone was ready to write it off as a suicide.” I take a moment to enjoy the embarrassed look that floods across her face as she realizes she’s said too much. Now, I hope Erick will forgive me for this next part. “Like I said, Paulsen. I wouldn’t be out here unless it was extremely important. Maybe you could let Sheriff Harper know that I’m sorry I’m late and see if he has a minute to talk?”

  Paulsen assumes exactly the thing I’m hoping, and her eyes widen. “Don’t move a muscle. When I get back here, you better be on that side of the tape. Understood?”

  “Copy that, Deputy.”

  Far sooner than expected, Erick Harper jogs out of the asylum and straight toward me. His luscious blond hair is carefully slicked back with pomade, and his official uniform is crisp and clean. Not exactly the vision that visited me in my dreams last night, but still a striking man. “Mitzy, did we have an appointment this morning?”

  How adorably perfect. He made none of the sexual inferences that Deputy Paulsen latched onto and simply assumed he’d missed an appointment. That’s my guy. “Not at all. I had to make up a story so she’d send you out.”

  He smiles briefly before the worry of the case returns. “Look, I appreciate you dropping by, but this case is a real brain buster and I have a lot of suspects to question.”

  “It’s a little unorthodox, but I’ve helped in the past. If you have that many p
eople to talk to, maybe I could assist?”

  “If it was a minor case, I’d definitely pull you in, Moon. But it turns out the victim is Kenadi Mumler, the chef’s ex-wife and current business partner.”

  “Ex-wife? She looked my age.”

  He nods. “You’re not far off. She was four years older, twenty-six. I gotta go take a statement from . . .”

  As he talks, I duck under the yellow tape and walk toward the asylum. If I can keep him chatting and distracted, we’ll be inside before he realizes what’s happened.

  Success.

  “So, I should be finished up here in a couple hours. Do you want to meet me at Myrtle’s Diner for lunch?”

  “Sure. Take your time.”

  He turns and strides rapidly back to his urgent lawman business, while I slink down the corridor toward the debris-filled cafeteria.

  Rubbing my left hand across the broken sign, I enter the room expectantly.

  Anemic light streams through the filthy windows and the floor is nothing more than a fractured swath of linoleum. Overturned tables and broken chairs lie between patches of disrepair and walls tagged with graffiti.

  Based on the scope of the damage, I can’t imagine how the chef planned to convert this hovel into a high-end hotel and bistro. From where I’m standing, it seems impossible.

  Disappointment swells, and I hesitate to admit that Silas and Grams were right. The brief window into the 1920s speakeasy has closed, and my glimpse of Sidney Mae Jensen most likely had much more to do with ancestry than anything mysterious.

  Turning toward the area that served as her haunted stage, I blow a kiss. “At least I got to hear you play, Sid. If you happen to see my mom on the other side, tell her ‘Mitzy sends her love’.”

  Wiping an errant tear from the corner of my eye, I turn to leave.

  The soft wail of a saxophone drifts through the dusty air.

  I spin and search the shadows. “Sidney? Sidney Mae Jensen? My name is Mitzy Moon. I’m a relative, and I have your beautiful red dress on display in my apartment. Do you have time to talk?”