Shem Bay is a tourist town without tourists on this cold, windy, rain soaked March afternoon. That doesn’t mean the tourist traps aren’t set, and I’m more than willing to exchange a few dollars for some revealing tidbits.
I find a table and from a friendly waitress get a menu and a cup of Heavenly Harmony. Black tea with apple, mango, rose petals, and cinnamon, she tells me. I order finger sandwiches of Brie, zucchini, red onion, and walnuts. I never want to leave.
“Care to have your cards read?” The voice with the fake accent is behind me. Before I can turn around, she’s sliding out the chair that’s across from me. “Special today,” she says, still holding the chair. “Seven dollars, usually fifteen.”
“Why not?” I say.
“Nicoleta,” she says, in baritone sing-song. The woman’s wearing a skillfully torn full skirt, gypsy scarf, and a weighty selection of beads and tiny bells. She jingles as she sits down. The waitress brings another cup and a pot of the sweet smelling tea.
“What secret shall I ask the cards to reveal for you?”
If only it were that easy. I’m tempted to ask the meaning of the black box I saw floating in the dark Oregon sky, but decide to ponder it on my own. I lace my fingers together and lean in. “I met this man on the beach the other night. He was tall and dark and mysterious. Do we have a future?”
She puts down three cards and turns the first one over with as much drama as one getting a psychic reading could ever hope for.
“Ten of Wands,” she whispers. “Such a heavy burden this man carries. Sadly, he is all work and no play. For this man there is always a price to be paid.” She turns the next card over– the Five of Cups. “Regrets and a troubled past. Emotionally unbalanced.” She gives me a frown. I have to agree.
When she turns over the last card, her eyes pierce mine. I see it before she looks down. “Aw, so sad. I’m sorry my dear one.” She traces the card with her finger, her eyes are closed. “The Seven of Swords. Deception and lies. Alas, he is not the one for you.”
I smile and add a five dollar tip as she gathers the cards and slips them back into her velvet pouch. She’s already spotted a couple who are being seated.
Nicoleta takes the money and starts to walk away then leans close to me and whispers, “But you already know who this man really is… yes?”
∞
There’s a taxi in front of Pratt’s house when I return to the property. The driver is carrying bags to the door, Jankovic is paying him, and a young girl with long chocolate curls is watching me from the porch.
I go on to the guest house as she disappears inside. Before I make it out of the jeep, she’s come from the back door and is rushing towards me. I step out and wave, hoping against all odds that she won’t continue my way.
“Hello,” she yells.
I’m sure Pratt wouldn’t approve but decide a quick introduction is necessary. “Hello. You must be Mackenzie.”
“Yes, and you’re Ms. Raven. Who is this? A wolf hybrid, I suspect. Perhaps a Tamaskan?” She’s at my side, staring at Mojo. She looks up with a wide and innocent grin. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Raven,” she says, extending her hand. “What is his name?”
“Mojo,” I say, nearly speechless. Mackenzie is small for her age with good manners and self-confidence beyond her eleven years.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, giving her hand to the wolfdog who looks as puzzled about the kid as me. He glances at me and lifts a paw.
Jankovic is marching in our direction but stops short of joining us. “Ms. Mackenzie, please come to house. No bother her. No go inside her house.” This last part she says with a smirk.
Mackenzie rolls her eyes at me. “Let’s get together later and discuss what’s going on in my father’s home. I have so many theories. I can’t wait to compare notes.”
Jankovic is glaring at me; her arms are crossed, her foot is tapping.
“Yes, later,” I say.
Mackenzie gives me a mischievous grin. “Don’t fret, Ms. Raven. No need to believe any rumors you may have heard about me. I assure you that I’m perfectly harmless. My most recent stay in the psychiatric ward was merely my father’s rather adolescent attempt to get even with me for being correct about our quantum particle event.”
“Ms. Mackenzie, your father no—
The girl raises her hand without saying a word and grins at me. Her dimples make her look angelic. Jankovic has her head down and is fussing with her apron.
“You see, Ms. Raven, Father absolutely abhors being wrong. Don’t you dare succumb to a single word he opines about me being insane.”
Chapter Sixteen
§
Jankovic follows Mackenzie back to the main house with her head down. It’s all I can do to keep my mouth from hanging open. I’m left to wonder if I was talking to a child or a small adult– one who just got released from a psych ward, and apparently not for the first time.
My logical mind wants to doubt that’s where the girl’s been. If she was telling the truth, my sixth sense has me questioning not the girl’s, but Pratt’s sanity. Plus, as much as I hate to dip my toe into people’s personal problems, a mental health issue of someone living in the house is something he should have disclosed.
I don’t need the distractions though because I’ve got to see if I can get a glimpse of the black box again. As much as I don’t want to go down Pratt’s dank rabbit hole, I can’t ignore an obvious message. I need to spend less time on the histories of the house and property and more time on Pratt’s history– starting with both his wives.
I should have asked the gypsy tarot reader about the black box. As stereotypical as she’d seemed, she nailed it about my tall, dark, and mysterious man: not the man on the beach but the one who lives in the house a few yards away. And what about the remark that I know who the man really is? I get dizzy just remembering her words.
An online court search finds the marriage certificate for Dr. Pratt and Lily McCluskey in 2014, presumably his second wife. Less than three years married to Pratt and she’s dead. I search for the death certificate and find it, or rather I find the court order that caused the medical examiner to seal the record. Pratt got a court order to prevent people from knowing how his wife died. Five of Cups, regrets and a troubled past.
I don’t find a first wife in Oregon. Then I remember he did his residency in Washington; still no first wife there either. It could have been a Las Vegas quickie, but I’m wasting time when I could be searching the astral plane for a mystery box.
After I light an incense and candle, I get comfortable to clear my mind with prayer and meditation. An hour later, my psychic battery is recharged. I grab the property deed with Pratt’s signature, place my fingers over it, and ask to see the black box again.
A few minutes later, I see Pratt’s face. Not the actual one or the one from the beach, but the one I sensed from the photo he sent me. The one where he was having a heated argument with someone. It fades in and out with my every breath. Who are you angry with, Doctor?
I’m about to check my phone to see if I can get a better connection by using the photo when there’s a soft knock at the door. Mojo’s already there, sniffing at the bottom.
“Who is it?” I ask, shoving the document back inside my bag.
“It’s Dr. Pratt, Ms. Raven.”
I’m glad it’s not Jankovic or worse Martin. I’m not glad it’s Pratt, but I am annoyed. I should have stayed at a hotel.
Mojo sits to the side of the door. He’s not one to welcome a visitor with a wagging tail and panting tongue. He prefers the shadows… and surprising the uninvited.
I open the door without comment. It’s eight o’clock. Visiting hours are over. Apparently, that’s exactly what my face says.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but my daughter’s arrived home and I thought she should meet you. We’re having cake and ice cream.”
Cake and ice cream to celebrate a psych ward release? Before I realize it, I’ve missed a few of Pratt’s
words.
“…lemon and chocolate ganache and vanilla cacao nib ice cream. Of course you don’t have to eat anything. I’d like to introduce the two of you since you’re staying on the property.”
“Of course I’d like to meet her. I assume I can ask Mackenzie some questions about what she experienced in the house.”
Pratt’s forehead tightens before he smiles with pressed lips. “She isn’t up to discussing the matter. Please give her time to get resettled.”
“All right, tomorrow then. I’ll be over in a few minutes.” Pratt does a quick scan of my worn blue jeans and flannel shirt and nods his head in agreement.
So Mackenzie didn’t mention that we already met. How interesting. What other tales isn’t she telling? I also wonder why Jankovic apparently kept quiet about our meeting. If it was Mackenzie’s doing, I like the kid even more than I did a few hours ago.
Assuming Jankovic won’t let me in the back door, I head to the front. I see an older Toyota backing out from the side of the house. It doesn’t move as I climb the steps and knock at the door. It’s still there when Pratt answers. I wave at Jankovic before going inside.
The doctor leads me to a smaller dining room off the kitchen where Mackenzie is busy setting up her celebration. He does a most proper introduction and Mackenzie winks at me.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Raven. I hope you enjoy your stay here. Please don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.”
I have to hide my grin, at least from Pratt. The kid’s got her act down pat. Still her aura is clear with lots of innocent pink and white and a good dose of violet: the sign of an open third eye that’s common in inquisitive children. I feel immensely better about Pratt who despite the alleged psych ward, appears not to have done too much damage to the kid, yet anyway.
Mackenzie hands her father a sharp knife and before he cuts the cake, she snatches its cute pink pony off the top and bites off the head. Then she tosses the body into the empty box and gives me a wide grin. I keep the knife and the kid in my peripheral vision.
As soon as we’re done, Mackenzie clears the dishes and politely excuses herself for the evening. She gives Pratt a peck on the cheek and me a devilish wink.
Pratt loses no time in heading to his study with me trailing behind to, “discuss my current findings.” He skips the sherry and pours himself a whiskey. I decline and he pinches his eyebrows together before nodding.
“How are things coming along?”
I don’t know where to begin. With my investigation on him? With the man on the beach with his face? With the black box? I tell him I met with Joe Collins today at the nursing home. Pratt takes a second sip.
“And,” he snaps, then his face flushes.
“And I picked up the records at the assessor’s office.” Now I’m just trying to irritate the man.
He shifts the ice cubes in his glass before relaxing his jaw and lifting it to his lips. “Did Mr. Collins give you any worthwhile information?” The glass hits the desk and he straightens in his chair. His muddy aura has thin streaks of impatient orange.
I’m grinning until he looks up. “I suspect Mr. Collins has some issues with his memory or perhaps it’s confusion. He did ramble on about a few things.” I pause, watch the doctor eye his glass, watch his orange glow grow.
“Some things he said were just ramblings, others were… oh, how would I describe it? Curious? Yes, curious.”
Pratt’s at the bar again. His impatience is turning to anger.
“Other things were… amusing.”
“Ms. Raven, please understand that I’m a very busy man. I work long hours and I have more work to complete tonight. Will you just tell me if you are any closer to resolving the matter for which I hired you?”
I lean back in my seat and sigh, stare at his drink, wrinkle my brow. “I think I’m closer than I want to be, Doctor. Here’s what I have so far. Your blatant hostility concerns me. Your refusal to let me stay in the house last night perplexes me. Your attitude troubles me, enough so to think whatever is going on with you personally isn’t due to the problem you’re experiencing in the house, but the actual cause of the phenomenon. Does your daughter have mental health issues?”
“Of course not,” he shouts.
I scoot forward in my chair and put my hands on the edge of his desk. “I understand you’re grieving over the loss of your wife. I appreciate that you’ve experienced trauma, despair, anger. However, along with the excessive use of alcohol, those emotions can open portals that allow dark energy to enter a person and a home.”
Pratt’s face is frozen, his eyes wide. His aura is retreating. I lean back and cross my arms, partly for protection. “How did your second wife die, Dr. Pratt?”
He looks up at me then away and whispers, “Cancer.”
“In your profession, you read your patients’ energies. Just by looking at them, you can tell when they’re sick, when they’re faking, when they’re dying. Correct?”
His eyes are dull, but he doesn’t look away this time. “Yes.”
“I need more time, less anger, more cooperation…or Doctor, I need to leave. Think it over and let me know in the morning because I’m not open to negotiations, and I’m done with these hostile interrogations.”
I stand up and go to the door while trying not to look back or say another word; my efforts fail. “It might help you to decide by spending some time looking in the mirror– where you may find a few things that are haunting you.”
Chapter Seventeen
§
It’s pouring buckets when I rush to the guest house. I’m tempted to pack my things and not wait for Pratt’s decision. His doped up energy is on my nerves.
When I open the door, Mojo pushes past me and heads to the cliff. “You’re going to get wet,” I shout over the crashing waves. He ignores me.
I put on another layer of clothes and grab an umbrella from a holder by the door. Mojo’s sitting at the cliff on the far end of the property, staring at the water below. I go to him and he leans against my leg, taking shelter under the umbrella, which is struggling to survive the winds.
“What’s up with you?” I ask.
The sky’s a solid sheet of black asphalt, the crashing waves are hypnotic, the winds rattle then calm my nerves. Everything is lit up by the artificial lights in the development. I’m searching the heavens for the black box while thinking I’ll skip small town America on the drive home.
I don’t even notice that the wolfdog is creeping away until a large wave crashes and its spray threatens to reach me. It jerks me out of my head and away from the edge of the cliff.
Mojo’s climbing the rocks to the highest point, slipping into the thick vegetation and past the giant evergreens that reach out like divers about to take the plunge into the icy water below. I can almost feel myself falling and hitting the massive boulders on the way down.
I call him, but the rain and wind silence my voice so I follow. Soon, I have to abandon the umbrella to get through the thick and unruly and very wet growth. When I see him again, he’s sitting with his head hanging down.
“What’s up with you?”
He looks at me then back. He’s found an opening above the beach. Gold deposits in the sand sparkle in the lights from the road. “We can go tomorrow, but we’re not going down there tonight, especially not this route. Come on, we’re soaked.”
He moves farther away from me and does his ghost pose. What a perfect night this is to commune with ghosts. I look over the edge; the beach is more than a hundred feet below. I think I see what Mojo has spotted, but the wind is blowing the rain sideways and it’s hard to focus.
I inch closer to the edge, hanging onto a low tree branch. My foot sends a rock over the cliff and it floats like a feather as it pings off rocks on the way down, disappearing before it hits the bottom. I’m about to move back to more solid ground when I see him.
He’s wearing the same trench coat and boots, walking with his shoulders hunched and head down as be
fore. Now I’m not sure what he is: an earthbound spirit or a replay of traumatic energy that clings to this beach?
“Hey,” I foolishly yell, as if he could hear me. I step forward and fall on a slippery log and right into a mud hole. When I pull myself up, the man’s stopped and he’s looking straight up at us. I pull out my phone and take several photos before he fades away.
∞
It’s past ten o’clock when we get back to the guest house. There’s a note on the door that I’m thinking is my termination notice. It isn’t, but it’s not an apology either. Please continue your work as agreed. Short, sweet, and as ice cold as I feel right now.
After the wolfdog’s shower, he flops in the middle of the bed. I remove the mud that’s covering me from head to toe. Jankovic is going to go ballistic when she sees what we’ve done to this place.
As soon as I’m clean and warm again, I get into bed with my phone. “Okay, my tall, dark man, tell me your story.” I flip through the photos: Arthur with a customer, Maybelle in her garden, a snake on a tree that I’d rather forget about, birds, cactuses, Pratt’s home, and the beach.
Where is he? I flip through the photos again. No man in a trench coat anywhere. Interesting, a fully formed entity that can’t be photographed. Or is it the suspected residual energy? But why is it on the beach and in Pratt’s home too? And is it even one and the same?
Rarely do I take photos of ghosts. I don’t need to see them and nobody believes they’re real so what’s the point? But I wanted to get this guy’s so I could attempt to make contact with him while not falling off the cliff or getting thrown into the ocean.
I put my fingers over one photo of the beach then the next while asking for a message. If not for the wolfdog doing his ghost pose, I could almost convince myself that all I saw was shadows from the storm. Sooner or later, me and this possible Pratt doppelganger will have to meet.
I’m about to give up when I remember Pratt’s note. I get it and place it over the photo of the beach. With my eyes closed, I ask for a message. The room is dark and getting cold. I slip further under the blankets. “Tell me who you are and how I can help you.”
The Shem Bay Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 3) Page 8
