I skimmed the list. Most of the jobs seemed like something I could handle, such as helping direct visitors to various attractions or selling tickets to the tilt-a-whirl.
“None of these look horrible,” I told Mark. “I was worried I’d get stuck mucking out the stalls in the petting zoo.”
He shook his head. “They pay people to do heavy-duty or dirty jobs like that.”
I scooted forward to the edge of the chair to keep my spine away from that horrible back then checked the box saying I could fill in wherever they needed an extra pair of hands. I was sure Penelope would give me whatever she considered the worst job, but I’d do it with a smile. A big, spiteful, self-congratulatory smile.
At last the meeting broke up, and I was free to stand up and stretch. I put my hands on my back and pushed it forward, wincing when my fingers found my spine. I’d definitely have a bruise there now.
Mark cleared his throat and stood up beside me. “Do you want to see some pictures of past festivals? There are a few out in the hall.”
Past festivals? Maybe there’s a picture of my mom. “Sure, I’d love to,” I told him.
His eyes brightened, and his smile made one of its rare appearances. I followed him out of the room and down a hallway lined with dark offices. Rows of photographs hung on the walls between the doors, displaying important moments in the town’s history. Mark led me past a picture of a few proud-looking men and women standing next to a newly erected welcome to donn’s hill sign at the edge of town. There was also a photo of a burning barn and even one of Harry Houdini posing on the steps of City Hall. Below each frame was a small metal plate that displayed the year and a brief description of the event.
Mark stopped halfway down the hall. “Check these out.”
The wall was like a photographic version of Penelope’s speech. I spotted a picture of the famous Driscoll family, all posed together around an old man with a long beard. The placard said it was taken in 1887. Not a single person was smiling, and their intense eyes were all fixed on the camera. I felt as though they were staring at me.
Another photo showed a séance that was held during the festival in 1934. A group of people in black tie sat around in a circle, resting their hands flat on the table in front of them. The photo was unnerving; it seemed like there were too many hands on the table for the number of people sitting around it.
I moved down the hallway, examining each picture. There were more photos of séances throughout the years, and the participants’ expressions fascinated me. Some looked grimly determined; others looked terrified. One woman in a flapper dress and headband looked murderous, as if she was about to leap across the table and strangle someone. Her expression reminded me of the look Penelope wore on her face whenever she saw me.
Mark’s cell phone pinged. He looked down at the small screen and groaned. “Shoot, I’ve got to get going. I forgot I promised my great-aunt I’d stop by her house tonight. But hey, I’m really excited to be working with you at the festival.”
I grinned at him. “What, worried you won’t get enough of my nonsense with the Soul Searchers?”
“Ha!” His laugh was unexpectedly sharp, and we both jumped at the sound. His freckled face reddened, and he backed down the hallway toward the meeting room and the stairs. “Must be it. So I’ll see you around then. Can you find your way out okay?”
Eyeing him, I nodded. What an odd guy.
Not yet done with my trip back in time, I turned back to the wall. The farther down the hall I moved, the more recent the photos became. There was a picture of an oblong Ferris wheel, with seats that extended outward on long arms. A little boy who was missing his two front teeth grinned from behind the wheel of a bumper car while a girl in pigtails sped toward him from behind. A young couple shared an enormous spool of cotton candy under a neon sign that read fun house in crooked letters. I smiled. My mother had never let me go into the Fun House when I was a kid. This year, I’d be able to check it out.
A few feet to my right, a photo slipped off the wall. Its frame clacked against the floor when it landed. I walked forward and picked it up, checking to see if the glass had broken. Fortunately, its inexpensive frame was made with thin, durable plastic that protected the photo.
A pair of faces in the picture jumped out at me. There, smiling at the camera from the center of the group, were Gabrielle and her sister, Rosanna. I glanced at the plaque on the wall beneath the empty space where the photo had been hanging; it read festival committee and was dated the previous year. I felt a pang as I looked at Rosanna’s smiling face. She looked gaunt, and I wondered if she knew at that point she wouldn’t live to see another festival.
I searched the rows of people for other familiar faces. There was Mark, somber as ever. I recognized a few others from the meeting. In the front row was Penelope Bishop. Her aloof snobbishness rang through loud and clear, even from the photograph. And then my heart stopped.
There, standing shoulder to shoulder with Penelope, was the man I’d seen in the bathroom mirror in my nightmare. His dark hair wasn’t quite as long, but it still hung around his face in loose waves. He had a handsome, confident smile that felt vaguely sleazy. He made me think of someone you might encounter at a used car lot on a Saturday afternoon. His eyes were bright and excited, and he had deep lines around his mouth.
Shivering, I glanced around, half expecting to see him standing behind me. I was completely alone in the hallway, but I suddenly wondered how the picture had fallen off the wall.
It can’t be. I banished him from my apartment. I felt him leave.
But poltergeists haunt people, not places.
I dug my fingernails into the frame’s cardboard backing. Who was he?
“What are you doing here?” a voice barked from the end of the hall.
Startled, I jumped and dropped the photo onto the floor again.
“Hey!” Penelope powerwalked toward me, clutching a small Tupperware container in her hands. As she got closer, I saw that it was filled with the remaining lemon bars and drooled in envy.
“Is that a perk of running the volunteer committee?” I asked, nodding toward her container. “You get to take home the best leftovers?”
“What are you talking about? I baked these. They’re mine.”
I had to suppress a gasp. I felt betrayed by the tart, lemony goodness. How could someone so awful make something so delicious?
Penelope planted her free hand on her hip. “I ask you again, what are you doing here? Did you break that?”
“Of course not.” I picked up the photo, dusted it off, and then held it out to her. “See? Perfectly fine.”
She scoffed and snatched the picture out of my hands. When her eyes landed on the people in the photo, she suddenly stiffened. “What are you doing with this?”
“I was just looking. Can you tell me who that guy is? The one with the long hair, standing next to you?”
Her head snapped up, and her eyes narrowed into slits. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious, I don’t—”
“You listen to me.” She dropped the photo to her side and leaned toward me, the tip of her thin nose nearly touching mine. “You might have fooled people like Gabrielle and Brian, but I know who you are. I know why you’re here. And I’m not going to let you get away with any of it. You should get out of town while you still can.”
With that, she strode away from me, picture in hand, leaving me to stare after her in wonder.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, I ran into Kit on the staircase in our building. She came flying around the corner from her apartment just as I stepped onto the second-floor landing, and her short frame knocked me into the wall.
“Hey!” she said. “I was just coming up to see you.”
“You’re back!” I pulled her into a hug. “How’d the meeting go?”
She grinned. “Fantabulous. ScreamTV renewed our contract for another full season. Our producer loved your interview. He’s excited we’ll have
a psychic on the team.”
My cheeks burned. I was glad Yuri had warned me that he was going to show the interview to the producer. I was happy they were going to continue making their dream a reality, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about being on national television. What would Josh think if he saw me on TV as a psychic?
He’ll think you’ve lost your mind.
Maybe I could wear a wig and go by a different name to keep my anonymity.
“How did it go the other day?” Kit asked. “Any trouble with the poltergeist?”
“I think it worked. Gabrielle helped me with the smudging.” I ran her through the steps we’d taken.
“That sounds pretty much like what Gabrielle did in MaryBeth’s place.” Her already-large eyes widened until I thought they might pop out of her head. “And now you have experience with smudging! Next time we run into a poltergeist, you can do it on camera!”
Kit’s excitement at the prospect of another encounter with an angry, violent spirit wasn’t quite contagious enough to infect me. I cringed at the thought of Mark filming me while I walked around the room, waving a sage stick and trying to look like I knew what I was doing.
“Anyway,” Kit went on, “Dad has a lead on a haunting, so vacation’s over. We’ll be heading out tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great!” She gave me another quick hug then bounced back down the hall to her apartment.
I stopped in the foyer to check my mailbox. As usual, it was empty. I sighed and snapped the mailbox shut.
“Well, hello,” said a deep voice from behind me.
I looked over my shoulder. A gray-haired man stood in the doorway to the kitchen. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him until I realized I’d seen a similar sweater vest just last night at the meeting.
“Hi,” I said. “Didn’t I see you last night at city hall, talking to my veterinarian?”
“Ah, the lady remembers,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were also a lucky resident of Primrose House. Phillip Lee, at your service.” He smiled and held out a hand.
I shook it. “Mac. Any relation to Dr. Lee?”
“Yes indeed. She’s my baby sister. You said she’s your vet? You must have pets, then?” His smile broadened, and the lines around his mouth deepened. He had dark brown eyes that sparkled mischievously, as though this conversation was part of a secret game.
“Yes, I have a cat.”
Phillip clapped his hands together. “Wonderful! I adore cats. Not as much as the good doctor, of course, but then, we can’t all do what we love for a living. I, for example, am in the lucrative and exciting business of high-powered finance.”
“Oh… are you a stock broker or something?”
“Much more thrilling than that! I’m a loan officer at Donn’s Hill Credit Union.” He waggled his eyebrows at me.
Was he hitting on me? No way. He’s at least thirty years older than I am.
“Say, do you have breakfast plans?” he asked. “I make a delightful smoked-salmon omelet.” He slowly edged closer to me, and he’d been a close talker from the start.
I backed up toward the door. “Actually, I’m meeting a friend. Sorry. Another time.”
Ugh, I wish you hadn’t said that! He’s going to take that as a yes for later!
Sure enough, his eyes lit up. “Wonderful!” he said again. “Name the date. I have some excellent cava. We can make mimosas.” He leaned in toward me. “I live in the converted butler’s pantry, the one off the kitchen. Feel free to drop in any old time. I have the most gorgeous stained-glass windows in my bedroom.” He winked, and his eyebrows leapt around again. I was sure they were intended to look roguish, but instead, it looked as though his face couldn’t decide between surprise or anger.
I cringed. I didn’t want to encourage him, and a quick exit seemed to be the best way to go. I turned and bolted for the door, calling, “Nice meeting you. Bye!”
While fleeing down the sidewalk, I decided to head for Nine Lives Book Exchange to see Gabrielle. Her face had popped into my head while talking to Phillip, and I thought taking her out for coffee would be a good way to start the day. It was a drizzly morning, raining just enough to make the air smell amazing but not enough to need an umbrella. The sun peeked through the clouds like a nervous kid before the school talent show, looking out from between the curtains to spot mom and dad in the audience. Apparently it wasn’t yet ready to take the stage.
The bookstore was empty when I entered, but I knew Gabrielle would hear the jingling bell above my head. The overhead lights brightened the room, highlighting tendrils of nag champa incense that rose from a burner on the fireplace mantle. Today’s musical selection was the Doobie Brothers.
“Whoa-oh-ohhhh…” I sang along as I meandered around the room, waiting for Gabrielle to emerge.
As I rounded a bookcase, a bright glint caught my eye, drawing my attention to the glass case that stood beneath the register. Inside the case, between the jars of powder and the pewter goblets, a polished copper bowl about the size of a teacup reflected the light from a nearby bulb. I noticed a tiny price tag next to the bowl. It cost $2700.
“Holy crap,” I muttered.
“Ah,” Gabrielle said from behind me, “I see you’ve found the latest addition to my witching collection.”
There was that “witch” word again. I hated how often she compared psychics and witches, no matter the historical significance. I felt weird enough about my gift already.
I turned around to give Gabrielle a hug and was startled by the change in her appearance from just a few days before. Her long black hair was pulled up into a messy bun, her shoulders sagged, and her green eyes were dull and half hidden beneath heavy lids. She looked exhausted, but she smiled and joined me at the glass case.
“This is a rare collection,” she said. “These belonged to some of the so-called ‘witches’ who were hung, beheaded, and even burned at the stake during the last few centuries.”
I frowned down at the objects inside the case. I didn’t like the idea that they’d once belonged to women who’d been killed so horribly. I wondered if the angry spirits of their former owners haunted them.
Oh, stop. Almost every antique was once owned by somebody who’s dead now. They can’t all be haunted.
My face reddened, and I was glad I hadn’t expressed my thoughts out loud.
“Is this your hobby? Collecting witch trial stuff?” I asked.
Gabrielle nodded. “It may be a bit macabre, but I feel it’s always important to remember the adversities we’ve faced, and which we continue to face. But enough about the dark times of centuries past. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay. Can I take you out for coffee? I’d like to thank you for all your help with the smudging.”
She looked hesitant. “Where were you thinking of going?”
“The Astral Bean?”
Gabrielle frowned. “Do you mind if we go to the diner instead?”
“Sure.” I shrugged and followed her outside. “Your choice, my treat.” I was disappointed that I wouldn’t get to have more of Brian’s amazing homemade chai, but I didn’t want to show it. Besides, she was the local. If she preferred the diner, it was probably better.
We walked through the light rain to Main Street Diner, where I pulled the door open. The atmosphere wasn’t quite what I’d expected. The interior was long and narrow with two rows of cramped booths. Like the motel, the decor clearly hadn’t been updated in a long time. It even had the same crappy, ripped vinyl on the furniture. It also was completely deserted even though it was prime breakfast time. This doesn’t bode well.
I gingerly picked up a grimy menu and flipped through it. The diner offered traditional American cuisine, and the food was cheap. The atmosphere here didn’t do much for my appetite, though, so I decided to stick with coffee.
Casting around for something to talk about, I asked, “Do you know Penelope Bishop very well? She doesn’t seem to like me.”
Gabrielle pursed her lips. “She can be a difficult woman. But she does a lot of good for our community, so I try to cut her some slack. Also,” she said, lowering her voice, “she owns this diner and several other places in town, so I wouldn’t go around saying anything negative about her.”
That surprised me. Penelope always looked perfectly put together. She’d probably sooner die than appear in public without her designer outfit and matching fingernail polish. But this place was the exact opposite of the chic, trendy vibe she advertised. I couldn’t picture her walking into this dump and being okay with the way it looked.
A sour-faced woman with a nametag that read “Trixie” arrived to take our orders. When we both asked for coffee, she didn’t look very pleased. I tried to telegraph a message to her: Don’t worry, lady. I’m a good tipper.
“I just don’t know why Penelope doesn’t like me,” I pressed when the server left. “I can’t think of anything I could have done to upset her, and she really lit into me last night. It’s like she thinks I’m up to something shady.”
Gabrielle smoothed her dress and looked around the diner as though she was searching for an escape route. She didn’t seem happy to discuss the topic. I felt guilty for making her feel uncomfortable during a coffee run that was supposed to be a thank-you and decided to change the subject.
“Did I tell you I’m volunteering for the Afterlife Festival? I went to a meeting yesterday for it,” I said.
She sighed again and rubbed her eyes. She really looked burned out.
“I meant to go to that meeting,” she said, “but I felt too tired and decided to call it an early night. What are you volunteering to do?”
Trixie came back with our mugs and a bowl of packaged creamers, all of which she unceremoniously plunked onto the worn linoleum-topped table. Gabrielle and I took a moment and doctored our coffees. They were watery and far too weak. I dropped a tiny bit of hazelnut creamer into mine, and the entire mug instantly turned white. I cringed. I’d been taking advantage of Graham’s hospitality every morning and was developing a taste for his nuclear brew.
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