When The Spirit Moves You (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries)

by Bartlett, LL

“Okay, now I’m totally confused,” Richard said, and got up from the kitchen table to pour himself another glass of scotch. “Are you saying she’s the ghost?”

  “Can ghosts even show up in the middle of the day?” Brenda asked.

  “They must. Because I’m telling you, whatever it was I saw had no legs and yet it glided right out of the food court. By the time I got over the shock and hurried after her, she was— poof!—gone.

  “So it’s her body that’s buried beside that creepy old house?” Richard asked.

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “But didn’t you say Fred Butterfield disintegrated right before your eyes?”

  “Maybe they’re both dead,” Brenda suggested, and cut a piece off the medium-rare steak on her plate.

  “Somebody ordered a pizza the other night. Somebody called the cops on us, too. And somebody is updating Fred Butterfield’s Facebook page.”

  Richard took his seat once more. “What about the son she wanted you to contact? Could it be him living in the house?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you think he killed both of them?”

  “What was it she wanted you to tell him?” Brenda asked.

  “That’s the thing. She never got around to saying it. She just said she hadn’t been able to contact him.”

  “And what will you say if you do find him?” Richard asked. “‘Hi. Did you kill your parents?’”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. “I think I’d better get on the computer and start looking for him.”

  Richard shook his head. “No. If he killed his parents, you should go to the police.”

  “And how serious are they going to take me when I tell them I’ve seen two ghosts?”

  “Can’t your friend Sam write a story on the house or something?” Brenda suggested.

  “I already called him about it.”

  “And?” Richard prompted.

  I shrugged. “So far nothing.”

  “Then it might be time to start nagging, because no way do I want you to confront someone who might’ve killed his mama and daddy,” Brenda said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered.

  Brenda glared at me. “Don’t you ‘yes, ma’am’ me like that. You listen to me.”

  “Yeah, listen to her,” Richard echoed. I was beginning to feel like I was being bullied. The fact that I knew they truly cared about my welfare kind of took the sting out of it, though.

  Calling Sam was a good idea. And I had Gary Madison’s social security number, so that would make tracking him down a lot easier. If it was correct. I mean, did ghosts usually go around carrying their offspring’s social security numbers? And how did a ghost write it down on a piece of paper? Could they hold pens and pencils?

  I didn’t want to think about it.

  After dinner, I went back up to my apartment and called Sam at home. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear from me so soon.

  “Sorry, I’ve been busy at work—I didn’t get a chance to look up that Butterworth guy.”

  “Butterfield,” I corrected. “Mrs. Butterworth is syrup.”

  “Butterfield, Butterworth,” he muttered.

  “The story has taken on a new angle. I suspected the psychic to be the killer? Now it looks like she’s dead, too.”

  “Oh my god. Someone killed her? Have you reported this to the cops?”

  “No. She’s been dead for a long time . . . I think.”

  “What a minute. She’s a ghost, too?” Sam said, sounding incredulous.

  “Yeah, but she asked me to track down and contact her son and she gave me his social security number to make it easier.”

  “Don’t all ghosts do that?” he asked sarcastically.

  “You could save me a lot of time by corking that number into one of your data bases.”

  “Okay. Let me fire up the computer and I’ll do it now.”

  I had to wait a few minutes for Sam’s computer to boot up, but the next thing I knew he was asking me for the number. I heard him tapping his keyboard and anxiously waited for him to report what he found.

  “Hmm.”

  “What does ‘hmm’ mean?” I asked.

  “The guy lives in Portland, Oregon. I’ve got a phone number.” I already had my pen and a piece of paper out ready to take down any information he had. I wrote it down, plus the address.

  “He is listed as a truck driver for RDC Equipment Supply. Looks like it’s based in Portland.”

  “He could still be a long-distance trucker,” I said.

  “Or maybe he got a new job since the deaths of his parents.”

  “Oregon’s a long way from Western New York,” I agreed. “Is there any other information? Mother’s name—father’s name?”

  “No father listed. Mother’s name Bridget Madison.”

  “That’s the name the fortuneteller gave me, all right.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Call the number, talk to the guy.”

  “And if he’s uncooperative?”

  “Well . . . there’s the option of you writing about the house.”

  “And what angle do I use? Halloween’s still more than two months away.”

  “I might have to go back to the house and start digging again.”

  “That’ll only get you tossed in jail,” Sam pointed out.

  “Yeah, by whoever is holed up in that house. But who could it be? Someone’s squatting. They’ve got electric, and they must be paying the taxes on that place.”

  “Or,” Sam said, and drew out the word. “You’ve imagined all this.”

  “I didn’t imagine the cop that arrested me, or the name the woman gave me, or even the social security number you just looked up.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “But something about this whole situation smells fishy to me.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Look, I gotta go,” Sam said. “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do,” I said with resignation.

  I hung up the phone and stared at it. So, he thought I’d imagined all this, huh?

  I couldn’t have.

  I didn’t.

  Richard had bailed me out of jail, but I had no witnesses for any other part of this whole situation.

  I stared at the number I’d written down. If Gary Madison had a day job, it was way too early to call the west coast. I’d have to wait until later in the evening. But what the hell was I going to say? Know any good ghost stories? Did you know your mother’s a ghost? Or how about, Halloween came early—guess how?

  There was only one thing to do. I stepped up to my liquor cabinet and poured myself a shot of bourbon and hoped I figure out something more appropriate to say when the time came.

  #

  The eleven o’clock news had just begun with a lead story about a drowning in Lake Erie. I dialed the Portland number that by then I knew by heart, and hit the mute button on my remote control. The Channel 7 newscaster’s lips moved as the line rang and rang. Maybe Gary Madison wasn’t yet home from work. I had to work the next day and didn’t feel like staying up until the wee hours to try calling again. I was just about to hang up when a voice answered, “Hello.”

  I sat up straighter on the couch. Suddenly my mouth had gone dry. “Uh, Gary Madison? Son of Bridget Madison and Fred Butterfield?”

  “Yeah,” he answered warily.

  “My name is Jeff Resnick. You don’t know me . . . but I’ve got a really weird story to tell you about your parents.”

  There was dead silence for several long seconds. “Yeah,” he said finally.

  “I’ve been to their old house on Route 5, and I had a really odd experience.”

  I heard him sigh, as though he was already bored by my tale.

  “I’ve . . . I’ve seen them—talked to them both.”

  He sighed again and said, “Not again.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There’s a reason I left Buffalo Mister . . . what did you say your name was?”
<
br />   “Resnick. Jeff Resnick.”

  “There’s a reason I left Buffalo, Jeff. To get away from my parents. Now I know every kid eventually says that, but they don’t have to say it after their parents are dead.”

  “You’ve seen them since they passed?”

  “Let me guess. My mother asked you to track me down. Even gave you my social security number, I’ll bet.”

  “That she did.”

  “Did she make you think that a murder had taken place in the house?”

  “Yeah. Was she murdered?”

  “Only by cigarettes and vodka. I’d call that death by suicide.”

  “How about your father?”

  “Fell down the stairs after a few too many beers. Broke his neck. That was fifteen years ago.”

  Damn. I should’ve checked the county records for a death certificate. “He’s got a Facebook page.”

  “No, I’ve got a Facebook page and I post as him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that way I can find out what’s going on with my friends in Buffalo without my ex-wife harassing me.”

  That made sense. Still . . . . “How long ago did your mother pass?”

  “Four years.”

  Which explained why Butterfield looked so much younger than Madam Zahara.

  “But I don’t get it. Dead is dead. Why are they still in that house? What’s keeping your parents from . . . moving on?”

  “Probably pure spite. I mean, they sure got under your skin, and let me tell you, you aren’t the first who’s called me about this situation. I talked to a priest about exorcism, but he blew me off. It probably wouldn’t have worked, anyway. They didn’t respect the church in life, why give a shit about it in death?”

  “I sensed there might be bodies buried in the side yard.”

  “It’s where their ashes were scattered. It was a lot cheaper than buying a couple of cemetery plots,” Madison explained.

  So much for him being a loving son.

  “Is there someone living in the house now?” I asked.

  “Yeah, my cousin is there. I’m letting him stay there until the sale is final.”

  So that’s who owned the Buick. “There’s no sign up in front.”

  “Yeah, my real estate agent complained they kept disappearing. I figured it was either my cousin or my dad ripping them down. A developer has bought most of the property on that stretch of the road for senior living units. They’ll take possession of the place at the first of the month. I figure caveat emptor. Razing the house should finally get mom and dad out of my hair forever.”

  No love lost among those three.

  “I found an ad on the online white pages for Madam Zahara’s psychic services.”

  “The Internet is forever,” he said.

  That was the truth. “Have you told them the house is coming down?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about your cousin?”

  “I told him to be out by the end of the week. He’s resisting. I figure I’ll tell him why closer to the date of the sale. I don’t want him slipping up and saying something to warn mom and dad.”

  Somebody should.

  “I’m sorry you got suckered into this,” Madison said. “It shouldn’t happen any more once the house is gone.”

  The restless spirits of his parents might not just be tied to the house, but attached to land it stood on, too.

  Caveat emptor indeed.

  “Thanks for speaking with me. I won’t bother you again.”

  “And don’t let my folks bother you, either,” Madison warned.

  “Thanks.”

  I hung up the phone.

  Bridget Madison and Fred Butterfield might not have been the nicest people when they were alive, but did they deserve what their son had in store for them?

  I had a feeling I should keep my nose out of this situation . . . but I was pissed at them for jerking me around, and determined to make one more visit to that dilapidated house on Route 5.

  #

  I put in another day of work at The Whole Nine Yards, but instead of heading home, I turned right and headed back for Clarence. Sure enough the neon sign proclaiming Psychic $10 was once again glowing. Apparently just marks like me could see it. Did Madison’s cousin ever wonder about the people traipsing in and out of his temporary home, or was he just as oblivious about us as he was about the house’s permanent residents?

  I parked my car on the gravel drive and walked up to the house. Once again Bridget called out, “I’ve been waiting for you.” No doubt she had been.

  I opened the screen door and walked inside the house. The black floor greeted me once again. I crouched down to better inspect it. It sure looked like old water damage to me.

  “What are you waiting for?” Bridget called.

  I straightened and headed into the parlor where she sat behind the table once again.

  “I talked to your son,” I said, not waiting for her to ask.

  Her eyes lit up. “And, and?” she asked, sounding pleased.

  “He’s sold the house.”

  Her expression fell. “He can’t do that!”

  I shrugged. “He already has. Your upstairs tenant doesn’t even know. He’s just been told to get out by the end of the week.”

  “No wonder he’s been packing,” Bridget said angrily.

  I looked up. Fred Butterfield was again standing at the side of the room. He looked grim.

  “Not only that, but as soon as the sale is final, a bulldozer will be here to knock the house down.”

  Bridget shot Butterfield an angry glare. “Did you hear what Mr. Resnick said?”

  Butterfield nodded, looking worried.

  “Where will we go?”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to move on?” I suggested.

  She turned her head to face me. “To what? Oblivion?”

  “Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to do . . . eventually?”

  “Well, I’m not ready,” she declared. She looked over her shoulder toward her common-law husband. “Are you?”

  Butterfield looked resigned. He shrugged.

  Bridget looked back to me. “Will Gary at least come back to see us one more time?” Her voice was a plea.

  I shook my head.

  Bridget’s face screwed into a grimace and she burst into tears.

  I had never seen a ghost cry before.

  What the hell was I thinking? Until I’d met these two, I’d never seen a ghost before. I still wasn’t sure what I was seeing was real. I could just be imaging all of this.

  No I wasn’t. I’d been arrested. I’d seen Bridget walk with no legs. I’d talked to Gary Madison. This was the real deal and if I hadn’t already had a bunch of weird experiences I’d just say I was crazy.

  Still, seeing a ghost cry was just plain weird, and yet I couldn’t ignore the emotional turmoil going on in front of me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said at last.

  I looked at Butterfield who once again shrugged. Then he stepped over to Bridget and pulled her hands away from her face.

  “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He frowned and nodded.

  “But then I’ll be all alone.”

  “Not if you come with me,” he said. I hadn’t heard him speak before, and his voice was a lot higher than I’d anticipated.

  “But Gary—

  “Doesn’t care.”

  Bridget’s lower lip started to tremble. “But—”

  “Besides, I’m bored hanging around here all the time. I’m ready to blow this pop stand and see what else is out there. Wanna come with me?”

  Bridget’s face was filled with indecision.

  “Once this house is gone . . . there’ll be nothing for us here anyway. Come on,” he urged. “I’m ready for a new adventure. Let’s go.” He pulled her up from the chair. They stood there, or should I say Bridget hovered—she still didn’t seem to have feet—and they looked into each other’s eyes for a long, long time. And
then they just . . . dissolved into nothingness.

  I blinked and the room was different. The card table and its contents were gone. My nose wrinkled at the smell of moldering food, and the breeze rustled the fast food papers that littered the floor. Was Madison’s cousin upstairs? If so, I didn’t want to run into him and I got the hell out of that house as fast as I could. Gravel flew as I backed out of the drive and headed for home, clenching the steering wheel the whole distance.

  Holy shit. There really were ghosts.

  And I’d spoken to two of them.

  #

  For the next couple of weeks, every time I’d visit Maggie, I took the back route. It was about a month later when I finally gathered up my courage to drive by the house I’d come to think of as ghost central. Of course, it was gone. So were the trees. All that was left was level ground and a sign that said Donard Construction and Fine Senior Living at Donard Estates.

  I will admit that I checked Fred Butterfield’s Facebook page on a regular basis. As Gary had said, he kept it going, and presumably without a twinge of conscience. He had said his parents were con artists. I was their last mark. That they couldn’t pull any more shenanigans was all for the best.

  That is . . . if they were done conning people.

  The last time I drove by it was night, and when I looked to the empty spot where the house had been, I almost swear I saw the outline of a woman with a filmy skirt and shawl smoking a cigarette.

  Of course . . . I could have just imagined it.

  * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A native of Rochester, NY, L.L. Bartlett honed her characterization and plotting skills as a frequent writer for magazines and was a finalist in the St. Martin’s/Malice Domestic contest for best first novel. In addition to the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, she also writes the Victoria Square Mystery Series and the New York Times bestselling and Agatha-nominated Booktown Mysteries series under the name Lorna Barrett.

  Visit her website at: http://www.LLBartlett.com

  You can also find her on Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter - @LLBartlettbooks

  Also By L.L. Bartlett

  The Jeff Resnick Mysteries

  Murder On The Mind

  Dead In Red

  Cheated By Death

  Bound By Suggestion

  ~ Short Stories ~

  When The Spirit Moves You (A Jeff Resnick Story)

  Bah! Humbug (A Jeff Resnick Story