by Angie Fox
"Melody said you needed a kitchen table," she said quickly. "Tell me what's happening with my display, or even how to fix it, and you can have your pick."
"I appreciate that," I said, as my sister slipped her hand into mine and squeezed.
"Feel free to stretch out on any of the furniture while you're here," Julie added.
I'd take her up on it. A comfy-looking purple velvet couch stretched out at the edge of a small forest of mismatched chairs. I hadn't enjoyed a good sit on a couch since I'd sold mine a month or two ago.
Julie drew her keys out of her pocket. "Okay, then." She handed me a slip of paper. "Here's my cell number. Call me if you need me."
"Thanks," I said, accepting it, knowing she couldn't help me with this.
Melody hung back as her friend prepared to leave. "You'll be okay?" she asked.
"Fine," I assured her.
I hoped.
She gave me a hug.
"Now go." The sooner I began my work, the sooner we'd have our answers. Besides, I didn't want to be talking to Frankie in front of anyone.
"This is a good thing," she reminded me.
I sincerely hoped she was right.
Chapter 3
The store felt darker after Melody and Julie left. Empty. Yes, the chandeliers blazed overhead. Display lamps shone on desks and hutches. Julie had even turned the red shaded one next to her cash register on bright.
But the tone of the place changed. It felt like a large, empty house after dark.
"Told you this was a bad idea," Frankie said.
"You're just mad because you can't make a profit," I said, slipping my bag off my shoulder.
"True," he mused.
He may be a mercenary, but I'd chosen this. I knew what I had to do.
"Let's open this place up," he said, from a place on my left side.
"Wait." I placed my bag, along with Frankie's urn, on the floor next to the purple couch. "Let me at least sit down and enjoy real furniture for a second before you freak me out."
The gangster chuckled as I eased myself down onto the soft, supportive velvet cushions. "Wow," I rumbled, letting myself relax for that one, brief, golden second.
Okay, maybe two. I closed my eyes, reveling in it.
Until a chill swept over me.
Oh no.
The lamps dimmed. The sound of footsteps on hardwood echoed throughout the room.
I jerked my eyes open and watched the space grow darker. Ominous shadows bled across the ceiling, clouding the lamps, obscuring the reality I knew.
The ghost had begun to show me the other side.
"Aww, Frankie," I said, scrambling to my feet as ghostly cobwebs drifted over the piece, snagging on the velvet. The jerk was getting me back for bringing him here. "I asked you to wait."
He stood to my left, about a foot above the oak floor. "I did. I let you sit down first."
Any further argument died on my lips as an old wooden bar shimmered into focus along the picture wall.
The bald man behind it wore round black-framed glasses, and a white short-sleeved shirt paired with suspenders. He couldn't have been more than fifty. And I could see straight through him.
I gave a slight shiver. Yes, I'd taken on this job. One more job. But I didn't think I'd ever get used to it.
A mix of voices mingled together, talking and laughing. Glasses clinked.
Slowly, a collection of patrons shimmered into view. Each one of them appeared in black and white.
A man in a dark suit and fedora leaned against the counter, nursing a beer while he talked to an honest to goodness Civil War soldier, a sergeant with muttonchops and a full dress uniform.
Now that I hadn't seen before. My chest hurt and I realized I'd forgotten to breathe. "I thought this place opened during the McKinley administration." Granted I wasn't great with dates, but I knew McKinley came after Lincoln.
Frankie huffed. "What? So that means it's closed to a guy who wants a drink?"
I swallowed hard. "Gotcha," I mused, knowing he wouldn't get the sarcasm. "How silly of me."
"He usually haunts the library, so really, he didn't have to travel too far," Frankie mused.
A crowd of young men in dress pants and short-sleeved buttoned dress shirts stood near the front corner, surrounding one of their own. They laughed and patted him on the back. He wore a vintage Army uniform and took a self-conscious slug of beer.
"Hey!" A curly haired man with a full moustache and beard walked straight through the front door, arms out. He was impossible to miss. The man sported an obnoxious 1970's sports jacket that would have made Rodney Dangerfield proud.
A bunch of the guys called out, "Ringo!"
He high-fived the men near the door, and the fedora hat guy, and the Civil War soldier.
Seems Ringo got around.
His gaze settled on me. "Nice tits," he said, aiming a wolfish grin in my direction.
God, what a pig. I crossed my arms over my chest and scooted a couple of steps closer to Frankie. "Okay, how do we tell which one of these guys is doing the damage?" I'd like to do the job and get out of here. The shadows, the overload of testosterone, the otherworldliness of this place creeped me out.
Frankie pasted on a wide grin, refusing to even glance down. "Act casual," he muttered through his teeth, "stop looking at me."
"Why?" I asked. I hoped this place wasn't dangerous for him. He'd been okay the other times he'd shown me the other side. I gave him a quick once over. He wore the same gray suit and tie he always did. His complexion? Watery gray. The bullet hole? Still right there in the middle of his forehead. "Are you having a problem? Do you need me to go get your urn?"
"Cripes," he winced. "Your problem is you talk before you think."
"What?" Fear skittered up my spine as the bartender whispered something to the fedora hat guy. Both he and the Civil War soldier turned our way.
The sergeant braced his arms on the bar. "You mean she can see us?"
Oh, hell.
Loud sports jacket guy perked up. "Groovy!"
Frankie cursed under his breath. "Now you've done it. Before, you were just another one of the living, walking through their bar, pretending you don't see nothin' or nobody."
"And now I'm a girl," I said, finishing his thought.
The damage was done. Mr. 1970's strutted straight for me, like he owned the place. The bartender wadded up his towel and tossed it onto a tray, watching.
The squicky ghost smoothed his moustache while undressing me with his eyes. "Well, hello there," he said, winking. "Your name must be Lucky Charms because you're magically delicious."
I turned to Frankie. "Did he really just say that?"
"You started this," Frankie said, with no sympathy at all. "I tried to stop you."
By talking to me. Tactfully speaking, that was a horrible way to get me to close my mouth and pay attention.
"Hey, baby, I'm the one talking to you now." Ringo swayed, like he heard some kind of music. Either that or he was trying to look cool. He unbuttoned his dress shirt to display—ew—a forest of chest hair. "Ever do it with the dead?" He drew a gold medallion out of his shirt and fingered it. "I've got a van parked outside."
"Argh," I needed a shower now. "What do you think I'm going to say to that?" I demanded. "Take me to your van?"
"Well, all right," he said, completely missing my point.
The Civil War sergeant drew up next to me, crowding out Frankie. "A thousand pardons, miss, for this…brute."
Ringo scoffed. "You were asking for lessons last week."
He tossed a withering look at Ringo. Sparks of energy danced over my arms, tingling.
"That is only because I am in need of a wife."
"Perfect," I said. "Are these people serious?" I asked Frankie.
The sergeant's manner softened as he turned to me. "I assure you I know how to treat a lady, even in times like this." I wasn't sure what time he meant exactly as he tried to lead me away. His watery cold touch seeped through me
, chilling me to the bone. "Now is your father here?"
Oh my word. "That's enough," I said, edging away from them both.
Yes, it was fun to be thought of as both virgin and whore in the span of a minute, but I didn't have time for randy ghosts.
I zigzagged around the sergeant and nearly ran straight into the gaggle of 1940's guys. A tall, well-built, Matt Damon looking one at the front grinned like I was the best thing he'd seen in a year. "Want to have a drink and a smoke with us?" His friends stood behind him, eager for me to say 'yes.' "You never know," he continued. "Today might be the last. Better make it count, right?"
Not exactly. I felt one coming up behind me. Ghosts tended to shoot off chilly air. If it was Ringo, he'd better not touch me. I didn't like that watery, wet feeling.
"Okay," Frankie darted over my left shoulder and pushed in between them and me. "Break it up." He crowded the small slice of personal space the other ghosts had given me. "I get that she's a sheba," he told them, "but she's with me and I'm not going to have you acting like a bunch of drugstore cowboys."
I didn't get the slang, but I had a pretty good idea he'd just defended me. "Gee, Frankie. I didn't know you cared."
His cheeks darkened as he straightened his tie. "Can't let a dame like you run wild."
Heaven forbid.
I edged closer to the bar, away from the crowd, and tried to understand. I'd always been good with people, and so far, that had extended to ghosts. "I get that you guys haven't seen a girl in a few years," I began.
"Try decades," the bartender said, giving me a wink as he wiped down glasses.
He'd better not join in. I already had more undead suitors than any girl could reasonably stand. "Let's tone it down a notch," I suggested. "Try to be more mysterious. That works with dead girls too, you know." Because if an eligible girl ghost did wander in here, I guaranteed they'd scare her away.
I wasn't even their type and I felt like the last pork chop on the plate.
In fact, there was only one guy besides Frankie that was for sure not hitting on me.
The World War II soldier sat at the far end of the bar, nursing his drink, and acting like we weren't even there. I found that highly appealing.
He had a strong look about him, like he'd done manual labor. Maybe worked on a farm. An Army cap covered much of his close-cropped dark hair. He looked safe, steady.
I scooted up next to him, keeping an eye out for the crowd behind me. "I like your style."
"Just because I'm not acting like those clowns?" He took a swig of his drink and let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "You don't want to be like me."
I fought the urge to take a seat on the stool next to him. Its ethereal form wouldn't hold me. My eye caught a faded black and white picture on the wall in front of us, an army unit. It might very well be his. Dusty bottle caps maintained their vigil at the top. "You worried about the war?" I asked, wondering if he was one of the many who didn't come back.
He traced circles on his bottle. "That's over. Has been for a long time." He held out a hand. "Private John Cleveland."
I waved instead. "Verity Long."
"Right," he said, pulling back. "Believe it or not, it slips my mind sometimes." A muscle in his jaw tightened. "I never forget about her, though. The war cost me my fiancé."
I watched him take another long drink. "I'm sorry."
He huffed, like he didn't want my sympathy. At the same time, I could see he needed someone to talk to. "She really loved me. Only me," he added, looking at me for the first time. "But now I can't find her." He gave a long, hard sigh.
How sad. I didn't think he'd want to hear that, though. In fact, I didn't know what to say, so I just listened.
"She's not on the immortal plane," he said, appearing lost. "That means she's still alive. Somewhere. But I can't find her. It's like she disappeared."
I wasn't sure what to tell him. "Maybe your friends at the bar can help you look." They certainly needed something constructive to do.
"Ha. No. Have you seen those assholes?"
I wouldn't go that far, but he was upset.
"You don't get it. You've never been dead," he said, getting upset. "Even in death, you can feel that connection. You know someone cares." He squared his shoulders, bracing against what he had to say next. "With her, I can still feel it, but it's fading. Like she's giving up."
"You can't think that way," I told him.
"I can't afford not to. We're in serious trouble. She needs to understand how much I love her. That bonds us. It's the only way I can be with her for eternity, like I promised. It's the only way we can for sure find each other, after, you know…"
"She dies," I said, finishing for him. "She has to know," I ventured. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who hid his feelings. "Maybe you've been dead so long it's harder to sense it."
He nodded. "I'd hoped it was something like that." He buried his face in his hands, rubbed his eyes. "Then her ring showed up here last week. I gave her that ring as a promise when I shipped out. She let it go," he said, lost. My skin tingled with goose bumps. "She must have sold it. It breaks my heart."
My throat felt tight. "You saw her ring in the display case, didn't you?"
"Yes," he said simply. "It had been my mother's. My fiancé knew that. What if she's already dead? If so, she died without that loving bond. And she's gone."
Oh, wow. It didn't look good. But he couldn't give up. I wouldn't, either. "Can you tell me her name?" If she were still alive, I'd pay her a visit. Sugarland wasn't a large place. I might even be acquainted with her.
"Maime Bee Saks," he said with hope and a touch of fear. "She lives with her parents on 215 East Perlman Street, near Brandywine Park."
"I haven't heard that name," I admitted. She had to be in her nineties by now. I sincerely doubted she still lived with her parents. She might have even married and changed her name. It could be any number of things. "That doesn't mean we can't find her."
"I've been to her house, my house, her favorite places to be. I don't even know why." He gave a hard chuckle. "I can't say anything. I can't tell her how much I love her."
Lord, he was a dream. Most women I knew would kill to be loved like that.
"I can't even hold her ring," he said, folding his hands together in front of him. "I can't pick it up off the shelf."
No, he couldn't. It was a wonder he could have moved anything in that case at all. The ghost was certainly determined, or desperate.
"I'll take it to her," I promised. Surely Julie would understand.
"You can do that?" He asked, hope flaring. It both elated me and scared me. There was a very real possibility I could fail. Still, I found myself nodding. "There's sickness around the ring," he said. "If she's even still here, she doesn't have long." His eyes clouded with tears. "And what does it even mean that she gave it up? That she left my ring in a resale shop?" He saw the way that startled me. "I know where we really are. I haven't given up my link to the mortal world. Not while she could still be here. I'm so afraid I'm going to lose her forever."
"You won't," I said, making a promise I would do anything to keep. "I'll find her." I'd solve this. He deserved as much, after he'd fought and died for our country.
As to how? Well, I'd figure that out as well.
Chapter 4
"You want to do what?" My sister asked.
"Her name is Maime Bee Saks," I said, watching Julie open the display case.
I'd called Julie right away. She and Melody had grabbed an evening snack at the coffee house and I explained everything to them while they drove back to the store together. "Last he heard she lived at 215 East Perlman Street, near Brandywine Park."
Julie cringed. "That's where the new shopping center went in," she whispered, as if that would keep the ghost from hearing. I wanted to tell her that Private Cleveland stood between us.
"It's okay," I told her. "We have to find where she lives now." The redhead drew a silver ring from the display stand. Tiny blue sapphi
re chips clustered around a large pearl.
"Thanks for letting me take this to her," I said, as she slipped it into a ring box.
"It's a wonderful piece," she said, handing the entire thing to me. "But it's the right thing to do. Tell Private Cleveland I'm glad to help."
"He knows," I said quietly. I held it for a moment while John drew his blunt fingers over the luminous pearl. They passed right through it.
"I hope you'll come with me," I told him.
He swallowed hard. "I will," he said. "I won't be much help. The farther I get from this place, the weaker I am."
I understood. "If need be, we'll bring her to you."
Yes, I was getting overly optimistic, but we needed to move full speed ahead on this.
I closed the ring box and stowed it in my bag. "I'll let you know what my sister and I find," I said to Julie.
Melody eyed me suspiciously. "You don't expect—"
"I need you to get us into the library," I told her. She opened three mornings a week. She had a key. "Tonight."
She planted her hands on her hips.
"This began with you," I reminded her. "I recall you saying something about how important it is to use the resources we have to help people."
"And we see where that got us," Frankie muttered from somewhere to my left.
Melody pursed her lips. "If you just want to finish this before you see Ellis, then you're out of luck. I'm not going to break the rules so you don't tick off your boyfriend."
"It isn't about that." And he wasn't my boyfriend, not yet anyway. "If Maime Bee Saks gives up completely, we lose the tie. Plus, Private Cleveland felt sickness around the ring. We don't have much time."
She wavered. I'd showed her his picture on the wall. I'd found it while waiting for Melody and Julie. He'd stood smiling among row after row of soldiers heading off to war. We'd also found his name in handwritten white ink down below.
"Fine, I'll do it," she said, quickly. "It makes me nervous."
I couldn't help but smile. "Come to the dark side with me." Maybe I should tell her we had cookies.
* * *
The city library stood in the middle of the town square, just up the street from Julie's shop. The buildings in this part of town had been constructed at a time where every door and window was considered a work of art. And while they'd used brick and wood for Main Street, the town square was done in white limestone.
