by Gwen Gardner
He went stiff as a mannequin in a store window, his eyes locked onto mine. He swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple slid up and down like the puck on a carnival strength tester. I watched him struggle to speak. Finally he managed a “Bloody hell.”
Bryan giggled shyly and disappeared.
Tracing the same route I jogged yesterday, Simon and I headed to the Blind Badger for our first investigation meeting. Our official meetings took place in the snug, a small, private room at the back of the pub. Luckily, everyone could make it on this slow and dreary Sunday afternoon.
“Why do you think he’s here?” asked Simon, still freaked out about his encounter with Bryan that morning. Bundled up in coats and scarves, we walked down Quixley Street with our heads bowed against the January cold.
“I don’t know, but here’s something weird…”
Simon’s head jerked up. When I say something’s weird, then it must be way out there—a cause for concern, to be sure.
“…Bryan doesn’t have any marks on him. Not like Bart did,” I said. Spirits insisted on showing me their wounds, often a bloody, gory sight, making “seeing” them a difficult task I’m not squeamish, exactly. Okay, maybe a bit. All right, extremely. Seriously not cut out for this business, I could not imagine why God gave this supposed gift to me.
“No wounds? How can that be? I mean…” He shook his head. He didn’t want to envision the damage that killed Bryan. What being knocked unconscious blocked from his sight, his imagination filled in.
I squeezed his arm. “Simon, he glowed. Someone’s been taking really good care of him and I don’t think it’s Franny.”
“What do you mean?” We halted in front of a dilapidated Victorian mansion.
“I mean, I think he’s already crossed over to Heaven, but came back. We don’t know what for yet, but when we do, we can send him back.”
“That’s good, then. I don’t like to think about him being…you know. The timing is quite significant, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” I sighed. Yesterday marked the third anniversary of Amanda’s and Bryan’s deaths. Three years since the accident, when his life irrevocably changed. Three years of isolation from his father. “We’ll figure it out.”
Linking my arm through his, we started again, when Simon brought us up short. “Whoa! Do you see that?” He pointed toward the upper windows of the mansion. Green, blue and red lights swirled from room to room, looking like a psychedelic lava lamp from the sixties. An eerie effect when combined with overgrown weeds and paint-chipped shutters hanging haphazardly off hinges.
And clearly uninhabited by anyone living.
“Spirit activity,” I said, gazing up at the light show.
“We get enough of that at home,” said Simon, tugging on my arm. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Three
The Investigation Begins
Simon and I walked through the narrow, cobblestoned ginnel to enter the Blind Badger’s back door. Six hundred years of stale ale and tobacco smoke hung in the narrow, slightly sideways-sloping passage. The glowing bulbs in wall sconces didn’t help much in the windowless hall. We treaded carefully and heard muffled voices as we approached the closed door.
A cheery fire and a chorus of hellos greeted us when we entered the snug, our preferred meeting place from the last investigation. I followed the aroma of freshly brewed coffee to the side table and poured a mug from the carafe. Simon followed his stomach to a plate of sandwiches piled on the oak table.
Cappy already inhaled half his sandwich. “I saved ya from the liverwurst this time, mate,” he said to Simon, chewing happily on a wedge of sandwich. Always hungry, Cappy would eat anything. Small for his age, his big brown eyes spoke of more knowledge than a fourteen-year-old should possess. He had a sparkling smile, though, and a large beak his Italian ancestors would have been proud of.
“Thanks,” said Simon. “About time someone else got the bloody thing.”
We hung our coats on pegs and seated ourselves at the table. Simon sat next to Riley on the window side bench, and I joined Cappy on the other bench. Badger took the high-backed wooden chair.
Simon helped himself to a sandwich from the pile. The first bite went airborne, projected in a beeline toward me and Cappy. We both dodged as it flew to the center of the table, just missing the plate of sandwiches.
“What are you doing?” I yelped.
Cappy laughed as the others looked on in surprise.
The blob dripped like a mushy pile of poop off the side of the table.
Simon peeled the edge of his sandwich back and peeked inside. “Liverwurst,” he said in disgust. “I thought you said you got it this time.” He eyed Cappy accusingly.
“I did.” Cappy grinned hugely, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of what I called his Artful Dodger coat; black, grungy and too big. He must have just come from his chimney sweep helper job.
“I added extras to the plate,” said Riley. Her impish grin contrasted with her svelte good looks. With sleek, shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes expertly made up, her designer jeans, high-heeled boots and cashmere cowl-necked sweater completed the definition of feminine and sexy. Every guys dream, and me their nightmare in jeans and a shapeless, clunky green sweater.
“Yes, but why do I always get it?” Simon whined, handing the sandwich across the table to Cappy, who pocketed it. Not for the first time, I glimpsed Cappy slipping food into his pocket. I wondered if his grandmother’s illness hadn’t passed and so he still stockpiled food.
“Right, then,” said Badger. “Can we get to work now?” I feasted my eyes on, er, I mean I gave him my full attention. Cupping one hand under my chin, I settled in for a good look, er, listen. I did notice, only vaguely mind you, how well he looked in his red pendleton shirt and jeans. It brought out the amber specks in his brown eyes, the ones that crinkled when he smiled. And what he did to a pair of jeans...
“Indigo!”
I jumped. “What?!” They all looked at me expectantly. I missed something. I cleared my throat, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I’m sorry, what did you say? My mind wandered off.”
“Clearly,” said Badger. “Would you like to fill us in?”
“No, I would not,” I said huffily, my cheeks going crimson. Drat my pale skin! It always gave me away.
“Uh, Indigo? He means fill us in on the case,” Simon interpreted, “not your daydreams, as enlightening as they may be.”
“Oh! Right. Sorry.” Crap. Focus Eady. I avoided eye contact and gave a concise overview of the investigation and what we knew so far. Any professor would have been proud.
“I have the latest police report.” Riley placed it on the table. “But there’s not much in it. It’s a sorry excuse for an accident report, actually. Very amateurish and incomplete.”
Simon nodded. “Yeah. That’s probably why the murderer got away. No witnesses, no skid marks, and nothing to give us a clue, except”— he pointed to the second page of the report— “blue paint embedded into the driver’s side door. The bloody bugger that his us drove a blue car.”
“And if we can find the right blue car, then we have our murderer.” Badger, looked around the table for suggestions. “So where do we start?”
Silence. Where to begin when barely a shred of evidence existed?
Cappy cleared his throat. “Well.” The tips of his ears flushed as all eyes rested on him. Two years younger than me at fourteen, he still suffered a bit of insecurity about being the young one in the group. “We could start with the auto body shops.”
Silence again, while the idea sank in. He’d stunned us on more than one occasion with his insight. Someone with body damage might have taken the car to be repaired. If they did, we might find them.
Riley flashed him a dimpled grin. “That’s brilliant, Cappy!”.
“It really is,” I added. “Why on earth didn’t the police think of that?” I shook my head.
“Right,” said Simon. “We’ll make a list and make
the rounds after school tomorrow. Who’s with me?”
“I’m free,” said Cappy.
“Me, too,” I said.
Badger and Riley had to work at the pub, so Simon, Cappy and I agreed to look into the matter the next day.
Leaving the meeting, Simon and I headed across the market square. Cappy drifted in the opposite direction, hoodie up and head down. We hugged the building, trying to stay out of the drips. Buildings in this part of the village leaned with age, constructed of half-timbered wood, black and white striped, and a jettied overhang. The overhang protected us from the rain until we reached the four-block walk through our residential neighborhood.
Again passing the Victorian mansion, the light show had dimmed. This time, a face at the window watched as we strolled by.
A familiar tingle crept up my spine. I hoped that I flew under the radar of whatever spirit dwelt there. I’d be busy enough with the current case. I didn’t need the added complication of another spirit in need.
Chapter Four
Remote Control
I dumped my book bag on the side table in the corner and Simon followed suit. Simon went to the pantry and came out munching a bag of chips, er, crisps. I retrieved two sodas from the refrigerator.
We slumped into kitchen chairs to eat our makeshift lunch. Why were Mondays so exhausting?
A sudden, loud blaring came from the living room. Our eyes locked briefly before we both jumped out of our chairs and pushed through the kitchen door. I ran down the hall with Simon on my heels.
In the living room, the television switched back and forth between two stations, the volume increasing each time.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” Simon grimaced and held his hands over his ears.
I strode over and snatched the remote out of midair. At least that’s how it must have appeared to Simon. In actuality, I grabbed it from Franny.
Snapping the telly off, I lay the remote on the table.
“Hey, I’m watching that!” said Franny.
“No, I want it!” yelled Bryan, bouncing up from the sofa to claim the remote and dominion over the telly. He snapped the television back on to cartoons.
“Well, you can’t have it!” Franny took the remote and switched to a soap opera.
“I can!” Bryan grabbed it back.
“Stop!” I yelled. “Hand it over.” I held out my hand. Simon watched as the remote floated into it. I snapped it off once again.
“I repeat. What the bloody hell was that all about?” said Simon, waiting wide-eyed for an explanation.
“The children,” I said, glaring pointedly at Franny, “are fighting over the remote control.”
“I don’t have time for this nonsense.” Franny popped out of sight.
“No, I don’t,” yelled Bryan. Not to be outdone, he popped out too.
Somewhere along the line, the two developed a competition.
I shook my head. Things just became more complicated.
“The real question is, how are we going to keep all this chaos from your dad?”
Simon and I had completed the list of the auto body shops by the time Cappy arrived. With our list of seven shops we decided to start with the furthest and work our way back.
We caught the bus from the market square, making our first stop Paul’s Garage on the outskirts of town. A horsey-looking girl worked the counter. She had no problem with us looking through past records. She flirted and snorted with Simon while Cappy and I searched through months of books. Apparently they hadn’t heard of computers yet.
With no joy from Paul’s Garage, we went from shop to shop, until only Bodies by Billy remained; the one we didn’t want to approach. Billy died during our investigation into Bart’s murder, in part because we uncovered his role in hiding the body. Now his brother Ralph ran the shop. We lacked confidence in our welcome.
Taking a deep breath, I strode in ready for battle.
Hopefully another girl would be working the counter that Simon could sweet-talk. Unfortunately, I immediately came face to face with Ralph. My resolve fizzled like a campfire doused with water. I watched his vacant look turn to recognition…
To my everlasting surprise, a huge smile spread across his face. He grabbed me up in a bear hug. He pumped Simon’s hand hardily and beamed, ever so pleased to meet Cappy.
What the hell?
“I meant to come by and thank you all,” said Ralph, “but I’m busy what with runnin’ Billy’s shop and all. Well, it’s my shop now.” He hung his head and shuffled his feet. Dressed in greasy blue overalls, his brown hair hung matted and over-long. Grease visibly settled into his pores. But the rest of the shop shined, the floor swept clean and not an oil stain in sight.
“Thank us?” I raised my eyebrows in confusion.
“Yeah. For savin’ me in the cave and catching Billy’s killer.”
“Oh. Um, yeah. Our pleasure. No problem.” Saving him in the tunnels stretched the truth a bit. For the most part we ran like the hounds of hell chased after us - away from Ralph and the murderer, Andy Hall. But hey, if he thinks we saved him, who could argue? “And we want to thank you, too. You tackled Andy, after all. You could have been shot.”
He flushed through the grime, digging his fists into his deep pockets. “And, well, I wanted to apologize to your other friends, too. For what my brother and me done. I didn’t know, ya see, not at the time. I didn’t know bodies was in them bags. I just done what Billy tol’ me.” He stared at his feet. “I got probation for my part, though. Gotta check in once a week so’s they know I’m being good.”
I nodded, realizing for the first time that Ralph had been his brother’s pawn. “The reason we’re here,” I said, “is because we wanted to know—could we check your records from three years ago?” I explained our mission, but he seemed reluctant, shuffling his feet again.
“I don’t actually know how to use the computer yet…”
“We can take care of that,” said Simon. “Just show us the way.”
Ralph led us behind the polished counter, down a short hall and into the office. Simon booted up the computer, and after a couple of hits and misses, discovered how to maneuver his way through the database.
“There’s gotta be a search and sort with this kind of program,” said Cappy. “Try File and then Sort.” We leaned over Simon’s shoulder as he followed Cappy’s instructions. “Now sort by year and color.”
Ralph stood back, shaking his head. “I’ll never be able to do that.”
“Sure you can, mate,” said Cappy. “I’ll teach you.”
Ralph beamed, like a child who’d just learned he’d won a trip to Disneyland for a week. His childish innocence endeared him to me. Not very bright, he adored and looked up to his big brother. He did what Billy told him to do.
Scrolling through the sorted records, Simon stopped on the only blue vehicle to have the body repaired during the first few months of January, 2009. I sucked in my breath. After hours of searching, we finally had a hit. Scott Durdle owned a 2001 Blue Land Rover that he brought by on January 19th, 2009, with damage to the left front fender. It fit.
Simon jotted down the information, including his address.
We had our first suspect.
On Tuesday afternoon, Simon and Riley waited tables at the pub. Badger and I volunteered to retrieve paint chips from Scott Durdle’s blue Land Rover. Calling hello to Riley, I poured a mug of coffee from behind the bar and headed back to the snug.
A few minutes later, Badger came in, helmet in hand, and laid a clear bag containing blue flakes on the table.
“What’s this?” I asked, picking up the bag. “I thought we’d planned on doing this together?”
“These paint chips are from Amanda’s car. I didn’t think you’d want to, you know…”
“Oh. Right.” I hadn’t thought about retrieving paint from Aunt Amanda’s car, or about how I might feel seeing the car where they died. “Thanks, very thoughtful of you.”
He shrugged. “Sure.
No problem. Do you have the directions?”
“Yes.” I slipped into my coat and followed Badger down the hall, through the kitchen and out the back door. His motorcycle was parked in the ginnel.
I cringed when he handed me the spare helmet. I hadn’t gotten used to riding on the back of his motorbike, and as always, the banged up contraption supposedly protecting my head worried me.
Badger crinkled his eyes at me as he strapped on his perfectly unscratched helmet. “Not still scared, are you?”
“No. Of course not.” Hell yes, I’m scared. But admitting it? Not about to happen. I put the crash helmet on and cinched the chin strap tightly. Bobble-head never did look attractive on me, but getting my head cracked open on the pavement like Humpty Dumpty didn’t sound good, either.
Darkness set in as we zipped through the village to the outskirts and located the flat where Scott lived. A mixture of converted flats, pubs and small neighborhood businesses filled the area. We spotted the Land Rover parked across the street. Parking up the road, we backtracked on foot.
Badger took my hand in his and squeezed—the signal for the old, we’re just a couple out for a stroll ruse we used on our last case. Quite successfully, in my opinion. And I didn’t mind because it served a good cause, after all. At any rate, we didn’t want to look suspicious prowling around like burglars casing the joint, so the dewy-eyed, hand-holding act came in handy. I quite enjoyed this part of the job. The other task at hand? Not so much. Ralph taught us how to steal, er, scrape old paint chips from beneath the boot arch, where the old paint still existed.
I’ll admit to being nervous. As we approached the vehicle, Badger looked down into my face.
“Ready?” he asked.
“What - right now?” I glanced briefly around and leaned in to whisper. “We’ll be seen.”
“I meant to play the part of a devoted girlfriend?” he whispered back.
I shrugged.
