by Gwen Gardner
Completely drained, I donned a nightgown and fell into bed, hoping for a peaceful night, without dreams or spirit interruption.
When I opened blurry eyes on Sunday morning and realized I actually slept through the night, I laid back and sighed. The watchers must actually be keeping all the other spirit activity away from not only Bryan, but me, too. I wondered briefly if I could hire them.
Allowing myself to wake slowly, I rolled to my side.
A squeaking sound came from the corner of my room. Looking over, Franny sat rocking in my armchair, knitting a scarf. She glanced over with a smile.
“You’re awake,” she said, continuing with her task. “Did you sleep well?” She appeared content sitting there in her midnight-blue dressing gown, which matched her eyes, and her long black hair flowing over her shoulder. The knitting needles clicked expertly. At times like these, you’d never know she had been a madam.
I nodded. “Like the dead,” I responded before remembering I was speaking to a dead person. Franny was so integrated in my life that sometimes I forgot. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“No harm done, dear. I use the same expression myself.”
“It’s so quiet this morning,” I commented.
She smiled. “It is. I threatened everyone with bodily harm if they disturbed you. I’ve been watching over you all night to be sure nobody did. Of course the watchers are marvelous, too. They take good care of Bryan and the whole house.”
I smiled. “Thank you - aren’t you tired?”
“No, dear. I don’t need sleep like I used to. How do you like it?”
She held up the scarf she knitted, a colorful affair in a pattern I had never seen before, and about five feet long.
“It’s lovely.”
“I’m glad you like it. It’s for you.”
I cocked my head at her. “Is it real? I mean, it’s sort of clear, like you.”
“Of course it’s real, child. And yes, it’s not a physical thing - yet. I’ll figure it all out later. I have connections.”
Once again, I wondered about those connections. Who were they? Older spirits, more experienced in the ways of connecting the two dimensions? Maybe they taught World’s Colliding 101 at the Sabrina Shores Spirit School? At least the watchers turned out to be nice ghosties.
I sat up in bed, propped my pillows behind me and watched Franny knit. Glancing around the room, I sensed something different. I frowned. And then heaved a deep sigh.
“Franny, you unpacked me. Again.” I had not unpacked my personal items since moving there seven months ago. I wasn’t ready. So I basically lived out of my trunk.
She shrugged. “I thought you might be ready now. There’s no reason not to.” She didn’t look at me. Her nonchalance didn’t fool me. The issue was an ongoing argument between us.
“I - I might not be staying. Why unpack?”
“Of course you’re staying, dear. Where else would you go?”
“Home.”
“This is your home now, dear. Your family is here.”
Yes, but unpacking would mean I accepted my father’s death. And I didn’t. Sure, logically I knew he was dead. But emotionally? I couldn’t think about it, not when unfinished business existed like another spirit in my life. Like the fact that my dad’s death was ruled a suicide, and I knew otherwise.
I got out of bed and began putting things back in my trunk. Not that I owned much; some family photos with me and my parents and a few personal items that belonged to them. The only thing left out was a dream catcher which hung above my bed. American Indian legend said that bad dreams got caught in the web and the good dreams flowed down the leather strips to give me good dreams. Yeah, right. But the ancestors on my mother’s side believed it, so why not?
Franny shook her head and sighed. She was one stubborn ghost, though, and I knew from experience that she wouldn’t give up.
“How are your hands?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Painful.” I grimaced as I lifted the wrapping that stuck to my wounded hands.
She shook her head. “I wish you kids would stop this investigating business. It’s nothing but trouble and you always get hurt.”
True, I always did get hurt. Cut, burned, intoxicated, haunted, chased for my soul. All of that and more. Not that I actively sought investigating murder, I just sort of fell into it by default and stumbled around until something out of the chaos made sense.
“This time we’re looking for a hit-and-run, so the person responsible for Aunt Amanda’s and Bryan’s deaths is not necessarily dangerous.”
She gave me a skeptical look. “And that’s why your hands are cut, burnt and blistered?”
“Any kind of violence I touch does this to my hands,” I responded. “It’s not directed at me specifically.”
She tisked. “Still, I don’t think it’s smart to go looking for these things.”
“It’s important to Simon, and me, to find the killer. Simon needs closure and we need to send Bryan back. He doesn’t belong here.”
She sighed. “Yes, he does need to go back. I’ll miss him, though.”
“You could go with him, you know?”
She stopped knitting to look at me, as if the thought never crossed her mind. “Oh no, dear. I couldn’t do that.” She went back to her knitting.
“Why not?”
“I don’t belong there. Besides, who would take care of you?”
Even though Franny had been a madam, her manners were gentile. She dressed nicely, spoke well, was educated and extremely domestic. Also kind and caring.
“I can take care of myself,” I said, and then added, “as much as I’d miss you.”
The stubborn set to her jaw said the conversation was over, but I tried again.
“I want to help you.”
“No one can help me, dear. I made my bed and now I lay in it. I’m not a respectable woman, not in the eyes of the Lord or anyone else.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, Franny. And besides, people don’t look down on, er, prostitution like they used to.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. “It’s even legal in some places.”
She ignored me.
Chapter Fourteen
Dog Psychometry
They always say you returned to the scene of the crime. So on Sunday afternoon, I stood and stared up at the house, the ghost dog at my feet. I couldn’t stay away. I needed to do something, but didn’t know what. Why did Mrs. Cuttle save articles of the accident? And why had she gotten so upset when I offered to help her cross over? And why did the bulldog hang around here, as well as the Soul Collector?
Too many unanswered questions made me uncomfortable.
Mrs. Dibley came down the walk as I stood staring up at the house. I hoped the dog would behave.
“What is it about this house that draws you to it, child?” asked Mrs. Dibley. She wore the hat with the daisy bobbing back and forth as she walked. She wore a thick dress with a flower pattern, looking very much like a heavy set of drapes. Her unbuttoned coat reached to her knees.
Of course, I couldn’t tell her what drew me to the house, so I shrugged. “I feel drawn to it. I’d like to know more about Mrs. Cuttle. I want to know about her life, how she died.”
She stared up at the house with me. “You know, I didn’t believe her when she said the house was haunted. I’m sorry about that now. I should have paid more attention to what she said.”
“What do you mean?”
She took a deep breath. “I mean, after she died, I did become aware of certain…happenings.”
I waited for her to continue.
“Lights glowing in the upstairs windows, strange noises, moaning and crying.”
“Like ghosts, you mean?”
She nodded.
“But…you said she suffered from dementia.”
“Yes. I did, didn’t I? I couldn’t tell people I saw strange things happening over there, could I? They might put me in a home.”
“But you’ve just told me.
” I smiled to soften the comment.
“I can trust you, I think,” she answered. “You know, she did get strange the week before she died. Apart from the haunting, I mean.”
“Oh?” My heart sped up. I hoped she had information to help me figure out what went on at the house, and how I might help Mrs. Cuttle.
“Yes. On my way to the village one day I spotted her newspaper lying on the sidewalk, so I took it up to her. Looking at the front page, you would have thought she’d just seen a ghost, her hands shook so.”
The newspaper! So the articles on the accident had upset her. But why? She didn’t even know them.
The car!
What if…no, that was too farfetched. Wasn’t it? “Umm, did Mrs. Cuttle drive?” I asked.
“No, child. She did at one time, of course. But not for many years.”
“Oh.” My shoulders drooped. For a minute, I thought she might have been the one to hit Aunt Amanda’s car. But if she didn’t drive, then that was impossible. It still left the question about why the articles upset her so much. Perhaps she really did have a touch of dementia.
“Why do you think the newspaper upset her so much?” I asked.
“I have no idea. But she was hiding something. Perhaps her niece would know?”
As soon as Mrs. Dibley left on her errands, I made my way around to the back of the house.
I wished I didn’t know the Soul Collector hung around there. Or had been there, in any case. Perhaps that’s why Mrs. Cuttle emanated fear like a force field around her? Or maybe the dog scared her? Going quickly down the kitchen stairs, I retrieved the key and let myself in. And shivered immediately. Like I did when spirits mulled around. I knew I wouldn’t be alone.
The bulldog followed me as I crept in. When I nearly tripped on his tennis ball and sent it rolling, he wiggled all over in excitement. He brought the slobbery tennis ball and dropped it at my feet, barking and backing up a few feet so I’d have room to throw.
I picked up the tennis ball and…
Simon threw the ball - ghost-dog chased after it and brought it back. I stood next to them, smiling and watching…
That’s it! I tried to lure the dog to me. “Come here, boy. Come get it.” He barked and backed up some more.
It didn’t work. I wanted to touch the dog to see if I could read his energy. I’ve never tried Psychometry on a ghost before, let alone a ghost dog. The only time I tried Psychometry on purpose turned out disastrous. I grasped a suspect’s pint glass and ended up smashed and on the floor unable to walk. The bulldog didn’t drink alcohol, though, so I should be safe.
I tossed the ball underhanded down the hall. The dog ran after it and I followed. He dropped the ball near my feet and backed up again. Out of reach.
“How is this supposed to work if you won’t get close enough to touch, huh boy?” I used my very best doggie voice to no avail. I tossed the ball up and down, hoping he’d come nearer for the ball.
“He only wants to play,” came a tinny voice from the staircase. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Mrs. Cuttle!” So intent on luring the dog to me, I hadn’t known she appeared.
She wore the same clothing as the last time. A baby blue track suit that matched her eyes, and trainers. Permed, tight curls, covered her head in a silver cloud.
Mrs. Cuttle drifted further down the stairs and viewed me with suspicion. “Why are you back again? What do you want here?”
“The dog,” I said. “Your neighbor, Mrs. Dibley, said you didn’t have a dog. I’m curious.”
“I thought my house became haunted, right before I died. Turned out to be the dog.” She frowned. “It wouldn’t be bad if he didn’t slobber so much.” She crinkled her nose as she eyed the ball. “But I have grown rather attached to him. Or he to me, might be more accurate.”
“I’ve been told dogs frightened you.”
“Oh yes. They terrified me,” she admitted. “See this mark here?” She pulled up her sleeve to show me the underside of her arm. “Bitten by an Alsatian when just a small child.” She turned to the dog. “But he’s very affectionate. He protects me from…” She stopped. The look of fear came back to her eyes.
“The Soul Collector,” I answered for her.
She nodded.
“Why don’t you cross over? I can help you. Then you won’t be bothered anymore.”
She shook her head. “There’s something I have to do first.”
“Let me help.” She seemed like a nice lady and I almost pleaded with her.
Mrs. Cuttle picked up the ball and threw it for the dog, who chased after it.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“I call him Chance.”
“Chance? Why Chance?”
She turned to look at me then, the blue of her eyes very intense. “When you figure that out, then you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
“What?” I began, looking up from the ball in my hand, but Mrs. Cuttle disappeared. I ran to the bottom of the stairwell and yelled up the stairs, “Wait! What do you mean?”
She vanished. But she left me with a riddle. What had she said? When I figured out why the dog’s name was Chance, I’d find what I’m looking for. I so suck at riddles. I sat on the bottom step to think, completely forgetting the dog. Chance. So when a slobbery tongue began licking my face enthusiastically, I jumped.
“I really wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me like that, boy. I may be young, but my heart is pretty worn. I could still have a heart attack, you know?” I reached my arms out and tried to pull him to me, but of course, being an apparition, my arms went right through his chilly body. But I learned another thing. Chance liked to cuddle. Sitting on the stairs, he crawled into my lap.
A white bulldog with beige saddle-like markings on its back trotted up the roadside, sniffing the ground excitedly. Leaves, sap, discarded chips, snail. Rabbit! His nubby tail shook enthusiastically as he darted across the dark road, on the trail…
Darkness.
Swimming up from the darkness in my vision, Chance had gone back to the ball and wanted to play again.
I thought about the vision as I tossed the ball to Chance, over and over again. The darkness could only be the moment of his death. So I still didn’t know how he died or how he came to be with Mrs. Cuttle.
And I still didn’t know why she called him Chance.
And the question of the newspapers and Mrs. Cuttle’s interest in the accident still lingered. Could she have been the one driving a blue car? I had to know.
I noticed a shed around back, big enough to store a car. I needed to satisfy myself that it didn’t house a blue car inside. A long, narrow, weed-strewn path led to the shed. I tried the door, but it was locked. Climbing through the bushes I made my way to a window. Dirt and grime prevented me from looking through it. Pulling my sleeve over my fist, I rubbed at the window in a circular motion. Cupping my hands against the glass, I peered through. Shelves laden with everything imaginable lined the walls. Paint cans, gardening shears, shovels leaning against the walls, and all sorts of discarded items including furniture.
Mrs. Dibley had been right. No car.
Heaving a disappointed sigh, I made my way behind the shed to the alley. It would be quicker than going back out the front. And besides, if the dog followed me I’d be stuck throwing the ball until it tired out, or rather me. Either that, or bring him home with me again, which didn’t sound like a good option.
Treading down the side of the alley to keep away from the puddles in the middle, I hunched down inside my jacket against the cold. The crunch of tires on gravel caught my attention. A car drove toward me, much too quickly for the narrow width of the alley. Flattening myself against a fence to avoid it, the car barreled by, splashing the contents of the entire puddle over me as it went.
.Water soaked into my jeans and coat, and dripped from my hair into my eyes. Wiping my face, I stared after the car, open mouthed, sputtering.
The car stopped a short way up the alley. I h
ad a mind to stomp back there and give her a piece of my mind. A woman got out of the car. A blue car. Stopped in front of Sadie Cuttle’s shed.
Tingling crawled up the back of my skull.
Walking back a short way, I watched the woman open Sadie’s shed, leaving the blue car idling in the middle of the alley. She wore her brown hair in a pony tail, and pants tucked into a pair of wellingtons. She looked as if she’d been horseback riding. She came out carrying a couple of antique-looking clocks and laid them in the back seat. She made a couple more trips with other items. Then she closed the shed, relocked it, and squealed off, never noticing me at all.
It had to be Sadie’s niece, Mrs. Cuttle-Jones. The one I spoke to on the telephone. And she drove a blue car.
Correction. A blue car with a left, front, dented fender.
Roxanna Cuttle-Jones was easily located in the directory, complete with address. When she almost ran me down and drenched me with muddy water in the alley, I had a feeling about the car. What if Roxanna drove the blue car the night of the accident? What if Mrs. Cuttle knew about it and wanted Roxanna to confess? Could she be our murderer?
Hopefully, we’d find out shortly. Donning the battered helmet Badger handed me - its condition still bothered me - I cinched the strap tight and climbed behind Badger onto the motorcycle. Our mission was covert, of course. People could be particular about strangers touching their cars. So much of our work took place under the cover of darkness.
Zooming through the clear night, I held on tight. I turned the tip of my freezing nose into Badger’s back. We could have done without the moon shining bright, but our mission wouldn’t take long. We’d locate Roxanna’s blue car, I’d lay my palms against it, and hopefully find out if it had been involved in a car accident. And while we were at it, we’d get paint chip scrapings for forensic testing. Easy, right?
Locating Roxanna’s flat, we scanned the street for the car, but couldn’t find it. We parked the motorcycle to search on foot. The beast rumbled rather loudly in this quiet area of Georgian flats, and would certainly attract attention if we continued to slowly case the neighborhood.
