by Mona Marple
“Shall we go across to see Morton?”
“Let me just finish my errands.” I say with a dramatic flourish and an eye roll. “Come in.”
“Morning, Connie.” Patton says as he floats inside.
Connie’s in the kitchen, head in the fridge, and I hear a bang from within. “Ow!”
“Are you okay?”
She appears from the fridge and holds her head. “You made me jump, Patton.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He says.
“You’re grouchy.” I say.
“I know.” She says, and I shrug and leave the milk on the counter. Ain’t no point talking to her when she’s in a mood.
“Are you going to see Sheriff Morton?”
“Yep.” I say, already floating back across towards the front door.
“I thought I was coming with you.” Connie asks, her voice small and wounded.
“You said you’ve got your client so you can’t. Come on, if you’re coming.” I snap, which is unlike me. I’m usually the height of chill, as the cool kids would say.
“It’s fine, you two go.” Connie says.
“Come on, Patton.” I say, leading the way.
“Are you sure?” Patton says, unsure how to handle the tension between us sisters.
“Come on.” I urge.
We float out into the street as an old Chevy drives by. The driver does a double take at us but then raises a chubby arm and waves. Some people are taking longer to adjust than others.
“Living people can be so tiresome.” I grumble.
“What’s happened with you two? Had a fall out?” Patton asks.
I twist a strand of hair as I replay the last few days. Connie’s been grumpy, but I don’t remember there being a fallout. “I don’t think so. She’s got a client today and that makes her a bit tetchy sometimes.”
“Maybe she’s unhappy that we’re investigating without her.”
“Not just investigating, we’ve solved the case.”
“Hmm.” Patton murmurs.
“What?”
“I wonder if we need something stronger, to be able to get Morton to arrest Lovey.”
“Stronger than him wiping his fingerprints from the crime scene?”
“I think we should go to his house.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s the one rule I’d love to break and nobody ever lets me!” I exclaim. What can I say? I’m nosey. I’d love nothing more than using my dead-ness to go through people’s wardrobes. I wouldn’t be interested in their mail, or their diaries. I mean, if they left a letter open I might glance at it of course, but it’s the clothes I’d like to see. And the make-up! A spray of perfume here and there.
“It’s a murder case, I think we could argue that it’s a special circumstance. If we got caught, and we’re not going to get caught.”
“Hold on, are you suggesting we go in without asking Atticus?” I ask.
He nods. “He’ll say no. Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
A thrill runs through my body. Finally, the afterlife is getting exciting. “I’m in. Where does he live?”
“Right… about… here.” Patton says, turning to the house we’re standing in front of with a flourish. It’s literally five doors away from Connie’s, almost opposite Sheriff Morton’s, and I never knew.
“Convenient.” I quip. “Is he home?”
“I checked, he’s giving one of his riveting talks in the next state. He’ll be gone all day.”
I nod. The drive’s empty, and at the end of the drive stands a neat little bungalow, a swinging chair hanging from the small veranda. Blinds hang at the windows and the brown paint of the clapboard peels in places.
As we approach, it’s clear that the house is in disrepair. The cushion of the swinging chair is tinged green with damp, and the veranda itself is supported by wooden beams that creak with the slight wind in the air.
“He’s no domestic goddess, I’m guessing.” I murmur.
“Shh.” Patton says. “Let’s go around the back.”
The gate at the back opens with a light push, revealing a small, square patch of brown lawn. The back of the house is littered with discarded objects; pots, pans, a sweeping brush, a large empty fish tank, and several bin liners full of rubbish. The stench is awful.
Patton pushes on the back door, but it doesn’t open.
“Are we going to -”
“Yep.” He says, and disappears through the door.
I groan. The walking through walls thing was a neat party trick when I was first dead, but it costs a fair amount of energy and always seems to mess up my hair. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, knowing that when Patton next sees me, I’ll be around 5% less attractive.
When I open my eyes, I’m inside Lovey’s house, and Patton isn’t even looking at me, which is a result. I plump up my hair and gaze around the room.
“What is this place?” I ask. It’s like stepping back in time. A grandfather clock stands in the corner of the room, the ticking of the pendulum inside the waist of the case providing the only noise in the house. The window ledge hosts a series of smaller clocks, all paused on different times. In the corner of the room stands a squeaky-clean jukebox, obviously the focal point of the room, and Patton grins when he notices it.
“Look at this, Sage! It’s the Rock-Ola 1454!”
“The what?” I ask.
“Man, you British have no culture. Didn’t you have these babies?”
I let out a laugh. My teenage years involved spending as little money as I possibly could, but even on the odd occasion I was taken to a cafe and bought a thick shake by an admiring boy, I’m pretty sure we didn’t have these monstrosities in there. “No, I think this is an American thing, for sure.”
“You didn’t have jukeboxes?”
“Nope. Not in the places I went to.”
“Well, I’m sure you were in the coolest places.” He says, and his faith in me is touching. I was the coolest person, of course, but then it’s not hard to be cool in such an uncool place. There wasn’t much competition, if you know what I mean.
“So, Lovey lova da music?” I quip.
“Erm, no, my guess is this baby gets polished and nothing else. Maybe an occasional play to make sure she works.” Patton gushes as he stands admiringly in front of the machine.
“She?” I tease.
“Of course!” He says.
“So, it’s valuable?”
“I’d say so. Five figures would be my guess.”
“Wow.” I say. “What about the rest of this old tat? The clocks?”
“Well, the long case clock, definitely. Those things are always in demand. I don’t know about these. Hold on, is that -?”
Patton reaches across to the window ledge and picks up one of the objects, and I realise it’s not a clock. It’s a pink flowered egg, adorned with gold patterning, sitting atop a gold stand.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A Fabergé egg.” He says, holding it out to me.
Now, Fabergé eggs I’ve heard of. But I’ve never seen one.
It’s breathtakingly beautiful, adorned with jewels, and heavy to hold. I return it to the window ledge.
“This place is like a treasure trove.” I say. “We’ll never find the journal.”
6
Connie
Jill Richardson is a short woman with tight ringlets and all of her bones in the right place. I know because I can see them all, poking through her skin as if they’re trying to escape.
I only ever serve water during client meetings but today I’m tempted to lay the table with a full meal to stop the poor woman starving.
“Cake?” I hear myself offer, turning myself into everybody’s idea of a stereotypical fat woman.
Jill raises an eyebrow so her supraorbital arch, the bone hiding beneath her eyebrow when it’s in its right place, is revealed, sharp and dangerous.
“No.” She says, voice clipped. No need for pleasantries with a
fat hostess, clearly.
Stop it, I urge myself. I’m being insecure. Thin people can be lovely, too. They don’t spend all of their waking hours hating fat people, as I’m sometimes guilty of imagining they do.
“Follow me.” I say, and I flash her my biggest smile, hoping it’s more friendly than creepy. I don't know what’s wrong with me this week. I don’t feel like myself, at all. I was hoping that Adele would contact me, suggest I pop over, but I haven’t heard a thing from her.
I lead Jill into the consultation room, and guide her to take a seat on one of the two identical couches. I’ve already prepared the water jug and two glasses, and before I can offer her a glass, Jill is pouring herself one. Got to keep those bones hydrated.
“If I can run through the details? I’ll ask you, in a moment, for an item that belonged to the person you want to connect with. I’ll use that to call them in, to invite them to join us. They don’t have to join us. I can’t force a spirit, and I can’t offer a refund if they don’t turn up.”
“Oh, he’ll come.” She says. That’s common, everyone imagines spirits will be beside themselves at the chance of a catch up. Trust me, they’re often not. For some people, death is the perfect excuse to not have to put up with an annoying relative’s crap any longer.
“Like I say, I’ll ask. If the person does come, you can speak to them direct, they’ll be able to hear and see you. You might be able to hear or see them.” I explain. Now that the whole of Mystic Springs can see spirits, visitors are something of a grey area. Some visitors can see and hear our spirits right away, while other tourists can come for a week and not see a single one.
“Okay, great.” She says with a determined nod, then takes a long swig of water and refills her glass.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
“Nope.” She says with a grin. “I can’t wait.”
“Okay. If you want to give me the item.”
“Oh, I don’t have an item.”
“I need an item to make contact.”
“I’m going to sing for him. I know he’ll come when he hears me sing.”
“Listen, Jill, I can’t refund your money if he doesn’t come, and using something that belonged to him is the best way to try and avoid wasting your money.”
“Mm-hmm.” She says, distracted. “I think I’ll sing Test To The Goose.”
I look at her, blank.
“You’ve probably heard it. I wrote it myself.”
I try to stifle a groan and sit back on the couch. This crazy woman is going to do whatever she wants, I may as well let her. I’m being paid either way.
She rises from the couch and clears her throat, then begins to screech. It’s not that her singing is awful, it’s that awful would be an improvement. I try to discreetly sit with my head propped up on my arm, so that my hand covers one ear and my hair covers the other.
I’m just about to ask her to stop, because I’m sure all people dead or alive within a 10 mile radius are running away, when a ghostly man appears in the room. He’s clearly related to her by blood. He’s small and skinny, and his prominent bones give him a drug-addicted look. His cheeks are sallow, his cheekbones high and sharp.
“For Lord sake, make it stop.” He curses as he throws himself onto the couch next to me. He sees me watching and holds out an arm, as I reach to shake his hand he pulls it back and waves his hands in the air with a laugh. “Ha! Gets people every time.”
“Very funny.” I say. “Jill, he’s here.”
She’s getting louder, approaching the climax of the song, and doesn’t hear me. I wave frantically across towards her to get her attention.
“He’s here!” I shout when she looks at me.
She carries on singing anyway.
“You’ll never shut her up. Don’t let her start, that’s the key.”
“And you are?”
“Didn’t she tell you? I’m Jack.”
“Jack and Jill?” I ask in disbelief. “Let me guess, brother and sister?”
“And we lived up a hill, would you believe. You can’t say our parents didn’t have a sense of humour, eh?”
Jill screeches her way to the end of the song, holding the last note longer than necessary, then returns to the couch with a satisfied smile. “Told you it’d work, he never could resist my singing. Well, hello Jack.”
“Tell her her voice has never sounded more beautiful.” He says and descends into laughter that she can’t hear.
“He says your voice has never sounded more beautiful.”
“Aw, he’s a sweetheart. He were always my biggest fan. Right then, shall we get into the details?”
“It’s your meeting.” I say with a smile.
“I’ve only got one question really. I can’t stop thinking about it, and me and our Jack, we talked about everything.”
“You can talk direct to him, he can hear you.” I remind her.
“Alright then Jacky-boy, tell me the truth, what were it like? To die?”
The headache doesn’t surprise me when it comes the minute I manage to close the door on Jill Richardson, and I pop two tablets immediately. Having to listen to four minutes of her warbling and then an hour of her begging and pleading to talk about death has done nothing to improve my mood.
I plod upstairs to my bedroom and draw the heavy drapes, blocking out the sun. The ceiling fan runs constantly in my room over the summer, and I lie down on top of the covers and close my eyes.
I have nothing else to do today, and rather than reassure me, that thought makes my chest tighten. Nothing to do. A whole day of nothing.
Sure, when I was far too busy, I wished for days filled with nothing but whatever I felt like doing moment by moment. But now I have those days, I’m unsettled.
Grouchy.
I need a hobby, I decide.
I could give dancing a try. I always fancied ball room dancing. The dancers look so elegant, and it’s not a style of dance reserved for the slimmer people. I’ve never had any co-ordination, though, and I can imagine Sage’s reaction. She’s always said I’ve got the grace of an elephant.
No, not dancing.
Maybe a gym membership is what I need. But I usually get my gym membership just after Christmas and then cancel the first week of the New Year. I probably shouldn’t break that tradition.
Also, a gym membership on its own takes up no time, and I’m not convinced I’m ready for the commitment of actually attending a gym.
I could read more.
Yes, I could definitely read more. Not right now, I realise, as I wince with the pain that runs across my temple.
I have a library card and I don’t visit the library anywhere near often enough.
It’s the strangest thing. As I think about reading more, I don’t feel excited.
And in that moment, I know.
I know what’s wrong.
I’m lonely.
No, I miss my sister.
She’s taken up with Patton Davey and ditched her sister, that’s what’s happened. And just like the teenage me, I’m stuck at home wallowing and waiting up for her, while she’s having a high old time.
Well, no more.
I’m going to make sure I’m so busy that I don’t have time to even remember her name.
That’s the plan.
Just as soon as this headache eases.
“Connie!” Adele asks as she opens the door, a baby in her arms.
“Fancy a drink?” I say, holding up the fresh jar of coffee.
“Ah, it’s like you’re my fairy godmother!” She says. “I literally just ran out. Come in, come in.”
Adele’s back to her plain appearance, hair tucked behind her ears, slightly stained grey joggers on. I smile.
“Want me to boil the kettle?”
“Sure! There’s biscuits in the tin.”
“Oh, not for me.” I say. “I’m on a bit of a health kick.”
“Are you?” She asks in surprise, looking me up and down the way people have to whenever I
mention trying to be more healthy. Her gaze stops when it reaches my stomach and she jumps back up to my eyes, gives me a sympathetic smile. “Well, good for you!”
“Well, I just decided right now actually, so it’s early days. In the walk from my house to yours, I’ve managed not to eat a single piece of chocolate, so I’m counting it as a win.”
Adele laughs. “As you should. Us chocolate lovers need all the wins we can get. Throw the biscuits over for me? I haven’t got your willpower.”
I toss the packet across to her, narrowly avoiding the baby’s head. “Oops, you didn’t really mean throw, did you?”
She gazes down at the baby and I think about what rubbish it is, her suggesting she’s a chocolate lover with no willpower. Even with her post-two-babies body, she’s slim, and any wobbly bits will disappear quick enough. Adele’s that kind of person. She sets her mind to a goal and achieves it.
“How’s Axel?” I ask.
“He’s back to his normal, unsleeping self.” Adele says.
“Oh that’s brilliant. Must be a weight off your minds. Is Taylor back at work?”
“Yep.” Adele says.
I go and join her, putting a cup of coffee in front of each of us.
“You’re coping okay, while he’s at work?” I ask. “I mean, not coping, I know you can cope. I just mean with Axel being poorly.”
“It’s fine.” She says lightly. “I know what you mean. I’m doing fine.”
“Taylor too busy with the murder case to chat much?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s pretty distracted lately. I’m sure it’s just work pressures.”
“It can’t be an easy job.” I say. “But at least the case has been closed pretty quick.”
“Closed?”
“Yeah, they found the murderer, didn’t they?” I ask.
“News to me.” Adele says with a shrug. The baby in her arms is asleep and she places him down in the bassinet and peeks into the second bassinet, where Scarlett sleeps. I can hear their baby breath, the little dreamy sighs.
“I’m probably wrong.”
“Probably.” She says, with the directness that you’d expect from the accomplished lawyer she is. “No offence, but I know Taylor wouldn’t close such a big case and not tell me. He knows how concerned I am about these murders.”
