Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

Oliver couldn’t decide whether that was an indication of Reed’s assessment of his sister’s intelligence, or his children’s level of expectation.

  While Reed wandered away to play on the iPad, Oliver considered the cake again. ‘Maybe if I move this bit and re-ice that bit,’ he considered.

  (There’s only one thing that’ll fix that train wreck. The dust bin.)

  He glanced at the clock and did some quick calculations. Two hours until his book launch. That would take up most of the afternoon, then the birthday party was at eleven tomorrow morning. If he stayed up late tonight, he’d have just about enough time to make a whole new cake.

  ‘Reed?’

  His son reappeared and Oliver pushed the plate across the bench and put a fork on top. ‘It’s all yours.’

  Jennifer walked into the kitchen and wisely decided not to comment. He was lucky that his wife knew him so well and understood the pressure he was experiencing. Either that or she was storing her commentary for later.

  The shrill ring of his cell phone came from the dining table.

  ‘Hi, Mary,’ he said, upon checking the display.

  ‘Oliver, all set for this afternoon?’ his publisher asked.

  ‘I think so. Turn up, be polite, and say a few things.’

  ‘Essentially. Remember the second book is the hardest. There are expectations now, so it’s important to make a good impression.’

  Oliver didn’t point out that most of the audience would be friends and didn’t need the hard sell.

  ‘Sure, no problem. See you soon.’

  ‘Don’t be late,’ Mary demanded before clicking off.

  Speaking in front of people wasn’t his favourite thing to do, but Oliver didn’t mind it, especially when he knew most of them and it was an informal occasion. Now, Mary’s phone call had set off a blast of nerves.

  (Aye, just don’t fart again.)

  I better think about what I’m going to say.

  Before he could, the phone rang again, this time showing as a blocked number.

  ‘Hi, Oliver. It’s Claire McMurry.’ Her voice sounded brittle, like each word she spoke produced another crack in her world.

  ‘Hi, Claire. Everything alright?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling. I got your number from my mum.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied, glancing at the clock. Still plenty of time before they had to leave. ‘What can I do for you?’

  The only response was a crackly line.

  ‘Claire?’

  ‘I guess they told you I started drinking again.’

  ‘They did. It must be hard. You and Ashley were close.’

  ‘I loved her. She was my best friend. She was the only one who came to visit me at this place.’

  Oliver started wiping down the kitchen bench, trapping the phone between his shoulder and cheek. ‘That must have helped.’

  ‘It did. She was here two days before she died.’

  He paused mid-wipe. ‘You didn’t mention that when we talked.’

  ‘I was in shock. I guess I forgot. Anyway, she didn’t say anything important.’

  ‘What did she talk about?’

  ‘Stuff about school and George. She never got into details. I think she wanted to keep things light. There was something bothering her though. A couple of times I caught her frowning, but when I asked her what was wrong she laughed and told me it was nothing.’

  ‘Did you press her?’ he said.

  ‘I tried. She said it was all going to be sorted on Monday anyway, so not to worry about it. I had other things on my mind, so I didn’t give it much thought. Do you think it was important?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m working on the basis that everything is important until I know it’s not.’

  ‘So anyway, I thought I’d call because…’ her voice trailed away.

  Oliver started to load the dishwasher, then realised that it was full of clean dishes, some of which were now dirty again.

  ‘Yes?’ he prompted.

  ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’ Her voice faded in and out, as if the conversation was taxing her remaining strength.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d come and see me. My family don’t get it and my friends don’t know where I am, and you’re helping catch Ashley’s killer so I thought….’

  Oliver turned the dishwasher on and stepped away from the dull drone as it kicked off the wash cycle. ‘Sure. When?’

  ‘Today? This afternoon?’

  He took another look at the clock and did some quick mental calculations. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I can. I’m launching my book this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, okay, I understand.’

  (Ye happy now? She’s going to cry.)

  ‘I could come tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘Well, if it’s not too much bother.’

  (Aye, it’s no bother.)

  ‘Aye, it’s no bother. I mean no, it’s no bother. I can be there about 3pm.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She hung up before Oliver could say You’re welcome.

  ‘Daddy, can you do my hair?’ Rose stood in front of him with a hairbrush in one hand and a fist full of hairclips in the other.

  ‘Can’t Mummy do it?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s busy.’

  And I’m not? was what he thought, but what he said was, ‘Of course, honey.’

  He had barely pulled the brush through her tangled hair once before his phone rang again. This time it was Louise McMurry.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know, Ashley’s funeral is on Monday at 11am, at St John’s church in the city.’

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ he replied as he found a particularly knotty patch of hair and the brush became stuck. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Daddy, that hurts.’

  ‘Pardon me?’ Louise asked.

  ‘Sorry, I’m trying to brush my daughter’s hair and I think it’s full of chewing gum.’

  ‘It is not!’ Rose protested.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Louise said in an amused tone. ‘Please let us know if you find out anything that could help George.’

  Oliver promised he would and hung up. After a few more minutes of struggling, he’d successfully put Rose’s hair into a ponytail and, following her instructions, inserted eight hair clips in a random pattern across her head.

  ‘What do you think?’ she twirled and her ponytail flicked from side to side.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Oliver replied.

  ‘I wasn’t asking you, Daddy. I was asking Angus,’ Rose told him.

  (Aye, very pretty.)

  ‘Thanks,’ she said and went in search of shoes.

  (Is it always like this?)

  Oliver shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’

  (How do ye cope?)

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out.’

  The book launch was held at a local bookshop, which was closing early for the private event. Oliver had enjoyed the feeling of celebrity for the eight seconds it had lasted, until Jennifer pointed out that, from a commercial point of view, a launch with a guaranteed number of sales was worth more than the unknown.

  As Oliver was attempting to corral the family into the car, his phone buzzed to indicate a message. With scribbled speech notes clutched in one hand and his car keys and a printer’s proof of his book in the other, he ignored the message. Amidst the bustle of making sure seat belts were done up and settling arguments over who’s turn it was to press the garage door button, he forgot about it completely.

  The moment he started the car, the petrol light began blinking an insistent reminder that its tank was almost empty. He remembered that he had meant to remind himself to fill it up that morning. As they made their way down the hill towards the motorway, Oliver did some swift calculations involving travel time versus distance from the bookshop, divided by how angry the petrol light looked. He decided he could make it there without filling up.

  The car ran out of petrol at the traffi
c light a block from the bookshop.

  Jennifer made no comment when Oliver flicked on the hazard lights and climbed out. She slid over to the driver’s seat and guided the car to the side of the road as Oliver grunted and strained, idly thinking that he’d worn the wrong shoes to push two tons of metal, then more idly wondering what the right shoes were for pushing a car. Running shoes, he concluded, as beads of sweat formed and joined together to create a solid band across his forehead. Just to prove the entire universe wasn’t against him, there was a park only a few metres away, and with Angus helpfully telling him to put some muscle into it, it wasn’t long before the car was safely out of traffic.

  Jennifer handed him a wad of tissues once she and the kids were standing beside him on the footpath, and he did his best to wipe the sweat away.

  Rose told him he’d done well, and Reed was sulking because he hadn’t been allowed to get out and help push. Angus informed him he was soft, and Jennifer did her best to get everyone moving.

  Five minutes later (and two minutes late), they entered the bookshop, which was already filling with people.

  The second he walked in, Oliver was grabbed by Mary and whisked away to do publisher things at the far end of the shop, where there was a table laden with copies of The Life of a Super Hero. Even though he’d approved it, the sight of the cover caused a lump in his throat: a super hero cape hanging over the back of a chair. He’d insisted they use the cape his mother had made for him when he was six and going through a masked vigilante phase.

  It took him a few seconds to realise Mary was trying to tell him what was going to happen. He nodded and hoped he hadn’t missed anything important.

  Someone shoved a glass into his hand and he automatically took a sip. White wine.

  I’d love a vodka about now.

  (Aye, put the little girl’s drink down and let’s go looking for something stronger.)

  I can’t ditch the launch. It’s for me.

  (Suit yerself.)

  He saw plenty of familiar faces in the room, and a few more that he knew he should know. Conversation was a low murmur that bounced and warped around the bookshelves, and occasionally he heard the laughter of his children, which both filled his heart with joy, and his head with dread. They were bound to be up to something.

  A small bell rang and the noise slowly abated.

  Mary rang the bell one more time before placing it on the table next to his books. She beamed at the crowd and launched into her speech. Seeing her refer to her notes reminded Oliver that his were still in the car. He searched for Jennifer and found her standing next to her brother and sister in law. She met his gaze and he tried to silently ask if she’d remembered to bring them. She smiled encouragingly.

  There was polite applause and with a start he realised it was his turn.

  ‘Hello everyone, and thanks for coming. This has been —’ A shrill sound pierced the air and with a reddening face Oliver realised it was his cell phone.

  ‘Sorry folks. I can’t imagine who it is. Everyone I know is here.’ Sheepishly he pulled it from his pocket and pressed the decline button to send the call to voicemail. At the same time he noticed the text message he’d failed to clear earlier. The pop-up window showed a blocked number, and the first six words leapt off the screen. “Stop or you’ll end like Ashley”.

  His vision narrowed and there was a roaring sound in his ears as he read and reread the words countless times in the space of a few seconds.

  (Breathe, Oliver. Take a big breath. You’re no good to anyone unconscious.)

  The air caught in his mouth slowly escaped and he sucked in a fresh oxygen. The world came back and he realised everyone was staring at him.

  ‘Sorry, telemarketers,’ he said in a voice that sounded strange to him. Everyone laughed as he slipped the phone away. ‘Where was I?’

  Asked afterward he would admit to not remembering a word of what followed, even though it came from his lips. Although several people were quick to point out that he forgot to thank Jennifer for her support.

  When he got a moment to himself he read the rest of the message. “Stop or you’ll end like Ashley. This is your one and only”. It was another ten minutes before he was able to have a quiet word with his wife and show her the message he’d received.

  ‘We can talk about it at home. Make sure you show it to Amanda,’ she said.

  ‘I will, next time I see her,’ Oliver replied.

  Jennifer shook her head with mock disappointment. ‘Turn your head ninety degrees to the right.’

  He did, and saw Amanda chatting to one of his neighbours. She caught his look, said something to the man, and came over to where he was standing.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘Buying a book,’ she replied, holding up a copy of his book. ‘Can you sign it for me?’

  He opened it to the inside cover. ‘Sure, what name should I make it out to?’

  Amanda laughed. ‘Pick one.’

  He scribbled a message and handed the book over.

  ‘Thanks. Everything okay?’

  Oliver pulled out his phone and showed her the message.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said after reading it.

  ‘Can you stop getting excited every time someone threatens my life?’ He took his phone back and put it away.

  ‘Relax Oliver, this is a good thing. The murderer must feel threatened to send you a warning. That means you’ve probably already spoken to them, which narrows things down,’ Amanda said cheerfully.

  (She’s got a point.)

  Oliver looked helplessly around the room. ‘The problem is, I’ve talked to a lot of people this week, Amanda. It doesn’t get me any closer to figuring out which one of them it is.’

  ‘Show our friend Detective Wilson the message. Maybe he can track it down, and then the case can be over and you can go back to having your own voice in your head.’

  ‘Ssshh,’ Oliver said, smiling reassuringly at the couple standing next to him, who he vaguely recalled worked with Jennifer.

  ‘It’s okay, Oliver. Everyone expects an author to be eccentric,’ Amanda laughed.

  ‘There’s a fine line between eccentric and crazy,’ he replied.

  She nodded. ‘Either way, I enjoyed your speech and I look forward to reading your book.’

  ‘Can’t your friend in the phone company trace the number?’

  Amanda shook her head. ‘It’s a blocked number. There’s nothing to trace. Worry about it tomorrow Oliver. You have way more important things to worry about.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Don’t you have a unicorn cake to make?’

  ‘How did you…?’

  She laughed. ‘Bye, Oliver,’ she said, before disappearing into the mingle of people and shelves.

  A hand gripped his arm and his entire body went rigid before he realised it was Mary.

  ‘Great launch, Oliver. We’ve sold forty books already. The bookshop is happy, I’m happy, your friends are happy. The only one who’s acting like they’ve swallowed a bag of nails is you. Everything alright?’

  He summoned a smile. ‘Sure, just the nerves and excitement of the event getting to me I think. Thanks for everything, Mary. It’s gone very well. You’re the best.’

  She beamed with pleasure, her eyes darting around the room. ‘Right, get on with the next book then, and I’ll take care of this one. You’re not solving any more crimes, are you?’ She peered into his eyes.

  ‘No,’ he lied.

  ‘Shame. It was good for sales of your last book.’ She spotted someone she recognised in the crowd and scurried off before he could reply. Only to be immediately replaced by a friend of the family who enthusiastically reminisced about the cape Oliver’s mother made, and how she vividly recalled him racing around the back yard naked except for underwear and the cape flapping behind him.

  (Super hero. Ha. Super heroes don’t make unicorn cakes.)

  Shows what you know.

  Eventually the crowd thinned
and evaporated, leaving only Oliver’s family and Mary, who looked exhausted but ecstatic over the success. She promised to be in touch early the following week and rushed out the front door. They followed at a more leisurely pace, and it was only when he got back to the car that Oliver remembered they needed petrol.

  (Why don’t ye push the car home, super hero?)

  Why don’t you….

  TWENTY ONE

  Angus had been suitably impressed by the strong language in Oliver’s response, and wisely kept quiet until later that night. After the children were asleep, Oliver started attempt number two on the unicorn cake, and while he mixed the batter he and Jennifer talked about the text message.

  ‘Amanda is right. Tell Detective Wilson,’ she said after re-reading it.

  He raised a cake-splattered wooden spoon. ‘I’m a little busy.’

  Oliver felt her watching him closely as he continued to stir. ‘Okay. I will once this is in the oven.’

  She perched on one of the bar stools that sat next to the kitchen bench. ‘It was nice to see Amanda there today.’

  He paused for a moment, waiting for the sarcasm to kick in.

  ‘Yes, it was a surprise.’

  ‘Relax, Oliver. I actually like her quite a bit.’ Jennifer took a sip of her wine.

  ‘Really? She makes my head hurt,’ he replied, while thinking that his wife was drinking a little more than normal.

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I like her.’

  Jennifer’s laugh was infectious and he felt the tension slip away. Sometimes he wanted to stay in the house, just the two of them, like it was when they first got married. All their dreams and possibilities ahead of them, and none of the complications of ghosts or murders. It was a happy thought that he clung to until the cake tin went into the hot oven and Jennifer held out his phone.

  With a sigh, he scrolled through his contact list and called Detective Wilson. After five rings it went to voicemail, so Oliver left a brief message asking him to call back.

  ‘I’m going to have a shower, then I’ll come and help you ice the cake,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘And by help you mean?’

  ‘Drink wine and watch,’ she replied with a grin.

  Oliver started on the dishes while he waited for the timer to beep. With his hands deep in soapy water, Angus decided to speak up.