Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set

by Rodney Strong

  (So what is yer book about anyway? Apart from a super hero.)

  ‘It’s not about a super hero. Not one in tights or with a cape and not about anyone with special powers.’

  (Well?)

  ‘It’s about my mother.’

  Oliver scrubbed a little too vigorously at the mixing bowl and sent soap suds spilling onto the front of his pants. ‘Shit.’ He wiped at the suds, only making the wet patch bigger. With a sigh, he grabbed a hand towel, dried his hands, and then tried to dry his jeans.

  ‘Not about her exactly, but it’s based on some of the things she did. It explores the relationship between a mother and her child, and how when he’s young she’s his super hero, and when she’s old he becomes her super hero.’

  (So not a western then? I only read westerns.)

  ‘And Dracula,’ Oliver commented.

  Angus was quiet for a while.

  (When I got out of hospital after being sick, Pa made me a holster, like a cowboy. I don’t know where he got the leather from, but it was dark and smelled like horses, at least to me, and I wore it everywhere. He even carved a gun from a hunk of wood, sort of. It was gun-shaped anyway. I wore that thing everywhere for months. Me pa was me hero. Sometimes.)

  ‘What happened to it?’

  (He got drunk one night and threw it into the harbour.)

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  (Aye. It happened a lot. I might not have been the best pa in the world, but I always tried to be better than him.)

  Oliver was about to ask a question when the oven timer went. By the time he’d pulled the cake out and placed it on the rack to cool, Angus had moved on to different topics.

  (Who do ye think sent that message thingie?)

  ‘I don’t know. The trouble is it could have been anyone. But…’ he considered the question more carefully. ‘I used to work with data and statistics and percentages. And if I run the percentages then the list is much shorter.’

  How’s that?

  ‘It’s more likely to be someone I’ve talked to in the last day or two. Like, I talked to Sean, the neighbour, five days ago. Why wait until now to warn me off. If it was someone I only talked to yesterday, that makes more sense.’

  (One of her friends then.)

  Jennifer reappeared wrapped in her dressing gown and sporting a towel turban on her head. She nodded thoughtfully when Oliver told her his theory.

  The cake was cooling when he tested it with his hand, so Oliver began mixing the icing, and adding a few drops of red colouring to change the white to a bright pink.

  ‘What’s plan B?’ Jennifer asked, indicating the cake.

  ‘This is plan B,’ he replied.

  ‘And plan C?’

  He paused mid-stir. ‘I do some fast thinking to explain whatever shape this turns out to be.’

  ‘A pink cloud?’

  He scooped some icing off the wooden spoon and held it out for her to taste. She leaned forward and at the last second he swiped it across her nose.

  ‘Very mature,’ she said sternly, a tone completely undone by the pink nose.

  ‘My apologies. Let me get that for you.’

  He walked around the kitchen bench, bent down and kissed her nose, removing the icing at the same time. ‘You’re so sweet.’

  She groaned at the pun. ‘I’m glad your writing is better than your comedy routine.’

  He tried to look offended but couldn’t pull it off.

  (Yer making me sick with all this.)

  Oliver kissed Jennifer on the lips. Instantly there was a blast of cold in his head and he winced.

  ‘I never realised kissing me was so painful,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘It’s not you. Apparently Angus has an issue with affection.’

  Jennifer stood up and patted him on the arm. ‘Yet another reason to get rid of him as quickly as possible.’

  Oi!

  ‘Now ice this cake so we can get to bed.’

  ‘Oh?’ Oliver replied hopefully.

  ‘To sleep,’ she said, plucking a bottle of wine from the fridge and topping up her glass. ‘Let’s not forget, I’m not into voyeurism. Angus doesn’t get to watch.’

  Oliver shrugged like it didn’t matter, but no one, not even Angus, was fooled. He slapped a lump of icing onto the cake and began smoothing it with a palette knife.

  ‘I’ll need to go to the pub tomorrow after the party,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve driven you to drink.’ Jennifer sipped her wine.

  ‘Always,’ he quipped. ‘But in this case I need to chase down an alibi.’

  ‘Look at you using all the crime show lingo.’

  He grinned. ‘If I start talking about DNA and particulates then you know I’ve gone too far.’

  ‘Honey, you always go too far. That’s one of the things I love about you,’ Jennifer told him. ‘You run down whatever alibis you need to, but not until after a horde of seven-year olds destroy that cake.’

  ‘I know it’s the weekend, but you don’t want to host a party with a hangover,’ Oliver said to her.

  Jennifer frowned at her glass, then sighed and pushed it away. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  Oliver gazed at his wife for a moment longer then turned his attention to the cake. It looked slightly more unicorn-like than the first attempt. And he decided once the candles were on it no one would pay attention to the fact that the horn could have been a tail, and the tail looked like a weirdly long tongue.

  ‘I hope it doesn’t give her nightmares,’ he said.

  TWENTY TWO

  Rose loved her cake. Either that or he was raising a great liar. She said all the right things and blew out her candles, then licked the icing off her piece of cake and left the rest. Oliver reflected that he could have saved a lot of time and effort by skipping the cake altogether and putting a pile of icing in the middle of the table.

  The rest of the party was a hit, but afterwards, having escaped the clean up by pleading the need to work on the murder case, he’d vowed that next year they’d hold it somewhere other than the house, or Rose would be limited to inviting three of her quietest friends. Even Angus had been shocked by the level of constant, high-pitched noise that filled the house.

  In comparison to that noise, the bar that Oliver was currently standing inside was a library.

  Sunday afternoon was for the family crowd and social drinkers, so neither of the two women behind the bar looked run off their feet. One was checking her phone and the other was pouring drinks.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the brunette, who put her phone down and smiled at him.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘A coke and some information.’

  The woman, who looked in her early twenties, took a tall glass from a rack behind the bar and poured his drink. ‘Here’s the drink. If you’re after my phone number, then I’m sorry, I don’t date customers.’ Her face was friendly but voice was firm.

  How often must she get hit on to instantly think that?

  (Too much.)

  ‘Thanks,’ he handed over a ten dollar note for the drink. ‘But I’m interested in something that happened here last Sunday night.’

  Her raised eyebrows and sceptical look sent him mixed messages, but he pressed on.

  ‘A guy kissed a girl.’

  ‘And?’ she said.

  ‘That’s pretty much it.’ Oliver realised how vague it sounded.

  ‘You just described an almost nightly occurrence.’ She started to turn away, already dismissing him.

  ‘Yes, but this guy is accused of murdering his girlfriend and I’m trying to find the girl,’ Oliver hurried on.

  She swung back, eyes wide. ‘Okay. That doesn’t happen every night. Are you with the police?’

  ‘I’m investigating the case,’ he responded.

  ‘Cool,’ she nodded. ‘I wasn’t working last week but Anna-Lisa was. Hey!’ she called to the other bartender who was handing change to a customer.

  ‘Yeah?’ Anna-Lisa also looked to be in
her early twenties. She was tall and thin, with shoulder length blonde hair.

  ‘This guy is investigating a murder. He says the guy who did it was here last Sunday night.’

  ‘Accused of doing it,’ Oliver hastily corrected her.

  Both women peered at him with interest.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Anna-Lisa asked.

  Oliver explained how George came in, drank alone for a while, then met a girl and kissed her. Anna-Lisa sucked on her bottom lip and stared at the surface of the bar.

  ‘There was one guy who came in looking all miserable. He ordered three beers, then sat by himself and drank them all. Normally we wouldn’t let one guy order that many drinks for himself, not all at once,’ Anna-Lisa glared at her fellow bartender who suddenly found an urgent spot on the bar top that needed cleaning.

  (Someone does.)

  Oliver let it slide. Overselling alcohol wasn’t his concern, at least until his children were old enough to drink in bars (then it would be his primary concern).

  ‘Anyway, he drank the first couple of beers quickly, then took his time over the last one.’

  ‘So when did the girl show up?’ Oliver prompted.

  ‘I’m not sure. A big group came in and by the time I’d finished serving them she was sitting at his table. It’s weird though.’

  ‘What?’ the other bartender asked.

  ‘At first I thought they were a couple. He didn’t seem into her, but she was all over him. Like seriously handsy. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but his face didn’t match her behaviour. Then she kissed him.’

  ‘PDAs are common in here,’ the other girl piped up.

  (PDAs?)

  Public displays of affection. You know, all the stuff you don’t approve of.

  (Aye. Kissing is for married couples in their own homes.)

  Not according to you last night.

  (Shut it.)

  ‘Then it got weird. I saw him break away, and shake his head, and she laughed, and got up and walked away. Almost like she got what she came for.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her. Anna-Lisa is a psychology major and she reads too much into everything.’

  ‘I know what I saw,’ Anna-Lisa argued.

  ‘Have you seen the girl before? Or since?’ Oliver interrupted.

  Anna-Lisa glared at her workmate, then turned back to Oliver. ‘I can’t say. There are so many people that come in here. I don’t think so, but I couldn’t be one hundred percent.’

  Oliver nodded. ‘What did she look like?’

  Anna-Lisa rattled off a description. Long blonde hair, slim, nose ring. Oliver was impressed with her observational skills, then a nudge of suspicion tugged at the back of his mind.

  Is that you?

  (Not me, sonny. You obviously smell something off about what she’s saying.)

  But what?

  (If ye ask me, she’s describing the lass too well. No one is that good. All the people that come in over a week and she remembers exactly what the lass looked like and wore?)

  Angus was right. It seemed a little suspicious. Oliver decided to try something he’d seen on many detective shows.

  ‘Sorry, you said she had black hair?’ he asked.

  ‘No, blonde.’

  ‘Right, black shoes. And a green top.’

  ‘Red top.’

  ‘Green bag,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Black bag.’

  ‘And her name is.’

  ‘Te….’

  Anna-Lisa clamped her mouth shut, eyes wide. ‘I mean I…’

  Impressive.

  ‘Would you like to know what I think?’ Oliver began. ‘I think you know her, and I think you were the one who called the police and told them that George McMurry was kissing a girl after fighting with his girlfriend.’

  She was shaking her head all the way through his theory.

  ‘I never called the cops.’

  ‘But?’

  She licked her lips nervously. ‘I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.’

  (Except George.)

  ‘I get it,’ Oliver told her, holding up his hand. ‘All you did was tell the truth. George McMurry was here and you did see him kiss a girl. Right?’

  Anna-Lisa nodded.

  ‘So why don’t you tell me the bit you left out.’

  She looked at her workmate.

  ‘All I’m trying to do is make sure an innocent man doesn’t go to prison. Unless you think the girl killed Ashley Trent, you really have nothing to worry about. And depending what you tell me, there’s probably no reason to tell the police.’

  He watched her wrestle with the decision.

  ‘Or, I could call Detective Wilson, he’s the officer in charge of the investigation, and get him down here to ask the question.’

  (That’s better. Ye’re too soft.)

  ‘Fine,’ she said with a shrug. ‘It’s not worth the hassle. A guy I know asked me to text him when George came into the bar. Said he was planning a surprise for George’s birthday. I figured the girl was the surprise, because she showed up about fifteen minutes later.’

  ‘Who’s the guy?’

  ‘Just some guy I know from university.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Oliver said.

  ‘Alex.’

  Oliver shifted through his memories until a name and face leapt out at him. ‘Tall, bald guy?’

  Anna-Lisa nodded.

  His brain kicked into overdrive. Alex’s contempt for George had been obvious, so the only surprise he’d plan was a nasty one.

  We need to have a word with that stick of a man.

  ‘You’ve been a big help, and like I said, I don’t think the police will need to bother you about this. Providing you keep our conversation quiet and especially don’t tell Alex. Deal?’

  The girl’s relief poured across the bar. Oliver almost felt sorry for lying to her.

  ‘But I do need to talk to the girl, so if she comes in again please call me.’ He scribbled his number down on the back of a napkin.

  (Are ye truly going to keep it from the police?)

  Hell no. I don’t know exactly what this means yet, but it sticks a hole in their motive.

  (Good man.)

  As Oliver climbed into his car, he remembered he’d promised to visit Claire. It was Sunday afternoon and there was no traffic so it didn’t take long to reach the rehab centre. At the front counter a stern woman informed him that Claire wasn’t seeing visitors, despite requesting that he visit.

  Back in the car Oliver called Amanda.

  ‘Interesting. Have you told our friend about the threat yet?’

  ‘I left him a message,’ Oliver replied.

  ‘You know, it occurs to me that there is an easier way to find out who sent it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow morning.’ She clicked off.

  (She couldn’t have told ye now?)

  ‘She likes being dramatic.’

  (And ye wonder why I have a problem with women.)

  TWENTY THREE

  It had been just over a week since Angus hitched a ride from the cemetery, and Oliver was slowly getting used to the grumpy Scotsman. Even so, the off-key rendition of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” at six o’clock in the morning was a rude awakening.

  ‘I never knew you were a football fan,’ Oliver mumbled, when he was conscious enough to form a coherent sentence.

  (Football? Bah, that’s from Carousel, the greatest musical ever.)

  ‘I don’t care where it’s from. Can you not sing it so early?’

  (Aye, I could. But I get bored staring at the inside of yer eyelids.)

  Oliver rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand and tried to make sense of Angus’s comments.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oliver, shut up,’ Jennifer grumbled.

  ‘It’s not me, it’s Angus,’ Oliver told her.

  ‘Then hit his snooze button and go back to sleep.’

  If only it was that easy. Angus
, what are you talking about?

  (I’m dead, Oliver, I don’t sleep and I can only see what ye see, so when yer eyes are closed, all I see is black. And it’s boring as–)

  Yes, alright. But I’m not dead and I need sleep, so how about holding off on the singing until later.

  (This is all taking too long. I thought it’d be a quick trip, get in, make me grand-plus son see sense, then back to being dead.)

  Oliver sat up, stretched his arms towards the ceiling, then slipped out of the bed, put his dressing gown on, and padded down the hallway to the kitchen.

  Look, I’m in as much of a hurry to get rid of you as you are to be gone, but unless the real killer decides to grow a conscience and confess, we’re stuck with each other until we figure this out.

  He switched on the kettle and shoved a teabag into a cup. Sleep was a precious commodity in a house with children and losing any of it unnecessarily was enough to ensure the day started with a bad mood.

  (If ye’re in such a hurry then stop wasting time and get on with it.)

  Oliver placed both hands on the bench top and pressed down to stop himself clenching them into fists.

  ‘I’ll be the first to admit that spending the weekend making a unicorn cake isn’t high on my bucket list, but murder or not, my family comes first. You have to appreciate that. If family wasn’t important to you, then you wouldn’t be here being a pain in my butt.’

  (I’m not in yer butt.)

  ‘It’s a figure of speech.’

  (Oh. Alright then, what’s the plan of attack for today?)

  The kettle switched off and Oliver poured boiling water into his cup. He swirled the tea bag then lifted it out, and paused, before dropping it back in.

  ‘Can’t give my wife water bewitched,’ he muttered. Minutes later he delivered an Angus acceptable cup of tea to Jennifer.

  ‘Right,’ he said once back in the kitchen. ‘Today we’re going to Ashley’s funeral, and hopefully Amanda will tell us how to find out who sent that text. And I’m hoping to have a word with Alex about why he was trying to break up George and Ashley.

  (It’s obvious, isn’t it?)

  ‘Is it?’

  (He’s a slimy little –)

  ‘Yes, alright. It’s too early for your colourful descriptions.’