by Etta Faire
He put his jacket back on the chair and sat down next to it. He had all the time in the world now, apparently. No rush to get to work now.
“Maybe, if you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” I teased, sitting down at the table too.
“This isn’t a game.”
“Oh, I know better than anyone this isn’t a game, or at least it’s not a very fun one.” I sat forward. “How about a piece of information for a piece of information,” I said. “You don’t have to show me your book, yet.”
“That’s nice of you to make that decision for me.”
I pretended like that was a yes. “I’ll go first. When I channeled with Sylvia, we relived the incident together. There was a smoky green mist and confusion in the forest. I’m pretty sure the smoke came from military smoke grenades. But, I also think the attack was paranormal. I heard growling, like an animal.” I put my hand on his. I knew this was going to be the hard part. “I’m pretty sure it was a bear.”
He pulled his hand away. “What did Rebecca say she remembers about the incident? Was this painting about something she saw there?”
“Who knows? But she did say they were her most recent paintings and that they weren’t for sale. I think they’re some kind of therapy for her PTSD. Every once in a while, she has a bad episode. Her husband even called me up, blaming me for starting one. Here’s the weirdest part. While I was at her house, she sprayed herself with some sort of holistic oil and said it prevented her from having a PTSD episode. Weird, huh? She doused herself with the stuff.”
“What was the holistic oil? Do you know?”
“Laurel oil, I think she said. But not just any laurel oil. It’s got to be a special blend from…”
“New York,” he said with confidence.
My eyes widened. “How’d you know?”
“Many unscrupulous shifters sell this stuff. It’s usually called Sacred Ground oil. It’s forbidden.”
“What does it do?”
“Most shifters have control over their shifting. The ability to shift is natural, but we have to learn and practice it in order to control the timing. Sacred laurel oil forces the shift. If a shifter is in a human state, it will force them into their shifted state and vice versa, which is why it’s been banned. It’s very hard on shifters. I’d like to know where she’s getting her supply.”
“Okay, sure. Next time I see her, I’ll just ask,” I said, sarcastically. “So you think she’s a shifter?”
He shrugged. “Could be.”
My mind replayed the incident and the meeting with Rebecca. It did explain a lot, but it still didn’t make one-hundred-percent sense.
“Well, I can tell you, she was in a human state the whole time I was there and she sprayed herself a lot. A lot. She never changed into a bear, so while that’s interesting to know about shifters and the sacred oil and stuff, I don’t see how she can be a shifter if she can douse herself in that stuff and never shift.”
His chair creaked under his weight as he leaned back, staring at his ceiling. “I’ve heard a highly diluted form of that same oil will stop the shifting process from happening if you catch it quick enough. That could be what she was doing. She may not even know how or why she’s a shifter, honestly, especially if only one of her parents was one, and that parent wasn’t around to tell her about it.”
My eyes widened. “She did say her mother died when she was young. Her dad and stepmother raised her.” I thought about it. “Would changing into your shifted form be scary if you didn’t know it was happening? Or is it kind of like the Hulk where you’re like, ‘Didn’t know that was going to happen, but cool.’”
“Have you even watched the Hulk?” He shook his head. “The first few times it happens, it’s pretty scary even when you know it’s going to happen. You don’t have full control over it until you learn to have control. And you can only learn with practice. Your vision is different. Your perception’s off. I was 16 when I shifted the first time. I knew it was going to happen. I didn’t know I’d rip through my clothes, though. Man, that was embarrassing. Now I have a set place where I put them when I shift…” His face grew red under his tannish skin.
I thought about it. The ripped shirt in her locker. The fact she was in a dress to begin with then in pants when she went to the police. She’d probably changed before she ran to flag someone down. Justin was probably right. She was a shifter. The bear in the forest. But was she also the killer?
I was more determined than ever to figure it out.
But most importantly, I needed to tell her she wasn’t alone. I needed to get her in contact with people who could help her get control over it, before I maybe had to send her to jail.
“So, now it’s your turn. Tell me about the prophecy,” I said.
He smiled. “I already shared. All that info about naked shifting and laurel oil. Sorry. That was my turn.”
I went to his side of the table and wiggled my way onto his lap. “You think about it. But promise me one thing because I don’t know what it says in that book of yours about the prophecy. If Bobby never returns, when Bobby Junior gets old enough, you make sure he knows how to handle things, okay? You make sure he doesn’t grow up thinking he’s a monster.”
His eyes glistened in the light of the dining room’s cheap brass chandelier. I leaned into him and pressed my lips over his. “Now let’s talk about that naked shapeshifting. Does it always happen?” I asked, running my hand over his chest and down his back. “Because that is hot.”
“You think?”
“Totally. You’re walking around bare naked. Bear naked…”
He lifted me off the chair and carried me toward the bedroom.
“I thought you had to go to work,” I said.
“I can be a little late.”
“You might be more than a little.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing myself against his thick chest. He pulled my hair back and kissed me right under my ear, right in the spot he knew drove me wild and my breath jumped into my throat. He knew it would. I pressed my lips over his.
“And, since you brought it up,” I said as he was closing the bedroom door. “I love you too.”
Chapter 27
A dog eat dog world
I waited until Jean had gone to bed later that night before starting my research. I liked my houseguest, but she was very nosy and this was not research anyone could find out about, ever.
I sat at my laptop, fingers over the keyboard. I knew I had to do it, even though every part of me was screaming that this was a bad idea.
I looked around to make sure the coast was clear. No ghosts. No guests. I put up a private browser window and typed in the keywords “Small Town Vets Do It Doggie Style.” I hit enter, preparing myself to cringe at the results.
The results did not disappoint. They were just as cringeworthy as thought. Many videos came up, photos too. I knew I was looking for something from the 70s. Grainy, old. There weren’t too many of those, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
I clicked on a possibility, instantly regretting it as a woman wearing dog ears and nothing else came full screen. I clicked away. Not what I was looking for.
I scrolled down the rest of the results, checking for something, anything that remotely said Landover circa 1978. I wasn’t sure why I was bothering. Who would have digitized this old movie and thrown it on the internet for all to see?
A dark screen with the search caption “Home-made porn from small town” caught my attention.
I clicked on it, surprised when I actually saw the triangular play icon appear, and even more surprised when I pushed it.
Horrible rainbow block graphics spelled out the title as cheesy 70s music rang from my laptop. I quickly turned the volume down as “Introducing Liberty Belle” came on the screen and the vet office faded in. Pay dirt.
I recognized the place immediately, mostly because it hadn’t changed at all, down to the sea foam green plastic benches and humungous cash regis
ter. I could almost smell the hand sanitizer again.
I paused the video. Was I really doing this? What was I hoping to achieve here?
Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself I didn’t have to watch the parts where the gardening lady with PTSD was doing more than pulling weeds. I clicked the play button again.
A man in a lab coat who I knew was Curtis skimmed through papers on a clipboard in an unbelievably fast, you’re-not-really-reading-those fashion. The door opened and a stunningly gorgeous blonde in a long coat and dangly earrings came in. Rebecca in a wig.
“Hello doctor.”
“Ms. Liberty. I was just looking over your vet bill. It’s quite extensive.”
“However will I pay it?” she said, sucking on a finger.
He put the clipboard down on the counter. “I might be able to think of a few ways.” He grabbed her by the lapel of her wool coat and pulled her in close.
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Reaching behind the counter, Curtis pulled out a dog collar and a leash. “It’s a dog eat dog world.”
I rolled my eyes at the awful writing as Curtis tugged off Rebecca’s coat and flung it onto the counter by the cash register. I stopped the video.
Jackson appeared by my side. I should have known my perverted ex would show up for this. His superpower.
“Now we’ll never know how Ms. Liberty pays off her vet bill,” he said. “Unless we continue…”
“There are more important things to know here,” I said, pointing at the screen.
Blonde Rebecca was wearing the exact same red, white, and blue halter jumpsuit that was hanging in Mrs. Darcy’s hall closet.
“I don’t think Mrs. Darcy’s seen this,” I said.
“Oh you never know what some people are into.”
“That’s the outfit she showed me. The one Sylvia was lending to her cousin the night of the incident.”
Jackson and I sat on the couch while Sylvia hover-paced in front of us. Her coloring was good for a ghost who’d recently channeled. I could barely see the mauve stripes in her pantsuit, though.
“I was supposed to get rid of it,’ she finally explained. “Rebecca always said making that movie was liberating and her choice to do, but then she was terrified her father was going to find out. Can you blame her? So I hid the outfit like she wanted.”
“And, Myrna was getting rid of it for you,” Jackson asked.
She nodded. “After she was done with it. She and Paul were celebrating something. A three-month anniversary or something. I can’t remember. And she wanted to surprise him with the outfit. She thought it was funny. Everyone knew about the movie, except our parents. It was why I said in my note not to worry because I got it cleaned.”
“Common courtesy when you think about it, Carly Doll, how messy it probably got,” Jackson said, pausing to cough. “We should watch the end of that movie sometime just to see.”
I barely had the energy to ignore him. My eyes were practically burning I was so tired, and I still had a ton of research to do. I wasn’t getting enough sleep, mostly because I had to wait for my houseguest to fall asleep before I could do anything, like talk to my ghosts without feeling self-conscious about it. Or look up porno evidence.
I pulled open my laptop. It was time to contact my three possible Paul Gellings. I sent all three a quick message, two on Facebook, one through the official email of the church for Pastor Paul Gelling.
I didn’t say much, only asking if they remembered dating a woman named Myrna back in 1978. At this point in the game, I knew it was best to leave all the weird parts out of my communication until I had to reveal them.
As soon as I found the right Paul Gelling, I was going to ask if he gave his friends smoke grenades, if he knew what happened, if he was there when Myrna committed suicide or if he knew why.
“When we were channeling in the forest,” Sylvia began. “I thought I heard a bear or what sounded like a bear just before I was knocked out. Do you know what happened from there, how I died?”
“I think you were shot,” I said.
“So, not the bear,” she said.
I didn’t answer. The bear, in my opinion, still wasn’t in the clear. “And I heard a man’s voice say, ‘No,’ just before everything went dark, but I have no idea who or why.”
“Glad to hear I won’t be haunting and tormenting a bear for the rest of its life,” she said, chuckling. “Wasted revenge.”
I didn’t tell her who the bear was.
Chapter 28
Hitting the lottery
Rosalie was humming a lively tune when Jean and I got to the Purple Pony the next morning, and the woman does not hum. She was also kind of dancing as she lifted turquoise fringed jackets from one rack to put on another.
It hit me. There was only one real reason this woman ever got this happy.
We must have been making money somehow.
“Let me guess,” I said. “People are buying the tickets for Saturday’s seance.”
She nodded. “Like they’re lottery tickets, and not the crappy million-dollar-jackpot ones either. The good billion-dollar ones.” Her blue eyes twinkled in the overhead light. “I told you.”
“Uh, you were the one who said we shouldn’t do it,” I reminded her. “You said nobody would show up in the afternoon for a seance, that it was last-minute and expensive…”
She didn’t hear me. “Louis is happy. I’m happy. I told you we could do a seance without Paula Henkel and her fancy-smancy marketing skills. When we want to, we can make a heck of a profit.”
“We should want to more often,” I said.
I didn’t tell Rosalie that I’d kind of blackmailed Mr. Peters into giving us a great deal on the catering. When I asked him about it, I also reminded him that I saw him in the channeling with Priscilla, bad-mouthing Rosalie, saying he’d only asked her to marry him so she’d break up with him. And next thing I knew, he suddenly quoted me a very good price.
I would feel guilty about it if he weren’t jacking up that garlic shrimp by about 70%, and everyone knew it.
Rosalie straightened the fringe on the jackets out. “Mrs. Carmichael is our big seller for the seance, talking about it nonstop at the diner,” Rosalie said. “Of course, when I heard, I told her she could come for free. Shelby and old George too. She didn’t protest too much.”
Jean pushed the button on the coffee maker and the smell of hazelnut filled the storeroom. She flicked a pink sugar packet in her hand as she waited. “I won’t protest my free ticket, either,” she said. “Free is free, no matter how hokey the show.”
“Whatever the reason,” Rosalie replied. “I’m glad you’re sticking around.” I could tell she meant it. I knew she was never going to get used to her cousin’s obsession with vampires, but Jean was never going to believe ghosts were real either.
But, as family, we still supported one another through every crazy moment.
“You almost ready to head over to the drive-in?” Rosalie asked. They were making a day of it. Jean had finally agreed that going there by herself wasn’t a good idea, and Rosalie had agreed to go there with her.
As soon as Rosalie hummed her way out the door, I checked my phone. Two out of three of the Pauls had messaged me back, saying they’d never dated any girls named Myrna. One told me he wasn’t born until 1987. They were my long-shot Pauls anyway.
That left one, the pastor. But I had used the church’s email, so maybe he just hadn’t received my message. Or maybe, I shouldn’t have gone off-script and mentioned the seance in my message. Pastors probably didn’t go to those. I decided to call him later.
The door suddenly bursted open and Mrs. Darcy waddled in, hands on her hips, her blonde wig perfectly styled. “I heard you had Bruce come all the way up Gate Hill to do an estimate for nothing. He is a hardworking man, and this nonsense is going to stop.”
I tried to be sympathetic. This wasn’t really about Bruce. She’d lost her daughter. She was worried I was changing everything
for her. “It’s only fifteen minutes to get up that hill on a good day. Sometimes I make the trip two or three times in my Civic.”
“I don’t care what you do.”
My face went serious. “But, let’s also remember, your son was a half an hour late. He didn’t measure anything and he was the one who left our meeting. Do you always come in and fight the battles for your 60-year-old son?”
She looked at my face like it was a punching bag. I stepped back in case she started swinging.
It dawned on me. She was protecting him. Again. She did it in 1978, too, by not telling the police about the jumpsuit. She’d been protecting her son, not her daughter.
And she was holding my proof, probably.
I motioned toward one of the stools that Rosalie liked to keep around the store. “Have a seat. Coffee? We just got a Keurig.”
She waved off my hospitality.
“I don’t think you’re here because you’re worried your son can’t handle himself about my Gate Hill estimate. You’re here because there’s more to the story about Bruce and the incident.”
She climbed onto the stool by the counter, her legs dangling over the side like she was a doll on display. “I thought you were legitimate. I feel like such a fool. An old fool. When you mentioned the outfit, I really believed you had made contact with Sylvia. But Bruce was right. You were just trying to sell us stuff, swindle us.”
“Really? And how much have I cost you so far?”
She thought about that. “Bruce’s estimate, for one thing. So at least a hundred and fifty bucks.”
I coughed on air. “That’s how much an estimate goes for?” I quickly regrouped. I’d have to worry about that later. “For what it’s worth, Sylvia really is my client. How else could I have known about the outfit in the first place? Why else would I even care?”
“And that’s why I wanted to believe it. But when I showed that outfit to you, you didn’t have any new information. The odd items in the pocket. I’m pretty sure Sylvia would have been able to explain those. I kept it for so long because…”
