by Gwen Gardner
I followed Badger to a motorcycle where he handed me a beat-up helmet. As he strapped on his own, I stared dumbly at mine. Could this have been the uneasy feeling I had?
“Is something wrong?” he asked, tugging and tightening his chin strap, then swinging his leg over the bike.
“I don’t know,” I answered with a frown. “Perhaps you can tell me why my helmet is so banged up.” Comparatively speaking, his helmet appeared black, shiny and sparkly. I turned my helmet over in my hands. The dingy, dented thing totally put the “Hell” in helmet.
Badger laughed. I was not amused. “You’re safe with me, don’t worry.” He kick-started the motorcycle. It roared to life like an angry lion. “Climb on.”
“If this helmet is an indication of your driving skills, I think I’ll pass,” I yelled through the helmet gap where his ear should be.
“Scared?” His teasing tone didn’t make me feel better. He needed to put his serious face back on, the one he wore when untangling my braid, and the one when he reminded me of how we met, even the funeral discussion face would make me feel better. But teasing? Not so much.
“No.” Yes. I frowned at him and put the beat-up helmet on, which made my head wobble like a bobble-head doll on a dashboard. Okay, so I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.
“Come here.” He laughed. Again.
He tightened my chin strap so it didn’t wobble anymore, and I climbed on behind him. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I squeezed my eyes shut, wrapped my arms around his waist and clung on for dear life. My heart banged into my ribs, bouncing its way to my stomach, like the metal ball from a pinball machine bouncing against the walls before finding its way into the right hole.
Without even a peek during the journey, he could have taken me anywhere. But ten minutes after forever, Badger dropped me off at home. Still shaking, I thanked him and limped inside. I suspect he figured I didn’t hear his parting chuckle.
I went up the back stairs to my bedroom and changed into black sweatpants, pink pull-over thermal shirt and pink bunny slippers – with six inch bunny ears, of course. Throwing a Christmas blanket over my arm, I headed to the kitchen. Once there, I moved a kitchen chair over to the doorway leading outside, checked that the sachet of herbs was still above the doorjamb, and then did the same at the other doorjamb that lead from the kitchen to the living room.
I hadn’t performed that ritual in over a week, but with today’s episode, I had to check. I put on a pot of coffee, stoked the coals and re-started the fire. A fireplace in the kitchen was the most awesome thing ever! Besides the herb sachets above the doorjambs, I mean. It didn’t take long to make this my favorite room in the house. My grandmother, god rest her soul, managed to clear the room of spirits and place sachets above the doorjambs so they couldn’t re-enter. I wished she had gotten to the other rooms. Clearing spirits from a room was tricky, though, because they could easily be trapped inside instead of out. If trapped inside, then they were almost impossible to get rid of. I didn’t have the nerve to try myself. And anyway, I didn’t know what the little bags contained. They smelled like basil and mint, and other herbs I couldn’t identify. The kitchen was the safest room in the whole house, and I frequently slept in my chair next to the warm fire, all night. So did Simon, but for different reasons.
I shivered and sipped my coffee. I was safe here, inside the kitchen. A Victorian fireplace, containing a stone Cinderella seat and a fire blazing cozily lined one whole wall. Coffee, tea, or even cold feet were propped on the fender to warm. Copper pots and pans hung above the butcher-block work-table against another wall, an arched pantry on the other, and a dining table in the center of the room. A narrow stairwell once used by servants led upstairs to bedrooms and the attics beyond. Bright, flowery curtains surrounded the kitchen window overlooking the large backyard.
My father’s childhood home was cozy and comfortable. I liked to imagine him growing up here. Living here linked me to him, however tenuous. If Uncle Richard wasn’t so distant, it might be perfect.
I poured coffee and curled up with my blanket into the old comfy armchair in front of the fire, thinking about my grandmother. We both had the same gift, if you could call it that. My life wasn’t my own, constantly hounded by spirits that wanted something from me. Many were downright mean, pinching me and pulling my hair to get my attention. And then some were evil, a whole different ballgame. That thing in the alley? Pure Evil. I called it the Dark Shadow. A swirling mass of malevolence, and it wanted me for some reason. Fortunately, my run-in with Badger scared it off.
To my relief, Simon came down the back stairwell, saving me from dwelling on things better left alone.
“What’s up?” he asked, shuffling sleepily toward the coffee pot. He was barefooted and wore a t-shirt with pajama bottoms. He poured a mug and dumped tons of sugar and milk into it before he sank into the armchair next to me. His shaggy blonde hair was sleep-tousled, and his amber-brown eyes ringed with shadows. Those shadows were practically the only thing that marked us as family. Neither of us slept well, both fighting our own demons when we had nothing else to distract us during the long winter nights.
“I ran into Badger this morning,” I said. “Literally.” I pulled my pant leg up to reveal my injury. Vibrant hues of purple, blue and black contrasted with my pale skin.
“Whoa, that’s gnarly!” he said, totally impressed. “That’s going to scar, that is. What happened?”
I poured out my whole pathetic story, about the appearance of the Dark Shadow scaring the life out of me in the alley, bowling over Badger in the market square and the disturbing vision when I touched Badger’s hands.
The psychic line didn’t get passed on to Simon, but we did share a psychic grandmother, so he “got” it. Unfortunately, I inherited the whole psychic thing from both sides of the family. I didn’t stand a chance.
“Speaking of Badger,” I said, “what happened to his father? I remember bits and pieces, but I’ve sort of been preoccupied.” The understatement of the century, for sure.
He shrugged. “Nobody knows. He was at the Blind Badger and seems to have disappeared from there.” He rested his bare feet on the fender, wiggling his toes.
“But, what do you think happened to him?” I persisted.
Simon gazed into the fire, thinking about his answer. “Well, rumor has it he ran away with his secretary, Shelly. And that’s what the police think – they both disappeared at the same time.” He shook his head. “But I don’t think so.” Frowning thoughtfully, he looked at me. “I’d swear he was madly in love with his wife. Sickening, really, people their age behaving that way.” He grimaced and took a sip of his coffee, and then grimaced again because he wasn’t used to the bitter taste of coffee. “They were always kissing and holding hands – no, I don’t believe he ran away with another woman.”
“I don’t think so either,” I said. His eyes bored into me as I stared into the fire.
“What do you mean?” He swung around to face me and sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. He looked confused.
“I mean...I’ve seen him.” I hesitated to look at him, not sure if I wanted to go there.
“What? Where?”
I took a deep, fortifying breath and turned my head. My silence and shimmering eyes didn’t escape his notice. Simon was a bright guy.
“No. Please don’t tell me you mean his spirit?” He shook his head in denial, but I could tell he believed me.
“Yes. I’m sorry, Simon. I guess you knew him quite well.” I twisted in my chair. “I hate to tell you this, but...his head was horribly bashed in, right about here.” I pointed to the back my skull. “And what’s more, I think he’s been dead awhile, because his spirit is pretty solid – much more solid than Agatha’s.”
Simon’s eyes went wide. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen Agatha, too?”
I nodded, looking for the slightest sign that Simon suspected I was crazy. I was relieved not to see any.
“Crikey!” He slumped back i
n his chair. His eyes glazed over, seemingly mesmerized, as he stared into the fire.
I let him muddle through the implication of what I said.
He shook his head, trying to take it all in. “So, how does this thing work? I mean, you weren’t, like, walking down the street and they walk up to you and introduce themselves – ”
I sighed. “Of course not. You’re such a dork.”
“All right, then what?” He crossed his arms and swiveled to look at me. He was a total newbie when it came to ghostly behavior.
Remembering the back of Bart’s head, I shivered, clutching the blanket at my chin. I bit my lip, struggling to hold back the nausea. This situation hit way too close to home. “I saw them both at the pub. Agatha behind the bar and Bart sitting on the end barstool reading a newspaper.” I shrugged. “Sort of carrying on like I would imagine they always do, um, did.”
I watched Simon as he processed the information. To say my revelation required digesting was an understatement. It’s not every day your best friend’s dad dies, someone who’d been a fixture in your life, and I’m sure Simon was reeling from this unfortunate news.
“Wow,” he said, blowing out his breath hard enough to ruffle his hair.
We meditated in silence, each lost in our own musings for a long time.
“So, what do we do now?” he asked.
I looked at him in alarm. “What do you mean? There is nothing we can do.” I stoked the fire, suddenly feeling the need to do something with my hands.
“Nothing?” he echoed. He stood, looking incredulous. “What do you mean, nothing?” He took the fire poker from me, efficiently stoked the fire, then returned it to the stand.
He hovered, waiting for my reply.
“People will think I’m crazy like they always do – this is a new beginning for me. I’m making friends.”
Simon lifted his eyebrows so high, it crinkled his forehead and made him look forty, instead of seventeen.
“Well, okay. No friends yet. But I will,” I insisted. “And when I do, I have to leave all this craziness out of it. And besides, this is a job for the police, and there’s no way I’m going to tell them I’ve seen the ghost of Bart Bagley – they’d commit me – or burn me at the stake for being a witch!”
Deflated, Simon sat back down. “Look, Indigo, I see what you mean,” he said. “But on the other hand, he was like an Uncle to me and Badger’s my best mate. He’s been working his arse off since Bart’s been gone. I think he deserves to know his dad didn’t abandon their family and run off with another woman.”
We had a stare-down. He won. Guilt made me back down from the challenge. Crap.
“But we still have the same problem,” I reasoned. “You can’t tell Badger because he’ll think I’m crazy – and if he has any sense at all, he won’t believe us.”
Simon was not amused. “All right, then,” he retorted back, “then...” he ran his hands through his hair while he searched feverishly for a solution. “We’ll get proof - so he’ll have to believe us.”
I shook my head and sighed. I had been there before - Simon didn’t get it. He’d always been popular. Nobody ever accused him of being seriously crazy or insane. “And then what?” I asked. “Are you suggesting we solve this mystery ourselves?”
The light went on in the attic and his eyes lit up. Me and my super big mouth gave Simon the solution he was searching for.
“No!” I yelled. “Absolutely not. That’s too crazy, even for me.” I took my mug over to the sink and dumped the cold coffee down the drain, washing it quickly before putting it in the rack to dry. I turned around and Simon was right behind me. I crossed my arms and leaned against the sink, glaring mulishly at him. “What you’re suggesting is madness,” I said. “They’ll commit both of us! You know that, don’t you?”
“I won’t let it be like that – I promise,” he pleaded, getting down on his knees in front of me.
I shook my head. Would this whole death thing never stop? I didn’t want any more murder, or death, or ghosts. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.” My heart raced even thinking of getting involved in such a farce.
“Please,” Simon said, shuffling on his knees behind me as I headed back to my chair.
Why was Simon pushing so hard for this? And then ding, ding, ding. A bell went off in my head. Why didn’t I see it before? The reason Simon pushed so hard was because his mother, Amanda, and four-year-old brother, Bryan, were killed by a hit and run driver. They never found the other driver. Sure, the death of his best friend’s dad was important, but solving what happened to Bart Bagley would appease his own survivor’s guilt.
Survivor’s guilt. Another thing we shared.
I sighed in resignation. “Let the witch hunt begin.”
Chapter Three
Snug Storm
I accepted the fact I would regret my decision to help Simon with his own private investigation. Heck, I already did. But I swear, if it got out of hand or too creepy, I would back out faster than a thief at a police ball.
Anyway, perhaps I wouldn’t see Bart’s ghost again. Perhaps it would all be over before we even had a chance to start. Yeah, and perhaps my dad will walk through the door alive and well, too.
Clean-up didn’t start until Agatha’s Celebration of Life ended, so I poured a mug of black coffee and squeezed through the crowd, looking for a quiet corner. Based on the number of people crammed into the pub, both living and dead, it didn’t seem likely. Then I spied the passageway Badger had led me down and remembered passing by a small room.
Making my way down the uneven passageway, I wondered how anyone did it after a few drinks. I drank nothing stronger than hot, black coffee. The slanted floor had me practically walking sideways like in the Dizzy Tunnel at a carnival. I guess it’s the sort of thing expected in a six hundred-year-old building; things settled and became unlevel and wobbly.
The sign above the door read “The Secret Snug.” Rather dark and quiet, but best of all, unoccupied. I breathed a sigh of relief.
A warm, cheery little fire glowed in the fireplace. Obviously someone knew about the little snug, so the “secret” part was not so secret. I pulled the black beret from my head, careful not to mess my hair, which I wore down for a change, but pulled back at the sides. My hair grew like crazy, so I at least had that in common with my American-Indian ancestors. It hung past my waist, even in a braid.
I threw my beret, coat, scarf and gloves onto a straight-backed chair. Propping pillows into the corner of the bench seat under the window, I lowered myself gratefully down. Tugging my black skirt back to mid-thigh, I swung my black boots onto the bench, crossed my ankles and sighed. Not used to wearing heels, my feet already pinched.
I gazed out the window, sipping coffee. The window looked out onto the alley - which Simon called a ginnel - I had run down the day before. My wounded knee was still healing. I determined not to think about the Dark Shadow chasing me and what it meant. That could wait.
Colorful raindrops, red, blue and green, rolled lazily down the glass pane rimmed with Christmas lights, mesmerizing me like a hypnotist with a watch on a chain. My eyes drifted closed.
I raced down a long, dark tunnel, water sloshing in my trainers and splashing around my pant legs. I shot a quick glance over my shoulder and glimpsed the Dark Shadow floating effortlessly a short distance behind, and swiftly gaining. Somewhere up ahead, someone called my name. Badger. Approaching a fork in the tunnel, I had to choose which branch to take, left or right. The question reverberated inside my head like an echo in a cave. Left or right, which fork should I take, left or right? Then the disembodied voice evolved into another litany; wrong or right, wrong or right, which branch should I take, wrong or right?
“Where are you?” I yelled frantically into the darkness, looking again over my shoulder at the looming shadow. No time for mulling the situation over, I plunged down the right fork...
...and gasped, sucking in air as if I just finished a marathon. Disoriented
as a rudely awakened sleepwalker, reality returned quite rapidly. But not quickly enough for what came next.
“Bad dream?” asked the translucent figure seated at the oak table. A folded newspaper lie on the table, see-through like the man.
I didn’t want to speak to him. I agreed to help Simon in solving the murder of Bart Bagley, but I didn’t agree to speak with the dead victim, not if I could help it.
What could I do? I pretended I didn’t hear and began gathering my things to make a hasty escape, er, exit. A knitted cap and only one glove. Crap. Draping my colorful scarf around my now-stiff neck, I was shaken at the vivid dream, especially with that darn shadow showing up.
“So, you’re her,” said the spirit of Bart Bagley, “the girl who can talk to spirits.”
I ignored him, adjusted the cap on my head and tucked loose strands of dark unruly hair under the rim. Dropping to my knees, I searched under the bench for the elusive glove. There, inconveniently in the furthest corner, it sat. I wondered how in the heck it ever got way back there.
“We’ve met before, you know,” he said. “Your dad and I were mates – grew up together right here in Sabrina Shores.”
Nope. Not gonna look. Not even gonna listen. I started to hum something nonsensical. La lala, hmhmhm, oh yeah.
“Your dad was so proud of you, bragged something awful, he did.” He was trying to get a reaction out of me. That is so not fair, playing the dad card like that. Tears sprang to my eyes.
“I can’t help you,” I choked, reaching for the glove. “You need to cross over – look for a bright light and walk into it – that’s the way to heaven....or Nirvana, or Utopia, or whatever you want to call it.”
