Givin' Up The Ghost (An Indigo Eady Paranormal Mystery)

by Gwen Gardner

  “So what you’re trying to say is that my father’s dead.” He jumped abruptly to his feet. The chair scraped back from the table and toppled over. He snatched his black leather jacket and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “What a bloody load of crap. Frankly this is beyond bad taste...” Rage emanated through his low, icy tone.

  By this time I was on my feet, white knuckles clutched to the back of my chair. Simon stood too, looking helpless. “Badger, please listen,” I began, “this is not a joke and I’m not lying – I wouldn’t do that. You have to believe me!”

  “It’s true, mate. Listen to her,” said Simon, coming around the table to stand before him.

  But Badger had already shut down. He turned and slammed out the back door without looking back. A few seconds later the engine of his motorcycle revved violently into the silent darkness as it sped away.

  “Well.” Simon looked dazed. “That went well.”

  So far, the Christmas holidays were dreary. The gray Monday morning suited the mood. We sat in our chairs and stared gloomily into the fire. I was wrapped in a blanket and hugging my pillow.

  Thinking about Badger’s reaction, I sighed for the hundredth time. I’d been through this many times before – most people didn’t believe me. But I couldn’t forget the anger and betrayal on Badger’s face. Why did I have to blurt it out like that? That I’m like a water buffalo at a tea party had always been to my detriment.

  “What should we do?” I asked Simon, once again. We had been over and over this and the answer was always the same.

  “We let him cool down for a few days. Then I’ll go talk to him - maybe with a can of pepper spray and a taser.”

  “I’m sorry, Simon. I didn’t say it right. I should have led in to it slowly somehow or ...” Or what? Explain it in a believable way? Yeah, right.

  “No, it’s not your fault,” he said. “This was never going to come out right, you know?” He sipped his coffee. “He can’t afford to believe you, because if you’re right...that would mean the unthinkable...”

  “...and so anger was his best option,” I finished for him.

  He nodded.

  “I get that.” We both got that only too well. The hard part came when you don’t have the anger to hold on to anymore.

  It rained unceasingly and mercilessly for the next week. Dams burst at the seams, dry canals flooded. Residents of several counties had to sandbag their homes, trying to keep out the newly formed rivers that were once streets. The sewers filled and overflowed into the River Sabrina, tearing up long settled refuse from its bowels, like skeletons in a closet suddenly come to life, revealing secrets better forgotten in its devastating wake.

  Several adventurous teenagers had to be rescued after rafting down street rapids and ending up in the Sabrina. They were miles downriver before rescuers could reach them and haul them to safety.

  Simon had mailed an envelope to Badger several days before, containing cut-out newspaper articles. He attached a brief note saying From Indigo’s Scrapbook. Six clips in all, small bits about anonymous phone tips made leading to the recovery of lost pets, the approximate location of stolen goods, and even one leading to the arrest of a sexual predator.

  Still no word from Badger. He hung onto his anger like a drowning man to a life preserver. I shook my head. And we had such a promising start, I mocked myself.

  I reached over the sink and turned the radio on in time for the morning news.

  In breaking news, the body of a male, somewhere between the age of 30 -40, has washed up on the banks of the River Sabrina. The remains have not yet been identified, but foul play is suspected.

  I looked at Simon, a spoon of cereal halfway to his mouth. He dropped it back into the bowl, splashing milk over the sides. His eyes were wide.

  Tingling ran up my spine, the base of my skull a mass of swirling energy.

  “Call Badger,” I said. “Tell him NOT to even think about getting on his motorbike. We’ll meet him at the snug.”

  Simon didn’t hesitate. He dialed Badger’s cell phone.

  “Indigo says, ‘Don’t even think about getting on that motorcycle,’” Simon mimicked, forgoing any kind of greeting. “Meet us in the snug in thirty minutes.”

  A tinny voice came from the earpiece. “What...how did you...fine,” said Badger, before a snap indicated the severed connection.

  We stopped to shake rain from our coats on the industrial rug inside the doorway. Glancing toward the bar, Bart sat on the barstool nearest us, reading the newspaper. He didn’t turn or show any sign of being aware of us or what was going on around him. We hurried down the hall, rain water still dripping along the way. Badger was already in the snug, a warm fire burning. We lay our sodden jackets across a chair next to the fire and took seats on the cushioned bench in front of the window. I eyed the fireplace warily, not wanting a repeat of the last time I was in here. But it crackled warm and cheerily, which seemed so wrong given why we were there.

  The room was thick with sadness and grief, almost unbearable. I wanted to run as fast as I could away from there. But I didn’t.

  Badger sat in the straight-backed chair nearest the door, pale-faced and solemn. “I made coffee - unless you’d like something else?” The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small room.

  “No, coffee is perfect,” I said, wrapping my hands around the warm mug, sipping the hot brew in appreciation. It tasted like heaven. Give me coffee and I’ll follow you anywhere. Truly, if heaven didn’t have coffee, then I wasn’t going. Even Simon was grateful after the cold and wet walk we had in getting there, and he was used to the weather. Sometimes I desperately missed the warm San Diego weather.

  “I am so sorry, Badger,” I began.

  “We both are, mate,” Simon interrupted. “I didn’t know how to tell you, how to bring it up, you know?”

  “Not to mention that it’s a crazy thing to ask someone to believe,” I put in. “Unless you’ve lived with it your whole life...” I took a deep breath, looking for a way to explain.

  Badger sat with his head down, listening. I could tell he didn’t want to, but sometimes you have to believe something when it’s shoved into your face. Nobody knows that better than me.

  “How does it work,” Badger asked, “this...thing...you have?” He swung his jean-clad legs around to straddle the chair, his arms resting on the chair back. The bags under his eyes and unkempt hair spoke of deep worry.

  How do I explain this thing? I took a deep breath. “Technically, I guess I’m called a psychic medium – I have extrasensory perception – ESP. And I can see and speak to spirits – mostly earthbound spirits, the one’s that haven’t moved on yet.”

  Badger nodded. Both Badger and Simon listened closely to what I had to say. It was a hard thing to ask people to believe, I knew all too well.

  I continued. “I don’t know how it works, exactly, but I get information in different ways. Sometimes in dreams, sometimes when I touch something belonging to the deceased. I see it like a film – only it’s like I’m in the film. And I think you should know,” I emphasized, “that I’m not always right and sometimes I don’t interpret the information I get correctly. And sometimes ghosts lie – they tell me what they want me to know, or what they think they know, but aren’t always right.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Simon. “Lying ghosts?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. As you can see, it’s not fool-proof and I have little control over it.”

  “And my dad?” asked Badger.

  His sad, brown eyes pierced my heart. My throat tightened and I swallowed back tears. “I spoke to him, right here in the snug. That day with the wind tunnel and ashes flying around? He did it.”

  Badger and Simon looked around as if they would see Bart right there and then. But it doesn’t work that way. Ghosts will appear in their own good time and not before.

  I wished I could explain better. “I’m sort of like the middle man or an interpreter. I’m the medium that’s used, sort of like the media
or telephone.” Yep, I should change that to no control because it wasn’t up to me at all.

  I mean, look at Bart. I tried to ignore him but he wouldn’t let me. And that interfering lady ghost who kept unpacking my things? Since the first time I chased her, it did no good. She wanted my things unpacked – I didn’t know why. Even now, while explaining all this confusion to Badger, the young girl floating around the snug dressed as a serving wench pretended to be working. But she was eavesdropping, listening to every word we said. And I had no control.

  “He doesn’t know what happened to him,” I said. “The last thing he remembers is your mom’s birthday party. The wind tunnels are his way of manifesting his frustration.”

  I sat quietly for a moment, waiting for Badger to think through and form his next question.

  “You say his head was bashed in,” said Badger. He took a shaky breath. “So you think it’s murder.” A statement, not a question.

  “Yes.” I tried to control the oncoming shiver that came with remembering the sight of Bart’s wound. I had seen lots of gross things thanks to the spirits sharing things. God sooo could have given this gift to someone more capable of handling it. Blood totally gave me the heevie jeevies.

  Badger ran his fingers through already messy hair. “He hasn’t been formally identified. But I figured it was his body they found when I watched the news this morning. As far as I know, nobody else has been missing as long as it takes for a body to be in that condition, except for my dad. I think I always suspected he was dead, anyway. He would never have left otherwise – he wasn’t that kind of person. And the rumors about him running off with Shelly are bollocks.”

  The glance between me and Simon was intercepted by Badger. Again. We had to quit doing that.

  “What?” asked Badger. “Is there something else?”

  “Well,” started Simon, with another glance at me. “We were talking, and we’d like to help – you know, find out what happened to him.”

  I nodded, despite the fact I wanted to run fast and far.

  “Since the police seemed to have botched it from the beginning...and since Indigo can gain insight that they can’t...we want to help – be proactive, you know,” Simon finished.

  “What did you have in mind?” Badger swatted an invisible fly from his head, which was really the serving wench caressing his hair and tut-tutting his loss.

  “We want to do our own investigation.”

  He looked from me to Simon, seeming to weigh his answer. After about three hundred years in which even the serving girl got tired of waiting, he made a decision. “Okay, where do we begin?”

  I smiled weakly in relief. He might not totally believe in me, but it was a start. And we were making progress already. I hadn’t even bowled him over today.

  Simon got up and grabbed the cylinder containing the murder map he brought along. He rolled it out onto the table, using his coffee mug to hold down one corner. “We don’t have much on here yet, but when we do, we could record all the information we find in this one place and try to make sense out of what happened.”

  “Right.” Badger looked down at the paper as Simon unrolled it.

  “First, we should come up with a list of suspects,” said Simon. “Is there any way to get a copy of the police report? That way we know who they’ve spoken to and what kind of information they have so far.”

  “I doubt it,” he answered. “I don’t think they want to reveal any information in case...well, in case anyone decides to do what we’re doing. I’m sure they don’t want to reveal all the information they have to the public, either.”

  “There’s just one thing,” I said, interrupting, before this went any further. Secrecy. And not only about the investigation.

  “Oh – yeah,” said Simon. “You can’t tell anyone about Indigo. It has to be kept a secret. She’s taken the Mickey off people for it.”

  Badger squirmed. He was one of those people. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Me neither,” said a voice from the door.

  Chapter Nine

  The Investigation Begins

  We all looked toward the door in stunned silence.

  A girl leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. She surveyed us, mostly me, with clear interest.

  “Riley. How much did you hear?” Badger asked.

  “Enough. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” She dug through her rucksack and handed Simon a stack of stapled papers. “Here.”

  “It’s the police report! And it’s dated yesterday.” Simon looked up at her and then back to Badger. He waved the stack of papers in the air. “Where did you get this?”

  “From a private source,” she answered, coming further into the room. “The point is that I have it and you lot clearly need it. For all the good it’ll do.” She snorted. “The cops still think dad ran away with Shelly and now they’re looking for her as a person of interest. It’s ridiculous.”

  We looked at Badger, uncertain, before looking back to Riley. I met Badger’s sister only once. She was my age, but unlike me, her brown hair was cut short and chic. Her jeans and blouse had more style than I could ever muster, even on a good day. The stubborn look shining out of her blue eyes stopped me and Simon from interfering in what was clearly a family matter.

  “I appreciate the police report, Riley, but you can’t get involved in this,” began Badger, “it could be dangerous.” He had the same stubborn look as Riley, only his eyes were a warm brown. Normally, anyway. Right now, they were flat as snake eyes.

  “He was my father, too.” Riley snapped, legs planted firmly, hands on hips.

  Badger took in her fierce eyes, his own blazing daggers right back at her. The moment grew uncomfortably long, something I was realizing about Badger. He didn’t make decisions quickly. He chewed them over first. Finally, he sighed. “Okay, but you’ll do as I say. I’m in charge of this investigation.” He glared around at the lot of us, and we all quickly nodded in agreement. “All right, then. Let’s read this report first. Then we’ll make a plan.”

  “Actually,” I said, hesitating to contradict him so early in the investigation, “why don’t you take me over to your place first –I’d like to look at your dad’s things before the police arrive,” I said to Badger. I slipped into my Navy-blue pea coat and grabbed my beanie and scarf. “Simon can read the report while we’re gone.” I turned to Riley. “I’m assuming you’ve already read it?”

  “Yes, and I have to get back to work,” she said. “I’m off in thirty, so I’ll catch up with you then.” Like Badger and Simon, she worked at the Blind Badger. She turned and left without a backward glance, but not before I glimpsed the tears swimming in her eyes.

  To the left was the family room, with a bay window overlooking the market square; to the right was the kitchen, small, but bright and cozy. Family photographs lined the walls. Bart with a gap-toothed Badger grinning for the camera. Bart kissing Claire on the lips while the kids made monkey faces in mock disgust. Riley posing regally, surrounded by little brothers Harry and Henry. We passed and went straight down the hall to the study.

  “This is...was, my dad’s home office. He worked from here part of the time and at Shoreline Construction part of the time. He had an office there as well.”

  “What did your dad do, exactly? I asked.

  “He worked as a freelance Environmental Engineer for the county of Sabrina Shores, studying the environment and reporting the possible impact a project might have on the area. Shoreline paid him as a consultant to work with them to get project approvals from the county.

  “And did Shelly work from here, too?”

  “Sometimes, but mostly she worked from Shoreline. She only worked part time for my dad, and then part time for a charity called the Minority Ethics Committee.” He turned the doorknob and slowly pushed the door inward, waiting for me to precede him.

  I hesitated inside the doorway, trying to get an impression of Bart and the room he must have spent a fair amount of time working. It he
ld the musty stillness and silence of disuse. A thin layer of dust blanketed the room, dust motes floating through the weak sunlight. I stepped over the threshold.

  In one corner, a lamp on an end table next to a comfy-looking armchair formed a reading area in front of a fireplace.

  A large, scarred oak desk with a small lamp faced the door. Scattered papers and various reports littered the desktop. The usual office paraphernalia. A tottering stack of books sat on the floor next to the desk.

  The many bookshelves, stuffed to overflowing with trade books and scrapbooks, had yellowed edges of clipped newspaper articles peeking out the sides haphazardly. I walked over to the shelf and plucked out one of the scrapbooks. Opening it, I ran my finger down one of the articles. The base of my skull began to tingle. I snapped the book shut and went over to the desk, moving things aside and looking under everything. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I’d know it when I found it.

  “Where’s his latest scrapbook?” I asked Badger. We began to look on the shelves and in desk drawers.

  My eyes drifted to the far corner where a drafting table sat. A file folder balanced precariously on top of it, newspaper articles bulging out. I moved to the table and lifted the folder, blowing it off before opening it.

  “Here it is,” I said. “Do you happen to know what your dad was working on?”

  “No, but he always had a few things going on at the same time. Is it important?” He stood behind me, looking over my shoulder as I flipped through the folder.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “But I think we should copy these, before the police take them for evidence.” I closed the folder, brushing more of the dust from the cover.

  “You think they will? I mean take that as evidence? But why?”

  “I don’t know why, but I’m pretty sure they’re going to take these. We need to look at everything they’ll be looking at.”

  Directly above the drafting table hung a large corkboard, crammed with photographs of construction sites in various phases of completion. To the right of that on the opposing wall was another corkboard full of other photographs of people at various events and occasions.