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

by Gwen Gardner

  Okay. “NOT,” I said aloud, viewing myself in the mirror. I had the pale skin down, but my hair was black as midnight, and the slight slant of my indigo-colored eyes made me look somewhat ethnic. The widow’s peak with the streak of white hair made me look like a vampire more than anything. I sighed. That was the best I could do.

  “You should put your hair up, child. It will make you look older,” said the buxom ghost that suddenly appeared next to my reflection in the mirror.

  I jumped, my heart leaping in my chest. The base of my skull tingled as I glanced back into the mirror. The woman stood there smiling.

  “Although in my day, you would have been arrested for wearing that skirt in public,” added the ghost, hands on hips, head cocked at an angle while she studied my clothing.

  “Uh, who are you?” I managed to ask when I found my voice again. This was exactly why I didn’t hang out in my bedroom. Ghosts have absolutely no respect for privacy. My heart still beat rapidly in my chest, although this ghost didn’t feel dangerous.

  “Franny Bishop. A bit of a misnomer, that,” she said grinning. “Given my profession and all.”

  At my blank look, she smiled wide. “I’m a madam, dear. I mean when I was alive.”

  She was dressed in a scarlet-colored off-the-shoulder gown with petticoats underneath forming a bell-shaped skirt. Her corset cinched her waist to the size of a Barbie doll, while making the best of her considerable bosom, which overflowed the bodice of her plunging neckline. Twisted up into an intricate bun, her hair was every bit as black as mine, and her skin just as pale.

  “Oh.” I felt my face flush. But that was beside the point. “You scared me, popping in like that!” I accused, whirling to face her. But Franny had already floated across the room to sit in the armchair. I say sit, but in effect, she was in the sitting position, floating a few inches above.

  “I’m sorry, dear, truly I am. I’m not one of those in-betweeners that enjoy scaring the living.” She sniffed. “In fact, I rarely materialize, but your fashion dilemma caught my attention.”

  I turned back to the mirror. “What fashion dilemma? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I looked fine, better than usual, in any case.

  Franny tisked. “You have no fashion sense, girl.” She floated over to the bureau and began flinging items out of the drawers. “You need to make use of your assets.”

  “My whaa...?”

  “Your assets, dear. How are you going to attract a man unless you show off your assets?”

  “But I don’t want to attract a man.” Okay, so one rather intrigued me. But that was totally beside the point.

  “Nonsense! We all want to attract a man. Unless you’re one of those...” She turned to me, eyebrows raised.

  “No, I’m not. I like boys fine, but I’m not looking...” She completely ignored me.

  Running her eyes up and down my body, Franny said, “Wait here.” She floated through the bedroom door and down the hall. I opened the door and ran after her, wondering what she could be up to. She floated through the door at the end of the hall, but I stopped.

  I was standing outside the door to Uncle Richard’s bedroom when Simon came up the stairs.

  “Franny!” I whispered loudly through the door. “What are you doing in there? You can’t...” What? Was I trying to tell a ghost that she couldn’t go somewhere?

  Simon looked at me quizzically. I shook my head at him. Now was not the time to try to explain. The noises coming through the door made it sound like Franny was looking for something. I put my ear to the door. Simon did the same.

  “Um, what are we doing?” he whispered, eyes curious as we listened, and once the scavenging sounds reached him, “And who the bloody hell is in there?”

  I shushed him.

  “Now where did I see that?” a tinny voice said, as drawers slammed shut and open.

  I backed away from the door and looked at Simon. “You don’t want to know.”

  The door opened and a pink push-up bra floated through and bobbed up and down the hall. I ran after it and snatched it out of the air. I threw a glance over my shoulder to see Simon’s amazed face before I went into my bedroom and slammed the door.

  “Put that on, dear,” ordered Franny, hovering next to me.

  “No way!” I said. “This does not belong to me. It has to be Aunt Amanda’s.” I flung the bra onto the bed. “I can’t wear it.”

  Floating back to me, it landed on my head. Once again, I pulled it off and flung it back on the bed.

  “She’s not here, is she, dear? And I don’t think she would mind. She’d want to help you find a man,” Franny insisted.

  “I told you, I don’t need to find a man.”

  “None of us do dear, but we want one, don’t we?” Franny countered. “Now, put that on.”

  Giving in, I put on the bra while Franny hovered. She circled me, looking at the bra from all sides.

  “You did lose out in the bosom department didn’t you, dear?” An icy touch adjusted the straps, pulling my breasts upward and together, creating the illusion of cleavage. “And your waist - it’s a shame women don’t wear corsets anymore. Hmm, you could use more flesh on your hips, too, so thin...” She continued talking to herself. “And those dark circles under your eyes.” She clucked. “You should sleep more, dear. Now, hair and makeup. Sit down, dear, and let’s see what we can do with you.”

  “I already did my makeup.” She ignored my protest as I was unceremoniously pushed into the chair at the antique vanity table I rarely ever used. The drawer flew open and once again items began spilling out.

  Franny shook her head, complaining about the lack of what she had to work with. “Close your eyes and relax, dear. You’re going to be a whole new person when I’m done with you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” I sighed in resignation and closed my eyes. I supposed I could go shower again if I looked totally hideous. My skull tingled as Franny’s chilly fingers worked on me. I wondered what it said about me that my first girl time session since moving here was with a bossy prostitute ghost.

  “Right then dear, open your eyes.”

  I opened my eyes slowly. And gasped. I turned my head left and then right. I had never looked better. Unlike Franny’s own makeup, she applied mine with a light hand. A line of thin black eyeliner rimmed my eyes, making them glow, and she had shadowed my high cheekbones, making them more prominent. My pale skin actually emphasized my best facial features; eyes and cheekbones.

  Tears started to form in my eyes, making them even more luminescent. My unruly hair was pulled back expertly, with strands woven intricately around my nape, and a cascade of black wavy hair falling down my back and past my waist.

  “Thank you, Franny.” It was all I could manage.

  A chilly hand patted my shoulder, and then she was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Padma

  The Minority Ethics Committee.

  I stood in front of the mirror and studied myself, hands on hips, turning side to side. I now had a perceivable cleavage. Not too much, but definitely there. With my hair and makeup, I did look older. Sophisticated even. I put in dangly earrings, feeling completely feminine. Definitely a change from my usual jeans, pullover and messy braid.

  Darn! I completely forgot to confront Franny about unpacking my things. I guess that would have to wait until another time. I headed down the back staircase toward the kitchen, unsteady on the unfamiliar heels.

  Simon, seated in his chair next to the fireplace, gaped. “Who are you and what did you do with my cousin?”

  “Thanks. I think.” I flushed at the flattery.

  “And what was with that floating bra thing?”

  “That will have to wait.” Possibly forever, I added to myself.

  “Wait! We need a picture,” said Simon, jumping up to retrieve the digital camera from the kitchen counter. “As proof, you know, that you do own a skirt.”

  I smiled and posed good-naturedly, despite the fact
that I hated picture-taking. I always ended up surrounded by strange orbs that cast photo-ruining reflections.

  I sighed.

  This time would be no different, because Cleo was winding herself between my legs in a figure eight pattern, creating friction with her sleek white fur against my tights, and causing sparks of static electricity. As her feline multicolored eyes winked up at me, I swore Queen Cleopatra purposely generated the static electricity that would appear in the photo. Generally she ignored me, preferring to work her wiles on the males in the family. For all the good it did her, I chuckled to myself.

  I took the local bus to the outskirts of the village. The buildings here were rather dilapidated and run down. Old, but not medieval like the architecture in the middle of the village, and not protected on the historical registry as the others were. An odd array of two and three story structures haphazardly lined the streets, non-matching, no organization to how they were arranged. Brick and mortar or plaster, all were discolored by soot and smog from the Victorian industrial age. Dingy chunks of plaster broke away from the structures to reveal rusty chicken wire beneath. Each section had alleys leading to courtyards behind them, stair-cased balconies giving access from the upper floors. It must have been pretty and peaceful at one time, with benches to sit on, surrounded by green grass and colorful flowers. Now the grass was overgrown and dead, the benches rusted and rotting.

  I double-checked the address in my hand and tucked it back into my purse. The Minority Ethics Committee appeared to be rather busy. A line formed from top to bottom of the stairwell. Disappointed, I decided I’d have to come back when they were less busy, but then a young woman at the top of the stairs pointed and beckoned me to come up.

  “Good, you’re here,” said the woman. She was dressed in a black tailored suit with a white frilly blouse, much as I was dressed. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her large brown eyes darted to the line out the door.

  “I’m Padma. As you can see we’re rather busy. Your desk is there.” She pointed to a desk behind a partition.

  “But I...” I began, but didn’t get the chance to tell her that she had made a mistake.

  “Basically, you find out what the problem is and help them fill out the form – many of them aren’t fluent in English, or even literate.”

  “But...”

  “If there’s a problem, I’ll be over there.” She pointed to her own desk behind another partition. “And thank you for coming on such short notice. We need all the help we can get.” Watching her backside rush off to her cubicle, I should have followed, tried to explain. But she was busy. It would have to wait.

  Not knowing what else to do, I took my jacket off, draped it over a chair and stowed my purse under the desk. The receptionist sent the first client over, and that began what would be a long day indeed.

  I hadn’t known about the many problems immigrants faced. The paperwork wasn’t difficult, just more complicated due to the language barrier. I found that by handling their immigration papers and interpreting the energy I got from them, I could piece the information together and get a sense of what was going on. Finally! My talent came in handy. I was helping instead of hurting. Satisfaction for a job well done came when I was able to help by making a simple phone call.

  By late afternoon, the line out the door had diminished. Since Padma was still with a client, I gratefully poured a cup of coffee and looked around at my surroundings. The room was small and bare, with five or six desks tucked behind partitions for privacy. Besides me and Padma, only the receptionist, another young Indian woman and an older Indian man occupied desks. Prints of different countries and ethnic people hung on the walls. Two chairs on either side of a small table containing magazines lined the front wall. The seats were now empty and the office quiet as the last client left.

  I checked my cell phone for the time, surprised that seven hours had passed since I arrived. Seven o’clock and I was seriously starving. But I still had to speak to Padma. The other workers had gone before Padma walked out from behind her partition.

  “You did a great job today.” Padma smiled tiredly. “Thanks again for coming on short notice.” She lowered herself into the chair opposite my desk and gave a huge sigh.

  I smiled back at her. “I’m Indigo Eady, by the way.” I leaned across the desk to shake hand. “And to tell the truth,” I hesitated, not quite sure how to begin, “I didn’t come to work.”

  A confused frown appeared between Padma’s eyes. “I don’t understand. Aren’t you the girl I spoke to on the phone this morning? The volunteer?” She sat forward in her chair.

  I shook my head. “No. I guess your volunteer didn’t show up. I came to ask for your help with something, and sort of got caught up...”

  Padma’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Yes?” She was more than a little suspicious.

  She wasn’t going to make this easy. “I’m helping a friend. Badger Bagley.” I folded my hands on the desk, waiting for Padma to process what I said and exactly who I was helping.

  It didn’t take long. A sudden understanding dawned on Padma’s face and her dark skin turned a shade paler. “That must be Bart’s son?”

  I nodded my head. “Yes.”

  “How can I help you?” asked Padma. “I don’t know anything about his death. I don’t think I ever even met him.” She got up and crossed to the window. She was clearly uncomfortable for obvious reasons. Her best friend had disappeared at the same time as Bart, and now Bart had turned up dead. Murdered, in fact. There could be no doubt that Shelly had been murdered also. I watched pain and fear cross her face as she gazed down onto the dark street below.

  I joined her at the window. A man stood half in shadow near a street lamp below. A few other people rushed along the street. I reminded myself this wasn’t a safe neighborhood after dark.

  Padma turned away from the window and met my gaze, clearly wondering how she should respond.

  I continued. “Is there anything you can tell us, anything at all, even something small, however insignificant, that might help us figure out who killed Bart?”

  Padma opened her mouth to say something, and then hesitated. She closed it again, looked away and shook her head.

  I wondered what she had been about to say. “Bart and Shelly were obviously both involved in whatever was going on. If we could understand Shelly better, it could shed light on what happened.”

  Padma shrugged her shoulders and studied her twisting fingers.

  “We’re kind of at a dead end.” I cringed at the unfortunate choice of words. “The one thing we keep coming back to is Shelly.” I stared at Padma’s profile. “And Nat.”

  Padma took a deep trembling breath, and then walked slowly back to the desk. She crossed her arms and sat down. Looking silently across at me for a moment, she was clearly conflicted about divulging her friend’s personal information. She sighed.

  “All right. Go ahead. What do you want to know?” Her voice was resigned.

  I came around the desk, pulling my chair around with me so I sat facing her. I leaned in and came directly to the point. “We want to know if Nat could have harmed Shelly...and Bart, by association.”

  She stared at me before answering. “You have to understand. When Shelly and Nat met, he was a different person. Their parents made a marriage arrangement years ago, but they fell in love so neither had a problem with it. They were to be married next year.” She got up and began to pace. “Their parents were delighted, of course.” She turned to me. “But then Nat started drinking. I started to notice that he was becoming controlling, wanting to know where Shelly was every minute of the day. He’d make snide remarks about her flirting and looking at other men.” She shook her head. “And then I began noticing the bruises on her arms. She made excuses for him, of course, and refused to admit she was being abused.” She continued pacing. “And now the families are no longer speaking. Shelly’s family feels guilty because they were aware of the abuse, and Nat’s family thinks she
ran away and dishonored the contract...”

  I broke in. “And that’s our next question. Do you think he was controlling and jealous enough to have harmed her? Or do you think it could have been an honor killing, with Nat’s family involved in her disappearance?”

  Padma replied in anguish. “I don’t know! I honestly don’t know!” She threw her hands in the air. “I would have said no to both questions at one time.” She turned back to me. “And then last week a blonde girl walks in, says she’s Nat’s ex-girlfriend.”

  “What’s her name?” I interrupted.

  “Brenda something.” She went to her cubicle and came back with a calendar, thumbing back a few days through the pages. She pointed at a name scribbled on the page. “Brenda Cummings!”

  “Do you have a phone number or address for her?”

  She shook her head. “No. She walked in off the street, said she saw in the paper that I was Shelly’s friend. She asked if Shelly had returned, and wanted someone to know that he used to beat her up when they were together.” Padma looked at me worriedly. “She’s scared of Nat and is afraid to go to the police with the information.”

  The word police echoed through my head. Was it a message? A warning, perhaps?

  A slow creeping sensation started at the base of my skull and worked its way up. I rubbed the back of my head and looked around for any lurking spirits but didn’t see any. Something nagged me, something I missed. My gaze stopped at the window overlooking the street. I approached it from the side and peered out, only half listening as Padma continued to speak.

  Something felt wrong. A negative energy emanated from the street below. Billy, standing beneath a street lamp.

  “What’s wrong?” Padma asked, finally noticing I was no longer responding. When she started over to me, I stopped her without turning or moving.