by Mona Marple
“What, really?”
“Of course. It was pretty suspicious how he fell just after she’d found out about the affair.”
I’d never considered that.
“Nettie’s so nice, though.”
“Hell hath no fury…” Atticus said, then broke into a grin. “Anyway, back to April Fools. The first party ever for both spirits and the living. This could open up a whole new income stream for Mystic Springs, you know. Imagine how many people would like to celebrate with their dead loved ones!”
3
Connie
Weeks of planning.
Alright, a week and a half.
The invitations had come from me, of course. As the town’s medium, I had to be the one to appear to suggest it.
A party for the living and the dead!
Come and party with the dead!
In the end, I called it Ghosts and Fools. Which was not ideal, because it seemed to suggest that the living people were fools.
Luckily, most of them were too foolish to consider the invitation in that much detail.
“Are you wearing that?” Sage asks, appearing in the bedroom doorway.
“I wish you’d knock.” I say. I’m grumpy because I’m trying on clothes. There are people in the world - my sister was one of them - who find trying on clothes to be fun. A hobby. And then there are people like me, who have to tuck their stomachs into their knickers and hope for the best. “What’s wrong with it, anyway?”
Sage looks me up and down before giving an eye roll, as if I’m too far gone for help, which may very well be true. “Wear the black.”
“Black? It’s not a funeral.” I say. The four outfits that were the least bad had formed a shortlist and were each laid out on my bed.
“I guess.” Sage says. “Wear what you want, then.”
I look at my reflection. I’m wearing a shapeless tent of a dress which somehow is so baggy that you can’t even be sure I have a stomach, while still managing to make me look more fat than I am.
“Everyone makes the same mistake.” Sage says. “Tries to hide the bits they don’t like with baggy clothes, but it’s not flattering. Wear the black, it’s more fitted, and you can wear that lilac scarf to add some colour.”
I sigh and pull the tent over my head, replacing it with the black number, that I have to wiggle into. It shows my stomach, but I get what Sage means. There’s an honesty to it. At least it doesn’t make me look like a fat person who’s trying to pretend she’s not fat.
I should say here, I don’t mind being overweight. In the competition between exercising and cake, I choose cake every time, and I’m not really worried about that. I’m happy in my skin. I just find choosing clothes stressful.
And being surrounded by my dead sister doesn’t help. She died when her metabolism could still work miracles.
“That’s lovely.” Sage says, and I have to agree. I toss the tent dress out into the hallway so I remember to send it to a charity shop instead of returning it to the plus-sized sanctuary that is my wardrobe.
“Does everyone know the rules for tonight?” I ask.
“Of course.” Sage says, but she’s looking at her own reflection in the mirror and I can tell I’ve lost her attention.
“I really want this to go well.” I say. “Well, I need it to. I’ll be blamed if anyone acts up.”
“Mm-hmm.” Sage replies as she licks her lips and puckers up for a pout.
I sigh. “Come on, let’s go.”
We walk across town and hear the music even before the Baker house comes into view. I’ve spent the last two days cleaning the house from top to bottom, scrubbing floors, wiping down dusty woodwork. I left a few cobwebs for effect and held a spontaneous meeting with the spirits who just happened to be there, playing solitaire, to explain how everyone needed to be on best behaviour.
They’d all looked at me wide-eyed, of course, as if they don’t live for pranks.
The house is full, and the sight that greets me is overwhelming. Living people, dancing next to spirits they can’t see. Spirits, very able to see the living people, dancing next to the ones they loved or had taken a liking to. It takes me a moment to get my bearings, to be able to focus in and see who’s alive and who’s dead.
To my amusement, Atticus is dancing in between his daughter Mariam and her friend and colleague Desiree. His ghostly form gazes at his daughter with such love that I realise in that moment that the party is a good idea. Mariam has struggled since her father’s sudden death, and I subtly check the glass in her hand and note with relief that it contains orange juice.
“This is amazing!” Sage squeals and I laugh. “I’m going to go and work the room.”
Of course she is.
I smile to myself and walk across to Violet Warren, the town battleaxe. In a leopard print mini-dress, dangling rainbow earrings and with neon highlights in her white fringe, she looks pretty much the same as she does any other day. She sees me and pulls me in for a hug.
“Connie! What an amazing idea.” She calls. Her age is anyone’s guess, but she’s my senior and yet has more energy and excitement for life than I’ve ever had.
“Is it going well?” I ask.
“It’s fabulous! When will the spooks make an appearance?” Violet asks. Never married, and child free, Violet has never come to me for an appointment, and I’m not sure whether she believes in the spirit world or not.
“They’re already here.” I say, casting a glance towards Patton Davey, whose ghostly form stands in police uniform with a baton in his hand. Never off duty, even in death, he says, which is just as well as he was never replaced after he died.
“Oh, tremendous.” Violet says with a laugh. “Atticus Hornblower owes me ten dollars still, so tell me if he pops in.”
I laugh. Atticus has heard her and flashes a mischievous grin, then rushes at speed towards Violet, floating right through her. She grabs her stomach instinctively.
“Ooh, I feel funny.” She says.
I cast a warning glance towards Atticus, but it’s too late. The other spirits have seen his trick and decide to join in.
“April Fools!” One spirit calls, then zips through the body of Desiree Montag, the school principal. Desiree drops her glass to the floor and grabs her stomach.
“Is it the shrimp?” Someone calls.
I manage to meet Sage’s gaze and flash her a warning look.
“Guys, come on, tone it down a bit.” Sage calls, but authority was never her strong point and nobody listens to her.
“I thought this was a party?” I shout,as I head over to the ancient speakers to turn up the volume. “Let’s dance!”
My distraction works and most people grab a partner and strut their stuff. I join in, enjoying the party as much as I can while remaining on low alert. I’ve never brought my two worlds together in such a way, inviting the spirits to spend an extended period with the living inhabitants of Mystic Springs.
Most people imagine spirits to be sombre, permanently upset about their death and stuck in a limbo between the real world and the after life. That’s not how it works. People generally stay the same after death.
Lots of my customers want to come and connect with a loved one who has passed, and all they want to do is talk about how awful it is that that person has died, and how they died, and how wrong it all is. The spirit will be so bored by this they might refuse to stick around for the whole of the appointment.
Death is a moment.
The dead have experienced it and generally want to move on.
I grab Violet and try to imitate her wacky dance moves, but I’m more self-conscious than she is (heck, who isn’t). She keeps my pace, then speeds up and laughs as my face grows red. When I start to actually pant and see stars in my vision, I know it’s time to grab a drink and have a seat.
In the kitchen, Lola Anti sits astride the counters, mobile phone in hand, texting furiously.
“Enjoying the party?” I ask as I grab a glass and fill it with i
ced tea.
She shrugs without taking her attention from her phone. She’s such a pretty girl.
I take my glass and turn to leave the kitchen, when I spot Troy Montag standing alone, watching Lola.
“Hey, you okay?” I ask.
Troy nods. “Yes, ma’am. Great party.”
I grin. “Not dancing?”
Troy laughs. “Nah, I was born in the wrong skin colour.”
I laugh. Troy is a good kid, a philosophy student with a trimmed black Afro and impeccable manners.
“Do you think she’s ok in there?” I ask, gesturing back towards Lola with a twist of my head.
“She? Oh, erm…” He stammers, coffee-coloured cheeks staining pink.
“Oh, you didn’t see? Lola’s in there all alone. Do you two know each other?”
“Oh. Yeah, I know who she is.” Troy says. I’m pretty sure all boys his age know who she is. “I don’t know her enough to go up and talk to, though, ma’am, sorry.”
“I’m sure she’s fine, just lost on her phone.” I say with a wink. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable. As the principal’s son, it’s no secret that as soon as he can, he’s leaving Mystic Springs in search of a city where he can join the faceless masses.
“I do that too sometimes.” He says. “It helps if I’m feeling a little shy, just to hide away on my own for a bit, check in online.”
“Hmm, is that right?” I say. I can’t imagine Lola Anti ever feeling shy. The girl seems to attract drama and pain wherever she goes. “Well, I’m going to sit down for a bit. Violet’s worn me out.”
“She’ll do that.” Troy says with an easy smile. I hope he doesn’t leave, I think suddenly, and with such urgency I almost say it out loud. I shake my head to push the thought away. I have very little to do with Troy - he is a teenage boy, after all - and yet every time I do speak to him, I feel a connection.
I find an empty seat on a big leather reclining settee which once would have been the focal point of the room and now sits tattered and sags under the weight of anyone who collapses into it. Time and age will do that, I think, make us all tattered and saggy. I snort a little at my own weak joke and am pleased nobody is close enough to have noticed.
The party is winding down. The spirits are restless, I can feel it. The humans have come, eaten, drank, danced, but they haven’t seen a single spirit. They were never going to, of course, hosting a party isn’t all it takes to give a person the powers to see spirits, but it’s clear the party has left both sides confused. The whooshing noise of spirits floating through people brings me back to full attention.
Mariam Hornblower looks green as she clutches her stomach.
“Is it something you ate?” Desiree asks. “I heard someone mention the shrimp earlier.”
“It’s fine.” I say, as Mariam throws up over the floor.
“Enough!” Atticus roars, the fun and games over now his own daughter is ill, even though he was the spirit who started the pranks.
Mariam bends over and clasps her stomach, Desiree at her side.
“Are you okay?” Desiree asks. “Can we get some water?”
“No.” Mariam objects. “I don’t want anything else from in here. Can you take me home?”
Desiree is about to answer when a piercing scream comes from the kitchen.
I jump off the settee, silently vowing never to host a dead or alive party again, and race in to the kitchen.
“Is she…?” Violet asks, her face ashen.
I peer over the crowd who managed to race towards the noise quicker than I did, and manage to make out the lifeless shape on the floor. A knife protruding from her back, mobile phone still in hand. Lola Anti.
4
Sage
We’ve taken up residence in Connie’s attic, which she doesn’t exactly know about, but she can hardly argue it. Nobody wants to be in the Baker house right now.
I know she feels guilty about a person being killed at a party she organised, but it’s really not her fault. She didn’t kill Lola.
I’ve tried to tell her that but she’s being pretty tight-lipped about everything.
Patton Davey has called this meeting urgently, and he never calls meetings. When I get told there’s another meeting being led by Atticus, I’m already bored before I’ve even arrived. I mean, he’s a great person, but he loves to create a meeting where one isn’t needed.
So, a meeting with Patton, that’s something to get interested in.
Patton Davey is the definition of an Alpha male. He can take control of a situation with a look. And he’s super nice to look at, which is why I take the seat opposite him for the meeting. Even if the meeting itself turns out to be snore-tastic, I can sit back and look at his chiselled jaw and icy blue eyes.
Atticus is here, of course, but nobody else.
Just the three of us. Interesting.
Patton floats in, in his Sheriff’s uniform of course, and clears his throat.
“Thanks for coming.” He says, looking at each of us in turn which takes no time at all because there’s just me and Atticus. “We need to talk about Lola.”
“Kevin.” I say, unable to stop the weak book-title joke slipping out of my mouth. Patton glances at me, coughs again, and then focuses his attention on Atticus, probably rethinking my invitation.
“It’s an awful business.” Atticus says, his gaze down towards his lap.
“We need to investigate.” Patton says. “We have a murderer in Mystic Springs and we have to catch them.”
“Won’t they send out a police force from another town?” I ask.
Patton shook his head. “I used to get calls to help out in other towns, and trust me, those requests went to the bottom of my to do list. Or the shredder. Nobody’s got time to pick up another town’s work.”
“But a murder.” Atticus said, stroking his white bristle of a beard. “Surely, that calls for action.”
“Yes, sir. It calls for action by us.”
“What can we do?”
“We can listen.” Patton says. “We can be in the right place, at the right time, and hear something that will solve the case.”
“So you want us to basically spy on people for gossip? I’m in.” I say with a clap of my hands. Patton eyes me.
“This isn’t a game.” He scolds me.
“I know that.” I say, defensive. Although I have no belief in whether a group of ghosts can solve a murder, so it sounds pretty like a game to me.
“Do you have any suspects?”
“At this stage, we need to gather intel.” Patton says. “It’s too soon to be talking suspects.”
“What do you want us to do?” Atticus asks. “And, I’m guessing this is to be kept between us?”
“Absolutely. This is an investigation, it has to remain private. Can you do that?” Patton asks, and it’s me he looks at.
“Of course I can.” I say defensively, although keeping secrets has never been my strong point.
“Atticus, I need you to watch and listen. You know the people, you know how they act and if something’s wrong. I need you to gather info for me.”
“And me too?” I ask. I’m giddy with excitement at the thought of being head hunted for a Sheriff’s investigation, even if the Sheriff is dead.
“Oh no.” Patton says. “I don’t want you to do anything Sage, but I need your sister’s help, and I know she’ll agree if you ask her.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“Connie can interrogate our suspects, when we have them. We can’t do this without a living person.”
“Well, you can ask her yourself.” I say, petulant. Connie always says I’m great at sulking. Let’s see.
“She barely knows me.” Patton says. That’s true. When he was alive, Patton was one of the most vocal in terms of suggesting that Connie’s gift was a hoax, that there was no such thing as ghosts, and that she was basically a charlatan for taking money from vulnerable, grieving people. He’s never quite been able to look her in the eye si
nce he died.
“I’m not going to ask her for you, and then sit out and have nothing to do with this investigation.” I say. There. My cards are laid out on the table. Your move, Sheriff.
He sighs. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to help.” I admit, and then my mind flashes back to the argument, to the slap that Nettie planted across Lola’s face. “And I’m pretty sure I have information you’ll want.”
“She does.” Atticus says with a slow nod of his head, clearly thinking of the same incident.
“Your first job is to convince Connie to be on board. Do that, and then we can talk.” Patton says. His walkie talkie springs into life then, static and then a voice, a call for back up. He switches it off and rolls his eyes. “Damn thing picks up calls from all over the state. Do we have a deal?”
“Sure.” I say. “I’ll speak to my sister.”
“Okay. Let’s meet back here same time tomorrow, with Connie too. If she’s here, you can have some investigative work to do Sage, if she isn’t, there’s no point you coming. Meeting dismissed.”
Patton fades away and Atticus looks across at me.
“He’s a fine Sheriff.”
“I said nothing.” I protest, but Atticus gives me a knowing look.
“He’ll get the job done. And that’s what we need. A murderer on the loose will be awful for business.”
**
Connie is baking, and the kitchen is in a fine mess.
It’s as if she gets the flour and throws it across the room in some strange worship ritual to the Gods of baked goods.
I take a seat at the big oak table and wait for her to notice my presence, something she’s surprisingly bad at for a medium.
Finally, she pours the mixture into a cake tin and places it in the oven, then sets a timer and spins on her heels.
“Sage, for goodness sake, stop creeping up on me.” She says, clutching her hand to her chest.
“Sorry.” I say.
“There’s a murderer in town and I’ve got people sneaking up on me, it’s not good for my health.” She says, collapsing into the chair across from me.
