by Morgan Brice
“That developer, Camden. He’s a real piece of work,” Vic said, setting out the take-out containers and pouring drinks for both of them. “When did he get there?”
“Trevor called him right after he called the police. He’d only just arrived.”
“But he managed to get there first. Do you think he could have had anything to do with it?”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “Jonah? He’s not that hands-on. And I can’t quite imagine him taking out a hit on the gardener.”
“The guy was a real asshole,” Vic said as he sat down at the table. “He’s probably made a ton of professional enemies. Do you think someone might be willing to kill in order to tank the project? I mean, Camden’s company would lose a bundle if the house renovation fell through or it didn’t sell.”
Simon considered the theory as he loaded up his plate with Pad Thai and grabbed a couple of spring rolls. Vic had a plate full of curry chicken, and they split a container of Tom Yum soup. Hot green tea warmed Vic and soothed his nerves.
“Yes, the development company would lose money and get bad publicity, but Platz isn’t the guy to kill to make that happen. Trevor’s the lynchpin—he’s the one coordinating all the work, managing the budget, dealing with the vendors. That’s what’s got me puzzled. I can’t figure out what anyone stood to gain—or was afraid of losing.”
Vic knew he would have to talk to Simon at some point about the suicide files he and Ross had gone through today, but right now he felt tired and raw, and very ready to leave work at the office.
“What kind of emergency plans are being talked about for the storm?” Simon asked, finishing his soup.
Vic shrugged. “Not the full hurricane evac but definitely thinking about trying to get people out of the areas prone to the worst flooding.” He raised an eyebrow. “Which includes the boardwalk.”
Simon groaned. “I know. I’ve got empty sandbags Pete and I can fill and put around the doors if this storm stays on course. It might veer off. Storms wobble.”
“If it’s as bad as some of the forecasters think, I’m probably going to get pulled into emergency duty,” Vic warned. “Like back in September, with the hurricane. I’m worried about you being at the shop—or here. We’re still pretty close to the ocean.”
“Figured we’d sandbag the bungalow, too. We were fine with the hurricane. This place has weathered a lot of storms. Gotta give the house credit. Same with the shop. It’ll be okay.”
“I wish I could get you to go inland, just until it blows over.”
Simon leveled a glare. “And go where? I’m not going to visit my folks, that’s for damn sure. If the storm’s that bad, every hotel north to Columbia and south to Charleston will be filled. I’ll do what I did during the hurricane—help out at the crisis shelter.”
“I just want to keep you safe.” Vic knew he was overreacting. Simon had lived through plenty of hurricanes before they got together. But Vic was Pittsburgh-raised, and ocean storms were still new and strange to him. After the scare at the manor, Vic felt off his game.
“And how do you think I feel?” Simon snapped. “I’ll either be here or helping at the shelter. Inside. Safe. You and Ross will be out in the weather, dealing with crazy drivers and truck pile-ups and people getting stuck in flooding. If one of us is going to freak out about safety, I kinda think it should be me.”
“I’m not freaking out,” Vic muttered.
Simon reached across to take his hand. Vic fought the petty instinct to jerk back, but he still didn’t meet Simon’s gaze. “Bad word choice. Sorry. But…if I can deal with you being out in the thick of it, I think you can come to terms with me being inside a concrete shelter.”
“Maybe.” Vic sulked. Jeez, all he wanted to do was keep Simon from getting hurt. He knew he was being a jerk, but he’d kept a hospital vigil for Simon once already, and that was the worst day of his life.
“Hey.” Simon squeezed his hand. “We’ll be okay. Goes with the territory—for both of us, right?”
Vic let out a long breath and nodded, trying to shake off his mood. “I’m sorry.” He managed a wan smile. “This,” he gestured between them, “is still an adjustment.” His ex had been a cop, and worrying about each other wasn’t part of the deal. Everything was different now, reminding Vic that his relationship with Simon wasn’t like anything he’d had with anyone else before.
“For both of us,” Simon replied. “But thanks for worrying about me.”
“Always,” Vic said. He got up and cleared the table, trying to shift the mood. “C’mon. There are a couple of new movies streaming.” He gave Simon a wicked grin. “How about Netflix and chill?”
5
SIMON
“I hear there are a lot of cancellations,” Jay Gutierrez said. Jay owned Boardwalk Ink, a tattoo shop just down from Grand Strand Ghost Tours, and he and Simon had become friends as well as neighboring shop owners.
“Someone told me that the hotels were looking at a twenty-five percent cancellation rate, and we’re still a couple of days out,” Tracey replied. The fact that she could take a few minutes away from the counter during the early morning rush said volumes about how slow things had gotten as Myrtle Beach hunkered down for the storm.
“We’ve had to cancel a couple of ghost tours because there just aren’t enough people around to sign up,” Simon added, taking a sip of his latte.
“Do you think it’ll really be as bad as they’re saying?” Jay leaned against the counter. On busy days, the line could be out the door, but right now, only two people waited for Tracey to pull their drinks.
“I’m a psychic, not a meteorologist,” Simon joked. “I get that the officials want to err on the side of caution so people don’t get hurt. But I feel bad for the people who cancel their vacations, and then the whole thing blows over.”
Tracey shrugged. “I feel bad for the rest of us, who still have to pay rent when nobody’s on the boardwalk. This year’s been the worst for storms since I’ve been here.”
“Blame it on climate change,” Jay muttered. “On the other hand, the divers that were in my shop last night said that the rough water is churning up all kinds of stuff from the old wrecks out there.”
“Anything new about the Annabelle?” Simon asked. “One of your diver friends dropped by to see me, hoping I could get an impression off anything he brought up.”
“Did he give you anything to ghost-read?” Jay asked, and Tracey paused, intrigued.
Simon shook his head. “Not yet. I have to admit, I’m interested. But I sure wouldn’t want to be diving in the surf we’ve had.” The waves were higher and rougher than usual, with a dangerous undertow. Anyone crazy enough to dive under those conditions needed to be a real pro.
“These guys struck me as the diving equivalent of those storm chasers who drive around looking for tornadoes.” Jay tipped up his cup and drank the rest of his coffee, finishing with a satisfied sigh. “Hit me again,” he said to Tracey, holding out his cup.
“Clearly, you’ve mistaken me for the bartender at Dock’s,” she said, naming a popular boardwalk bar. She tossed out his used cup and poured him a fresh coffee, accepting the bills he passed to her in exchange.
“You brew good stuff,” he said with a grin. “Keeps the blood pumping.”
“So did you guys decide what you’re doing if the storm rolls in big?” Simon asked, thinking about his near-argument with Vic from the night before.
“Shayna and I are going up to her mom’s place in Conway,” Tracey said. “We’re due for a visit anyhow.”
“I’m staying,” Jay declared. “If my place didn’t flood too badly during the hurricane, it’ll be fine for this. How about you?”
Simon shrugged. “Figured I’d help at the shelter. Vic has to stay, so I’m staying, too.”
Tracey gave him a look, and he knew she was reading between the lines. “He wants you to get the hell out of Dodge, doesn’t he?”
Simon looked away. “Yeah. Maybe.”
She
and Jay chuckled. “That is so adorable!” Tracey said. “Don’t be mad at him, Simon. He’s a cop. Cops protect. They’re like German Shepherds, guarding the pack. I think it’s sweet that he’s looking out for you. Admit it—you don’t really mind.”
“Yes and no,” Simon replied. “I can take care of myself. And he’s going to be out on emergency duty, so between the two of us, I’m the one who should be worried about him.”
“And he’s not used to that,” Tracey filled in.
“Family of cops, you know? Nobody admits to worrying about anything,” Simon muttered.
Tracey reached across to pat Simon on the arm. “You’ll adjust. Both of you. Having someone want to protect you is a good thing. Don’t let all that testosterone get in the way.”
Simon tried to take Tracey’s advice to heart as he headed back to the shop. He was early, and Pete wasn’t due in until closer to noon, since the lack of tourists made for slow days. Simon got set up, then pulled out his phone and left messages for both Miss Eppie and Gabriella, letting them know he needed to meet with them. He’d missed two phone calls from hunters—people who chased down supernatural creatures. Given Simon’s background with folklore and mythology, he’d become a go-to resource for the hunting community whose questions were often far too detailed to get answered on Google.
Once he had returned those calls, he started down the list of people he thought of as his “Skeleton Crew”—those with low-level psychic gifts that Simon had gathered into a loosely-knit group who traded information and looked out for each other. Many were otherwise on their own since their gifts made them unwelcome in some circles.
“Yeah, it’s Simon,” he said when Michelle—a telepath who worked for a swanky hotel answered. “Just making sure you’ve got somewhere to go if the storm gets bad.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a mother hen?” she asked, but Simon heard fondness beneath the snark.
“I might have been accused of that a time or two,” Simon admitted, thinking of Vic. But when it came to his Crew, he knew that most of them had very few people to check on them, and he had promised himself that in exchange for asking them to use their Gifts to help solve cases, he intended to give back as much as he could. “Just want to make sure everyone’s safe.”
“I’ve got to work,” Michelle replied. “But if it gets bad, they’ll let us stay in the hotel. Since the place didn’t collapse in the last hurricane, I figure I’ll be okay.”
“Good,” he replied. “Hey, have you picked up anything weird lately, you know?” Michelle would understand without him having to say it that he meant through her telepathy.
“Had one of my regular customers end up on the news for all the wrong reasons, if that’s what you mean,” she replied. “Roger. Nice guy, even if he was a little dweeby. I didn’t figure him to end up dead in a hotel room.”
“The last time you saw him, how long ago was it?”
“That’s the thing,” Michelle replied. “I’d just seen him earlier that evening, and I swear to God, he wasn’t broadcasting anything about hurting himself. Some guys, they’re just radiating gloom, and you know they’re in trouble. Roger didn’t seem any different than usual. And I know they say people who are gonna do it hide it, but they don’t hide it from a person like me.”
“Thanks,” Simon told her. “That’s exactly what I needed to know. If you do pick up on anything weird, call me.”
“You’re the first person I think of when I think of ‘weird,’” Michelle said with a snicker. “Take care of yourself, Simon. Don’t be a stranger.”
Simon put down the phone when he heard someone knocking on the glass. He went to the door and saw Rennie, another one of his Crew, standing outside. I wasn’t even sure she knew where the shop was. This is a first.
He opened the door and waved her in. “Do you want coffee?” Despite the puffy faux fur coat and thigh-high boots, Rennie looked cold. She nodded, and Simon went to fix a cup, then brought it out.
“I need your help.”
Simon took another look at Rennie and realized that she looked exhausted. Even her flawless, dramatic make-up wasn’t quite up to par. “What’s going on?” he asked, worried.
“I’ve got a stalker.”
“One of your clients?” Rennie usually worked the corners by the nightclubs and mid-level bars, offering companionship to tourists looking for a good time. She was also the only other medium in Myrtle Beach, and her gift had taken a toll on her. Simon was used to Rennie’s fierce independence and sharp sarcasm. Seeing her scared—and admitting she needed help—worried him.
Rennie shook her head, and patted her pockets, like she was looking for a cigarette, then realized she was indoors and gave up with a sigh. “No. A ghost. I think he might have been a sailor. Keeps saying ‘Annabelle is coming back’ and he won’t fucking go away!”
Simon frowned. “Could he have been a pirate?”
Rennie gave Simon an incredulous look. “A pirate?” She thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Is he threatening you, or could he be passing along a warning?”
Rennie wrapped her arms around herself. Simon noticed she’d bitten her nails to the quick. “He just keeps saying that, and he won’t go away. I thought he was trying to scare me, but maybe…I’m the only person he’s met who can hear him.” She grimaced. “Why the fuck couldn’t he have found you instead?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Simon replied with a lopsided grin. “Can you describe him?”
“Straggly kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen, dirty long hair, plain shirt, and baggy, old-fashioned pants. Looked like he’d missed a few meals, and his teeth were bad—I remember that.”
“Okay, the next time he shows up, send him to me,” Simon said. He dug into the case beneath the counter and came up with a smooth onyx disk, a chunk of agate, and a gris-gris bag. “Take these,” he said, pushing the items into Rennie’s hands. “They’ll make him keep his distance, and think twice if he tries to hurt you.”
“I’m low on cash,” she said, moving to put the items back on the counter. “I can’t pay you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s a gift,” he said. “Do you have somewhere safe to ride out the storm that’s coming?”
Rennie shrugged and looked away. “I’ll find something. I always do.”
“I’m going to be down at the storm shelter, helping out,” Simon told her. “If you need a place to go.”
She snorted. “I’m sure they’d be happy to see me.”
“I’d be happy to see you, and I’ll make sure it’s okay,” Simon promised. “Deal?”
She looked away and huffed out a breath. Simon could tell she didn’t like accepting help. “Yeah. Sure. But it’s not going to be that bad.”
“Just in case,” Simon said.
“Remember—I’m sending sailor boy your way the next time I see him,” Rennie replied, stuffing the charms into her pockets and heading for the door. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She bumped shoulders with Pete on her way out.
“Something going on?” he asked, as he walked past the front counter to the break room to put his lunch in the fridge.
“Just more ghosts acting up,” Simon said and sighed. His coffee was cold, but he finished the rest anyhow and chucked the cup in the trash. “There’s a fresh pot already made.”
“Thank God. For the sunny south, it’s damn cold out there,” Pete replied, leaving his jacket in the back room, keeping his sweatshirt on.
“Heard any more about the storm?”
Pete ambled back to the front with a steaming cup of coffee. “Yeah. We’re all gonna die. It’s not gonna happen. It’s just rain. Take your pick.”
Simon rolled his eyes. “And they say psychics aren’t reliable.”
“You planning to be at the shelter when the hammer falls?”
“Yeah. Vic has to work, and I’m not leaving without him. Besides—we rode out the last hurricane. This is just a winter storm.”
&nb
sp; “I might come help, if that’s okay.” Pete began straightening up merchandise and looking for what needed to be restocked.
Simon dusted the saint’s candles on the shelves behind the counter and wiped off the glass front of the case that held the small charms and amulets.
“The more, the merrier,” Simon told him. “It’s sort of fun—like a slumber party you throw for the whole city.” There was more to it, of course, and people were worried about their homes, friends, and livelihoods, but Simon had always been amazed at how most folks bucked up under pressure and pulled together to make the best of it.
“Sounds like a plan.” Pete went to the stock room and returned with an arm full of t-shirts and books. “Meant to ask—what happened at the manor? I saw on TV some guy got killed?”
Simon filled him in, without giving away anything that the police had requested not be disclosed. Pete let out a low whistle when Simon finished.
“Day-um. As if a malicious ghost wasn’t bad enough.”
“Yeah, well. The murder is Vic’s job. I don’t see a connection to the haunting, and I’m going to keep my focus on cleansing the mansion.”
His phone chirped, and Simon saw an incoming call from Miss Eppie.
“Sebastian.” Ephigenia Walker was the only person who called Simon by his given name. “I was wondering when you’d get around to calling me.”
“You were? Why?” Even though Simon had initiated the contact, her greeting flummoxed him.
“Because you’re in the thick of it again, aren’t you? Dead men and bad ghosts. You shouldn’t have waited so long.”
Simon felt like a kid called to the principal’s office. Miss Eppie was at least seventy years old, and she didn’t mince words. “It took me this long to put some of the pieces together and know what I’m dealing with.”
