by Sonya Clark
Whether I had or not didn’t matter. Blake hadn’t gotten over being psycho.
It wasn’t just my own words haunting me. Everything Daniel ever said about Blake, every doubt, every warning, echoed loud and clear in my thoughts. Dangerous. Unbalanced. Stalker.
Shortly before dawn Daniel kissed my cheek and shut off the television. He went to his day-proof room without a word. Talk wasn’t necessary. What could he say? Sorry I was right about your asshole boyfriend?
I made coffee and sat on the porch, letting the morning cold push the exhaustion away. Only it wasn’t very cold, a taste of spring in the air. A row of buttercups by the road swayed in the breeze. The yellow and green ran together as my eyes lost focus staring, seeing other things. Other times. The sound of a car came down the road. I brushed stray tears from my face and took a long drink of coffee.
Ray drove up in his patrol car. I huddled smaller into the fleece jacket I’d thrown on, sure I wouldn’t like what he had to say. More than just the car and the uniform, something about the set of his face tipped me off that this was not a social call.
“We’ll be gone at nightfall,” I said by way of greeting. “Daniel can’t travel during the day.”
Ray stopped short of the first step. “Why are you leaving? Is it because of what I said? Roxie, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s not because of you. I figured after the show I put on last night you were here to either arrest me or tell me to get out of town.”
Sighing, he climbed up the porch and leaned against the railing opposite me. “You didn’t break any laws last night and no one wants you to leave town.”
I raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Yeah, right.”
“I was asked to come here, though. To act as a facilitator.”
“What are you here to facilitate?” I sipped my coffee, wishing I’d put something stronger than milk and sugar in it.
The corners of his mouth twitched. “You ready for this?”
“Just tell me, Ray. I’m in no mood for games.”
He knelt in front of me, examining my face. “Did you sleep last night?”
“No. What’s up? Seriously, I’m not in the mood.” I didn’t want to tell him about Blake. Not yet. Depending on how soon I went back to Nashville, maybe not ever.
“Well, there’s a group of folks. The mayor, some town council members. The city police chief and my boss, the county sheriff. A few business leaders. They want to talk to you.”
“Why?” I couldn’t imagine why people like that would have any interest in me.
“They want to hire you to get rid of Britney’s ghost.”
I stayed silent for a long moment, my brain trying to process what I’d heard. “Is this a joke?”
He grinned. “The mayor and the sheriff asked me to speak to you. This is for real, babe. And I made sure they plan on paying you.”
If it had come from anybody but Ray, I would not have believed it. The town leaders wanted to hire me? It was too crazy to take seriously, but it might have been just crazy enough to be true.
“Damn skippy they’re gonna pay me.” I stood, handing him my half empty coffee cup. “Let me go make myself presentable. What do you think, a Howlin’ Wolf t-shirt or Third Man Records?”
“Wolf.” He drank my coffee. “Always Wolf. No rush, they want to meet you for lunch at Karl’s.”
I stopped at the door. “That place is still open? They still do those great steaks? And the seasoned potato wedges, they still make those?”
“Yes, they do.”
“If they’re buying my lunch too I’m bringing an appetite.”
“Bring it, girl. I’ll make sure they pick up the tab.”
“They really want to hire me?”
Ray rubbed a thumb across his forehead, just below the band of his hat. “Last night scared folks. Some of ‘em are taking this seriously even if the Parkers won’t.”
“They’re gonna be a problem.” I meant the Parkers.
He understood. “Don’t I know it.” He gestured at the door. “Come on. I need another cup while you get ready.”
After a shower I carefully chose an outfit that straddled the line between inappropriate and casual. My Howlin’ Wolf t-shirt over a tight long underwear top, jeans that showed off my rear, and boots that gave me another three inches in badly needed height seemed about right for this meeting. I did a good job with my makeup instead of just slapping it on and managed the best I could with my hair. Then I wrote Daniel a note and rode into town with Ray.
I asked, “Can we use the siren?”
“No.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m a lotta fun.”
“Then why can’t we use the siren?”
“Only if I can use my handcuffs.”
I kept my mouth shut the rest of the way.
Karl’s Fly-In Grill was already teeming with people even though it was early in the lunch rush. Ray greeted several people but never stopped moving, leading me to one of the smaller dining rooms used for meetings and parties. The aviation theme of the restaurant was still the same, the walls covered with large photos of both classic and contemporary aircraft. A few models hung from the ceiling and two topped the ends of the salad bar. Country music played softly over speakers, providing a comfortable foundation of noise for all the varied conversations. I briefly considered keeping my head down but then thought, eh, screw it. So I held my head up high, not caring if people stared daggers or hissed get behind thee Satan or whatever the hell.
I was completely unprepared for that to not happen. Curious looks, a few cautious nods, and one person even said hello and called me by name. I couldn’t connect her face to a name but I was pretty sure we went to high school together.
Ray and I paused at the dining room entrance. No one inside had seen me yet so I took a moment to look the room over. A group of mostly middle-aged people I presumed to be civic leaders stood under a framed panorama of a biplane flying over the Pyramids. The banquet table held drinks and half eaten plates of salad. A few people were seated around it, again none I recognized. The only ones identifiable were the county sheriff and the city police chief and that was just because of their uniforms. It was not by any means an intimidating group but still I hesitated.
Why was I doing this? Daniel and I could be back in Nashville within two hours of sunset, back in our homes and our lives. What the hell was I still doing in Blythe? I had paying customers in Nashville, I didn’t need whatever money these people were offering. I didn’t need the trouble of dealing with the Parker family. If I stayed and kept pushing, they were bound to start pushing back. I didn’t need an angry, out of control ghost making my life difficult.
The echo of those two heartbeats told me why I stayed. With a weary sigh I stepped into the room. Ray followed, calling out to one of the men talking under the photo. A large florid man with a friendly face and gray hair reminiscent of Charlie Rich in his silver fox days approached.
“Bubba would be proud.”
Ray said, “Of what?”
I must have spoken aloud. “Guy looks like Charlie Rich. That’s Daniel’s kind of country music.”
A half-smile played at Ray’s lips. “Watch yourself there. I bet Alan would love to sing Behind Closed Doors for you.”
“Oh God.”
Alan descended on us in a flurry of handshakes and back slaps and greetings in a loud booming voice. Ray made the introductions. “Roxie, this is Mayor Alan Carver.”
Carver took over from there, trapping both my hands in his. “Roxie, thank you for coming. Can’t tell you how much we appreciate this. Can’t tell you. It means so much that a proud daughter of Blythe would return home in the town’s hour of need. We’re proud to have you here with us. And thankful. So thankful.”
The speech seemed to be less for my benefit and more for the crowd hanging on his every word. Most still looked dubious, a few were shooting me glances of outright hostility. I pasted on a smile meant to both annoy the ho
stile and cover my own disbelief at this turn of events. “Thank you for the invitation to lunch, Mayor.”
He put a meaty hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “Call me Alan, honey. Call me Alan.” He steered me to the banquet table and an empty spot next to his seat. Ray was left to sit between the other two uniforms, giving me an apologetic look as he took his seat. I winked, letting him know I was fine.
Alan pointed at one of the others, then jerked his thumb at the entrance. To me he said, “Now you order whatever you want, darlin’. Karl’s still has the best steaks in town.”
“I remember. Those seasoned potato wedges are something I’ve missed.”
“And the homemade banana pudding! I swear I gain five pounds every time I eat here.”
It wasn’t the devil that made me do what I did next but rather the contemptuous sneer on the helmet-haired overly made-up bitch two seats over who had that former beauty queen but still trying too hard in her fifties look all over her. I leaned over and said in a mock whisper, “I always thought a healthy appetite in a man led to more to love.”
Alan broke into a delighted grin. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ray practically turning purple from the strain of keeping his laughter in check.
The arrival of a waitress kept Alan from responding. She clearly knew everyone present but me, chatting freely as she took orders. When it was my turn she greeted me warmly and suggested the day’s special, grilled chicken. I went for steak instead, and those potato wedges and fried okra. My God, the fried okra. It was worth taking this meeting just for the meal. I could not freaking wait for my food.
During the wait Alan made further introductions. I didn’t bother to remember everyone’s name and position. Instead I watched the interplay, looking for who had real power and who was just a hanger-on. Alan Carver had it, despite the good old boy persona. His blue gray eyes had a gleam of steel. Under every joke and flirtatious remark that was clearly as meant for the audience as mine was, there was another layer, the forcefulness of a man who intended to get his way. He wasn’t here just to convince me to take this job. He was here to convince the others I was necessary.
There was one other person who caught my attention. Another perfectly put together lady in her forties, but this one wore it with genuine grace rather than a sheen of desperation like the one who sneered at me. Quiet, lovely in an unassuming way with the kind of gorgeous long hair many older women in small towns would have long since cut into what they considered an age appropriate bob, she wore a tasteful brick red dress and understated gold jewelry. She spoke little but missed nothing, constantly scanning the room with an impressive efficiency.
I cut through the swarm of conversation to speak directly to her. “I’m sorry, what was your name again? There’s so many folks here, I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Harriet Collins,” she said. Her smile didn’t meet her eyes as she flicked her gaze from me to Ray and back quickly.
“And what do you do, Ms. Collins?”
“I own The Java House. It’s a coffee shop on the square. Currently I’m serving as president of the Blythe Business Leaders Association.”
I recalled that was the organization that put on the Catfish Cavalcade every year. All of a sudden, it all became clear. Ms. Collins was unconvinced but Mayor Carver must have had all those tourist dollars in mind. I nodded, feeling better at understanding the situation a little more. “I’ll have to stop by the place and have some coffee.” I looked at Ray. “You’ll have to take me there later.”
The devil didn’t make me do that, either. No, that was my inner bitch, looking to lash out a little. I hadn’t missed the possessiveness in Harriet’s glance at Ray. Nor did I miss him studiously ignoring her. Just to stick the knife in deeper I said, “Do you serve pie at the Java House?”
“Several kinds.”
A parade of waitresses brought all the food, it taking several minutes to get everyone the correct plate. I let my attention drift as conversation flowed around me. The talk was about anything but what we were here for. Maybe they were saving it for dessert. Harriet Collins never relaxed, watching the proceedings as carefully and unobtrusively as I did.
Plates cleared away, coffee brought to fight the post-meal lethargy, and conversation finally winding down, Alan nodded at one of the men seated closest to the room’s entrance. The man stood and set about pulling the accordion doors closed. Good. I was bored and ready to get down to business.
Silence fell. Alan looked over the group, making sure he had everyone’s attention. “Roxanne, I believe you know why we asked you here today.”
“I’d like you to spell it out, just so we’re clear,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”
The mayor exchanged a look with Ray as he exhaled a pained sigh. “It seems we have ourselves a little problem here in Blythe.”
“The first step to dealing with a problem is admitting it exists. Calling it by name.” I meant no challenge to Alan and I tried to make that clear in my tone, but I had no use for polite euphemisms.
“Britney Parker.” Alan maintained eye contact, earning my respect. “Her ghost. She’s haunting this town, and we need you to, to…”
“Do whatever it is you do.” Snide Helmet Hair took over when the mayor faltered. “Make this stop.”
I regarded her for a moment before dismissing her, meeting the mayor’s eyes again. “There’s only one way to do that.”
A savvy man, Alan Carver could tell he wasn’t going to like my answer but he asked anyway, earning more respect from me. With a pained look on his face he said, “What’s that?”
“Solve her murder.”
Funnily enough, everybody started talking at once.
Chapter 29
Mayor Carver banged on the table, yelling for quiet. Once the crowd settled he addressed me. “That’s a hefty accusation there, hon. Real serious.” He wiped his brow with a paper napkin. “Real darn serious. Marty Holt declared her death an accidental drowning.”
“And then bought himself a new houseboat not too long afterward,” I said.
Helmet Hair snapped, “That hardly means anything.”
“What’s your name again?”
She raised her chin imperiously. “Marjorie Hickfield. I’m on the town council and my husband plays golf on a regular basis with Dr. Holt.”
“Bully for your husband.” I took my phone out and texted Ray. You going to tell or do I keep you out of it?
With his phone chirping as soon as I put mine down it wasn’t exactly subtle but I didn’t care. He could either tell or not. He read the message and cleared his throat.
Marjorie Hickfield wasn’t through dripping her contempt all over the table. “Alan, I must protest this nonsense. This woman is at best a charlatan, a con artist who takes advantage of vulnerable people. At worst.” She stopped.
Then I remembered her. Oh yes, I remembered her quite well all of a sudden. Her last name had been something else back then, possibly Johnson or Jones or something similar. She must have been on a newer husband. When my friend Jody was terrified to death by Haschall’s ghost and every law enforcement in the county except for Ray was trying to hound me and my friends into a confession that could be used to send all or some of us to prison for murder, Marjorie Whatever wrote regular letters to the editor about us. She called us evil, devil worshippers, the product of heavy metal and video games and godlessness and everything else she could think of. My personal favorite was her diatribe against witches in popular culture, especially the part about how Samantha from Bewitched turned an entire generation of women into feminist Pagans, helping to destroy the nuclear family and I couldn’t remember exactly. Encourage dogs and cats to live together, maybe.
“What am I at worst? Do tell.”
Seething with disgust and poorly disguised fear, she spat, “Unnatural.”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Marj, than are dreamt of in your little brain. Everything about what I do, what I am, is from Nature.”
It was hard to tell what incensed her more, my contemptuous attitude or calling her Marj. She sputtered with rage and for a moment I thought, hoped, she was might lose her temper completely and start cussing.
Ray spoke up. “Britney told me she was murdered.” All eyes turned to him, except for Marjorie who was still busy staring daggers at me. I ignored her as Ray continued. “That’s why I asked Roxie to come back. I had no proof and the hauntings were getting worse. I figured if Roxie could help me solve Britney’s murder, it would allow her spirit to rest.”
Harriet bowed her head for a moment. Alan put a hand to his chest. He said, “What do you mean, she told you?”
Ray told his story succinctly, appearing to want it over with. The things he’d revealed to me about how it affected him emotionally, he left out. I couldn’t blame him. When he was done one of the men said, “That still doesn’t prove anything. How do you argue with a coroner’s report?”
Another said, “A ghost can’t make a statement to the police. Or be called to the witness stand.”
I’d been trying to decide how much of our investigation to reveal. “Britney doesn’t know who killed her. But she was pregnant at the time of her death.”
A collective gasp circled the room. Marjorie said, “You can’t know that. You’re making it up to sensationalize this sordid business even more than it already is.”
Alan said, “How do you know these things? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I held a séance to try to communicate with Britney. She confirmed the pregnancy and she told me she doesn’t know who killed her. I can also tell you she was planning to leave town.”
“A séance? You held a séance?” Alan drained his tea glass.
Marjorie said, “This is completely--”
“That’s enough,” Alan said, quiet but forceful. “Okay. Okay.” He worked to collect himself. “What do you need to do your job?”
