Hush My Mouth

by Cathy Pickens

  “That’s the way it works for most people,” said Trini. “They’ll ask a question and it’s like the universe speaks back.”

  “Or, more precisely, the accumulated energy of an intense event, imprinted on the area, speaks back,” said Colin. “One researcher suggested that these events may be recorded on iron found in the area of an event, like the ferric oxide used on tape recordings. Of course, it has to have been magnetized in some way.”

  “Replaying like a video on a loop,” said Quint.

  I wondered if the universe always sounded as though it needed a throat lozenge, or if the cosmic video had replayed so often, the tape was worn. I didn’t speak my random inquiries out loud to the universe.

  “Is this EMF detector the same thing used to check for electrical interference around electronic equipment?” Melvin asked.

  “Yeah,” said Colin. “Most standard equipment in our field has been adapted from other uses.”

  “We want to go back and try to re-create the video the two guys made there, capture the light on film for ourselves. They said certain nights around the gibbous moon worked best, so we’ll have to postpone that inquiry.”

  “But we’re very excited,” said Trini.

  “There have also been sightings of a headless guy walking the tracks in that area,” Quint said. “Getting that on film would be bigger than that Bigfoot video.”

  Melvin bowed his head, and I knew he was biting his lip. Melvin knew there was no point in arguing with a true believer.

  “So what’s next?” I asked, drawing attention away from Melvin before he gave himself away.

  Quint rocked forward on his knees, turning the laptop toward him to power it down. “We’re going to the Freed house tonight. Down from the Baptist Church?”

  “Night is supposed to be the best time there. Really the only time to capture orbs.”

  “We haven’t been able to get permission to go inside,” said Trini, “even though it’s abandoned now.”

  “There are reports of a full manifestation there.”

  “On the stairs,” said Trini. “A weeping woman.”

  I’d weep too if I had to spend eternity dodging the ectoplasmic version of celebrity paparazzi.

  “The orb activity outside is supposed to be incredible,” said Trini.

  “So we’re going to check that out after dark.”

  “Incredible,” said Melvin with no trace of a grin. He stood as Quint packed his computer. “Thanks for sharing your latest find.”

  He ushered them out the door like a gracious host and rejoined me in our mutual entry hall, shaking his head.

  “Why’re you egging them on?” I asked. “You’re not really thinking about investing, are you?”

  “Of course not. And how am I egging them on? They stop by, I watch their show, and I’m polite.” His mild indignation covered his mischievous grin.

  “You’re not the only nine-year-old boy in town having one over on them.”

  Melvin couldn’t contain it any longer. He laughed. “I half expected the next answer to be, Where’s my head? What have you done with my head? Boo! Just like those old campfire stores.”

  “Melvin, it isn’t funny.” But I was grinning. “Okay, it is funny.”

  “EMF detectors.” He snorted. “Why didn’t it dawn on them it might be picking up a wireless microphone somebody put on the tracks?”

  I stared at him, almost embarrassed for the ghosters. “You think that’s what it was?”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Somebody could get hurt, them wandering around all over the place in the middle of the night.”

  “Not as long as they have sense enough to get off the railroad tracks when a train comes.”

  I gave him a chiding frown, a weak imitation borrowed from my mother and Aunt Aletha.

  “Admittedly, there’s every indication they wouldn’t have sense enough to come in out of a shower of ectoplasm, but it’s harmless. They’re having a good time. Heck, considering what’s on television these days, they’ll very likely sell at least an episode. What’s the harm?”

  “It’s all fun right up until somebody gets hurt.” I did sound like my great-aunt Letha.

  Melvin just shook his head. Something about his grin and his sense of mischief hinted that, indeed, a nine-year-old boy was locked inside this responsible, buttoned-down adult.

  As soon as I came through the French doors into Shamanique’s office, she said, “Aunt Edna called to give you an update. She’s surveilling Mr. Mart’s house. She thinks she has it figured out.”

  “Did she just call? Can you get her on the phone for me?”

  “Nope.” Her earrings rocked to emphasize her headshake. “Said she’d be away from the phone all afternoon. You want to leave her a message?”

  “No. She didn’t give any details?”

  “Nope.”

  “Darn.” I was thrilled she’d found something to help Tolly Mart, and I wanted details. At the same time I was suddenly worried. Did Edna know enough about wiretap laws and surveillance not to cross a line into trespass or breach of the peace? I knew Edna was a professional, but lawyers have been held liable when investigators crossed that line. I needed to talk to Edna, without sounding as though I doubted her skills, which wouldn’t be easy, given how prickly she can be. On the other hand, she’d been at this awhile. Maybe I needed to relax.

  “Thanks,” I said and strolled into my office. No e-mails, no phone calls. Nothing else to do on Tolly Mart’s case until I talked to Edna.

  Best to turn my anxiety into something productive. I needed to change the wax rings on the toilets, and I’d come to the end of a long line of excuses.

  I passed Shamanique’s desk. “I’m going to be working on the toilet down the hall. Repairing it,” I explained when she shot me one of her quizzical looks.

  Upstairs, I changed clothes, got my tool belt and cleaning supplies from one of the pantries downstairs, and set to work. First I cleaned the floor and the toilet thoroughly, then unscrewed the ancient bolts that held it in place and called for Shamanique.

  Months earlier, when working on the cabin’s toilet, I’d discovered that how-to manuals often omit key pieces of information. Experienced do-it-yourselfers know that once the nuts were unscrewed and the toilet bowl loosened, you need to secure the bolts or they wind up under the house, often in an inaccessible place. Novices—the kind who resort to reading how-to books—really need that kind of information.

  Fortunately, I was officially experienced—after commando-crawling through the spiderwebs under the lake cabin in search of lost bolts.

  Shamanique wordlessly joined me under the stairs, serving as plumber’s assistant by holding the bolts in place until I could secure them with masking tape. Before she returned to her desk, she studied me with a look that clearly asked why I didn’t hire this done.

  I slipped a wrench in the pocket of my overalls, unwrapped the slimy, sticky wax ring, and wondered who’d forgo this sense of accomplishment by calling a plumber?

  As I worked, I mused over the Mart case and the simple will that had wandered in last week and the court appointments that usually resulted in simple plea agreements. I was generating some cash flow, but what kind of lawyer life was this? Had I collected all my trial experiences and honed my skills in complex cases just so I could come back here and pick up cases the other attorneys didn’t want to fool with and be berated by a stick-up-his-butt Family Court judge? Thinking about the berating from Judge Lane made me wince. I flushed the toilet. At least I had something to show for today’s work.

  I hung up my tool belt. Shamanique had gone home at five. Through the leaded glass windows in and surrounding the front door, I could see that dusk had started to settle in. It would be dark soon. June days were long, but never long enough.

  Dark. Damn, I’d been fretting over the wrong thing.

  A shot of adrenaline pushed me to the front door just as Melvin came out of his office.

&nbs
p; “Fixed the toilet,” I said as I swung open the heavy door.

  “Great,” Melvin said, eyeing my orange T-shirt, denim farmer’s overalls, and scuffed tennis shoes. “Where’re you headed now?”

  “For a walk. Got to check something out.”

  “Mind if I come? Been inside too long today.”

  “Um, sure.” I made a hurry-up gesture. “Our ghoster friends might be in a spot of trouble.”

  It wasn’t dark yet. Maybe we could head them off.

  I picked the route. It was only a few blocks, and arriving on foot seemed like the least intrusive plan. We crossed Main Street and turned left without a question from Melvin. He didn’t even complain when, two downhill blocks later, we passed the Feed and Seed and started up one of the steepest hills in town.

  The occasional car whizzed past. I tried to disguise my shortness of breath from Melvin but couldn’t hide it from myself. The setting sun didn’t pull the temperature down, and the humidity wrapped around my face and bare arms like a warm, damp blanket. I needed to get back to walking every day, even when muggy weather sapped my resolve.

  A horn honked, the sound racing toward and away from us as it passed. Melvin threw up a wave without even glancing to see who it was. Not much point, given that it was dusk. Even with a thirty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, the cars were moving too quickly, especially those headed down the hill and back up toward town.

  As we neared the crest where the street narrowed to two lanes heading out of town, the shrubs alongside the sidewalk opened onto the front lawn of the Baptist Church.

  We crossed the street just past the church. I hoped I was mistaken about the address of the tourist home.

  As it turned out, my premonition about an impending breach of the peace became audibly real as soon as we turned the corner.

  We had the residential side street to ourselves, but angry voices announced that we weren’t alone.

  As we stood on the deserted sidewalk, I thought of calling out a question and seeing who answered, but neither Melvin nor I had brought an Electromagnetic Field Detector or digital recorder to pinpoint the disturbance. I stifled a nervous giggle. This really wasn’t a laughing matter. If the altercation was what I feared, I could end up in front of Judge Lane in big trouble.

  Melvin glanced down at me. We drew even with the end of a driveway shared by two houses. The picture came into focus for both of us.

  On the right of the drive stood an elegant French mansard two-story. On the left stood a rambling three-story with peeling lapped wood siding. Knee-high wrought iron fencing leaned higgledy-piggledy around the weedy yard and overgrown nandinas.

  In the middle of the drive, battle raged. One-sided, to be sure, with every indication that the weaker side had resigned itself to defeat.

  The players were familiar, the relative positions predictable. I should have foreseen this. Somewhere in my brain, I’d subconsciously put together the proximity of the old Freed house and Mr. Mart’s tourist home, prompting my not-so-mysterious premonition. If only I’d put it together sooner or walked up the hill a little faster.

  Melvin’s three ghosters huddled together, elbow to elbow, the backs of their knees pressed against the Freed house’s short iron fence. Before them, her hands on her hips, Edna faced them down.

  The ghosters’ anxious gazes darted, one after another, in our direction. Trini’s tense expression melted with relief.

  Edna spun around. “You know these three?” she barked. “Maybe you can tell me whether they are liars or just stark staring lunatics.”

  The three stood frozen, offering no defense or explanation.

  “Caught them skulking around taking all manner of photos of this house here. Claim they know you.”

  The disbelieving accusation in her voice rang so harsh it almost forced me to deny any knowledge of the ghosters.

  Melvin stepped up in their defense. “Yes, ma’am. We can vouch for them. They’re conducting research for a possible film project.”

  Edna’s right eyebrow shot up. “Somebody”—she glared at me, then at the ghosters—“needs to be telling them about trespassing and interfering in other people’s work.”

  She turned back to Melvin and me. “I’m setting up equipment and testing. Whatever it is they’re doing, it’s interfering with my equipment.”

  She gave an exasperated sigh and asked Melvin, “Can you take them somewhere else?” She sounded like a mother begging a neighbor to take her pesky kids off her hands for a while. Something about Melvin had an unexpected calming effect on her. “I can’t be out here on the sidewalk arguing. I got work to do.”

  Melvin looked from Edna to the ghosters, who still huddled together. Quint shifted the strap on his bulging messenger bag higher on his shoulder, and Trini hugged her backpack to her chest. All three eased around Edna to join with Melvin’s protective aura.

  “Sorry,” said Trini.

  “Yeah,” said Quint.

  Edna gave one curt nod of acknowledgment and a shooing motion as Melvin led them over to the sidewalk.

  Edna rounded on me. In a hoarse whisper, she said, “If you want to keep your client out of jail, you better clear out. No telling, it might already be ruined.”

  “This is Mr. Mart’s residence,” I said.

  “Yeah. His wife’s not here right now, but she will be. I don’t need the neighbors across the street calling cops and reporting trouble.”

  “Edna, I have to ask. It could be my head on the judge’s chopping block. You know not to trespass on her property.”

  “Not her property, is it?” Her voice was angry. “Her name’s not on the deed. Got his permission, the owner’s permission, and Miz Freed’s permission.” She nodded toward the peeling white house beside us. “That’s all I need.”

  “Where—I thought Mrs. Freed was—” Dead seemed a harsh thing to say, standing there beside her house.

  “She’s in the Lenny Dell Annex. My aunt used to take care of her.”

  A local nursing home. “Oh,” I said.

  Edna’s pursed lips and her cocked head telegraphed clearly the challenge she wasn’t going to throw down: You didn’t think I knew my job, did you? I felt the need to explain.

  “I learned the ghos—the kids were coming to the Freed house tonight. I didn’t make the connection with the tourist home until a few minutes ago.”

  Why did I feel so inadequate and out-of-step around Edna? Was it some leftover childhood memory of May Ellen, who’d helped care for me when I was a baby, who’d loved me like I was one of her own? As the stories went, May Ellen also didn’t mind popping a red mark on my chubby toddler leg. Was that what I remembered around Edna? A sense of high standards, of demands I wasn’t quite achieving?

  Or was it something else? The challenge Edna exuded couldn’t be all residual or imagined. Did Edna have her own reasons for having to prove herself? What was the chip on her shoulder?

  Whatever the explanation, it was time for me to back away and let her do her job.

  “Thanks, Edna. I’m so sorry about the—interference. I’d hoped we could get here before . . .”

  She spun on her heel and melted into the gloom at the far end of the driveway.

  Friday Morning

  The next morning, Shamanique was her usual punctual self. When I heard her come in, I rushed to dress in my usual office uniform—khakis and a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Doesn’t set a good example for the boss to wander downstairs late to work in the ratty Clemson T-shirt she’d slept in.

  I stuck my head around the door. “Want some toast?”

  She shook her head, the new braids and beads in her hair dancing happily. “Maybe some tea.” She pushed her chair back and joined me on the short trek to the kitchen.

  From the cupboard, Shamanique got the green tea bags she’d brought, disdaining my English Breakfast tea and other well-caffeinated varieties.

  “So,” she said, getting her kitten-and-flowers mug from the dish drainer. “Hear yo
u had a hot date last night.”

  Her voice had a singsong tell-me-more note.

  “Huh?” She’d obviously talked to her aunt Edna.

  She raised an eyebrow and cocked both her head and her hip. “With the cute old guy next door? Why didn’t you tell me you two were—”

  “Uh-uh,” I said, my hands held up in what could be seen as either a stop sign or a defensive gesture. “Don’t even go there. We just took a walk, to check on some—proteges of his.”

  “Oh, come on. You know he’s cute. In that preppy sort of way. You both live here. You telling me there’s—”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Strictly business.” When Shamanique had first arrived, I’d suspected that underneath the polite yes, ma’ams lurked someone less docile, someone who could be related to Edna Lynch and, at the same time, could get herself in trouble with the law. She was beginning to lose the facade.

  She stared at me a moment and apparently saw I wasn’t making false protestations. She shrugged. “Whatever. So you got something lined up for tonight?”

  “What’s tonight?”

  “Friday?” She drawled it out, as if to a slow-wit. “Date night? The weekend?”

  I snorted. “Hm. The weekend. Probably Sunday lunch with my great-aunts. And some work around here.” Or at the lake house. The usual excitement.

  “Man, you need to get out. Good-looking woman like you don’t need to be sitting at home when you can get a man to buy you dinner. Maybe go dancing.”

  I thought of the Pasture, full of stale odors, scarred furniture, and desperation. That was the dance spot that came uninvitingly to mind.

  I waved her off. “I got plenty to worry about without adding a guy to the mix.” Fortunately I could go home or to my great-aunts’ or Lydia’s to bum a meal—or I could pay for dinner myself.

  The electric kettle whistled and she unplugged it. “You telling me you aren’t dating anybody?”

  “Not right now,” I said, pouring water in her cup and then mine. “It’s complicated.”

  She shrugged, apparently taking the hint. I hadn’t dated—anything more than a casual working dinner with an acquaintance—in too long to remember. My life had been busy: I’d made partner in a large firm, then resigned after I blew up at a lying witness during a trial; I’d come home for a temporary refuge that had become quickly permanent, then gone to Charleston to help Jake Baker with a big case. I’d been busy for the last few years, especially the last six or eight months here in Dacus. Besides, if I hadn’t found any serious dating or marriage material in Columbia or Charleston, what did Dacus, the little town I’d left after high school, have to offer, other than idle entertainment? And I did mean idle, as in local members of the hunting, fishing, and tobacco-spitting club.