Uncharted Territory (An Angela Panther Mystery Book 3)

by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  "Who's Johnny?"

  "Johnny. Johnny Cash. The country music singer?"

  Excuse-a-what?

  "You know Johnny Cash?" I asked.

  "Heck yah, I know 'em all now. We're tight. Me and his wife, June? We're besties. Like you and Mel, only better."

  No words. I had no words. I rolled my eyes at her.

  "What? You don't believe me? There's no celebrity upstairs, ya know. We're all equal, and me and June, we're like two peas in a pod."

  "All righty then. Now that we've got that covered, have fun bowling." I waved. "Buh-bye."

  "Catch ya on the flip side," she said.

  "Ma, wait," I said, but she'd already shimmered away.

  Damn, I hated when she did that.

  ***

  I met Mel at Starbucks, and we sat at our regular table, outside.

  "Check this out," she said, and handed me her phone.

  A photo of a nearly bald man with a bad comb over, about fifty years old and wearing black-framed glasses stared back at me. "Oy. Who's this?" I set her phone down and slid it across the table. "He's a little creepy."

  "You have no idea. He's the first guy to contact me on Match.com."

  "You joined?"

  "Uh huh. And I'm cancelling my account. I'd rather be alone the rest of my life than end up with Creepy Stalker Harold." She glanced down at the photo again and shivered. "I feel like I need to shower all over again."

  "He's not that bad," I lied.

  "You did not just say that."

  "I'm trying to stay positive."

  "I'm fine with staying positive, but outright lying is a little much."

  "Don't delete your account. I'm sure there are other men worthy of the greatness we call Mel."

  She pushed her shoulders back, jutting out her tiny chest. "I don't think so. I mean, this is a whole lotta greatness right here. Might be too much for the average man to handle."

  "There is that. Lemme have a look." I grabbed her phone and swiped the screen.

  "Oh Lord. This won't be pretty."

  I wasn't familiar with dating sites, but since millions of people were on it, I thought I could navigate it easily. "Here's one," I said, holding back a laugh. "Snuggybear." I held the phone up for Mel, but pulled it away before she got a good look. "Snuggybear likes to cook authentic Latin food, but likes it more when the woman cooks for him. He's interested in someone that's subtle, I think. He spelled it s-u-t-t-l-e. And he wants her to be sort of strong, but not over the top—with a capital T. Apparently Snuggybear didn't get a good edumacation, or, based on his Neanderthal size, got hit one too many times in the head playing football."

  "I hate you."

  "Hold on, let's see if there's another one that's more your type." I clicked on the next person in the today's matches section. "Oh, winner winner chicken dinner. This is a good one." I flipped the phone in her direction. "Gatorguy—must be a Florida fan—is the tallest Latino you'll ever meet, and oh, he likes midgets." I couldn't contain the laughter any longer.

  She grabbed the phone. "What? He did not write that."

  "Kinda. He said he wants a woman that's three feet to eight feet and eleven inches tall. So midget size and up, but not nine feet because apparently that's too tall for the tallest Latino you'll ever meet." I laughed so hard tears dripped down my cheeks. "Oh my God. I'm so joining Match when I get home. I could entertain myself for days with this stuff."

  "I really hate you."

  "Wait, I gotta see the next one." I scrolled to the next match of the day. "Lifelover wants someone who will love him for who he is and accept him for who he is not." I made a face. "What the hell does that mean?"

  "I'm becoming a nun," she said, grabbing the phone from my hand. "Seriously."

  "I think Gatorguy is the one for you. You like 'em tall and he's the tallest Latino you'll ever see." More tears fell from my eyes. "You're not a little person though, so you might not be his type, but it's worth a shot."

  Mel gave in and laughed, too. She tapped on her phone screen. "Oh wow. Nope, Gatorguy is out. Here's my guy. Caveman." She showed me his picture.

  "He's hot."

  "I know, right? And he's perfect for me. Five feet five inches tall and wants a woman who likes adventure like hisself." She scrunched her eyebrows together. "Is that even a word?"

  "How would I know? You tell me. You're the writer."

  "It doesn't matter. Look at him." She showed me his picture.

  "Wow, he's really rockin' that mullet." I squinted, trying to read the words on his shirt. "Does his shirt say eat more pussy?"

  She flipped the phone back. "Oh my gawd, it does. I'm so marrying this man." She dropped her phone on the table and stared at me.

  We played the stare-down game until I couldn't stand it anymore and busted out laughing. "Wow."

  "Welcome to my world."

  "At least you get to see photos before you make a decision."

  "Is that all you could come up with? 'Cause I could use something a little more encouraging."

  "Sorry. That's all I got."

  "Wow. That's sad."

  "Gimme time. This dating thing is new to me," I said.

  "Uh, hello. I'm the one doing the dating, not you."

  "Well at least you're dealing with people who still have a heartbeat. I spend a good portion of my time hanging out with dead people." I filled her in on my trip to the hospital.

  "So you have no clue who the ghosts are?"

  I sipped my cup of caffeinated bliss and flung my head to the side. "Nope. I got nothing but two dead kids. The jumper who doesn't seem to care about himself, but thinks I ought to help the one who doesn't seem to want to speak for herself. And that one's a little freaky, too." I leaned back in the chair and took off my sunglasses. "The sun feels so good. I'm so tired of the rain." I dragged out the "o" in so to make my point.

  It had rained for over a week. Not storms or a light drizzle, but a steady stream of water, like a powerful showerhead, falling from a gray, clouded sky. Rain made me tired and lazy, and that Angela was annoying, even to me.

  "Careful there. Your pastiness is already turning red," Mel said.

  I lifted my head and furrowed my brow at my best friend. "June wouldn't talk like that to Fran, ya know."

  "Huh?" Mel gave me a one-brow-up stare, and that one brow went two-thirds of the way up her tiny forehead. It was impressive.

  "You have no forehead when you do that."

  She stood up, leaned over the table, and pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. "You don't feel feverish."

  "I'm not," I said, pushing her hand from my face. "Why'd you think I was?"

  "You're not making any sense. You've changed the conversation direction three times in thirty seconds. And who the hell is June? Old cousin or something?" She sat back down and took a sip of her drink.

  "June Cash. She's Ma's new bestie. They're two peas in a pod."

  She tilted her head to the side like my dog, Gracie does when I spell the word walk. "June Cash? Did she live with your mom at that assisted living place?"

  My lips opened and out came an uncontrollable, unexpected laugh. "Oh my gawd, you're lucky you're pretty 'cause wow, that's pathetic."

  "I am not pretty," she said, and then shook her head. "You know what I mean."

  "June Cash is the late Johnny Cash's wife." I took another sip from my cup.

  Mel said, "Johnny Cash?" And then face-palmed her forehead. "The country singer, duh." She leaned back in her chair, and then forwards again, her hands squeezing the arms of the chair. "Wait a minute. Fran said she's besties with June Cash? Johnny Cash, the country singer's wife?"

  I squinted at the top of her head. "I don't see the light bulb, but it obviously turned on."

  "Whatever. So you're telling me your mother is best friends with Johnny Cash's wife?"

  I crossed my fingers and held them up for Mel to see. "Like two peas in a pod."

  "Is June dead, too?"

  I put my cup down and ban
ged my head against the table, twice. "Pretty, pretty, pretty," I said, and laughed.

  She straightened her shoulders. "Well, she could be alive and be able to talk to ghosts like a certain person I know. And how would I know anyway? I'm not a country music fan, or a music trivia savant like you."

  "It's not just music trivia, and it's mostly eighties stuff anyway. But yes, she's dead."

  "So Fran's hanging out with Johnny Cash's wife? And they're besties?" she repeated. "That's freaking awesome." She swirled her drink in her cup, then stopped and stared at me with her Asian eyes wide. "Has she seen Johnny, too?"

  I nodded. "Said she's excited for George Strait to kick the bucket so he can sing with Johnny because Johnny's gettin' tired of his regular group." I sipped my drink. "And apparently my mother is, too."

  "George Straight?"

  "Country singer."

  "Ah." She leaned back again and smiled, all teeth and pink lipstick. "Holy mother of God. When I'm dead, I'm so hanging out with Paul Walker."

  "That's the guy from those fast car movies, right? Furiously Fast or something like that?"

  "Fast & Furious, and yes."

  I rolled my eyes.

  "Oh come on. You know you'll be all over Andy Garcia when the time comes," she said, the grin creeping further up her cheeks.

  "Nope." I reached behind me and cupped the back of my head in my hands. "I'll be with Jake. Or waiting to be with him, at least."

  "Well, I don't have a Jake. I had a Nick but he's with the floozy so I get to pick who I want, and I want Paul Walker." She nodded, more to herself than to me. "Besides, he died tragically and young, so when I get there he'll look like he did when he died, which was freaking hot." She smirked, obviously satisfied with her thought process.

  "Yeah, but odds are you'll die old, all wrinkly and leathery, and I doubt that's his type." Picturing Mel old and leathery made me snort.

  If looks could kill…

  "I'll have you know studies show that Asians age gracefully, especially compared to mutts like you."

  "Oh, snap."

  "It's a proven fact."

  "Oh yeah? Name one." I crossed my arms over my chest. "Betcha can't."

  Her eyes formed straight, thin lines, forming into what I liked to call her Asian face, and it didn't scare me. Too much. "Well?" I said.

  She huffed. "Why does my mind always go blank when I'm trying to make a point?"

  "Old age."

  "Oh please. I'm not the peri-menopausal one at the table, and we both know that." She high-fived herself. "Oh yeah."

  "Glad someone here thinks you're funny."

  "I'm glad you do," she teased. "So what happens next with the boy at the hospital?" She took a sip of her drink. "June and Johnny Cash. Freaking amazing."

  "I told Aaron I'd try and contact the boy." I leaned into the table and whispered. "I told him we'd try using the Ouija Board today, you and me. Whadda ya think?"

  Mel's face paled and then a bright shade of red crept up her neck and flushed her cheeks. "When pigs freaking fly."

  To say Mel was scared to death of a Ouija Board was putting it mildly. If she'd had it her way, the demon-producers disguised as toys would be banned from the universe for the rest of time.

  "Keep your panties on. I'm kidding. Geesh. I'm just gonna try and talk to him. You know, that thing I do when I look like I'm talking to myself? And see what happens, I guess. If he comes, he comes. If he doesn't, not much I can do about it."

  "That's what she said." She pretended to bang on a drum. "Ba da bump."

  "Oh Lord."

  "So what if you can't get him? What about your mom? Can't she help?"

  "Maybe, but her social calendar seems to be pretty full these days. She's bowling at the moment."

  Mel was sipping her drink when I said that, and her laughter made it shoot out her nose and splatter all over the small table.

  "Yuck." I wiped my arm. "You just nailed my arm with a snot shot."

  "Whoops." She wiped her nose with a napkin. "Here, lemme get that." She used the same napkin to wipe my arm.

  I jerked my arm away. "Oh my God, gross. Don't touch me with that."

  Mel laughed too hard to speak.

  "You're such a snot. No pun intended."

  That made her laugh more.

  "Lemme know when you're finished."

  She held a finger up, signaling me to hold on, so I did.

  "Okay, I'm done." Her voice crackled with a giggle. "Okay, I'm done now." She inhaled and blew the air out. "Okay, I'm really done now." She tilted her head like my dog again. "Wait. Fran's bowling? Like in Heaven?"

  "I guess."

  "Well, when she's done, you gonna ask her to help? I mean, she is the super sleuth spirit and all."

  "Yes, I'm gonna talk to her later. I figure I'll give her a few hours and then call her." The realization of what I'd just said made me giggle. "Wow, that'd be one super expensive long-distance phone call, wouldn't it?"

  "Probably cheaper to Skype her."

  I rolled my eyes. "I wonder if anyone else thinks we're as hilarious as we think we are?"

  "If not, they're stupid."

  "There is that."

  "So what do you think the boy meant when he said you need to help the girl?" she asked.

  "Probably that I need to help the girl." I pulled my phone from my purse to check the time. "Crap, I gotta go. Josh has lacrosse in an hour, and I'm driving him." I tossed my phone back in my purse, and guzzled the last swig of my latte. "Don't forget to email Gatorguy."

  "Shut it, Panther."

  CHAPTER TWO

  I RUSHED TO CHANGE into my running clothes. "Josh, put your lax gear in the car please."

  "Mom, we gotta go," he yelled from the bottom of the stairs. "I'm gonna be late and Coach makes us run laps if we're late."

  "I'm coming. Go start the car." I jogged down the stairs, and tiny balls of sweat formed on my hairline. Two seconds of expending only minimal effort and I was hot and uncomfortable. I refused to accept what my body and everyone I knew told me. I was not peri-menopausal, at least that's what I chose to believe.

  "It's already on." He squinted and examined my face. "Why are you all red?"

  We got in the car and I flipped the visor down and scrutinized my face in the mirror. "Old age."

  "You're not old."

  I backed out of the garage. "Sometimes I feel like it."

  "Well, you don't look that old."

  "That old? I guess that's a compliment, right?"

  "Sure, I guess. When do you start to look old?"

  "For me, few years ago. For you, a lot later than for your sister."

  Josh smirked. "She's not going to like that."

  "No, she won't."

  As we drove out of the neighborhood, Emily drove by and waved. We waved back.

  "She's been a lot nicer lately," Josh said.

  "Yup. I think she's taking drugs," I kidded, and mentally chastised myself for the bad joke.

  "She's not." His tone was completely serious.

  I angled my head toward him. "And you know this how?" I wasn't opposed to getting information on one sibling from the other. Some called it an invasion of privacy. I called it good parenting.

  "We talked about it. She said she doesn't want me getting involved in that stuff and was setting an example for me by doing the right thing and being a pure. At least when it came to drugs."

  "A pure?" I didn't know what he meant. "What's that?"

  "Someone who doesn't do drugs or have sex." He was silent for a second and then shrugged. "So she's a half pure, I guess."

  I would have laughed, but it wasn't funny. We'd recently gone through an emotional crisis with Emily and a loser boy named Chandler, whose mother was obviously a fan of the TV show, Friends. Chandler dumped Emily shortly after, as my mother would say, he popped her cherry. When Jake and I caught them in the act, in the backseat of her car—totally disgusting—Jake about lost his mind. Much to her surprise and frankly, to mine too,
Jake was able to contain his anger and neither of them died that night. Afterwards, heartbroken and embarrassed, Emily made some serious changes in her life, all in a matter of months. I wasn't sure if it was just a phase or the real deal, but I'd hopped on the new and improved Emily train for the ride regardless.

  "Half is better than none," I said.

  "Yup."

  The park was only a ten-minute drive so we didn't have a lot of time for chatter. "So she said she's not doing drugs, huh?"

  He tied his left cleat. "Yup, and Grandma says it's true 'cause she's checked on her."

  Sometimes having a ghost for a mother had its advantages. Not only was she excellent at supernatural spying, much needed in the teenage daughter department, she could continue to have a relationship with Josh because, like me, he had the gift too. I had mixed emotions about that but Josh liked seeing his grandmother, and didn't see many other spirits. I knew that eventually his gift would grow but part of me wanted it to disappear completely. Seeing the dead was hard enough on me, and he was just a boy. I wanted him to just be a boy, not a ghost whisperer.

  "Well, if Grandma says it's true, than I'm guessing it is."

  We'd pulled up to the park, and Josh grabbed his lacrosse bag and headed to the field. "See you later," he said, closing the door behind him.

  I walked over to the path framing the park, put in my ear buds and turned on my running mix. I loved to run. It gave me an opportunity to clear my head and not think about anything important. I zoned out, feeling the blacktop beneath me, gazing at the trees and shrubs that lined the path around the park. I smelled lavender and honeysuckle as I ran past hearty vines of them growing wild. I'd often thought of pulling one up from the roots to plant along my fence, but when it came to planting, I had the blackest thumb around. Unless it was a weed. Those, I couldn't kill if my life depended on it. Give me a store bought plant and I'd kill it in seconds but give me a weed and it took over my yard in record time.

  I ran for an hour straight, something I hadn't done in a long time. My heart beat faster than normal, and I knew I needed to get back to a regular exercise program soon or my cardiovascular fitness level would hit a record low. I slowed to a walk, hoping to lower my heart rate gradually so I wouldn't get a headache. I walked back to the practice field to where three lacrosse moms—mothers of Josh's teammates—stood near the fence, talking. I hadn't gone out of my way to develop anything other than surface relationships with the mothers yet, but since one of them had a spirit lingering next to her, I had a feeling that was going to change. I wasn't a psychic, but I could see the writing on the wall.