Second-Hand Murder: Book 1 in The Bandit Hills Series

by Blair Merrin

  Dash takes out a small notepad and a pen. “Okay. When you two were down there, Stephanie met a man in a bar. His name was Jean Pierre.”

  “Right, the French dude,” Claire says.

  “Cajun,” I correct.

  “Gesundheit,” Claire says. “We met some people while we were there. I wanted to party; Steph wanted to be low-key. So I went out with them—”

  “You ditched her,” I cut in.

  Claire glares at me. Dash holds up a hand for me to hush.

  “We were there to have fun,” Claire says. “I went to have fun. Steph went to a bar and had a few hurricanes. You know, it’s rum and fruit punch and grenadine—”

  “I know what a hurricane is, thanks,” Dash cuts her off.

  “Sure. So this dude comes and sits by her. They start talking. She’s totally smitten. They were there, like, all night, but nothing happened. She made sure to tell me that a thousand times. ‘Nothing happened, Claire.’”

  “You mean that nothing physical happened.”

  “Right,” Claire confirms. “Well… nothing happened between them.”

  “What does that mean?” Dash asks while taking notes.

  “At one point this French dude’s—”

  “Cajun,” I say.

  “Cold medicine’s in aisle four. So this dude’s ex-girlfriend comes by, some blonde bimbo. She gets really mad, even though she and Frenchie are totally not a thing anymore. Tells Steph that she has no idea what she can do to her, and all this junk—”

  “So she threatened Stephanie?” Dash asks, his interest piqued.

  “Yeah, but she didn’t actually do anything. I mean, she pulled her hair or something stupid like that. It wasn’t like a fight broke out. Then she left, and the guy apologized.”

  “And at some point, he gave Stephanie a gift. Did she tell you about that?”

  “Right, yeah. He gave her this ugly little voodoo doll. I mean, you can buy those things all over the place down there. It’s so kitsch. And this was like the ugliest one I’ve ever seen.” Claire shrugs. “But she liked him, so she brought it home with us as a souvenir.”

  “And the ex-girlfriend’s name, did you happen to catch it?”

  Claire screws up her face like she’s thinking hard. “Oh, jeez. It was like, Sarah, or…”

  “Savannah?” Dash asks, consulting a page of his notes. “Savannah Sullivan?”

  “Savannah. Yeah, I think that was it.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Claire. I think that was very helpful.”

  “Sure. I hope you find whatever you’re after.” Claire starts to head back in, but pauses. “She was a nice girl, you know? And a good friend. She didn’t deserve that.” Her eyes misting, Claire hurries back inside and kicks the wooden doorjamb out of the frame so that the steel door shuts with a boom.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I think the makeup was a bit much. Tacky, right? I mean, Halloween’s not for two more months, kid—”

  “I meant about the case.”

  “Oh, right. Well, the plot seems to have thickened. Now there’s a jilted ex—the same one that Jean Pierre spent a night in jail for. I can’t help but wonder if Ms. Marshall got herself caught in a lovers’ spat.”

  “Maybe. But nothing happened, and it seems like she hasn’t seen Jean Pierre since. Where’s the motive?”

  I just shrug.

  “So where to next?”

  “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but… we’re going to talk to Marla.”

  He shoots me a look like I’ve sprouted a second head.

  “Long story. Just trust me on this one.”

  Chapter 12

  “Hear me, spirits! Make your presence known!”

  Marla wears a long, purple gown and a green scarf tied over her flowing graying hair. It’s dark in the reading room, the thick red curtains drowning out any sunlight from outside. She stands before a small round table, her eyes closed, her palms out in front of her.

  “If you are with us, give us a sign!”

  Across from her sits a middle-aged couple—tourists, evident by her t-shirt and his ball cap, Bandit Hills merchandise both, which means that they stopped over at Tank’s at some point. Which is sort of how they ended up here.

  Dash, my mom and I mill about in the small waiting room of Marla June’s Palmistry and Readings. Dash and Mom sit in plastic chairs, the latter genuinely excited and the former genuinely confused. Me, I steal a peek behind the beaded curtain that leads into the reading room, the tourist couple’s backs to me.

  Marla slumps in defeat and sinks into her chair, her costume jewelry bouncing off her bony chest. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It appears that the spirits are being difficult today. I’d be happy to issue a refund.”

  The couple glances at each other in dismay and start to rise from their seats. I grin, because I know the show is about to begin. A breeze flutters through the reading room, even though the windows are closed. The curtains and Marla’s flowing floor-length gown flutter.

  “Wait!” she hisses, leaping up from her seat suddenly. “I’m getting something… yes! There is a presence with us… I can feel it!”

  The crystal ball on the small round table begins to glow with a faint green light. The couple, amazed, settles back into their seats slowly.

  “Mm-hmm, yes,” Marla murmurs, her eyes closed again, her hands out. “There is indeed a presence here. A man… his name is David.”

  The tourist guy with the Bandit Hills hat nearly topples out of his seat. “Yes! That was my father!”

  “He passed last year,” Marla says. “A heart attack. How very sad.”

  “That’s amazing!” the man gushes. Beside him, his wife clasps her hands to her mouth as if she’s witnessing a bona fide miracle.

  “He is telling me… that you should not feel guilty. It is not your fault. Does that mean something to you?”

  The man thinks for a moment, and then his face lights up in recognition. “He must be talking about the car!”

  “Yes,” Marla agrees, pandering. “The car, and… the money?”

  The man nods. “I spent the inheritance I received on a convertible, even though I told him it would go toward… well, it was supposed to go to my son’s tuition. And I’ve felt bad ever since.”

  “David tells me that you should not feel this way. He forgives you.”

  The man clasps his wife’s hand, and I’m sure that he’s about to start weeping.

  Alright, so here’s how this racket works: Most tourists that roll through Bandit Hills have been road-tripping for a while, so when they arrive, they’re hungry or they have to pee or whatever, so the first logical stop is usually stopping at Tank’s. You know, where April works. April, who is Marla’s daughter—and even though she’s sweet and adorable, she is equally sly and sneaky. She’ll make sure your coffee or soda is never empty, and she’ll chat you up while she’s doing it. “What brings ya into town? How long ya here for?”

  Of course, most of the “fright tourists,” which is what we call them around here, come for the ghost stories. And everyone seems to have a ghost story of their own, so it doesn’t take April much effort to get people to start talking about them, since people in Bandit Hills are receptive to that sort of thing.

  From there, it’s as simple as April lowering her voice in a conspiratorial fashion and saying, “Ya know, I don’t normally tell folks this, but we’ve got a very gifted psychic here in Bandit Hills. She’s sort of our best-kept secret. And she could probably fit y’all in today, if I made a call.”

  And since the tourists want the full experience, they’re usually amenable to it. April makes the appointment, the tourists leave, and then April texts the details she’s discovered to Marla—who throws in a little cold reading (like the “you shouldn’t feel guilty” part. Everybody has some kind of unresolved guilt when someone dies).

  Chances are pretty good that April’s friendly demeanor had these two tourists chattin
g openly about his father passing away, and the convertible, and the whole nine yards. I’ve seen it happen several times. I think the FBI would solve a lot more crimes if they sent April into an interrogation room with a smile and a slice of warm apple pie.

  I know how it sounds—like a scam, right? But the tourists are getting their experience, maybe even some closure, and Marla’s making a living. The only real problem is that everyone in Bandit Hills is well aware of it, but Marla still likes to play the part, wandering around town like a stoned gypsy.

  And that’s why when I suggested to Dash that we come see Marla, he thought I’d gone off the deep end. Mom caught wind of it and insisted that she come along, so we closed the store an hour early, and here we are, waiting for the ghost of “David” to vacate so we can have a chat.

  In the reading room, Marla waves her hand slowly in the air as if feeling around for a draft. “There’s someone else with us now…”

  The small round table between them begins to rattle. The wife gasps in shock and pulls her elbows from it as if it were on fire.

  “He says his name is P… Pe… Peter? Do you know a Peter?” Marla opens one eye slightly. She’s fishing here.

  The couple both shakes their head slowly.

  “I’m sorry, Peter,” Marla announces loudly. “These people are not the ones you seek. Return another time.” To the couple, she says, “Sometimes other spirits come through the door to the spiritual realm, seeking out their living relatives.”

  The couple nods as if this is a perfectly acceptable explanation. I almost groan out loud. Come on, people, there are probably twenty places in Bandit Hills you could go to have a legitimate otherworldly experience.

  “Now there’s someone else… a young woman.” Marla says. “She says her name is Stephanie.”

  Wait. What?

  Chapter 13

  Marla fishes for a few more names, finally landing on “Craig” (even though I’m certain she said “Greg,” but the man in the BH cap leapt up with such force that his chair fell over as he shouted, “Yes! Craig! My cousin Craig!”). Turns out that Craig just wanted to let them know he was in a better place.

  Marla’s announcement of Stephanie freaked me out a little at first, but it’s a popular name, and I don’t actually know how much Mom told Marla about the voodoo doll and the photograph—there’s a chance Marla is well aware of Stephanie Marshall, and probably knew I was peeking too.

  By the time the reading is over, the tourists are convinced that Marla has a direct line to the other side. She humbly declines their attempt to tip her, saying, “All I ask is that if you know others who wish to communicate with the deceased, send them to Bandit Hills.”

  See? Closure, a show, and boosting the local economy.

  Once they’ve gone, Marla flips the “Open” sign on the door to “Closed.” Then she pulls back the beaded curtain, and with a grand sweep of her arm, says, “You may enter.”

  In the dark reading room, Mom and I sit at the small table while Dash stands behind us with his arms folded over his chest, trying his best to appear aloof. Marla takes the seat opposite us.

  “Before we begin,” she says, “I want you to know that this reading is gratis.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I reply, trying hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  Marla holds her hand out, palm up. “The doll, please.”

  I fish the voodoo doll out of my purse, but before I hand it to her, I say, “Listen, Marla. Can we… skip the theatrics here?”

  “Cassandra, don’t be rude!” Mom scolds me.

  Marla purses her lips in a thin smile. She knows exactly what I’m talking about—the hidden vent in the wall that blows a breeze, the mechanism under our feet that rattles the table, the green LED light in the smoky crystal ball that makes it glow randomly.

  “Of course,” Marla acquiesces. I drop the doll in her palm and her slender fingers close around it carefully, as if it were fragile as glass. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. “Ooooh, yes. There is a dark energy within this doll… an angry presence. Yes, this instrument was responsible for the snuffing of a life.”

  I hear Dash let out a small snort behind me, and I almost do the same.

  Marla sets the doll in the center of the table, beside the crystal ball. “Now we begin. Julia, Cassie… let us connect.” She holds her hands out to either side. I hold one of hers and one of Mom’s. Dash remains standing, and Marla shoots him a look as if he’s an intruder, but he remains steadfast, hovering just behind me.

  Marla squeezes her eyes shut hard, as if in pain. “Hear us, spirit! Come forth and tell us of your demise!”

  I gotta be honest: I’ve seen some spooky stuff in my day, and Marla knows how to set a mood, so a little part of me honestly expects something to happen. But nothing does. Marla continues to implore the spirit in her booming voice, growing more desperate by the moment, eventually resorting to begging. (“Come on, just a little haunting? Anything?”) After several minutes, my hand is sweaty and the disappointment in the room is palpable, so I release Mom and Marla’s hands and break our circle.

  Marla shrugs with one shoulder. “I’m sorry, Cassie. It appears that the spirit does not wish to communicate with us.”

  I have to admit that I’m a little dismayed. I mean, Stephanie gave me a sign to come here, unless I misread it.

  Behind me, Dash touches my shoulder gently and quietly says, “Let’s go. We can get more information out of Stephanie’s ghost than this—”

  Marla shrieks. All three of us turn toward her, wide-eyed. Her spine suddenly goes rigid like she just touched a live wire. And just as I’m about to tell her that we had agreed on no theatrics, she falls backward, stiff as a board, and lands with a cringe-worthy thud.

  “My goodness, Marla!” Mom hops up to make sure she’s okay.

  Luckily there are a ton of pillows and cushions littering the floor, or else Marla might have actually injured herself. As we round the table to check on her, she suddenly sits bolt upright. The corner of her mouth twitches. She climbs to her feet, unsteady, and looks at each of us in turn as if we’re complete strangers. Her eyes settle on the voodoo doll on the table. She leaps toward it, her arms outstretched. Dash, closer than she is, snatches it up and out of her reach just in the nick of time.

  Marla growls—seriously, she growls—and before any of us can react, she leaps toward him and knocks Dash to the floor.

  “Holy crap!” Dash cries out from beneath a hundred pounds of thrashing Marla.

  “The victim was also the perpetrator!” she hisses at Dash. Her voice is different, slightly gravelly and deeper, like a sultry young starlet, and she reaches for the doll, which Dash holds as far from her as he can.

  “Well, this is new,” Mom remarks.

  “The instrument of evil, unknowingly pricked!” Marla cries in Dash’s face.

  “Get her off of me!” Dash shouts.

  I try to pull Marla off of him, but she whirls on me. Her face… her eyes… they’re different. They still look like Marla, but they look angry, darker.

  “Stephanie?” I venture, even though I’m hoping not.

  “No,” she hisses, drawing the word out into a breathy groan, and then she bellows, “Savannah!”

  Not gonna lie. I think I peed a little.

  “Cassie, seriously, little help here?” Dash struggles, wrapped up in Marla’s long headscarf.

  “Was it Jean Pierre?” I ask Marla, or Savannah, or whoever’s renting Marla at the moment. “Did Jean Pierre do this?”

  “He belongs to me!” Marla snarls, and then her face slackens into an expression of tenderness. “Oh, my Jean,” she sighs, and then she faints again, falling limp atop Dash.

  It takes us a minute to get her up and into her chair. As she comes around, she yawns like she just took a little nap. She blinks a few times when she sees us crowded around her, looking concerned.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “Did I miss something?”

  Chapter 14

&n
bsp; The next morning, I open Miss Miscellanea alone. No Mom to greet me; no Dash bringing me coffee. I get it. After last night, I think we could all use some time apart.

  Marla woke with no recollection of what had happened; she claims that one moment, her vision grew fuzzy, like she was fainting, and the next, she woke up with all of us staring at her. I didn’t want to tell her what went down, but Mom was insistent. I mean, yeah, it seems that she actually channeled a real spirit, but on the other hand, none of us need Marla to get any weirder.