by Etta Faire
Power Struggles
As soon as I got home, I slipped my gloves and mask on. I was actually glad Feldman was probably too weak from our channeling yesterday to be visible for the spraying. I didn’t want him here, trying to talk me out of checking him.
Jackson appeared by the couch, or tried to. I could barely make out where his head stopped and his neck began. He was a faded version of himself. More so than usual.
“Sapientia spray? Really?” His voice was also very weak.
I took my dust mask off so I could talk better. “I need to know what I channeled with the other day, before I channel again.”
I went to the kitchen to get a rag from under the sink. I wasn’t sure if the spray was going to stain the flooring, but I wasn’t going to take a chance. “I was actually hoping,” I began as I laid the rag along the Dogwood rug in the living room. “That the estate would cover the cost of the spray…”
“Highly doubtful,” he said. “Sapientia spray is not very accurate, and not worth the side effects. And that’s if it’s prepared correctly. No offense, but your fruitcake boss isn’t the best at following recipes.”
I put my hands on my hips, my plastic poncho crinkled a little. “I don’t know. She did a pretty good job on that privacy recipe a few months back.”
And I still had the dirty-diaper-smelling strands hanging along the doorway of my room and bathroom to prove it. The smell was a small price to pay when you lived with ghosts and wanted a little privacy.
I plugged my cellphone in and set the timer for two minutes. Then I went around and turned on every light on the main floor. Even though it was evening, I had to admit, the lighting was better than the basement of the restaurant. And a lot better than Rosalie’s house.
“Feldman, you here?”
He didn’t appear. I put my mask on and sprayed until I saw green then I hit the timer button on my phone.
Jackson’s words about the side effects not being worth it echoed through my mind as I watched the spray hang in the air. I took a step back and held in my breath just in case infertility really was a side effect, even though I wasn’t ready for kids any time soon (and wasn’t even sure I liked them that much).
When the timer began its last ten second countdown, the overhead light flickered on and off. “Jackson, stop it. Is that you?” I mumbled through my mask. But I didn’t see him anywhere anymore.
All the lights went out as the timer beeped.
I stood in complete darkness, spray in my hand. So much for adequate lighting. I fumbled for my phone and hit the flashlight app.
Either I’d blown a fuse or something in the house didn’t want me to know what it was. I thought about that last one. Feldman, Mrs. Harpton, Ronald the lawyer, Rex, the bird sounds in the back rooms, the thing in the basement… Yeah, there were probably a lot of things that turned that light off just now.
“You know, you’re not really stopping me. I’m just going to do this tomorrow in the sunlight,” I yelled into the darkness. I got no response. I yanked off my poncho and mask, set everything on the coffee table, then stomped up to my room like a teenager in a power struggle.
Upstairs in my room, the light worked perfectly. Of course. I pulled open my laptop, thinking about poor Rosalie. I was the one who talked her into giving Mr. Peters another chance and he’d proven to be just as selfish as she said he was.
And, by taking time out of my day to spray the speakeasy for my cheapskate client, I hadn’t had time to do my own library research.
I typed in Richard Mulch’s name into Google first. This was a murder that happened a long time ago, so I knew finding anything was going to be a long shot without a microfilm cabinet and my 80-year-old research expert.
My heart raced when something came up, mostly because I couldn’t believe who Richie ended up being. I read the short article, dated June 27, 1954, twice to make sure.
Ex Potter Grove Sheriff’s Remains Found
Disgraced, retired sheriff Richard Mulch’s mutilated body was discovered by a group of teenagers yesterday in the woods near Landover Lake Country Club. There were no witnesses to the attack, but police believe it could have been drug related.
“I’ve never seen anything so gruesome in my ten years on the force,” Sheriff Mason Bowman said, referring to the body, which was reportedly found in two halves.
Mulch, 70, made headlines in 1927 when he and other members of the Potter Grove Police Department were caught taking bribes in a sting operation during prohibition. While serving time in jail, Mulch lost his wife, Drusilla, in a tragic house fire along with his mother, Maude. Although investigators labeled the fire suspicious, no one was arrested for the crime.
Later in life, Mulch turned to vagrancy and debauchery and was often seen camping in the woods where his remains were found.
The bum in the woods who’d been split in half in 1954, the one I’d investigated as part of the boater’s cover-up a few months ago, was popping up again. Richard, the disgraced cop.
And, just like that, he moved to the top of my suspect list.
There weren’t any more articles about Richard, so I looked up everyone from the party that I could, anyone who I had both a first and a last name for. But nothing came up for Boyd Ferguson or Michael Chance.
Flo Donovan, on the other hand, had an entire Wikipedia page.
Florence Natasha Donovan Ives, born in Landover, Wisconsin in 1901; died in Paris in 1983. There wasn’t much in the article prior to 1927, when she married a French art dealer and moved to Paris to join the other rich expatriate supporters of the arts.
A photo of her and her husband was captioned with a quote:
“Art collecting is a lot like gambling. Sometimes when you gamble, you lose.”
My stomach sank when I read that very familiar quote. But, if Flo had been the one to do Feldman in, what could possibly have been her motive?
I read on, hoping for some sort of clue or connection.
According to the article, Flo’s early years were mostly spent with her brother, Marshall, in boarding schools outside of Wisconsin where she learned fencing, horseback riding, and martial arts at a young age. She won a prize for her tactical knife skills, something that didn’t go unnoticed by me.
The person who killed Feldman must have been quite skilled with a knife. Slicing someone’s throat was not an easy thing to do. She also had money to whimsically spend on a cast iron bank, not that they were expensive in their day.
It seemed like many people could have had the knife-skill training to kill Feldman. Terry had served in the war. Doc was a doctor, probably skilled at incisions. Chance was a carpenter, familiar with tools. Richie was a police officer. Boyd was a farmer. Drew was a seamstress. Not that a farmer and a seamstress were really trained at knife wielding, but it was getting late and it made sense in my mind. And Flo was a rich socialite who had won a knife competition.
I looked up race horses next. Famous race horses and race bets. Cast iron banks with dead painted eyes. The number three in gambling and horse racing. I was desperate. I even tried finding out Feldman’s friend who’d written a book. There was a connection there, and I needed to find it.
But I couldn’t find a thing. I’d have to take the rest of my research to the library.
Chapter 16
approaching the starting gate
Feldman looked stronger the next morning when I saw him at breakfast.
I didn’t think that was possible after a channeling. But it was like having a living, breathing being by me as I sat at the dining room table eating my peanut butter toast. And not just his coloring. It was almost like he was giving off warmth and vitality. I shook it off.
Rex, who had been sleeping at my feet, popped up when he saw Feldman and quickly walked away, heading upstairs. I could tell Rex still didn’t trust Feldman completely, but at least he seemed to be tolerating our guest better now.
“You ready to give it a go today?” Feldman asked. “I’m ready for a channeling if y
ou are.”
“I need to spray this room and figure out if you’re safe to channel with first.” I took another bite of toast. It scraped the roof of my mouth a little.
“Sapientia spray?” he asked, chuckling. “Go ahead.”
I looked around for the spray. I was pretty sure I’d left it on the coffee table next to my plastic poncho and face mask last night. It wasn’t there. The poncho and mask were, though.
I searched the dining room, the living room, and the rest of the main floor, even the rooms I never went into. I went upstairs and looked around my room and the bathroom.
“Jackson,” I yelled into the hall on my way back down the stairs again. “I know you’re here. Where did I leave the spray? Or, where did you hide it?” I flicked on every single light. They were all working fine now that I couldn’t find the spray.
My eyes stung, probably from staying up late and doing research on my laptop. I could barely keep them open. I was happy I had today off. All I wanted was a nap.
“Do you want to wait for Jackson,” Feldman asked, hovering so close to me I could see the cracks in his teeth, smell the stench of must coming off of him like he was some sort of forgotten antique desperate for a new chance at life.
I opened my mouth to say something about waiting for the spray and my ex but closed it again. Every part of me wanted to dive back into this too.
“Did you do something with the spray?” I asked.
He shook his head no. “I didn’t even know you had it.”
I wasn’t exactly sure I believed him.
He seemed to sense my skepticism and went on. “I’ve been nothing but honest with you. I don’t have anything to hide about anything. But if you’re worried about me transitioning, I get it.” His voice was calm and clear, nothing like the first time I met him. “Honestly, though, I think channeling with you has made me less angry and farther from transitioning.”
I nodded. I could tell that. I was more like a ghost therapist than an investigator.
Feldman shrugged. “We don’t really need Jackson, you know. You have your alarm.”
I shook my head. “That didn’t work last time, so we’ll wait.” I was starting to suspect doing this without Jackson was what the strong apparition wanted. Truth was, I wanted it too. But I couldn’t let Feldman know that. Or anyone else. “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.”
I sat on the couch and looked through the notes I’d taken last night, scribbling in some questions for the upcoming channeling.
“Tell me how you came to sell the Bear Bird to Doc? Did he just ask for it one day?”
“Yeah, he did. Come to think of it. Doc wanted in at a time when I wanted out. It was too much of a hassle, and it was making it way too easy for my brother to be a drunk. Terry used to be a pretty good artist before the war. I went with him once to paint something down by the lake. He had that painting sold to a country club lady before we even made it back to the car.”
He paused like he was thinking about it. “I wanted to see if he could find that side of himself again. His girlfriend actually helped me locate an art studio to buy with the money I made from the bar. It was going to be a surprise…”
I searched his eyes. They were sincere, human.
He continued. “So when Doc came to me with an interesting offer, I took maybe a day to think it over before jumping on it.” He laughed. “Probably wasn’t even that long.”
I could see the softer side of Feldman now, even though he tried to hide it a lot.
Every part of me couldn’t wait to do this channeling and see Richie and Flo one more time, my two main suspects.
I called for my ex-husband again, but he didn’t materialize.
“Doesn’t look like he’s showing up,” Feldman said, looking around the room. “But we can wait.”
I made sure I had three alarms set: two on my phone, and one on the little white kitchen timer, just in case my phone went out. I set them both on the coffee table in front of me. Twenty minutes. That’s all I wanted. Needed.
“Take me back to the moment we left off before,” I said, placing my notes down by my two timers. Then I curled into the stiff fabric of my throw pillow and watched the seconds tick away on both timers. “I’m ready.”
I smelled Doc’s pipe first, heard Richie’s voice. It was like drifting down a familiar road, without brakes or steering.
“I wish I could take credit for finding something straight out of hell like this, but you know me, I don’t shop, and I don’t buy,” he said. “If I spend any money, it’s here at the bar.”
“Come on now,” Boyd replied. “You also gamble.”
“My one weakness.”
“His one weakness,” Feldman said to me, mocking him. “You can open your eyes whenever you’re ready.”
We were all looking at the horse. I scanned over the coin slot, but it was empty, no note yet.
Feldman explained to his friends that it came a week ago without any indication who it was from.
“Where was the box postmarked from?” Richie asked, like a trained police officer.
“Yeah, good point,” Boyd chimed in. “Every package has to have a postmark.”
The music stopped for a commercial and Terry laughed his way over to the guys at the bar. His breathing was heavy and fast, and his cheeks were red. “She’s something else, huh?” he said to Feldman.
“Only way to describe her,” he answered.
Drew, Chance, and Blanche laughed their way back into the bar area, finishing up with their tour, and ready to join the others. Drew had her hat off now, her shortish brown hair framed her heart-shaped face beautifully. She asked Blanche if she wanted a drink, and the woman lifted her skirt, patting a flask that was strapped to her garter. “I’m a friend of Doc’s,” she replied, winking oddly like that explained it.
“Babe,” Feldman interrupted. “Do you know where that package came from last week? You know, the box the creepy horse bank came in?” He motioned toward the horse, like she might not know which creepy horse he was talking about.
She shook her head. “It didn’t have a note.”
“No, the postmark. On the box.”
She shrugged. “The what? I think the box’s still in our room if you’re desperate to look at trash.”
He blew it off. “Nice of you to offer to run up there and get it, honey, but don’t worry about it. I’ll get it later,” he said, sarcastically, like she should’ve jumped up at his beck and call.
Drew and Blanche went right back to their conversation, and I listened in.
Blanche was pointing to Flo, the twenty-year-old who was pretty much dancing to the jingle on the radio advertisement. “Must be nice to have money. And the fanciest dresses,” she said as she watched the younger woman effortlessly kick her leg out from the flouncy material the skirt was made from.
“I made her that dress,” Drew replied, softly.
“No kidding.” Blanche’s voice was loud and drunk. Her head swayed a little as she studied the dancing woman at the bar with new interest, probably mesmerized by how the soft fabric moved with each kick. “I can’t even mend a sock. I mean, why bother mending a sock, though? Nobody sees it.”
Drew nodded. “I design dresses for a few of the ladies here in Potter Grove. I work at Merlot’s on fourth.”
“Merlot’s. The old guy’s place. Can he teach me to sew too?”
“I didn’t learn it there. I’m afraid I have the Sisters of the North to thank for that talent, a poorhouse for wayward orphans,” Drew said with a laugh. “Sewing was the best thing about it.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. The only thing worse than spending your childhood in an orphanage is being pitied for it. It’s over. Life moves on.”
“Could you do a dress for me? I’m not exactly twenty anymore, though.” Blanche lowered her voice. “Or thirty.”
“You’re beautiful,” Drew said and the woman’s face lit into a smile. “I will make you a dress to knock your
socks off, whether they’re mended or not. I can teach you that little trick too. Darning socks is easy.”
Like he sensed the attention his girlfriend was getting, Terry rolled up his sleeves and lifted Flo onto the edge of the bar. She scooted along the wood then got up to dance the Charleston. The room roared with laughter and applause with every high kick, probably because she was doing it to the background music of an announcer telling us all about “the new hairdryer guaranteed to give you the hair you want in half the time.’”
“Your bar now,” Feldman said to Doc as he watched the woman’s heels scrape up the woodwork. “But I’ll say something to her if you want me to.”
“Yes,” Doc replied, puffing harder on his pipe. “Could you please tell that gorgeous, young woman to come back every night. On the house, if she wears that dress.”
“The chicken!” Drew yelled as the smell of something burning suddenly filled the room.
“I’ll take it out. I want to find that box anyway,” Feldman said. He walked right by his brother and Flo, who were still laughing and dancing.
“My brother’s a great drunk,” he told me in his mind. “Until he’s not. Trust me, by the end of the night, he turns. Like Jekyll and Hyde, that one.”
The lilt of jazz music picked up again after the commercial as Feldman opened the kitchen door.
“I wasn’t sure how to save him from himself, but I was trying,” Feldman said. “Of course I mean, until I died trying.”
The kitchen was larger than I thought it’d be, twice as large as the one at Gate House with an island, a sink, and a large commercial oven taking up most the back wall. Smoke billowed out when Feldman opened the oven door to pull out the chicken, waving the smoke away with the back of the pot holder. The pieces varied in size and kind, blackened just enough to make the skin crispy, and my stomach growled even though I’d already eaten peanut butter toast.
Calorie-free eating was my favorite part of channeling. All the flavor, none of the guilt.
