Under the Cheaters Table

by Etta Faire

  Feldman put the chicken onto the cooling rack then went down the hall. So much for eating.

  The sound of conversation spilled into the hallway from the main bar area, but I couldn’t hear anything in particular. We turned the corner and opened what looked like a closet but was really a secret stairwell.

  Feldman talked to me again. “This goes up to the pharmacy. A lesser-known entrance I keep locked and sealed during business hours. Drew and I have a little bedroom off the back upstairs. Not much. We’re saving.”

  “To get married?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Now why would we want to ruin a good thing? Saving for a house before the speakeasy came along. It was too good of an investment to pass up.”

  The steps creaked under Feldman’s heavy footfalls, echoing off the walls that seemed to close in on us as we climbed the stairs. I could hear his breathing, smell the cigarette smoke mixing with the various medicines.

  As soon as he opened the door, I tried to suck in a clean gasp of fresher air, but no such luck. The top floor was just as weird smelling.

  The pharmacy looked remarkably similar to every other pharmacy in the old black-and-white movies. Hundreds of tiny glass medicine bottles lined the entire back cabinets behind a main counter with the words “Drug Store” painted across the mirrored paneling around them.

  “Were you sad to be selling?”

  He thought about this a second. “I was, actually. This had been my life for almost three years. And it was a good one, more or less. But I was in my 40s now, and it was time to help my family and grow up.”

  Feldman’s bedroom was small, only a standard full-sized bed next to a nightstand and a vanity dresser.

  “We were happy here,” he said. “And I shouldn’t joke about marriage. Truth was, marriage wasn’t in either of our cards. And Drew couldn’t have kids.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said.

  “She had a botched procedure a few years back. Ended up in the hospital for weeks.”

  “What kind of a botched procedure?”

  “The none-of-your-business kind,” he said, his voice rising into anger again, making me wonder if the botched procedure had been an abortion.

  He went on. “She used to say she wasn’t missing anything because having me for a boyfriend was a lot like having a kid.”

  I chuckled politely. I could see that. It was also the way I felt about Jackson.

  The box was leaning against the small trashcan in his room. He picked it up and looked it over. Feldman’s address hadn’t been written directly on the box itself. It had been typed out and taped on, not that I would’ve known anyone’s handwriting, anyway. And there wasn’t a return label, but it did have a postmark, from New York.

  “Probably just where it was special ordered,” he said to me.

  “Didn’t Doc mention your friend Jeremy lived in New York?”

  “This wasn’t from him,” Feldman said, tossing the box back by the trashcan.

  “How do you know?”

  He didn’t answer me.

  There was a closet at the back of the room, and Feldman walked over to it, looked around, then opened it. Several jackets and pants hung neatly on their hangers, and he sifted quickly through them until he reached a dark gray woolen suit jacket. He didn’t take it out but instead shoved his hand into one of the pockets, feeling for an opening in the lining.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking,” he said. “Doc paid me a nice down payment for the bar, and I didn’t trust banks.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t trust your friends much either,” I said.

  “Yeah, I trusted ‘em too much if you ask me,” he said.

  Shelby’s mattress and now Feldman’s suit pocket. It must’ve run in the family. He took the cash out but didn’t count it. Then, he put it back in the lining hole, moving the other jackets and shirts around it again and closing the door.

  When he left his bedroom this time, he closed the door and locked it behind him.

  We headed back toward the hidden staircase in the hall as he explained himself further. “Drew took everyone on a tour, probably showed ‘em our room without thinking anything about it. She was sweet but she wasn’t one to notice the obvious too much. They could easily have distracted her and searched my room.”

  He opened the door to the hidden stairwell, immediately catching his foot on something hard that caused him to tumble down the first few stairs, twisting his ankle as he grabbed for the railing. His hand slipped and he fell again, smacking his head against the wall before finally grabbing the railing to stop himself.

  Cursing under his breath, he pulled himself up, a sharp pain shooting across our entire body.

  Feldman stormed back up the stairs to see what he had kicked, limping on his hurt foot. A horse’s head peeked at us from the corner of the top step.

  “What in the hell,” he said. He scooped up the bank and looked it over.

  “I never saw anyone or heard anyone, did you?” he asked me in our head.

  “No,” I replied as he limped down the stairs.

  He went straight to the radio and yanked the volume knob down like he was going to make an announcement.

  Sweat pooled along his temple and our head still stung. “Who thought that was funny? Putting this horse at the top of the stairs? I almost broke my neck.”

  The room fell quiet until Terry covered his mouth and laughed. Flo looked at him and giggled then the whole room laughed too.

  I could feel Feldman’s anger bubbling over as he watched his friends laughing, which probably stung even more now, knowing one of them would later slit his throat.

  “Sorry, Feldman,” I said.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me,” he snapped.

  I thought about the time. The dancing. The chicken. The stairs. This had to have been more than twenty minutes. Just like how I’d gone out of my way to use the sapientia spray at the speakeasy, I was losing track of time, and wasting it.

  “You sprayed the sapientia formula at the speakeasy?” he said, his voice drifting into a cackle. “That could get interesting.”

  “Stop listening in on my private thoughts,” I snapped. “And what does that even mean?” Before I got the words out completely, I realized my alarms were going off. A sound so far in the distance I didn’t recognize it at first, like a crow cawing or an engine chugging along a highway. Background noise.

  As if the sound sent a signal to my body, every bone ached with a million pains like little needles prickling my flesh. I needed rest. And water. Lots of water.

  But it was also comforting to know that where I was at also felt very restful. A place where I never needed water again.

  Chapter 17

  Losing Control

  Rosalie was “none too happy” to hear about the channeling the next day when I described everything to her.

  “You are playing with fire, young lady. Fire. Dancing between realms and it’s pretty clear you are no longer the one in charge.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, almost a little too haughtily for a woman who could barely keep her eyes open. I let them close again and I almost fell off my stool in the process. I quickly blinked them open, straightened myself out like I’d meant to do that, then grabbed the water bottle on the floor by my feet.

  “I know because you told me you didn’t hear your alarm, and the spray is missing. You don’t even know how long you were channeling or what you were channeling with.” She was wearing her Spanx again. I could tell by her labored breathing and the weird grimaces she kept shooting me for no reason. “Plus, you’ve got bags under your eyes, and you’re as pale as a piece of paper, like one of those desperate platelet sellers, or a crackhead, or something.”

  She had her ring-making instruments out again. Wires and pliers of various sizes lined the counter by the check-out alongside small piles of beads. She twisted her face into another scowl as she maneuvered the strand of wire between her fingers into a perfect infinity-shaped
symbol. There were little dark green and black stones already strung along the wire.

  “Nice,” I said, pointing to it.

  “Yeah? Obsidian, magnetite, and malachite. A good combination for warding off evil spirits.” Sweat dripped along her hairline even though it wasn’t very warm, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand, throwing her dreadlocks into a ponytail with the faded gray scrunchie around her wrist.

  “Any particular reason you’re making these?” I said with a sing-song in my voice that ended in a cough. I took another sip of water.

  “Not for you,” she said. “We both know you want that evil spirit around you.” She yanked at her rib cage, where the edge of the shape wear ended, pulling the tight elastic out so she could take a bigger breath. “I told Louis about these rings. He seemed interested.”

  I threw her a knowing smile.

  “Stop grinning at me, crackhead. I just need a good customer, is all.” She fanned her face with her hand. “It’s so hot in here. I swear I’m gonna die.”

  “It’s because you have shape-wear layers on.”

  She ignored me. “I don’t think you should channel anymore, at least not alone. Where was Jackson anyway?”

  “He refused to come out. He’s mad because of the channeling or something. Who knows? He’s a prima donna,” I said. “I never saw him last night.”

  “Interesting,” she replied. “You’re saying he was so concerned about you channeling with Feldman that he refused to show up and supervise it?”

  The way she said it made me rethink that logic. “What do you think is going on?”

  “Not sure. When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Yesterday. Just before I sprayed.”

  “What did he look like? Sound like?”

  “He looked terrible. Very faded, and I could barely hear him.”

  She gulped and set the wire she was holding down on the counter. After staggering her way into the back on her bad hip and uncomfortable shape wear, she quickly came back with the same large book as before, the green one we used for the sapientia formula.

  “I read something interesting about demons and poltergeists.” She plopped the book on the counter next to the pile of beads. “Remember when I said ghosts would get angry and start transitioning if they didn’t get to haunt where they thought they ought to haunt?”

  I nodded. “It’s why Feldman can’t haunt at the speakeasy.”

  “A stronger ghost is keeping him out. And now, a stronger ghost might be driving Jackson out of your house.”

  “You’re crazy. Jackson haunts fine at my house.” I stumbled over my own words, my voice squeaking from my throat being incredibly dry. I reached for my water bottle again.

  “Let’s look at the signs, shall we?” she said, flipping the pages until she stopped on her bookmark. “Ghosts being rooted out will have pale coloring and whispered tones when in the affected area.”

  The wind chimes on the door clanged and Mr. Peters came in. His face was especially pale and he was breathing heavily like a ghost being rooted out of Gate House. “The sage didn’t work,” he said, adding a quick hello to me. “I went down to the basement just like you told me to. I lit three bundles at once. Three. My goodness, it smelled something awful and my eyes stung. But I believed you when you told me it would work. The sage was ripped from my hands and thrown in my face. I almost sustained burns.”

  “Almost,” Rosalie said, rolling her eyes. “But you’re fine. And I never told you the sage would work. You were the one who told me it would work.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Peters,” I added, shooting Rosalie a look. “We’re sorry it didn’t work.”

  “You have a particularly strong ghost, Louis,” Rosalie said matter-of-factly. She sucked in her stomach and pointed to her book. “It’s rooting in your basement. Rooting is when a strong ghost takes permanent ownership over an area. The longer it’s allowed to be there, the stronger it becomes and the harder it is to get rid of.” She closed her book. “I don’t get anything extra for running research for you, Louis.”

  “So what do I do?” he asked.

  “You can start by protecting yourself with these rings I made especially for you. Obsidian, magnetite, and malachite. A good combination for warding off evil spirits. Normally, I sell special-order protection rings for ninety-nine, ninety-five, which is a steal because I say an incantation over them…”

  I watched the salesperson at work. Rosalie was never one to try to up-sell or swindle anyone, and I’m sure the rings were somewhere near legitimate in their protection properties. But she also seemed to have another agenda at play here, one where she wanted Mr. Peters to pay. And not just in eat-your-heart-out looks anymore.

  As Mr. Peters was trying on rings, I opened the book to the bookmarked spot and read more about whatever she was calling “rooting.” I was starting to be more than a little concerned about my ex-husband. If he couldn’t haunt at our house, then where was he?

  Signs that an area is being rooted by a strong ghost or demon: Smells of rotting meat, blood, or sulphur. The feeling of needles prickling skin. Extreme thirst.

  There was absolutely no way I was channeling with Feldman again. Yet, even as I scanned the pages of Rosalie’s book, gulping down water from my extra-large water bottle, confirming sign after sign and growing more fearful that I’d been conned by a demon, every part of me knew I was lying to myself.

  I had to channel again.

  On my way home from work, I stopped by the library just before it closed. Mrs. Nebitt stood over the front counter, hands on her hips, like an extra-small, puffy-haired, angry guard. Parker Blueberg, Potter Grove’s single dad, towered over her while his kids ran crazy through the library.

  “Parker, you know I think of you as my own grandson, which is why I have no problems telling you you’re full of malarkey.”

  Squeals and laughter shot through the weird-smelling paperbacks as Lil Mil, named after her great grandmother Mildred, tagged her toddler brother and ran through the stacks again.

  Parker smiled when he saw me walk in, and motioned for me to come over. He was a good-looking man with the kind of twinkle in his green eyes that made even the happiest of monogamous women rethink their relationships.

  I tried not to rethink mine too hard as I made my way over.

  “Hey Carly. Just trying to get Mrs. Nebitt here to help a dear friend out.”

  “Dear friend,” she repeated sarcastically. “This is a sad attempt to sell memberships to that gym you work at, and we both know it.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Mrs. Nebitt handed me a bright blue piece of paper. It was one of those missing-person fliers with a description and a photo of Bobby and his brothers.

  Have You Seen Us?

  $5,000 Reward for Information Leading to the Whereabouts of Bobby Furgus Franklin

  and his brothers, Leon and Harris

  - Plus -

  Join Landover County’s First Missing-Person Task Force

  And receive

  Half-off membership at Donovan Gym

  Compliments of Donovan Gym

  It listed times and places for upcoming “task force meetings.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, a little skeptical myself. The Donovans didn’t do much out of the kindness of their hearts. They were the rich and powerful family on this lake, and they liked for everyone to know it. “But sorry, Parker. I have to agree. This does seem a little commercialized for a missing-person flier.”

  “I just think you guys don’t know the Donovans like I do. Myles is a sincere man with a great heart,” he said, like he and the 80-year-old rich guy were suddenly besties.

  Ben, Parker’s three-year-old, ran past us again, screaming. His big sister easily caught up and grabbed him by the middle, swinging him around.

  Mrs. Nebitt snatched the flier from my hand and added it to the stack sitting on the counter. “All right. You win. I’ll put them up, but only because I want to help out S
helby Winehouse, and I think you do too, regardless of what Myles Donovan’s intentions are.”

  Parker’s shoulders seemed to soften at this. He kissed the librarian on the cheek and ran after his kids. “Time to go, kids.”

  I leaned into her. “Admit it. You only agreed to put out those fliers because you wanted to get rid of the loud kids running crazy through your library right now, huh?”

  She shook her head no. “I took it because I sincerely believe we should all be looking for Bobby and his brothers.” She lowered her voice. “But yes, if I could legally get rid of that kids section, I would do it in an eye blink.”

  She waited until Parker and his entourage-of-loudness had left before taking me over to the periodicals section. She knew I was here for research.

  “What do you need today?”

  I pulled out my list. “Richard Mulch. The former sheriff of Landover. I could only find one article on Google for the man. Apparently, his wife died in a suspicious fire while he was serving time for taking bribes and extortion. I’d like to know more about his conviction and the fire. I’d also like to know about the Feldmans.”

  “The Feldmans? You’ll have to be more specific. What do you want to know?”

  “You know I’m doing research on a ghost, for my book, named Feldman Winehouse. You helped me find the article about his murder a few days ago. But his first name was his mother’s maiden name. I’d like to know more about that family.”

  She settled into her research chair and adjusted her glasses so they’d sit just right along her nose. I could tell the woman was in her element, here running research.

  After a couple minutes of her staring at the screen, she finally turned to me. “Not much on the fire at Richard Mulch’s house. But there’s quite a few articles that look like they might deal with the sting operation that led to his arrest. And I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find anything on the Feldmans either, except Feldman Winehouse’s birth announcement, which I thought was odd. Birth announcements weren’t common in the 1800s when he was born. Not even the wealthy took them out.”