by A. J. Aalto
He took this all in with a slow nod. I knew he would. “That’s heavy stuff for a Friday morning.”
I glanced over at him. He was doing his thing, staring straight ahead, giving me a window of privacy in case my bottom lip wanted to wobble, offering me easy-going space to talk if I needed to; there was no judgment, no pressure. I liked him a lot for that.
“On a completely unrelated note, my friend is apparently a grave robber,” I said, “and she’s not even sorry about it. Not really. She's sorry someone got killed, but she’s sorrier about how that affects her.” I should probably have felt guiltier about being judgmental about it, since Asmodeus, the Overlord Hizzownself, had accused me of always doing what was best for me, and the fact that it wasn't always the capital-R Right thing tickled His infernal balls.
Schenk grunted in agreement. “You know why she didn’t tell you.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t sure I’d like what was coming next; Schenk had excellent instincts, bordering on outright extrasensory perception, keener than I’d ever seen in a mortal. Wes and his sire, Master Strickland, were outright telepaths, and whoever they chose as DaySitters would in time have that Talent to draw from. As a mundane human, Schenk was downright spooky. Where I usually felt I had to rein other people’s flights of nonsense in, I trusted Schenk’s instincts.
“She wanted that necklace for herself,” Schenk guessed. “She misled Wyatt hoping that she would lose interest in it as a paranormal find. If you got your hands on it your friend might never get a chance to take possession of it, especially if you confirmed for Wyatt that it had some spiritual or supernatural importance. It would have gone to a museum or a research facility or something.”
My heart sank. He’d put his finger right on what was niggling at me, taunting at the edges of my perception. “That’s disappointingly plausible, if not more than a little cynical,” I noted, not disagreeing.
“Sorry. Even after Wyatt went missing your friend didn’t say a word. She was hoping no one would know its significance, and maybe she could collect it when the hubbub died down.”
“I didn’t see that.” Because I didn’t want to.
“What kind of psychic are you?” he said, but there was gentle teasing in it, meant to lighten the mood.
“The kind who likes frogs and Snickerdoodles and bubble baths that aren't interrupted by something sucking the heat out of the water while playing floor hockey with my phone.” I needed more coffee. And more Harry. And a one-way plane ticket to somewhere warm and un-haunted. I might get two out of three. Hooray, positivity! “Think Father Scarrow knew about the missing necklace?”
“Yep.” He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and on the inside of his cheek, making his goatee ripple. “Could be what Hiscott told him in confession.”
“Or Britney brought him her discoveries. How much do you want to bet that skull they found is the mystery lump in Scarrow’s bowling bag? You talk to this Barnaby Nowland dude?”
Schenk pressed his back into the driver’s seat, causing the leather to creak, and he let his breath out in one long, unhappy stream. “Yes. Tuesday, the morning after Wyatt went missing.”
“He didn’t mention any of this, I take it. Not about Ellie, or the skull, or the necklace, or the priest, or the tunnel, or the Ouija board?”
“Not a whisper. Sorry.”
“Are you gonna smack me if I say you suck at interrogations? Because you kinda suck at interrogations.”
He turned to me with an un-amused grunt. “It wasn't an interrogation; I was taking statements from people who knew the victim.”
Good thing we spoke to the Chicken Whisperer. I decided that he had a point, and my being a snarky cockthistle about it was getting us nowhere. “Sorry. Need more coffee. Is Britney’s purse in evidence?” I asked, knowing it was, but pretending I hadn’t peeked in the evidence box. “Ellie said the necklace was always in her purse, right?”
“Her effects were in Hiscott’s car the night they went for their walk along the canal north of Lock One. I entered them into evidence just in case. Now, I’m glad I did. That necklace is in there.”
“You’re sure?” I thought back to Scarrow’s beverage “accident”.
“Yeah. It’s strange. Weighty. Thick chain, long crystal vial with wire around it. It stands out. You wouldn’t forget having seen it.”
I looked out the window and frowned in something I hoped looked like critical thought, because my poker face sucked, and I didn't want Schenk to know that I might have been present for evidence being stolen. “You’re positive it’s still there?”
“I can double check, but where else would it be? Think some ghost pilfered it? It's not like our evidence locker isn't secured and videotaped. We may be Canadian up here, but we're not that trusting.” He made witchy hand motions at me. “You want to do your thing on it?”
Sure, if Father Fast-Fingers didn’t swipe it. “Simon didn’t mention any of this either,” I supposed, “but Scarrow said something interesting to me in your office when you were in the interrogation room. I got the feeling he wanted to tell me more, but felt like he couldn’t, maybe because of the sanctity of the confessional, or because your office might be bugged, or whatever. When I asked him why a ghost would want Britney Wyatt dead, he told me to ask Simon. Is that obstruction of justice or interfering with the course of an investigation? Or does that not apply to priests? Or ex-priests. I'm pretty sure ghosts have even fewer rights than the undead, and I'm not sure you could arrest one, anyway.”
“Time to talk to Renfield Scarrow again,” Schenk said, and pulled back onto a barely-plowed Bunting Road. “But first, Tim Horton’s.”
I sighed. “I can’t believe Ellie kept this shit from me.” But you knew she was hiding something. Are you mad at her, or yourself? Both, I thought back at myself, because I'm a trusting, optimistic dumbass sometimes, and look how well that goes.
“Cheer up, Cinderblock,” he said. “Positive thinking, remember? I’m positive she won’t be the last person to lie to you while you’re in Niagara.”
His sarcasm sounded so much like my own when Elian was being excessively perky that I couldn't help but smile sourly. “It is indeed great to be home. And just for that, you’re buying me a Danish.”
“Nine,” the car said.
“No, two will be plenty. Anyway, you don't eat, so shut your gas hole.”
***
Father Scarrow was waiting for us when we arrived, Schenk having called ahead, and his welcome was a startling contrast to every other time I’d spoken with him; he was frosty, bordering on downright hostile. Maybe he was peeved that I'd picked his pocket like he'd swiped Britney's necklace, and wasn't cool with being the pilfer-ee rather than the pilfer-er. The card was currently tucked in my Moleskine diary. Maybe he was just mad that I’d chosen a stake-out and an impromptu dip in a cadaver-tea canal over our bowling date. In any case, his scowl effectively tamped down any temptation to giggle rising from my belly. He brusquely informed us that we were interrupting his breakfast, left us in the hallway while he put the dogs away, and returned to reluctantly invite us into his living room. As we passed his office, he closed the door then moved on. No invitation to wander and explore today.
I muttered to Schenk out the side of my mouth, “Why do I feel as welcome as a wasp nest in a mosh pit?”
I thought Schenk smirked behind his paper coffee cup, but I couldn’t be sure. “Oh no, you’re smiling,” I said. “That’s rare, like thunder-snow. Does this mean you’re about to chuck an atomic tantrum?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“How are you so bloody calm all the time? Do you have ice water in your veins?”
“Maybe.”
“Going all one-word on me again, Thag?”
He sipped his coffee again, and I was almost certain he was smirking now. “Yep.”
“I’ve got a single word for you. Wanna hear it?”
“Is it gonna end up in your swear jar?”
“Duh,” I
replied, “but I think you could wear it with pride.”
“Thanks,” he said imperturbably.
Father Scarrow was back to wearing his black skinny jeans, sans cassock. I guess priests don’t wear that stuff for lounging around the house, although I sure would. Considering he was an ex-priest, I really wasn’t sure why he bothered wearing one at all, except that it probably gave the illusion of authority and reliability in tough times, or those moments he felt the need to influence or charm. Probably, it also concealed whatever his kink was as well; I certainly hadn’t expected him to come on to me. There's defrocked, and then there's defrocked, and I wasn't sure I wanted to be the latter by someone who was the former.
There was zero hint of flirtation today, and the only word that was anywhere near “fuck” that I was getting from him was “off.” When we got to the living room, I let Schenk take the lead, directing the conversation where he needed it to go. I hung back choosing a spot on the couch where I could watch them both while pretending sleepy indifference, leaning an elbow on the arm of the couch, and a cheek on a gloved fist. I made a show of yawning into that fist several times.
“Wake up, Marnie,” the priest ordered, snapping his fingers in my direction. “A young woman is dead. Surely, this is no time for a nap.”
I sat up straight with an irritated flush. “Miss Baranuik, to you. What’s got your rosary in a bunch, eh?”
Scarrow waved that away with an annoyed huff, and I summoned some psi to Feel around the room. Schenk’s suspicion was a quiet purl of warmth to the right. Scarrow’s uncertainty, fear, frustration, and suspicion were a bubbling stew threatening to overflow the pot and scorch us all. Scarrow’s suspicion? Did he know I took his picture, or was something else causing his doubts? I sensed he was frustrated with me but not distrustful. Someone else had wound him up before we got there.
I asked carefully, “Did someone take something from you, Father Scarrow?”
He blinked rapidly. “I …” He paused to look me up and down with new interest, like he hadn’t believed the psychic stuff until now. “Yes, I believe so. I don’t even know why he’d want it. Barnaby isn’t a spiritual boy. He’s only into the ghost hunting bit for its ghoulish undertones. The boy is fascinated, maybe too fascinated, by bones, death, the morbid side of things.” He cast a heavy sigh. “Fucking goths.”
“Barnaby Nowland took something?”
“An envelope of photographs is missing from my desk.”
Constable Schenk did a marvelous job of not looking in my direction, though I read the shift in suspicion. My initial urge was to jump up and defend myself. I wanted to cry, “I only picked his pocket! You watched me do it, fuckknuckle!” but I maintained my cool, as difficult as that was, and tried to follow Schenk's lead.
“I can take that up for you and question Mr. Nowland about these pictures. They’re important to you?” Schenk's notebook and pencil were out and poised for duty.
“They’re important to your case,” Scarrow said. “Somewhere in those pictures may be the identity of our poltergeist. Without the poltergeist’s identity, it will be nearly impossible to exorcise him.”
I thought about this, and wanted to ask Scarrow about Mama-Captain; did he still think the poltergeist was a him not a her? Schenk refused to get drawn into the ghost talk. He was focused on solid, mundane evidence right now. “I think you know why we’re here, Father Scarrow. We need to see what Britney Wyatt gave you.”
“I see.” Scarrow nodded sadly. “I was afraid of that, but I understand. Let me go get it for you.”
Schenk glanced over to lift one eyebrow at me in question, I assumed about the missing envelope of photographs. I gave him a look that was intended to convey how ludicrous that idea was; I was hardly in a position to palm any paperwork while stripping to Abba a cappella while simultaneously trying not to get shot the last time we'd been here.
Scarrow returned with the bowling bag and set it on the coffee table.
“What’s in the bag, Father Scarrow?” Schenk asked.
“A very old human skull.”
Disappointment spun out from him by how unimpressed Schenk and I were with his pronouncement. I guess he was expecting Schenk to go all Brad Pitt from Se7en. Maybe if he'd started doing Hamlet's soliloquy to Yorick, I'd have been a bit more appreciative. I'd had a human head show up in my mailbox and try to bite me, once. Disrespectful as disinterring the skull was, it was, at the end of the day, merely someone's quiet remains.
If Schenk's professional demeanor was a poker face, I definitely didn't want to play cards with him. His voice was as calm as ever. “Open the bag for us, Father.”
“No, please. I don’t open it in the rectory. I’m sorry that she brought it to my home at all.” He stuck one hand in his pocket, and used the other to ruffle his hair back from his face then gesture at us in an appeal to understand; he reminded me of a hip, young professor trying to explain James Joyce to a gaggle of smitten students. “I should have given it to you, perhaps, but you must understand. I need this.” He motioned to me, trying to draw me to his side. “We need this.”
“Sorry. I need to see what’s in the bag,” Schenk insisted. “Open it, please.” Okay, maybe if Pitt's portrayal of Detective Mills had been on Quaaludes and was paying a thousand bucks per swear, Schenk was doing it.
Scarrow sighed and pulled his crucifix out from under his black turtleneck. He cracked his knuckles before grasping the zipper. “Now, I believe you have something that belongs to me, too. Or rather, Miss Baranuik does. We can consider this a trade.”
“There will be no trade,” Schenk said, interrupting me before I could even consider the subject of the photograph. “This is an investigation into the death of a young woman with whom you were acquainted, and this bag may contain evidence that I am hereby taking into custody.”
“I’d like to speak to Miss Baranuik alone,” Scarrow said, struggling with the ancient zipper as it twisted.
“I still require Miss Baranuik’s assistance for the time being. You can speak to her on your own time, if she chooses to do so.” Schenk said. “Please detail for me the circumstances under which this item came into your possession.”
The zipper broke, and Scarrow used his hands to just push it the rest of the way open. All the strain dropped from his face like someone had slapped him with a limp bunch of rotten celery. It was replaced with the realization that he was utterly and entirely fucked.
Softly, he said, with horrified wonder and astonishing diction, “That shifty little shitdick.”
Probably, I shouldn't have brayed with laughter. I definitely shouldn't have fallen off the couch and landed on my ass while doing so. Probably, I'd go to hell for laughing at a priest's distress. Probably, Asmodeus would high-five me for it when I got there.
“I have no idea how this came into my possession, officer, because this was not here last night.” He reached in and lifted a ceramic skull with a handle and a broken spout. It was a heavy, ceramic teapot without its lid. Bitchin’ teapot, the mischievous part of my brain supplied, and I pushed that thought away and tried to quell my giggles. The hole in the top was chipped along the edges with a great, tea-stained fracture on one side.
As Schenk got up to make a phone call in the hall, I asked, “What makes you think Barnaby Nowland took your photographs?”
“He was the only person here last night,” Scarrow said. He nailed me with a knowing look and my guts squirmed. “And you’re the only person who got close enough to take that picture out of my pocket.”
I took it out of my notebook and returned it with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Sometimes, I do things the wrong way.”
“Yes, I see that.” He glanced at my gloved hands and asked, “Did you do your psychic thing on this?”
I nodded, but didn’t offer him any further insights, or mention my cowering, spectral guest at North House. “It’s a carte-de-visite.”
“Yes. They generally went out of fashion when the cabinet card came into use in
the 1870’s, but some families continued to use them. The Briggs-Adsit family held on to the past quite firmly. Not one of them was particularly good at letting go.” He held the print gingerly, though it was laminated for protection. “I’ve narrowed my search to them, and the O’Donnells. There’s more spiritual upset in the O’Donnell family, obviously, because of the murders—“
“Wait, what?” I knew one of the famous Donnellys, Patrick, was buried at the new Red Hook cemetery. “Do you mean the Black Donnellys?”
“No, the lesser-known White-O’Donnells.”
“Are you fucking with me?” I asked. I grimaced and added to what I owed Mr. Merritt, but how many times is a girl going to say something like that to a man of the cloth? So totally worth it.
“No, I’m quite serious.” Scarrow stared unhappily at the skull teapot. “Paul and Mary-Ellen White-O’Donnell are both buried in the Old Red Hook Cemetery, and died in a terrible murder/suicide. That sort of passing leaves a great psychic scar on a spirit. Britney believed she saw Paul White-O’Donnell. She called him ‘Tall Man with Flower’ in a video blog she kept.”
He showed me the carte-de-visite, the one I had given back. “This young man is Captain John Briggs-Adsit. In case you can’t read the rest, it’s Mother and Father, 1864. His mother had a notorious temper.”
“And the uniform?”
“American Civil War. They fled to Canada after John was discharged earlier that year.” He drifted off, shaking his head at something I was not privy to. “Barnaby Nowland is in danger and he doesn’t even realize it.”
Schenk’s voice rose in the hall to an aggravated mutter, but I couldn’t make out the words. The dogs in the safe room snuffled with their big noses under the door and scratched, causing the door to rattle in its casing. One of them gave a single, plaintive yelp.
I asked, “What would Barnaby do with the skull?”
“He once expressed a desire to see it on his mantelpiece.”
Blerg. “Does he know that Britney may have died because of the skull?”
“He seemed emotionally unaffected by that when we spoke last night. He asked for the skull. I told him no and that I needed it.”
