by Harper, Lou
Denton glanced at the clock too, and saw a frog sitting atop. A frog that wasn't really there. He could tell because the thing was transparent. Real frogs were solid. Moreover, he'd been hallucinating the little fuckers since the Lily Pool drive-by. Especially in the mornings, and sometimes at night. They kept popping into his dreams too.
Denton was convinced these imaginary amphibians had something to do with Bran, or rather, Bran's fixation with Peter. If a person's obsession was strong enough to linger in this world after death, and if Bran's talent was strong enough to turn a man into a frog without meaning to…well, Denton figured him seeing nonexistent frogs had to be some sort of transference from Bran. Magical ESP or whatnot. However, he hadn't yet figured out how to broach the subject with Bran. Hey, your pining after your ex is messing with my head, could've made Bran clam up.
The dirt-colored lump sat on top of the clock, motionless, except for its undulating throat. Denton reached out but before he could make contact the frog vanished.
Bran walked back into the room, hair wet, naked, except for a towel wrapped around his waist.
Denton watched Bran open the closet and root around for clothes to wear—something black, no doubt. He decided to broach the subject on his mind. "Hey Bran, about Peter—"
Bran cut him off. "There's nothing about Peter I haven't told you already. Are you planning to get out of bed at some point?"
"As matter of fact, yes," Denton snapped back. "I have a date with Joy. I won't be back for lunch."
***
Denton's building used to be a Hotel once upon a time and had retained many small details from the old days, like the wrought iron balustrade of the stairwell. Also, its name: The Balmoral. Denton had been waiting in the lobby only for a few minutes before Joy's red Fiat pulled up outside, steam rising from the tailpipe.
"So what's this big mystery you wouldn't tell me about over the phone?" Denton asked as he slid into the passenger seat.
Joy drove slowly on the slush-covered road. The snowplow hadn't gotten to their street yet. "You remember the great Alphonse Bouchard?"
"How could I forget?"
"Well, I went back to the store where I bought the Dutch oven, and got to talk with the owner. I ended up buying from him a madeleine mold, a muffin tin, and a covered pot—supposedly all from the same estate sale, but I think he was wrong about the muffin tin. However, my madeleines are to die for. Oh, I almost forgot!" She reached behind the seat and pulled out a paper bag. She pushed it into Denton's hand. "Here, try them."
In the bag he found three shell-shaped little cakes, still warm. Denton bit into one and sweet, buttery goodness burst in his mouth with a hint of lemon. The cakes were so light they melted on his tongue. He didn't say a word till they were all gone. "I must say, the great Alphonse is earning his keep. Is he giving you any trouble?"
"Not really. I haven't even seen him since you guys were there. I feel a cold spot in the kitchen from time to time, and the spices have to be just so, or he'll reorganize them. Oh, and the microwave is on the fritz—I don't think Alphonse is big on modern technology. It's a little inconvenient, but I deal."
"Well, if you get tired of him, just say the word."
"I will. For now though I have a different plan." She sounded like a woman with a purpose, and it worried Denton.
"Oh? Do tell," he said not without apprehension.
She was eager to fill him in. "The antique store guy gave me the name of the person he got the cooking stuff from. Her name is Esther Wells. I called her up and she agreed to see us."
"What do you need me for?"
"I'm hoping she might have other things left behind by Alphonse or at least could tell me who bought them. Your talents could be handy, in case Alphonse happens to drop by. Or other ghostly things might happen. Who knows."
Denton pulled himself up straight and put on a serious face. "I can't do it. It's against the necromantic code."
"Are you serious?" She gave him a sideways stare.
He let her stew for a second before dropping his act. "No. I'll keep my eyes open, but if there's no ghost I'm useless."
She smirked. "I'm used to it—you're a man. We should agree on a sign. Scratch your nose if you see something."
Denton let the jibe slide. "What if I don't see anything but my nose itches?" Just thinking about it gave Denton the urge to scratch.
"Fine. If you see something, push your sleeve up, like you're checking your watch."
"I'm not wearing a watch."
"Yes, exactly. There will be no confusion." She turned onto a big street; the lanes there were clear of snow—at least till the next blizzard—and the car began to pick up speed. "So what's up with you?" she asked. "You seem…I dunno…distracted."
Denton shrugged. "Bran can be difficult at times."
She nodded with sympathy. "Men. Can't live with them, can't bury them under the porch. What's the matter? Maybe I can impart you my wisdom."
"Aren't you single?"
"At the moment, but I date. Plenty enough. Trust me, I know men."
Denton opened his mouth, but he immediately realized he couldn't breath a word of Peter or the frog business. Joy knew only so much about Bran's past and talents, and this secret wasn't Denton's to share. So he course-corrected. "What do you think of kilts?"
"On men?"
"Of course."
She grinned. "They are hawt. More than shorts. I'm not sure why. Probably because they make your imagination run wild wondering what's under, and hoping for a stray gust of wind. It must be like in the old times when women were so bundled up a glimpse of an ankle drove men crazy. I bet Gerard Butler in a kilt is ten times sexier than Gerard Butler naked."
Denton hadn't expected such a thorough reply. "You have paid some thought to this before, haven't you?"
"Many times. Ever since I saw a photo of Gerard Butler in a kilt. You men don't have a monopoly on dirty minds. Back to the subject, showing your legs is a good strategy. Calves are like shoulders—it's hard to have ugly ones. I bet even your skinny ones would look fine. So why the question?"
"I'm trying talk Bran into wearing them. At least around the house. For comfort, you know." He didn't mention the tail—another secret Joy didn't know about. "But he's resistant. For a witch, he's not very adventurous. Not about his wardrobe—you saw, all he wears is black."
"Hm." Joy drove silently for several blocks. They were out in Niles now, rolling past modest family homes. "I'd offer to talk to him, but he's too reserved. I'd probably just scare him off. You need a more subtle approach. There's only one thing you can do."
"What?"
"You wear a kilt yourself. Eventually, Bran will get so used to it, it'll feel normal to him. He might even try it himself. At least that's the theory. Hey, I think we've arrived." She pointed at a single story house painted in yellow. Thanks to being midmorning, they easily found an already cleared parking spot.
***
Esther Wells was a plump woman in her fifties. Gray mixed with blonde in her hair and laugh lines marked her face. She invited them into a living room crowded with furniture. She squeezed herself into an armchair, while Joy and Denton sat side-by-side on the sofa across from her.
"So you wanted to know about Uncle Alphonse's things?" she started.
Joy leaned forward. "Yes, you see, I bought a beautiful red Dutch oven at an antique store, and it changed the way I cook. I'm serious." Her eyes shone with rare intensity. "Almost as if Mr. Bouchard's spirit was there with me, guiding me. I went back to the store to see if I could find anything else from your uncle. There were a couple of things, and the owner was kind enough to give me your number. If you have anything else left over from the estate, I would very much like to look at it, if it's all right."
Mrs. Wells seemed slightly startled by Joy's zeal, but also taken by it. "I'm sorry honey, they're all gone." As Joy's face fell, she added, "but my son-in-law could tell you the names of the buyers. I'll have him call you." She crossed her hands in her l
ap. "You know, it's been so long anyone has been interested in Uncle Alphonse, and he used to be famous in his day. He and Le Chateau. But nobody remembers either of them anymore."
"How did he die?"
"His heart. It happened in the restaurant. He stayed there past closing. They found him in the morning, lying on the kitchen floor."
"When did it happen?"
"Back in eighty-two. I remember it was spring."
"So how come his kitchen equipment went up for sale just now?"
"Oh, these were his personal belongings. The restaurant was sold after Uncle Alphonse died. The new owners kept the name, but the place wasn't the same without him. It closed three years later. There's a boutique in its place now. Who knows what happened with the kitchen stuff. No, this estate sale was my mother's. She passed away last fall."
"I'm sorry."
Mrs. Wells gave a melancholy little smile. "It was her time; she'd been declining for years. We all have to go one day, don't we?" Joy and Denton nodded, and Mrs. Wells went on. "My mother, bless her soul, had a touch of the hoarder in her. Well, more than a touch. Not as bad as some, mind you, but she couldn't let go of any family stuff. Maybe because she and Alphonse had only each other when she was young. They came over from France during the war, just the two of them. She was eleven years old then, Uncle Alphonse nineteen. He raised her, provided for her. It couldn't have been an easy life."
"And Mr. Bouchard became a famous restaurateur."
"Yes. He was a driven man. When he passed, my mother couldn't bear to sell any of his personal belongings. Not even the cooking things. Her house was so full you could barely move around. And she even had three storage lockers stuffed with furniture. I feel bad selling it all, but as you see, I can't put them anywhere." She made a sweeping gesture at the room. "My kids didn't want any of those old things, and putting the money in my grandkids' college fund made more sense. All I've kept was the photo albums and some letters." She went quiet and screwed up her eyes as if something had just occurred to her. "There was one other thing. I'll be right back." She stood and headed for the door.
The moment her back was turned Joy nudged Denton hard and mouthed, "Snoop around."
"Mrs. Wells?" Denton spoke up.
Mrs. Wells turned around in the doorway. "Yes, dear?"
"May I use your bathroom?"
"Sure. Come, I'll show you."
She walked him down the hallway and pointed out the correct door, and kept walking. Denton waited a minute, then flushed and walked out. He cracked one door open and saw a bedroom with a neatly made bed but no ghost. He quickly pulled the door shut. Next he poked his head into the kitchen but it was empty too. Sounds of drawers opening and boxes shuffling came from the back of the house, and he headed in their direction. From the door he saw what must've been a guest bedroom. Mrs. Wells stood by a chest of drawer with her back to the drawer. No ghost. Denton tiptoed back into the living room, where Joy waited with her eyebrows arched in anticipation.
"So?" she asked.
Denton shook his head. "Nothing."
He was back in his spot on the sofa when Mrs. Wells came back, carrying a bundle of papers. She handed them to Joy. "My daughter found this in the drawer of a desk in storage. I didn't have the heart to throw it out."
Denton leaned closer to Joy and took a good look as she leafed through the papers. They appeared to be typewritten recipes, all of them in English, although the notes peppering the pages in green ink seemed French.
Joy lifted her head and stared at Mrs. Wells. "Wow, this is amazing. Mr. Bouchard must've been writing a cookbook. Did you think of publishing it?"
Mrs. Wells flipped her hand. "My son-in-law doesn't think it's worth the trouble. He says the cookbook market is glutted and if you don't have the name of a celebrity attached the publishers won't even look at your book, and nobody remembers Alphonse Bouchard or his restaurant. And of course, everyone wants easy recipes you can fix in thirty minutes from a handful of ingredients. Uncle Alphonse's dishes are far too complicated and time consuming. John is a smart man, he knows things. He's a lawyer, you know."
Joy's smile wilted. "Oh. Too bad."
Mrs. Wells was quiet for a moment and squeezed her hands together, as if it helped her make a decision. "You know, honey, why don't you keep them? Do with them as you want," she said in the end.
Joy perked up. "Are you sure?"
"Why not? They'd just sit in a drawer here till I die too and my grandkids throw them out. I much rather have them with someone who cares. I haven't met anyone in decades who was interested in Uncle Alphonse. So, they're yours, honey. Take them."
***
As they left Mrs. Wells Joy buzzed like a bee who just found a huge patch of spring flowers. "Isn't this awesome? An unpublished cookbook. So much better than I hoped for," she babbled in the car.
Denton didn't see how any of this was awesome. "What are you gonna do with it?"
"Publish it, of course!"
"But Mrs. Wells said—"
"Not with a publisher or for money, silly. I could do one of those print on demand things. Take a few pictures, typeset it nicely and get it printed. It'll be a cool project. Mind you, the pictures wouldn't be as food-porny like in a real cookbook, but who cares? I can do something you'd see on a food blog. A good food blog," she added.
"If you aren't going to make money with it, why go into so much work?" Denton played the devil's advocate.
"Why not? It'll be fun. Plus, I feel I owe it to the old guy to have his recipes out there at last. And if nothing else, the books could make nice Christmas presents. I'll have to find a place that does hardcover." Her whole face glowed with the joy of purpose and big plans. "I never know what to get for my mother. I tried everything—silk scarves, spa gift certificates—I know she doesn't use any of them. Well, she won't cook from this one either, but she'll put it on the coffee table and brag about it to her friends. Like she did with my drawings when I was little—my daughter made this. You know." Joy careened onto the main road and they were on their way back to the city. "All this talk about cookbooks made me hungry. Let's stop for lunch. I'm buying," she said.
"Nuh-uh. It's my turn."
"Even better. So where should we go?"
***
They settled on one of their old haunts, a sandwich shop in Wicker Park. It was on the way, more or less. Alice's Tea Room was wedged between a boutique and a tattoo salon. Joy snagged a parking spot on a side street and they used the alley to cut through to the back entrance. But they didn't get that far.
The woman sprawled out on the dirty snow wore Uggs and a long red coat. She wasn't moving, but she was still clutching a blue shopping bag in one hand.
Joy gasped and rushed ahead. Denton followed right behind, but he couldn't take his eyes off the smoky shape surrounding the woman—on her, around her, possibly inside her. Was it her spirit separating? He'd never witnessed such thing before. It was an eerie sight and a chill unrelated to the weather ran down his spine.
"Call 911," he said quickly, but Joy was already on the phone. He kneeled beside the woman and brushed her long, blonde hair out of her face. She was young, thirty-ish. A thick odor of cigarette smoke hung in the air, but Denton couldn't tell if it came from her or not. He reached for her pulse and after some fumbling he could make out faint beats. Too slow, he thought. He was fairly sure she needed CPR, rescue breathing at least, probably not chest compressions, though. Denton tilted her head back, pinched her nose, leaned forward. Pressing his lips on hers he forced the air from his lungs into hers.
He kept doing it while other people appeared around them, asking questions and prattling about what to do. Fortunately, Joy handled them.
Denton had an unbidden talent for reliving the deaths of others. When someone died they tended to leave a mark, especially if the death was violent. Somehow their emotions imprinted the moment on the place and there it stayed till it gradually faded away. Unlike Denton, average people went about their lives without a c
lue about the existence of these death traces. However, when he ran into one, he felt what the dying person felt, saw what they saw. It was unpleasant even after he'd learned how to shield his mind from the worst of it, but it was also frustrating because he could do nothing about them.
This time was different—he could keep this woman from dying. He focused and pulled white light into himself, and with the next exhale he passed it into the woman. The spirit shadow vanished. And so did the stench of stale cigarettes.
By the time the ambulance arrived the woman was breathing on her own. She came to and looked at Denton with confusion. She tried to sit up but the EMTs didn't let her. They strapped her onto a gurney and rolled her into the back of their vehicle.
The small crowd dispersed and Denton noticed the corner of a blue shopping bag poking out from under a parked car. One of the gawkers must've kicked it there in the hubbub. He fished it out. "I should give this back to her." He turned and saw Joy staring at him, as if she was seeing him for the first time.
"Den, you were like a superhero. Take charge, everything. I'm like impressed as hell," she gushed and wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him hard, but fortunately soon let him go and stepped back.
He felt color spreading over his cheeks. At least he could blame the cold for it. "Oh, it's nothing. I've told you about the time when I almost drowned as a kid."
"Yup, of course."
"Yeah. Well, after the accident my mother made sure everyone in the family knew CPR, me included. And had me take swimming lessons. Not that either would've helped me much after being stupid enough to walk out on thin ice, but it made her feel better. Let's go inside. I'm freezing."
During lunch Joy kept singing Denton's praise and chattering about her cookbook plans. Denton smiled and nodded and made the right noises to keep Joy going, but his mind kept wandering back to the sight of the blonde woman on the ground and spirit shadow over her. Something was very wrong with the picture.
