Polterheist: An Esther Diamond Novel

by Laura Resnick

  “Well, I never met Constance,” I said, “but having met two generations of her descendants, I’d say that ‘noisy’ seems to be a family trait. So maybe she is our ghost.”

  “‘Noisy’ is used in a more figurative sense here,” said Max. “There may be rapping, tapping, knocking, and even human voices associated with a poltergeist—”

  “Or laughter?” I asked. “That’s what Satsy heard in the elevator. That and growling.”

  “Yes, these are also possibilities. But the key element is that a poltergeist is typically much more physical in its influence than a traditional spirit or ghost.”

  “Physical?” Lucky repeated. “As in trying to suffocate a young lady with the branches of a fake tree while knocking people around with the other branches?”

  Max nodded. “Exactly. If we are dealing with a ghost or spirit—which may or may not be the case—then that sort of physical activity points directly to a poltergeist. Rather than revealing itself as a shadowy apparition, a poltergeist throws a plate at you, makes your radio explode, sends a wagon speeding down the street when there is no horse pulling it, and so on.”

  Max paused and frowned in thought before adding, “We should certainly proceed with caution. If we are facing a poltergeist, then the phenomena which Esther and Satsy experienced indicate an unusually powerful one.”

  “So the way the enchanted tree fought off a bunch of people while attacking me,” I said. “That wouldn’t be considered standard mojo for a poltergeist?”

  “No, indeed. Poltergeists are usually just a nuisance. Occasionally, they’re dangerous. But they rarely have the level of power and sustained control that characterizes the event in the Enchanted Forest—a locale which, obviously, we’ll need to scrutinize thoroughly today, Lucky.”

  “If this is a poltergeist,” I asked, “then how do we issue it an exit visa?”

  “You mean invite it to leave?” Lucky asked. “Good question.”

  “Well, that can be complicated,” said Max.

  I sighed. “Of course.”

  “Hey, you knew it wouldn’t be easy,” Lucky said. “It never is.”

  “A poltergeist may operate according to a variety of parameters and patterns, but one of the interesting features of this particular type of entity is that it usually haunts a person, rather than a place.”

  I thought this over. “So the epicenter, in that case, would be someone rather than somewhere?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Hey . . . Now that’s interesting!” said Lucky. “Max, could the poltergeisted person be a criminal mastermind?”

  I said, “You’re thinking there’s a link between the strange phenomena inside Fenster’s and the heists?”

  He nodded, making the bells on his elf cap jingle. “Think about it. Very smooth hits. No witnesses. The hijacked drivers can’t give the cops any useful information.”

  “How do you know that?” I challenged.

  “Because if the cops were getting any decent information at all, they’d have a lead on the robbers and leave the Gambellos alone, instead of continuing to frisk the family so thoroughly that I’m worried OCCB is going to tell the boss to bend over so they look up there, too.” Lucky added gloomily, “Victor Gambello don’t need this kind of stress at his age.”

  “Okay, so they’re very smooth hits that leave no evidence trail,” I said. “That doesn’t really connect them—”

  “And someone here at the store has supernatural mojo. Someone who really hates Fenster’s, I’d say.” Lucky paused before continuing, “I’ve thought about it, and what you said last night is right, kid. If she were still around, in a spiritual sense, old Connie wouldn’t be causing trouble in Solsticeland or scaring Santa. No way.” Lucky’s bells jangled again as he shook his head. “The Gambellos got La Cosa Nostra. Our thing. And this company was La Cosa Sua. Her thing.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” It seemed like a fitting description.

  “She was a tough woman, old Connie Fenster. The cops think it was all their arrests and indictments that put a stop to the, uh, stuff that went on all those years ago, when the Gambellos decided to leave Fenster and Powell alone.” Lucky snorted. “Nah. You know what it was?”

  “What?” I asked, increasingly fascinated by Constance, despite feeling no regret that I never got to meet her.

  “It was Connie. She put a stop to it,” said Lucky. “She went to Don Victor Gambello herself, against the wishes of the Powells, and cut a deal with him. A tough deal, too. She was a real negotiator. That society widow went to the capo di tutti capi to do business, and she didn’t go to him with her hat in her hand or begging for mercy. She went to him as an equal. And you what? He wound up treating her like one.”

  That must be why Helen Fenster-Thorpe, who believed the Gambellos were behind the hijackings, thought she could negotiate with the thieves. Because her mother had done so—successfully. I suspected, though, that Helen overrated her own abilities, whereas Constance Fenster had not.

  “The boss has always said that Connie Fenster was the strongest, shrewdest, most ruthless person he ever met—and if she ever decided to get into our thing, then he’d retire and move to Florida.” Lucky grinned. “I guess we’re lucky she stuck to the retail world.”

  I recalled something else I’d heard during my accidental visit with the Fenster family yesterday. “Lucky, the deal that Constance made with your boss . . . What happened when she died?”

  He shrugged. “It went the way of all flesh.”

  “When I met the Fensters yesterday and they were talking about this, it sounded to me like they think the Gambellos are hitting the trucks in order to pressure them into making another deal.”

  “The boss respected their mother,” said Lucky. “So if he wanted to get the Fensters’ attention, this sure ain’t how he’d go about doing it.”

  “They don’t seem to know that. Then again, I think Lopez nailed it when he said they’re idiots.” I added, “You can’t tell anyone he said that.”

  “Who would I tell?” Lucky said, “Anyhow, to return to our current situation . . . It seems like these weird things happening here are probably caused by someone who hates Fenster’s. And although the hijackings could be just a matter of business, maybe they’re being pulled off by someone who hates Fenster’s, too. They’re doing a lot of damage, after all, right? So if there’s an inside person involved in the hijackings . . .”

  “Ah,” said Max. “Yes, I see your point. The inside person might be the same individual connected to the mystical activities. However, a criminal mastermind is not the sort of personality typically associated with poltergeist phenomena.”

  “Too bad. Then we’d have a whole new field: polterheist phenomena.” I enjoyed a little chuckle over this.

  Lucky gave me a peculiar look before asking Max, “So what sort of person are we looking for then?”

  “The afflicted individual is very often a troubled young person,” said Max.

  “Oh, I have a candidate,” I said instantly.

  “Ah.” Lucky’s bells jingled as he nodded. “The dead-looking girl.”

  “Pardon?” said Max.

  I explained about Elspeth Fenster.

  “Hmmm.” Max stroked his beard. “Yes, she does sound like a viable candidate for affliction by a tormenting spirit.” After a moment he added, “But we mustn’t leap to conclusions. Lucky and I should launch our investigation. We have a big job ahead of us!”

  “And I should go to the Hanukkah station,” I said, feeling glad this job would be over in two more days. “Miles is bound to come looking for me any minute.”

  The door to this room swung open. Max immediately donned his dark glasses. Lucky and I looked at the newcomer.

  I relaxed a moment later and said, “Hello, Eggnog.”

  “Dreidel.” His brows rose in silent inquiry. I recalled that I was in the men’s locker room.

  “I was just helping the new elves settle in,” I said.

  “N
ew elves?” he said in surprise. “This late in the season?”

  “Well, we’re so understaffed, you know . . .”

  “Ah. Yeah. People just keep disappearing. It’s getting weird, actually.”

  “I know,” I said. “Like that Agatha Christie novel where they’re all trapped on an island and keep getting bumped off one by one, until there are none. Well, except for the killer.”

  Eggnog looked at Max, then at Nelli. “A blind elf?” he said dubiously.

  “Fenster’s is an equal opportunity employer,” I said.

  “How do you do, sir?” said Max, nodding in Eggnog’s general direction. “I’m Belsnickel.”

  “You’re who?” I blurted.

  “I have chosen it as my elf name,” Max said grandly. “It holds fond childhood memories for me. Belsnickel was a goblin who visited children on Christmas Eve to find out if they’d been naughty or nice.”

  Eggnog snorted upon hearing those familiar names.

  “We’ve got our own Naughty and Nice,” I explained to Max and Lucky. “But you probably want to steer clear of them.”

  Eggnog introduced himself, then looked expectantly at Lucky.

  The old gangster shifted his weight. “I’m, uh . . . Sugarplum.”

  I blinked. “Seriously?”

  Lucky shrugged. “It sounds like an elf name. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.” I added to Eggnog, “And their reindeer is, er, Vixen.”

  Nelli wagged her tail gently.

  “You better get out on the floor, Dreidel,” said Eggnog. “Miles is looking for you.”

  “Right. Of course.” I turned to my friends. “So . . . you guys know what to do and also where to find me if you need me, right? I’ll see you later.”

  I exited the room, then went into the ladies locker room across the hall to answer the call of nature and touch up my makeup before going out onto the floor. When I exited the locker room, I practically walked straight into Lopez, who was coming down the hall and right outside the door.

  “Oh!” I stared at him in wide-eyed dismay and did my best not to look guilty. I hoped that Max and Lucky had already left this area. “Hi!”

  “Hi.” He was wearing his coat and looked a little flushed with cold.

  “Did you just get here?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He was carrying an armload of file folders, which he shifted a little so he could start unbuttoning his coat. “Where are you working today?”

  “Up here. Fourth floor. Why?”

  “All day?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m at the Hanukkah station this afternoon. Then I’m helping Santa after that.”

  “For how long?”

  “Probably all evening. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “Where are you going to be?” I asked.

  “Down at the docks.”

  “All day?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “A big part of the day, anyhow.”

  “But you’re not going to be . . . wandering around a whole lot or anything, are you?”

  “I . . .” He frowned. “I don’t know. Probably not. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “You seem a little tense,” he observed.

  “I am,” I said darkly as I looked over his shoulder and saw who was approaching. “Naughty and Nice are headed this way.”

  Lopez turned slightly to see who I meant—and promptly morphed into a predictable stereotype at the sight of two mostly-naked blonde bombshells walking toward him. Within nanoseconds, his IQ visibly dropped by about thirty points, he seemed incapable of speech, and his jaw hung open slightly.

  Freddie’s bimbos saw a good-looking man ignoring me to gape at them, and they each gave me malicious smiles before batting their lashes at him and giggling flirtatiously.

  Lopez blinked.

  “Hi, Dreidel,” Naughty said.

  “Yeah, whatever.” I stepped aside so the girls could get past me and enter the locker room.

  After the door closed behind me, shutting off his view of them, Lopez looked at me blankly. “What were we just talking about?”

  “You have a badge,” I said coldly. “So you could follow through and frisk them, too.”

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “A couple of half-naked playmates walk right by me, and I’m not even gonna look?”

  “I don’t remember what we were talking about,” I said testily. “And I have to get to work now.”

  “But you’re up here all day today, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  I heard a noisy sneeze right behind the door of the men’s locker room across the hall, so I had a good idea who’d emerge when it opened a moment later. Feeling a little malicious pleasure about what would happen next, I gave a friendly little finger-wave to Wheezy Santa, who was blowing his nose.

  Lopez turned to see who was behind him—and flinched, nearly dropping the armload of folders he was carrying.

  As Wheezy Santa went down the hallway, sniffing noisily, Lopez rubbed his forehead and said, “Jesus, that is just so disturbing.”

  12

  I made my way to Santa’s throne room early that evening, where Eggnog and I were due to relieve the Russian elf and a chirpy redheaded elf whom I had worked with only once. I couldn’t remember her name—Tinsel? Ivy? Something like that.

  “Hi, Dreidel!” the redhead cried, using suitably melodramatic elf gestures. “Oops! I mean, shalom!”

  The expression on the Russian’s face suggested that the redheaded elf’s very existence was an affront to her.

  “Hi,” I said to them both. “What’s up?”

  “Please try to cheer up Santa while you’re here, Dreidel! He seems very down today.” The redhead pushed out her lower lip to demonstrate sadness.

  I resisted the urge to remind her that I was a co-worker, not a five-year-old visitor.

  The Russian elf said to me, in a voice that carried, “Two people this afternoon see black Santa and ask me if they can visit white Santa instead.”

  “I think that’s so mean!” said the redhead.

  “Oh, for chrissake. I’m not in a bad mood because of a few garden-variety racist assholes,” Jeff said grumpily, making the redhead gasp. “I’m in a bad mood because I’m a grown man whose only two job offers since coming back to New York this year have both involved serving as a cheap diversion for retail shoppers.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Eggnog, “it’s going to be one of those shifts with Diversity Santa.”

  Oh, he was one to talk.

  I said to the two women, “Okay, troops, Eggnog and I will take it from here. You can go to your next post.”

  As they departed, I took a good look at Jeff and realized he did look pretty morose.

  Unfortunately, Miles joined us then, which certainly precluded any possibility of cheering up Jeff.

  “Ivy never showed up for work,” Miles said tersely to me.

  “No, I think Ivy was here ten seconds ago,” I said, gesturing in the direction the chirpy elf had gone. “Wasn’t that her?”

  “No, that was Merry.”

  “I thought Merry was the elf with the Russian accent,” said Eggnog, pointing in the direction the dour elf had gone.

  “No, that’s Nutcracker,” said Miles.

  Jeff muttered, “And that name suits her perfectly.”

  “So which one is Ivy?” I asked.

  “Does it really matter?” Miles replied impatiently. “She’s not here, and she hasn’t called in. She’s not coming back. We’ll never see her again, Dreidel! Who cares which one she was?”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “And since she’s another one who hasn’t returned her costume, she can forget about being sent her final paycheck!”

  “People keep these costumes?” I asked incredulously. After I took off this outfit for the last time on Christmas Eve, I’d never want to see it again; it would always be a reminder of this humiliating job
.

  “No one respects store property,” Miles said in aggravation. “Moody Santa, Ivy, Giggly Santa, Poinsettia, Thistle . . .”

  “Thistle’s gone, too?” I asked. “When did that happen?” The straight elf had seemed pretty reliable to me.

  “He hasn’t called or come in today, either!” Miles said bitterly. “And his costume isn’t in his locker. It’s gone, too! Hardly anyone who’s gone AWOL has returned their costumes this year. I’ve lost track of how many outfits we’ll have to replace for next season!”

  “Well, you’ll get mine back,” Jeff promised. “It’s not as if I’d get a lot of wear out of it.”

  “I’ll get everyone’s costume back from now on, or there’ll be heck to pay!” Suddenly struck by inspiration, Miles said, “I’m going to write a memo about this!”

  “Oh, no!” I cried. “Not a memo.”

  “You’ll find it in your lockers by the end of the shift.”

  “Which seems very far away right now,” Jeff said morosely.

  Miles said, “To return to the point—”

  “There was a point to this?” I asked.

  “To return to the point,” Miles said, “I need you to go take over Ivy’s post, Dreidel. Eggnog will have to manage alone here.” He asked the elf, “Can you handle it, Eggnog?”

  “I have a master’s degree from Princeton,” Eggnog said with disdain.

  “Thank God,” said Jeff. “That’ll really come in handy when the parents riot because they want a white Santa.”

  Miles said, “Don’t say ‘God’ on the—”

  “No one’s going to riot, Jeff,” I said soothingly. “They’ll just make complaints that all begin with the phrase, ‘I’m not a bigot, but . . .’ and then say something bigoted about you.”

  Jeff asked Miles, “Can I make a complaint about having a Jewish elf?”

  Accommodating for once, Miles said, “I’ll move Dreidel to another department immediately.”

  “Good,” said Jeff. “We need some more time apart. Four years wasn’t enough.”

  “Dreidel, with Ivy gone, I need you to go work the west entrance on the main floor,” Miles said to me. “Starting right now.”

  “Oh, no . . .” My heart sank. The west entrance was the coldest spot in the whole store.