by Linda Welch
And I refused to let that I had to keep repeating the vow worry me.
A young couple struggling to push a stroller along the sidewalk came toward me. They headed in the right direction so I latched on to the guy. Mel and Jack caught the woman. The family stopped at the intersection, waiting for the light to change.
They took us across. We let go as they veered left, and landed close to Beanz. Snagging someone heading in for refreshment should be easy.
“Everyone looks so cold.” Mel wrapped her arms about herself.
Jack gave her a withering look. “Could it be because it is cold?”
Mel focused her gaze on Beanz’ window and ignored him.
Two young men wearing navy pea coats with woolen scarves muffling their necks and mouths came along the sidewalk. As they approached Beanz, one of them began to unwind his scarf.
“They’re going in,” said Jack.
I reached for one guy and missed but managed to adhere to the other. The old-fashioned bell above the door dinged as the first entered Beanz and my ride followed. I dropped away as they stamped their snowy boots on the doormat. They walked past the square aluminum-topped tables and padded chairs and rounded the partition to get to the side where low, comfortable, deeply upholstered chairs and sofas waited.
Maggie stood behind the counter with her back to us as she worked the espresso machine. Relieved to see her, I aimed for the café’s rear wall.
Except I didn’t. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I couldn’t move my stupid feet.
Jack shrugged his shoulders and flung his hands out in the universal guess we’re fucked gesture.
“Maggie,” I called, but she didn’t hear me above the hiss of the machine. Or she didn’t hear me, period.
So I yelled. “Maggie!”
Nope, she couldn’t hear me.
She rounded the counter, a rag in one hand, and came to a table near where Mel stood. She piled coffee cups and plates in one hand and swiped slops on the table with the other.
“Maggie.”
She dropped the china. It hit the floor and chunks flew everywhere. Coffee spattered her shoes and ankles. Customers near her leaped to their feet and scampered out of the way.
“You all right, hon?” a thirtyish woman behind the counter asked.
“Yeah, Jen. Thought I saw—” She crushed her lips together.
“A mouse?” Mel suggested helpfully.
“A roach?” from Jack.
She couldn’t say she saw either of those, not in a coffee house.
“A what?” Jen asked.
Maggie shook her head. “Someone walked by, for a second I thought she was Aunt Fran.”
“Dead Aunt Fran?”
“I don’t have another.” Maggie smiled at Jen sheepishly. “Had.”
“She’s fast with a comeback,” Mel remarked admiringly.
“Probably has to be in her line of work.” Jack sniffed. “Inventing messages from the dead at the drop of a hat.”
Maggie’s face paled. She heard us now.
“You need to read the newspaper,” I urged.
“Not now,” she said in an undertone.
“Why not?” Jack pointed at the tables. “They’re on every table.”
Maggie spoke low, through her teeth. “I’m working.”
A growl rose up my throat but I stifled it. Patience, Tiff. Patience. “Okay. But when you have a minute, can you grab a newspaper? You don’t have to read it aloud, turn the pages so we can read it.”
She nodded her head and scuttled behind the counter. She returned with a dustpan, brush, and another damp rag and proceeded to clean the mess.
The inaction while we waited for Maggie and a newspaper frustrated me no end. I was frantic to get moving, literally. I craved the ability to pace.
I often stopped in Beanz for coffee on the way to and from the courthouse. Usually, I rushed in and out and now I wished I had stopped, rounded the partition and relaxed in one of those sagging old armchairs. I wished I could smell the coffee. I couldn’t conjure the aroma in my imagination. Did I when I was in my body? I didn’t think so. You smell something tantalizing and it gets your taste buds excited, but without the first whiff you’ve got nothing. You can evoke the memory of a noise or—
Good god! It’s a wonder shades don’t go insane. They have all the time in the world to ponder the inconsequential.
The customers thinned out an hour later, near closing time. Maggie came to a table nearer Jack than to me, sat and opened the newspaper lying there.
At last. “Find the obituaries.”
Maggie turned pages until she found the right section. I stood too far away to read it.
“Jack, can you read them?”
Jack nodded and leaned in for a closer look. He began reading. “Patricia Carol Radmussen, October 15, 1938 to February 15, 2015. Nola B. Silvers, June 6, 1952 to February 18, 2015. Ethan Wendel Magnusen, March 21, 1996 to February 17, 2015. Peter Bartholomew Holmes, April—”
“Stop!” One name rang a bell. “Ethan Magnusen, read that one.”
“Our loved and missed son, brother, grandson and uncle went to his rest on February 17, 2015.”
The obituary went on to describe what a lovely person Ethan was. It didn’t say how he died, or where.
“Ethan Magnusen. He’s who Mike talked about.” Pressing my fingers to my brow, I marshaled my thoughts. “Do you remember the Claireborn case last year?”
“No. Wait! Yes!” Jack exclaimed. He leaned forward. “Didn’t some kids knock a couple other kids off the mountainside?”
“And you nailed them!” Mel rocked on her heels.
“They were students at Clarion University. They’d been drinking when they decided to take a spin in Marlon Canyon.”
“Marlon Canyon? Drunk?” Jack tutted. “Young people today. . . .”
“Ha! Don’t tell me you didn’t do anything remotely stupid when you were—”
“Guys! Back on track, huh?” I folded my arms and glared at them. “Right. Yes, they were drunk and the alcohol did the thinking for them. Jamie Claireborn drove. Joy Tempser and Gary Raglin went hiking. They came off the trail and on the road when Jamie drove along. Joy and Gary weren’t part of the popular set. Jamie decided to have fun with them. He drove at them and backed them to the verge.”
Maggie’s hands, clamped on the newspaper’s edges, trembled. She glanced behind her quickly and said beneath her breath, “Don’t tell me, they fell off the edge.”
“No. I think Jamie might have gotten away with manslaughter were it the case. Nope, our Jamie had a mean streak. He tapped the gas and knocked them over. Then he drove away.” After I talked to Joy and Gary, Mike soon broke Jamie’s friends. They testified against him, said they screamed at him to stop. Jamie is destined for the penitentiary. His pals were convicted as accessories with remitted sentences and went free, except Ethan Magnusen who the others said urged Jamie on. Ethan went back to jail.
I saw it through their eyes. Jamie’s face red with drunken, crazed glee. He wanted to hurt them and knew he’d get away with it. His friends would never turn him in. He felt invulnerable. Ethan, thumping Jamie’s shoulder, egging him on. Gary and Joy split at the last minute but too late. The car hood smacked Joy hard enough to bend her double before she rebounded. The right-side light clipped Gary, spun him, so he faced the two-hundred-foot drop as he flew through the air.
“Ethan got two years. Did he die in there? He may have gotten an early release or got out on parole.”
“But what does it have to do with you now?” Jack asked.
I palmed my forehead again. “No idea, but he must be who Mike meant.”
Something itched at my brain but I couldn’t bring it into focus. Did my memories already fade? It takes decades for some shades, months for others. Jack’s and Mel’s memory retention is unusual.
But you’re not a shade. I absolutely refused to believe it.
“So what do we do?” Jack asked.
I closed m
y eyes to block the distractions a coffee shop provided, and tried to think.
“When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow,” Maggie muttered, lifting the paper and peering at it. “Look, I have to get back to work.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “But when you’re through, please walk toward the front so we can catch you.”
She nodded, stood and walked to the rear, taking the newspaper with her.
“Are we going to the funeral?” Mel asked.
What did Royal and I do when we needed information we couldn’t find elsewhere? We went to the source. I groaned and opened my eyes. I hated stakeouts. Then I wanted to slap sense into myself. Not a stakeout, no sitting in a car for hours on end, we could listen to the mourners and nobody any the wiser.
Maggie eventually came from the rear wearing her hoodie and a kid-sized vinyl backpack with Jabba the Hutt on it. She crept through the café with an intense look of concentration, carefully placing one foot before the other as if she walked a tightrope.
“You sure you’re okay?” her coworker called, causing the few customers still lingering over their brews to look at Maggie.
Maggie blushed and hastened to the door. I barely managed to hook her aura.
Outside, in what I figured must be crisp air, the sky had lightened. Maggie paused on the sidewalk and asked in a whisper, “Are you here?”
We three reassured her.
“I took tomorrow off work, in case you need me.”
I gusted out a grateful breath. “Thanks, Maggie. You’re a peach. We can’t do anything till tomorrow and we will need you then.”
She grinned. “Fine. I can pick you up tomorrow, tell me where and when. Where can I drop you?”
“I want to go home.” I’d be content to watch Royal and Mac. But was going home wise? “But we can’t. If Royal’s there when you come for us, how can you explain yourself?”
“Can we come home with you?” Jack wheedled in a little boy voice. “Pretty please?”
Maggie sounded reluctant. “Oh, all right.”
Perhaps the novelty of ghosts literally hanging on to her had worn off. I prayed she would not tell us to get lost. Maggie was my link to the world, I needed her desperately.
We went along the alley and got in the Mini. The drive to her house took awhile; she steered cautiously on the treacherous streets, decelerating before she reached the lights in case they changed suddenly and she needed to apply the brake.
Maggie put the Mini in the garage and hauled down the door. In the house, she made sure we detached before shrugging out of her jacket and hanging it on a hook. Upstairs, we waited in the living room while she changed into comfortable sleep pants and a sweater.
She flopped on the couch and eyed Jack and Mel who stood together near a window. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
They looked my way. I shook my head. Telling Maggie their history was not a good idea and they knew it.
“Nah,” said Mel. “Long story, water under the bridge and all that.”
“Oh.” Maggie’s mouth twisted with disappointment but she didn’t press. “Well, do you want to watch a movie, listen to music? Or what?”
Maggie, Jack and Mel spent the evening discussing television shows. They were deep into “The Walking Dead” when I decided to roam the house. Their voices faded as I left the room.
Roaming does not take long in a small house. Maggie’s kitchen and bathroom failed Royal’s opinion of proper hygiene but she kept the rest of the house neat and fairly clean. I read the spine of every book on her shelves and two pages of a magazine lying open on a table. I read a recipe card for pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, twice. I snooped through Madam Magenta’s room with its velvet curtains and dusty plants.
Many more nights like this and I’d go crazy from boredom.
When I went upstairs, Maggie had turned in for the night but left the television on for Jack and Mel. I joined them on the couch and the night began. I might learn to appreciate television before this was over.
Chapter Eight
Entering Saint Mark’s Cemetery by the east gate turned out to be the wrong decision.
The sun shone on the snow and ornamental shrubbery coated with hoarfrost, making the cemetery sparkle, a crystalline scene from a Christmas card. Maggie’s boots crunched through the thin frozen surface layer, her breath streamed smokily in the crisp air.
I decided Maggie should avoid the south or west gates which give access to narrow paved roads, and sneak in through the small east gate. She could cut through the cemetery to the church and use the big old yews as cover. Mike had an interest in this lad’s death so a detective or two might be at the funeral and I didn’t want them or anyone else to notice Maggie. I asked her to pull up her hood to be sure; her teal-colored hair made her stand out.
I forgot Misty lingers in the cemetery.
Misty wears a long white dress, the hem trailing torn dirty lace. Faded petals dot the crown of her long blond hair, her blue eyes are awash with tears and mascara streaks her cheeks. Soil is ground into the skin of her bare arms and naked feet.
She was a flower child in the late-sixties, a hippie, who like the song wore flowers in her hair, but most of them fell out when she was attacked. Her friends last saw her at midnight as she danced through the cemetery under a full moon. They were all a little high. I don’t know what led up to her murder, but I saw her killer through her eyes as she died, and from the marks on his face she put up one hell of a fight.
I came to Saint Marks for the first time a year ago, and met Misty fifty years too late. I could have gone to Clarion PD and sat with a police sketch artist, who would use age progression software to create a likeness. But Misty’s killer looked in his mid-forties, which put him in his mid-nineties now. Would law enforcement want to put money and resources into tracking down, prosecuting and incarcerating a man who didn’t have much longer on this Earth anyway? All on the word of a psychic investigator? I didn’t see it happening. Misty and I talked it through, because she deserved justice and I’d pursue it to the best of my ability if she wanted me to. But she said where he died—prison or elsewhere—made no difference. She didn’t have to wait much longer.
Misty came dancing over the grass, arms away from her body, knee lifted, toe pointed, one step, one step, pirouette. She saw us a second after I spotted her and too late to avoid. She stopped, stared, and sped to us.
“Tiff Banks? Is that you? You’re dead?” she said in a shrill voice.
Before I could reply, her head swung at Jack and Mel. “And you, who are you, how did you get here?”
“Misty,” I began, but the incredulity chasing over her face took my voice away. Seeing shades with expressive features was still a novelty.
She backed away. “What are you doing hanging on the girl? You walked in with her? How?”
“We’re in a hurry, Misty, but I’ll come back later.”
She frowned and her chin puckered; her voice rose and hardened. “You have some nerve, all of you, walking into my cemetery.”
“Tiff?” Maggie said nervously.
“You hear her?”
Maggie gulped. “Oh, yeah.”
“Calm down, you,” Mel said. “We can explain.”
“Get out!” Misty had worked herself into a tantrum. “You’re freaks, all of you!”
“Now just one minute, lady,” Jack began.
“Forget it, Jack,” I hissed. “Maggie, let’s go.”
Maggie didn’t need urging. She took off at a fast clip, heading straight across the cemetery, weaving between gravestones. Misty followed yelling curses until we crossed a parallel path. She stopped as if she hit a brick wall. We soon left her behind.
“She can’t cross the path,” Jack observed.
“She’s confined to the cemetery’s east quadrant.”
“How peculiar,” from Mel. She sagged on Maggie’s shoulder. “Now I know what Carrie meant when she said shades were so angry she could move when they couldn’t,
they refused to listen to her.”
With me along, their interaction with other shades had been a smooth operation so far. I knew the shades and they listened to me, when the sudden appearance of Mel and Jack would have startled and maybe angered them. They couldn’t deny the proof I presented when my roommates attached and moved with me.
Saint Mark’s steeple and high clerestory windows rose above the yews. Maggie stopped. “Do I take you inside?”
People already straggled from the church. About to say we would hitch a ride with one of them if Maggie took us nearer, I noticed Detective Bob Knudsen. My gaze panned the cemetery until it landed on Detective Dylan Voskins loitering west of the church door.
“Wait for a while.”
I assessed the risk. Maggie might be a young woman out for a stroll and the detectives had no reason to think otherwise. My hesitation came from knowing we’d probably use Maggie again, and the police would notice her if she showed up in several places. Cops are good at remembering folk who are seen more than once in areas of interest to them. But I needed to get close to the Magnusen family.
Anne Magnusen came through the door. I remembered Anne’s face but this woman was a shadow of her; pale, drained and hollow-eyed, her limp blond hair straggled over the shoulders of her black wool coat. She hugged her daughter’s shoulder, perhaps as much to keep herself upright as to comfort Ethan’s younger sister. More aware than her mother of the people watching them, young Susan Magnusen’s chin quivered and she bit her lip. Avery Magnusen must still be in the church.
Again, the feeling I missed something vital. “Avery Magnusen. The name rings a bell.”
“Of course it does, dummy,” from Mel.
“Something else, nothing to do with Ethan’s case.”
I pushed the notion away; if I stopped reaching for it, it would come to me.
“Maggie, you only see us when we’re nearby, right?”
“Up to about ten feet away,” Maggie said with a chin nod. “I still have to concentrate. Reminds me of a Magic Eye picture, they don’t make sense until you hold your focus on them and an actual picture becomes visible.”
“I thought so. Here’s what we’ll do. I want to stick with the Magnusens. I expect they’ll have a post-funeral gathering either nearby or in their home. I want to hear what they and the other mourners say, and go with them to their house so we can search it. Can you get on the path and walk past Mrs. Magnusen close enough so Mel and I can grab her? She’s the blonde with her arm around her daughter.”
