by Rose Pressey
She hadn’t answered my question, so with a shaking voice, I asked again. “How did you do that?”
A red-haired woman in a dull gray dress was walking past as I spoke. She whipped around and looked at me. “I’m sorry? Were you speaking to me?”
“No, I was talking to her.” I pointed at the strange woman next to me.
The woman in gray looked in the direction of my pointing finger, then she craned her neck to look behind the racks of clothing. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see anyone.”
“You don’t see this woman standing next to me?” I pointed again.
She frowned as she shook her head. “No.”
Before I could say another word, she hurried away. I’d just received the same type of look that I’d been giving out for the last five minutes—the look that said You should be committed.
I’d been working a lot lately. Ever since I’d opened the shop and started my vintage clothing blog—it had become popular almost overnight—things had been a tad overwhelming, but I’d never thought the stress had reached hallucination level. Perhaps I needed to take a spa day . . . or ten. A vacation to a luxurious resort sounded like just the right medicine. The problem was I couldn’t afford it. I’d sunk my entire inheritance from my beloved granny into opening It’s Vintage, Y’all. The only vacation I could manage was a glass of sweet tea on my patio overlooking the shopping center parking lot.
I went back to the clothing. My plan hadn’t changed, mostly because I couldn’t come up with a better one. I’d act as if nothing was odd or out of place. If I did that, maybe it would be so.
“See, I told you that you were the only one who could see me,” the crazy woman said around a chuckle. “Aren’t you the gal who owns the vintage clothing shop? Cookie Chanel? You know, you look so much like your grandmother did at your age, it’s uncanny. You have the same dark hair and big brown eyes.”
I froze with my hand on a cream-colored Armani blouse. In that moment, it all came flooding back to me. When Charlotte Meadows had been murdered several weeks ago, I’d seen her picture in the paper. With a hollow feeling, I realized the woman in the picture was the same one standing next to me. She was Charlotte Meadows! This couldn’t be happening!
My heart pounded in my chest and sweat broke out on my forehead. I was having a panic attack, that was all. I’d take a few deep breaths, count to ten, and the situation would be over. If I ignored her, everything would be business as usual.
Still sweating, I sorted through the rest of the rack and moved on to the next one. Charlotte followed closely behind, invading my personal space like a tick stuck on a dog.
I pulled out a fifties beige Schiaparelli cashmere sweater with silk embroidery and beaded overlay. “Oh, you don’t want that sweater,” she said.
“I don’t?” I tried to avoid eye contact.
“No, you don’t. I ate some bad shrimp once while wearing it. Of course, I had it dry cleaned, but some stains never really come out.”
I rehung the offending item in a hurry and picked up a burgundy blazer.
“You don’t want that one either,” she said.
“More shrimp?” I asked.
“No. I met my ex-fiancé while wearing that one. It has bad vibes now.” She shivered.
“Then why did you keep it?” Despite my better instincts, I felt myself getting pulled into conversation.
She flashed me a look of incredulity. “For sentimental value of course.”
“Of course.” I rolled my eyes. “Are you going to comment on every piece of clothing here?”
She shrugged. “If need be, yes.”
I couldn’t believe I was talking to the woman. She couldn’t possibly be a real ghost. I’d watched plenty of ghost-hunting shows and viewed every paranormal movie I could lay my hands on. From what I’d seen, ghosts just didn’t start holding conversations with people. They lingered in corners as shadows or materialized as mists or knocked paintings off walls. When I was young, Granny gathered the cousins around the fireplace and told us ghost stories. She spoke of seeing haunts, but she’d never talked to one. If she had, she never told me about it. Granny’s stories had sparked my fascination with the paranormal.
The only people who talked to ghosts were psychics, right? Immediately, I thought of my friend Heather Sweet. She had been my best friend in high school, and she owned the occult shop next door to mine. Maybe she’d be able to talk with Charlotte Meadows. Regardless, the whole situation was completely insane.
I grabbed a few items at random and made my way toward the woman in charge of collecting money. I prayed that I hadn’t picked up anything in polyester or spandex in my haste to get out of there.
“I know this is crazy, but it’s real!” Charlotte exclaimed in irritation.
“I’m not listening to you,” I said over my shoulder.
“Why aren’t you paying attention to me? I know you can see me and I know you heard me.” She moved in front of me and I hurried around her.
“You were just talking to me a minute ago.” Charlotte walked beside me, matching my pace.
“Yeah, well that was before I decided I’d gone insane,” I whispered. “Now go away. See you later, alligator.”
“Like I said, I know this sounds crazy, but it’s real. How do you think I feel? I’m the one who’s been murdered. I’m the one who’s dead. I need you to find out who killed me.”
Chapter 3
Cookie’s Savvy Vintage Fashion Shopping Tips
Prior to the sixties, seams had a “clean finish,”
meaning they were pressed open and the edges were left raw.
Genuine vintage items display old-fashioned handwork
and time-consuming touches.
The woman collecting money frowned when she looked up to see me talking to myself. I gave her a tight smile and shoved a couple crumpled twenties into her hand before heading toward the door. In my hurry to get out of the house, I tripped on a rug halfway down the hallway and landed on my hands and knees with a thud.
“Oh dear, are you all right?”
I looked up from the floor to see a stranger reaching her hand out to me.
The woman’s bright auburn hair glinted under the light of the chandelier. Her brilliant blue eyes stood out beneath her long eyelashes, and her face held a curt expression. Flattering her slim figure, she wore a classic black suit with a crisp white shirt and black heels. The scent of jasmine surrounded her.
Charlotte stood next to us with her arms crossed in front of her chest. “That’s my ex-business partner, Marie Vance. She is a little flighty. A strange bird, bless her heart.”
“Hello, dear, I’m Marie. You have some beautiful clothing.” She pointed at the items clutched in my arms. “Charlotte loved fashion. She was a real fashion leader in town, so I’m not surprised to see such a good turnout for her sale. Did you happen to know Ms. Meadows?” The falsest of smiles twisted the corners of her mouth.
I wondered if it would crack her face right down the middle. I looked over at Charlotte and she shrugged.
“Um, no, I didn’t. I’m Cookie Chanel. I own It’s Vintage, Y’all over on Main Street.” I gestured over my shoulder.
“Oh yes, I’ve been meaning to stop in there,” Marie said.
Well, at least one good thing might come out of this bizarre experience. Maybe I’d get a new customer.
“Will you sell the clothing you bought here today at your place?” Marie asked.
I looked down at the items in my arms. I wasn’t even sure what I had. I could have picked up a pair of men’s briefs as far as I knew. “Yes, I’ll probably place them in my boutique.”
“Have you already purchased the items?” she asked.
I sure wasn’t stealing them if that was what she was implying. “Yes, I have.”
“Well, I’m sure they would give you your money back since you haven’t even left the house with them yet.” She pointed at the woman collecting money.
Charlotte shook her head. “I told you she was a ko
ok. That’s why we aren’t partners anymore.”
I didn’t tell Charlotte, but that clearly wasn’t the only reason, or even the main reason that they weren’t partners anymore.
“Actually, I don’t want to return them. But thanks for letting me know.” I offered a huge smile.
“I just hate to see the things go to a bad home. Charlotte took care of her belongings so well,” Marie said.
She thought that I wouldn’t take care of the clothing? My whole life was clothing. Her remark was more than insulting.
Charlotte clucked her tongue. “She’s right about that. There’s a reason I partnered with Marie in the first place. She knows class when she sees it.”
Marie folded her arms in front of her chest. “I’m trying to discourage anyone from buying anything here. It’s very important. What can I do to convince you to put the items back?”
The day was getting more bizarre by the minute.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve already purchased the items. If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for an appointment.” I rushed toward my car before she had a chance to rip the clothing from my hands. I needed fresh air and to get away from these strange women—dead and alive.
“I’m lost. You have to help me,” my new ghost friend said as she floated beside me.
I hurried my steps to get away from her, but it was no use. She kept pace with me to the curb where my Buick glinted in the sun.
“Aren’t ghosts supposed to be stuck in one spot? Don’t you want to haunt your house for when new people move into it? Just think of all the pranks you can play on them,” I said, fumbling to get the car key in the lock.
“You know, I never gave much thought to ghosts or the paranormal. I guess I always assumed that a ghost was forever doomed to stay in one building.” She clicked her tongue. “But apparently that’s not the case.”
“Apparently,” I said.
“Was my story in the newspapers? Did they use a bad picture? I hope they didn’t use that god-awful photo I had taken in the mall last summer. I don’t know what I was thinking going to that place.”
I sank into the car’s luxurious leather seat, which was still supple, thanks to a lot of rubbing with saddle soap. Charlotte got into the passenger seat by simply passing through the door. I had to admit that was a nifty trick.
As we pulled away, I spotted Marie Vance through my rearview mirror, chatting with a man on the front steps of Charlotte’s home. He wore a dark suit the same color as his shiny black hair.
Charlotte looked over her shoulder. “Marie must have a new man in her life. I’ve never seen him before. He won’t last long, just like the others. She’ll eat him alive.”
“She sounds pleasant,” I said.
Charlotte looked back at her house. “It’s hard to leave my home.” Her voice cracked.
“I’m sure it is,” I said softly, thinking of the sadness I’d felt when my parents had sold the house I’d grown up in and moved to Tybee Island. The small two-bedroom house I rented seemed cheerless in comparison.
I felt sorry for her and, perhaps foolishly, decided not to remind her that she didn’t have to leave it.
After briefly contemplating heading straight to the nearest mental illness facility, I pointed the Buick in the direction of my shop. I had time to finish a few projects before I opened at nine. I hated being late.
“I can’t believe they are selling off my items.” Charlotte stared out the passenger side window.
I turned up the radio, trying to block her out and pretend I wasn’t driving a ghost around town. Big band music streamed from the speakers as I navigated the historic downtown area of Sugar Creek. It housed eclectic boutiques, antique shops, and cozy cafés. Cars moved at a lazy pace as I drove around the courthouse that dominated the town square. Brick and stone buildings lined the streets, some dated back to the late 1700s. Sugar Creek’s economy thrived, thanks to the tourists who came to enjoy the historic downtown and the whiskey distilleries on the edge of town.
After several years of working as a fashion buyer at Saks in Atlanta, I’d moved back home a little over a year ago to open my boutique. There was a memory for me on every corner in Sugar Creek—some painful and some joyful. Sometimes I drove by my parents’ old house and wondered how different my life would have been if they still lived in it.
A huge banner announcing Sugar Creek’s Spring Fling hung high across the main intersection of town. The annual festival held in May had been in the works for months. I sure wasn’t going to let a ghost ruin that for me. I’d put too much time and effort into helping organize the event to let a pesky ethereal spirit stop the festivities.
I was on the organizing committee with four other women. Since I was the youngest of the group, they thought I’d bring a fresh vibe to the event, but they wouldn’t take me seriously if they knew I was talking to a ghost. The festival had everything from food to bands. We’d even gotten Brothers J, my favorite bluegrass band, to play in the gazebo in the park.
I pulled up in front of my shop, cut the engine, and let out a deep breath, trying to clear my thoughts. It wasn’t an easy task with Charlotte piercing me with her sharp gaze.
Magnolia blossoms perfumed the air. It’s Vintage, Y’all had a prime location on the main artery of town, nestled among the many historic buildings. Wide sidewalks lined the streets vivid with color from the large pots of geraniums and petunias located next to the park benches. Many different businesses made their home along Main. Everything from the coffee shop on the corner, barbershop a couple blocks away, to the antique store around the corner.
Down a few blocks from my place was an old cemetery with Spanish moss-covered oak trees concealing its entrance. I’d never liked walking by there at night for the silly fear of seeing a ghost. Now I had one sitting next to me.
My boutique was a cottage-style building painted a soft lavender color with white trim. The front windows stretched all the way to the floor, allowing maximum space for displaying the clothing for sale inside. I’d recently restyled the storefront windows to herald the arrival of spring in Sugar Creek. Paper pompoms along with streamers in different shades of fuchsia, turquoise, and yellow hung from the ceiling. Apothecary jars with candy in matching colors were located on display tables next to the mannequins.
In one window, I usually featured dresses. Currently, I was showcasing a sundress in mid-length cotton with a green, pink, and rose-colored floral print. It gathered into a drop waist and fell in soft folds with a center back zipper. It wasn’t from any special designer, but the semi-full skirt was just so stunning. The other mannequin followed the same color scheme in a pink and emerald floor-length, couture cocktail dress with a princess-seamed bodice and three-layered skirt. It was a fifties number by Suzy Perette, whose designs I’ve always adored.
In the other window, I’d dressed the figures with pedal pushers and halter tops also from the fifties.
A shabby-chic WELCOME sign greeted customers at the front door and the IT’S VINTAGE, Y’ALL sign dangled above the door.
Instead of heading inside, I walked right past the store and stepped into the occult shop next door. Of course, Charlotte walked right in beside me.
If anyone could get rid of Charlotte, it was my best friend Heather.
Chapter 4
Heather’s Heartfelt Tip for Getting Rid of an Unwanted Ghost
If asking the ghost to leave doesn’t work, show the spirit
all exit locations. Remind the ghost that you’re not
afraid to have the home exorcized if needed.
Magic Marketplace was housed on the ground floor of an old brick building that dated back to the mid-eighteen hundreds. Three additional businesses shared the space on the other floors. The walls were painted a watered-down shade of chocolate and the hardwood floor wasn’t without its dents and scratches. They only added to the ambiance.
“Oh, it stinks in here.” Charlotte waved her hand in front of her nose.
“Be quiet,” I whispered.
The smell of spice and incense lingered in the air. Lining the shelves like little soldiers were mysterious-looking bottles of potions and herbs for every imaginable spell in the book. And speaking of books, there were tons of those, too.
I thought the store was empty until Heather popped up from behind the counter. Her verdant green eyes held a wild look. A disappointed frown spread across her heart-shaped face as she blew her blondish-brown hair out of her eyes.
“Hey, you. Are you having problems?” I asked.
She brushed her hair off her forehead. “I’ve misplaced a book. I know I set it here the other day.” She waved her hand. “It’ll show up eventually. How’d the sale go?”
My shoulders slumped. I closed the distance between us in two giant steps. Charlotte moved effortlessly alongside me.
“What in the heck happened to you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Heather said.
My mouth dropped. A sense of relief washed over me. Thank goodness, she could see Charlotte, too. I’d done the right thing by coming to an expert like Heather.
Heather’s voice raised a level. “Speak to me, Cookie. You’re scaring me.”
“I knew you’d be able to help. You can see the ghost too, right?” I asked, gesturing toward Charlotte, who frowned in response.
Heather’s mouth fell open. “Get out. You really saw a ghost! What did you see? A misty form? A shadow zip past? Did you feel an unexplained cold breeze?”
“Not exactly,” I answered. “More like a woman wearing an impeccable suit—”
“Aw, thank you,” Charlotte said. “Death is no excuse for letting oneself go. It makes me feel good to know that someone noticed.”
“She did have on a tad too much makeup, though,” I added when Charlotte had finished her little speech.
Charlotte glared at me. If looks could kill, I’d be joining her in the afterlife immediately.
I stared at her, then turned back to Heather and gestured toward Charlotte again with a tilt of my head.
Heather stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Do you have something wrong with your neck?”
