by Rose Pressey
“Don’t you see her?” I whispered. “She followed me here.”
Heather scanned the room. “Who is she?”
“Remember the woman who was strangled a few weeks ago? Charlotte Meadows?”
“Yes! She owned half the real estate in Sugar Creek.”
I snapped my fingers. “That’s the one.”
Charlotte slapped her hand on the counter, making no sound. “I worked my butt off around this town to achieve that level of success, then some bastard came along and robbed me of my life. I sacrificed having a family for my real estate company, and look what happened.” A faint tremor sounded in her voice as if the emotion had overwhelmed her.
Heather stacked a few books onto the counter. “It’s such a shame what happened to her. They don’t seem to have any clue who murdered her.”
“See, that’s exactly why I need your help,” Charlotte said.
That was incredibly sad. I completely understood her loneliness for family. I still had hope for the future, right? I still hoped to create a family of my own someday, although that possibility was growing slimmer by the day. Sugar Creek wasn’t exactly a hotbed of eligible bachelors. It was too late for Charlotte. Not too late for me . . . I hoped.
My last relationship had ended when I realized my boyfriend was a cheating rat. Plus, he’d never wanted me to pursue my dreams. Clark had wanted me to give up the idea of opening my own boutique. He’d given me the ultimatum of the shop or him. Of course, when I found out he was cheating, I didn’t have to make that decision. I would have chosen the shop even if he hadn’t been a two-timing snake in the grass.
Heather grabbed my arm. “Here, have a seat and tell me what happened.”
I held on to the counter as I inched my way over to the stool and plopped down. Charlotte leaned her hip against the register, crossed her arms over her chest, and watched as I explained what had happened at the estate sale.
“So, you’re saying she’s here right now?” Heather looked uneasy as she glanced over her shoulder.
“Well, isn’t she a smart one,” Charlotte quipped.
I gestured with my thumb. “She’s right there, listening to every word we say. I knew if anyone would understand, it would be you.”
Heather’s expression was somewhere between a grin and grimace. “Yeah,” she said less than enthusiastically.
“Can you tell her to go away?” I asked.
“She can tell me, but it won’t do her any good,” Charlotte retorted.
“Here’s the thing.” Heather paused and gave me a sheepish grin. “I’m not sure how to put this. Thing is . . . I can’t actually see her.” She paused again. “The truth is, I can’t really communicate with spirits. I’m not psychic . . . I’m just a big fat phony.”
Chapter 5
Cookie’s Savvy Vintage Fashion Shopping Tip
Check the item’s armpits and collar
for hard-to-remove stains.
My voice rose. “Are you serious?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment. I’d expected to trust the one friend who I’d thought told me everything. Why had she felt like she couldn’t be honest with me?
“I can’t talk to spirits,” Heather repeated.
“Why didn’t you tell me this? I thought we were friends?” I asked, hurt.
Heather looked defensive. “We are friends.” She studied her shoes. “It’s not like you ever asked much about my psychic skills, anyway.”
Okay, maybe I’d been a little busy with the shop and my blog, but it never occurred to me to ask if her skills were real. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I realized it made a heartbreaking sort of sense that she wouldn’t share such a secret with me. It was the kind of thing hard to tell even your best friend.
“But talking to spirits is your job! You’ve got a sign out front that says PSYCHIC MEDIUM. I think that implies that you can talk with ghosts.”
Charlotte rubbed her temples. Considering ghosts probably didn’t get headaches, I figured that was her way of letting me know she was losing her patience.
Red colored Heather’s cheeks, but she didn’t offer an explanation.
“I tell everyone you’re an expert,” I said, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
“I know a lot about spells—which herb or potion works the best for which formula. Just because I can’t talk to spirits doesn’t mean I’m not good at the other stuff.” Heather folded her arms in front of her chest as if giving herself a comforting hug.
Picking up a voodoo doll from the counter that looked a lot like Heather’s ex-boyfriend, I said, “Well, no . . . it doesn’t mean that.”
“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” she asked.
Charlotte harrumphed.
I forced my lips into a small smile. “I won’t say a word.”
Heather straightened the stack of books that had been scattered across the counter. “Besides, I never give anyone bad news. I just keep things general. You know, give them positive motivation. When you think about it, I’m like a psychologist. I’m helping people.”
“Oh dear heavens. I’ve heard it all,” Charlotte said.
“If you can’t see her or talk to her, then what am I going to do? Why can I see her?” The strain in my voice increased with every word.
“Maybe you’re the one who’s psychic. That is so wonderful! I’m jealous.” Heather’s eyes lit up. “Hey, maybe you can do readings now. We can showcase you in the shop.” She tapped her lip with a bright pink, plumed, fountain pen in contemplation of my new psychic profession.
“I am not psychic. Don’t you think I would have known that by now?” I glanced over at Charlotte.
“Y’all are putting on quite a display. I haven’t seen this much confusion since they installed those self-checkout lanes at the Piggly Wiggly.” Charlotte studied the large emerald ring on her finger.
I scowled.
“Is she talking to you? What is she saying?” Heather asked.
I swallowed a bad-mannered comment about Charlotte. “She’s amused by our dilemma.”
Heather clapped her hands together. “Hey, I have some books that can probably tell us how to get rid of her.”
I straightened. “That’s a good idea.”
Charlotte laughed. “It won’t do any good. I’m not going anywhere until you help me with this injustice.”
I placed my head in my hands. “She says she’s not going anywhere until I find her killer.”
“Whoa. How are you supposed to do that?” Heather bounced over to the shelf and pulled off a book.
She had opened the shop several years ago. She’d moved from dead-end job to dead-end job until she’d finally found her calling with this place. She knew spells and tons about ancient religions, so she was an expert in that sense. Her mother was a self-proclaimed witch, so Heather had grown up reading her mother’s collection of occult books. When I was ready to open my shop, she told me the space next to hers was available, and I was happy to rent it so we could be neighbors as well as best friends.
I’d been trying to convince her to start a blog like mine. I knew how much she could help people with spells or any number of occult topics. She loved to share her knowledge, but for some reason she couldn’t be persuaded to embrace the online world. A spooky Facebook page would have really helped her get more customers in the door.
Suddenly, I realized that maybe it was because she’d felt like a big fat phony. I needed to remind her that her lack of psychic abilities wouldn’t affect her knowledge of all things occult.
She brought the book back to the counter and plopped it down in front of me. It didn’t look like it held ancient wisdom on banishing spirits. It was entitled Cleanse Negative Spirits From Your Life. With a fleeing ghost in a white sheet on its front cover and a smiling author photo on the back, it looked much like any other hardback you might see on the shelf at Barnes & Noble.
She opened the cover. Her index finger scrolled down as she scanned the contents and then flipped to a page in the mi
ddle. “It says the easiest way to get rid of a ghost is to ask it to leave.”
I frowned. “Don’t you think I haven’t tried that already?”
“Did you use a firm voice? The book says you have to use a firm voice.”
I inhaled a deep breath and slowly let it out then turned to Charlotte. With a firm voice, I said, “You can’t stay here. You have to leave. Be gone. Go into the light.” I pushed the air with the palms of my hands as if giving her a visual on how it was done.
Charlotte chortled.
“Yeah, she’s laughing,” I said.
“She’s a nasty one, huh?” Heather’s eyebrows drew together into a scowl as she looked in the general direction where she thought Charlotte was standing.
Charlotte pointed at Heather. “Hey, at least I’m not the fake psychic.”
“What is she saying?” Heather asked.
I picked up a pyramid-shaped green gem from the display table and pretended to study it. “Um, she called you a fake psychic.”
“Oh, is that right? That does it. She’s out of here.” Heather gestured toward the front door.
It was the first time I’d ever seen two people argue with each other when they couldn’t even talk to each other.
Heather flipped to the next page in the book.
I smirked at Charlotte. “What else does it say, Heather?”
“It says she may not know she’s dead. You have to tell her.” Heather glanced around, looking for Charlotte again.
Charlotte paced in front of us, her heels making no sound on the floor. “Have you lost your cotton pickin’ mind? I know I’m dead. Reminding me is just cruel.”
I waved my hand. “She knows.”
Heather looked back at the page. “Okay, it says to ask her what she wants.”
“I told you. She wants me to find her killer.”
Charlotte took a deep bow in a mocking motion. “Thank-you! Now if you could cut out the nonsense and get on with it, I would appreciate it.”
I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes. “It’s no use, Heather. Nothing in that book is going to help.”
“What are you going to do?” She closed the cover.
“Find a way to get rid of her.”
Chapter 6
Heather’s Heartfelt Tip for Getting Rid of an Unwanted Ghost
Set house rules. Ghosts want to haunt on their own terms.
It won’t take long for the specter to grow tired of
following your orders and leave.
I’d had a ridiculous notion that Charlotte would stay at Heather’s occult shop after I left. It was a shop for fans of the paranormal. She’d feel right at home. Silly me. As I walked through the door of It’s Vintage, Y’all, Charlotte followed right behind me like an annoying, talking shadow.
“You have a nice shop. And good taste, I must say. Is that your grandmother’s wedding gown over there? Oh, she looked so pretty in it. I remember her wedding photo displayed prominently on her living room wall.”
“Did you know my grandmother?”
“Oh yes. We went to finishing school together. We learned how to write beautiful thank-you notes and how to set a proper table for a dinner party. Of course, our favorite lessons were about how to dress for special occasions. I can see you’ve inherited Pearl’s fashion sense.”
Well, it was about time Charlotte started being more polite. She’d definitely attract more flies with honey than vinegar.
“I’m glad you think so.” Searching my memory, I could recall my granny talking about her friend Charlotte . . . but I never realized she was talking about the Charlotte Meadows.
I’d tried to keep the same theme on the inside of my shop as on the outside. I’d recently painted the walls a lovely shade of lavender. Black and white drapes adorned the windows and crystal chandeliers hung from several positions throughout the shop. I’d placed chintz-covered armchairs around the space and a matching fainting couch rested by the dressing rooms. It was definitely old Hollywood glamour.
“Haven’t you been inside before?” I asked.
“No. I figured all your stuff was clothes from people in town. I like to be unique. I can’t be seen in something someone else from Sugar Creek has worn first.” Charlotte stood in front of a mannequin, studying my work.
As I went through my morning routine of opening the store, Charlotte trailed me, yammering on about how to find her killer. I tried to tune her out by focusing on my paperwork, humming along to “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” by the Andrews Sisters, but it wasn’t working. I’d subscribed to satellite radio so that I’d get the forties and fifties channels. Thank goodness for that invention.
The bell on the door jangled and a customer entered. I smiled and acknowledged her. She returned the pleasantries. Would she respond to Charlotte, too? No such luck. Like everyone else, she didn’t appear to notice my ghostly companion.
As the door was closing behind the customer, a streak of white fur zipped through the opening, ran across the floor, leaped onto a table near the register, then made a final jump onto the counter. The cat plopped down and began licking her delicate paws in drawn-out strokes. With her gorgeous long white fur and dainty movements, she reminded me of a movie star.
The kitty stared at me throughout her grooming process. Something in her deep green gaze was unnerving. It was as if she knew me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that she was trying to talk to me through her expressions.
“Excuse me. Is this your cat?” I pointed toward the fancy feline.
The woman looked over from the rack of clothing she’d been perusing. “No, it’s not my cat.”
“It must be a stray,” Charlotte said.
The cat glanced over at Charlotte as if to say, Good assumption.
“She can see you,” I said.
The customer acknowledged me with a grin from across the room. Clearly, she thought I’d been talking to her.
“Where do you think it came from?” Charlotte asked.
The cat continued to lick its paws while keeping her eye on me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Charlotte moved closer to the customer. The woman shivered as if she’d noticed a cool breeze, but continued shopping.
“You don’t have a lot of business,” Charlotte stated.
“Well, I just opened,” I said.
“Yes, I was waiting until you were ready for business,” the customer acknowledged.
I needed to watch what I said. When I talked to Charlotte, it looked as if I was talking to myself.
The browser walked out, probably tired of listening to me have a one-sided conversation.
“Great. You just lost me a customer.” I pointed at the door.
“You really need to work on your marketing plan,” Charlotte said.
“Thank-you for that astute observation. I’m on it, okay?”
“It looks like you could use some help. Apparently, your plan isn’t working.” Charlotte prowled through the store as if she hadn’t just insulted me.
“I’m doing okay. It just takes a while for a new business to get on its feet.”
“Apparently, it takes some longer than others. How long have you been in business?”
“A little over a year,” I answered.
“It’s make-or-break time. Most businesses never survive past the one-year mark,” she said.
I reached out and stroked the cat. She meowed in approval. “Well, the kitty likes me, which is more than I can say for you.”
Charlotte scoffed. “Hey, I never said I didn’t like you.”
“I don’t think you had to. It’s in your actions.”
“You need to cut me some slack. After all, I was murdered. I’ve kind of had a few bad weeks,” she said with a furrowed brow.
She had me there. It couldn’t have been easy for her to adjust to the afterlife—not being able to interact with people, not being able to eat chocolate.
Just as I was feeling sorry for her, she said, “I wouldn
’t have paired those red pants with that zebra-print blouse.” She pointed at the display I had in the corner of the room.
The cat meowed as if in agreement.
I had two critics. “Look, if you are going to continue to critique my work, you’ll have to leave.” I placed my hands on my hips. “And that goes for you too, Fluffy.”
Charlotte sauntered over to another mannequin. “Fine. If you don’t want my expert advice, that’s your loss.”
“Well, I don’t want your advice.” I busied myself behind the counter, straightening rows of Art Deco jewelry displayed on a black velvet cloth under a showcase light.
Great. I was talking to a ghost as if it was a normal thing. Brush my teeth, eat breakfast, go to work, and converse with the afterlife—all part of an ordinary day.
The cat stretched and meowed.
“Oh, are you apologizing?” I inspected her neck, but didn’t see a collar. “Where did you come from?”
She looked at me with that same peculiar expression and tilted her head. Her bright green eyes sparkled in the light. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said she winked at me.
Chapter 7
Cookie’s Savvy Vintage Fashion Shopping Tip
Thrift shops, flea markets, yard sales, and estate sales
are all great places to find vintage fashion.
During my lunch break, I went to Pets Please, a paradise of pet-related paraphernalia located around the corner on Clay Street, and picked up a few essentials for the cat. I told myself she could only stay until I could find her owner, although she didn’t seem to care if I ever located her home. When I left, she’d been stretched out in the sunshine at the front of the store and acted as if she didn’t have a worry in the world. She was still there when I returned.
After helping the last customer for the day purchase a lovely, strapless, pink tulle and lace fifties prom dress that would never go out of style, I flipped the sign to CLOSED, and said, “Okay, kitty, I’ll be back to get you after my meeting.”
The cat purred and opened one eye to look at me. After a hot second, she got bored and closed her eye again.
