The Good Girl

by Barritt, Christy

  Cooper continued talking about The Mercy House. “It’s full of people who aren’t perfect. And I really mean not perfect. Former drug addicts and prostitutes. People who don’t have things figured out and who don’t pretend like they do.”

  I cast him a sideways glance. “You seem pretty perfect.”

  His eyes met mine. “I’m anything but perfect, Tara. Up until I got married, I lived a pretty wild life. I did a lot of things I regret. I hurt a lot of people. I wish I could go back and redo things, but I can’t. Instead I just do the best with who I am today.”

  “Sometimes doing everything right still leaves you with regrets.” I said the words so softly that I hardly recognized my own voice.

  We shared a brief look. I didn’t feel like he judged me, but that he understood.

  We pulled up in front of our houses, and I smiled at Cooper as he sat in the driver’s seat. “Thanks for everything today. I really appreciate it.”

  He nodded toward my house. “Is it okay if I walk you inside?”

  My heart filled with relief. I hated that house and had dreaded going inside alone. “Of course.”

  We walked to the porch. At the front door, I saw a paper tucked in the brass handle. Who would be leaving me a note? I pulled it out and squinted at the scrawl there.

  Danielle want to talk to you. Call me. Miss Mystic.

  I stared at the letter. Didn’t talking to the dead require a séance? I’d already considered having Ghost Chasers come to my place. When my life derailed, it seriously derailed, didn’t it?

  Chapter 19

  I stared at the note, at the eerie way the shadow of a tree branch splayed across it, at the spider-like scribble. The words blurred then came back into focus.

  Danielle Miller—a dead woman—wanted to talk to me.

  That or Miss Mystic was desperate for business. The prior was the most likely truth. Still, the idea intrigued me.

  “Who’s Miss Mystic?”

  My cheeks heated as I realized that Cooper had read the note over my shoulder. It wasn’t exactly like I’d been hiding it. Still, I licked my lips before answering, suddenly self-conscious. “The psychic who was friends with Danielle.”

  Cooper raised his eyebrows as he stood beside me, his surprise evident. “A psychic?”

  I sighed, not in exasperation but in contemplation. “It’s a long story.” I punched in my alarm code and unlocked the front door.

  Cooper followed me inside, shutting the door behind him. “I have time.”

  Of course he had time. My life would be way too easy if he didn’t have time to give me a lecture on what was wrong with me.

  I pointed to the couch, not slowing down in my efforts to escape his questions as I hurried toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you sit down? Do you want some coffee?”

  He lowered himself onto the couch, stretching his arm across the back. “I’d love some.”

  I started a pot and leaned with my palms against the counter as the liquid percolated. How was I going to explain this? What would he think of me when I did? I had no choice but to go and talk to Cooper while it brewed. There was so much that I didn’t want to tell him. As much as I thought I’d been broken, there were still areas of pride in my life. Talking about a psychic and ghosts and my little-to-be-admired faith were not things he’d think highly of, and rightfully so. But they were true to where I was in my life right now, like it or not.

  I sat down across from him and pulled my feet under me. He said nothing, waiting patiently for me to begin. The words didn’t want to dislodge themselves from my throat. Finally, I licked my lips. “I’ve told you about the weird stuff going on here.”

  Cooper nodded. “You have.”

  “I went to talk to Miss Mystic this week—not talk as in consult with her, but just to ask her a few questions.”

  “You think a psychic has the answers?”

  I shook my head, probably a little too hard. “No. I asked her about her friendship with Danielle. I thought she would have those kinds of answers.”

  His shoulders seemed to relax some at my statement. “Did she?”

  That was the question of the hour. I shrugged. “It’s confusing. I don’t know. I just know that something weird is happening.” I would tell him about the guitar, but then I’d sound crazy. I knew I would. And, I had to admit, I was starting to like Cooper, so the thought of him thinking of me as loony didn’t have much appeal.

  He leaned closer, no signs of teasing on his face. “I just feel like you’re on the verge of getting pulled into something dark and dangerous.”

  The concern in his voice was enough to twist my heart. “I’m not trying to get pulled into anything. I’m just trying to find answers.”

  He leaned back again, his gaze strained. “I’m not trying to quote Scripture to you here or to preach or to judge, Tara, but light and darkness don’t mix.”

  Irritation ground away at the good feelings I was having toward Cooper. I felt judged, and I was so tired of feeling judged. “I know that. Believe me, I know that.”

  “Then why do you keep teasing it?”

  “How am I teasing the darkness?” My voice rose in pitch with each word.

  “By considering jumping into it!”

  “I’m not considering it.” My voice had risen beyond what I intended. I just realized that my legs were no longer pulled underneath me, but were now on the ground as if I was ready to lunge. “And even if I was, what difference would it make?”

  Cooper leaned toward me. “What do you mean what difference would it make? It would make all the difference in the world.” His voice sounded surprisingly even.

  I stared at him. Was he talking about a difference in life or in our budding friendship? Maybe both? I shook my head again. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I just expected more from you.”

  “Don’t expect anything from me. Please.” I rubbed my temples, which were beginning to throb. “You know, I’m getting a headache. We should have that coffee another day.”

  “Tara...”

  “Excuse me.” I stood and went to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I was breaking every rule I’d ever created about not being rude and how to be a good hostess and not make others feel self-conscious. I was just so tired of disappointing people. I was tired of being burdened with being good. Tired of not living up to expectations. I’d tried so hard for so long. All of those efforts had failed, so why keep up the effort?

  A few minutes later, I heard the front door open and shut. Tears burned at my eyes. Yet another person I’d let down. I thought it would hurt less with time, but it didn’t.

  I curled up on the bed and closed my eyes.

  ~*~

  The doorbell caused my eyes to flutter open. Gaga stood in bed beside me, growling toward the other room.

  Had I fallen asleep? I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock. Nine p.m. I rubbed my eyes again. Who would be coming over at this hour? Against my better instincts, I climbed out of bed and crept toward the door.

  My gaze skittered across the floor, looking for a sign that something was wrong. Everything appeared in place.

  Cooper. It was probably Cooper. Coming over to apologize? Our conversation replayed in my mind, and my heart plunged in hurt. I just couldn’t bare the thought of disappointing one more person. For that reason, maybe I shouldn’t form any more relationships ever. Wasn’t that the only way I’d truly ever avoid letting someone down?

  I peered through the peephole and stepped back when I saw the figure there. She wore big hoop earrings, a fancy scarf around her head and a gypsy skirt. I pulled the door open and scowled. “Miss Mystic. What are you doing here?”

  She leered at me, her tiny chin rising. “Danielle have a lot to tell you. You ready to listen yet?”

  I started to shut the door. “I don’t have anything to say to Danielle.”

  The strong little woman jammed her foot on the threshold. “You not hear me? I said Danielle has stuff to say to you.
You no talk. Just listen.”

  “You can’t talk to the dead. It’s impossible. Even if it is possible, it’s wrong, and I don’t want anything to do with it.”

  “I know where murder weapon is. She tell me and want me to tell you.”

  I paused against my better judgment. “Murder weapon?”

  “Her husband stab her with a knife.”

  The newspaper had reporter that there had been a lot of blood found at the house. But, with no body, stabbing hadn’t been confirmed. Couldn’t a gunshot cause a person major blood loss? Why did Miss Mystic think she’d been stabbed? “How do you know that?”

  Her chin jutted out. “Danielle tell me.”

  My throat was as dry as Elisha’s bones. “You’re making that up.”

  Her chin rose. “No, I not.”

  “Then where is it?”

  “It hidden inside house. Danielle trying show you where, if you let her. I only want friend to find peace.” She drew out the word “peace,” her breath spraying into my face and halitosis threatening to knock me flat on my back.

  I couldn’t handle this conversation anymore. It was going to cause nightmares tonight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to push the door shut, but that foot was still there, blocking the action.

  “I see great deal of pain in you past. It tear you apart inside. You must deal with it, Miss Lancaster. You must open yourself up again.”

  How did she know about my past pain? I closed my eyes, refusing to believe she knew anything. She was just a good guesser. “Good-bye, Miss Mystic.” I managed to shut the door before I melted against its wood with my eyes closed and my heart racing.

  Bad Girls Rule #9: Don’t stay within the lines. I really liked boundaries, though, for everything to be neat and ordered.

  But the even bigger question was this: If a supposed psychic was going to come to my house, why couldn’t they look like Simon Baker from The Mentalist?

  ~*~

  Again, I hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before. There were no crashes or guitar music, but I had heard some creaks. Maybe my lack of sleep was a part of my problem. Not getting enough rest could play with you mentally and cause all sorts of problems like hypersensitivity, hallucinations, premature aging.

  I woke with a new resolve. I wouldn’t get answers from Miss Mystic. But I would try to find answers somewhere else. I’d hunt for answers the way Cooper’s friend Steve hunted for deer.

  I called the St. Paul Star and found out that reporter Bryce Stephens still worked for the newspaper. I figured if I was ever going to get any sleep, I had to have some answers. Besides, figuring out this mystery was a better option than sitting around thinking about myself all day.

  Suck it up, Buttercup, I repeated mentally. It was my new goal, and I was determined to do just that. Even I was sick of my whining.

  A receptionist put me through to the reporter, and a gravely voice came on the other line.

  “Mr. Stephens? My name is Tara Lancaster. I have a question about the supposed murder of Danielle Miller and wondered if we could meet for coffee sometime.”

  No response. I wished I had a phone cord to twirl as I waited. Anything was better than the baited breath I held. “Miz…Lancaster, you said? I’m afraid I’m a very busy man. I just don’t have time to chat.”

  “I live in the house where the supposed crime occurred.”

  Silence. A tapping sound in the background. I pictured him clicking a pen on his desk, trying to think of an excuse to get off the phone. “Do you have information on the crime?”

  “Some weird things have been going on at the house. I’m trying to find some answers, and I was hoping you could help me.” I crossed my fingers, hoping he might change his mind.

  “You live in the house, you say?” Silence. More tapping in the background. “Where would you like to meet?”

  I closed my eyes and uttered a mental yes. As I used to say in junior high, cha-ching!

  We arranged to meet at Java the Hut, a nearby coffeehouse, in an hour. That meant I had to get ready now. I shuffled into the bathroom and frowned at my reflection.

  Huge circles haunted my eyes, evidence of my sleepless night. I’d stayed awake, under the covers, just waiting to hear another sound, to have someone rip my comforter off. Nothing had happened, nor did anything look strange or out-of-place this morning—except me, paranoid Tara looking like a zombie.

  I smoothed my hair into a ponytail and pulled on some jeans and a button-up blue shirt. I hardly recognized myself in the mirror still, not with my new fake tan, edgy hair color and nose ring. I ran a hand under my eyes. “Who are you, Tara Lancaster?” I mumbled.

  No ghostly voice answered back.

  Within the hour, I was sitting at a corner table at Java the Hut, sipping on a non-fat, sugar-free vanilla latte. I inhaled the scent of coffee and cinnamon and chocolate. I listened to the grind of the coffeepot, to the squeal of whip cream being slathered atop a warm, sugary drink. I closed my eyes, absorbing every sensory detail. I loved this place, from its warm, chocolate-colored walls to its chunky wooden chairs and tables.

  Each time the glass door at the front of the store opened, my head jerked up and I expected to see someone who looked like a Bryce Stephens. In my mind, the reporter was a cranky old man who wore horn-rimmed glasses and had elbow patches on his blazer. The truth was I had no idea who I was looking for.

  I took another sip of my drink and mentally reviewed my questions. I had to find some answers. Despite my overblown imagination, I refused to think that a ghost lived in Lana’s house. I couldn’t believe that. It put everything I valued in jeopardy. I probably shouldn’t have been so hard on Cooper. I mean, he was right. I’d been defensive and immature. If he didn’t speak to me again before I left, I couldn’t blame him. My heart twisted with surprising sadness, though.

  Tara Lancaster had ruined something else great. It was becoming one of my many talents.

  “Tara Lancaster?”

  A man in his forties with square shoulders, a fading hairline, and rimless glasses stood at my table. His face was pale and his clothes wrinkled as if he spent too much time inside. “I’m Tara. You must be Bryce.”

  He pulled out the seat across from me and sat down slowly. His steadfast gaze made me squirm. This was a man with a mission, not someone who wanted to sit down and casually chat. I didn’t dare ask him if he wanted a drink. “How can I help you, Tara?”

  I swallowed and pushed my latte away. “I was hoping you could tell me about the murder—the supposed murder—of Danielle Miller.”

  His gaze remained on me, unblinking. “You said strange things have been happening at the house?”

  I shrugged and stared at my paper cup for a moment. “Strange is one way to say it.” I explained about the missing shades, the threatening note, and my visit with Miss Mystic. Bryce snorted when I said her name, and I raised a brow. “You have an opinion about St. Paul’s local psychic, I take it.”

  “Lots of opinions.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Like?”

  He crossed his arms and sat up even straighter than before. “She’s tried to lead the police to a body that wasn’t there.”

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “She doesn’t know anything. She’s just blowing off steam, hoping something she says will be true and she’ll get credit for solving the crime one day. That’s how they all do it.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Psychic detectives. They make random guesses. Until a body shows up. Then they take the credit. Sometimes they prey on innocent families who have missing children, giving them hope. The families are so desperate to find their kid that they’ll pay huge amounts of money for any crumb of insight a psychic might have into where their child is. They’re all frauds.”

  “Are you saying Miss Mystic is preying on innocent people?”

  “I’m saying she tries to butt into police investigations all the time.”

  “Has she said a
nything else about this case, other than Danielle needs closure before she can cross over?”

  “Oh yeah. She apparently gave the police the location of Danielle’s body—a shallow grave. In the woods. By a body of water. That didn’t get their attention. So then apparently she had a clearer vision. She told them the section of town even. The police went there and there was nothing. Nada. Zilch.”

  “I heard she and Danielle were friends. I guess she just wants to help.”

  He shrugged. “She tried to give more clues later. Something about the murder weapon being underfoot. No one took her seriously this time. Thankfully.”

  “In other words, I shouldn’t believe anything she says?”

  He pulled his lips back in a scowl. “You need me to tell you that?”

  My eyes went back to my cup. “Not really. I’m just confused. I don’t understand what’s going on, but I do know that Danielle Miller keeps coming up every time I try and find out anything.”

  “Have you ever considered it could be something unrelated?” His brows hung suspended.

  “I’ve considered it.”

  He leaned forward and sighed. I thought I saw pity in his eyes. “Listen, I’ve been following this case since the beginning. A year ago next Tuesday, Danielle’s husband killed her.”

  “A year ago next Tuesday? You mean, the anniversary of her death is coming up?” I shivered as I said the words.

  “That’s right. It looks like it will turn out a cold case.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “Her husband. He makes the most sense. He had motive, means, and opportunity. The police will find their evidence one day.”

  “What’s her husband say?”

  “Keeps claiming he’s innocent. He’s trying to track down who ‘really’ did it, apparently. I think it’s just for show.”

  I leaned forward now. “Why are you so sure he’s guilty?”

  “Because there are so many holes in his story. Besides, I know a guilty man when I see him. Jeremy Miller is guilty as sin. He killed his wife and got away with it. It’s enough to make anyone—alive or dead—want vengeance.”