The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1)

by Brent Kroetch

  Ham blinked his confusion. “Russ doesn’t know she’s a ghost,” he said, then immediately corrected himself. “Rather, that she claims she’s a ghost. But,” he demanded, “how could he not know? How could he not see that she looks the same now as she did forty some years ago? I mean, if everything you say is true.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Blake replied dryly. “But the fact is, Martina’s always refused to appear to him”

  Stunned, confused, Ham struggled to get his mind to form the question. “She’s refused…what do you mean she’s…then what does he think…how the fu…well why has she not?”

  Blake threw up his arms in exasperation. “How the hell would I know?” he snapped. “Ask her.”

  “You never asked her?”

  “No, I never asked her. Why would I? Would you?”

  “Well,” Ham blinked, “yeah, I think I probably would have. Maybe. But then again, I wouldn’t have believed her anyway, so…shoot, I don’t know. Okay, let’s skip past that, it’s not the point. Although,” he added as an afterthought, “it is the point in so far as Russ has no faith in her and thinks you’re being used. So okay, but never mind.”

  “No, not never mind,” Charlie asserted. “It’s why he doesn’t trust you and why, therefore, he’s using Drew to bird dog you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not entirely comfortable with that. Don’t get me wrong,” Ham shrugged, “I love Drew, she’s to me what I guess Russ is to you, Blake…”

  “So you’re not lovers?” Blake asked, straight faced.

  “No, of course not.”

  “See, Charlie? Nothing to be jealous of.”

  As Charlie giggled, Ham blushed furiously and rushed on. “But her looking over my shoulder is an odd feeling, both professionally and personally. I’m used to working with her, not in check to her. I’m not sure that I don’t feel betrayed in some way.”

  “You heard her defend you to Russ last night,” Charlie reminded him. “I don’t think you have to worry about where her loyalties lie. She’s just here to reassure Russ, not to ride herd on you, my comment about bird dogging aside.”

  Ham nodded agreement. “Yeah, you’re right. The last thing in the world she’d do would be to turn on me. Anymore than I’d turn on her.” Glancing at his watch, he announced, “I’ve got to get ready. After I’ve talked with Drew and Carson, I’m going to have go to the cops. You understand that, right?”

  “What will you tell them?” Blake asked.

  “I will tell them the truth, part of the truth, and nothing but a little tiny part of the truth, so help me God.”

  “How inscrutable,” Charlie chimed. “And that means?”

  “It means I’ll tell them there’s a death threat against Blake, that a shot came through his window, that I found the shells and here they are, keep them for the chain of custody. And that’s all. Not the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But close enough.”

  Blake nodded toward the newspaper. “They’re going to demand some answers to that.”

  “I can handle it.” Ham rose, ready to get started. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to shake a leg.”

  “I want to go.”

  “What?” Ham demanded. “What are you talking about?”

  “I want to go,” Charlie repeated. “I know more about Popster than you’ll ever learn. Maybe I can help.”

  “Charlie, it could be dangerous. I’m not sure but what Carson’s involved somehow, I’m not sure what exactly I’m getting into, and I sure as hell don’t want you going to the cops with me. I think it’s best that you stay here and take care of your dad.”

  “If Carson were involved, that would mean there’s something really, really wrong, given his connection to both Russ and Martina, right?” At Ham’s nod, she demanded, “That’s exactly why I need to be there. I know ins and outs that you don’t. You need me. I really think I should go with you.”

  “Absolutely not. It’s not going to happen. And that’s the end of that.”

  9

  MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR

  Freshly showered and shaved, no longer mostly nude, now covered with Vegas casuals, he led Charlie out of the building, around the corner and up to that same Irish bar of yesterday, the one where he was to meet Carson and Drew.

  He should have known it was useless to argue with Charlie. More than useless. He may as well try to mud wrestle a mule, demand it bray ‘uncle’ before he deigned to let it go. Success in that endeavor would be just as possible. Probably more so.

  Because Charlie was just plain mean, he decided. Anybody who would sneak up on him in the shower, hold his clothes as hostage and inform him that he was going nowhere except nude unless he capitulated, well, what else would you call that except just plain mean? Maybe perverse. That might fit. Or malicious, despicable, and shameful. Any and every descriptor beyond not nice, let alone lady-like.

  There’d been no avenue to a successful counter attack, though God knows he’d tried. What about Blake, he’d demanded, as he’d struggled to cover his now total nakedness. Not to worry, Charlie retorted, she’d called Russ who was even now on his way. Great, he’d rejoined, and if Russ was involved? What about that? Wouldn’t that just be too, too convenient? Her answer referenced something about his huge butt, with the follow-up that he could go alone and naked, or in tandem and clothed. His choice. She’d await his decision in his room, and with his clothes held hostage. Personally, she’d asserted, she didn’t care, as it might be fun to send a photographer around to chronicle his naked sojourn through the city. A mental image of the Star Advertiser’s front page, above the fold color coverage of him as Hawaii’s stripped down version of New York City’s “Naked Cowboy” forced him to cede the apparent.

  As before, some little time was required before his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the tiny bar. Why this little place should be a favorite of Carson’s was beyond his ken, given that it lent itself more to vapidity than to its soupcon of Irish dedication. As visual acuity chased away the dimness, he smiled at his apparently apt description, for there to emphasize the obvious were the same two gentlemen who had yesterday nursed an early lunch. Today they looked well on their way toward over-nursing their untimely breakfast.

  Ham directed Charlie to a table as far from the industrious drinkers as was possible in the prison-like confines of the room and signaled the same sumo sized bartender he’d met the day before. “Coffee?” the big man asked. At Ham’s nod, he filled two cups, draped a dish towel over his arm in a frivolous nod to decorum, and solemnly placed a saucered cup in front of Charlie. “You have a lovely aura, miss,” he announced as he slopped a chipped mug over to Ham. “Quite lovely, shining light, quite pure.” The bartending aura seer tossed a remorseful sigh at Ham, perhaps apologetic at the sorry pronouncement regarding Ham’s own air of darkened impurity.

  “Up yours,” Ham didn’t say. “Thank you” pushed aside that rude remark in its mad rush to save his mouth from certain distress. Lying on the floor, with that humongous example of manhood dancing victoriously above him, would provide Charlie too much ammunition, for far too long, to prove worth the momentary rush of pleasure he’d feel at broadcasting his displeasure at his supposed atmospheric deficiency.

  Ham gazed across at Charlie, searching, despite himself, for any tell-tale light around her, or any indication of paranormal existence for that matter. Unable to see what he assumed was not there, his eyes fell upon her ghost of a smile, impish eyes affirming that she was on the verge of toying with him.

  “Toy away,” he directed.

  Charlie appeared surprised, but forged ahead. “You can pretend all you want, but I know it’s not me you’re mad at.”

  “It’s not? Foolish me. Imagine me thinking that it was. I’d be curious to know where I went wrong on that. I presume you’re going to tell me.”

  “You’re angry with the situation. You feel you’re not in charge and, being a control freak, that loss makes you uncomfortable and unsure of yourself and therefor
e gloomily sour. It’s also stereotypical of a pessimist, which you so effortlessly personify.”

  “So I’m a control freak and a pessimist,” Ham laughed. “What a wonderfully pleasant man I am to be around, hmm?”

  “Not a pessimist and a control freak, that’s redundant. A pessimist is a control freak who knows that a union of idiots will conspire to subvert his brilliance, whether deliberately out of spite, pettiness, or maliciousness, or for their own selfish advantage. A control freak is by definition a pessimist, since the freak’s assumption is that all those morons will screw his ‘best laid plans’ to a fare-the-well unless he literally leans over their shoulders and supervises each and every step they make.”

  Ham smiled indulgently, as if to a wayward favored ward. He had no sense of whether her assessment rang true but he was game to try. “I see, I think. A control freak is a pessimistic narcissist, a pessimist is a narcissistic control freak, and a narcissist is just a freak. All very simple now that you point it out.”

  Charlie chose to ignore the comment altogether. “Either way,” she continued, “if you, being the average pessimist, could totally control a situation, you would encounter no unexpected surprises and no problems, since you, being the average control freak, would exercise perfection in effect. But that will not happen, the result will not live up to the ideal, and you know that, ergo, you’re not surprised that evildoers frustrate your clever design. This pisses you off, even before the fact. Which is something I don’t get. If it’s what you expect anyway, when you get thrown a curve, why not savor the satisfaction of knowing you were right instead of getting all pissed off about the fact that you were right? Talk about convoluted.”

  Unbidden, the musical coda from The Twilight Zone zipped through his mind. “Whatever, Charlie.” He shook the music from his mind and repeated, “Whatever,” even as he suspected there could be a pearl or two of wisdom buried within that torturous discourse. He believed, without embarrassment or reservation, that Charlie played on a different field, bumpier but elevated. He’d have to be a fool to disregard what to his ear was a rant apropos of nothing. If it was Charlie hurling the so-called rant, he’d have to deem her words worthy of consideration. Only not now, better sometime later, at a time more convenient than here in the midst of mystery. “You might be right,” was all he said.

  “This case could be a life changer for you, Hamster,” Charlie grinned. “In many more ways than one.”

  “Speaking of life changers,” Ham replied, “here’s one now.” He stood as Carson approached the table, offered his hand and inquired about Drew. “She’s not with you?”

  “No. Should she be?”

  “I figured you two would come together, what with her staying in your building and all. Surely you two talked.”

  “A bit yesterday, yes, but she just asked some general questions about Blake and Russ. And you,” he grinned.

  “All right, I guess she’ll be along. Grab your poison and take a seat. By the way,” he said as he swept an arm toward Charlie, “this is Blake’s daughter. Charlie, this is the infamous sniping philosopher king, Carson.”

  Charlie offered her hand as well. “It’s nice to meet you Carson. I’ve heard many funny things about you.” At his questioning look, a cross between curiosity and apparent uncertainty over whether he should be insulted, she answered, “From Martina.”

  “Ah,” Carson grinned. “Of course. She does like to pull a leg, doesn’t she? No doubt she regales you with stories of my ineptitude, how as a trainee I’m exasperatingly slow. It’s not true, you know,” he laughed. “Actually, from what I’ve heard, I’m ahead of where she was at this stage. You can tell her I said that.”

  Carson waived at the bartender, then waived him away and grabbed a seat. “I’m coffeed out and it’s too early for me to indulge in the alternative. Though not for them, again I see,” Carson chortled as he pointed toward the morning crowd of two and their newest round of breakfast. “So,” he said, turning his attention back to Ham, “where are we at? Was the tape of any help? You gonna put me on the payroll?”

  Ham stared at him for a few seconds, trying to get Carson to squirm under his scrutiny. When he didn’t, Ham shrugged. “I was considering it. Then, from the tapes, I found out that you know Russ, a fact which you withheld from me. That got me to wondering why. In addition,” he snorted, “there’s the rumor that you’re a ghost.”

  “Ghost trainee.”

  “Fine, whatever that means. So let’s go through this a bit. Number one, and this takes precedence because I’m curious, what does a ghost need with money? Why do you work at all? Do you need to eat? Sleep? What’s the deal? And second, why didn’t you tell me about your connection to Russ, the fact that he’s one of the residents of the private residences in your building? You must have known that’d be relevant. And significant. And that I’d see it on the tape.”

  Carson spread his arms in supplication. “What do you want me to say? I should have told you right from the start that I’m dead? Like you would have believed that. Martina says you don’t even believe it about her. At least not yet.” The corners of his mouth turned up into a knowing grin as he finished, “But you will. You most assuredly will.”

  “Again,” Ham demanded, “what does a ghost need with money? What’s with the payroll request?”

  “It costs money to be dead,” Carson responded straight faced. “I do not need to eat, but I like to, I enjoy it. I also like to surf, I like to play golf, and I like to work. Work pays the bills for the other stuff.”

  “I see,” Ham nodded. After a pause, he added, “Of course I don’t see. I don’t see at all. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, to humor you or run, send you home or just quit and go home myself. But whatever,” he sighed, “go ahead and tell me the rest. Do you sleep? Have sex? Do you moan and groan, rattle chains, scare the shit out of people just for the fun of it? You know, ghost stuff.”

  “I don’t rattle chains. That’s stereotypical profiling. And no, I don’t sleep because there’s no need for me to do so. Sleep is for rejuvenation and being dead, there’s nothing to rejuvenate. As for the rest, I like sex—which everybody likes, by the way, alive or dead—I can do everything I could do before I died, and more. Except that I can’t get married, of course.”

  “Well, sure, absolutely. Naturally you can’t get married, of course you can’t, not if you’re a ghost.”

  Ham glanced over at Charlie, expecting, hoping for confusion or consternation. Instead he saw delight. She was enjoying his discomfiture. He tried not to give her the satisfaction, tried not to ask, but ultimately broke under the pressure. “Fine,” Ham sighed, “I’ll bite. Why can’t you get married if you’re a ghost?”

  “Think about it, man. It should be obvious, especially so since you’re a detective. ‘As long as we both shall live.’ That would be the ultimate lie, now wouldn’t it? Talk about impeccable grounds for a breach of promise suit.”

  Ham rubbed his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, massaging them red, delaying, doing anything he could to avoid the inevitable.

  Again he broke.

  “All right, then prove it. Disappear, or walk through the wall or something ghostly like that. Because now’s the time, mister. Let’s see it.”

  Carson’s demeanor remained serene as he softly and regretfully demurred. “I’d like to help you out, Ham, but I can’t do it. Sorry.”

  “You can’t do it,” Ham echoed.

  “Nope. I’m just a trainee. Those particular skills take maybe a hundred years to master. However, Martina, when she’s not ragging on me, tells me I’m pretty advanced for my status, so maybe it won’t take that long.”

  Carson looked so sincere, so completely genuine, so lamb-like innocent when he pronounced this that Ham suspected the man truly and utterly believed what he was saying, believed with totality that he was in fact dead, that his corpse sat here engaged in animated conversation with the other side, which in his case would be the living. And if that were the case, Ha
m decided, he owed it to the young man to seek on his behalf immediate professional care. It was the human thing to do.

  Charlie might have been reading his mind, for at that moment she laid a gentle hand on Carson’s shoulder. “Maybe you could give him a little demonstration. You could do that, couldn’t you?”

  “Sure,” Carson shrugged. “We’re not really supposed to but I don’t think it’ll hurt anything under the circumstances.”

  “You’re not supposed to?” Ham challenged. “What, there are, like, rules for being a ghost, akin to penal codes, rules of law for the living, things like that?”

  Carson expelled a lungful of frustration. “If you only knew,” he sadly proclaimed. “There are more damn rules for being dead than there ever was for being alive. It’s the only down side, really.”

  Ham leaned back, way back in his chair, a conscious and less than subtle self-imposed isolation from further conversation. A moment of reflection was not just in order, he decided, but mandatory if he wished to keep his calm.

  More than just being a surreal conversation, with the sincere and sublime assertions of otherworldly munificence—or rigidity of purpose thereof—he found no relevance in any of it. Blake believed in his psychic, held true her prophesied doom, and entrusted Ham with the deadly serious task of thwarting that fateful event. He believed so sincerely that he’d put his massive money where his belief was and, as such, he had every right to expect results. That meant real results, the who, the why, the when. Not these meandering, and as far as he could see meaningless, forays into the unconvincing occult.