In the car, Emily traced the scar along her face, pushing at the skin as though she could mould it back into its original shape. When she grew tired, it throbbed, but her fingertips probably caused more damage than good. With a sigh, she dropped her hand to the wheel and headed for home.
Even though the session had wiped her out, Emily still pulled out a pad to practice her numbers and letters. When the truck’s front wheels had crushed her head inside the twisted metal wreckage of her little BMW boxster, a skull fragment had pierced straight into the zone where her brain processed written language.
She could talk, she could listen, but show her a page of written words and Emily might as well have been reading an ancient, unknowable alphabet.
The mathematical symbols that had defined her career as an accountant were a messy jumble without meaning. Although her physical limitations annoyed Emily, this was the heart and soul of her vexation.
Numbers formed her identity. Without them, she no longer knew who to be.
Each night, she practised, hoping the stars would align and this time—this time—the recognition might come flooding back. With painstaking attention, Emily traced out each digit, each letter, copying them from a cardboard backed child’s book.
With diligence, she stared at each copied shape, willing the memory of the number into her mind. Each blink eroded the knowledge, the digits turning back into meaningless squiggles and lines.
Enough!
Emily tossed the pad aside and lay back on her bed, eyes, mind, and body reeling from the long day. The image of Gregory’s shocked face popped up, bringing a glut of guilt along with it. The poor kid, seeing his stepmother’s likeness sitting in her passenger seat. She could only hope she hadn’t scarred him for life.
Given Hilda’s scathing attitude toward him, he probably had too thick a skin for that, but still.
Thinking of the odd mixture of people she’d met earlier in the day, Emily drifted off to sleep.
A low hum roused Emily from her slumber. As her mind rose through the layers of consciousness, she first thought it was her mother singing to her in her crib. She opened her eyes, still unused to the angles and windows of the bedroom she’d slept in for the past few weeks.
“Hm,” a low voice whispered in her ear. It rose another few notes. “Tra-la-la.”
Emily sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart froze mid-beat, then hammered at her chest like she was the last nail to be pounded in before quitting time.
A woman stood beside the bed, staring at her.
Emily tossed aside the covers and struggled to her feet. Her leg buckled, spilling her back onto the mattress. She gasped and pushed herself back to a standing position with her hands.
“Who are you?” she asked while feeling for her dressing gown. She slipped it on, a protective layer against the intruder. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”
“I might ask you the same thing.” The woman placed her hands on her hips and jutted out her chin. “I’ve no idea what I’m doing in this tiny little box, but I can assure you, if you don’t take me home at once you’ll live to regret it!”
The woman spoke in the plummy tones of a newsreader from the 1960s. Her hairstyle was similar, coiffed on top of her head and bedecked with pearls, although she couldn’t be more than forty.
It triggered a memory but, in her shock, Emily couldn’t place it.
She needed to get into the hallway and make a break for her front door. The neighbours, Mr and Mrs Huntaway, would rouse from sleep if she yelled loud enough. They’d come to her aid, with the husband bringing along his biggest butcher’s knife while he was at it.
The thought of the woman facing something as fearful as what Emily faced now lent her enough energy to make the short dash to the door. She pulled on the handle, losing her balance and falling to one knee.
“Oh, dear. Are you all right?” The woman drifted over to Emily’s side and bent over, a concerned expression on her face. “You won’t be able to drive me home if you hurt yourself. Should you be moving at that pace at your age?”
The insult spurred Emily into a rage. She spun, poking her finger at the woman’s face. “How dare you? I’m perfectly capable. Now, you get out of my house and don’t come back unless you want to face my rifle.”
“Your rifle?” The woman sniggered. “Since you can’t even open the door without falling over, I dare say no one would allow you to own a firearm.” She tilted her head to one side, her right eyebrow arched. “Do they even let old age pensioners have a gun licence?”
“I’m not a pensioner! I’m barely into my fifties.”
Emily ran a hand through her hair, screwing her eyes up in concentration. The conversation had gone so far off track she didn’t know if she was coming or going. “How long have you been in here, watching me sleeping?”
“Not long. I can assure you if I’d spent any more than a few minutes in this airless trap, I’d be far more disagreeable.”
“How d’you get in?”
The woman pulled at a loose strand of hair near her mouth, twisting it around her forefinger while she frowned. “I don’t know. I can remember watching my soaps on television, then I was here.”
With a start, Emily realised the retirement village was just a few hundred metres along the street. The hospital section catered mostly for the elderly but always had a few others in their care. Alzheimer’s patients, for instance.
That must be it. A woman with a case of early-onset dementia who’d wandered away and couldn’t remember.
The explanation relaxed her. Emily could cope with a patient, especially one so slight of build. She’d take her arm and guide her back to where she should be, just as soon as she got dressed.
“Why don’t you wait outside the room for a minute?” Emily cooed in as reassuring a voice as she could manage. “I’ll get dressed and drive you back home if you give me a second to get myself decent.”
The woman gave a snort and shook her head. “It’ll take a lot more than a few minutes to conjure that miracle, don’t you think?”
Biting back a retort to the rude comment, Emily reached for the woman’s arm to guide her out the door. As her fingers went straight through the limb and out the other side, she gave a startled cry.
The memory of where she’d seen the woman before socked home. Horror and recognition dawned at the same moment.
“You’re Mrs Pettigrew,” Emily said in a barely audible voice. “You’re a ghost.”
Chapter Four
“I’m not a ghost!” Mrs Pettigrew held out her hand, turning it one way then the other. “See? Solid as anything.”
Emily gathered up her nerve and gave the woman a poke. Her finger travelled straight into the ghost’s side, ending up somewhere in the middle of where her kidneys should be, then she pulled it back, wiping her hand against her dressing gown. “You look like you’re there, but you’re not.”
“Rubbish.” In case Emily hadn’t interpreted her opinion correctly the woman also gave a large snort. “If I was a ghost, you wouldn’t be able to see me at all.”
“I don’t know why I can.” Emily frowned, wishing Mrs Pettigrew was right and she couldn’t see her. Or hear her.
The moon streamed in through the window she’d left open for the light breeze, forming a silver path along the floor. Although it didn’t shine straight through the ghost, Mrs Pettigrew didn’t cast a shadow. Emily was about to point it out, then thought twice. Would that be rude?
“This is a tiny room.” The ghost crossed her arms over her chest and paced back and forth. “Is the rest of the house this small?”
“It’s old,” Emily said, trying not to let her indignation show. She had to be careful with money since the accident. Her old salary had disappeared and despite years of budget advice to strangers, she’d never set up a diligent savings plan for herself.
The ghost snorted again. “My house is old, and it’s gigantic. That’s hardly an excuse.” Mrs Pettigrew turned and squinted at Emily. “A
re you very poor? Do you think that’s why I’ve appeared here? To help you financially?”
“I don’t need any financial help and I can’t see what good you’d do if I did. Unless you know where a heap of treasure is buried, what were you planning?”
“There’s no need to get uppity.” The woman turned away, her nose tilting into the air.
Just as Emily opened her mouth to apologise, Mrs Pettigrew caught sight of her practice letters and numbers. “What on earth are all these squiggles? This handwriting is even worse than my GP and Dr Pearson has a famously terrible hand.”
Emily reached over and snatched the pad away, pressing it to her chest. “None of your business.”
The ghost gave an elaborate sigh and drifted over to the window. “Oh, I know this part of town,” she said with a cry of delight. “We’re near to Main Street.”
“Perhaps you should go there,” Emily suggested. “See if something there tells you why you’ve appeared in my bedroom in the middle of the night.”
“How did you know my name?”
Emily felt the words land on her like an accusation. She hunched her shoulders and perched on the side of the bed. “Your family donated a lot of your possessions to the charity shop where I work. I’ve been sorting through them.”
The ghost’s gaze intensified until Emily shifted her position to avoid staring straight back at her. “What possessions? You mean bits of old tat?”
“I haven’t looked at all of it yet, but a lot of large boxes,” Emily replied, still feeling the weight in her back and shoulders. “Along with a wooden chest.”
Mrs Pettigrew held out a hand to steady herself on the windowsill. Her fingers plunged straight through the wood, leaving her off balance.
Emily jumped up to stop the woman falling, but she was no better at catching her than the sill had been. Mrs Pettigrew stumbled to her right, one leg buckling, and landed on her knee.
“There must be a mistake,” she mumbled. “Why would my family give away all my treasures?”
“Well,” Emily moved back a step, not wanting to crowd her. “You’re a ghost, remember? They won’t have need of them any longer.”
“I don’t feel well. Do you have a brandy I can use to settle my nerves?”
Emily shook her head. Since her accident, alcohol didn’t agree with her. “I doubt you could drink it,” she said in placation. “Not in your current state.”
Mrs Pettigrew pursed her lips, in denial of what should have been obvious to her.
An idea occurred to Emily, and she picked up a silver backed hand mirror from her dressing table. “Why don’t you have a look at yourself and I’ll show you something?”
She held the mirror at an angle the ghost could see, then stretched out a finger. “Are you watching?”
“Yes, I’m watching. What is it?”
The note of annoyance gave Emily the courage to follow through with her plan. She poked her finger into the side of Mrs Pettigrew’s cheek and, although the woman flinched, kept it moving until it looked like a thick kebab skewer sticking out of her head.
“Do you see?”
The ghost jerked backwards, holding her hand up in a warding off gesture. “I don’t see anything. Get away from me!”
“Really? Because you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Judging from the knitted eyebrows on Mrs Pettigrew’s face, the small joke had missed its mark.
Emily moved back a step, then laid the mirror face-up on the floor. “I’ll make myself a cup of cocoa. It’s far too late at night to have an esoteric discussion without something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She hobbled toward the door, favouring her left side. Out in the corridor, she turned back to the ghost. “If you wanted to leave, now would be a good time.”
Mrs Pettigrew stayed on the floor, one hand cupping her cheek and her eyes full of ghost tears. It didn’t appear as if she had the energy to go anywhere.
Emily shuffled down the hallway, one painful step at a time, supposing that in similar circumstances, she might feel the same.
“Have you always been able to see ghosts?”
Emily blew on the top of her cocoa, then took a cautious sip. Perfect. Although she usually sweetened the brew with Splenda tablets, tonight she’d thrown caution to the wind and dumped in four heaped teaspoons of sugar. It wouldn’t help when it came time to have another attempt at sleep, but that seemed a distant event.
“You’re the first,” she said after swallowing another delicious mouthful. “And, no offence, but I hope you’re the last.”
Mrs Pettigrew preened at the start of the sentence and ignored the latter. “It’s a change to be the first for something. After spending the last fifteen years as a second wife, it’s nice to break free.”
“Well, I’m glad I could oblige.” Emily smiled. If she’d thought such a thing could ever happen to her, she’d never have imagined the conversation going this way. She’d think of herself as the one clutching her throat, terrified, whereas the roles were now reversed.
“Do you know how I died?”
The image of Gregory flashed up in Emily’s mind and she spluttered out half her mouthful. Her head just burst open like a ripe tomato. There was no way on earth she’d say such a thing to the ghost, no matter how rude or annoying the woman appeared on first acquaintance.
But with Mrs Pettigrew staring at her through keen eyes, Emily had to say something. “Why don’t we look up the notice in the paper? I didn’t want to ask your family questions about it.” Not after the information your stepson volunteered!
“Do you keep old papers?”
Emily frowned, wondering if the ghost was joking for a moment, then deciding she didn’t look the type. “No. I meant to check online.”
The ghost sniffed and tilted her nose into the air. “Precise language is so important if you want to avoid being misunderstood. Although…”
She trailed off and Emily didn’t want to ask her the obvious question to get her restarted. Although, what? She took another big gulp of her cocoa to stop her mouth running away with the question before her mind could put a stop to it.
Mrs Pettigrew wasn’t so easily put off, however. While Emily held her tongue, she waited for a beat, then continued regardless. “Your handwriting does leave a lot to be desired. I suppose you have trouble reading.”
“About as much trouble as you have living.”
So much for holding her tongue!
The ghost gave her a glare through narrowed eyes, then tilted her nose even farther into the air. At this rate, soon Emily would be staring straight up her nostrils. She gulped another mouthful of cocoa, then the last. It was grainy with undissolved sugar and she kept it in her mouth a second longer, letting her tongue absorb the glorious sweetness from the crystals.
“It’ll just take a few minutes for my laptop to get going,” she said, snagging the corner of the machine and dragging it out from under the bed. The poor device had a thick coating of dust over it. When Emily swept her arm across the top, her sleeve gained a thick taupe line.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to take good care of your things?”
“My mother died when I was very young,” Emily answered. It wasn’t quite true—she’d been in her early twenties—but it felt true, nonetheless. Either way, the answer silenced Mrs Pettigrew’s careless tongue, which was all she cared about for the moment.
The machine booted up and Emily leaned over the keyboard, fingers poised to type, then realised her mistake.
The computer had gathered dust because it required someone able to read and write to operate it. Her exclusion from that group was recent enough it had dropped from her mind.
As the squiggles on the keyboard appeared to squirm and writhe before her tired eyes, abject sorrow for the person she’d once been filled up Emily’s mind.
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
Emily didn’t want to explain herself. It was late, she’d only had an hour or two’s sleep, and her b
ody was aching from the day’s exertion. “I need to rest. We can do this in the morning.”
She snapped the lid back into place and lay back on the bed. As uncomfortable as it felt to have someone glaring at her while she tried to sleep, Emily kept her eyelids shut.
It would be a hundred times more uncomfortable to explain.
Tomorrow, she could make her excuses to Mrs Pettigrew and perhaps persuade Pete to do the search instead. After all, the woman was dead. Finding out how or why wouldn’t change things.
“Are you seriously going to lie there instead of helping me?” Indignation sharpened the ghost’s voice, climbing into registers it should stay away from in fear of being called shrill.
“You can give it a go yourself if you want to find out so desperately,” Emily replied, not even cracking an eyelid. “Perhaps you’ll surprise yourself and be a poltergeist.”
The frustrated gasps and cries soon belied that expectation, but Emily dropped off to sleep despite the noise. One positive note for overtaxing her body during the day. She must remember the trick for the next time insomnia came calling.
An exasperated curse was the last thing Emily heard before she fell sound asleep.
Chapter Five
“You don’t need to explain,” Pete said as Emily started on her well-rehearsed speech for why she needed to look up Mrs Pettigrew’s death notice. “I’ve done the same before when I grew curious. As long as you’re just reading publicly available information, there’s no harm in it. I’ll be glad to help.”
She closed her eyes in relief. She could now shove her worst fear back into the depths of her stomach where it belonged. “Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble. I know well enough how difficult it is to not be able to do everything you want, anymore. If I can help, I’ll always be glad too.”
Charity Shop Haunted Mysteries Page 3
