by Etta Faire
“This is a good thing,” she said out loud to the empty room.
She did an air cheers with her glass into the darkness then downed the remaining amount of champagne, kicking herself for not bringing the bottle with her. She reminded herself there was only a little bit left, anyway. Just half a glass, enough for Graham to know she’d taken over. He used to say you had to remind people about the things they owed you in life or else they’d forget.
And he owed her a new life. They all did.
“Who needs ‘em,” she said out loud, her words slurring. “You heard that guy today. You are the brains behind Toppletree, and it’s about time you showed them what this brain can do.”
She picked up her notebook and held the pencil at the ready.
We watched the screen as a dark scene began to play, probably shot the night before. College kids roasting marshmallows around the fire pit.
Somer, Hannah, and two of the Duran Duran-looking boys were laughing and telling hook stories.
While Mandy watched the film, I looked around the room for clues out of the corner of her eye. It was too dark to see much. So, I tried to listen for anything out of the ordinary, but the projector buzzed loudly while the movie played. It was almost like white noise and Mandy found herself fighting to keep her eyes open. They were heavy, and the champagne was kicking in.
After about ten minutes of watching take after take of a man with a hook moving from tree to tree while the kids sat around the fire laughing, the clapperboard changed scene numbers and we were on the lake, early morning. The sun was out, but there were no signs of boats or water skiers yet.
A boy who looked about eight or nine shivered in a bathing suit on a dock in the middle of the water. Olivia was there, without the dark wig this time, obviously playing a different character. She stood on the shore next to one of the male camp counselors. They were laughing and pointing at the kid.
Mandy talked to me in our head again. “This is the backstory scene. It’s supposed to take place in the 60s, me and my boyfriend from 20 years ago. We accidentally kill this kid,” she said. “They brought in Olivia to play the younger version of me.”
On screen, Olivia and the young man walked over to a boat. Olivia’s natural blonde hair shimmered in the morning light. She looked a lot like Mandy had in the younger pictures of herself.
“Just swim back to shore,” the guy yelled to the boy at the dock.
The boy shook his head while a voice off camera yelled through a bullhorn for the kid to begin crying.
The kid wiped his face and rubbed his eyes.
“Let’s go get him,” Olivia said.
“What a wimp,” the guy replied, laughing. “He could swim if he tried.”
“Or, he could drown. He’s not wearing a life vest. Come on. It’ll take five minutes.” Olivia and the guy pushed the boat into the water and got in.
I could see why Ruth and Barry thought the movie was about the 1960s incident. The blue notes did seem like they were directed at them. And this boat scene about saving the boy did seem a little too much like Mandy and Graham, with Mandy trying to save the kid again.
The motor of the boat picked up as the two rushed over to the dock to get the boy.
I heard the door in the shack opening. A gust of wind smacked against our face. Mandy half-turned toward it.
We squinted. “Who’s there?”
It was too dark to see much except a blur of a figure in black rushing at us: black ski mask, black clothing, something yellow in their hand.
We didn’t have time to process what was happening, our reflexes dulled by the Dom Pérignon and how sleepy we were. Something scratchy and thick tightened around our throat, and Mandy let out a large harrumph-sounding breath. She tried to tug it off of her, but momentum was on the side of the killer. She flailed her arms and legs around, trying to hit the person, trying to free herself, but she couldn’t breathe. And she was weakening.
Sound from the movie projector was all I could hear. The kid on the screen was screaming about his hand as the boat’s motor zoomed louder and louder. The male character was laughing and telling the kid to shut-up. He was going to get them into trouble.
Just before Mandy’s vision went black, I looked behind me as a glove fell to the floor. It was one of those disposable ones, like people used when they didn’t want fingerprints on a poster. A yellow ski rope dangled by our side.
Everything went dark and quiet. Too quiet. But thankfully, after a few silent seconds, I heard the distant sound of my clock again. I was always worried I wouldn’t hear that.
I had found myself.
Chapter 30
A Change in Attitude
I gasped awake, taking one huge breath after another, clutching at my neck, just thankful it was only a channeling.
I blinked around my room, trying to remember where I’d left my notebook. I spotted it under my laptop on the dining room table, and I got up and rushed over to it. My right leg buckled under my weight from falling asleep.
But at least my neck was much better this time, thanks to the pillows.
I sat down in front of my notebook and began scribbling everything I could remember into the pages. I had learned a lot of new information. Mandy’s time of death was close to midnight, not close to morning like the coroner had reported.
She was strangled with a rope, not film, likely the ski rope I saw under the hammock at dinner. But film was wrapped around her neck and was all over the place according to the crime scene photos and reports. Most of it had been ruined. It was the reason they had to chop the movie into something salvageable but barely watchable.
There was also a blue glove.
I looked up at my clock. It was almost midnight, and I needed to wake up early to see Caleb.
My eyes were heavy. I would have to go to sleep.
But I had a lot of things to go over with the police tomorrow.
Caleb tugged wildly on his goatee, barely looking up as he motioned for me to have a seat at the other side of his desk the next morning.
I sat down. He still stood, leaning over his opened laptop. A large black flash drive stuck out of the side of it. He looked at the screen, shook his head, and looked away.
It was 6:07, way too early to deal with Caleb Bowman, in my opinion. I hadn’t had coffee yet, and I was in no mood to hear I was late.
A series of movies were already lined up on the screen, and he went to click on the first one, but stopped himself.
He shook his head again.
I knew what was wrong. And I knew he wanted me to be the one to admit it and beg for his forgiveness. But that was not going to happen.
I crossed my legs and smoothed out the fabric of my old, comfy leggings. I wasn’t dressed to impress this time around.
I no longer cared what he thought of me.
Regardless, we needed to hurry this show along. I pulled the folder he’d given me open. “I’d like to know why the coroner’s report was changed. I know Mandy died just after midnight…”
He sniffed audibly. “Got a call from Vernon Gleason last night.”
He waited for me to respond.
I glanced up from my folder. “I’m surprised it took him so long.”
His eyes were wild and cold, making me question what side of the law he was really on. “Of course you know you can’t see the scrapbook anymore.”
“I came for the surveillance footage,” I said. “Can we just look at that? I’d also like to find the coroner’s report.”
His finger hovered over the trackpad. “I cannot believe you are going around saying you are working for me on this case when you are not. You are not on my payroll. I am not paying you.”
I took a deep breath. “I had to, Caleb. People don’t just tell mediums stuff unless we’re working with law enforcement. Plus, I didn’t lie. We are working together. Now, let’s look at these surveillance videos, together. I’m ready to wrap this case up.”
He didn’t move.
I went on. “Are you really going to let your pride stop you from doing your job? From helping people?” I looked up at the fluorescent light bulb blaring overhead. “I’m not expecting the scrapbook anymore. Don’t worry. I’m just here to figure out Mandy’s murder.”
He mumbled something to himself, but finally clicked on the first video and sat down. The picture took over the screen. The first film was black-and-white, grainy, and dark. The time stamp said it was from 9/25/87 at 10:02 p.m.
A group of people shuffled toward the door in jerky, mechanical movements.
“The film’s awful because surveillance cameras in 1987 weren’t what they are today,” Caleb mansplained to me, using what was probably his extra-professional voice. “And… from the looks of it, the bar had their cameras set to record about four or five frames per second, probably to save film. Movies are usually at about twenty-five to thirty frames per second.”
I nodded.
He pointed to a grayish white blob of people as the footage played. “That’s Graham Smalls and Somer Hawkins right there,” he said. “There’s Hannah Jinard and Ned Reinhart.”
I wrote down the time into my notebook and every name Caleb said was entering the bar, wondering if I should be recording this on my phone. I decided not to. This was barely useful, and I resented waking up early to watch this.
The angle of the camera was off. The film was so grainy and choppy, it was impossible to see much.
Caleb went on. “There was a camera on both the entrance and the emergency exits, so, unless someone snuck out a side window, we’re pretty sure all alibis check out.”
He fast forwarded.
At about the 11:08 mark in the film, a small man in a baseball cap stepped outside to smoke. But 1987 was a time when you could smoke inside.
I told Caleb to stop fast forwarding.
I squinted at the screen. It looked like Hank was standing by the entrance talking it up with the bouncer standing outside. A couple different groups came and went at the same time, and I lost track of him.
I scribbled it into my notebook.
“Did the police ask Hank Krebs about that night?” I asked, pointing to the screen.
“He was not a person of interest,” Caleb said.
“How well did you know Glen Bellings?” I asked.
“The sheriff back then? Well enough to know he was on the up and up.”
I tapped my pencil along my notebook. Generally speaking, when someone has to tell you someone else is on the “up and up,” that means they are anything but.
I already knew that about Glen Bellings, though.
Caleb went on. “He retired right after this case, oddly enough. Said he’d had enough and went to work security over at the museum. I could not blame him, to tell you the God’s-honest truth. Mandy’s sister called that poor man all the time while he was sheriff, nagging him about the case, yelling at him that he wasn’t doing his job right. That he’d botched the investigation on purpose. Crazy stuff like that. She even went to the media with that nonsense. His heart finally gave out in 1997-ish, I think. This job’ll get to you if you let it.”
He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. I could tell he was not the type to let the job get to him.
He pointed out Ned, Graham, Somer, and Hannah at about the 2:00 mark.
I couldn’t see any of their faces because the camera only caught the back of their heads now that they were walking away in grainy, choppy movements.
“Next up, the frat house,” Caleb announced, clicking on another film in the line-up. “We were so lucky on this one. The frat house had only recently installed these security cameras at all their doors and even in certain spots inside the house. They were on probation after a hazing incident. This one’s better than the bar’s footage.”
He was right. It was still dark and grainy but at least Somer and Graham seemed to be moving at a normal speed. She stumbled in a drunken state. He held her waist, guiding her into the frat house.
And I was thankful I hadn’t had breakfast yet because I would have been tossing it.
“All the alibis are solid,” Caleb said, clicking off of one video and onto another one.
But I wasn’t so sure.
“There’s not much surveillance of the Glaston Hotel,” Caleb said, sitting up in his seat. He clicked on the film and pointed to the screen. “But, Ned heads in at 2:30, just like he said.”
The film from the Glaston and the frat house were clear enough to tell one person from the next one. The one from the bar was almost worthless. So, in my opinion, that left a wide field of possibilities to work with. I didn’t say this to Caleb, though.
“So according to your notes, the only two people not accounted for and known to be in the house at the time of Mandy’s death were the Lockes?” I asked.
Caleb tugged on the end of a goatee hair. “Just stop harassing people, okay? Whatever you do, do not contact the Lockes. They were checked out and cleared of any wrongdoing back in the day, and the sheriff’s department stands by that. They are well known and well respected in this community and, if you so much as look in their direction, I will stop helping you.”
“I’m the one helping you,” I reminded him.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” he said, as he closed his laptop. “And you’re not seeing that scrapbook.”
“We’ve established that,” I said. “How about the coroner’s report?” I pointed to the folder sitting in front of me. “I noticed the time of death changed from sometime between midnight and five in the morning to sometime between 3:00 and 5:00. Do you know why?”
He shrugged. “Usually the coroner’s report can change based on things like food digestion in the victim’s stomach after determining the last known time they ate. And the rate of rigor mortis. That kind of stuff.”
“Can I see the report on that?”
“The official one was lost years ago, as far as I can tell. And I am not going to bother the coroner’s office to see if we can find it. It says everything about it in there…” He pointed to the folder.
“Isn’t your sister the coroner? We could just ask her to look,” I said.
We stared at each other for more than a few seconds. I’d lived in Landover long enough to know the coroner and the sheriff were usually way too chummy to question each other.
And, this report seemed to be changed for a reason. Just like the blue glove. And Mandy’s missing outfit. It was lost on purpose because it helped to take a local person off the suspect list.
It was the Landover mentality, the kind that makes angry dads complain at a diner when out-of-towners are served before them.
Locals expect special treatment.
“We done here?” Caleb asked, checking his watch. “Christine will be here soon.”
“Yeah, I see how it is,” I said as I left.
Jackson appeared on my way out the door. “I was there the entire time, but I didn’t say a word. Not even one peep. I’m not sure this ghost repellant is really necessary. I’m hardly noticeable.”
I checked my phone as I was leaving, noticing that I missed a text from Rosalie.
Couldn’t sleep, so I made ghost repellant. Come by my place this morning and you can pick it up. Extra strength.
I held my phone out so my ex could see the message.
“Yes, I have to agree. You’ll be hardly noticeable soon,” I said.
Just like with the bird repellant, the ghost repellant was less smelly than it had been in previous versions.
But it was still smelly.
My eyes watered from the scent of dirty-diapers as I carried the box out to my car.
I reminded myself this was necessary. I had to carry awful-smelling sachets in my pockets or I would have no control over ghosts traveling on me. And, I needed the privacy in my bedroom and my bathroom.
Rosalie was right behind me, carrying a rag that she said I’d need to put down first because the strands were probably “still a little damp.”
And I knew the ghost repellant leaked a red, blood-like liquid until it dried.
Rosalie handed me a pair of blue disposable gloves. “Wear these when you hang the strands. The sachets for your pockets are completely dry, but I’m guessing, and this is just a theory, mind you, that the strands for the doorways will be ten times more effective if you let them dry hanging up there. Remember to put a rag underneath them. I have no idea if this stuff eats through flooring.” She rubbed her hands together like she couldn’t wait to find out.
She stretched the rag towel over the hatch area of my Civic, and I set the box on it, wondering now if the rag was going to be enough.
I looked down at my hands. They were already a reddish pink from carrying a damp box dripping with Rosalie’s ghost repellant.
She motioned toward my hands when she saw me staring at them. “That red’ll wear off on its own.”
Jackson appeared by the hatch. “Rosalie’s recipes always have the most interesting side effects,” he said. “I wonder if the staining is permanent. I sure hope the smell isn’t.”
I resisted the urge to smell my hands. I knew what they probably smelled like. It was exactly the way my car was going to smell like for a while, and my house.
Jackson hovered closer to the hatch, curled his lip at the ghost repellant, then instantly disappeared.
I smiled as I closed the back. “If this stuff works to keep ghosts out of my business,” I said loud enough for Jackson to hear, “then smelly, red hands are hardly noticeable.”
Chapter 31
Covering Up
I stood on a chair in my bedroom doorway, attaching the bird repellant strands along the rod exactly like Rosalie told me to. About an inch and a half apart with a rag underneath them. A thick red liquid that looked much too close to blood dripped onto the rag.
I coughed on the smell, looking around for Jackson. I thought he would have been here, ridiculing me, or at least complaining about how unnecessary these strands were.
