Big Ghosts Don’t Cry

by Danielle Garrett

  Flapjack leaned forward, reading the numbers. “That’s it.”

  The police tape had been taken down. I imagined it wouldn’t be too long before a For Sale sign was planted in the dense grass. Her parents lived in Minnesota and her ex-husband and daughter had a house of their own in the next town over.

  “What’s the neighbor’s name?” I asked Flapjack, still studying Sabrina’s home.

  Had she been back to her home since that night? Had she reset to the scene of the crime the night before, after her meltdown in my flower shop? On the one hand, it was her home. Her sanctuary away from the world. But that sanctuary had been violated. Any comfort she might have once found there would be ripped away now. Any happy memories she’d made there would be drowned out by that horrible night. Wouldn’t they?

  “Barry Wentsworth.”

  “Any other info?”

  “He’s the one who found the body. According to him, our ghoul-pal—”

  “Sabrina,” I corrected, sliding him an evil eye.

  “Fine. Sabrina had the flu. He was taking her some soup and a few DVDs to borrow. He knocked and she didn’t come to the door. He figured she was asleep, so he went back home. A few hours later, he tried calling. No answer. Says he had a bad feeling about it and went back over, went inside, and found her. Dead.”

  “The door was unlocked?” I asked.

  “He had a key. Apparently, he was in charge of her houseplants and cat whenever she’d go out of town for work.”

  “Oh. Do the cops know how the killer got inside?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Flapjack! You were in there for a good twenty minutes. What were you doing?”

  A glint reflected in his silver eyes.

  “You know what, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  I threw open my door and hopped out of the van.

  “What’s your cover story here, Scar?” Flapjack asked, appearing at my ankles. “You need a good alter-ego name. Hmm. What about Inspector Rose? Florist by day, crime-fighting gumshoe by night!”

  “When should I expect the graphic novel?” I deadpanned.

  He wheezed a happy purr, satisfied with himself.

  It was a valid question though, one I’d toyed with during the drive over. Unfortunately, I hadn’t come up with an answer yet. There wasn’t a good, plausible reason for me to be poking around in Sabrina’s murder investigation, and I sure as Hades wasn’t going to start telling people I’d spoken with her ghost. I’d had mixed results with people’s reactions to my powers in the past. Some, like Lucas, were positive, though a little cautious. Others offered me fame and fortune. But the vast majority thought I was a nutcase and a possible danger to myself and others. One psychotic break away from a crime spree orchestrated by the voices in my head.

  “Hmm. Maybe Inspector Rose is off the table, but Journalist Rose could work.” I smiled at Flapjack. “What’s that little paper called? You know, the one I use to kill flies in the shop.”

  “Ah, the little gem that’s known as The Harbor Hubbub,” Flapjack replied, amusement in his tone.

  I snapped my fingers. “Yes! Well, for the day, I’m Scarlet Rose, with the esteemed press.”

  “Impersonating a journalist? Nice. I always knew one day you’d fully cross over to the dark side.”

  I frowned down at him. “Fully? As in, I have a toe over the line as it is?”

  “Oh, you have more than a toe, Scar.” He smiled. “But that’s what I like about you.”

  He winked out of sight, materializing on the other side of the street after a car passed by. I sputtered a muttered counterpoint under my breath as I marched across the street. “You’re wrong,” I told him in summary when I reached the opposite sidewalk.

  “You really do make it too easy, Scar. It’s starting to take some of the fun out of it. Maybe I’ll stick to badgering Hayward.”

  “Ugh! Why I even let you come with me—”

  “I’m the one with the address, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Well, you’re in danger of losing your tuna privileges.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Hey,” I said with a grin, “you’re the one who said I’m walking on the dark side. Seems like just the kind of thing I’d do.”

  Chapter 7

  Barry Wentsworth was a middle-aged man with disheveled sandy-blonde hair, close-set eyes, and a long, sharp nose. In a weird way, he reminded me of Roger from Disney’s 101 Dalmatians. But, that could have just been the sweater vest and old-school pipe dangling from his mouth.

  “Who’re you?” he asked, his voice low and gruff.

  “Hmm. A prickly pear. Your favorite, Scar,” Flapjack said, looking the man over before slipping past his ankles.

  I forced my eyes up to meet Barry’s and extended my hand. “My name is Scarlet Rose and I’m a reporter with The Harbor Hubbub, a local paper in Beechwood Harbor. Do you have a few minutes to talk with me about the Sabrina Hutchins’ case?”

  “Tell him he needs to hire a maid!” Flapjack called from somewhere in the house.

  I cringed.

  “A reporter?” Barry said, giving me a once-over. There was nothing leery about it but I took a small step back all the same. “I’ve already told the police everything I remember from that horrible night.”

  “Right, well, I’m writing a piece more about Sabrina. Who she was as a person.”

  “Hmm.” Another apprising glance. “You got a card?”

  A card?

  “Sure!” I said, automatically patting at the pockets of my jeans. “Oh, shoot, you know, I just gave the last one out. Would you like to speak with my editor?”

  I pulled my cell phone out, readying to dial and desperately hoping he wouldn’t call my bluff.

  Barry considered me a moment longer and then shook his head. “That’s fine. I don’t imagine this will be a long interview?”

  “No, no. Just a few minutes of your time.”

  He stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come on inside. I just put on a pot of coffee if you want a mug.”

  Hesitantly, I followed him into the house, closing the front door behind me. Flapjack wasn’t kidding about the maid suggestion, though. From the looks of things, he’d give any housekeeper a run for their money if they hoped to do their job and keep their sanity. The house wasn’t just dingy, but cluttered, and held the odor of several days’ worth of dirty dishes and empty take-out boxes. From a quick look, it appeared that Barry existed on a diet of delivery pizza, Chinese food, and frozen waffles drenched in syrup.

  Flapjack wandered down the hallway off the living room, leaving me alone with Barry.

  “How do you take your coffee?” he asked, heading into the kitchen.

  “Um, black is fine.”

  I didn’t plan on drinking it anyway.

  While he puttered in the kitchen, I picked through the stacks of boxes lining one wall. Old magazines filled at least two dozen banker boxes. National Geographic, Popular Science, TIME, even People.

  A baby grand piano was the only untouched surface. In fact, as I neared it, I realized it wasn’t only free of the clutter that plagued the rest of the room, but it was spotless. Freshly polished to a shine, not a speck of dust on the keys.

  “Do you play?”

  I whipped around to face Barry as he came into the room, pipe clenched between his teeth as he carried a mug in each hand. He passed one to me, and I noted the chipped edge. The whole picture was confusing. Barry’s home was by no means small and resided in a nice neighborhood. The outside was well-maintained and the car in the driveway looked like it was fairly new. But the inside, save the piano, was an absolute mess, and the mugs we held were battered and faded.

  “I don’t,” I answered, gesturing with my free hand back toward the piano. “It’s lovely, though. It’s one thing I always wish I’d learned.”

  “Hmm. My wife was the musician,” he explained, his gaze hitched on the piano for a long moment. “What is it you’d like to kn
ow about Sabrina?”

  We took our seats opposite one another, me on the loveseat, he in a large recliner that appeared to be his usual spot in the large room, judging by the mounded contents of the ashtray set on the small table beside it.

  “It’s my understanding that you two were friends, is that right?” I started, lowering the mug of coffee to my knee.

  “Something like that,” Barry replied. He set the pipe aside and sipped from the coffee. “We’d been neighbors for five years or so. We both bought our homes here when they were first built. They’re the same floor plan, just mirrored.”

  I nodded politely. “What was she like? Did she have any hobbies or belong to any clubs?”

  “She was a mom,” Barry replied. “Sabrina’s life revolved around the girl, Miranda. Soccer practice, prom-dress shopping, field trips, PTA, all that.”

  “Did she enjoy it?”

  He offered a small shrug. “Seemed to.”

  “I read that she traveled often for work.”

  He nodded to confirm.

  “Did she enjoy that? Traveling?”

  Barry took a long, thoughtful sip of coffee. “Not really. She didn’t like being away from home.”

  “Sabrina was a nice woman and a good neighbor. She’ll be missed around here. You might interview some of the other neighbors for your piece. Everyone in this development is pretty close. There’s a monthly potluck dinner at the community clubhouse.”

  “That’s nice,” I said with a genuine smile.

  Barry shrugged again.

  I leaned forward, holding the mug with both hands as I braced my elbows on my thighs. “Mr. Wentsworth, off the record, do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt her?”

  Barry bristled at the question. “It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?”

  I blinked.

  “Cases like these, it’s always the same story. The ex!” Barry put his coffee aside and picked up the pipe. He stuck the stem into the corner of his mouth. “They were in a big custody battle. He got some fancy job offer in California, but their original divorce paperwork says he has to stay close enough for Miranda to see him every other weekend. He wanted to give up his weekend visits and take the whole summer, so the girl would go live with him full time in the summer. Sabrina wasn’t having it. They were set to go to court next month.” He paused and blew out a ring of thick smoke, then pinned me with a serious stare. “With Sabrina out of the way, he wins.”

  Flapjack strutted back into the room, his tail alert. His whiskers twitched at the smell of pipe tobacco. “You getting anything out of Beanpole Baggins here, or can we get going?”

  I shot a frown at him. “Do you know her ex? Were they married when they moved into the neighborhood?”

  “Not for very long. They separated probably a year or so after moving in. As far as I could tell, things were already pretty far gone by that point. He cheated on her and she kicked him out. It should have been cut and dried, but he fought for custody and that dragged out for a long time. It took a toll on Sabrina. Maybe that’s why she tried so hard to be super mom.”

  A sadness clung to the air following Barry’s words and my heart sank. I’d give it my best shot, but the glimmer of hope that I’d be able to talk Sabrina into sticking around had turned to dust.

  * * *

  After thanking Barry for his time, I left his home and returned to my van. He watched from the front window of his living room and I offered a friendly wave. He probably thought it was odd that I was climbing into a flower delivery van when I was supposed to be a journalist, but quickly decided it likely wasn’t that odd. After all, writing for a tiny local paper hardly conjured the image of champagne bottles popping and a Scrooge McDuck pool of gold coins.

  Girl’s gotta eat.

  “Blech!” Flapjack sputtered, waving his tail around as if he could disperse the air around him. “I was about to gag if we had to stay there for another minute. Who smokes that foul stuff? Good luck getting that stench out of your hair and clothes. You’re probably going to have to burn that sweatshirt.”

  I laughed and pulled away from the curb. “Just be glad you don’t have literal fur. I’d have to dunk you in the sink.”

  Flapjack shuddered. “Where are we going now? Are you going to talk to the other neighbors?”

  “It’ll be five o’clock by the time we get back to Beechwood Harbor. Sabrina’s going to be expecting us. Besides, I don’t think there’s much more we can glean from talking to the other neighbors. At least, nothing that’s going to convince Sabrina to stay.”

  “So, what’s the plan then? You’re really going to cross her over, like you did with Loretta?”

  I exhaled slowly. “I’ll hold to my bargain. If I can’t convince her to stay, then I’ll do my best to ferry her over to the next realm.”

  Flapjack settled into the passenger seat, his eyes trained forward. “Maybe you should talk to your witchy friend first.”

  I shot him a look. “What about all that stuff you said last night? About trusting me with this power?”

  “I do, Scar. But still … this feels like a big step. What if there is some kind of repercussion we don’t know about yet?”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s the point,” he countered. “We don’t know.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Maybe if I was trying to shove spirits through, but with Loretta and now with Sabrina, they’re ready to go. And like you said, if this is a way to cross over unhappy ghosts, it will ultimately save us and a lot of other people a bunch of problems in the future. No manifesting. No poltergeisting. Just a peaceful co-existence.

  “As for Holly,” I continued, “she didn’t even know what soul shepherding was. That was all Lilah’s information. So, as much as I respect Holly’s wisdom, on this one, she’s out of her depth, too.”

  Flapjack didn’t press his argument. I turned on the radio and we rode back to Beechwood Harbor in tense silence. As much as I tried to rationalize that the only reason I was worried was because I was doing something new, I couldn’t fully shake the anxiety away.

  A handful of minutes past five, we pulled up in front of the funeral home. “You coming with?” I asked Flapjack.

  “I’m in it now,” he said, not sounding thrilled about it.

  Not that I could blame him.

  I climbed out of the van and shut the door, taking a cautious look up and down the street. It was still light outside and would be for another few hours. Not the ideal place to host this reverse-séance.

  “I should have told her to meet me at the shop after hours,” I muttered.

  Flapjack rounded the front bumper and stood beside me. “Maybe she had a change of heart?”

  “Maybe.”

  I’d expected Sabrina to meet us outside, the same place where we’d met the night before, but there was no sign of her.

  “Should we go inside?” I wondered out loud. “I could collect any of the vases left behind from her service.”

  “Worth a shot. But if she doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, I say we get out of here and make a pit stop at the market on the way. You owe me a can of tuna, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” I muttered.

  Flapjack followed behind me as I crossed the street. “Now, the real question is, albacore or yellow fin?”

  I lifted my eyes to the puffy white clouds above, pleading silently for an extra dose of sanity.

  “Scarlet? What a surprise!” Karla greeted from behind the large oak desk that sat off to the side of the home’s foyer.

  “Hello, Karla. I hope I’m not bothering you,” I said, closing the door behind me. A gentle chime sounded.

  “Not at all. I’m just catching up on paperwork. What can I do for you?”

  Before I could answer, Sabrina appeared, floating in from the wall behind Karla. So, she’d mastered at least one of her new ghost skills. That had to be a positive sign. Right?

  “I’ve been waiting all afternoon,” Sabrina w
hined.

  I forced my eyes off her and smiled at Karla. “I was just passing by and thought I’d stop in and see if there was anything left over from the service the other night that I could get out of your way.”

  “Oh, of course.” Karla stood. “The family took the smaller arrangements, but they left the two larger ones in the hurricane vases. I’ll help you with them—”

  Karla stepped out from behind the desk only to be reeled back in when the phone rang. “Shoot. I have to get this. I’m waiting on a call.”

  I waved a hand. “No problem. I’ll be fine. Thank you, though.”

  Karla smiled, picked up the phone, and sank back to her seat as she answered the call, “Beechwood Funeral Home. This is Karla speaking, how may I help you?”

  Not waiting, I scuttled down the hall into the viewing room. It didn’t appear they’d had a service since Sabrina’s, but the room was clean and smelled of wood polish. The easel was folded against the wall, my florist’s foam likely discarded along with the flowers. Two empty hurricane vases were on the antique table off to one side of the room.

  Sabrina shimmered into view as Flapjack popped up on the table between the two vases. “I haven’t changed my mind!” she declared, almost proudly. “I want you to send me on, to whatever happens next.”

  I bobbed my head and then quickly licked my lips. I had one last shot to try and change her mind. “I spoke with your neighbor, Barry today. That’s why I was late.”

  Sabrina’s face registered surprise. “Why did you do that?”

  “I wanted to find out more about your life. He told me that you traveled a lot for work.”

  She nodded even as her brows pinched together. “So?”

  “So, I thought maybe you’d want to do some more traveling. He said you never got to fully appreciate the places you went because you were there on business, but now that’s all gone. You could go travel the world, see everything you never got a chance to. My friend Hayward Kensington III could tell you all the best places to see in England.”