You’re the One That I Haunt

by Terri Garey

  Suddenly the basket didn’t seem so cute. I didn’t care for witchcraft, and I’d already learned the power of carefully prepared herbs from an old voodoo woman named Granny Julep. “No, thank you, Ms. Nutball-Whoever-You-Are,” I said aloud. “I don’t need your kind of help.” I put the basket down on the coffee table a little harder than I needed to and went back to the dining room to pick up my meditation where I’d left off.

  “I can’t find my keys, Evan,” I said into the phone. “I’ll be in as soon as I do.” Tired of scrabbling through my purse for the umpteenth time, I dumped the entire contents on the counter. I always left my keys in a wooden bowl by the front door, out of habit, but I obviously hadn’t last night.

  “Did you check the bathroom?” Evan asked.

  “Now what would my keys be doing in the bathroom?” I answered, exasperated. I’d been looking for the damn things for five minutes, and I was beginning to get aggravated. I mean, I’d driven myself home, hadn’t I? They had to be here somewhere.

  “Don’t be snippy,” he warned. “I’m not in a good mood this morning, either.”

  Lipstick, breath mints, wallet, comb, receipts…no keys. “Sorry,” I said, turning my back to the mess on the counter. “I’m just frustrated.”

  “So am I,” he countered. “Butch hasn’t wanted to cuddle in almost a week.”

  Oh my. “Trouble in paradise?”

  Evan sighed. “He says he’s just tired, but even when I offered to—”

  “Too much information!” I interrupted him before he could finish the sentence.

  “—give him a back rub,” Evan finished, none too patiently, “he said he just wanted to sleep.”

  “Well, he does work nights,” I said, my mind still on my missing keys. “If the man says he’s tired, then he’s just tired.” People had to give people they loved the benefit of the doubt, right? “By the weekend, you two will be making up for lost time.”

  “I hope so,” Evan said, but he sounded unconvinced.

  I was scanning the living room as we talked, hoping a wider perspective might help me find the keys. The basket was on the coffee table, right where I’d left it, the little scrap of paper with its pink ribbon lying loosely on top.

  “I’ll talk to you when I get in, okay?”

  “Bring me a Danish,” he said fretfully. “I need to drown my sorrows in some sugar, and that’s the only kind I’m getting lately.”

  “I’m not bringing you a Danish, and you’ll thank me for it tomorrow.”

  “A muffin, then.” Evan must be seriously worried to be ignoring both fat and carbs. He was usually very careful about his figure.

  “A bran muffin,” I agreed, “to help you get all this ‘Butch is losing interest’ crap out of your system.” Where the heck were my keys?

  “Potty mouth,” Evan retorted. “Make it blueberry,” and hung up.

  I put the phone down on the counter and stuffed everything back into my purse, leaving only a crumpled tissue and a few random receipts to throw away. Then I turned back toward the living room, thinking hard.

  The wicker basket was directly in my line of sight.

  Stupid basket. Stupid charms and powders.

  Aggravated enough to do something stupid myself, I muttered, “Why not?” and walked over to snatch up the little scrap of paper.

  SPELL TO FIND SOMETHING THAT’S LOST

  CONCENTRATE ON THE MISSING ITEM AND RECITE THREE TIMES:

  WHAT IS LOST, MUST NOW BE FOUND

  TAKE MY LUCK AND TURN IT AROUND

  Sounded simple enough. No magic powders, no full moon, no animal sacrifice.

  What could it hurt?

  I visualized my key ring, oversized Betty Boop dangle and all, and said, “What is lost, must now be found. Take my luck, and turn it around.” Then I said it again, twice.

  I waited a couple of seconds and looked around, feeling vaguely guilty. I was the one always harping at people not to mess with the spooky stuff—if my sister Kelly found out, she’d never let me live it down.

  No keys in sight.

  “Should’ve known.” I tossed the scrap of paper back into the wicker basket, disgusted with myself for even considering that a silly charm might work, and oddly relieved it hadn’t. Just to be sure, I turned and looked around the room a final time, seeing a few scattered magazines and a couple of empty wineglasses from last night, but no keys. The couch cushions were messed up from an earlier search, so I bent to straighten them. As I did, the toe of my heeled sandal hit something just under the edge of the couch, and I heard a telltale jingle.

  I’ll be damned.

  But I didn’t say it, because you never know—sometimes saying things out loud makes them come true.

  CHAPTER 11

  Three minutes later I was in my car and on the way to work. Glancing at my watch, I decided that since I was already running so late, I’d get two blueberry muffins at the coffee shop instead of one. Evan could soothe his need for comfort food, and I could have the other for lunch. I briefly considered going to a local Starbucks instead of Moonbeans, but decided against it; I wasn’t going to let Sammy affect my regular comings and goings.

  I’d almost made it to my regular parking spot behind Handbags and Gladrags when the whoop of a police siren made me jump. A check of the rearview mirror revealed an Atlanta police cruiser directly behind me, no lights. He whooped at me again, a short burst that apparently meant, pull over.

  With a sigh, I turned on my blinker and kept moving, flinching as his siren whooped again, longer this time. Heads were turning all up and down Moreland. With the police cruiser right on my tail, I pulled slowly into my reserved parking spot near the service entrance to my store, right next to Evan’s little white Volvo.

  Then I made the mistake of opening my car door.

  “Remain with the vehicle,” came a harsh voice from the cruiser’s loudspeaker. “Hands where I can see ’em.”

  I froze. I know I hadn’t been speeding, because I’d already slowed down to pull in and park. I hadn’t run any red lights or made any improper lane changes; Moreland was a narrow, two-lane street, and I drove it every day.

  I looked at the cruiser; the officer behind the wheel was a middle-aged white guy in big black aviator sunglasses. He stared at me, expressionless, then raised the microphone to his lips, and repeated, “Remain with the vehicle.”

  Gee, maybe you could shout a little louder. I don’t think they heard you on the West Coast.

  I bit my lip and stayed where I was, hoping he’d hurry up and tell me what I’d done wrong so I could go about my business.

  Unfortunately for me, he seemed in no hurry to do so. He fiddled with his dashboard, talking into the microphone again. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could hear occasional bursts of static and voices coming through his car radio.

  I waited, leaning back into the seat, hands on the steering wheel where he could see them. Every so often I checked the rearview mirror, but all I got was more staring, more static, and more waiting. I wondered if Evan was watching us through the security camera; we’d installed one last year to watch the service entrance after someone tried to break in. If he was, I hoped he had the sense to stay inside—the cop seemed like a hard-ass, and I didn’t want Evan involved in this.

  Whatever this was.

  The cop finally opened the door to his cruiser and stepped out. He was pretty fit for an older guy, broad in the shoulders, trim at the waist. The aviator sunglasses were a bit much, though, obviously designed to intimidate, as was the grim line of his mouth.

  “What’s the problem, Officer?”

  “License and registration,” was the only answer I got in return.

  I leaned over to get my purse, and he was right there, watching every move I made as I rummaged through my bag for my wallet.

  Let him watch; I had nothing to hide. He took my license without a word, then put out his hand for my registration, waiting as I popped open the glove box and pulled it out.

&
nbsp; He finally took his eyes off me long enough to scan my driver’s license, pairing it with the registration.

  The silent treatment was getting old. I tried not to let my irritation show, knowing it would probably only make the situation worse. As a businesswoman, I didn’t want to rile the local police—Little Five was an eclectic old neighborhood, and not without its share of crime.

  Never bite the hand that covers your ass, as Evan always said.

  “Sir, may I ask why you pulled me over?” I looked directly up into his face, keeping my tone polite.

  “Tag’s expired,” he said shortly, “and you’re burning oil. Left a trail of black smoke all the way down Moreland. Georgia law requires an emissions inspection once a year.”

  Well, shit. That’s what I got for putting it off. Can’t renew your tag without an inspection, but I hated waiting in line. “I was just about to make an appointment to get my oil changed,” I offered, thinking maybe it would help.

  “Tag’s expired, Miss.” The cop was cutting me no slack. “You’re in violation.”

  “I’ll get it taken care of right away, Officer.” I smiled at him, hoping he’d smile back.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he turned and walked back to his cruiser, still carrying my license and registration. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me I was about to get a ticket.

  Sure enough, almost ten boring minutes later, during which Deputy Dawg evidently ran a check on my license and registration, he emerged from the cruiser carrying a fat little notebook.

  “Well, did you find out I’m wanted in twelve states?” At this point, I figured a little sarcasm couldn’t hurt me. A lot of sarcasm maybe, but not a little.

  “You’d be in the back of my cruiser now if you were,” said Officer A-Hole, flatly. The guy had no sense of humor. He handed me not one slip of paper, but two. “As it is, you’re lucky to get away with an expired tag and an overdue emissions inspection.” He put both hands on my car and leaned in. “And the next time an officer of the law signals you to pull over, I suggest you do so immediately. Failure to yield the right-of-way can cost you another $100.00.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. His face was so close I could see a reflection of myself in his sunglasses, and I didn’t look happy. “Failure to yield the right-of-way? When did I do that?”

  “Section 40–6–6 of the Georgia code,” he said flatly. “When signaled by law enforcement, civilian drivers shall immediately drive to a position parallel to and as close as possible to, the right-hand curb of the roadway.” The monotone quality to his voice told me he’d repeated that phrase many times before. “Not take their time searching for a parking place.”

  “I wasn’t searching for a parking space,” I said indignantly, still unable to believe what a jerk the guy was being. “This is my regular parking spot! I was almost in it when you started blasting your siren at me!”

  Sheriff Shithead straightened up, slapping his black notebook against his palm. “I can see you don’t take warnings very well, young lady.” He whipped out his pen and went to work on ticket number three. “Some people need to learn things the hard way, I guess.”

  “Oh, come on…” My whines and protests went unheeded. Thirty seconds later I had my ass handed to me on yet another slip of paper, which I snatched with ill grace. It was only with an effort that I kept my mouth shut, particularly when Officer Numbnuts had the nerve to say “have a nice day” before he walked away.

  I tossed all three tickets down on the passenger seat, giving in to the urge to curl four of the fingers of both my hands into an obscene gesture.

  But I kept them in my lap where Deputy Douchebag couldn’t see them—for all I knew there was a Georgia code against shooting a “police” officer the bird, even when they deserved it.

  “Where the hell have you been, Nicki?” Evan’s greeting as I walked in the back door didn’t help my mood.

  “Where do you think I’ve been,” I snipped, slamming the door behind me. “You won’t believe what just—”

  “Grab some paper towels and come help me.” His voice came from the store bathroom; the door was open, and he sounded a little frantic.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  “I’m ruining my favorite pair of Prada loafers,” he yelled. “The toilet overflowed.”

  Lovely. Just lovely.

  I tossed my purse on the battered old desk we used in the back office and headed toward the storage room for a mop and paper towels.

  “Yoohoo,” came a female voice from the front of the store. “Anybody here?”

  “Be right there,” I called out, snatching up a roll of paper towels and looking around for the mop. It wasn’t in its usual spot, so I just took the towels and darted toward the bathroom. “Just a minute!”

  Evan barely glanced up—he had the mop and was busy using it, slopping at the wet floor while trying to keep his feet dry. He was standing on a pile of clothes that looked vaguely familiar.

  “Not the stuff from the Junior League thrift sale,” I said, groaning. “There was designer stuff in there.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have left it piled on the chair in the back room,” Evan snapped. “This was an emergency.”

  “I was taking it to the dry cleaner,” I snapped back.

  “Then you should’ve taken it yesterday! Or last week!”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say something nasty, but I bit it instead. We were both obviously having a bad day.

  “We have a customer out front,” I said shortly, handing him the paper towels. “I’ll be back.”

  He gave me a look, but kept his mouth shut. That was one of the good things about our friendship—we both usually knew when to shut up.

  I hurried down the hall to the front of the store, feeling harried and hassled and more than just a little cranky.

  “There you are, dear,” said my grandma Bijou. She was standing on the other side of the cash register, looking her fastidiously feminine self in a lavender print dress with a matching hat. I was so stunned to see her that I did a double take. What convinced me I wasn’t seeing things was the very stout black woman with a frown on her face who stood beside her.

  “Odessa and I decided to pay you a surprise visit!” Bijou said, opening her arms for a hug. She was beaming. “Just imagine, a spur-of-the-moment road trip to Atlanta, at our age. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Wonderful,” I mumbled, face pressed against a plump lavender shoulder. She smelled like hair-spray and roses. I lifted my head and looked at Odessa, who had yet to crack a smile.

  “Just wonderful.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “Lord have mercy,” Odessa said sourly. “It’s a good thing we used the restroom at Cracker Barrel on the way here.”

  We were standing in the hall outside the flooded bathroom. I’d tried to excuse myself for a minute so I could help Evan clean up, but my visitors insisted on seeing the damage for themselves.

  “Evan,” I said, so sweetly my teeth hurt, “you remember my grandmother, don’t you? She and her friend Odessa have come for a surprise visit.”

  Evan gaped at us from atop his pile of soggy clothes, mop in hand. “Ms. Boudreaux,” he exclaimed, pinning a smile on his face that was as fake as the one on mine. He stepped calmly over to join us in the hallway, as if greeting little old ladies while cleaning the toilet was an everyday occurrence. “How nice to see you again!” He started to extend a hand, but glanced at the wet mop he was holding and obviously thought the better of it. “What a surprise!”

  “Lovely to see you, too, dear,” Bijou said. “And do call me Bijou.”

  “You always keep a pile of good clothes on the floor of your bathroom?” Odessa asked him bluntly. “Those don’t hardly look like rags to me.”

  “Evan,” I said, smiling a little more genuinely this time—it was a rare occasion for Odessa and I to agree on anything, even if she didn’t know she was agreeing—“meet Odessa.”
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  “Nice to meet you, Odessa.” He looked a little wary, and I didn’t blame him. “Nicki’s told me all about you.”

  I watched as they sized each other up—an older black woman with a bad attitude, and a young, fashionable, gay guy who never took attitude from anybody. I was curious to see what sparks might fly.

  “Hand me that mop,” Odessa said, “and go visit with Miz Bijou and your girlfriend.”

  Evan’s brows shot to the ceiling.

  Odessa rolled her eyes, fairly snatching the mop from his hand. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, honeybunch. Go on now, go visit. I’ll clean this up.”

  Ordinarily, I’d pay big money to see Evan speechless, so it was a real treat to see it for free.

  He tried to rally. “Thank you, but—”

  Odessa brushed him out of the way as if he were a gnat, heading into the bathroom with mop in hand. She still had her purse over an arm. “Lord have mercy,” she said again. “Don’t nobody ever clean this place?”

  “Every night,” he said, trying to sound indignant but failing miserably. “After we close.”

  “Huh,” came Odessa’s skeptical reply.

  I caught him by the arm and led him away, knowing that once Odessa was set on a course, it would take a hurricane to blow her off it.

  Besides, it would keep her scowl centered on something other than me for a change.

  A few minutes later, Evan and I had my grandmother Bijou comfortably ensconced on the couch in the back office. She took in the room, eyes faded but sharp. The battered old file cabinet and mostly neat desk, the posters of the Pretenders and Elvis Costello on the wall. I sank down in an old leather arm chair, letting her look, while Evan washed his hands in the utility sink and made us all tea. Her eye fell on the pictures of my parents I kept on the bookshelf, and she made a small noise, pleasure and sorrow combined.