By Familiar Means (13 page)

“Starbabe?” said Jake gently.

“No,” Miranda said.

Jake blinked. “No what?”

Miranda turned around and faced us both. Determination radiated from every pore. “No ghost hunting. No poking the hotel hornet's nest while Blanchard is drooling over the idea of finally catching us at . . . something. Old man, we need to let this one go.”

“But we can't, Starbabe. It's on us now. We're part of it whether we like it or not.”

“No, we're really not,” she answered flatly. “I mean, this is not anything we did. We just found him. That's all. I feel bad for him, and for his . . . family. But if we keep asking questions about this, Lieutenant Blanchard is going to wonder why.” For the first time, a hint of fear crept into Miranda's voice.

“Miranda, come on.” Jake got up and leaned across the counter to take both her hands. “We can't let the cops scare us. We've got to do what's right. If we're not part of the solution, we're part of the problem, right?”

She looked up at him miserably. “We've got a good thing, Jake; we don't need to be looking for extra trouble.”

“We've already found trouble.” He squeezed her hands. “Now we got to deal with it.”

“And whatever you've been hearing, or whatever's been happening, it might not have anything to do with Jimmy Upton,” I reminded her. “From what you said, the noises started long before he . . . died. We'd just be seeing if there's anything else behind the noises and the impressions I was getting.” Because the whole building had been filled with secrets, not just the basement.

A dozen expressions chased one another across Miranda's face, none of them happy, but in the end she just sighed. “Okay, if it's just checking out any energies the place might have, I guess that'd be all right.”

“That's my lady.” Jake gave her hands an extra squeeze. “
Everything's
gonna be all right. Every. Little. Thing.”

Miranda's answering smile was weak, but it was genuine. “Do you promise, old man?”

“I promise.” He stretched across the counter to kiss her.

The view out the tiny windows suddenly became very interesting. There was the river sparkling in the autumn sunshine, and a barge sailing past, and if you stood at just the right angle, you could see the Memorial Bridge and . . .

“Okay, Anna, show's over.” Jake laughed.

“Just giving you two the moment,” I said loftily.

“And we appreciate that.” Miranda was smiling and her voice was much lighter. “So, here's the thing: Despite how it sounds, we are glad you stopped by. We wanted to let you know that we'd definitely like you to do the murals for the new shop. If you're still interested, that is,” she added.

“I am interested,” I told them. “But you haven't even seen any concepts yet.”

Miranda waved this away. “We've seen the work on your Web site and how much you loved the space. I'm sure you'll come up with something perfect. It's going to be a while until they let us back in, but we can give you a down payment today if that's cool.”

“That is cool,” I said, visions of rent checks dancing in my head. “Thank you.”

“Oh, I'm so glad,” said Miranda. “After the night we had, we figured everybody could use some good news. How about we celebrate? Can we get you something, Anna?” said Miranda. “Latte?”

“Definitely.”

14

We toasted our new partnership with caffeine and cinnamon and a radically failed attempt on my part to draw a leaf pattern in coffee foam. Jake and Miranda insisted on writing me out the deposit check, and I tucked it into my purse. But when I left the shop, I did not turn left to head for my bank. Instead, I turned to the right. I also pulled out my phone and called Julia.

“Anna?” my mentor said as soon as she answered. “Are you all right?”

I was starting to understand how Val felt. “I'm fine.” I was walking down Ceres toward the far end and the other set of stairs that led to Market Street. “I've just been to see Jake and Miranda.”

“Yes, I've been hearing something about it . . . Thank you. Have a great day.” I remembered Julia would be working right now. I heard her call her assistant over to the counter before she spoke into the phone again. “How are they?”

“Not great,” I admitted. “Kenisha's lieutenant has been questioning them.”

“And you?” she put in, because Julia is not slow.

“And me,” I admitted. “Did Kenisha tell you what they've found out so far?”

“Yes, she did.”

I took a deep breath. “Julia, I know since I'm still an apprentice, I'm not supposed to use my Vibe without supervision, but I was thinking now that we know . . . what we know, maybe if I went back into the building, I could get some more hints about what actually happened.”

Julia was silent for a long time. “It's possible,” she said finally. “We'd need Jake and Miranda's permission, of course.”

“We have it. Kind of,” I added, for the sake of full disclosure. “Jake still thinks the building might be haunted, and he wants us to try to find the ghost.”

“Well, of course we will do what we can,” said Julia immediately. “But I don't . . .” She paused. “Anna, you did not suggest to them that their ghost might be able to help discover who murdered Jimmy Upton?”

“No. Of course not. Because there's no such thing as ghosts.”
Right? Right. Please say right.

“Well, that would depend on what you mean by ghosts,” said Julia. This was so very much not what I wanted to hear. The bright fall day suddenly seemed a bit too chilly.

Julia heard my silence and made that particular sigh that people give you when they want you to know they are being very patient. “Anna, you know that a death can leave behind a psychic echo. If that echo is strong enough, even people who are not otherwise magically sensitive or trained can be affected by it. They can even think they've seen something or heard something. Actual spirits—entities that are trapped or in transition between one form of existence and another—those are exceptionally rare, but they are not unheard of.”

“So . . . you're saying Jimmy Upton might really be haunting the place?” I told myself to pull it together. I told myself that this was no weirder than working magic, or a cat who could vanish and reappear whenever the mood struck him. Myself was not listening. At all.

“I'm saying it's possible someone or something is, and if it will set Jake's and Miranda's minds at rest, of course
we should try to find out.” Julia paused, and I pictured her brow furrowing in thought. “It has been a long time since I was confronted with the possibility of a lost spirit. I'll need to do some research, but I'm positive we can at least reassure Jake and Miranda that their building is free of negative energies.”

“Thanks, Julia,” I said, and I meant it. Lieutenant Blanchard's accusations had me worried about Jake and Miranda. I might not have been crazy about the idea about meeting an actual ghost, but I couldn't help hoping that my Vibe might turn up something to help with the investigation. It wouldn't be anything we could take to court, but it still might point somebody in the right direction.

Julia promised she would call soon, and we said good-bye and hung up. I climbed the steps back to Market Street. I stood staring at the old drugstore that was supposed to become the new coffee shop. The door was sealed off with crime scene tape, and there were a couple of orange-and-white sawhorses in front of it, but there weren't any cars that I could see. The few pedestrians passing by turned to look, but nobody stopped.

Show's over. Nothing to see here. Move along.

Which was good advice, I told myself. I needed to get home. I'd left Grandma B.B. on her own for long enough. There was something in the way she'd assured me she'd find plenty to keep her busy that made me nervous. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. If I'd been having a bad few days, things must have been even worse for her. I'd at least had some time to adjust to Portsmouth and all that came with it. Grandma had been thrown in at the deep end. Plus I was hungry and thirsty, and I needed to check my Web site to see if I had any more e-mails from possible clients, and . . .

And what I did was stand right where I was and keep on staring. Down the sloped street, where the river curved, I could see the grand white expanse and sparkling windows of the Harbor's Rest hotel. Flags fluttered from the gabled roof and seagulls hovered hopefully in the blue sky.

I wondered what was going on over there. Had the police found the other end of the tunnel yet? Had they found Jimmy Upton's sister? It occurred to me that Old Sean might be tending bar at the hotel today. It was almost four o'clock. I could stroll in, have a drink, ask a couple of questions . . .

I rubbed my forehead.
Anna Britton, what the heck are you thinking?
Helping Jake and Miranda find out if their new building was haunted was one thing. But was I really going to try to play Nancy Drew with Lieutenant Blanchard breathing down my neck? Miranda was right about one thing. If I started asking questions about Jimmy Upton or his murder, Blanchard was going to notice, and he was going to want to know why, and he probably was not going to like the answer.

But Jake and Miranda needed more than just an assurance that their new building was free of negative energies. They were confused and they were hurt, and it was really clear that Lieutenant Blanchard wanted to make trouble for them. They deserved definite answers.

My phone rang. I pulled it out and checked the number.

“Hi, Martine!” I said as I hit the Accept button.

“And exactly when were you going to tell me you found a dead body under Market Street?” she answered.

Martine Devereux is the chef at the Pale Ale, a historic Portsmouth tavern. She has also been my best friend since forever and is a big part of the reason I came to Portsmouth at all.

I winced. “I guess Kenisha called you.” Kenisha had been busy on the phone this morning.

“Kenisha shouldn't have had to call me,” snapped Martine. “I'm your best friend, Anna. You are supposed to have me on speed dial for this stuff.”

“I was going to call you, but I didn't—”

“Britton, if you say you didn't want to bother me, I am hanging up this phone because we are through.”

Don't you hate it when your best friend has a good point? “I'm sorry, Martine. You're right. I should have called. It's just . . .” I heard her drawing in a very deep breath. “I am
not saying I didn't want to bother you! But everything's happened so fast, and I didn't know how bad it was going to get until this morning.”

“Just how bad did it get?”

“Bad,” I admitted. “Getting called down to the police station by Kenisha's lieutenant bad.”

Martine was quiet, and when she did start talking again, her voice was low and serious. “Anna, I may not be one of your witches, but I've known you longer than anybody you're not related to. Do not push me away from this.”

Now it was my turn to be quiet. The hurt in Martine's voice was real, which was bad enough. What was worse, though, was that she was right. Again. Lately, I had been preoccupied with my new friends in the coven. They were all entirely welcoming of Martine, but although she believed in the magic, she was emphatically not interested in taking up the practice herself. It did create a gap. I'd been letting myself drift to one side of it, and away from her.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “The worst part is, I could really use your help.”

“Say, ‘Please, Chef.'”

I felt myself smile. “Please, Chef. Pretty please, with locally sourced, organic and sustainably harvested sugar on top.”

I heard her try to smother a laugh and I grinned. “And exactly what is it you need my help with this time?”

“That dead body? It was a chef, a man named Jimmy Upton.”

“Upton?” Martine let out a long, low whistle. “You're telling me somebody killed Jimmy Upton? Dang. I wonder what took them so long?”

*   *   *

I think I set a land-speed record getting to the Pale Ale. I paused just long enough to call Grandma B.B. She didn't pick up, but I left a message telling her where I was going and that I'd be back home in another couple of hours. Probably.

I didn't need to bother with the bus this time. Portsmouth
was founded long before cars were ever dreamed of, so the oldest buildings in downtown are within fairly easy walking distance of one another. In next to no time, I was sitting with Martine in her cramped office in the back of the kitchen.

Martine Devereaux is an African American woman with dark brown skin and a build like a professional athlete. She runs her kitchens with the efficiency of a Swiss watch, or would have if Swiss watches were filled with knives, fire and organic kale.

It was Monday, so even though it was going on five, the restaurant was closed and the kitchen was as empty as it ever got. That is to say, the crew had gone home while Martine got to stay and wrestle with the invoices, orders, time cards and schedules piled up on her desk in stacks of multicolored paper. Such is the glamorous life of the executive chef.

Because it was Martine, there were also cups of butternut squash soup and slices of the amazing sourdough rye bread that her in-house baker produces, because she had rightly guessed that being at the police station had caused me to miss at least one meal. We ate, and I filled her in on what had been happening, all of it, including the stuff about the Vibe and the (possible) ghost in the old drugstore.

“Well, if anybody was going to keep hanging around and being a jerk instead of heading off into the afterlife, it'd be Jimmy.” Martine had taken all the weirdness of my current life absolutely in stride. It was helped by the fact that her grandparents came from Haiti. She didn't talk about it too much, but I had a distinct feeling her grandmother had a few extra abilities of her own.

“Sounds like he was . . . special,” I said. I also spooned up the last of the delicately spiced soup from my mug. No matter what the circumstances, I did not let Martine's food go to waste.

“In a whole lotta ways,” agreed Martine sourly. She bit off a piece of sourdough crust. “I actually met him last year at the Taste of Portsmouth festival,” she told me around her mouthful. “I was still being considered for this job, and I
was . . . call it ‘auditioning' for the owners. They wanted to know if I could look good for the press and the public, as well as cook.”