Givin' Up The Ghost (An Indigo Eady Paranormal Mystery) (3 page)

Survivor’s guilt.
Another thing we shared.

I sighed in resignation.
“Let the witch hunt begin.”

––––––––

I
accepted the fact I would regret my decision to help Simon
with his own private investigation. Heck, I already did. But I swear, if it got
out of hand or too creepy, I would back out faster than a thief at a police
ball.

Anyway, perhaps I wouldn’t see Bart’s ghost again. Perhaps
it would all be over before we even had a chance to start.
Yeah, and perhaps
my dad will walk through the door alive and well, too.

Clean-up didn’t start until Agatha’s Celebration of Life
ended, so I poured a mug of black coffee and squeezed through the crowd,
looking for a quiet corner. Based on the number of people crammed into the pub,
both living
and
dead, it didn’t seem likely. Then I spied the passageway
Badger had led me down and remembered passing by a small room.

Making my way down the uneven passageway, I wondered how
anyone did it after a few drinks. I drank nothing stronger than hot, black
coffee. The slanted floor had me practically walking sideways like in the Dizzy
Tunnel at a carnival. I guess it’s the sort of thing expected in a six
hundred-year-old building; things settled and became unlevel and wobbly.

The sign above the door read “The Secret Snug.” Rather dark
and quiet, but best of all, unoccupied. I breathed a sigh of relief. 

A warm, cheery little fire glowed in the fireplace.
Obviously
someone
knew about the little snug, so the “secret” part was
not so secret. I pulled the black beret from my head, careful not to mess my
hair, which I wore down for a change, but pulled back at the sides. My hair
grew like crazy, so I at least had that in common with my American-Indian
ancestors. It hung past my waist, even in a braid.

I threw my beret, coat, scarf and gloves onto a straight-backed
chair. Propping pillows into the corner of the bench seat under the window, I
lowered myself gratefully down. Tugging my black skirt back to mid-thigh, I
swung my black boots onto the bench, crossed my ankles and sighed. Not used to
wearing heels, my feet already pinched. 

I gazed out the window, sipping coffee.  The window looked
out onto the alley - which Simon called a
ginnel
- I had run down the
day before. My wounded knee was still healing. I determined not to think about
the Dark Shadow chasing me and what it meant. That could wait.

Colorful raindrops, red, blue and green, rolled lazily down
the glass pane rimmed with Christmas lights, mesmerizing me like a hypnotist
with a watch on a chain. My eyes drifted closed.

I raced down a long, dark tunnel, water sloshing in my
trainers and splashing around my pant legs. I shot a quick glance over my
shoulder and glimpsed the Dark Shadow floating effortlessly a short distance
behind, and swiftly gaining. Somewhere up ahead, someone called my name.
Badger. Approaching a fork in the tunnel, I had to choose which branch to take,
left or right. The question reverberated inside my head like an echo in a cave.
Left or right, which fork should I take, left or right? Then the disembodied
voice evolved into another litany; wrong or right, wrong or right, which branch
should I take, wrong or right? 

“Where are you?” I yelled frantically into the darkness,
looking again over my shoulder at the looming shadow. No time for mulling the
situation over, I plunged down the right fork...

...
and gasped, sucking in air as if I just finished a
marathon. Disoriented as a rudely awakened sleepwalker, reality returned quite
rapidly. But not quickly enough for what came next.

“Bad dream?” asked the translucent figure seated at the oak
table. A folded  newspaper lie on the table, see-through like the man. 

I didn’t want to speak to him. I agreed to help Simon in
solving the murder of Bart Bagley, but I didn’t agree to speak with the dead
victim, not if I could help it.

What could I do? I pretended I didn’t hear and began
gathering my things to make a hasty escape, er, exit. A knitted cap and only
one glove.
Crap.
Draping my colorful scarf around my now-stiff neck, I
was shaken at the vivid dream, especially with that darn shadow showing up.

“So, you’re her,” said the spirit of Bart Bagley, “the girl
who can talk to spirits.”

I ignored him, adjusted the cap on my head and tucked loose
strands of dark unruly hair under the rim. Dropping to my knees, I searched
under the bench for the elusive glove. There, inconveniently in the furthest
corner, it sat. I wondered how in the heck it ever got way back there.

“We’ve met before, you know,” he said.  “Your dad and I were
mates – grew up together right here in Sabrina Shores.” 

Nope. Not gonna look. Not even gonna listen.
I
started to hum something nonsensical.
La lala, hmhmhm, oh yeah.

“Your dad was so proud of you, bragged something awful, he
did.” He was trying to get a reaction out of me. That is so not fair, playing
the dad card like that. Tears sprang to my eyes.

“I can’t help you,” I choked, reaching for the glove. “You
need to cross over – look for a bright light and walk into it – that’s the way
to heaven....or Nirvana, or Utopia, or whatever you want to call it.” 

“That light disappeared – it’s too late.” His voice, so
sorrowful, tugged at the corners of my heart, forcing me to face him. 

Crap.
Now the poor dead guy couldn’t even get to
freaking heaven. Swearing under my breath, I pulled off my beret and threw my
things on the bench, along with my escape plan, and sat down.

Bart Bagley wore the same clothing; jeans, boots and a
long-sleeved Pendleton shirt. His brown hair was slightly long and shaggy, like
Badger’s. And the gory wound behind his right ear? As bloody as ever.
Why,
why, why did they always show me the blood?
I looked away, drawing an
unsteady breath.

“What happened to you?” I asked, looking down at my hands in
my lap.

“I don’t know, I can’t remember.” Eager now I had
acknowledged him, the air fairly hummed with energy. It must be frustrating for
spirits trying to communicate when most people couldn’t see or hear them.

“What is it that you want from me?”

“Help me to remember. I know I’m dead, but I don’t know how
it happened! My family will be worried when I don’t come home.”

Well,
that
was the understatement of the century.

He pitched his head to the side, tossing his bangs out of
his eyes.

“My head is bashed in...what happened?” he asked, frowning. 
“Did I have an accident?” 

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I only know that you
disappeared a few months ago. Nobody knows what happened to you.” 

“Months?!” he responded, “but...it seems like yesterday.  My
wife – my
children!”
he moaned. “They must be worried sick!”

He began pacing the small room, faster and faster, fading in
and out, speaking so rapidly and high-pitched that I couldn’t understand his
words.

A sudden burst of laughter reverberated down the hall,
invading the little nook like a small explosion. Bart stopped. His jaw
clenched. Energy in the room sparked like summer fireflies.

Holy cow
. I slid my eyes briefly toward the door,
wondering if I could leave. Now. Like any normal person would.

The laughter seemed to be a personal affront aimed at the
confused spirit. Stuck in the world of no-man’s land, he was neither dead nor
alive. He became angry.

Extremely angry.

The once cozy flames from the cheery fire suddenly
combusted, like a burst of wind had bellowed the fledgling fire into a mini
inferno. Ashes blew around the room, swirling into a miniature tornado, picking
up everything in its path. Crouching in a corner, heart knocking against my
ribs, I frantically slapped at the sparks on my head, the stench of singed hair
in my nostrils. Sucked up inside the funnel, my gloves, both of them, twirled
above my head.

It stopped as suddenly as it began. Ash floated gently down
to settle on every surface. Sooty flakes transformed the room into a pea-souper
mess.

And Hurricane Bart? Gone - a trail of destruction left in
his wake.

I stood shocked, ashes raining around my head. 

––––––––

I
gasped, understanding Dorothy’s reaction in the
Wizard
of Oz
when the wicked witch of the west disappeared in a cloud of smoke. 

I swatted the ashes away. Charcoal streaks covered my hands
and face and everything in the room. I peered into my mug at the unsalvageable
coffee. Gray bits floated and sank. “If I ever see him again... I...I’ll kill
him.
Again!”
I muttered, setting my mug back on the table.

And if the situation wasn’t bad enough, Simon and Badger
appeared at the door.

Perfect.
Just perfect!

Simon snorted. “Umm, whatcha doing?”

Badger sniggered, the same devil in his eye as yesterday. I
was starting to dislike him intensely. Well, if he wasn’t so cute, I mean. He
had the gift of always seeing me at my worst.

I glared, daring them to say anything.

And of course, they both burst out laughing.

What was the point of having a killer glare if nobody took
it seriously?

“Is this what you do for an encore?” Badger snorted.
“Because this is good,” he laughed, “really good.”

“Funny,” I said, hands on hips, glowering at them.  They
rolled with laughter, bent over, gasping for breath.  Against my will, I
cracked a smile. “Oh, shut up, you two!”  They only laughed harder.

“You think it’s funny?” I grabbed a pile of ashes and smeared
it across Simon’s face.

Badger guffawed, not even close to being ready for the next
fistful that landed upside his face.

By the time we were done, my cheeks hurt.

Finally spent, and wiping tears from his eyes, Simon asked,
“So what happened? Because you really look hilarious, I’m not gonna lie.” He
grinned.

I hesitated then shrugged. Obviously I couldn’t tell them
what happened while Badger stood there. “A sudden gust of wind, I don’t know.
Someone probably opened a door and it funneled down the passage. “And then the
ashes blew
everywhere!” 

Not a complete lie, I told myself, ducking my head. I simply
didn’t say where or who the gust of wind came from. I hated lying. Plus, I
sucked at it.
I am so going to hell.

“That’s weird,” said Badger. He brushed ash from a chair,
turning it to straddle. Simon did the same. “It’s been happening a lot lately.
“We’ve looked for a draft but haven’t been able to find one.” He swatted an ash
floating in front of his face.

“It comes out of nowhere. I’m getting ruddy well tired of
cleaning up the mess, I can tell you that!” He chuckled. “But seeing the look
on your face!” he said, looking at me, “that was priceless. I needed that.”

“Well, anything for a laugh,” I said stupidly. I tamped down
a sigh and looked up as Badger got to his feet.

“I’d better go help my mum with the guests,” he said.  With
his father gone, the weight of responsibility obviously fell heavily on his
shoulders. Guilt fell heavily on mine.

“Yeah, I guess it’s time to start the cleanup, too.” I stood
up, and Simon followed suit. “I’d better start in here.”

“Actually,” said Badger, running his hand down the length of
my hair and giving it a playful little tug, “we should probably clean ourselves
up first.” He held out his ashy palm to show me the result.

With my mouth too dry to speak, I only smiled and nodded
shakily. His touch, light as angel wings on my hair, felt like a lover’s
caress.

I sighed and shook my head. Get a grip, Indigo.
Now
you’re imagining things.

Uncle Richard went straight to his room when we got home,
but I lagged behind. I needed to speak to Simon about what happened in the
snug. I tried to stop him in the foyer, before he started up the stairs, but I
was too late. Halfway up the stairs he tripped, hitting his right shin. He slid
down the stairs on his back, clutching his right knee.

 “Are you okay?” I stood over him, looking down into his
face. It was red and scrunched-up in an effort be quiet. I wasn’t going to
laugh. Truly I wasn’t. But “Pah ha ha!” burst between my lips involuntarily
before I could clamp a hand over my big mouth. But that didn’t work. Clamping a
hand over your mouth? Only makes you snort.

“Oh shut up,” said Simon. “Blimey, that flipping hurt. I
think I broke my shin.” He sat up, struggling to pull his skinny jeans pant leg
up to view the damage. He seemed completely disappointed to only find a slight
pink mark.

Blimey?
I thought only people in the movies said
that. I sort of liked it, though, especially with Simon’s English accent
followed by the word “flipping.” 

“Don’t worry,” I consoled. “I’m sure it will be blue by
tomorrow.” Another stifled snort.

He glared at me. “Give us a hand up, will you?” He reached
out his hand and I tugged, but he fell back onto the blue tile before he could
gain his feet.

I laughed. “Cleo! Stop that!” I made a shooing motion with
my hand.

Simon sat up again, red-faced. “
Cleo?
  Please tell me
that’s not a new pet name you made up for me.” 

I sniggered.  “You’re half right, anyway.” 

Simon narrowed his cranky amber eyes at me. His blonde hair
stood at odd angles. A smudge across his forehead looked as if he’d given
something up for Lent. 

I gave in. “Yes, it is a pet name.” I tugged him up for real
this time. “But not yours.”

Looking confused, he raised his hand to his head.  “I don’t
think I hit my head...”

“No, you didn’t. Cleo is a cat.  Persian – pure white with a
squashed face, one blue eye, one green, and a sparkly collar with a pretty
silver bell.” 

Simon looked around, still confused.  “
Huh?
Oh. Wait.
Did you hit your head earlier? ‘Cause you’re talking daft.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Cleo is a
ghost cat
.
And apparently, she absolutely adores you. She keeps winding herself between
your legs.”

“Bloody hell, is that why I keep tripping lately?”

“I expect so,” I replied, noting the “bloody” euphemism the
Brits used. I didn’t care at all for the sight of blood or the visual the word
created. I shook it off.

Simon sniggered, throwing his arm around my neck. “Indigo,”
he said, “there is one thing for sure.” 

“What’s that?”

He grinned. “Life with you is never boring.”

I grinned back.

I peered up the staircase, and on a more serious note,
whispered, “I need to talk to you. Meet me in the kitchen in fifteen minutes.” 

After showering and changing into purple sweats and my bunny
slippers, I turbaned a towel around my wet head, grabbed my hairbrush and went
down to the kitchen. Simon, wearing gray sweats, was already there in his
chair, with his laptop, in front of the newly started fire. Two cups of coffee
warmed on the fender. Cleo swatted at the wisps of steam that curled upward.

“Thanks,” I whispered, settling into my armchair. I wrapped
the colorful cotton blanket around my body, taking care with my injured left
knee. Blowing on my steaming hot coffee, I took a tentative sip. Hot, hot, hot,
the way I liked it. 

“No problem.” Simon clicked his mouse. “I’m trying to find
information on Bart’s disappearance, but so far,
nada
.”

“Nothing? Seriously? You’d think at least the local papers
would have run something.”

“That’s the thing, yeah? They think he left of his own free
will, voluntarily. No crime’s been committed.”

“About Bart Bagley,” I began, pulling the towel from my head
and brushing gently through the tangled strands. 

He turned to look at me. 

“I spoke to him.”

Simon’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open.

I told him about meeting Bart, speaking to him, and about
Bart getting angry and creating the ash-storm. He believed me. That’s why Simon’s
my best friend. I could tell him anything, however crazy.

“So, he has no concept of time,” stated Simon, and in the
next breath, “I’m starving.” Simon was always hungry. He got up and grabbed a
bag of cheesy crisps, took a handful, and passed the bag to me. “And he doesn’t
remember...anything?” He stuffed crisps (Brit speak for potato chips – yeah,
I’m learning) in his mouth, and then tried to speak with his mouth full. “Well,
that will certainly make our job tougher.”

I ignored the bits of crumbs dribbling from his mouth and
tried to focus. “Yes, it will be hard. But we already have information the
police don’t have.”

“We do?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. We do,” I said, throwing the bag of
chips into his lap.