Givin' Up The Ghost (An Indigo Eady Paranormal Mystery) (4 page)

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“W
haddaya mean?” Simon asked.

Simon was a smart guy. Truly. But right then? Not so much.

“Simon,” I said, “he has a
cracked
skull. A pretty
gory sight, I might add.” I cringed involuntarily. “Unless a brick had been
dropped on his head from a high location while he was lying down, I can’t see
how he could have possibly received that wound.”

Yeah, it was like
that
.

“The wound was more on the side of his head, not the top.
Trust me. Nothing accidentally fell on him from above.”

“So, what are you saying?” I watched him struggle with
denial. “You think he was...
murdered?”

“Yes. When I said his head was bashed in, that’s what I meant.
Murder. I’m sorry, I thought you understood.”

He gaped at me, mouth working like a fish gasping for water.
Getting anything to issue from his mouth coherently was proving difficult.
Finally, he managed to croak. “No. I assumed he had an accident. I assumed we
were going to look for his body.”

He looked pretty freaked out.
Good
. Because I was
totally freaked out, too.

He slapped his hands on the chair arms. “I guess that’s
that, then.” He slumped back, more dejected than I’d ever seen him.

Crap. I was going to regret this. I took a deep breath. And
another one. And one more for good measure. Then a sigh. “All right. Where do
we start?”

“You’ll still do it?” He bounded from his chair, tripping. “
Cleo
,”
he muttered, “
get out of the way!
”

Simon rushed into the pantry and riffled around. He came out
with arms loaded; notepads, pens, pencils, highlighters. Dumping all the booty
onto the kitchen table, he went back to the pantry and came out with a roll of
brown butcher’s paper and dispensers of magic erase tape. Holding up the white
tape, he said, “I love this stuff.”

I dragged my feet to the table and sat down.

“First of all, we need to gather all the information we
can,” said Simon. He sat on the opposite side of the table, opened a notebook
and wrote something inside. “If we’re going to do this, we may as well be
organized.”

“What’s up with the butcher paper?” I asked, curious despite
my reluctance.

“That, my dear cousin, is going to be our central circuit
board, better known as The Murder Board.”  He pushed the supplies to the edge
of the table, knocking a few items off. I shook my head and bent to retrieve
them. Simon rolled out the thick brown paper across the table and cut off a
length. “We will record all incoming evidence in our notebooks, and at the end
of the day, everything is transferred onto the board so all our information is
in one place. And by doing that, it will all come together and the perpetrator
will jump out at us, we’ll notify the police, he’ll be arrested, etcetera,
etcetera,” he said with a self-satisfied smile and flourish of his hand.

I nodded, thinking,
and then we can at least do something
to solve the mystery about one of our parents.
It’s funny, but we talked
about everything except that.

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A
thump coming down the servant’s stairs had us staring at
each other in alarm. I glanced at the clock over the stove.
Crap. Six
o’clock in the freaking morning.
We had worked through the night without
realizing it.

Uncle Richard entered the kitchen and headed straight for
the coffee pot. “You two are up early. Working on a school project?” With a
face and eyes belonging to my father, he briefly glanced at the table strewn
with papers. Our fathers were twins, yet so different from each other. Uncle
Richard was dressed immaculately in a suit and tie, freshly showered and
shaved, his blond hair combed neatly. He was a solicitor. My dad had worn a
border patrol uniform, was rugged and messy, less refined.

“Oh! Uh, yeah,” said Simon, gathering up the papers. “I’m
working on a project, so Indigo was helping me get organized.” 

I nodded my head vigorously, unable to say anything
coherent. I’m like the back cover of a book, the description there for everyone
to read.
Liar, liar, liar
might as well be tattooed on my forehead.
I
am so going to hell.

Uncle Richard was so wrapped up in his own world he had no
idea about anything happening in ours. I suppose the coping mechanism worked
for him. I mean, one day he had a wife and two sons. And then the next, only
one son. Two and a half years later, a devastated niece was added to the mix. 

“Now that’s real dedication. A month off school and you’re
working on a project. I’ll see you two later. I’ll be late – don’t wait up.”
His feigned interest in our project was over. Pouring a travel mug of burnt
coffee, he left the house.

The drizzly, foggy Monday kept people at home, so when we
walked into the Blind Badger, the place was nearly deserted. A rumpled man
drinking a pint of ale wobbled drunkenly on his barstool. I followed Simon to a
table near the main fireplace.

I felt it first. My movements became jerky and clumsy, and a
heavy repression settled over me. I searched the room for the source and found
it in the corner. The Dark Shadow. Tiny hairs lifted on the nape of my neck and
crept down my arms. Smokey in form, it hovered and blended into the lightless,
gray nook.

Piling our outer garments onto an empty chair, Simon took a
seat with his back to the Shadow.

With trembling hands I reached for the unlit candle and
handed it to Simon.

“Here. Quick. Light this, please.”

“All right. What’s wrong? Why’re you shaking?” His brows
drew together as he eyed me before looking down to strike the match and light
the candle 

“The Shadow. It’s behind you.”

He froze. His eyes grew wide. “Behind me?” It came out as a
squeak.

I nodded. “Yes. Now just turn around and put the candle on
that table over in the corner.”

“Oh. Okay.” He squeaked, but did as I asked. He moved slow
and smooth, like a tai chi artist. As he slid the candle onto the table and
pushed it to the center with his fingers, the Dark Shadow receded and then
disappeared.

So that was the trick. I don’t know what made me think of
it. Instinct, I guess. Darkness and evil hated the light. It made sense and I
felt better knowing how to fight it. 

“Is it gone?” Simon asked.

“It’s gone.”

My relief was mirrored on Simon’s face. His eyes were no
longer big and round. His features relaxed.

The heaviness disappeared with the Dark Shadow.

“Bloody hell.” Simon switched chairs and sat next to me, his
back no longer to the corner. He shook his head and grabbed a menu from the
table. “What does the bloody thing want, anyway?”

“I wish I knew.” I shivered and picked up the other menu.

Badger, in rolled up sleeves and faded jeans, tossed his wet
bar towel onto the counter and joined us. The stone fireplace radiated much
needed warmth toward our table.

He gave my braid a quick tug before he sat. “I meant to ask
yesterday - how’s your knee?”

“Stiff, but otherwise okay.” My knee still throbbed, but the
less said about that, the better, especially since the rather embarrassing
situation in the snug. Propping my jean-clad leg on another chair, I dangled my
multicolored, polka-dotted rain-boot over the edge. Bending my knee was still
rather painful.

He smiled. “Good. What are you guys up to?” Leaning over, he
stoked the fire and added another piece of wood. One of the few pubs that still
used a real fire, our choice seats would be in demand once the lunch crowd
arrived.

“Not much, we’re going to buy groceries and stopped by for
an early lunch first,” said Simon.

“I’m starving,” I said. “What’s good on the menu today?” I
set my rucksack on the floor and looked toward the menu board for the daily
specials.

“The fish ‘n’ chips are good,” Badger answered. “And the
Sheppard’s Pie is good, too, depending on what kind of mood the cook is in.” He
grinned. 

“And today?” I asked.

A timely clatter of pots and pans crashing in the kitchen,
accompanied by a string of curse words, flowed down the hall in waves of gutter
language. I’m no prude, truly I’m not. But I had no control over my flushing
cheeks. 

“You’d better go with the fish.” Badger laughed, which I
observed at our last meeting made the lines crinkle around his eyes. It
transformed his whole face, making him irresistibly cute. But enough of that.

“Fish it is, then,” said Simon.

“Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll have that, too.”

Badger went to put in our order, while I filled mugs with
coffee from behind the bar.

Bringing the mugs back to the table, I slid back into my
seat. “When are you going to ask him about the police investigation?” I
whispered.

“I don’t know,” Simon whispered back. He chewed his lip
nervously before continuing. “People are starting to come in for lunch.”
Indeed, a group of people had come in, laughing and shaking rain from their
clothing. “I think Badger’s about to be too busy to sit back down with us.”

I sighed. Now that I had decided to help with the murder
investigation, I wanted to get on with it.

“And that old bugger over there banging his pint glass on
the bar isn’t helping matters, either,” Simon added.

When I turned to look at the man on the end barstool, the
psychic ambush almost toppled me from my chair. The short hairs on the back of
my neck and arms pricked up. I swayed and shivered uncontrollably, the
overwhelming noxious alcohol fumes engulfing me. I gagged into my shaking,
cupped hands, ineffectually trying to block the smell. Dizziness threatened to
overcome me.

Thankfully, when Simon grabbed my arm, the connection to the
man was broken. I took a shaky breath. That was truly a first for me. Psychic
intoxication.

––––––––

“H
ey, earth to Indigo.” Simon waved his hand in front of my
face. The hazy spell finally broke. I turned back to Simon trying to control
the nauseous feeling of alcohol sloshing around inside my stomach. And I had
never had an alcoholic drink in my life!

“Are you all right?” Simon asked, looking concerned. “You’re
awfully pale.”

“Yes, I just...” I shook my head to clear it. I tucked a
loose strand of hair behind my ear with a shaky hand. “Simon, who is that man
sitting at the bar – the one on the end – the one you pointed out to me?” 

He glanced to the bar briefly, then back to me. “I don’t
know. Why?” 

“We need to know who he is. I’ll explain later,” I
whispered, as a girl brought food to our table. 

“Hiya, Sharon!” said Simon, with a big smile.

I should have known the girl was a friend. He seemed to know
all the girls in town, and they all seemed to have a crush on him. I supposed
his good looks, unruly blonde hair and amber-brown eyes helped.
But it’s his
endearing little-boy-flirty-smile that does the trick. 

“Hello Simon,” the girl answered with a smile of her own,
setting our food on the table as she glanced over at me.

“Have you met my cousin Indigo?” he asked. 

“Hello,” Sharon said to me, friendlier now that she
understood I wasn’t the competition. She was exactly Simon’s type; blond,
blue-eyed and pretty. I wondered why he didn’t ask her out.

I smiled. “Hi Sharon, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Hey, I was wondering who that guy is at the end of the bar
– I think I know him from somewhere,” said Simon. 

Sharon looked over her shoulder. “That’s Claude Burns. 
Don’t you remember? He works over at Saint Mildred’s as the groundskeeper. He’s
the one that set fire to the church on Guy Fawkes Day last year. He was drunk
and tossed his cigarette into the fireworks and almost blew up the church where
they were stored.”

“I remember now,” Simon said. 

Sharon flicked a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder and
continued. “Shortly after that some kids found him butt naked in the vestry,
drunk as anything, and singing a song about a banshee. It scared them to death,
didn’t it?” She said the statement like it was a question, then lowered her
voice. “He’s a menace to society.”

“Thanks,” said Simon. 

“No problem.” Sharon smiled over her shoulder at Simon as
she went to wait on other customers. 

When Sharon was out of earshot, Simon asked, “Okay, so
what’s the deal?” He smothered his fish and chips with vinegar before taking a
huge bite of fish.

I sighed. “I’m not sure.” I bit into a chip and then told
him about what happened when I first looked at Claude. How the sensation was
physical, as if I had taken on his drunken state, right down to the smell and
the nausea. “I wonder if he knows anything about Bart. Is he a regular here?
Would he know Bart, do you think?” 

“I don’t know, but it would be pretty easy to find out.” He
pulled out his notebook and wrote
Claude Burns
on the first page, and
then snapped it shut, self-satisfied at his first entry.

Still cold, wet and gray, at least the rain had finally
stopped. I had scheduled a man to come and sweep the chimney, so I headed home,
while Simon stayed behind to talk to Badger.

The kitchen was cold, but prudence said not to light a fire.
I’m not normally accident prone, but lately I’m thinking it’s better to be on
the safe side. I’d be mortified if I burned up the chimney-sweep dude.

I answered the knock at the front door to a man dressed in
top hat and coat with tails, and quite dirty with coal dust. His white teeth
shone out of a smudged face. I’m pretty sure the coal dust was part of the
Victorian costume. 

“Hullo, luv, I’m here to sweep the chimney,” he said,
tipping his hat with a flourish and bowing low.

I had to smile. This guy went all out to portray a Victorian
sweep. “Hello,” I replied. “I think if you’d go around to the back that would
be the easiest thing to do. The fireplace that needs cleaning is in the
kitchen.”

“Right-o,” he said, laughing. “Pardon me. I forgot. The ‘elp
should always go ‘round the back.” He walked off singing.

At the back of the house, this time I opened the door to a
youth, dressed the same, his arms loaded with brushes on long poles. His large
brown eyes and crooked-toothed grin shone out of a grimy face.

The two sweeps began to roll tarps out on the floor and
covered the table with sheets to avoid getting coal dust in the room. The boy,
about fourteen-years-old, with a slight build, stood inside the fireplace and
began brushing, while the other chimney sweep went up on the roof.

The job took no more than an hour, and then they were
packing up their equipment.

The boy sang as he rolled up the tarps, something about
night and day and shadows in between. 

Goose bumps rose on my arms at the words, and chills snaked
down my spine. They seemed to fit my life perfectly, sort of stuck between two
worlds, between night and day, light and dark, with shadows lurking between the
two.

“What song is that you’re singing?” I asked, rubbing the
chill from my arms.

He grinned. “An old ditty about chimney sweepers. Its good
luck, you know, to shake ‘ands with a chimney sweep.” 

I laughed. “Is it? Well, I can use all the luck I can get.”
I stuck my hand in his and gave it a hardy shake. And sort of wished I hadn’t.
Not because of the grimy soot, but because of the flash of trouble I glimpsed
through the contact.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Deangelo Cappellano. Cappy for short.” He flashed a
dazzling smile, which took the attention away from his rather prominent nose. 

“I’m Indigo Eady. It’s nice to meet you, Cappy.” When he
would have pulled away, I increased the pressure on his hand. “Stay out of the
park tonight,” I said, with a final squeeze of his hand before I released it.

His smile slipped as he stared at me open-mouthed.

“How did...how do you know...”