In the Air Tonight (10 page)

“I’m not going to be much help. I don’t know him. I have no idea why he tried to kill me.”

“Twice.”

“Twice,” I agreed. “Though his failing the first time probably explains the second.”

Bobby gave a half snort, half laugh. “You don’t seem very concerned.”

“Should I be?”

“Someone tried to kill you.”

“Twice. But he’s dead. I’m not. All done.” I frowned. “Isn’t it?”

“Depends on why he was doing it.”

“What difference does it make? He isn’t going to be able to try again from a grave.” Though he might come back and ghost-try it and wouldn’t that be swell?

I’d researched all types of hauntings. Considering my life, wouldn’t you?

In a residual haunting great trauma caused negative energy to be blasted into the aura, air, atmosphere—whatever—and the event imprinted itself on that location, then was reenacted over and over. In those cases the specters are not aware the event is being reenacted, and they have no interaction with the living. Think of it like a short video that plays over and over and over.

Residuals are considered harmless hauntings. Though having that huge, scary guy become a ghost and try to kill me again and again would be as creepy as he was. Even knowing that he couldn’t hurt me, that the loop would never change, that the result—me safe, him dead—would only repeat itself wasn’t as soothing as it should be.

There was always the chance that the maniac would become an interactive haunting, which meant he would be able to speak with me, perhaps even touch me like the lady on Avenue B. I wasn’t in the mood. Therefore I needed to discover why the man had tried to cleave my head, if only to be able to put him to rest if he wasn’t.

“I suppose he
can’t
kill you from the grave,” Bobby said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “How far is this place?”

“Not much farther. You think he
will
try it again from the grave?”

Did Bobby Doucet believe in ghosts? He was from New Orleans, which I’d heard tell was the most haunted city in America. One of the reasons I’d never visited. What kind of vacation would a place like that be for a woman like me?

“What?” He glanced at me. “No. The dead don’t come back.”

I managed not to snort. But he was a detective. He heard it anyway. Though he peered through the windshield, it felt as though he were peering at me.

We’d turned onto a two-lane highway, which had once been asphalt but due to too many years, too many winters, and too many trucks was now closer to gravel. His rental wasn’t built for it and fishtailed if he went too fast. Which meant anything over forty-five.

“You’re sure there’s a restaurant down this road?”

“Why else would we be on it?”

His lips quirked, and my cheeks heated. The curse of being fair skinned. I had long envied those with darker complexions—not that there were any in New Bergin—but we did have television. Women with lovely olive skin did not go red and blotchy over a smirk and the hint of a make-out session at the end of a deserted forest path. Luckily it was dark, and I doubted he could see my blush.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.

“I keep an open mind.”

Very open. The ghosts waltzed in and out and back in again.

His face hardened. He looked almost angry, his reaction completely out of line with the subject. “The dead don’t come back,” he repeated. “Anyone who says so is a liar. Probably a thief and a charlatan too.”

“Thief and charlatan?” I repeated. “I don’t follow.”

“Preying on the grief of the living, taking money for it. Telling people that their departed loved ones have a message for them.” His fingers tightened on the wheel. “Charlatans, thieves, and liars.”

I’d read about those who used their gift for gain. Some were charlatans, but others weren’t. As I couldn’t admit to what I heard, what I knew, who I was, that made me a charlatan of sorts too.

A two-story building sprang from the gloom. The ground-floor windows of the restaurant spread golden squares of light into the gloaming. Cars were parked four deep already.

Bobby hit the brakes, cursed when the rental slid a bit, then parked in the last space available. We got out and started for the door.

Considering what he’d just said, I probably shouldn’t tell him the place was haunted.

*   *   *

Bobby was grouchy. He had good reason to be.

For one thing, he was going to be stuck in Podunk longer than he’d planned. Of course he hadn’t figured on not only finding his killer, but shooting him too.

Second grumpy reason—the discussion of ghosts. He hated anything that smelled of the supernatural. Sure, he lived in the land of voodoo. According to family legend one of his grandmothers—many greats removed—had been a priestess. But the religion of the slaves was one thing, woo-woo was another. Too many had had their hopes lifted and their pockets picked by people saying they could do things they couldn’t. Like talk to ghosts.

He growled.

“Hungry?” Raye asked.

Reason number three. He hadn’t eaten since the
hoppel poppel
. His head was starting to pound. Though that might just be because of the day he’d had.

He opened the door on what appeared to be a well-preserved two-story farmhouse—again in the middle of the forest, which made the entire farm thing iffy.

“What’s the name of this place?” he asked.

“Thore’s Farm.”

“Thor,” he repeated. “The god?”

“No. Thore, the Swedish farmer.”

Was she being sarcastic? He didn’t think so.

She lifted two fingers in the direction of the hostess. The woman—blond, who wasn’t around here, it was starting to freak him out—nodded. “Ten minutes.”

“We’ll wait at the bar,” Raye said.

Inside was as rustic as the outside. Weathered wood walls, tables, chairs. There were two empty seats at the far corner of the bar, and they took them. The bartender—another blonde—gave Bobby the once-over then smiled at Raye as if she’d just brought her the top prize in the local scavenger hunt. Bobby pointed at Raye, who ordered Cabernet.

“You have a specialty?” he asked.

The bartender’s smile widened, and Raye muttered, “Sheesh.”

“A house drink,” he blurted. Didn’t most bars have them?

“Old-fashioned,” the woman said. “We make our own mix.”

“All right.” The woman continued to stand in front of them expectantly. “Please?” he prompted, and she glanced at Raye, brows lifted.

“Brandy, whiskey, or Southern Comfort?” Raye recited.

“Whiskey,” he chose.

The bartender continued to wait.

“Jack, Jim, Evan, Knob Creek, Maker’s Mark?” It wasn’t until Raye uttered the fourth choice that he realized she was listing whiskeys and not people. He usually drank beer. Maybe he should …

He glanced at the taps. There were at least ten, several of them variations of
Leinenkugel
. He didn’t even want to try and pronounce that.

“Jim,” he said.

She still didn’t move. He spread his hands.

“Sour or sweet?” she asked.

“Dear God.”

“Sweet,” Raye answered for him, and at last the woman went away. “Don’t they make an old-fashioned in New Orleans?”

“They make everything in New Orleans. I just don’t drink them.” He shrugged. “I’ve never been much of a drinker.”

Except for that one time, which was more than one time, although he hadn’t sobered up for months, so maybe it was “one time.” But he certainly hadn’t been drinking top-shelf-whiskey old-fashioneds.

Their drinks came. They tapped glasses, sipped. Bobby’s was surprisingly good, the glass pleasingly large. He twirled it this way and that in his palm, admiring the swirl of amber and ice. “How fast do trees grow?”

She’d been about to take another sip of wine and instead set her glass down. “That was random.”

“Not in my head. I’ve been wondering how this place could be Thore’s Farm when it’s surrounded by a forest.”

“Ah.” This time she did take a sip. “Reforestation.”

He lifted his glass to indicate the bar taps. “Is that like
Leinenkugel’s
?”

Her smile made the tight angry knot that still pressed against his throat loosen. He might enjoy himself if he didn’t try too hard not to.

“You mangled that pretty badly. Leinenkugel’s is a brewery in Chippewa Falls. I’m not sure if they give great deals to all the taverns in a two-hundred-mile radius so that they carry their product on tap, or if folks just like that one of our small businesses has done so well and want to show it off.” She shrugged. “We call it Leinie’s around here.”

He could see why.

“Reforestation is replacing trees lost through deforestation. There are several government programs. A big one is CRP—Conservation Reserve Program—where farmers are paid a fee not to plant crops but instead plant things that will improve the environment.”

“Like trees?” he asked, and she nodded. “Why?”

“Too many empty fields, overabundance of crops, erosion, soil problems. Take your pick. This farm became part of the program before World War Two.”

“And your dad’s place?”

“More recently but yes. His father was a farmer. Mine was an eldest son who wanted no more to do with it than any of his siblings. Instead of selling the place, they put it in the program, planted trees, and watched them grow.”

“Sounds peaceful.”

“Or boring,” she said.

“Potato, po-ta-toe,” he repeated.

She laughed, just as the hostess appeared with menus. “Follow me.”

The woman seated them at a cozy table for two just past a shadowed staircase. The restaurant had attempted to keep the feel of a farmhouse—with open doorways into several smaller rooms. The main room—living, sitting?—was now the reception/bar area. Antique furniture decorated the corners, tin pots and farm implements hung on the walls. Here and there Bobby caught a glimpse of a modern convenience—a Bunn coffee maker tucked behind an antique folding screen, electrical outlets painted the same color as the rough-hewn walls. Somewhere out of sight, a grill hissed.

Bobby opened the menu. Steaks. Pork chops. Chicken. A Thore burger, which was a half-pound ground chuck, stuffed with jalape
ñ
os, topped with ham and bleu cheese. His chest hurt just reading about it.

“Every appetizer is deep-fried,” he observed.

“What isn’t better when deep-fried?”

“I’m sure there’s something.”

“Don’t tell it to the Wisconsin State Fair. They pride themselves on deep-frying everything. Wait!” She reached over and pointed to the fourth item in the appetizer section. “This isn’t deep-fried.”

“The cheese and sausage plate?”

“I’m sure they could deep-fry that if you’d like.”

He took a big gulp of his drink. At home he might have ordered shrimp. They had shrimp here.

But it was deep-fried.

“What are you going to order?” he asked.

“Fish fry.” He winced. She tapped his menu. “Broiled perch.”

He perked up. “Is there catfish?”

“I’m sure there’s a catfish somewhere, but not here. Walleye pike, perch, bluegill.”

He squinted at the menu again. “What is
lefse
?”

“Norwegian tortilla.”

“You’re making that up.”

She lifted her hand as if she were in court. “I swear.”

Bobby felt as if he’d stepped into a jumbled fairy-tale land. Raye resembled Snow White. They’d gone into the woods like Hansel and Gretel. Was the wolf he kept hearing in the distance someone’s grandmother?

“Would you like another old-fashioned?” Their waitress had appeared. She was blond. Big shock.

Something tumbled down the stairs on the other side of the wall their table was tucked against. Raye frowned. The waitress did too. Several customers glanced that way, but no one seemed overly concerned.

Bobby waited for a worker to come around the corner, but none did. Maybe it had just been a box set too close to the top of the steps that had eventually teetered free and fallen down.

But if that were the case, where was the box?

Chapter 8

We ordered—perch for me, pike for him.
Lefse
for me, rye bread for him. Potato pancakes for both. I had more wine. Bobby ordered coffee.

He pretended he hadn’t heard the thumps on the stairs, which continued across the ceiling and sounded like footsteps. I guess if one didn’t know the history of the place, one might conclude that real people were up there.

Sometimes they were. The restaurant kept dry goods on that floor—paper towels, napkins, things that didn’t need refrigeration and were not subject to rodent infestation. An employee might be sent to get them. Always a new employee. Because it usually only took them one trip to decide never to go up there again.

“This place was a stop on the Underground Railroad,” I said.

“Really?”

He offered me first dibs on the relish tray—olives, coleslaw, cottage cheese, pickles—I declined.

“There’s a story on the back of the menu.”

He glanced up in the middle of scooping a smorgasbord onto his plate. “You tell me.”

“Slaves on their way to Canada stopped here. Probably one of the last stops, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“How close we are to Canada.”

“We’re close?”

“Three hundred and fifty miles, give or take.”

“Still a pretty long walk.”

“They didn’t walk much. Kind of obvious.”

“In what way?”

“Not a lot of black people in the Big Woods even now. Then, there were none. Why do you think people are staring at you?”

He glanced around. Several people quickly looked at their plates. “I’m not that black.”

“Up here there aren’t levels of different. There’s just different. You’ve noticed the abundance of blond?”

He nodded.

“Anything darker than light stands out.” I ran my fingers through my black hair. “I should know. The Thores hid runaways…” I pointed upstairs. He paused with a forkful of slaw nearly to his mouth. “Some died, some survived.”

Bobby set his fork on his appetizer plate and the coleslaw slid off. He didn’t notice. He flipped over his menu, which the waitress had neglected to take with her, read the few short paragraphs. The story didn’t mention the ghosts either.