The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary (3 page)

“Carmen,” Jeremiah said to the woman, “did Mary ever say anything about her daughter to you?” He could see that Carmen had her wits about her and might be more useful than Bucket, provided she had any information.

“To me?” Carmen asked, amused. “To everyone! For the past few weeks that's all she talked about. Said her daughter was gonna come get her.” She said the words in a high-pitched mimic. “She was gonna live in her daughter's big fancy house! Her daughter was gonna get her off the streets and clean her up.”

“For the past month, you say?” asked Jeremiah. “When was the last time you saw Mary?”

Carmen looked at Bucket as she dug through her memory. “Around Thanksgiving, I suppose. “Ain't that right, Bucket?”

The old man nodded. “I seem to remember her at one of the Thanksgiving meals.” His weepy eyes momentarily lit up. “That's right, I did. She was bragging how she was gonna be gone from here by Christmas.”

“Did any others hear that?” Jeremiah asked.

“I'm sure they did,” Carmen said. “The ho couldn't keep her mouth shut about it.” She paused, then added, “If she was murdered, could be someone around here cracked her skull open just to shut her up.” Carmen's tone was flat as cardboard with no sympathy for the possible dead or outrage over a possible murder. “It was all a crock of horse manure if you ask me.”

“You didn't believe Mary?” Jeremiah asked as he shifted on his motorcycle. Around them, the street had become busy with people and a few more vehicles.

Carmen scooted her chair closer to Jeremiah, not paying any mind to Lola, and nearly clipped the poor dog's tail. Lola barely noticed. “If she and her daughter found each other, then why was her daughter waiting to get her off the streets?”

“She could have been looking for a rehab place for Mary and that might take time,” suggested Jeremiah.

“Maybe,” agreed Carmen, “but she kept saying she was going to live
with
her daughter.” Carmen folded her stubby
fingers together over her belly. “Seems to me if your long-lost daughter found you and wanted to take care of you, she'd take you away immediately, not wait. Every day down here is dangerous with disease, drugs, and even hate crimes. If the daughter had money, like Mary claimed, she could have at least put her mother up in a motel for a few days to keep her safe until a place could be found.”

Jeremiah nodded in agreement at the logic. “Did you ever see Mary with anyone who might have been her daughter?” Jeremiah asked.

“She's dead, I tell ya!” Bucket snapped, not at them, but at the people around them.

Carmen ignored the outburst. “I never saw her with no one except that other skank Lizzie,” Carmen replied.

“Who's Lizzie?” Jeremiah asked.

“She's another piece of homeless white trash,” Carmen told him. “During the week she mostly hangs out a few blocks from here, closer to the business district. That's where the tricks are Monday through Friday. On weekends, you'll find her and Mary, if she's alive, hanging out around some of the rougher bars down here looking for business.”

Carmen edged her chair back and forth with her one foot. “You know, come to think of it, I remember once Mary was talking about her daughter and someone called her a liar. Lizzie came to her defense and said it was true, that she'd seen the daughter herself.” She turned to Bucket. “Isn't that so, Bucket?”

Bucket was still sitting on the curb, but now his eyes were closed and he was rocking back and forth. “I'm dead. Tell them, Bucket, I'm dead!”

Jeremiah immediately looked around for a spirit but saw none. He didn't know if Bucket was being possessed by Mary or if he was repeating something he thought he'd heard. This was Emma Whitecastle's territory, not his.

Just as fast as he'd started, Bucket stopped and opened his eyes. He looked dazed and unfocused.

“See,” Carmen said to Jeremiah. “That's how he gets sometimes. Other times he just rants about her being murdered.”

“Does he ever say anything else when he's like this, like where Mary is or who might have done it?”

Carmen shook her head. “Not that I've ever heard. Just that she's been murdered. Bucket's not all there at the best of times, but this is downright creepy.”

Silence fell between them as they watched the sick old man and his wretched dog for a few moments. Then Jeremiah turned back to Carmen. “Did Mary and Lizzie have a pimp?” he asked.

Carmen nodded. “His name's Ace. Skinny black dude who runs girls of all colors. You'll find him over on Crocker Avenue. He works out of a crappy burger joint called Hi-Life Diner. The place is owned by his family. He won't be there now, though. Too early.”

Jeremiah still wasn't sure whether to believe Bucket's story about Mary being murdered, but at least Carmen was giving him someplace to start to see if the woman was still alive. If she was, then Bucket was just hallucinating.

After buying Bucket's breakfast, Jeremiah had stuffed a bunch of dollar bills into the zippered breast pocket of his leather jacket. He unzipped it now and pulled out several. He handed a few bucks to Carmen, along with his card. “I
appreciate the help. If you do see Mary, try to reach me or go tell Red Watkins at City of Angels. You know the place?”

“Yeah,” Carmen said, snatching the money and tucking it somewhere down her blouse between her large sagging breasts. “That's the vet outreach on Wall Street.”

“Yes.” Jeremiah wanted to give Bucket a few dollars but knew the old guy would just buy booze with it or would be robbed. As if reading his mind, Carmen said, “Give him a couple of bucks too. In his condition, the drink is all that keeps him going. That and the mangy dog.”

After handing Bucket a couple of bucks, Jeremiah started to put on his helmet, but Carmen moved closer to him. “You find Ace, don't you tell him I sent you, hear? He's a mean SOB and I don't want no trouble. My life ain't exactly a bouquet of roses, but it's not bad compared to most down here.”

Jeremiah studied her a moment, then nodded his understanding. “You used to work for him?” he asked her, taking a guess.

She nodded. “Long time ago, I was one of his top girls. Then I got stabbed in my leg by a John. It got infected and I lost my leg. Ace threw me away after that. Said no one wanted a one-legged whore.” She gave Jeremiah a small sad smile. “In some ways, the creep that stabbed me saved my life. While my leg healed, I got clean and later a job. I do piecework six days a week for one of the sweatshops down here. It doesn't pay much, but enough for me to rent a clean room and buy decent food. I don't need Ace messing that up.”

“I won't tell him,” Jeremiah agreed. “One last thing, can you tell me what this Lizzie looks like?”

“Sure,” Carmen said. “Skinny white girl with hair the color of Ronald McDonald's. She's younger than Mary. Barely in her twenties. Almost all used up, though, if you know what I mean.” Jeremiah did. “Ho's like her and Mary only get what's left over. The fresh ones get the best tricks. Make the most money.” She paused, then added, “If Mary is dead, it might have been Ace who killed her. She was so strung out, I'm sure she wasn't of much use to him anymore. Lizzie will be there soon enough.”

“How about Mary?” he asked. “I understand she's also white with long stringy blond hair. Anything else you can add?”

Carmen gave it some thought before answering. “Mary's got a tattoo,” she told him. “The tattoo is right above her boobs, in the middle of her chest. It's a flower, I think.”

After leaving Bucket and Carmen, Jeremiah headed up San Pedro and made a right turn on 4th. Almost immediately, he made a left turn onto Crocker. Carmen didn't give him the exact location of the Hi-Life Diner but he didn't need it. Central Division of the LAPD was on 6th just a few blocks from where Bucket called home, and Jeremiah had worked out of that division when he was a detective. He knew the area and most of the businesses, especially the older ones with sketchy side activities. The Hi-Life Diner was one of the few, or maybe the only, all-night diners left in the area. It was halfway between 4th and 3rd on the right-hand side. Standing in the large dingy window displaying a B rating from the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health, was a sad fake Christmas tree with multicolored bulbs hanging from its skimpy limbs. Beyond that he could see a couple of men sitting at the counter. He pulled over in front of the place and parked at a meter, which he knew didn't have to be fed on a Sunday.

In the past several years, a lot of trendy eateries had cropped up in and around downtown. They catered to the hipsters and artsy types who had bought stylish new lofts in the area. Developers, with the blessing of the city's government, were trying to reclaim these broken-down streets and buildings, to make it cool to live downtown. The Arts District was just a few blocks away and so far gentrification there appeared to be a success, but it was a constant struggle. Jeremiah had mixed feelings about it. On one hand, it was a better use of valuable real estate and brought new money and cultural activities to downtown. On the other hand, it could push the dirt poor and homeless out of one of the last places they had to work and live.

Before getting off his bike, he pulled out his cell phone. He had two calls he wanted to make, but decided it was too early to call, even though both recipients were early risers. Instead, he sent two texts. One to Aaron Espinoza, his former partner in Homicide, asking him if he had time for a call later in the day. The second text went to Emma Whitecastle asking the same, but also tacking on a request that she send Granny his way, if she saw her.

Granny was Granny Apples, the ghost of a pioneer woman from Julian, California, whose real name was Ish Reynolds. Granny loved nothing more than digging around like an old-time private eye. She could eavesdrop and do surveillance without the people being watched knowing and without a wire. That's how he had first met Emma and Phil. They were on the same stakeout and had sent Granny over to check him out, suspicious that he could see Granny. It was the first and only time he'd admitted to anyone that he could communicate with spirits. He couldn't very well deny it, seeing that Granny had looked him in the face and unnerved him to the point he had to confess to Emma and Phil or be called out for being a liar. But he had to admit, sharing his secret with them had taken some of the burden off his shoulders and he had made two good friends in the bargain. Three if you counted Granny. Since then, he had learned from Emma and her good friend Milo Ravenscroft, an internationally known medium and Emma's mentor, more about how to control and manage his gift. He'd used Granny a couple of times since on some of his small cases and she'd proven to be a great asset, although she could be
cantankerous much of the time.

His texts sent, Jeremiah got off his bike, stashed his helmet in the locked storage box on its side, and started for the Hi-Life Diner.

“Jeremiah Jones, is that you?” said a woman's voice behind him. He turned and saw a shiny pickup truck parked across from him. At the wheel was Greta Miles.

“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes,” Jeremiah said with a big grin as he crossed the street to greet her.

Greta and her family owned a farm by Santa Paula called Milestone Farm. A few times a week she hauled fruits and vegetables from her farm down to Skid Row and distributed them to some of the missions and outreach programs. Sometimes she even handed them out directly to the homeless. The produce was a mixed lot. Most often the boxes in the back of her truck were filled with bruised and blemished items or items not fresh enough to sell at the various farmers' markets her family attended, but Milestone Farm never gave the homeless rotten goods like some farms. Greta, with her long light brown ponytail and freckled, pale face, had become a familiar sight downtown over the years. She was in her late thirties, but could pass for a teenager if one didn't look too closely. Only of average height and slim of build, she could wrangle a tractor and carry boxes of produce like any farmhand.

Jeremiah gave her a big smile through the window of the truck. “Making your rounds?”

“Yeah, had to get an early start today so I could get back. My sister-in-law is throwing a big barbeque tonight to celebrate her husband's fortieth birthday.” She looked around. “What brings you down here today?”

“Red Watkins at Angels called me. He wants me to locate a woman named Mistletoe Mary. Ever hear of her? Real name is Mary Dowling.”

Greta pursed her lips, then shook her head. “No. Is she a volunteer or a resident?”

“Resident.”

She shrugged. “I don't usually make much contact with the locals except to hand them the occasional apple or orange. Mostly I deal with the organizations. Sorry.”

“Don't be. She's a working girl, so she's out and about while you're fast asleep. You've probably never come in contact with her.”

Jeremiah ran his hand along the smooth surface of the truck's door. On it was attached a magnetic door sign with the Milestone Farm logo. “Nice wheels. It new?”

“Yeah,” she answered with a gleam in her eye. “Brand-new. The old one couldn't make the long drive anymore. We just use it around the farm now.” She started the truck. “You still seeing that Rose from Angels?”

“I am. Why?”

“Just that I know a hot grandma up my way you might like if you're ever interested.”

He laughed and shook his head with amusement. “I'll keep that in mind, girl.”

Even with its optimistic name, it was obvious that the Hi-Life Diner was not one of the new trendy places. It had been
new once, maybe back when Eisenhower had been president, but now it was just a run-down diner with scuffed linoleum and cracked bloodred vinyl booths and stools patched here and there with duct tape. In some cases the entire seat of a booth had been replaced without thought to matching the color of the original seat, so that some of the booths were a patchwork of red backs with green or black seats. The place was narrow with a counter running along the right and booths along the left and a few along the back wall. There was no room in the middle for tables. Tacked on the side wall above the booths was a beat-up gold banner wishing everyone
Happy Holidays
. There was a door marked
Restroom
set in the back wall and a swinging door at the end of the counter that probably led to the kitchen and was marked
Employees Only
.

The smell of bacon, toasted bread, and strong coffee hit his nostrils as soon as he entered the place, making Jeremiah realize how hungry he was. He straddled the first stool at the long worn but clean counter and placed his phone on the counter in front of him. He'd turned off the ringer, and set it to vibrate. On the end of the counter were two covered pedestal cake plates. Under one dome was an assortment of donuts that looked fresh. Under the other was a chocolate cake that didn't. From here he could keep an eye on his bike through the grimy window.

Across from the counter were the usual food prep areas used by the waitstaff, and beyond that the kitchen, seen through a long pass-through where orders were stuck into clips like flags and food delivered to the raised counter for pickup. From Jeremiah's spot, he could see only one cook working this morning—an older dark brown man, his head covered by a cap pulled down tight, bill backward. The cook was probably Mexican and possibly illegal, paid cheaply and under the table. Many places in downtown hired illegals of all races and backgrounds. Every now and then the authorities cracked down, but within days the workers were back, sometimes new faces, sometimes the same ones, willing to take the risk of deportation for low-paying jobs that fed their families.

Thick earthenware mugs of dull white were placed in clusters, rims down, here and there along the counter. Jeremiah picked up one and turned it upright, signaling that he wanted coffee. Soon a short, dumpy waitress was in front of him filling his cup with a dark, strong brew. She wore a bib apron over ratty purple knit pants and a dark blue T-shirt, and from the cleanliness of the apron, Jeremiah guessed she'd just started her shift.

“Know what you want?” she asked him, her dark full lips taking a no-nonsense stance. She was African-American, in her forties or even pushing fifty, with very dark skin, almond eyes, and a wide face that hinted it might have been angular and pretty when she was younger. On her head was a wig fashioned in a blunt cut of mahogany hair that once belonged to someone else. Pinned to the front of her apron was a name tag that read
Mona
.

In answer, Jeremiah grabbed a menu from several stashed between the nearest napkin holder and a pair of salt and pepper shakers. It was greasy and encased in a holder of cracked plastic. Giving him a minute, the waitress moved down the counter refilling the mugs of the other two men seated together at the counter—one black, one Latino, both dressed for jobs of manual labor. They must have been regulars, because they joked with Mona as she poured their coffee and she responded with a wide smile and sass of her own.

The menu was standard diner fare. Breakfast on the front, other food items in the middle pages, and the back listed
sides, extras, drinks, and desserts. A moment later, Mona was back in front of him, still holding the coffeepot like a weapon.

“Made up your mind?” she asked.

“The breakfast special,” he told her as he replaced the menu next to the napkin holder. “Eggs over easy.”

“Toast?”

“Whole wheat.”

After writing the order down and tacking it to a clip in the kitchen window, Mona made some toast and when it was done waddled over toward the only occupied booth. With his mug to his lips, Jeremiah watched from the corner of his eye. The booth was against the back wall and held two white people, a man and a woman, seated on opposite sides. The man was older, dressed casually but nice, and looked uncomfortable. The woman was painfully thin. She wore a short, clingy, bright blue dress of cheap material, very high heels, and too much makeup. Her bright red hair was long and teased on top. She was most likely a working girl. Both looked tired. He might have been her last customer of the night or had been picked up early this morning and she'd talked him into buying her breakfast before they parted. Her pimp could take her money, but he couldn't take a full belly.

The cook called order up. Mona picked up the food that had been placed in the pass-through and delivered it to the booth, where the woman fell on it like a starving animal. Jeremiah wondered if this was Lizzie, Mistletoe Mary's friend. She certainly fit the description Carmen had given him.

His own order was placed in front of him a few minutes later. Two eggs perfectly fried over easy, crispy hash browns, and two strips of bacon. On a separate plate, Mona had delivered his whole-wheat buttered toast and a single plastic pod of strawberry jam. The food was served on heavy dishes of scratched dull white rimmed with a thin blue line. He ate, keeping an eye on the couple in the booth without being too obvious, which was easy enough since the place wasn't that large. When the two men seated at the counter paid and left, Jeremiah had a direct view of the booth.

He raised his mug to his lips again, saying out loud but in a low whisper squelched by the rim of the mug, “Granny, where are you when I need you?”

“You rang?” came a voice out of nowhere.

Surprised, Jeremiah coughed and sputtered on the coffee in his mouth until some went down his throat and the rest dribbled down his chin. He grabbed some napkins from the nearby holder and mopped his face.

“You okay there, mister?” the waitress said stepping in front of him.

“I'm fine,” Jeremiah assured her. “It just went down the wrong way.”

After staring at him a moment, Mona turned and went down to the other end of the counter where she was filling gathered dispensers with sugar and salt and pepper.

Jeremiah glanced slyly around, but saw nothing. He brought his mug up close to his lips again and whispered, “Granny, that you?”

“Who else you expecting?” The ghost of Granny Apples materialized next to him. “You did send up a smoke signal to
Emma that you wanted to see me, didn't you?”

He nodded as he took a sip of coffee, and wondered how he was going to communicate with the spirit without people noticing.

“What a dump,” Granny said, looking around. “Are you sure you should eat the food here?”

In answer, Jeremiah shoveled another bite of eggs into his mouth.

After swallowing his food, he cast another look at the booth, noting that the man had only picked at his food while the woman was in the process of wiping her plate clean with a piece of toast. The three of them were the only customers in the place at the moment. He half expected the man to wave a hand at Mona indicating he wanted the check so he could make his escape, but he didn't. Instead he watched the woman across from him wolf down her food with a mixture of disgust and despair.

He needed to tell Granny to go over and see what they were saying, but didn't dare mumble anything out loud in case Mona was listening. He knew when Emma needed to talk to Granny, she often pretended to be speaking on her cell phone, but that wouldn't work in this case because he needed to talk about people within earshot. Then he remembered that Granny could read some. Picking up his phone, he typed in a short text message but didn't send it. He put the phone back down on the counter, tapping the screen until Granny noticed, and went back to eating.