When The Spirit Moves You (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (2 page)

“
Are we doing a trial run for Thanksgiving?” I asked, taking in the table laden with food—a heavy meal for such a warm weekday evening.

“
I thought it would be nice to have a hearty dinner for once. Help yourself to a beer and sit down,” she said.

I grabbed a bottle of Labatt Blue from the fridge and took my usual seat at the table.

“
So, what’s new with you?” my older, half-brother Richard Alpert asked as he helped himself to a dinner roll.

I passed the butter. “I stopped off on the way home to visit the psychic on Route 5.”

“
What did you do that for?” he asked, annoyed, and hacked off a gob of butter, spreading it across his roll.

“
Entertainment value only—although she didn’t put on much of an act for ten bucks.”

“
What did she tell you? I assume it was a woman psychic,” Brenda said, sounding much more interested.

I nodded and helped myself to one of the chicken thighs, a scoop of potatoes, and some peas. “She was a walking—or rather sitting—stereotype of the trade. And she didn’t say much. Just that I’d fallen on hard times and had been ill.”

“
It doesn’t take a psychic to deduce that,” Richard said reasonably.

Amen. I decided not to mention her threat about trouble with the cops. Richard worries like an old lady about such things.

“
Are you going to go again? Can I come along?” Brenda asked eagerly.

“
You’re
not
going,” Richard said.

“
You can’t tell me where I can and can’t go,” Brenda countered defiantly.

“
You’re right. But I strongly suggest you
don’t
go. It would be a waste of time and money. Pass the potatoes, please.”

I handed him the bowl. “I am going back, and no you can’t come, Brenda. There was something sinister about that place.”

“
Then why would you want to go back?” Richard asked and chased a couple of peas around his dinner plate.

“
I’ve got a feeling something bad happened there.”

He looked at me with disapproval. “All the more reason for you to stay away.”

“
What kind of bad?” Brenda asked eagerly. She reads mysteries—loves them, in fact.

“
Violence. Maybe . . . a murder. I’m not sure.”

Her expression soured and she turned her gaze back to her husband. “You’re right, Richard—I don’t think I want to go anymore. And you shouldn’t either,” Brenda cautioned me. “We all know that nothing good ever comes from your vibes.”

That wasn’t true. Matt Sumner’s killer would have escaped justice if I hadn’t looked into his death. Same with the person who murdered Walt Kaplan. Of course, it was Richard, not me, who’d paid dearly during both those encounters. I would go this little adventure on my own.

“
You’ve hardly touched your dinner,” Brenda chided me. “It’s getting cold.”

Thinking about that house, that woman, and the disappearing man made me lose what little appetite I’d had.

#

That night—and the next—my dreams were haunted by the chubby medium and the silent man from the eerie house on Route 5. Indistinct images of those two people and that creepy house played and replayed through my sleeping hours. Her speaking nonsense, and him saying nothing but listening to everything.

When disturbing stuff bothered me, I knew the only place I could go to and talk about it with someone who really understood was in a little bakery on Main Street. It was kind of like Brigadoon. Sometimes it was there—and sometimes it wasn’t. Well, the bakery was always there—but the person I sought wasn’t always available.

It was nearly three o’clock in the morning and Main Street was empty as I jaywalked toward the bakery. Sure enough, the light was on in the back of the shop. I didn’t even have to ring the bell. A silhouette tottered toward the door and my octogenarian friend Sophie opened the door to let me in. “You’re late,” she said in greeting, and offered her cheek for a kiss.

“
Sorry. I wasn’t sure I was coming.”

“
You always say that,” she grumbled and turned to return to the back room. She moved stiffly, as though in pain.

“
Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.

“
It’s this stinking humidity . . . it always cranks up my arthritis,” she complained.

As usual, the bakery smelled incredibly good. The mingled aromas of bread, cookies, and cakes filled the air. Also as usual, Sophie had set the small Formica table with chipped plates. She’d placed large sugar cookies on a bigger plate in the center of the table.

I took my customary seat as Sophie checked the progress of the kettle on the hotplate that sat on a shelf over the sink. I’d warned her time and time again that it was a dangerous arrangement, but she always blew me off. For such a smart woman, she had a blind spot when it came to her personal safety.

“
So what brings you here tonight?” she asked.

“
Have you ever seen a ghost?”

Sophie picked up the kettle and paused before turning to face me. She’d make me tea, hot chocolate, or instant coffee—depending on the weather. Tonight it was instant coffee. The stuff tasted like shit—not that I’d tell her that.

“
I think I have . . . but . . . I really can’t be sure,” she admitted, and poured the hot water into mugs. She set the mugs down on the table, took her seat, and then pushed the powered creamer toward me. “What makes you think
you’ve
seen a ghost.”

“
I didn’t say I had.”

She leveled a stony glare at me. “You didn’t say you hadn’t, either.”

I told her about my visit to the Route 5 medium. With every sentence her face grew more sour.

“
That was a waste of your time
and
money,” she muttered. “These people are all fakes.”

“
You’re not a fake.”

“
And neither are you. But we don’t go around advertising our gifts and trying to make money from desperate people, either.”

“
Well, it seemed like I needed to go there. And now I feel like I need to go back.”

She shook her head. “Nothing but trouble can come from this.”

“
Trouble for whom?” I asked.

“
You—in the short run.”

“
And someone else for the long run?”

She shrugged. “So, tell me about this so-called ghost.”

“
There’s not much to tell. I don’t even know if he
is
a ghost. It’s just . . . the place gives off weird vibes and this guy suddenly showed up and then just as quickly disappeared.”

“
Could you see right through him?” she asked.

It was my turn to shake my head.

“
He looked solid?” she persisted.

I nodded.

“
In movies, ghosts always look transparent.”

“
That’s movies. We’re talking real life.”

“
Not if he’s dead,” Sophie pointed out. She reached for a cookie, placed it on her plate, and then broke it in half, nibbling on one of the pieces. “Are you afraid of meeting a ghost?”

I’d seen some pretty weird stuff since I’d been bonked on the head with a baseball bat and became . . . different. “I don’t think I’m afraid as much as . . . worried.”

“
Why?”

“
What if this guy is depending on me to discover what happened to him?”

“
Is that what you hope to accomplish by going back to see this fraud of a fortuneteller? Figuring out why he died?”

“
That’s just it. I’m not sure. But if this guy died because someone helped him to the afterlife or . . . whatever . . . shouldn’t somebody try to help him move on?”

“
Has he asked you for help?”

I shook my head. “He hasn’t said a word.”

“
Then how do you know he even needs help?”

I grabbed a cookie from the plate, broke it into about six pieces and shoved one of them into my mouth, chewing fast. It tasted pretty good, but I didn’t care. I was wondering why I cared about some dead guy I’d never known in life.

But for some reason I
did
care. Shouldn’t that be enough?

I voiced the question.

Sophie shrugged. “I guess if somebody did me in, I’d hope that somebody cared enough to find out why. But why does it always have to be
you
?”

“
Maybe nobody else knows the guy is dead.”

Sophie sipped her coffee, and then picked up the other half of her cookie. “Then I guess you’d better do something to find that out.”

#

And so it was two days after my first visit that I returned to the decrepit old house, which looked no better on my second visit than it had on my first. The weather had deteriorated and a gentle rain had been falling for most of the day. When I knocked at the old screen door I could see a number of plastic pails and bowls had been placed in strategic places around the entryway to catch drips. Still, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe the dark stains on the floor might not be due to a leaky bathroom after all.

“I knew you’d be back,” called the woman fortune-teller from within. I then realized that I hadn’t thought to ask her name the last time I’d been there, and she hadn’t introduced herself, either. “Come in,” she encouraged.

Sure she was friendly. She knew if I walked through the door she would be able to order a small cheese-and-pepperoni pizza for dinner. If she’d already had one other customer that day, she could upgrade to a medium with enough leftover for lunch the next day and give the delivery guy a tip, too.

“
Sit down, Mr. Resnick,” she said, waving a hand to encourage me to take the seat opposite her. Today she wore a sleeveless blue shell top, but the black shawl was still draped over her shoulders—no doubt for effect. The oppressive humidity in that room wasn’t improved by the presence of a large white oscillating fan that moved listlessly from left to right.

I sat down and, without a word, she held out her hand to receive her fee upfront. I counted out ten one dollar bills. I’d had good tips that day while tending bar at the Whole Nine Yards—a job I’d held for a little over two months.

“
And why have you returned so soon?” the woman asked.

“
What you told me the other day intrigued me,” I lied. “I wanted to know more.”

It had been the right thing to say. The corners of her mouth quirked into a smile. She reached for her crystal ball and pulled it closer.

Again movement in the shadows drew my attention. Once again the guy with the bad haircut stood in the corner, wearing the same plaid shirt—a garment much too heavy for such a hot, humid day—and I swear he hadn’t been there when I’d entered the room. He smiled, waggled his eyebrows a la Groucho Marx and gave me a four-fingered wave with his right hand. He looked pretty substantial to me.

I turned my attention back to the woman. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

“
You may call me Madam Zahara.”

Madam Zahara?
O-kay.

“
Madam Zahara, do you live here alone?”

She hesitated before answering. “Most of the time. My son comes and goes. He’s a long-distance truck driver. He’ll probably return tonight.”

Had she added the last to warn me off should I be some kind of robber or rapist?

If she was in her fifties, her son was probably in his twenties or thirties. The guy in the corner had to be at least forty. He turned to look out the nearest window to the weed-strewn yard beyond. I got the feeling that before I headed for home I should probably take a walk around that yard. For some reason I wasn’t quite sure I understood, I was
supposed
to look around that yard before I headed home. And I had a feeling I might find something I would definitely not like finding.

Once again Madam Zahara held her hands over her crystal ball as she gazed within its depths. “Ahh, today I see—”

“
Death?” I supplied.

Her brow wrinkled and she frowned. “No. Why would you say that?” she asked, sounding frightened.

“
Because there’s a darkness that hovers over this house. Surely you’ve felt it.”

Her blue eyes widened in suspicion. “Why do you say that?”

My gaze traveled up to the ceiling and ran back to the stained floor in the entryway. I had originally assumed the wood had been marred by dripping water over a long period of time. But now I thought I knew better. That knowledge made the humidity suddenly seem ten times as oppressive.

“
You told me on Tuesday that an encounter with the police would be in my future. I think you were right.”

“
Is there something
you’re
guilty of that
you’ve
been hiding?” she asked with a bit of a smirk.

“
Not me. I think it’s you.”

She sat back, taking umbrage. “I don’t know what you mean.”