When The Spirit Moves You (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (5 page)

“
Damn right you will,” she answered and hung up.

#

I was antsy at work all the next day, watching the clock and messing up drink orders. My boss is pretty forgiving and just chalked it up to me having a bad day. I was worried that the bad element was yet to come. I still wasn’t sure what I had gotten myself into, but meeting Madam Zahara in a public place was the prudent thing to do.

I arrived at the mall’s food court fifteen minutes before the agreed-upon time. Madam Zahara was already seated at a table near Subway, fidgeting. She was dressed in the same outfit I’d seen her in two days before. She adjusted her shawl, looked around, adjusted it again, looking decidedly nervous.

I scoped out the place, didn’t see anyone who looked like a long-distance trucker hanging round, and walked up to her table. “Mind if I sit down?”

She waved a hand at the chair opposite her.

I sat down and folded my hands on the table before me. “You called me,” I reminded her.

She sighed and leaned closer, keeping her voice low. “First, let me apologize. I shouldn’t have taken any money from you, but old habits die hard.” She reached into her skirt pocket and withdrew the ten spot and the ones I’d given her the previous times we’d met. She pushed the bills across the table, her bracelets rattling at the movement.

“
Any other old habits you’d like to disavow yourself from?” I asked.

She ignored my question, studied my face, and finally spoke. “You were right. There was a horrific murder in my house.”

“
Fred Butterfield’s house,” I reminded her.

“
It didn’t always belong to him.”

“
Are you saying he bought it from you?”

“
Cheated me out of it, more like.”

“
How?”

She sighed. “The bastard married me.”

“
How long ago was that?”

“
The years aren’t important. In fact, now they mean nothing.”

Maybe not to her . . . .

Her mouth drooped. She reached into her pocket once more and withdrew a slip of paper, which she set on the table. On it was written a name: Gary Madison.

“
Who’s this?”

“
Our son.”

I’d never had a kid with her, so I assumed she meant Butterfield. “Is this the long-distance truck driver?”

She nodded. “I was hoping you might try to get a message to him from me. Despite all my best efforts, I haven’t been able to contact him.”

“
What makes you think I can?”

She laughed. “Mr. Resnick, we both know what you are.”

“
And what’s that?”

“
Somebody like me. A psychic. Only you’re much better than I ever was.”

“
It wasn’t just a game?”

She shook her head. “Reading the Tarot, consulting the crystal—that kept us off welfare and put food on the table while Fred drove around in that money hole of a Corvette.”

“
I take it he no longer owns it?”

She shook her head. “It’s just a reminder of his so-called glory days. He never worried about supporting us.”

“
Mrs. Butterfield—”

Again she shook her head. “I never took his name.”

“
I can’t say I feel comfortable calling you Madam Zahara.”

“
My name is Bridget Madison.”

I nodded. “Bridget. Where can I find the body?”

“
As I’m sure you surmised, in the side yard where the policeman found you the other night. You were so close, too.”

“
Yeah, well, I can hardly go digging there if you’re going to call the cops every time I show up.”

“
Who says I called the cops?”

“
Who else could it have been?” I asked.

“
Who do you think?” She looked at me as if I was dense, and yet she was the one talking in circles.

“
If I’m going to be taken seriously, I need proof to take to the police.”

“
I know, I know.” She toyed with one of the rings on her fingers. “If you show up at the house later tonight, you’ll have your proof.”

“
You wanna tell me what I’ll be up against?”

“
And scare you away?” She shook her head. “Now, about that message to my son . . . .”

“
Where am I supposed to find him?”

“
He’s around, and I suspect you wouldn’t have much trouble locating him. His birth date and social security number are on the other side of that piece of paper.”

I picked it up. Sure enough, the information was there.

She got up from the table. “I hope you’ll come by the house to see me later.”

“
I’ll be there.”

She nodded, and stood. Her skirt was much longer than I’d thought, and as I watched her move away from the food court, a terrible chill came over me.

Under the filmy fabric, no feet touched the tile floor.

#

“
Okay, now I’m totally confused,” Richard said, and got up from the kitchen table to pour himself another glass of scotch. “Are you saying
she’s
the ghost?”

“
Can ghosts even show up in the middle of the day?” Brenda asked.

“
They must. Because I’m telling you, whatever it was I saw had no legs and yet it glided right out of the food court. By the time I got over the shock and hurried after her, she was—
poof!
—gone.

“
So it’s her body that’s buried beside that creepy old house?” Richard asked.

“
That’s what I’m thinking.”

“
But didn’t you say Fred Butterfield disintegrated right before your eyes?”

“
Maybe they’re both dead,” Brenda suggested, and cut a piece off the medium-rare steak on her plate.

“
Somebody ordered a pizza the other night. Somebody called the cops on us, too. And somebody is updating Fred Butterfield’s Facebook page.”

Richard took his seat once more. “What about the son she wanted you to contact? Could it be him living in the house?”

“
Maybe.”

“
Do you think he killed both of them?”

“
What was it she wanted you to tell him?” Brenda asked.

“
That’s the thing. She never got around to saying it. She just said she hadn’t been able to contact him.”

“
And what will you say if you do find him?” Richard asked. “‘Hi. Did you kill your parents?’”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. “I think I’d better get on the computer and start looking for him.”

Richard shook his head. “No. If he killed his parents, you should go to the police.”

“
And how serious are they going to take me when I tell them I’ve seen two ghosts?”

“
Can’t your friend Sam write a story on the house or something?” Brenda suggested.

“
I already called him about it.”

“
And?” Richard prompted.

I shrugged. “So far nothing.”

“
Then it might be time to start nagging, because no way do I want you to confront someone who might’ve killed his mama and daddy,” Brenda said.

“
Yes, ma’am,” I muttered.

Brenda glared at me. “Don’t you ‘yes, ma’am’ me like that. You listen to me.”

“
Yeah, listen to her,” Richard echoed. I was beginning to feel like I was being bullied. The fact that I knew they truly cared about my welfare kind of took the sting out of it, though.

Calling Sam was a good idea. And I had Gary Madison’s social security number, so that would make tracking him down a lot easier. If it was correct. I mean, did ghosts usually go around carrying their offspring’s social security numbers? And how did a ghost write it down on a piece of paper? Could they hold pens and pencils?

I didn’t want to think about it.

After dinner, I went back up to my apartment and called Sam at home. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear from me so soon.

“
Sorry, I’ve been busy at work—I didn’t get a chance to look up that Butterworth guy.”

“
Butterfield,” I corrected. “Mrs. Butterworth is syrup.”

“
Butterfield, Butterworth,” he muttered.

“
The story has taken on a new angle. I suspected the psychic to be the killer? Now it looks like she’s dead, too.”

“
Oh my god. Someone killed her? Have you reported this to the cops?”

“
No. She’s been dead for a long time . . . I think.”

“
What a minute. She’s a ghost, too?” Sam said, sounding incredulous.

“
Yeah, but she asked me to track down and contact her son and she gave me his social security number to make it easier.”

“
Don’t all ghosts do that?” he asked sarcastically.

“
You could save me a lot of time by corking that number into one of your data bases.”

“
Okay. Let me fire up the computer and I’ll do it now.”

I had to wait a few minutes for Sam’s computer to boot up, but the next thing I knew he was asking me for the number. I heard him tapping his keyboard and anxiously waited for him to report what he found.

“
Hmm.”

“
What does ‘hmm’ mean?” I asked.

“
The guy lives in Portland, Oregon. I’ve got a phone number.” I already had my pen and a piece of paper out ready to take down any information he had. I wrote it down, plus the address.

“
He is listed as a truck driver for RDC Equipment Supply. Looks like it’s based in Portland.”

“
He could still be a long-distance trucker,” I said.

“
Or maybe he got a new job since the deaths of his parents.”

“
Oregon’s a long way from Western New York,” I agreed. “Is there any other information? Mother’s name—father’s name?”

“
No father listed. Mother’s name Bridget Madison.”

“
That’s the name the fortuneteller gave me, all right.”

“
What are you going to do now?”

“
Call the number, talk to the guy.”

“
And if he’s uncooperative?”

“
Well . . . there’s the option of you writing about the house.”

“
And what angle do I use? Halloween’s still more than two months away.”

“
I might have to go back to the house and start digging again.”

“
That’ll only get you tossed in jail,” Sam pointed out.

“
Yeah, by whoever is holed up in that house. But who could it be? Someone’s squatting. They’ve got electric, and they must be paying the taxes on that place.”

“
Or,” Sam said, and drew out the word. “You’ve imagined all this.”

“
I didn’t imagine the cop that arrested me, or the name the woman gave me, or even the social security number you just looked up.”

“
Yeah,” he agreed. “But something about this whole situation smells fishy to me.”

“
You and me both.”

“
Look, I gotta go,” Sam said. “Keep me posted.”

“
Will do,” I said with resignation.

I hung up the phone and stared at it. So, he thought I’d imagined all this, huh?

I couldn’t have.

I didn’t.

Richard had bailed me out of jail, but I had no witnesses for any other part of this whole situation.

I stared at the number I’d written down. If Gary Madison had a day job, it was way too early to call the west coast. I’d have to wait until later in the evening. But what the hell was I going to say?
Know any good ghost stories? Did you know your mother’s a ghost?
Or how about,
Halloween came early—guess how?

There was only one thing to do. I stepped up to my liquor cabinet and poured myself a shot of bourbon and hoped I figure out something more appropriate to say when the time came.

#

The eleven o’clock news had just begun with a lead story about a drowning in Lake Erie. I dialed the Portland number that by then I knew by heart, and hit the mute button on my remote control. The Channel 7 newscaster’s lips moved as the line rang and rang. Maybe Gary Madison wasn’t yet home from work. I had to work the next day and didn’t feel like staying up until the wee hours to try calling again. I was just about to hang up when a voice answered, “Hello.”

I sat up straighter on the couch. Suddenly my mouth had gone dry. “Uh, Gary Madison? Son of Bridget Madison and Fred Butterfield?”

“
Yeah,” he answered warily.

“
My name is Jeff Resnick. You don’t know me . . . but I’ve got a really weird story to tell you about your parents.”

There was dead silence for several long seconds. “Yeah,” he said finally.

“
I’ve been to their old house on Route 5, and I had a really odd experience.”

I heard him sigh, as though he was already bored by my tale.

“
I’ve . . . I’ve seen them—talked to them both.”

He sighed again and said, “Not again.”