A Guilty Ghost Surprised (An Indigo Eady Paranormal Cozy Mystery series) (2 page)

I sighed.
Crap
. It made sense. “Okay,” I conceded. “But it’s completely up to Simon. If he says no, then we come up with plan B.”

“Agreed.”

 “Absolutely. I want to do it. I want to solve Bryan and mum’s murders. Cuz when that bastard drove away from the scene of the crash, he left us all to die. That’s murder in my eyes.” Simon strode up and down before the fireplace. Excitement charged the air in the room.

Badger arrived a half hour earlier. His wavy brown hair dripped rain from the tips, the only part his helmet didn’t protect. We sipped hot coffee around the kitchen table while I shared my concerns and Badger’s plan. I didn’t expect Simon to agree so readily.

I’ll admit, my hands shook thinking about investigating murder again. But I swallowed my fear. “Right then.” I went into the pantry and came out with a roll of butcher paper. “First up, the murder map.” Cutting off a section, we flattened out the paper and held the edges down with mugs. It worked out rather well on the last case. We gathered information and wrote it on the investigation board until either a pattern emerged or something else jumped out at us. My psychic abilities helped out as well, even though they couldn’t be used as evidence and backfired more often than not. The most important clue of all stared me in the face the whole time during the last investigation, a clue the others couldn’t see. But not this time. This time, I would be uber-diligent.

“Do you have the police report, Simon?” asked Badger.

“Yeah, I do. But there’s not much in it. The police released the first one to us, but after that—nothing. You know how they are - they don’t want us to know all the details.”

“I’ll get Riley on it.” Badger pulled out his cell phone and clicked out the message to send. Riley, Badger’s sister, inexplicably turned up with current police reports on the last case. We didn’t know how she came by them and didn’t like to question her too closely, in case...well, just in case.

“I’ll call Cappy,” I said. Cappy had the ability to slip in and out of places unseen, an invaluable asset on our last case.  

I had rather a sleepless night, tossing and turning in my bed. I hoped that Bryan would make an appearance so I could find out why he came back. I purposely didn’t sleep in my kitchen armchair in front of the fire, because spirits couldn’t enter the kitchen. But my room stayed eerily quiet for a change. Even Franny, a specialist at interfering in my life, remained oddly quiet.
Suspicious behavior in the extreme.
She always had something to say or unsolicited advice to give.

Finally giving up on sleep when the dark faded to gray, I slipped my feet into bunny slippers, pulled a sweatshirt over my pajamas and headed down the back stairs to the kitchen. Muffled voices from the television drifted from the living room. Surprising, since we rarely watched the telly and Simon
never
arose this early. The clock above the stove ticked off six a. m. in the morning. Simon could easily sleep until noon and took full advantage of it on the weekends.

When the coffee finished dripping, I poured two mugs and pushed through the swinging door, making an effort to walk smoothly so I wouldn’t spill the hot drinks. Rounding the corner, the voices grew louder and I briefly wondered what Uncle Richard could be doing up so early as well. Mostly because the two didn’t spend more than a few minutes together, ever. A brief flash of familial happiness pasted a smile on my face. That’d been before I looked up and dumped coffee all over the rarely used, pristine carpeting and surprising the occupants sitting on the couch watching television.

“Oh, do be careful, dear,” said Franny, turning her attention back to the program. But that hadn’t caused the coffee to jump out of my hands. Bryan watching cartoons with Franny made my stomach flip-flop along with the coffee. He grinned up at me with baby blues and tussled blond hair and waved before turning his attention back to the telly. Focused on the program, they laughed, the little angel-winged cherub dressed in Spider Man pajamas, curled up next to the nineteenth century madam with her black-haired up-do and overflowing bosom.

I stood paralyzed with shock for a long time, even though I’d been expecting it. Finally remembering to breathe, I stepped over the spill and sat next to Bryan.

“Um — Spider Man?” I said.

Bryan nodded and bounced. “I can fly,” he said, his eyes wide and excited. “See?” He fluttered his angel wings and skipped around the room. Although not real, the wings sparkled beautifully. Come to think of it, Bryan had no visible signs of ever being in an accident—a good thing given my predilection to lightheadedness when presented with the sight of blood. The little dude positively glowed.

“I can see that.” I marveled at Bryan showing off his flying skills while thinking furiously about what to say to him.

“See what?” Simon stood barefoot and pajama-ed in the living room entrance, rubbing sleepy eyes.

I jumped. My hand went to my heart, so focused on the Bryan dilemma I didn’t notice him arrive.

“And what’s with the coffee on the floor? I prefer mine in a mug, actually. And what are you doing out here?” Simon clearly had not fully awakened yet.

“Simon!” I yelped, watching Bryan.

Bryan excitedly threw his arms around Simon.

“What’s going on?” He shivered at the sudden wisp of cold encircling his legs.

“Bryan’s here.”

“Here? As in, right now?” His arms and mouth hung limp.

I nodded. “As in, wrapped around your legs like a boa constrictor.”

He went stiff as a mannequin in a store window, his eyes locked onto mine. He swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple slid up and down like the puck on a carnival strength tester. I watched him struggle to speak. Finally he managed a
“Bloody hell.”

Bryan giggled shyly and disappeared.

Tracing the same route I jogged yesterday, Simon and I headed to the Blind Badger for our first investigation meeting. Our official meetings took place in the snug, a small, private room at the back of the pub. Luckily, everyone could make it on this slow and dreary Sunday afternoon.

“Why do you think he’s here?” asked Simon, still freaked out about his encounter with Bryan that morning. Bundled up in coats and scarves, we walked down Quixley Street with our heads bowed against the January cold.

“I don’t know, but here’s something weird…”

Simon’s head jerked up. When
I
say something’s weird, then it must be way out there—a cause for concern, to be sure.

“…Bryan doesn’t have any marks on him. Not like Bart did,” I said. Spirits insisted on showing me their wounds, often a bloody, gory sight, making “seeing” them a difficult task I’m not squeamish, exactly. Okay, maybe a bit. All right,
extremely.
Seriously not cut out for this business, I could not imagine why God gave this supposed gift to me.

“No wounds? How can that be? I mean…” He shook his head. He didn’t want to envision the damage that killed Bryan. What being knocked unconscious blocked from his sight, his imagination filled in.

I squeezed his arm. “Simon, he
glowed
. Someone’s been taking really good care of him and I don’t think it’s Franny.”

“What do you mean?” We halted in front of a dilapidated Victorian mansion.

“I mean, I think he’s already crossed over to Heaven, but came back. We don’t know what for yet, but when we do, we can send him back.”

“That’s good, then. I don’t like to think about him being…you know. The timing is quite significant, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” I sighed. Yesterday marked the third anniversary of Amanda’s and Bryan’s deaths. Three years since the accident, when his life irrevocably changed. Three years of isolation from his father. “We’ll figure it out.”

Linking my arm through his, we started again, when Simon brought us up short. “Whoa! Do you see that?” He pointed toward the upper windows of the mansion. Green, blue and red lights swirled from room to room, looking like a psychedelic lava lamp from the sixties. An eerie effect when combined with overgrown weeds and paint-chipped shutters hanging haphazardly off hinges.

And clearly uninhabited by anyone living.

“Spirit activity,” I said, gazing up at the light show.

“We get enough of that at home,” said Simon, tugging on my arm. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Three

The Investigation Begins

Simon and I walked through the narrow, cobblestoned ginnel to enter the Blind Badger’s back door. Six hundred years of stale ale and tobacco smoke hung in the narrow, slightly sideways-sloping passage. The glowing bulbs in wall sconces didn’t help much in the windowless hall. We treaded carefully and heard muffled voices as we approached the closed door.

A cheery fire and a chorus of
hellos
greeted us when we entered the snug, our preferred meeting place from the last investigation. I followed the aroma of freshly brewed coffee to the side table and poured a mug from the carafe.  Simon followed his stomach to a plate of sandwiches piled on the oak table.

Cappy already inhaled half his sandwich. “I saved ya from the liverwurst this time, mate,” he said to Simon, chewing happily on a wedge of sandwich. Always hungry, Cappy would eat anything. Small for his age, his big brown eyes spoke of more knowledge than a fourteen-year-old should possess. He had a sparkling smile, though, and a large beak his Italian ancestors would have been proud of.

“Thanks,” said Simon. “About time someone else got the bloody thing.”

We hung our coats on pegs and seated ourselves at the table. Simon sat next to Riley on the window side bench, and I joined Cappy on the other bench. Badger took the high-backed wooden chair.

Simon helped himself to a sandwich from the pile. The first bite went airborne, projected in a beeline toward me and Cappy. We both dodged as it flew to the center of the table, just missing the plate of sandwiches.

“What are you doing?” I yelped.

Cappy laughed as the others looked on in surprise.

The blob dripped like a mushy pile of poop off the side of the table.

Simon peeled the edge of his sandwich back and peeked inside.
“Liverwurst,”
he said in disgust. “I thought you said you got it this time.” He eyed Cappy accusingly.

“I did.” Cappy grinned hugely, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of what I called his Artful Dodger coat; black, grungy and too big. He must have just come from his chimney sweep helper job.

 “I added extras to the plate,” said Riley. Her impish grin contrasted with her svelte good looks. With sleek, shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes expertly made up, her designer jeans, high-heeled boots and cashmere cowl-necked sweater completed the definition of feminine and sexy. Every guys dream, and me their nightmare in jeans and a shapeless, clunky green sweater.

“Yes, but why do I always get it?” Simon whined, handing the sandwich across the table to Cappy, who pocketed it. Not for the first time, I glimpsed Cappy slipping food into his pocket. I wondered if his grandmother’s illness hadn’t passed and so he still stockpiled food.