A Hard Day’s Fright (2 page)

Darren lingered a little longer. But then, maybe a guy like Darren was used to things moving on his schedule, even rapid trains. “Come with us,” he said. I didn’t harbor any illusions; I knew he wasn’t talking to me. “We’re all going back to my house to listen to albums.”

“I’ll pass.” Lucy’s shoulders were stiff. They didn’t relax, not even when Darren skimmed a finger along the back of her neck.

“I’ve got the latest album by the Stones,” he said.

Lucy liked the Rolling Stones almost as much as she liked the Beatles.

“I said no, Darren.” She had been looking his way, and now, Lucy turned to stare straight ahead of her.

Darren leaned over her shoulder and growled in her ear. “Come on, Lucy. We’ll have fun.”

Her mind was made up. “I can’t,” Lucy said, and thank goodness the rapid doors started to close and Darren had to get moving. I was afraid she was going to spill the beans and tell Darren that she’d promised my mother she’d walk me home. I didn’t need any more embarrassment.

I didn’t need to feel guilty for making Lucy miss out on all the fun because of me, either. But before I could tell her that and urge her to go with him, Darren mumbled something about how it was no skin off his nose if Lucy wanted to waste the rest of her night, and went to the door. It wasn’t until the rapid started up again that some of the starch went out of Lucy’s shoulders.

I knew I wasn’t anywhere near as good when it came to people as Lucy was, but I thought she looked a little sad.

And that only made me feel worse.

“You should have gone with them,” I said.

She waved away the thought with one hand.

“But it would have been fun. You could have gone to Darren’s mansion and seen that room he always talks about, the one with all his stereo equipment in it. You could have heard the newest Rolling Stones album.”

Another wave.

It took me a minute to figure out why Lucy wasn’t saying anything. She looked like she was about to burst into tears.

I turned as much as I could in the cramped rapid seat. “I’m sorry, Lucy. If it wasn’t for me, you could have gone with your friends.”

She shook her head, and her hair gleamed like a golden waterfall. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“But Darren wanted you to go to his house. And you could have. You don’t have to walk me home. I could lie and tell my mom you did. I could tell her you dropped me off at the door, and it was late so you didn’t want to come in and—”

Lucy sniffed. “This has nothing to do with me having to walk you home.”

I scrunched up my nose, the better to try and figure it out. “Then why—”

Lucy gave me a watery smile. “It’s no big deal,” she said.

“It is a big deal. You’re crying.”

“Nah!” She swiped her hands over her cheeks and forced a smile. “Now that the concert’s over, and the excitement’s over…I’m just feeling a little melancholy, that’s all. It’s all because…” Lucy heaved a sigh of epic proportions. “Well, you know how it is. You’ve seen enough movies and read enough books. It’s all about my lost love. And…you know…my broken heart.”

I swear, my jaw hit the floor of the rapid. It was a shock to hear not only that Lucy had lost a love, but that she’d had one I didn’t know about in the first place.

It was the most romantic thing I’d ever heard.

A moment of practicality short-circuited the fantasies brought on, no doubt, by reading
Wuthering Heights
too many times. “You’re not talking about Paul, are you?” I asked her.

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly! My thing with Paul, that was just a fleeting illusion. A moment in time where his essence and mine met and mingled and then…” She had been clutching her hands together on her lap, and now she threw them apart to demonstrate. “We were like ships passing in the night. Sure, Paul might go to bed tonight wondering who I am and how he can find me again but…” Another sigh. “It was never meant to be. No, I’m not talking about the kind of once-in-a-lifetime fairy-tale moment I had with Paul. I’m talking about a real love. In the real world.”

“But you never told me—”

“Now, Little One.” Lucy gave me the kind of look that reminded me of my mother right before she launched into a lecture, and a familiar prickle of annoyance skittered up my back.

“A girl’s got to have some secrets, remember. And you’re not exactly old enough to know everything.”

“Am, too.” I crossed my arms over my turquoise cardigan. “You told me about the first time Freddy Hawkins kissed you.”

“That was freshman year.” She tsk-ed away the thought as inconsequential. “We were both just babies, no offense intended.”

“None taken,” I said, even though it wasn’t true. “I’m not that young,” I reminded her. “You didn’t think I was too young to go to the concert with you tonight.”

“You’re not. But concerts are a whole different thing. You know, different from undying love, and stolen kisses, and a broken heart. Someday when you’re older, you’ll understand.”

I wanted to yell at her and tell her that I could understand, that I would, if she’d just explain what she was talking about and give me a chance. But the rapid was getting close to my stop, and I didn’t want to miss it. I stood and sidled between Lucy and the seat in front of us to get out into the aisle.

“Wait.” She put a hand on my arm. “I’m coming with you.”

“Don’t bother.” I shook her hand away.

“Come on, Little One, don’t be so touchy. I promised your mom I’d walk you home. Besides, it’s already dark, and you shouldn’t be out alone.”

“Why, because I’m too much of a baby?” I didn’t wait. When Lucy made a move to get up, I just kept walking to the door. “I can find my own way home from the rapid stop.” I tossed the comment over my shoulder. “Then maybe you’ll see that I’m not such a little kid after all.”

The doors slid open and I stepped outside. I half expected Lucy to be right behind me, but when the doors closed again, I saw that she was still right where I’d left her. As the train pulled out of the station, she turned in her seat, grinned, and waved good-bye.

I was so dead set on showing her that I was mature and independent, I never waved back.

I wish I had.

It was the last time I ever saw Lucy Pasternak alive.

Forty-five years later, same place, very different girl

T
he problem with public transportation is that it’s public.

I was reminded of this sad but true fact too early one morning when the rapid stopped and a slew of people shuffled onto the already too-crowded-for-my-liking train. It had been a cool and rainy April and that day was no exception. Coats were wet. Umbrellas dripped. The windows of the train were fogged, and the air was heavy with a hodgepodge scent of damp, perfume, and people.

The old guy who plopped down next to me smelled like my Great Uncle Mort, and Mort was a legend in the Martin family. Weddings, funerals, picnics…it didn’t matter. Mort always wore a brown suit. Even though I was a foot taller than him, he always pinched my cheek and called me honey bun. He always, always smelled like stale cigars.

I scooted closer to the window, and to pass the time, I looked around, hoping to catch a spot of color or a hint of style somewhere in the sea of gray raincoats and bent heads. Unfortunately, the Midwest is pretty much a black-and-white world from November until May. If it wasn’t for the middle-aged woman in the purple coat two seats ahead and me in the leopard-print trench that looked pretty darned spectacular with my fiery hair, I would have despaired of the Cleveland fashion scene entirely.

Or maybe not…

A flash of color caught my eye, and at the same time I wondered why I hadn’t noticed her earlier, I saw a young woman walk down the aisle.

Khaki-colored mini. Hot pink blouse.

So far, so good, as far as style was concerned, though I did wonder how she could possibly be comfortable when she was dressed for a summer evening rather than for a damp spring morning.

She had long, straight flaxen hair and a complexion like porcelain.

OK, I admit it, I was the tiniest bit envious. Not that Pepper Martin hadn’t learned to make the most of the attributes that she’d been blessed with, thanks to an unerring fashion sense, Nature, and a good gene pool. Still, I had always fantasized about not having to deal with riotous curls and a sprinkling of freckles.

Rather than dwell on what couldn’t be changed, I continued my assessment of the girl, ticking off the pros and cons.

The gold nail polish fell somewhere right in between. Not a bad look for evening, but it was iffy at best on a Monday morning.

Then there was the gold lipstick.

Whatever style points I gave her went right down the tubes with that fashion faux pas. Unless the girl was actually trying to look like a throwback to the flower power sixties.

Or if she was dead.

Dang! I gave myself a mental slap. I should have picked up on the whole dead thing right away. And not just because nothing says resting but not in peace like retro clothing and out-of-date makeup, but because the people standing in the aisle shivered when she passed. See, as anybody who’s ever gotten too close knows, the dead are sort of their own little freeze machines. I should know. I’ve gotten too close. Too many times.

In my defense and just so a whole bunch of nasty rumors don’t start about how the world’s only private investigator for the dead is losing her edge, I had a perfectly good excuse for my supernatural radar being down: recently, my life had been quiet, and blissfully murder and murder victim free. In the months since I’d solved the last murder I was involved with, figured out what was going on with a gang of bad guys (and the gorgeous Brit who was their leader), and helped divert a national crisis in the name of a long-dead president, nobody had tried to shoot me, mug me, knife me, or kidnap me.

Oh, how I would have liked to keep it that way!

Yes, yes…I know this makes me sound like a prima donna detective. Not true! Fact is, when it’s in the movies or on TV, this whole I-see-dead-people thing looks mysterious, and pretty darned glamorous. But in real life…

Well, in real life, being able to see and talk to the dead isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

For one thing, they never just pop in to say hello or to give me the inside track on the winning lottery numbers or next fall’s fashion trends. They always want something. And since they can’t touch things or communicate with any living person except little ol’ me, the someone they expect to take care of those somethings is always me.

For another thing, the dead who are still hanging around have unfinished business here on earth. Sometimes there’s someone they want to help—and I’m the one stuck doing that helping. Sometimes they’ve been wrongly accused of a crime—and I’m the one who has to put things right. Most of the time, they are victims. Need I say more? Each and every victim needs someone to stand up for them. Since I have been saddled with this Gift that is nonrefundable and nonreturnable, I’m the one who does the standing.

And the investigating.

And the digging through sometimes decades-old information in order to get at any little kernel of truth that might be left behind.

And the grappling with the living, of course. That includes people who loved the dearly departed and are still dealing with their passing. And the people who hated them. The people who murdered them.

Truth be told, I actually don’t hold any of this against the dead. It’s not their fault I tripped in the historical cemetery where I work as a tour guide, knocked my head against a mausoleum, and woke up some sort of superhero detective.

I just wish they’d find better places to talk to me than crowded rapid trains.

And safer things for me to do than laying my life on the line again and again.

Unless this was my lucky day and gold lipstick was some sort of psychic flash into the fashion future?

I was cheered by the thought. But only for a moment. The next instant, I came to my senses. That fashion trend was as dead as the Golden Girl who had sidled up the aisle and was now standing next to my seat.

The old guy next to me shuddered. “Hey!” With barely a look, he snarled at me, “Close that window.”

“It isn’t open,” I pointed out, though considering his attitude, I was tempted not to.

“Kids!” he snorted, right before he got up and tromped to the front of the train.

The ghost slipped into the seat next to me.

“Nicely done,” I told her, edging even closer to the window to give her plenty of room, and grateful that so many people nearby were either on their cells, texting, or had iPod earbuds in, they’d never notice I was talking to myself. “I’m only on for a few more stops,” I told her. “So make it quick. What do you want?”

“I haven’t talked to a living person in forty-five years, and you start out by asking me what I want?” Now that she was close, I saw that she was no more than a kid. She sounded like a kid, too, all pert and perky and up for a fight, even though I hadn’t intended to start one. Maybe she realized it, because she grinned. “Hey, how about asking how I am?”

“How are you?”

“Well…” Her smile dissolved, and she sighed the way only teenaged girls can. Like whatever was troubling her, it was the end of the world. And no one understood. Or cared. She gave me a mournful look, all sad-eyed and trembling lips, and pressed one hand to her nonbeating heart. “I
am
dead.”

The girl dissolved into a fit of giggles. “I’ve been practicing that one for forty-five years,” she said. “Good thing I finally found somebody who can see me and talk to me, huh?”

I think she would have elbowed me in the ribs, except she knew about the chill factor and stopped herself just in time. She wiggled in her seat. “So you want to hear my story, right?” she asked, and before I could tell her I really would rather not, she launched right in.

“My name is Lucy Pasternak, and I died on August 14, 1966.” She leaned closer, her voice lowered in a way that was supposed to be spooky, even though this particular ghost was anything but. “I was murdered!”

“Of course.” I figured I’d better set her straight before she thought that in the great scheme of my spectral visitors, she was somehow different or special. “Murders are—” I was afraid I’d said that too loud and that someone other than Lucy might have heard, so I lowered my voice, too. “Murders are my specialty.”

Lucy nodded. “I heard that about you,” she said and gave me a wink. “You know, over on the Other Side. People are talking, saying Pepper Martin is one cool chick.”

After successfully solving six cases, I wasn’t surprised to hear that I was the topic of gossip on the ghostly grapevine, or that the word was that I was good at what I do. After all, it was true.

“I haven’t seen you before.” She interrupted my thoughts. “You know, here on the rapid.”

My smile was tight. A kid with that many years behind her should have picked up on the not-so-subtle differences between me and the other, more common-variety rapid rider.

“I’m more the I-own-a-car-so-I-don’t-use-public-transportation type,” I told her. It was important to make this clear right from the start. If we were going to work together (and once they showed up, it was impossible to get rid of ghosts, so I figured we were), it would be unfair to give her the wrong impression. “I wouldn’t be here at all today except that my car got backed into in the parking lots outside of Saks. It’s in getting repaired way over on the west side.” She was apparently a local girl; I didn’t need to elaborate.

Cleveland, see, is cut in half, north to south, by the Cuyahoga River. Over the years, a whole east side versus west side mentality has sprung up. The east side is where the old money has always been, and we east siders (yes, I’m one of them) like to think of ourselves as more educated, more discerning, and way more cultured and refined than our west side counterparts. West siders, so I’ve heard, wouldn’t change places with us for all the gulls on Lake Erie, preferring the roots of the working class neighborhoods that have grown and spread into communities with malls every bit as chichi as ours and burbs that might rival ours for net worth, but will never (in my humble opinion) equal ours in pizzazz.

“I’m heading over to my boss’s house,” I explained. “Fortunately, she lives near the rapid line. She’s going to give me a ride to work.”

The train bumped to a stop and the doors swooshed open, letting in a blast of damp air, and letting out some of the passengers. With a bit more room to breathe, it would have been easier to relax if I wasn’t so up close and personal with this golden wisp of funky sixties ectoplasm.

Too excited to sit still, Lucy scooted forward in her seat. “So you want to hear all about it, right? All about the murder and what happened and all? You’re going to help me.”

I would have liked to point out that my Gift didn’t come with any guarantees. Lucy didn’t give me the chance.

“I was here on the rapid that night,” she said. “You know, coming home from the Beatles concert.” She looked at me hard. “You do know who the Beatles are, right? I mean, I know you’re old and all, but you’re not that hopelessly square, are you?”

One look, and she should have known. I, of course, though nowhere near old, was far too mature to get into that sort of one-upmanship so I simply pointed out, “Of course I’ve heard of the Beatles. My parents listened to them in the old days.”

“Then you can imagine how groovy it was to see them in person.” She shivered at the thought. “I kissed Paul, you know. He was the cute one.”

“And then you got murdered.”

“Not at the concert.” Was I that hopelessly dense that I deserved an eye roll?

I thought not.

Lucy, apparently, had other ideas. She threw in a second eye roll, just for good measure. “It happened after the concert. After all my friends got off and went home. Then I got to my stop, and I got off the train and was walking home. It was dark. You know, the way a summer night can be.” Again, she tried for the spooky voice. This time I was the one who rolled my eyes. Lucy didn’t notice. She was on her own kind of roll.

“It was as if each and every shadow held a secret. The stars winked overhead.” She fluttered her fingers, demonstrating. “Crickets chirped out a warning, but I didn’t listen. I mean, I couldn’t have known, could I? I was young and innocent. The world was fresh and held nothing but promise. I had just kissed Paul McCartney, and I knew that somewhere in that deep summer night, he dreamed about the mysterious girl with the golden hair and wondered, as only a star-crossed lover can, if I would ever—”

“Finish?”

Lucy made a face, but she wasn’t about to let a little thing like my sensible encouragement cut short her drama queen act. “I stepped off the rapid and took a careful look around.” As if someone as intelligent as me wouldn’t know what this meant, she glanced to her left and her right. “Even I couldn’t have guessed what was lurking in the shadows as dark as ebony and as deep as the most profound abyss.”

I cleared my throat.

She didn’t get the message.

Lucy sat up like a shot, her story spilling out. “Somebody grabbed me from behind! He blindfolded me and threw me into the trunk of a car. It was dark in there.”

“As dark as ebony and as deep as the most profound abyss?”

Leave it to a ghost not to pick up on my subtle sarcasm. Lucy nodded, and at the risk of sounding a little too much like my newest ghostly friend, I’ve got to admit, her hair shimmered like a golden shaft of sunlight. I am not in the habit of asking my dead clients for beauty tips, but I planned to do a little research on shampoos in the sixties.

Lucy went right on with her story. “It wasn’t until later that the car stopped.”

“How much later?” Yes, the detective side of me kicked in. It was bound to sooner or later, and besides, easing into my investigation was a better option than having to listen to another adjective-laden chapter of Lucy’s story. “How long were you in the car?”

Thinking, she tipped her head. And shrugged. “I was awfully scared,” she said. “Terrified. You know, like Allison MacKenzie in the second season of
Peyton Place
. When she got hit by that car.”

I didn’t know. I didn’t care. Even at this early stage, I knew it would do me no good to point this out, so I simply stuck to trying to find out the facts. “If we knew how long you were in the car, we might know where this creep took you,” I pointed out. “Unless you figured that out for yourself?”