Givin' Up The Ghost (An Indigo Eady Paranormal Mystery) (14 page)

“They found the car,” I said to the room, watching Riley
with concern and wondering, once again, how she came by her information. Riley
had an inside line to the police, where she had the most recent information
available when it came to the official investigation.

Everyone looked at me, before turning their glances to
Riley.

“They found dad’s car?” Badger asked Riley.

“Yes, but how did you...” Riley began.

I pointed to the serving girl standing next to her. She
smiled and curtsied. “I’m Hannah, Miss.”

“Hannah.” I supplied her name to the group.

They gaped at me.

Speaking to spirits was still a strange idea to them. Heck,
I agreed with them. But what’s a ghost whisperer to do?

“No big deal,” I said. “It’s not magic or anything. She read
the text over Riley’s shoulder out loud, and I repeated what she said.” I
shrugged my shoulders with palms up. “Simple.”

“Yeah,” said Badger, gazing around intently, trying to see
Hannah with his own eyes. “Simple.” He rejoined the others in studying me.

My face grew hot and I cursed those traitorous cheeks that I
knew must be fire engine red. 

“Yes, they did find his car.” Riley confirmed my
information, then snapped her phone shut and replaced it in her bag. “And
you’ll never guess where they traced it back to.” She looked around the table.

“Where?” asked Simon.

“Billy Radcliffe.” I answered for her again, the faint
whisper of his name sounding in my head.

Riley nodded as all eyes turned to me. Again.

I shrugged.

Riley continued. “But apparently he had a receipt that
showed he bought and paid for it. The identification number had been altered.”

“But they’ve got him in custody now, right?” asked Simon. “I
mean, he got caught with the victim’s car.”

“Nope.” Riley commented matter-of-factly. “He was questioned
and released. They’re doing forensics on the car now.”

Protestations erupted into the room. 

“But how?”

“How can they have...?”

“I don’t understand...”

“He has the title to the car – he’s the owner.” Riley raised
her voice to be heard. “They’re in the process of tracing the man who sold it
to him – a man named Gary Feldman.”

“I’ll bet they won’t find ‘im,” Cappy commented, leaning
back in his chair.

“Why do you say that?” asked Badger.

“Because ‘e don’t exist, does ‘e?” Cappy answered. “We know
‘e didn’t buy that car legally, if at all. And ‘owever he got the car, you know
you won’t find a real name anywhere in the paperwork.”

“So they can’t be traced,” added Simon. “Makes sense.”

“You can bet he knows who he bought the car from, though,”
said Riley. “I think he’s guilty as hell.”

“But the question is,
how
is he involved?” I said.

––––––––

O
n Tuesday morning I dressed carefully for my meeting with
Padma. I wore a long-sleeved, pink frilly blouse and a mid-length black skirt.
Sheer black tights and a pair of black boots showed off my long toned legs, a
fortunate side effect of running. I turned sideways and looked at my rear. The
unfortunate
side effect of running was my bubble-butt. I shook my head and tried not to
dwell on it. Turning face-forward again, I lamented the fact that my skin was
so pale, but with makeup and blush, I might...

Okay. “NOT,”
I said aloud, viewing myself in the
mirror. I had the pale skin down, but my hair was black as midnight, and the
slight slant of my indigo-colored eyes made me look somewhat ethnic. The
widow’s peak with the streak of white hair made me look like a vampire more
than anything. I sighed.
That was the best I could do.

“You should put your hair up, child. It will make you look
older,” said the buxom ghost that suddenly appeared next to my reflection in
the mirror.

I jumped, my heart leaping in my chest. The base of my skull
tingled as I glanced back into the mirror. The woman stood there smiling.

“Although in my day, you would have been arrested for
wearing that skirt in public,” added the ghost, hands on hips, head cocked at
an angle while she studied my clothing.

“Uh, who are you?” I managed to ask when I found my voice
again. This was exactly why I didn’t hang out in my bedroom. Ghosts have
absolutely no respect for privacy. My heart still beat rapidly in my chest,
although this ghost didn’t feel dangerous.

“Franny Bishop. A bit of a misnomer, that,” she said
grinning. “Given my profession and all.”

At my blank look, she smiled wide. “I’m a madam, dear. I
mean when I was alive.”

She was dressed in a scarlet-colored off-the-shoulder gown
with petticoats underneath forming a bell-shaped skirt. Her corset cinched her
waist to the size of a Barbie doll, while making the best of her considerable
bosom, which overflowed the bodice of her plunging neckline. Twisted up into an
intricate bun, her hair was every bit as black as mine, and her skin just as
pale.

“Oh.” I felt my face flush. But that was beside the point.
“You scared me, popping in like that!” I accused, whirling to face her. But
Franny had already floated across the room to sit in the armchair. I say sit,
but in effect, she was in the sitting position, floating a few inches above.

“I’m sorry, dear, truly I am. I’m not one of those
in-betweeners that enjoy scaring the living.” She sniffed. “In fact, I rarely
materialize, but your fashion dilemma caught my attention.”

I turned back to the mirror. “What fashion dilemma? What’s
wrong with what I’m wearing?” I looked fine, better than usual, in any case.

Franny tisked. “You have no fashion sense, girl.” She
floated over to the bureau and began flinging items out of the drawers. “You
need to make use of your assets.”

“My whaa...?”

“Your assets, dear. How are you going to attract a man
unless you show off your assets?”

“But I don’t want to attract a man.” Okay, so one rather
intrigued me. But that was totally beside the point.

“Nonsense! We all want to attract a man. Unless you’re one
of those...” She turned to me, eyebrows raised.

“No, I’m not. I like boys fine, but I’m not looking...” She
completely ignored me.

Running her eyes up and down my body, Franny said, “Wait
here.” She floated through the bedroom door and down the hall. I opened the
door and ran after her, wondering what she could be up to. She floated through
the door at the end of the hall, but I stopped.

I was standing outside the door to Uncle Richard’s bedroom
when Simon came up the stairs.

“Franny!” I whispered loudly through the door. “What are you
doing in there? You can’t...”
What?
Was I trying to tell a ghost that
she couldn’t go somewhere?

Simon looked at me quizzically. I shook my head at him. Now
was not the time to try to explain. The noises coming through the door made it
sound like Franny was looking for something. I put my ear to the door. Simon
did the same.

“Um, what are we doing?” he whispered, eyes curious as we
listened, and once the scavenging sounds reached him,
“And who the bloody
hell is in there?”

I shushed him.

“Now where did I see that?” a tinny voice said, as drawers
slammed shut and open.

I backed away from the door and looked at Simon. “You don’t
want to know.” 

The door opened and a pink push-up bra floated through and
bobbed up and down the hall. I ran after it and snatched it out of the air. I
threw a glance over my shoulder to see Simon’s amazed face before I went into
my bedroom and slammed the door. 

“Put that on, dear,” ordered Franny, hovering next to me. 

“No way!” I said. “This does not belong to me. It has to be
Aunt Amanda’s.” I flung the bra onto the bed. “I can’t wear it.”

Floating back to me, it landed on my head. Once again, I
pulled it off and flung it back on the bed.

“She’s not here, is she, dear? And I don’t think she would
mind. She’d want to help you find a man,” Franny insisted.

“I told you, I don’t need to find a man.”

“None of us do dear, but we want one, don’t we?” Franny
countered. “Now, put that on.”

Giving in, I put on the bra while Franny hovered. She
circled me, looking at the bra from all sides.

“You did lose out in the bosom department didn’t you, dear?”
An icy touch adjusted the straps, pulling my breasts upward and together,
creating the illusion of cleavage. “And your waist - it’s a shame women don’t
wear corsets anymore. Hmm, you could use more flesh on your hips, too, so
thin...” She continued talking to herself. “And those dark circles under your
eyes.” She clucked. “You should sleep more, dear. Now, hair and makeup. Sit
down, dear, and let’s see what we can do with you.”

“I already did my makeup.” She ignored my protest as I was
unceremoniously pushed into the chair at the antique vanity table I rarely ever
used. The drawer flew open and once again items began spilling out.

Franny shook her head, complaining about the lack of what
she had to work with. “Close your eyes and relax, dear. You’re going to be a
whole new person when I’m done with you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I sighed in resignation and
closed my eyes. I supposed I could go shower again if I looked totally hideous.
My skull tingled as Franny’s chilly fingers worked on me. I wondered what it
said about me that my first
girl time
session since moving here was with
a bossy prostitute ghost.

“Right then dear, open your eyes.”

I opened my eyes slowly. And gasped. I turned my head left
and then right. I had never looked better. Unlike Franny’s own makeup, she
applied mine with a light hand. A line of thin black eyeliner rimmed my eyes,
making them glow, and she had shadowed my high cheekbones, making them more
prominent. My pale skin actually emphasized my best facial features; eyes and
cheekbones.

Tears started to form in my eyes, making them even more
luminescent. My unruly hair was pulled back expertly, with strands woven
intricately around my nape, and a cascade of black wavy hair falling down my
back and past my waist.

“Thank you, Franny.” It was all I could manage.

A chilly hand patted my shoulder, and then she was gone.

––––––––

T
he Minority Ethics Committee.

I stood in front of the mirror and studied myself, hands on
hips, turning side to side. I now had a perceivable cleavage. Not too much, but
definitely there. With my hair and makeup, I did look older. Sophisticated
even. I put in dangly earrings, feeling completely feminine. Definitely a
change from my usual jeans, pullover and messy braid.

Darn!
I completely forgot to confront Franny about
unpacking my things. I guess that would have to wait until another time. I
headed down the back staircase toward the kitchen, unsteady on the unfamiliar
heels.

Simon, seated in his chair next to the fireplace, gaped.
“Who are you and what did you do with my cousin?”

“Thanks. I think.” I flushed at the flattery.

“And what was with that floating bra thing?”

“That will have to wait.” 
Possibly forever
, I added
to myself.

“Wait! We need a picture,” said Simon, jumping up to
retrieve the digital camera from the kitchen counter. “As proof, you know, that
you do own a skirt.”

I smiled and posed good-naturedly, despite the fact that I
hated picture-taking. I always ended up surrounded by strange orbs that cast
photo-ruining reflections.

I sighed.

This time would be no different, because Cleo was winding
herself between my legs in a figure eight pattern, creating friction with her
sleek white fur against my tights, and causing sparks of static electricity. As
her feline multicolored eyes winked up at me, I swore Queen Cleopatra purposely
generated the static electricity that would appear in the photo. Generally she
ignored me, preferring to work her wiles on the males in the family.
For all
the good it did her
, I chuckled to myself.  

I took the local bus to the outskirts of the village. The
buildings here were rather dilapidated and run down. Old, but not medieval like
the architecture in the middle of the village, and not protected on the
historical registry as the others were. An odd array of two and three story
structures haphazardly lined the streets, non-matching, no organization to how
they were arranged. Brick and mortar or plaster, all were discolored by soot
and smog from the Victorian industrial age. Dingy chunks of plaster broke away
from the structures to reveal rusty chicken wire beneath. Each section had
alleys leading to courtyards behind them, stair-cased balconies giving access
from the upper floors. It must have been pretty and peaceful at one time, with
benches to sit on, surrounded by green grass and colorful flowers. Now the
grass was overgrown and dead, the benches rusted and rotting.

I double-checked the address in my hand and tucked it back
into my purse. The Minority Ethics Committee appeared to be rather busy. A line
formed from top to bottom of the stairwell. Disappointed, I decided I’d have to
come back when they were less busy, but then a young woman at the top of the
stairs pointed and beckoned me to come up.

“Good, you’re here,” said the woman. She was dressed in a black
tailored suit with a white frilly blouse, much as I was dressed. Her long brown
hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her large brown eyes darted to the line
out the door.

“I’m Padma. As you can see we’re rather busy. Your desk is
there.” She pointed to a desk behind a partition.

“But I...” I began, but didn’t get the chance to tell her
that she had made a mistake.

“Basically, you find out what the problem is and help them
fill out the form – many of them aren’t fluent in English, or even literate.”

“But...”

“If there’s a problem, I’ll be over there.” She pointed to
her own desk behind another partition. “And thank you for coming on such short
notice. We need all the help we can get.” Watching her backside rush off to her
cubicle, I should have followed, tried to explain. But she was busy. It would
have to wait.

Not knowing what else to do, I took my jacket off, draped it
over a chair and stowed my purse under the desk. The receptionist sent the
first client over, and that began what would be a long day indeed.

I hadn’t known about the many problems immigrants faced. The
paperwork wasn’t difficult, just more complicated due to the language barrier.
I found that by handling their immigration papers and interpreting the energy I
got from them, I could piece the information together and get a sense of what
was going on. Finally! My talent came in handy. I was helping instead of
hurting. Satisfaction for a job well done came when I was able to help by
making a simple phone call.

By late afternoon, the line out the door had diminished.
Since Padma was still with a client, I gratefully poured a cup of coffee and
looked around at my surroundings. The room was small and bare, with five or six
desks tucked behind partitions for privacy. Besides me and Padma, only the
receptionist, another young Indian woman and an older Indian man occupied
desks. Prints of different countries and ethnic people hung on the walls. Two
chairs on either side of a small table containing magazines lined the front
wall. The seats were now empty and the office quiet as the last client left.

I checked my cell phone for the time, surprised that seven
hours had passed since I arrived. Seven o’clock and I was seriously starving.
But I still had to speak to Padma. The other workers had gone before Padma
walked out from behind her partition.

“You did a great job today.” Padma smiled tiredly. “Thanks
again for coming on short notice.” She lowered herself into the chair opposite
my desk and gave a huge sigh.

I smiled back at her. “I’m Indigo Eady, by the way.” I
leaned across the desk to shake hand. “And to tell the truth,” I hesitated, not
quite sure how to begin, “I didn’t come to work.”

A confused frown appeared between Padma’s eyes. “I don’t
understand. Aren’t you the girl I spoke to on the phone this morning? The
volunteer?” She sat forward in her chair.

I shook my head. “No. I guess your volunteer didn’t show up.
I came to ask for your help with something, and sort of got caught up...”

Padma’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Yes?” She was more
than a little
suspicious.

She wasn’t going to make this easy.
“I’m helping a
friend. Badger Bagley.” I folded my hands on the desk, waiting for Padma to
process what I said and exactly who I was helping.

It didn’t take long. A sudden understanding dawned on
Padma’s face and her dark skin turned a shade paler. “That must be Bart’s son?”

I nodded my head. “Yes.”

“How can I help you?” asked Padma. “I don’t know anything
about his death. I don’t think I ever even met him.” She got up and crossed to
the window. She was clearly uncomfortable for obvious reasons. Her best friend
had disappeared at the same time as Bart, and now Bart had turned up dead.
Murdered, in fact. There could be no doubt that Shelly had been murdered also.
I watched pain and fear cross her face as she gazed down onto the dark street
below.

I joined her at the window. A man stood half in shadow near
a street lamp below. A few other people rushed along the street. I reminded
myself this wasn’t a safe neighborhood after dark.

Padma turned away from the window and met my gaze, clearly
wondering how she should respond.

I continued. “Is there anything you can tell us, anything at
all, even something small, however insignificant, that might help us figure out
who killed Bart?”

Padma opened her mouth to say something, and then hesitated.
She closed it again, looked away and shook her head.

I wondered what she had been about to say. “Bart and Shelly
were obviously both involved in whatever was going on. If we could understand
Shelly better, it could shed light on what happened.”

Padma shrugged her shoulders and studied her twisting
fingers.

“We’re kind of at a dead end.” I cringed at the unfortunate
choice of words. “The one thing we keep coming back to is Shelly.” I stared at
Padma’s profile. “And Nat.”

Padma took a deep trembling breath, and then walked slowly
back to the desk. She crossed her arms and sat down. Looking silently across at
me for a moment, she was clearly conflicted about divulging her friend’s
personal information. She sighed.

“All right. Go ahead. What do you want to know?” Her voice
was resigned.

I came around the desk, pulling my chair around with me so I
sat facing her. I leaned in and came directly to the point. “We want to know if
Nat could have harmed Shelly...and Bart, by association.”

She stared at me before answering. “You have to understand.
When Shelly and Nat met, he was a different person. Their parents made a
marriage arrangement years ago, but they fell in love so neither had a problem
with it. They were to be married next year.” She got up and began to pace.
“Their parents were delighted, of course.” She turned to me. “But then Nat
started drinking. I started to notice that he was becoming controlling, wanting
to know where Shelly was every minute of the day. He’d make snide remarks about
her flirting and looking at other men.” She shook her head. “And then I began
noticing the bruises on her arms. She made excuses for him, of course, and
refused to admit she was being abused.” She continued pacing. “And now the
families are no longer speaking. Shelly’s family feels guilty because they were
aware of the abuse, and Nat’s family thinks she ran away and dishonored the
contract...”

I broke in. “And that’s our next question. Do you think he
was controlling and jealous enough to have harmed her? Or do you think it could
have been an honor killing, with Nat’s family involved in her disappearance?”

Padma replied in anguish. “I don’t know! I honestly don’t
know!” She threw her hands in the air. “I would have said no to both questions
at one time.” She turned back to me. “And then last week a blonde girl walks
in, says she’s Nat’s ex-girlfriend.”

“What’s her name?” I interrupted.

“Brenda something.” She went to her cubicle and came back
with a calendar, thumbing back a few days through the pages. She pointed at a
name scribbled on the page. “Brenda Cummings!”

“Do you have a phone number or address for her?”

She shook her head. “No. She walked in off the street, said
she saw in the paper that I was Shelly’s friend. She asked if Shelly had
returned, and wanted someone to know that he used to beat her up when they were
together.” Padma looked at me worriedly. “She’s scared of Nat and is afraid to
go to the police with the information.”

The word
police
echoed through my head. Was it a
message? A warning, perhaps?

A slow creeping sensation started at the base of my skull
and worked its way up. I rubbed the back of my head and looked around for any
lurking spirits but didn’t see any. Something nagged me, something I missed. My
gaze stopped at the window overlooking the street. I approached it from the
side and peered out, only half listening as Padma continued to speak.

Something felt wrong. A negative energy emanated from the
street below. Billy, standing beneath a street lamp.

“What’s wrong?” Padma asked, finally noticing I was no
longer responding. When she started over to me, I stopped her without turning
or moving.

“Stay there,” I said calmly. “Is there a back way out of
here?”

“Yes.” Padma suddenly looked frightened. “There’s an
emergency exit at the back. We don’t use it.”

“Is it unlocked?”

“It’s always locked,” replied Padma, searching her purse for
keys. “It’s old and crumbling, so we don’t use it.” She found the keys and
disappeared through a door towards the rear of the building, returning a minute
later. “I’ve unlocked it. Who’s out there?” She didn’t wait for a response from
me. “I suspected trouble would follow when Brenda showed up here last week.”

“The man who was caught with Bart’s car yesterday?” I said.
“He’s out there.”