Givin' Up The Ghost (An Indigo Eady Paranormal Mystery) (5 page)

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I
grinned. “You’ll see.” Sometimes being psychic was okay.
Especially when the little dude would avoid trouble by simply staying home that
night.

Once the chimney sweeps left, I went upstairs to gather
laundry. I figured I might as well earn my keep. First I collected clothes from
the hamper in Uncle Richard’s bathroom, then from the floor in Simon’s room,
saving my room for last.

My room was painted yellow, someone’s attempt to brighten up
the décor on a dreary day. A dream catcher hung above my bed,
for all the
good it did me.
Supposedly it trapped the bad dreams and let the good
dreams slide down the feathers into dream time to give me good dreams. But I
still suffered from bad-dream-intrusion.

The room wasn’t bad. A twin bed, an easy chair in the
corner, and a desk and chair against another wall. A trunk at the foot of the
bed held everything I owned, everything I was able to bring with me when my
father died.

The room was abnormally neat for a teenager, partly because
I didn’t own much. But mostly because I hadn’t unpacked yet. I was on the
verge, though. Really I was.

The best part of the room was the bay window with colorful
pillows and cushions to sit or lie on, and a huge oak tree right outside. A
nice place to while away the hours, if I could ever get any peace!

The room was quiet for a change – no sign of spirit
activity. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason as to when spirits were
active, except they seemed to be more prevalent in the middle of the night. But
having stayed up all night the night before, sleepiness suddenly overtook me.
Changing into sweats and bunny slippers, I curled up on the window seat and
wrapped myself in a blanket.
Only for a few minutes
, I told myself. And
then I would start the laundry.

When I opened my eyes, it was to a twilit room. For a brief
moment my world was normal. Well, normal for me, anyway. But then I remembered.
I sighed and cast a glance around the room. Perhaps this was the new normal,
perhaps...

I frowned. What was that smell? A fragrant perfume filled
the room. I sniffed, looking around for the source. A lit pink candle glowed on
my desk, casting dancing shadows on the walls. And now I became aware of other
things, as well. Pretty tasseled pillows piled on my bed, with matching throw
blankets. Personal items from my trunk were now arranged on my dresser and
desk. A photograph of me with both my parents when I was younger sat on the
nightstand.

Someone had unpacked my things! I jumped up, incensed. Did
Simon do this? No, he wouldn’t. And that’s when I glimpsed the old-fashioned
figure of a woman drift through my bedroom door.

I ran to the door and flung it open, catching sight of the
spirit as she turned the corner and zipped downstairs. I charged after her.

“You!” I yelled, running after her. “Stop. Right. Now!” I
chased her down the back servant’s stairs, which wasn’t easy in bunny slippers
with six inch floppy ears.

I burst into the kitchen, skidding along like a penguin on
ice toward the table. Seated at the table, Badger yelled, “Whoa!” jumping up
with hands out to try and break my fall before I went head first over the
table. I tried to put on the brakes. But when you’re me? Not so easy.

Simon, always so helpful in these situations, jumped away
from the table, laughing.

Lying halfway across the table, with Badger’s hands around
my waist, and bunny feet waving in the air, I cleared my throat. “Ummm. Sorry,
am I interrupting?” You’d think I could come up with a better line than that,
given how often these things happened. But no, I had to go and act like I was
about to throw myself onto the table anyway. My face grew hot as Badger helped
me off the table, his arms around me. Okay, so clumsiness had its benefits. Not
that I’m clumsy, mind you. Merely a stage I was going through. A matter of
equilibrium.

“No, we were just talking.” Badger laughed. “Are you all
right?” He steadied me and then took his arms away.

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Do you ever just
walk
anywhere?” he asked, with
crinkled eyes. “Because running seems to be hazardous to your health.
And
mine
.”

I glared daggers at Simon, who stood there snorting.

“I uh, I was, um, chasing the cat,” I improvised. “She uh,
she stole my hair tie.”
Yeah, that was good
. “See? No tie, hair down.” I
tried to smooth my hair back with my hands, but I’m pretty sure I looked like a
wild woman. Badger reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“I like what you’ve done with your widow’s peak,” he said.
“The white streak against your black hair is awesome.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” I said. “But it’s natural, not bleached. I
was born with it.” My grandmother on my mother’s side was an elder in the
Viejas band of Kumeyaay Indians in San Diego where I came from. She’s gone now,
too, but she knew about these things. She said it meant I was special. Yeah, so
special the kids at school teased me until recently, when two-toned hair
suddenly became cool.

He looked surprised. “Oh. Brilliant.”

I nodded, nothing more to say.
Brilliant
was better
than
freak.

“I didn’t know you had a cat.” He looked at Simon.

“Yep,” said Simon, looking around. “We recently acquired
her. She’s running around here somewhere.”

The boys sat back down at the table.

“Let me grab a bite and a cup of coffee and I’ll leave you
two alone,” I said. Plus, I needed to go deal with that interfering ghostie.
The nerve of her, unpacking my things! She must be quite powerful, though, to
move stuff about like that. My stomach flip-flopped a bit, thinking about it.

“No, that’s all right,” said Badger. “We were talking about
my dad. It’s not a secret...” he shrugged his shoulders, “... just frustrating.
The police aren’t taking his disappearance seriously.”

“Really? What do they say?” I asked.

I know dealing with police can be frustrating. Somehow they
don’t take it seriously when you say you
feel
someone is in danger, or
that someone would never do or act in a certain way.

I poured a cup of coffee and took a bite of plain bagel
before sitting down at the table.

What Badger didn’t know, what nobody knew, was that I had
dreamed of my father’s death and had begged him not to go to work that fateful
day. But he said he had to, that everything would be all right. But it wasn’t
all right. He died that night.

I frequently wondered if our destinies were already set. If
he had stayed home that day, would he have been saved? Or would he have died
the day after? I didn’t know. All the
what ifs
were enough to drive
anyone crazy. It didn’t do to dwell on things.

Simon cleared his throat. “Badger was telling me the police
refused to take a missing person’s report. They checked around a bit, talked to
a few people, but with no indication of foul play, they think his dad left of
his own free will.”

“And what do
you
think, Badger?” I asked. This was it
– the moment when we should be telling him that his dad was dead. My hands
shook slightly, and my heart sped up.

Badger looked down at his hands for a minute before
answering. “He wouldn’t have left us. Even if he and mum were having
problems...”

“Were they?” I interrupted. I held my breath. Most people
were touchy about the subject.

“No, absolutely not,” he replied.

Simon and I exchanged an uncomfortable look, which was
intercepted by Badger.

“What?” He looked back and forth between me and Simon.

I became intensely interested in the design on my coffee
mug, turning it back and forth between my hands. Simon squirmed in his chair,
desperately trying to think of how to say what he had to say now that the
moment had arrived.

“What did you hear?” Badger demanded impatiently. “What’s
going on? Simon?”

“Well, the thing is, mate” Simon began. “It’s like
this...Indigo has something to say.”

––––––––

S
imon got up and poked the coals nervously after throwing me
under the bus.

“For heaven’s sake,” I said in exasperation to Simon’s back.
With a deep breath I turned back to Badger and blurted it out. “Badger, I could
see and speak to spirits ever since I was a little girl. And sometimes I dream
things that happen. Sometimes I have visions. I never know how I’m going to
receive the information that I’m given.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

Badger tilted his head to the side. “Sorry? I don’t quite
understand.”

Color drained from my face, a dark foreboding taking its place.
He wouldn’t believe what I had to say, but I couldn’t back out now. “I spoke to
your dad’s spirit – he had a head wound, right at the back...” I pointed to the
back of my skull.

The atmosphere changed at once. Silence stretched out like a
long, black road, and Badger’s face the roadmap with every emotion plain to
follow. First incomprehension. Then disbelief, denial, fear. And then the
almighty anger.

“So what you’re trying to say is that my father’s dead.” He
jumped abruptly to his feet. The chair scraped back from the table and toppled
over. He snatched his black leather jacket and shoved his arms into the
sleeves. “What a bloody load of crap. Frankly this is beyond bad taste...” Rage
emanated through his low, icy tone. 

By this time I was on my feet, white knuckles clutched to
the back of my chair. Simon stood too, looking helpless. “Badger, please
listen,” I began, “this is not a joke and I’m not lying – I wouldn’t do that.
You have to believe me!”

“It’s true, mate. Listen to her,” said Simon, coming around
the table to stand before him.

But Badger had already shut down. He turned and slammed out
the back door without looking back. A few seconds later the engine of his
motorcycle revved violently into the silent darkness as it sped away.

“Well.” Simon looked dazed. “That went well.”

So far, the Christmas holidays were dreary. The gray Monday
morning suited the mood. We sat in our chairs and stared gloomily into the
fire. I was wrapped in a blanket and hugging my pillow.

Thinking about Badger’s reaction, I sighed for the hundredth
time. I’d been through this many times before – most people didn’t believe me.
But I couldn’t forget the anger and betrayal on Badger’s face. Why did I have
to blurt it out like that? That I’m like a water buffalo at a tea party had
always been to my detriment.

“What should we do?” I asked Simon, once again. We had been
over and over this and the answer was always the same. 

“We let him cool down for a few days. Then I’ll go talk to
him - maybe with a can of pepper spray and a taser.”

“I’m sorry, Simon. I didn’t say it right. I should have led
in to it slowly somehow or ...” Or what? Explain it in a believable way?
Yeah,
right.

“No, it’s not your fault,” he said. “This was never going to
come out right, you know?” He sipped his coffee. “He can’t afford to believe
you, because if you’re right...that would mean the unthinkable...”

“...and so anger was his best option,” I finished for him.

He nodded.

“I get that.” We both got that only too well. The hard part
came when you don’t have the anger to hold on to anymore.

It rained unceasingly and mercilessly for the next week.
Dams burst at the seams, dry canals flooded. Residents of several counties had
to sandbag their homes, trying to keep out the newly formed rivers that were
once streets. The sewers filled and overflowed into the River Sabrina, tearing
up long settled refuse from its bowels, like skeletons in a closet suddenly
come to life, revealing secrets better forgotten in its devastating wake.

Several adventurous teenagers had to be rescued after
rafting down street rapids and ending up in the Sabrina. They were miles
downriver before rescuers could reach them and haul them to safety.

Simon had mailed an envelope to Badger several days before,
containing cut-out newspaper articles. He attached a brief note saying
From
Indigo’s Scrapbook
. Six clips in all, small bits about anonymous phone tips
made leading to the recovery of lost pets, the approximate location of stolen
goods, and even one leading to the arrest of a sexual predator.

Still no word from Badger. He hung onto his anger like a
drowning man to a life preserver. I shook my head.
And we had such a
promising start
, I mocked myself.

I reached over the sink and turned the radio on in time for
the morning news.

In breaking news, the body of a male, somewhere between
the age of 30 -40, has washed up on the banks of the River Sabrina. The remains
have not yet been identified, but foul play is suspected.

I looked at Simon, a spoon of cereal halfway to his mouth.
He dropped it back into the bowl, splashing milk over the sides. His eyes were
wide.

Tingling ran up my spine, the base of my skull a mass of
swirling energy.

“Call Badger,” I said. “Tell him
NOT
to even think
about getting on his motorbike. We’ll meet him at the snug.”

Simon didn’t hesitate. He dialed Badger’s cell phone.

“Indigo says,
‘Don’t even think about getting on that
motorcycle
,’” Simon mimicked, forgoing any kind of greeting. “Meet us in
the snug in thirty minutes.”

A tinny voice came from the earpiece. “What...how did
you...fine,” said Badger, before a snap indicated the severed connection. 

We stopped to shake rain from our coats on the industrial
rug inside the doorway. Glancing toward the bar, Bart sat on the barstool
nearest us, reading the newspaper. He didn’t turn or show any sign of being
aware of us or what was going on around him. We hurried down the hall, rain
water still dripping along the way. Badger was already in the snug, a warm fire
burning. We lay our sodden jackets across a chair next to the fire and took
seats on the cushioned bench in front of the window. I eyed the fireplace
warily, not wanting a repeat of the last time I was in here. But it crackled warm
and cheerily, which seemed so wrong given why we were there.

The room was thick with sadness and grief, almost
unbearable. I wanted to run as fast as I could away from there. But I didn’t.

Badger sat in the straight-backed chair nearest the door,
pale-faced and solemn. “I made coffee - unless you’d like something else?” The
aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small room.

“No, coffee is perfect,” I said, wrapping my hands around
the warm mug, sipping the hot brew in appreciation. It tasted like heaven.
Give
me coffee and I’ll follow you anywhere.
Truly, if heaven didn’t have
coffee, then I wasn’t going. Even Simon was grateful after the cold and wet
walk we had in getting there, and he was used to the weather. Sometimes I
desperately missed the warm San Diego weather.

“I am so sorry, Badger,” I began.

“We both are, mate,” Simon interrupted. “I didn’t know how
to tell you, how to bring it up, you know?”

“Not to mention that it’s a crazy thing to ask someone to
believe,” I put in. “Unless you’ve lived with it your whole life...” I took a
deep breath, looking for a way to explain.

Badger sat with his head down, listening. I could tell he
didn’t want to, but sometimes you have to believe something when it’s shoved
into your face. Nobody knows that better than me.

“How does it work,” Badger asked, “this...
thing
...you
have?” He swung his jean-clad legs around to straddle the chair, his arms
resting on the chair back. The bags under his eyes and unkempt hair spoke of
deep worry.

How do I explain this
thing
?  I took a deep breath.
“Technically, I guess I’m called a psychic medium – I have extrasensory
perception – ESP. And I can see and speak to spirits – mostly earthbound
spirits, the one’s that haven’t moved on yet.”

Badger nodded. Both Badger and Simon listened closely to
what I had to say. It was a hard thing to ask people to believe, I knew all too
well.

I continued. “I don’t know how it works, exactly, but I get
information in different ways. Sometimes in dreams, sometimes when I touch
something belonging to the deceased. I see it like a film – only it’s like I’m
in the film. And I think you should know,” I emphasized, “that I’m not always
right and sometimes I don’t interpret the information I get correctly. And
sometimes ghosts lie – they tell me what they want me to know, or what they
think they know, but aren’t always right.”

“
Bloody hell
,” said Simon. “Lying ghosts?”

I nodded. “Yeah. As you can see, it’s not fool-proof and I
have little control over it.”

“And my dad?” asked Badger.

His sad, brown eyes pierced my heart. My throat tightened
and I swallowed back tears. “I spoke to him, right here in the snug. That day
with the wind tunnel and ashes flying around? He did it.”

Badger and Simon looked around as if they would see Bart
right there and then. But it doesn’t work that way. Ghosts will appear in their
own good time and not before.

I wished I could explain better. “I’m sort of like the
middle man or an interpreter. I’m the medium that’s used, sort of like the
media or telephone.” Yep, I should change that to
no control
because it
wasn’t up to me at all.

I mean, look at Bart. I tried to ignore him but he wouldn’t
let me. And that interfering lady ghost who kept unpacking my things? Since the
first time I chased her, it did no good. She wanted my things unpacked – I
didn’t know why. Even now, while explaining all this confusion to Badger, the
young girl floating around the snug dressed as a serving wench pretended to be
working. But she was eavesdropping, listening to every word we said. And I had
no control.

“He doesn’t know what happened to him,” I said. “The last
thing he remembers is your mom’s birthday party. The wind tunnels are his way
of manifesting his frustration.”

I sat quietly for a moment, waiting for Badger to think through
and form his next question.

“You say his head was bashed in,” said Badger. He took a
shaky breath. “So you think it’s murder.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes.” I tried to control the oncoming shiver that came with
remembering the sight of Bart’s wound. I had seen lots of gross things thanks
to the spirits sharing things. God
sooo
could have given this gift to
someone more capable of handling it. Blood totally gave me the heevie jeevies.

Badger ran his fingers through already messy hair. “He hasn’t
been formally identified. But I figured it was his body they found when I
watched the news this morning. As far as I know, nobody else has been missing
as long as it takes for a body to be in that condition, except for my dad. I
think I always suspected he was dead, anyway. He would never have left
otherwise – he wasn’t that kind of person. And the rumors about him running off
with Shelly are bollocks.”

The glance between me and Simon was intercepted by Badger.
Again. We had to quit doing that.

“What?” asked Badger. “Is there something else?”

“Well,” started Simon, with another glance at me. “We were
talking, and we’d like to help – you know, find out what happened to him.”

I nodded, despite the fact I wanted to run fast and far.

“Since the police seemed to have botched it from the
beginning...and since Indigo can gain insight that they can’t...we want to help
– be proactive, you know,” Simon finished.

“What did you have in mind?” Badger swatted an invisible fly
from his head, which was really the serving wench caressing his hair and
tut-tutting
his loss.

“We want to do our own investigation.”

He looked from me to Simon, seeming to weigh his answer.
After about three hundred years in which even the serving girl got tired of
waiting, he made a decision. “Okay, where do we begin?”

I smiled weakly in relief. He might not totally believe in
me, but it was a start. And we were making progress already. I hadn’t even
bowled him over today.

Simon got up and grabbed the cylinder containing the murder
map he brought along. He rolled it out onto the table, using his coffee mug to
hold down one corner. “We don’t have much on here yet, but when we do, we could
record all the information we find in this one place and try to make sense out
of what happened.”

“Right.” Badger looked down at the paper as Simon unrolled
it.

“First, we should come up with a list of suspects,” said
Simon. “Is there any way to get a copy of the police report? That way we know
who they’ve spoken to and what kind of information they have so far.”

“I doubt it,” he answered. “I don’t think they want to
reveal any information in case...well, in case anyone decides to do what we’re
doing. I’m sure they don’t want to reveal all the information they have to the
public, either.”