Ghost Times Two Page 3

  I reached out, patted her arm.

  She went rigid.

  “You poor child.” I looked at the backseat. Now I spoke with the authority honed by teaching English to high school football players. “James, return to the cemetery. Immediately.”

  “Aw . . .” He sounded very young.

  “It is imperative I have a moment alone with Megan.”

  A masculine sigh. “You sound like my Aunt Harriet. Aunt Harriet could have been a Marine DI. Maybe she was. I’ll have to ask some—”

  “James, now.”

  Megan closed her eyes, muttered, “If I hear two voices, why not three? We can play bridge. That would be fun. A deck of cards, me holding mine and three bunches of cards floating in the air. Would they float? Maybe they’d hover. Maybe the get-back-to-the-cemetery voice is my feeble mind’s last desperate ploy to get rid of Jimmy. Maybe if I think really, really hard, there aren’t any voices, I didn’t feel a touch on my arm, maybe—”

  “Megan”—I hoped my cheery tone was reassuring—“all is well. I’m sure Jimmy has departed for the moment.” Now to business. I asked sharply, “You’ve heard Jimmy speak, have you seen him?”

  Her eyes flared. “Is that the next stage? Voices in my head first, then visions? Progressing from minor hallucinations to full-fledged over the edge? I haven’t seen him. Is that a good sign? Maybe I’m just slightly hysterical and this new voice I’m imagining is going to turn the tide, right the ship. Now I’m not only nuts, I’m trite. Mrs. Carey, she was my high school English teacher, had a thing about triteness. Swim like a duck, bring it on, I’m just saying, in for a penny . . .” Megan’s voice trailed off. She pressed against the driver’s door, watched colors swirling in the passenger seat.

  I took a moment to smooth the skirt of my dress. Perhaps the deep rose wasn’t best for a redhead. Something cool. Oh, perfect! A pale blue sleeveless scoop-necked midcalf linen dress enhanced by an enchanting lace hem. I flipped down the visor, looked in the mirror. Too plain? I nodded approval at a necklace with chunky white stones on a silk cord and a gold medallion drop. I smoothed back a red curl to admire golden wire hoop earrings. Feeling at my best, I turned to Megan. “Good for Mrs. Carey. I asked about seeing Jimmy because it’s best if he doesn’t know he can appear.”

  She sagged against the seat. “Why did I do this to myself? Voices were bad enough, but imagining a gorgeous redhead—”

  I gave her an appreciative smile.

  “—is completely nuts. Redheads are always trouble. There was Gussie Hodges in third grade. She persuaded me to tell Mrs. Bacon she smelled like breakfast, and I had to write Rude girls are an abomination on the blackboard one hundred times. I’d better check in at the ER. Do they take people who are seeing things?”

  I reached out and took her hand.

  She shuddered and pressed as far back against the driver’s door as possible.

  “Breathe deeply, Megan. Everything is all ri—”

  “Oh sure. Right as rain. Steady as she goes. Hunky-dory. Easy as pie. Where do you suppose that one came from? Pies are hell to make and my crust always tastes like foam.”

  “I’m here to help.” Succinctly, I described the Department of Good Intentions. “It’s time for Jimmy to come to Heaven. I will persuade him.”

  Megan’s quick breaths slowly eased. She looked at me with a probing gaze. “Let me see if I get this right. You’re a ghost—”

  “Emissary.” In case Wiggins was nearby.

  “—and you’re here to corral Jimmy. Do you think you can?” She gave a violent head shake. “I’m going from bad to worse. I hear Jimmy and now to yank him out of my head I’ve invented this redhead from Heaven—”

  “Redhead from Heaven,” I murmured. How nice. It would have been a lovely title for a movie starring Myrna Loy.

  “I said it. I don’t need an imaginary ghost to repeat what I said.”

  I opened the passenger door.

  She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her fingers turned white as her eyes followed the opening door.

  I yanked the door shut with a decisive slam. “I am here.”

  She loosened her grip on the wheel, sagged against the seat. “Please go away. Go to the cemetery and talk to Jimmy. You have a lot in common.”

  “Jimmy,” I replied with certainty, “will be at your house.”

  “Apartment,” she corrected.

  “Shall we go and see?”

  “Damn. Damn. Damn.” She reached out, turned the key. The car jolted forward. To hush the seat belt signal, I pushed the connector into its slot. “We drove for years without seat belts,” I remarked conversationally.

  Megan stared straight ahead. Her profile was appealing, springy dark hair, fine features, firmly set small chin. I admire determination.

  “You’re driving rather fast.”

  “You concentrate on Jimmy, I’ll take care of my driving.”

  “So you’re a lawyer.”

  No reply. The Dodge swerved out of the cemetery, picked up speed.

  “Are you excited about joining Blaine?” And what is it that you hate about your current job? Was hate too strong a word? Somehow I didn’t think so.

  “I’ll meditate. Push out extraneous thoughts, become one with the universe.”

  “If you keep going this fast, you may become one with the universe before—”

  A siren wailed.

  Megan looked in the rearview mirror, checked the speedometer. “Uh-oh.” She gradually slowed.

  I twisted to see. Flashing red lights atop a cruiser came nearer and nearer.

  Megan eased the Dodge off the road onto the shoulder, rolled down the window.

  The cruiser pulled up behind. The driver’s door opened.

  It was dusk now, the soft shadowy beginning of sunset. The road from the cemetery into Adelaide wasn’t well traveled. There was a sense of summery peace, birds settling into trees, their chitter intense. I’ve often wondered at the content of that loud prelude to darkness. Perhaps mama birds murmuring, Good night, sleep tight. Or strutting males focused on what mattered. Did you see that hot chick by the pond this morning?

  The officer came nearer. Now it was my turn. “Uh-oh,” I murmured. I swirled away.

  Megan was absorbed in opening her purse. She fished for her billfold, lowered the window, and turned to look up into the face of a young officer I knew well. She offered her license. “I’m sorry, Officer. I was so involved in conversation I wasn’t paying attention to my speed.”

  Johnny Cain was classically handsome, thick brown hair, strong features. Even better, he was kind and brave. I will always remember when he faced death for the woman he loved.

  I popped out to look over Johnny’s shoulder, scanned the license, noted the address on Magnolia, apartment 6, returned to the passenger seat.

  “Seventy-four miles an hour in a fifty-five-mile-an-hour zone.” His familiar voice was disapproving. He held a tablet, glanced down, likely checking the car license for violations.

  “I’ve never had a ticket. Truly, we were just so excited—”

  “We?” He bent to look inside the car, scanned the backseat.

  Megan looked around, stiffened. She stared at the empty passenger seat. “She—” Megan hunched in the driver’s seat, abruptly lurched out a hand and grabbed.

  An interesting aspect of being an emissary is physicality. When I appear, I am there. Or here, if you prefer, all five feet five inches of me with curly red hair, green eyes, freckles, and my twenty-seven-year-old svelte self. When I swirl away, I am not visible and I can pass through any physical substance but I am still, so to speak, here. Megan’s lunge and grasp caught my arm in a tight vise. I used my free hand to touch a finger firmly on her lips.

  To her credit, she understood.

  Her grip eased. Numbly, she turned to Johnny. “I . . . I
mean . . .”

  I leaned close, whispered in her ear. “Working on a script.”

  “. . . I’ve been working on a script. Sometimes I get carried away. I didn’t mean to speed.” Her voice trembled.

  Johnny Cain’s eyes squinted in remembrance. “I might not have understood, but we had an incident at the inn recently. A bunch of writers.” His voice was bemused. “I interviewed some of them.”

  The encounters had obviously made an impression on Johnny.

  His voice had an uneasy tone. “They talk about characters in books like they’re real.”

  Megan looked at him gratefully. “Thank you for understanding. I—we—it was a conversation and I was thinking and I just didn’t know how fast I was going.” There was a depth of sincerity in the last statement.

  Johnny nodded. “Try to keep your mind on your driving. No ticket. This time.” He turned away.

  Megan remained stationary, hands gripping the wheel.

  The cruiser pulled onto the road, reached the crest of a hill, was out of sight.

  “You can drive on now.” I remained unseen.

  “Will you go away?”

  “For the moment.” Not only would Wiggins frown upon continued interaction, Megan needed a respite from emotion. I knew where to find her.

  To think is to be, and I arrived on Main Street a few doors down from Lulu’s Cafe, fabulous for comfort food in my day and still in business. Lulu’s is where townsfolk meet and greet, a long counter with red leather stools facing a mirror, a few tables in the center, and four booths against the opposite wall. I stepped into a nearby doorway, made sure no one was watching, and appeared. I opened a summery blue cotton handbag, smiled. The change purse held quite enough for my needs.

  In Lulu’s, I sat at the counter, ordered iced tea and a chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes and green beans. As I ate, I pondered. How could I persuade Jimmy to depart the earth? My English teacher persona might hie him briefly back to the cemetery, but prying him away from Megan required insight I didn’t at the moment have. I knew he had been young and had a great future at the Gazette.

  The Gazette!

  I was familiar with the Gazette newsroom, a cluster of unimaginative gray metal desks with computer monitors, the city editor’s desk in the center of the room. I popped from desk to desk and was unable to access any monitor. Passwords are a hindrance to everyone but cyber vandals, who gleefully bypass them in a twinkle. I tried twinkle as a password on the lifestyle editor’s computer. No luck.

  I yearned for the old days, everything on paper and easy to find in filing cabinets. Instead, the information I needed was somewhere in the electronic netherworld. None of the reporters had helpfully written down a password.

  In an instant I was in Police Chief Sam Cobb’s office on the second floor of City Hall. I’d had occasion to assist Sam in solving several crimes, and we had forged a bond. He considered a voice in space an interesting exercise in contemplation. I was sure he wouldn’t mind my using his computer to assist my investigation, though my search had nothing to do with crime.

  I looked about the office fondly, a long room with dingy beige walls. Several maps of Adelaide were interspersed with Matisse prints. I admired a new print, Modigliani’s famed Woman with Red Hair. Was it possible? I shook my head. My red hair was red and hers . . . Well, there are many shades of red hair. Nonetheless, I felt the addition was perhaps a toast to our friendship.

  I settled behind the chief’s battered oak desk, pulled out the center drawer, smiled. A small note card held a list of words, all scratched out but the last. Mayor Neva Lumpkin, no friend of Sam’s, insisted all city employees change passwords weekly.

  I glanced at the list, turned to the keyboard, entered Shi7eld. Voila!

  In an instant, I’d accessed the Gazette news story of July 5, 2014.

  STAFFER DIES IN RIVER ACCIDENT

  General reporter Jimmy (James Nicholas) Taylor, 24, drowned Friday on the Snake River, Snake, Oregon, when his kayak capsized in the Wild Sheep Rapids.

  A sheriff’s deputy said Taylor suffered a fatal head wound. When the craft overturned, Taylor’s helmet was lost and his head struck a granite boulder.

  Taylor joined the Gazette two years ago. He covered City Hall, the county commissioners, Chamber of Commerce, local civic clubs, and general news. Taylor uncovered abuse at a local nursing home and received an award from the Oklahoma Press Association for investigative reporting.

  City editor Ralph Logan described Taylor as a throwback to the days when reporters were brash, cocky, irreverent, and incorruptible. “Jimmy was a smart mouth, equal parts Don Quixote, D’Artangan, and (James) Dean. He was a crooked politician’s worst nightmare. He listened when people talked and learned more than anyone ever realized. Hell of a guy.”

  Taylor was a native of Adelaide. He was a journalism graduate of the University of Oklahoma. He worked for the Norman Transcript before returning to Adelaide to join the Gazette.

  Services are pending.

  An adjoining photo showed Jimmy at his desk in the newsroom, looking with a mischievous grin toward the cameraman. He wore a paper pirate’s hat.

  Oh my, yes, he was handsome, thick tangly dark hair, high smooth forehead, bright dark brown eyes, strong nose, full lips, firm chin. Very young but a promise of resoluteness and humor and intelligence.

  I clicked several times, found the funeral home page. Among the condolences:

  You drove too fast, climbed cliffs without a harness, skied off trail, barely got out of Old Man Harkin’s pasture when the bull charged, but you kept your promise and never told anyone about the night I cried.—Bud

  A swell dancer, a sweet guy. Love you—Allie

  Remember the night we put the barber pole on top of the church steeple? And left a vial of Viagra on the principal’s desk? And showed up at the sorority skit in tutus?—You know who

  You volunteered at the old folks’ home and you listened when my mom told you they’d hurt her. You sneaked in and hid a videocam in her room. If it hadn’t been for you, no one would have helped her.—Violet’s daughter

  No one cared about the old guy who lived under that bridge until you wrote your story. I got help. I’ve been clean and working at Major Market for nine months.—Chuck

  Dude, you ran fastest, climbed highest, dared the most. Always in your dust—Harry

  Megan’s living room was shabby but spotless, a cheerful plaid sofa, two wicker chairs, and a worn Persian rug. Framed prints by Rothko, Klee, and Martin brightened pale gray walls. A calico cat curled on the sofa.

  Actually the calico was elevated above the sofa.

  I strolled across the room, looked down at the cat, obviously quite comfortable on a lap. I judged distances, reached out, firmly gripped Jimmy’s arm.

  “Hey.” His voice was halfway between a shout and a yelp. He tried to yank away.

  I hung on with the determination of a sweepstakes winner clutching the winning ticket in a heavy wind.

  The startled cat launched herself into the air.

  Rapid footsteps sounded. Megan burst into the living room. She was slim and lovely in a white cotton top and navy Bermudas.

  “Let go.” He wriggled and I held on.

  “Jimmy.” She looked wildly around the room.

  He broke off. “I was just petting the cat.”

  The cat stared balefully toward the sofa.

  “You’re upsetting Sweetie. I thought you went back to the cemetery.”

  I felt his shoulder sag. He leaned back against the sofa, his resistance gone. “It’s nicer here.” His voice was small.

  Megan flung herself into a wicker chair, pressed fingertips against her temples. “I will not imagine Jimmy’s here. Sweetie had a nightmare. I didn’t hear Jimmy’s voice. It’s all in my head.”

  I increased the pressure on Jimmy’s arm.
“Jimmy, despite the barber pole on the steeple and your proclivity for living dangerously, you tried to help people. Please look at Megan.”

  “Now she’s back, too.” Megan’s hands fell slackly in her lap. She slumped against the cushion, clearly miserable and more than a little bit scared.

  “Hey, Megan.” He was contrite. “I don’t want to upset you.”

  “Of course you don’t.” I made my voice admiring. “You want to help. Here’s what you can do. Megan won’t mind if you’re with her at the office—”

  Megan’s eyes were wide and staring. I hoped her inner monologue wasn’t tending toward hysteria.

  “—in the daytime. Will that be all right, Megan?”

  She managed a pathetic smile. “That would be dandy. At the office.”

  “And”—I was feeling generous—“you can accompany her until seven p.m. Then, as a gentleman, you will agree to respect her privacy until the next day.”

  Megan hunched her narrow shoulders. “Am I bargaining with myself? I will only be nuts in daylight hours?”

  “You can see,” I was chiding, “that she desperately needs some time alone.”

  “I wasn’t going to bother her. I’ve stayed here most nights. Me and the cat on the sofa.”

  “Take in a movie. See what some of your old friends are doing. Without,” I added hastily, “making yourself known.”

  “Okay.” He was forlorn.

  I released my hold on his arm, shook my fingers, which were a bit numb, and moved to a chair near Megan, looked toward the sofa. “You can catch up with her at the office.”

  “How come you’re special? Do you get to stay?”

  “Only for a few minutes. I need to confer with Megan and then I, too, will leave.”

  Her head swung back and forth from the sofa to the chair where I’d settled. “When you two get it all worked out, can I be the first to know?”

  Suddenly a burst of male laughter gurgled. “Hey, Megan, you haven’t lost your spirit.”