Chapter 11 Hey!
“Hey!”
Ignoring the man hollering from behind me, I powerwalked away from the Milner abode, feigning sudden deafness.
The fact that the ghost that had followed me to Rhonda’s was pacing me, wailing at the side of my head, helped the illusion.
When a ghost is screaming in your ear, it’s easier to pretend that one is distracted—because one is actually distracted.
Of course, no one except another medium could have been sure of that fact. Regardless, I used it to my advantage.
“Silas!”
I continued along the sidewalk through town, away from the mansion, though I knew it was all in vain.
Eventually, the man behind me was going to catch up.
If not, he’d follow me all the way back to The Lunch Counter if necessary.
Between the sounds of the wailing ghost and the man’s screams behind me, it quickly became apparent that I was fighting a losing battle.
Once I’d reached the corner of Main Street, I quickly turned, then picked up my pace once I was certain I was out of view of Rhonda’s home.
Getting out of sight didn’t stop the man’s hollers of protestation behind me.
But with the help of the ghost’s wails as it raced along beside me, I was able to filter out the screams that rapidly faded away behind me.
By the time I ducked through the front door of The Lunch Counter a minute later, and blocking the ghost from further access to me, I’d nearly forgotten the entire encounter.
Ginny was standing at the stove, two giant soup pots on the burners before her.
She was moving an immersion blender around in one of the pots, whirring noises filling the space, as she prepared the tomato soup.
As I expected, I’d been gone long enough for the sheets of tomatoes to fully roast. Ginny had already transferred them, the onions, and the garlic into the pots and was blending them up into soup.
Having been to the rodeo a time or two before, I went to the pantry and grabbed a couple quarts of chicken stock.
Another stop at the fridge to grab the quart of cream, and I joined Ginny at the stove.
As she blended the simmering concoction, I added chicken stock to thin it to an appropriate consistency.
Then I added cream to, well, make it creamy.
Working in tandem for a few minutes, we soon had two huge pots of steamy, creamy tomato soup, ready to serve.
Ginny set the lids to the pots, leaving them slightly ajar as I put away supplies and cleaned the immersion blender.
As I returned to the prep counter next to the stove, Ginny was laying slices of bread on the freshly cleaned surface.
I grabbed the margarine tub and pre-sliced cheese from the fridge and jumped in to help.
“So,” Ginny began as she laid out bread in rows, “did Mr. Milner decide to make an appearance, or are we getting more grocery money from Rhonda for another week?”
“We’ll be able to make more tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for a bit longer,” I said.
Ginny cackled, then grew pensive.
“I mean, I’m glad we are still going to have her as a donor and all, but this is so odd for you, Si,” she said. “You hardly ever fail.”
I shrugged and retrieved a knife to spread the butter-like substance on the bread slices.
“Be honest with me,” Ginny murmured, “are you playing the long game with ole girl or what? You’ve been at this with her for months.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the notion, though Ginny’s question made me nervous.
“I’m not swindling my best client,” I replied as I slathered bread with margarine. “Mr. Milner never shows up when I’m trying to summon him at the house.”
“That’s so odd. Right? I mean, you get clients contacting you from all over the world and you’re almost always able to give them…something.”
My shoulders rose and fell again of their own volition.
There’s one difficult aspect to being a medium that no one ever discusses—probably because there aren’t many people to talk to about it.
If you fail to produce results for someone wanting you to contact a deceased loved one, your entire career—all of your abilities—are suddenly placed under a microscope.
If a single ghost decides it doesn’t want to play your game, you suddenly suck at your job.
Even if there were tons of people to talk to about this aspect of the profession, I’m not certain that I would.
Giving other mediums a reason to doubt your abilities is how rumors about you being a grifter begin.
“I can’t control the ghosts,” I said. “I can only call ‘em.”
Ginny frowned, the middle of her forehead becoming a canyon of a crease.
“I know it’s not your fault, Si, it’s just that—”
The front door of The Lunch Counter whipped open and a whirling dervish breezed through the front door.
My coworker grinned broadly at the sight of Sal’s taupe-colored flowing skirt twirling around her like a tornado.
A royal blue broad brimmed summer hat—of all things—perched atop her flaming locks, refusing to move.
Her royal blue jersey-knit shirt and taupe blazer tied the look together and the dangly stone earrings hanging from her ears topped it off.
No one would have pegged her as the unofficial leader of the homeless camp, unless they knew her.
Seemingly put together, it was the minor details one had to inspect to tell Sal wasn’t a woman of means.
The clumpy lipstick and mascara, the ripped seam here and there, the fact that the earrings didn’t quite match, and shoes that needed replacing were the biggest clues.
Of course, I had known Sal for years, so no one had to clue me in to the fact that she was unhoused.
“I’d like to say that it’s a beautiful day, but it’s colder than ice water poured down Frosty’s buttcrack into an aluminum tumbler out there!” Sal proclaimed with a flourish of her head.
Ginny cackled and I chuckled at her display as we continued to work on the grilled cheeses.
My first instinct was to tell Sal it wasn’t all that cold.
I’d been out in it on my walk to Rhonda’s house, after all.
However, Sal lived in a ramshackle shed down at the homeless encampment with no central heat that barely kept the elements outside.
Telling her it wasn’t that cold outside would have been like telling any Midwesterner that Jello doesn’t belong in a salad.
“How ya’ doin’, Sal?” I asked.
I indicated to Ginny to start grilling the cheeses as I grabbed a towel to wipe my hands. My partner got the griddle heating and began assembling sandwiches to grill up for Sal and her folks down at the camp.
“How many sandwiches today?”
“I’m good as can be expected,” Sal said, digging in the tiny purse slung messenger style over her neck. “Didn’t wake up dead again, so thank God for small miracles.”
“For sure,” I replied.
Her hand came out of her purse with a collection of crumpled bills and a bit of change, which she held out to me.
Seeing the sad collection of money, I desperately wanted to refuse it.
However, Sal was still a human being with dignity and pride, so I politely held my cupped hands out to her, and she deposited the wad of money in them.
Without bothering to sort or count it, I slid it under the counter for later attention.
“How many can you spare?” Sal asked.
I washed my hands in the sink since handling money and then food isn’t the wisest choice.
“I asked how many you needed,” I said, turning to her as I dried my hands on a towel.
Sal eyed me for a moment, but knew she’d be fighting a losing battle.
“Well,” she said finally, “we got a full house lately. People aren’t doing good. Not lately. You know how things are.”
I nodded. “How many?”
“We got me, Susie-Q, Ronnie Boy, Gary—”
“Sal,” I stopped her, “you don’t have to justify the need. I just need a number.”
She chewed at the corner of her lip for a moment, transferring some of the lipstick to her canine. After a long moment, she finally came up with a number.
“Sixteen,” she said. “If the money will cover it.”
“Your money is always good here, Sal,” I said. “You want a few extras in case?”
Sal eyed me once again, then, with rosy cheeks, looked down at the floor and nodded.
“I don’t expect we’ll have many today,” I said, ignoring her embarrassment. “The customers get fewer and fewer as more people move out of town.”
“Not much keeping them here,” Sal said, glad to have something to talk about besides the needs of the camp. “Every building in town will be abandoned before you know it. Sage Grove really will be a ghost town one day.”
We exchanged a knowing grin, and I turned to help Ginny with the order for the camp.
Once I’d filled enough eight-ounce deli containers of soup and slapped lids tightly on them, I stacked them on the counter next to the stove and turned back to Sal.
Propping my elbows on the counter, I leaned in to talk to Sal.
Taking my cue, she leaned in to hear me better.
“Caleb told me yesterday that Doc Stephens’ old office building was checked by the county officers last night. They won’t be by there again for at least a week. Probably a month, if we’re honest.”
Sal glanced over my shoulder at Ginny, then looked me in the eyes.
“I still don’t trust Caleb. There’s something about him…”
“I trust him. And you trust me. Dr. Stephens’ office.”
We locked eyes, staring at each other for several moments, before Sal gave an imperceptible nod of her head. I smiled and pushed back from the counter before Ginny could notice our exchange.
“Speaking of everyone out at the camp,” Ginny began, giving me a start, “let me tell you about Gary, Sal.”
A glance over my shoulder and I found she was removing sandwiches from the griddle. I dashed over to begin wrapping the hot sandwiches in parchment paper. Ginny finished stacking the sandwiches next to the griddle for me to wrap, then turned to waggle her spatula at Sal.