Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
Colt was still surprised that Nicole had taken up residence at Hart’s Vinyl Depot. Surprised was the wrong word. He just didn’t like having her ghost around. He didn’t like it at all. Her presence made a kind of sense. She’d died right down the street, and being murdered was bound to hold a spirit earthbound.
Maude continued to be pleasant enough to the newest addition, to attempt to be a good influence even though she often expressed disapproval of Nicole’s language and her tendency to strip in front of Colt. Gerald remained silent, as usual. Occasionally creepy, but silent. He leered at Nicole a bit. Great. Most of the other ghosts, those who’d faded into the background before the new arrival, had apparently become accustomed to her presence. Once again they were faded and colorless, lost in their own worlds, consumed by their own memories. They no longer did more than occasionally glance in the new ghost’s direction. She’d awakened them for a brief period of time, but thank goodness that hadn’t lasted long.
Nicole was neither pleasant nor silent, and she didn’t show any signs of leaving her new home. Of course, it had just been a couple of days since she’d died, and she was still white-hot angry. With good reason.
Nicole had been so vibrantly alive; he’d known her well as a living, breathing person. Now she was neither.
His wish to see Lizzie’s ghost was wrong in more ways than one, he saw that now. He’d always thought it would be a balm, but if his time with Nicole was any indication it might’ve been more horror than gift. To see a loved one faded, confused, dead… it wasn’t natural. It wasn’t right.
He’d left the keys to the cottage on Pine Street under the welcome mat and texted Anna that the place was hers to use for as long as she needed. He’d spent last night in his apartment on the second floor of the depot, glad he hadn’t moved everything he needed to the house he’d lived in for a couple of days, relieved that he’d never gotten around to moving his recliner. So much for a ghost free home.
Maybe he wasn’t meant to live or work in a ghost-less zone. No, he had to exist in an environment which provided a constant reminder of what had happened. How Lizzie had died. How he’d died and been brought back. Why hadn’t that damn EMT saved Lizzie instead of him? She would’ve made the best of a second chance at life.
He had not. He’d wallowed in his misfortunes, hidden the results of his short death, denied who he was and what he wanted. Hell, most of the time he didn’t know what he wanted.
The store was closed on Monday, but Colt spent the afternoon reorganizing the albums. People always moved them around, especially on the weekends when the depot was busiest. When that was done he reorganized the display of rock band t-shirts. Why was KISS so popular, after all these years? It was time to order more. He swept and mopped, ignoring his dead friends when they tried to strike up a conversation. Most of them were silent, but Maude and Nicole were both chatty, at times. Eventually they gave up on him and huddled together on the other side of the room. Just as well. He needed time to think, to put the pieces of this puzzle together.
It wasn’t something he could handle alone. He needed help.
After a while he called Maude over and she came, too quick and much too eager.
“Yes dear?” she asked.
“What do you remember about when you died?”
Her smile faded. “Well, this is an unpleasant subject.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m trying to learn.” Jack knew he’d been murdered, but refused to talk about it. Nicole didn’t recall the final moments of her life. Was that normal? Was there anything normal in the afterlife?
“I’m in favor of all education, I suppose,” Maude said. “Let’s see, how did I die? At my funeral I heard my oldest son Shelby say something about my heart, but I don’t remember any pain or falling or whatever. The last thing I remember is having lunch with Betty, in the dining room. There was peach cobbler, my favorite though it wasn’t as good as my own recipe. After that… nothing.” She looked him in the eye. “Does that help?”
“It does. Thanks.” Maybe dying was like a car accident or any other traumatic event, where the brain wiped away the bad memories and left only the good. Dusting vases. Lunch with a friend. Out for a late night run.
What did Jack remember? How did he know he’d been murdered when he had no memory of it?
With final memories on his mind, Colt retreated to the room in the back where he’d stored the records from the Miller house. Everything else they owned was gone or so badly damaged it might as well be, but for the few things Nicole had taken to her store. Like the damn duck picture. How could he ask Mac about that? There was no logical way to explain why he wanted to know, not unless he told the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. He wasn’t ready to go there.
He took down a box and set it on the table he’d set up for cleaning the old records people brought in for sale or trade or just to get rid of. He mixed up his own cleaning solution and gathered a big stack of microfiber towels he kept around just for wiping down the vinyl. Cleaning records was a mindless task, which was one of the reasons he enjoyed it so much. He allowed his thoughts to wander. As he washed and wiped and examined the vinyl, that’s what happened. His mind left behind the immediate concerns and wandered.
He wanted a life. He wanted someone to share a bed with. Not just a bed, but breakfast, laughter, dreams, the good and bad that came with every life. Maybe even kids. His mother would be thrilled to know her only son wasn’t the last Hart in Seawolf Beach after all.
Dammit, he’d been marking time for a dozen years, spending more hours speaking to the dead than the living, lost in the past, distancing himself from everyone. Was that all there was, for him? How the hell could he move past the comfortable, quiet life he’d made for himself?
He could only contemplate life for so long, and eventually his attention returned to the vinyl in his hands. There were some really good sixties music in the bunch. The Beatles albums might be worth something, if they played cleanly. Same for the Rolling Stones. Meatloaf! He might keep that one for himself. The Sing A Long with a generic orchestra? That had to belong to the elder Millers or maybe even their parents. It definitely wasn’t Jack’s. Looked like a candidate for the dollar bin.
He remembered Jack’s favorite albums well; some of them were here. Metallica. Kings of Leon. Amy Winehouse. He’d play them later, after they’d been cleaned. Talk about memories. Where Jack was concerned Colt’s memories were both good and bad, clear and fuzzy. He tried to focus on the pleasant memories, but now and then a once-distant bad memory snuck in.
Maybe it was human nature to remember the good and bury the bad deep. Ah, nostalgia…
Some of the albums had their original paper sleeves inside the covers, others were bare. No problem. He always kept spare sleeves, both paper and plastic, on hand. Vinyl that had been protected was always in better shape than those that had been left uncovered.
Cleaning records was almost like meditation. He got into a rhythm, gently cleaning in a circular motion, one side then another. Wash. Rinse. Dry. All the while looking for visible scratches and warping.
He continued in this way for a while, allowing his thoughts to go silent for a while, until his attention was broken. The inner sleeve of a 3 Doors Down album wouldn’t budge. It should’ve slid out easily, the way the others had, but it was being stubborn. Colt had no idea whose album this had been. It didn’t seem to fit the tastes of Jack or his parents. Anna’s? Could be. The vinyl wasn’t stuck exactly, but something held it snugly in place. After a little back and forth and gentle tugging, success. He placed the too-fat paper sleeve flat on the table.
Inside the paper sleeve were three… no four… sheets of paper, folded in half. They were just thick enough to make the contents of the album cover too fat to fit well. Colt carefully unfolded the papers, no idea what he’d discovered. A tingle up his spine hinted that he’d find something important here.
Three of the pages had photos printed on them. Grainy, black and white photos. He set them aside while he studied the fourth sheet of paper. Names and numbers were written in pen, arranged in neat columns. There was nothing to indicate what the numbers meant, but he recognized a few of the names. Local men, some upstanding and others not. A few women, including one of their high school teachers. Could Jack tell him about the numbers, or was that another lost memory?
This looked like Jack’s writing, though the names and numbers were neater than the usual scribble of a man always in a hurry. He’d taken his time with this list.
The numbers made no sense. Maybe the pictures would. He arranged the less-than-sharp photos in front of him.
The pictures were out of focus and looked to have been taken secretly, probably with a phone. They were from odd angles, a car bumper was caught in the frame to one side, and nothing was centered. He hadn’t been to The Magnolia for years, but he recognized the patio at the back. There were sloppily organized Cinco de Mayo decorations hanging here and there which gave him a date to work with, though not a year.
He remembered the woman in the picture, though he’d never known her well. On occasion he’d seen her in downtown Seawolf Beach, shopping at the boutiques, grabbing lunch, just window shopping. The petite brunette had been a waitress at The Magnolia for at least a couple of years.
As he recalled, Crystal had left town a little more than five years ago, just a couple of months before Jack left. A couple of months before Jack was murdered. Had it been in May that she’d disappeared? Since he didn’t know her well and hadn’t been to The Magnolia when she’d worked there, he hadn’t paid enough attention to the news that she’d disappeared to be sure. She’d simply left, so it wasn’t exactly news . She’d left town… like Jack supposedly had.
In each of the pictures Crystal stood beside a man, there on the patio under the Cinco de Mayo decorations. In the first picture the man’s head was turned away, and in the second what little Colt could see of the face was blurred. Crystal faced the man in both pictures.
She didn’t look happy, but then these were secret photos, with no smile for the camera. To be honest, neither of the subjects looked particularly happy .
In the final picture the man’s face was easier to see. Was that Sawyer Wakefield’s father? It was possible, but Colt hadn’t seen Walter Wakefield for years so he took a minute to study the face, to reach back for a memory of the man. So many memories, these days.
The older man had big, unnatural looking dentures, like the man who’d asked Nicole about the duck picture. Coincidence?
In that final picture, Crystal’s head was turned to the side. Her attention was distracted. By what? By whom ? Someone or something out of the frame had made her turn her head.
Walter had been a regular at The Magnolia back in the day, when Nate Tucker’s uncle had run the place. Tuck had made improvements in the three years he’d been running the place, or so Colt had heard. Back in the day The Magnolia had been on the wrong side of seedy. It hadn’t been a place you’d send a woman alone, and if you were looking for trouble that was a good place to look for it. These days it was still a bar, but according to anyone who’d been there before and after the drinks and food were better, the atmosphere had improved, and Tuck had made a few long needed repairs.
He wasn’t shy about tossing the troublemakers.
Had Crystal really moved on, as everyone had assumed or been told, or had something happened to her? Maybe whoever killed Nicole had experience. Was Crystal’s ghost hanging out at The Magnolia? Shit. He was going to have to make a trip and see for himself. If she hadn’t moved away, if she was dead and still hanging around, maybe she could tell him what had happened. To her, and perhaps to Jack as well. It was a long shot, but he had to try.
He thought about asking Nicole if this was the man who’d come into Treasures Past, but it would just rile her up. Before he started asking questions, he needed to know more.
Don’t let your Mom leave town yet.
Anna ignored the text from Colt. She wasn’t ready to talk to him, not even to text! A few minutes after the message she’d ignored came in, her phone rang. Colt. She rejected the call as decisively as possible.
It rang again, and she rejected again.
Her text to him was short. Not ready to talk .
I need to talk to Jack. He’s connected to your Mom so don’t let her leave town. Please.
Please. Did he think the magic word would help him now?
Angry as she was, she suspected Colt was trying to figure out who’d murdered Jack so the ghost could move on. Ridiculous. Not possible. How could she even consider that as a possibility! And yet…
Her Mom was napping in the guest room. There had been a lot of phone calls this morning, to the insurance agent, to friends and family. Plans had been made. Emily would be here tomorrow to collect her Aunt Nina and head to Florida. Anna and her mom were supposed to hit up a couple of downtown boutiques this afternoon; that was the plan. While Anna was perfectly happy with her Walmart finds, Nina Miller wanted scarves, hats, perhaps a nicer blouse or two. Or five.
No wonder her closets had been filled to overflowing. How had she ended up with so much when she hadn’t left the house for years? So much of what she’d had in her closets was old – vintage, she supposed you could say – and these days everyone delivered.
Yes, plans were underway. The last of the Millers would be out of Seawolf Beach soon, with questions unanswered, with mysteries unsolved…
Meet me on the porch , Anna texted. I want to know everything .
As soon as she sent that text, the couch she was sitting on shuddered. It jumped and skittered on the floor.
Anna looked up and around. All was quiet and still again. She saw nothing. She heard nothing. “Jack?” she whispered.
The couch shuddered again, more gently this time.
It was impossible. Couldn’t happen. Jack wasn’t dead. There was no such thing as ghosts. The man she’d fallen for at the age of fourteen and rediscovered at thirty-six wasn’t a ghost-whisperer.
And yet…