A Guilty Ghost Surprised (An Indigo Eady Paranormal Cozy Mystery series) (4 page)

Darkness set in as we zipped through the village to the outskirts and located the flat where Scott lived. A mixture of converted flats, pubs and small neighborhood businesses filled the area. We spotted the Land Rover parked across the street. Parking up the road, we backtracked on foot.

Badger took my hand in his and squeezed—the signal for the old,
we’re just a couple out for a stroll
ruse we used on our last case. Quite successfully, in my opinion. And I didn’t mind because it served a good cause, after all. At any rate, we didn’t want to look suspicious prowling around like burglars casing the joint, so the dewy-eyed, hand-holding act came in handy. I quite enjoyed this part of the job. The other task at hand? Not so much. Ralph taught us how to steal, er,
scrape
old paint chips from beneath the boot arch, where the old paint still existed.

I’ll admit to being nervous. As we approached the vehicle, Badger looked down into my face.

“Ready?” he asked.

“What - right now?” I glanced briefly around and leaned in to whisper. “We’ll be seen.”

“I meant to play the part of a devoted girlfriend?” he whispered back.

I shrugged.

The glint in his eyes made me go warm all over. He played his part
really
well. He leaned in and kissed me smack on the lips. Slightly off balance, I put my hands on his shoulders for support.. Back against the wall, I rested my hands on his shoulders, smoldering with his lips warm and moist on my neck.

Aiyiyi, Indigo Eady. You landed in it this time. A fantasy land of your own making.

Badger encircled my waist and switched places with me, leaning his back against the brick building. Spreading his legs, he drew me into his body. I rested my forearms against his chest.

“We may have awhile to wait,” he whispered. An impish grin crossed his features. His role as the devoted boyfriend totally drew me in. Well, it took two to play this particular scene.

“And, what do you suggest we do while we wait?” I breathed against his ear.

“I can think of a thing or two.”  He ran  his hands up my back.

I suppressed a shiver and smiled, leaning my hands against the brick wall on either side of his head. I pressed my lips against his. “Such as?”

“You’re quite bold, Miss Eady.”

“All part of the game, right Mr. Bagley?”

“Is it?” he countered.

We gazed into each other’s eyes. The mood changed, became serious. Too serious. I looked away first. Playing lovers could turn into a dangerous game, especially for me. I could have easily lost my heart to him. But I’d never ask anyone to be with me. Constantly bombarded by spirits, the danger and the mishaps that befell me would be a lot to handle. 

I pushed away and he let me go. “I think it’s safe now. To get the paint scrapings, I mean.” Because stealing paint scrapings felt much safer than the situation only a few short minutes ago.

He stared at me, but let it go. He glanced around before pulling a penknife and baggie from his pocket. He walked over to the Land Rover. Bending down as if to tie his boot, he then quickly poked the knife up inside the tire arch and scraped, holding the baggie open below the droppings. Then he folded the knife and the baggie and stuffed them into his pocket.

Taking my hand, we walked quickly away. My heart pounded in my ears.

We did it.

Halfway through my sigh of relief, a voice behind us shouted, “Hey! You lot! What do you think you’re doing?”

We didn’t look back. We ran, Badger not dropping my hand until we reached the motorcycle. He shoved a helmet on my head and snapped the chin strap, donning his just as quickly. As footsteps rapidly gained on us, we sped away. I couldn’t watch. I squeezed my eyes tight and held on for dear life.

The guy who shouted at us had to be Scott Durdle. He probably watched us from his flat window and ran downstairs.

Badger zipped around a corner, zigzagging through the streets to ensure we lost our pursuer. I leaned with Badger whenever we made a turn, letting my body move as one with his like he taught me. Would Scott Durdle give chase? Or would we escape before he had a chance to get in his truck? What did they call trucks here in England?
Van
. That’s right, a van.

A loud roar and screech behind us answered my question.

Crap!

I peeked through squinty eyes. Badger turned up a narrow alley. Good. A big van couldn’t go up the narrow backstreet lane. Squealing brakes paused at the entranceway behind us, before screeching off. We shot from the alley and skidded right, leaning so far into the turn that my knee nearly touched the asphalt, but one light tap of Badger’s boot on the ground balanced us upright again. Badger revved and up-shifted, causing a wheelie. I squealed and squeezed his waist tighter. We made another hard left lean up the next alley.

I glimpsed the blue van as we made our turn. Definitely Scott Durdle. A
determined
Scott Durdle. Once again he roared by the alley entrance in order to head us off at the next turn.

I thought fast. Tapping Badger on the shoulder, I indicated a twirling motion with my finger. After only a brief hesitation, he understood my suggestion. Turn around and head back up the alley the way we came. Scott’s big van couldn’t turn around as quickly as the motorbike, and besides, he expected to head us off at the other end.

Badger slowed and flipped a donut in the middle of the alley and we sped back the other way. Turning right, we zoomed off into the night. The sound of Scott Durdle’s van engine grew distant behind us.

Chapter Five

Light Display

Simon lifted the bag of paint chips and peered inside. “It’s funny to think the answer to mum’s and Bryan’s deaths might be in this little bag.” He shook his head. “I mean, the potential impact…”

I watched him struggle with his feelings, the hope it might be that easy. Fear that it wouldn’t, that we might never find the hit and run driver. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” A breakthrough would go a long way toward easing the pain he suffered through every day. Knowing the person who killed his family still walked the streets, living a life while they had been robbed of theirs haunted him.  Simon tucked the baggy in his pocket.

The answer wouldn’t come quick. Forensic analysis took time. Luckily Simon knew a girl who interned at the police forensics lab. She agreed to slip the chips into the system.

Simon dropped the paint chip samples by the lab on Wednesday afternoon.

On Thursday evening, we made the trek once again to the Blind Badger. We bundled up in hats, coats and scarves against the cold and misty night. We walked quickly, shoulder to shoulder. Approaching the abandoned Victorian mansion, the light display dazzled us again.  

“Blimey,” said Simon. “Don’t the neighbors see what’s going on here?” We stopped and gazed at an upper window where the swirls of light spilled out into the night. 

“Not everyone can see it, you know.”

“You mean…?” He let the sentence drift off as he watched in wonder.  

“Yes. I think you must have inherited some of the family psychic abilities after all.” I suspected that he simply hadn’t paid much attention before now. When I came from the States after my father’s death seven months ago, I think he became more open to the idea of psychic phenomena. When the paranormal waved its hand in your face on a daily basis, you sort of had to accept it.

We stood staring up at the display for a few minutes, when a tennis ball rolled to our feet.

“Where’d that come from?” said Simon, searching for the source.

A bark caught my attention and a dog appeared alongside the ball.

I laughed. “He wants to play.”

“He who?” Simon looked confused.

“The dog. He wants to play. You didn’t hear him bark?”

“No, of course not.” He stooped to pick up the ball and threw it back into the yard. “Yuck.” His lips curled at the slime covering his hand. “What is this? Ectoplasm or some kind of ghost slime?”

I laughed again. “Sort of. He’s a bulldog. A really big, slightly drooly, bulldog. White with beige spots and big round brown eyes.”

Simon wiped his hand on his jeans as the ball came rolling back to our feet. He picked it up and threw it again. The dog ran through the air. A white streak trailed behind him as he chased the ball into dead bushes.

“We’d better go or we’ll be late,” I said. We left the game of fetch and continued through the damp streets to the pub.

Wintery Thursday evenings saw very little activity at the pub. Claire, Badger’s mother, and Charlie the barman, worked behind the bar washing glasses and talking with customers. We waved as we headed down the wobbly hall. Badger, Riley and Cappy greeted us as we entered the snug. I searched Badger’s face for any signs of awkwardness from the previous night, but didn’t find any. His usual warm smile met mine, like nothing had happened. Like we never stared into each other’s eyes. Like we never shared those kisses…

“It’s about time,” said Cappy. “My ribs nearly sank against the pressure from my starving belly. She—” he pointed to Riley, “—made us wait for you lot.”  Riley’s plate of scavenged sandwiches from the pub kitchen sat center table.

Cappy reached toward the pile of sandwiches, but before he could grasp one between his fingers, the plate wobbled across the table and then toppled over onto the floor with a clatter that would wake the dead. Sandwiches began to disappear before our eyes. Everyone jumped away from the table, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Riley screamed and clung to Simon’s arm.

Badger grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the table.

“What’s ‘appening?!” Cappy gasped, landing next to the door, hand on knob ready to make his escape.

“Wait!” I yelled. I bent and picked up the empty plate from the floor. “Sit!”

The group gaped at me like I had gone crazy. Truth be told, that was nothing new. After a moment’s hesitation, they moved toward their seats.

“Not you,” I said. “Him.” I pointed at the apparition they couldn’t see.

The bulldog sat.

“Bad dog! That is not polite. You weren’t invited,” I admonished.

The dog’s head hung guiltily low.

Simon started to laugh. “He followed us, didn’t he?”

“Yes. It’s all right everyone. It’s just a ghost dog. We met him at a house on the way over. I didn’t realize he followed us.” I glared at the dog.

Badger shook his head and smirked. “Leave it to you to bring a ghost dog to the meeting, Indigo Eady.”

I smiled even though it wasn’t a compliment. 

Cappy unglued himself from the doorknob and the group reseated themselves. Chastised, the dog laid down and went to sleep under the table. We’d have to take him back after the meeting.

Riley still clung to Simon’s arm. “Sorry,” she said, releasing her death grip. A flush tinged her cheeks.

“My pleasure.” Simon grinned.

“I didn’t know ghosts eat,” she said.

“For the most part, I don’t think they do. But when you really enjoy something in life, I think it gets carried over after death.” I shrugged. “That’s the best explanation I can come up with.”

 “All right, you lot. Let’s settle down and get to work.” Badger took a seat on the bench.

“But we didn’t get to eat,” Cappy muttered, settling into the high-backed chair. “‘ow’s a fella supposed to keep up his strength?”

Badger reached behind the bench and pulled out the telly containing the murder board. I didn’t watch how his tee-shirt stretched across his chest to outline his well-defined pectorals…
Can I go to hell for lying?
 

Unrolling the section of butcher paper, mugs and elbows held the curling edges down. Riley readied her pen to record the most recent information. Hardly anything new to report, really. Only that paint chips had been retrieved from Aunt Amanda’s car and Scott Durdle’s van and sent to forensics. They didn’t need to know the process in which we came by them. Some trade secrets shouldn’t be revealed. The holding hands, the kissing and the flirting would not read well on the board beside the suspects, evidence and accident details…

A tingle crept up my spine. I frowned.
The accident details...
“Something’s missing from the accident details.”

 “What do you mean?” Badger stood and leaned over the board to get a better look.

I studied the murder map. The answer nudged me, if my brain would only see it. Shaking my head to clear it, the clue appeared, glaring in its absence. I slapped my forehead. “The witness. Or rather, the person who came upon the accident. Someone must have phoned it in!”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Riley, scribbling this new, or lack of, evidence onto the murder board. “You’re brilliant, Indigo. Truly brilliant.”

“So who reported it and why isn’t it included in the accident report?” said Badger.

Simon shook his head. “Wankers! The most basic information and they don’t include it. Our police force is a serious embarrassment.” He rose to pace the tiny snug. Three steps to the right, turn, three steps back.

“I can’t disagree with you there.” Badger had firsthand knowledge of the fact. The police force botched the investigation into his dad’s disappearance and murder. We took up the slack and investigated ourselves.

Riley said, “Hang on. I’ll check with my source.” Her mysterious source came in handy. It didn’t seem to matter what time of day or night she needed information; he always came through. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and tapped the screen.

“When are you going to reveal this mysterious source?” Simon bit into a sandwich wedge and stared down at Riley. He looked mutinous. I groaned inwardly.

She continued texting. “I’m not.”

He glanced around the table looking for backup. None came. We’d been through it before. Not knowing her source meant we didn’t have to lie should we ever get busted investigating again. The less we knew, the better.  

But Simon didn’t let it go. “Who is he? Why not introduce us?”

She glared at him. “He—or she—wishes to remain anonymous.”