Adelaide Confused (27 page)

Nancy nodded. “You’re
right. I’ll go through Percy’s papers and hopefully I can find
someone who shares the gift.”

“
No one with this ability
ever came to the occult gathering you host?”

She shook her head. “Most
who attend are from the states. If Percy knew of someone with a
similar talent, they may well live halfway around the world,” she
admitted.

“Oh,” I said, somewhat disappointed.

And again we lapsed into silence.

I wondered what my part in
the master plan was. It seemed odd that a soul should lose its body
in death but continue on, incomplete and unsatisfied. And why then
did they cross through the veil at all? Was I meant to be a ghost
therapist, offering my counsel to the lost souls? It was certainly
ironic that my mere recognition gave them substance, or was it? I
never could pinpoint irony.

I did know I needed to be
more careful. My interaction gave the ghosts strength. I could now
see how the séance had bolstered Smith’s abilities. Afterwards he
was more than happy to punch Beagban, something he hadn’t been able
to do before. I’d have to be choosy the next time I saw a spirit. I
didn’t want a Mable-like hanger-on. And I had to be sure that those
I helped truly deserved it. I thought of my pet ghost. I was going
to have to ignore him before he started to shed all over the
sofa.

Smith though, I really owed him. On a whim I
asked, “Can you do a reading for a ghost?”

She thought about it for a
minute. “I don’t know, but I can try. Just let me find my cards,”
she said softly to herself while rummaging through a kitchen
drawer. “Ah ha!” she said triumphantly, holding up a weathered pack
of tarot cards.

“
Aren’t those supposed to
be wrapped in a fancy cloth and kept snug under your pillow?” After
meeting Nancy I had Googled the art of tarot during a lull at work.
One website had given specific details about bonding with the deck,
how the cards were sensitive to energies and such.

“
Oh, pish-tosh,” Nancy
said, waving her hand at my nonsense. “I have a slew of cards, not
all of them tarot either, and they’re all well used. It hardly
matters.”

I watched her shuffle like
a seasoned croupier, mesmerized by the flashing cards and her quick
hands. “If you don’t do tarot in the traditional sense, then how do
you do it?”

She shrugged, laying a
handful of cards facedown. “It’s hard to say really. You ask any
seer, no matter the method, and you’ll always get a cryptic answer.
It’s not a matter of
doing
anything. I simply look at the cards and a pattern
presents itself, something only I can see.” Again she shrugged, as
if knowing her answer was less than satisfactory.

She flipped the cards one
at a time, and apart from the whisking sound they made the room
remained silent. It was really quite dramatic. I’d been hoping for
a show, imagining she’d murmur the significance of each card while
prophesying my eventual greatness. But this was reality—I wasn’t
paying, and the reading wasn’t mine. But even still, it was
dramatic. I caught myself unconsciously holding my breath in
anticipation.

Nancy stared at the cards,
and after what seemed an eternity she began to rearrange them, as
if putting together a story. I could feel when she was done, and
she leaned back to prove it. Flicking the death card, she said, “In
a traditional reading I would assure you that this card is not
literal, that it doesn’t herald your death.”

“
But?” I asked, feeling one
coming.

She smiled. “But in this
case it’s more than literal. The death card represents the ghost,
and I see that you will give him a new beginning.”

“
You’re not really wowing
me with your psychic skills,” I said severely. “We figured that
much out with logic.” I leaned over the cards, squinting hard.
“Does it mention anything about his life? Maybe some bit of
information that can lead me to a paper trail. A death certificate
would be a nice start. Maybe it would hint me in the right
direction, help me discover what his unfinished business
is.”

“
You won’t find one,” she
said, staring into the cards. “You won’t find a death
certificate.”

“
Um... why not? I promise
he’s really dead.”

“
Not according to the
state.”

“How can that be?” I wondered.

“They never found a body,” Nancy
explained.

“Did the cards tell you that?”

“
No, it was logic,” Nancy
said, and I thought she might be smirking.

I sat back, tartly asking,
“Anything else?”

“
Yes. The weeping woman can
help you.”

“
And who is she?” I
questioned, though I knew it was a waste of breath.

Nancy shrugged, proving me right.

Lucas,

I’m not really seeing that
guy. He just pays me to be his date.

- Adelaide

I scratched over the note,
thinking he might mistake my meaning. Only my first attempt and I
was already frustrated. I took a deep breath and tried
again.

Dear Lucas,

What you saw wasn’t what it
looked like, but I can’t explain because the truth is much less
believable. But trust me, I’d never date a man who smiles that
often.

- Sincerely yours, Adelaide

I scribbled over that note
too, but thought I might be making progress.

I was interrupted by a
shifty looking man—I guessed sex offender. Predictably, he stared
at my chest while I rushed him through the check-in process. His
arousal was repulsive and I couldn’t wait to throw his room key
over the counter. After he left I wrote a note to warn Missy, she
should have her mace close at hand tonight.

I paused a moment after the
door closed, waiting until I felt like myself again. Tapping my
notepad absently, I tried to focus on what I really wanted to
express. Inspiration struck and I took up my pen.

I want to share your soap, that’s how much I
like you.

Though it expressed my
attraction to a T, I worried Lucas might be confused at finding
this simple statement taped to his door. Hopelessly I crossed it
out as well.

I wanted to say ‘it’s not
what it looks like,’ or ‘I can explain.’ But since those were the
lines most often used by cheating spouses, I forwent the cliché.
Eventually, and with much reluctance, I wrote:

Avoiding me is cowardly.
I’ll explain when you’re done brooding.

It didn’t hint at a mere
misunderstanding, and it didn’t make me sound innocent, but
hopefully it would shame him into seeing me. I left the note on his
door as soon as I got home that night. Then I spent the rest of the
evening resisting the temptation to hop the fence and see if he got
it.

Smith was suffering from
the mopes again, so I felt him coming. And sure enough, moments
later, he swept into the kitchen. I briefly paused mid-bite,
letting the bagel hover near my mouth while I eyed him. Having
sifted through the back door he was obviously not solid, but he
certainly looked it. I scrutinized him while finishing my
breakfast. Was his shirt brighter? His face less pale? It seemed
so. And again I couldn’t help but think how much more comfortable I
was with his misty form. There was nothing threatening about a
drifting cloud of fluff.

He’d taken to following me, that I knew, but
even so he hardly came to the house, preferring to haunt
Sterling’s. So I asked, “Is everything alright?”

Smith shrugged, his
attention settling on the little dog I’d diligently been ignoring
all morning.

I stood up to rinse my
plate. My unwelcome pet followed, begging on its hind legs, hoping
to receive a crumb.

Smith casually settled
himself on the chair I’d just vacated, his mannerisms so natural I
nearly forgot he was dead. I half expected him to open his mouth
and start talking. He didn’t of course. Mutely he watched the dog,
amused by its antics.

“
Stop that,” I said,
annoyed with the both of them. Addressing Smith specifically, I
said, “Don’t even look at it, it’s being punished.”

I wasn’t speaking to the
dog, but I was speaking about it. I didn’t know if that counted. To
play it safe I assumed that the mere reference of it was considered
an impact on my side of the veil, and it was therefore still
winning back the pieces of its soul. So I changed the subject,
unwilling to charge its batteries and further its bad behavior. “I
went to this psychic I know, and she did a reading for
you.”

He was confused.

“
Psychic,” I repeated like
I knew exactly what it meant. I waved my hand around. “You know...
occult, clairvoyant, card reader...” I quit throwing out random
words, letting my voice trail off when he seemed to grasp my
meaning. “Anyway, she said I wouldn’t find your death certificate,
that it doesn’t exist, even hinted that your body had never been
found.”

I had his complete
attention, I could feel it. His earlier despondence was forgotten
as was any distraction, the dog included. I was the center of his
universe. And if he were living, I’d say he waited with bated
breath to hear what I would say next.

“I’ll take your sudden interest as a
confirmation of her assertion.”

He nodded and I could feel
the
yes
with
his emotions.

“So you died but no one knows it?” I repeated
to be sure.

His affirmation was clear.

Absently I tugged at my
hair, taking in this new information. “Maybe finding the body, I
mean
your
body, is your unfinished business,” I suggested.

His emotions roiled. They
were a disorganized mess. I thought he felt unsure, doubtful
even.

“
Alright,” I sighed. “It’s
evident you still don’t know your own unfinished business,” I
stressed heavily with frustration. Continuing, “The psychic said
someone else could help. Do you know who the weeping woman
is?”

His figure exploded out,
raining down white. It dissolved so quickly I missed his expression
entirely. His emotions were a different matter though, and for a
moment they remained in his wake. None of them were pleasant. He’d
been quite disturbed by my question, a sure sign he knew exactly
who the weeping woman was. Unfortunately he appeared less than
willing to communicate with his medium about it.

If Smith thought to
discourage my curiosity about the weeping woman with his little
tantrum, then he’d made a mistake. In fact, he’d only made the
mystery more interesting, spurred me on as it were.

I considered the whole situation while
getting ready, used some deductive reasoning, and decided what to
do next.

Judging from his outfit, I
figured Smith probably died at some point in the last thirty years.
Okay, so flannel and denim were common. Lumberjacks had probably
been wearing them since the dawn of time. But the cut and style of
his clothing didn’t seem too outdated. And his hair had that messy
look which I imagined couldn’t exist until after the fifties. They
were so neat and tidy back then, with their sweater sets and
slicked back hair. Alright, so maybe my theory had a few holes, but
I was confident nonetheless.

Under the assumption that
Smith died in the last thirty years, and knowing he’d lived on the
island at the time, I figured a little local gossip might be
useful. This was when I’d typically seek out Francesca, only
Francesca and I weren’t speaking. But I could speak with the next
best source—her mother.

Having refused to change
her surname to suit her daughter’s wishes, Francesca’s mother
remained Tammy Wainer. She lived in a narrow townhouse located in
the thick of tourist traffic on the southern tip of the island. A
prime spot for people-watching, something Tammy enjoyed even if she
wouldn’t admit it.

With some reluctance I
parked along the small lane out back. It wasn’t far from where I’d
last been snatched, nor did it seem any safer. So before exiting
the car I slid open the face plate of the ring Reed had given me,
my finger hovering over the button. If anyone so much as looked at
me funny I’d press it.

There was no back entrance
to Tammy’s house. Only a rickety fire escape that was useless in an
emergency because it was covered top to bottom in potted plants. I
jogged around the row homes, coming alongside the busy street as I
rushed for the front door.

She was home and happy to
see me. I didn’t flatter myself; I knew she was more interested in
pumping me for information than the mere gift of my company. Don’t
get me wrong—Tammy Wainer was a nice enough person. She was always
warm and welcoming, but like all people, she wasn’t perfect, a
weakness for gossip being her biggest foible. I’d heard her
complain about the local ladies who took their tea together while
idly chatting over the personal affairs of one local or another.
‘It’s disgusting,’ Tammy would say while slipping in outrageous
tidbits concerning each woman. It was called projection, and it was
a defense mechanism. It would be nice if everyone was as easy to
understand.