The Ghosts of Lottawatah

I Try Not to Drive Past Cemeteries

Buried But Not Dead in Lottawatah

The Dog Days of Summer in Lottawatah

The Holiday Spirit(s) of Lottawatah

Giving Thanks in Lottawatah

Bah, Humbug in Lottawatah

Undying Love in Lottawatah

About the Author

Other Titles by Evelyn David

I TRY NOT TO DRIVE PAST CEMETERIES

CHAPTER 1

Just say no, especially to ghosts.

Sometimes the voice in my head is mine, sometimes it's not.

Today it's not.

There he goes again.

Trust everybody, but cut the cards. Trust is a two-lane street and you're on a one-way path. Love all, trust a few.

Shakespeare? I took my eyes off the road long enough to glance around the cab of my motor home. So far my guest was just a voice. Shakespeare. Who was the first one from? Kenny Rogers? And I think you just made up the second one.

Silence reigned.

So that's all I get? Some quotes about trust? That's my lesson for today from beyond? The old geezer doesn't have to tell me about trust. I try not to trust anyone who is still inhaling oxygen on a regular basis. Of course, ghosts aren't saints either. They generally don't lie outright; just stretch the truth to suit their purposes.

Who was my messenger today? And who didn't he want me to trust?

****

It was late and I was tired. The lights from a diner flickered in the distance. Good EATS…World Famous Apple P…rust Me.

It took me a second to realize that some important lights in the sign had burned out. It took me another second to wonder if I was getting another message. Regardless, I needed a break.

 I slowed down and pulled into the parking lot. Plenty of potholes and ruts and an old flagpole flying a tattered flag. It was Fourth of July weekend and I was happy to find anyplace open. Judging from the empty lot, it didn't look like many people shared the owner's belief in the tasty delights he was offering.

That was okay. Gave me more room to park Matilda, my 30-foot mobile home. I know. No need to name your mode of transportation, but I like to personalize things. I call my television, Burt; my cell phone, Juliet. Yeah, quirky is my middle name.

After I got sick a few years ago, I quit my job with the airlines. Let me tell you, those last few months, no one, and I mean no one, was better at finding lost luggage. My supervisor actually cried when I left. Cried. Big rolling tears and everything. Didn't matter though. I'd made up my mind to travel and use my new skills to benefit more than the roaming public. A permanent vacation. But one that involved keeping both feet on the ground, or rather pavement.

I packed my bags, sold my house, cashed in some stock I'd inherited, and bought this home on wheels. Am I rambling again? Probably just hunger.

The diner hadn't had any glory days, even in its glory days. The linoleum was butt ugly when it was first installed, maybe 30 years earlier. Flecks of brown on a tan background. Maybe the idea was to hide the dirt…it wasn't working. I slid onto the cracked red vinyl stool at the Formica counter and looked expectantly at the guy with a stained t-shirt, standing behind the counter.

I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a piece of their world famous pie, then surreptitiously rubbed the grease from the menu on my jeans. I briefly wondered if they sold wine, but decided that a healthy glass of Maalox would be the perfect beverage to accompany my dinner.

Scooting across a couple of stools, I grabbed some copies of the local newspaper, which were stacked next to a Lions Club recycling box for used eyeglasses. It had been a long time since I'd seen one of those. There was a Kiwanis banner hanging on the wall. I'd also noticed a March of Dimes jar near the cash register when I'd entered. Small towns were notoriously big on civic groups and charities and writing about who was doing the most good works.

I loved reading these weekly journals. Fresh, honest journalism about the things that really matter to people. Reading the local papers was the quickest way I'd found to get to know the people in the communities I was traveling through, up close and personal. I mean if I just wanted to see things from a distance I would be flying my way across country, if I didn't hate to fly, which I do. If God had wanted me to fly with the birds he would have pasted a few feathers on my ass.

Traveling in Matilda lets me stop where I want whenever anything of interest strikes my fancy. And Lottawatah, population 1,452 according to the sign I passed a half mile back, was a hotbed of…drive-by mailbox graffiti, if the lead editorial in last week's newspaper was any indication. In a strongly-worded statement, the editors decried the lack of respect being shown the postal service by defacing the mailboxes. Damn straight. There was also a full listing of the holiday activities planned for Sunday, which was actually Independence Day.

I glanced at the headlines just as the counter guy flung my dinner down in front of me. The cheeseburger actually bounced a little, not a bad way to drain off some of the grease. I patted the rest off with my napkin.

Blood, Body, But No Booty Found. I liked this editor. He had a righteous sense of indignation about mailboxes and a good sense of the dramatic about what I gather was the town's first bank robbery. I dipped my fries into the mountain of ketchup I'd squirted on my plate. Ketchup can fix just about any dish.

The crack police department of Lottawatah had already solved the murder case, although it appeared that the bank's $200,000 was still missing. They'd arrested Dwight McIntyre, 24, son of the President of the Lottawatah Farmers Savings and Trust, Frank, and grandson of the bank's founder, the late Victor McIntyre. A photo spread of the three men at a charity golf outing was splashed across the bottom half of the front page.

Savings and Trust. Damn. The photo told me more than I wanted to know. I threw some money down on the counter and headed for Matilda. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge, or rather, Lottawatah. I didn't know Dwight or his dad, but I sure knew Victor. He of fortune cookie wisdom. I needed to get out of that town before my heartburn kicked into high gear or Victor had any more advice.

****

I backed Matilda out of the parking lot and headed down the highway. I fiddled with the radio until I found a classic rock station. A little sweet baby James Taylor always soothed my nerves.

Golf is a game where the ball always lies poorly and the player always lies well.

Get out. I knew it was stupid to tell a ghost to get out because they're pretty much out already. But I was tired of listening to Victor and his cryptic comments. And I hated golf.

The uglier a man's legs are, the better he plays golf–it's almost a law.

Okay, that can't have anything to do with your grandson and the murder, right? Now you're just trying to annoy me.

He didn't do it. The voice of doom echoed off the insides of Matilda.

He was trying to intimidate me with the Charlton Heston act. He'd have done better with a telemarketer spiel. I have the hardest time hanging up on them. Just doesn't seem polite.

Are you listening to me? HE DIDN'T DO IT!

Dial it down a notch, will ya? Why should I believe you?

Why not?

Good question, because I did believe him. I wondered if I would have believed him if he sounded like Daffy Duck. Yeah, it was the voice that closed the deal. Like Moses coming down from the mountain.

Okay, but I'm going to need a little information. I figured it was time for Victor to be practical. If he wanted to help his grandson, he was going to have to give me something to work with.

Tell the police not to trust the big cat.

Cat? Sure, that'll go over well. Nothing like a psychic talking to the police about cats.

Tell them.

I could barely hear him.

A cold wind came rushing through the cab of the motor home.

Wait! Victor! Damn. What do you expect me to do with that?

Silence.

Okay! Just be that way. See if I care. It's your grandson.

I was at the edge of Lottawatah. A peeling sign bade me farewell. I could just keep moving down the highway and nobody would know any different. If Dwight McIntyre was innocent the police would figure it out–without any help from me. The traffic light turned red, then green, but still I didn't move. Nobody would believe me. I'd get laughed out of the police station.

I let out the clutch and started forward, then braked. The photo from the front page of the newspaper was stuck to Matilida's dash, with...I looked closer. Some kind of...Blackberries. It was blackberries from my untouched pie–or at least untouched by me.

Lucky nobody else was on the road. Otherwise those 180-degree maneuvers get tricky. I headed back into town. I'd pass on the info about the big cat, then leave. I'd give Victor that much. He'd saved me from at least 300 calories.

****

I rubbed my forehead. It was late and I was tired. The chair seat was like a rock and my thirty-five-year old tailbone was protesting the abuse. I glanced at my watch. Almost two hours since I'd walked into the police station. Most of that time I'd been sitting on this torture device. It was my own fault though–I've never been able to say no to a ghost.

Okay, that's a lie. I have said no to several whose idea of a good time was scaring the you-know-what out of some of their relatives–a high-spirited sort of revenge from beyond the grave thing. I'm smiling. Yes, I know you can't see me.

By the way, I'm five ten, long blonde hair, and I have a model's figure.

Okay. Some of that's not true.

Don't laugh.

Maybe most of that's not true. But that's how I see myself and that's the important part. It's all in your attitude. And hey, I do have blonde streaks in my hair. I put them there myself.

Like I said, or maybe like I intended to say since I'm aware that I have a tendency to ramble, I've never said no to someone who needed my help, not if they stuck around long enough to hear my answer.

Are you still there? Of course you are. I've also been told I'm fascinating. Maybe not as often as I've been called irritating, but I prefer to dwell on the positive. I have certain abilities that are in great demand by people in transit–the ones who got off the outbound bus because they have unfinished business and those stubborn ones who never intend to purchase a ticket.

By the way, I'm Brianna Sullivan and I'm a psychic. And this chair is a pain in the butt.

CHAPTER 2

Dead or alive - hitchhikers are nothing but trouble.

I shifted on the chair and finished the last stale peanut in the cellophane bag I'd purchased from the station's only vending machine. 10 pm. I'd been waiting more than three hours. Most of the police force, all 8 of them if you include the secretary and maintenance man, had been marching in the Fourth of July parade over on Main until about an hour ago. I'd been stuck with the pregnant staff sergeant whose swollen ankles precluded her joining the Independence Day celebrations. Victor had been babbling at me for the last half hour. Most of what he said made absolutely no sense.

I had a headache. I was thirsty. My favorite TV show was over and the last time I checked my VCR was flashing 666. I haven't worked through the implications of that yet. If I could find the manual I might know if my particular unit was a spawn of Satan or if I was doing something wrong. I'm leaning towards the spawn of Satan explanation. Of course my biggest concern at the moment was my butt; or rather the lack of feeling in that particular part of my anatomy.  I might not be able to walk again if I didn't escape the chair soon.

Everyone else involved in the case–the other suspects or maybe witnesses I suppose–had trooped through the waiting room. They announced their names to the cop manning the security window next to the door. Dwight's sister had flounced in and out. Early 30s, designer suit, and a mortified expression on her face. She'd been escorted by Harold Ferguson, a man old enough to be a contemporary of her grandfather. I remembered the article said he was the bank manager. A couple more bank employees had marched through–clones with their dark suits and polished wingtips. But they had all been interviewed and released.

Now it was just me–waiting.

Brianna Sullivan?

The man standing in front of me was the detective handling the case. One of the other cops had pointed him out to me. Detective Cooper Jackson. Late 30s. Long, wiry build, sandy blonde hair. Bloodshot eyes. Three-day-old beard.

I stood, slowly, glad to escape the chair. It took me an embarrassingly long moment to straighten completely.

Detective Jackson didn't introduce himself. I guess he figured that if I was who I said I was, I'd know his name.

He cleared his throat.

I must have missed a question; he seemed to be waiting for an answer. Trying to be cooperative, I gave him one. Yes.

Have you noticed that most people prefer yes as an answer over no? Of course I can imagine instances where that wouldn't hold true but I think as a general rule …Okay he's saying something again. Darn, I missed it.

I nodded. Nods generally work well too.

He motioned for me to precede him into a small room.

In my particular case I've found it's helpful to do what's expected. People are wary enough without me smiling inappropriately–or failing to answer a direct question in some fashion. It's no comfort to them if I explain that I was busy talking to someone else–someone they can't see.

Have a seat. Detective Jackson pasted on a smile. I'm sure it's the same one he uses for small children and blithering idiots.

I glanced at the chairs, identical to the ones in the lobby. Must I?

He paused, caught half-way between standing and sitting. Huh?

Less than a minute and I'd screwed up. He's probably never had anyone refuse to sit–at least not someone who'd asked to meet with him. I could see his eyes change. In my mind I could see him wielding a black felt tip pen; scratching my name across a folder and the word crazy appearing in big block letters.

I sat down.

He sat down.

And we began.

****

Current home address? He looked at me, his black pen poised over the multi-copy form.

What's the address of this building?

He frowned. 55 Court Street.

Then that's my current address. Matilida is parked right outside.

Matilida? His frown deepened. Outside?

My motor home. Don't worry I put money in three meters and surely no one will object to those few feet I might be overlapping into the red. Hopefully, there won't be a fire while I'm here. If I sense something heating up, I'll go move it. I gave him my best smile. I have very good teeth. My momma spent a fortune on them.

You're joking. He settled back in his chair and glared at me. Is this whole thing a joke? Cause I don't find anything about it funny. I have a dead woman and $200,000 missing. And instead of following real leads, I'm in here wasting time with a two-bit fortune teller with a peanut hull stuck between her teeth.

I snapped my mouth shut and did a quick sweep with my tongue. Damn.  I never make a good first impression, especially when I'm trying too hard. What can I say–the detective was the best thing I'd seen in the twelve months I'd been on the road and I was overcompensating.

Sorry. I wasn't smiling about…I was trying to…well, never mind what I was trying to do. I'm just here to pass on a message from Victor McIntyre.  He says his grandson is innocent. And … I had to use my fingernail to dislodge the peanut hull, … he says you shouldn't trust the big cat. I might have mumbled those last few words, not looking forward to having any more scorn heaped on me. I do have some pride.

Victor McIntyre?

The skepticism in his voice wasn't lost on me, or the fact that he wasn't writing anything down.

Yeah. Early seventies. Bald. Probably 300 pounds. He hitched a ride with me about two miles outside of town. His photo is in the newspaper.

Victor McIntyre is dead.

Well, there's that too. I always tried to slip the dead part into the conversation as late as possible. But he wants you to know that it wasn't the fried pies that did it. Does that make sense to you?

He shrugged, but dialed down his glare a notch.

I think he might have almost smiled.

My heart lurched. Or maybe clenched. Love? Probably just the chili I'd had for lunch. I opened my purse and took out my cat glasses. I only wear them when I'm driving or falling in love. I have a rule that before I get too involved I need to take a 20/20 look. I cleaned the lenses and slipped them on.

Detective Jackson was still frowning. But I sensed less animosity than before. I've been told I'm pretty hot for my age and the reading glasses give me that added intellectual allure that some men admire.

Those are about the ugliest glasses I've ever seen. Are you blind in addition to being nuts?

Okay so sometimes my instincts are wrong. I adjusted my glasses and gave him the once over. The best I can figure it was his resemblance to a pit bull dog that appealed to me. I'd had one as a child–not a live one of course. I'm allergic to dog dander.

CHAPTER 3

Like the living, sometimes ghosts have trouble coming up with the right words.

Well?

The detective was scowling at me, a badly mangled toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth.

After showing me a sullen Dwight who was cooling his heels in a six-by-eight cell in the basement of the police station, Detective Jackson had insisted on driving me to a cheap motel.

Normally, I would have been flattered, but I suspected romance wasn't on his mind.

I stood just inside the doorway. I wasn't sure what he wanted me to say–besides the obvious. It's a motel room. Not a very nice one. And if I was forced to check in here, through circumstances I can't imagine, I'd definitely leave the lights on the entire–

I thought real psychics were supposed to be able to see beyond the dirty sheets and the monster roaches. I brought you here to tell me where Dwight hid the murder weapon and the money–not give an opinion on the accommodations. Think of this as a test. Because it is.

I don't think Dwight knows.... I watched as a towel-clad woman walked out of the bathroom. Stab wounds dotted the woman's chest, punctuation marks to the gaping wound at her throat.

The dead woman smiled at me.

Blood was still matted in her long dark hair. She really should have taken time to shampoo.

Detective Jackson sighed. "I don't want to hear about poor, innocent Dwight again from you. Dwight knows. He