Ghost of a Girl Read online

  A Camel Press book published by Epicenter Press

  Epicenter Press

  6524 NE 181st St.

  Suite 2

  Kenmore, WA 98028

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Design by Scott Book and Melissa Vail Coffman

  Ghost of a Girl

  Copyright © 2022 by E.L. Oakes

  ISBN: 978-1-94207-854-8 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-94207-855-5 (eBook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 1

  Monday Morning

  The “Hawaii 5-0” theme song merrily jingling from my cellphone jerked me awake from a dream of warm water and perfect waves. I blinked as my office came into focus around me—no ocean, no surfboard. Just a worn leather sofa, a folding table, and a mile of empty oak shelving. I nudged the cat, who was sprawled full-length on the back of the sofa. “Hoover? Answer that, will you?”

  Hoover glared at me and stretched one tawny paw over his nose. Hairless Sphynx resemble wrinkly-felted Jim Henson Creature Shop characters. Glaring wasn’t particularly effective.

  “Lazy-bones.” I stretched over and pulled my cellphone off the little folding table. “Hola! No hablo bad sales pitches.”

  “Is this Kamera White?” My name, incorrectly pronounced as ‘camera’, not Kam-eey-ra, snapped my brain to attention. Oops! That sounded official. When I affirmed with the correct pronunciation, the no-nonsense voice on the other end continued quickly. “This is Detective Ron Brittle from the San Amoro police department. You’re the registered owner of a blue 2005 Kia? License plate 4GZT892?”

  “My car? My brother has it.” Arg! If my car was sitting in a tow-lot somewhere racking up fees, I was gonna sell him on the black-market to pay for it. That is, if I could find someone who would pay for a loser brother. Or maybe I could just sell his liver. I read somewhere that they don’t even need the whole liver for a transplant, just a portion of it. He would be fine with only half a liver. “Where’s my brother?” And more importantly, “Where’s my car?”

  There was a long pause from the detective. “We’ve just recovered the car from the South Reservoir.”

  “My car was at the reservoir?”

  “No, Miss White,” Detective Brittle corrected. “We found it in the reservoir.”

  Kenny! I was gonna kill him. I was gonna tear him into tiny pieces, boil him and feed him to Hoover one nibble at a time. No, wait. I was gonna feed him to Hoover alive! That is, if I could get the picky cat to even taste him. “I’m sorry, Detective. I know I shouldn’t do this, but I need to report a homicide because as soon as I find my brother, I’m going to kill him.”

  “Don’t do that, ma’am. Fratricide is messy,” Detective Brittle discouraged dryly, and I pictured an older gent with a sharp wit, someone who looked like a cross between Richard Belzer and Tom Selleck. He continued more warmly. “Tell you what, why don’t you let me find him for you? What’s his name?”

  “Kenneth James White.” I had to do quick subtraction to get his birth year. I’m terrible at remembering dates. I gave the detective Mom’s number . . . Dad’s contact information, too, but since he’d been in the Indian Himalaya for years, it was doubtful he’d heard from Kenny since probably last Christmas. By the time Detective Brittle had the information he needed, I was getting worried—sick-to-my-stomach, never-sleep-again kind of worried. If my car was in the reservoir, then where was Kenny? “Detective, he wasn’t . . . I mean, there was no sign of Kenny in the car, was there?”

  “We identified your car by license plate, Miss White. The divers brought it up a short time ago, but as far as I know, there was no sign of anyone inside. That spot on the lake is a popular dump spot for joy riders looking to get rid of stolen cars. This our annual clean-up sweep. Cars, motorcycles, weapons, drugs. Last year, we found the Baby Jesus from St. Andrews Church. You name it, it’s down there. It might take a day or two to sort everything out. I suggest you call your insurance, and we’ll be in touch with your case number after we’ve towed it to our impound lot. Your insurance company can appraise it there.”

  “I don’t imagine there’s much left to appraise?” His silence told me everything I needed to know. “Thanks. I . . . Look, Detective, my brother? He’s not a saint, but he’s not really a bad kid, either. I just . . .”

  “If I find him, you’ll hear from me. Come to think of it, you’ll hear from me either way.”

  Like that didn’t sound ominous. “Thank you, Detective.”

  I gave the detective the office address and phone number and hung up. Anger over losing my car was giving way to worry about, and more than a little fury towards, Kenny. Dragging myself off the couch, ignoring Hoover’s disdainful glare, I pulled up Mom’s number on my phone. It went straight to message, and I glanced at the clock, realizing she would already be at the greenhouse working. I left a brief message. “Hey, Mom. Call me as soon as you get this, unless I catch you at work first. Then just ignore it.”

  I called the greenhouse and Diane, my mother’s partner, answering with a crisp, “Herbs & Greens. Good morning!”

  “Diane? It’s Kami. Is my mom around?”

  There was a pause, and I knew she was standing up to look out the plate glass window of the office. “Oh. You’ve just missed her. The truck is already gone. She’s going to Sonoma to pick up some seedlings.”

  Mom wouldn’t answer her cell if she was driving. I groaned. “No worries. Tell me, though, do you know if she’s seen Kenny lately? Or has he been around the greenhouse?” Sometimes he helped Mom out for extra cash. Kenny was perpetually broke.

  “Not in a few weeks. Why?”

  “Just looking for him.” I didn’t see the point in worrying Diane until I’d talked to Mom. “Call me if you hear from him, please?”

  On Diane’s promise, I hung up, hoping Mom would check her messages when she got to Sonoma. After a quick wake-up shower, I pulled on a pair of clean black jeans and a light blue blouse and checked myself in the mirror. Rings under my pale blue eyes made them look even paler and wider than usual, and my blond curls whirled around my face. I didn’t know who looked more like a Jim Henson Creature Shop creation, Hoover, or me. Nothing to be done about it now. I dug out my car insurance paperwork and, still barefooted, headed out my door and directly across the entryway to Office 1-B.

  Office 1-B is leased to Mallory Kent, ‘Insrance Broker.’ (The neighborhood sign painter isn’t big on spelling.) 1-A is White Leg
al Services. That’s me. Upstairs from me in 2-A is Morri Morrimont, a retired journalist who writes word-puzzles for a little extra income, and, I think, to keep him out of Mrs. Morrimont’s flowing silver hair. Across from him, in 2-B, is, well, nobody—just one big empty no-rent-paid office space, abandoned after the husband-and-wife chiropractors were arrested for practicing without licenses. But this morning, I needed my Insrance Broker.

  I flung open Mallory Kent’s door and stormed in without knocking. He was with a client and I was left to pace back and forth while I waited, formulating in the back of my mind all of the ways I was going to wreak revenge on my brother.

  As soon as his client left, I popped into the chair opposite Mallory’s desk. Mal is a big guy, rotund is one way to put it, with a smattering of dark hair around a balding head, and deep brown eyes. While his dress shirts and slacks are average business wear from Men’s Big & Tall, his taste in ties is downright inspiring. Today’s choice was a bright lilac color with a silver-thread paisley pattern. Before he could even say hello, I blurted out, “My brother stole my car and the police just found it in a reservoir.”

  “Uh oh.” Mallory’s wide mouth turned down in a frown, lending him the appearance of a pudgy sad goldfish. “Let’s look up your policy, shall we?”

  Mallory Kent, tie fetish aside, is a good insurance broker. He always shops around to get you the lowest rates and knows all the secrets to getting great discounts. He got me a super deal involving car, life, and business insurance. Not that I was intending to need life insurance anytime soon, but with the auto policy it was cheap, and least Mom would be able to bury me instead of dropping my body in the Bay. Or maybe she could just dump my body in the Bay and keep the money, which seemed more practical to me.

  Mallory’s fingers were tapping at his computer, scrolling on his mouse, and tapping again. Finally, he looked up with a frown. “Kam? Did you loan your brother your car, or did he steal your car?”

  “I may have handed him the keys, your honor,” I said as blankly as I could but quickly qualified the statement. “But I only gave him permission to drive it for a day or two, not two weeks!”

  “But you didn’t report the vehicle stolen?” Kent was nodding, waiting for his computer to do whatever it was doing, but he knew, and I knew—I’d done insurance fraud filings for him in the past—that I was pretty much screwed.

  “Suck time?” I asked, a glimmer of hope in my voice that was quickly dashed by Mallory’s nod. I dug my fingers into my tight blond curls, down to my scalp, trying to squeeze out the slowly growing headache that stemmed from my loser brother’s latest mess.

  “I’m sorry. Because you didn’t report the vehicle stolen, the insurance company views it as an uninsured driver incident. That only covers the cost of the car after deductible, according to Blue Book. And the bad news is that losing your car affects the rest of your personal policies. Your business insurance effects the percentage you pay on your auto policy, and both of those rates affect your life insurance. Without the auto, your life premium doubles.”

  “I guess I’ll just plan to not buy the farm until I can get things straightened out. If I do buy the farm, can I insure it through you?” Well, what else could I say? My car was surely totaled, and its Blue Book value was somewhere around the cost of my deductible. I’d never seen a check for zero dollars and zero cents before, so that was something to look forward to, at least.

  “If you cash out your life insurance now . . .” There was a long moment and more tapping. “You’ll get $332.98, and that’s considered taxable income.”

  That was three hundred more than I currently had in my account. “Do what you gotta do, Mal.”

  “I’ll swing by with the paperwork before closing-time.”

  I headed back to my office with less fury in my heart, and more frustration. Where was my brother? Why was my car in the reservoir? I needed some hot tea and an aspirin, pronto. My office suite consists of a front reception area, a side office room, and a large open room that had once held beautiful oak filing cabinets full of documents. Juliet Hanford took the cabinets and left the files, which were currently piled on the floor, along with stacks of cardboard boxes waiting to be filled with them. The file room also houses the microwave, mini-fridge and electronic tea kettle; the sole bastions of my homemaking abilities.

  Over the fridge was a fancy hand-drawn map of Europe, in a faux-antique style, with landmarks and places of note sketched on it. Criss-crossing the map were other lines, drawn in green and red felt pen. It isn’t mine, The Map. It belongs to my lawyer, Reginald Burroughs, willed to him by my previous boss. I’m just the Keeper of The Map, but I love it all the same. I love the beautiful little landmark sketches; tiny castles, intricate flowers, and beasts both real and mythological. One of my favorite hobbies was researching the locations and trying to interpret the pictures. In the South of France was a phoenix with its wings unfurled, the symbol of a medieval artist’s association that still exists there today. In Germany, a dainty trio of unicorns danced around in the Black Forest. A white cathedral marked Santiago de Compostela on the pilgrim trail in Spain.

  While I waited for the tea kettle to boil, I traced my finger around Italy’s boot, reminding myself to call Reginald Burroughs and let him know I still had the map if he had a place for it. I knew he still wanted it, but I suspected that his grief had held him back from asking for it.

  I was jolted from my moment’s meditation when the front door jangled open. I glanced at the clock: 10:30? Miss Mairfax wasn’t due until 11:30. Mallory! He must be working fast today!

  “Coming!” I called out as I switched off the teakettle. I dashed into the other room. “That was fast! I didn’t expect you for . . .”

  “I’m . . . You were expecting me?”

  There was a guy standing in the doorway. I didn’t know who he was, but he sure wasn’t Mallory Kent. He wasn’t much taller than me, and he was the kind of skinny that said ill or undernourished, with thinning brown hair and round watery eyes that gave him a look reminiscent of Yoda. He waved both hands in the air in an ‘oh wow’ gesture. “I can’t believe that! You’re incredible!”

  “Uh huh.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wasn’t who I was expecting at all. “Please come in. What can I do for you?”

  “You mean you don’t know? I thought, since you knew I was coming . . .” He was kind of ping-ponging around the office, checking out the empty shelves and the barren walls. Then he started to reach out for the suit of armor.

  “Don’t!” I might have screamed that, just a bit. I dove forward to plant myself between him and Sir Evrett. The guy jerked his hand back from the suit of armor as if burned. I muttered apologetically, “Sorry, that’s 14th Century. Oils on your hands tarnish the steel.”

  As soon as I was certain he wasn’t going to touch Evrett, I continued more calmly. “Please, have a seat. What can I do for you?” Belatedly, I remembered that I only had one chair, so I spun it out towards him with one hand and seated myself on the edge of the folding desk, which wobbled precariously. “I’m sorry, I’m Kami White. You would be?”

  “Irvin. Irvin Zettlemeyer.”

  The name didn’t ring any bells. I casually leaned over and tapped Z E T into the clientele database, but nothing came up. “What can I do for you, Mr. Zettlemeyer?’

  “Oh, I don’t know. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure. It’s all rather embarrassing. Very strange . . . I don’t know where to begin. I saw your sign, and I think I need your help . . .” His voice lowered and he peered around the office as though someone might be listening. “I need help with . . . research.”

  “For a lawsuit?” Yes! A client! A real walk-in-the-door, paying client. That was what I’d been waiting for. I took a second glance at Mr. Zettlemeyer. I wasn’t sure that he was the dream client I’d hoped for. “What kind of research are we talking about? Background check? Property records? Business f
iles? There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We’ve handled all kinds of research, and we’re very discreet.”

  We, of course, being me and the cat. Hoover never tells client secrets.

  “Haunting!” Irvin Zettlemeyer squeaked out, and then clapped both hands over his mouth, his watery eyes seeming to glance in every direction at once.

  I glanced around myself, looking for signs that Evrett was active, but all was quiet on the suit-of-armor front. I looked back to Irvin with raised eyebrows. “What is haunting?”

  “My house. I mean, the house. It’s haunted.”

  “Umm . . . I’m a paralegal.” I glanced towards the window to see if this was a joke perpetuated by Nicky, but the FrankenStang was nowhere in sight. She’d been trying to get me involved in paranormal research for a while.

  “Exactly. Paralegal Research.” He waved at my window sign. “That’s what I need.”

  “Don’t you mean paranormal research?” I said it softly as silk, leaning back a bit and uncrossing my arms, waiting for the ‘duh’ moment as he realized he had the wrong word, and the wrong office, and very much the wrong person.

  “Paranormal. Paralegal?” His wide watery eyes blinked at me. “What’s the difference? You research, right?”

  What exactly does one say to that?

  More precisely, what does one say to that when they’re a broke paralegal with no car, and no solid source of income on the horizon outside of a small stipend that kept the business running while my former boss’s entire estate was tied up in a probate dispute?

  All I knew about haunting research I’d learned from Nicky when she was trying to help me find out what had happened to Charles. It was also true that Morri from upstairs and his friend, Father Joseph Talbon, had once been involved in a paranormal research group. They had offered to pass on their paranormal research to Nicky and me more than once. But I was a paralegal. I dealt with law . . . not ghosts. I opened my mouth to say so, to say that he was in the wrong office and good day, when, in the corner of my vision, Evrett’s gauntlet twitched. My mouth slid shut. I had been working in a haunted office for years now. I had a ghost for a personal friend. How hard could it be?