Ghost of a Girl Read online

  I smiled my best smile, grabbed up a legal pad and my last working ballpoint pen, and said, “Of course, Mr. Zettlemeyer. I’d be happy to help you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Monday Morning Goes On

  It turns out that an initial interview for a paranormal investigation isn’t all that different from preparatory interviews for paralegal investigations. In the course of standard questioning, I learned that Mr. Irvin Zettlemeyer was a twenty-nine-year-old computer programmer. A start-up business he and his ex-wife started together had collapsed and resulted in a nasty divorce with ongoing financial difficulties. Now he lived with three housemates, in a house owned by the computer firm they worked for. Housing in the Bay Area is at a premium and offering rental incentives helped companies recruit the best.

  “Must be nice.” I muttered, glancing around my barren office. “My employer left his house to cancer research.”

  Zettlemeyer’s eyes went wide and he leaned forward, his voice deep with amazed wonder. “His house had cancer?”

  “Yes. Fortunately, it wasn’t terminal.” Oh, god. Someone save me. “Tell me about your house, Mr. Zettlemeyer. Why do you believe it might be haunted?”

  “I think people must have died there or something.” He blinked emptily. “Isn’t that where ghosts come from?”

  “People dying doesn’t necessarily mean it’s haunted, I don’t think. If that was the case, just about everywhere would be haunted, right? Hauntings can have other sources. Ghosts can be attached to objects, for example.” I took a deep breath and glanced at Evrett again. The former crusader knight was two continents and an ocean away from where he’d died. That didn’t stop him from doing as he pleased. “What kind of symptoms are you noticing? Are your roommates having experiences, too?”

  “House.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “House-mates. We don’t room. I don’t want to give that impression. We’re just guys who share a house. House. Mates. Well, one of us is a girl. We’re girl and guys housemates.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry.” I grew up in the Bay Area. The idea that anyone might care if someone else thought they might be rooming, not housing, hadn’t even occurred to me. “I’m still curious why you think the house is haunted? Can you tell me about that?”

  “Things move. You put them one place and find them somewhere else. There’s cold spots all over. I mean, it’s cold one minute and warm the next.”

  “And those cold spots? They aren’t near windows? Or air vents?”

  Zettlemeyer gave me as much of a withering look as his pallid gaze could muster. “I came here for help.”

  “And I would like to help you, Mr. Zettlemeyer. That’s why I have to ask these questions. I’m not mocking you.” No matter how much I might really want to. “I need to know so we don’t waste our time chasing down faulty air conditioning vents instead of ghosts. Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable . . .” I let the Arthur Conan Doyle quote hang in the air unfinished.

  “Oh. I . . . Well. That’s all right then,” he stammered with his eyes focused on some spot on the wall behind me. Suddenly he flung himself out of the chair, his slender pale fingers pointing shakily somewhere over my head. “Omigod! Alien! An alien!”

  “Alien?” Startled, I glanced back over my shoulder. Hoover, unbeknownst to me, had slipped from the file room and jumped to the bookshelves behind me. Standing tall on the empty shelf, he was surveying the office with an amused kitty-grimace on his wrinkle-nosed face.

  “Nono. He’s a cat,” I tried to explain, standing up to gather Hoover in my arms, scratching his long ears. “Look? See. Just a cat. His name is Hoover.”

  “Cat? That’s a cat?” Zettlemeyer recoiled, squealing in disbelief, and more than a little bit like a five-year-old girl. “What’s wrong with it? Why is it naked? Is it sick?”

  “He’s a Hairless Sphynx. They’re rare. Wanna pet him?” I tried to hold Hoover out for petting, but apparently neither Zettlemeyer nor Hoover were keen on the idea. Zettlemeyer scootched the chair backwards so hard he almost fell. Hoover clawed a six-inch long stripe down my arm as he used it for a launching pad to the top of the empty shelves, where he crouched with his ears back, glaring viciously.

  “Bad kitty!” If only he knew how ridiculous the glare of a hairless cat looked. I turned back to Zettlemeyer. “I’m so sorry! He’s just a bit temperamental. Things have been kind of difficult around here lately.” Zettlemeyer was staring warily at Hoover so I tapped my notepad authoritatively, trying to draw his attention back. “Now, tell me about this haunting. What kind of experiences are you having?”

  “Doors open and close. At night, we hear crying. At first, I thought it was one of the other guys watching TV, but we’ve all heard it, even when the television isn’t on. Knocking. Banging. You put something down, and when you come back, it’s gone. Drinks knock over, books fall off shelves. All kinds of stuff. All four of us have seen it.” Zettlemeyer’s voice was a little calmer, but his eyebrows kept twitching and he hadn’t stopped watching the cat.

  I glanced down at my notes, mostly a jumble of single words: cold, door, crying, knocking, banging. My arm was dripping splatters of blood from the traces of Hoover’s claws. Great. At least Zettlemeyer wouldn’t have noticed, so intent was he on watching for Hoover’s next attack maneuver. I tugged my sleeve down to soak up the mess. “All right. When’s a good time for me to come by? I’d like to see the house for myself, and I’d like to talk to the rest of the household.”

  “Tomorrow? Can you come tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar,” I lied, knowing full well that the only thing on my schedule was hunting down my deadbeat brother. “Now, there’s a question of contract. Initial consultation is a hundred dollars. If you need a full investigation, there’s an hourly rate fee. I’ll be honest. Most of the time we find logical explanations for issues, with no supernatural event involved. If it is paranormal and we help purge it, that service is free.” In the corner of my vision, I witnessed the visor of Evrett’s sallet helmet slipping another quarter inch and stammered swiftly, “If you want it purged, that is. I mean, some people don’t.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Zettlemeyer shoved to his feet. “I mean, yeah, yeah, the fees are no problem. Do you take Apple Pay?”

  “Venmo or PayPal,” I answered, trying to remember the current balance in my Paypal account.

  He pulled out his phone, transferred my fee, and then texted me the address before scrabbling out into the street, casting a last wary glance back at Hoover.

  “Bravo! We have a job!” I waved phone with the text and did a little victory dance. Okay, so it was a weird job, and I had no idea what to do with it, but I had a job!

  Hoover stared disdainfully and Evrett was silent behind his steel-riveted façade.

  I had to admit that for my own sanity, I was rather flabbergasted by the entire situation. I picked up my phone and texted Nicky. “Wanna hunt ghosts? Whatcha doin tomorrow night?”

  My interview with Irvin had only left me a half hour to prep for meeting with Miss Maifax, but by the time she arrived, I had her paperwork ready to go. I reminded her that she had to be in court on her scheduled dates to win the suit, but it was unnecessary. I suspect that Miss Maifax sees spurious small claims as a hobby, the same way some people golf, or surf, or do quilting . . . and she was an avid hobbyist.

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday Afternoon

  Work obligations finished, I sent an email to my father in India asking him if he’d heard from Kenny, and another to my cousin Patrick, currently in Oregon healing from a car accident, asking the same. Kenny and Patrick were closer as cousins than I was to Kenny as a sibling. Kenny’s best friend, that I knew of, at any rate, was Jude Booder. I don’t talk to Jude Booder. I didn’t even have his contact information. I texted Nicky again. “Crazy Q for ya. Do you have Booder’s #?”

  Then I opened a search engine, looked up paranormal research and started learning what I needed to know for the newest skillset on my resume. I hoped it didn’t involve more night classes!

  In legal jargon, we us the term “reasonable doubt.” When you cannot be absolutely certain of something, even when faced with all of the evidence both for and against it, then reasonable doubt exists. Reasonable doubt is the extension of the law that lets a jury listen to their instincts and trust in their honest interpretations of the evidence. Reasonable doubt has released killers and overruled thin prosecutions. It’s a cause of sleepless nights for many legal professionals. In paranormal research, however, reasonable doubt was apparently something disregarded with abandon.

  As I surfed sites, I realized that reality seemed to be constantly overshadowed by the supernatural, the strange, and the sometimes downright absurd. For every image purported to be ghostly, there were pages upon pages of debate about authenticity. For every claim that seemed legitimate, hundreds more were so completely ludicrous that they wouldn’t even make subject matter for lame made-for-YouTube movies.

  The sites I appreciated most were full of tips, suggestions, and equipment lists. Equipment I’d never heard of, let alone ever considered owning. A K2 meter? An EMF detector? There were familiar items, though. I had a digital voice recorder for taking depositions; I’d even used it to record Evrett, the only ghost I knew personally. I had digital cameras which could record video. I even had a digital infrared camera for night-surveillance that could upload images directly to my laptop. Thankfully, all of Charles’ investigation equipment had been locked in the office cabinet when Juliet did her Dick Turpin impression.

  The “Hawaii 5-0” song rang out and I glanced at the ca
ller ID before answering. “Nickydoodle! Whatcha doin?”

  She sounded panicked. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Okay? Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Gurl, you just asked me for Jude Booder’s number. Did you have a stroke? A brain seizure? What’s wrong with you?” Nicky’s words shot out like a thrown piston, and I started laughing. My best friends voice was distressed as she barked, “Have you lost your friggin’ mind?”

  I stopped laughing, wiping tears from my eyes. “Yes, I’ve lost my mind, completely. And my car. And my brother.” I gulped down the last giggle. “Have you heard from Kenny? Seen him at all?”

  “No. Hold on a sec . . .” There was a long pause, and I heard her call out to someone else in the room before she came back on. “I’m at Surf Surplus, just finished my shift. I asked Rick and the crew, but no one here has seen him in weeks. And what’s this about ghost hunting? What’s going on?”

  “Asked Rick? Are you two on or off again?” I didn’t really need to know. Their casual relationship was pretty much beyond my comprehension.

  “That is none of your beeswax. Ghost hunting. Talk. Now.”

  “Impatient much?” I then had to explain it all. Kenny borrowing my car, my car in the reservoir, and, lastly, Irvin Zettlemeyer’s misunderstanding.

  I could practically see her hopping up and down. “Changing your mind about working with Father Joe and Morri?”

  Morri and Father Joe’s group had done the initial research on Evrett, and I trusted their judgement, but I wasn’t about to ditch my credibility as a legal expert to play ghost chaser. “No. I just really need the work. And Irvin seems genuine, if not entirely sane. I could really use your help. The website I was just reading was talking about K2 and EMF detectors?”

  “Oh, yeah. We’ll need those,” Nicky enthused. “Pretty much any hardware store that carries electrical supplies will have them. Are you sure this guy has a ghost?”

  “Not in the slightest. He thought Hoover was an alien. But he’s paying for an initial consultation, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a look. Is there anything else I need to know about the equipment?”

  “Nah. I’ve seen what you’ve got for cameras and stuff. You know how to use all that. Look, I gotta get some sleep. Call me tomorrow and I’ll help you out with it all.”

  “Can you come with me tomorrow night to talk to them? It’s here in the East Bay.” Nicky lived on the outskirts of Santa Cruz in a trailer at her parent’s auto junkyard. Her dad didn’t want to get a guard dog, and Nicky was a good substitute.

  “I have a shift at the marine animal rescue.” Nicky sounded truly regretful, but I knew her volunteer responsibilities took priority even before she explained. “We’ve got an injured seal pup that needs food and meds every few hours. Got caught in a boat prop, poor little dude. I’ll try to trade shifts, but no promises. Let me see what I can do.”

  “If you can manage, otherwise I can do it on my own. This is just the meet-and-greet to scope out the situation and get the lay of the land.”

  She paused, and then said, “If this guy is that out there, I don’t think you should go alone. What if he’s a crazy nutjob? You could be the next Hannah Raye . . .”

  Hannah Raye, a fellow classmate at East Bay, had been missing since last Thursday, with searches taking place on campus and posters going up all over town. That thought gave me pause and I was about to reconsider going alone when the image of Irvin Zettlemeyer staring at Hoover with his round watery eyes popped into my head and I and tried not to laugh. “I’m pretty sure he’s a bit nutty, but not a crazy nutjob.”

  “Well, if I can’t make it, at least see if Father Joe can go with you.” Nicky rang off and I did a little more research online. I located the two meters the site recommended on sale at a nearby hardware store and was in the process of bicycling over there when I remembered a tiny flaw with my grand plan. The house was out in the hills. Unless Nicky could come, I had no car and no way to do the job.

  Whom could I ask . . . Reese Calhoun? Reese would loan me her van. Just one problem: Reese’s van was coffee-stain brown with huge bright green stripes, and read “Eat at Reese’s, More Than Coffee” down both sides—not exactly the impression I wanted to give on a job. Mallory . . . would laugh, laugh in my face. At least he’d do it kindly. How about Mom? Oh, god. Mom! I’d forgotten to call her about Kenny! I promised myself I’d call as soon as I got back to the office. After that, if it seemed like she was feeling generous, I’d ask to borrow her Beetle.

  At Ace Hardware, I found a K2 Meter and an EMF detector. The EMF detector was inexpensive, the K2 meter was less-so. But it was the exact model that many of the paranormal research sites recommended, so I felt good about it. Unfortunately, feeling good about my new career path was short-lived. As I pedaled slowly back to the office, everywhere I looked around town, there were pictures of Hannah Raye. She beamed down at me with her warm smile and glowing blue eyes from telephone poles and shop windows, asking, “Have You Seen Me?” Despite her smile, I felt heartsick. Where are you, Hannah? How do you just walk out of class and disappear? My good mood was dissipating.

  I was also dreading the phone call I had to make. It’s not that I don’t love Mom . . . I do. But we have a complicated relationship. She always seemed to have one foot in solid reality and one somewhere in a world made up of daisies and peace and kumbayas . . . and trying to tell her anything negative about her precious baby boy? That was fraught with pitfalls. When I was nine, Kenny cut the arms off my Pretty Princess Barbie. When I ran tattling to Mom, she told me that I was too attached to material things, and to love my brother as my own heart. So, like any good sister who loves her little brother like her own heart, I pinned him down, sat on his chest, and wrote BRAT on his forehead with a red permanent marker. That got me grounded to my room for a week, but it made me feel better.

  Right now, I didn’t think I could feel any worse. My car was dunked. Kenny was missing . . . and guess who was stuck having to tell Mom? It was me—again. To the rhythmic hum of my bike tires on the hot pavement, I rehearsed, practicing the words Mom would need to hear, working out my oratory for my special jury of one. Kenny probably wasn’t really missing. He was hiding from me, right? Not wanting to tell me he’d dumped my car in the lake. Which really, considering my current mood, was probably wise. Kenny was a scrapper. He would be fine.

  The more I practiced saying it, the more it felt like lies.

  I slipped off my bike and locked it to the bike rack in front of the office building, trying to sort out words to tell my mother and knowing that if I found Kenny before the cops did, I was gonna give him a heck of a lot more than a few letters in red permanent marker.

  I was so focused my problems that I missed the small dusk-gray pick-up sitting by the curb. But I couldn’t miss the person standing in front of the door to the office. From the back, even at first glance, there was a whole lot to admire. Sleek black Levi’s covered a backside that Chris Hemsworth would die to own. Tucked into the jeans was a satiny-looking dark blue shirt, accented by a black leather jacket casually tossed over one shoulder. Even in the afternoon Indian summer heat, he looked cool.

  From the back, it was a wowzer moment. My breath hitched for a second before I managed to expel it with what I tried to hope was a subdued, “Hello, can I help you?”

  The perfectly even tips of his gleaming straw-gold hair brushed over the collar of his leather jacket, and his hand slid his sunglasses off, revealing twinkling blue eyes as he turned around.

  My heart thudded to an embarrassed stop, my face heating up with blistering speed from small flame to furnace force. My voice was nothing more than a squeak. “Jack. Didn’t recognize you from behind.”

  Jack Austin’s smile was rippling, as was his voice. “No reason you should.”

  But my ex’s eyes said the rest of the sentence, “. . . notice what you never noticed when we were together.” Oh, I’d noticed. Believe me, I noticed. But I wasn’t about to admit it to him now. I pushed past him and unlocked the door, ushering him inside. “What brings you to my humble abode?”