Page 33 of Ghost Town Boogie

“How the hell was that supposed to work?” Frustration shuddered in his voice. “Hi, nice to see you again, by the way your brother’s dead. He says he was murdered,” he added in a lowered voice. “He doesn’t remember how, or who, but he’s convinced his death wasn’t natural.”

She stepped further away from Colt, as if she could separate herself from his words. This was too much to take in. Nicole. The fire. Ghosts. Jack… “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. Like he cared, like he was as lost as she felt at this moment. “I need to be alone. I can’t even think with you looking at me.”

“I’ll go back to the depot,” he said in a maddeningly calm voice. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

“No.” She didn’t want to be in Colt’s space, in his house, in the bed where they’d made love last night before her childhood home had burned to the ground. “I need to get out of here.”

It was easy enough. All she had were the clothes on her back and her small purse. And her car, thank goodness. She had wheels, she could get out of town whenever it suited her.

Colt tried to stop her with a word — stay — but she barely heard him. She really shouldn’t drive, but she needed to go to the Walmart down the highway and pick up a change of clothes and a few essentials. Her mom needed things, too. Maybe mundane chores would stop her from going as squirrelly as her mother said Colt had become.

Ghosts.

Murder.

This could be more…

CHAPTER 12

Colt was still surprised that Nicole had taken up residence at Hart’s Vinyl Depot. Surprised was the wrong word. He just didn’t like having her ghost around. He didn’t like it at all. Her presence made a kind of sense. She’d died right down the street, and being murdered was bound to hold a spirit earthbound.

Maude continued to be pleasant enough to the newest addition, to attempt to be a good influence even though she often expressed disapproval of Nicole’s language and her tendency to strip in front of Colt. Gerald remained silent, as usual. Occasionally creepy, but silent. He leered at Nicole a bit. Great. Most of the other ghosts, those who’d faded into the background before the new arrival, had apparently become accustomed to her presence. Once again they were faded and colorless, lost in their own worlds, consumed by their own memories. They no longer did more than occasionally glance in the new ghost’s direction. She’d awakened them for a brief period of time, but thank goodness that hadn’t lasted long.

Nicole was neither pleasant nor silent, and she didn’t show any signs of leaving her new home. Of course, it had just been a couple of days since she’d died, and she was still white-hot angry. With good reason.

Nicole had been so vibrantly alive; he’d known her well as a living, breathing person. Now she was neither.

His wish to see Lizzie’s ghost was wrong in more ways than one, he saw that now. He’d always thought it would be a balm, but if his time with Nicole was any indication it might’ve been more horror than gift. To see a loved one faded, confused, dead… it wasn’t natural. It wasn’t right.

He’d left the keys to the cottage on Pine Street under the welcome mat and texted Anna that the place was hers to use for as long as she needed. He’d spent last night in his apartment on the second floor of the depot, glad he hadn’t moved everything he needed to the house he’d lived in for a couple of days, relieved that he’d never gotten around to moving his recliner. So much for a ghost free home.

Maybe he wasn’t meant to live or work in a ghost-less zone. No, he had to exist in an environment which provided a constant reminder of what had happened. How Lizzie had died. How he’d died and been brought back. Why hadn’t that damn EMT saved Lizzie instead of him? She would’ve made the best of a second chance at life.

He had not. He’d wallowed in his misfortunes, hidden the results of his short death, denied who he was and what he wanted. Hell, most of the time he didn’t know what he wanted.

The store was closed on Monday, but Colt spent the afternoon reorganizing the albums. People always moved them around, especially on the weekends when the depot was busiest. When that was done he reorganized the display of rock band t-shirts. Why was KISS so popular, after all these years? It was time to order more. He swept and mopped, ignoring his dead friends when they tried to strike up a conversation. Most of them were silent, but Maude and Nicole were both chatty, at times. Eventually they gave up on him and huddled together on the other side of the room. Just as well. He needed time to think, to put the pieces of this puzzle together.

It wasn’t something he could handle alone. He needed help.

After a while he called Maude over and she came, too quick and much too eager.

“Yes dear?” she asked.

“What do you remember about when you died?”

Her smile faded. “Well, this is an unpleasant subject.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m trying to learn.” Jack knew he’d been murdered, but refused to talk about it. Nicole didn’t recall the final moments of her life. Was that normal? Was there anything normal in the afterlife?

“I’m in favor of all education, I suppose,” Maude said. “Let’s see, how did I die? At my funeral I heard my oldest son Shelby say something about my heart, but I don’t remember any pain or falling or whatever. The last thing I remember is having lunch with Betty, in the dining room. There was peach cobbler, my favorite though it wasn’t as good as my own recipe. After that… nothing.” She looked him in the eye. “Does that help?”

“It does. Thanks.” Maybe dying was like a car accident or any other traumatic event, where the brain wiped away the bad memories and left only the good. Dusting vases. Lunch with a friend. Out for a late night run.

What did Jack remember? How did he know he’d been murdered when he had no memory of it?

With final memories on his mind, Colt retreated to the room in the back where he’d stored the records from the Miller house. Everything else they owned was gone or so badly damaged it might as well be, but for the few things Nicole had taken to her store. Like the damn duck picture. How could he ask Mac about that? There was no logical way to explain why he wanted to know, not unless he told the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. He wasn’t ready to go there.

He took down a box and set it on the table he’d set up for cleaning the old records people brought in for sale or trade or just to get rid of. He mixed up his own cleaning solution and gathered a big stack of microfiber towels he kept around just for wiping down the vinyl. Cleaning records was a mindless task, which was one of the reasons he enjoyed it so much. He allowed his thoughts to wander. As he washed and wiped and examined the vinyl, that’s what happened. His mind left behind the immediate concerns and wandered.