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Nana Pratt materialized beside me on the porch. “Are you going to Monk’s tonight to talk to the dead?”
“And the living. I’m waiting for the sun to set first.”
“What does that matter? Ray and I are here all day and night.”
I smirked. “No need to remind me.”
I polished off the beer and carried the empty bottle inside. I worked too hard to keep the house tidy. I refused to attract ants with one careless act. I rinsed the bottle in the sink and grabbed the keys to the truck.
“Aren’t you going to change first?” Nana Pratt called after me, as I exited the house.
“Who am I trying to impress?”
“Some of the men might be more open to talking if you cleaned up nicer,” she suggested.
“Men who frequent a place called Monk’s aren’t likely to care.”
I passed through the gate and climbed into the truck, thankful my ghostly companions would be unable to join me. Based on the GPS, I’d have about ten minutes of solitude before I arrived at Monk’s. I didn’t even play the radio. I kept the windows up to block out external noise and blasted the A/C. It was blissful.
The bar was located southeast of downtown Fairhaven, past Sawmill Creek. Its nearest neighbor was Ruby’s Pet Resort, where I pictured Great Danes enjoying pedicures and bubble baths while their human companions were on vacation.
I parked my truck in the dirt parking lot. There were about a dozen cars already there. It was a shame the bar was too far from town to walk, although I bet that didn’t stop a few drunks from trying on occasion.
I skirted the building, which was more of a large wooden shack that threatened to buckle under the weight of the humidity on a night like this. I wasn’t ready to brave the inside, not yet.
The heat licked my bare arms as I wandered past the back door. It was propped open with steam pouring out. I hurried past, not wanting to get caught up in whatever maintenance issues the bar was having. I already had a job to do.
The woods behind the bar were dark. There wasn’t much light pollution in this direction, probably because these smaller woods abutted the larger area known as Wild Acres. I scanned the trees for signs of movement. If there were ghosts in the vicinity, they’d find me. They always did.
I lingered for a good five minutes before giving up. It was time to join the land of the living. To say I was unenthusiastic was an understatement. Curse Nana and Steven Pratt and their sob story. We all had dead people; why had I let theirs influence my decision? The police were probably right. Ashley was an adult who was likely afraid of upsetting her brother, so she left without a word. Still, a deal was a deal.
I continued around the perimeter of the building before heading inside. Monk’s was the quintessential dive bar. The wooden floor was covered in a thin layer of dirt and debris tracked in from patrons. I caught a whiff of pot as I approached the counter. The stools looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since Nixon was president. I opted to stand.
The solo bartender was too busy serving people at the opposite end of the bar to notice me. Fine with me. It gave me a chance to get the lay of the land. I spotted plenty of supernaturals amongst the humans. From their curious expressions, they seemed to recognize me as ‘other’ without knowing how to classify me. Typical.
I scanned the crowd for young human men because they were the ones most likely to have noticed a pretty, young woman like Ashley the night she disappeared. My gaze landed on a target slouched against the wall. Light brown hair. Cherub face. Kind eyes. Most notably, the pint glass in his hand was nearly empty, and those kind eyes were turning into drunken slits. He might be a talker in his inebriated state.
I sidled up beside him. “What do you recommend here?”
He barely registered my presence. “Beer,” he said, and laughed like a hyena.
“Do you know Ashley Pratt?”
His chin slid down toward his chest. It took me a second to recognize the movement as a nod.
“Did you see her here on Friday night?”
This nod was more perceptible.
“Did you happen to notice what time she left?”
He puckered his lips as though his mouth was doing all the thinking for him. “Eleven.”
So, he could speak. I was beginning to wonder. “Was she alone?”
He tilted his head to the side, away from mine. “Yeah, she was. Tommy Mennard tried his luck but was shot down. Again.”
“And what do we think of Tommy Mennard?”
