Stolen Ghouls Page 12

  There was a soft yet obnoxious pop.

  “You and the policeman are useless,” Roger Wilson said. “A pair of tits, both of you.”

  “Can you not float above my desk?”

  “I feel like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.” He did a backflip in the air. “Weeeeee.”

  I bet that was the first time he had ‘weeeeeed’ in his life. “What are you doing here?”

  “Came to see if you burned my sodding house to the ground yet, didn’t I?”

  “Did you put the salt trench around your house?”

  “I did. What is it to you?”

  “Strikes me as paranoid.”

  “I watch a lot of horror movies. There’s salt in my mattress—garlic, too. Never know when the zombie uprising will start because some stupid git fooked up in the lab.”

  “Zombies aren’t real.”

  “Sure about that, eh? Not much of a bloody leap from ghosts to zombies, in my book. If one exists, why not the other? Why not all of them? The whole bloody world might be infested with oogie boogies. That’s why I take all the precautions, because you never know.”

  “And yet you don’t have an alarm system.”

  “Not scared of humans, am I?” He rubbed his hands together as well as a ghost could. “Anyway, what’s the status? Find the sod who killed me yet?”

  I went into the kitchen and mustered up the big bottle of salt I used to refill my normal-sized salt shaker.

  “Do you have any enemies? Friends? Rivals? Anyone who has ever met you? If you’d be more transparent, maybe I’d have a better shot at helping you.”

  He stared at me, stone-faced. “Are you mocking me?”

  “Pun completely unintended, which stinks because it was a pretty good one.”

  “A bit bloody cheeky mocking the dead. You’ll be dead one day. Won’t be so funny then, will it?”

  While he blathered about the dead and their feelings, I quietly sprinkled salt around him a wide ring. When I was done, I slid the lid back into place and fetched the pink jar I took from Kyria Fasoula.

  “What is this?”

  That shut him up. He gawked at the jar in my hand. “Where’d you get that then?”

  “From the package sitting on your front door step.”

  His mouth snapped shut—temporarily. “Do whatever you want with it, I don’t care nowt about it.”

  “Are these expensive?”

  “There’s expensive and then there’s worth it.”

  “Why? It’s just a jar. Was it handmade by blind monks in Meteora?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care. All I do is collect them.”

  “Why pink?”

  “I like the ruddy color pink, all right? Can’t a man enjoy a bit of pink in his life? Why should you womenfolk get all the good colors? Doesn’t make me a wooly woofter.”

  I didn’t know what a wooly woofter was, but figured it must be itchy if it had wool in it. ”Why collect jars though? I’d get it if they were all different, but these are identical. Is it some kind of fetish? You don’t have go into any detail, especially if it’s a sex thing, I’m just curious.”

  “Why not jars? People collect all kinds of things. Stamps, dolls, coins. Why do you care what I collect? What’s it to you?”

  My mind flicked over to Angela’s recently dismissed potential beau and his castle collection. The Doors had it right: people were strange. I should know, I was one of them.

  I tried on my Freudian hat. “Did your mother collect these same jars?”

  He laughed, hard and brittle. “That phony old bint never collected nowt but the dole and then the pension. I just like jars, is that a crime? They’re neat. Orderly. Useful. That one you’re holding got botched up, so I complained to my bank and got my money back.”

  “How did you know it was flawed?”

  “The geezer I used to buy from dropped dead recently. Had himself a stroke and drove into a lorry. Got his head lopped off like that photographer chap in The Omen. So I had to find someone else. Although I don’t know where they get off trying to fob off shoddy merchandise. It’s not right.”

  I inspected the jar. “It looks perfect to me.”

  “That’s because you know nowt about nowt.”

  “I know something you don’t know.”

  “What’s that then?”

  “Interesting story.” I sat on the couch, put my feet up on the coffee table. Somewhere, in a faraway land, my mother screamed. “Do you know Kyria Fasoula? Of course you do. You were—what do they say in England? Oh yes, you were shagging, so it makes sense that you would know her name. Out of curiosity, why didn’t you ask her to sort out your belongings and start that fire? She was the closest thing you had to a person you were close to.”

  “I bloody well tried, didn’t I?” he said through gritted teeth. His gaze was stuck to the jar and the way I casually bounced it from hand to hand. “But she couldn’t see me. That’s a bit of a problem when you’re a ghost. What about her?”

  I stopped tossing the jar and wiggled it under his nose. “She had this on her when she was attacked.”

  His gaze snapped away from the jar, to my face. “Eleni was attacked?”

  “Coming home from your place last night. She’s okay after her stint as a human punching bag. They’re taking care of her at the hospital. The police think it was her husband, you know.”

  He snorted at the very idea. “And put down his bloody newspaper? I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t think he did it either. Whoever got you, I think they want her, too. That’s what I think. So if you remember something—anything—about your murder, any enemies you might have had while you were alive, you should probably tell me.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “What does Eleni have to do with my jar?”

  “Being a thoughtful sort of person—or maybe Kyria Fasoula didn’t want any of Merope’s eyes on her while she did her stealing—she brought the package inside before helping herself to the contents. Then I took it from her because I’m investigating your alleged murder—”

  “Nowt alleged about it,” he said.

  “—and it’s weird to me that you collect all those jars.”

  He waved his bony hand at me. “Keep it if you want, I don’t care.”

  “Cool. Thanks. You never know when one of my clients might want a pink jar of unknown but handmade origins. As a side note, the box was subsequently stolen from your house. Any idea who might do that—or why?”

  “Stolen, you say? The empty box?”

  “Stolen. Taken. Pilfered. Pinched. Thieved. Gone-o. That’s a weird thing to steal.”

  “Don’t know nowt about no box thieves. Sounds like something one of your people would do. Probably wanted to patch shoes or their roofs. You done with all your questions yet?”

  “Hey, you came to me. I didn’t invite you to this party.”

  “What party? Looks like you’re hanging out with all your friends.”

  On that rude note, he closed his eyes, made a face like he needed prunes and a bowl of fakes—lentil soup. His mug scrunched, twisted, untwisted, twisted the other way.

  “Congratulations, you look like a used paper towel. Something wrong?”

  “There’s nowt wrong! I just can’t seem to …”

  “Pop?”

  “Pop? What are you babbling about now?”

  “When ghosts leave they make a popping sound. Same when they show up. You might be dead but you’re far from silent.”

  “Pop! Of all the bloody … Of all the no-nowt people I’ve ever met …” He squeezed again. Nothing popped, least of all Roger Wilson.

  “I know something,” I said in a sing-song voice,

  “What?”

  “I know you’re not going anywhere.”

  “What are you flapping your gums about?”

  My finger pointed south. “Look down.”

  His gaze cut to the floor and the ring of salt I’d poured around him while he was busy shooting his mouth off. Hi
s face turned a regal shade of purple. “What did you do?”

  “Yesterday you asked me to circle my whole apartment so you’d have a comfy hideout. I’m just doing what you asked—except smaller.”

  “You’re a faffing wank womble, that’s what you are!”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  “It’s not a bloody compliment!”

  “Well then it should be because it sounds cute.” I scrunched down in the couch’s pillows, making a nest. “I never wanted to solve your murder. I’m not even convinced there was one. I’m starting to think you’re just an annoying …” I hunted around for a British insult “… prat.”

  He opened his mouth. My phone rang, cutting him off. Sam was on the other end.

  “You said this Betty Honeychurch runs the Cake Emporium? That lady has one hell of a commute if that’s the case.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “I’ve got what I’ve got, but I dunno if it’s wine or water. Betty Honeychurch lives in England.” He gave me the address.

  “England? She doesn’t have a place on Merope?”

  “If she does it’s not in her name. Me and that English guy who bit the dust the other day were the only English-speaking outsiders living on this island at the moment, not counting you and your sister. Nobody here has even heard of your friend or her brother.”

  Interesting and strange. My gut said there was an explanation of the paranormal kind. “That’s weird.”

  “You know what else is weird? I tried looking for that cake place the other day and never could find it.”

  That made sense. Sam was a wizard when it came to information technology but obviously he didn’t have a drop of woo-woo blood in him.

  “Thanks, Sam.” I blew him a kiss.

  “Come see me soon, and bring some of that cake from that place that doesn’t exist.”

  Betty had to be somewhere on the island. No one could commute to Merope every day to sell cake. There was no logic in the logistics. There was physics, for starters. And transport schedules.

  Was it really so impossible, though? Betty mentioned the store existed in more than one place. As crazy as that sounded, was it really more nutsy than seeing ghosts? One day I’d have to spend time soul searching the levels of loony and implausible. Today wasn’t that day. I needed to speak to Betty. She was my authority on all things mystical, and I was up to my neck in mystical.

  The cat hair in my DNA wiggled.

  “Hey, Mr. Wilson, the person who made that allegedly defective jar for you—”

  He stuck his chin out, folded his arms. “If I said it’s botched up it’s botched up. No doubt about it. I won’t have you calling my integrity into question.”

  “You’re dead. You don’t have integrity.” I pulled on my boots. “The person who sent you that jar, they knew you planned to return it, right?”

  “Who said anything about sending it back? The seller wants to peddle shoddy goods, that’s not my problem. I called my bank, told them it was a fraudulent whatzit—a fraudulent charge. They turned around and put my money right back where it belongs, in my account.”

  Wow, Wilson really was kind of a jerk. “And it was expensive, correct?”

  “Yes. So what?”

  “Expensive enough that the seller might try getting it back?”

  He snorted at that. “What kind of berk would hop on a plane and fly over here to get one bloody jar back? They’d have to be completely barmy.”

  “Think really hard.” I squinted at him. “Did you talk to the seller?”

  “Of course I did. I called them before I called my bank. Said I wanted my money or a jar that wasn’t duffed up. They said they’d send a replacement.” He laughed. “So I kept the first jar, got my money back, and planned to keep that one you’ve got in your hand right there.”

  “So this is the replacement, not the original damaged jar?”

  “It’s the same bullocks, I can see that from here. Walls are too thin. The cork isn’t snug.”

  “What happened when the seller discovered you called your bank.”

  “She was cheesed off. Called me a knackered old wanker and threatened to call the Greek coppers. I told her to go ahead, that I could buy them off with a box of that balaclava you Greeks are always shoving in your pie holes.”

  “Baklava.”

  “Whatever. Let me out of this circle.”

  “Why? You wanted protection before. Now you don’t?”

  Silence. He zipped his lips, chucked away the key like a grown-ass adult.

  “Okay then, don’t go anywhere.” A laugh burbled up my throat. At least one of us was amused, and this time it was me. “I’ll be back.”

  “You can’t leave me here like this!”

  “And yet, somehow, I am.”

  I jogged down to the small lobby where my bicycle was waiting. On my mind: murder. Solving one, not committing one. Roger Wilson was obnoxious. An infuriated business owner flying to Greece to punch him in the throat wasn’t a stretch—not when a substantial amount of money was involved.

  Good thing I’d thought to snap a picture of the package’s shipping label. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs I had the phone number for S&P Exports in the UK. The phone rang and rang. No answer. No voicemail.

  Crap.

  Given that the box had been stolen, but not the jar—which was pre-stolen by Kyria Fasoula and currently in my custody—there was a better than even chance the seller was still on the island.

  If the seller had reclaimed the box.

  Since I was out on a limb anyway, I had already considered the possibility that the same person who’d stolen the box was responsible for Roger Wilson’s status as a pain-in-the-butt ghost, which was why I had to find her.

  During cooler months, transport options were more limited than the warm busy seasons, but there were regular and daily ways off the island, so I worked fast before the opportunity slipped away.

  It was a numbers game—phone numbers. One by one, I called the island’s hotels, motels, and bed-and-breakfasts—sticking to the businesses that were open all year long. The collector was, like Wilson, English. All I had to do was ask if they had someone foreign checked in.

  I struck gold at the final location on my list, the Hotel Hooray. The Hotel Hooray is the kind of place where paying by the house is encouraged. The rooms have walls and a roof, which is apparently all some people require. Pro travel tip: If you find yourself at the Hotel Hooray, take preventative penicillin. Located on the western edge of Merope, not all that far from Wilson’s house, it made sense that the seller chose that particular bed to crash in.

  Manolis, the owner and manager, picked up. Manolis is made of grease, semen, and sour sweat. His hobbies include porn, porn, and porn. When he isn’t slapping the mortadella in the office, he shovels food into his face, no doubt to reload.

  I put on my best flirty voice to ask about any English-speaking foreigners staying at his hotel, because Manolis doesn’t respond to reasonable questions delivered in business tones—not from women, anyway.

  Manolis went quiet.

  Once upon a time, the Hotel Hooray was the island’s only brothel. Two of its former working girls haunt the building to this day. They were laughing themselves silly and making vomiting noises.

  I closed my eyes. Nausea rampaged through my digestive system. When it reached my throat it crouched and waited, greasy and cold. Couldn’t he put that thing down for one second?

  “Are you still there?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you come over here and hold something for me while I think about your question?”

  Virgin Mary help me, I giggled. Not because he was funny but because he was my last hope. “I’m kind of busy,” I said. “Maybe later?”

  “Okay, okay. There was an Englishwoman here this morning but she checked out already.”

  The morning ferry northward to the Sporades left at daybreak. From there, your travel options were limited to cities like Volos
and Thessaloniki, if relying on public transport. If Athens was your destination, you’d be in Merope until the afternoon. A body traveling to the United Kingdom would most likely be Athens-bound. It was already the afternoon and the window was closing fast. Which meant I had a short amount of time to locate the mysterious package thief, potential murderer, and seller of tiny pink jars.

  “So what do you think? Are you going to come over here and eat the hottest salami in town?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’m afraid that thing will have to eat itself.”

  Chapter Ten

  I sped toward the dock on my bicycle, grateful that tourist season was over and traffic was light. I dodged a man riding a donkey, three goats following a goat herder, and narrowly avoided seagulls fighting over a dead chicken carcass.

  “Allie!” someone yelled out. I didn’t look back but I did wave. However this turned out, I still had to live here. Social suicide would be lousy for business.

  I was too late.

  As I screeched to a halt and dumped my bicycle alongside a gang of long-dead dock workers, the Athens-bound ferry was pulling out to sea. If I jumped, the only thing I’d get was wet.

  Damn it.

  I bent over, hands on knees, panting. If the women on that ferry really was Roger Wilson’s killer, she was out of my reach now. Which meant he would never leave me alone. I’d be stuck listening to his obnoxious pie-hole forever.

  “Going somewhere?” Leo said behind me.

  I almost leaped out of my skin. “What are you doing here?”

  “I saw you riding like the devil was chasing you. I called out to you. I think you flipped me off.”

  So much for my wave. “So you followed me?”

  “Curiosity got the best of me. What’s on the ferry?”

  “A missing puzzle piece.”

  “Important?”

  “You have no idea.”