Givin' Up The Ghost (An Indigo Eady Paranormal Mystery)

Copyright
2012 Gwen Gardner

All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, graphic,
electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, or by any
information storage system without written permission of the publisher except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of
the dynamic nature of the internet, any web address or links contained in this
book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

Cover design
and illustration by Corona Zschusschen http://www.sjusjun.com.

ISBN:
978-0-9884195-0-6 (print)

ISBN:
978-0-9884195-1-3 (ebook)

To the lights of my life, my shining stars - Allan and Amber
Gardner. And to those who dream...

Immediatly the angell of the LORDE smote him,

because he gaue not God the honoure: And he was

eaten vp of wormes, and gaue vp the goost.

The Holy Bible,

~Miles Coverdale's Version, 1535, Acts 12:23:

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Near Escape

Chapter 2 - Survivors Unite

Chapter 3 - Snug Storm

Chapter 4 - Laughter and Caresses

Chapter 5 - Murder, I meant

Chapter 6 - Psychic Intoxication

Chapter 7 - Interfering Ghost

Chapter 8 - Indigo Revealed

Chapter 9 - Investigation Begins

Chapter 10-Won’t You Come In?

Chapter 11-Voice From Above

Chapter 12-Gang Meets Cappy

Chapter 13-Close Call

Chapter 14-Animal Graveyard

Chapter 15-Cappy Confesses

Chapter 16- Puttock’s Pub

Chapter 17-Wanton Wench

Chapter 18-Rematch Demand

Chapter 19-Sloshed Again

Chapter 20-Snug Meeting

Chapter 21-Ghostly Intervention

Chapter 22-MEC

Chapter 23-Great Escape

Chapter 24-End of Billy-Watch

Chapter 25-What Franny Heard

Chapter 26-Soul Collector

Chapter 27-Padma’s Secret

Chapter 28-Cappy Cooks

Chapter 29-Creepy Obsession

Chapter 30-The Raid

Chapter 31-Candy

Chapter 32-Clueless

Chapter 33-An Arrest

Chapter 34-The Missing Clue

Chapter 35-Interference

Chapter 36-The Tunnels

Chapter 37-The Gift

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

About the Author

Connect with Gwen

––––––––

“W
hat the...”
the guy sputtered. I lay sprawled
across him, our eyes locked in stunned surprise, our bodies entwined in a
tangle of arms and legs.

I chanced a worried glance back toward the alley I barreled
from, but the
thing
was gone. I sighed. Not a graceful escape, I’ll
admit. But all things considered, this new situation I found myself in was a
vast improvement.

Early enough to avoid a crowd of spectators, I didn’t think
anyone witnessed my fiasco. My quiet morning jog turned into a run from the
thing
.
Now I could add
“bowling over cute guy”
to my mounting list of mishaps,
along with,
“Get a grip”
on this growing problem of mine.

The guy beneath me squirmed.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped, still catching my breath. I had to
get myself out of the current predicament. Trust me, the extrication process?
Not so easy. Not when my braid somehow got wrapped around his jacket button
like thread on a bobbin.

Plus, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t doing much to help me with
the problem. In fact, based on his grin and that little devil dancing a jig in
his eyes, I’d say he enjoyed himself way too much.

I tried not to grin back. I should have been thankful he
wasn’t mad, but it was no laughing matter. I was extremely uncomfortable, on
more than one level. My knee between his legs tingled from banging against the
ground. My hand against his chest...never mind.

I didn’t know what the norm was in old medieval England, but
in the modern day medieval village of Sabrina Shores, lying about on the ground
was not cool. People began to stare. The jettied, half-timbered buildings
leaned over us, but it didn’t hide the fact that we were there, tangled
together, on the rain-soaked cobblestones, in broad daylight.

“You could help me, you know,” I chastised. My shaky hands
worked a strand of hair from his jacket button.
One strand down.
I
cringed at the good-sized clump still button-bound, preventing me from getting
up - unless I was willing to rip out chunks of my hair - which I wasn’t.

“Oh, sorry. Here, let me.” All of a sudden he was all
business. With gentle fingers, he eased my long black locks from the button,
strand by strand. While he worked, I studied his face. He looked familiar. A
slight scar above his right brow, about an inch long. Dark brown hair, slightly
messy and overgrown. Golden speckles in brown eyes that...

...now viewed me with amusement.

Crap. Busted. So not cool
. Plus, I had the feeling I
totally missed something he said.

“Sorry, what?” I asked, dumbly.

“You’re loose,” he repeated. The corners of his lips
twitched. 

“Oh, um, thanks.” My cheeks grew hot. As always, I felt the
reaction reflected on my face, like a tomato gone wild.
Darn
, why
couldn’t I learn to control that whole blushing thing? For someone with skin as
pale as mine, necessary skills include blush suppression. Note to self: learn
to control the stupid blush – or get a spray tan. For someone who was half
American Indian and half English, you’d think my skin would have a tinge of
colored pigment, but no. I had clear, pale skin.

I finally pulled my arms and legs free and stood, my
slightly trembling right hand outstretched to help him up. He glanced briefly
at my scarred palm. The raised lines snaked over my palm like a topographical
map of the Amazon River. I resisted the impulse to explain. After a brief
hesitation, he accepted the offer and I tugged with both hands.

Abruptly a film rolled in my head, rushing by like someone
hit the fast forward button on a movie video. Rolling fast, too fast for me to
keep up, overwhelming emotion still ambushed me. Happiness first, and then
devastating emotional pain. The boy’s face, and then an older man, similar
looking. I say boy, but he must have been about eighteen years old. Something
happened, something bad, and recently.

Caught off guard, I gasped and pulled my hands back. The
connection and I toppled backward. I hated when that happened.

Strong arms reached out and steadied me before I fell. “Are
you all right?” Creases etched his forehead and his brows drew together. His
concern made my eyes shimmer with unshed tears. Then he looked down. I followed
his gaze. Blood seeped through my torn sweat pants where my knee crashed into
the cobblestones. I took a deep breath and quickly looked away.
Yep, that’s
blood. A great deal of blood, in fact. It’s a good thing I’m not the fainting
type
, I told myself, trying hard to believe it. I gulped and swallowed air.
Suddenly, I needed to sit down. 

He misunderstood my gasp of shock for pain. “Let’s get you
inside and take a look at that knee.”

Cute, and a knight in shining armor, too.
But
glancing back at the alley I had burst from, and thinking about that black
misty form, I urgently needed to get home even more.

“Oh, uh, that’s all right. I don’t want to be a bother. I’ll
go home and clean up.” I’d already made a fool of myself by knocking the guy
down, and now my hands shook like mad from psychic overload. I clenched them
into fists. I needed to get home. I limped away, throwing another “Sorry,
again,” over my shoulder.

The boy swore under his breath. “Indigo Eady! It is Indigo,
isn’t it? Simon’s cousin?”

A flutter began in my chest as I turned back and did a
double-take

He stood with his arms at his sides, dark patches from the
wet cement splattered across his jeans jacket.

“Yes,” I said, uncertain. He had looked familiar. I glanced
at the battered pub sign creaking gently above his head, the morning’s rain
still dripping from corners. Carved and painted into the wooden sign was a
brown, furry animal, clothed to include a hat and blindfold tied around the
head. Although hunched, it walked upright with a stick. The sign read,
The
Blind Badger, est. 1794.

Recognition finally dawned. “
Badger
. Of course. I’m
sorry I didn’t...” I laughed feebly, chagrinned. How lame. Badger was my
cousin’s best friend and I didn’t recognize him.

“That’s all right; we only met the one time.” He shrugged,
looking rather uncomfortable. “Under the circumstances, you’re forgiven.”

The circumstance he referred to was my father’s funeral six
months ago. My mind was on other things at the time. Like my father’s death and
coming to live in this medieval English village where he was raised.

And now I lived with my Uncle Richard and cousin, Simon.

I spent the first two months in my bedroom, sleeping twenty
hours a day. Began sixth form college from which I remember nothing, and now,
thankfully, winter break had begun. I had the whole month of December to get my
head together and three weeks to figure out how to handle Christmas without my
father. My mother died when I was six. I hardly remembered her.

It was unfortunate my first venture out resulted in knocking
my cousin’s best friend to the ground. I stared uncertainly. A light mist began
to fall, reminding me of the cold now that I had stopped running.

I didn’t recall seeing Badger since my father’s funeral.
Still, there was something...something on the periphery of my mind that I
couldn’t remember...

 “Look,” said Badger. “It’s no bother. I’ll get your knee
fixed up, and then give you a ride home. You can’t walk home like that.” His
firm don’t-argue grasp on my elbow escorted me into the Blind Badger before I
had time to think up an excuse.

The empty pub was not open for business yet. Badger
indicated a corner nook near the bar. “Go ahead and have a seat over there,
I’ll get the first aid kit.” He went behind the long, polished bar. I hobbled
over to the wooden bench. I rubbed my tingling elbow where the warmth from his
hand still lingered, then clasped my hands tightly in my lap, ready for the
medical onslaught.

While Badger worked on my knee, I glanced around at the
décor. The oaken low-beamed ceiling, uneven and wavy, was blackened from years
of cigarette and fireplace smoke. I crinkled my nose at the stale alcohol and
cigarette smoke smell that permeated everything, even after the smoking ban a
few years back. Apart from the odor, the place was kind of homey.

He poured antiseptic on a cotton ball and applied it to my
knee. I sucked in my breath. It stung like hell, so I focused on something
else.

“Does your family own this place?” I asked. “I saw your name
on the pub sign...”

“Yes. It’s a family name,” he said, dabbing at my knee. “My
family has owned this pub over two hundred years. I was named after my
grandfather, Badger Bagley.”

I looked down at the progress on my unfortunate knee and
grimaced. Already swollen, several shades of blue and purple, and pretty
scraped up, but at least the blood was slowly disappearing, like invisible ink.

Being sixteen, I could drink alcohol here if I wanted, if
Uncle Richard was with me. I knew kids back in the States who would have been
so jealous. Somehow, I didn’t want to.

Badger continued to clean my wound, and I’m happy to report
he had a pretty light touch and a great, er, pubside manner. At least he
managed to take my mind off my throbbing knee. “My grandmother Agatha recently
passed away and so my mum and I have taken over the pub.” His manner was
matter-of-fact.

“I heard about your grandmother. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. She was quite old...” He shrugged, not wanting to
talk about it, I could tell. I recognized that shrug, having used it frequently
myself. “I expect I’ll see you and your family at her funeral on Saturday.”

I expect not!
But I only shrugged non-committal-like.
“I know Simon and Uncle Richard will be there, but I...I’m not sure I can make
it.” Sure, I was hedging, but it couldn’t be helped. Another funeral? Not on
your life! So soon after my father’s? Surrounded by all that grief and
pain...not to mention all the spirit activity. Spirits are big on funerals.
Nope. Not gonna happen.

Badger ducked his head suspiciously, as if to avoid my gaze.
That’s the thing about being psychic. You tend to sense these things. But you
didn’t have to be psychic to recognize avoidance techniques. I’m quite
practiced at the art myself. And so I stared at the top of his head until he
couldn’t help but look up. When he did, I caught his gaze and didn’t let go. My
raised eyebrows and cocked head demanded an explanation.

But he made me ask, “What?” Not a belligerent “what,” merely
an inquisitive one. At least that’s what I was going for.

Another shrug. “I think Richard sort of volunteered you and
Simon to help out. Afterwards, I mean. With the cleanup.”

“Oh.”
Crap
. “Then yeah, sure, I’ll try to make it.” I
didn’t mind cleanup if I could give the funeral a miss. I stifled a sigh and
continued to look around.

Behind the bar, the shimmering presence of an older woman
glided along, wiping down the bar, pumping drinks, conversing and laughing
silently with unseen customers. She had to be Badger’s grandmother, Agatha. Not
that anyone else could see her, though. That’s my specialty. That, and
Psychometry — reading energy or the history of an object - the reason for the
flash film when I shook Badger’s hand.

Agatha was probably hanging around waiting to attend her own
funeral. Spirits liked to see the kind of send-off they got before they beat
feet to the white light and presumably, heaven. Or Nirvana, Shangri-La,
Paradise, whatever. I was pretty sure we all ended up at the same place in the
end.

Finishing up the first aid treatment, Badger wrapped my knee
and gave my calf a pat. “I’ll be right back, and then I’ll give you a ride
home.” He strode down a hallway to the left, pulling his wet jeans jacket and
faded black t-shirt off as he went.

I’m not a guy watcher, truly I’m not. But I did happen to
notice his large, firm biceps, and rather well developed deltoids and trapezius,
tapering down into a nice latissimus dorsi. I’m only interested because I
studied anatomy in school. And I did NOT almost fall off the bench watching him
round the corner. The bench happened to be slanted and slippery.

Gazing back toward the bar, I continued to watch Agatha
work. That’s when I spotted him. The man from my vision when I clasped Badger’s
hand. He sat shimmering, only slightly transparent, on the end barstool. His
reflection was more defined and solid than Agatha’s. Which meant he had been
dead longer than her. I gasped. He looked like Badger. He could only be
Badger’s father.

Blood rushed to my head and roared in my ears, like a dam
bursting its seams. I started to remember things, like Badger’s father had gone
missing, possibly ran away with his secretary. That’s why Badger hadn’t been
around lately, he was helping take care of his siblings and now the pub. And
sitting here on the end barstool in the Blind Badger was the
missing
Bart Bagley.

Correction. The missing,
dead
, Bart Bagley.

Oh Crap.