Popcorn Thief (3 page)

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sorrel,” Franklin said politely.

“You can call me Ray,” Mr. Sorrel responded, as he always
did.

And outside of the store, Franklin would. But not at work,
where he needed to show more respect.

“So how’ve you been?” Mr. Sorrel asked politely.

“Can’t complain,” Franklin said, more or less honestly. He had
a troublesome ghost, no, three, haunting him, but he still had a roof over his
head and the best popping corn in the state growing in his backyard. “How about
yourself?”

“I’m glad I ran into you,” Mr. Sorrel said. “Your mama, God
rest her soul, used to tell fortunes at the beauty parlor, right?”

Franklin nodded warily. “She had a tarot deck that she’d
use. Or regular house cards, sometimes. It was just to keep the girls at the
parlor entertained.” Mama didn’t have a gift, not really. Not like Franklin or
Lexine.

Though sometimes, Franklin wondered. Mrs. Leslie had been a
regular at the beauty parlor for years. Then she stopped going abruptly, and
went the next county over for her weekly appointment.

At Mama’s funeral, Mrs. Leslie came and cried on Franklin’s
shoulder about how his mama had been right about everything she’d said,
everything the cards had said, but Mrs. Leslie hadn’t had the courage to go
back.

“And you help people too, don’t you?” Mr. Sorrel said, his gray-blue
eyes suddenly piercing and sharp.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Franklin said, not willing to
go into his business—particularly not here at the store. Who knew if
Charlene was watching or not?

“People say you talk to ghosts,” Mr. Sorrel said.

“People say a lot of things,” Franklin replied, trimming
another head, unwilling to just outright lie. Mama didn’t like it when he lied.

“We seem to be having some kind of haunting at the house,”
Mr. Sorrel said. “Could you stop by tonight? After work? At least come by and
say hello to Adrianna.”

Franklin looked up from his work. Mr. Sorrel didn’t seem
scared, at least.

“I can stop by,” Franklin said slowly. “But I ain’t saying
anything to any ghosts.” If Mr. Sorrel was being haunted, it was probably for
something he’d done at some point.

Ghosts didn’t just haunt people for fun.

* * *

Franklin rested his bike against the wooden fence of the Sorrels’
place. Nothing new had been added to the collection of art there, though the
metal cabinet had lost a couple of doll heads, making it a little more creepy,
with just the doll bodies framing it.

The doorbell next to the gate had been switched out since the
last time Franklin had been there: The round, lighted button now sat at the
heart of green-blue brass swirls, like a pearl at the bottom of the sea.
Franklin pushed it gently, hoping that maybe the Sorrels weren’t home, and he
could be on his way.

The gate buzzed and unlocked, swinging open almost immediately.
Franklin debated leaving his bike just leaning against the fence, but he wanted
to make sure it was still there when he left, so he pushed it through the gate
and leaned it against the wall just inside.

Cheery yellow daisies made out of clothespins lined the
white stone walkway. Children’s pinwheels spun merrily beside them. A tall
silver statue of a man, made from hubcaps, stood hunched next to the door of
the low, one-story house, his arms extended, holding a hubcap filled with water
for the birds.

Mr. Sorrel—Ray—came out the door. Adrianna
floated beside him, wearing a dress made of white and purple scarves, like what
Franklin had seen singers wear in music videos. The skirt flared out, like the
cloth was lighter than air.

“Franklin!” Adrianna called, skipping over to him and
clutching hold of his arm.

Normally, Franklin didn’t care for folks touching him. But
Adrianna, she was in a class not meant for other folks. Her hazel eyes shone clear
today above her freckled nose, while her brown hair hung down loose and clean,
past her shoulders.

“Good afternoon, Miss Adrianna,” Franklin said, lightly
patting the hands wrapped around his bicep.

“How you doing today?” Adrianna asked.

“I’m doing just fine,” Franklin said. He couldn’t help but
smile at her. “How have you been?”

“All Ray’s fish died again. In the koi pond, out back,”
Adrianna said. She gave a delicate shiver. “The water all ran out. Ray says
there isn’t a leak.”

“No leak,” Ray confirmed. “The plug keeps getting pulled.”

Franklin didn’t want to point out that it was unlikely that
a ghost could have done it—not unless that ghost was real mad. Most
didn’t have the strength.

But a ghost like Gloria might be able to. Or maybe even his
unseen visitor, the one strong enough to open a jar of lard.

Were either of them haunting more than just Franklin? Did Gloria
have something against Ray too?

“Why don’t you show me?” Franklin said.

“Good!” Adrianna exclaimed. “I told Ray that you could help.
I don’t have the sight, not like you. But you have it, right?”

“Let’s just see what we can see,” Franklin said, not
admitting nothing to nobody.

Adrianna tugged Franklin along the path, leaving Ray in
their wake. “What do you think of the new design?” she asked proudly.

“New design?” Franklin asked, confused.

“The path! Now it follows all the spirit-power lines.”

“Ah,” Franklin said, looking down. New grass lined the edge.
The path had been laboriously moved about two feet to the left. “Very nice,” he
said when it was obvious Adrianna was looking for a reply.

“See?” Adrianna beamed over Franklin’s shoulder at Ray. “I
told you we should do it.”

“Yes, dear,” Ray said in a long-suffering voice.

“He doesn’t really mean that,” Adrianna confided in Franklin.
“He feels better walking this path as well.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Franklin said. It was always best to just
agree with Adrianna. Especially when he didn’t understand half of what she
said.

In addition to the tree men wired together from fallen
branches stood several other statues: A half-complete mermaid that Franklin
guessed was pieced together out of found glass; what looked like a goat man, up
on his hind legs, made out of balls of twine; a long streaming V of dark birds dangled
from dark rope that linked one tree to the next; and a collection of outboard
motors all painted blue and white, sitting on top of fancy pillars.

They curved around the yard, circling through the statues,
before they reached the pond, a plain concrete ring about three feet deep, with
just a touch of water still remaining in the bottom. It looked clean, was a
pretty blue, and stank of dead fish.

“Where’s the plug?” Franklin asked Ray. He didn’t see any
ghosts, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been there earlier.

“Let me show you,” Ray said.

Franklin gently rolled away Adrianna’s hands and followed
Ray as he stepped over the concrete lip.

The plug sat at the center of the bottom of the pond. It
looked like an oversized bathtub plug, made of black rubber with a brass ring
through the top of it and a chain. Franklin tugged on the chain, but it didn’t
come up easily. He tugged again, putting more muscle into it.

“You said the plug gets pulled up at night? This plug?”
Franklin tugged again, finally getting the plug to release.

“Yes, almost every night,” Ray said.

“It’s the spirits, right?” Adrianna asked. “They don’t like
us trapping living things. I told you, Ray.”

It couldn’t have been a ghost. No ghost that Franklin had
ever met had the strength to pull up that plug.

And he really didn’t want to meet a ghost who had that kind
of strength and will.

“We shouldn’t trap live things,” Adrianna said. “The spirits
don’t like it. Right, Franklin?”

Why was Adrianna staring at him like that?

But she was right. “Sprits don’t like you trapping living
things,” Franklin admitted. It was why he didn’t have a pet, not a hound or
even a turtle: The ghosts would put a hole in the screen door for them to get
out, push on any cage door until it was ajar.

“So it’s the spirits pulling the plug,” Adrianna said
earnestly. “It must be the spirits. It can’t be anyone else, right, Franklin?”

Franklin looked up at Adrianna, who kept staring at him,
then back at Ray.

“You don’t like the fish being trapped either, do you, Miss Adrianna?”
Franklin asked gently.

“No, but Ray likes ’em. So it must be the
spirits
that want them free,” Adrianna
said again.

While Mama may have accused Franklin of not being the
brightest bulb in the pack, even he could see what was happening here.

Adrianna was pulling the plug at night, and blaming it on
ghosts.

“Now, Ray,” Franklin said, stopping until the man looked at
him. “Adrianna is right. Spirits don’t like you trapping living things. Free
spirits. Of all kinds,” he said, glancing up at Adrianna, then back at Ray. “They
might love you, but trapping living things make ’em kind of nuts.”

Ray looked up at Adrianna and sighed. “Well, I’ll be—”
He stopped, and paused. “All right. I hear ya. Free spirits will be free, and
free everything around them, won’t they?” He stuck his hand out for Franklin to
shake, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I appreciate your discretion in
this. No one needs to know just how free a spirit Adrianna is.”

Franklin grinned at Ray. “I won’t tell anyone but Mama.”

DESPITE IT BEING HIS DAY OFF, Franklin
set his regular work alarm, which still went off too damn early. However, he
let himself snooze his alarm once before he opened his eyes and stretched his
arms up in his narrow bed, touching the wall with his fingertips while his toes
slid off the end. His Ab-Buster workout the night before had left him a bit
sore.

Franklin jackknifed up, touched his toes, then flopped back
down his bed again. Yep. He was sore. But a man had to stay in shape.
Particularly when he wanted to look good in the photos for the local paper,
when he won the blue ribbon prize for growing the best popping corn.

But today—today Franklin had to go see his cousin
Lexine. She lived off in the woods, out where there was no cell reception, in a
cabin she’d seduced one of the local contractors to build for her.

Some of the folks in town called her a witch, though never
to her face, and never when Franklin could do something about it. She wasn’t
really a witch. She was just cleverer than most. She also saw spirits.

Franklin preferred ghosts to spirits. He always figured he
could at least try reasoning with a ghost—after all, they’d once been human.
Spirits were what remained of dead animals and other creatures that Franklin
had no name for: Like the soul of a sad wind, or the remains of a burned-out
mill. Still, Lexine did her best to calm whatever spirit came calling on her.

Mostly Franklin never saw spirits, and Lexine never saw
ghosts. Their powers shifted only when they were near each other. At first it
was uncomfortable, particularly as teenagers, but they’d both gotten used to
it. Now they sometimes did it on purpose. Franklin would take hold of Lexine’s
hand and show her a ghost, share his vision with the only other person in the
world who could see.

Lexine was a cousin through marriage only: An adopted daughter
of Mama’s older sister when she’d remarried. But everyone said Lexine fit right
in with the rest of them.

Mama shared the kitchen table with Gloria that morning. And
most of his newly opened lard was gone, too.

“Dang it! Mama! Who’s doing this?” Franklin said, shaking
the jar at her.

Mama wasn’t glaring though, wasn’t even looking at him.
Neither was Gloria. They stared at the table instead.

Were they ashamed? Couldn’t they stop the greedy ghost?

Franklin sighed. “It’s okay, Mama. I just won’t bring any
more up, not ’til I settle this thing.” He made a bigger helping of his special
breakfast sandwich, since it was a good long bike ride up to Lexine’s cabin:
Three eggs piled high on top of a piece of bread slathered with peanut butter, and
some banana slices as well.

“I’m going to Lexine’s today,” Franklin told Mama. “There’s
a businessman gone missing. Don’t think she had anything to do with it, but
maybe her spirits know where he’s hiding at.” Franklin felt positive that the
man had just taken some time off, and would show up soon.

Both Mama and Gloria looked up at that. “Do you have a
message for me to bring to Lexine?” Franklin asked eagerly. Maybe Lexine could
help him, get either Mama or Gloria to pass on and stop haunting him.

But neither Mama nor Gloria said anything or pushed any
intent
at him. Gloria glared, but Mama
looked sad. “You remember Lexine?” Franklin asked Mama.

Now she glared at him. Of course she did. Then her
thoughtful look returned.

Franklin didn’t know what that was all about. He was gonna
have to talk Lexine into coming back here to the farm with him. Maybe this time
she’d be able to see Mama. Even if she couldn’t, he could translate, at least.
Maybe Mama had something she wanted to say to Lexine. And maybe that would help
her pass on.

Or maybe Mama just intended to haunt Franklin forever.

* * *

Franklin gladly pedaled slower once he got off the pavement
and onto the dirt road, under the towering trees. It smelled clean like pine
and dark earth. Broadleaf bushes grew under the tall trunks, along with
brambles full of blackberries. Birds and crickets sang him along.

If Franklin could afford a place back in the woods here, he
would. But he’d have to buy the land, and the easement, and probably a car to
get himself to his job. Plus, he’d have to pay to have a hunk of the trees
cleared out for a field, and then it would take a couple years to get the soil
just right. Still, a man could dream.

A black SUV sat parked at the start of the driveway to
Lexine’s cabin. That was strange. Lexine didn’t get many visitors. It was a
rental, too. Maybe she’d gone ahead and put up that web page she’d always
talked about, Spirits “R” Us, advertising her services.

But why was the car parked so far from the cabin? Had its
owner just pulled off the road here?

Franklin took a long swig from his water bottle after he got
off his bike, then wiped the sweat off the back of his neck with his kerchief. It
was cooler under the shade of the trees, but the day was still hot, and the air
was sticky.

The spirit of Sweet Bess suddenly appeared, standing between
Franklin and door to Lexine’s cabin.

“Shit!” Franklin exclaimed, ready to hop back on his bike
and race out of there.

Sweet Bess, the two other times she’d appeared to Franklin,
had tried to mow him down for turning her into bacon. She was the one spirit he
could see without Lexine. The sow couldn’t hurt him, but having a ghost or a
spirit pass through a body made Franklin shiver for a day.

But the giant sow just tossed her head at him. If she’d been
alive, he would have heard her deep grunt. Then she ambled away, back into the
woods.

Franklin shook his head. He’d never understand spirits.

Still, the encounter left him unsettled. He approached the plain
brown-wood cabin carefully. It looked the same as it always had, a one-story
house, just one step up from a shack. Perfectly square, it squatted under the
trees with a resigned air. The two front windows on either side of the red door
were dark, with no shades—Franklin didn’t think Lexine owned any.

As Franklin walked across the broken brick walkway, he
noticed the front door was ajar.

It didn’t seem like Lexine to leave her door open. Maybe she
was expecting other visitors? Like the strangers in the rented SUV?

Franklin stepped across the threshold and called out,
“Hello? Lexine? Anyone home?”

The only sound he heard was something buzzing, angry and
frantic, coming from the left, where the living room was.

Franklin paused and let his eyes adjust before taking
another step into the room. He was glad he did.

The place was a shambles.

Torn-up pieces of paper littered the wooden floor. The
twisted rosemary plant that had guarded the door lay broken, its dark stems
scattered, the scent pungent. The old couch sat skewed, pushed almost to the wall.
Glass from the side window, not visible from the front, spread out in a spiral
pattern across the wood, like much of the debris. The pictures hanging on the
wall—old drawings of plants and insects—were torn and punctured,
the holes aligned in a spiral. Lexine’s desk had been turned over and lay on
its side, like a dark wounded horse.

As Franklin went around the couch, he saw blood. Lots of
blood.

Franklin rushed forward.

Lexine lay with her head at an odd angle to her body, like a
broken doll, her dark eyes blank and staring. Deep slashes marred her arms and
legs, like some kind of wild animal had been scratching at her, the blood long
since dried. The angry buzzing came from the flies crawling all over her.

Franklin looked away, sickened. Who—no, what—did
this?

Was it that crazy missing businessman?

Except that when Franklin looked up, he could see a pair of legs,
not moving, on the kitchen floor.

Franklin made himself go and look.

It appeared to Franklin that the
businessman—Jackson?—had been trying to get away from whatever the
hell had found the pair of them. The white kitchen door held bloody
fingerprints from where he’d broken off his nails, scratching, trying to get
out. He wore a suit, so it was his face that was all slashed up, like from a
knife-tipped rake.

Franklin looked around the kitchen. It wasn’t in as bad a
shape as the living room. Lexine’s dried herbs still hung from her drying rack,
up above the sink. A few plates were smashed—the ones probably on the
counter—the shards in that same spiral pattern. The clean dishes still
sat stacked up in the cupboards. Even the knives in the old butcher block
looked untouched.

The only thing Franklin found amiss was that the jar of
bacon grease, that Lexine always kept next to the stove, was empty.

Some ghost had licked it clean.

* * *

Franklin went back out to the living room, looking for a
blanket to cover up Lexine. She looked indecent like that.

No wonder Mama had looked sad, when Franklin had mentioned
Lexine’s name.

Mama had known Lexine was already dead.

Although Franklin could only really see spirits when he was
with Lexine, and Lexine was now dead, he still felt like something else was
there—maybe the soul of her cabin. It didn’t feel malicious or evil, not
the same as what had done this.

“I’m afraid she’s gone,” Franklin said addressing whatever
was there. “I’m sorry.” He paused, then added, “I’m gonna find them and stop
them.” He didn’t know about punishing a spirit or a ghost. If he knew how to
send this one to Hell he sure would.

Before Franklin could drag a blanket over Lexine, he heard
sirens wailing.

Had Charlene tried calling him? To tell him the police were
coming or had a clue?

He wouldn’t find out until he got back in cell phone range again.
But he wasn’t about to stick around and find out why the police were on their
way. Sheriff Thompson was a good man, but he didn’t have much imagination.
Franklin being here would cause all kinds of heartache.

As Franklin turned to leave, a chill raced up his spine. He
held himself ready to fly out of there if it was some spirit he’d never met
before.

But it was Gloria. And she was carrying something. It looked
like a black ball of hate, until she dropped it.

An ear of corn rolled next to a pool of Lexine’s blood.

The ear of corn from Karl’s fields.

That had Franklin’s fingerprints on it.

How the hell had Gloria done that? Most ghosts didn’t have
the strength to carry something as heavy as an ear of corn, let alone for miles
and miles.

When Franklin made to pick it up, Gloria barred her teeth at
him and stood in his way.

Damn it!

Franklin had to get out of there. He did
not
want to be there with the cops
coming.

It would take them a while to lift any prints off the corn,
if they could get any at all. Plus, Franklin wasn’t in the system: Mama had
made damn sure he’d kept his nose clean, and for once, was grateful for her
interfering ways.

Franklin ran out of the house and hauled his bike around
back, to the trails there. He knew another way out of the woods that Lexine had
shown him. Bushes scratched his legs as he ran, and got tangled in the wire
wheels. The heat felt like a weight, heavy and trying to slow him down. The
sirens kept getting close. Franklin knew he was out of sight of the cabin but
he kept running, as if that thing that had killed his cousin was coming after
him.

When Franklin finally got back to the main road, Gloria
stood there, waiting for him in the hot sun.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Franklin yelled, madder than
a hornet. “Sending me to jail won’t make me a criminal. I’m never stealing
Karl’s crop of corn! You hear me?” Karl was his competition. Winning through
cheating wasn’t winning at all.

Gloria’s glare didn’t change, and she didn’t look one bit
guilty.

Franklin took a look at his legs. If Mama had been alive,
she’d have thrown a fit over how bloody and scratched up he was. His shirt was
ruined too. After tearing out another branch and a few more leaves from his
wheels, Franklin got on his bike and started riding wearily back into town.

Why had Gloria dropped that ear of corn there? People didn’t
always make sense, and ghosts, even less so.

Or maybe—because it
was
an ear of corn from Karl’s fields, they’d go see him.

Why would Gloria want the cops to go see Karl?

Franklin shook his head. He needed to get home, get cleaned
up, maybe do some chores, but then he was gonna have to pay Karl Metzger, his main
competition, a visit.

* * *

The day stayed hot and muggy. Franklin tried to talk himself
out of going to Karl’s house, but he kept remembering Lexine’s body, laying
broken like one of Adrianna’s art dolls. So he hauled out his bike and made the
long trip from his property, up to the four-lane highway, through town and to
the other side, where highway sixty-two split off. Franklin huffed as he rode
up the hill, past Karl’s fields, then up the steep driveway.

Karl’s house was a tall, two-story old building, with gray
half-circles covering the walls and white curly bits under the eaves and
between the rails on the front porch. It had tall windows that reflected back
the sunlight, not letting any inside. Graceful cherry trees stood on either
side of the big wooden door, and neatly trimmed bushes ran along the edges. The
Kentucky bluegrass that made up the lawn was thick and healthy, without a
single brown spot.

An old black Chevy sat in the driveway, but no one was home
when Franklin knocked on the door. When Franklin thought about it, he realized
Karl was probably at the vegetable stand out on the highway: Franklin had
probably ridden right by him. Damn it!

Franklin stomped back to his bike, then paused, looking out
over Karl’s fields. In front of the rows and rows of corn Karl had a healthy
patch of tomatoes, with plump beauties bursting off the vines. Another patch held
squash and cucumbers, the prickly leaves hiding more prizes, Franklin was sure.
Along the side ran Karl’s rows of walnut trees, that would fruit come fall.