Bath Bombs & Beyond Page 4

  Myra chuckled, but continued, “Al Capone is a big draw for customers. A haunted soap shop. Perfect for our…” she made air quotes, “haunted little oasis in the South. Ghouls and mischief making ghosts are good for business.”

  “Ghouls? Mischief?” Sandy bit her lip. “Really, I’d rather not advertise that. I don’t believe in such things.”

  Myra laughed. “Ghouls are pissy ghosts. They make trouble.”

  Fanny moved from the display window and stood between us. “Some of my best friends are pissy ghosts.” She held a needle between two nearly invisible fingers, weaving it in a sewing motion.

  I shook my head at her, but withheld any smart retorts. “Boy, do I understand that. Was this building ever a dress shop?”

  Myra scooted over a couple of inches. Fanny wavered, her hazy glow brightened as Myra walked right through her.

  Fanny gasped, giggling. “Gahd! She walked through me. That felt creepy.”

  Seemingly, unaware she walked through my imaginary person, Myra smiled. “Probably. It's over a hundred years old. You can find permits at the building department of whom, or what, occupied this space. I know for sure it was a laundry at one time because it’s so close to the springs.”

  Fanny turned hazy again. “Laundry! Jaysus. Two blocks south. That broad doesn’t know a thing about Hot Springs.”

  Moaning, I grabbed my throbbing goose egg. “Ouch. Stop it, would you?”

  Sandy and Myra shared a look; they agreed I was talking crazy. Fanny floated nearer to the window.

  “Let me make a goody bag for you.” I wanted Myra to leave the shop. If Fanny… my imagination… continued to interrupt, and I didn’t stop blurting out stupid remarks, Sandy would have me strapped to gurney in no time.

  “Good idea.” Sandy fished a small shopping bag from underneath the counter.

  “Thanks,” I took the bag from her and shoved a Black Lily Shea soap and a blue bath bomb into it.

  “I’ll be black and blue by the time I finish a bath with those things.” Myra beamed, accepting the gift. “Oh heavens! Thanks so much. You girls are the bomb.”

  Sandy chuckled at Myra’s joke, but I couldn’t. There wasn’t a single funny thing about bath bombs or sweet-smelling soaps, or Fanny’s reappearance.

  Pleased with her gift, Myra caught the cue and headed toward the door. “Ladies, if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Sandy opened the door for her. “We will. Come back soon.”

  “That woman is a thief!” Fanny barked, flickering near the door.

  Myra hesitated with one foot over the threshold. I leaned on the doorframe and folded my arms to keep from shoving her out the door.

  “You girls did good.” Myra jumped, despite her fancy high heels and shrieked. “What the—? Feels like I’ve been stuck with a pin.” She rubbed her behind. “That hurt."

  Fanny flitted next to Myra’s rotund derriere, giggling. “That’ll teach the hussy. Gahd! I can poke the broad.” Fanny huddled in the display window and her vividness faded into watery colors. I lifted a brow and glared at her.

  How did my imagination poke Myra’s behind with a needle? I could move sharp objects with my mind? Impossible.

  “Hush-up!” I scowled at Fanny.

  Sandy snorted at my retort, almost chuckling but not quite. “It’s static. Sorry about that. Static electricity. It’s been bad since we polished the floor.” She just told the biggest, fattest lie. Sandy can lie? I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t heard it.

  We haven’t had a single incident of static electricity. I nodded. “Yes, probably just static electricity.”

  “That smarts.” Myra wiggled out the door. Clutching her gift bag, she rubbed her hip. “Sure. It won’t do to shock your customers. Remember darlin’s, reputation is everything.”

  Sandy stood in the open door, watching Myra run away and another bee buzzed in over our heads. “Eww! Now! See what I mean? We must keep the door closed.” It circled the table, droning heavy with nectar, and she stepped inside snapping the door shut.

  I glanced toward the display window, and thank goodness, Fanny had disappeared. A new pain shot between my eyes and the shop’s heavy scents caught in my throat.

  “I need some air. Think I’ll sweep the sidewalk.”

  5

  Shot Through-n-Through

  “Now we have two bees. Shoo! Shoo!” Sandy chased the second intoxicated bee, but it buzzed the soaps, dodging her. Sandy ignored me, which was a good thing.

  Finding the bristled straw broom in the stockroom, I hurried back outside into cool but fickle autumn air. Arkansas has the most beautiful autumn colors, but summer wasn’t done with us yet.

  “Shut the door!” Sandy yelled.

  I snapped the door closed and took a few brisk strokes near the threshold, sweeping imaginary dust.

  Myra was right, reputation was everything, but first impressions were more important, especially in this touristy town. Sparkling windows, a dusted doorframe and a clean sidewalk showed a shopkeeper’s pride. That’s why I climbed the ladder washing the windows one last time; I wanted to make a good impression.

  My need to please had landed me on the sidewalk and in a pickle. I could see a brightly colored woman, who talked and pricked customers with a needle.

  I need to start a list. My future psychiatrist will love that ability.

  I swept vigorously, needing action to clear my thoughts. At the building’s corner, I turned and swept back toward the bench, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk.

  “She seems nice. I didn’t know I could stick her.”

  “Holy!” I jumped back. Fanny’s hazy image sat on the lavender bench sewing. “How’d you get out here?”

  “Through the door.”

  I smirked; even my brain damage was a smartass.

  “I was sitting right here when you fell. I saw you wake up. You… said pardon… and I said sorry.”

  “What?” She wasn’t the woman I sat next to after my fall? No way! That woman was a solid, real person who apologized for crowding me on the bench. “No, you’re not!”

  I am in big, big trouble.

  “Yes, it was me.” Fanny focused on sewing intricate stitches into a nearly invisible ribbon of red fabric draped over her hand. “You told her not to write wicked on the sign.”

  She nodded toward the blackboard easel.

  “Stop sewing. That’s totally creepy. Give me the needle. I won’t have you poking our customers.” I jerked out my palm but caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window glass and snatched my hand back. I looked like a beggar begging the empty bench. I glared deeper, searching for Fanny’s reflection in the glass, but didn’t find one.

  She tsked but didn’t stop sewing. “I’m sewing a bowtie for one of my gents. I haven’t heard from Al, he owes me money. I hope he hasn’t gone to the Beyond.”

  Myra’s mention of Al Capone must’ve prompted my brain damage to recall the old gangster. He was synonymous with Hot Springs. In the 1920s, he rented the entire fourth floor of the Arlington Hotel. Gambling, prostitution and bootlegging were his erstwhile businesses. He is as popular now as he was then. The man was rich and rumored to be very generous, and he would have ordered custom-made shirts from a local seamstress.

  Even now, he draws tourists from far and wide. Myra was correct; the town wholeheartedly touted his name and bad reputation bringing in lots of tourist dollars.

  “What’s the Beyond? Where is that? Al Capone is dead. He can’t pay his bill.” I fired off questions and statements, knowing my brain wasn’t cooperating.

  She stopped sewing, gazing with her brightly lit blue eyes. “You don’t know where the Beyond is?”

  “No, I don’t. Is that another town in Arkansas?”

  “It’s… I don’t know where the Beyond is.” She fingered a loose tendril hanging by her chin.

  I chewed the inside of my lip, sweeping imaginary dirt, musing about what she said. “Look. I don’t know who you are, but li
sten… Al was… he was a no-good gangster.”

  Several tourists passed hearing me talk to myself and sidestepped my snappy brush strokes. I smiled. “Just whistling while I work.” They increased their leisurely pace, hurrying along the sidewalk. Instead of cleaning, I was scaring away customers.

  “Al was good. We would dance in the Southern Club. Over there.” Fanny glanced toward the max museum’s façade.

  “At the Southern Club? No way. Pfft. It’s been closed for decades.”

  Our nearest next-door neighbor business, Josephine Tussaud’s Wax Museum, occupied what was once the Southern Club, the infamous speakeasy frequented by gangsters and hoodlums. Now, it draws tourists who want to learn about Hot Spring’s shadier side. The wax figures of Elvis, Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton are popular, but danger sells tickets. It’s the gangsters’ seductive sexy reputations and their sultry shady girlfriends that pay the museum’s bills.

  “You couldn’t have danced there.” Impatiently, I scrubbed the broom next to where her feet should’ve been.

  Fanny pointed upward with her needle. “Sometimes, I went up there. Hoping to see my old friends.”

  “You mean you live upstairs? The building isn’t up to code. It isn’t safe.” I gazed up at the building’s empty tower. Overhead, the building’s vacant windows looked foreboding.

  Like junk shops, I adored exploring creepy places, cemeteries and abandoned buildings. Against Myra’s steadfast warning about going upstairs, I snooped into the building’s forbidden confines. First chance I got alone, I climbed the gorgeous worn marble staircase lined with rusty wrought iron railings, rousing the cooing pigeons and scurrying rats.

  On the fifth floor, the building’s divine view took in Hot Springs National Park and Bathhouse Row. I’ve seen Myra’s plans and specs; the condos will be sumptuous and expensive. I couldn’t afford to buy one of her future apartments, even if I sold everything I owned and then some.

  One lonesome afternoon I took another break upstairs and found Teddy exploring. “What are you doing up here?”

  Busted, I blushed. “Admiring the view. Why are you here?”

  He rattled the paper bag he held next to his side. “Putting out rat poison. Myra asked me to do it.”

  After the fragrant soap and lotion inventory had begun to arrive, it attracted rats who made a good living gnawing into the shipping boxes. It hadn’t taken Sandy long to complain to Myra about the rodents.

  “Don’t tell on me,” I pleaded, batting my eyelashes. Teddy was a sucker for sad puppy-dog eyes.

  “Coyness doesn’t become you, darlin’. Mum’s the word.” He pretended to zip his mouth closed.

  I followed him, chattering while he scattered the poisoned pellets. Alone, we relaxed, enjoying the company without Sandy’s constant disapproval.

  Later, Teddy installed a padlock on the lower staircase door to keep curiosity seekers—and me—from exploring the upper floors. Sandy wouldn’t break Myra’s rules much less go near the stairs, so I asked him put the padlock key on her keychain to keep me honest.

  Remembering where I was, I looked down on Fanny and she asked, “What’s up to code?”

  “It’s about the rules for building something.”

  Inside, Sandy moved into the display window and I glanced up. Her chin buckled twice and through the glass she asked, “Who the hell are you talking to?”

  Busted again, I smiled and tilted my head. “Nobody.”

  She could see me talk to Fanny, but she couldn’t see Fanny. There’s no way I could explain my visions to Sandy, she’s far too sensible to accept the impossible possibility.

  Fanny giggled mischievously. “She can’t see me.”

  “Why not?” I asked, out of the corner of my mouth, trying not to move my lips. I glanced back at Sandy and she flared her nostrils, shaking her head as she stepped back into the shadows.

  “My partner thinks I’m certifiable.” This nonsense of talking to Fanny was rubbing Sandy’s last nerve raw. I didn’t want to argue with her about my medical problem since we had fussed enough about the paint colors and purchasing merchandise for the shop. Sandy proved herself a formidable adversary.

  “I need a plausible explanation as to why I can see and talk to you.”

  Fanny tsked. “What’s plausible?”

  “Nothing. Nothing to worry about.”

  Fanny sewed a few more delicate stitches into the fading fabric. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “What’s to know?”

  “You’re dead. That explains why I can talk to you.”

  “Ha. That’s funny. No way. I’m not dead.” I chuckled delighted with the incredulity of my imagination’s explanation. “Sandy, Myra, and I just had a conversation. They could see and hear me.”

  “Hmm-uh.” Fanny didn’t look up at me.

  Am I dead? The prospect frightened me. Had I whacked my head so hard on the concrete it killed me? If I was dead, it wasn’t what I expected. Where were the pearly gates? No trumpets had heralded my approach to Heaven. I’m dead and this is Hell? Not what I expected either.

  A touristy clutch of chattering gals caught my attention as they gathered at the crosswalk. When the light changed, they crossed Central Avenue giggling, browsing and lingering at the wax museum’s posters.

  One chattering girl asked, “What’s that smell?”

  “Oh. Look! Soaps.” Passing up the museum’s temptations, the group came toward me… and Fanny.

  I smiled as they approached. “We’re open. Go inside.”

  Tittering amongst themselves, they practically fell into the Row’s front door. The bell tinkled, and I looked down on Fanny. “Those women could see and hear me.”

  With her head bowed, she shrugged, sewing again. “That’s so. Guess that means you’re not dead.”

  I twirled to prove I was still among the living. “See. Living and breathing.”

  “I never had a living person hear me talk before now. When we gather… we can only hear each other. I think you’re dead.”

  “What? You mean? You’re a… no kidding? You’re a…” I was slow, but a possibility dawned on me. “No!”

  “Ghost.” She chuckled.

  Air whooshed from my lungs and I sat beside her. “That isn’t funny.”

  In my mind, I went over stepping off the ladder and hitting my head. Nothing was broken and I had a pain pinging my nose. Teddy helped me up. I sat on the bench and Sandy handed me the ice bag, and when it got cold, I moved it a bit. That’s when I saw Fanny sitting beside me. She did the normal thing, saying she was sorry and moving away. A ghost wouldn’t act like that, would it?

  “You’re a figment of my imagination. I could only see you after I whacked my head—right there.” I pointed at the spot where I landed.

  “Surprised me,” Fanny said. “I hopped off the bench. You scared me when you said pardon.”

  “Wow!” I sat back, muted by the possibility.

  What if she wasn’t my imagination? What if I could… oh, my word… I can see dead people… a dead person? I mushed my lips, biting my lower lip, then the top one. It’s hard for me to keep quiet, but the concept of seeing a ghost shut me up.

  The voices of the shopping girls filtered through the glass as I sat flummoxed, musing over the idea. Fanny sat, sewing delicate stitches.

  Wiggling, I adjusted a couple of times on the uncomfortable bench until I could form a good sentence. “So… let me get this straight. You can see me. I can see you. We can talk and hear each other, but…”

  “I hear people talk, but they can’t hear me. It’s very lonesome. You’re my first. But it’s very unusual. Ghosts only talk to each other.”

  “No way. I don’t believe in ghosts. This is silly.” I shook my head, even though I was talking to a figment of my imagination.

  “I’m certain. I remember dying.”

  “No, you can’t. That’s bogus stuff.” How could someone remember dying? I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept.

  “I
can.” Fanny faded into a deeper hue of gray.

  “That’s awful, remembering when you died. How long have you been here? Since the beginning?”

  “Since when? I don’t know how long. See this?” Fanny stretched up, putting her finger in a small hole in her blouse, just above her cummerbund.

  “Yes, I see.” She pulled out her finger and a whiff of grayish smoke drifted from the hole.

  She turned. “See the other hole in the back?”

  I could see the other hole in her blouse’s fabric. “Yeah. It’s there all right.”

  “I was shot through-n-through. One minute, I was sewing a shirt. The next.” She snapped her fingers. “Lights out.”

  A ghost who can snap her fingers? No way.

  The bell tinkled, and the chattering girls left with shopping bags loaded with enough supplies to ensure a successful spa weekend.

  Seeing them exit the shop, reminded me I was dawdling and not helping Sandy. I hopped off the bench and pretended to sweep them away.

  I smiled, nodding. “Thank you. Hope you enjoy the town.”

  One girl held up her shopping bag. “Loved the shop.”

  “Wasn’t it great?” Her friend agreed.

  I watched them walk toward the crosswalk and when the streetlight changed, they hurried across the street toward Bathhouse Row. Turning back, I sat beside Fanny as she pinned the needle into her blouse. The red fabric disappeared. If she was my imagination, I was doing a great job of fooling myself with her animated behavior.

  I held tight to the broom handle, pushing at the bottom of the broom with my foot. “So, you were killed?”

  “Murdered,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Don’t know who shot me.”

  “Whoa. That’s terrible.”

  In all my years at the sheriff’s office, there were few unsolved murders. In slow times, which rarely happened, Bubba would revisit the unsolved murder cases. He would grumble and stomp over to the filing cabinet, jerking one or two folders out to review. When a bonafide emergency called him away from the office, he’d forget about them until the next time he got bored. I don’t know how many times I refiled those tattered folders.