A Hard Day's Fright Read online

  He fingered the gold medal around his neck. “You know I’d never say that about you peasants,” he joked, and everyone laughed.

  The train careened around a corner, and we all held on tight. Though it was summer and it stayed light until after nine, it was late and the streetlights were already on. The rapid pulled into its first stop and people shuffled off.

  The moment the train started up again, Janice said, “You know it really was dumb of you.” We didn’t need to ask what she was talking about. We all knew the comment was aimed at Lucy’s headlong dash across the baseball field to where the stage had been set up near second base. She turned to give Lucy a probing look. “You could have been hurt. You could have been trampled. None of us would have liked to see something bad happen to you.”

  “So kind of you, luv.” Lucy added that last—very British—word and made it sound natural in a way I never could. “But there’s no need to worry about me. I, after all, am the bravest woman in the universe!”

  There were groans all around and Will piped up. “Brave, huh? Let’s see how brave you are when you have that meeting with Mr. Wannamaker next week.”

  Lucy had a meeting scheduled with the school principal? This was news to me, and from the open-mouthed reactions Will got, I guess it was to everyone else, too. Apparently it was supposed to stay a secret, because Lucy shushed Will with a look.

  “You mean I’m the only one who knows!” It’s not like Will was rubbing it in; he was just used to being one of the gang instead of the center of attention.

  “Will knows something we don’t know,” Bobby crowed, singsong. “Anybody want to bet that when it comes down to it, Lucy doesn’t have the guts to face Wanny?”

  “Nobody talks to Wanny one-on-one and lives to tell about it,” Janice barked, and from what I’d heard about the principal, I knew it was true.

  “Even you’re not that brave, Lucy,” Darren said, laying a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. Maybe just being touched by Darren was enough to make any girl shiver, because she shrugged him off.

  Darren leaned forward. “You’re not really going to do it, are you? We’ll miss you when you’re gone!”

  Lucy knew he wasn’t serious. Me? I wasn’t so sure. From what I’d heard about Wanny, anything was possible. Especially if Lucy wanted to see him to complain about a school policy. When it came to rules and regulations, Wanny was a die-hard. Lucy, of course, was a rebel. Oil and water didn’t mix. I knew it, and I knew Lucy didn’t care. It was the only reason I dared to pipe up. “You could get in trouble, Lucy, and—”

  “Not to worry, Little One.” I knew Lucy meant well, but I hated when she called me that in front of her friends. I didn’t mention it. For one thing, there was no use calling any more attention to myself. For another, there was a tight muscle at the base of Lucy’s jaw. I knew better than to push her when her mind was made up. “None of you need to worry,” she added with another glance around at the group. “For I, Lucy Pasternak, am the coolest, the most daring, and the bravest—”

  “Here we go again!” Janice moaned.

  “No, here we really go!” Bobby jumped out of his seat. While we’d been busy talking, the rapid had arrived at a stop. Bobby, Darren, Will, and Janice lived near each other, and this was where they all got off.

  “See you later, alligators,” Bobby said.

  Janice walked by without another word.

  Will slid past Darren. He gave me a smile before he went to the door, and all I could do was hope he didn’t hold being called Little One against me.

  Darren lingered a little longer. But then, maybe a guy like Darren was used to things moving on his schedule, even rapid trains. “Come with us,” he said. I didn’t harbor any illusions; I knew he wasn’t talking to me. “We’re all going back to my house to listen to albums.”

  “I’ll pass.” Lucy’s shoulders were stiff. They didn’t relax, not even when Darren skimmed a finger along the back of her neck.

  “I’ve got the latest album by the Stones,” he said.

  Lucy liked the Rolling Stones almost as much as she liked the Beatles.

  “I said no, Darren.” She had been looking his way, and now, Lucy turned to stare straight ahead of her.

  Darren leaned over her shoulder and growled in her ear. “Come on, Lucy. We’ll have fun.”

  Her mind was made up. “I can’t,” Lucy said, and thank goodness the rapid doors started to close and Darren had to get moving. I was afraid she was going to spill the beans and tell Darren that she’d promised my mother she’d walk me home. I didn’t need any more embarrassment.

  I didn’t need to feel guilty for making Lucy miss out on all the fun because of me, either. But before I could tell her that and urge her to go with him, Darren mumbled something about how it was no skin off his nose if Lucy wanted to waste the rest of her night, and went to the door. It wasn’t until the rapid started up again that some of the starch went out of Lucy’s shoulders.

  I knew I wasn’t anywhere near as good when it came to people as Lucy was, but I thought she looked a little sad.

  And that only made me feel worse.

  “You should have gone with them,” I said.

  She waved away the thought with one hand.

  “But it would have been fun. You could have gone to Darren’s mansion and seen that room he always talks about, the one with all his stereo equipment in it. You could have heard the newest Rolling Stones album.”

  Another wave.

  It took me a minute to figure out why Lucy wasn’t saying anything. She looked like she was about to burst into tears.

  I turned as much as I could in the cramped rapid seat. “I’m sorry, Lucy. If it wasn’t for me, you could have gone with your friends.”

  She shook her head, and her hair gleamed like a golden waterfall. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “But Darren wanted you to go to his house. And you could have. You don’t have to walk me home. I could lie and tell my mom you did. I could tell her you dropped me off at the door, and it was late so you didn’t want to come in and—”

  Lucy sniffed. “This has nothing to do with me having to walk you home.”

  I scrunched up my nose, the better to try and figure it out. “Then why—”

  Lucy gave me a watery smile. “It’s no big deal,” she said.

  “It is a big deal. You’re crying.”

  “Nah!” She swiped her hands over her cheeks and forced a smile. “Now that the concert’s over, and the excitement’s over…I’m just feeling a little melancholy, that’s all. It’s all because…” Lucy heaved a sigh of epic proportions. “Well, you know how it is. You’ve seen enough movies and read enough books. It’s all about my lost love. And…you know…my broken heart.”

  I swear, my jaw hit the floor of the rapid. It was a shock to hear not only that Lucy had lost a love, but that she’d had one I didn’t know about in the first place.

  It was the most romantic thing I’d ever heard.

  A moment of practicality short-circuited the fantasies brought on, no doubt, by reading Wuthering Heights too many times. “You’re not talking about Paul, are you?” I asked her.

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly! My thing with Paul, that was just a fleeting illusion. A moment in time where his essence and mine met and mingled and then…” She had been clutching her hands together on her lap, and now she threw them apart to demonstrate. “We were like ships passing in the night. Sure, Paul might go to bed tonight wondering who I am and how he can find me again but…” Another sigh. “It was never meant to be. No, I’m not talking about the kind of once-in-a-lifetime fairy-tale moment I had with Paul. I’m talking about a real love. In the real world.”

  “But you never told me—”

  “Now, Little One.” Lucy gave me the kind of look that reminded me of my mother right before she launched into a lecture, and a familiar prickle of annoyance skittered up my back.

  “A girl’s got to have some secrets, remember. And you
’re not exactly old enough to know everything.”

  “Am, too.” I crossed my arms over my turquoise cardigan. “You told me about the first time Freddy Hawkins kissed you.”

  “That was freshman year.” She tsk-ed away the thought as inconsequential. “We were both just babies, no offense intended.”

  “None taken,” I said, even though it wasn’t true. “I’m not that young,” I reminded her. “You didn’t think I was too young to go to the concert with you tonight.”

  “You’re not. But concerts are a whole different thing. You know, different from undying love, and stolen kisses, and a broken heart. Someday when you’re older, you’ll understand.”

  I wanted to yell at her and tell her that I could understand, that I would, if she’d just explain what she was talking about and give me a chance. But the rapid was getting close to my stop, and I didn’t want to miss it. I stood and sidled between Lucy and the seat in front of us to get out into the aisle.

  “Wait.” She put a hand on my arm. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Don’t bother.” I shook her hand away.

  “Come on, Little One, don’t be so touchy. I promised your mom I’d walk you home. Besides, it’s already dark, and you shouldn’t be out alone.”

  “Why, because I’m too much of a baby?” I didn’t wait. When Lucy made a move to get up, I just kept walking to the door. “I can find my own way home from the rapid stop.” I tossed the comment over my shoulder. “Then maybe you’ll see that I’m not such a little kid after all.”

  The doors slid open and I stepped outside. I half expected Lucy to be right behind me, but when the doors closed again, I saw that she was still right where I’d left her. As the train pulled out of the station, she turned in her seat, grinned, and waved good-bye.

  I was so dead set on showing her that I was mature and independent, I never waved back.

  I wish I had.

  It was the last time I ever saw Lucy Pasternak alive.

  1

  Forty-five years later, same place, very different girl

  The problem with public transportation is that it’s public.

  I was reminded of this sad but true fact too early one morning when the rapid stopped and a slew of people shuffled onto the already too-crowded-for-my-liking train. It had been a cool and rainy April and that day was no exception. Coats were wet. Umbrellas dripped. The windows of the train were fogged, and the air was heavy with a hodgepodge scent of damp, perfume, and people.

  The old guy who plopped down next to me smelled like my Great Uncle Mort, and Mort was a legend in the Martin family. Weddings, funerals, picnics…it didn’t matter. Mort always wore a brown suit. Even though I was a foot taller than him, he always pinched my cheek and called me honey bun. He always, always smelled like stale cigars.

  I scooted closer to the window, and to pass the time, I looked around, hoping to catch a spot of color or a hint of style somewhere in the sea of gray raincoats and bent heads. Unfortunately, the Midwest is pretty much a black-and-white world from November until May. If it wasn’t for the middle-aged woman in the purple coat two seats ahead and me in the leopard-print trench that looked pretty darned spectacular with my fiery hair, I would have despaired of the Cleveland fashion scene entirely.

  Or maybe not…

  A flash of color caught my eye, and at the same time I wondered why I hadn’t noticed her earlier, I saw a young woman walk down the aisle.

  Khaki-colored mini. Hot pink blouse.

  So far, so good, as far as style was concerned, though I did wonder how she could possibly be comfortable when she was dressed for a summer evening rather than for a damp spring morning.

  She had long, straight flaxen hair and a complexion like porcelain.

  OK, I admit it, I was the tiniest bit envious. Not that Pepper Martin hadn’t learned to make the most of the attributes that she’d been blessed with, thanks to an unerring fashion sense, Nature, and a good gene pool. Still, I had always fantasized about not having to deal with riotous curls and a sprinkling of freckles.

  Rather than dwell on what couldn’t be changed, I continued my assessment of the girl, ticking off the pros and cons.

  The gold nail polish fell somewhere right in between. Not a bad look for evening, but it was iffy at best on a Monday morning.

  Then there was the gold lipstick.

  Whatever style points I gave her went right down the tubes with that fashion faux pas. Unless the girl was actually trying to look like a throwback to the flower power sixties.

  Or if she was dead.

  Dang! I gave myself a mental slap. I should have picked up on the whole dead thing right away. And not just because nothing says resting but not in peace like retro clothing and out-of-date makeup, but because the people standing in the aisle shivered when she passed. See, as anybody who’s ever gotten too close knows, the dead are sort of their own little freeze machines. I should know. I’ve gotten too close. Too many times.

  In my defense and just so a whole bunch of nasty rumors don’t start about how the world’s only private investigator for the dead is losing her edge, I had a perfectly good excuse for my supernatural radar being down: recently, my life had been quiet, and blissfully murder and murder victim free. In the months since I’d solved the last murder I was involved with, figured out what was going on with a gang of bad guys (and the gorgeous Brit who was their leader), and helped divert a national crisis in the name of a long-dead president, nobody had tried to shoot me, mug me, knife me, or kidnap me.

  Oh, how I would have liked to keep it that way!

  Yes, yes…I know this makes me sound like a prima donna detective. Not true! Fact is, when it’s in the movies or on TV, this whole I-see-dead-people thing looks mysterious, and pretty darned glamorous. But in real life…

  Well, in real life, being able to see and talk to the dead isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  For one thing, they never just pop in to say hello or to give me the inside track on the winning lottery numbers or next fall’s fashion trends. They always want something. And since they can’t touch things or communicate with any living person except little ol’ me, the someone they expect to take care of those somethings is always me.

  For another thing, the dead who are still hanging around have unfinished business here on earth. Sometimes there’s someone they want to help—and I’m the one stuck doing that helping. Sometimes they’ve been wrongly accused of a crime—and I’m the one who has to put things right. Most of the time, they are victims. Need I say more? Each and every victim needs someone to stand up for them. Since I have been saddled with this Gift that is nonrefundable and nonreturnable, I’m the one who does the standing.

  And the investigating.

  And the digging through sometimes decades-old information in order to get at any little kernel of truth that might be left behind.

  And the grappling with the living, of course. That includes people who loved the dearly departed and are still dealing with their passing. And the people who hated them. The people who murdered them.

  Truth be told, I actually don’t hold any of this against the dead. It’s not their fault I tripped in the historical cemetery where I work as a tour guide, knocked my head against a mausoleum, and woke up some sort of superhero detective.

  I just wish they’d find better places to talk to me than crowded rapid trains.

  And safer things for me to do than laying my life on the line again and again.

  Unless this was my lucky day and gold lipstick was some sort of psychic flash into the fashion future?

  I was cheered by the thought. But only for a moment. The next instant, I came to my senses. That fashion trend was as dead as the Golden Girl who had sidled up the aisle and was now standing next to my seat.

  The old guy next to me shuddered. “Hey!” With barely a look, he snarled at me, “Close that window.”

  “It isn’t open,” I pointed out, though considering his attitude, I was tempted not to.<
br />
  “Kids!” he snorted, right before he got up and tromped to the front of the train.

  The ghost slipped into the seat next to me.

  “Nicely done,” I told her, edging even closer to the window to give her plenty of room, and grateful that so many people nearby were either on their cells, texting, or had iPod earbuds in, they’d never notice I was talking to myself. “I’m only on for a few more stops,” I told her. “So make it quick. What do you want?”

  “I haven’t talked to a living person in forty-five years, and you start out by asking me what I want?” Now that she was close, I saw that she was no more than a kid. She sounded like a kid, too, all pert and perky and up for a fight, even though I hadn’t intended to start one. Maybe she realized it, because she grinned. “Hey, how about asking how I am?”

  “How are you?”

  “Well…” Her smile dissolved, and she sighed the way only teenaged girls can. Like whatever was troubling her, it was the end of the world. And no one understood. Or cared. She gave me a mournful look, all sad-eyed and trembling lips, and pressed one hand to her nonbeating heart. “I am dead.”

  The girl dissolved into a fit of giggles. “I’ve been practicing that one for forty-five years,” she said. “Good thing I finally found somebody who can see me and talk to me, huh?”

  I think she would have elbowed me in the ribs, except she knew about the chill factor and stopped herself just in time. She wiggled in her seat. “So you want to hear my story, right?” she asked, and before I could tell her I really would rather not, she launched right in.

  “My name is Lucy Pasternak, and I died on August 14, 1966.” She leaned closer, her voice lowered in a way that was supposed to be spooky, even though this particular ghost was anything but. “I was murdered!”

  “Of course.” I figured I’d better set her straight before she thought that in the great scheme of my spectral visitors, she was somehow different or special. “Murders are—” I was afraid I’d said that too loud and that someone other than Lucy might have heard, so I lowered my voice, too. “Murders are my specialty.”