Page 18 of Ghost Town Boogie

Sawyer nodded, then said, “If you change your mind call me. I’m at the nursery most days, or you can call there and leave a message. I’m in and out with the landscaping business, but I’m easy to find.”

She wanted to ask how his Dad was, but she knew from her mother that Walter Wakefield had been in declining health for a couple of years. His nursery, a small but flourishing business that kept all the local gardeners in good supply, was on the other side of the highway not far from the bar Tuck had inherited. The Magnolia was a fancy name for a dive bar, but it did a great business year round.

These men had stayed. They hadn’t run away the way Jack had. Why couldn’t her brother…? Over the years too many thoughts that popped into her brain started just that way.

Anna walked to the glass door of the bakery, took one look at the line at the counter, and changed her mind. This was beneath her; she was approaching desperation. She wouldn’t try to bribe Colt with cinnamon rolls or anything else. He’d want to spend time with her or he wouldn’t. He knew where she was. Sawyer had immediately asked her out, and Tuck had flashed her a charming smile. What was wrong with Colt?

She felt fourteen again. Did he see her that way? Would she always be a child in his mind?

Anna turned and walked back toward home. Home for now, but not for long. If Colt wanted anything to do with her, he’d show up or call. He’d ask her out or he wouldn’t. She wouldn’t go, cinnamon rolls in hand, begging for his attention.

Her only job here was to get her mother packed up and on her way out of town. Nina Miller would be on her way and Anna would be right behind, the sooner the better.

Saturday was always the busiest day for Hart’s Vinyl Depot. No matter the time of year, there were at least a few tourists. They wanted to check out the old depot, or look through the stacks of records, or grab a cup of coffee. Maybe all three.

Colt had two regular part-time employees who filled in if he needed a day off and came in every weekend. Christopher was on call, but he didn’t work often. None of Colt’s part-timers needed the money, which was a good thing since the few hours they worked didn’t provide much in the way of income. Helen Sommers had been friends with his mother since high school. She didn’t need the income, she just liked to get out now and then. She’d told him she made sure to spend everything she made working for him on frivolous things. Sometimes she’d show him what she bought. A pair of earrings. A new blouse. A colorful purse.

Like Christopher, Benny Travers was a high school student; a super smart young man who loved vinyl and needed a bit of cash for the occasional date. He was a nice looking kid, but so shy Colt had to wonder if he’d ever actually been on a date.

They all got along very well, with Helen becoming like a grandmother to the boys.

The ghosts — Maude in particular — had tried to get his employees’ attention more than once. She’d given up when her efforts didn’t produce a single reaction.

Maude gave Colt her full attention, as he leafed through one of the boxes of records he’d brought back from the Miller house Wednesday night after an evening of mystery casserole and talk about Jack that made him wish he’d opted for a PB&J in his space above the shop. He did his best to ignore the pesky ghost, but that hadn’t helped in the past and he doubted it would work now.

The boxes were now stored in the room where Colt kept his cleaning supplies, a space in the far west corner of the back room. It was usually quiet here, away from the public space, but with Maude chatting away it was anything but quiet today. He hadn’t gotten around to cleaning any of the Miller’s records yet, and he wanted to prioritize before he started. The records that were likely to sell first would get the first treatments.

He hadn’t been through all the boxes yet; one remained entirely untouched. Most of the Miller records were sorted and stored in three plastic milk crates. Great finds, someone might want these, and I can give these away or sell them for a buck. They’d need more sorting once he went through the last box and everything had been cleaned and tested. What looked like a great find might be a one dollar record if it wasn’t in great shape, and if it was warped he couldn’t even get a buck for it.

Jack had been on his mind for the past couple of days, and he wondered if Sawyer might’ve had any luck reaching out to old buddies. He knew no one had talked to Jack in the past five years, but it was possible someone knew something. Who had he been hanging out with? What had he been involved in right before his death? It was a long shot that any of their old friends knew anything, but it wasn’t impossible.

Saturday morning at the depot had started off slow and he was tired of sorting the Miller records, so Colt headed out before noon. The Pine Street house should be clean by now. He’d get some help at some point, moving a favorite chair into the place along with a few boxes of personal stuff. He had to wonder if Maude would take revenge when he was no longer sleeping in the depot. She might be insulted, but the hours of peace would be precious. He’d take whatever punishment she dished out.

He didn’t want to do it, but he knew how to make her behave. She dearly hated heavy metal, and if he replaced Billy’s Boogie and Sinatra with Iron Maiden and Twisted Sister she’d soon settle down.

Or move on entirely. That was what he wanted for her, for all of them. It wasn’t right for the spirits to be held here, trapped among the living.

If he could solve Jack’s murder, would that ghost move on?

Colt was kind of embarrassed that he’d ever thought he could do this. He knew how to use a computer, but with his limited investigative skills he’d turned up zero. He was no private investigator.

Jack was dead, and no one else knew. No one even thought to miss him, except for his mother.

The little white cottage looked better from the sidewalk. The crew he’d hired had cleaned the porch, as well as the interior. He’d still have a few small repairs to make, but the place should be livable. And ghost free. No one commenting on his lack of cooking skills, or peering over his shoulder while he read, or standing at the end of the bed while he tried to sleep. No constant commentary on his life. That would still happen while he was at work, but to spend his evenings in peace and quiet… heaven.

The police car pulled to the curb while Colt stood there, studying the house and dreaming of peace. Police Chief Joseph Maxwell stepped out, scowling at Colt and the house behind him.

Chief Maxwell, Mac to his friends, had been in Seawolf Beach three years now, moving here to take the job after the old chief retired. It had to be much less exciting than his old gig as a detective in New Orleans, but he seemed to like the quiet even though he was far too young to retire himself. Rowdy tourists and the occasional misbehaving local kept him busy enough, but it was nothing like the city.

How would he like taking on a cold case? A murder, no less?

“This is it, huh?” Mac asked. “Why do you have to move right away? Give me a couple of days and I can round up younger, abler muscle. I don’t do a lot of heavy lifting, if I can help it.”

“Why should I wait when I have you?” Colt asked. “A chair, a few boxes, it won’t be too difficult. I’ve ordered the other furniture I need.” And when he was done, the place would be rented furnished again. “I’ll get you one of those wood-fired pizzas you like so much when we’re done.”

It was weird that Colt and Mac had struck up a friendship, since at first glance they had nothing in common other than they were both past forty and single, Mac thanks to a divorce he refused to talk about. The chief didn’t only not care about records and turntables, he didn’t seem to have a musical preference at all. He kept his hair cut nice and neat, was always perfectly clean-shaven, and wouldn’t be caught dead in a baggy t-shirt. He was order to Colt’s chaos.

Why hadn’t he thought to ask Mac about Jack? Mac had moved here about two years after Jack’s disappearance. He’d never known the man, or Anna, and it was unlikely he’d ever crossed paths with the senior Millers. Nina hadn’t left the house for years, and before his death Donnie Miller had led a quiet life that didn’t call for a police presence.