The Ghost of Mistletoe Mary (5 page)

“Now are you going to tell me what's going on?” Granny asked as they left the diner and were standing next to Jeremiah's motorcycle.

Borrowing Emma's trick, Jeremiah put his phone up to his ear and gave Granny a quick rundown of what he was doing and what he had learned so far.

When he was done, Granny asked, “You think this Mistletoe Mary is dead, don't you?”

“I don't really know, Granny,” he told her honestly, “but I intend to find out. I want you to watch Bucket and see if her ghost or any ghost shows up. As I told you, he had an episode while I was there that could have been a spirit taking over his body or just him ranting. It was hard to tell and I haven't seen that before.”

“Well, I have. It's even happened to Emma.”

“Speaking of which,” he said, looking down at his phone. “She texted back saying to call her this afternoon.”

“Yeah,” the diminutive ghost said, “she and Phil are going to some fancy brunch with Emma's folks and some friends of theirs this morning.” Granny stood in front of Jeremiah with her hands on her hips. “Frankly, I'd rather be here working a case than at some hoity-toity thing. But if you want me to watch Bucket, you'll have to take me there. You know I can't zoom in on people and places unless I've made a prior connection.”

“We'll do that right after I make a call to Rose,” he assured her. “She left me a voice mail.”

“Rose,” Granny repeated. “That's your lady friend, isn't it?” Jeremiah nodded as he returned the call to Rose Carson. “I like her,” Granny pronounced. “She's real people.”

“That she is.” Jeremiah chuckled, knowing that Granny and Rose would probably get on like bacon and eggs, if they could meet. Both women, the dead and the living, had a habit of speaking their minds and cutting to the quick of situations. Granny knew Rose from the few times she'd been with him when he visited Emma, but Rose knew nothing about Granny or Jeremiah's gift.

After the call, during which Jeremiah gave Rose a quick rundown of what Red had wanted and told her he'd see her for dinner that night, he made his way back to Bucket's usual spot. Granny said she'd meet him there.

San Pedro Street was busier now. Still not as busy as it would be during the week, but the people who lived on the street were moving about, gathered in small groups talking or moving their carts down the sidewalk as if going to work. In an hour or so, some of the small shops, convenience and liquor stores would be open for business and increase the activity even more. Jeremiah made his way to Bucket's spot, but the old man and his dog weren't there. He called to two young guys standing nearby against the wall, “Hey, you know where Bucket went?”

One of the men, the shorter but more buffed, straightened and took a step closer to Jeremiah. In spite of the chill in the air, he wore no jacket over his black wifebeater and his exposed heavily muscled arms were covered with gang tattoos.
Neither of the guys looked homeless, but they did look tough and bored—a bad combination. “You mean the crazy guy who rants about dead whores?”

Jeremiah nodded, but stayed on his motorcycle. He didn't want any trouble. “Yeah, that's him.”

“He went to his summer place,” the taller, skinnier one called out. Both hoods laughed.

“And where might that be?” Jeremiah asked, giving them his best cop stare, which he'd never lost. These were the types of guys Red was worried about. They were the sort who would think nothing of taking a pipe to Bucket's head just to shut him up. Or to a burned-out hooker's head just for sport.

“I think he owns beachfront property over on Alvarado Street,” said the shorter one, again laughing. The two fist-bumped, pleased with their combined wit.

Jeremiah spotted Eddie on the corner still doing his robotic dance. He knew he wouldn't be of any use. He rode up to the intersection of 5th Street and looked up and down the cross street. He thought he spotted Carmen in a small group of women about a block down San Pedro. He crossed the intersection and headed for her.

“Hey, Carmen,” he called to her as he pulled up, “have you seen Bucket since this morning?”

“Well, hi again, handsome,” she said in her little-girl voice. She looked slightly high to Jeremiah, but not totally baked.

There were three other women of various ages with Carmen—one white, two black. As soon as he pulled up, the white woman, whom he recognized as Beth Jenkins, an Iraqi vet he'd seen a few times at Angels, took a long drag from a joint and passed it to the person to her left—a tall, skinny woman with her head shaved—who took her own long drag. They were smoking out in the open with no fear of being caught. They knew the LAPD in this area had bigger fish to fry than a few potheads with a joint or two. As poor as these people were, there always seemed to be a way to get the drugs and booze they used to take the sting out of their situation.

Jeremiah took off his helmet and dismounted his bike. He approached the women. “Hi, ladies.” He looked specifically at Beth. “Hey, Beth,” he said to the woman with short brown hair wearing a field jacket similar to Sloan's. “Haven't seen you around in a while.”

“Got a job,” she answered. She was in her thirties, about five-eight, slim ,and tomboyish.

“Something Red fixed you up with?” he asked, knowing the pot smoking was a violation of Red's rules and Beth knew it, too.

“Nah, something I got on my own,” she replied. “Part-time for now, but who knows. Could turn into something else.” The joint was passed back to her and she took another long hit before holding it out to Jeremiah. He declined with a shake of his head. Beth shrugged and passed it to Carmen.

Jeremiah turned to Carmen. “Have you seen Bucket?” he asked her again.

“Bucket's on the move during the day,” she told him after exhaling. “Over there by the mission is only where he sleeps. You might find him on Wall by the Angels office or he might be on San Julian by the park. If he's not at either of those, I'm not sure.” She shrugged like a little kid and giggled. Jeremiah thanked her, bid them good day, and left.

He spotted Bucket on San Julian Street just inside the park. He was sitting on a bench, Lola in his lap, his shopping cart nearby. San Julian Park was gated and locked at night, but during the day it was the backyard for the area's homeless, who filled the benches, tables, and grassy areas as soon as the gates were open. There was also a public toilet located next to it. Jeremiah pulled up to the curb, got off his bike, stored his helmet, and locked everything.

Bucket was alone, talking loudly, not to the dog but to anyone with ears. Jeremiah looked around, noting that there was almost a no-fly zone around Bucket as people ignored or avoided him. Bucket rambled and rocked slightly back and forth. He paid no mind to anyone or anything, his voice ebbing and flowing in volume from normal speech to angry shouting. His tirade was a blend of clarity and incoherence, punctuated with blistering cusswords like stabs from a knife.

Before approaching him, Jeremiah watched Bucket with interest, trying to find a pattern to his diatribe. It didn't take him long to pick out the words
murder
and
dead
. They were splattered throughout Bucket's speech like splotches of paint. He kept listening and could decipher other strings of words that also showed up with regularity, including
help me
and
find me
. Jeremiah studied the area around Bucket, checking for any signs of a ghost, and for a second he thought he spotted a hazy figure standing just to the right of where Bucket sat. Then whatever he saw was gone. It could have been a shadow from the trees overhead or maybe he was trying too hard to see something that wasn't there.

“This the guy?” asked Granny, popping up next to Jeremiah.

“Yeah,” he said to Granny in a whisper. No one was around them, so he didn't take precautions not to be overheard. “That's his dog Lola in his lap.”

“What's he jabbering about?”

“That's the ranting he does about Mary. If you listen closely you'll hear the word
murder
here and there. I'm not sure if those are Bucket's words or the words of a spirit coming through him.” Jeremiah was tempted to look at Granny, as he would anyone else he was speaking to, but caught himself. “Can you see any spirits around him, Granny?”

“Not right now,” she told him. “I'd like to mosey on over there and see what happens, but the dog might give me away.” She continued watching the man and dog. “Animals are sensitive to spirits, so if the ghost of this Mary is there, the dog would be a little more active. Unless the animal is so used to her, it doesn't even notice anymore when she's around.”

“That dog is pretty old and sick, Granny. She might not notice a spirit or even care.”

“Gotcha,” Granny said and started moving toward Bucket slowly just in case Lola decided at that precise moment to care.

As she got close, it wasn't the dog who noticed her, but Bucket. He stopped ranting midword and stared at Granny. “Go away,” he said to her, his voice indignant.

Bucket could see her, but the dog stayed put. Granny couldn't tell if there was a spirit guiding his words or if he really could see her.

“I need to see Mary,” Granny said to him, loud enough for her voice to carry to Jeremiah.

“Go away,” Bucket demanded. He gently put the dog on the bench next to him. Lola looked up and saw Granny, giving
her raggedy tail a few feeble wags.

“Is that you, Mary?” Granny asked Bucket, hoping to find out if there was another ghost present.

“I don't know you,” Bucket said, getting to his feet. “I don't know you!” He took a few steps toward her. Some people stopped what they were doing to watch, but all they saw was a crazy old man yelling into thin air. With a shake of their heads, they went back to their business.

“I came to help Mary, Bucket,” Granny said, moving closer. “You want to help her, don't ya?”

Bucket's mouth moved, but no sound came out. He stared at Granny, unsure of what to do next.

“Is Mary here with you right now?” she asked, keeping her eyes peeled for any signs of the ghost.

“I'm dead,” Bucket snapped at her. “Murdered. It's dark. I don't like the dark.” Bucket's voice took a turn down and he started weeping and rubbing his arms. “Cold and dark.”

Granny returned to Jeremiah. “It's Mary, isn't it?” he asked her.

“That's what I'm thinking.” Granny looked over at Bucket, who was still standing and ranting, arms clutched around himself.

Jeremiah approached Bucket. Granny followed. “Bucket, do you remember me? It's Jeremiah. I brought you and Lola breakfast this morning.”

Bucket's eyes latched on to Jeremiah. They were just as red and runny as they had been a few hours ago, but there was a focus in the pupils that wasn't there before. “I don't know you,” he spat out.

Jeremiah tried a different tack. “Mary, my name is Jeremiah Jones,” he said in a soft voice as he stepped closer to Bucket. “I'm here to help you. And that's my friend Granny. She's also here to help.”

Bucket's eyes shot between Jeremiah and Granny, but Jeremiah got the attention back on him again. “I talked to Lizzie this morning,” he said gently. “She says hello.”

At hearing Lizzie's name, a small smile spread across Bucket's weathered face. “Lizzie is such a nice girl, but she needs to get out.”

Then he saw the ghost of Mistletoe Mary. At first it was just a haze, like a light steam coming off Bucket. Then she stepped into view. Bucket staggered and with great effort lowered himself back down to the bench. He didn't pay them any mind, just picked up Lola and closed his eyes.

“Is Lizzie in danger?” Granny asked.

“We're all in danger down here,” Mary said. She was dressed in a very short skirt with a skimpy, low-cut blouse. Her long hair was wild and matted and her body wasn't much more than skin and bones. On her chest, dead-center, was a flower tattoo, just as Carmen had said. Though he wasn't sure, it looked to Jeremiah to be of an orchid.

The ghost hesitated, then said as she wrapped her thin arms around herself, “I'm very cold. It's dark,” she whimpered. “Mommy locked me in a closet when I was a bad little girl. I hate the dark.”

“Where are you, Mary?” Granny asked. “Can you tell us?”

“It's cold and dark. Very dark.” Mary's image started to fade.

“What's happening, Granny?” Jeremiah whispered.

“She's a new spirit,” Granny explained. “They can't stay for very long at a time like I can.”

Before they could find out anything more, Mary's ghost was gone. They looked down at Bucket. He was asleep on the bench, snoring loudly, exhausted from his activities.

“At least we now know that Mary's dead for sure,” Granny said as they walked back to Jeremiah's motorcycle.

Jeremiah started to say something, then stopped as an old couple walked by and entered the park. To be safe, he pulled out his phone and pretended to be talking on it like Emma did when speaking to Granny in public.

“But where is her body?” he said into the turned-off phone, still keeping his voice low. “Cold and dark could mean anything. And I can't very well go to the police and say a ghost told me she was murdered but we have no idea where the body is.” He ran a hand over his head as he pieced together the scraps of information he had so far. “We don't even know when she was killed. Just sometime between Thanksgiving and today. That's about ten days.”

Granny paced the cracked sidewalk, her hands clasped behind her back. She stopped in front of Jeremiah. “Do you know when Bucket started ranting about her being dead?”

“From what Red said, sometime last week. So it could be she was killed about that time.” Jeremiah looked at Granny. “How long before a spirit can manifest itself after the body dies?”