Spirits of Spring (The Haunting Ruby Series Book 4) (33 page)

“Okay,” he mumbled back unenthusiastically. “I’m tired
but I think I’m ready to drive home now. I have to be up early
for work and tomorrow is your first day back, too, right?”

It was clear to me that our conversation concerning his
family issues was over—at least for now. There was a limit to
how much depressing conversation should be had in one day
and we surpassed that limit about five minutes earlier. There
was one go-to topic that I always knew would put him in a good
mood so I took a deep, cleansing breath and shook off my black
cloud so that I could try to do the same for him.

Stunned by the fact that he himself had forgotten to tell
me about it, Zach launched into a very excited account of what
Andy had dubbed his most brilliant idea yet.
At the mere
mention of the shelter, I could see his eyes light up and his
recently hardened heart go soft. It’s a good thing that I enjoyed
hearing him talk about work because it was the only topic of
conversation for the rest of the ride home.
Even Clay, who
rejoined us only once he realized we were about to leave,
seemed interested in Zach’s stories about the shelter. I had to
remember to thank him for giving us privacy when we needed
it. He was the best ghost BFF a girl could ask for.

When my alarm went off the next morning, I wasn’t so
sure about how happy I was to be going back to work. Alarms
on weekends should be illegal.
Any time earlier than ten on a
weekend shouldn’t even exist. It was a crime against nature to
pull yourself out of bed so early on a Saturday morning. But I
did it anyway because I knew that once I was fully awake, I
would be glad that I did. Rita was gracious enough to give me
my job back and I couldn’t disappoint her again on the grounds
of sheer laziness this time.

By mid-afternoon, I was wishing that I had bucked
responsibility and stayed in bed. First, I got disapproving looks
and a very bluntly disappointed “I thought you quit” from Mrs.
Tuttle. Shortly after she left, a bevy of old busybodies entered
the shop.
I smelled trouble instantly and it smelled like a
mixture of arthritis
cream, overly
powdery
perfume, and
gossip.

They weren’t regulars at Something Wick-ed which set
my antennae on high alert from the get go. I’d worked there
long enough to recognize most faces as they walked in the door
even if I didn’t know their names. People didn’t normally flock
to candle shops in groups which intensified my paranoia and
rightly so. They weren’t there to shop, they were there to
gawk. At me, the sideshow ghost whispering freak.

Either their hearing aids needed new batteries or they
simply didn’t care if I overheard them talking not so nicely
about me—my best guess was the latter.
No, they had no
qualms about tearing me apart piece by brutal piece while I
stood there and listened to every word. By now, I was kind of
used to being an oddity on display so I barely even flinched at
their harsh commentary. Let’s see, the words “evil”, “godless”,
and “witch” all got plenty of airtime but when they started
talking about Zach, I almost lost it. They had the audacity to
insinuate that I must have him under a wicked spell—that it
was
the only
way
a boy that handsome would ever date
someone like me.

“Good customer service be damned,” I whispered under
my breath as I realized that I’d taken enough abuse and decided
that it was time to ask them to leave. Rita would understand
and back me up on my decision, I was sure of it.
If I happened
to be wrong, then I would merrily go on my way back to the
land of the well-rested and unemployed.

Before I had the pleasure of driving
out the
torch
bearing villagers, a much bigger problem walked through the
door.
And I do mean that literally.
The tattooed behemoths
from Spring Avenue sauntered into the shop with all of the
swagger of super blinged out hip hop stars.
Their presence
made my other customers seem like Santa’s happy elves in
comparison. The women abruptly halted their assault on me
and
whispered—apparently they didn’t need new batteries
after
all—amongst
themselves
as
they
delicately
steered
around the hulks and out the door.

If my miserable luck were immortalized by a cartoonist,
I knew exactly what the thought bubble above my head would
currently say. “Please watch your step as you exit the frying
pan. The fire is directly below you. Enjoy your stay.”

I knew it was insane of me to even bother hoping that
they were
there
to
buy candles
and
not
because
they
recognized me from our encounter on the street that day.
Shane warned me not to say anything about what I saw and I
was all too happy to oblige him. Their victim made his escape
while Shane was distracted by me, though, and I was sure that
they were here to repay me for that favor. I decided to play it
cool and pretend that I had no idea who they were. Ignorance
was my only potential weapon.

“Hello,” I said as casually as physically possible given
the fact that I felt like I was about to go into cardiac arrest. “If
you’re here for last minute Easter candles, you’re a little late. I
sold the only two I had about an hour ago.”

I managed to keep eye contact with Shane throughout
that entire thinly
veiled attempt at
nonchalant customer
service but averted my gaze as soon as I could.
There was
something about his dark eyes and heavy brows that would
have scared me even if I had met him while he was singing in a
church choir. The heavy amount of ink I saw on him that day
on Spring Avenue was mostly hidden now beneath a hoodie but
the thick tribal lines gracing his neck stood out proudly like a
badge of war.
There was a time when I used to think that
tattoos on a guy were hot. After meeting this bruiser, I changed
my mind. They were scary, infinitely scary.

“We ain’t here for no candles,” Dylan announced in a
classic prison yard tough guy voice. I didn’t get a good look at
him the first time I saw him so I discretely sized him up. He
was slightly shorter and less muscular than Shane—but still no
match for a creampuff like me. He didn’t have as many visible
tattoos, either, but he still seemed every bit as dangerous. As a
matter of fact, he actually frightened me even
more
than Shane
did. While Shane’s eyes formed the windows to a world of cold
and calculating thoughts, Dylan’s did the exact opposite. There
didn’t seem to be anything hiding behind his—no thoughts, no
emotions. He was like a radio controlled robot set to mindless
destruction and
Shane seemed to be the one holding
the
remote.

Shane flashed Dylan a menacing look and he faded back
into the background. “What he meant to say was that we aren’t
here for candles,” he said, reaching out a massive hand toward
me and gently tugging on the streak of red in my hair. “We’re
here to talk to Ruby.”

The combination of his touch and hearing the sound of
my name on his lips sent me into an instant state of panic. How
did he find out my name and where I worked? And why? I
tucked my hands into my back pockets casually in an effort to
get to my phone but then realized that I had left in on the
counter after ringing up my last customer. Staying calm was
the next thing I tried to do and that endeavor ended just as
poorly.

My first instinct was to lie and say that I wasn’t Ruby
but it seemed to be too late for that. The highlights in my hair
proved to be a dead giveaway every time.
Even though I
desperately hated the color green, I was wishing that I’d had a
terrible incident at the salon so that I could say that my name
was Emerald. Damn those girls at Mesmer-Eyes Beauty Salon
and Spa for being so good at their jobs!

Unable to see any other option, I said, “I’m Ruby. What
do you want?” I tried to sound like a leather-clad biker chick,
like someone streetwise and fully capable of taking care of
herself.
As I said the words, I pictured myself in the role—
confident to the point of cockiness. If I hadn’t been able to hear
my own voice, I would have believed it worked. Except that I
could
hear my own voice—every word, every syllable—as it
squeaked and cracked its way out of my mouth. I sounded like
a cartoon frog with laryngitis.

To make up for sounding as scared as I felt, I began
straightening up the store as though their presence meant
nothing to me. That and I was making my way slowly back to
the counter in case I needed my phone.
Miraculously, I was
successful, too, until I turned my back for one second and soon
sensed someone hovering over my shoulder. My stab at faking
self-composure cracked and I sent an entire display of candles
crashing to the floor.

“Looks like you lost your head,” Shane announced as he
presented me with the decapitated body of a mermaid from the
new line of sculpted, sea-inspired pillars.

That one odd piece of
my
brain
that functioned
differently than most people’s brains did applauded his witty
remark. His comment solidified my theory that he was both the
brains
and
the brawn in that duo. Once I was done admiring his
play on words, I went back to being scared and the stupid
words started rolling off my tongue.

A light bulb brighter than any Thomas Edison could
have dreamed of inventing went off somewhere behind his
dark eyes. “I
knew
I’d seen you before! Red car, Spring Avenue.
You drove by at a
very
inappropriate time.”

Now I was left steeped in not only fear
but curiosity as
well. If what I saw that day wasn’t the reason for their visit,
what
was
?
And why did I have to go and be stupid enough to
mention that incident?

“What do you want from me?” I shouted out in
frustration. Wasn’t it bad enough that I had Misty, random
ghost encounters, way too much homework, and Zach’s family
issues to deal with?
Did I forget to mention Misty?
And of
course,
Clay, who had
been quietly
and
oddly
observing
everything from afar from the moment they walked in. I didn’t
need one more thing to add to my stress, now did I?

“What I want,” Shane responded sternly, “Are some
answers, Ghost Girl. What did Clay tell you about the night he
died?”

In a flash, Clay was standing directly between me and
Shane—so close, that I was shocked to see that Shane didn’t
react to his presence. “Stay calm, Ruby. Don’t say anything to
him. Tell him you have no idea who I am or what he’s talking
about.”

Like a good puppet, I did as he instructed. “I don’t know
who you’re talking about. I don’t know anything.” Even though
I knew that Clay was incapable of protecting me, I felt so much
more stable with him as a buffer. I recited that lie easier than
any that had come before it.

“Then what brought a rich girl like you to our
neighborhood? Did you get lost on the way to the mall?” Shane
queried with narrowed eyes and overt sarcasm. “Clay always
did have a thing for rich girls. Pretty ones, too.”

At the mere hint of a mention of his ex-girlfriend, Clay
flared with anger. “I swear to God, if I ever find out that he
touched Sophie, I’ll….”
Clay trailed off, obviously realizing that
even if he
did
find out, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

I didn’t know what to say next so I stood there stupidly
waiting for a prompt from Clay whose mind was visibly ten
thousand miles away from me and my current predicament.
Briefly, the information
I may or may not have garnered
regarding Sophie’s whereabouts flickered into my mind. Once
this drama was over, I needed to follow up on that lead. Clay
needed to know what happened to Sophie after she
left
Pennsylvania. That and the identity of his murderer were the
only things that could help him move on. And after Shane and
Dylan’s impromptu visit to Something Wick-ed, I was certain
that I had the first part of that equation neatly solved.

With no backup from Clay in sight, I decided to wing it
on my own. “Yes, I did get lost. I haven’t lived in Charlotte’s
Grove long.
I made a wrong
turn
and
ended up in
your
neighborhood. It won’t happen again—Scout’s Honor.” As
soon as I uttered Clay’s catch phrase, I knew I’d made another
mistake.
And so did Shane. He raised one bushy eyebrow and
grinned triumphantly.

“I did my homework—I know
exactly
how long you’ve
lived in this town. And I also know a lie when I see one. I’m
giving you one chance and one chance only—if you know how
Clay died, I suggest you tell me now.”

His
words
were
ominous
but his
expression was
something different, something unreadable. He killed Clay or
had his brainless drone Dylan do it for him—there was no
mistaking
that fact.
But he
was
hiding
something
else,
something worse.
What could possibly be worse than cold
blooded murder? I didn’t want to fathom
a
guess
and
I
certainly didn’t want to find out firsthand. Based on the way he
phrased his question, though, my answer was the absolute
truth.

“I heard that he drowned in Silver Lake almost two
years ago—long before I moved here.
All I know are the
rumors that it wasn’t an accident but that the case is officially
closed. I don’t know how it happened and I don’t know any
more details.”