she was in the house, she could sense Jerry’s eyes on her, watching her but looking past her in the odd way he had. It was an intense stare, and I’m sure even the least in-tune person would have been able to feel his eyes on them. He just gave you the willies. He made you think of someone in a Stephen King book.
“It feels like someone’s playing with my hair at night,” Joann whispered. “I even feel like he’s watching me in … the bathroom.”
“I’m sure he is,” I agreed slowly. Then I said to the ghost, “So why are you here?”
“I don’t know,” he said in an odd cadence. “I came home with Mike. I like Mike. Mike is my friend. He’s my friend so I came home with him. He likes me. He’s my best friend.”
“Oh,” I breathed with dawning realization. “Joann, I think this ghost is mentally challenged. Did Mike ever mention any mentally challenged guests at the group home?”
“Yes!” she gasped. “Oh my God! Is it Jerry? Jerry was handicapped—he died right around when I started feeling weird.”
The ghost nodded, then his brow furrowed. “They tied me to a bed. They tied me up to give me medicine. Is that why I’m here?”
Before I could get more out of him, Joann’s sister arrived and came waltzing in the front door. She stopped when she saw our faces. I’m sure my own expression echoed her surprise, because walking in right behind her was another ghost.
“And who are you?” I said to the ghost, but of course Joann’s sister thought I was talking to her.
“I’m Jeanne, Joann’s cousin.”
I apologized for the mistake and explained about the ghost who had followed her in, which of course got them both trying to outdo each other as far as who was freaked out more. So I went back to the woman who had come with Jeanne.
“So who are you?” I asked her again.
“Jeanne’s mother, Mable,” she said politely. “You can see …” she glanced at Jerry. “Us?”
“Yup,” I admitted. I knew that telling Jeanne her mom was with her would all but end anyone caring about Jerry, though, so I went back to him before telling her. I was a little confused because I don’t normally run into mentally handicapped ghosts. As best I can tell, they have some kind of spirit guide who is sent to help them cross over, or they’d never find their way. I wasn’t sure how Jerry had missed his.
When I asked him, he said he did remember the White Light and he said he’d seen his grandpa in it, beckoning for him to join him. The problem, ironically, was his spirit guide, who had come to help him.
“But I didn’t want to go,” Jerry said. “I was scared. I always have to go with people when I go somewhere, but I didn’t know who that was. I didn’t want to go with him. I was scared.”
I could see how he would have been afraid, but it made me wonder what kind of spirit guide he had if they just gave up and left him to roam the earth. Obviously I wasn’t going to get any answers, and Jerry said he wanted to see he grandpa again, so I was sure he’d cross over. Which brought me back to Mable.
When I told the girls, there were the usual hysterics and tears and wails. Aunt Mable had died of cancer, so they’d got most of the goodbyes out of the way when she was alive. She’d stayed behind because her daughter was pregnant and she’d wanted to see the baby. When everyone had calmed down again, I asked if there was anything else they wanted to say or ask before I made the White Light and let the two ghosts cross over. Jeanne had nothing to add, but Joann sort of got quiet and looked shyly from me to her cousin.
“Jeanne? Can I ask Aunt Mable something?”
“Sure! Of course!” Jeanne gushed.
“Well, she used to make this really delicious beet recipe, and I was wondering if she’d give it to me? It’s just so good!”
Mable was glad to be asked, you could tell, but she pretended to play hard. “That was my secret recipe,” she said slowly before she broke into a smile. “But of course I’ll give it to Joann!”
Secret Harvard Beets
1½ tablespoons butter
½ cup brown sugar
1½ teaspoons cornstarch
⅔ cup orange juice
2 tablespoons grated orange rind, divided
3 cups diced cooked or canned beets (drained, if canned)
4 shakes each salt and pepper
Melt butter. Mix sugar and cornstarch; stir into butter. Stir in orange juice gradually and cook, stirring constantly, until thickened. Blend in 1 tablespoon orange rind and beets. Add salt, pepper, and remaining orange rind. Serves 8.
SPANISH CORN AND SPANISH ZUCCHINI
THE HOME IN THE LOS ANGELES HILLS was beautiful. It was one of the movie mansions from the 1940s, when style and detail mattered more than simply having more square footage than your neighbors. Since the home was old and no longer in favor with the current movie stars, it was sort of off the beaten path, but no less expensive for it.
The owners were Betty, a corporate lawyer, and her husband, Bob, an accountant. They were no-nonsense people who had quickly reached a point in their lives where they felt entitled to what they had and looked down on those who had not. They were cold but polite, even to each other, and their two children—five-year-old Gracie and seven-year-old Eric—seemed to look to their live-in nanny, Rita, for the affection and attention most children get from their parents.
To be honest, I was amazed they’d called me in the first place. It did take them a while to call, Betty admitted, but it had finally gotten to the point where their logical explanations were failing. The kids were always sickly, but they wrote that off as kids being kids, but the workers who came to restore or refurbish parts of the mansion were another story. They’d work for a few days, then leave and never come back. The footsteps, the glimpses of moving shadows, the missing tools that turned up later in other parts of the house—it was too much, and Betty and Bob were sick of trying to find replacements.
Not to mention the kids. Gracie hadn’t slept in her own bed for months, afraid of the woman who stood and watched her in the night. Gracie said the woman had a long braid on the one side of her head, tied off with a blue ribbon. Eric stayed in his own bed, but only because he was afraid to move. His closet door liked to open and close by itself, and his toys would move across the floor of their own volition. He was convinced that the ghost hid under his bed; sometimes he could feel it tugging the covers.
Still, when I got there, the buttoned-down, business-minded couple was still dismissive, or perhaps I just wasn’t the kind of guest they usually had over. Betty didn’t like me telling them about their unwanted guests, though. She kept correcting me on where the ghosts had come from and how to reduce their influence. At one point I suggested to Betty that she clearly knew better than I and I’d just get out of their hair, but Betty changed her mind and asked me to stay.
There was a male ghost there who did not like Betty. He’s what I’d call “residue” from a case she’d won, so he already had a chip on his shoulder. Besides that, he thought she was arrogant and controlling, and he
