Page 20 of The Aura Answer
Even Nick could tell from Evie’s grin that wasn’t happening.
Eight
Sunday morning,Evie dug her father’s hardhat out of the wooden box Gracie had said she’d look for and hadn’t. There were blueprints in there, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of them. She left them on the library table to remind herself to ask someone else to take a look.
Then finding a puffy coat in the armoire and pulling on some garden gloves, she biked over to the courthouse. She could hope no would be there, but they wouldn’t leave the place empty with gaping windows. She’d simply have to blend in. And yup, there was the work crew already gathering. Oh well, at least court wasn’t in session.
Donning the hard hat, she joined a group of construction workers heading inside. One of her father’s contracting pals recognized her, of course. Sneaking in might have had its benefits, but she really hadn’t wanted to go through that spider-filled shelter.
“What are you up to, Evangeline?” Cal demanded, checking off a worksheet.
“Hired for janitorial service, a little extra Christmas income. I know how to stay out of the way.” She saluted and marched away as if she had as much right to be there as he did.
Well, it was a public building, and she was part of the public, right? She went straight to the janitorial closet, grabbed a broom and pail, and trudged up the front stairs so everyone could see that she was working. Cal really didn’t know her well.
Knotted yellow tape still clung to the railings. Jax had done a fine job of tying it. It would take scissors or a knife to cut it all off.
The center rotunda wasn’t any cleaner after the sheriff’s men had gone through it. But the bodies were gone, and what was left behind was mostly plaster. She could handle that. Using a push broom, she shoved the bulk into a neat pile while she glanced around the upper story, hunting for auras.
Damned ghost was hiding. She opened the closet and got hit by a blast of cold air. That might be explained by the open trap door to the unheated attic, but Bertie’s gray shadow plainly sat on the pull-down steps.
“You don’t have to hide from me, Albert.” Huddling inside the puffy coat, she opened an old folding chair someone had left and took a seat.
How’d’ya know it’s me?His voice was more in her head than physically audible. He sounded disgruntled.
“Aside from recognizing your creative yellow, who else would it be?” She knew better than to jump right in with her questions. Most spirits had a purpose but tended to be too disorganized or rattled to get straight to the point, as if they’d lost track of their human focus. Of course, in Bertie’s case, focus hadn’t happened when he was alive.
The shadow shifted uncomfortably.Place practically dates to the Civil War. It oughtta be haunted, but all I’m seeing is Butcher Block, and he’s sulking and hiding.
Butcher Block, even better than Blockhead. Evie hid her grin and nodded knowingly. “Sorry about your lack of company. That’s my fault, I’m afraid. I saw my first ghost here when my dad brought me as a toddler. I think I freaked a little, swallowedit right up without knowing what I was doing. As a kid, I thought it was a fun game and spent a lot of time practicing sending spirit energy on, sort of like Pac-Man, y’know? You’re not ready to go yet, though, are you?”
If ghosts could snort, Bertie snorted. A genu-wine ghostbuster, no wonder people called you a freak. He didn’t answer her question.
“In my world, normal is freakish. I’m good with that. But I was too young when you were in school to feel comfortable telling you that you had a beautiful golden halo.” His aura had faded to gray over the years of drug use, but she saw no point in mentioning that. “My sister loves your work. She’s been collecting it.”
He didn’t comment on hishalo, but a hint of gold shifted through the gray, and a rough outline of a younger-looking Bertie manifested on the stairs.Yeah, Miss Gracie was always nice to me. Even though she knew I’d probably use the money for drugs, she always bought my stuff.
“Yeah, my sister is a bit of a sucker. Sammy said you had a Christmas surprise for your mom. Where were you keeping that? Hank said he’d frame it for you.” Evie tested to see how much Bertie might remember. Spirits were seldom good at any memory that wasn’t related to the reason they lingered. She just hoped the sketch was his reason for his current existence.
Bertie squirmed, glanced at the ceiling, and hesitated.Up there?
The sheriff’s report hadn’t mentioned finding artwork, just a backpack of dirty clothes and some needles.
“Show me,” she suggested, dreading going up in the filthy attic. She wasn’t a neatnik by any means, but she wasn’t dumb. Bird guano caused histoplasmosis.
Bertie blinked out. With an aggravated sigh, she took the steps the old-fashioned way. Once past the trapdoor, she pulledout a small penlight she’d shoved into her coat pocket and flashed it around. The ceiling still had a hole in it, and the canister light was still missing. An electrician would no doubt be up before day’s end. She’d have to search now or never.
Bertie’s aura hovered uncertainly in a far corner. Avoiding the missing floorboards, Evie picked her way back to the cupola area where the eaves were too low for standing and the floor ended in insulation. A few rags and a plastic grocery bag were buried in the debris but nothing that looked like drawing paper. She dug around but she could see why the sheriff’s men had left these here. The grocery bag had a couple of worn out watercolor brushes and bits of what might have been paint color blocks.
“Did the deputies take everything else?” she asked the nervously flitting specter.
A coupla brushes for fingerprints. But all my work’s right here, he insisted.The roof don’t leak here. I wrapped it in canvas the gallery person gave me.
Awkward. Did that mean the sketch was stolen after Bertie died? Or that his memory was faulty? Evie wandered the rest of the enormous attic, but Sheriff Troy wouldn’t have left any stones unturned. Gallery person... “Verity Janus was selling your work?”
She thought he nodded.
She made me lotsa money. When the mayor’s son saw my stuff, even he wanted me to draw for him. I was gonna be famous!The cry was sadder than triumphant.
