Page 5 of All You Want
“Thereistraffic.” She snarls as she pushes her special ergonomic chair to the desk, shoving my old one aside. She throws her backpack on the floor and shrugs out of her old high school hoodie. Her hair is a disheveled mass of curls, and she throws the heap over her shoulders where it bounces back over her face.
When I don’t contradict her, she repeats. “There’s a huge line of traffic on 49.”
That’s the main highway winding through the Mother Lode country alongside the North Fork of the Yuba River. It’s euphemistically called the Golden Chain Highway, although all the easy-pickin’ gold was washed out long ago, followed by tunneling and digging into the mountainside and crushing quartz for embedded gold.
But then, gold fever never dies, and the hills are haunted by prospectors and their ilk, too stubborn to leave these parts. After a storm, the area is deluged with weekend “snipers” going through the creek debris and fighting over gravel beds.
Molly Sutter’s family is as old as the hills, and despite her last name being synonymous with the Gold Rush, her family has been hanging on the edge of poverty well above the snowline.
“What’s the cause of the traffic?” I offer her a piece of Tami’s oatmeal bread.
“You didn’t hear?” She rips a piece of crusty bread with her teeth. “There’s a social media ghost hunt at the haunted hotel. It starts after dark.”
“I thought the hotel was still under construction.” The hairs on the back of my neck stiffen. “Tami hasn’t even filled out the event application, and there’s nothing listed on the town calendar.”
“They brought in food trucks and a portable bar.” Molly fills a bowl of Tami’s beef. “Porta-potties and a marching band.”
“I haven’t seen any flyers posted,” I continue my useless protest. “How could they have advertised it?”
“They posted it online and on social media.” Molly rolls her eyes. “You don’t subscribe to Tami’s feed?”
“What feed?” I’m thinking livestock, but that can’t be it.
“Her blog feed, her MeTube channel, her FacePlant livestream.” Molly’s words are gibberish, but I figure I better bone up on this online thing if I’m to keep up with Tami’s schemes.
“Can’t be many people driving all the way up here to tramp around a construction site.” Even as I opine, anxiety floods my nerve endings, and I figure I better do a drive-by.
“I’m estimating at least a thousand cars,” Molly says. “Traffic’s backed up past Hangman’s Bridge. People are wearing costumes, and she’s offering games and prizes. If a ghost photobombs your selfie, you can enter to win a free room during Spooky Fest and a chance at finding a gold nugget.”
“We didn’t approve this event.” Grabbing my hat, I rush out of the police station. I call Shane and tell him to meet me at the former Bee Sting Bordello which is now renamed Hallowed Haunts Hotel.
It claimed to be a prospector’s boarding home but was a house of ill repute back in the Gold Rush days when a particular Madame Goldilocks took over. She ruled with a stout hatpin, and she was quick to sting anyone who ran afoul of her. In her old age, one of her working girls turned the stinger back on her, and she was found impaled at the base of the grand staircase.
“Where’s the fire?” Shane asks with a lazy drawl.
“Did you pull Tami over for speeding?” I demand. “Is she there with you?”
“Nope, she eluded my radar.” He crunches what sounds like one of Tami’s Candy Crisp apples. “What did she do now?”
“She’s having an unauthorized public event.” I don’t wait for his reply. After rushing out of the station, I take the motorcycle and get stuck behind a row of campers. I flip on the siren and dash into the opposing lane to cross the river at Hangman’s Bridge, almost slamming into a clown car before swerving to a stop in front of the high school band.
Screams and squeals bounce all over the property as the revelers discover locations to take pictures. It doesn’t sound like anyone is in danger, but this is an unauthorized gathering around a quasi-historical site.
Tami’s Hallowed Haunts is situated on a spit of land on the opposite side of Sandman’s Creek from Colson’s Corner’s town center. Since it was across the creek, it was originally a camp for Chinese miners. After the Chinese were driven from town, it became a boarding house, gambling casino, and a bordello all in one.
Not surprisingly, legend has it that Madame Goldilock’s boarding house was built over a Native American burial ground.
Tonight, the site is littered with construction debris, wheelbarrows, trash containers, and piles of building material. The two-story building is wrapped around with balconies, and scaffolding is still in place where the workers are painting and making repairs.
It was built with horizontally-stacked rock walls, fireproof iron doors and shutters over the windows, made to withstand the frequent fires that raged through the mining towns. Like most bordellos back in the day, the upstairs rooms were reserved for working girls or as they called them, soiled doves, and they were kept behind bars with windows nailed shut to keep the birds caged.
The tavern and casino downstairs offered grub and gambling, where every method from card games to watered down whiskey was devised to part a man from his gold dust. Knife and gunfights broke out frequently, and the bouncers weren’t averse to throwing a guy out, then killing him and rifling his pockets.
“Across the creek” or ATC was a phrase the old-timers used to scare their children into toeing the line, because you never know what creatures might get you across the creek. It didn’t help that the bridge connecting the town to the red-light district was named Hangman’s Bridge and rumored to be appropriately haunted.
I remove my helmet and hook it over the handlebars as my gaze immediately locks on to Tami. She’s wearing a gaudy pioneer-era dress with a hoop skirt and a preponderance of ruffles. The ties over her bosom are strained, and she’s strutting around taking selfies with her fans. Several buskers play instruments or juggle hacky sacks and pins, and one man has a dog jumping through a fiery hoop. A group of boys shoot poppers that propel confetti, and small children chase each other waving sparklers. A gaggle of sorority types wearing sunglasses are keeping a beachball in the air, and clowns on stilts tower above the crowd.
I march toward the miscreant lawbreaker and prepare to jawbone her. The crowd parts for me, giving me a straight shot at Tami the troublemaker.
