Spirit of Gettysburg: Soulmates Across Time

Chapter 17

Maureen blinked. Huh, Big Margie knew her and expected her. Her shoulders twitched. "You knew I was coming?"

Big Margie waved her bejeweled fingers at her. "Don't ya worry ya cutie pie head about it, we country folk gossip. Nothin' to do except gossip, what with no jobs and nothin' to hope for, ain't no wonderful future for us poor folks. Brucie told us all about ya. We were pals, although we hadn't seen him in ages before he died. We speculated about his estate and when ya show up once the old boy shuffled on off to Buffalo."

She blew another smoke ring into the air. "There was another indication I'll explain shortly to ya." She threw a worried glance at Maureen and gripped her wrist.

Big Margie's anxious eyes alarmed her. Maureen's nerves shimmied inside. "Another indication?" Her voice was neutral and her face was bland.

"Honey, don't ya worry, but," Big Margie leaned in.

Her cigarette breath overpowered her, but Maureen stood her ground. "But?"

"Ya should listen to them crazy EVP's Hubby Hal recorded in ya scary house from that nasty Johnny Reb ghost. Honey, it gives me the heebie-jeebies, it do. He has messages for ya."

Maureen looked at Big Margie. "For me?"

Big Margie nodded. Her eyes were flying saucer wide.

Maureen clenched her jaw. Drama, gossip and surprises, all ingredients for a loathsome, emotional storm.

Big Margie's cherry red fingernails tapped the counter as precisely as a concert pianist. "Ghost speak." Wrinkles spread across her forehead. "Yo, come over here Hubby Hal!" she bellowed at a wizened man with an enormous beer belly hovering by the magazine rack near the front door.

Hubby Hal, Jack Spratt's identical twin, his hair a wispy salt and pepper, his goatee the same, skidded into the front counter belly first. His smile adored his wife.

Big Margie disregarded his smile and blew smoke away from Maureen's face. "This little gal is Maureen McAlister, our Brucie's niece. She's already moved in. Hal, talk to her about that nasty, spooky Reb."

The smoke hovered in the air like a tiny, toxic powderpuff. Maureen covered her mouth with her hand and coughed. The smoke stung her eyes and nostrils. Hubby Hal ignored the smoke. Guess he was used to it.

Big Margie gazed at her cigarette. "It's tough habit to cure. I have zilch willpower. Sorry, dearie."

Her admittance dragged a slight smile from Maureen's lips. "I understand." Her own addiction was comfort food. She wiped the corners of her irritated eyes and coughed twice more.

Hubby Hal sized Maureen up. "Maureen McAlister, my, my, yer don't say." He drew his words out.

Uh-oh. Her solar plexus, third chakra pinged in alarm. Something unpleasant was descending on her.

"Little miss, I hope you're a Christian lady because yer ghost is trouble personified. Has a chip on his shoulder wider than the Pacific Ocean and taller than the Alps."

Huh, Hubby Hal enjoyed hyperbole. "Really?" Her ghost hadn't hurt her. He loved her.

"Yes, really! I wouldn't lie to yer." Hubby Hal's outsized Adam's apple bobbed in his scrawny neck and he puffed out his concave chest, reminding her of a proud rooster on steroids. Her breath hitched in her throat. What a weird town. She searched his eyes and was relieved. His heavy-lidded, biscuit brown eyes shone with kindness, their gentleness reassuring.

"I'm a Christian lady. What trouble?"

He gave her a quick, gentle smile and tugged his goatee. "Good to know. I belong to the Adams County Ghost Hunters Paranormal Society, as did Brucie. A few years back he asked us to investigate a haunting at Cavalry Manor because his Johnny Reb ghost was angry and active, making it hot whenever he entertained friends and business colleagues. We investigated for a month."

She watched him. The lawyer was right. Johnny Reb was a problem. For other people!

Hubby Hal chewed sunflower seeds into a Styrofoam cup. "A remarkable case. Your traitor hates President Lincoln and something else fascinating concerning yer. He means yer trouble. Know what a haunting is?"

Her ironic smile teased him. "Some ghosts have such deplorable manners, don't you think?" A haunting, she knew what a haunting was! The ghost wasn't scary. He was her darling sweetheart.

Hubby Hal shrugged and gestured to a ripped, chocolate brown leather chair by the cash register counter. "Take a load off, little miss. I'll get the recorder." He trotted to the back room, returning with a digital recorder.

Her heartbeat knocking against her ribcage, she eased into the chair, folded her hands in her lap and crossed her ankles. The torn seat dug into her sore thighs.

He turned it on. A scratchy, male voice spoke, "Maureen, my own dearest whiffy."

Author's Note:  Next update Tuesday!