Haunted Secrets: Tales of James Moran Vol. 4

Much of Madness

“Hi! Mr. Moran?”

A tall, black-clad woman waved at James as he walked to his car. He’d just finished locking up the store. It had been a heavy day. A ghostly Elvis impersonator had made life difficult with incessant renderings of hits from the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Not that James disliked “U.S. Male,” “Heartbreak Hotel,” or “His Latest Flame.” But hearing them sung off-key more than a dozen times was wearisome. As a result, James was in no mood to make conversation. He wanted to go home to a nice, warm bed.

But he couldn’t be rude. Least of all to a lady. Especially a pretty one who was smiling at him. 

“I’m just finishing for the day,” he said. 

He didn’t stop walking to his car, but the stranger was on a fast intercept course. He sighed. She was determined to converse and couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take a hint. He stopped and waited. 

“Sorry to bother you,” she said brightly, “but I think I can help you out.”

He guessed she was in her mid-thirties or early forties. Her dark, shoulder-length hair had a purple streak in it. Black, loose-fitting clothes and heavy boots contrasted with her cheerful demeanor. She had a piercing in her nose and her left eyebrow, and he glimpsed elaborate arm tattoos. James vaguely recalled seeing her. He somehow associated her with a distinctive sound. And freshly made brownies. Then, it clicked. 

“You work at Café Cookie, right?”

“Right! We don’t see you very often. You’ve got a good memory.”

“I try to limit my caffeine usage. So, if you’re giving away point cards or something…”

“Oh no!”

The woman waved her hands energetically. He wondered how much caffeine she consumed in a day. Tiredness insisted that he get in the car and leave. Upbringing and mild gratitude for good service told him to stick with it. 

“No. You see, I need a job, and you need a shop assistant.”

His heart sank. This wasn’t the first time someone had mistaken Moran and Moran for a regular antique store. 

“Sorry, but I’m afraid you’re wrong, I don’t need—”

The ghost that always hung around outside the shop had drifted up behind the woman. She turned her head and looked at the ghost in the face.

“Hi there! How long have you been dead? If it isn’t a personal question… which I guess it is, right? Sorry, ha! Me and my big mouth!”

Startled, the ghost flitted away without speaking. James blinked.

“You can see them?”

The woman shrugged.

“I see ’em everywhere, all the time,” she said perkily. “And I see you talking to them! And I see that bald, skinny guy who looks like a supervillain’s henchman. He talks to them as well. Who is he, by the way? Some kind of ghost hunter, right? He’s scary, but kind of hot, I guess. Is it a secret? Will asking put me on some kind of watchlist?”

James reassessed the situation.  

“Perhaps I could buy you a cup of coffee, Miss…?”

“Rosa! Rosa Pontecorvo. It means five bridges, but I’m kind of a mix of everything, but you don’t need to know that. Sorry, I do talk a lot…”

They didn’t go to Café Cookie. Instead, they talked in a smaller place a few streets away. Rosa, it emerged, had been able to see ghosts since a near-death experience three years earlier. “Short version: drunk driver.” She was an English major who’d been working on her Ph.D. for many years and had drifted from job to job. Seeing ghosts had sent her “a little bonkers” at first, then led to the conviction that the universe had given her an extraordinary talent for a reason.

“And that is to work for me?” he asked.

“Kind of,” she said. “I mean, is it a coincidence I moved to this town and found your store five minutes’ walk from the place where I work?”

James smiled indulgently.

“Coincidences happen. That’s why we have a word for them.”

“Aw, you’re too sweet to be cynical in your old age!” she exclaimed. 

James felt growing confusion over how to deal with this person. Rosa had put a good case for having someone to mind the store when he was away, meeting clients or attending auctions. It went against the grain to shut up shop so often. A ghost seer was obviously the ideal assistant, all things being equal. She was intelligent and personable. 

“I can handle the social media side, because Moran and Moran really needs a better online presence. I don’t always dress like this, if that’s what’s worrying you! I have a proper suit. And in your line of work, wouldn’t people expect kind of eccentric employees? Oh, and you can’t tell in this top, but I have a nice rack. I’m guessing most of your clients are male?”

James, slightly energized by half-decent coffee, decided to err on the side of generosity. He named a sum not too far above minimum wage and asked if she’d accept it. She would. 

“Very well,” he sighed. “A trial period. One calendar month. When can you start?”