In Pursuit of a Quack

Well he was a charmer. Really? This was Tarin, the locally acclaimed spirit medium? The man who hand-picked his customers, and closed shop at his convenience? Really? He must deal drugs on the side, she decided. That was the only way this place could stay in business. (Actually, that might be something to look into for another story.)

He looked friendly enough. Like a biker teddy bear, who'd rolled out of jail and into the apartment over his parent's garage. The hair could use some work—he wasn't pulling off the clown afro as well as he could. The tattoos, too. He was distinctly lacking an "I <3 Mom."

Maxine channeled her smirk into a shy smile. "Yes. This is… my first time." She slipped inside the door, shutting it carefully behind her. Her eyes found the carpet at her feet. It was a surprisingly nice carpet, from a man who willingly wore those shoes. "I mean, my first time coming to a place like this. My Aunt… she passed away, a few months ago."

She did, too. Magdala Ralls croaked last November. Maxine had been on bedside vigil at the time, though she'd missed the actual moment of expiry—she'd been finishing a paper for a class. She managed to get the laptop tucked away and the fake tears started before the nurses stormed in.

Not that any of that mattered, though. That wasn't how these people worked.

"Marie Reynolds" had an aunt, too, who'd also died last Fall—a sudden heart attack, as a quick search in the local newspaper obituaries would have revealed, along with her community involvement to the very end, and all the other tidbits a thriving medium who didn't accept walk ins would no doubt need. "Marie Reynolds" was actually a girl in her photojournalism class. What? She'd gotten permission for the identify theft. Maxine was tasteful.

The same couldn't be said for everyone in this room…

The brunette's gaze tentatively raised higher, her green eyes mouse shy behind her glasses. "I just wanted to say… I… Can you really talk to spirits?"

Aww, that was cute. So he didn't know "for sure" if he was talking to spirits; they just looked like ghosts, talked like ghosts, and milked money like ghosts. She liked the straight-forward, humble medium angle: it fit with his fashion sense. He wasn't one of those sage talk show mediums with an answer for every question, and he wasn't a boardwalk palm reader with a mysterious aura: he was an every man who just happened to see ghosts, and just happened to build up a local niche market based on it. And who just happened to be selling knock-off paranormal accessories on the side, like those third-rate books on his shelves. The incense sticks were a nice touch. Not only did they draw in hippies, they also gave the store an appropriately occult smell without seeming like he'd meant them too.

Tarin Brooks was good.

Little Marie Reynolds was clearly being put at ease by his honest answers. She listened attentively, and with proper awe.

>> ”There’s a lot of spirits around here right now, so any info you can give me about her appearance helps.”

And now they got down to business. This would be fun. "She had blonde hair. It was dyed--will that make a difference?" Marie fretted her hands over whether dye jobs lasted into eternity. "It would have been gray, naturally. She was eighty-two when she died. About this tall--" Maxine motioned to the height of her own shoulder. "She smelled like butterscotch." The brunette's cheeks gave a sudden red flush, darkening her freckles. Her eyes dropped to the ground again. Such a silly detail surely wouldn't help Mr. Brooks.

Meanwhile, Magdala Ralls tried and failed to light a cigarette in the Medium's shop. She was two inches taller than Maxine, and had a head full of naturally riotous red hair with silver streaks. She'd been sixty-five, thank you. Her lighter hadn't worked since she'd shuffled off the mortal coil. Shame. She tucked the cig between her teeth anyway, and hopped up on the medium's counter. Her stripped black and white socks dangled above the floor, peaking out from her gray sweat suit. She'd been barefoot when she died. A hazard of being bed ridden. Could have been worse: she could have been in one of those hospital gowns. As Magdala had told the nurses: she wouldn't be caught dead in one of those things.

Self-fulfilling prophecies were a b*tch.

She took the cig out, and exhaled out of long habit. "She is just a little brat, isn't she."

Oh, he was good. Good with italics, and maybe a 'g' in fancy script. He played along with her description, his eyes searching the host of unseen specters. She was completely off guard when he launched his parry.

>> "Magdala Ralls, Aunt on your mother’s side, I guess?”

A master of this game stood before her. The details that flowed from his lips next were just icing; she'd have been disappointed if he served his cake without it.

>> “Except that she’s a red-head, and quite adamant that she was only sixty-two. Now that we’ve proven I’m not fraud…shall we go into the back so you can talk to her? I don’t like to do this in full view of the street.”

Maxine's little red head spun under her wig. Two details stood out jarringly.

Aunt on your mother's side. Sixty-two.

Magdala was an aunt on her father's side--hence the 'Ralls' last name; she'd never married--and sixty-five. Mr. Brooks had been doing his homework, obviously. To get to Magdala's files, he clearly knew who she was already--he or one of the clients she'd interviewed must have recognized her voice from TV. Either way, he knew. He'd known when she called, and he picked up the glove of her challenge.

Why Mr. Brooks, Maxine thought, you've got balls.

"S-sorry. One of my friends said I shouldn't give you any details--she said that's what the fake mediums use to do their readings. Not that you're fake. I--How did you know her name? Is she... really here?" Little Marie stuttered, keeping up the acting if only for kicks, no matter what he knew. Hey, she knew he was acting, and he was still keeping it up--it was only fair. Show must go on.

Those two details continued to bug her, though, as she followed the medium into the hallowed magic halls of his 'back room.' If he knew enough to get Magdala's hair color and name, family relations and age should have been a synch. So the question was: had he gotten them wrong, or was he really that good?

Magdala always liked to joke that she'd disowned her little brother and adopted Maxine's mother: a familial net gain of zero. As for her age, she'd been sixty-two for the past three years. Everyone said that she'd be sixty-two when she died, too. They'd just... expected it to be more toward Magdala's eighties. Or nineties. Or from lung cancer, at least. The heart attack had come out of nowhere. They'd all expected her to be stronger than that.

Mr. Brooks seems like the type of carnival worker who needed all the bells and whistles. He didn’t disappoint: she was fairly certain she could brain an elephant with that crystal ball. Overcompensating, much?

>> ”I knew her name because she told it to me.”

Maxine’s eyes grew owlishly wide as she tentatively slipped into her own seat, clutching her purse in her lap. Poe tried to squirm out, but she’d ruthlessly zippered the pen inside.

>> ”So, was there anything specific you wanted to ask her?”

That patience and understanding was almost enough to crack her up. Maxine took a deep breath, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“Is she... okay where she is? Happy?”

Magdala gave a hearty snort, crossing her arms as she leaned against the door. “She could at least be original. Tell her I’m the one who deleted that paper.” Magdala rolled the cigarette to the other side of her mouth. “Serves her right for typing at my deathbed.”

Magdala had never gone in for the idea of guardian angels. Poltergeists, on the other hand... A dedicated posthumous lady could bring considerable talents to bear, when it came to a little old-fashioned CTRL+A-Del-CTRL+S. Ghost in the machine, indeed.

“Oh. And that hot coffee at Christmas? My present to my useless brother’s lap.”